There is already an overlarge shelf in the bookstore about parenting styles, pitting the Tiger Mom (the standard to aspire to, or to vilify) against the Attached Parent (to applaud, or to mock). The world cannot possibly need even another slim pamphlet about raising children. But my dear friend Nancy (a real writer) insists that it must be interesting how we’ve muddled along. That’s probably because she hasn’t spent an extended period of time with my boys. Rather, she gets the cute snippets that make my boys seem more perfect than they are. And their endearingly sage Cancer sound bites might point to sublimely good parenting instead of just an innocent reaction to some really bad luck.

But I won’t deny it. My boys are tops. Brodie, now 8, has always been one of those “old soul” kids. He is a gorgeous, Eurasian mix and has this deep, cool voice but absolutely infectious giggle. Teddy, my seven year old, is really really really funny, honestly the cutest kid I’ve ever seen, and he dances and sings without effort or embarrassment. Both of them are whip smart and near clones of the fabulous man I married. Quite often I wonder how much my DNA is holding them back. However, they hit the jackpot as far as Moms go. I’m kind of awesome at this.

I harbor no delusions that others may not be so quick to award me the Mommy Blue Ribbon. I don’t even particularly like kids. I was a horrible, bedtime story-refusing, impatient babysitter who couldn’t wait to raid the pantry and watch cable. Even now, I avoid play-dates. I don’t want my kid over at your house any more than I want your little germ carriers at mine. Unless the child is unusually entertaining or the spawn of someone I really like (who also enjoys a bit of play-date wine), we’re busy. Even when my own boys were babies, I’ll admit to a smidge of bored resentment with them. They were just so needy and always hungry in ways that required a lot of chopping.

Now that they are older, whether they are delighting me with their Bernie-ness or annoying me with all of the wrestling and subsequent tears, I just adore them. All moms love their kids, and many are probably as absurdly (but not as exasperatingly) boastful of them as I am. But after many years of discussing mommy-hood with family, friends, countless sleep-deprived women, and society-at-large, I find that not many moms are fully confident in their job. And the most competent, responsible women I know are the ones wondering if they couldn’t be doing more. Meanwhile, I harbor a bigheaded belief that my boys are wicked lucky to have me: I’m fun and silly, I bake cookies, I’m quick to hug and pepper them with kisses, I say yes more than no, I’m un-moody and don’t yell. Yay, Mommy! These are the things they are going to remember on countless Mother’s Days, and they are the things that are inherently me, cannot be improved nor stifled, and don’t require a battery of books to learn.

April, as you know from these Pages, is a banner friend. She is one of those people whose loyalty springs from a strong sense of self: she knows what is good and right, and then steadfastly honors that with others. In addition to her inherent virtue, she is also smarter than the average crust-cutter. And her ability to chat up even the stodgiest New Englander, and eagerness pour you a cocktail, makes her super fun at a party. April’s polite, smart, athletically gifted, adorable children reflect her unfailing, and yet loving, efforts to improve them. She is one of those moms I aspire to be, except for all of that running around driving them to myriad sports. (If this is required for great parenting, my kids are screwed.) But in spite of the hours she logs printing extra math problems, reading aloud, chopping healthy foods, and finagling spots on teams, April still wonders if she’s “mom enough” and always has an article or book in the queue about how to do it better– even though she is the one who should be writing them. Her oldest, Bryan, said this to me recently: “Mrs. Lee! I’ve been waiting so long to HUG you!” Obviously, April doesn’t need the best-selling guidance of a self-congratulatory Tiger Mom or a relentlessly breast-feeding helicopter parent.

With all of the external messages about how we’re doing it wrong, or just never as well as the Asians, I think we should all be helping each other make the mommy job easier and more enjoyable. Call me lazy, but there are really only two areas where I’m a total pedant: manners and bedtime. If your kid isn’t an overtired whiny ***hole and sounds cute asking for stuff, you’ve already done a bang up job of parenting. It will come as no surprise that, especially now with the brilliant Cancer excuse, I’m too pooped to fuss over anything that isn’t important. My boys have to practice their spelling words. They have to go to Sunday school. They have to say please and thank you and I’m sorry. But they don’t have to finish their milk, or pick up their clothes, or put away their toys, or practice piano, or say “hi” to grandma on the phone. Of course I make them do all sorts of extra work so they can beat yours at the Math Minutes. But that’s because after 11 years of Lee marriage, I’m practically Asian.

