Christmas Gilbowinmankitmorefarsembletoothris Style

Some people don't like big extended family Christmases.  They like to wake up late and sedately open presents by the fireside with their spouses/S.O.'s and kids, and laze about all day simply enjoying each others' company and the peace of the day.

We had plenty of those sorts of Christmases when I was young, because we lived quite distant from both my parents' families.  And they were exciting and thrilling and delightful and everything Christmas is supposed to be, despite the fact that there were only 5 of us.  Because 5 was all we needed.

But now, there are 5 of us. Plus Evan. Plus Dane.  Plus my in-laws, my 3 sisters-in-laws, 1 brother-in-law, 1 niece, 1 nephew and various involved significant others.  Which means that Christmas now involves all of those people.

And I was lucky enough to have all of them together this year, my whole very closely-knit family, blood-relation notwithstanding.  Three generations, with enough side branches to satisfy a proper Biblical family tree.

I got 5 days off for Christmas, and my family all managed to be together despite varying work schedules.  We all went to Midnight Mass together (and incidentally, my siblings, 1 sister-in-law, and I did the music...stressful and yet strangely exhilarating, as always).  Christmas morning, we opened presents separately with my in-laws, then with my family, and then everyone gathered at my in-laws for Christmas dinner.

It was noisy.  It was chaotic.  It was a huge mess.  There was yelling.  There was (a little bit of) crying.  There were a billion dishes to wash and put away.  It was more impossible than you could possibly imagine.

It was magical.  It was lovely.

It was Christmas.

Merry Christmas, peeps.  I am so very blessed.

Let's Get This in Writing

There are some people in our neighborhood who go all out with their outdoor Christmas decorations. I mean, competition-light-up-the-sky-cause-global-warming all out. So of course we drive by their house multiple times a week.

Which is kind of creepy, because inevitably the Pater Familia is standing at the screen door, waving to the almost incessant stream of car-gawkers driving by. I guess he just loves watching other people that much...

They have a big "Toys for Tots" collection bin in their driveway and a large T for T sign at the neighborhood entrance directing people to see their house, so I have good evidence to assume that they're rather heavily involved with said organization.

Regardless, the first time I saw their house lit up thus, we drove back and forth a couple of times so I could fully appreciate it (my husband and son having been aware of its glories already). As we left, I said (semi-jokingly) to my husband: "When we're old and have nothing else to spend our money on, I want to do that."

My son piped up from the backseat: "Don't worry about that, because when I'm grown up, I'll owe you some money, so I'll give it to you and you can use it for that."

I'm glad he's fully aware of his filial obligations.

We had not one, but two Thanksgivings this year.  We had Fakesgiving, where my in-laws visited my parents' house on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, because E was going to his dad's house for actual Thanksgiving (which turned out well because I took q2 call over Thanksgiving...and it almost killed me).  And then we trekked down to the in-laws' homestead on my post-call day (and I spent most of my time en route and en scene sleeping...) and ate more Thanksgiving dinner.

I'm fairly certain I never want to see another turkey again.

At least not until Christmas...

So I'm giving thanks this year that I have a pair of excellent cooks for a mother and a mother-in-law.  Because the Lord knows I'm not an excellent cook and my limited skills will have to undergo somewhat of a miracle to get up to par when it's my turn to take over the holiday meal-making.  I'm betting it'll be a while, though. Or my sister/one of my sisters-in-law will do the duty.

A girl can dream.

Social Hour

A couple of days ago, E was headed outside to play with a few friends down the street (which is another post entirely, as this new development causes me much anxiety and a little bit of heartache), he asked when one of his friends, Matthew, could come over to our house.
"Maybe this weekend, babe, but not today."
"AWWWWW, WHY NOT!?" The inevitable whiny answer (and that's yet another post. Kid drives me nuts.)
"Because J and A [my friends...] are coming over, remember?"
"Oh yeah...well, maybe Matthew would like to meet some new people!"

This is what happens when you're an only child.  You assume that adults and children interact.  Silly rabbit...

It's for Posterity

Last night, while performing a much-needed clearing of my desk, E wandered in and happened to catch me putting some of his old homework in the recycle bin.

"Mom!" He exclaimed, with a shocked look on his face. "What are you doing? Why are you throwing away my art?!"
"I'm keeping the good ones, don't worry." (Probably not the best choice of excuses, in retrospect, but hindsight is 20/20 and I hadn't meant to get caught.  He treasures his handiwork.)
"Well, I'm going to stand here and keep an eye on you." He took a sturdy, determined stance right at my elbow, and bent his eagle eye on me, a disapproving glare writ on his face.
"Ok...??" I murmured, somewhat cowed.
"Because, what if, someday far away, when my wife has children, that artwork could inspire my children?!?!"

Always thinking ahead, that one.

Luckily for me, D reminded him that we have countless files (and paper copies) of his artwork saved up, and it's not likely to go anywhere before those nebulous children make their existences known.

I'm not sure whether he's really that concerned with the artistic development of his offspring or just egotistical...He's seven, though, and the world really does revolve around him, so I suppose I can't blame him.

Trick or Treat

We spent Halloween in our hometown, since E was trick-or-treating with BioDad this year.  We had a ton of candy left over from our Halloween party, though, so we took a big plastic punch bowl, threw the candy in it, and left it on our front porch.

When we came home tonight, we still owned all of our outdoors Halloween decor, including several portable items.  However, we were bereft of a punch bowl.

I hope that little brat gets gingivitis.

"When I Grow Up"

My husband and I are having a Halloween party this year. My son will be out of town anyway, and I haven't seen my med school friends in a while, so it seemed like a good time to get everyone together.  In anticipation, we put up Halloween decorations the first or second week of October, and while hanging cobwebs with E, he expressed some jealousy...

"I can't wait till I'm a grown-up."
"Why?"
"So I can have parties!"
"Um...you do have parties."
"No, Mom, parties where people stay a long time until the morning."
"Those are called sleepovers, and you've had those before."
"You know what I mean!"

