Molly Flew the Coop

Roper turns TWO (gasp!) tomorrow so I made a video of his first two years of life. It’s appropriately set to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.” Because, if I didn’t have to be all responsible and whatnot, I would totally be an AC/CD groupie.

I still might.

At one point, Toby wanted to name Roper “Angus.” As in, one-letter-away-from-anus. As in, “Come here Angus Steere, you delicious slab of meat!” The only way that would have happened is if I could give him “Young” as a middle name. Or “McKinnon” if I was feeling all compromise-y. The kid would have been a little bit country and a little bit rock ‘n’ roll. And I would have sent Angus Young pictures of his newest namesake in hopes of free swag.

Behold – two crazy years in under five minutes. It’s been a wonderfully wild ride and we remain…THUNDERSTRUCK!

Dear Roper,

Your mama’s excited because you are once again a PRIME number.  On Tuesday you turned 23 months old.  Watch out world!

The other night, your dad was heading to the property so he came in to say goodbye/goodnight to you as you were frolicking in the tub like a slippery little seal.  When you realized he actually left, you were having none of it, so you climbed out of the tub and I had to chase you down the stairs with a towel.  We ended up outside (you, nekkid) waving and blowing kisses to Daddy as he drove off.

Then, I watched you run back inside with your naked little buns just a wiggling (squeeee!) and I found you with your head in the toy bin and a GIANT PILE OF DOOKIE below you.  When I gasped, you looked down, moved to the side, crouched by the pile, pointed, and in the cutest little baby voice I’ve ever heard, you whispered “Gross.”

I COULDN’T HAVE LOVED YOU MORE.  My heart expanded like a hot air balloon and I wanted to give the whole world a hug.

I mean, when did you even learn the word gross?  I swear, you’re going to have a larger vocabulary than me by the time you’re four at the rate you’re learning.  And since your brain is a giant ShamWow,  I’m trying not to swear or call people douchebags when you’re around.  Which is HARD.  Because there are a lot of them out there.

Little Bear, you have been so ridiculously charming, engaging and downright hysterical recently that it’s been hard for me to leave you for any length of time.  Even for a couple of hours.  So, the fact that July held our two long weekend getaways of the summer (without you) was a little hard for me to deal with.

You were fine.  Even great.  Mama, however, was NOT.

First, Daddy and I went to Whistler for four days to mountain bike.  Roper, Whistler is the mountain biking mecca of the world and we fully expect you to love it.  There were quite a few kids as young as you riding their striders through the pump track and little practice jumps.  We have big plans for you, Son.  The following weekend, Daddy and I went to the Sportbike Northwest rally for three days where we rode fun twisty roads on our motorcycles.  You can start early on the dirt bikes, but the street bikes will have to wait until you’re older.  WHAT WITH THE LAW AND ALL.  Sheesh.

ANYWAY.  Both weekends were a blast, but I missed you so much that it gave me anxiety attacks (have I mentioned that your mama is high-strung like a poodle?)  I hated not being able to be with you when you woke up and not being the one to tuck you in.  I prayed for your safety and health every morning and night.  I missed your smile, your giggle, and the way to concentrate so hard to figure out each new thing you encounter.  I missed your exuberant kisses and your clown hair.

It was if my heart was walking around outside of body.  More likely, stomping around on thunder paws and jumping every third step.

Of course, you were busy having a blast with both sets of grandparents and even your second cousins.  You’re such an adaptable little dude! You had no problem traveling from family to family – always excited to see who you’d be hanging out with next. I guess schlepping you around everywhere I go and not sticking to a schedule has paid off a bit  ;)

We spent the fourth of July down at Crescent Bar with your Oma, Opa, cousins and a whole herd of Steeres and you thoroughly enjoyed it.  You love hanging out with the older kids, riding in the boat, playing in the pool, riding bikes and playing on the golf carts.   Apparently you aren’t impressed by fireworks.  You covered your eyes and promptly fell asleep.

We even went on a hike with three generations of Ropers - John Roper, Tobin Roper Steere (Daddy), and YOU!

Dude, these days you’re a bit of a human juicer.  You must be going through a giant growth spurt again because all you do is eat and sleep right now.  I feel like I’m stuffing weeks worth of fruits and vegetables down your gullet each day, and yes, you return it all in a less palatable package.  Like that giant dookie on the floor.

I love our conversations in the car when you talk my ear off about who-knows-what while using wild hand gestures and animated faces.  You still put up with me crawling into your crib when you wake up so we can talk and make each other laugh.  Your dad usually lets you win your wrestling matches with him.  You hug your little friends and even stole a kiss from one of the darling little girls at church.  You still adore hiking and swimming , and I have a feeling we’re going to be a future shelter for every stray in Valley because you love animals with every fiber of your being.

