We are attempting the trendy stay-cation this week, having a vacation at home. So far the result has been mixed.
Yesterday we went to the Adventure Landing water park, and Husband and I were pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t a more appalling place to be. The pool water was actually cool and refreshing, considering the outside temperature was near apocalyptic, and the crowds didn’t arrive until we were ready to go. The Diva ran into a friend, so we didn’t see her for two hours. We only lost the Pterodactyl three times, and only had to pull the Tyrant’s head out of the water once. All in all it was a satisfying experience. It might have been an excellent experience if management would decide to sell alcoholic drinks, though I can see how that would dramatically increase everyone’s risk of drowning.
Today, however, Husband is working, so it was up to me to come up with the day’s activities. We went to the gym so I could think about it during my workout. I came up with a great idea -- we could watch a movie in Mommy’s bed then have a fashion show and take crazy pictures. We were all a little excited about this. But then I let the Diva carry an enormous bowl of popcorn to my room. A glass bowl. She tripped over the Disney princess suitcase the Tyrant uses to carry around important stuff, fell down and landed in a pile of shattered glass.
Her hands were covered in blood. Then I realized she had drawn tattoos all over her hands with red marker, so the blood was not so bad. But when I washed her hands I could see there were a bunch of teeny tiny shards of glass protruding from the cuts. Shit.
So I called Husband the paramedic. He said, “Shit.” So I called the doctor, and he said to bring her in because he had tweezers and a strong light and could pick out all the glass. Then Husband called back and said he was driving the fire engine over with the trauma bag.
“That seems extreme,” I said. But who am I to argue with the paramedic?
I put the three children on my bed and ordered them to stay there, and began to clean up the mess. But I couldn’t do much because I don’t know how to turn on the vacuum. (Have I mentioned that Husband has a clean floor fetish and does all the floor work himself?)
Within five minutes Husband pulled up in the gigantic ladder truck, which is used for rescuing people out of 10-story buildings when it’s not being used to pull teeny tiny shards of glass out of the hands of little girls. Husband leaped out of the truck in his official firefighting boots-pants outfit, complete with suspenders, and strutted to the front door, looking sort of hot. I had to tuck this tidbit of information to the rear of my brain since I was in a post-workout cloud of sweat, and was busy trying to act like I knew how to operate my own vacuum.
Husband removed all the glass from the Diva’s hand while she sniveled, swept up the glass and popcorn, showed me the on-button for the vacuum, kissed me goodbye and drove off in the fire truck.
Then the Tyrant ate a business card and the dog started puking up piles of mucus with grass in it.
That’s how today’s stay-cation has gone. No one’s in the mood for taking pictures at the moment, but I’ve demanded a 45-minute rest period for us all to regroup. That will take us closer to Happy Hour, which might make me more receptive to letting the children further destroy the living room by building a fashion show runway.
For now, the household seems content with some sippy-cups full of milk, SpongeBob Squarepants, and the promise of a swim if the weather holds out. By that definition, everyday is a stay-cation. Enjoy! Tomorrow, the zoo....
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Should I go hiking? You be the judge
My ex-friend broke up with me about two years ago. She said I was too judgmental and hypercritical.
I was shocked. I cried about it to my husband. “I am not judgmental,” I told myself, and everyone who would listen. Now I’ve changed my mind, and I have a confession to make: I’m judgmental.
Just today, in fact, I was judging the woman who left her big-ass white Mercedes-Benz, engine running, in the fire lane to run in and retrieve her children from pre-school. Did she not think we all would have liked to park in the fire lane and leave our engines running? And I judge Husband just about every day. He’s obviously a lesser-developed human as only a caveman would load the dishwasher the way he does it. Don’t even get me started on the way he folds clothes.
