Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone! Sorry this comes a little late, but the sentiment is just as strong. And, I will take this moment to admit that I am slowly but surely working my way through a big Whole Foods molasses cookie that feels like the best thing I've ever tasted. At least that's the way it feels at this moment. Even better than the big Whole Foods lemon sugar cookie I made my way through about 20 minutes ago. You wouldn't believe the amount of justification I've been creating to eat my way through Texas this week. The mantra "Oh, it's the holidays, treat yourself!" has been running through my head each time an opportunity for gluttonous food consumption has presented itself. I guess this is what it feels like to be on the long road to obesity. I really want to get off this ride, but it's just...so...darn...fun!
We spent Christmas in Corpus Christi this year in a fashion that was really alien to my normal sense of tradition. Not because we were in Corpus, but because we spent the holiday with strangers, well at least, to me. Adam has a few friends from his Navy days that live down in the area and so after speaking with them, he made plans for us to stay on the navy base and visit with the friends during our stay. I've never before celebrated Christmas with people I didn't know. Both sets of friends were warm and inviting, though, which made the strangeness and reservations of being in a new person's house on the most intimate of family days a little easier. Plus, the first family had young kids so Bryony had two playmates and lots of toys to keep her occupied.
Maybe because my husband is Jewish or perhaps because of my own desire to de-materialize the holidays and emphasize "quality time spent," we have not been very good about showering Bryony with presents in either of her two Christmas experiences. Last year, I completely forgot to shop for her at all until Christmas Eve night, when I hurriedly picked up some bath toys and car window shades just so there was somthing under the tree. Not that she was old enough to even realize the significance of it all (she still isn't) but even still, I felt bad. This year, because all of our holiday decorations are still back in Michigan, we opted not to put up a Chritmas tree. I did buy a few lights and decorations that were on clearance and strung/hung everything around the fireplace mantel, along with our menorah and dreidels, just to feel a bit more in the holiday spirit. But once again, I didn't buy anything for Bryony before the holidays. I decided to make her gift this year--one I haven't yet finished so I'll post pix when I do--instead of getting caught up the consumerism that tv commercials are trying desperately to get us caught up in.
However, after leaving Corpus Christi we stayed the last part of the weekend in Austin, where there is a Goodwill store that Adam wanted to check out. After finding one outfit for Bryony, I decided to check out the toys, and lo and behold, I found two--a push corn-grazer (think kiddie lawnmower with plastic popcorn bouncing in a glass dome on top) and a colorful little electronic keyboard with plastic animals that sing when you press certain keys (creepy but she likes it). I hated buying either of those things for her because they seem kind of nonsensical to me--is she learning anything from them???--but I decided that for Christmas, not every gift has to fulfill an educational requirement. Bryony should be allowed to just have plain old fun, right?
So that has been our Christmas, full of travels, eating and fun. Now that Christmas is over, the travels have ended, the fun has subsided and we're back to our normal routine. Now, where did I put that last cookie?
Happy Holidays, everyone!
Monday, December 27, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Validation
This past weekend, we went, as we usually do, to Austin. Since we have a free place to stay (Adam's family has property there) we try to go as often as possible as a way to leave Killeen behind. Austin is the perfect getaway--akin to my liberal sensibilities, it's a nice college town and state capitol with oodles and oodles of stuff to do. In one night, we managed to eat at a ridiculously scrumptious Cuban restaurant, get hot drinks at an open-air coffee bar (which, by the way, had a really interesting 1970 photo of a naked tatooed girl stretched seductively over a Harley Davidson on the bathroom wall), happen upon and dance to a blues band performing outside under a half-shell, and tour through a really cool antique store in the last ten minutes it was open. We heart Austin.
Anyway, lovefest aside, that night a very sleepy us let a very-sleepy-but-loopy-and-overactive Bryony sleep in bed with us instead of forcing her to sleep in her own crib. She's so cute and cuddly, what could be more warm and fuzzy than having your 18-month old daughter sleeping peacefully next to you, right? She was about as peaceful as the Roman Empire when it was conquering Europe. She squirmed, she tossed, she turned...oh, and with the aromatic temptation of breastmilk only inches away from her face, she nursed. Like, every hour. Probably on the hour. Which meant I didn't sleep much and had pretty sore nipples.
By the next morning, when Adam and Bryony woke up to the bright and crisp morning even-tempered and chipper, I hunkered down under the covers and whined about having had little sleep. So Adam got Bryony dressed and ready for the day and the two of them took off for a couple hours so I could get in some more sleep. Eventually I woke up to the sound of my favorite NPR program, This American Life, coming on with their annual Christmas episode. While listening to the show, Adam and Bryony eventually filtered in, cheeks rosy from the coolness of the morning, Bryony high on the exhiliration from her time with Dad. Adam immediately fell into a heap on the chair.
"How do you do it all day long?" he asked me. I didn't get his meaning at first.
And then, I did. And a little flag of victory was plunked down into my new-found territory of Validation!
Not that Adam doesn't offer me praise and support for being a full-time mum, especially since he knows how hard it's been for me to be away from my career (the one I went to school for, that is). But this was totally different. This was the sweet taste of understanding. Of him understanding, that is.
"She was all over the place," he went on to say. "We were at the bookstore and she pulled anything and everything off of the shelves. I couldn't keep up with her! Then we found a playground and she was just running all over the place. I could really use a nap now."
I just smiled and nodded and breathed a hushed "thank you" his way. He had spent less than than two hours with her and was completely knackered; I have spent every single day of her 18 months of life with her with barely a break or reprieve. I think he finally got it.
And I am now claiming dominion over my new territory Validation. The flag is still flying.
Anyway, lovefest aside, that night a very sleepy us let a very-sleepy-but-loopy-and-overactive Bryony sleep in bed with us instead of forcing her to sleep in her own crib. She's so cute and cuddly, what could be more warm and fuzzy than having your 18-month old daughter sleeping peacefully next to you, right? She was about as peaceful as the Roman Empire when it was conquering Europe. She squirmed, she tossed, she turned...oh, and with the aromatic temptation of breastmilk only inches away from her face, she nursed. Like, every hour. Probably on the hour. Which meant I didn't sleep much and had pretty sore nipples.
By the next morning, when Adam and Bryony woke up to the bright and crisp morning even-tempered and chipper, I hunkered down under the covers and whined about having had little sleep. So Adam got Bryony dressed and ready for the day and the two of them took off for a couple hours so I could get in some more sleep. Eventually I woke up to the sound of my favorite NPR program, This American Life, coming on with their annual Christmas episode. While listening to the show, Adam and Bryony eventually filtered in, cheeks rosy from the coolness of the morning, Bryony high on the exhiliration from her time with Dad. Adam immediately fell into a heap on the chair.
"How do you do it all day long?" he asked me. I didn't get his meaning at first.
And then, I did. And a little flag of victory was plunked down into my new-found territory of Validation!
Not that Adam doesn't offer me praise and support for being a full-time mum, especially since he knows how hard it's been for me to be away from my career (the one I went to school for, that is). But this was totally different. This was the sweet taste of understanding. Of him understanding, that is.
"She was all over the place," he went on to say. "We were at the bookstore and she pulled anything and everything off of the shelves. I couldn't keep up with her! Then we found a playground and she was just running all over the place. I could really use a nap now."
I just smiled and nodded and breathed a hushed "thank you" his way. He had spent less than than two hours with her and was completely knackered; I have spent every single day of her 18 months of life with her with barely a break or reprieve. I think he finally got it.
And I am now claiming dominion over my new territory Validation. The flag is still flying.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Eighteen Going on Eighteen
In the fashion of all my "with it" mother friends who seem to have their proverbial sheisse together, I am finally posting an 18-month update on Bryony. She's actually only about 1 1/2 weeks away from 19 months, so I got this update in just in the nick of time!
I'm actually kinda glad that I'm late in doing this, because the Little Miss has been demonstrating some recent behavioral performances that I would have hated to have missed in this 18-month assessment. But, I guess I'll start with the vitals and move on to the nitty-gritty from there.
At her last check up, my little lightweight came in at 31 inches and 21 lbs, 5 oz. She was in the 90% per centile for height, but only the 25th per centile for weight. Considering I'm quite accustomed to calling her daddy the 2-legged giraffe, I think she got the whole tall and skinny thing from him (unfortunately not from me).
Her hair is curly as ever, long spiral curls that bounce when she jumps and that are long enough to be pulled back with a headband or into a ponytail.
She continues to dig breastmilk and I am happily still nursing her. I never really saw myself as someone who would nurse a toddler, but with all the recent scientific (I love science!) evidence that points to the health and emotional benefits to extended breastfeeding, I am glad to do it. We have never had to deal with an ear infection and she has only been sick (aside from the occasional sniffles) twice in her short life. I nurse her more often when I'M sick so that she gets all the antibodies I'm producing, thereby keeping her from acquiring the illness herself. So far, so good. Hopefully all this immune-strengthening brainfood I'm giving her will pay off in few school absences and a really kickass scholarship to a great university one day.
She has the most amazing smile I have ever seen.
Bryony has acquired several nicknames over the course of her 18 months, including:
Anemone (Uncle Walt called her that the day she was born, since he couldn't figure out how to pronounce bryony).
Handsy (Aunt Shannon started this one when she heard about Bryony's propensity for grabbing things she shouldn't and making big messes that I'd have to clean up. This name is very appropo).
Curly B Another aptly descriptive name that speaks for itself, originating from Aunt Tyuana
Bryony has more frequent flyer miles than most adults I know. She has been on over 20 flights, and has travelled to both U.S. coasts. She has visited the Washington, D.C. area, New York City, Michigan, Texas and Oregon. We are really trying to take advantage of the "fly-free-until-two" rule on the airlines. Not much more time!
For better or worse, Bryony has never been in daycare, and she has only been away from me for about 4-5 hours at the longest. I think this situation needs to change soon, as she needs more social interaction with kids her own age, and I could seriously use some time to myself some days. However, I have enjoyed the time that we have had together and am grateful for having had this experience as a stay-at-home mum.
Parlour tricks:
Her favorite word of all time is "NO!' which she will scream when she can embarass me in public, sing when she's being cute, or say matter-of-factly when she means it.
The evolution of her vocabulary has gone from "uhn-gee" to "gup!" to most recently, "ice!". We're not sure where the fascination with "ice" came from, but she says it all the time.
She can point to Kika and say "doh", meaning dog
She knows that dogs "woof!", cats "reow!" and cows (usually) "mooo!"
She gives tight hugs around our necks and sweet, sweet kisses on our cheeks
She loves to dance to just about any music she hears, but she particularly loves the theme music to "Who's the Boss?" and "Sanford and Son"
She has learned to say "please" (actually, it sounds more like pweees) to get what she wants, which is usually time on the breast
She says "Thank you" (or rather, yang-you!") when prompted.
Just like Mr. Brown, she can "tick" and "tock" like a clock.
Within the last week, she has learned to climb out of her pack n play.
Last weekend, after being quiet in the back of the car, she startled both Adam and me with a weird laugh and then said loudly "Oh, I like this one!". Adam asked me to look in the backseat to check that it was indeed our daughter back there; he thought she was possessed. It was kinda creepy.
She can give high-fives and play "Gimme Five, Up High, Down Low, Too Slow!".
She's a little tease. She'll offer you something she has in her hand, and then take it away just as you're reaching for it.
What A Girl Wants:
She loves the train that goes by our apartment seveal times a day and points out the window each time she hears the whistle
She loves animals, including Kika, Greg House, and the kitten we have recently taken in. She cannot stop wrapping her arms around them in tight hugs and bringing them random bits of food from her dinner plate.
She loves purses, especially mine, which she digs through daily with wild abandon. She particalarly likes the breath mints that I keep "hidden" for breath emergencies.
Bryony really likes to eat eggs, yogurt and toasted, buttered everything bagels. She's a breakfast food type of gal.
She really likes to sleep in our bed whenever we'll let her. I'm torn between my respect for co-sleeping and my dislike for the idea of the "family bed". Luckily, she goes to sleep in her own bed very easily, so we only co-sleep when we are travelling in places where we don't have her crib.
Her books. She loves to flip through her books by herself or while I'm reading. I try to get books with really beautiful illustrations so that she can connect with the stories even if she can't fully understand them. Thank you, Caldecott.
What A Girl (Doesn't) Want:
Most foods. Getting my daughter to eat is a battle at almost every meal. It's exhausting.
Saying good-bye...to...anyone Just this morning the maintenance man fixed a fan in the apartment and she bawled when he left. I think she has a bit of separation anxiety that she reserves for people she doesn't know that well. She doesn't cry anymore when either Adam or I leaves. Go figure!
Diaper changes. She hates them, even if she's toting around poop logs as heavy as cannonballs.
Getting her teeth brushed. This is probably her least favorite, most hated activity in all the world. I tried to make it fun. We laughed, we danced, we even sang during the process, but she just wouldn't open her mouth. So now, I've scarred her for life by pinning her down on the bed every night while I attack with the baby toothbrush. It's a painful process as she screams and cries (and sometimes bites me) as I navigate the brush through her little mouth. But, it's worth it to me to get those chompers cleaned at the expense of her happiness; I know of mothers whose children's teeth have rotted and I SO DON'T WANT TO GO THERE. So, toothbrush...
Looking On...
Bryony is growing and thriving and we are so deliriously happy to have her in our lives. Adam and I remind each other every day how lucky we are that she came into our lives. I am constantly amazed by her beauty, and remind myself not to focus on her outward appearance but to reinforce in her the internal beauty she radiates out to us all. Bryony is playful and sly and sarcastic and generous and kind and everything I want from a child of mine. All I can hope is that I am the kind of mother than she wants to have. And, I look forward to seeing what the next chapter in her life unfolds.
I'm actually kinda glad that I'm late in doing this, because the Little Miss has been demonstrating some recent behavioral performances that I would have hated to have missed in this 18-month assessment. But, I guess I'll start with the vitals and move on to the nitty-gritty from there.
At her last check up, my little lightweight came in at 31 inches and 21 lbs, 5 oz. She was in the 90% per centile for height, but only the 25th per centile for weight. Considering I'm quite accustomed to calling her daddy the 2-legged giraffe, I think she got the whole tall and skinny thing from him (unfortunately not from me).
Her hair is curly as ever, long spiral curls that bounce when she jumps and that are long enough to be pulled back with a headband or into a ponytail.
She continues to dig breastmilk and I am happily still nursing her. I never really saw myself as someone who would nurse a toddler, but with all the recent scientific (I love science!) evidence that points to the health and emotional benefits to extended breastfeeding, I am glad to do it. We have never had to deal with an ear infection and she has only been sick (aside from the occasional sniffles) twice in her short life. I nurse her more often when I'M sick so that she gets all the antibodies I'm producing, thereby keeping her from acquiring the illness herself. So far, so good. Hopefully all this immune-strengthening brainfood I'm giving her will pay off in few school absences and a really kickass scholarship to a great university one day.
She has the most amazing smile I have ever seen.
Bryony has acquired several nicknames over the course of her 18 months, including:
Anemone (Uncle Walt called her that the day she was born, since he couldn't figure out how to pronounce bryony).
Handsy (Aunt Shannon started this one when she heard about Bryony's propensity for grabbing things she shouldn't and making big messes that I'd have to clean up. This name is very appropo).
Curly B Another aptly descriptive name that speaks for itself, originating from Aunt Tyuana
Bryony has more frequent flyer miles than most adults I know. She has been on over 20 flights, and has travelled to both U.S. coasts. She has visited the Washington, D.C. area, New York City, Michigan, Texas and Oregon. We are really trying to take advantage of the "fly-free-until-two" rule on the airlines. Not much more time!
For better or worse, Bryony has never been in daycare, and she has only been away from me for about 4-5 hours at the longest. I think this situation needs to change soon, as she needs more social interaction with kids her own age, and I could seriously use some time to myself some days. However, I have enjoyed the time that we have had together and am grateful for having had this experience as a stay-at-home mum.
