My #2 child is, without a doubt, the clown of the family. She is always saying something embarrassing or inappropriate or just downright hysterical. I recently e-mailed her something, saying that I can't believe she's almost 12 years old now, commenting that I must be getting old. She replied back to me, "No, mom, you're not old. You just have a bit of extra skin....that folds." This is the same child who informed me one time, when I was lamenting the excessive weight I had recently gained, "Mom, you're not fat; you just haven't lost your winter blubber yet." I'm so thankful my self-esteem isn't based on her opinion of my appearance.
#2 doesn't mean to make degrading comments; she just can't seem to stop her mouth from spewing forth any thought that enters her head. A good friend of ours was at our house a while back, and #2 made some comment that wasn't meant to be offensive, but it certainly came across that way. This good friend, who seems to have great patience and understanding for #2, carefully explained why it's important that each of us has a gatekeeper in our minds that we listen to before we speak. She explained that this gatekeeper helps us to consider what we're saying, so we don't say things that may be hurtful or embarrassing to others. After listening intently to this explanation, #2 proceeded to ask if her gatekeeper could wear a bikini and high heels and have long curly red hair and wear sunglasses.
Consequently, #2's gatekeeper is really hot looking, but not very good at her job.
We love #2 and wouldn't change her for anything in the world.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
The engineer and his wife
So, last night I made French Toast for dinner. I asked my daughter to grab a can of frozen concentrated orange juice out of the freezer, and gave her instructions on how to thaw it out in the microwave.
About the time she was finishing up, my husband, henceforth referred to as "the engineer," got home from work. My daughter opened up the door to the microwave, and the engineer noticed some orange juice puddled in it, a typical result of the orange juice thawing process. In a bit of a sharp voice, the engineer questioned his daughter, "How long did you put this thing in for?"
Before she could reply, I immediately came to her defense, and spoke up. "She was just following my instructions, dear," I informed him, my dander slightly up. What did he care, I thought to myself? I'm the one who will clean up the mess anyways, right?
His tone softened, and he asked again, "How do you thaw it out? Because, I always thaw it out for two and half minutes on power six, and it never spills."
Well, goody for you, I thought caustically. But, instead, I responded in a defensive manner, "Well, I thaw it out for three minutes at power seven, and I have a paper towel under it so when it spills, it's easy for me to clean it up!" There; take that, I thought triumphantly. There's more than one way to skin a cat, or defrost the orange juice, as the case may be. (Okay, in all honesty, I never actually considered using the microwave on a lower power to defrost the OJ; I am a blonde, after all.)
At this point, he burst out into ridiculous laughter, which went on for far longer than the incident warranted. How rude! I don't understand why my way of doing things is so funny to the engineer; just because my way is a bit messy, I do make provisions for this little inconsequential result, after all. Sheesh! If a procedure is more logical, does that then automatically mean it's the better way to do it? In his defense, the engineer comes from a long line of people who don't hesitate to point out, 'You're doing it wrong,' so he does come by the "proclivity-for-seeking-maximum-efficiency-in-all-things" naturally, poor thing.
Okay, readers of this anectdote, I welcome your input here. Which person needs more therapy: the engineer or his wife?
About the time she was finishing up, my husband, henceforth referred to as "the engineer," got home from work. My daughter opened up the door to the microwave, and the engineer noticed some orange juice puddled in it, a typical result of the orange juice thawing process. In a bit of a sharp voice, the engineer questioned his daughter, "How long did you put this thing in for?"
Before she could reply, I immediately came to her defense, and spoke up. "She was just following my instructions, dear," I informed him, my dander slightly up. What did he care, I thought to myself? I'm the one who will clean up the mess anyways, right?
His tone softened, and he asked again, "How do you thaw it out? Because, I always thaw it out for two and half minutes on power six, and it never spills."
Well, goody for you, I thought caustically. But, instead, I responded in a defensive manner, "Well, I thaw it out for three minutes at power seven, and I have a paper towel under it so when it spills, it's easy for me to clean it up!" There; take that, I thought triumphantly. There's more than one way to skin a cat, or defrost the orange juice, as the case may be. (Okay, in all honesty, I never actually considered using the microwave on a lower power to defrost the OJ; I am a blonde, after all.)
At this point, he burst out into ridiculous laughter, which went on for far longer than the incident warranted. How rude! I don't understand why my way of doing things is so funny to the engineer; just because my way is a bit messy, I do make provisions for this little inconsequential result, after all. Sheesh! If a procedure is more logical, does that then automatically mean it's the better way to do it? In his defense, the engineer comes from a long line of people who don't hesitate to point out, 'You're doing it wrong,' so he does come by the "proclivity-for-seeking-maximum-efficiency-in-all-things" naturally, poor thing.
