"Who left a smooshed chocolate chip on the bathroom counter?" my husband bellows.
I'm in the kitchen with my 3-year-old at my feet as I reply, "Uh, hon. We're potty-training. That may very well be something other than chocolate."
I hear a disgusted groan and a long run of the water as my husband frantically tries to clean his fingers.
But then I remember I baked some cupcakes earlier and let our 6-year-old lick the bowl. "Oh, it actually could be chocolate," I reassure him.
That's life in our house currently. "Surprises" could be left around any corner, under any table. Because when it comes to potty-training, I am unbelievably inept at this aspect of child-rearing.
Truthfully, I despise the entire process.
First of all, you're supposed to determine when they're 'ready.'
Gimme a break. When are we ever ready to lose the ease of relieving ourselves whenever and wherever we want to? Sure, he likes his "big boy" underwear but if he's in the midst of watching a rivoting episode of Clifford the Big Red Dog, keeping Spiderman or the Incredible Hulk dry just doesn't rank very high on his priority list.
And I'm left cleaning a couch.
It never gets any easier either.
With boys, you have to decide whether to teach them to sit or stand. Some moms swear standing is easier, others believe in sitting - where they're helping them avoid the bickering with their future wife about leaving the seat up.
I've found both techniques to be useless. Because aim isn't good in either position, I come armed with Lysol wipes either way.
And then there's the consistency factor.
In a perfect world, you would never leave home and the child would have access to the bathroom at any given moment. Timely relief. Consistent training. Poof! They're out of diapers.
I don't know about you, but I don't live in that world.
In my world, it's the constant dilemma of deciding whether to let the child wear his underwear when Mommy has a gazillion errands to run knowing she'll be slowed down considerably by either frequent potty breaks or a very likely "accident."
It's deciding whether to inconvenience a babysitter by asking them to continue the potty-training in your absence or to make it easy on them and pull out the trusty diaper.
It's all very stressful to me.
I'm on my third attempt now, and since my first two children are still trying to master the skill in some respects, I am not hopeful for speedy success with my final child.
In fact, I was pretty lazy about the whole thing with this one. He was nearing age 3 and I hadn't done much more than pull out the potty seat.
I guess when you dread something, you'll put it off as long as possible. And I think I have good reason to dread it. I don't have a great track record.
With my first child, when she hit age 2, I was all over it. I bought two kinds of potty chairs to give her "options." I bought the princessy underwear. I had the reward jar filled with M&Ms. I was cheering like she had won an Olympic Gold when she so much as tinkled in that toilet.
But she was 3-1/2 before she figured it all out. Oof. A year and a half of trying everything I could think of, reading everything about potty training I could get my hands on, and taking advice from every "been there" parent I knew.
With my second child, I foolishly thought I'd had it down. I waited until he was closer to 3, and then, promising myself I'd be patient, I took on the challenge.
I remember WAY too many instances of watching a puddle form beneath my son as he stared up at me with his big blue eyes as if to say, "Am I in trouble?"
Believe me, my patience wore thin.
Since he and his sister are just 19 months apart, much of the years-long potty-training was happening simultaneously. We pretty much couldn't go anywhere without four changes of clothes per kid. If anyone served my kids juice, it meant I'd be doing a lot of extra laundry in very short order. It went right through them back then.
It was humiliating at times. Go to someone's house for a nice dinner and end up asking for the carpet cleaner four times and "Any chance you saved some of Johnny pants was he was little? We've used up all our spare clothes."
This has been the toughest part of parenting for me. Hands down.
Give me a kid who pukes all over me for three straight days and allows me no more than two hours of sleep a night for a week. Because that's short-lived. It's painful at the time, but within a week or two, you're laughing about it.
Potty struggles? Nope. Haven't laughed once.
I am honestly in awe of parents who say they got their kid potty-trained in a day, or they had it mastered in a matter of weeks. I can't even fathom that.
Because I'm in the midst of this challenge again. Some days are good. Other days are bad. I've got carpet cleaner within easy reach these days, and the washing machine gets a work out.
I don't even let my mind drift into thinking about the day we'll be diaper-free, because I'm realistic. I will probably keep a box around until these kids graduate from high school.
And I'll keep double-checking that "chocolate."
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you one.
It's been a day. I normally don't dread Mondays now that I'm a stay-at-home-mom. Frankly, all the days kind of run together. But today was SUCH a Monday.
I rushed off to the gym like usual in the morning with my 3-yr-old in tow, sans diaper. He's enthralled with his superhero underwear, and loves to use the toilet, but only if I tell him to use it. That's called mother-training, not potty-training, I think. *sigh*
But the staff in the child care area of my local gym are quite good at the potty routine, so he rarely has an accident there. However, today the child care area was full when I arrived.
It was 8:45am.
And they were already full. I was aghast.
It's because of those people with new year's resolutions to lose weight and exercise. They come in and take my usual spot! Oh, for it to be the end of February when all those good intentioned resolutioners have given up and gone back to eating McDonald's and watching their DVRs.
Any other day I would just have taken my little underwear-sporting son into the gymnasium and played some basketball as we wait for a spot to open for him in the child care.
