Me: Goose, you like this sauce. It's yummy.
Goose: Oh. Did I eat this before and I liked it?
Me: Yes.
Goose: Oh! I like it! (continues to eat the entire bowl of pasta)
Tetrakiss - Lab Monkey turned Monkey Wrangler
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Guilty
I was in the basement doing some much needed reorganizing when I heard a thunk. Little E cried, the cry quickly turned to into a whimper and then quieted. I considered going up to investigate, but Jimmy-John was upstairs with the kids and Little E wasn’t crying anymore, there was no need for me to interject myself in the situation.
“Mom?”
“Yes Goose.”
“Um, I was hugging Little E and I let go and he bonked his head on the corner of the bench and he cried and cried. But I helped him and he’s ok now.”
“Is Daddy upstairs”
“Yes”
“Did he help Little E?”
“No, I did.”
“Where is Daddy?”
“In here.” (she pointed at the bathroom door, the shower was running)
“Where’s Little E?”
“Upstairs in our room.”
I followed her up and found Little E cuddled up in his bed, sucking his thumb and surrounded with all of the most coveted toys.
“See, I helped him stop crying.”
Little E was reluctant to show me the wound, but when I finally got to it, this is what I found:
Monday, November 23, 2009
Two outta Three Ain't Bad
Three public experiences this week with my kids. We’re finally getting to the place where the good outweighs the bad. (You can read about a typical past excursion here.)
As a reward for going to sleep without me in the bed with them, I took my kids to lunch at Ikea. Ikea is always a big excursion for us; it’s just far enough away to be a troublesome outing. The long drive plus the intense stimulation it provides the kiddos tends to provoke at least one meltdown.
This trip had all the earmarks of disaster. It was occurring after preschool (read: kids already overstimulated) and would delve deep into prime nap time. We were also taking friends, Tarheel and Charlie. Or rather, the friends were taking us in their souped up minivan complete with built-in DVD player. The kids were bursting with excitement.
The 4 year old girls, having known each other since birth, were fighting like sisters: Tarheel was bossing Goose, and Goosie was either yelling back or passive-aggressively ignoring any attempt Tarheel made at conversation. Little E and Charlie just wanted to sleep.
Once in Ikea, the kids perked up and nothing of note occurred during lunch. (We did have two spills and a little bit of refusal to keep shoes on, but nothing out of the ordinary.) As we were cleaning up and letting the kids go off to play in the toy area an older man came up to my friend and me and proceed to compliment us on our “patience and good humor” with the kids and that watching us had been enjoyable.
Woah. What? Did that really just happen? I mean, I’ve had people stare. I’ve had people look away in embarrassment. I’ve even had people angrily call my children unruly monkeys. But, I have NEVER had someone compliment me with regard to my children in a public setting. I’m still floating. Now, I realize that the man was not really complimenting my children’s behavior, rather our reactions to it, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.
Number 2: Cows at the Grocery
At
My kids rank pretty high on the curiosity scale and everything in the grocery store apparently begs to be investigated. Staying in or near the cart is a constant challenge for my children, so I alternately use bribes, threats and time-outs. Honestly, I’ll use anything that works. I even regularly open grocery items for my children to consume before checking-out. (It shocks me how often I do this when I think how opposed I was to it just 18 months ago.)
This particular trip I was trying to get trough with frequent reminders of appropriate behavior: “Stay by Mommy”, “Don’t touch that”, “Don’t climb on that cart, it’s not ours”, you know, the typical stuff. Goose has figured out that it is easier to just load things into the cart than to ask permission for it and was shopping accordingly. I put the non-dairy creamer back. I put the chocolate soy milk back. But when the mini Nillas landed in the cart it was as if the heavens opened and angels sang.
I opened up the box and told the children they could have them if they stayed close. I doled them out one at a time while the kids jingled behind. The individual cookies were so quickly consumed that a child could not wander far between bites. And if Little E did stray, his ringing bell (and his accompanying moos) betrayed him before any “fun” could be had.
I made it out in record time.
Number 3: Park Play Date
This one still perplexes me. Goose was rested, fed, getting exercise and outside time, and playing well with friends. The friends started leaving, nap time was nearing and I gave Goose and Little E the standard 5 minute warning. 3 minutes. 2 minutes. No friends left. (One stranger still enjoyed the swings.) 1 minute. Blast off.
Goose was still defiantly playing. I tried the patient method. I picked up Little E and started walking. “Good-bye, we’re leaving.” Oh ,why did I park so far away from the playground? I hid behind a tree; Goose hid inside the slide. She won the stand-off. I stomped onto the mulch, fuming. “GOOSE! We’re Leaving!” She chose her best weapon – speed. This 4 year old can almost outrun me. She screamed as the chase closed. I picked her up. She flailed her arms and legs, she smacked me in the face. She wailed like she was enduring some medieval torture.
I cannot say I keep my cool. I blew my lid. I yelled back; I ranted; I flipped her over my shoulder and carried her sack-of-potato style. In the end she endured a time-out and was grounded from the park for a week (it’s up to two weeks now because she snuck out of time-out).
Sigh. So, we’re not there yet. But, two outta three ain’t bad.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A Germ-a-phobe's Panacea
I went to London once. When I was there I used something I had never seen in the U.S. : a pay toilet. It was a free standing booth in a park somewhere. I used it more out of novelty than need. When I inserted the coins, the door opened and I was admitted into a pristine lavatory. After I left, the apparently water-tight door shut behind me and the booth cleaned and disinfected itself using a series of strategically placed jets. Doing business there was a pleasure (especially compared to some of the non-pay toilets I had visited during my trip). So wonderful is the self-cleaning toilet, that even DC metro has invested in a pot or two, which you can read about here.
Since that time, I have often daydreamed what life would be like if that pay-toilet technology were more pervasive. How about, for instance, having one installed in your own home? Who doesn't hate slapping on those long rubber gloves for a good scrubbing of the john? But why stop at the toilet? This self-cleaning concept could be used for any number of things. A car. A kitchen. A dining area. A grocery cart handle. According to my husband, one of the Honda Element's best selling points is that you can spray it out with a hose after the kids goo up the floor. (You can't really - unless you like shorting out your dash electronics - but, it is easy to sweep with a broom and mop.) Of course, the expense of the installation and maintenance of these home self-cleaning fixtures wouldn't be worth the benefit.
