We have a horrible, terrible habit of eating dinner in front of the TV.
My mother would be appalled. My family never, ever ate in front of the TV. If we were allowed to even just read while we were eating, it was for a snack or a solitary breakfast. And even that was rare. Mealtimes were sacred.
Unfortunately, because I'm usually exhausted by the time I get home these days, all I want to do is stuff my face with food and watch some mindless TV. So we slid into a very bad habit. At first, it was an occasional special event, and we'd joke how we were eating "American style tonight". And then it became a special event to NOT eat dinner that way.
When I'm by myself, I have no problem with TV dining. But it's different when it comes to eating with your seven-year-old son. I'd like to him to have some brain cells left by the time he's looking at colleges.
So I put my foot down. And we've been doing really well. We even instituted a family ritual that I adopted from the famous dooce: we take turns saying one bad thing that happened that day, one good thing, and one thing we're grateful for.
Examples:
- My parents joined us the other night and my father said the one bad thing that had happened to him was that a boa constrictor had strangled him while he was cleaning out the pool.
- D's one good thing is that he took our #2 dog, Isis, on a car ride in the beautiful spring weather (our #1 dog gets horribly carsick, so he was confined to the homestead).
- What E is grateful for: dinner.
My slightly-insane life and times
3/24/11
Training
My son's birthday is in a month or so, hence we've been discussing birthday party plans well in advance. Hey, these things are our biggest shindigs all year long, we like to be prepared.
Anyway, we were driving back from picking E up from his religious ed class yesterday, when we started tossing bday ideas around. I was saying something about how he's seven, and D started teasing him and saying he's already eight, and we went back and forth (like we tend to do), so D turned to E and said "Well, are you seven or eight?"
E replied calmly, "Technically, I'm seven, but I'm trained to be nine."
Anyway, we were driving back from picking E up from his religious ed class yesterday, when we started tossing bday ideas around. I was saying something about how he's seven, and D started teasing him and saying he's already eight, and we went back and forth (like we tend to do), so D turned to E and said "Well, are you seven or eight?"
E replied calmly, "Technically, I'm seven, but I'm trained to be nine."
3/18/11
Interior Design
We bought a house. More on that later.
My point is, E is getting his first room that we can totally renovate the way he (meaning he and I) want it.
So the other day, we were going over paint colors, and I was trying to reconcile his idea of a cool bedroom with my idea of a bedroom I could go into every day and not have a seizure.
We eventually picked a nice grassy green with one wall being a different as-yet-undetermined color.
Subsequently, he is obsessed with the idea of a "future wall". (And if you can figure that out, you watch too much HGTV.)
Much like his previous obsession with backsplashes and his unending sorrow that we had none. Until now...
My point is, E is getting his first room that we can totally renovate the way he (meaning he and I) want it.
So the other day, we were going over paint colors, and I was trying to reconcile his idea of a cool bedroom with my idea of a bedroom I could go into every day and not have a seizure.
We eventually picked a nice grassy green with one wall being a different as-yet-undetermined color.
Subsequently, he is obsessed with the idea of a "future wall". (And if you can figure that out, you watch too much HGTV.)
Much like his previous obsession with backsplashes and his unending sorrow that we had none. Until now...
2/25/11
It starts with "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for "Pokemon"
Every day after school, my son goes down the street to play with one of his best friends, whom we shall call M-downthestreet (because that's how his cell is listed in my contacts list). M and his older sister B-downthestreet are good kids (not like the little terrors at his old school on the other side of the state!) and D and I have been thankful that E had children like them with whom to play.
And we still are, but the thankfulness has been tempered somewhat. Why, you ask?
Because my son came to me the other day and told me "M-downthestreet said he knew a boy who went to H-E-L-Lbecause he watched Pokemon."
Now, if you know my son, you will know that he is a collector. His little hoarder's soul was delighted by the discovery of Pokemon. I mean, they've got an endless, rotating set of product, they're easy to carry around, you can trade them with your friends without your mom freaking out, and they've got a nifty tv show to go with them (although, since he hasn't been doing his chores, he's also been tv-less recently...but that's a different story). One of my cousins was similarly obsessed with the little Japanese things when he was E's age about 10 years ago, so he graciously passed on many of his Pokemon-centered possessions, and E has immersed himself deeply in the Pokemon culture.
So at this news, his little heart was teetering perilously close to breaking.
I thought I behaved fairly well. I didn't show him how angry I was, and I didn't say anything snarky. So basically, I responded like an adult. Which shouldn't be that shocking, but if you know me....(kidding. Kind of.)
"What did you think about that?" I asked carefully. He shrugged, but his brow looked decidedly furrowed.
"Did that hurt your feelings?" He nodded slowly.
"Do you know what h-e-l-l is?" He nodded vigorously, but then paused: "No, not really."
(Note: fail, Catholic religious education. What do I send him to you for an hour every week if not to learn about the penultimate destination of children who watch animated Japanese television shows? I'm going to have a word with the bishop.)
"Well, it's the opposite of heaven, and people who are bad go there after they die." (Now, don't judge me, I was not about to go into the intimate details of my beliefs on who does and doesn't go there with a seven year old who just wants to be reassured that he is not in the running for the spot.)
"So does Pokemon make you do bad things?" He shook his head.
"Then watching Pokemon will not send you to hell."
To critics: I don't know what will and won't send someone to hell. But if little boys are getting kicked out of heaven because of Pokemon, then I'd rather be an atheist because that would mean that my fate is completely arbitrary. So there. (Sorry, God, didn't mean to drag you into this, but seriously!)
So that's why we're a little more wary of the family downthestreet. Because M didn't make that up himself. E still plays with him, because I make no judgements on his parents and the way they choose to raise their son.
However, they'd better watch out if I ever actually hear their son talking that way to mine.
And we still are, but the thankfulness has been tempered somewhat. Why, you ask?
Because my son came to me the other day and told me "M-downthestreet said he knew a boy who went to H-E-L-L
Now, if you know my son, you will know that he is a collector. His little hoarder's soul was delighted by the discovery of Pokemon. I mean, they've got an endless, rotating set of product, they're easy to carry around, you can trade them with your friends without your mom freaking out, and they've got a nifty tv show to go with them (although, since he hasn't been doing his chores, he's also been tv-less recently...but that's a different story). One of my cousins was similarly obsessed with the little Japanese things when he was E's age about 10 years ago, so he graciously passed on many of his Pokemon-centered possessions, and E has immersed himself deeply in the Pokemon culture.
So at this news, his little heart was teetering perilously close to breaking.
I thought I behaved fairly well. I didn't show him how angry I was, and I didn't say anything snarky. So basically, I responded like an adult. Which shouldn't be that shocking, but if you know me....(kidding. Kind of.)
"What did you think about that?" I asked carefully. He shrugged, but his brow looked decidedly furrowed.
"Did that hurt your feelings?" He nodded slowly.
"Do you know what h-e-l-l is?" He nodded vigorously, but then paused: "No, not really."
(Note: fail, Catholic religious education. What do I send him to you for an hour every week if not to learn about the penultimate destination of children who watch animated Japanese television shows? I'm going to have a word with the bishop.)
"Well, it's the opposite of heaven, and people who are bad go there after they die." (Now, don't judge me, I was not about to go into the intimate details of my beliefs on who does and doesn't go there with a seven year old who just wants to be reassured that he is not in the running for the spot.)
"So does Pokemon make you do bad things?" He shook his head.
"Then watching Pokemon will not send you to hell."
To critics: I don't know what will and won't send someone to hell. But if little boys are getting kicked out of heaven because of Pokemon, then I'd rather be an atheist because that would mean that my fate is completely arbitrary. So there. (Sorry, God, didn't mean to drag you into this, but seriously!)
So that's why we're a little more wary of the family downthestreet. Because M didn't make that up himself. E still plays with him, because I make no judgements on his parents and the way they choose to raise their son.
However, they'd better watch out if I ever actually hear their son talking that way to mine.
1/3/11
Conversations with a Child
Recent phone talk with E while I was on call at the hospital:
E: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Oh, nothing, just studying."
E: "Well, then you should come home!"
(My thoughts exactly...)
Me: "I can't, I have to be here in case someone has a car accident."
E: "Or a tumor? Or a brain injury?" That's pretty accurate, actually. Some people think a tumor is as urgent as a brain injury, and therefore call in the middle of the night. It's extremely frustrating.
Me: "You got it."
E: "What else did you do today, other than study?"
Me: "I had a patient who needed her appendix out, so she had to have a surgery."
E: "Oh my gosh!" Always gratifying to have your work sound exciting to someone.
Me: "And I had another patient who needed to have his gallbladder out, so he had a surgery too."
E: "I know you've done other gallbladder things before."
Me: "You do? How?"
E: "Because it doesn't look like I'm listening at dinner, but I am...sometimes."
My child has fallen prey to the unfortunate circumstance of having two (technically four) physician grandparents and one physician mother (and one EMT father). Our dinner convos are not always...ahem...bloodless. I'm sure it drives my poor husband nuts, because although we try to limit our discussions to topics that are less gross and more "interesting" (or even just plain crazy), we frequently trend toward the technical. But I love that E is easily impressed, and that he apparently listens to what we're talking about. It's nice to induce excitement (or I'll even substitute shock and disgust). He's supposed to look up to me, after all.
E: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Oh, nothing, just studying."
E: "Well, then you should come home!"
(My thoughts exactly...)
Me: "I can't, I have to be here in case someone has a car accident."
E: "Or a tumor? Or a brain injury?" That's pretty accurate, actually. Some people think a tumor is as urgent as a brain injury, and therefore call in the middle of the night. It's extremely frustrating.
Me: "You got it."
E: "What else did you do today, other than study?"
Me: "I had a patient who needed her appendix out, so she had to have a surgery."
E: "Oh my gosh!" Always gratifying to have your work sound exciting to someone.
Me: "And I had another patient who needed to have his gallbladder out, so he had a surgery too."
E: "I know you've done other gallbladder things before."
Me: "You do? How?"
