Any parent of multiple kidlets can tell you that some kidlets are easier to raise than others. It might be a personality thing, a lack of health issues, birth order, or any of a zillion other reasons why one person is more or less of a challenge than others. I believe wholeheartedly that Rooster, my beautiful and energetic little lady, was put on this Earth strictly to challenge me to become a better, more knowledgeable parent.
Three years passed between my giving birth to Horse and when Rooster entered this world. I had no idea just how spoiled Horse made me until Rooster hollered for the very first time. Even as a newborn, Rooster could outscream any of the other babies in the nursery at the hospital. She had no problem stating that SOMETHING was not making her happy, and she wanted that fixed immediately!
Rooster has always tried to expand my medical knowledge. From her first dirty diaper in the hospital, I knew something wasn't right. It took about two months of my arguing with her pediatrician before the doctor finally conceded that I had a point. Babies can be allergic to breastmilk? Really? Yup, and she was. Babies can be allergic to pretty much every formula out there? Yes. Babies can reject a formula even when starving because it makes them feel ill? Why, yes, they can. We finally figured out when she felt okay with a particular formula because she downed over eight ounces at her first feeding, at two months of age, and still wanted more. The poor kidlet had not ever felt full before that because everything just flew through her digestive tract. No wonder she was up four or five times every night! It's not normal for a baby to spit-up twenty times a day? Nope, apparently not. Little girls can have estrogen imbalances that cause problems? Who knew? Rooster single-handedly taught me it is okay to question and even argue with multiple members of a medical staff if something does not seem right. Doctors are not omniscient, and Mommy really does know her baby better than they do. I learned to fight to have my concerns heard properly.
Rooster always marched to her own drummer. She had no qualms about trying to do something that no sane individual would attempt, such as giving herself a swirly once she discovered how to flush our toilet. I quickly learned to never, ever leave her alone lest I find her (quite literally) climbing the walls somewhere. She has no inherent sense of danger or risk, and throws herself wholeheartedly into whatever cockamamie plan she has imagined. She taught me that furniture must be bolted to the walls, that finding a toddler dangling from a shelf high on the wall will not actually give me a heart attack despite how I feel at that time, that a child who looks guilty as sin can indeed be innocent of any wrongdoing (and vice versa), and that kidlets can sense when a very pregnant Mommy has been told to not pick up a screaming toddler when said toddler has thrown herself on the ground. (True story: I had a miscarriage in-between Rooster's and Pig Jr.'s births, so I had been told not to pick up a one-and-a-half year old Rooster while pregnant with Pig Jr. The days I would take Horse to preschool would invariably wind up with Rooster throwing herself on the ground and refusing to get up while I stood there worrying that if I picked her tantrum-ing self up off the ground, I would be endangering her in utero brother. Fun times.)
I used to claim she was the poster child for Ritalin until I learned about the similarities between Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD) and ADHD. This was incredibly beneficial information, since we could try a bunch of the tricks we were learning on how to deal with her brother, who also has sensory issues. Amazingly, her four-hour long meltdowns became obsolete once we tried swaddling her. Who on earth swaddles a four- or five-year old? We did, and it worked to calm her down.
One of the most important things Rooster taught me, however, has nothing to do with behavioral, health, or other physical issues, despite how many things I had to learn in those areas. I learned that adding a second child to our household only expanded the amount of love and joy we have to share. Rooster might know how to push every single button I have, particularly when doing homework, but she is the most loving, caring, enthusiastic, energetic, and overall happy child I have ever met. She wears her emotions on her face, and she just glows radiantly when she is thrilled. She is almost always talking about how she likes or loves different people, and she knows quite a few! Walking to or from school has her calling out her friends' names, waving, smiling, and putting some pep in her step. She truly seems to love life, and those times when she doesn't, she's not afraid to let you know!
Rooster, my amazing kidlet, I hope you have a very happy birthday today. You are such a special kidlet. You definitely keep me on my toes, but you are well worth the energy I must expend to keep up with you! Keep being the absolutely amazing you that you are. I wouldn't mind if you let me take a nap every once in a while though! I love you, my wonderful seven-year-old.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
The Case of the Missing "R"
In case anyone within a five-mile radius has not already heard my daughter shout out the news, it's Rooster's seventh birthday tomorrow. Thankfully, I remembered back in September to cough up two bucks to her elementary school's PTO so they would put her name up on a board in front of the school this week. Unfortunately, I neglected to remember to take her picture with it up there until today, right around the same time a PTO member was taking down all of the kidlets' names from this week.
Me being me, I rushed the kidlets over and begged for her to put Rooster's name back up on the board so I could take the picture to relieve some Mommy guilt. Heck, most of Rooster's name was still up there. It was only the "R" that had been removed by the time I got there. The lady agreed to do so, and bent over her box of letters to find the missing letter.
It was gone. She went through every single letter in that box, but it was as if the "R" had been vaporized by aliens.
At this point, the PTO member started getting worried that she lost the letter somewhere. My three kidlets, her two kidlets, plus the two of us adults, in addition to another family that had come over for a similar plea all stopped everything to search high and low for the missing "R." I was starting to wonder whether it might just be easier to legally change my daughter's name to "Ooster" when the woman apologized profusely and said she would just have to go into the school office to get another "R," and would it be okay if she did that later? I agreed, figuring that if she left up Rooster's name until Monday, that would still work for the purpose of our picture.
As we started to walk away, the woman put her hand in her pocket to locate her keys. Suddenly, she called out to stop us. The missing "R" was in her pocket, where she had placed it to use later for a word on the other side of the message board. The PTO member promptly corrected the spelling of Rooster's name, allowed me to take Rooster's picture next to the Happy Birthday sign, and we were on our merry way.
It was somewhere in the middle of all of that when Horse reminded me I never did remember to take her picture when her name was up on the board ten days ago. Oh, well. One out of two ain't bad, right?
Me being me, I rushed the kidlets over and begged for her to put Rooster's name back up on the board so I could take the picture to relieve some Mommy guilt. Heck, most of Rooster's name was still up there. It was only the "R" that had been removed by the time I got there. The lady agreed to do so, and bent over her box of letters to find the missing letter.
It was gone. She went through every single letter in that box, but it was as if the "R" had been vaporized by aliens.
At this point, the PTO member started getting worried that she lost the letter somewhere. My three kidlets, her two kidlets, plus the two of us adults, in addition to another family that had come over for a similar plea all stopped everything to search high and low for the missing "R." I was starting to wonder whether it might just be easier to legally change my daughter's name to "Ooster" when the woman apologized profusely and said she would just have to go into the school office to get another "R," and would it be okay if she did that later? I agreed, figuring that if she left up Rooster's name until Monday, that would still work for the purpose of our picture.
As we started to walk away, the woman put her hand in her pocket to locate her keys. Suddenly, she called out to stop us. The missing "R" was in her pocket, where she had placed it to use later for a word on the other side of the message board. The PTO member promptly corrected the spelling of Rooster's name, allowed me to take Rooster's picture next to the Happy Birthday sign, and we were on our merry way.
It was somewhere in the middle of all of that when Horse reminded me I never did remember to take her picture when her name was up on the board ten days ago. Oh, well. One out of two ain't bad, right?
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Sorry kidlets, but clumsiness is hereditary...
None of my kidlets stood a chance. There was just no way. With me being as clumsy as I am, I figured I had to have passed along the clumsiness gene to my offspring.
Just a few short minutes ago, I was headed up our walk-up attic stairs. Pig Jr. had outgrown a pair of his pants, and I wanted to put them in the attic before he attempted to wear them again. Him wearing flood pants would be one thing, but when he outgrows pants, he tends to wear them really low instead of pulling them up all the way. I don't mind seeing his ankles too much, but I draw the line at exposing his underwear. Besides, he tends to do a duck waddle and fall down more frequently when his waistband hovers at about knee level.
On my way back down from the attic, I grabbed the door knob with my left hand, turned to start walking down the stairs while pulling the door shut behind me, missed a step, and only managed to stay upright because the attic door slammed shut behind me while I held on to the door knob with a death grip. You see, that portion of the attic stairs has no handrail. I had nothing to grab with my one free arm. So yes, I wrenched my left shoulder pretty badly, but at least I did not actually fall and break anything.
This is the sort of thing I do fairly regularly. I trip over things, bump into doorways, try to catch steak knives that I drop, miss steps, fall out of bed (I wish I was joking about that last one, but I actually have to sleep on my right side every night so I'm facing the door if a kidlet calls for me. Otherwise, I fall out of bed while trying to roll over to get up to help them. That tends to hurt a lot.), hit my head on pretty much anything at head-level, and otherwise do clumsy things to injure myself. You'd think someone who has difficulty standing close to people because of personal space issues would let that extend to inanimate objects, but that is sadly not the case. If someone stands closer than three feet to me, I freak out, but my head will have to physically connect with the open medicine door cabinet before I realize it's there. Go figure.
The kidlets, as expected, have inherited this lack of coordination. Pig Jr. falls down a lot, both with or without attempting to wear pants around his knees. Rooster has all the grace of a stampeding herd of elephants as she hurls her body around the house. (She even sounds like that if I am lucky enough to hear her running around on the main floor while I am in the basement.) She is also my big risk taker when it comes to attempting bizarre gravity-defying feats. She tries to balance on the back of our couch, climbs all over the furniture, sits or stands immediately behind anyone who is not paying attention, and routinely clonks heads with other individuals in the house. How that girl does not look like one giant bruise is beyond me. Horse is the kidlet who cannot walk down our hallway without bumping into at least three different walls. That takes talent. Genetics never gave those three a chance.
At least I know who to blame for their clumsiness. I'm just not sure how I'll convince my husband to go along with my blaming him when I'm the one who is klutzy.
Just a few short minutes ago, I was headed up our walk-up attic stairs. Pig Jr. had outgrown a pair of his pants, and I wanted to put them in the attic before he attempted to wear them again. Him wearing flood pants would be one thing, but when he outgrows pants, he tends to wear them really low instead of pulling them up all the way. I don't mind seeing his ankles too much, but I draw the line at exposing his underwear. Besides, he tends to do a duck waddle and fall down more frequently when his waistband hovers at about knee level.
On my way back down from the attic, I grabbed the door knob with my left hand, turned to start walking down the stairs while pulling the door shut behind me, missed a step, and only managed to stay upright because the attic door slammed shut behind me while I held on to the door knob with a death grip. You see, that portion of the attic stairs has no handrail. I had nothing to grab with my one free arm. So yes, I wrenched my left shoulder pretty badly, but at least I did not actually fall and break anything.
This is the sort of thing I do fairly regularly. I trip over things, bump into doorways, try to catch steak knives that I drop, miss steps, fall out of bed (I wish I was joking about that last one, but I actually have to sleep on my right side every night so I'm facing the door if a kidlet calls for me. Otherwise, I fall out of bed while trying to roll over to get up to help them. That tends to hurt a lot.), hit my head on pretty much anything at head-level, and otherwise do clumsy things to injure myself. You'd think someone who has difficulty standing close to people because of personal space issues would let that extend to inanimate objects, but that is sadly not the case. If someone stands closer than three feet to me, I freak out, but my head will have to physically connect with the open medicine door cabinet before I realize it's there. Go figure.
The kidlets, as expected, have inherited this lack of coordination. Pig Jr. falls down a lot, both with or without attempting to wear pants around his knees. Rooster has all the grace of a stampeding herd of elephants as she hurls her body around the house. (She even sounds like that if I am lucky enough to hear her running around on the main floor while I am in the basement.) She is also my big risk taker when it comes to attempting bizarre gravity-defying feats. She tries to balance on the back of our couch, climbs all over the furniture, sits or stands immediately behind anyone who is not paying attention, and routinely clonks heads with other individuals in the house. How that girl does not look like one giant bruise is beyond me. Horse is the kidlet who cannot walk down our hallway without bumping into at least three different walls. That takes talent. Genetics never gave those three a chance.
At least I know who to blame for their clumsiness. I'm just not sure how I'll convince my husband to go along with my blaming him when I'm the one who is klutzy.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Don't Spill on Mommy's Papers!
As a general rule, my kidlets love to try and spill things. The wetter, gloppier, or more disgusting a mess it will make, the better. Because of this tendency, I have done my best to keep my planner, important papers, and appointment reminders in a pile safely away from them. (Why yes, this is setting up the scenario for a disaster later. Good observation, astute reader.)
Additionally, two of the kidlets have medicine they have to take after the powder is mixed into their drinks. Generally, they will drink some of this mixture and then spill the rest, making it nearly impossible for me to figure out how much of their medicine they consumed. Too much medicine is often worse than not enough, so their daily dose is occasionally less than it should be because I refuse to overdose my children.
Today, I got everyone's snack ready after school. This involved two kidlet cups with medicine, one kidlet cup without, and one adult cup with a supposedly dairy-free probiotic mixed in so I can make sure it is safe for my dairy-allergy kidlet to have the kidlet version. (We both are allergic to dairy, but she does not always feel the reaction right away, whereas I do. She is supposed to have a probiotic, as per her gastroenterologist's suggestion, and I figure it can't hurt me, in theory, to take the same thing to make sure it won't make my daughter sick. Note the words "in theory." I hate taking something with the potential to set off an allergic reaction.)
After I parcelled out the drinks, I handed out the actual food portion of snack. I decided I wanted some popcorn, so I put some on the stovetop to pop. I took two seconds to step away from the stovetop, leaned over the kitchen table to move something at risk of being spilled on by my daughter, and then promptly knocked over my own cup of water with probiotic mixed into it.
Did I mention I spilled this mixture directly onto the pile of papers that I keep away from the kidlets? I successfully managed to soak just about every single important paper that I currently have in my possession. The popcorn took that moment to start popping, so I could not even sop up anything until I was able to turn off the stove. The potential to burn down the house overrode the immediate need to rescue my calendar and papers, so I chalked up the spill as a total loss and stuck with my popcorn until it was finished. I suppose I could have turned the darn stove off, cleaned up the mess, and then made some new popcorn, but I figured I would want that comfort food the second I was done mopping up that disaster.
The worst part of the Mommy guilt that was associated with this instance was because my daughter sitting at the kitchen table promptly apologized for getting my papers wet. She was so used to being the main person to spill anything that she actually argued that I could not have made today's mess.
At least it's only me whose medicine dose is messed up for the day. All in all, it could have been a lot worse. Just don't ask me to figure out if I have any appointments for the next few days. My planner is so wet that I cannot open it without the pages falling apart.
Additionally, two of the kidlets have medicine they have to take after the powder is mixed into their drinks. Generally, they will drink some of this mixture and then spill the rest, making it nearly impossible for me to figure out how much of their medicine they consumed. Too much medicine is often worse than not enough, so their daily dose is occasionally less than it should be because I refuse to overdose my children.
Today, I got everyone's snack ready after school. This involved two kidlet cups with medicine, one kidlet cup without, and one adult cup with a supposedly dairy-free probiotic mixed in so I can make sure it is safe for my dairy-allergy kidlet to have the kidlet version. (We both are allergic to dairy, but she does not always feel the reaction right away, whereas I do. She is supposed to have a probiotic, as per her gastroenterologist's suggestion, and I figure it can't hurt me, in theory, to take the same thing to make sure it won't make my daughter sick. Note the words "in theory." I hate taking something with the potential to set off an allergic reaction.)
After I parcelled out the drinks, I handed out the actual food portion of snack. I decided I wanted some popcorn, so I put some on the stovetop to pop. I took two seconds to step away from the stovetop, leaned over the kitchen table to move something at risk of being spilled on by my daughter, and then promptly knocked over my own cup of water with probiotic mixed into it.
Did I mention I spilled this mixture directly onto the pile of papers that I keep away from the kidlets? I successfully managed to soak just about every single important paper that I currently have in my possession. The popcorn took that moment to start popping, so I could not even sop up anything until I was able to turn off the stove. The potential to burn down the house overrode the immediate need to rescue my calendar and papers, so I chalked up the spill as a total loss and stuck with my popcorn until it was finished. I suppose I could have turned the darn stove off, cleaned up the mess, and then made some new popcorn, but I figured I would want that comfort food the second I was done mopping up that disaster.
The worst part of the Mommy guilt that was associated with this instance was because my daughter sitting at the kitchen table promptly apologized for getting my papers wet. She was so used to being the main person to spill anything that she actually argued that I could not have made today's mess.
At least it's only me whose medicine dose is messed up for the day. All in all, it could have been a lot worse. Just don't ask me to figure out if I have any appointments for the next few days. My planner is so wet that I cannot open it without the pages falling apart.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Congratulations, Damion!
It was getting close to kidlet pickup time at school today, so I was not overly surprised when my cell phone chirped that someone had sent me a text message. I figured it was a friend asking me to walk his daughter home from school today, but I was wrong.
