Mama Bear

Child development is one of my very favorite subjects. Between my-mother-the-baby-doctor, a much-beloved college course, and of course, medical school, I've had a lot of exposure to what should normally be expected at which ages.

Therefore, it baffles me that my five-year-old refused to wear his dark blue hoodie with dogs on it because his 'friends' at school would make fun of it. Was it babyish, you ask, and therefore deserving of derision? I reply with an emphatic no. Despite my natural (I think) desire to preserve my son's babyhood for as long as possible, I left behind (most) of the cutesy clothes a long time ago. If I hadn't, his firm personal preferences would have overwhelmed me quite effectively by wearing the same Spiderman shirt every day...

So I don't get it. I sort of blame older siblings. Developmentally, it's expected that preadolescents and adolescents become hyper-aware of how they look/act/etc. in comparison to other people. So it's entirely plausible that they are passing their insecurities down to their younger brothers and thereby bequeathing their teen angst to poor E. I blame parents, too, though. If I've heard one parent try to guide their child's preferences, gently or otherwise, I've heard a million. And done it myself, on occasion. (But my child's opinions are more firmly set in stone than my mother's, and therefore possess strength superior to that of my own.) I mean, how often do you hear parents saying "don't play with that, that's for babies," etc. And partly that's good, because we want our children to mature in their tastes. But they'll do that on their own, and too soon for most of us, so why put such pressure on them to grow up before they're ready?

My son is an avid Thomas the Tank Engine fan. We own several Thomas movies, a dozen or more Thomas books, and the only reason we don't have a ton of Thomas toys is because they're overpriced and I'm stingey. A couple of months ago, Thomas actually came to town, so of course we packed up and went off to see him. We had a great time, and managed to survive the inevitable visit to the sales tent without burning too big of a hole in our collective pocket. E even fell in love with a battery-operated Thomas set complete with waterfall, and managed to keep from whining too much about how much he wanted it.

Well, last night, while we were slaving over his Christmas list, the memory of that toy was brought to bear by the doggone Target and Walmart toy magazines. His excitement was immediately apparent, as he almost hyperventilated at being reunited with this long-desired (for a 5-year-old) toy. "I love Thomas, Mom!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing with joy. And then, a second later, he deflated like a sad, child-shaped balloon.

Upon gentle questioning, this is what I got: "My friends make fun of me because I like Thomas. I don't ever want them to come over to my house, because they'll make fun of my room." Single sad, sad tear.

Yeah, it's a learning opportunity, and of course I lectured my son on how he shouldn't care so much about other peoples' opinions. But he's five. And I was hyperdefensive of my siblings (who, let's face it, I really didn't like that much...kidding...).

So in closing: I love children, all children, without reservation. But you little cretins had better watch your backs.

(I really hope my son doesn't go around teasing other kids about the toys they like and the clothes they wear. Just because I don't witness it doesn't mean karma won't come around to bite me in the maternally overprotective rear.)

Wearing Your Heart On Your Blog

I'm a pretty frequent reader of a certain very popular Mommy Blog. The author writes with a lot of openness and humor about her journey through maternity, and it makes me feel a little better to know that there are other people who have hard(er) times with their kids. Admittedly, that has more to do with her having 3 times as many than with there being any superiority to my mothering, but still...

There are some posts I don't like to read, however. And those are the posts where she writes about her fights with her husband. My parents (and the wonderful couple who did our premarital counseling) always emphasized that what lies between you and your spouse is intensely personal and that no one should be privy to your marriage issues (well, except for God, who should already know about them...). It's kind of like the tattling that my son and I struggle with on almost a daily basis. Yes, it's vindicating to tell on someone when you feel they're not behaving properly, but if you can deal with the situation yourself, who else needs to know? (Disclaimer: this does not include griping about coworkers/mothers/schoolmates/friends/enemies/children/strangers/siblings/bosses/anyone else. 99.9% of the internet's blogs would have to be shut down if we couldn't be entirely open about every single aspect of our other relationships...)

Don't get me wrong: I know that there are times when you need to tell a grown-up. When you need to bring in outside help. And I definitely feel like she and her husband are at that point. Although by outside help I mean that of professionals, not a bunch of nebulously sympathetic blog-readers like myself. If you feel you absolutely need to get your problems off your chest before you smother with the unfairness of it all, it's probably better to tell carefully-selected friends rather than toss your emotional cookies all over the World Wide Web, too.

But that's not my only deterrent from reading her "He's such a dirty dog, no?" posts. Mostly, I avoid them because they make me sad and angry that a man could say such hurtful things to his wife. It's bad enough to launch personal attacks on your wife's weight/looks/clothing/sex drive or whatever. And it's another thing entirely to attack her abilities as a mother. Which he does with startling regularity. Of course, I only know one side (although admittedly eloquent) of the story. (Which leads back to the main issue with inviting your friends into your marital woes. We just can't be totally impartial.)

However, we can be grateful.

D is my biggest fan and my staunchest support, which is a constant unlooked-for joy in my life. Plus, he thinks I'm the best mother in the world. Right up there with his own. I think my only one-up is that I sleep with him. She cooks for him, though, so we might be tied... ;-)

A Noodle By Any Other Name...