Since that time, I have often daydreamed what life would be like if that pay-toilet technology were more pervasive. How about, for instance, having one installed in your own home? Who doesn't hate slapping on those long rubber gloves for a good scrubbing of the john? But why stop at the toilet? This self-cleaning concept could be used for any number of things. A car. A kitchen. A dining area. A grocery cart handle. According to my husband, one of the Honda Element's best selling points is that you can spray it out with a hose after the kids goo up the floor. (You can't really - unless you like shorting out your dash electronics - but, it is easy to sweep with a broom and mop.) Of course, the expense of the installation and maintenance of these home self-cleaning fixtures wouldn't be worth the benefit.
Nope, I was wrong; I'd pay for that.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Spring Cleaning Part IV: Secret Admirer
In the movie "Little Women" (I don't think the same quote is found in the book) Jo March says: "With all this transcendence there is much emphasis on perfecting oneself.....I am afraid I am hopelessly flawed." As I have mentioned, tidiness has always been a flaw of mine. I have been devoting a lot of energy, thought, and sweat into improving myself in this area. I feel like my efforts have been in vain, although my husband assures me I've made great strides. In my ridiculous quest for a catalog-worthy home, I've surreptitiously observed other people's strategies for housekeeping and I'd like to pay homage to those who have inspired and taught me the most. Although I don't expect, or even desire, to imitate these people completely, I do admire their strengths and observing them has encouraged me in continuing to improve myself.
The Giving One: This person (couple really) is a true minimalist. Their children's toys fit in one small toy box. Their furniture is nice and leaves the room open and inviting. Almost everytime I've gone over to their small apartment it has been nearly spotless despite the fact two very energetic kids under five spend all day there. Quite frequently, I find myself being offered toys, furniture, etc. by The Giving One. While I will hang on to a mangled, stained towel thinking it would make a great cloth diaper soaker should I ever find the time to actually sew the diapers, The Giving One has absolutely no problem shedding surperfluous items. Nothing they own is junk or cluttler. Everything has a purpose, and usually an immediate one. That which they give away is in good condition - they just don't have a need for it, or perhaps room for it, anymore. The giving is done more with relief than regret. I think we could all with more of that in our lives.
The Naturalist: This person is naturally inclinded to be neat. I can only it is a result of an need to overachieve and control her surroundings. I have the same need, but this person seems much better at actually obtaining it. An amazingly high-functioning person, she holds a job, has a child, pursues hobbies and has an immaculate house. I have noticed that she plans things in great detail and with careful thought. (Contrast that to my haphazard lifestyle with one half of my mind doing laps in another universe while the other half is trying to figure out where I put that glass of milk. Amazingly, this planning stuff seems to be effective. Huh. I'll put planning on my to-do list for tomorrow.) But, what I admire most about this person, despite her seeming inability to fail, is her compassion and empathy for others. The Naturalist exudes kindness and is very slow to pass judgment on another person, regardless of their shortcomings.
The Nike: A winged Goddess and the anti-procrastinator. This person's house is also always very neat. I realized why following a dinner party at our house. I am inclinded to clear the table - to make room for the Scrabble board - and pile the dishes in the sink. Why do dishes while there is fun to be had? Wouldn't it be rude to hole in the kitchen and get that task done? The Nike took me back in the kitchen and helped me do them right away. She taught me that a lot of the tasks I put off can be completed more quickly and painlessly than I anticipate if done immediately. What's a few more seconds per plate to rinse and load that beautiful dishwasher of mine?
The Meh: This person has a lot of stuff, her house is not particularly organized, but she doesn't care much. Her house isn't terriblely disorganized; it is usually tidy, the floors clear and so fort, but, toys are often spread the entirety of the house, shelves are stuffed with random artifacts of life, and clothes piled in corners of bedrooms. The Meh spends a reasonable amount of time cleaning but doesn't let the cleaning prevent her from pursuing more enjoyable activities. The Meh doesn't agonize about her imperfect housekeeping and even sees it as a badge of an interesting life.
The Fellow Organizationally-Challenged Pack-Rat (TFOCPR): I think I admire this person the most. The TFOCPR is a person who, like me, attracts stuff. Also like me, this person has a desire to change the current state of her house. This person is married to another TFOCPR: one that doesn't want to change. With not much encouragement (and actually quite a bit of resistance), this person has incrementally but significantly improved her tidiness quotient. I have witnessed the effort she invested in making a personal change in habits and am elated to see her success. From Olympic athelete to a child mastering the alphabet, there is something magical about seeing someone work hard to and succeed in improving themselves, no matter the details of the struggle. TFOCPR, I salute you!
Monday, May 4, 2009
Spring Cleaning Part III: Outsourcing
The top five things couples fight about, in order, are:
For us? Money - nope. Sex - occasionally an tiff. Work - only when I tell him to stop whining so much (about once a month). Children - ok, this we do fight over, but not nearly as much as HOUSEWORK.
I don't get this. My husband is not the neatest person in the world. I remember being disgusted almost to gagging when I used his bachelor pad bathroom (and no it wasn't his roommate's dirt, he had his own bathroom). His idea of putting his clothing away is stacking it in piles on TOP of the dresser. But, I digress.
Cleaning, who would do it and how it was done, became more of an issue when Goose came along. I worked hard to keep things mostly tidy, but didn't enjoy that as much as cooing at my beautiful baby. Jimmy-John grumbled here and there, but it wasn't until we moved into a house with no dishwasher that things really escalated.
Both of us abhor doing dishes.
Jimmy-John being out of the house most of the day, and the squeakier wheel, meant the task fell to me. The most vivid memory I have of the first two months of Little E's life is the day I figured out how to keep a grumpy 2 year old and a needy newborn happy while actually getting dishes clean. I put the baby in the sling, ignored the growing flood waters at my feet as Goose splashed happily, and sang to everyone. I think I spent at least half of Little E's first year standing at the kitchen sink.
Dishes became THE sore spot in our marriage. Which why I do not use one smidge of hyperbole when I say the best 200 bucks I have ever spent was used to purchase a portable dishwasher.
A year later and I'm still in love. 15 minutes to load, 5 to unload. A pleasant shrring as the water fills the sink. Shiny dry plates. No forks returned to the "dirty" side of the sink by quality control. Oh yeah, and I still love my husband.
By the way, if any one can tell me how to get those ridiculous flowers back into normal bullets, or a numbered list, I'd be most grateful.
- Money
- Sex
- Work
- Children
- Housework
For us? Money - nope. Sex - occasionally an tiff. Work - only when I tell him to stop whining so much (about once a month). Children - ok, this we do fight over, but not nearly as much as HOUSEWORK.
I don't get this. My husband is not the neatest person in the world. I remember being disgusted almost to gagging when I used his bachelor pad bathroom (and no it wasn't his roommate's dirt, he had his own bathroom). His idea of putting his clothing away is stacking it in piles on TOP of the dresser. But, I digress.
