Rooster has been very excited for a few weeks now. Her first grade class trip to an aquarium was today, and I think she doubted she could survive another day without witnessing all of the wonders being described by her teacher. Thankfully, she was put out of her misery when the buses departed from the school early this morning.
When I picked Rooster up from school this afternoon, she was exhausted, but thrilled, and wanted to tell me all about her class trip. "First, we got on the bus. Then, we put on our seatbelts... Then my friend fell asleep next to me. She was tired!...Finally, the bus stopped and we were there!" Just describing getting from school to the aquarium took quite a lot of time. Clearly, details were very important to my six-year-old!
Did I say details were important? I was misled by a kidlet who apparently felt the bus ride was more memorable than the actual aquarium.
Rooster: "We saw a seal! I think it was a seal. It had red eyes and was blind. What was its name?"
Me: "I don't know, honey. I wasn't there."
Rooster: "But then I got to feel a real sea star!"
Me: "Wow! What did that feel like?"
Rooster: "Um, brown. And the pufferfish was this big!" [holding up her hands]
Me: "Did you get to feel the pufferfish, too?"
Rooster: "I just told you. It was this [exaggerated hand gesture] big! And then we had lunch!"
Since she was in a group with her teacher, I wonder how exhausted her teacher is right about now. If Rooster could not come up with answers even remotely related to the questions I asked, I shudder to think how off-topic she was all day long. Let me correct that statement. Rooster was unable to answer questions directly related to her time at the actual aquarium. The bus rides, lunch, brief visit to the beach, and every bathroom visit all warranted her undivided attention and were discussed with me in great detail. The aquarium was relegated to the bottom of her memory reserves, which were quickly depleted.
At least she was thrilled to have gone on a trip!
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Bossy Crossing Guard, Round Two
For five years now, I have walked my children to school in our town. We interact with five different crossing guard locations, several of which have had multiple crossing guards working there throughout those five years. Up until yesterday, I never had an issue with a crossing guard not doing his or her job properly.
Yesterday, Mr. Bossypants, who is a new hire for the most dangerous intersection we must cross on the way to school, scolded me for walking my children across the street in the crosswalk and while we had the walk signal. The reality was that he had wanted to us to wait for him, even though he had decided he was going to wait until the next time the walk signal came our way. I complained to another crossing guard and Mr. Bossypants was scolded for treating a parent as if she was too stupid to cross the road. Heck, if a chicken can do it, right?
This morning, I was leery when approaching that intersection. Mr. Bossypants was talking with, presumably, a friend of his as we came up to the light. He did not budge, even though he did look in our direction. I again walked my children across the street without his help. While waiting for the light to change, I sent my oldest to press the button for the walk signal. When the opposing light turned yellow, I turned around and asked Mr. Bossypants if he was going to do his job and cross us, or if I should do it. His response was, "I was informed by my supervisor yesterday that if a parent is there, I do not have to do anything..."
I cut him off by turning around with a "whatever" or "fine" or whatever inane comment I made. I assure you it was G-rated, although it let him know he was dismissed from talking with me. Then I walked my children safely across the street while he resumed his conversation with his buddy. The very next crossing guard I saw, who had expressed concern yesterday when I had told her what had happened, was promptly filled in on the situation and she stated she would report him today. There is no excuse for someone who is being paid to get people safely across the street to not do that job. He does not have to like me. In fact, let's just save time and assume he hates my guts. But he is being paid to be there, so he should do what he is being paid to do.
This means war. I might have to bring a videocamera next time. Hmmm...
Yesterday, Mr. Bossypants, who is a new hire for the most dangerous intersection we must cross on the way to school, scolded me for walking my children across the street in the crosswalk and while we had the walk signal. The reality was that he had wanted to us to wait for him, even though he had decided he was going to wait until the next time the walk signal came our way. I complained to another crossing guard and Mr. Bossypants was scolded for treating a parent as if she was too stupid to cross the road. Heck, if a chicken can do it, right?
This morning, I was leery when approaching that intersection. Mr. Bossypants was talking with, presumably, a friend of his as we came up to the light. He did not budge, even though he did look in our direction. I again walked my children across the street without his help. While waiting for the light to change, I sent my oldest to press the button for the walk signal. When the opposing light turned yellow, I turned around and asked Mr. Bossypants if he was going to do his job and cross us, or if I should do it. His response was, "I was informed by my supervisor yesterday that if a parent is there, I do not have to do anything..."
I cut him off by turning around with a "whatever" or "fine" or whatever inane comment I made. I assure you it was G-rated, although it let him know he was dismissed from talking with me. Then I walked my children safely across the street while he resumed his conversation with his buddy. The very next crossing guard I saw, who had expressed concern yesterday when I had told her what had happened, was promptly filled in on the situation and she stated she would report him today. There is no excuse for someone who is being paid to get people safely across the street to not do that job. He does not have to like me. In fact, let's just save time and assume he hates my guts. But he is being paid to be there, so he should do what he is being paid to do.
This means war. I might have to bring a videocamera next time. Hmmm...
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Bossy Crossing Guard, Round One
This morning had already been quite stressful before I got the girls out the door to go to school. My husband got hit with the stomach virus around four in the morning, so I was tired, stressed, and desperately hoping I don't succumb to puking like everyone else in the family has done thus far this month. Hubby getting sick often means an emergency room visit if his blood sugars crash, so I made the executive decision to keep my son home from preschool because his schedule is the hardest to get help when it comes to picking him up from school. Anyway, I managed to get all three kidlets up, dressed, fed, and out the door while my husband rested.
We walked a couple of blocks down the street until we hit the biggest intersection between our house and school. We could see the crossing guard crossing another mother with her kidlets, and they were waiting at the opposite corner by the time we reached the intersection. The crossing guard was looking in our direction, but he never acknowledged our presence. He just stood there, staring in our direction, and never budged from the corner. Since we still had the walk signal, I crossed my kidlets myself.
When we reached the other side of the street, the crossing guard turned to me. I was expecting him to say something stupid about how he did not see us despite looking right at us. Instead, Mr. Bossypants informed me I needed to wait until he chose to cross us. Excuse me?
Mr. Bossypants: "You need to wait until I go out in the street to cross you."
Me: "I am an adult. We had the walk signal. It's not like my children are crossing the street by themselves."
Mr. Bossypants: "I am here for a reason, you know."
Me: "You were looking right at us and did not cross us despite us having the signal. I can handle crossing my kids."
Mr. Bossypants: "It's my job, and you will wait for me!"
Me: "If you don't do your job, there's no reason why I cannot cross the street, in a crosswalk, with the light in our favor and the stupid white pixellated person symbol telling us we have the right of way!"
Needless to say, I don't think either one of us thinks highly of the other right now. The other mother, after we crossed the last part of the intersection, asked me why on earth he was trying to tell me what to do. I have no idea, but I know he is the first person the mysterious "they" found for that location after the former crossing guard got hit by a car. I think I preferred the police presence. Even the police never scolded me for crossing my kidlets if I got to the intersection before he could get out of his car.
I complained to another crossing guard who has known us for five years now. She told me she would relay the information to the woman in charge to have the guy take it down a notch. Here's hoping he does, because me walking my children to school in a legal manner does not give him the right to enforce his own made-up rules because he only wants to cross one family at a time for each walk signal.
If he is this obnoxious after school today, I am going to start crossing my children across the other two sections of street at that same intersection. We can go the opposing corner route. I'm guessing he won't like that too much, but what is he going to do about it? Call the police? They already know me and know I am with my children, walking them properly, never jaywalking, and never crossing against the light. Good luck with that, Mr. Bossypants.
We walked a couple of blocks down the street until we hit the biggest intersection between our house and school. We could see the crossing guard crossing another mother with her kidlets, and they were waiting at the opposite corner by the time we reached the intersection. The crossing guard was looking in our direction, but he never acknowledged our presence. He just stood there, staring in our direction, and never budged from the corner. Since we still had the walk signal, I crossed my kidlets myself.
When we reached the other side of the street, the crossing guard turned to me. I was expecting him to say something stupid about how he did not see us despite looking right at us. Instead, Mr. Bossypants informed me I needed to wait until he chose to cross us. Excuse me?
Mr. Bossypants: "You need to wait until I go out in the street to cross you."
Me: "I am an adult. We had the walk signal. It's not like my children are crossing the street by themselves."
Mr. Bossypants: "I am here for a reason, you know."
Me: "You were looking right at us and did not cross us despite us having the signal. I can handle crossing my kids."
Mr. Bossypants: "It's my job, and you will wait for me!"
Me: "If you don't do your job, there's no reason why I cannot cross the street, in a crosswalk, with the light in our favor and the stupid white pixellated person symbol telling us we have the right of way!"
Needless to say, I don't think either one of us thinks highly of the other right now. The other mother, after we crossed the last part of the intersection, asked me why on earth he was trying to tell me what to do. I have no idea, but I know he is the first person the mysterious "they" found for that location after the former crossing guard got hit by a car. I think I preferred the police presence. Even the police never scolded me for crossing my kidlets if I got to the intersection before he could get out of his car.
I complained to another crossing guard who has known us for five years now. She told me she would relay the information to the woman in charge to have the guy take it down a notch. Here's hoping he does, because me walking my children to school in a legal manner does not give him the right to enforce his own made-up rules because he only wants to cross one family at a time for each walk signal.
If he is this obnoxious after school today, I am going to start crossing my children across the other two sections of street at that same intersection. We can go the opposing corner route. I'm guessing he won't like that too much, but what is he going to do about it? Call the police? They already know me and know I am with my children, walking them properly, never jaywalking, and never crossing against the light. Good luck with that, Mr. Bossypants.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
An odd birthday gift to myself...
Tomorrow is my birthday. I have decided to give myself something odd. I fired off a text message to someone whose daughter I wind up walking home from school more often than not. I told him I would not be able to walk his daughter home from school this week. Happy Birthday to me.
Perhaps this sounds odd, but given how sick my family has been in recent history, how much stress I feel every time a stomach virus attacks my family, and how I never really wanted to have a non-paid position routinely making sure someone else's kidlet got home from school safely, it was the best thing I could do for my own mental health. I have a hard enough time keeping it together when one person in the family starts with a stomach virus. Until it has been two weeks since the last person puked, or until all five of us have contracted it, my stress levels go through the roof. Sadly, that messes with my stomach and I'm never really sure if I've had the virus to a lesser extent or if my symptoms were strictly from stress. Unless I suddenly get much worse, there's no real way to tell. Either way, I still feel miserable. Taking responsibility for other people's kidlets also causes me stress, which just makes everything more complicated. So I gave myself the gift of slightly lower stress levels, at least for one week.
Of course, the one birthday gift I would love to receive is for my family to be healthy and to be completely done with any and all stomach viruses that are floating around out there. That would be truly wonderful. Wish me luck with receiving that gift...
Perhaps this sounds odd, but given how sick my family has been in recent history, how much stress I feel every time a stomach virus attacks my family, and how I never really wanted to have a non-paid position routinely making sure someone else's kidlet got home from school safely, it was the best thing I could do for my own mental health. I have a hard enough time keeping it together when one person in the family starts with a stomach virus. Until it has been two weeks since the last person puked, or until all five of us have contracted it, my stress levels go through the roof. Sadly, that messes with my stomach and I'm never really sure if I've had the virus to a lesser extent or if my symptoms were strictly from stress. Unless I suddenly get much worse, there's no real way to tell. Either way, I still feel miserable. Taking responsibility for other people's kidlets also causes me stress, which just makes everything more complicated. So I gave myself the gift of slightly lower stress levels, at least for one week.
Of course, the one birthday gift I would love to receive is for my family to be healthy and to be completely done with any and all stomach viruses that are floating around out there. That would be truly wonderful. Wish me luck with receiving that gift...
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Survival
Some days are purely about the survival. Maybe you have a sick kidlet at home. Maybe you did not sleep at all last night. Perhaps your in-laws from the pits of Hades made the announcement that they would be moving in with you regardless of your feelings on the subject. Maybe any of a zillion things happened that totally threw you for a loop.
We have all had days like that. I know, I know. That doesn't make it seem any better when you are struggling. It's possible you do not even want to be reminded that you do not own the copyright on suffering and martyrdom. But it's true.
I know that every other parent out there has had to spend sleepless nights, do head checks for lice, clean up vomit, rush a kidlet to the doctor's office or emergency room, or handle any of a number of kidlet-related issues while feeling like something the cat dragged in. During those times, parents might feel as if survival is not a guarantee, and indeed it might not be. Yet we still keep plugging away, doing what we're doing and trying to hang in there.
This past week has been one long blur of can-I-survive? So far, each of the three kidlets has thrown up, and two of them have also had diarrhea on non-puking days. The third just started vomiting last night, so if there is a pattern to this illness, he has a couple of days still before his diarrhea starts. I am grateful that my husband has been able to take over dealing with everything from last night through today, because I think I hit my limit on how much kidlet-sickness-induced stress my body can physically take. My own GI tract has rebelled, and it is probably just from the stress and not from actually contracting this virus myself, which means there is still the potential for me to feel physically worse. Lovely.
But I am still hanging in there. Hopefully, all three kidlets are on the mend now and this dang virus will not decide to circle back and hit them again. Hopefully, my husband and I will not catch it. Hopefully, my stress levels will drop and I will not feel like death warmed over for much longer. I joke that I am competent enough for one kidlet, but I had three. On days like we've had this past week, I am not entirely certain there isn't some actual truth to that statement. I think of a friend of mine, who has a much larger family, and I ponder how she handles weeks like this, where one person after another gets sick and there seems like no end is in sight. There's a reason she has so many more kidlets than I do, and she is clearly much more competent than I am. That being said, she still can motivate me to survive. If she can deal with so many more people going through this, then I can handle whatever virus is trying to wipe out my family. I might not like it, but things will eventually work out for the best.
That's my story, and I'm sticking with it. This, too, shall pass...
We have all had days like that. I know, I know. That doesn't make it seem any better when you are struggling. It's possible you do not even want to be reminded that you do not own the copyright on suffering and martyrdom. But it's true.
