Haters gonna hate.

I've spent so much money on disposable cameras. I have more photo albums than I know what to do with, sprinkled about the house. I have stacks of boxes filled with photograph memorabilia. I have the negatives filed away by date, along with the doubles from years worth of 4x6 prints. I always spent the extra $1 and made double prints. I did this so that I could share the photos. That's right, I SHARED the photos I obsessively, compulsively took with my disposable cameras with my friends and family, and anyone who I thought might enjoy the candid shot I caught of them. I shared photos long before Facebook. I was obsessed to the point of severe anxiety about capturing memorable moments long before smart phones.

I got a fancy, manual camera for Christmas my Freshman year of college. I took a photography class. I shoved a camera in Matt's hands constantly, insisting he take the picture (since he always seemed to get the better shot.) When I got a free moment, I would go through these picture and work on a scrapbook. Here, I could paste ticket stubs and write words to go with these times in my life that I never, ever wanted to forget. I have an entire, antique dresser from my childhood filled with different stickers, cardstock, glue, pens, paints, various newspaper clippings, old greeting cards, and other essential components to a great scrapbook. Matt would love for me to get rid of these things. Not going to happen. I still, fully intend to complete these books, someday. This desk, though...nothing has been added. At least, not in the last 6 years. I have not had to purchase a disposable camera, since college, really. I no longer scrapbook. Yet, I have managed to capture every image, thought, funny moment, and valuable memory in the past few years better than ever before. How?

Digital cameras, laptops, cell phones, smart phones, and most specifically, the iPhone. These wonderful devices have changed my life. For the better. I no longer attend a wedding, worrying how I will carry my camera around, winding up the flash, hoping the shot turns out as intended. I don't spend time driving to the pharmacy dropping off and then back to pick up my prints. Then organizing them, mailing them to people, cataloging them. I truly believe I have regained years of life just from the sheer amount of stress and time reduction that smart phones have provided me.

I hear and read constant shaming of people for time spent on their phones, Facebook, Instagram, all social media. Making statements, like, "be present". As if, there is no way to be present or enjoy the little things in life if you are photographing and sharing them. If this is the case, then I have never been present, or able to experience "the moment". Which, is partly true, when I think about my state of mind back when technology and the digital age was not so prevalent...I was anxious. Stressed. Constantly, thinking about how I was going to take a picture, remember this party, revisit that concert.

I have never been more connected to my friends and family. I have never kept a more up-to-date scrapbook than this very blog. I have never retained more vivid memories, than in the past 5 years. It makes me happy. It makes me love, and value, and enjoy even the simplest walks, meals, moments. Capturing an image of a cute facial expression, awesome outfit, perfect day was not possible before...unless you hauled your clunky camera with you everywhere. I truly feel that I appreciate life, and everything it has to offer, even more now that I am constantly connected to the world.

This technological age is something I hoped for and dreamed of as a youngster. It suits me. My children and family know that I will take photos. My boys understand to just let it happen, then go on their merry way. My siblings make fun of me, constantly. Yet, if I come unarmed with a camera, they are disappointed. They appreciate my neurosis, as they too, now have memories captured that would have slipped away from consciousness so easily. Only to be rehashed if, by some chance, a thought, image, word, moment, smell, triggered that old memory and brought it back to mind.

Perhaps, for some, these devices are a distraction from, instead of an enhancement to life. I'm also, not trying to imply that I have never been posting an Instagram photo, while my children were in the pool or at the park playing. Sure, I ignore them for a moment. But, before phones, did every mother watch, care for, provide for their every child's need at every moment? They never chatted with friends while park or poolside? Read a book? Watched a Soap? Did a crossword? Flipped through a magazine? I don't use my phone during meals. I try not to use it while socializing with friends, but will when everyone else takes a moment for "phone time". Ok, sometimes I kickstart "phone time" but others follow!

