The Real Scoop on Shoulder Surgery (Part 2)

In the weeks between finding out I was going to have surgery and actually having it, I tried to prepare myself as much as possible. By this point, Hubs was off of crutches and in a walking boot following his ankle surgery. While this was helpful, he was still healing and I wanted to be able to do as much for myself as possible. Also, since we didn't have a clear picture of what was going to be done, I couldn't completely prepare. I was given a best case recovery time frame of six weeks and a worst case of four months to a year. In other words, Hubs would eventually be going back to work, and I needed to be sure I could manage as much as possible without him.

Preparing for Surgery

I read that preparing as much beforehand as possible is helpful. I probably went a little overboard with this. My other problem was that it was my right arm and I'm right-handed. Even things I didn't think would be difficult after surgery were, in fact, hard as Hell. Hear is what I did, including info on what helped, what didn't, and what was overkill.

• If you have the luxury of time before your surgery, just spend a few days being really aware. When I came out of surgery, anything that involved moving the arm away from the body was prohibited and, frankly, impossible with the sling I was in. Really, we underestimate just how much that involves. For example, did you know that turning a doorknob activates the biceps? I didn't, but I found out. So even things that you think won't hurt or be problematic will be. But this should give you a good idea of how you can adapt your environment to make it work for you.
• Pants: I forgot that dressing has more to consider than just getting clothes on your body. You also have to be able to get back out of the clothes to bathe, to change. The pants you choose will have to come on and off as you visit the bathroom. I didn't think of this, so one of my days immediately post-op, I had Hubs help me put on jeans, only to later discover that, every time I had to pee, he would have to go into the bathroom with me. Fine at home, but eventually Hubs wouldn't be there and sometimes, even with Hubs there, we wanted to go out in public and he couldn't go into a women's restroom with me. I learned my lesson and from that point, I only wore super-soft stretchy pants that I could pull on and off one-handed. Just now, in about the past month, I am finally able to navigate jeans independently. You just don't realize the strength it takes to button and zip jeans that actually fit you. 
• Tops: Tops are something I thought out ahead of time. They couldn't be too bulky to fit under the sling, I had to be able to get them on and off without moving my shoulder. This could be accomplished in two ways: something that buttons or zips all the way down, or something that is stretchy and can be pulled on and stretched over the arm. I ended up going to a cheapo store and buying the biggest zip-up men's hoodies I could find and lived in them. I spent about $30. I also took some older ones and cut the sleeve off and cut the arm openings so I could just slide the whole arm, sling and all, through them. That was overkill. The big hoodies I purchased were plenty adequate, comfy, and warm. Added bonus, the hood under the strap for the sling provided comfort. Your neck can  get raw and sore from the sling strap and I didn't have that problem for that reason.
• Bras: I read somewhere that women should consider just going bra-less in the immediate post-op period. Ha! I'm not going to embarrass myself by going into detail here, but this is not an option for all women. So I decided to go and get cute about it. I figured that it was just a matter of the strap on a shoulder, so I planned on getting a convertible bra where you can change up the straps. Just don't waste your money. Getting it on, getting it off.....I can just now tolerate a bra strap, for starters. And I can just now get one on by fastening the hooks in front and then twisting it around my upper body so the hooks are in the back where they go. But I still, to this day, cannot take one off. I cannot get my bad arm up that high on my back, and I'm not some stud who taught himself how to unfasten a bra one-handed during a make-out session. A tube style bra would work, but if you're chesty like me, that isn't even an option. Instead, I opted for stretched pullover sports bras. They aren't supportive at all, but they make me feel better than going without. For more support or to go out in public, I double them up.
• Shoes: Didn't think shoes would be an issue, but they were. Slip-ons are perfect, like Toms or laceless Vans or Converse. I didn't buy any special shoes. I took my running shoes and fixed the laces so that I could slide them on and off without using my hands. You won't be able to reach. There was no way I could've tied my own shoes.
• Deodorant: This was tough. I've been wearing regular deodorant for about a month now, but for right after surgery, I got some aerosol. It's hard to find, but it still exists out there. To put it on, all I had to do was lean over and let my arm dangle, aim and spray.
• In the shower: shampoos, conditioners, and body washes with pumps worked best. It was too hard to maneuver a bottle without moving both arms. Even when I graduated to moving both arms, it was still painful to manipulate caps. And just like you use your biceps to turn a doorknob, I was told by my therapist that you also use it to make a twisting motion to pour. Just buy pump bottles. If your favorite brands aren't available in them, you can find inexpensive empties in the travel section at the store. 
• Toileting. Yeah, really. TMI. But it was too hard to wipe with my left arm. I never felt clean, so I bought those wet flushable wipes. I'm not going into any more detail here. If you're lucky and it's your non-dominant arm that is affected, this shouldn't be an issue for you.
• Around the house: Just look around. Can you sit and watch television and reach a drink on the non-affected side? Can you reach a glass in the kitchen to get yourself a drink, or are they on too high a shelf? We usually buy 2-liters and I was unable to manipulate those caps and manage to pour from them for awhile. We bought our drinks in cans until I could. It's little things like that that were a huge help.
• Hair: I honestly just gave up here. I usually straighten my hair. Instead, I just used gel and scrunched it and pulled it back in a headband. Hubs once tried to help me put it in a ponytail. It was a disaster and we gave up. But the messy hair was okay, because I lived in hoodies, yoga pants, couldn't do my makeup for several months. So at least it was a cohesive look and nobody said a word because my right arm was in a sling. It was pretty obvious.
• Ice packs: I didn't buy the cold therapy devices that they sold at my surgeon's office, They were pricey and insurance wouldn't cover them. Instead, I bought several of the big sheet-style cold packs at Wal-Mart. I bought multiples, because ice was one of my pain management necessities. So when one would thaw and lose its coldness, I would swap it for the fresh one already in the freezer. I spent maybe $20 instead of the $120 I would have paid for the machine.
• Sleeping: I bought more pillows. Lots more. Those cheapo pillows on the end caps at Target? I bought 4 of them. We don't have a recliner, but we do have a large chair-and-a-half with matching ottoman. That's where I slept. Pillows behind my back to prop me up, pillow under my bad arm and beside my bad arm to take some of the weight off of my neck from the sling. I still had to wear the sling to sleep, but with it propped like this, it wasn't hanging there. You can find these pillows for like $5 a piece. They aren't going to stay fluffy forever because they're cheap, but mine are just now starting to wear out and now I don't need them anymore. You will not be able to tolerate laying flat. Don't even try.
• Meds: I made sure I had the following on hand, and I'm glad I did: Tylenol and Tylenol PM,  Advil and Advil PM. Why all of these? Well, most pain reliever have acetominophen in them and you can't mix Tylenol with them or you'll wreck your liver. And sometimes the pain meds aren't enough and need some help. When I was on those, I took Advil with them during the day and Advil PM at night. When I switched to antiinflammatories (Mobic, Naproxen), I couldn't take ibuprofen with those or I could have GI issues. Enter the Tylenol. And I still need them today, so just buy the big bottle and save some cash.

