We just celebrated the baptism of our niece, LM, who is 3 months old. My sister-in-law and her husband asked D & I to stand as godparents, a role that we are so proud to have. She was baptized in the church where D & I grew up, the same place we were married. She was wearing a traditional baptismal gown, all white and lacy, the kind that makes all the females in the room exclaim "Oh, how cuuuuuuute!" She solemnly examined our faces as our family affirmed an ancient set of beliefs, and her parents promised to guide and nurture her. Not a peep escaped her as the priest blessed her tiny head with the holy water. And tears were in my eyes as we officially welcomed her into our faith.
I'm a sucker for pomp and circumstance.
Just think how bad I'll be if she ever gets married...
My slightly-insane life and times
12/23/11
12/13/11
Case In Point
Tonight, I was bringing E a very small drink of water, and was standing on his bunkbed ladder watching him drink it when he said "Do I have to drink the whole thing now?" and gave me a look. A look like I was putting him through some strange mother-son hazing ritual and forcing him to drink a giant glass of water right before he went to sleep, in order to torture both of us with the inevitable soggy outcome...
"I'm just waiting here to tuck you in!" I exclaimed, "Unless you no longer need my tuck ins!" (and at this point, because he is well-trained, he protested, but I persisted:) "In which case, I guess you no longer need a mother!"
"But that's not the only reason you need a mother!"
"Oh, ok," I relented, "so what are these other reasons?"
"To take care of you. And to love you."
How is that amount of sweetness possible?
"I'm just waiting here to tuck you in!" I exclaimed, "Unless you no longer need my tuck ins!" (and at this point, because he is well-trained, he protested, but I persisted:) "In which case, I guess you no longer need a mother!"
"But that's not the only reason you need a mother!"
"Oh, ok," I relented, "so what are these other reasons?"
"To take care of you. And to love you."
How is that amount of sweetness possible?
12/8/11
Prayer
Several years ago, before E came along, my mother told me that while my siblings and I were small, she would pray every day just to live. Just to be around long enough for us to be (mostly...) grown up. And that every day beyond that would be icing on the cake. And when I was young, I thought "wow, that's morbid" and understood her only from a very clinical perspective: of course my mother would want to live to see me grow up. That's only natural, after all.
I have E now. And now I know how it feels to worry that I will die suddenly in a car accident or in a plane crash or of cancer, and leave my small son behind. Granted, he'd be more than adequately cared for, more than adequately loved. But it wouldn't be by me. And that's the fear that keeps me awake sometimes. It's the constant, dragging fear that sends me shivering from a close call on an icy patch of road, or shuddering in horror from a story about a mother of five dying unexpectedly from some rare disease.
My life is lived, and it's been lived pretty darn heartily. If I were all that I had to worry about, it wouldn't be so bad to die.
But there's one small boy, one person that I was meant to take of. And Someone obviously thought I was the best person for the job.
And so, like my mother before me, and like mothers for centuries, all I ask is that I live until He doesn't need me any more. And hopefully by that point, he won't need me any more.
11/24/11
Je Regrette
I wish I had taken more video of E when he was little.
I just found a video of him a year ago at his birthday and his voice was so freaking cute. Today, he still sounds like a little kid, but he's swiftly losing his baby voice and pretty soon all traces of that baby will be gone. I have lots of recordings from when he was an actual infant and toddler, because he was always cooing and dancing and doing goofy things. His memorable times are harder to catch now, not because he's less cute, but because he's moving at a much faster speed than he used to. I'm left in the dust, gasping at how quickly time is passing, and wanting to hold onto each second for just a little bit longer than the clock will allow.
So if I ever have another child, maybe the first thing I should do is buy a high-quality, compact video camera.
Or just leave lots of room on my fancy smart phone.
10/17/11
Consistently Impressive Vocabulary
I got the rare joy of picking my son up from school today.
While we were walking to the car, he was chattering away (as he is usually doing. I've never known him to be at a loss for words...) and I happened to piece together the fact that the kids in his class were teasing him by calling him "Elvis."
When queried why, he replied: "Because I put gel in my hair. And I just put it all over. I have no consistent way of doing it."
While we were walking to the car, he was chattering away (as he is usually doing. I've never known him to be at a loss for words...) and I happened to piece together the fact that the kids in his class were teasing him by calling him "Elvis."
When queried why, he replied: "Because I put gel in my hair. And I just put it all over. I have no consistent way of doing it."
9/30/11
D will kill me for telling this story...
E was outside playing with his friend Squeaks (not his real name, but I like to preserve some semblance of anonymity on this blog, and the kid has a high squeaky/raspy voice, so that's how he shall be dubbed from now on) earlier today when suddenly he came storming inside, slammed the front door, and stomped up the stairs to his bedroom muttering under his breath. Being a mother, and therefore easily quailed by such tactics, I tentatively called "E?" but received no answer.
When he had cooled down enough to grace the downstairs mortals with his presence again, I asked him if he'd had a disagreement with Squeaks. "Well, yes," he replied, grumpy again, "I got mad at him because I told him that I'd gotten a new haircut today and he didn't even say 'nice haircut'!"
Suffice it to say that I had to try very hard not to laugh.
And D didn't think it was that funny. Since he's been on the other end of that particular conversation once or twice.
9/16/11
Bookworm
9/14/11
The Husband and the Wife
An...acquaintance...of mine sent me this the other day, and I laughed so hard reading it that it just had to be shared. It has been edited very slightly for the sake of certain involved parties, but the spirit of the thing has been preserved. Enjoy!
...I set off for Different Town. We decided to eat Chinese... At first I told the Husband to pick up the order, and I would meet him at the B & B [place where we stay when we're in Different Town]. Then I realized that if it were the Husband, HE would have picked up the food on the way in and brought it 'home'. I was merely accustomed to being spoiled as a "lady" and not out and around after dark if I could help it (my thoughtful husband's behest). So I called him back, said I would pick up the food, chatted with Mrs. Chinese Restaurant Owner and exclaimed over her children (now quite good-looking, both of them), then set off home with a bag of aromatic lo mein, honey chicken and rice and a large [supposedly] Diet Pepsi. (It turned out to be a Dr. Pepper, fuel on the fire, fuel on the fire.) I arrived to a darkened B & B with sounds of banjo music mixing in with announcer calls most consistent with Fight Night. I entered the kitchen side, food in hand, and was greeted by my loving husband who had leapt up from his sofa, put down his banjo, and come to relieve me of the food the moment he heard my [dulcet] tones inquiring as to his whereabouts. This is the point at which disaster struck.
I made Wife Mistakes Numbers 1 and 2: 1)Making assumptions (in this case, making the assumption that he would realize I was hauling in stuff from my car) and 2)Expecting understanding without clarification (in this case, expecting he would realize that just like the other 52 times or so that I've arrived at the B & B I would, indeed, have various gear, food and sundries to haul into the edifice).
I returned to the car to pile even more (and heavier) articles into my arms. I turned around, no husband was in sight. Well, he's just putting the food up a bit slowly, perhaps. I entered the kitchen to be greeted with an almost identical situation: darkness with echoes of banjo music and announcer quips. I proceeded to shuffle my feet somewhat noisily. Ah. Almost instant results. The Man comes out before I've completely traversed the floor to relieve me of my burdens. "Is there more?" he asks, innocently. Of course there's more. I've taken on his tendency to travel with not just clothing, but books, electrical gear, musical instruments and food, as well as anything that strikes my fancy as I glance through the house one last time before setting the alarm (this is when the kitchen sink makes it into the car....). I am now quite perturbed. It's past 8, I'm hungry, thirsty and tired and have more gear to unpack. I turned to make yet another trip to the car. 10 feet became 20, 30 pounds became 60, in my irritation.
Unfortunately, Mrs. B&B Owner's very carefully timed lights are not timed for darkness. As I stepped out into darkness, I forgot the 1" drop from stoop to driveway, lost my balance, fell onto my right knee and left palm, scraping both. As I writhed in temporary pain, the Husband called out, "Are you all right?" I writhed a little longer, granted mostly for effect and [righteous] consolation. It was not to be. As I picked myself up, having ascertained I'd received only the most minimal of injuries and even less consolation from my fight-night-distracted husband, I replied in what I thought was a voice laced and dripping with irony, "Oh, I can handle the rest of it by myself." Remember the Wife Mistakes above? He took me at my word and I ended up hauling in my heavy suitcase by myself. (Never mind that I had earlier hauled it to the car and loaded it myself, a more difficult task. My status as a trophy wife was, at this moment, precarious and endangered!!) This time when I entered, there was no activity whatsoever in the kitchen. Why should there be? The Husband had served himself and speedily returned to watching his fight. And then he wondered why I was mad the rest of the evening.
To add insult to injury, I went to church the next evening and the readings were too appropriate:
"Wrath and anger are hateful things,
Yet the sinner hugs them tight."
The only saving grace was that the Husband had gotten called in and wasn't there to nudge me in the ribs....
...I set off for Different Town. We decided to eat Chinese... At first I told the Husband to pick up the order, and I would meet him at the B & B [place where we stay when we're in Different Town]. Then I realized that if it were the Husband, HE would have picked up the food on the way in and brought it 'home'. I was merely accustomed to being spoiled as a "lady" and not out and around after dark if I could help it (my thoughtful husband's behest). So I called him back, said I would pick up the food, chatted with Mrs. Chinese Restaurant Owner and exclaimed over her children (now quite good-looking, both of them), then set off home with a bag of aromatic lo mein, honey chicken and rice and a large [supposedly] Diet Pepsi. (It turned out to be a Dr. Pepper, fuel on the fire, fuel on the fire.) I arrived to a darkened B & B with sounds of banjo music mixing in with announcer calls most consistent with Fight Night. I entered the kitchen side, food in hand, and was greeted by my loving husband who had leapt up from his sofa, put down his banjo, and come to relieve me of the food the moment he heard my [dulcet] tones inquiring as to his whereabouts. This is the point at which disaster struck.
I made Wife Mistakes Numbers 1 and 2: 1)Making assumptions (in this case, making the assumption that he would realize I was hauling in stuff from my car) and 2)Expecting understanding without clarification (in this case, expecting he would realize that just like the other 52 times or so that I've arrived at the B & B I would, indeed, have various gear, food and sundries to haul into the edifice).
I returned to the car to pile even more (and heavier) articles into my arms. I turned around, no husband was in sight. Well, he's just putting the food up a bit slowly, perhaps. I entered the kitchen to be greeted with an almost identical situation: darkness with echoes of banjo music and announcer quips. I proceeded to shuffle my feet somewhat noisily. Ah. Almost instant results. The Man comes out before I've completely traversed the floor to relieve me of my burdens. "Is there more?" he asks, innocently. Of course there's more. I've taken on his tendency to travel with not just clothing, but books, electrical gear, musical instruments and food, as well as anything that strikes my fancy as I glance through the house one last time before setting the alarm (this is when the kitchen sink makes it into the car....). I am now quite perturbed. It's past 8, I'm hungry, thirsty and tired and have more gear to unpack. I turned to make yet another trip to the car. 10 feet became 20, 30 pounds became 60, in my irritation.
Unfortunately, Mrs. B&B Owner's very carefully timed lights are not timed for darkness. As I stepped out into darkness, I forgot the 1" drop from stoop to driveway, lost my balance, fell onto my right knee and left palm, scraping both. As I writhed in temporary pain, the Husband called out, "Are you all right?" I writhed a little longer, granted mostly for effect and [righteous] consolation. It was not to be. As I picked myself up, having ascertained I'd received only the most minimal of injuries and even less consolation from my fight-night-distracted husband, I replied in what I thought was a voice laced and dripping with irony, "Oh, I can handle the rest of it by myself." Remember the Wife Mistakes above? He took me at my word and I ended up hauling in my heavy suitcase by myself. (Never mind that I had earlier hauled it to the car and loaded it myself, a more difficult task. My status as a trophy wife was, at this moment, precarious and endangered!!) This time when I entered, there was no activity whatsoever in the kitchen. Why should there be? The Husband had served himself and speedily returned to watching his fight. And then he wondered why I was mad the rest of the evening.
