I'm a pretty frequent reader of a certain very popular Mommy Blog. The author writes with a lot of openness and humor about her journey through maternity, and it makes me feel a little better to know that there are other people who have hard(er) times with their kids. Admittedly, that has more to do with her having 3 times as many than with there being any superiority to my mothering, but still...
There are some posts I don't like to read, however. And those are the posts where she writes about her fights with her husband. My parents (and the wonderful couple who did our premarital counseling) always emphasized that what lies between you and your spouse is intensely personal and that no one should be privy to your marriage issues (well, except for God, who should already know about them...). It's kind of like the tattling that my son and I struggle with on almost a daily basis. Yes, it's vindicating to tell on someone when you feel they're not behaving properly, but if you can deal with the situation yourself, who else needs to know? (Disclaimer: this does not include griping about coworkers/mothers/schoolmates/friends/enemies/children/strangers/siblings/bosses/anyone else. 99.9% of the internet's blogs would have to be shut down if we couldn't be entirely open about every single aspect of our other relationships...)
Don't get me wrong: I know that there are times when you need to tell a grown-up. When you need to bring in outside help. And I definitely feel like she and her husband are at that point. Although by outside help I mean that of professionals, not a bunch of nebulously sympathetic blog-readers like myself. If you feel you absolutely need to get your problems off your chest before you smother with the unfairness of it all, it's probably better to tell carefully-selected friends rather than toss your emotional cookies all over the World Wide Web, too.
But that's not my only deterrent from reading her "He's such a dirty dog, no?" posts. Mostly, I avoid them because they make me sad and angry that a man could say such hurtful things to his wife. It's bad enough to launch personal attacks on your wife's weight/looks/clothing/sex drive or whatever. And it's another thing entirely to attack her abilities as a mother. Which he does with startling regularity. Of course, I only know one side (although admittedly eloquent) of the story. (Which leads back to the main issue with inviting your friends into your marital woes. We just can't be totally impartial.)
However, we can be grateful.
D is my biggest fan and my staunchest support, which is a constant unlooked-for joy in my life. Plus, he thinks I'm the best mother in the world. Right up there with his own. I think my only one-up is that I sleep with him. She cooks for him, though, so we might be tied... ;-)
My slightly-insane life and times
12/10/08
A Noodle By Any Other Name...
This is just going to be a quick, minor rant (hopefully), because I really can't describe who/where/when I heard what I'm about to rant...about:
I hate when parents teach their kids silly, stupid names for their body parts (and I can't describe which body parts, because then, knowing the internet, I'll get some nasty person trolling for horrible things looking at my blog...). But I heard a mother today (a very educated lady who I know has taken anatomy and should therefore be comfortable with all the ins and outs of the human body) describe her daughter as calling her body part a "front bottom". I almost threw up in my mouth.
Someone tried to teach him to call it a wee-wee, pee-pee, noodle, and only God knows how many other things. (You don't call a bottom a "poo-poo", so why would you use "wee-wee" as a nickname?) I nipped that in the bud, believe me. Luckily, by the time he came home with those words, I had already taught him the correct term. Or I would have suffered. A lot. From the moment my son became aware that he had more going on downstairs than his feet, I was determined that he would know the actual word for it. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was entering medical school at the time, but let's not be picky.
I really can't figure out why parents teach nicknames. As children, my sibs and I called a certain anatomical part a "squirt". But, admittedly, that's funny, so maybe my parents just let us call it that so they could secretly laugh every time it came up in conversation (which was how often???). I don't remember a point at which I learned the correct terms, so maybe we knew them at a young age, but just were not encouraged to use them.
I suppose some parents do it so that other adults won't be like "OH MY GOD!" when your son yells "Ow, I hurt my PEN15!" in public. But if you're just trying to avoid embarrassment, it's not any more subtle when the same child hollers "Ow, I hurt my pee-pee!" Really not. Sorry. That just makes me laugh more. Which is really not what a small boy wants to have happen when he's just been injured in such a sensitive spot, after all. My son's had his share of those moments, and yes, they're not the best parental memories, but children have to be taught that there are things you don't talk about in public anyway. So why subject yourself to hearing "front bottom" in private...?
Anyway, I can't really express why I hate bodily nicknames. But I think they're inappropriate and degrading, and feed into this horrible societal impulse to treat every normal bodily thing like it is shameful and sinful. Isn't it a better idea to just teach our children, rather than hide our fear behind silly nicknames?
Ok, I'm done now. Commence eye-rolling.
I hate when parents teach their kids silly, stupid names for their body parts (and I can't describe which body parts, because then, knowing the internet, I'll get some nasty person trolling for horrible things looking at my blog...). But I heard a mother today (a very educated lady who I know has taken anatomy and should therefore be comfortable with all the ins and outs of the human body) describe her daughter as calling her body part a "front bottom". I almost threw up in my mouth.
Someone tried to teach him to call it a wee-wee, pee-pee, noodle, and only God knows how many other things. (You don't call a bottom a "poo-poo", so why would you use "wee-wee" as a nickname?) I nipped that in the bud, believe me. Luckily, by the time he came home with those words, I had already taught him the correct term. Or I would have suffered. A lot. From the moment my son became aware that he had more going on downstairs than his feet, I was determined that he would know the actual word for it. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was entering medical school at the time, but let's not be picky.
I really can't figure out why parents teach nicknames. As children, my sibs and I called a certain anatomical part a "squirt". But, admittedly, that's funny, so maybe my parents just let us call it that so they could secretly laugh every time it came up in conversation (which was how often???). I don't remember a point at which I learned the correct terms, so maybe we knew them at a young age, but just were not encouraged to use them.
I suppose some parents do it so that other adults won't be like "OH MY GOD!" when your son yells "Ow, I hurt my PEN15!" in public. But if you're just trying to avoid embarrassment, it's not any more subtle when the same child hollers "Ow, I hurt my pee-pee!" Really not. Sorry. That just makes me laugh more. Which is really not what a small boy wants to have happen when he's just been injured in such a sensitive spot, after all. My son's had his share of those moments, and yes, they're not the best parental memories, but children have to be taught that there are things you don't talk about in public anyway. So why subject yourself to hearing "front bottom" in private...?
Anyway, I can't really express why I hate bodily nicknames. But I think they're inappropriate and degrading, and feed into this horrible societal impulse to treat every normal bodily thing like it is shameful and sinful. Isn't it a better idea to just teach our children, rather than hide our fear behind silly nicknames?
Ok, I'm done now. Commence eye-rolling.
12/9/08
Aspirations...
Tonight, while driving home from basketball practice: "Mom, I'd like my job to be a person who helps people cross the streets. There's one of those guys at my school, and I'd like to do that."
Admittedly, that's an improvement from his latest Life Goal. He dropped this bomb on me last week: "I'm not going to have work when I grow up. I'll be too busy with basketball and soccer and guitar and all my activities I'm going to be doing. I might be in the Olympics, but maybe not because it's really hard. So I'm not going to have a job, because I don't want to take other people's money. I don't care about money. I just want to have my own money, so I can do my activities I want to do."
I gotta admit, he has a point. There's a very good outlook on life in there. Somewhere.
Admittedly, that's an improvement from his latest Life Goal. He dropped this bomb on me last week: "I'm not going to have work when I grow up. I'll be too busy with basketball and soccer and guitar and all my activities I'm going to be doing. I might be in the Olympics, but maybe not because it's really hard. So I'm not going to have a job, because I don't want to take other people's money. I don't care about money. I just want to have my own money, so I can do my activities I want to do."
I gotta admit, he has a point. There's a very good outlook on life in there. Somewhere.
11/17/08
Spring? Cleaning? and Other Laments of Passing Time
Seeing as how I'm currently on the Extremely-(But Not Really...At All)-Time-Consuming rotation of dermatology, I have been rather more energetic than of late.
As in, last night, I handwashed a load (not, like, literally, but as in = a lot) of dishes (because our dishwasher is disgusting and I'm just hoping D can figure out a way to 'accidentally' break it so our landlord will replace it), scrubbed the crap (ok, not literally this time either) out of our stove top (including drip pans, which is usually D's job! I am a cleaning goddess!), and effing MOPPED THE FLOOR. Worship me. I don't mop. I sweep, and I vacuum when necessary, but unless I've just hosted or am about to host The Party of the Century (which, admittedly, all of my parties are), I don't mop the kitchen floor. It just doesn't ever need it. But I did last night. Be proud.
So, my uber-cleaning mood was continued today into the realm of my son's closet. Or plastic dresser, rather. Where, while casually rifling through his shorts to determine which ones needed to be given away and which consigned to the "Will Probably Fit Next Year, So Find a Box To Store In For a Whole Year, Even Though That Doesn't Make Much Sense Either Practically or Monetarily, Really" pile, I happened to glance at a label and see this:
....along with 4 other pairs of shorts, 1 pair of pants, and a couple of shirts labeled the same. Most of which he's worn in the past 2 or 3 months, apparently without me noticing too-short-pantlegs and too-short-sleeves. Yes, you are not losing your mind, my son is indeed 5 and a half years old. And before the pediatricians, endocrinologists and geneticists among you freak out, he does have (and regularly wears) clothing labeled with a proper 5T. Admittedly, shirts are still mostly 3T and 4T, because he looks like he's trying to wear MY shirts if I thrust him into a 5. But pants he can handle. As long as they have veeeeeeeery adjustable waists. What can I say, the kid is super-skinny. I do feed him, he just grows up, not out. We should all be so lucky. Although, at my rate, I'd be over 6 feet tall by now...
Anyway, that label may look sad/pathetic/terrible/scary/damnable/disgusting/horrible/amusing/horrendous/faulty/condemnable/lazy or just like bad parenting to you. But to me, it's just an excuse to go shopping! Good thing I'm on derm, huh?
As in, last night, I handwashed a load (not, like, literally, but as in = a lot) of dishes (because our dishwasher is disgusting and I'm just hoping D can figure out a way to 'accidentally' break it so our landlord will replace it), scrubbed the crap (ok, not literally this time either) out of our stove top (including drip pans, which is usually D's job! I am a cleaning goddess!), and effing MOPPED THE FLOOR. Worship me. I don't mop. I sweep, and I vacuum when necessary, but unless I've just hosted or am about to host The Party of the Century (which, admittedly, all of my parties are), I don't mop the kitchen floor. It just doesn't ever need it. But I did last night. Be proud.
So, my uber-cleaning mood was continued today into the realm of my son's closet. Or plastic dresser, rather. Where, while casually rifling through his shorts to determine which ones needed to be given away and which consigned to the "Will Probably Fit Next Year, So Find a Box To Store In For a Whole Year, Even Though That Doesn't Make Much Sense Either Practically or Monetarily, Really" pile, I happened to glance at a label and see this:
....along with 4 other pairs of shorts, 1 pair of pants, and a couple of shirts labeled the same. Most of which he's worn in the past 2 or 3 months, apparently without me noticing too-short-pantlegs and too-short-sleeves. Yes, you are not losing your mind, my son is indeed 5 and a half years old. And before the pediatricians, endocrinologists and geneticists among you freak out, he does have (and regularly wears) clothing labeled with a proper 5T. Admittedly, shirts are still mostly 3T and 4T, because he looks like he's trying to wear MY shirts if I thrust him into a 5. But pants he can handle. As long as they have veeeeeeeery adjustable waists. What can I say, the kid is super-skinny. I do feed him, he just grows up, not out. We should all be so lucky. Although, at my rate, I'd be over 6 feet tall by now...
Anyway, that label may look sad/pathetic/terrible/scary/damnable/disgusting/horrible/amusing/horrendous/faulty/condemnable/lazy or just like bad parenting to you. But to me, it's just an excuse to go shopping! Good thing I'm on derm, huh?
Patriotism
Today, while sitting around in the derm office listening to my attending tell stories to his rapt all-female audience (seriously, there is one male resident. ONE. 8 other residents, all 10 or so nurses, and 2 PAs are all female. What is WRONG with that program?!?), he was chatting about watching protesters in Portland, OR. "They're all the same, you know, just looking for attention. They protest week after week, just pick different things." All the girls (except me) laughed and agreed, with various corroborating statements.
Now, I have to admit that I have never walked in a protest, or stood in a demonstration. It's not that I've never had the opportunity to do so: my church is constantly staging vigils outside of women's clinics to pray for the end to abortion. And it's not that I don't support peaceful protesters. I honk like an idiot when I pass sign-wavers on street corners. It's just that I suppose I've never felt passionately enough about something to stand on a busy street letting strangers ogle me all day, and I've never gotten over the horribly sad feeling I get when I imagine myself begging a troubled 16-year-old girl not to take the only way out she thinks she has (Yes, I'm a coward, and that's another issue, which we'll address later. Save your comments).
But I will passionately defend the right and the effectiveness of protests. Perhaps the method of protesting has gotten a little lost along the way (PETA can be a bit ridiculous...), but the essence of what it means to protest something has remained the same. Look at how protesting has played such a significant part in our country's evolution, from the Boston Tea Party to the Civil Rights Movement. No one should be belittled for choosing to participate in a demonstration, even if they're carrying a sign that says "Friends Don't Leash Friends" (I've never seen such a sign, but if I had, I would have laughed, since it has significantly sexual undertones...).
These thoughts came later, though, after I'd had time to reflect on the little "How-Pathetic" party my attending was throwing. At the time, all I thought of was this: over spring break this year, my family and I went to Colorado to go skiing. One evening, we watched through a store window as a bunch of people marched through downtown, carrying signs calling for peace and an end to the war in Iraq. I lifted up E, pointed through the window at the marchers, and taught him what it means to desire peace.
Maybe all demonstrators are the same people, protesting some new fad injustice every week. And maybe these marches do or do not change anyone's mind, or have any impact on the world at large. But maybe protests speak to something at the very core of what it means to be American. And maybe, just maybe, a march will live on in someone's heart as a very proud memory.
On that day, as a photographer for some local paper trailed along behind the protesters, he paused to capture the sight of my 4-year-old son, who was peering solemnly through the window and making the peace sign.
Now, I have to admit that I have never walked in a protest, or stood in a demonstration. It's not that I've never had the opportunity to do so: my church is constantly staging vigils outside of women's clinics to pray for the end to abortion. And it's not that I don't support peaceful protesters. I honk like an idiot when I pass sign-wavers on street corners. It's just that I suppose I've never felt passionately enough about something to stand on a busy street letting strangers ogle me all day, and I've never gotten over the horribly sad feeling I get when I imagine myself begging a troubled 16-year-old girl not to take the only way out she thinks she has (Yes, I'm a coward, and that's another issue, which we'll address later. Save your comments).
But I will passionately defend the right and the effectiveness of protests. Perhaps the method of protesting has gotten a little lost along the way (PETA can be a bit ridiculous...), but the essence of what it means to protest something has remained the same. Look at how protesting has played such a significant part in our country's evolution, from the Boston Tea Party to the Civil Rights Movement. No one should be belittled for choosing to participate in a demonstration, even if they're carrying a sign that says "Friends Don't Leash Friends" (I've never seen such a sign, but if I had, I would have laughed, since it has significantly sexual undertones...).
