Fart face

Chad and I are laying in bed, winding down after a long day of Chad doing all the chores while I work on getting bedsores all day long. (Tendon surgery is not made for active folks.) He's reading what I can only assume is a vampire novel while I play on my phone and I suddenly feel his eyes on me.

Me: What? Did you fart?

Chad: Noooo. I was smiling at you because I love you.

Me: Then why did you have your 'I just farted' look on?

Chad: THIS is my fart look.

Me: So then my question is why does your fart face look exactly like your "I love my wife' face?

Farty: Because I feel love during both of those faces.

This marriage just keeps getting more romantic every year.

The latest foot picture:

What happens when a lightweight hubs gets an IV sedative and tries to text

Jam

How ridiculous is it that I'm posting this from my iPhone because I don't want to get back on those blasted crutches?  It's late and I've reached my crutch usage limit for the day.  Unless all that Miralax miraculously and suddenly kicks in.  Then I'll win some kind of land speed record for hightailing it to the john using assistive devices.  Narcotics do bad things to the lower end of humans.

(Thank you for the picture, fellow nurse Tarsa.)

TMI, I know.

Isn't this fun?

Here's some more fun.  Today I went from this: (that's a cold water circulating device around my post-op splint, very spiffy)

To all the latest in Storm Trooper spring footwear:

And here's the TMI part, the carnage:

GACK! 

Couple of torn tendons, a joint effusion and a ruptured ligament.  Lots of scar tissue that had welded the old damaged tendons in place.  I got what's called a Brostrom procedure done, tendon transfer and an arthroscopic debridement of my messed up joint. Here's the most YUCK part.  But kinda cool.  But still kinda yuck.  I have placenta in my foot.  That's right, they used stem cells from placental tissue and implanted a couple blobs on if it in there to improve healing.  Hopefully I'll be cleared for walking in three weeks, and I'll let you know if my foot is pregnant in about four.

Goooooodnight.

That's MRS. Grumpypants to you

So our baby-making plans are on hold.  That's all I'm going to say about that, because I'm sick of talking about it.  And kinda depressed over it.  And sick of talking about how I'm depressed over it.  SHUT UP, ME.

Ok, well I *will* tell you that I'm having surgery next Wednesday to repair what was apparently never repaired at all.  Downside?  Surgery, non-weight bearing for six to eight weeks.  Having to have someone help me wipe my own bum.  Upside?  The doctor says he's going to give me Dilaudid.

At least I'll be tweaked out enough this time to not want to chew my own foot off.

AND new subject.

Emma has apparently decided that now is a good time to act pre-menstrual.  Because there's not enough drama going on around here without her rolling her eyes at me every two seconds and arguing with EVERYTHING I say, especially if it has anything to do with birds.  Because suddenly she's a bird expert and the rest of us are all idiots. 

This morning she unfortunately timed an eye-roll and a snotty retort with MORNING *** and ended up getting her iPod taken away for the week.  We're not the corporal punishment type of parents.  Well, I think Chad would be if I let him.  But I am not.  So he isn't.  So we do the most awful, unimaginable thing next to snuffing our cigarette butts out on our child's arm: we take away her technology.
What do I find when I sit down at my desk this evening to waste some time on Facebook?  A blue outdated iPod plugged into my computer.  Ok, whatever.  I'm surfing around and Emma comes up behind me, picks up the iPod and says, "Oh GOOD, it's charged! Since you took away my other one I'm using this one!"

Parent: 1, Kid: 0

At least she hasn't figured out how to really be sneaky yet.

AND camping pictures. Because what's more fun than camping in the freezing cold for three days with three dogs and an eleven year-old who has no access to technology?  Camping WITH A BUSTED FOOT in the freezing cold for three days with three dogs and an eleven year-old who has no access to technology.

Can you tell that Sadie just had ELEVEN teeth pulled?  Now she looks like she lives in a doublewide and has a brother who is also her cousin.

 (It actually was a lot of fun to be unplugged from the world for three days but whining is fun for me right now.  I'm still smiling on the inside.)