To add insult to injury, I went to church the next evening and the readings were too appropriate:
"Wrath and anger are hateful things,
Yet the sinner hugs them tight."
The only saving grace was that the Husband had gotten called in and wasn't there to nudge me in the ribs....
8/30/11
Neurotic Love
First, for some background. I spend a large portion of my day writing. With a pen. Electronic medical records be darned, this hospital is still largely paper-run. Hence the writing. Throughout the course of last year, I spent a large part of my time trying out new pens. It took me a long time, but I finally discovered the perfect pen. It was difficult, because I'm left-handed, so most pens leave gross-looking smudges on the side of my hand, and very unprofessional-looking smears on my notes. And I hate pens that "skip". I don't know what the real term for it is, but it's what happens when all of a sudden you're in the middle of a note, going 100 miles an hour because as soon as you get this note done, you can finally put your feet up for a few seconds and maybe even eat something for the first time in 12 hours and by GOSH your bladder is screaming for mercy, and your pen decides that it will only spit ink out for half of that word you just wrote, and for maybe 1/4 of the next one, and when you finally admit that your writing is no longer legible, pick the pen up off the paper to carefully scrutinize the amount of ink in the barrel, shake it vigorously, and possibly even lick the tip (because, you know, that always work, right?), it decides to work just fine until maybe 2 lines later, when the whole cycle repeats. I can't take that. I have a short fuse. So anyway, I finally found the right pen. It's the Pentel Energel Liquid Gel Ink Metal Tip 0.7mm ball pen, and unfortunately it's only sold at Staples. I promise. I've looked. So don't tell me where you think I can find them unless you KNOW.
I'm done. On to the point...
I always call my husband as I'm leaving work. For one thing, it's pleasant to hear his voice after a long day without it, and for another, it gives him warning so he can have dinner ready (and yes, if our roles were reversed, everyone would be up in arms about how chauvinistic that sounds, but honestly, we both just like to eat dinner as early as we can, and we don't like dinner to be cold, so don't get your boxers in a twist). Today, I called my husband to tell him that I'd be home in 20, and as usual, started rambling about my day, and his day, and what was on the horizon that we needed to keep in mind, and what the lady in the car next to me was doing, etc. etc. Yes, I talk a lot. Right as I was turning into our neighborhood, I said, "oh, and we need to run to Staples at some point, because I'm almost out of pens." He, being well aware of the trials and tribulations I had suffered before finding true love in pen-form, replied in an appropriate and suitably interested-sounding way and I hung up the phone right before I pulled into our garage. I walked into the house, and happened to see, on the dining table:
He knows what I need before I even know I need it. And when what I need are pen refills, he knows that too.
I'm done. On to the point...
I always call my husband as I'm leaving work. For one thing, it's pleasant to hear his voice after a long day without it, and for another, it gives him warning so he can have dinner ready (and yes, if our roles were reversed, everyone would be up in arms about how chauvinistic that sounds, but honestly, we both just like to eat dinner as early as we can, and we don't like dinner to be cold, so don't get your boxers in a twist). Today, I called my husband to tell him that I'd be home in 20, and as usual, started rambling about my day, and his day, and what was on the horizon that we needed to keep in mind, and what the lady in the car next to me was doing, etc. etc. Yes, I talk a lot. Right as I was turning into our neighborhood, I said, "oh, and we need to run to Staples at some point, because I'm almost out of pens." He, being well aware of the trials and tribulations I had suffered before finding true love in pen-form, replied in an appropriate and suitably interested-sounding way and I hung up the phone right before I pulled into our garage. I walked into the house, and happened to see, on the dining table:
He knows what I need before I even know I need it. And when what I need are pen refills, he knows that too.
8/9/11
Genetics
I asked E yesterday what sort of children he'd like to have (yes, he's going to have all sorts of strange ideas about the choices he'll have when he's all growed up...) and he said "well, they'll look like a mix between you and Lulu [my sister]." And that would be a lucky little girl.
I'm kidding.
Kind of.
Then I asked "What about the boys? Won't you have any boys? I did, after all." And he said "They'll look like D and Baba [my brother]."
He's so sweet, I think I'll keep him.
I'm kidding.
Kind of.
Then I asked "What about the boys? Won't you have any boys? I did, after all." And he said "They'll look like D and Baba [my brother]."
He's so sweet, I think I'll keep him.
8/2/11
Detective
 |
| My father took this picture of E with his iPhone 4 (I'm so jealous I could eat this laptop!!) and sent it to me. I used a little Adobe app magic and it turned out like this. Nice, no? |
7/12/11
Little Old Man
My son went to a birthday party last night and afterwards was supposed to spend the night at his friend's house (which happens to be right down the street from us). I am working nights this week, so I was not present for these arrangements, but a couple of hours after I was informed of them, I sent my husband a text message saying he needed to tell our neighbors that he'd be picking E up in the morning for vacation bible school.
My husband's reply: "He came home. Said he was worried they were going to stay up too late."
E is more responsible as an 8 year old than most of the adults I know. Present company included.
My husband's reply: "He came home. Said he was worried they were going to stay up too late."
E is more responsible as an 8 year old than most of the adults I know. Present company included.
7/5/11
Love
The Huz and I celebrated our wedding anniversary yesterday. We've made annual mix cds (yes, make fun of us, we're geeky) for each other ever since we started dating, which we realized the other day was when we were both still teenagers...and that made me feel very old. We usually try to make them at least partly tailored to the other person's musical taste. Which means D cuts back on the metal and I cut back on the female singer/songwriters. And we always try to put new or unfamiliar songs on them. You know, to stimulate the other person's musical growth or something. We also write our own "liner notes" of the songs and artists on the CDs and why we've picked them. D's tend to be much...briefer, while mine will lean toward paragraphs per song if I'm not careful.
This year, I was reading the liner notes he wrote for me and found this description of one song...
"Beautiful and strange. Just like you."
Which made me laugh out loud and say "aw" at the same time. Just like he always does.
I'm so lucky.
6/26/11
New Kid on the Block
After we moved into our new house, my only regret was that E had a really good friend who lived right down the street in our previous location. They would play together every day after school and wreak havoc on the neighborhood until dusk. It was pretty much perfect. My conscience was assuaged by the fact that E had already met a couple of neighborhood kids in the new locale while D was renovating. The boys were 7 and 9, respectively, so I was fairly certain that he would get along with them well.
Unfortunately, I didn't account for the vagaries of boy games. After playing with said boys a couple of times, E refused to go down the street to look for them any more. When I asked why, he replied that they played games with names that he didn't recognize, and worse, of which he did not know the rules. Now, granted, his 2nd grade class was ridiculously tightly knit. They picked up phrases, dances, and apparently game preferences. And to E, if kids don't talk about Pokemon and Go-gos, they're speaking a foreign language.
So he was spending his summer days complaining that he was bored (which he scaled back dramatically when he realized bored = Mom will find something unpleasant for you to do) and asking us to play with him. Which we did. But if you've ever tried to be a stay-at-home parent for an energetic 8-year-old on his summer vacation, you'll know that D (however awesome I happen to think he is) is only human and eventually needs a break. And if you've never come home from a full day of work to have said 8-year-old demand your attention in a game of Bakugans, you'll never understand why I set timers beforehand. Although my parents have a pool, there are a finite number of minutes a child may spend in it when it's 100 degrees in the shade.
This is how desperate all 3 of us were getting: E was trying to write out some rules for a game that he had dreamed up, and upon getting frustrated by his (what he thought of as) poor handwriting, he yelled "I wanna go back to school." After the inevitable responses by his parents (which I shall not repeat), I printed off some math problems and multiplication tables. He was overjoyed and sat down to diligently compute until dinner time. I'm not kidding.
Salvation came in the form of a friend from out of town. He happened to be walking up to our front door when aforementioned neighborhood boys were loitering in the street. They apparently felt brave enough to accompany him to our front door, where they inquired as to E's presence. I hastily bundled them inside and up to E's room (after they asked permission of their respective families...I wasn't as creepy about it as it sounds, I promise).
He didn't eat dinner that night. They spent the rest of the evening running in and out of the house, up and down to the backyard pirate ship/treehouse, destroying E's room, and leaving toys strewn all over the place. The next day, I came home from work and they were exploring the park on the other side of our backyard fence, utilizing the walkie-talkies I had bought D for his bday/Father's day, barricading themselves inside E's room, and generally making a big, noisy mess.
And I couldn't be happier for my poor lonely little only child.
Unfortunately, I didn't account for the vagaries of boy games. After playing with said boys a couple of times, E refused to go down the street to look for them any more. When I asked why, he replied that they played games with names that he didn't recognize, and worse, of which he did not know the rules. Now, granted, his 2nd grade class was ridiculously tightly knit. They picked up phrases, dances, and apparently game preferences. And to E, if kids don't talk about Pokemon and Go-gos, they're speaking a foreign language.
So he was spending his summer days complaining that he was bored (which he scaled back dramatically when he realized bored = Mom will find something unpleasant for you to do) and asking us to play with him. Which we did. But if you've ever tried to be a stay-at-home parent for an energetic 8-year-old on his summer vacation, you'll know that D (however awesome I happen to think he is) is only human and eventually needs a break. And if you've never come home from a full day of work to have said 8-year-old demand your attention in a game of Bakugans, you'll never understand why I set timers beforehand. Although my parents have a pool, there are a finite number of minutes a child may spend in it when it's 100 degrees in the shade.
This is how desperate all 3 of us were getting: E was trying to write out some rules for a game that he had dreamed up, and upon getting frustrated by his (what he thought of as) poor handwriting, he yelled "I wanna go back to school." After the inevitable responses by his parents (which I shall not repeat), I printed off some math problems and multiplication tables. He was overjoyed and sat down to diligently compute until dinner time. I'm not kidding.
Salvation came in the form of a friend from out of town. He happened to be walking up to our front door when aforementioned neighborhood boys were loitering in the street. They apparently felt brave enough to accompany him to our front door, where they inquired as to E's presence. I hastily bundled them inside and up to E's room (after they asked permission of their respective families...I wasn't as creepy about it as it sounds, I promise).
He didn't eat dinner that night. They spent the rest of the evening running in and out of the house, up and down to the backyard pirate ship/treehouse, destroying E's room, and leaving toys strewn all over the place. The next day, I came home from work and they were exploring the park on the other side of our backyard fence, utilizing the walkie-talkies I had bought D for his bday/Father's day, barricading themselves inside E's room, and generally making a big, noisy mess.
And I couldn't be happier for my poor lonely little only child.
6/11/11
6/10/11
Dreamcatcher
Case in point:
I had no eagle feathers to hand (which, by the way, are illegal to own unless you're Native American, apparently...) or other handy-dandy spiritual items to dangle from the rim, so I suppose it'll just have to remain charm-less for a little while.
And yes, that is a Klingon teddy bear. I make no excuses for the nerdiness of my family.
And yes, that is a Klingon teddy bear. I make no excuses for the nerdiness of my family.
6/9/11
My Hero
Disclaimer: I found through a thorough research of my own more-numerous-than-I-had-previously-thought posts, that I have not yet posted about this. It was a difficult search. Which I suppose is a lesson in vaguely funny titles and completely-unrelated post labels. But I found it. Or rather, didn't find it. Hence: my post.
