'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.
Friday, December 26, 2008
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.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Ode to a husband
A couple of months ago, my husband and I celebrated 15 years of marriage. In honor of this momentous occasion, we went to Sonic drive-in, and he ordered a milkshake while I ordered a strawberry limeade. That was our dinner. And we talked for about an hour or so in the car, and then went home. You see, at that particular moment, my beloved man was feeling especially stressed about spending money. Going out to an expensive dinner was not going to help the situation, in spite of the fact that it was our anniversary. Now, that being said, I must add here that we already celebrated our anniversary when we vacationed for ten days in the Caribbean in April, spending far more money than a nice dinner would have cost on our 'official' anniversary. But it really didn't matter, to either of us. We've become a little more in tune over the years with one another about what really matters, and it's acutally quite nice.
Here's my take on marriage. Marriage is hard. It takes a lot of commitment and work to be contented with it. It's not quite the fairytale you thought you signed up for. It can be stressful and ugly and smelly and uncomfortable sometimes. Most of the time, it is not romantic, exciting, thrilling and fulfilling beyond imagination. I'd like to think it's not just my marriage; if so, I think I'd prefer to remain ignorant of that fact.
To be fair, however, marriage (or my marriage, at least) has many distinct privileges/advantages/blessings - whatever you want to name them - that couldn't be enjoyed in any other way. There is something very satisfying about being able to trust another person with your most secret things (such as what your breath smells like in morning or the fact that you still occasionally wet the bed) and know that they love you no matter what. What a joy it is to never have to worry about helping my daughter with her algebra (since I am incapble of doing so) because her dad can. It is a comfort to know that I never have to change the oil in my car if I don't want to. And, for some bizarre and unexplainable reason, it amazes me that, no matter how I look, feel, smell, etc., my dear husband still desires me and finds me attractive (that's the big baffling one to me). It is a feeling of bone deep knowledge, marriage for me, that someone loves me enough to go to work every day and earn money to pay for a roof over my head, feed and cloth myself and our offspring, unplug the toilet when needed, and never comment on the condition of the homefront when I've been reading a novel all day, completely ignoring children and household to partake of a delightful little escape.
And so, it is with many words that I present to you a list of reasons why I love my dearest man. Hence the title, Ode to a husband.
1. He never smells bad. Even when he's sweaty and unshowered. Never - not his feet or his armpits or anything. It seems a bit unfair that I stink enough for the both of us, but there it is. My husband always smells delicious.
2. He's quite tall. I can't explain the feeling of being so miniature all my life, and to have married someone who towers 13 inches over me. When he hugs me, it's like he's the bread and I'm the pb&j squished inside, and I love it. I like feeling small next to him. Weird, huh?
3. He's hairy. Okay, I know this really bothers some people. But I've got to be honest: when I see a man's chest without hair on it, I think to myself that he's either: A. pre-pubescent; B. shaves or waxes away his chest hair for assorted reasons, none of which make any sense to me or appeal to me on any level; or C. he's potentially not really a man. Let's face it: people have hair. And, while chest, armpit, and facial hair aren't extraordinarily attractive on the female body (at least in my opinion), they seem quite in place on the male body. I like my husband's hairy chest. I like resting my cheek against it. It's soft and fuzzy and male and I like it.
4. He's kinda nerdy. He's a computer science graduate, for crying out loud! He speaks strange, unknown technical languages and can fix computer glitches in a single bound. He has strange hobbies, such as golfing and watching CSI. He's the most meticulous financial record keeper in the known history of mankind. He abhors paperwork and wants all things in life to be digital and wireless, or something like that. He remembers every football stat having to do with John Elway. His favorite store to go shopping with me on a Friday night is Fry's Electronics. He can tell you the date, time, location, inning, and weather conditions of every home run he ever hit. He's a quirky little sucker, and it's endearing. Something about the way he looks when he's playing with his Blackberry or IMing four people at the same time, it just gets me every time (sniff).
5. He loves his kids. Why this is so wonderful to me, I am not sure. But, I take great delight in watching this very large man wrestle, tickle, tease, hug, kiss, cuddle, and in all other ways lovingly care for his children. It always puts a smile on my face and makes my chest feel all warm inside when I witness him giving his attention and affection to one of our brood.
6. He's still pretty damn nice on the eyes. Sometimes, I'll look at him, with his nice suit and tie on at church, and feel the compulsion to text him with some naughty remark and waggle my eyebrows at him. He's always had a beautiful smile, a sweet backside, and legs that would look quite fetching in a kilt, I think. He's still got it.
7. He cares about people. I mean really, deep down feels compassion and empathy for people. He loves and honors his parents, and always has. He respects and enjoys the people he works with, and is uplifted from the associations he's made. He has an honest concern for the welfare of those within his sphere of influence. He believes the best in people. He likes being around others. It's a wonderful complement to his cynical, moderately loner-ish partner-in-life. I have seen firsthand, countless times, how affected he can become by others sufferings, and I think it's a great and wonderful gift he has.
8. He's smartalented. This one, I'll admit, tends to get my dander up from time to time, but it is true nonetheless. He knows things. He's able to do things. And, if there is something he doesn't know or cannot do, he generally will do what he needs to remedy that situation. He likes to be good at what he does, and he does what it takes to make it so. Sometimes I wish I cared that much, but usually it seems too exhausting an undertaking, and I'd rather not put forth the effort. But, I do admire that about him. Usually. Unless, of course, it's learning to beat me at pool or darts or something like that; then it kinda pisses me off. Otherwise, it's pretty cool.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, raise your glass with me, and toast a guy who rocks my socks off. Ooolahlah!
Here's my take on marriage. Marriage is hard. It takes a lot of commitment and work to be contented with it. It's not quite the fairytale you thought you signed up for. It can be stressful and ugly and smelly and uncomfortable sometimes. Most of the time, it is not romantic, exciting, thrilling and fulfilling beyond imagination. I'd like to think it's not just my marriage; if so, I think I'd prefer to remain ignorant of that fact.
To be fair, however, marriage (or my marriage, at least) has many distinct privileges/advantages/blessings - whatever you want to name them - that couldn't be enjoyed in any other way. There is something very satisfying about being able to trust another person with your most secret things (such as what your breath smells like in morning or the fact that you still occasionally wet the bed) and know that they love you no matter what. What a joy it is to never have to worry about helping my daughter with her algebra (since I am incapble of doing so) because her dad can. It is a comfort to know that I never have to change the oil in my car if I don't want to. And, for some bizarre and unexplainable reason, it amazes me that, no matter how I look, feel, smell, etc., my dear husband still desires me and finds me attractive (that's the big baffling one to me). It is a feeling of bone deep knowledge, marriage for me, that someone loves me enough to go to work every day and earn money to pay for a roof over my head, feed and cloth myself and our offspring, unplug the toilet when needed, and never comment on the condition of the homefront when I've been reading a novel all day, completely ignoring children and household to partake of a delightful little escape.