Okay, enough for now. Part 3 will be the actual surgery.....

The Real Scoop on Shoulder Surgery (Part 1)

I've had surgeries. I've had orthopedic injuries. I've broken a wrist, sprained an ankle, and once had twelve individual hairline fractures of my foot at one time. I've known pain. In fact, one of my surgeries was an ACL reconstruction. I thought I was prepared. I read up on the surgery I was to have, but we didn't really know specifically what the surgeon would find once in there, so that was kind of difficult. But while I was reading and researching, I came up with some useful advice, but I never found out exactly what I needed to know. So here is my complete shoulder story. Maybe it will help someone.

In the Beginning:
So I had my injury toward the end of July, 2014. I didn't hear any loud pops, but I did feel something give way. Immediately, I couldn't lift my arm away from my body at all. I went to the ER later in the day and was put in an immobilizing sling type of contraption. I was immediately told there was some type of soft tissue injury and referred to an orthopedic surgeon. I saw the guy within a few days of the injury, and he immediately freaked at the immobilizer and told me to not wear it. I was so glad that I tossed it in the trash can in that exam room, right then and there. He was concerned with frozen shoulder, which sounded made up to me, but I assure you now that it is not. With my physical exam and nature of the injury, he was concerned about a labrum tear. I was told then that there was no way I could work, and to just give it up for now.

