I grew up in a suburban neighborhood where we spent long years on swim team & rode the bus with the same kids for well over a decade. We played cards in the club house when summer thunderstorms rolled through & in the evenings, we’d round up teams to play capture the flag in the woods & creek that wrapped between & around our houses. We dared each other to jump the fence to Peabody’s land where he lived with his 12 Dobermans, then ran like hell home where our moms would call the other to laugh over our stories. The other kids that I grew up with became my playmates & friends & enemies for the first 18 years of my life. Some of my favorite memories are wrapped up in the little world that surrounded my house.

When we started looking for houses last year, Doug & I had very distinctly different tastes – he wanted land & lots of it while I wanted neighbors & lots of ‘em. In the end, I won with a promise that when we retire, we’ll own rolling hills & a house without an HOA governing the colors of mailboxes. We fell in love with our Money Pit & the trampolines & swingsets behind the other houses only made me want it more.

The first time I watched Harrison run through the cul-de-sac with the girls two doors down, I thought my heart would explode. This was exactly what I hoped for.

One night when it was gorgeous, Doug & I sat on the front steps while Harrison played trucks on the ground. It was perfect. Harry looked up & said, “Can those girls play with me?” & I looked over to their house, which seemed shut tight.

I stood up & brushed the pollen off my pants & held out my hand. “Okay, buddy. I’m going to teach you Neighborhood 101.” Together we walked barefoot up the driveway & paused at their front door. I kneeled down & told him that he needs to push the doorbell & when their momma answers to ask, “Can M & Acome out to play?” He nodded & repeated me several times until I gave him a wink & a pat on the rump.

He rang the doorbell & looked back at me uncertainly. “Remember,” I coached. “Can M & A come out to play?” He nodded again. Yep, Momma. I got this.

The door swung open. Harry froze. Their momma waited patiently & I whispered, “Don’t you have something to ask?”

Harrison squared his shoulders, took a step forward & boomed, “CAN I COME IN YOUR HOUSE?”

& then I died.

The end.

I am notorious for my intolerance to anesthesia.

Like that time I told the nurse to get me some g-damn apple juice after my septoplasty.

Or when I screamed at the nurse that I hated her & she could go fuck herself after my breast reduction.

Or when I sobbed uncontrollably for hours after my ablation for no apparent reason.

It was a little embarrassing when I asked the prep nurse if she was going to be my recovery nurse & that I was really, really sorry in advance for anything I said because she seemed like a very nice lady.

Me:  “I get a little…mean.”
Doug: “She means combative.”
I shoot him a dirty look.
Me: “I don’t punch people.”
Doug: “She’s verbally abusive.”
Me: “I prefer mean.”
Doug:  “Hateful. Malicious.”
Nurse: “Ummm…alright, then.”

She put three yellow sticky notes all over my chart warning nurses not to get too close or take anything too personally.

The good news is that for the first time, I woke up slowly with horrible pain & good pain meds & a nurse that somehow knew the best way to calm me was to sit & pet my hair. So she did for two solid hours until she whispered that if she gave me another dose of meds, I’d have to stay the night & it was a full moon which meant no open beds & wouldn’t it be better to be home than in a group recovery room?  Oh, yes. I spent the next two hours in Recovery 2, wrapped in warm towels to stop the post-anesthesia shakes & trying not to send back every pain med I’d ingested.

The left are my wedding rings on Doug’s pinky. I forgot that I’d have to take them off. On the right…well. You’re welcome for that picture, Internet.

The recovery process has been slow & that’s mostly my fault because while lounging on the couch under the influence of strong pain meds sounds fun, it’s really not my bag of chips. Which meant that I started back at work on Monday morning from home, then tried to go into the office on Tuesday. Bad choice. But today is a great turning point - I’m still sore, still really bruised, but walking less like a 95-year-old man & more like a person that is just sore & bruised. I’ve been working my full hours from home since I’m mentally 100% there, just physically unable to hobble into the office. Not to mention that I still can’t wear real pants.

On Tuesday, the doctor called to tell me that the pathology report came back clean & benign.

As expected, but awesome to hear.

Which means ol’ Damien is just a thing of the past, this recovery is a blip in the radar, & I will be fully recovered here in no time.

Happy Friday, friends!

Who has two thumbs & two ovaries? THIS GIRL.

Figured I should get that out of the way first – that my doctor managed to save my ovary & while it came at a price (doesn’t everything?), I am so thankful for it. Right before they took me to the operating room, my doctor came in & marked my side & put her hand on my forehead & I begged her to not take both of my ovaries. I had an irrational fear that she’d get in there & find things on the left side & leave me with nothing & she smiled & said that she didn’t care what she found, she wouldn’t do that to me.

