And it just keeps getting better...

I've recently been informed that:

A)  My uterus should be tossed in a dumpster sometime soon (This is so incredibly awesome because, as you know, I have no health insurance and am approximately 3 steps above a coal miner from the 1930's on the wealth scale.  Actually, the coal miner could probably afford to take me out to dinner, so maybe he's 3 steps above me.  Want to guess the odds I'll get the surgery anytime in the next few years????  Anyone?  Anyone?  Nil.  My guess is NIL.  Unless I win Publisher's Clearing House, or something.  It could happen, right?  You can have my uterus, but let me keep my dream.)

If I could get my uterus yanked, I'd consider trying to re-purpose the stupid thing (you know how committed I am to recycling, right? *Snort*)  - like maybe make it into a purse or something (Is the average uterus more like the size of a large change purse, or a small clutch?). 

No, if I really am ever fortunate enough to junk it?  I'll be happy to say, "Good riddance, Pesky Uterus!  I shall not miss ye."  I got plenty of use out of it- it blessed me with 5 pretty babies- so I'd be just as happy to excise it myself right now with a dull pair of Fiskars, if possible.  Unfortunately, I'm not that flexible or coordinated.  And we're out of Betadine.

And 2 (...and this is the fun one...):  I may have had a small heart attack back around Nov/Dec. 

...I'm not joking (Yes, it's hard to tell when I'm joking and when I'm not- since I am known for my heart attack humor.  It's the best in the Four State region.  But, I'm not joking.  Sadly.). 

I know it happened sometime around the holidays, because I was stressed and trying to get everything done before company came.  It didn't seem important enough to mention at the time (mostly because I received a wee bit of sarcasm, bordering on ridicule, from someone over it and was embarrassed to tell you about it).

It definitely felt like a heart attack at the time (I guess...  I mean, it felt that way to someone who's never had one- explosion of chest pain, yada yada yada, elephant sitting on the chest, making it hard to breathe, blah blah blah.  You know...  The usual.  Lots of pressure in my head and neck, with a whooshing noise in my ears.  And the back of my neck and jaws hurt like you wouldn't believe.  It was crazy-scary.  I was making things right with Jesus real dang quick, know what I mean?  It was painful as crap and made me weak, shaky and a little sick to my stomach afterwards, too.  I didn't have the whole "pain running down the left arm" thing, but that's more common in men.  I did have some pain in my left shoulder, but truthfully the neck/jaw pain was worse).  

It also looked like a heart attack to my poor, freaked-out kids who were standing there frantic, watching, feeling helpless and screaming, "SHOULD I CALL 911?  MAMA!  WHAT DO I DO?"  I didn't want to scare them any more, so I was trying to act as "okay" as possible, which is kind of stupid now in hindsight.  They were plenty scared anyway and could plainly see something big was happening.  I also didn't want them wasting the paramedic's time until I knew for sure I needed help.  Again, hindsight is 20/20 and makes you feel like an idiot.  I always overreact on the kids' medical stuff and under react on my own.  I kept thinking, "Wait 'til I collapse, then we'll call."  And I didn't collapse, so...  I assumed I was fine.  It couldn't be a heart attack when you're able to stand up on your own and go back in the kitchen to finish baking a cake, right?  Wrong. 

Now my doctor also thinks it may have been a small heart attack (This really is awesome because now I can say "IN YO FACE!" to the certain person who made fun of me at the time [the mocker in question wasn't there to see it], flippantly referring to the whole thing as "my little palpitations," which, in addition to hurting my little feelings and making my poor heart feel attacked all over again, made me want to beat said horse's butt person with a bag or oranges).

(You know the old saying, "Nothing says 'I love you' quite like mocking someone who may have just had a heart attack?"  Wait...  That is a saying, right?)

Anyway, you may refer to our previous coal miner conversation above to see why I will not be getting the cardiac work-up my Dr. wanted anytime soon (This is super-awesome because, without having my heart tested, she feels uncomfortable prescribing the hormones I need to keep that pesky uterus in line, since they carry some risk of heart problems).