The Arthrogram
If you have never had one of these, well, I don't even know what to say. I've heard some say they're awful and I've heard some say they didn't bother them at all. It took three weeks to get in have mine done--insurance gave us fits. By then, my shoulder felt even worse and was really stiff. I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't move my arm away from my body at all without horrible sharp pains that felt like my shoulder was going to be ripped apart.
For the arthrogram, they use imaging to inject dye into the actual joint. It's a big needle, but they give you a local first. That stings a little, but not too bad. The big needle? Didn't even feel it. The part I did feel was an intense achiness and just general weirdness as they filled the joint with dye. The shoulder doesn't have a lot of space, so the excess fluid made it feel full and kind of blech, but I do believe that there is also numbing medication in it, so it isn't too bad. You then go straight for an MRI so they can visualize all of that dyed goodness.
I will tell you that after the arthrogram is no fun at all. It hurt. It hurt really badly. I'm not dure if this was soreness from big needle going through muscle, and injured joint now filled with excess fluid, or a combo of both, but once the numbing medication wore off, all I could do was lay on my sofa with an ice pack and hope my children didn't destroy me or the house. It seriously hurt to move my upper body at all. That was the first time, in over a month of this shoulder injury, that I asked for pain medication beyond Tylenol. And took it, too.

Me, after the arthrogram and after pain meds. As I recall, I texted this to my husband at work to tell him I was miserable and to hurry home.

Also, the morning after the arthrogram, I had some mild bruising where the injection took place.

The Puzzling Results, the Hubs Debacle,  and More Crap
My arthrogram was negative. I think it showed some inflammation of my biceps. No labral tear, no rotator cuff tear. I was diagnosed with frozen shoulder (adhesive capsulitis) at this point. I was given a cortisone injection---ugh!---and prescribed antiinflammatories. Of course there was also rest and physical therapy. At this point, it happened. And by it, I mean I got a phone call that Hubs, the big dork, had fallen through a ceiling at work and was in the ER. He ended up coming home on crutches, seeing his very own orthopedic surgeon, and was scheduled for ankle syndesmosis repair within a week.
Suddenly that rest we had talked about was pretty much non-existent. Hubs ended up getting a plate, a couple of screws and some anchors. He came home from surgery on Oxycontin every 12 hours with Percocet every 4 hours in between for breakthrough pain. He had to take all of the above with Phenergan to prevent nausea. This was only for a few days, but in those few days, I was filling ice bags, cooking his small meals, helping him bathe and dress, helping him change positions every few hours. I did all of this around the clock--the meals especially, so he could eat and take his pain medications. Within 24 hours of that first day of that, my shoulder started to do this:

Out of concern, I saw my surgeon. I was told it was probably a "red herring" and not to read too much in to the random bruising. Incidentally, my pain was worse, also. Physical therapy's importance was stressed, and I teared up as I told them I hadn't really been compliant with that because of Hubs and needing to be able to care for him. I did start PT and worked on range of motion and light strength training. This is where I tell you how much I love my physical therapist. She told me she didn't think there was an issue with frozen shoulder, as she could passively move my arm, I just couldn't actively do it. She vowed to watch it for progress while we continued to work together for weeks. Throughout this, I continued to follow-up with the surgeon. My diagnosis changed off and on. At times, I exhibited symptoms of anything from biceps tendonitis to supraspinatus strain. Physically, nothing ever really changed. I got my range of motion back, but never lost even a smidge of the pain and never got strength back in that arm. This starts the chain of events that lead to surgery.

We Need to Just Go in There and Take a Look

When I never improved despite strict compliance and serious PT work, I had continued to have random bruising pop up whenever we would change anything up in PT. My therapist was still concerned and actually convinced the surgeon to repeat an MRI. We were awaiting those results. I was going to PT on Mondays and Wednesdays. This one Monday, about four months after injury, we had started biceps exercises that weren't too bad. Of course, there was more random bruising, and I reported for Wednesday's session looking like this:

My therapist actually advised me to take that picture, because she wanted to be sure the surgeon saw it. I had a follow-up the following day to get those MRI results, so I didn't have to even bring it up. I saw my surgeon's NP and she saw it immediately. Of course the new MRI still didn't show anything but biceps strain. Everything seemed to be intact. Nevertheless, the NP brought the surgeon in to be sure. At this point, it was deemed warranted to go in there and actually see what was happening. Before I knew it, I was being fitted for a post-op sling and scheduled for surgery. I picked a busy surgeon, so I had to wait a couple of weeks for--get this--shoulder arthroscopy with possible rotator cuff repair, possible biceps tenodesis, possible subacromial decompression, possible labrum repair, possible acromioplasty. Gotta love informed consent.

