Updiddlydate

I've gotten several sweet messages from strangers asking how I am recovering from my lady surgery, so here's a little update.  First of all, I should clarify that I still have my ovaries, which is lucky, because they are adorable and I'm not quite ready for menopause.  Besides, Mitch is planning on doing his required unaccompanied tour when I hit menopause, which should be about the same time the girls hit puberty.  He's always been a good planner.

Tomorrow is my six week post-op milestone. For anybody who's had a hysterectomy, you know six weeks is the marker the doctors use to tell you when you can get back to your regularly scheduled programming. So, starting tomorrow, I can drive a car, carry stuff heavier than a glass of wine (big whoop), push a grocery cart (bigger whoop), and, um, do other things (whoopie!).  Yoga.  I'm talking about yoga, people.  I was kind of drugged out when I was released from the hospital, but I'm pretty sure the doctor said no housework for a minimum of 12 months, so I will still have some restrictions. Obviously.  Tomorrow also marks the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth, so I'm pretty excited that I'll get to go grocery shopping by myself on my birthday. Yes, I'm 44.  I joke around that I'm 29, but I think I'm going to start telling people I'm 54, so I can hear that I "look so young" for my age. Hopefully.  Anyone?   Tap. Tap.  Is this thing even on?

I won't tire you with details of my recovery, other than to say it took way longer than I thought it would and I got really sick of resting.  It's really quite boring, especially after you've melted your glasses and none of your backups have progressive lenses with which to read by.  My family took excellent care of me, and so did my cleaner and my massage lady, who, once she learned that I had a hysterectomy and not "liposuction for my fat belly", spent a lot of time working on my abdomen to help prevent something in portuguese, but I'm pretty sure it's not desirable, because it happened to her sister.  Or her brother.  Whatever, my portuguese sucks.  When I wasn't resting, my lovely friend Katie drove me to important appointments, such as to get manicures and pedicures, and out to lunch, never once making fun of my ever-present yoga pants.  So, you could say that my recovery was pretty easy. I know I am beyond lucky to have all the help I do, and despite my wine-ing whining, I am really glad I had the surgery. I wasn't functioning well at all before , and I feel great now, so yay for the knife!

Anyway, from here on out, it'll be all, carrying the laundry basket, wearing pants that don't pull on, and driving to the grocery store.  And working.  At a job. Yes, you read that right.  As soon as I get my security clearance (which should be easy to get as I've been a hermit for the past 10 years), I will be writing and editing the embassy newsletter.  For pay!  Thank gawd they didn't read this blog before they hired me, although I'm pretty sure I took out most of the  F-bombs just in case. 

I am going to need some new fucking shoes before I start working, though.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

For the past few months, our house has been leaking.  At first it was just a little bit, but now it's leaking constantly, no matter if it's raining outside or not.  Most of the ceiling fans have a pretty steady stream dripping out.  In the TV room, the water rolls to the edge of the fan blades and flies all over the room. It's like a little rain shower in there.  Pretty cool, huh?

We've put in a work order for the leaks, but basically have been told there's not a lot they can do, and that it should dry out after the rainy season is over.  In May. 

And that is another fine example of the glamour of Foreign Service life. On the bright side, it's a beautiful day today, so if we need a break from the indoor rain, we can go outside and dry off in the sunshine. Gawd, I'm such a Pollyanna.  How can you stand my constant cheerfulness around here?

PS, Good news!  I finally found a turkey! For $100USD, but I'm sure it'll be delicious, and there's no leak in the dining room yet, so Thanksgiving is looking better and better.

Rancho Canabrava

We took our three youngest kids to Rancho Canabrava yesterday, just outside of Brasilia.  We went with a bunch of embassy families and the kids had a blast doing an obstacle course a zillion feet off the ground.  There were tears of fear and sick stomachs from the girls when they started, but once they got past the first part, they loved it.  Mitch went with the girls, and Henry went with his buddies. I stayed on the ground (still in recovery mode), cursing my lack of Xanax. 

Thankfully, there was a puppy to help calm the nerves.

