tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41007273257374371732024-03-19T05:36:10.591-07:00The Writing Mamas Salon - AustinWhen you become a mother - you've got a lot to write about.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-62612188020455882432012-05-15T11:03:00.001-07:002012-05-15T11:11:54.241-07:00The Tahoe Challenge<b>Uchoose: The V or the SUV?</b>
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I’m not a soccer mom or a hockey mom. I am, however, a swim, football, wrestling, lacrosse, dance, gymnastics, and cheer mom with four busy children and all their gear. I spend a great many hours in my vehicle and put a lot of miles on my car every day after school shuttling them around Austin to their many practices and appointments.
My Honda minivan known affectionately as ‘the yucky van’ is so grotesque that it shocks even the car wash attendants. The license plate begins BW4K (Beware 4 Kids) but should read DNR (Do not resuscitate) It has almost 300,000 kilometers (manufactured in Canada now in Texas), no headrests, duct tape where the passenger door handle used to be, and a permanent layer of grunge that no amount of shampooing or vacuuming will ever remove. I think it may be time for a new vehicle.
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Since it takes me a three phase focus group to even choose a paint color for my living room walls, I’m agonizing over this major decision that will impact me, the kids, and the family finances for years to come. Certainly it is not a decision to make lightly and I’ve been contemplating my options. As a breeder with four children, at least my car choices are significantly smaller than had I been like most of my friends (sane) and stopped with two children. The big question for me now is this: Do I stay with the van or move up to the SUV?
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I thought I had safely settled this question in my mind years ago. The van is the only way to go. Drives like a car with ample cargo space and gets decent gas mileage. Those sliding doors with small children to hoist up in baby buckets also made this a no-brainer. Ok, so my husband driving it equals in his mind me asking him to hold my purse but he got over it. I also realized that, while not as hip as driving a sleek SUV, the days when men were checking me out were long gone before I even started needing to stow a double stroller. My mom, who started driving a minivan years before me, is convinced I just need a newer version of what I currently have. I agreed with her until I met the Tahoe.
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I’ve seen this vehicle around my hood for years now and even my best friend Holly had one. “Ahhh” she recalls fondly remembering the smooth ride and high profile of her Tahoe, “I loved it. What a ride.” When the opportunity presented itself for me to preview the 2012 Chevrolet Tahoe and leave the yucky van garaged for a week, I jumped at the chance.
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I’ve never flown a plane but sitting behind the wheel of the 2012 Chevrolet 2WD LTZ must be like sitting in a cockpit. Before the minivan, I had an Isuzu Trooper and I forgot how much I loved being able to sit higher over the road and other cars. This one came equipped with the Sun & Entertainment Package, a must-have if you spend as much time as we do travelling all over south Texas and my older kids have now reached that age of ‘away’ swim meets and wrestling tournaments. Poor Sabrina and Caroline, getting dragged along to more of their siblings’ events but the DVD system with cordless headphones is one sure way to take the edge off the complaining. My husband especially loved the Rear Vision Camera System. He is a terrible backer. You can read about his trouble in this area at the wonderful blog <a href="http://www.mamabirddiaries.com/contributing-mamas/oops-he-did-it-again/">“The Mama Bird Diaries”</a> by Kelcey Kintner.
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Mom and Dad flew in for the week while we were caring for the Tahoe and they were mighty pleased to be spared any time in the van which now has the added feature of Lily’s white dog hair all over the upholstery thanks to her monthly trips to the dog groomer. Mom and I hit the San Marcos outlet stores while the kids were in school and even Mom had to admit as we were jetting down IH35 quietly in the smooth and commanding drive that the ride was much quieter than her Odyssey. The highway noises were just not discernible and you feel like you are gliding over the roadway.
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The satellite radio was also a big hit with my kids whose taste in music is all over the map and I especially liked the truly amazing OnStar feature. While I pride myself on being uber-prepared for most of life’s emergencies, there have been several occasions where roadside maladies have faced me when I had children in the car. There are not many more dreaded things than being stranded on a busy highway with four kids on a hot summer day and waiting an interminable amount of time to try to reach a friend to come rescue us. The OnStar Advisors are just a blue button push away and having that peace of mind is a real selling point. The advisor I spoke with was cheerful and very helpful in helping me locate my requested destination. Well, all but one actually but that wasn’t the fault of the advisor. They cannot tell which Starbucks locations have a drive-thru due to the limitations on the database. I do think that is a feature many moms like me might be interested in (note to the corporates at Starbucks).
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I loved driving the Tahoe and frankly didn’t have any trouble parking it in the extra-small Austin parking lot spaces as I thought I might. In fact, it turned just as nimbly as my minivan and was a super comfortable drive. My only issue was with the cargo area because just the loot that I bring home from the grocery store makes the capacity a constraint. My solution to this of course is to upscale to the Chevrolet Suburban which is next on my list to try.
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We said our farewells to the Tahoe and my kids have still not forgiven me for forcing them back in the grunge mobile. We are heading down to South Padre in June, a six-hour drive and after luxuriating in the soft leather seats of the Tahoe, we must might have to pull the trigger on a new vehicle before then. I have a pretty good idea which one I’ll be choosing now. I just need to go sell some more <a href="http://www.pink-pockets.com/">Pink Pockets </a>to be able to afford the new car payments.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyAuaMBUdXKx2JuWpTAlKgXIjvOtbxjNFudtDGXOkhN8yUT40QQQ0iIau3WhU8NbcYgdf319q49L1uw5f2mt2_BO9xXWtADeg4YbhMoSVJQeY0GuX8LFVOG-sBSm_XbU5qtf90u_s1zI/s1600/Well+miss+you+ChevyTahoe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyAuaMBUdXKx2JuWpTAlKgXIjvOtbxjNFudtDGXOkhN8yUT40QQQ0iIau3WhU8NbcYgdf319q49L1uw5f2mt2_BO9xXWtADeg4YbhMoSVJQeY0GuX8LFVOG-sBSm_XbU5qtf90u_s1zI/s320/Well+miss+you+ChevyTahoe.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-86298549445266396402012-03-30T16:57:00.004-07:002012-03-30T17:04:42.172-07:00Spring Fashion Help. Please apply soonest!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfyJowSwtLqEaFq8_lCyRlX4JKLwM37JSDGHkcnd0cLc6I25E8MDYFJiZaTL3yd7BFq0pEFC17K6FpxEGAUcmsZ7UZT6rYdatDMEUJ8lnhGdj82jJgX605FaWa5AyofjcucuNuJReP7g/s1600/travisshirt.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfyJowSwtLqEaFq8_lCyRlX4JKLwM37JSDGHkcnd0cLc6I25E8MDYFJiZaTL3yd7BFq0pEFC17K6FpxEGAUcmsZ7UZT6rYdatDMEUJ8lnhGdj82jJgX605FaWa5AyofjcucuNuJReP7g/s320/travisshirt.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725844235428601842" /></a><br />I hate shopping for clothes. Hate it. Never liked it. Even when I had disposable income before children to spend on things for ME like entertainment or the cute Ann Taylor pantsuit. Now there’s no money, no time, and my body shape has begun to succumb to the ‘pear shape’ way way way before it’s time despite my every effort at fitness and diet, thanks to menopause brought on by breast cancer diagnosed at age 39. That however, is a long and boring story which I will save for a later date. No one wants to ruin a perfectly good rant by bringing up cancer. <br /><br />Now not only do I have to shop for me, there’s four children in the mix. My husband is on his own, sadly, because fashion is not his thing. He has many other gifts. He showed up to our eldest daughter’s swim practice on a Friday night wearing plaid shorts, checkered vans, and a ‘I’m a swim Dad t-shirt’. The criticism by the other fathers was merciless. While it pains me, I can at least put together an outfit that is not an example of ‘What not to Wear’. See my son’s ‘fancy outfit’ handpicked by his fashionable 10-year-old self below. <br /><br />I just blew out my favorite pair of Tori Burch knock-off flip flops purchased on e-Bay from somewhere in China and now I’m down to a sad pair of Levi’s that I used to reserve for my fat pants days, a few short sleeve cotton tees (I can only wear cotton due to the relentless hot flashes and high humidity days) and some sandals that scream ‘swimming pool white trash’. Now what? <br /><br />When the advent of online shopping was upon us, it coincided roughly with my being **blessed** with my third and fourth children in less than fourteen short months. I reveled in the best of the free shipping and returns deals because I knew that to darken any retail establishment with my presence and that of my brood was to ruin anyone’s shopping experience for months to come. I used to frequent CWD (Children Wear’s Digest) before my now 13YO daughter figured out that she had an opinion that actually mattered. I could put together the cutest horsie sweater/skirt outfit and accessories that would bring the envy of all the moms in the hood. Now, she’s on her own. <br /><br />I spent two hours at the mall last week agonizing over the purchase of some tights or hose for my daughter's upcoming flute competition. Two hours of my life I will never get back. Here’s how it all breaks down now in order of my loathsomeness of this necessary activity: shopping for swimsuits despite the invention of the ‘Miracle Suit’; shopping for jeans; shopping for shoes for my children. That’s it. I just can’t take any more recollections of bad mall and boutique horrors. <br /><br />Now that every online vendor offers free shipping and I fully take advantage of Amazon Prime, I am yet still unable to fully appreciate the fact that I can order virtually any garment from any corner of the world at any time of the day or not. All because the wrath of the middle age spread and muffin-top curse has now descended on my middle aged booty. And it makes me just a little sad. <br /><br />I am open to any and all suggestions on how to ease this angst. Even if I won the MegaMillions Jackpot and had an almost unending bucket of money, would that make things any better? Perhaps I would be able to afford a personal shopper and effectively outsource the outfitting of me and my children (and my husband). Dare to dream. Herein I wait anxiously for your response.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-35100249007980458652012-03-17T10:13:00.003-07:002012-03-17T10:23:02.531-07:00Reading the Classics<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzEJ3t8NDqL0opqn2zOCOPorhva710xG5EfNzR42mUvz6EV8Tkn2sFZ7VCBcj6hiaqJkPB60rUeIgsJD66iBfJTHOrwGvxnBQPPe3z0vEyjDSlV4xAs38JRL4fDvCn48UMtboRYPU-tA/s1600/littlehousephoto.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 201px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzEJ3t8NDqL0opqn2zOCOPorhva710xG5EfNzR42mUvz6EV8Tkn2sFZ7VCBcj6hiaqJkPB60rUeIgsJD66iBfJTHOrwGvxnBQPPe3z0vEyjDSlV4xAs38JRL4fDvCn48UMtboRYPU-tA/s400/littlehousephoto.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720917730277455538" /></a><br />Overheard today as the girls are having their morning splash as I dry my hair: <br /><br />"First we're going to cut her head off and then we are going to chop her up and then we are going to have her for dinner."<br /><br />"Ok!"<br /><br />They are playing with one of their many mermaid barbies, up to their armpits in shaving cream and soap. <br /><br />"Good heavens girls! What kind of game are you playing????"<br /><br />"We're playing Little House on the Prairie!" <br /><br />"They don't eat people in the stories we've been reading!"<br /><br />"We don't have any animals for them to eat. Pa goes hunting and brings back food but since we don't have any animals in the bath, we'll have to make due."<br /><br />I admire their ingenuity and problem solving skills but wonder if they are really paying attention as I read. Tonight, more stories from Easter Island.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-12907066774908760402012-01-05T07:15:00.001-08:002012-03-06T11:28:53.428-08:00What's the Deal with the Drains?How bad can they be really?