I know that every other parent out there has had to spend sleepless nights, do head checks for lice, clean up vomit, rush a kidlet to the doctor's office or emergency room, or handle any of a number of kidlet-related issues while feeling like something the cat dragged in. During those times, parents might feel as if survival is not a guarantee, and indeed it might not be. Yet we still keep plugging away, doing what we're doing and trying to hang in there.
This past week has been one long blur of can-I-survive? So far, each of the three kidlets has thrown up, and two of them have also had diarrhea on non-puking days. The third just started vomiting last night, so if there is a pattern to this illness, he has a couple of days still before his diarrhea starts. I am grateful that my husband has been able to take over dealing with everything from last night through today, because I think I hit my limit on how much kidlet-sickness-induced stress my body can physically take. My own GI tract has rebelled, and it is probably just from the stress and not from actually contracting this virus myself, which means there is still the potential for me to feel physically worse. Lovely.
But I am still hanging in there. Hopefully, all three kidlets are on the mend now and this dang virus will not decide to circle back and hit them again. Hopefully, my husband and I will not catch it. Hopefully, my stress levels will drop and I will not feel like death warmed over for much longer. I joke that I am competent enough for one kidlet, but I had three. On days like we've had this past week, I am not entirely certain there isn't some actual truth to that statement. I think of a friend of mine, who has a much larger family, and I ponder how she handles weeks like this, where one person after another gets sick and there seems like no end is in sight. There's a reason she has so many more kidlets than I do, and she is clearly much more competent than I am. That being said, she still can motivate me to survive. If she can deal with so many more people going through this, then I can handle whatever virus is trying to wipe out my family. I might not like it, but things will eventually work out for the best.
That's my story, and I'm sticking with it. This, too, shall pass...
Friday, February 24, 2012
57% of all statistics are made up...
Well, it's that time of the day again. It's time to manipulate statistics, or at least show why they do not always mean what you think it means. ("Inconceivable!" Sorry, I can never resist a Princess Bride quote opportunity.) I've heard it said that 57% of all statistics are made up, and if you can't figure out why I am not quoting my source, you clearly don't get the joke. I figure it's time to play around with some numbers from my own head.
The reason I am so interested in manipulating statistics today is because of hearing one particular percentage tossed about left and right. I keep hearing people state that 50% of marriages end in divorce. (Thinking about that number leads me to the conclusion that the other 50% of marriages end in either annulments or death. That sure sounds depressing, doesn't it? One could almost say that marriages have no chance at all in succeeding because there is a 100% chance any given marriage will one day end. See how easy it is to manipulate data?) I have no idea where this 50% originated, so I cannot say what the sample size was, what the length of time it considered, or any other qualifying information. What I can do is play around with that percentage to demonstrate that we do not really know what it means.
Let us assume that two people get married and wind up divorcing. In order for that 50% to hold true, that means that two other people have to get married and stay married until one or both of them cease to exist. In this case, two out of four people (50%) wind up divorcing. With me so far?
Let us now assume that one person gets married and divorced from two different people, one at a time. That means there are two marriages that end in divorce. For that 50% to hold true, two other marriages must not end in divorce. Think about that. It means that in one case, three people wind up divorcing, and in the other, four married people do not divorce. So three out of seven people (or approximately 43%) from the married population divorces. That's not quite the same thing as that original 50% implies, is it?
Now let us get really obnoxious. Let us pretend that one person had a string of ten unsuccessful marriages that all ended in divorce. First, let us assume that no one married that person more than once. Therefore, eleven people were involved in those ten divorces. Assuming once more that we still want a 50% divorce rate, we need to have ten more marriages that do not end in divorce, which means twenty people have to stay married. So eleven out of thirty-one people (or about 35%) divorce. We can further mess with those numbers if we assume the one divorced individual married and divorced the same person ten times. That would mean only two out of twenty-two people (about 9%) in that set got divorced.
Looking at all of these examples, we can see that if one person gets divorced more than once, it changes the meaning of that end statistic, and how much it changes depends on the number of marriages, divorces, and how many repeated marriage attempts there are. So please, folks, don't try to panic all the newly-engaged people of this world with threats of a 50/50 chance of their marriage failing. Until you see all of the details about who was surveyed, the length of time the survey encompassed, and how many people were truly involved in those numbers, that 50% chance of a marriage ending in divorce is just as made up as the aforementioned 57% of statistics.
The reason I am so interested in manipulating statistics today is because of hearing one particular percentage tossed about left and right. I keep hearing people state that 50% of marriages end in divorce. (Thinking about that number leads me to the conclusion that the other 50% of marriages end in either annulments or death. That sure sounds depressing, doesn't it? One could almost say that marriages have no chance at all in succeeding because there is a 100% chance any given marriage will one day end. See how easy it is to manipulate data?) I have no idea where this 50% originated, so I cannot say what the sample size was, what the length of time it considered, or any other qualifying information. What I can do is play around with that percentage to demonstrate that we do not really know what it means.
Let us assume that two people get married and wind up divorcing. In order for that 50% to hold true, that means that two other people have to get married and stay married until one or both of them cease to exist. In this case, two out of four people (50%) wind up divorcing. With me so far?
Let us now assume that one person gets married and divorced from two different people, one at a time. That means there are two marriages that end in divorce. For that 50% to hold true, two other marriages must not end in divorce. Think about that. It means that in one case, three people wind up divorcing, and in the other, four married people do not divorce. So three out of seven people (or approximately 43%) from the married population divorces. That's not quite the same thing as that original 50% implies, is it?
Now let us get really obnoxious. Let us pretend that one person had a string of ten unsuccessful marriages that all ended in divorce. First, let us assume that no one married that person more than once. Therefore, eleven people were involved in those ten divorces. Assuming once more that we still want a 50% divorce rate, we need to have ten more marriages that do not end in divorce, which means twenty people have to stay married. So eleven out of thirty-one people (or about 35%) divorce. We can further mess with those numbers if we assume the one divorced individual married and divorced the same person ten times. That would mean only two out of twenty-two people (about 9%) in that set got divorced.
Looking at all of these examples, we can see that if one person gets divorced more than once, it changes the meaning of that end statistic, and how much it changes depends on the number of marriages, divorces, and how many repeated marriage attempts there are. So please, folks, don't try to panic all the newly-engaged people of this world with threats of a 50/50 chance of their marriage failing. Until you see all of the details about who was surveyed, the length of time the survey encompassed, and how many people were truly involved in those numbers, that 50% chance of a marriage ending in divorce is just as made up as the aforementioned 57% of statistics.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
One year...
Today is the first anniversary of a high school friend's death. We were not close friends, and we had not even seen one another since his graduation a year before me, but we had reconnected through the wonders of social media. I still think of him from time to time, and hope he is in a better place. His death was four days before my thirty-fifth birthday last year, which makes it easier for me to remember, yet harder at the same time. Death and birthdays are not two events I would typically want thrown close together in my mental Rolodex, yet that happened regardless of my opinions on the subject.
I have known other people who have died. This particular man was not the first of my friends to enter the hereafter before me. He was, however, the first one I knew of who died after a long, drawn-out battle with cancer. His mother blogged about his treatments and eventual death. After reading her words, I would not wish death by cancer on my worst enemies, let alone on those who I consider to be friends. Other friends' deaths were sudden and shocking, but I never worried that those friends had suffered for long. The same can not be said for this case.
Dying of cancer is quite different from having a sudden, unexpected end. This was not a car accident or drowning. He did not overdose on drugs or alcohol. This was not by his own hand. There was absolutely nothing he could have done to prevent the end result. There was no one else to blame, either. It was just one of those horrible things that just happens sometimes. The cancer took its time, too, in-between first appearing and then ending my friend's life. I suppose it is a good thing my friend hung in there a while, although I really wish he had not suffered. At least he had the opportunity to say good-bye to his loved ones, which is something not everyone has the ability to do.
A cancer diagnosis is not always a death sentence, thankfully. There are often a wide variety of options for those who have it. I wonder whether my friend would have decided to forgo all of the cancer treatments, surgeries, and chemotherapy if he knew what the verdict would be in his case. It's irrelevant now anyway, but I still think about that. Would he have wanted all of that in the hopes it would extend his life even a little bit, or would he have just wanted it over and done with so he and his loved ones would not have to suffer one second longer than necessary? I am not sure what I would do if ever forced to confront the same possibility. I hope to never find out.
It's kind of bizarre to me that last year, all I could think about was my friend's life and how atrocious it was that it was cut short. This year, all I can think about is his death. How a person dies is not nearly as important as how they lived, in my opinion, so I really need to break myself out of this mindset. However, I am really struggling with that one on the anniversary of his death.
I have known other people who have died. This particular man was not the first of my friends to enter the hereafter before me. He was, however, the first one I knew of who died after a long, drawn-out battle with cancer. His mother blogged about his treatments and eventual death. After reading her words, I would not wish death by cancer on my worst enemies, let alone on those who I consider to be friends. Other friends' deaths were sudden and shocking, but I never worried that those friends had suffered for long. The same can not be said for this case.
Dying of cancer is quite different from having a sudden, unexpected end. This was not a car accident or drowning. He did not overdose on drugs or alcohol. This was not by his own hand. There was absolutely nothing he could have done to prevent the end result. There was no one else to blame, either. It was just one of those horrible things that just happens sometimes. The cancer took its time, too, in-between first appearing and then ending my friend's life. I suppose it is a good thing my friend hung in there a while, although I really wish he had not suffered. At least he had the opportunity to say good-bye to his loved ones, which is something not everyone has the ability to do.
A cancer diagnosis is not always a death sentence, thankfully. There are often a wide variety of options for those who have it. I wonder whether my friend would have decided to forgo all of the cancer treatments, surgeries, and chemotherapy if he knew what the verdict would be in his case. It's irrelevant now anyway, but I still think about that. Would he have wanted all of that in the hopes it would extend his life even a little bit, or would he have just wanted it over and done with so he and his loved ones would not have to suffer one second longer than necessary? I am not sure what I would do if ever forced to confront the same possibility. I hope to never find out.
It's kind of bizarre to me that last year, all I could think about was my friend's life and how atrocious it was that it was cut short. This year, all I can think about is his death. How a person dies is not nearly as important as how they lived, in my opinion, so I really need to break myself out of this mindset. However, I am really struggling with that one on the anniversary of his death.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Ah, the sweet sounds of arguing!
I never thought I would be happy to hear my daughters bickering with one another. I used to think that my brother and I fought all the time, but I now believe that nobody fights as much as two sisters who share a room. They can be quite vicious in their snide remarks, insults, and threats about pretty much anything, from touching one another's toys to breathing the same air.
Their room was pretty darn quiet yesterday. Both girls were home from school with a stomach virus, and neither one really felt up to doing much of anything. I know my kidlets are really not feeling well when they do not fight with each other at all.
This morning, they are still home from school. I am one of those annoying parents who actually follows our school rules in making sure my kidlets are symptom-free for twenty-four hours before shipping them back. (And to those of you who drug your kidlets up with medicine, and send them in to school instead of keeping them home when they are sick, for shame. Not only are you infecting the rest of your kidlets' classroom with whatever they have, you are also exposing your kidlet's compromised immune system to everything else that's lurking in their school. For fevers, puking, diarrhea, head lice, and other contagious illnesses, follow your school's rules, dang it! Those rules exist for a reason, and it's not because the school is trying to inconvenience you. Harrumph.)
Anyway, getting back to my kidlets all staying home from school today... I could hear my girls arguing this morning. They were actually fighting with one another! I was thrilled. This means they are feeling much better, and will hopefully be back at school tomorrow. I will still have one kidlet home with me, since their younger brother will either catch the same stomach bug and be home sick, or he will be comparatively healthy and I will have to take him to his own doctor's appointment to try and deal with his incredible congestion and nasty cough. At least he doesn't fight with himself, although if he gets sick (well, sicker), I will almost wish he would.
Their room was pretty darn quiet yesterday. Both girls were home from school with a stomach virus, and neither one really felt up to doing much of anything. I know my kidlets are really not feeling well when they do not fight with each other at all.
This morning, they are still home from school. I am one of those annoying parents who actually follows our school rules in making sure my kidlets are symptom-free for twenty-four hours before shipping them back. (And to those of you who drug your kidlets up with medicine, and send them in to school instead of keeping them home when they are sick, for shame. Not only are you infecting the rest of your kidlets' classroom with whatever they have, you are also exposing your kidlet's compromised immune system to everything else that's lurking in their school. For fevers, puking, diarrhea, head lice, and other contagious illnesses, follow your school's rules, dang it! Those rules exist for a reason, and it's not because the school is trying to inconvenience you. Harrumph.)
Anyway, getting back to my kidlets all staying home from school today... I could hear my girls arguing this morning. They were actually fighting with one another! I was thrilled. This means they are feeling much better, and will hopefully be back at school tomorrow. I will still have one kidlet home with me, since their younger brother will either catch the same stomach bug and be home sick, or he will be comparatively healthy and I will have to take him to his own doctor's appointment to try and deal with his incredible congestion and nasty cough. At least he doesn't fight with himself, although if he gets sick (well, sicker), I will almost wish he would.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
I fail, and have the heartburn to prove it.
I am not one of those sympathetic mothers who knows exactly what to do (and can do it with a level head) when one of my kidlets has a stomach bug. I am the mother whose own stomach rebels. I get the nauseating hot flashes with my kidlet, taste acid all day, and am lucky when I can force myself to eat something.
I don't know how those other mothers do it. They can clean up puke while wearing a smile, make their kidlets feel better by simply being there, and always have a stockpile of chicken broth to feed their offspring once they start to recover. I'm the one telling my husband to get the heck out of the room while I am holding a puke bucket underneath my kidlet's face because hubby is turning green (he claims he was not feeling ill, but was only concerned about our daughter) and I can't hold my own dinner down if he gets sick, too. I try to get my kidlet to go to sleep afterwards so I can leave the sickroom without feeling guilty. If the sick kidlet is someone who shares a room, I shoo their sibling out to another room so I don't have to deal with sympathy pukers. I wipe the bathroom down with cleaning wipes in-between the sick kidlet and anyone else using it, knowing that probably doesn't do anything because they've just been in each other's faces all weekend anyway. I feel helpless and hopeless when my kidlet feels this way, and I just want to run away from it all, although I do realize that is not an option, as much as I might wish it was.