This went on way more than I expected, so I'll post about the prep for surgery, survival tips, and the actual experience in a second post. I really hope this helps someone.

That Which Should Not Have to Be Said

For real. There are just some things that are understood. Things you do not have to be told. Our mere existence on this planet has armed us with the understanding that there are actions one takes and those one avoids. And we all know that one person who has no common sense and has to be told these things.

Yeah. Living with a small child is no different. Parenthood of these incompletely developed people is an exercise in explaining/ shouting/ pleading that which should not need to be said. Here, in no particular order, is my Top Ten.

10. Do NOT eat your boogers. (Variations: Do NOT wipe your boogers on the wall; who wiped their booger on the wall?!?)

9. Please put your penis in your pants. That is not a body part we show others.

8. It is not okay to throw the entire roll of toilet paper, still in roll formation, into the toilet and flush. Please do not do that again.

7. No, you may not poop on your brother.

6. I know you no longer like that toy. Please do not throw it out of the second floor window! (Related: Do NOT remove your screen from your window. Also related: No, you may not just sit on the roof.)

5. No, we do not turn our step stools upside down and pee in them. Yes, even though it's in the bathroom.

4. No, it isn't okay to smack your brother in the mouth, but thank you for asking first.

3. No! We do NOT put lotion up our butts. Lotion is to go only on the skin we can see.

2. No, it will NOT be okay if you just drive my car "a little bit". Driving cars is only for grown-ups.

1. No! Do NOT microwave your toy trucks!

I'm sure there's more. Even if there isn't, there will be, because this is the kind of stuff I have to say daily, usually multiple times per day. And just when one is reeling from the ridiculousness of one statement, something even worse needs to be said the next time. In other words, stay tuned.

The Nine Year Gap

Nothing gets others into your business quite like having children. Have only one child? "You need to get busy making him a sibling!" Or her. Whichever fits. We heard this for years with Big being an only for a long time. But as the baby of seven, I know that the flip-side of this coin exists. "Wait! Your parents have how many kids?" I know they mean well. I'm sure I've made some insensitive comments before, not meaning anything hurtful. A friend recently had triplets, for example, and I am sure that, at some point, I made comments about how crazy that was. Just recently, through her posts on social media, I learned just how offensive that is to her and other multiples moms and dads. I vowed never to say another such word to any parent.

So Big was just four months short of his ninth birthday when Little arrived. This wasn't planned. If I'm being completely honest, Little wasn't planned at all. We had a nightmare pregnancy with Big, full of bedrest and long-term hospital stays. The medical bills were astronomical and the impact of the pregnancy on our lives was scarring. Then there was Big. I love my son. I really, really do. He's an awesome kid, but he has always been....difficult would be a great word. He was a colicky and temperamental infant, a high maintenance toddler and preschooler. Once he got to elementary school, it got a little easier, but by then, his high intelligence was apparent and it took all we had to keep him enriched and challenged. Hubs and I honestly wanted another one when Big was about 3 or 4, but it never happened. The last thing we wanted was to chance multiples that can come from fertility treatments, because I had a hard enough time with a singleton pregnancy. We weren't broken because there were no more children, and after a year or so of the loud ticking of my biological clock, the baby fever faded and we decided Big was enough. We would devote ourselves to reaching our personal goals for educations and careers, and spend our days being the best parents we could be for Big.

Over eight years later, we found out we were expecting Little. Cue the remarks from people.

"You don't have anymore in between these two?"
"Wow! You started all over, didn't you?"
And my favorite, in response to the explanation that Little was a surprise: " Well, you know how to prevent that, don't you?"

Yes, my children are almost nine whole years apart. And not that it's anyone's concern but ours, but there are both blessings and curses that come with this age gap. And in case you were wondering, or you are one of the opinionated people we meet on the street to which I cannot possibly give a long diatribe, I'm going to lay those our here.

