S.O.S.

Dudes, I need your help. If you have a minute or two, can you please do me a favour? I am having a difficult time sorting out my commenting issue with Squarespace. I can't even figure out how to comment on my own blog but Squarespace is all "nope! No issue here!"

So. If you have a minute to spare, can you please head on over to www.hillarywith2Ls.com and try to comment on my blog? If you manage to comment, awesome! If you can't comment, can you please email me (hillary2Lsplease@gmail.com) or tweet me (@hillarywith2Ls) and tell me:

1 - what browser are you using?​

2 - how are you trying to comment? (logged with with Squarespace? Google? Twitter? etc)​

3 - what happens when you try to comment? (black screen of death? "you do not have permission" page? etc)​

Thank you so much! I am hopeless when it comes to this techy stuff and I'm tearing my hair out over here. ​

New Home

I am very excited to point you in the direction of my new home.

I love this space that my friend Kyla designed for me but Blogger has been frustrating me for a while and it's time to move on. I can't interact with people the way I want to; Blogger doesn't give me access to commenters' email addresses so I can't reply to all comments (and that's if Blogger lets them comment at all - for the last 6 months or so it's been difficult - or impossible - for some people to leave comments and I can't figure out why.) 

So I'm muddling my way through Squarespace. I'm doing it on my own so things may be a bit wonky while I figure out what works for me. I'm not techy at all (understatement!) so your patience is appreciated.

And if you're into the whole Facebook thang, you can like me here.

Eating My Words

I used to be the person who would say (rather self-righteously might I add) that pets are family and you don't give away your family. 

And then I had a baby. And then I went crazy. And then I got better for a while. And then my baby turned into a toddler. And then I got cancer. 

Stella has gone to live with Shawn's mom. It really hurts. I miss her every day. I feel ashamed that I ever judged anyone for giving up their pet because I didn't know. I didn't know how hard the decision is. I didn't know how heartbreaking it is to love your pet but know that what's best for them is to live with someone else. 

There are a few bright spots. Shawn's mom's elderly dog passed away recently so Stella is doing her best to heal her heart. And Shawn's mom lives just 5 minutes down the road so we will still see her often. This isn't goodbye. It's just a change of scenery. 

Wolfgang is still with us. He misses his companion but it's a better situation for him too. I don't want to get into all the details because I will get defensive and sad but the last few months have been hard on everyone - including the monsterpups. We agonized over our decision and in the end this is what works best for our family. 

I deserve to be judged the way I've judged others. Just don't do it to my face, okay? 

Scarred

I had this friend in high school - let's call her Sally. Sally had very large breasts. I don't remember exactly what size they were but they were definitely in the double G or double H size range. The biggest breasts in our high school is what I'm saying.

It didn't matter if it was a stranger meeting her for the first time or a friend who saw her every day, when people greeted Sally it was boobs first, face second. I didn't understand how hard it must have been to be Sally-boobs-face until I became Hillary-scar-face.

Sally was very vocal about her giant boobs. She oozed self confidence. I, in all my a-cup glory, didn't understand. I was all, "we get it. You have big boobs. You hate how people always comment on your boobs and yet you always talk about them." And now I kind of get it, I think. I have this unchangeable, physical trait that can't be hidden (yet - soon scarves won't make me want to claw off my own skin) that draws attention. I can either crumble or I can love it.

So I'm loving it. I'm talking about my scar and writing about my scar and posting ridiculous scar selfies on Instagram and Facebook. Because if I make you notice my hideous scar maybe it won't hurt so much that you did.

Numbers

I've been carrying around a lot of anger since my cancer diagnosis. It's not like me to sit and stew in anger. I'm more of a flashy quick rage type person.

I think I'm looking at it all wrong. I'm approaching it emotionally. I'm Hillary. I'm 30 years old. I have a toddler and a husband and a mortgage. I'm mad that I have cancer. I'm mad that throughout the entire process of finding out I have cancer I was told that I shouldn't worry because it likely wasn't cancer. 

