blue balls

just to recap my health, briefly:

miscarriage 2009

baby #1 2010

hospital stay for post-partum hemorrhaging 2010

miscarriage - D&C for 4 month fetus 2011

emergency removal of gallbladder 2011

emergency removal of appendix 2011

tooth extraction 2012

c-section baby #2 2012

now to recap, briefly, t.j.'s:

sore elbow from too much damn golf 2011

man cold 2012

for those keeping score: i'm down 2 organs, an incisor, vaginal elasticity, and a set of perky tits. t.j.'s down a night of men's golf league.

i feel like my body needs recovery time. i have designated 2013 as the year that larissa stays out of the hospital. i'm not going to need any one's assistance to go pee and i'm not going to have to fart in front of a nurse to gain permission to go home. i am swearing off anything requiring anesthesia; to which t.j. suggested i go on the pill. to which i suggested he go to hell. i'm 32 damn years old, i'm not going on the pill - unless it's a valium washed down with pinot noir.

so, i have given my husband a deadline for a vasectomy: march 1st... or as i like to call it: v-day. v-day was announced when london was approximately 32 seconds old. i told him there was no excuse - especially after i found out about "vas madness," in which urology practices offer special rates during college basketball's final four tourneys. t.j. usually spends march madness sitting in front of the t.v., not getting laid, and crying, so this is perfect.

he has many ways of deflecting talk of v-day including: getting mad, getting quiet, getting nauseous, and his latest... getting baby fever. yep - you heard me. t.j. has decided that the easiest way to avoid v-day is by planning another birthday. he was very convincing in his stance; so much so that i conceded. i agreed to let him out of v-day in hopes for getting the little boy he has always dreamed of.

when i find out who he's having it with, i'll provide an update.

keeping my cool

when i was younger i often wondered at what point my dad decided he would stop listening to music created after 1982. with each peter gabriel hit that blared through the speakers of our 1988 chevy safari i would re-commit myself to a lifetime of top 40 and sports cars. i didn't know when people faded from cool to parental, but i was never going to allow it to happen. i solemnly swore to never have jeans that covered my belly piercing; which was an easy thing to do since i made the pact to never, ever, ever - under any circumstance - shop outside of the junior's department.

now that i've become a mom, i am constantly evaluating and scrutinizing the actions and behavior of t.j. and i to make sure we are staying steadfast on the cool-ometer. (see, the fact that i just used the word "cool-ometer" shows that i slip-up every once in a while.) i live in a juxtaposition of being a great parent without seeming like one. every time i use the phrase, "because mommy said so" i justify it with a pair of purple skinny jeans. when t.j. and i have immature conversation like this recent string of text messages that took place while he was out of town for business, i revel in our hip-ness:

look how cool we are

t.j.: "sitting here working. bout to blow up this hotel printer"

lars: "better than blowing up the hotel"

t.j: "better than blowing up"

lars: "better than blowing... someone"

see, discussing innuendo about homosexual relations is so much cooler than talk of balancing checkbooks and preschool drop-off. and every time an exchange like this takes place i am reminded of how relevant we have remained in today's pop culture.

sometimes the fact that i'm horribly annoyed by the tourette syndrome caused by justin bieber's hair style makes me fear that i'm starting to lose touch. but just when i start to feel this way i tell myself it's going to be alright; one day when roz and london accuse me of being not cool i will reassure them i'm the bomb and drop a hook from whoomp there it is while flashing my tramp stamp. they wouldn't know cool if it hit them in their face - which is what i may do because i'm the parent here.

oh boy

when i was at my last OB appointment before having rozlyn there was a mom in the waiting room with her little boy running all around crazy like all toddlers forced to wait at an OB office act like. acting all stressed out from having to actually get up from her chair she looked at me and asked "do ya know what your having yet?" with a proud smile i answered, "yeah - a little girl." she then wasted the next 10 minutes of my life to  explain how lucky i was that god had given me a sweet, perfect female instead of an unruly hell-on-wheels little boy. what i didn't know in that moment was that was only the first of numerous times i would have to endure a mom of a boy(s) tell me how much harder they have it in life than me because i was a mother to a precious girl(s).

since that day i have seen countless bruises and scrapes used as living illustrations to coincide with the outrageous stories explaining why i should be so thankful to have a girl. according to every mom of a boy, my daughters will NEVER be as rambunctious or accident-prone as their sons. as i hear story after story after story of experiences that ONLY mothers of boys get to have in life i can't help but laugh: see, if it weren't for having a vagina, i was a little boy when i was growing up.

i can show you the scar on my chin from ryan egleston stopping my back tire at about 20 mph resulting in a perfect flip over my handlebars. my left leg has a scar on it from my ten year old self's decision to hop onto a harley davidson that hadn't cooled and melted off the top layer of my skin. while i had heard of dressing up barbie dolls, my only preference for pink was neon grip tape for my skateboard. and while i could have joined the girls in the neighborhood as they rode their hello kitty bicycles, i preferred trying to burn the retinas of innocent civilians driving down our street with my laser tag gun. then there is that time i convinced andy sparks to slam the door shut with a piece of floss perfectly knotted around a doorknob on one end and my bottom left incisor on the other end. (one lesson in life i will no doubtedly teach my girls is that if you must remove teeth with a slamming door, make sure it is the front teeth - the sides and molars are a bit finicky - and a tad painful.)

last week at mcdonalds playplace there was a Super Boy Mom (SBM's have 2 or more boys) who was appalled at my decision to let my precious little 2 year old girl play in the big part of the jungle gym reserved for 3 and up. (gasp!) i explained to SBM that we were frequent guests of the big play area and that roz had no fear. after what seemed like an eternity of listening to SBM make comments about roz not being allowed in that area, i finally told her to worry about her own kids. her response was "WELL DON'T COME CRYING TO ME WHEN SHE GETS TRAMPLED BY ONE OF MY BOYS!"

i won't go into detail, out of fear of embarrassing my mother, but i will say that the words "bitch" and "playplace nazi" may or may not have slipped out of my mouth. these words that i may or may not have used resulted in SBM attempting to storm out of the play area talking about my lack of class and my truck-driver mouth. however, before she could go she had to round up her boys; which would've been easier if roz didn't have her second-born child in a headlock in the ball pit.

roz got extra ice-cream that night - more than most little boys eat in a month.