E: "Because it doesn't look like I'm listening at dinner, but I am...sometimes."
My child has fallen prey to the unfortunate circumstance of having two (technically four) physician grandparents and one physician mother (and one EMT father). Our dinner convos are not always...ahem...bloodless. I'm sure it drives my poor husband nuts, because although we try to limit our discussions to topics that are less gross and more "interesting" (or even just plain crazy), we frequently trend toward the technical. But I love that E is easily impressed, and that he apparently listens to what we're talking about. It's nice to induce excitement (or I'll even substitute shock and disgust). He's supposed to look up to me, after all.
12/27/10
Christmas Gilbowinmankitmorefarsembletoothris Style
Some people don't like big extended family Christmases. They like to wake up late and sedately open presents by the fireside with their spouses/S.O.'s and kids, and laze about all day simply enjoying each others' company and the peace of the day.
We had plenty of those sorts of Christmases when I was young, because we lived quite distant from both my parents' families. And they were exciting and thrilling and delightful and everything Christmas is supposed to be, despite the fact that there were only 5 of us. Because 5 was all we needed.
But now, there are 5 of us. Plus Evan. Plus Dane. Plus my in-laws, my 3 sisters-in-laws, 1 brother-in-law, 1 niece, 1 nephew and various involved significant others. Which means that Christmas now involves all of those people.
And I was lucky enough to have all of them together this year, my whole very closely-knit family, blood-relation notwithstanding. Three generations, with enough side branches to satisfy a proper Biblical family tree.
I got 5 days off for Christmas, and my family all managed to be together despite varying work schedules. We all went to Midnight Mass together (and incidentally, my siblings, 1 sister-in-law, and I did the music...stressful and yet strangely exhilarating, as always). Christmas morning, we opened presents separately with my in-laws, then with my family, and then everyone gathered at my in-laws for Christmas dinner.
It was noisy. It was chaotic. It was a huge mess. There was yelling. There was (a little bit of) crying. There were a billion dishes to wash and put away. It was more impossible than you could possibly imagine.
It was magical. It was lovely.
It was Christmas.
Merry Christmas, peeps. I am so very blessed.
We had plenty of those sorts of Christmases when I was young, because we lived quite distant from both my parents' families. And they were exciting and thrilling and delightful and everything Christmas is supposed to be, despite the fact that there were only 5 of us. Because 5 was all we needed.
But now, there are 5 of us. Plus Evan. Plus Dane. Plus my in-laws, my 3 sisters-in-laws, 1 brother-in-law, 1 niece, 1 nephew and various involved significant others. Which means that Christmas now involves all of those people.
And I was lucky enough to have all of them together this year, my whole very closely-knit family, blood-relation notwithstanding. Three generations, with enough side branches to satisfy a proper Biblical family tree.
I got 5 days off for Christmas, and my family all managed to be together despite varying work schedules. We all went to Midnight Mass together (and incidentally, my siblings, 1 sister-in-law, and I did the music...stressful and yet strangely exhilarating, as always). Christmas morning, we opened presents separately with my in-laws, then with my family, and then everyone gathered at my in-laws for Christmas dinner.
It was noisy. It was chaotic. It was a huge mess. There was yelling. There was (a little bit of) crying. There were a billion dishes to wash and put away. It was more impossible than you could possibly imagine.
It was magical. It was lovely.
It was Christmas.
Merry Christmas, peeps. I am so very blessed.
12/10/10
Let's Get This in Writing
There are some people in our neighborhood who go all out with their outdoor Christmas decorations. I mean, competition-light-up-the-sky-cause-global-warming all out. So of course we drive by their house multiple times a week.
Which is kind of creepy, because inevitably the Pater Familia is standing at the screen door, waving to the almost incessant stream of car-gawkers driving by. I guess he just loves watching other people that much...
They have a big "Toys for Tots" collection bin in their driveway and a large T for T sign at the neighborhood entrance directing people to see their house, so I have good evidence to assume that they're rather heavily involved with said organization.
Regardless, the first time I saw their house lit up thus, we drove back and forth a couple of times so I could fully appreciate it (my husband and son having been aware of its glories already). As we left, I said (semi-jokingly) to my husband: "When we're old and have nothing else to spend our money on, I want to do that."
My son piped up from the backseat: "Don't worry about that, because when I'm grown up, I'll owe you some money, so I'll give it to you and you can use it for that."
I'm glad he's fully aware of his filial obligations.
Which is kind of creepy, because inevitably the Pater Familia is standing at the screen door, waving to the almost incessant stream of car-gawkers driving by. I guess he just loves watching other people that much...
They have a big "Toys for Tots" collection bin in their driveway and a large T for T sign at the neighborhood entrance directing people to see their house, so I have good evidence to assume that they're rather heavily involved with said organization.
Regardless, the first time I saw their house lit up thus, we drove back and forth a couple of times so I could fully appreciate it (my husband and son having been aware of its glories already). As we left, I said (semi-jokingly) to my husband: "When we're old and have nothing else to spend our money on, I want to do that."
My son piped up from the backseat: "Don't worry about that, because when I'm grown up, I'll owe you some money, so I'll give it to you and you can use it for that."
I'm glad he's fully aware of his filial obligations.
11/28/10
We had not one, but two Thanksgivings this year. We had Fakesgiving, where my in-laws visited my parents' house on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, because E was going to his dad's house for actual Thanksgiving (which turned out well because I took q2 call over Thanksgiving...and it almost killed me). And then we trekked down to the in-laws' homestead on my post-call day (and I spent most of my time en route and en scene sleeping...) and ate more Thanksgiving dinner.
I'm fairly certain I never want to see another turkey again.
At least not until Christmas...
So I'm giving thanks this year that I have a pair of excellent cooks for a mother and a mother-in-law. Because the Lord knows I'm not an excellent cook and my limited skills will have to undergo somewhat of a miracle to get up to par when it's my turn to take over the holiday meal-making. I'm betting it'll be a while, though. Or my sister/one of my sisters-in-law will do the duty.
A girl can dream.
I'm fairly certain I never want to see another turkey again.
At least not until Christmas...
So I'm giving thanks this year that I have a pair of excellent cooks for a mother and a mother-in-law. Because the Lord knows I'm not an excellent cook and my limited skills will have to undergo somewhat of a miracle to get up to par when it's my turn to take over the holiday meal-making. I'm betting it'll be a while, though. Or my sister/one of my sisters-in-law will do the duty.
A girl can dream.
11/22/10
Social Hour
A couple of days ago, E was headed outside to play with a few friends down the street (which is another post entirely, as this new development causes me much anxiety and a little bit of heartache), he asked when one of his friends, Matthew, could come over to our house.
"Maybe this weekend, babe, but not today."
"AWWWWW, WHY NOT!?" The inevitable whiny answer (and that's yet another post. Kid drives me nuts.)
"Because J and A [my friends...] are coming over, remember?"
"Oh yeah...well, maybe Matthew would like to meet some new people!"
This is what happens when you're an only child. You assume that adults and children interact. Silly rabbit...
"Maybe this weekend, babe, but not today."
"AWWWWW, WHY NOT!?" The inevitable whiny answer (and that's yet another post. Kid drives me nuts.)
"Because J and A [my friends...] are coming over, remember?"
"Oh yeah...well, maybe Matthew would like to meet some new people!"
This is what happens when you're an only child. You assume that adults and children interact. Silly rabbit...
11/19/10
It's for Posterity
Last night, while performing a much-needed clearing of my desk, E wandered in and happened to catch me putting some of his old homework in the recycle bin.
"Mom!" He exclaimed, with a shocked look on his face. "What are you doing? Why are you throwing away my art?!"
"I'm keeping the good ones, don't worry." (Probably not the best choice of excuses, in retrospect, but hindsight is 20/20 and I hadn't meant to get caught. He treasures his handiwork.)
"Well, I'm going to stand here and keep an eye on you." He took a sturdy, determined stance right at my elbow, and bent his eagle eye on me, a disapproving glare writ on his face.
"Ok...??" I murmured, somewhat cowed.
"Because, what if, someday far away, when my wife has children, that artwork could inspire my children?!?!"
Always thinking ahead, that one.
Luckily for me, D reminded him that we have countless files (and paper copies) of his artwork saved up, and it's not likely to go anywhere before those nebulous children make their existences known.
I'm not sure whether he's really that concerned with the artistic development of his offspring or just egotistical...He's seven, though, and the world really does revolve around him, so I suppose I can't blame him.
"Mom!" He exclaimed, with a shocked look on his face. "What are you doing? Why are you throwing away my art?!"
"I'm keeping the good ones, don't worry." (Probably not the best choice of excuses, in retrospect, but hindsight is 20/20 and I hadn't meant to get caught. He treasures his handiwork.)
"Well, I'm going to stand here and keep an eye on you." He took a sturdy, determined stance right at my elbow, and bent his eagle eye on me, a disapproving glare writ on his face.
"Ok...??" I murmured, somewhat cowed.
"Because, what if, someday far away, when my wife has children, that artwork could inspire my children?!?!"
Always thinking ahead, that one.
Luckily for me, D reminded him that we have countless files (and paper copies) of his artwork saved up, and it's not likely to go anywhere before those nebulous children make their existences known.
I'm not sure whether he's really that concerned with the artistic development of his offspring or just egotistical...He's seven, though, and the world really does revolve around him, so I suppose I can't blame him.
10/31/10
Trick or Treat
We spent Halloween in our hometown, since E was trick-or-treating with BioDad this year. We had a ton of candy left over from our Halloween party, though, so we took a big plastic punch bowl, threw the candy in it, and left it on our front porch.
When we came home tonight, we still owned all of our outdoors Halloween decor, including several portable items. However, we were bereft of a punch bowl.
I hope that little brat gets gingivitis.
When we came home tonight, we still owned all of our outdoors Halloween decor, including several portable items. However, we were bereft of a punch bowl.
I hope that little brat gets gingivitis.
10/20/10
"When I Grow Up"
My husband and I are having a Halloween party this year. My son will be out of town anyway, and I haven't seen my med school friends in a while, so it seemed like a good time to get everyone together. In anticipation, we put up Halloween decorations the first or second week of October, and while hanging cobwebs with E, he expressed some jealousy...