Also, quite unreasonably, I judged the Pterodactyl to be deserving of having his fingers removed when he kept trying to hold open my eyes as he watched the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
I’ve been thinking more about my judgmental nature in the wake of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford’s trip to “hike the Appalachian Trail.” You know what? I’m not feeling very judgmental about it. I think the reason I’m not summoning my indignation is that I don’t really care about Gov. Mark Sanford. Not that I think he did the right thing - but it seems to me so easy to sit home on my couch and talk about what an ass he is. And I do think he’s an ass.
But I think it’s much harder to openly judge people we know. Frankly, I know lots of people - men and women - who’ve had affairs. Do you think I’ve ever said to them, “You know, I think you’re really a douchebag for cheating on your spouse.” I have not. It just doesn’t seem polite. Instead I’m blogging about it.
I do believe in forgiveness, and that people can change. For example, I do think that if Husband “hiked the Appalachian Trail,” that he would subsequently become a changed man and never “hike” it again, mainly because his “hiking” equipment would be extremely damaged.
I wish I had the courage to judge people who have, in my opinion, lost their moral compass. I would like to silently wish them well, then subtly eliminate them from my life.
Obviously this would get complicated. I’m pretty sure one of the Mother-of-the-Year’s I know has a little racist streak. But she is very, very organized, and I might need to take advantage of that one day.
Another Mother-of-the-Year recently told me that she doesn’t let her children watch any television. That’s just not right, I thought. I feel very judgmental about that. But if she wants to have my kids over and help them organize a state-of-the-art stage production with costumes and lights, I guess I’ll let them go.
I’ll just make sure get their boob tube fix before they go.
I was shocked. I cried about it to my husband. “I am not judgmental,” I told myself, and everyone who would listen. Now I’ve changed my mind, and I have a confession to make: I’m judgmental.
Just today, in fact, I was judging the woman who left her big-ass white Mercedes-Benz, engine running, in the fire lane to run in and retrieve her children from pre-school. Did she not think we all would have liked to park in the fire lane and leave our engines running? And I judge Husband just about every day. He’s obviously a lesser-developed human as only a caveman would load the dishwasher the way he does it. Don’t even get me started on the way he folds clothes.
Also, quite unreasonably, I judged the Pterodactyl to be deserving of having his fingers removed when he kept trying to hold open my eyes as he watched the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
I’ve been thinking more about my judgmental nature in the wake of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford’s trip to “hike the Appalachian Trail.” You know what? I’m not feeling very judgmental about it. I think the reason I’m not summoning my indignation is that I don’t really care about Gov. Mark Sanford. Not that I think he did the right thing - but it seems to me so easy to sit home on my couch and talk about what an ass he is. And I do think he’s an ass.
But I think it’s much harder to openly judge people we know. Frankly, I know lots of people - men and women - who’ve had affairs. Do you think I’ve ever said to them, “You know, I think you’re really a douchebag for cheating on your spouse.” I have not. It just doesn’t seem polite. Instead I’m blogging about it.
I do believe in forgiveness, and that people can change. For example, I do think that if Husband “hiked the Appalachian Trail,” that he would subsequently become a changed man and never “hike” it again, mainly because his “hiking” equipment would be extremely damaged.
I wish I had the courage to judge people who have, in my opinion, lost their moral compass. I would like to silently wish them well, then subtly eliminate them from my life.
Obviously this would get complicated. I’m pretty sure one of the Mother-of-the-Year’s I know has a little racist streak. But she is very, very organized, and I might need to take advantage of that one day.
Another Mother-of-the-Year recently told me that she doesn’t let her children watch any television. That’s just not right, I thought. I feel very judgmental about that. But if she wants to have my kids over and help them organize a state-of-the-art stage production with costumes and lights, I guess I’ll let them go.
I’ll just make sure get their boob tube fix before they go.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Wonderwoman? Or just a little nuts?
We all have moments or occurrences that have changed our lives. I have five: meeting my husband, meeting each of my children, and having a hysterectomy three years ago.
My uterus served me no purpose in life, and I was glad to be rid of it. I dance through the tampon aisles. Whenever I see an advertisement for Midol, my heart skips a joyous beat because I’ll never have menstrual cramps again.
