One of the problems with raising your first born child is you have no reference point. There is no big picture. Everything you are doing is in the here and now. With your subsequent children you can take the approach that *this too shall pass* when things get hairy. But with the first you have to assume that this is as bad as it gets and act accordingly. You have no perspective.
One of the things I have been working on with my children for the past, oh, two years, is their insistence on using the word *butt*. For some reason it drives me bonkers when they say this word.Prior to them using the word in every possible sentence I didn't consider the word offensive. And when adults use it I still don't. But when kids use it it sounds so crass, so inappropriate. I tried many tactics to get them to stop but it just wouldn't take. I would correct them until I was blue in the face and it made no impact. Finally one day when I was giving them yet another mommy lecture on how that word hurts my ears I just stopped. It suddenly dawned on me that before I knew it there would be many words that were a greater cause for alarm then the slang for a person's derriere. I realized I needed to pace myself, save my energy or I would burn out well before the teenage years. Instead I needed to gird my strength and save up for a rainy day. This was not the first occasion when this thought has occurred to me.
My daughter loves to read. This started around the beginning of first grade and has escalated at breakneck speed. She wasn't an early reader but once she got going it snowballed. By the second grade it has reached the point where she won't stop reading. Ever. Now I know you are sitting there rolling your eyes and hating me for being one of those parents who says things like *Oh I just don't know what to do about Bobby. He is so gifted in science that I finally had to hire an ex-astronaut to tutor him in enrichment*. No, it's not like that. I am glad my daughter loves to read. My husband and I are both avid readers and nothing gave us greater pleasure than to discover our daughter is on the path to a lifelong love of the written word.
However, it has a dark side. This child reads morning, noon and night. She will wake up early before school to read her book or make sure she has enough time to read the comics in the newspaper. She reads when she has friends over. Of course this can be a big plus if the friend loves to read because my house stays really clean. And quiet. She reads everywhere all the time. We have to beg her to stop reading and converse with us at dinner. Or at least acknowledge us. It has become annoying.
It has also become a safety hazard. She reads while she is walking home from school. This wouldn't be a problem except that she can't see where she is going and I have to constantly bark at her to stop reading and just walk. This causes me to receive some strange looks. What kind of parent tells their child to stop reading? The one whose child has been known to walk into a power box affixed to a pole. She managed to avoid the pole because it was not in the middle of the sidewalk, but the power box stuck out just enough that she clocked her head.
This reading thing has gotten so out of control that she actually yells at me when she runs out of books. She whines and complains when we tell her she may not bring her book to read when we go out to dinner as a family. My mother came to visit for her birthday. We had bought my daughter a bunch of new books but didn't give them to her until the day before my mom left because I knew that the minute she opened them that would be the end of grandma's quality time with her granddaughter. And it was.
And then we were out to dinner one night when in came a friend of mine with her children. One child is a teenager and the other one is getting close. They are both extremely bright kids with lovely personalities and I am always impressed with them when I run into her. There we were at our table with my daughter reading her book. I felt so self-conscious about how dysfunctional we must look. And then my friend and her family sat down and the teenager pulled out his iPod and started watching a video and the almost teenager pulled out her DS and started intently playing a game. They didn't acknowledge their parents or each other for that matter. I am not sure they did more than grunt enough words to place their food order with the waitress. And at that moment it hit me. Perspective.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
No, seriously, how did it *really* happen?
I am not someone who gets normal injuries. I have never broken a leg by skiing or broken an arm from falling out of a tree. My injuries fall into the category of *freak accidents* that border on unbelievable.
Yesterday I was frantically trying to get ready in the morning so we could go skiing when I cut my forehead on my hairdryer. For those of you who use hairdryers you are scratching your head (pun intended) wondering how that is possible. Let me just say that it is so complex I would have to draw you a diagram, or stage a reenactment. For those of you who have had cuts on their forehead you know how this can be a big problem. Even the smallest scratch needs medical attention to get it to stop bleeding. And if you are someone like me who uses their face to make a multitude of subtle expressions to convey to my children and husband my wide range of feelings then that skin is in constant use. Luckily *this time* around I knew exactly what to do and was able to patch myself up by first stopping the blood flow with some styptic, then closing the wound with a few steri-strips. We were in the van and on the way to the slopes in no time.
This wasn't the first face wound I have attended to. A few years ago my son took a golf iron to the face, courtesy of his sister (a so-called accident). It produced a gash above the eyebrow that I thought for sure would involve a trip to the emergency room to stitch. I was all prepared to dig out my *ER Frequent Customer Card* (two more trips and we get a free latte and a roll of gauze). But then I realized that it wasn't too bad and I was able to close it up expertly enough (with steri-strips, of course) that when my neighbor, who is a volunteer EMT came over to check it out he commented that it looked like a professional job.
A few years ago I was on my way to the running shoe store with my son in tow. He was sixteen months old and strapped into his car seat, happy to be going on such an important outing. I parked the van and since it was July I opened his sliding door to let some air while I gathered all the necessary supplies to journey into the store. My purse was on the front passenger's seat and as I stood on the curb I opened the door and bent forward to retrieve it and hit myself in the forehead with the edge of the van door.