Cleaning, who would do it and how it was done, became more of an issue when Goose came along. I worked hard to keep things mostly tidy, but didn't enjoy that as much as cooing at my beautiful baby. Jimmy-John grumbled here and there, but it wasn't until we moved into a house with no dishwasher that things really escalated.
Both of us abhor doing dishes.
Jimmy-John being out of the house most of the day, and the squeakier wheel, meant the task fell to me. The most vivid memory I have of the first two months of Little E's life is the day I figured out how to keep a grumpy 2 year old and a needy newborn happy while actually getting dishes clean. I put the baby in the sling, ignored the growing flood waters at my feet as Goose splashed happily, and sang to everyone. I think I spent at least half of Little E's first year standing at the kitchen sink.
Dishes became THE sore spot in our marriage. Which why I do not use one smidge of hyperbole when I say the best 200 bucks I have ever spent was used to purchase a portable dishwasher.
A year later and I'm still in love. 15 minutes to load, 5 to unload. A pleasant shrring as the water fills the sink. Shiny dry plates. No forks returned to the "dirty" side of the sink by quality control. Oh yeah, and I still love my husband.
By the way, if any one can tell me how to get those ridiculous flowers back into normal bullets, or a numbered list, I'd be most grateful.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Spring Cleaning Part II: A Few of my Favorite Things
I apologize for the delay: I caught the flu the day after Part I, and in the subsequent weeks endured (as a mother not a patient) two cases of pink eye, one ear infection and one overdose of Milk of Magnesia (resulting in a trip to the ER and several blow-out diapers). Most of this also occurred while my husband relaxed in Hawaii. Poor guy. Enough "poor me"; here it is, Part II. Thanks for the nudge, RW.
I may stink at keeping things clean, but I'm pretty good at the actual cleaning - once I get around to it. This post is dedicated to my favorite products and techniques. Mostly my laundry super-stain-fighting secrets! So, get me a cape and teach me to fly. I really do have super powers.
I like to think that my background in chemistry gives me an edge over the average housewife when it comes to getting stains out of clothing. But, it probably has more to do with my mad Google skills than with my chemistry knowledge (shhh, don't tell anyone that). Below are a list of my favorite products and the stain(s) that they remove.
Hydrogen Peroxide: My aunt, a nurse, turned me on to this one. Blood, fresh or dried, can be mostly removed by pouring H2o2 directly on the stain. It bubbles and fizzles pleasantly as it oxidizes away the stain, and the remaining color can usually be washed out by a normal wash cycle. (Chemical principle: oxidation)
Bar Keeper's Friend (oxalic acid): gets out rust. and probably blood (although I prefer H202 for that. The fizzing is really that cool. I suggest bleeding on your clothes on purpose just to experience the joy of it.) Make a wet paste on the stain and let sit for a few minutes. Rinse out, launder as normal. This also cleans stainless-steel wonderfully. (Chemical principle: oxidation)
Isopropyl (rubbing) Alcohol: Takes out ink. EVEN SHARPIE INK. I kid you not. In fact I got red sharpie out of Goose's shirt today. The trick to this one is to get to it quickly and to persist, refreshing with new alcohol frequently. (Chemical principles: solubility and if you are lucky you'll get a little home chromatography show as you separate the ink's components.)
Zote Soap. This is a new addition to my arsenal. A latin soap my sister introduced to me. It removes yellow deodorant stains from white shirts with a little soaking and a LOT of elbow grease. Nothing else I've tried has made a dent in deodorant stains. Plus it smells nice. (Chemical principle: emulsification, i.e. soap)
Lestoil. This is a grease cutter made by Clorox, but it is hard to find. I get it in the cleaning aisle in my grocery store. It's main ingredients are petroleum distillates and pine oil. It is really amazing on grease stains. For some reason I always wash and dry chapstick. Baked in grease is impossible to remove, say most laundry bibles. Not so! Rub this stinky stuff into the oil spots, wash normally, and air dry (repeat as necessary). When the stain comes out you will probably want to wash an additional two times to get the stinkiness of the lestoil out. Pine-Sol may also work for this, as it also contains pine oil (although I think the petroleum distillates do most of the work, in which case - perhaps Goo-Gone?) but I haven't tried it yet. When I do, I'll post an update. Note to self: as amazing as lestoil is, it's probably easier just to check your jean pockets before starting the wash. (Chemical principle: solubility)
When all else fails Oxi-Clean. A few scoops in a bucket full of scalding hot water (more than the box recommends), and soak forever (at least 24 hours). This works on a lot of stains that have even been through the dryer. Baby food bananas (amazingly difficult to get out), baby poop (also amazingly difficult to remove), tomato sauce, chocolate, dirt, and any unidentified stain goes straight into this. (Chemical principle: um, duh? oxidation)
I hardly use bleach. I don't think getting a stain out of a t-shirt is worth ruining the jeans I'm wearing, which is what inevitably happens. I did like the bleach pen for a while, but I ran out and haven't been bothered enough by it's absence to remember to look for it at the store. (Chemical principle: once again, our friend: oxidation)
Mr. Clean's Magic Eraser. I'm just getting to know this product. It's a melanine foam stick that essentially scrapes stains off walls and just about everything else. Crayon on the wall? No problem. I really like this for cleaning cabinet fronts and my dining room walls which get very gross from sticky hands and flung food. I don't use it on the big bumps - like dried oatmeal - it tears the eraser, but all the other goo comes off a lot better with the eraser than with a regular rag. I would recommend buying the name brand product. The Target brand fell apart a lot faster than Mr. Clean. I also do not like the new double-sided sponge. It's a gimmick to put out a new, more expensive product. It was more difficult to use due to the hard interface and fell apart faster.
What's the "Magic"? Melamine is a really hard substance (think melamine countertop). It's still hard when made into a foam, the hard strands are just really tiny and have a lot of air incorporated into them, making the sponge itself soft and supple. When you rub the wall, you are literally scraping off the crayon. (A more detailed explanation is found at How Stuff Works - one of my favorite websites). Just, um, don't give it to your kids as a teether, ok? (Chemical principle: abrasion)
I love all these products for emergencies, but for every day cleaning, most things can be done with water, baking soda, and vinegar. Use water and baking soda for almost anything, vinegar for mirrors/windows, baking soda followed vinegar for clogged and/or stinky drains, etc. I even bathe my children in baking soda baths.
Keep it as simple, keep it cheap, and keep it green. Unless you washed your chapstick (again).
I may stink at keeping things clean, but I'm pretty good at the actual cleaning - once I get around to it. This post is dedicated to my favorite products and techniques. Mostly my laundry super-stain-fighting secrets! So, get me a cape and teach me to fly. I really do have super powers.
