As the mother of a two year old, I spend a significant amount of time reading the same books over and over and over and then one more time, pleeeeeease mooooooom. I am also subjected to the same television shows for months at a time, before one is cast to the side to make room for the next. Barney was replaced by Angelina the Ballerina (who brought us an unshakable, illogical fear of cats), who was ousted by Caillou. Books have the same rotational pattern, and can be an obsession one week and discarded the next.
Most of the TV shows and books that get the toddler seal of repeating approval are not the newest or flashiest choices on the market. Sponge Bob Square Pants, for example, will catch Darling Daughter's attention, but she has never requested it specifically. But Curious George, who has been around since dirt was new, is a permanent resident in our house.
So I've been pondering what it is about the enduring characters that each generation of children continues to find so appealing. Husby was startled a few months ago when I put down our battered and torn copy of "Harry the Dirty Dog" and announced that the book was not about dogs at all. Harry, a white dog with black spots that got so dirty he became a black dog with white spots, is not really a dog. He represents a young boy, probably between 5 and 7 years old, that runs away from home and plays tag with his friends, hangs out at the railroad station, and slides down coal chutes. He then returns home to a family that doesn't recognize him until they give him a bath and he becomes, once again, a white dog with black spots.
The story is a fantasy that kids can totally relate to. Who wouldn't want to run away from home and do some super fun crazy things that your parents usually don't let do? But what if your family doesn't know who you are when you get back? Yikes. But then, the family realizes that what appears to be a stranger is actually a beloved family member, and everything is just fine at the end. Kid goes free, kid has tons of fun, kid gets home to unexpected rejection but eventually finds recognition. Sounds good, right? The fear of getting separated from your parents is something every child can empathize with, so reading about it happening to a dog allows them the opportunity to experience it from a safe distance. So the story works, and endures. And gets re-read five times a day for months on end. Mystery solved.
Onto Baby Bop, the incredibly irritating green dinosaur that follows Barney around. She is the whiniest incarnation of a three year old girl that could ever be represented on TV, but Darling Child adores her. She will pretend to be Baby Bop for ages, and is transfixed when the little green monster appears on TV. Of course! Baby Bop is just slightly older than Darling Girl, and represents the next stage in the developmental process. Who wouldn't want to watch someone who is playing on the next level up? It shows Darling Girl what is coming up next. The fact that Baby Bop is a green dinosaur and not a human girl is totally irrelevant.
So, what is the deal with Curious George? How old is he supposed to be? Sometimes, he is mature enough to solve sophisticated puzzles like a 10 year old, and sometimes he demonstrates attributes of a much younger child. But he sleeps in a full size bed, can be left alone all day in an apartment by himself and has free access to the entire city like a teenager. And who is The Man in the Yellow Hat? That guy creeps me out. Is he supposed to be the Dad? Confusing. And what about all the supporting characters in the stories that treat George like an adult?
I brought up my concerns about George and The Man at work a week ago or so, to see if anyone else had any insight into exactly what George was supposed to be. My co-workers collectively turned their heads to one side and raised eyebrows at me.
"He's a monkey, Jaime. That's what he is supposed to be."
"Yeah, but that doesn't make sense. Is he a ten year old, a teenager, an orphan or an adopted son?" I was thinking that I hadn't made myself clear.
"No, Jaime, he's a monkey. Just. A. Monkey."
I could tell that I hadn't been able to make my point about enduring characters and how they must appeal to children at a certain level, so I let it go. I recognize the combination of a head tilt, wide eyes and raised eyebrows, and I know it means that people have just added one more thing to the list of crazy things I've said.
But I'm sticking to my argument, that characters that endure resonate with us at a specific level that can cross generations. I'll just be quieter about reasoning it out, that's all.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Update on Today
Regarding my post about The Today Show, I was expecting a wave of laughter from the teeming millions of readers that hang on my every word. The reaction has been much more "me too!" and less "what the hell is wrong with you?" than I had anticipated.
Husby thinks that the anchors on the show are snobs and think they are better than everyone else. Others have mentioned being aware that Matt doesn't like Merideth for awhile. One reader remarked that she has felt sorry for Merideth for some time.
Another particularly astute reader told me to change the damn channel and find something else to watch. But then, I ask, how will I know how to decorate my holiday table on a budget or how to survive a plane crash? This is very important information, and I'm not sure I can trust the bastards at CBS to keep me updated.
Husby thinks that the anchors on the show are snobs and think they are better than everyone else. Others have mentioned being aware that Matt doesn't like Merideth for awhile. One reader remarked that she has felt sorry for Merideth for some time.
Another particularly astute reader told me to change the damn channel and find something else to watch. But then, I ask, how will I know how to decorate my holiday table on a budget or how to survive a plane crash? This is very important information, and I'm not sure I can trust the bastards at CBS to keep me updated.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Wrapped Around The Axle
We put up "Christmas" the other day, much to the delight/anguish of Baby Girl. Some stuff she is allowed to touch, some stuff is strictly off limits. Guess which things are more appealing? She claps with joy when we turn the Christmas lights on, and wails when we turn Christmas off.
There were some fallen soldiers in this year's installation of Christmas. A few wires fell off ornaments, a few random bits of glitter sprinkled the floor. So, being the dutiful wife that I am, I immediately vacuumed up the stray bits of cheer. I learned what an AMAZING noise one bit of wire can make when it gets wrapped around the bar of the vacuum. Good Times!
My original plan was to continue to chase the vacuum around until the room was all striped with cleanliness, but the racket caused by this little tiny wire was really quite distracting. So I turned it off, turned it over, and removed the offending bit of metal. All was well until I ran over another wire and had to repeat the process.
I'd quite forgotten about this whole episode until a few minutes ago. I've been wrestling with some spiritual questions for the last month or so, and continue to pester my fearless Dad for his perspective. In his latest message, Dad commented that he too has questions to ask God when the opportunity arises, but that he doesn't get so "wrapped around the axle" that he can't move forward. (He also mentioned going for a run and eating an apple, so we take what he says with a grain of salt.)
I immediately thought of the wire in the vacuum, wrapped around the axle and causing a huge commotion. I'm currently trying to sort out the cosmos while cooking a person, throwing off the shackles of religious dogma, and trying to figure out how to maintain some sort of identity whilst two children clamor for my attention. I've got fifty wires wrapped around my mental vacuum cleaner and the noise is truly astonishing.
It has been bothering me that I can't solve the problems I'm working on, and bogging me down in my daily shuffle. (It used to be a daily grind, but I go much slower now.) These lofty questions have gotten me wrapped around the axle, and I find myself getting stuck a few times a day.
Imagine a dog tied to a tree. Dog sees something interesting, walks over to investigate, and wraps another loop of leash around the tree. Dog walks over here, over there, sniff this, sniff that. Suddenly, Dog has three inches of leash left. How did this happen? Ruh roh, indeed.
The only solution is to sit down and stop winding, right? Flip the vacuum over or bark until someone comes to unclip the leash. I'm not sure I know how to do that right now, but it is nice to know that I'm not the only one.
Hey, that has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?
There were some fallen soldiers in this year's installation of Christmas. A few wires fell off ornaments, a few random bits of glitter sprinkled the floor. So, being the dutiful wife that I am, I immediately vacuumed up the stray bits of cheer. I learned what an AMAZING noise one bit of wire can make when it gets wrapped around the bar of the vacuum. Good Times!
My original plan was to continue to chase the vacuum around until the room was all striped with cleanliness, but the racket caused by this little tiny wire was really quite distracting. So I turned it off, turned it over, and removed the offending bit of metal. All was well until I ran over another wire and had to repeat the process.
I'd quite forgotten about this whole episode until a few minutes ago. I've been wrestling with some spiritual questions for the last month or so, and continue to pester my fearless Dad for his perspective. In his latest message, Dad commented that he too has questions to ask God when the opportunity arises, but that he doesn't get so "wrapped around the axle" that he can't move forward. (He also mentioned going for a run and eating an apple, so we take what he says with a grain of salt.)
I immediately thought of the wire in the vacuum, wrapped around the axle and causing a huge commotion. I'm currently trying to sort out the cosmos while cooking a person, throwing off the shackles of religious dogma, and trying to figure out how to maintain some sort of identity whilst two children clamor for my attention. I've got fifty wires wrapped around my mental vacuum cleaner and the noise is truly astonishing.
It has been bothering me that I can't solve the problems I'm working on, and bogging me down in my daily shuffle. (It used to be a daily grind, but I go much slower now.) These lofty questions have gotten me wrapped around the axle, and I find myself getting stuck a few times a day.
Imagine a dog tied to a tree. Dog sees something interesting, walks over to investigate, and wraps another loop of leash around the tree. Dog walks over here, over there, sniff this, sniff that. Suddenly, Dog has three inches of leash left. How did this happen? Ruh roh, indeed.
The only solution is to sit down and stop winding, right? Flip the vacuum over or bark until someone comes to unclip the leash. I'm not sure I know how to do that right now, but it is nice to know that I'm not the only one.
Hey, that has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?
Monday, December 1, 2008
What are you trying to say?
Every morning since the dawn of time, I have gotten up and watched the Today show with my cup of coffee. The anchors on the show have become a part of my extended family, even though they have no idea who I am.
This phenomenon is not without psychological merit, so all ye who are laughing at me can just knock it off. The human brain is theoretically not capable of distinguishing between people we see on TV every day and people we see in real life every day. In earlier days, survival depended on knowing what was happening in the tribe, so humans have developed a knack for watching other people and developing relationships. This quality is also partly responsible for our goofiness over celebrities and royal figures. The "leaders" of our tribe required extra attention to ensure our standing in the tribe. But I digress...
My friends Matt Lauer, Merideth Viera, Al Roker and Ann Curry and I sit down every morning to chat about the weather, current events, politics and how to choose a shade of lipstick that will compliment my skin tone during the winter months.
Recently, I have noticed a troubling undercurrent in the relationship between Matt and Merideth. It seems to me that Matt doesn't really like Merideth all that much, and can sometimes go so far as to be rude to her. Ever since she replaced Katie Couric a few years ago, Matt has been slightly contemptuous of her, but now it seems like their relationship is getting even more strained than it has been in the past.
Now, I realize that these people are professionals and Matt has certainly never said anything on air that would indicate that all is not well on the Today show set. There are very subtle cues, like a sideways glance that is almost an eye-roll, or an intro with one word drawn out, like "And now, baaaack to Merideth" that implies a secret 'yeah, and good luck with that'. Merideth appears to not notice any of this, though she does exude a bit of puppy-like energy that has a slight tail-wagging plea to be liked and accepted by the rest of the pack. It occasionally seems that Matt is responding to Merideth's eagerness be in the club by quietly reaffirming the fact that she isn't in the club.
This undercurrent is starting to affect the way I look at my dear friends. I'm getting angry with Matt, who is clearly just being mean, and feeling sad for Merideth, who just wants to be liked. I'm annoyed that Al and Ann haven't stepped in to make peace, or support Merideth against the titan of morning talk shows.
I realize that this whole thought process poses a few questions, like "How much time do you spend thinking about this stuff?" and "Seriously, have you ever had a life?" (Answers: Lots, and no.) This also raises the question about being sensitive, perhaps overly so, to the way people move around this world.
How do you know when someone is annoyed with you? When someone is secretly trying to tell you something? When does a random comment like "Wow, the trash cans are always empty at my Mom's house" from Husby really mean "I wish you were better at taking out the trash"? Or perhaps a casual remark about co-worker's weight loss really means "Wow, you've gained a lot of weight recently, hon."
Husby says that what he says NEVER means anything. He certainly never means to imply that I'm fat, a poor housekeeper, or a lousy cook. But I still say that we subconsiously communicate our true feelings to each other, and it is one of our jobs as members of society to dilligently decode those feelings.
