Badassery

Today is my 41st birthday.

I started the day with friends at our neighborhood boot camp at 5:45 a.m. in a cold misty rain. This seems crazy, I know. But it's actually a good thing.

Going to boot camp, especially when it's cold and/or raining, makes me feel like a badass. Like I'm tougher than I thought I was. Like if I can do burpees and diamond push-ups and kickboxing crunches outside in the dark when it's almost cold enough to snow, then I can probably handle whatever else is coming at me today.

This is what I learned in my year of being 40: Every life needs a little badassery* in it.

Ordinary life can be a big heap of mundane scheduled into a whole lot of routine. Some of that ordinary can be wonderful -- my daughter's small hand in mine on the way into school, my son's wiggly eye brow when he tells a joke, my husband's secret code text telling me he's on the way home. Some moments, the every day is  total chaos -- too many practices, games, meetings, lists, demands and errands colliding into a pile. There are so many things I simply cannot do or cannot do well that the stress of it all makes me buckle.

But I'm finding that if I can carve out some part of my life to feel like a badass -- even just here and there -- it all seems closer to possible.

I've never actually been much of a badass. I tend to be the person who follows the path, does what's expected, takes the easy option. But over the past 40 years, some of my best experiences were those that caused me to summon up some extra courage and at least pretend like I had a little badass alter ego.

These days, I'm not likely to get my belly button pierced or live overseas for a year, so I have to look to smaller spaces to find my badassery. More often than not, it's boot camp -- or whatever alternate workout opportunity my boot camp friends lure me into. Like aerial boot camp, for example.

It started, as most crazy ideas do these days, with a Living Social deal. Some of you may remember the last time I purchased an online deal for a class. It involved a pole. There was only one class. There are, mercifully, no photos.

This time, there are pictures -- and they make me (perhaps unreasonably) proud.

I should explain that the "aerial" portion of aerial boot camp for beginners involves trying to climb heavy streamer-like silks that are hanging from the very tall ceilings. You start by gripping both silks in our hands, then wrapping one leg around the silks and looping it over that foot. Pulling your body up with your arms, you lift your other foot and trap the silks against the bottom foot and inch your hands higher up the silks. After unwrapping your bottom foot, you pull your legs up, loop your foot back in, pinch again with the other foot, and continue on up the silks.

That description makes no sense when I write down, but trust me it's even harder to actually do it.

The first class, I didn't get much higher than this:

The second class, I barely made it off the ground.

But the third class? Well, this photo was taken when I was on my way back down. From the top. As in, touched-the-metal-ring-connecting-the-silks-to-the-ceiling top.

By the time I got back to the floor, my heart was pounding, arms and legs were shaking, and hands were burning. But damn, I felt like a badass.

And if I can do that? Well, then I can sure as hell handle 41. 

*For real, y'all, that sounds like a made-up word, but it is in the Oxford now so I'm using it.

Forty

There's a scene in When Harry Met Sally (which I watched at least 847 times in high school and college) where Sally is sobbing on her bed with Harry about how her ex-boyfriend is getting married and he never really loved her. In the course of her tissue-laden despair, she chokes out the following exchange:

"And I'm going to be 40," Sally sobs.

"When?" Harry asks, puzzled.

"[Sniff, sniff] Some day," she wails.

I used to quote that line all the time with my friends (who also watched the movie 847 times) and laugh because 40 just seemed so impossibly old and far away. Until it wasn't.

Because "some day" turned out to be yesterday.

Just like that I'm 40. And I'm here to tell you that it is SO not at all old.

Everyone keeps asking me how I'm doing. But between the surprise tickets for a date night to see Shawn Colvin (my husband is amazing), sleeping in both days of the weekend (ibid), a pile of cards and well-wishes from my family and friends, and the birthday cake ambushes at our neighborhood Christmas party (complete with a rockstar 80s soundtrack) and my office (I'm very gullible), 40 is turning out to be a lot of fun.

Looking back to my teens and early 20s, I'm not sure where I thought I'd be at 40, so I have no way of knowing if I've arrived. What I do know is that I have a wonderful husband, two beautiful (albeit obnoxious) children, parents and family who love me, a fairly healthy body (thanks in no small part to a kick-ass neighborhood boot camp), really wonderful friends, a good part-time job, a lovely (if messy) house, and too many other blessings to count.