I like to think that my background in chemistry gives me an edge over the average housewife when it comes to getting stains out of clothing. But, it probably has more to do with my mad Google skills than with my chemistry knowledge (shhh, don't tell anyone that). Below are a list of my favorite products and the stain(s) that they remove.
Hydrogen Peroxide: My aunt, a nurse, turned me on to this one. Blood, fresh or dried, can be mostly removed by pouring H2o2 directly on the stain. It bubbles and fizzles pleasantly as it oxidizes away the stain, and the remaining color can usually be washed out by a normal wash cycle. (Chemical principle: oxidation)
Bar Keeper's Friend (oxalic acid): gets out rust. and probably blood (although I prefer H202 for that. The fizzing is really that cool. I suggest bleeding on your clothes on purpose just to experience the joy of it.) Make a wet paste on the stain and let sit for a few minutes. Rinse out, launder as normal. This also cleans stainless-steel wonderfully. (Chemical principle: oxidation)
Isopropyl (rubbing) Alcohol: Takes out ink. EVEN SHARPIE INK. I kid you not. In fact I got red sharpie out of Goose's shirt today. The trick to this one is to get to it quickly and to persist, refreshing with new alcohol frequently. (Chemical principles: solubility and if you are lucky you'll get a little home chromatography show as you separate the ink's components.)
Zote Soap. This is a new addition to my arsenal. A latin soap my sister introduced to me. It removes yellow deodorant stains from white shirts with a little soaking and a LOT of elbow grease. Nothing else I've tried has made a dent in deodorant stains. Plus it smells nice. (Chemical principle: emulsification, i.e. soap)
Lestoil. This is a grease cutter made by Clorox, but it is hard to find. I get it in the cleaning aisle in my grocery store. It's main ingredients are petroleum distillates and pine oil. It is really amazing on grease stains. For some reason I always wash and dry chapstick. Baked in grease is impossible to remove, say most laundry bibles. Not so! Rub this stinky stuff into the oil spots, wash normally, and air dry (repeat as necessary). When the stain comes out you will probably want to wash an additional two times to get the stinkiness of the lestoil out. Pine-Sol may also work for this, as it also contains pine oil (although I think the petroleum distillates do most of the work, in which case - perhaps Goo-Gone?) but I haven't tried it yet. When I do, I'll post an update. Note to self: as amazing as lestoil is, it's probably easier just to check your jean pockets before starting the wash. (Chemical principle: solubility)
When all else fails Oxi-Clean. A few scoops in a bucket full of scalding hot water (more than the box recommends), and soak forever (at least 24 hours). This works on a lot of stains that have even been through the dryer. Baby food bananas (amazingly difficult to get out), baby poop (also amazingly difficult to remove), tomato sauce, chocolate, dirt, and any unidentified stain goes straight into this. (Chemical principle: um, duh? oxidation)
I hardly use bleach. I don't think getting a stain out of a t-shirt is worth ruining the jeans I'm wearing, which is what inevitably happens. I did like the bleach pen for a while, but I ran out and haven't been bothered enough by it's absence to remember to look for it at the store. (Chemical principle: once again, our friend: oxidation)
Mr. Clean's Magic Eraser. I'm just getting to know this product. It's a melanine foam stick that essentially scrapes stains off walls and just about everything else. Crayon on the wall? No problem. I really like this for cleaning cabinet fronts and my dining room walls which get very gross from sticky hands and flung food. I don't use it on the big bumps - like dried oatmeal - it tears the eraser, but all the other goo comes off a lot better with the eraser than with a regular rag. I would recommend buying the name brand product. The Target brand fell apart a lot faster than Mr. Clean. I also do not like the new double-sided sponge. It's a gimmick to put out a new, more expensive product. It was more difficult to use due to the hard interface and fell apart faster.
What's the "Magic"? Melamine is a really hard substance (think melamine countertop). It's still hard when made into a foam, the hard strands are just really tiny and have a lot of air incorporated into them, making the sponge itself soft and supple. When you rub the wall, you are literally scraping off the crayon. (A more detailed explanation is found at How Stuff Works - one of my favorite websites). Just, um, don't give it to your kids as a teether, ok? (Chemical principle: abrasion)
I love all these products for emergencies, but for every day cleaning, most things can be done with water, baking soda, and vinegar. Use water and baking soda for almost anything, vinegar for mirrors/windows, baking soda followed vinegar for clogged and/or stinky drains, etc. I even bathe my children in baking soda baths.
Keep it as simple, keep it cheap, and keep it green. Unless you washed your chapstick (again).
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Spring Cleaning Part I: An Exercise in Futility
The cherry blossoms are past their peak. The coats have been stowed away. And the Easter Bunny is hopping into town. Spring has arrived. In spirit of the season, and because I have been giving this topic a lot of thought lately, I've decided to do a series on Spring cleaning. Supposedly, this series will have 5 parts...but I'm famous for unfinished projects, so I'll just be happy if this really is a "series" and not just one announcement post!
Cleaning has never been a favorite past-time of mine. Ask my mother. I grew up in a house that I remember being almost invariably immaculate. Except my room, of course. I don't remember my mother spending inordinate amounts of time cleaning, but considering she had six kids, I probably just wasn't paying attention. But as an adult, I've studied my mom a little closer. She never stops cleaning. When she comes to visit, she walks around with a wet rag in her hand wiping surfaces. I can always expect my stove to be sparkling when she leaves. I've tried to imitate her, but I think I'm a hopeless case.
I believe my mom is naturally neat; she definitely didn't learn it from her mother. (I love you Grandma! But you gotta admit, cleaning is not your forte!) I, however, am naturally disheveled. If you've ever heard me relate a story orally, you know that even my thought patterns are naturally garbled. While this has been a source of mild annoyance to myself throughout life, it never bothered me enough to put serious effort into reforming. Then I got married, had babies, and became a stay-at-home mom.
Suddenly, a good portion of my job description included cleaning and keeping things organized and running well. With one baby, I could still fake my way clean. But with two, I drowned in mess. In the fall of 2007 I began serious work on changing myself in this area. By looking at my house, you'd never know it.
This focus on organizational improvement was sparked by two factors. The first was a general feeling of disorder and lack of control after having my second child so close to my first. The second was a talk given by an LDS church leader Julie Beck. entitled "Mothers Who Know." I know, those of you familiar with the talk - I can already hear your collective groan. For those of you who aren't: This talk was given by the church's women's group general president and talked about the qualities a mother who has a testimony of Jesus Christ should exhibit. The inclusion of orderliness as a quality sparked quite a bit of controversy among women and overshadowed the main point of the talk which was that mothers should not let anything take priority over or distract them raising their children righteously. I recognized that I was lacking in that area, and that improvement would benefit my family and I decided to start making a concerted effort to change.