And so, it is with many words that I present to you a list of reasons why I love my dearest man. Hence the title, Ode to a husband.
1. He never smells bad. Even when he's sweaty and unshowered. Never - not his feet or his armpits or anything. It seems a bit unfair that I stink enough for the both of us, but there it is. My husband always smells delicious.
2. He's quite tall. I can't explain the feeling of being so miniature all my life, and to have married someone who towers 13 inches over me. When he hugs me, it's like he's the bread and I'm the pb&j squished inside, and I love it. I like feeling small next to him. Weird, huh?
3. He's hairy. Okay, I know this really bothers some people. But I've got to be honest: when I see a man's chest without hair on it, I think to myself that he's either: A. pre-pubescent; B. shaves or waxes away his chest hair for assorted reasons, none of which make any sense to me or appeal to me on any level; or C. he's potentially not really a man. Let's face it: people have hair. And, while chest, armpit, and facial hair aren't extraordinarily attractive on the female body (at least in my opinion), they seem quite in place on the male body. I like my husband's hairy chest. I like resting my cheek against it. It's soft and fuzzy and male and I like it.
4. He's kinda nerdy. He's a computer science graduate, for crying out loud! He speaks strange, unknown technical languages and can fix computer glitches in a single bound. He has strange hobbies, such as golfing and watching CSI. He's the most meticulous financial record keeper in the known history of mankind. He abhors paperwork and wants all things in life to be digital and wireless, or something like that. He remembers every football stat having to do with John Elway. His favorite store to go shopping with me on a Friday night is Fry's Electronics. He can tell you the date, time, location, inning, and weather conditions of every home run he ever hit. He's a quirky little sucker, and it's endearing. Something about the way he looks when he's playing with his Blackberry or IMing four people at the same time, it just gets me every time (sniff).
5. He loves his kids. Why this is so wonderful to me, I am not sure. But, I take great delight in watching this very large man wrestle, tickle, tease, hug, kiss, cuddle, and in all other ways lovingly care for his children. It always puts a smile on my face and makes my chest feel all warm inside when I witness him giving his attention and affection to one of our brood.
6. He's still pretty damn nice on the eyes. Sometimes, I'll look at him, with his nice suit and tie on at church, and feel the compulsion to text him with some naughty remark and waggle my eyebrows at him. He's always had a beautiful smile, a sweet backside, and legs that would look quite fetching in a kilt, I think. He's still got it.
7. He cares about people. I mean really, deep down feels compassion and empathy for people. He loves and honors his parents, and always has. He respects and enjoys the people he works with, and is uplifted from the associations he's made. He has an honest concern for the welfare of those within his sphere of influence. He believes the best in people. He likes being around others. It's a wonderful complement to his cynical, moderately loner-ish partner-in-life. I have seen firsthand, countless times, how affected he can become by others sufferings, and I think it's a great and wonderful gift he has.
8. He's smartalented. This one, I'll admit, tends to get my dander up from time to time, but it is true nonetheless. He knows things. He's able to do things. And, if there is something he doesn't know or cannot do, he generally will do what he needs to remedy that situation. He likes to be good at what he does, and he does what it takes to make it so. Sometimes I wish I cared that much, but usually it seems too exhausting an undertaking, and I'd rather not put forth the effort. But, I do admire that about him. Usually. Unless, of course, it's learning to beat me at pool or darts or something like that; then it kinda pisses me off. Otherwise, it's pretty cool.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, raise your glass with me, and toast a guy who rocks my socks off. Ooolahlah!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Great praise, coming from a four year old....
My little one, who is four, had his best buddy from preschool over here to play recently. While I was in my bathroom, putting my make-up on, the two little boys marched in to speak with me, with what was obviously a serious matter to discuss. The little friend, in hushed tones, said to me, "Um, Miss Shannon, um, I have to go potty."
I replied that he was welcome to use my bathroom, or that my son could show him where the other downstairs bathroom was.
He then continued quietly, shuffling his feet from one side to the other, twisting his hands nervously, "Um, Miss Shannon?"
"Yes?" I replied, patiently, turning my attention more fully to him now.
"Um, Miss Shannon, I have to go poo poo and potty," he informed me cautiously.
Trying to hide my smirk (and thinking to myself that my preferred response at that moment would have been, 'Thank you for that information'), I calmly responded by smiling encouragingly at the anxious little redhead, saying, "Alright, sweetie. If you need help, just let me know."
Feet still shuffling (I realized now this was his version of what is referred to in our house as 'doing the potty dance'), he then said, "Yeah, 'cause, Miss Shannon, I, um, I'm not very good at wiping myself."
I grinned openly now, trying to reassure the poor little guy it was all going to be okay. I told him, "That's okay. You just let me know when you're finished, and I'll come help you if you need it."
Obviously receiving the validation he needed, he nodded his head, and murmured something under his breath, and turned to leave the bathroom with my son, apparently choosing to do his 'business' in the other bathroom. I turned back to the mirror, continuing the process of putting my face on for the day, and heard my son saying very seriously to his little friend as they walked away, "It's okay; my mom is REALLY good at wiping butts."
Had I been drinking a soda at the moment, I have no doubt it would have exploded out of nose. Kids crack me up....and yes, the pun was intended.
I replied that he was welcome to use my bathroom, or that my son could show him where the other downstairs bathroom was.
He then continued quietly, shuffling his feet from one side to the other, twisting his hands nervously, "Um, Miss Shannon?"
"Yes?" I replied, patiently, turning my attention more fully to him now.
"Um, Miss Shannon, I have to go poo poo and potty," he informed me cautiously.
Trying to hide my smirk (and thinking to myself that my preferred response at that moment would have been, 'Thank you for that information'), I calmly responded by smiling encouragingly at the anxious little redhead, saying, "Alright, sweetie. If you need help, just let me know."
Feet still shuffling (I realized now this was his version of what is referred to in our house as 'doing the potty dance'), he then said, "Yeah, 'cause, Miss Shannon, I, um, I'm not very good at wiping myself."
I grinned openly now, trying to reassure the poor little guy it was all going to be okay. I told him, "That's okay. You just let me know when you're finished, and I'll come help you if you need it."
Obviously receiving the validation he needed, he nodded his head, and murmured something under his breath, and turned to leave the bathroom with my son, apparently choosing to do his 'business' in the other bathroom. I turned back to the mirror, continuing the process of putting my face on for the day, and heard my son saying very seriously to his little friend as they walked away, "It's okay; my mom is REALLY good at wiping butts."