As for Matt and Merideth, I'm thinking about writing them a letter so I can get some closure on this problem. They would write back, don't you think?
This phenomenon is not without psychological merit, so all ye who are laughing at me can just knock it off. The human brain is theoretically not capable of distinguishing between people we see on TV every day and people we see in real life every day. In earlier days, survival depended on knowing what was happening in the tribe, so humans have developed a knack for watching other people and developing relationships. This quality is also partly responsible for our goofiness over celebrities and royal figures. The "leaders" of our tribe required extra attention to ensure our standing in the tribe. But I digress...
My friends Matt Lauer, Merideth Viera, Al Roker and Ann Curry and I sit down every morning to chat about the weather, current events, politics and how to choose a shade of lipstick that will compliment my skin tone during the winter months.
Recently, I have noticed a troubling undercurrent in the relationship between Matt and Merideth. It seems to me that Matt doesn't really like Merideth all that much, and can sometimes go so far as to be rude to her. Ever since she replaced Katie Couric a few years ago, Matt has been slightly contemptuous of her, but now it seems like their relationship is getting even more strained than it has been in the past.
Now, I realize that these people are professionals and Matt has certainly never said anything on air that would indicate that all is not well on the Today show set. There are very subtle cues, like a sideways glance that is almost an eye-roll, or an intro with one word drawn out, like "And now, baaaack to Merideth" that implies a secret 'yeah, and good luck with that'. Merideth appears to not notice any of this, though she does exude a bit of puppy-like energy that has a slight tail-wagging plea to be liked and accepted by the rest of the pack. It occasionally seems that Matt is responding to Merideth's eagerness be in the club by quietly reaffirming the fact that she isn't in the club.
This undercurrent is starting to affect the way I look at my dear friends. I'm getting angry with Matt, who is clearly just being mean, and feeling sad for Merideth, who just wants to be liked. I'm annoyed that Al and Ann haven't stepped in to make peace, or support Merideth against the titan of morning talk shows.
I realize that this whole thought process poses a few questions, like "How much time do you spend thinking about this stuff?" and "Seriously, have you ever had a life?" (Answers: Lots, and no.) This also raises the question about being sensitive, perhaps overly so, to the way people move around this world.
How do you know when someone is annoyed with you? When someone is secretly trying to tell you something? When does a random comment like "Wow, the trash cans are always empty at my Mom's house" from Husby really mean "I wish you were better at taking out the trash"? Or perhaps a casual remark about co-worker's weight loss really means "Wow, you've gained a lot of weight recently, hon."
Husby says that what he says NEVER means anything. He certainly never means to imply that I'm fat, a poor housekeeper, or a lousy cook. But I still say that we subconsiously communicate our true feelings to each other, and it is one of our jobs as members of society to dilligently decode those feelings.
As for Matt and Merideth, I'm thinking about writing them a letter so I can get some closure on this problem. They would write back, don't you think?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Out Of Order
I realized (after it was pointed out to me by a sharp eyed member of the audience) that I have spoken a bit out of order. My only excuse is related to my grief at having to say goodbye to Diet Coke, which for now is off limits due to it's incredible heartburn inducing capabilities. Sniff...
My initial intention was to explain what the nine letters after my name actually mean. The hidden agenda with that explanation is to explain why the letters need explanation and why that makes my profession pretty silly. Shall I explain?
The title MA, LLPC, NCC means that I am a Masters Level, Limited License Professional Counselor, and a Nationally Certified Counselor. This means I am certified to provide psychotherapy for individuals, couples, adolescents, kids, substance abusers, and so on. The NCC means that I am certified to do this in 38 states. (Missouri, here we come!)
What this actually means is that I owe the Department of Education a small fortune, and am part of a not-very-elite group of crackpots that have the complicated world of psychotherapy "all figured out". Most of us seem to have pretty high opinions of ourselves and a barely concealed disdain for other members of the social services field. (Sorry, MSWs, we secretly think you stink at therapy but are very glad you are there to help us find community resources.)
What I've come to realize is that all of these letters after my name do not add up to the towering authority that I'd been hoping for. My subordinates (i.e. Husby, Dog and Darling Child) still have limited respect for my commands. I still can't get into the VIP room at the bar or get my meals paid for by my fans. They still won't put me through to George Clooney's personal voice mail, and no one has bothered to listen to my diatribe about why I need a Secret Service agent of my own.
So it has occurred to me that the more letters one has after their name, the less authority one actually has. If some is an MD, for example, you know exactly what that means. Even a PhD is a pretty good indicator of social rank. But an MALLPCNCC? Meaningless, and disregarded. Oh, wait! I could sit through another 12 credit hours and get an LMFT (licensed marriage and family therapist), would I be cool then?
No.
Ooooh, what if I got an LLP(limited license psychologist)? Then I could be MALLPCNCCLMFTLLP and boy, does THAT roll right off the tongue. An even lengthier explanation of that moniker would be required, as well as a much longer payback period on my student loans. Little career opportunities in any of these fields make the joke even funnier.
And the sad fact is that most of us, LLPs, LMFTs, MSWs, LLPCs and so on, do approximately the same thing. We can all be hired for the same jobs, make the same crap salaries, and garner little respect from the doctors. (Whom we often mock but secretly aspire to be.)
So, to answer the question of my sharp eyed reader, the letters after my name apparently don't mean diddly-squat. But they are mine, by jove, and I have a big blue piece of paper from the State Department of Mental Health that says I am authorized to screw with people's minds. Now if I could just find someone to pay me to do it....
My initial intention was to explain what the nine letters after my name actually mean. The hidden agenda with that explanation is to explain why the letters need explanation and why that makes my profession pretty silly. Shall I explain?
The title MA, LLPC, NCC means that I am a Masters Level, Limited License Professional Counselor, and a Nationally Certified Counselor. This means I am certified to provide psychotherapy for individuals, couples, adolescents, kids, substance abusers, and so on. The NCC means that I am certified to do this in 38 states. (Missouri, here we come!)
What this actually means is that I owe the Department of Education a small fortune, and am part of a not-very-elite group of crackpots that have the complicated world of psychotherapy "all figured out". Most of us seem to have pretty high opinions of ourselves and a barely concealed disdain for other members of the social services field. (Sorry, MSWs, we secretly think you stink at therapy but are very glad you are there to help us find community resources.)
What I've come to realize is that all of these letters after my name do not add up to the towering authority that I'd been hoping for. My subordinates (i.e. Husby, Dog and Darling Child) still have limited respect for my commands. I still can't get into the VIP room at the bar or get my meals paid for by my fans. They still won't put me through to George Clooney's personal voice mail, and no one has bothered to listen to my diatribe about why I need a Secret Service agent of my own.
So it has occurred to me that the more letters one has after their name, the less authority one actually has. If some is an MD, for example, you know exactly what that means. Even a PhD is a pretty good indicator of social rank. But an MALLPCNCC? Meaningless, and disregarded. Oh, wait! I could sit through another 12 credit hours and get an LMFT (licensed marriage and family therapist), would I be cool then?
No.
Ooooh, what if I got an LLP(limited license psychologist)? Then I could be MALLPCNCCLMFTLLP and boy, does THAT roll right off the tongue. An even lengthier explanation of that moniker would be required, as well as a much longer payback period on my student loans. Little career opportunities in any of these fields make the joke even funnier.
And the sad fact is that most of us, LLPs, LMFTs, MSWs, LLPCs and so on, do approximately the same thing. We can all be hired for the same jobs, make the same crap salaries, and garner little respect from the doctors. (Whom we often mock but secretly aspire to be.)
So, to answer the question of my sharp eyed reader, the letters after my name apparently don't mean diddly-squat. But they are mine, by jove, and I have a big blue piece of paper from the State Department of Mental Health that says I am authorized to screw with people's minds. Now if I could just find someone to pay me to do it....
What is in a name?
Or, more importantly, what is written after a name?
I have recently been awarded nine letters after my name to signify just incredibly important and smart I am. I am officially Jaime ____, MA, LLPC, NCC. Impressive, aren't I? Yes, I am. Very. I will be available to sign autographs later.
I am also using them as a weapon in my power struggle with Husby, who is struggling to understand my genius. He continues to challenge my authority, despite repeated warnings and reminders that I have nine letters after my name.
"How many letters do you have after your name?" I asked him after he showed casual disregard for my list of things he needed to do around the house.
"Lets see." He counts them on his fingers. "T.h.e. K.i.n.g. O.f. T.h.e. W.o.r.l.d. I count 17, which is way more than nine."
(I'm absolutely certain that Barack Obama does not have to deal with this kind of impertinence with the members of his cabinet.)
One of our intellectually stimulating debates promptly followed, as illustrated succinctly by Calvin and Hobbes:
(Husby is totally like "Gakka Wakka Wakka", and for the record, he started it first.)
All Calvin and Hobbes images are copyright © Universal Press Syndicate and the original artwork of Bill Watterson.
I have recently been awarded nine letters after my name to signify just incredibly important and smart I am. I am officially Jaime ____, MA, LLPC, NCC. Impressive, aren't I? Yes, I am. Very. I will be available to sign autographs later.
I am also using them as a weapon in my power struggle with Husby, who is struggling to understand my genius. He continues to challenge my authority, despite repeated warnings and reminders that I have nine letters after my name.
"How many letters do you have after your name?" I asked him after he showed casual disregard for my list of things he needed to do around the house.
"Lets see." He counts them on his fingers. "T.h.e. K.i.n.g. O.f. T.h.e. W.o.r.l.d. I count 17, which is way more than nine."
(I'm absolutely certain that Barack Obama does not have to deal with this kind of impertinence with the members of his cabinet.)
One of our intellectually stimulating debates promptly followed, as illustrated succinctly by Calvin and Hobbes:
(Husby is totally like "Gakka Wakka Wakka", and for the record, he started it first.)All Calvin and Hobbes images are copyright © Universal Press Syndicate and the original artwork of Bill Watterson.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Taking Turns
- Awesome Wife: "I'm not going to let you have the last piece of pie ever again if you don't bother to wash the pie plate after you're done."
- Husby: "It's your turn to do the dishes."
My turn? I didn't know we were taking turns. It is now his turn to clean the bathroom, bear a child, pay the bills and give the dog his medication. And it is my turn to do whatever I feel like all the time.
(In his defense, I reluctantly admit that it would be also be my turn to mow the lawn, lift heavy things, install light fixtures and endure life with an obnoxious pregnant wife.)
- Husby: "It's your turn to do the dishes."
My turn? I didn't know we were taking turns. It is now his turn to clean the bathroom, bear a child, pay the bills and give the dog his medication. And it is my turn to do whatever I feel like all the time.
(In his defense, I reluctantly admit that it would be also be my turn to mow the lawn, lift heavy things, install light fixtures and endure life with an obnoxious pregnant wife.)
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Oh, how far we've come...
It has finally occurred to Husby and I that we are to be parents again in rather short order. (I say six weeks from now, most likely. Anyone care to make a wager?) We have decided to re-decorate the room donated to the dog and make it into a baby-friendly nursery. The feelings of the displaced dog have been noted and disregarded. Sorry, Murph.
Part of the redecorating process has included the removal of the previous owner's curious choice in carpet, a rust colored eyesore with yellow spots. The removal of this carpet, courageously undertaken by Husby alone, has left us with a bit of repair work to do on the baseboard trim.
For this, Husby needed some different nails than we have in our collection. Having been stuck in the house for an eternity, I volunteered quite happily to go to Home Depot all by myself and pick up the nails. (There is also a craft store next to Home Depot that I wanted to go into all by myself.)