"Y u didn't tell me u guys were having a baby. Congratulations!!!"
Uh, this was news to me. The baby ship has long since set sail away from my household. Not only did the ship set sail, but I'm pretty sure the wind had already gusted it out of sight down below the horizon. My "baby" will be turning five in just a couple of months, and that is absolutely fine with me.
After my heart rate slowed down again, I sent a texted reply stating that I really hoped the sender of that message had the wrong number because to the best of my knowledge, kidlet number four is not in the cards for this lifetime. After a minute or two, I received a reply that the person was trying to reach Damion, and if that was not who it was, to please disregard that last text message. I could tell how absolutely panicked that person was in thinking he or she had just dropped one heck of a bombshell on someone.
Please note that I have had my current cell phone number for almost a year now. In that time, I have received numerous phone calls and text messages for Damion. I am presuming he was the individual who had this number immediately before it was assigned to me. I suppose it is possible that his number is just slightly off from mine, but with the number of times I get contacted by people looking for him, I kind of doubt that possibility. At least all of those erroneous messages somewhat prepared me for the possibility that today's text message was sent in error.
So far, I know more about Damion's life than anyone should know about a stranger. I know that Damion was sending out his resume to a number of places. They have tried to reach him to set up interviews. I know he owes money on his former mobile account, because that company (that shall remain nameless until I can think of something polite to call its annoyingly clueless employees) occasionally pesters me to try and reach him. Combining those two things makes me feel depressed, because the poor guy could surely use those interviews to land a new job to make good on any and all delinquent accounts. This is even more depressing now that I know there is a Damion Jr. on the way.
Since, like I stated earlier, it has been almost a year since I was assigned this cell phone number, it is quite possible that Damion's life has turned around. I hope he has a good-paying job and is able to keep current on his bills. I hope his significant other has an easy pregnancy and delivers a healthy and happy Damion Jr. within just a few days of the baby's due date, whenever that might be. I suppose I should just give it a while longer and someone else will either call or text me with that information.
Congratulations, Damion. May your baby be blessed. Now please let all of your friends and family members know to not try and reach you here. God forbid my husband would have seen that text message and thought I was hiding one heck of a secret from him. Oy.
"Y u didn't tell me u guys were having a baby. Congratulations!!!"
Uh, this was news to me. The baby ship has long since set sail away from my household. Not only did the ship set sail, but I'm pretty sure the wind had already gusted it out of sight down below the horizon. My "baby" will be turning five in just a couple of months, and that is absolutely fine with me.
After my heart rate slowed down again, I sent a texted reply stating that I really hoped the sender of that message had the wrong number because to the best of my knowledge, kidlet number four is not in the cards for this lifetime. After a minute or two, I received a reply that the person was trying to reach Damion, and if that was not who it was, to please disregard that last text message. I could tell how absolutely panicked that person was in thinking he or she had just dropped one heck of a bombshell on someone.
Please note that I have had my current cell phone number for almost a year now. In that time, I have received numerous phone calls and text messages for Damion. I am presuming he was the individual who had this number immediately before it was assigned to me. I suppose it is possible that his number is just slightly off from mine, but with the number of times I get contacted by people looking for him, I kind of doubt that possibility. At least all of those erroneous messages somewhat prepared me for the possibility that today's text message was sent in error.
So far, I know more about Damion's life than anyone should know about a stranger. I know that Damion was sending out his resume to a number of places. They have tried to reach him to set up interviews. I know he owes money on his former mobile account, because that company (that shall remain nameless until I can think of something polite to call its annoyingly clueless employees) occasionally pesters me to try and reach him. Combining those two things makes me feel depressed, because the poor guy could surely use those interviews to land a new job to make good on any and all delinquent accounts. This is even more depressing now that I know there is a Damion Jr. on the way.
Since, like I stated earlier, it has been almost a year since I was assigned this cell phone number, it is quite possible that Damion's life has turned around. I hope he has a good-paying job and is able to keep current on his bills. I hope his significant other has an easy pregnancy and delivers a healthy and happy Damion Jr. within just a few days of the baby's due date, whenever that might be. I suppose I should just give it a while longer and someone else will either call or text me with that information.
Congratulations, Damion. May your baby be blessed. Now please let all of your friends and family members know to not try and reach you here. God forbid my husband would have seen that text message and thought I was hiding one heck of a secret from him. Oy.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Hubby says "No!"
At our local big box store, I have been pestered by well-meaning employees. Every single time I enter that store, someone scans my membership card, fakes a heart attack, and asks me in gasping breaths whether or not I know just how much money I would be getting back every year if I upgraded my membership.
I've debated applauding their over-the-top acting skills.
Every single time, I tell the various horrified employees that my husband, the guy who brings home the paycheck, says "no." Most of the time, this is enough to at least halt the mock horror that is directed at me. Granted, they still pretend to be shocked that my husband does not want to "save money." However, they quickly size me up as a woman who is not willing to rock the boat with her husband, perhaps is even afraid to do so, and they leave me alone until my next shopping trip.
I shall pause here to allow my husband time to finish gasping with laughter. Keeping my fool mouth shut is not one of my strong suits, and I have proven time and time again that rocking the boat is a great way to get some fun exercise. Even the Commissioner of Civil Marriages who married us was not foolish enough to include the word "obey" in our wedding vows.
Anyway, most of the time, the employees let the whole matter drop and walk away. This was not the case today.
Cashier: "Oh, my. Did anyone ever tell you how much money you could save by upgrading your membership?"
Me: "All the time. My husband, who brings home the paycheck, says 'no,' so no it is."
Cashier: "Really, it's like we would be paying you to have a membership with us. Please, take our money!"
Random Employee Nearby: "Wait, she does not want to get money back?"
Cashier: "She says her husband won't let her."
Random Employee Nearby: "You don't tell your husband, silly! You just do it!"
Me: "Are you married?"
Random Employee Nearby: "No. I'm not."
Me: "Well, I am, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm not lying to my husband."
Cashier: "Are you the one who pays the bills? He might not even see it."
Random Employee Nearby: "You don't tell him. Seriously. The bill comes, you pay it, then you save money. What husband doesn't want his wife to save money?"
Me: "One that already said no. Look, if he comes in here, feel free to give him the same spiel."
Cashier: "Yeah, get his butt in here to shop! We'll teach him!"
Random Employee Nearby: "I just don't understand why you won't just go behind his back and do it anyway. You don't have to tell him. You write the check, and he will never know."
Me: "He brings home the paycheck, not me. In addition to that, there are so few things he actually says 'no' to that I'm not going to fight him on this."
Random Employee Nearby: "Lie to him! You don't have to fight if he doesn't know!"
Cashier: "Just get him in here, and we'll convince him."
I was half tempted to insist it was truly the 1950s still and my husband's word was law. The trouble with that was that I wasn't sure I could say it with a straight face.
Seriously, what was the deal with those two women insisting I needed to upgrade my membership? Do they get commissions if people agree to upgrades while they are harassing them?
And when did people start insisting that lying to one's spouse (yes, deliberately hiding information from one's spouse counts as lying to them) is acceptable? I have a hard enough time just concealing information about what he is getting for his birthday and Christmas. How can some people just do what they want to do, lie to their spouses, and think nothing of it? Lying is a slippery slope. Once you start, it is far too easy to continue. Why go down that route?
Besides, if I really wanted to upgrade my dang membership, I would have simply told my husband I crunched the numbers, found it made sense, and was going to do it. He's a reasonable guy. But where's the fun in that?
I've debated applauding their over-the-top acting skills.
Every single time, I tell the various horrified employees that my husband, the guy who brings home the paycheck, says "no." Most of the time, this is enough to at least halt the mock horror that is directed at me. Granted, they still pretend to be shocked that my husband does not want to "save money." However, they quickly size me up as a woman who is not willing to rock the boat with her husband, perhaps is even afraid to do so, and they leave me alone until my next shopping trip.
I shall pause here to allow my husband time to finish gasping with laughter. Keeping my fool mouth shut is not one of my strong suits, and I have proven time and time again that rocking the boat is a great way to get some fun exercise. Even the Commissioner of Civil Marriages who married us was not foolish enough to include the word "obey" in our wedding vows.
Anyway, most of the time, the employees let the whole matter drop and walk away. This was not the case today.
Cashier: "Oh, my. Did anyone ever tell you how much money you could save by upgrading your membership?"
Me: "All the time. My husband, who brings home the paycheck, says 'no,' so no it is."
Cashier: "Really, it's like we would be paying you to have a membership with us. Please, take our money!"
Random Employee Nearby: "Wait, she does not want to get money back?"
Cashier: "She says her husband won't let her."
Random Employee Nearby: "You don't tell your husband, silly! You just do it!"
Me: "Are you married?"
Random Employee Nearby: "No. I'm not."
Me: "Well, I am, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm not lying to my husband."
Cashier: "Are you the one who pays the bills? He might not even see it."
Random Employee Nearby: "You don't tell him. Seriously. The bill comes, you pay it, then you save money. What husband doesn't want his wife to save money?"
Me: "One that already said no. Look, if he comes in here, feel free to give him the same spiel."
Cashier: "Yeah, get his butt in here to shop! We'll teach him!"
Random Employee Nearby: "I just don't understand why you won't just go behind his back and do it anyway. You don't have to tell him. You write the check, and he will never know."
Me: "He brings home the paycheck, not me. In addition to that, there are so few things he actually says 'no' to that I'm not going to fight him on this."
Random Employee Nearby: "Lie to him! You don't have to fight if he doesn't know!"
Cashier: "Just get him in here, and we'll convince him."
I was half tempted to insist it was truly the 1950s still and my husband's word was law. The trouble with that was that I wasn't sure I could say it with a straight face.
Seriously, what was the deal with those two women insisting I needed to upgrade my membership? Do they get commissions if people agree to upgrades while they are harassing them?
And when did people start insisting that lying to one's spouse (yes, deliberately hiding information from one's spouse counts as lying to them) is acceptable? I have a hard enough time just concealing information about what he is getting for his birthday and Christmas. How can some people just do what they want to do, lie to their spouses, and think nothing of it? Lying is a slippery slope. Once you start, it is far too easy to continue. Why go down that route?
Besides, if I really wanted to upgrade my dang membership, I would have simply told my husband I crunched the numbers, found it made sense, and was going to do it. He's a reasonable guy. But where's the fun in that?
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Almost two years later...
"Treatment should be obtained." "Referral was given for speech and language and occupational therapy in the outpatient setting." "He will need close developmental surveillance and he should follow with [pediatric neurologist] in six months."
These were words that were typed up in an official report from a developmental pediatrician (neurodevelopmentalist) after she evaluated my son almost two years ago. Well, technically, it will be two years in July. My husband and I both spoke with her or other members of her staff in order to receive both her report and the report from the pediatric neurologist who had sent us to the developmental pediatrician in the first place. We tried for a good long while in order to receive those reports, and after hearing promise after promise that they were going to be sent out in the mail that very day, we saw nothing until today.
Know why we finally received those reports? My son's preschool requested a copy to help them as they go into his next evaluation for them. I signed a waiver so the school could receive a faxed copy of the report, then I received a phone call with the news that the fax at the doctor's office would not accept the school's fax. I called the office again, spoke with a lady by the name of Bernice (her real first name, which goes against my normal procedure of making up names for all those I discuss), who said she would mail out a copy to me that very day. Bernice, if you are by some odd chance reading this, I said I would sing your praises if you could finally do what no one else has been able to do for almost two years now. You came through, and I applaud you. Huzzah for Bernice!
Now let me get back to those quotes. At the time of our son's evaluation, we were told that he should receive services through the school, and the doctor wanted it in writing that he should receive treatment. She even mentioned that our son should see a few other specialists, including following up with the neurologist. However, she was unable to tell me a single name of anyone in the allergy field who specialized in sensory issues and their relationship to immunology, which was something she deemed necessary. As far as seeing the neurologist was concerned, the neurologist had flat-out told us there was not much she could do for our son, which was why we she recommended us to the developmental pediatrician in the first place. Why go back to her when she couldn't do anything?
Well, that's where those reports come in and bite us. I had no idea until today that my son's development should be under close surveillance by a professional. The neurologist, whom we had been recommended to see again, had told us to just wait and see how our son adjusted to preschool and see if there were any areas of concern they noticed. Up until the bombshell the preschool dropped about concerns over our son's emotional and social development this month, there was nothing mentioned as warranting outside help. Ignorantly, we assumed that this meant it was okay to just sort of let the whole thing slide until something became an issue. If I had seen the dang report and known that close surveillance was recommended, I would have tried to find a new developmental pediatrician, preferably one who followed through and mailed out any and all pertinent reports. And did I mention they never notified our son's referring pediatrician of anything either? Nobody who had been requested to receive a copy of either report did so.
I feel like we are at square one under a time crunch of less than two months to figure out what help my son will need before potentially starting kindergarten. Most neurodevelopmentalists have a rather long wait time for an appointment, from six months to a year, from what we've seen. The closest thing we have to a current diagnosis is an almost two-year-old report that proves we dropped the ball on this one. I feel like I failed my son.
These were words that were typed up in an official report from a developmental pediatrician (neurodevelopmentalist) after she evaluated my son almost two years ago. Well, technically, it will be two years in July. My husband and I both spoke with her or other members of her staff in order to receive both her report and the report from the pediatric neurologist who had sent us to the developmental pediatrician in the first place. We tried for a good long while in order to receive those reports, and after hearing promise after promise that they were going to be sent out in the mail that very day, we saw nothing until today.
Know why we finally received those reports? My son's preschool requested a copy to help them as they go into his next evaluation for them. I signed a waiver so the school could receive a faxed copy of the report, then I received a phone call with the news that the fax at the doctor's office would not accept the school's fax. I called the office again, spoke with a lady by the name of Bernice (her real first name, which goes against my normal procedure of making up names for all those I discuss), who said she would mail out a copy to me that very day. Bernice, if you are by some odd chance reading this, I said I would sing your praises if you could finally do what no one else has been able to do for almost two years now. You came through, and I applaud you. Huzzah for Bernice!
Now let me get back to those quotes. At the time of our son's evaluation, we were told that he should receive services through the school, and the doctor wanted it in writing that he should receive treatment. She even mentioned that our son should see a few other specialists, including following up with the neurologist. However, she was unable to tell me a single name of anyone in the allergy field who specialized in sensory issues and their relationship to immunology, which was something she deemed necessary. As far as seeing the neurologist was concerned, the neurologist had flat-out told us there was not much she could do for our son, which was why we she recommended us to the developmental pediatrician in the first place. Why go back to her when she couldn't do anything?
Well, that's where those reports come in and bite us. I had no idea until today that my son's development should be under close surveillance by a professional. The neurologist, whom we had been recommended to see again, had told us to just wait and see how our son adjusted to preschool and see if there were any areas of concern they noticed. Up until the bombshell the preschool dropped about concerns over our son's emotional and social development this month, there was nothing mentioned as warranting outside help. Ignorantly, we assumed that this meant it was okay to just sort of let the whole thing slide until something became an issue. If I had seen the dang report and known that close surveillance was recommended, I would have tried to find a new developmental pediatrician, preferably one who followed through and mailed out any and all pertinent reports. And did I mention they never notified our son's referring pediatrician of anything either? Nobody who had been requested to receive a copy of either report did so.
I feel like we are at square one under a time crunch of less than two months to figure out what help my son will need before potentially starting kindergarten. Most neurodevelopmentalists have a rather long wait time for an appointment, from six months to a year, from what we've seen. The closest thing we have to a current diagnosis is an almost two-year-old report that proves we dropped the ball on this one. I feel like I failed my son.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Happy Anniversary to me! Now pass the fever reducer...
Today marks eleven years of marriage for Pig and I. Those eleven years have flown by in the blink of an eye, while leaving me with the odd sensation of simultaneously being married forever and yet such a short time. I am still grateful that Pig entered my life. That's generally a good sign in a marriage, no?
As a general rule, we do not really celebrate our anniversaries. It's less of a conscious choice than a really bad habit of forgetting them. To be fair, we set a bad precedence on our first anniversary when we both forgot about it until the afternoon. Granted, that was our first full day home from the hospital with a newborn. I think it bothered both of us to have forgotten our very first anniversary, but sleep deprivation and the stress of becoming parents just three days before gave us a reason to not feel too guilty about it. (Did you know babies do not come with instruction manuals? And the hospital actually trusted us, in all of our ignorant glory, alone with our newborn! At least we were so busy figuring out how to take care of our nocturnal family addition that we did not even know the date.) Ever since then, we really have not done much of anything to celebrate, other than paying the Hallmark tax.
