Winter Froggyisms

Upon arriving at the Minneapolis airport on our way to Iowa, we walked past the Caribou Coffee, the Christmas decorations and little shops and Froggy said in total deadpan: "Why is Minneapolis so cozy?" It had been a long day (12 hours altogether) and that sent me into hysterics. 

We went ice skating last night at the outdoor rink in downtown Des Moines. And Froggy made this observation:

"Kids don't even have to say anything in order to race, we just have to look at each other. Watch." She then skated up to a little boy, gave him a glare and they were off. They continued to race for the next two hours. It was a serious affair the entire time. 

Froggyisms Galore

If there are silly straws, does that mean there are serious straws?

The Wizard of Oz is boring. They just walk around and then add more people. That's it, that's the movie.

After watching a video online of a lady from New Zealand giving birth outside, Froggy said, "I hope a dingo eats that baby."

Froggy: What's that soup I like again? Oddball soup? 
Froggymama: Matzo ball soup.
Froggy: Yeah, that's it!

If the heart is alive, does that mean it has a heart inside of it?

Adele sounds like a dying elephant.

Froggy: Mom, the vest isn't working.
Froggymama: Oh, it came unplugged. (plugging it back in).
Froggy: I think your brain came unplugged.

If I were Jewish I'd be like, uhhhh when's the messiah gonna get here? 

This soap smells soaper good. 

Stay away from me, I'm mommy intolerant. 

I made up a joke: What kind of bath does a vampire take?  A blood bath! 

I Haven't Screwed Up Yet

I am a mom.

Every morning when I wake up, I repeat a familiar mantra passed from mother to mother, a rite of passage, or rather guilt of passage that goes something like this; “Well, you haven’t screwed up yet.” 

I know it isn’t very Zen or something Wayne Dyer would preach on a PBS telethon, and possibly I should be reciting a mantra like, “You are love, you are beautiful, you are wrapped in the warm light of God.”  

But, “You haven’t screwed up yet,” works for me. 

It gives me hope that at some point I’ll go a whole day without mucking it up, or an entire morning, or afternoon, or possibly just an hour without disappointing another living soul or myself. An hour would be good. Yeah, I’d settle for an hour.

“You haven’t screwed up yet,” is an affirmation for the realist. By the mere act of getting out of bed, I have not let anyone down. I have traveled from the bed to the door, possibly down the hall and through a tooth brushing, without major failure. 

Usually, I don’t even get this far. When I haven’t flossed (which is every morning), I visualize my dentist shaking his head in that uppity, exasperated way saying, “Cavities love that space between your teeth,” and then giving me his disappointed, fatherly look like I missed curfew and came home drunk on some miscreant’s motorcycle. So I promise to be better next time. I swear I’ll be a good girl. I swear. Someday I’ll floss and take a taxi. Even though I know I never will. Because let’s face it there is just something hot about motorcycles and not flossing.

Some mornings I make it to the living room, but never all the way to the kitchen. Because the cats are waiting in the dining room,  impatient and indignant that their food bowl has been empty for a entire 30 minutes. They look up at me like, “We were counting on you mom, and you let us down…again.” 

I can read the disappointment in their eyes as they look from bowl to me, bowl to me, bowl to me. They actually shake their heads in feline disgust. So I feed them, but it’s too late. They have lost all hope in my ability to be a responsible pet owner. They’ve called the ASPCA and Sarah McLachlan. I’m toast. By the time I’ve  crawled to the coffee pot, I have already let my dentist and my cats and PETA down. I’m feeling the blow of disappointment and it’s not even seven.

I pour four scoops into the coffee filter and hear my doctor saying, “Caffeine could be to blame for your anxiety, if I were you I’d switch to green tea.” So I look in the cupboard and stare down the herbal tea box that has a happy Buddha illustration and I slam the door. I hate you green tea. I hate you Buddha. I just want my coffee without the guilt. 

I put in another scoop and relish in the sound of that first bubbly chirp of percolation. At this point, I’ve pissed off my dentist, the cats, Sarah McLachlan, PETA, my doctor and now the Dalai Lama. 

It’s time to wake the child. I casually walk by her room saying, “Hey sweetheart, time to rise and shine.” She is comatose. Absolutely zero movement. I think maybe she’s dead, the cats having suffocated her during the night, pissed off by their lack of food, and seeking revenge by slowly smothering the one person who means the most to me.

Nope, she’s breathing. 

I don’t want to disturb her slumber just yet, so I make my bed. 

Who am I kidding? I’m afraid of her, my child who wakes up like pestilence unleashed from Pandora’s box with fiery brimstone upon the world. At 7:15am, my sweet baby, my angel, the love of my life is evil incarnate. With furled brow, she almost moos with hatred for the early hour, her head spinning round like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.  

