My mother had specific rules for tidying up our house when I was little. The house had to be tidy AT LEAST on two occasions: 1) when we were expecting visitors and 2) when we were leaving for any longer than a day, so she could return to a clean house. She clung to these above all else under the onslaught of three horribly messy growing children and a husband with his mind on less earthly things than housework ;-).
Among the multiple wise, wonderful things I picked up from my delightful little mommy (you can send me a check, Mother...), I latched on to these rules with the same mindset. And then took it one crazy, nutso step further, to where a large portion of my free time is spent pottering around various areas of the house, with the aim of constant tidiness. After all, with only a slightly untidy spouse and one small child, the cleanliness of my house is one of the things I can control almost 24/7. The boys are rarely able to get ahead of me.
I was thinking this yesterday as I was obsessively scrubbing something inane (I don't even remember now what it was, which shows you how important it must have been...). And thinking that should the day ever arise when more children grace my life, my housecleaning impulses are going to have to go down the drain rapidly, especially with this doctoring thing that I've got my heart set on. Yeah, you can hire a housekeeper, I suppose. But I clearly remember the abortive attempts of housekeepers to relieve some of my mother's cleaning burdens when I was young. They would leave the house, and she would start cleaning, because they never did things the way she wanted them. I have no illusions: I'm just like my mother. So basically, my tidy house days are numbered.
However, I may have given myself a little boost into the saddle with Mi Hijo Numero Uno.
Case in point: he came home yesterday from a 2-week vacay with his dad, and walked into his room expecting it to still be in the stellar condition in which he left it. However, I had belatedly realized that I needed to wash away some allergens and had therefore completely stripped his bed of the 5 pillows, 2 bolsters, 3 quilts, 1 baby blanket, 1 large tiger, 1 large pig and about 30 stuffed animals which regularly occupy it. Seeing the carnage littering his bedroom floor, he promptly burst into tears, and berated me, saying "but it's so much work to build my nest!!" Which is a fact I discovered for myself, when, an hour later, his sheets were done and he requested my help to put his bed back together. Having restored his zoo to its proper location, I left him to the final touches.
When I walked in a little later, he was busily picking up the (maybe three) toys that were on his floor and he said "I need to clean my room, mom, will you help me?"
"Um, sure," I said, "but why does your room need cleaning?" I repeat, there were all of three toys on the floor.
"Mom! What if someone comes in here, what would they think of me?!"
"What?! Who is going to come in here?!"
"Visitors!! Or a new friend!!"
Yes, that's my child. Freaking Martha Stewart in the body of a 7-year-old boy.
But at least maybe I'll have someone waging war on my side in the ongoing saga of Woman vs House.
My slightly-insane life and times
6/15/10
6/14/10
Humility
My son asked me if he'd been good all day today. And in general, he had. And I told him so.
He said "Good. Because I've been trying to be on my best behavior all day."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I don't want to misbehave and have you get mad at me at the end of the day. I really don't like that."
If I were less human, I'd never be mad at him again. But I can only strive toward being a better mom.
Good thing he's here to help me along.
He said "Good. Because I've been trying to be on my best behavior all day."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I don't want to misbehave and have you get mad at me at the end of the day. I really don't like that."
If I were less human, I'd never be mad at him again. But I can only strive toward being a better mom.
Good thing he's here to help me along.
4/27/10
And today, we are seven
Happy birthday, my bright boy. You're not exactly a baby any more. Too big to carry, too big to even sit on my lap without my legs going numb. Too big to shop in the 5T section of the store, too big to hold my hand on the way into school.
You're outgrowing my world and I can only watch and be awed.
You're outgrowing my world and I can only watch and be awed.
3/2/10
Lenten Journeys
The week before Ash Wednesday, D and I were discussing what we were going to give up for Lent. I usually go the meatless route, but with my newfound and newly-developing cooking skills, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to maneuver much if I went with that as a Lenten sacrifice. So I was at a bit of an impasse until D suggested dessert, at which point my heart froze...and I knew I'd found my choice.
I have an impossible sweet tooth. I need something sweet after breakfast, for goodness' sake. So giving up dessert has been difficult (and I fail miserably on occasion). But I start over again when I trip up (consciously or unconsciously), and I guess that's just part of the Lenten journey.
My sweet, innocent son also decided to give up something for Lent. Two things, in fact, despite my worried assurances that he didn't have to make the sacrifice. In retrospect, I should probably have wholeheartedly and unhesitatingly endorsed his desire, but at the time, I was thinking more along the lines of "He's only 6!!!"
He persevered, despite my lack of enthusiasm. And decided to give up drinking milk (he's still allowed the requisite bowl of cereal or two), and playing computer games. Now, playing computer games is not something he does very often at all, but milk is his favorite beverage by far. (Before you call me a bad mother for encouraging him to deprive himself of delicious nutrition, he takes more than enough Vitamin D in the sour gummy form. Don't ever doubt me again...) So I was quite impressed with his willingness to give up something he loves so very much.
Now I just have to make sure he knows why he's giving it up.
Happy Lent.
I have an impossible sweet tooth. I need something sweet after breakfast, for goodness' sake. So giving up dessert has been difficult (and I fail miserably on occasion). But I start over again when I trip up (consciously or unconsciously), and I guess that's just part of the Lenten journey.
My sweet, innocent son also decided to give up something for Lent. Two things, in fact, despite my worried assurances that he didn't have to make the sacrifice. In retrospect, I should probably have wholeheartedly and unhesitatingly endorsed his desire, but at the time, I was thinking more along the lines of "He's only 6!!!"