So take that, 40. You don't scare me at all.

Recurring

The dreams started on Tuesday.

I’m climbing the stairs to the third floor of the main building. I can’t tell if I’m sweating because of nerves or simply because there’s still no air conditioning. I can’t catch my breath. The floor slopes strangely as I race down the hall, my eyes scanning quickly along the numbers ticking across the wall.

I have no idea which locker is mine, much less what combination will tumble the lock into place so I can retrieve my books.

And there are so many books. I don’t know where they came from, but I find myself carrying enough textbooks to crush an average 9th grader. They’re not my books, not my locker, and no one is listening.

Suddenly I’m in a different hall, different building, but just as lost. Where the hell is Mr. Saunders’ calculus class? And why is it always calculus that I can’t find? I keep checking my schedule, printed on carbon paper from the guidance office. Every time I look at it, there are new classes, new room numbers typing across the page.

Wandering into the back of the nearest classroom, I discover that I’m in biology. Lab day. I haven’t studied. It’s not my best subject. The teacher looks angry. I try to blend into an empty desk, hope that she won’t call on me. I have no idea what is going on or how to get out.

And then, both a blessing and a curse, I’m awake. Pippi is at the side of my bed. “Come lie down in my bed, Mommy?”

I should probably be glad that I never have the dream where I show up naked at school.

Or maybe I should just put on my big girl pants and get over the fact that my 20th high school reunion is this weekend. Crap.

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For My Brother

When my brother and I were little, we were fast playmates -- until we started fighting, of course, but we always made up eventually. Legos, house, Star Wars, school, Battleship, cops-and-robbers, kick ball, we played it all.

Part of what I love about having two kids is watching them play together and remembering those fun times from my own childhood.

Now that my brother and I are (allegedly) grown-ups, we've found ourselves on very different paths. I did the more-or-less traditional college-job-grad school-marriage-job-babies route. My brother? Not so much.

Only four years apart in age, but light years apart in other ways -- and yet we're still those same two playmates at heart, still able to make each other laugh.

This week my younger (but now much taller) brother is starting out on a new path.

It's his story to tell, not mine -- so we'll leave it at that.

But I thought that with all the collective strength and positive energy (and prayers, if you say them) out there in the bloggy world, that maybe we could send him off with a powerful force of hope and light to guide his way.

He's picked a much harder path than I did. But I'm trusting that his road-less-traveled strategy will pay off in the long run.
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You've Got a Friend in Junius

Sending Junius off to kindergarten has been an interesting experience. 

When he was in preschool, I knew most of the kids in his class and chatted with most of the parents before and after school. At most, there were 12 kids in his class, so it wasn't hard to keep up with everyone.

Now that he's in kindergarten, we don't see the other parents much -- most families use the car pool lane in the morning and he rides the bus home in the afternoon. His class includes 23 children, so halfway through the year I'm still trying to remember everyone's name. When I ask him who he played with during recess, he usually says he doesn't remember or that he played with our buddy from the neighborhood.

We like his school, but I don't feel connected the way I did when he was in preschool. So after Junius tracked back in to school last week, I was surprised to find a Christmas present shoved into his backpack when he came home. It was a Buzz Lightyear toy, with the following note attached (only the names have been edited):

Junius,

This is D's mom. D has a Christmas present for you. D was sick prior to school track out, so he was unable to come to school.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year To You and your family!

The V's family

p.s.thank you Junius for being D's friends and so good to D everyday. D been saying that you are his best buddy!

While Junius tore into the gift wrap and busied himself setting up the game, I had to duck into the next room to wipe my eyes and pull my melted heart back into place. 

The boy who had sent the present is one of a few English-language learners in the class -- he's working hard, but it's tough to understand him sometimes. He's smaller than a lot of the kids, but has a sweet smile. And he told his mom that Juni is his best buddy.

When I imagine Junius as a grown-up, I like to think that he will be smart, funny, interesting, successful, handsome, athletic -- all the things you'd expect a mother to want for her child. 

But above all, I want him to be a good friend, to be kind to people so that they want to be his friend, too. 

When I asked him if he and D are friends, he said, "Well, yeah. He plays with me all the time." Like, duh, mom. He's still a boy -- he's not divulging a lot of details.

So I'll be filing that typed note from D's mom in my box of Junius' school treasures. Her words meant as much to me as any hand-print artwork or smiley-face report card.