I love her, yet she terrifies me. At least before 8am. 

So I stall, and make her lunch. “She needs her sleep,”  I convince myself, and I need another cup of coffee before rousing the Minotaur.

I open the  cupboard and all the fun snacks are gone, we’re down to unsalted almonds, raisins, and a squashed granola bar. I find a prepackaged lunch in the fridge. Score! I know it’s preservatives galore, that there isn’t an ounce of real food in there and her dad is picking her up today, Mr. Organic, grass fed, supplement man who doesn’t pay child support, but rather pays in red dye number 3 guilt.  I throw in a yogurt, some carrots, and fruit and know that if she’s survived the cat’s wrath, she’ll survive one bad lunch. 

Fifteen minutes later, I approach her doorway, “Babycakes, breakfast is ready.” She hisses like a baby rattler about to strike, releasing all her venom at once. I pull her legs off the bed, wrapping them around me and carry the dead wait of a 63 pound 8 year old into the living room. She is more than half my size and almost as tall as me, but a bad back is better than bartering with Baby Jane.

I turn on the cartoons while making breakfast. Another big parenting no-no. We watch educational programming, but first thing in the morning she needs her Spongebob like I need my coffee. She is in no mood to learn about the cosmos or bononos monkeys. I get it.

In the kitchen I flip bacon like crabby patties, throwing  some incredibly healthy Ezekiel bread into the toaster oven. That should make up for the plastic lunch, I tell myself. I add organic berries and yogurt, a glass of milk, and feel for the first moment of the day that I’m not such a bad mom after all. But like all things parental it’s short-lived. 

I look at the clock and realize we are already running a half hour behind. Which means we’ll have to sign “The Sheet!” The sheet is an admission before you are allowed to enter the school that states you are tardy, and basically that as a parent you totally suck. You are required to write the time, how sucky you are, sign it, then paste a Scarlett Letter badge to enter school grounds that has a giant V for  “visitor,” but might as well say, “VERY, bad, mom.” I wear the badge proud like a scar, and stare down the librarian as she gives me the “late again” look. Yeah, we’re late again. Go complain to Dewey Decimal, we got a lot on our plates. 

We walk into the classroom midway through a spelling test. We’ve missed the morning announcements, the singsongs, and are already into the nitty-gritty of second grade.  I pull out her homework folder and realize today is Egg Drop Day - a lesson in physics and architecture where students are required to construct a soft housing for an egg that can withstand a dramatic drop from the second story of the school. It is the equivalent of Elementary School prom and I dropped the ball and not the egg. 

“Please, go home and get an egg, please mommy!,” my child begs.

I look at my watch. I have a meeting in 15 minutes 25 minutes away. 

I have now let my dentist, the cats, Sarah McLachlan, Peta, the Dalai Lama, my doctor, my ex, school administrators, a second grade teacher, the Egg industry, Frank Lloyd Wright, Isaac Newton, the librarian, Mr. Dewey Decimal himself, and now my child down. It’s not even 9am.

I speed home, pissing off the neighborhood safety council, ignoring the signs that say, “Drive like your child lives here.”  That’s why I’m speeding, dammit! I grab an egg out of the fridge.  It’s expired, from our Easter egg dyeing two months ago. It’ll do. I search the garage for bubble wrap. There isn’t any, so I wrap toilet paper around the rotten egg and place it in a Victoria Secret box, because of course that’s the only structure I have for my child’s school project. I cross out Victoria and write my daughter’s name and rush back to the school. Rotten egg, wrapped in toilet paper, in a lingerie box that now says, “Addie’s Secret.” Voila! She’s thrilled. 

I am now very late for my meeting. 

“The egg drop was today,” sounds like the dog ate my homework, so I tell my boss, “I’m just running a bit behind.” 

He doesn’t have kids or egg drops or cats, and even though he says it’s okay I can hear the disappointment in his voice and that, “Let’s not make this a habit,” tone.

I arrive at work out of breath, looking like a haggard old lady who smells of bacon and rotten eggs, with cat hair on my pants and so hyped up from coffee and adrenaline, my hands are literally shaking like I’m in heroin withdrawal while taking notes.

It is now only 10:30am and I seriously consider going back to bed, crawling under the covers with my pissed off cats and calling it a day. So far I have let everyone down. Everyone, but myself. There’s still a chance.