But today I needed to register my two older children for basketball. It was opening day of registration, and the line was crazy long. The management of the gym looked like deer in headlights as they scrambled to help people register their kids.
I would later learn that this type of register turnout was unprecedented - they weren't prepared for such a mass of people.
Lucky for me, the big man on campus is a friend of mine and when he came out of his office to assess the situation, he came up to me to find out my story.
...Because I obviously had a look of distress on my face as I tried to maintain my spot in line while pleading with my son to 'stay by mommy.'
As I begin to tell him my plight, I don't get much beyond, "the child care is full but..." and he's giving me a reassuring look, a "hold on one second, I'll fix this" gesture and off he goes. Soon the child care area is in process of adding staff, and he's attempting to keep the masses happy by offering cups of coffee.
Someone bellows, "Where's the donuts?"
He replies, "Donuts? Good idea. I'll have those next time!"
I find myself unable to even be slightly upset with the directors and staff. They're all so good-natured and obviously taken aback by the multitudes this morning and yet bending over backwards to serve.
And then...FINALLY...I get to the counter. It's my turn! I have managed to keep my active child from putting his entire head into the nearby garbage can or running out the doors into an icy parking lot and still kept my place in line! Hooray!
But victory is fleeting.
Just as I'm giving the name of my first child to the kind staff person, my little companion says, "Mommy, I have to go potty!"
Now I am torn between "Oh, why NOW?" and "WOW! You're actually initiating this! I'm so proud of you, son!"
But I look back at the long line, look at my squirming son and turn to the registration person and in desperation cry, "We're potty-training so I HAVE to get him to the bathroom," as I dash off.
Only to get to the bathroom and hear my son say, "I'm wet."
Groooan.
Since this is my third child I am prepared - spare clothes are tucked in my bag. As I start to peel the soaked clothes from his body, one of the child care workers pops her head into the restroom to say, "We can take him now!"
As tempting as it was to just dump the half-naked child off on someone else, I did get him cleaned up myself and got him settled into child care.
And when I returned to the line to attempt registration again...it consisted of...
ONE GUY.
So had I just dawdled about 30 more minutes at home this morning, I could have avoided ALL of that nonsense.
*sigh*
My frustrations would not be left at the gym, however.
I would return home to various messages in relation to my freelance work that only left me more frustrated. And after school when I shared the good news that I had my children registered for basketball, that news would be received with "No! I'm not playing basketball! Basketball is boring!" from my daughter. My son was overjoyed, which is the response I was hoping for from BOTH of them...but it was not to be!
I knew my daughter wasn't thrilled with the idea of playing basketball but I didn't have all the reasons why. So we talked about it.
She doesn't like crowds watching her.
She doesn't like a game with "so many rules."
And then she mumbled something about basketball being for boys...
As a former basketball player myself, that one hit a nerve.
"I played basketball! And our team was really good!"
And then I remembered...I have the tape!
I proceed to say, "After you take your shower tonight, you can watch me play basketball when I was in school."
My daughter is thrilled with watching home movies of herself as a baby, so the idea of seeing her mother in her - ahem - younger days sent her happily skipping to her bathroom to bathe!
We weren't too far into the tape (VHS - wow, I had to go out to the garage to find the ol' VCR) when my kids' own commentary began.
"Why is your hair so big and curly, Mom?"
"It's not just me! That was the style. Everyone's hair is poofy."
"You look so...so..."
"Young?"
"Yeah!"
"Sweetie, I was young. This is 20 years ago."
But after just one quarter: progress. My daughter was impressed and I think maybe a little excited for someday having her own basketball video.
Although it had nothing to do with the points I scored, the announcer saying my name, or a flashy uniform.
Nope.
It was because of a brief pan of the camera onto the Cardinals cheering section.
Center stage. A young Jimmy Kleinsasser. Standing, cheering, whoopin' it up for his big sister's team.
I pause the tape to show them this boy who is now a professional football player for the Minnesota Vikings.
And my daughter's jaw drops and exclaims, "You mean a big-time football player was there cheering on MY mom?!"
Er, yeah. Kinda.
But I was going with it. Because it may just get her on the basketball court!
And that, after all, was my goal from the start.
Day. Redeemed.
I rushed off to the gym like usual in the morning with my 3-yr-old in tow, sans diaper. He's enthralled with his superhero underwear, and loves to use the toilet, but only if I tell him to use it. That's called mother-training, not potty-training, I think. *sigh*
But the staff in the child care area of my local gym are quite good at the potty routine, so he rarely has an accident there. However, today the child care area was full when I arrived.
It was 8:45am.
And they were already full. I was aghast.
It's because of those people with new year's resolutions to lose weight and exercise. They come in and take my usual spot! Oh, for it to be the end of February when all those good intentioned resolutioners have given up and gone back to eating McDonald's and watching their DVRs.
Any other day I would just have taken my little underwear-sporting son into the gymnasium and played some basketball as we wait for a spot to open for him in the child care.