Nothing has changed around here on the financial/job front, obviously.  In fact, the hub is basically doing odd jobs/handy man crap for a few dollars here and there.  We no longer have any guarantee that money will be coming in from week to week- no security of knowing the house payment will be made and food will be in the fridge.  I honestly never thought it would get this bad, and yet I'm afraid to imagine how much worse it could get before it's over.  I never, ever thought this would be my life. 

The hub hasn't had a "real" job in so many months, I've lost track.  He and I disagree, um, somewhat about giving up on his company and trying to find employment elsewhere, possibly even switching careers altogether.  As you can imagine, this causes lots of warm, fuzzy feelings between us, so we're experiencing a second honeymoon, of sorts, around here.  It's awesome.  I feel like a girl again.  The romance is palpable as soon as you walk through the door.  Can ya feel it? 

I feel we are way past time to throw in the towel and get a "normal" job, but he isn't ready to give up on owning his own business.  So... 

This leaves me scared out of my mind, nervous, anxious- you name it- and wondering if I should give up on homeschooling the kids, put them all in public school/daycare, and try to find a FT day job.  I think it's time to give up the hope of finding a night job (for myself) or something I can do from home that will actually support this many people. So I'm looking at the FT daytime option, as much as I hate the idea. I worry about working FT outside the home with Fibro/chronic pain, too. That's going to be hard. And it's going to suck. And not being a SAHM and continuing to homeschool the kids goes against everything I ever wanted to do and be as a mom.  But, you know, as a mom, you kinda want to see your kids eat, lol, so...

I don't know what's going to happen, but I know that my uterus and I will be going through it together.  So, that's nice.

I'm suddenly hearing Kelly Clarkson in my head (... what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, somethin somethin somethin...). I feel as if I'm becoming the Queen of Facing Adversity with a Smile and a Joke. But the terrified chick underneath all the jokes is starting to wonder how much more she can take. 

I know it's hard for people to listen to this kind of stuff and I apologize for that.  Money problems are awkward to discuss and make everyone who isn't going through them feel uncomfortable.  But, you know me- I figure, why not tell the truth about stuff?  And you want to know a secret?  Money problems sorta make the people who are experiencing them feel uncomfortable, too.  So, at least it's a feeling we can all share.

Since no one, including me, likes to hear all this negative crap, I'll balance it out with something positive and say that it really is incredible the way God continues to take care of us on so little.  Despite my looming fears about hungry kids and home foreclosures, my kids have never missed a meal (I've missed several- yet I'm still huge.  Go figure) and we still, for now anyway, have a roof over our heads.  I don't know how He's doing it.  I really don't.  We've learned to live on less, sure, but I genuinely don't see how a household of 7 is staying fed on what we're making.  God is unbelievably, undeservedly, amazingly GOOD to me. 

Speaking of goodness...  Did I mention yet that I was able to go to the Dr. because my kids all pooled their money together and paid for me to go?  That was my Mother's Day gift and it's one of the sweetest gifts I've ever been given.  I am beyond blessed.  What is a word that means more than blessed?  Bragging on my babies is almost as nauseating as discussing our financial problems, I know, but I don't care.  They're good kids and deserve a little bragging every now and then.  They are my reasons to keep going; the ones who make this whole thing tolerable...  They are the silver lining in my really big, dark, crappy cloud; seven bright spots on a dismal, dreary landscape; my sunshine on a cloudy day (sorry, Temptations);  the white daisies in my field of horse poop.  I'm quite poetic, am I not?  I'm thankful for my babies, is the general sentiment I'm trying to convey here.

You know...  Picasso once said, "I'd like to live as a poor man with lots of money." Unfortunately, I've had ample opportunity to learn exactly what that means. If only I could have it both ways- to keep the lessons I've learned; to continue to appreciate the sweetness of small things... To remain focused on gratitude, and what truly matters (and what does not); to be content with less ...while still having enormous amounts of cash!  Yes...  that would be good.

The Birth of a Phobia

What is the deal with me and medical (or dental) professionals?  Why do I always wind up with the guy who graduates at the bottom of his class from Bub's House of Doctorin'? 

You remember I recently told you I had a tooth pulled, right?  And that there would be a story forthcoming?  As always, my story shall be long and oh-so-rambly, but the point you must take with you in the end, dear one, is this: Dentists are morons. 