All I am trying to say, is that I love my iPhone. I love Instagram. I love Facebook. I love blogging. I love texting; especially, fun, hilarious group texts with close friends. I love flipping through the many images I've captured of the life that I love, at any given moment. While on call one night, a fellow doctor walked behind me and saw what I was flipping through on Instagram, and exclaimed, "Are you looking at your own pictures!?" Umm, duh! Of course I am. There are no pictures I'd rather see than my own pictures of everything I love in life. I am going to continue to photograph, quote, write about, and post the many phenomenal, hilarious, sad, ironic, mundane, beautiful moments in my life. This life I only get to live once. You may think I am totes magotes cray cray. That I am neglecting someone, or something. That I am missing out on life because my nose is plastered in my phone. I think I am making the most of every minute, and enjoying life to its very tip-top fullest.
#hatersgonnahate

Mitchers.

Mitch is all boy. He will wade through the sea of toys, upon toys, upon toys until he stumbles across a car. Even a tiny Matchbox car. He will then fumble awkwardly with his horrid, fine motor skills until he finally gets a "good" grip on the vehicle to move it back and forth and back and forth, take a taste, make some cute baby noises, then back and forth again while blowing raspberries - or, I mean, make very realistic car sounds. If he sees a brother down on the ground, he sprints toward them with his exceptional gross motor skills and tackles them. Poor George, being the smallest brother, doesn't even stand a chance, at least physically, against his monster baby brother. George weighed 26lbs at two years, Mitch weighs 23lbs 8ozs at nine months!! He growls. He screams. I mean, really, really loudly screams. I am tempted to add girlish to the scream description because of the extremely high pitch, but he has somehow made it manly based purely off the shear force behind that voice. Apparently, he got the Smith/Giblin side in volume as well as looks. He has a perpetual bump on his forehead. When on the move, nothing will stop him from his destination, neither wall, nor door, nor stair, nor brother, no chair, nor table, nor wall corner, nor door-jam. The constant bouncing, you know, strengthening his thigh muscles, while standing does not help the head bruise situation either. My future, all-star athlete is in constant training.

When pregnant with this one, I joked I was breeding an Olympian. Something in his movements, the way we saw him kicking on ultrasound, all added together to give me the impression that he is athletic. His behavior and physique on the outside has only confirmed this suspicion. They say the Secretariat ate more than any other race horse ever had, walked early, appeared a champion from day one. This is Mitch. Now that I have finally stopped breastfeeding (nine months, my longest stretch!) I can see how much he is drinking. On top of 3 baby food meals a day, he drinks four 8oz bottles. That is 32ozs!!!!!  He is sad at the end of each one, as if he could eat more. None. Not a single one of my boys, ever, got above 24ozs of milk a day. Until now, of course. Like Secretariat, I think I am going to syndicate The Mitch and start selling shares for a couple hundred thousand a pop, prior to proof of performance. I'm {sort of} kidding.

Despite his many manly mannerisms (say that 6 times fast), my biggest baby is just that, a baby. He loves to be rocked to sleep. If you stopped rocking or patting him, he will try to do his himself; kicking his legs. If you sway and hum, he hums along. He has no "lovey" yet...but I'm thinking he is going to be a Blanky guy...again, following the Smith side trend. He attempts to repeat "what's that?" and says "dada" with purpose. "Mama" for him is following me around crying, squealing and screaming, like a whiny little puppy. Until he gets distracted by a toy car. Especially this green transformer one that says roars, "I drive angry!" When he's not load, he's silent. He speaks with his eyes. His huge, brown, beautiful, engaging eyes. He has no toofs. He loves food, eats anything, has never gagged, yet has no teeth. Truthfully? I love it. Toothless babies are totes adorbs. Never mind that he already weighs more than any of my children did by 1 year, it makes him look so much more infant-like. I don't want him to grow up, turn into a toddler, become like those older three, awful things. (Ok, I like them too, but I LOVE me a baby.) I know it's inevitable, but, at least now, I can come back and remember my little Mitchers.

#morningwalkstoStarbucks

For as long as I have lived in this little Prairie Village home, I have taken regular walks to Starbucks. In the beginning, there were no children. I can hardly remember that time. I don't remember that time. I imagine the walk was relaxing, enjoyable, and easy, but obviously it was meaningless. I have no memory of walking alone to Starbucks. Now, four children later, these walks give me a sense of joy, pride and love. It may seem silly, that such a simple, mundane routine could provoke these emotions, but trust me, there is no such thing as "simple" or "mundane" with four children under age 6.

