This is where I do the very important work of blogging about being a mom. I know. You want to be like me when you grow up, don’t you?
I even have an intern.
Let me tell you, for an unpaid intern she’s quite expensive and high maintenance. She expects a meal, several meals, every day. I’d say something about her expecting me to wipe her butt, but that would be crude.
This is the kind of meal I prepare for my crew every day.
Ok, that’s not true. That’s the kind of food I intend to cook every day.
This is more like the kind of food I prepare for our meals.
Well, no, that’s not true either. That is the kind of food I would like to eat, and it implies I actually cook. In reality, I serve freezer lasagna, macaroni and cheese, and anything else that requires less than 5 minutes of time and effort on my part.
So much for being a food blogger.
These are my blogging pants.
What? You don’t match your intern to your pants?
Yes, she was taking yet another break. But she does contribute a lot to our team.
For the past five years in a row, I’ve found myself in a bit of a funk come mid-summer. It’s a bit childish, for sure; this funk is all about jealousy. I’m missing the BlogHer Conference. This time of year, every year, bloggers from the far corners of the planet converge on a selected city to meet each other in person, drink, discuss tricks of the trade, and show off their high priced footwear.
This year, right now, they are in New York City.
The city of dreams.
The city so nice they named it twice.
The Big Apple.
Right at the top of my list of places that I want to visit.
The tweets and blog posts are rolling in with updates on the shenanigans and tom-foolery, and I’m enjoying the opportunity to live vicariously – to a point. Part of me is still pouting.
There has always been a good reason why I couldn’t go: pregnancy, a new baby, cancer, and most significantly, no money.
This time of year has also become a time of resolve – of promises to self. One way or another I’ll go next year, I promise myself. If I put away $100 a month starting now… yeah, right. If I had a spare $100 a month, it would be making a very small dent in some Very Large Bills. Or buying a lot more shoes.
Each year I promise myself I’ll find a way, one way or another, to go next year. The truth is that I make a lot of promises to myself. Making use of that gym membership, walking every day, eating more vegetables, getting out of debt (snort), scrubbing the toilet more frequently… And I let myself off the hook for those promises quite easily.
Don’t make promises you can’t keep? Sure. Sounds good. So about eating more vegetables…
Instead of promising myself that I will go next year, this year I’m participating in the NoGo BlogHer blogparty and The Blog Hop.
When did you start blogging?
I’ve been blogging off and on since 2001, mostly off until the past 5 years.
Why did you start blogging?
A friend got me started. In those days it was called keeping an online journal, and mine was on livejournal. It was much more insular then, and the posts were privately shared with a small community of other writers. I started because I loved having people to read, and comment on, my writing.
What is one thing you are going to do this week that is WAY cooler than going to BlogHer?
Play tickle monster with my 16 month old daughter
Share a post that you think says a lot about you or is your favorite. Stuffed Bra
One of the frustrations I’ve had to deal with because of this breast cancer is my lopsidedness. Getting dressed in the morning takes quite a bit more thought and planning than ever before. I wasn’t small breasted to start with, but thanks to my mastectomy I have a bouncy D-Cup that swings a little lower since breastfeeding, and a rock hard, absurdly high, almost A-cup.
To make matters a little more interesting, the mastectomy side is augmented by a saline implant called an expander. I periodically go in for expansions, which means they inject more saline into the implant. This is in preparation for reconstruction after I complete the cancer treatment, but the expansions have to be complete before I start radiation. As a result, the size and shape of my mastectomy side “breast” changes to frequently. I’ll wait till the size and shape stabilizes to invest in a prosthesis, in the meantime I’m stuffing my bra with socks.
Yeah, you read that right. I’m stuffing my bra with socks. How very seventh grade. But at least in junior high they were both the same size, I wasn’t trying to make different sizes match each other. No matter how many socks I stuff into this bra, they will never bounce quite like my real breast.
The Stuffed Bra that Wont Stay Stuffed
These socks were made for wandering, and they do like to tour my chest wall as I’m moving about. They really like to get around while I’m running on the treadmill. Before I know it, they’ve worked their way under my armpit and each pump of my arm jams them a little further back under my arm, or even more frequently, they pile up right in the center of my chest. Excuse me a moment while I reach in and readjust my “girls” while running, and hopefully not stumbling, on the treadmill. Graceful, no? I find myself pushing my socks back into place as I walk around town. The boob is gone, it doesn’t feel like a boob anymore, so it’s easy to forget that while they’re just socks to me, to the average pedestrian it looks like I’m groping and playing with my boobs and I try to corral them back into place.
And yoga? the socks are likely to wind up just about anywhere, but I’ve mastered the art of readjustment during downward dog. People look at each other less during yoga anyways.
It’s not just while I’m exercising that the socks become an issue. A few weeks ago we sailed around Seattle on a gorgeous schooner. I disembarked the ship and my husband handed my 1 year old daughter down to me. She was a little wobbly on her feet as I set her down and knelt next to her on the deck. To catch her balance, she reached up and grabbed my shirt, and managed to grab my bra in the same handful. Out tumbled my sports socks in full sight of everyone looking down from the ship.
So if you see me out and about with a big lump under my arm, or up by my neck, or down by my abdomen, its just an errant sock trying to make a break for it. No need for concern. You might even be treated to a glimpse of my readjustment dance as I try to surreptitiously work it back into place.
I just joined an online challenge called 21*5*800 hosted by Bindu Wiles. 21 days. 5 days of yoga per week. 800 words per day.
I am so excited about this challenge.
The group is actually on day 4 of the challenge and I just got started. I’m just going to start where the group is, then add a few extra days at the end, probably just picking up the prompts I dropped from the first few days.
I’ve already decided that I while I intend to write my 800 words every day, I probably won’t share all of it, although I may share a portion. I want to get into a daily writing, and yoga, practice. I want to be able to be honest in my writing, and I have learned that I have to be much too careful about what I publish in this format. That said, today’s topic is relevant: Fear.
Fear
Fear has become a big part of my life since my breast cancer diagnosis. Fear of death? Certainly. Fear of pain? Oh, yes. Fear of being a burden on my family? Absolutely. Fear of the effects of my cancer on my one year old daughter? Terrifying.
I have found that the yoga helps. I’ve learned to breathe through the movements: the tough stretches, holding a challenging pose. That practice transfers to the uncomfortable and painful procedures. A deep breath and long slow exhale as I endure the poking and prodding makes all the difference. The pain is still there, but it is a bit more manageable. Focusing on my breath takes my focus away from the pain.
Fear takes me out of the present and puts me into the future – a future that is unknowable, yet my imagination tries it’s best to find every worst case scenario. Pain forces me into right now – so does my yoga practice. When I’m in now, what might happen doesn’t matter. Every moment has an infinity of possible outcomes.
When I’m seized by anxiety or panic, the yogic breathing can settle me down. Cleansing breath: long, slow exhale opens up more space in the lungs for a deeper, fuller inhale. Raise the arms to expand the chest, then slowly lower them as I exhale. Before I know it, I’m focusing more on how my body feels and improving this critical function. The fear is still there, but it is a bit more manageable. Focusing on my breath takes my focus away from the fear.
That’s not to say that fear is unwarranted. I have an aggressive form of breast cancer that has spread to the lymph nodes, complicated by another rare form of cancer that has a pretty grim prognosis. This is not something I can ignore or wish away. I also cannot focus only on the present. I am submitting myself to these procedures and chemotherapy, sacrificing my comfort and well being in the present, because I fear what will happen if I don’t, and in hope of improving my well being in the future.
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