I still can't make up my mind whether it is worse to have everybody sick and vying for the same bathroom at the same time, or whether one at a time is easier to handle. Is "none of the above" an option here? Stomach viruses are the worst of all the illnesses the kidlets tend to bring home from school, in my opinion. Where do I go to check the box that tells stomach viruses they are not allowed in my home?
I have two home sick today. One started throwing up last night, and the other had diarrhea this morning. Both of them have been confined to their room today, and have been fed varying amounts of Jell-o, Rice Krispies with rice milk, rice cakes, Saltines, pasta, and water. I have to force myself to go into their room to check on them frequently because my gut instinct, pun not intended, is to flee from them. I worry because their bellies still look puffy to me, and hope that doesn't mean the sickness will be recurring. I let them play far too much Nintendo DS because I'm thrilled they are actually feeling well enough to do so.
I have problems trying to plan out the rest of my week. All three kidlets will be home from school at least for today and tomorrow, since the third kidlet still has the nastiest stuff oozing from his nose. (Besides, I'm not going to take the preschooler to school if I'm keeping the elementary school kidlets home. I just don't feel guilty about keeping him home when he's already incredibly congested.) The one currently-stomach-bug-free kidlet has a follow-up doctor's appointment in two days. How will I get him there if he or I catch this? What do I do if his sisters are still sick that day? What do I do if my husband comes down with this and needs to go to the ER again? The worry about what might happen is killing me. Intellectually, I know I should just face each day as it comes and cancel appointments if the need arises,but the message is clearly not getting through my thick skull.
I truly despise days like this, and the lack of sleep isn't helping.
I don't know how those other mothers do it. They can clean up puke while wearing a smile, make their kidlets feel better by simply being there, and always have a stockpile of chicken broth to feed their offspring once they start to recover. I'm the one telling my husband to get the heck out of the room while I am holding a puke bucket underneath my kidlet's face because hubby is turning green (he claims he was not feeling ill, but was only concerned about our daughter) and I can't hold my own dinner down if he gets sick, too. I try to get my kidlet to go to sleep afterwards so I can leave the sickroom without feeling guilty. If the sick kidlet is someone who shares a room, I shoo their sibling out to another room so I don't have to deal with sympathy pukers. I wipe the bathroom down with cleaning wipes in-between the sick kidlet and anyone else using it, knowing that probably doesn't do anything because they've just been in each other's faces all weekend anyway. I feel helpless and hopeless when my kidlet feels this way, and I just want to run away from it all, although I do realize that is not an option, as much as I might wish it was.
I still can't make up my mind whether it is worse to have everybody sick and vying for the same bathroom at the same time, or whether one at a time is easier to handle. Is "none of the above" an option here? Stomach viruses are the worst of all the illnesses the kidlets tend to bring home from school, in my opinion. Where do I go to check the box that tells stomach viruses they are not allowed in my home?
I have two home sick today. One started throwing up last night, and the other had diarrhea this morning. Both of them have been confined to their room today, and have been fed varying amounts of Jell-o, Rice Krispies with rice milk, rice cakes, Saltines, pasta, and water. I have to force myself to go into their room to check on them frequently because my gut instinct, pun not intended, is to flee from them. I worry because their bellies still look puffy to me, and hope that doesn't mean the sickness will be recurring. I let them play far too much Nintendo DS because I'm thrilled they are actually feeling well enough to do so.
I have problems trying to plan out the rest of my week. All three kidlets will be home from school at least for today and tomorrow, since the third kidlet still has the nastiest stuff oozing from his nose. (Besides, I'm not going to take the preschooler to school if I'm keeping the elementary school kidlets home. I just don't feel guilty about keeping him home when he's already incredibly congested.) The one currently-stomach-bug-free kidlet has a follow-up doctor's appointment in two days. How will I get him there if he or I catch this? What do I do if his sisters are still sick that day? What do I do if my husband comes down with this and needs to go to the ER again? The worry about what might happen is killing me. Intellectually, I know I should just face each day as it comes and cancel appointments if the need arises,but the message is clearly not getting through my thick skull.
I truly despise days like this, and the lack of sleep isn't helping.
Monday, February 20, 2012
It's a "Day Off"!
I was actually looking forward to today. Mondays when school is closed are good Mondays, as far as I am concerned. I don't physically have to crawl out of bed until my husband leaves for work, excepting the thirty seconds when I get up early and take my reflux medicine. There is no insane drop off or pick up from school schedule, nobody argues over what I packed for snack, and there is no threat of bloodshed over who walks out the door in front of whom. What's not to love about days like today?
It turns out that I forgot something major. I'm fairly certain it is even in the stay-at-home mother's guidebook. (What? You don't have one of those? Yeah, me neither. There should be one though.) You see, when the kidlets are off from school, Mom does not have a day off from her work, too.
All day long, it has been one long chain of my usual chores (laundry, ironing, washing dishes, vacuuming, cleaning, preparing meals, making beds, and so on and so forth) but with the added bonus of the kidlets trying to undo all of my hard work. Mom vacuumed the living room carpet? Awesome! It's time to play with Legos there then. Mom just brought all the laundry downstairs to wash? Great! It's time to go change outfits for no real reason, or even better, to spill something on the pile of clean clothes she is trying to fold. Mom needs us quiet for five minutes so she can handle a phone call about a bill? Yeah, right. We'll use this time to start World War III. Mom has her hands in the middle of the naked bird she is trying to wrestle into the slow cooker? No problem for us. We'll use this time to color all over our hands with makers, "wash" our hands, and get some really cool colors all over the freshly hung, formerly white, towels in the bathroom.
None of that time even includes when the kidlets ask Mom to play with them, or when Mom crashes the kidlets' playtime.
Yeah, Moms don't get days off when the kidlets are home. Oh, and for those who think stay-at-home mothers get days off when the kidlets return to school, you are sadly mistaken. That's when we do everything we can't do with kidlets present plus make up for all the work the kidlets managed to destroy when they were home. It's a good thing we love those kidlets as much as we do.
It turns out that I forgot something major. I'm fairly certain it is even in the stay-at-home mother's guidebook. (What? You don't have one of those? Yeah, me neither. There should be one though.) You see, when the kidlets are off from school, Mom does not have a day off from her work, too.
All day long, it has been one long chain of my usual chores (laundry, ironing, washing dishes, vacuuming, cleaning, preparing meals, making beds, and so on and so forth) but with the added bonus of the kidlets trying to undo all of my hard work. Mom vacuumed the living room carpet? Awesome! It's time to play with Legos there then. Mom just brought all the laundry downstairs to wash? Great! It's time to go change outfits for no real reason, or even better, to spill something on the pile of clean clothes she is trying to fold. Mom needs us quiet for five minutes so she can handle a phone call about a bill? Yeah, right. We'll use this time to start World War III. Mom has her hands in the middle of the naked bird she is trying to wrestle into the slow cooker? No problem for us. We'll use this time to color all over our hands with makers, "wash" our hands, and get some really cool colors all over the freshly hung, formerly white, towels in the bathroom.
None of that time even includes when the kidlets ask Mom to play with them, or when Mom crashes the kidlets' playtime.
Yeah, Moms don't get days off when the kidlets are home. Oh, and for those who think stay-at-home mothers get days off when the kidlets return to school, you are sadly mistaken. That's when we do everything we can't do with kidlets present plus make up for all the work the kidlets managed to destroy when they were home. It's a good thing we love those kidlets as much as we do.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
But I need it!
I think just about every parent out there has probably heard the same declaration from their kidlet: "But I need it!" It does not matter what the object of said kidlet's desire might be. It is enough to know that the kidlet believes that life will cease to exist if they do not get whatever "it" is.
Personally, I use those needy moments to annoy my kidlets with a discussion of "want" versus "need." They need food. They want food this exact second. They want me to make them a different type of food instead of whatever I served. They need clothing. They want a forty dollar skirt they will outgrow in two months. They need water. They want chocolate milk. They need shelter. They want their own bedrooms, and barring that, they want their sibling to stay on the other side of the room. They need to figure out something to do. They want the latest toy, electronic gadget, or other item instead of using the thousands of items they currently possess. They need love, support, and instruction from their parents so they grow up to be a responsible adult who actually knows right from wrong. They want their parents to shut up, stop telling them what to do, and give them everything they demand.
I have never understood parents who jump through hoops to give their kidlets anything and everything under the sun. Just because a kidlet wants something does not mean they have to have it. More parents need to learn the word "no," and use it as many times as necessary in a given day. I am not talking about withholding the necessities of life. I am talking about the junk food at the checkout line when your kidlet has been misbehaving throughout your shopping trip, the newer electronic gadget when the old one still works just fine (or even worse, is not used at all), the television or computer in your five-year-old's bedroom, buying your kidlet a car without them having to work towards earning one, or anything else where you are teaching your kidlets you will cave to their demands.
I know parents who let their young kidlet have a television in their own room so the adults do not have to give up their own shows. What about teaching your kidlet to share and take turns? What about putting limits on the amount of time everyone watches TV? I have yet to see a study done that shows television actually benefits anyone. What about turning off the television altogether? And a television is just one example of the numerous items out there where parents often let their offspring's wants control the situation.
The same holds true for us parents though. We need to say no to ourselves sometimes, too. If you have a smoothly running vehicle, you do not need a new car just to have the most recent model. If you have a functioning television set, you do not need a bigger and better one. (You also don't need to put your foot through the TV to make it stop functioning. Just sayin'.) The same holds true for cell phones, eReaders, laptops, Oompa Loompas, and so on and so forth.
Remember that our kidlets are going to imitate what we do. If we live as though our "wants" are "needs," they will, too. The only difference in this case is that if our kidlets don't get what they want, they will expect us to provide it for them.
Personally, I use those needy moments to annoy my kidlets with a discussion of "want" versus "need." They need food. They want food this exact second. They want me to make them a different type of food instead of whatever I served. They need clothing. They want a forty dollar skirt they will outgrow in two months. They need water. They want chocolate milk. They need shelter. They want their own bedrooms, and barring that, they want their sibling to stay on the other side of the room. They need to figure out something to do. They want the latest toy, electronic gadget, or other item instead of using the thousands of items they currently possess. They need love, support, and instruction from their parents so they grow up to be a responsible adult who actually knows right from wrong. They want their parents to shut up, stop telling them what to do, and give them everything they demand.
I have never understood parents who jump through hoops to give their kidlets anything and everything under the sun. Just because a kidlet wants something does not mean they have to have it. More parents need to learn the word "no," and use it as many times as necessary in a given day. I am not talking about withholding the necessities of life. I am talking about the junk food at the checkout line when your kidlet has been misbehaving throughout your shopping trip, the newer electronic gadget when the old one still works just fine (or even worse, is not used at all), the television or computer in your five-year-old's bedroom, buying your kidlet a car without them having to work towards earning one, or anything else where you are teaching your kidlets you will cave to their demands.
I know parents who let their young kidlet have a television in their own room so the adults do not have to give up their own shows. What about teaching your kidlet to share and take turns? What about putting limits on the amount of time everyone watches TV? I have yet to see a study done that shows television actually benefits anyone. What about turning off the television altogether? And a television is just one example of the numerous items out there where parents often let their offspring's wants control the situation.
The same holds true for us parents though. We need to say no to ourselves sometimes, too. If you have a smoothly running vehicle, you do not need a new car just to have the most recent model. If you have a functioning television set, you do not need a bigger and better one. (You also don't need to put your foot through the TV to make it stop functioning. Just sayin'.) The same holds true for cell phones, eReaders, laptops, Oompa Loompas, and so on and so forth.
Remember that our kidlets are going to imitate what we do. If we live as though our "wants" are "needs," they will, too. The only difference in this case is that if our kidlets don't get what they want, they will expect us to provide it for them.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Tax Time
Pig is off getting our taxes done right now. I was supposed to go with him, but sick kidlets put a damper on that plan. (Our babysitters did volunteer to watch them anyway, but I really did not want them to contract any and all illnesses that are currently residing in our house.) So in lieu of participating today, I had my usual "fun" organizing everything prior to getting the taxes done. Pig's job is to show up on time, bring the folder that holds all of the paperwork on which I have spent far too many hours working, and pay the nice accountant when he or she is finished.
On his way out the door, I wished him luck. (I could have chanted, "Refund! Refund! Refund!" but I thought that might be too over the top.) He thanked me for all of the work I did to get everything sorted, totalled, and put all together. Six-year-old Rooster was the one who piped up with, "You're welcome," as if she had done all the work. Gotta love kidlets.
I wish I could say I was relaxing at home now while the kidlets play (and probably infect one another), but instead, I just spent time looking up online to see how much money is required to get braces for a kidlet. Horse will most likely need them, and any potential refund check will have to go towards braces whether she wants them or not. I wanted to get a head's up on what braces cost so I would not have a heart attack in a couple of weeks when I drag Horse kicking and screaming to a consultation with an orthodontist. After seeing a few numbers online, I'm thinking that heart attack might be inevitable. At least any refund checks we get will help cushion the blow.
Refund! Refund! Refund!
On his way out the door, I wished him luck. (I could have chanted, "Refund! Refund! Refund!" but I thought that might be too over the top.) He thanked me for all of the work I did to get everything sorted, totalled, and put all together. Six-year-old Rooster was the one who piped up with, "You're welcome," as if she had done all the work. Gotta love kidlets.
I wish I could say I was relaxing at home now while the kidlets play (and probably infect one another), but instead, I just spent time looking up online to see how much money is required to get braces for a kidlet. Horse will most likely need them, and any potential refund check will have to go towards braces whether she wants them or not. I wanted to get a head's up on what braces cost so I would not have a heart attack in a couple of weeks when I drag Horse kicking and screaming to a consultation with an orthodontist. After seeing a few numbers online, I'm thinking that heart attack might be inevitable. At least any refund checks we get will help cushion the blow.
