The Surgery - Part Deux

I didn't really think it was bad at the time, but everyone who I've told this little piece of information to totally freaks out.  

After Andrew kissed me goodbye when I was going to the cath lab to have my heart operated on, he went home. 

Now, don't go thinking he's a giant butt wipe or anything. 

The doctor told Andrew that I'd be in surgery for a minimum of two hours, and that for an hour after I was done, I could not have visitors.  We knew I wasn't going to die or anything, and we live 15 minutes from the hospital I was at, so he went home.  He had breakfast, puttered around for a while, and went back.  He was at the hospital for over an hour before they let him back to see me.  So it's not that bad.

He did tell me that if I had died, he had already planned to use my life insurance money to buy a pimped out VW bus and take the kids on a vacation to Alaska.  And he would have, too.  But I don't think that was his first choice of outcomes.

Anyway - part one of the heart surgery can be found here.  On to part two.

I get wheeled into the cath lab, and the staff transfers me to a metal table that has a weird blue blanket thing on it that looks like a bowling alley when there are those bumper thingies in the gutters.  Except my bumpers were flowing with hot air to keep me warm during the surgery.  That plus the warm blankets they piled on top of me made me pretty sure I was going to pee myself.  I didn't really care though because it took them about twenty seconds to start pumping my IV full of drugs that made me quite sleepy and also removed any sense of the possibility of impending death.  I didn't care what they did to me.  La, la, la. I'm still not sure if I peed or not.  It's entirely possible.

I was at a university hospital, so while my doctor was in the room during the surgery, a fellow actually performed the closure.  Scary, no?  Again, I didn't care.

The most painful part of the ordeal was when they stuck needles in my groin to numb my legs so they could insert the catheters into my femoral arteries.  I remember the needle going in and my back jumping off the table a little bit.  Then a nurse said that she was going to give me another dose of drugs and that was the last thing I felt until she had her fist shoved into my groin to stem the flow of blood after they pulled the catheters out.

I was awake for parts of the procedure.  I remember watching the catheter in my heart on one of the six or so TV screens.  I thought it was kind of weird that there was a foreign object moving around inside my heart and I couldn't feel it.  

Another time I woke up and heard my doctor say to the fellow, "You see that flap there at the top of the atrium?  What is that?"  And the fellow thought and thought - but I knew right away what it was.  I tried to say "Atrial septal aneurism", but it wouldn't come out of my mouth.  The fellow got it not long after.  If it had been Jeopardy, I totally would have kicked his butt.

Then the thing was over and I made small talk with the nurse who was applying pressure to my arteries.  We talked about kids and homeschooling and cool places to go in Portland...  And then they lifted me ever so gently back onto my bed, I prayed that my tampon wouldn't fail me just yet, and we went back to recovery where my prayer went unanswered.

Stay tuned for Part 3 - The Inconvenience of a Room With No Toilet

The Surgery - Part One

I've sentenced myself to a nap every day this week.  I figured I need it since I'm still so exhausted from last week.  I'm not sure if it was the surgery or the anxiety that wiped me out so completely, but I'm withering.

I thought I'd tell you all the gory details.

I got to the hospital with my husband last Thursday morning at 6:30.  They gave me a designer gown with a slit right over my right bosom.  I think the only purpose for those slits in the front of the hospital gowns are to give the nurses nipple flashes of all the patients, and to provide you a place to stuff your heart monitor cords when you need to hobble to the bathroom.

(File photo.  Andrew won't take pictures of me in the hospital.  So this one's from January when I could have died.  Almost.  But not really.)

Anyway, I laid there in pre-op while a parade of lab techs, nurses, and CNAs did their thing to me.  

One guy came in to draw blood and hook up my IV.  He sprayed about a pint of my blood all over the sheets and then fumbled around trying to clean it up, apologizing and muttering about "covering his sins".  Poor guy.  It wasn't the only time that day that I had to wonder how the laundry staff gets all those blood stains out of the sheets.

Another nurse came in to ask me if I needed to be shaved.  How should I know, right?  How far in are they going to need to go?  So she sent someone in to "access the situation".  That was awesome.  Turns out I only needed a navel to knee iodine bath - I had tamed the beast to their satisfaction.