I throw on some workout clothes and hike my flabby butt up a Los Angeles mountain, also known as a rather big hill. It is my favorite hiking spot in LA, because it is so not LA. People of all shapes, sizes and colors climb the 248 stone stairs that resemble an ancient ruin to a majestic look out. And on a clear smogless day, the view boasts a panoramic snapshot from the Pacific ocean to the San Bernardino mountains, with the Hollywood sign in-between. The traffic and graffiti covered walls are still visible below, but once you reach 150 stairs it’s snails and rabbits, lizards, hummingbirds, monkey bush flowers and sage. 

It’s not quite noon. As I look out over our lives, I cannot imagine how many people I will let down before I tuck my sweet girl into bed. I will lose my temper and yell. I will possibly honk at someone in traffic and then mutter the term "douche bag"  in front of my child. I will most likely burn dinner and forget to have my daughter brush her teeth and fall asleep on the sofa with dirty dishes in the sink.  I’ll lose the permission slip for a field trip and donate a library book to Goodwill.  I’ll only complete half of my work because we were out of milk and needed a new leotard for gymnastics. I won’t finish my book for book club or call the friend I promised to call. I won’t write those thank you notes for gifts for which I am truly thankful.

For the rest of the afternoon I will work and clean and run errands and make calls and put out the never ending fires of daily life. And no matter how many things I cross off my list, how many fires I extinguish, there will always be someone standing there with kindling and a spark. 

I know all of this standing at the top of a hill overlooking my life. And I think, as long as I can keep my head above water, my feet above sea level, looking out over a very big city knowing I am still above it, I am okay.

I pick up my daughter from school and she is elated. 

“Mommy, it worked. My egg didn’t break!” 

And her face, that look of, “We did it!” is all it takes. 

A rotten egg in a lingerie box full of toilet paper that didn’t break and suddenly I am super mom. Tomorrow who knows, but today I know I haven’t screwed up yet. 

Enteral Love

It feeds her

mechanical bosom 
pumping rhythm from saxophone tubes 
at night.

I plug her in
I plug her out

like a fraud.

It has it’s own heartbeat,

duodenum, duodenum, duodenum.

This is not how it was supposed to be

her perfect baby body,
that sleek porpoise,
shiny belly that rose and fell
like the tide

jejunum, jejunum, jejunum.

For her own good
they cut a blow hole
so she can rise to the surface 
one day.

but there is still a space

where there shouldn’t be. 

by Froggymama

Froggyism

Froggy dancing on the toilet "Look mama, I'm hula-pooping."

Hawaii

Going to Hawaii has been on my bucket list for a long time. Since Froggy was born, we haven't traveled, other than trips to the Midwest to see family. I had built up this vacation in my head to the degree that anything less than perfect would have been disappointing. Maui was even better than I'd imagined. Clear, clean, warm ocean. We snorkeled and took a boat to Molokini, and snorkeled in a volcanic crater. I swam with a sea turtle! We herded cattle on horses, drove the beautiful Road to Hana, hiked and relaxed. It was paradise. Maui was the perfect antidote to stress.

The Amazing Grace of a Snake

When a snake moults, it not only sheds the skin over its entire body but also the transparent ocular scale covering its eyes. The once clear, darting brille turns cloudy, and a milky hue emerges as he embarks on this transformation. He is not only born of new body, but new vision.  A new way of seeing the world.

It's a lot like divorce.

I remember the exact moment when I shed my skin.  We were standing in the kitchen while our three year old daughter played in the other room.  The dog was tap dancing across the hardwood floor, from living room to kitchen, from our daughter to us. He filled the spaces,  policed the parameters.

For once we were together, his perfect audience. For once our child was distracted, pulling musical instruments off a shelf; blowing on kazoos, banging on bongos, getting lost in the moment.

We'd been miserable for a long time - even the dog knew it was over and expressed it with a frantic tap dance dirge. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I was crouching on the pink tile of the kitchen floor, putting a pan below the sink and when I stood up - a rush of blood to the brain and the impatience of promises made it clear. This was the moment. I was going to ask the question, for better or worse.

"Are you going to do whatever it takes?"

I thought there would be a pause, a long dramatic moment like in my mother's soap operas where it's almost uncomfortable and you start zeroing in on the star's facial pores. The music starts to play, and a melancholy cello pulls you to commercial; something exotic like a  Caribbean vacation or Pizza Hut.

But it was so fast.

No.

It wasn't a dare or a protest. There was no challenge to meet, no argument to pursue, no commercial break or trip to Antigua. Because I was ready for dukes up. Whatever it takes. My gloves are on.  Give it what you got man!

No.

It was a car horn announcing a green light. A short, polite, "go already." We've been sitting here too long.

It was lightning without thunder.

It was helium, escaping a balloon that fell quietly to the floor during the night and in the morning - a wilted piece of rubber with a string remained. The saddest thing ever. Parties over. Go home. Don't be that person who waits til the end, til every last car is out of the drive and the host gives you a nod and a yawn. Wellll, it's been fun, but...