• Curse: Currently, I have a preschooler and a teenager. Both boys. The teen knows about sex and all kinds of colorful words. It cannot be helped. I'm sure he uses this vocabulary, though never in our presence. And he teaches his little brother all sorts of inappropriate thing. Just the other day, Little was chasing me through the house with long barbecue tongs, shouting, "Nipple Pinch! Nipple Pinch!" 
• Blessing: Because of his impulsivity, Big is not at a place where I would trust him to watch Little while we actually leave the premises, but he is able to manage helping. I can trust him to be in charge so I can take a shower, wash dishes, do whatever it is that I need to do in short bursts. When Big is home with us, I can let down my guard with Little just a bit more. I can relax and step away without worrying that Little will burn the house down.
• Curse: You know that moment when a little kid does something they're not supposed to do, but it's kind of funny, and in order to not encourage them, you must stifle your laughter? That isn't happening here. When Little does something, like says a naughty word, Hubs and I know that we are ultimately responsible for his ability to follow rules and be a good citizen. This duty allows us to hold in laughter, put on a stern face, and correct Little. Well, Big has no such sense of duty. Little is our responsibility, not his. So Little does something, Big thinks it's funny and laughs, and sometimes even asks Little to do it again. And so the cycle repeats, rendering us powerless to stop the behavior.
• Blessing: Because Big is mostly self-sufficient in areas of self-care, we have more time to devote to Little's needs. I will never have to bathe two little people at night or read two bedtime stories. I can tell Big what to do, and he does it. The extent of caring for Big is in making dentists appointments or check-ups, reminding him to put on deodorant or that he has football conditioning today and to be sure he has gym clothes. Big wakes for school and gets ready. He knows when the bus comes and needs no reminders of what needs to be done to start his day. This frees up considerable time to see Little off to preschool everyday.
• Curse: Not that Big is neglected in any way, shape, or form, but he does admittedly get less of our attention. That just comes with the territory of having a small child in the home. And there are some things that Big would like to do that is just not developmentally appropriate for Little. We have to constantly be cognizant of that to meet the needs of both children.
• Blessing: We are just different people. The me that was the mom of a small child when Big was small is soooooo different from the me that is Little's mommy. My career was established, my education completed. Not that we women can't do it all, but the more hats you wear, the less time you spend wearing each hat. That's just math, as there are only so many hours in the day. As a result, I get to be more present for Little, less rushed. He gets more of me the Big did at his age. On the other hand, this makes me feel guilty, but it just couldn't be helped. This is the difference between having a baby in your mid-twenties versus your mid-thirties. 
• Curse: Not a single damned hand-me-down. I got rid of everything after Big's baby days. We weren't having any more, remember? And even if I would have saved everything, there was almost a decade in between. Carseats from back then were outdated. Swings and bouncers and play yards had entirely different safety standards. Clothes were out of fashion. So even though I have two boys, Big's expensive clothes will never be passed to his little brother. Toys will never be shared. It's got to be the most expensive way to raise kids.
• Blessing:  Being more established when Little came along made a big difference. We could buy what we wanted  for him, not just what we could afford. Don't get me wrong here: the amount of stuff either child has borders  on the obscene. The same applied to Big at a young age. Because he was the only one, even though our resources were more limited, he got all of them. But now that finances are so drastically different with Little, that kid is over-indulged like you would not believe.
• Curse: Trying to keep things even and fair is difficult. For example, at Christmas, I set an equal budget for each child. My plan was not to go overboard with either of them. Each child had a few things they absolutely wanted and then I planned to use what was left of the money I allotted to buy them things I thought they would like and possibly some clothes. Therein lies the problem. Just one of the items on Big's list was a specific pair of headphones that cost $300. On Little's list? A toy truck that cost $50. At the end of the shopping, Little had a mountain of presents to Big's three presents. Stuff just costs more for a teen. Those new gym shoes that are all the rage? In Little's size, they're between $50 and $70. For Big? Oh, about $130 to $150. I can take Little to The Children's Place and get nice jeans for $10-$20 per pair. Big has to have designer jeans that are $80 a pair, at the cheapest. On and on it goes so that to the onlooker, it would look like Little has way more than Big. That isn't the case at all. It's just that it is impossible to match it up and keep it fair.

I could go on and on with this list. At this point, I've already rambled too much. The bottom line is that there are days when I wished we would have done things a little differently, but all of the time, I just love my kids. My family is my family. Little was sent to us when we were ready for him and not a minute late or early. And families? They come in all shapes and sizes. It isn't up to others to decide that for us anymore. And every shape and every size has its advantages and disadvantages. These are ours.

Two Kids, a Snow Day, and a Mall

We'll file this one under "How Dumb Could I Be?"

Big broke his glasses. Again. We're currently on pair #6 in about 18 months. LensCrafters is our friend, I tell you. It seemed like such a great idea at the time. The kids and I had been couped up for about ten days following some pretty heavy snow. In fact, long after the roads had been cleared, we still couldn't leave because I was unable to clear the driveway to get my car out (shoulder, yo) and Hubs didn't have time. We had to take the It-Will-Eventually-Melt approach to snow removal, thus my Mom Mobile remained in the driveway. Anyway...