Refund! Refund! Refund!
Friday, February 17, 2012
Receipts
All I had on my to-do list today was to organize our receipts so we can get our taxes done tomorrow. That was it. So despite the fact that I still had not finished that task when I went to pick the kidlets up from school, I was not worried. I was sure they would love to watch a movie while Mommy finished that chore.
When I picked the kidlets up from school, Horse was still congested from a cold she has had for two weeks and counting. I casually asked her what color she was blowing into her tissues, and decided I would take her to the doctor's office when her answer was "yellow nose ick."
It was a half day at school, so I made the kidlets lunch and then we headed out the door. About two minutes from the doctor's office, Horse asked me to turn down the heat. Whenever she says this, I jump to do her bidding. I also told her to unzip her coat and push down her hood. She gets nauseated when she gets too hot and the car is in motion. She had eaten quite a lot at lunch, too, before claiming to be full and pushing away her few remaining apple slices, and I had no desire for her food to resurface.
Apparently, those actions were too little, too late, because her lunch made a reappearance about thirty seconds later. Thankfully, I keep a dishpan ("bucket" according to the kidlets) in the car for just such emergencies, and Horse was close enough for me to shove that under her face. Rolling down the window seemed to help her, and she said she felt much better after that. Her mother and siblings, not so much. I think we were greener than she was when we finally pulled into the parking lot a mere minute later.
It turns out that when you march into the pediatrician's office, holding a bag of vomit (which they thankfully disposed of for me) and with a kidlet who is carrying a bucket, you get a room right away. That is good to know, although I hope I never have to get a room that quickly again, at least not for that reason.
Horse wound up not having an active sinus infection, according to the nurse practitioner, who also said the loss of lunch might have been because of post-nasal drip. So now I am frantically praying that's all it was, as opposed to a stomach virus that could wipe out the rest of the family.
Oh, and in case anyone is curious, Horse has been glaring at me and informing me she is hungry every time I bring her small sips of water and Saltines. She is acting like she's feeling fine, except for the ever-present cold. Here's hoping this means she's going to be A-okay.
I never did get around to finishing my work on the receipts.
When I picked the kidlets up from school, Horse was still congested from a cold she has had for two weeks and counting. I casually asked her what color she was blowing into her tissues, and decided I would take her to the doctor's office when her answer was "yellow nose ick."
It was a half day at school, so I made the kidlets lunch and then we headed out the door. About two minutes from the doctor's office, Horse asked me to turn down the heat. Whenever she says this, I jump to do her bidding. I also told her to unzip her coat and push down her hood. She gets nauseated when she gets too hot and the car is in motion. She had eaten quite a lot at lunch, too, before claiming to be full and pushing away her few remaining apple slices, and I had no desire for her food to resurface.
Apparently, those actions were too little, too late, because her lunch made a reappearance about thirty seconds later. Thankfully, I keep a dishpan ("bucket" according to the kidlets) in the car for just such emergencies, and Horse was close enough for me to shove that under her face. Rolling down the window seemed to help her, and she said she felt much better after that. Her mother and siblings, not so much. I think we were greener than she was when we finally pulled into the parking lot a mere minute later.
It turns out that when you march into the pediatrician's office, holding a bag of vomit (which they thankfully disposed of for me) and with a kidlet who is carrying a bucket, you get a room right away. That is good to know, although I hope I never have to get a room that quickly again, at least not for that reason.
Horse wound up not having an active sinus infection, according to the nurse practitioner, who also said the loss of lunch might have been because of post-nasal drip. So now I am frantically praying that's all it was, as opposed to a stomach virus that could wipe out the rest of the family.
Oh, and in case anyone is curious, Horse has been glaring at me and informing me she is hungry every time I bring her small sips of water and Saltines. She is acting like she's feeling fine, except for the ever-present cold. Here's hoping this means she's going to be A-okay.
I never did get around to finishing my work on the receipts.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
"I'll tell Mom!"
One of the most effective weapons my eldest has against her younger sister is the semi-idle threat. "I'll tell Mom!" gets repeated more often than pretty much anything else that comes out of Horse's mouth. Quite frankly, that drives me batty.
First of all, if the whole goal is to convince your sibling to act in the manner in which you wish him or her to act, then saying "I'll tell Mom" loud enough for Mom to hear kind of renders the whole issue obsolete when Mom starts scolding you for trying to blackmail your sibling. "I'll tell Mom unless you go over there." "I'll tell Mom you're bothering me unless you share your [insert toy name here]." "I'll tell Mom unless you stop breathing my air." "I'll tell Mom if you don't leave me alone until I graduate from college." (That last one is particularly laughable coming from an elementary school student.) None of those are effective when Mom hears you, scolds you for trying to drag her down into your muck, and tells you to figure out a way of resolving the issue yourself.
I have this mental image of my girls all grown up and still living at home at the ripe old ages of ninety-seven and one hundred, and still trying to rat each other out to a (still quite spry, at least in my imagination) one hundred twenty-six year old me. "I'll tell Mom if you don't share your stockpile of Depends with me" just doesn't have the same ring to it, but I truly wonder if there are siblings out there who have such inane conversations.
Little does Horse know, but there will come a point in time when she will realize she taught her sister a little too effectively about how to tattle, or more accurately, how to threaten to tattle. Horse will have trained Rooster how to be a blackmailer, and whether the offense is true or not will be irrelevant. "I'll tell Mom you snuck out of the house last night unless you drive me to the mall." "I'll tell Mom I caught you smoking at school unless you do my math homework for me." "I'll tell Mom you're planning on running away with your boyfriend unless you give me a hundred bucks." At some point, Rooster will fight back. It will be an epic battle between the blackmailers.
Lucky for my kidlets, they have a mother who is willing to teach them as much as she knows about dealing with blackmailing siblings. My advice is to say, "Go ahead and tell her." If the threat in question is a lie, invariably the liar will be found out and in serious trouble. If it is the truth, being able to fess up, apologize, and make amends will set the misbehaving kidlet free.
I am truly curious which of my girls will comprehend that lesson first. I just hope it's learned before any of us has a need for Depends.
First of all, if the whole goal is to convince your sibling to act in the manner in which you wish him or her to act, then saying "I'll tell Mom" loud enough for Mom to hear kind of renders the whole issue obsolete when Mom starts scolding you for trying to blackmail your sibling. "I'll tell Mom unless you go over there." "I'll tell Mom you're bothering me unless you share your [insert toy name here]." "I'll tell Mom unless you stop breathing my air." "I'll tell Mom if you don't leave me alone until I graduate from college." (That last one is particularly laughable coming from an elementary school student.) None of those are effective when Mom hears you, scolds you for trying to drag her down into your muck, and tells you to figure out a way of resolving the issue yourself.
I have this mental image of my girls all grown up and still living at home at the ripe old ages of ninety-seven and one hundred, and still trying to rat each other out to a (still quite spry, at least in my imagination) one hundred twenty-six year old me. "I'll tell Mom if you don't share your stockpile of Depends with me" just doesn't have the same ring to it, but I truly wonder if there are siblings out there who have such inane conversations.
Little does Horse know, but there will come a point in time when she will realize she taught her sister a little too effectively about how to tattle, or more accurately, how to threaten to tattle. Horse will have trained Rooster how to be a blackmailer, and whether the offense is true or not will be irrelevant. "I'll tell Mom you snuck out of the house last night unless you drive me to the mall." "I'll tell Mom I caught you smoking at school unless you do my math homework for me." "I'll tell Mom you're planning on running away with your boyfriend unless you give me a hundred bucks." At some point, Rooster will fight back. It will be an epic battle between the blackmailers.
Lucky for my kidlets, they have a mother who is willing to teach them as much as she knows about dealing with blackmailing siblings. My advice is to say, "Go ahead and tell her." If the threat in question is a lie, invariably the liar will be found out and in serious trouble. If it is the truth, being able to fess up, apologize, and make amends will set the misbehaving kidlet free.
I am truly curious which of my girls will comprehend that lesson first. I just hope it's learned before any of us has a need for Depends.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
You'd think I'd be used to the lack of sleep by now...
Parenthood is one of those groups that once you're admitted, you've pretty much accept that you will never sleep again. At least it sure feels that way sometimes. I don't know about you, but I am long past the days where pulling an all-nighter sounds like fun.
At the current moment in time, I have two kidlets who are massively congested, although not feverish, and one kidlet whose belly feels bloated. It probably won't be until school lets out in June that the kidlets will all be healthy at the same time again, truth be told. The bloated belly kidlet is enough to have me sleeping lightly, if at all, but I must admit I was not expecting yesterday's all-nighter to be with one of the congested kidlets.
After the kidlets went to bed, I could hear Pig Jr. coughing every half hour or so. Huh. I could not tell if that meant he was coughing in his sleep or if he was waking up to cough. By the time my head hit the pillow, I was exhausted, but waking up every time I could hear my son coughing. At some point, I realized he was coughing much more frequently, and I got up, helped him blow his nose, gave him some water, checked his temperature, and tried to get him to fall back to sleep. That last one was next to impossible with him coughing every thirty seconds or so.
After a little bit, I could hear my son's cough change from the loose, congested cough it had been thus far into the night, until it became tight and wheezy. Time to break out the nebulizer. God Bless Albuterol. His breathing treatment worked, his breathing became calmer, the coughing disappeared, and Pig Jr. was finally able to get back to sleep around two in the morning. This was one of the "good" nights then.
I, on the other hand, was not able to drop off into La-la Land. I find it next to impossible to sleep when I am worried about my kidlet's breathing. I have the internal debate over whether I can no longer hear Pig Jr.'s breathing because his breathing treatment worked, or because he stopped breathing entirely. Obviously, this mental debate winds up having me ensure breathing is actually taking place. Thankfully, Pig Jr. can generally sleep through me putting my hand on his back to make sure I feel his rhythmic breathing.
Coughs and colds are a part of life, as much as I wish they were not. My oldest still catches every cold within a fifty-mile radius of her, but I never have to spend the night making sure she is not struggling to breathe. It's a lot harder with a reactive airways kidlet.
I'm five years older now than I was when Horse was dealing with her preschool germs and viruses, too. I honestly don't know how some people have babies in their forties and fifties. How on earth do they survive these all-nighters? As it is, I feel like I have been zombified by this lack of sleep. Naptime, here I come! (Provided, of course, that Pig Jr. will sleep through his nap so I can sleep through mine. Wish me luck.)
At the current moment in time, I have two kidlets who are massively congested, although not feverish, and one kidlet whose belly feels bloated. It probably won't be until school lets out in June that the kidlets will all be healthy at the same time again, truth be told. The bloated belly kidlet is enough to have me sleeping lightly, if at all, but I must admit I was not expecting yesterday's all-nighter to be with one of the congested kidlets.
After the kidlets went to bed, I could hear Pig Jr. coughing every half hour or so. Huh. I could not tell if that meant he was coughing in his sleep or if he was waking up to cough. By the time my head hit the pillow, I was exhausted, but waking up every time I could hear my son coughing. At some point, I realized he was coughing much more frequently, and I got up, helped him blow his nose, gave him some water, checked his temperature, and tried to get him to fall back to sleep. That last one was next to impossible with him coughing every thirty seconds or so.
After a little bit, I could hear my son's cough change from the loose, congested cough it had been thus far into the night, until it became tight and wheezy. Time to break out the nebulizer. God Bless Albuterol. His breathing treatment worked, his breathing became calmer, the coughing disappeared, and Pig Jr. was finally able to get back to sleep around two in the morning. This was one of the "good" nights then.
I, on the other hand, was not able to drop off into La-la Land. I find it next to impossible to sleep when I am worried about my kidlet's breathing. I have the internal debate over whether I can no longer hear Pig Jr.'s breathing because his breathing treatment worked, or because he stopped breathing entirely. Obviously, this mental debate winds up having me ensure breathing is actually taking place. Thankfully, Pig Jr. can generally sleep through me putting my hand on his back to make sure I feel his rhythmic breathing.
Coughs and colds are a part of life, as much as I wish they were not. My oldest still catches every cold within a fifty-mile radius of her, but I never have to spend the night making sure she is not struggling to breathe. It's a lot harder with a reactive airways kidlet.
I'm five years older now than I was when Horse was dealing with her preschool germs and viruses, too. I honestly don't know how some people have babies in their forties and fifties. How on earth do they survive these all-nighters? As it is, I feel like I have been zombified by this lack of sleep. Naptime, here I come! (Provided, of course, that Pig Jr. will sleep through his nap so I can sleep through mine. Wish me luck.)
Monday, February 13, 2012
Reality Check, Please!
Today was one of those mornings where I managed to get myself up and functioning early enough to throw on a load of laundry before I even woke the kidlets up at half past six. I felt relieved that I was able to start the laundry so early because I had a bunch of errands planned for after I dropped the kidlets off at school, and wasn't sure when I would be home again to continue with it. Huzzah for getting all my ducks lined up in a row!
Did I mention ducks? It was more like counting chickens before they were hatched. Horse woke up with a nasty cold. Her nose was like a leaky faucet that just could not stop running. Her eyes looked miserable, with the glassy look to them and huge circles underneath. When she started coughing, she found it difficult to stop, and the coughing hurt her throat. Okay, she stayed home today, and I crossed my errands off my list of things to accomplish. I seriously hope I have enough food in the house to get us through dinner.
Next, I went in to wake up Pig Jr. He, too, was congested, but that was not the biggest problem there. His soaking wet sheets were. Remember how I had just started a load of laundry? Suddenly, I found myself up to my eyeballs in more laundry that absolutely had to be cleaned that also had to wait for the first round of wash to be completed. Not only that, but Pig Jr. required a shower immediately. Thankfully, the hot water lasted long enough to get him washed and dressed in dry clothing. An unexpected bonus was that it helped clear up some of his congestion, although he needed help to blow his nose properly.
By the time I headed out the door to get two of the kidlets off to school, I had been clenching my jaw hard enough that my teeth hurt like the dickens.
