9 EPT's (I did get a 2 for 1 deal)

I'm linking up to one of my favorite bloggers at the Denton Sanatorium. How did I end up in this house full of men? I never really thought much of my future. Of career, college, family. Maybe I didn't have enough time. I just went with the flow. I think that my lack of "future planning" has aloud me to ride the waves of life a bit easier. I met my love while I was still in high school. We fell in love and with a letter from my mother giving me permission to marry, we were on our way to the beginning of the next 25 years. No easy years but oh what an adventure.

My first son was born soon after. A three hour labor. No problems really. Mothering came naturally to me. I never felt inadequate or ill prepared. Okay maybe a little but I wasn't afraid. I wasn't intimidated by this new calling in life. I think that both of us being the oldest in our families and my coming from a single mother with 6 small children gave me the experience I needed to be comfortable. I thought my #1 was a breeze. I didn't realize what a fussy baby he was until I had others. I loved him so much. I would watch him sleeping in his cradle and morn for the emptiness I felt inside by not feeling him kick and squirm. Now I had to share and I didn't want to. My Danny. "Danny doo with eyes of blue", silly I know. I wasn't ready for another one anytime soon. I was still in high school and my husband was working three jobs.

I remember very well the moment I realized #2 was created. Sounds strange but I knew immediately. I just knew. I fell to my knees and with tears streaming down my face in the quiet darkness of my room I asked God to give me the ability to love another child. That was my biggest fear. How could I possibly love another child as much as I loved the first. I knew instantly when TJ was placed in my arms after my hour and a half labor. Hearts grow.

Spencer was my only planned. My heart knew it was time for another. My first two were 20 months apart but more time had passed and I was ready. It was a Sunday evening and we were sitting at the dinner table when I realized I had my birth control prescription to pick up. Bret looked at me across the table and said, "don't go" Those two words were some of the most romantic words he's spoken to me. Ten months later and my longest labor ever - 4 hours - my sweet dimple faced Spencer was born.

I hate to say that number four was a mistake but I will say that a contest and a bit of adventure brought us Taylor 33 months later. How much of that plays into his personality is a guess. I had four boys and life was good. Bret had his own business, we loved our little house and the boys were growing up.

I loved being pregnant! I joked with my sisters that I would and could easily be their surrogate if ever the need was there. I became pregnant easily, I was never sick, I felt fantastic, my deliveries were FAST and my babies healthy. So two years later we were expecting number five.
I felt fantastic even with four little ones. I was showing enough to have purchased and been wearing new maternity clothes and I had just begun feeling the tiny flutters and movements that mother's cherishes. I remember waking up in the early morning feeling the need to use the bathroom. I returned to my bed only to have the feeling again but before I could get back up my water broke. The rest is to sacred and personal but I had lost my fifth son. I had never felt my soul ache as I did that morning. My heart was forever scarred with that loss. But I knew I wasn't done. Our family wasn't complete.

A few months later I became pregnant again. Early on I started to spot and was put on immediate bed rest but at 8 weeks we knew that it wasn't to be. Mother's Day at church I went into labor and my husband took me home. I labored all day long until it was finally over. This one wasn't as hard to lose. Not to say that it wasn't hard but we knew the chances of loss so early on that I think we were mentally prepared for it.

Then number seven. That sounds weird and is strange to even read. We were excited. My doctor but me on total bed rest. I could shower, bathroom, fix my lunch if no one else was there to help and check the mail. My OB diagnose me with an incompetent cervix. I had damaged my cervix when I delivered #1 by pushing to soon which caused lots of tearing and thought that this surely contributed to the weakened muscle. I went in at 12 weeks to have my cervix stitched. At 16 weeks, after cute maternity clothes and those blessed feelings of movements inside, I went into labor. My husband was working out of town three hours away. My mom had to take me to the hospital. I can't imagine how my husbands heart must have hurt and how agonizing that trip home must have been for him after he received my call. I will forever be grateful to a tenderhearted ultra sound tech. The tech couldn't tell me anything. Hospital rules. But I needed to know. "Do you know what a Doppler is"? he asked. "I do. It's on isn't it"? He nodded his head. There was no sound. I had my answer. How could this have happened?

