A recent Gallup poll found that my home state ranks #3 in the nation for the highest degree of well-being. (FYI - Hawaii came in #1 and Wyoming was #2).
The poll takers claim that well-being is measured by everything from being happy to exercising enough to having affordable housing.I've got a new one for ya, Gallup peeps. How about 'understanding and forgiveness'?
Within the past couple of months, I have made two - well, let's call them glitches - in my freelance work. One was a photo I took that actually wasn't what I thought it was even though it was published as such.
Oops.
Of course I felt like a heel and apologized profusely. But the person who called my attention to the error - a reader (yikes!) - simply responded with, "Don't feel bad. Last week the TV station was out here and took video of the wrong thing too."
Whew. It did make me feel better, but I still had an editor to suck up to in hopes of not being black-listed.
But you know what? A week later he sent me another assignment. Now he may have been secretly trying to punish me because the deadline was super tight, but honestly - the guy could have said, "Have this to me in 15 minutes complete with charts and graphs" and I would said, "Yes, sir. No problem!" and had it to him in TEN minutes.
I think I'm back in his good graces now. Dodged a bullet there.
Or maybe there was no bullet.
Because this past week I goofed on a statistic in a story I wrote for someone else. Fortunately it hadn't published yet - it was caught in the midst of gaining approval from the client.
But it was one of those "Duh, of course that's wrong now that I read it again" mistakes.
I figured I was doomed.
But again, I was given more grace with "Don't worry! I did the same thing once..."
Wow. I was relieved for sure, but more than that I was so grateful.
Grateful for people that don't come unglued at every little mistake.
Grateful that I don't need to beat myself up over imperfections now and then.
And grateful I wasn't still in one of my former jobs where simple slip-ups like this would have resulted in verbal lashing from the company VP.
Yes, I had that boss once. The guy who is more interested in placing blame on someone than just fixing the problem.
He was brutal. I often asked myself what kind of person finds such joy in nailing someone to the wall when they could just say, "Don't worry about it. These things happen. We'll make the correction."
I wasn't in my home state then.
I was working in a state that ranked #29 in that aforementioned poll, by the way. So they must have polled at least a few of my former co-workers!! HA!
But truly, there is something to be said for a little empathy in the midst of overflowing in-boxes, impending deadlines and a typo here and there.
I know it sure made me happy. A top-of-the-charts happy, in fact.
(But I'd still take a trip to Hawaii.)
Friday, March 11, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
If Women Had Invented Basketball
Had women invented the game of basketball, a losing team would never feel hopeless for a comeback.
As a good fan does, I carted my three children over to a church league basketball tournament to watch my husband's team fight for victory against a team that - well, let's just say when the ball hit their hands it apparently had some magnetic force pulling it to the net...they just didn't miss a bucket!
It wasn't long and we could tell our team was in trouble. It was then that my fellow fans - wives, mothers and girlfriends - began to acknowledge the tremendous skill and agility of our players.
"We should get points for outrageous moves and wildy competitive efforts," I say.
The girls and I were all in agreement. We began compiling a mental list as the game continued.
One of our youngest players - an athletic college student from the local university powers his way down the court to attempt a layup, only to do a slider, curvy-type move thing that instead of gaining him a bucket - it resulted in the opposing player tossing him into the wall.
My motherly instinct kicked in and I couldn't help myself - I yelled, "He's on scholarship! Don't hurt the boy!!!"
And then my mind shifted. I declared to my girl posse, "He should get points for that!"
Naturally, they all agreed.
Another one of our players hopped through the lane like a rabbit when the ball was stripped from his hands in an vigilant move to the basket.
Impersonating any small rodent: easily 3 points.
The one that really got us gals fired up was a last-second shot my own husband launched from beyond the half line...and it went in!!
But the darn buzzer had already gone off so it didn't count.
Nonsense!
Wildly exciting shots originating from the opposite side of the court that go in - regardless of timing: 10 points.
The guy with the incredible vertical jump who slaps the backboard as he attempts to block a shot: 6 points. (Let's face it - we all wish we could do it, so maybe it should even be worth more. Put it in the category of : very few people can actually do that and the fans love it: 15 points.)
And frankly, we're women. We're not just watching for hoops, we're observing the attire, too. Sometimes this type of league play means a team just picks a color and they all throw on t-shirt. The opposing team today chose blue - but every blue was a different shade. Not cool, boys. Not cool. Clashing will not earn you a single point.
Now, on the other end of the spectrum...is our team in identical yellow t-shirts complete with names and numbers. Let's put that at another 3 points.
And when they're clever enough to pair it with black shorts to match the lettering - this is off-the-charts good for a guy. You just earned 2 more points per player.
But we're female - and we love shoes.
So rack up some points for color-coordinated shoes: another 2 points per player.
But we're not always about matchy-matchy, either. Sometimes a schnazzy pair of shoes can turn a mediocre player into greatness, just by sheer fashion sense. So shoes that catch our eye and make us say, "oooh!": 3 points per player.
