The simplest solution.

The laundry. The laundry is absolutely astounding when you're washing for nine people.

I have been at my wit's end with a laundry pile that often reaches three feet high, baskets of clean laundry that I can't navigate and clothes that never get put away.

Until now.

I belong to a Catholic Large Family board on facebook and the question of laundry comes up constantly. Several people mentioned that every family member has their own basket and loads are only done when that basket is full. I liked that idea, but my people are small and they often run out of clothes in their closet before the load in the basket is big enough to run, what with their clothes being small. So I worked it out and decided to do this:

6ft table, eight baskets:

Andrew/laura
Household linens
Kitchen and dining
Lucy
Molly
Claire
Boys
Nina/Lilly

Under the table are two large baskets. Dirty clothes go there. When I have enough to run a load (like I ever have to wait), I wash and dry the load and sort into the baskets. Because I went with small, handled baskets, the girls can carry their clothes to their drawers and put them away without a problem.

The kitchen and dining basket is a HUGE lifesaver, because rooting through loads of laundry to find dish towels and napkins is enough to make a woman batty.

I am happy to report that the 3 ft pile hasn't been seen in over a week. It's pretty much a flawless system, and I'm running three loads a day without breaking a sweat.

I have arrived.

Untitled and maybe temporary.

I don't want to cry and whine to my friends, but I need to cry and whine to someone, so you, Dear Blog, will be my someone. 

The Remicade is working fantastically. No ulcers, no Crohn's, no colitis, feeling fantastic. I think I just had my 6th infusion and there's no trace of disease. Huzzah! 

However, since March I've gained 20 pounds. After much research, I've learned that weight gain on remicade is actually pretty normal for Crohn's patients, some people gain as much as 60 pounds. 

I can't. I can't even. I can't think of that without crying. I feel so unlike myself. I feel like a blob. My clothes don't fit, I can't look at pictures of myself without melting down, I don't even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. The thought of another 40 pounds or even another five has me in knots. I am pretty much falling apart, because I am not a fat person. Well, the real me isn't. I'm active all day. I don't eat much in the way of extras. I'm not binging on ice cream or eating my feelings. I stay hydrated and I am trying so damn hard to keep this in perspective, but I'm failing. After every infusion, my weight jumps five pounds, and as the remicade leaves my system over the subsequent eight weeks, I start to lose a few pounds, only to gain it back plus a couple pounds once I'm infused again. 

I don't know what to do. If I quit the remicade, I could end up sick again. If I stay on the remicade, I'll continue to spiral emotionally. I'm not in a good place and I feel like all I'm doing is trying to hold it together in the midst of complete sorrow. I want to enjoy the holidays, but I'm not enjoying anything these days, feeling like I'm trapped in a stranger's body. 

That was depressing, I know. But I feel like I can't possibly say what I'm feeling out loud, because I can't draw more attention to the elephant in the room. (Heh. Don't tell me you didn't see that coming.) I feel ashamed every time I put a bite of anything in my mouth, because I obsess over what anyone around me must be thinking. How vain is that? I am gaining plenty of insight into a world I reached through a rabbit hole, a place I never, ever wanted to go. Now I understand why fat people end up with eating disorders. I'm a wreck, here. 

I've never been the skinniest girl in the room, but I've always been healthy. Now, nine months into what should be the best nine months in my life, recovering as I am, I feel completely helpless and tired. Sleep? Forget it. I spend bedtime recounting in my head everything I've put in my mouth all day, trying to decide if I'm feeling positive or downright bummed. And while the kids seem to think extra-fluffy mommy is great, I can't help but feel so ugly and sad when Andrew puts his arms around me only to find More of me than there has ever been before. 

I'll probably delete this tomorrow, but for tonight, I need to send it all out there, somewhere. I'm sure it'll all seem brighter in the morning. Self-pity isn't usually my jam, but I guess everyone needs to have a little rant every so often.

Just had a moment.

It's time to put these soft little size six jeans in the memory box. They've been hemmed up by Grandma, let out by Mama, hemmed up by Grandma, let out by Mama...holes in both knees...the first time she put them on, Andrew and I giggled and said, "her tiny little booty is so cute in those jeans!" and she gets a pinch every time she puts them on. They're like the Traveling Pants - she never grows out of them and they've fit perfectly for two years now.

My sweet baby is growing so fast. These little torn jeans are the ones I'll pull put every couple of years and cry over a little before I fold them again and tuck them back into the box.