He persevered, despite my lack of enthusiasm. And decided to give up drinking milk (he's still allowed the requisite bowl of cereal or two), and playing computer games. Now, playing computer games is not something he does very often at all, but milk is his favorite beverage by far. (Before you call me a bad mother for encouraging him to deprive himself of delicious nutrition, he takes more than enough Vitamin D in the sour gummy form. Don't ever doubt me again...) So I was quite impressed with his willingness to give up something he loves so very much.
Now I just have to make sure he knows why he's giving it up.
Happy Lent.
2/1/10
At least he appreciates me...
I was sick last week, to the point where I stayed in my room almost exclusively for two days in a row, with the lights off and the curtains drawn. My bedroom wall backs up to the kitchen, though, so I could hear my boys going about their business as usual.
So I was rather gratified to hear E tell my husband: "You know, you'll have to do everything that Mommy does 'cause she's sick."
D: "Oh yeah? Like what?"
E: "Just everything!"
D: "Well, what does she do that I need to do?"
E: "I don't know! She just does a lot!"
It's nice to have some recognition. Even if it's vague...
So I was rather gratified to hear E tell my husband: "You know, you'll have to do everything that Mommy does 'cause she's sick."
D: "Oh yeah? Like what?"
E: "Just everything!"
D: "Well, what does she do that I need to do?"
E: "I don't know! She just does a lot!"
It's nice to have some recognition. Even if it's vague...
1/26/10
Baby Mozart
My son has restarted piano lessons for this semester. We went through about 6 months of them starting in January of last year, but when the summer was over, we (I) just didn't have the time or energy to wrestle with lessons again. In addition, although I liked his teacher quite a bit, I didn't feel that she was offering him much more in his lessons than my mom or I could. So mom took over, and she very patiently and bravely took him through to the Christmas season. But then we met a lady at Target (of all places), who was a violinist and highly recommended her son's piano teacher to me.
We had his first lesson last week and it went wonderfully. First of all, she didn't talk down to him and didn't really filter her "big words" for him. She had an obvious goal in mind for the lesson and didn't slow down for a moment, so that he was never twiddling his thumbs while she figured out what to do. Most importantly for me, she was actually teaching him, and not straight out of a book (like Mom and I were doing). Most importantly for E, she made the lesson really fun and they spent most of it laughing at each others' musical antics, both on her grand piano and on the hand drums she had in the studio.
On the drive home after the lesson, I asked E what he thought, and he said "That was actually fun!" Which is exactly what I hoped for, and what I couldn't give him in my lessons.
I realized the other day that piano is one of the few things that I have infinite patience with. I can sit down at the piano and get lost for hours at a time, running the same passage from a piece over and over again. And no matter how often I mess up, I just do it again until it's perfect. If you know me, you know that I am not patient, including with myself, my husband, my son, my family members, and the world at large.
My son inherited (or learned...) my lack of patience. He's a lot better about it than I am, though. But the piano is the only thing that consistently brings the Impatience Monster out. He HATES his 4th finger, or he HATES the way his hands don't stay in the proper position on their own, or he HATES that he can't remember what a sharp note looks like on the page. And I hate having my time wasted, so piano practice is always a struggle for us.
But yesterday, I realized something. He's not used to hearing me practice, because he's usually asleep by then, and he thinks he's the only one in this family of pianists who's ever had to practice to be good. So I disabused him of that notion. I told him which of my fingers is my least favorite. I played my fingerwork practice piece for him, which sounds an awful lot like his (just harder, thank goodness for my pride). I stifled my impatience and I never raised my voice. And he calmed down and had a very good practice.
I struggle with my own impatience on a daily basis. But the piano is one arena where I usually don't have to. So maybe this is one way both my son and I can work on our patience together. And maybe, just maybe, one day he won't hate that finger.
And he won't hate playing the piano.
We had his first lesson last week and it went wonderfully. First of all, she didn't talk down to him and didn't really filter her "big words" for him. She had an obvious goal in mind for the lesson and didn't slow down for a moment, so that he was never twiddling his thumbs while she figured out what to do. Most importantly for me, she was actually teaching him, and not straight out of a book (like Mom and I were doing). Most importantly for E, she made the lesson really fun and they spent most of it laughing at each others' musical antics, both on her grand piano and on the hand drums she had in the studio.
On the drive home after the lesson, I asked E what he thought, and he said "That was actually fun!" Which is exactly what I hoped for, and what I couldn't give him in my lessons.
I realized the other day that piano is one of the few things that I have infinite patience with. I can sit down at the piano and get lost for hours at a time, running the same passage from a piece over and over again. And no matter how often I mess up, I just do it again until it's perfect. If you know me, you know that I am not patient, including with myself, my husband, my son, my family members, and the world at large.
My son inherited (or learned...) my lack of patience. He's a lot better about it than I am, though. But the piano is the only thing that consistently brings the Impatience Monster out. He HATES his 4th finger, or he HATES the way his hands don't stay in the proper position on their own, or he HATES that he can't remember what a sharp note looks like on the page. And I hate having my time wasted, so piano practice is always a struggle for us.
But yesterday, I realized something. He's not used to hearing me practice, because he's usually asleep by then, and he thinks he's the only one in this family of pianists who's ever had to practice to be good. So I disabused him of that notion. I told him which of my fingers is my least favorite. I played my fingerwork practice piece for him, which sounds an awful lot like his (just harder, thank goodness for my pride). I stifled my impatience and I never raised my voice. And he calmed down and had a very good practice.
I struggle with my own impatience on a daily basis. But the piano is one arena where I usually don't have to. So maybe this is one way both my son and I can work on our patience together. And maybe, just maybe, one day he won't hate that finger.
And he won't hate playing the piano.
1/24/10
He's Ready to Buy
D and I are currently in the process of tentative house-hunting. Tentative as in we won't know if we'll be moving until March 18th, but we want to jump in on the first-time home buyers tax incentive, blah blah blah. So we're looking, but just keeping our eyes open for now. For me, that means watching a lot of HGTV House Hunters, as well...
