Blessings Abound

We met with the oncologist today. It seems that that visit to the District to get waved at by the Pope is all paying off now. With prayer, luck, and about $3000, my baby has a 95% chance of beating her cancer.

They ran a battery of tests today including an abdominal ultrasound, a chest xray, and a buffy coat (which is a blood test to check if the cancer spread to the bone marrow). All clear!! Yay!

Thank God!! And thank you St Francis for your intercessions!!!

Monday she will undergo another surgery to take more of the surrounding area out and to place chemo beads throughout the incision. And this should, hopefully, we pray, take care of my baby girl.

But why can't I breathe a little easier. Where is that sigh? I still feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. And don't tell me to shrug. I can't.

The Pope Races Cancer

So as you all know, the Pope came to Washington. But what you may not know is that yours truly sat roadside and received a papal blessing... of sorts.

You see, it all started a long, long time ago, back in the mid to late 1970s when our then pope -- the very Polish Pope John Paul II -- came to visit the very Polish city of Chicago (in case you didn't know, Chicago's got more polaks than the Bush family has idiots). My very Polish... er... Irish... er... German Lutheran mother decided to call us all in sick and sit down on the curb for 8 hours awaiting his arrival at the Polish Heritage Center. She sat with every Catholic medal, prayer book, rosary, and mass card ever gifted, inherited, stolen, or otherwise owned by anyone in our family for the last 17 generations (not all German Lutherans, of course) along with her two young children to whom she witheld drink, for there was no potty on the curb. There we thirsty three sat, yearning for the time when the pope would come by and give us Lutherans his blessing, freeing us to go home and once again drink to thirst.

In all seriousness, the moment that Pope JPII came upon the crowd, his head and torso popping out of the sunroof of some fancy car, I was awestruck. There were Polish dancers all around, music blaring, people screaming and waving, and yet for me it seemed silent and solemn and holy. He first turned and did a blessing to the center which was directly across from us. He then switched to face us, we three thirsty Lutherans along with about 40,000 Chicago Polish Catholics all crowded together on one city block. Making the sign of the cross, he blessed us. I got the goosebumps and tears filled my eyes. My hands shook and my heart pounded. It was a very powerful memory for me, one that remains to this day, 30 years later. I still have the medals my mom bought me for the occassion. I'll probably be buried with them.

So, when the new Pope showed up here in DC, I naturally didn't even remotely entertain the idea of dragging my three young children off into the city to fight the hoards of people clammering for a bit of papal love. Why, I'm not friggin' nuts here, folks! I am a busy mom with things to do and laundry to fold. I can't take time out of my day to make memories that last a lifetime... or... maybe... huh.

I sent out a message to my posse: the homeschool moms. I might be nuts enough to do this thing, but I am not crazy enough to go it alone. I'm dragging whomever I can down with me, dammit! And who do you think volunteers to come along with me? My dear friend Tami, a devout Mormon, of course. We latched our rag tag group onto another mother and her 8 children (Catholic converts!) and all of us trekked down to the District.

Much folly ensued that will be skipped over due to time and space constraints, but suffice it to say that my children weren't on a curb long enough to even get thirsty before the Pope came gliding by. Although, we did have a baggie filled with medals, a few crosses and crucifixes, a prayer book for each of the older children, and all the rosaries I had in the house. We were well weighted down as we raced to get there with only about 3 minutes to spare to secure a spot (which we did well!) and get our cameras out. Tami took this awesome picture.

It wasn't quite as magical as my childhood memories. I don't quite agree with the mother of 8 who said, it was the best "three and a half seconds of my life!" He was busy talking to the bishop as he drove by in his popemobile. But he did raise his hand in a gesture of papal salutation and I think that's the best we'll get from this pope. I'll take it. I take what I can get, after all.

The fact is that I'm not a big fan of this pope. I mean, I actually wasn't a big fan of the last pope, either. But as a child, I really had no opinion. I just knew he was the Pope, the head of the church, the heir of St Peter. As a child, that was enough. That was more than enough. That was awe inspiring.

On our way back home, I asked the kids what was more fun, seeing the pope or riding on the Metro. Unanimously they chorused, "Seeing the pope!" Even Tami's son Zack. So I guess I did manage to recapture that silent, solemn, holy moment, even if just for them.

