No easy way out
My son called me on my way home today to get permission to go jogging, and then dropped a bombshell - a kid with whom he'd hung around for years killed himself today.
This kid, Kiheem, hung around our house on & off, sometimes just about daily, for years. He'd slept over a few times. I'll never forget one occasion when he and another of Steven's friends, Glen, both spent the night, and we all decided to play hide & seek in the dark inside the house. At that time, I think I only had two kids, and the younger one, Sam, was fast asleep. So the boys & I turned out all the lights from the kitchen straight through the dining room to the sun room. Naturally I got to be "it" first. Somehow this game involved a lot of chasing around, once we'd all got our night vision. Kiheem paid me the ultimate compliment after several rounds, while we were catching our breath (literally & loudly, in my case). He said, "You're pretty fast. Not as fast as MY mom, but fast." I felt absurdly proud.
When we first met, he addressed me as "Miss Wendy". I was never comfortable with that, but he was extremely polite and well-brought-up, and it took me a while to convince him that just "Wendy" was plenty fine with me. Somehow, however, over the years, he loosened up to the point where I'd come home from work to find five or six neighborhood kids playing in my back yard. When I approached the group, he'd invariably come up to me, hug me around the waist and say, "Hi, mom".
Even though he & Steven seemed to have drifted apart over the years, he turned up a few times this past summer to play basketball with the group that gravitated to our house. I was always thrilled that he was comfortable enough to continue the "Mom" and hug tradition he'd started, although naturally I was low-key about it. Now I wish I'd hugged him harder, paid more attention, and spent more time with him.
Steven and I talk sometimes, about various subjects. We started doing it several years ago - we'd take walks, just the two of us, and talk about everything from religion, to history, to family. I know we've discussed suicide, and how it's never a solution, although to my mind the caveat has always been "unless you know you're going to die painfully otherwise anyway". This most recently came up during the anniversary of 9/11, in fact. I just hope he listened and agrees. Sometimes, you do want your kid's opinion to be your own.
Kiheem, I'm gonna miss you.
Halloween
At least a few times a year, it's definitely still fun to be a kid...
Sinking to a new low
I remember back in my bar days (pre-children and real life responsibilities) how difficult it was sometimes to land my rear end properly on the toilet after having lost my balance due to too much alcohol. Even though I'm in better shape than I was back then, I seem to be having the same problem lately - WITHOUT having had a single drink - whenever I use the bathroom at my office.
I don't know WHY the commodes in the ladies' room are so low-to-the-ground. After all, quite a few women wear high heels, making them even taller than they usually are. Why place the toilets so the seat is a mere 1.5 feet off the floor? The edge of the bowl doesn't even hit the backs of my knees when I'm standing in front of it. This results in some extremely slow and cautious maneuvering so that I actually land on the damn thing when lowering myself down. I keep waiting to hear the toilet start making the "beep beep beep" noise that accompanies trucks when they shift into reverse.
This is why I end up using the handicapped stall whenever it's empty. At least THAT toilet is placed higher up. I'll bet few things could be more embarrassing to a property management company than having to rescue a physically challenged person from a toilet.
Phew, that was a close one
Turns out my front driver side tire was very bad. I know this because Joe, my brother-in-law, used the car Friday night to get to the store and as he was returning home, the tire blew. Not just fizzled to a flat...it BLEW. He was only moving at about 20mph, and still had trouble moving it out of the way of traffic to the side of the road.
I tend to drive much faster, of course, and have about a 40-mile commute from my job in New York - and generally, depending on the route I take, at least 35 of those miles are on the highway. So I figure it's only through pure luck that that sucker didn't blow out as I was clocking along at 60mph only a couple of hours earlier.
Not only did Joe get the car home without damaging the rim, the next morning he devoted several of his Saturday hours to changing the tire (to what unfortunately turned out to be only a donut spare), and then driving to Town Fair Tire and having them put two new front tires on (good thing he was there too - they tried to skip the "balancing" part of the procedure, and they would have managed to skip it had it been me standing there). Apparently the TFT technician was appalled by the state of my other front tire as well, and asked "Doesn't she ever check these?" to which Joe said he replied, "Pfft. Gas. Drive. That's her." They had a good laugh over this one.
In any case, not only was I not killed on the highway on the trip home, but I now have two brand-new front tires on my car (which withstood a truly nasty pothole on my trip to work this morning). If my husband had been the one to do all this for me, I'd STILL be hearing about what I owe him for doing it. As is usual for him, however, he wasn't even out of bed until 2pm Saturday, by which time Joe had been home from his post-tire-replacement trip to the store for two hours.
Thank you Joe!
Maybe OLD dogs can't learn new tricks...
...but there's still some hope for the puppies.
I was pretty depressed yesterday, and it lasted well into today. The cause of this wallow was, as it is so often, the overgrown 43-year-old five-year-old to whom I'm married.
My kids who were out of school for Columbus Day. I had put in for a vacation day, having anticipated their request for me to stay home, since they prefer me to do so whenever possible. This is because their father doesn't find life congenial, and prefers to spread the misery around so nobody feels left out. Fortunately, he slept most of the day away as he always does when I'm home, so we managed to enjoy a fairly quiet environment until 3pm or so. That's when it all went downhill.
Samantha, my older daughter, has soaked up a lot of her father's behavior patterns. She tends to yell first and ask questions later. Between the two of them, it's easy to believe one is under constant attack. Yesterday, my tolerance for this crap evaporated, especially after having been called a few choice names by my (hopefully future ex-) husband. I briefly escaped by taking a trip to the laundromat (our washing machine recently breathed its last and hasn't yet been replaced), but while I was there had to endure yet another spousal diatribe by cell phone, a modern convenience that is not without its drawbacks. As is true in many instances, with one hand technology giveth, with the other it taketh away.
