Mardi Gras memory (circa 2004)....

Since I currently do no have the energy needed to keep up with the carnival spirit of New Orleans on this fabulously festive day, I will instead share with you one of my favorite memories of when I didn't listen to my gut and took children into the city for a parade.  I hope you laugh almost as much as I did.  And if you don't...well, maybe what you need is a Hurricane (the Pat O'Brien's kind) some beads and a little time spent negotiating with a toddler's bladder!

Enjoy.....

I'll be seeing ya in 2011....

Every closing of a year is the end of a chapter in ones life.  

Deep breath....now open your eyes

It's the eve of 6 months of the wildest ride of my life.  Cancer.

Here I thought I'd gotten past the madness which was life as a teenage mother, then mother of two girls and the business that is marriage.  No one...not even me the eternal worrier made plans for fighting for my life.

I went from thinking I was sick with mono and having my biggest worry be making sure I was able to get back to work on May 3rd to wondering how I'd make it through my first round of chemotherapy and the life that I intensely prayed would follow.  I really contemplated whether I had the drive to get from behind it and be able to have a life.  Any kind of life.  I was willing to rewrite "normal" as long as it meant me still in the equation.

My AH-mazing Trip to FL: Part 4 (the part where I explain driving 635 miles away from Mardi Gras to attend Mardi Gras and oh, yeah...the goodbye's)

"I love that your idea of morning and my idea of morning are the EXACT same thing."

My AH-Mazing Trip to FL - Part 3 (I'm "fair"ly certain that this was fun and my meeting with you "can be my Doug")

"Must find french fries...it's my only means of survival."

My AH-Mazing Trip to FL - Part 2 (I cried, I laughed and at one point I wondered what the hell is that taste in my mouth)

"19 years can pass quickly when your living life, but you never really forget about the ones that aren't there living it with you." 

33 is looking a lot like 32 and 31 and 30....

I spent my 33rd birthday getting shot in the ass by a not so attractive, even if I was into female, nurse.  My doctor exclaimed in semi physician humor that this was the "third...oh wait...2007, 2008, 2009...it is 2010 now...huh...well then scratch third and make that fourth year in a row I have seen you on or within days of your birthday?" 

Thanks for the history lesson Rain Man...that was positively shocking.

So I started my day being pronounced as having bronchitis and in need of two...not one...two, because well it's my Birthday and apparently the universe hates me...and it probably isn't nice of a patient to look at their doctor as if they are speaking a foreign language when they are "attempting" doctor patient humor...so I got two shots in the rear.  The trip wasn't all bad though.  My good friend "Plus2" was kind enough to cart my sick ass to the doctors office because sadly I couldn't turn my neck.  What is that you say?  Did you think you may have read that wrong?  Well, you didn't....by now....even if you have only been reading this blog since I started it on here and don't personally know me, you should know this one true and simple fact...IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO JUST GET A NORMAL FUCKING ILLNESS!

I'm pretty sure that I had H1N1 before it was actually given a name.  Some people get a cold.  Me I end up with pneumonia, but not just that I end up with a bacterial inflamation that spreads into the joints and muscles in my chest and then begins to attack my heart.  Do you see how this works?

Yep, just a mere 9 hours into my new age and I had become arthritic and contagious.  What a fucking gift?

But my friend...my Driving Mrs. Sick Ass companion...she made me laugh.  Hell, she ALWAYS finds a way to make me laugh.  She offered to get me ice cream since I was a "good patient" but seeing as it was barely 10am I figured ice cream would be hard to come by.  Strangely enough if I had wanted an alcoholic beverage of some sort, like a daquiri per say, I could have gotten that...but ice cream?  Yeah...that wasn't gonna be happening.  I settled instead for a slushy (for my aching throat) and some breakfast so I could choke down the horse pill of an anti-biotic that he prescribed. 

Oh yes...my day was gonna be pure joy...I could just feel it.  I could feel it aching in my ass.  Yep, right there stinging and burning like acid shot into my deriere is where I could feel it.  Man, those shots, while they didn't hurt when she did them, happened to have a delayed release of pain that hit just as we were making our way out of the office and into the car.  I just kept laughing and almost crying saying "God damn....my ass, my ass is killing me".  Then I'd begin to hack because my throat was also in serious pain which would cause some hideous tickle which then led to fits of epileptic coughing. 

I paint such a pretty picture.

After I was able to recompose myself from these fits I would fall into a contstant stream of saying I'm sorry over and over again as I mentally pictured her going home and lysoling the entire interior of her car and possibly giving herself a Silkwood scrub.

Friends will tell you to get better when you are sick.  Good friends will call to check on you.  Great friends will drive you to the doctors and help you get your medicine.  Kick ass friends will do all of the above and smile at you while you hack what is sure to be some kind of bio hazard all over their vehicle.

This friend...she falls squarely in the latter.

I looked and sounded like death warmed over, but with the exception of when I had to breathe deeply, swallow, cough or attempt to move my neck I felt fantastic.


By the time we pulled back into my driveway I was exhausted from the escapade of the morning.  I made my way in to the house, scooped up Penny and then realized what a retarded idea that was seeing as I was holding food and this dog is clearly a fiend of anything that doesn't have the words dog or kibble in it.  It was like a Wimbledon match where I moved food from one hand to the other trying to keep it out of her line of snout grabbing.  Her head would dart from left to right and back in a twisted attempt to get something.  Anything.  Finally when I was down to my last bite I tore off a piece of the toast and fed it to her.  She scarfed it up and then looked at me like, "you bitch...that's ALL...that is ALL I get....oh yeah, yawn...go to sleep.  I am so taking a dump on your head when you reach the REM state".

I mean that might not be a literal translation of what was going on in her little doggy mind but I think it's a pretty good rendering.

I'd like to say that I slept well but truth be told I just kept rolling around opening my eyes every so often to make sure she wasn't positioning her butt just right to take perfect aim.  I mean I know I have been shit on in the past few years, but that was in emotional terms.  This would really stink.  And I meant that pun.

Thankfully she held her bowels.  I think she can sense the cold weather coming and figures she can't be too sure that I won't stick her boney ass out in the cold as punishment for that infraction.  She's shit on me in the past but I let it slide because she was sick or just come off her death bed.  Just deciding to dump on me because I wouldn't share my tots....well that is grounds for emotional torture of the highest degree.

I'm hopeful that with my shots and goody bag full of medicine that I will be back to fighting form in time to go get my belated Birthday drank on with my girlfriends.  I may have hit a hiccup as I turned the page from 32 to 33, but I'm not going to allow it to be a continuing trend. 

Oh and hear me now, if by some cruel twist of fate I end up sick AGAIN next year, at...on...or around my birthday, ummmm, I'm not going to the doctors.  No way.  No how.  The cycle stops here at 33.

~JP

P.S. And to ALL of my wonderful friends, readers and FB friends...thank you sooooo much for the Birthday love and well wishes.  That was one thing that made this year significantly different than the last few.

P.P.S.  To my "T" and my "D"...you are two of the three best friends that anyone could ever have...that anyone could ever have...that anyone could ever have."

It was positively CornMaizing....

I've lived here in Louisiana for a little over 7 years now.  In all that time, although I've been invited and heard it mentioned every year about this time, I had never made it out to the Hickory Corn Maze.  I can now not only check that off my list, but also check off conquering my fear of evil eyed children coming out of the rows of corn in order to kill me with sickles (thank you Children of the Corn).

I don't know that I was actually invited along this time.  Hannah was for sure invited, I think I then invited myself when I heard that my friend was insane enough to not only let my daughter come but also allow each of her other two children have a friend thus making the ratio 6 to 1.  Thus putting my friend at horrendous odds.  She obliged whether it be for the company or for safety reasons.

We made the ride out to the maze and along the way realized that we better stop to get flashlights lest we lead 6 kids (two of which are 5 yr olds) into a dark cornfield.  Sadly this thought didn't occur to us while we were at home and could take the flashlights that we own and would cost us NOTHING.  Nope.  We were two complete and total jackasses and made it almost 1/2 way there before making this stunning realization...it was almost 5p, it gets dark around 5:15p...we will be traipsing through a darkened maze....nah, we don't need lights!

We pulled into a Dollar General and made a beeline (after getting mumbled directions) to the "hardwares section".  Section, to me, would denote that this was an area...in reality it was maybe half an aisle long.  There sat our gleaming torches for just $1 a piece.  We snagged 4 for the group then headed to the front to grab batteries. 

My friend may have rationalized that we needed these flashlights for "safety" reasons like tripping or falling, but me?  I saw things in a different light, per say.  Maybe no one else cared about being in the dark and spooky cornfield but I know for a fact that I had to fight the urge to buy 5 flashlights, just for myself, and a role of duct tape.  NO the duct tape was not for the childrens mouths although in retrospect that would have been an amazing idea for the 5yr olds...it would have been to secure 3 of the 5 flashlights to the following areas, one on each foot and one to my head like those coal miner hard hats.  Then of course the other two would have been for my hands.  Did I mention my huge slight phobia of corn fields and the demonic children, particularly the one named Malchiah from Children of the Corn?  Did I??  DID I???


But I put on my big girl panties and only bought my alotted two.

Deep breath.   Ahhhhhh.......

I may have taken my calming breath too soon because when we made it to the front of the shoe box sized store we found that although there were two able bodied individuals up front with two cash registers, there was only one woman working.  When I turned to look at my friend I noticed that although we were third in line we weren't last.  The line was stretching down the stationery section aisle and people were looking pissed!

