AT 8:38 AM CENTRAL TODAY....

My daughter Julia will officially be 19!

(and I have the stretchmarks to prove it)

Happy birthday baby!

Love Mom

Reflections on the Past

It's 12:24pm Central time on Tuesday, April 29. 19 years ago, right this very minute, I was walking up and down the halls of Labor and Delivery at Brookwood Women's Hospital, trying to speed up the birth of my oldest daughter, Julia. She would still not make her appearance until 8:38am the next morning, after 2 shots of morphine ( that bruised my hip but didn't ease my pain), hallucenations brought on by a dangerous blood sugar dive, the best Sprite I will ever hae in my entire life and the start of a wicked UTI. My stomach hurts just thinking about it.

Little did I know at the time, this would set the precident for her life....Julia does everything in "Julia Time" and you can't rush her. I miss the times when I was so young that I had no worries.
Julia stands at the jumping off place between being a teenager and a responsible adult.

I wish she could be young, just a little longer.

I know of another young lady that is having to grow up a little too soon.

I've recently become "aquainted" (thru a blog) with the daughter of a man I've worked with for the past 17 years. Her name is Catherine. She's a 21 year old Senior in college, has a great boyfriend (hopefully soon to be engaged) and is also looking over the edge, at a whole new life. You know the one, where you finish, school, start your career, marry the man of your dreams and start a family. Traveling down the road of life, as it stretches out before her.

But she's hit a little speed bump....she has breast cancer.

I know what you are thinking..."Breast cancer...are you serious? She's only 21! Breast cancer only strikes women in their 40's!" Yeah, that's what your insurance company would like to think too, That is why they only "approve" mamograms for women over 40.

The fact is, anyone with breast tissue (even men!) can develop breast cancer, at any age.

And Catherine is working to spread that message.

I remember when I, myself, was 18 and I found my first lump. It was about the size of a "mojo" marble (telling my age huh?) in my right breast. It hurt like hell and made my whole right side sore. I remember calling for the appointment and the nurse telling me, "Oh, lumpy breasts are common in girls your age, it'll be nothing." and booked my appointment for a month out.

I related this to a dear friend and her mother, content that I had nothing to worry about, because, I was "too young for it to be anything serious." The look that passed between them when I said this could have frozen the Gulf of Mexico. Her mother, usually chatty and upbeat, took my hands in hers and pulled me up close to her. She fixed her eyes on mine, and in a voice I will never forget, said " there is no such thing as 'too young'."

Fighting back tears, she recounted how, just a year before, she had lost her baby sister. My friend and I had been casual friends when it happened. I knew that she had died, but didn't really know the details, and never really thought to ask. She told me about the lump her sister had found, how the doctor told her it was just "lumpy breasts" and at her age it was nothing to worry about. By the time it became "something to w0rry about, " little could be done. She died of breast cancer at 22.

My mother called and successfully convinced the doctor's office to move my appointment up. The next opening was 2 weeks away. In that 2 weeks, my little "friend" had grown to the size of a golf ball. It hurt to wear a bra, it hurt to go without one.

The humiliation began almost immediately. I'd never been to an OB/GYN before and the thought of being naked in front of this strange man was almost too much to bear. The breast exam was painful. When I touched the lump, I did so gingerly, but he did not as he tried to determine size, depth, composition. I nearly came unglued when the doctor suggested he attempt to draw fluid off it to see if it was a cyst. It was solid and unyeilding and the whole process hurt like hell. They took me across the hall to where the pregnant women got their sonograms, to get a look at it. There were were joined by an intern class of about 6. Each one wanted to feel my lump too. Fabulous.

It was determined that not only did I have this lump, I had 2 more on the other side. Not quite as big, but noticable. Attempts to obtain a fluid sample from them were also unsuccessful. It was decided that they all had to come out. Surgery was scheduled for the next week, which was approximately 2 days after Christmas.

I was put to sleep that day, not knowing if I would have breasts when I woke up. I was exactly 6 months from my 19th birthday. I praise the Lord here! Things went well. The lumps turned out to be fibrocystic, which is why they grew so quickly...relatively common. I was told that I had one more small lump, just at the base of my breast. It seemed to be the same as the others and was left to avoid damaging the tissue surrounding it. I went home to recover and prepare for the New Year.

