As E's imagination has blossomed, he has conjured up ghosts, witches, haunted trees, haunted houses, monsters, pirates, and every manner of scary things that go bump in the night. The latest product of his child mind is that "scary" books can somehow "hurt" him by being in his room after he goes to sleep. This is despite the fact that scary books are his favorite thing to read during daylight hours, and even right before bed.
Therefore, every night, he warns me ahead of time which books to take with me when I turn off the lights. And every night, he remembers at least 2 more books that I should have taken, and proceeds to march down the hallway to present them to me. This has gone on for at least a month now, and the pattern was pretty easy to discern:
His Disney storybook has a picture of Captain Hook on the cover. He's a pirate. 'Nuff said.
How the Grinch Stole Christmas...the Grinch is pretty creepy before he saves Cindy Lou Who
The Spooky Book...I'll let you guess that one
Bob the Builder Traffic Trouble has Spud the Scarecrow in it. And I'm terrified of that guy.
Meredith's Mixed-Up Magic has witches on the cover
All validly terrifying to a small boy who spends all day reveling in terrifying things, right?
Imagine my surprise when one night I looked up to see him hastily dropping his Catholic Book of Bible Stories on the floor and running hell-bent back to his room...
My slightly-insane life and times
3/7/07
Dr. Mommy
Our preceptor for PCM (ahem, Principles of Clinical Medicine) told us that his mother was 1 of 2 women in her medical school class back in the 50s, and that the dean of the school actually asked her once why she was there, taking up space that could be filled by a real doctor. Someone who wasn't going to get married, have babies, and become a housewife. Times have changed since then. My class (of 160 people, give or take depending on mood...) is about 60% men, 40% women.
But has society has really changed that much? I mean, the same issues that beleagured women professionals in the 50s are still present today! The struggle between the desire to work outside of the home and the desire to be home with your kids is still at the heart of our working class. I wonder about it myself sometimes.
I've never had the luxury of staying home with E all the time, because I've been a student for my entire life. But I don't have the 8 to 5 working hours, and I get lots of vacation time, and when he's sick I don't have to call in to ask for time off. So I wonder how I'll handle it when I do have those restrictions. And how will it be to have babies that I can't spend 4 months with before I have to go back to work? E was born at the end of April, so I had 3 1/2 months off before school started again. That's a lot better than 12 weeks of maternity leave, which is not even guaranteed! And that's another topic entirely...
I know there will be years when I will not be working full-time and I know that I will make career choices based on my kid(s). I knew that going into med school. So I sometimes wonder if I am taking the place of a physician who would work full-time his/her entire life and possibly be more of a contribution to medicine?
My personal conviction is that I will be the best physician possible in the role I have, whether that be part-time, full-time, specialist or primary care. But there will always be questions, and there will never be answers except those that I create for myself.
But has society has really changed that much? I mean, the same issues that beleagured women professionals in the 50s are still present today! The struggle between the desire to work outside of the home and the desire to be home with your kids is still at the heart of our working class. I wonder about it myself sometimes.
I've never had the luxury of staying home with E all the time, because I've been a student for my entire life. But I don't have the 8 to 5 working hours, and I get lots of vacation time, and when he's sick I don't have to call in to ask for time off. So I wonder how I'll handle it when I do have those restrictions. And how will it be to have babies that I can't spend 4 months with before I have to go back to work? E was born at the end of April, so I had 3 1/2 months off before school started again. That's a lot better than 12 weeks of maternity leave, which is not even guaranteed! And that's another topic entirely...
I know there will be years when I will not be working full-time and I know that I will make career choices based on my kid(s). I knew that going into med school. So I sometimes wonder if I am taking the place of a physician who would work full-time his/her entire life and possibly be more of a contribution to medicine?
My personal conviction is that I will be the best physician possible in the role I have, whether that be part-time, full-time, specialist or primary care. But there will always be questions, and there will never be answers except those that I create for myself.
3/5/07
Maternity Leave Visited
No, this is not about the Lost episode. Though that was a relatively good one...This is about actual maternity leave. And about discrepancies across the world as to maternity leave. Now, I myself have never had the need to take maternity leave, as I have never had that sort of a job. But it will probably be an issue in the future, so I take interest in it now.
