Friday, April 29, 2011
Time for a Resuscitation?
After having dropped off of the earth for well over a year, I now wonder.....anyone out there?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Claustrophobia
Back up to the surface....for some air.......
I would like to write about a topic that's been on my mind quite a lot: why geese honk while they fly. This seems like a logical question, for after all, it's hard to run and scream at the same time. The only time I've seen that happen consistently is in an action scene in the movies. From this I must conclude that geese having been watching too many movies, and have grown a bit too melodramatic for their own good, or that they feel themselves always threatened.
Yes, I would like to write about that, but I can't, seeing the paralysis that is this dissertation, the fact that i think about it all the time (when I'm not thinking about the geese). I would be lying if I said that the last few weeks have been lovely. They have actually been horrific. I have spent many, many, many hours locked in a freezing cubicle at the public library attempting to have scholarly thoughts -- and more important -- scholarly organizational skills. And while I am meeting with some success with both, I feel like this experience is forcing every hardship, insecurity, inconvenience, and negative feeling onto my last nerve, which is. on. fire. all. the. time.
I am lovely to be around right now.
I actually cried today over it. I sat in my office while a babysitter corralled my screaming, happy children downstairs, and cried over the fact that I seem not to have the mental faculties to get this done as quickly as I'd hoped. How quickly is that, you say? I dunno. Like yesterday.
So bear with me. I'd ask you to bear for me, but that's called plagiarism, and it's not so cool. And besides, the silver lining is that I see the purpose in this dastardly exercise called "dissertating." It sucks, but I'm learning something.
Sigh. Back to the grind.
I would like to write about a topic that's been on my mind quite a lot: why geese honk while they fly. This seems like a logical question, for after all, it's hard to run and scream at the same time. The only time I've seen that happen consistently is in an action scene in the movies. From this I must conclude that geese having been watching too many movies, and have grown a bit too melodramatic for their own good, or that they feel themselves always threatened.
Yes, I would like to write about that, but I can't, seeing the paralysis that is this dissertation, the fact that i think about it all the time (when I'm not thinking about the geese). I would be lying if I said that the last few weeks have been lovely. They have actually been horrific. I have spent many, many, many hours locked in a freezing cubicle at the public library attempting to have scholarly thoughts -- and more important -- scholarly organizational skills. And while I am meeting with some success with both, I feel like this experience is forcing every hardship, insecurity, inconvenience, and negative feeling onto my last nerve, which is. on. fire. all. the. time.
I am lovely to be around right now.
I actually cried today over it. I sat in my office while a babysitter corralled my screaming, happy children downstairs, and cried over the fact that I seem not to have the mental faculties to get this done as quickly as I'd hoped. How quickly is that, you say? I dunno. Like yesterday.
So bear with me. I'd ask you to bear for me, but that's called plagiarism, and it's not so cool. And besides, the silver lining is that I see the purpose in this dastardly exercise called "dissertating." It sucks, but I'm learning something.
Sigh. Back to the grind.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Absent
That sure was a heckuva(n) absent spell, no? Forgive, darlings, forgive. Life took a turn into the crazy lane. But since life is always in that lane, what sort of excuse is that? None, really. Nevertheless, let me amaze you with a list of my busy-ness, aka, that which has transpired since I last wrote:
1) I taught my last course for the semester, graded a stack of papers (the majority of which deserved shredding and tossing into the compost pile, yet I care too much about my compost), and spent time doing the usual "quibbling with students about grades and doing senseless grade-related math" routine.
2) Micah, my most lovely little infant elf, turned one! Pictures, you say! Yes, I know, I know. I'm getting there. The time was nice, many family members came into town to celebrate, and unlike his older brother, there was no cake-puking post cake-gorging. I consider this a small, yet significant, victory.
3) Brian graduated with his MBA. I cannot tell you what a huge, major relief this is. Brian has been gone every other weekend (sometimes more) for the past two years doing this degree, and we see him little enough with his work schedule (Micah goes to bed 1.5 hours after Brian gets home from work, if this puts anything into perspective). So getting him back on the weekends puts everyone at ease. EVERYONE (**vein in my neck still bulging**).
4) I have agreed to teach a course on Islam in the fall in addition to the usual World Religion courses that I've been teaching, and I've been doing prep on that. Should be very interesting.
5) After the graduating and birthday-ing, we disappeared over the long holiday weekend to visit family in the Ozarks, which is always interesting. But more on that later.
6) And today? Today is the start of a new kind of busy-ness. What is it, you ask? I'm glad you inquired.
Today, I start my dissertation again.
The babysitter should be here in about 15 minutes, and with that I will pack my computer and some books, and I will vacate the premises, off to the library to attempt something scholarly. This is a big day. I would be none too melodramatic to say that I feel like this is a "first day of the rest of your life" day, as finishing this sucker could line up a lot of stuff that has been, well, unaligned. It needs to get done. And so I hope today is the start of that finishing process.
And thus I appreciate -- solicit -- your kind thoughts, words, prayers, petitions to deities and other spiritual powers, small gifts, and small bills -- ANYTHING to keep me going. I have never had anything dangling over my head this long, and to be honest, the dangling must stop! Of course, I must remind myself that I have never had three children and an unfinished Ph.D. before. But it is not like me not to finish something I said I would. So for emphasis, for dramatic value, for the sheer weight of the words, let me say it here:
I WILL FINISH!
Whew. Feeling better now. Time to pack the computer.
1) I taught my last course for the semester, graded a stack of papers (the majority of which deserved shredding and tossing into the compost pile, yet I care too much about my compost), and spent time doing the usual "quibbling with students about grades and doing senseless grade-related math" routine.
2) Micah, my most lovely little infant elf, turned one! Pictures, you say! Yes, I know, I know. I'm getting there. The time was nice, many family members came into town to celebrate, and unlike his older brother, there was no cake-puking post cake-gorging. I consider this a small, yet significant, victory.
3) Brian graduated with his MBA. I cannot tell you what a huge, major relief this is. Brian has been gone every other weekend (sometimes more) for the past two years doing this degree, and we see him little enough with his work schedule (Micah goes to bed 1.5 hours after Brian gets home from work, if this puts anything into perspective). So getting him back on the weekends puts everyone at ease. EVERYONE (**vein in my neck still bulging**).
4) I have agreed to teach a course on Islam in the fall in addition to the usual World Religion courses that I've been teaching, and I've been doing prep on that. Should be very interesting.
5) After the graduating and birthday-ing, we disappeared over the long holiday weekend to visit family in the Ozarks, which is always interesting. But more on that later.
6) And today? Today is the start of a new kind of busy-ness. What is it, you ask? I'm glad you inquired.
Today, I start my dissertation again.
The babysitter should be here in about 15 minutes, and with that I will pack my computer and some books, and I will vacate the premises, off to the library to attempt something scholarly. This is a big day. I would be none too melodramatic to say that I feel like this is a "first day of the rest of your life" day, as finishing this sucker could line up a lot of stuff that has been, well, unaligned. It needs to get done. And so I hope today is the start of that finishing process.
And thus I appreciate -- solicit -- your kind thoughts, words, prayers, petitions to deities and other spiritual powers, small gifts, and small bills -- ANYTHING to keep me going. I have never had anything dangling over my head this long, and to be honest, the dangling must stop! Of course, I must remind myself that I have never had three children and an unfinished Ph.D. before. But it is not like me not to finish something I said I would. So for emphasis, for dramatic value, for the sheer weight of the words, let me say it here:
I WILL FINISH!
