I haven’t posted anything in 13 days (13 days! That’s nearly two WHOLE weeks!), so I figured I should post something before I lose my five or so remaining readers. The problem is? I can’t really think of anything to say.
So let me say it in as many words as possible, shall I?
I guess a “Merry Christmas!” shout out to my Christian friends and a “Happy Hanukah!” shout out to my Jewish friends would be a good place to start. Sorry to any Kwanza peeps out there, but I’ve got mixed feelings about that one (because I’ve heard various things about it and its founder and don’t know exactly what is true and what isn’t), so I exercise my right to (for the time being) pretend like it doesn’t even exist. *La la la la la la la*
Moving right along . . . Happy New Year! Because who knows when I’ll post again?
So a quick Christmas recap:
We did the one big gift per kiddo, like I think I mentioned before, and then did the “Things We Love About You” jars, which I thought would be a Grand Hallmark-type of Christmas Moment. Yeah, not so much. I mean, the kids all expressed tons of gratitude for them, and they even read one or two of the slips of paper we put in the jars, but then they just set them aside because they knew there were other gifts still under the tree. A~ even said, “I’m not going to read them all now, because I want to save them for those times when I’m feeling . . . you know.”
Sure, I know. Translation: I’m going to save them for those times when you are a raving banshee and I’m a moody 13-year-old who is sure you hate me and pretty sure I hate you. Then I’ll read one or two of the slips of paper in the hopes that they will give me a good cry and the warm fuzzies; but then I’ll save the rest for later. Because, you know, that raving banshee bit you do is probably more frequent than you realize.
Anyway, the kids were all quite happy with their one store-bought gift (if you don’t count the Christmas Eve pajamas or the stocking stuffers from Santa) (or all the Old Navy $10 jeans I got but gave them before Christmas because some of them really needed jeans and I didn’t want to wrap them), but the big hit? The BIG hit?
Their gifts from the Sperm Donor. In all honesty, he just sent a check, not gifts. But McH decided it would be a good idea to cash that check and buy everybody (and I do mean everybody) (even though on the note section of the check it specifically stated “for the kids”) Nerf guns. Of course, he got me a little six shooter and got himself some automatic something-or-another than required many D batteries. I didn’t even know anything took D batteries any more.
So you can imagine my confusion when I found D batteries in my stocking. Confusion that was obviously further enhanced when I got nothing that needed batteries but my husband got some kind of Nerf assault weapon that . . . anyway . . .
The Nerf guns were and are the hit of this Christmas. A~, after a long and hard-fought Christmas Morning gun battle with the missionaries, declared this “the best Christmas ever!”
It was actually quite fun watching my kids, my husband, and two 19/20-year-0ld boys running through the house, hiding behind corners, strategizing, etc. I would have joined in but, you know, in addition to the fact that someone else was using my gun (and my gun is a six-shooter, did I mention?) I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast.
*The life of a mother.*
At least I managed not to cry into the bacon as I realized that, had I been a slightly more normal BYU co-ed (and by “normal” I mean “BYU co-ed normal” not “regular world normal”) I would be the mother of a 19 or 20 year old. I just don’t feel old enough for that? Know what I mean? But it just really sunk in this year that I am no longer a young, married person having these young missionaries over for Christmas breakfast with other young adults and their very young children. No, I am more like a surrogate mother on Christmas morning now. Blarg.
But? At the same time I was having this depressing thought (because, yes, I find getting old to be depressing), I was also very much enjoying that I could be some kind of surrogate Christmas Morning Mom, cooking bacon and eggs and sausage while they got to run around like the kids that they are and shoot my children with foam darts.
Midge graciously let them use her gun and took on the role of Supply Chain Commander. I guess it wasn’t really much of a supply chain, since she was the only one running through the fray, collecting the used ammunition, and yelling, “I’m your supplier! I’m your supplier! If you need ammunition, I’m your supplier!” I was half shocked that she didn’t actually charge people money for her supplies.
Anyway, it was a fun morning. But I’m adding, “The missionaries are stealing our ammo!” to my list of things I never expected to hear.
Later we delivered plates of cookies to the fire/police/dispatch department and to some random people working at the local hospital. So awkward and out of my comfort zone, and I kept thinking, “They’ll probably just throw all those cookies away, because who is going to eat food just handed to them by random strangers?” but still . . . hopefully it was good for my kids. Good for them to realize that not all families get to spend the holiday together, that people are out there making sacrifices so that people like us will have access to help should we need it, and good for them to focus on others and not just on themselves on Christmas.
Wow! Didn’t I tell you I’d tell you nothing in as many words as possible? And I don’t even think I’m finished yet. But I’ll try to be brief. Maybe use bullet points or something. Anyway, only one more topic: my hormones.
I think I’m going to switch doctors. I think my current doctor has too many irons in the fire and isn’t specialized enough in this whole wellness/anti-aging thing to fully help me. Plus her office people lie to your face, and they’ve lost my records. When I called them on it, the one lady pointed to the shelves of medical records and said, “Do you see all of these records here that we have to keep track of????” I said, “I’m 40 years old. I’ve been to lots of doctors’ and dentists’ offices, and your little collection of records there is pretty much nothing.”
Yeah, nothing brings out my good side like being lied to. In my defense, it is a small office, and their little collection of records is pretty much nothing. In their defense, they told me the doctor carries the records of her wellness/anti-aging patients with her back and forth between her two offices and her home, so it really wasn’t their fault because, for all they knew, my records were sitting on her dining room table. Umm . . . is that even legal?
Anyway, as much as the hormones have helped, they aren’t perfectly balanced. Given my doctor never even bothered to ask me about the dates of my period (oh. my. word! I’m officially one of those bloggers who blogs about her period!) before she gave me the hormones, well . . . that’s kind of an important thing to know. I mean, if you look at the numbers on the lab report without even knowing where the patient was in her cycle when you ran the tests, then anything you do after that is pretty much shooting in the dark.
So I’m thinking of switching. The doctor I’m thinking of switching too is about five hours away. That is a big minus, of course. On the plus side, however, this doctor has a pretty set fee schedule (unlike my current one who says, “How much did we charge you for the hormones last month? Ahh, okay. That’s how much you owe us for this month’s supply), and his prices are way more reasonable. Also, his five-hours-away location just happens to be back home, so when I do need to go for testing or in-person follow ups, the kids and I can make it a visit with family and friends. Also on the plus side is the fact that his practice is a wellness/anti-aging practice that operates, to the best of my knowledge, out of one office, not a family/minor cosmetic procedures/wellness/anti-aging/walk-in clinic practice that operates out of two offices.
You see what I mean about irons in the fire?
One more thing and then I’ll stop with the blather: I highly recommend you all read Breakthrough: Eight Steps to Wellness by Suzanne Somers. Seriously. Read it. Before you take another pharmaceutical drug, read it. Oh, I’m not saying you should never take pharmaceuticals, I’m just saying you need to look into the possibility of other options. Go. Read.
Tewt the Newt is going to bed.