But it wasn't over. Once again we tried. Once again we lost. Identical scenario as five and seven. I lost number eight. The most painful experiences I have ever gone through. But. I learned through it all how much my Savior knew me, loved me, and was capable of comforting me. I wouldn't trade that knowledge for anything. People thought we were crazy. Crazy to have tried so many times to begin with and even more crazy , some said selfish and even foolish to try again. But as hard as I wanted to feel I was done, it wouldn't come. I prayed. I prayed a lot. I told God that I had it in me to try one more time but that was all I could do.

I didn't get pregnant. That never happened to me. But after several months and a positive test I was beginning my next ride. Bret went with me to the doctor. The same doctor that had cried with me the last 4 babies. With the ultra sound on, he looked over me and directly at my husband. Do you see what I see? They look like owl eyes. There are two in there! The three of us cried. With great excitement my doctor told me how in the past few months he had been caring for a patient that had similar experiences as me. He immediately ran some blood work and I tested positive. Had I become pregnant immediately he wouldn't have known how to treat me or to even test me. I have a genetic blood disorder called hyperhomocysteinemia. My blood is thick like pudding and I don't absorb B6, B12, and folic acid normally. So as my babies grew #1 my cervix wasn't strong enough to hold them and #2 my blood would clot, cutting off life. So at 12 weeks I had my cervix stitched for the third time, I was put on very strict bed rest, and I had to inject myself in my tummy, twice a day, with blood thinners. Too many blessing happened during this time of my life to even refer to in this post. At 36 1/2 weeks my twin boys were born. Healthy. Alive.

I knew we were done. The feeling was so precise. So definite. So final. It's been eight years since my last child was born. Eight years is the difference between my number four and five and six. Strange. It seems like a life time ago and yet the memories are as fresh as yesterday. Loss hurts oh so bad. I can't comprehend what those mothers who have lost living children must endure. Yes, my children lived. I felt them move. I saw and held their perfectness. But lets put this in proper context. I didn't nurse them, I didn't rock them to sleep or bathe them or comb their fine hair. Loss is personal. We can share but we can't truly understand and feel the pain of another. Not fully. To my friend and acquaintances who have suffered and endured so graciously - I honor, admire and respect you.

What has motherhood taught me? I am strong. I am brave. I am resilient. I trust. I have faith. I am loved. God is good. God hears prayers. God knows me. Personally. God knows my children. Personally. God knew what I needed to learn from motherhood. From physical pain, from emotional pain. God knew I would enjoy the journey and that I would trust Him. I am learning to trust myself. My greatest honor in this life is to be the mother of six boys. This is what I was made for. This is where I am supposed to mess up, to learn, to grow, to be. I've got my true love by my side to do it with and my Heavenly Father to guide me through it. I wouldn't trade a minute of it.

The Real Me

We never really know what people's perception is of us. How many know the real us? I mean the real us. I don't have a clue what people think of me, I hope it's positive. I decided to participate in Jenny's challenge. You can read about it here. In my defense I am a really really hard worker. When I put my mind to something I give it 200%, however I tend to neglect everything else while working on said project. I'm not very focused and disciplined. I haven't always been that way but 4 years ago this month that all changed. I'll blog about that another time.

Just remember lazy:

Lacking motivation-rAn out of time-Zomething better came along-no energY

I hate mornings but each one starts with my 16 year old waking me up at 6:40 to take him to school. I have just enough time to go to the bathroom and find my usually misplaced keys and sunglasses. Yes I wear my sunglasses even if it's not sunny. I guess you can call it my disguise. As he gets out of the car he often times has to pick up whatever fell out of the car onto the parking lot and throw it back in. Junk mail, water bottles, fast food bags, shoes, you name it. I drive back home and listen to the twins get ready for school. Notice how I said listen. A good perfect mom would make them a nutritious breakfast, comb their hair, and have a great morning conversation with them. I check my e-bay, face book, blogs, and e-mail while they are fixing frozen waffles, cold cereal, or peanut butter toast. In my defense I am in the other room within listening distance and I do gather with them for morning prayers before they rush out the door. At this point I often climb back into bed.