I wasn't prepared to hear that my wonky thyroid was cancerous. I was blown away by my diagnosis. And it made me mad. 

The people who told me not to worry - the doctors and lab techs and my surgeon and even Dr. Google - they weren't approaching my situation emotionally. They weren't looking at me as Hillary the 30-year old with the toddler and husband and mortgage. They were looking at me as Hillary the thyroid with 5-10% chance of being cancerous. Of course they were telling me not to worry. It would be irresponsible for them to tell all of their patients they could have cancer when 90-95% end up having benign nodules. 

This realization hasn't wiped out my anger completely but it's softened my pointy bits. I'm still approaching my situation emotionally - it would be impossible not to - but I now know that I'm just a number to my medical team. And that's okay. I have family and friends and lovely internet peeps to support me as Hillary the person. I need my medical team to continue to treat me like Hillary the thyroid. And I need to stop being mad at them for doing so.

Round Two

I was supposed to check in for my second surgery at noon. I planned my morning down to the last minute. And then the hospital called me at 10:30 and asked me to come in asap. 

It was good because there was no time for me to sit and dwell in my worry but it was bad because things are supposed to go according to plan when you plan them down to the last minute. My goodbye with Shawn and Grady was rushed. I arrived at the hospital frazzled and anxious. My pre-op checkin was hurried. I started to get a bad feeling but it was too late to back out. I climbed up onto the the operating table and soon I was unconscious. 

I did not wake up gently like I did after the last surgery. I woke up retching and it continued for over two hours. The room spun and I had intense pain in one ear. My throat was swollen and raw from the breathing tube. I spoke to Shawn and we decided that Grady wouldn't come see me because I would be home the next morning and anyway, my body was so wrecked from the surgery and anesthesia that I had no milk (okay, so not entirely accurate but I'm going to file this one under tmi and just say that I could go the night without breastfeeding and leave it at that.) 

I fully expected to be at home Saturday morning but there have been a few complications from the surgery and here I am, Sunday night and still  stuck in the hospital. My first night ever away from Grady has extended into three consecutive nights away from Grady. Fortunately we live close to the hospital and Shawn has been bringing him by for cuddles and nursing. It has been rough, though. On everyone. 

I am keeping everything crossed that I get to go home tomorrow. I'm going crazy cooped up in this hospital room (even though I have the sweetest roommate.) I just want to be at home with my guys. 

Party Hats On

There are certain advantages to having the exact same surgery twice within a short time frame. I know what to expect and I get to redo the things I did wrong the first time around. 

Like, say for example, you're someone who doesn't really like to wear underpants. You'll get over your undergarment dislike and you'll wear the biggest underpants you can find to your second surgery after finding out during your first that your underpants are the only item of clothing you wear into the hospital that you're allowed to keep wearing. 

Other wrongs I will right include asking for the relaxy drugs at the registration desk instead of waiting until I was on the operating table, and requesting that the anesthesia resident not be the one to do my IV or my breathing tube. I almost passed out during the IV and after my surgery I had the worst sore throat of my entire life (and I get throat rabies, like, four times a year. Minimum. I can handle throat pain. This was insane. I was coughing up scabs, you guys.) (You're welcome for that visual.)

Oh! Also! I now know that when a nurse asks you to rate your pain, if you say anything less than 4/10 you're not going to get the good drugs (unless you go on to qualify it by saying that your 10/10 is birthing an 8lb+ baby without an epidural. Easier to just say 6/10 to begin with.)

So. Trying to find the positive. Surgery starts around 2pm PST and all healthy hippie thoughts are appreciated. I will be celebrating so hard when I wake up from my surgery tomorrow. Maybe not with champagne but definitely with some form of narcotic. And ginger ale. And, possibly, some Barry Manilow. 