Parlour tricks:
Her favorite word of all time is "NO!' which she will scream when she can embarass me in public, sing when she's being cute, or say matter-of-factly when she means it.
The evolution of her vocabulary has gone from "uhn-gee" to "gup!" to most recently, "ice!". We're not sure where the fascination with "ice" came from, but she says it all the time.
She can point to Kika and say "doh", meaning dog
She knows that dogs "woof!", cats "reow!" and cows (usually) "mooo!"
She gives tight hugs around our necks and sweet, sweet kisses on our cheeks
She loves to dance to just about any music she hears, but she particularly loves the theme music to "Who's the Boss?" and "Sanford and Son"
She has learned to say "please" (actually, it sounds more like pweees) to get what she wants, which is usually time on the breast
She says "Thank you" (or rather, yang-you!") when prompted.
Just like Mr. Brown, she can "tick" and "tock" like a clock.
Within the last week, she has learned to climb out of her pack n play.
Last weekend, after being quiet in the back of the car, she startled both Adam and me with a weird laugh and then said loudly "Oh, I like this one!". Adam asked me to look in the backseat to check that it was indeed our daughter back there; he thought she was possessed. It was kinda creepy.
She can give high-fives and play "Gimme Five, Up High, Down Low, Too Slow!".
She's a little tease. She'll offer you something she has in her hand, and then take it away just as you're reaching for it.
What A Girl Wants:
She loves the train that goes by our apartment seveal times a day and points out the window each time she hears the whistle
She loves animals, including Kika, Greg House, and the kitten we have recently taken in. She cannot stop wrapping her arms around them in tight hugs and bringing them random bits of food from her dinner plate.
She loves purses, especially mine, which she digs through daily with wild abandon. She particalarly likes the breath mints that I keep "hidden" for breath emergencies.
Bryony really likes to eat eggs, yogurt and toasted, buttered everything bagels. She's a breakfast food type of gal.
She really likes to sleep in our bed whenever we'll let her. I'm torn between my respect for co-sleeping and my dislike for the idea of the "family bed". Luckily, she goes to sleep in her own bed very easily, so we only co-sleep when we are travelling in places where we don't have her crib.
Her books. She loves to flip through her books by herself or while I'm reading. I try to get books with really beautiful illustrations so that she can connect with the stories even if she can't fully understand them. Thank you, Caldecott.
What A Girl (Doesn't) Want:
Most foods. Getting my daughter to eat is a battle at almost every meal. It's exhausting.
Saying good-bye...to...anyone Just this morning the maintenance man fixed a fan in the apartment and she bawled when he left. I think she has a bit of separation anxiety that she reserves for people she doesn't know that well. She doesn't cry anymore when either Adam or I leaves. Go figure!
Diaper changes. She hates them, even if she's toting around poop logs as heavy as cannonballs.
Getting her teeth brushed. This is probably her least favorite, most hated activity in all the world. I tried to make it fun. We laughed, we danced, we even sang during the process, but she just wouldn't open her mouth. So now, I've scarred her for life by pinning her down on the bed every night while I attack with the baby toothbrush. It's a painful process as she screams and cries (and sometimes bites me) as I navigate the brush through her little mouth. But, it's worth it to me to get those chompers cleaned at the expense of her happiness; I know of mothers whose children's teeth have rotted and I SO DON'T WANT TO GO THERE. So, toothbrush...
Looking On...
Bryony is growing and thriving and we are so deliriously happy to have her in our lives. Adam and I remind each other every day how lucky we are that she came into our lives. I am constantly amazed by her beauty, and remind myself not to focus on her outward appearance but to reinforce in her the internal beauty she radiates out to us all. Bryony is playful and sly and sarcastic and generous and kind and everything I want from a child of mine. All I can hope is that I am the kind of mother than she wants to have. And, I look forward to seeing what the next chapter in her life unfolds.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
As If I Need One
One reason I really love my husband is because, like me, he adds water to the near-empty can of tomato sauce to get out the last little bit that is going into the pot. He also has no shame in asking for a doggie bag (and calling it that instead of a "to-go" box, especially since some of our food scraps really do go to the dog). He's frugal and I love him for it.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
One Last Thought
I just had to sneak this last thought in for the day.
I am totally crushing on Jeffrey Donovan of "Burn Notice." I seriously don't know what it is about him, but I am hooked.
Yummy.
Okay, I've said it. Now, good night.
I am totally crushing on Jeffrey Donovan of "Burn Notice." I seriously don't know what it is about him, but I am hooked.
Yummy.
Okay, I've said it. Now, good night.
Brand New Key
This is probably the favorite commercial in our household right now. Adam likes the song, I like the expression on the baby's face, and Bryony is entranced by the whole thing. Enjoy!
Heat Lamps and Monsters and Braids, Oh My!
While I realize that we're past Thanksgiving, I'll take this opportunity to still give thanks for something that I've been very grateful for of late. This would be the ceiling heat lamp in our bathroom which keeps me oh-so-very-warm when I get out of the shower. It has gotten cold here in Texas. Not Michigan cold, grant you, but a I-didn't-bring-warm-enough-clothes-for-this-cold-weather cold, which has led to me layering several items of mismatched clothing on Bryony and me (yeah, I didn't bring enough winter clothes for her, either), making us look like characters from a Dr. Seuss book. But back to the heat lamp...Oh how I love you so as you heat my just-showered body. If it were possible, heat lamp, I'd take you out to dinner.
I've been battling a cold for the last couple days. Yesterday seemed to be the worst of it, as "Terrible Monster Mommy" attacked the household. Poor Bryony just couldn't do anything right, including standing precariously on the arm of the couch, picking up the kitten by little handfuls of fur, throwing food, playing with glass bowls in the kitchen, and joyfully tearing pages in books. Yes, because on a normal day, all of those things would be just fine. But I just couldn't deal with it yesterday, and Adam, who had promised to leave work early that afternoon, still wasn't home by 7pm. I had to call him and tell him to come home, STAT. I was on the verge of locking my congested self in my bedroom and allowing bedlam free reign over the rest of the apartment. Poor Husband asked if I needed anything from the store and I specifically asked for Benadryl, which I know I can take while breastfeeding. Poor Husband came home with Advil which is not...even...close. I steadied my voice and said, "Hon, this isn't going to work for me...I asked for Benadryl, not Advil. I need a decongestant not a pain reliever, and besides I don't know if I can take ibuprofen while nursing." Poor Husband ran back out to the store and got the proper drug and a can of ginger ale. Terrible Monster Mommy didn't give him the thanks he deserved as she slurped down the pills with her ale. Instead, she just threw her hands in the air and declared she had nothing more to give to anybody that evening, and Poor Husband put baby to bed. Not even an hour later, with congestant symtoms showing no signs of clearing up, Terrible Monster Mommy popped two MORE pills and had a very fitful, non-congested night of sleep (and no, I am most certainly NOT advocating for overdosing on Benadryl, folks).
This morning began with Awful Mommy Being (scaled down version of Terrible Monster Mommy) lying in bed while Poor Husband got ready for work and watched baby zoom around the apartment. Awful Mommy Being sat bolt upright at the sound of glass breaking, which turned out to be a coffee mug baby had picked up and dropped out on the patio. Awful Mommy Being needed more sleep and decided not to care about said coffee mug until later.
But, I'm feeling much better this afternoon and moving into Sniffling Zen Mama as I am much more introspective now about things. While yesterday I vegged on the couch watching cheesy-but--fun movies from the 90s, today I've already cleaned the apartment, showered and now I am blogging. Oh, and I'm also pleased with my new sick-girl hair style: a braid down my neck. Nothing says sick-stay-at-home-mama like a sloppy little braid. Sad thing is, that sloppy little braid is even more effort than I would have gone to if I'd been well.
I've been battling a cold for the last couple days. Yesterday seemed to be the worst of it, as "Terrible Monster Mommy" attacked the household. Poor Bryony just couldn't do anything right, including standing precariously on the arm of the couch, picking up the kitten by little handfuls of fur, throwing food, playing with glass bowls in the kitchen, and joyfully tearing pages in books. Yes, because on a normal day, all of those things would be just fine. But I just couldn't deal with it yesterday, and Adam, who had promised to leave work early that afternoon, still wasn't home by 7pm. I had to call him and tell him to come home, STAT. I was on the verge of locking my congested self in my bedroom and allowing bedlam free reign over the rest of the apartment. Poor Husband asked if I needed anything from the store and I specifically asked for Benadryl, which I know I can take while breastfeeding. Poor Husband came home with Advil which is not...even...close. I steadied my voice and said, "Hon, this isn't going to work for me...I asked for Benadryl, not Advil. I need a decongestant not a pain reliever, and besides I don't know if I can take ibuprofen while nursing." Poor Husband ran back out to the store and got the proper drug and a can of ginger ale. Terrible Monster Mommy didn't give him the thanks he deserved as she slurped down the pills with her ale. Instead, she just threw her hands in the air and declared she had nothing more to give to anybody that evening, and Poor Husband put baby to bed. Not even an hour later, with congestant symtoms showing no signs of clearing up, Terrible Monster Mommy popped two MORE pills and had a very fitful, non-congested night of sleep (and no, I am most certainly NOT advocating for overdosing on Benadryl, folks).
This morning began with Awful Mommy Being (scaled down version of Terrible Monster Mommy) lying in bed while Poor Husband got ready for work and watched baby zoom around the apartment. Awful Mommy Being sat bolt upright at the sound of glass breaking, which turned out to be a coffee mug baby had picked up and dropped out on the patio. Awful Mommy Being needed more sleep and decided not to care about said coffee mug until later.
But, I'm feeling much better this afternoon and moving into Sniffling Zen Mama as I am much more introspective now about things. While yesterday I vegged on the couch watching cheesy-but--fun movies from the 90s, today I've already cleaned the apartment, showered and now I am blogging. Oh, and I'm also pleased with my new sick-girl hair style: a braid down my neck. Nothing says sick-stay-at-home-mama like a sloppy little braid. Sad thing is, that sloppy little braid is even more effort than I would have gone to if I'd been well.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Wanted: BFF
Sarah has Susan.
Adria has Freedom.
Daniela has Vycki.
Heather has Lily.
Emily has Kristin.
Tracy has Heather.
Michelle has Erin.
Kara has Jeanne.
Lauren has...everyone, and no one all at the same time.
For a few years now, I've become very aware of the fact that I don't have a best friend. I have loads of great friends, some very close, some more casual. But, they all have their own best friends from childhood or college, women they can say anything to (at any time of the day or night) and expect brutal honesty and complete and utter sympathy and love all at the same time.
I miss that.
Don't get me wrong, I know that the wonderful, special women in my life love me as much as I love them. I know that they are there for me in a minute if I have an emergency, or need to vent or just cry a bit. But, I guess I am guilty of getting caught up in the false sentiment in every Hallmark commercial that portrays two women, miles away from each other, on the phone every night and friends to the end. I have wonderful friends, I do. But each of these amazing women has another woman that they feel connected and bonded to in a way that I'm not bonded to any of them. I wonder what it is about me that lacks this potential for connection. I feel a bit like I'm a rare atom that other atoms like to hang around with, but no one wants to become a molecule with me. What's wrong with MY electrons??
I sometimes wonder if there's a girlfriend out there who does consider me her "bestie" and I just don't know it. Don't best friends say those types of things to each other so that each party knows their status? All of the above-named women can immediately identify her best friend at the drop of a hat. The fact that I can't is because none of my female friends and I have ever discussed our relationship in these terms. I should mention that this post is not intended to guilt anyone to saying that they consider me their BFF just to make me feel good; however, if you actually DO feel that way about me, and I just don't realize it, please feel free to drop me a note.
Do I sound like an utter and complete loser here???
I guess I should acknowledge that my little sis and I have also been close over the years, almost like a "default" setting on your computer preferences. I cherish and love that relationship more than I can describe. But outside of my sisterhood, I imagine a friendship so strong and natural that this woman feels like a second sister to me. I don't know why I crave it, but I do.
But if that relationship never comes, I remain content with the knowledge that I have a beautiful fabric of complex and wonderful women who keep my heart and soul warm and happy. Thank you, sisters.
Adria has Freedom.
Daniela has Vycki.
Heather has Lily.
Emily has Kristin.
Tracy has Heather.
Michelle has Erin.
Kara has Jeanne.
Lauren has...everyone, and no one all at the same time.
For a few years now, I've become very aware of the fact that I don't have a best friend. I have loads of great friends, some very close, some more casual. But, they all have their own best friends from childhood or college, women they can say anything to (at any time of the day or night) and expect brutal honesty and complete and utter sympathy and love all at the same time.
I miss that.
Don't get me wrong, I know that the wonderful, special women in my life love me as much as I love them. I know that they are there for me in a minute if I have an emergency, or need to vent or just cry a bit. But, I guess I am guilty of getting caught up in the false sentiment in every Hallmark commercial that portrays two women, miles away from each other, on the phone every night and friends to the end. I have wonderful friends, I do. But each of these amazing women has another woman that they feel connected and bonded to in a way that I'm not bonded to any of them. I wonder what it is about me that lacks this potential for connection. I feel a bit like I'm a rare atom that other atoms like to hang around with, but no one wants to become a molecule with me. What's wrong with MY electrons??
I sometimes wonder if there's a girlfriend out there who does consider me her "bestie" and I just don't know it. Don't best friends say those types of things to each other so that each party knows their status? All of the above-named women can immediately identify her best friend at the drop of a hat. The fact that I can't is because none of my female friends and I have ever discussed our relationship in these terms. I should mention that this post is not intended to guilt anyone to saying that they consider me their BFF just to make me feel good; however, if you actually DO feel that way about me, and I just don't realize it, please feel free to drop me a note.
Do I sound like an utter and complete loser here???
I guess I should acknowledge that my little sis and I have also been close over the years, almost like a "default" setting on your computer preferences. I cherish and love that relationship more than I can describe. But outside of my sisterhood, I imagine a friendship so strong and natural that this woman feels like a second sister to me. I don't know why I crave it, but I do.
But if that relationship never comes, I remain content with the knowledge that I have a beautiful fabric of complex and wonderful women who keep my heart and soul warm and happy. Thank you, sisters.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Happy Channukah...Everyone
I really don't have much of interest to type tonight (I have a few topics but I just don't feel like writing it all out just now...maybe tomorrow). So, in the absence of an (semi-) intelligent diatribe, I'll just say on this second night of the Festival of Lights,
HAPPY CHANNUKAH, EVERYONE!!!
We just lit the menorah and expressed our thankfulness for Kika's continued presence in our lives and for the little bundle of joy-zaniness-heartache-love we call Bryony.
G'night all.
HAPPY CHANNUKAH, EVERYONE!!!
We just lit the menorah and expressed our thankfulness for Kika's continued presence in our lives and for the little bundle of joy-zaniness-heartache-love we call Bryony.
G'night all.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Fun With Politics
A few fun pics I've come across lately, catering to left-wing political humor...if you enjoy, then good...if not, then well, sorry (not really, but...)
Monday, November 29, 2010
And The Band Is Still Playing
I recently purchased a children's book for Bryony at Goodwill, by notable children's book author and illustrator John Steptoe. As I was reading the book flap about this young man, I was startled to discover that he was written about in the past tense, indicating that he was deceased. This morning I did a little online research to discover that he indeed had died in 1989, according to Wikipedia "of unknown causes." Another article indicated that he had died "after a long illness." These expressions, meant to throw the reader off, are familiar to me. If you've ever seen the made-for-HBO movie "And The Band Played On" (based on the book of the same name by Randy Shilts) you might remember that during the early days of the AIDS epidemic, phrases like these were used to explain away the deaths of celebrities and the wealthy elite when their families were too ashamed to admit the actual cause of death.