Ouch! I said loudly, feeling a sting of pain and embarrassment because this was downtown Clarendon and I looked like an uncoordinated idiot. As I was straightening up a couple was coming out of the running store and yelled across the street to ask if I was okay and whether I needed help. I was about to answer my typical reply of no thanks, which applies to pretty much every situation including if I had broken my leg or was being attacked by terrorists because I am loathe to ask for help. But at that moment I rubbed the tender spot and when I saw my hand it was covered in blood. Simultaneously it dawned on me that the liquid running into my eyes was not sweat from the hot July midday sun, but more blood.
But I am stubborn, and will only ask for assistance under the most dire of circumstances. In this case I was the Black Knight of Monty Python's Holy Grail. It was nothing but a little flesh wound. I would get my shoes and be on my way to the pool. But then I looked in my review mirror. I was covered in blood. And to add to my blood soaked macabre appearance my wound was actually spurting blood, like in a bad B horror movie. In a small voice I replied to the couple, um, yeah, I think I may need a bit of help here if you don't mind.
They came over to the van, saw me and gasped. Ma'am, I think you need to go the hospital. I am not sure which caught me more off guard, the need to go to the hospital or the ma'am. Both took me aback but I think I was more alarmed by the ma'am. I asked them if they wouldn't mind watching my son while I called my husband and figured out what to do. The little guy was still patiently sitting in his car seat playing with his feet, obliviously to the fact that his mommy looked like a scene from Carrie.
Once my husband was called and he was on his way I realized that the entire side of the van was splattered with blood. My immediate thought was that I would need to go the car wash later that day. My second thought was that I should get it cleaned up now because my husband would be arriving with my daughter and all that blood may freak her out. So I asked the kind couple who were watching my son if they could also help me clean up my blood soaked van. Apparently once I accept help initially the flood gates open and I have no qualms about asking for it for increasingly inappropriate tasks. Like crime scene clean-up. And yet, they agreed and got the clorox wipes out of the back (because this is a mini-van and I have everything in there) and we all started wiping. Except I had to also hold a bath towel to my head while I worked so I wouldn't spurt more blood onto the van, adding to the carnage.
My husband came and took me to the hospital where all I could do was wonder if there would still be time to go the pool later. After all, I had promised the kids and they would be upset. At the hospital the kids got candy from the vending machines while I was discreetly quizzed on how I got the cut, because surely the *hitting myself in the head with the van door* was a cover story for some sort of abuse. Really, no one is that clumsy. I got ten stitches and was sent on my way. Once it was stitched up it didn't look that bad so I thought it was subtle enough that I wouldn't have too much explaining to do. Except no one told me about the giant black eye I would get which would turn purple and then green. For weeks and weeks I had to retell the story about the van door. And yes, it often involved a diagram and a reenactment.
Yesterday I was frantically trying to get ready in the morning so we could go skiing when I cut my forehead on my hairdryer. For those of you who use hairdryers you are scratching your head (pun intended) wondering how that is possible. Let me just say that it is so complex I would have to draw you a diagram, or stage a reenactment. For those of you who have had cuts on their forehead you know how this can be a big problem. Even the smallest scratch needs medical attention to get it to stop bleeding. And if you are someone like me who uses their face to make a multitude of subtle expressions to convey to my children and husband my wide range of feelings then that skin is in constant use. Luckily *this time* around I knew exactly what to do and was able to patch myself up by first stopping the blood flow with some styptic, then closing the wound with a few steri-strips. We were in the van and on the way to the slopes in no time.
This wasn't the first face wound I have attended to. A few years ago my son took a golf iron to the face, courtesy of his sister (a so-called accident). It produced a gash above the eyebrow that I thought for sure would involve a trip to the emergency room to stitch. I was all prepared to dig out my *ER Frequent Customer Card* (two more trips and we get a free latte and a roll of gauze). But then I realized that it wasn't too bad and I was able to close it up expertly enough (with steri-strips, of course) that when my neighbor, who is a volunteer EMT came over to check it out he commented that it looked like a professional job.
A few years ago I was on my way to the running shoe store with my son in tow. He was sixteen months old and strapped into his car seat, happy to be going on such an important outing. I parked the van and since it was July I opened his sliding door to let some air while I gathered all the necessary supplies to journey into the store. My purse was on the front passenger's seat and as I stood on the curb I opened the door and bent forward to retrieve it and hit myself in the forehead with the edge of the van door.
Ouch! I said loudly, feeling a sting of pain and embarrassment because this was downtown Clarendon and I looked like an uncoordinated idiot. As I was straightening up a couple was coming out of the running store and yelled across the street to ask if I was okay and whether I needed help. I was about to answer my typical reply of no thanks, which applies to pretty much every situation including if I had broken my leg or was being attacked by terrorists because I am loathe to ask for help. But at that moment I rubbed the tender spot and when I saw my hand it was covered in blood. Simultaneously it dawned on me that the liquid running into my eyes was not sweat from the hot July midday sun, but more blood.