So, to start with, in 1993 or so, the Family and Medical Leave Act came into being. Basically, under it, employees of covered agencies may receive up to 12 weeks of unpaid parental leave following the birth or adoption of a child. There are rules, like the employee must have been employed full-time for at least 12 months, etc., but it sounds pretty good, right? That's almost 3 months of spending quality time with your infant.
Well, it sounds good until you look at other developed countries around the world, and even some undeveloped countries. Now, I have no idea whether these statistics are perfectly accurate, but whether or not they're entirely correct, they still illustrate a big difference...
For instance, the UK: "Working mothers are given the right to 26 weeks of paid leave for each child, 6 weeks at 90% of full pay and 20 weeks at a fixed amount. Women who were employed prior to the commencement of their pregnancy are entitled to an additional 26 weeks unpaid leave. After 1st April 2007, the rules change. All female employees will be entitled to 52 weeks of maternity leave. 39 weeks of this leave is paid, with the first six weeks paid at 90% of full pay and the remainder at a fixed rate." ~Wikipedia
Ahem. Nice, huh? But that was an instance of average leave on Wikipedia. For an example of "generous" policies, we turn to Sweden: "All working parents are entitled to 18 months' paid leave per child, the cost being shared between employer and State. To encourage greater paternal involvement in child-rearing, a minimum of 3 months out of the 18 is required to be used by the "minority" parent, in practice usually the father."
Wow. Just...wow. 18 months? That's past sitting up, eating solid foods, crawling, walking, and sometimes talking. Think of all the milestones you could be there to witness, knowing that your job will be waiting for you when you get back. Amazing.
Bulgaria (yes, Bulgaria, of all places) has set a wonderful example with one part of their policy: "...providing mothers with 45 days 100% paid sick leave prior to the due date, 2 years paid leave, and 1 additional year of unpaid leave. The employeer is obliged to restore the mother to the same position upon return to work. In addition, pregnant women and single mothers cannot be fired." What? Pregnant women and single mothers can't be fired? That is ridiculously unheard of in our enlightened little country of America. How sad.
Even in Cuba (what, Cuba? No way...), Wikipedia reports a maternity leave of 18 weeks at 100% pay, and that legislation has recently been extended to paternity leave.
Now, I'm not saying that these systems will necessarily work in the US. Lord knows the government alone has the capability to mess up legislation for such, not to mention employers and employees alike. But I do think there is a very large chasm between what is typical in other countries and what is typical here. And why is that? I think it bears some examination of what we value in this country, and some exploration as to how our society views parenthood.
And maybe a move to Bulgaria...
So, to start with, in 1993 or so, the Family and Medical Leave Act came into being. Basically, under it, employees of covered agencies may receive up to 12 weeks of unpaid parental leave following the birth or adoption of a child. There are rules, like the employee must have been employed full-time for at least 12 months, etc., but it sounds pretty good, right? That's almost 3 months of spending quality time with your infant.
Well, it sounds good until you look at other developed countries around the world, and even some undeveloped countries. Now, I have no idea whether these statistics are perfectly accurate, but whether or not they're entirely correct, they still illustrate a big difference...
For instance, the UK: "Working mothers are given the right to 26 weeks of paid leave for each child, 6 weeks at 90% of full pay and 20 weeks at a fixed amount. Women who were employed prior to the commencement of their pregnancy are entitled to an additional 26 weeks unpaid leave. After 1st April 2007, the rules change. All female employees will be entitled to 52 weeks of maternity leave. 39 weeks of this leave is paid, with the first six weeks paid at 90% of full pay and the remainder at a fixed rate." ~Wikipedia
Ahem. Nice, huh? But that was an instance of average leave on Wikipedia. For an example of "generous" policies, we turn to Sweden: "All working parents are entitled to 18 months' paid leave per child, the cost being shared between employer and State. To encourage greater paternal involvement in child-rearing, a minimum of 3 months out of the 18 is required to be used by the "minority" parent, in practice usually the father."
Wow. Just...wow. 18 months? That's past sitting up, eating solid foods, crawling, walking, and sometimes talking. Think of all the milestones you could be there to witness, knowing that your job will be waiting for you when you get back. Amazing.
