tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81444224770444459722024-03-08T09:36:19.910-05:00Who Needs a Medicine Ball When You Have a Baby?My perspective on parenting, marriage, and life. I'm not always right, but I'm pretty sure I am.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-23217596460355465032019-07-22T18:52:00.002-04:002019-07-22T18:52:57.478-04:00Making ConnectionsI posted the following on Facebook yesterday, after a really dramatic trip to the grocery store. Take some time to read, then I want to tell you the rest of the story. <br />
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We try to teach our kids about the importance of "it takes a village", and stepping out of your comfort zone to help others in need, and to not be afraid to ask for help when you need help. Sometimes, the best way to teach is by example. So much gratitude (tears welling as I type) to those perfect strangers who stepped in to help in time of need. I hope I recognize you when next our paths cross--<br />
To the man who gave up his belt to tourniquet my leg and didn't appear to think twice. Who carried me (and I am not light!) across the Food Lion parking lot in 100 degrees. Who kept kids calm, got my husband there, stepped up for a perfect stranger. We owe you a belt. And probably much more. Thank you for seeing a need and not hesitating to jump in. I almost said "I'm fine", but I wasn't, and I'm glad you saw that.<br />
To the (I think you are new?) Food Lion manager who probably has to toss his shirt and tie now, but appeared out of nowhere and did not hesitate to, literally, get his hands dirty. That was not in your job description, but thank you for your speed and your kindness and for not berating me for messing up your parking lot. I will be mildly embarrassed to see you on my next shopping trip, because I'm pretty certain everyone saw my knickers, and I do have to keep shopping there, but I'll pretend it's no big deal.<br />
And to the man who held my hand for what seemed like hours, but may have only been 10 minutes- who knew I was scared to death even though I didn't want my girls to know. Who didn't flinch for a second when I grabbed, desperate for something to hold. And who stayed right there with me until the ambulance came. Thank you for keeping me secure in more ways than one.<br />
You men showed my girls what it means to be a hero, what it means to be connected, and how important it is to put other's needs in front of your own. I am so glad you are part of our Community.<br />
And, of course, everyone else who showed up to help-- who moved in and out of the scene with towels and water and phones and hugs and handholds. I wasn't really cognizant enough to express my gratitude fully, and I may have missed someone lucrative, but Thank You.<br />
And, the Food Lion- North Main staff and managers. I am so sorry for the fuss, but thank you for your care and your concern (and for showing gratitude to the "hero" as you were able) and for keeping my girls calm, and communicating with my husband, and keeping me laughing.<br />
And- lastly- Blacksburg Police Department and EMT and the Lewis Gale Hospital staff. I know it's your job and it's exactly what you had planned for your Saturday night, but it wasn't in my evening's plans. Thank you for being there.</div>
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If any of my Blacksburg friends know who these kind strangers were, please make sure they know how grateful we are.</div>
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Cliff notes version of drama: I dropped a bottle as I was loading groceries in my car, managed to open an artery, made a mess. Feel like an idiot, but now I get a few days with my foot up and everyone feeling sorry for me. I got my first ambulance ride, and my little girls have learned a serious lesson about when to call 911, helping those in need, and why you don't ask for Creme Soda as a special treat. Or maybe you just buy it in cans...</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Here's the rest of the story. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">That morning, as a special reward, I was taking Kolbie and Micah to get their first pedicures. On the way in, we decided to stop and get a drink at the next door coffee shop. As we walked in, I commented to the girls "you can't get your first pedicure without having something delicious to sip on". A women walking past us overheard my comment and interjected with a smile and a "she's right and enjoy your pedicures!" I smiled at the stranger, but Micah reacted with an appalled "she was eavesdropping!" I corrected her: Not eavesdropping,<i> CONNECTING</i>. And I went on to reiterate to the girls that you can't segregate yourself from those you pass by in your day to day. You have to reach out and make connections. So that become the theme of the day. Every time a conversation happened: a man in the art shop who was looking for a fountain pen, a women in the restaurant where we ate lunch, a man in the grocery store providing a wine recommendation... and with every interaction, Micah would giggle and in a sing-song voice, say "making <i>connections</i>...."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">So fast forward to me laying on the parking lot, gushing blood, with strangers all around me. And I look up at Micah, smile at her, and say "now <i>THIS </i>is how you make connections". </span></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A long, long time ago, I wanted to adopt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be completely honest, I was 14 and I wanted
a baby right then, but knew I couldn’t violate the strict chastity laws imposed
on me by my parents and have a baby of my own at that age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So instead I would create elaborate fantasies of
finding a child in the woods or on the street, and for some reason I would be the only possible
parenting option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crazy, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no, I didn’t explain all this to my
husband when I met him—I know how that would have turned out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But from a young age I knew that one day a
baby in need would end up on my doorstep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few years back (it just happens to be a coincidence that
this began soon after my husband decided he would no longer allow me to steal
his manhood and impregnate myself), I started pestering my<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>husband to allow us to become foster
parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not quite sure whether I’m
an excellent nagger or my husband loves me tremendously, but regardless, he
agreed to go through the training and approval process to become foster
parents- which was no small feat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From
there, it was paperwork and background checks and his willingness to be available
for home studies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>JMahl was a trooper
through all of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would roll his
eyes every now and then and say “you know this is crazy, right?”—but he kept
moving forward and doing what needed to be done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally he’d take advantage of the
opportunity to remind me of just how much I owed him—or take payment—but he
kept moving forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then we were a certified foster family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But just because we *could* foster didn’t mean we *would* foster. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>JMahl said “just respite care”, “just short
term care”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I agreed: sure,
whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d already accomplished my
goal of “being able to”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t
actually expect to ever get the call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Similar to being pregnant for nine months—you never quite believe you
are going to have that baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when we did get that call, we had 15 minutes to make up
our mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes or No?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one else can take this child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve exhausted all resources.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will you take a child into your home?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then that baby- -and his 11 year old brother—landed on
our doorstep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And our foster parenting
saga began.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to start off by acknowledging that fostering a 4
month old child and fostering an 11 year old child are two completely different
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone loves a baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A baby is easy to care for (exhaustion aside).
A baby is pretty simple to feed and clothe and create rules for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A baby doesn’t really care who his mommy is
at the moment, as long as someone is holding him, loving him, and giving him a
bottle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, suffice it to say, Baby L is
just fine and dandy, even though I forgot what sleep deprivation was and
formula is so gosh darn expensive and inconvenient that I’m tempted to figure
out a way to breast feed this one too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>an 11 year old
who has just pulled from his family and has never met any of you and may have
eaten vegetables for the first time (separate from pizza or cheeseburgers) since
coming into your home is a very, very different story than a giggling, bouncy,
happy baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Foster Son, “S”, is a very sweet boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll start with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One night in he was squeezing us and telling
us how much he loved us and how grateful he is to be with us and how much he
loves fishing and soccer and hiking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two nights in he was explaining that he doesn’t eat eggs or
peppers, would really like some juice, and doesn’t really like soccer or
hiking, but does like video games.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three nights in he was begging for candy, detested fishing
(broken rod to prove it), a keen user of the word “WHY?”, and desperate for a
trip to Wendy’s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
JMahl put it pretty succinctly on the fourth day:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This kid just doesn’t *fit* with our family.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no, he doesn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has very little in common with our
kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s not used to eating what the
family eats or family dinner table or no technology time or not questioning
every single rule I make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s not used
to sports and being outdoors and being active.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s not used to interacting as part of a large family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mason is immensely disappointed that the
addition of a brother did not come with a fishing buddy and soccer competitor
installed, but we didn’t put in an order that DSS delivered per
our specifications.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
S is definitely not like our kids, but he doesn’t have to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We aren’t adopting this child. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully, his mother will do what is
necessary to bring him home, because he misses her immensely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’m not concerned with permanent fit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All we have to do is give him what he needs
now so that he can feel safe, protected, loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One day at a time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One week in as a Foster Mother and the first thing I’ve
learned is this: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not what we want, it’s what this child
needs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-13176844192079043142015-12-23T11:02:00.001-05:002015-12-23T11:02:16.770-05:00Gifting <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This “discussion” comes up pretty regularly in our home. Every
birthday, wedding, and gift-giving holiday we revisit this topic, although typically
at Easter it starts with “why do we even have to buy Easter presents?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who does that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I DO, Dear Husband, I DO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Regardless, this is how it goes:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Husband:</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><u> </u> </span>What do they
want?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Me:</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Husband:</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, what
did they put on their list/ registry?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Me:</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know… and
I don’t care… and I refuse to look other than to get ideas related to taste or
style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Husband:</u> ….. deep sigh….</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Me: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></u>(his sigh implies
it’s still my turn to talk) It’s not a gift if you tell me to buy it for you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Husband: </u>…. silence…..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(which implies he’s still wants me to talk)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Me</u>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, seriously—what’s
the point of saying “go buy this for me”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How is that me giving you a gift?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Husband</u>, with a valiant attempt at his form of logic:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>well, if they don’t like it, it’s just a
waste of our money. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then he typically ducks out before I start throwing
things at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things that were gifted
to me out of love, not off of a registry, that he thinks were a waste of your
money…. Just to be clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His argument was even used once to justify why we didn’t
receive a thank you note for a wedding gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My husband stated (with no evidence from Ann Landers or Dear Abby to
back this up) “if you don’t buy a gift off their registry, they don’t have to
write you a thank you note”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t
even go there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is so very, very wrong
on that one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(as were those who didn’t
write a thank you note, eh hem.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simply put, my husband and I approach gift giving from two
different directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I say
different, I mean completely opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And when I say completely opposite, I am implying that my way is right,
and his way is wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Never say I’m not
honest about my faults.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He believes you
buy people things they want you to buy them so that your money is not wasted
and they are guaranteed pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
believe in<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <b><span style="font-size: small;">giving gifts of love that
demonstrate what you mean to me.<span> </span>Gifts
that come from the soul.<span> </span>Gifts that show
I put thought into our relationship, your interests, what will give you warmth
and happiness.</span></b></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, those italics alone show which way is
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this year I started to think about, really, where do
these different ways of looking at gifts come from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What leads us to how we view buying presents
for others?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A long while ago, early in my marriage, my parents
recommended I read the book “The Five Love Languages” by Gary Chapman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, you may or may not be able to tell, but
self-help and counseling-type books annoy me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I refuse to believe they can tell me anything I don’t already know, but
this book had some valid points.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
interact with people in the way in which we like to be interacted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We touch people when touch is important to
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spend quality time with people
when we value quality time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We gift when
gifts are important to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So maybe the
same thing applies to *how* we gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe we gift in the manner that demonstrates how we want to
be gifted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People such as my husband
only want that for which they’ve specifically asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know what they want (or think they know)
and they think they won’t appreciate anything other than that specific
gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Of course, I think they are
close-minded and wrong, but that’s neither here nor there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the same fallacy, in my mind, that
causes people to not like food they’ve never tasted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They get so looped into “it must be bad, or
else I would have tried it” that they truly believe it is bad and they do not
like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">) </span>When it comes to gifts, they
want others to trust that they know what is best for themselves. There needs and desires are very specific. They want them to be met, and they want to meet the specific needs and desires of others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People like myself want others to *know* them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to you to intuitively determine what
it is that will make me most happy and what will demonstrate your love for and
knowledge of me and my inner thoughts and dreams. I would also like you to read
my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s practical versus romantic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes,
I hear myself saying it even as I type (although I refuse to say male versus
female, since I know people of both genders who violate those stereotypes).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this does explain why my son says very
specifically:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want a computer and an axe, and if you aren’t going to
get me either of these two things, please don’t get me anything at all, as it
will just be a waste of your money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
will say thank you, but then I will put it away and never look at it again- and
I will be sad.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And he's been known to do that when I've thought that perhaps Christmas would be a good time to introduce him to a potentially new interest such as calligraphy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughters, on the other hand, give me lists of perhaps
214 items, each one with a description similar to this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I would like pink fuzzy pajama pants, but you could also
get me purple fuzzy ones—or I’d like blue or green or yellow, or pretty much
any color that’s not black or brown… unless they are polka-dotted, then it
would be okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they don’t have to be
fuzzy, just comfy;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and not really pajama
pants—I want to wear them to school, so really any pants—or any comfy clothes
at all, because really I just want some new comfy clothes—or really pretty
ones- that’s fine too, even if they aren’t comfy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">And they are thrilled when I buy them stilts instead. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband sums it up a little differently:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“People who refuse to buy off lists are
really just know-it-alls who think they know better than you what you want and
what is right for you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You may be able to see why my husband might feel that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tend to have a rather poor rebuttal:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“People who only buy off lists lack imagination”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in truth, I think there may<b><u> be</u></b> some truth in all of this-- I don’t
want to buy off a list because I want to demonstrate my love for you in a way that
can’t be demonstrated simply by purchasing your shopping list for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And when you buy me a gift, I want to know that you know and love me. My husband</span> honestly believes that there is no point
in wasting money on something you may not like—because he wants you to be
happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And because he loves you, he doesn't want you to waste your money on something he's not going to absolutely love. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really, it all comes down to love, doesn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to show my love and care for you by putting love and thought
into my choice of a gift for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
husband wants to show his love and care for you by purchasing something that he
knows will make you happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And </span>I guess when
it all comes down to love, we are both right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, Happy Christmas, Birthday, Wedding, Holiday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you like what I got you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband knows you’ll like your gift from
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-55800232534573113562015-10-29T12:43:00.001-04:002015-10-29T12:43:09.493-04:00Chickens <span class="im"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in April, right around the time Spring started to appear, my mother appeared<span style="color: #44546a;">--</span> with chicks. Chicks were not something I’d been thinking long and hard about. Most of my ideas have a
tendency to appear quickly, consume my thoughts for a few days or weeks<span style="color: #44546a;"> at most</span>, and then drift away to be vaguely remembered years later with a “didn’t I once want to…?” <span style="color: #44546a;"><span style="color: black;"> However, </span>i</span>f
I manage to act quickly enough on these ideas, amazing things can
happen: take two of my four kids for example—and Moses, our most recent puppy. A spontaneous trip to the Animal Shelter is
never a good idea, according to my husband. He
managed to narrowly miss owning a cat this past weekend by sending me
death threats with his eyes (he’s too smart to say them out loud).
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the idea of owning chickens took root when my
mother mentioned that she was getting in an order of chicks whose
arrival would correlate with a planned weekend at her house<span style="color: #44546a;"> with the younger girls</span>.
She’s not an idiot. She was fully aware that surrounding two little
girls with 35 balls of peeping fluff would result in at least two of
those balls driving south to Blacksburg. It actually resulted in five
of those balls taking the trip south. One for
each child and an extra for the Daddy-- to show we hadn’t forgotten
him. He was overjoyed, I could tell. I choose to believe eye-rolls are
used in place of excessive joy. We even named his chick “Little Bear”
in memory of the name he’d voted<span style="color: #44546a;">
on</span> for Moses – obviously over-ruled, not for the least of
reasons that it’s a silly name for a 100lb gangly-legged horse-puppy.
It does, however, fit a brown hen.
<span style="color: #44546a;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;">I do need to make a
note here that it was a HUGE deal for my husband to sit quietly back and
accept the chickens. First of all, he is the parent who roams around
the house pointing out things that should be
cleaned, tasks that have been left undone, beds unmade. He *hates* animal smells and/or related shedding. He’s
responsible for lecturing the kids on maintaining socially acceptable levels
of hygiene and appearance (it’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that I
don’t prioritize it) and ensuring that things appear to run
smoothly. I’m actually the one who runs things smoothly, makes sure
the kids are fed and taken care of, and does the vast majority of the
cleaning—even when the vast majority of the cleaning is due to *<b>his</b>*
messes. But as most of you know, the loudest
one is seldom the most effective one (unless we are referring to
screaming at misbehaving children… then I am most loud AND most
effective). But due to my husband's heightened (albeit, probably
incorrect) perception of cleanliness and hygiene, he doesn’t like a lot
of animals in or around the house. No cats, no rabbits-- the short
period we had birds almost killed him-- and his esteem of the dogs would
raise dramatically, if only they were hairless.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;">But I digress…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So chicken owners we became, and it was actually
quite nice. Unfortunately, Black Bella eventually succumbed to “the
desire to visit Grandma” (a euphemism for whatever dug the tunnel into
the henhouse one night, in
case you are trying to figure that out), but Sparkles, Mosaic, Little
Bear, and Bark (named after tree bark, not dog bark) grew and thrived
and were actually quite pleasant to be around and care for. And then
<span style="color: #44546a;">Chicken P</span>uberty <span style="color: #44546a;">s</span>truck.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that I was not
aware that puberty in chickens could have the same dramatic effects as
it does in humans. I knew dogs hit a maturity level. Heck, I’ve been
begging for that day to come ever since Moses’
pure cuteness no longer justified his infernal destructive tendencies.
EACH. DAY. I beg him to grow up and stop the puppy chewing, puppy
jumping, puppy trying to climb in my lap (did I mention he’s a 100 lb
horse-puppy?) But no, he’s taking his good old
sweet time before giving in to maturity<span style="color: #44546a;"> and grown-up dog laziness</span>.
