Underestimation

I have to apologize for my last post. I sometimes forget how much the people around me rock. Love you guys. Seriously do.

Sooo, I do have cancer. But the cancer part is not a big deal. I swear. And I shouldn't have used that word. Even though that is what it is. Thousands of people get this type of skin cancer every year. The cancer part doesn't scare me. Not even the fact that it is an aggressive form of that cancer. The type that I have is called Infiltrative basal cell carcinoma. It just means that it is characterized by deep infiltration. That is the part that concerns me. And again, not because of the cancer aspect, but because of how they have to treat it. They have to dig it out of me. Still no big deal, right? I mean, they do this type of procedure daily with no side effects and very little scarring.

Best case scenario, they take about 5 centimeters out (just a tad bit bigger than the tumor), find it has not spread, stitch me back up and I'll be as good as new.

But, as doctors, they have to give you the worst case scenario. And worst case scenario is they cut from my nose to my ear, and dig until all of the cancerous areas have been removed (actually, worst case scenario is radiation-but that is soo rare for this type of cancer, I'm not even thinking about that). And that is when the panic set in. Because the image of what that would do to the person staring back at me in the mirror every day freaked me out. Arms and legs are great. Toes, fingers, knees, a spine, all very important body parts. But the face. The face defines us. It is how the world assesses beauty. It is how we identify our children in a crowd. It is how we express ourselves. It is the first thing we see and notice about a person. And beautiful or not, my face is who I am. And I have grown comfortable looking like this. Just like this. Plus, I want my cheeks to work properly when I smile at my kids. May seems trivial, but that stuff is important to me.

And superficial. And I know that. I just panicked at the thought of seeing something different in the mirror. And I shouldn't have. Because there are far worse things that could happen to me. Far worse cancers to be diagnosed with. Far less treatable diseases. So I'm lucky. But I'm still scared. And I'm so grateful to be surrounded by such amazing people. People who let me be irrational, and pathetic. And who have made it very clear to me that even if the worst case scenario becomes reality, they would still be seen in public with me.

c is for....

C is for Cora: My little girl turned 5 on Friday. Not sure why that particular number is freaking me out so much, but it is. And, I'm also not sure I'm ready to tackle the drama that comes with these teenage years (wait, what's that you say? She's not officially a teen for many years? Can someone please tell her that!). In all honesty, Cora is so much fun. She is a lover of her sister and a great helper to her parents and a loyal friend. She is quite stubborn (wonder where she gets that?), quite feisty, and quite the little gymnast. She loves arts and crafty things (and now I really want to know where she gets that?) and is very artistically talented. She is a smarty pants, and LOVES to learn. She is eager to start kindergarten in the fall and to ride the school bus (which probably won't happen, as I have fears about a little thing like Cora with big meanie school bullies-although Cora could probably hold her own just fine). Cora is fearless and adventurous and silly. And we have loved every minute (okay, most of the minutes) of the last 5 years!

C is for cake: Which we (I) ate plenty of at Cora's party. I will post pictures as soon as I have gathered them off various cameras.

C is for celebrate: We honored fathers on Sunday. Every year, I am filled with emotion on Father's Day. I miss mine, am blessed to have had a great second father, and I am blown away by what an amazing father I am married to. Many might argue this point, but Mark is the best father. Period. And this is true because he is the father of MY babies. Which makes it true.

C is for cancer: Which I was diagnosed with yesterday. I am told, of all the cancers to have, basal cell carcinoma skin cancer is the best(?) type to have. If caught early (which mine was not), a simple removal of the tumor is all that is necessary and life returns to normal. In my case, they will not be sure how much it has spread until they begin surgery and can examine the area around the growth. Normally, I would be optimistic because of the type of cancer it is. It is rarely fatal, and so for that I am incredibly grateful. But, it is on my face. And there is a real possibility they will have to remove a significant portion of my right cheek as a result. And I can't get past that. I don't want to be butchered or disfigured or ugly. And I know all of those fears are shallow and ridiculous. But that is what is churning around in my little brain. And I can't shut it off. So please, slap some sense into me (on the left side of my face, if you will), and assure me you love me for who I am on the inside. I'll keep you posted.

