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.

Joy to the World

When Jimmy John and I got married we agreed to an arrangement where we would spend one Christmas in Virginia with his family and the next in Colorado with mine. The arrangement worked well (for a whopping two years) until the kids came along. We hadn't anticipated the fun of traveling with children. Even though his family is only a two hour drive, staying in unfamiliar beds, houses with lots of breakable knick-knacks, is enough to fill Jimmy John with angst. This year was a Virginia Christmas. But, the family called with news of medical emergencies, and rather then descend upon a convalescing 86 year old, we postponed our travel plans. It was a little disappointing not to be with family, but secretly, Jimmy John and I were excited to have a Christmas all to ourselves.

Because we weren't expecting to be "doing Christmas" ourselves, I had several last minute errands to run on Christmas Eve. I had to go to the post office to pick up our held mail and to the grocery store to get a few last-minute ingredients for the Christmas feast. While I was at the grocery, I also wanted to hop next door to the mall to redeem a rebate that would expire that day. The post office was a ghost town, but about half a mile from the mall, the traffic was was at a dead stop. The 2 minute drive took me 15 minutes. After another 15 looking for a parking space at the grocery store, I gave up crossed the street to the mall and parked in the boonies. People were honking and grumbling; it was chaotic.

I went inside the mall first, and almost walked back out forsaking my twenty dollar rebate. The hoards of people were astounding. Garish pop-Christmas tunes blared from the loud speaker. Not my idea of a pleasant Christmas Eve. I looked around at that harried consumers grabbing last minute gifts, deal, whatever and I was struck by the words of the song playing at that moment: "So this is Christmas." The irony touched me and has caused me to ponder how I celebrate Christmas. Do I focus on celebratory rituals such as gifts, food, greeting cards, etc. because I feel they are culturally necessary or are they are an outward expression of joy in the birth of the Savior? And what am I teaching my daughter about Christmas by my actions?

My self-evaluation yielded some less than satisfactory results. I believe I focused on Christ and His birth more than I had in some previous years, but I still didn't make it the center of my celebration. I enjoy all of the Christmas festivities, and I'm in no way decrying the worth of giving gifts or baking cookies, but my thoughts were directed more towards getting things done on time rather than pondering the wonder of the atonement or simply enjoying my family. However, I was happy to realize that spending Christmas as an individual family had increased my focus on the 'true meaning of Christmas'. We weren't having an extravagant Christmas, but it was our Christmas, one we had put together ourselves for the enjoyment of the children and it had brought our family closer together.

I returned home from the mall and played outside with Goose and Little E. We had dinner, read the Christmas story and sang carols. Christmas morning was still mostly about the gifts, but when I put Goose to bed tonight, she clutching her "Little People" holy family singing "Happy Birthday" to baby Jesus, I realized we'd done alright after all. Merry Christmas.

Deck the Halls with Bowls of Popcorn

We put up our Christmas tree last night. It's a sorry little thing that we borrowed from a friend (thanks Denise!) when we decided at the last minute to cancel our travel plans; a four-foot artificial tree that leans noticably to the right. I love it! But more importantly, the kids do too.

Having never put up a tree in the five years we have been married, we had no lights and very few ornaments. I made a special trip to the store for the lights (which were already 50% off! Hooray for last minute shopping.) and had the wonderfully brilliant idea of stringing popcorn as an inexpensive means of adorning our little Christmas twig.

The lights went on the twig the moment I got home. The kids, who were nearing bedtime and therefore already a little squirrely, were hovering around the action excitedly. We turned the lights on and Little E squealed with delight, danced about and clapped his hands. He now gets scolded about every 10 minutes for pulling/touching/wiggling nearby the twig. Goose sat at the base gazing lovingly at the twig for a good 20 minutes. I realized it would be best to put off the
popcorn stringing until the following day; any more excitment and the kiddos would explode.

We aren't popcorn people, so when I unearthed the popcorn popper from the basement and set it up in the kitchen, the kids were curious. Little E, knowing the chances of being picked up for a good view of the countertop were slim, retrieved a chair from the dining room and dragged it into the kitchen. He flopped his body on the seat, grabbed the rungs and hoisted with all his might.