Sure enough, after more searching, I found that author John Steptoe had died of "complications due to AIDS", according to his 1989 obituary in the New York Times. What I don't understand is why, if in 1989 (when HIV and AIDS were still incredibly taboo with all the social stigmas of the day attached) the truth behind his death was made public, in 2010 some outlets still are trying to cover it up? It was very easy for me to find out the true cause behind his death; anyone writing a Wikipedia article on him could have found the NY Times article or any number of other articles to reference for their entry. I wonder if we are still living in an age where some people see HIV and AIDS as ways to stigmatize.
In the early 80s when the public health community first started seeing signs of a new disease that primarily seemed to be affecting the gay community, the government and much of society brushed aside concerns about what would become known as GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency), or in the gay community "Gay Cancer." It didn't take long for the scientific and public health communities to realize that this was a not a gay disease, but a human disease that could affect anyone. The move to rename GRID to AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) was made, and HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) was identified as the viral strain that eventually led to AIDS. Although it took time, the U.S. and the world started to wake up. Young heterosexual people began to die of AIDS, celebrities succumbed, the Gay Men's Health Crisis was established, the AIDS quilt took shape, AIDS prevention programs sprung up worldwide. And, while it took some time, death rates attributed to AIDS started to decline. Much of this had to do with the increase in antiretroviral drugs which prolonged the lifespan considerably (and often indefinitely) of someone living with HIV/AIDS, but the infection rate tapered off over the years, too. And with fewer people becoming infected and dying, the money for prevention programs started to dry up and many observers declared that the AIDS crisis was over. There were studies and anecdotal evidence that many young people were not afraid of becoming infected with HIV because of the abundance of "cocktail" drugs available to keep them alive; safe sex and safe intravenous drug use fell by the wayside.
In recent years, we've seen HIV/AIDS rates spiking in communities that don't have the same social capital as the gay community, or that are so unprepared for high infection rates that there has been a communication breakdown simply due to the sensitivity of the subject matter. In the last ten years or so, HIV/AIDS rates have spiked in the black community, particularly amongst black women. There are stories of married black men going "on the down low", or having secret gay sex with other men, and then passing various STD's (sexually transmitted diseases), including HIV, to their wives. Young black girls in poorer areas are not always exposed to the facts of safe sex and HIV/AIDS prevention, and so many of them enter into sexual relationships in their teen years with boys who have not had protected sex with previous partners. The rates of infection are spiking.
The other group hit by recent increases in HIV infections, believe it or not, are seniors. These are folks who have been in committed, monogamous relationships their entire adult lives. Then, their partner dies and they find themselves back on the dating scene again. In their day, you didn't talk much about things like sex and condoms and disease prevention, mainly because you didn't have to; you had one partner and you stuck with that person (presumably) only. Now, even seniors are more promiscuous than they might have been in their youth and in turn, they are contracting and spreading disease amongst themselves. It's a tough situation; how many grandpas and grandmas really want to talk about their sexual practices and health to anyone, let alone each other or their doctors?
I really don't know why I've gotten off on this incredibly long tangent about AIDS. This commentary really just was meant to point out that even in 2010 we still have lingering stigmas associated with HIV/AIDS, and I'm not sure why. Even more, I wonder how much damage this does to people who might otherwise seek out prevention or treatment advice. When will we get our heads out of the sand? For the John Steptoes and the hundreds of thousands (millions?) of other people who have succumbed to this awful disease, I feel a need to make a plea: Get rid of the stigma, for true, unbiased knowledge is the only way we're going to defeat this disease.
Sure enough, after more searching, I found that author John Steptoe had died of "complications due to AIDS", according to his 1989 obituary in the New York Times. What I don't understand is why, if in 1989 (when HIV and AIDS were still incredibly taboo with all the social stigmas of the day attached) the truth behind his death was made public, in 2010 some outlets still are trying to cover it up? It was very easy for me to find out the true cause behind his death; anyone writing a Wikipedia article on him could have found the NY Times article or any number of other articles to reference for their entry. I wonder if we are still living in an age where some people see HIV and AIDS as ways to stigmatize.
In the early 80s when the public health community first started seeing signs of a new disease that primarily seemed to be affecting the gay community, the government and much of society brushed aside concerns about what would become known as GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency), or in the gay community "Gay Cancer." It didn't take long for the scientific and public health communities to realize that this was a not a gay disease, but a human disease that could affect anyone. The move to rename GRID to AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) was made, and HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) was identified as the viral strain that eventually led to AIDS. Although it took time, the U.S. and the world started to wake up. Young heterosexual people began to die of AIDS, celebrities succumbed, the Gay Men's Health Crisis was established, the AIDS quilt took shape, AIDS prevention programs sprung up worldwide. And, while it took some time, death rates attributed to AIDS started to decline. Much of this had to do with the increase in antiretroviral drugs which prolonged the lifespan considerably (and often indefinitely) of someone living with HIV/AIDS, but the infection rate tapered off over the years, too. And with fewer people becoming infected and dying, the money for prevention programs started to dry up and many observers declared that the AIDS crisis was over. There were studies and anecdotal evidence that many young people were not afraid of becoming infected with HIV because of the abundance of "cocktail" drugs available to keep them alive; safe sex and safe intravenous drug use fell by the wayside.
In recent years, we've seen HIV/AIDS rates spiking in communities that don't have the same social capital as the gay community, or that are so unprepared for high infection rates that there has been a communication breakdown simply due to the sensitivity of the subject matter. In the last ten years or so, HIV/AIDS rates have spiked in the black community, particularly amongst black women. There are stories of married black men going "on the down low", or having secret gay sex with other men, and then passing various STD's (sexually transmitted diseases), including HIV, to their wives. Young black girls in poorer areas are not always exposed to the facts of safe sex and HIV/AIDS prevention, and so many of them enter into sexual relationships in their teen years with boys who have not had protected sex with previous partners. The rates of infection are spiking.
The other group hit by recent increases in HIV infections, believe it or not, are seniors. These are folks who have been in committed, monogamous relationships their entire adult lives. Then, their partner dies and they find themselves back on the dating scene again. In their day, you didn't talk much about things like sex and condoms and disease prevention, mainly because you didn't have to; you had one partner and you stuck with that person (presumably) only. Now, even seniors are more promiscuous than they might have been in their youth and in turn, they are contracting and spreading disease amongst themselves. It's a tough situation; how many grandpas and grandmas really want to talk about their sexual practices and health to anyone, let alone each other or their doctors?
I really don't know why I've gotten off on this incredibly long tangent about AIDS. This commentary really just was meant to point out that even in 2010 we still have lingering stigmas associated with HIV/AIDS, and I'm not sure why. Even more, I wonder how much damage this does to people who might otherwise seek out prevention or treatment advice. When will we get our heads out of the sand? For the John Steptoes and the hundreds of thousands (millions?) of other people who have succumbed to this awful disease, I feel a need to make a plea: Get rid of the stigma, for true, unbiased knowledge is the only way we're going to defeat this disease.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I'll Second That! Or, Maybe I Won't
Many of you might resent the fact that I'm devoting a blog post to this subject, but for me and many others that I know, the topic of weight is one that has had a lasting impression on us our entire lives. As a kid, my weight fluctuated as I kept growing up and out (and then in again, and then out, and...). As a teen, I dieted, purged (yes, I was one of those girls), starved, gave up, and then repeated the cycle. By my first year of college, I had starved myself to a thinness so shocking to my mother that she threatened to yank me out of school if she didn't see signs that I was dieting healthily. Then, as an adult, I started the fluctuation cycle again, envying all my thin friends in their skinny jeans and wrap-around long sweaters. In 2002, I started a diet/exercise regime that got me down to a size 4 comfortably (size 2 if I was willing to suffer a bit and only eat fruit that day), but also involved daily 2-mile runs, 3-mile bike rides and fruit cups for dinner. Moving to Michigan introduced me to extreme winter weather (aka limited outdoor exercise) and well, BEER (aka laden-with-calories-yummy-beverage). Now I am somewhere between a size 6 and 8, depending on the cut. Am I happy with that? Not exactly. I'd love to be a trim, toned size 4 again. But while I enjoy a daily run, I'm not going to succumb to eating like a gerbil to fit into those sized 4 jeans again.
Having said that, I feel like I've found the answer to my eating dilemma. I've heard this advice spoken a million times by dieticians, models, etc., but I never really put into practice. It wasn't until being at a friend's house for dinner that I realized the truth to it all. My friend, a 5'9" uber-slender beauty (and yes, she's had a kid and managed to fit into her skinny jeans within days of giving birth!) is a wonderful cook, always experimenting with new ethnic recipes. When I'm at her house, I'm likely have to peanut-sauce-covered Chinese long beans, Thai butternut squash, and tofu and veggie curry all on the same plate. It's oh-so-very-yummy and I always get so excited about the obscene yumminess of it all that inevitably I have seconds on some--or all--of it. But my friend and her husband always only eat one serving of everything, and sometimes they don't even finish that. So then I always feel a little piggy and greedy and mortified as I'm shovelling the last spoonfuls down my throat.
My friend's husband is French (well, his mother is, and he speaks fluent French and has spent a lot of time in France). My friend also speaks French and has spent time in France. I realized that they really do follow the traditional French diet--eating slowly and eating only one portion. Americans are bad about savoring our food. We enjoy tastes, but we tend to eat fast and furious, eating MORE as a way of enjoying flavors, rather than eating slowly. We then end up full and uncomfortable, our buttons on the verge of bursting, our food babies only matched by our food comas. How nice would it be to eat small bites, letting those wonderful flavors penetrate our taste buds while we enjoy the warm conversation of our loved ones. To allow our stomachs to become naturally satisfied as the food settles in for digestion, rather than the American tradition of snarfing down food and then eating more before you have a chance to become satisfied.
Last night, we made some incredibly yummy and decadent portabello stuffed ravioli with a creamy mushroom alfredo sauce. Polished off with red wine (I know, creamy dishes should have a white wine, but I already had a red open and it suited the meal anyway) it was such a delightful meal. As I was heading back to sit down with my second helping, I realized I didn't really need it. Before I could eat any of it, I jumped up, scraped everything back into the pot and sat down to enjoy the rest of my wine. I felt satisfied both in my belly and in my mind. What a novel concept--satisfied, not full!
So, maybe if I keep this up, I'll fit back into those size 4 pants yet.
Or, maybe I should wait until after Thanksgiving dinner.
Having said that, I feel like I've found the answer to my eating dilemma. I've heard this advice spoken a million times by dieticians, models, etc., but I never really put into practice. It wasn't until being at a friend's house for dinner that I realized the truth to it all. My friend, a 5'9" uber-slender beauty (and yes, she's had a kid and managed to fit into her skinny jeans within days of giving birth!) is a wonderful cook, always experimenting with new ethnic recipes. When I'm at her house, I'm likely have to peanut-sauce-covered Chinese long beans, Thai butternut squash, and tofu and veggie curry all on the same plate. It's oh-so-very-yummy and I always get so excited about the obscene yumminess of it all that inevitably I have seconds on some--or all--of it. But my friend and her husband always only eat one serving of everything, and sometimes they don't even finish that. So then I always feel a little piggy and greedy and mortified as I'm shovelling the last spoonfuls down my throat.
My friend's husband is French (well, his mother is, and he speaks fluent French and has spent a lot of time in France). My friend also speaks French and has spent time in France. I realized that they really do follow the traditional French diet--eating slowly and eating only one portion. Americans are bad about savoring our food. We enjoy tastes, but we tend to eat fast and furious, eating MORE as a way of enjoying flavors, rather than eating slowly. We then end up full and uncomfortable, our buttons on the verge of bursting, our food babies only matched by our food comas. How nice would it be to eat small bites, letting those wonderful flavors penetrate our taste buds while we enjoy the warm conversation of our loved ones. To allow our stomachs to become naturally satisfied as the food settles in for digestion, rather than the American tradition of snarfing down food and then eating more before you have a chance to become satisfied.
Last night, we made some incredibly yummy and decadent portabello stuffed ravioli with a creamy mushroom alfredo sauce. Polished off with red wine (I know, creamy dishes should have a white wine, but I already had a red open and it suited the meal anyway) it was such a delightful meal. As I was heading back to sit down with my second helping, I realized I didn't really need it. Before I could eat any of it, I jumped up, scraped everything back into the pot and sat down to enjoy the rest of my wine. I felt satisfied both in my belly and in my mind. What a novel concept--satisfied, not full!
So, maybe if I keep this up, I'll fit back into those size 4 pants yet.
Or, maybe I should wait until after Thanksgiving dinner.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Meow Mix
So we did end up bringing in the kitten last night. It was getting rather chilly out and we just couldn't imagine her spening another night out there (and yes, it's a girl, after all!). So after hours camped outside our apartment door, I finally picked her up, brought her inside and promptly bathed her in the kitchen sink. Of course, she hated it at first, but by the end of the process I had a calm, clean, towel-swaddled kitty looking up at me.
Since we didn't know what, if any, diseases she might have, we had to keep her secluded from Greg House. Bryony and I kept going to visit her in the bathroom where we had set her up with water, food and a litter box. She mewed and purred. Bryony fell in love and I felt a little taken by her, too.
Somewhere during the course of night, however, reality started to sink in. Another cat? More vet bills? As it is, we're single-handedly financing our local vet with Greg House's monthly treatments, and Kika's old age issues have required several visits in the six months that we've lived here. The idea of getting a new kitten spayed, vaccinated, possibly declawed and treated for goodness-knows-what-else was overwhelming. Especially since we're currently a one-income family trying to pay off debt and save for hard times that might lie ahead. Suddenly the last thing I wanted was a new cat in the picture.
When we got up this morning, I suggested to Adam that we look for no-kill shelters in the area that might take in the cat. He seemed a bit relieved and I realized we were on the same page. I looked online and found a shelter about fifteen minutes away. We packed Miss Kitty away in the kennel and shepharded her to the shelter, where they promptly turned us away due to overcrowding. We ended up at Animal Control, just around the corner from our apartment, where they set her up in a cage of her own, amongst a handful of other cats and kittens. I specifically asked how long she had before her time was up, and the woman said there was no set limit; many of the animals had been there for several months. I was grateful, particularly since Miss Kitty is cute and very friendly. I just hope her health checks out.
Now we are home living our lives as usual and I am wondering how she's doing there. I'll bet she's sorry she ever landed on my doorstep. I just hope one day she's adopted by someone amazing who will thoroughly love her. Maybe then Miss Kitty will forgive us.
Since we didn't know what, if any, diseases she might have, we had to keep her secluded from Greg House. Bryony and I kept going to visit her in the bathroom where we had set her up with water, food and a litter box. She mewed and purred. Bryony fell in love and I felt a little taken by her, too.
Somewhere during the course of night, however, reality started to sink in. Another cat? More vet bills? As it is, we're single-handedly financing our local vet with Greg House's monthly treatments, and Kika's old age issues have required several visits in the six months that we've lived here. The idea of getting a new kitten spayed, vaccinated, possibly declawed and treated for goodness-knows-what-else was overwhelming. Especially since we're currently a one-income family trying to pay off debt and save for hard times that might lie ahead. Suddenly the last thing I wanted was a new cat in the picture.
When we got up this morning, I suggested to Adam that we look for no-kill shelters in the area that might take in the cat. He seemed a bit relieved and I realized we were on the same page. I looked online and found a shelter about fifteen minutes away. We packed Miss Kitty away in the kennel and shepharded her to the shelter, where they promptly turned us away due to overcrowding. We ended up at Animal Control, just around the corner from our apartment, where they set her up in a cage of her own, amongst a handful of other cats and kittens. I specifically asked how long she had before her time was up, and the woman said there was no set limit; many of the animals had been there for several months. I was grateful, particularly since Miss Kitty is cute and very friendly. I just hope her health checks out.
Now we are home living our lives as usual and I am wondering how she's doing there. I'll bet she's sorry she ever landed on my doorstep. I just hope one day she's adopted by someone amazing who will thoroughly love her. Maybe then Miss Kitty will forgive us.