Regaining control over my body re-ignited my lifelong athleticism, and, no longer hampered by the proverbial curse, I attacked a fitness regime with new enthusiasm.
Which brought me to Matt.
PART I
Matt is my personal trainer. Total alpha male. When we first met, as we sat in the gym talking, my husband walked over, put his arm on my shoulder, bent down, and kissed me on the mouth very deliberately. I later questioned him about this unusual display of affection. “Would you rather I just peed on you?” he asked.
Matt’s built like a meticulously piled stack of bricks and mortar, a short young fireplug of a guy, just turned 29, with a blocky head covered by a short blond buzz cut and some scruffy cheek growth. Strange tattoos cover his arms (and his torso, I think, but I’ve never seen it). One of them contains the word “sinner” if you look at it from one direction and “saint” if you read it upside down. Don’t ask me how this works but it does.
It’s a strange sort of intimacy that develops between trainer and trainee - Matt, after all, is slavishly devoted to my body for two hours every week. He knows how much I weigh, which of my muscles is strongest, and whether my calves have gotten bigger. He can probably estimate my body fat percentage, and he can definitely tell you when I’ve shaved my legs.
And let me tell you: thanks to him, I am strong beyond your wildest assumptions. In the gym, I can do deep-knee squats with 135 pounds on my back. I can do three sets of push-ups, a minute per set. Real push-ups. I can run a half-mile in 3.5 minutes. None of this is uncommon, of course, for athletes. But I’m a 45-year-old mother of three. I take extra fiber and a geriatric multivitamin every day. I have spider veins and have been known to complain about “kids these days.”
More important to me, though - and here’s my real strength - I can move mountains. My physical abilities carry me through the bleakest of days. When my spirit sags wearily and my kids seem to be sucking the life right out of me, my stamina powers me up. My physical strength has become my mental strength.
I have taken some heat from family and friends for having a personal trainer during this economy. It’s true that we’re not rolling in cash -- Husband is a firefighter, and we’re practically selling plasma to keep our kids in pre-school -- but I can’t give up this man. I’ve given up the cleaning lady and making do with one pair of sandals this year. I’m drinking cheaper wine, though I still can’t bring myself to buy Yellow Tail. Husband and I didn’t celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. I’m only getting my hair cut every six months. I even gave up my yearly bikini wax.
My sister-in-law told me recently that she had gotten a personal trainer as well, and was loving it. “She’s so nice,” she told me. “Sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, she’ll just take it easy on me, and we do a lot of stretching.”
I thought about this. When I’m having a bad day, Matt says things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
My workout routine isn’t for everyone, I know that. But for me, the crow’s feet around my eyes seem a little less prominent when my triceps are visible.
And let’s face it, I’m just a little addicted to achieving what I thought was impossible. The other day, as I was doing what seemed to be my 400th set of lunges carrying a 35-pound weight in each hand, I reminded Matt that he had worn out my arms just two days earlier.
“I know,” he said. “It’s called undulating periodization.”
Undulating periodization? It would have sounded vaguely erotic had my arms not been on fire.
I would have complained had I not seen the weakness, disguised as sweat, flying into oblivion.
PART II
In addition to being my trainer, Matt has evolved into my boxing coach. Matt is one of those nutso Ultimate Fighters who can kill a man with his bare hands. How anyone steps into a fighting cage with him is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes, when he’s demonstrating a punch to me and I see his fist coming at my face, the knowledge that he would never in a million years hit me seems secondary to the fact that he can move at the speed of light.
I also take kickboxing classes. So between the classes and Matt, I’m pretty sure that, no matter who you are, I can kick your ass.
My husband works out with me occasionally, and has watched me box. He told me I looked “fierce.”
“Sexy fierce?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” he said. “Just fierce.”
I don’t care. My right hook is so strong I’ve knocked the catching glove off of my partner during sparring. There are few men brave enough to come to boxing class, but I can hold my own against any of them.
It’s one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done.