Bulgaria (yes, Bulgaria, of all places) has set a wonderful example with one part of their policy: "...providing mothers with 45 days 100% paid sick leave prior to the due date, 2 years paid leave, and 1 additional year of unpaid leave. The employeer is obliged to restore the mother to the same position upon return to work. In addition, pregnant women and single mothers cannot be fired." What? Pregnant women and single mothers can't be fired? That is ridiculously unheard of in our enlightened little country of America. How sad.
Even in Cuba (what, Cuba? No way...), Wikipedia reports a maternity leave of 18 weeks at 100% pay, and that legislation has recently been extended to paternity leave.
Now, I'm not saying that these systems will necessarily work in the US. Lord knows the government alone has the capability to mess up legislation for such, not to mention employers and employees alike. But I do think there is a very large chasm between what is typical in other countries and what is typical here. And why is that? I think it bears some examination of what we value in this country, and some exploration as to how our society views parenthood.
And maybe a move to Bulgaria...
3/2/07
The Things He Says
I know, I know, kids say the darnedest things. But I think that mine has an overabundance of such items stored up, just begging to be aired on the world wide web. I need to just break down and have a daily quote by him. He has enough of them, that's for sure...
"How's your daily gas ration?"
"She just likes me for my body"
When asked why he was making angry faces at me in the rear view mirror: "Because that's what cars do when they're racing!"
~inspired by the movie "Cars"
Me: "E, do you need some more chocolate milk?"
E: "Yes. But I wanna ask for it."
To the waitress: "Um, can I have a root beer?"
"I have stories in my heart."
"I don't like that lady calling me a cutie pie!"
To me: "You're my princess."
Baba: "E, stop tattletaling."
E: "I don't got a TAIL!"
"I like to move it, move it!"
"Ha! I doubt it."
"Your mom's a slugbug."
"Mom, I've lost my mojo."
"I'm a working man."
After being told he needed to take some quiet time with Poppa: "Can we have a quiet war?"
My current fave:
Me: "You're a silly bucket."
E: "A bucket of love."
"How's your daily gas ration?"
"She just likes me for my body"
When asked why he was making angry faces at me in the rear view mirror: "Because that's what cars do when they're racing!"
~inspired by the movie "Cars"
Me: "E, do you need some more chocolate milk?"
E: "Yes. But I wanna ask for it."
To the waitress: "Um, can I have a root beer?"
"I have stories in my heart."
"I don't like that lady calling me a cutie pie!"
To me: "You're my princess."
Baba: "E, stop tattletaling."
E: "I don't got a TAIL!"
"I like to move it, move it!"
"Ha! I doubt it."
"Your mom's a slugbug."
"Mom, I've lost my mojo."
"I'm a working man."
After being told he needed to take some quiet time with Poppa: "Can we have a quiet war?"
My current fave:
Me: "You're a silly bucket."
E: "A bucket of love."
2/28/07
Making Up Answers
I've always thought that people who say that you should never make up answers for a kid, but should offer to look the answer up online later, don't have very talkative children. (And please, no one get offended, of course I'm joking.)
But seriously, if I tried to look up every single answer to every single question that E asks, and then distilled the answer down into something that he could understand, I would never have time to do anything else in life! The kid seriously has a motormouth and a half. Not to mention, some of these things I couldn't find on Wikipedia: "Mom, do horses go to heaven?" My best policy is always to describe a little bit of what I know, ask him what he thinks the answer is, and then, if he still wants more info, just admit I have no idea. Unfortunately, this doesn't always work, and I am forced into the time-honored practice of just making something up. This, too, however, often falls short of expectation. For instance, this recent conversation between my son and me after reading the book "Cars":
E: "Mom, how do cars work?"
Me: [panic, panic, I don't really know, have I ever known?, how could I describe something like this?, should I call my dad and ask?, wait, it's after nine already, is he just stalling?, fine, I'll just tell him something...]
Me: "You put gas in them, and they go."
Pause while answer is pondered
E: "That is NOT what I meant."
Kids are too smart for their parents sometimes. Ok, most of the time, in my case. However, there are still questions that I know the answer to. Like this one:
"If you're going to be a doctor, who's going to be my mommy?"
But seriously, if I tried to look up every single answer to every single question that E asks, and then distilled the answer down into something that he could understand, I would never have time to do anything else in life! The kid seriously has a motormouth and a half. Not to mention, some of these things I couldn't find on Wikipedia: "Mom, do horses go to heaven?" My best policy is always to describe a little bit of what I know, ask him what he thinks the answer is, and then, if he still wants more info, just admit I have no idea. Unfortunately, this doesn't always work, and I am forced into the time-honored practice of just making something up. This, too, however, often falls short of expectation. For instance, this recent conversation between my son and me after reading the book "Cars":
E: "Mom, how do cars work?"
