Yesterday, I saw my breast surgeon for her follow-up. I was pleasantly surprised when I was shown to an exam room right away. I thought I wouldn’t be waiting that long until she came in, so I took my preemptive Percocet for the drain pain of my next appointment scheduled an hour later. I was feeling pretty great and excited to tell her how happy I am with the results and how grateful I am for her prowess in the OR. Well, I was waiting for longer than I had expected and by the time she came in, I was much less coherent. It’s ok, because as any college chick can attest, you don’t have to be coherent to let someone feel your boobs. And usually, it’s better when you’re not. Instead of an awkward kiss goodbye, I received the official pathology report: my bill of good health.
After that appointment was done, we hopped into a cab and made our way to the plastic surgeon’s office. I suppose one of the drains decided to make its home in my body, because it did not want to be yanked out. But like an overdue baby, it had to come out one way or another. So it was cut out of me with several skilled, but scary snips. No anesthesia, but I’m glad I had that Percocet. Wowza!
My older daughter smacked her nose on the headboard of her bed the other night. I heard the wailing cries and went as fast as I could to comfort her. No blood, no bumps, but probably hurt like crazy! As I held her head in my lap and stroked her hair, I told her, “Hey, you’re tough, you’re gonna be fine and you know why? Because you’re like Mommy and Mommy’s the toughest!” She smiled and I said, “who’s tough?” She pointed to herself. “And who’s the toughest?” She pointed to me. “And who’s so wimpy?” She pointed to my husband. We all had a pretty good laugh over that. Although the last part isn’t entirely true, I’m pretty proud to be the toughest Mommy I can be.

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