He's going to turn out a party animal.  As long as he invites me, I suppose that's ok...

Desertion

My boys and I went to a haunted corn maze today.  It was a really neat place on the outskirts of our suburb, with a central play area, a children's maze and an adult-height haunted maze.  They had a cornbox (as opposed to a sandbox...very strange concept, but less like a catbox, I suppose!), giant hay bales and piles for the kids to climb on and jump into, a rubber ducky water trough race, and a ton of campfires and picnic tables.

We waited until dark to enter the haunted maze (after the distant screams had already begun), and were promptly terrorized by all of the horrifyingly-masked teenagers chasing us through the maze.  Oh, and we didn't have a flashlight.  Smart.  At several points, blocking the way were tunnels made out of tarps, with fog machines and strobe lights adding proper spooky atmospheric touches.  To continue on through those particular paths, you had to go through the tunnels.  We came to one such point while running away from the sounds of a chainsaw behind us (truly one of the scariest things in the world, to hear a chainsaw and screams in the distance while you're in the dark, in a maze that's several feet taller than your head).  E and I were not entirely eager to go into the tunnel, but we wanted to get away from the massacre that was obviously happening behind us, so we made D go first.  Unfortunately, as soon as he took a step into the tunnel, he disappeared into the fog and was literally invisible.  I tentatively reached a hand in, searching for him, but he had moved out of reach, also.

So I refused to go in.

E started screaming: "Let's go, Mom! There are monsters in there!"
"But we have to wait for D!"
"No, we don't!!"

Bravery and loyalty only go so far when you're 7.

Eventually, our indecision lasted long enough that D came back out for us and we made it out of the maze without any unfortunate consequences or limb losses.

Happy Halloween!!

Role-playing

I just want to know where all the cooking apps are...

Sticks and Stones May Hurt You...

We have strong rules on language in our household.  No matter what your parents tell you when you're a child, words freaking hurt.  I hate the thought of my son hurting some other child with the words he chooses to use.  And I hate to hear kids speaking cruelly to each other.  Kids have to hear those phrases from somewhere/someone, and the next step is that no one tells them it's not ok to say such things.  Once they reach school-age, kids' teachers can run themselves nutty trying to keep the little boogers from sprouting potty mouths (in this case, meaning saying ugly things, not necessarily dirty things...), but it won't do any good unless the initial effort starts from home.

Speaking of, I happen to have a very sarcastic, critical, hurtful tongue (that my poor siblings and parents are fully acquainted with).  I know they don't believe me, but I do actively work on curbing it (stop rolling your eyes, Family Members).

But ever since he was old enough to know what words were and how to use them, my son has not been allowed to call people names (especially "stupid") or to say "shut up".  These are simple phrases that you or I may say every day to a hundred different people.  But just because they're common doesn't mean that they can't be used to hurt.  I figure that if certain words or phrases happen to crop up most often when you're angry (and shouting them at someone), it's probably a sign that you shouldn't be using those words at all.  Especially around the little creatures who are learning how to be people by copying everything you do.  My son will reach his hateful teen-angst years soon enough.  I don't need to hear him be casually cruel to anyone before Mother Nature takes a hand with her hormones.

It helps that he doesn't have a sibling, of course.  I'm sure that if he did, we'd be having another conversation entirely.  Because goodness knows that my brother, sister and I called each other all sorts of things that my parents knew nothing about (most of the time).  Also, he has thus far failed to try any swear words out (although I know he's heard them...don't ask me how I know...just accept that sometimes Mommy gets startled...), and he hasn't brought home any language from school (despite the fact that I've heard the way some of his friends talk to each other).

As it is, my only child calls no names and shouts no "shut up"s when people tell him things he doesn't want to hear.  He still finds plenty of ways to make his displeasure known, but without saying anything hurtful.  We talk about word choices frequently, and he's fully aware of the power of the words he chooses to use.  He has moments when he gets in trouble for things he says, but usually that's because of his tone rather than the actual words (and that, I have to admit, he comes by honestly. Or you've never met me.)

This diligence, however, has somewhat bitten me in the backside.  Because he also happens to be an excellent word policeman.  Which helps me curb my own word choices around him.  But I just had to relax the rules regarding "stupid," so that I would be able to describe some of the things that happen to me at work on a daily basis... I'm not allowed to call people names.  But I can call stupid events whatever the heck I want.

You say tomato...I say Amelia...

I sense a long and glorious friendship with this blog.  That may be because I used to write lists of names.  Seriously.  I would pick the first, middle (two middle names, sometimes...) and last.  And make whole families of names.

I'm not the only weird kid.  My sister did it too.

Hence why I think I will love this blog.  Unless I hate the names.  In which case, it's dead to me.

Pushover

Last night, D and I were watching the last season of Lost after E had been hustled off to bed (don't judge, we only have 3 episodes left and things are getting tense).  When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a small, tousled brown head and a pair of slightly slanted brown baby eyes peering over the top of my couch. 
"Yes?" D & I both sighed, as I pressed pause on the remote.
"You guys didn't check on me!" E exclaimed reproachfully.

*Now, this is a nightly ritual where we negotiate with him how frequently one of us will walk the thirty feet from the living room to his bedroom, so he can be reassured that we haven't completely abandoned him in the few intervening minutes.  He has issues.  To be fair, most of the time we assume he's gone to sleep and don't actually check on him.  Hence the getting out of bed to reproach us.  And the issues.  Obviously.

"Consider this your check, then," D said.
"Ok," E sighed.  "But I have to check my backpack to make sure "The Substitute Teacher From the Black Lagoon" is in there." 

*What? This is absolutely a necessity at 8:45 in the evening? Lost is waiting, son! Lost is waiting!!
\
Commence pitter-pattering at barely-visible-level behind the couch into the kitchen, followed by unzipping of said backpack. An interminable pause later...
"It's there." He announced triumphantly.
"Oh, good. [We can rest easy now.] Now go back to bed."
"Ok.  But check on me in five minutes."  He said sternly.
"Fine.  As long as you don't get up again."