Friday, November 19, 2010
I Tawt I Taw a Putty Tat
When we got home last night, Adam informed me that there was a little black kitten hanging around the complex, nearly begging to be taken in. Despite both of our acclamations that we would never have another cat after Greg House, Adam admitted that this little black kitty was "tugging at his heartstrings" and then I of course raced outside to find it.
He crawled out from underneath a car and came right up to me, all meow-y and cute. He even let me pick him up. I knew for the sake of our household I couldn't take him inside at that moment, but ooo, did I want to! He was SO adorable.
I finally put him down and watched him run off with a larger orange tabby. Am I really going to do this?, I thought to myself. We don't want more cats. They spray, they claw at carpet and furniture, they jump on countertops, they use litterboxes. All things I don't like. All things dogs, for the most part, don't do. And we want a dog in the near future, not another cat.
Adam and I hashed out all the reasons we shouldn't take in the kitten--more vet bills, altercations with Greg House, etc, etc. But in the end, who the hell are we kidding? As with all of our other pets, they have found us, not the other way around.
We are becoming cat people. Prepare to assimilate. Resistance is futile.
Meow.
He crawled out from underneath a car and came right up to me, all meow-y and cute. He even let me pick him up. I knew for the sake of our household I couldn't take him inside at that moment, but ooo, did I want to! He was SO adorable.
I finally put him down and watched him run off with a larger orange tabby. Am I really going to do this?, I thought to myself. We don't want more cats. They spray, they claw at carpet and furniture, they jump on countertops, they use litterboxes. All things I don't like. All things dogs, for the most part, don't do. And we want a dog in the near future, not another cat.
Adam and I hashed out all the reasons we shouldn't take in the kitten--more vet bills, altercations with Greg House, etc, etc. But in the end, who the hell are we kidding? As with all of our other pets, they have found us, not the other way around.
We are becoming cat people. Prepare to assimilate. Resistance is futile.
Meow.
Motherhood Makes Me Want To Vomit
Bryony, Janice and I travelled four hours north on Tuesday to spend a few days with Janice's friend Paula and her parents. It was a nice escape from Killeen for me, and the weather was nice--if a bit windy--which made for some great birding. Paula and Janice are both wildlife biologists and so they got my butt back in shape...at least in terms of getting out my binos, field guide and going out to search for birds.
Bryony had a great time, too. She was surrounded by people who were really receptive to her, so she got lots of attention. Oh, and there were two large, friendly labrador retrievers, so she had some furry playmates to add to the fun. Many a moments were spent watching Bryony get swatted in the face by a long, furry tail or seeing her lying lazily in the arch of a pup's abdomeen as he curled sleepily on the floor. Both of us girls had lots of fun.
Yesterday morning, Janice took Bryony to the backyard to push her in the baby swing that hung from the tree (the owners of the house have many grandchildren and great-grandchildren so they were all prepared with toys galore!). I stayed inside to straighten things up, but meandered over to the window at some point to watch. My daughter was laughing her head off, having the time of her life as Janice pushed her once, twice, and once again, back and forth, back and forth. My first feeling was happiness to see my kid so alive with joy and delight. My second feeling was serenity to have a few quiet moments to myself. My third feeling was annoyance that I was spending said "quiet moments" watching my kid rather than reading a book or having a cup of tea or attaining world peace or whatever. My fourth feeling was a realization that the reason I couldn't tear myself away from the window was because my stomach had been doing flip-flops, then somersaults, then all-out volcanic eruptions as I watched what seemed to be the swing's increasingly closer approach to the tree trunk. In my mind's eye, I just saw my baby swing SPLAT! into the tree and everytime she'd rock back and forth, I felt my nerves attack my skin with little daggers that made me bristle and cringe. I knew rationally that Janice would never let my baby crash into the tree, but being inside the house, not in control of the situation, I felt helpless and sick. I literally wanted to vomit. I willed myself away from that window but my feet wouldn't budge. At some point Paula asked me how I was enjoying "some time to myself" and I made a lame joke about using it to watch my daughter. I couldn't admit to her my irrational fear that in the 20 feet away from me that Bryony was, something awful was going to happen.
I finally forced myself away from the window and sat down to watch tv, but the image of the swing swaying, slanted toward the tree trunk stayed in my mind and I couldn't relax. Not until they came inside, unscathed, Bryony's nose a rosy red from the morning cold, her mouth stretched into a large, toothy grin. Janice said she'd noticed Bryony rubbing her little hands together, so she'd decided it was getting too cold for her, so they'd come inside. This perceptive woman is the same person I had feared would allow my child to swing into a tree trunk? Have I gone insane?
Kinda, I think.
I've gone mother.
Bryony had a great time, too. She was surrounded by people who were really receptive to her, so she got lots of attention. Oh, and there were two large, friendly labrador retrievers, so she had some furry playmates to add to the fun. Many a moments were spent watching Bryony get swatted in the face by a long, furry tail or seeing her lying lazily in the arch of a pup's abdomeen as he curled sleepily on the floor. Both of us girls had lots of fun.
Yesterday morning, Janice took Bryony to the backyard to push her in the baby swing that hung from the tree (the owners of the house have many grandchildren and great-grandchildren so they were all prepared with toys galore!). I stayed inside to straighten things up, but meandered over to the window at some point to watch. My daughter was laughing her head off, having the time of her life as Janice pushed her once, twice, and once again, back and forth, back and forth. My first feeling was happiness to see my kid so alive with joy and delight. My second feeling was serenity to have a few quiet moments to myself. My third feeling was annoyance that I was spending said "quiet moments" watching my kid rather than reading a book or having a cup of tea or attaining world peace or whatever. My fourth feeling was a realization that the reason I couldn't tear myself away from the window was because my stomach had been doing flip-flops, then somersaults, then all-out volcanic eruptions as I watched what seemed to be the swing's increasingly closer approach to the tree trunk. In my mind's eye, I just saw my baby swing SPLAT! into the tree and everytime she'd rock back and forth, I felt my nerves attack my skin with little daggers that made me bristle and cringe. I knew rationally that Janice would never let my baby crash into the tree, but being inside the house, not in control of the situation, I felt helpless and sick. I literally wanted to vomit. I willed myself away from that window but my feet wouldn't budge. At some point Paula asked me how I was enjoying "some time to myself" and I made a lame joke about using it to watch my daughter. I couldn't admit to her my irrational fear that in the 20 feet away from me that Bryony was, something awful was going to happen.
I finally forced myself away from the window and sat down to watch tv, but the image of the swing swaying, slanted toward the tree trunk stayed in my mind and I couldn't relax. Not until they came inside, unscathed, Bryony's nose a rosy red from the morning cold, her mouth stretched into a large, toothy grin. Janice said she'd noticed Bryony rubbing her little hands together, so she'd decided it was getting too cold for her, so they'd come inside. This perceptive woman is the same person I had feared would allow my child to swing into a tree trunk? Have I gone insane?
Kinda, I think.
I've gone mother.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Nanny Diaries
I'm feeling a need to write something a bit more light-hearted since my posts have taken a more serious (or even depressing) tone of late. My friend Janice (my former roommate in Oregon, 2007) is in town visiting us, which has been GREAT. In the short time that she's been here, we've had a picnic (which Adam has been begging for years for us to make time for and it just never happened), a nature hike at a nearby natural area (which we hadn't yet made it to in the six months that we've been here) and she also helped me narrow my search for my next laptop computer. Having Janice around is not only fun; it's also productive.
She asked me last night how I manage to keep this blog updated so frequently (truth be told, I wish I had the fortitude to blog daily, but I'm grateful that I can usually manage 1-2 times per week). She said she couldn't imagine having enough material to write something as often as I do. I laughed and told her about my nasty little habit of writing blog posts in my head at the most inappropriate times--on the toilet, while breastfeeding, in bed when I should be sleeping, driving, eating, etc...little does she know that I actually jot down a list of topics so that I don't lose the thoughts that I have when I sit down to write. Yes, it's become a bit of an obsession.
This evening, while Adam and Janice gleefully watch Josh Brolin as "Jonah Hex" I decided that I'd write a little bit about my time as a baby-sitter for uptown Manhattanites during the mid-late 90s when I was in college at NYU. My then-roommate, Katya, had been working for the agency for a year or so by the time I got hired. She assured me it was a fairly easy way to make some pocket money and she was right. The agency charged the clients $12/hour; we sitters got to keep #8/hr, and the remaining $4/hr went to the agency. In addition, the client was responsible for paying for our subway fare to their apartment and then, if it was after 8pm, cab fare home. Katya instructed me on the stealth of riding my bicycle to the client's house so I could pocket the subway and cab fare as extra money. It was awesome. Some of the clients even paid for us to get take-out for dinner. When the parents didn't have you arrive till 6:30 or 7pm and the kids went to bed at 8pm, it felt like you were getting paid really well to work the easiest non-job ever.
But...there were times when you felt like you earned every single penny of your compensation. Between crazy parents, messed-up kids and weird situations, nannying in Manhattan could sometimes take on a life of its own. For instance, there was the potato incident...I was baby-sitting for a 10-year old kid, we'll call him Bobby. He lived with his mother and new stepdad, who Bobby didn't really like very much; he took his feelings about his new stepdad out on the hockey goal set up in his bedroom, where he insisted that I take up a stick and try to block his shots. At $8/hour, it was rare for me to refuse to play with one of my charges. One particular night, however, I arrived in time for his mother, an overly-thin, sharp-nosed, somewhat attractive fake-blond, to tell me to finish getting Bobby's dinner ready so that she could get ready for an evening out with her husband. I tried to take over dinner-making duties, but Bobby insisted that he could make the baked potato himself. I tried on several occasions to help him but he started to make a fuss and the step-dad, ever trying to please his new stepson, instructed me to let Bobby have a try. So I did. Dinner was ready just as the parents were about to leave the apartment and Bobby, sticking a large piece of baked potato in his mouth, spits it dramatically and starts coughing and spewing saying that it tasted awful. His mother flies over to the table, grabs the uncooked potato and flies into a rage, yelling at me and her husband, "This isn't cooked! How could you expect him to eat this? There are three adults in this house; couldn't one of you figure out how to cook a potato?!" Then she flounced angrily from the room. Boy. Bobby happily didn't eat his potato that night and at the first chance, made his way into his room to play hockey. His mother seemed sheepish when she got home later that evening (I'm assuming her husband told her what had happened) but she didn't apologize. Typical.
Then there was the ultra-nice couple with the brand-new baby who barely cried; he just cooed and slept the entire time I sat for him and it was great...especially because his parents would always leave a $20 for me to order takeout. But they were uber-nice to a fault...particulary when they would always suggest that I spend the night at their place "rather than go home at 12 o'clock at night! We've got plenty of room for you to stay here!" The first time I sat for them and they suggested it, I thought they were just worried about my well-being, seeing that I was a young woman travelling through the streets of Manhattan on a weekend night. But then, with each subsequent visit to their place, the persistent urgings to stay overnight became more insistent. I remember mentioning to Katya that I would be baby-sitting for these clients and the first thing she asked was, "Do they always try to get you to stay overnight?" I was floored; they had tried to get her to stay, too. We decided that this trendy young couple (they lived in the Union Square area and were artists) were wannabe swingers and looking for a willing partner for their menage trois.
Katya had some really scary situations of her own, but one was so incredibly awful that she called home to our dormroom to seek advice from me and our other roommate (who also worked for the agency at times). Katya had gone to a new client's home to sit for their two-year old daughter. Upon the parents leaving, Katya played with the little girl and then started to get her ready for bed. It was around this time that the little girl ran into her parent's room, climbed up on their bed, flung herself down and told Katya to "tickle my p*^&^y!" Katya was floored. What???? She thought--hoped--she had misunderstood the little girl. When she asked the girl to repeat herself, the two-year old repeated exactly what Katya thought she'd said. Katya didn't know what to do. After all, where does a two-year old learn that language or that request from? Her parents? Is dad a molestor? Katya knew that the family had recently taken a trip with relatives and some full-time nannies; could any of them have abused her? Katya called our dormroom in a panic to seek advice. Should she confront the parents? But what if one of them were the molestors and did something to her? She frantically gave us the address where she was, and we assured her that even if the parents were cornered it was highly unlikely that they'd try to harm her. After hanging up, we sat and waited...for hours for her to come home. Despite all of our earnest efforts to reassure her, we were concerned for her safety and for that of the little girl, too. Finally, several hours later Katya arrived home. She told us the story of how she tentatively confronted the parents about their daughter's inappropriate comments and behavior, and how the mother ruefully admitted that she would tickle her daughter "down there" while changing her diaper and call her private area "your little p&*%y!." Katya was shocked but managed to just nod her head through it all and get home. After telling us about how the drama unfolded, she promptly left a detailed message on the answering machine of the agency so the owner would know what happened. We found out later that this family was bumped off the client list permanently. In hindsight, I wonder if this was enough. If this little girl was being molested by her mother, shouldn't the police have been involved?
My worst baby-sitting experience ever was while working for a family I'll call the Smiths. They comprised a mother and her two daughters (dad was never mentioned so I never could tell if he was deceased or just absent). Katya had baby-sat for them several times in the past but had eventually begged off after the elder daughter, Maria (she was thirteen) requested that Katya sit with her in the bathroom while she bathed. Katya explained that Maria was a voluptuous 13-year old and seemed to want a little too much attention from Katya while bathing. Eventually, I was called to baby-sit for the girls. The younger daughter, Sarah, was a delight. She was outgoing, playful and, well, normal. Maria, however...there was always an overly sexual quality to Maria that was geared toward exhibitionism or inappropriate conduct that left me unnerved. After the first time I sat for them, the mother, upon coming home for the night, gave me an earful in the kitchen about how difficult it was to raise two daughters and how there were some issues they were going to counseling to sort through. Way more than I was expecting to hear from a parent or wanted to know, but I guess everyone needs to get things off their chest from time to time, even if it's just to the baby-sitter.
One night I was schedule to baby-sit for the Smiths and when I arrived, two young women I didn't recognize were there. It turned out that Ms. Smith had hired a Spanish au pair for the summer to watch over the girls since they were off from school. It was the au pair's evening off (hence, my presence) and she had her friend, a fellow Spanish au pair, over to hang out. Ms. Smith informed me before leaving that they had been experiencing some technical difficulties with their desktop computer and were expecting a computer technician (or "techie" as she called him) to come over to work on it. She said it was a young guy who had come over several times before so she felt comfortable with him being in the apartment, even in her absence. After Ms. Smith all went well for awhile. The au pairs, despite having the evening off, invited me and the girls to hang out with them, listening to music and just chatting. It was a nice evening, very low-key and fun, that I barely noticed when Maria said it was time for her to go take her shower before bed. After all, she was almost 14 years old and I trusted her to know when she needed to bathe. She stripped down naked in front of all of us in all her glory and made a point of exposing every inch of herself to us. I asked her to please head to the bathroom for her shower and she obeyed. Once she was out of earshot, the au pair cocked an eyebrow at me and confided that she had some very deep concerns about Maria's behavior, especially since Ms. Smith either didn't notice it or just tried to ignore it. Just then, the doorbell rang. The techie! Sarah ran to answer the door, and just as she started to open it Maria flounced out of the bathroom, fully naked, to expose herself to the computer technician! All three of us caretakers gasped and hustled her back into the bathroom just in time. She had a look of smugness on her face as if she had known exactly what she was doing. I managed to disentangle myself from that situation long enough to show the technician to the computer he was supposed to work on, then partially closed the wooden door to the den behind me.
After both Maria and Sarah were showered and ready for bed, we all spent a little more time in the au pair's room listening to her tell stories and joke around. At some point, Maria made an excuse to quickly go to the kitchen, but none of us thought much of it. It was only after five or more minutes had gone by that we realized she had not returned.