These thoughts came later, though, after I'd had time to reflect on the little "How-Pathetic" party my attending was throwing. At the time, all I thought of was this: over spring break this year, my family and I went to Colorado to go skiing. One evening, we watched through a store window as a bunch of people marched through downtown, carrying signs calling for peace and an end to the war in Iraq. I lifted up E, pointed through the window at the marchers, and taught him what it means to desire peace.
Maybe all demonstrators are the same people, protesting some new fad injustice every week. And maybe these marches do or do not change anyone's mind, or have any impact on the world at large. But maybe protests speak to something at the very core of what it means to be American. And maybe, just maybe, a march will live on in someone's heart as a very proud memory.
On that day, as a photographer for some local paper trailed along behind the protesters, he paused to capture the sight of my 4-year-old son, who was peering solemnly through the window and making the peace sign.
11/11/08
Bratz
I am terrified of having daughters. Ever.
Just walking through the mall and engaging in simple observation gives me the heebie jeebies and makes me feel a little sick. I can just see myself in a screaming match with a 13-year-old Mini Me, refusing to let her out of the house unless she washes off the caked-on makeup, changes out of the shorts that say "Famous" on the ass, puts a sweater over the skimpy tank that proudly states "Flirt", and returns my Victoria's Secret credit card from whence she stole it.
When I was 13, I was ugly. There is just no other word for it. I was awkward both physically and socially, I never cared about my appearance, and didn't give a damn about my clothes. My socially-conscientious mother wouldn't let us by clothing from Gap, Old Navy, or Nike (sweatshops, people...), which was pretty much the kiss of death for a teenager in the 90s. I inherited some horrible vampire canines, which were yanked into position by a series of braces. I was shy and inarticulate and friends with a bunch of girls a year behind me in school. I didn't have a very good high school experience...
And needless to say, I don't want my daughters' teenaged lives to be miserable. I just don't want them to be whorish. There has GOT to be a happy medium. I've just got to find it. And if I can't, they will just have to be social outcasts.
I know I won't escape it entirely, even without having girls. But if my son ever comes home with a dolled-up, tramped-out little girlfriend, you can bet I will make their lives miserable, in the time-honored traditions of motherhood.
Just walking through the mall and engaging in simple observation gives me the heebie jeebies and makes me feel a little sick. I can just see myself in a screaming match with a 13-year-old Mini Me, refusing to let her out of the house unless she washes off the caked-on makeup, changes out of the shorts that say "Famous" on the ass, puts a sweater over the skimpy tank that proudly states "Flirt", and returns my Victoria's Secret credit card from whence she stole it.
When I was 13, I was ugly. There is just no other word for it. I was awkward both physically and socially, I never cared about my appearance, and didn't give a damn about my clothes. My socially-conscientious mother wouldn't let us by clothing from Gap, Old Navy, or Nike (sweatshops, people...), which was pretty much the kiss of death for a teenager in the 90s. I inherited some horrible vampire canines, which were yanked into position by a series of braces. I was shy and inarticulate and friends with a bunch of girls a year behind me in school. I didn't have a very good high school experience...
And needless to say, I don't want my daughters' teenaged lives to be miserable. I just don't want them to be whorish. There has GOT to be a happy medium. I've just got to find it. And if I can't, they will just have to be social outcasts.
I know I won't escape it entirely, even without having girls. But if my son ever comes home with a dolled-up, tramped-out little girlfriend, you can bet I will make their lives miserable, in the time-honored traditions of motherhood.
11/10/08
State of the Union
Your need to protect your
oh-so-holy marriage
from gays, devils, sinners
(or gays = ?)
is pathetic
God
(Whom you think you know so well by reading a book
written in mortal words by mortal hands
passed down through centuries
and interpreted in modern tongues and modes of thought)
denounced physical love between
your women and between your men
Too bad science holds the opinion
that the human mind (our God-given
Difference
from the lowly beasts)
may not always have the same Sex
as biology imposes on our bodies
In children, we treat it with hormones and surgery
In adults, we shun it because it's a choice by then, right?
But then, science and God have never gotten along
In human comprehension, at least
But I see no legalese describing
the Desecration of God's Covenant
by drive-through wedding chapels and
"I Do"s said before judges
Where is your holy uproar against
the words "forever and for always" said
by unwilling children with unwanted children
already growing under satin gowns?
How did you figure out you could wash away sin
with a different last name?
I suppose, if they get divorced in the end,
God never said anything about that...
Does a gay person really threaten your holiness?
Does having married gays
cheapen your marriage by extension?
How blessed could such a sacrament possibly be,
if an Evil you supposedly don't even practice
can threaten the sanctity of the vows
you said in the Presence of God (or Elvis)?
Please find a better word for me and mine, then
My skin is brown and I married
(Oops, should I have asked the
Conservative Confused for permission?)
a man
the color of bleached sand
Not so long ago, we were in the law books as
forbidden and wrong
Have we really progressed?
Should we rename our love
(suggestion: "gene pool diluters")
and leave
the holy connotations of MARRIAGE
to those of you with perfect biological compatibility
in every nook and cranny and act of your marital bed?
This desire to be involved in someone else's
bedroom decisions
is so Saintly of you
God is omnipresent and therefore so should you be
But how kind of you to hide your hatred behind
concessions like "hospital visitation"
After all, felons have visitations
and child-rapists can marry whom they please
Do you give yourself a pat on the back
for your tolerance?!
(Memo - Headaches are tolerated
Not people)
But by God, as gays are less human/holy than thou,
their commitments are less than yours
and instead of Marriages
(because Christianity created that word and holds the patent)
therefore, they shall be called Unions
because that is a broken word
And in this imperfect Union of unsettled States
sometimes I am deeply ashamed
of what we come together to create
in our fear and our misunderstanding
and our tolerance
oh-so-holy marriage
from gays, devils, sinners
(or gays = ?)
is pathetic
God
(Whom you think you know so well by reading a book
written in mortal words by mortal hands
passed down through centuries
and interpreted in modern tongues and modes of thought)
denounced physical love between
your women and between your men
Too bad science holds the opinion
that the human mind (our God-given
Difference
from the lowly beasts)
may not always have the same Sex
as biology imposes on our bodies
In children, we treat it with hormones and surgery
In adults, we shun it because it's a choice by then, right?
But then, science and God have never gotten along
In human comprehension, at least
But I see no legalese describing
the Desecration of God's Covenant
by drive-through wedding chapels and
"I Do"s said before judges
Where is your holy uproar against
the words "forever and for always" said
by unwilling children with unwanted children
already growing under satin gowns?
How did you figure out you could wash away sin
with a different last name?
I suppose, if they get divorced in the end,
God never said anything about that...
Does a gay person really threaten your holiness?
Does having married gays
cheapen your marriage by extension?
How blessed could such a sacrament possibly be,
if an Evil you supposedly don't even practice
can threaten the sanctity of the vows
you said in the Presence of God (or Elvis)?
Please find a better word for me and mine, then
My skin is brown and I married
(Oops, should I have asked the
Conservative Confused for permission?)
a man
the color of bleached sand
Not so long ago, we were in the law books as
forbidden and wrong
Have we really progressed?
Should we rename our love
(suggestion: "gene pool diluters")
and leave
the holy connotations of MARRIAGE
to those of you with perfect biological compatibility
in every nook and cranny and act of your marital bed?
This desire to be involved in someone else's
bedroom decisions
is so Saintly of you
God is omnipresent and therefore so should you be
But how kind of you to hide your hatred behind
concessions like "hospital visitation"
After all, felons have visitations
and child-rapists can marry whom they please
Do you give yourself a pat on the back
for your tolerance?!
(Memo - Headaches are tolerated
Not people)
But by God, as gays are less human/holy than thou,
their commitments are less than yours
and instead of Marriages
(because Christianity created that word and holds the patent)
therefore, they shall be called Unions
because that is a broken word
And in this imperfect Union of unsettled States
sometimes I am deeply ashamed
of what we come together to create
in our fear and our misunderstanding
and our tolerance
11/8/08
Geography
We took E to see Madagascar 2 last night, which was actually pretty funny. The last kids' movie we'd seen before this was Igor, which was outright horrible. Probably one of the most terrible movies I've ever seen. I thought that I was getting too old and/or cynical for the simple joys of children's film. But such is not the case, I am happy to report! Admittedly, the saving grace of M2 was all of the adult humor cleverly disguised behind the slapstick kid stuff. Which is how it's supposed to be, after all. I don't want to ruin it for you, you'll just have to see it for yourself!
But anyway, towards the end of the movie (which is set in AFRICA, keep in mind...), someone on the screen mentioned New York City. I suppose E thought the implication was that the story was set in New York. And he apparently knows the difference between skyscrapers and wide open plains with waving grasses. Because he announced, quite loudly and rather derisively: "That's not New York! That's TEXAS."
But anyway, towards the end of the movie (which is set in AFRICA, keep in mind...), someone on the screen mentioned New York City. I suppose E thought the implication was that the story was set in New York. And he apparently knows the difference between skyscrapers and wide open plains with waving grasses. Because he announced, quite loudly and rather derisively: "That's not New York! That's TEXAS."
11/4/08
10/14/08
Music to My Ears
I'm bored, and listening to some good music, so I thought I'd just throw some of this out there for those of you who I know listen to lesbian music like I do! And not all of it's lesbian music. Some of it is just...good. But they're some less-well-known artists, and I wish they were slightly better known, just so they'll keep making fantastic music. If you go through and download every track I mention in this blog, you'll have enough for a whole cd. Burn it to a blue disc, write my name on it in Sharpie, and think of me every time you play it. ;-)
- Rachael Yamagata - Happenstance I admit I'm biased. I love me some half-Asian girls. She's a singer-pianist with a low, husky, sexy-as-hell voice. She writes coffeehouse music, frankly. Mostly mellow, with some jazzy and/or upbeat numbers thrown in for fun. The single from this album is "Worn Me Down", but if I were you, I'd listen to "I'll Find a Way". Because that's my favorite track from this album. She also has a new cd out, which I'm downloading as we speak, because a certain friend's bootlegged iTunes m4a's or whatever they were wouldn't open. It may be fantastic, from what I've heard.
- Charlotte Martin - On Your Shore Another singer-pianist, with a voice kind of like Jewel's. The producing and instrumentation of some of her songs remind me of Sara Bareilles, for those of you who can't hear "Love Song" without practically peeing your pants with joy (ok, I might be one of them). Some of her songs are more experimental and arty than I prefer for daily-listening, but it's still a solid album. Find "Every Time It Rains". And then listen to it when it's raining, obviously. You might love it. She also does a fantastic, emotional cover of the Stones' "Wild Horses".
- Charlotte Sometimes - Waves and the Both of Us I finally had to stop listening to this cd on repeat, because my husband almost went insane. I got to hear them live recently, which was pretty exciting, especially since I'm pretty sure I was the only person in the audience who knew all the songs by heart. ;-) She doesn't have a fantastic voice, and it might drive you crazy if you don't like Nelly Furtado. But the way she uses her voice is phenomenal, and her lyrics are outstanding. Her music is a pretty wide mix of styles. It hurts me to pick a favorite track, so I won't. I'll pick two: "Build the Moon" and "Sweet Valium High". Warning: the 2nd track isn't safe to listen to in front of mothers and/or children. So don't. I warned you.
- Belle & Sebastian - If You're Feeling Sinister Their music is very...gentle. It's described on Wiki as "wistful pop", which is completely apt. This is a good album for background music, It makes me feel like a little kid when I listen to Belle & Sebastian. I'm not quite sure why, but it might be because the lead singer's voice reminds me a little bit of Art Garfunkel ala Scarborough Fair. Put this on your iPod and every self-respecting indie rock fan will love you a little more. Lend an ear to "Judy and the Dream of Horses". But don't expect it to make sense.
- Cyndi Thomson - My World This is an old album, and you might recognize her if you listen to country music. But even if you hate country with a passion, give her a listen. She keeps the ol' twang to a minimum, and her songs are just good. They're simplistic, but sweet, and they're fun to sing along to in the car. When no one else is around. Unfortunately, she never made another album, as she stepped down from the music scene right after releasing this one, which makes me die a little bit inside. The single from this was "What I Really Meant to Say", which is a fantastic song, but my favorite one is "If You Could Only See".
- Elliott Smith Really, any of his albums are good. If you haven't heard of him, start out with the most recent one, New Moon. But be careful, don't fall too much in love, because he's dead. Figures, huh? He has a ton of material, though, and New Moon was actually released posthumously. He's considered a genius songwriter, which you will probably agree with, if you're not too literal-minded. Most of his albums have a really raw feel to them, which is highly desirable if you're a true indie connoisseur ;-). His voice is sweet and very poignant, which, combined with a lyrical style that reflects his very real depression, doesn't make for happy listening. So don't listen to Elliott for an upper if you're just starting out. My very favorite song by him is "Twilight", which is from the album From a Basement on the Hill. Absolute perfection.
- Feist - The Reminder I first started listening to Feist via The Kings of Convenience, then Broken Social Scene, and snatched up her most recent solo album the instant it came out. She has since become an indie darling. Her voice is enchanting, in that it always sounds like it's on the verge of breaking off into bits of rainbows and sunshine. It's lovely and heartbreaking. This is another album where it's difficult for me to pick a favorite. The excellent single (and there may have been more than one) is "1 2 3 4". The track that a certain friend of mine should listen to is "Sea Lion Woman", for reasons she knows. But I will choose "My Moon My Man" as my favorite. Mostly because I looked up the words on www.songmeanings.net and found a suggestion for a hidden meaning that had not even occurred to me. And I thought it amusing...
- Mae - The Everglow This album is unabashedly emo. And I still love it. This album is obviously meant for tweeners and long-haired boys wearing skinny jeans, but I forgive it anyway (but I never forgive the skinny jeans. Ever.). The very first music track on this album ("We're So Far Away") is somewhat deceptive, in that it sounds like it came straight out of a Ben Folds mix tape. The rest of the album is nowhere near as ballad-y and piano-driven, which makes me curious as to why they put it at the very beginning, because it sounds like something you would throw in as a hidden track. But whatever. Listen to it anyway, and then listen to "Someone Else's Arms" and you'll get what I'm talking about. And remember, I warned you what type of music it is, so don't blame me when you find yourself brushing your carefully-slanted bangs out of your heavily-black-lined eyes.
- Gemma Hayes - Night on My Side This is another old album, and you may not even be able to find the version that I like, because I bought this in London and came away with the "UK version". I think it's stupid that record companies do that, like they really think people from different countries will like different songs. What's next, the Southern US version of an album, specially geared to Bible Belt junkies? Or even an Oklahoma version, with songs that only country music fans would prefer? Ridiculous. But anyway, I love this girl. Her USA claim to fame is apparently a song on the Season 2 Grey's Anatomy soundtrack...whatever. I love her anyway. Check out "Back of My Hand."