<br /><br />At risk of alienating myself from patients and care-givers looking to carefully plan post-surgery recuperative care, I must say that the following illustrates how I felt when I got home from the hospital after my bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction for Stage 2 invasive breastcancer in January 2009. I was only 39 and my four children were ages 10, 7, 3 and 2.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3bpwmHZLsM6uj9aYok3BInTTHZ7LbaJHvsGmiG6DkGDb4koj0X5GgXrNjTHDN6S_J9iBWB5KJ55OoTbGugGaUEopLuWd2-qH1R8lr9HLw8CcoAzAjuHfJykKs-bxc0-F75_SbbEQK_0/s1600/octomom-cartoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 390px; height: 400px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694168275754444034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3bpwmHZLsM6uj9aYok3BInTTHZ7LbaJHvsGmiG6DkGDb4koj0X5GgXrNjTHDN6S_J9iBWB5KJ55OoTbGugGaUEopLuWd2-qH1R8lr9HLw8CcoAzAjuHfJykKs-bxc0-F75_SbbEQK_0/s400/octomom-cartoon.jpg" /></a>Obviously, this is a metaphor since I’ve never had such perfectly coiffed hair or pouty bee-stung lips. I also never gave birth to eight babies. What four I did birth was done in the most inefficient manner: one at a time. However, when I got home from the hospital with four Jackson-Pratt drains hanging off me with four children waiting to hang on me some more, I could certainly empathize with *Octomom* Nadya Suleman in some minute way. Of course, my four drains came out after two weeks leaving me with just four hangers-on and she has to keep her octuplets for eighteen years so I certainly think I came out ahead even if I lost the title and she got an acreage of donated diapers.<div><br />Perhaps I am being just a bit overdramatic with this comparison. I have been known to use a little hyperbole and exaggeration to make a point in some of the writing I have done over the years to describe my exploits at parenting four high-spirited children. "Surely, the drains cannot be as bad as all that" you may be thinking. I know that I felt similarly when I was forewarned about hot flashes.<br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I was in my care-free days as an early thirty-something, when two children seemed like a handful and cancer was not yet in my worst nightmares, my mother-in-law would complain profusely about those damned hot-flashes brought forth by the dreaded menopause. She would then in excruciating detail, define the numerous ways she was counteracting them. I tried to be sympathetic with a nod and exclamation “Oh how terrible” and would then subtly roll my eyes thinking, “Oh right! How bad can they be?” You know what? She’s ABSOLUTELY right! Hot flashes are the devil’s curse from Eve’s wiles for which all women now all pay. I know this to be true because I continue to have them day in and day out as a side effect of my anti-estrogen post-cancer pharmacological therapy and they just plain stink. It just goes to show you to not blow off everything your wise mother-in-law tells you. </div><div><br />So while my interpretation here about how it feels to have four clunky tubes and drains protruding from under one's armpits may seem a little over the top, it is true. I also know that most patients don’t have a real sense of how uncomfortable and cumbersome to manage the drains can be when they are first warned about the possibility that they will have them after surgery (if they are told at all.) It’s not that plastic and breast surgeons don’t care about patients after they leave the OR, I think that it because very few of them have personally experienced what it is like to have them. That old saying about walking a mile in another’s shoes is an old saying because of the truth it beholds. I know that my doctors, who I considered the best of the best, were focused first on the matter at hand; removing the cancer and rebuilding a new and improved me. They do care about comfort in recovery but until now, the defacto solution to secure the tubing and drains for most has been the ol' safety pin.<br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> As I prepared for my big day under the knife, my plastic surgeon told me about the commercial availability of post-surgery garments. I was handed a brochure for some I might order but I balked; they were expensive and I just couldn’t bring myself to shell out more than $50 for what seemed to be an extravagant, one-time purchase when I was already buying several button-down shirts, post-surgery bras, and pajamas on top of what promised to be crushing medical expenses for some time to come. </div><div><br />As fortune would have it, right before my surgery, I was blessed to receive a hand-me-down camisole that secured in the front with velcro from an angel with the Pink Ribbon Cowgirls (<a href="http://www.bcrc.org">www.bcrc.org</a>), a support group for young women diagnosed with breast cancer. A volunteer had made it and donated it and this woman wore it after her mastectomy that she had just a few months earlier. I had no idea what was in store for me but she said “Trust me. You will want to have this. Bring it to the hospital so you can put your drains in the pocket. The hospital won’t have anything with pockets for your drains. They will have to use (groan) safety pins.” We were in a restaurant parking lot in NW Austin and I felt as if we were conducting some covert op. She was a complete stranger but our diagnosis in common brought me this life-altering garment that I now refer to as ‘the prototype’. It served as my inspiration for an affordable and easy-to- use pocket for patients to easily and instantly stick on the garments that they either already owned or had purchased for the days following a mastectomy or breast surgery. I know that the big comfort these small pockets provided saved my sanity in a world punctured by pain pills, wound dressings, useless limbs, and the prospect of chemo and imminent hair loss. I want everyone facing such an uphill climb to have an easy and affordable way to recover to face the next summit. </div><div><br />It’s no small thing to start a business after recovering from a cancer diagnosis and certainly not when you have a household of four busy children to manage and a husband who travels for work. I’m the chauffeur, cook, laundry slave, dog walker, cat-box-changer, and all-around-logistics guru despite having much of my brain cells compromised by chemo and early-onset menopause. What keeps me going on this entrepreneurial adventure most days is the common refrain from breast cancer survivors who, upon learning about <a href="http://www.pink-pockets.com">Pink Pockets</a>, exclaim “Wow! What a great idea! I wish I had them when I had my surgery. The drains are the worst!” I am also especially encouraged when a past customer purchases them for another loved-one facing the same diagnosis because they know that Pink Pockets will help in their recovery. That, to me, is the ultimate testimonial.</div><div><br />A cancer diagnosis can spin the trajectory of one’s life in a completely different direction and I have met an amazing number of women and men like me who have been motivated to serve in this ‘space’ in either a non-profit endeavor or various others-centered projects. It is really amazing the number of ways that one can find to give back or pay-it-forward and that has been one of the best parts of my life after cancer: seeing the ingenuity and selfless efforts put forth in the hope for a cure and better treatments. One wise woman I met who started an incredible non-profit remarked that Pink Pockets are a great invention. “You will never get rich with them” she predicted and she may be right but that isn’t thepoint. While I am humbled every day about what I don’t know about starting and running a business, what I do know is this: Pink Pockets have been shipped all across the US, Canada, UK, Australia, and Trinidad and have served in a teeny, tiny way to help someone at what might likely be the worst time of their life. Perspective is everything after a cancer diagnosis. It’s not a cure. It’s not a treatment. It’s just a pocket but sometimes it is the small comforts that can make the greatest difference. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><br />Diane, Creator of Pink Pockets<br /></div><div> </div><div><em><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"></span></em> </div><div> <em><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">"It isn't what you have in your pocket that matters but what you have in your heart." </span></em><em><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> Author Unknown </span></em></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"></span> </div>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-86087447236419714402011-08-02T17:41:00.000-07:002011-08-03T14:01:19.248-07:00Dog Days of Summer<div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPxCmTPzzzSURyp6PetJrNnYyLY4U_vUenvQOuRuKE_7cLBSWemguqbe0hvIXP3YMlp56x95cF2YWegTIGn_zOLbX8G8GIkD-ALX0BSEanVY0E0skVjUVfxEbTPvE88PLSBqIDVZBzVQ/s1600/Lily+maneater.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636424061424490290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPxCmTPzzzSURyp6PetJrNnYyLY4U_vUenvQOuRuKE_7cLBSWemguqbe0hvIXP3YMlp56x95cF2YWegTIGn_zOLbX8G8GIkD-ALX0BSEanVY0E0skVjUVfxEbTPvE88PLSBqIDVZBzVQ/s400/Lily+maneater.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><strong>It seemed like a good idea at the time:</strong><br /><br />1. Getting a dog</div><div><br />2. Having shaving cream ‘summer fun daze’ on the trampoline</div><div><br />3. Allowing a raccoon carcass to bake in the back yard’s 100+ degree Texas heat as buzzard bait in a failed ‘Witness the Magnificent Food Chain!’ biology lesson for the kids</div><div><br />4. Leaving the dog in the back yard (see #3)</div><div><br />5. Starting a business<br /><br />The dog thing, I can (kind of) explain.<br /><br />We’ve always been cat people but Travis has been hounding me since he first saw the picture that ‘came with the frame’ of a little blonde boy and a giant golden lab smiling cheerfully in a Father’s Knows Best mirage of family bliss. He had been fantasizing about a Lassie relationship since he could walk and well, a breast cancer diagnosis can cause the ‘life is short’ mantra to be misapplied sometimes. Woefully so, I’m finding. Forget that now – when told on punishment of death or no screens for a week that he MUST walk the dog, we are met with the hostility and cold stare only a 10-year-old can muster.<br /><br />Starting a business, on the other hand, with no time, no money, and absolutely no experience should have been the siren cry for my friends and family to wave the checkered flag saying “Whoa, lady, you have enough on your plate! Might want to rethink this!” Starting a business in this day and age is no small thing, whether it is an internet e-commerce startup or a mortar-and-bricks manufacturing enterprise or even a kiosk at the local mall, it really can only compare to raising a child. Thankless, back breaking work (especially in the early years of childhood) and endless worries in good health and poor. Why would anyone ever procreate or start a business, I now ask? My office and house is a disaster. As a mother of four and a new business owner, I am a walking cautionary tale.<br /><br /> “Gee, you really know how to make things hard on yourself.” These were the encouraging words of my twin sister, Denise, upon hearing the news that I was pregnant with my third child. Travis (#2) had gotten out of diapers only six months earlier. You should have heard what Denise said when I told her I was pregnant with Caroline (#4) when Sabrina (#3) was only 5 months old.<br />There’s something about the truth though, that gets under your skin. She’s right. I do this to myself over and over again. I must have been out of my freaking mind to think I could start and grow a business in the summer months when all four of my children were underfoot, bickering, and asking hounding me about their next meal (ramen noodles and bananas).<br /><br />It seemed like a good idea at the time to capitalize on a breast cancer diagnosis with a new, innovative creation that would solve a problem that has been vexing mastectomy patients for years. Make lemonade out of lemons. I love every time I get a new order for my ‘Pink Pockets’ patient pockets to hold drains and the testimonials from my customers warm my heart. And it’s not just because I am making money because I am not. I am awash in an industry of competing non-profits who pay themselves first – donation money, whatever there is, goes to the ‘administration of the nonprofit first’ and what is left over, goes to beneficiaries of the charity. I actually recently had a person accuse me of 'profiteering on the misery of others' because I'm selling my invention rather than giving it away.