Remember that, okay?  Let's all say it together once, just to be sure it's locked in your brains... Ready? 

Dentists.  Are.  Morons.

Thank you.

The story begins two years ago.  See?  I told you it would be long.  I told my dentist I had a tooth that was beginning to hurt.  He said the tooth I was talking about could not possibly hurt because I'd had a root canal years ago.  He said I was experiencing "referral pain," when the tooth that hurts is only picking up on pain from another tooth. Hmmm.  Okay.  "Maybe I'm an idiot," I think.  "Maybe I'm so dang dumb, I don't know which one of my own teeth hurt."

The dentist couldn't find anything wrong with any other tooth, so he sent me on my way.  After, of course, I paid him to tell me I don't know what the h**l I'm talking about.  Time went on.  My tooth still hurt. 

I went back months later.  The dentist told me I had the teeniest, tiniest dot of decay on the tooth behind the one that "supposedly" hurt.  He couldn't imagine that itty-bitty spot could be causing me  pain, but- what the heck- he'd fill it and see if it helped.  Okay.  Time went on.  My tooth still hurt.

I went back.  Again.  Months later.  Now, he could see I had another very small spot on the tooth in front of the one that hurt.  Maybe that was it.  He filled it (FYI- I've never in my life had a cavity every single time I went to the dentist, and I did think it was odd that he kept finding these "tiny" spots).  He also mentioned that sometimes people with fibromyalgia feel pain in perfectly healthy teeth.  In other words...  "There's nothing wrong with you.  You're imagining this."  Time went on.  My tooth still hurt.

I did not go back.  I knew what he'd say.  He'd tell me he found yet another microscopic spot to fix, one that was so small it couldn't be detected a few months earlier, yet was still somehow able to cause pain for months and months and months (and- yay!- it was something new to charge me for).   Keep in mind that each and every time I'd gone, he assured me I was wrong about where the pain was coming from.  There was "no way" that that particular tooth could be hurting me.  So, I gave up.

The tooth continued to hurt.  Increasingly so.  I still didn't go back.  Why would I?   There was nothing wrong with me.  Even when my mouth started tasting "funny," I didn't go back (Gross-out Alert...  Um, yeah, sorry, but it turns out that taste was pus from infection.  Yucky, I know.  Way more than you wanted to hear.  But the lesson for you?  If your mouth tastes "funny" and you KNOW something is wrong?  Do something about it.  Get a different flippin' dentist, for Pete's sake and demand some help).

Which brings us up to the day a month ago when, while talking to my daughter, I felt my tooth sort of lift up a tiny bit.  I reached in to feel it and it came right off.

I went back to the dentist feeling incredibly vindicated- "SEE!?! TOLD YA THE D*MN THING HURT-" and he told me that what had happened was that my tooth had broken off under the crown and the broken parts had been cutting into my gums, causing them to swell and eventually leading to an infection (Oh, really?  You don't say.  You roddy jack*$$.).  I was put on antibiotics and pain pills and sent to an oral surgeon.   And that's when things went from bizarre to crazy.

For starters,  the surgeon's hands shook like Don Knotts.  I mean it.  You're old enough to remember Don Knotts, I hope?

I swear on my life, the oral surgeon's hands shook like Don's.  I had a hard time not laughing, at first.  Because, you know, how funny is it for an oral surgeon to have shaky hands?  The irony of it is beautiful.  That's some Grade A Hilarity, right there. 

Then...  I had that "Oh Crap" moment, which, coincidentally, occurred right about the time he came at me with the first of three huge syringes.  The funny wore off PDQ, know what I'm sayin'? 

He used a drill to make a hole in the stump of my broken tooth, so that he could stick his little poky tool thingy in the hole and pry the stump out (he rocked it back and forth against my gum for leverage, which would later hurt like a booger, but I digress...).  The drill slipped off the tooth and I knew it hit my gum, but wasn't aware at the time how painful that, too, would be for me later.  He pulled the tooth- in fact, a huge piece of it went flying across the room, and the surgeon said (Creepy Alert...), "Usually it lands right in a person's crotch and your first impulse is to reach down and pick it up-" and I was sent on my merry way with a mouth full of gauze and a prescription for painkillers.

