After school today, while three of us were waiting around for the fourth family member to exit her classroom, we were approached by one of Horse's friends. This is a young lady who we walk home from school sometimes, and she and her father sometimes wait for us to walk home together even when he handles pickup duty. Needless to say, I was not surprised to see her find us even with her father in tow.
Horse's friend Alice asked us if we were going trick-or-treating, and if so, then what time were we leaving? Her father piped up that he was not sure how trick-or-treating worked in this town, and wasn't positive on where to take her or what time to hit the streets. I told them what time we normally head out to try and scam candy off of strangers, erm, I mean trick-or-treat. Figuring my husband was coming home early and I could pass off the Halloween tour of duty to him, I invited Alice and her father to meet us at our house and the kidlets could trick-or-treat together. Alice's father looked noticeably relieved, and he gratefully accepted the invitation on their behalf.
At the appointed hour, my kidlets were ready and raring to go. They glued themselves to the windows to watch as far down the street as possible to see when Alice might make her appearance. Even though Alice is Horse's age, the other two kidlets also enjoy seeing her. Since Alice is essentially an only child being raised by a single father, she seems to really enjoy their company, too. The kidlets could not wait for her to show up so they could start hauling in loot.
A few minutes after Alice's father said they would be at our house, I sent him a text message to say we were almost ready, and asked if they were ready, too. I got no response. Five minutes later, I tried calling him, simply because the kidlets were about ready to jump out the window if it meant they could go trick-or-treating any faster. He told me they were running late and asked what path we usually took when we did our rounds so he and Alice could catch up to us. I was a little leery of telling someone the house would be empty while we were three streets up, so I told him to just call me on my cell when they were on our side of town, and I would let him know where we were headed at that point in time. Remember, I knew my husband was coming home, and his train was due in any minute. I was still thinking Alice and her father would catch up to us, I could ask Pig to take over the trick-or-treating, and I could go back home into the nice, warm house. At least that plan sounded good to me.
We never got that phone call. The kidlets asked me if Alice was going to catch up with us after almost every house we visited. My husband notified me when he got home and said he would man the fort there. Since Alice's father never showed up, there was no need for me to pass off the trick-or-treating to the menfolk.
Personally, I was a bit relieved they did not show. Alice's father smokes, and although he has never smoked near us before, I was concerned he would do so on the walk and Pig or I would have to deal with Pig Jr.'s reactive airways. Cigarette smoke makes him cough, wheeze, and choke. It is not a pretty picture. I also prefer to make snap judgements on what streets to take and what time to head home. That's harder to do with other people there. I also think it looks weird for a mother and her three kidlets to walk with a man who is not her husband and his kidlet. It looks too much like a wanna-be family unit, and that makes me uncomfortable. At least when they walk home from school with us, it's either just me with all four kidlets, or it's the two of them walking a bit ahead (or behind) us, and you can still easily tell the two families apart. It's harder when all the kids go up to the porches and leave the parents behind. This was the same reason I would have passed the trick-or-treating off to Pig when he arrived in town.
Regardless, they did not call, so we did not see each other during trick-or-treating. My kidlets are home now, fed, and tucked into bed. They had a great time this evening. I am glad they are still young enough that they could forget about their missing friend by the time we arrived back at home.
Next year, I think I'll just keep my fool mouth shut in the first place.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Swim Lesson Failures
Today was the last day of swimming lessons for my daughters, at least until Spring brings warmer weather and we no longer have to worry about their wet hair freezing on the walk from the car to the house. When the girls walked in our kitchen door, I was surprised at how upset they both looked. Normally, they love their swim lessons. Pig had, in fact, taken a few pictures of them really enjoying themselves at their final lessons today. I wondered why they had such long faces after having such a fun time.
Were they upset because there will be a few months in-between these lessons and the next ones? No, that wasn't it. Were they angry because their classes were smaller today because a bunch of people never showed up after yesterday's bizarrely early snowstorm? Nope, it wasn't that either. Had they fought with one another about who was the better swimmer? Not as far as I could tell.
I asked Pig why the girls were so upset and he explained that one was very nervous and the other was depressed. It turns out that Rooster, the younger by three years, had been promoted to the next level and Horse had not. Rooster was nervous about moving up the ranks. Horse was depressed that her little sister was better at something than she was.
I chose to not comment to either girl at that moment. I said, "Ah. Okay." Then we moved on to another subject matter.
A while later, Rooster's behavior had returned to normal. I figured that was a good sign that she would adjust to her advancement before time comes to sign up for the next class. She might get really nervous about anything new or different, but when she has enough time to think about it, she generally calms down and accepts whatever change life threw at her.
Horse, however, still looked pretty upset. I called her into the kitchen and laid out the two participatory certificates the girls had received today. I asked her if she was upset because she felt that her sister was better at swimming than she was. She replied in the affirmative. I then showed her the checklist of requirements each of them had to complete before moving on to the next level. Horse, with her "Tween Beginner I" lessons had a lot more complicated items to master than Rooster with her "Beginner I" course. I pointed out that she had to do things completely on her own while her sister had to just do them "with help." Horse had to swim a certain way along the whole length of the pool whereas her sister had to do the same thing for a half length.
Suddenly, Horse stopped looking upset. She cheered up, actually. We talked about how older kidlets have more requirements than the younger kidlets do, and that we cannot compare how quickly each child masters the necessary skill set to advance.
The failure today was not that Horse had, for the second time running, been unable to master certain skills. In fact, she had improved in several areas from the last time she had taken that course. The failure came in when she tried to compare herself to someone else who was being held to a different standard.
Isn't that what we all do sometimes? We try to measure and judge ourselves based on other people's standards, and we find ourselves lacking. We see others who have better careers, better social skills, better clothes, better educations, better health, and so on and so forth. We see other mothers who can juggle both career and running their households and wonder why as a stay-at-home mom we can't even find a clean outfit for our kidlet to wear in the morning. We see people who do whatever it takes to become the class parent while we try to avoid eye contact when it is time for volunteers. We see families who can afford to sign all five of their kidlets up for multiple activities apiece outside of the home while we struggle to scrape together the money for one activity for one kidlet. We see other people's kidlets who are reading chapter books at age four when our seven-year-old struggles to read on a first grade level. We see people who have a zillion friends they manage to catch up with on a daily basis when we can barely manage to touch base with a couple of people every week or two. We hear how other kidlets have a jillion playdates and parties to attend every weekend while our kidlets are lucky to meet up with friends once a month. We do not see how they measure based on their standards, only how we see ourselves compared to them. Is it any wonder we feel like failures sometimes?
As a parent of multiple kidlets, I can admit it is not always easy to raise each kidlet based on his or her own standard, but I try. I wonder sometimes why I find it so difficult to treat myself the same way. I am not anyone else, so why do I compare myself to others, especially when it is to find myself lacking?
Just like Horse relaxed when she realized she had different requirements than Rooster, I, too, can relax when I finally stop looking at others who appear to be doing things much better or differently than I do. I am in competition with no one except for myself, so it's technically impossible to lose. I love those kind of odds.
Were they upset because there will be a few months in-between these lessons and the next ones? No, that wasn't it. Were they angry because their classes were smaller today because a bunch of people never showed up after yesterday's bizarrely early snowstorm? Nope, it wasn't that either. Had they fought with one another about who was the better swimmer? Not as far as I could tell.
I asked Pig why the girls were so upset and he explained that one was very nervous and the other was depressed. It turns out that Rooster, the younger by three years, had been promoted to the next level and Horse had not. Rooster was nervous about moving up the ranks. Horse was depressed that her little sister was better at something than she was.
I chose to not comment to either girl at that moment. I said, "Ah. Okay." Then we moved on to another subject matter.
A while later, Rooster's behavior had returned to normal. I figured that was a good sign that she would adjust to her advancement before time comes to sign up for the next class. She might get really nervous about anything new or different, but when she has enough time to think about it, she generally calms down and accepts whatever change life threw at her.
Horse, however, still looked pretty upset. I called her into the kitchen and laid out the two participatory certificates the girls had received today. I asked her if she was upset because she felt that her sister was better at swimming than she was. She replied in the affirmative. I then showed her the checklist of requirements each of them had to complete before moving on to the next level. Horse, with her "Tween Beginner I" lessons had a lot more complicated items to master than Rooster with her "Beginner I" course. I pointed out that she had to do things completely on her own while her sister had to just do them "with help." Horse had to swim a certain way along the whole length of the pool whereas her sister had to do the same thing for a half length.
Suddenly, Horse stopped looking upset. She cheered up, actually. We talked about how older kidlets have more requirements than the younger kidlets do, and that we cannot compare how quickly each child masters the necessary skill set to advance.
The failure today was not that Horse had, for the second time running, been unable to master certain skills. In fact, she had improved in several areas from the last time she had taken that course. The failure came in when she tried to compare herself to someone else who was being held to a different standard.
Isn't that what we all do sometimes? We try to measure and judge ourselves based on other people's standards, and we find ourselves lacking. We see others who have better careers, better social skills, better clothes, better educations, better health, and so on and so forth. We see other mothers who can juggle both career and running their households and wonder why as a stay-at-home mom we can't even find a clean outfit for our kidlet to wear in the morning. We see people who do whatever it takes to become the class parent while we try to avoid eye contact when it is time for volunteers. We see families who can afford to sign all five of their kidlets up for multiple activities apiece outside of the home while we struggle to scrape together the money for one activity for one kidlet. We see other people's kidlets who are reading chapter books at age four when our seven-year-old struggles to read on a first grade level. We see people who have a zillion friends they manage to catch up with on a daily basis when we can barely manage to touch base with a couple of people every week or two. We hear how other kidlets have a jillion playdates and parties to attend every weekend while our kidlets are lucky to meet up with friends once a month. We do not see how they measure based on their standards, only how we see ourselves compared to them. Is it any wonder we feel like failures sometimes?
As a parent of multiple kidlets, I can admit it is not always easy to raise each kidlet based on his or her own standard, but I try. I wonder sometimes why I find it so difficult to treat myself the same way. I am not anyone else, so why do I compare myself to others, especially when it is to find myself lacking?
Just like Horse relaxed when she realized she had different requirements than Rooster, I, too, can relax when I finally stop looking at others who appear to be doing things much better or differently than I do. I am in competition with no one except for myself, so it's technically impossible to lose. I love those kind of odds.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Good-bye, Buttons.
When I was in college, my much-loved childhood dog died. She was put to sleep after a harrowing illness that I mostly missed. After all, I lived on the college campus during the school year and was not subjected to the day-to-day details of a suffering animal. Regardless, I remember a few things from her final days. I remember coming home, essentially to say good-bye to her, and talking to her when my parents went out somewhere. I told her that if she was suffering, she needed to let my parents know because they did not want to put her to sleep unless it was necessary to ease her suffering. Shortly thereafter, my mother told me it was time because our poor dog had been in noticeable pain. Even all these years later, I still get tears in my eyes when I remember her, and I think of her fondly.
A short time after my dog's death, or so it seemed, my parents decided to get another puppy. I did not like this puppy at all. She was a cute little thing; I'll give her that much. But where my dog was calm and mostly quiet, this hyper little thing had a yippy bark and never shut up. When my dog would have intuitively known when someone needed comforting, the puppy was completely clueless and more prone to annoy than to soothe. At the time, I felt as if my parents had abandoned all memories of our beloved pet and had tried to replace her with this loud, obnoxious intruder.
I was away at school for months at a time, and only gradually came to appreciate this interloper. As she outgrew her puppyhood, I started to hate her less and less. I stopped seeing her as a replacement for a pet that I loved and saw her instead as my parents' pet, not a part of my daily life, but important to them. She could never take my dog's place, and I had outgrown thinking that I would stay under my parents' roof forever anyway. When I moved out on my own, I could appreciate how warmly she greeted me when I visited. I could enjoy petting her belly when she rolled over to get my attention. I have no recollection of when I stopped detesting her presence and instead slowly came to think fondly of her. She became a member of my parents' household, and I did look forward to seeing her when I visited.
When I had to get rid of a cat who had attacked me when I put my arm between him and my infant daughter, my parents took him into their house. I felt horribly guilty whenever I heard stories of how he picked on my parents' dog. A case of canine/feline siblingitis descended upon their house, and the much-larger aggressive kitty was the clear winner in most battles. There were a number of times I almost volunteered to adopt the dog to save her from my ex-cat. I'm sure my kids would have loved that, but the truth was that I was already overwhelmed with the responsibility of my children and probably would not have been able to cope with the added worries of a dog even if my parents would have gone along with the plan.
For the past few years now, my parents' dog was not doing well. Her health deteriorated a little bit here and a little bit there. Phone calls with my parents invariably led to commentary about whether it was a good few days for their dog or if she was going downhill once more. Her sleepiness and weight decreasing was cause for concern, whereas we rejoiced when she was looking chipper and gained the weight back. Overall, I heard that she had more good days than bad, but there came a point where I realized the bad days were gaining on the good.
This past summer, I had forewarned my children that the end was probably close for Grandma and Grandpa's puppy, but that we hoped she would live a few more years. I explained that dogs do not live as long as people do, and that a fourteen-year-old dog was quite old in dog years even though it sounded young to us. My son had no comments or questions on the subject, which made sense given that he was barely four at the time. My daughters asked a few questions, but were overall more perplexed about the concept of death than they were upset at the possibility of not seeing the dog anymore.
These past couple of weeks, I heard little about my parents' dog's health except that she was deteriorating again. She had started having what were probably seizures, and my parents were still talking about her good days outnumbering the bad ones, and her lack of pain despite acting as if she had dementia.
Yesterday, my mother called to tell me it was time. My parents had witnessed their puppy having too many seizures, being in pain, and being really too dazed and weak to do much of anything. I was honestly relieved they were taking her to the vet. I hate hearing of anyone or anything suffering, and at least we have the option of euthanizing our loved pets instead of forcing them to suffer until the end comes on its own.
So yesterday afternoon, it was all over for my parents' beloved dog. She might not have been a part of my life the way my childhood dog was, but I still mourn her passing. It's true what they say about pets leaving paw prints on our hearts. That tiny, obnoxiously-yapping, overly-energetic puppy that I could not stand somehow morphed into a dear little dog who left her paw print on my heart. And if I miss her this much, I can only imagine how it is for my parents.
A short time after my dog's death, or so it seemed, my parents decided to get another puppy. I did not like this puppy at all. She was a cute little thing; I'll give her that much. But where my dog was calm and mostly quiet, this hyper little thing had a yippy bark and never shut up. When my dog would have intuitively known when someone needed comforting, the puppy was completely clueless and more prone to annoy than to soothe. At the time, I felt as if my parents had abandoned all memories of our beloved pet and had tried to replace her with this loud, obnoxious intruder.
I was away at school for months at a time, and only gradually came to appreciate this interloper. As she outgrew her puppyhood, I started to hate her less and less. I stopped seeing her as a replacement for a pet that I loved and saw her instead as my parents' pet, not a part of my daily life, but important to them. She could never take my dog's place, and I had outgrown thinking that I would stay under my parents' roof forever anyway. When I moved out on my own, I could appreciate how warmly she greeted me when I visited. I could enjoy petting her belly when she rolled over to get my attention. I have no recollection of when I stopped detesting her presence and instead slowly came to think fondly of her. She became a member of my parents' household, and I did look forward to seeing her when I visited.
When I had to get rid of a cat who had attacked me when I put my arm between him and my infant daughter, my parents took him into their house. I felt horribly guilty whenever I heard stories of how he picked on my parents' dog. A case of canine/feline siblingitis descended upon their house, and the much-larger aggressive kitty was the clear winner in most battles. There were a number of times I almost volunteered to adopt the dog to save her from my ex-cat. I'm sure my kids would have loved that, but the truth was that I was already overwhelmed with the responsibility of my children and probably would not have been able to cope with the added worries of a dog even if my parents would have gone along with the plan.
For the past few years now, my parents' dog was not doing well. Her health deteriorated a little bit here and a little bit there. Phone calls with my parents invariably led to commentary about whether it was a good few days for their dog or if she was going downhill once more. Her sleepiness and weight decreasing was cause for concern, whereas we rejoiced when she was looking chipper and gained the weight back. Overall, I heard that she had more good days than bad, but there came a point where I realized the bad days were gaining on the good.
This past summer, I had forewarned my children that the end was probably close for Grandma and Grandpa's puppy, but that we hoped she would live a few more years. I explained that dogs do not live as long as people do, and that a fourteen-year-old dog was quite old in dog years even though it sounded young to us. My son had no comments or questions on the subject, which made sense given that he was barely four at the time. My daughters asked a few questions, but were overall more perplexed about the concept of death than they were upset at the possibility of not seeing the dog anymore.
These past couple of weeks, I heard little about my parents' dog's health except that she was deteriorating again. She had started having what were probably seizures, and my parents were still talking about her good days outnumbering the bad ones, and her lack of pain despite acting as if she had dementia.
Yesterday, my mother called to tell me it was time. My parents had witnessed their puppy having too many seizures, being in pain, and being really too dazed and weak to do much of anything. I was honestly relieved they were taking her to the vet. I hate hearing of anyone or anything suffering, and at least we have the option of euthanizing our loved pets instead of forcing them to suffer until the end comes on its own.
So yesterday afternoon, it was all over for my parents' beloved dog. She might not have been a part of my life the way my childhood dog was, but I still mourn her passing. It's true what they say about pets leaving paw prints on our hearts. That tiny, obnoxiously-yapping, overly-energetic puppy that I could not stand somehow morphed into a dear little dog who left her paw print on my heart. And if I miss her this much, I can only imagine how it is for my parents.
"Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!"