At that very instant I felt that being in the car with 6 moody kids was better than being in here.  My friend and I just kept exchanging glances with one another and I kept looking outside to see if A) any of the kids had jumped ship from the SUV left idling in the parking lot or B) was it rocking back and forth to the point that we may need to worry that someone was being attacked by one of the other occupants of the vehicle. No one jumped out or was maimed in our absence although I cannot be sure as to how the clerks in the store fared once we had purchased our items and left the remaining long line of customers. 

A good 20 minutes later we were making our way back out to the parking lot.  We made a mental note that we would allow one flashlight per pairing.  One for the moms, one for the 5yr olds (which was sure to start an argument), one for the teenagers and finally one for the middle kids.    We made sure that the flashlights were all the same color for the kids to prevent blood shed.  Our flashlight was a different color and would have gone completely unnoticed as such if we had been just a tad bit quicker when installing the batteries.  As we tried to get the flashlights ready I revisted the idea of the duct tape when the 5 yr olds became obsessed with the idea of holding the flashlights and kept asking over and over and OVER to "just hold em, not use em...just hold em".

Another 10 minutes of driving and we were at the corn field.  We made our way down the winding  driveway and into a clearing with the cornfield set back a ways.  There was no one there and no lights.  What the hell??  It looked closed.  Immediately the kids started asking if they could get out.  My friend and I just stared blankly at one another.  Again...what the hell??  I picked up my Crackberry and quickly found the website for the corn maze.  Right on the first page of the website it listed the dates and the times.  Only one problem.  The thing opened at 6p and it was currently 5:07p.  We would either need to spend 53 grueling minutes (yeah...7 minutes less than an hour) in a vehicle with the kids -OR- attempt to come back another time before it was set to close for the season.

We weighed our options, with each ticking second which happened to feel like minutes but sadly were not.

The Pro's to staying....

1) We had already driven out here.
2) We had the flashlights.
3) The kids each had a friend with them.
4) This would really be the only time we could do it.

The Con's to staying...

1) Shit seriously making this list only ate up like 1.5 minutes...OMG, that means like another 51 1/2 more minutes of sitting in this vehicle with these kids???

We went with the pro's list and then after waiting in the car for another 20 minutes, let the kids out to tear up the place.  That bought us another 10 to 15 minutes and the final 15 minutes was spent telling them (mainly the 5yr olds) to stop running and slamming themselves into the ticketing building and the port-o-potty and each other and "for the love of God put down that stick before someone seriously gets hurt".

Mercifully 6p came and we bought our tickets.  We had already squashed the dreams of the tweens who had wanted to go through the maze unaided by saying "that we should all stay together it will go quicker".  Apparently the ticket taker didn't know this because one of her first questions after asking if this was our first time at the maze was to ask if we would like to go in separate groups to see who could make it through the fastest.  The tween girls bout came out of the their clothes thinking that this meant that they could go alone.  Thankfully we didn't have to be huge meanies because then she clarified that they would need to be accompanied by someone 16 yrs or older.  Luckily, we had two of those so after some quick deciding we chose to let the teens take the tweens and that left us sporting the little ones.

We all had to stand and listen to the rules of the corn maze before we could enter.  These are the ones that I can remember:

1) There is no screaming or trying to scare people while in the maze. (I liked this rule because I felt it would keep me safe from some jackleg trying to reenact Children of the Corn)

2) If you ever get lost or need help just call out "corn cop" and someone will come and assist you.

3) There is no use of fowl language used inside the corn maze, remember the corn have ears so they are always listening. (I'm not making this shit up...these were her EXACT words)


The teens with tweens in tow made their way into the maze first.  I had to keep myself from doing the happy dance because on the upside for me, 5yr olds tire quickly of holding things like flashlights thus allowing adults to carry them and therefore decreasing the chance of sickle carrying demon children from jumping out of the cornstalks to slay me.  Just a thought.

We made our way into the maze and I gotta be real honest within the first 30 seconds I thought to myself "what the fuck are you doing here this is downright creepy"...but then one of the little ones started talking about poop and I figured no scary movie I've ever seen has the mom dying while trying to dissuade a child from talking about bodily functions.  Figured I was safe so I relaxed and enjoyed the trek.  And oh what a trek it was.  We were so turned around that within 15 minutes of entering we were right back at the entrance.  The lady that took our tickets said that if you ever get to a point where you need help just call out "corn cop" and someone will come to help you.  I foolishly thought that these individuals would announce themselves.   Feeling completely overwhelmed and going in what we believed to be circles we called out for what we deemed to be our corn savior the almighty "corn cop".  That son of a bitch came out of no where through the corn and I am pretty sure I peed my pants a bit.

I told my friend that the next time we think about calling out for one of those fuckers I need to prepare my bladder.

We finally began to move and make our way to the different points on our map.  This years maze was  the phrase "We Stand Up For Freedom".  We began in the "M" of Freedom and began to get truly lost around what we believed to be on of the "E's" but were then corrected by the first "corn cop" who said we had made it to the "F".  By the time we made it to the half way point we'd been scared half to death by a shadowy "corn cop" who seemed to appear and reappear as if out of thin air.  I disaffectionately named this person Jedidiah because it sounded creepy just like him and we all agreed we didn't like him one bit.  We felt victorious that we had made it halfway through without any major incident of demonic sickle wielding children or accidents with the two boys we were coraling.  We purchased some drinks and momentarily contemplated leaving the maze but figured we made it half way, why not finish it.

About 10 minutes later we were cursing ourselves, albeit silently so as not to be thrown out of the maze.  The friend that my friends little boy had chosen to bring along as his companion for the outing began to describe in detail how he hadn't been feeling well earlier that day and was punctuating his story by farting every so often and burping in between that.  I don't know how I had gone from leader to caboose but this was the most unfortunate timing for the switch.  Another 20 minutes and we, well mostly me, had given up the silent cursing for actual audible commentary of our completely lost status.  We called out for a "corn cop" who told us we were close to be on the right track to finding our way out.

We bought what he was selling about how we were at a certain point on the map and this is how we should hold the map and blah, blah, blah another 15 minutes or so and should be out.  Then he went off to help a crying child that was part of another group and once again we were in the corn...lost...and frustrated.  We tried to figure out where we were on the map.  No dice.  The kids were getting tired.  Hell we were getting tired.  We called the teen and tween group and swore that we could hear their voices just a few rows over.  They were of no help to us.  The boys complained more of being tired and we continued to march them up this row and arrow that corner and "just down here" and "hey I think I see a light over there" and finally we had had it.  We began a somber "corn cop...oh, corn cop".  Then it began to sound desperate "corn cop...we need you...please, corn cop".  The boys even chimed in a time or two.

I then contemplated getting completely belligerent in an attempt at being escorted out of the maze, but decided that wouldn't be a good example for the boys.  But a few seconds later both my friend and I were feeling desperate and I told the boys that if the "flippin corn cop doesn't hurry up and get his butt out here  I am gonna make one or both of you cry so we could get some speedy help like that other crying child from earlier".  Amazing what the treat of child abuse can do for you...we had a corn cop on us like white on rice.

He asked, ever so politely, if we would like him to show us where we were on the map so we could finish alone.  We emphatically and in unison answered NO we just wanted to get out.  I have to admit the poor guy was super nice and even took us to some of the few last clues on our map and let the boys do them.  One was saying your ABC's while alternating your arms in an up and down position with every other letter.  For instance you started with your hands in the air for A then down for B and so on.  Wherever you landed determined whether you went left of right.  The boys started out in sync and then lost it around F which made me laugh and make a joke about "this is what we get for sending them to public school" to which our guide said he was homes schooled.  Way to bring on the creepy Children of the Corn feeling dude!

Another 10 minutes and we were free of the corn.  The boys were ecstatic, but I think we were happier.  We waited for a few minutes for the other kids but then we saw them coming from the car and realized they had finished WAY before us.  As we loaded up the kids we commented on how much fun this turned out to be and as we made our way back out onto the road and on our way home we looked back to catch some of the kids sleeping in the back seat clutching the corn they had gotten as a souvenir. 

Not every night that you choose to have 6 kids can turn out so well, but we had to admit it was pretty fun.  The best part was that after traipsing them here, there and everywhere through a cornfield for 2 hours they would sleep like logs and truly that is the most precious thing of all.

I slept pretty good myself and I didn't have one nightmare of a sickle wielding demon child although I couldn't seem to get the smell of the one little one's farts from my nostril.  Kids...they are just plain cornmaizing!

~JP

Finding common ground....

I stayed up all night last night.  Big shocker.  I had spent the last several weeks pouring through web sites about marriage and repairing the damaged marriage, fixing the broken person...blah, blah, blah and I remembered last night that a friend of mine had given me a book a few years back called "The Five Love Languages: How to Express Hearfelt Commitment to Your Mate".  I became obsessed with finding that damn book.

First I thought I might use it to bludgeon Jon to death with but then I figured it might be more useful if I actually read it and then tried to utilize the tools that it may teach me.  Thank God it wasn't in the garage or attic or in a box that was still packed from when we moved into this house just a mere...ummm...cough...ergh, 5 years ago.   But this post isn't about my inability to unpack boxes, fear of garages or attics in the middle of the night or even my fantasies of beating Jon to a pulp with great works of self help books...it's about this book and how I HAD TO FIND IT.

Priorities people...priorities!

Once I found it....conveniently located on a bookshelf, who'd of thunk...I then became obsessed with reading it.

ALL OF IT.

In one night.

I have an addictive personality...once I set my mind on something...it becomes a friggin obsession!

It was as if the expanse of the past three years of fighting and silent treatments, ultimatums, asking him to leave, letting him come back and then me leaving and the final action of taking off my wedding band and telling him "I'm done" was boiled down into to what the hell I was gonna do in the span of time that it would take me to read all 175 pages.