He does this about 50 times a day and each time he does it I think about what the equivalant movement for me would be. I'm sure if I mimicked everything he did in a day I would eat much
more and sleep much longer than he does.

Anyway, the kids were wowed by the air popper. We could have stopped there and it would have been a successful activity. But, no! There was a twig to decorate! And so, in a move that some professionals may classify as certifiable, I set the popcorn bowl on the floor of the living room and handed my 3 year old a needle and thread. As I placed the sharp object in her hands I wondered if I was a stupidly permissive mom, but, Goose has amazing fine motor skills for a 3 year old and was aware of the pain needles were capable of inflicting (from watching me use them), and the stringing proceeding with only one needle stick. My needle. My finger.

I am not so entirely permissive as to give Little E a needle, so he was relagated to eating the popcorn. That soon lost it's appeal, so my resourceful son decided to create an indoor sandbox, dumping the entire bowl of popcorn on the floor. The entertainment kept the children's attention so well, I got bored and irritated with the mess first and despite protests put it away about an our after we began. Our own White Christmas. I think we've found our very first Christmas tradition.

The Write Way

Goose loves to paint. She's always begging me to get the paint out. I'm always resisting; too much added mess in a house that doesn't really need any help being messy. Plus, I'm too cheap to go buy water-based paint when I have a box full of acrylic craft paint (left over from a service project 3 years ago) that needs to be used up. I have to be hyper-vigilant about the paint staying ONLY on the paper so we have no stains. Not an easy task when highly distractible three-year-old starts finger painting. I turned my back on her for 5 minutes last time, in that time she had mixed her paint to create a very beautiful deep purple and adorned herself with it up to her elbows.

Apparently, Goose is also always painting at preschool. The papers that come home are never ending and her teacher constantly jokes with me about her propensity to create art, painting in particular. Even the teacher whose class meets before ours has noticed that there are an unbalanced number of "Goose" labeled projects hanging to dry. I'm happy to let the majority of painting happen at preschool.

Even though I'm not always up for the mess, I'm thrilled that Goose has such a drive to create. I believe that the drive to create is a divine gift. Creation feeds a deep hunger in our souls that lurks almost undetected until we feel the warmth of satiation. Each person fulfills that need in a different way; some create art, others music, some cook, or write computer software.

I used to think it didn't matter how you created, as long as you were doing something. But, I was wrong. I have a friend who loves crafting. She makes everything from hand-felted gloves to baby slings. She's extraordinarily skilled and very imaginative in coming up with projects. It's very obvious that doing this gives her energy. I enjoy sewing and we have collaborated on a few projects. It's been fun to have someone who appreciates a trip to the fabric store as much as I do.

Things escalated when we decided to sell some of our handiwork at a preschool fundraiser. I focussed almost exclusively on my projects for a week. I fussed, I ignored children and eating and in the end I had 4 completed items. My friend had over 40. Happily, I did sell 2 items, but I went home pondering the different degrees of fulfillment the event had given each of us. I found myself fighting waves of jealousy that so often beset me in the presence of talented people. But this jealousy was a little different. I wasn't jealous so much of her talent, but of the satisfaction and energy it gives her. Then I heard a whisper in my ear: You are spending your time doing the wrong thing. You need to write.

I felt like I had awoken from a long, hazy dream. The solution seemed so clear. I've known that I should write from Middle School, but I've never pursued it with vigor. I am paralyzed with a fear of failure. What if I should write something that is not good. What if I try to write that book and never get it done. How embarrassing. If I don't write, I can't say I failed, I can only say I never tried. And of course, I have a million reasons why I was prohibited from trying. But when I do write (and especially when I know what I wrote was quality stuff), I get that high, that energy and that fulfillment I see in the eyes of my crafting friend and my daughter.

With this realization, this transparency to self, I have committed to overcome my fears and take some real steps toward really writing. This blog is part of my therapy. Putting my writing out there for public viewing (and comment! Ack!). It makes me vulnerable to the core. But it is making me a better writer. And a happier person.