It was then that the bills started coming in. The bill for the mamography...DENIED by our insurance carrier....marked "medically unnecessary before age 40." How can something that is ordered by your doctor be called "medically unnecessary'?! My mother, single by this time, wrote letter after letter, copying and highlighting pages of doctor's notes but the insurance company would not budge. We wound up paying for that mamogram out of pocket.

Because of the condition, my doctor ordered a mamogram every 2 years since and every 2 years, I wound up paying out of pocket. I did eventually get that last lump removed. It grew to the size of a baseball. I had to have a breast reduction to "even things out." Funny...insurance didn't have a problem paying for that.

I am now finally 40, the age when my insurance company thinks I should be worried about breast cancer.

And I am....for the young girls like Catherine.

"...the best laid plans of mice and men..."

Well, looks like I havent' posted in four months.

Sorry .... they say "men make plans and God laughs."

Had a lot going on. Whenever I have good intentions, something always seems to go awry!

Which reminds me of a favorite quote (if you can call it that)

"The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry"

I say it aloud whenever something goes screwy...so much so, my children look at me like I've bumped my head. Guess they haven't gotten to Steinbeck yet.

I was in 6th grade when I first read "Of Mice and Men" (I'd read it twice by the time it was "required" in high school. Lucky me, I just kinda skimmed it as a refresher, while all my classmates groaned and slogged thru it LOL!) It was there that I first read that quote from Robert Burns poem To A Mouse.

I don't know why that has stuck with me all these years. It's just one of those funny little things stuck in my brain, like the phone number of our house in Lovick when I was 7 or this weird sing-songy exerpt from a Mark Twain story (always in the voice of my 7th grade English teacher, Mr Dawson!) "..punch brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenger". I can sing ANY of the School House Rock commercials in their entirety....go ahead, try me.

Oddly, I can remember all these things, but never anything important.

I can tell you the phone numbers of about 10 of the regular customers I deal with and the account number of a good 15 to 20 more. I can practically recited our product code list, but do not ask me what my home phone number is. I can't remember anyone's birthday, or the ABC's without singing them.

Well...of all the things I've lost in life, I miss my mind the most.

This Is The Way We Wash Our Hands....

(Repost...originally written & posted on Myspace on date listed below)Saturday, March 17, 2007

This is the way we wash our hands, we wash our hands...

My biggest pet peeve is people who do not wash their hands after using the bathroom. The mere thought of this, without fail, brings on a stress-induced case of hives. Studies show that hand-washing with ANY soap (not just the anti-bacterial ones) and tepid water is MORE effective than the best anti-bacterial hand sanitizer on the market. Washing your hands is also the simplest thing you can do to avoid infecting yourself or others with hundreds of harmful organisms. I know that I have mentioned this in previous blog, but I feel, given that cold & flu season is extending into Spring this year, now is the time to address it.

My mother tells me that from the time I was old enough to understand and tall enough to reach, I have done two things without fail: flush the toilet and wash my hands. Not flushing is another of my pet peeves. Who in their right mind thinks it is okay to leave human waste floating about? Nasty. Maybe they didn't have a good mother like I did. And don't give me this crap about wasting water. God, the wise and clever Creator, made the earth to naturally recycle it's water supply. Cloud to rain, rain to river, evaporation to cloud and so on.There is the same amount of water on earth today as there was 1000 years ago. We learned it in 5th grade science...look it up. Sorry for the "rabbit trail" there, but it was a related topic.

Where was I? Oh yeah... Anyway, Mother says that she only had to teach me to do these things once and never had to remind me. I'm told that it was obvious that I didn't really like to get dirty, but I'd play in the dirt like any other little kid. When the time came to clean up, there as never a problem. She said that I loved to wash my hands. If I were ever missing for any length of time, she'd find me in the bathroom, happily washing my hands.