I'd shed my skin. It was over. The person I was didn't exist anymore except in a skeletal casage, like a sausage, a cellophane history that was my life for ten years. Our families coming together, the birth of a child, holidays and heart attacks, biking through the Catalonian mountains,  sailing to Catalina, sitting on the bow and searching for blowholes on the horizon with our child, birthdays candles and hikes, sea shells on so many beaches, walking Iowa cornfields, and dunes of the Mojave desert. It was all gone, in a moment, a slough of skin. Shed. For better or worse.

No.

And strangely, I could breathe again as if I'd been underwater expecting the sea to give me air. And the sea said, "Well, what did you expect?"

Most amphibians, birds, even dogs and cats who shed skin, feathers and fur, do not leave an entire replica of their former selves behind. But a snake, leaves a life-size fingerprint, a CSI story of all the twists and turns, scars and deep tales, the slidings through narrow escapes of  life in the desert, of digging holes and climbing in, of peeking out to eat, or catch a view of the harvest moon. He is a novelist, a ghost writer, taking no credit for the story left behind. 

After my  divorce I could relate to this metamorphosis. I was struggling to find a way out of a life I'd dug so hard to get in. I'd shed my skin, and was naked and new at everything. Now what?

Well, there was a beginning and an end, an exact moment to everything.

I remember the exact moment I looked into my daughter's eyes. Fresh out of my body like a wet porpoise on my belly. A smart little alien. Where am I? How did I get here? What's the purpose to it all? Mother, answer me.... all before lips met breast. Her eyes were clear, ready. Not cloudy at all.

I remember the exact moment when she was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis. On the phone, holding my crying babe. The doctor was busy, so I begged the nurse to give me the results.

She said, "The doc is supposed to do it, but I'm sure it's negative. Let me get the fax that just came in."

Long hold, very long hold, as my daughter fussed and I felt like not knowing was being set on fire but before I could stop, drop and roll the nurse came back.

"I better have the doctor read this to you honey."

The exact moment when our world fell apart.

I remember the exact moment when we said we would. My grandmother's church, folk music and dancing. Dreamy and dumb, unaware that life had very big teeth.

And in the kitchen putting away a pan, listening to the music of dog paws on hardwood, a kazoo song serenading from the living room, I remember the exact moment when our family fell apart. When I shed the final skin over my eyes.

I once was blind but now I see.

The brille is there to protect, as the snake slides through sand picking up the dust of life that collects and clouds. What was once shiny, after time,  becomes brittle, worn, and bald. Like an old man.  And finally when he can't see anymore, when he is almost blind from the life he's seen, when he can't go another inch in the life he's lived,  he is reborn. Same soul but new eyes. The wisdom without the weight.

And now, I too leave it in the sand as I slip into rocks and crevices, climbing in and then out again, every once in a while catching a glimpse of the harvest moon.

The Secret's in the Ink

It creeps up on me like the boogey man or an octopus.

We have great days of playing at the park, dinner around the table where we talk of playground politics and discuss Ben and Jerry's greatest ice cream flavor. After homework and a game of animal rummy, we catch an hour of a Jack Black movie during respiratory treatment, guffaw at his cartoon facial expressions and settle in with a library book about octopuses, cuttlefish and squids, learning how cephalopods exist without skeletons; they are the shapeshifters of the sea, who cannot only change color but camouflage their bodies by the pattern of their surroundings.

The blue-ringed octopus transforms it's body to look exactly like the anemones beneath him, same color, same shape, even the same texture. How does he know how to do that, in an instant? How does he paint his pigment in those Van Gogh patterns, without a brush, without a cerebral cortex? How does he inherently know what will save him? 

Instead of fighting, he just fits in, meshes, like "hey dude, just hanging." In essence the octopus pretends the danger isn't actually there... And it works.

This has been a tough year. Addie's mickey/g-tube fell out and had to be replaced surgically, her stomach woes and blocked colon caused months of physical pain and missed school, activities and life. This cold that won't go away created a wet cough that sounds like heavy cement in her lungs. And now the antibiotics that fight the cement are causing diarrhea and night time tummy aches. Sometimes Cystic Fibrosis feels never-ending. Like we are fighting an invisible current, a secret enemy who is hiding in plain site, colored and textured like our daily surroundings, but always there. At the end of the day, even when it's lovely, the tentacles are showing.

This is a first, but tonight I was jealous of an octopus and his graceful ability to survive the depths of the sea without a weapon, except ink, writing his story in the ocean, saying "I WAS HERE."

