Bad at Blogging. Good at Tingling.

Have you noticed that I've become a really suck-tastic blogger?

I used to be on top of my game.

Those were some good times.

I was clicking links, reading posts, commenting on stranger's stories of love and life and dysfunction and deli meats. I was posting my own stories two or three times a week. I was getting blogging awards and staying busy with my link ups and blog hops and throwing my stories all over the internets.

I was doin' it.

I haven't done much of that stuff lately, and I wish I had a really good reason like being abductued by an alien in a Kentucky corn field or getting stuck in a really big bale of hay or eating Pop Rocks, drinking Coke and exploding my innards, but I don't really have any good reasons.

Instead of blogging, I've been doing this...

Do you guys remember my hyphochondria post, Because It's Probably Gangrene?

I thought I was over that hypochondria crap until I woke up a few days ago with terrible numbness and tingling in both of my legs.

I raced to the most awful-est place on earth for recovering hypos- the internet. The Mayo Clinic said I had Periphreal Artery Disease.

And The Mayo Clinic should know because they know, like, everything about me and everyone else on the Earth.

As I read about PAD, I could feel the arteries in my legs shrinking up like a dead worm on hot pavement. I was terrified to the point of tears. I paced around the patio and massaged my numb calves.

Again, I was forced to deal with the one terrible habit that I posess that actually could cause PAD- cigarette smoking.

I've attempted quitting smoking a handful times, and I'd rather hear Freddy Krueger massaging a chalk board. Smoking cessation is the worst feeling in the world- the anger, the anxiety, the worry, the harming of small animals. Besides quitting for thirteen months with both of my pregnancies, my personal best at quitting cold turkey is two months. Somehow I always fall back into this horrid habit.

But I couldn't ignore my numb toes and the Web MD diagnosis, so I threw the last disgusting cigarette in the ash tray and walked inside to a screaming three year old, the smell of copius amounts of unseen ketchup, a cupcake embedded in the carpet, a strange puddle on the hardwood floor, my daughter throwing dirty laundry over the stairway bannister and my husband leisurely sitting on the couch with not a care in the world.

I could have eaten a cigarette, but instead I breathed deeply and walked into my bathroom where I calmed myself, cursed, and prayed. I know the cursing and praying doesn't go well together, so I prayed for patience and forgiveness of the cursing.

I went to a new doctor this morning. She said that my good old herniated disc is bulging out of my back like a sweating kitten trying to claw out of a wool sack.

I've had this herniated disc since I was 21. I wish I could say that I received it due to lifting orphans from a burning school bus or something heroic like that, but I threw my back out in the summer of 2002 when I was unemployed and parked on the couch playing Tom Clancy's "Pandora Tomorrow" on the Xbox (not 360) for four days straight.

When I tried to get off of the couch on day four to clean the nougat and caramel stains from the ottoman, I felt my back  "snap". I've been plagued with herniated disc problems and Sciatica ever since.

But I've never had numbness in both legs from the Sciatica. I've had excrutiating pain in one hip and one leg. I've been bedridden for days. But I've never had numbness in both legs.

So I argued with the doctor.

"I've never had numbness with Sciatica. It cannot be the herniated disc. Web MD said it is PAD. I quit smoking, but I'm still numb. Not only am I numb, but the nicotine cravings are making me extremely irate. I'm talking German kind of anger. Little square mustache kind of irate. Is it PAD? I'm only 31. Is it PAD? Help me!" I clinged desperately to her arm as tears filled my eyes.

"It is not PAD, dear. I've seen a lot of PAD. This is not PAD. Your herniated disc is really inflamed and pressing on nerves that are causing numbness in both legs this time. It's NOT PAD"

I pulled myself together and received a steroid shot in my hip.

Today was also my daughter's last day of school. We've been looking forward to this day since last August.

We were supposed to celebrate big. We had a ton of plans. We were going to go out to eat and swim in the pool after dark and my daughter wanted to have a sleep over. I was going to stay up late and watch Dazed and Confused.

I'm also blessed to currently be involved in several writing projects, so I was going to crank out some new material.