And I love YOU with every fiber of my being.  My heart grows every time you give me a hug and kiss.  And you have the best lips for kissing.  They are GINORMOUS.  Your dad might make fun of you now, but the ladies are going to love you.

Thank you for providing so much joy in our lives, Little Man.  We love you.

Love,

Your Mama

Those of you who know me well, know that I have a slight obsession with prime numbers.  They make me very, very happy.  Yes, I am a GIANT NERD.  Who married an equally giant nerd.  And while I fervently hope, for Roper’s sake, that nerdiness cancels out in breeding…I’m not optimistic.

In case you ever wondered what Nerdy Love looks like, here’s an email I received from Toby last week, in its entirety:

“For some reason I figured out an equation that can turn any number into a prime number.  Maybe this can be your motto?  Better make a necklace with it engraved in it :)  Anyway, it made me think of you.

X³-(X-1)³ = prime number”

*SWOON*  I have only tested a handful of numbers, but the equation seems to hold true.  To all my nerd friends – can you prove or disprove this equation?  Because if it’s true, MAMA’S GETTING A NEW NECKLACE!

The other day we were working up at the property and I was scraping packrat fecal matter out of an oven.  Seriously, do other wives ever have to write sentences like that?  All I could think was I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS.  Which made me think about our wedding vows.  I’m pretty sure packrats weren’t mentioned, but maybe they should have been.

I mean, the original vows we wrote were sweet and all, but now that we’re getting a hang of this marriage thing (HA!) I realize we need to add a few things.   Toby, here are my amendments to our vows:

1. I vow to die first.  I know our vows said “until death do us part” but I want to be clear that it will be MY death that happens first.  I’m an emotional weenie and can’t handle anyone dying before me.  WE CAN’T AFFORD THE COUNSELING.
2. I vow to live to be one hundred.  Because I have a lot of crap left to do.  Luckily, you are younger than me so you only have to live to ninety-nine to fulfill Vow Amendment #1.  Start eating your veggies!
3. I vow to continue flashing you in empty grocery store aisles whenever the opportunity arises.
4. Anything that is said after 9pm will not be held against me.
5. Anything that is said before 9am will not be held against you.
6. I vow to support your dream to build our home yourself, as long as you understand that it’s not MY dream.  My only dream is to keep everyone alive and our marriage intact throughout the process  ;)
7. I vow to never lose my sense of humor.  (Reminder:  Vow Amendment #3 has a built-in waiver for after 9pm)
8. I vow to not wear a hoodie sweatshirt Every. Single. Day.  Even though it’s the best article of clothing ever invented.  EVER.
9. I vow to continue mountain biking, skiing and riding motorcycles with you for as long as this poor body will allow me – because those are some of my favorite times.

Suggested vow for you:  I, Toby, vow to remove dead animals and fecal matter from the trailer, shop, etc.  ASAP.  Also, maybe something about never caring if the house is clean or if dinner is made…  ;)

Does that cover all of the important stuff?  Sports, hoodies, laughing, supporting dreams, and NOT dying.  That ought to hold us for a while.

So, I’m stuck in a body that doesn’t agree with me.  At all.  Sort of like Pop Rocks and pigeons (Is that urban legend actually true?  Will the bird really blow up?  I’m afraid to Google it).

I have had far too many surgeries, have far too many conditions and my body is far too broken-down for a person my age.   Thirty-seven.  In my opinion, that’s pretty freakin’ young.  But two different doctors have warned me that I’ll need knee replacements within a few years.  My thyroid has been removed because my body was attacking it.  My neck has been fused twice and is injured AGAIN (and before you send me “I told you so” emails, I haven’t mountain biked, dirt biked or street biked this year, so ZIP IT).

I have Fibromyalgia, which is an opportunistic turd-of-a-disorder that flares up any time I’m sick, tired or injured.  Umm…..I’m a full-time mom (to a lunatic petri-dish-of-a-toddler), freelance writer/editor, who’s building a house with her husband and likes high-octane sports.  I’m pretty much sick, tired and/or injured ALL THE TIME so flare-ups are pretty common.  Which means exhaustion, soreness and muscle rigidity.

Most of you probably wouldn’t know that I’m walking around in terrible pain on a nearly daily basis.  This lovely photo was shot by Joy Farr of Legacy Photography last week.  I was in the middle of a fibromyalgia flare-up and my knee and neck were killing me – to the point of causing a migraine.  I was in so much pain I would have sworn that the wind was bruising me.  Would you know it looking at the photo?  Heck no, because I’M A MOTHER-LOVING THESPIAN, YO!

Unfortunately, this works against me in the doctor’s office.  I hate to “inconvenience” people with my pain so I end up smiling, apologizing and making jokes.  Apparently most doctors aren’t used to that sort of patient and assume I’m just there for fun.  Or drugs.  Or fueling neurosis.

