Option 1: Do nothing. There’s an 80% chance that the surgery Andy had to remove the tumors was enough; the cancer will never come back. Of course he would have to get monitored on a regular basis to make sure, but even if the cancer returned, it’s a sort that’s slow growing enough that there’s no real risk. As long as he stuck to his surveillance schedule they would catch it with plenty of time and squash it away before it could do any harm. And anyone who knows my husband knows he would stick to his surveillance schedule. But would he worry and fret between check-ups? Anyone who knows my husband knows that, yes, he would do that too. Another problem: if the cancer came back, squashing it would require much more serious and debilitating drugs than what would be used now; see options 2 and 3.

Option 2: Radiation. Basically, he would go in every day for a few weeks and have cancer fighting rays zapped down on his abdomen. The point would be to kill any tiny cancer cells that had escaped but that were too small to be be detected by his CT scan (because no spreading was detected on his CT scan). This would reduce the odds of recurrence from 20% to less than 5%. Problem is, it would also probably make him horribly sick and more importantly, up his risk factor for colon cancer ever so slightly; his mom died from colon cancer.

Option 3: Chemo. A type of chemotherapy called carboplatin is a fairly new option for Andy’s type of cancer. It’s been used on other cancers for a long time so they know it doesn’t lead to any major long-term problems. Of course, it’s still chemotherapy so it’s not totally harmless and shouldn’t be administered unnecessarily, but it’s much more mild than the sort of chemos that would be used if a recurrence happened. Based on about 10 years of research, they’re thinking it has similar success rates as radiation, reducing the odds of recurrence to less than 5%. However, because it hasn’t been around too long it’s impossible to know this for sure. But it’s a lot easier on the body than radiation. You get one injection and then wait it out for three weeks or so. The vast majority of people experience only minor discomfort and keep working full-time.

So, what did Andy decide?

Drumroll please…

Andy wanted more peace of mind than surveillance alone could provide. To stay sane he needs to know a) he did everything he could to stave off recurrence, and b) recurrence is pretty darn unlikely. So that left him with radiation or chemo. Radiation is a perfectly good option for many, but he didn’t see the point in upping his risk, even ever so slightly, for another type of cancer to which he’s already genetically predisposed — especially when there’s another perfectly good option on the table. So that left chemo. Even after the chemo he’ll still need to get his blood tested for cancer markers quarterly and have annual CT scans in the event that he’s in the unlucky 5%, but that’s manageable enough that we will hopefully be able to return to Benin to finish out our tour. The State Department’s medical office is telling us that should be fine, but we’ll see what happens when it’s time for an official decision.

So, that’s that.

Andy is scheduled to start chemo on February 13. I guess I have to let him off the hook for Valentine’s Day this year, huh?

“Sorry to interrupt…” she began.

Oh great, we both thought. She’s going to tell us that we haven’t dressed Flynn warmly enough. Or that we really shouldn’t be letting him eat whatever it is he’s currently putting in his mouth. For all you non-parents out there, you would be amazed how much unsolicited advice comes along with bringing a baby  in public. This is one of my least favorite things about being back in the U.S. Maybe the same thing happened in Benin too, but luckily I couldn’t understand what people were telling me so I just assumed they were saying he was cute.

But no, that’s not the direction this particular woman was going. “Do you have a blog…?” she continued.

“Why yes, yes we do.”

It turns out her husband is in the current A-100 class, and they poured through Foreign Service blogs, including ours, to know what to expect. This sort of thing has happened to us a number of times in the past few years, and each time we’re surprised to learn that anyone besides our parents is actually reading. So this blog does have a readership, albeit one specific to the sort of people who hang out at hotels close to the FSI shuttle. Still, it’s a readership nonetheless, and that makes what I’m about to tell you all the more shocking.

A few months ago my mom starting blogging on Open Salon — you know, the place where Julie of Julie & Julia fame blogged about her cooking adventures. Very quickly my mom built a circle of loyal followers, getting more views and comments than we could dream about. She very quickly outdid us, and now it seems she’s outdone even herself. She’s gone viral. A week ago my mom posted “25 Things I Learned From Opening a Bookstore” and as of right now she’s received 47,000 page views.

47,000!

For a bit of perspective, let me point out than in all of 2011 our blog got 37,000 page views. Yes, your math is correct: that’s 10,000 less in a whole year than my mom got in one week.

We admit defeat.

But go read her posts! And tell your literary agent friends.

(Note: In the two hours since I originally posted this she’s already jumped up to 54,000 views. Almost 7,000 views in hours? Man.)

(And a day later? 100,000!)

But there’s my dilemma. Life isn’t just about the good stuff; bad creeps in occasionally too. And how am I to handle that bad stuff online? I faced that question last March when my dad passed away, and I’m facing it again now. Not knowing how much I want to reveal, I’ve opted so far to say nothing at all. But that hasn’t really been working. There’s a difference between not disclosing every little thing and intentionally holding back the most important thing. Holding back the most important thing feels not only dishonest but also uncomfortable. And so I guess (at least for me) that’s when a lowlight becomes scatter-worthy.