But today I needed to register my two older children for basketball. It was opening day of registration, and the line was crazy long. The management of the gym looked like deer in headlights as they scrambled to help people register their kids.
I would later learn that this type of register turnout was unprecedented - they weren't prepared for such a mass of people.
Lucky for me, the big man on campus is a friend of mine and when he came out of his office to assess the situation, he came up to me to find out my story.
...Because I obviously had a look of distress on my face as I tried to maintain my spot in line while pleading with my son to 'stay by mommy.'
As I begin to tell him my plight, I don't get much beyond, "the child care is full but..." and he's giving me a reassuring look, a "hold on one second, I'll fix this" gesture and off he goes. Soon the child care area is in process of adding staff, and he's attempting to keep the masses happy by offering cups of coffee.
Someone bellows, "Where's the donuts?"
He replies, "Donuts? Good idea. I'll have those next time!"
I find myself unable to even be slightly upset with the directors and staff. They're all so good-natured and obviously taken aback by the multitudes this morning and yet bending over backwards to serve.
And then...FINALLY...I get to the counter. It's my turn! I have managed to keep my active child from putting his entire head into the nearby garbage can or running out the doors into an icy parking lot and still kept my place in line! Hooray!
But victory is fleeting.
Just as I'm giving the name of my first child to the kind staff person, my little companion says, "Mommy, I have to go potty!"
Now I am torn between "Oh, why NOW?" and "WOW! You're actually initiating this! I'm so proud of you, son!"
But I look back at the long line, look at my squirming son and turn to the registration person and in desperation cry, "We're potty-training so I HAVE to get him to the bathroom," as I dash off.
Only to get to the bathroom and hear my son say, "I'm wet."
Groooan.
Since this is my third child I am prepared - spare clothes are tucked in my bag. As I start to peel the soaked clothes from his body, one of the child care workers pops her head into the restroom to say, "We can take him now!"
As tempting as it was to just dump the half-naked child off on someone else, I did get him cleaned up myself and got him settled into child care.
And when I returned to the line to attempt registration again...it consisted of...
ONE GUY.
So had I just dawdled about 30 more minutes at home this morning, I could have avoided ALL of that nonsense.
*sigh*
My frustrations would not be left at the gym, however.
I would return home to various messages in relation to my freelance work that only left me more frustrated. And after school when I shared the good news that I had my children registered for basketball, that news would be received with "No! I'm not playing basketball! Basketball is boring!" from my daughter. My son was overjoyed, which is the response I was hoping for from BOTH of them...but it was not to be!
I knew my daughter wasn't thrilled with the idea of playing basketball but I didn't have all the reasons why. So we talked about it.
She doesn't like crowds watching her.
She doesn't like a game with "so many rules."
And then she mumbled something about basketball being for boys...
As a former basketball player myself, that one hit a nerve.
"I played basketball! And our team was really good!"
And then I remembered...I have the tape!
I proceed to say, "After you take your shower tonight, you can watch me play basketball when I was in school."
My daughter is thrilled with watching home movies of herself as a baby, so the idea of seeing her mother in her - ahem - younger days sent her happily skipping to her bathroom to bathe!
We weren't too far into the tape (VHS - wow, I had to go out to the garage to find the ol' VCR) when my kids' own commentary began.
"Why is your hair so big and curly, Mom?"
"It's not just me! That was the style. Everyone's hair is poofy."
"You look so...so..."
"Young?"
"Yeah!"
"Sweetie, I was young. This is 20 years ago."
But after just one quarter: progress. My daughter was impressed and I think maybe a little excited for someday having her own basketball video.
Although it had nothing to do with the points I scored, the announcer saying my name, or a flashy uniform.
Nope.
It was because of a brief pan of the camera onto the Cardinals cheering section.
Center stage. A young Jimmy Kleinsasser. Standing, cheering, whoopin' it up for his big sister's team.
I pause the tape to show them this boy who is now a professional football player for the Minnesota Vikings.
And my daughter's jaw drops and exclaims, "You mean a big-time football player was there cheering on MY mom?!"
Er, yeah. Kinda.
But I was going with it. Because it may just get her on the basketball court!
And that, after all, was my goal from the start.
Day. Redeemed.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Maybe I WAS missing something.
Tonight I played with a Wii. "Rockstar" to be exact.
For more than 2 minutes.
Because that's really all the exposure I've ever had to video games of any extent.
Sure, when I was a kid Atari was all the rage. Yes, I'm giving away my age, but oh well. I'm a "Rockstar" now. It doesn't matter.
And I remember watching other kids play Pac Man for what seemed like hours at the arcade of "Big B's Pizza" - but I wasn't the one holding the joystick.
I have to admit, I could never figure out the draw to it. Why do kids beg for these games for Christmas? Why do children - and adults for that matter - become glued to their TV screens like zombies just so they can jump over a cartoon mountain or eat a cherry?
But I think I might get it now. It's all about the score.
At least it was for me.
"Rockstar" hurled me back to exam day in 11th grade. Would I get 100 percent? 98? Please tell me it is above 93!!