She said I loved washing my hands, so much so, that she was afraid there may be a problem. One of my aunts was a nurse and was in the practice of not only washing her hands after she went, but washed them before as well. There was very sound reasoning behind it, and I soon adopted this habit as well. It became such a habit, that it was not long before I automatically washed my hands whenever I was in the bathroom, regardless of if I'd actually used it or not. It was a little inside joke between my mother and me. As I grew older, we called it my "Lady McBeth syndrome"...you know, "...out, out, damned spot !.." I actually still do this from time to time and my friends are somewhat bemused by it, but I can't help it. Now knowing that I am somewhat OCD, it actually makes sense.

I do not know if it was my mother, or perhaps someone at Valley View Kindergarten (like the beloved Miss Gail, who sang "I've got the Joy, Joy ,Joy, Joy, down in my heart," everytime she saw me) who taught it to me, but for as long as I can remember, I've known a little ditty called "The Hand Washing Song."

As catchy a little tune, as it is ingenius. It is just the right length to ensure proper hand-washing technique and is sung to the tune of "Here we go 'round the mulberry bush." It goes a little something like this:

This is the way we wash our hands
We wash our hands
We wash our hands
This is the way we wash our hands
Everytime we wash them

[Then, to make sure we get all the soap (cause there MUST be soap) rinsed off, we sing]

This is the way we rinse our hands
We rinse our hands
We rinse our hands
This is the way we rinse our hands
Everytime we rinse them

Sometimes people will catch me humming it while I wash my hands, even to this day. I taught my own children to wash their hands using this song, and was actually under the impression that everyone who was at least my age or younger had been taught to wash their hands with it. Imagine my shock and horror when I discovered that some people had never even been taught to wash their hands at all!

(Excuse me a moment while I take a Benedryl for the hives that have just started to develop)

This brings me to the story of a rather eye-opening Easter Sunday just a few years ago. I have attended the same church all of my life, as have many of my friends and their parents. Having grown up with these people, you think that I'd know nearly everything about them. This incident, however, shocked me so, that I shudder every time I think of all the time that I had spent with this person over the years. It was also the last time I ever served on nursery duty.

On this particular Sunday, I was put in charge of the three year old class. There were eight little girls and the preacher's son. Because it was Easter, we were all dressed in our finest from head to toe, including eight pairs of nearly identical, white, patened-leather shoes and frilly white socks. The preacher's boy decided right out of the gate, that his shoes and socks were a hinderance. Despite my reasoning, he quickly peeled them off and left them in a little pile at the classroom door. This started a riot and soon I was faced with a pile of white leather and lace in the middle of the floor and no clue as to who's were whom's. Despite this, I chose to make the most of the time and passed out the cookies and Kool-aid. I planned to read the little Easter storybook I had and was then going to let everyone color until their parents came for them and help sort out the socks & shoes mess

This is when a little girl, I will call "Miss Priss" for the sake of annonimity, came to me and told me she needed to use the bathroom. Miss Priss is the child of a person I've known most of my life. I had been a guest in not only the childhood home of this person, but the adult home as well. I had spent a great deal of time around this family over the years. That is why what happens next is so appalling to me.

At our church, all the Sunday School classes on the children's floor have a bathroom in them. Having had a three year old girl myself, not once but now twice, I knew that there was only so much they could do by themselves. So I left the class under the care of the teenager sent to help me and accompanied Miss Priss into the bathroom to supervise and assist if needed. I helped her to gather up her frilly dress and onto the potty, that had thankfully been equipped with a stool and one of those seat inserts that keep child-size behinds from falling through the adult-size opening. I turned my back and asked if she thought she needed anymore help. She assured me that she did not and went about her business, which took forever and made me wonder if I'd given everyone too much Kool-aid.

When she was done, she hopped down, pulled up her panties and out the door she went, not even giving the sink a passing glance. I had half-expected her not to remember to flush, but not stopping to wash her hands was something different entirely.