I'm a fast reader and I literally read this book until I could no longer hold up my head or hold open my eyes.  I fell asleep reading it then woke up and finished it.  While I slept though was when I received a message from Jon who had taken it upon himself ,without talking to me, to find his own guidance in the midst of our seperation.

We have spent a great deal of time standing on separate sides of what should be one unified relationship.  Being pig headed and stubborn has not served us well and we've both held on to the "I'm right and you're wrong", mentality so long that I don't event think we care to explain what it is that we think we may be right about.  After three years of battling you gain a great sense of entitlement to your feelings. 

After three years of battling you also get a lot of looks from the other people that have lived in the house with you through that period of time.  I'm pretty sure if we allowed the girls to use curse words, they would have some colorful choice ones for us.  I'm also pretty sure that is why the dogs piss and shit near our belongings.  It's their way of saying..."dude, either work it out or split up...this shit is annoying".

Tonight was different though.

While we have gotten good at silence and catty glances, making mountains out of the proverbial mole hills and hitting below the belt with words, tonight we simply chose to compliment one another.  It was a suggestion in the book that I had ravenously consumed and thought about bringing up to Jon but then felt like I shouldn't have to because...again...I feel that I am right in my feelings of how the past few years have gone and that would make him wrong.  I'm pretty sure it is becoming abundantly clear as to why there is no resolution to our problems.  I seriously think I may make a shirt that says "I'm right.  You're Wrong.  What's the problem again?"

So while sitting in that self entitled mindset I was shocked when he sent me a text asking if I had read the email he had forwarded me earlier about the things he was reading in order to help him better understand where he and we had gone so wrong in our marriage.  I responded that I had and I tried very hard to keep the sarcasm out of it.  Again that little voice of entitlemnt was rising up and trying to bang on the keys of my Crackberry.  I fought if off though and remained both civil and intrigued that he was making a first move.

It was a cautious feeling of intrigue though.  I mean come one, I may be on a euphoric high from the book but I'm not stupid, we've been down the heartfelt rosey posey road of make believe before.  It got us a $10,000 bill for therapy and here we were no better for the experience.  But I was good and told him that I had.  He asked if I had read the part about making the list of 3 good things about your spouse/partner.  He told me that I would need to write them down and we would share them when we saw each other later.  I said that I had written them down, I didn't bother to divuldge that this was along the same lines as what I had read in my book and had actually mentally completed the night before.  Fixing this marriage is not about what came first the book or the text.  It was about both of us trying.

I feel like I've been the only one plowing through the trenches for the past few years so for the first time in a REALLY long time I was struck by his initiative.  You gotta know this, therapy...was my idea.  Seperation...my idea.  Reconciliation...my idea.  Seperation again...my idea.  I'm thinking you are getting the picture.

With the therapy it was an ultimatum put to him when he had made what I deemed to be the biggest mistake to have happened in our marriage at that particular point in time.  My husband, in all his infinite wisdom, had chosen another woman's feelings over my own.  I'm not talking his mother or his sister.  Nope I am just talking about an old friend.

Yep, that man I love so dearly and had created a life with and was busy raising two children with had stood in our driveway and with my pleading eyes upon him had chosen her over me.  When all was said and done, I knew something in him had changed that day and with all that I could muster I told him it was counseling or he could pack his stuff....he chose therapy.

Now looking back and knowing some of the other things that transpired to keep him coming back to sessions week after week, sometimes twice a week, it is no surprise to me why the years worth of marital counseling did nothing more than to fatten our therapist bank account and keep us emotionally bankrupt.  Another factor for me at least has been watching the systematic demise of some of my friends marriages.  It's hard to remain upbeat about your own future when those around you that you care about are hurting.  Watching their struggles amplified my own and thus created this feeling of just wanting to break free of all of it.  It was getting to the point of suffocation because all around us there was seperation, infidelity, mistrust and discord.  

I don't in any way blame our failures on those around us, but when you are struggling to bail yourselves out of a precarious situation it helps to have some solid ground around you...for us there wasn't anything like that close by.  We were forced to rely on each other and THAT was a huge problem because I no longer trusted him and I was pretty sure he felt the same way about me.

Now that we've come to the point of sink or swim, we've decided that it's every marriage for themselves and we cannot rely on what is around us in order to decide if we will fail or succeed.  I think, for myself at least, that realization made his gesture so powerful. 

Could the feelings of goodwill die tomorrow?  Absolutely.

Will the road to our security and a strong marriage be rough?  Absofuckinlutely.

But do I think it's possible to come back from the abyss of "I'm done" and possibly find more than just this tiny sliver of common ground?  I have hope that it is and that is far more than I had within me when I went searching for that book.

I'll take my common ground.  I am thankful for it and I look forward to what may come as I take ever so tiny and well thought out baby steps towards something better than where I am right now.

~JP

Maybe it's time to rewrite the traditional fairytale.....

Once upon a time.....isn't that how they always suck you in?

Well this ain't no fairytale.  That's for damn sure.

Back when I was younger the only thing that I seemed to want was to be part of a two some.  A couple.  I probably should have been a twin.  That fact would have more than likely resulted in my mother going crazy faster than she actually has.

It seemed from birth I was just one of those individuals that flourished in an environment where I could be with someone else.  My mom probably fostered this by allowing me to sleep in her bed until I was a toddler.  Then while she was a single parent we almost always shared a room.  That continued until I was 11 years old and she married my step-dad.  I had my own room for a whole 7 months.  Then came my first sister and then my second sister a mere 15 months later.  I shared a room with them until I visualized smothering them both in my sleep.  My parents realized teenage-dom was upon them and I evicted myself from the co-op bedroom and out to my own space.  Sadly it was the front porch.  I mean what can you expect when you are living in a 2 bedroom house with 5 people, 2 of which are a screaming baby and toddler respectively. 

The "porch" as it was named was actually the standard Florida "sun room".  So it was completely enclosed.  The stupid part of my move was the fact that my room was the first thing that people saw and had to walk through when they came to my parents house.  Let's just say I had the cleanest teenagers room EVER!

It was also one way to insure that your teenage daughter doesn't do anything inappropriate with any boys in her bedroom.  There are times that I wish we had this same arrangement now that I have older daughters.  But then I take a stroll into their rooms and realize that if we did have that set up we could never have anyone over.  They'd never make it through the sea of crap in order to make it into the rest of the house for a visit.

But enough about my bedroom from age 12 to 14 years of age.  After the death of my sister Alicia I would go and lay in bed with my baby sister Nicolle in order to soothe her.  From the day she was born she had shared a room with both me and Alicia and then just Alicia and now she was alone.  So I'd lay with her.  Then just a few short years later I had a little one of my own to occupy my bed. 

It wasn't just sleeping either.  It was life in general.  I don't think I was ever meant to be a singleton.  At a young age I befriended a neighbor and we became the best of friends.  From the age of 3 up until 16, I don't think there is one good memory of my life that doesn't include her.  We were like two peas in a pod and I liked it just fine. 

After friendships came dating.  I always seemed to be happier when I was part of a couple.  I'm beginning to see that there is a pattern of confidence issues.  So now 12 years into the longest pairing I've had since the birth of my first child I am lost in the fact that we are taught young that every fairytale is all roses and fairies and pumpkins turning into carriages.  Outside of the mother's being audibly missing out of almost EVERY Disney story for as long as I can remember just about ever story of falling love has no mention of depression, finances, liars and heartbreak. Yeah they may start out realistic with the orphans and the working in your own home for your evil step-mother but then you are whisked away and have rodents to do your housework.  That's a step up in my books.  Not reality and yet we eat it up and ask for seconds.

Now I sit pondering the last few years of my life and as I think about the ever changing dimensions of my coupledom I wonder if my inability to stand on my own two feet and worry about what I want and what I need has possibly left me contemplating how a lifetime of being part of a two some has made it next to impossible for me to think of just myself.  Alone. 

As a mother I can never truly be alone.  Hell just trying to pee is a friggin affair.  If I don't announce it I will undoubtedly have a knock, a random walk in or an all out search and rescue mounted if I don't answer when yelled to from another room.  I'm in the bathroom.  I'm taking a piss.  LEAVE ME ALONE!  Sadly I feel I should mention that my kids are 15 and 10.  They are walking, talking, thinking, able to make toast and not burn down the house, wipe their own ass, tie their own shoes and probably do more on a computer than I ever care to know how to do...individuals.  But the second a drop of my piss hits the toilet water....they become so unbelievably needy.  It's a curse of motherhood throughout the world.  No matter what their age....from infants to adults....you go to cop a squat and they are on you like white on rice!

Every decision that I have made since my children's conception has been with them in mind.  Whether it be at the forefront or in the back of my mind, I try to keep them ever present in everything I choose to do.  Sometimes I wonder if never taking a step back and making a choice solely based on what I would like, enjoy, want or so forth has been the best mode of thinking.  Then add in the partnership of marriage and suddenly I find myself farther down the pole of priorties. 

Even when I try to make what I deem to be a semi-selfish decision I find myself second guessing it and wondering how it will affect the ones I love most.  Never once thinking about how I should be loving myself which would in turn allow me to be a better _________ (fill in the blank with title) to __________ (fill in the blank with recipient).  Yet out of selfless decisions comes pretty selfish children and at times a selfish husband.  How I have managed this...I still am not sure.  I know that I cannot control Jon's mindset or behavior, but my kids... it is the age, for the most part, but sometimes you just wonder....if Mother Teresa would have had kids...would they have been selfless saints as well??  Hmmmmmm.......