This is just going to be a quick, minor rant (hopefully), because I really can't describe who/where/when I heard what I'm about to rant...about:

I hate when parents teach their kids silly, stupid names for their body parts (and I can't describe which body parts, because then, knowing the internet, I'll get some nasty person trolling for horrible things looking at my blog...).  But I heard a mother today (a very educated lady who I know has taken anatomy and should therefore be comfortable with all the ins and outs of the human body) describe her daughter as calling her body part a "front bottom".  I almost threw up in my mouth.

Someone tried to teach him to call it a wee-wee, pee-pee, noodle, and only God knows how many other things.  (You don't call a bottom a "poo-poo", so why would you use "wee-wee" as a nickname?)  I nipped that in the bud, believe me.  Luckily, by the time he came home with those words, I had already taught him the correct term.  Or I would have suffered.  A lot.  From the moment my son became aware that he had more going on downstairs than his feet, I was determined that he would know the actual word for it.  It probably had something to do with the fact that I was entering medical school at the time, but let's not be picky.

I really can't figure out why parents teach nicknames.  As children, my sibs and I called a certain anatomical part a "squirt".  But, admittedly, that's funny, so maybe my parents just let us call it that so they could secretly laugh every time it came up in conversation (which was how often???).  I don't remember a point at which I learned the correct terms, so maybe we knew them at a young age, but just were not encouraged to use them.

I suppose some parents do it so that other adults won't be like "OH MY GOD!" when your son yells "Ow, I hurt my PEN15!" in public.  But if you're just trying to avoid embarrassment, it's not any more subtle when  the same child hollers "Ow, I hurt my pee-pee!"  Really not.  Sorry. That just makes me laugh more.  Which is really not what a small boy wants to have happen when he's just been injured in such a sensitive spot, after all.  My son's had his share of those moments, and yes, they're not the best parental memories, but children have to be taught that there are things you don't talk about in public anyway.  So why subject yourself to hearing "front bottom" in private...?

Anyway, I can't really express why I hate bodily nicknames.  But I think they're inappropriate and degrading, and feed into this horrible societal impulse to treat every normal bodily thing like it is shameful and sinful.  Isn't it a better idea to just teach our children, rather than hide our fear behind silly nicknames?

Ok, I'm done now.  Commence eye-rolling.

Aspirations...

Tonight, while driving home from basketball practice: "Mom, I'd like my job to be a person who helps people cross the streets.  There's one of those guys at my school, and I'd like to do that."

Admittedly, that's an improvement from his latest Life Goal.  He dropped this bomb on me last week: "I'm not going to have work when I grow up.  I'll be too busy with basketball and soccer and guitar and all my activities I'm going to be doing.  I might be in the Olympics, but maybe not because it's really hard.  So I'm not going to have a job, because I don't want to take other people's money.  I don't care about money.  I just want to have my own money, so I can do my activities I want to do."

I gotta admit, he has a point.  There's a very good outlook on life in there.  Somewhere.

Spring? Cleaning? and Other Laments of Passing Time

Seeing as how I'm currently on the Extremely-(But Not Really...At All)-Time-Consuming rotation of dermatology, I have been rather more energetic than of late.

As in, last night, I handwashed a load (not, like, literally, but as in = a lot) of dishes (because our dishwasher is disgusting and I'm just hoping D can figure out a way to 'accidentally' break it so our landlord will replace it), scrubbed the crap (ok, not literally this time either) out of our stove top (including drip pans, which is usually D's job! I am a cleaning goddess!), and effing MOPPED THE FLOOR. Worship me. I don't mop. I sweep, and I vacuum when necessary, but unless I've just hosted or am about to host The Party of the Century (which, admittedly, all of my parties are), I don't mop the kitchen floor. It just doesn't ever need it. But I did last night. Be proud.

So, my uber-cleaning mood was continued today into the realm of my son's closet. Or plastic dresser, rather. Where, while casually rifling through his shorts to determine which ones needed to be given away and which consigned to the "Will Probably Fit Next Year, So Find a Box To Store In For a Whole Year, Even Though That Doesn't Make Much Sense Either Practically or Monetarily, Really" pile, I happened to glance at a label and see this:



....along with 4 other pairs of shorts, 1 pair of pants, and a couple of shirts labeled the same. Most of which he's worn in the past 2 or 3 months, apparently without me noticing too-short-pantlegs and too-short-sleeves. Yes, you are not losing your mind, my son is indeed 5 and a half years old. And before the pediatricians, endocrinologists and geneticists among you freak out, he does have (and regularly wears) clothing labeled with a proper 5T. Admittedly, shirts are still mostly 3T and 4T, because he looks like he's trying to wear MY shirts if I thrust him into a 5. But pants he can handle. As long as they have veeeeeeeery adjustable waists. What can I say, the kid is super-skinny. I do feed him, he just grows up, not out. We should all be so lucky. Although, at my rate, I'd be over 6 feet tall by now...

Anyway, that label may look sad/pathetic/terrible/scary/damnable/disgusting/horrible/amusing/horrendous/faulty/condemnable/lazy or just like bad parenting to you. But to me, it's just an excuse to go shopping! Good thing I'm on derm, huh?