Even if I was hidden when the dangers lurked above, I fought in my own way. I changed and worked to fit in to this environment that was always against me, that tried it's best to win. Because patients with CF struggle to breathe, as if air were the enemy, as if they were underwater and born without gills.  

Without the metaphors, I'm just sad tonight. I wish my kid could fall asleep without any pain or discomfort. I wish a cold was not something to be feared like a shark or a stingray. I wish I could kiss her goodnight and not think, "She's almost eight, how long do we have?"

I wish I could sink into the bottom of the sea and camouflage myself into pretending we are safe, that there is nothing wrong, that we are just the anemones beneath us. There are no enemies. And whatever haunts us from above will keep on swimming. Just keep on swimming and leave us alone. Safe and shapeless, but happy, under the waves and the sun that seems to always find a way to reach us, even in the darkest of places.

Tummy Troubles

Froggy is in the hospital. We were admitted this morning because for the last two months she has had chronic lower abdominal pain. She had a rectal impaction which we cleared, and we thought she felt a little better for a while. But this last week she stayed home from school, was just not herself and has hardly eaten anything. Last night during her tube-feed she projectile vomited. This morning, I brought her in.

Here's a rundown of today:

We arrived at 11:30am. Our nurse care manager (who is a Goddess) got Froggy a private room right away. Our GI doc met us quickly and we talked for a while. He isn't sure, but thinks this could be a hiatal hernia. We also found out on Tuesday after a rectal exam (poor Frog) that her perineum is short so her rectum can only expand down -which means she has strain to have a bowel movement and this condition can cause constipation and impactions. Woo hoo!

Tomorrow am, they're going to give her heavy sedation and scope her (colonoscopy and GI endoscopy). Which means, they're going in her through her bum and down her throat to look at her GI system from both angles. Lovely.

I am so glad we are finally here. As much as I hate having my baby go through this, not knowing and trouble shooting this pain for months has been miserable. I can't wait to have some answers, and some relief for her!

The procedure should take about an hour. And hopefully by tomorrow afternoon we'll have some answers.

It's been a very long day for babygirl. She's had blood drawn, an IV inserted, 3 fingers pricked, dozens of GI, Pulmonologists, nurses, phlebotomists, poking and prodding. Tonight, they've given her magnesium sulfate through her g-tube so hopefully she can get cleaned out before the procedure tomorrow.

Everytime someone walks into our hospital room she says, "What are YOU going to do to me?" Poor kiddo. The good news is our hospital is amazing and I know she is not only in good hands, but some of the best hands in the country. Please send good thoughts and say some prayers for our little Frog. xoxo

Froggyisms before they are lost into my mommy vortex that was once a brain.

Froggy: Mom, when are we gonna have that oddball soup again?
FM: Oddball soup?
Froggy: That chickeny soup with the big oddball in it?
FM: Matzo ball?
Froggy: Yeah, matzo ball soup!


Froggy: If there are silly straws, does that mean there are serious straws?


Froggy and I were reading a book about animals in zoos across the world, when we came across an aardvark this was our dialogue:

Froggymama: I wonder what the difference is between an aardvark and an anteater? Are they the same animal?

Froggy: No, the anteater has smaller ears and a longer snout. The aardvark has a nose about this big (shows me) and very large ears. And I think anteaters can eat more ants faster.

So of course I look it up and the little stinker is right! Where does she get this stuff? I'm humbled by my smart kiddo, she is way smarter than I was at her age, and maybe even now. Should I admit that?

Team Froggy's Legs 2013

Froggy's First Poems

A Good Day

The sun is shining
and the morning glories are blooming
and the birds are singing,
Oh, what a good day.

- Froggy


Love is great

Love is good
love is great
love is everywhere
love is in the air
love is even
in your hair.
 
-Froggy

Makilda the murdering gremlin

Froggy's new pretend character is named "Makilda, the murdering gremlin." She has an incredibly creepy voice, but is also kinda cute. And...I'm a little afraid of her. Actually I'm a lot afraid of her. She's a mix between the red-rum kid from "The Shining" and Smurfette. Creepy...very creepy. If I'm ever found stabbed to death with barbie legs and hog-tied to my bed with a jump-rope, you'll know who did it - MAKILDA, the murdering gremlin!!!

Froggy has always been funny, but her comedic timing lately has been spot on. I however have been terrible about writing down all those funny moments. Other than Makilda, and that is mostly for a written alibi.

Froggy and her new BFF love playing 'teenager.' Froggy says "We're teenagers with dwarfism, that's why we're so short for our age." Well that explains it, so glad she clarified her imaginitive play with some realistic disclaimers.  (note to self, we're watching way too much TLC).