The level of excitement in my house is fairly high right now. Let me rephrase that. The kidlets' level of excitement is high. The parents' excitement level is hovering as close to "sound asleep" as is possible while still remaining awake. Given Rooster's illness and a lack of sleep last night, none of us are surprised that Pig and I are dragging around the house today.
The kidlets, even a recovering Rooster, are hopped up on goofballs, or so it would seem. The reason for their giddiness is the snow that is currently falling outside, despite the fact that it is not even Halloween yet. Clearly the weather has no clue that it is supposed to hold off on the snow until a respectable winter month. Heck, it can even snow while it is technically still autumn as long as it is during the month of December when people have Christmas lights up outside and they can twinkle and sparkle in the freshly falling snow. In October, however, the weather should know better than to behave this way.
Rooster repeatedly peeks out the window in her room so she can watch the falling snow from her sickbed. Horse is wearing a path on the living room carpet with each trip she takes to the window. Pig Jr. has pretty much abandoned his attempts at watching the cold, wet, unseasonably white stuff, and has instead taken it upon himself to keep me updated on the weather.
"Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" are the sounds I hear when my little boy notices I am even remotely nearby. "Guess what? It's snowing outside!" Never mind that I was the one to tell him about the change in precipitation. Forget that he has already told me a hundred times already. Clearly, this is a newsworthy event, and should be repeated as often as possible!
The younger two kidlets gleefully announce that it must be winter now. My explanation that it can still snow in autumn falls on deaf ears. It snows in the winter. It is snowing now. Therefore, now must be winter and Mommy must be Captain Clueless.
Oh, and case I did not know this already, "Mom! It's sticking to the lawn! But where did the leaves go?" This means my favorite seasonal joy, the color of the leaves changing on the trees and having them grace the ground with their loveliness, has been hidden from my view. Thank you for the double-whammy, Mother Nature.
Now don't get me wrong. I do love snow. I love how it graces the bare trees and makes their empty limbs soften and glisten. However, some trees are still sporting green leaves. Others have started to drop their orange, yellow, or red leaves, but are still mostly covered in their rainbow hues. Granted, there are a few random trees that look stark and barren right now, thus making their snowy debut a true pleasure, but they are in a minority. I love snow days off from school, too, but that is irrelevant anyway since today is Saturday.
None of my objections to the current weather are relevant to my three hyper kidlets. "Mom! Mom! Mom! It's snowing outside! And it's sticking!" It's good to be a kidlet sometimes.
The kidlets, even a recovering Rooster, are hopped up on goofballs, or so it would seem. The reason for their giddiness is the snow that is currently falling outside, despite the fact that it is not even Halloween yet. Clearly the weather has no clue that it is supposed to hold off on the snow until a respectable winter month. Heck, it can even snow while it is technically still autumn as long as it is during the month of December when people have Christmas lights up outside and they can twinkle and sparkle in the freshly falling snow. In October, however, the weather should know better than to behave this way.
Rooster repeatedly peeks out the window in her room so she can watch the falling snow from her sickbed. Horse is wearing a path on the living room carpet with each trip she takes to the window. Pig Jr. has pretty much abandoned his attempts at watching the cold, wet, unseasonably white stuff, and has instead taken it upon himself to keep me updated on the weather.
"Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" are the sounds I hear when my little boy notices I am even remotely nearby. "Guess what? It's snowing outside!" Never mind that I was the one to tell him about the change in precipitation. Forget that he has already told me a hundred times already. Clearly, this is a newsworthy event, and should be repeated as often as possible!
The younger two kidlets gleefully announce that it must be winter now. My explanation that it can still snow in autumn falls on deaf ears. It snows in the winter. It is snowing now. Therefore, now must be winter and Mommy must be Captain Clueless.
Oh, and case I did not know this already, "Mom! It's sticking to the lawn! But where did the leaves go?" This means my favorite seasonal joy, the color of the leaves changing on the trees and having them grace the ground with their loveliness, has been hidden from my view. Thank you for the double-whammy, Mother Nature.
Now don't get me wrong. I do love snow. I love how it graces the bare trees and makes their empty limbs soften and glisten. However, some trees are still sporting green leaves. Others have started to drop their orange, yellow, or red leaves, but are still mostly covered in their rainbow hues. Granted, there are a few random trees that look stark and barren right now, thus making their snowy debut a true pleasure, but they are in a minority. I love snow days off from school, too, but that is irrelevant anyway since today is Saturday.
None of my objections to the current weather are relevant to my three hyper kidlets. "Mom! Mom! Mom! It's snowing outside! And it's sticking!" It's good to be a kidlet sometimes.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Whimper...
The dreaded stomach bug has entered our house. As of right now, Rooster is it's victim and we are hoping no one else gets it.
Rooster has now entered the doctor-ordered "if she throws up again, she will need to go to the emergency room" phase. The poor girl has been sick to her stomach seven times thus far in a three hour window. She has not gotten sick for almost two hours, but she still looks miserable. I am supposed to try her on small sips of water within the next hour and I pray that she can keep them down.
In the meantime, I am my usual nervous wreck basket case self when a stomach bug has made itself home in my family. I fear that it will make us all sick eventually. I fear that it will mean another emergency room visit for Pig if he gets it and has an insulin reaction and we cannot bring his blood sugars back to where they need to be. I fear that my washing machine will revolt at everything it has to clean. I fear both that the entire house will get sick all at once and that it will drag itself out and take a month or so to work its way through my family.
I feel hopeless. There's nothing I can do to make my daughter feel better. There's nothing I can do to prevent anyone else from contracting the virus that she was most likely contagious with before she showed any signs or symptoms. There's nothing I can do to settle my own stomach, which has been in knots since the school office called to tell me Rooster had gotten sick at school. I have no way of making this illness just go away.
The only things I can do are pray, hope, and wash my hands approximately three zillion times a day.
If, by chance, I do not blog here for the next few days, please be aware it is not because I am lying dead in a ditch somewhere. At least I hope it's not. It will be simply because I am dealing with a dreaded illness and do not wish to bore you with more puking stories. Wish me luck.
Rooster has now entered the doctor-ordered "if she throws up again, she will need to go to the emergency room" phase. The poor girl has been sick to her stomach seven times thus far in a three hour window. She has not gotten sick for almost two hours, but she still looks miserable. I am supposed to try her on small sips of water within the next hour and I pray that she can keep them down.
In the meantime, I am my usual nervous wreck basket case self when a stomach bug has made itself home in my family. I fear that it will make us all sick eventually. I fear that it will mean another emergency room visit for Pig if he gets it and has an insulin reaction and we cannot bring his blood sugars back to where they need to be. I fear that my washing machine will revolt at everything it has to clean. I fear both that the entire house will get sick all at once and that it will drag itself out and take a month or so to work its way through my family.
I feel hopeless. There's nothing I can do to make my daughter feel better. There's nothing I can do to prevent anyone else from contracting the virus that she was most likely contagious with before she showed any signs or symptoms. There's nothing I can do to settle my own stomach, which has been in knots since the school office called to tell me Rooster had gotten sick at school. I have no way of making this illness just go away.
The only things I can do are pray, hope, and wash my hands approximately three zillion times a day.
If, by chance, I do not blog here for the next few days, please be aware it is not because I am lying dead in a ditch somewhere. At least I hope it's not. It will be simply because I am dealing with a dreaded illness and do not wish to bore you with more puking stories. Wish me luck.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
I made a not-my-kidlet cry today. :(
This afternoon at school pickup time, Horse, Rooster, Pig Jr., and I were waiting for a specific teacher to come out of the school with homework we were supposed to drop off at a sick friend's house. It had been raining earlier in the day, but there was no precipitation at that moment in time. Rooster decided she wanted to open up her umbrella even though there was no need to do so.
Me: "Put your umbrella away, Rooster. You don't need it now."
Rooster: *opens up her umbrella*
Me: "I said put it away. It's not raining. You're not listening to me."
Rooster: *raises the umbrella over her head and tries to whack her brother with it*
Me: "Give me that." *takes umbrella and folds it up* "You need to listen to me. I said you needed to put your umbrella away. I am not happy with you not listening."
Not-my-kidlet who is standing a few feet away: *pointing at me and sobbing* "Waaaah! You scare me! I want my Mommy!"
Me: "Wait. What?"
The little girl's father explained to me, while he was trying to calm down his daughter, that Not-my-kidlet has difficulties processing the word "you." She thinks that anytime someone says "you" it is directed towards her. I just stood there, stunned, and completely incapable of knowing how to calm down this very upset little girl, who was acting as if I was about to brutally bludgeon her to death.
Her father kept reiterating that I was talking to Rooster, not to Not-my-kidlet. I crouched down so that Not-my-kidlet was taller than I was and explained that I would not tell her what to do, I would never yell at her or raise my voice at her, and that I was talking to her friend Rooster who was disobeying me. I told Not-my-kidlet that it is her father's and her mother's job to tell her what to do, not mine. I explained word-for-word what had been said to Rooster, and reiterated that I was scolding Rooster for her behavior. Not-my-kidlet seemed as if she was calming down, to my immense relief.
This was when I made my mistake. I turned to Rooster and asked her if she could please tell her friend that this was indeed what had happened. Rooster said not a word, but her lower lip started quivering. I tried to head off Rooster's crocodile tears. (Technically, she will not produce any fake tears. She will make sobbing sounds and quiver her lip, but not a single, solitary tear will form. She still does not know that tears, or lack thereof, tell the difference between her really crying and her fake crying.) Crocodile tears might have encouraged Not-my-kidlet to work herself up again, so I told Rooster, "Now don't you start crying, too." Not-my-kidlet immediately started screaming again, thinking the "you" I stated was once again her. Dang it.
At that point, I pretty much just walked away. I feel horrible that I unknowingly upset someone else's child, but I have no idea how to make it better. I'm thinking I should just duct tape my mouth shut or study up on becoming a mime. Knowing my luck, Not-my-kidlet is probably terrified of both duct tape and mimes. Sigh.
Me: "Put your umbrella away, Rooster. You don't need it now."
Rooster: *opens up her umbrella*
Me: "I said put it away. It's not raining. You're not listening to me."
Rooster: *raises the umbrella over her head and tries to whack her brother with it*
Me: "Give me that." *takes umbrella and folds it up* "You need to listen to me. I said you needed to put your umbrella away. I am not happy with you not listening."
Not-my-kidlet who is standing a few feet away: *pointing at me and sobbing* "Waaaah! You scare me! I want my Mommy!"
Me: "Wait. What?"
The little girl's father explained to me, while he was trying to calm down his daughter, that Not-my-kidlet has difficulties processing the word "you." She thinks that anytime someone says "you" it is directed towards her. I just stood there, stunned, and completely incapable of knowing how to calm down this very upset little girl, who was acting as if I was about to brutally bludgeon her to death.
Her father kept reiterating that I was talking to Rooster, not to Not-my-kidlet. I crouched down so that Not-my-kidlet was taller than I was and explained that I would not tell her what to do, I would never yell at her or raise my voice at her, and that I was talking to her friend Rooster who was disobeying me. I told Not-my-kidlet that it is her father's and her mother's job to tell her what to do, not mine. I explained word-for-word what had been said to Rooster, and reiterated that I was scolding Rooster for her behavior. Not-my-kidlet seemed as if she was calming down, to my immense relief.
This was when I made my mistake. I turned to Rooster and asked her if she could please tell her friend that this was indeed what had happened. Rooster said not a word, but her lower lip started quivering. I tried to head off Rooster's crocodile tears. (Technically, she will not produce any fake tears. She will make sobbing sounds and quiver her lip, but not a single, solitary tear will form. She still does not know that tears, or lack thereof, tell the difference between her really crying and her fake crying.) Crocodile tears might have encouraged Not-my-kidlet to work herself up again, so I told Rooster, "Now don't you start crying, too." Not-my-kidlet immediately started screaming again, thinking the "you" I stated was once again her. Dang it.
At that point, I pretty much just walked away. I feel horrible that I unknowingly upset someone else's child, but I have no idea how to make it better. I'm thinking I should just duct tape my mouth shut or study up on becoming a mime. Knowing my luck, Not-my-kidlet is probably terrified of both duct tape and mimes. Sigh.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
It's the little things that make me go "Bwahaha!"
Back in September, I went to my kidlets' Back-to-School nights. The few times I had seen Horse's teacher off in the distance somewhere, I presumed he had to be older than I am. After all, I still look like I am eighteen, right? It was to my great chagrin that seeing him up close on that evening at school proved he was indeed closer to my age than I thought. In fact, I went home a bit depressed after realizing that her seemingly older teacher was probably younger than I was.
Under normal circumstances, I do not care how old people are. The poor guy cannot help when he was conceived any more than I can. Still, there was a tiny, immature part of my psyche that felt unhinged because one of the three kidlets' teachers was younger than I am. Last year, both girls' teachers had been younger or around my age, so I am not even sure where this age thing became an issue. I suspect it has to do with my sudden dread about middle age being right around the corner. Perhaps it is also because I keep forgetting how old I really am since I have claimed to be 148 years old since I was the ripe old age of twenty-two. Whatever the case may be, I was not amused about Mr. Young'un.
Today, Horse came home from school and insisted she needed to make a birthday card for her teacher. His birthday is apparently tomorrow. She asked if I could write a quick "Happy Birthday" message to him on a progress report I have to sign every evening. I agreed, figuring it was the least I could do after hating his youthfulness for weeks now. I asked Horse if he told the class how old he was turning, and she replied that he is turning thirty-six.
Hold the phone. If I was born in the year of the dragon, which is not until next year, that means I will not turn thirty-six until next year, since those years go in multiples of twelves. (Sadly, yes, this is how I calculated my current age. My normal 148 is much easier to remember even if it is not nearly as accurate.) This makes me younger than Mr. Young'un by exactly four months! Bwahaha!
Okay, so perhaps my silly gloating over four months is merely a sign of immaturity. I'm willing to accept that. I will do my best to wipe the smirk off my face by the time we get assigned our parent-teacher conference meeting times. Parading my immaturity around my own house is very different from doing so in front of my child's teacher. I just hope my kidlet doesn't rat me out to Mr. Young'un.
Update: Horse came home from school today and told me Mr. Young'un actually turned thirty-four today. I am back to sulking. :P
Under normal circumstances, I do not care how old people are. The poor guy cannot help when he was conceived any more than I can. Still, there was a tiny, immature part of my psyche that felt unhinged because one of the three kidlets' teachers was younger than I am. Last year, both girls' teachers had been younger or around my age, so I am not even sure where this age thing became an issue. I suspect it has to do with my sudden dread about middle age being right around the corner. Perhaps it is also because I keep forgetting how old I really am since I have claimed to be 148 years old since I was the ripe old age of twenty-two. Whatever the case may be, I was not amused about Mr. Young'un.
Today, Horse came home from school and insisted she needed to make a birthday card for her teacher. His birthday is apparently tomorrow. She asked if I could write a quick "Happy Birthday" message to him on a progress report I have to sign every evening. I agreed, figuring it was the least I could do after hating his youthfulness for weeks now. I asked Horse if he told the class how old he was turning, and she replied that he is turning thirty-six.
Hold the phone. If I was born in the year of the dragon, which is not until next year, that means I will not turn thirty-six until next year, since those years go in multiples of twelves. (Sadly, yes, this is how I calculated my current age. My normal 148 is much easier to remember even if it is not nearly as accurate.) This makes me younger than Mr. Young'un by exactly four months! Bwahaha!
Okay, so perhaps my silly gloating over four months is merely a sign of immaturity. I'm willing to accept that. I will do my best to wipe the smirk off my face by the time we get assigned our parent-teacher conference meeting times. Parading my immaturity around my own house is very different from doing so in front of my child's teacher. I just hope my kidlet doesn't rat me out to Mr. Young'un.
Update: Horse came home from school today and told me Mr. Young'un actually turned thirty-four today. I am back to sulking. :P
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Why is my kidlets' favorite room the bathroom?
It's official. The kidlets' favorite room appears to unanimously be the bathroom. I do not understand this one little bit. Truth be told, it even creeps me out a little. I cannot wait until we have a house with a separate bathroom for Pig and I to share simply so that we do not have to stand in line behind our three time-wasters in order to use the facilities.
Pig Jr. has recently turned into a potty-time time-waster. I have no idea what he does in there, and he never appears to be doing anything wrong even when I check on him (a four-year-old who is quiet in the bathroom necessitates someone checking up on him). He will waste half an hour just to take ten seconds to pee, and it is a bit unnerving. I wonder if it's because it is the only room where his sisters cannot bother him, so he drags his experience out as long as possible.
Rooster has always been a fan of the bathroom. Whether she was playing around with flushing the toilet with her head in the bowl or climbing up on the bathroom sink to practice jumping down, she always found a way to have fun and give Mommy a heart attack. Lately, she has been taking forever to dry herself off and get dressed after having a shower. I suspect she just likes to cuddle up in her towel, since she does not seem to waste any time when her towel is not involved.
Horse is our biggest time-waster these days. She took forty-five minutes in the shower this evening. Granted, most of that was without the water running, and she is supposedly old enough to handle that whole routine by herself. The fact that her hair feels greasy like she has not washed it in months despite using up enough shampoo to clean our entire town's collective hair makes me look at her funny. Then again, head lice like clean hair, so it's probably for the best that she goes the filthy hippy route during the school year. Anyway, those forty-five minutes were apparently spent clowning around, since there were dirty footprints in the tub after she was done. I called her into the bathroom to explain the footprints and was told she had been stepping in and out of the shower repeatedly just so she could "act crazy" (her words, not mine).
In other words, I confronted Horse's teacher about the excessive homework so that he could cut back on her time spent working and she could use the newly saved time by coming up with new and interesting ways to make my eye twitch.