Happy

I found out that I was pregnant with Grady very early in my pregnancy. I walked around for weeks hiding my big secret. I felt horrible. Hot until I was cold. Nauseous until I was ravenous. Always on the verge of tears because everything was changing and I was scared and how dare that idiot cut me off in traffic when I was so clearly in such a fragile state? I felt so poorly and so different. Like there was a huge neon sign with flashy lights hovering above my head shouting "pregnant! Pregnant!" - everyone should have been able to tell that I was pregnant because I was feeling every second of my pregnancy. 

Cancer is the same way. I'm harbouring this secret while being irrationally angry that people can't just tell. It's not that I want any special treatment for having cancer. I just want people to be nice. I want people to not shoot me a dirty look when I'm walking through the veggie market and my kid is screeching "miiiiine" because he wants the orange I just put in my grocery basket and I'm ignoring him because if I open my mouth to tell him that actually that orange is not in fact his, I may vomit. I want people to not literally sigh and roll their eyes at me when they hold the elevator for me and I don't speed up because I'm exhausted. I want people to stop telling me to sleep when Grady sleeps (seriously, people, stop saying this. To everyone. Just stop.) Or I want a big neon Cancer sign with flashy Cancer lights so people will fuck right off and stop judging me. I am feeling every second of my cancer. 

I don't get a squishy newborn at the end of my cancer. I don't get a cancer shower with little cancer onesies and chocolate cancer cupcakes. I get something better (I hope.) At the end of my cancer I want to live like I have no time. No time for rage. No time for stupid fights or stubborn pride. I will suffer no fools. I will speak my mind and harbour no bad feelings. I will chase my dreams and I will tell people I love them. All the damn time. 

I will be my own neon sign with flashy lights shouting "happy! Happy! Happy!"

The Magic Ring

I moved to England when I was 21. I was a nanny and I was a barmaid but mostly I was lonely.

I met my soon-to-be soul sisters at the pub where I worked. I was intimidated by both of them - one because she was wildly outgoing and the other because she was so glamorous. They were both so beautiful and had cute husbands and British accents and I felt so plain and mediocre next to them.

One was very good at collecting displaced Canadians and my shyness and anxiety were simply no match for her enthusiasm and her huge heart. I soon became the tagalong on their adventures. Drinking in the pub garden, camping out at the Isle of Wight music festival, running a 5km race through the hilliest park in London, Christmas dinner, birthday parties - I never felt like I was unwanted or a nuisance.

The night before I left England to move back to Canada, there was a party at the pub. There was a lot of champagne consumed. A lot. By the end of the night, I was in the middle of a hula hoop with my two soul sisters. We called it our magic ring. Nothing could break the magic ring. We stumbled down the street from the pub, hugging each other in our magic ring, determined that our friendship would remain intact. 

And here we are, nine years, one wedding, five babies, and multiple career changes later and our friendship is as strong as ever. I love these two ladies. I strive to be more like them every day. They are strong and they are brilliant and they are so kind. They are my family. 

Ladies, this was the least drunky photo I could find from that night! xx

Juicy

Shawn bought me a fancy juicer for Mother's Day. I am in love with my fancy juicer. I know that juicing everything all the time is a bad plan but I am really enjoying my one daily juice (first person to tell me that juicing just concentrates calories / sugars and doesn't add anything to your diet gets a dickpunch.)

We juice everything. My current favourite is just a grapefruit / carrot combination but sometimes we go nuts and do 4, 5, 6-fruit(!) juice combos. Yeah, we're wild and crazy like that.

I've ordered some wheatgrass seeds so that I can grow and juice my own wheatgrass. Twenty-year old Hillary is so disappointed with thirty-year old Hillary (but to be fair, thirty-year old Hillary is pretty pissed with twenty-year old Hillary's questionable lifestyle choices that could have contributed to the bastard thyroid situation.)

Do you juice? What is your favourite combination? Do you masticate or are you all about the centrifugal? (Don't mind me, just a little juicer speak.) (Someone punch me, please.)