But I am stubborn, and will only ask for assistance under the most dire of circumstances. In this case I was the Black Knight of Monty Python's Holy Grail. It was nothing but a little flesh wound. I would get my shoes and be on my way to the pool. But then I looked in my review mirror. I was covered in blood. And to add to my blood soaked macabre appearance my wound was actually spurting blood, like in a bad B horror movie. In a small voice I replied to the couple, um, yeah, I think I may need a bit of help here if you don't mind.
They came over to the van, saw me and gasped. Ma'am, I think you need to go the hospital. I am not sure which caught me more off guard, the need to go to the hospital or the ma'am. Both took me aback but I think I was more alarmed by the ma'am. I asked them if they wouldn't mind watching my son while I called my husband and figured out what to do. The little guy was still patiently sitting in his car seat playing with his feet, obliviously to the fact that his mommy looked like a scene from Carrie.
Once my husband was called and he was on his way I realized that the entire side of the van was splattered with blood. My immediate thought was that I would need to go the car wash later that day. My second thought was that I should get it cleaned up now because my husband would be arriving with my daughter and all that blood may freak her out. So I asked the kind couple who were watching my son if they could also help me clean up my blood soaked van. Apparently once I accept help initially the flood gates open and I have no qualms about asking for it for increasingly inappropriate tasks. Like crime scene clean-up. And yet, they agreed and got the clorox wipes out of the back (because this is a mini-van and I have everything in there) and we all started wiping. Except I had to also hold a bath towel to my head while I worked so I wouldn't spurt more blood onto the van, adding to the carnage.
My husband came and took me to the hospital where all I could do was wonder if there would still be time to go the pool later. After all, I had promised the kids and they would be upset. At the hospital the kids got candy from the vending machines while I was discreetly quizzed on how I got the cut, because surely the *hitting myself in the head with the van door* was a cover story for some sort of abuse. Really, no one is that clumsy. I got ten stitches and was sent on my way. Once it was stitched up it didn't look that bad so I thought it was subtle enough that I wouldn't have too much explaining to do. Except no one told me about the giant black eye I would get which would turn purple and then green. For weeks and weeks I had to retell the story about the van door. And yes, it often involved a diagram and a reenactment.
Friday, February 11, 2011
A learning experience
Earlier today I was having lunch with a friend when the subject came up of cooperative preschools. She commented about another friend who had sent her children to one and how that just wasn't for her. She needed time to herself after so many years of sleep deprivation and not being able to take a shower uninterrupted. I couldn't agree more. The chance at finally having a little freedom - who would trade that in for mandated stints of wiping noses and many other less than glamorous tasks? Me, that's who.
Both of my children went to a cooperative preschool where I was required to work in the classroom as a teacher's aide anywhere from once a month when I only had one child at the school to as often as every week when both children were attending simultaneously. Just in case I wasn't giving enough of my blood, sweat and tears to the school in the classroom I agreed to serve on the executive board for three years in a row. We spent a total of five years at the school, or as I refer to it *hard time*.
In order to gain admittance to the school you had to write a short essay explaining why you wanted to go there, and why a cooperative appealed to you. My essay consisted of the usual drivel about wanting to share the educational experience with my child, blah blah blah. At the time we applied I was pregnant with my second, sick as all get out, and could barely keep my one brain cell left working properly. I confess that my sister may have written some of my essay. Or maybe most of it. Besides, did they really need to know that my true reason for wanting to go there was because it was the cleanest of all the schools we had visited, and actually had natural sunlight in the classrooms instead of being buried in a church basement? And not only were all the mommies at the open house friendly, they had doughnuts (did I mention at this point I was 8 months pregnant?).
We were accepted into the school (not because of the essay) and so began our cooperative experience. After working in the classroom a few times I still had no idea how I got there. Was I crazy? But after awhile I came to realize that being part of a cooperative was the best thing that could have happened to me as a parent. Not because I got to be with my child and spend cherished learning moments covered in paint or shaving cream. Or even that it gave me an excuse to have three hours away from my colicky, refluxy infant at home. Oh no, I learned something even more valuable. Other children are just as annoying, whiny, needy, defiant, funny, clever, creative, helpful and exasperating as my own. I was no longer parenting in a vacuum.
I have a tendency to obsess about...everything. I worry incessantly about my children and their development. If left to my own devices I would probably have been institutionalized before they reached the age of three, worrying that they couldn't fluently speak a foreign language yet, or locate Egypt on a map. At a cooperative you get to observe the entire spectrum of children and come to realize that not only is your child normal, but let's face it, more brilliant and well adjusted then all the others.
One of the biggest rewards of a cooperative preschool is that after each time you finish working in the classroom you come home and think how much worse it could be if *insert name of child who ate the paint in class* was your child. Sure, your child may still be struggling to count to five, but at least they don't eat the supplies. But let's say your child is the one who eats the art supplies. No worries, since you don't have the child that will only eat orange colored foods for snack, and if there isn't anything orange on the menu, cries at the top of their lungs. I could go on, but you get the point. The grass is always greener on your side of the fence.