And so I bang on those drums and strum that guitar like I've missed my calling. And though I end with a respectable 80 percent, or even a 93 percent...I am not satisfied.
I need to do it again. I must beat my score.
I fared better on the vocals, but that's just because I can follow a line better than a colored bar, apparently. It clearly has nothing do with actual vocal ability.
But I scored a 99 percent on vocals.
Well, hey! I'm nearly a perfect rockstar! Or so the silly game designers would like me to believe.
Because they know I will go for that perfect score. Over. And over. And over.
It is hypnotic, fun and incredibly ridiculous all at the same time.
Unfortunately - or fortunately probably - the TV actually blew a fuse as my friends and I neared the end of one of our songs. Oops. It was probably a sign. At least it flashed me back to reality in short order.
And though I wasn't crushed that I couldn't get to my guitar solo, I was devastated to not get to see my score.
Some video games may bring out our competitive nature, but "Rockstar" brings out the perfectionist in us.
And, much like my guitar playing...
it ain't pretty.
For more than 2 minutes.
Because that's really all the exposure I've ever had to video games of any extent.
Sure, when I was a kid Atari was all the rage. Yes, I'm giving away my age, but oh well. I'm a "Rockstar" now. It doesn't matter.
And I remember watching other kids play Pac Man for what seemed like hours at the arcade of "Big B's Pizza" - but I wasn't the one holding the joystick.
I have to admit, I could never figure out the draw to it. Why do kids beg for these games for Christmas? Why do children - and adults for that matter - become glued to their TV screens like zombies just so they can jump over a cartoon mountain or eat a cherry?
But I think I might get it now. It's all about the score.
At least it was for me.
"Rockstar" hurled me back to exam day in 11th grade. Would I get 100 percent? 98? Please tell me it is above 93!!
And so I bang on those drums and strum that guitar like I've missed my calling. And though I end with a respectable 80 percent, or even a 93 percent...I am not satisfied.
I need to do it again. I must beat my score.
I fared better on the vocals, but that's just because I can follow a line better than a colored bar, apparently. It clearly has nothing do with actual vocal ability.
But I scored a 99 percent on vocals.
Well, hey! I'm nearly a perfect rockstar! Or so the silly game designers would like me to believe.
Because they know I will go for that perfect score. Over. And over. And over.
It is hypnotic, fun and incredibly ridiculous all at the same time.
Unfortunately - or fortunately probably - the TV actually blew a fuse as my friends and I neared the end of one of our songs. Oops. It was probably a sign. At least it flashed me back to reality in short order.
And though I wasn't crushed that I couldn't get to my guitar solo, I was devastated to not get to see my score.
Some video games may bring out our competitive nature, but "Rockstar" brings out the perfectionist in us.
And, much like my guitar playing...
it ain't pretty.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Tip to avoid holiday weight gain: poison yourself on Christmas Eve.
It's still a guess as to whether I poisoned myself, if I had the stomach flu, or if it's all part of some strange twisted scheme in the universe to make sure I can't truly enjoy a holiday, but I started my Christmas Day at 3:00am, hoping Santa had filled my stocking with Pepto-Bismol.
Let's rewind a day...
Christmas Eve gets a little hectic, so I planned ahead and tossed some food in the crock pot so dinner would be ready when we needed it. So when mealtime came, I ate all my food, my children picked at their plates (as usual) and my husband also downed a fair portion.
Fast forward to Christmas morning, and I'm seeing my crock pot creation in a way no one wants to.
Ugh.
My husband, having ate his fill as well, also wasn't feeling the best, but he was managing better than I.
Of course we had grand plans of traveling on Christmas Day to my parents house. I have a strong will and was not about to let nature ruin another holiday for me.
Last year, a state-wide blizzard kept everyone home on Christmas. Boo! Hiss! And my Thanksgiving travel plans a month ago also got whacked due to inclement weather. I was NOT about to let some pot roast ruin my Christmas!
So I showered, packed our van, and was determined to hold my digestive track hostage for two hours. With the lack of "rest stops" on the route to my parents, it would require a lot of prayer and a little Lamaze breathing to get me to our destination without the need to throw open the passenger door and dot the fresh, white snow with something a little less fresh. (My husband also noted that he has never driven that fast to my parents' house. God bless him.)
I made it, but as I swung open the door to my parents' home that smelled of ham, potatoes and all the fixings...I didn't even get out a "hello" before I dashed into the nearest restroom. (Sure glad they built one right off the entry!)
But here's the 'up' side to it all. The table spread with every delectable fudge, peanut cluster and candies galore that normally would have me salivating and filling my plate to excess...didn't appeal to me in the least.
I managed to escape this calorie-packed holiday weekend unscathed. I even managed to lose a couple pounds.
I have now developed a ferocious head cold so with no sense of smell, I still have little desire to eat.
So you could say it turned out to be the perfect holiday. I was able to spend it with my family, I didn't eat too much, and I don't feel the need to crank up my gym routine in order to drop the holiday weight.
I guess the biggest thanks goes to the farmer who blessed us with contaminated beef several months ago. Or, if it wasn't food poisoning, I should thank whoever shared their flu germs with me.