Image from eLifesize, in case you need a stand-up cardboard Buzz and Woody.

Birthday Five: Keeping Me Young

I realize it's not Friday, but it's my birthday and I'll post what I want to.

I'm 38 today. So there.

Not that long ago, 38 sounded really old. Almost 40 (gulp). Almost over the proverbial hill.

Yet now that I'm here, I don't feel nearly as old as I thought 38 would be. With my husband already in his 40s and my parents now in their 60s, I've shifted my definition of "old" to somewhere around 93.

Here are five people (or groups of people) keeping me young this week:

1. My children. They're exhausting and probably adding gray hairs and wrinkles to my look every day. But they also make me silly and happy -- and they remind me of how much fun the world can be.
2. My husband. For the second birthday in a row, he's given me running related gifts. Last year it was the iPod to get me started. This year (now that I'm actually a Runner), it's a high-tech running shirt and hat to keep me warm through the winter months. Also, he tells people I'm his "child bride" because I'm several years younger than he is -- don't you just love him?
3. My friends. Most of my friends are my age (give or take 10 years). I figure if they seem young to me (and they do), then I must be young, too. And they do sweet things like take me out to lunch and sing "Happy Birthday" on my voicemail -- that makes me happy, which makes me smile, which (I hope) makes me look younger.
4. My dermatologist. This one falls in the "for better or for worse" category. I started getting these bumpy, flaky spots on my chin two weeks ago. Turns out it's stress-induced acne. And acne is for teenagers, right? So I must be younger than I thought. Thankfully the antibiotics and cream are bringing my face back to normal -- and even perioral dermatitis is better than this visit.
5. My hair colorist. Thanks to some nudging from my husband and a deal from Redeemio, I became (more or less) a redhead on Tuesday. Lane at ds Parada salon took me from blah brown to a sparkly red that shows up more in sunlight than it does indoors. It's kind of different and fun -- and it covers the grays referenced in #1, above.

So what's keeping you young these days? And, more importantly, what do you think of my new hair?

Living Crazy on a Sunday

Yesterday I did two totally crazy things. Both fleeting, but very satisfying in completely different ways.

First, I sat in a lounge chair at the pool.

See, I told you it was totally crazy. And by "sat in a lounge chair," I mean that I actually sat by myself with no one in my lap or pulling on my arm or begging for snacks and just lounged. Pippi was playing happily by herself in the baby pool while Junius was in the big pool with my husband. So I just sat there, in the lounge chair, and watched her. It was a short, but lovely glimpse into a future with growing, independent children.

Second, I washed my washing machine.

I know, wild, right?! Who knew you were supposed to do that? But apparently you are and I did and now I can believe that my clothes are even cleaner than they were before. Phew.

Watch out, world -- there's just no telling what sort of craziness I might get into next.

Photo is a totally gratuitous cute baby shot of the last time Pippi lounged at the pool. I think she was almost four months old at the time. I'm so glad it's finally my turn now and then.

Parents Are People, Too

One of the fascinating things about becoming a parent has been the new perspective on my own parents. Sometimes it's a different view about the decisions they made about me -- now I totally understand why they wouldn't let me go unchaperoned to the beach in high school despite my pleas at the time about how very responsible I was. Sometimes it's a fresh appreciation for how hard they worked to make my life easy or realizing why they didn't always have the answers. Sometimes it's simply realizing how young they were and that they were people in addition to being my parents.

A similar revelation occurred recently when I emailed my dad about how much I enjoyed reading a book he'd loaned me -- Water for Elephants (which you should definitely read, if you haven't already). My dad is in a book club and I'm a former English teacher, so we have a lot of fun sharing books with each other. Unfortunately for me, my life doesn't allow me to read much these days (other than Fancy Nancy, of course) -- but I'm trying to get better about that and this book was part of that effort.

My dad emailed back about the three books he'd finished that week, followed by this comment: "I know how you enjoy reading and think about you and the time I have to do that."

And suddenly it hit me. Today, my dad has more books than he has shelves and reads multiple books each month -- but I have absolutely no memories of him reading for pleasure when I was a kid. Because (duh), he was busy working, spending time with his spouse and children, and trying to maintain a home for all of us (and squeezing in some tennis time, too). But as a kid, it never occurred to me that my dad was giving up something he enjoyed in order to do all of that.