Patriotism

Today, while sitting around in the derm office listening to my attending tell stories to his rapt all-female audience (seriously, there is one male resident.  ONE.  8 other residents, all 10 or so nurses, and 2 PAs are all female.  What is WRONG with that program?!?), he was chatting about watching protesters in Portland, OR.  "They're all the same, you know, just looking for attention.  They protest week after week, just pick different things."  All the girls (except me) laughed and agreed, with various corroborating statements.

Now, I have to admit that I have never walked in a protest, or stood in a demonstration.  It's not that I've never had the opportunity to do so: my church is constantly staging vigils outside of women's clinics to pray for the end to abortion.  And it's not that I don't support peaceful protesters.  I honk like an idiot when I pass sign-wavers on street corners.  It's just that I suppose I've never felt passionately enough about something to stand on a busy street letting strangers ogle me all day, and I've never gotten over the horribly sad feeling I get when I imagine myself begging a troubled 16-year-old girl not to take the only way out she thinks she has (Yes, I'm a coward, and that's another issue, which we'll address later.  Save your comments). 

But I will passionately defend the right and the effectiveness of protests.  Perhaps the method of protesting has gotten a little lost along the way (PETA can be a bit ridiculous...), but the essence of what it means to protest something has remained the same.  Look at how protesting has played such a significant part in our country's evolution, from the Boston Tea Party to the Civil Rights Movement.  No one should be belittled for choosing to participate in a demonstration, even if they're carrying a sign that says "Friends Don't Leash Friends" (I've never seen such a sign, but if I had, I would have laughed, since it has significantly sexual undertones...).

These thoughts came later, though, after I'd had time to reflect on the little "How-Pathetic" party my attending was throwing.  At the time, all I thought of was this: over spring break this year, my family and I went to Colorado to go skiing.  One evening, we watched through a store window as a bunch of people marched through downtown, carrying signs calling for peace and an end to the war in Iraq.  I lifted up E, pointed through the window at the marchers, and taught him what it means to desire peace. 

Maybe all demonstrators are the same people, protesting some new fad injustice every week.  And maybe these marches do or do not change anyone's mind, or have any impact on the world at large.  But maybe protests speak to something at the very core of what it means to be American.  And maybe, just maybe, a march will live on in someone's heart as a very proud memory. 

On that day, as a photographer for some local paper trailed along behind the protesters, he paused to capture the sight of my 4-year-old son, who was peering solemnly through the window and making the peace sign.

Bratz

I am terrified of having daughters.  Ever.

Just walking through the mall and engaging in simple observation gives me the heebie jeebies and makes me feel a little sick.  I can just see myself in a screaming match with a 13-year-old Mini Me, refusing to let her out of the house unless she washes off the caked-on makeup, changes out of the shorts that say "Famous" on the ass, puts a sweater over the skimpy tank that proudly states "Flirt", and returns my Victoria's Secret credit card from whence she stole it.

When I was 13, I was ugly.  There is just no other word for it.  I was awkward both physically and socially, I never cared about my appearance, and didn't give a damn about my clothes.  My socially-conscientious mother wouldn't let us by clothing from Gap, Old Navy, or Nike (sweatshops, people...), which was pretty much the kiss of death for a teenager in the 90s.  I inherited some horrible vampire canines, which were yanked into position by a series of braces.  I was shy and inarticulate and friends with a bunch of girls a year behind me in school.  I didn't have a very good high school experience...

And needless to say, I don't want my daughters' teenaged lives to be miserable.  I just don't want them to be whorish.  There has GOT to be a happy medium.  I've just got to find it.  And if I can't, they will just have to be social outcasts.

I know I won't escape it entirely, even without having girls.  But if my son ever comes home with a dolled-up, tramped-out little girlfriend, you can bet I will make their lives miserable, in the time-honored traditions of motherhood.

State of the Union

Your need to protect your
oh-so-holy marriage
from gays, devils, sinners
(or gays = ?)
is pathetic

God
(Whom you think you know so well by reading a book
written in mortal words by mortal hands
passed down through centuries
and interpreted in modern tongues and modes of thought)
denounced physical love between
your women and between your men
Too bad science holds the opinion
that the human mind (our God-given
Difference
from the lowly beasts)
may not always have the same Sex
as biology imposes on our bodies
In children, we treat it with hormones and surgery
In adults, we shun it because it's a choice by then, right?
But then, science and God have never gotten along
In human comprehension, at least

But I see no legalese describing
the Desecration of God's Covenant
by drive-through wedding chapels and
"I Do"s said before judges
Where is your holy uproar against
the words "forever and for always" said
by unwilling children with unwanted children
already growing under satin gowns?
How did you figure out you could wash away sin
with a different last name?
I suppose, if they get divorced in the end,
God never said anything about that...

Does a gay person really threaten your holiness?
Does having married gays
cheapen your marriage by extension?
How blessed could such a sacrament possibly be,
if an Evil you supposedly don't even practice
can threaten the sanctity of the vows
you said in the Presence of God (or Elvis)?