You know those moments where you love them so much that it's almost sad, because you know you'll never have this very moment again? Bittersweet.

All I really want.

Someday my children will be grown. They'll make their own meals and think their own thoughts and pick out their own clothes and make their own decisions. I don't know what kind of mother I'll be to children who are in charge of their own lives. All I really desire for them is to live lives they can find peace in. I just hope they know that wherever the Lord leads them, whatever choices lie before them, there is nothing they will ever do that will separate them from my love. I am always there, right behind them, right next to them, on the other end of the phone, at the baggage claim of their destination airport, waiting to cheer them on, to console them, to hold them, to feed them. I will always pursue their love, especially when they feel completely unlovable. They are so incredibly precious to me, these five amazing people. I have known them so intimately from each first tiny movement. I have gazed at each of them for hours as they nursed, memorized every freckle, touched every tiny bit of skin, walked them when they were sick and crying, reassured them when they were scared, promised to always come back after I say goodbye.

How then, being who I am today, can I ever fail to feel the love of God? I know what it is to suffer for my children. I know what it feels like to watch my child beg to avoid discomfort. I know what it feels like to love them when they don't know how to love me back. Motherhood had given me such a unique glimpse at genuinely selfless live. What I do every day that they don't see? I love to do it anyway. I'm preparing them for their lives.

What stuns me to silence is that this intense, physical, unending love I have for my children is such a tiny fraction of the love my God has for me. He has watched every moment, counted every freckle, promised to always come back. He is preparing me for my eternal life. The culmination of my vocation has given me a tiny glimpse of what Heaven must feel like. I would imagine that heaven is watching your children fall in love with their children. Suddenly they realize just how much you've loved them all those years. Motherhood must be so special for God to watch. Suddenly they see a little flash of how loved they have always been. When they meet the tiny people they would happily die for, the only thing you've ever wanted them to know has been learned.
How amazing it must be for God as each immortal soul enters heaven. "You're here. You're finally here. Now do you see? This is what I've prepared for you!"

Hey, Mommy...

"...the baby spilled the Tums and I cleaned them up for you!"

Dear Laura

It's been over a month since you've blogged. Are you alive? How are things? 

Love, your husband.

Today is not that day.

There are days where I hate my house.  It's too small, it's too old, it's too messy, it's just not right, the floors need help, the walls have holes, it all just makes me crazy.

But you know, if it's not one thing, it's another.  If the house didn't drive me nuts, there'd be something else in it's place. And really, what am I not liking? The shelter?  The warmth? The protection? Get ahold of yourself, crazy girl!

Today it's about 75 degrees with a gorgeous breeze and it's just a tiny bit cloudy.  The kids are running barefoot in the still-nearly-soft grass,  molly skipped school to climb a new tree and claire has big plans to fill the pool and splash "a little bit nakey." Max is carrying a horse shoe around and miles is eating sand from the pit.

We didn't buy this place for the house. We bought it for the privacy, for the big lawn, for the endless grass, for the mental health. Our house? Imperfect. Our home? Amazing.

Undoing What We Almost Done Did.

So. You may remember plan A. 

Plan A was as follows: Lucy goes to school. When Lucy is in 2nd grade, Molly will start Kinder. When Molly is in 2nd and Lucy is in 4th, Claire will start Kinder. When Molly is in 4th and Claire is in 2nd, the boys will start Kinder and Lucy will come home for sixth grade and beyond. Each kid will stay in school until sixth grade, bringing them home on a stair-step sort of schedule. By the time the boys come home to begin sixth, we'll have Claire in 8th, Mo in 10th and Lucy graduated. Super smart, right?

But every few months I have a crisis on conscience and decide we should homeschool. I don't particularly want to homeschool in a house full of tiny children. But my moral superiority and pride keep calling me back. If I really loved them, I'd want to homeschool them from Day One, right? Riiiiiiight...

In March I felt the pull once again. My desire to run a tight ship and school my children in a perfect home classroom took over and Andrew said to me, "Fine. You know I support homeschooling and I always have. Pull her out and give it a trial run. If she's learning the way you want her to learn by the time second grade starts at school, we'll keep going. If you feel like it's not going well, we'll do Plan A." 