I love that my dad has that time to read, now that he's retired -- he's earned it. And I REALLY look forward to the day when every day is Saturday for me, too, so that I can start reading a book a week without having to ignore my husband and children.

Take That, Flabby Arms

Some unsolicited advice...

If you're going to do a kick-boxing / circuit-training class where the muscly, tattooed instructor makes you do push-ups, tricep dips, bicep curls, boxing and other things you haven't done in ages and ages (or like, ever), be sure that the following tasks are not on your list for the next couple of days:

• using a hair-dryer
• lifting your children into a shopping cart
• loading flats of drinks into your Costco cart
• carrying groceries into your house
• bringing your luggage downstairs

I'm just sayin'.

By the way, that image isn't me. But a girl can dream, right?

Now I'm taking my tired arms (and a lot of ibuprofen) to the beach for a few days to recover. Hope to be back on a better blogging schedule when I return.

Mama Wisdom for the Holdiay Break

Preschool is closed until the new year.

I should probably be excited about the opportunity to spend two whole weeks with my beautiful children, playing and celebrating the holidays. Instead, I'm a little bit terrified.

Did I mention it's two whole weeks, plus two more days?

But instead of quaking in my slippers and trying to figure out how to get Sesame Street to play on continuous loop, I'm making plans with friends and remembering this note that came home from Junius's preschool teacher last week:

"As my children get older, I struggle more and more to fit into their schedule. It doesn't seem that long ago that they were happy to sit with me on the sofa and watch Charlie Brown or read a Christmas story. At the time, I remember thinking that what I really needed was time to run to the mall or wrap a gift. I didn't realize how quickly the time would fly. While your children are small and still think you are the greatest thing ever, please take the time to make those memories that will last. Make cookies together, let your child help you wrap gifts for the family, read a Christmas story, sit on the bed and tell your child what Christmas was like when you were a child. Before long your children will be grabbing the car keys and running out the door. You only have them for a short time -- make it count!"

So now we're heading out for a fun morning with friends at the Museum of Life and Science, where I won't be distracted by my computer or the 782 things that need to be done around the house before everyone arrives later this week. We'll have a great time with minimal whining (by me or them) and lots of activities.

And hopefully all this fun togetherness will have another side benefit -- a good naptime for the kids so I can still have a few minutes to myself when we return home.

Hooray for Birthdays!

December is my birth month. And yes, I like to stretch out the celebrating as long as possible. I'm a huge fan of birthdays in general, but mine in particular. When people complain about birthdays as a marker of getting older, my response is always, "It's better than the alternative."

The American Cancer Society has started a campaign for more birthdays, proclaiming that "there's no such thing as too many candles!" And even if I do get a little nervous about growing older, I completely agree with that slogan. I know that my friends who are cancer survivors are celebrating every candle, and I'm cheering right along with them.

In honor of my birthday, I hope you'll take a moment to read the guest post below from a great blogger, mom, scientist and cancer survivor. You might also want to read her more recent post in defense of mammograms, following the new guidelines released by the U.S. Preventative Services Task Force -- as a scientist and a survivor, she knows what she's talking about.

_________

From WhyMommy at Toddler Planet:

Inflammatory breast cancer

There’s more than one kind of breast cancer. Did you know that? During October, we’re so often flooded with “buy pink” campaigns, and reminders to check ourselves for lumps, that it’s become almost commonplace. We all know that we should do regular self exams, and we’ve heard it so often that the urgency often fades into the background of children, spouses, laundry, and work. But did you know that there’s a kind of breast cancer that forms without a tell-tale lump?

It’s called inflammatory breast cancer, and it spreads FAST. The cancer forms in thin sheets, or in nests, like a bird’s nest of cancer growing inside your breast. There are few external signals or symptoms, and they’re sneaky too, since most of them are similar to mastitis, which many of us have experienced while breastfeeding a baby, or bug bites, or sunburn. But taken together, one or more of these symptoms can signal a dangerous cancer lurking in your breast.

What are the symptoms? Here’s a list, from the IBC Research Foundation:

* Swelling, usually sudden, sometimes a cup size in a few days

* Itching

* Pink, red, or dark colored area (called erythema) sometimes with texture similar to the skin of an orange (called peau d’orange)

* Ridges and thickened areas of the skin

* Nipple retraction

* Nipple discharge, may or may not be bloody

* Breast is warm to the touch

* Breast pain (from a constant ache to stabbing pains)

* Change in color and texture of the areola

There’s a great illustration of these symptoms over at Worldwide Breast Cancer that is guaranteed to be not like anything you’ve seen before….