Okay, readers of this anectdote, I welcome your input here. Which person needs more therapy: the engineer or his wife?
Friday, December 26, 2008
'Twas the day after Christmas....
'Twas the day after Christmas, and I stretched in my bed;
I considered getting up, but rolled over instead.
See, I ate so much for dinner last night, I felt like I'd probably hurl;
I went to bed feeling sick in my guts. The contents of my stomach did swirl.
Then, somewhere in the house, there arose such a clatter;
I propped up on one elbow, trying to hear what was the matter.
From the noise I could tell there were two kids awake.
They were fighting quite loudly; I could feel the walls shake.
I took a deep breath, counting backwards from ten;
Before I settled things my way: by choking both of them.
I rolled slowly out of bed, and put on my pajama pants
And wished, for once in their lives, my kids could just give peace a chance!
As I walked out of the bedroom to break up the fight,
I inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the sight.
It looked as if the house, by a tornado, had been struck;
Or some vandals broke in, and had run all amuck.
There was wadded up wrapping paper everywhere, wall-to-wall;
Empty boxes and ribbons and bows filled the hall.
Candy wrappers were littered, strewn about on the floor.
A six foot pile of garbage seemed to block the garage door.
There were computer games and jewelry lying carelessly around;
Superhero figurines and naked Barbies all over the ground.
The carnage of Christmas left its mark everywhere;
My house was a pigsty, but the kids didn't care.
They were still busy yelling, about what? I don't know.
I was planning my escape, wondering where I could go.
My first stop, of course, was my Zoloft to take;
Swallowed it with some milk, chased by a big piece of cake.
"Mom, she ate my candy!" I did hear one complain.
"No I didn't, you liar!" was the other's refrain.
Then I heard a loud thud, and a child start to cry.
I ran quickly upstairs, so to ascertain why.
The child in question was found crying and scared,
Having tripped on her rollerblades in her descent down the stairs.
Giving comfort and kisses, I explained without heat,
Of the wisdom of walking down the stairs in bare feet.
As I caught just a whiff of the injured offspring,
I realized that neither she nor her siblings
Had taken a shower in who knows how long,
And needed some bathing; that smell was just wrong!
Then the nagging began, and the floodgates sprang wide:
"Mom, I need to exchange these; they're all the wrong size!"
"Can I please have someone over here to play with me?"
"You promised to take us to see High School Musical 3!"
"Mom, let's take down the decorations today!"
"Mom, make her leave me alone and go away!
If only they knew that, if I got to choose,
I'd go back to my bedroom, lock the door, take a snooze.
Good sleep is a luxury that avoids me at all costs;
Snoring hubby, kids with nightmares, bed wetters - all is lost.
I then encourage the kids to write notes of thank you;
It doesn't seem like that's too much to ask them to do.
They act as if I asked them to eat their own liver
Or gnaw off their right hand; so dramatic. Go figure!
And it goes this way here at Christmas, the day after,
So to keep me from crying, and perhaps create laughter
I write down this poem, thought it up in a snap,
To restore mild sanity amidst all this crap.
If I can survive this day, without maiming someone I know,
It will be a miracle in word and deed....Yeah, right....Ho Ho Ho.
I considered getting up, but rolled over instead.
See, I ate so much for dinner last night, I felt like I'd probably hurl;
I went to bed feeling sick in my guts. The contents of my stomach did swirl.
Then, somewhere in the house, there arose such a clatter;
I propped up on one elbow, trying to hear what was the matter.
From the noise I could tell there were two kids awake.
They were fighting quite loudly; I could feel the walls shake.
I took a deep breath, counting backwards from ten;
Before I settled things my way: by choking both of them.
I rolled slowly out of bed, and put on my pajama pants
And wished, for once in their lives, my kids could just give peace a chance!
As I walked out of the bedroom to break up the fight,
I inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the sight.
It looked as if the house, by a tornado, had been struck;
Or some vandals broke in, and had run all amuck.
There was wadded up wrapping paper everywhere, wall-to-wall;
Empty boxes and ribbons and bows filled the hall.
Candy wrappers were littered, strewn about on the floor.
A six foot pile of garbage seemed to block the garage door.
There were computer games and jewelry lying carelessly around;
Superhero figurines and naked Barbies all over the ground.
The carnage of Christmas left its mark everywhere;
My house was a pigsty, but the kids didn't care.
They were still busy yelling, about what? I don't know.
I was planning my escape, wondering where I could go.
My first stop, of course, was my Zoloft to take;
Swallowed it with some milk, chased by a big piece of cake.
"Mom, she ate my candy!" I did hear one complain.
"No I didn't, you liar!" was the other's refrain.
Then I heard a loud thud, and a child start to cry.
I ran quickly upstairs, so to ascertain why.
The child in question was found crying and scared,
Having tripped on her rollerblades in her descent down the stairs.
