Home security - Crowbar style.

A few weeks ago, Mark opened the fridge to find this:

A dinosaur infestation - in the fridge!

When interrogated, Crowbar explained that he'd placed the dinosaurs there to protect our food.

Thank God the yogurt's safe.

This is so typical of life with a four year-old boy. You never know what you're going to find next.

Hands off, ladies. He's mine.

I'm the luckiest girl in the world. Despite being in the hospital for the majority of June, sicker than I've ever been in my life, I am blessed. Blessed with an amazing guy.

Getting sick was completely unexpected. And it came at a time when we were busy with wedding plans, settling into the new house, and transitioning the kids from school to their summertime day camp.

Oh, and laundry had piled up and we were in desperate need for a grocery store run.

As awful as I felt physically, I felt worse knowing that Mark had so much thrust on his shoulders at once. I was confident he'd handle it - he's a clever, resourceful guy - but I was concerned about all the stress he was under. The kids can be a real handful and something like a simple trip to the grocery with the crew in tow can make you want to pull your hair out.

Still, he handled it all with ease. Here's a list of some of what he did while I was down for the count:

• Rebooked all of the wedding vendors (florist, hair salon, tent rental, catering, etc.).
• Set the girls up for their first week of day camp. (Paid fees, packed lunches, bought supplies).
• Took the kids shopping for a Father's Day gift for my ex-husband AND took the kids to his house for an hour-long visit.
• Planned, purchased and prepared meals for nearly a month. (Some family members delivered home-cooked meals to help out, but Mark logged quite a few hours in the kitchen.)
• Single-handedly turned Crowbar's sour-faced morning routine into a daily gigglefest. (The boy wakes up smiling now, instead of fighting me to get out of bed.)
• Bought a fishing pole and set up a tackle box for The Deuce's fishing camp.
• Ran countless loads of laundry and made sure the kids were clean, well-dressed and warm.
• Kept the house tidy and clean.
• Trained the twins to make their lunches for day camp.
• Mowed the lawn.
• Signed several field trip permission slips and handled countless notes from teachers and camp counselors.
• Took the kids to two separate birthday parties - including buying and wrapping the gifts.
• Refereed countless fights, squabbles and arguments.

And, on top of it all, managed to come visit me in the hospital nearly every day. Oh, yeah... all while working full time.

Is there anything this guy can't do?

While I was in the hospital, several nurses asked me who was taking care of my kids for me. When I gushed about Mark and how great a job he was doing, I was told more than once that a lot of patients are filled with anxiety and dread, worrying about their kids. Some have to leave their kids with abusive spouses. Others have their kids bounced around from relative to relative - and aren't sure where they are at any given time.

I had none of that. I cried in my hospital bed, longing to be home again, but those tears weren't out of distrust or worry. They were tears of joy that I can trust Mark to handle everything. And that he could do it all so well.

I don't doubt that the last several weeks have been tough on him. But he's proved that he can not only tread water, but swim. I can tell by the way the kids respond to him now. They're all so much closer than before. They trust him more. Respect him more. Love him more.

So again I say, I am the luckiest girl in the world. I'm blessed with an amazing guy who is amazing with my kids.

Mark, I love you with all of my heart. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! I don't know what I did to deserve you.

Back from the dead...I hope.

Let me tell you, pancreatitis is a bitch.

Just after writing that last post, my stomach started hurting again and I found myself back in the hospital for six more days. A CT scan showed my pancreas was swollen and angry and the treatment was to again shut down my whole digestive system.

I got a PICC line (a big-ass IV) so they could administer pain medication and nutrition directly into my major veins. They also gave me medicine to make my pancreas stop producing bile altogether. The plan was to just let everything rest and heal.

While the thought of a third hospital visit in one month's time didn't appeal, I was in so much pain that it was worth it because of the drugs alone. I was able to sleep and sleep and let my body recover.

By day four, the twins' birthday, I began feeling physically better, but emotionally quite depressed. I was still in the hospital and wouldn't be able to see them on their special day. I have a tradition where on my kids' birthdays, I wrap my arms around them and tell them about the day they were born. This year, I had to do it by phone.