Babies

My little sister is due to give birth three days after my surgery. I saw her on Saturday and she is so pregnant and so beautiful. She is a glowy pregnant lady. She is skinny all over with this gorgeous big bump and I am so happy for her but I am also jealous.

Which is utterly and completely ridiculous.

I am nowhere near ready for another baby. Shawn and I don't even know if we want to (try to) add more kids to our family. Before this cancer thing hit, people had started asking when we were going to try for kid #2 (like it's a given - what is up with that?) and we would hem and haw and one of us would finally say, "2016? Ish?" And we would be serious.

But here I am, sad and jealous of pregnant ladies (because, umm, everyone is pregnant right now. Seriously. Have you seen Twitter lately? It's all pregnancy announcements and beautiful bumps and squishy newborns.)

So just to sum up: I don't want to be pregnant. I don't want a baby. I'm just mad that I can't get pregnant / have a baby (right now! Who knows what the future holds.)

I am crazy is what I'm saying.

(Also? I think it goes without saying but I'll say it anyway: I am so happy for my sister and all the pregnant ladies / squishy newborns. Honestly. And if I die from thyroid cancer I fully expect there to be at least one little Hillary - with 2 L's goddammit - running around next year because what good is dying from cancer if you don't get at least one squishy newborn named in your honour?)

(I don't think I'm going to die from thyroid cancer. I think I'm going to die of old lady disease when I am 97 years old.)

This should probably just stay in my drafts folder, hey?

Thank You Feels Inadequate But It's All I've Got

I have over 50 emails sitting in my drafts folder. I have started and abandoned more than 50 thank yous. I start off on the right track but my words quickly dissolve into cuss words. I don't want my thank yous to be vitriolic and laden with negativity.

I'm just ... I'm still mad. I think about how much time I have wasted and how much more I want to do - and how crappy I feel right now - and I'm mad. I think about my doctor, my endocrinologist, my surgeon, the lab techs and various doctors who performed my biopsies pre-surgery - who all said that the odds were in my favour - and I'm mad. I think about the people who put crappy, chemical-y food in their mouths and don't exercise - who don't have cancer - and I'm mad. I'm mad all the time. About everything.

When I try to dissect my anger, when I try to rationalize all this rage that is bubbling up in my chest, I can't breathe. I think about how Grady is going to be 22 months old next week. Too young to remember me. He can look at photographs and see that he has my eyes. People will tell him that he laughs like I laugh. Maybe in the future he will love to cook, or maybe he will have a laughably bad singing voice, or maybe odd numbers will make him uncomfortable and someone will say, "Oh! Your mom loved to cook / had a laughably bad singing voice / hated odd numbers too!" But he won't remember. I won't be the lady who started every morning with a dance party in the kitchen. I'll be the lady in the photograph with the pretty eyes and a crooked smile. And it makes me mad. I think that right now being mad is easier than being sad. If I let myself be sad I won't be able to get out of bed. I think my rage is my protective shell right now.

Your words of support - your comments and tweets and emails and text messages and cards - they're shiny little stones I'm collecting. They're reinforcing the tiny rage wall surrounding my broken heart and whenever I'm faced with something difficult - like, being told I have the good cancer, or being told that there are sicker people out there who have it worse than I do, or being asked what cancer means for my fertility (it means fuck you is what it means! I hadn't even thought of that layer of shite so thanks for bringing it to the forefront of my mind!) - I just pile up more of my shiny little stones and hope they hold. Because even though I'm a ball of fury, I have yet to explode. I came close today when I accidentally threw my car keys in the parkade garbage can and I had to dig through a weekend's worth of fast food wrappers and apple cores to find them, but fortunately I had my foul-mouthed little parrot with me so I just gritted my teeth and said a few "fudging fiddlesticks." There have been a lot of fudging fiddlesticks this week.

Well, shit.

So I've got thyroid cancer. Papillary/follicular cancer to be exact. My bastard thyroid is not content with only one type of cancer. Fucking overachiever grew two.

