Here are the three most remarkable people I have ever -- and probably will ever -- meet. No offense to all the rest of you remarkable people, of course. It's just that you can't wear plaid this well. And you know it.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Tough Times
These are tough times. Tough times with tough choices.
In the past few days things seem to have gotten a bit tougher, in many ways.
The first way is the one that we all know about -- the money way. Brian came home from work a bit stoned from it all; the company's not doing well. At all. And while he still has his job, he's not sure how much longer there will be a company to go to. It wouldn't be a laid off thing -- it would be a "whole shebang goes down" thing. So while we're thankful to have what we've got -- a job -- it's not a particularly stable one at the moment. And in just a matter of weeks they will finish paying his tuition, which they promised to pay almost two years ago. We're just praying that those few weeks go by without comment, that the payment is made, and that we're not responsible for the remaining *gulp* ten grand.
But all of this anxiety over the job future sparked a different sort of anxiety in our house, when Brian broached the topic of moving. Leaving our fair city. Well, let me back up a bit. I like where we live rather well, although if I had my druthers I'd be somewhere a bit bigger, with a Trader Joe's, and with slightly less dramatic winters. **Where** is global warming when I need it?????????? On the bright side, though, we have a house, church, and friends that we love, I have a little teaching job lined up, and we have great schools. Our family, filled with all sorts of ailing people, are close enough to get to in an afternoon but not so close for unexpected drop ins. Our children love and are close to their grandparents -- a real plus. And generally speaking, we're happy here.
But this job fixation caused Brian to do that often unhelpful thing: looking at how green the other guy's grass is. And this sparked an awareness of how much more he might make elsewhere, how much more interesting the opportunities might be. And I cried.
I cried because while I'm not sure I want to be here forever, I certainly know that I don't have it in me to move now. Because there's so much labor that he doesn't do in a move that ends up being mine, and mine alone: looking for schools, for churches, for friends, for doctors, for dentists, for.............. Indeed, the story of the last eight or nine years of our life has been moving somewhere, Brian traveling with work or being so tied up in work that I barely see him, and I tend to the details -- for years, it seems. And sometimes that is truly how long those details take.
I cried for the kids' lovely little preschool, for the ice cream shop within walking distance of our house, for our church filled with lovely, caring, insightful, and interesting people, for the guys at the hardware store down the street who've worked there for 30 years and who know the answer to everything, for the three huge, huge, huge oak trees in our front yard, for the hundreds of plants I've planted to make our own little Eden. And for telling our kids that they can't see their grandparents much anymore. And for approximately 10,000 people here.
While that conversation is somewhat resolved, and while neither of us now anticipates a move in our near future, it did make me wonder what a good criteria for moving on -- in anything -- really is. Brian pointed out that fear is not a good reason to stay anywhere, and with this I must agree. But I'm also struck by the fact that having all of the good things here that we love and appreciate and are thankful for in some way each day is so much more than many people have, that it's almost something of a snub to turn your back on that. In fact, I have reminded myself many times when I get cabin fever that the "California Leslie" -- the one living in a small condo with a child, no backyard, no room, and a public sidewalk so close that we sometimes had to turn up the TV in our own living room to hear over the sounds outside -- that person would be beating down my door now to trade places. And it was to get all of the things that I now have.
So here I am. We are. And where we will be for awhile, I bet. I hope. I think. Frankly, I'd be more certain if we could get that Trader Joe's situation resolved.....
In other traumatic and thought-inducing news, our dog Jake has taken a turn for the worse. Jake is a 12 year old dalmatian whose sibling/wife, Elle, died almost exactly one year ago. Jake hasn't been the same since. He constantly whines or barks, sleeps all the time, won't let me out of his sight, and has growled a few times at the kids. As you might imagine, this just about sends me over the edge. But it's not as easy as just separating them, for Jake wants to be with us -- just not all of us. And when Jake is inconvenienced in any way now, he barks. Incessantly. Through and despite a bark collar.
And did I mention that he's both bowel and bladder incontinent -- usually I'm cleaning up dog pee or poo once a day -- and that he appears to be senile, too? And that he's got a back condition that causes him some moderate (although not severe) discomfort and that occasionally causes him to fall?
And that despite this he appears to spring back to his old self about every third day and chase squirrels in the yard?
Sigh. Tough times. Made even tougher by stepping in dog poo in your own house.
In the past few days things seem to have gotten a bit tougher, in many ways.
The first way is the one that we all know about -- the money way. Brian came home from work a bit stoned from it all; the company's not doing well. At all. And while he still has his job, he's not sure how much longer there will be a company to go to. It wouldn't be a laid off thing -- it would be a "whole shebang goes down" thing. So while we're thankful to have what we've got -- a job -- it's not a particularly stable one at the moment. And in just a matter of weeks they will finish paying his tuition, which they promised to pay almost two years ago. We're just praying that those few weeks go by without comment, that the payment is made, and that we're not responsible for the remaining *gulp* ten grand.
But all of this anxiety over the job future sparked a different sort of anxiety in our house, when Brian broached the topic of moving. Leaving our fair city. Well, let me back up a bit. I like where we live rather well, although if I had my druthers I'd be somewhere a bit bigger, with a Trader Joe's, and with slightly less dramatic winters. **Where** is global warming when I need it?????????? On the bright side, though, we have a house, church, and friends that we love, I have a little teaching job lined up, and we have great schools. Our family, filled with all sorts of ailing people, are close enough to get to in an afternoon but not so close for unexpected drop ins. Our children love and are close to their grandparents -- a real plus. And generally speaking, we're happy here.
But this job fixation caused Brian to do that often unhelpful thing: looking at how green the other guy's grass is. And this sparked an awareness of how much more he might make elsewhere, how much more interesting the opportunities might be. And I cried.
I cried because while I'm not sure I want to be here forever, I certainly know that I don't have it in me to move now. Because there's so much labor that he doesn't do in a move that ends up being mine, and mine alone: looking for schools, for churches, for friends, for doctors, for dentists, for.............. Indeed, the story of the last eight or nine years of our life has been moving somewhere, Brian traveling with work or being so tied up in work that I barely see him, and I tend to the details -- for years, it seems. And sometimes that is truly how long those details take.
I cried for the kids' lovely little preschool, for the ice cream shop within walking distance of our house, for our church filled with lovely, caring, insightful, and interesting people, for the guys at the hardware store down the street who've worked there for 30 years and who know the answer to everything, for the three huge, huge, huge oak trees in our front yard, for the hundreds of plants I've planted to make our own little Eden. And for telling our kids that they can't see their grandparents much anymore. And for approximately 10,000 people here.
While that conversation is somewhat resolved, and while neither of us now anticipates a move in our near future, it did make me wonder what a good criteria for moving on -- in anything -- really is. Brian pointed out that fear is not a good reason to stay anywhere, and with this I must agree. But I'm also struck by the fact that having all of the good things here that we love and appreciate and are thankful for in some way each day is so much more than many people have, that it's almost something of a snub to turn your back on that. In fact, I have reminded myself many times when I get cabin fever that the "California Leslie" -- the one living in a small condo with a child, no backyard, no room, and a public sidewalk so close that we sometimes had to turn up the TV in our own living room to hear over the sounds outside -- that person would be beating down my door now to trade places. And it was to get all of the things that I now have.
So here I am. We are. And where we will be for awhile, I bet. I hope. I think. Frankly, I'd be more certain if we could get that Trader Joe's situation resolved.....
In other traumatic and thought-inducing news, our dog Jake has taken a turn for the worse. Jake is a 12 year old dalmatian whose sibling/wife, Elle, died almost exactly one year ago. Jake hasn't been the same since. He constantly whines or barks, sleeps all the time, won't let me out of his sight, and has growled a few times at the kids. As you might imagine, this just about sends me over the edge. But it's not as easy as just separating them, for Jake wants to be with us -- just not all of us. And when Jake is inconvenienced in any way now, he barks. Incessantly. Through and despite a bark collar.
And did I mention that he's both bowel and bladder incontinent -- usually I'm cleaning up dog pee or poo once a day -- and that he appears to be senile, too? And that he's got a back condition that causes him some moderate (although not severe) discomfort and that occasionally causes him to fall?
And that despite this he appears to spring back to his old self about every third day and chase squirrels in the yard?
Sigh. Tough times. Made even tougher by stepping in dog poo in your own house.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Three Posts, One Day
I'm very cool and appear productive. I completed three posts in one day. See below, pretty please. And if you're reading this, let's count this as the fourth post. :)
Paradox
I spend considerable time thinking about how hard it is to be a mother.
I imagine that part of this fixation is centered on the fact that, before I became pregnant, I never really saw myself as anyone's mother. And frankly, I'm not all that hot on kids. I ADORE my own, of course, and I am amply amused and loving towards other kids now. But in the recent past I was one of those people who saw kids as irritating future adults. Or in the case of some of them, future irritating adults.
Perhaps this disconnect is also rooted in the fact that my pregnancies with Annemarie and Cole weren't exactly planned. With Cole it wasn't all that big of a deal -- after all, we had already received our "parent" badges in the mail and had our child-regulating software installed on the computer. But with Annemarie I faced a world of fear. In fact, every time I have been pregnant I have had this nagging little voice pop up that wonders whether I will like this one. Of course, I always like them. Adore them. The sun rises and sets by them. I would throw my body in front of bullets, cars, projectiles, and anything else flying towards them without any thought at all. And this is something of the miracle of parenthood. That I could become that mother.
But this is also where there's trouble. Parenting is the job that has no down time, no hours off. NO vacation. It overtakes everything. And it is incredibly monotonous at times, always demanding, very often mundane. It leaves you on your hands and knees very often -- picking up playdough, cleaning up milk, puke, spaghetti, dirt. It is very often thankless. And repetitive. OH THE REPETITION! And the self-defeat! Do you know how many times a day I pick up this family room just to have it look just as earthquake-like by dinner time? Yes, I know you probably know.