I'm simply giving points where points are due: entertainment.
After all, that's the whole reason to attend these games. When you're getting beat by 26 points, you have to look a little deeper for the entertainment value.
Had the 'new' rules been in place, it may have been a very close game that we likely would have won. (Our guys have some pretty unique moves! Did I mention the rabbit?)
But I'm optimistic. I was sitting next to the league organizer's wife, and she was completely on board with the new scoring system.
So don't fret over defeat today. Mr. League Organizer will likely have to apologize to his bride someday soon for not taking out the garbarge or leaving his socks on the floor, and she'll tell him how to make it up to her.
Then victory will never be impossible. Just remember to wear black shorts.
As a good fan does, I carted my three children over to a church league basketball tournament to watch my husband's team fight for victory against a team that - well, let's just say when the ball hit their hands it apparently had some magnetic force pulling it to the net...they just didn't miss a bucket!
It wasn't long and we could tell our team was in trouble. It was then that my fellow fans - wives, mothers and girlfriends - began to acknowledge the tremendous skill and agility of our players.
"We should get points for outrageous moves and wildy competitive efforts," I say.
The girls and I were all in agreement. We began compiling a mental list as the game continued.
One of our youngest players - an athletic college student from the local university powers his way down the court to attempt a layup, only to do a slider, curvy-type move thing that instead of gaining him a bucket - it resulted in the opposing player tossing him into the wall.
My motherly instinct kicked in and I couldn't help myself - I yelled, "He's on scholarship! Don't hurt the boy!!!"
And then my mind shifted. I declared to my girl posse, "He should get points for that!"
Naturally, they all agreed.
Another one of our players hopped through the lane like a rabbit when the ball was stripped from his hands in an vigilant move to the basket.
Impersonating any small rodent: easily 3 points.
The one that really got us gals fired up was a last-second shot my own husband launched from beyond the half line...and it went in!!
But the darn buzzer had already gone off so it didn't count.
Nonsense!
Wildly exciting shots originating from the opposite side of the court that go in - regardless of timing: 10 points.
The guy with the incredible vertical jump who slaps the backboard as he attempts to block a shot: 6 points. (Let's face it - we all wish we could do it, so maybe it should even be worth more. Put it in the category of : very few people can actually do that and the fans love it: 15 points.)
And frankly, we're women. We're not just watching for hoops, we're observing the attire, too. Sometimes this type of league play means a team just picks a color and they all throw on t-shirt. The opposing team today chose blue - but every blue was a different shade. Not cool, boys. Not cool. Clashing will not earn you a single point.
Now, on the other end of the spectrum...is our team in identical yellow t-shirts complete with names and numbers. Let's put that at another 3 points.
And when they're clever enough to pair it with black shorts to match the lettering - this is off-the-charts good for a guy. You just earned 2 more points per player.
But we're female - and we love shoes.
So rack up some points for color-coordinated shoes: another 2 points per player.
But we're not always about matchy-matchy, either. Sometimes a schnazzy pair of shoes can turn a mediocre player into greatness, just by sheer fashion sense. So shoes that catch our eye and make us say, "oooh!": 3 points per player.
I'm simply giving points where points are due: entertainment.
After all, that's the whole reason to attend these games. When you're getting beat by 26 points, you have to look a little deeper for the entertainment value.
Had the 'new' rules been in place, it may have been a very close game that we likely would have won. (Our guys have some pretty unique moves! Did I mention the rabbit?)
But I'm optimistic. I was sitting next to the league organizer's wife, and she was completely on board with the new scoring system.
So don't fret over defeat today. Mr. League Organizer will likely have to apologize to his bride someday soon for not taking out the garbarge or leaving his socks on the floor, and she'll tell him how to make it up to her.
Then victory will never be impossible. Just remember to wear black shorts.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
I'll race ya!
He may only be three, but I totally get him.
I'm discovering more with each passing day that my youngest son is a lot like me. Again, he's only three, so that could all change, but as I observe him in new situations - I see myself.
Take, for instance, a new preschool science class I enrolled him in on Saturdays in February. Each week, he joins other pint-sized people to learn some basic science concepts like magnifying images, measurement, and our senses.
My boy is hilarious because he listens to the teacher's instructions and then announces, "I have to tell my Mom!" He runs over to me and gives me the low down. I send him back to join his classmates. And the cycle continues.
He usually has a comment or two to share with his teacher, which makes me smile because my two older children, in the same situation, would have clung to my leg or insisted I stay by their side, or just plain cried to have to participate.
And I grin as I think, "Finally! An extrovert! I gave birth to an extrovert like me!" I can't tell you how relieved I am to have someone else in the house who isn't scared to pieces to walk into a room full of people.
Instead, is practically energized by it.
Hooray!
So I admire his ability to converse and share his thoughts openly, taking part in the activities and even having a solution now and then.
But this week in science class, they played a game.
I saw another trait come out that was eerily familiar.
A competitive spirit.
The children were playing red light/green light, and the winner each time received a card with a picture on it (it went with the sense of sight concept...hang with me here).
