In 2005, as I waited in an airport two days before Christmas with thousands of other people, I pondered what it would feel like to not have to spend every major holiday stuck in an airport, a rental car, or a traffic jam somewhere on the Eastern seaboard.
I should have been more specific.
Holidays now don't mean airports, rental cars or I-95 traffic jams, but it seems we've traded those for long road trips, icy mountain passes and no sleep. We might be closer to relatives, but there is a whole lot of nothing - vast open wilderness - between us and them.
Last year, I issued a moratorium on road trips during the month of November. It worked so well, I did it again this year. This year, we decided to play grown-ups and host our own holiday - something we haven't done on any major scale since moving to the Frontier. It was all carefully planned ... and then, Mother Nature decided to make things interesting and brought in a winter storm that turned every road into a sheet of ice and, as a result, no Thanksgiving guests.
When I wished for no traveling during the holidays, I didn't really mean spending them alone. Again, I should have been more specific.
Stuck with a 15-pound turkey (courtesy of work - at least I didn't have to pay for it) and a fridge full of ingredients for a family-sized traditional dinner, I set out to craft side dish upon side dish for Himself, myself, and two little girls who chose today as a day to eat like birds. I will be eating reincarnations of Thanksgiving dinner for weeks - if I was really creative, and had room in my freezer, I could probably make it last until Christmas.
At some point in the morning, I realized I wasn't having any fun. Cooking a holiday dinner for 2.5 appetites isn't terribly exciting. I put the turkey in the oven, left roasting instructions for Himself (who ignored them, being a man), bundled up the girls and took them to the zoo.
It was my favorite part of the day, and it was then I realized: I am deeply grateful to not only have a child, but to have two of them. I watched as Woodstock, looking for all the world like a pink marshmallow with stick legs (thanks to a puffy coat and skinny leggings) pushed Pebbles (who looked like the kid on Christmas story - complete with arms out to her sides - bundled too much to put them at her sides - it was only 27 degrees after all) around the zoo in her stroller. No people + a cumbersome umbrella stroller over which one can barely see = very little risk of out-running Mom, and Woodstock relished her freedom. She chattered away at Pebbles - detailing every exhibit and opining about this or that. They giggled at the turkeys wandering around and Woodstock (ever one to make me want to be vegetarian for animal reasons and not just health reasons) asked if they were like the turkey roasting in the oven at home.
They giggled at a sleepy crocodile. They laughed at the echos in the giraffe enclosure - who knew that a big empty building full of nothing but giraffes and two little girls could provide such amazing acoustics? Pebbles squealed at the leopard and Woodstock excitedly told me that we were going to visit a rain forest (I will admit - the rain forest/reptile house was my favorite - as it is the warmest building at the zoo). I marveled at how - now that Woodstock is potty trained, Pebbles sleeps through the night and both feed themselves - my joy was doubled with two children without necessarily doubling the work.
Our noses red, our fingers frozen, we returned home to put the final touches on the meal and to give thanks. Woodstock gave thanks for animals and family and the funny looking food on her plate (when else do you serve soggy bread?). I gave thanks for a few hours that lifted my spirits and made me realize Thanksgiving can be a holiday even without a house stuffed full of people. Fresh air, sunshine (cold sunshine, but still - sunshine), good food, family and two beautiful little girls.
I'm thankful, once again, for the simple things. The ones that warm my heart the most.
Next year, the Thanksgiving travel moratorium may just have to be re-instated.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Channeling My Inner Santa
The Christmas after I turned 6 - the year I was in Kindergarten - Santa brought me the ugliest pink bike on the planet. I should confess, my assessment of it as the ugliest pink bike on the planet, is from my thirtysomething eyes. When I was 6, it was the exact bike I wanted. I had specifically pointed it out to my parents - sitting outside the hardware store with all the other shiny new bikes - indicating that that exact bike - the one with the extra wide, extra squishy pink seat and rubber pink handlebar grips - was the one I was going to ask Santa for.
When it arrived in my living room that Christmas, I was ecstatic. Not just because Santa had brought me a bike, but because he had brought the exact bike I had asked for. This should have been my first clue that Santa was someone other than a fat old man in red, fur-lined pajamas, but I was so caught up in the magic I didn't begin to even have doubts for another two years. I still remember it as one of my best Christmases ever - and it has been more than a quarter century since that day. Of course, it may also have to do with the fact that I also got a new brother that Christmas, but I doubt it.
The point is, Santa scored big brownie points that Christmas. In fact, Santa was pretty good at scoring brownie points every Christmas. I want to be that Santa for my kids - he never fulfilled every wish, but he knew just how to fulfill one wish perfectly - and that's really all that mattered.
Himself is generally the chief present-purchaser (fitting, as he is also the chief spender) in the family. Last year he had scoped out a present for Woodstock before we had even found a Halloween costume for her. It was perfect. It was Woodstock's first Christmas that she sort of got the point, and she was ecstatic to find a play kitchen had magically appeared in our living room overnight. (Never mind the "magical appearance" involved 2.5 hours, a couple of screwdrivers, a 30-page instruction booklet and two grumpy parents the night before).
This year, Himself is as stumped as I am though. We ask Woodstock if she wants anything for Christmas - because she isn't old enough to realize she is "expected" to want something (is it wrong to hope it lasts forever?), she either responds with a blank stare or some random toy with which she played that day at the sitter's. I have left every toy add and catalog out within easy viewing for her - hoping it will spark a conversation that will lead to some brilliant idea. While Woodstock LOVES the fact that she gets "maz-a-gines" in the mail - particularly the Playskool ones - the only thing she indicated that she might possibly want was a $350 outdoor play set that would take up our entire backyard. I don't allow her to watch television on channels that have commercials, which means she isn't bombarded with images of hundreds of cheap, plastic, imported toys that require both assembly and a lifetime supply of AA batteries.
Alas, my other Santa problem is I really dislike shopping - particularly between Halloween and New Years. Particularly for children's items, as parents seem to take a daily dose of crazy pills during that time and seem to think they (and by extension their kids) are the most important people in the universe. It also doesn't help that I am taking big strides while my kids are little to limit expectations in the gift department - so I can't just buy a bunch of things and hope that one of them fits the bill.
And then ... sometime between cutting off a sheet of butcher paper for the latest art project yesterday and scrubbing watercolors off the tablecloth this morning, it hit me ... an epiphany of epic proportions. An easel. An artist's easel with paper and a chalkboard and a place for her watercolors and ... perfect! This is, after all, the child who routinely plasters the front door and refrigerator door with her creations. This is the child who will draw, doodle or color on any piece of paper in reach, who has three sets of colored pencils - for the car, home and church, and who sat yesterday morning and water colored for 90 minutes (an eternity when you're talking 3-year-olds).
We might just be able to pull off this Santa charade.
When it arrived in my living room that Christmas, I was ecstatic. Not just because Santa had brought me a bike, but because he had brought the exact bike I had asked for. This should have been my first clue that Santa was someone other than a fat old man in red, fur-lined pajamas, but I was so caught up in the magic I didn't begin to even have doubts for another two years. I still remember it as one of my best Christmases ever - and it has been more than a quarter century since that day. Of course, it may also have to do with the fact that I also got a new brother that Christmas, but I doubt it.
The point is, Santa scored big brownie points that Christmas. In fact, Santa was pretty good at scoring brownie points every Christmas. I want to be that Santa for my kids - he never fulfilled every wish, but he knew just how to fulfill one wish perfectly - and that's really all that mattered.
Himself is generally the chief present-purchaser (fitting, as he is also the chief spender) in the family. Last year he had scoped out a present for Woodstock before we had even found a Halloween costume for her. It was perfect. It was Woodstock's first Christmas that she sort of got the point, and she was ecstatic to find a play kitchen had magically appeared in our living room overnight. (Never mind the "magical appearance" involved 2.5 hours, a couple of screwdrivers, a 30-page instruction booklet and two grumpy parents the night before).
This year, Himself is as stumped as I am though. We ask Woodstock if she wants anything for Christmas - because she isn't old enough to realize she is "expected" to want something (is it wrong to hope it lasts forever?), she either responds with a blank stare or some random toy with which she played that day at the sitter's. I have left every toy add and catalog out within easy viewing for her - hoping it will spark a conversation that will lead to some brilliant idea. While Woodstock LOVES the fact that she gets "maz-a-gines" in the mail - particularly the Playskool ones - the only thing she indicated that she might possibly want was a $350 outdoor play set that would take up our entire backyard. I don't allow her to watch television on channels that have commercials, which means she isn't bombarded with images of hundreds of cheap, plastic, imported toys that require both assembly and a lifetime supply of AA batteries.
Alas, my other Santa problem is I really dislike shopping - particularly between Halloween and New Years. Particularly for children's items, as parents seem to take a daily dose of crazy pills during that time and seem to think they (and by extension their kids) are the most important people in the universe. It also doesn't help that I am taking big strides while my kids are little to limit expectations in the gift department - so I can't just buy a bunch of things and hope that one of them fits the bill.
And then ... sometime between cutting off a sheet of butcher paper for the latest art project yesterday and scrubbing watercolors off the tablecloth this morning, it hit me ... an epiphany of epic proportions. An easel. An artist's easel with paper and a chalkboard and a place for her watercolors and ... perfect! This is, after all, the child who routinely plasters the front door and refrigerator door with her creations. This is the child who will draw, doodle or color on any piece of paper in reach, who has three sets of colored pencils - for the car, home and church, and who sat yesterday morning and water colored for 90 minutes (an eternity when you're talking 3-year-olds).
We might just be able to pull off this Santa charade.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
A Different Perspective
Sunday (which apparently is the only day my brain functions these days, as it has spawned recent blog posts), we had a regional meeting for church that was a satellite broadcast. It was doomed to be a disaster from the get-go, as it was right during Pebbles' morning nap time, I was doing a stint as a single mother of two, and Woodstock ... well, Woodstock is three.
The one talk I heard all the way through, start to finish? The one on making family time. The one topic that sends a hot knife of guilt through a working mother's gut, regardless of circumstance. It whitewashes every reality and makes you discontented because surely you aren't so horrible as that.
The talk began, "In a perfect world, every child would arrive home from school to warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies and a cold glass of milk and a mother who takes the time to sit down and listen and talk. Of course, it isn't a perfect world ... so the cookies and milk are optional."
My heart sank. I was already on the brink of exasperated tears, trying to wrangle a 14-month-old Pebbles who desperately needed to nap and nothing short of rocking back and forth while standing up was keeping her quiet. Woodstock was quiet, but all the lights were off so as to see the broadcast, and she was irritated that she couldn't see to "read" or color. And now I had to hear all about being a mom who is there after school every single day - which I desperately want, and is so far out of reach.
And then? I had an epiphany. Right there, in the middle of church - imagine!
It was like a warm, comfortable hug from a good friend, and I realized, I am there - every single day - for my kids - to talk, to listen, to learn, to laugh. Every day I have them - a captive audience (hooray for carseats!) - for 30-40 minutes as we drive to/from Miss Jan's. I can absolutely control the interruptions. There is nothing that masquerades as being more important, nothing I cannot keep out of our little "mom and girls" time in the car, nothing besides mom and kids and time.
I actually love my commute. I have, unwittingly, turned it into preschool-confessional-church-cultural appreciation time. On our drive, Woodstock (and now, Pebbles) has learned new words. It was our commutes where Woodstock fell in love with all things construction related - which fueled our walks to whatever project was going on within a mile-radius of our house (fire station, library, the ever-present street construction every single summer, etc.). She learned to identify excavators, garbage trucks, backhoes, bobcats, dump trucks and "mixer trucks" (cement mixers). She has learned that orange signs mean "caution - be careful!" and yellow signs and lights mean slow down. She's learned that blue signs mean information and that you must stop on red (though we need to work on the "it's okay to go right on red after stopping bit, as I get a lecture about not stopping every time I make a right turn). She's learned about counting, emergency vehicles, the seasons (although she's a bit confused, since I told her that it was fall until it snowed - she's now trying to figure out what happened to fall now that there is 4" of snow on the ground), and her letters. She has also learned the words to the Hallelujah chorus, three CDs worth of Christmas songs, and a few others. She can identify violins and cellos and trumpets by the sounds they make. She has also developed a definite preference in music - preferring things with strong instrumentals over anything else. She knows which big bridge (overpass) you take to get to Costco, that the big bridge downtown takes you to the farmer's market and every day points out where we get our hair cut, the building that looks like a favorite cousin's house and the store where once-upon-a-time we bought fruit snacks.