So I completely understand those who argue that parenting is difficult precisely because of the hard, thankless work it involves, work that often yields few immediatley visible results. And I used to think that is why it's hard, too. But I've changed my mind about that lately, mainly because the more I think about it, most jobs worth doing involve repetition and thanklessness, and all of the things that I've just discussed.
No, I think the reason why parenting is so hard is because of extraordinarily difficult work of living with such a mental paradox. How unthinkable it is to **plead** with the clock for 8:30 to roll around every night just to get a break, just to find that by the next morning a part of me has missed them for 10 straight hours. How I can be so tempted -- and often give in -- to yelling at them to stop any number of behaviors when I want nothing more than for them to live free of yelling (uh, mostly :)). How often part of me wants to physically WRING THEIR NECKS one minute, but to be confronted, even floored, by how I love them so much that it hurts, how I would give anything to protect them from pain, wrong, and unhappiness.
It is the paradox that's hard. I can think of no other job that entails such a schizophrenia.
I imagine that part of this fixation is centered on the fact that, before I became pregnant, I never really saw myself as anyone's mother. And frankly, I'm not all that hot on kids. I ADORE my own, of course, and I am amply amused and loving towards other kids now. But in the recent past I was one of those people who saw kids as irritating future adults. Or in the case of some of them, future irritating adults.
Perhaps this disconnect is also rooted in the fact that my pregnancies with Annemarie and Cole weren't exactly planned. With Cole it wasn't all that big of a deal -- after all, we had already received our "parent" badges in the mail and had our child-regulating software installed on the computer. But with Annemarie I faced a world of fear. In fact, every time I have been pregnant I have had this nagging little voice pop up that wonders whether I will like this one. Of course, I always like them. Adore them. The sun rises and sets by them. I would throw my body in front of bullets, cars, projectiles, and anything else flying towards them without any thought at all. And this is something of the miracle of parenthood. That I could become that mother.
But this is also where there's trouble. Parenting is the job that has no down time, no hours off. NO vacation. It overtakes everything. And it is incredibly monotonous at times, always demanding, very often mundane. It leaves you on your hands and knees very often -- picking up playdough, cleaning up milk, puke, spaghetti, dirt. It is very often thankless. And repetitive. OH THE REPETITION! And the self-defeat! Do you know how many times a day I pick up this family room just to have it look just as earthquake-like by dinner time? Yes, I know you probably know.
So I completely understand those who argue that parenting is difficult precisely because of the hard, thankless work it involves, work that often yields few immediatley visible results. And I used to think that is why it's hard, too. But I've changed my mind about that lately, mainly because the more I think about it, most jobs worth doing involve repetition and thanklessness, and all of the things that I've just discussed.
No, I think the reason why parenting is so hard is because of extraordinarily difficult work of living with such a mental paradox. How unthinkable it is to **plead** with the clock for 8:30 to roll around every night just to get a break, just to find that by the next morning a part of me has missed them for 10 straight hours. How I can be so tempted -- and often give in -- to yelling at them to stop any number of behaviors when I want nothing more than for them to live free of yelling (uh, mostly :)). How often part of me wants to physically WRING THEIR NECKS one minute, but to be confronted, even floored, by how I love them so much that it hurts, how I would give anything to protect them from pain, wrong, and unhappiness.
It is the paradox that's hard. I can think of no other job that entails such a schizophrenia.
Nativity
We have a nativity set that I really like. It's a beautiful hand-painted thing that has tidbits of scripture from Jesus' multiple birth narratives inscribed on the various characters. And it's also been the source of a secret family dispute.
You know I'm a bit anal, right? A bit on the control freak side? Well, every Christmas time when I pull this sucker out, I like to arrange the characters just so (*pleased smirk*). This activity is also accompanied by a protracted lecture about how this is not a nativity set to touch, and if someone else's hands want to touch a nativity set, they can go play with their Fisher Price version. The set where, in its original state, the Fisher Price people forgot to include Jesus.
Stupid Fisher Price.
But anyway, after arranging the characters just so, I noticed Annemarie fiddling around with it one day. I was amused by her behavior. She is, uh, like me in that she's a bit on the perfectionistic side. Actually, all of the verbal children are like this -- it's Cole, after all, who cries when his banana breaks, and who gets wound up when the orange is not properly peeled. (Note to self: save for adult children's therapy). Anyway, Annemarie had arranged all of the characters, who are in prostrate or other sorts of adoring positions, in perfect lines around the Baby Jesus. I put them back in the way I arranged them to see if she'd notice. By that evening, they were back in their parallel lines. This went on for several days, with us secretly stealing away to rearrange the nativity set. It had turned funny -- really funny; one of the things that I love about her present age is how she's really understanding humor, and that even the most serious things can have a genuinely amusing side to them.
So it was in this spirit that I got tickled today when, upon entering the dining room (the natural place for a holy family's resin replica to be stationed, of course) I noticed that the nativity characters are all huddled together. They look like a holy football team, with Jesus as their coach in the center. But then I pictured Jesus being like any other football coach, screaming at the team -- Baby Jesus sweating, ripping off his headgear, and spitting in the faces of those shepherds who wouldn't drop their friggin staffs to catch the ball.
Ok, now I'm thinking holy thoughts.
You know I'm a bit anal, right? A bit on the control freak side? Well, every Christmas time when I pull this sucker out, I like to arrange the characters just so (*pleased smirk*). This activity is also accompanied by a protracted lecture about how this is not a nativity set to touch, and if someone else's hands want to touch a nativity set, they can go play with their Fisher Price version. The set where, in its original state, the Fisher Price people forgot to include Jesus.
Stupid Fisher Price.
But anyway, after arranging the characters just so, I noticed Annemarie fiddling around with it one day. I was amused by her behavior. She is, uh, like me in that she's a bit on the perfectionistic side. Actually, all of the verbal children are like this -- it's Cole, after all, who cries when his banana breaks, and who gets wound up when the orange is not properly peeled. (Note to self: save for adult children's therapy). Anyway, Annemarie had arranged all of the characters, who are in prostrate or other sorts of adoring positions, in perfect lines around the Baby Jesus. I put them back in the way I arranged them to see if she'd notice. By that evening, they were back in their parallel lines. This went on for several days, with us secretly stealing away to rearrange the nativity set. It had turned funny -- really funny; one of the things that I love about her present age is how she's really understanding humor, and that even the most serious things can have a genuinely amusing side to them.
So it was in this spirit that I got tickled today when, upon entering the dining room (the natural place for a holy family's resin replica to be stationed, of course) I noticed that the nativity characters are all huddled together. They look like a holy football team, with Jesus as their coach in the center. But then I pictured Jesus being like any other football coach, screaming at the team -- Baby Jesus sweating, ripping off his headgear, and spitting in the faces of those shepherds who wouldn't drop their friggin staffs to catch the ball.
Ok, now I'm thinking holy thoughts.
Bag O' Wrinkles
Anyone need four free tubes of Maybelline Great Lash Mascara?
Last week, and the week before that, Brian made the trek down to Little Rock, Arkansas for a business trip. While I think even the good people of LR would admit that while the place is nice, it is no booming cultural metropolis, yet in the business world is it known for being the home of none other than Maybelline, drug store cosmetic giant extraordinaire. And it just so happens that Brian's company has some relationship with Maybelline.
So one night last week Brian found himself at dinner with a bunch of Maybelline executives and their wives (my first question was about how much makeup they wore -- B said plenty....). After the dinner he was presented with a pink and black tote bag full of Maybelline products to bring home to the little woman.
Now obviously I say that with some dripping sarcasm, being a person credentialed to teach college students in Women's Studies classes everywhere about the chains that are cosmetics. But I will be the first to admit that I have a love/hate relationship with makeup. After all, I grew up in a place where being female meant that you wore makeup. I also have a mother who takes a solid hour to get ready in the morning, who still owns various sizes of curling iron, and who puts cuticle oil on every night. So I *know* what to do with the makeup if it reaches my little, cuticle-raggedy hands.
Having said that, however, I am a person of minimal makeup married to another person who doesn't like makeup and who finds it fakey and inessential. I admire this about Brian -- and also the fact that he taught me how to blow my nose while hiking by simply turning the head, pressing the other nostril in, and blowing as hard as you can.....
But lest I digress, the essence of my problem with makeup is that I don't mind looking like me -- after all, that's who I am -- but I do mind looking tired. And gray haired. And like children have beaten the life out of me. All of which are somewhat true. And I sense that makeup can help me out of that conundrum. For instance, I was somewhat bothered the other day when, having risen early enough to actually shower before dropping the kids off at preschool, Annemarie's teacher remarked that I looked pretty that day. The only difference was that I was actually wearing makeup.
I took my dissonance to the car with me. Annemarie adores makeup -- she'd put it on all day long if you'd let her, and I try to figure out how to strike a middle ground on that; I don't want to squash her style (meant in the most generic sense, of course), but at the same time, I certainly don't want her overly concerned with her looks or with the sense that she is inadequate. Enough people comment on how pretty she is now that we have a hard time redirecting her thinking back to how being kind, loving, smart, and helpful are really much more admirable traits. And so I told myself that, all while checking out whether the lines around my eyes, and THOSE DARK CIRCLES were as bad as I thought they were.
This IS the "natural look", I told myself. Even as a child I remember reading ads in the newspaper for makeup that talked about getting the "natural look", and I wondered why you had to manufacture something natural. And of course, the entire problem is that women have been told that their "natural" state is something not even naturally theirs. For all of the Women's Studies talk about the cultural constraints that women have faced being depicted as "nature" against the male "culture", here we have an example of women being even insufficiently natural.