My favorite memory of being at the school was when my daughter was in the 3s class and her little friend bit her. Hard. It left a big ugly red welt on her calf. It didn't break the skin and my daughter recovered quickly. The other mommy was beyond mortified. To this day she occasionally apologizes for her child's transgression from five years ago. When it happened I was taken aback, but not angry. Biting is something 3 year olds do sometimes. But the beauty of it was that it wasn't *my* 3 year old. My 3 year old may occasionally still pee her pants. She may never pick up her toys, doesn't recognize 5 is a number and has meltdowns of epic proportions when she doesn't get her way, but she doesn't bite. It is those small measures of comfort that help convince you your child isn't one step away from the penitentiary. And for the biter's mommy - she could console herself with the fact that her child never peed her pants at school and could count all the way to ten. It's all relative.
Both of my children went to a cooperative preschool where I was required to work in the classroom as a teacher's aide anywhere from once a month when I only had one child at the school to as often as every week when both children were attending simultaneously. Just in case I wasn't giving enough of my blood, sweat and tears to the school in the classroom I agreed to serve on the executive board for three years in a row. We spent a total of five years at the school, or as I refer to it *hard time*.
In order to gain admittance to the school you had to write a short essay explaining why you wanted to go there, and why a cooperative appealed to you. My essay consisted of the usual drivel about wanting to share the educational experience with my child, blah blah blah. At the time we applied I was pregnant with my second, sick as all get out, and could barely keep my one brain cell left working properly. I confess that my sister may have written some of my essay. Or maybe most of it. Besides, did they really need to know that my true reason for wanting to go there was because it was the cleanest of all the schools we had visited, and actually had natural sunlight in the classrooms instead of being buried in a church basement? And not only were all the mommies at the open house friendly, they had doughnuts (did I mention at this point I was 8 months pregnant?).
We were accepted into the school (not because of the essay) and so began our cooperative experience. After working in the classroom a few times I still had no idea how I got there. Was I crazy? But after awhile I came to realize that being part of a cooperative was the best thing that could have happened to me as a parent. Not because I got to be with my child and spend cherished learning moments covered in paint or shaving cream. Or even that it gave me an excuse to have three hours away from my colicky, refluxy infant at home. Oh no, I learned something even more valuable. Other children are just as annoying, whiny, needy, defiant, funny, clever, creative, helpful and exasperating as my own. I was no longer parenting in a vacuum.
I have a tendency to obsess about...everything. I worry incessantly about my children and their development. If left to my own devices I would probably have been institutionalized before they reached the age of three, worrying that they couldn't fluently speak a foreign language yet, or locate Egypt on a map. At a cooperative you get to observe the entire spectrum of children and come to realize that not only is your child normal, but let's face it, more brilliant and well adjusted then all the others.
One of the biggest rewards of a cooperative preschool is that after each time you finish working in the classroom you come home and think how much worse it could be if *insert name of child who ate the paint in class* was your child. Sure, your child may still be struggling to count to five, but at least they don't eat the supplies. But let's say your child is the one who eats the art supplies. No worries, since you don't have the child that will only eat orange colored foods for snack, and if there isn't anything orange on the menu, cries at the top of their lungs. I could go on, but you get the point. The grass is always greener on your side of the fence.
My favorite memory of being at the school was when my daughter was in the 3s class and her little friend bit her. Hard. It left a big ugly red welt on her calf. It didn't break the skin and my daughter recovered quickly. The other mommy was beyond mortified. To this day she occasionally apologizes for her child's transgression from five years ago. When it happened I was taken aback, but not angry. Biting is something 3 year olds do sometimes. But the beauty of it was that it wasn't *my* 3 year old. My 3 year old may occasionally still pee her pants. She may never pick up her toys, doesn't recognize 5 is a number and has meltdowns of epic proportions when she doesn't get her way, but she doesn't bite. It is those small measures of comfort that help convince you your child isn't one step away from the penitentiary. And for the biter's mommy - she could console herself with the fact that her child never peed her pants at school and could count all the way to ten. It's all relative.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A trip to Sweden
I have a love-hate relationship with Ikea. I *love* the idea of Ikea, but hate actually shopping there. It isn't because of the crowds, I only go during the week, usually right when it opens. As a result you don't have to park in northern Örnsköldsvik, nor do you have to fear being crushed by throngs of people eating meatballs.
But even at 10am on a Wednesday Ikea is overwhelming. First off, it is so large that if you get separated from the people you came with you may not see them again until...Thursday. Additionally, you can't just cut across to get where you want to go. You must meander through their maze until you arrive at your desired section. And forget about trying to back track if you forget something. The only direction at Ikea is forward, where you arrive at the end and any sense of equilibrium you had left is quickly obliterated by the abundance of items in the *marketplace*. Here is where you find yourself thinking, wow, I didn't really need sporks, but these are so cute in the lime green, and so reasonably priced I should get several sets in case I have a dinner party and need lime green sporks.