For the better part of an hour, I wandered up and down each aisle in Home Depot. I looked at tiles, wood floors, sinks, toilets, light fixtures, power tools, lumber and cabinetry. I walked past a display of bar stools and had a funny mental image of me sitting on the bar stools and waiting patiently.
"Uh, can I ...help you?" Imagine how uncomfortable the employee would be, asking what should be a pretty routine question.
"Yes, I'd like a tall Labatt's and an order of potato skins," I would reply.
"Um....ma'am, this is Home Depot."
"It says very clearly that these are BAR STOOLS. I would like a beer and some potato skins, if it isn't too much to ask. I've been waiting for a long time." They insisted that there was no beer in the entire building.
So I settled for a box of nails and two packages of lawn/leaf bags and left the store. On to the next adventure - The Craft Store.
I love craft stores. I would cheerfully spend hundreds of dollars each week at the craft store if I could, buying tons and tons of projects and being totally proud of myself and my outrageous creativity. Actually completing these projects is an entirely different prospect altogether, and completely irrelevant to this conversation.
Up and down the rows I walked, looking at each and every item in the store. I was going to milk this adventure for everything I possibly could. I finally had the freedom to listen to my own inner self asking if I could have this or that. No toddler was going to out-selfish me this time! This was All About Me.
About halfway around the store, I realized anew how much my life had changed. I had volunteered to go get nails? That can't be good.
Part of the redecorating process has included the removal of the previous owner's curious choice in carpet, a rust colored eyesore with yellow spots. The removal of this carpet, courageously undertaken by Husby alone, has left us with a bit of repair work to do on the baseboard trim.
For this, Husby needed some different nails than we have in our collection. Having been stuck in the house for an eternity, I volunteered quite happily to go to Home Depot all by myself and pick up the nails. (There is also a craft store next to Home Depot that I wanted to go into all by myself.)
For the better part of an hour, I wandered up and down each aisle in Home Depot. I looked at tiles, wood floors, sinks, toilets, light fixtures, power tools, lumber and cabinetry. I walked past a display of bar stools and had a funny mental image of me sitting on the bar stools and waiting patiently.
"Uh, can I ...help you?" Imagine how uncomfortable the employee would be, asking what should be a pretty routine question.
"Yes, I'd like a tall Labatt's and an order of potato skins," I would reply.
"Um....ma'am, this is Home Depot."
"It says very clearly that these are BAR STOOLS. I would like a beer and some potato skins, if it isn't too much to ask. I've been waiting for a long time." They insisted that there was no beer in the entire building.
So I settled for a box of nails and two packages of lawn/leaf bags and left the store. On to the next adventure - The Craft Store.
I love craft stores. I would cheerfully spend hundreds of dollars each week at the craft store if I could, buying tons and tons of projects and being totally proud of myself and my outrageous creativity. Actually completing these projects is an entirely different prospect altogether, and completely irrelevant to this conversation.
Up and down the rows I walked, looking at each and every item in the store. I was going to milk this adventure for everything I possibly could. I finally had the freedom to listen to my own inner self asking if I could have this or that. No toddler was going to out-selfish me this time! This was All About Me.
About halfway around the store, I realized anew how much my life had changed. I had volunteered to go get nails? That can't be good.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The Children
A short time ago, Husby was cheerfully musing about the impending arrival of another baby.
"We're going to have two! We're going to say things like 'I have to go pick up the children' and 'I have two children' and things like that."
I put on my most patient expression. "Who is going to take care of all of these children?" I asked. "Who is going to make sure that they have seasonally appropriate clothes that fit, that their fingernails are trimmed, that they have snow boots and snow pants and wear sunscreen? Who is going to feed them nutritionally sound but interesting and creative meals three times a day?"
"Momma!" he crowed, pleased with himself.
"Who is going to get them vaccinated on time, get their pictures professionally taken at appropriate intervals, find affordable but quality daycare, nurture a love of music, reading and learning, teach them not to swear or spit or kick their friends, not to burp at the table?"
"Momma!" he shouted.
"Who is going to know without looking where the bandaids are, which child likes chicken nuggets and which one likes mac 'n cheese, when was the last time this one pooped or that one puked, how long it has been since that one ate a peice of fruit? WHO will do that for all of these CHILDREN?"
"Momma!" he raved. "But who is going to play with them?"
At the same time, in two very different tones of voice, we shouted "Daddy!"
No wonder he's so chipper about the whole thing. I'm making him a new playmate.
"We're going to have two! We're going to say things like 'I have to go pick up the children' and 'I have two children' and things like that."
I put on my most patient expression. "Who is going to take care of all of these children?" I asked. "Who is going to make sure that they have seasonally appropriate clothes that fit, that their fingernails are trimmed, that they have snow boots and snow pants and wear sunscreen? Who is going to feed them nutritionally sound but interesting and creative meals three times a day?"
"Momma!" he crowed, pleased with himself.
"Who is going to get them vaccinated on time, get their pictures professionally taken at appropriate intervals, find affordable but quality daycare, nurture a love of music, reading and learning, teach them not to swear or spit or kick their friends, not to burp at the table?"
"Momma!" he shouted.
"Who is going to know without looking where the bandaids are, which child likes chicken nuggets and which one likes mac 'n cheese, when was the last time this one pooped or that one puked, how long it has been since that one ate a peice of fruit? WHO will do that for all of these CHILDREN?"
"Momma!" he raved. "But who is going to play with them?"
At the same time, in two very different tones of voice, we shouted "Daddy!"
No wonder he's so chipper about the whole thing. I'm making him a new playmate.
Toddlerhood
I have recently cut back my hours at work from three to two days per week, and the impact on my lifestyle has been surprisingly intense. I'm now spending five days straight with Baby Girl, who has responded to this increase in attention with an exponential rise in interrogation.
On Tuesday night, after I pick her up from daycare, I think that her voice is the sweetest thing in the world. The most innocent question, i.e. "What doing, Momma?" sounds so cute coming from that tiny little voice and that tiny little person.
By Friday, things sound a bit different. "What doing, Momma?" is now answered with "Walking a thin line between sanity and calling social services on myself, dear child."
I've realized this week that toddlers are a combination of two things; curiosity and greed. What is it? Can I have it? What is that, what are you doing, what is he doing, what is she doing, what are they doing....and can I have it? I need that, Momma, can I have it? The first question is occasionally difficult to answer, but the response to the second question is typically NO.
The problem with toddlers is that explaining what it is and that no, you can't have it, does not end the conversation. The question will be repeated, like a song stuck in her head, until something else comes along to grab her attention.
My sister passed on a great bit of wisdom when she theorized that explaining things to a toddler can be like reasoning with the unreasonable. I know from my training as a therapist that Baby Girl doesn't have the brain structure to process all of the information that she is receiving. I imagine her brain is sort of like a mail room for a huge office...tons of information comes in all the time and she is furiously sorting through it to figure out where it goes. It must be frustrating to have a letter jammed in the system, or come across stuff that doesn't fit in to her current filing system.
(But seriously, don't take it out on me! I just work here!)
I realize that some of my growing sense of alarm is tied to the fact that there is another child set to make her debut in the very near future. When difficulties arise, the question in the back of my head is not "Can I have it?" but "How am I going to do this with two kids?". Followed quickly, of course, by "What was I thinking?"
Hubsy, one of those irritatingly optimistic people I've discussed in previous posts, had some interesting insight. He started off by saying something along the lines of "I think there is..." before I cut him off.
"Let me guess," I said with no small measure of sarcasm. "You think there is a way of looking at the bright side that is going to make all the difference?"
He looked a bit hurt at my seemingly random attack on his positivity, but forged fearlessly ahead with his idea. "I think that in three years, the two of them will play together like puppies and take some of the heat off you."
A part of me knows that he is right, but most of me got stuck on the "...in three years..." part. I'm only promising good behavior on an afternoon-by-afternoon basis. Talking about three years from now is assuming a lot.
Hubsy, seeing the look of dismay on my face, tried a different approach. "Well, at least you'll be able to go to the bar soon!"
Now, that's more like it.
On Tuesday night, after I pick her up from daycare, I think that her voice is the sweetest thing in the world. The most innocent question, i.e. "What doing, Momma?" sounds so cute coming from that tiny little voice and that tiny little person.
By Friday, things sound a bit different. "What doing, Momma?" is now answered with "Walking a thin line between sanity and calling social services on myself, dear child."
I've realized this week that toddlers are a combination of two things; curiosity and greed. What is it? Can I have it? What is that, what are you doing, what is he doing, what is she doing, what are they doing....and can I have it? I need that, Momma, can I have it? The first question is occasionally difficult to answer, but the response to the second question is typically NO.
The problem with toddlers is that explaining what it is and that no, you can't have it, does not end the conversation. The question will be repeated, like a song stuck in her head, until something else comes along to grab her attention.
My sister passed on a great bit of wisdom when she theorized that explaining things to a toddler can be like reasoning with the unreasonable. I know from my training as a therapist that Baby Girl doesn't have the brain structure to process all of the information that she is receiving. I imagine her brain is sort of like a mail room for a huge office...tons of information comes in all the time and she is furiously sorting through it to figure out where it goes. It must be frustrating to have a letter jammed in the system, or come across stuff that doesn't fit in to her current filing system.
(But seriously, don't take it out on me! I just work here!)
I realize that some of my growing sense of alarm is tied to the fact that there is another child set to make her debut in the very near future. When difficulties arise, the question in the back of my head is not "Can I have it?" but "How am I going to do this with two kids?". Followed quickly, of course, by "What was I thinking?"
Hubsy, one of those irritatingly optimistic people I've discussed in previous posts, had some interesting insight. He started off by saying something along the lines of "I think there is..." before I cut him off.
"Let me guess," I said with no small measure of sarcasm. "You think there is a way of looking at the bright side that is going to make all the difference?"
He looked a bit hurt at my seemingly random attack on his positivity, but forged fearlessly ahead with his idea. "I think that in three years, the two of them will play together like puppies and take some of the heat off you."
A part of me knows that he is right, but most of me got stuck on the "...in three years..." part. I'm only promising good behavior on an afternoon-by-afternoon basis. Talking about three years from now is assuming a lot.
Hubsy, seeing the look of dismay on my face, tried a different approach. "Well, at least you'll be able to go to the bar soon!"
Now, that's more like it.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Er...
It has come to my attention that I have been less than direct about marketing my new outlet for self expression. I've had a few people recently say "Why didn't you tell me you were writing?"
Er...um...because someone might READ IT? Eeep!
Er...um...because someone might READ IT? Eeep!
So, I just stood on a virtual rooftop and shouted "Hey, World! I'm writing a blog! Wanna read it?"
And now I feel a little exposed. Sort of how one would feel if one took off one's pants in the produce section at the grocery store.
What if it is too much "mommy blog" and not enough "science blog"? Too much "churchy blog" and not enough "tattoo blog"? What if they really see me, really hear me, and figure out who I really am?
Well, isn't that the point? This whole thing has been in part about self discovery and acceptance. It is about consciously examining the journey through life. It is about recognizing the fact that we all have the right to be here on this planet, and that my voice is worth using.
It is also about documenting the really funny stuff that Husby and Darling Child say, so they have appropriate ammo for their future therapists. I strive for accuracy in reporting, folks.
So here I am, world, sans pants at the grocery store. And I'm alright with that.
A Brick Through My Window
"The significant problems we face cannot be solved by the same level of thinking that created them." - Albert Einstein
My last post about Fowler's fourth stage and my permanent residency there sparked a comment from a pal that has triggered an avalanche of thought. Her point on approaching the Bible from a different perspective is something I've heard before and rejected because it doesn't fit with my current struggle. It is not up to me, I reasoned, to debate the interpretation of the Bible. I believed, until yesterday, that the current interpretation of the Bible by my more educated elders was the only possible option.
