These nuts are chock full o'normal.

As I sit and lovingly bang this one out, I am happy to remember today as another day that we are all [as] normal [as can be expected of us]. Two years ago the day after Christmas, I sat in the hospital with Eve on my lap as she got a blood transfusion, too tired to play with any of her presents from the day before. Yesterday, I sat with Eve in my lap to calm her down, because she wanted to lob the presents at her brother's head. And, deep down, isn't that what every parent really wants?

We're normal, normal, normal. We do things as a family that would make good Christmas cards. We are good at hiding our oddities in public. Not that we have any, but if we did, I could make a normal face so fast that you would question if you really did just see what you thought you saw. But you didn't, because we're normal, and we would never do such a thing. Never in public!

The kids loved having breakfast with Santa. They got to tell him everything they wanted, which included underwear, food coloring, and a puppy.

There were crafts. Crafts! Dan was was over the moon. And the fact that one of the crafts was cookie art made him nearly spontaneously combust. I love this picture of him, because this is his how I will forever remember his childhood: always making a craft for someone but trying to keep it secret while covered in marker.

Eve found her buddy, Franklin, and chased him up and down the hallway trying to score a kiss. Franklin also had bilateral Wilms so between the both of them, they can say a lot of really big words.

Then there were the pancakes.

Then I inexplicably had whipped cream and pancake syrup in my hair.

The girls were in a Christmas parade. Surely they would be easy to spot because they would be wearing bright red sweatshirts.

There's Waldo!

And luckily I have a very good friend who pulled Eve around in the parade so I could stay on the sidelines with Dan and Matt and eat cake and drink hot chocolate.

(I mean, we were doing lots of hard work. It's actually very hard to get warm while you are standing still.)

When Eve was done, she found the cake stash.

It's almost like she's going to need her teeth cleaned.

We've been doing nothing but normal stuff around here lately. Like taking your four-year-old to her first dentist appointment, even though the American Academy of Pediatric Dentistry would have you believe you ought to be doing this "when the first tooth appears, or no later than his/her first birthday." Eve wasn't diagnosed with cancer until her second birthday, so I can't use that card. I am so busy being Mom of the Year that I can't fit silly things like dental visits into my family's schedule. But I'm really good with their dental care and if I know my kids are going to fall asleep in the van on the way home, I make sure we stop for Junior Mints first, so we can all feel good about skipping the teeth brushing when we get home and throw their comatose little bodies into bed.

Eve was excited about going to the dentist. She made herself comfortable and opened up wide. She's always liked going to visit people with blue gloves and face masks.

After her teeth were cleaned, I wondered aloud when they were going to take x-rays. The hygienist thought it might be a bit much for Eve for the first visit because most kids her age don't like getting it done. But x-rays Eve can do. Eve can do them like I can do nacho cheese. She impresses the pants off of everyone by being still for each image, something I've never been able to do by cleaning a plate of nachos. Besides, the people you'd impress by eating a ton of nachos are not really people you'd be excited about impressing.

I've never gotten extra prizes for being good at the dentist. I've only gotten concerned looks because I have a very sensitive gag reflex.

Daniel went to the dentist later on that week and told the hygienist he had a loose tooth. She started counting 1...2...3...4...5...6...six loose teeth! "Is that true, Mom? Do I have six loose teeth?" Well, no Daniel, I think she's messing with you. Surely I'd know if you had six loose teeth. Yes, you really do have six loose teeth, Daniel! Surely you do, Daniel. I was just joking. I totally knew that.

And what do you know? Two days later, he lost his first tooth. At least it was the tooth that I realized was loose. Apparently there are five more in there that the tooth fairy has her eye on.

And while Daniel's losing teeth, I'm losing toenails. Alas, there is no toenail fairy who would be excited to exchange a toenail under your pillow for a fifty-cent piece. Not unless she had some weird kind of foot fetish, but even still- I don't want a fairy of that variety in my house.