Last weekend there was an open house in a gated community right behind where we currently live, so we trundled ourselves over there after church to see how it was. The house was lovely and of course we did the typical things like comment on the woodwork and the size of the rooms, whatever. As we were about to leave, E requested that we go upstairs and look around for a second time, so we obliged. But apparently what he wanted was to truly examine the floor coverings, because once he had done so, he loudly stated, "Well, we can always take this carpet out."
The realtor, who was standing downstairs, started laughing. Thank goodness.
Because then as we went back downstairs, he perused the carpet on the stairs, and declared, "I don't really like the color of this carpet, but we can change it."
D said he needs to be on a strict regimen of Spike TV every day. But I think we'll value his opinion when the time comes to actually buy our first home together...
Last weekend there was an open house in a gated community right behind where we currently live, so we trundled ourselves over there after church to see how it was. The house was lovely and of course we did the typical things like comment on the woodwork and the size of the rooms, whatever. As we were about to leave, E requested that we go upstairs and look around for a second time, so we obliged. But apparently what he wanted was to truly examine the floor coverings, because once he had done so, he loudly stated, "Well, we can always take this carpet out."
The realtor, who was standing downstairs, started laughing. Thank goodness.
Because then as we went back downstairs, he perused the carpet on the stairs, and declared, "I don't really like the color of this carpet, but we can change it."
D said he needs to be on a strict regimen of Spike TV every day. But I think we'll value his opinion when the time comes to actually buy our first home together...
1/17/10
Racism
E has been learning about MLK Jr for 3 years now. The 1st year, when he was in pre-K, they watched a video about him, and then they had to draw pictures illustrating what they got out of it. E drew a picture of a man and a woman and wrote "Martin Luther King Jr got married."
I don't remember what he did last year. It must have been less memorable.
This year, E asked me out of the blue last Thursday, "Mom, is Martin Luther King Jr dead?"
"Yes, sweetie, he died a long time ago."
"Who harmed him?"
"Someone who didn't agree with what he was doing."
"The white people?"
At least he's getting more than "MLK Jr got married." The boy can be taught!
I don't remember what he did last year. It must have been less memorable.
This year, E asked me out of the blue last Thursday, "Mom, is Martin Luther King Jr dead?"
"Yes, sweetie, he died a long time ago."
"Who harmed him?"
"Someone who didn't agree with what he was doing."
"The white people?"
At least he's getting more than "MLK Jr got married." The boy can be taught!
9/28/09
Delirium
If you haven't heard of Zhu Zhu pets, I hope you remain ignorant.
I am not so lucky. My poor son and I traipsed all over town today looking for the darned things to give as a birthday present to D's niece (whose birthday was more than 2 weeks ago, by the way...we're terrible...). It was after dinner, and after a long day, and E was being extremely good, but I could tell it was wearing on him, because he was starting to lose control of his limbs. I'll explain in some other post, but it's hilarious. He starts to lose coordination, I'm serious.
Anyway, we had just come out of Wally World, which happened to have one Zhu Zhu product, but not the one we were searching for (I bought it anyway, as surety against further disappointment). And I had put a cardigan on whilst in the Big W, since fall is in the air and all that. But apparently E missed that development in his sleepiness.
Because while we were trudging into Toys 'R Us, he put his hand on my arm, and jumped about a mile in the air, then exclaimed, "I thought you were turning into a BEAR!"
I laughed so hard that I cried.
I am not so lucky. My poor son and I traipsed all over town today looking for the darned things to give as a birthday present to D's niece (whose birthday was more than 2 weeks ago, by the way...we're terrible...). It was after dinner, and after a long day, and E was being extremely good, but I could tell it was wearing on him, because he was starting to lose control of his limbs. I'll explain in some other post, but it's hilarious. He starts to lose coordination, I'm serious.
Anyway, we had just come out of Wally World, which happened to have one Zhu Zhu product, but not the one we were searching for (I bought it anyway, as surety against further disappointment). And I had put a cardigan on whilst in the Big W, since fall is in the air and all that. But apparently E missed that development in his sleepiness.
Because while we were trudging into Toys 'R Us, he put his hand on my arm, and jumped about a mile in the air, then exclaimed, "I thought you were turning into a BEAR!"
I laughed so hard that I cried.
9/9/09
I Haven't Been Around in a While...
But I'm baaaaaack!
Quick update, just to get things rolling. Jess, I heard your complaint, I just had to finish Step 2 before I let anything else fun happen in my life...
My sister moved to New Orleans to go to law school. She is Legally Blonde-ing it up down there, and having a blast. I'm so jealous.
My brother moved to the LA area to go to film school. He is taking gorgeous pictures and eating Filipino food, and having a blast. I'm so jealous.
So now it's just me, my boys, and the rents here in the city!
My life path took a rather abrupt turn at the onset of my surgery rotation last May, with the result that I'm deserting pediatrics for general surgery! The residency application process started up officially on September 1st and I've already applied to 30 places. Because I'd really like to get a job...
E finished up a semester of piano lessons with his first piano recital. It was adorable, and he performed wonderfully. Unfortunately, due to our time constraints, we had to pick between soccer and piano this semester. And piano we can provide, but soccer is a little more difficult when you only have one 6-year-old on your team. So piano is currently being provided by my long-suffering mother. She's awesome.
We went to Dallas, San Antonio, and South Padre Island for our vacation this summer. And then E traveled to Branson and South Dakota with various in-laws. Craziness.
Newest on the lifestyle adjustments is finding a babysitter. It's a drama, but we finally (may have) found someone. We're meeting her tomorrow, and if she's at all normal and safe to be around children, she's going to get paid a lot to make my life much easier. So I'm looking forward to it.
That's about it for now! I'm glad you stuck around, if you're reading this...