It's also sister bonding time. Pebbles is rear-facing. Woodstock is forward-facing. They sit in the back seat, looking at each other. Woodstock loves to entertain Pebbles and very often the backseat is awash in little girl giggles. Often, Pebbles sticks out her hand, Woodstock grabs it and they hold hands. Woodstock narrates the scenery - she points out a pretty tree, a big truck, a bus or a landmark. She sings her made-up songs or real songs to which she's memorized the lyrics. Pebbles chatters back, delighted to have her big sister's undivided attention.
Every day on the way home, we talk about our day. Woodstock never fails to say, "How was your day?" - usually before I can even ask her. We talk about the best and worst things that happen that day. Woodstock spills every detail of her life at Miss Jan's - who was sent to time out, what they ate for lunch, what things happened outside and so forth. We talk about what events are coming up - and how many days away they are - gymnastics class, an upcoming road trip, a holiday or one of our field trips. We talk about what we're having for dinner, what story Woodstock wants read at bedtime and how Pebbles is doing.
In short, it's 30 or 40 minutes a day of captive conversation time stuffed full of adventures, wisdom, insights, education and discoveries both before our day starts and before the end-of-day chaos descends upon reaching home.
It may not be the typical "mom and kids" picture straight from a Normal Rockwell painting, but it is time - quality time - that I wouldn't trade for anything.
Sometimes, I let the guilt kill me before I realize there isn't always one way to put insights. I stopped feeling guilty and started celebrating.
I'm a better mom than I sometimes give myself credit for.
The one talk I heard all the way through, start to finish? The one on making family time. The one topic that sends a hot knife of guilt through a working mother's gut, regardless of circumstance. It whitewashes every reality and makes you discontented because surely you aren't so horrible as that.
The talk began, "In a perfect world, every child would arrive home from school to warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies and a cold glass of milk and a mother who takes the time to sit down and listen and talk. Of course, it isn't a perfect world ... so the cookies and milk are optional."
My heart sank. I was already on the brink of exasperated tears, trying to wrangle a 14-month-old Pebbles who desperately needed to nap and nothing short of rocking back and forth while standing up was keeping her quiet. Woodstock was quiet, but all the lights were off so as to see the broadcast, and she was irritated that she couldn't see to "read" or color. And now I had to hear all about being a mom who is there after school every single day - which I desperately want, and is so far out of reach.
And then? I had an epiphany. Right there, in the middle of church - imagine!
It was like a warm, comfortable hug from a good friend, and I realized, I am there - every single day - for my kids - to talk, to listen, to learn, to laugh. Every day I have them - a captive audience (hooray for carseats!) - for 30-40 minutes as we drive to/from Miss Jan's. I can absolutely control the interruptions. There is nothing that masquerades as being more important, nothing I cannot keep out of our little "mom and girls" time in the car, nothing besides mom and kids and time.
I actually love my commute. I have, unwittingly, turned it into preschool-confessional-church-cultural appreciation time. On our drive, Woodstock (and now, Pebbles) has learned new words. It was our commutes where Woodstock fell in love with all things construction related - which fueled our walks to whatever project was going on within a mile-radius of our house (fire station, library, the ever-present street construction every single summer, etc.). She learned to identify excavators, garbage trucks, backhoes, bobcats, dump trucks and "mixer trucks" (cement mixers). She has learned that orange signs mean "caution - be careful!" and yellow signs and lights mean slow down. She's learned that blue signs mean information and that you must stop on red (though we need to work on the "it's okay to go right on red after stopping bit, as I get a lecture about not stopping every time I make a right turn). She's learned about counting, emergency vehicles, the seasons (although she's a bit confused, since I told her that it was fall until it snowed - she's now trying to figure out what happened to fall now that there is 4" of snow on the ground), and her letters. She has also learned the words to the Hallelujah chorus, three CDs worth of Christmas songs, and a few others. She can identify violins and cellos and trumpets by the sounds they make. She has also developed a definite preference in music - preferring things with strong instrumentals over anything else. She knows which big bridge (overpass) you take to get to Costco, that the big bridge downtown takes you to the farmer's market and every day points out where we get our hair cut, the building that looks like a favorite cousin's house and the store where once-upon-a-time we bought fruit snacks.
It's also sister bonding time. Pebbles is rear-facing. Woodstock is forward-facing. They sit in the back seat, looking at each other. Woodstock loves to entertain Pebbles and very often the backseat is awash in little girl giggles. Often, Pebbles sticks out her hand, Woodstock grabs it and they hold hands. Woodstock narrates the scenery - she points out a pretty tree, a big truck, a bus or a landmark. She sings her made-up songs or real songs to which she's memorized the lyrics. Pebbles chatters back, delighted to have her big sister's undivided attention.
Every day on the way home, we talk about our day. Woodstock never fails to say, "How was your day?" - usually before I can even ask her. We talk about the best and worst things that happen that day. Woodstock spills every detail of her life at Miss Jan's - who was sent to time out, what they ate for lunch, what things happened outside and so forth. We talk about what events are coming up - and how many days away they are - gymnastics class, an upcoming road trip, a holiday or one of our field trips. We talk about what we're having for dinner, what story Woodstock wants read at bedtime and how Pebbles is doing.
In short, it's 30 or 40 minutes a day of captive conversation time stuffed full of adventures, wisdom, insights, education and discoveries both before our day starts and before the end-of-day chaos descends upon reaching home.
It may not be the typical "mom and kids" picture straight from a Normal Rockwell painting, but it is time - quality time - that I wouldn't trade for anything.
Sometimes, I let the guilt kill me before I realize there isn't always one way to put insights. I stopped feeling guilty and started celebrating.
I'm a better mom than I sometimes give myself credit for.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Evolution
I have never dreaded election day more than I do this year.
Normally, come October, I have a pretty good idea of who I am voting for, and why. This year? Well, I've found myself saying a lot, "I wish all ballots had the Nevada 'None of the Above' option."
None of the Above would get my votes - at least in the "big" races. There is not a single person running for governor, senate or house that I like. There are a few local candidates I like, unfortunately, I didn't mind the people they are replacing or running against, so it will do little to lessen my absolutely amazement and frustration with the 2011 legislative session.
I could not vote. Then I wouldn't be forced to (again) choose the lesser of two (or a dozen) evils. However, I firmly believe that it then prevents me from getting to complain about the direction things take for the next two years - "if you don't vote, don't complain," was a frequent refrain in my household growing up.
I no longer identify with a political party - having dabbled in both (gasp) sides for over a decade. None of the philosophies of the minor parties jive with me enough to adopt their platform either. I never vote a straight-party ticket. I'm not a "big ticket issues" only voter, and I'm tired of everything being run by old white men. Certainly there are other (or maybe any) people who are respectable, competent, honest and talented that could run (and win) in an election - who have new thoughts, ideas, perspectives and a commitment to something other than being re-elected every couple of years.
It's probably not much different than anyone else in the U.S., except I've long been politically active in some way, shape or form - even before I was old enough to vote. For years, it was exciting, thrilling, and I had the ideological hope of someone who refuses to see anything but what could be. For years I love politics - loved the process, the issues, the ideological exchange.
And now all I see is what is - an unread voter education booklet on my dining room table, an empty sample ballot and a confused thirtysomething who is pretty certain she doesn't agree with most of the prominent rhetoric from either side, and is worried we're too wrapped up in politics and 30-second soundbites that rarely pass objective fact-checking, to focus on fixing things for the greater good.
It is terrible, but the motivating factor in getting me out to the polls in two weeks?
Woodstock loves to see the fire trucks - and I vote at a fire station.
*Sigh*
Normally, come October, I have a pretty good idea of who I am voting for, and why. This year? Well, I've found myself saying a lot, "I wish all ballots had the Nevada 'None of the Above' option."
None of the Above would get my votes - at least in the "big" races. There is not a single person running for governor, senate or house that I like. There are a few local candidates I like, unfortunately, I didn't mind the people they are replacing or running against, so it will do little to lessen my absolutely amazement and frustration with the 2011 legislative session.
I could not vote. Then I wouldn't be forced to (again) choose the lesser of two (or a dozen) evils. However, I firmly believe that it then prevents me from getting to complain about the direction things take for the next two years - "if you don't vote, don't complain," was a frequent refrain in my household growing up.
I no longer identify with a political party - having dabbled in both (gasp) sides for over a decade. None of the philosophies of the minor parties jive with me enough to adopt their platform either. I never vote a straight-party ticket. I'm not a "big ticket issues" only voter, and I'm tired of everything being run by old white men. Certainly there are other (or maybe any) people who are respectable, competent, honest and talented that could run (and win) in an election - who have new thoughts, ideas, perspectives and a commitment to something other than being re-elected every couple of years.
It's probably not much different than anyone else in the U.S., except I've long been politically active in some way, shape or form - even before I was old enough to vote. For years, it was exciting, thrilling, and I had the ideological hope of someone who refuses to see anything but what could be. For years I love politics - loved the process, the issues, the ideological exchange.
And now all I see is what is - an unread voter education booklet on my dining room table, an empty sample ballot and a confused thirtysomething who is pretty certain she doesn't agree with most of the prominent rhetoric from either side, and is worried we're too wrapped up in politics and 30-second soundbites that rarely pass objective fact-checking, to focus on fixing things for the greater good.
It is terrible, but the motivating factor in getting me out to the polls in two weeks?
Woodstock loves to see the fire trucks - and I vote at a fire station.
*Sigh*
Thursday, October 14, 2010
We're Off to See The Wizard
You might remember last year's Halloween debacle where Woodstock insisted she was going to be "Not a yion (lion), a giraffe!" Cue the panicked music and crazy mother running around trying to find a giraffe costume that fit a 2-year-old, because NOTHING else would do. She didn't even know WHAT Halloween was - she just knew it required a costume and everyone else was choosing their costume, why couldn't she? (Oh the joys of having a kid who is a social butterfly and spends her days with 4 other non-siblings of the same age)
So I don't know why I thought this Halloween would be any different. I decided that she could be the Cat in the Hat, since it's currently her favorite obsession (do you realize how LONG that story is? I have it memorized) and we already own a Cat in the Hat hat. When I told her, however (complete with happy mommy voice and wide-open eyes to convince her *nudge nudge* that this was a fantastic idea), she looked at me and said, "But I'm going to be a witch."
A ... witch. Really?!
So, figuring there were harder costumes to come up with, I went to Target to procure a preschooler-sized witch's hat, and my imagination began to go wild. I thought it would be lovely if she wore her black and gold party dress with the poofy skirt and her magic wand and some face sprinkles and went as a good witch - a la Glinda in the Wizard of Oz - only in black.
I shared this with Woodstock, who was aghast.
"Mom, I am going to be a scary witch."
Ooooookkkkkaaaaayyyyy. I asked her what scary witches wore.
"A green nose and red shoes and a black dress."
It appears she'll be going a la the Wizard of Oz after all - just as the other witch sister. Ironically, I had already arranged for Pebbles (who didn't get a choice in the matter) to be a monkey. Maybe we should just turn the whole thing into a themed extravaganza and add Dorothy and the Scarecrow to the mix.
Good grief.
So I don't know why I thought this Halloween would be any different. I decided that she could be the Cat in the Hat, since it's currently her favorite obsession (do you realize how LONG that story is? I have it memorized) and we already own a Cat in the Hat hat. When I told her, however (complete with happy mommy voice and wide-open eyes to convince her *nudge nudge* that this was a fantastic idea), she looked at me and said, "But I'm going to be a witch."
A ... witch. Really?!