"Where's Maria?" one of us asked the group. We checked her bedroom, the kitchen, Sarah's room the bathroom...no Maria. Then, we noticed that the door to the den was firmly shut. I had a mental image of my leaving the door slightly ajar when I had left the technician earlier. I went into panic mode and tried to open the door, which had been locked. The au pairs and I were frantic at this point, banging on the door, ordering Maria to open it. The au pair finally managed to find a key to the door, unlocking it and opening the door to a sly-looking Maria hovering seductively over a very uncomfortable-looking young technician. We all three ascertained from the scene that he had not accepted her advances, but rather seemed more scared than turned on. We hauled Maria out of the den and insisted that she go to bed and not leave her room for the rest of the night. I tried to come up with ways to tell her mother what had happened. I even hoped that the au pairs would help me, but they ended up leaving to go to a nightclub before Ms. Smith returned home, so the onus was on me. How do you tell a woman her daughter is sexually permiscuous? Did Ms. Smith already know? Was this conversation going to cost me my job at their home? Did I even care?
In the end, my 19-year old self chickened out and didn't tell Ms. Smith anything, hoping that Sarah, or the au pair, or perhaps even the technician might fill her in on what happened. My adult self now realizes that not only was it my responsibility to tell her, it was in Maria's best interest that her mother know. I often wonder how that family is today and who Maria turned out to be. I often wonder if my cowardice might have cost Maria the one opportunity to get the help she so very much needed.
The kids I baby-sat for in that time period--from the babies to the teens--are anywhere from teenagers to young adults now. I can barely imagine those young children being the men and women of graduating high school and college classes, the fresh-faced entrants into the working populace, future mothers and fathers themselves. Time has a way of flying by, and I just hope that despite my missteps, I was perhaps able to make some positive impression on their young lives.
She asked me last night how I manage to keep this blog updated so frequently (truth be told, I wish I had the fortitude to blog daily, but I'm grateful that I can usually manage 1-2 times per week). She said she couldn't imagine having enough material to write something as often as I do. I laughed and told her about my nasty little habit of writing blog posts in my head at the most inappropriate times--on the toilet, while breastfeeding, in bed when I should be sleeping, driving, eating, etc...little does she know that I actually jot down a list of topics so that I don't lose the thoughts that I have when I sit down to write. Yes, it's become a bit of an obsession.
This evening, while Adam and Janice gleefully watch Josh Brolin as "Jonah Hex" I decided that I'd write a little bit about my time as a baby-sitter for uptown Manhattanites during the mid-late 90s when I was in college at NYU. My then-roommate, Katya, had been working for the agency for a year or so by the time I got hired. She assured me it was a fairly easy way to make some pocket money and she was right. The agency charged the clients $12/hour; we sitters got to keep #8/hr, and the remaining $4/hr went to the agency. In addition, the client was responsible for paying for our subway fare to their apartment and then, if it was after 8pm, cab fare home. Katya instructed me on the stealth of riding my bicycle to the client's house so I could pocket the subway and cab fare as extra money. It was awesome. Some of the clients even paid for us to get take-out for dinner. When the parents didn't have you arrive till 6:30 or 7pm and the kids went to bed at 8pm, it felt like you were getting paid really well to work the easiest non-job ever.
But...there were times when you felt like you earned every single penny of your compensation. Between crazy parents, messed-up kids and weird situations, nannying in Manhattan could sometimes take on a life of its own. For instance, there was the potato incident...I was baby-sitting for a 10-year old kid, we'll call him Bobby. He lived with his mother and new stepdad, who Bobby didn't really like very much; he took his feelings about his new stepdad out on the hockey goal set up in his bedroom, where he insisted that I take up a stick and try to block his shots. At $8/hour, it was rare for me to refuse to play with one of my charges. One particular night, however, I arrived in time for his mother, an overly-thin, sharp-nosed, somewhat attractive fake-blond, to tell me to finish getting Bobby's dinner ready so that she could get ready for an evening out with her husband. I tried to take over dinner-making duties, but Bobby insisted that he could make the baked potato himself. I tried on several occasions to help him but he started to make a fuss and the step-dad, ever trying to please his new stepson, instructed me to let Bobby have a try. So I did. Dinner was ready just as the parents were about to leave the apartment and Bobby, sticking a large piece of baked potato in his mouth, spits it dramatically and starts coughing and spewing saying that it tasted awful. His mother flies over to the table, grabs the uncooked potato and flies into a rage, yelling at me and her husband, "This isn't cooked! How could you expect him to eat this? There are three adults in this house; couldn't one of you figure out how to cook a potato?!" Then she flounced angrily from the room. Boy. Bobby happily didn't eat his potato that night and at the first chance, made his way into his room to play hockey. His mother seemed sheepish when she got home later that evening (I'm assuming her husband told her what had happened) but she didn't apologize. Typical.
Then there was the ultra-nice couple with the brand-new baby who barely cried; he just cooed and slept the entire time I sat for him and it was great...especially because his parents would always leave a $20 for me to order takeout. But they were uber-nice to a fault...particulary when they would always suggest that I spend the night at their place "rather than go home at 12 o'clock at night! We've got plenty of room for you to stay here!" The first time I sat for them and they suggested it, I thought they were just worried about my well-being, seeing that I was a young woman travelling through the streets of Manhattan on a weekend night. But then, with each subsequent visit to their place, the persistent urgings to stay overnight became more insistent. I remember mentioning to Katya that I would be baby-sitting for these clients and the first thing she asked was, "Do they always try to get you to stay overnight?" I was floored; they had tried to get her to stay, too. We decided that this trendy young couple (they lived in the Union Square area and were artists) were wannabe swingers and looking for a willing partner for their menage trois.
Katya had some really scary situations of her own, but one was so incredibly awful that she called home to our dormroom to seek advice from me and our other roommate (who also worked for the agency at times). Katya had gone to a new client's home to sit for their two-year old daughter. Upon the parents leaving, Katya played with the little girl and then started to get her ready for bed. It was around this time that the little girl ran into her parent's room, climbed up on their bed, flung herself down and told Katya to "tickle my p*^&^y!" Katya was floored. What???? She thought--hoped--she had misunderstood the little girl. When she asked the girl to repeat herself, the two-year old repeated exactly what Katya thought she'd said. Katya didn't know what to do. After all, where does a two-year old learn that language or that request from? Her parents? Is dad a molestor? Katya knew that the family had recently taken a trip with relatives and some full-time nannies; could any of them have abused her? Katya called our dormroom in a panic to seek advice. Should she confront the parents? But what if one of them were the molestors and did something to her? She frantically gave us the address where she was, and we assured her that even if the parents were cornered it was highly unlikely that they'd try to harm her. After hanging up, we sat and waited...for hours for her to come home. Despite all of our earnest efforts to reassure her, we were concerned for her safety and for that of the little girl, too. Finally, several hours later Katya arrived home. She told us the story of how she tentatively confronted the parents about their daughter's inappropriate comments and behavior, and how the mother ruefully admitted that she would tickle her daughter "down there" while changing her diaper and call her private area "your little p&*%y!." Katya was shocked but managed to just nod her head through it all and get home. After telling us about how the drama unfolded, she promptly left a detailed message on the answering machine of the agency so the owner would know what happened. We found out later that this family was bumped off the client list permanently. In hindsight, I wonder if this was enough. If this little girl was being molested by her mother, shouldn't the police have been involved?
My worst baby-sitting experience ever was while working for a family I'll call the Smiths. They comprised a mother and her two daughters (dad was never mentioned so I never could tell if he was deceased or just absent). Katya had baby-sat for them several times in the past but had eventually begged off after the elder daughter, Maria (she was thirteen) requested that Katya sit with her in the bathroom while she bathed. Katya explained that Maria was a voluptuous 13-year old and seemed to want a little too much attention from Katya while bathing. Eventually, I was called to baby-sit for the girls. The younger daughter, Sarah, was a delight. She was outgoing, playful and, well, normal. Maria, however...there was always an overly sexual quality to Maria that was geared toward exhibitionism or inappropriate conduct that left me unnerved. After the first time I sat for them, the mother, upon coming home for the night, gave me an earful in the kitchen about how difficult it was to raise two daughters and how there were some issues they were going to counseling to sort through. Way more than I was expecting to hear from a parent or wanted to know, but I guess everyone needs to get things off their chest from time to time, even if it's just to the baby-sitter.
One night I was schedule to baby-sit for the Smiths and when I arrived, two young women I didn't recognize were there. It turned out that Ms. Smith had hired a Spanish au pair for the summer to watch over the girls since they were off from school. It was the au pair's evening off (hence, my presence) and she had her friend, a fellow Spanish au pair, over to hang out. Ms. Smith informed me before leaving that they had been experiencing some technical difficulties with their desktop computer and were expecting a computer technician (or "techie" as she called him) to come over to work on it. She said it was a young guy who had come over several times before so she felt comfortable with him being in the apartment, even in her absence. After Ms. Smith all went well for awhile. The au pairs, despite having the evening off, invited me and the girls to hang out with them, listening to music and just chatting. It was a nice evening, very low-key and fun, that I barely noticed when Maria said it was time for her to go take her shower before bed. After all, she was almost 14 years old and I trusted her to know when she needed to bathe. She stripped down naked in front of all of us in all her glory and made a point of exposing every inch of herself to us. I asked her to please head to the bathroom for her shower and she obeyed. Once she was out of earshot, the au pair cocked an eyebrow at me and confided that she had some very deep concerns about Maria's behavior, especially since Ms. Smith either didn't notice it or just tried to ignore it. Just then, the doorbell rang. The techie! Sarah ran to answer the door, and just as she started to open it Maria flounced out of the bathroom, fully naked, to expose herself to the computer technician! All three of us caretakers gasped and hustled her back into the bathroom just in time. She had a look of smugness on her face as if she had known exactly what she was doing. I managed to disentangle myself from that situation long enough to show the technician to the computer he was supposed to work on, then partially closed the wooden door to the den behind me.
After both Maria and Sarah were showered and ready for bed, we all spent a little more time in the au pair's room listening to her tell stories and joke around. At some point, Maria made an excuse to quickly go to the kitchen, but none of us thought much of it. It was only after five or more minutes had gone by that we realized she had not returned.
"Where's Maria?" one of us asked the group. We checked her bedroom, the kitchen, Sarah's room the bathroom...no Maria. Then, we noticed that the door to the den was firmly shut. I had a mental image of my leaving the door slightly ajar when I had left the technician earlier. I went into panic mode and tried to open the door, which had been locked. The au pairs and I were frantic at this point, banging on the door, ordering Maria to open it. The au pair finally managed to find a key to the door, unlocking it and opening the door to a sly-looking Maria hovering seductively over a very uncomfortable-looking young technician. We all three ascertained from the scene that he had not accepted her advances, but rather seemed more scared than turned on. We hauled Maria out of the den and insisted that she go to bed and not leave her room for the rest of the night. I tried to come up with ways to tell her mother what had happened. I even hoped that the au pairs would help me, but they ended up leaving to go to a nightclub before Ms. Smith returned home, so the onus was on me. How do you tell a woman her daughter is sexually permiscuous? Did Ms. Smith already know? Was this conversation going to cost me my job at their home? Did I even care?
In the end, my 19-year old self chickened out and didn't tell Ms. Smith anything, hoping that Sarah, or the au pair, or perhaps even the technician might fill her in on what happened. My adult self now realizes that not only was it my responsibility to tell her, it was in Maria's best interest that her mother know. I often wonder how that family is today and who Maria turned out to be. I often wonder if my cowardice might have cost Maria the one opportunity to get the help she so very much needed.
The kids I baby-sat for in that time period--from the babies to the teens--are anywhere from teenagers to young adults now. I can barely imagine those young children being the men and women of graduating high school and college classes, the fresh-faced entrants into the working populace, future mothers and fathers themselves. Time has a way of flying by, and I just hope that despite my missteps, I was perhaps able to make some positive impression on their young lives.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
I Can Do Geek All By Myself
Am I the only person who totally feels like I put my foot in my mouth at every opportunity? Whether I'm attempting to sound clever at a business event, amongst a new crowd of friends, or even just with my everyday friends and family, I always seem to say something stupid that makes everyone tense up momentarily, right before they cast the sidelong glance at me that silently says, "Did you really just say that??"
Adam says I have no internal monologue, that my thoughts just seem to stream unchecked from my mouth as they come to my brain. But, I argue, I'm not tactless; I don't say things that hurt others' feelings or make them feel uncomfortable. No...I make sure to keep my conversation embarassing only for myself so that I'm the only one in the room that people feel sorry for. I have chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome.
Oh, let me list the ways...how about when I recently sent an email to a new friend (and someone whose work I really admire and am a big fan of) telling her that I'm "your fan, not a crazy, psycho stalker, but the fact that I felt a need to say that suggests otherwise." (Oy!) Or perhaps when my recently divorced friend who's been unlucky on the dating scene so far tells me that she's going on a dating hiatus to spend more time with herself, and instead of sympathizing with her I respond, "Maybe next time Adam gets on my nerves, I'll spend more time with myself, too...jk, my married life is actually really good!" (Rub it in, why don't you, brainiac!) Oh, and yes, the real beauty was when a dear friend who had a baby a few months ago confided that she's been too tired to be intimate with her husband, and I come back with "Really? I can't keep my hands off Adam! I'm so randy he says he's going to need a pinch hitter soon!" (Yes, I said that to her, and I just said it again here. Doh!)
I think I need to be one of those people who makes a year-long vow of silence, showing up on Oprah and Good Morning, America with my pen and paper to answer questions in the written word. Maybe if I had to take time to write things down, I'd give more thought to the lame things I say before anyone else has to hear (or read) them.
In the meantime, doesn't Best Buy have a Squad for people like me?
Adam says I have no internal monologue, that my thoughts just seem to stream unchecked from my mouth as they come to my brain. But, I argue, I'm not tactless; I don't say things that hurt others' feelings or make them feel uncomfortable. No...I make sure to keep my conversation embarassing only for myself so that I'm the only one in the room that people feel sorry for. I have chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome.
Oh, let me list the ways...how about when I recently sent an email to a new friend (and someone whose work I really admire and am a big fan of) telling her that I'm "your fan, not a crazy, psycho stalker, but the fact that I felt a need to say that suggests otherwise." (Oy!) Or perhaps when my recently divorced friend who's been unlucky on the dating scene so far tells me that she's going on a dating hiatus to spend more time with herself, and instead of sympathizing with her I respond, "Maybe next time Adam gets on my nerves, I'll spend more time with myself, too...jk, my married life is actually really good!" (Rub it in, why don't you, brainiac!) Oh, and yes, the real beauty was when a dear friend who had a baby a few months ago confided that she's been too tired to be intimate with her husband, and I come back with "Really? I can't keep my hands off Adam! I'm so randy he says he's going to need a pinch hitter soon!" (Yes, I said that to her, and I just said it again here. Doh!)
I think I need to be one of those people who makes a year-long vow of silence, showing up on Oprah and Good Morning, America with my pen and paper to answer questions in the written word. Maybe if I had to take time to write things down, I'd give more thought to the lame things I say before anyone else has to hear (or read) them.
In the meantime, doesn't Best Buy have a Squad for people like me?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Midday Special
When we were in Virginia visiting family a couple weeks ago, we were subjected to a bunch of jokes and riddles (and I even threw a few of my own in the mix) that were just good (or bad?) enough to share. Hope they tickle your ribs a bit.
Olympic skier Picabo (pronounced Peek-a-boo) Street has recently made a rather large donation to Cedars-Sinai Hospital's Intensive Care Unit. Upon the dedication, it will now be called "Picabo ICU."
Q: Why didn't Moses take snakes onto the ark?
A: Because Moses didn't build the ark; Noah did.
Riddle: I have two coins that total thirty cents, but one of them is not a nickel. What are the two coins I have?
Answer: A quarter and a nickel. I said one of them is not a nickel (the quarter) but the other one is.
Riddle: A plane carrying a father and his son crashes in the jungle. The father is killed immediately, but the son, badly injured, is rescued and taken to hospital. Upon reaching the ER, the attending doctor states, "I cannot operate on my own son." How is it possible for the boy to be the doctor's son?
Answer: The doctor is the boy's mother.