Bless his heart, he knew exactly what he was doing. Y'all, I have learned my lesson. I am simply not cut out for this at this time. Why, exactly? Well...this house is in a state of chaos 100% of the time. I know many mothers can handle keeping the home and teaching the children. With two nineteen-month-olds, one three year old and two needing actual teaching, this place was literally a complete zoo. I was struggling to even keep up with the basics, and I wasn't doing more than the bare minimum in anything. What bothered me the most was that I didn't have a chance to be truly present in any part of my life. I was half-listening, half-yelling, half-loving, half-teaching, half-cleaning, half-cooking and half-caring. With so many people pulling me in so many directions, I feel like anyone only ever gets about 10% of me at once anyway, and then I went and added teaching to the mix. It just wasn't working. 

Thankfully, my husband understands that I need to try it before I can fully appreciate just how hot the water is. I am a true skeptic, and this was the same as any other experience. 

The girls are enrolled in a school we truly love, and we are all SO excited about the coming school year. I have so many plans and things to look forward to, and none of them are particularly grand. Claire and I are going to bake cookies and take naps. Miles and I can read and read and read. Max will have plenty of time with Mama, probably in time-out. Keeping it real. They'll have my full attention, and the girls will have the full attention of people who are prepared, focused and organized. I'm not an organized person at this point in my life. I understand how to BE organized, and I know that there are women who can stay organized throughout this stage of their lives. I'm just not one of those people. I will be organized when I no longer have Mac and cheese all over my dining room floor. I will be dedicated when I don't have a toddler walking on the back of the sofa. Right now my mind is this big puddle of diapers and laundry and goldfish and choking hazards and teething and sleepless nights. I have prayed for the grace to do it all, but He's given me the grace to humbly accept that I just can't do it all. When I pray for the strength to manage all of these little people, I hear Him say, "less managing, more mommying." 

So, we embark on a commitment to a different school than I envisioned until 6th grade or a very good reason to change the plan. Andrew will decide that, should the occasion arise. He is far more decisive and discerning than I am, and he tends to examine the entire situation better than I'm able. He is a prayerful, thoughtful man and I know that he keeps a close watch and listens to my concerns with a loving heart. 

I do look forward to homeschooling, when the time is right. I look forward to easing in, if that's His plan. His timing is always perfect, right?

Yeah...

Mama's Secret Weapons.

You may or may not know that I totally rock this mothering thing. Ha, riiiiiight. I'm usually a mess of sweat and yelling, but there are several ways I retain a little normal in the middle of the chaos.

Here's my trick. I wake up in the morning and eat a fiber one chocolate chip cookie bar. If I can start the day with a cookie, it's all okay. Then it's kid music on the iPad all morning. It's all for the kids! Raffi, Fred Penner, Backyardigans, Schoolhouse Rock, we go all out. Rock. And. Roll. Anything for the kids, right?

And then I take my day back.

Just when I think I can't take another second, right around 3:30, I put the ipad on the kitchen counter, put my Bluetooth headphones around my neck and let my hair down to cover the evidence. I turn on whatever I want and the sounds of an adult world fills my ears. I then smile and nod at the children as if I'm totally present, all the while half-listening to my tv and movie friends carry on with their pretend lives, or listen to music on Spotify. The kids have no idea and my sanity is once again preserved. I can walk the entire house without letting on or interrupting my "me time," getting things done and still enjoying the afternoon.

Our little secret. Bluetooth has changed my liiiiiiiife.

The days of tiny waistbands.

When I was 16, and even as young as twelve, maybe even as young as six, five...I was old. I wasn't a "fun" kid. I wasn't really a very fun adolescent, and I definitely wasn't a fun teenager. I wouldn't say I've gotten "more fun," but now my peers are tired enough to behave like I do, and that's nice. No one asks us to stay out unreasonably late, because they all go to bed at decent hour. No one expects us to get drunk when we get together because everyone has a child (or five) to answer to in the morning. It's pure bliss. It's not that I have arrived, but that everyone else has caught up. Now we can all just be normal adults and I don't have to spend so much time wondering why I lack the motivation or interest to act like the rest of them. 

Katherine and I met in college and we might as well have been meeting at bridge club. We were born to be old and crabby together. We did try to drink several times, but we always just ended up falling asleep. Maybe if we'd been wearing our afghans and slippers and drinking elderberry wine we'd have had more success. There is nothing nicer than having a friend who shakes her head as much as you do. We have plenty of fun, but most of that fun is talking about our bunions and arthritis. 