Then another nurse came in to ask me if I had any questions.  I did actually.  I knew that after my surgery I had to lay perfectly still for six hours - no head lifting, no leg bending, nothing.  (That's so that I wouldn't bleed to death out of the veins/arteries they were going to shove tubes up and then apply compression bandages to.)  So the problem was that my Aunt Flo had come to town, and I wanted to know what the plan of attack was for dealing with that issue for operation time plus six hours...without moving my head or legs.  Turns out the nurse was stumped.  Honestly, how have they not run into that issue before?  The whole thing did not turn out well. It was gory.

Then a doctor with a huge white head on the end of his nose came in to distract me.  I have no idea what he said.  I couldn't stop staring at his massive zit and wondering if it was going to explode while he was leaning over me with my groin exposed.

Finally they wheeled my bed back to the entrance of the cath lab and two doctors, two nurses, and some guy who was presumably there for a purpose stood over me, introduced themselves, and made sure they all knew what they were there for.  This is the part where Andrew was hoping they would all mistakenly think I was scheduled for a breast augmentation.  No dice.  It was confirmed that I was in for a PFO closure.  I told them not to screw it up, and in we went.

To be continued...unless I tire of the subject.

Need A Teacher Gift?

I know some of you have threatened to stop reading my blog if I continue to post this picture, but I'm doing it anyway.  (Keep reading this post at least - there might be something in it for you.)

This is my baby.  Isn't he darling?  I'm thinking I should call Guinness and see if this is the longest snot stream in the history of the world.  Are there prizes for that sort of thing?

After seeing this picture last year, the good people at Boogie Wipes sent me a package full of their product.  I guess they thought I needed them, and they were right.  I've been hooked on them ever since.  I'll tell you why.

Boogie Wipes are like crack for your nose when you've got a cold.  (Not that I'm encouraging drug use.)

Kids love Boogie Wipes.  They're soft and saline infused, and therefore super gentle on your nose - and they smell flippin' awesome.  Everyone I've talked to likes the Grape scent best.  I happen to be partial to the Magic Menthol scent.  It's like heaven when you're sick.

Boogie Wipes are meant to be used for runny or gunky noses, to prevent the spread of germs, and to keep your kids and their clothes looking fresh...you know - use the wipe, not your sleeve.  But I use them for lots more.  The individually wrapped wipes are a life saver when you're out with your kids and they have remnants of Oreo cookie all over their faces.  I have four boys, and I hate going into public with them looking like ghetto rats who never bathe.  People look at us like we're trashy when that happens. So I pop a few of those individually wrapped wipes in my purse, and we're all set to tackle any mess that their faces can dish out.  Boogers, snot, or Oreo-related.  And the kids never complain because that Grape scent really is good.  They ask if they can wipe their own faces, believe it or not. 

So in honor of National Provider Appreciation Day on May 6th, Boogie Wipes has created a Teacher Appreciation Kit, and they are sponsoring a giveaway right here for one of you lucky readers!  Yey!

The Teacher/Daycare Provider Kit includes a poster with Save the Sleeve pledge guidelines, 50 Boogie Wipes samples, (those handy purse ones), coupons, and 2 classroom canisters.  All those goods will help you keep your home or classroom clean and help control the spread of germs. 

But if you catch it in time, there is a National Provider Appreciation Day Kit available through May 6th, which includes everything the Teacher Kit has, plus 10 free "Boogs".  That would be the Boogy Buddy class mascot. Who doesn't want a stuffed booger?  I do.  They're cute!

You need to buy Boogie Wipes for your kids' teachers.  It's a gift that says, "Thanks for taking such good care of my kid.  I really get how hard your job is.  Here's some cool wipes so you don't have to look at snot."

Now for the giveaway.

If you'd like to enter to win two 30-count packages of Boogie Wipes, plus some coupons to help you replenish when you run out, (and you'll want to replenish, believe me), all you have to do is leave a comment!  Contest will be open until Monday, May 9th, at which time I will randomly select a winner via the "ask my favorite child at the time to pick a number between x and y" method.  It's more fun for me that way, you see.

