Health. Updates. From. Cleveland.

On the entire 5-hour drive home from Cleveland this evening, I listened to David Gray. It brought me back to a place that I needed to be.

And it helped.

My appointments in Cleveland didn't exactly go the way that I expected them to go today.

A little disappointing, actually.

First of all, my Ear, Nose & Throat doctor (well, the Resident) noted that my ear drum is inverted in my right ear. Not only did she make me scared out of my mind, but she had me convinced that I would be deaf by the time I turn 30.

Thankfully, my Rheumatologist---the woman I would totally believe and trust if she told me I was African American---set the record straight and made me feel much better. Sure, the possibility of going deaf is there...but it isn't imminent.

It isn't guaranteed.

In fact, the inverted ear drum is most likely the result of a recent ear infection (back in April) and we are just going to monitor it.

No big deal.

The second thing that came up was my airway.

My airway is free and clear. No inflammation. No scar tissue. I am open to about 60/40 capacity (basically, my airway is 60% the size of a normal airway...this is good, considering most Wegener's patients are running around at about 30 or 40%). 

The problem lies in the fact that my breathing has been horrible over the past few months. 

So horrible, in fact, that I was almost positive I would be scheduled for surgery while I was at the doctor today.

But nope.

No surgery because my airway doesn't need it.

The bad news is the fact that my lungs may be the issue now.

Doctor Langford is concerned that I am struggling to breathe so much when my airway looks so clear. So she has ordered a CT scan of my lungs, and after the results are delivered, I will head back to Cleveland to visit a lung specialist.

Specialist.

I feel like I use this word so often, it was one of the first words that Thad probably ever said.

So, after all of this news, I, of course, had a bit of a break down. It wasn't even a break down, per se, but just a moment of panic.

Just when I think that we have this disease under control, and that I am lucky to have it in such a concentrated area, it goes out and throws me a curve ball. Just when I think I am invincible---even from Wegener's---it proves me wrong.

I had momentary flashes of Thad growing up without a mom.

And this, of course, caused the break down.

But, thankfully, I came to my senses. We're all allowed a break down every now and then, right?

I pulled my shit together and remembered that I am going to kick Wegener's ass. Not the other way around. 

I refuse to allow this fucking disease to keep me from watching my child grow up and have children of his own.

Memories.

Dear Thad,

Last night, when I went to tuck you in to bed, I noticed that you had had a little accident. So, while daddy stripped your bed, cleaned your sheets, and put new sheets on the bed, I pulled you into our bed with me while you slept.

It reminded me of the days when we first brought you home from the hospital. 

The nurse had told me that a baby could be calmed by the simple scent of his mother's skin.

So, on those early mornings when you were ready to get up before the rest of the world---including me and daddy---I would pull you into bed, touch your nose to mine, and we would fall back to sleep together.

There was always a wonderful feeling that would sweep over me in those moments, knowing that for 10 months prior to those days, we had formed a connection strong enough to silence your tears with the touch of my hand, or the scent of my skin.

Now, as you have grown, I often miss those moments. They are the memories that bring a smile to my face when you wake me in the morning with your big smile, your sleepy eyes, and your chirping, "Good morning, mommy."

They are the memories that prompt me to pull you into bed, let you watch cartoons, and snuggle with you until you're ready to get going with your day and have some breakfast. 

Listening to your quiet little snores last night brought me back to those mornings when I had the pleasure of holding you close, and all to myself. 

It's hard to believe that time continues to move so quickly. Soon enough, your morning will no longer consist of coming into mine and daddy's room to wake us up for the day. Your willingness to let me hold you will fade, and your desire to snuggle during the morning cartoons will be erased. 

Would you believe that I still remember the very last time that I ever held my own mother's hand? I remember it so vividly, because I remember the simultaneous thought in my head that told me I was too old to be doing something like that. 

Holding hands was for babies. Little kids.

Not me.

But just so you know, on the day that you have those same thoughts, keep in mind that you are wrong.

In my eyes, you will never be too old to hold my hand, or to snuggle with me in the mornings. I will forever treasure you as my baby, even when you are old and grown.

Remember one of our favorite stories?

"I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

Love,

Mom

Glad. That's. Over.

One of the biggest stressors I face on an annual basis is getting Thad to cooperate for his obligatory photos.

I stopped doing the 1/2 pictures because he was just too tough to deal with. But of course, I couldn't get away with not doing photos for his third birthday.

And yes, Thad is (was...but I'll get to that later) difficult to take photos of, despite the number of cute photos I have actually managed to capture.

If you know photographers, you know that they never just take "one" picture. Instead, they take one hundred, and hope that at least one of them comes out.

So yeah.

My last three attempts were epic fails. 

But apparently a switch came on this time around.

Or, maybe it was because I let him play with water. 

But either way, I got the shot.

And I'm pleased! 

The first photo is what I will be sending to grandparents, great-grandparents, etc. in an 8x10. The other two photos will be going out to friends in wallet sizes and 4x6.

Enjoy. :)

The. Circus.

There are a few factors that go into making a decision like the one I made the other day, to take Thad to the circus.