After he'd gone, D started muttering about how this little habit had to end, and how it was ridiculous, and that he wouldn't stand for it, and that E was going to get a stern talking to the next time, blah blah blah. I started laughing.

"You're all bark and no bite.  He'll call for you, you'll start blustering, stomp in there, and he'll turn those big eyes on you and you'll just melt like you always do."

He grinned sheepishly.  "Well, I can't help it.  He's a little you."

Genius Needed. Details Below:

"Mom, do you know any super, smart-smart people?"

"Um....other than me and D?"
(Don't judge me. I still get away with "Because I'm a mom and I know everything.")

"Moooooom, no! Someone super, super, SUPER smart!"
(Well, that answers that question. We're talking serious smart, here, not garden-variety parent smart.)

"I have some uncles who are pretty smart.  Why?"

"Because I need someone who can build me a machine to transport me inside a video game."

Me, thinking: "Darn it, Tron."

D, piping up: "Why?"

"So I can be a Pokemon trainer."


It's several days later and the job is still open.  He's still asking, too.  Don't destroy my little boy's dreams now, people.  There's GOT to be someone that smart around.

Faux Pas

Email is a delightful thing to me.  It avoids the need for personal contact, and allows me the ability to carefully compose my thoughts before presenting them to someone.  Because I tend to say whatever disorganized things come to mind, and then I get flustered.  Yes, I'm easily flustered.  So I love email.

But I hate HATE HATE the "reply all" function.  Yes, it can be useful.  Once in a blue moon.  Or more likely, NEVER.

Case in point: my son's 2nd grade teacher is a kind, sweet, quiet young lady (meaning she's probably my age) who has a tough, tough job.  She has to spend 5 days a week wrestling a classroom of 20+ 7- and 8-year-olds into submission whilst attempting to teach them something so their parents (who should be spending more time teaching their kids themselves) don't get pissy and so she doesn't lose her underpaid, overworked, and all-around unenviable job. 

So when she sends an email to her second grade class that goes like this:
Dear Parents,


We have earned our 100 marble celebration and we are having a “Moon Party!” The students can bring a pillow, stuffed animal and a flashlight only! Please DO NOT send them in pajamas and do NOT send blankets
Thank you so much!

I don't think too much of it other than "well, that's one more thing for me to remember in the morning."  My kid gets excited because he gets a break from the endless rounds of teaching-to-the-test (disclaimer: she is a very creative teacher at a very good school and he loves it).  The teacher gets a much-needed break where she just has to chivvy kids into behaving, as opposed to doing that while teaching them how to read. The event is curriculum-pertinent (their entire school is learning about the solar system).  And I'm all about appropriate rewards for hardwork.  Meaning I love my days at work where I do nothing but study and chat with my fellow residents.

So when some untypeable-expletive of a parent REPLIES TO ALL with this:

"Crowded classrooms and half-day sessions are a tragic waste of our greatest national resource - the minds of our children. "-Walt Disney


I got a little...irritated.

Hence my blog.  I really wanted to reply to all with some choice swear words about people who reply to all.  But that's just being facetious.

I felt really bad for his teacher, though.  People are rude.  If I had been that teacher, I probably would have cried.

Ok, let's be honest, I would have done exactly what I did - read: nothing - and turned the air blue with irritated comments and screeches.  And then replied to all.  Because that particular email function happens to be a tragic waste of my greatest resource.

My freaking time.

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more...

E went to his cousin's 9th birthday party last weekend.  She apparently wanted a hotel birthday party, so my lovely (and long-suffering) sister-in-law obliged, and subsequently my poor in-laws were subjected to 13 little girls and 3 little boys at a hotel sleepover.  Luckily, I was working that night...

E's dad called that Friday, and because I had been in the ER when he called, I later forgot to have E call him back.

Thus, when E's BD called again, and asked E why he hadn't answered the phone earlier, E answered: "Probably because I was in a hotel room with 13 girls."


I don't make this stuff up, people.

A response

The health care crisis CANNOT be blamed entirely on doctors.  Sorry.  Period.  No way.

We do take the Hippocratic oath.  We don't take the original form, true, but then that hasn't been standard for a century or so. And so we do harm people every day (kind of necessary for most things).  However, as it's taught in every medical school in the US (and probably in the world...), non-malfeasance is the balance between risk and benefit of a particular medical decision. The problem is that not everyone may agree which risks outweigh which benefits, which is where the issue of communication between doctors and patients comes into play. And incidentally, most malpractice lawsuits come about when that communication breaks down.

So the issue is not that there are thousands of doctors running around intentionally hurting people, leading to lawsuits, and thereby destroying the health care system (which is another topic entirely, and not fit for one blog post).  The issue is that, despite patients thinking we should all be paragons of caring and intelligence, we're only humans who make mistakes all the time.  And because most of us are fairly caring and fairly intelligent, we've ended up in this profession, instead of one where the mistakes we made wouldn't physically hurt people.  Like the majority of the population.  Yeah, if you're a bad teacher, you're gonna screw up my kid's education, but you don't see people getting sued for that (A. Because apparently we don't care about our children's education. B. Because teachers have no money.  Unlike doctors. Because of A.  It's a vicious cycle, you see.). When you make a mistake, someone's feelings get hurt, or someone gets mad because you charged them too much for their electric bill, or a dish breaks.

My life: you could hurt someone and they could die. But no pressure.  Oh, and you're liable for the decisions you make starting in medical school.  When you're $100,000 in debt.  Which is, incidentally, why you won't get sued (Read: because lawyers don't want to sue you, you have no money, what would be the point?).  But never fear, once you have something worth taking away, someone will try to take it.  Whether or not you did anything wrong.  It's okay, people don't mind going to doctors who've been sued. Your career (and the dozen  or so years you worked so hard to get it) probably won't be in any danger.  On second thought, maybe you should reconsider and become a plumber.  Your life might be less...well, you can fill in the blank.