Boogie Wipes sent me free product in order to review the wipes.  I love 'em, and I wouldn't lie to you.

Be Still My Heart. Wait, No. That's Wrong.

I don't know if he thinks he's still making up for missing my birthday or if he's pampering me in case I die during heart surgery on Thursday, but Andrew has been super, over the top chivalrous lately.  

Yesterday he vacuumed the living room.  Wow, right?

Today he did the dishes twice, cooked all three meals, took the trash out, and stopped at Dairy Queen on the way home from running errands.  This last he did because he said it might be my last Snickers Blizzard before I die.  Such a thoughtful guy.

I know I keep mentioning this heart surgery and it sounds pretty heavy.  I suppose any heart surgery is, but this one is minor when you compare it with major heart surgeries...like a transplant, or a quadruple by-pass.  I'm about to explain it to you in very short, simple terms.

The 2 upper chambers of your heart are supposed to be separated by a wall of tissue.  That wall keeps the dirty, used blood separate from the clean, ready-to-go-out-to-the-body blood.  

My 2 chambers are not separated by a wall, but instead, I have a "flap" there which creates a tunnel, allowing used blood to come on over to the "clean side".  This used blood can potentially have clots in it.  

Back in January a clot got through that tunnel in my heart and traveled to my brain which caused a tiny stroke.  The stroke caused paralysis and numbness in my left arm and the left side of my face, including just half of my tongue.  That was weird.  My risk of having a second, much worse stroke is now too big to ignore.

Strokes are bad.

So on Thursday, my cardio surgeon is going to put a clamp of sorts around that flap to close the tunnel.  My heart tissue will grow around the clamp, and after about 6 months, I should be just about as normal as any of you.  Well, as far as the heart is concerned.

My chest does not have to be butterflied in order to do this procedure.  The doc is going to go through my femoral arteries.  One artery for the camera or ultrasound device or whatever it is, and one artery for placing the device inside my heart.  

Easy, peasy.  In and out.  

We hope.

So there you have it.  Wish me well, because my husband has no idea what our bills are or where I keep the extra baby wipes.

How To Go To The Hospital

When I had that stroke last month it happened at 12:30 in the afternoon.  I had not showered yet that day, and I was kinda smelly.  As in, "Crap, I have that 'not so fresh feeling' and I'm headed to the hospital where body prodding is sure to take place."   But there was no time to stop for a shower, so I just had to make excuses for my smell to every doctor, RN, CNA, LPN, neurologist and intern who came within two feet of me.  I was hooked up to heart monitors all night and all the next day, so I didn't get to shower until about dinner time on day two.  When I was all lovely and clean and back in bed, a nurse came in to hook me up to monitors again, and she said, "It smells good in here!  Did you take a shower?"  Yes, she really said that.  I told her that I had in fact showered, but that she was probably smelling the roses my sister had brought me.

Hospital tip #1:   Murphy's Law sort of dictates that no one will be going to the hospital when they are looking their best, so if you end up in the ER smelling like a homeless person in July, just take a look around you and feel better.  It's likely you aren't the most disgusting person in the room.

2.  Even in a serious situation I cannot help but making stupid, inappropriate jokes.  Such as:  When finding out I have a nodule on my thyroid, (totally unrelated to reason for being at the hospital, but a favorite topic for Idiot Doctor), I asked him if that's why I was fat?  You know - "It's my thyroid."  And then taking bets for when the doctors were going to ask me when I'd had my double mastectomy.  Flat chested jokes are sometimes just wrong.  Also, I was so bored at times that I had to fight off the urge to fake a seizure for the entertainment of...Ok, I suppose just for my own entertainment.  Also, once you've had thirty or so neurological tests and you have the questions and movements memorized, you start to feel like slurring your speech and poking yourself in the eye just to give the nurses something different to do.

Hospital Tip #2:  Think before you speak.  And if you're well enough to be joking, even inappropriately, that would be a blessing, so don't be too hard on yourself.  But when you're perfectly coherent and sane and a nurse asks you if you know where you are, try not to spend too much time thinking of comedic responses, because when it takes you a while to come up with an answer it starts to look like you really might not know the right one.