Q: What happened when the cannibal was late for dinner?
A: They gave him the cold shoulder.
Q: What did the frustrated cannibal do?
A: He threw up his hands.
One day a police officer was called to the local daycare center because one of the children was resisting a rest.
On another day the same police officer was called back to the daycare center because the teacher was cross-eyed; she was having trouble controlling her pupils.
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a swimming pool?
A: Bob
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs at the front door?
A: Matt
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a pile of leaves?
A: Russell
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs hanging on the wall?
A: Art
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs under a car?
A: Jack
Olympic skier Picabo (pronounced Peek-a-boo) Street has recently made a rather large donation to Cedars-Sinai Hospital's Intensive Care Unit. Upon the dedication, it will now be called "Picabo ICU."
Q: Why didn't Moses take snakes onto the ark?
A: Because Moses didn't build the ark; Noah did.
Riddle: I have two coins that total thirty cents, but one of them is not a nickel. What are the two coins I have?
Answer: A quarter and a nickel. I said one of them is not a nickel (the quarter) but the other one is.
Riddle: A plane carrying a father and his son crashes in the jungle. The father is killed immediately, but the son, badly injured, is rescued and taken to hospital. Upon reaching the ER, the attending doctor states, "I cannot operate on my own son." How is it possible for the boy to be the doctor's son?
Answer: The doctor is the boy's mother.
Q: What happened when the cannibal was late for dinner?
A: They gave him the cold shoulder.
Q: What did the frustrated cannibal do?
A: He threw up his hands.
One day a police officer was called to the local daycare center because one of the children was resisting a rest.
On another day the same police officer was called back to the daycare center because the teacher was cross-eyed; she was having trouble controlling her pupils.
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a swimming pool?
A: Bob
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs at the front door?
A: Matt
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a pile of leaves?
A: Russell
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs hanging on the wall?
A: Art
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs under a car?
A: Jack
Monday, November 8, 2010
Welcome to the World, Caylie Lucille!
Our family is overjoyed to welcome baby girl Caylie Lucille to the Riley and Berghorn families. You are a lovely, adorable thing and we cannot wait to meet you. Congratulations to Em and George on this very great creation. You done good, guys!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Great Expectations
Oh, how I have missed thee, dear blog! It has been nearly two weeks of non-posting, and I have sincerely thought about you, craved you, and created virtual posts the entire duration. But, I must admit that in my absence, I have had wonderful travels, seeing family for the first time in almost a year, and visiting my little house and dear friends who I miss everyday. While it is hard to be away from them all once again, I am happy to be with Adam once more, and to you, dear blog.
Tonight, I started thinking that maybe I'm a modern-day Mrs. Haversham. Perhaps I expect too much and can't let go of the image of my life that I once built up in my mind: me, successful career woman ably balancing marriage, parenthood and profession. I see other people do it so well, I wonder why it just doesn't work out for me. I'm in a place I never thought I'd be in--unintentionally unemployed, at home with my child longer than I planned, in a place with few social or professional prospects. Today my mind went to dark places that unnerved me enough that I am forcing myself to accentuate the positive...eliminate the negative, and all that corny nonsense.
Actually, my travels were so so very good that the entire time I had plans to write my first post-travel blogpost about "Gratitude". Gratitude for all the things I do have, despite the lack of some things that I really, really want. And so, in keeping with my aim to obey Bing Crosby, here is the post that I promised myself I'd write. I think it will be good for me to get my head into the light a bit, and it'll also let you guys know that I've not succumbed to strictly whining, bitching and complaining about my present situation. There are good thoughts in this head of mine, too.
Anyway, during my travels, I had occasion to speak to a really good friend of mine who is going through her own personal obstacles, primarily in the relationship department. It was this commentary from her that totally perked up my ears for the first time, allowing me to leave the depths of my self-pity and think about someone else's lot for a bit.
She said, "Lauren, I know it's been really hard for you to not have a job right now after you've worked so hard to get one. But when I look at your life, I see a wonderful husband, a beautiful daughter and great family and friends. Maybe you're at a point where you're just not supposed to have everything all at once, and you have to just focus on the things that you DO have. I know how it feels, because I've been thinking the same thing about my life. I have a wonderful job that I love, great family and friends, awesome pets...but I don't have anyone to come home to at night, and that's hard. But I'm thinking that maybe I'm not supposed to have it all at once right now, and this is my chance to really focus on and appreciate the things that I do have."
It was a bit more religious and new-agey than I'm used to subscribing to (I tend to believe that we all make our own destiny within the confines of the hand of cards we're dealt, not that some higher power is pulling the strings determining our fate). However, there was some merit to what she was saying. What's the harm in putting aside thoughts of desperation, anger, failure and resignation and replacing them with more positive sentiments about the great things in my life? After all, I do have so many wonderful things to be grateful for, proud of and happy about, and I am all of these things.
Later in my travels, I spoke to another friend about the wisdom of my previous friend's comments, and she laughed appreciatively, saying, "Funny you should bring that up, because it doesn't look like I'm going to ever have kids and I'm really sad about that. But I'm trying to remember that I have a great job, a wonderful husband and extended family, friends that I love...and so if kids don't ever come, I'm still lucky to have the life I have."
It was a tough pill for me to swallow. Here I have been consumed with self-pity and anxiety and desperation for months because of my current state of joblessness while a good friend is dealing with the idea of never having the children she so much wants. Not even a close call. A job--some job--will one day come to me, I know it. But for her to never experience what it is to have a child, an experience that she really wants...I felt so sad for her. It put my own situation into much clearer perspective.
And so, with that, I will list the many wonderful things in my life for which I'm eternally grateful. These are in no particular order, mind you. And thanks to my friends who support me, guide me, and set me straight. Love you.
Bryony
Adam
Extended family
Greg House and Kika (and Shabbi, wherever she is)
My girlfriends
My guy friends
My (and my family's) health
My education
My experiences
Adam's employment
My ability to travel to see family and friends from time to time
My freedom (legal, literal and figurative)
I'm trying to let go of some of my expectations about my life, and focus on being happy with the "what is" instead of being sad about the "what isn't". It's a work in progress.
Tonight, I started thinking that maybe I'm a modern-day Mrs. Haversham. Perhaps I expect too much and can't let go of the image of my life that I once built up in my mind: me, successful career woman ably balancing marriage, parenthood and profession. I see other people do it so well, I wonder why it just doesn't work out for me. I'm in a place I never thought I'd be in--unintentionally unemployed, at home with my child longer than I planned, in a place with few social or professional prospects. Today my mind went to dark places that unnerved me enough that I am forcing myself to accentuate the positive...eliminate the negative, and all that corny nonsense.
Actually, my travels were so so very good that the entire time I had plans to write my first post-travel blogpost about "Gratitude". Gratitude for all the things I do have, despite the lack of some things that I really, really want. And so, in keeping with my aim to obey Bing Crosby, here is the post that I promised myself I'd write. I think it will be good for me to get my head into the light a bit, and it'll also let you guys know that I've not succumbed to strictly whining, bitching and complaining about my present situation. There are good thoughts in this head of mine, too.
Anyway, during my travels, I had occasion to speak to a really good friend of mine who is going through her own personal obstacles, primarily in the relationship department. It was this commentary from her that totally perked up my ears for the first time, allowing me to leave the depths of my self-pity and think about someone else's lot for a bit.
She said, "Lauren, I know it's been really hard for you to not have a job right now after you've worked so hard to get one. But when I look at your life, I see a wonderful husband, a beautiful daughter and great family and friends. Maybe you're at a point where you're just not supposed to have everything all at once, and you have to just focus on the things that you DO have. I know how it feels, because I've been thinking the same thing about my life. I have a wonderful job that I love, great family and friends, awesome pets...but I don't have anyone to come home to at night, and that's hard. But I'm thinking that maybe I'm not supposed to have it all at once right now, and this is my chance to really focus on and appreciate the things that I do have."
It was a bit more religious and new-agey than I'm used to subscribing to (I tend to believe that we all make our own destiny within the confines of the hand of cards we're dealt, not that some higher power is pulling the strings determining our fate). However, there was some merit to what she was saying. What's the harm in putting aside thoughts of desperation, anger, failure and resignation and replacing them with more positive sentiments about the great things in my life? After all, I do have so many wonderful things to be grateful for, proud of and happy about, and I am all of these things.
Later in my travels, I spoke to another friend about the wisdom of my previous friend's comments, and she laughed appreciatively, saying, "Funny you should bring that up, because it doesn't look like I'm going to ever have kids and I'm really sad about that. But I'm trying to remember that I have a great job, a wonderful husband and extended family, friends that I love...and so if kids don't ever come, I'm still lucky to have the life I have."
It was a tough pill for me to swallow. Here I have been consumed with self-pity and anxiety and desperation for months because of my current state of joblessness while a good friend is dealing with the idea of never having the children she so much wants. Not even a close call. A job--some job--will one day come to me, I know it. But for her to never experience what it is to have a child, an experience that she really wants...I felt so sad for her. It put my own situation into much clearer perspective.
And so, with that, I will list the many wonderful things in my life for which I'm eternally grateful. These are in no particular order, mind you. And thanks to my friends who support me, guide me, and set me straight. Love you.
Bryony
Adam
Extended family
Greg House and Kika (and Shabbi, wherever she is)
My girlfriends
My guy friends
My (and my family's) health
My education
My experiences
Adam's employment
My ability to travel to see family and friends from time to time
My freedom (legal, literal and figurative)
I'm trying to let go of some of my expectations about my life, and focus on being happy with the "what is" instead of being sad about the "what isn't". It's a work in progress.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Rainy Days and Fridays
I write this post as my almost-17-month-old daughter continues with the going-on-ten-minute screaming session in protest of being put down for a nap. She is already well past her usual naptime, so I thought she would have been happy to finally settle down to rest, but instead, she continues to warble and trill her notes of disagreement.
I write this post as I wait for the call from Adam that my car, which has been in the shop (for the third time in as many months), is ready to be picked up. I've been without my car for the last four days, and because we live in an apartment complex with no sidewalks leading away into the rest of the world, and the main road might as well be renamed "Texas International Speedway," Bryony and I have been confined to these four walls all week. And of course, since we will have to walk to the mechanic to pick up the car, today is the first day in almost two months to have rain.
I write this post as the cat, who went to the vet twice in two weeks seems to finally be letting his latest self-inflicted wound heal, as the steroid injection that calms his autoimmune disease works its way through his poor little system. Kika, our 15 1/2-year old terrier, is slowly descending into the downhill spiral of old age toward the end. She now even has the "old dog" smell.
I write this post today thinking that perhaps I should change the name of my blog to something like www.lonely-unemployed-biologist-and-inadequate-mother.blogspot.com or perhaps www.texas-aint-my-thang-yall.blogspot.com or maybe even www.why-dont-friends-pick-up-their-stupid-phones-when-i-call-dammit.blogspot.com. Yes, I'm "a little" insecure, depressed, lonely and a smidgen sad here. And yes, this has all manifested into me getting angry when the rest of the world has lives that keep them too busy to talk to me on the phone. I miss daily adult interaction and conversation. I hate that Facebook is my immediate source of contact with the outside world. I hate seeing friends who have owed me phone calls for months are posting status updates about the latest party they went to, or about how much beer they drank with friends at the bar the night before. Don't they know I read that crap? Don't they know how lonely I am? I feel really pathetic, to the point that I've actually contemplated unsubscribing from Facebook so I don't have to be angry about other people's good times anymore...but that would be ridiculous, right?
So now, I write this post as Bryony, after screaming for over 20 minutes, finally settled down into nap-mode upon receiving a little time on the breast. She and I leave tomorrow for a couple weeks to visit family we haven't seen in nearly a year. It will be a nice respite from the loneliness of here, but as always, I will miss Adam dearly. Now that baby is sleeping, I can finally get the shower I haven't had the opportunity for all day.
And with that, I end this post.
I write this post as I wait for the call from Adam that my car, which has been in the shop (for the third time in as many months), is ready to be picked up. I've been without my car for the last four days, and because we live in an apartment complex with no sidewalks leading away into the rest of the world, and the main road might as well be renamed "Texas International Speedway," Bryony and I have been confined to these four walls all week. And of course, since we will have to walk to the mechanic to pick up the car, today is the first day in almost two months to have rain.
I write this post as the cat, who went to the vet twice in two weeks seems to finally be letting his latest self-inflicted wound heal, as the steroid injection that calms his autoimmune disease works its way through his poor little system. Kika, our 15 1/2-year old terrier, is slowly descending into the downhill spiral of old age toward the end. She now even has the "old dog" smell.
I write this post today thinking that perhaps I should change the name of my blog to something like www.lonely-unemployed-biologist-and-inadequate-mother.blogspot.com or perhaps www.texas-aint-my-thang-yall.blogspot.com or maybe even www.why-dont-friends-pick-up-their-stupid-phones-when-i-call-dammit.blogspot.com. Yes, I'm "a little" insecure, depressed, lonely and a smidgen sad here. And yes, this has all manifested into me getting angry when the rest of the world has lives that keep them too busy to talk to me on the phone. I miss daily adult interaction and conversation. I hate that Facebook is my immediate source of contact with the outside world. I hate seeing friends who have owed me phone calls for months are posting status updates about the latest party they went to, or about how much beer they drank with friends at the bar the night before. Don't they know I read that crap? Don't they know how lonely I am? I feel really pathetic, to the point that I've actually contemplated unsubscribing from Facebook so I don't have to be angry about other people's good times anymore...but that would be ridiculous, right?
So now, I write this post as Bryony, after screaming for over 20 minutes, finally settled down into nap-mode upon receiving a little time on the breast. She and I leave tomorrow for a couple weeks to visit family we haven't seen in nearly a year. It will be a nice respite from the loneliness of here, but as always, I will miss Adam dearly. Now that baby is sleeping, I can finally get the shower I haven't had the opportunity for all day.
And with that, I end this post.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Universal Language
I don't know for certain that Blogspot is telling me the truth about all of my international readers, but just in case you really are out there, this is for you!
Buenas dias! Muchas gracias por visitar mi blog. Yo espero que usted lo piense interesante. Por favor, deja un commento si quiera Ud. Gracias!
Guten Tag! Deutsch ist meine Lieblingssprache, aber ich spreche es nicht besonders gut. Aber, hoeffintlich, Sie werden es verstehen. Vielen Dank fur lesen mein Blog. Wenn Sie wollen, Sie konnen hinzufugen einen Komment fur mich. Danke schoen!
Zdrastvuytya! Ya gavaritya mala po ruskii, po spacibo za chitatb moy blog. Yesli Viy xochyt, poslat kommentarii. Bolshoi spacibo!
I can also say this in sign language, but...well, I can't really write that out (smile).
Buenas dias! Muchas gracias por visitar mi blog. Yo espero que usted lo piense interesante. Por favor, deja un commento si quiera Ud. Gracias!
Guten Tag! Deutsch ist meine Lieblingssprache, aber ich spreche es nicht besonders gut. Aber, hoeffintlich, Sie werden es verstehen. Vielen Dank fur lesen mein Blog. Wenn Sie wollen, Sie konnen hinzufugen einen Komment fur mich. Danke schoen!
Zdrastvuytya! Ya gavaritya mala po ruskii, po spacibo za chitatb moy blog. Yesli Viy xochyt, poslat kommentarii. Bolshoi spacibo!
I can also say this in sign language, but...well, I can't really write that out (smile).
Lauren, In Real Life
This past weekend I caught a broadcast of "Top Gun" for the 20 millionth time. I have no shame in admitting that I LOVE that movie, I love Tom Cruise in it, and I can recite much of the script by heart. Oh, and did I mention I love Tom Cruise?
What I don't love is Goose's untimely death three-quarters into the film. Whenever the flight training scene where his character dies begins, I always get a tight feeling in my chest, wishing (hoping) that somehow, this time, he won't die. But he always does.