Now, I realize that lots of people might find this a little silly. And truly, I’m sure I’ve looked ridiculous at times, with my wife-beater black tank top and bandana around my head.
But there’s nothing like feeling a punch connect, even if it’s connecting with a thick padded mitt. It’s a rush, and it’s addicting, not just because of the power but because I’m unexpectedly excelling at something so improbable.
Matt has suggested - I don’t think he’s joking - that I try sparring with someone for real. I told him I think I’d be terrified. “But that’s why you do it,” he said. “If you weren’t terrified, what would be the challenge?”
Maybe I could make something happen in the ring. I have the strength, I think, and the stamina. And I have a couple of secret weapons. The first is that I’m cleverly disguised as a middle-aged suburban mother of three. And the second is - have you guessed it?
It’s my left hook.
My uterus served me no purpose in life, and I was glad to be rid of it. I dance through the tampon aisles. Whenever I see an advertisement for Midol, my heart skips a joyous beat because I’ll never have menstrual cramps again.
Regaining control over my body re-ignited my lifelong athleticism, and, no longer hampered by the proverbial curse, I attacked a fitness regime with new enthusiasm.
Which brought me to Matt.
PART I
Matt is my personal trainer. Total alpha male. When we first met, as we sat in the gym talking, my husband walked over, put his arm on my shoulder, bent down, and kissed me on the mouth very deliberately. I later questioned him about this unusual display of affection. “Would you rather I just peed on you?” he asked.
Matt’s built like a meticulously piled stack of bricks and mortar, a short young fireplug of a guy, just turned 29, with a blocky head covered by a short blond buzz cut and some scruffy cheek growth. Strange tattoos cover his arms (and his torso, I think, but I’ve never seen it). One of them contains the word “sinner” if you look at it from one direction and “saint” if you read it upside down. Don’t ask me how this works but it does.
It’s a strange sort of intimacy that develops between trainer and trainee - Matt, after all, is slavishly devoted to my body for two hours every week. He knows how much I weigh, which of my muscles is strongest, and whether my calves have gotten bigger. He can probably estimate my body fat percentage, and he can definitely tell you when I’ve shaved my legs.
And let me tell you: thanks to him, I am strong beyond your wildest assumptions. In the gym, I can do deep-knee squats with 135 pounds on my back. I can do three sets of push-ups, a minute per set. Real push-ups. I can run a half-mile in 3.5 minutes. None of this is uncommon, of course, for athletes. But I’m a 45-year-old mother of three. I take extra fiber and a geriatric multivitamin every day. I have spider veins and have been known to complain about “kids these days.”
More important to me, though - and here’s my real strength - I can move mountains. My physical abilities carry me through the bleakest of days. When my spirit sags wearily and my kids seem to be sucking the life right out of me, my stamina powers me up. My physical strength has become my mental strength.
I have taken some heat from family and friends for having a personal trainer during this economy. It’s true that we’re not rolling in cash -- Husband is a firefighter, and we’re practically selling plasma to keep our kids in pre-school -- but I can’t give up this man. I’ve given up the cleaning lady and making do with one pair of sandals this year. I’m drinking cheaper wine, though I still can’t bring myself to buy Yellow Tail. Husband and I didn’t celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. I’m only getting my hair cut every six months. I even gave up my yearly bikini wax.
My sister-in-law told me recently that she had gotten a personal trainer as well, and was loving it. “She’s so nice,” she told me. “Sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, she’ll just take it easy on me, and we do a lot of stretching.”
I thought about this. When I’m having a bad day, Matt says things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
My workout routine isn’t for everyone, I know that. But for me, the crow’s feet around my eyes seem a little less prominent when my triceps are visible.
And let’s face it, I’m just a little addicted to achieving what I thought was impossible. The other day, as I was doing what seemed to be my 400th set of lunges carrying a 35-pound weight in each hand, I reminded Matt that he had worn out my arms just two days earlier.
“I know,” he said. “It’s called undulating periodization.”
Undulating periodization? It would have sounded vaguely erotic had my arms not been on fire.