That night, when the bleeding finally let up enough to see, I took a peek in my mouth and almost threw up.  My gum was split all the way down to the bone.  Seriously.  (Gross-out Alert...) I had a huge section of exposed jawbone, with a "flap" of gum skin that sort of wiggled and slid around, not connected to anything in particular.  Call me goofy, but this seemed like a bad thing to me.  Not only that, but I also realized a portion of the tooth was still there.

Long story a little less long...  It got infected.  Yes, shocking.  I had to go back on antibiotics, then wait for it to heal enough to let him pull the remaining piece, which I just had done today.  Surprisingly, it went fine.  I'd spent the last two weeks dreading my return visit to "Dr. Knotts" but fortunately, even though his hands were no less shaky, the last chunk of tooth came out easily...  Thank God. 

Now...  If you'd like a referral to either one of these guys, you just let me know!

The Latest

This is crazy-long.  I would suggest splitting this post into 3 chunks, stopping for meals in between.  Of course, it never matters what I'm doing- I always suggest stopping for meals in between.

So, anyway...  The day I once dreaded years ago as a young, new, homeschooling mom finally came to pass.  On Tuesday, March 6th, around 2:30- shortly before school ended for the day- there was a knock at my front door.  The lady standing on our porch was holding a clipboard so my first thought was, "Oh. Crap.  This is probably some voter's survey/political polling kind of thing.  I hope she's not hard to get rid of... And please God, don't let her be a Democrat.  The day's been too long already to deal with a Democrat." 

(I didn't really think that last part...  I just threw that in for the benefit of my Dem friends.)

Within two minutes, I was wishing she was just doing some voter's survey kind of thing. 

But, no.  She was a social worker with SRS (you might know them as DFS or CPS).  They had gotten a call from "someone" with "a few concerns" about our children.

"Whaaat???"

I started to pee my pants.  And not in the good way. 

Concerns?  CONCERNS?  What concerns?  When I find out who did this, someone better be concerned about getting smacked with a bag of oranges, cuz that's what I'm fixin' to do.

I can't even tell you how shocked/confused/scared/brain dead I felt.  I honestly had to tell myself to close my mouth and try to think of what to say. 

I thought maybe someone had seen my kids at home on school days and, not knowing we teach them at home, called in the complaint.  So I told her we home school, thinking she'd say, "Oh!  Okay.  That explains it.  Sorry to have bothered you.  Have a lovely afternoon!" 

That's not what she said.  She said, "Yes.  The concern is that they are so far behind in school that it's affecting their day-to-day ability to function."

I was all like...
...
...

Then, I was kinda like...
...
...
...

"...Whaaaa...?"

In other words, I was still standing there with my mouth hanging open like an idiot, not knowing how to respond.  

Then?  She mentioned the specific charge was "emotional neglect." 

EMOTIONAL NEGLECT!  If that doesn't make your head spin...

Someone is accusing me of not taking care of my kids.  Someone who knows I home school is saying I'm doing a terrible job.  Who would do that?  They're calling me a lousy mom.  Who did this?  They're saying something's wrong with my kids.  With me.  Who did this?  Say something, Michelle.  Say something!

So I did.  I said, "Whaaat?"  Again.  And maybe, "Excuuuuse me?"

She thrust a pamphlet into my hand which had scary titles and captions on it, like: What to do if your children are removed from your home...

I began to focus on her teeth as she talked.  They were stained and mottled.  Brownish.  Icky.

Is this really happening?  Is there really a stranger with horrible dental hygiene standing on my porch judging me?  She can handle the responsibility of deciding whether or not to remove my kids, but she can't handle a tube of Crest?  What in the name of all that is holy and minty-fresh is going on here? 

Here's the thing...  I've been teaching my kids for 16 years now and I've never had something like this happen.  I totally forgot what I was supposed to do, which was to leave her on the porch, go get HSLDA on the phone while she was still there, and put her on the phone with the attorney.  I didn't do that.  I stood there.  I think I started repeating, "I can't imagine who would do this to us," and "I don't understand," "I don't understand," "I don't understand." 