Henry handled the height like a champ.



Zipline to the finish!




The girls are grimace-smiling.  Both were scared, but insisted they wanted to do the adult course instead of the kids' course. And because in Brazil, kids get what they want, so they had extra guides to help them along. The workers at the ranch were amazing. Some spoke English, and they were wonderful with the kids. 



They're both smiling in these photos because this is the practice one to teach them how to clip their carabiners to the wires, and it was pretty easy.



Hole. E. Shit.



She kept it together.



This is where Olivia burst into tears. I wanted to shout to the guides to help her get down, but Mitch yelled at her, "Look straight ahead, stop crying, and just take one step at a time!", in what I thought was a pretty mean voice.  Just saying. However, it worked, and once she got over the initial fear, she loved it. I had to go away for a while at this point and take a lot of deep breaths and ask around if anyone had a flask.

This nine year-old was once inside my body.

Everyone wants to go back and bring Jack (who was home buried under schoolwork) next time. On the way home, the girls were wondering why there isn't cool dangerous stuff like that back in the States for kids to do, but then they decided theme parks were pretty cool, too.   I'm pretty sure I deserve some sort of award for keeping my shit together while my kids were merely a missed carabiner clip away from breaking their necks. Also, I got a sunburn.

The Rain is Clearly to Blame

See this?

You might think it's a medieval torture device (you know, except for the electric part and the cheap plastic components and whatnot), and you would be right! Except for the medieval part.  See, I have this hair that turns into an afro during times of high humidity (for example, September-May in Brazil).  Now, I like afros, and would totally embrace my blonde afro, but it's only an afro in the back.  The front just goes all wonky and limp. 

So, I use the above torture device to smooth out my hair. Also, it's good for sizzling burns on the forehead and for melting stuff in it's general vicinity.  My long-suffering husband DESPISES my Instyler, because of the third-degree burns and the fact that it's always out on our tiny little bathroom counter.   More on this in a minute.

There's also been some glasses drama around here, because I'm an old lady with rapidly declining eyesight who can't see near or far.  A few years ago, I purchased my current glasses that I love.  They unfortunately were designer glasses and they cost as much as, oh, I don't know, like, a cow or something.  While I was in the States last month, the plan was to renew my prescription and get some new glasses, but due to my crappy eyesight, I couldn't get the glasses in time before I left.  I was secretly glad about that, because I couldn't find any glasses I love as much as my current ones, and I figured I could squint and stuff to make up for the declining vision. Also, I'm not allowed to buy glasses that cost as much as a cow again. Four kids to put through college, blahblahblah.

At this point, you're probably wondering, "What the heck does a non-medieval torture burning device have to do with Kate's glasses?"  And now that you just read that sentence, I bet you know.  Yes, kids, while I was in the shower, my glasses were busy getting melted by the Instyler.  They weren't even touching it (much), the glass lens just bubbled up from proximity. The melty part is right in the middle of the lens, so it looks like someone wiped boogers across the surface.   I know!  Imagine what that thing is doing to my hair!  So, I was kind of scared to show Mitch, who has had it with me complaining about not finding any cute glasses online and also with me complaining about forehead burns.  But then I remembered what Ralphie did when the Red Ryder BB gun broke his glasses in A Christmas Story.  He cried, and his mom was nice about it. And since I was so sad about my glasses, it was pretty easy to just let the tears flow when I went to tell Mitch about my glasses.  He thought I was dumb for crying over a pair of glasses I needed to replace anyway, but was disappointingly unmoved by my tragic loss of fashionable eyesight.

Anyway, I finally got online and looked at shoes for a few hours (no need to judge or question my methods), then I ordered some dumb glasses.

Related: The rainy season (obviously to blame for my glasses getting burnt) has also caused our ceiling fans to leak water.  Pretty sure that can't be good, but without glasses I can't see the puddles anyway.