This endeavor has been one of the most challenging and frustrating of my life. While I'm OK at cleaning, I really, really suck at keeping it clean and I suck even more at getting things organized.
I've identified specific tendencies that contribute to my disability. I'm a pack-rat, for instance. My basement isn't enough to tempt Oprah to spotlight it for a voyeuristic public, but it is full of things I'll probably never use. Darkroom equipment. A fondue pot. Awful wedding gifts. I'm also highly distractable. This translates into random objects being placed randomly and thoughtlessly around the house. A diaper on the kitchen table. The TV remote on the clothes dryer. I even once filled a glass with a beverage and then returned the same glass to the cupboard. It took me twenty minutes to figure out where my milk was.
I have made strides. I've donate pounds upon pounds of unneeded items. I've made lists to keep me focused. I've tried to cut down on the attempts at multi-tasking, following one task at a time to completion. I'm not even close though. Change hurts.
And, ironically, over the past year and a half, I have found that I have often allowed developing a talent that is intended to bless my children distract me from the greater needs of my children. I remember once telling a friend when my first child was still an infant, "I could have a cleaner house, but I like playing with my daughter more." I still feel that way, but somehow I have a problem living true to those feelings. Pressure to present a face to the world, my husband's dissatisfaction with the house, and my own stress of unrealized goals tend to take precedence. I guess I have created a new fault that now needs attention.
Cleaning has never been a favorite past-time of mine. Ask my mother. I grew up in a house that I remember being almost invariably immaculate. Except my room, of course. I don't remember my mother spending inordinate amounts of time cleaning, but considering she had six kids, I probably just wasn't paying attention. But as an adult, I've studied my mom a little closer. She never stops cleaning. When she comes to visit, she walks around with a wet rag in her hand wiping surfaces. I can always expect my stove to be sparkling when she leaves. I've tried to imitate her, but I think I'm a hopeless case.
I believe my mom is naturally neat; she definitely didn't learn it from her mother. (I love you Grandma! But you gotta admit, cleaning is not your forte!) I, however, am naturally disheveled. If you've ever heard me relate a story orally, you know that even my thought patterns are naturally garbled. While this has been a source of mild annoyance to myself throughout life, it never bothered me enough to put serious effort into reforming. Then I got married, had babies, and became a stay-at-home mom.
Suddenly, a good portion of my job description included cleaning and keeping things organized and running well. With one baby, I could still fake my way clean. But with two, I drowned in mess. In the fall of 2007 I began serious work on changing myself in this area. By looking at my house, you'd never know it.
This focus on organizational improvement was sparked by two factors. The first was a general feeling of disorder and lack of control after having my second child so close to my first. The second was a talk given by an LDS church leader Julie Beck. entitled "Mothers Who Know." I know, those of you familiar with the talk - I can already hear your collective groan. For those of you who aren't: This talk was given by the church's women's group general president and talked about the qualities a mother who has a testimony of Jesus Christ should exhibit. The inclusion of orderliness as a quality sparked quite a bit of controversy among women and overshadowed the main point of the talk which was that mothers should not let anything take priority over or distract them raising their children righteously. I recognized that I was lacking in that area, and that improvement would benefit my family and I decided to start making a concerted effort to change.
This endeavor has been one of the most challenging and frustrating of my life. While I'm OK at cleaning, I really, really suck at keeping it clean and I suck even more at getting things organized.
I've identified specific tendencies that contribute to my disability. I'm a pack-rat, for instance. My basement isn't enough to tempt Oprah to spotlight it for a voyeuristic public, but it is full of things I'll probably never use. Darkroom equipment. A fondue pot. Awful wedding gifts. I'm also highly distractable. This translates into random objects being placed randomly and thoughtlessly around the house. A diaper on the kitchen table. The TV remote on the clothes dryer. I even once filled a glass with a beverage and then returned the same glass to the cupboard. It took me twenty minutes to figure out where my milk was.
I have made strides. I've donate pounds upon pounds of unneeded items. I've made lists to keep me focused. I've tried to cut down on the attempts at multi-tasking, following one task at a time to completion. I'm not even close though. Change hurts.
And, ironically, over the past year and a half, I have found that I have often allowed developing a talent that is intended to bless my children distract me from the greater needs of my children. I remember once telling a friend when my first child was still an infant, "I could have a cleaner house, but I like playing with my daughter more." I still feel that way, but somehow I have a problem living true to those feelings. Pressure to present a face to the world, my husband's dissatisfaction with the house, and my own stress of unrealized goals tend to take precedence. I guess I have created a new fault that now needs attention.
I Dropped the Ball
Some of my more regular readers will notice that my most recent post regarding the soccer ball has been deleted. My reason for deleting the post is as follows: While I do not provide my name or any personal information on my blog, many of my readers are family and friends and therefore are familiar with my "secret identity." It would not be unreasonable for the person who was mentioned in the post to find and read the post and recognize herself. I did not think I made any disparaging remarks about her in the post and didn't fault her for her opinion about the ball; however, as comments came in I wondered if the tone I intended came across effectively. As I consider the person my friend and hold her in high regard, I did not want her, or anyone else, to feel badly about the discussion on the blog. After receiving counsel from my husband, I decided to delete the post. I appreciate the frank and honest opinions given by those who commented. (And I'm keeping the ball.)
Friday, March 13, 2009
Look Ma, No Hat!
I am up way too late tonight. I am going to regret it early tomorrow morning. But, for now, I am enjoying life. ALONE. I love, love, love being alone. No Myers-Briggs test needed here; I'm 100% introverted.
The trouble is: I'm also a mother of two small children, who evidently love me too much to be out of my sight for more than 10 minutes. My three year old pleas every night for me to lay next to her bed until she is sleeping. When (not if) she wakes during the night, she makes the sojourn down to my bed. Consequently, my private time is at a premium.
I love my husband after the kids conk out, but hanging with him doesn't give me what I need, that being pure solitude.
So, the only way I can get that is if I get up earlier or stay up later than everyone else. I tried the earlier one yesterday. I fell asleep at 7pm, while putting Goose to bed, and so getting up at 6 was easy. But, Goose's radar is too good. She who had been sleeping in until 8am, got up at precisely 6:13. I was angry. I was surprised at how absolutely angry I was. I tried to convince her it was still night - she said "but you are awake, so it is morning." I opened the door and asked her if the sun was up. No answer. Go to bed with Daddy please. She went...and returned within five minutes. My day was destroyed.