To the current administration, challenging their interpretation is frowned upon using this line of reasoning:
1. We can't cherry-pick what parts of the Bible we believe based on our own discomfort.
2. The Bible is the infallible word of God and is not up for debate.
3. We know more than you because of years of extensive education and study.
4. Because I said so.
5. Sit down, Jaime, and shut up. Please.
It finally occurred to me that I don't actually know precisely what the Bible says about the things I struggle against. For an example, what specific Bible verses condemn homosexuality? I have heard the rhetoric, but have I ever read the source? Like a brick through a window, my old perception of my problem shattered and a new perception appeared.
No. I hadn't read it. I had sat like a dumb sheep and let them tell me what they thought the Bible said. Surely they have all the books, they've done the Bible studies, attended classes and learned to translate stuff from the Greek and Hebrew and came up with this stuff. But WHO are they?
This is where my buddy's comment about appreciating the source of the information triggered a new line of thinking. They are, and have ALWAYS been, both male and in the racial majority. Of course they, the current and past interpreters of the sacred text, have an agenda. It doesn't make them bad, but it doesn't make them automatically right either. How would I know if they are right, if I don't read the books and make my own conclusion?
Because, seriously, this is a group of people that likes McCain. (I know.) In jest, I argue that obviously they have a deplorable lack of decision making skills to fall for the blurge that came out of the conservative right wing this time around the track. In earnest, I argue that their very interpretation of reality is different than mine.
And yet, I hear the argument that the Bible is not current political posturing and cannot be evaluated at a situational level. You can't decide what the Bible says because it isn't convenient for you to go with the current level of thinking. Also, just because our current (evil) culture is telling you that it is ok to live with your partner before marriage, support gay rights, read books and listen to Obama doesn't give you the right to change the Bible. The Bible, as the infallible word of God, is not to be manipulated to say what matches any one personal agenda. (Oh no? Isn't that what they have been doing this whole time?)
That is the argument that I used to bash my head against when trying to reconcile the two, seemingly opposed, belief structures I have. That is how I used to tell myself that I would be stuck in stage four forever because I couldn't reason my way past the arguments against both things that I know to be true.
But Einstein tells us that we cannot solve our problems at the same level we were using when we created them. So a new level of thinking is required. And so here it is:
The Bible is the infallible word of God. The interpretation of the Bible into political beliefs and cultural prejeduces is the fallible word of People.
This is huge. This concept is probably not earth shattering to some, but to experience it myself has really been a shock. That is a key part too - I experienced this change instead of just thinking about it at an academic level.
A few things stand in my way:
1. Studying the Bible myself isn't going to be easy. I don't read Greek or Hebrew, but I will have to apply as much to this process as to any other academic pursuit.
2. I'm part of an establishment that doesn't particularly respond well to being confronted, especially by uppity, educated women.
3. I could be wrong.
(4. Super secret hidden reason: I could disappoint my parents.)
But this, more than anything, represents a primary struggle in my life. Why wouldn't I devote the time and energy to this, what could turn out to be the most important crisis resolution I've ever tackled?
And, seriously, what else do I have going on right now to occupy my enfeebled brain?
- Thanks go out to Colleen, who kicked me in the head with her comment.
My last post about Fowler's fourth stage and my permanent residency there sparked a comment from a pal that has triggered an avalanche of thought. Her point on approaching the Bible from a different perspective is something I've heard before and rejected because it doesn't fit with my current struggle. It is not up to me, I reasoned, to debate the interpretation of the Bible. I believed, until yesterday, that the current interpretation of the Bible by my more educated elders was the only possible option.
To the current administration, challenging their interpretation is frowned upon using this line of reasoning:
1. We can't cherry-pick what parts of the Bible we believe based on our own discomfort.
2. The Bible is the infallible word of God and is not up for debate.
3. We know more than you because of years of extensive education and study.
4. Because I said so.
5. Sit down, Jaime, and shut up. Please.
It finally occurred to me that I don't actually know precisely what the Bible says about the things I struggle against. For an example, what specific Bible verses condemn homosexuality? I have heard the rhetoric, but have I ever read the source? Like a brick through a window, my old perception of my problem shattered and a new perception appeared.
No. I hadn't read it. I had sat like a dumb sheep and let them tell me what they thought the Bible said. Surely they have all the books, they've done the Bible studies, attended classes and learned to translate stuff from the Greek and Hebrew and came up with this stuff. But WHO are they?
This is where my buddy's comment about appreciating the source of the information triggered a new line of thinking. They are, and have ALWAYS been, both male and in the racial majority. Of course they, the current and past interpreters of the sacred text, have an agenda. It doesn't make them bad, but it doesn't make them automatically right either. How would I know if they are right, if I don't read the books and make my own conclusion?
Because, seriously, this is a group of people that likes McCain. (I know.) In jest, I argue that obviously they have a deplorable lack of decision making skills to fall for the blurge that came out of the conservative right wing this time around the track. In earnest, I argue that their very interpretation of reality is different than mine.
And yet, I hear the argument that the Bible is not current political posturing and cannot be evaluated at a situational level. You can't decide what the Bible says because it isn't convenient for you to go with the current level of thinking. Also, just because our current (evil) culture is telling you that it is ok to live with your partner before marriage, support gay rights, read books and listen to Obama doesn't give you the right to change the Bible. The Bible, as the infallible word of God, is not to be manipulated to say what matches any one personal agenda. (Oh no? Isn't that what they have been doing this whole time?)
That is the argument that I used to bash my head against when trying to reconcile the two, seemingly opposed, belief structures I have. That is how I used to tell myself that I would be stuck in stage four forever because I couldn't reason my way past the arguments against both things that I know to be true.
But Einstein tells us that we cannot solve our problems at the same level we were using when we created them. So a new level of thinking is required. And so here it is:
The Bible is the infallible word of God. The interpretation of the Bible into political beliefs and cultural prejeduces is the fallible word of People.
This is huge. This concept is probably not earth shattering to some, but to experience it myself has really been a shock. That is a key part too - I experienced this change instead of just thinking about it at an academic level.
A few things stand in my way:
1. Studying the Bible myself isn't going to be easy. I don't read Greek or Hebrew, but I will have to apply as much to this process as to any other academic pursuit.
2. I'm part of an establishment that doesn't particularly respond well to being confronted, especially by uppity, educated women.
3. I could be wrong.
(4. Super secret hidden reason: I could disappoint my parents.)
But this, more than anything, represents a primary struggle in my life. Why wouldn't I devote the time and energy to this, what could turn out to be the most important crisis resolution I've ever tackled?
And, seriously, what else do I have going on right now to occupy my enfeebled brain?
- Thanks go out to Colleen, who kicked me in the head with her comment.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Fowler's Fourth Stage
I first ran into Dr. James Fowler, PhD, (developmental psychologist, Methodist, Director of Faith Development at Emory University) in my first class in graduate school. He has written the book, quite literally, on the stages of human faith development. He outlines six stages in how humans develop faith in a higher power. It struck a chord with me then, and it continues to echo in my daily struggle to resolve this spiritual crisis.
Check it out:
"The fourth stage is known as Individuative-Reflective. This is primarily a stage of angst and struggle, in which one must face difficult questions regarding identity and belief. Those that pass into stage four usually do so in their mid-thirties to early forties. At this time, the personality gradually detaches from the defining group from which it formerly drew its identity. The person is aware of him or herself as an individual and must--perhaps for the first time--take personal responsibility for his/her beliefs and feelings. This is a stage of de-mythologizing, where what was once unquestioned is now subjected to critical scrutiny. Stage four is heavily existential, where nothing is certain but one's own existence, and disillusionment reigns. This stage is not a comfortable place to be and, although it can last for a long time, those who stay in it do so in danger of becoming bitter, suspicious characters who trust nothing and no one. But most, after entering this stage, sense that not only is the world far more complex than his or her stage three mentality would allow for, it is still more complex and numinous than the agnostic rationality of stage four allows."
from: http://jmm.aaa.net.au/articles/2219.htm
Nice, right? I especially like the parts about disillusionment, and becoming a bitter, suspicious character. Oh, and the bit about this stage being particularly uncomfortable and lasting for years and years? Sweeeet.
I'm quite firmly entrenched in stage four, and struggle every day to make sense of two diametrically opposed belief systems. On the one hand, I believe in the essentials of Christianity and consider myself to be a Christian.
On the other hand, I support gay rights, a pro-choice platform, Kid Rock, tattoo parlors, beer, smoking, liberal use of the F word, co-habitation before marriage, Democrats, critical thinking, and women's rights.
My non-churchy friends say "God loves us. He wants us to be happy. Don't sweat it. You're a good person". Ok, but the Bible says three out of those four tenants are dead wrong. God does love us, true, but our happiness is not guaranteed. We should be sweating it, and I'm technically not a good person at all. My churchy friends don't say much because I don't think they really know about my divided belief structure (except the tattoo part, which is sort of obvious.)
I would sincerely, truly love to "get over" one of the branches in my belief tree. It would make things a hell of a lot easier for me if I could just look past the dissonance between my Christianity and every other belief that I hold. I've even tried ignoring the conflict for years, in the hopes that some spontaneous resolution would appear. (It didn't.) But to forsake either side of the dichotomy would be like deciding suddenly that something that profoundly guides us, like education, is just no longer something to believe in. There is no choice in the matter - education, Christianity and equal rights for all people are all fundamental and essential parts of my interpretation of this world.
So, seriously, what does one do with this? I've begun to read about Fowler's stage 5 in case there are any tips for making the jump out of this treacherous and irritating stage. Can't stop going to church, can't stop believing that women are equal to men and that missionaries are a bad idea. I can't believe that either part of this belief structure is wrong, despite the fact that they represent oppositional ideologies.
The last four years of weekly church attendance have left me more conflicted than ever on this topic. Now, more than ever, I can't walk away from either side. My training as a therapist has convinced me that ignoring the problem will most likely result in substance abuse or neurosis, so that isn't the answer either.
Either way, stage four is getting a little old. I'd like to get a free level up to stage five, but I'm pretty sure that isn't how it works. Dammit.
Check it out:
"The fourth stage is known as Individuative-Reflective. This is primarily a stage of angst and struggle, in which one must face difficult questions regarding identity and belief. Those that pass into stage four usually do so in their mid-thirties to early forties. At this time, the personality gradually detaches from the defining group from which it formerly drew its identity. The person is aware of him or herself as an individual and must--perhaps for the first time--take personal responsibility for his/her beliefs and feelings. This is a stage of de-mythologizing, where what was once unquestioned is now subjected to critical scrutiny. Stage four is heavily existential, where nothing is certain but one's own existence, and disillusionment reigns. This stage is not a comfortable place to be and, although it can last for a long time, those who stay in it do so in danger of becoming bitter, suspicious characters who trust nothing and no one. But most, after entering this stage, sense that not only is the world far more complex than his or her stage three mentality would allow for, it is still more complex and numinous than the agnostic rationality of stage four allows."
from: http://jmm.aaa.net.au/articles/2219.htm
Nice, right? I especially like the parts about disillusionment, and becoming a bitter, suspicious character. Oh, and the bit about this stage being particularly uncomfortable and lasting for years and years? Sweeeet.
I'm quite firmly entrenched in stage four, and struggle every day to make sense of two diametrically opposed belief systems. On the one hand, I believe in the essentials of Christianity and consider myself to be a Christian.
On the other hand, I support gay rights, a pro-choice platform, Kid Rock, tattoo parlors, beer, smoking, liberal use of the F word, co-habitation before marriage, Democrats, critical thinking, and women's rights.