This year, we knew it would be rough trying to celebrate. We had actually hoped to get a weekend away together for the first time in our married life. Unfortunately, five weeks of sick kidlets put a damper on that plan. However, when all three kidlets went off to school today and had an uneventful (meaning no nurse called me to tell me someone had a bellyache, had thrown up, had a fever, was dehydrated, etc.) day, I started to hope my husband and I could at least perhaps stay up and watch a movie together after all of the kidlets went to bed.
Then my head started pounding. My mouth felt parched, so I checked my temperature. Yay, me. I have a fever. I somehow managed to get through my usual routine of picking up the kidlets from school before trying to rest.
Unfortunately, Horse started coughing more and more frequently today. Her nose was running, and she said she felt cold. (The house was about seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit at the time.) Sure enough, she has a fever, too. It was bad enough with me feeling under the weather. Now my poor kidlet has her third fever in two weeks. She just cannot catch a break.
Happy Anniversary to me! Now please pass the fever reducer...
As a general rule, we do not really celebrate our anniversaries. It's less of a conscious choice than a really bad habit of forgetting them. To be fair, we set a bad precedence on our first anniversary when we both forgot about it until the afternoon. Granted, that was our first full day home from the hospital with a newborn. I think it bothered both of us to have forgotten our very first anniversary, but sleep deprivation and the stress of becoming parents just three days before gave us a reason to not feel too guilty about it. (Did you know babies do not come with instruction manuals? And the hospital actually trusted us, in all of our ignorant glory, alone with our newborn! At least we were so busy figuring out how to take care of our nocturnal family addition that we did not even know the date.) Ever since then, we really have not done much of anything to celebrate, other than paying the Hallmark tax.
This year, we knew it would be rough trying to celebrate. We had actually hoped to get a weekend away together for the first time in our married life. Unfortunately, five weeks of sick kidlets put a damper on that plan. However, when all three kidlets went off to school today and had an uneventful (meaning no nurse called me to tell me someone had a bellyache, had thrown up, had a fever, was dehydrated, etc.) day, I started to hope my husband and I could at least perhaps stay up and watch a movie together after all of the kidlets went to bed.
Then my head started pounding. My mouth felt parched, so I checked my temperature. Yay, me. I have a fever. I somehow managed to get through my usual routine of picking up the kidlets from school before trying to rest.
Unfortunately, Horse started coughing more and more frequently today. Her nose was running, and she said she felt cold. (The house was about seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit at the time.) Sure enough, she has a fever, too. It was bad enough with me feeling under the weather. Now my poor kidlet has her third fever in two weeks. She just cannot catch a break.
Happy Anniversary to me! Now please pass the fever reducer...
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The kidlets are plotting against me...
For the past five weeks now, I have had kidlets home from school sick with various ailments. We've had stomach bugs, fevers, nasty congestion that may or may not be allergies or colds, breathing issues, more stomach bugs, horrific coughing, and, in case I didn't already mention this, stomach bugs. We are getting to the point where I feel like throwing a party on the few days I have all three actually in school at the same time.
Today was one of those days. All three were together at school, and I was finally able to go grocery shopping. (My rule is that if there is anyone home feeling sick to their stomach, I do not take them out of the house unless a doctor's appointment is necessary or if their siblings need to get picked up from or dropped off at school. This kind of puts a damper on my food shopping capabilities.) Today, I shopped and put the groceries away, did a bit of laundry, and washed the breakfast dishes that I had forgotten about all without having to stop and check on anybody. I even planned ahead to the possibility of going shopping for new bath mats tomorrow morning. All too soon, it was time for me to head back to school to pick up my kidlets.
I first realized there was a problem when Pig Jr. came out of school walking hunched over and looking quite pale. He said he was thirsty, so I got him some water. When he started rubbing his lower abdomen, I asked the teacher if he could go back inside and use the restroom. She said that was fine, and that's what he did. However, when he came back out, he was still walking hunched over and was still quite pale. We then had to stick around the school for forty-five minutes until his sisters came out, all with him looking ill.
It was during this time that the school nurse saw me outside and came over to tell me how Rooster had gone to her office to complain of a stomachache during recess. The nurse explained how her temperature was ninety-nine degrees, and how she gave her some water and told her to rest in case it was just dehydration and overheating. I told her I would be waiting outside, so if Rooster was still not feeling well when she went back to check on her, I would just sign both girls out of school and go home early.
Thankfully, water seemed to do the trick with Rooster. Unfortunately, it did not work for Pig Jr. By the time we got home, he desperately had to use the bathroom, and his belly was bloating up like a balloon. It was about seventy-nine degrees outside today, and my son was complaining of feeling cold. That's not a good sign. I checked him for a fever, and determined his body temperature was at 96.6 degrees, which is low for him. His temperature resumed his usual 97.9 after I fed him some blue Jell-o, at his request, and more water. He still feels bloated, so I'm leery of what this means.
I swear the kidlets are plotting against me so that I never have them all healthy at the same time again. I'm guessing my bath mat excursion is not going to happen any time soon.
Today was one of those days. All three were together at school, and I was finally able to go grocery shopping. (My rule is that if there is anyone home feeling sick to their stomach, I do not take them out of the house unless a doctor's appointment is necessary or if their siblings need to get picked up from or dropped off at school. This kind of puts a damper on my food shopping capabilities.) Today, I shopped and put the groceries away, did a bit of laundry, and washed the breakfast dishes that I had forgotten about all without having to stop and check on anybody. I even planned ahead to the possibility of going shopping for new bath mats tomorrow morning. All too soon, it was time for me to head back to school to pick up my kidlets.
I first realized there was a problem when Pig Jr. came out of school walking hunched over and looking quite pale. He said he was thirsty, so I got him some water. When he started rubbing his lower abdomen, I asked the teacher if he could go back inside and use the restroom. She said that was fine, and that's what he did. However, when he came back out, he was still walking hunched over and was still quite pale. We then had to stick around the school for forty-five minutes until his sisters came out, all with him looking ill.
It was during this time that the school nurse saw me outside and came over to tell me how Rooster had gone to her office to complain of a stomachache during recess. The nurse explained how her temperature was ninety-nine degrees, and how she gave her some water and told her to rest in case it was just dehydration and overheating. I told her I would be waiting outside, so if Rooster was still not feeling well when she went back to check on her, I would just sign both girls out of school and go home early.
Thankfully, water seemed to do the trick with Rooster. Unfortunately, it did not work for Pig Jr. By the time we got home, he desperately had to use the bathroom, and his belly was bloating up like a balloon. It was about seventy-nine degrees outside today, and my son was complaining of feeling cold. That's not a good sign. I checked him for a fever, and determined his body temperature was at 96.6 degrees, which is low for him. His temperature resumed his usual 97.9 after I fed him some blue Jell-o, at his request, and more water. He still feels bloated, so I'm leery of what this means.
I swear the kidlets are plotting against me so that I never have them all healthy at the same time again. I'm guessing my bath mat excursion is not going to happen any time soon.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
"I'm tired..."
Rooster is home from school today. After breakfast this morning, I kept getting a whiff of something noxious before hearing her announce that her belly felt bloated. With her and her myriad digestive issues, this might mean nothing or it might get really, really ugly.
After she and I took her siblings to school, I informed her she was staying in her room today. That's my typical deal with any kidlet who is home sick. For a good long while this morning, she was acting chipper and happy. She played with a wide variety of toys in her room. She completed a bit of tonight's homework. She even said she was hungry and asked for a snack first (applesauce with cinnamon) and then lunch (SunButter sandwich--it's like a peanut butter sandwich except made from sunflower seeds instead of peanuts). She even played a bit after lunch.
Now that it has been about an hour and a half since she has eaten, she is slowing down. Her belly still feels quite full and bloated if I touch it. I am not sure if this is just because she actually ate or if it verifies there is indeed a problem.
I suspect it is truly a problem. She told me she was tired and needs a nap. Almost every single time my child has vomited in the past has been after saying the words, "I'm tired." She rarely says that when she is feeling fine, although there is the random exception at the end of the day when she should actually feel tired. At one o'clock in the afternoon? She should still be feeling awake and alert.
Yes, I know it is possible that she is just bored with being stuck in her room all day. I know it is possible that she tired herself out while playing happily earlier. However, I am currently a basket case. I am physically shaking because of how shot my nerves are at this point in time. I am absolutely petrified that she will throw up again. It has been about five weeks since the first person in my house came down with a stomach bug. I have had at least one person sick to their stomach every few days since that point in time. Yes, Rooster has had multiple bouts with it. Yes, Rooster is my resident puker. Yes, Rooster has digestive tract issues even when she technically does not have a virus, but that's what makes a virus worse for her. Everyone else might get it for a day or two. Rooster has repeat bouts for a month or so.
I do not know how to make my daughter feel better. Give her too bland a diet and she gets constipated and throws up again. Try to reintroduce foods and she throws up again. I have no clue what to do to make her feel healthy again. Her next appointment with her gastroenterologist isn't for over a month yet, and it is notoriously difficult to schedule an earlier appointment with that doctor. I have no idea how to calm myself down when even the thought of someone in my house getting sick to their stomach makes me feel sick to mine.
I'll tell you this much though: God certainly must have a sense of humor to give a child prone to vomiting to a mother who is a nervous wreck when it comes to that.
After she and I took her siblings to school, I informed her she was staying in her room today. That's my typical deal with any kidlet who is home sick. For a good long while this morning, she was acting chipper and happy. She played with a wide variety of toys in her room. She completed a bit of tonight's homework. She even said she was hungry and asked for a snack first (applesauce with cinnamon) and then lunch (SunButter sandwich--it's like a peanut butter sandwich except made from sunflower seeds instead of peanuts). She even played a bit after lunch.
Now that it has been about an hour and a half since she has eaten, she is slowing down. Her belly still feels quite full and bloated if I touch it. I am not sure if this is just because she actually ate or if it verifies there is indeed a problem.
I suspect it is truly a problem. She told me she was tired and needs a nap. Almost every single time my child has vomited in the past has been after saying the words, "I'm tired." She rarely says that when she is feeling fine, although there is the random exception at the end of the day when she should actually feel tired. At one o'clock in the afternoon? She should still be feeling awake and alert.
Yes, I know it is possible that she is just bored with being stuck in her room all day. I know it is possible that she tired herself out while playing happily earlier. However, I am currently a basket case. I am physically shaking because of how shot my nerves are at this point in time. I am absolutely petrified that she will throw up again. It has been about five weeks since the first person in my house came down with a stomach bug. I have had at least one person sick to their stomach every few days since that point in time. Yes, Rooster has had multiple bouts with it. Yes, Rooster is my resident puker. Yes, Rooster has digestive tract issues even when she technically does not have a virus, but that's what makes a virus worse for her. Everyone else might get it for a day or two. Rooster has repeat bouts for a month or so.
I do not know how to make my daughter feel better. Give her too bland a diet and she gets constipated and throws up again. Try to reintroduce foods and she throws up again. I have no clue what to do to make her feel healthy again. Her next appointment with her gastroenterologist isn't for over a month yet, and it is notoriously difficult to schedule an earlier appointment with that doctor. I have no idea how to calm myself down when even the thought of someone in my house getting sick to their stomach makes me feel sick to mine.
I'll tell you this much though: God certainly must have a sense of humor to give a child prone to vomiting to a mother who is a nervous wreck when it comes to that.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Ten Years of Horse-ness
Ten years ago, I had never changed a diaper. Now, I could probably change one blindfolded and while fast asleep. Come to think of it, I probably have changed diapers while snoring.
Ten years ago, I had no clue how to take care of a newborn, and desperately wished they came with instruction manuals. Now, I thank my lucky stars that all my kidlets are out of that phase. Granted, they have found new ways to make me completely baffled, but at least they can talk to tell me why they are mad at me or otherwise unhappy with life.
Ten years ago, I thought that as a mother, I would have to get stuck doing all of the work for my offspring. These days, I know better, and so does my husband. Weekends and evenings, he's on call just as much as I am, if not more.
Ten years ago, I thought that putting a crying baby in her crib so that I could take a minute to run to the bathroom would scar her for life. These days, I have no problem sending a crying child to go lie down on his or her bed, regardless of my need to pee. I also insist on allowing myself regular bathroom breaks.
Ten years ago, I thought that asking for help when overwhelmed and depressed was a sign of weakness. These days, I speak up when I am at my wit's end. Getting help can make all the difference in the world. I am also a loudmouth when it comes to talking to other mothers about postpartum depression, and I sing Zoloft's praises from the rooftops.
Ten years ago, I had no idea how difficult it could be to change a wriggling child. Now, I have no need to help them dress and they certainly don't wear diapers any more. Despite this fact, I have long since perfected the wrestling moves required to dress a toddler who would much rather be naked.
Ten years ago, I never had to read the same book over and over approximately seventeen bazillion times. Now, there are books I have read out loud so many times that I am sure the words have been ingrained into my DNA.
Ten years ago, I had no idea that bedtime stories only serve to tire out the parent reading them. By now, I know my kidlets only ask me to read to them when they want me to pass out so they can run amok for a while. Sadly, they figured this out before I did.
Ten years ago, I had no idea that one little baby could completely turn my life upside down, deny me of sleep for a decade (and counting), make me completely rearrange my priorities in life, turn me against television, convince me to give up my career, drive me absolutely crazy at times, and force me to confront my own biases and bad habits, all while filling my heart almost to bursting with love.
Happy Birthday, Horse. It has been a truly blessed decade with you in my life. I hope the next ten years don't go by nearly as fast. I know you have to grow up, but I am in no rush for that to happen. You were, and always will be, my baby. I love you.
Ten years ago, I had no clue how to take care of a newborn, and desperately wished they came with instruction manuals. Now, I thank my lucky stars that all my kidlets are out of that phase. Granted, they have found new ways to make me completely baffled, but at least they can talk to tell me why they are mad at me or otherwise unhappy with life.
Ten years ago, I thought that as a mother, I would have to get stuck doing all of the work for my offspring. These days, I know better, and so does my husband. Weekends and evenings, he's on call just as much as I am, if not more.
Ten years ago, I thought that putting a crying baby in her crib so that I could take a minute to run to the bathroom would scar her for life. These days, I have no problem sending a crying child to go lie down on his or her bed, regardless of my need to pee. I also insist on allowing myself regular bathroom breaks.
Ten years ago, I thought that asking for help when overwhelmed and depressed was a sign of weakness. These days, I speak up when I am at my wit's end. Getting help can make all the difference in the world. I am also a loudmouth when it comes to talking to other mothers about postpartum depression, and I sing Zoloft's praises from the rooftops.
Ten years ago, I had no idea how difficult it could be to change a wriggling child. Now, I have no need to help them dress and they certainly don't wear diapers any more. Despite this fact, I have long since perfected the wrestling moves required to dress a toddler who would much rather be naked.
Ten years ago, I never had to read the same book over and over approximately seventeen bazillion times. Now, there are books I have read out loud so many times that I am sure the words have been ingrained into my DNA.
Ten years ago, I had no idea that bedtime stories only serve to tire out the parent reading them. By now, I know my kidlets only ask me to read to them when they want me to pass out so they can run amok for a while. Sadly, they figured this out before I did.
Ten years ago, I had no idea that one little baby could completely turn my life upside down, deny me of sleep for a decade (and counting), make me completely rearrange my priorities in life, turn me against television, convince me to give up my career, drive me absolutely crazy at times, and force me to confront my own biases and bad habits, all while filling my heart almost to bursting with love.
Happy Birthday, Horse. It has been a truly blessed decade with you in my life. I hope the next ten years don't go by nearly as fast. I know you have to grow up, but I am in no rush for that to happen. You were, and always will be, my baby. I love you.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Tweenlet
A friend of mine wished my eldest kidlet a very happy birthday for tomorrow. My baby will be turning ten. My friend pointed out that she will rapidly outgrow this kidlet stage. This caused me a moment of panic as I realized my kidlet is now a tweenlet.
That does not quite have the same ring to it, and it also makes me feel old. Harrumph.
Ten years ago today, I was getting ready to enter the hospital for a labor induction. Horse decided she was comfy in utero, and she was not going anywhere. I was eager to meet my baby. Heck, I did not even know if she would be a boy or a girl. I thought for sure that I was ready to embark on this whole parenthood journey. If only my baby would be born already!
My induction took almost twenty-four hours, and I can honestly say the hospital is lucky I did not sue them. There were so many mistakes that were made by different members of the hospital staff that when I wound up discovering I was pregnant with baby number two, I immediately sought out a new doctor that was affiliated with a different hospital. There was no way I wanted to go through that nightmare again. (I am happy to report my other two kidlets, who were both also induced, had a much better entrance into this world. The right doctor and hospital made all the difference. To this day, I state that if I were to keel over dead in front of that first hospital, I want my corpse shoved into a cab and driven to another hospital because I do not even want to enter that hideous hospital's morgue.)