I was even going to type up another query letter and submit my novel to a new literary agent.

Epicness was on the horizon.

But my legs are still numb and annoying and worrying the heck out of me. I can't get out of bed or concentrate on anything but the calf buzzing and nicotine withdrawal.

My toes feel as if they've already been amputated.

I had the steroid shot HOURS ago. WHY ISN'T IT WORKING!??!?!??!?

Maybe it is not Sciatica. Maybe it is PAD. Maybe it is MS. Maybe I'm just nuts. Maybe I should get off the damn internet.

I'd really like to replace Web MD with Blogger. I'd really like to do that soon.

She Doesn't Have to Agree with Me

Parenting.

My husband and I were blessed with an incredibly "easy" first child. She came into this world happy and content and for the most part, quiet. She slept through the night from the beginning. She drank her bottles. She rocked contently in her swing and allowed me to wash dishes, vaccuum and even nap occasionally.

I remember when she was a few weeks old and the husband and I ate corn dogs and tater tots for dinner one night. Because that's what broke 24 year olds with a new baby eat.

We were both smote with writing gas pains. We were immobile. We could do nothing but lie in the bed, motionless, and sweat while the contractions came.

I feared that parenting was about to get real. Real hard. I feared that I wouldn't be able to tend to that precious little peach bundle in her bassinet next to the bed.

But my perfect 21 day old offspring went to sleep. And she slept soundly until morning. I was able to rest and recuperate and regurgitate until I was well again. I woke up the next morning, as she still slept peacefully, and I told my husband, "This parenting thing is easy breezy."

She walked and talked early. She learned things quickly. She was so incredibly smart. She was beautiful. She was so easy.

When the terrific twos rolled around, she obeyed. She listened. She never threw herself on a Target floor and demanded a My Little Pony. She said please and thank you. She never complained. Or whined. Or argued.

And then the boy was born.

But this post isn't about how challenging the boy has been. Yes, he came into this world mad and demanding and has been known to throw a bottle across the room a time or two. I've scraped him from the Target floor. I've put him in his time out chair until I broke a sweat and held back my own tears. I've tossed and turned at night praying for patience and wondering how to handle my boy and his strong will.

But he's getting older and more independent. He's better at obeying and listening and keeping his tantrums to a minimum. He's getting easier.

He's still not "perfect" like my daughter was, but he's perfect, nontheless.

As my husband and I sat on the back porch several months ago and watched our beautiful blessings on the swingset, I said, "The boy is doing so much better. This parenting thing is getting easy again."

And then my daughter decided to get a mind of her own.

She is nearly 7, and she's the light of my life. She's still well behaved, kind-hearted, and she excels in school, but  the little girl that used to beg for my stories and all of my free time is growing up. And she's exhibiting behavior that I didn't expect until she was at least 13.

She once looked at me with admiration. She loved my ideas. She thought I was smart. I had all of the answers to all of her questions. She agreed with every word I said.

Now.

Now she questions all of my ideas. She can't just take my word for things anymore. She demands to know why and how and what. And I'm embarassed to admit that half of the time I'm too dumb to answer her questions.

"What is this silly-ca gel packet on the counter?"

"It's silica gel. It came out of my new purse. Please throw it away."

"What is it?"

"It keeps the purse fresh and dry....or something."

"But, what is it?"

"It's silica gel."

"I know that, MAMA. But, what does it do?"

"It came out of my new purse. It keeps it fresh."

"How? How does it keep a purse fresh, MAMA?"

"It just does."

"But, how. I mean, WHAT IS IT EXACTLY?"

"I DON'T KNOW! BUT DON'T EAT IT!"

She's also influenced by children at school. She comes home wanting to know why I won't allow her to wear or watch certain things when "so and so" can. She gets mad at me and stomps up the stairs to her room. I've caught her rolling her eyes at my rules and requests. She suddenly thinks that I'm not fair, this isn't fair, it's not fair.

She no longer agrees with every word I say.