<br /><br />When you are a for-profit endeavor – you pay yourself LAST – until you can generate a profit or go out of business. Or lose your sanity, whichever comes first. I’m sorry to say that there are a few (not all) non-profits in this space that give tireless effort to cure breast cancer or other diseases a bad name. Beware the cancer carpetbaggers preying on the great generosity of the US citizen. They are the exception to the rule to be sure but they are still among us nonetheless. </div><div><br />I drive my 13-year-old daughter to and from swim team every day and I’m always encouraged as I make this hour round trip at all the small businesses I pass along the way. Storefronts and vehicles with small company names painted on the side. I point them out and am encouraged by the fortitude and hard work I know now has gone into the life’s blood of the people I don’t know that have scrimped and saved or loaned and risked to make and grow a business. It’s a really humbling experience to dive into the unknown and most days, what I am learning about sales tax remittance and SEO and product packaging makes me feel dumber rather than smarter, which is not a great confidence builder at my age.<br /><br />When I’m feeling my lowest, though, I just recall a conversation I had with my husband a few years back. We were talking about me taking a new job and what resume-speak phrases I ought to avoid and what experiences to highlight when our daughter Sabrina, then 4, asked what we were discussing. I told her that I was thinking about taking a new job and she said to me “But Mom, you already have a job. You take care of us.” I just need to remember that whatever happens, being a mom really is my most important job and I’ll have it the rest of my life. Who knows where and how long my job as President and Founder of Surgical Drain Solutions, LLC will last but I’ll always be Mom-In-Chief (to quote First Lady Michelle) to Danielle, Travis, Sabrina, and Caroline. While I’ll never get paid for this work, the return on investment is too great to measure. And the dog? Well, I guess she can stay as long as she continues to earn her keep scaring away solicitors and ding-dong-ditchers. Her bark, like mine, is definitely worse than her bite.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxffpHGS2MyWVS7xuk7afRInzclj2ifxO83nibOMdOViQuu7XmsqKktRciyd9aKF02FV1-eN2Ke5rZdqrFbctHc9CVRY2K1p_bPVPv-zAv6UGkvrJZgYBBg9gh9sZZehN3YJQ_9sWid50/s1600/Trampoline+snow.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 300px; height: 400px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636423847596927570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxffpHGS2MyWVS7xuk7afRInzclj2ifxO83nibOMdOViQuu7XmsqKktRciyd9aKF02FV1-eN2Ke5rZdqrFbctHc9CVRY2K1p_bPVPv-zAv6UGkvrJZgYBBg9gh9sZZehN3YJQ_9sWid50/s400/Trampoline+snow.JPG" /></a><br /></div><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aUTKxB6t3WUb0jklzVA_Pd1a2hvCPV63hkPSqgubpFXQ6cL9_DrXB52AduiTQswqaYNnZLx7bajstiwLMKCmk1XrmB6qgkScESFASn1x_cpjnr4wrN88_UNRBXH4o6HnnkNxtTTq3qQ/s1600/DianePockets.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 270px; height: 400px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636424287504988498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aUTKxB6t3WUb0jklzVA_Pd1a2hvCPV63hkPSqgubpFXQ6cL9_DrXB52AduiTQswqaYNnZLx7bajstiwLMKCmk1XrmB6qgkScESFASn1x_cpjnr4wrN88_UNRBXH4o6HnnkNxtTTq3qQ/s400/DianePockets.jpg" /></a><br />Pink Pockets are THE Hands-free solution for mastectomy patients! Pink Pockets are mastectomy drain holders proven to help patients recover in comfort after surgery. </p><p> <a href="http://www.pink-pockets.com">www.pink-pockets.com</a> to order and for more information!</p>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-6989160831134136072010-07-02T10:28:00.000-07:002010-07-02T10:32:03.539-07:00Holiday in Spider Country<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO7v7O5ods5TH550dCzH1yCsTiTjuOoCvdVpTPYZ9Uas0d6t974jasZjWUD9_WpFAOmX5cGZmuf6KhpdgyUE3uyNKi8_RFTM9aQrCddkLwqKAyOafZ6pT-XpfjVKx1t5DLTtfDNV8Wu8/s1600/spider.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489362605317321906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO7v7O5ods5TH550dCzH1yCsTiTjuOoCvdVpTPYZ9Uas0d6t974jasZjWUD9_WpFAOmX5cGZmuf6KhpdgyUE3uyNKi8_RFTM9aQrCddkLwqKAyOafZ6pT-XpfjVKx1t5DLTtfDNV8Wu8/s400/spider.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I had a visitor in my shower this morning. I don’t have as much hair as I once did so my morning routine is much abbreviated and this morning I made the record for shampooing and rinsing. I didn’t even repeat. The Green Police would have awarded me a golden hemp star. I spy with my little eye a spider flying high. </div><div><br />We’re up here in Spider Country for our summer respite visiting the grand rents and cousins. Growing up, we not-so-affectionately dubbed this town ‘Coma and things have not changed much in the 20+ years since I’ve been gone. I’m ok with that now though because any time I get away from the laundry and chores of home rates high on my vacation reviews. Plus, the temperatures are 40 degrees cooler here. I actually get to wear jeans and a sweatshirt for a week in June, something we don’t usually get to experience until late October in Austin. </div><div><br />Texas is hands down the winner of ‘Places with the Nastiest Critters’. From scorpions to tarantulas to snakes, cicadas, centipedes and man-size cockroaches, I have encountered all of them at some point. I have learned to adapt to my environment – keep a big shoe handy and call your husband for the especially nasty chores like removing the dead rat from under the kitchen table at 2AM. Even Tom admitted “It was a big one.” </div><div><br />I still get a little squirmy though when it comes to the common brown house spider. We don’t have these down south, so when I visit Washington, I have to ready myself for the unexpected. Our family downstairs den has been christened ‘The Spider Room’ for all the arachnids that met their maker over the years at the hands of my courageous mother. Even my kids refer to it in this way although the furnishings and piles of crap under which you could find so many of these eight-legged horrors are long gone. </div><div><br />I have only in the wisdom of adulthood come to appreciate that these creatures are actually our friend. They keep the house clean of other smaller pests and they will keep their distance if I keep mine. They still creep me out. They hide in folds of draperies, small cracks in the baseboards, even in bedding. They do not bite but if you wake to find one staring down at you from the ceiling, you will lose ten years of your life guaranteed. They are thirsty creatures and come to places with water. I vividly recall making a late night trip to the bathroom to fill a drinking glass of water. A big fat one was crouched in the sink rousing me and the entire household with my screams of bloody murder. I even developed hives from this encounter. </div><div><br />“Big Baby!” I believe is the name I have earned for my reactions. My sister is even worse than me though. Even in our 40’s, we will still call our mother to come “Kill the Spider!” I am now the defender of the family against such harm – the problem is – the kids never find the nasties first. I do. It was me who discovered the six foot snake in the garage, the pervasive possum, the rats, and, of course, the numerous lizards – live and decapitated – over the years. Thank heavens my children are not the least bit uncomfortable handling these freeloader and giving them the broom – or the boot – out the door. </div><div><br />We’re headed to the Washington beaches for the remainder of our vacation and Fourth of July holiday (and Danielle’s 12th birthday) away from Spider Country. I hope I will sleep a bit better and deeper. I always keep a glass of water by my bed as I get very thirsty during the night. In the house I grew up in, you always had to put your fingers down into the glass before drinking because the spiders tend to crawl down inside looking for a free drink. This I learned the hard way. </div><div><br />May you and your family have a wonderful 4th of July celebration in the best country on this planet – even with our friend, the spider. </div>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-846659258543792172010-06-23T06:13:00.000-07:002010-06-23T06:39:08.350-07:00The Marine Massacre - Part Deux.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNybtmK2pPamx08WQGgdLq5F6FUjK57aAoQxYT4QPadaHGR6z5r_NcD2ZzdX0c1eR-eK57cPndERwOs_TS19J3GLQtBhP3JQ3YAKsrnsSKAMiRywBw0InEyfiIFBofQqQo1VvSKG56uQ/s1600/dedfish.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485957052560405362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNybtmK2pPamx08WQGgdLq5F6FUjK57aAoQxYT4QPadaHGR6z5r_NcD2ZzdX0c1eR-eK57cPndERwOs_TS19J3GLQtBhP3JQ3YAKsrnsSKAMiRywBw0InEyfiIFBofQqQo1VvSKG56uQ/s400/dedfish.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I can't believe I killed the fish. Again. Ladies (and men - be forewarned), this is what happens when menopause hits.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-63527250039626225142010-06-05T14:07:00.001-07:002010-06-05T14:10:38.181-07:00Texas Rain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJkDMeCZ_Xy-4B6Bq_vIb4NfdC_Gv92Uc-Yw9F4JJYT3cLamDnlULkPmmg6hX9YPQNOan9yHaSHVUp23deYocaXJZzMKNN74IejBnMEGCtx8H_mE0N8hyphenhyphenElXpbmjsoAC1uRI9JEPxmH8/s1600/junerain.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJkDMeCZ_Xy-4B6Bq_vIb4NfdC_Gv92Uc-Yw9F4JJYT3cLamDnlULkPmmg6hX9YPQNOan9yHaSHVUp23deYocaXJZzMKNN74IejBnMEGCtx8H_mE0N8hyphenhyphenElXpbmjsoAC1uRI9JEPxmH8/s400/junerain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479399456325665218" /></a><br /><br />“School’s out for summer….” I didn’t realize this was an Alice Cooper song as I tool around my house humming it under my breath in great anticipation for what is in store for us these next several months. I’m banging my head a bit as I try to clear the decks in anticipation for having two more bodies along with their clutter underfoot. With four kids in the house, there is always evidence of chaos in every room. Try as I might to be a clean-as-you-go person, I get overwhelmed as soon as I put the last load of laundry away. Then it’s on to my office, a bona fide disaster area. Now I know where Danielle get’s her piggy tendencies. I tried to blame it on her father, but looking around at the piles of admin, I must confess it is from me. <br /><br />Like January 1st and a fresh set of New Year’s Resolutions, I meet the first day of summer with a load of things for the kids to do which will both benefit them and reflect keenly on me as an organized and dutiful mother. Chore charts, activity lists, maximum hours per day of screen time, organized camps and family vacation time round out the calendar. Trips to the library to get the classics and special science and geography lessons will slow the softening of the brain. I believe I have crafted a balanced web between being overscheduled and underutilized time for we all know what that leads to. It begins with the “Mom, I’m bored!” chorus which leads to sibling bickering which leads to blows which leads to mother roaring at the kids and sentencing them to solitary confinement as I make my own retreat to the liquor cabinet. <br /><br />I hope I last longer than the kids in the adherence to the strictly laid rules and standards. The drive for allowance money for more treasures usually starts to wane after two weeks, which is generous. It’s actually more like one week when the tedium of manual labor sets in. Of course, a good fever virus or case of head lice can completely upend our routine. We had both today, for example, as Sabrina snoozed on the couch in a Benydryl and Motrin coma, I spied a vermin sneaking through Caroline’s hair. BUGGER! I don’t have the time or the will to comb through Kiki’s hair nor the staying power to get her to sit for duration of a painstaking nit bomb. Danielle had a case of nits a few weeks ago and I thought we had been thorough in the eradication of this pest. I was wrong. <br /><br />I ran to the store cursing the cursed and wondering why this was happening to me again. We have not had a case of head lice since Danielle was in kindergarten more than 6 years ago. Then her case erupted the day before I was having surgery to reconstruct my reconstruction. Tonight, Tom and I are headed to what promises to be a very fun grown-up party right in the hood. Of course , one never plans to have this kind of thing happen but what stinky timing. Am I being punished for neglecting my children while blogging or trying to figure out what is the allure of Twitter really? Is this a wake-up call to renew my laser like focus on kids kids kids?Perhaps. <br /><br />I’m enjoying a little me time blogging therapy as I recharge and get ready for round two – dinner, a vigorous comb-out, and an attempt to work a little magic on my own hair. Caroline says ‘I like your clown hair, Mommy.” Last year at this time, I had no hair, so I’m trying to keep perspective on this latest curve ball over my home plate. We all get them, in different shapes and sizes, but it’s better to strike out swinging than watching the ball go by. Even in Texas, it rains a little. <br /><br />Enjoy your summer – I know we will.