Whew. Feeling better now. Time to pack the computer.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Note to Self
Dear Self,
Please remember that, the next time that your children are invited to a birthday party/kid event at one of those inflatable jumpy-slidy-thing places, you should do the following:
a) First, please plan a workout regimen, ideally starting approximately 9 mos. before said party occurs. The reason for this is simple: your body is not used to being flung around, climbing intertube-like walls, and being slammed against inflated barriers at the end of very large slides. And your flexibility has begun to suck lately, too. So while being svelte and muscular won't fix the offense of being tossed around, perhaps you could look a little more proficient at inflatable kid boot camp. It's not so cool, after all, to be so winded that you can't talk after going down the slide, to come out the other end kissing the solid ground, rolled into a tight ball praying for the muscle spasm to stop. Or maybe while inside the inflatable, you could just flex one of your bodacious biceps and in looking at your muscles, everyone's glance will be pulled away from the glaring fact that you are beached atop an inflatable mountain with no hope of rescue crews anytime soon. In addition to the previously mentioned un-coolness, it is also not so cool to have been stranded so long inside the inflatable that to the three, four, and five year olds climbing over and on you, you have merely become part of the attraction ("Look, mom! I climb up this wall, I jump on that lady, and then I go down the slide!").
b) Second, and perhaps most important, please remember to wear your best underwear. Because everyone will see it as you climb into the inflatable jumpy-slidy things to rescue any number of children who at that moment are claiming that you are their mother. And because, when you're suffering the indignity of looking like the aforementioned beached whale, the "accretion formally known as Leslie", at least your undies will look pretty.
Signed,
Yourself.
Please remember that, the next time that your children are invited to a birthday party/kid event at one of those inflatable jumpy-slidy-thing places, you should do the following:
a) First, please plan a workout regimen, ideally starting approximately 9 mos. before said party occurs. The reason for this is simple: your body is not used to being flung around, climbing intertube-like walls, and being slammed against inflated barriers at the end of very large slides. And your flexibility has begun to suck lately, too. So while being svelte and muscular won't fix the offense of being tossed around, perhaps you could look a little more proficient at inflatable kid boot camp. It's not so cool, after all, to be so winded that you can't talk after going down the slide, to come out the other end kissing the solid ground, rolled into a tight ball praying for the muscle spasm to stop. Or maybe while inside the inflatable, you could just flex one of your bodacious biceps and in looking at your muscles, everyone's glance will be pulled away from the glaring fact that you are beached atop an inflatable mountain with no hope of rescue crews anytime soon. In addition to the previously mentioned un-coolness, it is also not so cool to have been stranded so long inside the inflatable that to the three, four, and five year olds climbing over and on you, you have merely become part of the attraction ("Look, mom! I climb up this wall, I jump on that lady, and then I go down the slide!").
b) Second, and perhaps most important, please remember to wear your best underwear. Because everyone will see it as you climb into the inflatable jumpy-slidy things to rescue any number of children who at that moment are claiming that you are their mother. And because, when you're suffering the indignity of looking like the aforementioned beached whale, the "accretion formally known as Leslie", at least your undies will look pretty.
Signed,
Yourself.
The Pictures You Know You Long to See, Part 2
This is, quite obviously, the appropriate use of your father's underwear.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Pictures You Know You Long To See, part 1
Cuteness.
This was a trio of (obviously) matching tee shirts given at Christmas by aunt Erica and uncle Darren, whose trip to a Disney establishment (if I remember correctly) prompted the purchase of these matching tees. Cole has shown some dismay at not being able to wear the "Thing 1" shirt (so that he would be #1), nor the "Thing 3" shirt (since he is 3 years old). Sucks to be in the middle sometimes.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Coffee
Having just recorded my wish to avoid hemlock-laced coffee, I am now spurred on to share a realization that I had the other day about my overwhelming addiction to that most honorable beverage.
I say my overwhelming addiction to coffee rather than caffiene because I now believe myself to be over the latter. We spent last week in Springfield visiting family, and I chose that time when good coffee is hard, if not impossible, to find in the homes in which we were staying to get off of caffiene and handle the headaches while grandparents were around.
After all, my doctor had mentioned that caffiene was not a good choice for a migraine sufferer, as it is a well-known headache trigger. I wasn't entirely disturbed by this news, since I like coffee much more than I like caffiene, and I palate decaf relatively well. But I will admit being a bit confused by my sensitivity to caffiene. I really never drank more than two cups a day. Really. I mean, when I was pregnant I was always told that that was an entirely acceptable amount to drink (although I was always too chicken), and have been told by many other medical professionals that that particular amount of coffee was fine. Just two cups. So why all of the headaches? The jitters that came on even when I had eaten? Did coffee *gulp* hate me?
I was pondering this as I was dumping the (decaf) grounds out of my french press yesterday. In doing this I also thought about my habit of pushing the plunger only halfway down when I get the first cup, so that the second cup can continue to get really good and gritty and dark. And how I leave it in the press for a LOOOOONNNNNGGGGG time so that it's really, really dark. And how I like dark coffee so much that if it weren't entirely texturally gross, I'd probably eat coffee beans.
And then I realized that the way that I'm making coffee, I'm drinking what is probably the equivalent of 7-8 espresso shots at a time.
Yeah, that'll do it.
I say my overwhelming addiction to coffee rather than caffiene because I now believe myself to be over the latter. We spent last week in Springfield visiting family, and I chose that time when good coffee is hard, if not impossible, to find in the homes in which we were staying to get off of caffiene and handle the headaches while grandparents were around.
After all, my doctor had mentioned that caffiene was not a good choice for a migraine sufferer, as it is a well-known headache trigger. I wasn't entirely disturbed by this news, since I like coffee much more than I like caffiene, and I palate decaf relatively well. But I will admit being a bit confused by my sensitivity to caffiene. I really never drank more than two cups a day. Really. I mean, when I was pregnant I was always told that that was an entirely acceptable amount to drink (although I was always too chicken), and have been told by many other medical professionals that that particular amount of coffee was fine. Just two cups. So why all of the headaches? The jitters that came on even when I had eaten? Did coffee *gulp* hate me?
I was pondering this as I was dumping the (decaf) grounds out of my french press yesterday. In doing this I also thought about my habit of pushing the plunger only halfway down when I get the first cup, so that the second cup can continue to get really good and gritty and dark. And how I leave it in the press for a LOOOOONNNNNGGGGG time so that it's really, really dark. And how I like dark coffee so much that if it weren't entirely texturally gross, I'd probably eat coffee beans.
And then I realized that the way that I'm making coffee, I'm drinking what is probably the equivalent of 7-8 espresso shots at a time.
Yeah, that'll do it.
You Can Call Me Socrates
I've decided that the problem with teaching is the grading.
I mean, showing up somewhere and talking for awhile is something that I do rather naturally all the time. Yes, the problem is the grading. And I suppose that it wouldn' t be such a big deal if I only had the students who write the extremely readable and factually correct papers all the time, but uh, none of us have more than a couple of those in any given class.
If we are lucky.
So in my fantasy career world, I am much more like a Socrates, with followers who come to sit at my feet, to hear what I have to say, and then we all engage in a rousing discussion. And what wisdom we come up with! How we resolve the world's problems! And there would be coffee, lots of coffee, and some sort of other yummy snack always around.
Oh, but not the "Socrates, you corrupted the minds of the youth of Greece, so we will kill you" part. Yeah, not so hot on hemlock in my coffee.
And this is why I keep grading.
I mean, showing up somewhere and talking for awhile is something that I do rather naturally all the time. Yes, the problem is the grading. And I suppose that it wouldn' t be such a big deal if I only had the students who write the extremely readable and factually correct papers all the time, but uh, none of us have more than a couple of those in any given class.
If we are lucky.
So in my fantasy career world, I am much more like a Socrates, with followers who come to sit at my feet, to hear what I have to say, and then we all engage in a rousing discussion. And what wisdom we come up with! How we resolve the world's problems! And there would be coffee, lots of coffee, and some sort of other yummy snack always around.
Oh, but not the "Socrates, you corrupted the minds of the youth of Greece, so we will kill you" part. Yeah, not so hot on hemlock in my coffee.
And this is why I keep grading.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Clean Bill
I'm sure you will join me in celebrating my clean bill of health, the call from the doctor's office that indicated that my brain was normal.
Or to paraphrase my mother, "Your brain is not normal. It's just not growing anything."
Thank you, mother.
Or to paraphrase my mother, "Your brain is not normal. It's just not growing anything."
Thank you, mother.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
I'm Done! With Galaga
So I'm back home, having just been MRI-ed and otherwise traumatized. But interestingly, the MRI wasn't the majority of the trauma.