After hanging up, I cried my eyes out. I don't think there's anything worse than for a mom to not be able to be a mom.

Not only did I miss hearing their voices and giving and receiving countless hugs and kisses, I ached to make them lunch, give them baths, clean up their messes. Every time I think about it -- even now that I'm home -- I cry.

Thankfully, I was released a few days later and the whole crew came to pick me up. Sitting in the front seat, I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of bickering from the back seat -- and it was pure heaven.

I've been home for two days now and feel better than I have in weeks. I'm still very tired and am limited to drinking liquids for a while longer. I am not allowed to drive or lift anything heavier than 5 lbs. -- which means I can't scoop up Crowbar and hold him upside down for a good while longer.

So, I believe that things are finally going to improve around here. I'm going to continue to get better and stronger and slowly begin taking back my mom duties. In fact, I've got a load of laundry going right now. (Never thought I'd be happy to do laundry.)

Finally, I'd like to say thanks to everyone for all of your well-wishes and help during this tough time. I don't think I've ever had so many people praying for me at once. I appreciate everyone's care and concern and want you to know that it's made a big difference in my recovery. Thank you.

~ ~ ~

PS -- I'm planning a post where I'll do nothing but gush on Mark. For over a month, he's run this house like a pro. From laundry and meal prep to tucking in and saying nighttime prayers, he's been simply incredible. I know this experience has brought him and the kids even closer and has made us appreciate each other more than ever.

Who could've seen that coming?

While I was glad to finally get May behind me, who'd have known that June could possibly be worse?

We successfully moved and unpacked with dazzling speed and efficiency, knowing I'd be going in on June 2 to have my gall bladder out. The procedure went smoothly and after a few weeks, I was feeling really good. I was looking forward to going back to work and finalizing details for the wedding on June 20.

Then...KABOOM. Last Thursday morning, I was hit with a wave of nausea and abdominal discomfort.

I was told after my surgery that it appeared that a gall stone had snuck out of my gall bladder and was down in a bile duct, near the opening to my intestines. I was given the option of doing a scope procedure called an ERCP to sweep out the duct or wait and see if I could pass it on my own - which may or may not be painful. The pain I was feeling was most likely that stone, giving me trouble.

After some deliberation, we decided to go back to the hospital and have the ERCP done. Sweeping the tract clean would guarantee me a pain-free, worry-free wedding day and honeymoon. I was told that they'd do it that afternoon, keep me overnight to make sure there was no internal bleeding, and then send me home the next day.

Piece of cake, right? Wrong.

Every one's anatomy is different. My pancreatic ductal system is apparently quite twisty (official medical term), which made the procedure more complicated than expected. When I woke up, I felt groggy, but good and even joked about making sure I was getting my money's worth out of the hospital visit.

My doctor told me that because the procedure had been so complicated, I could expect some discomfort. Feeling fine, I shook his hand and assured him I'd let him know if I began having trouble.

Not even five minutes after he left, everything changed. I got violently ill and my abdomen swelled up like a balloon. They called the doctor back in and he ordered stronger pain meds and anti-nausea drugs.

I have never been in so much pain in my whole life. Giving birth to twins was a walk in the park compared to this.

I don't remember much of the next few days. When I was awake, the pain was excruciating, so they cranked my meds to allow me to sleep as much as possible. My concerned family called, but I could barely hold the phone, let alone form logical sentences.

Mark became my voice. I'd tell him how I felt and what I needed when I could muster the strength, because 9 times out of 10, when someone would ask, I couldn't articulate my thoughts.

It turns out I had developed a bad case of pancreatitis as a result of the ERCP. The only thing we could do was try to manage the pain and wait it out. So, after 6 days in the hospital, including a four-day stretch where I could eat nothing but ice chips, they released me.

I'm still in a lot of pain, but am managing. I can only eat soft, low-fat foods - which doesn't really matter, since after just 3 tablespoons of anything, I feel stuffed.

Oh, and the wedding? We decided to postpone it.

It was a tough decision, but it was the right one. I really don't feel disappointed. I feel relieved - like a student who got an extension for the big term paper. Besides, I want to glide down the aisle, looking and feeling my best - not hobble along, grabbing every other pew to steady myself.

