Autumn Harvest

 As much as I complain about our hot summer climate, I do love what it does for my garden. We have an incredibly long growing season. I planted most of my garden in early May, and I am still reaping rewards in late October. Even as the temperatures have cooled off, the plants are still thriving.

Speaking of which, two basil plants produce A LOT of basil. I love basil, I really do, but sheesh, we have a lot of basil. We have so much that I've started making pesto and freezing it. It takes about 3 cups of fresh basil leaves

to make 1 cup of pesto.

It's pretty amazing what a decent blender can do. I use it for making pesto, soup, and of course, salsa!

This year we also grew strawberries. I have fond childhood memories of eating homegrown strawberries. They taste ten times better than the ones you buy at the grocery store. Lola thought so too, and spent most of the summer raiding the garden for strawberries.

 

 

I planted marigolds to prevent pests, and they nearly took over the raised beds. They don't seem to last very long once they are cut, but they are very pretty.

 

 And, last but not least, the cherries. Our sour cherry trees produced SO many cherries this year. In July (or maybe it was August), Maria came over and we spent an afternoon just picking cherries.

I made and canned sour cherry jam, and then also froze several bags of cherries, with the intention of making cherry crisp and cherry pies sometime in the future. I haven't gotten around to doing that quite yet. Would anyone like Christmas cherry pie?

Thirty-two Months, Two Weeks, and One Day.

I know that no one wants to read about this, but I'm going to write about it anyway.

Curtis Chambers, consider yourself warned.

It's official. Lola is potty-trained. For the past couple of days she has consistently pooped in her little plastic potty, and hasn't pooped anywhere else (that we know of).  Since July, she has been capable of wearing underwear day and night, without having a (pee) accident. But, also since July, upon discovering her need to do the Number 2, she has asked for a diaper.

"Manners Please have a diaper?" she would ask.
"Would you like to poop on your potty?"
"NO! DIAPER!"

Once I would put it on her, she would run behind the couch.

"GO AWAY!" she would shout.

Respecting her request, I would leave, knowing that in a few minutes, she would find me.

"Change me, please."

Simultaneously, I've been working on manners with her. As you can tell, it's working. At least, it's works when she wants a giant poop removed from the vicinity of her butt.

Then, last week, something happened.  This something coincided with her Auntie LouLou's recent visit. Perhaps Lola was having too much fun, perhaps she was too exhausted from skipping naps because she was having too much fun, perhaps she was distracted by her freshly painted Miss Piggy pink toe nails; I don't know. But, she pooped in her underwear. THREE TIMES.

As someone who rinsed poop off cloth diapers for 30 months, you would think that poop in underwear wouldn't be much different, but it is.  It's like I built up an immunity to poop in diapers that wasn't transferable to underwear because let me tell you, poop in underwear is effing gross. I'm pretty sure this inability to handle poop in underwear is pretty common because Josh had an identical reaction to the poop. Actually, Josh had an even stronger reaction. By poopy underwear number 3, he was like, hell no.

As I rinsed the poop off the underwear and into the toilet, he stood in the hallway, clutching a diaper.
"The diapers are going away! You have to poop on the potty!" he yelled. Then he walked over to the garage door, opened it, and threw the diaper inside.

"See?" he said, showing Lola his empty hands. "Gone."

As a side note, during that split-second I had a flashback.  When I was a kid, my family always had lunch at my grandparent's house on Sunday afternoons. My brother and sister and I looked forward to these lunches because my grandmother was the queen of processed sugared sweets. On Sundays, we were allowed to drink soda, and sometimes we were allowed to take home a special Little Debbie or Hostess treat. As my parents were driving us home, after an afternoon at Grandma's, my brother and sister and I were arguing in the back seat over a Twinkie. I don't remember what the argument was about or who claimed ownership to the Twinkie, but I do remember this:

My father reached back, while driving, and snatched up the Twinkie. And, as quickly as he had it in his hand, he flung it out the window. It's creamy inside smacked itself on a neighboring car.  "There!" he said. "Now, no one can argue over it!"

But, back to Josh, Lola, the diaper, and the poop.

After he threw the diaper, my initial thought was this: It was Friday, a "Daddy Day" and while Lola had just pooped in her underwear, she had indeed pooped and her bowel movements were pretty much done for the day. The next day was Saturday, and Lola would be my responsibility. She would most likely need to poop on my shift. There weren't going to be any diapers and currently, she was on a roll for pooping in her underwear. Thanks a lot, DUDE.

So, mid-afternoon Saturday arrives, and Lola begins her potty dance. It's combination of bending forward, while grabbing her crotch (with one hand, MJ-style), and grimacing.

"Do you need to poop?"
"Manners please have a diaper?"
"No. They're all gone. You need to poop on the potty."
"Please. Diaper."
"No."
"DIAPER!!!!!!!!!!!"

I carried her into the bathroom. She started crying. "No potty. Diaper." I started thinking about the diaper in the garage. About how it wouldn't really be that bad to go get it. About how Josh and I tried to take the diapers away in July and she went on a Poop Strike for 5 days. How, I didn't want this to turn into a medical issue.