My non-churchy friends say "God loves us. He wants us to be happy. Don't sweat it. You're a good person". Ok, but the Bible says three out of those four tenants are dead wrong. God does love us, true, but our happiness is not guaranteed. We should be sweating it, and I'm technically not a good person at all. My churchy friends don't say much because I don't think they really know about my divided belief structure (except the tattoo part, which is sort of obvious.)
I would sincerely, truly love to "get over" one of the branches in my belief tree. It would make things a hell of a lot easier for me if I could just look past the dissonance between my Christianity and every other belief that I hold. I've even tried ignoring the conflict for years, in the hopes that some spontaneous resolution would appear. (It didn't.) But to forsake either side of the dichotomy would be like deciding suddenly that something that profoundly guides us, like education, is just no longer something to believe in. There is no choice in the matter - education, Christianity and equal rights for all people are all fundamental and essential parts of my interpretation of this world.
So, seriously, what does one do with this? I've begun to read about Fowler's stage 5 in case there are any tips for making the jump out of this treacherous and irritating stage. Can't stop going to church, can't stop believing that women are equal to men and that missionaries are a bad idea. I can't believe that either part of this belief structure is wrong, despite the fact that they represent oppositional ideologies.
The last four years of weekly church attendance have left me more conflicted than ever on this topic. Now, more than ever, I can't walk away from either side. My training as a therapist has convinced me that ignoring the problem will most likely result in substance abuse or neurosis, so that isn't the answer either.
Either way, stage four is getting a little old. I'd like to get a free level up to stage five, but I'm pretty sure that isn't how it works. Dammit.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
If you can't say something nice...
Then come sit next to me.
I will readily admit that I'm a "glass half empty" person. Optimism is just not my strong suit, my style, or my default posture. I'm a grouch, a scrooge, a Negative Nancy. (I also answer to "Sally Sensitive", but that is a different conversation for a different time.)
This is not to say that I'm horribly negative, really it isn't. I'm actually quite fun to be around, especially if there is wine or chocolate. And there are times when I get tired of listening to myself complain and make a real effort to join the "sunny side up" people.
The problem with those shiny-happy bastards is the subtle, yet quite tangible, insistence that they are better people than those of us with a slightly darker temperament. There is a smugness associated with optimism. We are encouraged to stay positive, look on the bright side, see the good in everything. The implication is that a positive outlook is right and good, while the sourpuss perception is lazy and undisciplined. It's easy to see the bad stuff, they say. The hard part is to look beyond it and see the good in everything. And then they bask in their own goodness of scoring higher on some imagined scale, and pat themselves on the back for being such a great person.
The Negative Nancies will say that we are just being realistic, which isn't exactly accurate either. Realistically, good things happen just as frequently as annoying things. The problem, as always, is perception. It is what we focus on that defines our world view. Both positive and negative perceptions of the world are most likely distortions.
So, say the naturally optimistic, start focusing on the positive. I sarcastically (and figuratively) smack myself on the forehead and shout "Duh! Why didn't I think of that before?" and then kick one of those optimists in the shin.
Now, I realize that having a genetic disposition for being a grouch is no excuse for mental laziness. I realize that Ireallyshouldtrytolookonthebrightsideandseethesunnysideoflife and blah blah blah. Whatever. It is also important to recognize and accept oneself for how they truly are. I am not going to allow optimists to convince me that I am a bad person, and that they are better off for having a sunny disposition.
I say it again: Like Popeye, I yam what I yam. I'm a grouch, and I'm ok with that.
I will readily admit that I'm a "glass half empty" person. Optimism is just not my strong suit, my style, or my default posture. I'm a grouch, a scrooge, a Negative Nancy. (I also answer to "Sally Sensitive", but that is a different conversation for a different time.)
This is not to say that I'm horribly negative, really it isn't. I'm actually quite fun to be around, especially if there is wine or chocolate. And there are times when I get tired of listening to myself complain and make a real effort to join the "sunny side up" people.
The problem with those shiny-happy bastards is the subtle, yet quite tangible, insistence that they are better people than those of us with a slightly darker temperament. There is a smugness associated with optimism. We are encouraged to stay positive, look on the bright side, see the good in everything. The implication is that a positive outlook is right and good, while the sourpuss perception is lazy and undisciplined. It's easy to see the bad stuff, they say. The hard part is to look beyond it and see the good in everything. And then they bask in their own goodness of scoring higher on some imagined scale, and pat themselves on the back for being such a great person.
The Negative Nancies will say that we are just being realistic, which isn't exactly accurate either. Realistically, good things happen just as frequently as annoying things. The problem, as always, is perception. It is what we focus on that defines our world view. Both positive and negative perceptions of the world are most likely distortions.
So, say the naturally optimistic, start focusing on the positive. I sarcastically (and figuratively) smack myself on the forehead and shout "Duh! Why didn't I think of that before?" and then kick one of those optimists in the shin.
Now, I realize that having a genetic disposition for being a grouch is no excuse for mental laziness. I realize that Ireallyshouldtrytolookonthebrightsideandseethesunnysideoflife and blah blah blah. Whatever. It is also important to recognize and accept oneself for how they truly are. I am not going to allow optimists to convince me that I am a bad person, and that they are better off for having a sunny disposition.
I say it again: Like Popeye, I yam what I yam. I'm a grouch, and I'm ok with that.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Strange Things are Afoot
In addition to the general oddities that come with this whole person-cooking process, some really strange behaviors are starting to break through my previous rational and logical schedule.
When my skin feels itchy and dry, I water the plants. Because if I'm dry, the plants must be too? (Last pregnancy, I repotted all my plants because they looked 'confined' in their pots.) I am unbearably warm all the time, so my darling child is prancing about in a tee shirt and shorts. My poor fish have been issued a warning - it is their responsibility to stay alive with minimal assistance from me. Apparently my mothering instinct doesn't apply to fish....
But the weirdest thing that is happening this week is the continuous presence of earworms. EW! No, not actual worms. Earworms are songs that get stuck in your head and repeat until your subconscious is somehow distracted by something more important. (Oh, look! Something shiny!)
I've been listening to the same CD for four months, because the CD player in the basement is frightfully old and will only play Chris Isaak and Pink Floyd. Until this week, none of the Chris Isaak songs have stuck with me past breakfast. Now I run through the entire CD at least once a day. Not just one song over and over, but one song and then the next one, and the next one...
And they don't go away. I am now permanently haunted by songs in my head, whether it be Chris Isaak, Barney or a stupid commercial jingle. (Five dollar foot looooong, anyone?)
Sometimes, this new form of torment produces some funny results. I was singing along with the song in my head, which happened to be the Sarah Palin rap from SNL. (By the way, props to Amy Poehler for going on with the show at the very end of the third trimester!) I happened to be in the same room with Darling Child at the time, and said "All the mavericks in the house, put your hands up!"
Baby Girl put down her crayon, put her hands in the air and said "What what!" and then went back to coloring.
I've never laughed so hard in my life.
When my skin feels itchy and dry, I water the plants. Because if I'm dry, the plants must be too? (Last pregnancy, I repotted all my plants because they looked 'confined' in their pots.) I am unbearably warm all the time, so my darling child is prancing about in a tee shirt and shorts. My poor fish have been issued a warning - it is their responsibility to stay alive with minimal assistance from me. Apparently my mothering instinct doesn't apply to fish....
But the weirdest thing that is happening this week is the continuous presence of earworms. EW! No, not actual worms. Earworms are songs that get stuck in your head and repeat until your subconscious is somehow distracted by something more important. (Oh, look! Something shiny!)
I've been listening to the same CD for four months, because the CD player in the basement is frightfully old and will only play Chris Isaak and Pink Floyd. Until this week, none of the Chris Isaak songs have stuck with me past breakfast. Now I run through the entire CD at least once a day. Not just one song over and over, but one song and then the next one, and the next one...
And they don't go away. I am now permanently haunted by songs in my head, whether it be Chris Isaak, Barney or a stupid commercial jingle. (Five dollar foot looooong, anyone?)
Sometimes, this new form of torment produces some funny results. I was singing along with the song in my head, which happened to be the Sarah Palin rap from SNL. (By the way, props to Amy Poehler for going on with the show at the very end of the third trimester!) I happened to be in the same room with Darling Child at the time, and said "All the mavericks in the house, put your hands up!"
Baby Girl put down her crayon, put her hands in the air and said "What what!" and then went back to coloring.
I've never laughed so hard in my life.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Holiday Ideas
Husby and I were discussing possible gift ideas for the Darling Child, who has recently shown an increase in imagination (see previous post). He had observed how much she had enjoyed playing with the Fischer Price playhouse at her Nana/Papa's house, and suggested we look into something along those lines.
"Lets get her a kitchen playset!" he enthused, delighted with his new idea.
"Honey," I reasoned, "who is going to show her how to use it?" He got quiet for a minute, pondering the reality of such a troublesome glitch.
"When is your sister coming into town?" he asked.
"February, probably."
"Oh. Good. One of these girls is going to have to learn how to cook. Seriously - where are we going to go for Thanksgiving in twenty years?"
Oooh, another sticky wicket. We fell silent for a moment, again pondering the bleak future of a Microwave Thanksgiving. Then inspiration struck...
"We'll go to my sister's house! She can totally cook Thanksgiving."
And so our holiday plans for 2028 are set, we are going to Aunt Lissa's house.
"Lets get her a kitchen playset!" he enthused, delighted with his new idea.
"Honey," I reasoned, "who is going to show her how to use it?" He got quiet for a minute, pondering the reality of such a troublesome glitch.
"When is your sister coming into town?" he asked.
"February, probably."
"Oh. Good. One of these girls is going to have to learn how to cook. Seriously - where are we going to go for Thanksgiving in twenty years?"
Oooh, another sticky wicket. We fell silent for a moment, again pondering the bleak future of a Microwave Thanksgiving. Then inspiration struck...
"We'll go to my sister's house! She can totally cook Thanksgiving."
And so our holiday plans for 2028 are set, we are going to Aunt Lissa's house.
My OTHER Daddy
I was at the doctor's office with Darling Daughter (whose gastro-intestinial escapades will not be recorded for posterity). I had already gotten the stink-eye from some of the staff, who thought I qualified for "Crappy Mom of the Year" because I hadn't brought her in at the first sign of trouble. Knowing full well that I would have gotten nominated for "Over protective, get-her-off-the-internet Mom of the Year" if I had brought her in earlier, I mentally flipped them all the bird and carried on my merry way.
Until...
Darling Daughter, dressed in butterfly wings and paisley pants, sat patiently through most of the exam. After tolerating my meaningless conversation with the doctor about her health and well being, she chirped "Momma, I want to go see my other daddy."
Uh....what? I couldn't help myself. I looked at her and asked "Who?" She repeated, several times, that she wanted to see the OTHER daddy today. The doctor had politely averted his eyes at this point, to avoid embarrassing me if my 2.5 year old was really ratting me out for some illicit affair.
Apparently frustrated that I wasn't getting the message, Darling Child escalates her request. "Momma, I want to see my other daddy, you know, the Black Daddy." I swear I heard the doctor laughing at me as he added "adulterer, most likely with multiple partners" to my list of mom-crimes.
I decided that the worst thing I could do was attend to this random request, thereby validating her warped little reality. So I ignored her, and tried to continue my conversation about her diet with the doctor.
The doctor, whom I now suspect is horrified by my affairs with so many different people as to have to identify them according to their race, issued some perscriptions with a bit of a chuckle. As far as I know, the suspicious staff has not yet notified the authorities. I'm hoping I didn't make the list on the doctor's nightly recap to his family..."You'll never believe what this toddler said to her Mom today..."
Husby, to his credit, laughed at the idea that I have multiple Baby Daddies to manage. He merely inquired if the Black Daddy was rich, or could cook...