Especially now in Life After Cancer, I believe parenting should be painless enough so that a 4pm glass of wine is more social than necessary. It’s a time-consuming job, and by whittling out entirely futile nagging over unimportant things, I may have more enjoyment at the workplace than other (better) moms. Occasionally I will encounter a rule of etiquette I probably should have been a bit more rigid about. Teddy has a really annoying habit of getting out of his seat at meals at least seventeen times (to dance, or to see if he’s taller than yesterday, or to poop, or to imitate Bugs Bunny if there are raw carrots on that evening’s menu). But this doesn’t make him any less awesome as a little person. His handwriting is perfect. He’s earned more stars than anyone in his class. He reads encyclopedias! His smartypants cuteness reminds me that I’m doing a better than average job at this. And frankly, the Bugs Bunny imitation hasn’t gotten old yet.

When the whole Tiger Mom sensation hit the media, my father-in-law was deeply disturbed. A-Gong thought Amy Chua’s approach was decidedly lacking in one area: Faith. In addition to being appalled by her stereotypical generalization of American Parents, he felt sorry for her children who, in spite of an expensively arranged Bat Mitzvah, were growing up without God. And maybe what we were all feeling, in addition to annoyance with this woman and her arguably brag-worthy children, was that the Tiger Mom had no Faith in herself. All of this parental one-upmanship was to fill a void. Darling Joe Burke, who is wise, funny, and has faith in my well-intentioned ways, recently told me I might be trying too hard, too. As I worried about the quality or frequency or (I’ll admit it) usefulness of my prayers, he reminded me that my Faith in God could be as effortless as His in me. To him, it’s all in the noticing. Beauty and Goodness are everywhere, but sorely lacking when we beat up each other and ourselves about how to be better moms, wives, Christians. God is in that sweet greeting from bed-headed Bryan to this tired, bald mommy. And what better Mother’s Day gift than to know you encouraged this Divine kind of goodness? It’s all in the noticing.

Over the past five months I’ve banked a considerable number of hours praying. But I have about the same command of the art as Brodie, who at a loss for words giving thanks over a spread of fishy, unidentifiable Taiwanese fare, offered this: “We thank you for this food… and just hope… that we like it.” Although I had at least five years of CCD with nuns, my Act of Contrition is spotty at best. I haven’t had the urge, memory, or patience to complete even one rosary. My brother-in-law, Bob, whose own Faith is weaved of finer stuff, gave me a mantra for my scarier moments: “Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the living God, pray for me, a sinner.” Too tired, drugged, and frightened to remember childhood prayers, and too humbled to ask for impossible things, this worked for me. Still does.

This short, simple sentence is one of the greatest gifts I have received (although Godiva of the Month also has transformative powers that are nearly Divine). Repeating it hundreds of times reminds me daily, sometimes hourly, of an ever-present, ever-loving, Living God. It also became my gateway prayer, leading to deeper discussions with The Big Guy who is calming, wise, and funny in addition to being all of those other things best itemized in song by talented types (like Bob) who can do Him justice better than I can.

Those who have less faith in their Faith (like me) could easily get hung up on “sinner.” Already browbeaten by Cancer, emotionally exhausted, and beholden to grandmas, friends, and an entire team of prayer-circling Episcopalians, were the constant reminders of my flawed human-ness really necessary? You bet. What a relief to admit my shortcomings to Someone whose Love braves my least charitable thoughts and shameless vanity. What a gift to be reminded that we’re all united by this moniker, and that I’m not the only one tempted to hurl paperbacks at small children. Every day I pray to be “better… and better.” I want this disease and the fallout of treatment to be over, but in the day-to-day, I want to excel at enduring it. And even if I don’t, there’s beauty in the trying, or at least some humor in the failing. I also pray for everyone who distracts me, feeds me, supports me, and loves me: all of you glorious, do-gooding sinners.

