This is NOT the Jayne you're looking for...

As you may have figured out by now, PJ (see what I did there?) isn't feeling well today - what with having an organ removed and all - so I, her Husband, will be the substitute "Jayne" for this post.

I've had the privilege of being a (very) behind-the-scenes player in this blog since the beginning,  as either an over-the-shoulder proof-reader (she loves that), or an occasional source of inspiration (I was a Slutty Bee. I regret nothing.), but  I think it'll be fun giving the actual writing a try.

Having just read my last sentence, I can tell this is going to suck. You have my condolences: PJ will be back soon, I promise. Let's get this show on the road.

Obviously, the surgery went as expected: completely laproscopic, no complications, etc. There was a small surprise, but we'll get to that in a bit. Let's start the timeline, shall we?

The day starts at 5:30 AM.

This, as you may already know, is not a good time of day for my Wife. In fact, she'd like to believe that mornings start around 10, but our son has confirmed that the ass-crack of dawn is a perfectly acceptable time to wake up.

We make our way to the hospital, and arrive right on time at 7:00 so that we can get prepped for the 9:00 surgery. I notice very few people in the waiting room: good sign, I think. I'm an idiot, so you can guess how this actually turned out.

Three hours later, they wheel her off to the operating room.

Side Note: after spending several hours in a surgical waiting room, I can safely say that Grey's Anatomy is full of shit. I saw dozens of doctors, and there was no McDreamy, no McSteamy, no McNothin'. Well, there was McDumpy, McSchlumpy, McUgly, and McSurly.

Since I'm about as useful as an underwater bicycle at this point, and I'm not going to be needed for another two hours, I decide to get something for breakfast. Not three minutes after I leave the parking lot, I get a call from her surgeon. From the operating room. While she's on the table. Fuck.

Turns out, he found an Umbilical Hernia, and he needed to let me know before he fixed it. How courteous.

Admittedly, I can't really give him any crap, because this guy was clearly very good at his job: he caught an extra problem, fixed it, AND removed the offending Gallbladder in less than an hour. It usually takes me longer to make frickin' spaghetti.

So, at 11:00, I head back to the hospital, and wait for her to get out of recovery.



And wait.



And wait...



And wait.



Seriously? What the hell is going on back there? Cripes, how long has it been?


...Half an hour? Oh. Ok. Well, I'll just sit back down, then. Sorry about that. How long's this supposed to take, again? Hour? Hour and a half? I can handle that.



Three hours.

We got there at 7:00, and left at 2:00. I didn't care; I was just happy to get my Wife back. My sweet, delirious, high-as-a-fucking-kite Wife. She's a peach when she's on drugs - she really is. Remarkably friendly. Cute as button. And funny as hell.

Knowing full well what was in store, I took a video of our conversation during the car ride home. I was originally going to post and/or transcribe it here, but frankly, it just doesn't translate, and PJ would flay me alive if it found its way onto the interwebs. Suffice it to say, it is awesome, and if anyone wants to see it, give me a buzz.

But just so everyone gets a sense of what I had the joy to witness, just imagine a four year old (her voice gets really high-pitched when she's under the influence; no idea why, but it's awesome.) juxtaposing questions about the existence of her own belly button with discussions of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, Cotton Balls and Death (sounds like an amazing band), and graham crackers. It was beautiful.

Anyway, that's all for now - thanks for tolerating me while you could, and JPJ will be back next post!

Let's just call this Free Association, shall we?

Things on my mind: AKA things I-stress-about-and-drive-myself-nuts-with

Owen is 8 months and crawling. WOAH.

We still live with my in-laws. This August will be TWO years. WHAT?

We need health insurance, Like last year. Pre-existing conditions make that impossible/muy Arm and a Leggy. SUCK.

Chronic fatigue blows. You look fine, so people want you to BE fine, but you're not. REALLY.

Cerebral Palsy blows. I'm am SUPER lucky that (thru PT and massive surgery as a child)for the most part, I look fine/live normally but as previously stated, I'm not. SWEAR.

I will never drive a car. Yes, I probably could finagle my way into a Driver's License and behind the wheel, but it's not safe, so I ain't gonna, no matter how much protestation arises. EVER.

I think I'm going a little gray. I am devastated. PATHETIC.

My husband is an amazing man, and it breaks my heart to see him feel so defeated all the time. SIGH.

I'm growing super weary of always feeling "a day late and a dollar short," but I'm sooo grateful that at least it's only a dollar now. PROGRESS.

Should I feel guiltier for not going back to work? Given our financial sitch, I know people think I'm being a choosy beggar (and who likes those?), but I would be working just to pay for childcare, and I cannot fathom working just to leave O with strangers, just to come home and be too exhausted to spend any time with him. BOOO.

I want my libido to come back. I think my husband feels neglected. He used to feel a bit "overworked". TMI?

I worry that O will feel like he's missing out b/c his mommy is disabled. SOB.

Sallie Mae is well on its way to owning me for the rest of my life, for a degree I have never (in the professional sense) used. FAIL.

That degree is technically how I met my husband. An $80,000 husband. WIN? (yes.)

My new mantra (in efforts to be more positive) is: Be Positive, Be Patient, yet Be (realistically)Proactive. We'll see how it goes. SLOWLY.

Want to be a great wife, a great mother, and a great friend while still maintaining time for myself which makes me feel selfish, but hello? I know intellectually it's not, so I'm striving for that balance. POSSIBLE?

Should I be teaching O more? WE read and sing together, we listen to classical and classic punk? We talk to him and snuggle him all the time, but is that enough? Should he already be learning to read and know sign language and speak Latin, and have mastered the art of French cuisine? Have I doomed him to a life of mediocrity because he watches Sesame Street so I can fold laundry? NEUROSIS.

I could really go for some Yogurtland and a pedicure right about now. DREAMING.

Instead i have to go pick up and kiss my baby who just woke up from his nap. AWESOME!