He was a trooper for the first several attempts. But he's a little guy - the class is for three- to five-year-olds, so he is on the low end of that spectrum and he got beat repeatedly by some older kids. Well, he really wanted a card. So much so, that after about game five, facing defeat yet again, he turned around with a frustrated look and stomped over to me.
"I'm not playing anymore. I never get a card!" he whimpers.
I respond with, "If you don't play, you'll never get a card."
As if a light bulb came on, he marched back to the starting line.
Still no win, but he seems willing to try again.
At this point the teacher is noticing some inequality as one little girl sits with three cards while three wee ones are cardless.
She decides to give anyone who doesn't have a card a hefty head start.
Finally, my kid has a shot.
But he positions himself poorly and comes in second.
"I'm not playing!" he announces as he runs to me, trying desperately to hold back the tears.
I tell him he has a good chance now, there's only two of them that get the head start.
He grudgingly heads back to his advance starting line.
This time he wins.
Oh, the JOY!! He grabs the card and runs to me, waving his prized index card with a blurry black and white picture glued to it with the kind of pride only a three-year-old could exhibit.
He was so mesmerized with his trophy that his late start on the final run didn't even bother him.
As relieved as I was to see him finally win a card, I was hit with the realization that I was watching myself...
Because I've never played anything believing I would lose. Even as crazy impossible it may have been to win a race or game, I rarely recall a time when I thought I couldn't possibly win. Why play if there's no chance of a win?
And losing...well, there better be a shoulder available to cry on, or...I have been known to get mad and throw things.
Sure, I have the mentality of a preschooler.
So be it.
The boy and I will thrive on competition.
And when we do win - hey, we're extroverts. So we'll throw the best parties.
I'm discovering more with each passing day that my youngest son is a lot like me. Again, he's only three, so that could all change, but as I observe him in new situations - I see myself.
Take, for instance, a new preschool science class I enrolled him in on Saturdays in February. Each week, he joins other pint-sized people to learn some basic science concepts like magnifying images, measurement, and our senses.
My boy is hilarious because he listens to the teacher's instructions and then announces, "I have to tell my Mom!" He runs over to me and gives me the low down. I send him back to join his classmates. And the cycle continues.
He usually has a comment or two to share with his teacher, which makes me smile because my two older children, in the same situation, would have clung to my leg or insisted I stay by their side, or just plain cried to have to participate.
And I grin as I think, "Finally! An extrovert! I gave birth to an extrovert like me!" I can't tell you how relieved I am to have someone else in the house who isn't scared to pieces to walk into a room full of people.
Instead, is practically energized by it.
Hooray!
So I admire his ability to converse and share his thoughts openly, taking part in the activities and even having a solution now and then.
But this week in science class, they played a game.
I saw another trait come out that was eerily familiar.
A competitive spirit.
The children were playing red light/green light, and the winner each time received a card with a picture on it (it went with the sense of sight concept...hang with me here).
He was a trooper for the first several attempts. But he's a little guy - the class is for three- to five-year-olds, so he is on the low end of that spectrum and he got beat repeatedly by some older kids. Well, he really wanted a card. So much so, that after about game five, facing defeat yet again, he turned around with a frustrated look and stomped over to me.
"I'm not playing anymore. I never get a card!" he whimpers.
I respond with, "If you don't play, you'll never get a card."
As if a light bulb came on, he marched back to the starting line.
Still no win, but he seems willing to try again.
At this point the teacher is noticing some inequality as one little girl sits with three cards while three wee ones are cardless.
She decides to give anyone who doesn't have a card a hefty head start.
Finally, my kid has a shot.
But he positions himself poorly and comes in second.
"I'm not playing!" he announces as he runs to me, trying desperately to hold back the tears.
I tell him he has a good chance now, there's only two of them that get the head start.
He grudgingly heads back to his advance starting line.
This time he wins.
Oh, the JOY!! He grabs the card and runs to me, waving his prized index card with a blurry black and white picture glued to it with the kind of pride only a three-year-old could exhibit.
He was so mesmerized with his trophy that his late start on the final run didn't even bother him.
As relieved as I was to see him finally win a card, I was hit with the realization that I was watching myself...
Because I've never played anything believing I would lose. Even as crazy impossible it may have been to win a race or game, I rarely recall a time when I thought I couldn't possibly win. Why play if there's no chance of a win?
And losing...well, there better be a shoulder available to cry on, or...I have been known to get mad and throw things.
Sure, I have the mentality of a preschooler.
So be it.
The boy and I will thrive on competition.
And when we do win - hey, we're extroverts. So we'll throw the best parties.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Just make the music stop.
This is a tale of good intentions gone bad. Very bad.
Months ago, I had heard about a wonderful little program offered at our local home improvement store where children can come with their parents on a given Saturday and build something from wood - a train, a car, a basketball hoop. This particular weekend, the craft of choice was a Valentine's music box.
Awww.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
Until I naively scurried into the store with three children, thinking one parent could pull this off.