She still loves me, yes. She still wants to participate in our girl days and her face lights up during our quality time together, but our time together is usually, sadly, interrupted with an argument of some sort.

I never imagined that I would be arguing with that precious little peach bundle that slept so soundly while I held my stomach full of tater tots and yelped in pain. I never imagined that we'd butt heads or that I would feel such incredible pangs of guilt for yelling at her.

I don't want to yell at my daughter. I don't want to send her to her room when she blatantly disobeys me. I don't want to sigh in frustration when she asks me the same question 23 times. I don't want to do these things, but I find myself doing them anyway.

And then the guilt sets in and I feel like a horrible mother.

Parenting is hard.

What has this little girl become? Why won't she take no for an answer? Why am I, a 31 year old woman, having an argument with a 7 year old child? Why doesn't she just listen and obey and do what I tell her to do without voicing her opinion? Why doesn't she act like she did from the ages of 0-5?

Because now she has an opinion. She's becoming a "real" person with her own likes and dislikes. She can no longer just go along with whatever I say. She has to question things. She has to know how and why and what. My word isn't good enough anymore. She has to know the facts.

I have to admit that I enjoy being in control. Saying that makes me feel horrible, but it is true.

You can control a "perfect" 2 year old. You can tell them to sit down, be quiet, eat their graham crackers. And a "perfect" 2 year old will do it. Because mama said so.

That 7 year old doesn't want to sit down. She's been sitting at school most of the day and she just doesn't "feel" like doing it.

She doesn't want to be quiet. She's been quiet at school most of the day and there are 428 questions she needs answering. Now.

She deosn't like graham crackers anymore. That's a baby snack.

 Is yelling at her like Mommy Dearest the correct way to handle this? No. And I'm so incredibly guilty of that.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," they say. And I sweat it often.

I have to stop.

I have to accept that my little girl is becoming her own person. I have to accept that her likes aren't always going to be the same as mine. I have to accept that she no longer takes my word for things just because it is my word.

She's not deliberately defying me by asking me the same question 42 times an hour or not taking "no" for an answer. She's simply learning, discovering, and becoming her own person.

Of course there are times when she will have to follow my rules, and if being mad at me for 30 minutes comes along with that, well that's just tough. I am still her mother, and my number one priority is to keep her safe.

But she's not a baby anymore. She's not my little robot that's programmed to eat the meatloaf and like it just because I like it. She's not my little robot that's programmed to take my answer and trust in it just because it's mine. She's not my little programmed robot anymore.

She doesn't have to agree with me.

And I'm struggling with that. She doesn't have to agree with me.

If I type it again, maybe I will accept it.

She doesn't HAVE to agree with me.

Parenting is hard.

And she's not even a teenager yet.

Drive In and Jump Off

Saturday had arrived, and I dropped my daughter off at my mother's house for the day. She's almost 7 and really enjoys hanging out with my mom. She was pumped because she was getting new flip flops and the opportunity to look at Amish people at the farmer's market.

My husband had plans to take the boy and gallavant around town doing guy stuff. This left me alone for the entire Saturday. Naturally, I was in an awesome mood. When I'm in awesome mood, my first instinct is to eat.

I think my mood gland is connected to my food gland. Or something.

I've been eating "clean" for almost two years. I very rarely indulge in junk and hormone-laden beef, but I was in such a good mood that I wanted to devour something naughty and delicious. I set my sights on Sonic.

It's okay to go "unclean" once in a while. And nothing screams "unclean" like a can of imitation chili dumped over some small, round hashbrowns.

Watching me scarf down this food was like watching Connie Conehead inhale a foot long sub sandwhich. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was ugly.

I finished my meal and enjoyed the silence of sitting in my car at Sonic. There was no screaming from the back seat. There were no fallen tater tots in the seat belt clicker thing. It was just me, Sonic, and the digestive process.

When I was finally ready to go, I turned the ignition, and nothing happened. Nada. The battery was dead.

Sonic is a heck of a place for your battery to die  I mean, no one can pull up in front of the car to jump it off unless they want to ram over the picnic tables and a sign advertising a "Big Bacon Clubber."

