Thank Goodness I'm Not a Race Horse

So the surgery did not go as expected. The theory of the simple meniscal tear repair followed by 2 weeks of rehab did not, unfortunately, pan out. I was; however, quite entertaining (if I do say so myself) during the procedure.

First of all, it’s strange to have surgery in the place where you work. As I entered the building at 10 am donning glasses, a ponytail, and not a hint of makeup, I silently begged, “please don’t run into anyone I know today.” Ya right. I ran in to at least half a dozen peops who glanced my way, did a double take (wow, she’s hideous without makeup) and exclaimed, “Oh! I didn’t recognize you. Good luck in surgery.” Again, nice to know so many people care, but difficult to remain anonymous during a private situation. For example, as I hobbled down the day surgery hall in my gown, carrying my urine sample, I was horrified to pass the cast and brace dude whom I see on a daily basis. “Um. Hi. Yep, I peed. Check it out.”  On the other hand, I was so thankful to see my buddy Lisa, my fantastic physio who popped in a few times to help calm my nerves.

I opted for the spinal route so that I could watch my surgery via screen as it was occurring. As I was discussing this with my Anesthesiologist (great guy!) I noticed his eyes dart downward towards my chest and widen in surprise. Nope, no booby situation here. It was….THE RASH. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned THE RASH in my blog before. Mostly because I feel as though talking about it strengthens its power, causing it to spread faster and angrier. THE RASH is basically hives that begin to form on my chest when I am nervous, angry, or sad (basically any extreme emotion). I’ve been dealing with THE RASH ever since University when professors would call 911 in the middle of my presentations for fear that THE RASH would eat my face. It sucks. I actually specifically chose a high-necked wedding dress, knowing THE RASH would make an appearance at our wedding. It kind of runs my life, damnit.

So as each medical professional came in to my pre-op “stall” (kind of like a cow preparing for slaughter), they gasped at the site of THE RASH and I had to ensure each and every one of them that, as horrid as it appeared, it would NOT attack them during surgery.

As I hopped onto the operating table, my Orthopedic Surgeon , Dr. M, and his assistant, Dr. K, (a Physician that I know well) strutted into the OR ready to take on my simple knee scope.

“What is that?” asked Dr. M, pointing alarmingly at THE RASH.

“Don’t look directly at it,” I replied, “and it won’t harm you.”

I took my spinal, mixed with some fabulous “calming” concoction and instantly became relaxed. And funny. It was like the Kirstie show. All these people were my audience and I had their full and undivided attention. “Look at my knee! Look at my knee!” It was an only child’s dream come true.

“Did you just roofie me?” I asked the Anesthesiologist, “because I like it!”

It soon became apparent as they positioned the camera under my kneecap that this was not a simple tear of the meniscus.

“Look at this,” instructed Dr. M, “Your hard cartilage is all ripped and torn.”

I glanced up at the screen to see cartilage that appeared to have been through the paper shredder.

“But your meniscus is fine.” He probed a piece of smooth round soft cartilage.

“We’re going to have to drill holes in your bone to create a blood clot. This will promote new cartilage growth because yours is not good. The new cartilage will not be the right kind of cartilage but it's better than what you have now...which is essentially nothing, “ he explained.

“Whatever. Sounds fabulous!” I replied happily, not realizing the extent of what he was telling me.

Dr K hoisted up my leg to a 90 degree angle and Dr. M began forcefully pounding holes in my knee.

“Hey, Dr. K – how about a pedicure while you’re down there!” bahaha. I was fricken hilarious – even with 3^rd degree cartilage tears.

Little did I know that the pounding would come back to haunt me 24 hours later when the sound of our neighbor building a fence would cause me to puke.

Cast and brace dude (Hey, remember when you saw my pee?) delivered a giant awkward knee brace and my surgery was completed with the fitting of this horrid brace. Suddenly the magnitude of my situation began to sink in. I would not be wakesurfing Candle Lake this summer, would I? I would have to scratch "running the Boston marathon" off my list of things to do. Damnit. It's a good thing I hate running.