 Every morning, Brock comes into our bedroom, sometime between 6:30 and 7am. Every morning I tell him it's too early. He doesn't listen. He wakes up this early, every single morning. He then asks if it's "a mommy day"? If I answer yes, the next question that follows is, "can we walk to Starbucks!?" Why, of course. Don't have to ask me twice. By this time, all the children are up. In about 30 minutes, after multiple threats to not go to Starbucks, or not get chocolate milk, we are all out the door. Curtis and Brock on their bikes with their helmets (which Curtis can latch on his own, yet Brock asks me to help him, every time). George and Mitch in the sit 'n stand stroller.

As we depart from the house, the boys race off ahead, stopping at our next door neighbor's bushes. For some reason, this has become a boundary, past which they know not to go without approval from a watching or accompanying adult. We continue on. Brock and Curtis stop at every street. If George has strayed from the stroller to pick a dandelion, or examine a bug, he searches for my hand before crossing the road. The walk proceeds smoothly, yet with multiple interruptions, distractions, discoveries and lots of coaxing and redirection. Like snowflakes or fingerprints, no two morning walks to Starbucks are alike.

When we encounter neighbors, at least one boy waves, if not all, sometimes they even say, "hi". They politely ask to pet every dog. Or, at least, I remind them to politely ask before petting the dog. George usually thinks he wants to pet it as well, but chickens out, every time. We need a big dog. As we approach the destination, I give the boys a pep talk. I tell them to behave, which means, not touching all the merchandise, or people, waiting with me in line, and, above all, listening to me...or else they get no treat of any sort.

Soon, we are inside the cafe. If I haven't heard it at least once on the walk, it's not long after we enter the store, before I hear, "All boys!? You've got your hands full." This is something for which there really is no proper response other than to shrug and smile. I'm not sure what I expect people to say. I'd be fine with, even prefer, no comments. Perhaps, then I could feel like I'm not a spectacle everywhere we go. Without knowing it, the people who make this seemingly harmless statement have made sure that I'm aware of how conspicuous the 5 of us are. The little O'Laughlin parade of boys. It also, somewhat, implies that my hands are too full, therefore, I don't have control of the situation. If I'd have my way, no one would even acknowledge me with my gaggle of boys.

We finally make it through the long, nearly out-the-door line. No porcelain mugs have been broken, to date. No back of coffee opened and spilled. A plastic straw may have had a little mouth on it once or twice, and "secretly" placed back on the shelf...but people wash these before use, right!?  When we get close to the front cooler full of snacks and beverages, the boys all cut in line to grab their chocolate milks. People usually smile, and find this to be cute. Sometimes I hear an "excuse me" - we need to work on that one. I open each wrapper, put in the straw, and seat the 3 boys at the high table, facing the register, all while still holding the baby. They sit and enjoy the milk. I order my drink, and their snack. I divide the cookie or pound cake into 3's, and head over to the counter to get my drink. Normally, I return to find my three boys still happily sitting, and eating. Sometimes they've made a huge mess. Sometimes they've discovered that if you blow hard into the straw, milk squirts back into your face. Mostly, they just want more cookie.

On this particular day, I returned and a middle-aged woman was standing beside them, smiling. I had taken a little longer to return because I made a detour to grab napkins to wipe up some milk off the floor. I stoop down to wipe the milk, and stand back up, again, all while holding the 23 and 1/2 pound baby. This woman looks at me and says (as she points to a table with a man and another woman), "We have just been absolutely charmed by your little family. We have been watching them, and you since you walked through the door. They are so well-behaved, and adorable. They 3 of them just sat there while you ordered and paid. Then you squatted down to wipe up that milk, while holding the baby, as if it were effortless. You seem to have everything under control. I am amazed. And you must have the strongest thighs."

