I think I'm in love ....

I've seen them in the stores. I've seen folks use them on TV, with what appeared to be delicious results. I kept telling myself, "You don't need it. You can make do with what you have." For years, I've tried, with mediocre results at best.

Until the day I was on the treadmill watching TV at the gym, and I saw it again. Shiny, hot, sizzling. I watched as Paula Deen put together another easy and delicious meal. That's when I made up my mind: I need a better fry pan.

Sounds silly? You must understand - I've tried to make decent meals for years. On occasion, I'll get it right, but most times I wind up frustrated and ordering a pizza. And there was the time I was frying up chicken for chicken parmesan, set off our fire alarm, and had to explain to the volunteer fire department that I wasn't burning the house down, just trying to put dinner on the table. Embarrassing to say the least.

It came down to this: like any other job, without the proper tools, you can't get the results. So I took a deep breath and walked through the doors into the chef's shopping mecca, Williams Sonoma. There, I cried on the saleswoman's shoulder - the failed attempts, the frustration, the humiliation, the family that won't eat (can you blame them?).

And like my fairy godmother, she led me to a wall of shiny cookware, the silver blinding me, winking in the artificial light, beckoning. She placed a fry pan into my hand, and I was sold. Culinary ideas raced through my imagination - the perfect meals I would make! The easy clean up! My family gathered around the dinner table, the smiles, the joy.

I put down my credit card and walked out with a 4 qt All-Clad sauce pan with spatter screen and lid. I drove home, still giddy with the possibilities.

Tonight, I fried up some perfect chicken breast fillets, crispy outside, perfectly done inside. We had the chicken with green beans, and twice baked potatoes (ok, from Omaha Steaks - let's not get too crazy here). My family ate every bite (almost - the girls aren't big green bean fans), and when I asked them if I should make this meal again, I got a resounding, "Yes!"

I guess culinary dreams do come true!

Sick day

I'm not good at taking sick days since I started working from home. When I used to commute every day, it was easier to take a sick day - if I woke up and didn't feel well, I'd call in. I'm not saying that I'd stay home at the littlest sniffle. Instead, I would get up, try to get going, debate debate debate until I'd finally throw in the towel and take a sick day.

Now, even when I'm sick, I work. I figure that since I'll be sitting around in my pajamas anyway, I might as well pull out the laptop and get something done. In a way, it helps my stress level, because I don't fall behind in what I'm trying to accomplish for the week. But I'm not doing myself any favors because I'm not truly resting. Even after my surgery last February, I went back to work a few days earlier than planned, rationalizing that I was resting while I worked, but I really wasn't.

Today I woke up with a headache, nausea and a low grade fever. I need to sleep, to rest, to take care of myself. So after this blog post, I am going to take a nap. No laundry. No checking email. Just really bad daytime TV, a snack, and generally doing nothing. A true sick day.

Zzzzz ....

Forty five

12.

13.

45.

Two milestone birthdays and a wedding anniversary. I'll let you figure out which number belongs to Princess and which one belongs to me. CT Dad had a birthday, too, and we'll be doing a milestone celebration next year for him. As for my age, I have to admit I'm struggling a bit. Forty five. Forty five. It just sounds so - old.

I've had other major milestone birthdays, when life events happened to coincide with birthday ending in "0". When I turned 30, my parents sold my childhood home. On my 40th birthday, I had gone back to work after taking a year off to be home with the girls, a re-inventing of myself and what my life meant. But I never looked at my age and thought, "Old."

For some reason, this birthday bugs me a bit. I don't feel 45. I don't look 45 (thanks to good moisturizer and Miss Clairol). I still feel 18. With perhaps a bit more common sense and driving a better car (ok, I'm driving a Honda CR-V, nothing flashy, but back then I had a '78 Plymouth Volare. 'Nuf said there).

Forty five is maturity. Forty five is five years short of being eligible for AARP membership. Forty five is mid-life (longevity runs in my family - my grandparents lived well into their nineties). Forty five means my term life rates are going up. Forty five means I can't check off the "35-44" age bracket when I'm filling out a survey.

But in other respects, forty five is considered young. As in, "Did you read that obituary? Forty five. She was so young." Or when you read about someone taking over a company and you find out she's only forty five.

Today I'm forty five. I'm older. I'm still young. I'm healthy, with a full life and a wonderful family. So I'll celebrate by taking the day off, going shopping, having lunch with friends and a fancy dinner tonight with CT Dad and my beautiful girls.

Tonight I'm going to blow out the candles on my cake, smile, and be grateful for one more day, one more year. Forty five. Wow.

I'll let you know how I did when I turn forty six.

I wasn't prepared for this ...

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, right?

But this I wasn't prepared for. I heard rumors, heard hints of it on the news. But I was in denial.

Not today. I'm not ready. It's not time. It's just so .... wrong.

What am I talking about?

Not the flu, swine or otherwise. Not puberty. Not menopause. Not reruns already when the fall TV season has just started.

No. Worse.

This:

SNOW*. In October.

It just sucks. Instead of lemonade, I guess I'll have to make a lemon slush. Oh wait - my mother always warned me not to eat yellow snow.

*I tried to get pictures but the snow didn't stick, so click on the link to see how the rest of Connecticut complained about - er, enjoyed - the surprise change in the weather.

Twelve? Really??

Dear Princess -

Twelve? When did that happen?

When did you become so independent, so self-reliant?

Me: I can give you a ride to school today.

You: No, Mom, that's ok. I like the bus. Bye! (running out the door in the early morning light, ready to start another day)

All the cliches run through my mind - you're blossoming into a young woman, slowly breaking away. Needing me less. And needing me more.

Thursday, when I picked you up from choir practice, you started to tell me about your day, and half-way through, burst into tears. We spent the afternoon talking, and ended by my hugging you, wiping your tears and seeing your smile finally break through.

You are the same girl that told me earlier in the week, after yet another verbal exchange when I reminded you again to be respectful: "I've been respectful for 11 years and I've reached my breaking point!"

:: Sigh ::

I love you, honey. Thank you for teaching me how to let go a bit more and still be here for you. Even when you've reached your breaking point.

Happy birthday, Princess - let's go pick up your friends and go to the movies!

Love,
Mom

Guest Post: Raising awareness of juvenile myositis - for the loves of his life, his daughter and his wife

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.



To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.