Quick update, just to get things rolling. Jess, I heard your complaint, I just had to finish Step 2 before I let anything else fun happen in my life...
My sister moved to New Orleans to go to law school. She is Legally Blonde-ing it up down there, and having a blast. I'm so jealous.
My brother moved to the LA area to go to film school. He is taking gorgeous pictures and eating Filipino food, and having a blast. I'm so jealous.
So now it's just me, my boys, and the rents here in the city!
My life path took a rather abrupt turn at the onset of my surgery rotation last May, with the result that I'm deserting pediatrics for general surgery! The residency application process started up officially on September 1st and I've already applied to 30 places. Because I'd really like to get a job...
E finished up a semester of piano lessons with his first piano recital. It was adorable, and he performed wonderfully. Unfortunately, due to our time constraints, we had to pick between soccer and piano this semester. And piano we can provide, but soccer is a little more difficult when you only have one 6-year-old on your team. So piano is currently being provided by my long-suffering mother. She's awesome.
We went to Dallas, San Antonio, and South Padre Island for our vacation this summer. And then E traveled to Branson and South Dakota with various in-laws. Craziness.
Newest on the lifestyle adjustments is finding a babysitter. It's a drama, but we finally (may have) found someone. We're meeting her tomorrow, and if she's at all normal and safe to be around children, she's going to get paid a lot to make my life much easier. So I'm looking forward to it.
That's about it for now! I'm glad you stuck around, if you're reading this...
4/15/09
We're Going on a Bear Hunt
Remember that book/rhyme/game? We probably all played or read some form of it as kids. Well, my son has never read that book for some reason. But he has his own version of the bear hunt...it's called (and I quote) "Jungle Hunt". It involves E and his meek mama creeping creepily through his room, stopping frequently to comment in awed tones on various toys that have morphed into either statues or robots or treasure. 'Robots?' you say. Yes, robots. There are robots in this jungle. And they periodically come to life and chase any unsuspecting jungle travelers, forcing us to run for the trees (aka his upper bunk) and hide under the covers, clutching whatever supplies we may have packed in our trusty jungle pack close to our bosoms. It's ridiculous. And he gets a huge thrill out of it, to where it's our "special game". Probably because it's the only game Mommy's apparently any good at.
Yesterday, we played this game. And everything was going fine and dandy as usual (we found an "ancient sword" and the "ancient hands of a giant" and a mini version of said giant that cast a reddish glow and looked suspiciously like someone who would say "you won't like me when I'm angry") until the robots came to life and chased us to our treetop haven. Whereupon the game suddenly morphed to involve Bakugans.
Bakugans are currently E's favorite toy. If you don't know what the little devils are, they are literally small balls that have a magnet in them, so when you roll/pass them over special magnetized cards (one in every package!), the balls pop open to reveal tiny little anime creatures. Like Transformers, but tiny and magnetized and in balls. And more Japanese. He's obsessed, and there is apparently some form of card-trading game where exchanges of "G's" and various "powers" are made. Unfortunately, this game is unimaginably complicated when described by a five-year-old who likes to make up his own rules when the game starts going against him... Anyway, most of our games recently have been involving Bakugan (Bakugans? Bakugani?) and I was looking forward to a respite. But oh no. There we were, in our airy sanctuary, and the darn things make their appearance.
The next thing I knew, E told me we were making a "virus", which involved some ridiculous ritual of mixing the cards up, casting some spells, picking out the cards that were miraculously turned upside-down, and throwing them down on the floor while yelling "Evackirate!" at the tops of our lungs and then adding up points on the cards. This somehow equaled making a virus.
I can't explain him. I'm just there for the show.
I'd like to dedicate this post to my friend Fenny, who made me laugh with a recent blog post on the impossibilities of playing with your kids. While E and I were playing this game, I was thinking to myself "some other kid would be so much better at this than I am. I have NO idea when it's appropriate to celebrate because I've created a virus, or be scared because I've uncovered the ancient sword." So here's to us, Fenny, and our attempts to fit into their magical worlds. I don't remember how to live there, but I can watch through the windows.
4/9/09
Healing
Disclaimer: I'm feeling religious this evening, so don't read this if you are in the mood to roll your eyes. Or do, because I'll provide fodder or something. But hey, if you can't write about religion during Lent, when can you?
I went to Mass this evening, because it's Holy Thursday. While there, I was thinking about why I've remained Catholic, in the face of all the bad rep and/or influence out there. I was thinking about why I hate to miss Mass on Sundays, on why I drag my husband kicking and screaming, on why I do my best to bring up my son with a healthy respect for why we go to church every weekend without fail.
For me, it goes beyond wanting to please my mother any more. Something goes missing in my weekly life when I don't make it to Mass, and something feels incomplete for the rest of the week until I can go again.
I think it is because Mass is a haven for me. No one at Mass is judging me (at least where I can hear them) and no one is asking anything of me. I don't have to be the perfect medical student, the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect daughter. I don't have to interact with anyone else, don't have to present a front to the world. I get to interact with my faith and my God only. I get to just be me, in the silence and stillness of my own soul. I get to reflect only on me and the positioning of my life for one precious hour. I get the chance to voice all of my joys, my worries, my concerns, my secret fears, my sins to a God who I truly believe listens to me, even if only with half an ear (He's busy, after all, I cut Him some slack...). In a life of unscheduled, spontaneous chaos, where my days revolve around the wishes of so many other people, the Mass is highly structured, with no uncertainty and no surprises. It's such a relief to spend an entire hour doing something so ritualistic, something that has been the same for my entire life, for hundreds of years, something that in essence never changes and hopefully never will change. A girl likes a little stability in her life.