- Kim Richey - Chinese Boxes Kim Richey reminds me of a less growl-y Brandi Carlile. Mostly because her music is slightly country-tinged, just like Ms. Carlile's. Her album is more mellow, though, and acoustic guitar-driven, with less electric stuff. Her lyrics are really good, and her voice is beautiful. With one exception, this album is perfect. I won't tell you the exception, because inevitably, when I do that, people love that one track. So you'll just have to make up your own mind. But you should listen to "The Absence of Your Company." Don't be in a good mood, though, because you might be crying after a few listens in a row. Like I was. I get emotional over good songs.
- Lavender Diamond - Imagine Our Love The lead singer for this quartet has a ridiculously angel-like voice. It's almost childlike in it's purity and simplicity. And the music is similar, with highly repetitive lyrics and simple melodies that will sound vaguely familiar the very first time you listen to them. I like this album for when I want to sing along with something without thinking about it too much. The lyrics don't ever make sense to me, which I guess is another tie-in with the childlike nature of the music, so it's ok. Clap along to "Open Your Heart" and prepare to be put in a good mood immediately.
- Tristan Prettyman - twentythree This girl is a former flame of Jason Mraz, and you can tell. Her music is very similar in style. Except that it's a girl singing, of course (although he does sing a duet with her for one track, so don't get mad at me if you hear a little testosterone crop up). She's a little more mellow than M(c)raz(y), but is overall just a solid representation of girly singer-songwriters. Her lyrics need work, but I forgive her because she wrote "Electric", which you should listen to. Immediately.
- Veda/Vedera - Weight of an Empty Room One of my very favorite albums of all time. This girl is smoking hot, for one thing, and the way she sings gives me chills. She isn't backed up by virtuoso musicians, but they're a solid indie-rock band, and her wailing, incredible voice sets them apart. Her songs are very singable, which is always a quality I look for (since I spend most of my time plotting how best to drive my husband insane by singing in small cars at the top of my lungs). This album is definitely the most rockish of the ones on this list, so if you're after a mellow afternoon spent fostering your feminine side by reading Sylvia Plath, this is not the soundtrack for it. But if you're after some more forceful woman power, download this, and listen to "Moments Rewound".
- Vienna Teng - Warm Strangers An Asian singer-pianist. Her playing will probably remind you strongly of Vanessa Carlton, but her voice doesn't have that irritating nasal whininess (sorry, "Thousand Miles" fans. But the song was never the same for me after "White Chicks" anyway). She deals with some pretty deep subject matter on this album, but never in an opinionated way. She puts the subjects out there, but more in a thoughtful manner rather than an aggressive one (unlike some female songwriters...). She also has some love ballads and a really sweet lullaby. Check out "Harbor".
- dredg - El Cielo This is some man-music for you. Just in case you're feeling a little too girly. Dredg likes to make concept albums, so that should give you an idea of the type of rock they make. It's more experimental, and it's definitely not your typical feel-good music. The lead singer's voice is dreamy, but if you're someone who gets caught up in being able to figure out what a song is about, or even how to pronounce the track titles, don't try this band. I included them mainly because I plan on going to a show of theirs fairly soon, and in case you really love them, you should come. They're really good live, as an aside. The album is better listened to all at one go, but I'd pick "Triangle" as my favorite track. And yes, it's weird. That's why it's art rock!
- Explosions in the Sky - How Strange, Innocence A little instrumental post-rock is good for the soul. If you like to turn music up really loudly and drown in the sound, listen to this album. This is not an album to listen to on your laptop. This band is incredible live, so if they're ever around, go. I've seen them once, and I would pay double to see them again, that's how fantastic they are. Be prepared for chills, though. I highly recommend this album for storm-watching, as it's very climactic. And I'm sure you could find some other ways to employ this album as background music ;-). I actually used to sleep to this, as it's pretty hypnotic. Yes, sleep. Shut up. I will admit that instrumental tracks tend to run together in my brain, which is why this is best for the overall experience. But check out "A Song for Our Fathers" if you need a sample before diving in.
- Susie Suh - Susie Suh Ok, ok, yes, I'm incredibly biased toward the Asian girls. Pretty much all an artist needs is slanted eyes or an Asian-sounding name, and I'll be a fan for life. So suh me (I couldn't resist). Unlike her cousins-by-different-ancestors, Rachael and Vienna, Susie's music is guitar-based. I know, you're shocked: an Asian who doesn't play piano. This album is incredibly hard to find (at least, it is if you're going by...alternative routes), because it was released under one of Sony-The-Devil's No-Copying restrictions. In those days, I was still a cd-purchaser. So I bought the cd, copied it the requisite 3 times, before it locked the hell up on me, and I promptly lost all 3 copies. Yes, it sucks. But those of you who move in more popular circles may find this more easy to find. Her voice is husky and sexy, and her songs are gorgeously lush. Find "All I Want" and give it a try. Then you'll love Asian girls too.
10/8/08
Food Critic
Tonight, it was just E and me eating, so I broached the subject of a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich for dinner. Now, I know what you're thinking, but in my defense, we're both sick, and we'd been snacking on and off throughout the afternoon, so I knew neither of us was very hungry. And I figured, PB&J, pretty innocuous, this shouldn't be too much of a struggle.
Well, first, E goes "I just want a sandwich with peanut butter. No jelly."
And I'm like, well, that's weird. What normal kid wants that? So I said "Have you ever HAD jelly?"
He goes "No, but one time I saw a bug in this movie at Aunt Sarah's house...have you ever seen that movie with Little Foot? Well, there was a bug with ink that came out of it like this," [imagine him scrunching up his face, mashing his hands together, and making disgusting squishing noises with his mouth] "and it looked just like jelly."
And despite the fact that I personally love jelly and was already salivating over the thought of the sweetness in my mouth, for a second, I knew exactly what he was thinking of, and it was disgusting.
We didn't have PB&J for dinner.
Well, first, E goes "I just want a sandwich with peanut butter. No jelly."
And I'm like, well, that's weird. What normal kid wants that? So I said "Have you ever HAD jelly?"
He goes "No, but one time I saw a bug in this movie at Aunt Sarah's house...have you ever seen that movie with Little Foot? Well, there was a bug with ink that came out of it like this," [imagine him scrunching up his face, mashing his hands together, and making disgusting squishing noises with his mouth] "and it looked just like jelly."
And despite the fact that I personally love jelly and was already salivating over the thought of the sweetness in my mouth, for a second, I knew exactly what he was thinking of, and it was disgusting.
We didn't have PB&J for dinner.
9/16/08
The Old
I've discovered a longing in myself to write about my 3rd-year experiences. I've never been a very good journal keeper (unlike my sister, who has kept journals faithfully almost her entire life), but I do occasionally feel the need for some form of written catharsis, or maybe just a self-actualization of what I'm currently feeling. I don't know what it is. But the point is that I don't have the energy (or time) to make myself a separate blog for med school tales. And since this blog is technically about being a mom and a med student, I'll just talk about my stuff in the same space.
I'm currently on my 3rd rotation of my 3rd year. If I have the time/inclination, I'll go back and talk about how my first 2 rotations, OB/GYN and anesthesiology, went, but right now I want to talk about this rotation. I'm on geriatrics, which is a 4-wk rotation, and I'm currently in my 3rd week. The 1st 2 weeks were spent at the local VA hospital, taking care of inpatients. It was an interesting time. I liked it, compared to Anesth., because I felt involved in patient care again, and I got to actually interact with patients, which is part of the whole reason I came to medical school. I had a mighty 2 patients for the entire 2 weeks, one of whom was discharged my 2nd day on the service. But that was ok, it gave me time to learn about my patient's various diagnoses, and it also gave me time to learn about the patient himself. But I was looking forward to the last 2 weeks of the rotation, which are spent in outpatient care.
Outpatient care on the geriatrics service covers a lot. So far, in my 2 days on this service, I've toured an adult day care center, made home visits with a geriatrician, seen patients in the geriatric clinic at my university, and visited hospice patients in a nursing home. The functional levels and living situations of these patients has varied widely, and the personalities of the patients I saw were also varied and highly memorable. There was the gentleman who couldn't hear a word I said, but who would insist, whenever I paused for breath, that we'd all "taken real good care" of him. There was the lady who dealt with the disfigurement of the treatment for her breast cancer by joking "If I were on that 'Girls Gone Wild', man, they'd be surprised!" There was the lady who thought I was her daughter, and kept telling me she loved me and that I'd always been good to her, and if I could just find her blue skirt, she'd be happy again. There was the couple in their 80s who told me about how much they loved to travel, and about their frequent trips to Mexico and Israel and Europe. And there was the man who insisted the med school had sent their model to take care of him (I'll let you guess who was my favorite...).
I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed my afternoon spent caring for hospice patients at a nursing home. I've heard from a lot of fellow students that they just don't care much for elderly people, and that nursing homes creep them out, and that they get impatient when listening to their patients tell stories.
Maybe I'm different because my grandpa died when I was young and foolish. I never listened to his stories, because I was bored and impatient to get on with my own impetuous life. I didn't have time to listen to his disjointed recollections, and I was a little bit in awe of my mother, who would sit for hours listening to him talk about his youth. I remember how nervous I used to feel around him, making the obligatory daily visit to his bedroom to say hello, to endure his struggle to recall my name. Age is difficult for youth to handle, I guess. My grandpa was in his 90s when he died, but I remember a time when he was more vigorous, when he used to take the car out to the river to check on the cattle, and pat me on the back, and call my daddy "Hound Dawg". Toward the end of his life, when he was bedridden and couldn't tell the difference between me and my mother, that's a big change in function to a teenager, and I didn't handle it well, I realize now. I wrote a song for my grandfather that me and my siblings performed at his funeral. I shed many tears over that song, partly because Grandpa was gone, and partly because I didn't know him well enough to write a more personal song.
So maybe that's the reason, but today, when my patient kept calling me her daughter, and asking me if I was feeling ok, and wanting me to find her various items, I felt more patient than I usually am on a day-to-day basis. Even though it was at the hour of the day when I'm usually itching to be away at my own home, with my own family, I was ok with listening to her rambling, I was calm when asking her whether she was in pain, and I was patient when I reassured her time and again that yes, we would find her skirt ("It's blue, I think...").
My grandpa never had to suffer through the various indignities and sadnesses of a nursing home, as my grandma fiercely defended her ability to care for him at home, even though she is not in the best of health herself. He died at home, with loved ones nearby, and a view of his beloved land from his bedroom window. I know he was well-cared for and well-loved to the end of his days. But it's my own personal regret that I feel that I didn't love my grandfather well enough.
I wanted this old lady to feel some love in her life, even if it meant making empty promises that I'd find her skirt and then she'd feel better. Maybe, in loving this woman, in listening to her stories and promising that everything will be better soon, somewhere my grandpa knows, and he knows that I loved him.
I'm currently on my 3rd rotation of my 3rd year. If I have the time/inclination, I'll go back and talk about how my first 2 rotations, OB/GYN and anesthesiology, went, but right now I want to talk about this rotation. I'm on geriatrics, which is a 4-wk rotation, and I'm currently in my 3rd week. The 1st 2 weeks were spent at the local VA hospital, taking care of inpatients. It was an interesting time. I liked it, compared to Anesth., because I felt involved in patient care again, and I got to actually interact with patients, which is part of the whole reason I came to medical school. I had a mighty 2 patients for the entire 2 weeks, one of whom was discharged my 2nd day on the service. But that was ok, it gave me time to learn about my patient's various diagnoses, and it also gave me time to learn about the patient himself. But I was looking forward to the last 2 weeks of the rotation, which are spent in outpatient care.
Outpatient care on the geriatrics service covers a lot. So far, in my 2 days on this service, I've toured an adult day care center, made home visits with a geriatrician, seen patients in the geriatric clinic at my university, and visited hospice patients in a nursing home. The functional levels and living situations of these patients has varied widely, and the personalities of the patients I saw were also varied and highly memorable. There was the gentleman who couldn't hear a word I said, but who would insist, whenever I paused for breath, that we'd all "taken real good care" of him. There was the lady who dealt with the disfigurement of the treatment for her breast cancer by joking "If I were on that 'Girls Gone Wild', man, they'd be surprised!" There was the lady who thought I was her daughter, and kept telling me she loved me and that I'd always been good to her, and if I could just find her blue skirt, she'd be happy again. There was the couple in their 80s who told me about how much they loved to travel, and about their frequent trips to Mexico and Israel and Europe. And there was the man who insisted the med school had sent their model to take care of him (I'll let you guess who was my favorite...).
I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed my afternoon spent caring for hospice patients at a nursing home. I've heard from a lot of fellow students that they just don't care much for elderly people, and that nursing homes creep them out, and that they get impatient when listening to their patients tell stories.
Maybe I'm different because my grandpa died when I was young and foolish. I never listened to his stories, because I was bored and impatient to get on with my own impetuous life. I didn't have time to listen to his disjointed recollections, and I was a little bit in awe of my mother, who would sit for hours listening to him talk about his youth. I remember how nervous I used to feel around him, making the obligatory daily visit to his bedroom to say hello, to endure his struggle to recall my name. Age is difficult for youth to handle, I guess. My grandpa was in his 90s when he died, but I remember a time when he was more vigorous, when he used to take the car out to the river to check on the cattle, and pat me on the back, and call my daddy "Hound Dawg". Toward the end of his life, when he was bedridden and couldn't tell the difference between me and my mother, that's a big change in function to a teenager, and I didn't handle it well, I realize now. I wrote a song for my grandfather that me and my siblings performed at his funeral. I shed many tears over that song, partly because Grandpa was gone, and partly because I didn't know him well enough to write a more personal song.
So maybe that's the reason, but today, when my patient kept calling me her daughter, and asking me if I was feeling ok, and wanting me to find her various items, I felt more patient than I usually am on a day-to-day basis. Even though it was at the hour of the day when I'm usually itching to be away at my own home, with my own family, I was ok with listening to her rambling, I was calm when asking her whether she was in pain, and I was patient when I reassured her time and again that yes, we would find her skirt ("It's blue, I think...").
My grandpa never had to suffer through the various indignities and sadnesses of a nursing home, as my grandma fiercely defended her ability to care for him at home, even though she is not in the best of health herself. He died at home, with loved ones nearby, and a view of his beloved land from his bedroom window. I know he was well-cared for and well-loved to the end of his days. But it's my own personal regret that I feel that I didn't love my grandfather well enough.
I wanted this old lady to feel some love in her life, even if it meant making empty promises that I'd find her skirt and then she'd feel better. Maybe, in loving this woman, in listening to her stories and promising that everything will be better soon, somewhere my grandpa knows, and he knows that I loved him.