My moment will come again someday... when once again I feel my skin prickle and my tears swell with pride. Someday, perhaps far into the future, when our pope is one who cycles with the moon. I gotta have something to pray for.

*************************************************************************************

About a month ago, while lying in bed fading into sleep, Mike informed me that we had been invited to go to a birthday party at the horse races. Did I want to go?

Yeah, sure, whatever was my noncommital type response and I forgot all about it.

Until.

Mike tells me that when he responded to the Evite, there was a lot of talk about women in hats and dresses and even a Lady's Hat contest. And that's when I knew. Mike hadn't gotten us into going to some dude's drunken birthday bash as the race track. Oh, no. He'd gotten us into some crazy southern ritual involving lace and chiffon and ascots.

Horse races, my white ass. These are not just horse races, people. These are Virginia horse races. And these aren't just any Virginia horse races. This is the Middleburg Spring Races. And this is the south. We couldn't just go in jeans and tshirts. Oh, no, no, no. We had to dress up. This is an EVENT. This is a social! This is a dress affair! To tail gate. And these tail gates are complete with table cloths and floral center pieces and catered food and all kinds of high heel insanity. You've never seen so much southern snobbery this far from Texas.


Iryna made a little friend, as you can see. She thought she was belle of the ball. But she's a Virginian, remember.

The kids had a blast, too, after they met up with a perfect stranger who allowed them to pick her horse and place her bets. Please note that Miss Jane (as she liked to be called) is a local Middleburg gal. They apparantly don't have to dress up. Or perhaps they just don't rate with the DC snobs that travel out to the country to walk in horse shit in heels. Hmmmm...

But, there was beer. And so, Mama was happy. Enough. Anyway.

*************************************************************************************

And the final segment of today's blog post:

My baby girl Alyx.

Six years ago a friend of mine came to stay with us for a few days while packing up and leaving the island for the mainland. She had three dogs. One of which was a pitbull who took an instant disliking to my Alyx. Before we could separate them, the pit tried to take a chunk out of Alyx's side.

Not long after that, Alyx developed a lump on that side. Being the worry wart mommy that I am, I took her to the vet immediately. He felt it, squeezed it, rolled it between in thumb and forefinger and declared it a cyst and nothing to worry about.

The cyst would remain. As we moved around, I would have our new vet look at it, each one agreeing with the initial diagnosis. I once scheduled to have it removed during a teeth cleaning. The vet completely forgot, but once again I was assured it was absolutely nothing and not to worry. Not one of them even thought to aspirate it.

Finally, I decided to have the darn thing removed as it had recently been feeling a little bit bigger. Again, during a cleaning as an almost after thought, our current vet took it out. It was about the size of a large olive. A few days ago she called to give the results of the biopsy which I was kind of surprised that the vet herself was calling me.

"It's a mast cell tumor," she said.

"Uh huh," I mumbled as I chopped red pepper.

"Stage II," she continued.

"Okay," I managed while thinking about what I should eat with the red pepper.

"I was kind of surprised when I got the results. I really thought it was benign," she went on.

This, this stopped me dead in my chop.

"Huh? What? Ummm... can you... uhhhhh...." I searched the counter tops quickly for a paper and pen. "Can you repeat the name of that tumor again and the stage it is in?"

We went on from there to have a rather painful conversation on what Alyx may or may not have to endure from here on in.

I'm absolutely devastated. Crushed beyond reason.

We are meeting with the oncologist tomorrow. We'll know more then. Until then, my friends, family, strangers who just stalk my blog because you are a glutton for my freaky sense of humor and foul mouth, please send good vibes, positive energy, prayers to St. Francis, whatever you got. Send them to my sweet gal. This is the dog of a life time. You dog people out there know what I mean when I say this. She is the dog of a lifetime. She is not yet 11 years old and I am not in any way ready to let her go. Not now. Not yet. I can't.

She's gotta fight.

Me & Lisa Hartman

Today I was standing in line at Costco with the usual suspects, Demon Spawn Girl Child #1, Demon Spawn Boy Child #2, Iryna, and cream cheese, veggie platter, and a chicken, when out of nowhere the woman in front of me says, "You look just like Lisa Hartman Black."

"Me?" I asked, stunned and waiting for the punchline.

"Yes," she confirmed. "In fact, at first I thought you were her. Your eyes are exactly the same as hers. Really. You've never heard this before?"