It was expected I would lose my two big toenails after the damage I had inflicted upon them on the Ultimate Hike. My first clues were the constant heartbeat pulsing in my toes, the sensitivity whenever the bed sheet touched them, and the nails turning black. I was surprised, however, when both toenails fell off on the same day, within hours of each other. I know that the injury occurred on the same day, but for them to both fall off seventy-seven days later was incredible. Disgustingly incredible, though incredibly painless.

And now I'll have to paint my toes and pretend like that's normal. We're chock full of normal around here.

The Christmas Mouse

It's kinda crazy over here. We've done some stuff. We don't have cancer. We now understand why adults used to pay us as children to wrap presents.

We went to Pullen Park the weekend it reopened after being closed for a couple years for renovations. The carousel just turned 100; although I searched, I saw no signs of Willard Scott or a jar of jelly anywhere.

There's lots of fun things to do. Ride the train, eat some food. Eat some more food. The food got fancy after the makeover with words like "fresh" and "local" and "organic." None of which previously applied to the old hot dog and popsicle stand.

They have nice, new bathrooms which Natalie seemed in awe of. Mom, this is so nice. Can I have a quarter? That's not a candy machine, Nat. I *knowww*...I just want to buy a napkin because I have [fresh, local, organic] peanut butter on my hands.

The kids climbed and climbed until they couldn't climb no mo.

It's like Spider-Man off-Broadway.

They even have drum-like things to bang on that aren't your sisters' heads. They are like drums.

Skipping to Eve's preschool Thanksgiving celebration, we find out what Eve is truly thankful for. Some kids in her class were thankful for Jesus. Some for their mommies. Others for their daddies, siblings, and pets.

"Thank you God for...make-up."

In her defense, a lot of times I'm not even showered when I drop her off at preschool. I can see maybe why she appreciates the pick-up version of Mommy and is thankful for such things.

I invited ourselves to Matt's aunt and uncle's house for Thanksgiving so we could visit with them and his grandma.

I ate dessert nine times over the course of three days there. I went through a lot of insulin. The kids love going to visit their aunt and uncle because there are giant gift bags filled with candy and Flarp. Daniel's actual prayer that night: God bless Aunt Karen for giving us Flarp.

For those of you unfamiliar with Flarp, it is a noise putty that farts when you put your finger in it. You may think it's an excellent idea to take the Flarp into the bathroom and go to town with it long enough to make the people in the next room uncomfortable. This would definitely be an excellent idea and you should try it.

For the record, if you mix Flarp with mashed bananas and leave it in the cup holder in your van, the bananas will not turn brown. You will also need approximately two-thirds of a container of Clorox wipes to clean it up. If it weren't for cancer, I wouldn't have had a stockpile of wipes, so thank you, cancer, for that opportunity to reflect on the positive.

The kids also played with Moon Dough, which Matt's aunt and uncle gave to them to play with while Matt and I were out of the house. Moon Dough- the magical molding dough. The amazing moldable, holdable, squishable, squashable dough that never dries out! I think they mistakenly thought it was like play dough, which will actually hold a shape. Moon Dough is fun to squeeze but it never stays together, instead turning into little piles of moon crap that look like nuclear fallout. But the expressions on their faces after realizing what they had given the kids to play with in their house was priceless.

That night, from Daniel's lips: God bless Aunt Karen for letting us play with Moon Dough because my mommy and daddy won't let me have any at home.

Aunt Karen and Uncle Steve took the kids on their first Build-a-Bear adventure.

That was really neat, but to keep it extra-special, I may have led the children to believe that the only Build-a-Bear is located in Greenville, SC. I saw the look in their eyes when they saw all the outfits they could buy for their bears. Keep in mind, the bears have been naked at home for the past two weeks, but the pleasemomcanwegotoBuildaBearandbuythatastronautsuitsomybearcangoupinspace question is on everyone's lips all day long. So yes, the only Build-A-Bear is in Greenville and if you tell my kids any different then you are in big trouble, mister/miss/undecided individual.

The same goes for Chuck E. Cheese.