I have no doubt she thought, "No wonder these poor kids are behind in school.  Look at the moron in charge of their educations."

She wanted to come in and talk to the children and get this "all sorted out."  Despite my cluelessness, I did summon enough sense to remember I was not supposed to let her in the house.  I told her we were members of HSLDA (and explained what that was, *as I did below, in case you don't know who they are), and I would need to call them to find out what I was supposed to do next.  I also said she'd need to call me to schedule a more convenient time to return, instead of coming during school hours (the irony of her expecting me to drop everything in the middle of a school day so she can tell me I'm not doing a good enough job educating my kids is really something special, is it not?).  I tried to make it clear that I was not refusing to speak with her- that I did want to cooperate and get the whole thing resolved- but I'd need to call HSLDA first. 

She remained friendly... ish.  She did make one creepy, thinly-veiled threat when she said, "This really would go much easier for you if you'd just let me in."

Not by the hairs of my chinny-chin-chin, honey.

Then she left and I went nuts.  My hands were visibly shaking as I rummaged around for my phone.  I got the attorney on the phone and found out I had messed up.  He needed to speak to her and I waited until she left to call.  Cripes.  He got a little pissy

I called her back right away, but she wasn't back in her office yet.  An hour or so later, I called again.  I left two voicemails saying I was ready to set an appointment for her to come back. 

That night, I was a nervous wreck.  We prayed that God would help us resolve this thing quickly and easily, but still...  I worried.  We're far from the perfect homeschooling family, you know?  I was thinking of plenty of reasons to worry.  Heck, we're not even close to "normal," let alone perfect.  In fact, on any given evening, it would be reasonable for you to assume my family is reenacting scenes from a very special episode of Roseanne.  

And now we'll have to open up our home, our family, our lives for the SRS to pick apart?  We have to prove our innocence and ourselves to people who don't even know us?  And what does my accuser have to prove?  NOTHING!  What if my school records aren't clear or thorough enough?  What if they decide my kids really aren't smart enough?  Of course, there are plenty of public-schooled morons kids their ages who can't string two sentences together or know how much change they should get back from a dollar after buying a pack of gum, but that won't matter.  Will I have to let them interview my kids?  Look through my house?  What's going to happen? 

I realized there were all sorts of questions I should have asked... to both the social worker and the attorney.  I would have felt (and slept) better if I would have asked more questions and felt prepared for whatever was to come.  I'm not one of those people who gets a rush of excitement when faced with the unknown.  I'm a control-freak.  The unknown scares me silly.  

Oh, God, what is going to happen?

Instead of sleeping, I recalled every scary case I'd ever heard about home school families who'd lost their children- watched them being taken away by police and social workers- simply because they didn't want their kids interviewed or their homes searched for no good reason (Yes, it has happened.  Really).  Was that getting ready to happen to me? 

I should mention at this point that one of my children has some learning issues/disabilities.   I never talk about it here because she is self-conscious about it (which is something we're working on).  Her struggles are a constant source of frustration for her, and I would never want to embarrass her.  I only tell you this now so you can fully understand my fear.  By this time the whole family had a pretty strong hunch who had called SRS, but I was also wondering if someone who doesn't know us well enough to know about my daughter's "issues" saw her around town or heard her speak and got the wrong impression about her education (or lack thereof).  To someone on the outside looking in, she would appear to be "behind"  (I do not view her that way.  I'm trying to teach her not to view herself that way.  If you're doing the very best you can with the abilities God has given you, working at your own level and improving at your own pace, then how can you be behind?  You can only be considered ahead or behind when measured against the achievements of others- which is a goofy thing to do to a child, as opposed to teaching them to strive for their own personal best, but that's what public school is all about).   I spent that first sleepless night worrying about what would happen as soon as the SRS discovered my "behind" kid.  Would she be the living proof they need to say I'm not doing my job?

The next morning, I left a third message for the social worker.  She never called back.  After showing up and scaring the crap out of me, she couldn't even have the decency to call back.  After 3 voice mails, the attorney advised me to stop calling (actually, it was more like, "STOP CALLING!!!").  He said I'd kept my word and done my part.  Why keep pestering her if she's in no hurry to come back?  Maybe she'd just leave us alone (although, he made it clear he didn't actually believe she would).