Dreams of Gold
E expressed ridiculous levels of interest in the men's and women's gymnastics competitions during this year's Beijing Olympics. He's always been an....active...child, so I decided I'd bite the bullet, take him out of dance class, and put him in gymnastics. (Maybe I'm a nervous mother, but I just have images of broken heads and ankles swimming through my mind whenever I think gymnastics...)
The parent crowd at gymnastics is quite different from that at dance, which surprised me. I expected the same group of blonde and/or hippie mommies, with various other tots running under foot, having conversations about their children's elite preschools, and pulling out well-organized snack bags at the first sign of temper tantrums.
But at gymnastics, there are just as many fathers as mothers, with quite a few grandmothers thrown in for good measure. As a minority, I'm no longer a minority in the audience. Most of the daddies have tattoos or piercings, which made my husband feel quite at home. And because we can see what our children are doing through the large glass windows (rather than watching them dance via the tiniest tv screen I've ever seen), conversations tend to be dominated by what we have in common, rather than what separates us.
It's a better experience for E, because there are at least 4 other boys in his class. And it's a better experience for me, because I don't feel quite so alone. That's what I get for putting my son in dance lessons, though...
The parent crowd at gymnastics is quite different from that at dance, which surprised me. I expected the same group of blonde and/or hippie mommies, with various other tots running under foot, having conversations about their children's elite preschools, and pulling out well-organized snack bags at the first sign of temper tantrums.
But at gymnastics, there are just as many fathers as mothers, with quite a few grandmothers thrown in for good measure. As a minority, I'm no longer a minority in the audience. Most of the daddies have tattoos or piercings, which made my husband feel quite at home. And because we can see what our children are doing through the large glass windows (rather than watching them dance via the tiniest tv screen I've ever seen), conversations tend to be dominated by what we have in common, rather than what separates us.
It's a better experience for E, because there are at least 4 other boys in his class. And it's a better experience for me, because I don't feel quite so alone. That's what I get for putting my son in dance lessons, though...
9/13/08
Catching Up
Good grief, I've been gone a long time. Life gets in the way...
Tonight:
Evan - "Is it bedtime for big boys?"
Me - "It's bedtime for little boys."
Evan - "I'm not little!! I'm five years old and I'm BIG. I'm bigger than you expect me to be."
How right he is.
Tonight:
Evan - "Is it bedtime for big boys?"
Me - "It's bedtime for little boys."
Evan - "I'm not little!! I'm five years old and I'm BIG. I'm bigger than you expect me to be."
How right he is.
4/18/08
Living History
I rather wish that the local PBS channel would make it perfectly clear to their smallest viewers that historic events are just that: historical. That they happened a loooooong time ago (well, everything happened a long time ago to someone who's only 4 years old.
My son just rushed into the room, exclaiming: "The TV just told me that there was a fight going on between Indians and cowboys, and there was a train that ran over some people on its tracks!!!"
Who knew that PBS had their own version of the nightly, grisly news?
My son just rushed into the room, exclaiming: "The TV just told me that there was a fight going on between Indians and cowboys, and there was a train that ran over some people on its tracks!!!"
Who knew that PBS had their own version of the nightly, grisly news?
4/17/08
Talks With God
Tonight, as we were going through the nightly ritual (pj's, toothbrush, cleanup, story time, drink of water, music box/song)...E caught me at the very end: "Mom, we didn't say prayers."
(Which, my parents always said prayers with us before bedtime, I don't know why I never remember to...Yes, I'm the devil, you may say it.)
So we began our prayers. There's something ridiculously endearing about a little boy reciting his nightly prayers. First, there's a sweet Catholic prayer to a guardian angel that starts out "Angel of God, my guardian dear..." Me and my sibs recited it as very small children. Then as we grew up, my mom added "Protect us, Lord, as we stay awake..." which is a night prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours. (That oldie about dying before waking is a bit too scary for my mother to try to explain to small children, I suppose. I don't blame her, it still terrifies me a little bit.)
When he spends the night at Nanay and Poppa's house, E always adds The Lord's Prayer and a Hail Mary for good measure. I'm just glad he knows them (yes, I taught him. Don't judge.), but I'm too impatient and stressed out to say those two with him every night. I figure that he says them at church once a week, that should be good enough, right?!?
Anyway, so tonight, as usual, we plowed through the first two children's prayers, and I bent down to kiss him instead of moving on to the "grown-up" prayers.
He immediately protested: "Aren't we gonna say the others?"
I assume this is just another ploy to get out of bedtime, since it's already waaaaay waaaaaay past, so I'm like "Nope, but if you want, you can say them to yourself before you fall asleep."
E, reproachfully: "You always forget to say prayers with me."
Me: "I know, honey, but if I forget, you can still say them without me."
E: "I could even say them in my head?! And God will hear me?!"
Mom: "Yep."
E: "Wow, that's really cool. That's a miracle."
(Which, my parents always said prayers with us before bedtime, I don't know why I never remember to...Yes, I'm the devil, you may say it.)
So we began our prayers. There's something ridiculously endearing about a little boy reciting his nightly prayers. First, there's a sweet Catholic prayer to a guardian angel that starts out "Angel of God, my guardian dear..." Me and my sibs recited it as very small children. Then as we grew up, my mom added "Protect us, Lord, as we stay awake..." which is a night prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours. (That oldie about dying before waking is a bit too scary for my mother to try to explain to small children, I suppose. I don't blame her, it still terrifies me a little bit.)
When he spends the night at Nanay and Poppa's house, E always adds The Lord's Prayer and a Hail Mary for good measure. I'm just glad he knows them (yes, I taught him. Don't judge.), but I'm too impatient and stressed out to say those two with him every night. I figure that he says them at church once a week, that should be good enough, right?!?
Anyway, so tonight, as usual, we plowed through the first two children's prayers, and I bent down to kiss him instead of moving on to the "grown-up" prayers.
He immediately protested: "Aren't we gonna say the others?"
I assume this is just another ploy to get out of bedtime, since it's already waaaaay waaaaaay past, so I'm like "Nope, but if you want, you can say them to yourself before you fall asleep."
E, reproachfully: "You always forget to say prayers with me."
Me: "I know, honey, but if I forget, you can still say them without me."
E: "I could even say them in my head?! And God will hear me?!"
Mom: "Yep."
E: "Wow, that's really cool. That's a miracle."
3/28/08
Recently Heard
My 4 year old who's going on 30...
"I have a sentiment..."
"I'll be with you in a minute."
"Let's set up a pattern."
"I'll check on you in 10 minutes."
"I have a sentiment..."
"I'll be with you in a minute."
"Let's set up a pattern."
"I'll check on you in 10 minutes."
3/27/08
Mary had a little lamb...
I took E to school with me today. No one else was available to take HIM to school, and I had required morning and evening classes, so he had to just tag along. He wasn't too thrilled, but he was amazingly good.
In the morning, I had a human behavior class, where we were interviewing patients simulating mental illness. Our course director ended up playing the part of our first patient, and before the began, she asked E's name and age, and commented that her own son had been the same age when she was in med school. She's good at building rapport, I suppose.
Anyway, so she's going along pretending to be in the manic phase of a manic-depressive disorder, when suddenly she comments to her interviewer: "And I see that you treat all kinds of patients! I saw a little boy in the waiting room, who was just sitting there reading his book, and he said his name was 'E'." And E, who was at that moment sitting on my lap, "reading" a book, covered his face with said book and muttered "Not cool," while everyone laughed.
And in the afternoon, he calmly sat through 2 hours of dermatology slides, drawing pictures on some hematology papers I had dug out of my bag. He drew a lot of notice, including that of some of my undergrad classmates.
One commented "This should at least be more interesting than Biochem, huh?"
Which led me to remember that interesting time that I brought Evan to Biochem with me...he was about 2. And he spilled a whole container of Cheerios on the floor in the middle of the lecture. And I had to pick them up off the floor (blessedly, with the help of another mom...) in front of all those eyes.
Times have certainly changed.
In the morning, I had a human behavior class, where we were interviewing patients simulating mental illness. Our course director ended up playing the part of our first patient, and before the began, she asked E's name and age, and commented that her own son had been the same age when she was in med school. She's good at building rapport, I suppose.
Anyway, so she's going along pretending to be in the manic phase of a manic-depressive disorder, when suddenly she comments to her interviewer: "And I see that you treat all kinds of patients! I saw a little boy in the waiting room, who was just sitting there reading his book, and he said his name was 'E'." And E, who was at that moment sitting on my lap, "reading" a book, covered his face with said book and muttered "Not cool," while everyone laughed.
And in the afternoon, he calmly sat through 2 hours of dermatology slides, drawing pictures on some hematology papers I had dug out of my bag. He drew a lot of notice, including that of some of my undergrad classmates.
One commented "This should at least be more interesting than Biochem, huh?"
Which led me to remember that interesting time that I brought Evan to Biochem with me...he was about 2. And he spilled a whole container of Cheerios on the floor in the middle of the lecture. And I had to pick them up off the floor (blessedly, with the help of another mom...) in front of all those eyes.
Times have certainly changed.
2/26/08
Wise Child
E and I were listening to the infamous radio host Delilah the other night. Now, I used to hate Delilah. A few years ago, I much preferred Dr. Laura for my radio entertainment, she of the biting tongue and unfailingly sarcastic wit. But then I realized that my life was beginning to reflect her "give-no-quarter, ask-none" policy, which, whatever she may say, is NOT a good/Godly way to live your life. So I turned back to Delilah. Delilah may not shock people out of their supposed stupidity as often as Dr. Laura does, but she has kind words for everyone, and honest yet gentle words for those who need them. Sometimes I still get tired of hearing how much in love everyone seems to be, but then again, the world doesn't always display that love very openly, so if I can find it on the radio, I suppose I should just appreciate it for what it's worth.
Anyway, my point is, the radio was turned to Delilah while she and some caller were talking about how to make relationships work. Now, I wasn't really listening, but apparently E was. Because after a very long period of silence (that never happens in my car unless he's asleep; he's always either chattering, singing, or screaming), during which the requested song started up, E piped up: "If you want to make someone happy, you gotta do it yourself."
Which, admittedly, is true.
Anyway, my point is, the radio was turned to Delilah while she and some caller were talking about how to make relationships work. Now, I wasn't really listening, but apparently E was. Because after a very long period of silence (that never happens in my car unless he's asleep; he's always either chattering, singing, or screaming), during which the requested song started up, E piped up: "If you want to make someone happy, you gotta do it yourself."
Which, admittedly, is true.
2/1/08
Priorities
When discussing whether E and I wanted my fiance (then boyfriend) to be part of our family, E pronounced: "It's ok with me, as long as he brings his toys."
1/28/08
Proprioception Problems
Driving home from dinner, E says to me "You're going the wrong way, Mom!" I replied, "No, babe, this is how we get home." E concedes: "Ok, I guess, but we don't usually come this way." Gently, I correct: "Well, this is how we go home most of the time..." After a moment, E: "Yeah, but we're not usually upside-down when we come this way." I had nothing for that...
1/14/08
Storytelling
This evening, my son eagerly repeated a story that his Poppa had told him a few nights ago before bedtime...a story that Daddy used to tell me before my bedtime. It brought a tear to my cynical eye.
My dad is a great storyteller. His stories always involve me and my siblings (and now E) and our various pets, and he makes up ridiculous names for us ("E the Wonder Boy", "Lucky Bucky", "Pepper Wepper", "Smokey Lokey", etc.). We take on fantastic powers and undergo the most involved adventures, always after saying goodbye to "Mama Llama" at the house. The stories are dynamic and fluid, changing at a moment's notice or a small child's request ("I wanna fight the bear this time!"). The heroes always save a family member or friend from a horrifying threat (lions and tigers and bears, oh my!!) while remaining calm, collected, and heroic throughout. Everything always turns out well, and in the end, Mama's always waiting for us at home.
I think everyone should tell their kids stories. I remember my dad's stories better than the multitude of books that my parents read me during my childhood. Stories like his stimulate imagination and encourage creativity. We were always encouraged to help our hero selves find ways out of their predicaments. I can't even look back at my childhood without hearing my dad's voice mischievously spinning out nighttime adventures for me and my siblings.
So I'm a huge proponent of storytelling. I just wish I were better at it. I think I'll go practice...
My dad is a great storyteller. His stories always involve me and my siblings (and now E) and our various pets, and he makes up ridiculous names for us ("E the Wonder Boy", "Lucky Bucky", "Pepper Wepper", "Smokey Lokey", etc.). We take on fantastic powers and undergo the most involved adventures, always after saying goodbye to "Mama Llama" at the house. The stories are dynamic and fluid, changing at a moment's notice or a small child's request ("I wanna fight the bear this time!"). The heroes always save a family member or friend from a horrifying threat (lions and tigers and bears, oh my!!) while remaining calm, collected, and heroic throughout. Everything always turns out well, and in the end, Mama's always waiting for us at home.
I think everyone should tell their kids stories. I remember my dad's stories better than the multitude of books that my parents read me during my childhood. Stories like his stimulate imagination and encourage creativity. We were always encouraged to help our hero selves find ways out of their predicaments. I can't even look back at my childhood without hearing my dad's voice mischievously spinning out nighttime adventures for me and my siblings.
So I'm a huge proponent of storytelling. I just wish I were better at it. I think I'll go practice...
1/3/08
Sweetness
Starting Christmas Day, E spent a week with his father's family. I picked him with his other grandparents on New Year's Day. He climbed out of the car with his grumpy "I just woke up, and I hate everyone" look on his face. But one look around, and he ran toward me, yelling "Mommy, I missed you! I missed you so much!"
And at that moment, the whole missing-piece week was worth it.
And at that moment, the whole missing-piece week was worth it.
12/6/07
Christmas Come Early
We pulled out our Advent calendar this week. It's a sweet little felt pocket thing that I received as a gift last year (which has always seemed strange to me - holiday items given as holiday gifts...but whatever). A little wooden Santa hat comes with it, and your child (ostensibly, unless you're the kind of adult who likes to have Santa-themed felt Advent Calendars) is supposed to put the little hat in the pocket marked with the date to keep track of how many days there are left until Christmas. Yes, I know that was a very long sentence. You can read; you'll be fine.
Anyway, so on Sunday night, I supervised the placement of the hat into the 2 pocket. On Monday morning, I awoke to discover that apparently it was the 6th of December. Yesterday morning, it had become the 20th. Last night, E told me that it was Christmas Eve and in the morning we would open our presents...
Anyway, so on Sunday night, I supervised the placement of the hat into the 2 pocket. On Monday morning, I awoke to discover that apparently it was the 6th of December. Yesterday morning, it had become the 20th. Last night, E told me that it was Christmas Eve and in the morning we would open our presents...
12/2/07
He Teaches Me Well
Note: I can't remember if I've already blogged this, or when exactly it happened. But it was in the last couple of months, so...
Driving home one night, E asked me how God made space. I started describing the Big Bang theory, basically ending with "So it was a big explosion, isn't that cool?!"
E flatly denied it, saying "Mom, that's not cool, that's dangerous. Someone could have gotten hurt."