Once I wake back, I shower and get ready for the day. I rarely make my bed. I was not brought up this way. I don't remember a single day when my mom's bed was not made. I do know that it makes the day start off better but honestly I am just lazy. See the pile of shoes next to my night stand. Lazy. I think I a rebelling from my upbringing and so perhaps my children, in their lack of example from me will rebel and have perfectly neat and tidy rooms and made beds when they are adults.





I spent the last week at my sisters house a couple hours away. We spent hours and hours cleaning, sorting and organizing. She is incredibly talented as a musician, mother and more. But she needed help in the organization area where I have my talents. So if you were to come to my house after seeing and hearing all that I instructed and did, you would call me a hypocrite. I like to think of myself as a coach. A very good coach but a lousy player. I'm great at telling other people what to do and how to do it, but am terrible at implementing that said advice for myself.


I usually run errands and go to the office (self employed lets me work flexible hours). If I were on top of things I would do a little bit of house work before I left but again, I am lazy.

We are short people and I can't see the top of this shelf. But I am sure that most of the adult population that comes over can. Sorry mom I know you didn't raise me this way but you're really short and never would have known.

I generally eat while I am out. I am a confessed junk food/restaurant junkie. It's seams like such a waste of time to stop and fix something at home. Lazy. I did have a goal a little bit ago to eat healthy, and save money by eating at home. I went to the grocery store - a chore that I HATE - and brought home some things that would make for great breakfasts and lunches. And here it sits.

I know that many of you take time for yourselves during the early afternoons. A pedicure would be nice but the real me is missing too many toe nails. 3 1/2 to be exact. I lose them after big hikes and yes I've tried all kinds of boots and shoes. Here is the confession. My gross big toe has a fungus. Yes, FUNGUS. So gross to even admit. I'm that lady who you look down at and say, "Oh dear you need a pedicure." Yeah right. I know what would be said about me in a language I don't understand if I came in with my missing toe nails. I do know that I can get tips. Tips on toes. Sound really ridiculous but according to the Dr. it will only slow growth down if not stop it completely. I live in Arizona for heavens sakes where sandals and white have no September rules and I have ugly toes. I do occasionally paint my nails (skin). If you look at my painted right toe you will see a blister. That's from my 8 year old pair of Payless shoes that I danced the night away in and walked the Las Vegas strip till three in the morning (remember Karen?). Sunday church gave me a blister. Then there is a little nick on the next toe over - I don't know if you can see it but that's from shaving my toe hair. Yep fungus and toe hair. That's the real me.

I try to make it home in time for the kids to get home from school. We do the normal after school stuff, watch to much tv, play to much on the computer and realize when it's too late that it's time for dinner. We try to gather together as a family before bed and say our family prayers. Then the little ones are tucked in with a prayer, a song and a drink. And it must be in that order. I fall in bed about 10:00 and generally think of all the things I should have accomplished but didn't because I was to lazy to get it all done.

Can you feel your eggs crack?

I remember well the day my first born discovered my band-aids. He was four and had been quietly playing in his bedroom. Wrong. He was quietly playing in the bathroom. When I went to check on him he had covered himself and the walls with Carefree pantie liners.

"Mommy, look at me!" He said innocently
"Honey, these are mommy's......band-aids." So I lied. But if you read the band-aid box it clearly states, "large adhesive pads comfort-flex, greater comfort and flexibility, improved material for better protection". Sounds like a personal hygiene product to me.

Years later another son had his first encounter with feminine products. A bloody nose during football lead the coach to shove a tampon up said sons nose to stop the bleeding. Who knew they had such a dual purpose!