The funny part about all of this is that none of the kidlets are teenagers yet, so we are still years ahead of the greatest time-wasting portion of their bathroom-using lives. Pray that we sell our house so we can buy a larger one with a second full bath for us parents!
Pig Jr. has recently turned into a potty-time time-waster. I have no idea what he does in there, and he never appears to be doing anything wrong even when I check on him (a four-year-old who is quiet in the bathroom necessitates someone checking up on him). He will waste half an hour just to take ten seconds to pee, and it is a bit unnerving. I wonder if it's because it is the only room where his sisters cannot bother him, so he drags his experience out as long as possible.
Rooster has always been a fan of the bathroom. Whether she was playing around with flushing the toilet with her head in the bowl or climbing up on the bathroom sink to practice jumping down, she always found a way to have fun and give Mommy a heart attack. Lately, she has been taking forever to dry herself off and get dressed after having a shower. I suspect she just likes to cuddle up in her towel, since she does not seem to waste any time when her towel is not involved.
Horse is our biggest time-waster these days. She took forty-five minutes in the shower this evening. Granted, most of that was without the water running, and she is supposedly old enough to handle that whole routine by herself. The fact that her hair feels greasy like she has not washed it in months despite using up enough shampoo to clean our entire town's collective hair makes me look at her funny. Then again, head lice like clean hair, so it's probably for the best that she goes the filthy hippy route during the school year. Anyway, those forty-five minutes were apparently spent clowning around, since there were dirty footprints in the tub after she was done. I called her into the bathroom to explain the footprints and was told she had been stepping in and out of the shower repeatedly just so she could "act crazy" (her words, not mine).
In other words, I confronted Horse's teacher about the excessive homework so that he could cut back on her time spent working and she could use the newly saved time by coming up with new and interesting ways to make my eye twitch.
The funny part about all of this is that none of the kidlets are teenagers yet, so we are still years ahead of the greatest time-wasting portion of their bathroom-using lives. Pray that we sell our house so we can buy a larger one with a second full bath for us parents!
Monday, October 24, 2011
I don't care if I'm not your mother! I'm still a mom!
I am one of the few mothers who actually walks her kidlets to and from school almost every day. There are groups of students who take the same path that we do, and they are technically old enough to walk without a grownup present. Those groups of children have convinced me that my own kidlets will never, ever walk to school without an adult present.
This afternoon, we were following a group of four boys who had mouths that would make truck drivers blush. The fact that they were in fourth or fifth grade only made it seem that much worse. I would have been appalled to hear adults talking in that manner where there were children present, and was that much more disgusted that those boys thought they were acting "grown up."
At any rate, I was doing my best to keep the four kidlets in my care, three of my own and one that we walk home on some days, talking with one another and keeping a bit of a distance between us and the group ahead of us. However, just as we neared the busiest intersection on the walk home, which was coincidentally the same intersection where we saw a horrific accident just a few weeks ago and the same location where someone almost ran me over in recent history, the boys upped their level of misbehavior. They started trying to punch one another and actually pushed one of the boys into the street in front of oncoming traffic. He did manage to get back onto the sidewalk without getting hit, but the boys were still all shoving one another.
At that point, I started hollering at the boys. To be fair to myself, I had to speak loudly to be heard over their boisterous banter and the sounds of the automobiles nearby. They only saw me as the crazy lady who was yelling at them to get the heck away from the edge of the street. And yell I did, until each and every one of those four boys had backed fully onto the sidewalk and reached the crossing guard standing about fifty feet ahead of us. Horse was mortified. She knew one of those boys, and her mother was scolding them, repeatedly.
What my child did not understand was that the light had just changed and traffic was headed right at those boys. She did not see them haul their arms backwards to gear up for another push to send another child in the street behind the first one. She did not know how long it takes for a car to stop when the driver sees a child dart into the street, let alone when one gets pushed there unexpectedly. My child has never seen firsthand the way a car can damage a human body. My daughter does not understand that a child of nine or ten years of age has no true concept of death or of injury as a direct result of their actions while clowning around. Those boys had no idea of how much their lives would change if they pushed one of their friends in front of a car that was unable to miss hitting him.
I might not be those boys' mother, but I am still a mom. I was not going to say anything to them about their foul mouths, but I was not going to stand by and watch them do something dangerous. I will risk their parents coming after me to tell me to mind my own business and not tell their kid what to do. I will risk embarrassing my daughter in front of her friend (the girl we were walking home, not the boy she knew). I will not stand by and let someone risk another child's life.
I think I need to go hug my kids.
This afternoon, we were following a group of four boys who had mouths that would make truck drivers blush. The fact that they were in fourth or fifth grade only made it seem that much worse. I would have been appalled to hear adults talking in that manner where there were children present, and was that much more disgusted that those boys thought they were acting "grown up."
At any rate, I was doing my best to keep the four kidlets in my care, three of my own and one that we walk home on some days, talking with one another and keeping a bit of a distance between us and the group ahead of us. However, just as we neared the busiest intersection on the walk home, which was coincidentally the same intersection where we saw a horrific accident just a few weeks ago and the same location where someone almost ran me over in recent history, the boys upped their level of misbehavior. They started trying to punch one another and actually pushed one of the boys into the street in front of oncoming traffic. He did manage to get back onto the sidewalk without getting hit, but the boys were still all shoving one another.
At that point, I started hollering at the boys. To be fair to myself, I had to speak loudly to be heard over their boisterous banter and the sounds of the automobiles nearby. They only saw me as the crazy lady who was yelling at them to get the heck away from the edge of the street. And yell I did, until each and every one of those four boys had backed fully onto the sidewalk and reached the crossing guard standing about fifty feet ahead of us. Horse was mortified. She knew one of those boys, and her mother was scolding them, repeatedly.
What my child did not understand was that the light had just changed and traffic was headed right at those boys. She did not see them haul their arms backwards to gear up for another push to send another child in the street behind the first one. She did not know how long it takes for a car to stop when the driver sees a child dart into the street, let alone when one gets pushed there unexpectedly. My child has never seen firsthand the way a car can damage a human body. My daughter does not understand that a child of nine or ten years of age has no true concept of death or of injury as a direct result of their actions while clowning around. Those boys had no idea of how much their lives would change if they pushed one of their friends in front of a car that was unable to miss hitting him.
I might not be those boys' mother, but I am still a mom. I was not going to say anything to them about their foul mouths, but I was not going to stand by and watch them do something dangerous. I will risk their parents coming after me to tell me to mind my own business and not tell their kid what to do. I will risk embarrassing my daughter in front of her friend (the girl we were walking home, not the boy she knew). I will not stand by and let someone risk another child's life.
I think I need to go hug my kids.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
All joking aside...No, seriously. Can we please stop the joking?
The kidlets like telling jokes, particularly knock-knock ones. They have quite the knack for it, as far as they are concerned. They will laugh their fool heads off as they endlessly repeat the same few jokes over and over again, all the while never once saying anything actually funny.
It's ironic how much something not funny can make people laugh.
Tonight, the kidlets started telling knock-knock jokes with Pig while they were all getting ready for bed. I suspect this had more to do with trying to delay their inevitable bedtime rather than a true desire to amuse one another. Regardless, as Pig commented, "The only pun in those jokes is punishment." They laughed themselves silly over things that make no logical sense.
Pig Jr.: "Knock knock."
Pig: "Who's there?"
Pig Jr.: "Banana."
Pig: "Banana who?"
Pig Jr.: "Giant!" *laughs hysterically*
Clearly, Pig Jr. finds giant bananas to be funny. We're still not sure why. To the best of our knowledge, giant bananas are not involved in any joke he might have ever heard. However, he has heard a knock knock joke about bananas. It's the old "Knock knock." "Who's there?" "Banana." "Banana who?" "Knock knock." "Who's there?" "Banana." "Banana who?" "Knock knock." "Who's there?" "Orange." "Orange who?" "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" joke. Here's how he tells it:
Pig Jr.: "Knock knock."
Pig: "Who's there?"
Pig Jr.: "Banana."
Pig: "Banana who?"
Pig Jr.: "Aren't you glad I didn't say orange?"
Rooster is not much better. The two of them will go back and forth indefinitely, badly telling stories that are so incredibly not funny that they cannot possibly qualify as jokes. Yet they laugh, loudly, and for ages. Horse attempts to teach them the correct way to tell the jokes, but she is fighting a losing battle. Her correctly worded puns merely serve as an opportunity for them to botch something up and still cackle.
I find it odd that despite the kidlets' complete and utter lack of joke-telling abilities, I still laugh along with them. Their pure, unadulterated joy is hard to ignore. Who wouldn't want to giggle alongside such a display of amusement?
It's ironic how much something not funny can make people laugh.
Tonight, the kidlets started telling knock-knock jokes with Pig while they were all getting ready for bed. I suspect this had more to do with trying to delay their inevitable bedtime rather than a true desire to amuse one another. Regardless, as Pig commented, "The only pun in those jokes is punishment." They laughed themselves silly over things that make no logical sense.
Pig Jr.: "Knock knock."
Pig: "Who's there?"
Pig Jr.: "Banana."
Pig: "Banana who?"
Pig Jr.: "Giant!" *laughs hysterically*
Clearly, Pig Jr. finds giant bananas to be funny. We're still not sure why. To the best of our knowledge, giant bananas are not involved in any joke he might have ever heard. However, he has heard a knock knock joke about bananas. It's the old "Knock knock." "Who's there?" "Banana." "Banana who?" "Knock knock." "Who's there?" "Banana." "Banana who?" "Knock knock." "Who's there?" "Orange." "Orange who?" "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" joke. Here's how he tells it:
Pig Jr.: "Knock knock."
Pig: "Who's there?"
Pig Jr.: "Banana."
Pig: "Banana who?"
Pig Jr.: "Aren't you glad I didn't say orange?"
Rooster is not much better. The two of them will go back and forth indefinitely, badly telling stories that are so incredibly not funny that they cannot possibly qualify as jokes. Yet they laugh, loudly, and for ages. Horse attempts to teach them the correct way to tell the jokes, but she is fighting a losing battle. Her correctly worded puns merely serve as an opportunity for them to botch something up and still cackle.
I find it odd that despite the kidlets' complete and utter lack of joke-telling abilities, I still laugh along with them. Their pure, unadulterated joy is hard to ignore. Who wouldn't want to giggle alongside such a display of amusement?
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Why marriage?
A friend of mine, perhaps in a bout of frustration with her husband, asked why on earth people want to get and stay married these days. Given the fairly dismal statistics surrounding marriage, I can see why someone would pose that question. I am unable to speak for the masses, but I have no problem detailing why I want to be married, and specifically why I want to be married to my husband.
My husband is my best friend. I never felt as if a part of me was missing before I met him, but I still somehow felt complete once we were together. He does not understand me all of the time, but he is the one person to whom I feel comfortable baring my soul. He knows that I am not serious when I threaten to run away and join the circus. He has stuck with me through the births of our three children, including the massive hormonal swings, my inability to stomach the smell of coffee (his lifeline in the wee morning hours) while pregnant, all the ick that is associated with the actual childbirth part, and postpartum depression. He alone understood what it meant to our family when I suffered a miscarriage. He and I are building our family together, and are working together as a team. We help each other up when we are down and rejoice in each other's achievements.
My husband and I have had the dubious distinction of having circumstances where we were concerned that one of us was dead or dying. We know the fear associated with facing one's own mortality and not knowing whether we would ever see each other again. We know the relief when our worst fears do not come to pass. It is at those moments when I most appreciate my husband and his role in my life. How could I not feel gratitude for every moment we are allowed together? Life is far too short as it is.
My husband and I know that neither one of us is perfect. What human is? We have both said hurtful things to one another, and have struggled with the ability to forgive such things. We have both had our moments of extreme stupidity and done things we later came to regret. Some of those hurts were done accidentally and others were intentionally. Regardless, we do our best to make things as right as we can once we wise up and realize what we have done.
Love is a choice. It is an active decision that must be made constantly. We choose to love one another, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. We choose to love one another when we are cranky and tired. We choose to love and take care of one another when we are miserably ill. We choose to love each other even when we would really love to thwack the other person upside the head for their stupidity. Our choice to love, in fact, prevents such an actual thwacking from occurring.
Now could we do all of this without the legality of marriage? Sure we could, and plenty of people do. We married one another to make a legal point about our level of commitment. That simple piece of paper, that marriage certificate, proves to the world that we are in this thing together. It is a contract, pure and simple. There are legal ramifications of trying to break that contract. Our partnership is recognized in courts of law, should there be a need to prove it. I took his name as my own method of announcing our contract to the world, and I sure as heck would not give it up without a fight.
My husband is my best friend. I never felt as if a part of me was missing before I met him, but I still somehow felt complete once we were together. He does not understand me all of the time, but he is the one person to whom I feel comfortable baring my soul. He knows that I am not serious when I threaten to run away and join the circus. He has stuck with me through the births of our three children, including the massive hormonal swings, my inability to stomach the smell of coffee (his lifeline in the wee morning hours) while pregnant, all the ick that is associated with the actual childbirth part, and postpartum depression. He alone understood what it meant to our family when I suffered a miscarriage. He and I are building our family together, and are working together as a team. We help each other up when we are down and rejoice in each other's achievements.
My husband and I have had the dubious distinction of having circumstances where we were concerned that one of us was dead or dying. We know the fear associated with facing one's own mortality and not knowing whether we would ever see each other again. We know the relief when our worst fears do not come to pass. It is at those moments when I most appreciate my husband and his role in my life. How could I not feel gratitude for every moment we are allowed together? Life is far too short as it is.
My husband and I know that neither one of us is perfect. What human is? We have both said hurtful things to one another, and have struggled with the ability to forgive such things. We have both had our moments of extreme stupidity and done things we later came to regret. Some of those hurts were done accidentally and others were intentionally. Regardless, we do our best to make things as right as we can once we wise up and realize what we have done.
Love is a choice. It is an active decision that must be made constantly. We choose to love one another, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. We choose to love one another when we are cranky and tired. We choose to love and take care of one another when we are miserably ill. We choose to love each other even when we would really love to thwack the other person upside the head for their stupidity. Our choice to love, in fact, prevents such an actual thwacking from occurring.
Now could we do all of this without the legality of marriage? Sure we could, and plenty of people do. We married one another to make a legal point about our level of commitment. That simple piece of paper, that marriage certificate, proves to the world that we are in this thing together. It is a contract, pure and simple. There are legal ramifications of trying to break that contract. Our partnership is recognized in courts of law, should there be a need to prove it. I took his name as my own method of announcing our contract to the world, and I sure as heck would not give it up without a fight.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Horse Versus Tights, the Epic Battle Continues
I have a girlie girl. Technically, I have two girlie girls, but one of them is not the subject of today's blog entry. Horse, as my elder girlie girl, has been battling with me over her desire to wear dresses and skirts for as long as she has been able to talk. I have no problem with my children wearing such frills, provided shorts, leggings, or pants of some form are worn underneath the skirt or dress.
In years past, Horse has expressed her desire to only wear tights underneath her fancier dresses. Whenever this has been allowed, she invariably spends the vast majority of her time hitching up her tights, which drives me batty. I've tried buying smaller tights, larger tights, showing her how to pull them up more from her ankles so that there is more material up at the top, and threatening to duct tape them to her waist. However, Horse is nine years old now, and I figured she was capable of handling wearing tights for a few hours at school. Ha! Silly me.
I first realized that this was a mistake when Horse sat down at the breakfast table and had her dress hitched up to her waist. I drew that to her attention, and told her she had to pay more attention to making sure her dress stayed where it belonged. By the time she got into the car so I could drive her to her early choir practice at school, she had mastered the art of sitting down with her dress at her waist. Seriously, the girl was showing off every last bit of her tights to the entire planet. As I shut the car door, she was wrestling with her dress to pull it down over her body again. I informed her today was the last day of her natural life that she would be allowed to wear anything other than leggings under a dress.
Throughout the rest of the school day, I managed to forget that my daughter had issues with her clothing. She reminded me immediately after she came out of her classroom, sat down on the curb next to the school, and had her dress once more at her waist. She spent the whole walk home hitching up her tights. Each and every time she grabbed a hunk of that stretchy material and pulled, she also pulled the whole back of her dress up. I kept telling her to stop flashing every car that drove past us, but she ignored me and kept doing what she was doing. I'm still not sure why she thought she looked better this way.
About two blocks from home, I told her I did not care if her tights fell down around her knees. She could handle a penguin waddle home, but we were walking past a construction zone and I did not want my nine-year-old's behind to be the subject of the workers' gazes. Sure enough, as she walked up towards our front door, I noticed her tights had indeed fallen to her knees.
Once we got inside the house, Horse changed out of her tights and into some leggings. She can be a kid, flip all over the place, crawl around on the floor with her siblings, and not moon anyone this way. I am so relieved.
In years past, Horse has expressed her desire to only wear tights underneath her fancier dresses. Whenever this has been allowed, she invariably spends the vast majority of her time hitching up her tights, which drives me batty. I've tried buying smaller tights, larger tights, showing her how to pull them up more from her ankles so that there is more material up at the top, and threatening to duct tape them to her waist. However, Horse is nine years old now, and I figured she was capable of handling wearing tights for a few hours at school. Ha! Silly me.
I first realized that this was a mistake when Horse sat down at the breakfast table and had her dress hitched up to her waist. I drew that to her attention, and told her she had to pay more attention to making sure her dress stayed where it belonged. By the time she got into the car so I could drive her to her early choir practice at school, she had mastered the art of sitting down with her dress at her waist. Seriously, the girl was showing off every last bit of her tights to the entire planet. As I shut the car door, she was wrestling with her dress to pull it down over her body again. I informed her today was the last day of her natural life that she would be allowed to wear anything other than leggings under a dress.