I was on the phone with E this evening (seeing as how he is on summer vacation and I am on call...) and we were chatting about our weeks. I think it's funny to tease him when he's gone, and last week when we spoke I said that my recycling was piling up (one of his daily chores). This week, I told him that there was dog poo piling up. In the backyard. Also one of his chores (see how this parent thing works to my advantage, people?). Just like last week, he exclaimed that he's not here and I'm going to have to start picking it up on my own. So I told him I didn't know how. And he said "Well, do it just like you taught me how to pick up that dead bird." HENCE: this post.
I have a thing about birds. A bad thing. A thing where the very thought of bird legs and bird beaks makes me nauseous. And where if birds flutter near me, I get nervous. And where if there are dead birds in my vicinity, I pretty much lose it.
I tell myself in self-defense that it's familial. My paternal grandmother and my father's sister both have similar ornithophobias. But it really wasn't bad until medical school, when I would routinely come across dead birds who had flown into the windows of a walkway that happened to run right over the entrance to the school. And by "come across", I mean "almost step on". The first time that happened, I thought my heart would stop. It kept happening (birds, it turns out, are not the smartest of creatures about flying into darkened glass windows with people regularly walking on the other side of them). And the more little feathered things I would see lying about with crumpled wings and crippled limbs, the more the horror grew.
Last year, not long after we'd moved for residency, I walked out our back door and came across a dead bird lying in the middle of the patio. (Note: at this point, I advocated sending our dog back to the pound from whence he had come, because he was the culprit who had dragged this tasty morsel up to the door for us to worship...) If you know me, you know my reaction was pretty typical. Having almost stepped on the thing, and having been completely and utterly unprepared for the sight, I wanted to do several things simultaneously: gag, pass out, scream, and cry.
After stumbling back into the house and running into my bedroom to curl up on the bed in the fetal position (you think I joke...), I frantically called my husband, who was out of town for a job. Who, of course, thought someone was either dead or fatally ill, from the sound of my voice. And who laughed, of course, when he found out what the problem really was. I flatly told him that our backyard was just going to have to be unusable until he came back into town. He replied "just have E get rid of it."
I suppose, if I were less...self-centered, I would have been horrified at the thought of exposing my baby boy to such a terrible thing as a dead bird. However, instead I was just glad that I'd be able to look out my back windows without fainting. I called him into the room and at first, he was just like, "ew, Mom, no." But because my powers of persuasion are greater than his powers of resistance, he relented. I coached him through the process, and he took a plastic bag and some gloves and went outside to dispose of the carcass.
The event lives on in infamy in our family. The story comes up with shocking regularity, especially if E has anything to do with it. After all, he got to take care of me for once. He got to be the one with the power. His part in the fiasco was much braver and wiser and calmer and stronger than his poor weakly, ornithophobic mother's.
That's ok with me, though. I'm just glad I have a designated bird-corpse handler.
I was on the phone with E this evening (seeing as how he is on summer vacation and I am on call...) and we were chatting about our weeks. I think it's funny to tease him when he's gone, and last week when we spoke I said that my recycling was piling up (one of his daily chores). This week, I told him that there was dog poo piling up. In the backyard. Also one of his chores (see how this parent thing works to my advantage, people?). Just like last week, he exclaimed that he's not here and I'm going to have to start picking it up on my own. So I told him I didn't know how. And he said "Well, do it just like you taught me how to pick up that dead bird." HENCE: this post.
I have a thing about birds. A bad thing. A thing where the very thought of bird legs and bird beaks makes me nauseous. And where if birds flutter near me, I get nervous. And where if there are dead birds in my vicinity, I pretty much lose it.
I tell myself in self-defense that it's familial. My paternal grandmother and my father's sister both have similar ornithophobias. But it really wasn't bad until medical school, when I would routinely come across dead birds who had flown into the windows of a walkway that happened to run right over the entrance to the school. And by "come across", I mean "almost step on". The first time that happened, I thought my heart would stop. It kept happening (birds, it turns out, are not the smartest of creatures about flying into darkened glass windows with people regularly walking on the other side of them). And the more little feathered things I would see lying about with crumpled wings and crippled limbs, the more the horror grew.
Last year, not long after we'd moved for residency, I walked out our back door and came across a dead bird lying in the middle of the patio. (Note: at this point, I advocated sending our dog back to the pound from whence he had come, because he was the culprit who had dragged this tasty morsel up to the door for us to worship...) If you know me, you know my reaction was pretty typical. Having almost stepped on the thing, and having been completely and utterly unprepared for the sight, I wanted to do several things simultaneously: gag, pass out, scream, and cry.
After stumbling back into the house and running into my bedroom to curl up on the bed in the fetal position (you think I joke...), I frantically called my husband, who was out of town for a job. Who, of course, thought someone was either dead or fatally ill, from the sound of my voice. And who laughed, of course, when he found out what the problem really was. I flatly told him that our backyard was just going to have to be unusable until he came back into town. He replied "just have E get rid of it."
I suppose, if I were less...self-centered, I would have been horrified at the thought of exposing my baby boy to such a terrible thing as a dead bird. However, instead I was just glad that I'd be able to look out my back windows without fainting. I called him into the room and at first, he was just like, "ew, Mom, no." But because my powers of persuasion are greater than his powers of resistance, he relented. I coached him through the process, and he took a plastic bag and some gloves and went outside to dispose of the carcass.
The event lives on in infamy in our family. The story comes up with shocking regularity, especially if E has anything to do with it. After all, he got to take care of me for once. He got to be the one with the power. His part in the fiasco was much braver and wiser and calmer and stronger than his poor weakly, ornithophobic mother's.
That's ok with me, though. I'm just glad I have a designated bird-corpse handler.
5/30/11
You Can Find My Etsy Store At...
Our monster difficulties peaked one night when my son demanded a dreamcatcher to calm his fears.
I suspect he got this idea from my mother, because although he is part Chippewa (no, don't look at me...), and we have had dreamcatchers in our house before, they've never played a substantial part in his bedroom decor. However, Mom firmly believes in the power of suggestion (or superstition, whichever you prefer) to hinder nightmares.
That would have been fine, had he not demanded one at approximately 9 P.M., in a house devoid of dreamcatchers, seeing as how I had LITERALLY LIKE TWO WEEKS BEFORE gotten rid of two dreamcatchers I had made when I was a kid. Had he been at the house where She Who Probably Suggested It resides, it wouldn't have been an issue, but my house can't double as an awesome museum of all things cultural, and the most Native American-related piece of art I have in my house is a clay pot. That E made me.
But motherhood spawns creativity (along with insanity), so I set to making a dreamcatcher for my son. With the plastic rim off of an oatmeal container. And dental floss. It was harder than I remembered it being when I was 10. I resisted the urge to google instructions, however, and pressed on. The results were slightly lopsided, but recognizable nevertheless.
And the monsters have stayed away from his room ever since.
I suspect he got this idea from my mother, because although he is part Chippewa (no, don't look at me...), and we have had dreamcatchers in our house before, they've never played a substantial part in his bedroom decor. However, Mom firmly believes in the power of suggestion (or superstition, whichever you prefer) to hinder nightmares.
That would have been fine, had he not demanded one at approximately 9 P.M., in a house devoid of dreamcatchers, seeing as how I had LITERALLY LIKE TWO WEEKS BEFORE gotten rid of two dreamcatchers I had made when I was a kid. Had he been at the house where She Who Probably Suggested It resides, it wouldn't have been an issue, but my house can't double as an awesome museum of all things cultural, and the most Native American-related piece of art I have in my house is a clay pot. That E made me.
But motherhood spawns creativity (along with insanity), so I set to making a dreamcatcher for my son. With the plastic rim off of an oatmeal container. And dental floss. It was harder than I remembered it being when I was 10. I resisted the urge to google instructions, however, and pressed on. The results were slightly lopsided, but recognizable nevertheless.
And the monsters have stayed away from his room ever since.
5/20/11
"My mama says there aren't any zombies..."
We have officially moved into our new house, and consequently I am in a state of interior (and somewhat exterior) design frenzy. Pictures quite likely to follow.
I was a bit worried before we moved in, because my son has never slept farther away from me than across a very small apartment, and our new house has a first-level master bedroom, with the other bedrooms upstairs. For various reasons, my son will STILL get out of bed multiple times per night if we don't "check on him" every 10 minutes or so. Now, granted, he usually falls asleep within 20 minutes of turning the lights off, but not always, which can be quite a battle. And he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and comes to find us because he has nightmares or gets scared.
He comes by his overactive imagination honestly, however. I'm the sort of person who still checks on my son before I leave in the morning just to make sure he's still there. And breathing (yes, I know SIDS doesn't apply to 8-year-olds. He's not your son.). I attempted to talk my husband into purchasing a baby monitor so I could hear it (and hopefully subsequently wake up...) if someone crawled through E's window and snatched him. And I get anxious when he's playing at friends' houses, because I worry that he's left without telling anyone and he'll get stolen on the way home. Luckily for me, I have a patient husband. So all of us were prepared for some new nighttime worries.
It started with the attic space. In our new house, one walks past E's room down a hallway that leads to another bedroom, and at the beginning of this hallway is the first attic space, which is just a little closet under the roof in which we store all my seasonal decorating regalia. The aforementioned bedroom has double doors in it that lead into the real attic space. The first day in the house, before bedtime had even come up, E told me he was afraid to sleep upstairs, because he was scared that monsters were going to come of the attic. Which is valid. We discussed options to decrease the fear of said monsters, and luckily I happened to suggest chaining up the door handles. He perked up like I'd just said Pikachu had come to town. Thus followed a search for suitably thick chains, which were strung around the door handles in proper monster-deterring fashion. And the first day passed, and the first night.
Well, then, the chains weren't enough. We needed locks on the actual doors. So my patient husband installed a lock on the attic door and no less than two locks on the crawlspace door (which, after all, is much closer to E's actual room, and therefore, monsters are more likely to emit from this entry rather than the one 20 feet down the hall). This turned out to be a very good idea, because I discovered that when the windows in that bedroom-down-the-hall are open, a monster-like wind rushes through the room and throws open the attic door with a mighty bang. I can just imagine how that would have gone over in the middle of the night.
A couple nights later, he refused to go upstairs by himself at night because he was positive that there was someone hiding behind the bathroom curtain. Now this, I could not blame him for, because I am also plagued by this particular fear (thank you, college English teacher, for making me watch Psycho, you've scarred me for life). My paranoia takes the form of tiptoeing into the bathroom and throwing back the shower curtain with some sort of weapon (hair dryer, slipper, etc) in my other hand. It's worked for me so far. I am touched by the fact that my son apparently feels that I would be sufficient protection against someone creepy enough to get into our house and hide behind our shower curtain, especially since he thinks my mother is "too small" to protect him from tornados. This fancy hasn't come up again, but I'm sure it won't be long...
The next time E's imagination was working overtime, he told D that GREMLINS, of all things, were going to crawl out of the air vent in his room and get him during the night. I'm not sure how D handled this one, since I was on call and not available to stand gremlin watch, but the next morning there wasn't anything taped over the air vent and my child was un-gremlinized, so I'm fairly certain everything turned out ok.
Last night, I had placed E's First Communion rosaries on his bedside shelf (he sleeps in a bunkbed, so a table would have to be incredibly tall to be of any use), and when he crawled into bed, he asked me to say the rosary with him. Thinking that it would help, after we said the rosary, I talked to him about Psalm 23 and the idea of being safe because God was with you, etc. After turning out the lights, I checked on him a previously-agreed-upon amount of time later, and his face was pale and somewhat drawn. To my query, he replied that he was scared. "What's wrong?" I asked. "What if I forget about God tonight and he sends gremlins out of my vent to get me?"
I'm going to have to board up my entire upstairs, people.
I was a bit worried before we moved in, because my son has never slept farther away from me than across a very small apartment, and our new house has a first-level master bedroom, with the other bedrooms upstairs. For various reasons, my son will STILL get out of bed multiple times per night if we don't "check on him" every 10 minutes or so. Now, granted, he usually falls asleep within 20 minutes of turning the lights off, but not always, which can be quite a battle. And he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and comes to find us because he has nightmares or gets scared.