In any case, at the end of a long day full of incidents that made me feel like a substandard member of the species, I was sniffling to myself on the couch. Samantha arrived home from a friend's house, and actually indicated concern...a rare occurrence. I explained that I was tired of being spoken to as if I were worthless. Amazingly, she has since been offering me food, chatting with me, performing the tasks I ask her to do, and in general acting the way a child should, at least in my fantasy life.
I'm not sure how long it will last, but at least now I have hope that maybe she can be taught. The old dog, though...the only hope I have there is that he'll either become a stray or otherwise permanently exit my life. I don't see it happening due to any effort on his part, but I did think of a great analogy today...forget the dog thing, he's much more like a toxic waste dump. One doesn't wait for the dump to move - one packs up one's stuff, and of course one's several children, and hightails it for safer, less oozy ground.
Time to leave the Love Canal. Anybody wanna help me with a plan of escape?
Another year gone
It's almost the end of September, not quite year-end from the Western world's point of view. But we've just passed the anniversary of 9/11. Remember where you were? Who doesn't? Anybody over the age of reason could tell you exactly how, when and where they heard the news of terrorist activity here on our own American shores. I myself was standing in our company's video conference room, watching the news updates on the burning Tower 1, when the second plane crashed into Tower 2. Frankly, despite having watched the Discovery Channel's retrospective during the Anniversary Week, I can't even say with certainty whether I'm numbering those towers correctly in order of their destruction, but I'll never forget my feeling of horror and shock when I realized I really had seen a second plane flying at speed into the OTHER tower. This year, I was in tears listening to the DJs on my fave radio station rehashing their memories of that day.
I didn't know anybody in either of those buildings, or if I did, I didn't know them well enough to have even now realized that they're gone for good. I didn't find out until later that many people had to make the horrific choice between burning to death or jumping.
We tend to focus all memories of 9/11 on the World Trade Center - perhaps understandably so, since it was totally destroyed and the other areas affected were not so visibly vanquished. But I sincerely hope that all of the those who lost family members have managed to find some peace. Our country is unalterably changed by the events of that day, and continue to be so - even though the airlines just relaxed the strictures on carrying liquids onboard, the fact that they've decided that shampoo was a cause for worry is such a drastic change from everyday life in my childhood is staggering.
We, as a nation, continue to focus on far less profound matters. Maybe we need to do that - how many people could LIVE their lives if all they do is think about their own eventual, unescapable death? But we need memories like this to remind us of how finite life is, and how quickly and unexpectedly the end can come - if only so we can make a special point of reminding those we love how much they mean to us before the chance to do so is gone forever.
The future looks lonely
My poor little son, Adam, caught a virus which resulted in him spiking a fever of about 103F at about 2am Friday morning. Since he was sleeping with me, his extreme body temperature woke both him and myself.
He's been "sick" (ear infections, chicken pox, whatever) before, but nothing like this, where he was actually shaking with fever. He flat out refused to take the medicine I had on hand. Since I'd had less than than two hours of sleep and was a tad disoriented, I decided the best course of action was to drive to the closest all-night pharmacy in search of medicine he'd take - even if it had to be a suppository. (Yes, I know, lukewarm tub, therein to dunk sick child, but it always seems to really traumatize them. Anyway, it all worked out.)
Luckily, the ride cheered him up a bit. I even managed to find an acceptable remedy - chewable children's Tylenol (well, they're actually designed to dissolve), which he readily munched after I had him strapped back into his car seat. (See? Turned out fine.)
None of that was really my point, which is that he spent quite a lot of time sleeping with me over the weekend, mostly because he was sick. It was on Saturday night, however, that I had a disturbing revelation...just as I was on the verge of falling asleep...which ended up keeping me awake for another hour.
Adam is extremely cuddly and affectionate. My two older children have their moments where they at least communicate, and I'll even get hugs before bedtime. My younger daughter still climbs up on my lap whenever it's available and she's not otherwise occupied. But Adam...he'll come swarming up on me out of the blue, briefly abandoning what appears to be a totally engaging activity, just to give me a big squeeze before he returns to whatever it was he was doing. So my thought was, "What happens when he doesn't do that anymore? Who's gonna hug me then?"
After Adam was born during a C-section (for which I lobbied extensively, due to the arduous birth experiences I had with the other three, all of whom were overdue and had to be induced), I was also immediately "fixed" - tubes tied, factory closed, done done done. I never regretted it, and still don't - after all, four kids is PLENTY. Especially when considering the rather dilapidated and decaying state of my marriage, which I do all the damn time. But I did have a brief, middle-of-the-night, panic attack at the thought of a life without little arms squeezing my neck, without a small body planted firmly on my knees, of having yet another child who treats me as if I wasn't the one who made life safe and good when they were still young enough to be impressed with me.
I guess I'll just have to enjoy the time I have left...and wait for grandchildren.
A good day
I was incredibly productive at work today. I managed to quickly code a rather elegant (if I do say so myself) solution to a system issue we had. It wasn't a true BUG, mind you, more of a design error - but it's fixed now.
Sometimes I'm really afraid I'm not that bright. I have a lot of what my brother-in-law refers to as "dah-da-dah moments", and what my husband, in his usual non-PC way, calls "blonde moments". Either way, I do seem to miss a lot of key details that would otherwise prevent me from looking like an idiot. But then there's the other times...when I have a flash of relative brilliance (I mean, Stephen Hawking, I'm not), and can spend the rest of the day happily admiring myself.