Until...
Darling Daughter, dressed in butterfly wings and paisley pants, sat patiently through most of the exam. After tolerating my meaningless conversation with the doctor about her health and well being, she chirped "Momma, I want to go see my other daddy."
Uh....what? I couldn't help myself. I looked at her and asked "Who?" She repeated, several times, that she wanted to see the OTHER daddy today. The doctor had politely averted his eyes at this point, to avoid embarrassing me if my 2.5 year old was really ratting me out for some illicit affair.
Apparently frustrated that I wasn't getting the message, Darling Child escalates her request. "Momma, I want to see my other daddy, you know, the Black Daddy." I swear I heard the doctor laughing at me as he added "adulterer, most likely with multiple partners" to my list of mom-crimes.
I decided that the worst thing I could do was attend to this random request, thereby validating her warped little reality. So I ignored her, and tried to continue my conversation about her diet with the doctor.
The doctor, whom I now suspect is horrified by my affairs with so many different people as to have to identify them according to their race, issued some perscriptions with a bit of a chuckle. As far as I know, the suspicious staff has not yet notified the authorities. I'm hoping I didn't make the list on the doctor's nightly recap to his family..."You'll never believe what this toddler said to her Mom today..."
Husby, to his credit, laughed at the idea that I have multiple Baby Daddies to manage. He merely inquired if the Black Daddy was rich, or could cook...
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Funny things Husby Said
"Oh, honey, don't worry. You don't make it look easy at all."
-In response to my assertion that people think I've got it made because from the outside, everything I do looks effortless.
"Oh yeah? What kind of car do you drive?"
-In response to my assertion that I'm not stubborn or defiant and that Darling Child probably got those traits from him.
"Well, you need to take a class in 'Nice'."
-In response to my assertion that he needs to take a class in how-to-set-an-alarm.
"We need to think about maybe painting the baby's room."
-Oblivious to the fact that I've shown him the can of paint I bought to paint the baby's room.
"What are you going to do, get a tattoo and dye your hair?"
-In response to my assertion that being 45 years old will be more liberating than 30.
-In response to my assertion that people think I've got it made because from the outside, everything I do looks effortless.
"Oh yeah? What kind of car do you drive?"
-In response to my assertion that I'm not stubborn or defiant and that Darling Child probably got those traits from him.
"Well, you need to take a class in 'Nice'."
-In response to my assertion that he needs to take a class in how-to-set-an-alarm.
"We need to think about maybe painting the baby's room."
-Oblivious to the fact that I've shown him the can of paint I bought to paint the baby's room.
"What are you going to do, get a tattoo and dye your hair?"
-In response to my assertion that being 45 years old will be more liberating than 30.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Cooking A Person
Last night Husby made some crack about how he has to do everything around the house...so I was obligated to remind him of all the things that I have to do.
My tirade, said occasionally in earnest but this time in jest, finally wound to it's inevitable conclusion. "And," I barked, "I already cooked you one person, and then you asked for another person, and I'm cooking that one too!"
The mood changed, and Husby got very serious. He said "You cooked my favorite person. You're really good at cooking people, and I can't wait to meet the new person."
:)
My tirade, said occasionally in earnest but this time in jest, finally wound to it's inevitable conclusion. "And," I barked, "I already cooked you one person, and then you asked for another person, and I'm cooking that one too!"
The mood changed, and Husby got very serious. He said "You cooked my favorite person. You're really good at cooking people, and I can't wait to meet the new person."
:)
Overruled
Overruled!
I suggested Taco Bell for lunch. I believe I got something akin to an eye roll from my unborn child, but she seemed willing to go along with the plan. I told one of the other therapists that I was going to go get some lunch, and I wasn't going to eat salad one more time this week. As soon as I mentioned the "s" word, it suddenly sounded like the most delicious thing I could possibly eat.
Now, I'm not a total carnivore, I do eat salad on occasion. But this week, I've had three. THREE. And instead of using that guilty "you'll feel better and your pants won't squeeze you so much" logic, I actually wanted to eat each them. Each salad has been a feast, almost like a brownie sundae.
Now, seriously. What kind of baby craves salad? Is this someone I really want to have in the house? Can't you just hear it..."Mom, we're out of fresh vegetables AGAIN. When are you going to the store?" or "Mom, there is too much junk food in this house. Why can't we ever eat the good stuff?"
I've already got one kid that prefers salty foods to sweet, and really doesn't care for chocolate. Am I going to be totally outnumbered by these freakish children?
(I also want pineapple and lemonade. What the hell is going on here?)
I suggested Taco Bell for lunch. I believe I got something akin to an eye roll from my unborn child, but she seemed willing to go along with the plan. I told one of the other therapists that I was going to go get some lunch, and I wasn't going to eat salad one more time this week. As soon as I mentioned the "s" word, it suddenly sounded like the most delicious thing I could possibly eat.
Now, I'm not a total carnivore, I do eat salad on occasion. But this week, I've had three. THREE. And instead of using that guilty "you'll feel better and your pants won't squeeze you so much" logic, I actually wanted to eat each them. Each salad has been a feast, almost like a brownie sundae.
Now, seriously. What kind of baby craves salad? Is this someone I really want to have in the house? Can't you just hear it..."Mom, we're out of fresh vegetables AGAIN. When are you going to the store?" or "Mom, there is too much junk food in this house. Why can't we ever eat the good stuff?"
I've already got one kid that prefers salty foods to sweet, and really doesn't care for chocolate. Am I going to be totally outnumbered by these freakish children?
(I also want pineapple and lemonade. What the hell is going on here?)
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Way I See It
Upon arriving home from work yesterday, I flung open the door to the bedroom to allow for maximum air circulation. It was ghastly hot that day, and we could have used the cross breeze, but we have to keep our door closed to keep our renegade dog off of our bed.
In addition to the ghastly heat, there was a distinct odor in the room. I soon discovered the offending source of the odor, and resolved to temporarily suspend my vow to not nag Husby. Just this one time, right?
Husby, whom we all know and love, is an avid sailor. And avid sailors have extra bags for their sailing accoutrement, like spare shorts, socks, shoes, sun screen and Labatt's Light. After a full day of sailing on Sunday, this extra bag smelled EXTRA bad. I've previously admonished him in my gentle, dulcet tones to get that stink bag off my bed before I throw it out. The bag wasn't on my bed this time, but was offensive enough just sitting in the corner.
I lovingly gestured to his corner of the room which is stacked up knee high with assorted piles of clothes and said "Whatever is in that pile that stinks, move it." He sniffed the air and reluctantly agreed that something in that general area didn't smell great.
Now, if it had been my pile of stuff that stunk, and this fact had been brought to my attention, I would have acted promptly and removed the offending odor causing item. Right? (I do have a pile o' crap of my own, you see. I am not a germ-a-phobe or a neat-nik. It is just that my piles of junk are much, much smaller. And considerably less stinky.)
On the other hand, an offhand comment from him along the lines of "these rooms look un-finished. Should we finish them?" has resulted in a flurry of activity. In two months, we have new blinds, window treatments in three rooms, paint colors picked and plants perched cheerfully on tables. I have new pictures hung all around and a new light fixture coming in the mail.
My question is this: How is it that one comment from Mr. Male Privilege results in all sorts of productivity, while a simple request from Ms. Amazing Wife gets a nose wrinkle and a nap?
(this is the same dog who allegedly has such bad hips that he can't climb the stairs, but is quite capable of getting on and off my bed at a moments notice. More to follow on that subject, you can be sure.)
In addition to the ghastly heat, there was a distinct odor in the room. I soon discovered the offending source of the odor, and resolved to temporarily suspend my vow to not nag Husby. Just this one time, right?
Husby, whom we all know and love, is an avid sailor. And avid sailors have extra bags for their sailing accoutrement, like spare shorts, socks, shoes, sun screen and Labatt's Light. After a full day of sailing on Sunday, this extra bag smelled EXTRA bad. I've previously admonished him in my gentle, dulcet tones to get that stink bag off my bed before I throw it out. The bag wasn't on my bed this time, but was offensive enough just sitting in the corner.
I lovingly gestured to his corner of the room which is stacked up knee high with assorted piles of clothes and said "Whatever is in that pile that stinks, move it." He sniffed the air and reluctantly agreed that something in that general area didn't smell great.
Now, if it had been my pile of stuff that stunk, and this fact had been brought to my attention, I would have acted promptly and removed the offending odor causing item. Right? (I do have a pile o' crap of my own, you see. I am not a germ-a-phobe or a neat-nik. It is just that my piles of junk are much, much smaller. And considerably less stinky.)
You don't need me to finish the story but I'm going to anyway - of course, the offending bag is still in the corner of the room, happily stinking up the joint. I might as well have let the dog into the room.
On the other hand, an offhand comment from him along the lines of "these rooms look un-finished. Should we finish them?" has resulted in a flurry of activity. In two months, we have new blinds, window treatments in three rooms, paint colors picked and plants perched cheerfully on tables. I have new pictures hung all around and a new light fixture coming in the mail.
My question is this: How is it that one comment from Mr. Male Privilege results in all sorts of productivity, while a simple request from Ms. Amazing Wife gets a nose wrinkle and a nap?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Hard Work
My birthday was this Friday, and one of my oldest and dearest friends treated me to a spa facial. (To clarify: by "oldest friend" I mean that we have been friends for over 20 years, not that she is chronologically old.)
The amazing woman that did the facial asked me about my skin care routine, and I described the years of potions and harsh chemicals and gnarly exfoliating scrubs. Very kindly, she offered a bit of insight. Perhaps I was trying too hard? She had a few suggestions, all gently pointing to the fact that working too hard can actually worsen the problem instead of solving it.
Perhaps this principle can be expanded upon. Things are a bit out-of-kilter these days - a new baby, graduation, huge elevation in social status following meteoric rise to the top of the academic heap. (Alright, I made up that last bit.) Throw in a dash of political uncertainty, a big scoop of stock market crash, and shake until well blended. Congratulations - we now have a tall glass of "What the hell do I do now?"
(those who aren't pregnant can mix in a preferred alcoholic beverage to take the edge off.)
My first instinct is to relieve this discord by problem solving. By working harder, planning more, getting a new calendar or a bankers box or something tidy, the future might become clear. I've even gotten out my feng shui books to see if perhaps we should move our bed to the southwest corner of the room. (Husby loves this crap, he really does. Isn't he lucky to be married to me?)
Perhaps there is another way to approach the situation. Perhaps more of the hard work, the same tools and skills that have gotten me this far, would actually be detrimental in this situation. I'm wondering if there is a different solution, a different strategy, to achieving peace in the face of turmoil. Perhaps struggling harder against turmoil to get to peace is actually counter productive.
If that is the case, how do we achieve "not struggling"? I'm guessing it isn't as easy as switching to a new face wash, but perhaps it is even more important than refined skin tone.
Of course, what the hell do I know about any of it? It is 12:30 and I don't have the sense God gave to a goat, or I would have gone to bed an hour ago.
The amazing woman that did the facial asked me about my skin care routine, and I described the years of potions and harsh chemicals and gnarly exfoliating scrubs. Very kindly, she offered a bit of insight. Perhaps I was trying too hard? She had a few suggestions, all gently pointing to the fact that working too hard can actually worsen the problem instead of solving it.
Perhaps this principle can be expanded upon. Things are a bit out-of-kilter these days - a new baby, graduation, huge elevation in social status following meteoric rise to the top of the academic heap. (Alright, I made up that last bit.) Throw in a dash of political uncertainty, a big scoop of stock market crash, and shake until well blended. Congratulations - we now have a tall glass of "What the hell do I do now?"
(those who aren't pregnant can mix in a preferred alcoholic beverage to take the edge off.)