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-21345162702800785882010-05-26T07:17:00.000-07:002010-05-26T07:24:25.851-07:00Why I don't Home School My Children<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5Z2Id6jBdQbe2bbEKJBB_HXeolG9KGI_QrNZTaD45n9duewQGezKyJOCpxals5YfqCiO83eLZ9WBzvTk-tzysedixHv8ODGWjwKCASqORDrZkTlLW7anGyuCKWNB9ZL7Fso0kAxihdI/s1600/deadfish.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475583172041960642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5Z2Id6jBdQbe2bbEKJBB_HXeolG9KGI_QrNZTaD45n9duewQGezKyJOCpxals5YfqCiO83eLZ9WBzvTk-tzysedixHv8ODGWjwKCASqORDrZkTlLW7anGyuCKWNB9ZL7Fso0kAxihdI/s320/deadfish.JPG" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNH7IGH6ZHRYNVI0SwX1mTWxdoS7Lpt0bqyb7iZEjUEmgsPGYIetJBOhR-ELWt93xDSDNXZeaVPfbEaJjsGIuGjVn8WOPlwI331g1_Gn3JTen_MqAJeC-sWtZhZglS4Psia06t7pF_9KE/s1600/fishfun.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475583623413293746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNH7IGH6ZHRYNVI0SwX1mTWxdoS7Lpt0bqyb7iZEjUEmgsPGYIetJBOhR-ELWt93xDSDNXZeaVPfbEaJjsGIuGjVn8WOPlwI331g1_Gn3JTen_MqAJeC-sWtZhZglS4Psia06t7pF_9KE/s320/fishfun.JPG" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclGpymNSMuWzrbccgvrdMjlMFYUTGE2NhVk509Pz1u_wO_ZYB52Qx834mIjgfEB1XPeO7u_UeRTPzZY_wSJbGSE5wdE25jBFVIHGRWyIZ29_6DADyo97fMAHLbjSqkRtop3Q7kzTLnKQ/s1600/fishlesson.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475584290877008946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclGpymNSMuWzrbccgvrdMjlMFYUTGE2NhVk509Pz1u_wO_ZYB52Qx834mIjgfEB1XPeO7u_UeRTPzZY_wSJbGSE5wdE25jBFVIHGRWyIZ29_6DADyo97fMAHLbjSqkRtop3Q7kzTLnKQ/s400/fishlesson.JPG" /></a><br /><div>This was last week's biology lesson ....</div><br /><div></div>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-2789141921291149422010-04-26T08:09:00.000-07:002010-04-26T08:17:53.151-07:00My Favorite Movie Quotes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTl3pFMJklSOVx3VUP67FyOyL32Ak_Yg8_KrPdXsJ-BMXxh3A9EpmsEwic2Z51vnrWIh-O8DxM6NwHTOEgiLnDkn5zLnybMgifR_NjLC2pp0LzoN8Azb7oiMtRTHrcUxyMbLTn_C6GRx8/s1600/Hatgirl.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464465507831935762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 181px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTl3pFMJklSOVx3VUP67FyOyL32Ak_Yg8_KrPdXsJ-BMXxh3A9EpmsEwic2Z51vnrWIh-O8DxM6NwHTOEgiLnDkn5zLnybMgifR_NjLC2pp0LzoN8Azb7oiMtRTHrcUxyMbLTn_C6GRx8/s320/Hatgirl.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgMfcGcw5u0AyscKvA2cgdEvU-LwT2RgQ1wX2LeqO-fsuXJk_t9NRWI5Omk5ZH_ZEOciQdU1teRat_ix9_Yh6dtQSqsCx2strn9HwP1hH8GVOkeJuCN-YX8x2BZ1_1sBtTeG7Zv1CtGM/s1600/Caroline+kitchen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464465185140940226" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgMfcGcw5u0AyscKvA2cgdEvU-LwT2RgQ1wX2LeqO-fsuXJk_t9NRWI5Omk5ZH_ZEOciQdU1teRat_ix9_Yh6dtQSqsCx2strn9HwP1hH8GVOkeJuCN-YX8x2BZ1_1sBtTeG7Zv1CtGM/s320/Caroline+kitchen.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><br /><br /> </div><p><strong>You know, a girl with a hat is just so ... Whew. So Vogue. </strong></p><br /><p><em>Farmer Ted</em>, Sixteen Candles (1984)</p><br /><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><br /><p></p></div></div>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-90140423515833554992010-04-15T09:23:00.001-07:002010-04-15T09:29:17.423-07:00My native Texans by Diane LeBleu<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRP55CrYFUJ4Sh3JS0fT-oKaCj-IilW9-cshAGcI2b_I5xYmX7jRGwXIrRT9bizrzwhi0EUC0Fn3BjB7NwlSgofEMFxW15cVfWYZBE5MR3DUWUHq2_5Vn5Zf_N4KPl4Zxu9T6YPIM2ng/s1600/kidsblue.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460401066358152098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 225px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRP55CrYFUJ4Sh3JS0fT-oKaCj-IilW9-cshAGcI2b_I5xYmX7jRGwXIrRT9bizrzwhi0EUC0Fn3BjB7NwlSgofEMFxW15cVfWYZBE5MR3DUWUHq2_5Vn5Zf_N4KPl4Zxu9T6YPIM2ng/s400/kidsblue.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I must say as to what I have seen of Texas, it is the garden spot of the world,<br />the best land and the best prospects for health I ever saw, and I do believe it is<br />a fortune to any man to come here - <em>Alamo hero Davey Crockett</em></span></span></div>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-65421873140933516052010-03-19T06:39:00.000-07:002010-03-19T06:42:38.510-07:00Message to our Congress:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LTatOzvbWu-yB9aivclDGlvBc1za01wXYRHVK99C2jKa9e0iaMfjwjsiYoj9k70li5AcLjy1AN3C2mlO2RBNi78m7g4L2ez0xBZYW92XIBS59R1uJtSnrxpch_MB1_oS4RZrmCJMI5Q/s1600-h/Teamwork.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450339647728792594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LTatOzvbWu-yB9aivclDGlvBc1za01wXYRHVK99C2jKa9e0iaMfjwjsiYoj9k70li5AcLjy1AN3C2mlO2RBNi78m7g4L2ez0xBZYW92XIBS59R1uJtSnrxpch_MB1_oS4RZrmCJMI5Q/s400/Teamwork.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><br />Let's work together to improve our health care system.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-11251045576460527472010-01-10T19:41:00.000-08:002010-01-13T12:22:23.893-08:00Yes, Travis, you may have a dog.<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjzI4QnzQ8Q5MSVnIgZDwnfTmkC8j-6hlxfVFRXH2SjZSX3HerZUltxQRvhvXw3Yg0KGn6LPevVVbxzxGfoyOGhY1kdkCaBPGSI6bEdoz08yL9MbFLGBneNnkPm-Xai-DiSd5OMJyDZg/s1600-h/Travis+pet.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425322820992080930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjzI4QnzQ8Q5MSVnIgZDwnfTmkC8j-6hlxfVFRXH2SjZSX3HerZUltxQRvhvXw3Yg0KGn6LPevVVbxzxGfoyOGhY1kdkCaBPGSI6bEdoz08yL9MbFLGBneNnkPm-Xai-DiSd5OMJyDZg/s400/Travis+pet.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Travis and Lily, January 10, 2010<br /></strong><br />Original post, April 2008<br /><br /></div>"Do you know how many ways there are to say no without saying no? I do." <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184978912128541442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuZhuBswczoVzF7ENwYv1YogIqpmUZUZimhkPRdtO-eWv6AYNjb2ayH0NwN-Z7M0-42EDSciEDb7Ac7NfhiDfg5JIDdWSR8dwIF30mo1JnW24Fri36R9r62Wj5kIIVBwC1wMzruQ8d6Q/s320/Travis+bunny.JPG" border="0" />This is one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books, “I Don’t Know How She Does It’ by Allison Pearson. I love fictional Kate Reddy’s struggles with career and family in some very familiar real life scenarios. In this case, Kate is describing her experience of dealing with the fact that she will not be putting her five-year-old daughter Emily to bed (again) that evening and trying not to disappoint her (again) for the absences Kate’s demanding career were having on the family. In my case, my desire to say no but also to not disappoint is related to the decision of taking a family pet. You see, my son wants a dog.<br /><br />There are so many reasons to say no to this request. First, we are a family of two adults and four children and a cat. We have enough mouths to feed as it is and with our astronomical grocery bill being what it is today, we may all soon be eating dog food. Second, there is not enough time in the day already to tend to the needs of the human inhabitants of our home much less the furry four-legged critters. Our cat, Maggie, is the sweetest, most tolerant cat on the planet. Frankly, I do not know why she sticks around. She is mauled by my toddler and is only fed when my three year old remembers to dump out her food that I have to hide in the laundry room behind the door (so she can eat a meal in peace away from my none-too-gentle toddler). Most days, she subscribes to the fend-for-yourself meal ideology we have at our house – she brings in lizards (dead and alive), birds (dead and alive), mice, butterflies, cicadas, and who knows what else. Her favorite place to play and eat is under our dining room table. We have a dark carpet there that allows her to hide her recent kill without too much notice. Before every major holiday, we have to do a carcass sweep so as not to offend visiting guests. Which brings me to my third point, I’m not much of a housekeeper, obviously, and having dog hair, dog smell, dog footprints on my white tile floor would most certainly put me over the edge of this fine balance I am trying to maintain as a modicum of clean in my home.<br /><br />There is part of me that wants to say yes to my son’s desire for a dog. He is the sweetest, most sensitive little boy I know and I know he would take good care of a dog and play with it (when he is not at school or at friends homes, or at baseball, football, swim practice). He is also the only boy in the middle of three sisters and is completely out numbered – a dog for Travis might make up for some of the estrogen that threatens to overwhelm our house some days. Travis brings home his journal from school weekly for me to add a response to his entries. So far, he has asked for a dog, a hamster, a fish, and a ferret. I have to keep saying no and I fear one of these days I will cave and we may end up with ….. a parrot?<br /><br />Whenever I have a moment of weakness, however, all I have to do is stick my head out my door to see the dog walkers out at 5am with a leash and a poop bag and then I have my resolve back. I am just a few months away from getting my last baby out of diapers and the last thing I want to do is to start scooping poop off the sidewalk at all hours of the morning or night. My son insists that this would be his job but I am an old, wise woman of 38 and I know how the world works when it comes to kids and pets. Moms gets a majority of the tasks related to pet maintenance<br />and right now my ‘to do’ list is full.<br /><br />My son came into my bedroom, which doubles as a home office for me and my husband. When we first moved into our five bedroom house, we had one child with another on the way. We wondered how we would fill the space of our house. Like too much closet space attracting clutter, we were able to fill all the bedrooms of our home with children and now have to make use of our master suite to house two desks, computers and printers, and files cabinets. I had a photo frame sitting on the floor (an incomplete dusting project) and Travis picked it up. There is a little blonde boy with blue eyes and a cowboy hat holding a golden retriever puppy. Travis was pestering me – who is this boy? Who is this dog – they are so cute! I told him laughingly, ‘It came with the frame’. He keeps this empty photo frame by his bed so every night he can see the happy boy with his pet dog – an unfulfilled dream for now.<br /><br />When Travis asks about a dog, my current response is “Let’s talk about it tomorrow” and that usually does the trick. Travis is starting to learn about follow-up, though, so I will soon need to change my tactic and say no without saying no. We are not a dog family – never had one, never wanted one, but who knows, that may some day change. When we adopted our cats from a local PetCo several years ago, I recall calling my husband as I was looking at this darling duo of brother and sister kittens. I told my husband then “Talk me out of taking these kitties home.” Tom was unsuccessful at saying no to me then – perhaps Travis is taking his request to the wrong parent!Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-16493320437566162612009-12-13T07:26:00.000-08:002009-12-13T07:34:32.945-08:00Peace of the Season to You! by Diane LeBleu<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZKPyU1tYFWIeY-E3C6WiYAy11BVmXQ6Ds4u-HarI4V8N1MosHjBp9SvmaA2RxD-4ZKZhemMlQnRb9UG5NvA0R3y21e0gp9YMoQkVC9nZTAKOfIwiq1B7zOAOo1xw7dQKpsJMf6z49Hc/s1600-h/DSC01519.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZKPyU1tYFWIeY-E3C6WiYAy11BVmXQ6Ds4u-HarI4V8N1MosHjBp9SvmaA2RxD-4ZKZhemMlQnRb9UG5NvA0R3y21e0gp9YMoQkVC9nZTAKOfIwiq1B7zOAOo1xw7dQKpsJMf6z49Hc/s400/DSC01519.