At home, we got the Christmas tree up and decorated.

I've learned to just keep the hot glue gun plugged in to glue ornaments back together so I won't have a backlog of broken knick-knacks from the previous Christmas that I may have collected in two large Walmart bags and hid in the back of the closet.

Speaking of closets, turns out there was a mouse living in ours. I know this, because apparently all mice do is make a scratching sound in between their constant eating and pooping. I heard lots of scratching and saw lots of mouse poop and threw lots of mouse-sampled food away.

And he really pissed me off when he got into my coconut. I was going to make something really special with that coconut, like pretend I was in Hawaii where coconut covered in chocolate is a low-calorie food, but he ate it and I held no affectionate feelings for a rodent in my pantry/coat closet/garage. Eve was sad when I threw food away. But what will the little mouse eat if we throw it all away? Listen, kid, this ain't Gus from Cinderella. I hope he eats the poison I'm leaving for him.

Although I have no problem with bloody abdominal scars or old ports lying around the house, I really get squeamish with the mice. Thankfully, Matt cleaned out every area the mouse got into while I just stood there with my mouth hanging open and shaking violently. MY COCONUT!

Daniel was cool with the mouse until he got into his pretzels. Then it was game on.

Had the mouse simply entered one of the FOUR cheese-baited no-view, no-touch mousetraps, he could have been really, really close to eating some good cheese before being killed instantaneously without me having to see the dead mouse. It's humane, really. But after a week of the mouse simply going around the trap and electing to partake in everything BUT the cheese, it was time for a Facebook call-out for help. The answer, according to everyone in my unofficial poll? Get the sticky pads and watch them try to wiggle out of their skin. And seriously, why is our neighborhood infested with mice who don't like the smell of cheese? I know, I know, they also like peanut butter. But I don't waste homemade peanut butter on rodents who don't appreciate it's artisinal qualities.

Oh, and FYI, after cheese sits in your coat closet for a week, it will make your coats smell like old cheese. And once you hit day 8, the old cheese smells morphs into shrimp smell and no amount of Febreze will help you.

So the sticky pads went out, and I checked the back corner of the pantry five times that day, disappointed to see the mouse wasn't stuck to it. The next morning, I popped my head in there, fully expecting to see nothing, when I saw what everyone warned me about: the mouse stuck to the pad trying to wiggle out of its skin. Ten minutes later, when the screaming subsided, but before the scream-induced headache set in or before we missed the school bus because I started screaming again, I fetched my husband to dispose of it. And then explained to the kids that had the mouse just went into the trap in the first place, he could have had a much more humane death. It was his own fault, really.

And after that, we put another sticky pad under a hole that Matt had drilled to run some cables into the closet. The next morning, sister mouse was stuck. I was still grossed out.

So Matt bagged it and put another one next to the hole.

The next morning, brother mouse was stuck. I casually mentioned to Matt to get some bags.

The next morning, mommy mouse was stuck. I almost forgot to tell Matt about it because I was beginning to think it was normal to have a family of super-glued mice in your closet until my friend told me about a time when her family found the sticky pad with four mice feet but no mouse. And they never did find that footless bastard.

I'm sorry. That made me sick, too, just typing that.

So we'll just leave a sticky pad next to that hole and hope that cousin mouse and co. don't show up. If they do, maybe I will have to staple antlers to them.

Deciphering the hieroglyphics

I was in California not just to Occupy Los Angeles (or secretly camp out for an end-all, be-all sexed-up high school vampire flick), but to attend Pablove's second childhood cancer symposium. This year's theme was survivorship. I liked being able to go because it meant my kid was a survivor.

The people behind Pablove, Jo Ann and Jeff, lost their son to bilateral anaplastic Wilms tumor. It shows you what kind of people they are to host a symposium on survivorship. Very selfless indeed.

I've only just now looked through the notes I took, because it was quite overwhelming to hear what may or may be coming in the future. Apparently, nothing I scribbled may not be coming if I'm to read into all these sound bites I wrote down UNDERLINED AND CAPITALIZED WITH LOTS OF EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!