Had I been drinking a soda at the moment, I have no doubt it would have exploded out of nose. Kids crack me up....and yes, the pun was intended.
Monday, June 9, 2008
The maximum legal limit of Zoloft: Why anti-anxiety medication is a good thing for some of us
If my husband had never brought me kicking and screaming (figuratively speaking, luckily for him) to Texas almost seven years ago, I would have never discovered the delight which is Zoloft.
We moved into our new home on my 30th birthday, and I mark that day as the beginning of a very dark and dreadful year in my life. (As a side note, my dear husband, being the man that he is, couldn't begin to understand why I wasn't perfectly appeased with receiving a brand new home for my birthday - but I will save the differences between men and women for another time.)
To make a long story somewhat short, through the support of a few dear friends, the persistance of my mother, and the desperation of the aforementioned husband, after several months of abject depression, I allowed myself the privilege of seeing a therapist and began my foray into the experimentation of legal drugs.
Fast forward a month or so, I find myself one afternoon in need of a trip to the grocery store. Now, let me set this up for you properly so you can fully appreciate the scenario. My oldest child was in first grade at the time, and attended a school where there was no bussing. Hence, I had to pick her up in the most-hated car rider line each afternoon at 2:45, bringing the four-year old and the one-year old along. Often, this required waking one or both of the younger children from their naps, which is one of the last things on earth I ever want to do.
Now, back to the grocery store. I packed up the two little ones, strapped them in their car seats, and motored off to the market. (By the way, please know that I abhor taking my children to any store with me; this must have been a time of desperate need if I was going to get groceries in the middle of the day.) After parking the minivan, I fetched both children from their car seats, walked into the grocery store, carrying the one-year old on my hip, and holding the hand of the non-stop chatty four-year old, selected one of those ginormous shopping carts that you can buckle two children into at once, and bravely entered the store.
Upon entering, I dug in my purse to pull out my shopping list. Please understand, I must have my list when I shop. I am not the sort of person who can just peruse the aisles and remember everything I need. I have limited space in my brain for things that aren't crucial in my life, and so must write down most mundane things if I am to successfully remember them. This includes items necessary to feed and care for my famlily. Without a list, I inevitably forget several crucial things, and horrifyingly have to return to the store again to fetch them later. Perhaps I should mention here also that I hate shopping; not just grocery shopping, but all shopping. I find no joy in this, what seems to many females, blessed event.
Returning to my story, I dig in my purse, without success, searching frantically for my all-important list, and come up empty. Damnit; I left the bloody thing at home on the kitchen counter. After taking a deep breath to compose myself, I turn around the mammoth grocery cart and return to where my minivan is parked, remove my duo of daughters from the cart and securely buckle them back in their car seats, push the vahoometh cart to a non-threatening nearby area, and get back in the vehicle, starting it up, buckling myself in, and proceed to head back to my house to obtain the stinkin' grocery list I forget to put in my purse.
Approximately thirteen minutes later, and, I might add, with a minimum amount of grumbling and swearing under my breath, I am back in a parking stall at the grocery store. Removing the children once again from the safety of their carseats, I happily discover the oversized cart right where I had left it before, and secured the offspring once again into the monstrosity. I pushed the cart back into the store, ready to really begin the task at hand. I reached into my purse again, and gasped. No, this can't be happening. Shaking my head in disbelief, I realize I have left the all-important grocery list back out in the minivan. Heavy sigh. Major eye-rolling.
Once again, I turn the cart (that should be proceeded by a sign with flashing lights that reads "Caution: Wide Load") around and go back out to the parking lot. I glance at my watch, and realize it is getting closer and closer to the time when I must get myself to the school to pick up my first grader. In a rush, I speed to where my vehicle is parked, unlock it, peek inside, and find the culprit list lying on the floor next to the driver's seat, right where I left it. I snatched it up, slammed the door shut, and clutching the list in my teeth, pushed the big cart back into the grocery store for one more go at it.
The automatic doors slide open, leading me directly to the produce section. Giving my cart a push, I quickly remove my list from my mouth to see what kinds of fruits and vegetables I need. (I know some of you reading this are probably coughing, and thinking to yourself, "Yeah, right, like you buy vegetables;" my snitty response to that thought is yes, by golly, sometimes I do indeed purchase green leafy things! So there! I am sticking my tongue out at you).
Remember me mentioning the size of the grocery cart? This is the point in which that becomes significant. I am not very good at judging distances, particularly when it comes driving my vehicle over curbs; my husband would be happy to attest to the turth of this statement. Apparently, this anti-talent extends to large grocery shopping carts as well. Without any concious effort, I somehow managed to push my empty cart (empty except for my children, that is) directly into the free-standing table display with grapes covering it. It must have had quite an impact, because I managed to send what appeared to be several hundred pounds of little green and red grapes rolling across the length of the floor of the produce section at warp speed.
I was frozen, just staring at the fruit-in-motion, which had the appearance of moving in a slower than normal fashion, as all unpleasant things do. My mind couldn't believe what my eyes were watching. What the freak?!?!
I took a deep breath, flushing furiously, and moved around the front of the cart to begin picking up the errant little green and red orbs. I am sure there were people around me, either laughing or stifling laughter, but I didn't notice. I was too embarrassed and frustrated to care. Out of nowhere, no fewer than three employees in the produce section magically appeared, who immediately began to clean up the mess I made and comfort me. There were no dirty looks, only smiles (but I heard their thoughts, distinctly chirping "cuckoo") as one of them patronizingly patted my shoulder and told me I didn't need to help with the clean up.
I apologized profusely and immediately turned my cart around and left the store; there had definitely been enough carnage for one day. And, besides, it was almost time to pick up the six-year old from school. In a somewhat numb state of mind, I managed to get the two little ones out of the cart and safely buckled back into their car seat, miraculously without injury. I turned the van on, buckled myself, and immediately flipped my cell phone open and called my husband. Not trusting myself at this point to be able to drive and talk on the phone simultaneously with any degree of safetly, I stayed unmoving in the parking stall, and recounted the entire story on the phone, not needing to add any drama to make it more interesting to the listener.
When I finished, my husband was quiet for the briefest moment, then said, "Honey, I think the Zoloft must be working, because you're not crying." It struck me, like lightening, that he was right! This sort of episode, had it happened a couple of months back, no doubt would have sent me into either a crying or raging fit, from either of which the spouse would have to absorb the fallout. But, I was actually laughing about the encounter, and it surprised me indeed.