Please find a better word for me and mine, then
My skin is brown and I married
(Oops, should I have asked the
Conservative Confused for permission?)
a man
the color of bleached sand
Not so long ago, we were in the law books as
forbidden and wrong
Have we really progressed?
Should we rename our love
(suggestion: "gene pool diluters")
and leave
the holy connotations of MARRIAGE
to those of you with perfect biological compatibility
in every nook and cranny and act of your marital bed?
This desire to be involved in someone else's
bedroom decisions
is so Saintly of you
God is omnipresent and therefore so should you be

But how kind of you to hide your hatred behind
concessions like "hospital visitation"
After all, felons have visitations
and child-rapists can marry whom they please
Do you give yourself a pat on the back
for your tolerance?!
(Memo - Headaches are tolerated
Not people)

But by God, as gays are less human/holy than thou,
their commitments are less than yours
and instead of Marriages
(because Christianity created that word and holds the patent)
therefore, they shall be called Unions
because that is a broken word

And in this imperfect Union of unsettled States
sometimes I am deeply ashamed
of what we come together to create
in our fear and our misunderstanding
and our tolerance

Geography

We took E to see Madagascar 2 last night, which was actually pretty funny. The last kids' movie we'd seen before this was Igor, which was outright horrible. Probably one of the most terrible movies I've ever seen. I thought that I was getting too old and/or cynical for the simple joys of children's film. But such is not the case, I am happy to report! Admittedly, the saving grace of M2 was all of the adult humor cleverly disguised behind the slapstick kid stuff. Which is how it's supposed to be, after all. I don't want to ruin it for you, you'll just have to see it for yourself!

But anyway, towards the end of the movie (which is set in AFRICA, keep in mind...), someone on the screen mentioned New York City. I suppose E thought the implication was that the story was set in New York. And he apparently knows the difference between skyscrapers and wide open plains with waving grasses. Because he announced, quite loudly and rather derisively: "That's not New York! That's TEXAS."

History

It is election day 2008. There is joy in my household. And so much joy in my heart.

Music to My Ears

I'm bored, and listening to some good music, so I thought I'd just throw some of this out there for those of you who I know listen to lesbian music like I do! And not all of it's lesbian music. Some of it is just...good. But they're some less-well-known artists, and I wish they were slightly better known, just so they'll keep making fantastic music. If you go through and download every track I mention in this blog, you'll have enough for a whole cd. Burn it to a blue disc, write my name on it in Sharpie, and think of me every time you play it. ;-)

1. Rachael Yamagata - Happenstance I admit I'm biased. I love me some half-Asian girls. She's a singer-pianist with a low, husky, sexy-as-hell voice. She writes coffeehouse music, frankly. Mostly mellow, with some jazzy and/or upbeat numbers thrown in for fun. The single from this album is "Worn Me Down", but if I were you, I'd listen to "I'll Find a Way". Because that's my favorite track from this album. She also has a new cd out, which I'm downloading as we speak, because a certain friend's bootlegged iTunes m4a's or whatever they were wouldn't open. It may be fantastic, from what I've heard.
2. Charlotte Martin - On Your Shore Another singer-pianist, with a voice kind of like Jewel's. The producing and instrumentation of some of her songs remind me of Sara Bareilles, for those of you who can't hear "Love Song" without practically peeing your pants with joy (ok, I might be one of them). Some of her songs are more experimental and arty than I prefer for daily-listening, but it's still a solid album. Find "Every Time It Rains". And then listen to it when it's raining, obviously. You might love it. She also does a fantastic, emotional cover of the Stones' "Wild Horses".
   
3. Charlotte Sometimes - Waves and the Both of Us I finally had to stop listening to this cd on repeat, because my husband almost went insane. I got to hear them live recently, which was pretty exciting, especially since I'm pretty sure I was the only person in the audience who knew all the songs by heart. ;-) She doesn't have a fantastic voice, and it might drive you crazy if you don't like Nelly Furtado. But the way she uses her voice is phenomenal, and her lyrics are outstanding. Her music is a pretty wide mix of styles. It hurts me to pick a favorite track, so I won't. I'll pick two: "Build the Moon" and "Sweet Valium High". Warning: the 2nd track isn't safe to listen to in front of mothers and/or children. So don't. I warned you.
   
4. Belle & Sebastian - If You're Feeling Sinister Their music is very...gentle. It's described on Wiki as "wistful pop", which is completely apt. This is a good album for background music, It makes me feel like a little kid when I listen to Belle & Sebastian. I'm not quite sure why, but it might be because the lead singer's voice reminds me a little bit of Art Garfunkel ala Scarborough Fair. Put this on your iPod and every self-respecting indie rock fan will love you a little more. Lend an ear to "Judy and the Dream of Horses". But don't expect it to make sense.
   
5. Cyndi Thomson - My World This is an old album, and you might recognize her if you listen to country music. But even if you hate country with a passion, give her a listen. She keeps the ol' twang to a minimum, and her songs are just good. They're simplistic, but sweet, and they're fun to sing along to in the car. When no one else is around. Unfortunately, she never made another album, as she stepped down from the music scene right after releasing this one, which makes me die a little bit inside. The single from this was "What I Really Meant to Say", which is a fantastic song, but my favorite one is "If You Could Only See".
   
6. Elliott Smith Really, any of his albums are good. If you haven't heard of him, start out with the most recent one, New Moon. But be careful, don't fall too much in love, because he's dead. Figures, huh? He has a ton of material, though, and New Moon was actually released posthumously. He's considered a genius songwriter, which you will probably agree with, if you're not too literal-minded. Most of his albums have a really raw feel to them, which is highly desirable if you're a true indie connoisseur ;-). His voice is sweet and very poignant, which, combined with a lyrical style that reflects his very real depression, doesn't make for happy listening. So don't listen to Elliott for an upper if you're just starting out. My very favorite song by him is "Twilight", which is from the album From a Basement on the Hill. Absolute perfection.
   