Yesterday's post, as you might remember, briefly discussed my anxiety over the MRI and its possible (but not probable) bad results. Shortly after writing that, in the 13.5 minutes when all three children were sleeping at the same time, I had a rather frightening "attack" of....something? The numbness in my face spread up higher than it ever had (up to my nose), and my fingers grew numb. This was followed by a rather robust headache within half an hour, which although uncomfortable, was, honestly, reassuring, as this is much more "migraine-like" than "scary stuff" like. I called the doctor, who seemed relatively settled that I wasn't having a stroke. After all, both sides of my mouth went up when I smiled! Yet despite the power of my symmetrical smile, I felt out of commission for most of the day.
So while I managed to get some knitting done and the dishwasher loaded (ACCOMPLISHMENT!), I spent most of yesterday being a slug. That night around dinner time, Cole started complaining about an earache. That is *never* good, and *always* means that an ear infection is brewing. Neither of my black market pediatricians -- ie, my ped. friends from whom I can mooch information and services -- have/can find their otoscopes, so one of these kind souls called in a prescription for a lidocaine solution meant specifically for the ears so that if this was what I thought it was, we wouldn't be up all night.
Well, we were up all night anyway.
Poor Cole was absolutely miserable. Just beside himself, really. He cried and thrashed and tossed and turned, pawing miserably at that left ear that just won't stop giving him trouble. By this morning he complained of trouble breathing. Where I had been content to see if the ear infection would resolve itself without a trip to the doctor, I was not so content with pneumonia (which he had 4 weeks ago), and we coasted into the doctor's office at 9:45, the earliest they could get us in.
Keep in mind that a babysitter was originally supposed to come at 10, and I was supposed to be at the hospital for the MRI at 11: 15.
The doctor's office moved surprisingly quickly, and after finding that Cole had double ear infections, and Micah had one too ( a very bad one, it turns out!), we left with prescriptions for three ears and two boys. We cut across the street to Target for what should have been a quick in and out prescription filling event, and I even told the pharmacist that we were in a terrible hurry and that if the meds couldn't be filled promptly we would go somewhere else -- that was fine, we just needed to know up front. I was assured that we would be in and out the door in 15 minutes.
So 25 minutes later we finally get the drugs, and I'm approaching a frantic state because the babysitter, who was waiting at our house, was 15 minutes away, and it was 11:00. And I had to be at the hospital at 11:15. In other words, best case scenario I would be 15 minutes late. So I called the babysitter, who met us at the hospital, and who took the kids to a nearby shopping center to feed and otherwise amuse them (I *love* good babysitters....*love* *love* *love*). And with that, having relinquished car keys, children, and vehicle, I went inside to get zapped.
The problem was that the receptionist checking outpatient people in was sloooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww as molasses, so slow that she was still working on the same woman 25 minutes after I walked in. I attempted to remain calm and un-grumbly about this until the MRI people started calling down to her to ask if I was there. After all, I was supposed to be with them. Not to hold a grudge or anything, but I could have made it home from Target, fed the children, cleaned the house, planted some annual seeds, stood around to watch them sprout, and then made it back in plenty of time before she finally got to me. By then it was almost noon. And by then I remembered that in my rush to get Cole to the doctor, I had forgotten to eat. This might explain why I felt a headache coming on. Or maybe it was that I hadn't slept?
So after I was "processed"at the speed of a turtle, and had a hospital band placed around my arm (I really hate those. They induce such a patient mentality by their very presence), I went back to radiology. Where they reminded me that I would be having an injection of a chemical dye to make the contrast on the MRI better. Which is not compatible with nursing.
Are you kidding me? Could this have been mentioned BEFORE HAND?
So after I clarify with the radiologist how long this stuff stays in my system, and come up with a plan to hold off Micah for 24 hours, and look suitably grumpy over that lack of shared information, and then apologize for said grumpiness, explaining that my son was up all night with an earache, and then stood and wondered to myself whether I should have apologized, I entered the MRI room itself.
I'm telling you. It's exhausting to be me.
Happily, this MRI machine was much shorter than the one that I was in 10 years ago -- that one encompassed my entire body in a tube that made me pray and bargain with deities. But this didn't look nearly as bad. Next I was asked whether I wanted music, or earplugs? The MRI machine is, after all, extremely loud.
Here I was caught in a horrible catch-22, for the earplugs could easily give the feeling of being squeezed, confined; at the very least they could exacerbate the pressure that was in my head from the headache I had brewing. And believe me, when you're already facing being stuck in a tube, you don'twant multiple layers of other sorts of squeezing going on. On the other hand, music? What if it was too loud? Or just *awful*? She explained that the music choices weren't great, but here's the list that I remember:
Big Band
Frank Sinatra
Counting Crows
Tim McGraw
Enya
Johnny Cash
Quite an eclectic bunch, don't you think? I voted Enya.
What I did not know at that moment was that the Enya recording they were using was one that a friend had copied from another friend's mom from two separate cassette tapes that were partially unwound in 1985 but that someone had managed to put back together with a pencil and some ingenuity in 1986. So my muffly-Enya-d self was pushed into the tube. And by golly, it seems that either I was deaf during my previous MRI, or all of the claustrophobic anxiety caused me to completely forget the sound.
THE. SOUND.
You know, i'm sort of glad for the sound, because it was such a bizarre experience that I spent most of my time in the tube thinking about how I might describe it to you. Really. Words that come to mind include "air horn/air raid", "jackhammer" "construction in your house while you're trying to sleep", and my favorite "every sound from Galaga, happening right inside your head."
Here's what it was like:
~~~~~~~enya~~~~~~~ (muffled) sail away, sail away, sail away ~~~~~~~enya (static)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JACK HAMMER! WAKE UP! THERE'S A BOMB COMING! AND WE'RE TEARING DOWN THE WALL! JACK HAMMER! DUCK! YOU'RE BEING SHOT AT WITH COMPUTER GRAPHICS! ~~~~~~~~~~(static) enya~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After this interesting auditory experience, I entered the Galaga free world, to find, waiting in the parking lot, the lovely babysitter Lindsey with my three children. The two whose ears hurt looked like they'd been shot, but their spirits were decent. The third, who was scheming how she might get me to purchase a personalized diary for her that she'd seen while out with Lindsey, peppered me with questions about how much money she had saved, and how she thought such a purchase just *might* be feasible!
And with that, life went on.
Yesterday's post, as you might remember, briefly discussed my anxiety over the MRI and its possible (but not probable) bad results. Shortly after writing that, in the 13.5 minutes when all three children were sleeping at the same time, I had a rather frightening "attack" of....something? The numbness in my face spread up higher than it ever had (up to my nose), and my fingers grew numb. This was followed by a rather robust headache within half an hour, which although uncomfortable, was, honestly, reassuring, as this is much more "migraine-like" than "scary stuff" like. I called the doctor, who seemed relatively settled that I wasn't having a stroke. After all, both sides of my mouth went up when I smiled! Yet despite the power of my symmetrical smile, I felt out of commission for most of the day.
So while I managed to get some knitting done and the dishwasher loaded (ACCOMPLISHMENT!), I spent most of yesterday being a slug. That night around dinner time, Cole started complaining about an earache. That is *never* good, and *always* means that an ear infection is brewing. Neither of my black market pediatricians -- ie, my ped. friends from whom I can mooch information and services -- have/can find their otoscopes, so one of these kind souls called in a prescription for a lidocaine solution meant specifically for the ears so that if this was what I thought it was, we wouldn't be up all night.
Well, we were up all night anyway.
Poor Cole was absolutely miserable. Just beside himself, really. He cried and thrashed and tossed and turned, pawing miserably at that left ear that just won't stop giving him trouble. By this morning he complained of trouble breathing. Where I had been content to see if the ear infection would resolve itself without a trip to the doctor, I was not so content with pneumonia (which he had 4 weeks ago), and we coasted into the doctor's office at 9:45, the earliest they could get us in.
Keep in mind that a babysitter was originally supposed to come at 10, and I was supposed to be at the hospital for the MRI at 11: 15.