I'm not saying malpractice lawsuits are bad.  They help ensure that the really bad doctors get taken out of circulation, as it were.  But so many malpractice suits are just plain frivolous, just like a lot of lawsuits (with apologies to my sister, Student of Law).  There are people leaving the medical profession everywhere.  Men and women who were dedicated to their patients, who were committed to their paths.  But who won't accept the bureaucratic busywork that you have to deal with just to take care of one darned patient.  A few people out of many make really bad mistakes.  The rest of us AND THE PATIENTS are having to pay. Literally.  Hence = crisis.

I guess the solution is to have robot doctors, who follow a standard protocol with every single patient, regardless of individuality.  They wouldn't be capable of mistakes.  Let's try it, and see how happy that makes everyone.  As long as mine looks like Wally, I won't complain too loudly.

Well, it's kind of true. Sorry, Mom. (Kidding! I'm kidding!)

The other evening, I was reading through an ACS chapter for my residency curriculum when E sidled up beside me (in an attempt to avoid going to bed, which is what he was supposed to be doing), and leaned on my shoulder to peruse the article.

"Is this for a test?" He asked after a few moments of glaring intently at the page.

"Kind of," I replied. "My teacher is going to be asking me questions about it and I need to know the answers."

"Is this teacher a he or a she?"  He demanded.

"A who or a what?!"

"A he or a she! A boy or a girl!" He exclaimed.

"Um, there's one of each, I suppose. Does it matter?!" I cluelessly inquired.

He shot me a look that said "well, clearly, it matters or I wouldn't be asking. Now do you want my help or  not?" I cowered beneath his disdain.

"Well, what is this about?" He returned to the topic at hand, having properly subdued me, and gestured to the paper.

"It's about old people who need surgery."

"Ah..." He nodded knowingly. "That sounds like a crusty job."

I don't know where he gets these words.  Or his usage of them.  But it keeps my life full of laughter so I don't really care.

Extraneous

He's not a baby. He hasn't been for a long time. My little boy who I didn't think would ever learn to walk because I never wanted to put him down strode away into the big world of second grade today. No tears, no backward glances, no fear, no second thoughts.

Last night, as almost an aside, he said "I'm scared about school, Mom.  I'm scared because all those kids have known each other for a long time, and I haven't." But then he walked away before I could deliver my comforting speech that I had been preparing all evening, just waiting for the moment when he would ask for it, just knowing that eventually he would express his terror, and I'd be there for him.  And he didn't need me. Or at least not in the way I thought he would.  He didn't want my advice, or my hugs, he just wanted me to know what was on his mind.  That he had something to overcome, but that he could handle it without me.

It's been a long time coming.  He doesn't ask to sit on my lap anymore, he stopped asking me to carry him a long time ago, he insists on having his opinion and voice heard at every opportunity, even when he knows it's not going to get him what he wants.

He's not even a teenager yet.  He's only 7 and I'm already bemoaning his transition into big-kidhood. But if/when you have your own kids, you'll understand.  How your heart can break and yet rejoice with every passing day.  Because while you're so excited to meet the people they're becoming, you're mourning the loss of the baby they knew so well.  Sure, babies are needy, exhausting, and freaking hard. But it's a heady feeling, knowing you're the center, the pillar of someone's existence.  And although sometimes you feel like they're controlling your life, the fact is, you control theirs. It's actually kind of nice.  And when they're not babies any more, you lose that control, and they grow up with or without your permission.  You lose your minion...

So here's to you, Mom & Dad, for letting me go.  For letting me be who I am, despite the fact that nothing I've done with my life turned out the way you thought it would (yes, they advised against med school...).  Despite the fact that having me meant the loss of that baby girl who relied on you so heavily.  I hope it's been semi-worth it.  I'll always need you.  Like my son still needs me.   Just maybe not as much as I/he did.

And that's okay.

Oh yes, you are...

My favorite little sister is in town at the moment, so my family and I have been spending more time than usual at my parentals' abode.  Which is not really saying much, considering that we spend...most...of our time with my parents.  Hey, what can I say, that's what happens when one of us can't plan a dinner without consultation (sorry, honey, it's true), and one of us is both too busy at work to provide that consultation, and then too tired to cook when she gets home.  Not that that's giving away who is who in this scenario.  But regardless, my mom cooks.  So we eat with her.

Incidentally, we've gotten into the habit of going home to the in-laws' farm every other weekend for homecooked meals there as well.  It's a good life...

So we're all at my parents' house the other night, eating something delicious, and afterwards, we were all sitting around the table chatting.  Which my less-gabby husband will tell you we are wont to do.  Frequently.  Much to his chagrin. But while the adults were talking, E had wandered off to jump on the couch cushions (one of the benefits of it being Nanay's house, instead of Mom's...), so I asked him to start clearing the table.

Now, to be fair, we used to be really good about making sure he was involved in chores around mealtimes.  But recently, because our sit-down family-style mealtimes are sporadic and too-short (yes, he'll probably end up in jail because I don't make a balanced meal for him every evening.  So judge me.), D and I have gotten out of the habit.  More often than not, we let him escape for some playtime while we clear the table and do the dishes and have some precious discuss-the-day time.

Hence, his reluctance to participate at dinner the other night.  He obeyed, but grudgingly.  After he'd removed a few plates from the table, he thought to escape again, but I called him back and handed him some more things to clear.  At this point, his lower lip was quivering like an alcoholic with the shakes, and his eyes were beginning to fill with huge crocodile tears.  But I ignored him, until after putting the dishes in the sink, he stomped past me and screeched "I'm not your minion!!!"

I think I may have burst some veins in my eyes trying not to laugh.

He's really not old enough for the screaming fans. Yet...

Yesterday, we went bowling with most of the surgery residents in my program and their families. Hence, I felt the  need to dress my boys up. It's more difficult with one of them than the other. I'll let you figure out which is which.

Regardless, when E had gotten dressed, he looked down at himself rather critically and stated "I look like a Jonas Brother in this."