7. Feist - The Reminder I first started listening to Feist via The Kings of Convenience, then Broken Social Scene, and snatched up her most recent solo album the instant it came out. She has since become an indie darling. Her voice is enchanting, in that it always sounds like it's on the verge of breaking off into bits of rainbows and sunshine. It's lovely and heartbreaking. This is another album where it's difficult for me to pick a favorite. The excellent single (and there may have been more than one) is "1 2 3 4". The track that a certain friend of mine should listen to is "Sea Lion Woman", for reasons she knows. But I will choose "My Moon My Man" as my favorite. Mostly because I looked up the words on www.songmeanings.net and found a suggestion for a hidden meaning that had not even occurred to me. And I thought it amusing...
8. Mae - The Everglow This album is unabashedly emo. And I still love it. This album is obviously meant for tweeners and long-haired boys wearing skinny jeans, but I forgive it anyway (but I never forgive the skinny jeans. Ever.). The very first music track on this album ("We're So Far Away") is somewhat deceptive, in that it sounds like it came straight out of a Ben Folds mix tape. The rest of the album is nowhere near as ballad-y and piano-driven, which makes me curious as to why they put it at the very beginning, because it sounds like something you would throw in as a hidden track. But whatever. Listen to it anyway, and then listen to "Someone Else's Arms" and you'll get what I'm talking about. And remember, I warned you what type of music it is, so don't blame me when you find yourself brushing your carefully-slanted bangs out of your heavily-black-lined eyes.
   
9. Gemma Hayes - Night on My Side This is another old album, and you may not even be able to find the version that I like, because I bought this in London and came away with the "UK version". I think it's stupid that record companies do that, like they really think people from different countries will like different songs. What's next, the Southern US version of an album, specially geared to Bible Belt junkies? Or even an Oklahoma version, with songs that only country music fans would prefer? Ridiculous. But anyway, I love this girl. Her USA claim to fame is apparently a song on the Season 2 Grey's Anatomy soundtrack...whatever. I love her anyway. Check out "Back of My Hand."
   
10. Kim Richey - Chinese Boxes Kim Richey reminds me of a less growl-y Brandi Carlile. Mostly because her music is slightly country-tinged, just like Ms. Carlile's. Her album is more mellow, though, and acoustic guitar-driven, with less electric stuff. Her lyrics are really good, and her voice is beautiful. With one exception, this album is perfect. I won't tell you the exception, because inevitably, when I do that, people love that one track. So you'll just have to make up your own mind. But you should listen to "The Absence of Your Company." Don't be in a good mood, though, because you might be crying after a few listens in a row. Like I was. I get emotional over good songs.
    
11. Lavender Diamond - Imagine Our Love The lead singer for this quartet has a ridiculously angel-like voice. It's almost childlike in it's purity and simplicity. And the music is similar, with highly repetitive lyrics and simple melodies that will sound vaguely familiar the very first time you listen to them. I like this album for when I want to sing along with something without thinking about it too much. The lyrics don't ever make sense to me, which I guess is another tie-in with the childlike nature of the music, so it's ok. Clap along to "Open Your Heart" and prepare to be put in a good mood immediately.
12. Tristan Prettyman - twentythree This girl is a former flame of Jason Mraz, and you can tell. Her music is very similar in style. Except that it's a girl singing, of course (although he does sing a duet with her for one track, so don't get mad at me if you hear a little testosterone crop up). She's a little more mellow than M(c)raz(y), but is overall just a solid representation of girly singer-songwriters. Her lyrics need work, but I forgive her because she wrote "Electric", which you should listen to. Immediately.
    
13. Veda/Vedera - Weight of an Empty Room One of my very favorite albums of all time. This girl is smoking hot, for one thing, and the way she sings gives me chills. She isn't backed up by virtuoso musicians, but they're a solid indie-rock band, and her wailing, incredible voice sets them apart. Her songs are very singable, which is always a quality I look for (since I spend most of my time plotting how best to drive my husband insane by singing in small cars at the top of my lungs). This album is definitely the most rockish of the ones on this list, so if you're after a mellow afternoon spent fostering your feminine side by reading Sylvia Plath, this is not the soundtrack for it. But if you're after some more forceful woman power, download this, and listen to "Moments Rewound".
    
14. Vienna Teng - Warm Strangers An Asian singer-pianist. Her playing will probably remind you strongly of Vanessa Carlton, but her voice doesn't have that irritating nasal whininess (sorry, "Thousand Miles" fans. But the song was never the same for me after "White Chicks" anyway). She deals with some pretty deep subject matter on this album, but never in an opinionated way. She puts the subjects out there, but more in a thoughtful manner rather than an aggressive one (unlike some female songwriters...). She also has some love ballads and a really sweet lullaby. Check out "Harbor".
    