And that little stone that went AWOL and caused this whole thing? Gone. They never found it during the ERCP. Apparently I'd passed it before we got to the hospital.

Little bugger.

Back in biz.

Holy crap. It's hard being offline for over a week -- unable to access weather.com, my favorite blogs or any news websites. Now that I've caught up on what's going on in the world around me, allow me to bring you up to speed on what's been shakin' over here.

Last week Thursday, we successfully closed on the house. After two hours of waiting for funds to transfer and paperwork to fax, we were handed the keys to our new home. Still weary from the preceding days of angst and worry, we promptly drove to the new house to make sure the keys actually worked. They did.

We were officially moved out of the townhouse and into our new place last Saturday. So many people helped us out. From watching the kids, to moving furniture, to helping clean the old place -- we are blessed to have truly amazing friends and family. Thanks a lot Mom and Dad W., Grandma Judy, Grandpa Dave, Grams and Gramps B. and Willie and Joni. You guys are all amazing.

One of the Moving Day highlights came when I handed my landlord the keys and drove out of the cul-de-sac for the last time. It was a surprisingly normal exchange. I think he's finally come to terms with our breakup and is looking forward to a fresh new relationship with his new tenant.

We spent the rest of the weekend and all day Monday unpacking, hanging window treatments and setting up the kids' rooms. The mad scramble was exhausting and not without some bloodshed. We were on a tight timeline to get the house into a livable condition by the time Tuesday rolled around because after that, I'd be out of commission for a while.

I've been having gallbladder attacks for the last few months and after several particularly painful episodes and a trip to the ER, we decided to schedule surgery as soon as we could after the move. So, Tuesday I was admitted to the hospital for the procedure.

First, let me say that when news began to spread that I was having my gallbladder out, people came out of the woodwork, telling me they too, had the same procedure. Seriously, it sounds like more people have had it removed than still have it in.

Also, people volunteered all sorts of scary stories. I heard how some people were back on their feet two days after surgery, others two weeks. I even heard about someone who died from complications. All this news was a little much to take, so I tried my best to just focus on what my doctor told me, say a few prayers and go with the flow.

With a fist full of pain pills, I was finally allowed to come home on Thursday. I'm still really sore and need help to get up off the couch. (Nothing like feeling like a beached whale.) Mark and the kids have been great, helping me out and running the show while I watch from the sidelines.

When I feel better, I'll take and post some pictures of the new house. I promise.

Oh yeah, 14 more days until the wedding. I'd say I'm living pretty full life.

Moving on.

I have a love-hate relationship with this townhouse.

After my ex left, the kids and I had to move in with my parents for nearly a year as I waited for my divorce to get finalized and child support to start coming regularly. At the time, I made too much to qualify for any assistance (daycare or otherwise), but not enough to afford to support the four of us. While I worked full time at a decent-paying job, I just couldn't afford living expenses plus full-time daycare costs for three kids.

It was demoralizing to say the least.

There is no worse feeling in the whole world than knowing that you can't provide for your children. It's a precarious place - wanting to work and be self-sufficient, but being unable to do so.

I could've quit my job and pulled the kids from daycare. It would've been easy to chuck what little I had left to stay home with my kids and collect support from the state. But for me, working full time never was optional. I needed it to hold onto a sense of purpose - to maintain my dignity. So, instead, I kept working, swallowed my pride and moved back home. And I will forever be grateful to my parents for lending me a hand during that awful year.

After the divorce papers were filed, it took a good while for the child support direct deposit to kick in. Somehow a payroll department error resulted in my ex's wages being garnished for a few months, but there was no wire transfer to the state's child support clearing house. The result was that he paid, but for weeks and weeks, I never saw a dime.

When the mess was finally resolved, the child support money finally put me back in the black, albeit barely. I was finally not operating at a deficit. I managed to scrape up enough to get a place of my own and began pouring over the rental ads. As I read the listings, I wondered if I'd find something big enough that I could afford.

And then I found it.