This preoccupation with prayer was inspired by Megan, who honored me with a request to compose one. Megan is a woman whose quiet beauty is matched by sweetness, generosity, and oozing goodness. Her prayers have got to be prettier than the homespun shout outs of this blogging sinner. But Brodie reminded me of the power of the deed, no matter the quality of the execution. Just the other night, Brodie asked all of us to join hands to pray over another smorgasbord of foods that cannot be translated into English. A-Gong had arrived that night, and this quorum of relatives inspired a celebratory, thankful mood in my 8-year-old boy, who almost never volunteers to say Grace. But in the moment (call it the Holy Spirit!) words to typical mealtime prayers eluded him: “… we thank you for this food… and everyone here. Does anyone else have anything to add?” For me, tears.

I’ve fallen really far behind on the thank you notes. Maybe so many of you aren’t bird-dogging the mailbox awaiting a pretty folded card, but I feel like a heel. I have some doozies to write, and given my near subterranean level of thanks, the process will be a Holy Spirit bender requiring a box of Puffs. How do I thank April, and Nicole, and Zealot Sister, A-Ma, or my mother? Sending all of them to St. Barths with unlimited massages and umbrella cocktails might go over well. That certainly would be easier than a tearfully grateful itemization of the many times these women have dropped everything to help me and my family. Because I’m finally well enough to go out for school events and coffees, my guilty subconscious (Paige calls it “The Devil”) tells me I don’t deserve to have any fun until I’ve written the thank yous or attended to the growing piles of crap I’ve ignored in the name of Cancer. I have a sneaking suspicion The Devil will attempt to foil my enjoyment of lots of things for a while.

Even as I put on my “hair” and awkwardly re-enter society, I’m just overwhelmed with love and gratitude. I’m hugging non-huggers and over-sharing like everyone’s favorite drama friend. And I feel it quite profoundly when I say, “it’s really good to see you.” Having been sequestered in my air-filtered, Clorox wiped prison for the past few months, it really IS good to see you. But I have all of the poise of a golden retriever puppy that finally got off the leash. Hi Hi Hi Hi how are you? How are YOU? Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi. I’m so happy to get out of the house, and yet I have nothing interesting to say. Four months of surgery, drugs, and prosthetic hair is crappy cocktail conversation. I need new material.

When guilt and flagging wit are the problems, surely champagne is the answer! I haven’t resumed abusing my beloved bubbles yet. I guess I’ve been waiting for the last bit of poison to clear my system before I test my liver and tolerance, and with a few lingering side effects from the chemo, my whoo hoo moment hasn’t arrived. Also, celebrating too soon will jinx everything, celebrating at all smacks of ungratefulness, and spoiled bald girls with messy rooms and unfinished thank yous are grounded! (The Devil is a real bitch.) Through this entire ordeal, I’ve learned that God helps me tune out negative blather. He’s actually in favor of parties (“whenever two or more are gathered in my name…”) and reminded me that His Divine Inspiration can be found in all beautiful things, like the fancy shoe department. So the Devil be damned it’s time for parties and plays and playdates and Pradas. And in order to pen these thank yous, which I feel from the depths of my Cancer-free existence… a bit of Prosecco. Boozy sentiments of love and gratitude arriving by post soon.

Soccer season has started, so off we go to sort of watch little children sort of kick at a ball in sort of the right direction. (My boys are not of the traveling team ilk of footballers.) Teddy’s assigned gaggle of seven year olds met yesterday and I felt good enough to plant myself at a picnic bench, guard the Gatorade, and meet the parents. I grappled with the idea of sending the coach a warning email: a Mom With Cancer Alert. Instead, I went to the park hoping my mommy friends in the know would shield me (they did), that my obvious wig wouldn’t give me away (unlikely), and that I could spend an hour as Regular Mom (not yet).

I need to consult my cancer veteran friends regarding re-entry into society. I don’t want to impose my Disease on unsuspecting soccer moms, but it was probably obvious to more than just the parents in direct earshot of the kind inquiries about my last chemo treatment. I suppose it’s possible that no one notices that my “breasts” and “hair” seem frozen in time and space. But I felt like I was wearing some hideous pink ribbon emblazoned t-shirt, toting a bottle of Purell, and carrying a clipboard promising to wear out some sensible shoes for The Cure. I’m not embarrassed about being Bald and having Breast Cancer, I just have no idea how to disarm its white elephant power in an innocuous social setting. And I feel terrible making nice people (minding their own blue Gatorades) come up with some sort of “that sucks, so sorry” sentiment on the spot. Of course, the alternative here is to hide out at home until I have hair; but I’ll still be losing eyelashes before the Rattlers call it a season. Lisa gave me an “I have Cancer, what’s YOUR problem?” travel mug, which could herald my reluctance to shake hands or remove my hat, but not absolve strangers of the pressure to say something profound, or kind, or untrue (they might look fabulous, but they don’t look real).