Of course, I had another "dah-da-dah" with my daughter, where I was just not paying attention. We were standing in line at Subway, waiting to order, and had this conversation:
Catherine: "Can we go horse-back riding?"
Me: "Someday."
Catherine: "When? And you don't even know how."
Me: "Yes I do! I used to ride horses for years when I was younger."
Catherine: "How many?"
Me: "One at a time. That's all anybody ever rides."
Catherine (with exaggerated patience): "How many
years?"
Oh well, at least I was smart when it counted.
Horror movie memories
I had a totally different post planned this afternoon than the one suggested by the title of this blog. I was appreciating my two younger children, who have a great relationship (granted, one is six, and the other is not yet three years old). It's not just that they play together quite a bit, either.
Yesterday, I gave the youngest a crew cut, an act guaranteed to send him into hysterics. I decided to trap him with a strategically placed towel, which I didn't do the LAST time I got ambitious about his hair, resulting in having to struggle to avoid his hands. He kept frantically wiping his head, then scrubbing at his tearful face, and managed to ingest half the hair I cut off. THIS time, however, it went much better (not to mention, FASTER) - he still cried, but couldn't grab his head or get in the way, so I managed to almost complete the job before he figured out how to lose the towel. The important point, though, is that his sister Catherine spent the entire time in the kitchen comforting him. He must have noticed, too, because when she got upset over something today, he immediately went to her, put his arm around her, and told her, "It's all right, Catherine".
So I was feeling pretty good, sitting on the couch with Adam on my lap, chillin' & watchin' some tube, when the back door into the kitchen slammed, accompanied by my daughter Samantha's voice shouting "Mom, I hit my head again! I'm bleeding!"
I don't even remember dumping Adam off my lap, but I hope he hit the floor gently, because I was already running for Sam. When I saw her, I was briefly horrified by her realistic depiction of "Carrie" (remember that movie? I never saw the update, and frankly never sat through the entire original, but did read the book, and I remember plenty of the key scenes). Poor Sam's face was COVERED in blood. The overflow had dripped down her neck, onto her shirt and her jeans, and her hands were also coated from feeling her face.
There's a reason I didn't go into medicine as a career, mostly having to do with my distaste of bodily fluids. However, as a mother, I do seem to have developed the ability to go instantly into crisis mode, where I can ignore the ickiness of the injury in favor of evaluating its seriousness. I can always afford to be icked out AFTER.
Fortunately, it wasn't that bad. The doctor was able to treat it by using that neato new medical glue instead of stitches, and the huge bump on her head should go down after a couple of days. A trip to Build-A-Bear helped to alleviate any residual symptoms. Sam, having had a dose of Tylenol to help the headache, is sitting here reading all this, clutching her new pink bear, and should be fine - no signs of concussion.
I, however, could use a margarita.
Aging graciously
As of yesterday, I'm now less than a year away from the big four-oh.
I work with some great people. One of the groups for which I provide MIS-type support is a customer service team. We had to attend a work function over the weekend, and in honor of my birthday, they gave me a gift of some top-shelf tequila since they know I love margaritas. (The local liquor store guy was horrified by the idea that I'd use this ritzy stuff as part of a mixed drink.) My teammate also bought me some birthday drinks, and yesterday, I was presented with a beautiful flower assortment in a cool vase. They even complimented me by saying they had no idea I was that close to 40.
I'm suddenly a lot less worried about the next birthday. Having friends who make me feel appreciated and with whom I had some good laughs this weekend has put things in perspective.
Normally my birthdays are unremarked, or worse, are more stressful than the average day. This year, however, I really enjoyed it. If you ladies ever read this, I want to thank you for making my last birthday in the under-40 decade fun and special.
Off the parenting cliff
I only THOUGHT I had perils over the weekend. How much one can learn in the space of 48 hours.
I have a strained relationship with my older daughter, with memories of the same type of relationship with my own mother. I can remember far more times when she seemed unhappy with me than was the reverse. Samantha often accuses me of speaking in a "mean" way to her...for instance, when I went outside to find her so I could call her in for dinner, her immediate reaction was to say, in whiny tones, "I'm not HUNNNNNgry!", and then, when I repeated that she should come in, to begin to raise her voice, which had already developed a distinct tone. This was an apparent reaction to her father "embarrassing" her. I know how that feels, too - he embarrasses ME all the time, although I also understand that she meant it in a different way than I usually do. However, I don't think I should need to
apologetically ask her to deign to come to dinner with the rest of her family.
There's a big disparity between what she THINKS I'm after and what I really want. Part of it is her absolute inability to actually listen to the words I'm saying - she's preparing her defense (or offense) while I'm speaking, so she doesn't hear me. Then she launches an attack, and I'm forced to try to deflect it, and before you know it, I'm ordering her inside, or to her room, or whatever. I just plain don't know how to resolve this. How can you explain to somebody that the person they THINK they're interacting with is totally different from the way you see your own self?
My own mother died when I was sixteen, so we never had a chance to fix any of our relationship issues. Also, she's not around now to offer helpful advice, which I REALLY NEED...as I'm writing this, I'm wishing I could just run away from this whole gig and find a new life, preferably as a beach bum somewhere warm but not TOO hot. But my real plan is to get a joint therapy session going for me & Sam. Hopefully, they'll be able to impart some useful techniques that I can also use to relate to Catherine.