Which is fair, since he was wearing distressed jeans, a white tee that had a guitar and the word "Rebel" on it, a striped black vest, and sneakers.

I laughed at him, and said "That's not terrible!"

He shrugged and replied "I know. I'm just sayin'." And walked off without another word.


I'd like to note that the adolescent girls who were attendees at the bowling event thought he was the bees' knees.  So I suppose he was right...

Something Tells Me He Misses You, Uncle David

Oh, you're my favorite awkward statement...

"You look too young to have a 7-year-old!"

Yeah, people, I am...

I Just Called to Say "I Love You"

So I'm back to working ridiculously early and long hours (and so far it's been awesome, so don't think I'm complaining...), but I was a bit worried about E, since in the last year he's been very vocal about how much he hates it when I leave the house before he's woken up in the morning.  But another new intern (who happens to have much younger children than mine, and I'm sure they all have a much harder time than E and I do) mentioned to me that she had a bought a voice recorder for her sons, and that she leaves a message for them every morning before she goes.

So I did just that, and even though it's only been two days since I've been back to work (as it is...), my son treasures those two 15-second messages that I've left.  Today, I came upon him playing them back to himself, cradling the recorder against his chest like a cherished possession. It's worth every penny to me, for him to wake up in the morning and know that I'm thinking about him.

So thank you, Intern Friend, for your priceless suggestion.  My son and I are grateful.

Teach Your Sons to Respect Women...

Yesterday, my son was recounting a conversation he'd had with his stepmother (we'll call her SM for the sake of brevity, because the single initials that are capable of being used as identifiers are running short) when he had guessed her age.  She had given him a hint (how old his father was) and then he was supposed to guess how old she was based on that. And he was quite proud of the fact that he had guessed correctly, despite the fact that she had expected him to guess younger (so he said).

I started laughing and teasingly said "You'd better be careful when guessing ladies' ages!"  Naturally, being a normal 7-year-old, he asked why, and I replied "Well, if you guess older than a lady actually is, she won't be too pleased." He let it lie and I thought the matter was settled.

Well, today at dinner, apropos of nothing, E suddenly exclaimed, "So if I had said she was 50, she wouldn't have been very happy?" I felt it safe to agree with that and again thought we had exhausted that particular line of reasoning.

However, after dinner, on the way home from my parents' house, he again piped up from the backseat, "Why aren't we supposed to ask ladies' ages, again?"

I suppose it doesn't hurt to start this young, right? Especially when he's really catching onto the concept.

PS I still remember the look on my mom's face when my brother (who must have been E's age at the time) told my mom she had gotten so old that she was back to zero, and therefore young again.  His logic was flawless...

The Guardian of the Storms

D doesn't have to go out in the field for his job as often as he used to (which was every week...), but he still leaves occasionally, and this time he had to leave when E was already gone at his dad's. So when E got back, he was not pleased to learn that he was the man of the house.  And when I informed him that he would hold the title till Wednesday or so, he exclaimed: "WEDNESDAY?! But what if it STORMS!?!? I can't survive with a storm and without D!!!" (Except he said his actual name, obviously.)

I'm not sure how my son thinks he lived through the 5 years of storms BEFORE he had a stepfather, but I guess I'm just a weakling woman to him, completely incapable of handling natural disasters...

To me, you are praiseworthy

At about 7 PM today, I was headed home from dinner with the huz after a hectic day of residency orientation, when I exited from the highway, turned the corner, and came upon the scene of a car accident.  An SUV had somehow managed to roll over onto the side of the road and was lying in the grass on its hood.  A cluster of people were crowded around someone on the ground, several cars were stopped with their drivers rushing to and fro across the road, and a few men were helping to direct traffic through the labyrinth of vehicles and pedestrians.

Obviously the accident had happened relatively recently, so I asked one of the men if they needed any medical help (hell, I had just spent 2 days taking ATLS and recertified in both BLS and ACLS in the past month, so if I couldn't help a trauma victim at that moment, I'll never be able to...), but he said they already had a doctor helping out. So I moved on.

I am so glad that I live in a world where when people see a car accident, they forget their dinner plans or that their favorite TV program is starting, and they offer their skills and time to help someone in trouble. And sure, you can say that most people would do the same. It's true that helping people in distress is not some special virtue that only a few people are able to dredge up out of the muck of their souls on a very good day.  Maybe it is just human nature.

But isn't that beautiful?

The Horrors of Camp

My son's first summer camp experience started this Monday.  When faced with the prospect of my poor parents (who are finally living the spoiled lives of empty-nesters) having to watch E from 7:30 in the morning till after 5 in the evening, we had to come up with a better solution.  And luckily, this fair city in which we live is blessed with a plethora of working parents who need summertime care for their kids, so I had many places from which to choose.

I really wanted to avoid anything which smacked of daycare.  I HATED daycare when I was E's age and my mom was working (and she rarely worked AND I had siblings with me).  And we attended a very good daycare that my mother carefully chose. I think it was the aimless playing for hours that I disliked.  I don't remember it very clearly, but regardless, the experience left a distaste for daycares in my mouth.


And luckily, I've never had to utilize one.  My parents were ready and willing to help watch E while I went to school when he was younger, and through a series of fortuitous circumstances (aka my guardian angel smacked some events around for me), E was first in a great preschool, then pre-K and then all-day kindergarten.

So when looking around for something for E to do this summer, I had a pretty long list. I needed someplace with drop-off before 8 (still too late for me, as I have to be at work by 5, but D can drop him off then and still make it on time) and with pick-up after 5. And if it's not daycare, those hours alone are pretty hard to find in a day camp.  It had to have a large number of kids, so the likelihood of him being stuck in a group of 10 year olds was lessened.  It had to be close to my parents' house, in case they were picking him up. And I think that's it.

We settled on a place about midway between our house and my parents' home, a place that during the normal school year serves as a kids' gymnasium for the purposes of gymnastics, dance and karate lessons.  However, they also have a POOL.  So during the summer, they turn themselves gleefully over to weekly day camps.  They average 60 kids per camp, and have the option for morning care starting at 7:30 AM and evening care till 5:30.