After the morning drop-off routine, I figured I would use my unexpected time at home to not only wash a bunch of sheets I wasn't planning on cleaning, but also to make up a cake as a Valentine's Day surprise for my family for the Hallmark holiday tomorrow. The first layer promptly broke in half and crumbled to bits when I attempted to remove it from the pan. Lovely. I decided to keep the second layer in the pan and just frost it in there lest it decide to imitate its partner.
I then called a bunch of doctors and dentists to schedule all of the appointments that are overdue for each of my family members. The scariest was the orthodontist for Horse. She gets to go in for an evaluation, which is "free," but it will cost us $350 just to sit down to determine what she needs and to sign up for a payment plan. My delusions of spending our tax refund money on anything other than braces suddenly went the way of the dodo bird.
And speaking of tax refunds, I still have to finish sorting through our receipts to get ready to have our taxes done. I sense more jaw-clenching in my immediate future.
I think I'm done with today already, and it's just a little past noon.
Did I mention ducks? It was more like counting chickens before they were hatched. Horse woke up with a nasty cold. Her nose was like a leaky faucet that just could not stop running. Her eyes looked miserable, with the glassy look to them and huge circles underneath. When she started coughing, she found it difficult to stop, and the coughing hurt her throat. Okay, she stayed home today, and I crossed my errands off my list of things to accomplish. I seriously hope I have enough food in the house to get us through dinner.
Next, I went in to wake up Pig Jr. He, too, was congested, but that was not the biggest problem there. His soaking wet sheets were. Remember how I had just started a load of laundry? Suddenly, I found myself up to my eyeballs in more laundry that absolutely had to be cleaned that also had to wait for the first round of wash to be completed. Not only that, but Pig Jr. required a shower immediately. Thankfully, the hot water lasted long enough to get him washed and dressed in dry clothing. An unexpected bonus was that it helped clear up some of his congestion, although he needed help to blow his nose properly.
By the time I headed out the door to get two of the kidlets off to school, I had been clenching my jaw hard enough that my teeth hurt like the dickens.
After the morning drop-off routine, I figured I would use my unexpected time at home to not only wash a bunch of sheets I wasn't planning on cleaning, but also to make up a cake as a Valentine's Day surprise for my family for the Hallmark holiday tomorrow. The first layer promptly broke in half and crumbled to bits when I attempted to remove it from the pan. Lovely. I decided to keep the second layer in the pan and just frost it in there lest it decide to imitate its partner.
I then called a bunch of doctors and dentists to schedule all of the appointments that are overdue for each of my family members. The scariest was the orthodontist for Horse. She gets to go in for an evaluation, which is "free," but it will cost us $350 just to sit down to determine what she needs and to sign up for a payment plan. My delusions of spending our tax refund money on anything other than braces suddenly went the way of the dodo bird.
And speaking of tax refunds, I still have to finish sorting through our receipts to get ready to have our taxes done. I sense more jaw-clenching in my immediate future.
I think I'm done with today already, and it's just a little past noon.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
I am thankful...
I am thankful.
I am thankful that my husband gets the kidlets up on weekend mornings so I can get back to sleep for a bit after having to get up early to take my reflux meds. I am thankful the kidlets listen to his request to keep it down to a dull roar so Mommy can sleep.
I am thankful for my family. Many people are not blessed with a loving spouse and three adorable (if I do say so myself) kidlets. I cannot picture my life without them, and I thank God every day for allowing them into my life. I am thankful I have been able to be a stay-at-home mother to my kidlets, and have been able to witness every milestone, for the most part, firsthand. I am thankful my husband was able to experience the milestone of two of the kidlets learning how to ride a bicycle. His long hours at work do not enable him to be there for all of the "firsts," so I am thankful he was the one to help them succeed without training wheels.
Since two of my three kidlets now have a cold, I am thankful this is hitting them this weekend, so they might be feeling better and be able to go to school this week. I am thankful for competing tissue companies that are vying to make the most comfortably soft tissues for my kidlets' runny noses.
I am thankful for my husband's job, not only so we can finance the kidlets' soft tissue habit, but so we can afford food, clothing, shelter, and my habit of turning up the thermostat to seventy-four degrees during winter days. I am thankful that our desire to sell our house is by choice instead of impending foreclosure.
I am thankful for the train system in place in our part of the state, so my husband can travel into work without leaving me without a vehicle or requiring us to finance a second car. I am thankful for his train buddies and his ability to relax and shoot the breeze with them at the end of a long day of work.
I am thankful we have a functioning washing machine and dryer so I can get three heaping hampers' worth of clothing cleaned all in one day without needing to go to a laundromat. I am thankful women in my neck of the woods (I can't speak for the rest of the world) are no longer required to beat their laundry with stones in a stream, scrub them on a washboard after heating the water on the stove, or having to wring sopping wet clothing out by hand in order to clean them. I am thankful that dryers make it easier for those of us with allergies to dry our sheets and clothing without having pollens clinging to everything and making it difficult to breathe.
I am thankful for the Internet allowing us to look up pretty much anything that can cross our minds and allowing us to find answers. I am thankful my kidlets have not (as of yet) asked me anything I would be leery of helping them google.
I am thankful for grocery stores that sell foods that are safe for my food allergy family to consume. I am thankful for advances in the medical field that allowed us to get to the root of quite a few medical issues in our family. I am thankful for the medicines that allow us to live life as close to normally as possible.
I am thankful for a friend who had me over for a movie night last night. I am thankful my husband supports my having a life outside of our family. I am thankful the kidlets did not cheer the second the door closed behind me. (Give it a few years. I'm sure when they are teenagers, they will be glad to see me leave the house for a couple of hours!) I am thankful it was a comedy, which helped me to relax and unwind after a long day.
I am thankful for a million other things today. It's just that kind of day. I find it hard to look around me and not realize just how thankful I am for everything.
I am thankful for you being willing to read this, too.
I am thankful that my husband gets the kidlets up on weekend mornings so I can get back to sleep for a bit after having to get up early to take my reflux meds. I am thankful the kidlets listen to his request to keep it down to a dull roar so Mommy can sleep.
I am thankful for my family. Many people are not blessed with a loving spouse and three adorable (if I do say so myself) kidlets. I cannot picture my life without them, and I thank God every day for allowing them into my life. I am thankful I have been able to be a stay-at-home mother to my kidlets, and have been able to witness every milestone, for the most part, firsthand. I am thankful my husband was able to experience the milestone of two of the kidlets learning how to ride a bicycle. His long hours at work do not enable him to be there for all of the "firsts," so I am thankful he was the one to help them succeed without training wheels.
Since two of my three kidlets now have a cold, I am thankful this is hitting them this weekend, so they might be feeling better and be able to go to school this week. I am thankful for competing tissue companies that are vying to make the most comfortably soft tissues for my kidlets' runny noses.
I am thankful for my husband's job, not only so we can finance the kidlets' soft tissue habit, but so we can afford food, clothing, shelter, and my habit of turning up the thermostat to seventy-four degrees during winter days. I am thankful that our desire to sell our house is by choice instead of impending foreclosure.
I am thankful for the train system in place in our part of the state, so my husband can travel into work without leaving me without a vehicle or requiring us to finance a second car. I am thankful for his train buddies and his ability to relax and shoot the breeze with them at the end of a long day of work.
I am thankful we have a functioning washing machine and dryer so I can get three heaping hampers' worth of clothing cleaned all in one day without needing to go to a laundromat. I am thankful women in my neck of the woods (I can't speak for the rest of the world) are no longer required to beat their laundry with stones in a stream, scrub them on a washboard after heating the water on the stove, or having to wring sopping wet clothing out by hand in order to clean them. I am thankful that dryers make it easier for those of us with allergies to dry our sheets and clothing without having pollens clinging to everything and making it difficult to breathe.
I am thankful for the Internet allowing us to look up pretty much anything that can cross our minds and allowing us to find answers. I am thankful my kidlets have not (as of yet) asked me anything I would be leery of helping them google.
I am thankful for grocery stores that sell foods that are safe for my food allergy family to consume. I am thankful for advances in the medical field that allowed us to get to the root of quite a few medical issues in our family. I am thankful for the medicines that allow us to live life as close to normally as possible.
I am thankful for a friend who had me over for a movie night last night. I am thankful my husband supports my having a life outside of our family. I am thankful the kidlets did not cheer the second the door closed behind me. (Give it a few years. I'm sure when they are teenagers, they will be glad to see me leave the house for a couple of hours!) I am thankful it was a comedy, which helped me to relax and unwind after a long day.
I am thankful for a million other things today. It's just that kind of day. I find it hard to look around me and not realize just how thankful I am for everything.
I am thankful for you being willing to read this, too.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Musical Malaise
A number of years ago, I loved to watch a particular movie. I was severely depressed at the time, dealing with some of the lowest self-esteem known to humankind, and for whatever reason found some sense of peace when watching that movie.
Nowadays, that movie only serves to remind me of a rather dark time in my life. You could not pay me enough to sit through it ever again, and even listening to its soundtrack is enough to turn me into a quivering mass of self-loathing. Unfortunately, its theme song is one that my daughter's piano teacher absolutely loves.
The end result of the love affair between my daughter's piano teacher and this particular song is that I have had to listen to this song being played daily for the past couple of months and counting. I now dread the time of day when my daughter practices the piano because it will force me to listen to a song that conjures up an emotional state of being that I never wanted to deal with again.
I had once read about the dangers of light therapy when not under the care of a licensed therapist. If memory serves, this was in a book called too loud too bright too fast too tight by Sharon Heller, Ph.D. I had been reading up on sensory issues, and this book was recommended to me as being one of the few books out there, if not the only one, that deals with this subject in adults. It was mentioned that light therapy can benefit those adults with sensory issues, but it can trigger memories or repressed emotions that are unexpected, and should therefore be used solely in conjunction with therapy.
Before reading about that topic, it had never occurred to me that certain lights could possibly trigger anything. I knew that fluorescent lighting makes life miserable for me, but I had not put any thought to what that really meant. Thinking about it now, I believe that music also has the same capability, except in an auditory manner instead of visual. Sounds impact on our senses in a different manner than light does, but they can still trigger a wide variety of emotions and memories.
Well, I certainly now know just how badly one song can impact on my daily routine. Heck, I'm wondering whether I need a therapist just to weather the daily piano practicing. The second I recognize the tune, I feel absolutely horrible. I want to just crawl into a hole and hide there until Doomsday. The song itself is quite melodious and should, in theory, be relaxing. My reaction to it is not.
My daughter knows nothing about how this song grates on my every last nerve. She knows I am not fond of the music since I once slipped up and told her that music was not my favorite of all her pieces and had been glad her teacher finally thought she mastered it. Little did I know her piano teacher would then ask her to continue to practice it so they could play it together as a duet. I know it is important to encourage her to practice so she grows with her natural talent at the keyboard. I just don't have a clue how to fake liking it enough so she does not develop her own issues with the song.
Nowadays, that movie only serves to remind me of a rather dark time in my life. You could not pay me enough to sit through it ever again, and even listening to its soundtrack is enough to turn me into a quivering mass of self-loathing. Unfortunately, its theme song is one that my daughter's piano teacher absolutely loves.
The end result of the love affair between my daughter's piano teacher and this particular song is that I have had to listen to this song being played daily for the past couple of months and counting. I now dread the time of day when my daughter practices the piano because it will force me to listen to a song that conjures up an emotional state of being that I never wanted to deal with again.
I had once read about the dangers of light therapy when not under the care of a licensed therapist. If memory serves, this was in a book called too loud too bright too fast too tight by Sharon Heller, Ph.D. I had been reading up on sensory issues, and this book was recommended to me as being one of the few books out there, if not the only one, that deals with this subject in adults. It was mentioned that light therapy can benefit those adults with sensory issues, but it can trigger memories or repressed emotions that are unexpected, and should therefore be used solely in conjunction with therapy.
Before reading about that topic, it had never occurred to me that certain lights could possibly trigger anything. I knew that fluorescent lighting makes life miserable for me, but I had not put any thought to what that really meant. Thinking about it now, I believe that music also has the same capability, except in an auditory manner instead of visual. Sounds impact on our senses in a different manner than light does, but they can still trigger a wide variety of emotions and memories.
Well, I certainly now know just how badly one song can impact on my daily routine. Heck, I'm wondering whether I need a therapist just to weather the daily piano practicing. The second I recognize the tune, I feel absolutely horrible. I want to just crawl into a hole and hide there until Doomsday. The song itself is quite melodious and should, in theory, be relaxing. My reaction to it is not.
My daughter knows nothing about how this song grates on my every last nerve. She knows I am not fond of the music since I once slipped up and told her that music was not my favorite of all her pieces and had been glad her teacher finally thought she mastered it. Little did I know her piano teacher would then ask her to continue to practice it so they could play it together as a duet. I know it is important to encourage her to practice so she grows with her natural talent at the keyboard. I just don't have a clue how to fake liking it enough so she does not develop her own issues with the song.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Snooping is Required
In just a short period of time, my eldest will be the recipient of a laptop. In lieu of a birthday party, this is set to be her big gift for turning ten. As much as I wish such technology was unnecessary for my offspring, my fourth grader has been required to do a fair number of projects that are somehow based on specific websites or using search engines. I am not entirely sure what happened to requiring students to go to the library to do research with actual books, but it appears to have gone the way of the dinosaur.
Anyway, we are about to embark on a new journey into this land of kidlet-owned technology. As her parents, we are going to do our darnedest to supervise our daughter's forays into the world wide web. Will she be allowed to have Facebook or other social media accounts? No stinkin' way at age ten! As she gets closer to adulthood, we'll discuss this further, but even then we shall require her to give us full access to her accounts. The same holds true for email, although we will probably let her have her own email account (with privacy settings such that the only people with whom she can communicate will be her extended family) once she has the laptop. Every single account she ever opens, every thing she puts out there in cyber-space will have the possibility of being read by us, at least until she becomes a legal adult.
Some parents disagree with us on this one. Their children should have their privacy. How dare a parent snoop through their offspring's online activities?