Throughout the rest of the school day, I managed to forget that my daughter had issues with her clothing. She reminded me immediately after she came out of her classroom, sat down on the curb next to the school, and had her dress once more at her waist. She spent the whole walk home hitching up her tights. Each and every time she grabbed a hunk of that stretchy material and pulled, she also pulled the whole back of her dress up. I kept telling her to stop flashing every car that drove past us, but she ignored me and kept doing what she was doing. I'm still not sure why she thought she looked better this way.
About two blocks from home, I told her I did not care if her tights fell down around her knees. She could handle a penguin waddle home, but we were walking past a construction zone and I did not want my nine-year-old's behind to be the subject of the workers' gazes. Sure enough, as she walked up towards our front door, I noticed her tights had indeed fallen to her knees.
Once we got inside the house, Horse changed out of her tights and into some leggings. She can be a kid, flip all over the place, crawl around on the floor with her siblings, and not moon anyone this way. I am so relieved.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Does "in sickness and in health" include stupidity in medical decisions?
Heaven help me, but sometimes I wonder how on earth I wound up with four children in my household when I only gave birth to three of them. The fourth just happens to be the man I married. I know many married women feel this way about their husbands at some point or another, so I am sure I am in good company. We should start a support group or something.
As a general rule, my husband is a wonderful man. He spends twelve hours or more of each weekday making sure that he works hard to support our family. He handles the bedtime routine with our children each day. He takes our daughters to their swim lessons on the weekend. He mows the lawn when his wife, yours truly, nags him long enough. He pitches in and helps out when he sees that I'm overwhelmed. Most of the time, I feel truly blessed to be his wife.
And then there's today. My husband came in from work and sat immediately down at our kitchen table. This is never a good sign. It's a deviation from the standard routine. He said he felt "off," and proceeded to test his blood sugar levels. For those who do not know, my husband is a type I diabetic. This is sometimes called juvenile diabetes, and it is the insulin-dependant, could-not-prevent-it-no-matter-what-you-did, you're-stuck-with-it-for-life type of diabetes. This also means he is supposed to be testing his blood sugars about eight times a day to make sure they do not drop below seventy or rise too high. Ideally, he should be somewhere between seventy and one hundred twenty, or so it was explained to me years ago. Those numbers might have changed a bit with further medical information. Below seventy means he is having an insulin reaction (has too much insulin in his system compared to what his body needs), and he needs to get his blood sugars up, and fast, before he suffers from a variety of nasty health consequences, including going into a coma or dying. Tonight, he tested somewhere in the forties, and he looked as if those numbers were still dropping.
When I heard his blood sugar number, I jumped into action. I got him a glass of juice, reminded him to shut off his insulin pump (which slowly drips insulin into his body, which would be really bad during an insulin reaction), and set our kitchen timer for fifteen minutes. The protocol is for him to ingest a certain number of sugars or carbohydrates, wait fifteen minutes, then test again. If he is still having an insulin reaction, then he lathers, rinses, and repeats. Um, I mean he ingests more, waits fifteen more minutes, then tests again.
One of the things I have learned about my husband over the past thirteen years I have known him is that when he is having an insulin reaction, I need to keep him talking to me. If his numbers drop low enough, he becomes incoherent and can pass out. I need to keep on top of him, not literally, to make sure I do not need to make a 9-1-1 call. So tonight, I asked him what his blood sugars were when he tested his usual two and a half hours after lunch, which would have been his last time to test his blood before coming home from work. He did not respond. I thought this meant he was reaching the incoherent phase, and grabbed his testing unit from him to pull up his numbers.
Remember how I said my husband is supposed to test about eight times a day? He had tested once before that today, and that was first thing in the morning. There were no tests before giving himself insulin for each meal. There were no tests two and a half hours after each meal to make sure he was still in the safe blood sugar range. By the time I realized he did not test regularly today, I was very concerned. I kept scrolling back to see what his blood sugars were doing over the past few days. I wish I had an answer for that, but he had not tested appropriately then, either.
So here I am, sitting at our kitchen table about an hour after dinner. I have calmed down a bit and am no longer likely to rip him a new bodily orifice for such stupidity. The worst part is that this has happened before, so I know exactly what he will say should I deem myself calm enough to talk to him. "I'm sorry. I made a stupid decision not to test my blood. It's all my fault. I'll do better next time." It makes him sound as if he's a wife-beater, apologizing for his drunken actions, instead of a diabetic who is clearly in denial about his health needs.
What the heck am I supposed to say to him anyway? "Yeah, you're a moron for risking your health." "Take out a bigger life insurance policy on yourself because you're clearly trying to kill yourself and your current coverage is insufficient." "What do I have to do, go into work with you just to make sure you are testing your blood so that you don't slip into a coma and die?" "Just how stupid do you think you can be in regards to your diabetes?" Okay, so maybe I'm not as calm as I should be yet. But he's heard me say it all before. Nothing he nor I could say here would be any different.
Sometimes, it is easier raising children than being married. With the children's medical needs, I am in charge of their treatments, medicines, and doctor visits. I can call up their doctors with my concerns, request appointments, debate the best course of action to take when there is a problem, and my children just have to go along for the ride. They might argue with me over not wanting to take their medicine, have a nebulizer treatment, or drink lots of fluids when they are sick, but ultimately, I am going to win those battles. With my husband, I have no right to even call his doctor to express my concern over his pathetic attempts at keeping his blood sugars under control. He's killing himself slowly, and there's nothing I can do about it.
As a general rule, my husband is a wonderful man. He spends twelve hours or more of each weekday making sure that he works hard to support our family. He handles the bedtime routine with our children each day. He takes our daughters to their swim lessons on the weekend. He mows the lawn when his wife, yours truly, nags him long enough. He pitches in and helps out when he sees that I'm overwhelmed. Most of the time, I feel truly blessed to be his wife.
And then there's today. My husband came in from work and sat immediately down at our kitchen table. This is never a good sign. It's a deviation from the standard routine. He said he felt "off," and proceeded to test his blood sugar levels. For those who do not know, my husband is a type I diabetic. This is sometimes called juvenile diabetes, and it is the insulin-dependant, could-not-prevent-it-no-matter-what-you-did, you're-stuck-with-it-for-life type of diabetes. This also means he is supposed to be testing his blood sugars about eight times a day to make sure they do not drop below seventy or rise too high. Ideally, he should be somewhere between seventy and one hundred twenty, or so it was explained to me years ago. Those numbers might have changed a bit with further medical information. Below seventy means he is having an insulin reaction (has too much insulin in his system compared to what his body needs), and he needs to get his blood sugars up, and fast, before he suffers from a variety of nasty health consequences, including going into a coma or dying. Tonight, he tested somewhere in the forties, and he looked as if those numbers were still dropping.
When I heard his blood sugar number, I jumped into action. I got him a glass of juice, reminded him to shut off his insulin pump (which slowly drips insulin into his body, which would be really bad during an insulin reaction), and set our kitchen timer for fifteen minutes. The protocol is for him to ingest a certain number of sugars or carbohydrates, wait fifteen minutes, then test again. If he is still having an insulin reaction, then he lathers, rinses, and repeats. Um, I mean he ingests more, waits fifteen more minutes, then tests again.
One of the things I have learned about my husband over the past thirteen years I have known him is that when he is having an insulin reaction, I need to keep him talking to me. If his numbers drop low enough, he becomes incoherent and can pass out. I need to keep on top of him, not literally, to make sure I do not need to make a 9-1-1 call. So tonight, I asked him what his blood sugars were when he tested his usual two and a half hours after lunch, which would have been his last time to test his blood before coming home from work. He did not respond. I thought this meant he was reaching the incoherent phase, and grabbed his testing unit from him to pull up his numbers.
Remember how I said my husband is supposed to test about eight times a day? He had tested once before that today, and that was first thing in the morning. There were no tests before giving himself insulin for each meal. There were no tests two and a half hours after each meal to make sure he was still in the safe blood sugar range. By the time I realized he did not test regularly today, I was very concerned. I kept scrolling back to see what his blood sugars were doing over the past few days. I wish I had an answer for that, but he had not tested appropriately then, either.
So here I am, sitting at our kitchen table about an hour after dinner. I have calmed down a bit and am no longer likely to rip him a new bodily orifice for such stupidity. The worst part is that this has happened before, so I know exactly what he will say should I deem myself calm enough to talk to him. "I'm sorry. I made a stupid decision not to test my blood. It's all my fault. I'll do better next time." It makes him sound as if he's a wife-beater, apologizing for his drunken actions, instead of a diabetic who is clearly in denial about his health needs.
What the heck am I supposed to say to him anyway? "Yeah, you're a moron for risking your health." "Take out a bigger life insurance policy on yourself because you're clearly trying to kill yourself and your current coverage is insufficient." "What do I have to do, go into work with you just to make sure you are testing your blood so that you don't slip into a coma and die?" "Just how stupid do you think you can be in regards to your diabetes?" Okay, so maybe I'm not as calm as I should be yet. But he's heard me say it all before. Nothing he nor I could say here would be any different.
Sometimes, it is easier raising children than being married. With the children's medical needs, I am in charge of their treatments, medicines, and doctor visits. I can call up their doctors with my concerns, request appointments, debate the best course of action to take when there is a problem, and my children just have to go along for the ride. They might argue with me over not wanting to take their medicine, have a nebulizer treatment, or drink lots of fluids when they are sick, but ultimately, I am going to win those battles. With my husband, I have no right to even call his doctor to express my concern over his pathetic attempts at keeping his blood sugars under control. He's killing himself slowly, and there's nothing I can do about it.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Some lessons we just have to learn by experience...
Yesterday, Rooster was sobbing in the living room. Since I had food on the stove, I called over to her from the kitchen to ask what was wrong. She told me that she had made a picture for her brother and that he simply crumpled it up because he did not want it.
Rooster came over so I could give her a hug. I told her I was sorry her picture had been crumpled, but explained that when we give a gift to someone else, they are free to do with it as they wish. Sometimes they are happy with whatever we're offering and sometimes they react like Pig Jr. did. Regardless, once we give something away, it is no longer our concern. I decided against talking to Pig Jr. about finding better ways of saying "No, thank you" whenever he is given something he does not want. Quite possibly, he had already told his sister he did not want her drawing. He has used his words to that effect in the past only to have the proffered drawing thrust upon him anyway. I am still not sure if that was the "correct" way to handle the situation, but it was the best I could come up with at the time.
This morning, Pig Jr. and I were waiting outside of his school with a few of his friends and their parents. I heard Pig Jr. gasp, and looked up to see him holding a leaf and a friend of his grabbing it from him and tearing it into a zillion pieces. As it transpired, Pig Jr. had offered the leaf to his friend, who did not want it. Because his friend did not want the leaf, he destroyed it.
This time, Pig Jr. was on the receiving end of a negative reaction to a gift. He heard the same spiel Rooster heard yesterday afternoon. Now, when he goes to react negatively to something his sister offers him, he has a point of reference about what that feels like. Experiencing this type of rejection might have hurt his feelings, but I can now point out to him that his sister feels the same way when he crumples up her gift to him. Here's hoping he will apply that knowledge and avoid hurting anyone's feelings when he is the recipient again in the future.
Rooster came over so I could give her a hug. I told her I was sorry her picture had been crumpled, but explained that when we give a gift to someone else, they are free to do with it as they wish. Sometimes they are happy with whatever we're offering and sometimes they react like Pig Jr. did. Regardless, once we give something away, it is no longer our concern. I decided against talking to Pig Jr. about finding better ways of saying "No, thank you" whenever he is given something he does not want. Quite possibly, he had already told his sister he did not want her drawing. He has used his words to that effect in the past only to have the proffered drawing thrust upon him anyway. I am still not sure if that was the "correct" way to handle the situation, but it was the best I could come up with at the time.
This morning, Pig Jr. and I were waiting outside of his school with a few of his friends and their parents. I heard Pig Jr. gasp, and looked up to see him holding a leaf and a friend of his grabbing it from him and tearing it into a zillion pieces. As it transpired, Pig Jr. had offered the leaf to his friend, who did not want it. Because his friend did not want the leaf, he destroyed it.
This time, Pig Jr. was on the receiving end of a negative reaction to a gift. He heard the same spiel Rooster heard yesterday afternoon. Now, when he goes to react negatively to something his sister offers him, he has a point of reference about what that feels like. Experiencing this type of rejection might have hurt his feelings, but I can now point out to him that his sister feels the same way when he crumples up her gift to him. Here's hoping he will apply that knowledge and avoid hurting anyone's feelings when he is the recipient again in the future.
Monday, October 17, 2011
When Mondays remind us of why we miss weekends...
Normally, I am a relatively happy person on Mondays. I look forward to getting the kidlets off to school so that I can do everything I am supposed to do on the weekends but am unable to complete with them "helping" me. They are happy at school. I am able to get caught up at home. On Tuesday, all of us start looking forward to the weekend and spending more time together again.
Today, however, was trying to kill me. I wish I was joking on this part, but given that I was almost run over by a car, I'm thinking Monday is literally trying to end my life.
I knew it was a Monday morning almost right away. First, I had severe nightmares from about midnight until four in the morning. Then, when I opened up a brand-new container of soy milk to put in Rooster's Thermos for lunch, the top tore off and I proceeded to splash soy milk all over the kitchen floor, counter, table, and my hands. Good morning to you, too, Monday.
The kidlets have been fighting like crazy today, from the moment they woke up this morning. Rooster was singing softly in her bedroom while Horse was doing her normal morning chores. Horse was apparently not amused with her younger sister's singing, because she interrupted her by saying, "You aren't allowed to sing. I am the only person in this family with any vocal talent." Excuse me? The overall family vibe was quite cranky over this one, with the offending kidlet being the crankiest after being informed I would pull her out of choir for the rest of the year if I ever heard her say such a thing to anyone else. She apologized to her sister, but sulked the rest of her time at home.
We managed to make it to school without incident. I returned home and planned to kill an hour doing laundry and changing the sheets on the beds before heading out to a store with a couple of friends. Five minutes before I was to walk out the door, I went to shut off the water to the washing machine. I discovered the utility sink, into which said washing machine drains, was completely blocked and water was almost to the top. Oh, goody. I bailed water out for a moment or two before giving up and walking away to hit the store. I prayed the standing water would drain while I was gone so that I could see if there was a problem, rather than having to stick my hand into soapy water and try to figure out what was blocking the drain. Sure enough, upon my return, I discovered a sticker had fallen into the sink and had almost completely blocked the drain. The water had slowly trickled out while I was gone, so I could see and remove the offending item. Whew. Dealing with a plumber had not been on my "to do" list for the day.
While I was out at the store, I tried on a pair of jeans. They were nice and baggy, just the way I like them. However, the fabric did something to my legs and I have been scratching ever since. I hope washing them will take care of that problem. I made myself feel better about it by purchasing some expensive turtlenecks (pima cotton...oooh...) online.
Later, I walked to the school to pick up the kidlets. On my way there, a woman ran a red light and pulled into the street. She was driving while looking in the other direction and did not see me in the middle of the crosswalk right in front of her. I shouted for her to "Stop!" as loudly as I could, and then proceeded to ream her out once I realized that I was not going to die for her stupidity. I've had people almost hit me while they are not paying attention, but this was the closest near-miss I've had. I hope her ears burned from all of my yelling. ("What's the matter with you?!? Pay attention to where you are driving! You could have killed me and you wouldn't have even noticed I was there! Red means 'stop', not 'run over the pedestrian who has the right of way!" Yep, I was more than slightly miffed, but even then I kept it G-rated.)
Needless to say, I was slightly more paranoid than normal while walking the kidlets back home from school. At one intersection, I had to pull Rooster back to the curb because a driver did something stupid. The light had changed, and she was already fully into the intersection. Instead of continuing so she would not block the box, she backed up into the crosswalk that we needed to enter. (This was when I pulled Rooster back. Rooster had just stepped off the curb when the lady backed up.) She stopped once she completely blocked the crosswalk. The crossing guard knocked on her passenger side window and told her to back it up. The woman's response was, "You need to say 'please' and 'thank you.'" The crossing guard was, understandably, irate. She retorted that she did not need to be polite when someone is breaking the law. I threw my two cents in, loudly, by telling the crossing guard she should take a picture of the woman's license plate to show the police so she could get a ticket in the mail. I doubt that woman was too thrilled with my contribution, but I was already upset that she could have hit my daughter if I hadn't pulled her back. I was relieved when we finally made it home without further incidents.
When I am stressed, I make one of my favorite comfort food snacks: popcorn. Popcorn was definitely being made today! Unfortunately, I was also trying to help Rooster with her homework while shaking the pot on the stove, and I shook the lid clear off the pot at the exact moment when the popcorn started to pop. The metal lid flipped over, too, so I could not touch its hot surface to reach the cool knob to put it back on the pot. The kidlets were thrilled. Who knew popcorn could explode all over a kitchen in such a cool manner? I learned that those suckers keep popping for ages after they are removed from heat. I also learned that a paper towel can be laid across the top of an exploding popcorn pan as a makeshift lid, but that it does not keep all of the popping kernels in the pot. Popping corn kernels are masters at trying to escape. At least it amused the kidlets. Sigh.
I either want a redo on today, or I want to fast-forward to the weekend. Hopefully, the remaining Monday hours will improve.
Today, however, was trying to kill me. I wish I was joking on this part, but given that I was almost run over by a car, I'm thinking Monday is literally trying to end my life.