Here was my attempt at doing something just for me tonight.  I left the house to go take a walk at a local park and then decided to stop for a some chai tea on the way back to the house to warm me up.  Now I am sitting here thinking there were probably at  least 10 other things that I could've/should've done in that 45 minutes and with the $5 that I just spent.   This line of thought then leads me to going out last night with a girlfriend of mine to VooDoo Fest.  I haven't been out like this since....hmmmm....April.  The tickets were free.  Parking was free.  And yet I feel like an ass for not including my family.

It's borderline ridiculous.  Where is the pill that turns off the "over caring about every little miniscule detail of every second of my day and what I am doing with it and how it may possibly be affecting those around me"? 

Where's the fairytale about the princess that falls madly in love with her prince and then he does something ridiculously stupid and leaves her in a depressive tail spin without any dwarf's or magic fairy godmother to snap her out of it??  Where's that story?

I think I shall write it.....right after I stop feeling guilty for sitting back here on my laptop and not being out in the living room with my kids who are glued to one or another multi media device. 

~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 5

Part 5: Sometimes you've gotta fake it until you can make it...all the way to the delivery!

When we...meaning me...began to creep towards and then past the 37 week mark I began to go from happy that I'd managed to carry this baby past the fears of pre term labor to being completely pissed that he was now refusing to vacate the premises.  Seriously what the fuck??  COME OUT ALREADY!!

I was swollen.  I was tired.  My breast refused to cooperate unless they were coralled in a nursing bra AT ALL TIMES!  I'd begun to have these bizarre dreams that I'd be pregnant forever and that pretty soon you'd be able to see an imprant of this childs face pressing up against my belly as if he were stuck behind a glass window.

The days of Jon not getting any nookey were LONG gone.  I...like every other expectant mother had read "What to Expect When You're Expecting" on top of a slew of other maternity books and was determined to subscribe to any and all proven or even slightly plausible actions that may possibly enduce labor.  My first strategy was to have sex until this kid screamed, "ENOUGH ALREADY!  PULL OUT SO I CAN ESCAPE THIS WHORE HOUSE".

Unfortunately, the one that screamed enough first, was in fact my once sex deprived husband.  Useless.  Completely useless.

You're gonna whine cause you don't get anything.  Not even a hint of sexual action in months and then when I'm all, "hey baby...ya wanna (wink, wink)"...he can't keep up!

He began to make excuses.  He was tired.  He wasn't feeling well.  Lies...all lies.  I don't care how tired this man said he was...he'd stay up for sex.  My god he was 23 years old...how tired can you possibly be at that age?  And the not feeling well crap...well, we had been together almost two years and he'd NEVER had so much as a sniffle in all that time.  When the lies stopped working he would just try to avoid me.  It wasn't hard to do because I was huge and I couldn't cathc him when he ran away.

I cried. A lot.  I was so miserable.  I couldn't understand how at 29 weeks my body was insistent that this child GET OUT but at 36, then 37, 38 and now creeping ever closer to 39 weeks it was all "hey you like this womb??  You should totally stay here FOREVER."

I was becoming desperate so I did what any person with a shred of sanity would do...I called my doctor.  I figured he is the only one with the power to help me.

I had complications dialating and then delivering Olivia.  After 28 1/2 hours of "pure hell" they had to do an emergency c-section.  Later on it was determined that I had cephalo pelvic disproportion and that unless Olivia had been like 5 lbs with a teeny tiny head...she was never gonna make the final pass into the birth canal.  Thanks to the drugs I didn't feel much like going and kicking in the doctors teeth that had lied to me for 4 1/2 hours while I pushed.

Him and the bitchy ass nurse kept saying "great push"..."good job"...."keep doing that".  I kept thinking the mere definition of doing a good job means you are progressing towards an end result.  The end result was delivering this baby...apparently they didn't see it the same way.

They had me convinced that if I just "tried harder" or "gave it may all" she would come out.  Even as they were wheeling me to the operating room I kept telling my parents, "maybe if I just push for a little longer she will come out"...yeah, not gonna happen.

Apparently at that moment my ability to push life into the world was broken.  This was something that was discussed MANY times during this current pregnancy.  I wasn't afraid of trying for a vaginal birth.  I actually was on board with it.  My doctor didn't try to dissuade me either but early on we had discussed the definite possibility that I may end up right back in that same failed pushing situation.  What the hell is it with my failed lady parts anyways??

He offered me the chance to just schedule a c-section.  I didn't accept at that time but now...now I was tired...I wanted this baby to come out....I wanted my option for c-section back.

Me:  Dr. Doran...I'm tired...I think I wan't to go ahead and have a c-section.

Dr. Doran:  Tired huh?  Well you're gonna be even more tired when this little one arrives.  Enjoy this time with just your daughter.  The baby will come when he is ready.

Me:  Okay.  Yeah.  Umm...I get the whole wait for the natural progression...but I'm ready.  I'm like...really, really, REALLY ready.

Dr. Doran:  (polite doctor laughter...scribbling in chart...totally ignoring me)

Me:  So are you saying that I can't have a scheduled c-section?  (on the verge of tears)

Dr. Doran:  I am saying...(dramatic pause to show that he is so in control of this situation)...that you are barely 39 weeks.  What's the rush?  I can carry you safely to 42 weeks if need be.

Me:  (tears have dried up completely and sheer anger has ensued)  Are you married Dr. Doran?  Because if you are I am going to hunt down your wife and tell her that you are now threatening me with another 3 weeks of pregnancy.  If she has ever been pregnant I am pretty sure she may want to kill you for that remark.

I leave the office.  Escorted by a nurse.  I go directly home, call Jon and commence with having a nervous breakdown.

Me:  Babe (sniffle) I hate my doctor.

Jon:  Are you crying?  Oh my god...what's wrong?  Do I need to come home?  Is it...oh my god..is it time?

Me:  NO!  NOOOOOO!!!  It.  Is.  NOT.  Time.  Didn't you hear me??? I hate my doctor!!!

Jon:  Okay.  Okay..sorry...it's not time.  You had me worried.  I'm sorry..why do you hate the doctor?

Me:  Because he's mean.

Jon:  (trying not to laugh because he knows that even though he is currently safe by being 20 minutes away...I do, however, have the ability to get in my car, drive over to his work, and attempt to kick his ass)  Why is he mean?  Did he say something about the weight you've gained.

Me:  What?  What?  Why would you bring up my weight?  Now you're mean.  (starting to sob)

Jon:  I didn't bring up your weig....nevermind...lets focus on why you hate the doctor.  What did he do?

Me:  Okay so you know how my due date is September 25th?

Jon:  Yes I am painfully aware that is your due date...you talk about it constantly.  Now that we are over obsessing about the number 35, I can see your new favorite number is 25.

Me:  Okay...so the date today is September 16th.

Jon:  Yes I know that too...is there a point to this?

Me:  Well the crazy ass doctor who I thought held my salvation and would grant me a magical c-section is now saying he can carry me "safely" until October 9th if I don't go into labor on my own...naturally.  

Jon:  Whoa...hold on...wait a minute.  He said what??

Me:  Yeah...ya heard me...OCTOBER!  9th!!  That's like almost another month!

Jon:  Oh HELL NO!  I can't do this for another month!

Me:  YOU?  YOU CAN'T DO THIS FOR ANOTHER MONTH...WHAT ABOUT ME!  HELLO...REMEMBER ME...YOUR WIFE??  CARRYING HUMAN...IN HER OWN BODY???  LET'S NOT LOSE FOCUS ON WHO IS TRULY IN NEED OF THIS DELIVERY!

Jon:  You want me to come home so we can have sex?

Me:  (pretty sure I am now sounding like Freddy Crougar) NO you had your chance...you failed... I WANT THIS BABY O-U-T!!  NOW DAMNIT!

I slammed down the phone and immediately began thinking of any and EVERY possible way to accomplish this.  I was a woman on a mission.  I didn't care how cooky or possibly embarassing it may be I was not going to keep this child in for a minute over September 25th even if it meant camping on my doctor's door step!

I went on the internet.  I consulted friends that had recently had a baby.  Some suggestions were helpful like the one that said walking would enduce labor.  My neighbor Stacy, who lived directly across from me, would come over every night and lead me around our apartment complex for a good hour.  She would drink a glass of wine and we would chat about our kids.  We did this for a couple of nights and on the 20th I thought I had finally hit pay dirt.  I was contracting.

I waited for a little while and sure enough they were coming every couple of minutes and getting a little stronger each time.  I alerted Jon and we took Olivia to our friends house that was on the way to the hospital.  As soon I was hooked up to the monitors the contractions began to fizzle.  I tried not to be upset because they still needed to check me.  The nurse came in and did the exam.  I prayed for a 7 or 8.  I new that was the magic number that meant I could stay.  I was at a 4.  Some women would be excited by this.  Me, not so much.  I had been at a 4 since I left the hospital after the pre-term labor.  I had been holding a 4 for just about 10 weeks now.

After about an hour more of monitoring and announcing that the fetal heartrate sounds "perfect" and there was "no change in the cervic"... we were cut loose.  I was dissappointed but hopeful.  If walking brought contractions...then more walking and other things would surely start them back up and get this show on the road...right??

Two days later I thought for sure this was it!  Now back when I was pregnant with Olivia my water broke and then the contractions came...but they didn't start until I was at the hospital.  This time I seemed to contract first but no water breakage so I thought...hey don't lose hope...just cause there is no waterworks can't possibly mean that this isn't the real deal.  I had been contracting for the entire time that Jon was at work.  I figured 9 almost 10 hours of solid contractions that started at 10 minutes apart and worked their way down to just north of 1 1/2 minutes apart definitely meant we were in business.