This week Teddy’s spelling words are all about family, and his obligatory five sentences included all of us:

I like my family.
My brother is cool.
I don’t have a sister.
I look like my father.
My mother has cancer.

A-Ma, superstitious and a bit disturbed, urged him to edit that heartbreaking truth perfectly printed in thick #2. Mommy doesn’t have Cancer anymore! But that’s not obvious to Teddy, the soccer parents, or me. We’re not there yet. But because I want to enjoy a bit of sunshine and fledgling attempts at “soccer” in spite of feeling socially awkward, it’s definitely time for this to become funny again. A-Ma frantically trying to thwart the evil eye of a carefully printed, simple sentence was kind of funny. So was Teddy’s indication that he’s ready for things to return to normal around here: “No Mommy, I need someone under 50 years old to help me brush my teeth!”

Today was my final chemo day, my graduation. And yet, maybe it’s not. All of these poisons, drastic surgery, and the upcoming five years of chemically induced menopause will not diminish my chances of recurrence to zero. Although the odds are in my favor, I have a niggling doubt that this could be more of a Hunger Games Cancer. Maybe every person who deals with life threatening illness feels this way, but spelunking thorough the cancer blogs to find bits of wisdom (or even just some naïve cheerleader crap) means wading though a lot of drivel about the quality of fingernails, sorry state of taste buds, painfully boring discussions about insurance, and quite a bit about the surprising new heights of our restructured décolletage. I am told that the best outcomes happen to those who Stay Positive. But won’t adopting an arrogant attitude toward the power of these rogue cells (or God’s plan) jinx my recurrence and survival odds? Obviously, this is where prayer and all of you come into the mix.

Founded and unfounded fears aside, today was a great day. Bernie gave me a treatment graduation present in the form of a very pretty ring. It was so unexpected (and very large) that his worries that it could remind me of a difficult time in my life were for naught. I look at it as a symbol of his boundless love, support, smarts, generosity, and charm. It is a reminder that he believes this is behind us, even if I can’t fully embrace that yet. It’s just another bit of beauty at a time when I desperately need to find things beautiful. And to those who might cluck at its possibly gaudy extravagance, I will happily tell them why I wear it, and watch them eat crow.

At 3am (steroids make sleep a slippery thing), I’m bracing myself for the final onslaught of side effects, which have hit me sooner and harder with each round. But I have my chemo necessities from April, Nicole’s killer waffles, the dozenth dozen of muffins from Mary, and dueling grandmas keeping little boys clean, fed, loved, and occupied. Most of all, I have the prayers and wisdom from all of you. Lately I’ve been too drained to tap into the Universe, so I carry your words with me. I am so grateful that instead of cringing at my over-sharing, so many of you have taken the plunge with me. I’m poised at the beginning of the end, looking forward to a Tatum-sacrificing bonfire with many, many glasses of champagne… and hair.

I love Easter: jellybeans, lilies, egg hunts, little boys in seersucker blazers, and exhilarating hallelujahs. My Church does a bang up job of Easter. It doesn’t hurt that its stained glass beauty is breathtaking when the sun shines through, or that the choir is good enough to make the staunchest atheist believe, for at least a moment, that even if God doesn’t exist, Angels do. And then there’s Dorsey, Ivy League Smartypants Dorsey, our Faithful Rector. On any given Sunday, he might not get you to God, but he’ll get a good chuckle or cry out of you… and there you are cozied up with Holy Spirit unwittingly. I’ve missed most of Lent due to my fear of good Christian germs. But on Sunday, I’m going to be there to hear my spiritual leader give me the Good News in person. My Easter wish for all of you is that you have something like this, too… a place of beauty and light that reminds you that there are Good Things, and that those things live in that moment and space when we shake hands and offer Peace.