"I can't wait till I'm a grown-up."
"Why?"
"So I can have parties!"
"Um...you do have parties."
"No, Mom, parties where people stay a long time until the morning."
"Those are called sleepovers, and you've had those before."
"You know what I mean!"
He's going to turn out a party animal. As long as he invites me, I suppose that's ok...
"I can't wait till I'm a grown-up."
"Why?"
"So I can have parties!"
"Um...you do have parties."
"No, Mom, parties where people stay a long time until the morning."
"Those are called sleepovers, and you've had those before."
"You know what I mean!"
He's going to turn out a party animal. As long as he invites me, I suppose that's ok...
10/8/10
Desertion
My boys and I went to a haunted corn maze today. It was a really neat place on the outskirts of our suburb, with a central play area, a children's maze and an adult-height haunted maze. They had a cornbox (as opposed to a sandbox...very strange concept, but less like a catbox, I suppose!), giant hay bales and piles for the kids to climb on and jump into, a rubber ducky water trough race, and a ton of campfires and picnic tables.
We waited until dark to enter the haunted maze (after the distant screams had already begun), and were promptly terrorized by all of the horrifyingly-masked teenagers chasing us through the maze. Oh, and we didn't have a flashlight. Smart. At several points, blocking the way were tunnels made out of tarps, with fog machines and strobe lights adding proper spooky atmospheric touches. To continue on through those particular paths, you had to go through the tunnels. We came to one such point while running away from the sounds of a chainsaw behind us (truly one of the scariest things in the world, to hear a chainsaw and screams in the distance while you're in the dark, in a maze that's several feet taller than your head). E and I were not entirely eager to go into the tunnel, but we wanted to get away from the massacre that was obviously happening behind us, so we made D go first. Unfortunately, as soon as he took a step into the tunnel, he disappeared into the fog and was literally invisible. I tentatively reached a hand in, searching for him, but he had moved out of reach, also.
So I refused to go in.
E started screaming: "Let's go, Mom! There are monsters in there!"
"But we have to wait for D!"
"No, we don't!!"
Bravery and loyalty only go so far when you're 7.
Eventually, our indecision lasted long enough that D came back out for us and we made it out of the maze without any unfortunate consequences or limb losses.
Happy Halloween!!
We waited until dark to enter the haunted maze (after the distant screams had already begun), and were promptly terrorized by all of the horrifyingly-masked teenagers chasing us through the maze. Oh, and we didn't have a flashlight. Smart. At several points, blocking the way were tunnels made out of tarps, with fog machines and strobe lights adding proper spooky atmospheric touches. To continue on through those particular paths, you had to go through the tunnels. We came to one such point while running away from the sounds of a chainsaw behind us (truly one of the scariest things in the world, to hear a chainsaw and screams in the distance while you're in the dark, in a maze that's several feet taller than your head). E and I were not entirely eager to go into the tunnel, but we wanted to get away from the massacre that was obviously happening behind us, so we made D go first. Unfortunately, as soon as he took a step into the tunnel, he disappeared into the fog and was literally invisible. I tentatively reached a hand in, searching for him, but he had moved out of reach, also.
So I refused to go in.
E started screaming: "Let's go, Mom! There are monsters in there!"
"But we have to wait for D!"
"No, we don't!!"
Bravery and loyalty only go so far when you're 7.
Eventually, our indecision lasted long enough that D came back out for us and we made it out of the maze without any unfortunate consequences or limb losses.
Happy Halloween!!
10/1/10
Sticks and Stones May Hurt You...
We have strong rules on language in our household. No matter what your parents tell you when you're a child, words freaking hurt. I hate the thought of my son hurting some other child with the words he chooses to use. And I hate to hear kids speaking cruelly to each other. Kids have to hear those phrases from somewhere/someone, and the next step is that no one tells them it's not ok to say such things. Once they reach school-age, kids' teachers can run themselves nutty trying to keep the little boogers from sprouting potty mouths (in this case, meaning saying ugly things, not necessarily dirty things...), but it won't do any good unless the initial effort starts from home.
Speaking of, I happen to have a very sarcastic, critical, hurtful tongue (that my poor siblings and parents are fully acquainted with). I know they don't believe me, but I do actively work on curbing it (stop rolling your eyes, Family Members).
But ever since he was old enough to know what words were and how to use them, my son has not been allowed to call people names (especially "stupid") or to say "shut up". These are simple phrases that you or I may say every day to a hundred different people. But just because they're common doesn't mean that they can't be used to hurt. I figure that if certain words or phrases happen to crop up most often when you're angry (and shouting them at someone), it's probably a sign that you shouldn't be using those words at all. Especially around the little creatures who are learning how to be people by copying everything you do. My son will reach his hateful teen-angst years soon enough. I don't need to hear him be casually cruel to anyone before Mother Nature takes a hand with her hormones.
It helps that he doesn't have a sibling, of course. I'm sure that if he did, we'd be having another conversation entirely. Because goodness knows that my brother, sister and I called each other all sorts of things that my parents knew nothing about (most of the time). Also, he has thus far failed to try any swear words out (although I know he's heard them...don't ask me how I know...just accept that sometimes Mommy gets startled...), and he hasn't brought home any language from school (despite the fact that I've heard the way some of his friends talk to each other).
As it is, my only child calls no names and shouts no "shut up"s when people tell him things he doesn't want to hear. He still finds plenty of ways to make his displeasure known, but without saying anything hurtful. We talk about word choices frequently, and he's fully aware of the power of the words he chooses to use. He has moments when he gets in trouble for things he says, but usually that's because of his tone rather than the actual words (and that, I have to admit, he comes by honestly. Or you've never met me.)
This diligence, however, has somewhat bitten me in the backside. Because he also happens to be an excellent word policeman. Which helps me curb my own word choices around him. But I just had to relax the rules regarding "stupid," so that I would be able to describe some of the things that happen to me at work on a daily basis... I'm not allowed to call people names. But I can call stupid events whatever the heck I want.
Speaking of, I happen to have a very sarcastic, critical, hurtful tongue (that my poor siblings and parents are fully acquainted with). I know they don't believe me, but I do actively work on curbing it (stop rolling your eyes, Family Members).
But ever since he was old enough to know what words were and how to use them, my son has not been allowed to call people names (especially "stupid") or to say "shut up". These are simple phrases that you or I may say every day to a hundred different people. But just because they're common doesn't mean that they can't be used to hurt. I figure that if certain words or phrases happen to crop up most often when you're angry (and shouting them at someone), it's probably a sign that you shouldn't be using those words at all. Especially around the little creatures who are learning how to be people by copying everything you do. My son will reach his hateful teen-angst years soon enough. I don't need to hear him be casually cruel to anyone before Mother Nature takes a hand with her hormones.
It helps that he doesn't have a sibling, of course. I'm sure that if he did, we'd be having another conversation entirely. Because goodness knows that my brother, sister and I called each other all sorts of things that my parents knew nothing about (most of the time). Also, he has thus far failed to try any swear words out (although I know he's heard them...don't ask me how I know...just accept that sometimes Mommy gets startled...), and he hasn't brought home any language from school (despite the fact that I've heard the way some of his friends talk to each other).
As it is, my only child calls no names and shouts no "shut up"s when people tell him things he doesn't want to hear. He still finds plenty of ways to make his displeasure known, but without saying anything hurtful. We talk about word choices frequently, and he's fully aware of the power of the words he chooses to use. He has moments when he gets in trouble for things he says, but usually that's because of his tone rather than the actual words (and that, I have to admit, he comes by honestly. Or you've never met me.)
This diligence, however, has somewhat bitten me in the backside. Because he also happens to be an excellent word policeman. Which helps me curb my own word choices around him. But I just had to relax the rules regarding "stupid," so that I would be able to describe some of the things that happen to me at work on a daily basis... I'm not allowed to call people names. But I can call stupid events whatever the heck I want.
9/30/10
You say tomato...I say Amelia...
I sense a long and glorious friendship with this blog. That may be because I used to write lists of names. Seriously. I would pick the first, middle (two middle names, sometimes...) and last. And make whole families of names.
I'm not the only weird kid. My sister did it too.
Hence why I think I will love this blog. Unless I hate the names. In which case, it's dead to me.
I'm not the only weird kid. My sister did it too.
Hence why I think I will love this blog. Unless I hate the names. In which case, it's dead to me.
Pushover
Last night, D and I were watching the last season of Lost after E had been hustled off to bed (don't judge, we only have 3 episodes left and things are getting tense). When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a small, tousled brown head and a pair of slightly slanted brown baby eyes peering over the top of my couch.
"Yes?" D & I both sighed, as I pressed pause on the remote.
"You guys didn't check on me!" E exclaimed reproachfully.
*Now, this is a nightly ritual where we negotiate with him how frequently one of us will walk the thirty feet from the living room to his bedroom, so he can be reassured that we haven't completely abandoned him in the few intervening minutes. He has issues. To be fair, most of the time we assume he's gone to sleep and don't actually check on him. Hence the getting out of bed to reproach us. And the issues. Obviously.
"Consider this your check, then," D said.
"Ok," E sighed. "But I have to check my backpack to make sure "The Substitute Teacher From the Black Lagoon" is in there."
*What? This is absolutely a necessity at 8:45 in the evening? Lost is waiting, son! Lost is waiting!!
\
Commence pitter-pattering at barely-visible-level behind the couch into the kitchen, followed by unzipping of said backpack. An interminable pause later...
"It's there." He announced triumphantly.
"Oh, good. [We can rest easy now.] Now go back to bed."
"Ok. But check on me in five minutes." He said sternly.
"Fine. As long as you don't get up again."
After he'd gone, D started muttering about how this little habit had to end, and how it was ridiculous, and that he wouldn't stand for it, and that E was going to get a stern talking to the next time, blah blah blah. I started laughing.
"You're all bark and no bite. He'll call for you, you'll start blustering, stomp in there, and he'll turn those big eyes on you and you'll just melt like you always do."
