I am not a patient person. Apparently God thinks I ought to be because He keeps trying to make me into one. Recovering from abdominal surgery takes patience. It takes ignoring dirty dishes. It takes forgetting about laundry. It requires immobility, tranquility, a peaceful attitude. Because if you do not forge this attitude, you will pay for it. In buckets.

Yelling, “Hey you kids! Knock it off!!” hurts. Eating eggs for breakfast, fajitas for lunch and bbq for dinner cripples. Wearing jeans is suicide.

And yet, I am learning from this experience:

– More than eight hours of TV per day makes your mind so mushy that you can’t even remember the name of the actor you’re watching. “Hey look, that guy with the mustache did something funny.”

– The clutter on the dining room table is invisible to everyone in this house but me. And it grows organically.

– Wearing regular clothes signals to everyone that you’re up and at ‘em, so unless you feel like fixing mac-and-cheese for lunch, best to stay in a duster, muumuu or jammies.

During my short hospital stay I received several drawings from Boy and Girl. These notes were more flowery than usual, as if they were each trying to tell me, “I really mean it this time. I’m not just sucking up to you to get stuff.”

Although Girl’s sounds pretty suck-upish. Inside what looks like either a flower vase or a box of popcorn are the words: “I love Mom, Dad and (Boy). I can’t live without them. They are the best family ever! They are asome! They are to nice! I can’t walk away from them. All of them are super smart. They are a grate family.”

Boy draws a cartoon strip of stick figures that begins, “Here: Mom I love you. I’ll never leave you. Love (Boy).” Each drawing is of him and me in various stages of our relationship, including when he peed on me as a baby, for which he now says, “Sorry,” me adopting him, and he and I playing baseball, which he labeled “Being with you.” He also draws me in a hospital bed when Girl was born, with a stick figure Boy saying, “Thanks for my sister.” At the bottom of the page he writes “Song: Oh mom I love you and I will never leave you.”

I’m wondering what went through their heads while I was in the hospital. Were they worried that I would leave them?

I haven’t eaten anything in 26 hours. I take that back. I’ve had broth and jello. Jello and broth. And one popsicle but I couldn’t finish it, so not sure if it counts. Everything I ate today came from Walgreens. Why am doing this? I’ll get to that in a minute.

But first, what does it feel like to go without food for more than a day? It feels like being hopped up on caffeine. Antsy. Edgy. Plus I want to wallow in a vat of mashed potatoes.

I’m having some surgery tomorrow. When the doctor told me yesterday that I’d have to fast for 48 hours, I almost said “Are you sh*tting me?” but this is not my regular OB/GYN, it’s a new guy, even though cursing in front of him should be no big deal at this point, given all we’ve been through together already. The first thing that flashed in my mind was a Beck’s Prime burger and a milkshake — would that last 48 hours?

Another really cool thing about surgery, other than starvation, is my new wardrobe. On my mom’s advice I bought a supply of dusters. I come from a long line of duster-wearing women. For those of you who think a duster is something you wipe on furniture, it’s actually a loose-fitting garment with a zipper or snaps down the front. Plus two enormous pockets. With rick-rack on them. Don’t ask me what rick-rack is. My old aunts used the pockets for cigarettes and heavy silver lighters, tubes of red lipstick, compacts and wadded-up money. They also accessorized with hair nets and men’s socks. Don’t know that I’ll take the look that far.

Anyhow, I probably won’t be back on Motherguilt until this weekend. I’ll give you a full report.

- Fire ants on the field
- Quarterback sidelined by hiccups
- Receivers too distracted by their own mouth-guards to catch the ball
- Other team scored more points