So, figuring there were harder costumes to come up with, I went to Target to procure a preschooler-sized witch's hat, and my imagination began to go wild. I thought it would be lovely if she wore her black and gold party dress with the poofy skirt and her magic wand and some face sprinkles and went as a good witch - a la Glinda in the Wizard of Oz - only in black.
I shared this with Woodstock, who was aghast.
"Mom, I am going to be a scary witch."
Ooooookkkkkaaaaayyyyy. I asked her what scary witches wore.
"A green nose and red shoes and a black dress."
It appears she'll be going a la the Wizard of Oz after all - just as the other witch sister. Ironically, I had already arranged for Pebbles (who didn't get a choice in the matter) to be a monkey. Maybe we should just turn the whole thing into a themed extravaganza and add Dorothy and the Scarecrow to the mix.
Good grief.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Teaching Mommy
I have made a concerted effort over the last few weeks to increase the spiritual education of my kids. It's an area where I feel wholly inadequate, overwhelmed and unqualified in - but also an area that I feel very strongly about.
Most of the time it feels akin to having a conversation underwater. Particularly this morning when Pebbles was making some sort of singing noise at the top of her lungs every time I spoke and then both kids would dissolve into fits of laughter. It's really hard to have any sort of scripture story time with background noise that sounds like a cross between death metal shrieking and baby giggles. Or, during times when Woodstock insists on hearing the same scripture story over and over and over (and over) again - and then asks the same 3 dozen questions she's asked the other 47 times she's heard the story. Sort of makes you wonder if mommy has gone insane.
Like anyone else, I behave just as Pavlov's dogs - positive reinforcement works wonders. Most of the time positive reinforcement comes from other adults who tell me that one day - maybe decades down the road - my children (and society) will be better of for having had a basis of morals and values instilled in them from early childhood. Rarely does it come from my own children - who, most of the time, love the attention but appear to be wholly uninterested in anything other than who the bad guys are and how we aren't supposed to talk to bad guys (the stranger danger discussion gone horribly awry).
But recently, there have been little moments where my children have figuratively sat at my feet and taught me.
Sunday, we were sitting down to lunch with Woodstock and talking about what she had learned at church. As usual we were met with "I learned about play doh and colors and snacks!" and had to pry out of her - very carefully - what the actual lesson was about. Then, I began flipping through a book of pictures of Christ. Woodstock leaned in, stuck her finger on one of the photos - the photo of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane - and she said,
"Mommy! That's Jesus. He's sad, because he's all by himself. He doesn't have any friends."
I stopped and looked at her. In one simple 3-year-old sentence she had summed up the entirety of how Christ must have felt in the Garden. Alone, in pain, bearing the burdens of the world. We talked a little bit about the atonement and Christ's suffering. And then she ran off to play, totally unaware of how she had taught me - reminded me - of something I needed in that moment.
Last night, while saying her bedtime prayers (something we both struggle with - it's rarely the quiet, reverent experience it is slated to be - Woodstock always ends up with a mad case of the fidgets the moment the sentence "fold your arms" is uttered), Woodstock took the lead. She said, "Help me repent and make good choices." We talk about making good choices a lot - mostly because she's 3. We've talked about repentance and what it means in the simplistic of terms. But never has she actually used either in her prayers. Mostly her prayers are filled with "thank yous" and telling Heavenly Father about any drama that has evolved over the day.
I hugged her. I asked her why she needed to repent and make good choices. She said, "I said bad words." (There was a weekend-long saga of trying to eradicate the word "poopy" as an adjective from her vocabulary) She is perfect - totally innocent and unable to wantonly make a bad choice. And yet, she asked for help in making better choices. I pondered that wisdom. How often do I - who clearly needs a whole lot of help - utter the simple plea to "help me make good choices?" And how badly do I need that as I go through my daily tasks?
Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe I need to listen and let the kids teach mommy.
While I'm at it, maybe they can also take over the laundry ...
Most of the time it feels akin to having a conversation underwater. Particularly this morning when Pebbles was making some sort of singing noise at the top of her lungs every time I spoke and then both kids would dissolve into fits of laughter. It's really hard to have any sort of scripture story time with background noise that sounds like a cross between death metal shrieking and baby giggles. Or, during times when Woodstock insists on hearing the same scripture story over and over and over (and over) again - and then asks the same 3 dozen questions she's asked the other 47 times she's heard the story. Sort of makes you wonder if mommy has gone insane.
Like anyone else, I behave just as Pavlov's dogs - positive reinforcement works wonders. Most of the time positive reinforcement comes from other adults who tell me that one day - maybe decades down the road - my children (and society) will be better of for having had a basis of morals and values instilled in them from early childhood. Rarely does it come from my own children - who, most of the time, love the attention but appear to be wholly uninterested in anything other than who the bad guys are and how we aren't supposed to talk to bad guys (the stranger danger discussion gone horribly awry).
But recently, there have been little moments where my children have figuratively sat at my feet and taught me.
Sunday, we were sitting down to lunch with Woodstock and talking about what she had learned at church. As usual we were met with "I learned about play doh and colors and snacks!" and had to pry out of her - very carefully - what the actual lesson was about. Then, I began flipping through a book of pictures of Christ. Woodstock leaned in, stuck her finger on one of the photos - the photo of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane - and she said,
"Mommy! That's Jesus. He's sad, because he's all by himself. He doesn't have any friends."
I stopped and looked at her. In one simple 3-year-old sentence she had summed up the entirety of how Christ must have felt in the Garden. Alone, in pain, bearing the burdens of the world. We talked a little bit about the atonement and Christ's suffering. And then she ran off to play, totally unaware of how she had taught me - reminded me - of something I needed in that moment.
Last night, while saying her bedtime prayers (something we both struggle with - it's rarely the quiet, reverent experience it is slated to be - Woodstock always ends up with a mad case of the fidgets the moment the sentence "fold your arms" is uttered), Woodstock took the lead. She said, "Help me repent and make good choices." We talk about making good choices a lot - mostly because she's 3. We've talked about repentance and what it means in the simplistic of terms. But never has she actually used either in her prayers. Mostly her prayers are filled with "thank yous" and telling Heavenly Father about any drama that has evolved over the day.
I hugged her. I asked her why she needed to repent and make good choices. She said, "I said bad words." (There was a weekend-long saga of trying to eradicate the word "poopy" as an adjective from her vocabulary) She is perfect - totally innocent and unable to wantonly make a bad choice. And yet, she asked for help in making better choices. I pondered that wisdom. How often do I - who clearly needs a whole lot of help - utter the simple plea to "help me make good choices?" And how badly do I need that as I go through my daily tasks?
Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe I need to listen and let the kids teach mommy.
While I'm at it, maybe they can also take over the laundry ...
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
I Do Not Want Them, Sam I Am
It's flu shot season.
I don't like flu shot season.
Rarely do I ever get a flu shot - because rarely do I ever get the flu. I've had it twice. Ever. Once in 1992 and once in 1999. Doesn't mean I won't ever get it again, but my immune system (and my hand-washing neurosis) is pretty effective all on its own.
I have a love-hate relationship with flu shots anyway. I got one last year and an H1N1, because I had a toddler, a brand-new baby and the people dying in this region were healthy people in their 30s - which would be me.
Okay, fine. Don't get a flu shot.
Which is what I decided.
Yesterday, I was at the doctor's. Never mind he didn't seem to care about what I was there for (a whole separate post), he put more effort into trying to wrestle me into getting a flu shot than he did in determining the source of the pain which is why I was there to begin with.
"Do you need a flu shot?"
"No"
"Do you have children?"
"Yes"
"How old are they?"
"1 and 3 - but my employer gives flu shots for free, so if I was to get one, it would be through them."
"See? You need a flu shot. If you don't it at work, you need to come back."
[Yeah, I'll get right on that]
Fast forward to today - flu shot day at The Mega Office. Someone in management comes to my desk:
"You know, flu shots are free today."
"I do, thank you."
"Have you got one yet?" (Does HIPPA not cover me at work?!)
"I'm not going to get one, thank you."
"You know, there is still time to get one today."
"I know. I got the e-mail, thanks."
"You should really think about it."
"Thank you."
"Keeps you healthy!"
Yes, thank you. And so does eating well and washing my hands and staying home from wrok when I have the heebie jeebies. As do the Clorox wipes and hand sanitizer on my desk.
WHY must it be such a big deal? I don't want one.
Not in a house, not with a mouse
Not in a box, not with a fox
I do not like flu shots
You let me be
Gaah! And if I get it, I promise not to breathe on anyone.
(My apologies to Dr. Seuss and his lovely story)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Murphy's Law
Whoever Murphy is, he has a warped sense of humor.
One should never make serious decisions while emotional, facing danger or turning off the alarm. I chose to go back to sleep after my alarm went off this morning. My exhaustion won out over all the plans I had made to mop the kitchen floor and pick up the toys that seem to reproduce like rabbits. It also won out over the little voice in my head that kept reminding me there is no possible way I'd make it to work on time if I went back to sleep.
Alas, sleep is my favorite thing to do these days.
I got up an hour later. Problem is, I didn't care if I was going to be late. I was still tired. And there is a dull ache in my stomach. And working wasn't really high on my list of things to accomplish today. So I slogged through the morning routine barely moving fast enough to be considered "slow motion" instead of "no motion." Himself made everyone scrambled eggs - he's my hero today, and I don't even like plain eggs. (I eat them anyway, something about breakfast prepared by someone else AND trying to be a good example for my kids, who were born LOVING eggs - proof they are indeed their father's children - that gene certainly did not come from me).
Sometime before I left, I realized I had forgotten the fruit and veggies for the sitter's - it's my turn to supply them. I ran around getting that ready. Then, while leaving the house, I realized that though it would be warm this afternoon, the weather outside was definitely not warm enough for anyone to be going out as they were dressed. Back inside to collect jackets for all of us. As we rolled down the driveway, the gas light came on. I had a dull recollection that I had noted the night before that I would need to leave for work 5 minutes early so I could get gas. Clearly, that thought had gone by the wayside, since I was leaving the house 15 minutes late.
I pulled into the gas station - one of only two on my way to work on the right-hand side of the road. I get up to the pumps only to see a small sign that says, "Station Closed for Upgrades Today 8 a.m. to 4 p.m." It was 8:03 a.m. I do believe I rolled my eyes.
The tank has plenty of gas to get me to the next gas station on the right-hand-side of the road - another 8 miles away - which I breezed by, totally forgetting about the orange light on the dash. Which meant I had no choice but to cross five lanes of traffic to get to a gas station on the left side of the road after I dropped the girls off. I started on the second half of my commute at the exact time I was supposed to be at my desk - still 20 minutes away.
I frantically (finally) bounded into the office, powered on my laptop and ... nothing. No connection to the network, which meant no inter-office IM, no work e-mail, no access to any network documents, no access to any data for the report I'm working on. I rebooted. I was waiting for someone to say, "Nice to finally see you in this morning."
When I finally got powered up, there were two e-mail messages waiting for me from my two bosses (everyone needs two bosses), both informing me that the network was having issues and they were working from home today. I am the only one from my team in the office. I could have easily worked from home today.
Murphy's Law = the worse your morning is, the less likely there will be a need for you to actually be IN the office.
I'm so working from home tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Badge of Honor: Mean Mother
I've always aspired to be a Mean Mother. Not in the grouchy, grumpy, mean-just-to-be-mean kind of "Mean Mother" way, but the "There are consequences to every action - you choose the action, I choose the consequence - no discussion" kind of way.
I anticipated it would take me awhile to achieve the title of Mean Mother. After all, little girls adore their mothers and are convinced that the women that brought them into this world really can take them out of it by wiggling their nose or counting to three or vowing to sell them to the gypsies if they continue to try to ride on their sister like a horse.
Boy was I wrong.
The other day I put Woodstock in timeout for what seemed like the 475th time that day. It was a particularly rough day, and it wasn't even lunchtime. It's rare that there are days like that, but even fair-haired, blue-eyed impish little elven children have days where the world of "bad choices" is far more tempting than the staid, boring array of good choices available to them.
As I put her in timeout, Woodstock (who was crying) said, "But I said sorry!" I launched into another rendition about choices and consequences and how being sorry is important, but so is "doing the time" for making a bad choice.