Plan: Get ready, dress the kids, and go to the mall. We could drop off Big's glasses to be fixed by our friends at LensCrafters while I did a little required shopping. Following this, we would allow Little to blow off some steam at the indoor play area that I thought was such an ingenious addition to the mall for parents like me. The play area is directly under LensCrafters, so I could continue to let Little play while Big, still in my line of sight, could go and retrieve the finished glasses. 

I am brilliant! I could bribe convince Little that, should he cooperate through the tasks we had to complete, he would be rewarded with play time. Big able to retrieve the glasses on his own meant that I wouldn't have the drama of having to fight Little to get him to leave the play area to do the above. And as far as mall extraction strategies go, I parked next the the entrance by Auntie Anne's. As in, "Listen up, kids: if you want your pretzel, you'll leave when I say it's time to leave." Perfectly planned, if I do say so myself. Of course, the parenting experts would point out about 15 errors in judgement within this strategy, but those parenting experts haven't ever been placed in charge of my children. 

Phase One: Mall Arrival and Dropping Off of the Glasses

It cannot be simple. Like, ever. When Big broke the glasses, he rendered the frames all wonky. They had to be readjusted. Meaning Big had to sit and get measured and all of that stuff. And I could see the wheels turnin' in Little's mind. All of those glasses. Walls of glasses. Shiny glasses. 

And off he went. So with one eye, I am tried to oversee the activities that were going to ultimately impact Big's vision, for God's sake, while the other eye was trying to closely monitor for signs of mutiny in Little. My nerves were tingling, my muscles at the ready to pounce and prevent. In my mind was the vision of Little sitting on the floor in a sea of broken designer frames, giggling maniacally while I cry and beg the Glasses Czar to please not make me sell my life to pay for the damage. At some point, someone asks for money. This is when I blindly thrust my arm out, debit card there between trembling fingers while staring intently at the top of Little's head. Thank you, LensCrafters people, for your honesty in not adding a few extra zeros in the amount you charged my card. But just so you know, you probably could have and I wouldn't have even noticed.

Phase Two: Kids, Mommy Just Needs to Pick Up This One Small Thing and It Will Only Take a Minute

Ha! Hahahahahahaha. All I needed to do was pick up an order I had shipped to a store instead of my house. I didn't have to try anything on or wait in line to pay. I simply had to show my photo ID, take the package and leave. But then we passed Bath and Body Works. "Mom, do they sell men's stuff there?", says Big. Yes, they do. And the light bulb went off in my head: Big's personal hygiene these days leaves much to be desired. Maybe if I let him pick out some products, it would encourage him to, oh I don't know...actually wash himself? So in we went. I had a death grip on Little's hand at this point. No way was this child going to escape from me in the store full of bright, glossy bottles arranged just so on tables right at his eye level. No friggin' way. Of course we had to navigate the minefield of these tables and displays to get to the section of men's stuff way in the back of the store. (Thanks for that, B&BW!) We were about halfway there when Little used his free hand to swipe a bottle of lotion from a table. And he squirted it all over the floor. Yes, really. A salesperson came over and her mouth was saying, "No worries, it happens all of the time." Her eyes? They were saying something completely different and it wasn't very nice. Before I knew what was happening, I was holding the lotion and going to buy it. That is when her smiling mouth said, "Oh, those are Buy Two, Get One Free." Her dagger eyes were saying, "Lady, you had better buy some shit, I swear." I left with six bottles of generalized crap to add to my collection of other crap at home. Not one product purchased was for men.