Me: [panic, panic, I don't really know, have I ever known?, how could I describe something like this?, should I call my dad and ask?, wait, it's after nine already, is he just stalling?, fine, I'll just tell him something...]
Me: "You put gas in them, and they go."
Pause while answer is pondered
E: "That is NOT what I meant."
Kids are too smart for their parents sometimes. Ok, most of the time, in my case. However, there are still questions that I know the answer to. Like this one:
"If you're going to be a doctor, who's going to be my mommy?"
2/25/07
Boys Will Be Boys
I always get made fun of for what I let E play with. He definitely is not limited to only "boy"toys, and I've never felt uncomfortable with the sight of my son playing with My Little Ponies and the occasional Barbie, reading Disney Princess stories, and cooking chocolate cake for me in the bathtub.
Kids have the rest of their lives to live by the gender stereotypes of our society. Little boys get teased for being "gay" as early as grade school! E lives in a protected, safe world right now, where no one judges him for playing with girl toys (I mean, at 3, it's the parent's fault, right?). So why should I take that away from him? He still swings swords and shoots pretend guns more often than he sings lullabies to his stuffed animals, so I'm not exactly worried that he's lacking in "man" skills. Besides, studies demonstrate that boys who play house or with baby dolls make better fathers because they develop nurturing qualities at an early age. So there, naysayers. Anything that makes my son a better man in the future is okie dokie with me.
Even if people tend to stare when he loudly demands Cinderella books in the bookstore...
Kids have the rest of their lives to live by the gender stereotypes of our society. Little boys get teased for being "gay" as early as grade school! E lives in a protected, safe world right now, where no one judges him for playing with girl toys (I mean, at 3, it's the parent's fault, right?). So why should I take that away from him? He still swings swords and shoots pretend guns more often than he sings lullabies to his stuffed animals, so I'm not exactly worried that he's lacking in "man" skills. Besides, studies demonstrate that boys who play house or with baby dolls make better fathers because they develop nurturing qualities at an early age. So there, naysayers. Anything that makes my son a better man in the future is okie dokie with me.
Even if people tend to stare when he loudly demands Cinderella books in the bookstore...
2/24/07
Teaching Compassion to Us
You would think that one of the main drives to be a doctor would be an overwhelming feeling of compassion and a desire to alleviate suffering. Doctors should have compassion towards the ill, the dying, the grieving, the confused, the sad, the poor and the hungry, right? Yet you'd be surprised (or at least I hope so) by the lack of compassion that I sometimes find among my classmates. Oh, the school tries its best to teach us about empathy and understanding, and how to deal with different situations which require compassion (death, terminal diagnoses, unexpected pregnancies, etc.). But I wonder why so many people must be taught this simple feeling at such a late age (ahem, I'm 22), when there are so many opportunities to learn it beforehand. I worry that such a late-onset version is much less effective when dealing with patients, and may hinder students from being the best physicians possible. Maybe I'm wrong. I hope so. Be that as it may, I have always tried to teach E to find compassion and understanding for everyone. What is taught early need not be a deficit later.
The other day, we had just left Border's Bookstore and were headed home for an N-A-P (which begs another story for another post). As we drove in the right lane down the busy expressway, the traffic in front of us suddenly slowed. E, always sensitive to the undercurrents of the quality work of Volkswagen innovation we own, worriedly asked why we had slowed down. As we moved forward, the culprit came into view: a man was walking in the street.
He looked to be about 50 years old, and was hunched over and shuffling his feet slowly as he stumbled down the lane. I could see the impatient gestures of drivers in front of me as they swerved around him. He didn't flinch, didn't seem to care, caught up in the singlemindedness of the mentally impaired. When E and I pulled abreast of him, E leaned forward and waved to him through the window. Upon passing him, E sadly said: "That poor man. I think he needs some money."
I was instantly filled with shame, for the thought had not even crossed my mind. I turned the car around, intending to ask the man if I could help him. However, he had disappeared into the convenience store he had been headed for, and the person working there seemed to know him, so I left the man to him/her and started back toward home.