I don't know what to think. I don't know how to act. I fluctuate between numb and white-hot rage. I know I'm still processing. I know there will be other feelings but right now there is nothing or there is anger. I am SO pissed. I am the maddest. I ... don't even know why. Or at whom. I'm just ... angry. So angry.

The next step is to have the exact same surgery as I just had to grab the rest of my thyroid. Hopefully that will happen within the next month. For now I just wait. My doctors won't make a treatment plan until after the next surgery.

The good news is that thyroid cancer is extremely treatable. The bad news is that it's not all that reassuring to hear. I feel like I'm supposed to be fucking glad or something. People keep telling me it's the best cancer to have. So ... wheeee? I am trying to stay positive but it's exhausting. I'm so tired, you guys.

Awkward Exchanges, Inappropriate Touching, and Barry Manilow - or - My Surgery Recap

I met my surgeon once - briefly - before my surgery and I got a very intelligent and very awkward vibe from him. I feel a certain kinship with awkward people. I *get* socially awkward people. Socially awkward people are my people.

So when he walked into my pre-op room the morning of my surgery and cheerily announced he was ready to take the right side of my thyroid (when really he was supposed to be taking the left side) I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. So I mirrored his smile and cheerily replied that nope, he was ready to take the left. Which led to an awkward exchange between us, and then some nurses joined in, and then so did the anesthesiologist, and then I panicked a little, and that's how I ended up with a giant checkmark on the left side of my neck. Also, our awkward exchange ended with him reaching out and stroking my cheek (which ... did not make things any less awkward.)

We were not off to an auspicious start but my nerves were calmed as soon as I walked into the operating room. (Sidebar: I was not expecting to walk into the operating room and climb up onto the operating table by myself. It was bizarre.) On the table right inside the door was a CD player with a Barry Manilow greatest hits CD sitting beside it. That's right, the soundtrack to my surgery was provided by "Ultimate Manilow." I couldn't help but laugh. And then they gave me the good drugs and I don't remember anything until I woke up in recovery.

The surgery went well and I was able to go home the same day. I felt so good that first day. It was bizarre how good I felt. There have been ups and downs but overall it's been much easier and less painful than I was expecting. They were unable to bandage my incision because of the location on my neck so it was tough to keep Grady's fingers off it for the first few days. He's fascinated by it. He calls it my owie and kisses it at least once a day.

I meet with my surgeon again on Friday. This is the big appointment. The definitely not cancer / definitely cancer appointment. I'm terrified but also relieved to finally be getting some answers. I'm also really excited to see my surgeon again. He fascinates me. I didn't take him for a Fanilow.

Tugging at My Heartstrings and a Giveaway

So let me just start this by saying that I was given a complimentary photo shoot and a pile of beautiful digital images for participating in this giveaway. With that being said, my thoughts and words are my own.

The lovely Amy Lee of The Connection We Share offered to take photos of me and Grady to promote a new photography session she is offering called Just: Be Portraits. The idea behind Just: Be Portraits is to give mothers or fathers an opportunity to connect one-on-one with their child and come away with a tangible expression of their love. Given that Grady is changing so much and every day he seems more like a kid instead of my teeny little baby, I jumped at the chance. (Real talk: I also - vainly - really wanted some photos done before my surgery marred my neck for life.)

Amy sent me a questionnaire so that she could design a personal session just for us. I loved going through the questions because it gave me time to really reflect on who Grady is right now (something I should be doing more often but it gets pushed to the side in our busy everyday life.) My favourite question was "if your child was a colour, what colour would he be?" I was initially stumped by this question but as soon as I started the thought process it became crystal clear. Grady is orange. Bright, vibrant, a little bit fiery, unstoppable orange.

The session itself was so fun. I was worried that Grady would be shy or uncooperative (he'd had a bad sleep the night before) but Amy was so patient with him. She got down on his level and really drew him out of his shell. I was so impressed by how comfortable she made both me and Grady feel. It didn't feel like we were posing for photographs. It felt like we were just hanging out and chatting with a friend (who happened to be snapping photos of us.)