"Miss Priss!" I called after her, "You forgot to wash your hands." I sang."No I didn't." she sang in reply, "I don't have to.."I felt a knot form in my throat. "Oh yes ma'am you do.." I choked back"No, I don't!" she said smiling and she turned back to the group, listening to the teenager reading the story."Yes ma'am" I said sternly and took her little arm to lead her back to the sink, "you just used the bathroom"

Then she said something that has made me question the parenting skills of this life-long friend ever since.

"But I didn't touch the potty!" she screamed indignantly, trying to twist free of my grasp.Suddenly visions of eating with this family, utensils and plates passed to me by them, pot-luck suppers where I knowingly ate food prepared by them, came flooding back to me. The hives popped up immediately.

At that point, I was more determined than ever to get Miss Priss's hands washed. I squirted soft soap clean up to her elbows,so she wouldn't miss a spot, all the while singing "The Hand Washing Song", every last word. She yowled in protest for the duration, trying to drown out my singing. When we were done, she retreated to a corner, where she sat in a huff, arms crossed, bottom lip protuding, until her parents came to collect her after the service.

Mercifully, every mother was able to identify her child's shoes and socks effortlessly and had busied themselves re-shoeing their children as the Priss parents arrived.

"Why is she sitting over there like that" Mother Priss asked me."Oh, we had a little disagreement." I responded, " Nothing major. I'm not punishing her, though. She sat there on her own.""What happened?" she asked."Well, she used the bathroom and then wouldn't wash her hands. I think she's mad at me because I made her come back over here and do it." I laughed, sure that this mother would respond that they've been working on it,or she's had the same problem, or any other mother-to-mother response. I mean, the child was three. I 'd been there. I understood it was a process that some had to teach repeatedly

Instead, Mother Priss looked at me like I'd just spoken to her in Chinese.

"I see." she said coolly, pursing her lips together like I'd seen her do when she disapproved of something.

I see..? I see...! How about " Oh, thank you!" but I SEE?!

Then, I had another thought that I can't shake to this day: this child learned this at home. At home, she was taught that as long as you don't touch the toilet when you use it, it is okay not to wash your hands afterward. If this child wasn't being taught to do something so basic, what else were they missing?

"Well, okay then, ya'll have a nice Easter" I said, smiling weakly, scratching the expanding patch of hives on my left arm.

Needless to say, ever since this incident, I have been quick to decline any invitations to the Priss home and am sure to have their pot-luck dishes identified at every church function. I point them out to my family and suggest that perhaps they "wouldn't like it and shouldn't try it."

Okay, I admit, I have some quirky habits. I am a packrat from way back and I like to feel of interesting fabrics. I enjoy mustard on my french fries, and salsa in my eggs. But none of these are a threat to public health!

I saw a commercial this week, promoting hand washing as a means to help end this unusually long cold & flu season. They are encouraging everyone to sing "Old McDonald" while hand-washing.

Well, like everything else I do, I'll be washing to a different tune.

"Smiling Bob" Must Die

(Repost...originally written & posted on Myspace on date listed below)Wednesday, February 21, 2007

"Smiling Bob" Must Die

DISCLAIMER: THIS BLOG MAY BE OFFENSIVE (especially to men) THIS IS JUST MY OPINION. IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED, DO NOT CONTINUE
***********************************************************
Okay, raise your hand if you are sick to death of "Smiling Bob." Don't act like you don't know who he is…anyone who watches television just one continuous hour (even if it's just once a week), will see him at least once. Yes, he's the guy who's taking a little pill to "help" him along. Well, if I had my way, Smiling Bob's days would be numbered.

A couple of things bother me about Bob and the otherwise unnamed, "Little Mrs."

1) If my wife looked like that, I'd need a little pill too. That was ugly, yes, I know, but you'll just have to judge for yourself. They don't exactly match. You know, they don't look like they should be a couple. (Don't pretend you don't play this game too.) He looks like he might have been a jock once, and she looks like a mousey computer nerd that may have caught him drunk (& maybe passed out) at the Senior Skip Day party, did the nasty just that once, and was soon having a lovely, shotgun wedding, while his bleach-blonde- bimbo cheerleader girlfriend cried on the back row.