With tearstained cheeks, Woodstock looked at me and said, "You're not the best mother in the whole world anymore. You're MEAN."
She'd only been three for just over a week.
I need a new goal.
I anticipated it would take me awhile to achieve the title of Mean Mother. After all, little girls adore their mothers and are convinced that the women that brought them into this world really can take them out of it by wiggling their nose or counting to three or vowing to sell them to the gypsies if they continue to try to ride on their sister like a horse.
Boy was I wrong.
The other day I put Woodstock in timeout for what seemed like the 475th time that day. It was a particularly rough day, and it wasn't even lunchtime. It's rare that there are days like that, but even fair-haired, blue-eyed impish little elven children have days where the world of "bad choices" is far more tempting than the staid, boring array of good choices available to them.
As I put her in timeout, Woodstock (who was crying) said, "But I said sorry!" I launched into another rendition about choices and consequences and how being sorry is important, but so is "doing the time" for making a bad choice.
With tearstained cheeks, Woodstock looked at me and said, "You're not the best mother in the whole world anymore. You're MEAN."
She'd only been three for just over a week.
I need a new goal.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Missing
While it's been more than a year that The Frontier has begun to feel like home, I still have occassional periods where I miss Virginia - the DC area in particular - deeply. Fall is one of those times.
I miss the Association of University Women's annual used booksale at the McLean community center. I miss the National Book Fair. I miss the storybook fall weather and landscapes - The Frontier is much too dry to produce much in the way of spectacular fall colors. I miss the Taste of Bethesda festival - one of my first introductions to what became a long list of "my favorite things" when I first attended 12 years ago. I miss the mass (and usually misguided) hysteria-disguised-as-loyalty regarding the Redskins. Here people root for Denver or San Diego or, sometimes, Seattle - trying to adopt a home team loyalty for teams that play hundreds of miles away.
Most of all, I miss loving fall without having to dread the onset of winter. Winters in the Mid-Atlantic are often a breath of gratitude for relief from the onslaught of soggy, sordid, steamy August weather. Conversely, winters in The Frontier are exactly the weather people attempt to avoid (at least those who give little regard for The Frontier's "Greatest Snow on Earth.") The coming of winter looms over every piece of fall, casting long shadows as the days fade from brilliant sunshine to dull, slate gray skies.
The Frontier has slowly become home - at least for now - and I'm okay with that. But once in awhile - during the golden days of September and October - I miss the East Coast falls that I once anticipated with great excitement.
I miss the Association of University Women's annual used booksale at the McLean community center. I miss the National Book Fair. I miss the storybook fall weather and landscapes - The Frontier is much too dry to produce much in the way of spectacular fall colors. I miss the Taste of Bethesda festival - one of my first introductions to what became a long list of "my favorite things" when I first attended 12 years ago. I miss the mass (and usually misguided) hysteria-disguised-as-loyalty regarding the Redskins. Here people root for Denver or San Diego or, sometimes, Seattle - trying to adopt a home team loyalty for teams that play hundreds of miles away.
Most of all, I miss loving fall without having to dread the onset of winter. Winters in the Mid-Atlantic are often a breath of gratitude for relief from the onslaught of soggy, sordid, steamy August weather. Conversely, winters in The Frontier are exactly the weather people attempt to avoid (at least those who give little regard for The Frontier's "Greatest Snow on Earth.") The coming of winter looms over every piece of fall, casting long shadows as the days fade from brilliant sunshine to dull, slate gray skies.
The Frontier has slowly become home - at least for now - and I'm okay with that. But once in awhile - during the golden days of September and October - I miss the East Coast falls that I once anticipated with great excitement.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
It's All in Your Head
If you don't count the dozens of doctor's appointments I've been to while pregnant or recovering from childbirth over the past few years, I have been to the doctor only twice in 4 years - for a bout of tonsilitis 2 years ago and a physical this spring. I also have a pretty high pain tolerance. I am fairly dramatic when in pain, but the older I get, the less I rely on medications to mask pain.Not only that, but Sundays are fiercely guarded as quiet, introspective days spent recharging and being with family.
So the sheer fact that I was sitting in an urgent care facility on Sunday afternoon for The. Worst. Headache. Ever. should say something.
I couldn't think. I couldn't process. I really wasn't in the best condition to drive, but I did - it's a straight shot from my house to the urgent care clinic 8 miles away - involving only one stop light (and a 7.5 mile portion of interstate). And I was in more pain than I've been other than during childbirth.
I've had a lot of headaches in my life. I am pretty good at figuring out their triggers and avoiding/treating based on that knowledge. But this headache was different - much worse than even my typical migraines.
To be truthful, I only went to urgent care because I've had three of these headaches over a very short period of time (with increasing frequency), the nature of its onset (very quickly) and the severity of the pain. And because Himself said I was crazy if I didn't at least make sure I wasn't dying - particularly with my newly discovered clotting disorder, the severity of the pain and the rapid onset. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the ER - at least they could have then run the tests during the headache. But I was worried that a severe headache didn't qualify as an emergency, and I'd be stuck with the whole "slightly under $1k bill" just for showing up.
The urgent care our insurance covers isn't a typical doc-in-a-box situation. It is one of the largest physician clinics in the valley, connected to a major teaching hospital, and the doctors take turns rotating for urgent care shifts on nights/weekends. The nurse was excellent.
Then, the doctor showed up.
I left, 90 minutes later, with a shot of the equivalent of a super non-steroidal anti-inflamatory (that did nothing but take the edge off) and 6 pills of a pain killer I can't take while nursing - even though I had repeatedly told the doctor that I was nursing (and there ARE pain medications that are safe - or as safe as one gets when using painkillers) and more frustrated than I've ever been at a doctor in my life.
In short, the doctor didn't listen. That much was clear even in the 2-line sentence he wrote on the MRI order - one that he said, "just schedule sometime in the next couple of weeks" and "patient has a history of migraines and stress headaches [I never mentioned the words "stress headaches"] and feels they are becoming more severe." Throughout the "consult", he implied multiple times that the severity of the headache was all in my head.
He never seemed to grasp (or note on my chart) that this (and the other two I've had in recent days) ARE TOTALLY DIFFERENT than any other headache I can remember having - more severe pain, faster onset, non-respondant to any medications I've taken.
The doctor also uttered a couple of fabulous gems: "So nothing like Imatrix or Topamax (or several other migraine drugs I can't remember the names of) work on these?" To which I wanted to respond (but was in too much pain to be snarky): "1. This is not like a migraine - maybe it's a-typical, but this has none of the hallmark symptoms of a migraine and 2. The above named drugs require a PRESCRIPTION, so no I have no idea if this headache would respond to those drugs."
And, "Well, the pain must not be too bad. You're handing it remarkably well." Again, I just sat there and responded that the pain was, in fact, quite severe, but being hysterical would do neither one of us any good. What I wanted to say, however, was: "I've had an epidural-free childbirth, and I've recovered from gallbladder surgery on nothing more than 800 mg of Motrin a day, and I'm here for a HEADACHE. That should give you a clue as to how bad the pain is."
I came in with a headache that was a 10 on the pain scale and left full of one of the strongest non-narcotic meds that knocked it down to an 8.
I know headaches are almost impossible to diagnose. I know that treatment often takes awhile to find. I know that the symptoms are hard to convey. I know that everyone has different pain threshholds and so it's hard to place a universal line as to when one should consult a physician.
But I also know that a doctor's first responsibility to his/her patients is to LISTEN and to accurately capture what they are saying.
Let's just say it will be a 90-degree day in January before I ever see that doctor again.
Meanwhile, I'm grudgingly scheduling the MRI and an appointment with my regular doctor - whose first reaction will hopefully be something other than drug peddaling.
Should I ever decide to become an opiate addict, however, I know right where to go.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
The Return: Numbers Lie
SIDE NOTE: I'm back to blogging (hopefully) on a more regular basis. I've missed the 0.34 readers I probably still have.
This spring, I finally got around to having my first complete physical in nearly 7 years. Mind you, I've been to the doctor PLENTY in the last 7 years, I just haven't had a complete physical.
The numbers came back, as expected, looking stellar.
- My weight is normal
- My BMI is normal
- My blood pressure is great (it's so low that every single time a new person takes my blood pressure I have to reassure them that I am not ready to pass out/die, that it is, indeed really that low all the time)
- My heart rate is great
- My cholesterol is great
- In short, by the numbers, I LOOK like a perfectly healthy thirtysomething
Fast forward a couple of months to when I recently applied for an increase in my life insurance. I referenced the above numbers, which painted me as the epitome of perfect health. Until they asked for the actual details, not just the numbers.
GULP.
That is when the letter came that they were unsure as to my suitability for a policy increase and I would have to explain several things in order to further review my request. What made them question the perfect picture of young adult (can I still be a young adult? please tell me I'm not middle-aged yet!) health?
Maybe it was the fact that my asthma has grown 50% worse in the last 7 years (or the fact that I have asthma at all). Maybe it was the diagnosis of having a genetic clotting disorder, which now explains the previous mystery DVT I suffered during my last pregnancy, along with some other medical issues. Maybe it was the Zoloft script that was filled - though it still sits untouched in a kitchen cabinet - written during the worst of my anxiety this spring and kept on hand for when Pebbles is no longer dependent on me for a source of food.
And maybe ... it was all three.
I was eventually granted the additional policy, but not before I had to detail, essay-like, how none of the above were likely to kill me tomorrow. Were there risks? Certainly, but no more than my chances of being hit by a bus while crossing the street (which in The Frontier, I must admit, is pretty likely - never have I lived in a place with so many auto v. pedestrian incidents - fortunately the life insurance company is based somewhere else and likely doesn't realize this).
In short,the numbers lie. My body, which has long given me issues - simple and complex, minor and life-threatening, gives the outward appearance of being perfectly normal, but hides two genetic issues that require documentation every single time I go to the doctor, several chronic illnesses (one of which is asthma, worsening with age and the horrible inversion-laden winters of The Frontier) and a massive hormone disaster, chronic headaches, severe anxiety disorder and an ankle that can accurately predict the change in barometric pressure thanks to an unfortunate accident while visiting Detroit nearly a decade ago.
It's no wonder the life insurance company demanded answers - just reading that makes me picture a sallow, listless, old hag coughing up a lung, muttering to herself and limping around on a gimpy ankle.
I'm a regular mess.
But at least, for now, I'm insurable. And in today's day and age, that is really what matters, I guess.
Someone has to pay for the continuation of random incidents that seem to pop up and then prove to be a permanent little black raincloud on my medical record.
Friday, July 09, 2010
Explanations and Potty Chairs in the Desert.
Every day I think about blogging. I think of funny, sad or introspective things to say (at least I think they are funny, sad or introspective, which is all that matters I suppose), but I'm on a self-imposed exile from personal computer use for awhile. Mostly because I like going without it. After 3 years of constant attachment to a laptop, up-to-the-minute content, responsibility over messaging and conversations and brands and so forth ... I'm tired.
And so, because my work system is like Fort Knox (I deal with revenue and client data), and I no longer have to dabble in social media and such for work, I just quit, cold-turkey, and feel ... well, I miss my friends, but I feel a bit liberated when I think about it being one less thing on my to do list.
The problem is, I like blogging. I just am not ready to return from exile yet.
At the same time, I just have to share a Woodstock story.
The girls and I went to visit The Parents for the holiday weekend. This is the second road trip we've taken since Woodstock began potty training 3 1/2 months ago. On the way down, I put a pull-up on her. But I didn't bring enough to have her wear one on the way up (she only wears them now in situations where I think it may be an absolute disaster were she to have an accident). I was a bit nervous, but she's been pretty good about telling me she needs to go - and we do travel with the potty chair in the trunk of the car on road trips.
In the dead center of Nowhere (I'm not kidding - NOWHERE. Right in the middle.), Woodstock says, "I hafta go potty." So, I take the next ranch exit, pull off to the side of the on ramp, get the potty chair out, set it in the bushes on the side of the road and put Woodstock on it. I stand in front of her to shield her from the 1 car that probably passes that on ramp in a 24-hour period. And wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
Then Woodstock says, "Der's poop in der, but it isn't coming out." I remind her that she has eaten almost nothing for three days and that fruit and veggies will help it come out. And then wonder how long this is going to take.