After all, Mary didn't let some intense labor pains keep her from traveling. If she can make the trek on a donkey, wind up in a smelly barn and still produce the Savior of the world, I should certainly be able to rejoice in my own circumstances!
Let's rewind a day...
Christmas Eve gets a little hectic, so I planned ahead and tossed some food in the crock pot so dinner would be ready when we needed it. So when mealtime came, I ate all my food, my children picked at their plates (as usual) and my husband also downed a fair portion.
Fast forward to Christmas morning, and I'm seeing my crock pot creation in a way no one wants to.
Ugh.
My husband, having ate his fill as well, also wasn't feeling the best, but he was managing better than I.
Of course we had grand plans of traveling on Christmas Day to my parents house. I have a strong will and was not about to let nature ruin another holiday for me.
Last year, a state-wide blizzard kept everyone home on Christmas. Boo! Hiss! And my Thanksgiving travel plans a month ago also got whacked due to inclement weather. I was NOT about to let some pot roast ruin my Christmas!
So I showered, packed our van, and was determined to hold my digestive track hostage for two hours. With the lack of "rest stops" on the route to my parents, it would require a lot of prayer and a little Lamaze breathing to get me to our destination without the need to throw open the passenger door and dot the fresh, white snow with something a little less fresh. (My husband also noted that he has never driven that fast to my parents' house. God bless him.)
I made it, but as I swung open the door to my parents' home that smelled of ham, potatoes and all the fixings...I didn't even get out a "hello" before I dashed into the nearest restroom. (Sure glad they built one right off the entry!)
But here's the 'up' side to it all. The table spread with every delectable fudge, peanut cluster and candies galore that normally would have me salivating and filling my plate to excess...didn't appeal to me in the least.
I managed to escape this calorie-packed holiday weekend unscathed. I even managed to lose a couple pounds.
I have now developed a ferocious head cold so with no sense of smell, I still have little desire to eat.
So you could say it turned out to be the perfect holiday. I was able to spend it with my family, I didn't eat too much, and I don't feel the need to crank up my gym routine in order to drop the holiday weight.
I guess the biggest thanks goes to the farmer who blessed us with contaminated beef several months ago. Or, if it wasn't food poisoning, I should thank whoever shared their flu germs with me.
After all, Mary didn't let some intense labor pains keep her from traveling. If she can make the trek on a donkey, wind up in a smelly barn and still produce the Savior of the world, I should certainly be able to rejoice in my own circumstances!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
The Road Less Traveled...only because I can't find it!
I don't consider myself to be a slow learner. Honestly, I can typically pick up on things pretty easily.
For instance, I was the first kid in my high school typing class to master the skill.
I could do a lay-up with very little practice.
I figured out how to repair my own toilet with a paper clip.
I can even understand the various steps of the oil refining process.
But this. This one thing has me gripped in ineptitude.
It has left me frustrated, confused and completely at a loss numerous times.
The problem? I cannot figure out how to get anywhere in my neighboring town.
I just don't get it. It is a smaller community than where I currently reside.
It is just a bridge-crossing away.
And yet, I have not - at any time - successfully driven into that town on the correct route to my preferred location.
Here's the problem: there are at least 4 different entrances and I will inevitably choose the wrong one.
Take today for example. I needed to travel to that "city across the river" to deliver a small package.Was it critical that I deliver it?
No.
As a matter of fact, whenever possible, I just mail stuff that has to go there. That's how much I fear venturing west.
But I felt it was important to hand-deliver this, so I diligently mapped my route online, printed a copy of the map and directions and thought SURELY nothing could go wrong.
But it did. Because I'm apparently cursed to repeat the same mistake over and over and over.
I can NOT drive into that town correctly. I forever choose the wrong exit.
But in my defense, it is a poorly designed area. I mean, come on. What's with these exit signs? They couldn't be more confusing.
They all have 14 names for one road on them. Unless you're a speed reader, you'll likely miss the one word you're looking for!
But today I was feeling confident behind the wheel. I truly thought I would conquer my shame of always getting lost in this town.
Alas, it was not to be.
The directions seemed simple enough...until you're actually on the road.
"Merge onto I-94 W toward Mandan."
Okay, I would like to merge, but I'm frozen in fear because the very next line says (if you reach I-94 W you've gone about 0.3 miles too far.)
HUH?!
I was to merge onto I-94 W and yet if I get there, I've gone too far?
Someone please explain the logic in that!
So as I approach that exit, I have to make a split-second decision because the brainiac highway engineers made sure you only have a one-lane option, and if you're in the wrong lane, too bad. You're well on your way to circling the city multiple times.
Which, incidentally, is what I've done more times than I care to admit.
Yes, I am quite familiar with the long stretch of highway that seems to be leading to a great abyss, only to surprisingly pop you back onto the interstate with very little warning.
So the trip that was detailed to be 8.1 miles became closer to 30 miles.
If this was the first time this happened, I wouldn't be so annoyed. But sadly, this is typical for me whenever I attempt to drive the route that hundreds of people travel every day. I realize there are very likely people who could do the trek in their sleep.