I knew it was a Monday morning almost right away. First, I had severe nightmares from about midnight until four in the morning. Then, when I opened up a brand-new container of soy milk to put in Rooster's Thermos for lunch, the top tore off and I proceeded to splash soy milk all over the kitchen floor, counter, table, and my hands. Good morning to you, too, Monday.
The kidlets have been fighting like crazy today, from the moment they woke up this morning. Rooster was singing softly in her bedroom while Horse was doing her normal morning chores. Horse was apparently not amused with her younger sister's singing, because she interrupted her by saying, "You aren't allowed to sing. I am the only person in this family with any vocal talent." Excuse me? The overall family vibe was quite cranky over this one, with the offending kidlet being the crankiest after being informed I would pull her out of choir for the rest of the year if I ever heard her say such a thing to anyone else. She apologized to her sister, but sulked the rest of her time at home.
We managed to make it to school without incident. I returned home and planned to kill an hour doing laundry and changing the sheets on the beds before heading out to a store with a couple of friends. Five minutes before I was to walk out the door, I went to shut off the water to the washing machine. I discovered the utility sink, into which said washing machine drains, was completely blocked and water was almost to the top. Oh, goody. I bailed water out for a moment or two before giving up and walking away to hit the store. I prayed the standing water would drain while I was gone so that I could see if there was a problem, rather than having to stick my hand into soapy water and try to figure out what was blocking the drain. Sure enough, upon my return, I discovered a sticker had fallen into the sink and had almost completely blocked the drain. The water had slowly trickled out while I was gone, so I could see and remove the offending item. Whew. Dealing with a plumber had not been on my "to do" list for the day.
While I was out at the store, I tried on a pair of jeans. They were nice and baggy, just the way I like them. However, the fabric did something to my legs and I have been scratching ever since. I hope washing them will take care of that problem. I made myself feel better about it by purchasing some expensive turtlenecks (pima cotton...oooh...) online.
Later, I walked to the school to pick up the kidlets. On my way there, a woman ran a red light and pulled into the street. She was driving while looking in the other direction and did not see me in the middle of the crosswalk right in front of her. I shouted for her to "Stop!" as loudly as I could, and then proceeded to ream her out once I realized that I was not going to die for her stupidity. I've had people almost hit me while they are not paying attention, but this was the closest near-miss I've had. I hope her ears burned from all of my yelling. ("What's the matter with you?!? Pay attention to where you are driving! You could have killed me and you wouldn't have even noticed I was there! Red means 'stop', not 'run over the pedestrian who has the right of way!" Yep, I was more than slightly miffed, but even then I kept it G-rated.)
Needless to say, I was slightly more paranoid than normal while walking the kidlets back home from school. At one intersection, I had to pull Rooster back to the curb because a driver did something stupid. The light had changed, and she was already fully into the intersection. Instead of continuing so she would not block the box, she backed up into the crosswalk that we needed to enter. (This was when I pulled Rooster back. Rooster had just stepped off the curb when the lady backed up.) She stopped once she completely blocked the crosswalk. The crossing guard knocked on her passenger side window and told her to back it up. The woman's response was, "You need to say 'please' and 'thank you.'" The crossing guard was, understandably, irate. She retorted that she did not need to be polite when someone is breaking the law. I threw my two cents in, loudly, by telling the crossing guard she should take a picture of the woman's license plate to show the police so she could get a ticket in the mail. I doubt that woman was too thrilled with my contribution, but I was already upset that she could have hit my daughter if I hadn't pulled her back. I was relieved when we finally made it home without further incidents.
When I am stressed, I make one of my favorite comfort food snacks: popcorn. Popcorn was definitely being made today! Unfortunately, I was also trying to help Rooster with her homework while shaking the pot on the stove, and I shook the lid clear off the pot at the exact moment when the popcorn started to pop. The metal lid flipped over, too, so I could not touch its hot surface to reach the cool knob to put it back on the pot. The kidlets were thrilled. Who knew popcorn could explode all over a kitchen in such a cool manner? I learned that those suckers keep popping for ages after they are removed from heat. I also learned that a paper towel can be laid across the top of an exploding popcorn pan as a makeshift lid, but that it does not keep all of the popping kernels in the pot. Popping corn kernels are masters at trying to escape. At least it amused the kidlets. Sigh.
I either want a redo on today, or I want to fast-forward to the weekend. Hopefully, the remaining Monday hours will improve.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I guess I was a little tired...
We had a fun family afternoon today. We went to a farm that was about half an hour away from where we live, until the dang house sells anyway. It was a bit late in the season for the apple picking we wished to do, but that was our goal in heading there on this beautiful, sunny autumn afternoon.
The kidlets were at first a bit nervous about picking their own apples. The girls seemed more hesitant about where we were headed, as opposed to what we were going to do when we got there. Pig Jr., on the other hand, started crying when we said we were going to pick apples. What was the reason? He hates eating apples. Detests them. Apples in any form other than applesauce with cinnamon liberally mixed in are simply abhorrent to the little man. He calmed down when I assured him that he did not have to eat any of the apples we picked. With my apple allergy, I was not going to eat any either, and I kept reiterating that he and I would not eat any fruit, but we could still have fun picking them off the trees.
When we got to the farm, we were highly entertained by the system of flagmen who directed us where to park. It was really quite efficient. There were also approximately three zillion cars there, so we were happy to see that we did not have to just randomly circle endlessly until a spot opened up for us.
The first thing we did was walk over to the area where they had these somewhat sturdy wooden baskets that were lined with plastic bags. The girls each picked one up, then we headed towards the rows of apple trees not too far off in the distance. We elected to pass on the hayride to the specific orchards, with the logic that tiring out the kidlets was a goal for the day and should be encouraged whenever possible.
We walked up and down rows of extremely picked over trees. Whenever we found a tree that still held apples down where the kidlets could reach them, we instantly transformed into apple-picking maniacs. Pig Jr. was thrilled to be lifted up to pick apples from above Mommy and Daddy's heads. Rooster learned that if she tossed her wooden basket down often enough, Mommy would take over carrying it to try and prevent the poor apples from bruising. Horse discovered that apple-picking was not nearly fun enough for her pre-teen self.
After filling our baskets with more apples than our family can eat in a month, we decided to catch the hayride back to the farm entrance. This was based more on timing rather than a need to rest our weary feet. We simply lucked out and saw a tractor waiting to pull people back to the start. The kidlets probably enjoyed that part of the afternoon's experience the most. On the ride back, we discussed allowing the kidlets to pick out a pumpkin from the stands near where we had to pay rather than go on a separate excursion next weekend to pick them from another farm. Easy won out over the desire for another family trip, and the kidlets picked out their pumpkins. ("I got a pumpkin! Yay!" "Hey, I like this one! Can I get this one?" "Why do we have to get such small pumpkins? I wanted to go pick my own somewhere anyway." Can you tell which kidlet is the pre-teen?)
After paying a fortune for far too many fruits and gourds, we headed back home. Three of us were yawning the entire ride home. Sadly, I was one of them. I snapped myself out of my lethargy while I flipped through the pictures Pig had taken at the farm. (I still haven't forgiven him for taking a picture of me from behind. If the good Lord had intended on me seeing what my rear looks like, he would have put my head on backwards. Ignorance is bliss, and I like being happy.) Most of the pictures turned out nicely, and I received the promise from Pig that he would load them onto my laptop when we got home.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. We arrived at home. That much I know. Somehow, we all ate a snack of either apples or not-apples, depending on whether we were allergic or anti-apple. The kidlets all got showers and Horse finished up a project that is due tomorrow. Then I made dinner. It was not until about six-thirty in the evening, when I was getting ready to put dinner on the table when I realized I a) forgot to turn the oven on, and b) forgot to put the meat in the oven anyway. Oops. I guess I was a little tired. The end result was that I scrounged up some reruns from the freezer and microwaved them into readiness. The kidlets didn't seem to mind. They thought it was funny that Mommy messed up dinner.
I am thinking it's going to be an early bedtime for me tonight.
The kidlets were at first a bit nervous about picking their own apples. The girls seemed more hesitant about where we were headed, as opposed to what we were going to do when we got there. Pig Jr., on the other hand, started crying when we said we were going to pick apples. What was the reason? He hates eating apples. Detests them. Apples in any form other than applesauce with cinnamon liberally mixed in are simply abhorrent to the little man. He calmed down when I assured him that he did not have to eat any of the apples we picked. With my apple allergy, I was not going to eat any either, and I kept reiterating that he and I would not eat any fruit, but we could still have fun picking them off the trees.
When we got to the farm, we were highly entertained by the system of flagmen who directed us where to park. It was really quite efficient. There were also approximately three zillion cars there, so we were happy to see that we did not have to just randomly circle endlessly until a spot opened up for us.
The first thing we did was walk over to the area where they had these somewhat sturdy wooden baskets that were lined with plastic bags. The girls each picked one up, then we headed towards the rows of apple trees not too far off in the distance. We elected to pass on the hayride to the specific orchards, with the logic that tiring out the kidlets was a goal for the day and should be encouraged whenever possible.
We walked up and down rows of extremely picked over trees. Whenever we found a tree that still held apples down where the kidlets could reach them, we instantly transformed into apple-picking maniacs. Pig Jr. was thrilled to be lifted up to pick apples from above Mommy and Daddy's heads. Rooster learned that if she tossed her wooden basket down often enough, Mommy would take over carrying it to try and prevent the poor apples from bruising. Horse discovered that apple-picking was not nearly fun enough for her pre-teen self.
After filling our baskets with more apples than our family can eat in a month, we decided to catch the hayride back to the farm entrance. This was based more on timing rather than a need to rest our weary feet. We simply lucked out and saw a tractor waiting to pull people back to the start. The kidlets probably enjoyed that part of the afternoon's experience the most. On the ride back, we discussed allowing the kidlets to pick out a pumpkin from the stands near where we had to pay rather than go on a separate excursion next weekend to pick them from another farm. Easy won out over the desire for another family trip, and the kidlets picked out their pumpkins. ("I got a pumpkin! Yay!" "Hey, I like this one! Can I get this one?" "Why do we have to get such small pumpkins? I wanted to go pick my own somewhere anyway." Can you tell which kidlet is the pre-teen?)
After paying a fortune for far too many fruits and gourds, we headed back home. Three of us were yawning the entire ride home. Sadly, I was one of them. I snapped myself out of my lethargy while I flipped through the pictures Pig had taken at the farm. (I still haven't forgiven him for taking a picture of me from behind. If the good Lord had intended on me seeing what my rear looks like, he would have put my head on backwards. Ignorance is bliss, and I like being happy.) Most of the pictures turned out nicely, and I received the promise from Pig that he would load them onto my laptop when we got home.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. We arrived at home. That much I know. Somehow, we all ate a snack of either apples or not-apples, depending on whether we were allergic or anti-apple. The kidlets all got showers and Horse finished up a project that is due tomorrow. Then I made dinner. It was not until about six-thirty in the evening, when I was getting ready to put dinner on the table when I realized I a) forgot to turn the oven on, and b) forgot to put the meat in the oven anyway. Oops. I guess I was a little tired. The end result was that I scrounged up some reruns from the freezer and microwaved them into readiness. The kidlets didn't seem to mind. They thought it was funny that Mommy messed up dinner.
I am thinking it's going to be an early bedtime for me tonight.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
My Two Minute Nap
It was a good plan, in theory. Pig would help Horse with her class project that is due on Monday and I would run around the back yard with Rooster and Pig Jr. Theoretically, the younger two kidlets would be worn out from all that fresh air and exercise while their sister would hopefully be done with her work without the distraction of her siblings trying to "help."
That's not exactly how it played out.
Horse is still nowhere near completion on her project, and I'm starting to panic that our plans for tomorrow will have to be altered to allow her time to finish it. Rooster, Pig Jr., and I are all back inside after playing outside. The two kidlets were energized by all that fresh air and exercise. I was ready to keel over from exhaustion.
After consuming some water and a quick snack, I bribed the younger two kidlets with their electronic gadget of choice so that Mommy could lie down for half an hour while Pig ran to the store to find some new shoes for work. Horse was still plugging away on the computer. I'm fairly certain she was moving so slowly that she was going backwards on her project. Rooster did not take kindly to letting me rest. She very loudly kept telling her brother to get quiet because Mommy was sleeping. The fact that her brother was almost completely silent was irrelevant. He must have been breathing too loudly for her, or something else nonsensical like that.
After just a few minutes of trying to tune out my six-year-old's shouting, I started to doze. I was startled awake a moment or two later when I had this odd sensation of being watched. I opened my eyes to see Rooster hovering three inches above my face. I gasped and asked her why on earth she was staring at me. My little girl just smiled at me and said, "I'm just watching you. Mommy, you're so beautiful." I just about melted.
Granted, my hair was a wreck, I had sidewalk chalk smudged across my cheek, I was wearing a pair of ratty old sweatpants, and I was probably snoring just seconds before Rooster startled me. But somehow, to my offspring, I was beautiful. This either proves she has no standards or she needs glasses, but I'll take it.
That's not exactly how it played out.
Horse is still nowhere near completion on her project, and I'm starting to panic that our plans for tomorrow will have to be altered to allow her time to finish it. Rooster, Pig Jr., and I are all back inside after playing outside. The two kidlets were energized by all that fresh air and exercise. I was ready to keel over from exhaustion.
After consuming some water and a quick snack, I bribed the younger two kidlets with their electronic gadget of choice so that Mommy could lie down for half an hour while Pig ran to the store to find some new shoes for work. Horse was still plugging away on the computer. I'm fairly certain she was moving so slowly that she was going backwards on her project. Rooster did not take kindly to letting me rest. She very loudly kept telling her brother to get quiet because Mommy was sleeping. The fact that her brother was almost completely silent was irrelevant. He must have been breathing too loudly for her, or something else nonsensical like that.
After just a few minutes of trying to tune out my six-year-old's shouting, I started to doze. I was startled awake a moment or two later when I had this odd sensation of being watched. I opened my eyes to see Rooster hovering three inches above my face. I gasped and asked her why on earth she was staring at me. My little girl just smiled at me and said, "I'm just watching you. Mommy, you're so beautiful." I just about melted.
Granted, my hair was a wreck, I had sidewalk chalk smudged across my cheek, I was wearing a pair of ratty old sweatpants, and I was probably snoring just seconds before Rooster startled me. But somehow, to my offspring, I was beautiful. This either proves she has no standards or she needs glasses, but I'll take it.
Friday, October 14, 2011
The Tooth Fairy Strikes Again
It's been an exciting couple of weeks in our household. Rooster lost two teeth in fairy rapid succession, which left her looking like quite the adorable little jill-o-lantern. Yesterday morning, she woke up to discover that the tooth in-between those two gaps had gone missing sometime during the night.
Oddly enough, the first question out of her mouth was not whether or not she had swallowed the missing tooth. Her first concern was how to tell the Tooth Fairy that she lost a tooth when she had really lost it. Honestly, I was grateful. I could answer that question. ("Just write a letter to the Tooth Fairy. I'm sure she'll understand.") I was more worried that she would freak out if she thought she had swallowed her tooth. I could almost see her asking nervously whether or not her tooth had any dairy in it. She still hasn't quite grasped the idea of what a dairy allergy means in cases like this, and the concept of accidentally ingesting dairy often scares her. Thankfully, that thought never crossed her mind, or if it did, it remained unsaid. Since she typically blurts out whatever she thinks before her brain has a chance to put a halt to bizarre statements, I am assuming it is the former as opposed to the latter.
Anyway, Rooster sat down to write a quick note to the Tooth Fairy after her (Rooster's) homework was completed yesterday afternoon. Here's what she wrote:
Rooster
Dear Tooth fairy,
I Lost a tooth in the morning and I Lost it.
Love,
Rooster .1
She remembered to put her name at the top of the paper, just like her teacher reminds them to do at school. She also added her class number, complete with period in front of it, which is her usual method of writing it. The Tooth Fairy must have thought it was adorable, because she wrote back, in minuscule writing on a piece of paper approximately one inch by an inch-and-a-half:
Dear Rooster,
Thank you for
your letter. It is
okay that you can't
find your tooth.
Congratulations on
losing yet another
tooth! You are such
a big girl now!
Love,
The Tooth Fairy
To say that Rooster was ecstatic about getting a letter from the Tooth Fairy is the understatement of the year. She carried that tiny piece of paper around with her for hours today. Even Horse was thrilled about her sister's letter. "Wow, Rooster! I guess she really is a fairy then, cuz they're tiny! I wonder how small her pencil was!" That statement alone sparked a ten minute debate on how small a writing implement could possibly be.
Thank you, Tooth Fairy. You made my toothless daughter's day. :)
Oddly enough, the first question out of her mouth was not whether or not she had swallowed the missing tooth. Her first concern was how to tell the Tooth Fairy that she lost a tooth when she had really lost it. Honestly, I was grateful. I could answer that question. ("Just write a letter to the Tooth Fairy. I'm sure she'll understand.") I was more worried that she would freak out if she thought she had swallowed her tooth. I could almost see her asking nervously whether or not her tooth had any dairy in it. She still hasn't quite grasped the idea of what a dairy allergy means in cases like this, and the concept of accidentally ingesting dairy often scares her. Thankfully, that thought never crossed her mind, or if it did, it remained unsaid. Since she typically blurts out whatever she thinks before her brain has a chance to put a halt to bizarre statements, I am assuming it is the former as opposed to the latter.
Anyway, Rooster sat down to write a quick note to the Tooth Fairy after her (Rooster's) homework was completed yesterday afternoon. Here's what she wrote:
Rooster
Dear Tooth fairy,
I Lost a tooth in the morning and I Lost it.