I was surprised by how emotional I became when I first saw the images Amy captured. The image of me laughing with Grady is a perfect representation of what life with Grady is like right now: a cheeky grin, curls everywhere, a bit messy, and so many laughs. I'm so glad that I have these treasures to share with Grady when he's older.

Amy is generously offering a giveaway to one lucky reader. The winner will receive a Just: Be Session (one parent and one child) and one 8x10 print with the digital negative ($200 value.) To enter, all you have to do is subscribe to Amy's emails (which are super fun and include goodies like a free teeth brushing chart and a guide to writing letters to your children) and like her page on Facebook. Leave a comment here to tell me you've done both and let me know why you would like to win. I will pick a winner on Friday May 10th.

To sign up for Amy's emails, submit the form below:

-->

To celebrate the launch of Just: Be Portraits, The Connection We Share is offering the first 5 readers who book a session a $100 credit towards any purchase. Just in time for Mother's Day! Click here to book a session and for more information.

Star Wars. No Really, I Get There Eventually.

I broke 2 ribs a few months ago. I was goofing around with Shawn and he was all "Dirty Dancing!" and I was all "the fuuuck?" and then he tried to lift me over his head but I panicked (because I've never seen Dirty Dancing) and I twisted awkwardly and 2 ribs snapped.

A few things:

Yes, really, I've never seen Dirty Dancing. We weren't allowed to watch a lot of tv when we were growing up. I had seen maybe half a dozen movies by the time I hit 13 years old. Our (only) television had faux wood panelling on the sides and no remote control until my grandparents took pity on us kids and bought us a "real" tv in the mid-90s.

No, Shawn didn't punch / hit / shove me. My bones are pretty small to begin with and I'm breastfeeding and osteoporosis runs in my family - it just happened and it *is* weird that the ribs broke just from being lifted awkwardly but they did. I don't know what to tell you.

Anyway. The ribs broke. I didn't go to the doctor for 10 days because I was worried they'd think I injured myself in some crazy sex accident. Which totally happens, by the way. Not to me (knock on wood) but to other people. When I lived in England there was this C-list celebrity who experienced a surge in popularity after she almost DIED because she caught some weird lung infection after she broke a rib during a sex accident.

So I didn't go to the doctor and then one morning I woke up and I couldn't breathe and I couldn't lift Grady so I went to the emergency room. The emergency room doctor was a total babe. He was kind of like an Anderson Cooper / tall Jon Stewart silver fox blend and he totally rolled his eyes at an annoying patient and called him an ass when he was out of earshot. I loved him.

He was examining my ribs and asking me how it happened and I got all flustered because a: he was a total babe and b: I had already had the "does your husband hit you?" conversation with the triage nurse. So I started trying to describe the Dirty Dancing lift move, having never seen Dirty Dancing. It was so bizarre and cringe-worthy and just laughably mortifying.

Some good did come from the situation though. I decided to finally watch all the movies I missed growing up. It's a daunting task (especially for someone who doesn't really like movies) but I'm up for the challenge. In the last two weeks I've watched all three of the original Star Wars movies. Pop culture is starting to make sense to me. Dudes, I understood this week's Parks & Rec.

But now I can't stop thinking about Star Wars. Have you guys seen these movies? What the eff is with this "The Force" business? You just know stuff because of The Force? Why didn't The Force tell you whatshername was your sister before you kissed her? And don't even get me started on the dead Ewoks. Shawn warned me that I wasn't emotionally ready for the third movie and I should have listened to him. I was not prepared to see dead Ewoks. Ewoks are like toddlers. Cute, cuddly toddlers who wrap their arms around your neck as tightly as possible and yell, "squeeeeeeze" in your ear, not the toddlers who scream holy hell and cry real tears for half an hour because you put the juice in the blue cup instead of the green cup.

So. I can't sleep. Broken ribs suck. I still haven't watched Dirty Dancing. Star Wars is blowing my mind. I want an Ewok.

