It's the middle of the night and my knee is hurting and the worry monster is back nibbling at my thoughts. Vicodan will only kick in for the knee, unfortunately. The worry monster will have to be resolved in other ways.

I'm worrying about the Bear. Lately, he's been griping that his nighttime meds are working and he's having a hard time sleeping. The problem is that we can't increase those, or they stop working to help him sleep and eat, and that putting him back on clonidine isn't really an option because while he sleeps, then he resumes that whole not eating thing -- a complete bitch, if you ask anyone in our family. He gets so sad and it's hard to tell him that no indeed the next size up does not fit him -- still.

Russell lives for getting on the scale and having it tell him he's actually gained a few pounds. His last visit at the doctor, confirmed what we know about him -- he's grown. He now weighs 88 lbs and wears a size 14 jean, though I'm guessing, not for long. He remains the nicest person I know, even if he is a big scaredy-cat. He freaked out for half an hour by his dad's accounting about a big-bottomed spider in the garage, calling for his sister intermittedly, like maybe he could con her into doing stuff, so he didn't have to. I know there's a song about fat bottomed women, so maybe there's some Nashville wannabe who wants to write the fat bottomed spider song. "Oh, a big fat bottomed spider lurked for me, so I got my kid sister to kill it fer me...." So we teased him a little about being such a wimpy wierdo.

Genny is the fearless child of the two. She's only afraid of dogs. She ran all the way from the rock on the hill because a dog barked at her from another yard. She couldn't give a crap about scorpions, spiders, and snakes, Oh MY! But a dog in another yard is another matter altogether.

My wierd children.

Unlike my son, I do not live for getting on the scale. Mike and I have discussed it and we're going to actually get a scale. We figure it'd be a good thing for measuring things -- like whether or not I've lost weight. I prefer Mike's butt test, but it's less accurate than a scale. My food wasn't great this weekend, but a lot less good than it was during the week. I think because I sleep more on the weekend, that I eat less on a schedule, so things get screwy because I'm eating more to catch up. I'm thinking of having Mike set the alarm for us on the weekend, so I get up at a decent hour and eat. I can always nap later, but it was good to learn that about myself. I think I'll be able to plan better for next weekend, anyhow.

My period is back to every three weeks, so I'll be getting on hormones again. The bitch is that without a decent knee I won't be able to enjoy being a hormonal hoochy wife, unfortunately.

Tomorrow, I call and beg the orthopedist to give me an arthroscopy and clean up my freaking knee, so I can actually do stuff. You know -- like walk to the danged mailbox or swim a few laps -- little schtuff like dat. Right now, I can feel that it's so swollen that the range of motion is limited. And it continues to crunch and click. *shiver*

Friday night, I was actually whining every time Mike hit a parking lot speed bump and he wasn't speeding, it just hurt a whole lot. While the sitting on my butt and icing it most of the weekend was good at reducing some of the swelling, it's still really damned sore and I'm in deep trouble because of that. I hate that I'm just at the whim of my aches and pains. It makes me very sad and very frustrated. I feel like my family can't depend on me for squat and that scares me.

Russell's afraid to ask what we'll do this summer and I'm afraid to discuss it or promise anything, either. He asked the other day if the surgery would fix it. I simply said,"I don't know, Bear. I sure hope so." He looked so sad and that made me feel sad.

I will not have another lost summer with my kids. I just won't. I will buy passes to the water park, if I have to, just to force the issue.

Right now, however, I'm heading to bed.