My chickens only took five months. Granted, we’d seen signs of changes
coming. We’d watched and listened with awe changing rather rapidly to
amusement
and then to horror as Bark decided to not succumb to our “four hen<span style="color: #44546a;">/four eggs a day</span>”
plan and came out quite openly and proudly as a rooster. Luckily, none
of our neighbors seem to mind (admit to minding) the fact that he
feels the need to incessantly remind us that he is, in fact, THE
preeminent cock-a-doodler<span style="color: #44546a;"> in the neighborhood (the *<b>only</b>* cock-a-doodler in the neighborhood)</span>. But I wouldn’t call his crowing a problem<span style="color: #44546a;">—at
least not on</span>ce we ascertained it wasn’t a problem for our neighbors.<span style="color: #44546a;"> So w</span>e
enjoyed our sweet chicks who, while having grown significantly larger
than the balls of fluff we’d acquired five months before, were friendly,
chuckled pleasantly, and ate grass out of our hands gratefully. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then it changed. One day, as I opened the outdoor
pen to change the water-- a flash of wings, the sound of air
pounding, and a 5lb ball was hitting me full force. Below the belt, I
should add. Before I could realize what was occurring,
I saw my beautiful, tame<span style="color: #44546a;">, hand-fed</span>
rooster gearing up for attack number 2—beak out, claws extended, wings
beating with a force that, I had to admit, was quite impressive, even as
I jumped backwards full of all the fear of
roosters that was formed in my five year old self and I thought I had
managed to suppress over the last 30 years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slammed the door, gasped with relief, and then
took a few minutes to gather my thoughts. What in the world was going
on with this, admittedly loud but never before violent, rooster of
mine? Still wondering, I opened the indoor pen to complete my responsibilities. And there, laying in a newly
formed next of wood chips and dirt, was the most beautiful brown egg I
had ever seen. My chickens had come into their own. My hens were now
taking responsibility for themselves and putting
food on my table. [editor’s note: even now, getting three eggs a day,
cost savings per month still does not equal dollars spent on chicken
feed] I connected the dots. Could it be that my Bark’s aggression was
the result of this wee egg? Was he-
<span style="color: #44546a;">*</span><b>gasp</b><span style="color: #44546a;">*</span>- defending his nest? Being protective of his potential offspring? Did roosters even
<span style="color: #44546a;">*</span><b>DO</b><span style="color: #44546a;">*</span> that?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;">But s</span>ure enough, time confirmed that if there was an egg in the next, one could expect to be attacked by flying Bark. No egg,<span style="color: #44546a;"> and</span>
Bark remained the docile, yet loud,
rooster we’d come to know and love. Gradually, we all came to accept
this, putting a warning out to the kids to watch out for Bark, don’t be
afraid to kick him (<span style="color: #44546a;">it’s
</span>not cruel- it’s self-defense!), and maybe, just to be safe, everyone should wear jeans in the chicken coop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took to talking to Bark as I did the chicken
chores. Trying to rationalize with the rooster. You know, Bark. You
make a lot of noise for the *<b>one</b>* chicken in this coop who really does nothing. I mean, egg laying is all<span style="color: #44546a;">
about the hens. You just eat and crow and take the credit, when
they’ve done all the work. He just looked at me before, almost
languidly, puffing out his chest and letting out a crow. Yeah, I get
it, I told him as he strutted around. Keep those hens in
line. They, of course, bustled about straightening the nest, cleaning
up a few stray crumbs, preparing for the next day’s egg laying. He, of
course, waited until my back was turned before taking a flying leap at
my knees. I think he thinks if he takes out
my knees I will succumb completely to him and his king of the
coop-dom. He’s probably right, but I did what needed to be done,
ignoring his crows, before returning to my home…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;">where I bustled
around, straightening up the house, cleaning up scattered crumbs and
messes that the kids had left around, and preparing for the next day--
as my husband walked around, chest out, talking loudly
about what else needed to be done, and how he was the only one in the
house who kept things neat and orderly. Protector of
the Nest Egg, King of the Coop, Organizer of the Chickens who, in his opinion, would
otherwise run around as if they'd had their heads chopped off- and
proudly taking all the credit for things done well and good. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;"><<<<sigh>>>>> Apparently roosters need to be able
to puff out their chests, feel proud of their domain, and tell the
world that they are, indeed, the preeminent cock-a-doodler in the
neighborhood. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;">Let's let the rooster do his crowing--this little hen will just keep getting things done. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #44546a;"><br /></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-57701303449380793772015-10-16T12:09:00.001-04:002015-12-23T11:03:55.007-05:00Flipping Out<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the most part, I have “normal” little girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They like to color, draw, play with paper
dolls, play school, do cartwheels and flips, sing and dance, and a whole
variety of “Mommy, LOOK!” maneuvers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are sweet girls, and while I will admit to them succumbing to normal
girly stereotypes in some ways, I should in no way be misunderstood to be
stating that they are average.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as
any parent will tell you, my kids are well above average.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, they must be, since they are MY
children and, by definition, *MY children* are amazing. (Spoken like a true
twenty-first century parent, huh?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So to get back to the point:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>my little girls, Kolbie and Micah, love to flip and cartwheel and
practice their walking bridges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get a
kick out of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m partial to the
notion that couches are not just for sitting on, contrary to my husband’s
exasperated claims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I also strongly
believe in the invincibility of my children:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>other children may break their necks while doing spinning backflips over
a dog/ couch/ sibling, but not MY children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My daughters will thrive and survive and be happier and somehow “better
people” from having experienced the danger and the thrill of physically daring
activities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or so I believe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Need I tell you that my husband and I differ strongly on
this point?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The point on which we agree is that our younger daughters have
a talent for gymnastics—in the very least, are highly flexible-- and,
therefore, should be signed up for gymnastics class, if they so wished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so wished they did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, like the good parents we are, we signed
them up for a beginner gymnastics course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And they LOVED it… the first day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The second day, not so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By
day three they were begging not to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Day four we allowed them to skip for shear ease of parenting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We enforced their attendance on day
five—“daggone it, we PAID for this!”—and day six they agreed to go to without
fuss, only because it was the last day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We resigned ourselves to the fact that they didn’t really enjoy
gymnastics, and secretly gave each other pats on the back that we’d avoided
that time and money vacuum into which we’ve seen other parents fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as the year progressed, our girls’ flips
became more spectacular (for the indoor couch version), splits were dropped at
a moment’s notice, bridges were higher, and backwards falls were more
terrifying to watch (for the record, yes, I know I’m making up a lot of names
for gym-y things… as you are <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>probably discovering,
gymnastics isn’t my thing).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, after a year of “Wow!” from me and “You’re going
to break your neck! Not again!” from their father, the posed question at dinner
from the one with the super sweet, get anything from Daddy smile:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Daddy, Riley and Olivia and Katie and like
six other girls in my class are all doing gymnastics… can I do it too?… please,
Daddy?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This question was immediately
followed by a very excited “Me, too!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me,
Too!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Addy and Julia are doing
gymnastics! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look at this!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can do a split!” from the little
sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Daddy, powerless to argue
against such sweetness and excitement gave in with a “well, it’s been a year,
maybe they’ll enjoy it this time.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I
signed them up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, in no way do I want this post to reflect on the
gymnastics program we joined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
actually very well done and my girls loved the instructors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But yet again…. Day one was love; day two was
eehhh; day three suffering; day four agony; and day five skipped because I just
couldn’t deal with the drama and the what-seemed-like-genuine agony-filled
tears that miraculously disappeared within moments of the “all right, we’ll
skip”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Day six (after I spent an hour
bribing them to go because it was the last day and I’d NEVER make them go
again) was great because it was the last day, they got candy and certificates,
and were told they were so good they were being promoted to the next level.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the way home, as they chattered excitedly about the
class, in an attempt to prove myself to be the astute mother I am, I asked them
“well, aren’t you glad I made you go?”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, of course, I was patting myself on the back too quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>NO, was the adamant response from the
backseat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you had fun!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not that much fun, Mommy” stated the
pragmatic Kolbie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All right then, I gave
in like a champ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then we will never do gymnastics
again.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a moment of silence from the back seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my rear view mirror I watched them look at
each other, I think to read what the other was going to do or say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, in a mutual burst that would have made
a barbershop quartet envious, they harmonized loudly “NO!! Sign us up again!!!!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You HATE the class, I tried to remind them, but like the pain of giving
birth, it had already been forgotten and they were already convinced that now
and forever, they would love gymnastics class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or, as Micah put it, “We don’t hate the class, we just hate going to the
class and the other kids in the class and being told what to do… but we like gymnastics
class”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not going to even pretend to understand this one. We’ll
see how good my memory is a year from now.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-2548295657395007362015-01-26T13:30:00.001-05:002015-01-26T13:30:31.362-05:00Conditionally titled "Buying a Home in Heaven can be Hell"Pretty much since the day I had my husband snagged, stapled down with a few babies, and completely and utterly under my thumb, I began to whine and beg to move out of the state of Maryland into the beautiful, utopic state of Anywhere But Maryland. Now, before Marylanders get all bent out of shape, it's not that I hate Maryland-- I did manage to live there quite happily for 12 years-- it's just that there wasn't really anything that Maryland had that other states didn't have for cheaper and better. And while I was raised in the Virgina mountains and my husband was raised in Maryland suburbs, one thing we agreed on was that if we did move, we'd want a small, idyllic town, straight out of the Andy Griffith Show, but with the added benefit of diversity, culture, and a good education system. Sure, we knew it was a long shot, but we also knew that town existed somewhere within the US, it just was going to be a challenge to find a good job in that town. But my husband is nothing if not excellent in his career, and he also manages to get what he wants (let's be honest, I was the one snagged and bagged). And this time around, he found the mother lode-- Virginia Tech, based in Blacksburg, Virginia-- that town of which we had always dreamed.<br />
<br />
A job being acquired, next step on the list was to find a home. So with our pre-approval letter in hand, we embarked on three days of seeing dozens of homes with four children tired of the start and stop and "don't touch that!" that accompanies house-hunting. And, almost too easily to be true, we fell in love with a beautiful house on the outskirts of the city: great school, great location, great price. Commence preparation! <br />
<br />
We packed up our home in Maryland, waved goodbye to our friends, and moved to Virginia. (I did not look back once.) But first, my husband moved into a hotel, since he started work before we closed on our home, and the children and I moved in with my parents, to await settlement. A week before settlement we got the "All Good!" from our broker. We cheered, packed up the few belongings scattered around Grandma and Grandpa's house, drove to Blacksburg, and prepared to spend the night (all six of us) in Daddy's hotel room.<br />
<br />
The next morning school started for the kids. From breakfast at the hotel, I got each of them off to their respective schools, waving from my MD registered vehicle with the roof top carrier straining, "We're only drop off today! Tomorrow the bus will bring them!" <br />
<br />
Then we got a request for another document. No big deal. So settlement is delayed a day.<br />
Microwave dinners, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made for lunch on the tv table, and another "Just car riders for the day!".<br />
<br />
Then another request. Soup in a bag. Lunch money to celebrate Last day in the hotel! Another day of rain on the car carrier, but not worth it to unpack all of *that* into the hotel room for just one more day. <br />
<br />
Then...<br />
-- Well, you see, the lender is a little nervous about the new job.<br />
-Uh.... what? <br />
<br />
-- And the contract position he had temporarily? That shows job hopping. <br />
-No... that shows that in between leaving one job and moving to start the next, he did a few weeks of contract work to pick up extra money for the move. It's called financial responsibility and work ethic. <br />
--Well, ten years with one company, then a new job in the middle of the loan process-- it just seems, well, questionable.<br />
-Uhmmm... when we started the approval process we sent you an offer letter. We are only moving BECAUSE of the new job. You KNEW this. What is the problem?<br />
<br />
--Well, the lender..... <br />
And it was One more day.<br />
<br />
And we waited.... one more day. Car rider for "today only!"; microwave dinners; four kids in a bed, the same five pairs of clothes for each of us. (It's amazing how little you need to live.)<br />
<br />
I had to fill out Parent Information sheets with "no address yet".<br />
Kolbie had a school project to "draw a picture of your home". She drew a seven story tall hotel. She also told people repeatedly that we had "not one, but TWO swimming pools-- one indoor, one outdoor." A lot of her new friends asked to come spend the night. <br />
Micah asked if we would have to live in the hotel for ever.<br />
The first question anyone asked me upon seeing me each day was "In yet?". I answered this with a "no, not yet.... " at least forty times a day.<br />
The cleaning staff knew us by name.<br />
The hotel manager new us by name.<br />
The front desk staff would see us coming and automatically extend our checkout by three days.<br />
I habitually asked for my change in quarters for the laundromat. <br />
We celebrated Kayton's 12th birthday by putting up streamers and balloons and eating at Olive Garden, but at night, after the kids fell asleep, I cried over the first birthday EVER for any of my kids that didn't involve a four layer birthday cake and a home made meal.<br />
My son missed his dog, in exodus at Grandma and Grandpa's house. He claimed he couldn't sleep without him.<br />
The kids began to refer to the hotel as "home".<br />
Each morning and afternoon in the car pool line I got pitying looks at my sopping wet, mold leaking, supposedly-water proof- but- not roof top carrier packed full of all the earthly belongings we had in our possession.<br />
JMahl and I began to refer to the hotel as "home". <br />
People stopped believing we were getting a home and offered to drive us to the nearest homeless shelter should we get kicked out of the hotel. <br />
We DID get kicked out of the hotel and had to move into a different hotel. (over-booked!!!! No, our kids are not that bad!)<br />
Occasionally I drove past the house, looking longingly, in case a mistake had somehow been made and there was a big sign on the door "Welcome, Stewarts, to your NEW HOME!!!!"<br />
I stopped driving past the house-- terrified I was building dreams that would be deflated. <br />
The moving company holding our truck full of ALL our earthly belongings told me, as nicely as he could, to please stop rescheduling and not to call back until we were literally IN our new home. <br />
<br />
Sometimes my husband and I would look at each other and laugh, but mostly we just reaffirmed to each other, with a confidence bordering on insanity, "it's just a delay!" <br />
<br />
It felt like forever. It was, in all honesty, only sixteen days, but each of those days we heard moans of "she's kicking me!" and "why aren't my clothes clean?" and "when can we go to our new home?' from our children and we listened to their daydreams of "when we get our new house...!" and "aren't you excited for when we are in our new house...?". They spent their evenings designing furniture arrangements for their new rooms and determining the best spots for a tree house in the woods behind the house based on their memory of the home. They adapted to their new environment, with little fighting, despite (or maybe because of) the lack of toys and technology to argue over, but the eagerness to be HOME finally was bordering on desperation. JMahl and I watched a lot of HDTV. <br />
<br />
And finally, finally, we were handed the keys. All the dots crossed, and we came rushing into our home, and the kids claimed their bedrooms and we ooh-ed and aah'ed over the yard and the space and the trees!!!. And we decorated and<i> lived</i> and were happy and... wow....<br />
<br />
And at night, my husband and I sit on our huge wrap-around sofa and watch the fire in our fireplace and the trees out the window and we say "do you remember when?" and "all that was worth it". <br />
<br />
And my kids come running down the stairs, screaming over boundaries crossed and possessions stolen, and then one quiet sweet child sits in my lap and says "Mommy, when can we go back to our *other* house?". Which one? I ask, "The one in Maryland?"<br />
No! She replies, with what may have been horror, "The one we lived in when we first moved to Virginia Tech. The one with two swimming pools."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-70338582955385021192014-02-11T13:47:00.003-05:002014-02-11T13:47:54.403-05:00No Winning or Losing, MommyMy three year old daughter Micah got pick-up-sticks for Christmas this past year. She wasn't overly thrilled-- to her, it was just some sticks in a box, and they did not seem exciting when surrounded by mountains of unopened gifts. Over the last few weeks, however, this has become her game of choice-- and while we started playing the traditional way- if a stick moves, you loose your turn-- she began to initiate games by saying "let's play pick-up-sticks-- but no winning or losing, Mommy". At first, I humored her without a second thought. If a stick moved slightly (she is only 3), we'd laugh and say "it moved!" and let her try again. I tried to maintain professionalism in the game and would only take a stick if nothing moved, but it turns out that my "losing" broke the "no winning or losing" rule, so I gave in to "a slight move is okay and a major move is just a sign to try again" rule changes as well. <br />
<br />
And soon I realized that I was falling into that often debated realm of "trophies for participation". No winning or losing. You get the points for playing the game. The best are equal to the worst. And I wasn't sure I liked it. My competitive nature sprang up and my "kids have to learn to work hard to achieve and not everyone is equal in their intelligence and skillsl" beliefs started to rear their heads, and I began to question if acquiescing to "no winning or losing" in pick-up-sticks was heading my 3 year old down a path of complacency and lowered expectations. <br />
<br />
But then the mommy side of my mentality jumped into the argument. That phrase, often stated loudly in exasperation when a quarrel starts in my home, "does everything ALWAYS have to be a competition between you two/ three/ four?" started to scream itself inside my head. DOES everything always have to be a competition? Is it really hurting my young daughter if I agree to just playing for playing's sake? <br />
<br />
I get why she doesn't want to compete at this game. For one, as the youngest of four, she is used to comparing herself to her older siblings. And she's got a lot of pride. There's nothing that upsets her more than losing-- even if losing is in a race against her 11 year old sister who possesses legs four times the length of her own. Her favorite games are those she is best at-- hide and seek, in which she is capable of climbing into a tiny hole and remaining completely silent, ignoring even our calls of "game over- come out now!" until her father and I find ourselves running frantically around the house, screaming plaintively for a response, with 9-1-1 set to dial with the push of a button. She wins that game. She also wins the "jump off the arm of the couch and land on a pillow thrown four feet away without hurting yourself" game and other in-house parkour challenges (lack of fear being a huge factor in this). And the "climb into mommy and daddy's bed at 4:30 am and still get a snuggle" game? My husband is the loser in that one. Pick-up-sticks? Not so much. The memory game? Kolbie, her 6 year old sister, has that in the bag, although public challenges to her memory scare her to death. Soccer? Holds her own until 10 year old Mason forgets he's playing a three year old and kicks the ball hard into the goal, which happens to coincide with where her face is at the moment. Egg nog at 9:30 at night? Nope. Doesn't win that one either, despite an hour of screaming in protest. So when it comes to pick-up-sticks, well, it makes sense to her to take out the age-discriminatory skill set of immobility and make it a literal "let's pick up the sticks, in a row, then make a color pattern with them-- no winning or losing" game. She wins.<br />
<br />
And is this so wrong? Does there always have to be a loser or a winner? One of the hardest things to do as a parent is to acknowledge to yourself that your children are not champions at everything. We want our kids to be the best and always win-- thus, this push for "trophies for all" and Gifted/ Talented and Above Grade Level courses-- when statistically, if an average of 70% of students are falling into the "Advanced" categories (as is true in our school system), your child is just average, despite exciting labels that make you feel otherwise. It's a game of perception-- and we would rather perceive our children as gifted, spectacular, more special than other children, instead of look at the reality: most of our kids are "just" normal. <br />
<br />
But acknowledging this in our own minds is very different from stating this to your child. Very few good parents are going to feel comfortable looking their child in the eye after a sweaty, heart-wrenching, full-effort-given soccer loss and say "well, you know-- you're just not that good at soccer. Maybe you should try basketball or, if that doesn't work out any better, maybe you should stick to legos?" No! We hug our kids and say "You were awesome-- you did great! You are so good out there! I guess that other team just played better this time, but you'll get them next time!" And when a kid struggles in a subject, we don't say "maybe school just isn't your thing. You might not be smart, but hey, but you've got a great personality!". And we never voice what in our minds we may be thinking: "It's a good thing you're so pretty. Models don't have to be smart as long as they have a good agent." Stating these things-- in one's own mind or, heaven forbid, out loud to a partner or friend-- immediately transports you into a category of bad parent-- not quite as bad as the ones who forget their kids at the grocery store, but close. Definitely someone to keep an eye on in case this turns into a dire therapist-needed scenario. But it's impossible for all of us to have spectacular children. Some of our kids have to be average, and some have to be below average. And we all know this, we just have a tendency to end this statement with "but not mine!" <br />