It is from this experience that I have gained a testimony, if you will, of the great good that prescription anti-anxiety medication can do in one's life. I have since offered myself willingly to be the poster child for Zoloft. I recommend it to all my friends who do not consume alcohol to soothe their anxieties. Legal drugs, bless them, have become quite dear to me. My husband, children, and I are all recipients of the delightful consequences of them in my life. Yay Zoloft!!!
We moved into our new home on my 30th birthday, and I mark that day as the beginning of a very dark and dreadful year in my life. (As a side note, my dear husband, being the man that he is, couldn't begin to understand why I wasn't perfectly appeased with receiving a brand new home for my birthday - but I will save the differences between men and women for another time.)
To make a long story somewhat short, through the support of a few dear friends, the persistance of my mother, and the desperation of the aforementioned husband, after several months of abject depression, I allowed myself the privilege of seeing a therapist and began my foray into the experimentation of legal drugs.
Fast forward a month or so, I find myself one afternoon in need of a trip to the grocery store. Now, let me set this up for you properly so you can fully appreciate the scenario. My oldest child was in first grade at the time, and attended a school where there was no bussing. Hence, I had to pick her up in the most-hated car rider line each afternoon at 2:45, bringing the four-year old and the one-year old along. Often, this required waking one or both of the younger children from their naps, which is one of the last things on earth I ever want to do.
Now, back to the grocery store. I packed up the two little ones, strapped them in their car seats, and motored off to the market. (By the way, please know that I abhor taking my children to any store with me; this must have been a time of desperate need if I was going to get groceries in the middle of the day.) After parking the minivan, I fetched both children from their car seats, walked into the grocery store, carrying the one-year old on my hip, and holding the hand of the non-stop chatty four-year old, selected one of those ginormous shopping carts that you can buckle two children into at once, and bravely entered the store.
Upon entering, I dug in my purse to pull out my shopping list. Please understand, I must have my list when I shop. I am not the sort of person who can just peruse the aisles and remember everything I need. I have limited space in my brain for things that aren't crucial in my life, and so must write down most mundane things if I am to successfully remember them. This includes items necessary to feed and care for my famlily. Without a list, I inevitably forget several crucial things, and horrifyingly have to return to the store again to fetch them later. Perhaps I should mention here also that I hate shopping; not just grocery shopping, but all shopping. I find no joy in this, what seems to many females, blessed event.
Returning to my story, I dig in my purse, without success, searching frantically for my all-important list, and come up empty. Damnit; I left the bloody thing at home on the kitchen counter. After taking a deep breath to compose myself, I turn around the mammoth grocery cart and return to where my minivan is parked, remove my duo of daughters from the cart and securely buckle them back in their car seats, push the vahoometh cart to a non-threatening nearby area, and get back in the vehicle, starting it up, buckling myself in, and proceed to head back to my house to obtain the stinkin' grocery list I forget to put in my purse.
Approximately thirteen minutes later, and, I might add, with a minimum amount of grumbling and swearing under my breath, I am back in a parking stall at the grocery store. Removing the children once again from the safety of their carseats, I happily discover the oversized cart right where I had left it before, and secured the offspring once again into the monstrosity. I pushed the cart back into the store, ready to really begin the task at hand. I reached into my purse again, and gasped. No, this can't be happening. Shaking my head in disbelief, I realize I have left the all-important grocery list back out in the minivan. Heavy sigh. Major eye-rolling.
Once again, I turn the cart (that should be proceeded by a sign with flashing lights that reads "Caution: Wide Load") around and go back out to the parking lot. I glance at my watch, and realize it is getting closer and closer to the time when I must get myself to the school to pick up my first grader. In a rush, I speed to where my vehicle is parked, unlock it, peek inside, and find the culprit list lying on the floor next to the driver's seat, right where I left it. I snatched it up, slammed the door shut, and clutching the list in my teeth, pushed the big cart back into the grocery store for one more go at it.
The automatic doors slide open, leading me directly to the produce section. Giving my cart a push, I quickly remove my list from my mouth to see what kinds of fruits and vegetables I need. (I know some of you reading this are probably coughing, and thinking to yourself, "Yeah, right, like you buy vegetables;" my snitty response to that thought is yes, by golly, sometimes I do indeed purchase green leafy things! So there! I am sticking my tongue out at you).
Remember me mentioning the size of the grocery cart? This is the point in which that becomes significant. I am not very good at judging distances, particularly when it comes driving my vehicle over curbs; my husband would be happy to attest to the turth of this statement. Apparently, this anti-talent extends to large grocery shopping carts as well. Without any concious effort, I somehow managed to push my empty cart (empty except for my children, that is) directly into the free-standing table display with grapes covering it. It must have had quite an impact, because I managed to send what appeared to be several hundred pounds of little green and red grapes rolling across the length of the floor of the produce section at warp speed.
I was frozen, just staring at the fruit-in-motion, which had the appearance of moving in a slower than normal fashion, as all unpleasant things do. My mind couldn't believe what my eyes were watching. What the freak?!?!
I took a deep breath, flushing furiously, and moved around the front of the cart to begin picking up the errant little green and red orbs. I am sure there were people around me, either laughing or stifling laughter, but I didn't notice. I was too embarrassed and frustrated to care. Out of nowhere, no fewer than three employees in the produce section magically appeared, who immediately began to clean up the mess I made and comfort me. There were no dirty looks, only smiles (but I heard their thoughts, distinctly chirping "cuckoo") as one of them patronizingly patted my shoulder and told me I didn't need to help with the clean up.
I apologized profusely and immediately turned my cart around and left the store; there had definitely been enough carnage for one day. And, besides, it was almost time to pick up the six-year old from school. In a somewhat numb state of mind, I managed to get the two little ones out of the cart and safely buckled back into their car seat, miraculously without injury. I turned the van on, buckled myself, and immediately flipped my cell phone open and called my husband. Not trusting myself at this point to be able to drive and talk on the phone simultaneously with any degree of safetly, I stayed unmoving in the parking stall, and recounted the entire story on the phone, not needing to add any drama to make it more interesting to the listener.
When I finished, my husband was quiet for the briefest moment, then said, "Honey, I think the Zoloft must be working, because you're not crying." It struck me, like lightening, that he was right! This sort of episode, had it happened a couple of months back, no doubt would have sent me into either a crying or raging fit, from either of which the spouse would have to absorb the fallout. But, I was actually laughing about the encounter, and it surprised me indeed.