Remind me to write on this someday, willya?
But back to the pink and black tote bag. It returned home from the Little Rock trek with contents unharmed. I dumped them out on the bed to find literally hundreds of dollars of skin care products before me -- the bag was not filled with makeup, but with lotions, wrinkle creams, eye creams (OH, THE EYE CREAMS!). Oh yeah, and several tubes of mascara. But mostly the face-erasing lotions.
As I sorted through the stuff, a certain irony struck me. Here Brian had gone to dinner with people he didn't know, who in an act of cultural gift-giving -- meant as ultimately polite -- he had been given a rather expensive assortment of cosmetics, a gift that only had meaning in as much as my face is inadequate as it is. And this is my current 33 year old face, which is certainly not that old and really isn't all that wrinkly, either. So really, it was like these guys were saying, "Brian, here's a big honking pink tote bag. Inside is the stuff to fix your wife's face. Because we all know that she doesn't look right."
Now those of you outside of the Women's Studies world are likely groaning and slapping your heads right now, telling me to get off my high horse.
I CERTAINLY WILL NOT! My super wrinkle-serumed, eye-creamed self WILL NOT!
Last week, and the week before that, Brian made the trek down to Little Rock, Arkansas for a business trip. While I think even the good people of LR would admit that while the place is nice, it is no booming cultural metropolis, yet in the business world is it known for being the home of none other than Maybelline, drug store cosmetic giant extraordinaire. And it just so happens that Brian's company has some relationship with Maybelline.
So one night last week Brian found himself at dinner with a bunch of Maybelline executives and their wives (my first question was about how much makeup they wore -- B said plenty....). After the dinner he was presented with a pink and black tote bag full of Maybelline products to bring home to the little woman.
Now obviously I say that with some dripping sarcasm, being a person credentialed to teach college students in Women's Studies classes everywhere about the chains that are cosmetics. But I will be the first to admit that I have a love/hate relationship with makeup. After all, I grew up in a place where being female meant that you wore makeup. I also have a mother who takes a solid hour to get ready in the morning, who still owns various sizes of curling iron, and who puts cuticle oil on every night. So I *know* what to do with the makeup if it reaches my little, cuticle-raggedy hands.
Having said that, however, I am a person of minimal makeup married to another person who doesn't like makeup and who finds it fakey and inessential. I admire this about Brian -- and also the fact that he taught me how to blow my nose while hiking by simply turning the head, pressing the other nostril in, and blowing as hard as you can.....
But lest I digress, the essence of my problem with makeup is that I don't mind looking like me -- after all, that's who I am -- but I do mind looking tired. And gray haired. And like children have beaten the life out of me. All of which are somewhat true. And I sense that makeup can help me out of that conundrum. For instance, I was somewhat bothered the other day when, having risen early enough to actually shower before dropping the kids off at preschool, Annemarie's teacher remarked that I looked pretty that day. The only difference was that I was actually wearing makeup.
I took my dissonance to the car with me. Annemarie adores makeup -- she'd put it on all day long if you'd let her, and I try to figure out how to strike a middle ground on that; I don't want to squash her style (meant in the most generic sense, of course), but at the same time, I certainly don't want her overly concerned with her looks or with the sense that she is inadequate. Enough people comment on how pretty she is now that we have a hard time redirecting her thinking back to how being kind, loving, smart, and helpful are really much more admirable traits. And so I told myself that, all while checking out whether the lines around my eyes, and THOSE DARK CIRCLES were as bad as I thought they were.
This IS the "natural look", I told myself. Even as a child I remember reading ads in the newspaper for makeup that talked about getting the "natural look", and I wondered why you had to manufacture something natural. And of course, the entire problem is that women have been told that their "natural" state is something not even naturally theirs. For all of the Women's Studies talk about the cultural constraints that women have faced being depicted as "nature" against the male "culture", here we have an example of women being even insufficiently natural.
Remind me to write on this someday, willya?
But back to the pink and black tote bag. It returned home from the Little Rock trek with contents unharmed. I dumped them out on the bed to find literally hundreds of dollars of skin care products before me -- the bag was not filled with makeup, but with lotions, wrinkle creams, eye creams (OH, THE EYE CREAMS!). Oh yeah, and several tubes of mascara. But mostly the face-erasing lotions.
As I sorted through the stuff, a certain irony struck me. Here Brian had gone to dinner with people he didn't know, who in an act of cultural gift-giving -- meant as ultimately polite -- he had been given a rather expensive assortment of cosmetics, a gift that only had meaning in as much as my face is inadequate as it is. And this is my current 33 year old face, which is certainly not that old and really isn't all that wrinkly, either. So really, it was like these guys were saying, "Brian, here's a big honking pink tote bag. Inside is the stuff to fix your wife's face. Because we all know that she doesn't look right."
Now those of you outside of the Women's Studies world are likely groaning and slapping your heads right now, telling me to get off my high horse.
I CERTAINLY WILL NOT! My super wrinkle-serumed, eye-creamed self WILL NOT!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Hobby Hell
I am attempting self control right now. We'll see how long it lasts. What I really must do today -- and what I told myself I would do last night -- is finish up the introduction to my dissertation, move on to the next partially completed chapter (they're all partially completed -- and therein lies the problem), and pronounce myself amazingly productive. STUPENDOUSLY PRODUCTIVE!
I think I'd take any sort of productive, even without the adjectives.
What I was compelled to do last night instead of work on my dissertation (which I told myself I would do last night since I didn't do it yesterday during the day......) was knit up a cute little scarf with some cheap cotton yarn that I procured from the hobby and craft hellhole, Hobby Lobby.
Let me tell you again how I feel about the place. Hobby Lobby = Hell.
I feel the liberty to equate the two because Hobby Lobby, while very attractive on the outside, sucks you into its irrationality; overrun by shopping carts driven by half-crazed soccer moms with fake nails, filled with fake metallic poinsettia stems (the shopping carts, not the soccer moms' nails), the place seethes holiday excess. I mean, it SEETHES. And it makes you think, just for a moment, that maybe everyone else is onto something -- that you really do need 48 metallic red poinsettia stems. That is the logic of this place.
I went there originally because I needed to get a cheap, small Christmas tree for Cole's room, one that he could decorate in any way he wanted. Annemarie has had this for several years, and not suprisingly, he wanted one as well. They love to go to sleep by the tree's light, and I love to watch their faces as they decorate it. Justification had. I also needed some cheap-ish picture frames in which to place a most lovely xmas gift to myself and Brian (which I shall tell you more about later, since the grandparents are getting the same thing, and you never know where in the virtual world these grandparents might be lurking. Pesky grandparents.). And finally, I had heard mixed reviews about a certain cotton yarn that Hobby Lobby exclusively sells, and I thought I'd pick up a skein to see how it knit up. For 2.99, it was worth a shot. The yardage isn't bad, either.
A list of most noble pursuits, no doubt.
Perhaps it was that I was there with all three kids in a place filled with breakables, perhaps it was just this friggin holiday season, or maybe it was the realization that Brian was leaving the next day for an out of town trip, and that any sort of chaos that I experienced (or, rightfully, initiated) by my presence there might be what I could anticipate experiencing for the duration of his trip; WHATEVER IT WAS, by the time we left I was frazzled, Cole had my fingerprints permanently embossed on his wrist, and Annemarie was fretting, which she does when things get tense. The long lines, the Christmas tree that was in stock, not in stock, get out of the line for it, get back in another one to buy it.
Not cool. By the time we were done with our torture, I felt like I'd sold my soul. Now how to get the soul back....I hear it's hard to knit without a soul. We'll see how the cotton holds up.
Ah, but back to my dissertation. That's what I'm supposed to be doing now. And, uh, not blogging......
I think I'd take any sort of productive, even without the adjectives.
What I was compelled to do last night instead of work on my dissertation (which I told myself I would do last night since I didn't do it yesterday during the day......) was knit up a cute little scarf with some cheap cotton yarn that I procured from the hobby and craft hellhole, Hobby Lobby.
Let me tell you again how I feel about the place. Hobby Lobby = Hell.
I feel the liberty to equate the two because Hobby Lobby, while very attractive on the outside, sucks you into its irrationality; overrun by shopping carts driven by half-crazed soccer moms with fake nails, filled with fake metallic poinsettia stems (the shopping carts, not the soccer moms' nails), the place seethes holiday excess. I mean, it SEETHES. And it makes you think, just for a moment, that maybe everyone else is onto something -- that you really do need 48 metallic red poinsettia stems. That is the logic of this place.
I went there originally because I needed to get a cheap, small Christmas tree for Cole's room, one that he could decorate in any way he wanted. Annemarie has had this for several years, and not suprisingly, he wanted one as well. They love to go to sleep by the tree's light, and I love to watch their faces as they decorate it. Justification had. I also needed some cheap-ish picture frames in which to place a most lovely xmas gift to myself and Brian (which I shall tell you more about later, since the grandparents are getting the same thing, and you never know where in the virtual world these grandparents might be lurking. Pesky grandparents.). And finally, I had heard mixed reviews about a certain cotton yarn that Hobby Lobby exclusively sells, and I thought I'd pick up a skein to see how it knit up. For 2.99, it was worth a shot. The yardage isn't bad, either.
A list of most noble pursuits, no doubt.
Perhaps it was that I was there with all three kids in a place filled with breakables, perhaps it was just this friggin holiday season, or maybe it was the realization that Brian was leaving the next day for an out of town trip, and that any sort of chaos that I experienced (or, rightfully, initiated) by my presence there might be what I could anticipate experiencing for the duration of his trip; WHATEVER IT WAS, by the time we left I was frazzled, Cole had my fingerprints permanently embossed on his wrist, and Annemarie was fretting, which she does when things get tense. The long lines, the Christmas tree that was in stock, not in stock, get out of the line for it, get back in another one to buy it.