A couple of my children are like Andrew and I in this way. Molly prefers to talk to herself, probably because Molly is the one person who can answer Molly in the appropriate manner. Miles just sits and wears an expression that says, "can't we all just watch the clouds roll by and drink root beer with our suspenders down?" I know, child, I know...I feel for them. I just hope to raise kids who are confident enough to be who they are even when the world expects them to be someone else. I wasted so much time trying to be someone I wasn't just because there were so few people like me. I wish I'd known better and spent those years just enjoying me. And being a size four.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pluck my chin hairs and flip my pork chops.

There was a crooked house.

We've been scraping and sanding all day. He makes it fun. The boys shuffle around in the dust with their little screwdrivers and hammers, banging on the walls and pointing at everything we're doing. 

Nothing in this life is perfect, and having the imperfection of an old fixer-upper in my constant sight is a comfort. It we can love this old house with all of it's crooked windows and cracked floors, we can love each other with all of those imperfections and pieces of ourselves that we just can't get perfect. It keeps the cold and rain out, and that's what we do for one another. Imperfect people in an imperfect house in an imperfect world. We patiently scrape, level, repaint, envision and dream, hoping that our small improvements will make this place "us." It's not perfect, but it's perfect for us. We're not perfect people, but we're perfect for each other. Just like there is nothing so nice as coming home, there is nothing so nice as coming home to him at the end of a long day. The piece of his chest where my head fits perfectly, fits better every year, and when we cuddle up to watch a movie or just talk about the day, our arms and legs know where they belong. 

This house becomes ours more and more as the years pass, and I don't know what our family would be without this wonderful place we've settled. Our home is a crooked house, but it fits us perfectly. 

I think I have blogger's block.

I used to think people wanted to hear what I have to say. Now I think people just want to hear themselves talk, rather than listen to me,so I haven't blogged much. I feel like I'm all out of things to say. Every day is very much like the last around here. Can't complain about that, right? 

Still homeschooling, going well. 

Still raising five kids, going well. 

Still married, going well. 

Still Catholic, going well. 

Still on meds, going well. 

See? It's just all...the same. And it's a very happy "same," don't get me wrong. We have no plans for the summer, like at ALL. I'm trying to keep the kids from watching too much tv, but it's hard when it's so hot outside! We're planning to take the month of August off, since it's going to be a month of adjustment on several fronts. We have two weeks in front of us with absolutely nothing planned, which is nice, but a little daunting, trying to keep them all busy. 

We're trying to get the floors finished by the time Nina and Lil get here at the end of July, but we're so lazy and we really just want to lie around and watch tv at night...it that bad? Probably. I do have a tiny list of things to get done this weekend, but nothing major. If we can get the girls' room scraped, filled and sanded, we can talk about moving on to painting and sealing. Andrew wants me to do flowers in their room, but the thought has me a little...nauseous. I'm thinking glitter. Can we do glitter floors? That would be so amazing. And then it's on to the nursery and the hallway. If I can have it all done by July 20th, that'll give me time to get it all together before the ladies arrive. 

I'm sorry this wasn't a funny post. Life is so funny with all these short people around, too. I'll think of something funny and relay it to you as soon as I possibly can. 

Now, it's time for me to shower. I try to get that done by four so that my hair is dry by the time andrew gets home. That way he thinks I actually showered that morning. Gotta keep up appearances and all that, right? And it's the weekend in just a few hours. Ain't nobody starting the weekend smelling like this!

As He wills it.

As my hair continues to fall out, every time I pull out another handful of hair, I just send up, "Thy will be done, Thy will be done," over and over and over. How can the will of God be wrong? Thy will be done. Sometimes I really don't believe that I want His will to be done, but I say it anyway. The only times I've been unhappy in my life is when I've been separated from the will of the Father. Yes, seeing all that hair falling out makes me unhappy, but it's a pretty superficial thing, right? There is no physical pain, only vanity. As He wills it. As He wills it. His will is perfect. His will is perfect.

So I did what anyone would do. By adding something different to my hair, it's easier to take it all less seriously. If I'm willing to dye it purple, losing it seems far less difficult. It's not really "my" hair if I don't recognize it so easily, is it? And it's much more fun seeing red and purple and black hair stuck to the wall of the shower than boring old brown. Adding some fun removes some pain. 

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, some very hurtful things came across in a message. This person has a history of hurtful things, so it wasn't too surprising. Thankfully, I recognized it for what it was. "Blessed are you who suffer persecution because of Me." Here I am submitting myself to the will of God as gracefully as possible, and up pops another reason to separates myself from Him. All I wanted to do was unload and absolutely go batty on this person. So I did what any person submitting to the will of God would do. I swallowed my tears, buried my pride and did the graceful thing. 