I, on the other hand, am white-knuckled and terrorized by the mere mention of the destination just over the hill.
You would think with all the times I've driven or been driven to that town, at some point it would click. That my brain would finally say, "OH! Now I get it!"
But my brain hasn't even remotely gone there. Not even close.
At first, I felt like the entire community was out to get me. But now I've found myself in complete awe at all the people that reside and work there. They're like superheroes.
They can actually drive the roads leading to their town and not end up on a "scenic byway."
And it's a shame, because I have friends over there. And business contacts.
But I resign myself to the fact that they will forever be a P.O. Box to me.
For instance, I was the first kid in my high school typing class to master the skill.
I could do a lay-up with very little practice.
I figured out how to repair my own toilet with a paper clip.
I can even understand the various steps of the oil refining process.
But this. This one thing has me gripped in ineptitude.
It has left me frustrated, confused and completely at a loss numerous times.
The problem? I cannot figure out how to get anywhere in my neighboring town.
I just don't get it. It is a smaller community than where I currently reside.
It is just a bridge-crossing away.
And yet, I have not - at any time - successfully driven into that town on the correct route to my preferred location.
Here's the problem: there are at least 4 different entrances and I will inevitably choose the wrong one.
Take today for example. I needed to travel to that "city across the river" to deliver a small package.Was it critical that I deliver it?
No.
As a matter of fact, whenever possible, I just mail stuff that has to go there. That's how much I fear venturing west.
But I felt it was important to hand-deliver this, so I diligently mapped my route online, printed a copy of the map and directions and thought SURELY nothing could go wrong.
But it did. Because I'm apparently cursed to repeat the same mistake over and over and over.
I can NOT drive into that town correctly. I forever choose the wrong exit.
But in my defense, it is a poorly designed area. I mean, come on. What's with these exit signs? They couldn't be more confusing.
They all have 14 names for one road on them. Unless you're a speed reader, you'll likely miss the one word you're looking for!
But today I was feeling confident behind the wheel. I truly thought I would conquer my shame of always getting lost in this town.
Alas, it was not to be.
The directions seemed simple enough...until you're actually on the road.
"Merge onto I-94 W toward Mandan."
Okay, I would like to merge, but I'm frozen in fear because the very next line says (if you reach I-94 W you've gone about 0.3 miles too far.)
HUH?!
I was to merge onto I-94 W and yet if I get there, I've gone too far?
Someone please explain the logic in that!
So as I approach that exit, I have to make a split-second decision because the brainiac highway engineers made sure you only have a one-lane option, and if you're in the wrong lane, too bad. You're well on your way to circling the city multiple times.
Which, incidentally, is what I've done more times than I care to admit.
Yes, I am quite familiar with the long stretch of highway that seems to be leading to a great abyss, only to surprisingly pop you back onto the interstate with very little warning.
So the trip that was detailed to be 8.1 miles became closer to 30 miles.
If this was the first time this happened, I wouldn't be so annoyed. But sadly, this is typical for me whenever I attempt to drive the route that hundreds of people travel every day. I realize there are very likely people who could do the trek in their sleep.
I, on the other hand, am white-knuckled and terrorized by the mere mention of the destination just over the hill.
You would think with all the times I've driven or been driven to that town, at some point it would click. That my brain would finally say, "OH! Now I get it!"
But my brain hasn't even remotely gone there. Not even close.
At first, I felt like the entire community was out to get me. But now I've found myself in complete awe at all the people that reside and work there. They're like superheroes.
They can actually drive the roads leading to their town and not end up on a "scenic byway."
And it's a shame, because I have friends over there. And business contacts.
But I resign myself to the fact that they will forever be a P.O. Box to me.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
If you visit me when I'm old, please remind me to smile.
I had the privilege this weekend to visit a seniors housing facility. I call it a privilege because observing people in their 60s, 70s, 80s and beyond is incredibly interesting.
People that age don't naturally look happy. I realize there is that whole elasticity thing where our skin sags and our eyes droop a little more with every passing year, so some of it you simply can't help. But while wisdom comes with age, so does the realization that we're falling apart.
One body part at a time, sometimes two.
I observe the elderly woman in a wheelchair with a white board up against her nose in order to read the instructions from her caregiver. Obviously her hearing and sight isn't what it used to be.
And even though the physical ailments grab my attention initially, it isn't long and I'm enthralled by the social activity.
Or the lack thereof.
Six women, all lined up side to side - some in wheelchairs, others with walkers and a few with just a cane. Their formation reminded me of the stereotypical cheerleading squad. Was this the old widow's version of a 'clique'? I was fascinated!
They didn't speak a word to one another. Even as I smiled at them, there wasn't a single movement of a facial muscle to acknowledge the pleasantry.
But they were lookin' fine. They were all dolled up - the way old people get when they finally have a chance to leave their room for something special.
They stand together like the front line of an army - piercing the room as if to say, "Watch out. Here we come."
I can't help but wonder if there are a handful of other women around the home coveting a spot within that band of babes. Do we revert back to junior high tendencies when we inch closer to the century mark?