So we took Olivia to my parents this time.  And with bleary eyed husband at the wheel we made it to the hospital just at about 7pm.  I was still contracting when they strapped on the bands.  Good sign.  The room was filled with the sounds of the heartbeat and the whooshing of baby body parts moving.  The nurse came in to check but had to wait out several good contractions.  Great sign.  I awaited her announcement that I had dialated to an acceptable number.

Nurse:  Good news.

Me:  Yeah??

Nurse:  You've progressed.

Me:  Oh thank god.

Nurse:  Now you're a 5.

Me:  What??

Just after midnight the doctor came in to see me since he was there doing a delivery.  No change and contractions had once again died out.  I felt like one of those women who kept hearing a squeaking sound every time she pushed the brakes in her car but now that she was actually at the mechanic it failed to duplicate.

I was all..."I swear...I was really have these STRONG contractions...like doubled over praying for rescue..painful...contractions".  The doctor just looked at me...smiled politely and declared I was good to go home and wait for "actual" labor to commence.

Since this doctor was not the one I usually saw, but was in the same practice, I thought I could sob my way into a c-section.  Or at least gain sympathy for a possible tribunal to be held where all the other doctors in the practice would scorn my doctor for torturing me in this way and he would finally feel horrid and grant me a c-section on my due date just a mere 2 days away now.  It didn't seem like it was going to happen.

I had to wake Jon up as he dozed in the painful looking chair that was crammed in the corner of the exam room.  I offered to drive.  He politely refused and we made it home in time for him to grab about 4 hours of sleep before he had to be up for another day of work.

Desperation at getting this kid out had now turned to sheer craziness.  I spent all day walking.  My mom took me out to the beach thinking that maybe walking in sand would help.  All it did was give me crazy charlie horses and make me extremely tired.  I tried not to sleep...I was like a Navy Seal during hell week...I had to keep training.  But for what??  I was training my body to go into labor.  It was utterly ridiculous.

September 24th rolled around and the weekend was within our sights.  What I had deemed, privately, to be our final Friday as a family of 3 started out quiet at 5 a.m. when I got up to get Olivia ready for Kindergarten.  We lived out of district so I would drive her to my moms house and she would take her in when she took my sister.  Oh how my baby sister enjoyed being in the same exact elementary school as her niece.  A niece that happened to have been introduced for the first time at just 4 months old to this exact school as a sort of "show and tell project".  Yep...early signs that we were indeed on track for our own reality show or at least a guest spot on Jerry Springer.  Magic...pure magic.

I had dropped off Olivia and headed back home to do some laundry and make sure everything was truly ready for this baby.  I tried to keep the irrational thoughts of attempting some ridiculous manuever to coax this kid out of my belly.  Instead I decided to drink castor oil.  What on God's green earth was I thinking??

Thankfully I couldn't handle more than half a swallow and therefore didn't have to endure what I'm sure is the painful wrath of that choice.  All I managed to do was make myself puke from the sheer disgustingness of the taste.  Apparetly I wasn't as determined as most to enduce "actual" labor.

Everyone checked in with me during the day to see if I had any progression in either the crazy department or more importantly the labor department.  Each time I advised no...on both counts.  The weekend was still young though.

That night we decided to eat out and when we came home I treated myself to 1/2 a glass of wine.  I only got 1/4 of it down before falling asleep.  I woke up completely startled at a little after 1 a.m.  I thought for a second that I was in labor.  Turned out that I was having extreme gas from the steamed brocolli I had decided to eat for dinner.  It must have been really bad because Jon had wedged a pillow above his head.

I went to the bathroom and then made my way to the nursery.  I sat there for a long while and imagined a sleeping baby in the crib.  I then willed myself to start contracting.  All I actually accomplished was falling asleep on the double bed we had in the nursery for middle of the night breast feeding.  Jon found me sleeping there a little after 7 a.m. when he woke up to no pregnant wife in bed and began to search the house in a panic.

I laid there for a good while with him laying next to me and wondered why wasn't I in labor.  Jon told me not to rush it.  I began to hate him.  I tried to force that idea out of my head because I couldn't bare the thought that "if" I did go into labor and "if" I was fortunate enough to have this baby in a timely manner all I wouldn't want to retell the story years later to him and be like, "the day you were born I was SO pissed at your father for telling me not to rush it".  In hindsight...now knowing how things turned out...that would have been a far less scarring and possible psychology trip enducing story for our child to hear.

As morning turned to afternoon and then evening I was once again a mad woman.  I called my girlfriend, Jen, and asked if they would like to have dinner with us.  At her house.  Apparently along with my inability to control the ever expanding size of my ass...I had in fact also lost my ability to have manners.  Who the hell calls someone to have dinner and insist that it be at the other persons house??  Ummm...that would be me.

She agreed and then I asked her possibly "the" most embarassing question that I have ever asked a female friend.  First let me say that she was training to become a doula.  She had two children already and was very wonderful with labor and delivery.  I missed her first child being born because...well...she adamantly told me NOT to come.  Her second child I missed being born because...well...I think she actually sneezed and that baby came flying out.  Thankfully a nurse was there to catch her.  She had no drugs with either and was now very interested in helping other woman labor through in a natural way.  She was also privy to "ways" that could help you contract and dialate.  I no longer faulted her for the failed castor oil attempt from the day before, so I thought if anyone could get me to labor & delivery tonight...outside of my unwilling doctor...she was it.

So I asked her to help soften my cervix.  Yep...you read that right.  I...crazy pregnant woman...had just propositioned one of my very best friends to stick her hand where no self respecting friends hand should EVER have to be placed!  She was stone cold sober when she actually agreed.  I decided at that exact moment that she should be the baby's godmother.  It only seemed right after what we were about to attempt.

I announced to Jon that we'd be going to Jen's for dinner.  He was fine with any distraction from what the day was supposed to be, but clearly was NOT producing.  I conveniently left out what else would be going on outside of the consumption of spaghetti and letting our kids play.

Jen was completely professional about the whole exchange and finally I decided to tell Jon, once we were at her house, that this is why I wanted to come over.  After he went through a litany of girl on girl action jokes he just nodded his head and steered clear.  There was NO reasoning with me at this point.  I wanted this child out.  Jen lived less than 1/2 a mile from the hospital I'd be delivering at so in the event that this worked I was right close by.  I even threw my overnight bag in the trunk for good luck.

Nervous chatter ensued as she "attempted" to strip my cervix.  Guess I should have advised her that I had a bum cervix that was very uncooperative to anything close to child delivery.  After what seemed like a lifetime but in truth was only 20 or so minutes...we gave up.  Failure...once again was the tattoo that I should have placed on anything below the waist but about my knees in regards to my body.

Instead we chatted and ate dinner.  Jon and her husband just stared at us through the meal.  Around 9p we began to have restless kids that whined and fought more than played so we announced it was time to go.  I felt crampy.  I decided to go to the bathroom before leaving.  I was hit with a rather large contraction right off the bat.  I must have been in the bathroom for awhile because when I came out I had three sets of eyes on me, with questioning glances.  I hugged Jen goodbye and swore we would keep this between us (too bad I decided to get a blog 10 years later...oops) and she made me promise to call her if anything began to happen.  I promised but I felt empty inside because I didn't forsee a damn thing happening.  This would be like ALL the other moments of contracting and then nothing.

We drove home and got Olivia into bed.  It was close to 10pm and I couldn't sleep.  I was 2 hours away from being technically OVERDUE!  The clock was taunting me and I was so uncomfortable.  No position seemed to help.  I went and took a shower just to let the water relax me.  All that seemed to do was make it worse so I got out after only a few minutes.  I tried to lay on my side.  My back.  I wanted desperately to lay on my stomach...but even after constructing a pillow frame to around the outskirt of my body and lumbering on to my stomach I couldn't stay in that position for very long because I hurt so bad.

I didn't want to wake up Jon but it was getting increasingly worse and to the point where these were definitely the worse contractions I had to date.  I went to the bathroom for the millionth time in the past hour and found that I had lost my mucus plug.  For me...I deemed it was "time".  I woke up Jon and stupidly asked him what to do.  He said maybe we should wait.  For some reason...I thought it sounded like a good idea.

I continued to contract through the night and at around 5 a.m. I declared that I just could not handle another minute.  I called my mom to see if she could take Olivia.  I kept apologizing for the early hour in between gritting my teeth in pain.  I went and woke up Jon who had fallen asleep on the couch. 

I was continued right on contracting.  The whole time leaving the house, driving to my parents house, kissing Olivia good-bye and then making our way to the hospital.  Jon literally thought about pulling over a few times because I was panting so hard to keep from crying.  I was hurting....but ecstatic.  It was baby time!!

It was so quiet in the parking lot and the sun was barely pinking the sky.  Jon helped me out of the car and it took an additional 10 minutes to make it into the building.  We had to stop every few steps because I was consumed with contractions.  Once upstairs the nurses greeted us cheefully and put us in the exam room.  The monitors recorded each contraction and once I had a good mountain range of peaks and valleys registered they came in to examine me.

I was at a 6.

OH MY FUCKING GOD!

I didn't have time to harp on the number I was being thrown into another horrendous contraction.  This continued for another 2 hours when the nurse announced they would need to check me again because surely "with all these contractions your cervix must be dialated more".

Apparently my cervix as it seemed did not get the memo that contractions + crazy pregnant woman desperate to deliver baby in womb = dialated cervix.  The nurse announced that I was still at a "solid 6".

What?  How in God's name is that even......ugh...can't breath...fucking painful contraction that is apparently NOT having any affect on the gates of eternal child birthing bliss....possible??