“No weight bearing for 6-8 weeks. Your knee has to remain straight out in front of you. No driving, “ instructed Dr. M. “We will meet on Thursday to discuss the rehab that will follow. There will be some lifestyle changes.”

Shit. That’s quite a change from the anticipated 2 week recovery period. Shit. At least I can still play the flute and crochet. I was so good at those things, you know.

“Dr. M, If I were a horse, would they shoot me?” I inquired.

“I don’t want to answer that. You’re not a horse.”

“Just be honest,” I probed.

“A race horse?” He asked.

“Sure.”

“Yes, they would shoot you.”

“But if you were a pony or a pet horse, “ he continued, “they would keep you because you are very good company.”

Hmmmmm…..

Boobies are distracting...even for doctors

As I've mentioned, I have a torn meniscus. Apparently, it needs to be surgically corrected. Thankfully, I was scheduled for surgery quite quickly because I slept with the orthopedic surgeon it is a priority. My surgery is tomorrow. A torn meniscus is annoying and frequently "locks,"causing me to contort my face in such an awful way that my office mate and flute teacher, Heidi, simultaneously laughs hysterically and yells, "Oh no! Oh no!"

I'm no stranger to the surgery. I've had a few in my past. Typically, my surgeries entail the investigation of the "lady parts." Surgery of the knee sounds much more preferable to surgery of the lady parts. In fact, this could be quite an exciting opportunity. I will be given a spinal and will be able to actually watch my scope on a television situated in front of me as it's occurring! I'm trying to be positive here. Also, I just recently purchased a GoPro camera for Ev - it's a sports camera that you mount to your head while you are surfing, climbing mountains, wrestling alligators, etc. Ev's trying to convince me to mount this to my head to document my knee surgery. Hmmm...."Hey friends, want to come over for a beer and a viewing of my knee surgery?" I'm thinking....NO.

The moment when Lawyer's husband deviated his septum. Bahahaha. 

My last surgery was NOT a positive experience. I mean, NO surgery could ever really be a positive experience. In fact, Lawyer's husband recently went under for a repair of his deviated septum. He awoke to experience a very sore nose and an unusual and surprising pain in his...um...butt. Yep. His butt. As it turns out, during general anesthetic, a suppository will be inserted for pain relief. Say Wha?UGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!! But I digress...as I was saying, NO surgery could ever really be a positive experience, but out of the 5 surgeries I've endured, my last one was most certainly my least favorite.

First, my Gynecologist was incredibly good looking. He was Dr. McDreamy for the lady parts. Now seeing a hot doctor should be a pleasant experience; however, when your discussion revolves around your uterus and ovaries (I apologize if those words make you cringe - I feel uncomfortable even typing them), it definitely takes the flirtation out of the experience.

"Hi! My name is booby....er Doogie."

Second, a young resident doctor was participating in my surgery. He was 16. Well, perhaps I'm exaggerating - but there's NO WAY he was of legal drinking age. He was very Doogie Howser-ish. You all remember Doogie, right? Neil Patrick Harris. Brilliant prodigy child? My Doogie Howser's first job was to insert my IV. Apparently I have "difficult" veins, so this is no easy task.

As one nurse held down my arm to take my blood pressure, Doogie attempted to insert my IV in the other arm. As I lay naked under a sheet in the cold, sterile OR, and Doogie struggled repeatedly with IV insertion, I began to become slightly anxious. Suddenly, I felt a rush of cold air in a very private place. As I looked down, I realized that my booby had popped out of the sheet and was exposed to everyone in the OR.

Well I'm the first to admit that my booby isn't overly spectacular to look at. At all. However, this was probably the first booby that my 16 year old resident had ever seen!! No wonder he was having difficulties with my IV, he was obviously distracted by the booby pointed directly at him.

How humiliating. This is the last thought that ran through my brain as I fell asleep. Well that, and, gosh my booby is cold. Traumatic.