Anyway, after a nightmarish twenty-plus hours, the sadistic nurse assigned to me finally consented to bring in the anesthesiologist. (My husband still teases me about how much I apparently enjoyed the medicine in that epidural. He mentions something about my singing about, "Happy drugs!" He's never had an extremely bloated organ squeezing the life out of him, so I think he cannot possibly understand just how much of a relief it was to finally not feel a blessed thing. Next time, he can push out the dang watermelon.) Just a few hours later, exactly ten years tomorrow, I was able to meet my baby girl.
My first conscious thought upon being left alone with my daughter for the first time was, "Now what the heck do I do? They cannot possibly trust me alone with this fragile creature!" Sadly, almost ten years later, I'm still wondering what the heck to do. I am not sure if she has figured out that I'm winging this motherhood gig. Whatever instruction manual might have come with her has long since been tossed out the window. Everything I thought I knew about kidlets was missing vital pieces of information.
I thought I would love my child. I never knew I could love her this much. It does not matter what she could ever say or do. I will not stop loving her. I guess I never truly understood unconditional love before having children. I also never realized how often I would need to reassure her of my love. Kidlets really do need constant reassurance.
I thought my child would get into mischief. I never thought this could occur 24/7. I did not think that my child taking scissors to her doll's hair and leaving a few long strands of red hair (I'm a brunette) in our bathroom would make me suspect my husband of infidelity because I could not fathom where the hair came from otherwise. I never thought that taking a nap with a two-year-old sitting docilely next to me could possibly lead to me waking up to said child being covered from head to toe, including clothing, with marker. I never thought I would have to call poison control because my child felt the urge to suck on the liquid soap dispenser or to crack open a glowing bracelet to lap at the liquid inside. I never thought I would have to make an emergency trip to the dentist because my child thought it would be a fun idea to try and jump over her sister when she cannot even handle walking down the hallway without bumping into something.
I thought my child might teach me a few things. I never realized she would teach me far more than I could ever teach to her, and that shows no sign of stopping as she gets older.
I thought I would enjoy being a mother. I never suspected that I would enjoy being a stay-at-home mother. I had always planned on going back to work when Horse was about a year-and-a-half old. I never thought I would enjoy parenthood enough to get pregnant again after that miserable first induction. I never realized that motherhood means having to see my own flaws, sarcastic commentary, and idiosyncrasies repeated by a mini-me, and always at the least appropriate times.
Ten years ago tonight, I was freaking out about almost being a mother. Today, I cannot imagine life any other way. I hope the next ten years with my tweenlet are just as special.
That does not quite have the same ring to it, and it also makes me feel old. Harrumph.
Ten years ago today, I was getting ready to enter the hospital for a labor induction. Horse decided she was comfy in utero, and she was not going anywhere. I was eager to meet my baby. Heck, I did not even know if she would be a boy or a girl. I thought for sure that I was ready to embark on this whole parenthood journey. If only my baby would be born already!
My induction took almost twenty-four hours, and I can honestly say the hospital is lucky I did not sue them. There were so many mistakes that were made by different members of the hospital staff that when I wound up discovering I was pregnant with baby number two, I immediately sought out a new doctor that was affiliated with a different hospital. There was no way I wanted to go through that nightmare again. (I am happy to report my other two kidlets, who were both also induced, had a much better entrance into this world. The right doctor and hospital made all the difference. To this day, I state that if I were to keel over dead in front of that first hospital, I want my corpse shoved into a cab and driven to another hospital because I do not even want to enter that hideous hospital's morgue.)
Anyway, after a nightmarish twenty-plus hours, the sadistic nurse assigned to me finally consented to bring in the anesthesiologist. (My husband still teases me about how much I apparently enjoyed the medicine in that epidural. He mentions something about my singing about, "Happy drugs!" He's never had an extremely bloated organ squeezing the life out of him, so I think he cannot possibly understand just how much of a relief it was to finally not feel a blessed thing. Next time, he can push out the dang watermelon.) Just a few hours later, exactly ten years tomorrow, I was able to meet my baby girl.
My first conscious thought upon being left alone with my daughter for the first time was, "Now what the heck do I do? They cannot possibly trust me alone with this fragile creature!" Sadly, almost ten years later, I'm still wondering what the heck to do. I am not sure if she has figured out that I'm winging this motherhood gig. Whatever instruction manual might have come with her has long since been tossed out the window. Everything I thought I knew about kidlets was missing vital pieces of information.
I thought I would love my child. I never knew I could love her this much. It does not matter what she could ever say or do. I will not stop loving her. I guess I never truly understood unconditional love before having children. I also never realized how often I would need to reassure her of my love. Kidlets really do need constant reassurance.
I thought my child would get into mischief. I never thought this could occur 24/7. I did not think that my child taking scissors to her doll's hair and leaving a few long strands of red hair (I'm a brunette) in our bathroom would make me suspect my husband of infidelity because I could not fathom where the hair came from otherwise. I never thought that taking a nap with a two-year-old sitting docilely next to me could possibly lead to me waking up to said child being covered from head to toe, including clothing, with marker. I never thought I would have to call poison control because my child felt the urge to suck on the liquid soap dispenser or to crack open a glowing bracelet to lap at the liquid inside. I never thought I would have to make an emergency trip to the dentist because my child thought it would be a fun idea to try and jump over her sister when she cannot even handle walking down the hallway without bumping into something.
I thought my child might teach me a few things. I never realized she would teach me far more than I could ever teach to her, and that shows no sign of stopping as she gets older.
I thought I would enjoy being a mother. I never suspected that I would enjoy being a stay-at-home mother. I had always planned on going back to work when Horse was about a year-and-a-half old. I never thought I would enjoy parenthood enough to get pregnant again after that miserable first induction. I never realized that motherhood means having to see my own flaws, sarcastic commentary, and idiosyncrasies repeated by a mini-me, and always at the least appropriate times.
Ten years ago tonight, I was freaking out about almost being a mother. Today, I cannot imagine life any other way. I hope the next ten years with my tweenlet are just as special.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Lobster Girl
Rooster is one of those kidlets that seems to revel in her ability to make me question her sanity. She is the child who will climb onto a dresser just to leap over to a shelf a few feet away, will dart out into a parking lot regardless of traffic, and will repeatedly do something annoying to her siblings all while saying, "I'm sorry," to try and get away with it. If she is told to not do a particular thing, rest assured she will try her hardest to do it anyway.
A number of times, I have gone into the bathroom after Rooster has finished showering, only to discover steam clinging to the walls to the point where it was dripping, despite the bathroom fan running the entire time. I have spoken to her about how she is not to turn up the temperature because overly hot water can hurt her. We have double-checked to make sure the water heater is set at the recommended temperature for families with small children because we do not want her to scald herself when (not if) she disobeys us and turns up the water temperature. She is almost seven years old and I still do not trust her to turn on her shower water by herself, despite her pleas to do just that.
This afternoon, I set up Rooster's shower and went back into the kitchen to get dinner in the oven. Rooster finished her shower and then came out to ask me to trim her toenails. Nothing was on the stovetop at that point, and my husband could keep an eye on the oven, so I grabbed my manicure/pedicure kit and walked Rooster back into the bathroom to complete that task. I asked her to sit on the toilet seat lid and put her feet up on my knees so I could see her toenails. When she put her feet up on my knees, I gasped in horror.
My daughter's legs were bright red. She looked like a lobster. I looked up at her arms and noticed they were also red. Shocked, I immediately called my husband into the bathroom. We were both appalled at how our daughter looked.
So once more, we told Lobster Girl that she is burning herself by turning the water temperature all the way up as hot as it could get. Once again, we are double-checking the thermostat on the hot water heater to make sure it is within safe limits.
I am happy to report that my daughter's skin has resumed its normal color by now. If it had not, I probably would have taken her to either the walk-in clinic near us or the emergency room, simply because of hot much of her body had been red. I don't want my daughter to cook herself! This is perhaps a case of her truly not being able to feel temperature correctly, in which case I shall have to talk to her doctor about the best way to handle such a thing. Unfortunately, sensory issues like this are not something that can be treated. It has to be proactive, at least from what I've already read on the subject. But how do you do that with a kidlet who will wait until you leave the room in order to try and scald herself? We've already lowered the hot water temperature. I'm not sure what else can be done. I might have to assign her the last shower so the hot water is all used up by the time she gets there. I hope that does not count as cruel and unusual punishment.
A number of times, I have gone into the bathroom after Rooster has finished showering, only to discover steam clinging to the walls to the point where it was dripping, despite the bathroom fan running the entire time. I have spoken to her about how she is not to turn up the temperature because overly hot water can hurt her. We have double-checked to make sure the water heater is set at the recommended temperature for families with small children because we do not want her to scald herself when (not if) she disobeys us and turns up the water temperature. She is almost seven years old and I still do not trust her to turn on her shower water by herself, despite her pleas to do just that.
This afternoon, I set up Rooster's shower and went back into the kitchen to get dinner in the oven. Rooster finished her shower and then came out to ask me to trim her toenails. Nothing was on the stovetop at that point, and my husband could keep an eye on the oven, so I grabbed my manicure/pedicure kit and walked Rooster back into the bathroom to complete that task. I asked her to sit on the toilet seat lid and put her feet up on my knees so I could see her toenails. When she put her feet up on my knees, I gasped in horror.
My daughter's legs were bright red. She looked like a lobster. I looked up at her arms and noticed they were also red. Shocked, I immediately called my husband into the bathroom. We were both appalled at how our daughter looked.
So once more, we told Lobster Girl that she is burning herself by turning the water temperature all the way up as hot as it could get. Once again, we are double-checking the thermostat on the hot water heater to make sure it is within safe limits.
I am happy to report that my daughter's skin has resumed its normal color by now. If it had not, I probably would have taken her to either the walk-in clinic near us or the emergency room, simply because of hot much of her body had been red. I don't want my daughter to cook herself! This is perhaps a case of her truly not being able to feel temperature correctly, in which case I shall have to talk to her doctor about the best way to handle such a thing. Unfortunately, sensory issues like this are not something that can be treated. It has to be proactive, at least from what I've already read on the subject. But how do you do that with a kidlet who will wait until you leave the room in order to try and scald herself? We've already lowered the hot water temperature. I'm not sure what else can be done. I might have to assign her the last shower so the hot water is all used up by the time she gets there. I hope that does not count as cruel and unusual punishment.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Words...
Words are dangerous things. Often, stressing different words in a sentence can change the entire meaning behind what is being said. Take the following example: "I think you're right." "I think you're right." (Whatever anybody else thinks, my opinion is that you're right.) "I think you're right." (As far as I know, you are right, but I could be wrong.) "I think you're right." (You're right. The other person is wrong.) "I think you're right." (As far as I am concerned, there is no chance you are wrong.) Stress the wrong word or words by accident, and you leave the listener with the wrong impression. And yes, I know you think I'm right about this, regardless about which words you stress.
Writing adds the extra challenge of not knowing what word or words the author is attempting to emphasize. Unless the writer is going to do something incredibly inane, such as italicizing words, the reader has to use their own best judgment as to how a sentence is meant to sound. I know my readers are quite intelligent and can likely figure out how I meant to stress my typed words. (That's right. All three of you can pat yourselves on the back for interpreting my snark correctly.) Not every writer has the ability to assume such a thing about those reading their words.
I have been thinking about the power of words lately when it comes to the topic of bullying, particularly with middle and high school students. Back when I was still a student, bullying was a relatively confined affair. If you were bullied, you had to deal with the people bullying you and whoever was witnessing your mortification firsthand. True, the bullies might tell others about your plight, but most of the time, not that many people were involved. Nowadays, bullies often put their taunts out there in cyberspace. Their written words might be seen by hundreds or thousands of people, and those who put their bullying in video format might actually see them go viral. Bullying is no longer a relatively contained affair.
How does a teenager defend themselves against bullied accusations that have been heard by millions of people? How can someone ever feel whole again when something targeting them and put online takes on a life of its own? It's bad enough being bullied in person. Imagine that being multiplied by each online viewing. Even if the original poster takes it down, it's still potentially out there somewhere if copied or shared by anyone else. It does not end. It will be out there forever, or at least as long as the Internet as we know it exists.
Parents, monitor your children as they go online. Insist upon access to all of their online accounts as a prerequisite to them using the computer. Let them know you will be checking to make sure they are acting appropriately and that you will also be on the lookout for others who are not. Speak up against people using their words to attack others. If someone tells you your child is bullying someone else, listen to that person, do some investigation, and then discipline your child for their misbehavior. Lead by example, too. Don't tell your child to play nice and then go and bad-mouth your boss on a social networking site. Let's put an end to bullying in all its forms.
Oh, and if you find out your friend's mom once blogged about the joys of potty-training your friend, keep your fool mouth shut, your fingers off the keyboard, and do not mock your friend about that. You wouldn't want to be picked on for going through that stage in life either.
Writing adds the extra challenge of not knowing what word or words the author is attempting to emphasize. Unless the writer is going to do something incredibly inane, such as italicizing words, the reader has to use their own best judgment as to how a sentence is meant to sound. I know my readers are quite intelligent and can likely figure out how I meant to stress my typed words. (That's right. All three of you can pat yourselves on the back for interpreting my snark correctly.) Not every writer has the ability to assume such a thing about those reading their words.
I have been thinking about the power of words lately when it comes to the topic of bullying, particularly with middle and high school students. Back when I was still a student, bullying was a relatively confined affair. If you were bullied, you had to deal with the people bullying you and whoever was witnessing your mortification firsthand. True, the bullies might tell others about your plight, but most of the time, not that many people were involved. Nowadays, bullies often put their taunts out there in cyberspace. Their written words might be seen by hundreds or thousands of people, and those who put their bullying in video format might actually see them go viral. Bullying is no longer a relatively contained affair.
How does a teenager defend themselves against bullied accusations that have been heard by millions of people? How can someone ever feel whole again when something targeting them and put online takes on a life of its own? It's bad enough being bullied in person. Imagine that being multiplied by each online viewing. Even if the original poster takes it down, it's still potentially out there somewhere if copied or shared by anyone else. It does not end. It will be out there forever, or at least as long as the Internet as we know it exists.
Parents, monitor your children as they go online. Insist upon access to all of their online accounts as a prerequisite to them using the computer. Let them know you will be checking to make sure they are acting appropriately and that you will also be on the lookout for others who are not. Speak up against people using their words to attack others. If someone tells you your child is bullying someone else, listen to that person, do some investigation, and then discipline your child for their misbehavior. Lead by example, too. Don't tell your child to play nice and then go and bad-mouth your boss on a social networking site. Let's put an end to bullying in all its forms.
Oh, and if you find out your friend's mom once blogged about the joys of potty-training your friend, keep your fool mouth shut, your fingers off the keyboard, and do not mock your friend about that. You wouldn't want to be picked on for going through that stage in life either.
Friday, March 16, 2012
My son on steroids...
Pig Jr. has breathing issues. When he gets congested, he gets a nasty cough and he wheezes. His doctors say he has reactive airways, which I think is just another way of saying his lungs don't like doing what they are supposed to do. I had brought him to the doctor's office earlier in the week and they upped his nebulizer treatments and put him on steroids to try and help his breathing.
My son on steroids turns into a very different person. He wants to curl up in bed more often. That could perhaps be because he's not getting as much oxygen as he should be getting, so it might make him more tired, but that's just a guess. I tend to think it has something to do with all the extra medicines he is taking, and I'm blaming the steroids because he is usually on allergy medicine and nebulizer treatments without being super sleepy.
Pig Jr. turns into Mr. Whiny, too. He "can't" get a shower without help. ("Nice try, kiddo. You're big enough to rub a soapy washcloth on your own body.") He "can't" blow his nose. He can, apparently, mope about and complain about everything. His sister is too noisy playing the piano. His other sister is too close to him. The coffee table has too much stuff on it. He does not want to watch the DVD I put into the DVD player. He does not want to NOT watch the DVD I put in the DVD player. And so on and so forth.
At some point every afternoon since he started these steroids, he started sobbing as if life is just unbearable. The sobbing continues for at least half an hour, typically through the time where he is taking a shower. Let me change that. He sobs through the time when he should be cleaning himself in the shower, and is instead sobbing that he cannot possibly clean himself at the ripe old age of almost five. The only good thing to come out of that is that it gets his nose running so I can have him blow his nose a zillion times to try and clear out all of that yuck that he would normally just have stuck in his head or dripping down his throat.
There are four more doses of steroids that Pig Jr. is supposed to take over the next forty-eight hours. If his crankiness keeps increasing, I just might start sobbing right alongside him.
My son on steroids turns into a very different person. He wants to curl up in bed more often. That could perhaps be because he's not getting as much oxygen as he should be getting, so it might make him more tired, but that's just a guess. I tend to think it has something to do with all the extra medicines he is taking, and I'm blaming the steroids because he is usually on allergy medicine and nebulizer treatments without being super sleepy.