He comes by his overactive imagination honestly, however. I'm the sort of person who still checks on my son before I leave in the morning just to make sure he's still there. And breathing (yes, I know SIDS doesn't apply to 8-year-olds. He's not your son.). I attempted to talk my husband into purchasing a baby monitor so I could hear it (and hopefully subsequently wake up...) if someone crawled through E's window and snatched him. And I get anxious when he's playing at friends' houses, because I worry that he's left without telling anyone and he'll get stolen on the way home. Luckily for me, I have a patient husband. So all of us were prepared for some new nighttime worries.
It started with the attic space. In our new house, one walks past E's room down a hallway that leads to another bedroom, and at the beginning of this hallway is the first attic space, which is just a little closet under the roof in which we store all my seasonal decorating regalia. The aforementioned bedroom has double doors in it that lead into the real attic space. The first day in the house, before bedtime had even come up, E told me he was afraid to sleep upstairs, because he was scared that monsters were going to come of the attic. Which is valid. We discussed options to decrease the fear of said monsters, and luckily I happened to suggest chaining up the door handles. He perked up like I'd just said Pikachu had come to town. Thus followed a search for suitably thick chains, which were strung around the door handles in proper monster-deterring fashion. And the first day passed, and the first night.
Well, then, the chains weren't enough. We needed locks on the actual doors. So my patient husband installed a lock on the attic door and no less than two locks on the crawlspace door (which, after all, is much closer to E's actual room, and therefore, monsters are more likely to emit from this entry rather than the one 20 feet down the hall). This turned out to be a very good idea, because I discovered that when the windows in that bedroom-down-the-hall are open, a monster-like wind rushes through the room and throws open the attic door with a mighty bang. I can just imagine how that would have gone over in the middle of the night.
A couple nights later, he refused to go upstairs by himself at night because he was positive that there was someone hiding behind the bathroom curtain. Now this, I could not blame him for, because I am also plagued by this particular fear (thank you, college English teacher, for making me watch Psycho, you've scarred me for life). My paranoia takes the form of tiptoeing into the bathroom and throwing back the shower curtain with some sort of weapon (hair dryer, slipper, etc) in my other hand. It's worked for me so far. I am touched by the fact that my son apparently feels that I would be sufficient protection against someone creepy enough to get into our house and hide behind our shower curtain, especially since he thinks my mother is "too small" to protect him from tornados. This fancy hasn't come up again, but I'm sure it won't be long...
The next time E's imagination was working overtime, he told D that GREMLINS, of all things, were going to crawl out of the air vent in his room and get him during the night. I'm not sure how D handled this one, since I was on call and not available to stand gremlin watch, but the next morning there wasn't anything taped over the air vent and my child was un-gremlinized, so I'm fairly certain everything turned out ok.
Last night, I had placed E's First Communion rosaries on his bedside shelf (he sleeps in a bunkbed, so a table would have to be incredibly tall to be of any use), and when he crawled into bed, he asked me to say the rosary with him. Thinking that it would help, after we said the rosary, I talked to him about Psalm 23 and the idea of being safe because God was with you, etc. After turning out the lights, I checked on him a previously-agreed-upon amount of time later, and his face was pale and somewhat drawn. To my query, he replied that he was scared. "What's wrong?" I asked. "What if I forget about God tonight and he sends gremlins out of my vent to get me?"
I'm going to have to board up my entire upstairs, people.
5/6/11
Bookworm Delight
So a while ago, a friend of mine posted this on her facebook page in a note. Apparently, the BBC believes most people will only have read 6 out of these 100 novels. So you're supposed to edit the list to reflect which books you've read (bold) or partially read (italics). You get the picture. I went through the list when she first posted it, feeling bad about not having read that many of the books. And recently, I've been in a book dead phase, after finishing several excellent books and now waiting for their sequels or whatever to come out (several months from now...sad face...). So I thought it'd be a good time to read some classics, especially since I've been on a library kick ever since I decided we should probably start saving some money up for this little house we're pouring money in to. I just finished Du Maurier's "Rebecca" (which I liked a lot) and I'm in "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" now (which I'm not a fan of so far). So here's the rest of the list!
1 Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings – JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series – JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
6 The Bible (yes, Mother, I know...)
7 Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain
8 Nineteen Eighty Four – George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
11 Little Women – Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca – Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye – JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch – George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House – Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment – Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield – Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia – CS Lewis
34 Emma – Jane Austen
35 Persuasion – Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – Louis De Berniere
39 Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh – AA Milne
41 Animal Farm – George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving
45 The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies – William Golding
50 Atonement – Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi – Yann Martel
52 Dune – Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm – Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck
62 Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History – Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road – Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary – Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie (AK, I blame you for this one. If you had given me a different book, I'd have read this one.)
70 Moby Dick – Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist – Charles Dickens
72 Dracula – Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island – Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses – James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons – Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal – Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession – AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple – Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day
85 Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web – EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven – Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection – Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince – Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks
94 Watership Down – Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice – Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet – William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables
I realize, looking through this list, that most of the ones I have read, I read as a teenager. And hence, don't remember them very well. There are some, however, that I know I have no intention of ever reading again (Lord of the Flies, 1984, Great Gatsby, Great Expectations...Thank you, high school English, for ruining reading for a bunch of impressionable minds with some pretty terrible books, however thought-provoking and "deep" they may be). And there are some that I have read over and over, and intend to keep reading (Dumas, C. S. Lewis, Anne of Green Gables, Roald Dahl, Sherlock Holmes, Tolkien, Tale of Two Cities, To Kill a Mockingbird).
Wish me luck. "Tess" may defeat me. Hardy is wordy. And vague
1 Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings – JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series – JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
6 The Bible (yes, Mother, I know...)
7 Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain
8 Nineteen Eighty Four – George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
11 Little Women – Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca – Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye – JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch – George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House – Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment – Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield – Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia – CS Lewis
34 Emma – Jane Austen
35 Persuasion – Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – Louis De Berniere
39 Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh – AA Milne
41 Animal Farm – George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving
45 The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies – William Golding
50 Atonement – Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi – Yann Martel
52 Dune – Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm – Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck
62 Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History – Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road – Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary – Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie (AK, I blame you for this one. If you had given me a different book, I'd have read this one.)
70 Moby Dick – Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist – Charles Dickens
72 Dracula – Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island – Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses – James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons – Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal – Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession – AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple – Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day
85 Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web – EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven – Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection – Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince – Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks
94 Watership Down – Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice – Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet – William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables
I realize, looking through this list, that most of the ones I have read, I read as a teenager. And hence, don't remember them very well. There are some, however, that I know I have no intention of ever reading again (Lord of the Flies, 1984, Great Gatsby, Great Expectations...Thank you, high school English, for ruining reading for a bunch of impressionable minds with some pretty terrible books, however thought-provoking and "deep" they may be). And there are some that I have read over and over, and intend to keep reading (Dumas, C. S. Lewis, Anne of Green Gables, Roald Dahl, Sherlock Holmes, Tolkien, Tale of Two Cities, To Kill a Mockingbird).
Wish me luck. "Tess" may defeat me. Hardy is wordy. And vague
5/5/11
I Guess It Makes Sense To Him
"Mom, when I grow up, I want to live between Hawaii and China."
"Oh? Why between Hawaii and China?"
"Because I like to hunt outside in the dark. Wearing my ninja clothes. Because it's fun to do that."
"What does that have to do with Hawaii? Or China?"
"Because there are trees there."
"There are?"
"And I want to be a ninja."
"Oh? Why between Hawaii and China?"
"Because I like to hunt outside in the dark. Wearing my ninja clothes. Because it's fun to do that."
"What does that have to do with Hawaii? Or China?"
"Because there are trees there."
"There are?"
"And I want to be a ninja."
5/2/11
Definition
On May 1, 2011, my son made his First Communion.
We've been preparing for this day all year. In addition to the regular religious education classes he takes, he also had several prep days, and D & I had what seemed like 20 (at least) parent meetings to discuss the various goings-on that would be happening on the big day. We helped 70 kids make clothespin crucifixes and rainbows (yes, rainbows). We carefully chose and trimmed a piece of the teddy bear quilt my mother had made, that E had inherited from me and my siblings, so that it could be incorporated into an altar cloth. D & I semi-patiently sat through two pedantic videos aimed at explaining the Eucharist to 7-year-olds. I hand-hemmed the suit pants that were about 4 inches too long for my tiny boy and packed around a First Communion tie for an entire year (purchased when I was shopping for my niece's First Communion last year). We sat through a 2-hour long live presentation of the Passover and Last Supper, complete with a pseudo-Seder meal, and braved the tastes of bitter herbs and saltwater. We watched E pose for pictures in his suit and tie, and rehearsed the actual big day over and over again: "You hold your hands like this, the priest will say this, you will bow like this, you say 'amen'..." I felt impossibly giddy yesterday morning, could barely look at my son without wanting to overflow with joy and pride and love.
This is why we are Catholic. This is a big deal. Spelling bees, recitals, championship games, senior proms, none of them are as important as this. My mother taught me that nothing comes before Mass, and at Mass, the pivotal point is the Eucharist. And this was the first time my son would be fully involved. How could that not be incredibly special?
We attend a very large church that had about 75% of the pews reserved for (and filled by) First Communicants' friends & family members on the big day. Our particular contingent was made up of my parents, D's parents, E's father, stepmother and grandmother.
And my best friend, the Queen Bee.
Last week, I asked her if she'd like to come, with minimum advance notice, even though my own family had known about this day for months. Because I was missing my brother and sister, who weren't going to make it, although nothing other than impossible distances would have kept them away. And she dropped everything and came. Without hesitation, without question. Without making excuses.
She hugged me as he walked down the aisle, exclaiming over how impossibly cute he was. She sang our hymns and read our words. She held our hands and greeted our neighbors with the sign of peace. She patted my back as tears rolled down my face when he said "Amen" in front of the priest and accepted the Eucharist in his tiny hands. She fetched pieces of cake and watched over belongings and was patient with the ridiculous chaos that accompanies any event in which I am involved.
She's not Catholic, what does she care about our rituals and beliefs? She has her own life and job and had so many other things to do rather than sit in a strange building for an hour and a half for about 2 minutes of show time (when E walked down the aisle and when he actually made his First Communion). She is not related to me or to my son.
But she came because the day was important to me and because she loves my son.
And that's what family is.
We've been preparing for this day all year. In addition to the regular religious education classes he takes, he also had several prep days, and D & I had what seemed like 20 (at least) parent meetings to discuss the various goings-on that would be happening on the big day. We helped 70 kids make clothespin crucifixes and rainbows (yes, rainbows). We carefully chose and trimmed a piece of the teddy bear quilt my mother had made, that E had inherited from me and my siblings, so that it could be incorporated into an altar cloth. D & I semi-patiently sat through two pedantic videos aimed at explaining the Eucharist to 7-year-olds. I hand-hemmed the suit pants that were about 4 inches too long for my tiny boy and packed around a First Communion tie for an entire year (purchased when I was shopping for my niece's First Communion last year). We sat through a 2-hour long live presentation of the Passover and Last Supper, complete with a pseudo-Seder meal, and braved the tastes of bitter herbs and saltwater. We watched E pose for pictures in his suit and tie, and rehearsed the actual big day over and over again: "You hold your hands like this, the priest will say this, you will bow like this, you say 'amen'..." I felt impossibly giddy yesterday morning, could barely look at my son without wanting to overflow with joy and pride and love.
This is why we are Catholic. This is a big deal. Spelling bees, recitals, championship games, senior proms, none of them are as important as this. My mother taught me that nothing comes before Mass, and at Mass, the pivotal point is the Eucharist. And this was the first time my son would be fully involved. How could that not be incredibly special?