Waking from my surgery, I was immediately greeted by my very attractive Gynecologist.

"The good news is - you have a very nicely shaped uterus." (For Real. He said that).

I blushed, stomach whirling with butterflies. Or nausea. Not sure. In my mind, I heard, "You are the most exquisite woman I have ever performed surgery on."

My stomach fell. Or maybe it was nausea. Not sure. Wait a minute, did Dr. McDreamy just compliment the shape of uterus? Gross. So gross.

"The bad news is, we accidentally perforated it during surgery."

Seriously? I bet that damn Doogie Howser let his scalpel slip, still preoccupied with my exposed booby.

So that's how my last surgery went down.

I anticipate a much better experience this time around. I will tell you all about it (promising to never use the words uterus and/or ovaries in a blog post again). And my stories tend to be much more entertaining whilst on pain meds...and I will take those pain meds by mouth, thank you very much.

Cabbage Rolls and Baby Bumps

Warning: Do not write an angry letter to the Control Room Operator of the Universe. I posted that angry letter at approximately 10:30 pm on Tuesday and awoke at 6:45 am on Wednesday with a torn meniscus (that's in my knee. It's not good). Yep. I was, to be honest, a little flattered that the Control Room Operator of the Universe actually reads my blog (and so promptly, nevermind); however, I learned a valuable lesson. Keep angry thoughts bottled up. For years. And years. Push those angry thoughts down. Ok. Done! In what could not possibly be a "coincidence," my good friend, Stacey (remember "thathey" with the frontal lisp?) also suffered a torn meniscus this week. He read my angry letter and reportedly "enjoyed it." That'll show him.

Anyways, it's all fine. I'm slated for surgery next week and I'm still surrounded by awesome people who care - so let's just keep on keepin' on. And....I'm fricken hilarious on painkillers so you are all in for a real treat!

I'm still striving for domestic goddessness which is slightly more difficult on crutches (ever see those lovely 50's housewives remove a roast from the oven whilst shouting, "F'n crutches!") I headed out to Baba and Gido's farm last week for a very important cabbage roll making lesson. I shared my month end goal with Baba: To prepare a Ukrainian dinner for my bestie Janna's birthday! She nodded her head and very seriously replied, "Oh that's nice. Well, you can try." Hmmmm...confidence is NOT high.

The little farm kitchen was bustling with chaos excitement, as the farm is in the midst of seeding season. Baba heads up grand central station, shouting orders as men enter and exit the house.

"For Gawd's sake, Mike! What are you doing? Eat this sandwich!"

"Les. Drink water. Look at you. You're thirsty!"

"Hired man! You like borscht? Eat my borscht!"

As the noon hour wound down and the dust settled (on Baba's clean floors), we took a deep breath and she proceeded to teach me the rules of cabbage.

The quality of your cabbage rolls depends on two things: the texture of your cabbage and the flavor of your rice (which totally makes sense since that's all cabbage rolls consist of).

First, you must "blanch" your cabbage leaves. Blanching is simply dipping your cabbage into boiling water to soften the leaves. Baba has a freezer full of previously blanched cabbage - because "you never know when company will stop by unexpectedly." Baba and I have more in common than I thought! I hold that same philosophy with my "company" beer fridge!

Baba is blanching cabbage leaves to perfection

smallest cabbage roll ever = FAIL

As we removed the hard veins from the cabbage and seasoned our rice, Baba expressed her disgust with the modern day woman's display of the baby bump.

"I see these young girls wearing tight, short tops - and their pregnant belly is hanging right out! Why would they do that? Like they're showing it off! Ridiculous!"

Baba then went on to explain that in "her day," women strived to conceal the expanding baby bump. Baba had 3 "smocks" that she wore faithfully to conceal her pregnancy with all 5 children. Wow, how things have changed! Although I've never been pregnant, from what I understand via facebook and photography blogs, the pregnancy is to be celebrated and documented with photos. Side view! Front view! Husband's hands creating lovely heart around protruding belly button! How often do you see comments on a pregnant woman's facebook page, "Show us your baby bump!" It appears though society yearns to witness that expanding belly.