Foolishness.
Each child is now armed with a bag of wooden pieces, a hammer, and the tiniest nails known to man.
We try to find a place amidst the swarm of children to spread out and build our masterpieces. But the crates that line the aisle are much too high for small children, so every tiny tot is plopped on top of them. Not exactly conducive to workspace.
I eye a low shelf near the floor and guide my children toward it. It's an appropriate height for them, but I'm cramping up as I try to stay in a squat position.
At any rate, we rip open our bags and are ready to get started. I grab the instructions and am immediately confused. I begin to feel a tinge of panic.
Child #1 is already demanding to know what to do first.
I tell her to wait while I read the instructions...after all, we'll want to do this right.
Child #2 is wiggling with anticipation, trying to convince me to just hand him the bag, that he knows what to do.
Right. You know what to do. Without reading any instructions. You are certainly a MAN in training, aren't you?!
Child #3 is simply happy to bang on everything in sight with his new pint-sized hammer.
I pound in the first nail and hand it over to Child #2 to finish.
Ditto for Child #3.
Child #1 is livid that she gets no attention.
An employee comes by and asks if we need help.
Glorious! I thank her and request that she help Child #1.
At some point said employee departs and Child #1 is whining.
Meanwhile, nails are in the wrong places, wood is split, and Child #3 has wandered into the shelving unit, bonking his head repeatedly on the lumber above.
Child #1 bellows.
I glare at her and through clenched teeth I bark, "There are THREE of you and ONE of me!"
I receive a disapproving look from another mother nearby.
Yes. I am failing at motherhood at this moment. Thank you for pointing that out, ma'am.
I go back to trying to construct three music boxes simultaneously. It is a losing battle.
I look up to see a father and his giddy son set up shop next to us. Literally within minutes the boy is happily holding up his perfectly designed music box.
I am annoyed.
Because I look down and see three boxes - none of which were put together properly. Child #3's is still virtually in pieces. Child #2's has a lid that doesn't close. Child #1....well, she was kind of on her own, so it's a shambles. Another employee comes by and gives her a brand new kit to take home. Yeah, it was that bad.
I hang my head and fight back the tears. I really wanted to watch the excitement in their eyes as they built something beautiful with their own hands. I really wanted to pat myself on the back for broadening their horizons, challenging them while at the same time cheering them toward a sense of accomplishment.
Instead, we walked out with three heaps of junk. Because Mom was outnumbered and frazzled.
As we march back to our vehicle, I vow never to return. But my children insist on going again.
I can't imagine why! They enjoy seeing their mother at her worst?
And as if the guilt I felt wasn't enough, I am now enclosed in a car with three incomplete music boxes. Which means all three are playing the music - and cannot be shut off. And the music is horrifying.
It sounds like the dramatic underscore of a scene in a Lifetime Original Movie. It plays over and over.
It is haunting me - I am certain I hear it say, "You - are - a - bad - mother - You - are - a - bad - mother..."
I just want it to stop.
We're headed home and Child #1 says, "Mom, can we go to McDonald's?"
Without even an ounce of hesitation, I shout, "YES!" and crank the wheel toward the golden arches that will redeem me.
So sure, three mangled music boxes may have proved I am an unfit mother. But three Happy Meals certainly turned things around!
Later that day their father managed to salvage the pathetic music boxes and patiently helped our children finish constructing them the correct way.
I was grateful that joy returned to their faces, but I'm still not a fan of that horrifying tune. It's such a harsh reminder of my ineptitude, and I simply don't want to star in a Lifetime Original Movie. Let's face it, it never bodes well for the mother figure in those shows.
The next building project is in two weeks. They're supposed to make race cars.
I'll send their father.
Months ago, I had heard about a wonderful little program offered at our local home improvement store where children can come with their parents on a given Saturday and build something from wood - a train, a car, a basketball hoop. This particular weekend, the craft of choice was a Valentine's music box.
Awww.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
Until I naively scurried into the store with three children, thinking one parent could pull this off.
Foolishness.
Each child is now armed with a bag of wooden pieces, a hammer, and the tiniest nails known to man.
We try to find a place amidst the swarm of children to spread out and build our masterpieces. But the crates that line the aisle are much too high for small children, so every tiny tot is plopped on top of them. Not exactly conducive to workspace.
I eye a low shelf near the floor and guide my children toward it. It's an appropriate height for them, but I'm cramping up as I try to stay in a squat position.
At any rate, we rip open our bags and are ready to get started. I grab the instructions and am immediately confused. I begin to feel a tinge of panic.
Child #1 is already demanding to know what to do first.
I tell her to wait while I read the instructions...after all, we'll want to do this right.
Child #2 is wiggling with anticipation, trying to convince me to just hand him the bag, that he knows what to do.
Right. You know what to do. Without reading any instructions. You are certainly a MAN in training, aren't you?!
Child #3 is simply happy to bang on everything in sight with his new pint-sized hammer.
I pound in the first nail and hand it over to Child #2 to finish.