Giving comfort and kisses, I explained without heat,
Of the wisdom of walking down the stairs in bare feet.
As I caught just a whiff of the injured offspring,
I realized that neither she nor her siblings
Had taken a shower in who knows how long,
And needed some bathing; that smell was just wrong!
Then the nagging began, and the floodgates sprang wide:
"Mom, I need to exchange these; they're all the wrong size!"
"Can I please have someone over here to play with me?"
"You promised to take us to see High School Musical 3!"
"Mom, let's take down the decorations today!"
"Mom, make her leave me alone and go away!
If only they knew that, if I got to choose,
I'd go back to my bedroom, lock the door, take a snooze.
Good sleep is a luxury that avoids me at all costs;
Snoring hubby, kids with nightmares, bed wetters - all is lost.
I then encourage the kids to write notes of thank you;
It doesn't seem like that's too much to ask them to do.
They act as if I asked them to eat their own liver
Or gnaw off their right hand; so dramatic. Go figure!
And it goes this way here at Christmas, the day after,
So to keep me from crying, and perhaps create laughter
I write down this poem, thought it up in a snap,
To restore mild sanity amidst all this crap.
If I can survive this day, without maiming someone I know,
It will be a miracle in word and deed....Yeah, right....Ho Ho Ho.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Fixin' and Premature Aging
Now, don't get me wrong, I love old people. They are some of the neatest people I know. I have every intention of being one myself some day. However, let me just put this out there: I'd like to think I'm not old yet.
But, I'm beginning to wonder. From my perspective, one of the tell tale signs that a person is getting older is when one's health and medication usage becomes the prevalent topic of discussion in most circles. No offense to the old people who might read this, but I haven't known a person in their 70's or 80's who isn't enraptured by what's happening to their bodies, and delights in delving into deep conversations about it. No doubt, I will understand that better myself some day.
For now, though, a thought occurred to me, and I realized I need some input from the outside world. As I was getting ready for bed tonight (my husband calls it "fixin'" - defined as the time in preparation spent before actually engaging in the announced activity one is about to participate - I do a lot of fixin' before I shower or get ready for bed, according to my husband) - as I was saying, as I was fixin' to go to bed tonight, I started to notice just how many ridiculous steps I take to prepare myself for the nighttime rest. And I wondered if this is a normal amount of fixin' compared to others or rather on the obsessive side of fixin'. I leave it to my readers to let me know.
Be warned at this point: I am about to go in to gross graphic detail, so if you have a weak stomach, you may want to consider ending your reading here.
I have asthma. I manage it by using preventative medicine via an inhaler called Advair. I take one puff at night, and one in the morning, every day. I have to do this before I brush my teeth, because the inhalant powder contains steroids; therefore, I have to rinse my mouth out after using it, so I always brush my teeth after I inhale.
Since I have a dentist appointment coming up, I feel compelled to floss my teeth daily to toughen my gums up enough so they don't bleed profusely when I go in to get my cleaning. I usually try to start doing this for about a month before I go in for my cleaning, which gives me enough time strengthen my gums, as well as answer honestly that, yes, indeed, I do floss my teeth daily, when the dentist asks me the inevitable question at our biannual meeting. I stop flossing immediately following my dental appointment, and pick it up again in approximately five months.
So, I inhale, floss, brush. I don't know about you, but I always go potty right before I go to bed. It usually prevents me from an embarrassing bedwetting incident in the middle of the night. Usually. Afterwards, I always wash my hands; I am quite fastidious about that. When my hands are dried, I always put lotion on them, rubbing extra on my elbows because they, too, seem to always be dried out. Know what I mean?
Then, I spray my toes with Tinactin. This is not something I do every night, but only during times when my feet begin to drive me crazy with itching from the athlete's foot I got in tenth grade, when I loaned my canvas sneakers to a fungus-laden ninth grader named Gina for volleyball practice one day. She returned my shoes after practice, leaving me with the gift of foot fungi, which I've had to deal with ever since. See what you get for being nice?!? Warning to others: do not let people borrow your shoes unless you've screened them for foot fungus beforehand. It's no fun.
If I happen to spray some of the fungicide on my hands, I have to wash my hands again. Lotion, again. Staying with the foot theme, my heels have been cracked and dry lately. So, I bought this stuff called Heel Rescue foot cream, and I rub a little bit of that in each night as well. I haven't noticed it helping yet, but I haven't given up on it.