And then there is the actual shopping. Attempting to compare and contrast something as simple as office desks goes something like this:
Me: So, we've narrowed it down to either the Guutengaart or the Sluukatorp.
Husband: Yes, I really liked both of those, but weren't we also considering the Kluunkaap?
Me: Oh yeah, but now I can't remember if it was the Kluunkaap desk or the Kluunkaap bookcase that we wanted.
Husband: Never mind, now I remember, it was Gaaarpuuntat.
At that point you feel so ridiculous, and are so overwhelmed by vowels that you just get in the car and go to Crate and Barrel. But let's say you can manage to forge ahead, make it through the ridiculous names and locate your items in the giant rows that make me dizzy. You must then make sure you pick up the correct pieces that you need to assemble your (insert name of piece of furniture here). Inevitably you accidentally take your eye off the ball and end up with the legs for the Raaavtonon desk, but the Duuktigor top and drawers. Usually in mismatched sizes. Of course you don't realize this until you get all the way home because at that point of your trip your sole goal is to flee the store with your items.
And finally you arrive home with the correct items in the correct sizes with all the parts matching. After letting the boxes sit in the middle of the floor for a few weeks you muster the energy to begin the assembly, only to discover THERE ARE NO WORDS in the instructions. Instead it is a series of hand drawn pictures with vague references (pictorial) to the pieces and how they fit together. Perhaps these are clear and straightforward to someone who works for Ikea building furniture. Or maybe the citizens of Sweden. For people like me who do better with explicit WRITTEN DIRECTIONS, preferably with a nice illustration, the instructions that come from Ikea are one of the circles of hell. Or you can be like my husband and just disregard the instructions entirely, putting together the furniture on sheer intuition. I will save the story for how that turns out for another time.
But even at 10am on a Wednesday Ikea is overwhelming. First off, it is so large that if you get separated from the people you came with you may not see them again until...Thursday. Additionally, you can't just cut across to get where you want to go. You must meander through their maze until you arrive at your desired section. And forget about trying to back track if you forget something. The only direction at Ikea is forward, where you arrive at the end and any sense of equilibrium you had left is quickly obliterated by the abundance of items in the *marketplace*. Here is where you find yourself thinking, wow, I didn't really need sporks, but these are so cute in the lime green, and so reasonably priced I should get several sets in case I have a dinner party and need lime green sporks.
And then there is the actual shopping. Attempting to compare and contrast something as simple as office desks goes something like this:
Me: So, we've narrowed it down to either the Guutengaart or the Sluukatorp.
Husband: Yes, I really liked both of those, but weren't we also considering the Kluunkaap?
Me: Oh yeah, but now I can't remember if it was the Kluunkaap desk or the Kluunkaap bookcase that we wanted.
Husband: Never mind, now I remember, it was Gaaarpuuntat.
At that point you feel so ridiculous, and are so overwhelmed by vowels that you just get in the car and go to Crate and Barrel. But let's say you can manage to forge ahead, make it through the ridiculous names and locate your items in the giant rows that make me dizzy. You must then make sure you pick up the correct pieces that you need to assemble your (insert name of piece of furniture here). Inevitably you accidentally take your eye off the ball and end up with the legs for the Raaavtonon desk, but the Duuktigor top and drawers. Usually in mismatched sizes. Of course you don't realize this until you get all the way home because at that point of your trip your sole goal is to flee the store with your items.
And finally you arrive home with the correct items in the correct sizes with all the parts matching. After letting the boxes sit in the middle of the floor for a few weeks you muster the energy to begin the assembly, only to discover THERE ARE NO WORDS in the instructions. Instead it is a series of hand drawn pictures with vague references (pictorial) to the pieces and how they fit together. Perhaps these are clear and straightforward to someone who works for Ikea building furniture. Or maybe the citizens of Sweden. For people like me who do better with explicit WRITTEN DIRECTIONS, preferably with a nice illustration, the instructions that come from Ikea are one of the circles of hell. Or you can be like my husband and just disregard the instructions entirely, putting together the furniture on sheer intuition. I will save the story for how that turns out for another time.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Medical attention is for other people
I loathe going to the doctor. I am not sure if it is because it takes time out of my day or if it is because it is admitting defeat. If I go to the doctor then I am acknowledging that yes, there is a problem here and my preferred method of treatment - willing myself to heal, hasn't been successful.
If my children are injured or ill I am immediately on the phone to their doctor and call up a specialist at the drop of the hat. If my husband has a medical problem I nag him until he takes care of it. If I have a problem it will be months and months before I pick up the phone.
I have made an appointment to go see a physical therapy hand specialist next week. The part that is problematic is how long I have been injured. The actual injury happened in August. Almost six months ago. Six months I have been living with a bum hand. My right hand. The injury is in my palm, and when it first happened I couldn't twist things, like door knobs, or open jars of Advil. Now it is only a problem for things like push-ups, or making a pincher motion with my thumb and forefinger, like when you do a shadow puppet show. As you can imagine, this has adversely impacted my quality of life.