I must have everything under control!!!!??? That was perhaps the nicest compliment I have ever received. She could not have known that "control" is something I strive for, and always have, all of my life. Nor could she have known that I simply do not accept compliments. I don't know how. I rarely feel deserving of them. Even this one, I'm not totally sure I deserve it. These boys have an amazing father. They have a family that surrounds and teaches them manners, how to behave, and loves them no matter what. And, not to forget, the boys themselves are wonderful (as far as little, baby, toddler boys go, anyway.) For once, I appreciate that someone approached me and admitted to gawking at my little "S show", because she seemed to see the intricacies of what had just happened. She looked beyond the spilling milk, the crumbs, the constant touching of other people and things, the required redirection, and saw 4 boys and their mom, simply enjoying some treats together at Starbucks.

I'm a doctor.

Tomorrow is my last day of residency. My last day to work at Truman Medical Center, Lakewood.

I have done a lot of strenuous, difficult things in my life. Things that require not only dedication, but perseverance. I think these last 3 years were the hardest.

I keep a smile on my face. I don't complain. I do my work. Put in orders as I'm told. I act as though it's just life. As though working horrid, long, draining hours taking care of patients who mostly don't care about their own health, let alone what I have to say, and then checking out my every thought and plan to attendings who always add their "two cents" doesn't even bother me in the slightest.

Well, it sucked. I aged A LOT in 3 years. You can see it in my photographs. I showed a co-worker a photo of myself delivering Curtis; she remarked "Look how young you were!" Curtis was 3.25 years old at the time. I've aged. A lot. In 3 years.

The hours. The patients. The attendings. It's all so very necessary in the process to become a good physician.  Trust me. You DO NOT want a doctor who thought residency was "easy". You just don't.

Residency, for me, has been like most of my pregnancies. I know the end result will be awesome. I know it's a right of passage. Something I must do. And as such, just because I am suffering, I will not force those I live with, work with, play with to suffer my misery. Then, at the bitter end, I just can't hold it together any longer. The gig is up. I am done. I see my freedom. As a soon to be private practice doctor. My own boss. I can't pretend anymore. I feel nothing but happiness and excitement to be moving on.

For three years, I pretended to be modest. The constant, "I don't know how you do it" comments, that I brushed off, as if to say, "Oh, it's nothing." Yeah, your damn right you don't know. You have no clue. It was {f-bomb} insane. I was literally on the edge of sanity for 1,095 days. I have a saint for a husband. A saint for a mom. A saint for a Mother-in-law. Father. Father-in-law. Sister. Sister. Brother. Friend. Child. Cousin. You don't know how I did it, because even I don't know! No clue. How I got to where I am, right now, with one day left, is a blur. I just know, I will never, ever repeat it, and recommend the process to no one.

At any given moment, if I truly fell over that edge, I was prepared to give up my career, drown in student loans, and do whatever necessary for the betterment of my family. One might think having 4 children, and actually birthing 2 during residency was a contributing factor to the near-debilitating stress of the pathway to becoming a physician. It wasn't. My family was my refuge. My love. My getaway. No matter how miserable work became, I arrived home to my favorite people. 5 of them. Every. Single. Night. (Except, of course, the nights I didn't actually get to come home.) Those boys are why I remain happy, every day of every week of every year.

A fellow resident once described being the weekend day person on the medicine service as "going to war". He was entirely accurate. There were weekends I lost 7 pounds in the course of 48 hours. Patients "need" your services. Which means nurses "need" your services. And these come from the ER docs who, also, "need" your services. My responsibilities as "mom" to 4 toddlers don't got nuthin' on my responsibilities as "med RIC". We answered page after page, read X-rays, ordered meds, ran codes, delivered babies, restrained belligerent, or insane, or both, patients, listened to endless hearts, lungs, bellies, gave narcotics, withheld narcotics. We pronounced people dead. We SAVED PEOPLE'S LIVES.

The paperwork. Evaluations. Quizzes. Tests. Journals. Lectures. We didn't even get to eat lunch in peace. Just a nice 30 minute break in the middle of the day. To hang out with peers. Nope. Not allowed. You. Must. Work. At all times. Or at least be learning something.