As fate would have it, while my dad was in town last week, moving some of his stuff down here (he and my stepmom bought a house right around the corner from where I live and will be moving in soon); anyways, by day three after his arrival, a huge cold sore sprang up on my mouth. I'm not saying my dad's being here caused me to get one; I'm sure the stress of his coming was simply coincidental to the timing of the aformentioned lesion on my lips....well, anyway, that stupid little sucker hurts, and it won't seem to go away. So, I keep trying different things to make vanish. I took Lyseine (my stepmom swears by it - it does nothing for me), used Abreva (nada), put hydrogen peroxide on it to draw the infection out (I get lots of little tiny white bubbles, but that's it). Nothing works. It cracks and bleeds and hurts still. Tonight, after the rest of my ablutions, I decided to try Neosporin ointment; it's an antibiotic plus pain relief all in one. Plus, if it keeps the booboo moist, maybe it won't crack and bleed and keep hurting me, right? Yeah, we'll see how that one works out....
So, anyways, I apply my stick of Mentholatum Natural Ice to the remainder of my lips to keep them smooth and soft the whole night through. Then, finally, I think I'm ready for bed. No contacts to take out tonight, since I wore my glasses all day. I showered this evening and my face is all clean, so there's no need to wash that again.
By the time I'm finished doing all this crap, I'm exhausted! You would be too, right? Tell me, in your humble opinion, am I a neurotic pseudo-elderly-in-training freak, or do I seem perfectly normal to you? Do most people have crazy "fixin'" rituals, or is it just me? I suppose, since I've actually written all of this down, verbalizing in detail the gory nightly procedure, I've probably already sentenced myself to sitting alone in my Sunday school class next week. Who would want to sit by the asthmatic, faux-flossing, fungus-infested, lesion-laden person with dry skin? Not me, that's for sure. Ew!
But, I'm beginning to wonder. From my perspective, one of the tell tale signs that a person is getting older is when one's health and medication usage becomes the prevalent topic of discussion in most circles. No offense to the old people who might read this, but I haven't known a person in their 70's or 80's who isn't enraptured by what's happening to their bodies, and delights in delving into deep conversations about it. No doubt, I will understand that better myself some day.
For now, though, a thought occurred to me, and I realized I need some input from the outside world. As I was getting ready for bed tonight (my husband calls it "fixin'" - defined as the time in preparation spent before actually engaging in the announced activity one is about to participate - I do a lot of fixin' before I shower or get ready for bed, according to my husband) - as I was saying, as I was fixin' to go to bed tonight, I started to notice just how many ridiculous steps I take to prepare myself for the nighttime rest. And I wondered if this is a normal amount of fixin' compared to others or rather on the obsessive side of fixin'. I leave it to my readers to let me know.
Be warned at this point: I am about to go in to gross graphic detail, so if you have a weak stomach, you may want to consider ending your reading here.
I have asthma. I manage it by using preventative medicine via an inhaler called Advair. I take one puff at night, and one in the morning, every day. I have to do this before I brush my teeth, because the inhalant powder contains steroids; therefore, I have to rinse my mouth out after using it, so I always brush my teeth after I inhale.
Since I have a dentist appointment coming up, I feel compelled to floss my teeth daily to toughen my gums up enough so they don't bleed profusely when I go in to get my cleaning. I usually try to start doing this for about a month before I go in for my cleaning, which gives me enough time strengthen my gums, as well as answer honestly that, yes, indeed, I do floss my teeth daily, when the dentist asks me the inevitable question at our biannual meeting. I stop flossing immediately following my dental appointment, and pick it up again in approximately five months.
So, I inhale, floss, brush. I don't know about you, but I always go potty right before I go to bed. It usually prevents me from an embarrassing bedwetting incident in the middle of the night. Usually. Afterwards, I always wash my hands; I am quite fastidious about that. When my hands are dried, I always put lotion on them, rubbing extra on my elbows because they, too, seem to always be dried out. Know what I mean?
Then, I spray my toes with Tinactin. This is not something I do every night, but only during times when my feet begin to drive me crazy with itching from the athlete's foot I got in tenth grade, when I loaned my canvas sneakers to a fungus-laden ninth grader named Gina for volleyball practice one day. She returned my shoes after practice, leaving me with the gift of foot fungi, which I've had to deal with ever since. See what you get for being nice?!? Warning to others: do not let people borrow your shoes unless you've screened them for foot fungus beforehand. It's no fun.
If I happen to spray some of the fungicide on my hands, I have to wash my hands again. Lotion, again. Staying with the foot theme, my heels have been cracked and dry lately. So, I bought this stuff called Heel Rescue foot cream, and I rub a little bit of that in each night as well. I haven't noticed it helping yet, but I haven't given up on it.