Pig Jr. turns into Mr. Whiny, too. He "can't" get a shower without help. ("Nice try, kiddo. You're big enough to rub a soapy washcloth on your own body.") He "can't" blow his nose. He can, apparently, mope about and complain about everything. His sister is too noisy playing the piano. His other sister is too close to him. The coffee table has too much stuff on it. He does not want to watch the DVD I put into the DVD player. He does not want to NOT watch the DVD I put in the DVD player. And so on and so forth.
At some point every afternoon since he started these steroids, he started sobbing as if life is just unbearable. The sobbing continues for at least half an hour, typically through the time where he is taking a shower. Let me change that. He sobs through the time when he should be cleaning himself in the shower, and is instead sobbing that he cannot possibly clean himself at the ripe old age of almost five. The only good thing to come out of that is that it gets his nose running so I can have him blow his nose a zillion times to try and clear out all of that yuck that he would normally just have stuck in his head or dripping down his throat.
There are four more doses of steroids that Pig Jr. is supposed to take over the next forty-eight hours. If his crankiness keeps increasing, I just might start sobbing right alongside him.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
How may I serve you?
My role in life, at least with sick kidlets at home, is to apparently serve them nonstop twenty-four hours a day. Every parent, or so I would imagine, has to go through such an experience from time to time. This novelty is wearing off after having sick kidlets in the house for the past month.
Yesterday, Pig Jr. decided to get sick to his stomach. I'm sure he did not do it on purpose. We're still not sure if it is a continuation of the stomach bug that has been plaguing our house for the past four weeks or if it was simply because he is insanely congested and likely swallowing more of that ick than he is blowing out his nose. In either event, I am helping him blow his nose, getting him water and Jell-o, and catering to his every whim as he recovers. Unfortunately, he is still incredibly congested, so I am a walking basketcase about him swallowing more nastiness and having it resurface later. Thankfully, he is quite proud of his "champion nose blowing" technique, and reminds me to tell him how good a job he is doing while I hold a tissue to his face. ("The first time blowing my nose was outstanding. The next one was perfect. The last time was great. Right, Mommy?")
Then there is Horse. She was fine yesterday. Today, she woke up with a fever and headache. I am presuming this is the same fever that hit Pig Jr. on Monday, so I am hoping it is done just as quickly as it was with him. Today still entailed me monitoring her temperature, feeding her a zillion snacks during the day (she apparently gets more hungry than usual when she is lying in bed doing nothing more straining than reading books), making sure she is ingesting plenty of water, and convincing her to blow her nose with her frequent coughing. ("But Mom, nothing's coming out when I blow my nose!" "I don't care! Try to blow it anyway! I don't want you puking like your brother!")
Rooster was my only kidlet to actually attend school today. I would be relieved that at least she is healthy if it were not the fact that she likely picked up more viruses from attending school than she would have been exposed to had she been stuck at home. When Rooster is feeling fine, she talks my ear off. Since she had a half-day of school today, this means that every single moment I was not involved in caring for her sick siblings, she was wanting my attention. I wound up resorting to putting on a DVD for her just to try and take a nap after having been up multiple times with a coughing Pig Jr. last night. Alas, that did not work since she decided I needed a play-by-play on what she was watching.
I'm debating getting a servant's uniform of some kind, preferably with dark sunglasses so I can shut my eyes for a second or two at a time between kidlet-whims. If this is how I am spending my days, I might as well dress the part.
Yesterday, Pig Jr. decided to get sick to his stomach. I'm sure he did not do it on purpose. We're still not sure if it is a continuation of the stomach bug that has been plaguing our house for the past four weeks or if it was simply because he is insanely congested and likely swallowing more of that ick than he is blowing out his nose. In either event, I am helping him blow his nose, getting him water and Jell-o, and catering to his every whim as he recovers. Unfortunately, he is still incredibly congested, so I am a walking basketcase about him swallowing more nastiness and having it resurface later. Thankfully, he is quite proud of his "champion nose blowing" technique, and reminds me to tell him how good a job he is doing while I hold a tissue to his face. ("The first time blowing my nose was outstanding. The next one was perfect. The last time was great. Right, Mommy?")
Then there is Horse. She was fine yesterday. Today, she woke up with a fever and headache. I am presuming this is the same fever that hit Pig Jr. on Monday, so I am hoping it is done just as quickly as it was with him. Today still entailed me monitoring her temperature, feeding her a zillion snacks during the day (she apparently gets more hungry than usual when she is lying in bed doing nothing more straining than reading books), making sure she is ingesting plenty of water, and convincing her to blow her nose with her frequent coughing. ("But Mom, nothing's coming out when I blow my nose!" "I don't care! Try to blow it anyway! I don't want you puking like your brother!")
Rooster was my only kidlet to actually attend school today. I would be relieved that at least she is healthy if it were not the fact that she likely picked up more viruses from attending school than she would have been exposed to had she been stuck at home. When Rooster is feeling fine, she talks my ear off. Since she had a half-day of school today, this means that every single moment I was not involved in caring for her sick siblings, she was wanting my attention. I wound up resorting to putting on a DVD for her just to try and take a nap after having been up multiple times with a coughing Pig Jr. last night. Alas, that did not work since she decided I needed a play-by-play on what she was watching.
I'm debating getting a servant's uniform of some kind, preferably with dark sunglasses so I can shut my eyes for a second or two at a time between kidlet-whims. If this is how I am spending my days, I might as well dress the part.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Does IEP stand for Inexplicably Emotional Powwow?
This morning was Pig Jr.'s IEP meeting. For those not in the know, IEP stands for Individualized Education Program (I've also seen that as "Plan," although my son's paperwork all states "Program".) Basically, his IEP outlines what my special education son needs to help him work towards specific goals tailored to his specific areas of concern. Right now, a lot of his goals are speech related, due to his speech delays, although there are other goals concerning other areas.
I went into Pig Jr.'s IEP meeting thinking that it would just be a quick meeting to touch base about how he is doing and perhaps sign off on getting his annual evaluation done. I left there with my head spinning and as an emotional basketcase.
Across the board, everyone at the meeting believed that my son is very intelligent. There were praises for how he is almost writing sentences already, has improved remarkably in his fine motor skills, how he is talking much more than he used to talk, and how there are even times when he needs to be told to quiet down in the school hallways.
Then there were the concerns. He is still quite shy during his half-hour speech lessons, and answers "I don't know" instead of the correct answer, which the speech teacher believes he actually knows. His preschool teacher expressed concern about his emotional and social development. She told me she thought transitioning to kindergarten would be quite difficult for my son. The school psychologist mentioned that part of my son's annual evaluation will be for speech and the other part psychological. Hearing that right after those emotional and social concerns was difficult, even if that is standard testing. The school nurse told me how he is on her list of children she has to check on every day because of his breathing issues. I had no idea she needed to check on him so often. I suddenly went from feeling my son was doing well in school to wondering why I had not heard of these issues before today.
We talked briefly about my son's sensory issues. I mentioned how at his last neurological evaluation, which was well over a year ago, his neurodevelopmentalist had given us a diagnosis of PDD-NOS (Pervasive Developmental Disorder-Not Otherwise Specified). Pig Jr.'s case manager mentioned she never got those reports. Well, neither did we. My husband and I both spent quite a number of times on the phone with that specialist and our son's original neurologist, heard that the reports would be in the mail, then never saw a darn thing. We did get something in the mail reminding us to go back for another appointment in six months, but my husband said there was no way we were going back there if they could not handle sending us the two reports they had promised us for ages. Perhaps we dropped the ball on this one, but we figured until we heard from the preschool that there was an issue, we would not bother trying to find a new specialist. I guess we needed one. Anyway, now we're in a rush to get those reports from ages ago sent to the school in the hope that they will help out with Pig Jr.'s evaluation.
Thinking about it now, I am wondering if that was actually closer to two years ago. Great. Here comes the Mommy guilt for not seeking out another neurodevelopmental doctor ages ago. Two years is a huge deal when you are talking about an under-five child. Already being overwhelmed can apparently be made worse by adding guilt to the mix. Lovely.
I know that there have been a million things going on over the past couple of years. We tried to sell the house, and still hope to do so. We had all sorts of doctor appointments with various specialists to try to get to the bottom of Rooster's bouts of vomiting. We had a bunch of appointments to deal with Pig Jr.'s chronic congestion and breathing issues. Even if nothing health wise was going on, we still have three kidlets to raise, so there is always chaos in our house. Regardless, I really wish I had fought harder for those reports and found a new neurodevelopmental specialist before today. I could really use someone else in my corner fighting for my son to receive the help he needs right about now.
Just a few days ago, I was saddened by having to sign up my son for kindergarten. Today, after hearing the school faculty's concerns, I am wondering if the child study team will even recommend him to attend kindergarten like a normal kid. I am overwhelmed, and I have sixty days, give or take, before I even find out the results of Pig Jr.'s evaluation. Two months suddenly seems like such a long time.
I should probably point out that no matter what decisions are made about my son's education, I will love him and fight for him. If he enters kindergarten in the fall or whether he needs to take a different path is irrelevant. We shall do what he needs to succeed. I just was not expecting to hear there were concerns about him today.
I went into Pig Jr.'s IEP meeting thinking that it would just be a quick meeting to touch base about how he is doing and perhaps sign off on getting his annual evaluation done. I left there with my head spinning and as an emotional basketcase.
Across the board, everyone at the meeting believed that my son is very intelligent. There were praises for how he is almost writing sentences already, has improved remarkably in his fine motor skills, how he is talking much more than he used to talk, and how there are even times when he needs to be told to quiet down in the school hallways.
Then there were the concerns. He is still quite shy during his half-hour speech lessons, and answers "I don't know" instead of the correct answer, which the speech teacher believes he actually knows. His preschool teacher expressed concern about his emotional and social development. She told me she thought transitioning to kindergarten would be quite difficult for my son. The school psychologist mentioned that part of my son's annual evaluation will be for speech and the other part psychological. Hearing that right after those emotional and social concerns was difficult, even if that is standard testing. The school nurse told me how he is on her list of children she has to check on every day because of his breathing issues. I had no idea she needed to check on him so often. I suddenly went from feeling my son was doing well in school to wondering why I had not heard of these issues before today.
We talked briefly about my son's sensory issues. I mentioned how at his last neurological evaluation, which was well over a year ago, his neurodevelopmentalist had given us a diagnosis of PDD-NOS (Pervasive Developmental Disorder-Not Otherwise Specified). Pig Jr.'s case manager mentioned she never got those reports. Well, neither did we. My husband and I both spent quite a number of times on the phone with that specialist and our son's original neurologist, heard that the reports would be in the mail, then never saw a darn thing. We did get something in the mail reminding us to go back for another appointment in six months, but my husband said there was no way we were going back there if they could not handle sending us the two reports they had promised us for ages. Perhaps we dropped the ball on this one, but we figured until we heard from the preschool that there was an issue, we would not bother trying to find a new specialist. I guess we needed one. Anyway, now we're in a rush to get those reports from ages ago sent to the school in the hope that they will help out with Pig Jr.'s evaluation.
Thinking about it now, I am wondering if that was actually closer to two years ago. Great. Here comes the Mommy guilt for not seeking out another neurodevelopmental doctor ages ago. Two years is a huge deal when you are talking about an under-five child. Already being overwhelmed can apparently be made worse by adding guilt to the mix. Lovely.
I know that there have been a million things going on over the past couple of years. We tried to sell the house, and still hope to do so. We had all sorts of doctor appointments with various specialists to try to get to the bottom of Rooster's bouts of vomiting. We had a bunch of appointments to deal with Pig Jr.'s chronic congestion and breathing issues. Even if nothing health wise was going on, we still have three kidlets to raise, so there is always chaos in our house. Regardless, I really wish I had fought harder for those reports and found a new neurodevelopmental specialist before today. I could really use someone else in my corner fighting for my son to receive the help he needs right about now.
Just a few days ago, I was saddened by having to sign up my son for kindergarten. Today, after hearing the school faculty's concerns, I am wondering if the child study team will even recommend him to attend kindergarten like a normal kid. I am overwhelmed, and I have sixty days, give or take, before I even find out the results of Pig Jr.'s evaluation. Two months suddenly seems like such a long time.
I should probably point out that no matter what decisions are made about my son's education, I will love him and fight for him. If he enters kindergarten in the fall or whether he needs to take a different path is irrelevant. We shall do what he needs to succeed. I just was not expecting to hear there were concerns about him today.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
When "doctor" doesn't know best...
For the umpteenth time this year, Pig Jr. was back at the doctor's office with horrific congestion, a nasty cough, and short, shallow breathing. He's my designated wheezer, so this does not come as much of a surprise. Because of how frequently this is happening, along with the fact that his nebulizer treatments do not seem to help him, I dropped his sisters off at school and headed back to the pediatrician's office.
I was hoping that we would get to see the actual doctor at his sick visit today, but alas, we were stuck with the nurse practitioner. I have nothing against the woman in general, but for a kidlet who has been on four courses of antibiotics since November, I would have preferred he see one of the doctors who had treated my son previously. Unfortunately, we had no choice in this matter.
The nurse practitioner heard my tale of woe about every single thing that has been going on with my son. I told her, quite honestly, that I do not know if this round of congestion is something new or a continuation of his last ear and sinus infection. I mentioned his belly complaints, the fact that he does not eat fruits and vegetables, and my concern over his possibly being constipated again. Without even looking at his file, the nurse practitioner informed me I was wrong.
Excuse me? My son does not eat fruits and vegetables and does have a history of constipation from his diet. He has sensory issues and we battle over foods on far too many days. I have heard it said that some kidlets need to see foods on their plates ten times before they will try it. We have tried some foods probably 400 times over his almost-five-years of existence, and he still won't even touch them, let alone try to eat them. We have brought up the struggles with his eating with various people who worked with him when he was in Early Intervention, a neurologist, a neurodevelopmentalist, multiple pediatricians, and various faculty members at the preschool he attends. We have had his preschool teacher try to work with him to get him to eat different foods. We work with him at home. The sum extent of what my son will willingly ingest, as far as fruits and vegetables goes, is as follows: applesauce (only with liberal amounts of cinnamon mixed in), raisins (sometimes), canned beans (sometimes), and dried cranberries (if you count eating a trail mix granola bar that has them, although he won't eat them outside of said granola bar).
The nurse practitioner informed me we just need to keep presenting him with the foods. Been there, done that. When I tried to explain "PDD-NOS" and "sensory issues" and how he gags if we try to put food in his mouth, she brushed me off with the comment that everyone has sensory issues.
Yes, everyone has sensory issues to some extent. However, those sensory issues do not typically prevent people from living their everyday lives. With my son, and many other kidlets like him, it does. He panics when going in elevators when they go up and down. Until about a year ago, he would freak out if we attempted to push him in a swing. He has an extremely self-limited diet. He would sob when I washed his hands. He sobbed when having to take a bath or shower. He detests anything cold or wet, to the point of not even wanting to try ice cream. Seriously, what kidlet does not voluntarily ingest ice cream?!? Dirt, even just on his clothing, gets him so worked up that he requests an immediate outfit change. Fingerpaints, modelling clay, glue, and markers have all caused meltdowns when coming in contact with his skin. On a day-to-day basis, my son struggles with having to interact with the world around him when everything that touches his skin, enters his mouth, physically moves him, makes any amount of noise, or visually surrounds him is assaulting his senses. Yet that nurse practitioner made it seem as if I, who not only witnesses my son's sensory issues firsthand every day but also has struggled with my own sensory issues throughout life, had no clue.
Nurse: "You don't mean to say he won't eat fruits and vegetables."
Me: "Yes, I do. Raisins and applesauce is about all I can get him to eat, fruit-wise."
Nurse: "Oh, well if he can eat raisins, he'll be fine with grapes."
Me: "No, he won't eat grapes. They are wet, and he hates things that are wet."
Nurse: "Well, you have to keep giving them to him."
Me: "What do you think I've been doing? Of course we give him things like grapes that he won't eat! But he's seen some foods 400 times already and still won't even touch them."
Nurse: "You need to get him to eat more fruits and vegetables. There are tons of other fruits and vegetables out there."
Me: "And we're also a food allergy family, and have found out there are a number of fruits and vegetables we cannot even have in the house without making my throat close. How exactly do you expect me to serve my son foods for 400 or more meals while they make my throat swell shut and he won't eat them anyway?"
Nurse: "Try the grapes again. He'll eat them."
Me: "I give up."