2) Bob eerily resembles Diedrich Bader. He's another one that you know, even if you don't know his name. He was Oswald on "The Drew Carey Show" (one of my favorite shows by the way…love that Drew Carey!) He was Jethro in the new "Beverly Hillbillies" movie. In fact he was Jethrene too, which is partly why the resemblance to Bob creeps me out a bit….Smiling Bob, in a dress, with Little Mrs… Need I say more?

3) In all the scenes, no matter where they are, the Bob's attract quite a bit of attention. It seems that all the neighbors know what's going on at the Bob household. Little Mrs. must be a screamer.

4) That incessant whistling theme song! I thought the Andy Griffith show theme was hard to get out of my head! I catch myself whistling that blasted little tune all the time.

Smiling Bob is not the only commercial that raises my hackles. Commercials for all of the "E.D." medications seem to be popping up (pardon the pun) at ever turn. One that I find particularly funny is the one where the couple walks into the surprise party. Yeah, he looks surprised alright. His expression up to that point is "Gonna have sex, gonna have sex … D'oh! People in my house!" I laugh my evil little cackle every time!

What disturbs me most is that someone, some where decided it was okay to talk about "E.D" on television! There are just some things that need not be mentioned outside the four, lime green walls of your doctor's office! For the record, I am equally uncomfortable with "feminine hygiene" commercials. I don't want to be thinking about someone's period while I'm eating dinner either!

Someone needs to do something, and it looks like it has to be me.I knew I had to start the campaign to evict Smiling Bob and all his flaccid friends from our airwaves when my 11 year old asked me what an "erectile" was! I knew that there was no way to delicately answer this question my baby girl had asked in her wide-eyed, innocent way. So like any good Southern lady, confronted with an uncomfortable situation, I promptly fainted.

Those of you who know me well, know my stand on E.D. medications. I am a firm believer that God created man and woman to naturally "wind down" with time. Hormones drop off and they can enjoy peaceful life as they enter their sunset years. This is why women enter menopause and the urges naturally dwindle away. They no longer have to be bothered with "marital service" and they can occupy their time with gardening and knitting and holding up lines in the grocery store. E.D. medications upset this delicate, natural, balance.

I have friends (all guys, by the way) that tell me that I am just jealous that there is not a little pill for women. (There is one by the way, it's called NYTOL…if you crush it up really well, it blends into nearly everything!) Perhaps they are threatened by the thought that they will actually have to hold a conversation with their partner one day, or horror of horrors, just cuddle. Yes, guys, there is more than one way to be intimate. Perhaps they are threatened by the fact that one day, Mr. Johnson will no longer be needed, and thus they are no longer a true "man."

Being a true man has nothing to do with appendages or how well they work. In my book, a true man is one that knows and respects God; is loving, faithful and respectful of his wife, dirty laundry and all; puts his family first, keeping a roof over their heads, and food on the table; thanks God daily for all He has given him.

So I will begin my letter writing campaign to rid our family viewing time of 'Smiling Bob" and all his sex-obsessed buddies. Perhaps I can get enough people to join me.

By the way, a common side effect of E.D. drugs is "temporary blindness." See, just like your mama told you…too much sex really WILL make you go blind!

Speaking of Female Issues

(Repost...originally written & posted on Myspace on date listed below)Monday, January 29, 2007Speaking of female issues...

DISCLAIMER: STOP READING IF MY PERSONAL OPINION HAS EVER OFFENDED YOU AT ANY TIME IN THE PAST.

STOP READING IF YOU ARE THE TYPE TO LOSE SIGHT OF THE FACT MY OPINION IS JUST THAT, MY OPINION, AND IF YOU ARE PRONE TO WRITING HATE MAIL TO THOSE WHO HAVE DIFFERING OPINIONS FROM YOUR OWN.

That being said...carry on if you dare. But do me the courtesy of reading it all the way to the end before you write to rip my head off.**********************************************************

Saw a news story today on some nursing mother's staging a "nurse in" at an airport in Portland. (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16773617/) The focus of the article is that nursing mothers are being ostracized for doing what God has invented the female breast to do…Feed babies. The "nurse in" was in protest of a woman removed from a plane in Vermont for breast feeding her child.

