Sep 222012

Five minutes ago, I received this email from Heather:


Dearest Glennon,

I’m not even sure where to begin…

I’m sitting in a hospital room where my hubby is asleep on the fold out chair and my son is resting after undergoing surgery to remove a tumor from his brain last Wednesday. We’ve been at the hospital for over a week and I can’t even begin to tell you how much my heart hurts for Brandon.

I’m wavering on the point of a complete breakdown between undergoing chemo treatments for breast cancer (I was diagnosed in June) and watching helplessly as my son tries to cope and heal. We brought Brandon in for an MRI last Friday and we were told that day that we would be admitted to the PICU immediately…they found a tumor the size of a lemon in my poor, sweet boys head. The hard part is that he felt fine. He had a couple issues with headaches but otherwise you would have never known anything was wrong. He’s been hooked up to monitors 24 hours a day and I’m sure he will forever be angry at me for saying we are just getting some pictures taken!  In fact i can pretty much guarantee he will never want to get pictures taken, go to the doctor or even the dentist (whenever the nurses suck stuff out of his mouth they always make mention “its like going to the dentist!”…not such a good tactic). He may, however, request that he be taken to Disneyland because that seems to be the tool the nurses use to try and get him to go to”his happy place” when they are poking or prodding him.

When I received my breast cancer diagnosis it felt like a ton of bricks being dropped on me. I’m only 33. I have no family history. Statistically it wasn’t supposed to be me. But I cannot even begin to describe the feeling of having a neurosurgeon come to you in the waiting room so you can “go somewhere and talk.” Complete devastation comes to mind. To hear that our sweet, energetic, baseball-loving boy has a brain tumor was almost unfathomable.

I’m thankful that we did “get pictures” taken. I’m thankful that the surgery was deemed successful. I’m thankful that my sweet girl who is only 2 1/2 is enjoying time with grandparents. I’m thankful that my husband is strong and supportive because this is way more then he should have to endure.

I ask that you please keep Brandon in your prayers. Maybe encourage some Monkees to send positive thoughts for healing our way.
 Even a

Would work :) he loves to do that at baseball games!

Thank you for “listening”.



Here is what our family did –  and all we ask is that everyone else in the whole world says a silent, loud, or recorded cheer for Brandon and Heather.  Post it here, post it on the Momastery Facebook page, shout it to the heavens or just smile or cry. Prayers, prayers, prayers, all of it, everything is a prayer. Even that feeling you got in your gut when you read Heather’s email. A prayer.

Also, it is about to become clear to all, including me (for the first time) why it is that I didn’t make the cheer leading squad thrice.





Love- TWMF



Sep 232012




Brandon had a brief period yesterday where he came out of his “lost” look and gave me a smile. It’s the best thing I’ve seen in days!

All of the clapping and cheering for our family was amazing…even the hubster was amazed at the outpouring of support from strangers. I informed him they weren’t strangers…they were Monkees!

Much love,


We are not strangers. We Belong To Each Other.


Happy Sunday,




Sep 242012

I have been intensely, self-indulgently, a-little-bit insanely cranky for the past few days. I feel like a powder keg, giving off sparks. Everything seems like an overwhelming project or problem. I can’t really TELL you about any of these overwhelming projects or problems because spoken aloud, they each seem (are) insignificant and small. But trust me, I feel ICK. And when I feel ICK for a couple days, I start to decide that my life sucks, in one huge way or another and that I need a HUGE change of some sort. Then, usually, on the third day, I wake up with forty zits. And I go… Crap. Maybe it’s this:

Mona Lisa Smiles (one of Momastery’s first posts)

This morning, stuck home alone with my children, I had the following epiphanies:

-My husband hates me and our kids. When he called yesterday to say good night to us from his “layover in Atlanta”, he was actually sipping his fifth margarita at a resort in the Keys, where husbands really go when they say they’re on business trips.

-My house is filthy, and too small to exist in. Too small to breathe in with all of these high pitched voices and dolls and teeny shoes. I am not a home-owner, I am a half-home owner. I accidentally purchased half a home, which is perfect since it’s worth half of what I paid for it. Where is the other half of my house?

-My son will be in therapy soon for co-dependence. He keeps nervously telling me I am “the best mommy in the world,” which is his effort to keep us all on this side of social services when he rightly senses I’m teetering on the edge.

-Tish will join him in therapy to deal with her neglect issues. This morning when she fell down and cried for the fourth time in an hour, I left her there crying, without even turning my head. I’m sorry, but somebody’s got to start sucking it up around here.

-My parents definitely like my sister more. Which is understandable, but still. Rude.

-My hair is horrible. And I am too short, and ugly, like a gnome. And on the day I die the undertaker will have to use concealer on my wrinkly 80 year old chin because I still will not have grown out of my acne.

-I have far too many children. Every time one of them says “Mom,” I bristle like it’s an act of aggression. One or two will have to go. In an effort to avoid playing favorites, I will get rid of the next two who ask for water. I am done getting water. Forever.

UGH. And one more gloomy, lifeless, miserable UGH for good measure. actually, I’m too blah for capital letters today. so… ugh, instead.

At one point this morning, as I stared at the wall and wondered how I hadn’t noticed before that my life was spiraling into this black hole of despair and drudgery, I was brought back to my surroundings by a sharp cramp in my side.Then another, and then finally the big epiphany…OH. OOOOOOOOOOOOOH.

I got my period for the first time when I was 12, which means that it caught me completely off guard for the 250th time this morning. Why don’t I ever see it coming? Why aren’t I ever prepared for the viciousness of it?

After breakfast when the kids and I were playing Chutes and Ladders …the game that makes me grateful we don’t have guns in the house, for fear that I might use one on myself if I land on that long freaking slide one more time…I heard an interesting news report on the radio.

Apparently, a woman walked into the Louvre today and threw a mug of coffee at the Mona Lisa. She was immediately arrested and the commentator described it as an “unforgivable” act by a woman who was clearly “not well.” But I immediately understood this woman, and I smiled for the first time all day. In fact, I had half a mind to walk out my half a house and put some bail money in the mailbox.

Maybe the poor woman just woke up on the wrong side of the month this morning. Maybe she walked into the Louvre and saw that smug Mona Lisa hanging there with that composed, unruffled, amused smirk that she wears everyday regardless of the time of the month, and the woman had her own epiphany: Mona Lisa’s going down.

I, for one, stand in solidarity with this woman. As a matter of fact, when the kids go down for their naps, I will go outside and spit my Diet Coke in Mona Lisa’s general direction. Take THAT, Mona Lisa.


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