It is from this experience that I have gained a testimony, if you will, of the great good that prescription anti-anxiety medication can do in one's life. I have since offered myself willingly to be the poster child for Zoloft. I recommend it to all my friends who do not consume alcohol to soothe their anxieties. Legal drugs, bless them, have become quite dear to me. My husband, children, and I are all recipients of the delightful consequences of them in my life. Yay Zoloft!!!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Seven random and weird facts about me....
Okay, this is for my friend, Karla, who told me I have been "tagged" (whatever that means) and had to list the stuff mentioned above. Here it goes.
1. I swallowed a thumbtack when I was nine years old. It lodged itself in my food pipe; hence I am still alive today. While in the hospital, awaiting for whatever it was the doctors were going to do to get the thing out, another girl was brought into my room. By an odd coincidence, this teenager had also swallowed a thumbtack. Her reason for having the tack in her mouth? She was putting up posters in her room, keeping the tacks in her mouth so she could use both hands. I thought my reasoning was far superior. I was checking to see if the tack would be drawn to and stick to the magnet that was also in my mouth. It didn't, by the way. Eventually, when the doctors had time to see me, the put me under with anesthesia, strapped me on a board and turned me upside down, pulled my tongue way out of my mouth, and it rolled right out. Cool, huh? My dad didn't think it was very cool at the time, but I think he's gotten over it....
2. I think shaving your feet and toes is just bizarre.
3. I have to use nitrous oxide at the dentist, just to get my teeth cleaned. Otherwise, it turns into a full blown panic attack.
4. I am shorter than most fourth grade girls.
5. I have never ever dyed, lightened, or colored my hair.
6. I am a college graduate, mother of four, and I still have no idea what I want to do with my life.
7. I have never had any part of my body waxed, and plan to keep it that way, thank you very much.
Are those weird and random enough, Karla?
1. I swallowed a thumbtack when I was nine years old. It lodged itself in my food pipe; hence I am still alive today. While in the hospital, awaiting for whatever it was the doctors were going to do to get the thing out, another girl was brought into my room. By an odd coincidence, this teenager had also swallowed a thumbtack. Her reason for having the tack in her mouth? She was putting up posters in her room, keeping the tacks in her mouth so she could use both hands. I thought my reasoning was far superior. I was checking to see if the tack would be drawn to and stick to the magnet that was also in my mouth. It didn't, by the way. Eventually, when the doctors had time to see me, the put me under with anesthesia, strapped me on a board and turned me upside down, pulled my tongue way out of my mouth, and it rolled right out. Cool, huh? My dad didn't think it was very cool at the time, but I think he's gotten over it....
2. I think shaving your feet and toes is just bizarre.
3. I have to use nitrous oxide at the dentist, just to get my teeth cleaned. Otherwise, it turns into a full blown panic attack.
4. I am shorter than most fourth grade girls.
5. I have never ever dyed, lightened, or colored my hair.
6. I am a college graduate, mother of four, and I still have no idea what I want to do with my life.
7. I have never had any part of my body waxed, and plan to keep it that way, thank you very much.
Are those weird and random enough, Karla?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Dinnertime: If it's such an important time of the day for the family, why do I dislike it so much?
Dinner. That six-letter word that plagues me on a daily basis; the time of day when, in theory, you gather 'round the dining room table with your family over a lovely meal and discuss the day's events, purportedly bonding in a mystical way that cements the ties a close-knit, non-dysfunctional family ought to.
In my opinion, this is one of the biggest bunches of baloney I've ever heard. Or, perhaps I just haven't figured out how to properly enjoy this wholesome family time. Pray, let me explain just why this is.
For starters, and I do not believe I am alone in this when I say, I strongly dislike, very nearly loathe, having to decide what on earth I am going to feed the hungry ones each night. My sweet husband, always trying to support me with his fine ideas (yes, you did correctly detect a tiny bit of sarcasm in the previous phrase), has suggested on a number of occasions how I might consider putting all of my meal ideas into some sort of computer program that would essentially tell me what I should cook each night. I strongly resist this for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the way he would do it, and I'll be damned if I'll do it the same way. (That's gratitude for you, isn't it?) Secondly, something inside my being is strangely uncomfortable with involving a computer in this situation at all. It's just wrong, alright? And, third, there is such a small number of things that my children will cheerfully eat, I fear the results would be depressing.
And so, we move on to the children. The little rats are so picky; I know most mothers out there have at least one child like this, and so they understand. Whenever I dare to try something new, I can just about guarantee at least 50% of said children are going to despise the creation. Oh the joy. I think there may only be about five meals I make that all four of my offspring actually like, so cooking to please the masses is an impossibility.
My oldest child (who also happens to be my laziest child; go figure) just the other day made a whopper of a statement that angered me to a new level of pissedoffedness. She asked me what was for dinner, and when I told her, she sighed, commenting under her breath, "Oh; not that again."
Just for the record, I can guarantee that she will never, not ever, utter those unholy words again.
Moving right along, once the boring, unwanted food is prepared and set at the table for consumption, I announce in my June Cleaver voice, "Dinner's ready" to all who reside here. This usually illicits what I'll call the anti-response; rarely anything happens, unless of course they are starving and anxiously awaiting the glorious event. Usually, they have to be told a multitude of times to go and wash their hands and come to the table. Next comes the comments about what's being served, which are varied and many. Following that, my husband will ask someone to offer a blessing upon the victuals we are about to consume; never a bad idea when it's something I've prepared, in my opinion. One of two things happens. Either the offspring asked to say the prayer will complain about having to do so, or an argument will ensue with one or several more of the offspring, ranging from, "But I wanted to say the prayer" or "But she got to say it last night" or "I only want seven green beans, because I'm seven" or "Mommy, I don't like this; can I please have chicken nuggets" or "Stop touching me" or assorted other things. (I sincerely hope at this point, mothers are out there reading this, nodding their collective heads, recognizing this scenario from their own lives. I've convinced myself it's not just me and my family; please do not inform me if your truth is contrary to mine.)
When finally the arguments cease, the blessing is offered. If the youngest of our brood is saying the prayer, it's always interesting to hear what is spoken. Sometimes we hear about knights and princes, sometimes a plea is made that no one be allowed to die, and rarely is there ever any mention of food. If the oldest says the blessing, we know in advance what will be said; it is the exact same prayer she says every time she's asked to do it. Creativity and variety are not her forte when offering prayers. At the close of the prayer, there is occasionally a comment made about "She didn't close her eyes" followed by a rebuttal of "How do you know" and a minor scuttle ensues. Finally, it is time to eat.
