Christmas 2009

Lester & Me

I have this lump.
It's big - big big for a lump. Maybe 2 inches, a little less.
It moves, shifts if you will, - anchored in place by connective tissue but like a ball under a sheet you can press around it to rotate it.

I also have the TINIEST boobs on the planet.

So it's like "Here's NearlyA boob one, here's NearlyA boob two, and here's Lester. The lump."

I saw a doctor a couple of years ago.
"Oh what a lovely lipoma! It's just beautiful."
me: "LYMPHOMA??"
Him: "Lipoma. Fat. It's a big lump of fat."

My husband can see it from outside of my clothes.
Him: "Your shirt's wrinkled"
Me: "That's Lester"
Him: "You should get that checked"

So it's now really five years or so since I had Lester checked. He's not growing, not painful. He just...sits there. When I work out he looks bigger, when I don't, he retreats into the company of other fat cells.

Back then I asked my doctor.
Me: "Can I have it removed?"
Dr: "You could but why would you undergo a procedure when you can just leave it alone. If you treat it, you'll have a scar. So scar, or lump?"
Me: "So what can I do?"
Dr: "Well you could gain weight." chortle chortle "Then you won't notice it."

That doctor. He's a barrel of fun.

This morning I put on a pastel pink lycra tank top.
For BootCamp.

And saw my third boob.
Prominently.
One.
Two.
Three.

And I think Lester days are numbered.

There's a Spy Amonst Us

So my girlfriend posted to facebook today about their Elf on the Shelf. Apparently it's inspired by a children's book and this elf sits on your shelf, watches your kids and reports back to Santa as to whether they have been bad or good.

I'm sorry but creepy much?
I think.

Not that I don't see the inherent cuteness.
I used to wish the "good fairies" and "bad fairies" that lived on our shoulders - as told to us by MaryJean Rafferty, babysitter - were real, and I think children should believe. In something.

But threats?
Covert operations?
Spies amongst us?
Rewards for good behavior?
Bribery?

meh. I think not.

And as far as a fairy overseeing our shenanigans? I have enough difficulty with Jonathan Edwards style "crossing over" - thinking my poor dead grandmother is watching me shrill like a fishwife. I don't need some snotty little fairy carrying tales.

Nobody likes a gossip.

My husband’s parents left about an hour ago.
We’re both still a little confused.

Out of the five of us, four cried at the door. My father-in-law, who himself walked away from Ellie’s tears. Ellie, who spent two glorious days in arms, M&M’s aplenty but moreso with her two best friends, me for her loss and my only sadness that they live so far away and my mother-in-law. Who held it together regardless. My husband, the most practical of us all, had two helpings of chicken potpie. On the couch, as I asked him to leave the room while I decompressed.

For two days my house felt homey. Maybe it was the warm weather, or the fact that we raked, we fixed gutters. Maybe it was the frosted pumpkin bread, the 24 hour soccer match with the television remote set to toggle back and forth to Noggin. Maybe it was four of us sleeping peacefully, my husband and I knowing that should Ellie cry Geandma was in bed nearby, and she and her husband sleeping knowing that the dogs neednt be let out. Maybe it was all four of us, united, enjoying my daughter, enjoying the company of one another, the home, the food.

My fathering law and I raked in the dark Friday night, by the back porch light. We had two bags of our own, plus five from the neighbor, then another one borrowed. We didn’t talk much, we alternated blower vs rake. Maybe we talked about overpaying for the landscaper who bricked off the side, and who dumped bad loom onto our land. Later Saturday, my father-in-law raked up over the bad patch and pulled up a bucket full of stones and glass. “Lazy he was, I tell ya and I’ll not be talking about another mans work” in his thick brogue. Over 30 years here and he still has the soil of Ireland in his boots.

I must have left the room a dozen if not two dozen times. My daughter certainly didn’t need me. I sat, then stood, paced then sat again. What DO you do with free time? I plotted and planned to eat less this week, I strategized what I could sneak into their bags home. I combed every conversation for clues as to Christmas wishes and gift ideas. While they both played with Ellie. On the floor, from the couch, for walks and bike rides. I’m not sure if Ellie’s feet touched the ground and I know that other then a few stolen kisses and a bum change, I mostly washed dishes around everyone.

I spent a few minutes on the porch and my husband and I shared a rather more thoughtful deliberate kiss in the kitchen. Tomorrow I will wake up happy for having seen them.

But for the rest of today it feels like Christmas is over.
The house less vibrant, the walls less warm. the energy, the crackle. It's gome for a couple of hours until we call them again on the phone. "On the 'pooter" Ellie cried out for several minutes into her nap.

We'll have to wait for Grammie and Grandpa to get home before we can all see each other again.