The doctor's office moved surprisingly quickly, and after finding that Cole had double ear infections, and Micah had one too ( a very bad one, it turns out!), we left with prescriptions for three ears and two boys. We cut across the street to Target for what should have been a quick in and out prescription filling event, and I even told the pharmacist that we were in a terrible hurry and that if the meds couldn't be filled promptly we would go somewhere else -- that was fine, we just needed to know up front. I was assured that we would be in and out the door in 15 minutes.
So 25 minutes later we finally get the drugs, and I'm approaching a frantic state because the babysitter, who was waiting at our house, was 15 minutes away, and it was 11:00. And I had to be at the hospital at 11:15. In other words, best case scenario I would be 15 minutes late. So I called the babysitter, who met us at the hospital, and who took the kids to a nearby shopping center to feed and otherwise amuse them (I *love* good babysitters....*love* *love* *love*). And with that, having relinquished car keys, children, and vehicle, I went inside to get zapped.
The problem was that the receptionist checking outpatient people in was sloooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww as molasses, so slow that she was still working on the same woman 25 minutes after I walked in. I attempted to remain calm and un-grumbly about this until the MRI people started calling down to her to ask if I was there. After all, I was supposed to be with them. Not to hold a grudge or anything, but I could have made it home from Target, fed the children, cleaned the house, planted some annual seeds, stood around to watch them sprout, and then made it back in plenty of time before she finally got to me. By then it was almost noon. And by then I remembered that in my rush to get Cole to the doctor, I had forgotten to eat. This might explain why I felt a headache coming on. Or maybe it was that I hadn't slept?
So after I was "processed"at the speed of a turtle, and had a hospital band placed around my arm (I really hate those. They induce such a patient mentality by their very presence), I went back to radiology. Where they reminded me that I would be having an injection of a chemical dye to make the contrast on the MRI better. Which is not compatible with nursing.
Are you kidding me? Could this have been mentioned BEFORE HAND?
So after I clarify with the radiologist how long this stuff stays in my system, and come up with a plan to hold off Micah for 24 hours, and look suitably grumpy over that lack of shared information, and then apologize for said grumpiness, explaining that my son was up all night with an earache, and then stood and wondered to myself whether I should have apologized, I entered the MRI room itself.
I'm telling you. It's exhausting to be me.
Happily, this MRI machine was much shorter than the one that I was in 10 years ago -- that one encompassed my entire body in a tube that made me pray and bargain with deities. But this didn't look nearly as bad. Next I was asked whether I wanted music, or earplugs? The MRI machine is, after all, extremely loud.
Here I was caught in a horrible catch-22, for the earplugs could easily give the feeling of being squeezed, confined; at the very least they could exacerbate the pressure that was in my head from the headache I had brewing. And believe me, when you're already facing being stuck in a tube, you don'twant multiple layers of other sorts of squeezing going on. On the other hand, music? What if it was too loud? Or just *awful*? She explained that the music choices weren't great, but here's the list that I remember:
Big Band
Frank Sinatra
Counting Crows
Tim McGraw
Enya
Johnny Cash
Quite an eclectic bunch, don't you think? I voted Enya.
What I did not know at that moment was that the Enya recording they were using was one that a friend had copied from another friend's mom from two separate cassette tapes that were partially unwound in 1985 but that someone had managed to put back together with a pencil and some ingenuity in 1986. So my muffly-Enya-d self was pushed into the tube. And by golly, it seems that either I was deaf during my previous MRI, or all of the claustrophobic anxiety caused me to completely forget the sound.
THE. SOUND.
You know, i'm sort of glad for the sound, because it was such a bizarre experience that I spent most of my time in the tube thinking about how I might describe it to you. Really. Words that come to mind include "air horn/air raid", "jackhammer" "construction in your house while you're trying to sleep", and my favorite "every sound from Galaga, happening right inside your head."
Here's what it was like:
~~~~~~~enya~~~~~~~ (muffled) sail away, sail away, sail away ~~~~~~~enya (static)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JACK HAMMER! WAKE UP! THERE'S A BOMB COMING! AND WE'RE TEARING DOWN THE WALL! JACK HAMMER! DUCK! YOU'RE BEING SHOT AT WITH COMPUTER GRAPHICS! ~~~~~~~~~~(static) enya~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After this interesting auditory experience, I entered the Galaga free world, to find, waiting in the parking lot, the lovely babysitter Lindsey with my three children. The two whose ears hurt looked like they'd been shot, but their spirits were decent. The third, who was scheming how she might get me to purchase a personalized diary for her that she'd seen while out with Lindsey, peppered me with questions about how much money she had saved, and how she thought such a purchase just *might* be feasible!
And with that, life went on.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Scared
There is always a certain paranoia that accompanies the unknown, I guess, and at least in my mind, this paranoia proliferates under the influence of my very robust imagination. If there's anything that I do well, it's imagining worst case scenarios.
With that on the table, tomorrow I have an MRI to make sure that I don't have a brain tumor. I have been assured that I probably do not have such a tumor (or "the scary stuff," as my doctor as called it), and that the flashes of light and numbness in my face and lips that have come on over the past five months are more likely the result of "migrainous events" rather than uninvited tumor cells.
But it still leaves me a bit panciky and undeniably morose. After my doctor's visit the other day, during which I desperately hoped that she would find a very easy answer for these symptoms, I left feeling like things were spiraling out of control. FOR PETE'S SAKE? If "go get an MRI" means that things are spiraling out of control, what does actual bad news mean? That reason implodes?
Maybe. I'm hoping I don't find out. I'm also hoping that I become more of a realist, reign in my active imagination, get on with life today, and load the dishwasher. But for now I think I'll be content with drinking more coffee, knitting, and neglecting the children until they are either a) bleeding or b) screaming.
Now *that* is a rational plan.
With that on the table, tomorrow I have an MRI to make sure that I don't have a brain tumor. I have been assured that I probably do not have such a tumor (or "the scary stuff," as my doctor as called it), and that the flashes of light and numbness in my face and lips that have come on over the past five months are more likely the result of "migrainous events" rather than uninvited tumor cells.
But it still leaves me a bit panciky and undeniably morose. After my doctor's visit the other day, during which I desperately hoped that she would find a very easy answer for these symptoms, I left feeling like things were spiraling out of control. FOR PETE'S SAKE? If "go get an MRI" means that things are spiraling out of control, what does actual bad news mean? That reason implodes?
Maybe. I'm hoping I don't find out. I'm also hoping that I become more of a realist, reign in my active imagination, get on with life today, and load the dishwasher. But for now I think I'll be content with drinking more coffee, knitting, and neglecting the children until they are either a) bleeding or b) screaming.
Now *that* is a rational plan.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A BAND OF ROBBERS!
In response to a rash of overly-aggressive play, Cole's teacher informed me today that she was going to crack down on some of the overall negativity that has pervaded her little preschool room. I was assured that Cole wasn't one of the ones who was actually being aggressive to other people, but apparently he's quite the follower when it comes to angry pretend-play.
My tolerance for aggression and overall negativity in our house is low. I mean, superlow, sometimes low enough that I wonder whether I might not be letting our kids work something out that they need to express. So while I've attempted to be a bit more laid back about that, I will not back off on my feeling that pretending to harm or kill others is not acceptable, nor is saying things to others that is intended specifically to hurt them (either physically or mentally).
So today when Cole's teacher informed me of this shift in her classroom I welcomed the news, in part because it's really hard to get that under control in your own house when your child goes to school and, naturally, finds it very hard to resist playing such games with his peers who are doing it. "Consistency in discipline! You will be mine!" I thought.
With that, as we climbed in the car, it seemed a good time to address the loads of "I don't like you and I wish you weren't my brother/sister!" that we've been hearing quite a lot of lately. I mentioned that in light of the changes that were going on in Cole's classroom, it might be time to take on some of those same changes at home. After all, I commented, we are a family who wants to be known for the fact that we are helpful, not hurtful (this is the criteria that we often use when faced with a moral decision, btw.....). "We want to be known as the helpful Smiths, not the hurtful Smiths", I said. Then, attempting to drive the point home, I asked, "After all, if we're not helpful, what does that make us?"
At this juncture, I expected my daughter and elder son, who are both extremely good with the concept of opposites, and who are both known for their extraordinary abilities to pick up on subtleties far beyond their ages, to chime in "HURTFUL!", the natural opposite of helpful. For Pete's sake, I'd already set them up for the answer. And it was the ultimate no-brainer.