I asked Baba, "Why did women want to hide it?" I mean, I understand that pregnancy before marriage was, at one time, frowned upon, but why would a married woman choose to conceal her pregnancy?

"Well, people know how you got to be pregnant and then they talk about it!"

Really? Perhaps it was because they didn't have reality TV? Or TV at all, for that matter? I can honestly say that as a friend announces her pregnancy, I have NEVER immediately visualized how that pregnancy occurred. Ewwwww. That being said, I also have "The Bachelorlette" on Monday nights which perhaps fulfills that sick and twisted part of my brain.

This interests me. How did we go from one extreme to another? I didn't dare show Baba these pictures from www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com. This site makes me howl. Wow. Who the h thought these photos were a good idea?

Someday, this child will show this photo to the court and he will be exonerated of all his horrible crimes.

"Yes, Suzy. It IS hard to believe that mommy will push that baby out of THERE."

"hehe...a little wine...a little chloroform. Look what happened."

Dear Control Room Operator of the Universe...

Warning: I'm pissed. Not drunk pissed. Angry pissed. I WANT to be positive and inspiring right now, but I can't. Not today. Tomorrow, but not today. I debated whether or not I should post these thoughts and feelings and then I recalled that the purposes of this blog is to share my journey with you - it's been about amazing experiences and people, but it's also about coping with Ryan's death. I suppose this is another step in that journey, so here it goes. My intent is not to offend anyone. I'm guessing that I'm not the only one who has experienced these thoughts.

This is a letter to the man in the control room - the person who is controlling the universe right now. I'm quite unsatisfied with his work performance.

Dear Control Room Operator of the Universe,

Everyone is allowed to make mistakes. You made a huge one when you took our friend Ryan last year. Not even Ryan's Minister could make sense of your actions. Why would you choose to take such a vibrant young man with such a bright future ahead of him? But for some unknown reason you chose him. And we did everything that you could ask of us. We banded together. We sorrowfully sang, "Jesus Loves Me." We remembered. We celebrated Ryan's life. We continue to celebrate his life. We use his life to inspire our own. But you know what? You made a mistake.

Control Room Operator of the Universe, you've had a very bad week. You've made some terrible, irreversible mistakes. You've struck a family with a very difficult diagnosis  - a family that has already endured tragedy. You chose the wrong family. This person has the BEST posse and we will join forces to help him fight this battle. Fine. You want to see how strong this family can be? We will show you. But you made a mistake.

And then you went and really screwed up. How could you sit back and watch a drunk driver take a fabulous, charismatic husband and father away from his young family? A family that represents everything that is good in this world. What were you thinking? How are we supposed to make sense of that? You made a huge mistake.

As I'm watching the people I love and care about endure this horrific pain, I ask that you please stop making these mistakes. They have to be mistakes because I can't imagine that any decent control room operator of the universe would knowingly instill this unbelievable sadness on some of the best people you have.

Buck up.

Sincerely,
Kirstie.

Entering Domestic Goddessdom...exhilarating, yet exhausting

Since my day with Baba, I've been trying to be more domesticated by cooking, cleaning, and building my hubby's ego. The proof is in the pictures. Obviously, none of these are staged. Notice the domestic goddessness of what I'm doing. Notice the Saskpro CrossFit T-shirt (building Ev's confidence with advertising). I think I almost have this down...

Did someone say...cookies?

Nothing inspires me more than a shiny floor!

Garbage day: What a rush! 

Puppy chow! Come and get it! Buy a membership at Saskpro CrossFit

Stir-fry! mmmmmm....note the reflection in the clean and shiny countertops!

oooohh, chicken delight for the man of the house

scrub 'em 'til they sparkle. That's what I always say.

Why no, Dundee, we can't take a sunset walk...who will windex the glass?