Why do I need the alone time? I'm not exactly sure. I find it interesting that at other times I feel too lonely and crave the companionship close friend. I can spend hours on the phone with a sister, for example. I'd like to say that I need the alone time to be productive; to get a project completed or a book read. But the truth is, it doesn't really matter what I do, as long as it doesn't involve interacting with other people.
I'd also like to say that it allows me to gather my thoughts or ponder important issues. Sometimes that is what I do while I'm alone, but it isn't the reason I need the alone time. Sometimes I think about absolutely nothing.
I do know that it helps me recover my sense of self. Having little monkeys hanging from me all day tends to blur the lines of where I end and they begin. Judged by their lack of bathroom privacy etiquette, I think they are confused by that too. Being alone allows me to explore my own feelings and thoughts, or lack thereof, without reference to anyone in my immediate surroundings. That's invaluable.
Being alone is the only way I can really truly be relaxed. I don't know why this is true. I feel it shouldn't be. I, of course, put on pretenses for some people, but not for my family and close friends. Do I? Perhaps I do. In every relationship I wear a hat of some sort: the needy friend in one instance, the giving friend in another, the obedient daughter, the submissive sister, the list goes on. I change a little of who I am depending on who I am interacting with at that moment. It's all true to myself, but presented differently to each person. It is only when I am alone, perhaps, that I am wholly myself.
The trouble is: I'm also a mother of two small children, who evidently love me too much to be out of my sight for more than 10 minutes. My three year old pleas every night for me to lay next to her bed until she is sleeping. When (not if) she wakes during the night, she makes the sojourn down to my bed. Consequently, my private time is at a premium.
I love my husband after the kids conk out, but hanging with him doesn't give me what I need, that being pure solitude.
So, the only way I can get that is if I get up earlier or stay up later than everyone else. I tried the earlier one yesterday. I fell asleep at 7pm, while putting Goose to bed, and so getting up at 6 was easy. But, Goose's radar is too good. She who had been sleeping in until 8am, got up at precisely 6:13. I was angry. I was surprised at how absolutely angry I was. I tried to convince her it was still night - she said "but you are awake, so it is morning." I opened the door and asked her if the sun was up. No answer. Go to bed with Daddy please. She went...and returned within five minutes. My day was destroyed.
Why do I need the alone time? I'm not exactly sure. I find it interesting that at other times I feel too lonely and crave the companionship close friend. I can spend hours on the phone with a sister, for example. I'd like to say that I need the alone time to be productive; to get a project completed or a book read. But the truth is, it doesn't really matter what I do, as long as it doesn't involve interacting with other people.
I'd also like to say that it allows me to gather my thoughts or ponder important issues. Sometimes that is what I do while I'm alone, but it isn't the reason I need the alone time. Sometimes I think about absolutely nothing.
I do know that it helps me recover my sense of self. Having little monkeys hanging from me all day tends to blur the lines of where I end and they begin. Judged by their lack of bathroom privacy etiquette, I think they are confused by that too. Being alone allows me to explore my own feelings and thoughts, or lack thereof, without reference to anyone in my immediate surroundings. That's invaluable.
Being alone is the only way I can really truly be relaxed. I don't know why this is true. I feel it shouldn't be. I, of course, put on pretenses for some people, but not for my family and close friends. Do I? Perhaps I do. In every relationship I wear a hat of some sort: the needy friend in one instance, the giving friend in another, the obedient daughter, the submissive sister, the list goes on. I change a little of who I am depending on who I am interacting with at that moment. It's all true to myself, but presented differently to each person. It is only when I am alone, perhaps, that I am wholly myself.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Letting my hair down
I've been threatening to do it for months. Every morning I get sick of the power struggle. I've tried everything: bribes, threats, gentle persuasion, reverse psychology. Nothing works.
So I did it.
I chopped Goosie's hair.
Pixie short.
I'm still in shock.
Goose is overjoyed.
She's been begging me for months to cut her hair short. "I want hair like Daddy's and Little E's!" she'd plead. "You are a girl," I'd reply, "You have girl hair - like Mommy."
Now, I've never been a girly-girl myself. I don't wear much make-up. I live in blue jeans. I'm more excited about going hiking than a trip to the mall. But, I must admit, I have long had imagined a cute little girl in brown braids skipping along side me on those hikes. Doing up my daughter's hair was my one girly indulgence. Goose hated every second of it. Usually, I could only manage to get a brush half-way through her tangles. When she did allow me to put in pony-tails or braids it was only so she could imitate a favorite cartoon character's do (Uniqua, I told her, wore two curly pony tails, and Tasha wore two "knots"). As soon as the desire to make-believe passed, the pony was ripped out and the hair looked worse than when we started.
All logic told me I need to chop the hair; she wanted it, it looked terrible most of the time anyway. Still, I told myself, I wasn't ready to relinquish control. And then I knew I had to do it. This wasn't about her hair. This was about what kind of mother I was going to be. Was I going to spend my life imposing my own preferences (on trivial matters) on Goose, or was I going to give her control over her own life, respecting her choices? A hair cut isn't permanent; a bad decision in this arena only lasts a month or two. I realize she is only three, but isn't that old enough to know she'd rather not go through the torture of hair-brushing every day? Could I be big enough to let go of my little girl with braids fantasy?
I took a deep breath and weilded the scissors.
I almost cried several times during the process, but I reminded myself of all those perms I endured as a child, an imposition of my mother's will for my hair, how torturous there were: they burned my scalp, pulled my hair, and smelled to high heaven. I knew I did the right thing.
When Goose saw herself in the mirror for the first time, she grinned from ear to ear. "Now I'm LITTLE E!!!" The role she's been dying to play forever. Finally, she's got the right "do" for the part.
So I did it.
I chopped Goosie's hair.
Pixie short.
I'm still in shock.
Goose is overjoyed.
She's been begging me for months to cut her hair short. "I want hair like Daddy's and Little E's!" she'd plead. "You are a girl," I'd reply, "You have girl hair - like Mommy."
Now, I've never been a girly-girl myself. I don't wear much make-up. I live in blue jeans. I'm more excited about going hiking than a trip to the mall. But, I must admit, I have long had imagined a cute little girl in brown braids skipping along side me on those hikes. Doing up my daughter's hair was my one girly indulgence. Goose hated every second of it. Usually, I could only manage to get a brush half-way through her tangles. When she did allow me to put in pony-tails or braids it was only so she could imitate a favorite cartoon character's do (Uniqua, I told her, wore two curly pony tails, and Tasha wore two "knots"). As soon as the desire to make-believe passed, the pony was ripped out and the hair looked worse than when we started.