Cole had no response, looking at me with vacuous, tired post-school eyes. I'll give him that, he's always tired after school. But Annemarie, who never is tired when it's time to be, simply rolled her eyes as if she was too good for this conversation, and answered, "Robbers?"
Robbers?
My tolerance for aggression and overall negativity in our house is low. I mean, superlow, sometimes low enough that I wonder whether I might not be letting our kids work something out that they need to express. So while I've attempted to be a bit more laid back about that, I will not back off on my feeling that pretending to harm or kill others is not acceptable, nor is saying things to others that is intended specifically to hurt them (either physically or mentally).
So today when Cole's teacher informed me of this shift in her classroom I welcomed the news, in part because it's really hard to get that under control in your own house when your child goes to school and, naturally, finds it very hard to resist playing such games with his peers who are doing it. "Consistency in discipline! You will be mine!" I thought.
With that, as we climbed in the car, it seemed a good time to address the loads of "I don't like you and I wish you weren't my brother/sister!" that we've been hearing quite a lot of lately. I mentioned that in light of the changes that were going on in Cole's classroom, it might be time to take on some of those same changes at home. After all, I commented, we are a family who wants to be known for the fact that we are helpful, not hurtful (this is the criteria that we often use when faced with a moral decision, btw.....). "We want to be known as the helpful Smiths, not the hurtful Smiths", I said. Then, attempting to drive the point home, I asked, "After all, if we're not helpful, what does that make us?"
At this juncture, I expected my daughter and elder son, who are both extremely good with the concept of opposites, and who are both known for their extraordinary abilities to pick up on subtleties far beyond their ages, to chime in "HURTFUL!", the natural opposite of helpful. For Pete's sake, I'd already set them up for the answer. And it was the ultimate no-brainer.
Cole had no response, looking at me with vacuous, tired post-school eyes. I'll give him that, he's always tired after school. But Annemarie, who never is tired when it's time to be, simply rolled her eyes as if she was too good for this conversation, and answered, "Robbers?"
Robbers?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Revelation
I like our church. A bunch. And one reason I like it is that, unlike almost every other church I've attended in my life, it doesn't make me mad to be there. In fact, when we moved here we almost joined a church that I thought I liked because I felt at home there. But then I realized that the "at home" feeling was really the "pissed off" feeling. It had just become so normal to be pissed off that I mistook it for something good.
Yes, our church is a study in progessive orthodoxy, to put it simply. Led by a pastor named Heather (rather than someone named something like the Rev. Walter T. Glockenspiel, Jr. -- my apologies to the real Rev. Glockenspiel, wherever he is), it is openly committed to racial, economic, and cultural justice and diversity in a county known for its lack of all of these things, for its advocacy of separation of church and state (*sigh of relief*), and for the ways that it seeks to be imaginative and progressive and creative and open and interesting and intelligent. I *like* all of those adjectives. And it is still a flavor of Baptist, although you can probably guess that it's not exactly the conservative kind. In fact, it is precisely not the conservative kind, although it remains so truly respectful of the beautiful aspects of Christianity that it would be hard to call it anything but orthodox. So how's progressive orthodox sound?
Take, for example, a retreat that I attended this weekend, which was a lovely thing to behold in many ways. Good friends handled the music, which was lovely, and which was modeled after monastic chants. Children, cared for by babysitters (HURRAY! FREE BABYSITTERS!) bantered in and out, and were made a welcome part of all that went on. And everyone was glad that they were there. And some even told them so, personally offering them blessings and telling them how special they are.
We practiced praying and meditating with icons, colors, mandalas, labyrinths, and many other forms, and Jungian psychology, the Eucharist, scriptural meditations, guided imagery, God-as-female, and other items not so frequently discussed in Christian churches were happily introduced and embraced. And there was coffee (it was church coffee, so it tasted like dirt, but at least it was warm?), and good food, and I ate approximately 14 cookies.
And I brought my knitting and worked on a sweater while listening to the goings-on, and a friend leading the event remarked on the Benedictine nature of working with the hands as a religious affair, and everyone else admired the lovely Malabrigo silky merino that I'm working with, which in its variegated blue-green-yellow-purple self (something someone likened to a Van Gogh), is a prayer in color all its own. And the always terrific pastor Heather did what she usually does -- runs around, in, over, and under things and takes pictures -- and made sure that both my children and sweater made an appearance in the photos.
Yes, Heather is my friend :).
But I was arrested -- and I truly believe that there might not be a better word -- by a time that we shared this morning, during which we were challenged to take the theme of the weekend ("Brokenness and Blessing") personally by sharing with others the way that we wish we would have been blessed as a child, but weren't. There was also the other option of sharing how you actually were blessed as a child, but interestingly, few people offered that. It seems that everyone had a hurt to share. Now before you sigh and throw this off as another sappy excuse for Christian pop psychology, let me say that this time was led by a group of very educated theologians and otherwise intelligent and religiously diverse and aware people. In other words, this wasn't exactly a Christian Jr. High camp meeting, the success of which is almost always measured by how many people cry and subsequently get saved. No, that wasn't the ambiance at all.
My arrestedness was/is the result of one woman's utterance to me, a woman who I would guess is in her late 60s or early 70s, someone who undoubtedly has had sufficient time to have plenty of perspective on life. This was the first time I'd met her. This woman, K, revealed in an almost-whisper that she wished she had heard as a child that it was OK that she was a girl. Her dad had wanted a boy, she said.
And I sucked in my breath. Literally. And then I started crying.
I'm a semi-sobber, I will admit. This is a tendency that has grown since I've had children, since the world seems all the more tinged with poignancy and emotion. I could do nothing more at this moment, though, than to remember how scared I had been when, pregnant with Cole, I found out that he was a boy. Not to get TMI on you, but I didn't exactly grow up with the greatest healthy male role models. Or come to think of it, ANY healthy male role models. Marrying Brian didn't scare me, for some reason, perhaps because he's so different than any of my man-family. But producing a boy that would share the genetics of the man-family -- now THAT was a scary prospect.
But enough of that. Obviously I knew that there was a good chance of getting a boy when getting pregnant! I just hadn't internalized it. And for those of you who know Cole, and me and Cole together, you know that it is quite the love affair: he is a most sensitive, funny, and lovely person whose presence makes my life immeasurably wonderful. He is, in short, amazing.
But when he was a fetus, I was friggin' scared of him. In great part this was for what he might become ("the bad guys"), but in another way it was for the ways I might harm him if I couldn't pull myself together. Yes, for an instant it seems that I saw what might have become of Cole had those magical mothering instincts of mine not kicked in, the fear-made-flesh of all of my pregnancy woes made manifest in a 70 year old woman, the mourning that she experienced for an inadequacy that could never be fixed.
Now I certainly am not trying to make the woman out to be a basket-case -- she wasn't. She was a woman sharing what is, sadly, a rather normal sort of hurt. Would you be surprised to know that a very significant number of this group (ranging in age from 30s-70s?) mentioned their fathers as part of this lack-of-blessing? I for one, was not.
So thinking of your parenting in terms of what your kids need.....and the difference between this and what you give.......now that's an interesting exercise.
Yes, our church is a study in progessive orthodoxy, to put it simply. Led by a pastor named Heather (rather than someone named something like the Rev. Walter T. Glockenspiel, Jr. -- my apologies to the real Rev. Glockenspiel, wherever he is), it is openly committed to racial, economic, and cultural justice and diversity in a county known for its lack of all of these things, for its advocacy of separation of church and state (*sigh of relief*), and for the ways that it seeks to be imaginative and progressive and creative and open and interesting and intelligent. I *like* all of those adjectives. And it is still a flavor of Baptist, although you can probably guess that it's not exactly the conservative kind. In fact, it is precisely not the conservative kind, although it remains so truly respectful of the beautiful aspects of Christianity that it would be hard to call it anything but orthodox. So how's progressive orthodox sound?