Poor Catherine - she spent most of this afternoon sitting fully clothed in the bathtub, which was empty, just because she wanted to avoid both her father and her sister. Her dad is a yeller (as in one who yells constantly, unavoidably, unstoppably, and usually with absolutely no attempt to try to resolve a situation more quietly). Her sister really only gets along with Adam, the youngest of my kids, and sure enough was starting in on Catherine before they had been in a room together for a minute. I'm not exaggerating. Unfortunately, Catherine later displayed the same situational deafness that her sister has honed to perfection, and I had to postpone the brownie-baking activity we had planned. This resulted in Catherine screaming at the top of her lungs, totally freaking out her younger brother, who began wailing along with her.
I feel sometimes like I must be the worst mother in the world. I have a full-time job to support the entire family (my husband's "job" consists of sitting in the local bar, ostensibly "bouncing", but he is only paid in trade for this pseudo-work). At the end of my work day, I come home to Mark complaining about something - doesn't matter what, it's all the same drivel - and the kids acting up in response. He's great at pointing out things that need to be done - only by ME, of course, never mind that he's home all day while I'm working, and that my after-work jobs include food shopping, bathing the younger kids, doing laundry, washing dishes, vacuuming, etc.
This whole thing is a vicious cycle that I know HOW to break, at least in theory - just can't figure all the angles. I have no local family to turn to for support, and can't really afford fulltime daycare or a nanny for four kids, especially with the older three out of school for the summer. I fantasize about winning big money just so I could afford to stay at home full time, finance my divorce, and focus on being a better mother. (My older son, having come across me in tears while re-reading this whole vent, was sympathetic and consoling. Maybe I'm doing SOMETHING right.)
I'm just gonna need to figure out how to fix all of this without the benefit of the Lotto, somehow - after all, lots of people do.
Wish me luck.
More parenting perils
Parents make mistakes. Parents are, after all, just people. Procreating is not difficult for most of us...and I apologize to those couples who've had difficulties in this area...but no matter how hard it is, actually RAISING the kids is far harder.
I've created a nighttime monster in my son Adam. Because he's the last of my children (having ensured, thanks to modern surgical techniques, that he IS the last), I've tended to baby him. So I know it's my own fault. That's not to say it's any easier to deal with when the kid falls asleep in my arms and then, even though he's apparently out cold, can feel me trying to get up so I can put him to bed, at which point he immediately stiffens his entire body and starts saying, "No, mom, no!"
I usually end up sleeping with him but I decided last night to hold firm. He could just cry it out and get himself to sleep. Marshmallow that I am, I totally caved when I heard him sobbing, "You love me, mama! You love me, dada!" So I went back, picked him up, gave him a huge hug, and sat down with him again. He fell asleep, sniffling sadly...and I conked out soon after, which led to ...
Mistake #2 (at least last night): My older son Steven had a friend sleeping over, and they were downstairs in the basement playing a video game. My husband came home around 2am from the local watering hole and locked the door into the house. I woke up, still holding Adam, at 4:30, and after successfully putting Adam to bed, realized Steven wasn't in the house. Luckily, he had his cell phone, so I called him...he and his friend were camped on the back porch, which was cooler than the basement. I apologized...a LOT. Naturally, I thought he'd be back in the house before 2am.
Oh well...at least nobody got hurt.
Easy to please
I managed to amaze my son Adam the other day. This isn't really difficult to do, since he's not yet 3 years old.
My two older kids are at an age where they think I have no clue. I know from experience that I didn't really think my parents had any useful advice for me until I reached my twenties. It's good to know that eventually my own offspring will realize I'm not the moron they have been thinking I am - at least, if I live that long.
My younger daughter is kind of on the cusp - sometimes I still say things that manage to catch her attention, but she's almost at the point where she'll manage to ignore most of what I say. I've noticed this with my older daughter, who actually admitted the other day that she wasn't listening.
But Adam...if not quite a
blank slate, he's still got some room for me. And he was at first surprised, then tremendously pleased, when I sang "Old McDonald" to him the other day. I could tell what he was thinking:
Me (singing, offkey as usual): "Old McDonald had a farm..."
Adam:
What? Mom knows that song? I thought only Joe from Blue's Clues knew that song!His little face broke into a huge smile. Beaming at me, he started to sing along.
Well, I'll just enjoy it while it lasts.
Too much time on my hands
There are expressions I feel should never be used. "This is true" is one of them. If you're gonna say something is "true", it should be "THAT is true", unless it's a lead-in, as "This is true - the sky is blue". I just don't think it should be used as a response. And frankly, without empirical evidence proving conclusively that "this" is true, it should be avoided altogher. Stick with "I agree" (note that using "That's not true!" is perfectly acceptable, especially when arguing over household chores, like who was the last person to notice that the garbage was close to overflowing and attacking random passersby).
Another one I don't like is "too funny". I've heard this used quite often as a standalone phrase in response to something I've just said, although strangely enough, it's rarely accompanied by actual laughter. If something is funny at all, shouldn't there be some kind of audible reaction? I'm not sure "Too. Funny." qualifies, especially spoken in a flat monotone, with just a bit of emphasis - designed, I'm sure, to reassure me that I still have a sense of humor. And in any case, how can anything be
too funny? I don't know about you, but I need all the laughter I can get. I have yet to find anything TOO funny, ever in my life. Also, one can never have too much money, style, or class.
Of course, it's all relative. Women can never get too much communication or cuddling, while men can't seem to have too much sex. Cuddling and communication are just the kiss of death from the male side. Frankly, while I'm all for sex in the abstract, my ideas about "too much" are diametrically different from those of my husband.