Economic Crisis

I have a MS in Chemistry. Some days I am proud of that. Most of those days are laundry days. Like the day I got red Sharpie out of Goosie's shirt by soaking it in isopropyl (rubbing) alcohol . Or the day that I got acrylic paint out of her pants using pine-sol. But today....today I am ashamed of myself.

Recently, our bathtub has been succumbing to a thickening layer of nasty mildew. My current favorite bathroom cleaner wasn't touching it. Well, it would with scrubbing, but who has the time for scrubbing? So, when Jimmy John suggested Tilex, I ran out to our local Target and mindlessly grabbed the mildew and mold variety. When I sprayed it on our grimy tile, I thought, "This isn't what I remember Tilex smelling like, this smells like bleach." Active Ingredients of Mold and Mildew Tilex? 2.40% Sodium hypochlorite. Bleach. Diluted bleach for $3.11. ARGH! Well, at least I got a nice spray bottle out of it.

Almost as bad as the time I bought "laptop screen cleaning wipes", which were lint-free wipes soaked in rubbing alcohol. I think I paid $3 or $4 for about 10 wipes. Double ARGH!

I have found that bleach and rubbing alcohol are marketed again and again as different cool products. Be on the watch. For example: Clorox Anywhere Sanitizing Spray is duh-duh-duh-da! diluted bleach! So read the labels. (this is more advice for me, than you) Sodium Hypochlorite = bleach. Isopropyl Alcohol=Rubbing alcohol. Save yourself a little dough and dilute it yourself.

(FYI Regular bleach is 6% sodium hypoclorite, so a 3:1 dilution would be perfect for your bathroom needs. Sanitizing spray needs much less - 0.0095%, so a 500:1 dilution.)

Turning Blue

I grew up in a red house. Well, not literally. Our house was tan. Maybe camel. Or mocha. No, no, no - we're a good Mormon family, we would never live in a mocha-colored house. Speaking of which, I accidentally drank coffee last week. But that's a story for another day; one that involves pumpkin spice and a barista. But, politically, my family bleeds red.

This has been a pretty indisputable fact until recently. It's always been pretty safe to "discuss religion and politics" at family reunions and expect a civil and polite, if not well rounded, discussion. Until lately.

It's happened gradually. First there was the Clinton scandal. No, I'm not talking about Monica or impeachment. I'm referring to the day my father found out that his then one and only beloved son-in-law voted for Clinton. Twice. "The first time could be forgiven," he said only half-jokingly, "But TWICE?" Joe-Joe was lucky he was still allowed at the adult table at Christmas. I have to admit I was pretty shocked to be standing so close to a real-live democrat.

Then I married one.

Technically, Jimmy John is a registered Republican. When we moved to Maryland he had an infuriating experience at the DMV. After hours of waiting and three different lines, he was asked to register to vote. In some mix of exasperation and misplaced retribution against the bureaucracy of the blue state he registered for the opposing party. "I see what you've been telling me, " he said to me. "Smaller government." Then the people around us started rubbing off on him. At dinner parties I found him taking the side of all the liberal-talking wackos, erstwhile I remained the lone bastion of reason. I could tell I was losing him to the dark side. I guess he and Joe-Joe could sit together at Thanksgiving.

Of course, Rosie would be there to. My sister has been the most outspoken, and only blood related, liberal in the family. The artist. Every family's got one. Her support of Obama came as a surprised to no one.

What I didn't realize, until just recently, was how everyone in my family now viewed ME as a liberal. Tainted by association I guess (i.e. Barak Obama and William Ayers). I was shocked when my eldest sister casually referred to me as part of the familial liberal contingency. ME? The lone Dole supporter in my ninth grade Civics class! A straight ticket voter since 18. My goodness, I even supported Alan Keyes in the 2000 republican primary. I did briefly consider voting for John Kerry in 2004 in protest of treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay, but in the end my conservative leanings on other social issues won out.