As a former nursing mother, I was a little miffed that someone would be removed from a plane because they were nursing their baby, in a seat they paid for. They won't remove the paunchy, balding guy with halitosis who insists on pestering you throughout your flight, but they will remove a whole entire family for a little breast-feeding.

I was a private breast-feeder, choosing to keep my breast and baby covered from view. Nothing wrong with that, it was my choice. I would much rather sit comfortably in the quiet ladies lounge in the mall, than plop it out for all to see in one of those awkward little benches in the noisy crowded food court. But I understand the idea that something so natural should not be such a big deal.

Skimming along (former speed reader here) I missed a very crucial detail that may very well be at the heart of all the flap. I didn't notice it at first, but further down in the article when another mother recounted her experience in a Las Vegas restaurant, I had to stop and reread the article again, paying very close attention to a very interesting detail. Both of the children mentioned were 22 months old. Not 2 months old, nearly 2 YEARS old.

Okay, I consider myself to be of above average intelligence. I know and can argue all the health benefits of breast-feeding ( and good grief, please don't write me about this, because for the most part I am on your side!) but when my daughter was 22 months old, she could ask for and feed herself regular food. She could also ride a tricycle, start the VCR and sing "War Eagle."

Being kinda sickly growing up (I'm allergic to darn near everything), my mother always said that she regretted not breastfeeding me, even for just a little bit, so that I would have had some of the health benefits it offers. Knowing this, coupled with the economic benefits, I chose to nurse my own daughter.

I stuck it out for the doctor-recommended six months (despite the fact she had developed several sharp teeth during that time) and she has been blessed with outstanding health ever since. I was quite relieved when the time came to wean her because I began to feel much more like a cow than a mother. That, and the aforementioned teeth. Besides, I was ready to have my body back. If I wanted to eat that double jalapeño chimichanga and chase it with an icy, smooth, fish-bowl margarita, I no longer had to pass up the opportunity.

Since I've never been able to transition through anything with a moderate amount of drama, suffice it to say, we went through several formulas before we found one that she could handle. Of course, it had to be ordered through our pharmacy and cost quite a bit of money.

It was during this time, various family members chose to share with me a family story that borders on urban legend. Apparently sometime during the Great Depression, a female relative of mine served as the church pianist. She had several children, the youngest of which, at the time of the story, was reportedly 3, almost 4. The story goes that smack in the middle of Sunday service, this lad decided lunch could not wait, and marched to the front of the church, where he proceeded to help himself in front of the whole congregation. Though she had died long before I'd ever heard the story, I was instantly horrified and embarrassed for her! ( My face has flushed now, just thinking about it !) The story went on that, despite him being her "baby," it was decided when he was old enough to serve himself, it was time for weaning.

(Not long after that, I saw an episode on one of those day-time talk shows, about a group of women who were still breast feeding their first graders! That's really a bit much.)

I've always been a "to each his/her own" type of gal. But I can say, I can see where folks are getting uncomfortable. Seeing a mother nursing an infant is one thing. Seeing the child run up and ask for it is quite another! My best friend's son is 22 months old. He eats table food really well. He can tell you that he likes rice but hates carrots. And he's biting for defense now. I could just imagine her trying to nurse that one!

The article went on to say several states that "exempt" breast-feeding from their public indecency laws. Several, but not all. That is why nursing mothers are being booted from planes & restaurants and harassed, even ticketed in public places.

This whole topic raises a bunch of new questions for me: Why do men have nipples if they can't use them productively? When was it decided it was okay for men to walk around bare-chested and not women too?(not that I would) Why is it not indecent for those guys (usually not the best physical specimens either) that you always see on t.v., to paint themselves up, get drunk and dance around at football games? Has anyone ever stopped the guy on the beach, who obviously had no business in the Speedo, and asked him to cover up because he was making people uncomfortable (have you ever tried to stifle a laugh for a long period of time? Darn uncomfortable!)? And what about the guy down the street that insists on mowing his lawn shirtless, but won't shave his back? I think that deserves a ticket, don't you?!

Laws on these would be much more beneficial to society, don't you think?