Hubby's undies must smell fresh!

barefoot and pregnant? Oh dear. FYI: that's a pillow. Don't go spreadin' rumours

Happy Mother's Day: Special shout out to mothers' of goalies!

We took the big trip to Red Deer this weekend to visit Ev's parents and we're extremely busy eating all of the treats that Peg has prepared for us. Therefore, I will make this post short and sweet. I thought I would start by celebrating Mother's Day by sharing some pictures of Braden Holtby's mom. Braden is the netminder for the Washington Capitals and his mother is becoming something of a celebrity for the facial expressions she's been making during playoff games. I can totally relate to this poor woman. This experience looks unbelievably painful for her. I'm sure that each and every goal that sneaks past her son causes her to die, just a little, inside (this is how I always dramatically articulated my feelings about watching hockey). Happy Mother's Day, Mrs. Holtby. I'm sorry that your son is a goalie. That sucks. Braden, buy her something nice with that playoff bonus. (Mother's Day tip: steer your son away from goaltending and/or pitching positions).
(pics courtesy of Washington Post)

"I'm having so much fun watching my son play hockey!"

"Quick! pour me something stronger"

"We should have pushed him into figure skating."

"Get back in your net! Get back in your net!"

It does remind me of a little "mom" story. Peggy and I were watching Ev play against the Red Deer Rebels in Red Deer. We were always quite the pair when we watched the hockey together. Our overreactions and spastic body movements increased exponentially as a pair. Clinging desperately to each other we cheered, covered our eyes, and yelled obscenities at the ref, we were 2 of only a few Prince Albert Raiders fans at that game. We were appalled as the the Red Deer crowd began heckling Evan after a soft goal (although I'm sure he was screened... or the defenseman tipped it in because there's just NO way it could have been his fault).

Two sauced Rebels fans seated 2 rows ahead of us began chanting, "Lindsay....Lindsay." When Ev failed to acknowledge their blubbering heckles, the one red-nosed man yelled, "Lindsay, your mom takes it up the ....." (You know how that ends, right. I don't really want to type that. It just feels wrong).
Evan's mom turned towards me slowly and repeated, "Ev's mom takes it up the .....?"
Oh dear.
"Excuse me! I hollered at the men sitting ahead of us, "This is Evan Lindsay's mom."
Eyes bulging out of their heads, face turning a bright shade of crimson, the man replied, "Oh. Sorry about that. Your son is very talented."
Enough said. We didn't speak about it again.

Have a great weekend! Thank your moms for all the anguish you caused them over the years.

perogie dough, condoms, and the male ego

I was fortunate enough to spend the day with my Baba and Gido on their 66th wedding anniversary! Can you imagine being married for 66 years? Baba's response, "What else were we supposed to do? We had not choice but to stay married for 66 years." So romantic, Baba. As the rain pounded on the windowpanes, Baba reminisced, "Our wedding day was just like this 66 years ago. Cold, dreary, and raining. "
"But when we came out of the church, the sun was shining!" Gido recalled.

Surprisingly, Baba and Gido's 66th wedding anniversary was just like any other day the farm. Baba was taking out the garbage and Gido was coffee-ing (yes, it's a verb in Meath Park) with the farmers at the cafe. I walked in the little farm house and asked, "So Baba, are you going to make me into a domestic goddess?" She looked up at me (she's barely 5') and very seriously replied, "I don't know. You've already been married for 7 years. It might be too late. But we will try." At least she's honest.

We began our session with perogie making 101. Baba put the recipe for perogie dough in front of me. She very carefully explained how many cups of flour and water to add and then left me to my own devices. What she didn't explain was how to add the water all at once to the flour. I slowly added the water, stirring the entire time. This was a fatal error, my friends. A fatal error that resulted in tough, stringy perogie dough - one of the most common rookie errors, frowned upon by Ukrainian women throughout the world.

Dough is NOT meeting Baba's standards. Fail. 

