Julep: Well, that was awkward.

And painful, and humiliating, and unnecessary. In order, let me offer the following commentary to the doctor who performed the HSG:

Sir, I appreciate that you were trying to be cheery and jovial, but after finishing a procedure through which the young woman on the table has sobbed aloud in pain, perhaps it's not really appropriate to announce, "There, that wasn't so bad, now was it?" when snapping off your gloves. Actually, sir, it WAS so bad. It was pretty frickin' painful. You, sir, have neither uterus nor fallopian tubes. So I am pretty doggone sure that you have no idea what it felt like.

And did I mention humiliating? Sir, do you have any female colleagues? If so, please think hard about letting her do these procedures in the future. If not, please think hard about recruiting one. It's bad enough to be lying on one's back on a hospital table with one's feet in stirrups as someone threads a catheter up one's lady parts without some guy one's dad's age doing the threading.

And thanks for announcing breezily on your way out the door, "Your tubes are fully open, no blockages." Here's a little secret, sir: even before you did the test I was pretty sure that was the case. At least the nurse took a moment or two to tell me that sometimes the test has been known to clear obstructions that aren't visible to the X-ray, giving me some small bit of encouragement that this might have been something more than an exercise in wasted time and dignity for me and revenue generation for you.

I appreciate your attention.
Julep

Julep: I am NOT SICK.

I am perfectly healthy, thank you. But for the first time in my very life, I am all on the prescription meds. They are making me take these stupid antibiotics so they don't give me an infection at the hospital tomorrow when they shoot radioactive dye into my girl parts to make sure I don't have a blocked fallopian tube. Despite no medical history of endometriosis or STD or abdominal surgery or anything else that might cause such a blockage, apparently said blockage is still a (slim) possibility. So off I go.

I will bet dollars to doughnuts that there is not a doggone thing wrong with my fallopian tubes, and this is a giant waste of time and energy and personal dignity. And I am NOT SICK.

I suppose this is just the beginning of the loss of bodily autonomy that will kick in if and when I ever get pregnant. (Not to mention the loss of sovereignty over time and energy.) But I am not particularly happy about it as you can see.

Edited to add (as part of an effort to look for the silver lining): it appears that my health insurance plan will pay for this diagnostic exercise (subject to my co-pay and deductible, of course). Wonders never cease.

Thanks, Girls: Dibbs

Friends, Thank you so much for the gorgeous flowers. I'm going to send you all notes, but I want you to understand exactly how appropriate the flowers were. Then I'll tell you all about the funeral hi-jinks. (Aren't there always funeral hi-jinks?)

My grandmother loved to garden. She loved fresh garden flowers. She had a garden at her own home and, up until a few months ago, one at the Assisted Living home, The 'Ridge. When my mother and I went to choose flowers on Friday, we took pictures of Grandmommie's flower beds, so the florist could mimic them as closely as possible for the casket spray and the gift from her family. Fast forward to Saturday. There were two almost-identical vases of flowers on either side of her. We thought the florist just couldn't fit all of our flowers in one vase. Upon further inspection, one of the arrangements was from you girls. I guess great minds think alike.

Elderly minds, however, do not. No fewer than 15 people asked me if I was Bob's sister. As I am Bob's daughter, and Bob's sister is 59, I was less than overjoyed. It would have helped if Bob's sister had gotten out of the chairs where she was chatting with her cousins to join the receiving line, but you can't have everything. My parents gave me express permission to kick the next mistaken person in the shins. No need. I showed the tiniest bit cleavage the next day. No 60-year-old looks like that.

My grandfather and Dad chose my high-school old flame as a pall-bearer. I'm glad. He goes to visit my grandfather all the time. Sweet. Yes, he's still hot. Yes, I had mascara rivers on my face when I talked to him. Awesome.