Ditto for Child #3.
Child #1 is livid that she gets no attention.
An employee comes by and asks if we need help.
Glorious! I thank her and request that she help Child #1.
At some point said employee departs and Child #1 is whining.
Meanwhile, nails are in the wrong places, wood is split, and Child #3 has wandered into the shelving unit, bonking his head repeatedly on the lumber above.
Child #1 bellows.
I glare at her and through clenched teeth I bark, "There are THREE of you and ONE of me!"
I receive a disapproving look from another mother nearby.
Yes. I am failing at motherhood at this moment. Thank you for pointing that out, ma'am.
I go back to trying to construct three music boxes simultaneously. It is a losing battle.
I look up to see a father and his giddy son set up shop next to us. Literally within minutes the boy is happily holding up his perfectly designed music box.
I am annoyed.
Because I look down and see three boxes - none of which were put together properly. Child #3's is still virtually in pieces. Child #2's has a lid that doesn't close. Child #1....well, she was kind of on her own, so it's a shambles. Another employee comes by and gives her a brand new kit to take home. Yeah, it was that bad.
I hang my head and fight back the tears. I really wanted to watch the excitement in their eyes as they built something beautiful with their own hands. I really wanted to pat myself on the back for broadening their horizons, challenging them while at the same time cheering them toward a sense of accomplishment.
Instead, we walked out with three heaps of junk. Because Mom was outnumbered and frazzled.
As we march back to our vehicle, I vow never to return. But my children insist on going again.
I can't imagine why! They enjoy seeing their mother at her worst?
And as if the guilt I felt wasn't enough, I am now enclosed in a car with three incomplete music boxes. Which means all three are playing the music - and cannot be shut off. And the music is horrifying.
It sounds like the dramatic underscore of a scene in a Lifetime Original Movie. It plays over and over.
It is haunting me - I am certain I hear it say, "You - are - a - bad - mother - You - are - a - bad - mother..."
I just want it to stop.
We're headed home and Child #1 says, "Mom, can we go to McDonald's?"
Without even an ounce of hesitation, I shout, "YES!" and crank the wheel toward the golden arches that will redeem me.
So sure, three mangled music boxes may have proved I am an unfit mother. But three Happy Meals certainly turned things around!
Later that day their father managed to salvage the pathetic music boxes and patiently helped our children finish constructing them the correct way.
I was grateful that joy returned to their faces, but I'm still not a fan of that horrifying tune. It's such a harsh reminder of my ineptitude, and I simply don't want to star in a Lifetime Original Movie. Let's face it, it never bodes well for the mother figure in those shows.
The next building project is in two weeks. They're supposed to make race cars.
I'll send their father.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Marvelous Menu...Kid Chaos.
I'm not really much of a cook, but I have befriended two amazing cooks who are teaching me the wonder of flavors and textures and all the goodness that can come from a kitchen.
One has a wonderful blog of her own -- chock full of yummy recipes -- and it has made my life a little easier because when I want to meal plan, I just go to her blog and cheat. (It's listed in the right column of this page - diary recipe addict - so you, too, can cheat.)
Sometimes I expect a bit too much of myself, however. Case in point: Wednesday.
I had aspirations of cooking up a storm. Dinner would be fantastic.
At 2:30pm, I am whipping up some 'quick' cookie bars to top off the meal I will soon prepare. But with a 3-year-old's activity level, even throwing those ingredients in a bowl - and note, I made them bars not cookies - because that's too time consuming! - is full of interruptions.
Things get crazier an hour later when my two oldest children arrive home from school.
Herein is where I develop a new-found respect for my foodie friends. They too have young children. And yet they cook glorious, gourmet meals virtually every night.
I DON'T KNOW HOW THEY DO IT.
How is it possible to cook like that and still be a mom? Here's a peek into the two hour time span from 3:30-5:30 in my house on Wednesday:
Menu: Smokehouse chicken with potato bundles and steamed carrots.
The recipes read like a dream. I'm salivating through the entire meal preparation process.
But the children are home from school, and as usual, are ravenous. But I prepared. I had their snacks ready and waiting on the table. However, it wasn't enough food for them so they're begging for more.
I have to stop the numerous food projects I have going at the moment and get them more snacks, but not the kind of snacks that will ruin their appetite for this divine meal I'm making.
My 1st grade son needs to paint 100 hearts on a t-shirt to wear the following day for the 100th day of school, so he's in the corner of the kitchen with heart-sponges and acrylic paint..and I cringe because his little brother insists upon hovering over him and I have visions of red paint handprints dotting all my walls if he gets too close.
Of course this is also the time we must start homework, so I'm reviewing spelling words, setting timers for reading...
Meanwhile, my 3-year-old wants his Spiderman suit on. But he's potty training so we need to use the toilet before covering ourselves up in a full-body suit. This is never a short process.
The other two children are now crying for attention, wanting help with homework and begging to use the computer to do whatever it was they were doing at school on the computer today.
I say no to the computer. I get a tantrum.