***I am SO not a morning person - just ask my friend Jamie. I hit her in the head with a flashlight when she attempted to wake me up at girl's camp one summer.  Sorry Jamie.

Well isn't THIS fun

You thought I was done bitching about my foot.

No.

I haven't had any pain relief since my surgery, let's just be honest.  There have been a few moments where I've taken a few Tramadols and felt sweet relief, but who wants to go around high all the time?  Ok, maybe some people do, but I don't.  And it's not even a good high, like a nice Percocet daze.  It's solely a pain relief high.  So I don't know if you could even call it a high.

So I thought I would just have a little look-see into getting an MRI of my foot, just to make sure all this pain I was still feeling wasn't in my stupid head.

It wasn't.  The doc called this morning and I'm meeting with her at one, but at this point I DO know that I have a completely torn ligament in my effing ankle.  Seriously.

SERIOUSLY.

I don't know what's going to happen.  What's going to happen with our baby plans? Today's doc appointment was actually already made before these MRI results came back.  I was supposed to get a referral to the IVF dude today, but now it's turned into a "let's talk about your foot" appointment instead.  I'm sure I'll need surgery again.  But I don't want it!  I would rather hobble around broken and pregnant than put IVF off again.  After IVF I'll just get one of these:

I'll get a matching parrot and eye patch and we'll just call it good.

Seriously, though, all I can think is that I want to burrow my head under a million pillows and never come out again.  Don't know what's going to happen now.  I know for sure that I'm not bringing up my numb face and arms to the doc!  I would rather not know.

I wish I'd never even looked into this foot problem again.  Sigh.

Busy busy

I'm supposed to be writing a paper right now.  A paper that describes my best learning style and analyzes it in 1000 words.  In APA format.  Incidentally the best way for me to describe my learning style is NOT anywhere on this blog, but my learning style DOES involve procrastination so here we are.  I'll just think of it as a warm-up of sorts, even though writing on here may be counterproductive because in APA format I can't doublespace after punctuation, must reference everything, can't use any pronouns that refer to myself and have to use a bunch of extra commas where I think my sixth grade teacher taught me they don't belong.  (Did I not mention that I'm back in school?  Well I am.  Because doing in vitro is just not enough stress in my life MUST ADD MORE.)  This online RN-BSN program also involves a bunch of group projects, one every five weeks in fact, and these may just drive me to justifiable homicide.  There are three types of people in the online group project.  The one that wants to take charge and boss everyone around (you thought that would be me, didn't you?  Shockingly, it is not) without regard to anybody else's life schedules and when everyone else doesn't respond to their emails within two hours they freak out, do the whole project on their own even though it's not due for FIVE weeks, and give you all a guilt trip about it.  Then there's the stupid/lazy one.  The one who won't read the syllabus to see what the project is about and how to go about doing it and sends out thousands of panicky emails (at the last minute) saying that they didn't understand any of it, maybe everyone else can do it?  Then there's me.  I try to gently put forth that SOMEONE should read the syllabus, and that SOMEONE should effing calm down because the project's not due for over a month and there are those of us that are juggling working nights, a sixth grader's homework, strep throat, insomnia, a husband in Kentucky for two weeks, spending quality time with the kid and a thousand word paper on how I learn AND I NEED MORE THAN TEN MINUTES TO RESPOND TO YOUR DAMN EMAIL.  The hard part about doing group projects online is that you can't just reach over and smack your classmate.

You're here because you're wondering how I feel, right?

Pictures of other things that I've done this week to avoid writing my paper or dealing with my stupid classmates:

Oh you sneaky, sneaky garden.  I go to check up on you and find you've been quite productive without telling me.

Our yearly trip to the Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show.

These animals poop money.

My smart/funny/beautiful kid:

Ok, quick story before I sign out here.  We're watching the opening scene of Lion King last night where all the animals bow to baby Simba as he's lifted up by the monkey.  Emma snorts:  "Yeah, right, that's the thing about Disney movies.  If this were real life all of those animals would eat each other right then and there."  Don't think we'll have to worry about this kid ever thinking she's an entitled little Disney princess or will magically live happy ever after as soon as she gets married.