This leads me to my next moment which has caused me to ponder whether or not I have failed my sons in the full disclosure of human female anatomy and our functions.


I love to pull weeds - for several reasons.
1. NO ONE BOTHERS ME! If you ever want some alone time, pull weeds. No one else wants to do it so they won't come close for fear of being asked to join in the chore.
2. When a victim does make the mistake and comes close, I will often times ask them to join me. They quietly obey and grab a seat near me. This usually leads to great conversations that otherwise would not have happened.

This was when my next moment occurred.

The discussion was with another son. (I have 6 remember). He is currently taking a human development class at the local community college. With great enthusiasm and the excitement that he was really teaching me something new he said,

"Mom, did you know that if a woman can figure out when her cycle is, she can decide when to have a baby?"

I was a bit stunned and tried so hard to hold back my giggles. This was my 19 year old that had just discovered the solution to all conception problems. If only we ladies could figure it out we could have a baby. I explained to him the obvious and the conversation continued.


"Yeah, I also learned that if a woman pays close attention she can feel her eggs crack."

Seriously! Do you mean ovulation? How was your teacher teaching this and where did your mother go wrong? Oh wait. I don't think your mother ever taught you any of this. Or any of your brothers for that matter. It never crossed my mind.

I had a hysterectomy (or what I like to call a hersterectomy, since I am a her,) and a bladder suspension last fall. Yes, it CHANGED MY LIFE and was worth every ache, pain, and inconvenience to have done! But I digress. One of the twins asked me what was wrong as I was resting in bed. I told them I had some mommy parts fixed. None of the older ones showed any interest or paid any attention when we tried to explain to them what was done. They just knew that there wouldn't be any more babies (I don't think they really understood/cared why)and mom could now jump on the trampoline.

I asked myself. Have I failed my sons and future daughter in laws by not educating them in all this female ick? Do they really need to know? They do know the basic birds and bees but....

So I went to my oldest who is married and has a daughter,
"What do you know about a woman's menstrual cycle?"
His response, "Mom!" and he walked away.
So I asked the tampon up the nose son the same question.
His response, "Mom. Seriously. Most of my friends are girls." and he walked away.
I didn't bother to ask my college son. He obviously knows it all now, our eggs cracking and everything, so I asked my second to oldest.
"What do you know about a woman's menstrual cycle?"
His response, "I know enough to stay away when they're on it." and he walked away.

Maybe I did teach that one something.

Where is Your Sanctuary?

I came across the word sanctuary the other day. The word has several definitions but what struck me were these:
*A place of refuge or asylum
*A reserved area where wild animals are protected from hunting and predators.
*A place for worship

I was cleaning my shower the other day and I realized that this ugly 4' X 7' box had become my sanctuary.

Background: Six years ago we bought our home. However, prior to moving in we spent four months tearing down walls, ceilings, ripping out carpet, breaking up tile, knocking down cabinets - we completely gutted the place. Except for the master bath. My husband's a plumbing contractor. We wanted something awesome. We didn't want to charge any of it. We didn't have plans drawn up. So we waited. And it's still the same. On the outside of this shower, the paint is holding in the water. On another side we occasionally pick a mushroom that has grown from underneath the baseboard. Gross! I know. I am a relatively clean person or so I like to think. To clean the mold that grows inside this unventilated box takes an entire bottle of cleaner, a naked body (You don't want the cleaner to drip on your clothes), a step stool, open windows (yes, I lock the bedroom door), a sponge, and an hour of precious time. The ceiling is much more difficult. I use a cleaner soaked mop. You'll see in the picture that I haven't cleaned the ceiling yet. Please don't write me about the dangers of chemicals and black mold. I already know.

Your private tour:

24" door. I'm so glad I didn't live here while pregnant with the twins. Single light bulb. No fan. No air vent. Ceiling mold.