I ignore it and go back to meal prep. Within minutes Spiderman proclaims, "I need to go poopy!" Another long process.
Successful toileting and he wants his candy reward. Done.
I go back to meal prep and two oldest children want to go outside to work on their fort. I let them go. It is frigid cold out there, but I want them OUT.
Soon they are bellowing from the door for me to put on boots and help them break up ice chunks outside so they can continue to shovel their cave. I run out quickly and fulfill their request only to be asked to finish their 'igloo.' Uh, nope. I have chicken on the stove, gotta go.
Tantrums ensue. Again, ignored.
I come inside and Spiderman wants to play cars. I sigh.
Then by the grace of God, I hear the garage door. Father arrives home. YES!
He plays cars with Spiderman while I finish getting food in the oven only to be interrupted by the sound of door slams and two children crying at me for being so cold that they need heat and blankets and how could I be so cruel to let them go outside in such frigid temperatures and why didn't I tell them to come in or not to go out because it is so cold?!?
SERIOUSLY?!
I'm in the midst of chaos...
And then all those kids eat -
are the carrots.
Thursday night: Frozen pizza and mac & cheese.
I'm not even kidding. I admit defeat.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
A photogenic chest cavity. The highlight of my week.
As I tried to think of what I would blog about this weekend, a variety of topics flooded my mind. So instead of trying to narrow it down, I've just decided to share them all. Basically, none of them are worth writing an entire blog on, so I may as well shove them together.
Okay, thought number 1:
A few weeks ago I developed a sinus infection which then contributed to a nasty cough. I was coughing so hard I woke up one morning unable to move due to the pain in my chest. In short, it felt like my lungs were too small for my ribs. So with every cough (and there were MANY), it felt like my ribs were cracking.
This was debilitating enough to get me to a doctor.
I was diagnosed with "pleurisy." Essentially, the lining of my lungs was inflammed. I was put on antibiotics and some prednisone (anti-inflammatory).
Problem was, I couldn't do anything. My exercise routine came to a screeching halt since any amount of movement accompanied by heavy breathing put me in excruciating pain.
A sneeze was a near-death experience.
Mornings were the worst - I had to shimmy out of bed because sitting up was impossible.
My 3-yr-old didn't care that picking him up meant Mommy would be clenching her teeth and brought to tears.
So, with multiple urgings from my friends, I headed back to the doctor.
Chest x-rays and multiple blood tests later, and the doctor says, "You've got me stumped."
On a side note - she said my x-ray pictures were 'perfect' and 'beautiful.' It's nice to know I'm beautiful on the inside! lol
But she figured either I had inflammed connective tissue between my ribs or my lung lining was still inflammed (although the blood tests supposedly ruled that out). So now I'm on a massive dose of prednisone. I did read one of the side effects can be weight loss so I'm really hoping for that...although a couple paragraphs down it reads, "may cause puffy face."
Super. I've got gorgeous ribs but I'll have the face of a balloon animal. I think I'm going to turn myself inside out.
Good news is I think the drugs are starting to work. The pain is manageable for now. I guess I'll hit the gym tomorrow and see what happens...
Okay, thought number two:
I know I've blogged about this before, but it still baffles me when sudden blasts of reality hit me - namely, my age.
I met a young man - an early 20-something - this weekend, and when he introduced himself, I recognized his last name. I cringed as I asked this, "I know I'm old when I have to ask this question, but who are your parents?" Sure enough. He gives the names of a couple I remember with small children. Uh, this 'child' is well into adulthood now.
On the way home, I tell my husband I can't believe that he could be that old. I remember him as a toddler! My husband hangs his head and replies, "That's nothing. I knew his Dad before he was even married."
Ugh. Just sign us up for AARP cards already.
It didn't help that tonight I spent some time putting Christmas photos into albums and had some significant catching up to do (as in, I haven't been diligent to do it for a few years, so there was a large collection of photos) and as I started sticking in graduation and senior pictures of my nieces and nephews - my eyes scanned the pages preceding each one.
Photos of them as babies.
I still vividly remember the outfits they're sporting.
And then the cute early elementary photos. The braces and bad hair of the middle school years. Finally the transformation of a baby-chubbed kid into a beautiful/handsome young adult.
**SIGH** How come 18 years seems more like 18 months to me?
And final thought...
My 8-yr-old is sportin' such a strong 'tude lately you'd think she raced through some years and was more like 14.
The latest phrase I've come to despise: "It's none of your business."
Huh? She's 8. I'm her mother. Everything she thinks and does is still my business, isn't it?!?!?
It's that horrific moment in parenting when you wonder, "Should I be firm and tell her it definitely is my business and she better start talkin'" or pull the compassionate card saying, "Oh, honey, I know you're struggling with something, but you know you can talk to me about anything."
Eventually I try them both.
And eventually they both work.
But she's 8. I'm thinking my luck with that will run out in a few years.
It's just hard to believe that moment the doctor held up that baby with girl parts and my heart burst with joy ...would be so quickly snuffed out by her 2nd-grader-style bad attitude.