In my mind, it boils down to this. If you notice ANYTHING DIFFERENT on one breast that’s not on the other breast, please CALL YOUR DOCTOR. Today. Because this cancer moves fast, faster than almost any other cancer, and is deadly. Only 40% of patients survive 5 years after diagnosis.

In the 2.5 years since my diagnosis, I’ve already lost a dozen friends to cancer. Many of them were moms and bloggers, readers just like you. They fought hard. They fought with everything they had. But cancer treatment is largely still in the experimental stages, and it’s a tough road. Just to be here today, I had to not only survive cancer, but also survive 6 months of chemotherapy, 7 weeks of daily radiation, 2 surgeries to remove my breasts and ovaries, and a lot of physical therapy to deal with lymphedema, which makes my arm swell in the heat when I step outside (as a lovely side effect of the mastectomy that took all my lymph nodes on that side). It’s been a hard, hard road, but I’m grateful for the chance to be here today, to hug my children, to play their games, to laugh at their knock-knock jokes.

There is joy after cancer. But first we have to get there. So please, take a moment, call/email/blog/tweet/update your friends, and SHARE the SIGNS of inflammatory breast cancer with the people you care about. You never know. You might just save a life.

_________

Just in case that's not enough to motivate you, check out this fantastic video courtesy of Ilina. She reports that "Emily Somers created, directed and choreographed this video in Portland for her Medline glove division as a fundraiser for breast cancer awareness. This was all her idea to help promote their new pink gloves. I don't know how she got so many employees, doctors and patients to participate, but it started to really catch on and they all had a lot of fun doing it. When the video gets 1 million hits, Medline will be making a huge contribution to the hospital, as well as offering free mammograms for the community."

Handsome Guy Wins Heart of Younger Girl, Romance Ensues

News of Patrick Swayze's death this week has no doubt prompted thousands of blog posts. This post comes by specific request from one of my BFFs, with whom I watched Dirty Dancing many times and who emailed me yesterday to say, "If I still had a Netflix subscription, I would move it to the top of my queue."

When Dirty Dancing came out in 1987, I was in 9th grade. It was an awkward, but hopeful time for me. As a high school freshman, the movie played nicely into my imaginary world (along with Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink), where the handsome, popular, older guy suddenly noticed quiet, smart, younger (and let's be honest, somewhat dorky) me and swept me off my feet and into the time of my life.

Sadly, that never quite happened in high school. But it didn't stop me from watching Dirty Dancing over and over and over again, particularly at sleepover parties with my girlfriends. Although we never discussed it, I assume we were all thinking the same thing:

"If it can happen to Baby, it can happen to me! No one will put me in a corner!"

As it turned out, the handsome, popular, older guy did notice me in (grad) school one day, years later when I'd convinced myself that those things didn't happen in real life. There was less leaping and dancing in my version (and fewer cut-off jean shorts), but just as much knee-weakening and heart-fluttering. Now when Pippi is old enough to watch Dirty Dancing, I'll be able to tell her -- after she finishes mocking the 80s -- to believe in the dream, to trust that true love will find her, to know that she is beautiful.

Of course, then I'll tell her that she has a 10 o'clock curfew and isn't allowed to go anywhere alone with a boy. And just like that, I'll find myself identifying less with Baby and more with Baby's parents. Wow.

Photo from Virgin Media.

He says it there and it comes out here

Junius loves to talk. I have no idea where he got that from (*ahem*), but he really does. Even when he's wrestling with the stutter that occasionally comes and goes (apparently a normal developmental thing for 2- to 5-year-olds, especially boys), he still keeps talking. And talking.
And talking.

As he gets older and his vocabulary expands, it's fascinating to listen to what he comes up with and try to decipher where the ideas or words came from. I feel like I'm working some strange puzzle, searching for the links to things we've done or books we've read or shows we've watched until I can make sense of his story.