But the incident humbled me. Perhaps the problem is not that we were never taught the feeling, but that we have forgotten the act.
The other day, we had just left Border's Bookstore and were headed home for an N-A-P (which begs another story for another post). As we drove in the right lane down the busy expressway, the traffic in front of us suddenly slowed. E, always sensitive to the undercurrents of the quality work of Volkswagen innovation we own, worriedly asked why we had slowed down. As we moved forward, the culprit came into view: a man was walking in the street.
He looked to be about 50 years old, and was hunched over and shuffling his feet slowly as he stumbled down the lane. I could see the impatient gestures of drivers in front of me as they swerved around him. He didn't flinch, didn't seem to care, caught up in the singlemindedness of the mentally impaired. When E and I pulled abreast of him, E leaned forward and waved to him through the window. Upon passing him, E sadly said: "That poor man. I think he needs some money."
I was instantly filled with shame, for the thought had not even crossed my mind. I turned the car around, intending to ask the man if I could help him. However, he had disappeared into the convenience store he had been headed for, and the person working there seemed to know him, so I left the man to him/her and started back toward home.
But the incident humbled me. Perhaps the problem is not that we were never taught the feeling, but that we have forgotten the act.
Resuming the Blog-Grind
Once I started medical school, I kind of let this blog and the whole blogging world get away from me. I still have my faves that I read as often as I can, but I never felt the urge to blog myself.
Until recently.
Recently, it seems that my life is suddenly perfect fodder for a comic strip. Therefore, since I can draw with less capability than my three year old, I have instead decided to immortalize my life on the World Wide Web.
Also, I now feel the desire to get some readers...
Until recently.
Recently, it seems that my life is suddenly perfect fodder for a comic strip. Therefore, since I can draw with less capability than my three year old, I have instead decided to immortalize my life on the World Wide Web.
Also, I now feel the desire to get some readers...
3/20/06
Oh, to be the mother of a teenager
My son is apparently 2, going on 16.
We spent spring break in Galveston, TX, with my family. Usually, we go skiing in Colorado, but this year, because of E, we decided to do something a little more family-friendly. Last year, we had to ski in shifts, because the kid was too little for the slopes (obviously, I don't know why we didn't think of that!). So, off to Galveston and the beach we went. We had a blast: rode the ferry to Galveston Island (first time ferry trip for all of us!), took a carriage ride around the town, went on a harbor tour/dolphin watch, toured the Railroad Museum (meaning, we ran around in a bunch of old trains), toured the Bishop's Palace, rode the trolley (or the Twolley Bwown Twain, as E called it), and played in the waves at the beach.
Anyway, one night, as E was drifting off to sleep on the hotel double bed next to me, he gave a big sigh and said "I hate you, Mommy." I looked at him in amazement: his eyes were closed, and he gave all the appearance of being already asleep. I said "what?" My sweet child replied "I hate you, Mommy." Amidst my parents' barely-stifled sounds of glee, I said "I'm sorry??"
I didn't think the parent-hatred was supposed to start for at least 10 more years?
We spent spring break in Galveston, TX, with my family. Usually, we go skiing in Colorado, but this year, because of E, we decided to do something a little more family-friendly. Last year, we had to ski in shifts, because the kid was too little for the slopes (obviously, I don't know why we didn't think of that!). So, off to Galveston and the beach we went. We had a blast: rode the ferry to Galveston Island (first time ferry trip for all of us!), took a carriage ride around the town, went on a harbor tour/dolphin watch, toured the Railroad Museum (meaning, we ran around in a bunch of old trains), toured the Bishop's Palace, rode the trolley (or the Twolley Bwown Twain, as E called it), and played in the waves at the beach.
Anyway, one night, as E was drifting off to sleep on the hotel double bed next to me, he gave a big sigh and said "I hate you, Mommy." I looked at him in amazement: his eyes were closed, and he gave all the appearance of being already asleep. I said "what?" My sweet child replied "I hate you, Mommy." Amidst my parents' barely-stifled sounds of glee, I said "I'm sorry??"
I didn't think the parent-hatred was supposed to start for at least 10 more years?