I tried to call my husband and got his voicemail. I guess doing guy stuff with the 3 year old didn't include answering the phone.

I finally pressed the order button and told the voice on the other side of the speaker box covered in Peanut Butter Fudge Shakes, "I have an odd request. My car battery is dead. Can anyone come out and jump it off?"

The girl laughed at me and said someone would be out shortly.

I felt totally embarassed to be sitting at Sonic with a popped hood, but at least I didn't look like these people.

A matter of seconds passed when a young fellow that looked to have escaped from his mother's womb only moments earlier approached my car and said he'd be glad to help. I thanked him numerous times.

I didn't think to blog about this situation at that moment. I mean, nothing was really funny about this. It was unfortunate, yes, but my car battery dying at Sonic wasn't blogworthy.

But that soon changed.

I saw the kid hop into his relic Ford Ranger, and I thought, "He's going to jump off this incredibly large SUV with that thing? Is he sure this is going to work? Will his truck fly through the air like it's been hit by an F5 tornado when he hooks that little thing up to this beast of a vehicle? It's almost like a Mastiff and a Yorkiepoo mating. Something is bound to explode."

I worried even more when he tried to start his truck and it stalled. And stalled. And stalled some more.

"I'm going to have to walk home. I just know it," I mumbled to myself as the little pickup choked.

By the grace of God, the Ranger sputtered to life and he pulled next to me.

The cables didn't reach.

So, he backed out and tried again.

No sir.

As he was pulling out the second time, some trick in a ball cap and a silver Town and Country MV whipped in the spot right next to mine- the perfect spot for this kind young gentleman to help me.

My hood was popped. She was aware that I was having car problems. She'd seen the Ranger heading for that space, and yet she took it. The Sonic was nearly empty. She could've parked anywhere, and yet this was the spot she chose.

The little kid in the sputtering Ranger threw up his hands in frustration.

"Mam?" I called from my window.

She looked at me.

Meanly.

"I'm sorry, do you mind moving? My battery is dead and that kid is trying to jump me off. He needs to park there."

She didn't smile and say, "Oh, sure! No problem!"

She didn't smile and say, "Well, duh, your hood is up, isn't it? Excuse me for being an ignorant female dog."

She didn't smile. She didn't say anything. A peeved look covered her face as she rolled up her window and slowly moved her van.

I loathe ignorant people. I loathe rude people. I loathe that woman in her Town and Country.

So, the kid finally pulled as close as possible. He tried to pop the hood on the relic Ranger, but it wasn't happening. I noticed his hands were shaking. He was really nervous.

As I watched his trembling hands trying desperately to yank the hood, I thought, "I've still got it. This young kid thinks I'm the hottest 31 year old woman he's ever seen. He's so intimidated by my beauty that he's shaking."

I held my head high and asked if he needed some help.

He said yes.

It was no small feat, but we succeeded in pulling up the hood.

He broke out the jumper cables, which looked to have been spliced and repaired in several ways, and he attached them to my car. I nearly dove behind the dumpster when sparks started a-flying.

I don't know much, but I know how to match colors on a set of booster cables. The kid, however, did not.

"Watch it now! You need help?" a really large guy called from his truck parked across from us.

"No, sir, I got it!" the shaking boy yelped.

"You're gonna blow up that lady's car! Are you sure you got it?" he called again, onion ring waving violently in his hand.

"Yes, sir, I got it," he said again, matching the colors and wiping the sparks from his hair.

It took a while, but he finally got it figured out. My car roared to life, and I was relieved I wasn't going to have to walk home. My gut was heavy with imitation chili. I wouldn't have made it 33 steps.

I told him that I didn't have any cash on my person, but if I did, I would have tipped him nicely. He really went through a lot of trouble and almost went up in smoke because of his kind gesture.

And he didn't think I was hot. He wasn't intimidated by my 31 year old crow's feet, my lack of make-up and the stray bobby pins hanging from my hair.

He was nervous because he'd obviously never used jumper cables.

But I have a feeling that his Ranger will be needing them soon.