He grinned sheepishly. "Well, I can't help it. He's a little you."
"Yes?" D & I both sighed, as I pressed pause on the remote.
"You guys didn't check on me!" E exclaimed reproachfully.
*Now, this is a nightly ritual where we negotiate with him how frequently one of us will walk the thirty feet from the living room to his bedroom, so he can be reassured that we haven't completely abandoned him in the few intervening minutes. He has issues. To be fair, most of the time we assume he's gone to sleep and don't actually check on him. Hence the getting out of bed to reproach us. And the issues. Obviously.
"Consider this your check, then," D said.
"Ok," E sighed. "But I have to check my backpack to make sure "The Substitute Teacher From the Black Lagoon" is in there."
*What? This is absolutely a necessity at 8:45 in the evening? Lost is waiting, son! Lost is waiting!!
\
Commence pitter-pattering at barely-visible-level behind the couch into the kitchen, followed by unzipping of said backpack. An interminable pause later...
"It's there." He announced triumphantly.
"Oh, good. [We can rest easy now.] Now go back to bed."
"Ok. But check on me in five minutes." He said sternly.
"Fine. As long as you don't get up again."
After he'd gone, D started muttering about how this little habit had to end, and how it was ridiculous, and that he wouldn't stand for it, and that E was going to get a stern talking to the next time, blah blah blah. I started laughing.
"You're all bark and no bite. He'll call for you, you'll start blustering, stomp in there, and he'll turn those big eyes on you and you'll just melt like you always do."
He grinned sheepishly. "Well, I can't help it. He's a little you."
9/28/10
Genius Needed. Details Below:
"Mom, do you know any super, smart-smart people?"
"Um....other than me and D?"
(Don't judge me. I still get away with "Because I'm a mom and I know everything.")
"Moooooom, no! Someone super, super, SUPER smart!"
(Well, that answers that question. We're talking serious smart, here, not garden-variety parent smart.)
"I have some uncles who are pretty smart. Why?"
"Because I need someone who can build me a machine to transport me inside a video game."
Me, thinking: "Darn it, Tron."
D, piping up: "Why?"
"So I can be a Pokemon trainer."
It's several days later and the job is still open. He's still asking, too. Don't destroy my little boy's dreams now, people. There's GOT to be someone that smart around.
"Um....other than me and D?"
(Don't judge me. I still get away with "Because I'm a mom and I know everything.")
"Moooooom, no! Someone super, super, SUPER smart!"
(Well, that answers that question. We're talking serious smart, here, not garden-variety parent smart.)
"I have some uncles who are pretty smart. Why?"
"Because I need someone who can build me a machine to transport me inside a video game."
Me, thinking: "Darn it, Tron."
D, piping up: "Why?"
"So I can be a Pokemon trainer."
It's several days later and the job is still open. He's still asking, too. Don't destroy my little boy's dreams now, people. There's GOT to be someone that smart around.
9/24/10
Faux Pas
Email is a delightful thing to me. It avoids the need for personal contact, and allows me the ability to carefully compose my thoughts before presenting them to someone. Because I tend to say whatever disorganized things come to mind, and then I get flustered. Yes, I'm easily flustered. So I love email.
But I hate HATE HATE the "reply all" function. Yes, it can be useful. Once in a blue moon. Or more likely, NEVER.
Case in point: my son's 2nd grade teacher is a kind, sweet, quiet young lady (meaning she's probably my age) who has a tough, tough job. She has to spend 5 days a week wrestling a classroom of 20+ 7- and 8-year-olds into submission whilst attempting to teach them something so their parents (who should be spending more time teaching their kids themselves) don't get pissy and so she doesn't lose her underpaid, overworked, and all-around unenviable job.
So when she sends an email to her second grade class that goes like this:
Dear Parents,
We have earned our 100 marble celebration and we are having a “Moon Party!” The students can bring a pillow, stuffed animal and a flashlight only! Please DO NOT send them in pajamas and do NOT send blankets
Thank you so much!
I don't think too much of it other than "well, that's one more thing for me to remember in the morning." My kid gets excited because he gets a break from the endless rounds of teaching-to-the-test (disclaimer: she is a very creative teacher at a very good school and he loves it). The teacher gets a much-needed break where she just has to chivvy kids into behaving, as opposed to doing that while teaching them how to read. The event is curriculum-pertinent (their entire school is learning about the solar system). And I'm all about appropriate rewards for hardwork. Meaning I love my days at work where I do nothing but study and chat with my fellow residents.
So when some untypeable-expletive of a parent REPLIES TO ALL with this:
"Crowded classrooms and half-day sessions are a tragic waste of our greatest national resource - the minds of our children. "-Walt Disney
I got a little...irritated.
Hence my blog. I really wanted to reply to all with some choice swear words about people who reply to all. But that's just being facetious.
I felt really bad for his teacher, though. People are rude. If I had been that teacher, I probably would have cried.
Ok, let's be honest, I would have done exactly what I did - read: nothing - and turned the air blue with irritated comments and screeches. And then replied to all. Because that particular email function happens to be a tragic waste of my greatest resource.
My freaking time.
But I hate HATE HATE the "reply all" function. Yes, it can be useful. Once in a blue moon. Or more likely, NEVER.
Case in point: my son's 2nd grade teacher is a kind, sweet, quiet young lady (meaning she's probably my age) who has a tough, tough job. She has to spend 5 days a week wrestling a classroom of 20+ 7- and 8-year-olds into submission whilst attempting to teach them something so their parents (who should be spending more time teaching their kids themselves) don't get pissy and so she doesn't lose her underpaid, overworked, and all-around unenviable job.
So when she sends an email to her second grade class that goes like this:
Dear Parents,
We have earned our 100 marble celebration and we are having a “Moon Party!” The students can bring a pillow, stuffed animal and a flashlight only! Please DO NOT send them in pajamas and do NOT send blankets
Thank you so much!
I don't think too much of it other than "well, that's one more thing for me to remember in the morning." My kid gets excited because he gets a break from the endless rounds of teaching-to-the-test (disclaimer: she is a very creative teacher at a very good school and he loves it). The teacher gets a much-needed break where she just has to chivvy kids into behaving, as opposed to doing that while teaching them how to read. The event is curriculum-pertinent (their entire school is learning about the solar system). And I'm all about appropriate rewards for hardwork. Meaning I love my days at work where I do nothing but study and chat with my fellow residents.
So when some untypeable-expletive of a parent REPLIES TO ALL with this:
"Crowded classrooms and half-day sessions are a tragic waste of our greatest national resource - the minds of our children. "-Walt Disney
I got a little...irritated.
Hence my blog. I really wanted to reply to all with some choice swear words about people who reply to all. But that's just being facetious.
I felt really bad for his teacher, though. People are rude. If I had been that teacher, I probably would have cried.
Ok, let's be honest, I would have done exactly what I did - read: nothing - and turned the air blue with irritated comments and screeches. And then replied to all. Because that particular email function happens to be a tragic waste of my greatest resource.
My freaking time.
9/14/10
Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more...
E went to his cousin's 9th birthday party last weekend. She apparently wanted a hotel birthday party, so my lovely (and long-suffering) sister-in-law obliged, and subsequently my poor in-laws were subjected to 13 little girls and 3 little boys at a hotel sleepover. Luckily, I was working that night...
E's dad called that Friday, and because I had been in the ER when he called, I later forgot to have E call him back.
Thus, when E's BD called again, and asked E why he hadn't answered the phone earlier, E answered: "Probably because I was in a hotel room with 13 girls."
I don't make this stuff up, people.
E's dad called that Friday, and because I had been in the ER when he called, I later forgot to have E call him back.
Thus, when E's BD called again, and asked E why he hadn't answered the phone earlier, E answered: "Probably because I was in a hotel room with 13 girls."
I don't make this stuff up, people.
9/4/10
A response
The health care crisis CANNOT be blamed entirely on doctors. Sorry. Period. No way.
We do take the Hippocratic oath. We don't take the original form, true, but then that hasn't been standard for a century or so. And so we do harm people every day (kind of necessary for most things). However, as it's taught in every medical school in the US (and probably in the world...), non-malfeasance is the balance between risk and benefit of a particular medical decision. The problem is that not everyone may agree which risks outweigh which benefits, which is where the issue of communication between doctors and patients comes into play. And incidentally, most malpractice lawsuits come about when that communication breaks down.
So the issue is not that there are thousands of doctors running around intentionally hurting people, leading to lawsuits, and thereby destroying the health care system (which is another topic entirely, and not fit for one blog post). The issue is that, despite patients thinking we should all be paragons of caring and intelligence, we're only humans who make mistakes all the time. And because most of us are fairly caring and fairly intelligent, we've ended up in this profession, instead of one where the mistakes we made wouldn't physically hurt people. Like the majority of the population. Yeah, if you're a bad teacher, you're gonna screw up my kid's education, but you don't see people getting sued for that (A. Because apparently we don't care about our children's education. B. Because teachers have no money. Unlike doctors. Because of A. It's a vicious cycle, you see.). When you make a mistake, someone's feelings get hurt, or someone gets mad because you charged them too much for their electric bill, or a dish breaks.
My life: you could hurt someone and they could die. But no pressure. Oh, and you're liable for the decisions you make starting in medical school. When you're $100,000 in debt. Which is, incidentally, why you won't get sued (Read: because lawyers don't want to sue you, you have no money, what would be the point?). But never fear, once you have something worth taking away, someone will try to take it. Whether or not you did anything wrong. It's okay, people don't mind going to doctors who've been sued. Your career (and the dozen or so years you worked so hard to get it) probably won't be in any danger. On second thought, maybe you should reconsider and become a plumber. Your life might be less...well, you can fill in the blank.
I'm not saying malpractice lawsuits are bad. They help ensure that the really bad doctors get taken out of circulation, as it were. But so many malpractice suits are just plain frivolous, just like a lot of lawsuits (with apologies to my sister, Student of Law). There are people leaving the medical profession everywhere. Men and women who were dedicated to their patients, who were committed to their paths. But who won't accept the bureaucratic busywork that you have to deal with just to take care of one darned patient. A few people out of many make really bad mistakes. The rest of us AND THE PATIENTS are having to pay. Literally. Hence = crisis.