From left to right: Cool mechanism to hold razors, soap, hang sponges and press of the button shampoos and conditioner. I always forget to fill it. Miscellaneous toiletries. Five people are using this shower now. TJ uses it because it's easier with his broken, trash bag taped arm to maneuver in. The twins love it because its big, loud and all their cars fit in it. And of course me and Bret. Next you will find the phone jack. Why? I have no idea. Ask the previous owners. I have been in the shower with several phone jack repair men as the moisture does funny things to our phone lines even though this one is "dead". Go figure. The door.


Door, more miscellaneous toiletries, cracked caulked leaking handles, concrete patches where the tile has fallen off. What you can't see is the bulging tiles that are ready to fall off and the hole where the sauna wire used to be. Yes, this shower used to double as a sauna. Previous owner. Perhaps explains the phone jack?
But you ask why is this my sanctuary. Can't I find better? Not conveniently. This is the only place where I can be alone. Doors locked. I can't hear a sound and they can't hear me. (I know this for a fact as the hot water turned cold one day and I was covered in soap and shampoo. Plumber husband down the hall had no idea of my situation as he couldn't hear my screams for help.)

This has been my place to run away. To relax. This place knows my secrets. My flaws. I have been able to seclude myself here and pray from the deepest recesses of my heart. I have been able to receive answers to my prayers in the quiet uninterrupted setting. I have cried so hard that my sobs shook my whole body but not a soul knew or heard my turmoil. I've slept on wet towels covering the cold floor with cool water spraying over my heat exhausted, dehydrated body. I've cut myself with my husbands dull razors as I've rushed to make it to appointments. I've stood at length to escape from the world of chaos wondering when they will notice I am gone. I've come to love this ugly box. I think I will be sad when all it knows of me will be buried in a pile of rubble after a few swings of a sledge hammer.

I think we all need a place like this. A place to run for peace and quiet, a place to vocally express our deepest feelings knowing that they will never be heard. A place so still and calm that we can hear the things and feel the inspired things God wants us to know that we can't here when we're rushed, preoccupied, interrupted, and other wise engaged.

Do you have a sanctuary?

Do I Laugh Or Cry?

Taylor is pretty good about doing the yard work when asked. This past Saturday I asked him to mow, weed and feed the grass as well as trim up the two bushes in the front. He was pretty proud of himself when he was all done. He came into the backyard where I was working and said, "Mom, I'm finished. Come see."





I'll be more specific next time.

If it's not broken, bleeding or on fire I don't want to hear about it!

I use my title phrase occasionally however with caution these days. The first time I remember saying it was when we were returning home from a family trip. I don't even remember where. But the car was packed with people and belongings and we had probably spent to much time together. The boys were fighting, bickering, and tattling and I had had it. I turned around and in a not so kind voice yelled, "IF IT'S NOT BLEEDING, BROKEN OR ON FIRE I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT!" Two minutes later it started up again . I turned around to spew my wrath only to see blood coming out of one of their mouths. A strong wiggling rearrangement of bodies had busted open a lip. Six boys.

I do wonder sometimes what I did in heaven to deserve six boys. Sometimes I say that with pure sarcasm but other times I say it with such complete joy I think my heart will burst. This past year with them has been frightening and gory to say the least.

A warning to my readers. This will be a long post. Mostly for my memory sake as it is failing quickly. But a serious warning. There will be pictures that may be difficult for some to view so proceed at your own risk.

My dear TJ. How he has made it this long doing all that he does is really a question for the heavens. The only set of stitches or injury that he has ever incurred was when a neighbor boy threw a piece of wood up in the air and it landed on top of TJ's head. With my 3 day old baby in tow we headed to the hospital for stitches. Poor boy yelled and screamed. The anesthetic didn't seem to take hold as the doctor pierced his skin.

He has been home one month and 21 days.

This is his right arm. His riding glove had to be cut off.