My cousin A plays the keyboard. Have I told you that before? It's true. She's also pregnant, but my grandfather still hasn't told us. I even gave him the opportunity and he didn't tell! My aunt begged me not to tell her (she'd be devastated.) I was charitable and didn't. I should have. She's simply the devil. She showed up both days thirty minutes before time to leave. Then she snuggled up to my grandfather and said, "He wants me to sit by him." (Just so you know, I don't give a damn who sits by him. It's just her smug little style.) Maybe, A, he can come live with you. Apparently you can't get up in the morning by yourself. He can be your alarm clock. We have over/under bets on how long she keeps this job, BTW.

Again, thank you all. I am blessed to have such wonderful friends.

Ghetto Twinkle

There was no way I was cooking after the Great Thumb Drama of '10...so Mr. Twinkle and I agreed to meet for a dinner of basketball watching and a recap of the eventful day. Well, on the way home from my parents' I was reaching in the back seat to retrieve a dropped sippy cup and my bra strap broke, so when we got back in town I took my bra off while driving down Cherokee Road and jerry-rigged it with a safety pin right there on Willow Avenue (ghetto, I know). At the stoplight at Eastern Parkway I threaded it into my sleeves, but I just couldn't get it fastened. I pulled into the alley behind the Boombozz Taproom to hike up my shirt and fasten the clasp, and just as I did, a jaunty fellow with dreadlocks popped out to sip his Coke in the refreshing spring air. We shared a moment of awkward eye contact and I quickly covered up, but I'm pretty sure he got the money shot.

Trying to laugh it off, I parked, went inside, and got a table. Yeah, Dredlocks was our waiter. I wanted to ask him exactly what he saw, but decided against it. For what it's worth, he couldn't have been more delightful. I'm going to take it as a compliment.

Twinkle: Children's Programming

First, Dibbs, I want to offer my condolences about your grandmother. You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers--I hope you're doing well and are spending time remembering her with your family.

I hopped on here to talk about children's tv. Two years of protecting Twinklette from licensed characters and commercial marketing came to a screeching halt today, in the Immediate Care Center of all places. (Don't worry...everyone's fine. My mom slammed her thumb in the car door but didn't break it, and is now taking a Demarol-induced nap).

Anyway, the staff at the emergency room was trying to be helpful and turned on Nick Jr. for Twinklette, who has never watched television and until today didn't know children's programming existed. She calls all television programs "the news," because that's all we watch (when it's on at all). She wouldn't know Elmo from Dumbo, and that's the way I prefer it. But today, she was transfixed with a cute little Asian-inspired cartoon in which the characters were growing a community garden and teaching Chinese phrases to viewers. It seemed pretty innocuous, and I told her that kind of show was only on at the hospital. (I know I'm hardcore...but I read the book Buy Buy Baby, about marketing to children, and I vowed to protect my child from it. And until today I have).

I called Mr. Twinkle to tell him how annoying the show was, and how all our efforts were being destroyed by one unfortunate afternoon of Nick Jr. He said, "Oh yeah. My parents asked me if it was OK for her to watch Sesame Street, and I said I didn't care."

Now, I have not had a chance to address this with Mr. Twinkle yet, but I am just shocked and appalled by the subterfuge going on with this family. I skip one Friday night dinner to cook for the Juaree with Lola, and suddenly they're outfitting her in tacky shoes and pushing commercialized children's characters down our throats. (Is that my punishment? Probably).

Will my MIL stop at nothing to make Twinklette into the image of childhood that she expects? All I'm trying to do is let Twinklette make educated decisions about what she likes (if she likes a Disney Princess sippy cup for its own intrinsic value, that's fine with me...I just don't want her to like it because some corporate executives tell her she's supposed to). You'd think MIL would admire my efforts and try to cooperate, but all she does is try to undermine me. You'd think she'd say "thank you for doing what you think is best for your child", but instead she goes behind my back and pushes her own agenda.

The woman is as dangerous as SpongeBob...at least I'm onto her.