Don’t I sound like Zealot Sister? Obviously, my mood has turned. Honestly, I was back to my sunny side up self as soon as I got all of that off my chest and computer. But it might have been my most selfish moment. I temporarily forgot that there are really wonderful people out there who need to know this isn’t horrifying. And in the day to day, it’s not. Cancer slays me in the wee hours, during a quick glance in the mirror, with an honest question from a little boy. The rest of the time, I’m happily mocking it. I still miss things like tasting food and having hair, but I’m good. Today I can say without any anger at all that I’m thrilled there’s just one more round to go.

A-Ma has returned to spell my own mother for a bit. She arrived via Fung Wah with all sorts of gifts and news. One (long) story involved a trip to a gallery with a friend. A-Ma is savvy with NYC public transportation and uses cabs as sparingly as she does the postal service, or forks. However, her friend was nervous the entire journey to The Village. “How do you know it’s the right way? You should call someone! There won’t be time to eat…” and so on. A-Ma was giggling as she was telling this story, poking fun at the silliness of her friend. “Ah, these people… they don’t know that God is with us. Why worry?” Not only do I have Dorsey, I can also count A-Ma as a bit of a spiritual guide.

So Happy Easter (and Passover, too) to my dear friends, my faithful readers who did your funny best to bolster my flagging spirits. Because this site is PG-censored, I could never share all of the fantastic things that came via text and email… scathing and scatological Cancer insults in defense of poor me. You are a randy bunch of sailor-mouthed, porn-peddling, anti-Cancer warriors. I feel like the kid on the playground with the biggest, coolest friends. Cancer Bully can go pick on someone else. And a whole gaggle of us will be at the 9am mass at the Redeemer on Sunday. See you there.

My favorite picture of the boys in their Easter Sunday best

My mood is as black as my favorite jellybeans, so I’m hiding out. I explained to dear friend Emily that hearing “just one more time” during the throes of chemo is like hearing “just one more house fire.” Once is one too many and damaging enough. It’s “just” one more chance that side effects could seriously harm or hospitalize me, “just” one more heartbreaking Q&A with scared small boys, “just” another 10 pounds to gain in eye-blurring, fat-fingered edema, and “just” a lifetime of never knowing if this cancer is coming back. Thanks ever so much for the chipper tally… I’d nearly lost count. Mean, huh?

Brodie was in his own foul mood last night and I may have aggressively dropped (thrown) an armload of books, effectively hurting my wrist and scaring the crap out of him. Emotionally exhausted, I literally hurled the Cancer Card at (well not “at” and not even very “near”) my own child last night… but HOW DARE HE? His little 8 year old needs are met and exceeded, and I’m doing my cheery best to hide the fact that I’m tired, achy, and annoyed. Write your sentences and be cute and agreeable or I’ll GIVE you something to be pissy about… AAARRGGHHH! But fear not. Although I have morphed into Cancer bitch, all of my mean dialogues are entirely internal, where they are funnier and don’t inspire calls to Child Protective Services. Brodie got lots of extra hugs, fell asleep with me rubbing his back, and woke up early of his own accord to finish the homework… and all without any fear of being assaulted by a crazy bald lady.

Scary Aunt Paige (with God in total agreement, as prayer has become interrupted with inappropriate hilarity that can only be Divine) reassures me that this is expected and forgivable. Even without tiresome chemo side-effects, small children will annoy and probably won’t be eternally damaged from watching Lunatic Mommy violently organize the Magic Treehouses. But lately, all sorts of things irritate me… even phone and house calls to inquire if I’m OK. After a third round of poison, it would be good sense to assume I’m not OK and too pooped to pretend in real time (it’s easier to be The Queen of Upbeat via text and email). I successfully resisted the urge to verbally skewer my landscaper for ringing the bell at 9am, and wondered what the hell my mother was thinking letting him in. I’m sure I don’t know how I’ve gotten through any of this without having a heart to heart with the goddamn gardener. Mean, huh?

Honestly, until Round 3, I’ve been either too scared or grateful or drugged to be angry about all of this. But today, I am. And not in a why-oh-why-woe-is-me way, but in a not-fit-for-mixed-company way. This is a mood that goes better with scotch and accompanied by people who might have suspected I’m not always as cheery as I seem. I’m sending a fair number of bitter, venting texts to complain about teeny things in my teeny, self-absorbed life. However, I know this as temporary as anyone’s interest in a Pissed Off Cancer Mom. I’ve already turned the corner on the really bad side effects. And in ten minutes my little boys will come home from the bus stop so pink-cheeked and cute it won’t even occur to me to launch paperbacks at them. Then, instead of counting chemo sessions (hey, there’s JUST one more), I’ll be once again counting blessings.