Surgery went a little longer than planned – it was a tumor, not a cyst. It was bigger than anticipated & it wouldn’t budge through the laparscopic cuts. In the end, she made a larger incision on the right but accidentally sliced a blood vessel in the process. But she still made the right call & did exactly what I asked her to do – save the ovary.

Want to see it? Click here. It’s pictures of my innards, so don’t look if you’re eating or need smelling salts on the regular. If you don’t want to look, the run-down is that Damien was the size of my uterus.

While we are waiting for the official report from pathology, they are 98% sure it is benign. So I am honestly not concerned. I even hate to call it “tumor” because that sounds so DUN-DUN-DUN when really, this should be the end of the road for it.

The truth is that I completely underestimated this surgery. Between the stitched internal blood vessel & the larger incision, recovery has been a little slower than I hoped. I’m not doing well with the pain meds & have spent quite a bit of time seeing them come back up, which means a) my bullied abs are really taking a beating & b) I’ve stopped taking pain meds. I really thought I’d be up & moving per usual today & here I am on the couch, logging into VPN for work & trying to ignore the burning, stabbing pain near my right hip.

The boys have been amazing – Doug missed his calling in life to be a nurse & Harrison is working very hard at being gentle with me. He’s frustrated that I can’t wrestle or move fast & that he can’t lay on me while I rest, but he’s also fascinated with looking at the bandages on my belly. Our friends have been incredible (Kathleen! Tonya! Suzanne!) at bringing us yummy food – recovery is easier with homemade chicken pot pie & Whole Foods cake pops!

Thanks for all of your prayers & well-wishes through this stupid mess. I’m so glad it’s over. I hope you all had a great weekend – it’s raining here but I’m enjoying the quiet.

..I have an incredible future in pizza making.

I know, it’s like HOW CAN I BE THAT TALENTED AT EVERYTHING?!

We had a pretty rough weekend of sickness for the wee man, but he’s just peachy-keen today so we’re gearing up for the exorcism of Damien coming on Thursday. I’m working longer hours to get in time & work ahead so if I’m a little absent around here this week, it’s because I’m getting all my quacking ducks lined up.

In amazing news, this week Harrison started randomly telling me that he loved me & it’s just the best thing ever.

Harry: “I love you, Mommy.”
me: “I love you, too!”
Harry: “Thank you!”

He also walked up to me yesterday, threw his arms around my legs & said, “You know what? I like you so much.”

Three & a half will eat your brains out but it is also the most magical age to date.

On Tuesday we went out to eat at Moe’s because

1. kids eat free on Tuesday
2. Doug had a case of the hangries for a burrito
3. Damien the cyst is causing anything other than yoga pants to be uncomfortable so it’s like, Moe’s or McDonald’s or I have to cook.
4. yummy.

Doug swung into a space beside a big white pick up truck with company stickers plastered all over. You know, the kind where if you stop behind him at a traffic light, you’ll remember the logo & telephone number the rest of your life.

Like 1-800-588-2300-EMPIRE. I did not even have to Google that so well played, viral marketing jingle.

Harry steps out of our car & his eyes are like saucers because, WHOA THAT IS THE BEST TRUCK EVER. Then he looks over & says, “Momma, can you take a picture of me with this truck?”

At first I was like, “this is so weird” in my head but I happily obliged & darn you, it’s one of my favorite memories of my kid so far. He even asked to see it after I took it & gave a little smile of satisfaction like “self, that is a damn good picture.”

That’s called a framer, Hibbers.

First, let us play a round of taps for Google Reader, which was my favorite way to peruse blogs. I can still get to mine through the “app” I created on my phone & iPad, but that’s it. BlogLovin is starting to grow on me – it’s a great way to stay organized & explore new blogs. My only complaint is that it operates under a partial feed & I’m a full-feed reader. Then again, clicking over to the blogs I read is just a little “thank you” that I don’t mind giving & the partial feed forces me to do that.  You can follow this here ol’ blog by clicking this link: Follow my blog with Bloglovin

It still says “Heir to Blair” but it’s me & my current stuff.

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THANK YOU for all of your sweet comments about Damien the mother effing cyst. I read every single one & while I haven’t had the chance to reply to all of them, sharing your stories & encouragement & pissed-off-ness really helped me last week. Doug even read them on his own & they helped him, too. That’s the best thing about this little space on the internet, the chance to tell stories & make the world a little easier to handle. Right now I’m in the place where I just want the damn thing out of me. It’s all kinds of uncomfortable & now I’m more worried about rupturing the thing – I had one burst in early 2008 before I started blogging & ZERO FUN. Me, crawling on the floor & sobbing at 3am & a distended belly for a few weeks.  That was also on the right side, so now my right ovary gets the official side-eye & maybe it’s best if it comes out. I’m worried about cutting my egg count in half & fertility stuff, but I’ve talked to several friends that have gotten pregnant easily & successfully with only one ovary. So, you know. Babies in the future!