Twinkle: Star-Spangled Sketchers

Y'all are going to think I'm crazy. And I probably am.

So, Twinklette spent the night with my in-laws this weekend, and came back with a new pair of Sketchers covered with star-shaped holograms. My MIL threw her hands up and said, "She picked them!" so as to rid herself of blame for the hideous shoes (which are sort of funny...and it's really OK with me if Twinklette picked them. I recall a certain purse that depicted a giant pig face, that I fell in love with as a child, and carried everywhere). So if she really picked the shoes, that's cool. The way the story was presented to me, they just happened to be in the Von Maur shoe department, and Twinklette saw the shoes and fell in love and had to have them, and her generous grandparents obliged. It's a scenario I've lived, and while Twinklette doesn't get everything she wants, if it's obvious that she's truly in love with something, and it's something I can give her, it gives me a lot of joy to give it to her. I just assumed that's what happened with the star-spangled Sketchers.

Well, digging deeper always reveals more, doesn't it? Just a few questions to Mr. Twinkle about how the whole tennis shoe thing went down, and it became clear that my MIL had an agenda. When I wasn't around, she brought up the issue with Mr. Twinkle. It seems she doesn't like the mary janes I always dress Twinklette in. She thinks Twinklette needs some shoes she can "play in." (By the way, Twinklette runs and plays and does whatever in her mary janes, and I never tell her she can't do something because of her nice clothes and shoes). Mr. Twinkle told his mother that she plays in the shoes she has now, but as usual MIL ignored him and proceeded with her own agenda, taking Twinklette to the tennis shoe department of Von Maur and telling her to pick some.

And I know that they'll be easier to run in, but I just hate the implication that I'm somehow an unfit mother who cares more about how Twinklette looks than whether or not she can run and have fun. That's not it at all--I just like nice shoes. Maybe I'm taking it wrong, but it feels like MIL thinks I'm (once again) not meeting my daughter's needs, and it's up to her to swoop in and do it.

And maybe Twinklette can wear the shoes when we go to the playground this spring, but for school days and normal times we're sticking to the mary janes (or her adorable polka dotted rain boots, which she wore today).

I know I'm crazy, by the way. I just don't like being told what my child "has to have." I know what she wants and needs, and with or without tennis shoes, I'm doing the best I can. It's never good enough for MIL.

Julep: Kudos to Twinks

I really have got to get to work ... my first trial as first chair starts Monday and I haven't finished preparing my cross of the plaintiff, haven't started writing my opening statement. I can only procrastinate for so long.

But let me take one quick second to applaud you, Twinks, for believing that the most important thing Twinklette can grow up to be is herself. I wanted to cheer after reading your last post.

I now know that I was very lucky as a child that my mother was not interested in dictating who I should be as an adult. She cared very much about training my character, but my personality was allowed to flower in any which direction I wanted it to go. Good evidence: y'all know that my sisters and I could not be more different in the externals, but we are all three sterling citizens when it comes to being honest, reliable, trustworthy, and dependable. There's a contrast to be made here to Mr. J's mom, who cared a lot more about trying to change his personality than she did about shaping his character. Luckily he was a pretty good person by nature ... but I digress.

My best friend Charlotte was saying the other day how much she enjoys getting to know her kids as they grow up and develop their own personalities. I think you two share a very similar perspective on your role as parents, and I really respect and admire it. I hope one day I will get the opportunity to do the same.

As one final note - we ate dinner the other night with Mr. J's good friend, who is in culinary school and about to become a first-time father. He was pondering on how to raise a child who is an adventurous eater: while he will eat anything, apparently he has a brother who eats only cheese pizza, casting his own parents' strategies in doubt. I shared your food philosophy when it comes to Twinklette (which you shared in a recent blog post about your MIL's insistance on ignoring it via "let me get you some mandarin oranges.") He was so excited by it and is very eager to put your method in play himself!