3/8/06
Man of the House
My adorable little boy has sudden moments of pure masculinity, where he is overcome by the need to exert his manly influence over my poor femalish self. These moments can be extraordinarily precious: when we read bedtime stories, lying side-by-side in his toddler crib, he will insist on putting his arm around me, and having me rest my head on his shoulder, instead of vice versa. These moments can also be extraordinarily trying: he disdains to wear the cutesy, coordinated outfits I choose for him, and will insist angrily on wearing the same football jersey and jeans for days on end. And when I tell him he can't wear that freaking shirt again because it's disgusting (extra meanness points to me if I remind him that it's because he wouldn't wait for me to cut up his spaghetti), he'll command me to wash it.
We went shopping today, ostensibly to look for clothes. Without skipping a beat, and while ignoring my sugary exhortations to "just look at that beautiful Easter outfit," the bear that is my son dove for the nearest item of clothing with a ball on it. He then glared at me tyranically and stated, "Let's buy it. I'm done." I swear the dislike-of-clothes-shopping gene is expressed ridiculously early. The boys should at least be old enough to buy their clothes before they may start choosing them, right? Right?? Hmph. That's my opinion.
While it may sound strange and not very matronly of me, it can be a comfort to know that I'm not always the one making the decisions and running things around here. At random times, my son says: "I'll take care of you, Mommy," while patting my back, and I know that all of my worldly cares are in the sweet, capable hands of this little boy who loves me more than anything in the world. Even football jerseys.
We went shopping today, ostensibly to look for clothes. Without skipping a beat, and while ignoring my sugary exhortations to "just look at that beautiful Easter outfit," the bear that is my son dove for the nearest item of clothing with a ball on it. He then glared at me tyranically and stated, "Let's buy it. I'm done." I swear the dislike-of-clothes-shopping gene is expressed ridiculously early. The boys should at least be old enough to buy their clothes before they may start choosing them, right? Right?? Hmph. That's my opinion.
While it may sound strange and not very matronly of me, it can be a comfort to know that I'm not always the one making the decisions and running things around here. At random times, my son says: "I'll take care of you, Mommy," while patting my back, and I know that all of my worldly cares are in the sweet, capable hands of this little boy who loves me more than anything in the world. Even football jerseys.
3/3/06
Suzie Homemaker
Gas for late-evening trip to Albertsons's = small amount, but still meaningful!
Needed ingredients for Cheerio applesauce muffins = $8.70
New blender that Mom can't buy = $25
Hand-crushing Cheerios for 3 hours = $400 in physical therapy to recuperate
9 happy preschoolers at 10 AM Friday morning = priceless
Needed ingredients for Cheerio applesauce muffins = $8.70
New blender that Mom can't buy = $25
Hand-crushing Cheerios for 3 hours = $400 in physical therapy to recuperate
9 happy preschoolers at 10 AM Friday morning = priceless
2/27/06
Grown-Ups, Donuts and Holy Beetles
Now, despite some inherent immaturity (I laugh uproariously at movies like "Team America" and "40 Year Old Virgin"), like most young women of 21, I prefer to think of myself as adult. I live on my own (not counting one miniature roommate), I am relatively self-sufficient (considering that I live off of scholarship money), and I don't have to ask for permisison to do things (oh, joy of my "adult" life). As to physical appearance, these days I get mistaken more often for an under-21 rather than an under-18 (although that does happen to me still). However, my maturity is apparently not at all a sure thing, and is indeed very doubtful to a certain 2-year-old.
Today, after lunch and our Monday trip to the grocery store (which will lead me to another story), E and I went to the park. A park with 2 delightful slides, one a tube slide and the other open. After happily partaking of both "whee's", E decided that I needed to go down the tube slide. I explained that I was too "big" to go down that slide (read: I didn't want my hair to get all static-y). My sweet-eyed son, while regarding me from his lofty position of wisdom at the top of the playground, asked doubtfully, "You're too old? You're almost grown up?" To fall from the heights of age so rapidly is painful. And requires much laughter.
I forgot to pay for E's donut at the store. I don't really know how it happened, because he has one every time we go (it's our secret not-quite-bribe, don't tell anyone), and he had chocolate adorably smeared across his mouth before I attacked it with a handy dandy wipe...Oh, wait, I know, it was because I waited in line with $24.83 worth of groceries for HALF A FREAKING HOUR. Moral of the story: Wal-Mart, if you don't want shoplifters, first of all, don't make distracted mothers have to remember that they bought a single donut, and second of all, don't make the same mothers have to wait in line for more minutes than the amount of money that they spend. Because it will just fry their brains and make it even less likely that they will remember that ring of yeast (another note: don't call them that, it sounds like a "female problem") when they finally get to the cashier. (P.S. Don't worry, crazies, I'll pay my $0.44 next week during the Monday trip. Sheesh.)