<br />
Even that borderline attempt at acknowledging a lack of success--"well, all that matters is that you did your best"-- isn't doing our kids any favors. 'Cause get what? Doing your best doesn't get you anywhere if you are losing soccer games, failing math class, or not getting the job that is going to allow you to pay your own mortgage and move out of your parents' house. "You did your best" is just a shortened, kinder version of "Your best is not good enough. ie. You are not good at this." And nice parents don't say this to their kids- or do they? Perhaps honesty is the best approach. We play win/lose, and if you lose, oh well. I win. <br />
<br />
People will jump in with opinions: steer them towards something they CAN excel in; provide them with the resources they need to achieve their goals; all that matters is that you love and support them in whatever they do.... but......the answer to all of these is "that's not always possible". So what are we to do as parents? I honestly don't know. If there is anything I consistently am as a parent, it is inconsistent. Each day, each child, each program or sport or class or challenge gets a different response. It's all trial and error with me. And when someone asks "is that working for you?" my response will probably be "check back in 25 years, and I'll let you know if it did". But as we all know, 25 years from now may be too late. Especially if our under-performing, lazy, incapable children are still sleeping in the bedroom next to us. <br />
<br />
So for now, I'll tell my son to study harder, my oldest daughter to keep smiling, my middle girl to not be afraid to fail at something, and my youngest child "okay, pick-up-sticks. No winning or losing." And if I ever find myself in a situation in which my children are not spectacular, gifted and talented, the cream of the crop-- then I'll vaguely avoid the truth by saying "you don't have to be good at everything, and someday you'll find something at which you will shine"-- but until that day comes, I'll just relish the fact that my children are exceptional.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-46634245156939947712013-03-07T11:05:00.001-05:002015-10-29T12:41:50.388-04:00Something to sayI haven't written a blog post in a long while. To be honest, I thought I'd run out of things to say (unbelievable to some, I know, but true). But it seems I haven't. As of 8:30 this morning, I have something very very important to say.<br />
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At 8:30 this morning, my 10 year old daughter sat down on the couch next to me, where I was sipping my coffee, trying to figure out my schedule for the day and simultaneously keep my dog from stealing the two year old's yogurt while screaming at my son to PUT YOUR COAT ON! IT'S STILL WINTER! So I'm somewhat distracted when she whispers to me, "Mom... I was afraid to tell you... but on Tuesday, at the bus stop..." (Internally at this point I'd already started the dialogue of "come on, now, seriously? Was it that big a deal that you are tattling on your brother for something that happened two days ago?") "Someone wrote "Kill Niggers" on the bus stop wall." </div>
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What? </div>
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I couldn't speak. I looked at her. My mouth dropped, my throat choked... Her eyes widened as she saw my shock.</div>
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"Mom... what does that word mean? My friend said it means black people... is that true?"</div>
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I started to cry. I hugged her. She stared at me. "No, that's not true. No.. wait... it is true... but not like that... wait... no, it does NOT mean YOU. That is NOT what it means." I stopped talking. I didn't know what to say anymore. </div>
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I know racism exists, but I didn't believe it. My husband assures me that racism is alive and well-- but that Howard County is a safe zone. I argued that most places were safe zones now. I said "even people who feel that way are smart enough not to ever say it or act on it". I said "our children won't ever have to deal with racism. Kids their age aren't like that anymore." I said "Racism isn't going to be relevant to our kids".</div>
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I didn't know what I was saying. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I still don't know what to say. </div>
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I had the kids get dressed quickly. I put my phone in my pocket- a camera (why would I want to document this?). I grabbed a thick black sharpie, my hands shaking as I tore through the kitchen junk drawer searching for one thick enough and dark enough. I found what I thought would block the words... the words on the wall. Can't block the words in her head now. </div>
<div>
I threw the kids in the car and drove to the bus stop... sure this was going to be some over-dramatized-- this can't be real?-- situation. We're in Howard County. Known for its diversity. Known for its cultural awareness. No one is really RACIST anymore. Come on. And sure, I know that there aren't a lot of black families in my specific neighborhood. Maybe three? But there are Asian families and Hispanic families and Indian families.... and the next neighborhood over has lots of black families... so this has to be a mistake.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
White Power</div>
<div>
Kill Niggers</div>
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KKK</div>
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Kill Bitch Niggers Bang Bang</div>
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I Hate Nigs</div>
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and a few swastikas thrown in for good measure.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It wasn't a mistake. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I was wrong. I still have something left to say. </div>
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Parents-- shame on you. Shame on you for allowing this in your home. Shame on you for allowing your home to bring this into my home. One of you is teaching your kids this. One of you says this at home and your son (or daughter) is copying you at school. One of you thinks this is okay. One of you knows your kid is saying this, writing this, scribbling this on their notebooks, and you haven't done anything about it. One of you has a kid who thinks this is cool. It's not cool. Racism is not cool-- and you know it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Or maybe you don't know-- so find out. Find out if this is your kid. I know parents can't be all knowing; but you can't be all UN knowing either. </div>
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One of you is mad at me for blaming you when "it's not the parents fault" and "you shouldn't blame the parents". Well, who do you want me to blame? How else does a kid learn this?</div>
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<br /></div>
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One of you is saying "How dare you write those words in a public blog post! How offensive!" Maybe you're right-- I hesitate to push the "Publish" button and make These words MY words--but they became mine the moment I had to explain them to my child; although they'll never be mine (a white woman) the way someone has now forced them to belong to my child. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Tuesday at 4:09 my 10 year old bi-racial daughter had no idea that the word NIGGER existed.</div>
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At 4:10 she knew the word, knew what it meant, and knew someone wanted to kill people like her ("Do they mean us?" she asked me). </div>
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This is not okay.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I called the police. I made an official report. I wish that solved the problem.</div>
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I'm going up to the bus stop to paint over it. I wish I could paint over that thought in my daughter's head just as easily. </div>
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I wish this had never happened. I wish I really had run out of things to say. </div>
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I wish YOU or your child had run out of things to say before you thought that, said that, wrote THAT. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-53719687674823573132012-08-30T11:05:00.002-04:002012-08-30T11:05:45.903-04:00Here we go again...<br />
Ah... back to school.. This is one of those times, like Christmas, that is both exciting and wonderful, but so much work-- and often anti-climactic. The excitement of new backpacks, teachers, and a fresh box of colored pencils is gone by the end of the second day, and then it's just complaints about teachers, homework, and why can't I stay up til 9:00 like I did last week? And it seems that each year my response of "because I said no" is harder for the kids to swallow. As they get older and smarter, they seem to want to manipulate everything and, much to my chagrin, I've discovered that they often do. Even when I don't think they have. <br />
I have to admit I've often ridiculed those mothers who let their children win every battle. Standing on the sidelines, it is easy to see how those mothers could be better parents and what they should or should not be doing with their children. And I'm not talking about basic eating, tv, play habits. I'm not even talking about homework policies and extra-curricular activities. I'm talking about basic "send your son to school and let the teachers make all the rules into he comes home" policies. Things that, as a child, I pretty much took for granted. I didn't WANT my mother interacting with my teachers, since I knew that would only hurt me in the long run (and by "hurt me", I mean literally, on my bum, pain). But somehow, someway, I have morphed into that mother that I swore I'd never be. That "helicopter" mom that hovers over the school system waiting for the opportunity to swoop down and add my own two cents to the extensive education that our teachers and principals undergo before being hired. Because, of course, how are they going to make the right decisions for our children if WE non-professionals don't intercede?<br />
The real irony in this is that for the last four years I've been teaching at the college level on a part time basis, and for a long while my husband, in a futile attempt to help (and increase our level of income), would suggest that maybe I should get a job teaching at the high school full-time. My over-emphasized reaction to that suggestion would always be "Heck, no! I do NOT want to deal with parents. EVER." I would typically continue (while he nodded off in sleep or turned his attention back to the iPad) about how parents now days won't let teachers do their jobs and how children are being taught that their rights and privileges are more important than their education, etc, etc., and just how detrimental to society this trend was. He was smart enough to agree with me, even if he didn't hear a word I was saying after "No"-- which is the only part of the conversation that mattered to him anyhow. <br />
And now I, however unintentionally it may be, have become one of those parents. <br />
It happened gradually. Last year my son had a problem with a teacher. It seemed serious, from his perspective, so I called a Parent-Teacher meeting. I interceded. Things got better. I patted myself on the back. I refused to believe that my son may have felt he had pulled something over on me or "won", and when that sneaky thought wiggled its way into my brain, I managed to convince myself that, well, it's okay if he wins sometimes. It's for his own good. I wasn't one of "those" moms.<br />
Then, stage open, second day of third grade. First day of math. My son enters the house, scowl in place on his face. I, ever the good mother attentive to his moods and needs, ask "What's wrong?" and get the angry "My math teacher is horrible! Math is SO easy this year! I don't WANT to be in this class!" I try to reason with him. <br />
Give it some time. It's only the first day of math, I'm sure it will get harder. <br />
NO, she said we would be doing this for weeks. She said this was what this class did. She said... <br />
Okay, what do you want me to do? (Parent mistake number 2 is asking)<br />
Put me in a different class.<br />
I can't do that. <br />
You did it last year. <br />
Uhmmm... well, that was different. (Parent mistake number 3 is even considering this line of conversation)<br />
YOU said I would be in a hard class this year, Mom.<br />
(Parent mistake number 1 was actually having said this a few weeks earlier-- I was, to my credit, trying to motivate him, but with this child I should know by now to NEVER say ANYTHING that can be used in ANY way in his favor down the road... which, according to my husband, means never say anything. Period. My husband is often much better at parenting than I give him credit for.)<br />
And the angry, upset Mason set in. The "I'm going to act like this until I get my way" Mason. The "I will make your life so miserable from this moment on and make you feel like the worst parent ever" routine. <br />
And I started to fold. (Parent mistake number 4) In justification, I had lectured for 7 hours the day before, had 4 office hours, and hadn't got home until after 10:30. I was exhausted. <br />
Okay, how about I email your teacher, asking her to please make the class harder and to move you to a different class if it turns out this class is too easy for you?<br />
This worked. Somewhat. He wasn't thrilled, but he was smart enough to realize this was the best he could get. Thanks, Mom. You're the best. Let me know what she says. (Parent mistake number 5 is letting yourself feel validated by things like this in situations like this)<br />
And I did it. I emailed the teacher: "Mason says math is too easy this year; and because he is pretty good at math, I want to make sure he is in a challenging class. Is this the best class for him?" (Man, I'm a sucker.)<br />
Within an hour I had a response back from the teacher starting with the very accurate: "I have to laugh. This was the first day of math class. All we did was get to know each other. It will- obviously- get harder as the year progresses. If Mason proves to be advanced for this class, I will happily move him. After progress reports. Call me THEN."<br />
<br />
God bless teachers who know how to deal with parents like me. <br />
<br />
Feeling properly chastised, ashamed, embarrassed, and, well, fooled, I go up to Mason's room where he has already been put to bed for the night, curled up next to him, and said "I got an email from your teacher. You'll be happy to know that she is going to make this class much harder for you AND if it's still too easy, she'll move you to an even harder class. All you have to do is get straight A's on everything for the next eight weeks."<br />
Without missing a beat, Mason pops up in bed, scowls at me, and says angrily, "WHY would you DO that? I don't want to do anything harder. I HATE hard work!"<br />
<br />
I can't win. <br />
Lesson learned. God bless the Elkridge Elementary School teachers. I'm just going to let you do your job from now on.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-34209666544636759682012-08-24T12:45:00.001-04:002012-08-24T21:55:22.789-04:00Dear Green Valley MarketDear Green Valley Market,<br />
I'm sorry. I'm a shoplifter. I think... maybe... I'm not sure, which is why I'm writing this letter. You see, well, it's this whole "Kids Month Club" thing you've got going on. The rules say ONE slice of cheese, ONE cookie, ONE apple per month. But who's keeping count? I'm not. Sure, it's a great marketing idea-- free cookies and apples are one of the primary reasons I shop at Green Valley versus Walmart (well, that and the fact that I don't have to worry about losing my children forever), but there's really no way for me to keep track of how many times per month I've gone into the store and whether or not I've hit my monthly allotment of cookies, cheese, and apples. Well, no easy way that doesn't involve me remembering one more thing. <br />
<br />
Let me break this down for you. Simply put, the moment my children (I have four, I must admit) set foot through those sliding doors they ask "Can we go get a cookie?" And pretty much every time I say yes. The "get a cookie from the bakery" thing was standard with your predecessor, so that's seven years of habit, ever since we moved here, that's hard to kill. And I know the cookies probably don't cost you a lot and they do keep kids happy and well-behaved-- and since happy, well-behaved kids mean content, relaxed mothers who can spend more time shopping, resulting in more money in your wallet- I see why you've kept this policy around. Good move, GV. Keep the free cookies coming. <br />
<br />
And the cheese thing-- well, it's sort of a pain, so I seldom do that. I don't feel like standing there at the cheese counter<br />
- waiting for the deli person to not be busy<br />
- trying not to feel like a starving moocher who can't feed her children and, therefore, must get free cheese from the deli counter<br />
- trying to convince the children that "Yes, that IS cheese, even if it doesn't come in plastic wrap"<br />
- trying to convince the children that continued begging will not get me to buy them a slice of meat also<br />
- reminding the children that it's only ONE piece of cheese and NO, just because you thought green and red spots on the cheese looked pretty and now you find out it's disgusting, you may not have a different piece. <br />
So, I seldom get cheese.<br />
<br />
It's the apples. Those delicious apples that make me feel like I'm stealing. Sure, I know that you mark-up prices and that in the grand scheme of things you probably don't even notice the loss; but I can't help but feel guilty-- like all eyes are on me-- each time I let the kids grab an apple (most often a Golden Delicious or a rosy Pink Lady- they are so good!) and start munching as we walk through the store. By the time we hit check-out they are usually down to the core, and I'm herding them through the line to wait for me on the bench, hoping the cashier doesn't call me an apple-picking thief or worse as she starts counting up apple cores in little hands. (Cashiers intimidate me: I'm still a little traumatized from the time a cashier asked for my foodstamp card. When I informed her I wasn't on foodstamps her response was "but you have four kids!". On another note, I may have discovered what's wrong with our economic system.) <br />
<br />
For a while, in order to not feel guilty about all the apples I was literally walking out of the store with I would buy a bag of apples to go along with the "once a month free" apples, but I've since discovered that my children only enjoy apples when they are fresh off the produce shelf. Once home, they have little or no interest in doing anything with them other than dropping them to see how quickly they bruise, planting them to see if trees grow in laundry baskets, or watching them slowly rot in the fruit bowl on my kitchen table. <br />
<br />
And please don't misunderstand my apple-stealing as grossly and intentionally irresponsible. I do try to be responsible in my "free apple" abuse. If I'm only running in for milk I don't let the kids get apples. If I'm spending very little money in general, I don't let the kids get apples, calling it a "quick trip". However, there was that time that I had a day full of errands, kids complaining of hunger, no time to go home for lunch and no money to eat lunch out-- so I stopped in at GV, bought a gallon of milk and told the kids they had three minutes to get from the produce to the deli to the bakery and back into the car. Lunch served-- and a healthy lunch, at that. That may be considered irresponsible, if you choose to look at it like that. <br />
<br />
So, to sum it up. By my count we probably take about 12 free apples out of your store each month when, by the rules of the Kids Free Month club we should only take 4. Since we've probably only known about free apples for, oh what, six months? --that's 48 apples, which probably equals to about $15 to $20. Is my math right? So I want to publicly apologize for that and also let you know, well, chances are good that by the end of the year I'll owe you another $10.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
A loyal shopper<br />
<br />
PS. Thank you for moving some milk to the front of the store. That's not such a great marketing idea, since you probably lose at least thirty bucks each time I run in for milk and actually JUST get milk, but it is kinder to my wallet and doesn't involve a walk past the produce stand. So thank you. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-91401256381395375992012-07-30T13:33:00.002-04:002012-07-30T13:33:43.909-04:00Don't Poo in the RiverA few years ago one of my good friends introduced me to the Gunpowder Falls State Park, just north of Baltimore. As State Parks go, it's not my favorite, but it does have a beautiful River Beach-- soft sand, warm water, green shady trees-- and it has become a solid favorite for me and my children for a cheap beach experience. So last week, the kids and I packed a picnic lunch, put on our swim suits, paid our three dollar admission fee, and spent the day in the River. It was a gorgeous day, and the kids were having the time of their lives. Even Micah and Kolbie were swimming around in their Puddle Jumpers, having the time of their young lives. <br />
<br />
And then, of course, the expected happened. As Micah and I doggy-paddled happily around each other, she looked at me with something akin to terror in her eyes, and said "I have to use the potty, Mommy". Oh, geeze. I knew it was bound to happen. You can't go all day without going, but as I looked at my other three children scattered around the water, I realized it would take at least five minutes, possibly ten, to get all children out of the water, pack up my bag, and run to the bathhouse that I could see a few hundred yards away. It was very likely to take longer than that, given the expected arguments such as "why can't I stay in the water while you take her?" and "If she gets to stay, why can't I?", Followed by sulky, plodding children who didn't want to be forced to come with me and will make me regret it as much as they can without getting in enough trouble to have me lose it and take them all home. <br />
<br />
On the other hand, this was a river. It had fish, algae, a hundred other people (most of whom had already peed in it at least once), and what was a little more? So I did what many, if not most, other mothers would do in my situation. I told her "go ahead. You can go to the potty in the River." <br />
<br />
To give her credit, she looked at me like I was crazy. This is my two year old who has had drilled into her as long as she can remember that you "ONLY PEE IN THE POTTY". So for me to be telling her to "go ahead and pee in the river" was a contradiction of her entire body of knowledge- other than "don't let the dog eat your sandwich" and "don't hit your sister". But, as testament to the power of matter over mind, she decided to trust me and let go. However, just when I expected a look of relief to cross her face, it was instead taken over by a look of strain, a tense gritting of the teeth, and --before I had a chance to react-- she looked at me and whispered "I pooped." <br />
<br />
Not what I expected.<br />
<br />
My mind froze. We were in a river. What was I to do? Tell the lifeguard? Would he clear the river until certain ph balances had been restored? Not likely, considering I don't believe rivers have such chemical balances in place. Telling the other parents "uhm... my daughter just pooped in the water, so.... you may want to swim upstream" would get me a lot of dirty looks and nasty comments and *may* get me and mine kicked out of the State Park. So I nixed those ideas, and went into damage-control mode. As disgusting as it may be (if you've been here, you already know. If you've not, I pray you never are.), I did what I had to do. I pulled at her bathing suit, using my fingers to rinse it out, then grabbed desperately for the, well, poo, before it floated to the surface and acquired witnesses. Why poo floats, I'll never know. But it does. Quite well. Being in a river, I quite cleverly, I thought, decided to bury the poo under the sandy bottom. Suffice it to say, it is impossible to bury anything under the sandy bottom of the river. I learned this the hard way as I struggled desperately to subtly dig holes with my toes, push the poo down, and recover it with sand. Nope. Not going to work. So, I decided to get rid of the evidence entirely and, with a smile plastered to my face and a steady stream of happy chatter to Micah-- "do you like the water? ohhhh... isn't this fun? Where's Kolbie??? happy happy happy!!!!"-- I went about disintegrating the poo between my fingers until it was no more. <br />
<br />
Until I was painfully reminded of what we'd had for dinner the night before. Yes. Yes. Corn. Anyone who has ever changed a diaper after a corn dinner knows corn does NOT digest. And there, floating around me and my daughter, were whole pieces of corn. And they kept coming. And they didn't sink, they didn't disintegrate; they just floated around us like confetti at a parade. *sigh* So we did the only thing we could do at this point. We swam away.<br />
<br />