Not cool. By the time we were done with our torture, I felt like I'd sold my soul. Now how to get the soul back....I hear it's hard to knit without a soul. We'll see how the cotton holds up.
Ah, but back to my dissertation. That's what I'm supposed to be doing now. And, uh, not blogging......
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Boundaries
It was an interesting Thanksgiving.
Just a couple of months ago Brian's grandfather died, having fought that terrible disease, Alzheimer's. Brian's grandmother is in bad physical shape herself, and the couple hadn't lived in their home in several months. Ella, B's grandma, is in a full time care facility now, and will never return to her home. She can't go to the bathroom unassisted, and is clearly confused at times. She can't walk. There's just no other way around it.
For several months the somewhat painful conversations about who would get what have transpired. This was not new territory -- Ella is one of those elderly people who has been announcing her impending death for YEARS, and who has tried to die on us several times now. Perhaps this explains why I've heard her parceling out their stuff on more than one occasion over the past decade, long before she and Rathel (gpa) grew so ill. She has a knack for fatalism.
But it was new territory this past weekend in the sense that stuff was actually leaving their house; her words were coming true. Brian and I were long ago told that we could have a deep freeze, which is a great gift for our very hungry family that likes frozen stuff from Costco. It also made us look like the Beverly Hilbillies as we took it home, driving three hours with a trailer and a big upright fridge strapped to the back of our Suburban. To top off the image, we also had a healthy stack of firewood on board, and our suitcases, so if we'd just had the rocking chair and a corn cob pipe we could have headed straight for Hollywood.
But humor aside, and back to Rathel and Ella's house, we were told to take a peek to see if there was anything that we wanted from the house. I was very pleased to recieve the stuff that I did -- some crocheting supplies, lots of kitchen implements that I didn't have. But there was something kind of creepy about it all, like a boundary transgressed, that we were taking stuff from a home whose inhabitant was not gone -- just displaced. For a moment it felt like theft.
In her more rational days Ella would certainly have *wanted* her family to take and use her things-- she was a child of the depression in the most literal sense, and I imagine that it would have driven her nuts to think of good things going unused. But I understood what Brian's parents later said almost implicitly-- that we shouldn't mention to her that we've taken stuff from the house when we visited her at the nursing home -- because I had had something of that same sense myself.
In fact, I felt like I had pushed the limits of the boundary earlier at her home, when my cat-like curiosity brought me to look in their bedroom, where I found in a dresser drawer a really cool, *hilarious* handkerchief that listed pictures and calorie content of many common foods. Clearly never having been used, it was a crisp little square stuffed under some jewelry boxes. It looked as if it had never seen daylight. But when I rounded the corner and arrived at their closet, something sort of, well, spooky, came over me. Perhaps it was that the closet light didn't work. But I think it was more that clothes, garments, *bedrooms*, are so personal. Shoes lay in the floor where their wearer had last kicked them off. The garments hung sadly on hangers, looking not unlike how they do now on elderly frames. It would not be too dramatic to say that I felt like I was violating something. Had everything been neat and tidy, perhaps I wouldn't have been so bothered. But the house was lived in; it was inhabited by real people. And this was their stuff.
So I am the new owner today of a hefty set of kitchen items, which is great. And did I mention how great the deep freeze is? Freezalicious! But I also have a handkerchief that I was told to take, which apparently everyone thinks has no sentimental value to anyone. Strangely, though, it doesn't seem as funny as it did before.
Just a couple of months ago Brian's grandfather died, having fought that terrible disease, Alzheimer's. Brian's grandmother is in bad physical shape herself, and the couple hadn't lived in their home in several months. Ella, B's grandma, is in a full time care facility now, and will never return to her home. She can't go to the bathroom unassisted, and is clearly confused at times. She can't walk. There's just no other way around it.
For several months the somewhat painful conversations about who would get what have transpired. This was not new territory -- Ella is one of those elderly people who has been announcing her impending death for YEARS, and who has tried to die on us several times now. Perhaps this explains why I've heard her parceling out their stuff on more than one occasion over the past decade, long before she and Rathel (gpa) grew so ill. She has a knack for fatalism.
But it was new territory this past weekend in the sense that stuff was actually leaving their house; her words were coming true. Brian and I were long ago told that we could have a deep freeze, which is a great gift for our very hungry family that likes frozen stuff from Costco. It also made us look like the Beverly Hilbillies as we took it home, driving three hours with a trailer and a big upright fridge strapped to the back of our Suburban. To top off the image, we also had a healthy stack of firewood on board, and our suitcases, so if we'd just had the rocking chair and a corn cob pipe we could have headed straight for Hollywood.
But humor aside, and back to Rathel and Ella's house, we were told to take a peek to see if there was anything that we wanted from the house. I was very pleased to recieve the stuff that I did -- some crocheting supplies, lots of kitchen implements that I didn't have. But there was something kind of creepy about it all, like a boundary transgressed, that we were taking stuff from a home whose inhabitant was not gone -- just displaced. For a moment it felt like theft.
In her more rational days Ella would certainly have *wanted* her family to take and use her things-- she was a child of the depression in the most literal sense, and I imagine that it would have driven her nuts to think of good things going unused. But I understood what Brian's parents later said almost implicitly-- that we shouldn't mention to her that we've taken stuff from the house when we visited her at the nursing home -- because I had had something of that same sense myself.
In fact, I felt like I had pushed the limits of the boundary earlier at her home, when my cat-like curiosity brought me to look in their bedroom, where I found in a dresser drawer a really cool, *hilarious* handkerchief that listed pictures and calorie content of many common foods. Clearly never having been used, it was a crisp little square stuffed under some jewelry boxes. It looked as if it had never seen daylight. But when I rounded the corner and arrived at their closet, something sort of, well, spooky, came over me. Perhaps it was that the closet light didn't work. But I think it was more that clothes, garments, *bedrooms*, are so personal. Shoes lay in the floor where their wearer had last kicked them off. The garments hung sadly on hangers, looking not unlike how they do now on elderly frames. It would not be too dramatic to say that I felt like I was violating something. Had everything been neat and tidy, perhaps I wouldn't have been so bothered. But the house was lived in; it was inhabited by real people. And this was their stuff.
So I am the new owner today of a hefty set of kitchen items, which is great. And did I mention how great the deep freeze is? Freezalicious! But I also have a handkerchief that I was told to take, which apparently everyone thinks has no sentimental value to anyone. Strangely, though, it doesn't seem as funny as it did before.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
REVIVED!
I'm back! After a short run-in with insanity, which had as its centerpiece a trip to our hometown for a Thanksgiving feast with the family, we have returned, mostly safe and sound. In fairness, the insanity part was not caused by the family, but was a pre-existing condition exacerbated by the unpacking of five people upon our return. Now *that* is insanity.
Now onto other things. I have about a million things floating through my head, but I shall start with first things first: I have been tagged for a meme by my dear friend B. And in honor of her most glorious blog (www.noodleroux.blogspot.com), I shall also list seven random things about myself. Yes, you note, I did this just a few blog entries ago, having previously been tagged. However, since I have precisely fourteen interesting and random characteristics that describe me, this exercise shall be neither boring nor in vain:
1) Did you know that I was homecoming queen? Like, really. And what is even more miraculous/interesting is that I was hard core on the debate squad when this event transpired, having *given*up* the ever-popular drill team two years earlier for the rhetorical gifts. So despite my sacrifice, the dream was still alive.
2) I am 33 years old and I require no visual assistance to get around, ie, no glasses or contacts. However, at my eye appointment today, when I told the optometrist that I've been having some problems with light sensitivity, she recommended some weak reading glasses with tinted lenses. What does this mean? I've gone from nothing to grandma in a mere 3 hours.
3) Brian and I have been married for 12 years, together for 15, and the anniversary of our first date just happens to fall on our first child's birthday -- she was born exactly 10 years to the day, and almost the minute, if you don't factor in the time zone issue. Needless to say, our dating anniversary gets much less attention these days than one big girl's birthday, but at least I've recorded it here for posterity.
4) Dont' kill me when you read this -- but after every baby I have, I seem to get smaller, to weigh less -- to shrink, in essence. If I stick to the childbearing plan of that woman in Arkansas, who is expecting her 18th child (SERIOUSLY!? How does *one* uterus do that?), I will soon be microscopic. But seriously, it's the breastfeeding.......oh yeah, and the running after the other children I already have while I'm breastfeeding. It's the combination of the two that's just *****MAGIC******
5) I cut and color my own hair, and have done so for the past 10 or so years. Why? I wonder myself, sometimes......
6) I consider myself a foodie, and really not picky, but there are some foods that I absolutely cannot palate, foods that almost everyone else seems to like. These include watermelon, cucumbers, mayo, and pumpkin pie. Yes, you read that right -- I don't like pumpkin pie. And generally speaking, I am not a fan of fruit pies. I only recently started eating raw tomatoes. Strangely, I will eat almost any vegetable in at least some form, but I can't say the same about fruits. Hmmmm.
7) My knitting and crochet obsession has blossomed, and I now find myself going to bed at night dreaming up new designs that, unfortunately, I do not know how to execute. I can just see sweaters -- that's all. I am proud to announce, however, that like the rest of the knitting world, I officially have a STASH(!) of yarn. I was able to hold out and show some restraint in the yarn hoarding dept. until dear Jovi sent me the link for a rather good yarn sale...and....sigh.......