"Lola, I just want you to try to poop on the potty."
"Nooooo!" More wailing.
Josh arrives. We put her on the potty and hold her there for a few seconds. Then, she looks at us.

"Go away."

So we left. Well sort of. We both peered through the space between the door and its frame, straining to see if she would actually follow through.

Plunk.

"I DID IT!"
She stood up and applauded herself. We ran inside, clapping and cheering, and this went on for like ten minutes. Can you imagine what her first piano recital is going to be like? Oh man, maybe it would be best if I just got rid of my noisemaker now.

Since the infamous poop, she's independently used her potty several times with success. As with all milestones, this one was also bittersweet.  Diapers were her last hold on babyhood. While she will always be my baby, she is a baby no more.

Yet, the upside is also pretty great.  Rinsing poop out of a plastic potty is so much better than rinsing it out of underwear. Trust me.

Family Camping Trip, Part 2

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but getting a campsite in August at Carpinteria is a bit of an ordeal. The campground is owned by the State, and the State opens its reservations for August on February 1st. Not a big deal, right?

I didn't use to think so, until the first time I attempted to book a campsite. I remember leisurely logging on to the State's website on February 1st, a few minutes after registration began (8 AM), thinking that I would have lots of campsites to choose from. Instead, I ended up booking the last campsite available in the entire campground. We ended up loving our campsite, but it was a bit snug for us.

The following year, I logged onto the website a few minutes earlier, but the site's server kept crashing. Around noon, there was a huge sigh of relief in our house when the campsite was finally booked.

This year, the night before the great website race began, I was on Facebook and I saw the status update for a friend: "Staying up until midnight. Going to try to book a campsite at Carpinteria."

What?! Could it be? I checked the rules. It said, "8 AM." Trusting the rules and not my friend's judgment, I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, I checked Facebook again.  "Turns out you can't book it until 8 AM. Really tired."

When 7:54 rolled around, I logged into the State's website. At 8 AM, I battled it out between all of the other crazy campers and outdated state technology.

VICTORY! We got a great campsite, large and spacious, close to the bathroom, and even a little grass.

Family Camping Trip, Part 1

Oh, dear. Forgive me, as I have not been faithful to my blog. As I am sure you can relate, our summer has been very busy with activities, special trips, and house guests. But, I hate excuses, so let me begin with where I left off, which was August. 

Early in the month, we did our annual trek to the Central Coast for our family camping trip. We took the same route as we did in past years and traveled down the Pacific Coast Highway 1. While this drive is almost two hours longer than taking the more direct route (Interstate 5), it is much MUCH more scenic. And, while Lola used to have a reputation for being a horrible car passenger, she has redeemed herself and can now sit in the car for hours with her books and snacks and crayons and remain calm. In fact, we made the entire ten hour drive without even using the portable DVD player. We brought the portable player (and three movies) with the intent of using it as a way of retaining our sanity. Had it be necessary, I would have broken all rules and allowed her to watch 10 hours of straight television. Instead, we never even turned it on.

Did you read that? Is there an award for being a strange and peculiar child?  Because I think my kid just won. 

But, back to the drive. 

The halfway point of our long drive is Big Sur. As we have done in past years, we stopped at the Big Sur River Inn for a delicious breakfast.

Here are Josh and Lola at the table, with Lola pausing to her coloring activities to take a photo:

 Afterward we went outside, so we could sit in the creek lounge chairs.

We do this every year, and now this photo has become a tradition. Here we are in 2010, me with my 18 month old girl.

 

And here in 2009, when Lola was just 6 months old.

The Things She Says

She calls Oreos, "panda cookies."

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Lola enjoys going to our local garden nursery because they have a large koi pond. On a recent visit, she told me that the fish rhymed in the pond. When I prodded her about what she exactly meant, she shouted, "The fish at the nursery like to sing nursery rhymes!" Then she proceeded to look annoyed because I was unable to figure this out on my own.

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She spends time every morning doing "her workout." While she is doing crunches, she'll count and then say, "Ab-ripper-X! Let's climb those legs!" (A line from P90X.)

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She can identify photos of Jillian Michaels.

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If an object isn't operating in a way that she expects it to work (like a bottle or a container that she finds difficult to open), she will tell me, "This needs new batteries!"

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Yesterday, as we were working on an alphabet puzzle, she said authoritatively, "OK. Here is the deal. This is an A."

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Oftentimes, she'll walk into a room, stop, cross her arms and shout, "What is going on here?" (Josh says that she gets this from me. I think he is imagining things.)


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Josh and Lola are together, running errands.

Lola: I want a baby sister.
Josh: What did you say?
Lola: I want a baby. I will hold it.
Josh: What about a baby brother?
Lola: No. Baby sister. I want a baby sister.
Josh: Did your mother put you up to this?
Lola: Auntie wants a baby sister.