Froggy had two blood draws today to test her blood sugar levels. Kids with CF (a majority) eventually get something called CFRD - CF related diabetes. Just another lovely component of CF. She was... better than the last time. When her mic-key fell out a few months ago, I believe it took 4 nurses and myself to hold her down. This time, only me and one very strong phlebotomist. Afterwards, we went to the Long Beach Aquarium. It's become a tradition and makes those clinic appointments and blood draws not as macabre. We go so often now that Froggy has become quite the expert on marine life. She was telling a woman next to us all about coral reefs and how otters have a million hairs per square inch, and German Shepards only have 100,000 on their entire body. She pointed out the sea slugs, anemones, and leafy sea dragon. She knows the Mexican lookdown fish, and giant sea bass, and thinks the eel is pretty because of it's purple-blue eyes. While visiting the sea lions, she took a penny and tossed it along the curved glass of it's underground aquarium. For twenty minutes a crowd gathered around while Froggy played fetch with this sea lion and her penny. A mom came up to me and said, "She's gonna change the world." I need to remember this when she's whining in the back of the car singing the, "butthole, poo poo, wee wee," song.

On a quick healthnote, Froggy has been having lots of tummy aches, and the school nurse calls me at least 2 times a week to come pick her up. Poor girl. We're working with GI on it, so I'm sure will figure it out. It's always before or after eating. Definitely digestive, not bladder/kidneys. And I also think the second her stomach hurts at school, even if it's gas or reflux, she just wants to be home. Don't we all?

I'll update on the bloodwork soon and will post more photos soon. (my phone won't upload to my computer, and all my pics are on my phone.)

Kicking CF to the curb

At Froggy's last CF clinic appointment, her pulmonologist, nutritionist and GI doc all said the same thing, "Keep doing whatever it is you're doing!"

She's gained 3 pounds in 3 months (just 2 ounces shy of 55 pounds), her FEV1 was 102 (with a cold) and her BMI percentage is 66.

I can't tell you how wonderful it is to hear that this hard work is paying off. And I understand as a CF mama that it doesn't always and diligence makes no promises. But man it felt good to hear we are doing something right.

Froggy gets a g-tube feed every night, so I'm up 2 times to give enzymes and then unhook her. And then a couple hours later, she wakes up to pee (750mls of formula will do that to ya), so I'm usually up again. We've tried giving her enzymes only at the beginning of the feed and that caused malabsorption, so it works better to just get up. It's been our routine, our normal. But there are nights where an uninterrupted snooze would be heavenly.

Being a mom is thankless (worth it, but without alot of pats on the back, more like whiny slaps) so to see results, to be part of working towards my kiddo's health and seeing it make a difference, having confirmation from her docs, is a great validation.

Froggy is taking charge of her own care more. She answers the doc's questions and actually asked our GI Doc at what age could we remove her mic-key? I love our CF specialists. They are honest, but kind. GI  told her that they would want to keep it atleast through puberty. Froggy looked defeated, and told the doc she hated her mic-key and she can't wait to get rid of it. She then gave her reasons why.

"I can't go down the slide on my tummy!"

"It sticks out when I wear my bathing suit."

 "None of my friends have one."

I'm proud she made a case for herself (even though it was shot down by mommy and doctor). She's more outspoken and independent at seven than I was at twenty seven.

The mic-key has been a love/hate relationship for all of us. It has allowed us to lighten up on meals,  and let her eat when she's hungry because we know she'll get those extra calories at night. She's also grown from the 5th percentile to above the 50th in weight. So I can't imagine not having that g-tube safety net.

Froggy has adjusted wonderfully to her new home. We have four cats. Four. Four cats. For the love of God, four cats. And they all get along. Although Peanut hisses at June, because she's younger and thinner. But that's to be expected. I've never seen Piper happier (she's pushing 17). They have a patio, so these indoor-all-their-lives cats are able for the first time to soak in the sun and feel the wind between their whiskers.

We have a bunch of neighbor girls on our block who are Froggy's age (give or take a year), and Froggy loves running out the door saying, "I'm off to C's house!" The freedom has transformed her. And it's made my life easier. Less, "Mommy, play with me!" and "I'm bored!" The girls run from house to house, playing American Girl Dolls and climbing the rubber tree, swinging on the tire swing and terrorizing our quiet neighbors. They own the neighborhood now, and love to play "spies" where they hide in the bushes and spy on the passerbys. I caught them spraying unsuspecting walkers with a squirt bottle and found out later it was filled with toilet water. Oh my. They are the girl versions of Dennis the Menace. Denise the Menice of Venice!