A slight bummer in that I might be out for the sprint triathlon in mid-May. I keep reminding myself that there will be others & all my work is not for loss even if I don’t get to race. I’m not sure what the standard wait time between laparascopic surgery & intense athletic competition is, but I’m doubting it is a mere three weeks. Especially since I’ve had to back off training significantly in hopes to not rupture the damn thing before they can yank it out.

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Last week I pulled up in our driveway to see a rather distinct box sitting on our front step – a Build A Bear box. I figured it might be from a neighbor, seeing how we have some really great ones & they’re still in “welcoming committee” mode for our little family. As Doug pulled in behind me with Harry in tow, I picked up the box & noticed a shipping label from New York & rainbow hair sticking out of the windows in the box.

After reading about his love of My Little Pony, my editors at Babble sent Harry the brand-new Rainbow Dash Build A Bear.

He opened the box one tab at a time & then just stared in with the biggest smile on his face. “This is Rainbow Dash?” he asked in awe. Then he pulled the pony out & hugged him close. He’s slept with Rainbow Dash every night since.  THANK YOU, Lindsey & Andrea & Jasmine & the rest of the Babble team!

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In further housekeeping, the stuff I’ve written on Babble lately:

We found out the hard way that Hibby is allergic to amoxicillin. Here’s a run-down on what that means & what to look out for in case it happens to you.

I did some reading on SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder).  I hope I did it justice.

Night terrors suck so hard.

My toddler reminds me of Grumpy Cat. (new brand of catfood? green peas? i’d rather link my ass for an hour.)

Teacher Appreciation Week is May 4-10. Peruse Pinterest accordingly.

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& then I remembered how many FEELINGS & THOUGHTS I have about gym locker rooms, so see you soon when that post is done!

My weekend in one word? GOLF. Between The Masters on television & my boys swinging clubs in the backyard together, I’m odd man out. Which means I finished Stephanie Nielson’s book in less than 24 hours. I found it at TJ Maxx for $2.00 which was a gift for me & a crime for books because such a memoir should never be sold for a mere $2.00.

If you need some sunshine, come on over & I’ll make you a maple whisky & we’ll sit out on my back porch.

Until tomorrow, friends.

Fact: ultrasounds are only fun when tiny babies with tiny heartbeats are involved.

About a month ago while on a training run with my friend Sarah, I leaned over & grabbed my uterus. “This hurts,” I wheezed. “Why would my baby-maker hurt running?”

“Cramps? Pulled muscle? Maybe you just need to pee?” she suggested.

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Last week at my yearly pelvic exam, Dr. Martin was up in my junk & I let out a yelp. “That hurts,” I said. She made a sympathetic face & kept prodding. She told me it felt “full” & that it could mean a number of things from a cyst to a full bowel. I took that opportunity to tell her that I am full of shit 99% of the time. She cracked a smile & ordered an ultrasound.

Yesterday I scooted onto the exam table in a dark room, this time without my husband or nervous flutters in my belly. “This is different from the last time I was here,” I said to the ultrasound tech. “I bet there’s nothing there. I’m kind of a hypochondriac like that.” She grinned & we talked about Harrison while she worked. I kept trying to lift up my head to see the screen, but I saw nothing as she drew lines & arrows. Without a little heartbeat & body, my uterus just looks…vast. “Ouch,” I whispered as she moved to look at my right ovary. She printed out sheet after sheet, more than I ever saw at an ultrasound for Harrison.

“It looks like a cyst,” Dr. Martin said, sitting down with my file. She spaced out her fingers – it’s a huge one. Over six centimeters in length, over four in width. My eyes grew big as my fingers held my right hip. It’s no wonder it hurts to run, to have sex, to sit for too long. We talked about the different types of cysts & she asked me if I’d ever had surgery before. Septoplasty, breast reduction, ablation, D&E for my first baby.

Add laparoscopic surgery to remove an ovarian cyst to the list come April 25th.

I’m not afraid & it should be a relatively easy procedure, but there is a high risk that I will lose my right ovary, due to the size & placement of the cyst.

Thank God for His wisdom to give me two ovaries, right? At least, that’s what I said while I cried over the phone to Doug. I never realized how attached I am to my girl parts but it turns out I am rather fond of my right ovary.