I would have complained had I not seen the weakness, disguised as sweat, flying into oblivion.
PART II
In addition to being my trainer, Matt has evolved into my boxing coach. Matt is one of those nutso Ultimate Fighters who can kill a man with his bare hands. How anyone steps into a fighting cage with him is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes, when he’s demonstrating a punch to me and I see his fist coming at my face, the knowledge that he would never in a million years hit me seems secondary to the fact that he can move at the speed of light.
I also take kickboxing classes. So between the classes and Matt, I’m pretty sure that, no matter who you are, I can kick your ass.
My husband works out with me occasionally, and has watched me box. He told me I looked “fierce.”
“Sexy fierce?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” he said. “Just fierce.”
I don’t care. My right hook is so strong I’ve knocked the catching glove off of my partner during sparring. There are few men brave enough to come to boxing class, but I can hold my own against any of them.
It’s one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done.
Now, I realize that lots of people might find this a little silly. And truly, I’m sure I’ve looked ridiculous at times, with my wife-beater black tank top and bandana around my head.
But there’s nothing like feeling a punch connect, even if it’s connecting with a thick padded mitt. It’s a rush, and it’s addicting, not just because of the power but because I’m unexpectedly excelling at something so improbable.
Matt has suggested - I don’t think he’s joking - that I try sparring with someone for real. I told him I think I’d be terrified. “But that’s why you do it,” he said. “If you weren’t terrified, what would be the challenge?”
Maybe I could make something happen in the ring. I have the strength, I think, and the stamina. And I have a couple of secret weapons. The first is that I’m cleverly disguised as a middle-aged suburban mother of three. And the second is - have you guessed it?
It’s my left hook.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Gimme a break
The big kids drew brown marker stripes on the baby’s butt and the toilet overflowed and the Pterodactyl tracked poopy water everywhere. We bought two pairs of shoes for the Diva and brought the wrong pair home and while I was driving I had to stop a fight about who had more imaginary lollipops and I never did get a Father’s Day card off to Dad.
The Diva starts camp tomorrow and she was only going because my friend was in charge of it and my friend tells me today she got fired last month and so sorry she forgot to tell me and the Diva is supposed to pack a “trashless” lunch and what the fuck does that mean?
Husband hung up on me because I was yelling at him about babysitter issues and dog hasn’t had a real walk in days and her breath smells like a landfill. The Tyrant has learned that slapping me in the face stuns me long enough for her to get away and the Pterodactyl was so mean to his sister in Target that I pinched him.
I never did give the music teacher his end of the year chocolate basket and so now I’m gradually eating it.
I watch tv and read the news and I know what’s going on in the world and I know that I am in the luckiest, oh, .0001 percent of the world’s population, I know this. And I love my life and I really believe that I have the most beautiful children on the planet and I wouldn’t trade for a private Caribbean island the secret sign that the Diva and I share or the way the Tyrant tells me, “yuda best” or the way the Pterodactyl practically sucks my skin off when he kisses me good night.
But on some days, it would be nice to just catch a break.
The Diva starts camp tomorrow and she was only going because my friend was in charge of it and my friend tells me today she got fired last month and so sorry she forgot to tell me and the Diva is supposed to pack a “trashless” lunch and what the fuck does that mean?
Husband hung up on me because I was yelling at him about babysitter issues and dog hasn’t had a real walk in days and her breath smells like a landfill. The Tyrant has learned that slapping me in the face stuns me long enough for her to get away and the Pterodactyl was so mean to his sister in Target that I pinched him.
I never did give the music teacher his end of the year chocolate basket and so now I’m gradually eating it.
I watch tv and read the news and I know what’s going on in the world and I know that I am in the luckiest, oh, .0001 percent of the world’s population, I know this. And I love my life and I really believe that I have the most beautiful children on the planet and I wouldn’t trade for a private Caribbean island the secret sign that the Diva and I share or the way the Tyrant tells me, “yuda best” or the way the Pterodactyl practically sucks my skin off when he kisses me good night.