I dare. Anything that gets put out there online has the ability to be copied, pasted, shared, forwarded, etc. Once it's out there, there is no more privacy. You never know just how far your words travel, and if my child is putting something out there, I demand to know what that is. You lose your right to privacy the second you post, share, or send something. This is as much to protect my child as to protect other people's children. I don't want my child badmouthing, bullying, disrespecting, or intimidating anyone. She might get miffed at a friend of hers, or more likely, with us, and I want her to know that once angry, typed words get put out there, they cannot be withdrawn. If she knows her parents are going to be supervising her Internet usage, then she might think twice before posting something for the world to see. (She might, potentially, post something just to intentionally tick us off, but that would result in negative consequences for her, depending on the severity of the situation.)
Let's not forget what else is lurking out there in cyber-space. I don't want my child entering into an online relationship with someone who claims to be a boy her age and is instead a lecherous old man with vile intentions. There is too much evil in the world to be trusting that a child is capable of recognizing it and protecting him or herself from it. Sometimes it is even difficult for an adult to recognize, so why would we expect our children to spot it on sight? But even if the warning signs are there, unless you physically see the signs and talk to your child about it, your child might not notice the danger until it is too late.
Even if my daughter knows someone with whom she is communicating, I want to know if she is being bullied by someone online. Cyber-bullying, from what I have read in various sources, can actually be worse than bullying someone in person. In theory, every parent and child relationship should be open enough where the child feels safe enough to discuss concerns with their parent, but that is not always the case.
In my opinion, anywhere a computer or the Internet is concerned, it is a parent's duty to snoop. You are not reading a child's diary or rooting through their drawers (both of which, in my opinion, are justified only if there are unexplained behavioral changes that imply substance abuse, depression, or other situations where parental intervention would be required) when monitoring a minor's online activities. You might even be legally responsible for their actions online, so you might as well know what they are getting themselves involved with and teach them how to behave appropriately. Once they put something out there, it might be there forever, and it can and will be traced back to your home and Internet service provider anyway.
Anyway, we are about to embark on a new journey into this land of kidlet-owned technology. As her parents, we are going to do our darnedest to supervise our daughter's forays into the world wide web. Will she be allowed to have Facebook or other social media accounts? No stinkin' way at age ten! As she gets closer to adulthood, we'll discuss this further, but even then we shall require her to give us full access to her accounts. The same holds true for email, although we will probably let her have her own email account (with privacy settings such that the only people with whom she can communicate will be her extended family) once she has the laptop. Every single account she ever opens, every thing she puts out there in cyber-space will have the possibility of being read by us, at least until she becomes a legal adult.
Some parents disagree with us on this one. Their children should have their privacy. How dare a parent snoop through their offspring's online activities?
I dare. Anything that gets put out there online has the ability to be copied, pasted, shared, forwarded, etc. Once it's out there, there is no more privacy. You never know just how far your words travel, and if my child is putting something out there, I demand to know what that is. You lose your right to privacy the second you post, share, or send something. This is as much to protect my child as to protect other people's children. I don't want my child badmouthing, bullying, disrespecting, or intimidating anyone. She might get miffed at a friend of hers, or more likely, with us, and I want her to know that once angry, typed words get put out there, they cannot be withdrawn. If she knows her parents are going to be supervising her Internet usage, then she might think twice before posting something for the world to see. (She might, potentially, post something just to intentionally tick us off, but that would result in negative consequences for her, depending on the severity of the situation.)
Let's not forget what else is lurking out there in cyber-space. I don't want my child entering into an online relationship with someone who claims to be a boy her age and is instead a lecherous old man with vile intentions. There is too much evil in the world to be trusting that a child is capable of recognizing it and protecting him or herself from it. Sometimes it is even difficult for an adult to recognize, so why would we expect our children to spot it on sight? But even if the warning signs are there, unless you physically see the signs and talk to your child about it, your child might not notice the danger until it is too late.
Even if my daughter knows someone with whom she is communicating, I want to know if she is being bullied by someone online. Cyber-bullying, from what I have read in various sources, can actually be worse than bullying someone in person. In theory, every parent and child relationship should be open enough where the child feels safe enough to discuss concerns with their parent, but that is not always the case.
In my opinion, anywhere a computer or the Internet is concerned, it is a parent's duty to snoop. You are not reading a child's diary or rooting through their drawers (both of which, in my opinion, are justified only if there are unexplained behavioral changes that imply substance abuse, depression, or other situations where parental intervention would be required) when monitoring a minor's online activities. You might even be legally responsible for their actions online, so you might as well know what they are getting themselves involved with and teach them how to behave appropriately. Once they put something out there, it might be there forever, and it can and will be traced back to your home and Internet service provider anyway.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Breakfast Conversations
My kidlets come up with some of the oddest things over breakfast. At least they seem that way at the time, typically because my body might be up and functioning, but my brain is still asleep under the covers. Since I rarely have the opportunity to ingest caffeine to clear away the mental cobwebs, I sometimes struggle to keep up with the kidlets' conversations. This morning was no exception.
Rooster: "Is God going to live forever in heaven?"
Horse: "He can't die, you know. He's just like Santa."
Rooster: "But Santa is going to die. He's a really old guy."
Horse: "He's magical. He can't die!"
Rooster: "No, Santa is going to die. But God knows everything, just like Santa!"
Horse: "Seriously, will you stop saying Santa is going to die?"
Rooster: "You know why God knows everything? It's because He's an adult!"
At that point, I debated chiming in simply to ask at what point adults become omniscient, because I clearly have not reached that state of life yet. However, by the time my dumber-than-dirt (at least before noon on days when I don't ingest caffeine) brain could formulate words on this subject, the girls had decided they would rather argue over who could finish their breakfast the fastest.
While his sisters argued, Pig Jr. was busy trying to stack his Cheerios into a scale model of The Leaning Tower of Pisa. At least that's what I think he was attempting. He did not say a single word on the subject, or any subject for that matter. Right around the same time Rooster and Horse left the table to argue over who could brush their teeth better (Yay for an argument where both kidlets wind up doing a great job on that task!), Pig Jr. claimed he was done with breakfast and asked to be excused from the table. That was the sum extent of his talking.
At least I have one kidlet whose conversation can be easily followed first thing in the morning.
Rooster: "Is God going to live forever in heaven?"
Horse: "He can't die, you know. He's just like Santa."
Rooster: "But Santa is going to die. He's a really old guy."
Horse: "He's magical. He can't die!"
Rooster: "No, Santa is going to die. But God knows everything, just like Santa!"
Horse: "Seriously, will you stop saying Santa is going to die?"
Rooster: "You know why God knows everything? It's because He's an adult!"
At that point, I debated chiming in simply to ask at what point adults become omniscient, because I clearly have not reached that state of life yet. However, by the time my dumber-than-dirt (at least before noon on days when I don't ingest caffeine) brain could formulate words on this subject, the girls had decided they would rather argue over who could finish their breakfast the fastest.
While his sisters argued, Pig Jr. was busy trying to stack his Cheerios into a scale model of The Leaning Tower of Pisa. At least that's what I think he was attempting. He did not say a single word on the subject, or any subject for that matter. Right around the same time Rooster and Horse left the table to argue over who could brush their teeth better (Yay for an argument where both kidlets wind up doing a great job on that task!), Pig Jr. claimed he was done with breakfast and asked to be excused from the table. That was the sum extent of his talking.
At least I have one kidlet whose conversation can be easily followed first thing in the morning.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
My Love/Hate Relationship with Exercise
Yesterday morning, I opened my jeans drawer only to discover that the three pairs of jeans that actually fit over my hips were currently residing in the hamper. Dang it. I figured I could throw a load of clothes in the washer, but I needed to wear something other than pajama bottoms to take the kidlets to school. Back in the far recesses of my mind, I remembered using a rubber band around the button and through the buttonhole instead of buttoning up my jeans when I had been pregnant and not willing to break out the maternity pants just yet. Grumbling, I pulled out a pair of jeans that had not fit me for months, and got ready to hunt down a rubber band.
Instead, much to my surprise, those jeans fit. They even fit comfortably. I buttoned them up without having to suck in my gut, and was able to zip them up easily, even over the top of the thermal layer of pants I wear in the winter and after tucking in my shirt. Huzzah! My exercise routine is starting to pay off already!
Just a few days ago, I had assembled my very first recumbent exercise bike, and I have been using it every day since then. Granted, I am not spending oodles of time on it, but twenty minutes a day, plus the five-minute stretching to both warm up and cool down, means I have a half hour to myself that also gives me the chance to catch up on some reading. I have not really had the chance to see much more than a couple of pounds disappear, which may or may not mean anything due to how weight can fluctuate anyway, but having those jeans finally fit again implies to me that this is working.
After yesterday's blissful jeans experience, I decided to do a short workout on the Wii Fit (I have a program of exercises on which I am concentrating.) and then do my twenty-minute cycling. This was the first time I combined the two different types of exercising.
I first realized this was a mistake when I sat down to start pedalling and my legs did not want to move from their position with my feet on the floor. They were tired already, dang it, and I had not even started using my exercise bike yet. I lowered the resistance level to make it less difficult, but still had to remind myself to keep pedalling. By the time the timer said I had worked out for five minutes, I was sweating, exhausted, not really paying much attention to what I was reading, and monitoring my heartbeat to make sure I was staying within the proper zone. (Sadly, I was, so I couldn't even use that as an excuse to slow it down.) Another five minutes later, and I was no longer even attempting to read my book. Five minutes after that and I was wondering if I should have moved the phone closer so that if I collapsed I could still reach it to dial 9-1-1. By the time the timer beeped at the end of those twenty minutes of torture, I had convinced myself I would never be able to walk again.
Thankfully, after just a few stretches and walking around a bit, I felt right back to normal. Ingesting a glass of water helped, too. I am no longer positive that it is a good idea to use the Wii Fit right before pedalling my legs right off my body, but I shall probably attempt it again just to see if it gets easier.
I hate how I feel while I am exercising, but darned if I'm going to stop it now that the results starting to show.
Instead, much to my surprise, those jeans fit. They even fit comfortably. I buttoned them up without having to suck in my gut, and was able to zip them up easily, even over the top of the thermal layer of pants I wear in the winter and after tucking in my shirt. Huzzah! My exercise routine is starting to pay off already!
Just a few days ago, I had assembled my very first recumbent exercise bike, and I have been using it every day since then. Granted, I am not spending oodles of time on it, but twenty minutes a day, plus the five-minute stretching to both warm up and cool down, means I have a half hour to myself that also gives me the chance to catch up on some reading. I have not really had the chance to see much more than a couple of pounds disappear, which may or may not mean anything due to how weight can fluctuate anyway, but having those jeans finally fit again implies to me that this is working.
After yesterday's blissful jeans experience, I decided to do a short workout on the Wii Fit (I have a program of exercises on which I am concentrating.) and then do my twenty-minute cycling. This was the first time I combined the two different types of exercising.
I first realized this was a mistake when I sat down to start pedalling and my legs did not want to move from their position with my feet on the floor. They were tired already, dang it, and I had not even started using my exercise bike yet. I lowered the resistance level to make it less difficult, but still had to remind myself to keep pedalling. By the time the timer said I had worked out for five minutes, I was sweating, exhausted, not really paying much attention to what I was reading, and monitoring my heartbeat to make sure I was staying within the proper zone. (Sadly, I was, so I couldn't even use that as an excuse to slow it down.) Another five minutes later, and I was no longer even attempting to read my book. Five minutes after that and I was wondering if I should have moved the phone closer so that if I collapsed I could still reach it to dial 9-1-1. By the time the timer beeped at the end of those twenty minutes of torture, I had convinced myself I would never be able to walk again.
Thankfully, after just a few stretches and walking around a bit, I felt right back to normal. Ingesting a glass of water helped, too. I am no longer positive that it is a good idea to use the Wii Fit right before pedalling my legs right off my body, but I shall probably attempt it again just to see if it gets easier.
I hate how I feel while I am exercising, but darned if I'm going to stop it now that the results starting to show.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Howdy, Mr. Police Officer!
I overheard a parent chuckle at pick-up time at school today. He was staring off in space, or so I thought, so I asked him what he found so amusing. He pointed to the police officer who was just starting to walk back down the street. His assumption was that the police officer finally started giving people tickets for parking illegally, and it was about darn time.
This father explained how he, at forty-one years of age, could still remember a bunch of laws pertaining to parking. You don't park within fifty feet of a stop sign. You don't park within fifty feet of a corner. You don't park next to a yellow curb. You definitely don't park next to a fire hydrant. Parking between two signs marked "No parking between signs" should also be a no-brainer. This other parent said he could not figure out why if he can remember all of these things, then how can people a lot younger than him have forgotten these rules when they are closer to the age when they applied for their driver's license? Good question.
Apparently, the police in our district were wondering the exact same thing. The new police chief had (according to this same individual) just read his staff the riot act about what they are supposed to be doing when at the school for pick-up and drop-off times. Whether this is true or not is not my concern, but I'm all for whatever convinces the police department to start ticketing those who are breaking various laws.
It's not just our school district that has issues with all sorts of erratic, illegal, and just flat-out crazy behavior by drivers attempting to get their kids to or from school. I hear from a number of other parents who deal with the same thing not only in my state, but in others as well. It really makes me wonder why parents who supposedly care for the welfare of their own children would knowingly endanger their own and other students, too. ("It's okay if I double-park in front of a fire hydrant to load my kids in the car after school lets out. Heck, it's not like I even make sure they are sitting down, let alone seatbelted, while I am driving! Oh, and then I'll pull into traffic without signalling or looking first. I'm sure the other drivers have good insurance that will cover the damage if I hit them or run over their kids.")
So to the police officer who we were assuming was writing tickets to those parked illegally, I applaud your actions. Good for you. I only hope that the recipients of said tickets own up to their actions and pay their fines rather than dragging you into court to fight it. Maybe, just maybe they will wind up teaching their children about having accountability for their actions and the importance of actually obeying the law.