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414742903821827634" /></a><br /><br />Aren’t they sweet? Hard to believe that only moments before the agonizing annual event that we know in our home to be ‘sit for the Christmas pic’ there was bickering, shouting, missing shoes, muddy shoes on the clean floor, discarded bows from perfectly coiffed hair, tears (Sabrina’s) and chest pains (mine). Why why why do I do this to myself every year? And the photo always looks the same – us smiling in front of the same Christmas tree, decorated with the same ornaments, since we bought it eleven years ago. We should just Photoshop a new head on the same body template and call it a day. It would save everyone an afternoon of absolute misery. <br /><br />I recall my sister telling me upon my announcement of my pregnancy with our third child ‘Wow! You really know how to make things hard for yourself’ or something along those lines. Travis was three at the time, out of diapers, and things were starting to get a little easier on the child front. And we were going to be starting over again in the spring. Diapers, bottles, sleepless nights. You can’t imagine how she reacted to the news about our fourth child. <br /><br />Perhaps she was on to something. Perhaps I need to more often seek the path of least resistance. I just started back to work pursing a career as an insurance and financial professional. I cannot use the term ‘Financial Advisor’ until I am properly licensed having passed the Series 7 securities exam. Until then, I am to use the vague term ‘Insurance and Financial Professional’ which really means I assist individuals and business owners in meeting their financial goals through risk management (using insurance products) and planning strategies for events like college or retirement. As I said, I am just getting started in a business that is entirely commission-based. Which means, I am working hard, hemorrhaging money (for child care, business start up expenses, additional valium) and getting no pay. I know that this type of work is extremely difficult in the early years and that I am paying my dues. That if I continue with this, making a name for my services and slowly building a sound client base, this will be a good career. I know this academically, but it is hard on the wallet and the family, as I am the household manager in addition to my numerous other roles. I don’t want to fail with a casual ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time’ but I also don’t want to kill myself over a job. I already had something trying to do just that this year. <br /><br />I am working on my marketing plan, my tag line, my ‘ideal referral’ as I boldly go forward in this new enterprise. I have the complete backing of my husband who is growing weary of my daily doubts. My own Yoda tells me ‘Do or Do Not! There is no try!” And he’s right, or course. Anything worth doing is worth doing well. And if this profession were easy, everyone would do it. The bottom line is, as I have come to realize over the course of my many years of professional dabbling (Bus/IT consulting, bookkeeper, lawyer’s assistant, spouse of business owner, marketing and practice support for high-net worth financial advisors, and of course, SAHM), I have found these truths about myself. I love helping others achieve their objectives with my knowledge and experience in all capacities. I’m a planner, bringing multi-tasking and work effectiveness to a new level. I love order – wanting everything in it’s place – so one doesn’t have to worry about so many things so one can enjoy the real joys of life – family and friends. I appreciate the value of a plan – things just don’t happen without one. I recognize the value of insuring your family against the worst. It will not prevent bad things from happening, but it will cushion the blow. Tom’s mother lost her husband, Tom’s father in a tragic accident that claimed his life when Tom was only five. Because he had put his family first, had enough life insurance to take care of his family so that they could continue to live as they were accustomed, they were able to go on. I know personally that cancer happens – even in people in their 30’s. Maybe my tag line will be something along these lines ‘Putting families first. Don’t be paranoid. Instead, be prepared.’ I also love to write and marketing my skills and services through a variety of channels will challenge me in new ways to creatively craft compelling thoughts and messages. <br /><br />We are planning to enjoy a quiet holiday this year. Just our small family to spend Christmas and New Year's enjoying each other’s company. Bickering, shouting, annoyed at Danielle’s constant flute playing, but at peace in the love and support we all have of each other. God bless you and have a wonderful holiday season!Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-15456169738413018172009-12-03T19:27:00.000-08:002009-12-03T19:32:59.553-08:00Life Goes On by Diane LeBleuDecember 3, 2009<br />Today is the first anniversary of the words delivered to me from my OB/GYN Dr. Stephanie Reich regarding my breast biopsy performed on December 1, 2008. “This is cancer” she told me.<br /><br />My first reaction was ‘I KNEW IT!’ but one doesn’t get an A for intuition in this class. The doctor that performed the biopsy had told me casually ‘This doesn’t look like cancer’ when he was performing the ultrasound guided core needle biopsy. Thanks for the false comfort pal. All that seems like a lifetime ago and indeed it is.<br /><br />I am embarking on a new career with new hair, new boobs, and an old work wardrobe that I can thankfully still fit into after more than eleven years and four children. My days are crazy – there are 10,000 balls in the air with several dropping beside, behind, and front of me but my problem solving skills and adaptability have never been greater, despite six months of chemo. I am, as Natasha Bedingfield writes in her song ‘Unwritten’ living my life with arms wide open. Instead of cursing the hot flashes, I now use the time it takes for them to peak in a pool of cold sweat to pray – giving thanks to God for all the blessings he has bestowed upon me and asking for guidance to use what I have experienced to serve others.<br /><br />I recently met with Bill Bastas, photographer and author of the book ‘The Smile Never Fades’ (www.thesmileneverfades.com) to tell him about my new career – bringing life insurance and financial planning assistance to breast cancer survivors and their families and he was very enthusiastic about helping me, as he had lost his own wife to breast cancer several years before. He commented that I have a lightness about my personality – a spirited aspect that is both hopeful and positive to be around. I told him it comes from the realization that every day is a gift. Silently, he nodded his assent.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqk9Lmp0dn6s9-2fg_9woWgGUohOPfwShMJtDuWqOuT3wBOBrA5OmflwT8lK6PHrvAoIHIqdtOFoi9yTXq-xvnEZ8VaBgbmTtLIMq2913-6fu0K5EAYddAcVKljcKwJiekOtU3Z-Pg5w0/s1600-h/DSC01472.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411218060552442002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqk9Lmp0dn6s9-2fg_9woWgGUohOPfwShMJtDuWqOuT3wBOBrA5OmflwT8lK6PHrvAoIHIqdtOFoi9yTXq-xvnEZ8VaBgbmTtLIMq2913-6fu0K5EAYddAcVKljcKwJiekOtU3Z-Pg5w0/s400/DSC01472.JPG" border="0" /></a>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-61662073050504870372009-11-17T18:02:00.001-08:002009-11-17T18:20:57.286-08:00Caroline and Maggie by Diane LeBleu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRZ94SmGZMX8Zd-rxAR7UA4xz-mqNG6fRQ1U0VPUHoEeI8LZ3KN9yf2_0PYoiVHlN318at3T33c6OZoP-8UxvnFx47eF_grvD0WCPAR4AWFDAj_IWPqt4-Lw5LLtrePEUP7sROX25TOQ/s1600/Maggiecat.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRZ94SmGZMX8Zd-rxAR7UA4xz-mqNG6fRQ1U0VPUHoEeI8LZ3KN9yf2_0PYoiVHlN318at3T33c6OZoP-8UxvnFx47eF_grvD0WCPAR4AWFDAj_IWPqt4-Lw5LLtrePEUP7sROX25TOQ/s400/Maggiecat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405262077417037330" /></a><br /><em>"Time spent with cats is never wasted." </em>Sigmund FreudDiane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-21262549080570013682009-10-18T17:04:00.000-07:002009-10-19T04:35:46.215-07:00Hopeless? by Diane LeBleuThis is not a political blog – I try to stick to the Writing Mamas tag line “When you become a mother, you’ve got a lot to write about’. That seems to provide enough fodder to keep me going until mid-century. Today I digress somewhat, finding an observation worth noting. Let me say this about my political predisposition and that will be all: I hate big government with the white hot passion of a thousand suns. I find our world completely overrun with bureaucrats that have no accountability to their constituents. There is gross malfeasance (on both sides) but particularly those who want to tax and spend their way to ascertain a political legacy, whatever the results. <br /><br />I am terrified of what kind of future my children will likely face due to the lack of stewardship and reckless spending going on in Washington. I fear for my daughters, who may inherit my breast cancer genetic mutation, knowing that in countries with socialized medicine, there is absolutely no technological and medical innovation. I fear for the kind of treatment they would receive if indeed they do contract this disease under a system of rationalized care. My husband and I fear what will happen to our children upon graduation from college (for which we will have worked endless hours to be able to afford to send them) when the unemployment rate for all citizens under the age of 25 is currently 50 percent. I fear for our own retirement, having been born under the demographically bad sign of ‘Gen X’. We follow the Boomers who will have busted the ‘social insurance’ bank upon their retirement. <br /><br />Hopeless, that is what I feel most days. I don’t read the newspaper anymore – too depressing. And manufactured news. Propaganda for this administration. I alternate between a rabid need to ‘do something’ to a disabling sense of dread at what is coming down the road, as my voice is only one. I am a political nobody. My vote doesn’t matter. I feel like taking the advice my husband and I often sarcastically offer to those anti-American, anti-globalization anarchists that we see so often on the news. “Don’t like it here – there are probably a billion people on this planet that would take your place in a minute. Just move!” But where would we move? Still in my heart, I know this is the best country on the planet and it breaks my heart to see it taken to its knees in a matter of 10 short months. There is no country that has the talent, ingenuity, work-ethic, values, and business and political know-how as ours. Our country’s short-lived existence is a miracle. And those Representatives (or as they see themselves – our Rulers) in Washington DC are thumbing their nose at the Constitution daily. The dual feelings of rage and dread cannot be assuaged – it’s hopeless. <br /><br />Except for today. After my eight-year-old son’s Pop Warner football game, the players and spectators were filing out of the stadium as the new players and spectators were coursing in for the next match. It was a noisy interchange for the victorious team and the heartfelt disappointment of the losing one. The anticipation by the parents and friends of the new teams created a cacophony of voices and bustle. I was starting to speak to one of my son’s coaches as we heard the National Anthem start up over the loudspeaker. He stopped mid-sentence in respect and looked over my shoulder. I turned to face the flag, waving gently in the blue fall Texas sky. Immediately a hush came over the crowd and my four-year-old daughter Sabrina put her hand over her heart and turned to face the flag without my prodding. <br /><br />As the strains of the Star Spangled Banner played for a silent, reverent crowd, I felt myself get a little teary, and I’m not a crier. While this country is polarized over many issues, we can still come together in respect and honor for our flag, our democracy, our country, our freedom. Texas is, of course, a conservative state but Austin is a liberal bastion in an otherwise red state. We don’t often hear conservative viewpoints represented in our local media but for a moment today, we were all in synch, standing shoulder to shoulder on a warm October morning, united in our love for our children and our football. For a moment this morning, I felt something I hadn’t felt in some time – hopeful.<br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW5l9-8rczyWWmJUp07vKJkfRU-GOOQH4kDigi-fYrBquPuOsapDTW3oG_gUX2nNgWyOSTnwlAMcbHR8l1DePhPNSYuSGCQHDL6kvt5aSXdj1VlG4MKxZBwnrIJNltW-zFt54PsdO_0uY/s1600-h/DSC00985.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW5l9-8rczyWWmJUp07vKJkfRU-GOOQH4kDigi-fYrBquPuOsapDTW3oG_gUX2nNgWyOSTnwlAMcbHR8l1DePhPNSYuSGCQHDL6kvt5aSXdj1VlG4MKxZBwnrIJNltW-zFt54PsdO_0uY/s400/DSC00985.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394096144232204338" /></a>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-14307430758379717372009-10-07T12:43:00.000-07:002009-10-07T12:45:31.778-07:00Burping the Chillow by Diane LeBleuIt’s an afternoon in early October and I find myself at the kitchen sink burping the Chillow ®. Last year at this time, I was consumed with the usual ‘What will the kids be for Halloween?’ dilemma but now that I see the world through pink tinted glasses, I celebrate this month like many others around the nation in commemoration for all those who have had and will have breast cancer at some point in their lives. In my life. <br /><br />I’ve lived several lifetimes since my diagnosis last December. Surgery, chemotherapy, lost my hair, gave up my ovaries but gained some fantastic new boobs. I managed to do the chemo without a portacath, making good use of my man-size veins for the first time so unless you take a good look at the delicate scar under my right armpit, there’s not much to tell the casual observer that I had breast cancer this past year. Indeed, strangers are now complimenting me on my new, chic hair style. I had been hearing this from close friends since the time I mustered enough courage to de-wig and de-hat but figured it was just those sweet white-lies of well-meaning encouragers. So with the exception of a much shorter, darker, and wavier hair-do, I look and feel pretty much like I did ten short months ago. Unless you count the hot flashes. <br /><br />Years ago, my mother-in-law complained endlessly, in colorful detail about the cursed hot flashes and night sweats that ruined her sleep and wrecked her sunny outlook on life. I recall discreetly rolling my eyes and silently dismissing her rants with ‘Oh come on. How bad can they be?’ Even my twin sister didn’t get much empathy from me, as she fanned herself and bowed down to the woes of early onset menopause as a result of cancer treatment. Now it is my turn to flash and burn, suffering in silence, trying to get on with my new post-cancer life as best as I can.<br /><br />I feel a freedom in my new identity because I can blend into the crowd once again. I am no longer the subject of curious children wondering what happened to my hair or concerned friends and neighbors wondering how I am feeling today. I can choose to talk about my experience or not. It’s up to me. Life has gone on. <br /><br />I recently attended a meeting of my MOPS group (aka Mothers on Prozac but more correctly named Mothers of Preschoolers). I confessed to my new friends my recent history of breast cancer and upcoming oophoroectomy (that’s ovary removal to the layman) and our group’s ‘Mentor Mom’ advised me about the Chillow ® . ‘My sister swears by it!’ she wisely declared. Never heard of it. Hmmm. <br /><br />Thank God for the internet and search engines because I found the Chillow ® (a chilled pillow) as a practical solution to my evenings of hot again/off again spells. I ordered one up and it was delivered to my doorstep within 3 days. It’s a foam-filled pillow-like device that you fill with water then massage the air out, like the back of a gassy baby, and sleep on, covered with a pillowcase, for a night of cool, peaceful slumber. I’m hooked. I count the hours until I can cocoon myself within it’s chilling calm. <br /><br />I’ve found that some people don’t like to share their experience with cancer. They just want to do their time and get on with their life. Last month, I attended an event in Austin, TX titled ‘The Many Faces of Breast Cancer’, a national program educating and celebrating breast cancer survivors sponsored by AstraZeneca and local cancer service providers. A woman asked the speaker’s panel , composed of a renowned breast surgeon and oncologist, what she could do to serve her sister who was ‘in denial’ about her breast cancer. This woman tearfully confessed her desire to serve her sister but that she had not been afforded any opportunity. Her sister had shut her down, shut her out, and didn’t want to talk about or deal with her disease other than the doing her treatment regimen proscribed by her doctors. And that’s her prerogative. <br /><br />But for the rest of the evening, a number of breast cancer survivors addressed this woman and provided a multitude of ideas about how she could listen to, respond to, and be available to the needs of the sister she loved as she battled this horrendous disease. Sometimes it is a matter of taking a deep breath and letting it all out. To suffer in silence may seem brave and selfless, but one might be denying oneself some great wisdom and useful advice. If I hadn’t been willing to share my story with my parenting support group, I would have missed out on the timely advice that has allowed me to sleep a little easier. <br /><br />By the way, I love my new hot-flash remedy, as do all four of my children. Check out my next post, titled ‘Defending the Chillow ® ’.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-80133824837468397932009-09-19T08:38:00.001-07:002009-09-19T08:47:29.107-07:00You Go Girl! by Diane LeBleu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5siP8q366vtUlnlsOehAkbbb6w2Jps34-teCaG67Y7NFMJOVL4DguFu5wbq3QVT7qvTc5uAtLWqRu1REjLyfLLPzZD3a4OBNW6SV5l6UzeH8cxPOkA4iDzv0yUy6GN_pIpfF5A7vyzzM/s1600-h/chemophoto.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383203728062554706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5siP8q366vtUlnlsOehAkbbb6w2Jps34-teCaG67Y7NFMJOVL4DguFu5wbq3QVT7qvTc5uAtLWqRu1REjLyfLLPzZD3a4OBNW6SV5l6UzeH8cxPOkA4iDzv0yUy6GN_pIpfF5A7vyzzM/s400/chemophoto.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Yesterday was the last of my surgeries related to my cancer experience – an oophorectomy . Great word, meaning ovary removal, so obscure that MS Spell Check doesn’t even recognize it. Not a bad procedure, laparoscopic day surgery, so by the time I was out of recovery into my little hospital POD, I was ready to go. With one exception. They wouldn’t let me leave until I had peed – ostensibly to ensure the surgeon hadn’t nicked anything important on the way to the fallopian tubes and ovaries. Anyone that knows me understands that under all other circumstances this would not be a problem. My most frequented room in the house is the bathroom. The ‘running’ joke around here is that my twin and I split one bladder between us. Combine that with having had four babies and drinking way too much beer in college, my bladder has been compromised. So when the nurse said “As soon as you void, you can leave”. No worries I replied confidently. Unfortunately, I was mistaken and no amount of coaxing was going to get me moving.<br /><br />So as I sat in the can, my feet submerged in a pink plastic tub of warm water, a cup of hot coffee in one hand and the Marketplace section of the WSJ in the other, I had a lot of time to contemplate the many events that had transpired this last year. Bilateral mastectomy, reconstructive breast surgery, chemotherapy, followed by a triumphant trip to Cozumel with my twin and our husbands to celebrate our 40th birthday. I began to assemble a list in my head of all the people that had prayed, encouraged, called and helped this year in my battle and I quickly became overwhelmed. Like an Oscar-winning starlet with too many people to thank in her acceptance speech, I need to at least try to acknowledge some of the contributions, if not to assure myself that in a world of so much senseless violence and political strife – people really are generous, kind, and selfless.<br /><br />Starting with God and his grace and mercy to give me the power of the Holy Spirit to walk by my side throughout this hellish ordeal and the countless angels that served me day in and day out including my husband of sixteen years, with his strength of spirit and ‘let’s dodge this next wrench’ attitude, my sweet children, without whom I might have succumbed to self-despair had their need for routine not outweighed my desire to sit around and feel sorry for myself, my mom and dad for their love and financial assistance, my sister for being a mentor and inspiration, as a 6-year-survivor, my in-laws for their tireless efforts to provide support and the most current medical information for treatment and healing, for my best friend Holly and her creative idea to form a ‘ChemoFairy’ network despite her being in Budapest, for Cici and her husband Harry in their constant prayers (I felt them every day), for Maggie and her family driving down from Virginia twice for both post-surgery support and to mind the kids while we went to Mexico, for all the neighbors and friends who provided meals and housekeeping and childcare. For the Football team, our extended family, for the teachers and counselors at River Place Elementary. Thanks for our church home, Austin Christian Fellowship and our 242 group. My writing mentor, Dawn Yun of the original Writing Mamas Salon (www.writingmamas.com) without whom I would never had recognized my passion and need to write. For my own Writing Mamas of Austin who I thoroughly look forward to seeing and commiserating with in our shared love of word craft. For the consistently fine care I received from surgeon to nurse to lab technician at virtually every medical center or doctor’s office this past year.<br /><br />I’m totally ripping off my new friend and author Valerie Hausladen of ‘Professional Destiny – Discover the Career You Were Born For’ when I quote the following Sufi poem, attributed to Hazrat Inayat Khan:<br /><br /><strong><em>I asked for strength and God gave me difficulties to make me strong<br />I asked for wisdom and God gave me problems to learn to solve<br />I asked for prosperity and God gave me a brain and brawn to work<br />I asked for courage and God gave me dangers to overcome<br />I asked for love and God gave me people to help<br />I asked for favours and God gave me opportunities<br />I received nothing I wanted<br />I received everything I needed. </em></strong><br /><br />I certainly did not ask for cancer but I received more love and encouragement than I could possibly have fathomed when I first heard the news on December 3rd, 2008 “This is cancer.” When I look at all I have in my life, I can never say I have not been blessed nor have my prayers been unanswered.<br /><br />I recently read a book about British explorer Percy H. Fawcett and his adventures battling the Amazon basin in his famously unsuccessful quest to find the lost city of El Dorado in the 1920s. He wore a signet ring bearing is family motto ‘Nee Aspira Terrent’ or ‘Difficulties be Damned’. I love the idea of a family motto – a collective mission statement to inspire and rally the troops. My favorites, including Fawcett’s and William Borden’s ‘No Reserves, No Retreats, No Regrets’ and Yoda’s ‘Do or Do Not – there is No Try’ are obviously already taken so I’m onto a new theme. Perhaps it will be ‘Quit ‘effing around’. Too crass. Or ‘Tomorrow is another Day’. Too Scarlett O’Hara.<br /><br />My dear friend Holly told me once that our pastor Will Davis, Jr. will pray for small things – like for God to show him where he left his car keys or misplaced his wallet and we always get a chuckle out of that but Will says God wants to be involved in the every day details of our life. So as I was sitting in the Seton Hospital bathroom, feeling ill, hurting, and just wanting to go home, I prayed that God would just let me pee so I could leave. Guess what happened next? Therefore, I’m officially deciding on the family motto of ‘You Go Girl!’ Sorry Tom and Travis – you’ll have to come up with a male version of the same. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BwXRyRD1dNDRixUQH-2zEsy4Xaufoa4d7wpnKfaaowrGGO09zEOQkoV0dlGPrPL3lb9-9Bjdk9ln6GEMArmTaq9Ws4TH05ehfzz3i-ZmHamm6LJoTtBRGurw1-x-OWd0xD3g2O-mJe4/s1600-h/yougogirl.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383204166481233538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BwXRyRD1dNDRixUQH-2zEsy4Xaufoa4d7wpnKfaaowrGGO09zEOQkoV0dlGPrPL3lb9-9Bjdk9ln6GEMArmTaq9Ws4TH05ehfzz3i-ZmHamm6LJoTtBRGurw1-x-OWd0xD3g2O-mJe4/s400/yougogirl.JPG" border="0" /></a>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-53497651445049159232009-08-15T19:01:00.000-07:002009-08-15T19:12:28.528-07:00Flying the Unfriendly Skies - Part 2 by Diane LeBleu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YVmej7-bOSFx4biH8kZjdIxQi4iqmUByvg2ROex7lyucXZa5fyfwcv5vRMd6WhEuLnW7mao0aCXreNdXp9pZiw8QqK_tbQS-HX09_f13QamRz4Ge0rfAX6WibM30fLNkPqL7VRDVOUI/s1600-h/Sit+Caroline.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370376750354320722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YVmej7-bOSFx4biH8kZjdIxQi4iqmUByvg2ROex7lyucXZa5fyfwcv5vRMd6WhEuLnW7mao0aCXreNdXp9pZiw8QqK_tbQS-HX09_f13QamRz4Ge0rfAX6WibM30fLNkPqL7VRDVOUI/s400/Sit+Caroline.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Good job girl!” a young woman traveling solo told me as I pushed my double stroller up the jetway in Dallas, chasing my wild children like dogs off a leash, having survived the 3 ½ hour flight from Seattle. I made it.<br />No Caroline fits. No surprise moons. Just a pleasant cross country flight with my brood. The wine helped.<br /><br />A flight attendant even stopped by to tell me how beautiful my children were. Travis helped her push her cart from the back of the plane up to the front (those drills at football practice come in handy) so he was on her good side. But then he has always been a sweet boy.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiUHDm8MOySu8jLOH5X4SPlo-dKD38glaECDwVZBye2mYz3h3ki3sSqaP0EBhen4Pi-AX_atY6bCeueS3wQrkOGnYRsEatxXKz-bUW1CUmUpGubdyBzPtknpvQhuK8WUGZv8iSAi1Bso/s1600-h/Travis+helper.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370377228138843906" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiUHDm8MOySu8jLOH5X4SPlo-dKD38glaECDwVZBye2mYz3h3ki3sSqaP0EBhen4Pi-AX_atY6bCeueS3wQrkOGnYRsEatxXKz-bUW1CUmUpGubdyBzPtknpvQhuK8WUGZv8iSAi1Bso/s400/Travis+helper.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Things were looking pretty good until I reached our gate in Dallas. Our flight was delayed 2 hours. Do you know how hard it is to keep 4 kids out of trouble for 2 hours in an airport? You can only ride the Skylink so many times.<br /><br />I blame Danielle – she spooked it. Our last two trips traveling from Seattle via Dallas had ended in canceled flights, rental cars, and an agonizing drive from Dallas to Austin. Danielle was predicting the worst as we were leaving Seattle. The only rain we have had all summer fell on our travel day. Thankfully, it was only delayed rather than canceled, but we still did not get home until after midnight.