Halloween, Ball, and Birthday

We've been busy partying between my naps around here, so I'm just going to throw up a few photos from our week.  For Halloween, Grace and Olivia picked costumes that went together again this year, but that also totally reflected their personalities.  If you've seen the Hunger Games, you'll know who Effie Trinket is, but if not, here's a little photo of her from the movie.




The instant Effie came onscreen, Grace knew she wanted to be her for Halloween, and it naturally followed that Olivia would want to be Katniss, what with her love of getting dirty and archery and wearing her hair in a braid.  So, basically, Olivia didn't even need a costume. I did buy her a District 12 Tribute t-shirt, though, since she doesn't own any clothing without a baby animal on it.

This is not really a costume, but it IS proof that having a stash of mustaches always pays off.  Sometimes in the form of candy, sometimes, in the form of a disguise for a quick getaway, and sometimes to entertain yourself by making the dog look like Burt Reynolds. 

 Jack had a Halloween fundraiser at his school. This is his inspired costume.  Can this really be my kid? One should never be too cool to dress up, which Mitch and I proved by WEARING COSTUMES TO HIS SCHOOL AND EMBARRASSING HIM. Oh, yes, we did. All his friends were delighted.

Yesterday was my second born's 12th birthday.  Every year he plans some kind of elaborate thing to do on his birthday and always ends up disappointed.  This year, he told me he just wanted a new video game, and to play it all day without laying eyes on his little sisters.  And breakfast in bed. And Kahlua pecan chocolate chip pie.  And since I am the lamest mother on the planet these days with my constant resting, I was more than happy to accommodate his wish. Brazil helped by having a national holiday so he didn't even have to go to school.  At the end of the day, he said it was the best birthday of his life.

Last night was the Marine Corps Ball, which Mitch optimistically bought tickets for without knowing if I'd be home from the States in time to go to.  I combed my hair and he watched a youtube video on how to tie a bow tie, and off we went. 

We had a lovely time, despite the lack of sofas for me to lay down on at the venue and my navy dress matching the tablecloths.  Happy Birthday, Marines and Henry!

Home

When we last left our heroine, she was recovering from surgery in the ever-fabulous-but-chilly Estados Unidos while her husband kept the home fires burning in Brazil by throwing the children into death-defying situations and having them *gasp* make their own lunches.  

Currently, however, I am writing this from my hammock at home in Brazil.  I would snap a picture of my feet with the lush greenery and sunshine in the background, but then I would have to get up to get the camera, and, well, I've got no uterus with which to get up with.  Also, I need a pedicure. Anyway, YAY! I am home with my babies. They had no idea I was coming home, they just walked in the door from school and there I was. I even got two hugs from my teenager. My medical clearance was reinstated last Tuesday, so I packed my bags with Halloween candy, bloody body parts (which were a definite hit with the security officers at the airport--also, I should clarify that these were not real body parts, despite what my friend Leanne thinks), painkillers, and gifts for the kids.  The flight itself was grisly, involving me running through the Minneapolis airport carrying my broken rolling carry-on (sorry, doc!), getting forced to check said carry-on, forgetting that all my painkillers were in said carry-on and would remain so until I got home the next day. All's well that ends well, however, and I couldn't be more thrilled to be home. And none too soon, I might add. I was getting calls that were growing increasingly frantic in nature.

"We're doing great!"

"We're doing great, but when are you coming home?"

"Everything is falling apart! The bus came this morning and Jack was making a sandwich in his underwear".

"No one has any uniforms. The kids think Graca is selling their shorts. When are you coming home?" Graca is our cleaner. She deserves a huge tip after the last three weeks.

"My throat hurts from yelling at the kids.  How do you keep them from leaving their crap everywhere?"

"Grace lost her Kindle.  She had it when we were camping.  Any idea where it might be?" Um, they were camping after I left, so, no.  I had no idea.

"Uh, honey, you cleaned out the checking account."  Okay, so that technically wasn't my fault. While I was massively drugged out on painkillers, I had a foggy idea that I might die,  so from my hospital bed I ordered a bunch of food, clothes, and shoes for the kids in their next sizes up, then promptly forgot about it.  But, it's sweet, right, how I was caretaking my family from 10,000 miles away and living in an alternate chemical reality?