3.  Some doctors do not know as much about your condition as you do.  He won't like to admit this, so he will go home at night and Google what you told him is wrong with you.  He will come back the next morning and tell you that he "did some research".  Then he will draw a picture for you of what you already knew.  It will look like a picture of Spiderman.  The doctor will feel like he is educating you, and it's ok to roll your eyes and call said doctor a dumb ass.  Some doctors need a little humility.

Hospital Tip #3:  A medical degree does not an intelligent person make.  If you think your doctor might be a moron, demand a new one.  You have that right.

4.  This one's important.  If a whole heap of people are going to be working on your chest doing ultrasounds or EKG's or whatever, you should make sure you don't have two nipple hairs growing out of your right mammory.  And no, I do not speak from personal experience, I have no idea what you're talking about.

Hospital Tip #4:  When you do those self-breast-exams monthly like you're supposed to, be sure you check for unwanted hair.  Cause, Dude.

5.  When you're bored your sister might help you take pictures that you think are funny, but those pictures will not amuse your husband in the slightest because he is still stuck on the fact that you could die at any moment and won't be ready to laugh yet.  His lack of a sense of humor in this situation may actually make you love him more.

Hospital Tip #5:  Bring a person with you to the hospital who will keep things light, and another who will act like the world will stop moving if you die, will swear at Idiot Doctor, and who will later tell you that you can't post a picture of yourself drooling because not only is it not funny, it's also insensitive.

My Brain On Drugs

Today I had a trans-esophageal echocardiogram.  Which basically means a doctor stuck an endoscope down my throat to get a closer look at my heart.  I went into it thinking that if nothing else, it would at least be good blog fodder.  

Unfortunately, all I can tell you is that I came out of it with the mother of all sore throats, because the doctor had to drug me half to death to get me to relax and I don't remember a thing about the procedure itself. 

I know I was awake because I had to swallow the scope until it got to the right spot and I had to cough when the doctor told me to, but all I remember is my throat being sprayed with some numbing junk and then I was on my back and it was over.

Such a pity.

The doctor said he had to keep upping my drugs because I wouldn't just chill.  He also said that happens with a lot of mothers because we're so used to having to remain alert at all times.  Sleep with one eye open and our ears on hyper-scan, right?  

Now I'm feeling the loss of what surely would have been a great story.  I might have puked on the doctor when the scope went past my uvula or said something inappropriate when the tube was pulled back out through my mouth, and we'll never know.  

So, to make up for it I've compiled a list of hospital survival tips, should you ever find yourself in need.  But you'll have to wait until the next post to get the scoop because this one is already too long.  But be sure to check back because there's pictures of me in a hospital gown, and you know you want to see those.  

Now I'm going to go eat some ice cream and hope it puts out the fire in my throat.

Mourning My Good Metabolism

Let's talk about food, shall we? I love to eat. The best time of day for eating is about 5 seconds after all the kids are in bed. It's the first moment of the day when I can completely relax, and relaxing sometimes equals food.

When I was a child, my parents would send my sisters and I to bed and then waste no time in plugging in the hot air popcorn popper and pulling out a bag of MnM's.  They always poured the candy into a GLASS bowl so that we could hear them chink-chink-chinking into the dish, and our mouths would water as soon as we could smell the butter melting in the microwave.  Sisters and I would lay there in bed, sure that Mom and Dad did this just to show us how much they despised us.  It was pure mean. We whispered to each other that if they couldn't indulge while we were there to share the feast with them, then kinder parents would have at least waited until we were asleep and oblivious to the prepping of goodies.

Now that I'm the parent, I have to admit that there are foods I won't share with my kids, either. It is a sad day around our house when Drew has committed another atrocity and there is no candy or chocolate to provide comfort after cleaning up whatever disaster has occurred. Chocolate is therapeutic, but I must admit that anything conceived of Mr. Wonka is also uplifting. I never grew out of my appreciation for Nerds, or the giant, soft SweetTarts that come in a four pack, (and, unfortunately, two of the flavors have to be lemon and green. That's right, Green. I'm not actually sure what fruit flavor it is supposed to be, so it is referred to as Green).