We attend a very large church that had about 75% of the pews reserved for (and filled by) First Communicants' friends & family members on the big day. Our particular contingent was made up of my parents, D's parents, E's father, stepmother and grandmother.
And my best friend, the Queen Bee.
Last week, I asked her if she'd like to come, with minimum advance notice, even though my own family had known about this day for months. Because I was missing my brother and sister, who weren't going to make it, although nothing other than impossible distances would have kept them away. And she dropped everything and came. Without hesitation, without question. Without making excuses.
She hugged me as he walked down the aisle, exclaiming over how impossibly cute he was. She sang our hymns and read our words. She held our hands and greeted our neighbors with the sign of peace. She patted my back as tears rolled down my face when he said "Amen" in front of the priest and accepted the Eucharist in his tiny hands. She fetched pieces of cake and watched over belongings and was patient with the ridiculous chaos that accompanies any event in which I am involved.
She's not Catholic, what does she care about our rituals and beliefs? She has her own life and job and had so many other things to do rather than sit in a strange building for an hour and a half for about 2 minutes of show time (when E walked down the aisle and when he actually made his First Communion). She is not related to me or to my son.
But she came because the day was important to me and because she loves my son.
And that's what family is.
4/30/11
Ms Hoffman, you hit the nail on the head
Today, I finished reading "So Much Pretty" by Cara Hoffman. This is not a review, so don't expect one. (I will say that I generally enjoyed it, and the concept was very thought-provoking. But I skimmed through the last few chapters because I'd already figured out what the author was leading up to and I just wanted to know what happened afterwards. The writing was good, but she drew it out too much and gave too many hints, so the climax was not shocking or surprising in any way. Maybe she meant it that way. Whatever.)
Regardless, there was one particular paragraph of the book that stuck with me. During this particular scene, a man named Con is watching an impromptu performance by Alice, the daughter of his friends Gene and Claire:
~Gene began to laugh quietly again, and his eyes filled with tears. Con had seen this before. One time when he'd accompanied Gene and Claire to a play at Alice's school, Gene had to walk out twice because he couldn't stop laughing whenever she spoke, tears just rolling down his face. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he had told them, still laughing as they waited for Alice in the parking lot afterward and then heaving a shaky sigh to try and break the absurdity. "God! I love her so much."~
I don't know if you've ever had this happen to you, but I have. Once when my brother was in some Charlie Brown production, every time he came on the stage, I could feel myself get all tachycardic and almost pass out with the excitement of just listening to him speak. And there was the time I watched my sister dance in a summer production, when I could barely see her through the mist of tears.
And with E, I can feel that peculiar mix of emotions perpetually under the surface of my conscious, waiting for the moment when his impish smile, his adorable dimples, his oversized words, his infectious giggle, will make all of that affection overflow. When I will struggle to control my laughter and will hold back tears in my eyes because my son is so alive. And he brings me so much joy.
Regardless, there was one particular paragraph of the book that stuck with me. During this particular scene, a man named Con is watching an impromptu performance by Alice, the daughter of his friends Gene and Claire:
~Gene began to laugh quietly again, and his eyes filled with tears. Con had seen this before. One time when he'd accompanied Gene and Claire to a play at Alice's school, Gene had to walk out twice because he couldn't stop laughing whenever she spoke, tears just rolling down his face. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he had told them, still laughing as they waited for Alice in the parking lot afterward and then heaving a shaky sigh to try and break the absurdity. "God! I love her so much."~
I don't know if you've ever had this happen to you, but I have. Once when my brother was in some Charlie Brown production, every time he came on the stage, I could feel myself get all tachycardic and almost pass out with the excitement of just listening to him speak. And there was the time I watched my sister dance in a summer production, when I could barely see her through the mist of tears.
And with E, I can feel that peculiar mix of emotions perpetually under the surface of my conscious, waiting for the moment when his impish smile, his adorable dimples, his oversized words, his infectious giggle, will make all of that affection overflow. When I will struggle to control my laughter and will hold back tears in my eyes because my son is so alive. And he brings me so much joy.
4/27/11
Welcome to Earth
In honor of my son's birthday, since this has filled my heart and mind since I read it, and nothing else could come close to being such a beautiful tribute, I present my only sister and her gorgeous words:
I remember when I learned about love.
It’s hard to think back to that one moment in time when your mind draws an association between an abstract concept and a concrete word. To remember when you thought to yourself “I am sad” or “this is what happy is.” I may not recall exactly when I learned what love was supposed to be and how to recognize its trappings, but I do remember when I learned about what love really was when it came from me in its purest form.
And it all started 8 years ago….
It seems impossible to come to this date without at some point in the day recounting the event of Evan’s birth. It was a wild tale that started 2 months before it was supposed to and ended with me babbling on the phone “Jesi’s…given birth!” to might-as-well-be-family who had the good grace not to laugh at me and/or have me committed (had I not been 17 at the time, I think that would’ve been the point at which someone would have handed me a stiff drink). There was a helicopter ride (not involving me), a car ride that almost ended in catastrophe (involving me), a father getting trapped in an elevator, two girls in prom dresses (who did not end up going to their prom), and a hotel that caught on fire. It was, needless to say, an eventful two days.
I will not pretend that the months leading up to it were easy for they were anything but. Everyone in the family was readjusting his or her course in life and it frequently resulted in flaring tempers and too many tears. We were changing as a family, in a state of metamorphosis, and in the process I think we all got a little bit lost in ourselves. I was not exempt and I fell inside myself out of pure selfishness.
However my selfish teenage world vanished the day my sister went into labor. My world became a hospital room. A sea of anxious faces. A person on the cusp of being. And a family. I was so fearful for my family that I simply didn’t have the space inside me to think about myself. And in those endless days I found that my love for my family was distilled to its purest form in the presence of fear. Love for my brother who I thought was too young to endure this. Love for my parents and their bravery as they had to let other doctors, strangers, take care of their baby girl. Love for my sister, whose pain and struggle was reflected in the faces of all my family members. And love for the tiny womb-held baby for whom I feared the most.
The story, as you know, has a happy ending. Evan arrived to us in time and grew to be a healthy, compassionate child with a distinctly un-childlike mixture of gravity and levity in him and a social insight far beyond his years. But in those days, eight years ago, while we waited on tenterhooks for news, good or bad, we did not know him yet. And yet, we knew that we feared for him and in that fear we grasped the strands of unadulterated love.
I am surprised no one was blown away by the collective sigh that was released when Evan was finally born in the wee morning hours of April 27th. The long wait had passed and Evan was finally with us. Of course, since he was so premature, he had to remain at the hospital but we felt that we had weathered the storm and the rest would be just some tricky sailing. While he was still in hospital, as a little “blue light special,” monitored by doctors and nurses and a revolving shift of watchful friends and family, my cousin Zach gave him a handmade card with a picture of the world and the words “Welcome to Earth.”
Every birthday is a reminder of that welcoming. Of how our anxious family tentatively welcomed him into the world, and how Evan – in a sense – likewise welcomed us back to Earth, back to ourselves. To a family that was irrevocably altered but stronger, tempered with the love that sometimes only fear can bring out.
That tiny, premature baby, born into love, has given back that love a million times over. His presence is a joy and his utter selflessness is a constant reminder to me of what true love is. I know there will be times when he’s older when he may say or do hurtful things, when he may grow weary of the constant stream of affection and attention the family throws at him, but I know that it will only be temporary. I know that it will come from a place of rebellion not from pure nastiness because he has nothing nasty inside. And I wonder if all the people who do, who carry ugliness inside them, I wonder if they do so because they were never properly welcomed to Earth.
I remember when I learned about love.
It’s hard to think back to that one moment in time when your mind draws an association between an abstract concept and a concrete word. To remember when you thought to yourself “I am sad” or “this is what happy is.” I may not recall exactly when I learned what love was supposed to be and how to recognize its trappings, but I do remember when I learned about what love really was when it came from me in its purest form.
And it all started 8 years ago….
It seems impossible to come to this date without at some point in the day recounting the event of Evan’s birth. It was a wild tale that started 2 months before it was supposed to and ended with me babbling on the phone “Jesi’s…given birth!” to might-as-well-be-family who had the good grace not to laugh at me and/or have me committed (had I not been 17 at the time, I think that would’ve been the point at which someone would have handed me a stiff drink). There was a helicopter ride (not involving me), a car ride that almost ended in catastrophe (involving me), a father getting trapped in an elevator, two girls in prom dresses (who did not end up going to their prom), and a hotel that caught on fire. It was, needless to say, an eventful two days.
I will not pretend that the months leading up to it were easy for they were anything but. Everyone in the family was readjusting his or her course in life and it frequently resulted in flaring tempers and too many tears. We were changing as a family, in a state of metamorphosis, and in the process I think we all got a little bit lost in ourselves. I was not exempt and I fell inside myself out of pure selfishness.
However my selfish teenage world vanished the day my sister went into labor. My world became a hospital room. A sea of anxious faces. A person on the cusp of being. And a family. I was so fearful for my family that I simply didn’t have the space inside me to think about myself. And in those endless days I found that my love for my family was distilled to its purest form in the presence of fear. Love for my brother who I thought was too young to endure this. Love for my parents and their bravery as they had to let other doctors, strangers, take care of their baby girl. Love for my sister, whose pain and struggle was reflected in the faces of all my family members. And love for the tiny womb-held baby for whom I feared the most.
The story, as you know, has a happy ending. Evan arrived to us in time and grew to be a healthy, compassionate child with a distinctly un-childlike mixture of gravity and levity in him and a social insight far beyond his years. But in those days, eight years ago, while we waited on tenterhooks for news, good or bad, we did not know him yet. And yet, we knew that we feared for him and in that fear we grasped the strands of unadulterated love.
I am surprised no one was blown away by the collective sigh that was released when Evan was finally born in the wee morning hours of April 27th. The long wait had passed and Evan was finally with us. Of course, since he was so premature, he had to remain at the hospital but we felt that we had weathered the storm and the rest would be just some tricky sailing. While he was still in hospital, as a little “blue light special,” monitored by doctors and nurses and a revolving shift of watchful friends and family, my cousin Zach gave him a handmade card with a picture of the world and the words “Welcome to Earth.”
Every birthday is a reminder of that welcoming. Of how our anxious family tentatively welcomed him into the world, and how Evan – in a sense – likewise welcomed us back to Earth, back to ourselves. To a family that was irrevocably altered but stronger, tempered with the love that sometimes only fear can bring out.
That tiny, premature baby, born into love, has given back that love a million times over. His presence is a joy and his utter selflessness is a constant reminder to me of what true love is. I know there will be times when he’s older when he may say or do hurtful things, when he may grow weary of the constant stream of affection and attention the family throws at him, but I know that it will only be temporary. I know that it will come from a place of rebellion not from pure nastiness because he has nothing nasty inside. And I wonder if all the people who do, who carry ugliness inside them, I wonder if they do so because they were never properly welcomed to Earth.
4/26/11
Nitpicking
My son, yesterday, from the backseat of the car on the way home from his grandmother's house: "Mom, I'm essentially 8, right?"
4/12/11
Slave Driver
Exhibit: Chores I Make My Son Do (so I don't have to, but ostensibly so he can earn allowance):
And the newest chore he's begun to participate in: evening meal prep.
This weekend, in order to get me to play with him after dinner, he helped me make dinner. By which I mean, he made the entire meal. He fried polish sausage, cooked jasmine rice, beat & scrambled eggs, and microwaved green beans. At dinner, not only did he taste the green beans, but he asked for seconds and claimed they were delicious. To my knowledge, that was the easiest and most successful first bite of a green vegetable in the history of children ever. And then during dinner, he stated he wanted to start cooking more, because it was "fun". He obviously hasn't ever watched my facial expressions during cooktime. Cooking = not my favorite thing. Princesses get their meals prepared for them, you know.