Minutes later, she leaps up and exclaims, "I did it! I pooped all by myself!" (Um yes, not sure how one would do it with help, but ... to her credit, it is the first time she has ever poop in something other than the regular toilet and it has to be a bit disconcerting to try and do one's business on the side of the road on a potty chair).
I tell her how happy I am and then she grows serious and says, "I need a magazine. Dis is going to be awhile." (I often use the phrase "this is going to be awhile" - so I'm pretty sure it was just parroting it back to me, but it was still funny - until I thought about standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for the rest of the day).
30 minutes later, Woodstock was the happiest kid on the planet. She had accomplished her task. I was highly relieved it had been done in the potty chair (even if I did have to clean it to put it back in the car - GROSS) rather than her car seat and Pebbles was glad to be doing something other than sitting in her seat waiting for the two of us to get on with our lives.
As we climbed back into the car, Woodstock says to herself, "You did a good job Woodstock. Now, let's see ... what should my special potty treat be?"
I expected something huge - something spectacular (the last time she pooped, she got her hails painted). Instead, she remarked, "Mama, can I have a Smartie as my special treat?"
Um yes, I think we can handle that.
And so, because my work system is like Fort Knox (I deal with revenue and client data), and I no longer have to dabble in social media and such for work, I just quit, cold-turkey, and feel ... well, I miss my friends, but I feel a bit liberated when I think about it being one less thing on my to do list.
The problem is, I like blogging. I just am not ready to return from exile yet.
At the same time, I just have to share a Woodstock story.
The girls and I went to visit The Parents for the holiday weekend. This is the second road trip we've taken since Woodstock began potty training 3 1/2 months ago. On the way down, I put a pull-up on her. But I didn't bring enough to have her wear one on the way up (she only wears them now in situations where I think it may be an absolute disaster were she to have an accident). I was a bit nervous, but she's been pretty good about telling me she needs to go - and we do travel with the potty chair in the trunk of the car on road trips.
In the dead center of Nowhere (I'm not kidding - NOWHERE. Right in the middle.), Woodstock says, "I hafta go potty." So, I take the next ranch exit, pull off to the side of the on ramp, get the potty chair out, set it in the bushes on the side of the road and put Woodstock on it. I stand in front of her to shield her from the 1 car that probably passes that on ramp in a 24-hour period. And wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
Then Woodstock says, "Der's poop in der, but it isn't coming out." I remind her that she has eaten almost nothing for three days and that fruit and veggies will help it come out. And then wonder how long this is going to take.
Minutes later, she leaps up and exclaims, "I did it! I pooped all by myself!" (Um yes, not sure how one would do it with help, but ... to her credit, it is the first time she has ever poop in something other than the regular toilet and it has to be a bit disconcerting to try and do one's business on the side of the road on a potty chair).
I tell her how happy I am and then she grows serious and says, "I need a magazine. Dis is going to be awhile." (I often use the phrase "this is going to be awhile" - so I'm pretty sure it was just parroting it back to me, but it was still funny - until I thought about standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for the rest of the day).
30 minutes later, Woodstock was the happiest kid on the planet. She had accomplished her task. I was highly relieved it had been done in the potty chair (even if I did have to clean it to put it back in the car - GROSS) rather than her car seat and Pebbles was glad to be doing something other than sitting in her seat waiting for the two of us to get on with our lives.
As we climbed back into the car, Woodstock says to herself, "You did a good job Woodstock. Now, let's see ... what should my special potty treat be?"
I expected something huge - something spectacular (the last time she pooped, she got her hails painted). Instead, she remarked, "Mama, can I have a Smartie as my special treat?"
Um yes, I think we can handle that.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
You Know You Work for a Huge Company When...
So Monday I started a new job as an analyst with a Fortune 25 company (aka "The Institution"). It's a bit of a culture shock after spending the last 18 months with a firm that had 5 employees.
You know you work for a huge company (80,000 employees) when:
Now I get to just think, play with numbers, analyze trends and develop strategies.
Makes having that 9-digit employee number a little more endearing.
You know you work for a huge company (80,000 employees) when:
- IT and HR both have 1-800 numbers
- Your new employee orientation is conducted via webinar by a woman in the United Kingdom
- You have to file a requisition to be able to get access to your e-mail account on your phone
- You don't actually use your name for anything, you use your 9-digit employee ID number (not your SSN, but it sure feels like it!)
- 80% of your meetings are via conference call
Now I get to just think, play with numbers, analyze trends and develop strategies.
Makes having that 9-digit employee number a little more endearing.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Lost & Found
On March 1, for the third time in 3 years (3 years and a week, to be exact), I was laid off.
Seriously.
My resume looks like this in the last three years:Layoff(though technically, I took a position switch, then quit 3 months later to move to The Frontier - still, I was laid off, THEN offered the position switch that we both knew would be temporary) Layoff (job that isn't even on my resume, since it lasted all of 6 weeks - not worth the trauma) Quit (bad, bad job at The Factory, and had I stayed another month, I would have been laid off anyway - upping the stats to 4 layoffs in 3 years Layoff
I knew 2009 - the first year in the history of Himself and I where we've only had a SINGLE job each - was too good to be true. We're only 125 days into 2010 and already our tax situation is so convoluted I'm already putting out want ads for a good tax accountant.
As a total side note: tax nightmares tend to only hit us in even-numbered years - 2002 Navy mis-declares income (in our favor, but it would take us/them 2 years to discover it); 2004 after re-filing 2002's income, the state of VA sees red flags and audits us; 2008 filed with no W2 and a schizophrenic withholding pattern; 2010 - W2 employee, 1099 employee, temp employee and unemployed employee - a different tax ramification for each month of the year thus far.
And yet, some semblance of the good job karma is still lingering in the rafters.
After two months of trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up (or, more accurately, how to get there, since it doesn't exactly involve a paycheck), 5 job applications, 9 interviews, and a single week of financial panic, I received a job offer. This would be the same week the consulting business got crazy busy, and two days before I got so sick today is the first day I've even ventured to do any consulting work.
I told my sister (prior to being knocked flat on my rear with some unknown virus), "I realize how lucky I am in this economy." LONG PAUSE. Then I said, "No. It's not luck. It's hard work and blessings."
Because really, I've worked my tail off - not only over the 10-year course of my career, but during the entire period of my unemployment. I've done a lot to broaden my experience, stay relevant and skilled in the up-and-coming trends in my field, show leadership and initiative. Since my unemployment, I've networked and networked and networked and, well, you get the point. And while this job offer is the 4th job I've gotten from a job hunting site (4 from job hunting sites, 1 from personal connections out of my 5 most recent jobs - statistically weird) and not a result of networking, it was my networking that has helped us stay financially viable and kept me aware of what was going on in the market.
It's not all bad, but I'm rather glad the roller coaster is coming to a stop. At least for the moment. Until the tax man cometh ..
Seriously.
My resume looks like this in the last three years:
I knew 2009 - the first year in the history of Himself and I where we've only had a SINGLE job each - was too good to be true. We're only 125 days into 2010 and already our tax situation is so convoluted I'm already putting out want ads for a good tax accountant.
As a total side note: tax nightmares tend to only hit us in even-numbered years - 2002 Navy mis-declares income (in our favor, but it would take us/them 2 years to discover it); 2004 after re-filing 2002's income, the state of VA sees red flags and audits us; 2008 filed with no W2 and a schizophrenic withholding pattern; 2010 - W2 employee, 1099 employee, temp employee and unemployed employee - a different tax ramification for each month of the year thus far.
And yet, some semblance of the good job karma is still lingering in the rafters.
After two months of trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up (or, more accurately, how to get there, since it doesn't exactly involve a paycheck), 5 job applications, 9 interviews, and a single week of financial panic, I received a job offer. This would be the same week the consulting business got crazy busy, and two days before I got so sick today is the first day I've even ventured to do any consulting work.
I told my sister (prior to being knocked flat on my rear with some unknown virus), "I realize how lucky I am in this economy." LONG PAUSE. Then I said, "No. It's not luck. It's hard work and blessings."
Because really, I've worked my tail off - not only over the 10-year course of my career, but during the entire period of my unemployment. I've done a lot to broaden my experience, stay relevant and skilled in the up-and-coming trends in my field, show leadership and initiative. Since my unemployment, I've networked and networked and networked and, well, you get the point. And while this job offer is the 4th job I've gotten from a job hunting site (4 from job hunting sites, 1 from personal connections out of my 5 most recent jobs - statistically weird) and not a result of networking, it was my networking that has helped us stay financially viable and kept me aware of what was going on in the market.
It's not all bad, but I'm rather glad the roller coaster is coming to a stop. At least for the moment. Until the tax man cometh ..
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Still here: On Living With Anxiety
Let's play a game.
Go to your TV set and unplug your cable or turn off the satellite box or remove the rabbit ears.
Turn on the TV so you get no picture or sound only static ("bug races" my father used to call them). Turn the sound down so you can barely hear it, and go about your day.
If you didn't get enough sleep, turn the volume up a couple of notches for each hour missed or interrupted.
If you feel tired at any point during the day, turn the volume up again each time.
Each time part of your routine is interrupted, shifted or eliminated, turn the volume up.
Each time anything is out of place, turn the volume up some more.
Each time you have to say a prayer, read anything, balance your checkbook, pay a bill, run errands, sit in silence, sit in chaos, pay attention, use a mental capacity beyond that of a small child or concentrate, turn the volume up.
Each time someone touches one of your extremities, turn the volume up some more.
If you have a child or a spouse, turn the volume up for each.
Each time your toddler empties an entire package of wipes, one by one, turn the volume up.
Each time the baby refuses to nap and only wants to be held by you, turn the volume up.
If you are not independently wealthy and are unemployed, turn the volume up.
If you have church or social commitments, turn the volume up for each one, each time.
Each time you have an unpredictable moment, turn the volume up.
Each time you are stressed, upset, disappointed, tired (again), bored, overwhelmed or challenged - turn the volume up.
Repeat daily for at least a week (do not reset the volume, the noise level must carry over from one day to the next).
If you are not deaf or insane, you win.
It's the best analogy I can come up with as to what it is like living with the constant static of my brain. While I've always been anxious and certain scenarios have triggered anxiety, over the last two years, the static has become almost constant - resulting in a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
With the first onset of winter, the new long commute, life as a working mom with two kids and all the regular instances of life, things began to get worse.
And then I lost my job.
My first thought was, "Hallelujah, I can get back to healthy."
Except that structure is my one sure way to calm the noisy static, and being a work-at-home mom doing consulting projects while trying to decide the next move (and worrying about how to cover the deficit left when one's household income plunges by 65%) leaves little structure.
I'm at the beck and call of clients and my children and the tax man and bills and Himself, who is bewildered by the woman masquerading as his wife.
Just as in the game you cannot reset the volume, I cannot reset my brain. Quiet only makes the static seem louder. Even falling on my knees in desperation makes the static so loud I can recite nothing more than the simple prayers of my toddler. Every thought is filtered through static and a gauzy veil that muddles everything.
Every single nerve is over-stimulated - and anything that touches it (literally or figuratively) short-circuits and sparks.
Falling asleep requires a singular mental challenge tough enough to quiet the static for a few moments - (analogous to putting on noise-cancelling headphones). A crossword puzzle. Multiple rounds of solitaire. Counting all the edges in a room.
Hours are spent every day trying to remember what needs to be done - trying to muster enough concentration to finish a single task - trying not to melt down or sort circuit every time something happens.
Writing a sentence, problem-solving, discipline, praying, reading, thinking, sleeping ... doing anything that is not mechanical repetition requires every available brain cell and the absence of internal or external stimulation.
This is my life from the other side of crazy. It sounds crazy even to put it into words, and yet, it is my reality - one I am desperately trying to change.
Go on, play the game. I need someone who gets it.
Go to your TV set and unplug your cable or turn off the satellite box or remove the rabbit ears.