While we're on the subject, why do food manufacturers insist on putting undesired flavors in the packages with the good flavors? For example, does anyone ever go for a Lime Popsicle when there are still Banana and Root Beer to be had? Not in our house. We push and shove and knock each other down to get the Root Beer, and then we let the kids choose from whatever is left. 

My mother is a fantastic cook. In my youth she treated me to many fabulous dishes, all of which I loved.  Except for the grilled cheese, which she will burn even if she stands right in front of the stove, spatula in hand, staring, waiting for the perfect moment to flip. It's an unfair curse, really. 

Worse than the grilled cheese though, was the meat loaf. 

I can't tell you how much we dreaded meat loaf when we were kids. The meat loaf itself, was always fine, no complaints. But meat loaf always meant lima beans. Mom put the meat loaf, potato wedges, and lima beans all in an electric frying pan together, and fried it until the meat loaf was done. That meant the potatoes were crisp on the outside and perfectly soft on the inside, but the lima beans were usually blackened. And not in a spicy, Cajun way. They were just black and hard and covered in grease from the meat loaf. We ate them because we were afraid not to, but we hated it. And yes, I can speak for myself and every one of my siblings on that one. Years later, I realized that fried to death and covered in grease is actually the best way to eat a lima bean.

I grew up never having to worry about how much I ate and where on my body it might land. I was blessed with a metabolism that loved to work over-time. 

In high school I weighed around 120 pounds. Then came my early twenties and giving birth to two children. About 2 months after Ethan was born, I settled in at an acceptable 135 pounds. Then came Drew, and exactly 10 months after he was born, I finally got back to that blessed 135, and I got there without exercise or dieting. Patience and time is all it took. (Go ahead and hate me now if you want to, but rest assured, my comeuppance is hurtling towards me with frightening speed.) Exactly one week after I returned to that 135 pound pre-baby weight, I found out I was pregnant with a very unexpected fourth baby. (Curse my body for spontaneously deciding to ovulate again without the aid of medication, and curse myself for being so stupid as to think anovulation is acceptable birth control. Not that we don't love Trent to death.)

So here we are, another ten months after child birth, and I cannot get below 142 pounds. Fine. I can live with 142. What I cannot live with is where those 7 extra pounds decided to set up camp. - Right behind my belly button. Standing naked in front of the mirror is now comically sad. I look like a character from a Dr. Seuss book - dangly arms with a narrow chest which slopes down into a round, protuberant belly, then back into skinny legs. I take comfort that at least I am not as hairy as a Seuss creation.

So if the trend continues; 120's in my teen years, 130's in my twenties and 140's as I creep up on my thirties, then I will weigh 180 pounds by the time I am seventy - but it will all be in my mid-section so that my stomach will enter a room before I do, and may in fact be able to flip light switches up or down of it's own accord if I should happen to turn around too hastily.

And that, Dear Readers, is the plight of me with my super powered metabolism that died off on me after I've lived 29 years.  Twenty-nine years of bad habits that I will now have to break if I ever want to fit back into my jeans.

I am going to have to start exercising. I am going to have to stop eating every time I walk through or past the kitchen. I am going to have to change everything I have taught myself about self control, which so far has only been something that other people have to worry about.

Crap.

*Update:  Since this was written one year ago, I am still at 140 and I have back fat.  Age is the Achilles Heel of a good metabolism.*

Crazy Diet

My poor husband has those crappy genetics that mandate he battle his weight his entire life.

Don't get me wrong - there's some good genetic code in there, too.  I won't go into that though.

It's just sad that he has to go to the gym or hit the pavement every night to keep his waistline below a size forty, and I get to sit on the couch eating a giant bowl of Reese's Puffs cereal while watching Master Chef, and not gain a pound.  (Almost.)

Just watching Master Chef has the potential to make Andrew gain weight.  

Several months back, Andrew decided he needed to be at a respectable weight before we go on our annual salmon pilgrimage to the Pacific NW.  He started out by watching what he ate and working out six nights a week.  