Oh and while they're at it, find a way to get Mr. Halitosis booted from my next flight too.

Being Female

(Repost...originally written & posted on Myspace on date listed below)Saturday, January 27, 2007Being FemaleA friend of mine recently underwent surgery for a problem with her ovaries. I have just learned that all went well, and I am very relieved for her and her family. Since finding out that she would need this surgery, I've prayed diligently and had the opportunity to reflect on my own female problems.

I had a complete hysterectomy seven years ago and I've never gotten over it.

I will be the first to admit, the mere thought of getting pregnant again would fill me with an anxiety only those on death row must feel. I have often wondered why anyone would willingly endure (or worse yet...PLAN) that process over and over. My own pregnancy had been extremely difficult, boardering on traumatic.

For starters, I threw up at least once every day, from the day I learned I was pregnant, until the day I gave birth.I did not just have simple "morning sickness"...I had morning, noon & night sickness. This is called hyperemesis gravidarum I immediately dropped 15 pounds from my 120 pound frame. My iron level plummeted and my doctor soon threatened to hospitalize me for malnutrition and anemia. I would eat, taking my bright, blue, prenatal vitamins and rusty, brown iron suppliment, both the size of my thumb, right before bed in an effort to maintain some sustinance.

By my 16th week, I'd developed gestational diabetes resulting in dangerous weight gain for my baby and eventually me as well. I was promptly put on a strict diet for the remainder of my pregnancy. I began to retain fluid, my hands, feet and ankles swelling so badly, I had to resort to wearing my husband's tennis shoes! I was put on bed rest for several weeks in an effort to fend off premature labor. Despite the diet, I weigh 200 pounds the day I gave birth. It left me to wonder what I would have weighed had I not thrown up at least one, perfectly-portioned meal every day! I could not even see my feet, much less reach them and there was not a part of me that did not itch, chafe, swell, or ache. My once cute little belly-button was soon a large throbbing bulls-eye across my swollen belly.

Labor had been equally as horrific and arduous. I had thought I just had to poop when I felt the first pain around 10:30 that Friday night and I tried to go on and off for close to an hour. The straining only served to cause cervical swelling that would eventually work against productive labor. When I realized that there was a pattern to my discomfort, we headed for the hospital, at the doctor recommended seven minutes apart, arriving just before 2:00 a.m. on Saturday morning. Of ten babies born that weekend, we had been the first couple in and the last ones out the next day (Sunday at 9:00am).

We had taken the child-birth classes and knew what to expect, to an extent. Little did we know that it would be 24 hours before any pain medications would be administered and another six hours before the baby actually arrived. The doctor on call had spared me an unnecessary caesarean by keeping a watchful eye on my progress. In class, I had fainted during the epidural video, due to an overwhelming fear of needles. When I could finally get one, I quite nearly kissed that little man when he arrived with his little cart of long, nasty-looking needles. Whomever said that the pain is soon forgotten, must have had some really good drugs, because I can still describe it vividly today, eighteen years later. Joan Rivers came really close when she said it was like pulling your bottom lip all the way over your head,... only she had the wrong body part.

If I'd had this one to do over again, I'd have eaten on the way to the hospital. I had eaten lunch Friday, but skipped dinner, opting to clean instead. You aren't allowed to eat once labor begins to avoid complications with annethesia, so I was left to endure the duration of labor relying solely on bland, unsatisfying ice chips. Around 8:00 p.m. I began to hallucinate, speaking to dead relatives, and because I was not on my epidural yet, I was allowed to have six ounces of the best Sprite I'd ever had. Of course, I promptly threw it up, but I can honestly say, I've never had one as good since.

When the time finally came, it was decided that the wonderful epidural would have to be stoped in order for me to push. Unfortunately, I was too exhausted to actually push, having been awake the better part of 48 hours. Two nurses did the honors, pushing down on my belly with each contraction. The pain was indescribable: I would not wish that on my worst enemy. I then needed an episiotomy that wound up being not just one cut but two, but I will spare you those details.

Despite all the horror, I was rewarded with a beautiful, healthy baby girl, the only thing I've ever truly wanted.