But on some days, it would be nice to just catch a break.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Dads who like nail polish rock
One year for my birthday my father gave me a blanket for riding bareback on my horse, and I still think of it as the best childhood present ever. Another year he came home late from a business trip on my birthday and gave me a rubber snake. Which was weird. But it was from my dad, so I named it and kept it for years as a treasured possession. (My dad will read this, by the way, and deny that the snake incident ever occurred.)
Dads are most extraordinary, imperfect creatures ever. A good one is a mixture of love and irritation, trust and suspicion, energy and laziness.
My father is the perfect mix of imperfection. His love for his daughters so overwhelms him that, these days, he cries nearly every time he talks to them. But last time we were together, he got into an argument with the 2-year-old Tyrant over potato chips.
But that’s okay. It makes for good family lore, and over the past four and a half decades such incidents have created the imperfect, deliberate mix of me.
I feel the same way about my husband-as-father. He’s currently reading the paper in bed while wearing a handmade necktie and watching a Blue’s Clues episode with the Tyrant. But he’s capable of blocking out a child’s heartfelt expressions of love in order to catch the Red Sox highlights.
I was going to write a list of good paternal attributes. But we all know what those are: love, attention, discipline, blah blah blah. Instead I’ve made a list I think I’ll call Stuff About Dads, compiled with enthusiastic nods to my father and my husband, the two best men that I know. I love you both to the moon despite the fact that you occasionally gang up against me.
Dad once gave me his fishing rod after hooking a blue marlin and let me reel it in.
Husband knows exactly what to say to calm down the children after I’ve threatened to pull the legs off their favorite stuffed animals.
Husband doesn’t get the least bit jealous when the Pterodactyl gives me open-mouthed kisses.
When I first became a journalist, my dad thought I was so good that he suggested I not put my name on my stories in case some people were offended by them.
Husband thinks daughter is so beautiful that he sort of hopes she’s gay so he won’t have to deal with boy issues.
When I was 12, Dad made his secretary type all of my poems and he published them in a little booklet called “Tricia’s Treasures.”
Husband hardly minds at all when the Pterodactyl wears pink nail polish and lip gloss.
Husband defends Pterodactyl admirably when I complain that all the bathrooms smell like pee.
Husband is self-appointed Arbiter of Homework, which is fortunate as I have so far declined to participate in nearly all school activities.
Dad has pushed the Prom Dress incident (see Prom In New Orleans blog entry) to the farthest recesses of his brain.
Dad bought me a pony when I was 8, and for years let me think that I paid for it with the $20 I had saved in my piggy bank.
Husband has nearly consented to let the Diva pierce her ears and has patiently taught the Tyrant to watch baseball with him.
Most of all, they rock because they think I rock, and on my worst days, believe me, that’s a lie they tell themselves.
So Happy Father’s Day to my dad and my husband, and to all the dads out there, and to all the moms who have to be dads, too. Hope your day is filled with homemade neckties, colorful cards and the beverage of your choice.
Dads are most extraordinary, imperfect creatures ever. A good one is a mixture of love and irritation, trust and suspicion, energy and laziness.
My father is the perfect mix of imperfection. His love for his daughters so overwhelms him that, these days, he cries nearly every time he talks to them. But last time we were together, he got into an argument with the 2-year-old Tyrant over potato chips.
But that’s okay. It makes for good family lore, and over the past four and a half decades such incidents have created the imperfect, deliberate mix of me.
I feel the same way about my husband-as-father. He’s currently reading the paper in bed while wearing a handmade necktie and watching a Blue’s Clues episode with the Tyrant. But he’s capable of blocking out a child’s heartfelt expressions of love in order to catch the Red Sox highlights.
I was going to write a list of good paternal attributes. But we all know what those are: love, attention, discipline, blah blah blah. Instead I’ve made a list I think I’ll call Stuff About Dads, compiled with enthusiastic nods to my father and my husband, the two best men that I know. I love you both to the moon despite the fact that you occasionally gang up against me.
