Explanation of Truancy

In approximately 8 weeks, I-- along with every 4th year radiology resident in the country-- will go to Louisville Kentucky where the entirety of my last 31 (err... I mean 29) years of training will culminate in one event that strikes fear in the heart of everyone in this field... the Oral Boards. 4 consecutive hours (no breaks, potty or otherwise) of taking unknown cases in 11 different sections, all under the intense scrutiny of of an examiner in whose hotel room you are being examined. Yes, the hotel room in which they sleep, brush their teeth, and well... use the potty. Bizarre? Absolutely. Stressful? Incomparably so.

Thus, as my task between now and May is to learn everything there is possibly to know about radiology (and avoid being an invisible Mommy and Wife), my work days are often 12 hours long when board reviews are added in, and studying should be occupying all of my free time. In reality, I reserve a good amount of that time for reading Charlie and Lola books, having tea parties, and drawing spaceship scenes by command of a precociously imaginative 2 year old.

When I first started medical school, someone made the analogy that it was going to be like trying to drink from a fire hydrant. Preparing for the Boards is similar, although instead of just trying to survive and consume a bit of water along the way, the goal this time is to catch every droplet in the stream without letting a single moelcule pass by. So blog posts may be few and far between over the next couple of months, but I will leave you with a few Elle-isms in the interim.

All three of us on the couch one morning:

Jay: Elle, would you please grab the phone for me?

E: I can't Daddy. I'm too busy sitting in my Mommy's lap.

On St. Patrick's Day:

E: It's Patrick Day! It's Patrick Day! Happy birthday to Patrick... Happy Birthday to Patrick... pause... Hey, Mommy-- Where's Patrick's cake?

Me: Elle, would you like pizza for dinner?

E: I don't like pizza. I like okra.

(Yes, we obliged)

Upon getting the prize from her (gasp) Happy Meal*

E: We need to find a Mary to take care of this little lamb!

*Dad's dinner choices are not always Mom-approved.

Me, after she had been on the potty an inordinate amount of time: E, are you ready to wipe your bottom?

E: No, Mom. My bottom is busy right now.

As I keep telling myself, A board-certified Mommy is a good Mommy...

Holding strong at 29...

Being "grown-up" takes some getting used to. Especially for someone who has spent the last... ahem... 29 years... vehemently trying to deny the process is/has/will ever take place. In my less-than-grown-up world, birthdays are meant to be at least a week long celebration-- complete with daily countdowns--culminating in a 24-hour period of party-having, cake-eating, balloon clad, unbridled festivity focused on the birthday boy/girl. Very mature, I know. But with each 29th birthday I celebrate (this will be the third, for those keeping count), I'm starting to realize that perhaps the center of attention is no longer mine. Of course, I've fully accepted that this is true for 364 days of the year, but that last day I've been clinging onto is officially slipping through my (icing-covered) hands.

This year's birthday was spent helping Jay in the garage, cleaning windows, and nearly enrolling Elle in boarding school after an unsuccessful 2+ hour battle for naptime. Or even rest time. Anything other than erupting from one's room every 12.5 seconds screaming/singing/dancing time. Sigh.

The plan for a family birthday dinner degenerated rapidly as I had visions of an over-tired toddler (and self-professed grumpy berry) melting down when she discovers her fork has 4 prongs instead of 5. The horror. So we abandoned the dinner out and I stuck candles in my Domino's delivered pizza with only a moderate amount of pouting. I began plotting my Barbie/Strawberry Shortcake/Smurf/Batman bash for next year. I'll be 29 you know.

But somehow, when the "festivities" were over, it occurred to me that actually, I wouldn't change a thing. Growing up-- with my awesome husband and sweet little one-- might not be so bad after all.

There should be a third video in here, but I have failed miserably at getting it to upload. Darnit Jim, I'm a radiologist not a computer programmer.