My peers. Truly, the only wonderful thing about the last 3 years. I graduated last Friday with some of my favorite people in the world. Amazing individuals. People who, like me, sucked it up and survived 3 years, with {mostly} a smile on their face. The connection you make with people, when you have all been through the same, traumatic, experience is unbreakable. Like my IU swimming girls, we are bonded, for life. I will miss them terribly. So much so, I nearly cry as write this. We never felt sorry for one another. There was no empathy for our colleague on their 11th admission over night, or the unsuccessful code, or that nurse that won't leave you alone. We'd all had that experience, too. So what? Yet, we all respected one another. We laughed. A lot. Used each other as a sounding board, a resource, an understanding ear, and at times, the only source of encouragement and validation left in our lives. My mom will always tell me, "it's going to be ok". That's what mom's do. But, for the past 3 years, unless I heard it from my fellow resident, I couldn't be sure it was true.

My actual family medicine residency program? The best you can ask for. I had 2 kids. I graduated on time. They made sure of this. They educated us, lectured us, tested our knowledge, forced us to think on our own. There were multiple caring, involved, intelligent attendings, pouring their heart, soul and lives into training new doctors. The program provided us as much "personal time" as a residency can while still responsibly training future physicians. It's not their fault. Residency sucks.

I feel like I should be really proud of my accomplishments. Ecstatic to be finishing. Singing nothing but praises about my last 8 years of training. Afterall, I am finally, a doctor. It's my longest lifetime goal. Don't get me wrong, I cannot wait to build my practice, help educate people about their health, get them well and keep them healthy. I have no regrets, not one, with the path I have chosen in life. I hope to be involved in the lives of many wonderful families. I hope people will come to see me and leave motivated, invigorated and more knowledgable about their well-being. But like any, huge goal, when it's achieved, it's over, and for a brief moment you feel lost. Until, on to the next big thing...the rest of my life. My career. I'm a doctor.

I truly enjoy this vocation. I am thankful for my brain and personality. People ask me all the time, why I became a doctor. In my head, the best, most honest, answer I have? Because I could.

Buying in Bulk

Things I never, ever, imagined I would buy in bulk:

• KETCHUP.  I could live without this condiment for the rest of my life. I use it when necessary, like on a hot dog, if tomatoes, onion an pickles are unavailable. Or on dry/tasteless fries. My children? Well, it's required for them to eat any meat. Because, besides hotdogs, we tell them that everything else is "chicken". And chicken needs ketchup. Duh. Curtis will dip his fingers in the ketchup and lick his plate clean. George will even dip his carrots in ketchup. It's really, quite gross.

• RANCH DRESSING. If ketchup doesn't work, there is always ranch. Carrots, fish sticks, chicken nuggets, pizza; you name it. Kids will eat just about anything if they have dip available.

•  HERSHEY'S CHOCOLATE SYRUP. Same story as above, only with milk. It's a lot cheaper and more versatile to turn white milk into chocolate milk with syrup. And, sometimes you just gotta have chocolate milk. Once you go chocolate, you never go back...that doesn't quite sound right?

• TOOTHBRUSHES. I haven't done this yet, but that is only because I keep forgetting to grab a pack when I am at Costco. A SomeEcard had a saying that went something like this, "If your toddler has been in the bathroom, unattended for more than 2 minutes, you might as well throw away your toothbrush." Truth. George!!!!! If he escapes upstairs, the first place to check is the bathroom, and he always can be found with a toothbrush in his mouth. Guess it's better than a hand in the toilet. I had an overnight call, was gone one, single night, and when I got home in the morning, gone. I didn't even have to throw it away, my toothbrush had simply disappeared. I am currently using a disposable one that I stole from a hotel, probably sometime in college. It's lasted 6 nights. That's a record.

• CHICKEN BREAST. I have no good reason. I just never imagined it. I used to be against freezing meat. I don't mind it anymore. 

• SHOES. Oh wait, this isn't the "Things I wish I could buy in bulk" column!? 

• Strawberries, Gogurt, Apple sauce, eggs.

•  GUMMY VITAMINS. I mean, I never thought I would be purchasing Vitamins at all, let alone Gummy ones. But since I have them...

I guess when you have children in bulk, you start purchasing foods for them in bulk. So, in hind sight, I should have seen this coming.