There is a frantic rush to be the first one to eat. Thankfully, we have arrived at that blessed place where our two oldest can completely fend for themselves. So, we have only to prepare plates for the two younger ones. A steady stream of talking continues, one person interrupting another, with no pause for chewing and swallowing; it all happens simultaneously. In vain, my husband and I attempt to talk about the day. It is pointless, since the kids become exceedingly interested in their father's business at that very time, and ask an unending laundry list of questions that they really don't have the patience to listen and hear the answers to. It is the continuous interruptions and ever-escalating volume level that drive me to near insanity each night at this time.
And so we come full circle. This nightly ritual, being the norm in my home at least, leaves me wondering why I keep hearing that having family dinner together each night is such an important event. It drives me insane. I ask you: How can that be good for the family?
In my opinion, this is one of the biggest bunches of baloney I've ever heard. Or, perhaps I just haven't figured out how to properly enjoy this wholesome family time. Pray, let me explain just why this is.
For starters, and I do not believe I am alone in this when I say, I strongly dislike, very nearly loathe, having to decide what on earth I am going to feed the hungry ones each night. My sweet husband, always trying to support me with his fine ideas (yes, you did correctly detect a tiny bit of sarcasm in the previous phrase), has suggested on a number of occasions how I might consider putting all of my meal ideas into some sort of computer program that would essentially tell me what I should cook each night. I strongly resist this for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the way he would do it, and I'll be damned if I'll do it the same way. (That's gratitude for you, isn't it?) Secondly, something inside my being is strangely uncomfortable with involving a computer in this situation at all. It's just wrong, alright? And, third, there is such a small number of things that my children will cheerfully eat, I fear the results would be depressing.
And so, we move on to the children. The little rats are so picky; I know most mothers out there have at least one child like this, and so they understand. Whenever I dare to try something new, I can just about guarantee at least 50% of said children are going to despise the creation. Oh the joy. I think there may only be about five meals I make that all four of my offspring actually like, so cooking to please the masses is an impossibility.
My oldest child (who also happens to be my laziest child; go figure) just the other day made a whopper of a statement that angered me to a new level of pissedoffedness. She asked me what was for dinner, and when I told her, she sighed, commenting under her breath, "Oh; not that again."
Just for the record, I can guarantee that she will never, not ever, utter those unholy words again.
Moving right along, once the boring, unwanted food is prepared and set at the table for consumption, I announce in my June Cleaver voice, "Dinner's ready" to all who reside here. This usually illicits what I'll call the anti-response; rarely anything happens, unless of course they are starving and anxiously awaiting the glorious event. Usually, they have to be told a multitude of times to go and wash their hands and come to the table. Next comes the comments about what's being served, which are varied and many. Following that, my husband will ask someone to offer a blessing upon the victuals we are about to consume; never a bad idea when it's something I've prepared, in my opinion. One of two things happens. Either the offspring asked to say the prayer will complain about having to do so, or an argument will ensue with one or several more of the offspring, ranging from, "But I wanted to say the prayer" or "But she got to say it last night" or "I only want seven green beans, because I'm seven" or "Mommy, I don't like this; can I please have chicken nuggets" or "Stop touching me" or assorted other things. (I sincerely hope at this point, mothers are out there reading this, nodding their collective heads, recognizing this scenario from their own lives. I've convinced myself it's not just me and my family; please do not inform me if your truth is contrary to mine.)
When finally the arguments cease, the blessing is offered. If the youngest of our brood is saying the prayer, it's always interesting to hear what is spoken. Sometimes we hear about knights and princes, sometimes a plea is made that no one be allowed to die, and rarely is there ever any mention of food. If the oldest says the blessing, we know in advance what will be said; it is the exact same prayer she says every time she's asked to do it. Creativity and variety are not her forte when offering prayers. At the close of the prayer, there is occasionally a comment made about "She didn't close her eyes" followed by a rebuttal of "How do you know" and a minor scuttle ensues. Finally, it is time to eat.
There is a frantic rush to be the first one to eat. Thankfully, we have arrived at that blessed place where our two oldest can completely fend for themselves. So, we have only to prepare plates for the two younger ones. A steady stream of talking continues, one person interrupting another, with no pause for chewing and swallowing; it all happens simultaneously. In vain, my husband and I attempt to talk about the day. It is pointless, since the kids become exceedingly interested in their father's business at that very time, and ask an unending laundry list of questions that they really don't have the patience to listen and hear the answers to. It is the continuous interruptions and ever-escalating volume level that drive me to near insanity each night at this time.
And so we come full circle. This nightly ritual, being the norm in my home at least, leaves me wondering why I keep hearing that having family dinner together each night is such an important event. It drives me insane. I ask you: How can that be good for the family?
Monday, May 19, 2008
Remind me again: Why do I have four kids?
There’s a reason why I don’t like to play with children. Truth be told, there are a multitude of reasons I don’t like playing with children. My children or anybody else’s children; I don’t discriminate. It’s simply the fact that to play with children, from my perspective, inevitably ends up turning into a chore, and an un-fun one at that. Here’s today’s example.
My three older girls were all gone doing things with different friends after school. So, per my four year old son’s request, I invited a little friend over to play with him for an hour and a half while his sisters are gone. I figured, heck, maybe I can get some reading or writing done for the tiny bit of time they’re playing before I have to put back on my mom cap and take care of everyone else’s needs.
I find that I habitually delude myself into thinking, if my kids have friends here to entertain them, then I can focus on other things easier. Ha. That is such a falsehood.
I picked up said little friend to come over to play with my boy, and we drove the minivan home. They wanted to play a game out in the culdesac that they have apparently played before, involving driving battery-operated cars and riding bikes, ramming into one another in some battle-like fashion. I tried to dissuade them from playing out front, because that means I need to be out front to supervise, since none of the older siblings are present to chaperone. I’m not yet comfortable leaving the four year old alone outside, even with his six year old friend accompanying him. Call me crazy…..
Anywho, of course the battery in the Barbie jeep is dead. No one but me ever thinks to take it out and recharge it when it’s dead; hence, frustration ensues all around. So, with no automated driving machine available, they’re only choice was to resort solely to using the bikes. The little friend had to use an old pink bike which was not to his liking; when he verbalized his complaint about the femininity of his mode of transportation, I politely informed him that was his only choice if he wanted to ride (and thought loudly in my head, quit your whining!) My four year old has a very cool little dirt bike with training wheels that he got for his birthday that we pulled out of the garage with some difficulty; if you could see our garage, you would understand why. It’s a minor disaster zone, as (I have convinced myself) are most people’s garages (right?). The bike, of course, has a flat front tire. Crap.