This father explained how he, at forty-one years of age, could still remember a bunch of laws pertaining to parking. You don't park within fifty feet of a stop sign. You don't park within fifty feet of a corner. You don't park next to a yellow curb. You definitely don't park next to a fire hydrant. Parking between two signs marked "No parking between signs" should also be a no-brainer. This other parent said he could not figure out why if he can remember all of these things, then how can people a lot younger than him have forgotten these rules when they are closer to the age when they applied for their driver's license? Good question.
Apparently, the police in our district were wondering the exact same thing. The new police chief had (according to this same individual) just read his staff the riot act about what they are supposed to be doing when at the school for pick-up and drop-off times. Whether this is true or not is not my concern, but I'm all for whatever convinces the police department to start ticketing those who are breaking various laws.
It's not just our school district that has issues with all sorts of erratic, illegal, and just flat-out crazy behavior by drivers attempting to get their kids to or from school. I hear from a number of other parents who deal with the same thing not only in my state, but in others as well. It really makes me wonder why parents who supposedly care for the welfare of their own children would knowingly endanger their own and other students, too. ("It's okay if I double-park in front of a fire hydrant to load my kids in the car after school lets out. Heck, it's not like I even make sure they are sitting down, let alone seatbelted, while I am driving! Oh, and then I'll pull into traffic without signalling or looking first. I'm sure the other drivers have good insurance that will cover the damage if I hit them or run over their kids.")
So to the police officer who we were assuming was writing tickets to those parked illegally, I applaud your actions. Good for you. I only hope that the recipients of said tickets own up to their actions and pay their fines rather than dragging you into court to fight it. Maybe, just maybe they will wind up teaching their children about having accountability for their actions and the importance of actually obeying the law.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Sleepy Mondays...
It was a long night, with neither an overabundance of darkness or storminess. (It was also not the best nor the worst of times. Oh, and if you call me Ishmael, I will not respond. Okay, stupid first-line jokes are done now. Carry on.) Rooster scared the daylights out of me, which is kind of hard to do around midnight, by opening my closed bedroom door when Pig and I were sound asleep. None of the kidlets have ever, and I do mean ever, opened my bedroom door without knocking before now. I jumped about three feet in the air, convinced that someone must have broken in to our house to rob us. It took me a moment to realize that the "robber" was close to four feet tall and crying.
The end result was that Rooster kept waking up with bad dreams, and although she fell back to sleep easily enough, her poor sister, who is stuck sharing a room with her, was unable to fall back to sleep until around the time I had to wake them up for school. Horse looked like death warmed over when she staggered out of bed to eat breakfast, so I told her she could stay home from school and rest.
Horse was still tired after I got the other two kidlets off to school, but she slept for awhile. When she woke up, she and I had homemade hot chocolate together, which made her temporarily forget that she was missing out on her school's book fair by staying home today. We ran a couple of errands, picked out a bunch of spring and summer clothing for her in the next larger size, and then came back home so she could rest some more. She was still exhausted, but I didn't want her to sleep for too long or she might have issues falling asleep tonight, thus perpetuating the cycle. A couple more errands later, and we headed off to school to pick up the younger kidlets, and our usual afternoon routine started.
It's been so long since I had a day with just my eldest child home from school. Most of the time, if the kidlets are home, they are sick. That's a whole different ballgame than just having a sleepy Monday with my older daughter. It's a bit of a shame that she likes school so much, because I would be sorely tempted to keep her home more often just to enjoy spending time with her.
The end result was that Rooster kept waking up with bad dreams, and although she fell back to sleep easily enough, her poor sister, who is stuck sharing a room with her, was unable to fall back to sleep until around the time I had to wake them up for school. Horse looked like death warmed over when she staggered out of bed to eat breakfast, so I told her she could stay home from school and rest.
Horse was still tired after I got the other two kidlets off to school, but she slept for awhile. When she woke up, she and I had homemade hot chocolate together, which made her temporarily forget that she was missing out on her school's book fair by staying home today. We ran a couple of errands, picked out a bunch of spring and summer clothing for her in the next larger size, and then came back home so she could rest some more. She was still exhausted, but I didn't want her to sleep for too long or she might have issues falling asleep tonight, thus perpetuating the cycle. A couple more errands later, and we headed off to school to pick up the younger kidlets, and our usual afternoon routine started.
It's been so long since I had a day with just my eldest child home from school. Most of the time, if the kidlets are home, they are sick. That's a whole different ballgame than just having a sleepy Monday with my older daughter. It's a bit of a shame that she likes school so much, because I would be sorely tempted to keep her home more often just to enjoy spending time with her.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
R-rated Ironing
Not too long ago, I splurged and bought myself an uber ironing board. It's wider than a standard board, and even has a nifty-looking iron rest on the end of it. I bought a brand-new iron to go with the new ironing board, too. If I thought those shiny new "toys" would increase my desire to actually iron clothing, I was sadly misinformed.
The only clothes in our house that require ironing are my husband's work clothes. I try to take care of them during the school week when I am the only one in the house, but I had been rather busy this past week and had to take care of this dreaded chore today. Thankfully, my loving husband (who, let's be fair, doesn't want to have to iron his own dang clothes) decided to take the kidlets to a nearby empty parking lot to practice riding their bikes so that I could have the house to myself.
Operation Survive the Ironing was therefore in effect. My guilty pleasure while taking care of this task is to put on a violent, R-rated movie, and let things explode, be shot up, and otherwise vaporized while I am pretending to be Suzie Q. Homemaker. It is oddly soothing to be smoothing out wrinkles while murder and mayhem are taking place on our television screen. Clearly, this is not something that is possible to do with three kidlets under the age of ten running amok in the room with me.
Truth be told, I do not generally enjoy violent films. Even while ironing, I am not really looking at the screen. I am staring at whatever shirt or pair of pants I am mentally cursing as I try to make them look professional. It's not the act of violence I enjoy watching either. I suspect it has something to do with violent movies helping me to appreciate the mundane aspects of life as a stay-at-home mom. I might be stuck doing boring chores, but at least I wasn't just in an elevator that plummeted to the ground after its wires were cut. I might have to press pleats into the front of work pants, but my bullet-riddled body was not just tossed out of a window. I might have just burned my hand by accidentally hitting the edge of the iron, but I have not been chucked out the back of a moving vehicle in the middle of enemy territory in the dessert.
Whether the characters onscreen survive or not, doing the ironing is not something that typically kills people. I shall survive, and my husband will even have neatly-pressed clothing to show for it.
The only clothes in our house that require ironing are my husband's work clothes. I try to take care of them during the school week when I am the only one in the house, but I had been rather busy this past week and had to take care of this dreaded chore today. Thankfully, my loving husband (who, let's be fair, doesn't want to have to iron his own dang clothes) decided to take the kidlets to a nearby empty parking lot to practice riding their bikes so that I could have the house to myself.
Operation Survive the Ironing was therefore in effect. My guilty pleasure while taking care of this task is to put on a violent, R-rated movie, and let things explode, be shot up, and otherwise vaporized while I am pretending to be Suzie Q. Homemaker. It is oddly soothing to be smoothing out wrinkles while murder and mayhem are taking place on our television screen. Clearly, this is not something that is possible to do with three kidlets under the age of ten running amok in the room with me.
Truth be told, I do not generally enjoy violent films. Even while ironing, I am not really looking at the screen. I am staring at whatever shirt or pair of pants I am mentally cursing as I try to make them look professional. It's not the act of violence I enjoy watching either. I suspect it has something to do with violent movies helping me to appreciate the mundane aspects of life as a stay-at-home mom. I might be stuck doing boring chores, but at least I wasn't just in an elevator that plummeted to the ground after its wires were cut. I might have to press pleats into the front of work pants, but my bullet-riddled body was not just tossed out of a window. I might have just burned my hand by accidentally hitting the edge of the iron, but I have not been chucked out the back of a moving vehicle in the middle of enemy territory in the dessert.
Whether the characters onscreen survive or not, doing the ironing is not something that typically kills people. I shall survive, and my husband will even have neatly-pressed clothing to show for it.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Allergic to Soap
We have a ritual in our household. Every day, starting around the same time in late afternoon, the kidlets get showers, put on their pajamas, and relax and play while I am making dinner. There are some deviations from this daily ritual. Some days, unless we're in allergy season, Pig Jr. can skip the shower part because he's a kidlet who detests being dirty and never voluntarily plays with anything that might potentially get him sticky, dirty, or even remotely contaminated by whatever it is. On days when I take the girls to the library after dinner, they don another set of clothing instead of their pajamas. Other nights, the younger two have to skip a shower, and Horse gets cleaned up after dinner instead. Last night was not in any way, shape, or form a deviation from our normally established routine.
Because Pig Jr. is still just four years old, and a sensory kidlet, he requires help with the shower routine. The parent in charge must turn on the water, get out his washcloth, soap up said washcloth, put shampoo on his head once he is done cleaning his body, and help him rinse out his hair. The rest of it he handles himself, albeit grudgingly. This is a kidlet who doesn't like being wet, can't stand the feel of soap or shampoo, and has further issues with water if it is not exactly the desired temperature.
When I put the soap on his washcloth yesterday afternoon, I made the mental note to replace the bar after the next shower because the last child to shower would surely not have enough soap left to work up any sized lather, let alone a good one. There really was only enough soap left for one more person to get clean, but I did not want to put out a new bar or the old one would just sit there indefinitely while the new one would be used. After that momentary brain wave, I forgot all about it.
That is to say, I forgot about it until I got my own shower this morning and discovered the same exact size bar of soap that I had handed back to Pig Jr. to put on the soap dish. Wait, what? A family meeting was in order.
Both girls insisted they washed with soap yesterday. They both stared up at me with a look of martyrdom in their woeful eyes while declaring their innocence in neglecting proper showering techniques. When I informed them that soap gets smaller with use and the soap had been the same exact size that it was when Pig Jr. was done with his shower, the look of guilt slowly spread across their faces.
The best I could get out of both of them was that they simply "forgot" to use soap. How on earth do a nine-year-old and a six-year-old each spend twenty to thirty minutes in the bathroom, with the water running for at least ten to fifteen minutes per kidlet, and never remember the main reason they are there?
My kidlets must be allergic to soap. Either that or their shampoo, which they both claimed to remember to use, must make them forgetful.
Because Pig Jr. is still just four years old, and a sensory kidlet, he requires help with the shower routine. The parent in charge must turn on the water, get out his washcloth, soap up said washcloth, put shampoo on his head once he is done cleaning his body, and help him rinse out his hair. The rest of it he handles himself, albeit grudgingly. This is a kidlet who doesn't like being wet, can't stand the feel of soap or shampoo, and has further issues with water if it is not exactly the desired temperature.
When I put the soap on his washcloth yesterday afternoon, I made the mental note to replace the bar after the next shower because the last child to shower would surely not have enough soap left to work up any sized lather, let alone a good one. There really was only enough soap left for one more person to get clean, but I did not want to put out a new bar or the old one would just sit there indefinitely while the new one would be used. After that momentary brain wave, I forgot all about it.
That is to say, I forgot about it until I got my own shower this morning and discovered the same exact size bar of soap that I had handed back to Pig Jr. to put on the soap dish. Wait, what? A family meeting was in order.
Both girls insisted they washed with soap yesterday. They both stared up at me with a look of martyrdom in their woeful eyes while declaring their innocence in neglecting proper showering techniques. When I informed them that soap gets smaller with use and the soap had been the same exact size that it was when Pig Jr. was done with his shower, the look of guilt slowly spread across their faces.
The best I could get out of both of them was that they simply "forgot" to use soap. How on earth do a nine-year-old and a six-year-old each spend twenty to thirty minutes in the bathroom, with the water running for at least ten to fifteen minutes per kidlet, and never remember the main reason they are there?
My kidlets must be allergic to soap. Either that or their shampoo, which they both claimed to remember to use, must make them forgetful.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Recumbent Torture-Worthy Device
A few weeks ago, I ordered an early birthday present for myself. I had to get rid of our well-used exercise bike because of vein issues. I could no longer sit on the seat without causing problems in pretty much the entire lower half of my body. I had been ogling recumbent exercise bikes for a while now, and found one that could (sort of) get squashed into our budget. Naturally, I then informed my loving husband of my actions, and he (thankfully) supported my decision. Ever since then, I have been cyber-stalking the tracking information for my new bike, and was grateful to discover it would arrive today.
Now, before you start scolding me for calling something with only one wheel a "bike," let it be known that I'm a stubborn creature. I've been calling them "exercise bikes" for decades now, and I am not going to change. "Exercise cycle" just sounds weird to my ears, and there's no way I'm calling it a unicycle.
Getting back to today, I spent far too much time staring out the window in the hopes that the delivery van would make its miraculous appearance and I could cart my sixty-seven pound box of unassembled parts into the house before the kidlets came home from school. Fat chance. (See? It's not just me that's fat around here!) The dang thing arrived while I was out at school picking up my little darlings. Thankfully, two of the kidlets were arguing over who had the right to use the bathroom first, while the third simply slipped in the open door and won that race, so I could drag the box into our living room without too much interference.
Once in the living room, I opened up the box, and surveyed the contents. There were approximately 3.45 billion parts to this thing. I decided I would carry them down to our basement a bit at a time, and assemble it down there where the kidlets could not "help." I very carefully laid out all the pieces, and even wrote tiny numbers on minuscule squares of paper so that each and every piece could be matched to the instruction manual by part number. (That worked so well, by the way, that I intend on doing the same thing for everything else I might ever have to assemble.) I read the instruction manual first to get a general feel for what I had to do, then set about assembling my recumbent exercise bike.
The exercise bike I had chosen was actually quite simple to assemble, despite its numerous parts. There was no need to translate Gnomish writing or practice using my expletives. Granted, I did manage to rip the skin off my knuckles at one point, but that was due to my own stupidity and not a manufacturing defect or error in the instructions. Once it was assembled, I raced upstairs to find my sneakers and sat down to test it out.
Back when I had ordered this thing, I had read pretty close to 200 reviews to make sure I knew exactly what I was getting myself into with this purchase. The only thing that really made me leery was a number of people saying that this recumbent bike just was not sufficient for a decent workout. They found it too easy, and the resistance levels were, um, futile. So when I plunked myself down to do a quick test run of my new machine, I was expecting it to be fairly easy for me to handle.