And in the end, I truly feel so lucky/blessed/happily predestined/whatever in this life. I feel as if I have so much joy that I could never possibly deserve. And if I choose to attribute that joy to a higher being, to something larger than chance, and if I choose to be grateful for that joy, what better way than to give an hour of my week over to reflecting on that gratitude? It's only an hour. And I receive so very much in return.
I went to Mass this evening, because it's Holy Thursday. While there, I was thinking about why I've remained Catholic, in the face of all the bad rep and/or influence out there. I was thinking about why I hate to miss Mass on Sundays, on why I drag my husband kicking and screaming, on why I do my best to bring up my son with a healthy respect for why we go to church every weekend without fail.
For me, it goes beyond wanting to please my mother any more. Something goes missing in my weekly life when I don't make it to Mass, and something feels incomplete for the rest of the week until I can go again.
I think it is because Mass is a haven for me. No one at Mass is judging me (at least where I can hear them) and no one is asking anything of me. I don't have to be the perfect medical student, the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect daughter. I don't have to interact with anyone else, don't have to present a front to the world. I get to interact with my faith and my God only. I get to just be me, in the silence and stillness of my own soul. I get to reflect only on me and the positioning of my life for one precious hour. I get the chance to voice all of my joys, my worries, my concerns, my secret fears, my sins to a God who I truly believe listens to me, even if only with half an ear (He's busy, after all, I cut Him some slack...). In a life of unscheduled, spontaneous chaos, where my days revolve around the wishes of so many other people, the Mass is highly structured, with no uncertainty and no surprises. It's such a relief to spend an entire hour doing something so ritualistic, something that has been the same for my entire life, for hundreds of years, something that in essence never changes and hopefully never will change. A girl likes a little stability in her life.
And in the end, I truly feel so lucky/blessed/happily predestined/whatever in this life. I feel as if I have so much joy that I could never possibly deserve. And if I choose to attribute that joy to a higher being, to something larger than chance, and if I choose to be grateful for that joy, what better way than to give an hour of my week over to reflecting on that gratitude? It's only an hour. And I receive so very much in return.
3/2/09
The Parents' Club is Kind of Exclusive
I love animals just as much as the next person (ok, less than some people I know...D...). But I have sort of a pet peeve. (Pun non-intentional until I reread this post...) And none of my best friends who have pets have EVER done this to me, so I don't feel bad about bringing it up here...
When people are talking about their children, I understand that it may be difficult to participate in the conversation. But let us have our time. Our children drive us crazy and make our lives difficult, it's nice to revel in our shared insanity and shared delirious joy when we can. But we don't think we're the only ones who have ever been around children, so jump in with questions, comments, whatever. At the least, we will act as a form of birth control.
But for goodness' sake, please don't ever attempt to jump into the conversation by saying: "Well, I have a four-legged child!"
Because later that day, when I tell my husband about how ridiculous you sounded, he'll say things like "Did you ask if they had considered any surgeries for it?" And then I'll laugh.
(As an aside, I'll be perfectly happy to listen to you talk about your precious pet. Believe me, I'll be jealous of how easy it was for you to potty-train it. Just pick your moments better than my classmates generally do.)
When people are talking about their children, I understand that it may be difficult to participate in the conversation. But let us have our time. Our children drive us crazy and make our lives difficult, it's nice to revel in our shared insanity and shared delirious joy when we can. But we don't think we're the only ones who have ever been around children, so jump in with questions, comments, whatever. At the least, we will act as a form of birth control.
But for goodness' sake, please don't ever attempt to jump into the conversation by saying: "Well, I have a four-legged child!"
Because later that day, when I tell my husband about how ridiculous you sounded, he'll say things like "Did you ask if they had considered any surgeries for it?" And then I'll laugh.
(As an aside, I'll be perfectly happy to listen to you talk about your precious pet. Believe me, I'll be jealous of how easy it was for you to potty-train it. Just pick your moments better than my classmates generally do.)
2/26/09
What would I do without him?
Thank God my husband was here last week. Because it was a bad week.
In med school, certain rotations are dreaded by all. Well, one specific rotation, really. Both because of the intense nature of surgeons pretty much everywhere and because of the impossible work hours. And I'm definitely not eager to start my surgery rotation at the end of the school year.
But as of tomorrow, I will have completed the rotation I was dreading the most: Neurology.
It's only a 2-week rotation (thank goodness), but the course director is one of the most terrifying men I've ever met (because he's manic and opinionated and loud and not very nice). And neurology and I did not get off to a good start my first year of med school. Let's just say me and the brain do not get along. So I was NOT looking forward to this rotation.
That may have been a self-fulfilling prophecy, because sure enough, by the 2nd day, I was holding back tears. My mind was blanking during lectures, and I was completely incapable of answering such basic questions as "What are the parts of the cerebellum?" I mean, come on, I should know this stuff. But I didn't. My mind was dead and I couldn't even come up with good B.S. answers. Needless to say, I embarrassed myself pretty thoroughly and spent the rest of the week frantically trying to improve my performance, and failing miserably. By Friday, I was a nervous wreck.
D and I had last weekend to ourselves. So we saw The Reader, which was very good, but made me cry. Now, I'm the type of person who cries a lot during movies and not very much in real life (well, except for certain times...mod people, don't tell on me). But I guess I opened the floodgates, because once we got home, I succumbed to about an hour of torrential crying. Over stupid neuro, for goodness' sake.
I have to say, I've had some low points in my life, but I've never felt truly depressed until that night. I felt hopeless, as if things were never going to improve, and like I was completely incapable of doing anything right. I wanted to quit med school. I was reminding myself of all the things I've given up in order to be where I am right now, and telling myself that it just wasn't worth it. And in retrospect, I was just scared and exhausted and stressed and tired of holding myself together. I just needed to let it all out, but at the time, I thought I wouldn't be able to move on from that point.