Weeks passed.

We started thinking maybe she really was going to drop it.  We even got so comfortable, we began making fun of our family's supposed inability to function on a day-to-day basis.  For days I heard one smarty-pants comment after another:

• "Mom?  Can you tell Sis to stop it?  She's affecting my ability to function!"
• "I need to tie my shoe, but I've forgotten how. Help, I can't function!"
• "What do I do with this thing by my plate?"  (It was a fork.  My kids are so funny.)
• "Would you kids SHUT IT? I can't function!!" (Wait, that one was actually from me.  And I started saying it long before the SRS came to call...  So, that doesn't count, I guess).

Then, on Monday, April 9th, I was talking to my husband when I made a passing comment about the SRS lady.  My darling, my sweet pea, love of my life, my soul mate, the core of my being said, "Oh yeah, you know she did call you back."
...
...

"WHAAAT?"

"Yeah.  She called my phone looking for you.  Weeks ago.  She wanted to set up a time to come back out to the house."

I'm going to edit this particular portion of our conversation.  There's no need for you to know how I responded to my sweetheart, my dear one, the sunshine of my life.  Suffice it to say I was, uh, displeased that he could forget to tell me something that important.  Yes, displeased.  That's what I was.

I found out she had called him at least a week before he told me (oh-so-very-displeased). 

Well, crap.  I called her back that second and left another voicemail.  Then, I prayed like crazy that night.

"God, please just let this come to nothing.  Let there be no investigation.  I know you can get us through it and can handle whatever happens, but let it just go away."

The next day, the 10th, was Bri's birthday so I tried not to think about it, although the worry was eating a hole in my gut.  When the end of the business day came and SRS hadn't called me back I was disgusted with her all over again.

Then...  Wednesday, April 11th: We got a letter in the mail from SRS, postmarked the 10th.  It said the investigation is closed and the claims were found to be unsubstantiated.
...
...

"Whaaaat...?"

I honestly don't know how or why our "case" was closed without an investigation...  But do I really care?  HECK NO!  I'm considering it an answer to prayer and counting my blessings.  That was exactly what I'd asked God to do, not really thinking He would- I guess- since I was shocked when He did. 

As for the person who called in the complaint about us in the first place?  Of course, we'll never know for sure.  Since the SRS functions under a system where you can anonymously accuse anyone of anything, we're not allowed to know who claimed we abused/neglected/whatever the h*ll we supposedly did to our kids.  That would be infringing on their right to privacy (*snort*- I'm so funny sometimes).  But!  We suspect a neighbor.  A nutty neighbor.  A true A*$hat.  I shall henceforth refer to him as Grand Poobah of A*$hattery.  His (poor) son and my son are friends and they live 2 houses down from us.  He works in public education and feels it is his personal responsibility to quiz my son on math facts and such.  We recently angered this man when his friend's dog bit our son and we had the nerve to ask if the dog was current on its shots. 

Yes, you read that right:

1. Our kid got bit by a dog that wasn't even his. 
2. We asked if the dog had its shots, after making it abundantly clear we had no intention of making a big "thing" of it.  Just kind of, you know, curious as to whether or not our son would be rabid anytime soon. 
3. The neighbor got angry with us. 

Sure.  It makes sense.  In the Kingdom of A*$hattery.

The really ironic thing is that we have often thought this man is too hard on his own kids, but decided we wouldn't call SRS based on a hunch- we'd wait until we had some clear proof of abuse/neglect.  Can you imagine that?  Waiting until you are sure you have a reason to accuse someone of something before you just jump in all willy-nilly and do it?

(*HSLDA stands for Home School Legal Defense Association.  It's an excellent organization for home schoolers.  In a way, it's like legal insurance.  You pay an annual fee to be a member, then you are represented for free if you should have a homeschooling-related legal matter- like being contacted by a truant officer or the SRS.  HSLDA also intervenes in some non-homeschooling matters when parental rights are on the line.  They're awesome.)