My first instinct is to relieve this discord by problem solving. By working harder, planning more, getting a new calendar or a bankers box or something tidy, the future might become clear. I've even gotten out my feng shui books to see if perhaps we should move our bed to the southwest corner of the room. (Husby loves this crap, he really does. Isn't he lucky to be married to me?)
Perhaps there is another way to approach the situation. Perhaps more of the hard work, the same tools and skills that have gotten me this far, would actually be detrimental in this situation. I'm wondering if there is a different solution, a different strategy, to achieving peace in the face of turmoil. Perhaps struggling harder against turmoil to get to peace is actually counter productive.
If that is the case, how do we achieve "not struggling"? I'm guessing it isn't as easy as switching to a new face wash, but perhaps it is even more important than refined skin tone.
Of course, what the hell do I know about any of it? It is 12:30 and I don't have the sense God gave to a goat, or I would have gone to bed an hour ago.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Pizza Guy
I have a thing about bankers boxes. They are tidy, organized, surprisingly sturdy, and oh so conveniently stackable. Aaah, organization....
Anyway, I was folding up the lids for my newest bankers boxes, and my darling daughter wandered by to see what I was doing. She picked up one of the lids and yelled "Pizza Box! Pizza Guy!". They do look remarkably like pizza boxes, but still...
(She has also embarrassed the crap out of her loving parents by exclaming "Pizza Car!" when a delivery car drives by with one of those angular signs on the roof.)
I made some "pizza" out of wooden blocks, put it on the lid, and she happily pretended to take it to her Daddy who apparently sometimes sits in the corner of the basement and needs pizza and milk.
Just an example for those of you that don't believe me when I say I don't cook.
Anyway, I was folding up the lids for my newest bankers boxes, and my darling daughter wandered by to see what I was doing. She picked up one of the lids and yelled "Pizza Box! Pizza Guy!". They do look remarkably like pizza boxes, but still...
(She has also embarrassed the crap out of her loving parents by exclaming "Pizza Car!" when a delivery car drives by with one of those angular signs on the roof.)
I made some "pizza" out of wooden blocks, put it on the lid, and she happily pretended to take it to her Daddy who apparently sometimes sits in the corner of the basement and needs pizza and milk.
Just an example for those of you that don't believe me when I say I don't cook.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Heartburn
I have heartburn more often than not, which is supposedly pretty common for a woman growing another person. In fact, I think Baby Blarney is going to be born with dreadlocks, as heartburn is supposed to indicate hair growth. Of course, this comes from the same information sources that claim parenthood will bring this glowing sense of contentment and fulfillment. Riiight.
This weekend I was decidedly uncomfortable and decided that there was a chance that I was having pre-term labor. I brought the list of symptoms up to Husby, who patiently went through each line item.
1. Pressure? Check.
2. Discomfort? Double check.
3. Increased back pain? Well, now that you mention it, yeah...
4. Grouchy? How did you know??
5. Vague sense that something is wrong? Wow, now you're reading my mind!
I've mentioned that Husby is a smart man, and this time he said "Honey, you ALWAYS have a vague sense that something is wrong." Ooooh. Yeah, you're right. I do.
Examples:
-Even though the political polls (and, lets be honest, all of popular media) are hopeful and encouraging that Obama is going to win, I am still queasy at the thought of another McIdiot as president.
-Even though I have no proof that the coffee pot is a renegade that will turn on us and burn down the house if I don't check on it, I'm still suspicious and watchful. Ditto the dishwasher, clothes dryer, any plug in air fresheners, and random arsonists. Don't EVEN get me started on the curling iron, which I rarely use due to my total lack of trust that it will turn off even if unplugged and put into the sink.
-Even though I've only been rear ended once in my life, I still frown and shake my finger at all drivers that come up behind me too fast.
-(this is the funny one) I worried, when completing my paperwork to turn in for my final graduation authorization, that the words were going to fall off the page with the required signatures on it, and that I would have to wait until December to apply for a professional counselor license.
So, my persistent heartburn could be related to my newest child having a mohawk, or it could be due to my subconscious belief that something really bad is about to happen. Either way, I'm hoping I remembered to check on the coffee pot one last time before leaving the house this morning.
This weekend I was decidedly uncomfortable and decided that there was a chance that I was having pre-term labor. I brought the list of symptoms up to Husby, who patiently went through each line item.
1. Pressure? Check.
2. Discomfort? Double check.
3. Increased back pain? Well, now that you mention it, yeah...
4. Grouchy? How did you know??
5. Vague sense that something is wrong? Wow, now you're reading my mind!
I've mentioned that Husby is a smart man, and this time he said "Honey, you ALWAYS have a vague sense that something is wrong." Ooooh. Yeah, you're right. I do.
Examples:
-Even though the political polls (and, lets be honest, all of popular media) are hopeful and encouraging that Obama is going to win, I am still queasy at the thought of another McIdiot as president.
-Even though I have no proof that the coffee pot is a renegade that will turn on us and burn down the house if I don't check on it, I'm still suspicious and watchful. Ditto the dishwasher, clothes dryer, any plug in air fresheners, and random arsonists. Don't EVEN get me started on the curling iron, which I rarely use due to my total lack of trust that it will turn off even if unplugged and put into the sink.
-Even though I've only been rear ended once in my life, I still frown and shake my finger at all drivers that come up behind me too fast.
-(this is the funny one) I worried, when completing my paperwork to turn in for my final graduation authorization, that the words were going to fall off the page with the required signatures on it, and that I would have to wait until December to apply for a professional counselor license.
So, my persistent heartburn could be related to my newest child having a mohawk, or it could be due to my subconscious belief that something really bad is about to happen. Either way, I'm hoping I remembered to check on the coffee pot one last time before leaving the house this morning.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Rocky Mountain High
There are a few John Denver songs on my MP3 player, and they sometimes sneak up on me. I only keep a few on hand, not because (as some falsely believe) it is cheesy or irrelevant music, but because it strikes a distinct and occassionally painful chord in me.
I am suddenly struck with an overwhelming sorrow for Colorado. I can smell the trees, the fall air. I can see the blue sky and the bear that jumped on our dumpster until the lid caved in so it could have a snack.
Mancos is a little town, halfway between Durango and Cortez. There is a gas station and not much else, despite a cheerful little sign hopefully boasting "Business District" with an arrow pointing off to the left. Drive straight on 160 past Mancos and go through Cortez, turn right three times and go back through Mancos, Hesperus, D-West, and eventually back to Durango.
The whole loop takes about two hours. Be sure to pack at least one regular coke and a water, a carefully selected assortment of mix tapes, and some cigarettes. The existential angst is the fuel that pushes us over the mountains, and it was packed in the car long before anything else.
There are sheep, cows, the Sleeping Ute in the distance. There is a small ski area, one of the loneliest National Parks in the country, and a place to rent VHS tapes. There is self discovery and experience. There is something there that sets it above most places in the country.
I have no idea what to call it. I just know that I miss it, and want to go back there with a desire that is occasionally so fierce that it hurts. Right now is one of those times, when the opening bars of a John Denver song brings tears to my eyes and I can almost smell the mountains.
I am suddenly struck with an overwhelming sorrow for Colorado. I can smell the trees, the fall air. I can see the blue sky and the bear that jumped on our dumpster until the lid caved in so it could have a snack.
Mancos is a little town, halfway between Durango and Cortez. There is a gas station and not much else, despite a cheerful little sign hopefully boasting "Business District" with an arrow pointing off to the left. Drive straight on 160 past Mancos and go through Cortez, turn right three times and go back through Mancos, Hesperus, D-West, and eventually back to Durango.
The whole loop takes about two hours. Be sure to pack at least one regular coke and a water, a carefully selected assortment of mix tapes, and some cigarettes. The existential angst is the fuel that pushes us over the mountains, and it was packed in the car long before anything else.
There are sheep, cows, the Sleeping Ute in the distance. There is a small ski area, one of the loneliest National Parks in the country, and a place to rent VHS tapes. There is self discovery and experience. There is something there that sets it above most places in the country.
I have no idea what to call it. I just know that I miss it, and want to go back there with a desire that is occasionally so fierce that it hurts. Right now is one of those times, when the opening bars of a John Denver song brings tears to my eyes and I can almost smell the mountains.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Silly Mommy
Do you ever have those moments where you realize what a bad idea it was to talk just after you opened your mouth? Good insight, but bad timing?
This morning, I was writing a note to my Mom on the back of an envelope on the kitchen counter. My darling child, ever present and watchful, saw my pen and said "Momma, I have that? I need that. I NEED that, Momma."
Genius that I am, I said back to her "Then why don't you get your step stool and climb up here and get it?" Her eyes got really big. She said "Thep thool?" Oh, crap. Was it too late? I said "No, never mind." She said "Thep Thool!" and took off at a gallop.
Back into the kitchen she comes with the stool in hand. I watch, shaking my head at my own stupidity, as she hops up and reaches the pen on the counter. I watched as she reached past the sharp knives, the half empty cups of water and a pile of bills. She was able to reach all the way to the back of the counter, isn't that something?
Yeah, it is something. Something that just made my life exponentially more difficult. Not only did I just erase any hope I had of keeping anything of value on my kitchen counter, but do we really think it would stop there? I increased her reach, universally, by twelve inches straight up.
Silly, silly mommy. I'm going to spend the whole weekend moving everything in my house two feet higher, and have no one to blame but myself.
This morning, I was writing a note to my Mom on the back of an envelope on the kitchen counter. My darling child, ever present and watchful, saw my pen and said "Momma, I have that? I need that. I NEED that, Momma."
Genius that I am, I said back to her "Then why don't you get your step stool and climb up here and get it?" Her eyes got really big. She said "Thep thool?" Oh, crap. Was it too late? I said "No, never mind." She said "Thep Thool!" and took off at a gallop.
Back into the kitchen she comes with the stool in hand. I watch, shaking my head at my own stupidity, as she hops up and reaches the pen on the counter. I watched as she reached past the sharp knives, the half empty cups of water and a pile of bills. She was able to reach all the way to the back of the counter, isn't that something?
Yeah, it is something. Something that just made my life exponentially more difficult. Not only did I just erase any hope I had of keeping anything of value on my kitchen counter, but do we really think it would stop there? I increased her reach, universally, by twelve inches straight up.
Silly, silly mommy. I'm going to spend the whole weekend moving everything in my house two feet higher, and have no one to blame but myself.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Not that one, this one.
For what seemed to be the thousandth time that hour, my dear child told me "Not that one, mommy, this one!" when I did something in her service. Not that cup, this one. Not that shirt, not those pants, not those shoes, not that fork, cup, spoon, plate, juice, stroller, phone, book, pyjamas, step stool, toothbrush, socks or toy, but THIS ONE. No, no NO, Mommy! No!
I finally handed her the cup and told her that I'm the boss, and she has to do what I say. She said "No, Mommy, I'm the boss." I stared down at her from what I hope to be an intimidating height and said "I'm the boss, and I will be the boss until you are the Mommy and then you'll be the boss." She said "No, Mommy."
So I stepped up my game. I told her that once she was the Mommy, she would learn the cruel irony of what "being the boss" really means. She cocked her head at me in that baby bird way that she has, and I continued to explain the concepts of sacrifice, perseverance and delayed gratification. (It keeps me going to think about her being a cool 25 year old that finally realizes how amazing I really am.)
Who is the boss, really? Did I want to go to Babies R Us today and make a complete fool out of myself while praising her to the sky for picking out a potty seat? Not really. I would much rather be at the Blarney Stone, drinking beer and smoking. And that, as any parent will tell you, is the most basic of examples.