Children can have too much independence, but not too much attention, at least until they reach a certain age. And certainly, as far as they're concerned, they can never have too much McDonald's. Or trips to the mall, a place I'm coming to regard with a disgust formerly reserved solely for a public toilet.
You say I have too much time on my hands? This is true....I mean, I categorically agree.
Outside the norm
Yes, yes, it's been a while since I've had a thought worth blogging. Not sure this one qualifies, but it's the only one to cross my mind lately, so here goes.
Ever notice somebody who has one or more physical traits that are so markedly different from the "norm" that it's kinda weirdly fascinating? For instance, there's a woman at the office whose .... chest area ... is GIGANTIC. I mean HUGE. Not Pamela Anderson, had-to-buy-'em-for-my-birthday enhanced, but way-out-of-whack, nobody-would-ask-for-this large. I have the same compulsion to stare that people seem to get when passing a car accident. I try like hell not to, but I can't seem to stop my eyes from focusing on this particular area of the poor woman's body. I have always felt my own ... chest area ... was a tad larger than I'd have asked for if given the choice for body part proportions, but I might as well be an "A" cup comparatively speaking. Mind you, I have tremendous sympathy for this lady. Any female could tell you, by looking, that she must need an "H" cup. Do they even make such a thing? Not to mention the strain that has to be affecting her back. I hope she works out.
The perils of parenting
This week was going pretty well, up until yesterday. That's when my 13-yr-old son, Steven, crashed his bike into the back of a parked SUV. He split the skin above his upper lip with an interesting jagged-edge cut, broke off half of a front tooth, and loosened another. Naturally this resulted in a trip to the ER, where fortunately he was put through "Express Care" (which really was pretty darn quick). He now has 18 stitches closing the cut on the upper lip, 2 stitches to hold together the INSIDE of his upper lip, and some cement to protect the tooth until I can get him to the dentist.
This isn't his first injury, but it may so far be the worst, at least in his mind. His first worry was the tooth - but I explained that modern dentistry can work far greater miracles than the fix of one broken one. Then he actually
apologized... when I asked why, he said "because it's gonna cost money". I immediately hugged him and told him that money was of FAR less importance to me than HE is. Poor kid. Now in addition to worrying about his physical recovery, I'm concerned over why he would think that I'd care about the expense, when he had an accident that could have had far worse consequences.
Frankly, despite my rather healthy salary, we have no real money to speak of, and this is definitely an expense I'm a tad worried about because it's an unknown. But we'll work through it, like we always do. I just hate it when any of my children is hurt. Steven has had more stitches by far than any of the others. Maybe it's just a boy thing...although my older daughter has had one rather nasty head wound that required 8 stitches, the boys seem to be more accident-prone. I can already see my 2-yr-old, Adam, gearing up for his own trips to the ER...he's a climber and regards all household furniture as an opportunity to improve his view. He also has no sense of his own relative frailty.
So, I spent last evening just trying to take care of poor Steven, which mostly meant fetching him very soft foods to eat. He quickly tired of ice cream, and wanted something more substantial...although all of my suggestions met with resistance. At least he was feeling good enough to argue.
I don't think anybody ever considers all the ramifications of becoming a parent...we think about how wonderful a baby would be, and how much fun it'd be to dress up a little girl in adorable outfits, and teaching our sons to play baseball and football so they can hit the big leagues...but do we think about the things that could go wrong? Even in healthy kids, the potential for damage sustained over their lifetime is pretty substantial, and then there's kids who are born behind the eight ball altogether, with some life-altering disease or condition that will require care for most of their lives. This case, in fact, applies to my daughter Catherine, who has cerebral palsy with a seizure disorder. She asked the other day, in tones of disgust, WHY I had to keep her company while she was taking her bath...and I had to explain to her that having a seizure while in a tub full of water would be very dangerous for her. Who's gonna be there to keep her safe when she's older?
I guess it's true...as a parent, you're doomed to worry about your kids for the rest of their lives. You're there to take care of them, and raise them with values and relative health, and you're in for a lot of sleepless nights right from the get-go.
I really wish somebody had told me all that a long time ago.
Sibling rivalry
My children have an interesting but unfortunate dynamic going on. I wish it could be as polite and structured as a "cold war", in a constant state of political maneuvering and detente, but that is not the case.
Sometimes I talk to other parents who hint or downright state that they are experiencing similar issues. I'm happy to have these little chats, since they let me know that my kids are not unique in this area. But most days, I'd rather have a group of budding Ghandis than my current reality.
Normally I'd list them in birth order, but let's start with the "baby" (actually, a rock'em sock'em 2-yr-old). Adam receives the most attention of anybody in the family, just because he's short and cute. The other three don't remember being short and cute, or their time as the focus of attention, although they've all been there. However, there's not a lot of resentment directed at the incumbent. His siblings all seem to adore him, and each play with him in a kind of rotation that ensures that he's rarely lonely, but which is also designed to avoid any contact with any of the other older kids.
This means that the next kid in line, Catherine (6), just about only gets attention from Adam. The established relationship with her sister is one of almost constant confrontation, so any friendly activities are pretty much non-existent. This is so far from what I remember with my own sister when we were kids that it is the probable cause of my belief that my kids are particularly unable to relate to each other as compared to those in other families.
Samantha, the 11-year-old, is moody to a ridiculous degree. My mother used to quote a little rhyme to me to describe my behavior:
There was a little girlWho had a little curlRight in the middle of her forehead.When she was good, she was very very good...But when she was bad, she was horrid.Who, me? Nah.