Okay, okay. While some of you reading this may think this is the most disgusting story you've ever heard and judge me completely for my actions as a mother, others of you will grimace and say "ah, well, what could you do?". But this story, while it IS completely disgusting, gave me some insight. It became to me an allegory, if you will. You see... we all have some corn in our poo. We may think we can hide it, disguise it, let it disintegrate with the other dirt in the River. But some things just won't go away. Those disgusting, nasty parts of us that we think we can bury so deep that no one will see will be seen eventually. If we have corn in our system, it's going to come out. If the bitterness, the anger, the hate, the ignorance and disregard for others is there-- it won't stay hidden. That prejudice that you think no one recognizes? That lack of ethics that you think is justification for a bigger paycheck? That's your corn, and those little pieces of corn will float to the surface eventually. <br />
<br />
So let me say it this way: If we eat corn, it is going to come out. So don't eat corn. Or, at the very least, don't poo in the River. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-87774991926177873012012-05-24T21:56:00.000-04:002012-05-25T10:10:52.359-04:0030 Pieces of Unsolicited Parenting Advice I'd Give Other Parents (if I were allowed to give other parents advice)True story. I've been banned from giving parenting advice to my family members. Actually, I've been banned from giving any advice, but "No Parenting Advice" was the primary issue. I've been *told* that the problem isn't so much my advice, but my way of presenting the advice, as in "You should do THIS". Personally, I don't know how else to give advice. Isn't that the definition of the word? Telling someone what they should do? So, suffice it to say, certain in-laws won't speak to me anymore every since I suggested that one year may be too young to potty train (I was wrong- my fourth trained at 1), and others have specifically said "Don't tell me ANYTHING- I'd rather figure it out on my own" as soon as I started with "you know, maybe you should...." So, I will oblige them and bite my tongue-- and use this forum to say all the things that I want to say but can not say to my sisters-in-laws, various other parents in my family, parents of my children's friends, other parents in the community who just happen to sit down next to me at the library, and all Facebook friends who have children and post related comments that I feel compelled to respond to even though I know it's going to p!ss them off.<br />
<br />
1. Immediately post-birth, everyone is going to say "oh, you look great!". You may look great; but chances are good that, two weeks after having the baby, you will neither feel great NOR look great. Just say thank you and smile anyhow. If you point out your flab, the circles under your eyes, and the sweatpants you haven't changed in three days it will just be awkward for everyone. <br />
<br />
2. It's okay to believe that your child is the most beautiful child in the world. Probably he's not, but you can believe that he is. Every other mother is going to be believing the same thing about their child, even though they will probably say it about yours, at least for the first few months. Truth is, very few newborns are beautiful (mine excepted), but you can believe whatever you want. Which leads me to point #3. <br />
<br />
3. No matter what they say, every other mom you know is judging you. If you are doing a better job of parenting or your child is exceptional in some area, they will be desperately seeking ways to undermine what you or your child is doing in order to feel better about themselves or their child. If they are doing a better job than you (or their child is exceptional), they will be gleefully pointing this out to whomever they can find who will listen.<br />
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4. No matter what your child tells you, you know the truth. You are NOT the World's Best Mom. Chances are, at least. I guess someone does have to be the world's best mom, so it *could* be you, but I doubt it. But that's okay. As long as your kids think you are the World's Best Mom, it's all good. <br />
<br />
5. On the flip side, no matter what you think, you are probably not the World's Worst Mom either... although you may feel that way at times. Luckily, most kids have short memories. And Popsicles facilitate forgiveness. <br />
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6. When you get frustrated and call your mom and she says something like "just do what you think is best-- you'll do the right thing-- you're the parent, and you know best". That's bologna. There's a pretty good chance that you don't know what's best and that you may do the worst possible thing ever; however, the good news is that you have a long long time to figure it out. So if you do it wrong today, at least you'll know for next time. Very few dilemmas in parenting happen only once. Parenting is all about second chances (and forgiveness). <br />
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7. In that vein, when you call your mom and she says "he'll be fine." Well, I'm sure at sometime Dahmer's mom called her mom and her mom said the same thing.... so, maybe he won't be, but again, parenting is all about second chances. Just try to do better next time... and hope that he IS fine. <br />
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8. Every time you call your mom crying, your mom is quietly gloating that you are getting your comeuppance.<br />
<br />
9. Every time a friend, a cousin, a neighbor, a stranger compares your children and your child comes up lacking (see #3) just tell them that you will revisit the subject when your kids are 40-- then you'll see who is the better/ more successful/ smarter/ etc. child. If she actually calls you when your child is 40, well, she's crazy. Concede defeat just to maintain your own sanity. <br />
<br />
10. The easiest way to potty train a child is to let them run around naked. It may be the only successful way-- if by successful you mean getting your child on the potty before they've gone "all the way". If by successful you mean keeping a clean house, well, find another method.<br />
<br />
11. Which reminds me-- it's not necessary to have a clean house all the time. Or clean kids all the time. Some studies have even suggested that kids who play in dirt have higher immunity and fewer allergies. My kids are pretty darn healthy. Enough said. <br />
<br />
12. Have lots of children. The more you have, the better your chances of achieving perfection in one of them. Michael Jordon (probably) didn't make his first basket. Bill Gates' first computer (probably) didn't work. I'm not saying not to expect alot from your first child, I'm just saying that the more practice you have at parenting, the better you'll be. Theorists have theorized that you need 10,000 hours in order to become a pro at any thing (Malcolm Gladwell), which would imply that any mother of a one and a half year old is a pro, but we've all seen other mothers who ruin that hypothosis (#3 again), so I believe that the 10,000 hours actually applies to each *aspect* of parenting-- discipline, bedtime, school conferences, homework-- which means you're going to either need multiple kids in order to become a professional, or you're going to be keeping your only child around longer than the recommended 18 years. The other aspect of having lots of children is that "Go spend some quality time playing with your sister. She misses you." sounds a lot better than "Go away, I need five minutes of peace and quiet!" Another benefit of multiple children is that you have more kids to clean up the more mess that more kids make.<br />
<br />
13. Don't fight with your spouse/ significant other/ baby's other parent in front of your kids. HAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahaha (while I'm laughing, I'll add "don't yell at your kids" and continue laughing) HAHAHAHAhahahahahaha. So after your disregard this advice, make up for it with lots of hugs and kisses and "I love you's"-- both to your spouse/ significant other/ baby's other parent AND your kids. It really does make it all better.<br />
<br />
14. Make out in front of your kids. Alot. They think it's absolutely disgusting and may run out of the room screaming, but that could be a very good thing (as long as they don't run back in-- or you'll be the one screaming.) If they don't run away screaming, it's a good balance for the times you break #13. <br />
<br />
15. Despite all the baby products that you *think* you are going to need, you will get along quite fine without any of them. You've got everything you need. Arms. Boobs. Okay, maybe you should get a crib and a high chair, but all the bopees, bepoos, bapas, bouncers, and diaper 1-2-3's.... uhm, it's marketing. It's not necessary; so have fun getting what you want, but don't stress about what you *need* to have in order to be prepared for baby. <br />
<br />
16. Geeze. Let other people hold your baby. Unless that person is *literally* sneezing on your child, chances are pretty good that they aren't going to get the kid sick. And there is nothing worse than the mom who says "uhm... she's going to cry if I give her to you" or "I just got her to sleep." Really? Okay, then. I'll give her back if she cries, and if she wakes up... well, what's the big deal? To say no, well... it's insulting and it's rude. Very few people have actually ever dropped a baby. And no one is going to try to steal yours-- despite your confidence in #2. <br />
<br />
17. If you call someone and say "I just can't stand my kid today", they will say "I know how you feel. I've had that day too" (or something like that). They will think "I can't believe she said that-- what a horrible mother she must be". I'm just saying. <br />
<br />
18. Try, at least TRY to have a somewhat natural delivery for at least a few minutes. By this I mean, let yourself feel the pain. This is for your own good. First of all, it's interesting to discover what your body can handle and the lengths to which it can go. Second, it's imperative that you are able, at some point in time, to look at your child and say "I went through the pain of labor for you, and you can't do *this* for me?". It's also useful ammunition against your husband at some point. I'm not going to judge you (although you should probably read #3 again) if you can't make it all the way. I screamed-- no, strike that-- I *whimpered* for drugs through 3 out of the 4 of mine and got those drugs for one of them (just in time to push). And I only had four hour labors. So, believe me, I can't be too judgmental. But at least allow yourself to feel some of it. Besides, it gives you bragging rights.<br />
<br />
19. Breastfeed. Not just because it's healthy, but because it's easy. Whether you're a stay at home mom or a working mom, pulling out a breast or pumping milk twice a day at work is a lot easier than making a special trip to the store to buy formula, mixing that formula, getting the bottle the right temperature, cleaning the bottles, finding the bottles, etc. You get my drift. The only downside of nursing is a/ your breasts will change, but it's not like they still look 18 years old anyhow; and b/ you can't send your husband to feed the baby in the middle of the night. But the upside to this is that now you have an excuse to sleep in in the mornings since you were up 2, 3, 4 times last night with the wee-one. Use this to your advantage. And yes, the first 2-3 weeks of breastfeeding are going to hurt like a B!t@h. Deal with it. Fight through it. If you choose not to, I won't judge you (see #3), and I will not judge you if you actually have a medical issue that keeps you from nursing-- I'm not that horrid. But breast-feeding is not just the best way (all doctors agree) and the natural way (you do have breasts for a reason), but it's the one thing that YOU and only you can do for your child... and there's nothing more amazing than the feeling you'll get from giving this form of love to your baby and feeling their little fingers on yours as they look at you, attached to you, part of you. Yes, I'm biased. This is my blog. I'm allowed to be. <br />
<br />
20. Hold your baby. Someone out there has gotten really rich convincing moms that they need to buy strollers and baby carriers in order to hold a baby. Uhm... You have arms. Yes, arms. Those things were made for carrying a baby. I guess I just don't get it-- why would you NOT want to hold your baby? Why would you want to spend more time looking elsewhere than looking into those little eyes that *only* want to look at you? Aside from the psychological benefits and social awareness strengths that holding a child creates-- I'm sure your kid will get that eventually somehow-- and the upper arm strength you will develop, why oh why would you have a child that you don't want to keep in your arms the whole time you can? There's nothing better than a sweaty damp cheek laying on your neck asleep... it's the most amazing feeling- and soon enough, they won't want you to touch them, so hold them now while you can. Suck up that "amazing" while you have the opportunity to do so.<br />
<br />
21. Be present. I'm not saying you have to follow your kids around. That would drive anyone (most people) insane. But when your child wants to show you an ugly brown stick figure picture of yourself for the thirty-second time today-- take both eyes off the tv/ book/ computer screen/ ipad and LOOK AT IT. And tell them how beautiful it is. How amazing it is. And after they leave it on the floor and run off to make you a thirty-third, throw it away quickly. But always look at your kids. There's nothing like the pain in a kids' eyes (or the strength of their rebellion) if they feel they are being ignored-- especially after they've put all that love, effort, and age-appropriate creativity into a really bad piece of art. <br />
<br />
22. If you just can't be present anymore- it's been one of those days that you just can't handle one more second. Put down the phone (#17) and get out of there quickly before you lose it. You do NOT want to lose it in front of your kids-- you will then revert to #5, whether in fact or theory. Go hide in the bathroom, the garage, the back deck, the laundry room (a glass of wine helps) and give yourself a nice little break. Believe me, the kids are safer unattended for those three minutes than they would be if you didn't remove yourself quickly from the scene. <br />
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23. Parenting is a lot easier in conjunction with a little wine. Kids are cuter, their songs make more sense, and bedtime is much easier to handle. It is okay to have a glass of wine or a beer every now and then. It is not okay for your kids to see you drunk. One of the many reasons this is a bad idea is because they will go to school and tell their teachers and their friends (who will tell their moms) that you were drunk last night and that's why their homework wasn't finished-- and now we're back to #3 again. And that could make for a very awkward Parent-Teacher conference and may explain why little Johnny isn't allowed to play at your house anymore.<br />
<br />
24. Getting your child a dog will teach responsibility, compassion, etc. But by the time your child is old enough for a dog you have probably already learned enough about responsibility, compassion, etc., so skip the dog. <br />
<br />
25. Let your three year old dress herself sometimes. And do her own hair. And tell her she looks beautiful when she does it. It's good for her self-esteem and independence. Are you really that worried about how it reflects on you? Believe me, it will make your life a lot easier if you just go with the flow sometimes. This is also the time when people will most often look at your child and say "you know how to pick your battles" (take that as a compliment-- even if YOU dressed her this time, just go with it.) <br />
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26. Recognize that while you may believe you have the perfect child, you don't. And telling other people you have the perfect child is just going to either A/ annoy them, B/ make them think you are delusional or one of "those parents" who refuses to see that their child is the worst kid on the bus or C/ give them a reason to blatantly search for something/ anything to criticize about your child. So, even if you *think* your child is perfect, no one wants to hear about it. I'm not saying don't brag on your baby. In fact, I think you should brag on your child-- even occasionally when they don't know that you know that they can hear you-- but just don't tell other parents that yours is perfect. Yours isn't. Theirs is. <br />
<br />
27. Don't get offended when other people give unsolicited advice. They do it because they care. Take what you want- leave the rest. It's like an all-you-can-eat buffet. You're not forced to try everything, but it's always good to have the option. Two-thirds of the people who read this will probably be offended by some part of it, and three-quarters of those offended will admit to themselves that I'm right, but still be offended-- but hey, it's advice-- you don't HAVE to take it. Heck, you don't HAVE to read this (but now that you have, finish, please!)<br />
<br />
28. Listen to the advice other people give. I didn't say *follow* their advice, I said LISTEN to it. No, they aren't experts, but neither are you. And if they've already been there/ done that, you just *may* learn something from them. See #6. And remind them of #6. Listen to them, but... #27.<br />
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29. Say I love you. All the time. To everyone you love-- but especially your children. "I love you" should fall out of your mouth so easily and so quickly that you are embarrassed every time you hang up the phone with a telemarketer. You should, at least once, overhear your children's friends ask "why does your mom say she loves me?". You should say it in front of teachers, friends, soccer coaches, and other parents. As a result, you will look like an exceptionally good parent when your son runs past you on the soccer field, mid play, and yells "I love you" over his shoulder. No one else's son did that. MINE DID. (#26, anyone?)<br />
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30. Pray. A lot. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-65467589708113259172012-05-24T14:08:00.000-04:002012-05-24T14:09:52.559-04:00Who doesn't love shoes?There is a stereotype out there. I don't know if it is true, but I definitely fall into it. I love shoes. I do. I look at other women's shoes. I dream of which shoes to wear with which outfits. I send my husband links to the shoes I love in hopes that he may oblige me. I lust over pictures in magazines.<br />
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But then, well, here's where I guess I break from the stereotype: I don't wear any of them. I don't wear shoes. Not really. Oh, when I go to work I'll put on a pair of heels-- but typically the same pair all the time. The comfortable ones with a bit of a heel, a bit of a style, but the ones that aren't going to make it a problem for me to walk across campus and then lecture standing for another two hours. And when it comes to running errands and doing pretty much anything else it's either my one comfortable pair of sneakers (New Balance, of course) or, occasionally, my brown knit Uggs (gift Christmas of '08). In summer, it's flipflops- the $2 ones I picked up on my honeymoon in Cancun, most often, if I bother to put shoes on at all. (My husband teases me (I think he's teasing) that my feet are blacker than his.) And sure, I'll occasionally mix it up and throw on a different pair of flip flops or a pair of black leather boots for lectures, but most of the time, well, I'm a comfy shoes only type of girl. Heck, I even got married barefoot. My choices at the last minute were to either try not to slip and teeter down the pine needle-coated aisle in three inch white silk sandals (I got married outside-- we did not bring pine needles into the church) or to go shoeless, comfortable, and not have to worry about throwing myself at my husband's feet on our wedding day. You know which I chose. I'm not sure if my husband would have married me if he'd known I ditched my shoes last minute (thank goodness for long wedding dresses), but it's too late now. </div>
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The irony is that, like many, if not most, women, I have a lot of shoes. A LOT of shoes. You see, not only do I love shoes, but my HUSBAND loves shoes. Women's shoes, that is. No, not enough to wear them (perverts), but definitely enough that this is his present to me--every single holiday/ birthday/ gift occasion for the last ten years. </div>
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You see, I love to look at shoes, but knowing that I don't wear shoes, I am logical enough to not buy them for myself. Prior to meeting my husband, I may have had five pairs of shoes, and most of them were ten years old, since I don't throw shoes away. I still have a pair of Skechers from back when Skechers were the alternative kid's shoe of choice (one year in college, I think). I'm saving them for when Kayton can wear a size 8. </div>
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But when I met my husband, well, he decided to capitalize on the "my wife likes shoes, she says; I like shoes... I'll buy her shoes." And buy me shoes he did. </div>
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I haven't bought myself a pair of shoes in 10 years, and yet I have probably 100 pairs of shoes now. Here's where the problem comes in. The super hot shoes that my husband and I both love in the magazines are not, well.... let me put this another way: I can't push a grocery cart, walk a dog, and chase four children in four different directions, run up and down two flights of stairs with full laundry baskets and mow the lawn while wearing five inch platform slingback pumps. Just not possible. For me, at least. Maybe for you, but not for me. And that's all my husband buys. The sexy shoe. The hot shoe. The newest style shoe. The (dare I say it?) "stripper shoe". Not the sneaker/flipflop. Either my husband has A/ forgotten that I am a 33 year old, comfortably dressed mother of four because I'm pretty darn sexy or B/ is trying desperately to turn me from a 33 year old, comfortably dressed mother of four into something pretty darn sexy. </div>
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And while sometimes I get a little depressed at the lack of surprise in opening gifts from him-- "Happy Anniversary, Honey! More Shoes? Yeah! Oh-- these look SUPER sexy and uncomfortable. I'll definitely wear these next time you and I go out dancing all night like we did back before, well... uhm.... once..."-- other times, I appreciate his consistency. </div>
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So this past Mother's Day I decided to, at least, use the holiday to my advantage. So about a week before Mother's Day I sent an email to my husband, including a link to a pair of cutesy sandals with a flat heel but a decorative design, saying "these would look great with my jeans this summer". Be preemptive without ruining the surprise, right? And I waited.</div>
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Mother's Day arrived. My husband showed his love for me by making me coffee for the first time in our entire relationship. (I love him for trying. I didn't love the coffee.) And after receiving the variety of homemade cards and pictures and I love yous from the children, he presented me with a wrapped box and a sheepish "I got you a little something." Of course, my kids insisted I close my eyes and guess what it was as I unwrapped the box... took off the lid... and, eyes still closed, felt inside.... hmmm... rope design (good start), strappy (cute), aaaaannnndddddd... Yup. There it is. The six inch heel. </div>
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So I opened my eyes, thanked my husband effusively for super cute shoes that I absolutely loved, strapped them on, and toddled off to a soccer game, slightly too tall now to hold Micah's hand, unable to balance a cooler and a lawn chair, and convinced that each step would be my last, but looking darn good in my shoes. My husband said so. </div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-83093880468095503122012-05-07T17:35:00.002-04:002012-05-12T11:19:54.777-04:00Past, Present, and Going on a Date (No, not with my husband)Something rather cool happened last week. Dare I say, even, that it was exciting and, in some ways, a dream come true? Yes, yes, I think I do dare. You see, last week, I went on a date. And, no, not with my husband- with a man I've been infatuated with for fifteen years. Yup, a date with a man who wasn't my husband. When I called my mother to tell her I was going on a date, she very quickly corrected me to say "Not a date, you are meeting a friend." To which I responded, Well, call it whatever you have to to keep my marriage intact, but, based on the the immense amount of time I spent standing in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear, the even greater time I put into my hair and makeup, the nervous giggles I got when I thought about seeing my friend-- and the fact that it was a boy (well, I guess a Man now), I'm going to call it a date.<br />
<br />
Even my husband thought it was a date. As he sat on the couch watching me put on my make-up he was extremely helpful. Yes, you look as good as you did in college. (The fact that he didn't know me in college is beside the point.) No, you don't look like you've gotten old. Yes, ***sigh*** he'll think you're pretty. <br />
At one point I realized how silly I was sounding and, in a somewhat inappropriate attempt at humor I asked JMahl if "this is what it would be like if we had an open marriage?" He responded by asking me if I was wearing my sexy underwear. I'll keep the answer to that one between us, but I did advise him that since I had not shaved my legs, it was obviously just a fashion choice, nothing more. I'm not sure that settled him, since I seldom wear sexy underwear (or shave my legs) for him, but he's a good man and he told me I was beautiful and to have a good time, before sending me out the door.<br />