Several years ago I went to see a neurologist about some issues swallowing and numbness in my arms. I was told that I needed to see a psychiatrist – that it was due anxiety.  It’s true that I’m an anxious person, but GIVE ME A FREAKING BREAK!  I knew my body and I knew something was wrong.  I demanded an MRI which was quickly followed by a phone call from the doctor telling me I had a big tumor on my thyroid and a ruptured disc.  “Don’t do anything; you’re at risk for paralysis.”

It went from, “It’s all in your head” to “You have a serious injury” in the time it took me to get an MRI.  That I insisted on.  Dear Dr. Dickwad, you may SUCK IT.

After my second neck surgery, the surgeon said, “Well, THAT was interesting,” and went on to explain how they had to bring in a jack to pry my vertebrae apart enough to continue the surgery.  After my second knee surgery the doctor told me they weren’t able to completely fix it – they would have had to open the knee up instead of scoping it.  Once he saw the damage, he was surprised I was able to walk into his office, let alone ski all season on the injured knee.

From the time my contractions were three minutes apart, I was in labor for 38 hours.  Thirty-eight hours of BACK LABOR.  You know I will bring this up at Roper’s wedding.  My body went into shock, but I never once swore or raised my voice.  Me.  The one who drops f-bombs like it’s her part-time job and WRITES IN ALL CAPS.  I think Toby is still surprised.

Sometimes, I literally CRAWL DOWN THE STAIRS BACKWARDS in the morning because my joints aren’t working.

I tell you all of this not to seem martyr-ish, because I’m so NOT.  I’m just illustrating that I can hide pain with the best of them.  And I hide pain because I’m terrified of being vulnerable.  I’m terrified of being misunderstood, considered a whiner, or worse yet, that people will think I’ve become a “mom jeans” wearing sellout who’d rather be on the sidelines than in the game.   I save my crying, kicking, frustration for my husband and a very few dear friends.

Lucky them, right?  Pfft.

My point (that I took RIGHT AROUND FOREVER to get to) is that there are a lot of people out there with invisible, chronic, soul-sucking pain.  People who are fighting to get through each day and pass for normal.  I bet when you really think about it, you can come up with several people in your life.  It’s easy to forget that these people are in a constant battle with their body, because they work so hard to not let it interfere in YOUR life.

Do me a favor; give these people a little grace.  Don’t assume they’re flaky when they have to cancel plans.  Don’t assume they’re washed up just because they have to take time off from activities to recover from a set-back.  Don’t EVER assume you’re tougher than them.

And for the love of all things good, if they actually mention their pain, ACKNOWLEDGE IT.  Ignoring it or discounting it is often more painful than the physical cause.  Toby has learned that the best thing he can ever say to me is, “That sucks.”  And it does suck.  But pain doesn’t define me, or anyone else.  It just adds to our character…and our ability creatively string expletives together.

A few of you have been harassing me about an anniversary post.  On June 10^th Toby and I celebrated our fifth anniversary (which is like 60 Hollywood years, so SOMEONE owes me a yellow diamond).  Woohoo!  Honestly, I don’t feel like I can live up to the posts from Anniversary Quatro and The Aftermath, unless I leaked the nekkid pictures from the Corral room.  And that would just make you throw up a little in your mouth.

My parents took Little Man off our hands on Friday and we went out to dinner (Spring Lotus) and a movie (Hangover II) and I enjoyed my new obsession, Pinnacle’s whipped cream flavored vodka.  You guys, if I didn’t have that annoying “responsibility” character trait, I would totally drink this for breakfast.

But Saturday was to be our big celebration – riding Devil’s Gulch.  I’ll say it again; nothing celebrates marriage like twelve miles of slogging uphill followed by a banked-corners, over-too-fast, thrill-of-your-life, ride back down.

Unfortunately, we spent the day at an auction NOT buying a dump truck.

So here’s the deal.  My neck is destroyed again and I’m in agonizing pain.  And before you get all “what did you do THIS time?” on me, I would like to clearly state that my body seems to be falling apart nicely ALL ON ITS OWN.  I’m like a perfectly cooked rib – things are falling off the bone.  I swear to Father Michael (long story) that I wouldn’t be surprised if I spontaneously combusted at this point.  P.S. Toby would TOTALLY watch that documentary.

Anyway, my neck hurt too much to ride, and Toby is obsessed with buying a dump truck – because a boom truck, backhoe and tractor aren’t enough.  What, you’ve never heard of a high maintenance redneck?  So we went to an auction, and I was very much cool with that.  Just hanging out with Toby made the day fun.  That, and some greasy burgers.  Except that we didn’t get the truck…even though it went for under our monetary limit.  What, you’ve never heard of an INDECISIVE high-maintenance redneck?

My point?  Things didn’t go the way we wanted, and we still had fun.  Which is pretty much our life in a nutshell.  I love you, Tobin Roper Steere!