And then before I thought I could not take another possible second of contracting...they stopped.  Not sputtered out.  They just downright stopped.  Done.  Finito.  Nothing.  NADA.

I was mistified.  I had been going strong for close to 4 hours and then boom...nothing.  They came back to check the bands assuming that they had simply fallen off or that maybe I had tried to escape...who knows.  Another 10 minutes.  Nothing.  The nurse checked me again and announced still a 6.  I wanted to kill her.  But I thought for sure they would keep me.  I had lost my mucus plug...they saw that I was contracting...what the shit??  Get me a room people...let's do this!  I am so ready!

Apparently in the world of L&D you need more than a mucus plug.  You need water breakage...a 7 or 8 cm dialated cervix... a never ending barrage contractions to actually be rewarded with an admittance bracelet.  The nurse began to unstrap me and tell me that it "will happen in its own time"...and "wouldn't you rather labor in the comfort of your own home than be cooped up here".  I was like ahhh...hey bitch...you guys have fucking awesome ice, jacuzzi tubs and rockin grill cheese sandwiches...nope I'd rather be here so lets get me a room!

Another 10 minutes and they were cutting me loose.  Waving at a bleary eyed Jon and a wild eyed possibly completely crazy and still pregnant me, who was now a good 10 hours overdue and not willing to take this shit another minute.  As we stepped into the elevator I began to hatch a plan.  I couldn't change the status of my broke down cervix or break my own water but while I had been hooked to the monitors I noticed any time I tensed up it mimicked a contraction.  Brilliance...pure brilliance.  Now the question was do I tell complete zombie of a husband or just make it look like the evil contractions had miraculously returned.

I went with option #2.

What did I have to lose??  I had to get this baby out!  I couldn't go another round of thinking it was time and then being turned away.  At this rate it would take another week possibly two to get to a 7!  And the thought of going to 42 weeks and letting my doctor prove that he was indeed right...well that shit was not gonna happen if I could help it.

We were just about the clear the threshold of the hospital when I stopped mid step and grasped Jon's arm.  If I was gonna do this I had to make it believable and that including possibly maming my husband.  Small sacrifice on his part...I mean I WAS THE ONE DOING ALL THE WORK!

Jon winced as I tightened my grip on his arm and braced himself for whatever else may come along.  Then approximately 30 seconds later I straightened up, took a deep breath and tried to act like I was fine.  He immediately asked if maybe we should go back upstairs.  Yes...this could work...but I can't be too obvious.

I looked at him with sad eyes...

Me:  No...I'm not going back up there...they'll just tell us to go home because of my stupid cervix.

Jon:  I know.  I know..you're tired of this, but you've never started contracting again so soon after being taken off the monitor.

Me:  (shit...did I just blow this by acting too soon) Ummmm....(better to fake another contraction) ouch, ouch, ouch.....

Jon:  Here...here...(dropping my bag to the floor)...lean into me.

He cradles me against him as I rock side to side.

Jon:  Breath.  Don't forget to breath.

Me:  (feeling slightly bad for lying to him) hee hee hee hee whoooooo....

Jon:  Good...good breathing babe.  How ya doin...you coming out of it yet?

Me:  mmmm...hmmm....

Jon:  Seriously babe...I think we should go upstairs.

Me:  Umm...lets just go walk around the parking lot for a few minutes and see how I do.  It may just stop again.  I can't handle being sent home...again.

Jon agrees completely unaware that I am doing perhaps my best acting...ever...and we walk back to the car.  Conveniently stopping every so often to drive home that I am "actually" contracting.  After another 30 minutes of being led around the parking lot like a show pony and really only feeling one...maybe two...true contractions but making it seem like I'd had over two dozen Jon was not taking any other answer except the one that led me back up to the 5th floor.

When the elevator doors opened the nurses looked at us like we were complete morons.  Jon was like...weeeeerrrrrre baaaaaaaack!  And I maintained a woeful yet strained facade.  The nurses put us back in the same exam room.

It was showtime.

I was checked every hour because the monitors were reflecting "such a beautiful strong pattern" so "you must be dialated more"...yep, these babies weren't stopping.  I tried not to laugh when first the nurse and then about 3 hours later the doctor stood mistified that I had indeed not gone any farther than a 6.  Stupid 6.  I hate the number 6.

I worried that for sure they would send me home.  But whether it was fear that I would harm myself, the child...a small group of innocent people...I don't know what but the next thing I knew I was being banded and led to a room.  It was just after 12p on Sunday, September 26th.  I had made it to a room.  Surely they couldn't cut me loose now that they had admitted me.

I wasn't about to find out.

However, faking contractions...is a little tiring.  The nurses and the doctor decided that in order to rev these bad boys up they wouldn't confine me to the bed and monitors so I was free to roam about the room.  I could use the birthing ball or soak in the tub (since my water hadn't broken) and then every so often they would check me.  SCORE!!

Turns out a husband left to peruse television channels unbothered does NOT notice that you are even in the same room as him...even when you are about to bare his child.  Men.  But that was fine by me because it allowed me to rest.  I actually took a little nap.  Called and checked in on Olivia.  Sat on the birthing ball...which I deemed to be demonic.  Whoever decided that a person who is at the moment in their life when they will most definitely be their heaviest (unless you are like me and carrying on a mad passionate affair with Ben & Jerry) would want to balance on a ball is a complete an utter fucktard!  For lack of a better word.

Every so often I would turn on the contractions, especially when I knew it was about time to go back on the monitor and be checked.  The nurses would come in and seem completely shocked that given the pattern on the monitor I was still only a 6.

Did I mention how much I hated that fucking number yet??

Night was approaching and I did finally begin to have some real contractions.  I had been advised to sit in a lukewarm bath with the jets if I was okay with that.  The nurses surmised that I must be too tense and that was why I wasn't dialating.  I sheepishly agreed and sat in the tub.  About 5 minutes later I could feel actual contractions.  It took everything in me not to say, "Jon I'm having a contraction".  That would have been bad.

After my bath I made my way back to the bed and continued honestly contracting.  So much so that when I was checked again a few hours later I was miraculously a 7!  Lucky number 7!

I did the math.  If I had gone back home and waited for the "real contractions" to start again I would have been just now coming back to the hospital.  It was a little past 11pm.  I didn't feel guilty in the least.  Especially since I'd had almost 12 full hours of yummy ice!

I tried to get some sleep but found that I was antsy as all hell.  Jon managed a few moments here and there on a the fold out chair/bed contraption.  I had a couple of hellish contractions that made me call out for him but it was a pretty quiet night.

When the shift change occured at 7 a.m. I was introduced to my new nurse and immediately I knew that I loved her.  She walked in and her first words to me were "my goal today is to get you delivered before I leave".  I worried that meant another 12 hours because that is what the other nurse had told me when I asked how long their shifts are.  So I said..."delivery before 7 tonight sounds like a plan to me".  Then she said the words that made me want to kiss her, "honey...I'm leaving early at 3p today...so we need to get this show on the road".

Ahhhhhhhhh....(choir of angels sing)

She came and checked me and announced I was at an 8.  Yippee.  I didn't know what prize that bought me nor did I care...all I knew was 2 more centimeters and I can push and this nurse is bound damned and determined to deliver this baby on her watch!  Let's roll!

Next thing I knew the doctor was in.  This was the same doctor that had performed my biopsy and informed us that "stopping the birth control in December" we would be able to get pregnant by "spring...summer at the earliest".  It was fall and I was just 2cm shy of being ready to push.  Maybe he should re-calibrate his fertility calculator.  Just a thought.

He asked if we would like him to break my water and hopefully get things moving faster.  I was on board for anything that would get this show on the road.  Plus, I was getting tired of faking things still unsure of whether I was "laboring" enough to keep me there and not get sent home again.  I figured broken water equals no possible way in hell I'd be released without a baby in my arms.  I barely uttered yes all the way and he was gloving up and busting my sack.

Within 10 minutes...maybe even less I couldn't decide if he was my new favorite person or if I hated him because the hellish contractions that brought us to the hospital just a day or so before were back...full throtle.  But before I could really settle on hating him for putting me in pain...they stopped again.

Jon and I just sat there thinking...this is ridiculous.  Noticing the stalled contractions the nurse came back with the doctor in tow and he checked me again...still an 8! It was just after 11 a.m.

He began to lay it all out on the line.  I'm full term.  I have a history of stalled dialation.  Once I am dialated I have problems delivering vaginally due to the cephalo pelvic disproportion...blah, blah, blah...medical talk.  I had two choices...he could start me on pitocin which would amp up the contractions and get me to 10cm and hopefully I could push the baby out but most likely would need a c-section like the last child and there was no way to guarantee how long that approach could take seeing as with Olivia it was 28 1/2 hours...I'd come in to the hospital with her at a 7 and it took 231/2 hours to get to 10 then push for over 4 hours only to be rushed into the OR for an emergency c-section.  There was no way to predict that this wouldn't be the same, different in a faster way or worse...different in a longer way!  Or we could just do the c-section.  I looked at Jon.  He gave me the gaze that said, "it's your decision".  I turned to the doctor and said, "when can you do the c-section"?  He checked his watch and said I have an open slot at 12p.

Holy shit that was less than an hour away.  Everything after that began to move incredibly fast.  The anesthesiologist came in and assessed me for the epidural.  I was nervous.  Epidurals meant this was really and truly happening.  No turning back.  Plus my epidural with Olivia had been horrible...a complete failure.  This one though...she was great.  I was settled back and ready to roll in no time at all.