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The impetus for all this nervousness and attempted sex appeal was a sudden, random aligning of schedules, times and countries which opened up the door for me to see an old college friend for the first time in almost fifteen years. To put my cards completely on the table (as my husband required me to do), yes, there *was* maybe some *mild* interest on my part of some non-friendship nature back then, but that was fifteen years ago and college was a different time and yada-yada. My husband then reminded me that his question hadn't been about interest, but had been about, well, something more. I was very honest with my husband, and I don't feel it's as necessary to be honest here, but suffice it to say "Maybe a little, but NO, not THAT... or THat... or That.. Ew. Gross! I haven't even done that with you!" Besides, it was fifteen years ago and college was a different time and yada-yada. Right?<br />
<br />
Except... <br />
<br />
I don't know how many of you have ever had an "unrequited love", to use a somewhat cheesy, but accurate phrase; but I'm willing to bet most of us have had at least one. And this guy was mine. And I have found, 15 years post fact, that it is this never-returned; no opening and (therefore) no closure; this "what might have been that never had the chance to utterly destroy itself" that sticks in a mind more than any other relationship. During the first months/ years of our relationship, when JMahl and I were still trying to get to know each other and find out things about each others past relationships, it was the ex's that we would ask about: Did you love him/her? Why did it end? Do you ever still think about _____? No one thinks to ask about the people that you were infatuated with from a bit of a distance; the people that you may have had a few encounters with, enough to feed your flame, but not enough to ever call a relationship. And it is those that stick in your head and make you wonder about "The Road Not Taken"-- not the roads you took that turned into a wildfire behind you destroying any chance or desire to ever go back down that path. I think one time I may have literally put a cigarette out on the end of that path, after dousing the entire path with gasoline. Or maybe my ex did that... well, either way, those aren't the people for whom you get dressed in your skinny-looking jeans, put on sexy underwear, and plan out an entire nights conversation in your head. But the thing about these "unrequited" emotions and fictional relationships (you know, the ones you've played out entirely in your head up to your death bed proclamations of love) is that you never have the opportunity to set fire to them. You've never fought horribly in a manner befitting Dateline. You never made the decision to end the relationship because, well, there never was a relationship... So having never had a chance to ruin those dreams with a strong dose of reality, those dreams remain... well... dreams.<br />
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But back to my date. It was horrid. He'd gotten old and unattractive. He was dull and boring, we had nothing to talk about after the required "do you remember so-and-so?", and I couldn't wait for the evening to end, wondering what it was about him that had snagged my romantic fantasy in the first place. After an hour and a half, having finished one drink, I thought it was acceptable to use the excuse "the children need me and my husband is waiting for me", and I left, grateful to be headed home to a husband who would be thrilled to see me and four sweet children sleeping soundly in their beds.<br />
<br />
Except...<br />
No, not really. He looked just the same as in college- or maybe better. He'd never married or had children, and he lived an extremely exotic life traveling the world for his job, taking trips that those who are married with children can only dream of post-retirement, and having amazing experiences that I had chosen to believe no one over the age of 29 could have. He'd swam across the English Channel, is preparing to swim across the Atlantic Ocean, and was just all around Awesome. Quite impressive, might I say? I could probably swim all the way across my neighbor's swimming pool if I tried really really really hard. He was just like I remembered him, and my heart flip-flopped like I was still a nineteen year old college girl on a date with her "dream guy".<br />
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And for a moment, I was. For a moment (and by moment, I mean four hours) I was young, unattached, childless, and beautiful. I forgot about my husband at home, my children who probably were not going to bed easily for him, my mortgage and my career. I forgot about the bills in the account, the fight my husband and I had got into the day earlier, the housecleaning I had to do in the morning. For a moment it was as though I'd taken a step back and could still pretend to go down any road I wanted. And it was a good feeling. Really good. I could have spent all night... and the next day... sitting in that bar, with that guy, that night.<br />
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But ten years ago, it wasn't that guy. Ten years ago, it was a different guy, a different bar, a different conversation-- but the same feeling. That feeling of all the world ahead of me, but the only important part of the world right there in front of me. Ten years ago, my heart flip-flopped at the sight, sound, thought, touch of a different man. A man who I was madly infatuated with but who had yet to tell me that he felt the same. Ten years ago I longed for that guy to look at me- only at me-- and I would drive home from the date wishing I'd said something different, worn something cuter, convinced him to keep me there with him, drink after drink, neither of us wanting the evening to end. And then, one night, the evening didn't end. And our life together began.<br />
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Having those feelings again last week didn't make me regret the road I'd taken. It reminded me of how beautiful my own road use to be. Any thrill of newness is exciting. Any one that hasn't seen you naked after four kids; heard you scream bloody murder because of dirty underwear on the floor; watched you make a fool out of yourself; taken your side in family arguments; believed you when you said one of the babies must have peed your bed last night... Anyone that you haven't screamed at for stealing the covers again; for making nasty bodily sounds; for leaving their dirty socks all over the house; for not calling to say they are going to be late for dinner... any one that you don't know and that doesn't know you is going to be exciting and thrilling and, well, enticing. But there's something to be said about letting the newness go. Something very valuable in knowing that I don't have to impress my husband in order to get his attention. I don't have to be witty, look young, censor my words- he's still going to be here. He has seen me through that thrill and excitement of new love into the sometimes boredom and habit of "old love". He has watched me get older (get fatter)- dear God, he's seen me give birth. Multiple times. That's not something I want anyone else to see... not even in my fantasies.<br />
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And sure, sometimes I wish we still had stimulating conversations about religious theory and that he would look at me as though it was the first time he'd seen me in fifteen years and I was every bit as beautiful as he remembered (literary freedom here, people, literary freedom). Sometimes I wish I could still wow him by walking into a room, and still have him see me as interesting when I expound on my beliefs on government restructuring and motivational theories. But would I trade that for raising kids together for the last ten years? He knows me, my theories, and my beliefs-- inside and out. And while, I admit, I miss having my stomach flip-flop at the thought of seeing him. I wouldn't trade it for the comfort of not being embarrassed when he sees my flip-floppy stomach fat. And while there's something thrilling about that nervousness when waiting- hoping for a phone call to make plans-- I wouldn't trade it for the knowledge that he'll be home with me every night. And while my husband may never swim across the Atlantic Ocean (or swim, period); may not have a sexy British accent (only sexy to Americans) and will most likely never write a book (unless it's a rebuttal to mine), that's okay. Because I can guarantee that the fantasies that result from a long ago unrequited love will never hold true in real life, but the reality of my life and marriage to THIS man is something that will.<br />
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So when my evening out with my friend ended, and we'd done the requisite hugs, good to see yous, good luck on your journey, don't let the sharks get you, I drove home to find my husband groggy from an inability to sleep, an "oh, your home? Your turn to deal with THAT", and a very excited, hopping up and down, "MOMMY's HOME!" coming from my two year old who, I am proud to say, not being used to her Mommy going out on dates, had not gone to bed at all. Greeted thus, I quickly stripped off my sexy clothes, climbed into a bed overcrowded with father and baby, and fell into pleasant dreams that couldn't beat my reality anyway. <br />
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And if, in another fifteen years, the opportunity arises for me to see this friend again, I'll still probably stress about my clothes choice, put on sexy underwear, remind my husband that "he was just a friend"... and hope, hope, hope, I still get that same thrill.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-75422822727447614102012-04-17T16:40:00.000-04:002012-04-17T16:40:37.981-04:00In Memory...The fourth anniversary of my Grandmother's death came and went. I didn't notice any posts on Facebook; I didn't spend any time in silent, tearful reflection of her life; in fact, I didn't even think of it. And while I am, in a way, ashamed to admit that... I think that's how it should be... for me.<br />
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My Grandmother's death was the first death that I ever dealt with. I'd lost a great-grandmother many years previously, when I was too young to mourn. I'd lost a dear neighbor-grandmother-type while I was in college, but a few tears and a few hours of mourning, and I moved on. I'd known people who had died, but no one who I had loved. So when G-Ma passed, it was a learning experience for me. A time of discovering how to miss someone close to you; how to love someone even after they are gone forever. Most importantly, it was a time of figuring out how a family continues to move, rotate around each other, and grow without their Matriarch. <br />
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My Grandmother died in April, a time most often reserved for life and growth. My third child, Kolbie, was three months old. Because we were in Maryland and Grandma was in Florida, I had not yet had the opportunity to introduce Grandma to her newest great-grandchild, although she had already made herself an active presence in the baby's life. Gifts in the mail (a blanket that Kolbie carries with her reminescent of Linus), new clothes, and, most fondly remembered, phone call after phone call during my pregnancy suggesting baby names. I have to laugh when I think of some of her suggestions... but I can guarantee she laughed when she heard what name we'd chosen. Needless to say, "Kolbie" wasn't on her list. <br />
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I missed introducing my sweet baby girl to my grandmother by a matter of hours. We received the news that she had passed as we were boarding the plane at Dulles. Although we weren't shocked that she was gone, I think there was also a sense of disbelief. I know for me, I found it hard to believe that someone was dead if I couldn't see their absence immediately. It wasn't until we arrived in Florida, arrived in the midst of mourning and funeral arrangements and family members moving around attempting to deal with their individualized pain that I think the non-logical aspect of her loss hit me. But even then, I think it was primarily logic that caused me to mourn-- knowing that she was dead. Or is it the knowing that she wouldn't be coming back?<br />
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For that, in truth, wasn't the time of most mourning for me. I'd only seen her a few times in her Florida setting, so it was hard to miss her in a place I didn't know her. But three months later, as the family converged at Grandma and Grandpa's lake house in New York, then the missing hit. I still recall arriving at Conesus Lake, stretching legs and happy to have made the seven hour trip without succumbing to the desire to leave one of the children on the side of the road. As we greeted family and shared anecdotes about the trip north with two little ones and a newborn, I kept sniffing the air for the absent smell of cigarettes. I couldn't help but look in her chair and not see her. That was where I missed her-- where I knew her. Where she belonged. <br />
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I thought it was just me. Just me who associated her so closely to that specific place. But it wasn't until the following year at Conesus when my son, five years old then, ran through the living room excited to have arrived, stopped and asked me, confused, "I want to say hi to Great-Grandma! Where is she? She's not in her chair!", that I realized the concept of her death over a year earlier had never quite hit him. He still expected her to be in that chair by the big picture window-- no matter where he was. <br />
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Four years have passed.. I-- and for all I know, others as well- still look in that chair each time we visit the Lake, not really "for" Grandma, but definitely in memory of Grandma. It's not that I don't miss her the rest of the time, it's just that I didn't "know" her the rest of the time. I could call her across state lines, but not being able to call her ever is, in some ways, the same as just choosing not to call her today-- or so it feels. And many times since her death- often on the anniversary of, I think about calling Grandpa-- but I don't. He'd never been the one who talked on the phone. Oh, he'd be there, sitting on the second line, listening as Grandma and I would go on and on about what the kids were doing and how life was, but he wasn't a talker, only occasionally offering a comment on Grandma and my dialogue. So I didn't call. But maybe I should have.<br />
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When I lost my baby, I cried for days. I moved around that Thanksgiving holiday, still holding that child in my womb, knowing it was dead, refusing to involve myself in the laughter going on around me. I thought I would cry forever. I thought that not a morning would pass that I wouldn't wake up, touch my belly, and remember. But I was blessed with Micah and, while I still remember and mourn that lost child, it doesn't hurt as it once did. I have no memories that haven't been exchanged for better ones-- a kicking child, a live birth, a baby in my arms. I remember, but I don't mourn. My mother lost multiple babies. I call her on the dates of their birth, the dates of their death, when I recall them. We don't speak of why I'm calling, what that date represents. We just speak. And we know what the other is thinking. I didn't call my Grandfather because I argued "what would I say? Do I mention it? I never call him, we email (my moving-into-the-21st-century grandfather). I don't want to bring up bad memories when he may be having a great day. I don't want to cause him sadness today, when he must have so much more longing and missing after sixty years of marriage than I can ever imagine. I don't want to interrupt a good memory with his new friend, if that's how he is spending this day... but I know those are just excuses. Maybe Grandpa would have wanted that voice on the other end of the line. Not saying anything, but saying everything I don't know how to say in the ringing of the phone itself. So, I'm sorry, Grandpa.<br />
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Maybe I chose subconsciously to forget this date, this anniversary this year, refuse to assign it strength and power on my calendar because that's my way of remembering her. If I don't make that phone call, she can't not pick up that phone. If I don't see that chair sitting empty, I don't notice that she is gone. There's no way I will ever forget my Grandmother. No day that I won't, in some way, miss her and regret her absence in my life and the lives of my children. But you can miss someone and mourn someone without assigning a time and date to it. And I'd rather remember her in her chair, watching as her offspring... and their offspring... and their offspring... moved past her, around her, occasionally taking a seat next to her to fill her in on recent news or that day's events, if the seat next to her happened to be empty (which it seldom was). I'd rather pretend she is still there... just waiting for the next visit from her family, then remember the day she died.<br />
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So, on that day, the fourth anniversary of her death, I thought of finding cleats for the soccer games and cupcakes growing stale on my counter, three pounds of crabs and a bottle or two of beer on the back deck. I thought of my children, my husband, what laundry needed to be done and lesson planning....and I hope she wouldn't mind that she was missing all of that, since the lake is beautiful to look at this time of year from a soft pink chair next to a picture window. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-6570180402856425642012-04-13T11:28:00.002-04:002012-04-13T11:32:15.794-04:00Letting go...So, Micah turned two on Sunday. This also happened to be Easter Sunday, which was fine for this year, but I can see becoming a problem down the road. For one, we got so distracted with Easter dinner with family and friends that I lost track of time and neglected to make Micah a birthday cake. I rectified this mistake two days after the fact and, safe to say, she didn't notice. She blew out the candles like a champ- or maybe it was Kolbie... or Kayton... or Mason.... and her presents also got opened as though she'd been doing it for many years more than her two--although, again, she had a lot of assistance.<br />
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But birthday cake aside, her two year old birthday was even a bigger milestone for my sweet little girl than either she or I were prepared for. You see, since her first birthday, I've been promising my husband (and my mother-in-law.... and my friends... and my own parents... and my other three children) that I would wean my dear sweet baby girl. <br />
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I am not a crazy nursing fiend. Personally, I can't wait to have my body back to myself and my sleep-time uninterrupted by a 5am nursing call. Granted, it's been a few months since I've had to get out of bed to retrieve a crying child from her crib. These days, I typically wake up sometime between 4 and 5 am to a little fuzzy head peeping over the edge of my bed, face even with mine, patting my face, softly saying "Mommy, nurse! Mommy... 'ake up! Nurse!" If I am (and by "I am" I mean "<i>they</i> are") dangling too far off the bed she doesn't bother to wake me and just goes into nursing mode, standing next to my bed, half-asleep, but content-- reminiscent of what you would see if you visited a petting zoo. Yes, some days I do feel like a cow. <br />
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And it's not just me that's ready for the nursing to end. Many mornings JMahl has complained about Micah's half-awake attempts to find her source of comfort, patting him and pulling his chest hair to determine if... wait.. no, Mommy's not fuzzy right here and there's no milk forth-coming, so I must roll over, and... yes, that's Mommy... ah.... But the damage is already done. JMahl is already fundamentally (and probably permanently) disturbed by either A/ the patting and groping hands in the early morning hours or B/ his inability to fulfill the needs of his youngest child. <br />
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I'm more disturbed by the fact that she's physically strong enough and mentally smart enough to discard any clothing I may have covering her goal, regardless of where we are. And now she's vocal-- and by vocal, I mean she knows words-- alot of them-- although it's only six that really bother me. "MOMMY, I WANT TO NURSE NOW!!!!" Before she spoke, it wasn't such an embarrassing situation to nurse in public. She'd cry, people would smile sympathetically and nod their heads understandingly when I would ask "you don't mind if I nurse her, do you?". Now that she speaks, people look at me as though I'm nursing a nine year old. My husband is concerned that I will be nursing a nine year old. <br />
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So, birthday number two was the designated "time to start weaning the baby" day. And that day has come and gone. Oh, I try, but weaning is not so easy as I thought it would be. And yes, I did nurse my previous three, but Kayton and Mason weaned themselves, and Kolbie was easily weaned. I clearly remember the first time I told Kolbie no. She was about 22 months old, and I was pregnant with Micah. She looked at me very solemnly for a moment, then turned around and toddled off to play with one of her siblings. And that was that. Weaned. Micah isn't so easily distracted, although my husband says it's me and not her that is prolonging this issue.<br />
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And maybe he's right. Maybe it is me; or maybe, Micah understands that I'm just not ready. Physically, I'm ready. Socially, I'm beyond ready. Our society really doesn't approve of nursing past a certain point. It's just "disturbing" to see a child nursing in her mother's arms, then sit up, buckle up the nursing bra, and in a clear voice say "Thank you, Mommy, that was yummy. I'm going to go use the potty now, and then I'm going to read a book to you." Yes, Yes. I am definitely ready to avoid that situation. But mentally... mentally, am I ready yet? <br />
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I have four children, and I know I will not have any more. Micah is my last baby. But it's not just about prolonging her baby-hood. It's about, well, becoming unnecessary. There is something amazing, magical, and , yes, prideful, in the fact that when I look at this child of mine, I can see that she is 100% the result of me. She is, lives, and grows because of ME. Every ounce of her body came from mine-- something that can't be said about children once they no longer nurse. Then their body is made up of Daddy's sandwiches and Grandpa's cookies and the Cafeteria Lady's tacos and McDonald's chicken nuggets. But Micah is still me. And when she ceases to need me in this way, she not only ceases to be such a complete part of me, but I cease to be completely necessary. Nursing is the one way that I and ONLY I can appease her needs. Once she weans, she is an independent being, no longer relying solely on me for sustenance and comfort, but able to receive those from anyone who hands her a cookie or offers her a hug. <br />
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And maybe that's what this ultimately comes down to--- letting go of ME as the most important part of her life. Once a child weans, they are independent. They are their own person. They steal cookies out of the cookie jar when hungry; they go to school and learn other people's ideas and theories; they listen to their friends' moms more happily than they do their own. They become their own person. And while there is something very wonderful about watching your children grow into their own bodies and their own personalities, there is something very heart-breaking in realizing that you are just now an addendum to their life--still an important part of their life, but no longer the Creator and Sustainer of that life. <br />
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But isn't this the ultimate goal of parenthood? To create, to mold, to educate, to support, to love, to encourage, to promote the lives of our <i>children</i>, not our own? We give birth to our children so that they will, in turn, give birth to progress, creativity, hope, a future. We create them so they can create a better world, and very few people have been successful in this while still attached to their mothers. Literally. <br />