He broke his radius bone which shortened his arm, dislocated the ulna at the wrist joint shoving the joint through the skin. I can't even comprehend the force of impact that he took. How did he do this one asks. On his brand new, working hard, saving for dirt bike. He is proud to say she doesn't have a scratch on her. There was a new jump he wanted to try. And being the fearless leader and excellent rider that he is, he was the first to try it. He over shot the jump by about 20 feet. He landed it with both tires hitting the ground at once. He new immediately something was wrong as his arm was hanging low but his hand was still on the throttle. That's when he saw his bone sticking out. He proceeded to ride out the jump, came to a stop, gingerly laid down his bike and yelled out, "I need an ambulance!" At which time his quick brain realized that he is our only kid uninsured, an ambulance ride costs money and his friend could just drive him to the hospital that was a mile away.

These things never happen at a convenient time. Bret and I were on the stage getting instructions for the upcoming Mesa Easter Pageant. We weren't supposed to answer our phones but when it rang a third time Bret figured something was up. I took off and got to the hospital in time to be in the room when they relocated the joint in order to get the bone back under the skin. He was supposed to have a twilight sedation. "He won't feel it or remember a thing, but we have to do it quick." As soon as the medication was administered they began but...He decided to quit breathing so they had to stop and connect him to oxygen. Then they proceeded but...enough time had lapsed that he did feel it. He was yelling and swearing and pulling but it only lasted a couple seconds and it was done. At least he doesn't remember it. That part did work. This is when I remembered his stitches from years ago. This may also explain why the Morphine and pain pills aren't helping a hole lot. He had surgery two hours later, spent the night in the hospital and is now recovering at home catching up on movies that he missed over the last two years.

139 days before this we were in the hospital with Dallin.

We were at Grandmas house celebrating October birthdays. Grandma loves to play competitive games when we get together. Dallin was really getting into it as we all were. No one was paying attention to Dallin who was standing, I mean jumping up and down with excitement on grandmas coffee table in order to see the contest. Half of this table is wood the other half is glass. We always assumed it was tempered. We learned that it wasn't when we all heard the glass shatter. I knew instantly. Bret carried him to the car. I couldn't. I wasn't supposed to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk. 12+ stitches later (the doctor didn't count the first layer that she did) we were done. He was lucky as the glass slit between his toes and not any tendons or ligaments. If your going to do it - Do it right.

4 days before this we were in the hospital with Taylor

He was trying to make a paintball canon. I won't go into a lot of detail because I don't want another stupid teenager to try and copy a stupid idea. Let somebody else be responsible . Let's just say that it didn't work. This was by far the most traumatic injury/mother experience to date. Maybe it was the sound of the explosion as it rattled my windows and woke up our deaf neighbor from his nap. Perhaps it was the expressionless look on my otherwise joyous child as he walked toward me. Or maybe it was the blood, bulging out with every pulse streaming down his neck, back and chest. The thought was real as I thought my child may bleed out here on my kitchen floor as I cradled his head in my hands waiting for the paramedics to arrive. It took 10 minutes. We didn't know how severe the injury was or whether or not there was still metal in his neck. I held a blood soaked towel, refusing to show it to the ill equipped policemen (all 10+ of them) until real help arrived. Three hours later we left the Trauma 1 hospital with a neck full of stitches and a severe powder burn. The doctors told him that he had angles watching over him that day. The policemen told him he had angles watching over him that day. The firemen told him the same. As a mother, I know he did. He was centimeters from his spinal cord and other main arteries.

13 days before this we were in the hospital with Me.

No pictures. They really wouldn't be appropriate. Hysterectomy and bladder suspension. Ladies! This is the best thing I have ever done for myself! I can run, jump, laugh and sneeze all at the same time if I wanted to. Recovery was no bad. If you've ever considered it DO IT! If you're afraid of it DON'T BE! It truly changed my life and my lifestyle of which I didn't even realize was being hindered.

138 days before this we were in the hospital with Danny. Looks like the state of Utah. It's his skin graft. This was a long, very long ride that I will record later. Let's just say for now that I am glad it is over.