Oh, look, there's Aeropostale! Big wanted to buy some stuff, and the kid really could use a little more in the clothes arena. But wait! Those were girls from his school in there. He cannot possibly be seen with his mom. No way, no how, despite the fact that those girls are with an adult female who suspiciously seemed to be about my age. She was probably their mom, but maybe she was also an eighth grader and just failed a few dozen times? I'm going with "Mom" on this one. She had the same glassy eyes I did. Eyes that revealed that she, also, had been stuck in a house with children during the snow storms. But Big cannot possibly be held to the same standards as those girls. Big must surpass their coolness. He's entirely too impulsive to just be handed a credit card, so I must go into the store. I'll just stay off to the side with Little, browsing as if their jeans have a high enough rise to hide a c-section scar. Big wandered around the store, gathering stuff at an alarming rate. I mean, that pile he was holding was getting rather large. I was going to have to intervene and ruin his thirteen-year-old swagger, wasn't I? I had to pay  for all of that. He kept glancing over at me with darty eyes, seeing if I was seeing him. As a matter of fact, he was acting so weird in trying to keep up the charade that he was alone that I was waiting for the girl at the counter to call mall security for suspected shoplifting. Thankfully, before this could happen, he ran up to the register and dumped it all on the counter and ran from the store like it was on fire. Oh, that's my cue. I got to the register and whispered to the girl what was going on so she wouldn't think we were complete weirdos. To my surprise, she said she knew all along. Apparently this is not uncommon practice. And she started ringing up his picks. My eyes were squished shut, bracing  myself for the blow of the total when she said something crazy. "Your total is $75.87." What? There were six shirts there, and at least a couple pairs of jeans. No stinkin' way. Apparently Big managed to pick stuff from sales racks at crazy low prices. I mean, one hoodie he picked retails for over $50. Okay, I'll pay. I was amazed. I was in shock. I was then convinced, more than ever, that Hubs' genes are strong, because I could never, ever pull something like that off. 

And so it went, through the mall. The Children's Place, Lids, Finish Line....At some point, I put my foot down. No. No more.

Phase Three: That Damned Playground. And the Stupid ChooChoo.

We survived. Somehow, all three of us made it to the play area. Little was so excited that, once it was in sight, he left a trail of coat, hat, left shoe, right shoe through the remaining length of the mall. I hastily chased after him, trying to gracefully swoop up his belongings while precariously grasping everyone's purchases in one arm (shoulder, yo). I could imagine what a hot mess I was to the onlooker. Big, by this point, was cracking up laughing. Because, once we got to the actual play area, we saw it. I was brilliant, alright. And so was every other mother in the tri-state area. There was not a single place to sit. I vaguely remember gingerly stepping over small children as I made my way to the far wall and dumped a pile of shopping bags, coats, handbag, and shoes on the floor and sat on top of them. I could feel how crazy I looked to others. I had zero on for makeup, I could feel my hair falling down and could do zilch to fix it because putting it up requires a major operation involving bracing my bad arm on a counter while maneuvering said hair with the other hand (shoulder, yo). My outfit? Well, I was wearing jeans, thankfully. I did successfully manage to not wear yoga pants, but the rest of the getup consisted of a raggedy college hoodie and some dirty Nikes that were stained from the grime that comes from a lot of snow. And aside from that, I was sure I was just exuding craziness. Glassy stare, dark circles. Mom Lunatic Extraordinaire.

And there she was.. She is Perfect Mom. And I worked with her for eight years. She was perfectly coiffed, manicured, coordinated and accessorized. Her child was all perfect, too. Cute little frilly dress with matching tights and mary janes. Not a hair out of place on the child's head, and the glossy ringlets were pulled perfectly back in her little grosgrain ribbon that perfectly matched the one on her dress. Just as I was praying that she did not see me, since I wasn't even sure Little had on matching socks at that point, I remembered where I was...sitting in a crowd of people off to the side, and on the floor, for crying out loud. And it seemed to be working, as she hadn't even glanced my way. I was in the clear. And as I was just thinking to myself that it was a close call and I needed to make sure I never left the house like that again, it happenened.

Toot-Tooooooooooooot.

Holy shit. That damned train. That short little train that stands about four feet tall and Little loves dearly. Because for just $3 per person, it will take you on a loop around the mall. So everyone who missed seeing your crazy ass while you were on foot can be sure to stare at your overgrown butt on the Kiddie Train to Hell. And Little got all super-excited because Daddy always lets him ride it, but he is too small to do it by himself and he needs a grownup. No way was I getting on that train. I'm a big woman--a plus-size gal, if you will. I was not about to wedge my fat, crazy-looking butt into that tiny train and let them parade me around the mall. No. But this upset Little and he started throwing an absolute fit. People started looking. Perfect Mom started coming over to me. She'd seen me. She and her perfect child.

But once Perfect Mom reached us, I could see. I could clearly identify the caked concealer under her eyes to hide her dark circles. I could smell the Marlboros she had been smoking to keep her sanity. I could see just how tired she was. And her perfect child? She had a run in her tights and chocolate on her face. And we sat there silently together, not needing to speak while the kids ran off the ten days' worth of energy they had been holding in. Two strong, educated women defeated by their offspring.