To make matters worse, I saw my orthopedic in early December and he referred me to physical therapy twice a week for four weeks. I never went. So now I must call his office and grovel for a new prescription and acknowledge that I didn't follow his orders.
This is the same orthopedic I saw last spring when I had terrible pain in my neck and shoulder. He suspected a problem with the disc in my neck, advised me not to run for six weeks and sent me to PT. That time I went to PT right away, and felt so good I started running again the next week. As luck would have it, I ran right past my orthopedic on the running path, going the other direction. Whoops. I am fairly certain that he is very close to firing me as a patient.
This problem with seeking medical attention is not limited to issues of a muscular or skeletal nature. I have endured a sore throat that hurt so badly I felt like I swallowed broken glass. After two days of not being able to swallow I finally broke down and went to the doctor who told me I had a horrible case of strep throat. This has happened on two separate occasions. Clearly I don't learn.
I am not a martyr, and I am not afraid of doctors. I am simply a person who can't stand the idea of sitting forever in a waiting room, then sitting forever in an exam room and later waiting forever at the pharmacy, or some other doctor's office. And for every incident where I finally must admit I need a doctor there are many many many instances where I am able to heal myself which only reinforces my resolve. It also means I will wait even longer to seek medical attention.
So if you don't mind, I am going to save all those doctor's appointments for the people who have some common sense. In the meantime, I will go see the hand specialist and get fixed so I can resume my career in the shadow puppet arts.
If my children are injured or ill I am immediately on the phone to their doctor and call up a specialist at the drop of the hat. If my husband has a medical problem I nag him until he takes care of it. If I have a problem it will be months and months before I pick up the phone.
I have made an appointment to go see a physical therapy hand specialist next week. The part that is problematic is how long I have been injured. The actual injury happened in August. Almost six months ago. Six months I have been living with a bum hand. My right hand. The injury is in my palm, and when it first happened I couldn't twist things, like door knobs, or open jars of Advil. Now it is only a problem for things like push-ups, or making a pincher motion with my thumb and forefinger, like when you do a shadow puppet show. As you can imagine, this has adversely impacted my quality of life.
To make matters worse, I saw my orthopedic in early December and he referred me to physical therapy twice a week for four weeks. I never went. So now I must call his office and grovel for a new prescription and acknowledge that I didn't follow his orders.
This is the same orthopedic I saw last spring when I had terrible pain in my neck and shoulder. He suspected a problem with the disc in my neck, advised me not to run for six weeks and sent me to PT. That time I went to PT right away, and felt so good I started running again the next week. As luck would have it, I ran right past my orthopedic on the running path, going the other direction. Whoops. I am fairly certain that he is very close to firing me as a patient.
This problem with seeking medical attention is not limited to issues of a muscular or skeletal nature. I have endured a sore throat that hurt so badly I felt like I swallowed broken glass. After two days of not being able to swallow I finally broke down and went to the doctor who told me I had a horrible case of strep throat. This has happened on two separate occasions. Clearly I don't learn.
I am not a martyr, and I am not afraid of doctors. I am simply a person who can't stand the idea of sitting forever in a waiting room, then sitting forever in an exam room and later waiting forever at the pharmacy, or some other doctor's office. And for every incident where I finally must admit I need a doctor there are many many many instances where I am able to heal myself which only reinforces my resolve. It also means I will wait even longer to seek medical attention.
So if you don't mind, I am going to save all those doctor's appointments for the people who have some common sense. In the meantime, I will go see the hand specialist and get fixed so I can resume my career in the shadow puppet arts.
Monday, January 31, 2011
In the dark
The other day our power went out. It was out for over 26 hours but felt like a lifetime. Of course this happened after it had gotten dark, so we had to scramble for flashlights and candles. Luckily my children are obsessed with playing with flashlights and we literally have ten, maybe more, of varying sizes. The next morning, despite the fact that the power had been off for more than 12 hours and I had become obsessed with having it restored, I continued to enter rooms and attempt to turn the light on. I would make a terrible lab rat because I just couldn't learn. Over and over again I would flip a switch, curse its inability to provide the desired outcome, turn it off and fumble around in the dark room (because my children were off playing with all the flashlights).
This power outage caused me to realize two things. First, I would not have lasted a day on Laura Ingalls's Little House on the Prairie. This was abundantly clear when I got tears in my eyes because I realized I couldn't make coffee. No matter how much Pa counseled me I would have been a miserable failure and the Ingalls family probably would have folded.
The second thing I discovered was the sheer panic I felt when I realized all the food in my refrigerator and freezer was going bad and would need to be thrown out. Thinking about the effort it would take to replace it all brought a second round of tears to my eyes.
The last time we had a power outage of this duration it was just me, my husband, and an infant. My husband ate what I ate so our food shopping was pretty simple and straightforward. Nowadays it resembles more of a sophisticated mission involving regular stops at at least three stores. I had reached a point where none of these stores had to be visited on the same day, or even the same weekend because I had a good supply of specialty items. Now with everything spoiling simultaneously it would take a lot of shopping to replenish everything.