I was able to go to the kids' school conferences on Friday, where I learned that Olivia cried every day that I was gone, but is excellent at math. I was just happy to hear that she's more or less wearing shoes this year. I also "learned" that Grace talks a lot and loves performing.  Henry, in typical fashion, is excelling at flying mischieviously under the radar, and Jack is, well, okay, I'm not sure about Jack. I got tired out after seeing his first teacher, but his grades are awesome, so if his teachers think I'm a lousy mother for not going to all his conferences, then so be it. A uterus-less woman can only do so much, you know (and yes, I've been using this excuse a lot, why do you ask?).

After conferences was the Embassy Trick or Treat. I was able to get the girls' hair and make-up done, but was so wiped by that time that I spent the rest of the day sitting on a chair outside Mitch's office handing out my American candy.  The kids had a blast trick or treating at all the offices with their friends, though.

I am being eaten alive by mosquitos right now, but the electric mosquito racket is inside with the camera, and you know how the rest of this story goes....

When Mom's Away

"We're probably going to go camping when you're gone," Mitch said last week.  "Well, make sure you pack bug spray and sunblock and headache medicine and extra water and jackets and don't take any unnecessary risks," I nervously replied.

And these are the pictures he sent me of their "camping" trip:

Do those helmets look very snug to you?



400 feet above the ground. 2/3 of those girls came out of my body.



Henry. Thank gah my little ladies didn't attempt this with their sketchy swim skills.



Oh, wait.  They did.



Don't worry, he survived, so the kids weren't stranded in Brazil with no parents.




Pretty sure they are all wearing seatbelts.



I'm really glad Mitch didn't tell me what he had planned in advance, or I would have worried all weekend. As you can see, the kids had an amazing time. Meanwhile, Jack is in Sao Paulo at some service conference or somesuch.

 Can't wait to get back there and do some risk management.

Medevac

Soon after we got back to Brazil from R&R, I began having medical problems. I won't go into detail, because, you know, it's gross and whatnot, but I did see some doctors in Brasilia.  They had all kinds of opinions, ranging from "nothing is wrong with you" to "this is what's wrong with you, even though NONE of the symptoms match the diagnosis" (side note: hospital emergency room floors in Brasilia are cleaned by dumping a dirty bucket of water on the floor and squeegeeing the waste out the front entrance of the hospital).  Before long, I was in enough pain that I really didn't leave my bed for several weeks and it was decided by my team (which consists of Mitch, the embassy health unit, the state department, and myself) that I would fly home to the US for some of their fancy 'merican doctorin'. 

The problem with a medevac is that you lose your medical clearance and may not return to post until it's reinstated, so I had to plan to be gone a long time from my family.  This is another one of those instances where this lifestyle really just sucks. However, I knew I couldn't spend the rest of my life in bed, because there aren't enough reruns of 90210 in portuguese for that. So, I got to work in the kitchen, making three weeks worth of freezer meals for my people to eat in my absence.  I chose to fly home to Spokane, rather than the medevac point of Miami, and am so glad I did.  My amazing family has been taking good care of me. Also, it's pumpkin latte season here in America, so double win. I just hope I'm not still around for eggnog latte season.

At my first appointment, the doc knew right away what the problem was (and no, it wasn't what the Brazilian doctors thought), and by some amazing stroke of luck, he had a surgical cancellation for the next day.  I will confess that I laid my sob story on pretty thick so I could get home quickly--four hungry children, overworked husband, terrorists at the door, etc.  But hey, whatever works, no?  So, I had a complete hysterectomy this week at the tender young age of 29 (my story, my fabrications, so shut it).   Everything went well, and the doc's diagnosis was spot on.  Now it's just a waiting game while I recover and can go back to Brazil and my babies.  To reward myself for partnering with my crappy uterus for so long, I got a fab new purse.  Kind of like a fine leather replacement uterus which accessorizes better than the old one.