Love,
Rooster .1
She remembered to put her name at the top of the paper, just like her teacher reminds them to do at school. She also added her class number, complete with period in front of it, which is her usual method of writing it. The Tooth Fairy must have thought it was adorable, because she wrote back, in minuscule writing on a piece of paper approximately one inch by an inch-and-a-half:
Dear Rooster,
Thank you for
your letter. It is
okay that you can't
find your tooth.
Congratulations on
losing yet another
tooth! You are such
a big girl now!
Love,
The Tooth Fairy
To say that Rooster was ecstatic about getting a letter from the Tooth Fairy is the understatement of the year. She carried that tiny piece of paper around with her for hours today. Even Horse was thrilled about her sister's letter. "Wow, Rooster! I guess she really is a fairy then, cuz they're tiny! I wonder how small her pencil was!" That statement alone sparked a ten minute debate on how small a writing implement could possibly be.
Thank you, Tooth Fairy. You made my toothless daughter's day. :)
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Another Mystery is Solved
Last week, for only the second time in history, I received a poor report about my son's behavior in class. Given that his teacher has been writing weekly reports for him since May of 2010, that's not a completely horrific statistic. Still, we had been hoping that his first negative report would be his last.
The first time his teacher wrote about Pig Jr.'s misbehavior, it was because he bit another child. Granted, the other child took something from him and Pig Jr. was almost completely nonverbal in a school setting. He reacted the way a typical not-talking three-year-old would, and he put his mouth on the other child. Thankfully, that was all he did. He did not bite down, apply pressure of any form, and the teacher said the only visible mark was a tiny wet spot on the other child's pant leg where my son had attempted to bite. Pig Jr. had consequences both at school and at home for that one, and we thought his nonverbal days of physical retaliation were long gone.
Sadly, last week's report stated that Pig Jr. had pushed another student. His teacher had attempted to find out why he pushed that little girl, but my son was either unable or unwilling to give a response. He earned a time-out for his behavior, and his teacher asked me if I could try and figure out what had prompted such an action from my normally well-behaved kidlet. I tried asking him, but he just shut down and refused to talk. I figured that we would never find out what the trigger was unless history repeated itself, and I seriously hoped that would never happen.
Normally, I walk the kidlets to and from school every day. Today, I failed to time my errands properly and wound up having to drive to school to pick them up after my stop at the local drugstore took longer than expected. Naturally, today had to be the one day where a major car accident occurred in the blocks between school and home, and we were stuck waiting in traffic while cars were being routed elsewhere. During this unusually long trek home, I heard a small voice pipe up from one of the seats behind me.
The first time his teacher wrote about Pig Jr.'s misbehavior, it was because he bit another child. Granted, the other child took something from him and Pig Jr. was almost completely nonverbal in a school setting. He reacted the way a typical not-talking three-year-old would, and he put his mouth on the other child. Thankfully, that was all he did. He did not bite down, apply pressure of any form, and the teacher said the only visible mark was a tiny wet spot on the other child's pant leg where my son had attempted to bite. Pig Jr. had consequences both at school and at home for that one, and we thought his nonverbal days of physical retaliation were long gone.
Sadly, last week's report stated that Pig Jr. had pushed another student. His teacher had attempted to find out why he pushed that little girl, but my son was either unable or unwilling to give a response. He earned a time-out for his behavior, and his teacher asked me if I could try and figure out what had prompted such an action from my normally well-behaved kidlet. I tried asking him, but he just shut down and refused to talk. I figured that we would never find out what the trigger was unless history repeated itself, and I seriously hoped that would never happen.
Normally, I walk the kidlets to and from school every day. Today, I failed to time my errands properly and wound up having to drive to school to pick them up after my stop at the local drugstore took longer than expected. Naturally, today had to be the one day where a major car accident occurred in the blocks between school and home, and we were stuck waiting in traffic while cars were being routed elsewhere. During this unusually long trek home, I heard a small voice pipe up from one of the seats behind me.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
How can ten years seem so long and yet so short?
Ten years ago, I was a middle school math teacher. I had four classes of sixth grade math and one class of seventh grade Algebra I. I was pregnant with my first kidlet at the start of the school year, and left on maternity leave towards the end of February. Ten years ago, my youngest students were eleven years old.
Somebody should have told those kids they were supposed to remain eleven indefinitely.
I know, intellectually, that ten years later, those eleven-year-olds are now all twenty-one and starting to turn twenty-two. Some of my former students are now married. Some now have kidlets of their own. I know that some people in my age group are starting to become grandparents, which completely freaks me out. Ten years ago, I was more than twice the age of my students. They were eleven and I was, um, more than twenty-two. Ten years later, that age difference is still the same, but we are comparatively much closer in age.
Ten years ago, I was not yet a mother. I had never even held a newborn, let alone tried to put clothes or diapers on their little floppy bodies. I did not know how scared I could be for someone else's life when they were sick or hurt. I had not discovered that every single obnoxious trait that I cannot stand in myself would be front and center in my offspring, yet I would love them for it. I had no clue how completely upside-down they would change my world and that I would reach a point where I could not fathom how I had ever existed without them in my life.
Ten years ago, my students had never driven, let alone purchased, a car. They had (hopefully) not consumed any alcoholic beverages. Some of them had known infatuation, but I would bet none of them had experienced being in love. All of the girls still had their maiden names. Most of them lived with their parents. None of them had voted on Election Day, unless it was in a mock election or to vote for Student Council President. Very few of them (hopefully) had ever fired a weapon. I do not believe any of them had ever been arrested at that stage of their lives. None of my students were old enough to legally work, although I am sure many were forced to do chores against their will.
Ten years from now, my eldest will be off in college. Her younger two siblings will both be, God willing, in high school. My eldest will be driving, preferably a car she will finance all by herself. My kidlets will have learned the fine art of infatuation, and will probably be mid-crush at any given time. They might even believe they have found true love, for they will have yet to learn that love is an active decision that we make each and every day, and not some fleeting feeling. My eldest will be legally able to vote and old enough to decide whether she should do her civic duty in that regard. My middle child will probably be working her first after school job and hating the government with each and every paycheck she brings home. My youngest kidlet will have taken over the lawn mowing task, provided his breathing has improved over that decade. Otherwise, my husband and I will still trade off on that duty, and will do it with bodies that will hopefully be in better shape than they are today. (Hey, I can dream, can't I? Who doesn't want to improve with age?)
Some days just seem to drag on forever. However, these past ten years skipped by in less than a heartbeat. I am sure the next ten will go by at an even greater clip. I once mentioned to my grandmother that I could hardly believe how old my babies are already. She chuckled, and told me to talk to her when my babies are almost seventy. I neglected to point out the futility of a conversation with her at that point, but realized exactly what she meant. Time flies, and my ninety-year-old grandmother knew that all too well. It might seem like it doesn't, but it does.
Now please excuse me while I sneak off to peek at my sleeping babies. Oh, I might not need to hold a mirror under their noses to ensure they are breathing, but I still check on them every night before I crawl into bed. They might be four, six, and nine, but in my heart they will always be the same sweet babies I fell in love with from the moment I learned of their conception. I just wish it wasn't going quite this fast.
Somebody should have told those kids they were supposed to remain eleven indefinitely.
I know, intellectually, that ten years later, those eleven-year-olds are now all twenty-one and starting to turn twenty-two. Some of my former students are now married. Some now have kidlets of their own. I know that some people in my age group are starting to become grandparents, which completely freaks me out. Ten years ago, I was more than twice the age of my students. They were eleven and I was, um, more than twenty-two. Ten years later, that age difference is still the same, but we are comparatively much closer in age.
Ten years ago, I was not yet a mother. I had never even held a newborn, let alone tried to put clothes or diapers on their little floppy bodies. I did not know how scared I could be for someone else's life when they were sick or hurt. I had not discovered that every single obnoxious trait that I cannot stand in myself would be front and center in my offspring, yet I would love them for it. I had no clue how completely upside-down they would change my world and that I would reach a point where I could not fathom how I had ever existed without them in my life.
Ten years ago, my students had never driven, let alone purchased, a car. They had (hopefully) not consumed any alcoholic beverages. Some of them had known infatuation, but I would bet none of them had experienced being in love. All of the girls still had their maiden names. Most of them lived with their parents. None of them had voted on Election Day, unless it was in a mock election or to vote for Student Council President. Very few of them (hopefully) had ever fired a weapon. I do not believe any of them had ever been arrested at that stage of their lives. None of my students were old enough to legally work, although I am sure many were forced to do chores against their will.
Ten years from now, my eldest will be off in college. Her younger two siblings will both be, God willing, in high school. My eldest will be driving, preferably a car she will finance all by herself. My kidlets will have learned the fine art of infatuation, and will probably be mid-crush at any given time. They might even believe they have found true love, for they will have yet to learn that love is an active decision that we make each and every day, and not some fleeting feeling. My eldest will be legally able to vote and old enough to decide whether she should do her civic duty in that regard. My middle child will probably be working her first after school job and hating the government with each and every paycheck she brings home. My youngest kidlet will have taken over the lawn mowing task, provided his breathing has improved over that decade. Otherwise, my husband and I will still trade off on that duty, and will do it with bodies that will hopefully be in better shape than they are today. (Hey, I can dream, can't I? Who doesn't want to improve with age?)
Some days just seem to drag on forever. However, these past ten years skipped by in less than a heartbeat. I am sure the next ten will go by at an even greater clip. I once mentioned to my grandmother that I could hardly believe how old my babies are already. She chuckled, and told me to talk to her when my babies are almost seventy. I neglected to point out the futility of a conversation with her at that point, but realized exactly what she meant. Time flies, and my ninety-year-old grandmother knew that all too well. It might seem like it doesn't, but it does.
Now please excuse me while I sneak off to peek at my sleeping babies. Oh, I might not need to hold a mirror under their noses to ensure they are breathing, but I still check on them every night before I crawl into bed. They might be four, six, and nine, but in my heart they will always be the same sweet babies I fell in love with from the moment I learned of their conception. I just wish it wasn't going quite this fast.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
"Just" a Parent
This is my reaction to a dietitian who made a decision regarding my child's health without reading her chart, paying attention to what my husband and I were saying, or checking out any of the numerous reports from specialists we have met with over the years:
I am just a parent. I do not have any graduate degrees related to any medical field. I have not completed a residency at any hospital. I do not presume to know more than any medical professional when it comes to most things. However, I do know my child.
I am just a parent, but I am the one who comforts and cleans up after my child when she is sick to her stomach in the wee hours of the morning. I am the one who holds a cool, damp washcloth to her forehead when she is burning up with fever. I am the one who sets up the nebulizer, in the dark, while holding a forty-pound child upright when he is wheezing badly at midnight. I am the person whose name is called when my child is being terrorized by a nightmare. I am the one who handles runny nose cleanups and is handed the nasty tissues when my sick child is done with them. I am the one who convinces an unwilling child to suffer through receiving eyedrops, which I administer, when she has pinkeye. I am the one who brings my child to the pediatrician's office when he is lethargic while running a high fever.
I am just a parent, but I fought with my child's pediatrician for weeks about my baby's digestive tract not seeming "right" somehow, only to hear them eventually tell me that I was right and we had to immediately seek out a gastroenterologist. I have driven my child to her pediatrician's office once or twice a week in order to have weigh-ins when she was not gaining weight properly. I have spent days researching what foods are safe for my allergic child. I have called countless companies to ensure their products do not have trace contaminants of foods that would make my child react gastrically. I have talked with various medical professionals as they tried to come up with a plan to get my child's digestive tract under control. I have listened, asked questions, and gone on to research almost everything that was being discussed.
I am just a parent, but I was the one who watched my child carefully so I could report my findings to her doctors. I was the one who argued with my child's pediatrician when I was told she could not possibly be allergic to milk products because her blood test came back showing only the slightest milk allergy, despite her throwing up each and every time we attempted to give her the tiniest amount of a dairy product. I was the one who discussed those gory details with an allergist whose immediate response was that of course my child was allergic; Not every food allergy manifests itself in a positive reaction in a blood test, even when a severe allergy is present. I am the one who constantly monitors my child's health so I can ask the necessary questions and help my child's team of doctors help my child continue to improve. I take note of commonalities, differences, and anything that seems off, and keep journals documenting these changes, when the need arises.
I am just a parent, but I will fight to be heard, and will take my child elsewhere if I feel you are not listening to me about her health. I shall willingly turn myself into a nuisance if that is what it takes to get some answers. I will follow through, even if it means taking my child to the emergency room because the pediatrician believes he might have appendicitis, despite finding out later it is merely constipation. I will not risk my child's health just because something is not convenient to do at that moment in time.
I am just a parent, but if you treat me as if I do not know my own child simply because I do not have a medical degree, then you have another thing coming. I know my child. And if you try and make an incorrect assumption or, worse, a poor diagnosis, I will call you on it, and I will do so with examples and research whenever possible. Now, what are you going to bring to the table?
I am just a parent. I do not have any graduate degrees related to any medical field. I have not completed a residency at any hospital. I do not presume to know more than any medical professional when it comes to most things. However, I do know my child.
I am just a parent, but I am the one who comforts and cleans up after my child when she is sick to her stomach in the wee hours of the morning. I am the one who holds a cool, damp washcloth to her forehead when she is burning up with fever. I am the one who sets up the nebulizer, in the dark, while holding a forty-pound child upright when he is wheezing badly at midnight. I am the person whose name is called when my child is being terrorized by a nightmare. I am the one who handles runny nose cleanups and is handed the nasty tissues when my sick child is done with them. I am the one who convinces an unwilling child to suffer through receiving eyedrops, which I administer, when she has pinkeye. I am the one who brings my child to the pediatrician's office when he is lethargic while running a high fever.
I am just a parent, but I fought with my child's pediatrician for weeks about my baby's digestive tract not seeming "right" somehow, only to hear them eventually tell me that I was right and we had to immediately seek out a gastroenterologist. I have driven my child to her pediatrician's office once or twice a week in order to have weigh-ins when she was not gaining weight properly. I have spent days researching what foods are safe for my allergic child. I have called countless companies to ensure their products do not have trace contaminants of foods that would make my child react gastrically. I have talked with various medical professionals as they tried to come up with a plan to get my child's digestive tract under control. I have listened, asked questions, and gone on to research almost everything that was being discussed.
I am just a parent, but I was the one who watched my child carefully so I could report my findings to her doctors. I was the one who argued with my child's pediatrician when I was told she could not possibly be allergic to milk products because her blood test came back showing only the slightest milk allergy, despite her throwing up each and every time we attempted to give her the tiniest amount of a dairy product. I was the one who discussed those gory details with an allergist whose immediate response was that of course my child was allergic; Not every food allergy manifests itself in a positive reaction in a blood test, even when a severe allergy is present. I am the one who constantly monitors my child's health so I can ask the necessary questions and help my child's team of doctors help my child continue to improve. I take note of commonalities, differences, and anything that seems off, and keep journals documenting these changes, when the need arises.
I am just a parent, but I will fight to be heard, and will take my child elsewhere if I feel you are not listening to me about her health. I shall willingly turn myself into a nuisance if that is what it takes to get some answers. I will follow through, even if it means taking my child to the emergency room because the pediatrician believes he might have appendicitis, despite finding out later it is merely constipation. I will not risk my child's health just because something is not convenient to do at that moment in time.
I am just a parent, but if you treat me as if I do not know my own child simply because I do not have a medical degree, then you have another thing coming. I know my child. And if you try and make an incorrect assumption or, worse, a poor diagnosis, I will call you on it, and I will do so with examples and research whenever possible. Now, what are you going to bring to the table?
Monday, October 10, 2011
Ultra-Rarities
My real-life day was quite pleasant. The kidlets were home from school for what I kept hearing referred to as "vicious, oppressive European day," or words to that effect. Happy Columbus Day to you, too, dearie. Honestly, I'm not going to apologize for what somebody who has been dead for centuries did long before I was born. I do, however, promise to not try and take over land somewhere just because my method of transportation led me there.
Anyway, the day was enjoyable. We had a nice, relaxing breakfast followed by the kidlets working off some steam on the Wii. I called a friend of mine to see whether we should postpone today's playdate due to Pig Jr.'s recent recovery from illness. It was determined that my son still acting tired combined with her son's goopy nose made for a bad playdate combination, so we chatted on the phone instead. She told me she found a pair of flannel lined jeans made by a company that I adore. They had been mislabelled, so she purchased them by accident. Because she cannot use them, the fact that they are only one size too large for me and she knows I love baggy jeans, she immediately thought I might like them. Huzzah for accidents that work out in my best interest!
Horse was invited over to a friend's house later in the day, but was unable to attend due to a special project that is due soon that required her attention. I wish I could say she completed it this afternoon, but that would make me a liar. She did, however, manage to spread oodles of newspaper ads and random bits of paperwork all over the living room in an attempt to organize her project. Rooster and Pig Jr. had a blast trying to be silly while sneaking as close as possible to an absorbed Horse. Apparently, her shrieked giggles kept them in stitches, too.
I remembered we needed to go out and purchase a few things from the grocery store. Why is this a good thing? Simple. Normally, I remember at the exact moment I go to use something and realize we are completely wiped out of our supply. This time, I remembered before we even technically ran out!
The girls and I went out again this evening for our usual Monday night library run. I had fun chatting with one of the librarians while the girls picked out their books for the week. When we got home, Pig was just finishing up doing the dinner dishes, so I felt like I lucked out perfectly in my timing. (To be completely fair to Pig though, he has finished doing the dinner dishes every other week when we have gone out to the library, even if we returned home long before he was done. I just feel less guilty about it when the timing works out perfectly like this.)