My gaze drifts to a daughter who has come to spend the day with her aging mother. The resemblance is uncanny. Just fast forward 30 years and this daughter is easily peering at her own image. The mother takes the daughter's cell phone to make a call.
It's a sight to behold. It's odd, yet fun, to see someone that old holding a cell phone. I feel like I should run for a rotary dial plate.
But it's not long and she's connected...speaking so loudy it would be uncomfortable anywhere else. But not here.
Even with the amplified volume, very few people seem to notice.
But finally, the best picture of the day was smack dab in the middle of the entire party: an elderly couple snuggled together on a sofa.
They don't say a word to each other.
They, too, have stoic frowns stamped on their faces.
And yet they don't look unhappy. They look content.
And maybe that's the secret.
Let's face it. These people don't have their health. They no longer have the home they raised families in. Many no longer have their spouse.
But they seem more content than this frazzled mom of three, trying to keep on top of homework, art classes, housecleaning and my own work demands.
And for a moment, I'm a little envious.
There are no little kids tugging at their pant leg screaming for attention while they attempt to make a meal that is slightly healthier than chicken nuggets and a juice box.
There are no bosses or co-workers to put demands on their time.
A trip to the grocery store doesn't require Hercules strength and agility to push a mile-long cart with a race car attachment, a battle at the checkout for suckers and gum, or stuffing a parka-puffed child into a car seat.
They get to nap whenever they want.
And they have a chauffeur for every outing.
Sign me up.
People that age don't naturally look happy. I realize there is that whole elasticity thing where our skin sags and our eyes droop a little more with every passing year, so some of it you simply can't help. But while wisdom comes with age, so does the realization that we're falling apart.
One body part at a time, sometimes two.
I observe the elderly woman in a wheelchair with a white board up against her nose in order to read the instructions from her caregiver. Obviously her hearing and sight isn't what it used to be.
And even though the physical ailments grab my attention initially, it isn't long and I'm enthralled by the social activity.
Or the lack thereof.
Six women, all lined up side to side - some in wheelchairs, others with walkers and a few with just a cane. Their formation reminded me of the stereotypical cheerleading squad. Was this the old widow's version of a 'clique'? I was fascinated!
They didn't speak a word to one another. Even as I smiled at them, there wasn't a single movement of a facial muscle to acknowledge the pleasantry.
But they were lookin' fine. They were all dolled up - the way old people get when they finally have a chance to leave their room for something special.
They stand together like the front line of an army - piercing the room as if to say, "Watch out. Here we come."
I can't help but wonder if there are a handful of other women around the home coveting a spot within that band of babes. Do we revert back to junior high tendencies when we inch closer to the century mark?
My gaze drifts to a daughter who has come to spend the day with her aging mother. The resemblance is uncanny. Just fast forward 30 years and this daughter is easily peering at her own image. The mother takes the daughter's cell phone to make a call.
It's a sight to behold. It's odd, yet fun, to see someone that old holding a cell phone. I feel like I should run for a rotary dial plate.
But it's not long and she's connected...speaking so loudy it would be uncomfortable anywhere else. But not here.
Even with the amplified volume, very few people seem to notice.
But finally, the best picture of the day was smack dab in the middle of the entire party: an elderly couple snuggled together on a sofa.
They don't say a word to each other.
They, too, have stoic frowns stamped on their faces.
And yet they don't look unhappy. They look content.
And maybe that's the secret.
Let's face it. These people don't have their health. They no longer have the home they raised families in. Many no longer have their spouse.
But they seem more content than this frazzled mom of three, trying to keep on top of homework, art classes, housecleaning and my own work demands.
And for a moment, I'm a little envious.
There are no little kids tugging at their pant leg screaming for attention while they attempt to make a meal that is slightly healthier than chicken nuggets and a juice box.
There are no bosses or co-workers to put demands on their time.
A trip to the grocery store doesn't require Hercules strength and agility to push a mile-long cart with a race car attachment, a battle at the checkout for suckers and gum, or stuffing a parka-puffed child into a car seat.
They get to nap whenever they want.
And they have a chauffeur for every outing.
Sign me up.
Friday, December 3, 2010
NOT a good bedtime routine.
There are certain pains we incur that will debilitate us to the extent of utter paralysis.
For instance, a stubbed toe. Isn't it odd that we can walk, run, skip, kick and beat the living tar out of our feet, and yet clip that toe on a chair leg and we're cryin' for our mommas?
Or the infamous "funny bone" that is anything but funny when you smash it against a desk or door. Again, it takes us to a place where speech isn't even possible. We just writhe in pain.
And don't even get me started on a paper cut.
Last night I plopped down in front of my computer in hopes of cranking out some work to put myself at ease about looming deadlines. I admit, I was tense. But then I made a foolish mistake.
I got up from the computer and crawled directly into bed.
Remember, I was tense.
So I went to bed...tense.
But due to exhaustion, I slept anyway. But I slept...tense.
So when morning arrived, every muscle in my neck, shoulders and back was wound tighter than the belt of a Baptist minister at a church potluck.