Dad once gave me his fishing rod after hooking a blue marlin and let me reel it in.
Husband knows exactly what to say to calm down the children after I’ve threatened to pull the legs off their favorite stuffed animals.
Husband doesn’t get the least bit jealous when the Pterodactyl gives me open-mouthed kisses.
When I first became a journalist, my dad thought I was so good that he suggested I not put my name on my stories in case some people were offended by them.
Husband thinks daughter is so beautiful that he sort of hopes she’s gay so he won’t have to deal with boy issues.
When I was 12, Dad made his secretary type all of my poems and he published them in a little booklet called “Tricia’s Treasures.”
Husband hardly minds at all when the Pterodactyl wears pink nail polish and lip gloss.
Husband defends Pterodactyl admirably when I complain that all the bathrooms smell like pee.
Husband is self-appointed Arbiter of Homework, which is fortunate as I have so far declined to participate in nearly all school activities.
Dad has pushed the Prom Dress incident (see Prom In New Orleans blog entry) to the farthest recesses of his brain.
Dad bought me a pony when I was 8, and for years let me think that I paid for it with the $20 I had saved in my piggy bank.
Husband has nearly consented to let the Diva pierce her ears and has patiently taught the Tyrant to watch baseball with him.
Most of all, they rock because they think I rock, and on my worst days, believe me, that’s a lie they tell themselves.
So Happy Father’s Day to my dad and my husband, and to all the dads out there, and to all the moms who have to be dads, too. Hope your day is filled with homemade neckties, colorful cards and the beverage of your choice.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Talk to me, baby.
Forgive my lackluster computer skills. You shouldn't have any more trouble leaving comments after the posts. Sorry about that, girls and boys. I know how y'all like to gab. xo tricia
Call me when there's blood
When I was in kindergarten my parents had a strict rule against riding bikes in the street. One day, while Mom was shopping and my sisters and I were with a babysitter, I broke the rules and was hit by a car. (I learned my lesson, though.)
Soon after that, I peed on top of a yellow jacket nest, which is not something I recommend. I suffered a few dozen stings in some delicate areas and a trip to a country hospital.
What I remember most about both events is the utter lack of drama that followed. Of course there was some immediate panic regarding my safety, but once my parents confirmed that I’d be fine, it was pretty much over. The night of the yellow jacket assault, in fact, my parents went square dancing. They did at least let me lay in their bed and Dad bought me my favorite candy (Cracker Jacks) and a new album (Uncle Remus).
But by this time, my parents had four girls ages 7 (that was me), 5, 4 and an infant. I guess they needed to get away, even if getting away involved wearing a string tie and a puffy crinoline skirt.
When I think about it, I’m surprised Mom left us with some of these babysitters, particularly the one who let me get hit by a car. And then there was Mrs. Parrera, who made us take baths with our underpants on and wouldn’t let us eat food in the house.
Even when my sister broke her leg, there wasn’t much to it. In fact, my parents didn’t believe it was broken for two days and my dad actually made her walk on it. In all fairness, my parents probably took their cue from the medical community. There’s an oft-told story in our family regarding my little sister eating dog crap, and the pediatrician telling my mother to call him when my sister starting barking.
My point. I need to make it before I start churning up some indignation on behalf of my childhood. My point is this: As your children multiply and begin to take over the house, your panic meter adjusts. You learn to distinguish between life-threatening (viral pneumonia, staph infection, near-drowning) and Another Incident That Will Complicate My Life (ear infections, splinters, febrile seizures). Occasionally the two categories will overlap, such as when the Diva got a splinter in her big toe that turned into a staph infection, but in general, it’s an easy line to draw.
Conflict can ensue, however, because not everyone shares the same standards. For example, at my gym, there’s a rule in the KidZone regarding colorful snot. A child with colorful snot is not allowed to stay in the kids’ room. The snot has to be clear. Now, in my opinion, all snot has some color to it, whether it’s snot from a terrible cold or from a little sniffing pepper incident. (Look, he’s never going to learn if he doesn’t try it.)