Now onto other things. I have about a million things floating through my head, but I shall start with first things first: I have been tagged for a meme by my dear friend B. And in honor of her most glorious blog (www.noodleroux.blogspot.com), I shall also list seven random things about myself. Yes, you note, I did this just a few blog entries ago, having previously been tagged. However, since I have precisely fourteen interesting and random characteristics that describe me, this exercise shall be neither boring nor in vain:
1) Did you know that I was homecoming queen? Like, really. And what is even more miraculous/interesting is that I was hard core on the debate squad when this event transpired, having *given*up* the ever-popular drill team two years earlier for the rhetorical gifts. So despite my sacrifice, the dream was still alive.
2) I am 33 years old and I require no visual assistance to get around, ie, no glasses or contacts. However, at my eye appointment today, when I told the optometrist that I've been having some problems with light sensitivity, she recommended some weak reading glasses with tinted lenses. What does this mean? I've gone from nothing to grandma in a mere 3 hours.
3) Brian and I have been married for 12 years, together for 15, and the anniversary of our first date just happens to fall on our first child's birthday -- she was born exactly 10 years to the day, and almost the minute, if you don't factor in the time zone issue. Needless to say, our dating anniversary gets much less attention these days than one big girl's birthday, but at least I've recorded it here for posterity.
4) Dont' kill me when you read this -- but after every baby I have, I seem to get smaller, to weigh less -- to shrink, in essence. If I stick to the childbearing plan of that woman in Arkansas, who is expecting her 18th child (SERIOUSLY!? How does *one* uterus do that?), I will soon be microscopic. But seriously, it's the breastfeeding.......oh yeah, and the running after the other children I already have while I'm breastfeeding. It's the combination of the two that's just *****MAGIC******
5) I cut and color my own hair, and have done so for the past 10 or so years. Why? I wonder myself, sometimes......
6) I consider myself a foodie, and really not picky, but there are some foods that I absolutely cannot palate, foods that almost everyone else seems to like. These include watermelon, cucumbers, mayo, and pumpkin pie. Yes, you read that right -- I don't like pumpkin pie. And generally speaking, I am not a fan of fruit pies. I only recently started eating raw tomatoes. Strangely, I will eat almost any vegetable in at least some form, but I can't say the same about fruits. Hmmmm.
7) My knitting and crochet obsession has blossomed, and I now find myself going to bed at night dreaming up new designs that, unfortunately, I do not know how to execute. I can just see sweaters -- that's all. I am proud to announce, however, that like the rest of the knitting world, I officially have a STASH(!) of yarn. I was able to hold out and show some restraint in the yarn hoarding dept. until dear Jovi sent me the link for a rather good yarn sale...and....sigh.......
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Diseased: The Sequel
First off, if you haven't read the previous blog entry entitled "Diseased", it might be good bedtime reading, as well as context for what I'm about to say here. In other words, give that a scan first.
But having said that, let me tell you that I appear to be the latest casualty to the stomach bug, my most hated illness ever (well, my most hated *relatively benign* illness ever, of course). But as I was pulling out all the stops in the pity party, Annemarie came upstairs where I was having a quite moment to myself knitting, having the chills, its partner fever, and watching the very nice PBS special on the British Monarchy.
Annemarie had remarked earlier today that when you want to give a sick person a kiss (because, you will remember, she rightly pointed out when she was herself sick that sick people need kisses most of all), you should do it on the forehead, so as to give them a kiss in the most hygenic manner for everyone involved. So when she arrived up in our bedroom, right during the part in the show when the Queen tries on the crown to make sure that its 2.5 lbs of encrusted jewels isn't too much for her head, I anticipated that such a kiss might be part of her visit. But what I did not anticipate was how excited she was to give it to me, how eager to help, how her eyes sparkled with the clear sense that she was helping her mother and making her feel better. She even patted my head. My funky-haired, crownless head.
So in a moment of sappiness that I'm sure will be repeated time and again on this blog, let me tell you how thankful I am for the stomach flu tonight. Of course, perhaps my thankfulness stems in part from the fact that I'm already feeling much better, and I may help myself to a birthday cookie (it's Cole's birthday, and I didn't feel well enough to be a part of the special cookie decoration.) But I think the catalyst for this thankfulness was my sweet daughter who was eager to practice caring and concern, and that just makes me gosh darn proud. :) Having now learned my lesson, I give the bug permission to exit my body. Uh, gently exit, please....
Dry your eyes and get on with your day, now.
But having said that, let me tell you that I appear to be the latest casualty to the stomach bug, my most hated illness ever (well, my most hated *relatively benign* illness ever, of course). But as I was pulling out all the stops in the pity party, Annemarie came upstairs where I was having a quite moment to myself knitting, having the chills, its partner fever, and watching the very nice PBS special on the British Monarchy.
Annemarie had remarked earlier today that when you want to give a sick person a kiss (because, you will remember, she rightly pointed out when she was herself sick that sick people need kisses most of all), you should do it on the forehead, so as to give them a kiss in the most hygenic manner for everyone involved. So when she arrived up in our bedroom, right during the part in the show when the Queen tries on the crown to make sure that its 2.5 lbs of encrusted jewels isn't too much for her head, I anticipated that such a kiss might be part of her visit. But what I did not anticipate was how excited she was to give it to me, how eager to help, how her eyes sparkled with the clear sense that she was helping her mother and making her feel better. She even patted my head. My funky-haired, crownless head.
So in a moment of sappiness that I'm sure will be repeated time and again on this blog, let me tell you how thankful I am for the stomach flu tonight. Of course, perhaps my thankfulness stems in part from the fact that I'm already feeling much better, and I may help myself to a birthday cookie (it's Cole's birthday, and I didn't feel well enough to be a part of the special cookie decoration.) But I think the catalyst for this thankfulness was my sweet daughter who was eager to practice caring and concern, and that just makes me gosh darn proud. :) Having now learned my lesson, I give the bug permission to exit my body. Uh, gently exit, please....
Dry your eyes and get on with your day, now.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Diseased
Please forgive the rant in advance, but this day is not happening. Not without some documentation.
As I type this the smell of Lysol is in the air and my fingers are cracking from the loads of hand sanitizer that I've slathered over them. Today is one of those days that I dread all year long. Here's the background:
On Monday (one week, one day ago), Cole woke up seemingly well, but half an hour later was grabbing his head in pain, howling, complaining of an earache. Two hours later at the doctor, his first ear infection is confirmed.
Both big kids went to school the next day, Tuesday, none the worse for wear -- I mean, we had our usual runny nose that lasts from September to March, but nothing remarkable.
On Wednesday morning Annemarie woke up with a mystery fever (almost 102) but no symptoms. So she was home with me and Micah, and we ran errands. Even less work done than usual.
On Thursday night Cole went to bed seemingly fine, but woke in the middle of the night vomiting. His fever was also about 102. I was suspicious that this was an ear infection refusing to resolve, rather than the stomach flu, since he kept saying that his stomach never really hurt.
Friday AM -- exactly 24 hours before his birthday party -- the fever is gone, and I'm breathing a sigh of relief, feeling like we can have this party in good conscience. That night after he runs around it's up to 100, but hey -- it's not the 100.3. His nose and Annemarie's noses are running like sieves. I'm considering strapping a bucket under their chins at this point.
By Saturday morning, the day of the party, everyone is seemingly well. This is wonderful, and we have a great party. I don't worry about infecting the masses for a moment. But that night, Cole's eyes start weeping like he's got pink eye.
By the next morning, Sunday, Cole's nose is like a garden hose, his eyes are flowing all sorts of junk, and he feels awful. Just in time for our family's dedication at church. We stood up there with Cole looking like we'd just hit him in the eyes before we got there. Sunday night Annemarie's eyes joined Cole's, and Cole's started to back off a bit.
By Monday morning they both are still goopy eyed, so we skip ballet and gymnastics, our two fun things to do on Monday mornings. I call the doctor that AM to confirm the differences between pink eye and eye drainage from a cold -- we seem to have the latter (shew!). I experience false security. After a day of mayhem and his nap, Cole awakens with red spots all over his body. I call the doctor again, and they tell me to suspect an allergy to the antibiotic, to start some benadryl, and to call them the next AM to report back.
By this morning -- Tuesday -- Cole is absolutely, positively, 100% covered in red spots. They are on his scalp, his eyelids, his feet, in between his fingers. And they're not terribly itchy, but they are irritating enough that he has the urge to claw at them. I call the doctor, who wants to see him, and discover that he has some sort of viral rash AND that his ear infection never resolved AND that his other ear is now infected. As we're leaving, I notice that Micah's eyes are beginning to ooze junk.
By the time Brian and I rearrange our lives to get Cole to the doctor and Annemarie to school, then Annemarie picked up from school, Micah's eye is so terrible that it's swollen shut. And he seems to be miserable. Everyone goes down for a nap, and for a moment I have the sense that we might be over the worst of it.
Then Annemarie wakes up, and I sense that she's acting strangely. I can't quite pinpoint it. She insists that she feels fine, but not 10 seconds after saying that, starts puking everywhere. The WORST ILLNESS OF ALL! in my opinion. So after I clean everything/one up, spray everything down with Lysol, second guess what i've touched, and spray again (emptying the can), I give my "please tell me when you feel bad! WHy didn't you tell me?" lecture, to which she responds, "I was afraid you'd be mad."
WHAT? ME? MAD? Crazy, maybe. Mad, no.
After I explain that I could not possibly be mad over something like illness, I go into why that sort of information sharing is important -- so that we don't kiss people who are sick, so that we don't eat after them, etc. Then her eyes well up and her lip quivers, and she reminds me that I kissed her right before she took her nap. "Momma, I still need kisses even when I'm sick."
The motherly knife of guilt twists in my heart.
All this, and it now appears that I will have to miss my own doctor's appointment tomorrow for the almost certain ear infection that I have, which has persisted much too long.