Resuming my role as stern safety regulations officer, I replied "You're right, that's true, but there weren't any people or animals around then, so no one was there to get hurt."
E shot back, "God and Jesus were there!"
Getting a bit desperate now, I floundered "Yeah, well, God and Jesus can't be hurt, sweetheart."
Without pause, my 4-year-old: "But, MOM, Jesus died!!"
Needless to say, I lost the argument.
I hope he becomes a lawyer.
That way, he'll be able to take care of/support his mother when she's lost all of her neurological function from racking her brains in order to hold intelligent conversations with him.
Driving home one night, E asked me how God made space. I started describing the Big Bang theory, basically ending with "So it was a big explosion, isn't that cool?!"
E flatly denied it, saying "Mom, that's not cool, that's dangerous. Someone could have gotten hurt."
Resuming my role as stern safety regulations officer, I replied "You're right, that's true, but there weren't any people or animals around then, so no one was there to get hurt."
E shot back, "God and Jesus were there!"
Getting a bit desperate now, I floundered "Yeah, well, God and Jesus can't be hurt, sweetheart."
Without pause, my 4-year-old: "But, MOM, Jesus died!!"
Needless to say, I lost the argument.
I hope he becomes a lawyer.
That way, he'll be able to take care of/support his mother when she's lost all of her neurological function from racking her brains in order to hold intelligent conversations with him.
11/30/07
Green Kids
In the car recently (a lot of my stories start that way), E held up an empty Reeses Pieces bag (don't judge me, it was left over from a movie, ok?!) and asked: "Is this recyclable?"
I swear. That's what he said.
Someone's Nanay (aka my mom) has been getting to him...
I swear. That's what he said.
Someone's Nanay (aka my mom) has been getting to him...
11/27/07
Career Planning
My bf D is an oil engineer who travels a lot for work. Tonight, hearing me explain to someone that D was gone "on a job", E asked "What kind of job?" This is always a difficult description for me to make, because I'm not quite sure what exactly D does on these "jobs", therefore my family has a standing joke that D is secretly a CIA agent. Anyway, so I plunge in headfirst, saying "Well, you know that D is an engineer [for the longest time, my dad had E convinced that D was the type of engineer who drives trains...], and when he's gone, he helps get oil out of the ground by digging with lots of big tools."
E: "When I grow up, I'm going to be an engineer, and I'm gonna help D do his job. Because sometimes, when I go outside with my friends, I dig in the ground, and I help dig things up, and so I'm already an engineer."
E: "When I grow up, I'm going to be an engineer, and I'm gonna help D do his job. Because sometimes, when I go outside with my friends, I dig in the ground, and I help dig things up, and so I'm already an engineer."
11/26/07
...But at Least I'm Better than Some
After dance class, on our way home, E & I heard Alvin & the Chipmunks' "Christmas Don't Be Late" (or whatever it's called) on the radio. Thinking that E would appreciate the silliness of the song, I turned the volume up and urged him to listen. Apparently, he was listening more seriously than I had supposed...
"Their voices are not as pretty as yours."
"Their voices are not as pretty as yours."
11/25/07
Everybody's a Critic
Tonight, I was singing a very, very late lullaby to E (bedtime doesn't matter so much when there is a lot of attention to be had...). I've been sick for what seems like ages, and I was trying to keep my voice down so as not to disturb my grandmother across the hall. So my voice happened to be scratchy, whispery, and intermittently punctuated by coughs. E listened patiently and at the end, asked, "Why isn't your voice pretty tonight?"
11/22/07
Thanksgiving is:
...Not as exciting as someone else's toys and a large, empty living room to play in.
11/19/07
Must Remember...
E decided he was going to make a science project.
While I was in the shower this morning, he was describing it to me from the next room. These were his instructions:
1) Put water on a piece of paper
2) "Paint" over it (the water? the paper?) with a pencil
3) Glue a "seed" (also known as a paper clip in the adult world) to the paper
4) Watch the seed grow
E asked me if I thought it was a good idea, and I replied that we could definitely do parts of it, but that we'd have to use an actual seed in an actual pot, and (more importantly to the overall success of the project) do it at Nanay's house...
E replied that he thought this was definitely a good plan, and as he walked out of my bedroom, he commanded:
"Don't forget about this idea, Mom. Keep it in your brain."
While I was in the shower this morning, he was describing it to me from the next room. These were his instructions:
1) Put water on a piece of paper
2) "Paint" over it (the water? the paper?) with a pencil
3) Glue a "seed" (also known as a paper clip in the adult world) to the paper
4) Watch the seed grow
E asked me if I thought it was a good idea, and I replied that we could definitely do parts of it, but that we'd have to use an actual seed in an actual pot, and (more importantly to the overall success of the project) do it at Nanay's house...
E replied that he thought this was definitely a good plan, and as he walked out of my bedroom, he commanded:
"Don't forget about this idea, Mom. Keep it in your brain."
11/16/07
Notes on a Celebration
(At the risk of violating my tenuous anonymity on this blog,) I am proud to state that today we celebrated our home state's 100th birthday. I took E out of school and we drove to the original state capital to witness the Centennial Parade taking place there.
There were huge state school bands, tiny high school bands with one person to an instrument, pioneers tugging around oxen, trick ropers, nuns, a children's Irish dance group, a float with representatives from every Indian tribe in the state, old cars, old tractors, cheerleaders throwing Mardi Gras beads, oil rigs, and a Budweiser wagon with a team of matched Clydesdales.
The parade (which was fantastic) lasted for 2 hours, and consisted of everything from cowboys to Indians.
Interestingly enough, my son, who is more than a quarter Native American, was dressed as a cowboy...
There were huge state school bands, tiny high school bands with one person to an instrument, pioneers tugging around oxen, trick ropers, nuns, a children's Irish dance group, a float with representatives from every Indian tribe in the state, old cars, old tractors, cheerleaders throwing Mardi Gras beads, oil rigs, and a Budweiser wagon with a team of matched Clydesdales.
The parade (which was fantastic) lasted for 2 hours, and consisted of everything from cowboys to Indians.
Interestingly enough, my son, who is more than a quarter Native American, was dressed as a cowboy...
11/15/07
Another Door Opens
If you ever happen to have made the mistake of going to a popular restaurant with a child who's on the verge of being cranky and tired, here's a good way to keep said child busy while waiting to be seated:
Employ him as doorman
Everyone wins. It keeps the kid entertained, you look like a good parent who has taught your child to open doors for his elders, and the other patrons get to coo over your "handsome young man."
Bonus points if you can teach him to wink at the ladies.
Employ him as doorman
Everyone wins. It keeps the kid entertained, you look like a good parent who has taught your child to open doors for his elders, and the other patrons get to coo over your "handsome young man."
Bonus points if you can teach him to wink at the ladies.
10/31/07
First Confession
Apparently, early today, E told my father that he was "going to go tell Jesus" on him because Dad was "being naughty and scaring children"...
My mother, of course, was all "he's a good Catholic boy." She thinks she's funny.
My mother, of course, was all "he's a good Catholic boy." She thinks she's funny.
10/22/07
Out-Manuevered
Usually, threatening the loss of a bedtime story (half of the normal allotment) in the couple of hours before bedtime is enough to curtail any shenanigans that a rapidly-tiring child o' mine is likely to engage in. Tonight I had already given the warning, due to the excessive amount of whining that was going on. So I was a little surprised when, 30 minutes later, there was a hint of a whine upon being asked to change into his pajamas.
"E," I said, with all the maternal sternness I could muster, "was that a whine?"
"Yes," he said, simply, smiling up at me.
A little nonplussed, but rallying, I asked, "Do you remember what I said would happen if you whined any more tonight?"
"Yes," he beamed, obviously proud of himself, "I'd lose a story."
"Well, then if you whined, I guess you have to lose a story..." I guessed that upon having the connection laid out for him, he'd consider his original definition.
It was not to be:
"Yay! I'm glad when I only get one story because then I get more sleep."
"E," I said, with all the maternal sternness I could muster, "was that a whine?"
"Yes," he said, simply, smiling up at me.
A little nonplussed, but rallying, I asked, "Do you remember what I said would happen if you whined any more tonight?"
"Yes," he beamed, obviously proud of himself, "I'd lose a story."
"Well, then if you whined, I guess you have to lose a story..." I guessed that upon having the connection laid out for him, he'd consider his original definition.
It was not to be:
"Yay! I'm glad when I only get one story because then I get more sleep."
10/17/07
Cross-Painting
E's elementary school held a Fall Carnival this evening, for which I (probably because I was directly under the eye of his teacher, who reminds me of both my mother and one of my former piano instructors...meaning I do whatever she tells me...) volunteered 45 minutes to help set-up the classroom.
This year, Mrs. S landed the salon room, which is apparently a hugely popular thing with the tykes. After experiencing it first-hand, I'd have to say I agree.
The salon this year consisted of 2 nail tables, 2 temporary tattoo tables, and "hair painting".
After serving my sentence, I for some reason landed a job painting nails. Now, I rarely do my own nails, because I play guitar, which is not conducive to nicely polished fingernails. In addition, I have never liked the effect of nail polish on my stumpy "man-hand" fingers, and I prefer to leave them nude and therefore ignored. Also, I have a boy-child, and not a girl-child. This is all meant to illustrate that I don't paint nails.
Well, I did today. There was a huge rush for the nail painting table, and I was faced with the dire prospect of doing tiny nail after tiny nail under the critical eyes of countless mothers. I took a long, long, long time doing it, too.
The interesting thing was that after a certain time, I ended up painting boys' nails.
Now, these weren't little boys (meaning above the age of 8 or so). According to them all, this was "the one time of the year" when this was acceptable, so they were determined to get their due. And not all of them chose black, in fact only 1 did. The rest chose any combination of blue, red, and/or pink. I'm serious. I painted more boy nails than girl nails, all told.
While I was painting some kid's nails a brilliant shade of pink, my own boy-child happened to walk up, my faithful parents in tow. After explaining what I was doing, I teasingly asked if I'd be allowed to paint his nails. At first, I met with a sharp no, but then apparently he changed his mind. Probably due to the fact that the boy whose nails I was painting was much bigger than E is. My mom offered to paint them for him, since I was busy, but E insisted on waiting his turn. He then somberly sat down in front of me, handed me a bottle of black nail polish, and held out his hand.
My baby's fingernails are black. And on purpose.
And the rest of the evening, he kept telling people that his mom had put "makeup" on him...
This year, Mrs. S landed the salon room, which is apparently a hugely popular thing with the tykes. After experiencing it first-hand, I'd have to say I agree.
The salon this year consisted of 2 nail tables, 2 temporary tattoo tables, and "hair painting".
After serving my sentence, I for some reason landed a job painting nails. Now, I rarely do my own nails, because I play guitar, which is not conducive to nicely polished fingernails. In addition, I have never liked the effect of nail polish on my stumpy "man-hand" fingers, and I prefer to leave them nude and therefore ignored. Also, I have a boy-child, and not a girl-child. This is all meant to illustrate that I don't paint nails.
Well, I did today. There was a huge rush for the nail painting table, and I was faced with the dire prospect of doing tiny nail after tiny nail under the critical eyes of countless mothers. I took a long, long, long time doing it, too.
The interesting thing was that after a certain time, I ended up painting boys' nails.
Now, these weren't little boys (meaning above the age of 8 or so). According to them all, this was "the one time of the year" when this was acceptable, so they were determined to get their due. And not all of them chose black, in fact only 1 did. The rest chose any combination of blue, red, and/or pink. I'm serious. I painted more boy nails than girl nails, all told.
While I was painting some kid's nails a brilliant shade of pink, my own boy-child happened to walk up, my faithful parents in tow. After explaining what I was doing, I teasingly asked if I'd be allowed to paint his nails. At first, I met with a sharp no, but then apparently he changed his mind. Probably due to the fact that the boy whose nails I was painting was much bigger than E is. My mom offered to paint them for him, since I was busy, but E insisted on waiting his turn. He then somberly sat down in front of me, handed me a bottle of black nail polish, and held out his hand.
My baby's fingernails are black. And on purpose.
And the rest of the evening, he kept telling people that his mom had put "makeup" on him...
10/16/07
Dreams
Yesterday, E asked, "How do you get to space, mom?" Assuming that he already knew about spaceships, etc., I replied, "You have to be an astronaut to go into space."
E, obviously intrigued: "Well, how do you get to be an astronaut? Because that's what I want to be when I get big."
Me, thinking: "Aw, that's adorable!"
Me [seizing the chance to reinforce education...]:"You have to learn all your math and do really well in school."
E, horrified: "You mean I have to learn my numbers?!?"
Me, timidly: "Well, yes, to do math you have to know your numbers."
E, disgusted: "I don't think I can do that."
Pause
E, resigned: "Maybe I'll just be one for Halloween instead."
E, obviously intrigued: "Well, how do you get to be an astronaut? Because that's what I want to be when I get big."
Me, thinking: "Aw, that's adorable!"
Me [seizing the chance to reinforce education...]:"You have to learn all your math and do really well in school."
E, horrified: "You mean I have to learn my numbers?!?"
Me, timidly: "Well, yes, to do math you have to know your numbers."
E, disgusted: "I don't think I can do that."
Pause
E, resigned: "Maybe I'll just be one for Halloween instead."
10/15/07
He's Getting Old...
E's in the next room taking a bath while I'm snatching a few moments to check my email. A second ago, he called out "I can't find my towel [meaning wash cloth] any more! I need you to help me find it!" Assuming he was teasing me, I ignored him for a little while, and then when his cries became increasingly more distressed, I finally peeked around the corner at him.
Me: "What's the problem?"
E: "I can't find my towel. It's supposed to be here and I just can't find it."
Me: "You mean the one on your head?"
E: "OH!......I didn't see it there..."
Me: "What's the problem?"
E: "I can't find my towel. It's supposed to be here and I just can't find it."
Me: "You mean the one on your head?"
E: "OH!......I didn't see it there..."
9/30/07
Someone's Been Making Up Too Many Answers...
The other day, E and I were playing in the living room. He was getting frustrated at his inability to take the lid off of a small barrel (it was rather difficult, he has small hands and chubby fingers) so tossed it aside.
A few minutes later, when we were picking up his toys, I removed the lid from the barrel to put some very small pieces inside for safe-keeping.
E watched me in awe, before saying, "Mom, how'd you do that?"
And then, before I could muster an answer that didn't involve "because I'm bigger than you", he supplied one for me:
"Oh, magic."
A few minutes later, when we were picking up his toys, I removed the lid from the barrel to put some very small pieces inside for safe-keeping.
E watched me in awe, before saying, "Mom, how'd you do that?"
And then, before I could muster an answer that didn't involve "because I'm bigger than you", he supplied one for me:
"Oh, magic."
9/19/07
Bad Influences
Tomorrow, my parents are taking E to the fair. Unfortunately, the rides don't open until 11 AM, and E's pre-K starts at 12:30 PM...which means about an hour of ride time, all told. However, I was planning on taking him in the afternoon/early evening, after my Pharmacology test at 9 AM.