I have dealt with people in the medical profession where they truly do not think there is a problem, or that something is all in my head. Never has this been the case with my child's health. I have had a lot of professionals tell me my son has sensory integration disorder, sensory processing disorder, sensory issues, has PDD-NOS, or any of a wide number of ways of saying the same thing. All of that is documented with his pediatrician and all of the doctors affiliated with that practice have access to my son's complete medical history. Yet that nurse, without even flipping open his file, talked to me as if I was the foolish Mommy who did not have a clue. Unreal.
I pointed out that his allergist had discussed with me how a lot of kidlets with sensory issues will refuse to eat foods they are actually allergic to, and it is not discovered until much later in life that those allergies exist. (His allergist's recommendation was to present the foods, but never force him to eat anything because it is possible, especially with our family history of food allergies, that he is actually allergic to them and that is why he is resisting them.) Her response was, "Well, I never said you should force him [to eat new foods]!"
Pardon me while I go bang my head into a wall for a while...
I was hoping that we would get to see the actual doctor at his sick visit today, but alas, we were stuck with the nurse practitioner. I have nothing against the woman in general, but for a kidlet who has been on four courses of antibiotics since November, I would have preferred he see one of the doctors who had treated my son previously. Unfortunately, we had no choice in this matter.
The nurse practitioner heard my tale of woe about every single thing that has been going on with my son. I told her, quite honestly, that I do not know if this round of congestion is something new or a continuation of his last ear and sinus infection. I mentioned his belly complaints, the fact that he does not eat fruits and vegetables, and my concern over his possibly being constipated again. Without even looking at his file, the nurse practitioner informed me I was wrong.
Excuse me? My son does not eat fruits and vegetables and does have a history of constipation from his diet. He has sensory issues and we battle over foods on far too many days. I have heard it said that some kidlets need to see foods on their plates ten times before they will try it. We have tried some foods probably 400 times over his almost-five-years of existence, and he still won't even touch them, let alone try to eat them. We have brought up the struggles with his eating with various people who worked with him when he was in Early Intervention, a neurologist, a neurodevelopmentalist, multiple pediatricians, and various faculty members at the preschool he attends. We have had his preschool teacher try to work with him to get him to eat different foods. We work with him at home. The sum extent of what my son will willingly ingest, as far as fruits and vegetables goes, is as follows: applesauce (only with liberal amounts of cinnamon mixed in), raisins (sometimes), canned beans (sometimes), and dried cranberries (if you count eating a trail mix granola bar that has them, although he won't eat them outside of said granola bar).
The nurse practitioner informed me we just need to keep presenting him with the foods. Been there, done that. When I tried to explain "PDD-NOS" and "sensory issues" and how he gags if we try to put food in his mouth, she brushed me off with the comment that everyone has sensory issues.
Yes, everyone has sensory issues to some extent. However, those sensory issues do not typically prevent people from living their everyday lives. With my son, and many other kidlets like him, it does. He panics when going in elevators when they go up and down. Until about a year ago, he would freak out if we attempted to push him in a swing. He has an extremely self-limited diet. He would sob when I washed his hands. He sobbed when having to take a bath or shower. He detests anything cold or wet, to the point of not even wanting to try ice cream. Seriously, what kidlet does not voluntarily ingest ice cream?!? Dirt, even just on his clothing, gets him so worked up that he requests an immediate outfit change. Fingerpaints, modelling clay, glue, and markers have all caused meltdowns when coming in contact with his skin. On a day-to-day basis, my son struggles with having to interact with the world around him when everything that touches his skin, enters his mouth, physically moves him, makes any amount of noise, or visually surrounds him is assaulting his senses. Yet that nurse practitioner made it seem as if I, who not only witnesses my son's sensory issues firsthand every day but also has struggled with my own sensory issues throughout life, had no clue.
Nurse: "You don't mean to say he won't eat fruits and vegetables."
Me: "Yes, I do. Raisins and applesauce is about all I can get him to eat, fruit-wise."
Nurse: "Oh, well if he can eat raisins, he'll be fine with grapes."
Me: "No, he won't eat grapes. They are wet, and he hates things that are wet."
Nurse: "Well, you have to keep giving them to him."
Me: "What do you think I've been doing? Of course we give him things like grapes that he won't eat! But he's seen some foods 400 times already and still won't even touch them."
Nurse: "You need to get him to eat more fruits and vegetables. There are tons of other fruits and vegetables out there."
Me: "And we're also a food allergy family, and have found out there are a number of fruits and vegetables we cannot even have in the house without making my throat close. How exactly do you expect me to serve my son foods for 400 or more meals while they make my throat swell shut and he won't eat them anyway?"
Nurse: "Try the grapes again. He'll eat them."
Me: "I give up."
I have dealt with people in the medical profession where they truly do not think there is a problem, or that something is all in my head. Never has this been the case with my child's health. I have had a lot of professionals tell me my son has sensory integration disorder, sensory processing disorder, sensory issues, has PDD-NOS, or any of a wide number of ways of saying the same thing. All of that is documented with his pediatrician and all of the doctors affiliated with that practice have access to my son's complete medical history. Yet that nurse, without even flipping open his file, talked to me as if I was the foolish Mommy who did not have a clue. Unreal.
I pointed out that his allergist had discussed with me how a lot of kidlets with sensory issues will refuse to eat foods they are actually allergic to, and it is not discovered until much later in life that those allergies exist. (His allergist's recommendation was to present the foods, but never force him to eat anything because it is possible, especially with our family history of food allergies, that he is actually allergic to them and that is why he is resisting them.) Her response was, "Well, I never said you should force him [to eat new foods]!"
Pardon me while I go bang my head into a wall for a while...
Monday, March 12, 2012
Dragging my feet...
Well, I had to bite the bullet and do it. I did not want to do it. In fact, I wondered whether running away somewhere would make it not be necessary. Somehow, I knew I could not escape this inevitable occurrence no matter how much I dreaded this day. That does not mean I have to like it.
I signed my baby up for kindergarten next year.
You would think this would not be that difficult a feat to accomplish, but it was. My youngest kidlet has been attending the elementary school's preschool program since he turned three almost two years ago. This is his third and final school year in that program, and he needed to be signed up to attend kindergarten starting in September.
The full-day kindergarten program that our school district offers is pretty good, all things considered. The preschool program was phenomenal, so my son is already off to a great start with his schooling. I am not afraid that he is not ready for this next step. I just don't think I am.
Truth be told, it will probably be easier for me to handle the dropoff/pickup routine once all three kidlets are on the same schedule. Right now, my son gets dropped off about twenty minutes after his sisters do and he gets picked up forty-five minutes before they leave school. (The translation here is that I essentially waste over an hour every day, just hanging around waiting to drop off or pick up somebody.)
But this is my baby. Sure, he's getting close to five years old. Of course I am used to him going to preschool five days a week anyway. But this is real elementary school. This is the official start of his educational independence from Mommy. This is the point where I start to think of my child as really growing up too fast. With his sisters, I always had at least one more baby at home with me. That is no longer the case, and I am overwhelmed with sorrow at how quickly my children have rushed through their time home with me.
At least I will feel that way in September. I have had at least one kidlet home sick with me pretty much every week since November. Perhaps I won't wind up missing him as much as I think I will, since he is the one home sick the most. It's still a sad day in the Brawn household.
I signed my baby up for kindergarten next year.
You would think this would not be that difficult a feat to accomplish, but it was. My youngest kidlet has been attending the elementary school's preschool program since he turned three almost two years ago. This is his third and final school year in that program, and he needed to be signed up to attend kindergarten starting in September.
The full-day kindergarten program that our school district offers is pretty good, all things considered. The preschool program was phenomenal, so my son is already off to a great start with his schooling. I am not afraid that he is not ready for this next step. I just don't think I am.
Truth be told, it will probably be easier for me to handle the dropoff/pickup routine once all three kidlets are on the same schedule. Right now, my son gets dropped off about twenty minutes after his sisters do and he gets picked up forty-five minutes before they leave school. (The translation here is that I essentially waste over an hour every day, just hanging around waiting to drop off or pick up somebody.)
But this is my baby. Sure, he's getting close to five years old. Of course I am used to him going to preschool five days a week anyway. But this is real elementary school. This is the official start of his educational independence from Mommy. This is the point where I start to think of my child as really growing up too fast. With his sisters, I always had at least one more baby at home with me. That is no longer the case, and I am overwhelmed with sorrow at how quickly my children have rushed through their time home with me.
At least I will feel that way in September. I have had at least one kidlet home sick with me pretty much every week since November. Perhaps I won't wind up missing him as much as I think I will, since he is the one home sick the most. It's still a sad day in the Brawn household.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Reluctant Springing
The time changed this morning. I really wish it had consulted me first, but alas, I had no say in the matter.
We did remember to change our alarm clock before going to bed last night. However, since I have to take medicine at the same time every morning, I had to figure out what time I needed to set the alarm in order to take the medicine only half an hour off from normal. (Tomorrow will be the remaining half hour difference to adjust me to taking my medicine at 5:30AM every day. That is the time that best fits into my schedule with getting the kidlets off to school.) This is further complicated by the fact that our bedroom clock is actually set ahead of what it should be. Having to wake up at five o'clock in the morning is annoying. It feels better when the clock states 5:30AM even though we know that is half an hour faster than what time it really is. Unfortunately, trying to figure out a new time, plus adjusting for our fast clock, when I was already up past my bedtime was next to impossible. I gave up and asked Pig to figure it out for me. I'm still not sure if he was right, but at least it's not my fault if the time was wrong.
Springing ahead is generally the one time change that works out better for me with the kidlets. They technically still sleep to the same time, but turning the clocks ahead actually makes them stay in bed an hour later. Unfortunately, that happens to be the hour we all just missed out on sleeping through, but it still makes me feel better to think they slept until eight o'clock in the morning. Hey, I take what I can get these days. It wound up being irrelevant anyway since Pig Jr. was up coughing far earlier than he should have been. I missed out on pretending the kidlets were sleeping in because I needed to give my son a nebulizer treatment before the crack of dawn. Lucky me.
I suppose that in the long run, it is better to have the clocks set differently because the kidlets will start rising with the sun regardless of what the clock says. However, until all the kidlets are healthy again, I am still going to resent it.
We did remember to change our alarm clock before going to bed last night. However, since I have to take medicine at the same time every morning, I had to figure out what time I needed to set the alarm in order to take the medicine only half an hour off from normal. (Tomorrow will be the remaining half hour difference to adjust me to taking my medicine at 5:30AM every day. That is the time that best fits into my schedule with getting the kidlets off to school.) This is further complicated by the fact that our bedroom clock is actually set ahead of what it should be. Having to wake up at five o'clock in the morning is annoying. It feels better when the clock states 5:30AM even though we know that is half an hour faster than what time it really is. Unfortunately, trying to figure out a new time, plus adjusting for our fast clock, when I was already up past my bedtime was next to impossible. I gave up and asked Pig to figure it out for me. I'm still not sure if he was right, but at least it's not my fault if the time was wrong.
Springing ahead is generally the one time change that works out better for me with the kidlets. They technically still sleep to the same time, but turning the clocks ahead actually makes them stay in bed an hour later. Unfortunately, that happens to be the hour we all just missed out on sleeping through, but it still makes me feel better to think they slept until eight o'clock in the morning. Hey, I take what I can get these days. It wound up being irrelevant anyway since Pig Jr. was up coughing far earlier than he should have been. I missed out on pretending the kidlets were sleeping in because I needed to give my son a nebulizer treatment before the crack of dawn. Lucky me.
I suppose that in the long run, it is better to have the clocks set differently because the kidlets will start rising with the sun regardless of what the clock says. However, until all the kidlets are healthy again, I am still going to resent it.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Me versus A Big Box Store
We desperately needed to take a trip to our local big box store to replenish our almost non-existent supplies of pretty much everything we usually buy there. By "we," I mean "me," since I am usually the one getting stuck with that particular errand. Since I have also had kidlets home from school sick for some time now, my window of opportunity had been slammed shut on my fingers, figuratively speaking. Since no one was sick today (and here's hoping I did not just jinx myself on that one), I left the kidlets at home with my husband, grabbed my coupons, and got ready to have one huge shopping excursion.
My first clue that my timing stunk should have been the fact that I had to park a couple of stores away from the big box store because the parking lot was full. I'm not the brightest bulb in the bunch in that regard, so I found a spot and hiked in to the store. That was where I discovered a lack of shopping carts. Alrighty then. I returned to the mob-scene parking lot to look for a shopping cart only to discover none for pretty much miles around. I happened to hear a little girl singing and looked over to see her mother almost done emptying their cart into the back of their car. I asked the mother if I could possibly take her cart when she was finished, and the little girl expressed concern that I would take her pajamas away from her since they were still in the bottom of the basket. I assured her I had no need for her pajamas as they would not fit me, and her mother allowed me to take the cart once it was empty.
Armed with the squeakiest cart in the world, I re-entered the store. Beggars cannot be choosers, but let me assure you that if I had the option, I would have used an entire can of WD-40 on those awful wheels. At least everyone could hear me coming.
The store was packed. There were aisles in which nobody was moving. I swear it was worse than the whole month of December rolled into one day. There were times when I seriously wished I had a cattle prod.
There were customers who stopped in the middle of the aisle for no reason other than to stare blankly off in space. Some customers blocked all of the space around those annoying food sample carts while they tried to make off with ten sample containers for each member of their family. (For the record, my family never takes any of the food samples at that store. In fact, I have complained to management about those carts because they have set off my food allergies and I've had my throat start to swell shut in that store. I now make sure I have taken allergy medicine before setting foot in there.) Some customers let their zillion children go all over the place around their carts, and no one could safely pass them without risking bodily harm to themselves or those running amok kidlets. Then there were the customers who were blocking traffic to look all over the place to see where they put their glasses so they could read the various products' boxes to see if they wished to purchase them. Invariably, the glasses were on top of their heads or in their hands. Finally, there were those annoying people who saw traffic stopped on both sides of the aisles, saw someone coming towards them through the path in the middle, and still insisted on walking up and blocking anyone from continuing to move around the stopped traffic. I am pretty sure my IQ dropped just from being in close proximity to those individuals.
And seriously people, if you are walking by yourself without a shopping cart and you see an overwhelmed-looking woman struggling to push an overloaded and extremely squeaky cart towards you, please walk around and don't make her have to attempt to steer around you. She might be tempted to keep going straight at you and prove that an object in motion tends to stay in motion. Just sayin'.
Eventually, I made it onto a checkout line. There were around five families ahead of me in line, but I was unable to find a shorter lane. I had been unable to get a number of items on my list because I did not feel like waiting for half an hour to inch down certain aisles. Despite that, I still managed to spend close to four hundred bucks.
I'm pretty sure the store won today.
My first clue that my timing stunk should have been the fact that I had to park a couple of stores away from the big box store because the parking lot was full. I'm not the brightest bulb in the bunch in that regard, so I found a spot and hiked in to the store. That was where I discovered a lack of shopping carts. Alrighty then. I returned to the mob-scene parking lot to look for a shopping cart only to discover none for pretty much miles around. I happened to hear a little girl singing and looked over to see her mother almost done emptying their cart into the back of their car. I asked the mother if I could possibly take her cart when she was finished, and the little girl expressed concern that I would take her pajamas away from her since they were still in the bottom of the basket. I assured her I had no need for her pajamas as they would not fit me, and her mother allowed me to take the cart once it was empty.
Armed with the squeakiest cart in the world, I re-entered the store. Beggars cannot be choosers, but let me assure you that if I had the option, I would have used an entire can of WD-40 on those awful wheels. At least everyone could hear me coming.
The store was packed. There were aisles in which nobody was moving. I swear it was worse than the whole month of December rolled into one day. There were times when I seriously wished I had a cattle prod.
There were customers who stopped in the middle of the aisle for no reason other than to stare blankly off in space. Some customers blocked all of the space around those annoying food sample carts while they tried to make off with ten sample containers for each member of their family. (For the record, my family never takes any of the food samples at that store. In fact, I have complained to management about those carts because they have set off my food allergies and I've had my throat start to swell shut in that store. I now make sure I have taken allergy medicine before setting foot in there.) Some customers let their zillion children go all over the place around their carts, and no one could safely pass them without risking bodily harm to themselves or those running amok kidlets. Then there were the customers who were blocking traffic to look all over the place to see where they put their glasses so they could read the various products' boxes to see if they wished to purchase them. Invariably, the glasses were on top of their heads or in their hands. Finally, there were those annoying people who saw traffic stopped on both sides of the aisles, saw someone coming towards them through the path in the middle, and still insisted on walking up and blocking anyone from continuing to move around the stopped traffic. I am pretty sure my IQ dropped just from being in close proximity to those individuals.
And seriously people, if you are walking by yourself without a shopping cart and you see an overwhelmed-looking woman struggling to push an overloaded and extremely squeaky cart towards you, please walk around and don't make her have to attempt to steer around you. She might be tempted to keep going straight at you and prove that an object in motion tends to stay in motion. Just sayin'.