Thank you for attending my pity party. I will attempt to come up with crafty, handmade party favors once my cracked and bleeding hands recover.
11-19-08
UPDATE! I ended up making it to the doctor after all today. I was told that I needed to have my eyes checked, that there's chronic fluid behind my ears, that I also have chronic vertigo. Oh yeah, and that the light I've been seeing is the recurrence of my migraine auras. So while Annemarie and Cole are feeling much, much better, their mother is dizzy and blind -- and thanks to her overconsumption of coffee, is slightly dehydrated. And Micah, bless his heart, has super oozy eye and appears to feel like a squished bug. There's nothing like having your infant son smile at you when you enter his room, peering at you through the slits of his eyes that manage to barely open despite the matted mucus that sticks them together.......
As I type this the smell of Lysol is in the air and my fingers are cracking from the loads of hand sanitizer that I've slathered over them. Today is one of those days that I dread all year long. Here's the background:
On Monday (one week, one day ago), Cole woke up seemingly well, but half an hour later was grabbing his head in pain, howling, complaining of an earache. Two hours later at the doctor, his first ear infection is confirmed.
Both big kids went to school the next day, Tuesday, none the worse for wear -- I mean, we had our usual runny nose that lasts from September to March, but nothing remarkable.
On Wednesday morning Annemarie woke up with a mystery fever (almost 102) but no symptoms. So she was home with me and Micah, and we ran errands. Even less work done than usual.
On Thursday night Cole went to bed seemingly fine, but woke in the middle of the night vomiting. His fever was also about 102. I was suspicious that this was an ear infection refusing to resolve, rather than the stomach flu, since he kept saying that his stomach never really hurt.
Friday AM -- exactly 24 hours before his birthday party -- the fever is gone, and I'm breathing a sigh of relief, feeling like we can have this party in good conscience. That night after he runs around it's up to 100, but hey -- it's not the 100.3. His nose and Annemarie's noses are running like sieves. I'm considering strapping a bucket under their chins at this point.
By Saturday morning, the day of the party, everyone is seemingly well. This is wonderful, and we have a great party. I don't worry about infecting the masses for a moment. But that night, Cole's eyes start weeping like he's got pink eye.
By the next morning, Sunday, Cole's nose is like a garden hose, his eyes are flowing all sorts of junk, and he feels awful. Just in time for our family's dedication at church. We stood up there with Cole looking like we'd just hit him in the eyes before we got there. Sunday night Annemarie's eyes joined Cole's, and Cole's started to back off a bit.
By Monday morning they both are still goopy eyed, so we skip ballet and gymnastics, our two fun things to do on Monday mornings. I call the doctor that AM to confirm the differences between pink eye and eye drainage from a cold -- we seem to have the latter (shew!). I experience false security. After a day of mayhem and his nap, Cole awakens with red spots all over his body. I call the doctor again, and they tell me to suspect an allergy to the antibiotic, to start some benadryl, and to call them the next AM to report back.
By this morning -- Tuesday -- Cole is absolutely, positively, 100% covered in red spots. They are on his scalp, his eyelids, his feet, in between his fingers. And they're not terribly itchy, but they are irritating enough that he has the urge to claw at them. I call the doctor, who wants to see him, and discover that he has some sort of viral rash AND that his ear infection never resolved AND that his other ear is now infected. As we're leaving, I notice that Micah's eyes are beginning to ooze junk.
By the time Brian and I rearrange our lives to get Cole to the doctor and Annemarie to school, then Annemarie picked up from school, Micah's eye is so terrible that it's swollen shut. And he seems to be miserable. Everyone goes down for a nap, and for a moment I have the sense that we might be over the worst of it.
Then Annemarie wakes up, and I sense that she's acting strangely. I can't quite pinpoint it. She insists that she feels fine, but not 10 seconds after saying that, starts puking everywhere. The WORST ILLNESS OF ALL! in my opinion. So after I clean everything/one up, spray everything down with Lysol, second guess what i've touched, and spray again (emptying the can), I give my "please tell me when you feel bad! WHy didn't you tell me?" lecture, to which she responds, "I was afraid you'd be mad."
WHAT? ME? MAD? Crazy, maybe. Mad, no.
After I explain that I could not possibly be mad over something like illness, I go into why that sort of information sharing is important -- so that we don't kiss people who are sick, so that we don't eat after them, etc. Then her eyes well up and her lip quivers, and she reminds me that I kissed her right before she took her nap. "Momma, I still need kisses even when I'm sick."
The motherly knife of guilt twists in my heart.
All this, and it now appears that I will have to miss my own doctor's appointment tomorrow for the almost certain ear infection that I have, which has persisted much too long.
Thank you for attending my pity party. I will attempt to come up with crafty, handmade party favors once my cracked and bleeding hands recover.
11-19-08
UPDATE! I ended up making it to the doctor after all today. I was told that I needed to have my eyes checked, that there's chronic fluid behind my ears, that I also have chronic vertigo. Oh yeah, and that the light I've been seeing is the recurrence of my migraine auras. So while Annemarie and Cole are feeling much, much better, their mother is dizzy and blind -- and thanks to her overconsumption of coffee, is slightly dehydrated. And Micah, bless his heart, has super oozy eye and appears to feel like a squished bug. There's nothing like having your infant son smile at you when you enter his room, peering at you through the slits of his eyes that manage to barely open despite the matted mucus that sticks them together.......
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Family. Its Size, Shape, and Scope
I overheard Brian saying something to Annemarie the other day that just about knocked my socks off. Usually Brian and I are on the same page when it comes to parenting, in almost everything. It's a very, very good thing. But what astonished me was hearing him discuss siblinghood with Annemarie, during which he said:
"So do you think you'd like to have a little sister?"
WHAT THE? I compromised my usual restraint (ok -- it's not restraint, but it was the *desire* for restraint that I compromised) when I screamed out, in front of her "WHY ARE YOU SAYING THAT?" And in my defense, I did practice restraint when I told the little man in my head who was telling me to strangle him to shut up for a bit so that I could see whether Brian was posing a rhetorical question or leading the witness. That does, you know, determine the severity and length of punishment.
But for many small children, rhetorical questions are nothing but reality itself, so upon reminding myself of this, I resumed my battle cry. You see, we have three kids. One of them is but 6 mos old. The others are rather small themselves. No one is yet in elementary school. All require some level of assistance getting dressed. Two need some help with toileting/diapering. All three need help when it comes to eating, and one of those three is still receiving 95% of his nourishment from me.
When I was pregnant this last time-- having been pregnant or nursing or both for almost the past six years straight -- I was miserable in a way that I had never before experienced. I mean really, really miserable. My entire body hurt. I was at the chiropractor every week to help my hip, my back, my...you name it. Every time I was pregnant I got sicker; every time I grew more tired; every time I was able to sleep less. When I was still in the hospital with baby #2 -- in fact, after having just delivered him with no pain meds -- Brian and I struck up something of a conversation about how a third child would not be out of the question. But all throughout the baby #3 pregnancy, I had a feeling that this was the last one. And when he was born, I had the feeling that our family was complete -- all members accounted for.
Catch my drift?
So perhaps it seems the ultimate betrayal of my own position that there was a lingering tinge of sadness when I interjected into that conversation to push my position that this was the last one. In his defense, Brian concurred, but you could tell that there was a bit of ambivalence there, as well. Brian's position on the matter is that having children is such a wonderful experience, one that brings us such immense joy, that any child that ends up with us would only be a good thing. But at the same time, Brian was quick to remark that he realized that we couldn't go on having kids forever just because we liked having kids. Thank you, Brian. I do not want to end up like that woman in Arkansas who's pregnant with her 18th baby. But I know what you mean.
While I am relatively (very) certain that another child is not on the horizon, I am equally certain that the decision to stop having kids can be an emotional one. A wise friend whose children are grown remarked once that she underwent something akin to grief when she and her husband decided that two was enough. It wasn't that she wanted any more -- I understand this -- it's just that there is something so magical about the process of waiting for and raising a young child that a part of you must undergo a "coming-to-terms" with the knowledge that that magical time must end. This is put into sharp relief particularly when your small children get big enough and verbal enough that they catch a serious case of sassy.
And do we have sassy. And eye-rolling. OH THE EYE-ROLLING!
So while my youngest is still young enough that we have a baby around -- and thus don't feel like we're missing out on the magic of infancy -- I do anticipate a time in the future when we will have to come to terms with the fact that that stage of life is over. It might be a bit emotional.
But then again, we'll be sleeping more, too. As eyes roll all around us.......
"So do you think you'd like to have a little sister?"
WHAT THE? I compromised my usual restraint (ok -- it's not restraint, but it was the *desire* for restraint that I compromised) when I screamed out, in front of her "WHY ARE YOU SAYING THAT?" And in my defense, I did practice restraint when I told the little man in my head who was telling me to strangle him to shut up for a bit so that I could see whether Brian was posing a rhetorical question or leading the witness. That does, you know, determine the severity and length of punishment.
But for many small children, rhetorical questions are nothing but reality itself, so upon reminding myself of this, I resumed my battle cry. You see, we have three kids. One of them is but 6 mos old. The others are rather small themselves. No one is yet in elementary school. All require some level of assistance getting dressed. Two need some help with toileting/diapering. All three need help when it comes to eating, and one of those three is still receiving 95% of his nourishment from me.
When I was pregnant this last time-- having been pregnant or nursing or both for almost the past six years straight -- I was miserable in a way that I had never before experienced. I mean really, really miserable. My entire body hurt. I was at the chiropractor every week to help my hip, my back, my...you name it. Every time I was pregnant I got sicker; every time I grew more tired; every time I was able to sleep less. When I was still in the hospital with baby #2 -- in fact, after having just delivered him with no pain meds -- Brian and I struck up something of a conversation about how a third child would not be out of the question. But all throughout the baby #3 pregnancy, I had a feeling that this was the last one. And when he was born, I had the feeling that our family was complete -- all members accounted for.