I do things All The Time that I'd really prefer not to. At the swimming pool, I'd love to be one of those perky breasted young women or even one of those paunchy older men that can sit in cheerful isolation with a book and a glass of water. No, I'm waist deep in the water, staring off into space while darling child splashes around and shouts "Look at ME! LOOK at ME, Mommy!" Arg.
Of course I love her, of course I would lie down in traffic, chop off my arm, give every last dime for her. But I didn't do my homework - I didn't realize that it would be like this, a constant exhortation to Use Your Inside Voice, Say Please, and Because I Said So.
I told husby the other day that I couldn't wait until I was fifty and could have my life back. I admitted that I would most likely be old, crusty and grouchy at that point in my life and would not know what I wanted to do with myself. He said fifty wasn't old, and didn't argue about my disposition. (He's not just pretty, folks, he's smart too.)
Needless to say, darling child did not give a crap about my explanation about the finer points of irony. She hollered at me through dinner, told me it was my birthday and I should eat a hot dog and that she was very dirty and needed a bath. Bath time brought more hollers - not this crayon, that one, this one is wet I need a new one, I'm NOT done yet and it ISN'T time to get out!
sigh. I'm sure there is a message in here about looking back on this and laughing. There is always the insidious, grim reminder that I'm going to MISS this when it is gone. Then there is the "wait until she is a teenager, then you'll know what real pain is" message that is so utterly infuriating. I'll get to all that in a minute, right after I clean up the dishes and make the coffee.
Right now I'm just accepting that having a toddler is a pain in the ass.
I finally handed her the cup and told her that I'm the boss, and she has to do what I say. She said "No, Mommy, I'm the boss." I stared down at her from what I hope to be an intimidating height and said "I'm the boss, and I will be the boss until you are the Mommy and then you'll be the boss." She said "No, Mommy."
So I stepped up my game. I told her that once she was the Mommy, she would learn the cruel irony of what "being the boss" really means. She cocked her head at me in that baby bird way that she has, and I continued to explain the concepts of sacrifice, perseverance and delayed gratification. (It keeps me going to think about her being a cool 25 year old that finally realizes how amazing I really am.)
Who is the boss, really? Did I want to go to Babies R Us today and make a complete fool out of myself while praising her to the sky for picking out a potty seat? Not really. I would much rather be at the Blarney Stone, drinking beer and smoking. And that, as any parent will tell you, is the most basic of examples.
I do things All The Time that I'd really prefer not to. At the swimming pool, I'd love to be one of those perky breasted young women or even one of those paunchy older men that can sit in cheerful isolation with a book and a glass of water. No, I'm waist deep in the water, staring off into space while darling child splashes around and shouts "Look at ME! LOOK at ME, Mommy!" Arg.
Of course I love her, of course I would lie down in traffic, chop off my arm, give every last dime for her. But I didn't do my homework - I didn't realize that it would be like this, a constant exhortation to Use Your Inside Voice, Say Please, and Because I Said So.
I told husby the other day that I couldn't wait until I was fifty and could have my life back. I admitted that I would most likely be old, crusty and grouchy at that point in my life and would not know what I wanted to do with myself. He said fifty wasn't old, and didn't argue about my disposition. (He's not just pretty, folks, he's smart too.)
Needless to say, darling child did not give a crap about my explanation about the finer points of irony. She hollered at me through dinner, told me it was my birthday and I should eat a hot dog and that she was very dirty and needed a bath. Bath time brought more hollers - not this crayon, that one, this one is wet I need a new one, I'm NOT done yet and it ISN'T time to get out!
sigh. I'm sure there is a message in here about looking back on this and laughing. There is always the insidious, grim reminder that I'm going to MISS this when it is gone. Then there is the "wait until she is a teenager, then you'll know what real pain is" message that is so utterly infuriating. I'll get to all that in a minute, right after I clean up the dishes and make the coffee.
Right now I'm just accepting that having a toddler is a pain in the ass.
Monday, September 29, 2008
An Annoyance
I have been accused in the past of being a bit of a ...nerd... when it comes to grammar. The term "Up North", ubiquitous in Michigan, refers to any place north of Detroit. (which, technically, qualifies my parent's house as our cottage up north...ha.) For years, I railed against the use of the phrase because "Up" suggests an increase in elevation, not direction.
Recently, a phrase has caught my ear that bothers me even more than Up North. No, not "irregardless" or even "supposably", but something more sinister because it is quietly offensive. It annoys on a subconsious level, and actually took quite some time to get under my skin. But now that I'm aware of how it sounds, my ears hurt a little bit every time I hear it.
The phrase is "my degree". As in, "I'm going to graduate school to get my masters degree" or "I went to college and got my bachelors" or "I completed clown college and got my certification". ARG. My degree? Are there degrees laying about, and we just have to go pick ours up? Are we predestined to get a degree, and are simply fulfilling our destiny by slogging our way through college?
I'm going to the grocery store to get my oranges. I'm going to Dairy Queen to get my blizzard. I'm just going to run out real quick and get my earplugs so I don't have to listen to this crap anymore, ok?
Using the word "my" to describe a degree suggests ownership. My dry cleaning, my dog, my car, my ugly shoes. Do we own a degree? Or perhaps it is something different because it isn't a physical object.
I realize that there is still that pesky issue of world hunger and rampant illiteracy in the rural populations in India and I should probably stop wasting my time getting annoyed by silly turns of phrase. But, like Popeye always says, I yam what I yam.
And right now I'm easily annoyed.
Recently, a phrase has caught my ear that bothers me even more than Up North. No, not "irregardless" or even "supposably", but something more sinister because it is quietly offensive. It annoys on a subconsious level, and actually took quite some time to get under my skin. But now that I'm aware of how it sounds, my ears hurt a little bit every time I hear it.
The phrase is "my degree". As in, "I'm going to graduate school to get my masters degree" or "I went to college and got my bachelors" or "I completed clown college and got my certification". ARG. My degree? Are there degrees laying about, and we just have to go pick ours up? Are we predestined to get a degree, and are simply fulfilling our destiny by slogging our way through college?
I'm going to the grocery store to get my oranges. I'm going to Dairy Queen to get my blizzard. I'm just going to run out real quick and get my earplugs so I don't have to listen to this crap anymore, ok?
Using the word "my" to describe a degree suggests ownership. My dry cleaning, my dog, my car, my ugly shoes. Do we own a degree? Or perhaps it is something different because it isn't a physical object.
I realize that there is still that pesky issue of world hunger and rampant illiteracy in the rural populations in India and I should probably stop wasting my time getting annoyed by silly turns of phrase. But, like Popeye always says, I yam what I yam.
And right now I'm easily annoyed.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Throw out your pens!
Ah, pens. Some prefer blue ink, some black, but most of us have a cup of pens somewhere. I noticed recently that I kept pulling the same pens out the cup, assessing the appropriateness of the pen, and putting it back in the cup. I don't like pens that have barrels that are too wide, too skinny, pens that write with glops or require several circles on a scrap piece of paper to convince them to work. Every job requires the proper tool, and my cup of pens was filled with tools that didn't quite cut the mustard.
I grant you, I am picky when it comes to my pens. Perhaps you are similarly afflicted, or perhaps you have chosen other things to be neurotic about. (Fold towels in thirds? Load the dishwasher a certain way? There has to be something...) So, pens are one of my "things".
One day, in a fit of pique, I decided that I deserved to have a cup full of pens that I like. Pens I enjoy writing with. A solid collection of pens so that every cup would have tons of writing options, all fit for immediate use. What a gift to give myself!
Oh, but how wasteful! To throw away pens with metal barrels simply because I don't like the way they feel in my hand? What would it mean to throw out a pen whose only sin was the occasional ink blob on the paper? Could I be that selfish?
Hell yes, I can be that selfish. I ruthlessly tossed away piles of pens, apologizing to them if I felt like I had hurt their feelings. It was hard, it took courage, but I threw out all the pens that didn't match my favorite pen criteria.
How Liberating! What a difference, to be able to reach into a pen cup at any given time, at any given day, and pull out a pen that would be up to the challenge of the moment. How much had those little moments of frustration and irritation built up over the course of a day? Not only was it an energy zapper, but confirmation of my secret belief that the world is out to piss me off.
I went to Target and bought a few boxes of my favorite pens. (Grand total: $8.47) I put them neatly in the pen cup, where they bristled importantly with the potential of writing great things. And now, whenever I need to write a grocery list (shut up, it happens sometimes) or jot a nag note, write a check, whatever...I can rely on my pen cup to have the right type of pen.
The message: Throw out your Pens! Get pens you actually like, instead of having a drawer or cup full of pens that annoy! It may seem selfish to give yourself this kind of gift, but you too deserve a cup of pens that meet your needs. You are allowed, you are worthy, you are entitled to chose your own pens.
I grant you, I am picky when it comes to my pens. Perhaps you are similarly afflicted, or perhaps you have chosen other things to be neurotic about. (Fold towels in thirds? Load the dishwasher a certain way? There has to be something...) So, pens are one of my "things".
One day, in a fit of pique, I decided that I deserved to have a cup full of pens that I like. Pens I enjoy writing with. A solid collection of pens so that every cup would have tons of writing options, all fit for immediate use. What a gift to give myself!
Oh, but how wasteful! To throw away pens with metal barrels simply because I don't like the way they feel in my hand? What would it mean to throw out a pen whose only sin was the occasional ink blob on the paper? Could I be that selfish?
Hell yes, I can be that selfish. I ruthlessly tossed away piles of pens, apologizing to them if I felt like I had hurt their feelings. It was hard, it took courage, but I threw out all the pens that didn't match my favorite pen criteria.
How Liberating! What a difference, to be able to reach into a pen cup at any given time, at any given day, and pull out a pen that would be up to the challenge of the moment. How much had those little moments of frustration and irritation built up over the course of a day? Not only was it an energy zapper, but confirmation of my secret belief that the world is out to piss me off.
I went to Target and bought a few boxes of my favorite pens. (Grand total: $8.47) I put them neatly in the pen cup, where they bristled importantly with the potential of writing great things. And now, whenever I need to write a grocery list (shut up, it happens sometimes) or jot a nag note, write a check, whatever...I can rely on my pen cup to have the right type of pen.
The message: Throw out your Pens! Get pens you actually like, instead of having a drawer or cup full of pens that annoy! It may seem selfish to give yourself this kind of gift, but you too deserve a cup of pens that meet your needs. You are allowed, you are worthy, you are entitled to chose your own pens.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Things The Baby Did Today, June 23
To Josh:
1. Grew arms
2. Required so many Twizzlers that now Mom feels like crap
3. Ordered "The Last Unicorn" DVD and soundtrack
4. Decided against sushi for lunch after convincing Mom to buy it
5. Took a nap
To Emily:
"I must tell you! I was driving Maeve to daycare this morning when we pulled up next to another Wolfsburg. I said "Maeve! It's another Wolfsburg, like Momma's car." She said "Woof sherg?" So we covered the pronunciation a few times, and she had a pretty good grip on the two parts of the word. Then, she busts out with "Dat car FIERCE." I almost fell out of the car, laughing! She's totally right, but how did she know?"
1. Grew arms
2. Required so many Twizzlers that now Mom feels like crap
3. Ordered "The Last Unicorn" DVD and soundtrack
4. Decided against sushi for lunch after convincing Mom to buy it
5. Took a nap
To Emily:
"I must tell you! I was driving Maeve to daycare this morning when we pulled up next to another Wolfsburg. I said "Maeve! It's another Wolfsburg, like Momma's car." She said "Woof sherg?" So we covered the pronunciation a few times, and she had a pretty good grip on the two parts of the word. Then, she busts out with "Dat car FIERCE." I almost fell out of the car, laughing! She's totally right, but how did she know?"
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