Advocate

I always assumed that given stressful circumstances, it was always more comforting to share such stress with others. That it makes the load lighter; that the sharing of information helps the very person who carries the burden.

But then, very recently, I found myself in a stressful situation, and I was unable to share with the people closest to me. In fact, for someone who considers herself a very terrible secret keeper (unless bound by attorney-client privilege), I did remarkable well. I learned something important: sometimes there are things that scare you so much that you can't talk about them. You can't write about them. You can't even think about them. They are just there, and somehow you just deal with them.

All that being said, I feel capable of writing now. I'll start here.

About eight weeks ago, I made an appointment for an ultrasound to follow-up on the strange mass on my neck. Back in November 2010, my primary care doctor determined that the mass was a swollen lymph node and not a concern, but she wanted a follow-up done in six months. Well, come July 2011, and I'm sitting in my doctor's office discussing the ultrasound results.

Dr: The ultrasound looks great. The mass is just a swollen lymph node.
Me: Why is my lymph node swollen?
Dr: It could be swollen for lots of reasons. You could be fighting an infection, your body could be reacting to something foreign. Lymph nodes swell all the time.
Me: I haven't had a cold since September. I feel great. It doesn't make sense that I have a lymph node that has been swollen for six months.
Dr: Lymph nodes get bigger and smaller all the time.
Me: But mine hasn't gotten smaller.
Dr., sighing: Would you like me to refer you to an ENT? Would you sleep better at night, if I did?
Me: Yes and yes.

*Side note: Does my doctor not read those magazines in nail salons? BECAUSE I DO. Every month there is an article about some woman who didn't follow-up or ignored some strange medical ailment and then ended up with a diagnosis and died within three months. Morale of the story: ALWAYS ADVOCATE FOR YOURSELF. ALWAYS.

A week later, and I am sitting in a medical room, staring at a tray full of equipment that I am sure inspires horror movie directors. The ENT doctor enters. He looks at the ultrasound. He feels my neck. He tells me that lymph nodes get bigger and smaller all the time. That occasionally, a swollen lymph node doesn't get smaller.

This makes me feel better.

Then, he numbs my nose (using an Afrin-like spray) and proceeds to use a 8-inch long "throat telescope" that GOES THROUGH MY FREAKIN' NOSE. He causally mentions that our noses are more flexible than one thinks they are.

Soon I can feel something in the back of my throat. The telescope has reached its destination. Afterward, the doctor seems annoyed and tells me that he didn't see anything unusual. I leave, stopping at Peet's on my way home for a drink, annoyed in my inability to taste the specialty ice tea that I ordered.

Two weeks later, I see my endocrinologist. It's a warm July afternoon. She walks in, and I fully expect her to dismiss me, just as the previous two doctors had. Instead, she looks at my chart and then looks at me.

"I'm concerned."

She tells me that there is a mass on my thyroid. This mass (something that was discovered in November when we were investigating the rogue lymph node) had more than quadrupled in size in the past six months. The unknown rapidly growing mass, combined with the strange relentlessly swollen lymph node, worried her. She told me that a biopsy was necessary.

Then, she started talking about thyroid cancer.

I'm not going to lie. The minute she dropped the "c" word, I mentally checked out. I remember her saying something about how treatments were really good, and how if it were malignant it should be in the early stages. Yada, yada, yada.

I couldn't hear her. My thoughts went immediately to Josh. To Lola. Fear gripped me. I couldn't move. She gave me a pamphlet. I shoved it in my purse. I walked out of the office. I sat in my car and eventually drove myself home. Two days later, I scheduled the biopsy appointment.

Then, I was mum. I couldn't talk about it. While the biopsy itself didn't scare me, (I mean, what's a needle in the neck when you've already had eight inches of tube shoved in your nose?) the potential results terrified me. I couldn't talk about the upcoming appointment. I couldn't even think about it. So instead, we went camping. We spent a week at the beach and I soaked in all the love my niece and nephews and Lola allowed me. It was glorious.

A week later, I found myself in another medical office, this time accompanied by a doctor with an accent like Antonio Banderas and office furniture that resembled a cruise ship.

Antonio: Hoooold still, while I toooouch your neck.

Twenty minutes later, I left the cruise and sat in my car. I held back tears. I refused to allow myself to cry. I felt silly for being upset. On my drive home, I reminded myself of how crazy it would be for me to have cancer. How unlikely. How I didn't have any other symptoms.

The next day, I went to work. I sat in my office. I waited for the phone call from my doctor. She didn't call. At 1:32 PM, I called her. Her nurse took my call.

Nurse: It's benign.
Me, silent.
Nurse: That means, it's non-cancerous.

I thanked her. I hung up the phone. I called Josh. Weight rolled off my shoulders.

The mass is to be monitored by my endocrinologist. And, I am (now) well-versed in the symptoms of thyroid malfunction. A part of me feels lucky. Relieved, thankful, grateful, and very lucky.

Please and Thank You

One of the things we work on each day is incorporating manners into Lola's vocabulary. Sometimes it works, and other times it doesn't.