But they asked if he could skip school. To go to the fair.
Something seems wrong in this picture...
But they asked if he could skip school. To go to the fair.
Something seems wrong in this picture...
9/17/07
It's Not BRAIN surgery!!
Earlier today, E and I were in the grocery store, attempting to decide which type of applesauce we were going to purchase. Naturally, I was pushing for the generic brand, and E was excited about Mott's, since he recognized it from Nanay's house...Anyway, eventually I gave in and reached for the Mott's, only to realize that the Non-Sugar "Organic" type was right below it. I switched packages, forgetting that my child is not blind. He immediately gave cry to his indignant feelings of betrayal, and I had to persuade him that, yes, indeed, he did want the green package, because it had strawberry applesauce in it, while the other package just had regular, old boring applesauce. He, after all, is not the least bit interested about where his applesauce comes from, only what color it is.
Well, in the end, it worked and he accepted the exchange.
We moseyed on down the aisle, and E said "I wanted the strawberry one because I like strawberry." [See how I do that? I convince him it was his idea all along. Because I'm just that good.]
I replied: "I know, and you know how I know? Because I'm a mom, and moms know everything." [I'm also trying to convince him that I have eyes in the back of my head...]
E: "Nuh UH! I know everything!"
Me: "Nope, just moms know everything."
E: "Well, MOM, you gotta share your brain!!"
Well, in the end, it worked and he accepted the exchange.
We moseyed on down the aisle, and E said "I wanted the strawberry one because I like strawberry." [See how I do that? I convince him it was his idea all along. Because I'm just that good.]
I replied: "I know, and you know how I know? Because I'm a mom, and moms know everything." [I'm also trying to convince him that I have eyes in the back of my head...]
E: "Nuh UH! I know everything!"
Me: "Nope, just moms know everything."
E: "Well, MOM, you gotta share your brain!!"
9/13/07
Damn You, Dr. Seuss (with apologies, love and respect)
One of E's favorite books a couple of years ago was Dr. Seuss's "Happy Birthday to You!" I'm sure it was partly because of the rhythmic nature of his works, and partly because the man was so wordy that it took him 60 pages to tell "The Cat In the Hat". [I know, not exactly complicated subject matter, you wouldn't think it would take that long, right?] And after all, the longer the book, the farther away bedtime is.
Anyway, reading "HBtY!" every night was fine with me for a while, as I've always thought that Dr. Seuss wrote his books to appeal to both children and their parents. I find his whimsical stories and made-up words endearing and they definitely make for some funny tongue-twisting. Plus, "HBtY!" was my favorite Dr. S. book when I was a kid, so it was nice to pass the love on, as it were. And most importantly, before I managed to get too tired of it, E switched his allegiance to a different book.
Well, he hadn't really rediscovered it until recently. You see, once he gets off an addiction kick, he's done with that thing for a loooong time (happens with movies, books, toys, food, people, you name it).
But tonight we read it together. And I realized that book has a lot more pitfalls in it than I ever expected.
You see, E's at the "But what does it mean?" stage right now. Everything has to have a definition, from pictures to facial expressions to colors to words.
I hit the first snag at the memorable line(s), "If you'd never been born, well then what would you be...Why, you might be a WASN'T!"
Interruption #1: "Mom, what's a 'wasn't'?"
"Um, it means you're nothing."
"How can you be nothing?"
"Just listen to the story, honey." [That's right, I said it. You try explaining it...]
My next notable hang-up came at "If you'd never been born, then you might be an ISN'T! An isn't has no fun at all. No he disn't."
Interruption #218: "Mom, what's 'disn't'?"
"It means 'doesn't'." [He let that one pass. I don't know how.]
We managed to get by "Klopfers" and "Pal-alace" without difficulty.
But THEN we got to the part where the birthday band is coming by, with their Drummers and Strummers and Zummers and Plumbers...
Interruption #578: "Mom, what instrument is that?"
And he pointed to a contraption of bongos and maracas and harp strings and pipes that shared only a remote resemblance to its more mundane instrumental relatives...
And I gave up:
"I have no idea."
Apparently, good ol' Theodor should have included a freaking labeled guide and dictionary to his books, because they are NOT "easy reading" for this mom and her very confused little boy.
Anyway, reading "HBtY!" every night was fine with me for a while, as I've always thought that Dr. Seuss wrote his books to appeal to both children and their parents. I find his whimsical stories and made-up words endearing and they definitely make for some funny tongue-twisting. Plus, "HBtY!" was my favorite Dr. S. book when I was a kid, so it was nice to pass the love on, as it were. And most importantly, before I managed to get too tired of it, E switched his allegiance to a different book.
Well, he hadn't really rediscovered it until recently. You see, once he gets off an addiction kick, he's done with that thing for a loooong time (happens with movies, books, toys, food, people, you name it).
But tonight we read it together. And I realized that book has a lot more pitfalls in it than I ever expected.
You see, E's at the "But what does it mean?" stage right now. Everything has to have a definition, from pictures to facial expressions to colors to words.
I hit the first snag at the memorable line(s), "If you'd never been born, well then what would you be...Why, you might be a WASN'T!"
Interruption #1: "Mom, what's a 'wasn't'?"
"Um, it means you're nothing."
"How can you be nothing?"
"Just listen to the story, honey." [That's right, I said it. You try explaining it...]
My next notable hang-up came at "If you'd never been born, then you might be an ISN'T! An isn't has no fun at all. No he disn't."
Interruption #218: "Mom, what's 'disn't'?"
"It means 'doesn't'." [He let that one pass. I don't know how.]
We managed to get by "Klopfers" and "Pal-alace" without difficulty.
But THEN we got to the part where the birthday band is coming by, with their Drummers and Strummers and Zummers and Plumbers...
Interruption #578: "Mom, what instrument is that?"
And he pointed to a contraption of bongos and maracas and harp strings and pipes that shared only a remote resemblance to its more mundane instrumental relatives...
And I gave up:
"I have no idea."
Apparently, good ol' Theodor should have included a freaking labeled guide and dictionary to his books, because they are NOT "easy reading" for this mom and her very confused little boy.
9/10/07
To Cave or Not To Cave
E's OGs (Other Grandparents) brought him back from his Daddy Z's today. Unfortunately, it was after 9 PM by the time we met up, and E had already been asleep for an hour or so by that time.
Which meant that by the time I got him home at 9:45, read him a story, rubbed his back, gave him a face massage and sang him a song (yes, this is the normal routine...he's high maintenance, what can I say?), he was wide awake.
So for a couple of hours, I was in and out of his room every 15 minutes or so, reassuring him that he would eventually fall asleep, encouraging him to turn his light on and "read" for awhile, refusing to let him have something to eat.
That would have been, if not fine, at least tolerable, except for the fact that test block starts in a week, and I was trying to study. So it was neither fine nor tolerable, but extremely frustrating. You can imagine how difficult it is to concentrate on memorizing the billion different types of cancer when your study groove is broken every 15 minutes by a little voice saying (or screaming) "Mommy, I can't sleep!"
So I finally gave in and did the unthinkable.
Right now, he's lying tucked up on the living room couch in the dark, watching Toy Story, on the condition that if he gets up or makes any noise, back to the Unsleepable-In Bed he goes. And I'm happily engaged in reading about neoplasia.
I can't decide if I'm a really bad disciplinarian or a genius.
Which meant that by the time I got him home at 9:45, read him a story, rubbed his back, gave him a face massage and sang him a song (yes, this is the normal routine...he's high maintenance, what can I say?), he was wide awake.
So for a couple of hours, I was in and out of his room every 15 minutes or so, reassuring him that he would eventually fall asleep, encouraging him to turn his light on and "read" for awhile, refusing to let him have something to eat.
That would have been, if not fine, at least tolerable, except for the fact that test block starts in a week, and I was trying to study. So it was neither fine nor tolerable, but extremely frustrating. You can imagine how difficult it is to concentrate on memorizing the billion different types of cancer when your study groove is broken every 15 minutes by a little voice saying (or screaming) "Mommy, I can't sleep!"
So I finally gave in and did the unthinkable.
Right now, he's lying tucked up on the living room couch in the dark, watching Toy Story, on the condition that if he gets up or makes any noise, back to the Unsleepable-In Bed he goes. And I'm happily engaged in reading about neoplasia.
I can't decide if I'm a really bad disciplinarian or a genius.
8/29/07
It Was True at Some Point, At Least
E just started Pre-K at a public elementary school. He goes Monday through Friday from 12:30 to 3:30 in the afternoon. There are 20 children in his class, with a teacher, a teacher's assistant, and a student teacher.
I was a bit leery of putting him in Pre-K. Our experience with a private preschool last fall didn't go over well. The teacher didn't impress me, E was having a hard time adjusting to certain of his classmates, and it got to where he was screaming every time we dropped him off. Because he'd been in a preschool before (which he had loved), I wrote the entire experience off as just a bad apple, and withdrew him from the program after about 4 months.
However, that meant that my parents had to bear the brunt of childwatching during the school year. And while they love him, and they love taking care of him, he's an extremely active/curious/ high-maintenance 4-year-old, and they're in their 50s. They're not spring chickens (sorry, 'rents, if you read this...I love you!). I felt like it was wearing them out to watch him for what sometimes amounted to 9 hours a day. I mean, let's not kid ourselves, it wears me out to watch him all day.
Plus, seeing as how E is an only child (and likely to stay that way for a long, long time), and my parents' neighborhood is composed mostly of retired and mid-life couples with grown children, he didn't have that many playmates. And the poor thing loves other kids. So I made the decision (with parental encouragement) to enroll him in Pre-K.
And so far, it's been a delight. He comes home jabbering about his friends and his teachers every day, he loves being the "helper", and talks about the little "jobs" they give the kids to do around the classroom. Seeing as how school's in the afternoon, he gets to spend the mornings with Nanay & Poppa, and then they can rest while he'sbeing worn out playing at school. He's been sleeping better at night, he has something concrete to look forward to every afternoon, he gets to be around other kids, and the g'rents get a well-earned rest.
Anyway, today was the first Pre-K parents' meeting. I attended, like the active parent I am (going to be). It lasted for maybe 10 minutes, and its real purpose was just so that his teacher, Mrs. S., could meet those parents that she hadn't yet, and we could pick up a big set of papers about the program and our kids.
So at the end, after I'd collected all my shnizzle, I went to go speak with Mrs. S. I had met her briefly at the open house before school started, and had seen her when picking E up from school, but had never officially met her. Upon introducing myself as E's mother, she told me that he's apparently a joy to have in class, and that he's a well-behaved, sweet child.
I'm so glad someone thinks that on a daily basis.
Kidding, kidding...
I was a bit leery of putting him in Pre-K. Our experience with a private preschool last fall didn't go over well. The teacher didn't impress me, E was having a hard time adjusting to certain of his classmates, and it got to where he was screaming every time we dropped him off. Because he'd been in a preschool before (which he had loved), I wrote the entire experience off as just a bad apple, and withdrew him from the program after about 4 months.
However, that meant that my parents had to bear the brunt of childwatching during the school year. And while they love him, and they love taking care of him, he's an extremely active/curious/ high-maintenance 4-year-old, and they're in their 50s. They're not spring chickens (sorry, 'rents, if you read this...I love you!). I felt like it was wearing them out to watch him for what sometimes amounted to 9 hours a day. I mean, let's not kid ourselves, it wears me out to watch him all day.
Plus, seeing as how E is an only child (and likely to stay that way for a long, long time), and my parents' neighborhood is composed mostly of retired and mid-life couples with grown children, he didn't have that many playmates. And the poor thing loves other kids. So I made the decision (with parental encouragement) to enroll him in Pre-K.
And so far, it's been a delight. He comes home jabbering about his friends and his teachers every day, he loves being the "helper", and talks about the little "jobs" they give the kids to do around the classroom. Seeing as how school's in the afternoon, he gets to spend the mornings with Nanay & Poppa, and then they can rest while he's
Anyway, today was the first Pre-K parents' meeting. I attended, like the active parent I am (going to be). It lasted for maybe 10 minutes, and its real purpose was just so that his teacher, Mrs. S., could meet those parents that she hadn't yet, and we could pick up a big set of papers about the program and our kids.
So at the end, after I'd collected all my shnizzle, I went to go speak with Mrs. S. I had met her briefly at the open house before school started, and had seen her when picking E up from school, but had never officially met her. Upon introducing myself as E's mother, she told me that he's apparently a joy to have in class, and that he's a well-behaved, sweet child.
I'm so glad someone thinks that on a daily basis.
Kidding, kidding...
Are You My Mother?
Because I'm a young, single mom, I've always been wary of misinterpretation as far as who E's mother is. Not from E himself, but from other people.
It doesn't help that his last name is different than mine. You'd think in this day and age, with all the freaking divorces, professional women keeping their last names, etc., people would be used to parents having different last names from their kids. But no. Every time I pull out my ID or sign for E, I get weird looks. Sigh.
And I look like I'm about 18. And my mom looks like she's less than 40. So I tend to hear that my "little brother" is adorable. Or people will exclaim that my mom doesn't look old enough to have a teenager AND a 4 year old. It gets old fast.
Worst is when my son calls my dad "Daddy", which he does a lot. It catches Poppa's attention a lot faster than "Poppa" does. I mean, come on, he's been answering to "Daddy" for over 20 years, and "Poppa" has only been around for the last couple. However, that habit gets awkward, because while Dad doesn't look old, per se, he looks quite a bit older than I do. So when E goes around calling me "Mama" and Poppa "Daddy", my poor father gets the "you're a creepy old man" looks. It's kind of funny, admittedly.
Anyway, my parents, E and I were eating dinner out some time ago, when a work acquaintance of my dad's walks by. They strike up a conversation, and she eventually starts cooing over E...I mean, she couldn't help it, he's adorable. So Dad's like, "he looks like me, doesn't he?" in that proud Poppa way that all parents/grandparents/relatives of cute kids have. The poor lady goes "No, he looks like his mom!" while gesturing toward my mother. The rest of us just kind of smiled, willing to let it pass.
But not E. He indignantly stated: "That's not my mom! That's my nanay! This is my mom!!"
And that's my boy.
It doesn't help that his last name is different than mine. You'd think in this day and age, with all the freaking divorces, professional women keeping their last names, etc., people would be used to parents having different last names from their kids. But no. Every time I pull out my ID or sign for E, I get weird looks. Sigh.
And I look like I'm about 18. And my mom looks like she's less than 40. So I tend to hear that my "little brother" is adorable. Or people will exclaim that my mom doesn't look old enough to have a teenager AND a 4 year old. It gets old fast.
Worst is when my son calls my dad "Daddy", which he does a lot. It catches Poppa's attention a lot faster than "Poppa" does. I mean, come on, he's been answering to "Daddy" for over 20 years, and "Poppa" has only been around for the last couple. However, that habit gets awkward, because while Dad doesn't look old, per se, he looks quite a bit older than I do. So when E goes around calling me "Mama" and Poppa "Daddy", my poor father gets the "you're a creepy old man" looks. It's kind of funny, admittedly.