All logic told me I need to chop the hair; she wanted it, it looked terrible most of the time anyway. Still, I told myself, I wasn't ready to relinquish control. And then I knew I had to do it. This wasn't about her hair. This was about what kind of mother I was going to be. Was I going to spend my life imposing my own preferences (on trivial matters) on Goose, or was I going to give her control over her own life, respecting her choices? A hair cut isn't permanent; a bad decision in this arena only lasts a month or two. I realize she is only three, but isn't that old enough to know she'd rather not go through the torture of hair-brushing every day? Could I be big enough to let go of my little girl with braids fantasy?
I took a deep breath and weilded the scissors.
I almost cried several times during the process, but I reminded myself of all those perms I endured as a child, an imposition of my mother's will for my hair, how torturous there were: they burned my scalp, pulled my hair, and smelled to high heaven. I knew I did the right thing.
When Goose saw herself in the mirror for the first time, she grinned from ear to ear. "Now I'm LITTLE E!!!" The role she's been dying to play forever. Finally, she's got the right "do" for the part.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Insomnia: an epidemic.
The rain fell lightly. It was a peaceful and warm evening. The theater performance had been well done, although as often is true, it did not do justice to the book it was interpreting. I leaned on the railing of the complex's central fountain mulling over the conversation I had just had with an old friend and contemplating the machinery propelling the fountain's giant wooden sculptures - two rustic canoes - in large arcing paths.
"Sarah!" I heard from across the courtyard, "Come on, we're staying."
The rest of my party had been sent as envoy into the complex's overpriced eatery to assess its worthiness. Either it had met whatever expectations the selected body had or they were just to lazy and hungry to initiate a search for a better landing spot. I sat down to find my mother had already ordered for me.
"I got you the slice of pizza."
Terrific. An ethnic restaurant, a menu filled with exciting culinary adventure and you order me the pizza. Thanks Mom.
I blink. I sit up. It is dark. I'm in bed. The phone is ringing. A thousand relatives are critically injured or dead in the next ten seconds as I fumble to the phone.
"Hello?"
No answer.
"Hello? Hello?"
No Answer.
I wait a moment, straining to hear any commotion or sobbing on the other end. Nothing. I hang up.
Check the clock: 3:30.
I return to bed my mind still imagining the news I almost received: We just found your sister murdered. Your sister and her entire family were killed in an auto accident. Your sister is in a coma. (I have a lot of sisters to worry about). Your brother is missing. Your father had a heart attack.
My imagination for morbidity seems to be unfettered. I remember the story I had just told my husband hours before: As a child I had feared to wear a particular t-shirt of my mother's to bed. It was a church youth camp shirt which had been silk-screened to read "Heaven Can't Wait". I feared the kidnapper that lurked outside my window every night would strike the night I wore that shirt and interpret the text as an invitation to "off" me. I laugh at myself.
Still, I lay blinking in my bed. Perhaps my inability to sleep now is related to my falling asleep at 7pm while "helping" my 3 year old to sleep. I feel little pang of guilt as I remember that last night was Valentine's Day and I snoozed while my husband watched something as enthralling as "Legend of the Seeker" on TV. My guilt quells as I also remember the night before this one I spent mostly awake catching vomit from aforementioned 3 year old.
My 3 year old cries out and starts down the stairs. She has lost her baby. Her baby is laying on her pillow. I crawl into bed with her until I hear the deep breaths and feel the involuntary muscle twitches that signal her sleep state. I slide out of bed and head to the computer. Ever since I introduced my children to YouTube and Starfall, I have been competing for screen time with them. I promise myself I will take the uninterrupted time to write in my blog and not check my email or facebook.
I check my email. I look up flights to Hawaii. My husband is going to Honolulu in April for a conference. Two of my best friends are going the week before for fun. I feel like I should not be left out. My anxiety over knowing I probably will be grows as I think about arguing my case in front of my one-man jury. I curse our tendency toward financial prudence and lack of independent wealth.
I hear a squeak from my other child. It is now 5 am. He needs to go back to sleep. I need to blog. I ignore him. He quiets down. I write. He starts calling for mama. I write. He calls, ever faithful. I write. 5:15. Mama. I write. 5:30. Mama. I write. Coughing from the daughter. Mama. My daughter's door opens. "Go lay down with Daddy." "But I'm hungry." Mama, poo-poo, Mama. I sigh. I post. 5:45.
Author's Note: I apologize for using the dream devise. It felt a little cliche. But, it was really the way it happened. And I wanted to practice describing the vivid scene I had just dreamt. The only thing that didn't happen just as described was the last comment by Little E (Poo-poo, Mama.) That happened last week. Also at 5 am.
P.S. The youtube link is one of the kids' favorites.
"Sarah!" I heard from across the courtyard, "Come on, we're staying."
The rest of my party had been sent as envoy into the complex's overpriced eatery to assess its worthiness. Either it had met whatever expectations the selected body had or they were just to lazy and hungry to initiate a search for a better landing spot. I sat down to find my mother had already ordered for me.
"I got you the slice of pizza."
Terrific. An ethnic restaurant, a menu filled with exciting culinary adventure and you order me the pizza. Thanks Mom.
I blink. I sit up. It is dark. I'm in bed. The phone is ringing. A thousand relatives are critically injured or dead in the next ten seconds as I fumble to the phone.
"Hello?"
No answer.
"Hello? Hello?"
No Answer.
I wait a moment, straining to hear any commotion or sobbing on the other end. Nothing. I hang up.
Check the clock: 3:30.
I return to bed my mind still imagining the news I almost received: We just found your sister murdered. Your sister and her entire family were killed in an auto accident. Your sister is in a coma. (I have a lot of sisters to worry about). Your brother is missing. Your father had a heart attack.
My imagination for morbidity seems to be unfettered. I remember the story I had just told my husband hours before: As a child I had feared to wear a particular t-shirt of my mother's to bed. It was a church youth camp shirt which had been silk-screened to read "Heaven Can't Wait". I feared the kidnapper that lurked outside my window every night would strike the night I wore that shirt and interpret the text as an invitation to "off" me. I laugh at myself.
Still, I lay blinking in my bed. Perhaps my inability to sleep now is related to my falling asleep at 7pm while "helping" my 3 year old to sleep. I feel little pang of guilt as I remember that last night was Valentine's Day and I snoozed while my husband watched something as enthralling as "Legend of the Seeker" on TV. My guilt quells as I also remember the night before this one I spent mostly awake catching vomit from aforementioned 3 year old.