I started to realize that as much as I think of myself as a pragmatic realist, in many ways I am very much an idealist. I watch movies again and again, hoping that certain scenes won't happen (this was particulary the case with "The Lovely Bones," even though there would be no film if the protagonist wasn't murdered). But, even outside the fantasty-world of the movie theater, I hope that certain parts of life are just a nightmare that I'll wake up from. As you might remember, several months ago an old high school friend of mine died tragically in a rock-climbing accident. Even though I haven't seen her in 15 years, her death hit me hard, and I think about her and her family all the time. I often check on her Facebook page, which her family maintains and posts to regularly. And I always think that perhaps her death is really just a bad dream...she can't really be dead...surely I'll wake up soon. But I never do.
It's not just the bad stuff in life that I hope to escape from. There are many wonderful things in life that are so incredible that I still can't believe they're real. My daughter would fit that bill. Everyday I look at her and am reminded that I never thought I'd be a parent, but now I am to this beautiful, wondrous creature. And then I wonder if the past 16 months (or maybe 26 months, if I count the pregnancy) have just been one long dream that I'll wake up from. And my heart breaks to think of waking up from the joy I have right now.
When I was in high school, I had a choir teacher who was pregnant with twins, and she continued to teach right up to her due date. She used to joke that she "could go into labor at any minute!" and I used to think how cool it would be if that were to happen. What if she went into labor and we choir students had to help her deliver her babies? The thought was so thrilling I used to imagine being the hero student profiled on the nightly news for delivering my teacher's babies. When a little voice asked me, What if something went wrong?, I realized that I never considered complications, because on television things always work out okay...I actually had the thought everything would work out okay if she gave birth here in school because that's the way the script would be written. I surprised even myself by the realization that television and movies had had a very negative influence on me, by making me think I could escape from the realities of life if it didn't turn out the way I wanted.
I visited my friend's Facebook page for the first time in weeks this afternoon. Her mother had posted an account of how her very young son had been calling for her one day, then remembered she was gone and said, "Oh, I mean, Daddy!" My heart broke for him and the entire family. Instantaneously my mind swivelled to thoughts of Bryony, growing up without me and the hurt and confusion she'd feel. It was too much to think about and I had to escape. I picked up the dog and ran outside for some fresh air, my heart heavy. I wanted my friend to be alive once more.
But she was still gone.
And outside, the sun was still shining.
And life--real life--goes on.
What I don't love is Goose's untimely death three-quarters into the film. Whenever the flight training scene where his character dies begins, I always get a tight feeling in my chest, wishing (hoping) that somehow, this time, he won't die. But he always does.
I started to realize that as much as I think of myself as a pragmatic realist, in many ways I am very much an idealist. I watch movies again and again, hoping that certain scenes won't happen (this was particulary the case with "The Lovely Bones," even though there would be no film if the protagonist wasn't murdered). But, even outside the fantasty-world of the movie theater, I hope that certain parts of life are just a nightmare that I'll wake up from. As you might remember, several months ago an old high school friend of mine died tragically in a rock-climbing accident. Even though I haven't seen her in 15 years, her death hit me hard, and I think about her and her family all the time. I often check on her Facebook page, which her family maintains and posts to regularly. And I always think that perhaps her death is really just a bad dream...she can't really be dead...surely I'll wake up soon. But I never do.
It's not just the bad stuff in life that I hope to escape from. There are many wonderful things in life that are so incredible that I still can't believe they're real. My daughter would fit that bill. Everyday I look at her and am reminded that I never thought I'd be a parent, but now I am to this beautiful, wondrous creature. And then I wonder if the past 16 months (or maybe 26 months, if I count the pregnancy) have just been one long dream that I'll wake up from. And my heart breaks to think of waking up from the joy I have right now.
When I was in high school, I had a choir teacher who was pregnant with twins, and she continued to teach right up to her due date. She used to joke that she "could go into labor at any minute!" and I used to think how cool it would be if that were to happen. What if she went into labor and we choir students had to help her deliver her babies? The thought was so thrilling I used to imagine being the hero student profiled on the nightly news for delivering my teacher's babies. When a little voice asked me, What if something went wrong?, I realized that I never considered complications, because on television things always work out okay...I actually had the thought everything would work out okay if she gave birth here in school because that's the way the script would be written. I surprised even myself by the realization that television and movies had had a very negative influence on me, by making me think I could escape from the realities of life if it didn't turn out the way I wanted.
I visited my friend's Facebook page for the first time in weeks this afternoon. Her mother had posted an account of how her very young son had been calling for her one day, then remembered she was gone and said, "Oh, I mean, Daddy!" My heart broke for him and the entire family. Instantaneously my mind swivelled to thoughts of Bryony, growing up without me and the hurt and confusion she'd feel. It was too much to think about and I had to escape. I picked up the dog and ran outside for some fresh air, my heart heavy. I wanted my friend to be alive once more.
But she was still gone.
And outside, the sun was still shining.
And life--real life--goes on.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Galveston, Auf Deutsch
Adam, Bryony and I just returned from a pretty amazing weekend. About a year ago, we were invited to the wedding of Adam's brother's best friend from college...okay, I'll give you a couple seconds to dissect and digest that one. It was a really nice gesture, considering this friend is Adam's brother's friend, and while Adam has known this guy for a long time, they are not particulary close and don't routinely keep in touch. However, the wedding was to take place in Galveston, Texas, and knowing that Adam and I would be living only 3 hours away, the friend and his intended very generously invited us to take part in the festivities.
I didn't have a lot of faith in what Galveston was going to be like. This weekend was a continuation of "The Education of Lauren on All Things Texan," because I ended up being really pleasantly surprised by what a nice coastal city it is. Walking along the beach, jumping in the waves, looking out for bull sharks (hey, I watched "Shark Week" on the Discovery Channel this summmer; I know what to watch for) and watching my young daughter have the time of her life running zig zags up and down the coastline...it was all so amazing.
Other than getting to spend a long weekend at the beach and hanging out in a nice swanky beachhouse, we also got some quality time with Adam's brother Scott and his wife Christine, who just happens to be my BFF in addition to my sister-in-law. In fact, the lovefest between us was obnoxious as we recounted how happy we are to be sister-in-laws, and I complimented her on her very nice boobs. Scott just about wet his pants when Christine--thinking she had busted a seam in the back of her skirt--bent over and asked me to see check out her rear end. Ahhh, girlfriends and good times.
The other high point of the weekend was that the bride is German, and so a large contingent of her family and friends made the trip from Germany for the occasion. You may or may not know that I speak German to some degree and am always anxious to test out my speaking abilities. My first victim was the bride's elderly uncle, who was sitting quietly with his wife not far from me after the wedding. We got to chatting and before long, I was filling him in on my time spent in Germany in 1997 and how my father was stationed there with the army and my brother was born there, blah blah blah. He very sweetly corrected my grammatical and vocabulary mistakes along the way, but paid me the great compliment that my German was good enough that any native speaker would understand what I was saying. I was on a high the rest of the afternoon. The last night, the wedding party and guests had cleared out, leaving only Scott, Christine, Adam, Bryony and me to hang out at the beach house. Oh, and the bride's best friend from Germany! I was a bit shy trying to test out my language skills with someone my own age, but soon enough, she asked me which foreign language I spoke and I couldn't say "German!" fast enough. So she encouraged me to speak and speak, I did! It was exhiliarating, remembering sentence structures, vocabulary and expressions on the fly. She smiled approvingly and told me that my pronunciation--which I've always been very self-conscious of, the damned umlauts!--was right-on. I could hardly believe it. I didn't want the night to end. I was on a roll.
But all good things must come to an end, and now we're back home and the work week has commenced once more.
Schade.
I didn't have a lot of faith in what Galveston was going to be like. This weekend was a continuation of "The Education of Lauren on All Things Texan," because I ended up being really pleasantly surprised by what a nice coastal city it is. Walking along the beach, jumping in the waves, looking out for bull sharks (hey, I watched "Shark Week" on the Discovery Channel this summmer; I know what to watch for) and watching my young daughter have the time of her life running zig zags up and down the coastline...it was all so amazing.
Other than getting to spend a long weekend at the beach and hanging out in a nice swanky beachhouse, we also got some quality time with Adam's brother Scott and his wife Christine, who just happens to be my BFF in addition to my sister-in-law. In fact, the lovefest between us was obnoxious as we recounted how happy we are to be sister-in-laws, and I complimented her on her very nice boobs. Scott just about wet his pants when Christine--thinking she had busted a seam in the back of her skirt--bent over and asked me to see check out her rear end. Ahhh, girlfriends and good times.
The other high point of the weekend was that the bride is German, and so a large contingent of her family and friends made the trip from Germany for the occasion. You may or may not know that I speak German to some degree and am always anxious to test out my speaking abilities. My first victim was the bride's elderly uncle, who was sitting quietly with his wife not far from me after the wedding. We got to chatting and before long, I was filling him in on my time spent in Germany in 1997 and how my father was stationed there with the army and my brother was born there, blah blah blah. He very sweetly corrected my grammatical and vocabulary mistakes along the way, but paid me the great compliment that my German was good enough that any native speaker would understand what I was saying. I was on a high the rest of the afternoon. The last night, the wedding party and guests had cleared out, leaving only Scott, Christine, Adam, Bryony and me to hang out at the beach house. Oh, and the bride's best friend from Germany! I was a bit shy trying to test out my language skills with someone my own age, but soon enough, she asked me which foreign language I spoke and I couldn't say "German!" fast enough. So she encouraged me to speak and speak, I did! It was exhiliarating, remembering sentence structures, vocabulary and expressions on the fly. She smiled approvingly and told me that my pronunciation--which I've always been very self-conscious of, the damned umlauts!--was right-on. I could hardly believe it. I didn't want the night to end. I was on a roll.
But all good things must come to an end, and now we're back home and the work week has commenced once more.
Schade.
Friday, October 1, 2010
This Is What I Should Have Had
GoGirl
Ok, so what’s a GoGirl?
Simply put, GoGirl is the way to stand up to crowded, disgusting, distant or non-existent bathrooms. It’s a female urination device (sometimes called a FUD) that allows you to urinate while standing up. It’s neat. It’s discreet. It’s hygienic.
GoGirl is easy to use. Just lower your panties, and put GoGirl against your body, forming a seal. Aim and, well, pee. Pretty simple, huh?
GoGirl fits easily in your purse, pocket, or glove compartment. It’s a must for travel and sports. And it’s great for everyday––no more crouching over or trying to cover up an unsanitary public toilet.
While the concept may be new to you, European women have used female urination devices for years. GoGirl’s not the first device of its kind. But try it. And we think you’ll agree it’s easily the best.
Only GoGirl is made with flexible, medical grade silicone. Dispose of it after use. Or clean and reuse as you like. (Urine is sterile, but the product can come into contact with contaminates during use, so take precautions when cleaning.) Our patented splash guard eliminates messing and spilling. Once you practice a time or two, using a GoGirl is going to feel like second nature. You won’t be like a man. You’ll just pee like one.
Check out the GoGirl Tour!!
Ok, so what’s a GoGirl?
Simply put, GoGirl is the way to stand up to crowded, disgusting, distant or non-existent bathrooms. It’s a female urination device (sometimes called a FUD) that allows you to urinate while standing up. It’s neat. It’s discreet. It’s hygienic.
GoGirl is easy to use. Just lower your panties, and put GoGirl against your body, forming a seal. Aim and, well, pee. Pretty simple, huh?
GoGirl fits easily in your purse, pocket, or glove compartment. It’s a must for travel and sports. And it’s great for everyday––no more crouching over or trying to cover up an unsanitary public toilet.
While the concept may be new to you, European women have used female urination devices for years. GoGirl’s not the first device of its kind. But try it. And we think you’ll agree it’s easily the best.
Only GoGirl is made with flexible, medical grade silicone. Dispose of it after use. Or clean and reuse as you like. (Urine is sterile, but the product can come into contact with contaminates during use, so take precautions when cleaning.) Our patented splash guard eliminates messing and spilling. Once you practice a time or two, using a GoGirl is going to feel like second nature. You won’t be like a man. You’ll just pee like one.
Check out the GoGirl Tour!!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Driving On Full
The sad part of this story is that Adam's grandma passed away a few days ago. She was really special to him and I know he's having a hard time with her death, especially since it had been about three years since the last time he'd seen her. So, I just want to get the serious bit established before I go any further. Rest in peace, Grandma Apple...
Adam worked a half day yesterday so he could eat lunch and get packed before heading to the airport to fly out for his grandma's funeral. It was a rare treat for Bryony and me to have him home so early, and to get to eat lunch with him. For some reason, I was so giddy that I was drinking club-soda-with-lime by the glassfuls and had to jump up to pee every twenty minutes or so.
On the way to the airport (with me sitting in the backseat to keep Bryony company), Adam suggested we stop for shaved ices (one of his favorite treats here in our little neighborhood) before getting on the highway. I didn't really feel like the sweetness of an ice, but I knew he wouldn't have one if I didn't and he really, really wanted one, so I gave in. You can get two flavors mixed together at this place, so I got my old stand-by--lemon-lime and sour lemon--and Adam got mango-strawberry and sour cherry . Yum, sugar.
About twenty minutes into the 1 1/2 hour ride, my cell phone rang with a number I didn't recognize; I decided to pick up. On the other end of the line was a man identifying himself as an employee from a consulting company I had applied to just days earlier; he wanted to schedule an interview with me. Boy, was I psyched! Then he said something about having candidates "out" for interviews, and I realized he meant in-person. The job is in Nowheresville, California, and while I am willing to move there for employment (it is located on an army base so there are employment opportunities for Adam, too), I had a hard time justifying affording an airline ticket and rental car to interview for a job I might not get. Not to mention the fact that I don't have daycare for Bryony, and since I couldn't take her with me to the interview, I would have nowhere to keep her while I was gone. I asked the guy if they were open to conducting phone interviews and he said no. So, an extremely disappointed Lauren had to decline the interview. I couldn't remember the last time someone was unwilling to conduct a phone interview when they knew I was out-of-state; considering the economic climate and unemployment rate, it seems inappropriate to assume that people can afford to make expensive travel arrangements for an interview. I got more and more bummed once I'd hung up, and I started to get really depressed about my situation--will I ever find a good job? The magic 8 ball didn't seem very optimistic.
I also started to get increasingly antsy as I realized I really need to pee...in a bad way. But we were still a long way from the airport and we couldn't stop because we had exactly enough time to get Adam to his gate. I looked around desperately for some options. My eyes fell on my size-medium styrofoam cup that my mostly-eaten shaved ice had been in. I gulped down the last chunk of yellow-green slush and started to manuever myself in position to "drop trow." Problem was, Bryony's big new car seat was impeding my progress. With my 16-month old looking on, I managed to wiggle out of my clothes from the waist down, hike one leg over the front passenger seat. And yes, my ample brown backside was giving I-35 South quite the show; luckily, we have mesh screens on the backseat windows to block out sunlight, so hopefully they blocked out my "moon" light, too. Well, I proceeded to...ahem, fill up not one, but two cupfuls, the contents of which were flung in bright yellow waves out the back seat window. Adam, after figuring out what was going on, just shook his head and said something about me being a "Wacky Dame." But I felt so much better that I didn't mind.
By the time we arrived at the airport 45 minutes later, I needed to go again. I gave Ads a very rushed kiss good-bye as I high-tailed it to the driver's seat so I could stop at the nearest burger joint to make use of their facilities. Of course, my need to pee caused highway traffic to back up, which necessitated exiting onto the service road. I drove and drove without a fast-food restaurant in sight for miles. Seriously?