Take, for example, a retreat that I attended this weekend, which was a lovely thing to behold in many ways. Good friends handled the music, which was lovely, and which was modeled after monastic chants. Children, cared for by babysitters (HURRAY! FREE BABYSITTERS!) bantered in and out, and were made a welcome part of all that went on. And everyone was glad that they were there. And some even told them so, personally offering them blessings and telling them how special they are.
We practiced praying and meditating with icons, colors, mandalas, labyrinths, and many other forms, and Jungian psychology, the Eucharist, scriptural meditations, guided imagery, God-as-female, and other items not so frequently discussed in Christian churches were happily introduced and embraced. And there was coffee (it was church coffee, so it tasted like dirt, but at least it was warm?), and good food, and I ate approximately 14 cookies.
And I brought my knitting and worked on a sweater while listening to the goings-on, and a friend leading the event remarked on the Benedictine nature of working with the hands as a religious affair, and everyone else admired the lovely Malabrigo silky merino that I'm working with, which in its variegated blue-green-yellow-purple self (something someone likened to a Van Gogh), is a prayer in color all its own. And the always terrific pastor Heather did what she usually does -- runs around, in, over, and under things and takes pictures -- and made sure that both my children and sweater made an appearance in the photos.
Yes, Heather is my friend :).
But I was arrested -- and I truly believe that there might not be a better word -- by a time that we shared this morning, during which we were challenged to take the theme of the weekend ("Brokenness and Blessing") personally by sharing with others the way that we wish we would have been blessed as a child, but weren't. There was also the other option of sharing how you actually were blessed as a child, but interestingly, few people offered that. It seems that everyone had a hurt to share. Now before you sigh and throw this off as another sappy excuse for Christian pop psychology, let me say that this time was led by a group of very educated theologians and otherwise intelligent and religiously diverse and aware people. In other words, this wasn't exactly a Christian Jr. High camp meeting, the success of which is almost always measured by how many people cry and subsequently get saved. No, that wasn't the ambiance at all.
My arrestedness was/is the result of one woman's utterance to me, a woman who I would guess is in her late 60s or early 70s, someone who undoubtedly has had sufficient time to have plenty of perspective on life. This was the first time I'd met her. This woman, K, revealed in an almost-whisper that she wished she had heard as a child that it was OK that she was a girl. Her dad had wanted a boy, she said.
And I sucked in my breath. Literally. And then I started crying.
I'm a semi-sobber, I will admit. This is a tendency that has grown since I've had children, since the world seems all the more tinged with poignancy and emotion. I could do nothing more at this moment, though, than to remember how scared I had been when, pregnant with Cole, I found out that he was a boy. Not to get TMI on you, but I didn't exactly grow up with the greatest healthy male role models. Or come to think of it, ANY healthy male role models. Marrying Brian didn't scare me, for some reason, perhaps because he's so different than any of my man-family. But producing a boy that would share the genetics of the man-family -- now THAT was a scary prospect.
But enough of that. Obviously I knew that there was a good chance of getting a boy when getting pregnant! I just hadn't internalized it. And for those of you who know Cole, and me and Cole together, you know that it is quite the love affair: he is a most sensitive, funny, and lovely person whose presence makes my life immeasurably wonderful. He is, in short, amazing.
But when he was a fetus, I was friggin' scared of him. In great part this was for what he might become ("the bad guys"), but in another way it was for the ways I might harm him if I couldn't pull myself together. Yes, for an instant it seems that I saw what might have become of Cole had those magical mothering instincts of mine not kicked in, the fear-made-flesh of all of my pregnancy woes made manifest in a 70 year old woman, the mourning that she experienced for an inadequacy that could never be fixed.
Now I certainly am not trying to make the woman out to be a basket-case -- she wasn't. She was a woman sharing what is, sadly, a rather normal sort of hurt. Would you be surprised to know that a very significant number of this group (ranging in age from 30s-70s?) mentioned their fathers as part of this lack-of-blessing? I for one, was not.
So thinking of your parenting in terms of what your kids need.....and the difference between this and what you give.......now that's an interesting exercise.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Superhero
I often think of a clever thing that Jovi used to have at the bottom of her email, which went something like "I make milk. What' s your superpower?" The first time I read this I just rolled with laughter, primarily because it was so validating, so descriptive of that strange absurdity (is there any other kind?) that I felt when I realized that my body could single-handedly sustain each of my children for years, collectively. There is, in fact, a breastfeeding book entitled "How My Breasts Saved the World", and I must say that the title isn't anything if it isn't accurate.
I. CAN. FEED. ENTIRE. VILLAGES!
Okay, so enough of the power trip. I say all that, though, to remark on other superpowers that I have been more impressed with as of late. Don't get me wrong. The milk thing is major. But now that I'm on my umpteenth year of nursing, and have a fairly good handle on how it works, I am more amazed by my ability to do other things that don't make much sense to me at all.
Take, for instance, my superhuman sense of hearing. Perhaps other parents out there have it, but I never fail to be impressed with how I can hear the smallest bit of mischief going on in the most remote part of the house furthest from where I currently am. My "middle of the night" ears are also astounding in the fact that they can hear the smallest whimper through closed doors, 1 floor apart (Brian will tell you that they're not always well-functioning ears, since he had to rescue a screaming Micah from his crib last night at 4 AM when I didn't get up to go to him. Dude. I heard him. I just was refusing to move.)
And my sniffer is working pretty well, too. I can always smell a dirty diaper before anyone else, and lately I've been able to detect absolute micro-particles of baby powder with relative speed, mere seconds after one of the older children has opened the bottle and squeezed it hard, always one and sometimes two floors from where I am (Which reminds me to ask why we *own* baby powder, which is used for nothing but these powder bombs. And can be unsafe if you breathe it in. There's my obligatory health warning).
I can also do a host of other parent tricks, like predict the actual numeric value of a fever with the palm of my hand. But I am most proud of a pseudo-superpower, which I like to call "The Ability to See Through Children and Their Motives with the Speed of a Cheetah." It doesn't hurt that my children are rather transparent in their guilt. This is why I label this a mere "pseudo-superpower": they're terrible liars. Like their father.
This is good for me.
Off to brew my morning superpotion and ponder my greatness.
I. CAN. FEED. ENTIRE. VILLAGES!
Okay, so enough of the power trip. I say all that, though, to remark on other superpowers that I have been more impressed with as of late. Don't get me wrong. The milk thing is major. But now that I'm on my umpteenth year of nursing, and have a fairly good handle on how it works, I am more amazed by my ability to do other things that don't make much sense to me at all.
Take, for instance, my superhuman sense of hearing. Perhaps other parents out there have it, but I never fail to be impressed with how I can hear the smallest bit of mischief going on in the most remote part of the house furthest from where I currently am. My "middle of the night" ears are also astounding in the fact that they can hear the smallest whimper through closed doors, 1 floor apart (Brian will tell you that they're not always well-functioning ears, since he had to rescue a screaming Micah from his crib last night at 4 AM when I didn't get up to go to him. Dude. I heard him. I just was refusing to move.)
And my sniffer is working pretty well, too. I can always smell a dirty diaper before anyone else, and lately I've been able to detect absolute micro-particles of baby powder with relative speed, mere seconds after one of the older children has opened the bottle and squeezed it hard, always one and sometimes two floors from where I am (Which reminds me to ask why we *own* baby powder, which is used for nothing but these powder bombs. And can be unsafe if you breathe it in. There's my obligatory health warning).
I can also do a host of other parent tricks, like predict the actual numeric value of a fever with the palm of my hand. But I am most proud of a pseudo-superpower, which I like to call "The Ability to See Through Children and Their Motives with the Speed of a Cheetah." It doesn't hurt that my children are rather transparent in their guilt. This is why I label this a mere "pseudo-superpower": they're terrible liars. Like their father.
This is good for me.
Off to brew my morning superpotion and ponder my greatness.
Communication Breakthrough
I have this fantasy....a musing that's passed through my head on more than one occasion. In said fantasy I am in my car and I'm able to communicate with other cars via something akin to a mobile billboard, but I'm able to change the content at will. In essence, this allows me to "text" other cars from a "screen" attached to my car. It would be the way that cars talk, in other words.
Don't think about the safety issues now, my friends. Those are mere bugs to be worked out.