The overall real-life day was great. There were happy kids, the ability for me to speak with other adults, and the actual achievement of a few errands.
It was my virtual world that was a bit odd. I know I have talked before out an online game that my husband and I both play. I have mentioned how my husband found an ultra-rare item in the game and how I was massively jealous. After growing up a bit and finally being happy for his virtual achievement, I managed to find the very same ultra-rare item just a few weeks later, on one of my two accounts. Here's where my virtual world got odd today. I found the exact same ultra-rare item on my other account this morning, when I was just dorking around and not really paying attention to what I was doing or where my character was adventuring.
Now I love ultra-rare items. They are really hard to find, hence the whole "ultra" and "rare" parts. You might play this particular game for years and never find one. Indeed, Pig and I had each played for over five years without finding one before these recent occurrences. Yet somehow, this insanely difficult to find item has popped up on our computers three times over just a few months.
I know that these ultra-rares appeared simply because some random number generator somewhere decided they should do so. Our online characters were simply in the right place at the right time. Somehow, it gives me hope about other things in reality that seem daunting. Our house selling in this exceedingly slow market would be the equivalent of an ultra-rare accomplishment. Getting Rooster's food allergies and reflux under control enough that she could eat a "normal" diet would be like finding an ultra-rare item. The kidlets all staying healthy through cold and flu season appears to be as unexpectedly wonderful as fighting an ultra-rare monster. If we could virtually get the same ultra-rare monster to appear and drop the very same ultra-rare item three times for us, then maybe, just maybe, something that seems next to impossible in real life actually has the chance of coming true.
Anyway, the day was enjoyable. We had a nice, relaxing breakfast followed by the kidlets working off some steam on the Wii. I called a friend of mine to see whether we should postpone today's playdate due to Pig Jr.'s recent recovery from illness. It was determined that my son still acting tired combined with her son's goopy nose made for a bad playdate combination, so we chatted on the phone instead. She told me she found a pair of flannel lined jeans made by a company that I adore. They had been mislabelled, so she purchased them by accident. Because she cannot use them, the fact that they are only one size too large for me and she knows I love baggy jeans, she immediately thought I might like them. Huzzah for accidents that work out in my best interest!
Horse was invited over to a friend's house later in the day, but was unable to attend due to a special project that is due soon that required her attention. I wish I could say she completed it this afternoon, but that would make me a liar. She did, however, manage to spread oodles of newspaper ads and random bits of paperwork all over the living room in an attempt to organize her project. Rooster and Pig Jr. had a blast trying to be silly while sneaking as close as possible to an absorbed Horse. Apparently, her shrieked giggles kept them in stitches, too.
I remembered we needed to go out and purchase a few things from the grocery store. Why is this a good thing? Simple. Normally, I remember at the exact moment I go to use something and realize we are completely wiped out of our supply. This time, I remembered before we even technically ran out!
The girls and I went out again this evening for our usual Monday night library run. I had fun chatting with one of the librarians while the girls picked out their books for the week. When we got home, Pig was just finishing up doing the dinner dishes, so I felt like I lucked out perfectly in my timing. (To be completely fair to Pig though, he has finished doing the dinner dishes every other week when we have gone out to the library, even if we returned home long before he was done. I just feel less guilty about it when the timing works out perfectly like this.)
The overall real-life day was great. There were happy kids, the ability for me to speak with other adults, and the actual achievement of a few errands.
It was my virtual world that was a bit odd. I know I have talked before out an online game that my husband and I both play. I have mentioned how my husband found an ultra-rare item in the game and how I was massively jealous. After growing up a bit and finally being happy for his virtual achievement, I managed to find the very same ultra-rare item just a few weeks later, on one of my two accounts. Here's where my virtual world got odd today. I found the exact same ultra-rare item on my other account this morning, when I was just dorking around and not really paying attention to what I was doing or where my character was adventuring.
Now I love ultra-rare items. They are really hard to find, hence the whole "ultra" and "rare" parts. You might play this particular game for years and never find one. Indeed, Pig and I had each played for over five years without finding one before these recent occurrences. Yet somehow, this insanely difficult to find item has popped up on our computers three times over just a few months.
I know that these ultra-rares appeared simply because some random number generator somewhere decided they should do so. Our online characters were simply in the right place at the right time. Somehow, it gives me hope about other things in reality that seem daunting. Our house selling in this exceedingly slow market would be the equivalent of an ultra-rare accomplishment. Getting Rooster's food allergies and reflux under control enough that she could eat a "normal" diet would be like finding an ultra-rare item. The kidlets all staying healthy through cold and flu season appears to be as unexpectedly wonderful as fighting an ultra-rare monster. If we could virtually get the same ultra-rare monster to appear and drop the very same ultra-rare item three times for us, then maybe, just maybe, something that seems next to impossible in real life actually has the chance of coming true.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Proof that it is possible for me to OD on stupid movie scenarios...
In case the world's population ever decides to just bump each other off, let the record show that I am too squeamish to survive. I've seen some of those post apocalyptic movies where there's merely a handful of people surviving in the outskirts of cities. They survive by eating the oddest things. I doubt I could ever resort to killing fat rodents for my dinner, nor could I chow down on the cockroaches that will surely keep on living when the rest of us are pushing up daisies. Heck, knowing my luck with food allergies, I'd be allergic to both rodent and roach. Anyway, I just know that if I get grossed out handling raw chicken before making dinner, I might have a difficult time killing, skinning, and otherwise preparing meat on my own.
I am not overly certain I would survive a sudden ice age either. I physically cannot stop shivering once the temperature drops below seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit, and that's even with wearing long sleeves. The last time I checked, ice does not tend to form in my preferred temperature range. I assume this means that an ice age would be a tad colder than I could reasonably expect to enjoy. I suppose it might be vaguely amusing to be flash frozen and thawed out a few millenia from now, provided whatever beings inhabit this planet are not merely heating me up for a light afternoon snack.
And forget about those zombie horror movies. I'd like to think I'm at least somewhat intelligent, although that might be up for debate given my train of thought this evening, and that might make me a prime target for someone undead who wants some fresh brains for dinner. I'm vaguely curious whether I would qualify as having a free-range or caged brain. If I ever find myself unexpectedly confronted by zombies, I shall have to ask.
A robot uprising might cause me more than a few problems, too. I have this nasty tendency to break all things electronic, from cell phones to computers to washing machines. I'm fairly certain that would come back to haunt me once artificial intelligence takes over the world. I am convinced that any artificial intelligence out there, even the dumbest, would recognize me as a potential threat. Those robots could compute my exact location, eliminate all but the best method of destroying me, and could carry out their plan before I would even have a chance to apply my electronic-killing self to the problem. Curse those central processing units!
And speaking of curses, we cannot forget those ancient curses that could potentially bring the undead back to, um, well...whatever the undead come back as. There are countless civilizations (and I use the term loosely because I doubt any group of people who liked to set curses on people who disturb their bones were truly civilized) whose long since forgotten cursed memories could come back to haunt us. I shall have to make a note to myself to not disturb any corpse parts I might accidentally uncover.
Seriously though, I do not typically worry about any of these scenarios. I've just been watching far too many movies lately. Even if one of those unlikely events should occur, my first (and possibly last) conscious thought would be how to take care of my children. In the grand scheme of things, threatened Mommies of all species tend to do whatever it takes to protect their babies, even in a zombie invasion. We have to protect those free-range brains, you know.
I am not overly certain I would survive a sudden ice age either. I physically cannot stop shivering once the temperature drops below seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit, and that's even with wearing long sleeves. The last time I checked, ice does not tend to form in my preferred temperature range. I assume this means that an ice age would be a tad colder than I could reasonably expect to enjoy. I suppose it might be vaguely amusing to be flash frozen and thawed out a few millenia from now, provided whatever beings inhabit this planet are not merely heating me up for a light afternoon snack.
And forget about those zombie horror movies. I'd like to think I'm at least somewhat intelligent, although that might be up for debate given my train of thought this evening, and that might make me a prime target for someone undead who wants some fresh brains for dinner. I'm vaguely curious whether I would qualify as having a free-range or caged brain. If I ever find myself unexpectedly confronted by zombies, I shall have to ask.
A robot uprising might cause me more than a few problems, too. I have this nasty tendency to break all things electronic, from cell phones to computers to washing machines. I'm fairly certain that would come back to haunt me once artificial intelligence takes over the world. I am convinced that any artificial intelligence out there, even the dumbest, would recognize me as a potential threat. Those robots could compute my exact location, eliminate all but the best method of destroying me, and could carry out their plan before I would even have a chance to apply my electronic-killing self to the problem. Curse those central processing units!
And speaking of curses, we cannot forget those ancient curses that could potentially bring the undead back to, um, well...whatever the undead come back as. There are countless civilizations (and I use the term loosely because I doubt any group of people who liked to set curses on people who disturb their bones were truly civilized) whose long since forgotten cursed memories could come back to haunt us. I shall have to make a note to myself to not disturb any corpse parts I might accidentally uncover.
Seriously though, I do not typically worry about any of these scenarios. I've just been watching far too many movies lately. Even if one of those unlikely events should occur, my first (and possibly last) conscious thought would be how to take care of my children. In the grand scheme of things, threatened Mommies of all species tend to do whatever it takes to protect their babies, even in a zombie invasion. We have to protect those free-range brains, you know.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Sickness in Solitary
My youngest kidlet has a fever. It started yesterday afternoon when he suddenly complained his forehead hurt and he fell asleep in the middle of a rather boisterous playdate. He's still feverish today, but he seems to be holding up fairly well.
I find it interesting how Pig Jr. reacts to being secluded during illness. As a general rule, we try to keep sick kidlets away from each other so that whatever has infected them does not spread like wildfire throughout the rest of the house. Horse gets twitchy after a day of resting in her room, but she loves to read and can spend a good long while entertaining herself that way. Rooster either sleeps a lot or whines that she wants to leave the confines of her sickbed. My coming in and out of her room to check on her is just not sufficient for her social life, even during times when she is highly contagious. Pig Jr. seems thrilled that he's stuck in his room and doesn't have to deal with everyone else.
Seriously, my boy was perfectly content today. I brought him a stack of construction paper, a couple of coloring books, a box of crayons, and a pair of scissors, and Pig Jr. was happy as a clam to hide out in his bedroom and just create pictures from the confines of his bed. He drank all of the water I brought to him and he tolerated me checking his temperature every couple of hours. He requested being able to eat in his room. Pig Jr. was amenable to going out to the living room when it was time for his evening nebulizer treatment, but was otherwise thrilled to stay away from everyone else.
I wonder how much of this is because of his sensory issues. The past couple of days, he had been acting more aggressive than normal. When he is in sensory overload, he cannot handle people being too close to him, and he often pushes them away. (No, we do not think this is acceptable, and we are working on it with him. I am merely commenting that this tends to be his norm for sensory overload.) I remember his former OT (occupational therapist) telling me that when children who have sensory issues get sick, their symptoms can get much worse, and I believe we had been seeing a bit of that this week. Given that he was trying to self-swaddle while in his room (pulling his bedspread tightly over his head and shoulders), I think he can even tell he feels off somehow and is trying to make it all better.
He did love being by himself today though. His sisters were unable to pester him since they were not allowed in his room. He did not have to sit next to anyone who was making noise while he was trying to concentrate on eating. He was not overwhelmed by someone trying to somersault past him in the living room. No one got in his face and accidentally violated his personal space, which is easy enough to do with a sensory avoider under normal circumstances, let alone when the poor kid's sick. It was quieter, calmer, and much more relaxing for him. I wondering how on earth I am going to convince him to leave his sickbed once he returns to normal.
Good thing bribery still works wonders with children, eh?
I find it interesting how Pig Jr. reacts to being secluded during illness. As a general rule, we try to keep sick kidlets away from each other so that whatever has infected them does not spread like wildfire throughout the rest of the house. Horse gets twitchy after a day of resting in her room, but she loves to read and can spend a good long while entertaining herself that way. Rooster either sleeps a lot or whines that she wants to leave the confines of her sickbed. My coming in and out of her room to check on her is just not sufficient for her social life, even during times when she is highly contagious. Pig Jr. seems thrilled that he's stuck in his room and doesn't have to deal with everyone else.
Seriously, my boy was perfectly content today. I brought him a stack of construction paper, a couple of coloring books, a box of crayons, and a pair of scissors, and Pig Jr. was happy as a clam to hide out in his bedroom and just create pictures from the confines of his bed. He drank all of the water I brought to him and he tolerated me checking his temperature every couple of hours. He requested being able to eat in his room. Pig Jr. was amenable to going out to the living room when it was time for his evening nebulizer treatment, but was otherwise thrilled to stay away from everyone else.
I wonder how much of this is because of his sensory issues. The past couple of days, he had been acting more aggressive than normal. When he is in sensory overload, he cannot handle people being too close to him, and he often pushes them away. (No, we do not think this is acceptable, and we are working on it with him. I am merely commenting that this tends to be his norm for sensory overload.) I remember his former OT (occupational therapist) telling me that when children who have sensory issues get sick, their symptoms can get much worse, and I believe we had been seeing a bit of that this week. Given that he was trying to self-swaddle while in his room (pulling his bedspread tightly over his head and shoulders), I think he can even tell he feels off somehow and is trying to make it all better.
He did love being by himself today though. His sisters were unable to pester him since they were not allowed in his room. He did not have to sit next to anyone who was making noise while he was trying to concentrate on eating. He was not overwhelmed by someone trying to somersault past him in the living room. No one got in his face and accidentally violated his personal space, which is easy enough to do with a sensory avoider under normal circumstances, let alone when the poor kid's sick. It was quieter, calmer, and much more relaxing for him. I wondering how on earth I am going to convince him to leave his sickbed once he returns to normal.
Good thing bribery still works wonders with children, eh?
Friday, October 7, 2011
Just another roller coaster type of day...
Today was an odd day for me. It was almost as if a pendulum was swinging back and forth over the emotions of my life, strictly to mess with my head, of course. I'm happy to say that as of right now, the overall feel for the day was a positive one. Here's hoping I'm not tempting fate just by saying that.
At breakfast this morning, Rooster decided she was going to try and sneak in a few tooth wiggles in-between bites of cereal. Unfortunately, the tooth that was being wiggled was not happy with the movements. The next thing I knew, Rooster had blood all over her face, dripping down her teeth and chin, and on her left hand. She looked very much like a wanna-be vampire, especially with a gap between a couple of her teeth that made them look like fangs. For the record, I am not the go-to parent for loose teeth issues. I am the squeamish, can't-cope parent. The go-to parent was on a train into the city already and could not be called in for reinforcements. I somehow managed to get her cleaned up, rinsed out, and threatened to not touch anything in her mouth until her father came home for the evening.
After the kidlets were dropped off at school, I went home and attempted to complete a few tasks, mostly cleaning-related, in my usual "Oh, look! A chicken!" distractible manner. (Okay, I need to start the laundry. I should go do that. Oh, before I do, I should get the bathroom cleaner out so I remember to use that this morning. Huh, where did I put my gloves to get the cleaner out? Oh, I really should do the dishes while I'm out here for the gloves. Oops, before I clean the dishes, I need to go get more napkins from the attic supply in order to replace the ones from our napkin holder. Wait, why did I go into the attic? Oh, I forgot to bring the spare pillow up here while I'm up here. Let me go get that. Oops, the spare pillow is right next to the washer. Guess I should start the laundry while I'm here.)
By the time I was ready to sit down for lunch, a relative of mine had come to visit with me. Can you imagine that? She came to visit me, not the kidlets! I was quite happy with that visit, especially since most relatives appear to only be interested in my offspring. Neither Pig nor I are small or cute enough to compete for attention under normal circumstances. No need for competition today though! Huzzah!
After our visit, it was time to pick Pig Jr. up from school. My relative visited with the designated progeny at the park attached to his school. I read his weekly report only to discover that my sweet little boy had been quite aggressive this week, including receiving a time-out for pushing another student. Hmmm. I had noticed him trying to tackle another student this morning (I intervened and prevented said tackling.), so now I am wondering why he is so aggressive all of a sudden. He is normally a pretty sweet, mild-mannered kidlet.
While at the park, a friend came over to chat. She had some upsetting (to her) news that she needed to discuss. I felt horrible that I could do nothing to make life easier for her right now. Friends should try and help friends through rough patches, and I felt like I had nothing to offer to ease her frustration, fears, and concerns. At least I could listen, so I did that much.
Afterwards, we walked to the school to pick up our remaining kidlets. Rooster came running over to me, sporting a huge jack-o-lantern grin. Vampire girl was gone as soon as the offending tooth was pulled by a school nurse who probably questioned why Rooster's wuss of a mother had not taken care of it already. The Tooth Fairy will have to make a stop here tonight.
We walked home from school with another family who came over for a family playdate today. All was going quite well until I discovered Pig Jr. had left the group of kidlets and had gone to sleep on his bed. Huh. Really? Half an hour or so later, I saw him rubbing his eyes and checked on him. He felt warm. Sure enough, he had a fever, was really cranky, extremely tired, did not want to eat, and was crying that his forehead hurt. Congratulations. I do not normally try and infect people who are over for playdates, but I suppose there is a first time for everything.
The playdate ended shortly thereafter, and I managed to get some fever reducer into Pig Jr. and get him back to sleep. I am hoping and praying he gets better quickly and that he does not develop any other symptoms. The selfish part of me is freaking out because we are supposed to have an Open House on Sunday and I have no idea how that will happen with one (or potentially more by that time) sick child. It's already been advertised and we have a sign up out front, so even if we cancel, we are likely to still have people show up. In theory. The two prior Open Houses did not exactly bring buyers out in droves, but I suppose there is always a first time. Murphy's Law pretty much guarantees that should be this time.