What we've been up to

We're shrinking!  At the beginning of the year (hooray for New Year's resolutions and too-tight pants) we decided we've been feeling a little fluffy lately.  So Chad got a Paleo diet book and started that.  I joined Weight Watchers, determined to get rid of this "baby weight" since my kid is almost twelve years old.  Chad swore that he LOVED the Paleo diet!  So much meat!  Eight pounds down in a week!  And then he got tired of having to make himself special meals every night, since I, being the supportive diet wife that I am, adamantly refused to play Sous Chef for both my practically-vegan daughter and for him.  Now he is on Weight Watchers with me and we're both down ten pounds.  To celebrate we took a road trip to Tortilla Flats today and ate at a nasty hole-in-the-wall diner.  We enjoyed every minute of it.  We may have to rethink our reward system.

And now that I'm down a pant size I'm going to try to go up a few sizes.  Because the time has finally come, peoples. The thing we've been talking about forEVER is finally going to happen. 

Here's the deal.  I'll write this all down so you don't have to ask.  Because I know you're wondering, and I'm the sharing type.  Chad has a blockage that prevents his little swimmers from escaping.  They basically just swim around in little circles in there.  So they will surgically cut them out of him and individually inject each sperm into the eggs they will harvest from me, after I get done injecting myself with three different drugs two times a day for a few weeks.  They will put these "embryos" in a petri dish to grow for a few days and then transfer them into my uterus after I inject myself with a bunch of additional hormones so that my body will be tricked into accepting the embryos.  Will Chad kill me for telling this all to the Internet?  Maybe.  But it's not like it's his fault.  It's just something that happened when he was a kid and there's no amount of praying or hoping that will make us a baby.  Seriously, the next person who says, "Well, you never know!  Maybe you should just stop trying!  God works in mysterious ways.  We have this friend....."  is going to get a fundal punch.  We do know.  We have stopped trying for seven years.  You can't make a baby without sperm.  I understand that those people just don't know what to say and are just trying to make me feel better, but these kinds of things do not make me feel better.  They only frustrate me.  All I need is someone to cry to when I watch everyone around me have babies.  Or just a hug.  (Or hey, how about a few thousand dollars?)  I will even take the prayers (despite my atheist leanings) as long as they are for the in-vitro to work this time.  We're going to need every bit of positive vibe/prayer/voodoo magic we can get.  I won't be choosy, please send it our way.  As long as you aren't worried about a little Chad/Corinne cross loose in the world.  A klutzy, homicidal, mouthy little asshole that we can call our own.  Awwwww.

I know I've been talking about this for a few years, but we've had a few roadblocks.  A deployment to a war zone.  A running-binge-induced foot surgery for me.  A few moves.

But we're DOING IT.

I signed up for benefits at work because they cover $5000 toward the procedure.  We've finally been informed that the army has placed his reenlistment bonus for payment in the next month.  (We've been waiting for a YEAR for it, geeeeez.  And yes, he re-signed.  The guy is Army Man.  I've come to terms with it.)  We've talked to the new doctor's office about the costs.  (About $13,000 with meds.) I've decided that I will live with my busted foot for now because I am sick of this getting sidetracked.  (Limping is fun.)  So as soon as Chad is back home from his next army school (this month) we're giving it our last and final shot.  The last time we did this it was stressful and scary and expensive and I was in the middle of taking my nursing license exam and we didn't know what to expect.  And even though it will still be terrifying this time I feel like we have a better idea of what we are facing.  I've got a stable job, Chad has a stable job.  It will still be pricey and we are not rich, but if all the crackheads out there can have babies so can we.  We're good parents.  Emma is a happy kid, if a tad spoiled.  We deserve to have the chance to have a baby, just like everyone else.  So here we go again!

I'm planning on walking through this with you, Internet.  It might suck.  But it might be completely awesome in the end.