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And while the desire to prolong this transition from "part of me" to "part of my life" is strong, I recognize it must come some day. And it probably should come before my husband gives up sleeping in our bed altogether or I am completely ostracized from all polite society. And I'd like it to come while there is still some chance that I can regain my pre-nursing body.... but that doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn this loss of my "baby", and it doesn't mean it's going to happen overnight; but it will happen, I'm sure of it. At the very least, by the time Micah decides to run for political office, she'll know that she'll either need to quit on her own or do a darn good job of hiding it from the media.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-61043446535190171772012-03-09T13:40:00.002-05:002012-03-09T13:46:08.501-05:00Sweet Child of Mine<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe I'm not the perfect mother. Maybe if I were perfect, I'd be successful at accomplishing all those goals that non-parents swear they will achieve post-parenthood (ie. perfect children, always clean, always well-mannered, spotless house). And although I've never done a survey, I am willing to bet that the majority of parents do fail in at least one small area. If you're my sister-in-law, that failing is somewhere along the lines of "well, we wanted to create a working solar system that rotated at a similar speed to the actual earth and operated off wind power generated from the windmill we created last weekend... but, alas, we couldn't get the speed proportionate to the size..."*, but if you're me, these failings tend to fall along larger lines-- "you mean I'm supposed to feed AND bathe my children daily? I thought it was either/ or... whoops..." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When it comes down to it, it takes a lot of energy and brain power to master a focus on all skills necessary in order to create exceptional children. It turns out, much to my shock, that kids aren't just born perfect. They are born with natural desires to take what they want, scream if they don't get it, and leave behind that which they want no more-- for some one else to clean up. Despite my husband's wishes, children are NOT innately clean and well-behaved. Or, at least, mine aren't. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, taking a page from the management book, I decided to draw up a list of goals for my children, including a SWOT analysis and strategic implementation design. And then, realizing that attempting to fix all problems simultaneously would make life miserable, I prioritized.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, prioritizing is easy, to some extent, when you can rely on a few things happening automatically. For example, despite my prior post, I have a relatively strong amount of confidence in the public school education here in Howard County-- so basic educational skills are taking care of and out of my hands. (ie. If I read to them nightly, that's only a plus on top of what they are already receiving. If I am too tired to read one night, they will still know algebra by the time they graduate from High School.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I really had to determine what was the most important skill to teach my children- the one area in which I absolutely did NOT want to fail as a parent. Initially I thought it would be good parenting/ marriage skills to include my husband in this project, but when, without even thinking about it, he said "CLEANING", I decided his opinion wasn't worth that much, and went ahead with my own theorizing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Education is fundamental, but it's not an option in my family; so regardless of whether or not I succeed at teaching them "the importance of education", they are all going to college. Cleanliness and taking care of self and pride in belongings-- also important-- but is it the MOST important? (At this point in my musings I had to consciously ignore my husband screaming "YES< YES< YES< YES< YES" in my ear.) And I ultimately came to the determination that Compassion was the most important thing to teach my children. What I've discovered since then, however, is not that easy to teach. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I've been told that I have sweet children-- something I directly attribute (for no real reason) to breastfeeding beyond the socially accepted time frame and my abhorrence for strollers and baby carriers, preferring instead to carry my children and look with pity on those poor toddlers sitting complacently (and unhugged) in their rolling 'ignore-mobiles'. (Are you picturing the hippy-mom from the movie "Away We Go"? <i>"Why would you want to push your children away from you?" </i> Yup, that's me.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But sweet children are not the same as compassionate children. And that is my goal. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After trying to enforce compassion in my children-- You WILL be nice to your brother, or else-- bribe it out of them-- I'll pay you to go read to Mrs. Patel for 10 minutes-- or demonstrate it to them-- see Mommy writing this big check to charity? (ok, not so big... but...), I've come to believe that a natural empathy with or sympathy for another person is something that is simply ingrained in some children and not in others. I'm not saying that everyone can't be charitable. That's just an action. But I think there is a huge chasm between "doing the compassionate deed" and "being compassionate", and I'm not sure how to (or if I can) force my children to cross it. And a part of me believes that it's not possible to truly have compassion for others until you can understand loss, pain, fear, absence-- something with which, gratefully, my children have no experience. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, taking the approach that setting an example is the only way to encourage these actions now and true concern for others down the road, I continued to give a few dollars to the 195 exit couple and the Shell Station Santa Claus each time I saw them. I was careful to overemphasis my thank yous and pleases, and I took the children with me to visit my elderly neighbors, being sure to acknowledge and praise when they took the initiative to do something kind for someone else; and I continually preached "care for everything-- no matter how big or how small. Everyone and everything deserves compassion." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then it all went out the window. We got a new pet. Our pets, I should say. Many, many, many squeaky, little pets (although I've only seen one, the signs speak to many more.) And all my "Care for other things. Be gentle. Be kind." talk went flying out the window with one of the dead pets as I gleefully jumped up and down screaming "I got one! I got one! YOU'RE DEAD, YOU BLOODY MOUSE! AND I'M GOING TO KILL YOUR MOMMY, YOUR WIFE, AND YOUR LITTLE BABIES TOO!!!!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My children stared at me. Open-mouthed. Afraid to move. Afraid to speak. And then Kayton, with a tear in her eye, squeaked out "But, Mommy, you said we had to be nice to EVERYTHING!" I put down the broom I was swinging (a near miss to Mason's head), put my arms around my eldest child, and told her with all the compassion I could muster, "Honey, I love that you care so much for little animals. That's just wonderful. But you don't understand.... some things just need to be killed."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unless, of course, she improves dramatically on her Recorder and can Pied Piper these things out of here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*I am always extremely impressed with the sheer skill my sister-in-law (and her children and husband) have when it comes to projects. I envy her intelligence and ability (and patience). </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-3979396169741501272012-02-28T11:30:00.001-05:002012-02-28T11:36:38.660-05:00Just what are they teaching my kids?One of the many dichotomies of parenthood is that we stress about what we are teaching our children and question whether or not we are raising them the proper way- only to send them off, for eight hours a day, to be taught by people we have never met, a manner of beliefs and texts the content of which we may or may not be aware. Basically, as much as we talk about "how we raise our children", a good chunk of that raising is being done by someone else. And we don't really have a choice in the matter-- unless we want to home-school; and I, for one, would rather have the government brain-wash my children a' la 1984 than do it myself. As much as I love my children, it's all I can do to enforce a 45 minute homework time every night. There's no way I could extend that another six to seven hours and still maintain what little sanity I have left. <br />
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So, my children go to public school. And we are blessed that Howard County is still ranked among the top public school systems in the country, so I should be able to trust that the education the children are getting is top-notch. And I shouldn't have to wonder just what is going on behind school walls... but I do. <br />
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No, this post isn't regarding the math homework that is two grade levels above the last math course I took in college. That's old news. There's no way I'll ever be able to help middle schoolers with math homework-- I struggle over the second grade requirements. And fifth grade Language Arts? Uhm... now, I won't swear that the terminology has changed... I may have just either A/ never learned it or B/ forgotten it.. .but all I can tell Kayton is... "well, did you read it? ok.... what was it about? ok.... uhm.... well.... what do YOU think that means?" And when it comes to Social Studies I'm eagerly learning right along with them, since social studies in small-town VA circa early 80's is very different from social studies in "Hub of Diversity, Maryland, 2012". But, no, that's not what this post is about. That stuff I'm all ok with. I'm proud of it, even. I LIKE feeling as though my kids may end up smarter than I. I sure wouldn't want them any dumber. <br />
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However, a few weeks ago Mason and I were driving through Baltimore on the way to a doctors appointment. It was a nice day, so the windows were down as we drove, looking at the sights, listening to NPR Science Friday, and feeling like life was good. Then, out of the backseat, comes: "Mom, Am I colored?"<br />
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This was one of those moments when I longed for a good old crank window, since the automatic window wasn't going up fast enough for me. This was not one of those conversations that I wanted drifting on the wind throughout Baltimore. Plus, I needed time to think this through and giving Mason a "put your window up- it's getting chilly" command bought me a few seconds. I got a few more seconds by asking Mason to repeat his question. It never hurts to be safe, since answering the wrong question can be even more dangerous. I lost moments of my life a few weeks ago trying to figure out how to answer Kolbie when she asked me why I ate Daddy's peanuts. (Related-- my mother gave JMahl a huge bag of peanuts on our last visit home, and I ate them all. Unrelated-- I now lock the bedroom door.)<br />
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But repetition didn't change the question, and Mason recognizes evasion when he sees it, so he just insisted on an answer. "MOM- am I colored!!????" <br />
We don't say "colored" anymore. We say "black" or "African-American".<br />
They do in school. <br />
Well... wait... what? They say "colored" in school? <br />
Well, they said that black people were called "colored" in the olden days, so am I colored?<br />
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This, of course, led into an explanation of what is now proper to say (does anyone really know anymore?), but Mason would not be deterred. He kept repeating it over and over-- and who am I to say he can't call himself "colored" if he doesn't want to? As he pointed out, "colored" is a lot prettier to say than "black". Since, again, this came from HIM, people aren't BLACK, they are either colored or NOT colored--"like YOU, Mom", says he, "although you're pink, and pinks a color, too, so you're colored, too." <br />
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Once we got the semantics out of the way, I still had to answer his question, which was not nearly as hard-- a simple-- "You're both-- lucky you!" Then we got to what his real point was: "So, is Kayton colored?" (Mason, stop saying colored!!!! Kayton is both, just like you!" <br />
What about Kolbie? Is she colored? (I decided at this point that focusing on the word was what was keeping him going, so I just ignored it and answered, if a little annoyed, "Yes. She's your sister, too. So she is just like you.)<br />
But not Micah. <br />
Uhm... Micah is half-Daddy and half-Mommy, just like you, Kayton, and Kolbie-- so she's both too.<br />
No, she's not. She's the same color as you. <br />
Well, her skin may be lighter like mine, but she's still half-both, just like you.<br />
No, she's not, Mom. Micah is NOT colored. <br />
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*big sigh* Mason, Mason, Mason. You are completely undoing decades of civil rights with this conversation. HEY!-- look at that statue! <br />
(diversion accomplished)<br />
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But, no, that was not the extent of Mason's public school education. A few days ago at bedtime, Mason was not happy with having to go to bed, and decided to be in a bad mood. (Yes, I firmly believe he makes a conscious decision to be grumpy sometimes.) I had made the conscious decision to remain in a good mood regardless of his mood, so I put my arms around him to hug and kiss him good night and received a<br />
"STOP! You can't touch me!"<br />
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I laughed-- what do you mean I can't touch you? I'm your Mother. I can touch you if I want to.<br />
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No, you can't. They said at school that if someone made you uncomfortable and tried to touch you when you didn't want them to, you had to tell them to STOP and tell someone.<br />
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Mason, that does NOT apply to mothers trying to hug their sons.<br />
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YES, IT DOES. At school they said NO ONE could touch you unless you wanted them to. <br />
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Mason, they were talking about if someone touches you in a private place or if someone hits you.<br />
Well, you hit me. <br />
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I did? When? <br />
You spank me, and that's hitting.<br />
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Well, Son, first of all, I don't spank you nearly as often as I probably should; and second, spanking isn't hitting. <br />
Yes, it is. They said so at school. <br />
Really? Well. I'll spank you if you need a spanking, and I'll hug you whenever I want to, and you tell whoever YOU want to. I'm your mother. <br />
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I"m going to tell my teacher!!!!!<br />
Good. Then she'll know that I love you and that I'm a good mother. And I proceeded to hug him for an overly extended, obviously annoying, length of time, just to prove to him that I could. Hugging making him uncomfortable, bah!!! Tell THAT to your teacher.<br />
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But all jokes aside, I do have to wonder sometimes if the lessons our schools give our children may backfire on our parenting techniques. I know everything they say and do is for the safety and health and education of our children. I do understand this, but I sometimes wonder if the lessons that need to be learned eventually are sometimes learned too soon; or if the safety techniques necessary to protect some children just cause more problems for the parents of others. <br />
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I remember as a child being absolutely terrified of my mother when it came to spankings-- I probably got spanked at least once a day, although my memory may not be accurate. I also know for a fact that had I told a teacher about my spankings they would have assumed I deserved it-- and I'm quite certain I did. Heck, I got spankings from the teachers in school-- although I'm still not convinced I deserved those, since it was normally Johnny Nichols getting me in trouble and NOT MY FAULT. And this is not an argument for spanking or not spanking your children. I'm not going to say "I turned out fine, so spanking's okay." (although I did turn out fine-- I think). And to clarify, I seldom spank my children. I've spanked Kayton a few times, and it worked so well I haven't needed to spank her since. Mason? HAH! I could spank him for three days straight and he'd get up, turn around, and do whatever he did again. So, what's the point? <br />
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And I absolutely recognize that the versions of truth you get from an eight year old boy are not always the way things really were said. Kids (especially smart kids) distort things according to their desired results; but I do worry about when a supplied education starts to get in the way of good parenting-- or just, well, when we parents don't KNOW what their kids are being taught.<br />
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Spankings and Hugs are one thing. Diversity and Civil Rights education is another. I firmly agree that our kids need to learn history, but I wonder sometimes if maybe we are starting this education too early. At this age, kids see kids. Recognizing differences is something that is learned from other people-- from parents, from teachers, from society. Well, let me clarify. In Howard County-- Hub-of-Diversity, Maryland-- kids are so used to seeing kids of different nationalities, races, ethnicity, and mixes of all the above, that they don't look at the differences. It IS natural to them. Is it possible that by teaching these "born into diversity" children about the past, about racism, about segregation, about "colored", that we are stripping them of that innocence before it is necessary? They have the rest of their lives to learn that "sixty years ago people who looked like you (or looked like your friend) weren't allowed to -----". Do they need to learn that today? <br />
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I don't know. I don't know, so I trust those who claim they do. I just go with the flow, answering the questions posed, clarifying the lessons as best I can. But last night, when four year old Kolbie walked into the kitchen with a smile on her face and said "Hey, pretty white Mommy!" I looked at my husband, said "You handle this one", grabbed my wine, and walked out of the room, smiling as I heard my ultra-diverse-raised-in-the-Hub-Of-Diversity husband trying to explain why it's not nice to call Mommy "white".Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-15233573519876733042012-01-31T14:53:00.001-05:002012-01-31T15:04:43.972-05:00Full Hands.I used to get very annoyed whenever someone said the following phrase to me: "You look great--- for having four kids..." (yes, those dashes were literary freedom. I don't *really* think that was ever meant as an insult.) These days, I'd give much- around 20 lbs, at least, to hear that again. I don't know whether I no longer look good (for having four kids) or if my blog is really that popular (since I frequently complained about that statement). But now I have a new pet peeve statement. Or maybe I'm just one of those people who always needs to have something to complain about....<br />
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Regardless, "you must have your hands full!" is now on my bad list. To be honest, I'm not sure why this bothers me so much. My husband says I just over-think everything and that people just say that to have something to say when they are done counting kids, but what I hear is "Are you crazy? How in the world do you handle four kids? You must be so busy and so overwhelmed!"<br />
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Overwhelmed. That's the word that really gets me. A dear friend of mine was trying to explain to someone why she'd given my son a ride somewhere and described me as "she's just overwhelmed". Oh, boy. When she relayed this conversation to me, probably not realizing how I'd take it, I exploded "I am NOT overwhelmed!". Her response: But you must be! You have four kids!<br />
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So this is my moment to clear the air, and explain to all you mothers and fathers of 1, 2, or even 3 children-- four children, well, it's not that different. Oh, I get that it may be a little unusual for suburban America. I recognize that there is a high population of people who believe in one child to replace each parent in order to keep our population from expanding too quickly... but that doesn't really make four kids that hard. Or that crazy. Or that overwhelming.<br />
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For one, I LIKE my children. I actually, believe it or not, and despite my occasional under-my-breath grumblings of "oh, please, just go away", ENJOY being around my kids. I like taking them places with me. I like grocery shopping with them, going to the library, filing into church together. Unless they are fighting or just being plain bratty (again, not something I say out loud to them), I really enjoy being around them. All of them. That's pretty much why I had them.<br />
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There are those people who have a whole lot of "oops" pregnancies. There are also those who have children for ulterior motives (ie, welfare checks). Those aren't me. Well, I did have an oops pregnancy, but it wasn't the last one, so I don't count it as to why I have four children. And if one more grocery clerk sees my trail of children following me down the aisle and asks me for my food stamps, she may just get some food-stamping that she's not looking for. I had my four children because-- and here's the hard truth-- I WANTED four children. I wanted a large family. And guess what? Four children later-- I still do!<br />
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When it comes down to it, the first child is the hardest. That's the one that forces you to change your life, juggle your budget, make choices regarding your career and your parenting style, and intrudes on the one-on-one private time you are used to with your spouse. And the second child-- well, that's the one that introduces fighting, squabbling, and "I'm not touching you! I'm still not touching you!" into your life. Numbers three and four are just extra mouths to feed, laundry to do, and hugs to receive. And to be honest, if you're already cooking for a family of four, what's two more? How much do little kids eat? If you're already doing four loads of laundry a week, baby clothes are small, so it's now just four larger loads of laundry. And, well, you do have to buy a bigger car (unless you already have a huge gas-guzzling, parking spot hogging SUV to cart around your one or two children....), but I needed a new car anyway. College? Listen, it WILL get paid for. Somehow, someway. Student loans, part-time jobs. No, I'm not worried about that. <br />
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I had four children (not three) for a reason. I can always send one to play with another. Oh, Mason is playing with Kolbie? Then you play with Micah. This may have worked out better if I had two boys/ two girls, but beggars can't be choosers, as my mother always said. I had four kids because I love the fullness of my house in the evenings, when we're just together as a family. I love having all six seats at the dining room table sat in. (I should have bought the 8-chair set when we got married.) I love that when Kayton's off somewhere and Mason's off somewhere else, I still have two little girls playing at my feet. It's not overwhelming, it's.. well... my idea of family.<br />
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Now, I won't say I don't get overwhelmed at times. If you happen to live in my neighborhood you may or may not have heard me losing my mind at the top of my lungs on occasion. Sometimes I forget my windows are open. But being overwhelmed at times is not the same as "being overwhelmed". And I am not overwhelmed. I just have four kids. I am not so busy (if I were, this blog wouldn't be written)... I'm just a mom loving her life. <br />
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But, you're right, my hands are full. One of them is always holding either amazingly soft and trusting toddler fingers that reach up to grab mine or a discarded toy or blanket (PLEASE hold this for me, Mommy- for just ONE minute!) from the four year old who always has so much to do. One of them is always either reaching out to brush the nine year old's wild head of hair or grab the back of my eight year old's neck so that <i>his</i> hands don't fill up with trouble. <br />
My lap is full whenever I sit down- someone always needs a book read, help with math homework, to nurse, or just to cuddle.<br />
My arms are full at night as I go bed to bed to bed to bed saying prayers and kissing goodnight.<br />
And my life is full. Always full.<br />
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So, if when you say "your hands must be full" you mean "you must be overwhelmed". No, I'm not. But if you really mean "full of love". Then yes, yes they are. And thank you for recognizing that.<br />
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But whether you are a parent with 1,2,3,4,5,6,7, or 8 children... I pray your hands are as full as mine. As for those of you with more than 8-- well, you're just plain crazy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-14553638464251422382012-01-07T10:32:00.000-05:002012-01-07T10:32:41.668-05:00Mid-Drift Crisis and New Year ResolutionsA few days before Christmas, while the kids were still safely in school but my husband was taking a few much-needed days off, he surprised me by volunteering to watch the kids for a few minutes while I ran out to get some coffee. Starbucks gift cards still tend to be the Christmas present of choice from my husband's boss, despite the fact that he does not/ has never/ most likely will never drink coffee. Her lack of attention to her employees' needs is my reward, since I can't justify the cost of Starbucks any other time. The underlying issues of poor management and misguided attempts at employee motivation that are seen here are, selfishly, not my problem. Well, not as long as my husband continues to go to work each morning. So, with Starbucks gift card in hand, I ran out the door to enjoy a few minutes of peace, quiet, and rich, creamy mocha latte. <div><br />