15. dredg - El Cielo This is some man-music for you. Just in case you're feeling a little too girly. Dredg likes to make concept albums, so that should give you an idea of the type of rock they make. It's more experimental, and it's definitely not your typical feel-good music. The lead singer's voice is dreamy, but if you're someone who gets caught up in being able to figure out what a song is about, or even how to pronounce the track titles, don't try this band. I included them mainly because I plan on going to a show of theirs fairly soon, and in case you really love them, you should come. They're really good live, as an aside. The album is better listened to all at one go, but I'd pick "Triangle" as my favorite track. And yes, it's weird. That's why it's art rock!
    
16. Explosions in the Sky - How Strange, Innocence A little instrumental post-rock is good for the soul. If you like to turn music up really loudly and drown in the sound, listen to this album. This is not an album to listen to on your laptop. This band is incredible live, so if they're ever around, go. I've seen them once, and I would pay double to see them again, that's how fantastic they are. Be prepared for chills, though. I highly recommend this album for storm-watching, as it's very climactic. And I'm sure you could find some other ways to employ this album as background music ;-). I actually used to sleep to this, as it's pretty hypnotic. Yes, sleep. Shut up. I will admit that instrumental tracks tend to run together in my brain, which is why this is best for the overall experience. But check out "A Song for Our Fathers" if you need a sample before diving in.
    
17. Susie Suh - Susie Suh Ok, ok, yes, I'm incredibly biased toward the Asian girls. Pretty much all an artist needs is slanted eyes or an Asian-sounding name, and I'll be a fan for life. So suh me (I couldn't resist). Unlike her cousins-by-different-ancestors, Rachael and Vienna, Susie's music is guitar-based. I know, you're shocked: an Asian who doesn't play piano. This album is incredibly hard to find (at least, it is if you're going by...alternative routes), because it was released under one of Sony-The-Devil's No-Copying restrictions. In those days, I was still a cd-purchaser. So I bought the cd, copied it the requisite 3 times, before it locked the hell up on me, and I promptly lost all 3 copies. Yes, it sucks. But those of you who move in more popular circles may find this more easy to find. Her voice is husky and sexy, and her songs are gorgeously lush. Find "All I Want" and give it a try. Then you'll love Asian girls too.

Alright, I think I've blown your mind enough for tonight. I like reviewing music for my own benefit, though, so check for future updates. I have a lot of music. ;-)

Food Critic

Tonight, it was just E and me eating, so I broached the subject of a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich for dinner. Now, I know what you're thinking, but in my defense, we're both sick, and we'd been snacking on and off throughout the afternoon, so I knew neither of us was very hungry. And I figured, PB&J, pretty innocuous, this shouldn't be too much of a struggle.

Well, first, E goes "I just want a sandwich with peanut butter. No jelly."
And I'm like, well, that's weird. What normal kid wants that? So I said "Have you ever HAD jelly?"
He goes "No, but one time I saw a bug in this movie at Aunt Sarah's house...have you ever seen that movie with Little Foot? Well, there was a bug with ink that came out of it like this," [imagine him scrunching up his face, mashing his hands together, and making disgusting squishing noises with his mouth] "and it looked just like jelly."

And despite the fact that I personally love jelly and was already salivating over the thought of the sweetness in my mouth, for a second, I knew exactly what he was thinking of, and it was disgusting.

We didn't have PB&J for dinner.

The Old

I've discovered a longing in myself to write about my 3rd-year experiences. I've never been a very good journal keeper (unlike my sister, who has kept journals faithfully almost her entire life), but I do occasionally feel the need for some form of written catharsis, or maybe just a self-actualization of what I'm currently feeling. I don't know what it is. But the point is that I don't have the energy (or time) to make myself a separate blog for med school tales. And since this blog is technically about being a mom and a med student, I'll just talk about my stuff in the same space.

I'm currently on my 3rd rotation of my 3rd year. If I have the time/inclination, I'll go back and talk about how my first 2 rotations, OB/GYN and anesthesiology, went, but right now I want to talk about this rotation. I'm on geriatrics, which is a 4-wk rotation, and I'm currently in my 3rd week. The 1st 2 weeks were spent at the local VA hospital, taking care of inpatients. It was an interesting time. I liked it, compared to Anesth., because I felt involved in patient care again, and I got to actually interact with patients, which is part of the whole reason I came to medical school. I had a mighty 2 patients for the entire 2 weeks, one of whom was discharged my 2nd day on the service. But that was ok, it gave me time to learn about my patient's various diagnoses, and it also gave me time to learn about the patient himself. But I was looking forward to the last 2 weeks of the rotation, which are spent in outpatient care.

Outpatient care on the geriatrics service covers a lot. So far, in my 2 days on this service, I've toured an adult day care center, made home visits with a geriatrician, seen patients in the geriatric clinic at my university, and visited hospice patients in a nursing home. The functional levels and living situations of these patients has varied widely, and the personalities of the patients I saw were also varied and highly memorable. There was the gentleman who couldn't hear a word I said, but who would insist, whenever I paused for breath, that we'd all "taken real good care" of him. There was the lady who dealt with the disfigurement of the treatment for her breast cancer by joking "If I were on that 'Girls Gone Wild', man, they'd be surprised!" There was the lady who thought I was her daughter, and kept telling me she loved me and that I'd always been good to her, and if I could just find her blue skirt, she'd be happy again. There was the couple in their 80s who told me about how much they loved to travel, and about their frequent trips to Mexico and Israel and Europe. And there was the man who insisted the med school had sent their model to take care of him (I'll let you guess who was my favorite...).