I'm not making this shit up, people. I couldn't even if I tried. I'm not that smart or creative. If I was that smart and creative, do you really think I'd be sitting around wasting it on this blog and entertaining you? Come on, now.

So, I came home flying high and big headed. That nose ring really must be working for me, thinks me, foolishly. I mean, this was quite the boost to a big, old fat housewife like myself.

Until.

I looked up Lisa Hartman Black. I knew who she was, but I just wanted to really get a look at her. Ya know, to compare myself and all. I took my picture and then sat down to the Google. The results are stunning.



As you can see, I could be mistaken for her twin. We look that much alike. In fact, I was planning to grill my mother about this remarkable resemblance. My mind was racing, trying to figure out how we are related, because a resemblance that eerily close doesn't just randomly occur. I mean, I thought we must be sisters. My mom must have gotten herself knocked up in high school and the child she put up for adoption went on to become Lisa Hartman Black!

NOT!

I look about as much like Lisa Hartman Black as Bush looks like an intelligent world leader.

But just for shits and gigs I looked up her birthdate. Born in 1956. She's just 10 years younger than my mom, making her a full fucking FIFTEEN years older than ME!!

Yes, today I was told I look 52.

Do you think I can sue Costco for damages?

Land Called Paradise

This was forwarded to me through one of the many lists I am on. I don't normally watch or read things that are forwarded, but I'm glad I did this one. Despite the hillbilly music.



To my dear friend Ala'a: May we meet someday in a land called paradise, but until then may God hold you and your family in the palm of his hand.

You know your closer to breaking a hip than being hip when...

In February I turned 37. I know, it's hard to believe. But it is true. And with that advanced age (yes, the exact word they'd use if I were to become pregnant: "advanced maternal age") comes a modicum of wisdom. Remember now, just a modicum, though.

My little nugget of knowledge came in the form of a realization that my mother can no longer ground me for doing stupid stuff. That's right. I'm 37. I have three kids. Three dogs (well, now I have three anyway). A husband. A beautiful home... with a mortgage to prove it. I am a grown up. And she cannot ground me any longer. I am free to do stupid stuff and I don't have to hide it (because, mind you, I always did stupid stuff, but then I had to go through the whole hassle of hiding the stupidity and there are just some things that cannot be hidden.) Armed with this knowledge I made a lifelong dream a reality.

I got my nose pierced.

But alas, my dear readers, I was a bit late in achieving this goal so gaining my nasal jewelry wasn't without the humiliation that you've all come to expect from the Fat Housewife. Au contraire, mon ami, it was rife with humiliation. By the way, I haven't a fucking clue what that really means as I don't speak a lick of French, but it sounds pretty cool, doesn't it? That's what people with nasal piercings talk like. Cool talk.

When I first told Mike of my intentions, his comment was, "So, you're going to be the wife with all that shit in your face?" See Pulp Fiction for reference on this one. Then, I came down with the never ending sinus infection from hell which required no less than three weeks on antibiotics. Not exactly the best time to get a nose piercing, ya know? But while I was waiting for my mucus to change from a bright green streaked with blood (sorry about that if you were eating, but ya know, it's never a good thing to come to this blog and eat anyway), I talked it up to everyone I knew, probably so that I wouldn't chicken out. In my gabbing on about it, I found another middle aged housewife yearning to be hip: my friend Nicole. To be totally truthful, unlike me, Nicole isn't trying to regain her youth and be cool. She is willing to get the piercing as it is held in Indian beliefs to help with fertility and childbirth and she's planning an IVF this June.

Finally, I figure I'm well enough to plunge cheap metal into my face and pay for the privilege. We set the date and drag all three of my kids and her three year old son with us. Now, in Hawaii I brought my kids in tattoo places several times. It was no big deal there in the land of the laid back. But here, apparently, there are uptights who like to make laws preventing children under the age of 13 from entering such places. Laws that escaped me... and my friend Nicole, a former lawyer turned homeschooler.

So, envision if you will, two fat housewives trotting with four kids, one of which is a sleeping baby, into a tattoo parlour at 2:30 in the afternoon. The place was packed with people all under the age of 22, I swear. When we walked in, it was alive with chit chat and laughter, the humming buzz of tattoo guns throughout the store. But one look at us and it was as if someone said, "EF Hutton" (and when I make that reference it really dates me). All stopped what they were doing and looked up at us. I mean, every. single. person.