And if this newfound interest continues, I'm set for life, people. Or at least until he moves out.
PS This last picture would give me a heart attack if I were watching someone else's child do it. But I know mine was supervised to within a millimeter of his personal space, so I don't worry.
Sort the recycling (and exercise that green hippie streak I've so carefully bred into him)
Clean the bathroom mirrors (this is cute, because he climbs up on the bathroom counter to reach and frequently ends up talking to himself in the mirror while cleaning. Much like a modern-day, male Cinderella.)
Dust the living room (rarely complete, but incomplete is better than not at all, which is what would happen if his parents were in charge of this. He's always had a fascination with the duster, so it was one of the first chores he ever did. As you can see for yourselves below.)
Pick up dog detritus from the backyard (Ahem. Gross.)
Sweep the front step (Photo evidence below. Note the weather. What you can't note is the time. Which was at about 830 in the morning. We crack the whip 24/7 around this place!)
Put away the silverware (which leads to much mixing of fork/spoon sizes in the silverware drawer & arguments over which way the silverware goes in the dishwasher, i.e. upside-down vs downside-up. The boys have ganged up on me, so they tend to win. Unfair.)
Set the table (which is necessary much more frequently, now that I've instituted my family dinner rules)
Laundry (More pictures below, and yes, I made him do laundry right after soccer practice on that particular day. I give no quarter for exhaustion.)
Vacuum the bathrooms (with the dustbuster. When we had a canister vacuum, it was easier for him to handle the real thing. See below.)
Make his own lunch (or he doesn't EAT! Kidding. D checks before he takes off for school. Usually.)
Pick up the living room and his bedroom by 8 every night
Pretty good for an almost-8-year-old, I think. And it's worked out relatively well. With some kinks... For instance, first, we told him he has to do 10 chores a week or he doesn't get his allowance (10% of which goes straight into savings and 10% to charity. He might as well start saving for a car, college and heaven now, because he sure isn't going to get any of the three by relying on us!) Then he told us he didn't want his allowance, so he wasn't going to do chores. This child has obviously never had to tighten his belt or pinch pennies to amass his enormous collection of toys. It's a crime, I know. So then we said not only would he not get his allowance, but he wouldn't get to watch any TV, if he went chore-less. Which ended up being a really good thing for TV-time-sensitive Mom. He has to prove he's a goodly way towards doing all of his chores before getting to watch anything, so usually it's towards the end of the week when he finally gets some 'toons. Thus cutting down on his tube time, AND getting some darned stuff done around this place! I win all around.
And the newest chore he's begun to participate in: evening meal prep.
This weekend, in order to get me to play with him after dinner, he helped me make dinner. By which I mean, he made the entire meal. He fried polish sausage, cooked jasmine rice, beat & scrambled eggs, and microwaved green beans. At dinner, not only did he taste the green beans, but he asked for seconds and claimed they were delicious. To my knowledge, that was the easiest and most successful first bite of a green vegetable in the history of children ever. And then during dinner, he stated he wanted to start cooking more, because it was "fun". He obviously hasn't ever watched my facial expressions during cooktime. Cooking = not my favorite thing. Princesses get their meals prepared for them, you know.
And if this newfound interest continues, I'm set for life, people. Or at least until he moves out.
4/5/11
Landfills
Today, I discovered these.
I realize that by posting this, someone will inevitably ask me if I'm with child or some such thing, but it's not so, I promise. (And I promise that IF said event should ever occur again, those of you who read my blog (since you are, after all, my closest friends...and my mother) will know first. Hopefully after I have figured it out for myself. So maybe a close second.) But, honestly, 99.99% of the women I know who are in committed relationships are preggers. There's not a whole lot else going on in Internetland except burgeoning belly Facebook photos and discussions about whether the name "Bella" will forever have people associating her with twinkling overprotective men. What the heck else am I supposed to have on the brain, I ask you, with that kind of propaganda floating around?? The world may tilt a little bit when all these freaking kids are born at the same time.
And now excuse me while I put away my soapbox. I apologize to all the preggos out there. You're very lucky and I'll be happy to babysit your kiddos whenever I can. Back to the main point:
I took an admittedly convoluted route to get to this discovery. It started with Kristen. This is my favorite mommy blog (probably because she's half Asian, and I have a thing for half-Asians), but lately she was doing this 30-day better-yourself challenge type thingy and it just hasn't been as interesting to read (because usually her posts involve her adorable children, her insane in-laws, her OCD husband, and many swearwords = much more entertainment for bored me).
So, reluctantly, I've been gravitating toward Heather, who could in all fairness be THE mommy of mommy blogs. Or at least the older sister. And since she's not blogging fast enough to keep up with the insane amounts of time I have for internet browsing (don't ask...), I've been reading back in her archives. I think I'm in the fall of 2010 by now, which is impressive, since she's very prolific. Yes, I know, I have too much free time. She takes these (really great) daily photos which usually have their own little blurbs, and she happened to post one about a CD that this daddy blogger had made to raise awareness for his stepson's syndrome (and I'm not at all ashamed to state that I don't recall ever having heard of it...that's what being away from primary care will do to you, I suppose).
Intrigued both by the syndrome and the gender of the blogger, I skipped on over to his blog, only to discover this beautiful series of photographs.
As a sidenote: Oh, that we should all be so blessed with beautiful pregnancy genes. All I remember of my pregnancy body is that my face became rounder than a person with Cushing's, and I couldn't fit into my favorite tshirts (and no, not because of my belly...). Pregnancy definitely didn't strike me glamourously, in other words.
Thus ensnared, I started reading from the beginning of his blog, and lo-and-behold, his lovely better-half has a couple of posts dedicated to her answers to readers' questions. She is probably much more interesting to his reading demographic than he is. Probably because the majority of his demographic is women (I'm just postulating). My own fascination for her can probably be explained by the fact that she's 1/2 Lebanese and 1/4 Japanese. I can't help it, people, I was born this way. (In related news, I'm deliciously awaiting the arrival of a Lebanese-Persian-Cheyenne baby among all the other little packages the stork will be dropping off this year. And thereby changing the climate. And no, dear brother, I don't say "deliciously" because I eat babies. So creeepy.)
Within one of these posts dedicated to her hotness, someone asked if she were still using Fuzzi Bunz for her 2-year-old. Which, in turn, led to me googling them to find out what all the hubbub was about. And THAT, my friends, is the circuitous road that led me here. My Internet browsing is much like my thought pattern: pathological.
When E was born, trying to use cloth diapers probably would have pushed me over the edge. As if changing his outfits every five minutes (due to various bodily emissions emerging to maliciously taint the innocent purity of Pooh Bear and the like) wasn't enough laundry for me to consider, add a bunch of nappies in the bunch and tell me I have to empty and wash them? I don't think so.
In my next life, however, when I have another mini-me, and I am more put-together/organized/prepared/energetic/creative/joyful and never tired (see, this is why I call this my next life), I want to use these. Call me a want-to-be hippy, tell me you can smell oatmeal, I can take it. Because in this current life, I happen to enjoy being eco-friendly (in the few ways I'm not too lazy to do so), and take great joy out of the fact that my son and even my husband (hardbitten destroyer of Mother Nature that he was) have fallen in with this little personality flaw of mine.
Honestly, though, I think the fact that they come in different colors is what clinched it for me, though.
Next I'll be making my own baby food, and then you'll know I've really lost it.
I realize that by posting this, someone will inevitably ask me if I'm with child or some such thing, but it's not so, I promise. (And I promise that IF said event should ever occur again, those of you who read my blog (since you are, after all, my closest friends...and my mother) will know first. Hopefully after I have figured it out for myself. So maybe a close second.) But, honestly, 99.99% of the women I know who are in committed relationships are preggers. There's not a whole lot else going on in Internetland except burgeoning belly Facebook photos and discussions about whether the name "Bella" will forever have people associating her with twinkling overprotective men. What the heck else am I supposed to have on the brain, I ask you, with that kind of propaganda floating around?? The world may tilt a little bit when all these freaking kids are born at the same time.
And now excuse me while I put away my soapbox. I apologize to all the preggos out there. You're very lucky and I'll be happy to babysit your kiddos whenever I can. Back to the main point:
I took an admittedly convoluted route to get to this discovery. It started with Kristen. This is my favorite mommy blog (probably because she's half Asian, and I have a thing for half-Asians), but lately she was doing this 30-day better-yourself challenge type thingy and it just hasn't been as interesting to read (because usually her posts involve her adorable children, her insane in-laws, her OCD husband, and many swearwords = much more entertainment for bored me).
So, reluctantly, I've been gravitating toward Heather, who could in all fairness be THE mommy of mommy blogs. Or at least the older sister. And since she's not blogging fast enough to keep up with the insane amounts of time I have for internet browsing (don't ask...), I've been reading back in her archives. I think I'm in the fall of 2010 by now, which is impressive, since she's very prolific. Yes, I know, I have too much free time. She takes these (really great) daily photos which usually have their own little blurbs, and she happened to post one about a CD that this daddy blogger had made to raise awareness for his stepson's syndrome (and I'm not at all ashamed to state that I don't recall ever having heard of it...that's what being away from primary care will do to you, I suppose).
Intrigued both by the syndrome and the gender of the blogger, I skipped on over to his blog, only to discover this beautiful series of photographs.
As a sidenote: Oh, that we should all be so blessed with beautiful pregnancy genes. All I remember of my pregnancy body is that my face became rounder than a person with Cushing's, and I couldn't fit into my favorite tshirts (and no, not because of my belly...). Pregnancy definitely didn't strike me glamourously, in other words.
Thus ensnared, I started reading from the beginning of his blog, and lo-and-behold, his lovely better-half has a couple of posts dedicated to her answers to readers' questions. She is probably much more interesting to his reading demographic than he is. Probably because the majority of his demographic is women (I'm just postulating). My own fascination for her can probably be explained by the fact that she's 1/2 Lebanese and 1/4 Japanese. I can't help it, people, I was born this way. (In related news, I'm deliciously awaiting the arrival of a Lebanese-Persian-Cheyenne baby among all the other little packages the stork will be dropping off this year. And thereby changing the climate. And no, dear brother, I don't say "deliciously" because I eat babies. So creeepy.)
Within one of these posts dedicated to her hotness, someone asked if she were still using Fuzzi Bunz for her 2-year-old. Which, in turn, led to me googling them to find out what all the hubbub was about. And THAT, my friends, is the circuitous road that led me here. My Internet browsing is much like my thought pattern: pathological.
When E was born, trying to use cloth diapers probably would have pushed me over the edge. As if changing his outfits every five minutes (due to various bodily emissions emerging to maliciously taint the innocent purity of Pooh Bear and the like) wasn't enough laundry for me to consider, add a bunch of nappies in the bunch and tell me I have to empty and wash them? I don't think so.
In my next life, however, when I have another mini-me, and I am more put-together/organized/prepared/energetic/creative/joyful and never tired (see, this is why I call this my next life), I want to use these. Call me a want-to-be hippy, tell me you can smell oatmeal, I can take it. Because in this current life, I happen to enjoy being eco-friendly (in the few ways I'm not too lazy to do so), and take great joy out of the fact that my son and even my husband (hardbitten destroyer of Mother Nature that he was) have fallen in with this little personality flaw of mine.
Honestly, though, I think the fact that they come in different colors is what clinched it for me, though.
Next I'll be making my own baby food, and then you'll know I've really lost it.
3/28/11
The Great Family Adventure
This weekend, we went on our first family camping trip ever. My husband loves the whole woodsman thing, and the two of us have been camping together several times, but for whatever reason, we've never taken E with us. So when the stars aligned and I realized I had a three-day weekend (meaning I was on-call Thursday night with a post-call day Friday and no weekend obligations...) in the balmy month of March, we immediately decided to plan an outing.