One, I have been to several Cirque du Soleil shows and have loved them more than words can explain. They have me leaving in awe of my entire life in general, wishing that I had worked on my splits a little more when I was 5, instead of playing softball.

Two, I love watching crazy animal tricks.

Three, I secretly think it would be fascinating to watch a rogue tiger take a chunk out of his trainer's thigh. Sick, I know.

And four, I have a kid. Who doesn't want to take their kid to the circus!?

So we went.

And it was one word: LAME.

And when I say that it was "lame," I mean it in the "my 3-year-old son was totally bored" kind of way. At one point, he had his back turned to the arena, and was sitting on the floor playing with the motorcycle toy we had bought for him.

Like, there are people jumping through fire hoops, and he was more interested in watching his plastic motorcycle go back and forth on a chair covered in nacho cheese, presumably from the previous nights' circus attendees.

The only cool thing was the elephants. There were several of them, and I loved just watching them. Beautiful animals, those elephants.

But even the tigers were lame. They kept them in their cages, and had them raise their paws on command. Big deal. My cat does the same thing when I put a spoonful of ice cream in her face.

And the clowns?

Oh dear God, the clowns.

 First of all, they weren't clowns in the traditional sense of the word. They were more like mid-20-somethings in baggy pants and sideways visors who knew how to jump on trampolines and run around. They didn't even have face paint on.

Their magic tricks were actually obvious, and when they did something they deemed to be 'impressive,' I swear they did it for 20 minutes at a time. I mean, am I getting old? Or does that sound lame? I figure if you can't even keep Thad entertained (the kid likes to pop bubble wrap), then you have a total and complete epic fail on your hands.

I was able to get some photos, although not the best quality. It was the one time I wished I had brought my zoom lens with me. Oh well.

Three. Year. Check. Up.

Weight: 33 pounds

Height: 39 inches

Blood Pressure: 84/54

Vision: 20/30

Overall, a happy, healthy turd! ;)

A. Few. Things.

1. Thaddues's first day of preschool didn't go as I had always envisioned in my mind.

He didn't sit on the rug and listen quietly while the teacher read a story. 

Instead, he made loud snoring sounds.

He didn't greet his new teacher with great enthusiasm and joy.

Instead, when she told him he needed to sit on the carpet while he was playing with the sand, he said, "You make me MAD."

He didn't leave the building with his craft in one hand, holding my hand with the other, telling me all about how excited he was to come back.

Instead, he threw himself on the ground in a fit of rage and anger because he didn't get to go on the playground.

Awesome.

At least he's mastered the art of "cheesy grin whilst closing my eyes when my mom commands me to take a picture."

We go back on Wednesday. Let's hope it's not the first time in history that a preschooler is sent to the principal's office.

* * *

2. So, my mom and Aunt Tracey just finished the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer this past weekend.

39.3 miles over the California coastline.

Not an easy task.

Apparently, for some photo opps, they dropped Fergie off - with her husband - about a half mile from the finish line, to make it look like she, too, had walked for the cause.

Um, Fergie?

Since I know you read my blahg and all, I'd like to take this moment to let you know that you're an ass hat. 

Showing up in your pink jumpsuit with "Team Fergie" on it - with your lipstick perfectly applied, and your hair untouched - is downright disrespectful to the hundreds of thousands of women who not only dedicate themselves to the cause for real, but who had also endured a great deal of pain in the past two days to prove just how dedicated they were.

I think you should do us all a favor and next time, just send a check in for some un-Godly amount of money and be done with it. Don't make a mockery of the whole thing.

By the way, did I mention you're an ass hat?

* * *

3. We still can't get Thad to poop in the potty. 

He's afraid he's going to fall in.

So today, he pooped in his Pull Up, and after one sniff, I said, "Ew, Thad, that smells disgusting."

To which he replied, "YOU'RE disgusting."

Quick as a whip, that child.

Quick. As. A. Whip.

Moment. Of. Panic.

I am not even going to lie when I say that Thaddeus will be going to preschool in T-minus 8 hours, and I am sort of freaking out.

Where in the hell did my baby go?

It's like he completely vanished out of thin air, and all of a sudden I have this 3-foot-something walking around my house, singing songs, calling me "mom" instead of "mommy," begging for the soda that he's never going to get, and saying things like, "I don't know," when I ask him what he's doing and he knows he's doing something wrong.

I so badly want to go back to those days when he laid on my chest all day and all night, until Tom practically forced him away from me, insisting that I was going to give our child some sort of complex.

I miss the smell of his little baby head and the sounds he used to make when he drank an entire 4 ounces of milk. 

I miss the days when we thought he was a total pig because he drank 4 ounces of milk.

I miss the sounds of the Rainforest Jumperoo and laying on the ground with him while he played with squishy toys and I studied for school.

I miss the days when he got more solid food on his face and his clothes than he did in his mouth.

I miss the days of waking up to hear him on the baby monitor, cooing at each and every one of his stuffed animals.

I can't even imagine how hard Kindergarten is going to be, if preschool is having this kind of effect on my emotional state.

I just want my monkey to stay little forever.

Is that too much to ask?