Life is good. Hard, but good. As I write this, it is my first weekend in 3 weeks sans kiddo. Atticus and I walked to breakfast (with mimosas of course!), piddled around the house, wrote a bit, went for a walk on the beach, hit the book store, and are now settled in for a marathon of Downton Abbey. After the holidays and struggling with a defiant but sweet Froggy, this is just what the doctor ordered. For both of us. Time to regroup, get some rest and get ready for my rambunctious and rowdy little Frog.

Fly on the wall

I am moving. For the first time in 10 years. There is something about packing your belongings that makes you face who you really are, what you have accumulated, kept. What matters most. 


When I was pregnant with Froggy I purged her room of my college belongings. There was a grand purpose to this purge, the nest needed to be free of old text books and posters, my life as a single-20-something. Beer bongs and mardi gras beads made way for burp clothes and a diaper genie. I had a child coming and it was easy to throw away chatzkies and memorabilia because I knew what mattered was this person about to enter our world. My purpose was the future - the space yet to be filled.

There were small interim purges, ridding our tiny closets of baby clothes and books read about how to be good parents and good partners (in retrospect, maybe I should have kept some of those). But when you live in an apartment, there isn't the luxury (or burden) of storing a bunch of crap (mementos) you'll never look at again. I finally, after 2000 miles and 15 years donated my cross-country skis to Goodwill. And even they didn't want them. The employee actually laughed and said, "Oh yeah, we'll just throw those puppies in the garbage." Because who, after all, uses cross country skis in Los Angeles? But they meant something to me dammit. Skiing after dark in a college town with a light snow fall, a sky full of stars and a good friend. How could anyone throw that memory away?

After our divorce, I purged again. It was in the letting go of actual things that life went on. In the empty space I was able to breathe. And able to see that there was indeed a future. Nothing bogging us down, except for 3000 stuffed animals, sippy cups and plastic party favors leftover from 2 million birthday parties. I hate goody bags. Nowadays that plastic made-in-china crap goes right into the recycling before Froggy knows what hit her (I do this while she's still high on blue frosting and pinata loot). And so far it's seemed to work. Erasers and parachutes, sticky hands and balloons, basically choking hazards for the cats and something to pollute our glorious earth. I have never and will never buy goody bags. In fact, at Froggy's last birthday party a little girl asked, "Where's our goody bag?" And I replied, "You don't need a goody bag kid. The fun is the gift." She looked at me like I'd just inhaled a wee too much birthday candle smoke. But where were we? Moving. Ah yes.

Boxes and boxes of our past donated, baby clothes, crib sheets, bottles, wedding gifts. Put into cardboard and placed in someone else's care.

"Here, take this. I don't need it anymore. But be kind. It meant something."

So, we're starting anew. Kind of. Because when you have a child it isn't just "packing up and movin' on up" (cue The Jefferson's soundtrack). It's checking out school districts and neighborhoods, preparing a little person for a big-arse change. We're not starting over, we are starting wonderful. That's how I'm looking at it. Starting wonderful.

We've been preparing Froggy for about six months that this change was afoot. And we've let her design her bedroom, with a brand new trundle bed that in her words is "very French and very fancy." She picked the colors for the walls (pink and purple of course), and we've met the neighborhood kids. One girl is a Froggy clone. They are sure to wreak serious havoc. We're within walking distance of the beach, coffee shops and trendy clothing stores (a bit too hipster for my second-hand tastes, but what are you gonna do?).

This apartment has seen Froggy's first steps, first giggles, first words. First everything. I brought her for the first time through the door of our blue-walled living room. Her nursery that I had so carefully set up with baby pictures of her extended family was never actually lived in. Because she settled right into my bed and has remained there for snuggles and nursing, tube feedings and lullabies. I rocked her to the song of the creak of our hard wood floor, every night. Chirp, creak, conk. Chirp, creak, conk. Chirp, creak, conk.

The thought of leaving these walls has been difficult. I've been preparing Froggy, but hadn't prepared myself. This was my home too. My wonderful, sweet, good-vibed home. All our furniture, collected from friends and family, goodwills around the city. People, just like me who left these items in my care saying, "Here, take this, I don't need it anymore.  But be kind. It meant something."

Our park at the end of our street, our crazy and kind-hearted neighbors. The dogs, Diego, Rocket, Spike, Dexter and Disco. You'll be missed somethin' awful.

It's hard to let go even for something better.

To be fair there are plenty of bad memories within these wall as well. I stood at the screen door and wailed as the doctor told me Froggy had Cystic Fibrosis. I walked the halls with worry when she started having seizures and sobbed on the cold tile of our pink kitchen floor. The bathtub where I watched my daughter dance in my belly was also my escape in a bad marriage. There were many tears shed and fights where no one won. It was life here. Real life. And despite the drama, it is not an easy stage to exit.