I extended a dinner invitation. 

As He wills it. 

Best Daddy Ever. flipagram made with @flipagram Music: American Authors - Best Day of My Life #flipagram http://flipagram.com/f/Dn5n9ImkXB

Saturday.

A wonderful baptism, a big spider, a gorgeous wedding, some fancy glasses, plastic corn and a super fun picnic. All good, totally exhausting, kids were angels, all knocked out now. Perfection.

Rosie and Posie

Novelty gets 'em every time.

And lucky for them, Mama's full of ideas.

My hair is falling out.

There is really no nice way to say it. I knew this could happen, but I guess I chose colon over hair. So I'm not really complaining. I'm just putting it out there. I need to shove it out into the world so that I don't have to say it out loud.

You probably wouldn't notice a difference, if you ran into me on the street. It's not falling out in clumps. It's thinning, gradually, but it's a drastic difference for me. I was blessed with amazing hair. I wasn't blessed with many amazing physical attributes. Short torso, short legs, curves like Marilyn in a world of Kates. I work it, no biggie.

But my hair?! When I shower it comes out in handfuls. Handfuls! Ack! It's the infusions, yes, and there is really no way to know just how thin it will get. I'm not sure I'll lose it all. I may just have thin hair. That would be better than totally bald, right?

I'll keep you updated. I'd ask for prayers, but really? Prayers to the Patron of Vain Housewives Whose Hair May Be Thinning or Falling Out Completely?

The good news is, my sense of humor is solidly intact and I love hats.

I'm all over the place.

Nothing is right, right now. Our bedroom floor is in flux, so our bed is in the family room. But everyone is being eaten alive, so Andrew won't sleep here, even though he's also being bitten on the couch. Lucy is sleeping with me tonight because she had a horrible nightmare last night and was afraid to sleep alone. Stone won't stop barking at something. My mood is terrible, probably hormones. The babies aren't sleeping great this week, but I have to walk across the house to fix them when they wake. Everything is wonky. I can't fix anything tonight, but I also can't sleep because it's all just uncomfortable and not right.

Four weeks of awesome.

So...we just finished week four of our homeschooling journey. Y'all, it has been very, very difficult. Remember my debilitating disease? I blame that. It's easier than admitting that my disease is totally not affecting me at all right now and the real problem is my debilitating laziness.

Cajoling, convincing, enticing, forcing, tempting, begging...getting kids to work is akin to listening to jokes. I HATE listening to jokes. I'm about to tangent this thing all over the place.

Aren't jokes the absolute worst? Someone tells you a joke and then stares at you expectantly while you force a laugh. Most of the time they're terrible and not funny at all. Mostly because smart humor is subtle. They're called "bad" jokes for a reason. Nobody wants to hear a joke.

And speaking of, it's okay not to feel obligated to send a mother of twins that picture of the twin crying while the other one laughs and says, "she thought I was you so she fed me twice!" Got it. 25 times. If it's on Facebook and you run across it and think, "HA! Laura has GOT to see this!", trust me, honey, I've already seen it. All of them.

Whoopsie. Homeschooling. I would like to brag for juuuust a quick second because at the end of week four, we have completed four weeks of work. That's major for someone who really doesn't follow through on anything but pregnancies.

Ummm...what else? Charlotte moved an hour west, so that's stinky, but now I know she's totally unbusy because she's just petting donkeys all day. (No, really. I think that's really all she's doing.) So last night I said, "come over tomorrow and stay all day!" And she texted back, "okay!" Neato.

We finally got a Costco membership. I'm hoping that Andrew will take a solidly patronizing, "aren't women adorable when they spend too much?" stance on this one and just leave me to my own devices. Note to spouse: I NEVER shop at target, so it seems like maybe we can just think about all the money I'm saving you there and apply it to my Costco problem? And really, I don't think "problem" is really the right word. Well, unless finding your heart's retail twin is a problem.

I'm lying in bed with the sweaty mess that is Claire. She is so cute. Her piggy has a hole in his neck and she took "some a da stuffs out." So we're going to fix him tomorrow. Killer.

Miles had his first time out today. Incidentally, he also had good first lawnmower ride, so it was a draw. Max also had his first lawnmower ride, but he wasn't driving so he really couldn't relax at all. You know men. Always needing to be in the driver's seat.

I'm like Da Vinci, but way better and covered in peanut butter and jelly.