<div>What was not in my plan was the spontaneous stop by our local tattoo parlor. Sure, I knew it was there, sitting next to a Mexican restaurant that I've also never frequented, but I'd never paid it much mind. I mean, I am a 33 year old mother of four. Some places are not intended for people like me-- well, not since I graduated from college, at least. You see, I started college in 1996. In 1996, computers existed, but they still cost a long discussion with the soon-to-be roommate over who would get the computer for the room, an entire summer's work worth of savings, and a special trip to the UVA tech lab to get internet installed so I could check an email that never received any messages since no one else in the world had email. But I digress. Computers were just coming into vogue-- and so were belly rings. Back in 1996, a belly ring wasn't expected on the mid-drifts of sexy young co-eds (which I like to think of myself as back then, despite the fact that pictures will most likely prove otherwise). A belly ring signified "alternative, different, mysterious, rebellious". (Which is also what I liked to think of myself as back then-- just like 99% of other college girls.) And one day, a few months into the semester, my roommate and I decided to do something alternative, different, mysterious, rebellious.... but not a tattoo- no, that was TOO much for us (that trip)-- so we got our navels pierced. I'd say it was a bonding experience, and it most definitely was, but it was more than that. It was a permanent scar on my poor stomach that has since then been further abused by the insertion and growth of four children. Because while I could (and did) remove my piercing when I got pregnant with my first-- which, yes, I turned in to a mental ceremony of sorts-- a shedding of my old life and immaturity in preparation of a new life of wisdom and parenthood-- the scar remained. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And that scar bugged me. No, not every day. I'd go months without even noticing it (I do make a concerted effort to not stare at my navel every day), but then, when I did notice it, it would bug me. So on this day, with inspiring caffeine in hand and no children in the backseat, I spontaneously swerved into the tattoo parlor, marched inside, begged the piercer not to laugh at me, and had my belly ring reinserted. Be warned, other nursing mothers who may attempt this, it is practically impossible to suck in your stomach without sticking out your chest, so I almost left there with a pierced nipple. Regardless, the piercer did get a bit more than he was bargaining for since he had to strategically work around my four-kids worth of belly fat, six years worth of nursing breasts, and my constant verbal justification for why I was doing this while he attempted to insert the needle straight through the remnants of my past rebellion over fifteen years ago.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But my point is this: that was an idiotic thing to do. But because I'm stubborn and it cost $60, I refuse to remove it, despite the fact that Micah refused to come near me for a good four hours, pointing and screaming "out! out!" every time she saw it, and Kayton informed me that no "old person" should ever have their navel pierced. Right on both accounts.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But the New Year is the time to make changes, right? Time to look back on your life and take charge of the things you want to change-- time to remove the scars or, at least, cover them with something beautiful. That's what we do this time of year. We take stock of our mistakes, our lapses in judgement, our laziness, our "things that need to change", and we promise to change them. While, chances are, we won't be successful, it's an evaluation time. A time for a new strategy, a plan, an implementation of the new goals we've created for ourselves that we hope will lead to a greater success during this year. A time to look at our weaknesses and the threats to our success and exchange them for opportunities to grow and ways to strengthen ourselves. And so, I complied, by analyzing myself (my navel) and making the necessary changes. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The thing about analyzing yourself is that YOU are only one perspective. And, personally, while I think my perspective is the only accurate one, I am willing to acknowledge the need for outside consultants on this matter in order to avoid complete bias. But this is where the real issues come into play. Any of you that have friends and/or family members (and I hope you all do) know that every one of your friends and/or family members has an opinion on your life. On your life, your marriage, your parenting skills, your career--that's sort of their job-- to sit back and subtly and surreptitiously critique your life, judge your actions, and then tell you what you should do- to be more like them. (Something which we want to avoid since we've been sitting back, subtly and surreptitiously critiquing their life and judging their actions). The problem with other people's opinions (other than the fact that they belong to other people and, therefore, can't be worth as much as my own) is that once you ask someone's opinion, you are obligated by politeness to acknowledge the value in it, then you must either A/ follow that advice (despite the fact that you don't want to) or B/ PRETEND to follow that advice while being careful to completely avoid it and any direct evidence that you have avoided it. Of course, Option B often results in angry friends who want to know why you didn't just listen to them in the first place and (my favorite): "why ask my opinion if you weren't going to take it?"... uhm... because, well, I was curious?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Now, I'm no stranger to angry friends. One of my neighbors was angry with me because my dog barked at Santa Claus (although I thought the barking less offensive to Santa than Micah's screams of terror and monkey-climbing to the top of my head to get away from him). I have a family member who hasn't spoken to me in two years because she's angry at me. I don't know the reasoning behind that one, and I've quit wondering, to be honest (although I do believe it has something to do with offered opinions). My husband gets angry with me relatively often (typically when I promise to get out of bed to iron his shirt and then- accidentally- fall back asleep). And one of my children is always angry with me about something- any given day, feel free to take a poll and see what results you get. But what I've discovered is that people being angry at you is like an impromptu New Years. It forces you to look at yourself, question your actions, and determine a course of action to improve in the future. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Since someone's always angry at me for something, I am always being forced to question my decisions. There's just something about Parenthood, specifically, that forces you to question every single thing you do, compare yourself to your child's friends parents, to your parents, to those parents you see on tv- specifically in Wife Swap or Super Nanny and, in absentia, on Jersey Shore (okay, we KNOW we have to be better parents than those parents). But that's okay--because it's by questioning ourselves and seeking new ways to do things to cover those "scars" that we may or may not be inflicting on our children as a result of the things we choose to do as parents that we become better parents. It's only by recognizing that we may have done something wrong, upset someone, made an error in judgement that we can improve and make changes. And no, just because someone (spouse, child, parent, sibling, friend) gets angry doesn't mean we've done something wrong. But it's a signal to evaluate. And we should always be evaluating ourselves. Not just at New Years, but on every New Day. And that is my first New Year Resolution. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The second is: the scar on my tongue from the piercing that I had to take out when I started my first real job? It stays a scar. </div><div> </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
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</div><div><br />
</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-43165830341548022542011-12-14T10:59:00.000-05:002011-12-14T10:59:14.027-05:00Christmas Shopping 101A few months ago, after much robbing of Peter and paying of Paul, JMahl and I managed to pay off our credit card. This was cause for celebration, so we immediately splurged (on the credit card) and got Chinese. And then I had an (almost) completely open credit line with which to enter the Christmas season. So, like most parents out there, I have spent the last few weeks feverishly purchasing presents that will, most likely, be appreciated for a much shorter time than it takes me to, again, pay off my credit card. Yes, I realize this is a very negative outlook, but my husband has started to rub off on me and, I must admit, in this matter, he is correct.<br />
<br />
Every Christmas I am convinced that THIS Christmas will be THE Christmas that my children will remember forever. If you take some time to think back, I'm sure you have some of those. I do, although I'm sure they aren't the ones my parents wanted me to remember. For example, the year I received a huge box of coal from my brother Ian. At the very bottom of the box was a wonderful horse poster. This was the period where, like many little girls, my bedroom walls were decorated with animal pictures. I loved it!<br />
And the year I begged for the tiny doll with a whole closet full of clothes, page 176 in the Sears Catalog. Do you remember thumbing through the Sears Catalog that was two inches thick and was ragged and torn by a week before Christmas? I got an erector set that year. <br />
And the year we waited to open Christmas presents until my mother and new baby brother Trent came home from the hospital.... that was frustrating, only getting to open ONE PRESENT so that Mom could see us open the rest, all because Trent decided to be born the day before. <br />
<br />
But isn't that most of the joy of Christmas morning? Not so much what the kids get-- but seeing their faces when they get it? At least, for me that's it. Which is why I keep buying things. But that thrill and excitement is elusive.<br />
<br />
It seems as though no matter what I get for the kids, it's never EXACTLY what they wanted. Sure, if you ask my husband, he'll tell you that I tend to buy things that I want the kids to want (the hammock swing), not necessarily something they do want (a spy-copter that I know Dugan will destroy by New Years). But really, as their parent, it is my job to guide them toward wanting the things I want them to want, right? And there's also the issue of over-presenting. <br />
<br />
Unlike when I was a child, and I only got presents on Holidays and Birthdays, my kids get stuff pretty regularly. I blame this fact primarily on my in-laws, who have a tendency to splurge when it comes to the children, but I'm guilty too. New shoes don't wait for a present-giving holiday. New clothes come at the start of a school year. Little "just because I love you" presents come when I have extra money in my grocery budget. Maybe JMahl and I have more money than my parents did when we were young... or maybe we're just spoiling our kids. I don't know. But regardless, kids (or my kids, at least) expect more and don't seem as grateful for the things they get anymore. My children have no hesitancy in saying "this isn't what I wanted", while I clearly remember wearing things I hated just because my mother bought them for me and I didn't want to hurt her feelings by telling her how ugly they were. Although there was one Christmas I do remember being very upset that my parents bought all my brothers new camping gear while I was left with...uhm... I don't remember what I got, but it wasn't camping gear. I felt left out, but my parents made up for it a few months later when I graduated from college and received- tada!- new camping gear! And it's been used at least three times since then! But I honestly never realized how hard it was to shop for children until I became a mother myself. <br />
<br />
But I thought I'd solved this problem this year. A few months ago I had each of the kids post a Christmas list on the mantle (so that Santa would get it). I promised them that Santa would get them each one thing off the list. This list was posted in September, so when Mason's birthday rolled around at the end of October, I utilized it to make sure he had a fabulous eighth birthday. Not such a great idea, since he only had one thing on his list: "an iPod 4th generation 8gb with built in forward/ rear camera and facetime". He was very specific. He's lucky that his father jumped on the excuse to shop for that to get himself an iPad 2. But that left me no chance of early Christmas shopping, until Mason added to his list. Which, of course, post-Birthday, when he had what he wanted, he did.<br />
<br />
The problem is, he (and Kayton, too) have continued to add to their lists. Every day there is something new tacked on in sloppy penmanship to the bottom of the list. And I've already hit my Christmas budget. Last night, after purchasing everything on the lists for both kids (unbeknownst to them, of course), as we sat around the dining room table eating dinner, Mason informed me that he ONLY wants a sled "like Zack's! Have you seen Zack's? It's so cool! That's all I want! If you get me that, I'll be sooooo happy!!!". Uhm.... what about the snowboard (hidden in the basement) that you wanted? <br />
<br />
Well.... I sort of want that still, but not that much. <br />
<br />
Okay....... and Kayton, what do you want? Well, I know I said I wanted a computer, but all I really want is a squinkie car. It's only $15- I saw the commercial on tv, and it's really awesome and all my little squinkies can ride around in it.<br />
<br />
So you'd rather have a $15 cheap plastic toy than your very own aqua blue netbook with a built in webcam (not that that's already been purchased or anything...)? <br />
<br />
YES!!!!<br />
<br />
Kolbie is not any easier. She wants whatever Kayton wants. So when Kayton wanted an American Girl doll, Kolbie did too. And when Kayton wants a squinkie car, Kolbie does too. Kolbie also wants whatever happens to be showing on the most recent commercial: Mommy! Mommy! LOOK! I want THAT! <br />
What is that, Kolbie?<br />
I don't know, but I WANT it!!!<br />
Of course, to show her true altruism, she occasionally switches it up to: Mommy! Mommy! LOOK! MICAH wants THAT! At which Micah will, in verification of this desire, point and jump and yell "Wan AT!"<br />
<br />
There's no way I can shop according to every tv advert that pops up on the screen in between Dora and Blues Clues, but bless me, I try.<br />
<br />
Christmas Morning would be much more successful if I waited until the kids were climbing into bed on Christmas Eve, preparing to dream of sugar plums and the razor electric scooter that one of the kids at school said they may be getting for Christmas, and then ask each child, as they snuggle onto their pillows and under their blankets in the matching family pajamas I got everyone again this year even though none of the kids wear pajamas to bed, preferring instead to sleep in their underwear, "Okay, tomorrow is Christmas. What do you want Santa to bring you?" And, as they relay their last minute Christmas wishes, I will furiously text JMahl, who would be waiting with bated breathe at the Toys-R-Us... "2 lalaloopsy dolls, 1 96-pack of squinkies (make sure there's a fairy in it), a basketball hoop, and, oh, if they have Kenmore mixers, you can pick one up for me..."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-17912600347551658702011-11-10T15:30:00.003-05:002011-11-10T16:15:03.072-05:00TimelineMay, 2011- My son got a bug bite on his leg. He itched it; he scratched it; he kept picking at it, and I kept yelling at him. Leave it alone! Let it heal! Stop touching it. I tried everything- bandaids, creams, a huge piece of duct-tape wrapped around his leg. See if you can get that off, my stubborn child! Most often, I fluctuated between screaming STOP IT and begging quietly "Please let it heal or it's going to get infected." Then I just gave up. Sometimes you choose your battles and, heck, if he wants to pick his disgusting scabs, that's what boys do. <br />
<br />
June, 2011-- During a masterful attempt at cutting my son's hair (I was convinced that buying a new razor set would take me from bowl-cut skill levels to the amazing reconstructive techniques that my husband's barber applies to him every two weeks), I managed to cut my son's head. Smooth move, Mom. In my defense, he was wiggling. And, again, in my defense, I was quick to inform my husband (who was quick to jump in with a "THAT is why you will never cut MY hair") that I think he had a bump there already, and I just, sort-of, kind-of, shaved the bump off. And then, of course, I spent the next few weeks screaming/ begging/ cajoling my son to stop picking at the new scab on his head.<br />
<br />
July, 2011-- My husband (who is a paranoid father, as previously noted) finally insisted I take my son to the doctors. Despite me telling him multiple times that the scabs would heal if Mason would just stop touching them, he put his foot down. So I did. He also insisted that I ask the doctor if it were possible that the dog was causing this. And post-doctors visit I sneaked in the front door, hiding the prescription bottles in my purse, not wanting to admit that yes, my husband was right. It was infected and he did need antibiotics, but proud to say that no, it was not the dog. But with prescriptions in hand, thankfully, my husband swallowed his "I told you so". Although, maybe I just couldn't hear it through the pillows covering my ears and the loud humming I was doing for the next few hours. <br />
<br />
August, 2011-- Back to the doctors, with a snide comment to my husband: "The antibiotics worked wonders. They caused a yeast infection-- hurrah!" To the doctor, I was less snide. More confused: 6 weeks on antibiotics, coating his body with cream, and all we have to show for it is a yeast infection? And oh, he's got another sore on his chest. What's up with that? Doctor's remedy: New prescriptions. Thank goodness for good insurance. (And thank you, honey, for keeping a good job that allows us good insurance.)<br />
<br />
September, 2011-- Now I'm sort of frustrated. The school nurse and Mason's teacher keep sending home notes about the "stuff" in his hair. The supposed yeast infection hasn't gone away, and the original scab has grown to twice it's original size and has made friends of about four other spots on his body. New doctors visit. New prescriptions. Back home. My husband has stopped saying "I told you so" and starting saying "Tell me something. Please."<br />
<br />
October, 2011-- The list of prescriptions is now amazingly long. (Have I said thank goodness for good insurance yet?) Four oral medications. (with benedryl and tylenol thrown in for good measure) Nine different topical solutions slathered on in different combinations at different times of day. Two medicated shampoos on alternate days. And vials of good old-fashioned olive oil poured on his head before school every day. No luck.<br />
<br />
Sunday, October 23-- Mason woke up in the morning with a sore on his eye. This sore makes over 40 spots all over his body. Each one growing bigger every day. None ever going away. We do a quick emergency room visit. New prescription and finally some bloodwork. Blood was hell to acquire. Never want to do that again. But bloodwork told us nothing. <br />
<br />
Saturday, October 29-- We go to see a Pediatric Medical Dermatologist. After reviewing her biography online I suggested to JMahl that he may want to take Mason in. She was hot. Happily, he refused, and I took Mason in. She was not only hot, but she had a hot husband at the office helping her that day. And she was super sweet. I loved her immediately. Mason didn't hate her immediately, which says a lot.<br />
And she immediately had a possible diagnosis. YEAH! Finally something! Wait... What? Are you sure? No. Not sure until we do a biopsy. But no, the dog is not causing this. (Because JMahl, again, insisted I ask.)<br />
<br />
Sunday, October 30-- JMahl is now nervous. I am nervous. We've spent the last three days researching the possible diagnosis and getting crazier by the minute. Interestingly enough, we don't do any research together. We speak to each other in code. Not really saying the words out loud. Not really admitting to what we just read on the internet (which is possibly one of the stupidest things a parent can ever do.) Most of our conversations went like this: "JMahl, did you know that..." To which he would respond, "Don't you have female friends to talk to about this? I don't really see the point in discussing something we don't even know for a fact yet." To which I would get annoyed, shut up, and ignore him for the next few hours until he would contritely roll over to my side of the bed, put his arm around me, and pull me to him. And I knew that he did care. Did understand. Just, well, we have different ways of worrying.<br />
<br />
Tuesday, November 1--Today is the day of the biopsy. JMahl took off the afternoon to go with me and Mason. My mother-in-law, God Bless Her, stayed home with the girls. Mason refused to get out of bed. I don't blame him. I hadn't slept the night before,and that, for me, is highly unusual. I'm one of those "close my eyes and go to sleep and don't wake up unless a child is screaming bloody murder... and even then, I may not wake up unless my husband kicks me a few times". But for some reason, after tossing and turning for an hour in bed, I still couldn't sleep, and pulled myself out of bed to go downstairs and do some house-cleaning. Yes. Midnight housecleaning. The odd thing was, it was actually enjoyable. There's something very nice-- very accomplished-- about cleaning your house in the middle of the night. Not having children running behind you dropping crumbs in your wake. Not having a dog leaving muddy footprints on the floor, or a husband leaving his socks on the carpet where you just finished picking up three days worth of dirty socks. The floor got mopped, and the floor stayed spotless for about six hours (until children woke up.) And around 3:30am I went back to bed, tossed for another hour or so, and finally fell asleep just in time to wake up with the baby. For the record, midnight house cleaning will not be a regular thing.<br />
<br />
Thursday, November 3-- The doctor has said that she should have results by tomorrow. But I'm nervous. My stomach won't stop stirring. Every time the phone rings I jump. My mind goes from "there's no way this is the diagnosis" to "what if it's not and it's worse????". Then I calm myself and remind myself that there are both a lot worse things it could be and, most likely, it's something a lot less serious. But, in a manner reminiscent of early relationships in high school, I check the dial tone on the phone. Yes, it's working. I check that my volume on my cell phone is turned up. Yes. I debate calling the doctor to make sure she didn't loose my phone number... then I remind myself that results aren't due till tomorrow. Just when I'm somewhat sane, I get a call from my husband asking for the doctors number-- just to check... just in case the results came in early. I yell at him for his impatience, hang up the phone, then check to make sure I'd hung it up properly and that there was a dial tone.<br />
<br />
Friday, November 4-- There is nothing worse than waiting for the phone to ring... or maybe it's jumping every time the phone rings, but it's never the call for which you are waiting.<br />
<br />
Sunday, November 6- My 33rd birthday. The phone rings all day, but it is always well-wishes for a great year. My daughters made me a birthday cake. My husband decorated the house with bright Birthday signs and balloons. My son pulled out his ipod and made me a wonderful birthday song with background beats: You're the best mommy, and I love you. You're so pretty and the best mom in the world. For your birthday, I'll be a better boy and not make you mad. Happy Birthday, Mom.... I loooooovvveeee youuuuuuuuu.....<br />
<br />
Monday, November 7-- Still no results. My husband or I come up with excuses at least twice a day to call the doctor's office. "Can we get a note for school saying he's not contagious? Oh, and by the way, have you got the results yet?" And "Is your office open today? Oh, it is.... well, do you have results yet?" Both the doctor and the nurse have told me repeatedly-- and kindly-- we will call you when we get the results.... but it's hard to wait. Hard to jump each time the phone rings, carrying my cell phone around in my bra so I can be certain to hear it ring... if it does ring.<br />
But it's even worse for Mason. The kids at school have gotten mean. "You're gross. That's disgusting. What's the stuff all over you? I don't want to sit next to him... I might get what he has." I don't know what to do. I offer to let him stay home from school. He says "I hate school. My friends are mean. But I want to go to school-- tomorrow's GYM day!" I start to cry, hiding it from him. My boy is in pain. My boy is being hurt by his friends. But he's my boy.<br />
I can't keep sitting around waiting, so I make another doctor's appt-- this time with the eye doctor. I'm terrified that the sores surrounding his eyes, covering his eyelids, are going to have an irreversible effect on his site. The optometrist says whatever it is, it's not affecting his sight. Good news. That's something. And by the way, says the optometrist, if this is a dog allergy, this is the worse dog allergy I've ever seen.<br />
<br />
Tuesday, November 8-- It's surprising the things that you never think to ask your children. I guess we, as parents, assume our kids are healthy unless they tell us otherwise. I knew he had headaches occasionally, but I assumed they were from too much sugar, too little water, too much running, too little sleep. I knew his legs hurt occasionally, but I assumed that was the result of his tendon surgery last year. My boy has been through a lot, but he's not a complainer, that's for sure. I had no idea that his fingers went numb so often. Or that they went numb ever, until he asked "why do my fingers go numb so often?" I had no answer, just surprise-- they do??? Why didn't you tell me? His answer, honest enough: you never asked. I can't help but wonder, are these symptoms or is this just little boy? How do I know?<br />
<br />
My husband and I jump whenever the phone rings and have started to just give the other a shake of the head- no- when Caller ID doesn't say the doctor's number. Considering my husband's animosity for the ringing phone, I would find it funny the way he rushes into the room whenever it beckons, but I can't laugh.<br />
I found him today in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, staring. What's wrong, I ask,not used to seeing him like this. He started to shake... what if it's fatal? he finally got out. I just looked at him for a moment before putting my arms around him. I held him up, while he fell apart. <br />
It's not fatal. <br />
But how do you know?<br />
I know, because the day he was born the doctors told me to be prepared for his death. They didn't think he'd make it. Four weeks later he was healthy, home, and fine. I know because he's already been through too much for an eight year old boy. Four surgeries, twelve weeks in a wheelchair, constant physical therapy. Too much. God wouldn't do that to him- to us--too.<br />