This means, due the lacking presence of the person who should perform this function (i.e., my husband), I have to use our new fangled air compressor pump thingie that I’ve never touched before. The upside was that I located the monstrosity right away, in and of itself a miracle in our garage. The downside, however, was that the frickin’ thing weighed like ten bajillion pounds. Using all the strength acquired from doing my yogalates workout for the last three days, I managed to lift it up and carry it from the garage to my front porch, where an electrical outlet is located. Scooting the cell phone, home phone, Ipod and earphones, laptop and adapter out of the way (which I had carried all outside, ridiculously thinking I would be able to do something with my electronic devices while the children played), I managed to get the aforementioned monstrosity plugged in. Next was attempting to figure out how the stupid thing works.
Now, I have used a hand pump before, to pump up balls or bike tires. I’ve never had any trouble, to speak of, in the usage of these. They’re pretty straightforward, right? Okay, this big fat thing on the porch had NO directions on it, other than the lovely warning label on the back which read “Read all instructions before operating this machinery,” or something similarly useless. Great. Oh well; I can figure this out, I told myself. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa in college; surely that’s good for something, right? I managed to find out where the cord dealybopper was tucked away, and actually got it hooked up in what seemed to be an appropriate manner. Now what?
My son’s little friend quietly suggested, “How ‘bout you flip that little switch on right there?” Right; the on/off switch. Check. Friggin’ smart aleck six year old. After turning some magical dial up, we finally had a sound that resembled an obnoxiously loud vacuum cleaner, and I assumed that was good. Now, I had to find a way to connect the skinny hose thingiemajig to the bike valve stem-mabobber and put air in the tire. After attempting to mate these two things multiple times, I finally consummated their relationship, and recognized immediately the fruit of my labors: the tire was swelling like a pregnant belly. Yay for me!!!!
After what seemed like a suitable length of time and firmness of tire pressure, I removed the air hose dealthing and quickly tried to screw the cap back on the valve to close it off, but to no avail. For whatever reason, I could not seem to get that damn thing screwed back. I had to repeat the process of intercourse multiple times, as the pregnant tire deflated immediately when I couldn’t get the cap screwed on tight enough. After about five attempts, I finally succeeded in my efforts.
As a reward for all my hard work, my son was no longer interested in riding his big boy bike, and pulled his tricycle out of the garage, deciding he’d rather ride that instead. Right. Okay. Fine. Don’t mind me; I’m only sweating buckets here, since the humidity is like 673% outside. Deep breaths; remain calm. I will not throw a fit in anger, no matter how badly I want to right now.
I unplug the air compressor, wind up the cord, figure out how to detach the hose thingie, roll it back up and stuff it in the little cubby it came from, and strain my groin muscles to lift it back up and carry it to the garage, putting it back where I found it. Setting it down on the cement floor, I realized for the first time that there were wheels on the bottom of it, and an extendable handle on top. Son of a……. Deep breaths, again.
I came back to the front porch, bringing with me a folding camp chair, and carefully opened it and put it in the shade. As I sat down, reaching to pick up my laptop, my son’s little buddy rode the pink Barbie bike up to me (we have lots of girl things around, much to the dismay of my sons little friends). He boldly informed me that the front tire of his bike was flat. I just stared at him, with a look on my face that was something like, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Feeling more than a little bit perturbed, I hoisted my butt up off the camp chair and traipsed back to the garage, sighing. At least I knew what I was doing this time, and I didn’t have to carry it. I pulled out the extendable handle on the air compressor and pulled it part way out of the garage, before realizing that there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks it was going fit between the tiny space left between the garage door and the rear end of my minivan. Clearly, I was going to need to do more yogalates, lugging the big thing up again and giving myself a small hernia in the process.
After finishing the second bike, feeling exultant and pissed off simultaneously, I put things away again. On my way back out to my chair, finally done with ‘helping’ the kids, I was then promptly told from the two miscreants that they were done playing outside, and decided they were going inside. I grinned; why am I not surprised? The kids ran in the front door, while I patiently put my camp chair back away, then gathered up my cell phone, my Ipod and earphones, the house phone, my laptop and adapter, and drug everything back in the house. I plopped down on the floor of the living room, dropped everything gently, and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirtsleeve.
And, I ask myself again, why do I have four children? And why do I invite their friends over to play? And why, for the love of Pete, have I made a promise to never drink an alcoholic beverage again? What is wrong with me?
My three older girls were all gone doing things with different friends after school. So, per my four year old son’s request, I invited a little friend over to play with him for an hour and a half while his sisters are gone. I figured, heck, maybe I can get some reading or writing done for the tiny bit of time they’re playing before I have to put back on my mom cap and take care of everyone else’s needs.
I find that I habitually delude myself into thinking, if my kids have friends here to entertain them, then I can focus on other things easier. Ha. That is such a falsehood.
I picked up said little friend to come over to play with my boy, and we drove the minivan home. They wanted to play a game out in the culdesac that they have apparently played before, involving driving battery-operated cars and riding bikes, ramming into one another in some battle-like fashion. I tried to dissuade them from playing out front, because that means I need to be out front to supervise, since none of the older siblings are present to chaperone. I’m not yet comfortable leaving the four year old alone outside, even with his six year old friend accompanying him. Call me crazy…..
Anywho, of course the battery in the Barbie jeep is dead. No one but me ever thinks to take it out and recharge it when it’s dead; hence, frustration ensues all around. So, with no automated driving machine available, they’re only choice was to resort solely to using the bikes. The little friend had to use an old pink bike which was not to his liking; when he verbalized his complaint about the femininity of his mode of transportation, I politely informed him that was his only choice if he wanted to ride (and thought loudly in my head, quit your whining!) My four year old has a very cool little dirt bike with training wheels that he got for his birthday that we pulled out of the garage with some difficulty; if you could see our garage, you would understand why. It’s a minor disaster zone, as (I have convinced myself) are most people’s garages (right?). The bike, of course, has a flat front tire. Crap.
This means, due the lacking presence of the person who should perform this function (i.e., my husband), I have to use our new fangled air compressor pump thingie that I’ve never touched before. The upside was that I located the monstrosity right away, in and of itself a miracle in our garage. The downside, however, was that the frickin’ thing weighed like ten bajillion pounds. Using all the strength acquired from doing my yogalates workout for the last three days, I managed to lift it up and carry it from the garage to my front porch, where an electrical outlet is located. Scooting the cell phone, home phone, Ipod and earphones, laptop and adapter out of the way (which I had carried all outside, ridiculously thinking I would be able to do something with my electronic devices while the children played), I managed to get the aforementioned monstrosity plugged in. Next was attempting to figure out how the stupid thing works.