Our call schedule comes out several months in advance, so we'd been hotly anticipating this weekend for at least 2 months. As the date drew nearer, the weather seemed to be getting more and more spring-like, and the situation seemed like it would be ideal.
We (or rather, I) picked our destination: a state park 2 hours south of our home, with well-defined woodsy trails and even a cave (really just a dent in the rock, by my cave standards) to explore. And, most importantly, with showers and bathrooms at the tent sites. Rustic is all well and good, but a lady has to draw a line somewhere.
We even invited my parents to go along, and they rented a cabin in anticipation of the event. I admit to some jealousy, for I was slightly distraught when I realized that due to a series of misinterpreted conversations/arguments, my husband had decided against bringing our air mattress.
On the big day, I got home at about 7 AM, and we planned to leave soon after lunch. We packed up (my son asked: "can I pack a survival bag, Mom?) and premedicated our carsick-prone pooch. A hitch arose when E couldn't find his beloved compass. We searched high and low for it, and he remained quite surprisingly composed throughout. Eventually, when it was time to meet my parents for lunch, I decided to pull the plug on the compass-hunt.
"I'm sorry we couldn't find your compass."
"It's ok," he replied, "It's just a compass."
I was slightly flabbergasted. He's usually pretty good about not complaining when losing things, but not when it's adventure time and he's packed a survival bag and it's his COMPASS he's lost, of all things! I suppose good attitudes do pay off at times, because my mom happened to have a compass stowed away in her bag and when we met for lunch and outlined the mystery of the missing compass, she was happy to lend hers in its place.
A slight argument ensued between myself and my loving spouse when we arrived at the park and began to search for a camping site. What had not been mentioned on all the websites I referenced to choose this park was that D would find the close confines and overpopulation of the sites-with-bathrooms too much for his idea of proper nature-living. And I, in my turn, would find the properly secluded and view-equipped camping sites much too far away from facilities, and far too sparsely wooded and passing-car-viewable for any other (HIGHLY undesirable) options. We compromised eventually (meaning he lost his view and I my short stroll to a toilet).
Our tent up within a short amount of time, and our site laid out to my exacting standards, my husband immediately gather axe and machete and took himself off to the woods to begin extracting fuel for our dinner-fire. This is his favorite part of camping, as I've discovered over the years we've known each other. Where other poor fools would be content with a simple, merrily burning flame, my husband's idea of a fire is more akin to that of a blacksmith's. Or a pyromaniac's.
It turned out well for us in the end, however, since the weather was colder than we had expected, and we needed the fire for its actual warmth, not just its cooking potential.
The first night we played Frisbee and catch in the clearing next to our campsite, which was lovely, since I haven't played either since we moved for residency. My playing days have become quite rare, for some reason...
The next day, after a delicious fire-grilled breakfast, we set off on our trekking-through-the-woods. We scrambled over trails, squeezed through/up/down/across natural chimneys, shimmied across flat rock faces and generally had a good old time. My parents taught E to rappel (and he shrieked with terror and fury the whole time, and then later named it his "third favorite thing" of the trip...of course), I got way too much leaf dust under my contacts, the dogs dragged my husband to and fro across the trail, and my mother picked up other people's trash. We watched two young men (yes, I realize that makes me sound old, but they were older than teens and younger than I am, so what the heck do you want me to call them?!) scale the cliffs (ok, so maybe they weren't cliffs, but they were freaking high) freehand and I informed E that were he to ever engage in such activities, he was NOT to inform me. Just watching these two strangers made me feel extremely unwell. I could imagine the sound it would make when they cracked their skulls open and almost vomited. I didn't used to be so squeamish. I blame motherhood. It also made me afraid of heights.
My parents left later that day so my mom could catch a plane, and we entertained ourselves that evening by telling stories around the fire. I started the story, and then at a moment of import, D would take over, with multiple suggestions from E (who refused outright to actually tell the story, however). It involved two knights named Catastrophe and Broomstick Pants, a troll named Groll, and three wise snakes named Pride, Fortune, and Fame. Don't ask. It was hilarious.
That night I thought I was going to freeze to death. The temperature dropped to about 35 degrees and the boys were monopolizing the two dogs. In addition, I simply could not get comfortable, because my legs froze whenever I was supine, and when lying on either side, the bruises on my hip bones (due to the aforementioned absence of the air mattress) precluded comfort, much less sleep.
And then, right when I'd finally gotten warm, the sun rose and one of our dogs apparently decided this meant she was also ready to get up. Which she announed to us by promptly jumping on our heads. Now, she's not heavy, but she's not graceful and she's not very smart. So repeated commands to stop and get down meant that she only doubled her efforts, since obviously we were incompletely understanding her needs. I finally wrenched myself out of my sleeping bag so that I could put both of the dogs outside. And having braved the icy elements in a t-shirt and jeans, I crawled back into the tent only to discover that one of the little mongrels had taken advantage of the warmth and my inattention to urinate on the INSIDE of my sleeping bag. Yes, it was that kind of a morning. So I abandoned ship and instead shared my son's sleeping bag.
However, lying there, I thought I heard our Min Pin ruffling around behind the tent. Considering that I'd staked the dogs out in the front of the tent, I thought this was probably not good. They had already taken off once during our trip (not because they escaped, but I shan't mention who let them off the leashes...), and I was not looking forward to chasing them down the road again (only to catch them right in front of a very displeased park ranger).
After watching me listen carefully, trying to convince myself that I was wrong without having to extricate myself from warmth once again, my son sighed and said "Mom, I can tell that this is making you anxious, so I'll go check."
Yes, that's my son.
After surviving this horrendous awakening, and finally emerging at about 9 AM to 44 degrees Farenheit, we decided to cut our losses and surrender the weekend. We came home after breakfast, took showers, put on clean clothing and ate food that had not been prepared over a fire (at least not in our house).
So not entirely a trouble-free series of events. But when asked about it, my son declared himself well-pleased with his first camping experience. And that's what matters.
That, and remembering to pack the air mattress next time.
Our call schedule comes out several months in advance, so we'd been hotly anticipating this weekend for at least 2 months. As the date drew nearer, the weather seemed to be getting more and more spring-like, and the situation seemed like it would be ideal.
We (or rather, I) picked our destination: a state park 2 hours south of our home, with well-defined woodsy trails and even a cave (really just a dent in the rock, by my cave standards) to explore. And, most importantly, with showers and bathrooms at the tent sites. Rustic is all well and good, but a lady has to draw a line somewhere.
We even invited my parents to go along, and they rented a cabin in anticipation of the event. I admit to some jealousy, for I was slightly distraught when I realized that due to a series of misinterpreted conversations/arguments, my husband had decided against bringing our air mattress.
On the big day, I got home at about 7 AM, and we planned to leave soon after lunch. We packed up (my son asked: "can I pack a survival bag, Mom?) and premedicated our carsick-prone pooch. A hitch arose when E couldn't find his beloved compass. We searched high and low for it, and he remained quite surprisingly composed throughout. Eventually, when it was time to meet my parents for lunch, I decided to pull the plug on the compass-hunt.
"I'm sorry we couldn't find your compass."
"It's ok," he replied, "It's just a compass."
I was slightly flabbergasted. He's usually pretty good about not complaining when losing things, but not when it's adventure time and he's packed a survival bag and it's his COMPASS he's lost, of all things! I suppose good attitudes do pay off at times, because my mom happened to have a compass stowed away in her bag and when we met for lunch and outlined the mystery of the missing compass, she was happy to lend hers in its place.
A slight argument ensued between myself and my loving spouse when we arrived at the park and began to search for a camping site. What had not been mentioned on all the websites I referenced to choose this park was that D would find the close confines and overpopulation of the sites-with-bathrooms too much for his idea of proper nature-living. And I, in my turn, would find the properly secluded and view-equipped camping sites much too far away from facilities, and far too sparsely wooded and passing-car-viewable for any other (HIGHLY undesirable) options. We compromised eventually (meaning he lost his view and I my short stroll to a toilet).
Our tent up within a short amount of time, and our site laid out to my exacting standards, my husband immediately gather axe and machete and took himself off to the woods to begin extracting fuel for our dinner-fire. This is his favorite part of camping, as I've discovered over the years we've known each other. Where other poor fools would be content with a simple, merrily burning flame, my husband's idea of a fire is more akin to that of a blacksmith's. Or a pyromaniac's.
It turned out well for us in the end, however, since the weather was colder than we had expected, and we needed the fire for its actual warmth, not just its cooking potential.
The first night we played Frisbee and catch in the clearing next to our campsite, which was lovely, since I haven't played either since we moved for residency. My playing days have become quite rare, for some reason...
The next day, after a delicious fire-grilled breakfast, we set off on our trekking-through-the-woods. We scrambled over trails, squeezed through/up/down/across natural chimneys, shimmied across flat rock faces and generally had a good old time. My parents taught E to rappel (and he shrieked with terror and fury the whole time, and then later named it his "third favorite thing" of the trip...of course), I got way too much leaf dust under my contacts, the dogs dragged my husband to and fro across the trail, and my mother picked up other people's trash. We watched two young men (yes, I realize that makes me sound old, but they were older than teens and younger than I am, so what the heck do you want me to call them?!) scale the cliffs (ok, so maybe they weren't cliffs, but they were freaking high) freehand and I informed E that were he to ever engage in such activities, he was NOT to inform me. Just watching these two strangers made me feel extremely unwell. I could imagine the sound it would make when they cracked their skulls open and almost vomited. I didn't used to be so squeamish. I blame motherhood. It also made me afraid of heights.
My parents left later that day so my mom could catch a plane, and we entertained ourselves that evening by telling stories around the fire. I started the story, and then at a moment of import, D would take over, with multiple suggestions from E (who refused outright to actually tell the story, however). It involved two knights named Catastrophe and Broomstick Pants, a troll named Groll, and three wise snakes named Pride, Fortune, and Fame. Don't ask. It was hilarious.
That night I thought I was going to freeze to death. The temperature dropped to about 35 degrees and the boys were monopolizing the two dogs. In addition, I simply could not get comfortable, because my legs froze whenever I was supine, and when lying on either side, the bruises on my hip bones (due to the aforementioned absence of the air mattress) precluded comfort, much less sleep.
And then, right when I'd finally gotten warm, the sun rose and one of our dogs apparently decided this meant she was also ready to get up. Which she announed to us by promptly jumping on our heads. Now, she's not heavy, but she's not graceful and she's not very smart. So repeated commands to stop and get down meant that she only doubled her efforts, since obviously we were incompletely understanding her needs. I finally wrenched myself out of my sleeping bag so that I could put both of the dogs outside. And having braved the icy elements in a t-shirt and jeans, I crawled back into the tent only to discover that one of the little mongrels had taken advantage of the warmth and my inattention to urinate on the INSIDE of my sleeping bag. Yes, it was that kind of a morning. So I abandoned ship and instead shared my son's sleeping bag.
However, lying there, I thought I heard our Min Pin ruffling around behind the tent. Considering that I'd staked the dogs out in the front of the tent, I thought this was probably not good. They had already taken off once during our trip (not because they escaped, but I shan't mention who let them off the leashes...), and I was not looking forward to chasing them down the road again (only to catch them right in front of a very displeased park ranger).
After watching me listen carefully, trying to convince myself that I was wrong without having to extricate myself from warmth once again, my son sighed and said "Mom, I can tell that this is making you anxious, so I'll go check."
Yes, that's my son.
After surviving this horrendous awakening, and finally emerging at about 9 AM to 44 degrees Farenheit, we decided to cut our losses and surrender the weekend. We came home after breakfast, took showers, put on clean clothing and ate food that had not been prepared over a fire (at least not in our house).