As fate would have it, while my dad was in town last week, moving some of his stuff down here (he and my stepmom bought a house right around the corner from where I live and will be moving in soon); anyways, by day three after his arrival, a huge cold sore sprang up on my mouth. I'm not saying my dad's being here caused me to get one; I'm sure the stress of his coming was simply coincidental to the timing of the aformentioned lesion on my lips....well, anyway, that stupid little sucker hurts, and it won't seem to go away. So, I keep trying different things to make vanish. I took Lyseine (my stepmom swears by it - it does nothing for me), used Abreva (nada), put hydrogen peroxide on it to draw the infection out (I get lots of little tiny white bubbles, but that's it). Nothing works. It cracks and bleeds and hurts still. Tonight, after the rest of my ablutions, I decided to try Neosporin ointment; it's an antibiotic plus pain relief all in one. Plus, if it keeps the booboo moist, maybe it won't crack and bleed and keep hurting me, right? Yeah, we'll see how that one works out....
So, anyways, I apply my stick of Mentholatum Natural Ice to the remainder of my lips to keep them smooth and soft the whole night through. Then, finally, I think I'm ready for bed. No contacts to take out tonight, since I wore my glasses all day. I showered this evening and my face is all clean, so there's no need to wash that again.
By the time I'm finished doing all this crap, I'm exhausted! You would be too, right? Tell me, in your humble opinion, am I a neurotic pseudo-elderly-in-training freak, or do I seem perfectly normal to you? Do most people have crazy "fixin'" rituals, or is it just me? I suppose, since I've actually written all of this down, verbalizing in detail the gory nightly procedure, I've probably already sentenced myself to sitting alone in my Sunday school class next week. Who would want to sit by the asthmatic, faux-flossing, fungus-infested, lesion-laden person with dry skin? Not me, that's for sure. Ew!
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Malfunctions: The inevitable things that happen when one's husband is out of town
As I lay in bed last night, listening to the chirp of one of the smoke detectors in the house, signaling that its battery is low, I had to smile. It always happens this way; when the husband is away, everything goes astray. I started making a mental list of the things that seem to coincide with my husband's absence and decided I had to turn on the lamp and write it all down before I forgot.
1. As mentioned above, it never fails that the smoke alarms always need new batteries when the person who is six foot two is out of the state, leaving the person who is five foot one-half inch tall to remedy the situation. Even on the tallest stool, it is not an easy reach. Not to mention the fact that I inevitably set off the smoke alarm to full-blown siren level in the process of trying to detach it. And, naturally, the majority of those occurrences happen in the middle of the night, such as last night. Usually, I get up, swearing under my breath, and deal with it, since it's so annoying. Last night, I decided to shut my bedroom door and turn the fan up to jet engine noise level and ignore it, out of spite.
2. Math homework stops for no one. And, although I am a college graduate and by no means an idiot, my capacity to assist their children with their math homework ceased to exist by the time the kids moved from elementary to middle school. Geometry, the most hated of all math subjects of mine, is what my eighth grader is taking right now. I was in tenth grade when I took it, for crying out loud! Anyways, my daughter currently trapped in that horrible class doesn't even bother to ask me to look at her work anymore; she realizes it's a waste of both our time. Even the sixth grader yesterday was asking me for help; after I analyzed the question she was trying to answer, I decided it was just stupid and useless and confusing, and couldn't understand why she was being asked to do it. I informed her that she would never need to use this kind of crap for anything in her future. Then, we promptly called her dad on his cell phone for a long distance math tutorial. Problem solved.
3. Is it just me, or do children wait for their dad to disappear to become ill in the most messy ways? Is there some mathematical correlation that states that the volume of vomit and diarrhea produced by a child is inversely proportionate to the distance that child's father is from their home? (Hey, that sounded pretty brilliant; I wonder if I said it correctly.....)
4. Vehicular functionality decreases as well with the absence of one's husband; it is a truth according to the law of physics. Just ask my husband. Same thing applies to computer and television problems; it's as if the inanimate objects are just waiting for him to leave, knowing full well I don't have a bloody idea how to fix them!
5. It may just be my imagination, but the children seem to malfunction when dad is gone, too. Perhaps it is just that my level of tolerance decreases during the small-scale jaunts of single parenting, but I don't think so. I am convinced that there is more fighting among the little ones than normal. I am absolutely sure that there is more talking in general when dad is gone; it's like it never stops! And, everybody gets more touchy-feely; two nights ago, my second and third daughter both begged me before bedtime to let them sleep with me. I flatly refused, knowing I never slept well with kids in bed. Besides, I didn't want to set a bad precedence. To my dismay, the next morning when I awakened, which was around four, I had the firstborn and last born wedged on either side of me. I never went back to sleep; the oldest was complaining of some stomach pain mumbo jumbo, while the little one wielded his greatest weapon against me: his cuteness. "Mommy, I want to snuggle you." It gets me every time. I'm such a sucker.
I am sure the list goes on, but that's enough for now. My husband has learned that, with the now common usage of cell phones, you can go away, but you can't hide. Yes, he could ignore the multitude of calls he gets from his wife and/or offspring, but he has come to realize that that would be to his detriment as well as ours. As he has been quoted as saying before, you don't want to incur the wrath of the five foot one half inch blond.