The nurse came in to take us to the operating room.  She smiled down at me as I was beginning to tear up and my teeth were chattering from the anesthesia.  She said, "I told you we'd have a baby before I left today".  Yes, yes you did...I thought to myself.  She asked, "so what will we be welcoming in there?  A boy or a girl?"  Jon did the honors of announcing we'd be welcoming Garren Jesse...a son.  I was too busy trying to keep my teeth from busting.

The nurse smiled and said "a boy...that's great...we've had lots of girls today...a boy would be nice."

At that precise moment my husband said, "babe the name of the bed that you are laying on and have been laying in this whole enitre time is Hannah.  Isn't that bizare?"  At first I had no idea what he was talking about but then I had remembered last night while moving about the room each of the pieces of the equipment in the room had a name tag.  We asked the nurse and she said that instead of numbering them they named them.  It was a unique thing they did on the Labor & Delivery floor.  While we had taken notice of the name of my IV pump, the baby warmer and the O2...we had never noticed the bed.

"You're right"....I chattered...."that is bizare".  The nurse inquired why it was so strange and we explained that before we knew we were having a boy we made sure to pick out two names.  One girl.  One boy.  Just in case.  She laughed, said that we were smart for being so prepared since you just neve know and then it was time to move from the bed named Hannah to the cold steel operating table....

~JP

The Philosophy of Penny

It's creeping up on 3:30 a.m. and it is by far my favorite time of day. Middle of the night. Is that truly a time of day? Or would that be classified as time of night?? I mean it is dark outside. There is not even a wisp of sunlight in the sky.

Ever wonder why I never accomplish anything...hint, hint, hint...it's the never ending Q&A session that occurs in my mind 24/7.

I can't sleep because my mind doesn't shut off.

I can't accomplish any task without getting hung up on a million questions as to am I doing this right?? Am I gonna like the end result?? Did I leave my flat iron on?? Oh, wait I've been wearing curly hair lately...crap...when did I shower last??

Do you see the perfect insanity that plagues me on a daily basis?? It's a wonder I remember underwear and shoes all in the same day and then manage to remember that these two items alone does not an outfit make.

I woke up today at the crack of 1pm to the shrill ringing of what was supposed to be my new BFF...the CrackBerry. After vaguely remembering what button to push in order to answer incoming calls (yes I realize it's shaped like a phone and green for GO, but when you're woken from a state of zomby euphoria these common sense rationales escape me) and then there was the voice of my youngest..."mom, did you forget to come pick me up??"

OH SHIT...what would be worse...admitting that I forgot to pick her up from the sleepover she was at -OR- forgetting she had actually gone to aforementioned sleep over altogether?? You choose.

I tried to sound breezy while I flung myself out of bed in 1.2 seconds and scrambled to pull curly hair into pony tail while simultaneously wiping the sleepy eye boogers out of my eyes that were still trying to will themselves into the awake position. I brushed my teeth as I hopped into shorts. I figured a bra was a good idea even though I was hastily pulling on one of my husbands shirts which can easily hide flailing breast that at times can look like a bizarre floation device.

The fact that I put on two matching flip flops at the same time as trying to tame the two wild beast that are my breast into their harnesses was a sheer feat of brilliance, if I do say so myself.

The greatest thing about depression...if there is a bright side to this dark hole...is that I wear pajama's ALL THE TIME.

It's a slightly less sexy version of Hugh Heffner and I don't have a team of blonde nimrods with amazing bodies to flock around me. Although if there are any hot men that would like to apply for this postion please note that I expect there to be sleeping when we sleep together. If I wanted to have sex I would work with what the good Lord and my marriage vows bestowed upon me. Also, if there are any hot men that want to just sleep with me...I'd like if you were also good with dogs because these bitches make ALOT of noise and probably need to be walked WAY more than my one time per day sleep jammed, feel sorry for me pity fest allows.

Yes ladies and gentleman I do realize that I am making myself out to sound like an emotional torturer of kids and dogs alike. Send the men with the white coats...a padded room sound like perfection right about this stage in my life.

But back to my day. I made it to the house that held the sleepover in less than 5 minutes from time that phone call of worried 9 yr old was received. Thank god we live in the same neighborhood because I really don't think I was fully awake and having to clear more than 2 stop signs would have been a challenge that I am not sure I would have been up to.

Of course my child was the last one there...CRAPY MOTHER OF THE YEAR titled is ALL locked up ladies, you can breath easy.

I strolled back to my friend, and crazy ass mother that decided 5 tween girls for a sleepover was a BRILLIANT idea, bedroom. I apologized for letting Han be the last one to leave. She asked what we had on our agenda for the day. Well, my social butterfly of a 9 yr old had been invited to a birthday party. She knew because her son and this child were in the same class. Her family would be taking their kids as well. Super. Great. Ha, ha, ha...breezy chatter about new CrackBerry...then she remarks she needs to get ready, take a shower and so forth...I ask when they are heading to the party...she comments that her son has already left. Stupidly I ask why.

She then alerts me to the fact that the party starts in under 15 minutes. FUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK! What the shit...the procrastinator in me cannot catch a break?

I haul butt home, truthfully only stopping for one of the two stop signs and jump in the shower. I may not feel the need to smell okay for my own family, but making others suffer...well that is just wrong. See at least I have a minor shred of dignity left. Well this week at least. Check back later to see if I maintain that...I'd give 50/50 odd's on that one going by the wayside.

I was shocked at the fact that I showered and threw myself together and wrapped the gift that my husband had so brilliantly purchased earlier in the week. It was a vicious and loving strategy all in one simple act. He knew, from many years of experience, that I would A) wait until the last possible second and B) I would use ANY and ALL excuses possible to forgo party all together..especially if I could use the no gift as a reason. Damn depression was foiled again. Take that mental disorder.

Off we went to partake in cake and ice cream and a HUGE inflatable water slide that had broken bone written all over it. Within 2 hours I was the one being called to it's watery basin as my child sat wailing while holding her arm.

First thought...son of a...please don't let her have rebroken arm that she broke last year. (FYI: any teacher or school administrator that thinks taking entire 3rd class to a skating rink for an end of school year party is a FUCKING MORON)

Thankfully we were not in broken anything territory and instead she milked a bruise but I could tell her previous night of partying hard with her besties was wearing her thin and we were coming up on a full fledge meltdown. I tried to love on her. Negative. I tried to joke with her. Negative. Finally I tried bribery...BINGO! I encouraged her to pack up her stuff and we would bring one of her friends back to the house to hang out.

She caved but within 30 minutes of being home and proclaiming herself "all better" she and her friend were hinting...but not very subtly...that they wanted a sleepover.

Fine.

Whatever.

Once again we were hauling our kid off to someone elses house. Sometimes I wonder why my kids don't want to have their friends over here. Then I take a listen to our maniac dogs and review the mental catalog that is my emotional state at any given moment and I begin to see why they wounldn't want to be at home. Ever.

I made dinner for the remaining members that stayed in for the night and we settled in to watch a movie. About 30 minutes into the movie I was being beckoned to pick up Han. The meltdown that I had predicted earlier but that I had ignored at her pronouncing she felt "all better" had indeed happened and now she was crying and proclaiming a headache which was the tell tale sign that she was D-O-N-E and in desperate need of her bed and good night sleep.

Of course we couldn't just get her home and get her into bed. There had to be one more emotional showdown. Oh how I adore the pre-pubesent years. Shoot me now.

I may have believed that my first daughter was an emotional rollercoaster but she doesn't hold a candle to this one. I'm beginning to think I need to start crushing up Midol and putting it into her orange juice in the morning as a preemptive strike.

Finally her room fell quiet as the Tylenol kicked in for the headache she had from crying and the sheer exhaustion of the last couple days took ahold of her. Our movie ended and one by one the husband and then Liv made their way to bed.

And then it was just me. Well and Penny, my trusty late night companion.

I sit here thinking through the day. With all the questions that tick through my mind constantly. Consistently.

I sip on my Sleepy Time tea. What a joke...but damn if it isn't yummy. I sit here typing and thinking.

Thinking of the time when I would have counted this day as a good day. An eventful day. A normal day in the life of a mom and wife. The sliver of a sane person that remains in residence inside my body tries to rationalize that I just need to accept the goodness that comes out of the madness of not getting every single thing perfect.

I wonder why I can't accept my imperfections as others do of themselves. I contemplate why I feel a day spent sleeping ranks higher than the days I spend not doing all that I set out to do or stumbling with the things I do manage to accomplish, but are still filled with trying to find a median.

I can feel myself reeling through a million more questions...and then my process of questioning is broken by a large SMACK. I spin around in my chair to see that Penny has managed to fall off the couch while still wrapped up in a blanket.

She is flailing about like...well...like a dog wrapped up in a blanket that had been sleeping comfortably on the couch but that has now fallen to the floor. She finds her way out from inside the blanket. Shakes off the thud she has received and pops back up onto the couch. She leans over the side of the couch, grasp the corner of her blanket in her tiny mouth and pulls until there is just enough of it back on the cushion with her and curls back up inside it.

It is this moment of complete randomness that makes me realize sometimes you just gotta pick yourself up off the floor and get back on the couch. Maybe it's my new metaphor for life. As taught to me by my dog.

Or maybe it's just the universe and the Sleepy Time tea's way of telling me that I need to go to bed.

Yeah, yeah...I'm gonna go with the second one. It makes me sound less crazy. Please...woman listens to her dog to validate her life. Now that is a sure sign of insanity.

Another reason why the second one seems to be a better solution is because just a minute or so after getting the blanket back on the couch and nestling inside it she manages to fall off the couch inside the blanket once more. Only this time instead of picking herself and blanket back up off the floor she walks around the blanket as if to scold it for causing her downfall. Then peers at me before burrowing down under the blanket while it lays on the floor.