My 3 year old cries out and starts down the stairs. She has lost her baby. Her baby is laying on her pillow. I crawl into bed with her until I hear the deep breaths and feel the involuntary muscle twitches that signal her sleep state. I slide out of bed and head to the computer. Ever since I introduced my children to YouTube and Starfall, I have been competing for screen time with them. I promise myself I will take the uninterrupted time to write in my blog and not check my email or facebook.
I check my email. I look up flights to Hawaii. My husband is going to Honolulu in April for a conference. Two of my best friends are going the week before for fun. I feel like I should not be left out. My anxiety over knowing I probably will be grows as I think about arguing my case in front of my one-man jury. I curse our tendency toward financial prudence and lack of independent wealth.
I hear a squeak from my other child. It is now 5 am. He needs to go back to sleep. I need to blog. I ignore him. He quiets down. I write. He starts calling for mama. I write. He calls, ever faithful. I write. 5:15. Mama. I write. 5:30. Mama. I write. Coughing from the daughter. Mama. My daughter's door opens. "Go lay down with Daddy." "But I'm hungry." Mama, poo-poo, Mama. I sigh. I post. 5:45.
Author's Note: I apologize for using the dream devise. It felt a little cliche. But, it was really the way it happened. And I wanted to practice describing the vivid scene I had just dreamt. The only thing that didn't happen just as described was the last comment by Little E (Poo-poo, Mama.) That happened last week. Also at 5 am.
P.S. The youtube link is one of the kids' favorites.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Venting
Warning: This post was written in a drunken fit of outrage and frustration. It may ramble an eentsy bit.
Recently, I took Little E to the doctor for his 18 month well-child checkup. The last several visits to the pediatrician have felt the doctor was distracted and rushed while examining him; forgetting to look in his ears, repeating the same instructions several times, leaving before giving me a promised referral, etc. I felt this distraction was in part due to Eliza being present and little unruly. And so, I made specifically made this appointment so Goose would be in preschool while Little E and I went in for our little party. This was a gamble because it meant Little E would be getting his all-important nap over 2 hours later than normal.
To give you an idea my timeline:
12:00 Goose starts preschool
(12:05 Little E's regular nap time)
12:15 Little E's appointment
2:15 MUST be leaving doctor to get Goose.
2:30 Goose ends preschool
2:31 Preschool inflicts $50 late pick-up fee
We arrived at the doctor's office a few minutes late. I was late mostly because the two complimentary parking spaces were taken and I had to search my car for change to pay the "honor box" for my parking space. I didn't have nearly enough for my supposed hour stay, even if I used all my loose pennies, so I stuffed in what silver I had and made a vow to return later in the week with the rest.
We were invited straight back to the exam room and asked to remove all of Little E's clothing for measurements. The nurse in this office is delightful and the visit had a promising start. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. Little E was more than antsy. I can't say that I blame him. If I were stripped naked, prodded and poked and then stuck in a room with all sorts of cool stuff (drawers, telephones,otoscope, sphygmomanometer , etc.) none of which I was allowed to touch, held prisoner until a doctor decides to grace me with a visit, I'd be a little cranky too.
It was 1:30 and I still hadn't seen the doctor; I was getting nervous. Uncharacteristically, I popped my head out and apprised the receptionist of my situation. She seemed surprised that I might have other commitments to which needed attending and promised to relay the message to the nurse. As a preventive measure I called my friend and made arrangements for her to "claim" Goose from the teacher until I arrived. Ten minutes went by and still no doctor. Again, I mustered all my assertiveness and spoke to the nurse. She was also surprised to know I was under time constraints (apparently the receptionist passed on that message post haste) and assured me I was next in line and told me she would tell the doctor that I needed to go. The stress of the time constraint coupled with the effort needed by me to speak up cause me to break into muffled tears when I retreated once more into the exam room.
1:45 - The doctor arrived. I tried to make the visit go as efficiently as possible, listing my concerns in a metered voice. When I got to the blue lips after eating, a phenomenon that was not a frequent occurrence, but still enigmatic, the doctor's eyes got wide and she said out-loud, but half to herself, "now when did I first hear that heart murmur.
Now, I know that most heart murmurs are nothing to get your panties in a twist over, but sheesh! Are you telling me that you heard a heart murmur in my son for 18 months (and yes, she first heard it at 8 days old), found it significant to note each time and yet failed to mention it to me even once? Even with the caveat that it was nothing to worry about? I had seen these blue lips on and off since Little E was about 4 months, but having no corroborating evidence of heart issues took no thought to mention it to the doctor. Had this doctor had a little more faith in me as a reasonable and well-educated scientist, this would not have been playing out as it was. Besides, why should I be unreasonably concerned? My boy runs, is never out of breath, and is growing like a weed. How am I, as my child's number one advocate supposed to make appropriate health care decisions if my doctor is withholding information from me because she thinks I will "freak-out" over it? A thing, by the way, she should know I am not prone to do after observing my reactions to Goose requiring surgery at 6 months. Do I not have a right to all the doctors findings and not only the ones she deems appropriate to share with me, especially considering I am in effect employing her to do so?
(As a post note, we were sent to a cardiologist - who asked why we were not sent to him 18 months ago - and who assured me there was nothing to be concerned about....at least until Little E is a Great Big E and nearing retirement. No doubt noting my cool demeanor, the cardiologist asked me if it was my concern or the doctor's that brought us in - It's my goofy doctor. )
Having no time, nor assertiveness, left to express any of these feelings to the doctor, I exited stage left. To add to my sunny afternoon, I had received a parking "ticket" from the lot attendant. Apparently, my tires were just over the line and it had gone on my permanent record.
Jimmy-John called and I took my finger out of the dike. Angry and exhausted, my emotion flowed uninhibited across the airwaves. I recounted every excruciating detail of our 2 hour check-up, "...AND I'm not going to get Goose in time...." I cried. "Oh, well, I'm home," he said, "do you want me to walk over and get her?" Sigh..at least one thing went right.
I know some of you are going to ask if I've changed doctors yet. The answer is no. Despite this not being the first time I've been asked to wait inordinate amounts of time. Despite the quick and seemingly abbreviated exams. Despite the withholding pertinent medical information. The reason? Well, I have to admit that one of the reasons is that I'm embarrassed to tell her exactly why I'm leaving, which I would feel compelled to do under the circumstances. But mostly, I'm not sure I can find any doctor out there that won't be just exactly the same in those areas. And from the past conversations I have had with this doctor, I know she cares about her patients, she's well-trained, and uncompromising when she feels strongly about an issue. She's also well connected in the local medical community, which makes getting good referrals, when needed, a breeze. And so, for now, I am just thankful that, barring sick visits, we won't have to endure this again for another six months.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)