So I'm sick. I'm old. And I'm a lost parent. Maybe I'll trade my prednisone in for some anti-depressants!
What a week.
Okay, thought number 1:
A few weeks ago I developed a sinus infection which then contributed to a nasty cough. I was coughing so hard I woke up one morning unable to move due to the pain in my chest. In short, it felt like my lungs were too small for my ribs. So with every cough (and there were MANY), it felt like my ribs were cracking.
This was debilitating enough to get me to a doctor.
I was diagnosed with "pleurisy." Essentially, the lining of my lungs was inflammed. I was put on antibiotics and some prednisone (anti-inflammatory).
Problem was, I couldn't do anything. My exercise routine came to a screeching halt since any amount of movement accompanied by heavy breathing put me in excruciating pain.
A sneeze was a near-death experience.
Mornings were the worst - I had to shimmy out of bed because sitting up was impossible.
My 3-yr-old didn't care that picking him up meant Mommy would be clenching her teeth and brought to tears.
So, with multiple urgings from my friends, I headed back to the doctor.
Chest x-rays and multiple blood tests later, and the doctor says, "You've got me stumped."
On a side note - she said my x-ray pictures were 'perfect' and 'beautiful.' It's nice to know I'm beautiful on the inside! lol
But she figured either I had inflammed connective tissue between my ribs or my lung lining was still inflammed (although the blood tests supposedly ruled that out). So now I'm on a massive dose of prednisone. I did read one of the side effects can be weight loss so I'm really hoping for that...although a couple paragraphs down it reads, "may cause puffy face."
Super. I've got gorgeous ribs but I'll have the face of a balloon animal. I think I'm going to turn myself inside out.
Good news is I think the drugs are starting to work. The pain is manageable for now. I guess I'll hit the gym tomorrow and see what happens...
Okay, thought number two:
I know I've blogged about this before, but it still baffles me when sudden blasts of reality hit me - namely, my age.
I met a young man - an early 20-something - this weekend, and when he introduced himself, I recognized his last name. I cringed as I asked this, "I know I'm old when I have to ask this question, but who are your parents?" Sure enough. He gives the names of a couple I remember with small children. Uh, this 'child' is well into adulthood now.
On the way home, I tell my husband I can't believe that he could be that old. I remember him as a toddler! My husband hangs his head and replies, "That's nothing. I knew his Dad before he was even married."
Ugh. Just sign us up for AARP cards already.
It didn't help that tonight I spent some time putting Christmas photos into albums and had some significant catching up to do (as in, I haven't been diligent to do it for a few years, so there was a large collection of photos) and as I started sticking in graduation and senior pictures of my nieces and nephews - my eyes scanned the pages preceding each one.
Photos of them as babies.
I still vividly remember the outfits they're sporting.
And then the cute early elementary photos. The braces and bad hair of the middle school years. Finally the transformation of a baby-chubbed kid into a beautiful/handsome young adult.
**SIGH** How come 18 years seems more like 18 months to me?
And final thought...
My 8-yr-old is sportin' such a strong 'tude lately you'd think she raced through some years and was more like 14.
The latest phrase I've come to despise: "It's none of your business."
Huh? She's 8. I'm her mother. Everything she thinks and does is still my business, isn't it?!?!?
It's that horrific moment in parenting when you wonder, "Should I be firm and tell her it definitely is my business and she better start talkin'" or pull the compassionate card saying, "Oh, honey, I know you're struggling with something, but you know you can talk to me about anything."
Eventually I try them both.
And eventually they both work.
But she's 8. I'm thinking my luck with that will run out in a few years.
It's just hard to believe that moment the doctor held up that baby with girl parts and my heart burst with joy ...would be so quickly snuffed out by her 2nd-grader-style bad attitude.
So I'm sick. I'm old. And I'm a lost parent. Maybe I'll trade my prednisone in for some anti-depressants!
What a week.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The trauma of a pretty smile.
I am so envious of my kids. They have no idea how good they've got it when it comes to a visit to the dentist.
When I was a kid, sitting in the dentist's office was like waiting on death row. Nothing good ever came of it.
Problem was, I was that innocent little baby that sucked her thumb only to then require retainers and braces to correct the effects of that thumb-sucking. Talk about being punished for a little self-soothing!
My dentist was mean.
My kids' dentist is kind.
My dentist was insulting.
My kids' dentist is encouraging.
My dentist figured novacaine was entirely optional.
My kids' dentist will do anything to eliminate pain.
I am thoroughly envious.
At my dentist's office, there were various rooms which were equipped for different types of care.
To me, they each represented their own level of pain.
One room had flowery wallpaper. No drills or frightening equipment. This was the room used for a simple, pain-free check up. Maybe a cleaning. I'd sigh in relief when I was escorted to that room.
Next there was the room they took you to if you were most likely going to get some pokes - but nothing too terrifying. Small amounts of pain were inevitable, but manageable.