However, through the miracle of genetics, Samantha, who physically resembles me more than the other three while managing to be far prettier than I ever was, has inherited the 'horrid' vs. 'very very good' tendency...although the 'horrid' is exponentially worse than I believe it was with me. (I can state this with impunity, since my parents are no longer alive to dispute me.) Sam adores Adam, but treats Catherine as if she were some kind of sub-species. It'd be nice to think that I could attribute this to pre-puberty hormones, but if so, they've been going on for a REALLY LONG time.
Which brings me to my 13-year-old son, Steven. After a recent doctor visit when he answered any question posed to him with the barest minimum number of syllables possible, I asked him to leave the room, ostensibly to discuss some issue with Catherine. His pediatrician gave me a look when he left the room...she was smiling, but I immediately asked "Is this normal?" in tones of horror. The doctor assured me it was largely a function of his age. Sometimes I'm not sure the kid even remembers how to smile, since a scowl is the predominant expression lately, but fortunately, he smiles for Adam all the time when playing with him. I'm neither as short nor as cute as Adam, so apparently I'm not worthy of the same reaction.
In any case, the best I can seem to do is to keep the fighting to a minimum and try to impart why it's so darn wrong in the first place....and hope I live to see some kind of peace accord.
Why can't they be more like ME
I seem to always get stuck dealing with people whose motivations and actions don't match the why or the way I do things.
For instance, yesterday, at the supermarket with my daughter, we had finished paying & bagging and I was ready to go. I don't really love taking her with me (if that makes me a bad parent, tough) because she nags me to buy her things she doesn't need, or tries to sneak them into the cart when I'm not looking. Even more than that, though, she doesn't move as fast as I would if I were alone. The result is that we always seem to end up heading for the door at a snail's pace, stuck behind some elderly or otherwise barely mobile person, matching their pace since there's no room to go around them for whatever reason.
I think that people should walk through supermarkets following the same basic right-of-way rules that apply to driving, although most drivers seem to have real difficulty grasping things that are essentially simple. However, for you other shoppers out there, here's a few things that would certainly improve my shopping experience:
1) If you're searching along the shelves for something, put your cart right in front of you, up against the shelves. Don't leave it in the middle of the aisle, where I have to try to squeak around it, or ask you to move it. If I am forced to ask you to move it, don't give me attitude - you weren't smart enough to shift it out of the way in the first place.
2) It's called the "Express Lane" for a reason. People seem to think it's okay to "cheat" by adding more than the limit of 12 - maybe they have 14, or 18, or whatever. Those of us with 12 or less get to go first. If you're having trouble counting the items in your cart, maybe you should just let me manage your money for you too.
3) If you cut out of an aisle without first looking to see if there's oncoming traffic, you deserve to be crashed into. Try to regard this as similar to a 3 or 4-way intersection. Stop at the end of the aisle, and look to see if anybody's coming. Merge appropriately. You do NOT have the right of way at these times.
4) If, for some reason, you have trouble keeping up with the average speed, stay to the side. Some of us are in a hurry and would like to finish shopping before the perishables we've selected actually expire.
5) Do NOT waste my time arguing with the cashier and/or store management about your right to use an expired coupon. The date is clearly printed on the damn thing. If everybody around you can read it, why can't you? And what makes you think that, in clear defiance of socially accepted rules, YOU should be allowed to use one that the manufacturer will no longer accept? Suck it up and learn to pay attention to detail. In the meantime, maybe the store has some expired steaks you'd like to buy, since dates apparently have no meaning to you.
Thanks for your assistance in making MY world a brighter place.
Silly achievements
Ever done something of which you're rather proud which really has no meaning in every day life? I have DOZENS of those.
I'd love to say I'd found the cure for cancer, or figured out how to end global warming (a topic that makes me VERY nervous), or created a Utopian society that ends rape, murder, theft and bad language. Unfortunately, I haven't done any of those things.
However, I did manage, this past Sunday, to win a "Lucky Dollar" online No-Limit Texas Hold'Em tournament. The buy-in was a mere $1.10. In a field of 825 total entrants, I finished in 1st place, winning $240, thereby managing to turn a profit of $238.90. I've been on a bouncy high ever since. I mean, I made a final table! Not only that, but I beat everybody else on it, not to mention just plain everybody else!
Imagine what I could have done with the four-plus hours it took to win that tournament if I'd REALLY put my mind to something...
Where's a doctor when you need one?
Ever think you have managed to find a new medical condition that has yet to be officially recognized by anybody with a doctorate? Even if you're not a hypochondriac, I bet you've had a couple. I've started to name the ones I've noticed.
C.S.D.S. - "
Congenital
Snoring and
Drooling
Syndrome" - luckily, this one only occurs when I'm sleeping. However, each member of my family is happy to point out that I've been doing it whenever I fall asleep while they're still awake. The stigma mostly prevents mid-day napping.
P.M.I.N. - Not "pre-menstrual" anything - this one stands for "
Psychosomatic
Meeting-
Induced
Narcolepsy". Lately I've been attending a lot more meetings than has been the case at any other time in my career. If these meetings extend beyond an hour, I'm guaranteed to start to nod off, especially if the content being discussed is less than interesting. Since I also have C.S.D.S., the potential for embarrassment around the office is high.