I didn't start noticing the liberal drift in my life until a family reunion a year ago. I joined an in-progress "debate" between two blood-red family members (a sister and brother-in-law) on global warming. I use the term in its loosest sense as there were absolutely no conflicting points of view until I arrived. I thought since I have a MS in a scientific field, I might be able to add to the discussion. I disagreed with the Glenn Beck doctrine they were relating and suggested some evidence to the contrary. I thought the discussion was interesting and invigorating, although I might have said "PUH-LEEEZ, Glenn Beck is not a scientific expert (and an idiot)." or something like it. Oops, blew my cover. When I left my brother-in-law asked my sister, "Who else in your family is a democrat?!"

My little leftward slide has been interpreted by my family as a total conversion. But, it's two days before the election and I still don't know who I'm voting for. I flip-flop daily. I believe in smaller government, but I think that everyone should have real access to health care (McCain's plan would 1) never pass and 2) would make things worse). I believe in free enterprise, but I see too much corruption in big businesses. I don't think we should abandon our post in Iraq without finishing fixing the mess, but I never agreed with going in there to begin with. I hate the idea of higher taxes, but I can't see a way out of a $10.5 trillion debt without raising the government's revenue.

Maybe I will go with Banana and write-in Cheesecake (see previous post) after all. No, no, no, I know! I'll just pick the candidate with the better performance on a pop-comedy show (Obama McCain)

Cheesecake for President

Disaster was brewing. My temper had been tested all day and was as thin as a pancake. Goose oozed with a rebellious spirit from the moment she woke up. I had yelled at her once already, driving her to tears, after she had (accidentally) ripped the upholstery of our nicer car.

Last minute guests were coming. Our house was in its normal state: post-Katrina-like. I was desperate to have the children entertain themselves as I cleaned. So when they started making an indoor sandbox in my kitchen, I looked the other way. Sometimes you have to make a mess to clean another mess up. Brown lentils, which had previously been dumped on the floor (thanks Little E), were being transferred between metal bowls. I listened for the contended clanging from the other room as an indication of the children's well being. Goose had been instructed more than once not to dump any more "sand" onto the floor, so when I came in to find the floor covered with flour, oatmeal, pasta, and barley, in addition to the lentils, I started yelling again.

I ranted about the loss of food (50 cents worth of pasta), I rambled about the severe lack of obedience my two year old possessed, and with my body pulsing with anger, I firmly planted her butt in time out.

"You stay there until I come and get you."

Ha.

I could see from the defiant gleam in her eye that this would not end so pleasantly. One step. Two. Three. Four. I was obliged to respond to each test of my will with increased intensity. I was really losing control. Of myself, of her, of any hope of a teaching moment. My rage had fractured reality into two distinct but parallel thought paths. One drove my anger into a froth, the other pleaded with me for more patience and composure.

"Goose," I said as I squeezed her little shoulders, "do you want me to hurt you?" She blinked blankly at me. She doesn't even know what a spanking is. Inside I gasped. Had I really said that? I was losing it fast. This would not end well.

My idle threat had not made a dent in the young, unbendable will before me. One more exodus from time out broke my fragile grip on self-control. I scooped her up, stomped upstairs to her bedroom and, screaming, told her she had better not come out anytime soon. To drive my message home, I locked her door on the way out. Goose did not take this action quietly. For good measure, I put Little E into his crib.

Both children screaming injustice upstairs did little to help me calm down. And although I was now technically free to clean for the guests, I sat paralyzed on the kitchen floor. That is until I remembered the cheesecake in the fridge.

Little E had fallen asleep, but Goose was awake and still wailing: "Mommy, I can't get out. I don't want my door locked.". My heart softened. The only way to win this tug-of-war was to let go of my end of the rope.

"Goosie," I called, already knowing the answer. "Would you like to share some cheesecake?"

Instantly, silence engulfed the house. Then a quiet "yes." I unlocked the door, apologized, and handed her a fork. We sat on kitchen floor, among the lentils and pasta, and laughed as we plunged our two forks into the same cheesecake. Who knew the true unifying power of cheesecake? Perhaps I'll send a slice and a few forks on over to the Senate floor.