And then there was the room that brought great trepidation and trembling. My entire body tensed up immediately upon entering. It was the Raggedy Ann and Andy room. That wallpaper screamed 'TORTURE.' It is here you knew it was only a matter of time. You would be writhing in pain. No question.
To this day my stomach does a flip and a flop whenever I see a Raggedy Ann or Andy doll, painting, fabric, whatever. They're now synonymous with pain in my mind.
The additional problem I had was that my dentist had a daughter the same age as me with identical teeth issues. She was a thumb-sucker too, and she needed retainers and braces just like I did. In fact, we began treatment around the same time and therefore our check-ups were often similar in nature.
This did not bode well for me. Here's why:
Dentist's Daughter was a tough little cookie.
I was not. Or at least this is what he led me to believe.
My dentist would be killing me with his sharp instruments - I was certain Raggedy Ann & Andy wallpaper was used solely because the pattern could hide all the blood stains - and while I'm sobbing for relief he scolds me, "I just did this to my daughter last week and she didn't cry at all! Come on, this doesn't hurt!"
Some bedside manner that one had.
I never actually knew going to the dentist didn't have to be painful until I was in college. I needed my wisdom teeth removed, so I found a local dentist to do the job.
I was emotionally preparing myself for the agony. I put the memory of Raggedy Ann and Andy out of my mind as best as I could and I went for it.
And you know what?
It didn't hurt at all! The guy used some stuff to numb the pain of the stuff that would be used to numb the pain. Like a one-two punch to pain. Very nice.
What a novel idea.
He didn't scold me.
He didn't rip my lips into shreds with his latex gloves and then later say, "Oh, you'll need some vaseline."
It was - dare I say it - a pleasant experience!
My kids are so fortunate because it has always been a pleasant experience. They get to watch a monkey brush his teeth. They get toothpaste flavors like strawberry and cookie dough. The hygenist asks them about things they like. And when they're all done, they get to choose a prize from a box.
All I ever got when I left the dentist was a disapproving look and a "come back in two weeks."
Yep, my kids have it much better than I did. And boy am I glad!
When I was a kid, sitting in the dentist's office was like waiting on death row. Nothing good ever came of it.
Problem was, I was that innocent little baby that sucked her thumb only to then require retainers and braces to correct the effects of that thumb-sucking. Talk about being punished for a little self-soothing!
My dentist was mean.
My kids' dentist is kind.
My dentist was insulting.
My kids' dentist is encouraging.
My dentist figured novacaine was entirely optional.
My kids' dentist will do anything to eliminate pain.
I am thoroughly envious.
At my dentist's office, there were various rooms which were equipped for different types of care.
To me, they each represented their own level of pain.
One room had flowery wallpaper. No drills or frightening equipment. This was the room used for a simple, pain-free check up. Maybe a cleaning. I'd sigh in relief when I was escorted to that room.
Next there was the room they took you to if you were most likely going to get some pokes - but nothing too terrifying. Small amounts of pain were inevitable, but manageable.
And then there was the room that brought great trepidation and trembling. My entire body tensed up immediately upon entering. It was the Raggedy Ann and Andy room. That wallpaper screamed 'TORTURE.' It is here you knew it was only a matter of time. You would be writhing in pain. No question.
To this day my stomach does a flip and a flop whenever I see a Raggedy Ann or Andy doll, painting, fabric, whatever. They're now synonymous with pain in my mind.
The additional problem I had was that my dentist had a daughter the same age as me with identical teeth issues. She was a thumb-sucker too, and she needed retainers and braces just like I did. In fact, we began treatment around the same time and therefore our check-ups were often similar in nature.
This did not bode well for me. Here's why:
Dentist's Daughter was a tough little cookie.
I was not. Or at least this is what he led me to believe.
My dentist would be killing me with his sharp instruments - I was certain Raggedy Ann & Andy wallpaper was used solely because the pattern could hide all the blood stains - and while I'm sobbing for relief he scolds me, "I just did this to my daughter last week and she didn't cry at all! Come on, this doesn't hurt!"
Some bedside manner that one had.
I never actually knew going to the dentist didn't have to be painful until I was in college. I needed my wisdom teeth removed, so I found a local dentist to do the job.
I was emotionally preparing myself for the agony. I put the memory of Raggedy Ann and Andy out of my mind as best as I could and I went for it.
And you know what?
It didn't hurt at all! The guy used some stuff to numb the pain of the stuff that would be used to numb the pain. Like a one-two punch to pain. Very nice.
What a novel idea.
He didn't scold me.
He didn't rip my lips into shreds with his latex gloves and then later say, "Oh, you'll need some vaseline."
It was - dare I say it - a pleasant experience!
My kids are so fortunate because it has always been a pleasant experience. They get to watch a monkey brush his teeth. They get toothpaste flavors like strawberry and cookie dough. The hygenist asks them about things they like. And when they're all done, they get to choose a prize from a box.
All I ever got when I left the dentist was a disapproving look and a "come back in two weeks."
Yep, my kids have it much better than I did. And boy am I glad!
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