My son was not thrilled when informed that he was going to receive the privilege of going to summer camp. He desperately ran through the list of every adult who's ever taken care of him, asking why he couldn't just stay with them during the day.  And finally, when I informed him that it was either camp or daycare, he reluctantly admitted he'd rather go to camp (which is kind of strange, since he has no reason to think ill of either camp or daycare...).  I was sort of puzzled by his reluctance to attend, since I had assured him that he'd get to swim and play with kids and get gymnastics lessons, etc, but I didn't question it too much, assuming that he was just thinking he'd rather stay in his grandparents' pool all summer.

I took E to see the facility prior to signing him up. At sight of the pool, my son the fish finally started displaying some enthusiasm for the whole idea.  The lovely front desk lady took us on a tour and outlined the camp schedule and was wonderful with E.  And after we were through, I asked him if he wanted to attend and he said yes without hesitation.

I was patting myself on the back as we left, and casually said to E, "See, I told you that you'd like it." And he replied, "I thought I'd have to be gone overnight and that's why I didn't want to go."

Tragic, right? My heart broke right then and there.  No wonder he was so desperate to avoid camp, since he thought it meant he'd have to be away from home all summer.  And he was so good about it too! After his initial flat-out refusal, he calmly accepted his fate.  If I had decided he needed to be shipped off to boarding school, off he would go.  I felt super bad.

Luckily, E has thoroughly enjoyed the last three days, coming home full of chatter about his new friends and the things he has learned both in the pool and in the gym, and giving physical demonstrations of the "ocstable" [sic] courses he's traversed.  He even joyfully agreed to signing up for another week.

And he hasn't had to stay the night there even once.  So we're all happy.

If you're friends with a certain friend of mine who's going into Radiology and he tells you to watch a certain B-horror flick entitled "Sleepaway Camp," whatever you do, don't do it.

A Composition

In honor of Fathers' Day 2010, I submit to you a song I wrote for my father the day after I turned 24.  If someone steals this, I'm gonna be pissed.  And my sister's a lawyer, so don't.  When I become more technologically energetic and I have more time (yes, I know, that'll never happen), I'll upload the actual song. So you can actually hear it. But here goes for now...

Daddy's baby can't recount the evenings when his strong arms were terror's only ban
Constellations and his imagination were all that healed the nightmares of a child
Now when she goes to sleep at night she hears him singing: "a tiny turned-up nose"
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
'Cause when she falls, she's never far to go
And to her, he's always right and she'll never change in his eyes
So she's not afraid of standing on her own
Because you're never really alone when you're a daddy's girl

Years turned into numbers, he turned around when time and she were on a swift collision course
Worry marked him and adolescence hurt when she barely ever said her love out loud
But she tried to make him proud when she was singing "Michael, row your boat ashore."
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
'Cause she knows forgiveness waits for her mistakes
And she may not think he's right but she'll never change in his eyes
'Cause his love for her is something she can't break
And he'll never forsake her because she's Daddy's girl

Oh it never really changes, it never really changes
She'll always be his, always be his baby

She remembers echoes from her childhood where canyon waters cleaved through furrowed seams
And she can hear their music in the darkness where safety was a velvet-colored voice
And the tears ran down her face to hear him singing "The night they drove Old Dixie down"
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
She knows his love is always waiting there
And to her, he's always right and she'll never change in his eyes
And she's not afraid of being on her own
'Cause she can hear him singing, she can hear him singing
She can hear him singing and she's Daddy's girl.


For my father. The best one I've ever had.

Colossians 3:23

So, seeing as how I just graduated less than a month ago, I haven't had many opportunities to enjoy my new status.  I almost passed out the first time someone addressed me as "Dr mylastname" without sarcasm. (I was making my husband and child call me doctor. Exclusively. But as they accompanied it with much eye-rolling, it just doesn't count.)

But today, someone asked me what I do.  And, to test it out, I said "I'm a doctor."  The guy congratulated me on being very accomplished (after he asked me, with shock in his voice, how old I am...as usual).  And that was fine. We talked about residency and what I wanted to do after residency.  But then he turned to a coworker and started teasing him, saying "You wanna feel good about yourself? This young lady is only *my age* and she's already a doctor." And then I felt terrible.


Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of where I am in my life. But I don't want to feel good at someone else's expense. I hate that my life could be used to make somebody else feel bad about themselves. I feel that there is pride in any kind of work. Whether you graduated from high school or not.  Whether you control corporations or clean toilets. Mom was always quoting her father (who was himself quoting the Bible) as saying "whatever you do, do it well."  Or something to that effect.  Which I feel is a good way to live your life.  If you take pride in what you do, and you make the effort to do it well, you make it a worthwhile occupation.

The coworker responded by saying "I love what I do!" And that was perfect. He should love what he does. He has a great job, and he was reading a Mark Twain biography almost the entire time I was in his presence.  You won't see me getting to do that in my job, that's for sure.  I'd be tempted, but I'd get fired...

Old Wives' Tales

One of the worst things about Facebook has been the questionable privilege of watching my various acquaintances ask for and dispense medical and/or parenting advice to each other via FB statuses. Most of the time, they don't get/give bad advice or terribly erroneous information. Sometimes, to be sure, I shudder a little at the explanations people give and wonder what they've been reading, but for the most part it's all fun and games.

Recently, however, a new mom (no excuse, her mother's a nurse) asked her personal Facebook community to tell her in what position she should let her 2-month-old sleep. Follow 20-something comments varying from the "SIDS is scary - BACK TO SLEEP" variety to "I was always afraid my baby would choke if he spit up, so I put him to sleep on his belly." Several of them stated that their doctors told them back-only, but that their babies "just wouldn't do it." A couple of scientific types even said "well, doctors seem to change their minds on the best position every few years, so whatever is more comfortable for your baby is the best." Give me a break, people. Seat belts aren't too comfy either, but it's a crime if you don't buckle Junior in. You know why? Because evidence shows that your kid is less likely to DIE if you do.