I helped out by baking peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to tempt him with.

After a few weeks, he decided that his plan wasn't drastic enough, so he started to eat rice.  And nothing else.

He ate rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two solid weeks before I finally convinced him to eat a banana for breakfast, or an occasional packet of oatmeal.  I honestly thought he was going to get scurvy or something.

And he wasn't even eating brown rice!  He says he doesn't like it.  So white rice, (empty carbs), only.  And it really did work.  He was burning every one of those empty calories, and then some.  He dropped about twenty-five pounds in three weeks.

Finally, I got sick of cooking the rice, (broke my rice cooker lid quite a while ago, so I was doing all of this on the stove top, poor me). I did a little poking around online and found a super easy recipe for refried beans that aren't fried.  Slow cooker all the way.  They are delicious, have almost no fat, and they are actually pretty full of nutrients.  Everything from fiber to protein to magnesium.  

And believe it or not, I convinced Andrew to switch from rice to beans, and now I'm only cooking for him once a week.

I made a fresh batch of beans tonight, and I added in some cheese.  Don't tell Andrew, or he won't eat them.

Say Aaahhh!

The last time I went to the dentist was when I had my wisdom teeth extracted in 2005. Yikes, I know. So it was with a fair amount of trepidation that I went to have a cleaning and exam this morning.

Usually I enjoy going to the dentist. Obviously not as much as shopping for a new pen or going for a chocolate-dipped chocolate cone at Dairy Queen, but it's always been sort of relaxing for me to sit in a chair while other people work on my mouth and I drift in and out of coherency. (That's without nitrous oxide.)

Side note: When I needed to have my wisdom teeth pulled, I went to see the dentist who's kids I used to babysit. (If any of you live close enough to visit him in Gresham, OR, it would be worth giving him your business. He's an excellent doctor with great prices, and he ain't bad to look at while you're staring straight up with your mouth pried open and drool sliding out anyway...) I knew I would be getting my first dose of "laughing gas" on that visit, but had no idea how that might make me react. I'm sure it was similar to most other's experiences. They hooked me up with the mask blowing the gas into my nose, and then left me there to inhale to my heart's desire. About three minutes later I was in a hysterical panic because I couldn't stop giggling, and I knew that Dr. Westover would be coming back any minute to yank my teeth from my skull. I had to think about something terrible.

The cost of tooth extraction.

Family reunions.

Nope, I tried to hold it in, but more giggling erupted from me.

Dead puppies.

Bill collectors.

Tried to hold in the laughing, which resulted in snorts.

Then I thought about Dr. Westover and his assistant possibly standing behind me and watching me convulse with snickers.

That embarrassed me enough to sit up straight and try to hold still. I pulled the mask away from my face, feeling relaxed enough that Dr. Westover could have come at me with a steak knife and a pair of pliers, and I would have been more than happy to "open wide".

And then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window, sitting so rigidly and trying to keep my mouth shut, and lost it all over again.

When the doc finally came back, I was exhausted from laughing at my hysterical self and tried hard to remember not to say anything at all, or I might just divulge my darkest secrets. When my teeth were removed, I yelled, a little too loudly, "You're AMAZING!" And then I tried to figure out how long I might have been laying there because my head felt like a balloon floating a few feet above my body, weightless, and somehow filled with lead at the same time. I was struggling to keep it upright.

That one experience helped me understand the appeal of illegal drugs.

Ok, where was I? Ah, yes. Today's visit. Today I was suffering from a bout of anxiety over how much money I would have to fork out to pay for not having had my teeth checked for so long. The really stupid thing is that I've had insurance for almost four years that covers cleanings 100%. I was certain that I would be told that I had set a new world record for most amount of cavities in one mouth, and my only comfort came from the fact that I had no pain anywhere.

That was not the case two months ago. Two months ago, I had terribly sore gums in just one spot between my two back molars on the top right. They were sensitive to the touch, and bothered me when I chewed on that side. My hypochondria kicked in just a bit and I became certain that I had gum disease and all my teeth were going to fall out. I looked it all up on the internet, inspected the color of my gums in the bathroom mirror, and became a very paranoid religious flosser. I flossed every day for six weeks, and my gums were still bothering me in that one spot.