I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed my afternoon spent caring for hospice patients at a nursing home. I've heard from a lot of fellow students that they just don't care much for elderly people, and that nursing homes creep them out, and that they get impatient when listening to their patients tell stories.

Maybe I'm different because my grandpa died when I was young and foolish. I never listened to his stories, because I was bored and impatient to get on with my own impetuous life. I didn't have time to listen to his disjointed recollections, and I was a little bit in awe of my mother, who would sit for hours listening to him talk about his youth. I remember how nervous I used to feel around him, making the obligatory daily visit to his bedroom to say hello, to endure his struggle to recall my name. Age is difficult for youth to handle, I guess. My grandpa was in his 90s when he died, but I remember a time when he was more vigorous, when he used to take the car out to the river to check on the cattle, and pat me on the back, and call my daddy "Hound Dawg". Toward the end of his life, when he was bedridden and couldn't tell the difference between me and my mother, that's a big change in function to a teenager, and I didn't handle it well, I realize now. I wrote a song for my grandfather that me and my siblings performed at his funeral. I shed many tears over that song, partly because Grandpa was gone, and partly because I didn't know him well enough to write a more personal song.

So maybe that's the reason, but today, when my patient kept calling me her daughter, and asking me if I was feeling ok, and wanting me to find her various items, I felt more patient than I usually am on a day-to-day basis. Even though it was at the hour of the day when I'm usually itching to be away at my own home, with my own family, I was ok with listening to her rambling, I was calm when asking her whether she was in pain, and I was patient when I reassured her time and again that yes, we would find her skirt ("It's blue, I think...").

My grandpa never had to suffer through the various indignities and sadnesses of a nursing home, as my grandma fiercely defended her ability to care for him at home, even though she is not in the best of health herself. He died at home, with loved ones nearby, and a view of his beloved land from his bedroom window. I know he was well-cared for and well-loved to the end of his days. But it's my own personal regret that I feel that I didn't love my grandfather well enough.

I wanted this old lady to feel some love in her life, even if it meant making empty promises that I'd find her skirt and then she'd feel better. Maybe, in loving this woman, in listening to her stories and promising that everything will be better soon, somewhere my grandpa knows, and he knows that I loved him.

Dreams of Gold

E expressed ridiculous levels of interest in the men's and women's gymnastics competitions during this year's Beijing Olympics. He's always been an....active...child, so I decided I'd bite the bullet, take him out of dance class, and put him in gymnastics. (Maybe I'm a nervous mother, but I just have images of broken heads and ankles swimming through my mind whenever I think gymnastics...)

The parent crowd at gymnastics is quite different from that at dance, which surprised me. I expected the same group of blonde and/or hippie mommies, with various other tots running under foot, having conversations about their children's elite preschools, and pulling out well-organized snack bags at the first sign of temper tantrums.

But at gymnastics, there are just as many fathers as mothers, with quite a few grandmothers thrown in for good measure. As a minority, I'm no longer a minority in the audience. Most of the daddies have tattoos or piercings, which made my husband feel quite at home. And because we can see what our children are doing through the large glass windows (rather than watching them dance via the tiniest tv screen I've ever seen), conversations tend to be dominated by what we have in common, rather than what separates us.

It's a better experience for E, because there are at least 4 other boys in his class. And it's a better experience for me, because I don't feel quite so alone. That's what I get for putting my son in dance lessons, though...

Catching Up

Good grief, I've been gone a long time. Life gets in the way...

Tonight:
Evan - "Is it bedtime for big boys?"
Me - "It's bedtime for little boys."
Evan - "I'm not little!! I'm five years old and I'm BIG. I'm bigger than you expect me to be."

How right he is.

Living History

I rather wish that the local PBS channel would make it perfectly clear to their smallest viewers that historic events are just that: historical. That they happened a loooooong time ago (well, everything happened a long time ago to someone who's only 4 years old.

My son just rushed into the room, exclaiming: "The TV just told me that there was a fight going on between Indians and cowboys, and there was a train that ran over some people on its tracks!!!"

Who knew that PBS had their own version of the nightly, grisly news?

Talks With God

Tonight, as we were going through the nightly ritual (pj's, toothbrush, cleanup, story time, drink of water, music box/song)...E caught me at the very end: "Mom, we didn't say prayers."

(Which, my parents always said prayers with us before bedtime, I don't know why I never remember to...Yes, I'm the devil, you may say it.)

So we began our prayers. There's something ridiculously endearing about a little boy reciting his nightly prayers. First, there's a sweet Catholic prayer to a guardian angel that starts out "Angel of God, my guardian dear..." Me and my sibs recited it as very small children. Then as we grew up, my mom added "Protect us, Lord, as we stay awake..." which is a night prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours. (That oldie about dying before waking is a bit too scary for my mother to try to explain to small children, I suppose. I don't blame her, it still terrifies me a little bit.)

When he spends the night at Nanay and Poppa's house, E always adds The Lord's Prayer and a Hail Mary for good measure. I'm just glad he knows them (yes, I taught him. Don't judge.), but I'm too impatient and stressed out to say those two with him every night. I figure that he says them at church once a week, that should be good enough, right?!?

Anyway, so tonight, as usual, we plowed through the first two children's prayers, and I bent down to kiss him instead of moving on to the "grown-up" prayers.