I could not move. But nature was calling.
I enlisted help.
"Honey, I can't move and I really have to go to the bathroom. Please massage my neck for a minute so I can get out of bed."
My heroic, yet comatose husband asked no questions, just obliged. I am convinced he was not remotely coherent. The sweet soul just naturally defaulted to caring for me. Good thing, or he would have awakened in a pool of urine.
I managed to sling myself out of bed and whimpered to the bathroom.
I had become immobile overnight and I was starting to panic.
I shuffle to the cabinet for the muscle pain relieving cream and try not to scream like a banshee (yes, I just used the word banshee. I'm not myself when I hurt. Apparently, I'm my mother.) as I attempt to lift my arm to rub it into my neck and upper back.
Back pain, of any kind, is arguably worse than giving birth. And my last childbirth was a doozy, so I know of what I speak. It is the pain above all pain, because everything is connected. There's really no such thing as "just back pain" because eventually it creeps into everywhere else. Soon you can't move your arm, your head is throbbing, and the mere stubbing of a toe could quite possibly send you over the edge.
That edge is where I found myself this morning. I tried to be strong. I had kids to feed and send off to school, after all. I had responsibilites. There was no time for back pain.
But despite my best efforts, I was soon scrounging for the phone book to make a chiropractor appointment. I haven't been to one here yet, so the first office I try says, "I'm sorry, we don't have time for a new patient this morning."
Well, then guess what. I will never be your new patient.
My second option was successful. Hooray! They could get me in within a half hour. I was hopeful I'd be feeling better in no time.
But the diagnosis was not good. I was misaligned, my joints were surrounded by swelling, and I had massive muscle spasms. Sadly, I couldn't even get on and off the exam table without significant help.
It is a dreadful feeling to be so crippled.
Two treatments later and I'm not experiencing any greater mobility. I want to pluck the muscles out of my back and drive over them.
Years ago, I remember being prescribed muscle relaxers. I have been dreaming about them all day. I may find myself at the walk-in clinic by morning begging for a prescription.
But just watch, I'll finally have those relaxers within reach and in my excitement, I'll snatch the bag from the pharmacist...and get a paper cut.
For instance, a stubbed toe. Isn't it odd that we can walk, run, skip, kick and beat the living tar out of our feet, and yet clip that toe on a chair leg and we're cryin' for our mommas?
Or the infamous "funny bone" that is anything but funny when you smash it against a desk or door. Again, it takes us to a place where speech isn't even possible. We just writhe in pain.
And don't even get me started on a paper cut.
Last night I plopped down in front of my computer in hopes of cranking out some work to put myself at ease about looming deadlines. I admit, I was tense. But then I made a foolish mistake.
I got up from the computer and crawled directly into bed.
Remember, I was tense.
So I went to bed...tense.
But due to exhaustion, I slept anyway. But I slept...tense.
So when morning arrived, every muscle in my neck, shoulders and back was wound tighter than the belt of a Baptist minister at a church potluck.
I could not move. But nature was calling.
I enlisted help.
"Honey, I can't move and I really have to go to the bathroom. Please massage my neck for a minute so I can get out of bed."
My heroic, yet comatose husband asked no questions, just obliged. I am convinced he was not remotely coherent. The sweet soul just naturally defaulted to caring for me. Good thing, or he would have awakened in a pool of urine.
I managed to sling myself out of bed and whimpered to the bathroom.
I had become immobile overnight and I was starting to panic.
I shuffle to the cabinet for the muscle pain relieving cream and try not to scream like a banshee (yes, I just used the word banshee. I'm not myself when I hurt. Apparently, I'm my mother.) as I attempt to lift my arm to rub it into my neck and upper back.
Back pain, of any kind, is arguably worse than giving birth. And my last childbirth was a doozy, so I know of what I speak. It is the pain above all pain, because everything is connected. There's really no such thing as "just back pain" because eventually it creeps into everywhere else. Soon you can't move your arm, your head is throbbing, and the mere stubbing of a toe could quite possibly send you over the edge.
That edge is where I found myself this morning. I tried to be strong. I had kids to feed and send off to school, after all. I had responsibilites. There was no time for back pain.
But despite my best efforts, I was soon scrounging for the phone book to make a chiropractor appointment. I haven't been to one here yet, so the first office I try says, "I'm sorry, we don't have time for a new patient this morning."
Well, then guess what. I will never be your new patient.
My second option was successful. Hooray! They could get me in within a half hour. I was hopeful I'd be feeling better in no time.
But the diagnosis was not good. I was misaligned, my joints were surrounded by swelling, and I had massive muscle spasms. Sadly, I couldn't even get on and off the exam table without significant help.
It is a dreadful feeling to be so crippled.
Two treatments later and I'm not experiencing any greater mobility. I want to pluck the muscles out of my back and drive over them.
Years ago, I remember being prescribed muscle relaxers. I have been dreaming about them all day. I may find myself at the walk-in clinic by morning begging for a prescription.
But just watch, I'll finally have those relaxers within reach and in my excitement, I'll snatch the bag from the pharmacist...and get a paper cut.
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