I loved this townhouse the first time I saw it. Three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, big yard on a cul-de-sac. Even though a major highway ran through the back yard, I couldn't see it past the big, flowering crab apple tree or the kick-ass sledding hill just out my back door. Finding a place I could afford in a great school district on a quiet street was a dream come true.

I regained my freedom here. I established a stable home for my kids here. And I began to write here.

While I was (and still am) immensely proud of getting here, I'll admit that there are times when being here doesn't feel so great.

Whenever I visit my family and friends in their single family homes and watch their kids play in long driveways and gorgeous rec rooms, I feel a little painful twinge, wishing I could provide the same setting for my crew. Walking in their yards among various plantings and vegetable gardens, I'm green with envy. How I'd love to plant flowers in dirt that wasn't borrowed and weed flowerbeds that I planted, rather than inherited!

But the hardest part of living here has been knowing that some of my own neighbors look down at me and my kids because of this place. We are one of just two families who rent on a street lined with single-family homes. I know what they're thinking when they refuse my friendly wave: low income, low life.

My townhouse neighbors do nothing to dispel the perception of transient, low-income renters who don't give a shit. While they're nice people, they let their cars leak oil all over the street, allow their kids to run around the yard with dirty faces and Spaghetti-O-stained clothes, and leave their pizza delivery sign attached to their truck - often illuminated - all night long in the driveway.

I'm painfully aware that I'm often painted with the same brush.

I imagine the chatter, "Harumph, a single mom with all those kids. Wonder if they even have the same father." I can deal with it, but I don't want the kids to have to. Someday soon, they're going to become aware of life's haves and have nots. And I don't want them to be treated differently because of someone else's perception. I don't want their friends' parents to refuse play dates because I can't afford my own white picket fence - or have to share my driveway with a broken down Chevy Cavalier.

So, while I'm still grateful and proud of rebuilding my life here in this townhouse, I'm eager to move on. I'm thrilled that together Mark and I were able to save up enough for a much bigger house on an even quieter street, where my kids can roller skate in a long driveway and sleep in rooms they can call their own. I'm eager to dig my hands in my own dirt and plant flowers I know I'll enjoy for years and years. And I'm hopeful to have a neighborhood where I fit in instead of stick out.

Sometimes when I think of moving, I get a little emotional. I'm full of excitement and anticipation for this new chapter. And I'm relieved - and a little amazed - that I've survived the one I'm wrapping up.

I know I won't miss sharing a house, but I will miss the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment I got writing that rent check each month.

I did it. I survived. Hallelujah.

~ ~ ~

Beginning Thursday, I'll be without Internet access for nearly a week due to the move. If I can figure out how to Tweet from my phone, I'll try to give a few play-by-play updates. Until then, I'm signing off and will return sometime late next week. Take care!

It's always darkest before it goes pitch black.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, we were told on Thursday that we would most likely not be able to close on our house this month. We were told to make alternate plans - plans that would involve storing our belongings and moving in with my parents indefinitely.

After holding it together for the past month, I finally broke down and cried. Well actually, I sobbed.

Day after day of 'maybe this'll be the day' had taken it's toll. I had lost all hope and with it any shred of optimism I had left. I was emotionally spent and all I could think of was this:



But then, late Friday afternoon, we got the call we'd been waiting for. Our final approval had gone through. We were cleared to close and that date would be the following Thursday.

You'd think we'd be excited. You'd think we'd be bouncing off the walls, but weeks and weeks of waiting and wondering had effectively sucked all joy out of it.

We've had a bottle of champagne sitting in the fridge since the first week in April. We thought we'd pop it on May 8 - our first scheduled closing date. When that day came and went, the bottle got pushed to the back of the fridge with various containers of moldy leftovers.

Last night, I considered digging it out. But instead of popping the cork and making a toast, all I could think to do was use it to bash my brains in.

Ultimately, I left it there, next to a Tupperware of old mac and cheese, and just went to bed.

For now, it's time to focus on the task of moving. Maybe we'll use the champagne when we spend our first night in our new home. Maybe we'll pull it out after the last box has been unpacked.

Though, the way I feel right now, it won't be for toasting. Instead, I'll probably just use it to ice down sore muscles.