Catch my drift?
So perhaps it seems the ultimate betrayal of my own position that there was a lingering tinge of sadness when I interjected into that conversation to push my position that this was the last one. In his defense, Brian concurred, but you could tell that there was a bit of ambivalence there, as well. Brian's position on the matter is that having children is such a wonderful experience, one that brings us such immense joy, that any child that ends up with us would only be a good thing. But at the same time, Brian was quick to remark that he realized that we couldn't go on having kids forever just because we liked having kids. Thank you, Brian. I do not want to end up like that woman in Arkansas who's pregnant with her 18th baby. But I know what you mean.
While I am relatively (very) certain that another child is not on the horizon, I am equally certain that the decision to stop having kids can be an emotional one. A wise friend whose children are grown remarked once that she underwent something akin to grief when she and her husband decided that two was enough. It wasn't that she wanted any more -- I understand this -- it's just that there is something so magical about the process of waiting for and raising a young child that a part of you must undergo a "coming-to-terms" with the knowledge that that magical time must end. This is put into sharp relief particularly when your small children get big enough and verbal enough that they catch a serious case of sassy.
And do we have sassy. And eye-rolling. OH THE EYE-ROLLING!
So while my youngest is still young enough that we have a baby around -- and thus don't feel like we're missing out on the magic of infancy -- I do anticipate a time in the future when we will have to come to terms with the fact that that stage of life is over. It might be a bit emotional.
But then again, we'll be sleeping more, too. As eyes roll all around us.......
Six Points of Randomness
My dear friend Jovi has challenged six of her friends to a random personal fact-puking contest. Here's my purge. Thanks, J! It was fun!
1) I do not, as a practice, kill bugs that are in, on, or around my house, my person, or my children. What this practically means is that we own no flyswatters, and I have a healthy catch-and-release program going during the summer months when the backyard door is continually open. The one exception to this rule lies with those bugs that are a) vengeful and are clearly looking to attack (some wasps), which can be a big deal for a family with a history of sting allergies (ours), and b) looking to suck my blood (mosquitos, ticks, and fleas). I have no tolerance for blood-sucking of any sort, in fact. So if you're in my house and you're going to suck my blood, prepare to be squished. I won't like doing it, though.
2) I am a clean freak. However, I've lately had to relax my standards for the sake of sanity. This standard-relaxing drives me just about as nuts as the stuff piling up around here, though, so maybe that's a counterproductive move. Interestingly, I was not always a clean freak, and only acquired this habit upon marriage to Brian, who is rather tidy himself. As an industrial engineer by training, Brian has been known to periodically reorganize the refrigerator so that it's a more efficient food receptacle. ****heart****
3) In all things color, I tend towards featuring no more than one to two (occasionally three) bright or dominant colors in a room or on a body, surrounded by varying shades of neutrals, but particularly shades of brown, white, black, and gray. I have always found this to be a good rule of thumb when putting clothes on bodies and stuff in rooms. You gotta have both, but not too much of either one. And *why*, you ask, was I just thinking about this? Well, because a) I just bought a new lamp, b) my awesome friend Becky just gave me a 1930s settee, and I'm thinking about its reupholstered future, and c) I still, occasionally, wonder what it would have been like had I pursued that college whim of dropping the liberal arts stuff and going into interior design.
4) I was a member of a professional clogging team for almost 10 years, during my elementary/jr. high/early h.s. years. I have the scar tissue lurking under my kneecaps, as well as the calves, to prove it. Oh yeah, and I got the moves..... :) And did I mention that I had gold nameplates on above the heel on each of my clogging shoes?
5) I am a list maker, but not only that, a person keenly interested in the process of categorization. This is why I am loving this exercise. It's also why my paragraphs often contain lists (see above and below). In fact, I sometimes tend to see random, ordinary things in terms of their ability to be documented in some sort of hierarchy/list/chart. Put another way, when I walk into a situation, I often look for infrastructure. Not that lists and categories are necessarily the same thing, but the two do often go hand in hand............Now that's sounding a little OCD, no? :)
6) I miss California.
We moved to KC from California, where I was doing round #2 of Grad school. Although it was an amazing experience, I was eager to leave to be closer to family, to be able to buy a house, and because it never felt very comfortable. I suspect much of this lack of comfort had to do with the fact that my husband worked in NY most of the time we were in CA, and thus I was alone *A LOT*; I lived 45 minutes away from most everyone I knew in CA (and thus I made few close friends while we were there); and I found myself raising our daughter almost by myself for the first year of her life (again, in a place with few close friends and no husband around 5+ days of the week). But there is still something about the place that I miss desperately. I think often about the beach, the surfers, the smell.........
1) I do not, as a practice, kill bugs that are in, on, or around my house, my person, or my children. What this practically means is that we own no flyswatters, and I have a healthy catch-and-release program going during the summer months when the backyard door is continually open. The one exception to this rule lies with those bugs that are a) vengeful and are clearly looking to attack (some wasps), which can be a big deal for a family with a history of sting allergies (ours), and b) looking to suck my blood (mosquitos, ticks, and fleas). I have no tolerance for blood-sucking of any sort, in fact. So if you're in my house and you're going to suck my blood, prepare to be squished. I won't like doing it, though.
2) I am a clean freak. However, I've lately had to relax my standards for the sake of sanity. This standard-relaxing drives me just about as nuts as the stuff piling up around here, though, so maybe that's a counterproductive move. Interestingly, I was not always a clean freak, and only acquired this habit upon marriage to Brian, who is rather tidy himself. As an industrial engineer by training, Brian has been known to periodically reorganize the refrigerator so that it's a more efficient food receptacle. ****heart****
3) In all things color, I tend towards featuring no more than one to two (occasionally three) bright or dominant colors in a room or on a body, surrounded by varying shades of neutrals, but particularly shades of brown, white, black, and gray. I have always found this to be a good rule of thumb when putting clothes on bodies and stuff in rooms. You gotta have both, but not too much of either one. And *why*, you ask, was I just thinking about this? Well, because a) I just bought a new lamp, b) my awesome friend Becky just gave me a 1930s settee, and I'm thinking about its reupholstered future, and c) I still, occasionally, wonder what it would have been like had I pursued that college whim of dropping the liberal arts stuff and going into interior design.
4) I was a member of a professional clogging team for almost 10 years, during my elementary/jr. high/early h.s. years. I have the scar tissue lurking under my kneecaps, as well as the calves, to prove it. Oh yeah, and I got the moves..... :) And did I mention that I had gold nameplates on above the heel on each of my clogging shoes?
5) I am a list maker, but not only that, a person keenly interested in the process of categorization. This is why I am loving this exercise. It's also why my paragraphs often contain lists (see above and below). In fact, I sometimes tend to see random, ordinary things in terms of their ability to be documented in some sort of hierarchy/list/chart. Put another way, when I walk into a situation, I often look for infrastructure. Not that lists and categories are necessarily the same thing, but the two do often go hand in hand............Now that's sounding a little OCD, no? :)
6) I miss California.
We moved to KC from California, where I was doing round #2 of Grad school. Although it was an amazing experience, I was eager to leave to be closer to family, to be able to buy a house, and because it never felt very comfortable. I suspect much of this lack of comfort had to do with the fact that my husband worked in NY most of the time we were in CA, and thus I was alone *A LOT*; I lived 45 minutes away from most everyone I knew in CA (and thus I made few close friends while we were there); and I found myself raising our daughter almost by myself for the first year of her life (again, in a place with few close friends and no husband around 5+ days of the week). But there is still something about the place that I miss desperately. I think often about the beach, the surfers, the smell.........
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Consistency, and Other Stuff
So, like, uh, it's hard for me to blog with the consistency that I'd like. My apologies in advance to my adoring fans. All zero of you who officially follow me at the moment :).
So after the Barbie trauma of the last post, I have attempted to resurrect the conversation about Barbie and bodies and the like that I failed to properly address before. I said something like, "You know, the reason why I wasn't a fan of your Barbie comment the other day was because the people who make Barbie dolls don't make them look like real people's bodies. And because your body is real, I want you to look like Annemarie looks, not like a Barbie looks." I also tied this into our "no character toys/clothes/shoes" discussion -- I have a rule that, as much as possible, we don't buy stuff that has kid characters plastered all over it. Why, you may ask? Well, for about a zillion reasons. First, if they want me to advertise for them, then they can pay me. Second, I'd like Annemarie, Cole, and Micah to feel happy to be Annemarie, Cole, and Micah, and not Barbie, Dora, or Elmo (although we do have bit of him around). And third, most of that stuff is just plain ugly.
Annemarie churns this through her brain, and responds with, "So you don't want me to be a character. You want me to be me?" Right! I'm thinking we're getting somewhere! Then she says "And because you really just want me to look cute as me, not cute as Barbie?" Wait a minute, now......so we embark, again, on how "cute" is not the highest achievable goal. This may take some time.
In other news, Cole, Mr. Snugglebug himself, climbed into bed with me the other morning, and with a grin on his face said, "Mommy, I LOVE you............and I LOVE granola, too."
yep. It's me and the breakfast cereal.