Last night we went to the Newman Center on campus for Mass. Halfway through the homily, the sharp-eyed child sitting on my lap informed me of the presence of a black beetle under the kneeler for our pew. I assured my strapping lad that it was dead and couldn't hurt him. He accepted this, but later, the bug apparently became too much for him to handle. During the Eucharistic Prayer, after the bells had been rung for the Transfiguration of the bread (i.e., during one of the most silent parts of the service), my solemn little religious frantically stage-whispered: "I don't like that bug anymore, mommy." Quickly tuning into the muffled giggles of the college students around him, he then proceeded to repeat his statement more firmly and decisively, as if to say "Woman, my mind is made up, and you need to remove that insect this minute." How do you administer discipline not only to your child but to all the children around him? Especially when those children are as old as you are?!?!
Today, after lunch and our Monday trip to the grocery store (which will lead me to another story), E and I went to the park. A park with 2 delightful slides, one a tube slide and the other open. After happily partaking of both "whee's", E decided that I needed to go down the tube slide. I explained that I was too "big" to go down that slide (read: I didn't want my hair to get all static-y). My sweet-eyed son, while regarding me from his lofty position of wisdom at the top of the playground, asked doubtfully, "You're too old? You're almost grown up?" To fall from the heights of age so rapidly is painful. And requires much laughter.
I forgot to pay for E's donut at the store. I don't really know how it happened, because he has one every time we go (it's our secret not-quite-bribe, don't tell anyone), and he had chocolate adorably smeared across his mouth before I attacked it with a handy dandy wipe...Oh, wait, I know, it was because I waited in line with $24.83 worth of groceries for HALF A FREAKING HOUR. Moral of the story: Wal-Mart, if you don't want shoplifters, first of all, don't make distracted mothers have to remember that they bought a single donut, and second of all, don't make the same mothers have to wait in line for more minutes than the amount of money that they spend. Because it will just fry their brains and make it even less likely that they will remember that ring of yeast (another note: don't call them that, it sounds like a "female problem") when they finally get to the cashier. (P.S. Don't worry, crazies, I'll pay my $0.44 next week during the Monday trip. Sheesh.)
Last night we went to the Newman Center on campus for Mass. Halfway through the homily, the sharp-eyed child sitting on my lap informed me of the presence of a black beetle under the kneeler for our pew. I assured my strapping lad that it was dead and couldn't hurt him. He accepted this, but later, the bug apparently became too much for him to handle. During the Eucharistic Prayer, after the bells had been rung for the Transfiguration of the bread (i.e., during one of the most silent parts of the service), my solemn little religious frantically stage-whispered: "I don't like that bug anymore, mommy." Quickly tuning into the muffled giggles of the college students around him, he then proceeded to repeat his statement more firmly and decisively, as if to say "Woman, my mind is made up, and you need to remove that insect this minute." How do you administer discipline not only to your child but to all the children around him? Especially when those children are as old as you are?!?!
2/26/06
Anti-stereotypical
This was originally on my other blog, but I've moved it, because this is where it belongs, and I'm all for organization:
I won't sugar-coat it for you: being a student and a single mom is tough. Frankly, at times it tends to just plain suck. Your life can feel completely regimented, and like the spontaneity of the collegiate experience is passing you by. You can never just jaunt off to a party at last-minute's notice. You can't swing by the bar on your way home from a Friday night date. Evening meetings are a no-no, and sick days are never possible. Your image of yourself as an up-and-coming next-generation-er are tarnished by the fact that you carry wipes, diapers, and Cheerios wherever you go. You never seem to have a conversation that is 100% focused on the person you are speaking with (because your son has turned your chic pad into a gymnasium), and the amount of sleep you get could be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
The inconveniences are compounded when you do everything by yourself. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a very supportive family who is never slow to offer assistance. But the daily disciplines and trials can be hard to bear, and I sometimes wish I had someone here to at least suffer alongside! I constantly worry about whether my son will have "daddy" issues when he grows up, whether I am spending enough time with him, whether he has strong male influences in his life, whether I am spoiling him with just one set of disciplinary tactics, whether he will resent me for being in school while he is small. The worries and loads can be incredibly tiring, and sometimes I find myself wallowing in self-pity and depression.