Here are two favorite excerpts from the past few days:

In a conversation with a grown-up friend over the weekend...
Junius: The Red Wings and the Penguins played for the Stanley Cup last night, but the Penguins won.
Ms. S: Oh really? Did you want the Penguins to win?
J: No, I wanted the Red Wings to win.
Ms. S: So did that make you sad?
J: No... [and then he paused, looked at her and said very carefully and clearly] I was disappointed.
[Strangely I found myself tearing up at this moment. Not because I was so upset for the Red Wings, but because my baby sounded so grown up. Also, we have no idea why he became a Red Wings fan, but it could be the red uniforms remind him of the 'Canes.]

Talking to his dad at bedtime...
"Alex used to be my big brother, but he's not anymore.
Now my big brother is Walt Henderlite.
And Pippi's big sister is Dot Henderlite."
[This is funnier when you know where the names came from. Alex is his best friend from preschool, who happens to be about nine months older than Junius. Walt is my friend from college who met us for lunch earlier this month -- it was the only time I've seen him in more than a decade, but he's tall and apparently that made quite an impression on Juni. Dot is a character in A Bug's Life, which is the movie we recently let Juni watch -- she's the little sister ant. And Henderlite is the surname of a family in our neighborhood whose house we'd passed that morning on our walk.]

Side note: The photo is Junius playing hockey. I'm noting that for you just in case you can't tell because he has a golf club, a baseball glove, a soccer goal and a footbal helmet. But it's hockey. He's being Cam Ward.

Becoming Grandparents

One of the many interesting things about becoming a parent has been watching my parents become grandparents. The transition appears to have been a fun one for them, but it's a joy for me, too.

Last weekend was our first beach trip with Nanna and PopPop since Pippi was born, which made it all the more wonderful to be there with them. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is to be at the beach with a sand-eating, shell-tasting, seaweed-sampling toddler who likes to wake up before sunrise (literally).

Even though it was supposed to be my parents' vacation, they happily took my two little crazies on bike rides around the island and walks on the beach, built sand-roads and sand-hockey arenas (no castles for Junius this year), shared watermelon and cooked meals. They snuggled and wrestled and raced and practiced yoga together. It must have been the most exhausting three days of vacation my parents ever had.

But no matter how much we must have worn them out, they were really enjoying their role as grandparents and beach playmates. When we left on Tuesday so that they could have the last part of the week to themselves, I actually believed my parents when they said they'd miss us.

Still, I think they'll somehow find a way -- between watching peacefully from their deck as the sun rises and sets over the sound -- to get by without us.

You want a piece of me?

Does it mean I'm getting old if, every time I go to the doctor, I leave something behind? Not my keys or my phone -- those I seem to remember. Instead, I keep having to abandon some small part of myself.

At first, it was just my dermatologist. She'd take one or two little slivers of skin each time I went to see her (which was every six months for the first two years). I'm rather fair-skinned and freckle-y -- that combined with some bad sunburns in my wild and crazy tanning youth makes me a prime candidate for regular skin checks. For several years, she'd take the sliver and call me a couple weeks later to say it was "all clear."

Then last summer I went in for my annual check and mentioned the spot in the middle of my forehead, which I assumed was a persistent pimple left from my pregnancy. I figured she'd give me a cream and send me on my way. Instead, she peered at my forehead and said, "Hmm. We'll need to biopsy that, but it looks like a carcinoma."

I'm sorry, did you just say "biopsy"? And isn't "carcinoma" a fancy word for "cancer"?

Long story short, it was in fact a basal cell carcinoma, which I later had removed by a Mohs skin surgeon who seemed startled to see someone young like me in her office. Once she cut out the layers of cancerous cells from beneath the pimple, I was "all clear" again. The small scar that stares back at me each morning is my reminder to put on sunscreen.

Now it turns out my dentist wants in on the action. When the hygienist noticed a red spot on my lower gum at my check-up last month, my dentist told me to watch it for a few weeks and call him if it wasn't gone. Probably nothing, he said, but keep an eye on it. A month later I was back in his office getting a referral to a periodontist.

Second long story short, the periodontist removed the spot -- probably nothing, he said, but let's biopsy it to be sure.

Ahem, "biopsy"? Again?!

He called on Friday to tell me it was inflammatory epithelial and fibrous hyperplasia. Also known as a pregnancy tumor. Which sounds scary, but actually means it's nothing but some "overgrowth" in my gums caused by the raging hormones of pregnancy and breastfeeding.

All clear.

Thank goodness there aren't any doctor appointments on my calendar until September.