I guess the solution is to have robot doctors, who follow a standard protocol with every single patient, regardless of individuality. They wouldn't be capable of mistakes. Let's try it, and see how happy that makes everyone. As long as mine looks like Wally, I won't complain too loudly.
We do take the Hippocratic oath. We don't take the original form, true, but then that hasn't been standard for a century or so. And so we do harm people every day (kind of necessary for most things). However, as it's taught in every medical school in the US (and probably in the world...), non-malfeasance is the balance between risk and benefit of a particular medical decision. The problem is that not everyone may agree which risks outweigh which benefits, which is where the issue of communication between doctors and patients comes into play. And incidentally, most malpractice lawsuits come about when that communication breaks down.
So the issue is not that there are thousands of doctors running around intentionally hurting people, leading to lawsuits, and thereby destroying the health care system (which is another topic entirely, and not fit for one blog post). The issue is that, despite patients thinking we should all be paragons of caring and intelligence, we're only humans who make mistakes all the time. And because most of us are fairly caring and fairly intelligent, we've ended up in this profession, instead of one where the mistakes we made wouldn't physically hurt people. Like the majority of the population. Yeah, if you're a bad teacher, you're gonna screw up my kid's education, but you don't see people getting sued for that (A. Because apparently we don't care about our children's education. B. Because teachers have no money. Unlike doctors. Because of A. It's a vicious cycle, you see.). When you make a mistake, someone's feelings get hurt, or someone gets mad because you charged them too much for their electric bill, or a dish breaks.
My life: you could hurt someone and they could die. But no pressure. Oh, and you're liable for the decisions you make starting in medical school. When you're $100,000 in debt. Which is, incidentally, why you won't get sued (Read: because lawyers don't want to sue you, you have no money, what would be the point?). But never fear, once you have something worth taking away, someone will try to take it. Whether or not you did anything wrong. It's okay, people don't mind going to doctors who've been sued. Your career (and the dozen or so years you worked so hard to get it) probably won't be in any danger. On second thought, maybe you should reconsider and become a plumber. Your life might be less...well, you can fill in the blank.
I'm not saying malpractice lawsuits are bad. They help ensure that the really bad doctors get taken out of circulation, as it were. But so many malpractice suits are just plain frivolous, just like a lot of lawsuits (with apologies to my sister, Student of Law). There are people leaving the medical profession everywhere. Men and women who were dedicated to their patients, who were committed to their paths. But who won't accept the bureaucratic busywork that you have to deal with just to take care of one darned patient. A few people out of many make really bad mistakes. The rest of us AND THE PATIENTS are having to pay. Literally. Hence = crisis.
I guess the solution is to have robot doctors, who follow a standard protocol with every single patient, regardless of individuality. They wouldn't be capable of mistakes. Let's try it, and see how happy that makes everyone. As long as mine looks like Wally, I won't complain too loudly.
8/21/10
Well, it's kind of true. Sorry, Mom. (Kidding! I'm kidding!)
The other evening, I was reading through an ACS chapter for my residency curriculum when E sidled up beside me (in an attempt to avoid going to bed, which is what he was supposed to be doing), and leaned on my shoulder to peruse the article.
"Is this for a test?" He asked after a few moments of glaring intently at the page.
"Kind of," I replied. "My teacher is going to be asking me questions about it and I need to know the answers."
"Is this teacher a he or a she?" He demanded.
"A who or a what?!"
"A he or a she! A boy or a girl!" He exclaimed.
"Um, there's one of each, I suppose. Does it matter?!" I cluelessly inquired.
He shot me a look that said "well, clearly, it matters or I wouldn't be asking. Now do you want my help or not?" I cowered beneath his disdain.
"Well, what is this about?" He returned to the topic at hand, having properly subdued me, and gestured to the paper.
"It's about old people who need surgery."
"Ah..." He nodded knowingly. "That sounds like a crusty job."
I don't know where he gets these words. Or his usage of them. But it keeps my life full of laughter so I don't really care.
"Is this for a test?" He asked after a few moments of glaring intently at the page.
"Kind of," I replied. "My teacher is going to be asking me questions about it and I need to know the answers."
"Is this teacher a he or a she?" He demanded.
"A who or a what?!"
"A he or a she! A boy or a girl!" He exclaimed.
"Um, there's one of each, I suppose. Does it matter?!" I cluelessly inquired.
He shot me a look that said "well, clearly, it matters or I wouldn't be asking. Now do you want my help or not?" I cowered beneath his disdain.
"Well, what is this about?" He returned to the topic at hand, having properly subdued me, and gestured to the paper.
"It's about old people who need surgery."
"Ah..." He nodded knowingly. "That sounds like a crusty job."
I don't know where he gets these words. Or his usage of them. But it keeps my life full of laughter so I don't really care.
8/20/10
Extraneous
He's not a baby. He hasn't been for a long time. My little boy who I didn't think would ever learn to walk because I never wanted to put him down strode away into the big world of second grade today. No tears, no backward glances, no fear, no second thoughts.
Last night, as almost an aside, he said "I'm scared about school, Mom. I'm scared because all those kids have known each other for a long time, and I haven't." But then he walked away before I could deliver my comforting speech that I had been preparing all evening, just waiting for the moment when he would ask for it, just knowing that eventually he would express his terror, and I'd be there for him. And he didn't need me. Or at least not in the way I thought he would. He didn't want my advice, or my hugs, he just wanted me to know what was on his mind. That he had something to overcome, but that he could handle it without me.
It's been a long time coming. He doesn't ask to sit on my lap anymore, he stopped asking me to carry him a long time ago, he insists on having his opinion and voice heard at every opportunity, even when he knows it's not going to get him what he wants.
He's not even a teenager yet. He's only 7 and I'm already bemoaning his transition into big-kidhood. But if/when you have your own kids, you'll understand. How your heart can break and yet rejoice with every passing day. Because while you're so excited to meet the people they're becoming, you're mourning the loss of the baby they knew so well. Sure, babies are needy, exhausting, and freaking hard. But it's a heady feeling, knowing you're the center, the pillar of someone's existence. And although sometimes you feel like they're controlling your life, the fact is, you control theirs. It's actually kind of nice. And when they're not babies any more, you lose that control, and they grow up with or without your permission. You lose your minion...
So here's to you, Mom & Dad, for letting me go. For letting me be who I am, despite the fact that nothing I've done with my life turned out the way you thought it would (yes, they advised against med school...). Despite the fact that having me meant the loss of that baby girl who relied on you so heavily. I hope it's been semi-worth it. I'll always need you. Like my son still needs me. Just maybe not as much as I/he did.
And that's okay.
Last night, as almost an aside, he said "I'm scared about school, Mom. I'm scared because all those kids have known each other for a long time, and I haven't." But then he walked away before I could deliver my comforting speech that I had been preparing all evening, just waiting for the moment when he would ask for it, just knowing that eventually he would express his terror, and I'd be there for him. And he didn't need me. Or at least not in the way I thought he would. He didn't want my advice, or my hugs, he just wanted me to know what was on his mind. That he had something to overcome, but that he could handle it without me.
It's been a long time coming. He doesn't ask to sit on my lap anymore, he stopped asking me to carry him a long time ago, he insists on having his opinion and voice heard at every opportunity, even when he knows it's not going to get him what he wants.
He's not even a teenager yet. He's only 7 and I'm already bemoaning his transition into big-kidhood. But if/when you have your own kids, you'll understand. How your heart can break and yet rejoice with every passing day. Because while you're so excited to meet the people they're becoming, you're mourning the loss of the baby they knew so well. Sure, babies are needy, exhausting, and freaking hard. But it's a heady feeling, knowing you're the center, the pillar of someone's existence. And although sometimes you feel like they're controlling your life, the fact is, you control theirs. It's actually kind of nice. And when they're not babies any more, you lose that control, and they grow up with or without your permission. You lose your minion...
So here's to you, Mom & Dad, for letting me go. For letting me be who I am, despite the fact that nothing I've done with my life turned out the way you thought it would (yes, they advised against med school...). Despite the fact that having me meant the loss of that baby girl who relied on you so heavily. I hope it's been semi-worth it. I'll always need you. Like my son still needs me. Just maybe not as much as I/he did.
And that's okay.
8/12/10
Oh yes, you are...
My favorite little sister is in town at the moment, so my family and I have been spending more time than usual at my parentals' abode. Which is not really saying much, considering that we spend...most...of our time with my parents. Hey, what can I say, that's what happens when one of us can't plan a dinner without consultation (sorry, honey, it's true), and one of us is both too busy at work to provide that consultation, and then too tired to cook when she gets home. Not that that's giving away who is who in this scenario. But regardless, my mom cooks. So we eat with her.
Incidentally, we've gotten into the habit of going home to the in-laws' farm every other weekend for homecooked meals there as well. It's a good life...
So we're all at my parents' house the other night, eating something delicious, and afterwards, we were all sitting around the table chatting. Which my less-gabby husband will tell you we are wont to do. Frequently. Much to his chagrin. But while the adults were talking, E had wandered off to jump on the couch cushions (one of the benefits of it being Nanay's house, instead of Mom's...), so I asked him to start clearing the table.
Now, to be fair, we used to be really good about making sure he was involved in chores around mealtimes. But recently, because our sit-down family-style mealtimes are sporadic and too-short (yes, he'll probably end up in jail because I don't make a balanced meal for him every evening. So judge me.), D and I have gotten out of the habit. More often than not, we let him escape for some playtime while we clear the table and do the dishes and have some precious discuss-the-day time.
Hence, his reluctance to participate at dinner the other night. He obeyed, but grudgingly. After he'd removed a few plates from the table, he thought to escape again, but I called him back and handed him some more things to clear. At this point, his lower lip was quivering like an alcoholic with the shakes, and his eyes were beginning to fill with huge crocodile tears. But I ignored him, until after putting the dishes in the sink, he stomped past me and screeched "I'm not your minion!!!"