So, husbands out there, the ones who travel frequently, if you ever wonder why, when you return home from your trip, anxious to be embraced into the bosom of your family, and your wife doesn't seem to respond properly to your amorous advances, it is because she is still mad at you for one or several of the above aforementioned items that, like it or not, you are indeed responsible for, and will now be held accountable. It would be in your best interest, upon returning home, to bring some really decadent chocolate.
1. As mentioned above, it never fails that the smoke alarms always need new batteries when the person who is six foot two is out of the state, leaving the person who is five foot one-half inch tall to remedy the situation. Even on the tallest stool, it is not an easy reach. Not to mention the fact that I inevitably set off the smoke alarm to full-blown siren level in the process of trying to detach it. And, naturally, the majority of those occurrences happen in the middle of the night, such as last night. Usually, I get up, swearing under my breath, and deal with it, since it's so annoying. Last night, I decided to shut my bedroom door and turn the fan up to jet engine noise level and ignore it, out of spite.
2. Math homework stops for no one. And, although I am a college graduate and by no means an idiot, my capacity to assist their children with their math homework ceased to exist by the time the kids moved from elementary to middle school. Geometry, the most hated of all math subjects of mine, is what my eighth grader is taking right now. I was in tenth grade when I took it, for crying out loud! Anyways, my daughter currently trapped in that horrible class doesn't even bother to ask me to look at her work anymore; she realizes it's a waste of both our time. Even the sixth grader yesterday was asking me for help; after I analyzed the question she was trying to answer, I decided it was just stupid and useless and confusing, and couldn't understand why she was being asked to do it. I informed her that she would never need to use this kind of crap for anything in her future. Then, we promptly called her dad on his cell phone for a long distance math tutorial. Problem solved.
3. Is it just me, or do children wait for their dad to disappear to become ill in the most messy ways? Is there some mathematical correlation that states that the volume of vomit and diarrhea produced by a child is inversely proportionate to the distance that child's father is from their home? (Hey, that sounded pretty brilliant; I wonder if I said it correctly.....)
4. Vehicular functionality decreases as well with the absence of one's husband; it is a truth according to the law of physics. Just ask my husband. Same thing applies to computer and television problems; it's as if the inanimate objects are just waiting for him to leave, knowing full well I don't have a bloody idea how to fix them!
5. It may just be my imagination, but the children seem to malfunction when dad is gone, too. Perhaps it is just that my level of tolerance decreases during the small-scale jaunts of single parenting, but I don't think so. I am convinced that there is more fighting among the little ones than normal. I am absolutely sure that there is more talking in general when dad is gone; it's like it never stops! And, everybody gets more touchy-feely; two nights ago, my second and third daughter both begged me before bedtime to let them sleep with me. I flatly refused, knowing I never slept well with kids in bed. Besides, I didn't want to set a bad precedence. To my dismay, the next morning when I awakened, which was around four, I had the firstborn and last born wedged on either side of me. I never went back to sleep; the oldest was complaining of some stomach pain mumbo jumbo, while the little one wielded his greatest weapon against me: his cuteness. "Mommy, I want to snuggle you." It gets me every time. I'm such a sucker.
I am sure the list goes on, but that's enough for now. My husband has learned that, with the now common usage of cell phones, you can go away, but you can't hide. Yes, he could ignore the multitude of calls he gets from his wife and/or offspring, but he has come to realize that that would be to his detriment as well as ours. As he has been quoted as saying before, you don't want to incur the wrath of the five foot one half inch blond.
So, husbands out there, the ones who travel frequently, if you ever wonder why, when you return home from your trip, anxious to be embraced into the bosom of your family, and your wife doesn't seem to respond properly to your amorous advances, it is because she is still mad at you for one or several of the above aforementioned items that, like it or not, you are indeed responsible for, and will now be held accountable. It would be in your best interest, upon returning home, to bring some really decadent chocolate.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Political update
Today, my seven year old asked me an important question at the dinner table. Okay, let me back up a little bit.
At this point in my life, I would describe myself as apolitical, if that's a word. Back in high school, and especially in college, I used to love talking politics and getting into discussions with others. My second major at WSU was Political Science, and I really enjoyed learning about the way a government works, both within the US and throughout the world. I would say that, on the political spectrum, I was about as far left as they come, before 1993. That's when I joined my husband's politically-uber-opinionated family. I can't recall the exact events that led to my self-induced banishment from all things political, but I know it had something to do with the saturation of vehemently vocalized 'truths' wearing on me. With right-winged talk radio on loudly and all the time, and a brother-in-law (also a poly sci major, like myself) who liked to argue with me and enlighten me as to the errors of my liberal ways, it didn't take long for me to shut down. I looked at it as self-preservation.