*At this point, a disclaimer. I must admit to some amount of bias here, because I know that several of the people mentioned go to my own doctor madre for their medical care. But it's not like she's been advising anything radical. Case in point: The Amer. Acad of Peds recommended putting babies to sleep on their backs to prevent SIDS starting in 1992. And the hugely successful (as in, less babies dying) "Back to Sleep" initiative started in 1994. I checked. Almost 20 years of an opinion does not "changing their minds every few years" make. And sure, if in a few years, the evidence points in the opposite direction, we'll feel awfully sheepish, but that's the nature of science. We can only make decisions based on the information we have at any given point in time.

At this particular time, doctors are saying put your babies on their backs to sleep to prevent them DYING. I seriously doubt any doctors are recommending that you put babies on their bellies to prevent them choking if they should spit up in their sleep. And in fact, I just googled that very question and there are a billion resources right at my fingertips to tell me that my baby is much more likely to die of SIDS than of choking. At least while they're in bed, anyway.

It's ironic that I can find such information on the web when these people are relying on an internet forum of personal opinion to direct their parenting choices. So we've established that you have internet access! So at least go research your question first before dumping it in the laps of a bunch of proverbial elderly spousal units! Go read scientific journals, go read medical professional websites, go read hospital info. (But please, DON'T go to some "my baby slept on his back and it gave him leukemia" website. The zebras are out there, yes, but so are the freaking crazy or just plain misguided hyenas.)

I'm not saying doctors are always right (I know too many of them to believe that...). And I'm not saying I don't believe you if you claim your baby absolutely WILL NOT go to sleep on his/her back (I don't blame 'em, being in the waterbed/womb is a far cry from being supine on a rock-hard (ahem, also purposeful) baby mattress). And if you are a new mom, your body aches everywhere, you've been on the verge of tears at least 12 times today, you wish your mother would go home, you're desperately afraid she will, you hate that your husband can't calm the baby down like you can, and you put Baby Betty on her tummy to sleep because you know she'll nod off immediately and you just need 5 minutes to find a Kleenex and a sitz bath...I can't blame you, and neither should anyone else.

But for God's sake, if you're making some parenting choices that you're feeling guilty about because you ALREADY ASKED BUT YOU'RE IGNORING THE BEST-INFORMED ANSWER, don't ask for validation from Facebook. Ask your sister or your mother or your best friend. In private. They'll validate you and love you and treasure you. And then you won't have blog rants written about you.

If tomorrow I see a Facebook post about a cat sucking the breath out of some kid, my head may explode.

I've Created a Monster

My mother had specific rules for tidying up our house when I was little.  The house had to be tidy AT LEAST on two occasions: 1) when we were expecting visitors and 2) when we were leaving for any longer than a day, so she could return to a clean house.  She clung to these above all else under the onslaught of three horribly messy growing children and a husband with his mind on less earthly things than housework ;-).

Among the multiple wise, wonderful things I picked up from my delightful little mommy (you can send me a check, Mother...), I latched on to these rules with the same mindset.  And then took it one crazy, nutso step further, to where a large portion of my free time is spent pottering around various areas of the house, with the aim of constant tidiness. After all, with only a slightly untidy spouse and one small child, the cleanliness of my house is one of the things I can control almost 24/7. The boys are rarely able to get ahead of me.

I was thinking this yesterday as I was obsessively scrubbing something inane (I don't even remember now what it was, which shows you how important it must have been...). And thinking that should the day ever arise when more children grace my life, my housecleaning impulses are going to have to go down the drain rapidly, especially with this doctoring thing that I've got my heart set on.  Yeah, you can hire a housekeeper, I suppose. But I clearly remember the abortive attempts of housekeepers to relieve some of my mother's cleaning burdens when I was young.  They would leave the house, and she would start cleaning, because they never did things the way she wanted them.  I have no illusions: I'm just like my mother. So basically, my tidy house days are numbered.

However, I may have given myself a little boost into the saddle with Mi Hijo Numero Uno.

Case in point: he came home yesterday from a 2-week vacay with his dad, and walked into his room expecting it to still be in the stellar condition in which he left it.  However, I had belatedly realized that I needed to wash away some allergens and had therefore completely stripped his bed of the 5 pillows, 2 bolsters, 3 quilts, 1 baby blanket, 1 large tiger, 1 large pig and about 30 stuffed animals which regularly occupy it.  Seeing the carnage littering his bedroom floor, he promptly burst into tears, and berated me, saying "but it's so much work to build my nest!!"  Which is a fact I discovered for myself, when, an hour later, his sheets were done and he requested my help to put his bed back together.  Having restored his zoo to its proper location, I left him to the final touches.

When I walked in a little later, he was busily picking up the (maybe three) toys that were on his floor and he said "I need to clean my room, mom, will you help me?"
"Um, sure," I said, "but why does your room need cleaning?" I repeat, there were all of three toys on the floor.
"Mom! What if someone comes in here, what would they think of me?!"
"What?! Who is going to come in here?!"
"Visitors!! Or a new friend!!"

Yes, that's my child.  Freaking Martha Stewart in the body of a 7-year-old boy.

But at least maybe I'll have someone waging war on my side in the ongoing saga of Woman vs House.

Humility

My son asked me if he'd been good all day today. And in general, he had.  And I told him so.

He said "Good. Because I've been trying to be on my best behavior all day."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I don't want to misbehave and have you get mad at me at the end of the day. I really don't like that."


If I were less human, I'd never be mad at him again.  But I can only strive toward being a better mom.

Good thing he's here to help me along.

And today, we are seven

Happy birthday, my bright boy. You're not exactly a baby any more. Too big to carry, too big to even sit on my lap without my legs going numb. Too big to shop in the 5T section of the store, too big to hold my hand on the way into school.

You're outgrowing my world and I can only watch and be awed.