Eventually, I made it onto a checkout line. There were around five families ahead of me in line, but I was unable to find a shorter lane. I had been unable to get a number of items on my list because I did not feel like waiting for half an hour to inch down certain aisles. Despite that, I still managed to spend close to four hundred bucks.
I'm pretty sure the store won today.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Health class
Horse was very nervous a couple of weeks ago. She had a paper she needed me to see, and you could tell how antsy she was when she presented it to me. Her fourth grade class was going to start their health class during gym time, and the paper was essentially to be returned to the school only if a child was to be excluded from the class. Horse nervously explained to me that she really, really wanted to be able to attend the class because "this is the one where they separate the boys and the girls." Oh. That one. I assured her I had no intention of removing her from class, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
A couple of years ago, I had given Horse a book that explained pretty much all of the changes that would take place with her body over the next few years. She loves to read, so I let her read to her heart's content, then talked with her about anything that confused her. She did not appear to be very confused, although I knew she might come up with more questions as she grew into what she read.
Now fast-forward to yesterday morning. Horse was almost bouncing off the walls as she got ready for school. She was thrilled that it was going to be her very first health class, and it took her almost twice as long as normal to get ready for school. I was a bit surprised at how eager she was to officially learn about everything she already knew about, but I supposed it would be different with a bunch of other girls her age rather than discussing things with her mother.
After school, Horse was subdued. I was not entirely sure how to approach the subject with her, but it turned out I did not have to bring it up myself.
Horse: "Mom, remember how I was having my first health class today? They separated us from the boys."
Me: "Oh, yeah? How did that go?"
Horse: "They talked about, you know, puberty. It was disgusting."
Me: "Well, you did already know about what was going to happen during puberty."
Horse: "Yeah, but it sounds so much better reading about it rather than having to listen. So disgusting."
Me: "But it is all true."
Horse: "Yes, but the truth is disgusting!"
Well, yes. Truth can be disgusting sometimes. But it's still part of life. It is still better to hear the truth than to miss out on important details that you need to know. I certainly don't want my daughter to think something is wrong with her when she goes through the changes that every girl needs to grow through in order to become a woman. I think it's hard enough to deal with all of those changes even when knowing they are supposed to happen. That "disgusting" knowledge just might help her so she does not panic when the time comes.
This does not mean, however, that I am in any hurry for her to have other health classes in the future. In fourth grade, it's just about what will happen to her own body. In the future, she will have to hear details she will not want to hear about boys, and eventually about how she came into this world. If she thinks yesterday's health class was disgusting, I wonder what she will have to say about high school health classes! I guess I will have to buy a book to help prepare her. Le sigh.
A couple of years ago, I had given Horse a book that explained pretty much all of the changes that would take place with her body over the next few years. She loves to read, so I let her read to her heart's content, then talked with her about anything that confused her. She did not appear to be very confused, although I knew she might come up with more questions as she grew into what she read.
Now fast-forward to yesterday morning. Horse was almost bouncing off the walls as she got ready for school. She was thrilled that it was going to be her very first health class, and it took her almost twice as long as normal to get ready for school. I was a bit surprised at how eager she was to officially learn about everything she already knew about, but I supposed it would be different with a bunch of other girls her age rather than discussing things with her mother.
After school, Horse was subdued. I was not entirely sure how to approach the subject with her, but it turned out I did not have to bring it up myself.
Horse: "Mom, remember how I was having my first health class today? They separated us from the boys."
Me: "Oh, yeah? How did that go?"
Horse: "They talked about, you know, puberty. It was disgusting."
Me: "Well, you did already know about what was going to happen during puberty."
Horse: "Yeah, but it sounds so much better reading about it rather than having to listen. So disgusting."
Me: "But it is all true."
Horse: "Yes, but the truth is disgusting!"
Well, yes. Truth can be disgusting sometimes. But it's still part of life. It is still better to hear the truth than to miss out on important details that you need to know. I certainly don't want my daughter to think something is wrong with her when she goes through the changes that every girl needs to grow through in order to become a woman. I think it's hard enough to deal with all of those changes even when knowing they are supposed to happen. That "disgusting" knowledge just might help her so she does not panic when the time comes.
This does not mean, however, that I am in any hurry for her to have other health classes in the future. In fourth grade, it's just about what will happen to her own body. In the future, she will have to hear details she will not want to hear about boys, and eventually about how she came into this world. If she thinks yesterday's health class was disgusting, I wonder what she will have to say about high school health classes! I guess I will have to buy a book to help prepare her. Le sigh.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Make-up Work
As a general rule, I detest having to do homework with my six-year-old. She seems to enjoy ignoring directions, refusing to focus, and rushing through those pieces of work that she has not already tried to hide in the recycle bin. That being said, the thing I hate more than having to do one night's homework is trying to do multiple days' worth of make-up work when she is out sick from school.
In the hopes that Rooster will return to school tomorrow morning, I had to bite the bullet and have her do some of the homework from the past two days of school. We just worked for almost two hours and still have a whole packet on habitats that will have to wait for after lunch. (Seriously, why does a first grade teacher send home work that cannot be completed without either Internet access or a science textbook? If the whole class had to fill it in together at school, why not at least give her the same information that the rest of the class had? Harrumph.)
We tackled spelling first. Let me rephrase: Rooster tackled spelling while I vacuumed the house. Spelling is the one subject that she is fully capable of doing everything by herself and then having me check it once it is completed. Three days' worth of spelling also takes about the same time as it takes me to vacuum the whole house. Huzzah!
After spelling came math. Normally, I love math. I love making sure my kidlets understand the concepts and feel quite proud of them when they succeed. This was not the case today. Rooster was supposed to measure a number of items using both a cube and a paperclip, neither one of which was supplied by her teacher. I did manage to hunt down a cube and a paperclip here at home, but I am sure her answers will be incorrect since she is not using the same units of measure that the rest of the class had. I decided I would send her in with the ones she used in the hopes that her teacher will actually check her work using the same units that Rooster used. (I'm not holding my breath on that one.) Because we used different objects, our measurements did not come out to nice, happy numbers. We wound up having to estimate Rooster's final answers rather than determining an actual measurement. Oh, well. At least she completed that work even if it will need to be redone in the near future.
Next, we moved on to the reading comprehension part of Rooster's homework. That assignment was a paper with instructions to follow the directions that six numbered sentences gave to her, then circle all of the words with the long a sound. ("Cake" would be one example, for those that forget what a long a sounds like.) Rooster demonstrated that she has absolutely no idea how to follow written directions. The first sentence told her to draw a pail next to the painter in the picture.
Rooster: *circles the paintbrush*
Me: "No, honey. What did the sentence tell you to do?"
Rooster: "Draw a pail next to the painter."
Me: "Okay, so erase that circle and draw a pail next to the painter."
Rooster: *colors in the paintbrush*
Me: "Why did you do that? You need to follow the directions."
Rooster: *draws a pail on one side of the picture and nowhere near the painter*
Me: "Rooster, where were you supposed to draw the pail?"
Rooster: "Near the painter."
Me: "Is that where the pail is now?"
Rooster: "No." *erases the pail and circles the paintbrush again*
Me: *tries not to sob*
That was simply the first of six sentences that my daughter completely ignored any and all directions that she was supposed to follow. You know how some people march to the beat of their own drum? I'm fairly certain my daughter is trying to use my skull as her percussion instrument of choice. Oy.
In case anyone is curious, today is the perfect example for why I do not homeschool. I love my daughter, but she and I clearly do not work well together when it comes to homework.
In the hopes that Rooster will return to school tomorrow morning, I had to bite the bullet and have her do some of the homework from the past two days of school. We just worked for almost two hours and still have a whole packet on habitats that will have to wait for after lunch. (Seriously, why does a first grade teacher send home work that cannot be completed without either Internet access or a science textbook? If the whole class had to fill it in together at school, why not at least give her the same information that the rest of the class had? Harrumph.)
We tackled spelling first. Let me rephrase: Rooster tackled spelling while I vacuumed the house. Spelling is the one subject that she is fully capable of doing everything by herself and then having me check it once it is completed. Three days' worth of spelling also takes about the same time as it takes me to vacuum the whole house. Huzzah!
After spelling came math. Normally, I love math. I love making sure my kidlets understand the concepts and feel quite proud of them when they succeed. This was not the case today. Rooster was supposed to measure a number of items using both a cube and a paperclip, neither one of which was supplied by her teacher. I did manage to hunt down a cube and a paperclip here at home, but I am sure her answers will be incorrect since she is not using the same units of measure that the rest of the class had. I decided I would send her in with the ones she used in the hopes that her teacher will actually check her work using the same units that Rooster used. (I'm not holding my breath on that one.) Because we used different objects, our measurements did not come out to nice, happy numbers. We wound up having to estimate Rooster's final answers rather than determining an actual measurement. Oh, well. At least she completed that work even if it will need to be redone in the near future.
Next, we moved on to the reading comprehension part of Rooster's homework. That assignment was a paper with instructions to follow the directions that six numbered sentences gave to her, then circle all of the words with the long a sound. ("Cake" would be one example, for those that forget what a long a sounds like.) Rooster demonstrated that she has absolutely no idea how to follow written directions. The first sentence told her to draw a pail next to the painter in the picture.
Rooster: *circles the paintbrush*
Me: "No, honey. What did the sentence tell you to do?"
Rooster: "Draw a pail next to the painter."
Me: "Okay, so erase that circle and draw a pail next to the painter."
Rooster: *colors in the paintbrush*
Me: "Why did you do that? You need to follow the directions."
Rooster: *draws a pail on one side of the picture and nowhere near the painter*
Me: "Rooster, where were you supposed to draw the pail?"
Rooster: "Near the painter."
Me: "Is that where the pail is now?"
Rooster: "No." *erases the pail and circles the paintbrush again*
Me: *tries not to sob*
That was simply the first of six sentences that my daughter completely ignored any and all directions that she was supposed to follow. You know how some people march to the beat of their own drum? I'm fairly certain my daughter is trying to use my skull as her percussion instrument of choice. Oy.
In case anyone is curious, today is the perfect example for why I do not homeschool. I love my daughter, but she and I clearly do not work well together when it comes to homework.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A Six-Year-Old in a Stroller?
Rooster was home from school with a stomach bug today. Yes, again. This stupid virus has been in my house for two and a half weeks now, and I am less than thrilled that my daughter has had it more than once. Granted, she has a fickle stomach. However, I am at a loss as to how I can possibly disinfect my kidlets enough to make this all go away.
Yesterday, Rooster proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that her aim is horrible. Despite the bucket sitting right next to her, I had to clean up pretty much her whole half of the room after she got sick. Therefore, I had no desire to put her in my car today, even with a bucket on her lap. We live three-quarters of a mile from the school, which must therefore be walked if I wish to keep my car relatively clean. Rooster was surviving on Jell-o today (green, by request), and I really did not know if she was up to walking a mile and a half round trip on nothing more sustaining than colored sugar and artificial flavors. I gave her the option of sitting in our sole remaining stroller.
Up until a group of her friends outside of the school started teasing her for being a "baby," Rooster thought that was a grand idea. Truth be told, I was probably more upset than she was at the teasing. Yes, I know she should not, in theory, be in a stroller at the ripe old age of almost seven. But she is not old enough to leave home alone, and I had already ruled out driving to school for pickup time today. I am fighting off the onset of a vicious cold and a bit unsteady on my feet anyway, so I doubt I could have carried her home if she was unable to walk.
I can picture the scene decades from now: Rooster, sobbing over how her heartless mother ruined her life by "forcing" her to ride in a stroller while in the first grade. Never mind that she was the one to choose that option. Never mind that it would not be an issue if she had merely stayed home with a nasty cold or a fever. I would have simply driven if that was the case.
Sorry, Rooster. I'll just have to concede that I babied you. Heck, you can even print this out to show your future therapist that your mother had no desire to tempt fate and risk having to clean green Jell-o from the interior of her car. Now please feel better already, will you?
Yesterday, Rooster proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that her aim is horrible. Despite the bucket sitting right next to her, I had to clean up pretty much her whole half of the room after she got sick. Therefore, I had no desire to put her in my car today, even with a bucket on her lap. We live three-quarters of a mile from the school, which must therefore be walked if I wish to keep my car relatively clean. Rooster was surviving on Jell-o today (green, by request), and I really did not know if she was up to walking a mile and a half round trip on nothing more sustaining than colored sugar and artificial flavors. I gave her the option of sitting in our sole remaining stroller.
Up until a group of her friends outside of the school started teasing her for being a "baby," Rooster thought that was a grand idea. Truth be told, I was probably more upset than she was at the teasing. Yes, I know she should not, in theory, be in a stroller at the ripe old age of almost seven. But she is not old enough to leave home alone, and I had already ruled out driving to school for pickup time today. I am fighting off the onset of a vicious cold and a bit unsteady on my feet anyway, so I doubt I could have carried her home if she was unable to walk.
I can picture the scene decades from now: Rooster, sobbing over how her heartless mother ruined her life by "forcing" her to ride in a stroller while in the first grade. Never mind that she was the one to choose that option. Never mind that it would not be an issue if she had merely stayed home with a nasty cold or a fever. I would have simply driven if that was the case.
Sorry, Rooster. I'll just have to concede that I babied you. Heck, you can even print this out to show your future therapist that your mother had no desire to tempt fate and risk having to clean green Jell-o from the interior of her car. Now please feel better already, will you?
Monday, March 5, 2012
Mr. Smoothlegs
We made a purchase for the kidlets for the Wii. It is a dancing game designed to get them up and moving. After having tried it out myself, I rapidly came to the conclusion that I could not keep up with anything that requires a kidlet's amount of energy. As I dragged my exhausted self to a nearby chair to collapse, I told my husband that I would rather have a DVD of fat people dancing. Surely I could keep up with them! Heck, I would fit right in and be yet another fat person dancing. And forget the Wii. I don't need to have concrete proof as to how out of shape I am.
My husband knew exactly which DVDs to get me. For my birthday, I received a set of several DVDs, complete with a bunch of regular overweight Joes dancing. Huzzah! That's my speed! I figured I would open it up, watch it through once today before attempting to follow along.
Unfortunately for me, I became distracted by the instructor. I was absolutely fascinated that a guy with such a hairy chest would have either shaved or waxed his legs. It just did not look natural. The fact that his smooth legs were absolutely glistening with what I presumed was fake sweat over the top of a spray-on tan just made it worse. I have never before had such a problem tearing my eyes away from some random guy's legs, but they truly creeped me out. I even had to text a friend of mine to express my fascination. I suspect she was less than amused by the mental image I sent to her. She should be grateful I did not send along an actual picture. She might have had to bleach her eyeballs. I know I wanted to disinfect mine.
I wondered why Mr. Smoothlegs would keep stopping everyone to do a heartbeat check, followed by asking everyone if they were okay. I must have missed where he told people what they were supposed to look for in a heart rate. I presume that if I can find a heartbeat, that means I'm still alive and therefore okay. If I can't find my heartbeat, then I'm dead. By that point, I doubt it would matter much to me if the people on the DVD were all still looking cheerful, perky, and claiming their hearts were just fine. Since I am not nearly as overweight as the people on the screen, I hope I will be okay dancing with them.
Eventually, I finished previewing the first DVD. I hope to be able to follow along and dance with the other fat people tomorrow. I will surely have to do so, because I need to work off the chocolate bars I consumed while watching the DVD today. (Just don't tell Mr. Smoothlegs. I have the sneaky suspicion he would not approve.)
My husband knew exactly which DVDs to get me. For my birthday, I received a set of several DVDs, complete with a bunch of regular overweight Joes dancing. Huzzah! That's my speed! I figured I would open it up, watch it through once today before attempting to follow along.
Unfortunately for me, I became distracted by the instructor. I was absolutely fascinated that a guy with such a hairy chest would have either shaved or waxed his legs. It just did not look natural. The fact that his smooth legs were absolutely glistening with what I presumed was fake sweat over the top of a spray-on tan just made it worse. I have never before had such a problem tearing my eyes away from some random guy's legs, but they truly creeped me out. I even had to text a friend of mine to express my fascination. I suspect she was less than amused by the mental image I sent to her. She should be grateful I did not send along an actual picture. She might have had to bleach her eyeballs. I know I wanted to disinfect mine.
I wondered why Mr. Smoothlegs would keep stopping everyone to do a heartbeat check, followed by asking everyone if they were okay. I must have missed where he told people what they were supposed to look for in a heart rate. I presume that if I can find a heartbeat, that means I'm still alive and therefore okay. If I can't find my heartbeat, then I'm dead. By that point, I doubt it would matter much to me if the people on the DVD were all still looking cheerful, perky, and claiming their hearts were just fine. Since I am not nearly as overweight as the people on the screen, I hope I will be okay dancing with them.