I then spent the next hour watching Baba try to "fix" my tough perogie dough, kneading, adding water, kneading, adding water. It was exhausting. Thankfully, during that time, Baba shared her extensive knowledge about "being a good wife" with me. I learned a lot.

tough perogies for a tough man.

Baba sat down to reveal her number one piece of advice. As she wiped the crumbs off the table, she looked me in the eye and very seriously instructed, "You must stroke your husband's.....(Oh Gawd Oh Gawd)....ego." If that sentence ended with anything other than "ego," I was out of there.

She went on to explain that in the early years of your marriage (her definition of "early years" could constitute as anything less than 40 years of marriage), you must build your husband's ego by agreeing with him, supporting him, and standing by every decision he makes. Even if you disagree. Yikes! She then went on to explain that once your husband is confident and his ego has been built up, you, as a wife, have free reign to bring his inflated ego back down to Earth. "That's why Gido thinks I'm getting "mouthy," she explained, "I just stopped agreeing with everything he says." Interesting.

We then talked about what marriage and family was like 66 years ago. Baba told me that there was no such thing as sex education or "sex talks" with parents in her day. You found out the hard way, on your wedding night (Oh dear). Gido explained how his sex education was limited to observing animal breeding on the farm. I began to silently thank my Grade 6 sex ed teacher, Miss Booker, for the "question box." Baba then broke into a hilarious anecdote about "safes" (condoms), which I managed to get on video. I love Baba's stories. I could spend hours listening to Baba talk.

Once we ate our slightly chewy perogies, "tough perogies for a tough man," said baba as she scooped them onto Gido's plate, Baba guided me to the closet where Baba E's cross stitching is kept. Baba E. was my Baba's mother who lived to be 99 years old. She died just short of her 100th birthday. She was an amazing woman, coming over from the Ukraine to marry a man that she had only corresponded with via letters. I recall visiting Baba E. at the care home she resided in during her last years of life. She would always say to me, "I've lived a long, happy life. I'm ready to die. I think I might die tonight so we better say goodbye." I would nod and give Baba E a hug. A week later I would go back to visit, "Baba, you didn't die," I would say. "No. but I think tonight is the night." She always made me smile.

Baba E. spent years of her life creating elaborate cross-stitched works of art. These pictures are now in Baba's care and she's passed on several to us grandchildren as we graduate, get married, have babies, etc. Baba showed me the closet where several of these pictures are kept. "What am I going to do with these?" she asked. "Each and every stitch was made by my mother. Every single stitch. This is where we all came from. What if these pictures end up in a yard sale some day?" she said sadly. It occurred to me just how much family and "our roots" mean to my Baba. My Baba defines herself by where she's come from and the family that she's created....and she's incredibly proud.

Driving home after a wonderful day with my Grandparents and a tupperware filled with tough perogies, I made a plan. As Ev walked in the door from a day at the firehall I said, "Let's go to Red Deer and see your parent's next weekend." He agreed immediately and then recalling Baba's advice, I placed my hand on Ev's bicep and commented, "You're so strong, Ev."
He flung my hand off his arm and asked, "What's wrong with you?"
That didn't go well. Maybe it is too late.

Watch and Learn. Best. Video. Ever.

May Goal: To Become a Domestic Goddess

Why are you laughing? Stop laughing at me. Yes, you read that correctly. I, Kirstie Lindsay, shall become a domestic goddess. I know, it's hilarious, right?

What does it mean to be a domestic goddess anyway? I picture a smiling, trim woman with neatly pulled back hair, donned in a flowery apron, the aroma of baked goods wafting through her kitchen as she simultaneously prepares the children for bed, vacuums the floor, and awaits the arrival of her hard-working husband with a roast in the oven and a brandy on the table. Oh dear. Sounds lovely but a wee bit exhausting really.