But I did. Because D was there, holding my hand and patting my shoulder the entire time. I was feeling so sorry for myself that my own mother probably would have given up and walked away after about 10 minutes, much less an hour. But D stayed and said all the right things. And he said one thing that really struck me and has been kind of a mantra for me this past week:
"The real world hasn't changed. We're still here. Just come back to us."
...this week was much better. I can do this.
In med school, certain rotations are dreaded by all. Well, one specific rotation, really. Both because of the intense nature of surgeons pretty much everywhere and because of the impossible work hours. And I'm definitely not eager to start my surgery rotation at the end of the school year.
But as of tomorrow, I will have completed the rotation I was dreading the most: Neurology.
It's only a 2-week rotation (thank goodness), but the course director is one of the most terrifying men I've ever met (because he's manic and opinionated and loud and not very nice). And neurology and I did not get off to a good start my first year of med school. Let's just say me and the brain do not get along. So I was NOT looking forward to this rotation.
That may have been a self-fulfilling prophecy, because sure enough, by the 2nd day, I was holding back tears. My mind was blanking during lectures, and I was completely incapable of answering such basic questions as "What are the parts of the cerebellum?" I mean, come on, I should know this stuff. But I didn't. My mind was dead and I couldn't even come up with good B.S. answers. Needless to say, I embarrassed myself pretty thoroughly and spent the rest of the week frantically trying to improve my performance, and failing miserably. By Friday, I was a nervous wreck.
D and I had last weekend to ourselves. So we saw The Reader, which was very good, but made me cry. Now, I'm the type of person who cries a lot during movies and not very much in real life (well, except for certain times...mod people, don't tell on me). But I guess I opened the floodgates, because once we got home, I succumbed to about an hour of torrential crying. Over stupid neuro, for goodness' sake.
I have to say, I've had some low points in my life, but I've never felt truly depressed until that night. I felt hopeless, as if things were never going to improve, and like I was completely incapable of doing anything right. I wanted to quit med school. I was reminding myself of all the things I've given up in order to be where I am right now, and telling myself that it just wasn't worth it. And in retrospect, I was just scared and exhausted and stressed and tired of holding myself together. I just needed to let it all out, but at the time, I thought I wouldn't be able to move on from that point.
But I did. Because D was there, holding my hand and patting my shoulder the entire time. I was feeling so sorry for myself that my own mother probably would have given up and walked away after about 10 minutes, much less an hour. But D stayed and said all the right things. And he said one thing that really struck me and has been kind of a mantra for me this past week:
"The real world hasn't changed. We're still here. Just come back to us."
...this week was much better. I can do this.
2/15/09
Stacy London, we've done something awful
I made the mistake of putting the TLC show "What Not To Wear" on our DVR list last week. All the episodes that were running. So by yesterday evening, I had about 12 episodes to watch, and that didn't include the repeats... Needless to say, this weekend I spent a lot of time clearing the list. And my poor, hapless husband and son were forced to watch with me at times.
This came back to bite me. I was at the mall today, engaging in some intensive retail therapy. I happened to be in a clothing store, examining the shoes, when E piped up from behind me: "Oh, no, Mom, not those." (Now, I must admit, I'm always "involving" him in the process by asking him what he thinks, so we had established a premise for him to give fashion advice long before this.)
"What's wrong with these?!" I gasped. (And I'll have you know, they were adorable.)
"Remember? 'What not to wear?'" He replied, with a rather "duh, Mom, they're awful" intonation.
I'm not sure what he meant, exactly, but I know that [straight] men everywhere are screaming in horror.
This came back to bite me. I was at the mall today, engaging in some intensive retail therapy. I happened to be in a clothing store, examining the shoes, when E piped up from behind me: "Oh, no, Mom, not those." (Now, I must admit, I'm always "involving" him in the process by asking him what he thinks, so we had established a premise for him to give fashion advice long before this.)
"What's wrong with these?!" I gasped. (And I'll have you know, they were adorable.)
"Remember? 'What not to wear?'" He replied, with a rather "duh, Mom, they're awful" intonation.
I'm not sure what he meant, exactly, but I know that [straight] men everywhere are screaming in horror.
1/26/09
Well, If It's True...
Whilst finishing up after my son's very cursory self-brushing of his teeth, I mentioned (to myself, primarily), that he needed to go to the dentist.
"WHAT?" He moaned, horror in his eyes. "Um. You liked the dentist." I reminded him.
"Oh, yeah," He replied sheepishly. "After all, the last time I went, she was quite....quite...."
"Quite impressed."
I should have taken him down a few pegs by informing him that if "she" had been at all impressed the last time he went to the dentist, it definitely wasn't due to his stellar tooth-brushing skills. But I was busy trying not to laugh.
"WHAT?" He moaned, horror in his eyes. "Um. You liked the dentist." I reminded him.
"Oh, yeah," He replied sheepishly. "After all, the last time I went, she was quite....quite...."
"Quite impressed."
I should have taken him down a few pegs by informing him that if "she" had been at all impressed the last time he went to the dentist, it definitely wasn't due to his stellar tooth-brushing skills. But I was busy trying not to laugh.
1/22/09
I Miss You, Mickey D
My New Year's resolution actually started before 2009. It began back in November, when I realized that my honeymoon on the beach in December was swiftly creeping up on me...I'm sure you can guess what my resolution was. So, I started counting calories (with the help of The Daily Plate) and working out (with the help of Billy). And it worked! I didn't really lost that much weight before I met the beach, and I didn't exactly develop a 6-pack. But despite the fact that I'm pretty sure I look exactly the same in the mirror, I felt better about wresting control of my health from the tyrannical rule of medical school. Believe me, the lack of free time is more influential on one's well-being than the hazard and/or motivation of being around sick people all day.