But seriously, this is like decoding hieroglyphic chicken scratch. Like, a right-handed Egyptian was dared to write an essay with his left-hand after drinking too much beer. But here are the highlights (lowlights?) to satisfy the Debbie Downer in all of us...

1 in 315 kids will have cancer before the age of 20. It is the leading cause of death by disease in children. There are 350-400,000 childhood cancer survivors in the United States.

It would appear that survivors may expect a 10.4 year loss in life expectancy.

73% of survivors will have a chronic health condition; 42% of those will be very serious. Survivors are 8 times more likely than their siblings to have a serious chronic illness.

The earliest late effects are second neoplasms.

Causes of death among 5-year survivors include new cancers (15.2%), cardiac issues (7%), and pulmonary issues (8.8%).

Radiation drives risk. Risk of what? I'm not sure. Maybe all of the above. I have never been a good note-taker. But whatever the risk is, it doesn't fall, even twenty years out.

Survivors are four times as likely to develop a carcinoma which comes even earlier than expected in the rest of us. This may happen around 15 years post-treatment.

Might be a good idea to start getting colonoscopies a little early because of the risk of abdominal radiation. Hey Blogger, might be a good idea to add "colonoscopies" to your dictionary! I'm sick of your squiggly red line here in the text editor. I swear I'm not making words up this post.

Cardiovascular disease is the leading cause of death in childhood cancer survivors, particularly those who received anthracyclines (like doxorubicin in Eve's case). These include cardiomyopathy, coronary artery disease, vascular insufficiency, and conduction abnormalities. Compared to their siblings, these kids are 9.3 times more likely to suffer from stroke, 10.4 times more likely to develop coronary artery disease, and 15.1 times as likely to have congestive heart failure. Less than 50% survive CHF.

Late effects continue to climb and not plateau after treatment.

Like I said, I was happy to attend because my child is a survivor. I left the day feeling like, oh my goodness, everything I had to sign on those treatment consent forms is going to happen to my kid!

But maybe they won't. But maybe they might. But we don't know, really. It's not like we had choices on the treatment. Either you treat and try to save your kid, or you don't. It's not a choice at all.

But damn! I feel sorry for Eve when it's her turn to start filling out her medical history.

The flight back home was uneventful except for the events. The plane was overbooked and there was a waiting list to get on the flight. Obviously, this would be a good time to raise my hand when they start asking for volunteers to check their carry-on bags. My "carry-on" bag had swollen to twice it's weight over the weekend and it needed to be checked immediately because I was losing feeling in my arm. However, no one was asking for volunteers.

I hobbled up to the desk with my bag that may have had a slightly smaller person inside and asked if they were going to call for volunteers to check bags for free. That's so sweet of you! That would be great! My bag was taken, but no call was made for anyone else to volunteer. And maybe because I offered, or maybe because they were in a good mood, I got two drink vouchers. I mean, I could also use them for headphones, but come on.

I tried my best to be the last person on the plane but other people did the "No, you first, I insist!" bee-ess, and I was forced to board. Upon asking the flight attendant where I should leave my checked bag: You don't need to check your bag. Just put it under your seat or in the overhead compartment. No, I really want to check my bag. But you don't need to check your bag, ma'am. There is plenty of room for it. I want to check my bag! Where do I leave it?? Ok, but you really don't need to check it.

But seriously, lady. I want to check this bag. It is obviously far too big to fit under the seat and there's no way I can lift it over my head. If Mr. T is on board and he can get my bag into a bin, and then the compartment comes open during some turbulence and my bag falls out, it will give someone a brain injury. I'm leaving this bag here, in front of you. I am not allowed to do this in the terminal because someone will call security on me, but I trust that you will find a way to get this bag into the belly of this plane, no matter how crazy you think I am that I am taking the chance to be separated from my clean underwear and socks.