So after the Barbie trauma of the last post, I have attempted to resurrect the conversation about Barbie and bodies and the like that I failed to properly address before. I said something like, "You know, the reason why I wasn't a fan of your Barbie comment the other day was because the people who make Barbie dolls don't make them look like real people's bodies. And because your body is real, I want you to look like Annemarie looks, not like a Barbie looks." I also tied this into our "no character toys/clothes/shoes" discussion -- I have a rule that, as much as possible, we don't buy stuff that has kid characters plastered all over it. Why, you may ask? Well, for about a zillion reasons. First, if they want me to advertise for them, then they can pay me. Second, I'd like Annemarie, Cole, and Micah to feel happy to be Annemarie, Cole, and Micah, and not Barbie, Dora, or Elmo (although we do have bit of him around). And third, most of that stuff is just plain ugly.
Annemarie churns this through her brain, and responds with, "So you don't want me to be a character. You want me to be me?" Right! I'm thinking we're getting somewhere! Then she says "And because you really just want me to look cute as me, not cute as Barbie?" Wait a minute, now......so we embark, again, on how "cute" is not the highest achievable goal. This may take some time.
In other news, Cole, Mr. Snugglebug himself, climbed into bed with me the other morning, and with a grin on his face said, "Mommy, I LOVE you............and I LOVE granola, too."
yep. It's me and the breakfast cereal.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Mental Traumas, part 27
First, the Halloween pics that I mentioned. Aren't they just the cutest! Olympians and dogs. Now that makes you want to sing "We Are the World," doesn't it?
So I've had two very interesting things transpire in my psyche over the past couple of days.
Wait -- I just reread that, and hopefully more than 2 interesting things have happened in my psyche. Let's just say that there are two that are blogworthy.
The first happened yesterday, when I was at the grocery store. The cashier was a college-aged-looking kid whose nametag revealed that he happened to be named Micah, the name of my 6 mo. old son. Before it could occur to me that old Micah (as I shall call him) may not have any interest in young Micah, I said something like, "Whadya know! I have a son named Micah! I bet you don't run into a lot of people with that name, do you?"
Old Micah grunted an indecipherable response back, but it was enough that I knew that my chitter chatter was both boring and beyond him. I was someone' s self-identified mother, attempting to engage him. It was.....aging. It also caused me to have momentary, but life-altering, flash-forwards (approx 20 years or so....), wherein young Micah attempted to address me with the same "Leave me flippin alone, Ma!"demeanor. But in my imagination, I wrestle young Micah to the ground and, with spit drops flying in his face from my venomous lips, I verbally reenact the gory details of his birth so that he *knows* how I have paid for him.
Actually, with the exception of this varicose vein above my left knee, there's no lasting damage that I can come up with now. But I will make some up when the time comes. Oy. And it will remind him that I will NOT BE PRESUMED IRRELEVANT!
The second trauma transpired a couple of days ago when Annemarie, after being told that she could not wear summer clothes outside on a cold day, erupted into a tantrum. Her meltdown was fueled by the fact that she was tired and hungry, no doubt, but I was particularly bothered when she screamed "But I won't look cute if I don't wear that. I want to LOOK LIKE A BARBIE!"
Shudder.
I wanted to scream back, "But honey, we're feminists in this house! And one of the major reasons why we're feminists is so that no one ever has to feel like they have to say what you just said!" But that's hard to get through the brain of a five year old, so I made something else up, something that i can't remember now but that was no doubt insufficient.
Second shudder. Jovi, weren't we just talking about this? Third shudder.
In other news, please don't leave a rotisserie chicken on the counter with the lid off. Your cat may eat it. So we're having spaghetti.
Wait -- I just reread that, and hopefully more than 2 interesting things have happened in my psyche. Let's just say that there are two that are blogworthy.
The first happened yesterday, when I was at the grocery store. The cashier was a college-aged-looking kid whose nametag revealed that he happened to be named Micah, the name of my 6 mo. old son. Before it could occur to me that old Micah (as I shall call him) may not have any interest in young Micah, I said something like, "Whadya know! I have a son named Micah! I bet you don't run into a lot of people with that name, do you?"
Old Micah grunted an indecipherable response back, but it was enough that I knew that my chitter chatter was both boring and beyond him. I was someone' s self-identified mother, attempting to engage him. It was.....aging. It also caused me to have momentary, but life-altering, flash-forwards (approx 20 years or so....), wherein young Micah attempted to address me with the same "Leave me flippin alone, Ma!"demeanor. But in my imagination, I wrestle young Micah to the ground and, with spit drops flying in his face from my venomous lips, I verbally reenact the gory details of his birth so that he *knows* how I have paid for him.
Actually, with the exception of this varicose vein above my left knee, there's no lasting damage that I can come up with now. But I will make some up when the time comes. Oy. And it will remind him that I will NOT BE PRESUMED IRRELEVANT!
The second trauma transpired a couple of days ago when Annemarie, after being told that she could not wear summer clothes outside on a cold day, erupted into a tantrum. Her meltdown was fueled by the fact that she was tired and hungry, no doubt, but I was particularly bothered when she screamed "But I won't look cute if I don't wear that. I want to LOOK LIKE A BARBIE!"
Shudder.
I wanted to scream back, "But honey, we're feminists in this house! And one of the major reasons why we're feminists is so that no one ever has to feel like they have to say what you just said!" But that's hard to get through the brain of a five year old, so I made something else up, something that i can't remember now but that was no doubt insufficient.
Second shudder. Jovi, weren't we just talking about this? Third shudder.
In other news, please don't leave a rotisserie chicken on the counter with the lid off. Your cat may eat it. So we're having spaghetti.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Hallelujah! It's (not so terribly expensive) gasoline!
So today I spent 1.98/gallon on gas, and you should have seen the look on people's faces when I did a happy dance and gave a whoop right there at the gas station as I filled my nasty, honking Suburban up (cause you gotta have somewhere to store 124 kids, right?) for FIFTY FOUR DOLLARS. Shall I say it again? FIFTY FOUR! At the height of the recent gas "crisis", for lack of a better term, I had hit 100/fill up.
There are tears in my eyes right now.
In unrelated news, the older kids' Halloween outfits turned out great-- pictures coming soon (when I figure it out :)). They are Olympians this year, and are wearing suits that I absolutely love because they were a) cheap, b) reuseable, and c) required no makeup. Just some matching sweatsuits, some laurel wreaths made out of a cheap silk greenery stem, and some even cheaper gold medals picked up from US Toy for less than .50 each. Success!!! The funniest part of it is that Annemarie chose to wear her leotard under her sweatsuit so as to portray the image of a swimmer (for perhaps obvious reasons, she looks like a gymnast, but I've not mentioned this -- who wants to burst that bubble?). When people ask Cole what sort of Olympian he is, his response has been to simply hop on one foot, his newfound skill.
So bring on the trainers, people! oh yeah, and let's rally for singular-foot hopping and gymnastic swimming to make it to the Olympic lineup soon. Cole and Annemarie are on their way!
There are tears in my eyes right now.
In unrelated news, the older kids' Halloween outfits turned out great-- pictures coming soon (when I figure it out :)). They are Olympians this year, and are wearing suits that I absolutely love because they were a) cheap, b) reuseable, and c) required no makeup. Just some matching sweatsuits, some laurel wreaths made out of a cheap silk greenery stem, and some even cheaper gold medals picked up from US Toy for less than .50 each. Success!!! The funniest part of it is that Annemarie chose to wear her leotard under her sweatsuit so as to portray the image of a swimmer (for perhaps obvious reasons, she looks like a gymnast, but I've not mentioned this -- who wants to burst that bubble?). When people ask Cole what sort of Olympian he is, his response has been to simply hop on one foot, his newfound skill.
So bring on the trainers, people! oh yeah, and let's rally for singular-foot hopping and gymnastic swimming to make it to the Olympic lineup soon. Cole and Annemarie are on their way!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Perhaps in my first blogpost I should explain the name of this blog. Since I had my first child five years ago, in the middle of a Ph.D., and just about as far from my family as I could get while still remaining on the continent, it seems that most everything that has transpired has been at least 50% out of my control. And that may be optimistic.
It's not that I'm complaining, for after all, everything has turned out amazingly well -- really. We've had two more kids, I'm working on my dissertation, and we live in a place that we like very much and we get to see our family often, as well. The problem -- or more accurately, the confusion -- is that despite having been in this very chaotic, yet joyful situation for five years now, I'm still not accustomed to the randomness that pervades each day, the utter spontaneity of my children, the sense that no matter what project I undertake, it can be undone in a matter of minutes by otherwise well-intentioned juveniles. Part of this confusion, no doubt, stems from the fact that I am a creature of habit whose control-freakishness borders on the pathological at times.
But at the end of the day, if the choice were mine, I think I'd still choose the random happenstance, despite the cognitive inconvenienice. Why? Because this happenstance is the result of living with people who have an endless capacity to find almost everything interesting, who find the ordinary to be rather extraordinary, and who don't spend much time in mindless worry. Happily, things are already this way, so there's no choice on my part involved. I just hope to be able to appreciate the happenstance as long as I have it.
It's not that I'm complaining, for after all, everything has turned out amazingly well -- really. We've had two more kids, I'm working on my dissertation, and we live in a place that we like very much and we get to see our family often, as well. The problem -- or more accurately, the confusion -- is that despite having been in this very chaotic, yet joyful situation for five years now, I'm still not accustomed to the randomness that pervades each day, the utter spontaneity of my children, the sense that no matter what project I undertake, it can be undone in a matter of minutes by otherwise well-intentioned juveniles. Part of this confusion, no doubt, stems from the fact that I am a creature of habit whose control-freakishness borders on the pathological at times.
But at the end of the day, if the choice were mine, I think I'd still choose the random happenstance, despite the cognitive inconvenienice. Why? Because this happenstance is the result of living with people who have an endless capacity to find almost everything interesting, who find the ordinary to be rather extraordinary, and who don't spend much time in mindless worry. Happily, things are already this way, so there's no choice on my part involved. I just hope to be able to appreciate the happenstance as long as I have it.
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