No sleep for me. Dreading Round 3, I quit all attempts to calm myself into any sort of slumber and spared Bernie my tossing, turning, and sighing. Brodie needed extra hugs tonight. He gets nervous about the chemo but reminded me, “Mommy, you feel really great NOW, right?” And with a hug and a happy twirl I convinced us both that he’s absolutely correct.

This whole thing ought to be either harder or easier. If I’m going to need all of this help, I should be shrouded in blankets and coughing consumptively into hankies. Instead, I’m just tired and bald. Because I am normally efficient and unfailingly vain, this is difficult enough. I also fear I’ve become a source of unsolicited boring or horrifying information. Recently asked if my implant surgery has been scheduled, I may have given a tutorial on tissue expanders with embarrassing, helpful hand gestures. Also, “chemo brain” has robbed me of good conversation skills and I am repeating anecdotes that didn’t require airplay the first time around. I knew this crap would take a toll on my charm; I just never dreamed Cancer would turn me into Uncle Herb*. Luckily the steroids are beginning to kick in, along with the Stockton family habit to more than occasionally eschew couth for the sake of comedy.

For a bit of fun, I’ve been playing my Cancer Card. This week I got a pretty good deal on my roof replacement, a steal on house painting, an advance appointment to open the pond (and happily swimming fishies to watch), and a next-day dryer vent repair. Although home maintenance doesn’t stop for pesky health woes, I’m finding that Cancer is a bit of a Groupon. After years of loyal patronage, muffins, and referrals, I feel no guilt. Tacky it may be, confessing my medical condition to these handy men, but so is posting my weekly over-share to 194 of you at 5am.

And now for the Upbeat Final Paragraph… today (yesterday?) was lovely and I’m thrilled that Brodie saw how OK I am. I watched my little boys pass footballs in the back yard, discussing what professional teams they’ll play for someday. I grilled steaks and veggies and tucked my soaped and scrubbed kids into clean sheets. I will not be able to repeat a day like this for a bit, but I’m starting to believe the brave ladies who have been down this road. They promise that by summertime this will be just a memory jogged by my chic-short hair. I’m also hoping that sparkling social graces are revived with my follicles. But by then I’ll be holding the stem of bubbly spirits instead of a mug of antioxidant tea… and even Uncle Herb can be hilarious after 14 beers.

Uncle Herb

*A necessary I love Uncle Herb disclaimer. We all love Uncle Herb. But I’m certain I’m not the only relative who listened to an itemized list of the new microwave functions or a lecture on the frivolous luxury of automobile air conditioning (on the same day… I was 8 years old). But my old-school, country judge and lawyer Uncle from Terre Haute, Indiana unexpectedly and graciously accepted my Taiwanese husband with open arms, and I’ll never forget it.

At this stage in the chemo cycle, I’m nearly normal. Food tastes dusty, but I am just not sick at all. What I do feel is pathetic and selfish having nearly constant, full time help in the house. Then I look in the mirror and remember why everyone is being so nice to me. Sadly, my hairless head is absurdly small and decidedly not beautiful. I have already grown tired of matching hats to outfits. I’m not feeling so “whoo-hoo half way done!” but rather, “ugh, two more times.”

I look very much the Cancer Mom, all decked out in flowy cardigans, scarves, caps, and self-pity. I’m missing Spring Break in Florida with my kids, and every picture of the moments I’m missing is a little dagger. My mom has been distracting me quite well with good meals, shopping, and two seasons of Downton Abbey. But because it seems I have entered the Shameless Wallowing Phase, I’m irritated that I must endure this less than pretty.

Back in college, after an all-nighter completing some twenty-page tome on the History of This or That, my darling friend Ran would come to the dining hall in shirt, tie (usually of the bow variety), and blazer. His theory was that by dressing inversely proportional to his energy level, mere appearances could boost his mood, or at the very least, fool others. I still remember it fondly: Ran, fully dressed for dinner at the country club, but absolutely gaunt from a sleepless, two day diet of Hydrox cookies and Cokes. It was a tradition too quaint not to adopt. And though I may not have eeked out a few more correct answers by examining cadavers in a pencil skirt and pearls, at least I felt like I was showing up for the exam more fully awake, prepared, and respectful of the task ahead. These past few months feel like a test, and even if on some days I am ill prepared, the least I can do is apply Ran’s theory of wardrobe optimism.