He immediately protested: "Aren't we gonna say the others?"
I assume this is just another ploy to get out of bedtime, since it's already waaaaay waaaaaay past, so I'm like "Nope, but if you want, you can say them to yourself before you fall asleep."
E, reproachfully: "You always forget to say prayers with me."
Me: "I know, honey, but if I forget, you can still say them without me."
E: "I could even say them in my head?! And God will hear me?!"
Mom: "Yep."
E: "Wow, that's really cool. That's a miracle."

Recently Heard

My 4 year old who's going on 30...

"I have a sentiment..."
"I'll be with you in a minute."
"Let's set up a pattern."
"I'll check on you in 10 minutes."

Mary had a little lamb...

I took E to school with me today. No one else was available to take HIM to school, and I had required morning and evening classes, so he had to just tag along. He wasn't too thrilled, but he was amazingly good.

In the morning, I had a human behavior class, where we were interviewing patients simulating mental illness. Our course director ended up playing the part of our first patient, and before the began, she asked E's name and age, and commented that her own son had been the same age when she was in med school. She's good at building rapport, I suppose.

Anyway, so she's going along pretending to be in the manic phase of a manic-depressive disorder, when suddenly she comments to her interviewer: "And I see that you treat all kinds of patients! I saw a little boy in the waiting room, who was just sitting there reading his book, and he said his name was 'E'." And E, who was at that moment sitting on my lap, "reading" a book, covered his face with said book and muttered "Not cool," while everyone laughed.

And in the afternoon, he calmly sat through 2 hours of dermatology slides, drawing pictures on some hematology papers I had dug out of my bag. He drew a lot of notice, including that of some of my undergrad classmates.

One commented "This should at least be more interesting than Biochem, huh?"

Which led me to remember that interesting time that I brought Evan to Biochem with me...he was about 2. And he spilled a whole container of Cheerios on the floor in the middle of the lecture. And I had to pick them up off the floor (blessedly, with the help of another mom...) in front of all those eyes.

Times have certainly changed.

Wise Child

E and I were listening to the infamous radio host Delilah the other night. Now, I used to hate Delilah. A few years ago, I much preferred Dr. Laura for my radio entertainment, she of the biting tongue and unfailingly sarcastic wit. But then I realized that my life was beginning to reflect her "give-no-quarter, ask-none" policy, which, whatever she may say, is NOT a good/Godly way to live your life. So I turned back to Delilah. Delilah may not shock people out of their supposed stupidity as often as Dr. Laura does, but she has kind words for everyone, and honest yet gentle words for those who need them. Sometimes I still get tired of hearing how much in love everyone seems to be, but then again, the world doesn't always display that love very openly, so if I can find it on the radio, I suppose I should just appreciate it for what it's worth.

Anyway, my point is, the radio was turned to Delilah while she and some caller were talking about how to make relationships work. Now, I wasn't really listening, but apparently E was. Because after a very long period of silence (that never happens in my car unless he's asleep; he's always either chattering, singing, or screaming), during which the requested song started up, E piped up: "If you want to make someone happy, you gotta do it yourself."

Which, admittedly, is true.

Priorities

When discussing whether E and I wanted my fiance (then boyfriend) to be part of our family, E pronounced: "It's ok with me, as long as he brings his toys."

Proprioception Problems

Driving home from dinner, E says to me "You're going the wrong way, Mom!" I replied, "No, babe, this is how we get home." E concedes: "Ok, I guess, but we don't usually come this way." Gently, I correct: "Well, this is how we go home most of the time..." After a moment, E: "Yeah, but we're not usually upside-down when we come this way." I had nothing for that...

Storytelling

This evening, my son eagerly repeated a story that his Poppa had told him a few nights ago before bedtime...a story that Daddy used to tell me before my bedtime. It brought a tear to my cynical eye.

My dad is a great storyteller. His stories always involve me and my siblings (and now E) and our various pets, and he makes up ridiculous names for us ("E the Wonder Boy", "Lucky Bucky", "Pepper Wepper", "Smokey Lokey", etc.). We take on fantastic powers and undergo the most involved adventures, always after saying goodbye to "Mama Llama" at the house. The stories are dynamic and fluid, changing at a moment's notice or a small child's request ("I wanna fight the bear this time!"). The heroes always save a family member or friend from a horrifying threat (lions and tigers and bears, oh my!!) while remaining calm, collected, and heroic throughout. Everything always turns out well, and in the end, Mama's always waiting for us at home.

I think everyone should tell their kids stories. I remember my dad's stories better than the multitude of books that my parents read me during my childhood. Stories like his stimulate imagination and encourage creativity. We were always encouraged to help our hero selves find ways out of their predicaments. I can't even look back at my childhood without hearing my dad's voice mischievously spinning out nighttime adventures for me and my siblings.

So I'm a huge proponent of storytelling. I just wish I were better at it. I think I'll go practice...

Sweetness

Starting Christmas Day, E spent a week with his father's family. I picked him with his other grandparents on New Year's Day. He climbed out of the car with his grumpy "I just woke up, and I hate everyone" look on his face. But one look around, and he ran toward me, yelling "Mommy, I missed you! I missed you so much!"

And at that moment, the whole missing-piece week was worth it.