<br /><br />Did my theory hold true? Were the passengers and flight crew more understanding and accommodating? Yes. While waiting for our flight, making the endless rounds with the stroller to keep the kids somewhat contained, I had a number of people strike up a conversation with sympathetic remarks about traveling with kids and my, how patient my children are. I had several people offer to help me carry my bags. One woman that was on our flight from Seattle even came up to talk to Caroline and give her high-fives for being such a good traveler.<br /><br />If I had to choose between a chemo treatment and a cross country air trip with four children, especially my children, I’d pick the infusion chair hands down. At least there’s free wi fi and snacks. But a great visit with family, cousins playing together and camping out in the back yard made every painful mile worth the effort. And I don’t have to do it again for another year.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAZyCKA_h5jfCvJHZp4e5sgmYXx7cdMrIxIAsHge0I-pgRaje0ed4LoUw8X9sm8h_2Kj0sJKugp2UU6ISCyr9ExCLcKqj9S_3zRRDNjork81vM_ppaCfUqqfEbjp_OKRn9DaTuDt1yTA/s1600-h/Layoverfun.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370378110770903458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAZyCKA_h5jfCvJHZp4e5sgmYXx7cdMrIxIAsHge0I-pgRaje0ed4LoUw8X9sm8h_2Kj0sJKugp2UU6ISCyr9ExCLcKqj9S_3zRRDNjork81vM_ppaCfUqqfEbjp_OKRn9DaTuDt1yTA/s400/Layoverfun.JPG" border="0" /></a>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-17621126022712396252009-08-06T10:00:00.000-07:002009-08-06T10:11:13.041-07:00Flying the Unfriendly Skies - Part 1 by Diane LeBleuI’m a fairly seasoned travel mama having jetted with my first child for work, then with my first and second for pleasure, then with my first and second and third for obligatory family visits, and then with my first, second, third, and fourth child because I am a masochist. And all this all without the helpful hands of my husband. I traveled with them ALONE.<br /><br />I’ve learned a few tricks over the years of air travel with tots. I will never get on an airplane without a DVD player. Some mothers can get away with books and crayons but that’s never been enough to kill the four hour trip from Dallas to Seattle. I’ve also learned that traveling with children you will be hated. No matter how cute you are, no matter how precious your children, no matter how tight you jeans, you will be greeted by fellow passengers and flight crew alike with irritation and dread. I know his because I used to be a hater. I would be on an airplane, safely wedged into my coach class seat, and a woman (never a man, I might add) will embark a plane with a baby or walking closely behind a toddler. I would roll my eyes with the rest of them, mutter under my breath ‘please, just not next to me, in front of me or behind me’, and resign myself to a long flight of crying, tantrums and seat kicking. Lisa Belkins of the New York Times Motherlode parenting blog posted a piece last December about a woman traveling with her children seeking advice about how to get through the day. A majority of the comments told her just to stay home. And those were the nice ones. (<a href="http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/23/any-advice-for-steph/">http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/23/any-advice-for-steph/</a>)<br /><br />I now have the greatest empathy for these traveling mothers, being one myself. I approach these trips with a great dread not knowing if I should throw myself on the mercy of my fellow passengers or go for the offensive strategy – I paid full price for my tickets so they can just kiss my ass!<br /><br />I was looking at this most recent journey as a social experiment in sympathy and general good will. In my vast experience at making the travel from Texas (Austin) to Tacoma (via SeaTAc Airport), the trip from Seattle to Texas is much more peaceful, accommodating one than the trip northward. Why? What is the explanation behind this behavior? Why are the travelers more helpful and accommodating? I know in my heart it is because I live in ‘The Friendly State’ of Texas, where the nicest people in the U.S. live. So I theorize that when we are headed north, I am traveling with a majority of those that live in the Seattle area and likewise when I fly south, my fellow passengers are Texans. Getting off the plane in Seattle, there is no courtesy – if you don’t have your whole body in the aisle when the door to the plane opens, you can just sit back down and wait until the plane is empty because no one is letting you cut in. Too bad for you with the window seats. On the way to Texas, I am usually overcome with kindness from strangers offering help with my bags or an extra hand with the kids. And I was greeted with smiles. Who is nicer and more helpful to a woman traveling alone with her children. Will I be treated with disdain or will there be offers for help this time?<br /><br />So here I am with my four children ages 11, 8, 4, and 3 laden with a double stroller, 3 heavy bags stuffed with a computer, DVD player, books, markers, snacks, drinks. Enough to safely pass an hour flight from Austin to Dallas and a four hour flight from Dallas to Seattle. But this time, I have no hair. Well, I have some, but it is mostly the fuzz of a baby duck (my baby head, as Caroline calls it) that I keep protected under a bandana and hat. Not ready for the world quite yet. I thought I would use this to my travel advantage this time. I clearly still have the cancer patient look and was hoping this would cancel out any bad will associated with the fact that I have four children boarding the plane with me.<br /><br />Was I right? Did anyone go out of their way this time to help me and lend me an extra hand?<br />No. In fact, the only offers of help I got was getting on the plane in Austin to Dallas, the woman in front of me asked if she could assist and help with some bags. And it turns out I knew her! She owns the child hair salon that we frequent, Pigtails and Crewcuts. She had her two kids and husband with her and her profession obviously predisposed her to be understanding. Getting off the plane in Dallas, the man sitting behind us helped carry one of my bags to the front as I wrangled everyone off the plane. He clearly was a Texan.<br /><br />Boarding the plane in Dallas for the Seattle bound leg, I saw the sigh and exchange of glances between the two women flight attendants as they took measure of me and my brood. I overheard one say to the other “It’s all right, we can take turns” like working in the area we are sitting would be some great hardship. Sky waitresses.<br /><br />Then Caroline has a fifteen minute fit that lasted forever. She was ticked off because I wouldn’t let her wander around the plane. She finally fell asleep in my arms and I was too traumatized from the ordeal to enjoy the peace. After Caroline work up, I headed to the bathroom way in the back of the plane never making eye contact with any of my fellow travelers. I took Caroline with me, thinking a diversion would kill a few minutes of the still 2 long hours left in the flight and offer a change of scenery. Well, a change of scenery is exactly what the line of people outside the toilets got as the flight attendant opened the door on me mid-squat as Caroline had reinstituted her screaming fit in the bathroom. OHMYGOD. “I’m sooooo sorry!” she apologized, “I thought your little girl had gotten locked in alone”. Right – she’s 3 feet tall, there’s no way she could reach the lock. Sky waitresses. Get me off this plane.<br /><br />As we were getting ready to land, the flight attendant came by one last time pausing at my aisle and looking at the floor in disgust. A few fruit loops had gotten in the aisle. I had done a pretty good job this time keeping food off the floor and seats. It didn’t look as if we had been sitting there for 4 hours. I apologized and said I was just getting ready to pick up the errant snacks up. She said ‘I just need to know if I need to call ahead to arrange the cleaning crew’. Sky waitresses.<br />So we finally made it – me not making eye contact with a single person the entire rest of the way. No one offered any helping hands getting off the plane either. On the other hand, no one was actually hostile, so I have to give them that. And I have to fly home next week. Part Two of my social experiment will be in play. Will the passengers headed south be more helpful and kind? I hope so. I also think a valium wouldn’t be such a bad idea either.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-70295602984608332642009-07-31T17:42:00.000-07:002009-07-31T17:44:41.706-07:00Drink Holders on Lake Austin by Diane LeBleu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrBiYMfcDNswBljgOCpVKhWQHyYu7ecAxlTFu8kosTcQ0wi758g4R4uTwE59Yq9yS2x9yyq5G24OJfB5ODjwHtIq3zwM78ElptPIgylHPVFdJr123b-OlYfN9ZKNKJTh2tyCIXx0PCWg/s1600-h/Texas+Jul09+036.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364789547863719810" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrBiYMfcDNswBljgOCpVKhWQHyYu7ecAxlTFu8kosTcQ0wi758g4R4uTwE59Yq9yS2x9yyq5G24OJfB5ODjwHtIq3zwM78ElptPIgylHPVFdJr123b-OlYfN9ZKNKJTh2tyCIXx0PCWg/s400/Texas+Jul09+036.JPG" border="0" /></a> I never knew how many uses there would be for these. You learn something new every day.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-886366238725253202009-05-30T10:31:00.000-07:002009-05-30T10:34:23.043-07:00Bedtime Boot Camp by Diane LeBleu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhib0oKHmaDCHSplNEaunL1YJRqzPIEdrHZ9IMkDJKbYfu3LlHKMydsKyIZGkXkPTVSFLvPiUNwgwi1rkvrfDMB4yKUdK5_qnVhEkIP1Yjg_q57ojLR6ok8ut88wtgFihYaWeOX8ektg7U/s1600-h/Travis+hallsleep.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhib0oKHmaDCHSplNEaunL1YJRqzPIEdrHZ9IMkDJKbYfu3LlHKMydsKyIZGkXkPTVSFLvPiUNwgwi1rkvrfDMB4yKUdK5_qnVhEkIP1Yjg_q57ojLR6ok8ut88wtgFihYaWeOX8ektg7U/s200/Travis+hallsleep.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341671572543497986" /></a><br /><em><em><strong>“I have never taken any exercise except sleeping and resting.” - Mark Twain</strong></em></em><br /><br />I was in my oncologist’s office last week for my first post-chemo follow-up and we were discussing the side effects of Tamoxifen, the medicine I will take for the next several years as ajuvant therapy in hopes of keeping breast cancer away. She explained that one of the side effects can be hot flashes. <br /><br />“If they get unbearable, there are a number of things we can try,” she explained. <br /><br />“What’s unbearable?” I queried. <br /><br />“If it interrupts your sleep and you cannot get a good night’s rest.” <br /><br />“Doctor, I haven’t had a good night’s rest since Caroline was born three years ago.”<br /><br />Not that Caroline has been a terribly bad sleeper, just inconsistent, and with three other children in the house, it has been a rare occasion that they have all been sleeping well without some illness, nightmare, sleepwalking, or other nocturnal waking to disrupt night. It’s like your golf game – there is never a time when all aspects of your game are on – if you’re driving like a pro, then your putting stinks. If your short game is hot, then your approach shot ends up in all types of hazards. Thus is the landscape of the LeBleu home after the sun goes down every night. <br /><br />I never know who is going to end up where by the time I am rousing the children in the morning for school. Here is the latest in our nocturnally dysfunctional home: <br /><br />Danielle sleeps on the couch in the living room – there is too much crap on her bed for her to sleep. She has a full-size bed. <br /><br />Travis sleeps in the hallway instead of his very comfortable full size bed, replete with memory foam that he HAD TO HAVE. He is such a mama’s boy that he can’t bear to be far away from me. Far away, that is his room that is directly across the hall from us. The carpet is so nasty, I have to check his head every morning for vermin. <br /><br />Sabrina is now sleeping in her new twin-size bed down the hall from us. The other bed is empty awaiting Caroline’s arrival (see next note). When Sabrina shows up at my bed once or twice a night, we have to step over Travis to get her back to her room. <br /><br />Caroline just turned three and has decided that enough is enough, she can climb out of her crib at night. She has not yet figured out that the rest of the family is upstairs. She wanders around aimlessly, crying, calling for Mommy. Danielle, asleep on the couch, is oblivious. I run downstairs and try to get her back to sleep – slipping into the queen-size bed that is already in her room. This will be Danielle’s new room once Caroline vacates it. More room for more crap.