P.S. to those of you who made it to the end: First of all?  Well done, thou good and faithful reader.  Also?  I had a broken tooth pulled the other day (more on that next time- what a story!) and I'm on major pain pills. Which means...  My words is stupid.  I ain't talk so good.  This post could be riddled with typos and errors of every sort.  I didn't check and I don't care.  It's your problem.  ;P

Hi

It's been awhile, huh?  Sorry about that.  I'm a crappy person.  There's just been nothing worth blogging.  Everything here is the same.

Did you see Hunger Games yet?  Or do you not even care?  What did you think?  I liked it.  Didn't love it.  Movies can never compare to great books.  But it was good. 

I just read Divergent yesterday (by Veronica Roth) and it's another good YA book.  If you have tweens/teens who go for that whole Dystopian thing, check that one out!

Look what I have.  A precious treasure:
:

ALL TEN KIDS, same place, same time!  This was one of the outtakes, but it's probably my favorite.

The whole fam damily is here :)), except for one grandchild. :((

Back row: Evan- 18, Mike- 20, Alex- 21, Kyle- 26, Nick- 32, Katie (DIL, married to Nick). Middle: Tucker- 13, Kindra- 30, Keagan (Nick's son), Olivia- 12. Front: Jaden (Kyle's daughter), Kinidy (Kindra's daughter), Some Fat Chick- 45, but looks 53 cuz she's just. so. tired, Avery (Nick's daughter), Braden (Kindra's son), Darrell- 107, Sam- 3, Brianna- 11.

It's very rare to get all 10 kids together. It just does not happen. The kids planned this as a special, surprise kinda thing for their dad. Isn't that awesome?

As long as we're showing photos...  Evan, who is about to graduate, just got a haircut. That little tidbit is thrown in for the grandmas, who think Ev looks like a hoodlum. He went from this:

To this:

 What do you think?  Less hoodlum-ish?  I think he looks younger with shorter hair.   That's his girlfriend, Bayleigh, by the way.  The boy has lost his mind over this girl.  We don't know her that well yet- she's very quiet- but she seems sweet.

Anyway...  Sticking with the photo theme, you know what drives me nuts lately?  I guess it's not what but who...  It's these idiots on Facebook who constantly take and post photos of themselves.  I can't stand much more. 

The pics themselves are not necessarily offensive- as far as being raunchy/immodest, inappropriate, etc.(although some are)... There's just too flippin' many of them.

I want to be as clear as I can possibly be when I say I hate these people like I hate enemas, root canals, 3rd degree burns, spiders, poison (and Poison) and this guy:

Do you guys have any of these self-obsessed morons on your friends lists?  What's the explanation for these people?  Why do they exist? 

To you, Obnoxious Photoholic, I would say (you know... if I had any guts):  The fact that you believe you're that attractive makes me want to smack you with a tube sock full of nickels.  You are the Zoolanders of Facebook.  ...Oh, look! There you are with your sexy pout. And here you are with a mysterious, brooding thing going on. And here's your serious, contemplative pose. Why, you're just a regular sage, aren't you? There's your smoldering, intense gaze...   Oooh.  You're stunning.

And each shot shows you either standing in a mirror, holding your phone/camera, or your camera-wielding arm is held up and out at an odd angle, making you look even more like a dufus. Trust me.  You look dufus-y enough as it is.

PLEASE, hear me:  You look exactly the dang same today as you did yesterday. Put the camera down. Get yourself checked into some kind of program. Take the 12 steps. Find a sponsor.  Whatever it takes. Please. We're all sick to death of the sight of you.   

I have one person in particular on my friends list who is making me especially cuh-razy with this. And it's a man (no, not the hub).  I have grown to dislike this guy so much, that I think it's affecting my religion. Honestly. Jesus is mad at me, you guys, because I detest this guy over something as trivial as a batch of photos. I should just delete him altogether. But he's a relative (no, not one of my sons), and I'm afraid I'll miss important info about him. I've stopped looking at the pics, though. I feel like a horrible relative, but I just can't do it anymore.  I'd show you the pictures (you'd be shocked and awed by the total assy-ness of the guy), but then I definitely would be a horrible relative. 

So, I won't. 

I really, reaaally want to, though.