101. That's how many days a member of our family has been in seven different hospitals.

It has been hard watching my children suffer. But I have truly enjoyed taking care of each one of them. I have loved them more deeply. I have prayed with more gratitude, thanking my Father in Heaven for them. I have also prayed with more gratitude, thanking my Father in Heaven for allowing me to be their mother. I am so very proud to be the mother of six boys. I just hope I can live up to that responsibility.

I'm An Addict

I don't care for water. Quite honestly I don't even think about getting a drink of water except when I am brushing my teeth. After running or working out in the yard in 100+ degrees and I have stopped sweating and things are blurry and my head feels like it's going to explode do I think to myself, Hey, I might need a drink of water. As I have mentioned before, I'm slow. So my beverage of choice is an ice cold Diet Coke. I hate the real stuff. It's too sweet.

I think my addiction started 20 years ago. I moved next door to my friend Julie (No I am not blaming you). Both of us babysat for a second income. Between our own children and the ones we watched from 6:00am to 6:00pm this added up to about a million little rug rats. Conveniently around the corner was a Circle K convenience store and a cinnamon roll/cookie shop. Our mornings would begin with one of us watching the kids while the other walked the few steps to grab two 44 ouncers and a couple of warm delicious rolls to start the day. I remember vividly when the insulated 54 ounce mugs came out. This routine carried me through my days. I didn't really think anything of it. I figured I deserved this special daily treat.

Now years later I realize I might have a problem. My big clue was when I stopped by a neighbors after church an asked if he had any. He grabbed a can from a dark cabinet and gave it to me. I took it home and poured it over ice. It tasted terrible. It was past its expiration date. I didn't know soda could expire. But I drank it up anyway. I justified it as needing something to wash down the spicy cheese crisp my husband had made me for lunch.

When I started running earlier this year I was surprised at how my bones felt. Not my lungs or my muscles but my bones. I wondered, silently of course because I don't want to ever be wrong, if there could be something to the Diet Coke drinking and the pain. All I ever really hear when someone (husband, mother, sister) preach to me about the evils of drinking this stuff is blah blah blah blah blah.

Wednesday February 17, 2010. Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. I never really knew what this day on the calendar meant. I thought it was another foreign obscure holiday that know one could explain. I've since been educated. I'm not Catholic. I respect those that are. We have so much to learn from one another but that is for another post another time. I decided that I could at least participate in Lent for myself. What did I give up? Diet Coke.

My headache only lasted three days. But I am starting to cop an attitude. All I've been told (maybe I do listen a little) is how wonderful I'll feel. (say it with a high pitched sarcastic voice) I'll sleep better, my skin will be so nice, I'll notice weight loss caused by bloating and water retention, you will be so surprised by all your energy, you'll quit wanting it after a few days, your cravings for carbs will go away because we all know that they are caused by drinking soda. Poppy Cock! (polite way of not saying what I really want to say) It's been 2 weeks and I feel horrible. I toss and turn at night, my face looks like I'm 16 again, and I've put on 5 pounds from all the carbs and goodies that I am eating. I'm crabby and I am SO VERY VERY tired. I haven't been able to run since I quit drinking it because I am so weak and tired. Did I mention that I am crabby and I really really want an ice cold Diet Coke from McDonald's (they have the best).

I was at my chiropractic visit yesterday and he asked how I was feeling. I told him. With attitude. He asked how many addicts of other substances I have in my genes. I said lots. Well, what makes you any different from them? he asked. Ouch. Then he suggested to his assistant that he should give it up as well. The assistant stated that Diet Coke was garbage. He drinks Diet Pepsi. I replied that Diet Pepsi is nasty. I'd drink water before I drank that pinesol tasting poison. For some reason my chiropractor thought this was a very funny, ironic, if not ridiculous debate. He handed me a bottled water. It took me all of three and a half hours to finish that drink.

I am not going to stop. I mean with my goal. I have to see it through. If anything it has made me grateful that I don't have an expensive addiction. Maybe admitting this personal problem to the world will help. I will try to learn to like water. But if dehydrating in an Arizona summer doesn't make me want it, what will?