Anyway, my parents, E and I were eating dinner out some time ago, when a work acquaintance of my dad's walks by. They strike up a conversation, and she eventually starts cooing over E...I mean, she couldn't help it, he's adorable. So Dad's like, "he looks like me, doesn't he?" in that proud Poppa way that all parents/grandparents/relatives of cute kids have. The poor lady goes "No, he looks like his mom!" while gesturing toward my mother. The rest of us just kind of smiled, willing to let it pass.
But not E. He indignantly stated: "That's not my mom! That's my nanay! This is my mom!!"
And that's my boy.
8/24/07
Out of the Mouths of Those We Wish to Keep Quiet
A friend and I were in the car recently, discussing the deer that could be found around a certain fish hatchery near my apartment. E piped up in the backseat:
"I used to have a pet fish."
Friend: "Oh? What happened to it?"
E: "My mom fed it too much and it died."
"I used to have a pet fish."
Friend: "Oh? What happened to it?"
E: "My mom fed it too much and it died."
8/20/07
I'm So Emo Even My Kid's Emo
Portrait of Mommy
by E
You wonder what that weird horn in the middle of my forehead is? So did I.
When I asked, E said: "Oh, that's your hair in your face."
by E
You wonder what that weird horn in the middle of my forehead is? So did I.
When I asked, E said: "Oh, that's your hair in your face."
8/18/07
Finding Nemo
Over the summer, E developed a love for the water. He'd never really been scared of it before, per se, but he wasn't all too eager to jump in it every chance he got. I think the whole "I might be cold when I get out" thing wasn't quite up his alley. And he doesn't like bulky clothing, so those little wetsuits with attached life jackets (or just a life jacket with regular trunks) weren't his thing either. Last summer, we lived 30 minutes away from a fantastic water park, with a really great kids' section. We went maybe once because he didn't like the fountains that sprayed water in his face. And our apartment complex had a (relatively) nice pool that we never actually used because he never wanted to go swimming. Even at hotels, he was happier sitting on the edge of the hot tub and dangling his feet in than splashing in the pool.
But this summer, he has been like a freaking little fish. I think the graduation to water wings played a big part. We went to the water park 3 times, to the city pool once, swam at various hotel pools while on vacation, and now that we're back in one place, we've been going to the complex pool at least once, and usually twice a day. With the help of the aforementioned devices, he can tread water, swim across the pool, jump in and put his face in the water. It's fantastic, this new love of the water.
And it's been great in bargaining. "If you whine one more time we won't go swimming today," works like a charm.
But this summer, he has been like a freaking little fish. I think the graduation to water wings played a big part. We went to the water park 3 times, to the city pool once, swam at various hotel pools while on vacation, and now that we're back in one place, we've been going to the complex pool at least once, and usually twice a day. With the help of the aforementioned devices, he can tread water, swim across the pool, jump in and put his face in the water. It's fantastic, this new love of the water.
And it's been great in bargaining. "If you whine one more time we won't go swimming today," works like a charm.
8/13/07
I'm Baaaaack
After a long, waaaaay more extended leave of absence than really required, I am finally (relatively) permanently reconnected to the World Wide Web. I'm thrilled, my email account is thrilled, and you should also be thrilled.
I promise, more excellent, opinionated posts are on their way. They've been fomenting in my brain all this time. You're lucky.
But right now, I have to go deal with a little boy who missed his mommy on her first day back to school...and therefore needs all her attention at the moment.
Later, tater
I promise, more excellent, opinionated posts are on their way. They've been fomenting in my brain all this time. You're lucky.
But right now, I have to go deal with a little boy who missed his mommy on her first day back to school...and therefore needs all her attention at the moment.
Later, tater
7/20/07
Conversations
At home-
E: "I burped, excuse me."
[Mom is doing a crossword, and is only listening with half an ear]
E: "I'm excused."
[Mom smiles absentmindedly, continues trying to figure out 26-Across]
E (very aggrieved): "MOM! I had to excuse MYSELF!"
In the car-
E: "Mom, can Poppa sit next to me?"
Mom: "Babe, our car's still small and he won't have enough room for his legs in the back."
E: "Well, when will our car grow up?"
E: "I burped, excuse me."
[Mom is doing a crossword, and is only listening with half an ear]
E: "I'm excused."
[Mom smiles absentmindedly, continues trying to figure out 26-Across]
E (very aggrieved): "MOM! I had to excuse MYSELF!"
In the car-
E: "Mom, can Poppa sit next to me?"
Mom: "Babe, our car's still small and he won't have enough room for his legs in the back."
E: "Well, when will our car grow up?"
Last-Minute Needs...
So, I made one of those "I need one thing at Wal-Mart" trips this evening. For literally, one thing. That I absolutely HAD TO HAVE right then. And then, naturally, it became like 10 things. Because once I was there, I was like, "Oh, yeah, that's right, I forgot that I promised I'd get E this..." Never fails.
[Incidentally, "Achy Breaky Heart" is playing overhead at Kettle, my hometown's only "Internet Cafe"...I am sad to discover that that song did not die as it should have, in the 90s...]
But my point is, you know how all supermarkets and stores of similar ilk have their checkout aisles so nicely set up with all the things that a busy mom/normal person is likely to forget otherwise? Like Kleenex and chapstick and batteries and soap and God only knows what else? And naturally, all those dinky little toys that your kids just HAVE to have, and all your own favorite candy and fluff magazines, so then if Mommy gets a present, then E has to have one...It's quite sneaky of them.
I rarely wait until I'm actually in the checkout line to realize that I've forgotten something... (Usually I'm merrily walking along, pushing my cart, and then suddenly remember and halt, and cause a traffic jam that just ripples across the store...)...so I don't usually utilize the mini-convenience store that is a Wal-Mart checkout line.
However, this time, I happened to do just that. Right up until we walked into the line, I had forgotten that I had told E I'd buy him some chapstick "of his very own". And luckily for me, they had the usual selection of like 10 different types just waiting for me.
While I was carefully perusing the labels (God forbid I should pick something too girly or too minty or too "spicy"), I happened to notice something peculiar among the humdrum items: several bottles of K*Y Touch Mass@ge Oil.
Honestly, are there that many people twiddling their thumbs in line at supermarkets who suddenly think: "Damn, I forgot my m@ssage oil!!!"
Wal-Mart seems to think so.
Personally, I'd think co#doms would be higher up on my list of "Things People Forget to Purchase That They're Really Gonna Regret Forgetting." But whatever.
[Also, I'm bleeping things so I don't get spammed. Because this is a family forum...Ha, right.]
[Incidentally, "Achy Breaky Heart" is playing overhead at Kettle, my hometown's only "Internet Cafe"...I am sad to discover that that song did not die as it should have, in the 90s...]
But my point is, you know how all supermarkets and stores of similar ilk have their checkout aisles so nicely set up with all the things that a busy mom/normal person is likely to forget otherwise? Like Kleenex and chapstick and batteries and soap and God only knows what else? And naturally, all those dinky little toys that your kids just HAVE to have, and all your own favorite candy and fluff magazines, so then if Mommy gets a present, then E has to have one...It's quite sneaky of them.
I rarely wait until I'm actually in the checkout line to realize that I've forgotten something... (Usually I'm merrily walking along, pushing my cart, and then suddenly remember and halt, and cause a traffic jam that just ripples across the store...)...so I don't usually utilize the mini-convenience store that is a Wal-Mart checkout line.
However, this time, I happened to do just that. Right up until we walked into the line, I had forgotten that I had told E I'd buy him some chapstick "of his very own". And luckily for me, they had the usual selection of like 10 different types just waiting for me.
While I was carefully perusing the labels (God forbid I should pick something too girly or too minty or too "spicy"), I happened to notice something peculiar among the humdrum items: several bottles of K*Y Touch Mass@ge Oil.
Honestly, are there that many people twiddling their thumbs in line at supermarkets who suddenly think: "Damn, I forgot my m@ssage oil!!!"
Wal-Mart seems to think so.
Personally, I'd think co#doms would be higher up on my list of "Things People Forget to Purchase That They're Really Gonna Regret Forgetting." But whatever.
[Also, I'm bleeping things so I don't get spammed. Because this is a family forum...Ha, right.]
7/17/07
Can You Tell It's New?
E, to my mom, as she climbed into my car: "Don't touch ANYTHING in my mom's car."
E, to my brother, as he climbed into the driver's seat: "You have got to BE CAREFUL in my mom's car."
E, to my brother, as he climbed into the driver's seat: "You have got to BE CAREFUL in my mom's car."
7/12/07
Boys Just Wanna Have Fun
Recent exchange with E...
Me: Hey, E, we're gonna get a new car soon. Does that sound like a good idea?
E: [Dawning hope in eyes, accompanied by several Hummer-shaped stars...]
Me: But it's NOT going to be a Hummer.
E: [Pouting]
Exchange with E after buying said new car...
Me: Do you like the car, even though it's not a Hummer?
E: Yes. But we're going to call it a Transformer.
Me: Hey, E, we're gonna get a new car soon. Does that sound like a good idea?
E: [Dawning hope in eyes, accompanied by several Hummer-shaped stars...]
Me: But it's NOT going to be a Hummer.
E: [Pouting]
Exchange with E after buying said new car...
Me: Do you like the car, even though it's not a Hummer?
E: Yes. But we're going to call it a Transformer.
7/3/07
Happenings
We had a blast in the Twin Cities, visiting the fam.
We just happened to go to the Mall of America, while we were there.
We just happened to buy all-day ride passes at the (former?) Camp Snoopy. That was a BIG DEAL for us. Usually, as kids, my sibs and I were limited to 3 rides each, unless one of my uncles was feeling generous and bought us passes. I think my parents were feeling generous this time because E was back among us. (Like a fungus.) Not that they bought the passes, that would have been asking a bit much. But they bought one for my brother, so that I got to ride all the kiddie rides with E and all the grown-up rides with David.
Speaking of "E", my new favorite thing is to call him "Tiny Dancer", because of:
A: his habit of dancing
B: his genetic fate of rather stunted stature (ha, not really, he's not that short, just short...)
C: my love of Elton John and a certain song that I used to think had lyrics involving "head lice".
PS: if you don't know why I thought it was a song about head lice, I'm not going to talk to you any more, because you're obviously not an Elton John fan.
So I'm seriously considering switching my son's "E" pseudonym to "Tiny Dancer" or perhaps just "T.D.", to preserve the rather feminine anonymity of his nickname...I'll let you know what I decide...
Anyway, after we'd all ridden ourselves silly on the amusement park rides, we happened to find ourselves in Lego Land. They have a rather fascinating play area with piles and piles of Legos in huge bins, and a racing ramp, so you can make and race your own Lego Cars. Brilliant.
E, of course, dug right in, oblivious to the nearby family argument going on about where the 20 members of the extended gene pool were going to meet for dinner, and how we were all going to get there. After about 15-20 minutes of planning and negotiating, we finally decided on a destination. E, my brother, and I were ordered to hitch a ride to the restaurant with my Nana & Papa (you see, organizing a family reunion is kind of like organizing troops. The general doesn't take disobedience well, because that could lead to someone dying...).
Well, in my distracted folly, I didn't realize that E, of course, hadn't been privy to our discussion, and all of a sudden, we had to race for the restaurant to make it by the agreed time. So he got no "you have 5 minutes to play" warning. Instead, I told him we had to go, picked him up bodily, took his Lego car away and left it in a nearby collection bin, and walked out of the area.
BAD IDEA.
The mall exit was, predictably, as far away from Lego Land as we could possibly have gotten. He kicked and screamed for the entire walk. He's a pretty strong little kiddo, and at one point, I had to deliver him to my brother, who is considerably stronger than I, to manhandle through the building.
I was extraordinarily embarrassed, because no parent wants to have to make the Mother's Walk of Shame for more than a few feet, much less make that walk in front of one's own grandparents! My mom was one of seven kids, and I have a dozen or so cousins, so it's not as if they're unused to screaming children, but still!
But all my Nana said was a mild: "I hope no one thinks we're kidnapping him..."
At which point, my traitorous and unmotherly inner self happened to think: "If a security guard came up right now and questioned me, I would say 'You are absolutely right, you should find this child's real mother.'"
We just happened to go to the Mall of America, while we were there.
We just happened to buy all-day ride passes at the (former?) Camp Snoopy. That was a BIG DEAL for us. Usually, as kids, my sibs and I were limited to 3 rides each, unless one of my uncles was feeling generous and bought us passes. I think my parents were feeling generous this time because E was back among us. (Like a fungus.) Not that they bought the passes, that would have been asking a bit much. But they bought one for my brother, so that I got to ride all the kiddie rides with E and all the grown-up rides with David.
Speaking of "E", my new favorite thing is to call him "Tiny Dancer", because of:
A: his habit of dancing
B: his genetic fate of rather stunted stature (ha, not really, he's not that short, just short...)
C: my love of Elton John and a certain song that I used to think had lyrics involving "head lice".
PS: if you don't know why I thought it was a song about head lice, I'm not going to talk to you any more, because you're obviously not an Elton John fan.
So I'm seriously considering switching my son's "E" pseudonym to "Tiny Dancer" or perhaps just "T.D.", to preserve the rather feminine anonymity of his nickname...I'll let you know what I decide...
Anyway, after we'd all ridden ourselves silly on the amusement park rides, we happened to find ourselves in Lego Land. They have a rather fascinating play area with piles and piles of Legos in huge bins, and a racing ramp, so you can make and race your own Lego Cars. Brilliant.
E, of course, dug right in, oblivious to the nearby family argument going on about where the 20 members of the extended gene pool were going to meet for dinner, and how we were all going to get there. After about 15-20 minutes of planning and negotiating, we finally decided on a destination. E, my brother, and I were ordered to hitch a ride to the restaurant with my Nana & Papa (you see, organizing a family reunion is kind of like organizing troops. The general doesn't take disobedience well, because that could lead to someone dying...).
Well, in my distracted folly, I didn't realize that E, of course, hadn't been privy to our discussion, and all of a sudden, we had to race for the restaurant to make it by the agreed time. So he got no "you have 5 minutes to play" warning. Instead, I told him we had to go, picked him up bodily, took his Lego car away and left it in a nearby collection bin, and walked out of the area.
BAD IDEA.
The mall exit was, predictably, as far away from Lego Land as we could possibly have gotten. He kicked and screamed for the entire walk. He's a pretty strong little kiddo, and at one point, I had to deliver him to my brother, who is considerably stronger than I, to manhandle through the building.
I was extraordinarily embarrassed, because no parent wants to have to make the Mother's Walk of Shame for more than a few feet, much less make that walk in front of one's own grandparents! My mom was one of seven kids, and I have a dozen or so cousins, so it's not as if they're unused to screaming children, but still!