P.O.M.F. - Can't take the credit for HAVING this one, just noticing it. It's a phenomenon around my house, but I'm sure it extends beyond our home as well. Any male (choice of three, sometimes four) in the family who happen to have the occasional eruption of gas find it to be either a) funny, b) an achievement, or, sadly, c) both. It's excusable in my 2-year-old son Adam, who learned to say "poopie fart" soon after "Mama", and possibly even in my 13-year-old son, who has some room for refinement in his sense of humor. However, my husband takes it to a new level - if he's sitting down, he'll shift so that the gas can escape as loudly and noticeably as possible - and just in case there's anybody around who may not have heard it, he'll make some announcement, even if it's just "Wooo! Pewies!" to Adam, who invariably giggles and shouts "Poopie fart!" in tones one might use after finding out they'd just won the Lotto. So I'll just say that "P.O.M.F." stands for "
Proud
of
my
Farts", and leave it at that.
F.D.A.G. - The converse to "P.M.O.F" - girls don't have the love of bodily sound effects that men do. If totally unable to control it (a rare condition for anybody with estrogen), we will usually attempt to either apologize and excuse ourselves, or pretend it was the guy next to us who let one go.
Females just
Don't
Appreciate
Gas.
These conditions, and others like them, deserve recognition, so that a search for a cure can follow. I'll keep my eye out for more...at least until my burgeoning T.B.T.N. ("
Too
Busy
to
Notice") erupts into a full-blown case of such significantly reduced vision that I don't spot any details less severe than somebody actually being on fire.
Let me know about any others you may have experienced - there may be a reward associated with finding new diseases for the medical community to research!
Watching the grass grow
I think sometimes that I'm missing a lot of life as it goes on around me, although occasionally something will catch my attention. For instance, one day recently on my commute home, at the end of a rainy day, a giant rainbow spanned the highway. I spent a few seconds admiring the colors; the full spectrum was visible, and had a brief thought of "Wow, that'll reaffirm life", before my natural cynicism cut back in - mere nanoseconds later - and I thought, "Come on, it's just a trick of the light." Even a rainbow can only momentarily jar me out of my normal thought patterns, but maybe it's a good sign that SOMETHING can.
I remember my mother was a big fan of people-watching whenever we were in public. I found that hobby incomprehensible as a kid, and then found that I enjoyed it myself when I was older - mid-twenties or so - but now I don't seem to have the time. If I'm out in public, I'm either moving in a hurry to finish shopping, or too busy watching my own kids to sit and relax long enough to watch OTHER people. And even in those rare moments I can do that (when, say, I'm out to dinner with all four kids, and they're occupied by eating), I don't seem to enjoy it much lately. It might just be that I'm not all that good at it anymore - there's a trick to timing and using peripheral vision that I seem to have lost, and I can tell they think I'm staring, although I don't mean to.
Maybe it's stress. Maybe I'm just so busy working (between my money-earning job and my house-job) and doing all the things that take time. Even after I get home from a full day on the job, there's the bathing of the smaller kids, helping with homework, doing laundry and distributing it amongst the family, washing dishes, and trying to get to the gym - I am just OUT of time. I miss being able to use the phrase "quality of life" the way it's meant to be used, instead of in the abstract, or the more concrete realization of its lack. And I'm not the only one feeling the crunch - the kids do too.
Maybe I never actually watched the grass grow ... but I used to be able to spend some time lying on it and deciding which cloud looked like a dragon.
The decline of civility
I have a romanticized notion of how things were in bygone years. Pick an era, any era. Growing up overseas, I thought it would be great to be Marie Antoinette, for instance - well, right up until her last day, at least. Queen of France, big palaces, gorgeous dresses...thought the whole thing was great until I learned about the lack of showers, modern medicine, TV, etc.
Ok, forget that. Let's face facts, it all came to a bad end for the monarchy anyway. So how about something more modern? The old West, for instance? Those "Little House on the Prairie" books, all of which I read voraciously, made it sound sort of attractive. Still no showers, but medicine wasn't far off, and at least they bathed on a schedule. Plus they had horses and lots of chances at free land. However, since after several moments of thought I'm unable to come up with anything else I would have liked, that may not be the right idea either.
Well, let's look at the early 20th century. By now, there was a lot of medicine to combat some fairly bad illnesses. Plus cars, and if not TV, at least radio. Also one of my personal faves, the indoor toilet. Yes, there were world wars, but except for the infamous attack on Hawaii, they mostly weren't fought in our country. And from the general impression I've got of the period, there was still plenty of what's missing nowadays, despite our thoroughly modern conveniences - common courtesy.
Here's an example. My children, whom I've tried to raise with at least the bare minimum standards of politeness, enjoy holding doors for people - not just their own family members, but total strangers - whenever we're out and about. About 70% of the time, these people sail through without a word as if it's the kids' function in life to open doors on demand. The kids are rightfully indignant about this behavior, and have lately started to not bother, unless they're doing it for me. Note that they will politely thank anybody holding doors for THEM.
And here's another one. My new hobby is playing online poker. In most games, there's invariably some loser (literally and figuratively) who not only whines when losing a hand, but will also spout a variety of four- and more letter words. Although naturally I've heard all of these words before, some quite close to home (sorry to say), I find this extremely offensive. For one thing, sore losers gripe my butt. One of the most competitive people I know is my sister, and she wins regularly at a variety of games, and I might pretend I'm mad, but the fact is, whatever we're playing is just a game, and so is poker. In addition, when playing an online game where the use of "handles" instead of actual names gives no indication as to the gender, age, nationality, ethnic origin, or religious bent of the players around you, it's easy to offend quite a cross-section of society while anonymously typing epithets from the safety of one's personal computer.