The bag got checked, albeit with flight attendant eyeballs firmly lodged into the northern-most position. Roll your eyes if I try to sneak into first class, roll your eyes if I ask for another eleven peanuts, but please don't roll your eyes when I ask you to rid me of my carry-on bag.

I was almost to my seat when I heard the announcement. We're sorry to the people who boarded in Zone 4, but this plane is completely full and all our overhead compartments are full. We are going to have to check your carry-on bags.

But those people don't get the free drink coupons. And all but one really looked like they didn't want to part with their bags. Probably the people who didn't think to pack clean underwear and socks in their purses or European carry-alls.

Once I got to my seat, I swear the man next to me watched me buckle and put away my purse and get as comfy as could be gotten in coach on a cross-country flight before he asked if I would stand up so he could try and switch seats. Because he saw an empty seat. Because he must have boarded this aircraft from a different gate that did not have three television monitors dedicated to the wait list for this flight or two very annoyed flight attendants who were offering flight vouchers to those who volunteered to get bumped. I want to be where he was, whether it was two gates down or just on that lonely island in his head.

I obviously took too long to consider his request and stand up because after he got past me, it wasn't until I buckling myself up again that he huffed back, upset that he missed the open seat. Someone else took it. Or someone else, I dunno, was busy checking their bag because the plane was full and there was no room for carry-ons. Either way. I'm sorry you can't sit next to your girlfriend, but I'm not giving up my aisle seat. Maybe if she had chosen not to sit between two people who had obviously either run a marathon just seconds before jumping into the fried chicken at Golden Corral or skipped the marathon and jumped into the chicken at Golden Corral. Umm, because my kid had cancer. And if I use these drink vouchers, I want to be close to the bathroom. I've got lots of reasons. But she can switch seats with you if you are that concerned and she will probably love you for it. Because me and this other dude you are sitting between aren't sweating profusely nor do we smell profusely of fried chicken.

He didn't move. I don't think that couple is going to last very long.

The flight was very bumpy. I would have welcomed some Dramamine but went to work with the drink vouchers instead. Six of one, three-quarters of a dozen of the other.

I was hungry. Well, not so much hungry, but maybe more queasy from the turbulence. I felt like I was on a plane that was being filmed by National Geographic because it snuck up on another plane and tried to make baby planes. When the flight attendants were finally allowed to walk around with the food and beverage cart, I tried to order a sandwich but was told he was only taking drink orders first. So I ordered my drink, then looked at the menu again and decided I would definitely be ordering the turkey and chicken Cuban sandwich. And if you don't know why that is funny, you should go down to Florida and try to order a turkey and chicken Cuban.

I was eyeing said sandwich when another flight attendant came over and asked my dude if he had any sandwiches left. He had two and handed them over, and my belly got real sad. I said, "Was that the last sandwich?" as the turkey and chicken Cuban made it's way up to the front of the plane. I didn't really want the other food I could purchase, because it was three pieces of cheese with four grapes and a cracker. I wanted the turkey and chicken Cuban.

I didn't expect my flight attendant to call for the sandwich back as it was being handed over to the passenger in the front. I certainly didn't expect the other flight attendant to literally take it out of the woman's hands and walk it back to my flight attendant. "Sorry," he told her, "she was going to order this but I was only taking drink orders. We still have fruit and cheese plates left."

And as my sandwich got passed from person to person back to my seat, being manhandled like a football at a tailgate, each person on the plane was required to say, "She got the last sandwich." According to my calculations, 48% of people awake on the plane said, "She got the last sandwich." I was too hungry to be embarrassed. I knew they were just jealous. Give me my sandwich.

Then the guy sitting next to me, the one who wants me to move so he can get to the empty seat, says to the flight attendant, "I'll have the turkey and chicken Cuban."

"She," the flight attendant says, emphatically pointing at me, "got the last sandwich!"

But at this point, I was the crazy lady on the plane LOL'ing all over myself because I had a turkey and chicken Cuban, a copy of Bossypants, and two Miller Lites. Life is good! Except if you were treated with anthracyclines as a child.