I think I may have burst some veins in my eyes trying not to laugh.
Incidentally, we've gotten into the habit of going home to the in-laws' farm every other weekend for homecooked meals there as well. It's a good life...
So we're all at my parents' house the other night, eating something delicious, and afterwards, we were all sitting around the table chatting. Which my less-gabby husband will tell you we are wont to do. Frequently. Much to his chagrin. But while the adults were talking, E had wandered off to jump on the couch cushions (one of the benefits of it being Nanay's house, instead of Mom's...), so I asked him to start clearing the table.
Now, to be fair, we used to be really good about making sure he was involved in chores around mealtimes. But recently, because our sit-down family-style mealtimes are sporadic and too-short (yes, he'll probably end up in jail because I don't make a balanced meal for him every evening. So judge me.), D and I have gotten out of the habit. More often than not, we let him escape for some playtime while we clear the table and do the dishes and have some precious discuss-the-day time.
Hence, his reluctance to participate at dinner the other night. He obeyed, but grudgingly. After he'd removed a few plates from the table, he thought to escape again, but I called him back and handed him some more things to clear. At this point, his lower lip was quivering like an alcoholic with the shakes, and his eyes were beginning to fill with huge crocodile tears. But I ignored him, until after putting the dishes in the sink, he stomped past me and screeched "I'm not your minion!!!"
I think I may have burst some veins in my eyes trying not to laugh.
8/1/10
He's really not old enough for the screaming fans. Yet...
Yesterday, we went bowling with most of the surgery residents in my program and their families. Hence, I felt the need to dress my boys up. It's more difficult with one of them than the other. I'll let you figure out which is which.
Regardless, when E had gotten dressed, he looked down at himself rather critically and stated "I look like a Jonas Brother in this."
Which is fair, since he was wearing distressed jeans, a white tee that had a guitar and the word "Rebel" on it, a striped black vest, and sneakers.
I laughed at him, and said "That's not terrible!"
He shrugged and replied "I know. I'm just sayin'." And walked off without another word.
I'd like to note that the adolescent girls who were attendees at the bowling event thought he was the bees' knees. So I suppose he was right...
Regardless, when E had gotten dressed, he looked down at himself rather critically and stated "I look like a Jonas Brother in this."
Which is fair, since he was wearing distressed jeans, a white tee that had a guitar and the word "Rebel" on it, a striped black vest, and sneakers.
I laughed at him, and said "That's not terrible!"
He shrugged and replied "I know. I'm just sayin'." And walked off without another word.
I'd like to note that the adolescent girls who were attendees at the bowling event thought he was the bees' knees. So I suppose he was right...
7/21/10
Oh, you're my favorite awkward statement...
"You look too young to have a 7-year-old!"
Yeah, people, I am...
Yeah, people, I am...
7/3/10
I Just Called to Say "I Love You"
So I'm back to working ridiculously early and long hours (and so far it's been awesome, so don't think I'm complaining...), but I was a bit worried about E, since in the last year he's been very vocal about how much he hates it when I leave the house before he's woken up in the morning. But another new intern (who happens to have much younger children than mine, and I'm sure they all have a much harder time than E and I do) mentioned to me that she had a bought a voice recorder for her sons, and that she leaves a message for them every morning before she goes.
So I did just that, and even though it's only been two days since I've been back to work (as it is...), my son treasures those two 15-second messages that I've left. Today, I came upon him playing them back to himself, cradling the recorder against his chest like a cherished possession. It's worth every penny to me, for him to wake up in the morning and know that I'm thinking about him.
So thank you, Intern Friend, for your priceless suggestion. My son and I are grateful.
So I did just that, and even though it's only been two days since I've been back to work (as it is...), my son treasures those two 15-second messages that I've left. Today, I came upon him playing them back to himself, cradling the recorder against his chest like a cherished possession. It's worth every penny to me, for him to wake up in the morning and know that I'm thinking about him.
So thank you, Intern Friend, for your priceless suggestion. My son and I are grateful.
6/29/10
Teach Your Sons to Respect Women...
Yesterday, my son was recounting a conversation he'd had with his stepmother (we'll call her SM for the sake of brevity, because the single initials that are capable of being used as identifiers are running short) when he had guessed her age. She had given him a hint (how old his father was) and then he was supposed to guess how old she was based on that. And he was quite proud of the fact that he had guessed correctly, despite the fact that she had expected him to guess younger (so he said).
I started laughing and teasingly said "You'd better be careful when guessing ladies' ages!" Naturally, being a normal 7-year-old, he asked why, and I replied "Well, if you guess older than a lady actually is, she won't be too pleased." He let it lie and I thought the matter was settled.
Well, today at dinner, apropos of nothing, E suddenly exclaimed, "So if I had said she was 50, she wouldn't have been very happy?" I felt it safe to agree with that and again thought we had exhausted that particular line of reasoning.
However, after dinner, on the way home from my parents' house, he again piped up from the backseat, "Why aren't we supposed to ask ladies' ages, again?"
I suppose it doesn't hurt to start this young, right? Especially when he's really catching onto the concept.
PS I still remember the look on my mom's face when my brother (who must have been E's age at the time) told my mom she had gotten so old that she was back to zero, and therefore young again. His logic was flawless...
I started laughing and teasingly said "You'd better be careful when guessing ladies' ages!" Naturally, being a normal 7-year-old, he asked why, and I replied "Well, if you guess older than a lady actually is, she won't be too pleased." He let it lie and I thought the matter was settled.
Well, today at dinner, apropos of nothing, E suddenly exclaimed, "So if I had said she was 50, she wouldn't have been very happy?" I felt it safe to agree with that and again thought we had exhausted that particular line of reasoning.
However, after dinner, on the way home from my parents' house, he again piped up from the backseat, "Why aren't we supposed to ask ladies' ages, again?"
I suppose it doesn't hurt to start this young, right? Especially when he's really catching onto the concept.
PS I still remember the look on my mom's face when my brother (who must have been E's age at the time) told my mom she had gotten so old that she was back to zero, and therefore young again. His logic was flawless...
6/27/10
The Guardian of the Storms
D doesn't have to go out in the field for his job as often as he used to (which was every week...), but he still leaves occasionally, and this time he had to leave when E was already gone at his dad's. So when E got back, he was not pleased to learn that he was the man of the house. And when I informed him that he would hold the title till Wednesday or so, he exclaimed: "WEDNESDAY?! But what if it STORMS!?!? I can't survive with a storm and without D!!!" (Except he said his actual name, obviously.)
I'm not sure how my son thinks he lived through the 5 years of storms BEFORE he had a stepfather, but I guess I'm just a weakling woman to him, completely incapable of handling natural disasters...
I'm not sure how my son thinks he lived through the 5 years of storms BEFORE he had a stepfather, but I guess I'm just a weakling woman to him, completely incapable of handling natural disasters...
6/25/10
To me, you are praiseworthy
At about 7 PM today, I was headed home from dinner with the huz after a hectic day of residency orientation, when I exited from the highway, turned the corner, and came upon the scene of a car accident. An SUV had somehow managed to roll over onto the side of the road and was lying in the grass on its hood. A cluster of people were crowded around someone on the ground, several cars were stopped with their drivers rushing to and fro across the road, and a few men were helping to direct traffic through the labyrinth of vehicles and pedestrians.
Obviously the accident had happened relatively recently, so I asked one of the men if they needed any medical help (hell, I had just spent 2 days taking ATLS and recertified in both BLS and ACLS in the past month, so if I couldn't help a trauma victim at that moment, I'll never be able to...), but he said they already had a doctor helping out. So I moved on.
I am so glad that I live in a world where when people see a car accident, they forget their dinner plans or that their favorite TV program is starting, and they offer their skills and time to help someone in trouble. And sure, you can say that most people would do the same. It's true that helping people in distress is not some special virtue that only a few people are able to dredge up out of the muck of their souls on a very good day. Maybe it is just human nature.
But isn't that beautiful?
Obviously the accident had happened relatively recently, so I asked one of the men if they needed any medical help (hell, I had just spent 2 days taking ATLS and recertified in both BLS and ACLS in the past month, so if I couldn't help a trauma victim at that moment, I'll never be able to...), but he said they already had a doctor helping out. So I moved on.
I am so glad that I live in a world where when people see a car accident, they forget their dinner plans or that their favorite TV program is starting, and they offer their skills and time to help someone in trouble. And sure, you can say that most people would do the same. It's true that helping people in distress is not some special virtue that only a few people are able to dredge up out of the muck of their souls on a very good day. Maybe it is just human nature.
But isn't that beautiful?
6/23/10
The Horrors of Camp
My son's first summer camp experience started this Monday. When faced with the prospect of my poor parents (who are finally living the spoiled lives of empty-nesters) having to watch E from 7:30 in the morning till after 5 in the evening, we had to come up with a better solution. And luckily, this fair city in which we live is blessed with a plethora of working parents who need summertime care for their kids, so I had many places from which to choose.
I really wanted to avoid anything which smacked of daycare. I HATED daycare when I was E's age and my mom was working (and she rarely worked AND I had siblings with me). And we attended a very good daycare that my mother carefully chose. I think it was the aimless playing for hours that I disliked. I don't remember it very clearly, but regardless, the experience left a distaste for daycares in my mouth.
And luckily, I've never had to utilize one. My parents were ready and willing to help watch E while I went to school when he was younger, and through a series of fortuitous circumstances (aka my guardian angel smacked some events around for me), E was first in a great preschool, then pre-K and then all-day kindergarten.
So when looking around for something for E to do this summer, I had a pretty long list. I needed someplace with drop-off before 8 (still too late for me, as I have to be at work by 5, but D can drop him off then and still make it on time) and with pick-up after 5. And if it's not daycare, those hours alone are pretty hard to find in a day camp. It had to have a large number of kids, so the likelihood of him being stuck in a group of 10 year olds was lessened. It had to be close to my parents' house, in case they were picking him up. And I think that's it.