"They [pointing at the kids] cannot be in here," said a smiling young man with shit in his face. "At all," he added, just in case I was so old that I didn't understand that they couldn't even be in there just a a little bit. Ya know, us seniors sometimes don't understand.

"Okay," I replied, trying hard to act cool and calm and devil may care all the while blushing so hard from embarrassment that my crows feet must have stood out like scarlet footprints. "Can I... uhhh... ya know... ask you a question?"

He just looked at me and pointed to the door, but I wasn't about to throw in the towel that easily. You know me, I can't bow out with any grace left. I must be totally humiliated for it to be mission accomplished in my book.

"We... ummm... wanted to get our noses pierced... and I uhhhh..." I stammered.

The dude with the shit in his face kept smiling as he said, "The piercer doesn't work on Mondays."

"But I called ahead, on Saturday, and was told he works Monday through Saturday. That Sunday is his only day off," I replied, again refusing to leave with even a shred of dignity. Then I repeated, "Ya know, I mean, I called ahead," as if that would make all the difference and because I called ahead the piercer would magically set all things right, including making me 15 years younger and 30 lbs thinner and without the belly sag that an almost 11 lb baby leaves behind. Call or none, it did not matter.

"Yeah, he tattoos on Mondays. Come back tomorrow after two."

And with that, we marched our illegal offspring out of the tattoo parlour, utterly dejected, feeling old and fat and housewifey. Well, at least I did. Nicole seemed to be unscathed, self esteem in tact and all. But she is a year younger than I. That could account for it.

Today, we ventured back sans kids but plus one more fat housewife (you know us crazy homeschool moms love tattoos and piercings). No one really noticed when we walked in, and we weren't the oldest in the shop -- there was another woman there at least a few years older than we. Of course, she was there with her teenage daughter who was the one getting the piercing. But no one stared at us anyway.

We filled out their forms swearing we wouldn't sue them if our noses fell off and, of course, in my paranoia about looking for all the world, or at least this particular tattoo shop, a pathetic old woman trying to recapture her youth, I totally messed up where I was supposed to sign. Then, and this was the best, they carded us. You know. To make sure we were, ummmm, like over 18.

Dumb ass that I am, I asked if I could just show them my crows feet instead. Self deprecating humor, I prefer to call it.

Regardless of my wrinkles, they took my ID and my $60 (who would have thought it would cost so damn much of Mike's money to get some shit in my face?) and gave me a pink sparkly stud for my nose. It looks pretty cool, I must say, even on an old hag like myself.

TGI Freyja

A few weeks back, I had promised the kids if they behaved during mass there would be a treat in it for them. No, I am not above bribery, thankyouverymuch. In fact, if a crack and whore party were to get them to actually listen to the homily, I'd spring for that, too. Fortunately, it hasn't come to that... yet.

As I am trying, sometimes in vain, to eliminate the chemicals and crap from our diets, I did not want the treat to be some food item. As I am also attempting to teach my children respect for the planet and conservation and to eschew the needless, endless cycle of American consumerism, I did not want their reward to be cheap, plastic toy that would only end up in a landfill in a few months time. Those who are thinking that the reward for behaving properly in mass should be the spiritual satisfaction of an hour of worthy worship either do not have very young children or their children are future men and women of the cloth. I myself am raising demon spawn.

So with this in mind, when I saw a sign at PetsMart that read "German Shepherd Rescue Today" I thought I had found the perfect treat: pet the dogs at PetsMart. With two dogs already, we certainly were not in the market for another dog. But it is always fun to pet dogs.

Yay! Everyone was happy! Loving on homeless dogs! No junk food! No Chinese crap toys! Pure, free fun! I'm a genius!


And then we saw her. I saw her first. Then Mike. This familiar looking pup, black and tan, with soulful eyes and a bashful personality. I asked the person holding her leash what she was called.

"Betsy," he told me.

I squatted down to introduce myself to Betsy and I knew, I just knew that she was mine. She looked so much like my Alyx and her personality was also a match. I insisted Mike come and meet her, too. He fell as hard as I did.

But being the responsible, sane, rational people that we are, we dragged ourselves away and drove home... with thoughts of Betsy on our minds.

"What are you thinking about," he asked me.

"None of your business," I snapped.

We weren't home ten minutes when we loaded the kids back into the car and sped back to the PetsMart to fill out adoption papers and give them a $10 deposit.