But as long as it is just a cyst, I’m going to be happy.

I named the cyst Damien. It seemed fitting.

.

p.s. motherfuck.
p.p.s. sorry, mom & dad & church friends. i needed to say that.

Usually when a blogger in her breeding years is gone for two weeks with no explanation, she pops up with a belly picture & confetti.

Sorry to disappoint. I’m not pregnant. I’m even getting an ultrasound for a cyst on my right ovary today, so I can absolutely, 100% assure you that there is no bun in the oven.

Or maybe she’s a blogger that’s been writing for five years & takes a premeditated “break” from the internet in search of inspiration & “finding” herself.

Sorry. Not that, either.

Or if it’s me, maybe you’re wondering if I’m losing my marbles again.

I’m pleased to inform you that all my marbles are there, in a straight line, & even the hamster wheel is still spinning! Thank you, sunshine & Zoloft!

Truthfully, I’ve been busy at work & Doug’s been traveling & that leaves me very little time to do anything but throw dinner on the table & throw the kid in the tub & wonder how single moms with more than one kid manage to not go crazy. Last week we bent over for the IRS & I’m still smarting from it & would rather not discuss it, thanks very much. As a result, I’ve been eating ice cream while watching 19 Kids & Counting because I find Michelle Duggar’s voice incredibly soothing at the end of a long day. True story. Home girl has a future in recording books & inspriational podcasts if procreating for television doesn’t pan out anymore.

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We spent Easter in the North Carolina mountains, drinking Cheerwine from glass bottles.

North Carolina went from 40 degrees & raining & WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, SPRING? to 85 degrees & sunny today, HELLO SUMMER.

Spring for you, Glen Coco. You go, Glen Coco! & no spring for North Carolina.

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I’m so thankful Harrison looks like his daddy since Doug is a million times better looking than me. Kid got the lucky end of the deal. Also? The hair.

He’s really interested in anatomy these days so I get a lot of questions about why I don’t have a penis & if I lost it in my bottom. As long as he doesn’t ask his teachers that, we’re golden.

Aside from the discussions over boys versus girls and whether “poopy” is an okay description for the taste of vegetables, this age is super-fun & when I’m sad that I don’t have another baby, I try to remind myself that Harry gets to be the center of my universe.

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Ah, the baby thing. I pretty much can’t log into Facebook without seeing a pregnancy announcement & while I’m thrilled for my friends, I get a little more sad each time that it’s not me. Pretty much everyone around me had a baby in 2012 or is pregnant. People are whispering & asking if we’re having trouble or if we’re even going to have another kid. I’m getting a little tired of smiling politely like it’s any of their business.

I tell myself repeatedly that people have kids 5-6-7-8 years apart all the time & it ain’t no thing.

I wish telling myself that made all the feelings go away.

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 No new news on the job front.

Womp.

But I’m taking over the international campaigns & playing in our new content management system & basically hauling ass every day per usual. I keep repeating Casey’s motto that if you work hard & are nice to people, good things will happen.

I hope.

I don’t always have leprosy around my face while snuggling a rabbit, but when I do I make sure it’s during school pictures.

People. I barely even have words. Because it’s school picture time again & there’s livestock involved again.

You remember Peanut Butter the Pony from 2012? This time it was a pair of fluffy rabbits & I was taking bets over text message on whether or not the Hibster would actually hold a bunny. The little girls in his class were a’flutter over the soft! cuddly! bunnies! but he looked at the rabbit cage like we were all drunk for even suggesting this nonsense.

I’m not entirely sure what they bribed him with, but lo & behold, he snuggled a live rabbit.

I’m a little bummed because the photographer captured zero of his personality unlike last time & I really wanted a good bunny picture to put next to the cowboy on the beach picture.

But poor Hibby was feeling the worst ever thanks to a wicked cold & his momma buying CVS brand vapor bath wash. You know that vapor-infused bath wash that is made by Johnson & Johnson? I normally buy the Target knock-off & it is so lovely & soothing. I pour a little in the bathtub & the steam helps the vapors clear him up before he goes to bed. But this time I snagged a CVS version. Bad idea, self. Harrison errupted in a nasty rash all over that was quite painful. Hands, chest, back, face…you name it. A week of Burt’s Bees & Aquaphor later, he’s looking good again but the Leprosy rash is now captured for all eternity.

Even the rabbit is like, “Is his hand going to fall off while he’s holding me? Is this contagious cross-species? Is someone going to come get me?”

p.s. because someone will ask – those bunnies are privately loved & owned by the photographer as family pets. they are not from a bunny farm or purchased for the pictures.