That pain is what finally convinced me to schedule a check-up. The day after I made the appointment I was walking through Wal-Mart and my gums began to bleed in that upper right side. I was a bit freaked out as the taste of blood coated my tongue. I didn't want to reach into my mouth to see if I could feel some kind of nubbin' or abscess that might be causing the bleed because I had been pushing a Wal-Mart cart, and who knows what kind of plague-ish germs are on those things? So I felt around with my tongue, and what do you know? A tiny piece of a popcorn kernel slid out of that space between my teeth where my gums were irritated. I hadn't had popcorn in about six weeks - like since my gums became sore. How disgusting is that?

Boy, was I was mad! All that daily flossing, and the kernel had just been shoved further and further up until it had set up camp where I could no longer get to it. What a sham! I know I was flossing the right way - I had watched videos of what to do and what not to do on the internet! So I quit flossing after that. I felt like I'd been tricked!

I had three cavities filled today, and was told to start flossing again, or I would have three more to deal with in no time. It's a conspiracy.

Eating vs. Gorging

Boys are bottomless pits, we all know it. I've heard it from my mother and sisters-in-law for years, and until about 6 months ago, I had no idea just how true that is. Now that I know first-hand, I'm frightened. Cameron and Ethan are eight and six. How in the world am I going to feed them when they reach their teen years? I may have to discourage sports and tell them that all the cool kids are in the chess club, because if we add strenuous physical activity to the mix, they'll be even more ravenous.

Most of my concern came about yesterday. A while back, it was common for Cameron to come home from school and eat a Popsicle or a banana and be fine until dinner. Yesterday, he came home, threw down his bag, and charged the kitchen. He ate one banana, two slices of toast, one frozen burrito and two pieces of licorice while he waited for the darn microwave the cook the burrito at what he certainly felt was an unfairly slow speed. Had this been just one day, I would have thought that he didn't eat a very good lunch, but this seems to be the new trend.

Ethan was doing his best to keep up with Cameron by pounding down one bologna sandwich, a bowl full of goldfish crackers, and a handful of chocolate animal crackers. Not bad.

So I've done some calculating, and I figure that in eight more years, Cameron will be sixteen, Ethan fourteen, and I'll be working a full time job just to earn the extra $1,000 a month it's going to take to keep them from suffering malnutrition.

And there is another problem with food in this house. Andrew battles his weight on a daily basis in hopes of fighting off heart disease and living to teach every one of his grandsons the joy of fishing. So with a family health history that is a bit scary, and not entirely on Andrew's side, when do I start telling my kids when enough is enough? We talk on almost a daily basis about healthy foods and portion sizes, (thus the two hypocritical packages of frozen burritos in the freezer...), but how do I tell the difference between the nutritional needs of growing boys and gluttony?

Over the years, Andrew has become a good sport when it comes to my nagging about food. I have tried to train him to put his snacks in a dish rather than eat potato chips, for example, straight out of the bag. This way he knows exactly how much he's eating. I force him to put fruit and veg on his dinner plate, and then I hide the butter and salt. I quit letting him scoop his own ice cream a while back, and now he is becoming used to what I call the "Norman-size bowl of ice cream". (That's right, I said "Norman", not "normal".) And my husband knows that I do all of these things out of love. I want him to be around until I'm good and wrinkly and ready to go myself.

And not to seem self-righteous, I have to say that I don't do a lot of exercising myself, and I have a sweet tooth. There is always candy in our cupboards and soda pop in our fridge. The kids are allowed to share one soda on Friday nights, but that's about all they get. (Do as I say, not as I do.) And they are used to candy being around, so they don't freak out and try to out-eat each other when they catch sight of it. It's just there. No big deal. They don't have candy every day. (But I do!...when they aren't looking!)

My kids in particular need to learn healthy eating practices while they are young. I'm not concerned so much with the type of food they eat, because we rarely have fried chicken with gravy and cotton candy for breakfast. Not wanting to stunt their growth, however, I am wondering when it's appropriate to reign them in on their quantities of food. Thoughts?