Now, I will tell you, the application process for these rescues in comically complicated. I've had many people say to me that it seems more difficult to adopt a dog than a child. I assure you, this is not the case. It is far, far more difficult to adopt a child. But, it is still unbelievably difficult. I had to provide three local references. Our dogs veterinarians had to be contacted and their shot records had to be released. We had to have our home and yard inspected.

All the while we were told, "We will match you with your dream dog as soon as you are approved."

Ummm... no. No matching us with our dream dog. We are only interested in Betsy.

"Yes, yes. We will match with the best dog for you and your family."

But, as it had only been a few days and we really are good dog people, I assumed it would be fine. I mean, we had been very specific on our application that we only wanted Betsy. Very specific.

Our home visit was on a Sunday and when I didn't hear from my case worker (yes, people! The Doggy Rescue provides you a case worker! Don't ya love it?) by Tuesday night, I emailed her and asked when we'd be able to bring Betsy home.

This was her response: "Oh, sorry for the confusion. You were interested in Betsy but Betsy got a new home last weekend. Is there anyone else you'd like to meet or are you planning to attend the Pet Expo this weekend."

I was totally, utterly, devastatingly crushed. We all were. It was like a funeral around here. We were in love. We had already adopted her in our hearts. I had even made Betsy's picture the wallpaper on my computer. And we'd lost her. I was told that that is how all rescues operate and that the mistake we made was falling in love with a dog prior to approval.

Huh? Since when are adoptions like arranged marriages? And who are these people to match me with my dream dog? They don't know me. Sure, they know my dogs' health histories, they know I have a dirty laundry hamper in my kitchen, and that I have a bunch of dead grass in my back yard. Sure they have the phone numbers of three of my friends and the ages of my kids. But they don't really know me. How could they match me with my dream dog?

Mike raged against the machine and I emailed our case worker to remind them that we weren't interested in any other dogs.


And yet, she still emailed me about dogs. Last weekend, while in southern Illinois for my nephew's first communion, she sent me this picture of "Misty," an obviously boy dog with a girl's name. When asked, my case worker got on the case and phoned around before emailing me back that they are totally, 100% certain Misty is a girl.

So now I've got this hermaphroditic puppy being offered to me as my dream dog. What the hell does that say about me? I mean, I'm all for mixing it up in the bedroom to spice up a seemingly endless 50+ years of unceasing monogamy, but how the hell do they know that? And we don't do dogs, hermaphroditic or otherwise. In fact, animals are out of the bedroom when there is spice of any kind going on. So how exactly is this a match?

But, being the sport I am, I play along and try to schedule a meeting with our transgendered Misty. I then get this email:

"I've talked to the puppy's foster and she doesn't feel the puppy would be a good fit for you. The puppy had been returned twice to the shelter because of nipping young children and is already nipping the foster's teenager.

Sorry, but I don't think it's going to work."

Well, of course, we don't want a nipper. But if you've ever had a puppy, you know that there is nipping and there is mouthing. They are two very separate things. I wanted to make sure that this was actual nipping they were talking about. Before I could follow up, however, I received an email from another person in the rescue group. We'll call her Kay. Kay tells me that she will be picking up a puppy that I might be interested in. So I emailed my case worker and she tells me that Kay's dog and the Divine Miss Misty are one and the same hermaphroditic nipper. I then email Kay and explain that we are not interested in Misty as she is a nipper to which Kay tells me she doesn't know who Misty is, but she picked up a sweet and beautiful pup called Amelia who "is just a baby and only doing baby things, mouthing because she still has her baby teeth." She gave me the name of the foster taking care of Amelia and I emailed her.

Are you still with me because it gets even more confusing.

The foster emails me and tells me that she too has never heard of Misty but she does have an adorable puppy called Amelia. Unfortunately, she doesn't think we should meet Amelia as Amelia is a nipper (but not most assuredly does NOT have a penis). Oh, and she added her confusion that we would even be interested in adopting from us as we had taken our name off the list of approved adopters.

Holy Mary! Pray for us!

My head was spinning at this point. The emails were coming in and out of my account at a rate that kept me pinned to my laptop. It honestly was the most entertainment I've had in a long time. Like a bad novel, I just could not read fast enough to get to the end and put myself out of misery!