Whomever said childbirth was beautiful, has obviously never actually given birth. They never covered any of this in the books I'd read! I feel kinda guilty that I don't have the warm-fuzzies over the experience, but I don't think I should, so why sugar-coat it? Some women even share this feeling. Jenny McCarthy wrote a best selling book on feeling this exact same way....it's hysterical if you get the chance to read it! Maybe I'd have a better opinion of it if I'd had a better experience. Another irony that I soon realized: the mother does all the work and every year the kid gets the party. So beginning with my birthday that June, and every year since, I send my mother flowers and a card saying "Happy Giving Birth Day!" (In case you are getting ideas at this point, I've already contact Hallmark about a line of cards for this occasion...they said they'd get back to me) to let her know how grateful I am that she lost her girlish figure, endured waves on unrelenting nausea and vomitting and developed strechmarks, all for me.

After becoming engaged to my second husband in 1998, I began toying with the idea of braving pregnancy again. After our 1999 wedding, we discussed it at length, deciding to let what happened, happen. But several months into our marriage when nothing was happening, I thought I'd better check it out. I will never forget the feeling of devastation and loss when my doctor told me that we needed to be discussing hysterectomies instead. In the blink of an eye, my reproductive career ended. No options, no choices. Done.

My weight had been a constant battle since my pregnancy, so I had really not thought much of my pleasantly plump waistline. No matter how much I tried, I knew my flat tummy was a thing of the past, so I paid little attention to the bulge I'd developed. I just chalked them up to the irreversable changes a woman's body goes through for the sake of motherhood. The bulge however, was actually a fibroid growth, the size of a soccer ball, growing within my uterine walls. A pregnancy could rupture my uterus in it's compromised state. My ovaries, I am told, were so covered in cysts that they resembled peeled pomegranates. My doctor diagnosed me with Poly Cystic Ovary Syndrome ( http://www.pcos-info.com/ ).

I had a complete hysterectomy May 22, 2000...on my first wedding anniversary.

This is where God steps in. It wasn't that God did not intend for me to have more children....He just did not intend for me to give birth to them. Within six months, Darling Hubby and I were granted custody of his children from his first marriage. They have been living with us full time ever since. I love them as much as if I'd given birth to them. I know this was God's plan for me.

Despite knowing this fact, I can't explain the feeling of loss that remains. The closest I can describe it is like mourning a loved one. It is worst when I am confronted with pregnant women. I have had several friends and family members become pregnant and have babies since my hysterectomy. I've had to fight the urge to run screaming and crying each time one of them would make their happy announcement. Each one has been like a knife to my heart.

Please don't misunderstand me: I am genuinely happy for them and willingly celebrate with them, but I have to approach it on my own terms. There are times that I don't want to hear about it, or discuss it, or be involved with it, and I wish they'd just get away from me, so I can fight the green-eyed monster in peace. Yes, I admit to the jealousy. What really puts me over the edge are the ones who complain or are mad that they got pregnant, because, right now, I'd give anything for the chance, whether I'd follow through with it or not.

I've had to explain this to a few of my pregnant friends in hopes that they understand. I've been pretty lucky so far. But most people don't understand it, some even going so far as to tell me I'm being ridiculous, that I should be over it by now. And I guess I would be....had it been MY choice.

I've recently been watching a family in Arkansas on the Discovery Channel, who have 16 children, ages 18 to infant. Despite the potential for constant mutany, all the children are remarkably well behaved. The Duggar Family. His name is JimBob and hers is Michelle. (coincidentally...one of the girls is named Joy-Anna, just like me).They seem very normal and surprisingly sane. They say they always have, and will continue to let God plan their family. I must admit, I am awestruck....and darn glad it's not me!

To sum it all up, I can honestly say, having had a hysterectomy, there are some things I don't miss: the once a month crabby, bloated, period mess with its accidents and inconviences; the whole birth-control debate (condoms vs pill vs IUD,etc) and even those occasions when someone asks you if you're pregnant because you've got a stomach flu or you've gained a little weight.

Guess it's all just part of being female.