This is the longest stretch of time I've been pregnancy-free since 2006. I have no idea what to do with myself. I'm not unhappy. On the contrary. I'm having a wonderful time. But I feel so strange not growing a person right now. It's like telling a painter not to paint, friends. 

Are we going to have more children? I don't know. It's not really in our plans, but we love babies and we'd gladly accept more children. On the other hand, there's a lot that would need to happen around here to make another baby fit. Speaking just in terms of space, we'd need to make room in many ways! I have plenty of Catholic friends who'd say, "just buy a bigger car!" Y'all, we bought a bigger car and we filled that one. We bought a bigger house and it's starting to bow at the sides. Is material need a reason not to have more babies? Not really, but we pray about it and we talk about it, and having another isn't really on our hearts right now. Of course, Lucy, Claire and the twins weren't on our hearts, either, and now I'd say they're pretty firmly stuck there. It's hard to say what our final number will be, and if five is it, I'm just fine with that. Sometimes it feels like the world of Catholic homeschoolers is a "who's van is the fullest" race. It makes me tired, examining our lives and reasons and trying to figure out if we're called to have more. And sometimes when I say the word, "done," out loud i feel like a fraud who's failing to embrace her vocation.

Sometimes I think, if we're so good at this baby-having thing, shouldn't we keep doing it? What if Da Vinci had stopped at five paintings because his minivan was full? Dramatic, right? Not really, when you consider the possibility that one life can have.

Raising children isn't something done by those without talent for other things or those who are having children to fill an endless quiver. It's something done by those who are brave enough to take responsibility for the outcome of a life. A life that will touch hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of people.  In our case, five lives. What an amazing gift. Five minds to shape. Five souls to cultivate. Five pair of hands to give aid to the world. Five unique smiles to give others hope. Five possible outcomes. Five possible saints. Five amazing people, and Andrew and I are at the helm, shaping their futures. Five masterpieces. And masterpieces take so much time, and so much love. Five masterpieces is enough. One masterpiece is enough. Any number is enough when we use our finest paint, our best brushes and our greatest love. 

And really, Da Vinci was no master compared to what we're doing. He created representations. We are creating reality, and that, friends, is what really matters.

Max's soulful vacuum ballads frequently moved the audience to tears.

Because, isn't a project easier when your five-year-old cuts up your plans?

It's like babblefish.

Miles: bleegooo! Deego Deego Deego! Bleh? 

Max: blibb blibb bleegooo! Deego?

Miles: Blech blah blah blah Deego! Bleh?

Max: Deego Deego Deego!

I can translate. 

Miles: Mom just mopped the floor! I'm pretty sure I saw a cup of crayons on the dining room table. I can grab them if you want to take a few minutes to color on the floor with me. There are orange ones in there, too, if you're hungry. You in?

Max: oh man...I AM ready for a snack, but I was going to flush some Legos on my way to punch Claire in the face. meet you in five? It really shouldn't take long.

Miles: no, no, yeah. That's actually perfect. That'll give me time to pull the raw chicken trimmings out of the trash and get Mom yelling. make it ten?

Max: perfect. Stay efficient, as they say.

Me: hey girls, I need you to hang out with the boys in the bedroom. 

Lucy: what do we have to do? 

Me: nothing, you can play on the top bunk or whatever. I just don't want them to think I locked them in here all alone. 

Lucy: so you're locking us ALL in here?!?

Me: I need to make dinner and the boys need a distraction for about thirty minutes. 

Lucy: okayyyyyyyyy....

Sheesh, this Stouffer's ravioli ain't gonna time itself! 

I always said I didn't want boys.

I take it all back.

Ain't no fatigue like adrenal fatigue cause adrenal fatigue don't stop!

All you might have some idea as to what I'm about to blog about.

So the good news is, the remicade is working like a charm. It's sooo fantastic. My colitis symptoms have all but disappeared, leaving me with nothing but headaches and fatigue. Trust me, that's a huuuuge improvement. The headaches usually go away with a little Tylenol, and for the heavy hitting ones I have a very expensive bottle of Motrin that has prilosec in it. It's called Duexis and it's just heaven-sent.

The bad news is, while I'm off the prednisone, it's left me with some pretty crazy withdrawal symptoms, and I'm feeling pretty dizzy most of the time. My blood pressure is wildly erratic right now, but that should work itself out in the coming weeks. I think that I'll just make my plans according to how my head is feeling. I mean, the remicade often cancels many of my potential plans anyway, just did too the germ factor, . So it's all good.

So there's your update.

Our Thursday.

How is it only noon?!