<br />Why have I not put Caroline and Sabrina in the same room yet? Because I laughingly believe that I will get less sleep – trying to get them to settle in at nap time, at bed time, and in the middle of the night, when all they want to do is play when they are together. <br /><br />Seems to me, we could get away with a two bedroom house these days – one for Tom and me and the other for the little girls. Danielle and Travis bunk in the common areas. Why do we maintain such a big home? So I can get my work-out without paying expensive gym dues, I reckon. Down the hall, down the stairs, up the stairs, back in bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I’m not complaining, mind you, it is great for maintaining a 24-hour calorie-burning metabolism and since I’m having all these hot-flashes, who can get any rest anyway?Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-80289977505272702192009-03-03T10:35:00.000-08:002009-03-03T10:41:13.547-08:00Wishing On A Star by Diane LeBleu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGN4w2f4ivsvke_qS48mFGfuyoURLcbJOrEdZGhBMP_vyQBVmHZouJ1h6X84ilbi2BTb2Yb8RrV7rxJg8vsOIneUDbhskbHX4ogDHSjLeV32B2Bq-BqG5KN2MD4EOFAmZ_wMANcQBrS5A/s1600-h/Cfairy.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309032436079885378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 159px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGN4w2f4ivsvke_qS48mFGfuyoURLcbJOrEdZGhBMP_vyQBVmHZouJ1h6X84ilbi2BTb2Yb8RrV7rxJg8vsOIneUDbhskbHX4ogDHSjLeV32B2Bq-BqG5KN2MD4EOFAmZ_wMANcQBrS5A/s200/Cfairy.JPG" border="0" /></a>I believe in Fairies. The Tooth Fairy makes frequent deposits under the LeBleu children’s sleeping heads and the Chemo Fairy has been to my house five times in the last six weeks dropping off cherished goodies and pampering gifts wrapped in beautiful pink packaging. And like Pinocchio dreaming of becoming a real boy and calling upon the powers of the Blue Fairy, what I desperately need in my life right now is a Potty Fairy.<br /><br />Caroline is my fourth child and the last one clinging to her diapers. She will be three in May and by peer comparison, she should have been out months ago. She is a girl – she has three older siblings, she goes to preschool – she knows how the magic happens – she just has absolutely no interest in taking responsibility for her bodily functions.<br /><br />I know – parenting gurus tell us to be patient. She will not enter kindergarten wearing diapers. But – by my accounts, I have been changing diapers since 1998 – with a year off for good behavior between 2004 and 2005. That’s it. I’ve been back on the clock since March 10, 2005 and we are now in 2009. I need a break from diapers. If she can tell me that her diaper needs to be changed, lead me into her room, lie down on the floor, then by golly she can be using the toilet.<br /><br />For all the angst she is giving me now (she is a tween with a fitting birthday of July 4th, Independence Day), Danielle gave me no trouble getting her out of diapers at age two and a half. Sure, I was pregnant with my 2nd child, but I was able to give her my undivided attention. With my son Travis, he was out of diapers just before he turned three and the only way I got him to poop on the potty was to bribe him with a Thomas the Tank Engine train. Not the cheapie metal ones from Target, we are talking the full price wooden ones. With the economic times being as disastrous as they are, the only safe currency and haven for retirement savings these days is in goods with a secondary eBay market.<br /><br />With Sabrina, she was ready just after she turned two but we had to ease off the toilet transition plan while we dealt with the ramifications of a pair of horrifying incidents when she was trying to convince us she could give up her afternoon nap . You may have heard of these children . You know – the ones that play with poop or perform some other artistic endeavor with it? Either they have Mensa IQs or they are on the eventual path to paranoid delusions. On one of these occasions when she was supposed to be napping – I ran to the grocery store for a few last minute items while my husband stayed home, working from the upstairs office. My sister and her two daughters were flying in that afternoon from Tacoma, WA. I was to drop the groceries off and immediately head to the airport. When I got home – I faced an unholy horror. A trail of poop ran from her room, down the tile floor, up the once-upon-a-time white carpeted staircase, and onto the banister and walls. OH MY GOD! This was a scene even Dr. Spock would agree called for a valium. Or two. One could not subject even the most sympathetic of family to this profane kind of domestic disaster. So – I found my poop covered toddler, put her in the bath and then proceeded to bleach, Oxyclean, and Pinesol the offending trail (OH MY GOD). Then I did it again. I was a mess of sweat and gore and my hands were burning with earth-hostile chemical s. I know I put my wedding ring down right THERE. Did I? It is all a blur. Later, when I was retracing my steps, I asked Sabrina if she saw my rings. She said, “Poop! Yeah!” and clapped – in a manner remarkably similar to what we said when she made good and we flushed. All I can say now is thank heavens for insurance.<br /><br />I don’t know what will work with Caroline. She doesn’t like candy or trains, and she doesn’t sit to do anything but color with a permanent marker. She’s willful in a way that makes me want to pull my hair out (too late for that) but that will serve her well later in life. At least that is what Tom and I keep telling ourselves.<br /><br />I haven’t even started yet but I’m already raising the white flag. I know that 90 percent of potty training a youngster is the change of routine for the parent. Sometimes is it just so much easier to change a diaper than look for the closest available public restroom – especially if you are a family on the go. Add to that the unwillingness of said toddler to be coerced to use the facilities and it is a recipe for disaster. My stamina these days is simply not up to the task. As I said to my neighbor the other afternoon as Caroline threw a full blown hissy fit about having to share a toy, “I’m too old for public tantrums”.<br /><br />So I keep trying. Keep introducing the Dora panties and the Dora potty seat. She sits for half a second, fully clothed before jumping up and proclaiming “All Done!” Keep cleaning up puddles and piles. Wait a year on the new carpet and furniture. Keep wishing on a star.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uStCp90IRLdFfeH3x-SvKjHPkkDjE6NexkgwtKNTdcBkMDdAhyphenhyphenkCNFmC_BFwXaHrJx4Vj8xChs8QlHhvh4l3F0cKgb6U1wmjR1ib5HhRgXlaq42gESC8FKEKDowbqVoHxiNdqpjBWH4/s1600-h/CPotty.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uStCp90IRLdFfeH3x-SvKjHPkkDjE6NexkgwtKNTdcBkMDdAhyphenhyphenkCNFmC_BFwXaHrJx4Vj8xChs8QlHhvh4l3F0cKgb6U1wmjR1ib5HhRgXlaq42gESC8FKEKDowbqVoHxiNdqpjBWH4/s200/CPotty.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309033084822844610" /></a>Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4100727325737437173.post-4229775215362060272008-10-29T13:50:00.001-07:002008-10-30T10:30:39.563-07:00To Quote or not to Quote - that is the Question by Diane LeBleuI’m often reminded of the fact that ‘I’m not a smart (wo)man’. I’ll get a tune stuck in my head – like a commercial jingle (the ‘five dollar foot long from Subway’ or Popeye’s ‘Chicken & Biscuits’) or get stuck on an endless reel of a mantra like ‘all democrats are bad’ or ‘big government sucks’ or ‘no more new taxes’. I’ll sing inane tunes from my children’s favorite shows under my breath all day long and won’t even notice until my husband will hear me and cry ‘Simple Minded!”<br /><br />He’s right, of course. So since I do not have an original thought in my head, I like to pepper my speech or writing with an occasional movie quote that fits the situation. I contend that movie quoting is an art –the good ones make it look easy. You can sniff out the bad ones pretty easily. You know the kind – the ones that drop some completely random line that doesn’t fit the occasion at all and then they laugh to themselves at the cleverness of their own private jokes. These people are just one step away from therapy.<br /><br />But the ones that can pull it off, now that is something to admire. My twin sister, Denise, is a darn fine quoter – she does it without drawing attention to the fact that she’s doing it. That’s what makes it funnier. I aspire to her level of relaxed and confident quoting. My brother-in-law, Paul, is probably one of the best quoters I’ve encountered. He doesn’t do it often but when he does, he is dead on. He is quite a storyteller – he can spin a yarn that holds your attention, even if it is about a subject that is completely mundane. He is also a fisher, hunter and an ex-military man so there is no end to the stories he can regale us with. My all time favorite of Paul’s was when they had their infant daughter – I don’t even remember which one – Lauren or Isabel, in an infant car carrier that Denise had placed down on the floor in a room during a family gathering. Paul looked over at her and said "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!"<br /><br />Here are some of my favorite and oft used sayings. I have on a few occasions taken credit for some only to be watching the movie with my husband who hears the line and catches my theft ‘oh – so that’s where that line comes from!” I am unabashed in my use of these great sayings.<br /><br />“Amen, let’s go”! Do you know how hard it is to corral a family of four adventurous kids and one chatty husband? Sometimes it takes an act of God to move this crowd. It took 45 minutes to leave our church’s Fall Festival last weekend. They kept wandering off – the expression ‘herding cats’ comes to mind. When we were finally all buckled into the van, I could finally make this exclamation, made famous by Chevy Chase – aka Clark W. Griswald in Vacation.<br /><br />“That’s our son – we’re so proud of him!” We use this when Travis does something embarrassing like throwing up his pancakes onto his plate at IHOP or when he is sporting his Sock Monkey look with red chapped lips that he cannot, will not stop licking under any threat whatsoever. (Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias).<br /><br />“We’re not twins.” I get to use this one with my sister on occasion – we get a kick out of remembering the scene in Splash as quack scientist Eugene Levy greets Tom Hanks on the beach as he is performing an experiment with his imbecile assistants. Levy’s line that precedes this is ‘”It’s just me and the moron twins!”<br /><br />“I suppose I belong here … in this hovel” is what I use when my house is a disaster and I don’t know where to begin to clean. (Goldie Hawn in Overboard). “Home crap home” is another favorite from one of my favorite movies that few have seen (Tom Hanks in The Money Pit).<br /><br />“You are not a loser!” “Who said anything about loser?” I love using this one whenever I need to make my husband feel better about some situation at work. It can usually muster at least a smile. Better than my own original – “Oh honey, it will all be better tomorrow” (Kelly Preston and Tom Cruise in Jerry Maquire).<br /><br />“You have chosen poorly” or “You have chosen wisely” is used when comparing menu selections when my husband and I dine out (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade). When we were in Paris a number of years ago, Tom ordered what he thought was something 'beef bourguignon.' It was actually kidneys, according to our French/English dictionary. He had chosen poorly.<br /><br />“Look harder Homer!” the line is actually “Think Harder Homer” as master-quoter Paul correctly pointed out but it works much better for me when I have to tell my kids or husband for the zillionth time where they have put something or where to find something (Bart Simpson of the Simpsons show).<br /><br />“It’s just a joke Sponge Bob! Nobody has a spatula for a hand!” This one is harder to work into conversation but is appropriate for use when you are trying to tell a joke or make light of a situation that is not funny to the other person (Squidward in the Night Shift episode).<br /><br />My kids quote now – even Sabrina (obviously a reflection on their mother letting them watch way too much television – there goes ‘Mother of the Year’ award). She was in her car seat in our mini van, patiently waiting to be unbuckled after we got everyone out including the cargo – as I was walking toward the house, I hear in a sweet, high pitched cry “Hey! I’m still in the car!” (Grandpa in The Simpsons Movie).<br /><br />Some people quote great literature or poetry or the Bible. I quote movies but as I said, I am simple minded. Actually, the real question is not about whether or not to quote but whether or not to pun. My husband and his sister, Laura, are the presiding premiers of pun. I challenge anyone to match their wit and originality in the ring. Believe me, you don’t want to be anywhere near these two once they get started on an excruciatingly long volley of pun, especially if you have a sensitivity to this kind of verbal irony. That in my mind is a true art – but since I can barely put a sentence together without ripping someone off, I’ll leave that to the masters.Diane LeBleuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154291173162531719noreply@blogger.com1