Lenten Journeys

The week before Ash Wednesday, D and I were discussing what we were going to give up for Lent.  I usually go the meatless route, but with my newfound and newly-developing cooking skills, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to maneuver much if I went with that as a Lenten sacrifice.  So I was at a bit of an impasse until D suggested dessert, at which point my heart froze...and I knew I'd found my choice.

I have an impossible sweet tooth. I need something sweet after breakfast, for goodness' sake.  So giving up dessert has been difficult (and I fail miserably on occasion). But I start over again when I trip up (consciously or unconsciously), and I guess that's just part of the Lenten journey.

My sweet, innocent son also decided to give up something for Lent.  Two things, in fact, despite my worried assurances that he didn't have to make the sacrifice. In retrospect, I should probably have wholeheartedly and unhesitatingly endorsed his desire, but at the time, I was thinking more along the lines of "He's only 6!!!"

He persevered, despite my lack of enthusiasm.  And decided to give up drinking milk (he's still allowed the requisite bowl of cereal or two), and playing computer games.  Now, playing computer games is not something he does very often at all, but milk is his favorite beverage by far.  (Before you call me a bad mother for encouraging him to deprive himself of delicious nutrition, he takes more than enough Vitamin D in the sour gummy form.  Don't ever doubt me again...) So I was quite impressed with his willingness to give up something he loves so very much.

Now I just have to make sure he knows why he's giving it up.

Happy Lent.

At least he appreciates me...

I was sick last week, to the point where I stayed in my room almost exclusively for two days in a row, with the lights off and the curtains drawn. My bedroom wall backs up to the kitchen, though, so I could hear my boys going about their business as usual.

So I was rather gratified to hear E tell my husband: "You know, you'll have to do everything that Mommy does 'cause she's sick."
D: "Oh yeah? Like what?"
E: "Just everything!"
D: "Well, what does she do that I need to do?"
E: "I don't know! She just does a lot!"

It's nice to have some recognition. Even if it's vague...

Baby Mozart

My son has restarted piano lessons for this semester. We went through about 6 months of them starting in January of last year, but when the summer was over, we (I) just didn't have the time or energy to wrestle with lessons again. In addition, although I liked his teacher quite a bit, I didn't feel that she was offering him much more in his lessons than my mom or I could. So mom took over, and she very patiently and bravely took him through to the Christmas season. But then we met a lady at Target (of all places), who was a violinist and highly recommended her son's piano teacher to me.

We had his first lesson last week and it went wonderfully. First of all, she didn't talk down to him and didn't really filter her "big words" for him. She had an obvious goal in mind for the lesson and didn't slow down for a moment, so that he was never twiddling his thumbs while she figured out what to do. Most importantly for me, she was actually teaching him, and not straight out of a book (like Mom and I were doing). Most importantly for E, she made the lesson really fun and they spent most of it laughing at each others' musical antics, both on her grand piano and on the hand drums she had in the studio.

On the drive home after the lesson, I asked E what he thought, and he said "That was actually fun!" Which is exactly what I hoped for, and what I couldn't give him in my lessons.

I realized the other day that piano is one of the few things that I have infinite patience with. I can sit down at the piano and get lost for hours at a time, running the same passage from a piece over and over again. And no matter how often I mess up, I just do it again until it's perfect. If you know me, you know that I am not patient, including with myself, my husband, my son, my family members, and the world at large.

My son inherited (or learned...) my lack of patience. He's a lot better about it than I am, though. But the piano is the only thing that consistently brings the Impatience Monster out. He HATES his 4th finger, or he HATES the way his hands don't stay in the proper position on their own, or he HATES that he can't remember what a sharp note looks like on the page. And I hate having my time wasted, so piano practice is always a struggle for us.

But yesterday, I realized something. He's not used to hearing me practice, because he's usually asleep by then, and he thinks he's the only one in this family of pianists who's ever had to practice to be good. So I disabused him of that notion. I told him which of my fingers is my least favorite. I played my fingerwork practice piece for him, which sounds an awful lot like his (just harder, thank goodness for my pride). I stifled my impatience and I never raised my voice. And he calmed down and had a very good practice.

I struggle with my own impatience on a daily basis. But the piano is one arena where I usually don't have to. So maybe this is one way both my son and I can work on our patience together. And maybe, just maybe, one day he won't hate that finger.

And he won't hate playing the piano.

He's Ready to Buy

D and I are currently in the process of tentative house-hunting.  Tentative as in we won't know if we'll be moving until March 18th, but we want to jump in on the first-time home buyers tax incentive, blah blah blah.  So we're looking, but just keeping our eyes open for now.  For me, that means watching a lot of HGTV House Hunters, as well...

Last weekend there was an open house in a gated community right behind where we currently live, so we trundled ourselves over there after church to see how it was.  The house was lovely and of course we did the typical things like comment on the woodwork and the size of the rooms, whatever.  As we were about to leave, E requested that we go upstairs and look around for a second time, so we obliged.  But apparently what he wanted was to truly examine the floor coverings, because once he had done so, he loudly stated, "Well, we can always take this carpet out."

The realtor, who was standing downstairs, started laughing. Thank goodness.

Because then as we went back downstairs, he perused the carpet on the stairs, and declared, "I don't really like the color of this carpet, but we can change it."

D said he needs to be on a strict regimen of Spike TV every day. But I think we'll value his opinion when the time comes to actually buy our first home together...

Racism

E has been learning about MLK Jr for 3 years now. The 1st year, when he was in pre-K, they watched a video about him, and then they had to draw pictures illustrating what they got out of it.  E drew a picture of a man and a woman and wrote "Martin Luther King Jr got married."

I don't remember what he did last year.  It must have been less memorable.

This year, E asked me out of the blue last Thursday, "Mom, is Martin Luther King Jr dead?"
"Yes, sweetie, he died a long time ago."
"Who harmed him?"
"Someone who didn't agree with what he was doing."
"The white people?"

At least he's getting more than "MLK Jr got married." The boy can be taught!