Tuesday, September 28, 2010

My 4-Year-Old Teenager

My Bella.

What a handful that girl is. She is just the cutest thing in the world - for the most part. Last night? Not so much.

While Daddy was watching football, Bella and I were upstairs hanging out in the master bedroom. One too many times Bella "accidentally" kicked me. When I had reached my limit, I sent her to her room. No yelling, just a firm, "Bella, you need to go to your room."

As she was walking away with her head down and her feet stomping, she said, "I wish I didn't live in this house!"

My ears must have deceived me. Little girls don't say that! This is teenager crap. I should have eight more years to prepare for that kind of stuff! What could I have mistaken her sentence for? "I wish I didn't lick a mouse"? That was more feasible since kids do weird things. But I knew I hadn't misheard.

I called Bella back into my room and said, "Bella, what did you say?"

Without an ounce of fear or humility, Bella once again repeated, "I wish I didn't live in this house."

The mix of anger and hurt were competing within me. I couldn't very well cry in front of her, so I told her to go back to her room and pack up her things if she wanted to live somewhere else. To my surprise, she walked away without a fuss. After a couple of minutes, I walked into her room to find her laying on her bed. I repeated that she needed to find another place to live if she didn't want to live in my house. She still wasn't scared or sorry. I told her to tell her dad she was leaving.

At this point, Bella knew that I meant business. As she was walking down the stairs, she started crying saying that she didn't want to leave. After a talking to from her dad, she apologized and suddenly became my precious little child again.

This was all in a span of 20 minutes. She is only four. Hot damn, being a parent is hard.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The Joys of Aging

Has anyone noticed the lack of posts lately? Well, I have. It has everything to do with my lack of exercising and dieting.

A few weeks back, my right hip was hurting pretty badly. But it was one of those things that I figured would go away on its own. Well, it didn't. Three weeks of aches and limping caused me to finally call my doctor. That same week, I had stopped running and going to the gym. Wouldn't ya know it, my hip started to feel better. My doctor advised to continue to lay off the whole running bit for now, but it was ok to continue to go to the gym I would just have to avoid exercises working out my hip flexor area. Of course I took that as a sign to discontinue working out altogether.

At the time of my appointment, my doctor advised that I see a sports medicine specialist to figure out what is going on with my hip. Ha! The thought of me, me of little exercise and lots of eating, going to a sports medicine doctor was unfathomable, but whatever, I do what I am told. One of the prerequisites to seeing a sports medicine doctor is to have an x-ray done of the affected area. Well, that was back on August 27th.

They apparently found something out of the norm in my x-ray and they wanted to do an MRI. Don't fret folks, the person I spoke to was clear that it isn't something to be concerned about, but because the x-ray didn't come back 100% normal, they need to do the MRI as a precautionary thing.

I have never had an MRI done. I know what the machine looks like and was nervous to lay inside a coffin-like contraption. What made me even more jittery and anxious was the questionnaire they conducted over the phone: No, I don't have shrapnel in my body. No, I don't suffer from claustraphobia (although I have never really tried to lock myself inside of a closet before - you know, just to see how it feels). No, I don't have siezures. No. No. No, to all of their questions. I found out after the call that I should've said "yes" to claustraphobia because I would've gotten a lovely prescription for Vallum.

Anyway, everyone I spoke to said the exact same thing about an MRI:

1.) It is no big deal.
2.) They give you headphones with music playing.
3.) It takes about 20-25 minutes.

On Monday, the date of my MRI (which had been pushed back by a week, by the way), my nerves were calmed down a bit by all the reassurances I was getting. John drove me there and he likes to show up for functions at least an hour early (no joke). Around 1:20-ish, a very nice lady came to get me, but she appeared to be going in the wrong direction because she was headed outside and all that was back there was a trailer.

Oh, but the joke was on me. That's right, I was going into a trailer. This is where I should've realized itwas not going to be the easy breezy experience everyone lead me to believe. I get into the lift (because apparently they don't want me to hurt myself clambering up the two foot staircase) and they roll up the door to the trailer.

There it is: the MRI machine. Located in a handy dandy, sturdy trailer.

The hole I am supposed to lay in is even smaller than I had imagined. I lay down and am immediately uncomfortable. I should've asked for a pillow under my lower back. I don't have a voluptious booty or anything, but I do have quite the mass of body in my hips (attractive, I know) which caused my back to be arched the entire time. To make matters worse, I had to point my feet slightly inwards. Sound easy? You try it then! My feet naturally turn outwards when I lay on my back. I believe this is true for most people because the tech had her tape ready to tape my feet in place.

Let's recap: Im in a trailer. My back hurts. My feet are taped in an awkward position.

I am then told that the MRI will be about 45 minutes. What?! I try my best to not let my shock and fear show. Ok, breathe. I am good. Give me my headphones.

Tech: "Ok, I am going to give you these earplugs because the machine is so loud."

Ear plugs? Don't you mean headphones with nice relaxing music to put me at ease? Nope, full on squishy, neon yellow ear plugs. I figure it is too late to run now and I shove those suckers into my ear canal and pray that I make it through. The machine sucks me in and the first thing I see are faint long marks/scratches on the inner chamber of the MRI. Realistically, I am sure it was left by someone cleaning the machine or even possibly someone a little larger whose buttons have scraped the machine a bit. But reality wasn't setting in at that moment and to me, well, to my irrational mind saw those marks as someone desperately trying to claw their way out of the coffin! I nearly pressed my panic button at that point.

Then the clicking came on. Then, the noise. The Noise. For those of you that have never had an MRI done, let me explain The Noise to you: it is a mix between the whooshing of hearing a baby's heartbeat while in the mother's womb and the siren of a police car. It was a constant wave of wah! wah! wah! wah! and weoh! weoh! weoh! weoh!

Finally, nearly an hour later, it was over. But I couldn't get up! My back was so achy that the tech had to reach out a hand to assist me. And for those of you that think I was just being a big baby, the tech had apologized that I had to be in there that long!

Tech: "Most of them are a lot shorter than what you had to do, but some of them are even longer."

Me: "So for the most part I should be happy mine was as short as it was, right?"

Tech: "Um, no. You were in there for a pretty good amount of time."

A to the w-e-s-o-m-e.