But how do you know?<br />
<br />
I don't know. But in every thought is the prayer, "Lord, make it okay. Make HIM okay. My boy. My love. My heart. Make him okay. I'll stop cursing under my breath when the kids push me to the limit. I'll stop lying in bed in the morning wishing I could just ONCE wake up to something other than squabbling. I'll stop resenting the constant need-need-need having four children creates. I'll stop wishing for more money, a better complexion, a more romantic husband. I'll give up the dog--- if you just make this an allergic reaction-- please! I'll give up sneaking a cigarette when I've had a rough day or just too much to drink. I'll give up too much to drink- anything to drink!-- just make my son better. Please, God. I try to barter. Okay, if this is an allergy, I'll give it all up. If it's just a skin disorder, I'll give up cursing only- and the stolen ciggy. If it's something curable, fixable, LORD, I will make it worth your while, I PROMISE. And if that doesn't work, why don't you give this illness to me so my son can have a full, wonderful, pain-free life? Please, Lord. PLEASE.<br />
<br />
Thursday, November 10, 8:15am-- Mason can't sleep at night because of the pain and itching. Tylenol and Benadryl only do so much. Yesterday he woke up with his entire body covered in a light rash, which I can only describe as goosebumps that don't go away. I don't know if this is something else, or if his skin- his body- is about to completely give up the fight. I remind myself that he had his flu vaccine last week, and that could very well be the cause of this new symptom.<br />
<br />
10:50am-- I call the doctor. The nurse answers. Yes, results are in. The doctor will call to discuss the results with me as soon as she has a moment. I think this is worse than the waiting. Knowing that someone KNOWS what is wrong with my son, but it's not me. I call my husband, am reassured that he will be by the phone waiting for my call. I reassure him that it's going to be okay... probably not a big deal. <br />
I send a text to my brothers and close friends who have been waiting by the phone with me. "Results are in. Waiting for call to discuss them. PRAY." Within seconds I receive a text back: "We are." The phone beeps again: "Will do". Another beep: "Praying." I start to cry. This is why God gave us families-- so we are not alone when we are scared. I find myself thinking about when I was a child, sharing a bedroom with my little brothers. I used to get so scared of the dark- shapes distort themselves at night to be something horrific and scary. No matter how bad the fear got, I only had to reach out my hand to touch Jared's hand... reaching across the space between our beds. I only had to whisper a "hey, are you awake?" to hear Trent's giggling response and know that I wasn't alone. I'll never be alone. Fear is so much easier to deal with when you're dealing with it with someone. I feel for my husband in these moments. He has me, but no siblings to call, to rely on. No "Will do. We are. Praying." to help alleviate the terror of the unknown. I thank God and my husband, silently in my head, for our decision to have four children. My children will never be alone.<br />
<br />
11:27am-- My hands won't stop shaking, and I don't know if it's fear or the extra pot of coffee I just drank. Probably a combination of both, if I'm honest. Dugan knows something is wrong. He's at my heels every time I turn around. I keep tripping over his feet or getting swatted by his tail. I call my Mom and let her know that we will have the results today. She breaks into prayer, ending with "Thy Will Be Done". I can't help but add silently--but only if it's MY WILL TOO, Lord. I take it back immediately. I don't believe in a vengeful, unconcerned, or "relishing in the pain of children and parents" God-- but I don't want to challenge Him either. <br />
<br />
12:52-- As the phone continues to not ring, I've convinced myself it's not going to be bad. That we have been stressed out for nothing. If it WERE that bad, the doctor wouldn't have waited so long to call. If it were serious, she would have called immediately, or had us come to her office to talk about it, or sent us to the hospital. So, it's obviously not that bad. I read a study a few days ago that said that waiting for biopsy results causes more stress than actually receiving the results. I believe it. So I'm going to stop stressing. I'll clean my house, singing along to the radio, content in the knowledge that if it were bad, I'd know by now. No news is good news. That's what they've always said, right?<br />
<br />
2:08pm-- I've convinced myself of two things: 1/ The doctor will not call until after 4, when her office closes. 2/ The results will rule out all the really bad things and just leave questions. If she had an answer, she would have called already.<br />
Documenting this is the only thing keeping me sane right now.<br />
<br />
2:24pm-- The phone rings. I check caller id and see a number I recognize. I take a moment to breathe before I answer the phone.<br />
<br />
3:05pm-- I've made the important phone calls, sent the important texts. My husband first. He says "I just wish I could hug you right now." I say "When you get home, I don't think I'll be able to let go of you." I call my Mom. My Dad. Text my brothers, my close friends. The responses start pouring in.<br />
I was right about one thing. Wrong about the other. The doctor called before 4. It's not what she thought it was. It's not worse. It's better. It may be chronic, it may be painful and disfiguring, but it is treatable. It's just Psoriasis. A rare pediatric form of psoriasis, but just psoriasis. I cry in relief.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago-- a week ago, even-- this diagnosis would have been upsetting. But now, after spending a week researching everything from Systemic Lupus to Skin Cancer, terrified that I may loose my child, I am relieved. It's not going to be easy, but he's going to be okay. See, honey? I told you it wasn't fatal. He's going to be okay.<br />
<br />
I've developed a new understanding, a new sympathy, even empathy, for parents who are told their children may have a horrible disease-- the disbelief, the guilt, the fear. I don't think I- or my husband- or our family-- will ever forget the fear of the last few days. But I can breathe now. God answers prayers. <br />
<br />
I write all this and share it with you for a number of reasons. One, to you, my family and friends who read this, you now know what it is when you see Mason. You will understand that this is treatable, that he will be okay. No need to worry (it's not contagious-- unless you are related). And two, to our neighbors and acquaintances who may notice his skin and not want to ask while wondering "what's wrong with him"; and to you who may have a child come home from school and say "there's this boy in my class who's got sores all over him"-- you won't say "see? this is why I make you bathe every night instead of just two or three times a week (depending on how dirty he is) like his mom." You'll explain to your child, as I must explain to mine, that sometimes things happen. Sometimes we have things in our body that don't work the way they are supposed to. And this isn't something wrong or bad with you. This isn't YOUR fault. This isn't because you are bad or dirty or God loves you less. It's just the way things happen sometimes. And you're going to be okay. Thank God for this diagnosis. Thank God for modern medicine. Thank you, God.<br />
<br />
You will be okay.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-39639412467914169652011-10-27T13:39:00.001-04:002011-10-27T13:46:41.777-04:00Runner.A few days ago, a svelte, fit, hair-brushed, made-up Mom in a cute, well-fitting track suit and shiny clean sneakers asked me, in my baggy sweatpants, unshowered and unbrushed hair, no makeup, and something orange dribbling down the front of my shirt, if I was a runner. My first response was no, but I didn't want to say that, because I could see in her eyes that being a non-runner was just as bad as not showering before picking up my daughter from pre-school. So, I sort of told a somewhat half-truth white lie. "Not really. Not anymore. I have four kids..." <br />
<br />
Because there was this time, once, when I was a runner. Off and on, that is. In High School, for about two months out of the year, I ran track. And then there was that time in college that I ran every night- for about one and a half weeks- before taking just one night off... which led to three years off.<br />
And then again, when I got pregnant with my oldest, I decided to take my dog for a brief run every night in order to stay in shape through my pregnancy... but then bedrest ended that.<br />
And last summer I did get a new pair of running shoes (and a new puppy) and did nightly runs with him for another few weeks... until I took just one night off... which led to now.<br />
So I have sort-of, somewhat, sometimes, been a runner. But I have four kids now, so it's really hard to be a runner. It would involve having to either A/ get out of bed unrealistically early to take a jog-- which is not going to happen. I love my bed. B/ sacrificing my quiet time at the end of the day when I can actually just sit on the couch and read-- again, not going to happen. I need my fantasy life. or C/ investing in a $600 jogging stroller... uhm... yeah, I'm cheap. (But I am open to donations!)<br />
<br />
So, having four kids justifies my lack of running, I would say... although, I think I could also argue that having four kids makes me more of a runner than anyone else. That's four different runs to the grocery store on the day that I forget specific items promised to the kids. Four different runs in four different directions when I hear a scream in one room, followed by a squeal in another, followed by sounds of fists in a third, and then a dreadful silence in a fourth- -that to a mother speaks of only one thing: some horrible mess is going to need to be cleaned up. Most days, this is a five-way run, since I can tell the sound of the dog's paws hitting my counter as he goes for my pot roast cooling. So, yes, daggone it, I am a runner. I run to keep the cookies from burning; I run to chase down the dog that the 18-month old just let outside; I run to throw a helmet after a quickly-peddling 8 yr old on a bike; and I do the long jump over the loads of laundry that I've left sitting in the middle of the living room floor for three days. A few weeks ago, three kids and a dog and I even went for a jog around the neighborhood. They all beat me-- even the three year old-- and I did beg one of them- any of you, I don't care who, just go!- to run back and tell Daddy to bring me the car, but they refused. But I did run. So, yes, perfectly coifed and good-smelling mother-runner. I'm a runner, too.<br />
<br />
But what's with this new fad of running? Sure, it's refreshing-- if you're not bent over heaving up your guts. It's exhilarating-- if you like having your nose frozen and your toes blistered. And it's good for you. But so is sleep. But running is the cool thing to do now. (Or maybe it always has been, and I've just never been cool.)<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But you can't go anywhere around Elkridge without passing someone running. I don't mind so much in the summer when they (and by they, I mean the men) are shirtless and sweating; but it just annoys me to see people running in the rain. Don't you know RAIN is God's way of saying "Put on sweatpants and stay in bed... or don't even bother with the sweatpants, it's cool." And I will never appreciate the sight of sexy, half-naked summer-running females---especially the ones pushing double-jogging strollers. These I can ignore when I'm alone in the car, but when my husband is with me I tend to get tired of hearing the "Uh, honey, let's get one of those for Christmas.... The JOGGING STROLLER, I Meant the Jogging Stroller, I swear! Please stop hitting me!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">But running does flow through my blood. Proof positive being my daughter, Kayton, who </span></span><br />
has joined a great organization -- Girls on the Run-- which has her training for 5ks for a whole semester. She loves to run, and she's a real runner. When she runs, she really looks like she's flying, with her legs perpendicular to her body and her hair a mile behind her. She reminds me of the Goddess Diana in my old Greek Mythology books-- minus the bows and arrows... and the sex appeal, of course. Kayton's only nine, for goodness sake, but she's already run four 5ks, and she's prepping for her next one in December. She'd be much faster if she didn't enjoy it so much and have so much fun doing it, so I happily choose the latter over the former. I've always, somewhat boastfully, informed Kayton that she got her running gene from me. She was inclined to believe me (albeit skeptical), since she'd never seen her father run; but then a few days ago JMahl apparently got tired of me getting all the (skeptical) glory and went for a run with her. She came home glowing and exclaiming "Daddy's fast! Why didn't you tell me?! He beat me!!!"<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
I hadn't told her because, honestly, I hadn't known. I've only ever seen JMahl run twice in our time together. Once was a few days before our wedding when I caught him going out the back door in the middle of the night wearing a pair of sneakers and a backpack stuffed with his birth certificate, a picture of his Momma, and a pack of Newports. Apparently, running with a backpack is a great way to get in shape for a wedding, he was told. The other time was a few weeks ago, right after I asked him if maybe he might consider having another child. I'm not sure what possessed him to take off across the neighborhood in his boxers, but luckily, the indecent exposure charges were dropped. Apparently, after the cop had determined he was sober and got his side of the story, he (coincidentally, a father of four) didn't feel inclined to take him to the station and just brought him home with a strict warning to me to not mention pregnancy to him again unless he was fully clothed.<br />
<br />
So, apparently, my husband is a runner, too. Now, all I've got to do is get us both well-fitted track suits, shiny running shoes, and a shower, and maybe someone will believe us when we say so. Heck, yeah, Mother-Runners!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-42414871084618552282011-10-06T11:03:00.004-04:002011-10-06T11:26:16.697-04:00When enough just isn't enough.This weekend heralds several anniversaries for me and my family. October 8 would have been the 62nd anniversary of my paternal grandparents. They created an amazing family from their 59 years together and, as I've mentioned in prior posts, did an absolutely fabulous job of not just building a family together, but creating a cohesive unit that, despite states and countries and multiple generations, maintains a very close family connection.<br />
<br />
In keeping with strong marriages, October 9 is the 12 year anniversary of my oldest brother and his wife. Based on what my husband says about being married to me, and based on the similarities between myself and my brother(as laughed (or cried) about by my husband and my brother's wife), this is an equally amazing feat. If you keep in mind that my parents wouldn't let me leave until I went to college, I lasted living with other DeMeritts exactly... well... I didn't. Oh, I love my DeMeritt family dearly, but not enough to live with any of them. (Which does make you wonder why I then went on to create four more...)<br />
So congratulations are due one hundred fold to my sister-in-law.<br />
<br />
But, this weekend also brings another anniversary. On October 8, my dear baby girl turns 18 months old. (Gasp, sigh, and wipe away a tear). By most standards, 18 months means she is no longer a baby. Sure, she's not going to be any different on Saturday than she is today... but I'm going to know it's over. And what makes this anniversary even harder is the knowledge that my husband has put his foot down (and taken a knife to his nether regions) to ensure that we have no more children. When he made that decision I agreed that four was enough. That I was wonderfully happy and satisfied with my family. (Although I did get a dog exactly two weeks later). That I would never complain. But, here I am, trying to convince my husband that maybe, just maybe... one more? <br />
<br />
The problem is, it's harder now. Once upon a time, my husband seduced me by saying "I want to get you pregnant". And he did. And back when I had two kids, trying for three, or three kids, trying for four, it was relatively easy to create another.<br />
<br />
1. Get the hubby happy (ie. drunk). <br />
2. Wait until his brain isn't working properly (ie. mid-relations) and ask him for another baby. He'll say yes to anything at certain moments-- whether or not he even hears the question that I may or may not have asked under my breathe...<br />
3. "Forget" to use protection. (Because of 1 and 2, number 3 came easily.)<br />
<br />
TADA! Four weeks later: "Honey! We're pregnant!", and I would gleefully hand him a tissue to wipe away the tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. <br />
<br />
But now, that's ruined. And while I've done relentless internet searching to determine if there is any vitamin supplement (or surgical change that can be done while he sleeps) that would reverse the procedure, I have found nothing.<br />
<br />
So last week I tried a new approach. The "hypothetical situation" approach. <br />
So, honey, say there's an illegal immigrant who has a brand new baby born in the U.S. The illegal immigrant is deported, but she wants her child to remain in the states since he'd have no real chances back in the home country. Since it may be a matter of life and death for this child, we could adopt him, right?<br />
NO.<br />
But what if you KNEW the child would be murdered if it were deported?<br />
NO.<br />
Okay... so what if we found a baby in a basket on our front porch?<br />
NO.<br />
Back seat of our car?<br />
WE DON'T LIVE IN A LIFETIME MOVIE. NO.<br />
<br />
So then I try a different (albeit, potentially dangerous) tack. So, honey. Would you love me no matter what? YES.<br />
What if I made a serious mistake one night and, oh, I don't know, cheated?<br />
I'D FORGIVE YOU.<br />
And what if I accidentally got pregnant from that mistake?<br />
NO. <br />
Okay... what if YOU cheated and SHE got pregnant but didn't want the baby...<br />
YOU HAVE JUST CONVINCED ME TO NEVER EVER EVER EVEN CONSIDER INFIDELITY.<br />
<br />
I don't think he'd put it past me to hire a surrogate to seduce him just to get another baby in my arms. <br />
<br />
My last ditch effort actually worked. <br />
What if your vasectomy fails?<br />
IF MY VASECTOMY FAILS, I WILL SUE THAT DOCTOR FOR SO MUCH MONEY THAT WE CAN BUY MY DREAM HOME, HIRE A LIVE-IN NANNY, A MAID, A COOK, PAY FOR ALL THE KIDS' COLLEGE EXPENSES, AND I'D GET TO RETIRE AT 38. SO YES. BANK ON THAT.<br />
<br />
I will. I will bank on that. <br />
<br />
And as a side note to any friends or family who have considered putting me and JMahl down as the legal guardians of your children should something (God forbid) happen to you.... that's absolutely fine with us. As long as your life insurance is enough to cover a dream home, live-in nanny, maid, cook, college, and JMahl's retirement fund.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8144422477044445972.post-52811404602378097692011-09-30T12:35:00.000-04:002011-09-30T12:35:42.877-04:00I've been busy....I recently received an email from one of my many sisters-in-law begging me to please do another column since she had been sorely missing my wit and perspective over the last many weeks that I haven't blogged. More accurately, she asked if I'd quit blogging, but when I relayed the conversation to my husband, I chose to read between the lines and express her absolute longing for a blog post from me due, of course, to my very high entertainment factor. After many years of living together my husband can read between MY lines, and clarified "so... Lana said hello?" Regardless, her email has propelled me to get back on the horse- purely in justification of my silence over the last few weeks. <br />
<br />
I'm busy. No, not really. In fact, if you ask my husband, he'll say that life is no different than it's ever been. That the house is just as clean (okay- just as messy) as it's always been. That I read just as many books as I ever have (as if I would ever tell him just how much time I spend reading). That the laundry is still always piled up (hey, I only wear 1/6 of those clothes... and probably not even that since I WILL wear a pair of sweatpants for four days straight), and I have remained consistent in my complaint regarding "being so busy" for the last nine years. So maybe nothing has changed... but really, I think a lot has.<br />
For one thing, Micah doesn't nap as often as she used to. While this is great in many ways (ie, she sleeps better at night), it's not so good for me being able to sit at the computer and type for thirty minutes straight. She likes to type too, and that makes for an immense amount of editorial work.<br />
Plus, I finally gave into my husband's pleas (and my own level of boredom) and started teaching again. So now, when I do have time to sit at a computer, I'm creating lectures or grading exams. (Which is exactly what I should be doing right now, but am not.)<br />
And the older kids are back to school now. During the summer I couldn't write as much because they were always here and needed me to be ever present giving them ideas for what to play with and who to play with and how to play:<br />
Child: "There's nothing to DOOOOOOOO!!!!!"<br />
Me: I have chores you can do.<br />
Child: I don't WANT to do chores.<br />
Me: How about you read a book or practice your multiplication tables?<br />
Child: I don't WANT to read or do homework. I want to play with someone.<br />
Me: Hey, GREAT. You'll be happy to know that your father and I decided to have four children... and that means you have three siblings to play with. Aren't you thrilled?<br />
Child: I don't WANT to play with any of them.<br />
Me: Then play with the dog that you begged for.<br />
Child: MOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!<br />
Me: Outside NOW and find something to do before I find something for you to do that I guarantee you won't enjoy. <br />
<br />
Those conversations took up at least 42% of my summer. <br />
The other 58% was spent doing the same old laundry, cleaning, and reading of books. (Hey, a momma's got to have her fantasy world too.)<br />
But now the kids are back to school; but instead of having extra time, I'm having to get up early, make sure lunches are packed, breakfast is eaten, and that Kayton is not wearing her pajama pants to school. If I'm lucky, I have time to enforce hair brushing. I'm not always that lucky. And on top of the kids being back to school, college is back in session and two days a week I am teaching 50 odd community college students what it's going to take to be successful in business. The hard part is biting my tongue and not saying "Step 1: Leave community college and go get your degree at a four year university". Okay, I admit, I have said that. But, lucky for me (since this is my job), and lucky for the community college (since this is how they stay in business), no matter what I say, there are an amazing number of students who are going to ignore that advice and believe that their Associates degree is going to earn them a fabulous job with a life-style changing income. Hey, an Associates is better than nothing.<br />
But that's two days a week, which still leaves me five for writing. But another day is spent doing very little (by which I mean talking to myself) in preparation for my ESL (English as a Second Language) tutoring. Honestly, I love tutoring ESL. And it's not just because of the immense fun I get from explaining to my student that "I woke up and gave my husband breast" is not really an appropriate conversation for the class, despite how wonderful it must be to be her husband in the morning. My husband never gets breast in the morning. They are reserved for a baby in the morning, since that's my main recourse to avoid having to get out of bed at 5am when Micah wakes up. I give her breast and go back to sleep. Having two breasts, I've tried to convince Kolbie (my three year old) to regress to nursing so I don't have to get up with her at 7, but it hasn't worked. Yet. (To clarify, my student meant "breakfast"... which I figured out after some even more awkward conversation regarding "eat" and "yummy, yummy" and "he has to have it before work" and sign language involving putting things in mouth and chewing. Hey-- to each his own. Who am I to criticize whatever makes a marriage work?)<br />
But even after this, I still have four days left to write-- but one of those days has to be a "catch-up" day to account for my absence from home the other three. And one day is a "relax" day in which I do nothing to make up for all the hard work I've done the other five days. And Saturday I have Mason's soccer games.... and Sunday is church and family day.... so. There you have it. No time for blogging.<br />
Just think. If I had a full-time job, my kids would be running around half-naked (as if they don't already), my house would be a mess (hey, no it's not always), and dinner would always be spaghetti since it's darn easy to make. (We only have spaghetti one night a week... or maybe two, since that's the only thing JMahl cooks and, heck, if he's cooking, I am not going to complain about spaghetti for dinner AGAIN.)<br />
So you see... finding the time to write this column may not be as easy as you may think for a Stay-At-Home Mom with very little else on her plate. In fact, the only reason I'm finding time to write now is because my two little girls both got up crazy early and passed out on the floor while I was looking for my corkscrew, and now I've got a glass of wine in me and the compulsion to write.<br />
Heck, it's Friday. This is my "relax and do nothing constructive" day. Count your blessings that I'm blogging.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1