Turn on the TV so you get no picture or sound only static ("bug races" my father used to call them). Turn the sound down so you can barely hear it, and go about your day.
If you didn't get enough sleep, turn the volume up a couple of notches for each hour missed or interrupted.
If you feel tired at any point during the day, turn the volume up again each time.
Each time part of your routine is interrupted, shifted or eliminated, turn the volume up.
Each time anything is out of place, turn the volume up some more.
Each time you have to say a prayer, read anything, balance your checkbook, pay a bill, run errands, sit in silence, sit in chaos, pay attention, use a mental capacity beyond that of a small child or concentrate, turn the volume up.
Each time someone touches one of your extremities, turn the volume up some more.
If you have a child or a spouse, turn the volume up for each.
Each time your toddler empties an entire package of wipes, one by one, turn the volume up.
Each time the baby refuses to nap and only wants to be held by you, turn the volume up.
If you are not independently wealthy and are unemployed, turn the volume up.
If you have church or social commitments, turn the volume up for each one, each time.
Each time you have an unpredictable moment, turn the volume up.
Each time you are stressed, upset, disappointed, tired (again), bored, overwhelmed or challenged - turn the volume up.
Repeat daily for at least a week (do not reset the volume, the noise level must carry over from one day to the next).
If you are not deaf or insane, you win.
It's the best analogy I can come up with as to what it is like living with the constant static of my brain. While I've always been anxious and certain scenarios have triggered anxiety, over the last two years, the static has become almost constant - resulting in a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
With the first onset of winter, the new long commute, life as a working mom with two kids and all the regular instances of life, things began to get worse.
And then I lost my job.
My first thought was, "Hallelujah, I can get back to healthy."
Except that structure is my one sure way to calm the noisy static, and being a work-at-home mom doing consulting projects while trying to decide the next move (and worrying about how to cover the deficit left when one's household income plunges by 65%) leaves little structure.
I'm at the beck and call of clients and my children and the tax man and bills and Himself, who is bewildered by the woman masquerading as his wife.
Just as in the game you cannot reset the volume, I cannot reset my brain. Quiet only makes the static seem louder. Even falling on my knees in desperation makes the static so loud I can recite nothing more than the simple prayers of my toddler. Every thought is filtered through static and a gauzy veil that muddles everything.
Every single nerve is over-stimulated - and anything that touches it (literally or figuratively) short-circuits and sparks.
Falling asleep requires a singular mental challenge tough enough to quiet the static for a few moments - (analogous to putting on noise-cancelling headphones). A crossword puzzle. Multiple rounds of solitaire. Counting all the edges in a room.
Hours are spent every day trying to remember what needs to be done - trying to muster enough concentration to finish a single task - trying not to melt down or sort circuit every time something happens.
Writing a sentence, problem-solving, discipline, praying, reading, thinking, sleeping ... doing anything that is not mechanical repetition requires every available brain cell and the absence of internal or external stimulation.
This is my life from the other side of crazy. It sounds crazy even to put it into words, and yet, it is my reality - one I am desperately trying to change.
Go on, play the game. I need someone who gets it.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Too Noisy
The great bedroom experiment has officially been declared a failure.
Pebbles isn't (much to my chagrin) sleeping through the night as consistently as I'd like. It leads to bad sleeping habits, because I bolt in to "save the day" when she cries at night, to avoid waking Woodstock, who is Little Miss Cranky if she doesn't get 11 hours of sleep a night. (Well, so is her mother, but one of us has to be the grown up). It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle ... Pebbles now DEMANDS to be picked up and whisked away to be rocked before she'll stop hollering. She's smart. She knows I love to snuggle, but this middle of the night stuff is for the birds. She also knows snuggling wins out every single time over having a grumpy sister the next day.
Additionally, Pebbles tummy ceases to be happy 11 hours after she last eats ... so she wakes up about an hour before Woodstock. At that point, no amount of cajoling that it isn't morning until the sun comes up (what are we going to do when it rises at 5:45 a.m. in the summer?!) works and Woodstock is raring to go.
I knew it was near the end when Woodstock complained the other day, "Pebbles is too noisy."
Yes, she is. Because not only does she cry at night, Pebbles cannot wake up quietly. Oh no. She has to wake up with SCREECHING peals of laughter and loud thumping noises as she swings her legs up and lets them fall over and over (and over) again. She doesn't need to be "rescued" come morning, she is perfectly happy entertain herself - the problem is, she hasn't learned the concept of "inside voice."
This morning I asked Woodstock if she wanted Pebbles to still share a room or if she wanted her to sleep elsewhere for now. Her response was telling: "Pebbles can sweep in my room, but she's too noisy."
Let me put it this way: we've never had to use a monitor with Pebbles. We can hear her regardless of how far apart in the house we may be.
Pebbles may be banished to the guest bedroom - for now. She's adorable. I love her, but I cannot continue to endure months of waking up every single night.
The only problem is, it involves furniture rearranging and stairs and more time off than I have at the moment.
Maybe if we all don't get enough sleep no one will notice we're grumpy...?
Pebbles isn't (much to my chagrin) sleeping through the night as consistently as I'd like. It leads to bad sleeping habits, because I bolt in to "save the day" when she cries at night, to avoid waking Woodstock, who is Little Miss Cranky if she doesn't get 11 hours of sleep a night. (Well, so is her mother, but one of us has to be the grown up). It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle ... Pebbles now DEMANDS to be picked up and whisked away to be rocked before she'll stop hollering. She's smart. She knows I love to snuggle, but this middle of the night stuff is for the birds. She also knows snuggling wins out every single time over having a grumpy sister the next day.
Additionally, Pebbles tummy ceases to be happy 11 hours after she last eats ... so she wakes up about an hour before Woodstock. At that point, no amount of cajoling that it isn't morning until the sun comes up (what are we going to do when it rises at 5:45 a.m. in the summer?!) works and Woodstock is raring to go.
I knew it was near the end when Woodstock complained the other day, "Pebbles is too noisy."
Yes, she is. Because not only does she cry at night, Pebbles cannot wake up quietly. Oh no. She has to wake up with SCREECHING peals of laughter and loud thumping noises as she swings her legs up and lets them fall over and over (and over) again. She doesn't need to be "rescued" come morning, she is perfectly happy entertain herself - the problem is, she hasn't learned the concept of "inside voice."
This morning I asked Woodstock if she wanted Pebbles to still share a room or if she wanted her to sleep elsewhere for now. Her response was telling: "Pebbles can sweep in my room, but she's too noisy."
Let me put it this way: we've never had to use a monitor with Pebbles. We can hear her regardless of how far apart in the house we may be.
Pebbles may be banished to the guest bedroom - for now. She's adorable. I love her, but I cannot continue to endure months of waking up every single night.
The only problem is, it involves furniture rearranging and stairs and more time off than I have at the moment.
Maybe if we all don't get enough sleep no one will notice we're grumpy...?
Monday, February 01, 2010
The Grumpies
(Sent as an e-mail to The Parentals - who don't read this blog - earlier today)
--
So this morning Pebbles, who has a bad cold, woke up at oh-dark-thirty (5:40 a.m.). She slept in her bouncy chair in our room last night, since she understandably wasn't comfortably sleeping lying flat. Not wanting Woodstock to wake up (everyone sleeps with their doors open to keep from freezing to death), I bounded silently down the hall only to be met by a sleepy Woodstock at her door (she is loving the fact that she doesn't have to yell "All Done Sleeping" or anything else for that matter from her bed in the morning - she merely pops out when she feels like getting up. In this case, 5:40 a.m.).
I tried the old "It's not morning yet" trick. Didn't work. She wanted to snuggle. So back we went into our bedroom. She climbed into bed next to Himself. It really wasn't morning or time to get up (according to my sleep-deprived self), so I got Pebbles, gave her something to suck on and all four of us "snuggled." Really, Himself pretended to sleep, Pebbles moaned. Woodstock told her over and over and over (and over!) to not be afraid. I counted to 100. Silently. Hoping some fairy would drop magic sleeping dust on at least the two littlest.
Alas, it was not to be. We all ended up getting up. Most of us having a case of the grumpies. (Himself not so much - he got to immediately escape to work, so he was likely spared).
Fast forward to breakfast. Woodstock, who had requested cinnamon oatmeal with blueberries sat staring at her (now cold) bowl of oatmeal - missing only a single bite. The entire time I was feeding Pebbles she snuggled up next to me and said over and over and over (and over!), "I hungry mama!". Which would be why I switched up the order and gave her breakfast first instead of last thing before we left (after all, it's a long time between 5:40 a.m. and 7:40 a.m. - our normal breakfast time - for a little tummy). Of course, even though she got exactly what she ordered for breakfast, Woodstock ate only her vitamins and one bite of oatmeal. She then lay her head down on her tray and dropped blobs of oatmeal over the edge of her tray onto the floor while exhibiting a very-tired-toddler case of the grumpies. Pebbles moaned her discomfort and relative displeasure from her swing. Over and over and over (and over) again.
I said, "Woodstock, you are going to be in big trouble if you don't find a way to get rid of the grumpies." One of those vauge parental threats that all the parenting books warn you to never use, but the parenting books have never functioned for weeks on end with little sleep and an actual grumpy toddler who is really just acting in exhaustion and not out-and-out wantonness. She continued to drop oatmeal onto the floor. I continued to eat my own oatmeal and ignore her. I was determined to not have to eat breakfast in the car, like I do most mornings. (Note: I did clean up the oatmeal after I was done ... I have to mop the floors tonight anyway).
We finally got ourselves out to the car, got the car unburied from the snow that found us last night, got everyone buckled in. Headed toward Miss Jan's, with me already counting the hours until bedtime - for all of us. And feeling a little bad that I was about to unleash two of the three grumpies on poor Miss Jan.
We were blocks from Miss Jan's house when Woodstock piped up from the back seat.
"Mama, I not in bery big trouble anymore."
Curious, I said, "Oh, really? Why not?"
"Cuz I not mad anymore. I not in bery big trouble now, cuz I so happy."
And right then, my heart melted.
I still have a case of the grumpies, but they're mellowing out. Woodstock and Pebbles seemed to leave their grumpies behind as well - as both were beaming big happy grins when Miss Jan opened the door.
She has no idea how close she came to having the grumpies come to visit today.
(Totally unrelated side note: Woodstock got out of the car at Miss Jan's, bounded over to the sidewalk, looked up at the tree and said, "Hey birdies! Whas going on?" like she does every morning - grumpy or not. It makes me laugh every single morning - grumpy or not.)
--
So this morning Pebbles, who has a bad cold, woke up at oh-dark-thirty (5:40 a.m.). She slept in her bouncy chair in our room last night, since she understandably wasn't comfortably sleeping lying flat. Not wanting Woodstock to wake up (everyone sleeps with their doors open to keep from freezing to death), I bounded silently down the hall only to be met by a sleepy Woodstock at her door (she is loving the fact that she doesn't have to yell "All Done Sleeping" or anything else for that matter from her bed in the morning - she merely pops out when she feels like getting up. In this case, 5:40 a.m.).
I tried the old "It's not morning yet" trick. Didn't work. She wanted to snuggle. So back we went into our bedroom. She climbed into bed next to Himself. It really wasn't morning or time to get up (according to my sleep-deprived self), so I got Pebbles, gave her something to suck on and all four of us "snuggled." Really, Himself pretended to sleep, Pebbles moaned. Woodstock told her over and over and over (and over!) to not be afraid. I counted to 100. Silently. Hoping some fairy would drop magic sleeping dust on at least the two littlest.
Alas, it was not to be. We all ended up getting up. Most of us having a case of the grumpies. (Himself not so much - he got to immediately escape to work, so he was likely spared).
Fast forward to breakfast. Woodstock, who had requested cinnamon oatmeal with blueberries sat staring at her (now cold) bowl of oatmeal - missing only a single bite. The entire time I was feeding Pebbles she snuggled up next to me and said over and over and over (and over!), "I hungry mama!". Which would be why I switched up the order and gave her breakfast first instead of last thing before we left (after all, it's a long time between 5:40 a.m. and 7:40 a.m. - our normal breakfast time - for a little tummy). Of course, even though she got exactly what she ordered for breakfast, Woodstock ate only her vitamins and one bite of oatmeal. She then lay her head down on her tray and dropped blobs of oatmeal over the edge of her tray onto the floor while exhibiting a very-tired-toddler case of the grumpies. Pebbles moaned her discomfort and relative displeasure from her swing. Over and over and over (and over) again.