Here’s what has been going on.*

January 1: Andy found a lump that he promptly had examined by the Embassy doctor, who didn’t think it was anything serious.

January 3: The doctor arranged for blood tests and a sonogram to be done in Cotonou just in case.

January 4: The results were analyzed both by the Embassy doctor and the Regional Medical Officer; neither thought there was cause for worry. Still, Andy and I remained concerned. My dad’s fairly recent death of throat cancer was fresh in my mind, and Andy lost his mom when he was little to colon cancer too. To us, a lump meant cancer, and the possibility of cancer — however tiny — was too serious to ignore. Fortunately the Regional Medical Officer approved a medevac for Andy for further evaluation. Flynn and I were approved to fly back the the U.S. too.

January 10: We arrived in D.C.

January 11: Within the first five minutes of Andy’s appointment, a urologist at George Washington University diagnosed him with testicular cancer.

January 12: Andy underwent surgery to get rid of two cancerous tumors. They were sent for biopsy to determine specifically what kind of cells they contained.

January 18: Andy had a CT scan to see whether and where the cancer had spread.

January 20: Nine days after the diagnosis of cancer — awful days of waiting, worrying, and fearing the worst — the results from blood tests, biopsy, and CT scan were finally all in. And the news was good. In fact, given the circumstances, it was the best possible news we could have received: his cancer was both the less dangerous kind and was caught before it had spread anywhere else. The survival rate for this sort of thing (with proper follow-up care) is essentially 100%.

We are all so happy, especially this little one who actually just moved on from his incessant muttering of “Mama” to a brand new word: “Dada.” Coincidence? I think not.

Though we have the diagnosis and prognosis, there are still many unknowns.

What follow-on treatment will we decide is best? Andy might undergo a low dose of radiation or chemo to slash the odds of recurrence from 15% down to virtually none, or he might just have CT scans and blood tests regularly for the next few years to monitor the situation, and only go the radiation or chemo route if that becomes necessary. (Because his cancer was the less dangerous, slow growing kind, this is perfectly safe.) When we decide on the best follow-on treatment, how long will it take? And what will I do work-wise during that time? After treatment, will Andy be medically cleared to return to Cotonou, or will I have to find an assignment somewhere else? What will become of Andy’s spot on the Foreign Service Register? Appointments Monday and Tuesday with an oncologist and then a radiation oncologist will allow us to start tackling these unknowns.

For now, we’re focusing on the one thing we do know: when all is said and done, it looks like Andy will be okay.

* Posted with Andy’s okay, of course. He says hello and thanks for reading, but he’s still enjoying the “I have cancer” excuse to justify lazing around all day and basking in decent bandwidth and the wonders of Hulu; as a result he has no free time to actually compose a blog entry himself.

It was true. She was a working single parent, so she really had no time to clean. Not that she probably would have chosen to anyway. I can’t say I blame her. There are just too many better things to do, she often said, and in my adult life I’ve found more and more that I agree. It’s not just cleaning, but cooking too. Why waste your evening when take-out tastes better anyway?

Nature or nurture, I don’t know, but women in my family are not exactly domestic. And it’s probably largely for this reason that it never occurred to me to spend my working hours at home.

Cook? Clean? Look after children? No thank you. I didn’t play house as a kid; I dressed up in my mom’s work clothes and marched off to some imagery but highly important job.

They say having kids changes you. I hate clichés, but I must reluctantly admit that this one, like so many of them, turns out to be quite true.

Now that I have a kid of my own, I find that I don’t really have much of a desire to put on fancy work clothes and head off to a job, no matter how interesting or important. When I’m at the office, I miss my son. I can’t imagine any job feeling as important as being with him.

And that other stuff that comes along with staying at home? Well, suddenly that doesn’t seem so bad either. Much to my surprise, I find myself longing to spend afternoons cooking. I daydream about passing an hour at the market, baby strapped to my belly, and then another whipping up some colorful creation.

It hasn’t gotten to the point that I’m having romantic notions about cleaning. (One can only change so much.) But I might even be willing to endure some of that in order to spend hours staring at Flynn. Sleeping. Smiling. Even screaming. (He’s found his vocal cords these past few days and isn’t afraid to use them.) I’m not forgetting what it was like to take care of him full-time. I know that it was — and would be — hard. Yet I still find myself in my office sneaking glances at pictures of him, wishing I could just be home.

What’s a working mom to do?

Let me be clear about one thing: this isn’t about what I believe is best for my son. For the record, I don’t really think it particularly matters whether a parent works or not. If she stays home, kids certainly benefit from the extra quality time. If she works, kids certainly benefit from the close-up example of professional success. I’m of the mindset that if you love your kids, well, that’s really all you can do. They will become who they’re bound to become despite your best intentions.

Hopefully my son will grow up happy, but it’s not his happiness that’s troubling me right now; it’s my own. Selfishly, I want to be around him. Being around him would make me happy. Happier than I can imagine any job would. But how long would it make me happy? When he’s off at school will I grow restless? Will I want to return to the workforce?