The other night I was sitting on our second-hand sofa with both cats at my side. Froggy was sound asleep, and I could hear the hum of her feeding tube and air purifier. I looked around the room and thought, "I'm ready. I'm ready to go." It really was the first time I'd felt that. I hadn't prepared myself for this huge transition even though I knew it was coming. And it came, like all things good, naturally. When it should.

I'm ready. I'm scared. But ready. This has been a good home. But we have outgrown it. And now it is time to move on. Time to let go. Time to see what is behind door number....?

A year in pictures. It's about freakin' time.

Mommy and Froggy on one of many hikes.

Froggy getting a birthday "spanking" from her Kindergarten teacher last year.

Froggy has become quite the fisherwoman, catching big bass and catfish.

She is SUPER fast!

Hanging in trees with friends.

Catching butterflies at the cabin in Missouri.

Great grammy and the Frog snuggling together.

Buddy, sweet Buddy.

Best pal Mr. O.

Climbing haystacks at the cabin while getting loved by the farm beagles.

Grandma S. was telling a GREAT story.

This kid will climb mountains.

Froggy and Atticus. My two loves.

This Halloween we painted the town orange.

Watch out, she will skate you down!

I don't want to go to school and other facts

Froggy is in a band called The Wet Cats, formerly known as The Wet Dogs. They sing songs like "In my heart heart heart, I like to fart fart fart." And "I don't want to go to school. Dun dun dun dun. I don't want to go to school," and the popular single, "Baby's got a dirty diaper." Someday they'll sweep the nation, or at least Culver City. In Kindergarten she was in a band called The A Girls, and it consisted of all the girls in her class whose names began with the letter A. But just like Sting, she moved on.

Froggy is doing great in school, in the smarty pants reading group and she receives 100% on her tests. But her behavior "needs improvement," as stated by the note in her cubby. We're working on it.

And one great inquisitive froggyism:

Froggy: If the heart is alive, does it have a smaller heart inside of it?

Belly achin' baby.

Froggy's mic-key fell out in the middle of the night two weeks ago. By the time we woke up, her stoma had almost completely closed. I tried to put a new one in, but it was very painful. For both of us. Hurting your kid to save her from more pain later, doesn't equate in the mama brain.  
So the next day we had to do an outpatient procedure with sedation to put a new mic-key in.  Turns out a hole in your belly can close within 15 minutes. Our bodies our incredible at correcting error. Wait, there's a hole, fill it in, fill it in! Apparently, like everything Froggy, even her platelets are turbo powered. Her stoma closed in record time.

The procedure went well and Froggy has her new mic-key. But she was in a lot of pain and the docs would only give her Tylenol, so it was a tough couple days.

The next week we had her CF Clinic Appt. and she was 52.2 pounds and 1/4 of an inch shy of 4 feet! She's above the 50th percentile for height and weight. Her FEV1's with the aftermath of a cold were 98. Not too shabby.

I think this was the first time a procedure really affected her. It took 4 nurses to put her IV in after the first one failed. And she asked if I had a mic-key when I was little, or if Grandma did. And then, "Well, why do I have to have one?"

As she gets older, the questions only get harder. And I don't know the answers. I wish I did. We're learning together. And hopefully she knows that even if I don't have the perfect answer I love her perfectly. I wish like our bodies, our brains healed as seamlessly. When something doesn't make sense, the empty space is just filled. All is mended, with only a tiny scar of "why me?" or "make it go away mama." Just a harmless memory healed by time.

Mommy not-so-dearest anymore

I took Froggy ice skating and she ran into an old friend from preschool. We'd been skating hand-in-hand for an hour, having a great mommy/kiddo day. The second she met up with her friend this was our conversation:

Froggy: Mommy, leave me alone. I'm dependent.
Me: I think you mean independent.
Froggy: Which one means I don't need you anymore?
Me:  Independent.
Froggy: Then that's what I am.

The irony of course is that she NEEDED me to tell her that she's independent. Right? It was a cold day on that rink. A cold day indeed.

Actually, I am so proud everytime she doesn't need me. It means I'm doing something right. And at the end of the day, she's back in my arms, telling me to rub her back and hum, like I have since she was a babe. My dependent, independent little Frog.

Smart Cookie

Froggymama (FM): Froggy, do you want to join Girl Scouts?
Froggy: What do they do?
FM: I'm not sure, we'll go to the meeting and find out.

Froggy: Do they sell cookies?
FM: Yep.
Froggy: Do we get paid for selling the cookies?
FM: No.
Froggy: That's horrible! Why would I sell their cookies if I don't get paid for it? I don't want to be a girl scout.