But all my Nana said was a mild: "I hope no one thinks we're kidnapping him..."
At which point, my traitorous and unmotherly inner self happened to think: "If a security guard came up right now and questioned me, I would say 'You are absolutely right, you should find this child's real mother.'"
6/23/07
Back Where He Belongs
I didn't cry when he left. And I cried maybe once when he was gone.
But I cried like a baby when he came back. And days later, I'm still teary-eyed.
I'm glad he's back.
Incidentally, we're in Minnesota, celebrating my grandparents' 56th anniversary.
But I cried like a baby when he came back. And days later, I'm still teary-eyed.
I'm glad he's back.
Incidentally, we're in Minnesota, celebrating my grandparents' 56th anniversary.
6/18/07
Sweating the Small Things
The other night, I had one of the most pleasant dreams of my life.
I dreamed I was helping E get dressed in the morning.
I gave him a choice of shirts. And he rejected both and proceeded to empty his entire shirt drawer in search of the perfect shirt. He does that because he insists I don't pick cool shirts for him. He's a bit of a brat....I watched him pick shorts and undergarment and socks. I argued with him about the merits of wearing his adorable green sneakers that reflect so nicely on his (and his mom's) coolness versus his old clunky tennis shoes that are a size too big for him...
I know, I know, not exactly earth-shattering or even that interesting to write about. But it really illustrated to me what I find precious about my time with him. It's not necessarily the big events like taking him to the zoo or playing with him at the park. Although those are wonderful as well. But the things that I really miss are the everyday things that I don't even think about when he's here and when they're commonplace.
The other day I was driving and absentmindedly reached back toward the back seat, looking for a small hand to grasp. It wasn't until the hand wasn't there that I realized how frequently I perform that particular maneuver.
For another example, I was saddened by my laundry last week. I enjoy doing laundry usually (I know, it's such a housewifely thing for me to actually enjoy doing...). I like that it takes a short time to see results and that at the end of the procedure, you have a bunch of clean clothing that you probably forgot you even owned in the intervening time between when you threw the article in question into the laundry basket, and removed it on Laundry Day. Not that I have a Laundry Day, per se. Laundry Day is Whenever Mommy Has Time Day, in my establishment.
But anyway, the cleansing of tiny socks that wouldn't be worn for some time, and the folding of countless tiny shirts that would go unworn, was inexplicably sad.
Good thing he's coming home on Thursday, huh?
I dreamed I was helping E get dressed in the morning.
I gave him a choice of shirts. And he rejected both and proceeded to empty his entire shirt drawer in search of the perfect shirt. He does that because he insists I don't pick cool shirts for him. He's a bit of a brat....I watched him pick shorts and undergarment and socks. I argued with him about the merits of wearing his adorable green sneakers that reflect so nicely on his (and his mom's) coolness versus his old clunky tennis shoes that are a size too big for him...
I know, I know, not exactly earth-shattering or even that interesting to write about. But it really illustrated to me what I find precious about my time with him. It's not necessarily the big events like taking him to the zoo or playing with him at the park. Although those are wonderful as well. But the things that I really miss are the everyday things that I don't even think about when he's here and when they're commonplace.
The other day I was driving and absentmindedly reached back toward the back seat, looking for a small hand to grasp. It wasn't until the hand wasn't there that I realized how frequently I perform that particular maneuver.
For another example, I was saddened by my laundry last week. I enjoy doing laundry usually (I know, it's such a housewifely thing for me to actually enjoy doing...). I like that it takes a short time to see results and that at the end of the procedure, you have a bunch of clean clothing that you probably forgot you even owned in the intervening time between when you threw the article in question into the laundry basket, and removed it on Laundry Day. Not that I have a Laundry Day, per se. Laundry Day is Whenever Mommy Has Time Day, in my establishment.
But anyway, the cleansing of tiny socks that wouldn't be worn for some time, and the folding of countless tiny shirts that would go unworn, was inexplicably sad.
Good thing he's coming home on Thursday, huh?
6/15/07
A Guest Post for Your Consideration
"My rant against a facebook group about kids in college classrooms"
By: my sister (sorry about the copyright or whatever, kiddo. Get your own blog...)
By: my sister (sorry about the copyright or whatever, kiddo. Get your own blog...)
So a while ago I came across a facebook group dedicated to keeping children of students out of the college classrooms. Their message was, if memory serves, three-fold: children are distracting, get a sitter, don't allow people who haven't paid for the privilege to sit in on a college class.
This particularly incensed me in that I have known parents who have had no choice but to take their children to class. I have even had to take my sweet, darling baby nephew to a voice lesson and he was an angel! Last minute cancellations and insufficient funds are among the myriad reasons why one might be compelled to bring their child to class.
The group complained about children being distracting to which I might answer that people in general are distracting. The world is distracting. Get over it. Harsh as it may seem, the classroom environment is rarely one that is free of diversions (with the possible exception of test days). I would find the antics of junior playing quietly with his cars in the corner no less enthralling than the kid who sits next to me talking to his buddy the whole time. And don't even try to tell me that everyone in the class is always focused 100% on the material being presented. And those who are should be used to narrowing the focus of their concentration.
Simply getting a sitter for one's child is not always an option. Many parents already have sitters in place or day care or preschool in which their children are enrolled. But complications with such plans are unavoidable, and there are the occasions where the parent is left without recourse to those secondary care providers. The parent is then left with the option of either remaining at home to care for the child, or taking that same child to class with them. I would hazard a guess that the grand majority of the time, the parent would opt to remain home with the child. It's not like anyone is all excited to bring their kid in the middle of somewhere where the kid isn't welcome.
But there are times when doing so is unavoidable. Sometimes it is imperative for one to attend class - like say for an important lecture or to pick up some materials or for a quiz. On days where it is critical for one to attend class, the addition of a child is what one may call a 'necessary evil'. However, as I have already speculated, I think that this is more than likely the exception rather than the rule to bringing one's child to class and as long as it is not a habitual occurrence I think it behooves the student population to demonstrate a modicum of tolerance. But that's just me.
The last complaint (I believe) was that students paid for the privilege of attending classes, and to bring someone in - even if that someone was a five year old who had no concept of the materials being discussed - who hadn't paid was cheapening the academic experience of the students. In making such assertions of course, they ignore the fact that many people who haven't paid to attend the class make appearances: potential students or even friends who just want to sit in on the class. Perhaps if these dissenters could adjust their thinking to include children as potential students there would be no problem. Then there is of course the fact that students' attendance is sketchy at best and if attendance is used to gauge the value of the class it appears variable by student. The fact that a parent would still want to attend class, even with a child in tow, would thereby imply that the class was of some value to that person. If paying a fee grants the privilege of attendance, then parents who've paid tuition should have the same right to attend class.
Accusations of bad parenting were lobbed by this group against the parents who bring their children to class, their argument being that kids will not enjoy sitting through a college class. If it was considered bad parenting on every occasion in which a parent brought a child somewhere where the latter would not enjoy it, then how many church outings, doctor's visits, car rides would be condemned as bad parenting? I would argue that the parent doing well in class - and by extension doing well in college and earning one's degree - is tied to the welfare of the child.
The existence of this group demonstrates a narrow-mindedness to the difficulties that arise when a person is both a student and a parent, particularly when one is a single parent. Decisions must be made while weighing the complex issues at hand, and parents deserve a little respect for their heroic efforts. Basically what I'm saying to this facebook group (who probably will never read a word of this rant) is that as long as this isn't a perpetual problem in the classroom, grow up and try to demonstrate a little sympathy and understanding. Trust me, you'll be better off for it.
6/14/07
One is the loneliest number...
I'm sorry if I'm still extraordinarily morose in this forum. It's really the only place where I'm allowing myself to be so. I keep a stiff upper lip and all that jazz in the real world. I'm really not that depressed. Just...incomplete, I suppose.
Before E left, he and I had several talks about his visit to his dad. I gently reminded him that it would seem like a really long time, but that I would always be back to get him (and screw you, people who say that you should never say things like that to kids, it makes us both feel better!), like I always have been. We went through the usual "Why are you making me go to Daddy Zak's house?", which is always a fun conversation to have with a child...He said that he'd miss me, but that he wouldn't cry. And I (because I'm apparently completely anti-gender roles) said, "well, you know that it's O.K. to cry if you miss someone, or because you're sad. It's not all right to cry when you're not getting your own way." The poor kid said, "But they don't like when I cry." Which, what can I say to that? No one likes it when kids cry! And how do you explain the difference to a child?! I said something like, "They'll understand if you cry because you're sad." (And that was probably completely the wrong thing to say, whatever, shut up!)
I got to witness E having the same conversation with my dad. Except E was the one to gently comfort his Poppa: "I'm going to be gone for a long time, Poppa, and you're going to miss me.
But I'll be back, so don't be too sad." Sniff.
And then, right before he was about to go, as I was putting on his shoes, he asked "Mom, will you be in my heart?"
Don't ever have kids. They'll kill you with their cuteness.
Before E left, he and I had several talks about his visit to his dad. I gently reminded him that it would seem like a really long time, but that I would always be back to get him (and screw you, people who say that you should never say things like that to kids, it makes us both feel better!), like I always have been. We went through the usual "Why are you making me go to Daddy Zak's house?", which is always a fun conversation to have with a child...He said that he'd miss me, but that he wouldn't cry. And I (because I'm apparently completely anti-gender roles) said, "well, you know that it's O.K. to cry if you miss someone, or because you're sad. It's not all right to cry when you're not getting your own way." The poor kid said, "But they don't like when I cry." Which, what can I say to that? No one likes it when kids cry! And how do you explain the difference to a child?! I said something like, "They'll understand if you cry because you're sad." (And that was probably completely the wrong thing to say, whatever, shut up!)
I got to witness E having the same conversation with my dad. Except E was the one to gently comfort his Poppa: "I'm going to be gone for a long time, Poppa, and you're going to miss me.
But I'll be back, so don't be too sad." Sniff.
And then, right before he was about to go, as I was putting on his shoes, he asked "Mom, will you be in my heart?"
Don't ever have kids. They'll kill you with their cuteness.
6/9/07
Getting Back into the Swing of Things...
EDIT: I added a post from May. Find it below or here
It's hard to be a SAHM. I couldn't even manage it for one week without practically going crazy. Now, don't get me wrong, I adore my son and I would give anything to be able to spend more time with him during the school year. But he wears me the heck out. I feel kind of sorry for my parents, who watched him almost non-stop this past semester, when he wasn't in preschool. He must have driven them crazy. And naturally, having to deal with Mommy's discipline methods after having spent all this time basking in the relative leniency of adoring grandparents was a bit difficult for both of us. Especially since that difficulty translated itself into whining and hissy fits....(ok, ok, for both E and me. Shut up.)
So I initiated the "star chart." Basically, for every day that E manages to not piss me off doesn't whine or throw a hissy fit, he gets a star sticker. And then after so many stars, he gets a small present. Since he's four, the goal for stars starts at 4, then goes to 5, 6, 7, you get the point. It's actually worked quite well, and before he left for his dad's house, he had gotten 4 stars in 5 days, and a Transformer was the reward. (Yeah, yeah, it's not exactly small, but he was leaving for 2 weeks, go easy on me...)
It took FOREVER to explain it to him. It kind of went like this:
Evan: How many stars do I need to get a present?
Mom: Well, first, you need 4 stars. After you get 4, you'll get a small present.
Evan: I have a star right now, let me put it on the chart.
Mom: No way, Jose, you get stars for being good. Not just because.
Evan: But I AM good!
Mom: I mean, when you don't whine or cry. Or scream.
Evan: Oh. Well, then what happens?
Mom: For every day that you don't whine or cry (or scream), you'll get one star to put on your chart.
Evan: ....And then what?
Mom: Then, after you get 4 stars, you can have a present!
Evan: What kind of present?
Mom: A small one.
Evan: When?
Mom: Oh, for God's sake, when you get 4 stars!!
Evan: Well, I have a star right here...
It's hard to be a SAHM. I couldn't even manage it for one week without practically going crazy. Now, don't get me wrong, I adore my son and I would give anything to be able to spend more time with him during the school year. But he wears me the heck out. I feel kind of sorry for my parents, who watched him almost non-stop this past semester, when he wasn't in preschool. He must have driven them crazy. And naturally, having to deal with Mommy's discipline methods after having spent all this time basking in the relative leniency of adoring grandparents was a bit difficult for both of us. Especially since that difficulty translated itself into whining and hissy fits....(ok, ok, for both E and me. Shut up.)
So I initiated the "star chart." Basically, for every day that E
It took FOREVER to explain it to him. It kind of went like this:
Evan: How many stars do I need to get a present?
Mom: Well, first, you need 4 stars. After you get 4, you'll get a small present.
Evan: I have a star right now, let me put it on the chart.
Mom: No way, Jose, you get stars for being good. Not just because.
Evan: But I AM good!
Mom: I mean, when you don't whine or cry. Or scream.
Evan: Oh. Well, then what happens?
Mom: For every day that you don't whine or cry (or scream), you'll get one star to put on your chart.
Evan: ....And then what?
Mom: Then, after you get 4 stars, you can have a present!
Evan: What kind of present?
Mom: A small one.
Evan: When?
Mom: Oh, for God's sake, when you get 4 stars!!
Evan: Well, I have a star right here...
6/8/07
A Little Bit at a Loss
So, E left Tuesday to spend 2 weeks with his dad, and I am, as the title so clearly states, a little bit at a loss for words. And for what to do with myself while he's gone. I mean, I'd like to think I'm not one of those parents who's completely and utterly wrapped up in my child. But the fact is that he's larger than life for me (I mean, how could he not be, he's pretty much a midget...) and when he's gone, life seems a lot more bland.
No cutesy things to post about. No mommy issues banging around in my head. No goodnight stories. No spontaneous kisses. No counting to three. And then five. And then ten.
Just silence. And much sleeping in. Which, granted, I'm not complaining about that, per se. But I do rather miss my alarm clock.
Xbox and the internet do their best to keep me occupied, but they're only human constructs. My son is a gift from God. And it's rather difficult to not get hung up on how wide the gap really is.
So I'm trying not to post, to prevent myself from becoming far too lachrymose. I may go back and finish some of the posts that I just grew bored of before they made it into the stark reality of the web. Keep your eyes open.
And think of something for me to do.
No cutesy things to post about. No mommy issues banging around in my head. No goodnight stories. No spontaneous kisses. No counting to three. And then five. And then ten.
Just silence. And much sleeping in. Which, granted, I'm not complaining about that, per se. But I do rather miss my alarm clock.
Xbox and the internet do their best to keep me occupied, but they're only human constructs. My son is a gift from God. And it's rather difficult to not get hung up on how wide the gap really is.
So I'm trying not to post, to prevent myself from becoming far too lachrymose. I may go back and finish some of the posts that I just grew bored of before they made it into the stark reality of the web. Keep your eyes open.
And think of something for me to do.
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