By the love of all things sacred, that recumbent bike just about killed me in the five minutes I tested it. First of all, I had to dial down the resistance almost immediately. Granted, I had not realized it had been set to the highest level, but it was still disconcerting to realize I could not handle something a number of people found not even worthy of calling exercise. Secondly, I am not actually used to having to hold my legs up in the position to pedal this thing. I guess I never bothered to find out if "recumbent" actually meant "having to use muscles that you did not know you even had." I think I met my match in my piece of exercise equipment.
Now, before you start scolding me for calling something with only one wheel a "bike," let it be known that I'm a stubborn creature. I've been calling them "exercise bikes" for decades now, and I am not going to change. "Exercise cycle" just sounds weird to my ears, and there's no way I'm calling it a unicycle.
Getting back to today, I spent far too much time staring out the window in the hopes that the delivery van would make its miraculous appearance and I could cart my sixty-seven pound box of unassembled parts into the house before the kidlets came home from school. Fat chance. (See? It's not just me that's fat around here!) The dang thing arrived while I was out at school picking up my little darlings. Thankfully, two of the kidlets were arguing over who had the right to use the bathroom first, while the third simply slipped in the open door and won that race, so I could drag the box into our living room without too much interference.
Once in the living room, I opened up the box, and surveyed the contents. There were approximately 3.45 billion parts to this thing. I decided I would carry them down to our basement a bit at a time, and assemble it down there where the kidlets could not "help." I very carefully laid out all the pieces, and even wrote tiny numbers on minuscule squares of paper so that each and every piece could be matched to the instruction manual by part number. (That worked so well, by the way, that I intend on doing the same thing for everything else I might ever have to assemble.) I read the instruction manual first to get a general feel for what I had to do, then set about assembling my recumbent exercise bike.
The exercise bike I had chosen was actually quite simple to assemble, despite its numerous parts. There was no need to translate Gnomish writing or practice using my expletives. Granted, I did manage to rip the skin off my knuckles at one point, but that was due to my own stupidity and not a manufacturing defect or error in the instructions. Once it was assembled, I raced upstairs to find my sneakers and sat down to test it out.
Back when I had ordered this thing, I had read pretty close to 200 reviews to make sure I knew exactly what I was getting myself into with this purchase. The only thing that really made me leery was a number of people saying that this recumbent bike just was not sufficient for a decent workout. They found it too easy, and the resistance levels were, um, futile. So when I plunked myself down to do a quick test run of my new machine, I was expecting it to be fairly easy for me to handle.
By the love of all things sacred, that recumbent bike just about killed me in the five minutes I tested it. First of all, I had to dial down the resistance almost immediately. Granted, I had not realized it had been set to the highest level, but it was still disconcerting to realize I could not handle something a number of people found not even worthy of calling exercise. Secondly, I am not actually used to having to hold my legs up in the position to pedal this thing. I guess I never bothered to find out if "recumbent" actually meant "having to use muscles that you did not know you even had." I think I met my match in my piece of exercise equipment.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The Driver Problem
I live in a pretty small town. It's only about one square mile in size, but it is stuffed with people. Because our town is so small, our children walk to school. Let me rephrase: The children get to school, some by walking, some by riding their bikes, and some by getting dropped off by car. My children and I walk on most days. Times when I have to drop my oldest child off at school early, I buckle up all three children, drive the one to school, then return home to finish getting ready to walk the other two to their drop-off locations. I see the other drivers in town from the perspective of both pedestrian and fellow driver, and what I see is not pretty.
As a pedestrian, I have had plenty of near-misses when I had the right of way in a crosswalk and a driver failed to stop. At one particular light, I see at least two to four cars run a completely red light almost every time I am there. I am not talking about cars that were waiting for the chance to turn and happened to get caught in the intersection when the light changed. I mean cars that had no legal right whatsoever to even enter it in the first place. Red means stop, people. I heard drivers curse at pedestrians for having the audacity to use the crosswalk. I heard drivers yell at the crossing guards for holding up traffic when children were still in the street. I saw mothers with their own small children strapped into car seats yelling bloody murder because a crossing guard dared to try and cross an eight-year-old who was walking home from school by himself.
As a driver, I have had other cars cut me off when I had the right-of-way. I heard drivers yell, curse, and lean on their horns because they were upset that I did not turn right on red next to a sign that clearly stated "No Turn On Red." I have had the same reaction from other drivers when I stopped for a pedestrian in a crosswalk.
As both a driver and pedestrian, I have seen texting drivers run red lights and stop signs. I have seen other drivers yakking away on hand-held cell phones instead of paying attention to the road. I have seen all sorts of examples of both careless and reckless driving taking place in my one square mile town, and these drivers will even break the law in front of police officers.
I have come to the conclusion that a goodly number of drivers in my small town are actually out of their ever-lovin' minds.
Yesterday, one of the crossing guards was hit by a car. I do not know details other than that she hurt her leg and will be out for a while. That same intersection had no crossing guard there this morning while the students were all heading to school. Really? A car failed to stop for an adult holding a huge, red stop sign in the middle of the street and no one was there to protect our children less than twenty-four hours later? Another crossing guard was missing from another busy intersection closer to the school, too. Today was one of those mornings where I drive my oldest to school and then walk the younger two, so I noticed the lack of crossing guards before the majority of the elementary school students would have been walking to school. Upon returning home, I notified our police department, who immediately sent an officer to each of the two locations. They were there when my children and I returned as pedestrians.
Later this morning, I went online to do a search to see if there was any record available about how the crossing guard from yesterday is doing. Instead, I found a comment made by someone who quoted statistics to say that because there have not been any recent pedestrian fatalities in my town, we do not have a pedestrian problem. Anyone who is complaining about problems that pedestrians have in getting from one end of our town to the other is clearly a money-grubbing lunatic who is trying to throw unnecessary traffic tickets at car drivers.
To that poor, irate soul, I offer my condolences for the lack of common sense that I believe has been given to you. You were right on one point though: We do not have a pedestrian problem in town. We have a driver problem, and if you were out there watching every day like I am, then maybe, just maybe, you'd get off your high horse and see why we need to do something about it before someone does get killed.
As a pedestrian, I have had plenty of near-misses when I had the right of way in a crosswalk and a driver failed to stop. At one particular light, I see at least two to four cars run a completely red light almost every time I am there. I am not talking about cars that were waiting for the chance to turn and happened to get caught in the intersection when the light changed. I mean cars that had no legal right whatsoever to even enter it in the first place. Red means stop, people. I heard drivers curse at pedestrians for having the audacity to use the crosswalk. I heard drivers yell at the crossing guards for holding up traffic when children were still in the street. I saw mothers with their own small children strapped into car seats yelling bloody murder because a crossing guard dared to try and cross an eight-year-old who was walking home from school by himself.
As a driver, I have had other cars cut me off when I had the right-of-way. I heard drivers yell, curse, and lean on their horns because they were upset that I did not turn right on red next to a sign that clearly stated "No Turn On Red." I have had the same reaction from other drivers when I stopped for a pedestrian in a crosswalk.
As both a driver and pedestrian, I have seen texting drivers run red lights and stop signs. I have seen other drivers yakking away on hand-held cell phones instead of paying attention to the road. I have seen all sorts of examples of both careless and reckless driving taking place in my one square mile town, and these drivers will even break the law in front of police officers.
I have come to the conclusion that a goodly number of drivers in my small town are actually out of their ever-lovin' minds.
Yesterday, one of the crossing guards was hit by a car. I do not know details other than that she hurt her leg and will be out for a while. That same intersection had no crossing guard there this morning while the students were all heading to school. Really? A car failed to stop for an adult holding a huge, red stop sign in the middle of the street and no one was there to protect our children less than twenty-four hours later? Another crossing guard was missing from another busy intersection closer to the school, too. Today was one of those mornings where I drive my oldest to school and then walk the younger two, so I noticed the lack of crossing guards before the majority of the elementary school students would have been walking to school. Upon returning home, I notified our police department, who immediately sent an officer to each of the two locations. They were there when my children and I returned as pedestrians.
Later this morning, I went online to do a search to see if there was any record available about how the crossing guard from yesterday is doing. Instead, I found a comment made by someone who quoted statistics to say that because there have not been any recent pedestrian fatalities in my town, we do not have a pedestrian problem. Anyone who is complaining about problems that pedestrians have in getting from one end of our town to the other is clearly a money-grubbing lunatic who is trying to throw unnecessary traffic tickets at car drivers.
To that poor, irate soul, I offer my condolences for the lack of common sense that I believe has been given to you. You were right on one point though: We do not have a pedestrian problem in town. We have a driver problem, and if you were out there watching every day like I am, then maybe, just maybe, you'd get off your high horse and see why we need to do something about it before someone does get killed.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Restrooms are scary places...
Today, Pig Jr. was home from preschool so I could take him to a doctor's appointment. We almost never get in and out of that particular office in a timely manner, so I told him he did not have to go to school afterwards. However, that meant he was stuck with me when I ran some errands after our appointment.
As we were walking around a store, in search of the somewhat elusive HEPA filters for Horse and Rooster's bedroom air filter, I glanced down at my son and thought he was playing with the Velcro at the bottom of his jacket.
Me: "Why are you holding your jacket?"
Pig Jr.: "I not. I holding my penis."
Lovely. Any parent who has a small boy knows that when this is the case, it's time to hunt down the nearest restroom facility or risk having to purchase a new set of dry clothing. So, off we went.
Pig Jr. is not a happy camper when it comes to environments with which he is not familiar. The restroom at the local department store falls into this category. We walked into the restroom, and he started trembling with fright. I wish I could say he was as creeped out about public restroom germs as I am, but the truth is that it was simply a case of sensory overload for my little boy.
The lighting is different from the rest of the store. There are oodles of people coming and going at random intervals. The toilets make industrial-strength flushing noises, and are rarely dry when you enter a stall. The toilet paper is rough enough to have been made straight from the bark of trees. The soaps smell different from our soap at home, and the water pouring from the taps was flowing in an apparently unregulated torrent. There was also a pervasive smell of whatever cleaning chemical had been used when the restroom was last cleaned. Every sight, sound, smell, and touch that could possibly exist in that small room existed solely to freak out my child, at least in his opinion.
As soon as we left that particular torture chamber, Pig Jr. was back to his normally chipper self. He skipped along merrily as we finished shopping and paid for our items. You could not tell that just a few moments before, he was trembling and frozen in place, desperate to use the facilities, but freaked out by it nonetheless. We were fortunate today. Sometimes, it takes much longer for him to recover.
People dealing with sensory issues very often react the same exact way when dealing with an unexpected, different, or new environment. Airplanes and I are mortal enemies the same way Pig Jr. and public restrooms are. (I freak out, start trembling, and I definitely don't want to have to pee while I'm in there!) Rooster reacts that way when in an unfamiliar environment where she can tell it is getting dark outside. Her meltdowns are legendary and can go on for hours. These are not the tantrums of a spoiled brat; They are how a child with sensory issues can react when their senses feel under attack. It is quite literally a fight or flight situation. How do you take a person with sensory issues somewhere when every fiber in their being is telling them it is not safe? It's incredibly difficult, and people who travel with ease cannot even begin to fathom what it is truly like.
The worst part though, is when people who supposedly care about you demand that you go and visit with them because they think you are just being picky or stubborn. Tell that to my son who is petrified to go into a public restroom for a whole whopping sixty seconds. It feels like emotional blackmail, and that makes a difficult situation far worse.
As we were walking around a store, in search of the somewhat elusive HEPA filters for Horse and Rooster's bedroom air filter, I glanced down at my son and thought he was playing with the Velcro at the bottom of his jacket.
Me: "Why are you holding your jacket?"
Pig Jr.: "I not. I holding my penis."
Lovely. Any parent who has a small boy knows that when this is the case, it's time to hunt down the nearest restroom facility or risk having to purchase a new set of dry clothing. So, off we went.
Pig Jr. is not a happy camper when it comes to environments with which he is not familiar. The restroom at the local department store falls into this category. We walked into the restroom, and he started trembling with fright. I wish I could say he was as creeped out about public restroom germs as I am, but the truth is that it was simply a case of sensory overload for my little boy.
The lighting is different from the rest of the store. There are oodles of people coming and going at random intervals. The toilets make industrial-strength flushing noises, and are rarely dry when you enter a stall. The toilet paper is rough enough to have been made straight from the bark of trees. The soaps smell different from our soap at home, and the water pouring from the taps was flowing in an apparently unregulated torrent. There was also a pervasive smell of whatever cleaning chemical had been used when the restroom was last cleaned. Every sight, sound, smell, and touch that could possibly exist in that small room existed solely to freak out my child, at least in his opinion.
As soon as we left that particular torture chamber, Pig Jr. was back to his normally chipper self. He skipped along merrily as we finished shopping and paid for our items. You could not tell that just a few moments before, he was trembling and frozen in place, desperate to use the facilities, but freaked out by it nonetheless. We were fortunate today. Sometimes, it takes much longer for him to recover.
People dealing with sensory issues very often react the same exact way when dealing with an unexpected, different, or new environment. Airplanes and I are mortal enemies the same way Pig Jr. and public restrooms are. (I freak out, start trembling, and I definitely don't want to have to pee while I'm in there!) Rooster reacts that way when in an unfamiliar environment where she can tell it is getting dark outside. Her meltdowns are legendary and can go on for hours. These are not the tantrums of a spoiled brat; They are how a child with sensory issues can react when their senses feel under attack. It is quite literally a fight or flight situation. How do you take a person with sensory issues somewhere when every fiber in their being is telling them it is not safe? It's incredibly difficult, and people who travel with ease cannot even begin to fathom what it is truly like.
The worst part though, is when people who supposedly care about you demand that you go and visit with them because they think you are just being picky or stubborn. Tell that to my son who is petrified to go into a public restroom for a whole whopping sixty seconds. It feels like emotional blackmail, and that makes a difficult situation far worse.
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