This happened recently, in fact, and when at one point in the game I mentioned that I was female (thinking longingly of days when men still tipped their hats when a lady appeared), he blamed his behavior on his age - 21. I responded by saying that at 21, he can drink in bars, go to war, and endanger other drivers - certainly old enough to learn some manners. But I miss the days, at least those in my impression of the past, where that kind of conversation would not have been necessary. Granted, I'd have had to find a different hobby, but at least I wouldn't have known what I'd be missing.
There's been a lot of articles recently about the sprawl of rude behavior through society. Many of them focus on the very modern conveniences we enjoy - for instance, the use of cell phones in public. However, people have had loud conversations in public since the first caveman uttered an opinionated grunt. If the only difference nowadays is that the person on the other end of the conversation is not physically present, then that should just cut the noise level in half, from my point of view. The average line-cutter at the supermarket, though, will send me through the roof.
Maybe it's just a personal standards thing, but I wish that more people felt that manners were a lesson that should still be taught while the brain is forming. My kids and I can't bear the burden alone.
Libido, Lust and other L-words
Lately (not one of the L-words I was thinking of), I've been reading romance novels. I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, having to date been a scoffer of the whole theme. I've read fantasy, horror, fiction - unfortunately all elements of my own romantic experience. Mostly, though, I stick with anything that's been written by authors I've read before, who have a good command of the language and who can grab my attention in the first 5 pages of a book, and I especially love anything that can make me laugh. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I need a laugh just about as much as I need air.
However, on a recent trip through the supermarket, I decided to check out the book aisle, having re-read just about every book I own several times. Something caught my attention, and I picked up...wait for it...a romance novel; read a few pages, and decided to buy not only that book, but the others available by the same author. After bringing them home, I read all three within a three day span, and I was hooked.
These are not the "bodice-ripper"-type stories with which I associated all romance novels up to that day. No Fabio on the cover; as a matter of fact, no cover art to speak of at all. The style of the author, Jennifer Crusie, reminds me of Jamie Harrison, who wrote an excellent four-book series focusing on a sheriff in Montana - great phraseology (not sure if that's a word, but remember it from "The Music Man", and it certainly applies), and a dry sense of humor that had me laughing out loud often through each book. At this point, I've read all of her books at least twice (thanks to trips to bookstores and Amazon.com), and am anxiously anticipating the release of the latest, due next month.
Which brings me to my point, relating to the title of this blog edition - due to recent and historical blips in my marriage which have resulted in a lack of certain activity, I've noticed that my libido and lust factors have elevated to previously unfelt levels. I am craving - well, we'll call it "companionship", but more than that, I feel I deserve a romantic relationship that includes several aspects I am currently not experiencing, most of them having to do with another adult being involved. These romance novels, in short, despite being funny and great reads, are serving to highlight what's missing in my life...having lost my ability to be scornful of the genre thanks to Ms. Crusie, I'm now thinking I should avoid them on principle, since the net effect is that they're just making me depressed, despite the truly amusing plot points in each of them.
Maybe I should find my laughs somewhere else...or maybe I should find a way to use these books as inspiration for a potential positive upturn in my own life. In the meantime, though, at least SOMEBODY's having fun, and when I'm laughing, I know it's still me.
Only the good die young
The news of Dana Reeve's death on 3/6 is depressing from a variety of angles.
First, speaking as the child of two parents who both died far before their time, I feel terrible for Max, the Reeves' son. It's gotta be just horrible to have not one, but BOTH of your parents die from wasting diseases, watching their health slowly decline and beginning to understand that your whole life as you knew it up to that point is over, waiting until the end and being unable to a damn thing to slow it down or stop it.
Second, both of the Reeves were huge advocates for change in areas that are important to all humans, not just Americans, not based on some moronic idea of racial or national superiority, just those who live on this planet. Anyone can get cancer. Anyone can suffer paralysis from any number of causes. They spent years working to facilitate the search for cures, and remained publicly upbeat and positive despite their own illnesses.
Third, I feel badly for both of the Reeves - Christopher, beloved by the movie-going public, will be remembered not only for his paralysis but for his large body of work, especially, of course, for the Superman movies - I remember seeing the first one as a kid and thinking how cute he was (kid, remember) and how the suit really looked good on him. He was a great Superman, although I liked him in other movies as well. To see him brought down by a stupid accident, reduced to smiling from a wheelchair from which he could never rise, was very sad. And Dana, who lost the love of her life after having been lucky enough to find him, then had her own disease to deal with, and the knowledge that she'd be leaving her son to live in a world in which he wouldn't have his parents to help with all the questions and experiences he'd be having in life - that's almost worse. I can understand that one as a mother - I'd be afraid to die for its own sake, but the idea that my children wouldn't have me around would make me far more neurotic.
I feel like I haven't lived enough, and I know I haven't made enough of a difference, and yet here I sit, writing this blog as people like the Reeves are dropping dead around us while we obsess over Jennifer Aniston's new relationship with Vince Vaughn and her reaction to Angelina Jolie's pregnancy. I know in the long run it won't change anything, that I'll keep doing what I do now, working, taking care of my children, fantasizing over winning the lottery so I can quit my job, buy a house, and ship my husband to a nice shack on the coast of some 3rd world country; that I, who know myself pretty darn well, would like to be more involved and proactive and do something, anything to be a positive influence to people, but most likely won't because my own personal life is weighing me down - but I can take a minute to recognize that there are others who are far less apathetic, who use their time, no matter how short they may know it is, to improve the human condition - for all of us.