This is our reality: Ev arrives home from work at 9pm. I've taken out chicken breasts so they are thawed when he returns - that way he can cook them to his liking. I'm at the table drinking wine, working on my blog and watching "The Real Housewives of Vancouver" (so bad, yet so good). The animals are yelling because I've forgotten to feed them and the dishwasher needs to be emptied. No pies. No roasts. No vacuuming (unless the house is for sale and there's a showing). No brandy. Your underwear is dirty, Ev? Just turn them inside out! I do; however, take out the garbage weekly and always ensure that my husband's beer fridge is stocked with his favorite beer. Beer is important. With each sip of beer, Ev becomes convinced that I am actually an A-1 wife.

It's not as though I haven't tried. Following our wedding in 2005 and a move to Texas for hockey, I was left without a working visa and subsequently without a job. My day consisted of aspiring to wake up before 11am (otherwise, it's just so embarrassing to still be in bed when Ev returns from practice), working out, and waiting for Evan to come home. I decided to become domesticated. I cooked, I cleaned, I did laundry, I was determined to take care of my man. It just didn't go well. One night during a dinner of overcooked something with a side of mushy boiled something, Ev asked me, "Do you enjoy doing this?"
"What?" I asked.
"cooking?"
"No, Not really."
"Me neither. You should stop."

Thank Gawd. Although he was asking me to quit cooking, I took that as a signal to end all domestic chores FOREVER and happily drank wine and told Ev hilarious stories while he cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Yippee!!! I'm free!

I'm now 33 years old and am quite happy with my role in our relationship. It works for both of us. I contribute a significant amount of money to our finances with a fantastic, secure career. I arrange our social calendar, booking dinners and drinks with friends. I was in charge of designing the last 2 houses we've built, singlehandedly choosing each and every piece of flooring, granite, and trim, and I plan all of our vacations down to renting the car. Yes, I know that I'm very lucky and grateful to have found a husband who is accepting of this non-traditional role. He lets me be "me." If it were the 1940's, I imagine that no man in his right mind would touch me with a 10 foot pole. No cooking? No cleaning? No baby birthing? Failure. Thank goodness it's the 21st century and our roles aren't as defined.

But in the spirit of "seizing the day," I am ready to experiment and see if I'm capable of "trying on" a new role. For a month. Just 1 month. I want to be a domestic goddess and I know the perfect person to adopt as a mentor.

Baba.

Baba is my Ukrainian Grandma. Baba is the epitome of domestic goddess. Baba pinches perogies while mopping the floor and picking berries. Baba dusts the combine while patching work pants, and rolling out dough for cinnamon buns. Baba even birthed her babies in the wheat field to ensure the men received their lunches in a timely manner (Ok, I made that last one up, but I bet she would've if she could've). Baba is fabulous. Baba is 84 years old and she has not slowed down a bit since I was introduced to her 33 years ago. Baba also possesses a competitive spirit. She innocently asks about other grandmas habits, sizing them up against her own abilities, "Does SHE make cinnamon buns? What does SHE put in HER perogies?" To top it all off, Baba is hilarious. You know that filter in your frontal lobe that prevents you from sharing your "inside" thoughts? Baba doesn't have one. She never has. She says whatever is on her mind...which makes for some very interesting family events.

One of our favorite traditions at Christmas is when Baba hands each Grandchild his/her Christmas Card (with a money treat inside). Baba writes a special message to each and every one of us (12 grandchildren!) She writes whatever comes to mind when that pen is in her hand. When Baba reads each message out loud on Christmas Eve, you can bet that the family is roaring with laughter.

Example:

"Mark! Merry Christmas! We are proud of you. When are you going to get yourself a nice girlfriend?"

"Kayla - Congratulations on your high marks. You should spend more time with teaspoons and tablespoons than wrenches and bolts."

"Michael! You work hard. Keep at it and don't drink so much beer."

Awesome! Yet as Baba "tells it like it is," we all are very much aware that she loves us more than anything in this world. Family is her number one priority in life. She is an extremely hard-working, driven, interesting, fabulous lady and I'm excited to spend more time and learn from her over the next month.

Baba and her undomesticated granddaughters. At least we inherited the blonde hair!