When I was growing up we had more than one major grocery store nearby, but all the grocery stores carried more or less than same things. It wasn't like you had to go to Safeway for some items and QFC for others. They carried national brands, regional brands and store brands. That was it.
Nowadays I have a household of people who insist on a certain kind of ravioli only carried at Whole Foods and only when Whole Foods deems it something to keep in stock. Then I have other family members who must have only the Trader Joe's apple sauce squirters, cinnamon rolls, crackers, tortillas, frozen pizza, hummus, sour cream, egg substitute, five different kinds of cheese and so on. Then finally in order to get the national brand items such as yogurt drinks I must visit a good old-fashioned grocery store. I would mention the milk man who brings our milk and butter as well as the stuff we get at the Farmers Market, but that would just be piling on. When it comes down to it, a ridiculous amount of time is spent running around to all these establishments. Especially when you consider how seldom I cook, and the fact that my daughter only eats pasta. But we couldn't even make that after the great food spoilage of 2011 since the pasta must be tossed with butter and cheese.
I am not blaming my family for their very specific tastes. Okay, I am. But only if I am willing to blame myself as well since there are several items on those lists that are for me. After several hours of shopping we are safely restocked and can resume our normal lives and eating habits. Now that I think about it, maybe we would do okay on the prairie since clearly I can forage and gather with the best of them. Just make sure that Pa teaches me how to make coffee using a flashlight.
This power outage caused me to realize two things. First, I would not have lasted a day on Laura Ingalls's Little House on the Prairie. This was abundantly clear when I got tears in my eyes because I realized I couldn't make coffee. No matter how much Pa counseled me I would have been a miserable failure and the Ingalls family probably would have folded.
The second thing I discovered was the sheer panic I felt when I realized all the food in my refrigerator and freezer was going bad and would need to be thrown out. Thinking about the effort it would take to replace it all brought a second round of tears to my eyes.
The last time we had a power outage of this duration it was just me, my husband, and an infant. My husband ate what I ate so our food shopping was pretty simple and straightforward. Nowadays it resembles more of a sophisticated mission involving regular stops at at least three stores. I had reached a point where none of these stores had to be visited on the same day, or even the same weekend because I had a good supply of specialty items. Now with everything spoiling simultaneously it would take a lot of shopping to replenish everything.
When I was growing up we had more than one major grocery store nearby, but all the grocery stores carried more or less than same things. It wasn't like you had to go to Safeway for some items and QFC for others. They carried national brands, regional brands and store brands. That was it.
Nowadays I have a household of people who insist on a certain kind of ravioli only carried at Whole Foods and only when Whole Foods deems it something to keep in stock. Then I have other family members who must have only the Trader Joe's apple sauce squirters, cinnamon rolls, crackers, tortillas, frozen pizza, hummus, sour cream, egg substitute, five different kinds of cheese and so on. Then finally in order to get the national brand items such as yogurt drinks I must visit a good old-fashioned grocery store. I would mention the milk man who brings our milk and butter as well as the stuff we get at the Farmers Market, but that would just be piling on. When it comes down to it, a ridiculous amount of time is spent running around to all these establishments. Especially when you consider how seldom I cook, and the fact that my daughter only eats pasta. But we couldn't even make that after the great food spoilage of 2011 since the pasta must be tossed with butter and cheese.
I am not blaming my family for their very specific tastes. Okay, I am. But only if I am willing to blame myself as well since there are several items on those lists that are for me. After several hours of shopping we are safely restocked and can resume our normal lives and eating habits. Now that I think about it, maybe we would do okay on the prairie since clearly I can forage and gather with the best of them. Just make sure that Pa teaches me how to make coffee using a flashlight.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Small Town
Yesterday my son was home from school. He was not sick. In fact, he was the picture of perfect health and didn't stop moving or talking the entire day. Why was he home? Because he had the poor timing to throw up at a birthday party the day before. At 4:30pm. That was attended by every child in his class. And many of their parents. I was a victim of public-sickdom.
I am not sure how it is done in your big city schools, but in our little town word travels fast, and when a child publicly vomits, twice, your reputation as a parent is on the line. Sure, you could send him in the next morning since he never had a fever and after the initial *incident* immediately resumed normal activity, including eating his body weight in dinner. But our town is too small to risk it. My children would be getting their diplomas and I would still be whispered about as *that mom who sent her son to school with the stomach flu and all our children got it because of her*. I am not a strong enough person to stand up to that.
Don't get me wrong. I love our small town. At only 2 miles square it is a mini-Mayberry that also has the advantage of being 10 miles outside of DC. One minute you are in Mayberry, the next minute you are at the White House. It's a win-win. In Mayberry you are always running into people you know. You go to the Starbucks and see familiar faces. Same with the grocery store, the pharmacy, the library, the community center, one of the 10 places for pizza or at the 7-11 when you are buying slurpees after a soccer game. It's great to have such a close-knit community that is so warm and friendly. It's one of the main reasons we moved here.