Every morning I talk myself out of a jammie-all-day-day. I haven’t been required to move anything into or out of the dishwasher since Christmas, and avoid the bus stop, outings, most chores, and any sort of social life in the name of immunosuppression. It’s tempting to morph into a completely useless blob that remains in bed past noon. Instead I’m getting up and dressing for The Fight of My Life, which in the day-to-day isn’t against Cancer at all, but depression. Sometimes Bloomingdale’s seems almost as necessary as prayer and Purell. But so far I’ve found that Ran’s theory works. With a little Lancome and Burberry I can transform myself into Passably Pretty Girl Having Bad Hair Day. And although that fashion is strikingly similar to Cancer Mom, it’s an entirely different outfit that makes everything seem funnier and fleeting. So excuse me now as I face the day in something fabulous (maybe my homemade superhero cape from Ginny!) and write an essay about Taiwanese Grandparenting in Disney World or Ridiculously Bad Things to Say to Bald People.

How many adults does it take to replace one mommy for Spring Break? Apparently it takes four. For a few years, Bernie and I have been taking advantage of A-Ma and A-Gong’s time share in Orlando and spirit little boys to warmer climes for theme park adventures. All of the books and my advice-givers tell me to keep things as close to business as usual for our boys; so even though I cannot accompany them to Florida for Spring Break, the annual trip is still a go. Poor Bernie. Traveling with small children is hard enough. Now he has to do it without me commiserating with him about how much we actually loathe traveling, how hours of video games are undoing years of overpriced education, and how next year we’ll plan earlier and do something other than travel to Florida for theme park adventures.

My darling husband, reluctant to leave me alone with Tatum for more than a few days, will deliver the boys into the capable hands of his parents, who will then do a grandparent hand-off mid-week. My parents will chaperone the kids back to Boston at the end of this ten day “vacation” that perhaps no one except for little boys will feel is any sort of “vacation” at all. All of this is very complicated and expensive and required hours on the phone with unsympathetic airline employees who reminded me over and over again about penalties and un-refundability as if the word “unfair” hasn’t really crossed my mind lately.

I have to believe that at least the boys will have fun. Being commissioned to Florida in March may not sound like punishment, but these generous grandparents have had ample grandson quality time, and now we’re asking them to log more hours waiting for Applebee’s beepers, racing to flipping water mammal shows, enduring inevitable meltdowns, and giving piggy-backs. Also, because they’ve spent a lot of time with the grandparents lately, the boys are maybe a bit too comfortable with them. Recently, after A-Ma prepared one of her incredible four-course meals, Brodie mused loudly, “I wish we could have anything NOT Chinese for dinner…” Excellent. Obviously, I’m worried that sending four grandparents to manage Spring Break in my stead isn’t the best thank-you for all of the time they’ve spent here doing laundry and cooking for my (occasionally jerky) children. I only have four more days to knock some good manners into them, but this chemo round has me too pooped to remind them to brush their teeth, much less summon my best mean mommy. At this point, I’m just hoping for good weather.

Grandma and Pop Pop, and A-Ma and A-Gong keep reminding me that this is just another way for them to help, that it will be manageable, that they will have fun. And it’s very possible that everyone could benefit from a bit of sunshine away from The House of Cancer where I live all of the time. I’m looking forward to that for all of them. In spite of my worried ramblings here about ill-behaved children abusing exhausted grandparents, I am really looking forward to ten days without children. TEN DAYS! Bernie and I will be deliciously alone for the first time since The Diagnosis. We’ll probably spend some time discussing how life as we know it has changed, how it takes four adults to manage what we could do last year, and how lucky (and unlucky) we are. But we’ll also gratefully whoo-hoo through our own homespun Spring Break free of Disney lines and spoiled children. Tatum has even traveled from the box to the stand with the hope that being denied a trip to Florida means at least one expensive meal at a proper restaurant. It’s the least we can do; we’re not inviting her next year, either.

Tatum on the stand, and all of the accoutrements of chemo