First I have to tell you, I had an open-face cheese sandwich made with gluten-free bread and soy-free fake cheese, and I loved it. I mean, truly, I lurrrrved it! This should give you some idea of just how long it has been since I last had a cheese sandwich.
Not that you care. But you would. If you were me.
Yes, yes, I know it should be “if you were I,” but it also should have been one sentence, not three; however, as we all know in the world of blogging, we don’t always follow the rules, nor do we have to (unless one of our college English professors is reading along, but I would be both shocked and awed if any of mine were, especially since probably none of them remember me). (Very large class sizes out there at the ol’ BYU).
Anyway, while I’m talking about fake cheese on fake bread and the fact that I can’t eat real food, I will share that I have finally gone and done it. Yes, I have found a doctor, a real M.D., who takes a nutritional approach to medicine and is experienced in working with bio-identical hormones. Since my food problems are all related to, well, food and, somehow also, hormones, I’m hoping this Dr. will be able to help me. I mean, this whole migraines from wheat development has just been the final straw (which, with my luck, would also give me migraines if I gnawed on it). So I see the good Dr. Monday afternoon and we’ll see what she has to say. As long as it doesn’t include the words, “I’ll write you a prescription for Topamax,” I’ll count it as progress. If she starts talking about blood draws to test my nutrient and hormone levels then I’ll probably go home, bust open a bottle of sparkling grape juice, and put on my party hat.
No, I don’t really have a party hat.
But I do have kids! Oh, boy, do I have kids! And I haven’t taken a picture of any of them in, like, forever. So I decided the other day that it was time to bust out the camera and take some candid shots of them playing on their monstrosity of a swing set. The best shot is of Quinn, but I’m not putting it in this post since I don’t feel like pw protecting it.
However, I’ve got one of Tank Boy to share:
The boy can just zip along those monkey rings in nothing flat. His upper body strength is amazing, quite honestly. Anyway, since the rings no longer present any challenge whatsoever, and since now when he says, “Hey Mom! Dad! Watch this!” we watch him speed across the rings and say, “Yeah, good job . . .” in that voice of the bored parent who as seen. it. all. before . . . he has moved on, up as it were, and now goes hand over hand across the beam from which the rings hang.
I told him he needs to try hanging from two rings and then pull himself up and put his arms out . . . what do they call that? You know, when the Olympic gymnast guys hang there like they’re nailed to a cross only they aren’t? They are just hanging from the rings that way? Yeah, so I gave him that goal to work on, though I don’t think he believed me that people actually do that. But I swear, if any five-year-old boy could do it, my son could.
His ability to put together a matching outfit, however, is a different story. Obviously.
In other news . . .
My apologies to any and all who might have been looking forward to the Month of October. I have declared it cancelled. Multiple heinous things are happening that month, therefore I have called it off. I informed my husband of this the other night, and he said, “Whatever makes you happy . . .” Calling off October does, so I am.
In the event that it occurs anyway, copious amounts of dark chocolate and a red convertible would be appreciated. Or maybe a yellow Porsche. Either way . . .
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.
Oh! My! Word! George, I think you are out there! And after the umpteen-millionth search on Facebook, I think I just found you! Now to sit and wait and see if you reply to the message I sent you.