Except when you are looking for a little anonymity. Sometimes you just want to go to the Rite Aid, get your Nyquil and come home. Especially when you have a terrible cold and haven't managed to shower for two days and used your only available energy to steer the car to the store. You are about to pay for your cold medicine and retreat back to the safety of your bed, but then you see her. The room parent for your child's class. Smiling. Friendly. Wanting to chat you up and thank you for all the help you have provided the class this year. Politely overlooking your haggard appearance and smell. And you have to stop and talk and smile and nod, all the while feeling like you are talking from inside a bubble. Because this is Mayberry. And everyone is friendly.
Or then there are the times you have exactly 10 minutes to get in and out of the grocery store with 10 critical items that your family needs or there will be a mutiny. And if you don't get out in ten minutes then you will be late to pick up your daughter from parasailing lessons. Again. So you go into the store and *of course* you run into three people you know, two of which you haven't seen in months and want to catch up and talk about your great new hair cut, and one who recently had a baby so not to stop and chat would be rude. And so instead of getting the ten critical things you get two and are still late to get your daughter.
And then there is the gym. When I am running on the treadmill it is a spectacle to say the least. Not only am I bright red and dripping sweat, I am out of breath and physically *can't* chat. I probably need to find a gym two towns over, where I don't know anyone. Or maybe wear a disguise.
But these are small prices to pay for living in such a wonderful community where we literally have a *town hall* and it located next to the *community center*. A town where your children are one day crawling around in the sand box with a bunch of other toddlers at the playground and before you know it are getting ready for prom with those same girls and boys. And you know the parents who will be driving.
So no, you can't get away with anything around here, including sending your child to school if he is seen vomiting less than 12 hours earlier. But I am okay with that because I know the parents who helped me find his coat and get him to the car so I could take him home and the woman at the front desk who knows us from the cooking camp my kids took last summer who held the door for us and the moms who were coming in to pick up their children from basketball practice as we were going out who told him to *feel better soon*.
I am not sure how it is done in your big city schools, but in our little town word travels fast, and when a child publicly vomits, twice, your reputation as a parent is on the line. Sure, you could send him in the next morning since he never had a fever and after the initial *incident* immediately resumed normal activity, including eating his body weight in dinner. But our town is too small to risk it. My children would be getting their diplomas and I would still be whispered about as *that mom who sent her son to school with the stomach flu and all our children got it because of her*. I am not a strong enough person to stand up to that.
Don't get me wrong. I love our small town. At only 2 miles square it is a mini-Mayberry that also has the advantage of being 10 miles outside of DC. One minute you are in Mayberry, the next minute you are at the White House. It's a win-win. In Mayberry you are always running into people you know. You go to the Starbucks and see familiar faces. Same with the grocery store, the pharmacy, the library, the community center, one of the 10 places for pizza or at the 7-11 when you are buying slurpees after a soccer game. It's great to have such a close-knit community that is so warm and friendly. It's one of the main reasons we moved here.
Except when you are looking for a little anonymity. Sometimes you just want to go to the Rite Aid, get your Nyquil and come home. Especially when you have a terrible cold and haven't managed to shower for two days and used your only available energy to steer the car to the store. You are about to pay for your cold medicine and retreat back to the safety of your bed, but then you see her. The room parent for your child's class. Smiling. Friendly. Wanting to chat you up and thank you for all the help you have provided the class this year. Politely overlooking your haggard appearance and smell. And you have to stop and talk and smile and nod, all the while feeling like you are talking from inside a bubble. Because this is Mayberry. And everyone is friendly.
Or then there are the times you have exactly 10 minutes to get in and out of the grocery store with 10 critical items that your family needs or there will be a mutiny. And if you don't get out in ten minutes then you will be late to pick up your daughter from parasailing lessons. Again. So you go into the store and *of course* you run into three people you know, two of which you haven't seen in months and want to catch up and talk about your great new hair cut, and one who recently had a baby so not to stop and chat would be rude. And so instead of getting the ten critical things you get two and are still late to get your daughter.
And then there is the gym. When I am running on the treadmill it is a spectacle to say the least. Not only am I bright red and dripping sweat, I am out of breath and physically *can't* chat. I probably need to find a gym two towns over, where I don't know anyone. Or maybe wear a disguise.
But these are small prices to pay for living in such a wonderful community where we literally have a *town hall* and it located next to the *community center*. A town where your children are one day crawling around in the sand box with a bunch of other toddlers at the playground and before you know it are getting ready for prom with those same girls and boys. And you know the parents who will be driving.
So no, you can't get away with anything around here, including sending your child to school if he is seen vomiting less than 12 hours earlier. But I am okay with that because I know the parents who helped me find his coat and get him to the car so I could take him home and the woman at the front desk who knows us from the cooking camp my kids took last summer who held the door for us and the moms who were coming in to pick up their children from basketball practice as we were going out who told him to *feel better soon*.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)