My nine-year-old blue heeler Cooper (also known as: C-Dawg, Coopertito, Cooper-doo, Coop-diddy, etc.) has had a rather large cyst on his chest for as long as I can remember. It may have actually been there when I got him because I noticed it shortly thereafter. I asked our vet about it then, four years ago, and he said as long as it wasn't changing in size or appearance, he wouldn't worry about it and that it probably bothered me more than it bothered the dog. All was well until last summer, when another cyst appeared, this one on his chin. At first I thought maybe he got stung by a bee (he's always biting at flying critters) but when it didn't go away or get any smaller, we saw the vet -- another cyst. No big deal, as long as it's not changing or getting larger.

I recently notice that the cyst on Cooper's chest had gotten bigger and was now the size of a walnut, as opposed to the size of an acorn. Three additional cysts had also developed surrounding the larger one. It was time to take him back to the vet.

Luckily, when I took him in yesterday morning, I didn't know he'd end up having surgery that very day. Since I'm an anxious, worry-freak, I realize I caught a break by not having time to stress and be an anxious, worrying freak. The doc said we don't want the cyst to continue growing to the size of a golf ball, Coop's not getting any younger, and well, if we're going to put him under and remove it, let's do it now. Let's get all four masses in his chest and the one on his chin. OK; I agreed. While he was out, the doc also cleaned his teeth. Unfortunately four had to be pulled because they had become infected and incidentally were a major cause of Coop's pungent breath.

Cooper did great and came out of surgery like a champ. The doc said the cysts were no more than round cell tumors that showed no signs of being malignant. I was so, so grateful and relieved.

Coop's a bit sore right now and has a total of 40 staples holding together four incisions. His mouth is also a bit uncomfortable, but he won't let that result in his missing any meals. He is a brave boy, and I'm thankful he should make it another 50,000 miles.

On a side note, my wallet is seriously sore, but my heart feels fantastic.

Every parent thinks her kid is the cutest thing ever, but FO REAL, ya'll -- you should see Ryder today. It's picture day at school and his teachers were ew'ing and ah'ing over him and his get-up this morning. He's my little heartbreaker.

I'll try to post a photo later, if my camera phone will cooperate.

I couldn't BE happier that it's FRIDAY, and we're outta here early to go see the ENT. It's been a long week, and we received some pretty rotten news, so I'm ready to unwind. Bring it.

(Apparently I'm feeling like a rapper today.)

I've come to love Target stores, and today I reached a milestone -- my entire outfit is composed of items purchased from the retail chain. And I'm layered. AND none of the items were purchased during the same visit or even in the same state. I used to only supplement outfits with Target items, so the fact that the entire outfit came from Target, including my necklace and SHOES, is an interesting bit of information --if you're like me and you analyze crap like this.

I no longer enjoy spending lots of money on myself (OK, I do a little, but not as much), but when it comes to the kid, I'll spare no expense. It's strange … I guess I appreciate personal bargain shopping more now? WTF? I'm turning into my mother. Maybe I'm just getting really comfortable with married life. I joke though because I look super stylish. I'm the SHIT, I tell you.

Back to the kid … his head is almost completely healed, and the dried super glue finally fell off in one plastic-looking chunk. I can't tell you how hard it was for me not to pick at it like sunburn. The remaining injury is barely noticeable and his hair mostly covers it up. It's hard to say which will happen first, the disappearance of the cut entirely or his successful mobility. He'll take five or six steps at a time now, going from me to Brian or from Brian to me, before getting so excited that he loses his balance. He'll likely be walking by the time my in-laws get here at the end of the month.

Yes, they're staying at our house again -- in our tiny little house with one freaking bathroom. Apparently when you've raised seven children you don't mind tight quarters. Limited space does not make you uncomfortable, and you wouldn't consider entertaining the thought of staying in a hotel. I'm sure your "norm" varies only slightly from that of the only-child who once occupied the entire house in which you're a guest by HERSELF. But I digress.

It's only fair that I complain about my own family now. I should express equal irritation with both sides. Um'k, without going into the details too much, let me just provide a sample of my side of a recent conversation with one of my parents:

"We have a doctor's appointment Friday so instead of keeping R that day, perhaps you could keep him another day this week? That doesn't work for you? OK, we'll see you next week. What's that? No, you can't take him to the doctor for us. Because we're meeting with the ENT to talk tubes and because we're his parents. OK, yeah, so we'll see you next week. Um, no I don't think you could just meet us at the doctor's office with him either. Because he doesn't need to be escorted by FOUR adults."

However I realize that I'm likely to contradict this last statement the next time he has to go to the ER.

Ryder has now made his second trip to the ER. That's twice we've been to the emergency room with the boy this year, and it's enough to make my heart jump into my throat and block my airways. I'm so glad daycare is close to work. I was actually on my way there when the director called and said, "He hit his head on the door hinge. I think it's going to need a stitch."

When I got to daycare, Ryder was sitting in Miss K's lap in the director's office, flipping through a Baby Einstein book and babbling at the pictures. He was getting lots of attention and seemed fine, but the bump looked like it might swell to a goose egg, and it was still slowly bleeding. It's not too big, but it's pretty deep. I called the pediatrician who said to take him to the ER.

My mother and my husband both met us at the hospital, so I had plenty of moral support. And I can't tell you how happy I was that the doctor didn't want to stitch it but wanted to glue it, that on this cut the glue would work just as well. Granted, Ryder still cried and screamed and hated being held down, and I almost cried watching them clean and glue the gash, but a stitch would have been much, much worse.

I'm glad I had no idea that as many unexpected situations would arise as have this first year with the boy. I would have spent a lot more time worrying about it before hand, which wouldn't have done much good at all.

Not that this differentiates it from any other morning, but I was in a bit of a rush before work yesterday. While putting on my make-up, I began to mentally select an outfit, and I knew what I wanted to wear by the time I arrived at my closet door. It was decided.

The thing is, I didn't realize I wasn't wearing what I'd intended to wear until nearly 11 a.m. I'd paired a bright blue 3/4-sleeve top with BROWN pants and black shoes. I'm not sure how that happened except that the brown is a really dark brown, and I obviously meant to grab the black pants. No one else on the face of the Earth seemed to care, which explains why I didn't notice what color pants I was wearing until nearly three hours after putting them on.

Or, once again, it was the Ativan.

I didn't intentionally take down my last post. There's nothing there to take down anyway. But see, I started to update it, got sidetracked because I'd taken an interesting combination of Ativan and Ambien, and then saved -- not realizing that saving results in Post As Hostage. Anyway, tell your post to tell its friends that being saved just isn't worth it.

And answer me two questions:
What's with the new, improved attitude and general good feeling that has stuck around for um, say, a whole week now? Seriously, I may have some debt to pay my good doctor. Wait. Shit. It's the Ativan; she could still use a nice Thank You note.

Why do I have to remind my baby's grandparents that he's the baby and should not be bossing them around? Seriously, I have enough to do without having to remember to point shit like that out.

I know, I know. Just because I don't want to think about something doesn't mean it didn't happen. It probably helps that I'm up to my eyeballs in work and family ailments and the like, but it also doesn't mean I'm not thinking of the things about which I do not want to think.

I'm one of those nervous people and sometimes, just managing my own life is about all of the anxiety I can take. It's a fact really, not so much of an excuse. I'm also defensive, and I think that is similarly tied to the nerves. I'd say more, but I don't really want to empty the contents of my purse right now.

While recent world events are definitely some of the things I've avoided lately, people aren't necessarily absent from that list.