So now the kidlets are all in bed, I am yawning profusely, the dishes are done, and I am ready to call it a night. Overall, it was a good day. I had a great visit with my relative and a lovely playdate. Yes, there were parts that were definite downers to my day, but I am hoping today will end on a decent note. Wish me luck with that one.
At breakfast this morning, Rooster decided she was going to try and sneak in a few tooth wiggles in-between bites of cereal. Unfortunately, the tooth that was being wiggled was not happy with the movements. The next thing I knew, Rooster had blood all over her face, dripping down her teeth and chin, and on her left hand. She looked very much like a wanna-be vampire, especially with a gap between a couple of her teeth that made them look like fangs. For the record, I am not the go-to parent for loose teeth issues. I am the squeamish, can't-cope parent. The go-to parent was on a train into the city already and could not be called in for reinforcements. I somehow managed to get her cleaned up, rinsed out, and threatened to not touch anything in her mouth until her father came home for the evening.
After the kidlets were dropped off at school, I went home and attempted to complete a few tasks, mostly cleaning-related, in my usual "Oh, look! A chicken!" distractible manner. (Okay, I need to start the laundry. I should go do that. Oh, before I do, I should get the bathroom cleaner out so I remember to use that this morning. Huh, where did I put my gloves to get the cleaner out? Oh, I really should do the dishes while I'm out here for the gloves. Oops, before I clean the dishes, I need to go get more napkins from the attic supply in order to replace the ones from our napkin holder. Wait, why did I go into the attic? Oh, I forgot to bring the spare pillow up here while I'm up here. Let me go get that. Oops, the spare pillow is right next to the washer. Guess I should start the laundry while I'm here.)
By the time I was ready to sit down for lunch, a relative of mine had come to visit with me. Can you imagine that? She came to visit me, not the kidlets! I was quite happy with that visit, especially since most relatives appear to only be interested in my offspring. Neither Pig nor I are small or cute enough to compete for attention under normal circumstances. No need for competition today though! Huzzah!
After our visit, it was time to pick Pig Jr. up from school. My relative visited with the designated progeny at the park attached to his school. I read his weekly report only to discover that my sweet little boy had been quite aggressive this week, including receiving a time-out for pushing another student. Hmmm. I had noticed him trying to tackle another student this morning (I intervened and prevented said tackling.), so now I am wondering why he is so aggressive all of a sudden. He is normally a pretty sweet, mild-mannered kidlet.
While at the park, a friend came over to chat. She had some upsetting (to her) news that she needed to discuss. I felt horrible that I could do nothing to make life easier for her right now. Friends should try and help friends through rough patches, and I felt like I had nothing to offer to ease her frustration, fears, and concerns. At least I could listen, so I did that much.
Afterwards, we walked to the school to pick up our remaining kidlets. Rooster came running over to me, sporting a huge jack-o-lantern grin. Vampire girl was gone as soon as the offending tooth was pulled by a school nurse who probably questioned why Rooster's wuss of a mother had not taken care of it already. The Tooth Fairy will have to make a stop here tonight.
We walked home from school with another family who came over for a family playdate today. All was going quite well until I discovered Pig Jr. had left the group of kidlets and had gone to sleep on his bed. Huh. Really? Half an hour or so later, I saw him rubbing his eyes and checked on him. He felt warm. Sure enough, he had a fever, was really cranky, extremely tired, did not want to eat, and was crying that his forehead hurt. Congratulations. I do not normally try and infect people who are over for playdates, but I suppose there is a first time for everything.
The playdate ended shortly thereafter, and I managed to get some fever reducer into Pig Jr. and get him back to sleep. I am hoping and praying he gets better quickly and that he does not develop any other symptoms. The selfish part of me is freaking out because we are supposed to have an Open House on Sunday and I have no idea how that will happen with one (or potentially more by that time) sick child. It's already been advertised and we have a sign up out front, so even if we cancel, we are likely to still have people show up. In theory. The two prior Open Houses did not exactly bring buyers out in droves, but I suppose there is always a first time. Murphy's Law pretty much guarantees that should be this time.
So now the kidlets are all in bed, I am yawning profusely, the dishes are done, and I am ready to call it a night. Overall, it was a good day. I had a great visit with my relative and a lovely playdate. Yes, there were parts that were definite downers to my day, but I am hoping today will end on a decent note. Wish me luck with that one.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Smile, it's class picture day!
It's that time of year again. It's the time where we shell out exorbitant fees for the privilege of someone else trying to make our little darlings smile, keep their hair straight, and look as if their clothing is at least somewhat ironed.
I hate class picture days. It conjures up memories of having to wear clothing that made me itch while some freaky looking dude tried to make me smile after reusing the same comb on me that had been already used on every child who came before me. If that wasn't bad enough, my pictures almost always came out with me looking atrocious. I still cringe when I think of the negative comments I heard about how my pictures came out. Even people who saw how I looked when the picture was taken expressed shock at how horrible they were. Clearly, my plain Jane face does not take well to pictures.
My kidlets, however, are extremely photogenic. They have no choice really. They have been photographed a zillion times ever since they were born. Our family lovingly refers to the "grandpaparazzi" who are responsible for taking the vast majority of those beautiful pictures. I'm just grateful my kidlets inherited Pig's genes for photographs. I have seen some amazing pictures of him as a child.
Yesterday, Rooster had her class pictures. She chose to wear a green patterned shirt just to annoy me. (I detest the color green, and as a general rule do not willingly purchase green clothing.) I tend to believe that if the kidlets feel comfortable about themselves, their pictures will have happier-looking kidlets, so I do let them choose their own outfits. I might just have to make a suggestion or two. Those suggestions are almost irrelevant as they are almost completely ignored.
Getting back to Rooster... I sent her off to school looking cute, happy, and eager to smile. Her gap-toothed grin should come out wonderfully if the photographer managed to get her to smile broadly. However, when she came out of school wearing a big, ugly sticker on the front of her shirt, I asked if her photograph was taken with it on her. She shrugged and told me she didn't know. We might have just paid through the nose for a portrait of a hideously ugly green shirt covered up with an even uglier, glaringly obvious, large sticker.
There was no way I wanted the same issue for Pig Jr.'s class pictures today. The good news is that we did not. The bad news is that the only shirt he insisted on wearing was a green one. Dagnabit. Oh, well, at least the younger two kidlets will match. I selected a very nice pair of black pants to wear with his affront to humanity...erm...I mean green shirt. He rejected it without explanation. The only pants he deemed worthy of putting on his body were a pair of khakis that were so large that I had to roll up the ankles and roll down the waist so they would sort of fit him.
At least the dang kid is cute. He could wear nothing but dust bunnies and still look adorably photogenic. Too bad his wheezing precludes wearing dust bunnies to school. At least dust bunnies aren't green.
Now Horse has her class picture day tomorrow. I doubt she will get much sleep with all of the excitement she is apparently feeling towards her big day. I am not worried at all on her behalf. She's old enough to keep her clothing neat and smile when instructed to do so. She does not even have any green clothing to inflict upon me when I gaze on her portrait for years to come. Here's hoping her picture day runs smoothly.
I hate class picture days. It conjures up memories of having to wear clothing that made me itch while some freaky looking dude tried to make me smile after reusing the same comb on me that had been already used on every child who came before me. If that wasn't bad enough, my pictures almost always came out with me looking atrocious. I still cringe when I think of the negative comments I heard about how my pictures came out. Even people who saw how I looked when the picture was taken expressed shock at how horrible they were. Clearly, my plain Jane face does not take well to pictures.
My kidlets, however, are extremely photogenic. They have no choice really. They have been photographed a zillion times ever since they were born. Our family lovingly refers to the "grandpaparazzi" who are responsible for taking the vast majority of those beautiful pictures. I'm just grateful my kidlets inherited Pig's genes for photographs. I have seen some amazing pictures of him as a child.
Yesterday, Rooster had her class pictures. She chose to wear a green patterned shirt just to annoy me. (I detest the color green, and as a general rule do not willingly purchase green clothing.) I tend to believe that if the kidlets feel comfortable about themselves, their pictures will have happier-looking kidlets, so I do let them choose their own outfits. I might just have to make a suggestion or two. Those suggestions are almost irrelevant as they are almost completely ignored.
Getting back to Rooster... I sent her off to school looking cute, happy, and eager to smile. Her gap-toothed grin should come out wonderfully if the photographer managed to get her to smile broadly. However, when she came out of school wearing a big, ugly sticker on the front of her shirt, I asked if her photograph was taken with it on her. She shrugged and told me she didn't know. We might have just paid through the nose for a portrait of a hideously ugly green shirt covered up with an even uglier, glaringly obvious, large sticker.
There was no way I wanted the same issue for Pig Jr.'s class pictures today. The good news is that we did not. The bad news is that the only shirt he insisted on wearing was a green one. Dagnabit. Oh, well, at least the younger two kidlets will match. I selected a very nice pair of black pants to wear with his affront to humanity...erm...I mean green shirt. He rejected it without explanation. The only pants he deemed worthy of putting on his body were a pair of khakis that were so large that I had to roll up the ankles and roll down the waist so they would sort of fit him.
At least the dang kid is cute. He could wear nothing but dust bunnies and still look adorably photogenic. Too bad his wheezing precludes wearing dust bunnies to school. At least dust bunnies aren't green.
Now Horse has her class picture day tomorrow. I doubt she will get much sleep with all of the excitement she is apparently feeling towards her big day. I am not worried at all on her behalf. She's old enough to keep her clothing neat and smile when instructed to do so. She does not even have any green clothing to inflict upon me when I gaze on her portrait for years to come. Here's hoping her picture day runs smoothly.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Dear Irate Motorists...
Today in the USA, schools across the country have been celebrating Walk to School day. In honor of said day, and because I walk my kidlets to school almost every school day, I am writing today's blog entry in the format of a letter to irate motorists in regards to pedestrians.
Dear Irate Motorists,
Hi. How are you? I'm presuming you are fine because I can hear you shouting loudly at the crossing guard, my kidlets and I, and just about every pedestrian nearby. Good for you for having full lung capacity. Now let's chat.
I know you like your cell phone, text messaging capabilities, breakfast, coffee, hairbrush, makeup, radio, and just about anything else you can reach from your position in the driver's seat. I know you're probably running late to work or to drop off your kid at school, but do us all a favor. If you are driving your car, please just drive your car. Believe it or not, it's a complicated piece of machinery that weighs a goodly number of pounds. Your car can do way more damage than you could ever imagine, and if you fail to put your full attention into driving, you might find out firsthand just how horrific it could be.
Like I tell my kidlets, in an argument between a car and a person, can you guess who wins? The car does. It does not matter if pedestrians have the right of way if the driver of a car is distracted (or multi-tasking, whichever you choose to call it) and a person gets hit. And the amazing thing about cell phones these days is that they can record whether you were making or receiving a phone call or text message at the moment of impact. If you hit a pedestrian while fiddling with such a device, the powers that be can prove it, and jail time, loss of license, and other repercussions become very real possibilities. Oh, and if you panic and try to run like the wind, they also will get you for leaving the scene of an accident.
Did you happen to see that crossing guard in the middle of the street holding up his or her red stop sign? That red sign means "stop," not "go faster." I see people like you driving past crossing guards almost every day. It does not matter that the rest of the traffic has stopped, that the crossing guard is in the middle of the street stopping everybody else behind you. It doesn't seem to faze you that children are still in the crosswalk on their way to the opposing curb. You come really, really close to hitting children as they attempt to get safely to school. What if a child tripped and fell and did not clear the road before you entered it? You're willing to kill a child, ruin that child's family's lives in addition to your own, go to jail, get sued, etc. all rather than waiting a minute for the crossing guard to allow traffic to start back up again? And in case you think you'd get off scott-free for fleeing that scene, be assured that many school age children have cell phones that can quickly snap a picture of your car as it flees. It's nice to know that will make it even easier for the cops to hunt you down.
I know it is an inconvenience having to stop and wait for pedestrians in crosswalks, especially immediately before and after school hours. Traffic gets backed up, tempers run rampant, and you have somewhere important to be instead of waiting for those dang kids who keep dragging their feet instead of picking up the pace. You think it's an inconvenience waiting for them? Well, it's even more obnoxious if you hit one of them with your car. It's all this paperwork, police reports, lawyer fees, court dates, and potentially getting sued for every last cent you own. Realistically speaking, do you think you can finance your own child's college education or your retirement if you are in jail and unable to work or if you'd had to fork over your savings account and house to the family of your victim?
I know you're getting tired of hearing all of this. I can sense your face getting redder and redder by the moment. But while you are contemplating the best way of exploding at me for having the audacity to tell you that you are doing something wrong, I shall remind you that teaching my children four-letter expletives is not the way to go. You've been caught doing something wrong, so at least have the decency to not try and blame the pedestrians because you did not want to stop at the stop sign and almost mowed down people in the crosswalk in front of you...rather, behind you. (See that white line on the ground by the stop sign? That's where you're supposed to stop. Blocking the crosswalk is a bad thing, and the police might one day call you on it.) The children you cuss out on the streets today will be the ones running your nursing home someday. Don't you want to teach them patience, kindness, and caring? Or do you want them treating you the same way when you are unable to fend for yourself?
I see plenty of courteous drivers every day. They pay attention to driving, without getting distracted by gadgets, food, and other things in the car. They stop at stop signs and red lights. They wait patiently while crossing guards get children across the road. If they accidentally do something wrong, they apologize and try to fix it. No one is a perfect driver. We all make mistakes, but we can do our best to limit them.
Thank you for your time. Now please just take a deep breath before you start driving again. You don't want me to get started on the topic of road rage.
Sincerely,
Murphy Brawn, A.K.A. Dragon
Dear Irate Motorists,
Hi. How are you? I'm presuming you are fine because I can hear you shouting loudly at the crossing guard, my kidlets and I, and just about every pedestrian nearby. Good for you for having full lung capacity. Now let's chat.
I know you like your cell phone, text messaging capabilities, breakfast, coffee, hairbrush, makeup, radio, and just about anything else you can reach from your position in the driver's seat. I know you're probably running late to work or to drop off your kid at school, but do us all a favor. If you are driving your car, please just drive your car. Believe it or not, it's a complicated piece of machinery that weighs a goodly number of pounds. Your car can do way more damage than you could ever imagine, and if you fail to put your full attention into driving, you might find out firsthand just how horrific it could be.
Like I tell my kidlets, in an argument between a car and a person, can you guess who wins? The car does. It does not matter if pedestrians have the right of way if the driver of a car is distracted (or multi-tasking, whichever you choose to call it) and a person gets hit. And the amazing thing about cell phones these days is that they can record whether you were making or receiving a phone call or text message at the moment of impact. If you hit a pedestrian while fiddling with such a device, the powers that be can prove it, and jail time, loss of license, and other repercussions become very real possibilities. Oh, and if you panic and try to run like the wind, they also will get you for leaving the scene of an accident.
Did you happen to see that crossing guard in the middle of the street holding up his or her red stop sign? That red sign means "stop," not "go faster." I see people like you driving past crossing guards almost every day. It does not matter that the rest of the traffic has stopped, that the crossing guard is in the middle of the street stopping everybody else behind you. It doesn't seem to faze you that children are still in the crosswalk on their way to the opposing curb. You come really, really close to hitting children as they attempt to get safely to school. What if a child tripped and fell and did not clear the road before you entered it? You're willing to kill a child, ruin that child's family's lives in addition to your own, go to jail, get sued, etc. all rather than waiting a minute for the crossing guard to allow traffic to start back up again? And in case you think you'd get off scott-free for fleeing that scene, be assured that many school age children have cell phones that can quickly snap a picture of your car as it flees. It's nice to know that will make it even easier for the cops to hunt you down.
I know it is an inconvenience having to stop and wait for pedestrians in crosswalks, especially immediately before and after school hours. Traffic gets backed up, tempers run rampant, and you have somewhere important to be instead of waiting for those dang kids who keep dragging their feet instead of picking up the pace. You think it's an inconvenience waiting for them? Well, it's even more obnoxious if you hit one of them with your car. It's all this paperwork, police reports, lawyer fees, court dates, and potentially getting sued for every last cent you own. Realistically speaking, do you think you can finance your own child's college education or your retirement if you are in jail and unable to work or if you'd had to fork over your savings account and house to the family of your victim?
I know you're getting tired of hearing all of this. I can sense your face getting redder and redder by the moment. But while you are contemplating the best way of exploding at me for having the audacity to tell you that you are doing something wrong, I shall remind you that teaching my children four-letter expletives is not the way to go. You've been caught doing something wrong, so at least have the decency to not try and blame the pedestrians because you did not want to stop at the stop sign and almost mowed down people in the crosswalk in front of you...rather, behind you. (See that white line on the ground by the stop sign? That's where you're supposed to stop. Blocking the crosswalk is a bad thing, and the police might one day call you on it.) The children you cuss out on the streets today will be the ones running your nursing home someday. Don't you want to teach them patience, kindness, and caring? Or do you want them treating you the same way when you are unable to fend for yourself?
I see plenty of courteous drivers every day. They pay attention to driving, without getting distracted by gadgets, food, and other things in the car. They stop at stop signs and red lights. They wait patiently while crossing guards get children across the road. If they accidentally do something wrong, they apologize and try to fix it. No one is a perfect driver. We all make mistakes, but we can do our best to limit them.
Thank you for your time. Now please just take a deep breath before you start driving again. You don't want me to get started on the topic of road rage.
Sincerely,
Murphy Brawn, A.K.A. Dragon
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