We settled on a place about midway between our house and my parents' home, a place that during the normal school year serves as a kids' gymnasium for the purposes of gymnastics, dance and karate lessons. However, they also have a POOL. So during the summer, they turn themselves gleefully over to weekly day camps. They average 60 kids per camp, and have the option for morning care starting at 7:30 AM and evening care till 5:30.
My son was not thrilled when informed that he was going to receive the privilege of going to summer camp. He desperately ran through the list of every adult who's ever taken care of him, asking why he couldn't just stay with them during the day. And finally, when I informed him that it was either camp or daycare, he reluctantly admitted he'd rather go to camp (which is kind of strange, since he has no reason to think ill of either camp or daycare...). I was sort of puzzled by his reluctance to attend, since I had assured him that he'd get to swim and play with kids and get gymnastics lessons, etc, but I didn't question it too much, assuming that he was just thinking he'd rather stay in his grandparents' pool all summer.
I took E to see the facility prior to signing him up. At sight of the pool, my son the fish finally started displaying some enthusiasm for the whole idea. The lovely front desk lady took us on a tour and outlined the camp schedule and was wonderful with E. And after we were through, I asked him if he wanted to attend and he said yes without hesitation.
I was patting myself on the back as we left, and casually said to E, "See, I told you that you'd like it." And he replied, "I thought I'd have to be gone overnight and that's why I didn't want to go."
Tragic, right? My heart broke right then and there. No wonder he was so desperate to avoid camp, since he thought it meant he'd have to be away from home all summer. And he was so good about it too! After his initial flat-out refusal, he calmly accepted his fate. If I had decided he needed to be shipped off to boarding school, off he would go. I felt super bad.
Luckily, E has thoroughly enjoyed the last three days, coming home full of chatter about his new friends and the things he has learned both in the pool and in the gym, and giving physical demonstrations of the "ocstable" [sic] courses he's traversed. He even joyfully agreed to signing up for another week.
And he hasn't had to stay the night there even once. So we're all happy.
If you're friends with a certain friend of mine who's going into Radiology and he tells you to watch a certain B-horror flick entitled "Sleepaway Camp," whatever you do, don't do it.
I really wanted to avoid anything which smacked of daycare. I HATED daycare when I was E's age and my mom was working (and she rarely worked AND I had siblings with me). And we attended a very good daycare that my mother carefully chose. I think it was the aimless playing for hours that I disliked. I don't remember it very clearly, but regardless, the experience left a distaste for daycares in my mouth.
And luckily, I've never had to utilize one. My parents were ready and willing to help watch E while I went to school when he was younger, and through a series of fortuitous circumstances (aka my guardian angel smacked some events around for me), E was first in a great preschool, then pre-K and then all-day kindergarten.
So when looking around for something for E to do this summer, I had a pretty long list. I needed someplace with drop-off before 8 (still too late for me, as I have to be at work by 5, but D can drop him off then and still make it on time) and with pick-up after 5. And if it's not daycare, those hours alone are pretty hard to find in a day camp. It had to have a large number of kids, so the likelihood of him being stuck in a group of 10 year olds was lessened. It had to be close to my parents' house, in case they were picking him up. And I think that's it.
We settled on a place about midway between our house and my parents' home, a place that during the normal school year serves as a kids' gymnasium for the purposes of gymnastics, dance and karate lessons. However, they also have a POOL. So during the summer, they turn themselves gleefully over to weekly day camps. They average 60 kids per camp, and have the option for morning care starting at 7:30 AM and evening care till 5:30.
My son was not thrilled when informed that he was going to receive the privilege of going to summer camp. He desperately ran through the list of every adult who's ever taken care of him, asking why he couldn't just stay with them during the day. And finally, when I informed him that it was either camp or daycare, he reluctantly admitted he'd rather go to camp (which is kind of strange, since he has no reason to think ill of either camp or daycare...). I was sort of puzzled by his reluctance to attend, since I had assured him that he'd get to swim and play with kids and get gymnastics lessons, etc, but I didn't question it too much, assuming that he was just thinking he'd rather stay in his grandparents' pool all summer.
I took E to see the facility prior to signing him up. At sight of the pool, my son the fish finally started displaying some enthusiasm for the whole idea. The lovely front desk lady took us on a tour and outlined the camp schedule and was wonderful with E. And after we were through, I asked him if he wanted to attend and he said yes without hesitation.
I was patting myself on the back as we left, and casually said to E, "See, I told you that you'd like it." And he replied, "I thought I'd have to be gone overnight and that's why I didn't want to go."
Tragic, right? My heart broke right then and there. No wonder he was so desperate to avoid camp, since he thought it meant he'd have to be away from home all summer. And he was so good about it too! After his initial flat-out refusal, he calmly accepted his fate. If I had decided he needed to be shipped off to boarding school, off he would go. I felt super bad.
Luckily, E has thoroughly enjoyed the last three days, coming home full of chatter about his new friends and the things he has learned both in the pool and in the gym, and giving physical demonstrations of the "ocstable" [sic] courses he's traversed. He even joyfully agreed to signing up for another week.
And he hasn't had to stay the night there even once. So we're all happy.
If you're friends with a certain friend of mine who's going into Radiology and he tells you to watch a certain B-horror flick entitled "Sleepaway Camp," whatever you do, don't do it.
6/21/10
A Composition
In honor of Fathers' Day 2010, I submit to you a song I wrote for my father the day after I turned 24. If someone steals this, I'm gonna be pissed. And my sister's a lawyer, so don't. When I become more technologically energetic and I have more time (yes, I know, that'll never happen), I'll upload the actual song. So you can actually hear it. But here goes for now...
Daddy's baby can't recount the evenings when his strong arms were terror's only ban
Constellations and his imagination were all that healed the nightmares of a child
Now when she goes to sleep at night she hears him singing: "a tiny turned-up nose"
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
'Cause when she falls, she's never far to go
And to her, he's always right and she'll never change in his eyes
So she's not afraid of standing on her own
Because you're never really alone when you're a daddy's girl
Years turned into numbers, he turned around when time and she were on a swift collision course
Worry marked him and adolescence hurt when she barely ever said her love out loud
But she tried to make him proud when she was singing "Michael, row your boat ashore."
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
'Cause she knows forgiveness waits for her mistakes
And she may not think he's right but she'll never change in his eyes
'Cause his love for her is something she can't break
And he'll never forsake her because she's Daddy's girl
Oh it never really changes, it never really changes
She'll always be his, always be his baby
She remembers echoes from her childhood where canyon waters cleaved through furrowed seams
And she can hear their music in the darkness where safety was a velvet-colored voice
And the tears ran down her face to hear him singing "The night they drove Old Dixie down"
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
She knows his love is always waiting there
And to her, he's always right and she'll never change in his eyes
And she's not afraid of being on her own
'Cause she can hear him singing, she can hear him singing
She can hear him singing and she's Daddy's girl.
For my father. The best one I've ever had.
Daddy's baby can't recount the evenings when his strong arms were terror's only ban
Constellations and his imagination were all that healed the nightmares of a child
Now when she goes to sleep at night she hears him singing: "a tiny turned-up nose"
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
'Cause when she falls, she's never far to go
And to her, he's always right and she'll never change in his eyes
So she's not afraid of standing on her own
Because you're never really alone when you're a daddy's girl
Years turned into numbers, he turned around when time and she were on a swift collision course
Worry marked him and adolescence hurt when she barely ever said her love out loud
But she tried to make him proud when she was singing "Michael, row your boat ashore."
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
'Cause she knows forgiveness waits for her mistakes
And she may not think he's right but she'll never change in his eyes
'Cause his love for her is something she can't break
And he'll never forsake her because she's Daddy's girl
Oh it never really changes, it never really changes
She'll always be his, always be his baby
She remembers echoes from her childhood where canyon waters cleaved through furrowed seams
And she can hear their music in the darkness where safety was a velvet-colored voice
And the tears ran down her face to hear him singing "The night they drove Old Dixie down"
She's Daddy's little girl and she's not afraid in this world
She knows his love is always waiting there
And to her, he's always right and she'll never change in his eyes
And she's not afraid of being on her own
'Cause she can hear him singing, she can hear him singing
She can hear him singing and she's Daddy's girl.
For my father. The best one I've ever had.
6/20/10
Colossians 3:23
So, seeing as how I just graduated less than a month ago, I haven't had many opportunities to enjoy my new status. I almost passed out the first time someone addressed me as "Dr mylastname" without sarcasm. (I was making my husband and child call me doctor. Exclusively. But as they accompanied it with much eye-rolling, it just doesn't count.)
But today, someone asked me what I do. And, to test it out, I said "I'm a doctor." The guy congratulated me on being very accomplished (after he asked me, with shock in his voice, how old I am...as usual). And that was fine. We talked about residency and what I wanted to do after residency. But then he turned to a coworker and started teasing him, saying "You wanna feel good about yourself? This young lady is only *my age* and she's already a doctor." And then I felt terrible.
Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of where I am in my life. But I don't want to feel good at someone else's expense. I hate that my life could be used to make somebody else feel bad about themselves. I feel that there is pride in any kind of work. Whether you graduated from high school or not. Whether you control corporations or clean toilets. Mom was always quoting her father (who was himself quoting the Bible) as saying "whatever you do, do it well." Or something to that effect. Which I feel is a good way to live your life. If you take pride in what you do, and you make the effort to do it well, you make it a worthwhile occupation.
The coworker responded by saying "I love what I do!" And that was perfect. He should love what he does. He has a great job, and he was reading a Mark Twain biography almost the entire time I was in his presence. You won't see me getting to do that in my job, that's for sure. I'd be tempted, but I'd get fired...
But today, someone asked me what I do. And, to test it out, I said "I'm a doctor." The guy congratulated me on being very accomplished (after he asked me, with shock in his voice, how old I am...as usual). And that was fine. We talked about residency and what I wanted to do after residency. But then he turned to a coworker and started teasing him, saying "You wanna feel good about yourself? This young lady is only *my age* and she's already a doctor." And then I felt terrible.
Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of where I am in my life. But I don't want to feel good at someone else's expense. I hate that my life could be used to make somebody else feel bad about themselves. I feel that there is pride in any kind of work. Whether you graduated from high school or not. Whether you control corporations or clean toilets. Mom was always quoting her father (who was himself quoting the Bible) as saying "whatever you do, do it well." Or something to that effect. Which I feel is a good way to live your life. If you take pride in what you do, and you make the effort to do it well, you make it a worthwhile occupation.
The coworker responded by saying "I love what I do!" And that was perfect. He should love what he does. He has a great job, and he was reading a Mark Twain biography almost the entire time I was in his presence. You won't see me getting to do that in my job, that's for sure. I'd be tempted, but I'd get fired...
6/16/10
Old Wives' Tales
One of the worst things about Facebook has been the questionable privilege of watching my various acquaintances ask for and dispense medical and/or parenting advice to each other via FB statuses. Most of the time, they don't get/give bad advice or terribly erroneous information. Sometimes, to be sure, I shudder a little at the explanations people give and wonder what they've been reading, but for the most part it's all fun and games.
Recently, however, a new mom (no excuse, her mother's a nurse) asked her personal Facebook community to tell her in what position she should let her 2-month-old sleep. Follow 20-something comments varying from the "SIDS is scary - BACK TO SLEEP" variety to "I was always afraid my baby would choke if he spit up, so I put him to sleep on his belly." Several of them stated that their doctors told them back-only, but that their babies "just wouldn't do it." A couple of scientific types even said "well, doctors seem to change their minds on the best position every few years, so whatever is more comfortable for your baby is the best." Give me a break, people. Seat belts aren't too comfy either, but it's a crime if you don't buckle Junior in. You know why? Because evidence shows that your kid is less likely to DIE if you do.
*At this point, a disclaimer. I must admit to some amount of bias here, because I know that several of the people mentioned go to my own doctor madre for their medical care. But it's not like she's been advising anything radical. Case in point: The Amer. Acad of Peds recommended putting babies to sleep on their backs to prevent SIDS starting in 1992. And the hugely successful (as in, less babies dying) "Back to Sleep" initiative started in 1994. I checked. Almost 20 years of an opinion does not "changing their minds every few years" make. And sure, if in a few years, the evidence points in the opposite direction, we'll feel awfully sheepish, but that's the nature of science. We can only make decisions based on the information we have at any given point in time.
At this particular time, doctors are saying put your babies on their backs to sleep to prevent them DYING. I seriously doubt any doctors are recommending that you put babies on their bellies to prevent them choking if they should spit up in their sleep. And in fact, I just googled that very question and there are a billion resources right at my fingertips to tell me that my baby is much more likely to die of SIDS than of choking. At least while they're in bed, anyway.
It's ironic that I can find such information on the web when these people are relying on an internet forum of personal opinion to direct their parenting choices. So we've established that you have internet access! So at least go research your question first before dumping it in the laps of a bunch of proverbial elderly spousal units! Go read scientific journals, go read medical professional websites, go read hospital info. (But please, DON'T go to some "my baby slept on his back and it gave him leukemia" website. The zebras are out there, yes, but so are the freaking crazy or just plain misguided hyenas.)
I'm not saying doctors are always right (I know too many of them to believe that...). And I'm not saying I don't believe you if you claim your baby absolutely WILL NOT go to sleep on his/her back (I don't blame 'em, being in the waterbed/womb is a far cry from being supine on a rock-hard (ahem, also purposeful) baby mattress). And if you are a new mom, your body aches everywhere, you've been on the verge of tears at least 12 times today, you wish your mother would go home, you're desperately afraid she will, you hate that your husband can't calm the baby down like you can, and you put Baby Betty on her tummy to sleep because you know she'll nod off immediately and you just need 5 minutes to find a Kleenex and a sitz bath...I can't blame you, and neither should anyone else.
But for God's sake, if you're making some parenting choices that you're feeling guilty about because you ALREADY ASKED BUT YOU'RE IGNORING THE BEST-INFORMED ANSWER, don't ask for validation from Facebook. Ask your sister or your mother or your best friend. In private. They'll validate you and love you and treasure you. And then you won't have blog rants written about you.
If tomorrow I see a Facebook post about a cat sucking the breath out of some kid, my head may explode.
Recently, however, a new mom (no excuse, her mother's a nurse) asked her personal Facebook community to tell her in what position she should let her 2-month-old sleep. Follow 20-something comments varying from the "SIDS is scary - BACK TO SLEEP" variety to "I was always afraid my baby would choke if he spit up, so I put him to sleep on his belly." Several of them stated that their doctors told them back-only, but that their babies "just wouldn't do it." A couple of scientific types even said "well, doctors seem to change their minds on the best position every few years, so whatever is more comfortable for your baby is the best." Give me a break, people. Seat belts aren't too comfy either, but it's a crime if you don't buckle Junior in. You know why? Because evidence shows that your kid is less likely to DIE if you do.
*At this point, a disclaimer. I must admit to some amount of bias here, because I know that several of the people mentioned go to my own doctor madre for their medical care. But it's not like she's been advising anything radical. Case in point: The Amer. Acad of Peds recommended putting babies to sleep on their backs to prevent SIDS starting in 1992. And the hugely successful (as in, less babies dying) "Back to Sleep" initiative started in 1994. I checked. Almost 20 years of an opinion does not "changing their minds every few years" make. And sure, if in a few years, the evidence points in the opposite direction, we'll feel awfully sheepish, but that's the nature of science. We can only make decisions based on the information we have at any given point in time.
At this particular time, doctors are saying put your babies on their backs to sleep to prevent them DYING. I seriously doubt any doctors are recommending that you put babies on their bellies to prevent them choking if they should spit up in their sleep. And in fact, I just googled that very question and there are a billion resources right at my fingertips to tell me that my baby is much more likely to die of SIDS than of choking. At least while they're in bed, anyway.
It's ironic that I can find such information on the web when these people are relying on an internet forum of personal opinion to direct their parenting choices. So we've established that you have internet access! So at least go research your question first before dumping it in the laps of a bunch of proverbial elderly spousal units! Go read scientific journals, go read medical professional websites, go read hospital info. (But please, DON'T go to some "my baby slept on his back and it gave him leukemia" website. The zebras are out there, yes, but so are the freaking crazy or just plain misguided hyenas.)
I'm not saying doctors are always right (I know too many of them to believe that...). And I'm not saying I don't believe you if you claim your baby absolutely WILL NOT go to sleep on his/her back (I don't blame 'em, being in the waterbed/womb is a far cry from being supine on a rock-hard (ahem, also purposeful) baby mattress). And if you are a new mom, your body aches everywhere, you've been on the verge of tears at least 12 times today, you wish your mother would go home, you're desperately afraid she will, you hate that your husband can't calm the baby down like you can, and you put Baby Betty on her tummy to sleep because you know she'll nod off immediately and you just need 5 minutes to find a Kleenex and a sitz bath...I can't blame you, and neither should anyone else.
But for God's sake, if you're making some parenting choices that you're feeling guilty about because you ALREADY ASKED BUT YOU'RE IGNORING THE BEST-INFORMED ANSWER, don't ask for validation from Facebook. Ask your sister or your mother or your best friend. In private. They'll validate you and love you and treasure you. And then you won't have blog rants written about you.
If tomorrow I see a Facebook post about a cat sucking the breath out of some kid, my head may explode.
6/15/10
I've Created a Monster
My mother had specific rules for tidying up our house when I was little. The house had to be tidy AT LEAST on two occasions: 1) when we were expecting visitors and 2) when we were leaving for any longer than a day, so she could return to a clean house. She clung to these above all else under the onslaught of three horribly messy growing children and a husband with his mind on less earthly things than housework ;-).
Among the multiple wise, wonderful things I picked up from my delightful little mommy (you can send me a check, Mother...), I latched on to these rules with the same mindset. And then took it one crazy, nutso step further, to where a large portion of my free time is spent pottering around various areas of the house, with the aim of constant tidiness. After all, with only a slightly untidy spouse and one small child, the cleanliness of my house is one of the things I can control almost 24/7. The boys are rarely able to get ahead of me.
I was thinking this yesterday as I was obsessively scrubbing something inane (I don't even remember now what it was, which shows you how important it must have been...). And thinking that should the day ever arise when more children grace my life, my housecleaning impulses are going to have to go down the drain rapidly, especially with this doctoring thing that I've got my heart set on. Yeah, you can hire a housekeeper, I suppose. But I clearly remember the abortive attempts of housekeepers to relieve some of my mother's cleaning burdens when I was young. They would leave the house, and she would start cleaning, because they never did things the way she wanted them. I have no illusions: I'm just like my mother. So basically, my tidy house days are numbered.
However, I may have given myself a little boost into the saddle with Mi Hijo Numero Uno.
Case in point: he came home yesterday from a 2-week vacay with his dad, and walked into his room expecting it to still be in the stellar condition in which he left it. However, I had belatedly realized that I needed to wash away some allergens and had therefore completely stripped his bed of the 5 pillows, 2 bolsters, 3 quilts, 1 baby blanket, 1 large tiger, 1 large pig and about 30 stuffed animals which regularly occupy it. Seeing the carnage littering his bedroom floor, he promptly burst into tears, and berated me, saying "but it's so much work to build my nest!!" Which is a fact I discovered for myself, when, an hour later, his sheets were done and he requested my help to put his bed back together. Having restored his zoo to its proper location, I left him to the final touches.
When I walked in a little later, he was busily picking up the (maybe three) toys that were on his floor and he said "I need to clean my room, mom, will you help me?"
"Um, sure," I said, "but why does your room need cleaning?" I repeat, there were all of three toys on the floor.
"Mom! What if someone comes in here, what would they think of me?!"
"What?! Who is going to come in here?!"
"Visitors!! Or a new friend!!"
Yes, that's my child. Freaking Martha Stewart in the body of a 7-year-old boy.
But at least maybe I'll have someone waging war on my side in the ongoing saga of Woman vs House.
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.
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.
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