What's the lesson now Penny? If at first you don't succeed...sleep on the floor. Yep...that's my dog. That's my life. And that's my cue to call it a night and get some rest.

~JP

Thank you Jonas Brothers....and Goodnight!

It is now "Jonas Brother...the Day After". I can still here a persistent ringing in my ears, sounds seem muffled and when I shut my eyes I have a mini laser light show going on the backs of my eyelids. But all that aside, here's how the concert went:

Let me start by saying...if you've ever wondered to yourself or aloud exactly how many people you can fit into a stretch limousine? I would like to be the one to tell you that you can mash 4 adults, 5 teenagers, 4 tweens, one little boy and still have room for posters, purses, jackets, 12 pack of soda and some (but not nearly enough) liquor.

The Mother's (take note of the red bag that hold the "Jonas Brother Survival Kit")

Teens, Tweens & little one ~ View from outside.....

....and view from within.

It helped that we had one hell of a limo driver who took it all in stride and immediately apologized for removing the bourbon from the bar because he "thought we'd wanna keep it clean with the kids and all"...ugh Tom...there goes part of your tip sweetie. Prolly would've been bigger if ya got us a little tipsy on the way home or dropped the adults in the French Quarter and returned the kids to the address we would've scrawled out on a piece of paper with a note to our other halves that would have read:

Here's the kids. We've gone drinking. Send the limo back for us if you want us to come home.
~ The Mother's

But now I am jumping ahead of myself...and that French Quarter part is gonna be for another night and another blog entirely. So back to Jonas.

For those of us NOT in the Jonas know (which turned out to really only be myself and one other mom) we got the 4-1-1 on how the show was gonna go down from start to finish from the self proclaimed biggest Jonas Fan herself Brittany, her mom Stacy and one of Han's besties Kenzie.

Biggest Jonas Fan ~ (Her glasses say Brittany Jonas...nuff said!)

They had just arrived back in Louisiana the morning of the New Orleans show after seeing the Jo Bro's play in Houston, TX. That's a whole other state ya'll and WAY too far for a devoted mom (stop laughing) like myself to drive my kids to see anything.

How this mother was awake let alone upwardly mobile was beyond me. She credits energy drinks...I say it's the adrenaline produced by pure insanity...you decide.

The ride into the city wasn't bad at all with the exception that we packed more caffeine than liquor and with individuals under 18 out numbering those of us of the parental persuasion by a little more than 1/2 we wondered what genius thought that equation was a good idea. But before we really had time to contemplate our error we were piling out as if we were the clown car at a circus. Even the limo driver commented that he didn't remember this many getting in.

(Nina & Han strike a pose outside the arena)

Once at the arena it was time to divvy up tickets and set up a meeting spot. Since I was late coming into the concert prep I had tickets that were split between two different sections. There was 1 that was on one side of the arena and 2 that were on the opposite side. All 14 of us were not going to be sitting together.

On the ride over we had worked out a solution that would hopefully allow everyone to have the most optimal and enjoyable "Jonas Experience" possible.

It broke down as follows. Biggest Jonas fan Brittany with her baby sis Kenzie had floor seats. My oldest Liv, and my good friend Mar's oldest daughter Courtney, who have been friend since meeting in 3rd grade, would be in another section...alone.

(Liv & Court...ready to take on Jonas unsupervised...mother's lock up your sons!)

The shear thought of those two teens on the loose made us both REALLY want to drink. Six tickets were together and belonged to my other good friend, Stacy (the mother that had driven to Texas and back all in the span of 17 hours), her sister Kori, two of Kori's kids, a cousin and her boyfriend. How that poor boy managed to pick the short straw that entailed seeing a boy band with his girlfriend is still beyond me.

The final 4 tickets were left to Mar, myself and our two tween-agers, Han and Carolina, who were there to experience their first ever concert.

The tears started streaming from Nina before we even made it to our seats. Mar and I joked back and forth wondering if we should have given her an "M&M" (our code for Xanax) before getting there.

(This is a pose that Mar & I struck prior to one of our first Kenny Chesney concerts together so we made the girls do the same. And yes...Nina, on the right, is crying.)

We finally made it to our seats after being stopped by an arena attendant that worried if Nina was really okay and had to deal with the looks of several other concert goers around us that questioned if she truly was alright. Mar and I contemplated if we should have passed up the Southern Comfort tent so quickly earlier when we were looking for a restroom and our seats.

(Me & Han posing with our tickets)

We assured everyone around us and ourselves that they she was fine and settled in for the show. We were disappointed to find out when we heard on the ride over that Jordin Sparks would not be performing due to illness. There was a crowd warmer that came out in between acts and asked the tens of thousands of fans in the arena to send her well wishes with a group effort of shouting "Get Well Jordin".

With no Jordin Sparks, who I have to admit I was dissapointed that I wouldn't be seeing since I actually knew more of her songs than the Jo Bro's we saw Honor Society and the Wonder Girls. If you are anything like me then you are going..."Huh??? What??? Who???"

Honor Society from a mothers perspective of not knowing who the hell these people are and why are they deserving of a portion of the $90 per ticket I just spent to come to this show....were actually pretty good if you're willing to take the word of a thirty-something, SUV driving soccer mom.

The Wonder Girls...I wish I would have snapped a picture....reminded me of a BAD talent/dance recital. The only part I was thankful for in regards to their performance is that they only sang two songs.

In between both opening acts while they were preparing the stage there was a jumbo tron that played text messages sent by fans in the arena. I was able to get one posted that read.

Hannah & Carolina here to see their first concert ever.

Unfortunately I wasn't quick enough with the camera to capture it.

(View from the top...it was PACKED and HOT)

They were so excited that they got to be "famous" for a few seconds that they made me spend every break in between performances texting madly to try and get another message on that damn screen...it didn't happen. Damn kids...you give them a text and they expect the whole show to be about them!

I was trying to amuse myself as best possible during and in between the opening acts and I found it personally hysterical (based on pre-concert post) that a little girl sitting directly in front of us had the EXACT same hairstyle as Han.

I pointed it out to Han and she looked at me like...ugh...I told you I knew what I was talking about!

And then it was time for the boys that we, meaning the kids, had been waiting for. More tears came.....

and tiny hinney's moved to their edge of their seats....

The lights went down....the lasers came up....

....and they appear to the screams of..."OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU", "NIIIIIIICK", "JOOOOOOE", "KEEEEEEEVIN", "MARRY ME", "WEEEEEELOOOOOOVEYOU", "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD", "KILL ME NOW". Okay...that last one was the sound of the voices in my head...but I am sure you get the point.

And once again....Nina was in tears......

The Jonas Brother's took the stage to the defeaning screams of tens of thousands of hormonal bodies! It was so loud that the sound vibrated through you. We were seated in front of and next to two of the highest pitch squealers that I think I've ever had the displeasure of hearing. At one point I wondered if my eardrum had perforated or burst. Unfortunately it didn't and the ear raping went on for 2 1/2 full hours. Here's what it looked like...because I like you enough NOT to post the two video clips I took.

The outer part of the circle rotated like a record. I waited for someone to fall...it didn't happen.

I found out pretty early on that Han doesn't like loud screaming. She kept looking over her shoulder at the girls behind us and then looking at me like, "mom...aren't you gonna make them stop?" I had to keep telling her that this is a concert and unfortunately we would have to tolerate the jacklegs sitting around us. She looked very unimpressed with my perceived unwillingness to make them shut the fuck up. So she spent a good portion of the concert with her fingers in her ears. So did I. It was like a mother daughter thing.

And the concert continued. Song after song.....

When Nick Jonas came on stage with just his piano and sang "Black Keys" and talked about diabetes you could almost hear the wave of girls crying. He has a line where he says, "and I asked the doctor would I die?" I swear to you it was as if someone got up on that stage and held a gun to the kids head. All around us were fans sobbing. I was like "umm hello...he's perfectly fine jackasses. He's on the stage before your very eyes singing." All Mar and I could do was roll our eyes and sit back and watch.

(Nick singing "Black Keys")

I do have to admit this one thing...the amount of work that must have gone into creating the lights and technical aspect of this show was phenominal. I was highly impressed with all the little and big things that went on to create a visual wonderland. From lighting, raised platforms, rain, fog, lasers, a trampoline that went into the middle section of the middle stage and finally to showering the fans with foam...it was impressive.

And then finally...mercifully they descended into the hole in the stage.

Stupid me though...I forgot that they would come back for an encore. Apparently I wasn't the only one that forgot this was a possibility because some parents hopped up out of their seats as if their asses had been lit on fire the second the lights dimmed and plotted their escape. You could hear cries in the dark of the fans that knew they would be back and of the fans that were being dragged out by their parents. And then just like a horror film...."they're baaaaaaaaaaaack"....

Then their closing song, "Burning Up" came on........

.....and it was over.

Han clasped her hands tightly over her ears as the crowd once again roared. I did a happy dance in my seat as I realized I had just survived my first concert with my kids.

Will I do it again??? Ummm, maybe. Will I do another Jonas concert?? NO.

We made our way out of the arena with the masses. The teenagers that we had let sit on their own had made it back to the limo without incident and within 15 minutes the whole menagerie was present and accounted for. We sat back in the limo and enjoyed the ride home.

Tonight...a full 24 hours later I asked Han if she had a good time. She cocks her head to the side and says, "mom, it was the best. I had wished and hoped to go and see the Jonas Brothers and now I can check that off my list."

It's really all a mom can ask for. Well, that and for my hearing to return.

~JP