For many parents, taking a few years off and then returning to work is an option. As an entry-level Foreign Service Office, this, as many of you know, isn’t really possible. If I were to leave now I’d have to go through the whole application process again. The State Department might not even be hiring when I was ready to return, and even if they were, I might not make the cut the next time around. Even if I did, my career would start all over at the bottom.

Largely because of the finality of walking away from my job, it’s not something I’m seriously considering at this point. But still, it’s there in the back of my mind, tempting me to a degree I never thought it would.

If I could peak at my life five years in the future, I honestly don’t know what I’d see.

Maybe Flynn will be saying, “I love you mom, but you’re too stressed.”

Or perhaps, instead, “I love you mom, but you need a hobby.”

Either way, I’m fairly sure the house will still be a mess.

(P.S. See the comments of this blog post for some interesting observations from a member of the Canadian diplomatic corps about the difference in maternity leave policy between Canada and the U.S.)

• Pre-baby promise #1: He will always be dressed in cute clothes.
• Reality: Eh, he’s just going to get it dirty soon anyway; sometimes a diaper is good enough.

Just chilling in my duck.

• Pre-baby promise #2: We will continue our lifestyle of minimalism.
• Reality: That toy makes him bust out the slightest smile? Buy 10 of them!

Imagine how much more fun this will be when my feet touch the ground!

• Pre-baby promise #3: Early on we’ll start him on a strict sleep schedule.
• Reality: We’re grateful for any sleep he decides to bestow upon us, whenever and wherever it should come.

Yes, I sleep on patio tables. What’s it to you?

• Pre-baby promise #4: We won’t let Flynn take too much attention away from Abbey.
• Reality: Whoops — totally forgot about Abbey for this year’s family picture. Sorry girl. Maybe next time.

The one picture in which Flynn isn’t crying or sleeping.

• Pre-baby promise #5: We won’t burden Flynn with unrealistic goals and expectations.
• Reality: Based on his early interest in standing, we’ve decided he should be walking any day now.

  Thanks for the help Mom, but I’ve got this.

In case your reading tastes are more high-brow than People and US Weekly, let me fill you in: these two had a son in January who they named Flynn. Yep, Flynn. We already had our Flynn’s name picked out at that point, and although the primary reason we chose it was after Andy’s mom, we also really liked that it was a bit unique. Not totally out there like Kjellfrid or Cucumber or something, but also not on any Top 100 Baby Names lists.

So it was a little annoying when these “celebrities” picked the same name for their son. Lucky for us, they weren’t exactly Angelina and Brad. They were just some actor from some pirate movie and some model we hadn’t really even heard of. Their Flynn would fade from the news cycle quickly. Or so we thought.

Well, no such luck. Every few days since January there’s been a new article proclaiming “Miranda nurses baby Flynn!” or “Orlando takes a walk with baby Flynn!” or “Miranda’s back on the runway after baby Flynn!” Were these two big-name celebrities before and I just didn’t realize it, or did having a baby elevate their status? In any case, reading about their baby Flynn continues to make us cringe… but I guess we’ll just have to get over it.

Besides, our baby Flynn had his first paparazzi experience already too.

And he even has a head shot!

I’m Flynn Charles, named after two grandparents I wish I got to meet, my dad’s mom Lynn and my mom’s dad Charles.

I came into the world on May 12 at 5:13 p.m. — just a minute away from being born at 5:12 on 5/12. Darn! But at least I made it here before Friday the 13th.

I weigh 7 pounds 8 ounces and am 20 inches long. I came into the world hand first, waving hello to my mom and dad, who seem very nice but very tired. Luckily my grandma Jeanne is here to help, and my other grandparents Russ and Sherrie are on their way. I’m also very excited to meet my beagle. I bet I can cry louder than she can.

Today on our way to the doctor’s office a new mom entered the elevator with her baby in tow.

“Aww, he’s so cute,” everyone else gushed. “How old is he?”

“Four days,” the proud mother replied.

Rather than joining the oohing and ahhing that ensued, I shot Andy a glare. He knew exactly what I meant: that could be me. I could have a four-day-old baby by now. But no, I don’t. And I’m awfully grumpy about it. I’m mad at Andy. I’m mad at Abbey. I’m mad at the baby. He’s not yet born and already getting lectures about his behavior.

Rationally I know it’s much more likely for a first baby to come late than early, and yes, my baby is only a day late at this point, which hardly gives me the right to complain. But patience is not among my strengths. (You’re lucky I didn’t have this blog while I was waiting for my security clearance. Trust me, it wasn’t pretty.)

The good news is that I won’t have to wait much longer. My doctor plans to induce on Monday if the baby hasn’t come on his own by then. Six days. I’m sure if will feel like an eternity (and I’m sure I’ll fit more complaining into that time than one could possibly imagine, Andy would like to add), but all things considered six days isn’t so bad.

By mid-next week I’ll be the new mom on the elevator with her coo-worthy son. The only difference between me and that woman I saw today? I doubt I’ll be carrying the kid myself. I think it’s Andy’s turn.