My narcotic-influenced sense of humor is typically horrible.  Every time a new doctor or nurse explains things to me since the hysterectomy, I adopt a solemn expression, lower my voice, and say, "but I'll still be able to have children, right?"  The look on their faces makes me laugh and laugh. Which hurts.

[source]

Proof....

......that 2012 isn't a total jerkwad:

After four years, three orthodontists, at least one college fund, two states, and two countries, Henry finally got his braces off.

Perspective

I keep waiting for something embarrassing or amusing to happen around here, so I'll have something to write about, but have you seen the news lately?  However, write I will, today, because it's my mom's birthday, and I mostly wrote for her. Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you every day.

My nine year-old daughter walked into my room earlier this week, where I was sitting on the bed, staring in shock at the news on CNN of the attacks on the American Embassies in Cairo and Libya. She curled up next to me and it took me a minute to notice tears streaming down her face. I took her downstairs to the giant map we have on the wall, and pointed out where the Middle East was in comparison to Brazil, and how faaaaaar away it was from us.  I also reminded her how amazing and smart her Daddy is, and how the reason we are even here in Brazil is so he can make our embassy even safer.

Still, tears.  "Olivia, why are you so sad today?" I asked.

"Because it doesn't even matter if it's Brazil or that other embassy where the people died. Somebody's Daddy probably made that embassy safe, and the bad guys still got in." Oy. I spent another fifteen minutes or so trying to soothe her fears, and she finally calmed down and went to school, where easy distractions are at the ready. Meanwhile, we turned off the news and stopped talking about the horrible events of the week in front of the kids. We feel very safe here, but the degree of separation is small in the Foreign Service. Google tells me about the four Americans who lost their lives, but not of who their families were and how they must be suffering right now. After losing my mom this summer, I feel their pain acutely, but I can't fathom being able to accept such senseless acts perpetrated on my loved ones.

A few years ago, my biggest external threat seemed to be the raccoons getting into our chicken coop or a random coyote wandering onto our property. I never locked my front door, I left my purse in the car so I would never forget it, and my wonderful extended family was in relatively easy driving distance. I could make a doctor's appointment and completely understand what they said to me, and I could park my car there, too. When Henry grew up, he wanted to be a food critic. Jack wanted to be independently wealthy so he could have a mini fridge built into a recliner that was attached to his xBox, Olivia wanted to be an Animal Petter (Totally a job! They had one where we boarded Seamus last year), and Grace wanted to be Lady Gaga.

Shortly after we arrived in Brazil (the kids fresh from their "Security Overseas" Seminar at FSI), Olivia skipped out ot the bus and noticed a fat envelope sticking out of our mailbox.  In her singsong-y voice, as I buzzed her through our tall, zombie-repelling security gate, she said, "We got a lettah bomb!" Of course, it wasn't a letter bomb, it was an add for bikini-and-ass waxing or some such.  But that is our life now. We are cautious out in public.  Leaving my door unlocked now is not even an option. And lately, Mitch and I have been going over our plans to stay safe, collect the kids, and stay in touch if the unthinkable happens.

So, do I regret doing this? Nope. Not at all (just don't ask me that in the first week of our next tour).  My kids have friends from all over the world, and their lives are forever changed.  Henry still wants to be a food critic, but an international one. Jack wants to go into global affairs, and Olivia wants to be a veterinarian "but with monkeys and stuff".  Grace still  wants to be Lady Gaga.  And even though I grew to love Brazil kicking and screaming all the way, I eventually got there.

If anything, the attacks on the American Embassies this week make me feel even stronger that we are doing the right thing.  I love that my husband is committed to keeping Americans safe overseas, and I love being surrounded by the kinds of people who are also committed to keeping Americans safe, even if it means putting themselves in harm's way to do so. And as much as I loved not locking my door and only worrying about the raccoons, I know now that the sense of security I felt back then was thanks to the many that work to keep America safe, including Ambassador Chris Stevens, Sean Smith, Glen Doherty, and Tyrone Woods.

Mostly, this lifestyle has taught me that I fracking love America. I just didn't really know it until we left.