There would be the usual stuff you'd want to say to someone, the "turn your lights on" or the "Watch it, Buster!" or perhaps the "BABY ON BOARD!" that you already see on so many cars; in this sense, I suppose you could also liken this device to a completely dynamic bumper sticker. But in my mental world I always use this device to provide the world with a dose of completely profound social commentary and other glimpses of my all-around acumen.
Take, for instance, something I saw the other day. It was an absolutely bitterly cold day, with highs no greater than 10 or so degrees. Just really awful. In fact, it was one of those deliriously frigid days that made me think that it would be better to be lying homeless on the beach with a campfire and some canned food than to enjoy home ownership. But I digress. As I am prone to do.
Anyway, on this day I had to get out to the store, and had all three kids with me. After finishing the shopping and getting everyone piled back into the car (and believe me, three kids in coats/blankets are about 8 million times harder to get into the car than three kids without outerwear....), and breathing a literal sigh of relief that that chore was done, I saw something so startling that I laughed out loud.
Leaving the liquor store that shares a parking lot with the grocery store was a very large woman with tremendous bosoms wearing an even more tremendous fur coat. To give you an accurate picture, this coat was of the wooly-mammoth variety. Held one under each arm, football style, were two of those GINORMOUS wine bottles that I have always been convinced are just for display in liquor store windows; they literally scream "If I really am filled with wine then I am too large to pour and must be decanted into approximately 4,560 vessels! ".
Did I mention that she was sprinting across the parking lot? As much as a large body, tremendous bosoms, the pelt of a paleolithic animal, and a grand total of 10 feet of wine bottle allow?
Between the dark fur coat and the dark bottles, each one nestled to the side of the aforementioned ample bosoms, she literally looked like a furry, four-boobed animal running through the parking lot. She was flat out running, bosoms heaving, wine bottles-acting-as-two-more-boobs bouncing along.
Now yes, it was cold. And I can see the quickened pace as a response to this. But at this moment I desired the portable social commentary machine (gotta think of a better name for that) so that I could satiate this urge to scream something out the window about how all of that alcohol wasn't going to help with this cold situation. Yes, I could post that on the social commentary machine, or perhaps something about how you should not run with ginormous wine bottles, particularly when one is not so athletic as it is. Come to think of it, I don't think that you should run with regular-sized wine bottles, no matter your size or athleticism, but that's another day's blog.
That my urge was to shout a *health warning* in this situation that otherwise contained so much humor value, that was so rich with other possible headlines to place on the social commentary machine, is but a mere indication of the fact that I'm both guilty and nice.
But you knew that.
Don't think about the safety issues now, my friends. Those are mere bugs to be worked out.
There would be the usual stuff you'd want to say to someone, the "turn your lights on" or the "Watch it, Buster!" or perhaps the "BABY ON BOARD!" that you already see on so many cars; in this sense, I suppose you could also liken this device to a completely dynamic bumper sticker. But in my mental world I always use this device to provide the world with a dose of completely profound social commentary and other glimpses of my all-around acumen.
Take, for instance, something I saw the other day. It was an absolutely bitterly cold day, with highs no greater than 10 or so degrees. Just really awful. In fact, it was one of those deliriously frigid days that made me think that it would be better to be lying homeless on the beach with a campfire and some canned food than to enjoy home ownership. But I digress. As I am prone to do.
Anyway, on this day I had to get out to the store, and had all three kids with me. After finishing the shopping and getting everyone piled back into the car (and believe me, three kids in coats/blankets are about 8 million times harder to get into the car than three kids without outerwear....), and breathing a literal sigh of relief that that chore was done, I saw something so startling that I laughed out loud.
Leaving the liquor store that shares a parking lot with the grocery store was a very large woman with tremendous bosoms wearing an even more tremendous fur coat. To give you an accurate picture, this coat was of the wooly-mammoth variety. Held one under each arm, football style, were two of those GINORMOUS wine bottles that I have always been convinced are just for display in liquor store windows; they literally scream "If I really am filled with wine then I am too large to pour and must be decanted into approximately 4,560 vessels! ".
Did I mention that she was sprinting across the parking lot? As much as a large body, tremendous bosoms, the pelt of a paleolithic animal, and a grand total of 10 feet of wine bottle allow?
Between the dark fur coat and the dark bottles, each one nestled to the side of the aforementioned ample bosoms, she literally looked like a furry, four-boobed animal running through the parking lot. She was flat out running, bosoms heaving, wine bottles-acting-as-two-more-boobs bouncing along.
Now yes, it was cold. And I can see the quickened pace as a response to this. But at this moment I desired the portable social commentary machine (gotta think of a better name for that) so that I could satiate this urge to scream something out the window about how all of that alcohol wasn't going to help with this cold situation. Yes, I could post that on the social commentary machine, or perhaps something about how you should not run with ginormous wine bottles, particularly when one is not so athletic as it is. Come to think of it, I don't think that you should run with regular-sized wine bottles, no matter your size or athleticism, but that's another day's blog.
That my urge was to shout a *health warning* in this situation that otherwise contained so much humor value, that was so rich with other possible headlines to place on the social commentary machine, is but a mere indication of the fact that I'm both guilty and nice.
But you knew that.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Too Cool for School
Annemarie has become obsessed with her looks lately, and this is both difficult and amusing for me. I have given the speech many times that it is more important to be kind and respectful of others, and to be happy yourself, than it is to live up to impossible and ridiculous social standards, and while she rolls her eyes at me and tells me she knows, I still sense inside that she is very, very much interested in looking like impossible and ridiculous social standards.
I am only heartened by the fact that she is still lacking in enough self-consciousness that she will run through the backyard naked if the situation seems to call for it (which sometimes it does, you know), or that she will be perfectly content to present herself to the public having dressed herself up in a melange of scarves, plastic firefighter gear, and Mardi Gras beads. These are the moments that give me some sort of twisted hope.
But then there are those days when the "I wanna look like that" bug shines through, and this morning was one of those mornings. I had picked out a perfectly nice looking outfit for her, and she shunned it in favor of something similar but a touch more edgy; you see, for reasons that are beyond me, Annemarie now seeks to look like a rock star.
The way that Annemarie mimics rock-stardom is by wearing a headband and putting on a pair of too short jeans that are torn in the knee. This is fine, and if we can continue to be "rock stars" in that way while avoiding the drugs, then I'm happy with this definition of rock star :). So after dressing herself in an outfit that she deemed more appropriate, she remarked:
"I look like a rock star. Like a teenager or a colleger. Do you think anyone will know that I'm in Pre-K?"
No one. No one will ever know.
I am only heartened by the fact that she is still lacking in enough self-consciousness that she will run through the backyard naked if the situation seems to call for it (which sometimes it does, you know), or that she will be perfectly content to present herself to the public having dressed herself up in a melange of scarves, plastic firefighter gear, and Mardi Gras beads. These are the moments that give me some sort of twisted hope.
But then there are those days when the "I wanna look like that" bug shines through, and this morning was one of those mornings. I had picked out a perfectly nice looking outfit for her, and she shunned it in favor of something similar but a touch more edgy; you see, for reasons that are beyond me, Annemarie now seeks to look like a rock star.
The way that Annemarie mimics rock-stardom is by wearing a headband and putting on a pair of too short jeans that are torn in the knee. This is fine, and if we can continue to be "rock stars" in that way while avoiding the drugs, then I'm happy with this definition of rock star :). So after dressing herself in an outfit that she deemed more appropriate, she remarked:
"I look like a rock star. Like a teenager or a colleger. Do you think anyone will know that I'm in Pre-K?"
No one. No one will ever know.
Lactation and its Many Merits
If you know me at all, you know that I am almost always nursing someone.
Let me be more specific -- I keep the nursing to my children, but since I've been nursing a baby/toddler for the past 5.5 years with only about a 3 mo. break in there, it's true that I'm almost always nursing someone. And that's a great thing, imho. Nursing all of my kids till they were around two is one thing I'm very proud of, and I'm not at all a shy nurser -- we nurse anywhere, everywhere, in front of everyone, in every circumstance. I believe -- strongly -- that even in this age where many people do nurse, the startling brevity of most nursing relationships demands that people who feel comfortable doing it pave the way for those who are still learning the lactation ropes. It's just that important to everyone's health and well-being, frankly.