At some point, we successfully left the mall. I bribed the kids with pretzels and soda and they gladly left I got to the car, shut them both in the back after ensuring Little was safely secured in his booster seat. I cranked the heat for them and stood outside the car, puffing on my own Marlboro Ultralight to gather enough strength to get them home safely. And I vowed that I would never go to the mall with these children by myself again. I ground out my cigarette with the toe of my grimy Nike and got in the car.

And realized we never went back for Big's glasses.

I Can Do This, I Can Do This, Wait! Can I?

Okay, Andi, just breathe.
You know how to do that, right?
But these kids are going to kill me, I swear.
Wait. No, they're not. They're just small people. Logic works.
No, it doesn't. They're incapable of reason.
Yes, they are. Just don't let them see you sweat. You're tough. You're strong. You've totally got this,

No. No, I don't.

It is after 10:00 PM. Little is supposed to be in bed by 8:30. But now Jack wants to sleep downstairs with us, thus Little is out of bed. Jack, in case you were wondering, is a massive stuffed bear that is actually bigger than Little. Little is four. He'll be five in about six weeks, thus the pile of kindergarten registration paperwork sitting in front of me, ominously reminding me that I need to get my butt in gear and get him registered or he'll never become an educated member of society. I'll do it tomorrow. For right now, I'm starting this blog while simultaneously doing laundry so I can have some clean clothes in the event that I have to leave the house tomorrow. (Read: in case I have to change out of yoga pants.) I'm also contemplating my failure as an adult. These children are breaking me.

Who am I? Well, I'm Andi/ Andrea/ Mom/ Mommy. I've spent most of my working years as a healthcare professional. Wanting a little more than this, because I'm slightly idiotic in nature, I went back to school and got a business degree. And when I figured that I didn't quite owe the Department of Ed enough money, I went back and got an MBA. Yep, according to a very fancy piece of paper, I am a Master, equipped to manage your corporation for you. My intent was that this would propel me into a high-powered career behind the glass walls that divide the hospital's administration from the rest of us working stiffs. What happened is something totally different.

I was working away while applying for leadership positions with that shiny new degree when it happened. Big hurt my shoulder. (Big, of course, being the other child in my use of the plural children.) Big is thirteen. My big, bad teenager, that one is. He plays football and wrestles. He's pretty awesome when you get over the general weirdness that comes from his Asperger's. It was during one of his meltdowns that my shoulder was injured. And the injury wasn't in the cute let's-use-this-ice-pack-and-rest-for-a-week way. It was more like a holy-shit-you-have-to-reconstruct-my-arm kind of way. As in, I now have six anchors in my shoulder holding my rotator cuff together, there have been entire sections of bone removed, and my biceps tendon isn't even in the same place anymore after the surgeon shortened it, drilled some holes, and put it somewhere else entirely. So they said I couldn't work. No, really they said I couldn't work for a long time. In fact, it has been over nine months since I worked a single day.

So then Hubs got hurt. I got a call from the ER one day--the ER where I once worked, and the nurses knew me. They're the ones who called me and told me that the dork fell fourteen feet through a ceiling and somehow only managed to sprain his ankle. But somehow that ended up being the worst sprain in the history of sprains, and his doctor actually looked at us and said these words: "Well, it's just sprained, but it is the worst sprain possible. And, unfortunately, it is the only sprain that requires surgery to heal." So Hubs was on crutches and I had my right arm in a sling and otherwise tethered to my body for four months. How cute, right? We were so figgin' fabulous.

And those kids of ours? They smelled weakness.
And totally ran with it.

In the meantime, Hubs escaped. He healed and went back to work and left me here alone with them.

I can tell you stories. In fact, that is my intention. Because the whole point of this is I can tell you these stories and you can't judge me. Well, okay, you can judge me, but I don't really care. Or maybe you will tsk-tsk me while in your head, you're silently saying, "I'm not the only one going crazy over children." Because I swear, these kids are awesome. They're adorable. They're amazing. But I swear they're out to kill me.

So here I am. And I am dealing with things like flooded bathrooms, drinking of maple syrup, attempts to burn the house down, chasing me with barbecue tongs while shouting inappropriate things, and other absurdities too numerous to mention.

At least ten times per day, I ask myself, "I got an MBA for THIS?"

Hang on. You'll understand, I promise.