Suffice it to say that I started, and I've continued the habit into the New Year, with the aim of reaching the size I was way back when I was 17 and a soccer player. We'll see how that goes. I'd settle for being able to move fast enough to keep up with residents in the hospital stairwells.
Two lovely friends of mine (and occasionally my mother and sister) have been helping me stay motivated by joining me for group sessions in the evenings after my son has been banished to his bed. Our combined collection of workout videos includes such gems as Hip Hop Abs and "Bollywood Booty". In the former, we get to shake our backsides to the Pussycat Dolls, and the in the latter, we get to practice our "Bollywood vogue" hands. Seriously. And if anything's going to keep me pointed straight toward my goal, it's the joy of dancing to Indian music with two of my best friends and laughing our butts off as we "paint the world with love".
Suffice it to say that I started, and I've continued the habit into the New Year, with the aim of reaching the size I was way back when I was 17 and a soccer player. We'll see how that goes. I'd settle for being able to move fast enough to keep up with residents in the hospital stairwells.
Two lovely friends of mine (and occasionally my mother and sister) have been helping me stay motivated by joining me for group sessions in the evenings after my son has been banished to his bed. Our combined collection of workout videos includes such gems as Hip Hop Abs and "Bollywood Booty". In the former, we get to shake our backsides to the Pussycat Dolls, and the in the latter, we get to practice our "Bollywood vogue" hands. Seriously. And if anything's going to keep me pointed straight toward my goal, it's the joy of dancing to Indian music with two of my best friends and laughing our butts off as we "paint the world with love".
1/21/09
Being Green
On our way to the house to change for dinner (out of nice clothes into t-shirts and jeans, ironically), E was calmly eating a bag of M&Ms in the back seat. Yes, I give him candy before dinner. If I do it, I can't expect him not to...
Anyway, so he's eating the devil dots, and the next thing I know, he says "Mama, can we recycle this M&M bag?"
I was instantly overcome with pride. My obsession with searching out every single recyclable item in our lives had been picked up by my five-year-old son! O frabjous day! (My mom made me memorize that poem when I was about 11 and I can still recite it 13 years later. So don't blame me, blame my crazy literature-obsessed homeschooling mom.)
I answer, "Probably," immediately trying to categorize to myself which bin that little bag is going to end up in (help me out: it's paper, right?). Then E says "Good. Because I tore it up."
And sure enough, as I whip around to cast my gimlet eye upon him, he's cradling a pile of tiny M&M bag scraps in his chubby hands, cherubically grinning at me.
"Why would you DO that?" I gasped. "What are we going to do with that NOW?!"
"Mom!" He frowned at my failure to immediately grasp the silver lining. "We're going to use them for CREATIONS!"
.......
So I suppose the point got across...just not in the way I had imagined.
Anyway, so he's eating the devil dots, and the next thing I know, he says "Mama, can we recycle this M&M bag?"
I was instantly overcome with pride. My obsession with searching out every single recyclable item in our lives had been picked up by my five-year-old son! O frabjous day! (My mom made me memorize that poem when I was about 11 and I can still recite it 13 years later. So don't blame me, blame my crazy literature-obsessed homeschooling mom.)
I answer, "Probably," immediately trying to categorize to myself which bin that little bag is going to end up in (help me out: it's paper, right?). Then E says "Good. Because I tore it up."
And sure enough, as I whip around to cast my gimlet eye upon him, he's cradling a pile of tiny M&M bag scraps in his chubby hands, cherubically grinning at me.
"Why would you DO that?" I gasped. "What are we going to do with that NOW?!"
"Mom!" He frowned at my failure to immediately grasp the silver lining. "We're going to use them for CREATIONS!"
.......
So I suppose the point got across...just not in the way I had imagined.
12/12/08
Mama Bear
Child development is one of my very favorite subjects. Between my-mother-the-baby-doctor, a much-beloved college course, and of course, medical school, I've had a lot of exposure to what should normally be expected at which ages.
Therefore, it baffles me that my five-year-old refused to wear his dark blue hoodie with dogs on it because his 'friends' at school would make fun of it. Was it babyish, you ask, and therefore deserving of derision? I reply with an emphatic no. Despite my natural (I think) desire to preserve my son's babyhood for as long as possible, I left behind (most) of the cutesy clothes a long time ago. If I hadn't, his firm personal preferences would have overwhelmed me quite effectively by wearing the same Spiderman shirt every day...
So I don't get it. I sort of blame older siblings. Developmentally, it's expected that preadolescents and adolescents become hyper-aware of how they look/act/etc. in comparison to other people. So it's entirely plausible that they are passing their insecurities down to their younger brothers and thereby bequeathing their teen angst to poor E. I blame parents, too, though. If I've heard one parent try to guide their child's preferences, gently or otherwise, I've heard a million. And done it myself, on occasion. (But my child's opinions are more firmly set in stone than my mother's, and therefore possess strength superior to that of my own.) I mean, how often do you hear parents saying "don't play with that, that's for babies," etc. And partly that's good, because we want our children to mature in their tastes. But they'll do that on their own, and too soon for most of us, so why put such pressure on them to grow up before they're ready?
My son is an avid Thomas the Tank Engine fan. We own several Thomas movies, a dozen or more Thomas books, and the only reason we don't have a ton of Thomas toys is because they're overpriced and I'm stingey. A couple of months ago, Thomas actually came to town, so of course we packed up and went off to see him. We had a great time, and managed to survive the inevitable visit to the sales tent without burning too big of a hole in our collective pocket. E even fell in love with a battery-operated Thomas set complete with waterfall, and managed to keep from whining too much about how much he wanted it.
Well, last night, while we were slaving over his Christmas list, the memory of that toy was brought to bear by the doggone Target and Walmart toy magazines. His excitement was immediately apparent, as he almost hyperventilated at being reunited with this long-desired (for a 5-year-old) toy. "I love Thomas, Mom!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing with joy. And then, a second later, he deflated like a sad, child-shaped balloon.