What movie should I watch next? Suggest anything - there's, like, a 95% chance I haven't seen it yet.

Two Sleeps

I was told I would have two weeks' notice but Monday morning I got the call and this Friday I will be having my surgery.

I've reached the level of crazy where I can't sleep because I don't want to waste any time. Time that could be spent staring at my sleeping son and googling general anesthesia horror stories. So. Nothing good is happening here right now.

I'm excited for life to return to normal. If you could send some healthy juju vibes my way at 9:30am PST on Friday I'd appreciate it muchly. My little corner of the internet has been such a source of support - I don't think I can properly thank you all but I do appreciate the shit out of you guys.

80085

I dressed up for something on Saturday. I did my hair and makeup and wore a dress. I was in a bit of a rush so while getting dressed I made a split second decision to forgo my manky old nursing bra for a lovely pre-pregnancy bra. It was a horrible decision but because of the rush I had no time to fix it. I spent the day pulling my bra back down and adjusting myself. It was rotten.

My body is so different post-Grady. I am still nursing so I know there are more changes to come when he weans. I'm surprised at how changed my breasts are though (which is ridiculous, I know. My breasts have fed my child for 20.5 months. Of course they've changed.)

Part of it is losing weight. The first place I lose weight is in my chest. I can tiptoe my fingers down the staircase that is my ribcage while still rocking thick hips and bum rolls. I am the definition of pear-shaped. So the loss of my ample Bs shouldn't surprise me. I no longer sit in front of a computer all day, snacking on yummy treats. I chase an active toddler all day and eat when he's asleep (which is never, oh my hell, why is there still no sleep?)

I know that a crazy high number of women wear the wrong bra size. And I don't want to be one of those women. I'm just flummoxed by the whole bra fitting scenario. Do I just ... go to the mall? Ask the lady what size to buy? Ask her to measure me? Do I get naked to be measured? I've never been professionally fitted before. Partly because I am a crazy lady who frets about situations like these (do I talk to her while she's fitting me? What if I accidentally make eye contact with her in the mirror?) and partly because I am cynical about having a bra fitting done at a store. Will I only be able to buy that specific store's bras? Stupid stores all have stupid different standards for sizing. It makes me ragey.

Did your breasts change after pregnancy? Have you ever had a professional bra fitting? Let's talk boobies!

Ups

I seem to only be posting here when I'm down. I've been down a lot lately but there have been some really great ups too. Grady is hilarious right now. We spend a lot of time laughing together. Today I made him laugh so hard that he literally fell over. It was the best I've felt all week.

I'm kind of stuck in limbo while I wait for my surgery. I know (now) that it's silly to put my life on hold and not make any big plans until after I have my surgery, but I'm still finding it difficult to commit to anything. So I'm starting small. I won't plan our (August) anniversary trip yet but I will plan Shawn's (May) birthday dinner. I ordered the official Game of Thrones cookbook and I plan to make a feast to celebrate. I also ordered the books so I can read them and actually know what they're all about. Shawn is obsessed with the show. It takes a lot to get him excited about television so I'm trying to keep an open mind. I haven't watched any episodes yet because bone-crunchy noises make me physically ill (I have the weakest gore tolerance) but I reckon if I read the books I will be able to talk nerdy to Shawn and it will make him happy.

I'm trying to focus on the ups to stave off the downs. It helps that I'm surrounded by really good people. And chocolate shakes.

NSFW

I was going to post a hilarious video of Grady swearing up a storm but my phone is being a dick and I cannot be arsed to figure it out.

I'm trying to come up with something I care less about than my stupid dickish phone, but I can't.

Meal planning. I care less about meal planning. I was going strong there for a while but then the wheels fell off the cart and I'm back to square one. We had takeout pizza for dinner last night is what I'm saying.

So to summarize: my phone is a dick, Grady says the F word now, and my feelings taste like extra cheesy pizza. How are you doing?