And then, in the midst of chaos, came an email from an angel. She explained that she was fostering a pup called Misty but that she felt "Misty" wasn't a name befitting a German Shepherd so she had been using the name "Freyja" instead. She wrote a nice, long email about Freyja, her personality, her brief history, and her health. When I questioned the state of her sex, she sent me a picture and assured me that upon close up inspection, there weren't any surprise parts hiding in the recesses of Freyja's vagina.

To make a long story slightly abbreviated (What? You think I don't already know I'm long winded?), we are now the proud parents of a bouncing baby German Shepherd Dog called Freyja (say it with me now, FRAY-uh). We kept the name, partly because it is a very cool name (Freyja is the main Goddess in Norse Paganism and is the Goddess for whom "Friday" is named after) and partly to honor the couple, Danielle and Jeremy, who fostered her.

In one short week, they took a puppy who had lived her whole, be it brief, life outside and taught her how to behave in a home. Although covered in mud and fecal matter, they bathed her in their tub and loved her despite the smell. They took her to the vet and gave her medicine. They held their breath while she slept, afraid that perhaps they were too late in her rescue and she might slip away to the Rainbow Bridge. She is a wonderful dog, really, and we have a lot to thank her fosters for in that. A true mitzvah. They rescued a member of our family and for that we are indebted to them and eternally grateful.

So, stay tuned for Freyja tales. There are bound to be many.

Quote of the Day

The only thing a Republican likes more than his money is the sound of his own voice, and he really can't get enough of either.

-- Mike's take on the Dark Side

One Bad Egg, One Beautiful Girl

Seven years ago today, in a hangover stupor, I stumbled toward the bathroom and peed on a stick. It wasn't that I thought I was pregnant. It wasn't that I wanted to be pregnant. It was just that after years of negociating with Mike on whether or not we'd have children, I had "won" the arguement and he'd stopped using condoms. Just as the birth control went out the window, I had second thoughts and decided we needed to wait a few more years. Yet still didn't use any alternative methods of birth control. Unsure then of my pregnancy status, I figured I'd better test as my lifestyle of drinking and smoking and smoking and drinking would all but guarantee my birthing a brain damaged drooler.

As the second line turned a bright pink almost immediately after my urine hit the stick, I stupidly thought, "This isn't right. I'm just so dehydrated from all that booze last night that my pee is concentrated. I'll guzzle a gallon of water and retest in an hour." Somewhere deep down, though, I must have known it was true as I stubbed out the cigarette I was smoking and didn't pick up another one for almost a year.

A few hours and numerous pee sticks later, I woke Mike up with the original stick and "So what are you doing December 10th?" He, of course, thought I was pulling an April Fool's Day prank. It wasn't until he sat up, looked closely at the stick and at my silly grin that he accepted it.

Now that baby I was just starting to grow that April Fool's Day seven years ago sleeps upstairs, on the top bunk with a Harry Potter book tucked under her pillow that she thinks I didn't know she hid there. She's missing a tooth, bottom left, her first baby tooth to check out and make way for the teeth that will see her through to her death. She's fighting yet another cold, running a fever, and waking up to read her book and drink water every 20 minutes or so. Unlike her parents, she's a skinny little thing with a passion for money and self promotion. Like her daddy she's a fiery red head with curls and legs that like to run. Like her mama she's a hard-to-read, moody bitch. But Reilly Kate is nothing if not original. Lord, that child is orginal.

In January, we went to a Madeleine Albright book signing. Madeleine Albright had given the key note address at Mike's master's graduation ceremony way back in the day. We had brought a picture of him shaking her hand to have her sign. When it was finally our turn, Reilly Kate marched straight up and asked, "Do you remember Daddy?"

Being the woman that she is, Secretary Albright said, "Of course I do!" All her handlers as well as the other patrons laughed which Reilly Kate didn't appreciate at all.

She then proceeded to inform Secretary Albright that she was planning to become "President of the United States... for two terms!" Big plans, she has. High aspirations. I just hope she takes Madeleine Albright's advice and works hard, studies hard. Reilly Kate's the type who thinks it all should just come to her because... well, because she's Reilly Kate afterall.

She is the center of our family. Hell, she's the center of this blog. As Mike has always said, "You'd have nothing to write about without her blog fodder." And so I wouldn't.

No April Fool's prank here today. Just a mama's thoughts on her little girl on the anniversary of the day she found out she was to be her mama.