I said, "Woodstock, you are going to be in big trouble if you don't find a way to get rid of the grumpies." One of those vauge parental threats that all the parenting books warn you to never use, but the parenting books have never functioned for weeks on end with little sleep and an actual grumpy toddler who is really just acting in exhaustion and not out-and-out wantonness. She continued to drop oatmeal onto the floor. I continued to eat my own oatmeal and ignore her. I was determined to not have to eat breakfast in the car, like I do most mornings. (Note: I did clean up the oatmeal after I was done ... I have to mop the floors tonight anyway).
We finally got ourselves out to the car, got the car unburied from the snow that found us last night, got everyone buckled in. Headed toward Miss Jan's, with me already counting the hours until bedtime - for all of us. And feeling a little bad that I was about to unleash two of the three grumpies on poor Miss Jan.
We were blocks from Miss Jan's house when Woodstock piped up from the back seat.
"Mama, I not in bery big trouble anymore."
Curious, I said, "Oh, really? Why not?"
"Cuz I not mad anymore. I not in bery big trouble now, cuz I so happy."
And right then, my heart melted.
I still have a case of the grumpies, but they're mellowing out. Woodstock and Pebbles seemed to leave their grumpies behind as well - as both were beaming big happy grins when Miss Jan opened the door.
She has no idea how close she came to having the grumpies come to visit today.
(Totally unrelated side note: Woodstock got out of the car at Miss Jan's, bounded over to the sidewalk, looked up at the tree and said, "Hey birdies! Whas going on?" like she does every morning - grumpy or not. It makes me laugh every single morning - grumpy or not.)
Friday, January 29, 2010
I am Not Making Political Statements
If one more person tries to make my mundane, everyday lifestyle choices into a political debate or tries to indicate they are a political stance, I might just stop biting my tongue.
I'm trying to figure out how what I eat, where I shop and whether or not I recycle is a political statement, and even if it was, why it's okay to make loud remarks about it to someone you don't know even casually.
I mean, really.
To be truthful, while my life used to revolve a lot around politics, most of my politics now involves campaigns to get Woodstock to use the potty or eat something green or to get Pebbles to realize that blowing raspberries at 3 in the morning was only cute the first 1,476 times she did it.
Yet even at the height of my political awareness, none of it had anything to do with politics, politicians or party affiliation (or not - since I haven't been officially registered with a party in 10+ years).
Yes, I have opinions, but no I am not subliminally declaring them by what is, or is not, in my grocery cart.
Rant over. I feel much better now.
I'm trying to figure out how what I eat, where I shop and whether or not I recycle is a political statement, and even if it was, why it's okay to make loud remarks about it to someone you don't know even casually.
I mean, really.
To be truthful, while my life used to revolve a lot around politics, most of my politics now involves campaigns to get Woodstock to use the potty or eat something green or to get Pebbles to realize that blowing raspberries at 3 in the morning was only cute the first 1,476 times she did it.
Yet even at the height of my political awareness, none of it had anything to do with politics, politicians or party affiliation (or not - since I haven't been officially registered with a party in 10+ years).
Yes, I have opinions, but no I am not subliminally declaring them by what is, or is not, in my grocery cart.
Rant over. I feel much better now.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Slumberless Sleepover
There are three things about being a mother I have dreaded so far, and not just casually dreaded, but dreaded-deep-down-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach dreaded.
1. Weaning Woodstock off her binky
2. Moving Woodstock into a "big" bed
3. Potty training
We accomplished 1 in December. After a month of talking about the binky fairy and a week of counting down the nights until the binky fairy arrived, one Thursday night in December Woodstock awoke to find her binky had been replaced by a note and a Curious George puzzle. (She strategically came on a Thursday night to ensure there were two non-work nights to deal with any fallout).
Surprisingly (or maybe not, since she was clearly ready to give it up), there have only been a couple of the briefest mentions of binkies since.
So I decided to tackle #2 on my "dreaded list of mothering a toddler tasks."
On Tuesday night, after having her "big" bed in her room for 5 months, Woodstock finally agreed it might be fun to sleep somewhere other than her crib.
One should note that Woodstock LOVES her crib. Never has she tried to climb out (though she can climb in - more worrisome at the moment, as the last thing I need is her trying to co-sleep with Pebbles!). Never has she wanted to sleep anywhere else (except when sick - she wants to sleep on the couch - weirdness). So it was a big deal I convinced her that it was high time she move up in the world.
Since Himself was out of town on business, I suggested we have a slumber party. I put both girls down - Woodstock on the trundle bed (low to ground), Pebbles in the crib and, after they had both gone to sleep, I crashed on the day bed. They thought this was very cool (well, I'm assuming Pebbles did, she didn't protest, after all). I thought it was a good way to spy on Woodstock to ensure she didn't try to sleep with her sister (a valid concern, it's happened before when Pebbles was in the bassinet in the other room).
They both slept like rocks all night.
I woke up every single hour. First, it was the darn nightlight that Woodstock insists on having so she can read before she sleeps (I tried turning it off after she went to bed - she inevitably wakes up and yells "my yittle yight is not on, come fix it!".
Second, it turns out that the day bed mattress is the one I put the plastic mattress pad on. I do not sleep still. It meant a night-long ordeal of hearing "crinkle, crinkle, crinkle" every single time I moved.
Third, I do not wear footie pajamas and the blanket on the day bed is not long enough for a full-sized adult (easily rectified, but annoying nonetheless).
Fourth, while Pebbles is a blissfully quiet sleeper, Woodstock is not. And since the trundle was right next to the bed I was in, it was like she was snorting right in my ear.
Fifth, Woodstock woke up at oh-dark-thirty and proclaimed "All done syeeping!". No amount of cajoling could convince her it was a full 2 hours before her normal "wake up time." Pebbles, apparently wary of missing out on the fun, then awoke herself. Realizing it had been 10 hours since she last ate, she refused to reconsider going back to sleep as well.
Somehow, my "sneaky plan disguised as fun" ended up as a joke on me.
1. Weaning Woodstock off her binky
2. Moving Woodstock into a "big" bed
3. Potty training
We accomplished 1 in December. After a month of talking about the binky fairy and a week of counting down the nights until the binky fairy arrived, one Thursday night in December Woodstock awoke to find her binky had been replaced by a note and a Curious George puzzle. (She strategically came on a Thursday night to ensure there were two non-work nights to deal with any fallout).
Surprisingly (or maybe not, since she was clearly ready to give it up), there have only been a couple of the briefest mentions of binkies since.
So I decided to tackle #2 on my "dreaded list of mothering a toddler tasks."
On Tuesday night, after having her "big" bed in her room for 5 months, Woodstock finally agreed it might be fun to sleep somewhere other than her crib.
One should note that Woodstock LOVES her crib. Never has she tried to climb out (though she can climb in - more worrisome at the moment, as the last thing I need is her trying to co-sleep with Pebbles!). Never has she wanted to sleep anywhere else (except when sick - she wants to sleep on the couch - weirdness). So it was a big deal I convinced her that it was high time she move up in the world.
Since Himself was out of town on business, I suggested we have a slumber party. I put both girls down - Woodstock on the trundle bed (low to ground), Pebbles in the crib and, after they had both gone to sleep, I crashed on the day bed. They thought this was very cool (well, I'm assuming Pebbles did, she didn't protest, after all). I thought it was a good way to spy on Woodstock to ensure she didn't try to sleep with her sister (a valid concern, it's happened before when Pebbles was in the bassinet in the other room).
They both slept like rocks all night.
I woke up every single hour. First, it was the darn nightlight that Woodstock insists on having so she can read before she sleeps (I tried turning it off after she went to bed - she inevitably wakes up and yells "my yittle yight is not on, come fix it!".
Second, it turns out that the day bed mattress is the one I put the plastic mattress pad on. I do not sleep still. It meant a night-long ordeal of hearing "crinkle, crinkle, crinkle" every single time I moved.
Third, I do not wear footie pajamas and the blanket on the day bed is not long enough for a full-sized adult (easily rectified, but annoying nonetheless).
Fourth, while Pebbles is a blissfully quiet sleeper, Woodstock is not. And since the trundle was right next to the bed I was in, it was like she was snorting right in my ear.
Fifth, Woodstock woke up at oh-dark-thirty and proclaimed "All done syeeping!". No amount of cajoling could convince her it was a full 2 hours before her normal "wake up time." Pebbles, apparently wary of missing out on the fun, then awoke herself. Realizing it had been 10 hours since she last ate, she refused to reconsider going back to sleep as well.
Somehow, my "sneaky plan disguised as fun" ended up as a joke on me.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Help for Haiti
This is a plea I received from my friend, Erin (you can read about her here). I am posting it in case anyone is interested in helping out with this medical relief mission to Haiti.
--
Dear Friends,
Forgive me the mass email. I can't recall a time where I've sent out such a mass request to so many friends. I am leaving to go to Haiti as a rescue volunteer with the Utah Hospital Task Force on Thursday. And I only found out today (Monday) at 2 pm. Things are moving fast and crazy around here. I will be serving as the press secretary, assistant to the director, and as medical support for 21 days in Haiti. Conditions are going to be awful there. This is no vacation!
I am writing you all today to ask for your support. I am looking for all kinds of support. From links from your personal blogs to our website, to donations of medical or hygiene supplies to help us in Haiti. If you are a blogger, or have a personal website, would you mind giving us a link? (http://utahhospitaltaskforce.blogspot.com with the anchor text "Send Help to Haiti")
I am also hoping to collect medical and hygiene supplies to take down with me. We need items such as baby wipes, rubbing alcohol, gauze, bandages, clean new socks, iodine tablets, ziploc bags (of all sizes), etc. These will be used both by the volunteers and given to the victims of the earthquake. If you don't live nearby but would like to make a contribution, you can send me money via Paypal (erinannie@yahoo.com) and I can buy the supplies myself.
Personally, I only have a few days to prepare for a 21 day trip to Haiti, as well as work in the offices fundraising, getting publicity, and helping with logistics. I know I am asking a lot of my friends. But this isn't for me. This is all for Haiti. This earthquake has already claimed over 110,000 lives. No matter how much we do, it won't be enough to undo the devastation that has already taken place. But we can all make a difference, even if it is just a small cash donation, or a box of baby wipes.
I understand if you are not in a position to help right now. If you can't help with donations, I'll always be grateful for your prayers for our safety while we are down there.
Thanks,
Erin Ann McBride
PS- and if anyone nearby happens to have a pair of women size 8 work boots that I can wear down there, I'd really appreciate it. (You'll save me about $80!)
--
Dear Friends,
Forgive me the mass email. I can't recall a time where I've sent out such a mass request to so many friends. I am leaving to go to Haiti as a rescue volunteer with the Utah Hospital Task Force on Thursday. And I only found out today (Monday) at 2 pm. Things are moving fast and crazy around here. I will be serving as the press secretary, assistant to the director, and as medical support for 21 days in Haiti. Conditions are going to be awful there. This is no vacation!
I am writing you all today to ask for your support. I am looking for all kinds of support. From links from your personal blogs to our website, to donations of medical or hygiene supplies to help us in Haiti. If you are a blogger, or have a personal website, would you mind giving us a link? (http://utahhospitaltaskforce.blogspot.com with the anchor text "Send Help to Haiti")
I am also hoping to collect medical and hygiene supplies to take down with me. We need items such as baby wipes, rubbing alcohol, gauze, bandages, clean new socks, iodine tablets, ziploc bags (of all sizes), etc. These will be used both by the volunteers and given to the victims of the earthquake. If you don't live nearby but would like to make a contribution, you can send me money via Paypal (erinannie@yahoo.com) and I can buy the supplies myself.