But then I am swiftly snapped back to reality and sanity by the spontaneous kiss from a child who thinks I am the end-all and be-all, who calls only for me when he wakes up in the middle of the night. By the never-ending party that is life with a small child: laughter, spills, games and fun. By the realization that I would rather be at home, reading a good book and listening to my son sing himself to sleep, than at a crowded movie theater, spending $8 for a movie I will forget in a month. I will be able to raise a son with a less idealized and more realistic image of women, and the world will have one more man who is comfortable around women and who respects them as equals. And the one thing that always humbles me and brings me back to the light that is my existence, is the realization that mine is the only life I would ever choose. And I would choose it for the Cheerios, the live-in gym, and the sweet, sweet scent of a sleeping child.
I won't sugar-coat it for you: being a student and a single mom is tough. Frankly, at times it tends to just plain suck. Your life can feel completely regimented, and like the spontaneity of the collegiate experience is passing you by. You can never just jaunt off to a party at last-minute's notice. You can't swing by the bar on your way home from a Friday night date. Evening meetings are a no-no, and sick days are never possible. Your image of yourself as an up-and-coming next-generation-er are tarnished by the fact that you carry wipes, diapers, and Cheerios wherever you go. You never seem to have a conversation that is 100% focused on the person you are speaking with (because your son has turned your chic pad into a gymnasium), and the amount of sleep you get could be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
The inconveniences are compounded when you do everything by yourself. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a very supportive family who is never slow to offer assistance. But the daily disciplines and trials can be hard to bear, and I sometimes wish I had someone here to at least suffer alongside! I constantly worry about whether my son will have "daddy" issues when he grows up, whether I am spending enough time with him, whether he has strong male influences in his life, whether I am spoiling him with just one set of disciplinary tactics, whether he will resent me for being in school while he is small. The worries and loads can be incredibly tiring, and sometimes I find myself wallowing in self-pity and depression.
But then I am swiftly snapped back to reality and sanity by the spontaneous kiss from a child who thinks I am the end-all and be-all, who calls only for me when he wakes up in the middle of the night. By the never-ending party that is life with a small child: laughter, spills, games and fun. By the realization that I would rather be at home, reading a good book and listening to my son sing himself to sleep, than at a crowded movie theater, spending $8 for a movie I will forget in a month. I will be able to raise a son with a less idealized and more realistic image of women, and the world will have one more man who is comfortable around women and who respects them as equals. And the one thing that always humbles me and brings me back to the light that is my existence, is the realization that mine is the only life I would ever choose. And I would choose it for the Cheerios, the live-in gym, and the sweet, sweet scent of a sleeping child.
Snakes and Snails
I decided that, what with the amount of cute stuff that I have to share about my small son, I might as well create a separate blog for it! Now I can cruise the mommy blogs and not feel quite as creepy!
To start with, the former title of this blog (Q: What Are Little Boys Made Of?). Before my own little blue bundle of joy came along, I always agreed with that old rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice, and little boys being made of snails and puppy dogs' tails. However, I've since come to the conclusion that no girl-child could ever be quite as particularly sweet as this all-male being that is asleep in the next room. I hope that it's a quality that I can cultivate, or, as it may be, just not ruin entirely.
Today's cuteness item: At dinner, we were eating "noodle soup" and after asking for and receiving a 2nd helping, he looked into his bowl and exclaimed angrily, "How did these noodles get into my plate?!?!"
To start with, the former title of this blog (Q: What Are Little Boys Made Of?). Before my own little blue bundle of joy came along, I always agreed with that old rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice, and little boys being made of snails and puppy dogs' tails. However, I've since come to the conclusion that no girl-child could ever be quite as particularly sweet as this all-male being that is asleep in the next room. I hope that it's a quality that I can cultivate, or, as it may be, just not ruin entirely.
Today's cuteness item: At dinner, we were eating "noodle soup" and after asking for and receiving a 2nd helping, he looked into his bowl and exclaimed angrily, "How did these noodles get into my plate?!?!"
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