Eventually, I finished previewing the first DVD. I hope to be able to follow along and dance with the other fat people tomorrow. I will surely have to do so, because I need to work off the chocolate bars I consumed while watching the DVD today. (Just don't tell Mr. Smoothlegs. I have the sneaky suspicion he would not approve.)
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Late night reading
Before heading off to bed last night, I reminded myself that I wanted to take a quick peek into a correspondence box I keep in our basement. I had noticed it the other day, but had been unable to allow myself the luxury of going through it while dealing with other, more pressing tasks. Saturday evenings are the perfect time to indulge in that sort of thing, so I brought the box upstairs around the same time my husband was preparing to hit the sack.
What I found was not entirely all expected. I had thought that I had a few letters in there, but not much more than that. Instead, I found a treasure trove of memorabilia that I had long since forgotten I ever received.
I found a letter sent to me by a college friend. He was almost apologetic in telling me I had to listen to his random ramblings as he talked about a philosophy book he had recently read. He talked about how as an artist, he was concerned that so many other artists succumb to depression and suicide. A few years out of college, that friend of mine died. It was unnerving to read his words about death knowing how soon after he penned them he joined the hereafter.
I found letters from my parents that were written to me at various other times when I was off at college. I found a Valentine's Day card from my mother that talked about what life was like at home when my childhood dog was sick, shortly before the dog's death. I found cards that my father had created using Calvin & Hobbes pictures he somehow conjured up on his computer in the days before the Internet turned into the sensation it is today. I found a card they must have forced my younger brother to sign, adding his signature to their desires to see their daughter home from college soon.
I found letters from my grandmother. I found a letter responding to one I had apparently sent her, where she described what life was like living in the 1930s. There was another letter from shortly after my elopement, where she wished my new husband and I well, and requested a picture of the two of us. There was a letter from her, thanking me for sending her a picture of my firstborn, and telling me she hoped she would be able to hold my beautiful baby girl one day. The letters showed a gradual decline in the steadiness of her hand, and stopped shortly thereafter. My grandmother is still alive, but has told me that writing is difficult for her these days, so those letters are likely to be the last ones I ever see in her handwriting.
I found a newspaper from the one-year anniversary of September 11th. I doubt very highly that I read it at the time, and I found myself unable to look through it last night. It served as a reminder to how close I came to losing my husband, who had been at the World Trade Center that fateful day, and lived to tell the tale.
I found Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Anniversary, and other random cards both to and from my husband. There was the Mother's Day card he signed on behalf of our cat one year. There was the first birthday card I received from my eldest, again written by my husband from our not-quite-one-year-old. There were handmade cards from our two daughters, with handwriting both legible and illegible, depending on the year.
I found a few cards from my husband's grandmother, and written to me about my children. I remember saving them so my children would one day know their great-grandmother, who they probably do not even remember ever meeting, cared about them.
When I finally closed the lid on that box, I felt exhausted but replenished somehow. I cannot think of a better way to spend a lazy Saturday evening than to spend it walking down memory lane with a box full of old correspondence.
What I found was not entirely all expected. I had thought that I had a few letters in there, but not much more than that. Instead, I found a treasure trove of memorabilia that I had long since forgotten I ever received.
I found a letter sent to me by a college friend. He was almost apologetic in telling me I had to listen to his random ramblings as he talked about a philosophy book he had recently read. He talked about how as an artist, he was concerned that so many other artists succumb to depression and suicide. A few years out of college, that friend of mine died. It was unnerving to read his words about death knowing how soon after he penned them he joined the hereafter.
I found letters from my parents that were written to me at various other times when I was off at college. I found a Valentine's Day card from my mother that talked about what life was like at home when my childhood dog was sick, shortly before the dog's death. I found cards that my father had created using Calvin & Hobbes pictures he somehow conjured up on his computer in the days before the Internet turned into the sensation it is today. I found a card they must have forced my younger brother to sign, adding his signature to their desires to see their daughter home from college soon.
I found letters from my grandmother. I found a letter responding to one I had apparently sent her, where she described what life was like living in the 1930s. There was another letter from shortly after my elopement, where she wished my new husband and I well, and requested a picture of the two of us. There was a letter from her, thanking me for sending her a picture of my firstborn, and telling me she hoped she would be able to hold my beautiful baby girl one day. The letters showed a gradual decline in the steadiness of her hand, and stopped shortly thereafter. My grandmother is still alive, but has told me that writing is difficult for her these days, so those letters are likely to be the last ones I ever see in her handwriting.
I found a newspaper from the one-year anniversary of September 11th. I doubt very highly that I read it at the time, and I found myself unable to look through it last night. It served as a reminder to how close I came to losing my husband, who had been at the World Trade Center that fateful day, and lived to tell the tale.
I found Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Anniversary, and other random cards both to and from my husband. There was the Mother's Day card he signed on behalf of our cat one year. There was the first birthday card I received from my eldest, again written by my husband from our not-quite-one-year-old. There were handmade cards from our two daughters, with handwriting both legible and illegible, depending on the year.
I found a few cards from my husband's grandmother, and written to me about my children. I remember saving them so my children would one day know their great-grandmother, who they probably do not even remember ever meeting, cared about them.
When I finally closed the lid on that box, I felt exhausted but replenished somehow. I cannot think of a better way to spend a lazy Saturday evening than to spend it walking down memory lane with a box full of old correspondence.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
What Would You Do?
The past few days, while the kidlets were at school and I was doing my usual homemaking chores, I have had my laptop running a television show I had long since forgotten. It is called What Would You Do? and I had located it on ABC's website (www.abc.com). Ages ago, Pig and I had watched a few of those shows when we felt like wrestling with the digital rabbit ears for our television set. On a whim, I decided to run through a bunch of them while doing other tasks. Please note that I have no affiliation with the site or station, nor are they compensating me in any way, shape, or form for discussing this show. I blather about this simply because it is on my mind today.
The general idea behind the show is to hire actors to set up scenarios deliberately staged to see if people will speak up or stay silent while hidden cameras roll. The situations presented might be of an ambiguous nature, highlighting cultural issues, or even demonstrating things that are against the law. They appear to come up with at least some of their ideas from the news headlines. Personally, I wonder if anyone has sued them for raising their blood pressure, as a number of those scenarios seem designed to do just that.
After watching several episodes, I have come to the conclusion that most people won't say or do anything under many of the scenarios presented. The actors were sometimes instructed to directly involve other people, and those people did often say something when confronted directly, but a lot of people chose to just keep their mouths shut when it came to confronting others about something that just did not seem right.
Quite frankly, this baffles me. I can't keep my mouth shut. I am the annoying person in the store who will get after your kidlet for trying to climb up the shelves while you look the other way. I scold people I don't know if I see them taking something that does not belong to them. I embarrass my own kidlets when I yell at other students walking home from school when they try to beat one another with sticks pulled from a pile of brush. I find it impossible to not say something. How could I live with my own conscience if I did not speak up? What if I could prevent someone from getting injured, bullied, or even arrested simply by getting involved? What kind of example would I be giving my children if I did not step up to the plate and say something? I know from personal experience what it is like to not speak up when necessary.
By keeping our collective mouths shut, we are condoning behaviors that should not be allowed to continue. As a teenager, I had a number of individuals who picked on me for various reasons. One of them in particular could have been arrested for his actions. Many people witnessed him in action, and not one single, solitary person stood up for me, save one girl. I still remember how relieved I felt when she told him to knock it off, then turned to me and told me I should elbow the jerk in a particularly sensitive region on his anatomy. He walked away. For one morning out of many where that boy crossed the line, I felt safer because someone stood up for me. Every other person who had witnessed his actions had silently condoned his behavior. That one girl did not, and I still feel grateful for her intervention.
Another event I remember quite vividly from those years was when one friend of mine hauled off and kicked his girlfriend, who was also a friend of mine, in front of a group of us. I was livid. I started to go after him to tell him off, but a few of my friends physically held me back and told me if I said anything, I would just make it worse for her. I had no idea what to do, but the last thing I wanted to do was give him any excuse to physically assault her again. I wound up trying to give her hints to stop dating the guy, but either I was too subtle or she thought I wanted him for myself. Thankfully, they are no longer together, but that does little to soothe my conscience about not being able to help her at the time. I truly feel as if I failed my friend when she needed me there the most.
I will not be that silent bystander again. I will not stand by and silently condone illegal and/or immoral actions. I am no longer the timid high school student who was petrified to even elbow a kid who was trying to mockingly force himself on me. I will find a way to do more if I witness someone being abused. I will do my best to raise my children to speak up against injustices they witness, and I will lead by example. What will you do?
The general idea behind the show is to hire actors to set up scenarios deliberately staged to see if people will speak up or stay silent while hidden cameras roll. The situations presented might be of an ambiguous nature, highlighting cultural issues, or even demonstrating things that are against the law. They appear to come up with at least some of their ideas from the news headlines. Personally, I wonder if anyone has sued them for raising their blood pressure, as a number of those scenarios seem designed to do just that.
After watching several episodes, I have come to the conclusion that most people won't say or do anything under many of the scenarios presented. The actors were sometimes instructed to directly involve other people, and those people did often say something when confronted directly, but a lot of people chose to just keep their mouths shut when it came to confronting others about something that just did not seem right.
Quite frankly, this baffles me. I can't keep my mouth shut. I am the annoying person in the store who will get after your kidlet for trying to climb up the shelves while you look the other way. I scold people I don't know if I see them taking something that does not belong to them. I embarrass my own kidlets when I yell at other students walking home from school when they try to beat one another with sticks pulled from a pile of brush. I find it impossible to not say something. How could I live with my own conscience if I did not speak up? What if I could prevent someone from getting injured, bullied, or even arrested simply by getting involved? What kind of example would I be giving my children if I did not step up to the plate and say something? I know from personal experience what it is like to not speak up when necessary.
By keeping our collective mouths shut, we are condoning behaviors that should not be allowed to continue. As a teenager, I had a number of individuals who picked on me for various reasons. One of them in particular could have been arrested for his actions. Many people witnessed him in action, and not one single, solitary person stood up for me, save one girl. I still remember how relieved I felt when she told him to knock it off, then turned to me and told me I should elbow the jerk in a particularly sensitive region on his anatomy. He walked away. For one morning out of many where that boy crossed the line, I felt safer because someone stood up for me. Every other person who had witnessed his actions had silently condoned his behavior. That one girl did not, and I still feel grateful for her intervention.
Another event I remember quite vividly from those years was when one friend of mine hauled off and kicked his girlfriend, who was also a friend of mine, in front of a group of us. I was livid. I started to go after him to tell him off, but a few of my friends physically held me back and told me if I said anything, I would just make it worse for her. I had no idea what to do, but the last thing I wanted to do was give him any excuse to physically assault her again. I wound up trying to give her hints to stop dating the guy, but either I was too subtle or she thought I wanted him for myself. Thankfully, they are no longer together, but that does little to soothe my conscience about not being able to help her at the time. I truly feel as if I failed my friend when she needed me there the most.
I will not be that silent bystander again. I will not stand by and silently condone illegal and/or immoral actions. I am no longer the timid high school student who was petrified to even elbow a kid who was trying to mockingly force himself on me. I will find a way to do more if I witness someone being abused. I will do my best to raise my children to speak up against injustices they witness, and I will lead by example. What will you do?
Friday, March 2, 2012
Order of Operations
I am starting to think I should volunteer in my daughter's fourth grade classroom. Trust me when I say this is not a good thing. As a general rule, I am hesitant to offer up my services for anything in the school environment because my kidlets can sense this, and one or more of them will spontaneously puke, develop strep throat, or bring home head lice.
What is making me debate helping out in the classroom? My fear that my daughter's teacher has absolutely no idea how to do, let alone teach, the math he is presenting to my offspring and her classmates. Mr. Dreamy has sent home a number of math problems that were either incorrectly answered or that my daughter swore he taught them how to do incorrectly.
First of all, this is Horse. When I say she is extremely bright, that is not just the random muttering of a deluded parent. My kidlet was reading at three, reading chapter books before starting kindergarten, is a member of her school's Gifted and Talented program, and earned all A-pluses on her last report card. She loves to read, adores math, and does really, really well at school. When she says, "this is how he taught us," that is likely to be word-for-word exactly how Mr. Dreamy taught her class.
Lately, Horse's class has been learning how to follow the order of operations. Remember hearing "Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally?" That means when you are solving a math problem, you solve for all of the parentheses first, then the exponents, then multiplication and division, and finally addition and subtraction. Multiplying and dividing must be done going from left to right and at the same time, regardless of whether your division is actually presented before any multiplication. (Dividing by four is the same as multiplying by one-fourth, so both multiplying and dividing get done in the same step.) Addition and subtraction must also be completed from left to right, regardless of which one comes first. (Subtracting two is the same thing as adding a negative two, so adding and subtraction get done together.)
Horse's first issue was when solving for a number raised to the zero power. Twelve raised to the zero power is one. Her teacher claimed it was twelve. When I sent my daughter in with an explanation about why he was wrong, Mr. Dreamy reportedly told Horse, "Well, you learn something new every day." Wait, why are you trying to teach something you don't even know? At least that was the only issue Horse seemed to have with exponents.
The next issue was about multiplying and dividing being taken care of in the same step. Horse told me they were taught to solve all of the multiplication parts first, then move on to the division. Hear that buzzer buzzing somewhere? It's because that's wrong!
Tonight's issue was pertaining to the addition and subtraction. Thankfully, Mr. Dreamy taught his students to think of the numbers being subtracted as actually adding a negative number instead. This eliminated the concern over which one to do first. What he neglected to do was teach them how to properly add negative numbers.
I could not help myself. I fired off a long email to Mr. Dreamy today, and outlined all of the problems I have witnessed with the order of operations, as presented to my kidlet. Despite my beliefs to the contrary, I wrote that I was sure he was teaching the order of operations correctly, but that if my bright child was having issues, then I was sure the rest of the class was, too. Now all I have to do is take a deep breath and step back. Oh, and make sure I look over my wanting-to-be-independent daughter's math homework every night to make sure she was not taught anything else incorrectly.
It's going to be a long year.
What is making me debate helping out in the classroom? My fear that my daughter's teacher has absolutely no idea how to do, let alone teach, the math he is presenting to my offspring and her classmates. Mr. Dreamy has sent home a number of math problems that were either incorrectly answered or that my daughter swore he taught them how to do incorrectly.
First of all, this is Horse. When I say she is extremely bright, that is not just the random muttering of a deluded parent. My kidlet was reading at three, reading chapter books before starting kindergarten, is a member of her school's Gifted and Talented program, and earned all A-pluses on her last report card. She loves to read, adores math, and does really, really well at school. When she says, "this is how he taught us," that is likely to be word-for-word exactly how Mr. Dreamy taught her class.
Lately, Horse's class has been learning how to follow the order of operations. Remember hearing "Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally?" That means when you are solving a math problem, you solve for all of the parentheses first, then the exponents, then multiplication and division, and finally addition and subtraction. Multiplying and dividing must be done going from left to right and at the same time, regardless of whether your division is actually presented before any multiplication. (Dividing by four is the same as multiplying by one-fourth, so both multiplying and dividing get done in the same step.) Addition and subtraction must also be completed from left to right, regardless of which one comes first. (Subtracting two is the same thing as adding a negative two, so adding and subtraction get done together.)
Horse's first issue was when solving for a number raised to the zero power. Twelve raised to the zero power is one. Her teacher claimed it was twelve. When I sent my daughter in with an explanation about why he was wrong, Mr. Dreamy reportedly told Horse, "Well, you learn something new every day." Wait, why are you trying to teach something you don't even know? At least that was the only issue Horse seemed to have with exponents.
The next issue was about multiplying and dividing being taken care of in the same step. Horse told me they were taught to solve all of the multiplication parts first, then move on to the division. Hear that buzzer buzzing somewhere? It's because that's wrong!
Tonight's issue was pertaining to the addition and subtraction. Thankfully, Mr. Dreamy taught his students to think of the numbers being subtracted as actually adding a negative number instead. This eliminated the concern over which one to do first. What he neglected to do was teach them how to properly add negative numbers.
I could not help myself. I fired off a long email to Mr. Dreamy today, and outlined all of the problems I have witnessed with the order of operations, as presented to my kidlet. Despite my beliefs to the contrary, I wrote that I was sure he was teaching the order of operations correctly, but that if my bright child was having issues, then I was sure the rest of the class was, too. Now all I have to do is take a deep breath and step back. Oh, and make sure I look over my wanting-to-be-independent daughter's math homework every night to make sure she was not taught anything else incorrectly.
It's going to be a long year.
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