You can thus understand the great admiration that I have for one of my students who, as the mother of a newborn, is so devoted to giving him her own milk that she slips out of class every two hours and sits IN THE NASTY BATHROOM FLOOR (I'm working on it....I'm working on it.....) pumping, in order that he might get the best food around. When she told me that he takes bottles only -- that he won't go to the breast at all -- I immediately started thinking of ideas to get him to the breast. Of course, I am her prof, not her lactation consultant, so I don't want to offer advice that may jeopardize or in some way make awkward our educational relationship. But as I found myself more inclined to think about latches than Hinduism, I got a bit tickled by lactation-consulting alter-ego who is not too far under the surface, waiting to emerge if this academic gig ever goes south :).
Lactation is also ever on the mind of Cole, who at the tender age of 3 still remembers nursing (he was weaned only a little over a year ago), and who thought he'd give it another shot when Micah was born 9 mos ago. At that point Cole didn't really seem to remember how to nurse, and after giving it more thought was rather amused by it. But Cole's love of nursing shines through. This is seen in the fact that recently, when I was knitting a very cute sweater (if I may say so myself) that is covered with bobbles in the front, Cole examined the sweater carefully, exclaiming "Mom! You're making a nipple sweater! A nipple sweater just for me!"
Let me be more specific -- I keep the nursing to my children, but since I've been nursing a baby/toddler for the past 5.5 years with only about a 3 mo. break in there, it's true that I'm almost always nursing someone. And that's a great thing, imho. Nursing all of my kids till they were around two is one thing I'm very proud of, and I'm not at all a shy nurser -- we nurse anywhere, everywhere, in front of everyone, in every circumstance. I believe -- strongly -- that even in this age where many people do nurse, the startling brevity of most nursing relationships demands that people who feel comfortable doing it pave the way for those who are still learning the lactation ropes. It's just that important to everyone's health and well-being, frankly.
You can thus understand the great admiration that I have for one of my students who, as the mother of a newborn, is so devoted to giving him her own milk that she slips out of class every two hours and sits IN THE NASTY BATHROOM FLOOR (I'm working on it....I'm working on it.....) pumping, in order that he might get the best food around. When she told me that he takes bottles only -- that he won't go to the breast at all -- I immediately started thinking of ideas to get him to the breast. Of course, I am her prof, not her lactation consultant, so I don't want to offer advice that may jeopardize or in some way make awkward our educational relationship. But as I found myself more inclined to think about latches than Hinduism, I got a bit tickled by lactation-consulting alter-ego who is not too far under the surface, waiting to emerge if this academic gig ever goes south :).
Lactation is also ever on the mind of Cole, who at the tender age of 3 still remembers nursing (he was weaned only a little over a year ago), and who thought he'd give it another shot when Micah was born 9 mos ago. At that point Cole didn't really seem to remember how to nurse, and after giving it more thought was rather amused by it. But Cole's love of nursing shines through. This is seen in the fact that recently, when I was knitting a very cute sweater (if I may say so myself) that is covered with bobbles in the front, Cole examined the sweater carefully, exclaiming "Mom! You're making a nipple sweater! A nipple sweater just for me!"
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Disappointment
I know I've shared in past posts that I dread it when the stomach bug comes to our house, but I particularly grow weak in the knees at the though of it disrupting big events that we have planned. After all, the pukes keep you tied to the house in a way that a drippy nose or hacking cough doesn't.
With that said, this coming weekend is my first weekend teaching -- and I only teach three weekends out of the entire semester. Missing even one of these weekends is, in other words, a major, major deal. I have double and triple planned babysitting, photocopying, and technology in the hopes that there is little that screws things up.
Today we had a birthday party to go to, and it was one that we were very excited about. It was a beach party planned for the middle of February, and the parents were planning to let the kids run around in their bathing suits in an overheated house to give the feel of sunnier, balmier places. Did I mention that this family has just moved here from LA? And that they're very cool and I already like hanging out with them quite a bit? And that that they live three blocks from us? Yeah, lots of good things.
When we arrived at said birthday party that dad casually informed us that one of their daughters (the party was for both girls -- their birthdays are a day apart) had been up all night crying and vomiting -- and this morning, too. And they hoped it was just a 24 hour thing, but they'd put her back to bed just in case. I started to get the cold sweats. Seriously. Then the little girl in question came down stairs, and dad directed her downstairs to play with all of the kids who had shown up for the party!
Ugh. Annemarie and Cole were already stripping off their clothes, ready to bare their bathing suits and join the fun. But I had to stop them; I had them put on their clothes, made a very uncomfortable speech about how we just couldn't get sick, and we headed for the door. And while mom was apologizing and trying to send us with cupcakes, trying to get the older daughter to hug each of my kids goodbye, Annemarie and Cole stood their with eyes welling with tears. Poor kids. I was a bit weepy myself: in part feeling the disappointment they felt; in other part with some small anger that no one had thought that this might be a good thing to warn us of before we got there, before we got ourselves mentally committed to the streamers and sunshine shaped balloons and the cupcakes with frosting that looked like the blue ocean with red gummy fish squished into their tops. And so with plans to reunite soon and re-enact the highlights of the party, we took off.
Was it over the top for me to go home? I don't think so. But I'm still feeling that terrible knot in the pit of my stomach over their disappointment.
With that said, this coming weekend is my first weekend teaching -- and I only teach three weekends out of the entire semester. Missing even one of these weekends is, in other words, a major, major deal. I have double and triple planned babysitting, photocopying, and technology in the hopes that there is little that screws things up.
Today we had a birthday party to go to, and it was one that we were very excited about. It was a beach party planned for the middle of February, and the parents were planning to let the kids run around in their bathing suits in an overheated house to give the feel of sunnier, balmier places. Did I mention that this family has just moved here from LA? And that they're very cool and I already like hanging out with them quite a bit? And that that they live three blocks from us? Yeah, lots of good things.
When we arrived at said birthday party that dad casually informed us that one of their daughters (the party was for both girls -- their birthdays are a day apart) had been up all night crying and vomiting -- and this morning, too. And they hoped it was just a 24 hour thing, but they'd put her back to bed just in case. I started to get the cold sweats. Seriously. Then the little girl in question came down stairs, and dad directed her downstairs to play with all of the kids who had shown up for the party!
Ugh. Annemarie and Cole were already stripping off their clothes, ready to bare their bathing suits and join the fun. But I had to stop them; I had them put on their clothes, made a very uncomfortable speech about how we just couldn't get sick, and we headed for the door. And while mom was apologizing and trying to send us with cupcakes, trying to get the older daughter to hug each of my kids goodbye, Annemarie and Cole stood their with eyes welling with tears. Poor kids. I was a bit weepy myself: in part feeling the disappointment they felt; in other part with some small anger that no one had thought that this might be a good thing to warn us of before we got there, before we got ourselves mentally committed to the streamers and sunshine shaped balloons and the cupcakes with frosting that looked like the blue ocean with red gummy fish squished into their tops. And so with plans to reunite soon and re-enact the highlights of the party, we took off.
Was it over the top for me to go home? I don't think so. But I'm still feeling that terrible knot in the pit of my stomach over their disappointment.
The Greatest Weapon
What a 3 year old boy with an influential older sister, currently into lotions and potions, says while pretending to be Spiderman:
"I WILL DEFEAT YOU WITH MY OILS AND SPRAYS!"
"I WILL DEFEAT YOU WITH MY OILS AND SPRAYS!"
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Pictures
This is the picture of my children that I intend to have printed tomorrow, to hang prominently in our family room. And I love it. Not only is it rootin-tootin' cute, but it displays their personalities so well. Annemarie is so sunny, Cole is so enthusiastically quirky, and Micah is a bit more reserved, yet cuddly and happy.
In every "leaf" picture we've taken (this is our third year now) the colors of the leaves are just fabulous, but I love most of all how everyone's hair matches the leaves. So while we may have to wear a whole heckuva lot of sunscreen, our family's collective hair matches the autumn leaves...............................sigh...................................
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