Since then, I have more or less steered clear of campaign rhetoric as much as possible, which is no easy thing. I don't get into political discussions at all, if I can help it. But, now I have children who are learning about things at school and talking with their friends. I guess I can't hide forever, especially with a big election only a month away.
Now, back to my story. Today, my seven year old asked me an important question at the dinner table. She queried, "Mom, who are you voting for to be president? John McCain or the brown guy?"
Biting my lower lip and trying desperately not to laugh, I replied a little shakily to her, "You mean Barrack Obama."
The seven year old immediately shouted out, her voice filled with shock and outrage, "You're voting for the brown guy?!?!" I'm not sure where that reaction came from, but wow!
Before I could clarify for the seven year old, the four year old, having a burning desire to add his two cents into the conversation, chimed in right at that moment, "Bronco Bama, oh yeah!" in his best impersonation of a rapper.
I decided to remain silent, grieving that my husband wasn't here to truly appreciate this moment. If you couldn't deduce it from the children's responses, my husband is a conservative Republican and avid Denver Broncos fan. Apparently, so are my children.
At this point in my life, I would describe myself as apolitical, if that's a word. Back in high school, and especially in college, I used to love talking politics and getting into discussions with others. My second major at WSU was Political Science, and I really enjoyed learning about the way a government works, both within the US and throughout the world. I would say that, on the political spectrum, I was about as far left as they come, before 1993. That's when I joined my husband's politically-uber-opinionated family. I can't recall the exact events that led to my self-induced banishment from all things political, but I know it had something to do with the saturation of vehemently vocalized 'truths' wearing on me. With right-winged talk radio on loudly and all the time, and a brother-in-law (also a poly sci major, like myself) who liked to argue with me and enlighten me as to the errors of my liberal ways, it didn't take long for me to shut down. I looked at it as self-preservation.
Since then, I have more or less steered clear of campaign rhetoric as much as possible, which is no easy thing. I don't get into political discussions at all, if I can help it. But, now I have children who are learning about things at school and talking with their friends. I guess I can't hide forever, especially with a big election only a month away.
Now, back to my story. Today, my seven year old asked me an important question at the dinner table. She queried, "Mom, who are you voting for to be president? John McCain or the brown guy?"
Biting my lower lip and trying desperately not to laugh, I replied a little shakily to her, "You mean Barrack Obama."
The seven year old immediately shouted out, her voice filled with shock and outrage, "You're voting for the brown guy?!?!" I'm not sure where that reaction came from, but wow!
Before I could clarify for the seven year old, the four year old, having a burning desire to add his two cents into the conversation, chimed in right at that moment, "Bronco Bama, oh yeah!" in his best impersonation of a rapper.
I decided to remain silent, grieving that my husband wasn't here to truly appreciate this moment. If you couldn't deduce it from the children's responses, my husband is a conservative Republican and avid Denver Broncos fan. Apparently, so are my children.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
A lesson learned: read the fine print
As with most parents I suppose, there has been an endless list of "fine print" that I neglected to read before giving birth to my first child. One of the very telling lessons, that at the time unbeknownst to me, would be the beginning of a decades-long trend, happened shortly after bringing child number one home from the hospital.
My husband and I had recently moved back to the northwest, and were living a couple of hours away from all of our extended family. I had invited my dad and stepmom to come and spend Father's Day with us, and join us for dinner. However, with the surprise early arrival of bundle of joy numero uno, I wasn't exactly up to the task of hosting and food preparation. At that point, I was a bit of a mess; I looked like a freak, having burst a multitude of blood vessels in my head and chest in my attempts to bring forth that little miracle into the world, and as a result covered in little purple spots from mid-torso up. Add to that the delightful pain of healing taking place between my legs, the result of episiotomy stitches and hemorrhoids from pushing so damn hard to get the kid out. And then of course there was the phenomenon known as engorgement; my breasts, overflowing with milk, had swelled to five times their original size (which notedly isn't that impressive, but to me, it was truly amazing), and they were hard as rocks and hot as lava, and not just a little tender to the touch.
Wanting to spend time with their firstborn grandchild, my dad and stepmom came to see us anyways, and graciously brought all the food with them. I was so happy! They brought steak and baked potatoes, and they prepared everything. I was salivating with anticipation; I was going to get a delectable steak dinner, without having to lift a finger. The aroma of that blessed piece of meat still lingers in the annals of my mind today.