Upon gentle questioning, this is what I got: "My friends make fun of me because I like Thomas. I don't ever want them to come over to my house, because they'll make fun of my room." Single sad, sad tear.
Yeah, it's a learning opportunity, and of course I lectured my son on how he shouldn't care so much about other peoples' opinions. But he's five. And I was hyperdefensive of my siblings (who, let's face it, I really didn't like that much...kidding...).
So in closing: I love children, all children, without reservation. But you little cretins had better watch your backs.
(I really hope my son doesn't go around teasing other kids about the toys they like and the clothes they wear. Just because I don't witness it doesn't mean karma won't come around to bite me in the maternally overprotective rear.)
Therefore, it baffles me that my five-year-old refused to wear his dark blue hoodie with dogs on it because his 'friends' at school would make fun of it. Was it babyish, you ask, and therefore deserving of derision? I reply with an emphatic no. Despite my natural (I think) desire to preserve my son's babyhood for as long as possible, I left behind (most) of the cutesy clothes a long time ago. If I hadn't, his firm personal preferences would have overwhelmed me quite effectively by wearing the same Spiderman shirt every day...
So I don't get it. I sort of blame older siblings. Developmentally, it's expected that preadolescents and adolescents become hyper-aware of how they look/act/etc. in comparison to other people. So it's entirely plausible that they are passing their insecurities down to their younger brothers and thereby bequeathing their teen angst to poor E. I blame parents, too, though. If I've heard one parent try to guide their child's preferences, gently or otherwise, I've heard a million. And done it myself, on occasion. (But my child's opinions are more firmly set in stone than my mother's, and therefore possess strength superior to that of my own.) I mean, how often do you hear parents saying "don't play with that, that's for babies," etc. And partly that's good, because we want our children to mature in their tastes. But they'll do that on their own, and too soon for most of us, so why put such pressure on them to grow up before they're ready?
My son is an avid Thomas the Tank Engine fan. We own several Thomas movies, a dozen or more Thomas books, and the only reason we don't have a ton of Thomas toys is because they're overpriced and I'm stingey. A couple of months ago, Thomas actually came to town, so of course we packed up and went off to see him. We had a great time, and managed to survive the inevitable visit to the sales tent without burning too big of a hole in our collective pocket. E even fell in love with a battery-operated Thomas set complete with waterfall, and managed to keep from whining too much about how much he wanted it.
Well, last night, while we were slaving over his Christmas list, the memory of that toy was brought to bear by the doggone Target and Walmart toy magazines. His excitement was immediately apparent, as he almost hyperventilated at being reunited with this long-desired (for a 5-year-old) toy. "I love Thomas, Mom!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing with joy. And then, a second later, he deflated like a sad, child-shaped balloon.
Upon gentle questioning, this is what I got: "My friends make fun of me because I like Thomas. I don't ever want them to come over to my house, because they'll make fun of my room." Single sad, sad tear.
Yeah, it's a learning opportunity, and of course I lectured my son on how he shouldn't care so much about other peoples' opinions. But he's five. And I was hyperdefensive of my siblings (who, let's face it, I really didn't like that much...kidding...).
So in closing: I love children, all children, without reservation. But you little cretins had better watch your backs.
(I really hope my son doesn't go around teasing other kids about the toys they like and the clothes they wear. Just because I don't witness it doesn't mean karma won't come around to bite me in the maternally overprotective rear.)
12/11/08
Wearing Your Heart On Your Blog
I'm a pretty frequent reader of a certain very popular Mommy Blog. The author writes with a lot of openness and humor about her journey through maternity, and it makes me feel a little better to know that there are other people who have hard(er) times with their kids. Admittedly, that has more to do with her having 3 times as many than with there being any superiority to my mothering, but still...
There are some posts I don't like to read, however. And those are the posts where she writes about her fights with her husband. My parents (and the wonderful couple who did our premarital counseling) always emphasized that what lies between you and your spouse is intensely personal and that no one should be privy to your marriage issues (well, except for God, who should already know about them...). It's kind of like the tattling that my son and I struggle with on almost a daily basis. Yes, it's vindicating to tell on someone when you feel they're not behaving properly, but if you can deal with the situation yourself, who else needs to know? (Disclaimer: this does not include griping about coworkers/mothers/schoolmates/friends/enemies/children/strangers/siblings/bosses/anyone else. 99.9% of the internet's blogs would have to be shut down if we couldn't be entirely open about every single aspect of our other relationships...)
Don't get me wrong: I know that there are times when you need to tell a grown-up. When you need to bring in outside help. And I definitely feel like she and her husband are at that point. Although by outside help I mean that of professionals, not a bunch of nebulously sympathetic blog-readers like myself. If you feel you absolutely need to get your problems off your chest before you smother with the unfairness of it all, it's probably better to tell carefully-selected friends rather than toss your emotional cookies all over the World Wide Web, too.
But that's not my only deterrent from reading her "He's such a dirty dog, no?" posts. Mostly, I avoid them because they make me sad and angry that a man could say such hurtful things to his wife. It's bad enough to launch personal attacks on your wife's weight/looks/clothing/sex drive or whatever. And it's another thing entirely to attack her abilities as a mother. Which he does with startling regularity. Of course, I only know one side (although admittedly eloquent) of the story. (Which leads back to the main issue with inviting your friends into your marital woes. We just can't be totally impartial.)
However, we can be grateful.
D is my biggest fan and my staunchest support, which is a constant unlooked-for joy in my life. Plus, he thinks I'm the best mother in the world. Right up there with his own. I think my only one-up is that I sleep with him. She cooks for him, though, so we might be tied... ;-)
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... ;-)
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!!"
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