Personally, I only have a few days to prepare for a 21 day trip to Haiti, as well as work in the offices fundraising, getting publicity, and helping with logistics. I know I am asking a lot of my friends. But this isn't for me. This is all for Haiti. This earthquake has already claimed over 110,000 lives. No matter how much we do, it won't be enough to undo the devastation that has already taken place. But we can all make a difference, even if it is just a small cash donation, or a box of baby wipes.
I understand if you are not in a position to help right now. If you can't help with donations, I'll always be grateful for your prayers for our safety while we are down there.
Thanks,
Erin Ann McBride
PS- and if anyone nearby happens to have a pair of women size 8 work boots that I can wear down there, I'd really appreciate it. (You'll save me about $80!)
Friday, January 22, 2010
More on Monsters (and Childlike Faith)
As I mentioned a few days ago, Woodstock has a newfound fear of monsters - which apparently inhabit every dark corner of our house.
In an attempt to help arm her with tools that she could use to banish the monsters herself - therefore preventing me from having to "rescue" her over and over (and over) again - I told her, "When you are afraid, say a little prayer and Heavenly Father will help you."
Several nights of me going in to help her say a little prayer later (thinking "this is not going how I planned") ...
Tonight Woodstock called out from her crib (yes, she's still in a crib; no she hasn't tried to climb out yet; yes, we have a real bed for her; no, she isn't interested in it *sigh*), "Mama! I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say a yittle prayer." I then heard:
"Heabenly Fader, Dank you for dis day, pa-yease bless Woodstock to not be afraid of da monsters. And help Mommy and Pebbles to not be scared of da monsters. Jesus name AMEN."
I could hardly keep from laughing for the sheer cuteness of it and crying from the absolute faith she has.
10 minutes later, the monsters returned. Woodstock called out, "I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say anoder yittle prayer."
Sometimes, being a parent has payoffs much greater than I could have ever dreamed.
In an attempt to help arm her with tools that she could use to banish the monsters herself - therefore preventing me from having to "rescue" her over and over (and over) again - I told her, "When you are afraid, say a little prayer and Heavenly Father will help you."
Several nights of me going in to help her say a little prayer later (thinking "this is not going how I planned") ...
Tonight Woodstock called out from her crib (yes, she's still in a crib; no she hasn't tried to climb out yet; yes, we have a real bed for her; no, she isn't interested in it *sigh*), "Mama! I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say a yittle prayer." I then heard:
"Heabenly Fader, Dank you for dis day, pa-yease bless Woodstock to not be afraid of da monsters. And help Mommy and Pebbles to not be scared of da monsters. Jesus name AMEN."
I could hardly keep from laughing for the sheer cuteness of it and crying from the absolute faith she has.
10 minutes later, the monsters returned. Woodstock called out, "I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say anoder yittle prayer."
Sometimes, being a parent has payoffs much greater than I could have ever dreamed.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
You Must See These Kids
You must see these kids.
They're beautiful.
We won't discuss how much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth occured on the part of their mother during the TWO photo shoots (two because one 3-hour session of torture wasn't enough to get good shots).
These photos are evidence that there is a good reason why their mother is not the photographer. While she was off worried that nothing was going "just right," the photographer was capturing memories of her beautiful girls.
Woodstock is the big one. Pebbles is the little one.
Their mother is in absolute heaven.
They're beautiful.
We won't discuss how much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth occured on the part of their mother during the TWO photo shoots (two because one 3-hour session of torture wasn't enough to get good shots).
These photos are evidence that there is a good reason why their mother is not the photographer. While she was off worried that nothing was going "just right," the photographer was capturing memories of her beautiful girls.
Woodstock is the big one. Pebbles is the little one.
Their mother is in absolute heaven.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Beware of the Monsters
Woodstock has discovered monsters ... where I'm not sure, but she doesn't like to go into dark rooms because "I scared of da monsters!"
Apparently, Pebbles is ALSO afraid of the monsters - who knew an almost-5-month-old could even be aware of such things? Apparently 2-year-olds. Anytime that Pebbles yells or cries or anything of the like, Woodstock rushes to her side and yells, "Mama! Come get Pebbles. She's afraid of da monsters!"
She has also made up a song to sing to Pebbles until her very lax, very slow mother can come rescue her.
Don't be scared.
Don't be afraid.
It's okay.
Da monsters won't get you.
Of course, Woodstock thinks that in order for Pebbles to be properly comforted, she must be IN the bed with Pebbles. "Because she's afraid of da monsters. She needs me."
Certainly.
I hope they love each other this much in another 13 years.
Apparently, Pebbles is ALSO afraid of the monsters - who knew an almost-5-month-old could even be aware of such things? Apparently 2-year-olds. Anytime that Pebbles yells or cries or anything of the like, Woodstock rushes to her side and yells, "Mama! Come get Pebbles. She's afraid of da monsters!"
She has also made up a song to sing to Pebbles until her very lax, very slow mother can come rescue her.
Don't be scared.
Don't be afraid.
It's okay.
Da monsters won't get you.
Of course, Woodstock thinks that in order for Pebbles to be properly comforted, she must be IN the bed with Pebbles. "Because she's afraid of da monsters. She needs me."
Certainly.
I hope they love each other this much in another 13 years.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Contemplating the Eternities
Tuesday wasn't a very good day.
First, the earthquake of epic proportions hit Haiti. Second, our around-the-corner neighbor lost his 7-week battle with cancer. He was 49, four kids - two still at home.
Gives one a lot of perspective.
I attended the funeral today and I watched his four children and his wife stand and give beautifully composed messages. I laughed and cried right along with them.
Life is too short.
As his kids talked about him and their favorite memories of him, I wondered what mine would say. Would Woodstock comment on the one where we went on her first trip to the dinosaur museum on a day when my "natural self" felt particularly burdened by the adage "work before play?" Will she realize what a massive effort it took for me to leave the house as is, shut the door, load the girls into the car, and drive 30 minutes south to spend my last weekday as a Stay-at-Home-on-Maternity-Leave Mom with my two favorite little girls? Will she ever know how much I wanted to cry as I listened to her squeals of delight about "Oooh, dat's a BIG dinosaur!" or as she played in the sand at the hands-on exhibit?
Would Pebbles realize that I inadvertently messed up our whole sleeping schedule for weeks by failing to implement a bedtime routine when I should have, because I really just wanted to stay up and snuggle her longer? When she's 13 and shouting, "You don't love me, you don't understand! You're mean!" will she realize how much I will miss having her ride in her Snugli next to my chest and how I cry thinking she may be the last baby I have that is mine?
Would Woodstock remark "Silly mommy!" (as she sometimes does) if she knew that I come in, every night, before I go to bed and kiss her good night a second time? Would Pebbles wonder if mom had lost her marbles if she knew I'm probably procrastinating moving Woodstock into her "big bed" because it means there are no more excuses for having Pebbles sleeping in her bassinet next to my bed?
Would the people I love the most know just how much I love them? Does my heart say one thing and my actions another?
Every day, my resolve to lower my expectations hammers home. Life is too short to spend it wishing it away.
First, the earthquake of epic proportions hit Haiti. Second, our around-the-corner neighbor lost his 7-week battle with cancer. He was 49, four kids - two still at home.
Gives one a lot of perspective.
I attended the funeral today and I watched his four children and his wife stand and give beautifully composed messages. I laughed and cried right along with them.
Life is too short.
As his kids talked about him and their favorite memories of him, I wondered what mine would say. Would Woodstock comment on the one where we went on her first trip to the dinosaur museum on a day when my "natural self" felt particularly burdened by the adage "work before play?" Will she realize what a massive effort it took for me to leave the house as is, shut the door, load the girls into the car, and drive 30 minutes south to spend my last weekday as a Stay-at-Home-on-Maternity-Leave Mom with my two favorite little girls? Will she ever know how much I wanted to cry as I listened to her squeals of delight about "Oooh, dat's a BIG dinosaur!" or as she played in the sand at the hands-on exhibit?
Would Pebbles realize that I inadvertently messed up our whole sleeping schedule for weeks by failing to implement a bedtime routine when I should have, because I really just wanted to stay up and snuggle her longer? When she's 13 and shouting, "You don't love me, you don't understand! You're mean!" will she realize how much I will miss having her ride in her Snugli next to my chest and how I cry thinking she may be the last baby I have that is mine?
Would Woodstock remark "Silly mommy!" (as she sometimes does) if she knew that I come in, every night, before I go to bed and kiss her good night a second time? Would Pebbles wonder if mom had lost her marbles if she knew I'm probably procrastinating moving Woodstock into her "big bed" because it means there are no more excuses for having Pebbles sleeping in her bassinet next to my bed?
Would the people I love the most know just how much I love them? Does my heart say one thing and my actions another?
Every day, my resolve to lower my expectations hammers home. Life is too short to spend it wishing it away.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
I Hereby Resolve
For the past two weeks, scores of people (okay, really more like a half dozen) have asked me what my New Year's Resolutions are. I typically don't set any. January is not a month in which I am terribly motivated. In fact, I'm convinced I was made to hibernate right through January, February and the first half of March. That said, my "new year" starts somewhere with the appearance of the apricot blossoms and the rising of the mercury.
However, this year, I did make one resolution. A single resolution that could honestly revolutionize my entire existence. I've been loathe to share it though, and have usually muttered, "I'm resolving to do better" or something equally as generic.
The past 48 hours though I've been testing it out - and since no one has gasped in horror and exclaimed, "what kind of resolution is that?!" I'll share.
Shocking, I realize. If you don't know me well, you might think, "Oh sure, you're resolving to just skate by."
But that's not it at all. In fact, I'm resolving to lower my expectations so I don't feel like I'm just skating by because I can't possibly keep up with myself.
I'm realizing my house will not be perfectly de-cluttered and the floors won't be as clean as I'd like and that people will drop by when those house looks its absolute worst (Friday nights).
I'm conceding that the fat/tissue/skin that migrated from my thighs to my middle this last pregnancy is probably permanent and it will cause me to have to find a whole new style of pants/shirts that don't look like I've swallowed a spare tire.
I'm realizing that sleep is critically important and that all things cannot be shoved into life simply by eating into sleep time. Eliminating things is more important than losing sleep in order to accomodate them.
I'm vowing to love more freely, spend more time doing good and less time wondering if I am, in fact, an intrusion instead of a help. I'm going to expect no more of people than they tell me to. I'm going to ignore nonverbal communication "noise" and focus on what the person says. If he/she says "it's fine" I'm not going to drive myself crazy wondering what he/she really means.
And, hopefully, I will stop comparing myself to an impossible list of standards I cannot possible achieve and start living life a little more in the moment.
However, this year, I did make one resolution. A single resolution that could honestly revolutionize my entire existence. I've been loathe to share it though, and have usually muttered, "I'm resolving to do better" or something equally as generic.
The past 48 hours though I've been testing it out - and since no one has gasped in horror and exclaimed, "what kind of resolution is that?!" I'll share.
In 2010, I resolve to lower my expectations.
Shocking, I realize. If you don't know me well, you might think, "Oh sure, you're resolving to just skate by."
But that's not it at all. In fact, I'm resolving to lower my expectations so I don't feel like I'm just skating by because I can't possibly keep up with myself.
I'm realizing my house will not be perfectly de-cluttered and the floors won't be as clean as I'd like and that people will drop by when those house looks its absolute worst (Friday nights).
I'm conceding that the fat/tissue/skin that migrated from my thighs to my middle this last pregnancy is probably permanent and it will cause me to have to find a whole new style of pants/shirts that don't look like I've swallowed a spare tire.
I'm realizing that sleep is critically important and that all things cannot be shoved into life simply by eating into sleep time. Eliminating things is more important than losing sleep in order to accomodate them.
I'm vowing to love more freely, spend more time doing good and less time wondering if I am, in fact, an intrusion instead of a help. I'm going to expect no more of people than they tell me to. I'm going to ignore nonverbal communication "noise" and focus on what the person says. If he/she says "it's fine" I'm not going to drive myself crazy wondering what he/she really means.
And, hopefully, I will stop comparing myself to an impossible list of standards I cannot possible achieve and start living life a little more in the moment.
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