When dinner was finally served, the four of us adults sat down at the table to begin partaking of the feast. It was at that exact moment when my newborn decided to awaken, feeling the pangs of hunger herself. I felt what can only be described as panic. What was happening? She can't cry right now; it's dinnertime and I'm hungry. The food is hot and ready to eat, and so am I, damnit! This moment in time has remained vivid in my mind: it was the dawn of realization of the level of sacrifice having children was going to impose upon me. I can honestly say, I had no idea before then that anything would ever come between me and my dinner, and I was shocked and appalled. How come no one told me that I'd be giving up eating on my own terms when I had a baby? We're all hungry; we all need sustenance. In fact, nursing mothers are supposed to have additional calories while breastfeeding; I was certain I had read that somewhere. I remember looking at my husband, feeling disturbed and conveying silently and telepathically to him, "Make it stop crying right now! I need to eat!" Alas, I was having one of those experiences where you gain insight through trauma. I was the only lactating individual at the table, and hence the only one who could really take care of the mewling infant's needs.
I grudgingly got up from the table and sat on the couch in the family room, with my back to the happy steak eaters behind me, and began the exquisitely painful task of nursing. Anyone who has ever experienced engorgement and cracked and bleeding nipples does not need an explanation for what this feels like; for those who have not had the opportunity to feel this sensation, I'll just let you use your imagination. I sat on that couch, with my baby pressed to my bosom, tears sliding down my cheeks from the pain of it all, and listened to my husband and parents talk and enjoy the consumption of their HOT meal behind me, with such anger at the unfairness of it all. It was what can be described as an educational experience for me; the start of sacrificing grudgingly the things which I had taken for granted only days before; the beginning of my realization that my needs weren't quite as important as someone else's needs any more. It totally sucked! Apparently, I got over it, though; four kids and thirteen years later, and I still don't get to enjoy a hot meal any time I want it. Just one of the many little treasures I've learned; the fine print of parenthood that I neglected to read in advance.
Future parents, beware.
My husband and I had recently moved back to the northwest, and were living a couple of hours away from all of our extended family. I had invited my dad and stepmom to come and spend Father's Day with us, and join us for dinner. However, with the surprise early arrival of bundle of joy numero uno, I wasn't exactly up to the task of hosting and food preparation. At that point, I was a bit of a mess; I looked like a freak, having burst a multitude of blood vessels in my head and chest in my attempts to bring forth that little miracle into the world, and as a result covered in little purple spots from mid-torso up. Add to that the delightful pain of healing taking place between my legs, the result of episiotomy stitches and hemorrhoids from pushing so damn hard to get the kid out. And then of course there was the phenomenon known as engorgement; my breasts, overflowing with milk, had swelled to five times their original size (which notedly isn't that impressive, but to me, it was truly amazing), and they were hard as rocks and hot as lava, and not just a little tender to the touch.
Wanting to spend time with their firstborn grandchild, my dad and stepmom came to see us anyways, and graciously brought all the food with them. I was so happy! They brought steak and baked potatoes, and they prepared everything. I was salivating with anticipation; I was going to get a delectable steak dinner, without having to lift a finger. The aroma of that blessed piece of meat still lingers in the annals of my mind today.
When dinner was finally served, the four of us adults sat down at the table to begin partaking of the feast. It was at that exact moment when my newborn decided to awaken, feeling the pangs of hunger herself. I felt what can only be described as panic. What was happening? She can't cry right now; it's dinnertime and I'm hungry. The food is hot and ready to eat, and so am I, damnit! This moment in time has remained vivid in my mind: it was the dawn of realization of the level of sacrifice having children was going to impose upon me. I can honestly say, I had no idea before then that anything would ever come between me and my dinner, and I was shocked and appalled. How come no one told me that I'd be giving up eating on my own terms when I had a baby? We're all hungry; we all need sustenance. In fact, nursing mothers are supposed to have additional calories while breastfeeding; I was certain I had read that somewhere. I remember looking at my husband, feeling disturbed and conveying silently and telepathically to him, "Make it stop crying right now! I need to eat!" Alas, I was having one of those experiences where you gain insight through trauma. I was the only lactating individual at the table, and hence the only one who could really take care of the mewling infant's needs.
I grudgingly got up from the table and sat on the couch in the family room, with my back to the happy steak eaters behind me, and began the exquisitely painful task of nursing. Anyone who has ever experienced engorgement and cracked and bleeding nipples does not need an explanation for what this feels like; for those who have not had the opportunity to feel this sensation, I'll just let you use your imagination. I sat on that couch, with my baby pressed to my bosom, tears sliding down my cheeks from the pain of it all, and listened to my husband and parents talk and enjoy the consumption of their HOT meal behind me, with such anger at the unfairness of it all. It was what can be described as an educational experience for me; the start of sacrificing grudgingly the things which I had taken for granted only days before; the beginning of my realization that my needs weren't quite as important as someone else's needs any more. It totally sucked! Apparently, I got over it, though; four kids and thirteen years later, and I still don't get to enjoy a hot meal any time I want it. Just one of the many little treasures I've learned; the fine print of parenthood that I neglected to read in advance.
Future parents, beware.
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