I will admit to occasionally giving my child Dimetapp so that the Snot Police in the KidZone don’t ruin my workout. On the flip side, I’ve never brought a child to the KidZone with a fever, at least not knowingly.
It’s also difficult to regulate children with different pain thresholds. The Diva visits the school nurse any time her eye itches. The Tyrant can go uncomplaining for days with an ear infection so severe that gross stuff is leeching out of her ear canal. The Pterodactyl doesn’t care about the pain so much as the injustice that may have inflicted the pain.
So around here we have a saying: If you’re breathing and not bleeding, you’ll be fine. Occasionally, we have to adapt that, as the children occasionally bleed. But SpongeBob Squarepants bandages clot the blood nicely.
Of course, if anything serious ever happens to one of my children, I will spend the trip to the hospital ripping out my hair and flogging myself. But my husband will be there beside me, saying, “You’re breathing and not bleeding. You’ll be fine.”
Soon after that, I peed on top of a yellow jacket nest, which is not something I recommend. I suffered a few dozen stings in some delicate areas and a trip to a country hospital.
What I remember most about both events is the utter lack of drama that followed. Of course there was some immediate panic regarding my safety, but once my parents confirmed that I’d be fine, it was pretty much over. The night of the yellow jacket assault, in fact, my parents went square dancing. They did at least let me lay in their bed and Dad bought me my favorite candy (Cracker Jacks) and a new album (Uncle Remus).
But by this time, my parents had four girls ages 7 (that was me), 5, 4 and an infant. I guess they needed to get away, even if getting away involved wearing a string tie and a puffy crinoline skirt.
When I think about it, I’m surprised Mom left us with some of these babysitters, particularly the one who let me get hit by a car. And then there was Mrs. Parrera, who made us take baths with our underpants on and wouldn’t let us eat food in the house.
Even when my sister broke her leg, there wasn’t much to it. In fact, my parents didn’t believe it was broken for two days and my dad actually made her walk on it. In all fairness, my parents probably took their cue from the medical community. There’s an oft-told story in our family regarding my little sister eating dog crap, and the pediatrician telling my mother to call him when my sister starting barking.
My point. I need to make it before I start churning up some indignation on behalf of my childhood. My point is this: As your children multiply and begin to take over the house, your panic meter adjusts. You learn to distinguish between life-threatening (viral pneumonia, staph infection, near-drowning) and Another Incident That Will Complicate My Life (ear infections, splinters, febrile seizures). Occasionally the two categories will overlap, such as when the Diva got a splinter in her big toe that turned into a staph infection, but in general, it’s an easy line to draw.
Conflict can ensue, however, because not everyone shares the same standards. For example, at my gym, there’s a rule in the KidZone regarding colorful snot. A child with colorful snot is not allowed to stay in the kids’ room. The snot has to be clear. Now, in my opinion, all snot has some color to it, whether it’s snot from a terrible cold or from a little sniffing pepper incident. (Look, he’s never going to learn if he doesn’t try it.)
I will admit to occasionally giving my child Dimetapp so that the Snot Police in the KidZone don’t ruin my workout. On the flip side, I’ve never brought a child to the KidZone with a fever, at least not knowingly.
It’s also difficult to regulate children with different pain thresholds. The Diva visits the school nurse any time her eye itches. The Tyrant can go uncomplaining for days with an ear infection so severe that gross stuff is leeching out of her ear canal. The Pterodactyl doesn’t care about the pain so much as the injustice that may have inflicted the pain.
So around here we have a saying: If you’re breathing and not bleeding, you’ll be fine. Occasionally, we have to adapt that, as the children occasionally bleed. But SpongeBob Squarepants bandages clot the blood nicely.
Of course, if anything serious ever happens to one of my children, I will spend the trip to the hospital ripping out my hair and flogging myself. But my husband will be there beside me, saying, “You’re breathing and not bleeding. You’ll be fine.”
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