Because it makes my day

I love this picture. Love it. Everything about it. My older sister's curly hair. How fresh and new I look (at only a few minutes old). The lighting. Everything. It makes me feel adored. Because I was.

And it makes me miss my sister.

She lives in Portland. And that is too far away. We are so different. But perfect sisters. I used to throw hot irons at her, and she would retaliate with batteries aimed at my head. She has scars on her wrists from where my nails pierced her skin. But we survived it. And looking back, we had an incredibly full childhood.

I love being near her. And I miss her. This picture reminds me of that too.

Just Another Day in Paradise

I should have been washing these:
Or taking this out:
Or paying these:
Instead, I was attending my first ever fort fashion show. Quite similar to a regular fashion show, you don glamorous outfits, hats and heels. But during a fort fashion show, you randomly pop out from under chairs and blankets to reveal the new fall line.Sadly, because I was so curious about the show, I forgot to snap pictures. So they are of the aftermath. We used the hats that we made at a church Mother/Daughter/Grandmother activity a few days ago. And although seating was limited, the girls invited a few other audience members. I think they were so blown away they were speechless.

It was a very unproductive, very fabulous afternoon.

Parenting Lesson #1

"Most children threaten at times to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going."

~ Phyllis Diller

Cora was using the air vent in her room as a trash can. The vent is, unwisely, not screwed down. So when she would sneak candy or other off-limit sweets, she would pop open the vent and dispose of her trash. Or her half-eaten Rice Krispie treat. Or the moldy remains of an apple core. And since that was working so well, she just decide to start throwing all trash down there. Well-used tissues, crumpled up artwork, empty Capri Suns, broken crayons.

Had I not caught her, I am unsure of how long that practice would have continued. Or how that would have affected the quality of the air pumped into her room. Luckily, the duct work makes a sharp curve right under her room before dropping under the house, allowing all of the deposited items to rest safely on the flat surface, awaiting rescue.

Frustrated at my daughter's never ending antics, I voiced my exasperation to my cardio class. I was immediately reminded of the greatest lesson in parenthood: someone always has it worse.

Case in point: one of the gals in class, Spring, has a 7-year-old son. Now he hasn't always been a wise 7-year-old. Back when he was an immature, rebellious 5-year-old, he took to secretly peeing in their plants. And in the corner of the living room. And under the kitchen sink. And in his sibling's drawers. And down each and every vent in her house. Repeatedly.

For some reason a moldy apple core doesn't seem quite as earth shattering anymore.

The Graduate

That title sums it up, but I don't think it is quite appropriate when talking about a preschool graduation. Which happened. Last week. But I have been too lazy to post pictures. And I have allergies. Bad. And that should invoke some kind of sympathy. Well maybe not hearing it, but today my eyeball was actually swollen (and if you would have seen it, guaranteed you would have felt sorry for me, or scared to be near me-one of the two.). Not kidding. The eyeball itself can swell. Who knew? Anyway, enough about me. Here is my no-longer-a-preschooler-so-I'll-act-like-a-teenager:The graduation march. Cue music.
Her graduating class. The boy on her right wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up and the boy on her left wants to be a dinosaur. She wants to be a mommy. Perhaps I have not screamed enough at her to convey the harsh reality of that career path.
She is thrilled to be graduating. Seriously thrilled.
See, I told you she was thrilled.
This is Cora "not posing."
Cora's teachers. I LOVE these gals. Top notch!
Holy cow I have an almost kindergartner. How did that happen? An almost kindergartner wearing a 2T dress. Nice.
And this is what Claire did for the entire ceremony. Gotta love those action shots.

Congrats Cora, aka Ms. Smartypants!