Now, I have used a hand pump before, to pump up balls or bike tires. I’ve never had any trouble, to speak of, in the usage of these. They’re pretty straightforward, right? Okay, this big fat thing on the porch had NO directions on it, other than the lovely warning label on the back which read “Read all instructions before operating this machinery,” or something similarly useless. Great. Oh well; I can figure this out, I told myself. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa in college; surely that’s good for something, right? I managed to find out where the cord dealybopper was tucked away, and actually got it hooked up in what seemed to be an appropriate manner. Now what?
My son’s little friend quietly suggested, “How ‘bout you flip that little switch on right there?” Right; the on/off switch. Check. Friggin’ smart aleck six year old. After turning some magical dial up, we finally had a sound that resembled an obnoxiously loud vacuum cleaner, and I assumed that was good. Now, I had to find a way to connect the skinny hose thingiemajig to the bike valve stem-mabobber and put air in the tire. After attempting to mate these two things multiple times, I finally consummated their relationship, and recognized immediately the fruit of my labors: the tire was swelling like a pregnant belly. Yay for me!!!!
After what seemed like a suitable length of time and firmness of tire pressure, I removed the air hose dealthing and quickly tried to screw the cap back on the valve to close it off, but to no avail. For whatever reason, I could not seem to get that damn thing screwed back. I had to repeat the process of intercourse multiple times, as the pregnant tire deflated immediately when I couldn’t get the cap screwed on tight enough. After about five attempts, I finally succeeded in my efforts.
As a reward for all my hard work, my son was no longer interested in riding his big boy bike, and pulled his tricycle out of the garage, deciding he’d rather ride that instead. Right. Okay. Fine. Don’t mind me; I’m only sweating buckets here, since the humidity is like 673% outside. Deep breaths; remain calm. I will not throw a fit in anger, no matter how badly I want to right now.
I unplug the air compressor, wind up the cord, figure out how to detach the hose thingie, roll it back up and stuff it in the little cubby it came from, and strain my groin muscles to lift it back up and carry it to the garage, putting it back where I found it. Setting it down on the cement floor, I realized for the first time that there were wheels on the bottom of it, and an extendable handle on top. Son of a……. Deep breaths, again.
I came back to the front porch, bringing with me a folding camp chair, and carefully opened it and put it in the shade. As I sat down, reaching to pick up my laptop, my son’s little buddy rode the pink Barbie bike up to me (we have lots of girl things around, much to the dismay of my sons little friends). He boldly informed me that the front tire of his bike was flat. I just stared at him, with a look on my face that was something like, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Feeling more than a little bit perturbed, I hoisted my butt up off the camp chair and traipsed back to the garage, sighing. At least I knew what I was doing this time, and I didn’t have to carry it. I pulled out the extendable handle on the air compressor and pulled it part way out of the garage, before realizing that there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks it was going fit between the tiny space left between the garage door and the rear end of my minivan. Clearly, I was going to need to do more yogalates, lugging the big thing up again and giving myself a small hernia in the process.
After finishing the second bike, feeling exultant and pissed off simultaneously, I put things away again. On my way back out to my chair, finally done with ‘helping’ the kids, I was then promptly told from the two miscreants that they were done playing outside, and decided they were going inside. I grinned; why am I not surprised? The kids ran in the front door, while I patiently put my camp chair back away, then gathered up my cell phone, my Ipod and earphones, the house phone, my laptop and adapter, and drug everything back in the house. I plopped down on the floor of the living room, dropped everything gently, and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirtsleeve.
And, I ask myself again, why do I have four children? And why do I invite their friends over to play? And why, for the love of Pete, have I made a promise to never drink an alcoholic beverage again? What is wrong with me?
The beginning....
I think, perhaps, if I give the voices in my head an outlet, then I won't feel like I'm going insane. On the other hand, this exercise may result in written confirmation that I am, indeed, certifiably nutters. Oh well. Either way, I can't seem to get the voices to shut up, so I guess I'll give them an opportunity to speak in a manner that isn't too terribly destructive or harmful to myself and my offspring. They are, after all, the people to blame for the voices inside my head (my children, I mean). It's amazing, when you think about it; not only are they annoying loud on the outside, but they tend to produce a resonating noise inside my head that reveberates for varying periods of time, even after they've stopped making external noise. I wonder why....
Anyways, I suppose writing about my frustrated comical experiences is better than experimenting heavily with illegal substances myself or causing bodily harm to said offspring, which, I admit, I have been tempted to do (both) when I find myself in particularly strained moments.
There is one undetermined factor in this. I have yet to decide whether or not I want to share some or all of this babbling with others. Considering it right now it feels very much like I do when I'm having a nightmare; the one where I'm either partially or completely naked in public, usually back in high school again, and can't seem to hide it. What will people think? And, more importantly, how much do I care about what others' opinions are of my writing? I know my mom will love it; she's been encouraging me to write forever now. Besides, she's my mom; by default, she is required by to be my number one fan. And, my husband will be supportive. He supports anything the causes his wife to feel more stable and sane; a wisdom acquired from 15 years of marriage to someone always on the verge of something nearing psychosis. Oh well. I guess no one else will be compelled to read my musings. I have to confess that thinking about writing all of these things down has sparked a little something inside of me that has felt dead for too many years. It's something that has been stuffed deep down inside of me, tucked away, ignored, drowned out by the demands of life. That little something, I think, is me. And, I think I am finally ready to let that little individual (that used to belong to solely to myself, but has long since signed up to belong to a multitude of others) speak up. Watch out world! The voices inside my head have now officially been loosed. You have been warned.
Anyways, I suppose writing about my frustrated comical experiences is better than experimenting heavily with illegal substances myself or causing bodily harm to said offspring, which, I admit, I have been tempted to do (both) when I find myself in particularly strained moments.
There is one undetermined factor in this. I have yet to decide whether or not I want to share some or all of this babbling with others. Considering it right now it feels very much like I do when I'm having a nightmare; the one where I'm either partially or completely naked in public, usually back in high school again, and can't seem to hide it. What will people think? And, more importantly, how much do I care about what others' opinions are of my writing? I know my mom will love it; she's been encouraging me to write forever now. Besides, she's my mom; by default, she is required by to be my number one fan. And, my husband will be supportive. He supports anything the causes his wife to feel more stable and sane; a wisdom acquired from 15 years of marriage to someone always on the verge of something nearing psychosis. Oh well. I guess no one else will be compelled to read my musings. I have to confess that thinking about writing all of these things down has sparked a little something inside of me that has felt dead for too many years. It's something that has been stuffed deep down inside of me, tucked away, ignored, drowned out by the demands of life. That little something, I think, is me. And, I think I am finally ready to let that little individual (that used to belong to solely to myself, but has long since signed up to belong to a multitude of others) speak up. Watch out world! The voices inside my head have now officially been loosed. You have been warned.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