So not entirely a trouble-free series of events. But when asked about it, my son declared himself well-pleased with his first camping experience. And that's what matters.
That, and remembering to pack the air mattress next time.
3/24/11
Family Dinners
We have a horrible, terrible habit of eating dinner in front of the TV.
My mother would be appalled. My family never, ever ate in front of the TV. If we were allowed to even just read while we were eating, it was for a snack or a solitary breakfast. And even that was rare. Mealtimes were sacred.
Unfortunately, because I'm usually exhausted by the time I get home these days, all I want to do is stuff my face with food and watch some mindless TV. So we slid into a very bad habit. At first, it was an occasional special event, and we'd joke how we were eating "American style tonight". And then it became a special event to NOT eat dinner that way.
When I'm by myself, I have no problem with TV dining. But it's different when it comes to eating with your seven-year-old son. I'd like to him to have some brain cells left by the time he's looking at colleges.
So I put my foot down. And we've been doing really well. We even instituted a family ritual that I adopted from the famous dooce: we take turns saying one bad thing that happened that day, one good thing, and one thing we're grateful for.
Examples:
- My parents joined us the other night and my father said the one bad thing that had happened to him was that a boa constrictor had strangled him while he was cleaning out the pool.
- D's one good thing is that he took our #2 dog, Isis, on a car ride in the beautiful spring weather (our #1 dog gets horribly carsick, so he was confined to the homestead).
- What E is grateful for: dinner.
My mother would be appalled. My family never, ever ate in front of the TV. If we were allowed to even just read while we were eating, it was for a snack or a solitary breakfast. And even that was rare. Mealtimes were sacred.
Unfortunately, because I'm usually exhausted by the time I get home these days, all I want to do is stuff my face with food and watch some mindless TV. So we slid into a very bad habit. At first, it was an occasional special event, and we'd joke how we were eating "American style tonight". And then it became a special event to NOT eat dinner that way.
When I'm by myself, I have no problem with TV dining. But it's different when it comes to eating with your seven-year-old son. I'd like to him to have some brain cells left by the time he's looking at colleges.
So I put my foot down. And we've been doing really well. We even instituted a family ritual that I adopted from the famous dooce: we take turns saying one bad thing that happened that day, one good thing, and one thing we're grateful for.
Examples:
- My parents joined us the other night and my father said the one bad thing that had happened to him was that a boa constrictor had strangled him while he was cleaning out the pool.
- D's one good thing is that he took our #2 dog, Isis, on a car ride in the beautiful spring weather (our #1 dog gets horribly carsick, so he was confined to the homestead).
- What E is grateful for: dinner.
Training
My son's birthday is in a month or so, hence we've been discussing birthday party plans well in advance. Hey, these things are our biggest shindigs all year long, we like to be prepared.
Anyway, we were driving back from picking E up from his religious ed class yesterday, when we started tossing bday ideas around. I was saying something about how he's seven, and D started teasing him and saying he's already eight, and we went back and forth (like we tend to do), so D turned to E and said "Well, are you seven or eight?"
E replied calmly, "Technically, I'm seven, but I'm trained to be nine."
Anyway, we were driving back from picking E up from his religious ed class yesterday, when we started tossing bday ideas around. I was saying something about how he's seven, and D started teasing him and saying he's already eight, and we went back and forth (like we tend to do), so D turned to E and said "Well, are you seven or eight?"
E replied calmly, "Technically, I'm seven, but I'm trained to be nine."
3/18/11
Interior Design
We bought a house. More on that later.
My point is, E is getting his first room that we can totally renovate the way he (meaning he and I) want it.
So the other day, we were going over paint colors, and I was trying to reconcile his idea of a cool bedroom with my idea of a bedroom I could go into every day and not have a seizure.
We eventually picked a nice grassy green with one wall being a different as-yet-undetermined color.
Subsequently, he is obsessed with the idea of a "future wall". (And if you can figure that out, you watch too much HGTV.)
Much like his previous obsession with backsplashes and his unending sorrow that we had none. Until now...
My point is, E is getting his first room that we can totally renovate the way he (meaning he and I) want it.
So the other day, we were going over paint colors, and I was trying to reconcile his idea of a cool bedroom with my idea of a bedroom I could go into every day and not have a seizure.
We eventually picked a nice grassy green with one wall being a different as-yet-undetermined color.
Subsequently, he is obsessed with the idea of a "future wall". (And if you can figure that out, you watch too much HGTV.)
Much like his previous obsession with backsplashes and his unending sorrow that we had none. Until now...
2/25/11
It starts with "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for "Pokemon"
Every day after school, my son goes down the street to play with one of his best friends, whom we shall call M-downthestreet (because that's how his cell is listed in my contacts list). M and his older sister B-downthestreet are good kids (not like the little terrors at his old school on the other side of the state!) and D and I have been thankful that E had children like them with whom to play.
And we still are, but the thankfulness has been tempered somewhat. Why, you ask?
Because my son came to me the other day and told me "M-downthestreet said he knew a boy who went to H-E-L-Lbecause he watched Pokemon."
Now, if you know my son, you will know that he is a collector. His little hoarder's soul was delighted by the discovery of Pokemon. I mean, they've got an endless, rotating set of product, they're easy to carry around, you can trade them with your friends without your mom freaking out, and they've got a nifty tv show to go with them (although, since he hasn't been doing his chores, he's also been tv-less recently...but that's a different story). One of my cousins was similarly obsessed with the little Japanese things when he was E's age about 10 years ago, so he graciously passed on many of his Pokemon-centered possessions, and E has immersed himself deeply in the Pokemon culture.
So at this news, his little heart was teetering perilously close to breaking.
I thought I behaved fairly well. I didn't show him how angry I was, and I didn't say anything snarky. So basically, I responded like an adult. Which shouldn't be that shocking, but if you know me....(kidding. Kind of.)
"What did you think about that?" I asked carefully. He shrugged, but his brow looked decidedly furrowed.
"Did that hurt your feelings?" He nodded slowly.
"Do you know what h-e-l-l is?" He nodded vigorously, but then paused: "No, not really."
(Note: fail, Catholic religious education. What do I send him to you for an hour every week if not to learn about the penultimate destination of children who watch animated Japanese television shows? I'm going to have a word with the bishop.)
"Well, it's the opposite of heaven, and people who are bad go there after they die." (Now, don't judge me, I was not about to go into the intimate details of my beliefs on who does and doesn't go there with a seven year old who just wants to be reassured that he is not in the running for the spot.)
"So does Pokemon make you do bad things?" He shook his head.
"Then watching Pokemon will not send you to hell."
To critics: I don't know what will and won't send someone to hell. But if little boys are getting kicked out of heaven because of Pokemon, then I'd rather be an atheist because that would mean that my fate is completely arbitrary. So there. (Sorry, God, didn't mean to drag you into this, but seriously!)
So that's why we're a little more wary of the family downthestreet. Because M didn't make that up himself. E still plays with him, because I make no judgements on his parents and the way they choose to raise their son.
However, they'd better watch out if I ever actually hear their son talking that way to mine.
And we still are, but the thankfulness has been tempered somewhat. Why, you ask?
Because my son came to me the other day and told me "M-downthestreet said he knew a boy who went to H-E-L-L
Now, if you know my son, you will know that he is a collector. His little hoarder's soul was delighted by the discovery of Pokemon. I mean, they've got an endless, rotating set of product, they're easy to carry around, you can trade them with your friends without your mom freaking out, and they've got a nifty tv show to go with them (although, since he hasn't been doing his chores, he's also been tv-less recently...but that's a different story). One of my cousins was similarly obsessed with the little Japanese things when he was E's age about 10 years ago, so he graciously passed on many of his Pokemon-centered possessions, and E has immersed himself deeply in the Pokemon culture.
So at this news, his little heart was teetering perilously close to breaking.
I thought I behaved fairly well. I didn't show him how angry I was, and I didn't say anything snarky. So basically, I responded like an adult. Which shouldn't be that shocking, but if you know me....(kidding. Kind of.)
"What did you think about that?" I asked carefully. He shrugged, but his brow looked decidedly furrowed.
"Did that hurt your feelings?" He nodded slowly.
"Do you know what h-e-l-l is?" He nodded vigorously, but then paused: "No, not really."
(Note: fail, Catholic religious education. What do I send him to you for an hour every week if not to learn about the penultimate destination of children who watch animated Japanese television shows? I'm going to have a word with the bishop.)
"Well, it's the opposite of heaven, and people who are bad go there after they die." (Now, don't judge me, I was not about to go into the intimate details of my beliefs on who does and doesn't go there with a seven year old who just wants to be reassured that he is not in the running for the spot.)
"So does Pokemon make you do bad things?" He shook his head.
"Then watching Pokemon will not send you to hell."
To critics: I don't know what will and won't send someone to hell. But if little boys are getting kicked out of heaven because of Pokemon, then I'd rather be an atheist because that would mean that my fate is completely arbitrary. So there. (Sorry, God, didn't mean to drag you into this, but seriously!)
So that's why we're a little more wary of the family downthestreet. Because M didn't make that up himself. E still plays with him, because I make no judgements on his parents and the way they choose to raise their son.
However, they'd better watch out if I ever actually hear their son talking that way to mine.
1/3/11
Conversations with a Child
Recent phone talk with E while I was on call at the hospital:
E: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Oh, nothing, just studying."
E: "Well, then you should come home!"
(My thoughts exactly...)
Me: "I can't, I have to be here in case someone has a car accident."
E: "Or a tumor? Or a brain injury?" That's pretty accurate, actually. Some people think a tumor is as urgent as a brain injury, and therefore call in the middle of the night. It's extremely frustrating.
Me: "You got it."
E: "What else did you do today, other than study?"
Me: "I had a patient who needed her appendix out, so she had to have a surgery."
E: "Oh my gosh!" Always gratifying to have your work sound exciting to someone.
Me: "And I had another patient who needed to have his gallbladder out, so he had a surgery too."
E: "I know you've done other gallbladder things before."
Me: "You do? How?"
E: "Because it doesn't look like I'm listening at dinner, but I am...sometimes."
My child has fallen prey to the unfortunate circumstance of having two (technically four) physician grandparents and one physician mother (and one EMT father). Our dinner convos are not always...ahem...bloodless. I'm sure it drives my poor husband nuts, because although we try to limit our discussions to topics that are less gross and more "interesting" (or even just plain crazy), we frequently trend toward the technical. But I love that E is easily impressed, and that he apparently listens to what we're talking about. It's nice to induce excitement (or I'll even substitute shock and disgust). He's supposed to look up to me, after all.
E: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Oh, nothing, just studying."
E: "Well, then you should come home!"
(My thoughts exactly...)
Me: "I can't, I have to be here in case someone has a car accident."
E: "Or a tumor? Or a brain injury?" That's pretty accurate, actually. Some people think a tumor is as urgent as a brain injury, and therefore call in the middle of the night. It's extremely frustrating.
Me: "You got it."
E: "What else did you do today, other than study?"
Me: "I had a patient who needed her appendix out, so she had to have a surgery."
E: "Oh my gosh!" Always gratifying to have your work sound exciting to someone.
Me: "And I had another patient who needed to have his gallbladder out, so he had a surgery too."
E: "I know you've done other gallbladder things before."
Me: "You do? How?"
E: "Because it doesn't look like I'm listening at dinner, but I am...sometimes."
My child has fallen prey to the unfortunate circumstance of having two (technically four) physician grandparents and one physician mother (and one EMT father). Our dinner convos are not always...ahem...bloodless. I'm sure it drives my poor husband nuts, because although we try to limit our discussions to topics that are less gross and more "interesting" (or even just plain crazy), we frequently trend toward the technical. But I love that E is easily impressed, and that he apparently listens to what we're talking about. It's nice to induce excitement (or I'll even substitute shock and disgust). He's supposed to look up to me, after all.
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