Finally, I spotted a Wendy's in the distance and I breathed a sigh of relief. "We're in business, Bryony!" I called to the back seat. After parking, unstrapping Bryony from her car seat and walking up to the restaurant, I opened the door to find that it was the epitome of a fast-food joint--no seating, and no public bathrooms. I almost cried. I asked the employee behind the register if there was a bathroom and when he said no, I just about lost it. With child in arms (pressing on my yet-again-full-bladder) I crossed a busy four-lane street to a gas station. I saw the sign for "Restrooms" and allowed myself a shred of hope. After walking up to the door, and trying the knob only to find it locked, I asked the attendant if I needed a key. He shook his head fiercely and said, "No, no, no. Bathroom is broken!" I almost squatted in his store and peed on the floor. Until you really need to go and someone doesn't let you, you can't imagine the actual humiliation surrounding the issue. Shaking with anxiety and anger, and carrying Bryony on my hip, I marched over to my very last option, another gas station and hoped against hope they'd let me pee. In the process, I also looked at the random shrubby areas behind the buildings to scout out a place where I could squat discreetly in case I ran out of alternatives. Upon reaching the last of my three stops, I looked imploringly at the cashier and hurriedly asked, "Do you have a working bathroom I can use?" Looking from me to my young daughter, he put his fingers to his lips in a quiet hush and nodded. He motioned for me to follow him to the restroom door that had an "Out of Order" sign taped to it. "Don't tell anyone I let you use it, okay?" he asked me, smiling conspiratorily. Who would I ask, I wondered. But I was so thankful to evacuate my poor, poor bladder that I was just grateful that he let me pee. I think I actually released an audible aaaaahhhh! of relief.
Bryony and I ambled back to the car, both of us happy and relaxed, ready for the 1 1/2 hour drive ahead of us. The sun was starting to go down and I wanted to make good time so I didn't have to drive in the dark. I also wanted to get the little girl home before bedtime. Well, the happiness didn't last for long because Bryony started to wail incessantly not long after I got on the highway. I soon found the only thing that calmed her was if I sang...children's tunes from her Disney sing-a-long CD. When I stopped singing, she cried. When I resumed singing she was quiet and listened. Let's just say I belted out some American-Idol-audition-worthy versions of "I've Been Working on the Railroad," "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," and "When the Saints Go Marching In," amongst many others. I sang until the car pulled into the apartment complex, which coincidentally was also the same time my throat was getting so hoarse I wouldn't have been able to continue anyway.
Not long after getting settled in at home, Adam called from the airport where he was layed over. His first question was, "How was your drive home? Did you stop to fill up?"
Trust me dude, I was more than happy to be empty.
Adam worked a half day yesterday so he could eat lunch and get packed before heading to the airport to fly out for his grandma's funeral. It was a rare treat for Bryony and me to have him home so early, and to get to eat lunch with him. For some reason, I was so giddy that I was drinking club-soda-with-lime by the glassfuls and had to jump up to pee every twenty minutes or so.
On the way to the airport (with me sitting in the backseat to keep Bryony company), Adam suggested we stop for shaved ices (one of his favorite treats here in our little neighborhood) before getting on the highway. I didn't really feel like the sweetness of an ice, but I knew he wouldn't have one if I didn't and he really, really wanted one, so I gave in. You can get two flavors mixed together at this place, so I got my old stand-by--lemon-lime and sour lemon--and Adam got mango-strawberry and sour cherry . Yum, sugar.
About twenty minutes into the 1 1/2 hour ride, my cell phone rang with a number I didn't recognize; I decided to pick up. On the other end of the line was a man identifying himself as an employee from a consulting company I had applied to just days earlier; he wanted to schedule an interview with me. Boy, was I psyched! Then he said something about having candidates "out" for interviews, and I realized he meant in-person. The job is in Nowheresville, California, and while I am willing to move there for employment (it is located on an army base so there are employment opportunities for Adam, too), I had a hard time justifying affording an airline ticket and rental car to interview for a job I might not get. Not to mention the fact that I don't have daycare for Bryony, and since I couldn't take her with me to the interview, I would have nowhere to keep her while I was gone. I asked the guy if they were open to conducting phone interviews and he said no. So, an extremely disappointed Lauren had to decline the interview. I couldn't remember the last time someone was unwilling to conduct a phone interview when they knew I was out-of-state; considering the economic climate and unemployment rate, it seems inappropriate to assume that people can afford to make expensive travel arrangements for an interview. I got more and more bummed once I'd hung up, and I started to get really depressed about my situation--will I ever find a good job? The magic 8 ball didn't seem very optimistic.
I also started to get increasingly antsy as I realized I really need to pee...in a bad way. But we were still a long way from the airport and we couldn't stop because we had exactly enough time to get Adam to his gate. I looked around desperately for some options. My eyes fell on my size-medium styrofoam cup that my mostly-eaten shaved ice had been in. I gulped down the last chunk of yellow-green slush and started to manuever myself in position to "drop trow." Problem was, Bryony's big new car seat was impeding my progress. With my 16-month old looking on, I managed to wiggle out of my clothes from the waist down, hike one leg over the front passenger seat. And yes, my ample brown backside was giving I-35 South quite the show; luckily, we have mesh screens on the backseat windows to block out sunlight, so hopefully they blocked out my "moon" light, too. Well, I proceeded to...ahem, fill up not one, but two cupfuls, the contents of which were flung in bright yellow waves out the back seat window. Adam, after figuring out what was going on, just shook his head and said something about me being a "Wacky Dame." But I felt so much better that I didn't mind.
By the time we arrived at the airport 45 minutes later, I needed to go again. I gave Ads a very rushed kiss good-bye as I high-tailed it to the driver's seat so I could stop at the nearest burger joint to make use of their facilities. Of course, my need to pee caused highway traffic to back up, which necessitated exiting onto the service road. I drove and drove without a fast-food restaurant in sight for miles. Seriously?
Finally, I spotted a Wendy's in the distance and I breathed a sigh of relief. "We're in business, Bryony!" I called to the back seat. After parking, unstrapping Bryony from her car seat and walking up to the restaurant, I opened the door to find that it was the epitome of a fast-food joint--no seating, and no public bathrooms. I almost cried. I asked the employee behind the register if there was a bathroom and when he said no, I just about lost it. With child in arms (pressing on my yet-again-full-bladder) I crossed a busy four-lane street to a gas station. I saw the sign for "Restrooms" and allowed myself a shred of hope. After walking up to the door, and trying the knob only to find it locked, I asked the attendant if I needed a key. He shook his head fiercely and said, "No, no, no. Bathroom is broken!" I almost squatted in his store and peed on the floor. Until you really need to go and someone doesn't let you, you can't imagine the actual humiliation surrounding the issue. Shaking with anxiety and anger, and carrying Bryony on my hip, I marched over to my very last option, another gas station and hoped against hope they'd let me pee. In the process, I also looked at the random shrubby areas behind the buildings to scout out a place where I could squat discreetly in case I ran out of alternatives. Upon reaching the last of my three stops, I looked imploringly at the cashier and hurriedly asked, "Do you have a working bathroom I can use?" Looking from me to my young daughter, he put his fingers to his lips in a quiet hush and nodded. He motioned for me to follow him to the restroom door that had an "Out of Order" sign taped to it. "Don't tell anyone I let you use it, okay?" he asked me, smiling conspiratorily. Who would I ask, I wondered. But I was so thankful to evacuate my poor, poor bladder that I was just grateful that he let me pee. I think I actually released an audible aaaaahhhh! of relief.
Bryony and I ambled back to the car, both of us happy and relaxed, ready for the 1 1/2 hour drive ahead of us. The sun was starting to go down and I wanted to make good time so I didn't have to drive in the dark. I also wanted to get the little girl home before bedtime. Well, the happiness didn't last for long because Bryony started to wail incessantly not long after I got on the highway. I soon found the only thing that calmed her was if I sang...children's tunes from her Disney sing-a-long CD. When I stopped singing, she cried. When I resumed singing she was quiet and listened. Let's just say I belted out some American-Idol-audition-worthy versions of "I've Been Working on the Railroad," "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," and "When the Saints Go Marching In," amongst many others. I sang until the car pulled into the apartment complex, which coincidentally was also the same time my throat was getting so hoarse I wouldn't have been able to continue anyway.
Not long after getting settled in at home, Adam called from the airport where he was layed over. His first question was, "How was your drive home? Did you stop to fill up?"
Trust me dude, I was more than happy to be empty.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Kids in the Hall
We've all heard recent reports out about bullying running rampant in America's schools: the tragic case of Phoebe Prince, the Irish girl whose family moved to Massachussetts only to have their daughter bullied by classmates to the point that she hanged herself; and more recently, the Florida father who stormed the school bus where his special-needs daughter had been savagely bullied by fellow students to the point that she has now been admitted to hospital from the stress. While we can all agree that these extreme examples are horrendous cases of how ugly children can behave, it makes me reflect on my own behavior and how I have acted in the past, and even now in my adult life.
Back in elementary school, I was the typical insecure and awkward girl with a bit of a weight problem. I did well in school, had perfect behavior, and desperately wanted to be liked by the "cool" girls in class. Not wanting to seem like the nerd that I was, I chose an alternate route to cool-dom; I was mean. Lisa B., the overweight girl with shabby clothes, stringy hair and a hygeine problem was an easy target for a lot of us in elementary school because she just didn't fit in, even more than I didn't fit in. She was taller and heavier than the other girls, didn't wear the latest fashions, played sports like the boys did, and always carried a slightly foul odor wherever she went. I didn't have any real problem with her other than the fact that nobody else seemed to like her and I wanted to fit in. So I joined the mass of girls who would wave their hands past their noses whenever Lisa walked by, over-dramatizing how bad she smelled. I called her "Fatso" even though I knew how much it hurt when people called me that. I even thought about making up a really mean insult about the fact that she was biracial, but even I knew that was going too far. So, I stuck to the odor and weight offensive instead. I was a bully.
In middle school, there was a girl named Rebekkah H., a transfer student who arrived during the middle of the school year. She was the definition of weird from first sight: she had multi-toned blonde hair and unruly short curls that were always pulled back from her face in an unflattering way. She wore tight, too-short-to-be-appropriate-in-school skirts and dresses that only made her seem to be trying too hard. Her big, thick-rimmed eyeglasses with the coke-bottle lenses always made her look googly-eyed and crazy. And her voice, a high-pitched nasal sound that was like nails on a chalkboard, only resonated even more oddly when she would describe in detail how she had gotten her monthly period the day before. She was weird.
Now, I'd like to say that I had grown up a bit since elementary school, and was repulsed by the idea of bullying someone like her. I think the more honest statement, however, was that my mother was a substitute teacher in my school at the time, and I was afraid she would find out that I was behaving badly. So, rather than actually bully Rebekkah, I just didn't do anything to stop those in the class who bullied her. I watched in amusement as girls rolled their eyes whenever Rebekkah spoke, or would make snide comments about her clothes. I giggled as the popular girls would pretend to invite Rebekkah to sit with them at lunch or go to a weekend party only to sarcastically reveal, after her hopes were raised, that it was only a joke. The thing was, those girls never invited me to their parties, either.
I never knew what happened to Lisa or Rebekkah. My family moved away from the town where I went to school with Lisa many years ago, and Rebekkah's family (which consisted of an equally-weird brother, a sister who was miraculously quite popular, and a single father) mysteriously disappeared after seventh grade. I have spent a few years trying to find these girls online, to find out how they're doing, to somehow put my conscience to rest. If I knew they were okay, then perhaps I could stop feeling guilty for the way I treated them. I still haven't found Rebekkah, but Lisa and I became "friends" on Facebook, more than 20 years after our tumultuous elementary school relationship.
I felt a need to be honest with her, to admit my bad behavior from childhood, and to apologize for it:
Hi Lisa
I'm so glad to hear from you...believe it or not, I've thought about you a lot over the years. I was not very nice to you in elementary school, and this thought has distressed me a lot into my adult years. I am so thankful to have been reconnected with you through Facebook so that I can finally ask for your forgiveness. I hope that I can teach my daughter to one day be a much kinder, generous and thoughtful child than I was.
Hope that you are well.
Lauren
I didn't know what to expect in return. I had spent so many years feeling guilty for my behavior that I assumed that Lisa had been clocking many hours on a therapist's couch sorting out her early childhood experiences and how I had made them hell. I am such a narcissist. Her very quick reply was:
Lauren,
Honestly I just remember being the tomboy that other girls hated! Lol. I'm good. I am glad you are in good and happy to hear that you have a daughter. I have a ten year old soon to be eleven year old son. Apology accepted and thanks for accepting me as a fb friend.
Lisa
Clearly, she had moved on. But, evidently, I wasn't quite ready, so I had to write back:
Thank you, Lisa. Your forgiveness does my heart good. And, by the way, I didn't hate you in grade school...I was so caught up tryng to be accepted by the 'cool" girls that I thought being mean to other kids was my ticket in to their clique. So stupid, I know, but I was a misguided 5th grader.
Her response, even shorter this time, told me she was not interested in reliving the past, it was time for me to get over it, and enough was enough:
Lol. Yeah its okay. I had my moments in high school and had to check myself.
So, do I still feel bad? Absolutely. Maybe Lisa is okay and has moved on (and maybe Rebekkah has, too) but I think the lasting impact might actually be on the bully him/herself. The knowledge as an adult that you were capable of being really mean to someone...that you weren't the person that you are teaching your own children to be, is halting. I'm so grateful that Lisa forgave me; hopefully in time, I just might be able to forgive myself.
Back in elementary school, I was the typical insecure and awkward girl with a bit of a weight problem. I did well in school, had perfect behavior, and desperately wanted to be liked by the "cool" girls in class. Not wanting to seem like the nerd that I was, I chose an alternate route to cool-dom; I was mean. Lisa B., the overweight girl with shabby clothes, stringy hair and a hygeine problem was an easy target for a lot of us in elementary school because she just didn't fit in, even more than I didn't fit in. She was taller and heavier than the other girls, didn't wear the latest fashions, played sports like the boys did, and always carried a slightly foul odor wherever she went. I didn't have any real problem with her other than the fact that nobody else seemed to like her and I wanted to fit in. So I joined the mass of girls who would wave their hands past their noses whenever Lisa walked by, over-dramatizing how bad she smelled. I called her "Fatso" even though I knew how much it hurt when people called me that. I even thought about making up a really mean insult about the fact that she was biracial, but even I knew that was going too far. So, I stuck to the odor and weight offensive instead. I was a bully.
In middle school, there was a girl named Rebekkah H., a transfer student who arrived during the middle of the school year. She was the definition of weird from first sight: she had multi-toned blonde hair and unruly short curls that were always pulled back from her face in an unflattering way. She wore tight, too-short-to-be-appropriate-in-school skirts and dresses that only made her seem to be trying too hard. Her big, thick-rimmed eyeglasses with the coke-bottle lenses always made her look googly-eyed and crazy. And her voice, a high-pitched nasal sound that was like nails on a chalkboard, only resonated even more oddly when she would describe in detail how she had gotten her monthly period the day before. She was weird.
Now, I'd like to say that I had grown up a bit since elementary school, and was repulsed by the idea of bullying someone like her. I think the more honest statement, however, was that my mother was a substitute teacher in my school at the time, and I was afraid she would find out that I was behaving badly. So, rather than actually bully Rebekkah, I just didn't do anything to stop those in the class who bullied her. I watched in amusement as girls rolled their eyes whenever Rebekkah spoke, or would make snide comments about her clothes. I giggled as the popular girls would pretend to invite Rebekkah to sit with them at lunch or go to a weekend party only to sarcastically reveal, after her hopes were raised, that it was only a joke. The thing was, those girls never invited me to their parties, either.
I never knew what happened to Lisa or Rebekkah. My family moved away from the town where I went to school with Lisa many years ago, and Rebekkah's family (which consisted of an equally-weird brother, a sister who was miraculously quite popular, and a single father) mysteriously disappeared after seventh grade. I have spent a few years trying to find these girls online, to find out how they're doing, to somehow put my conscience to rest. If I knew they were okay, then perhaps I could stop feeling guilty for the way I treated them. I still haven't found Rebekkah, but Lisa and I became "friends" on Facebook, more than 20 years after our tumultuous elementary school relationship.
I felt a need to be honest with her, to admit my bad behavior from childhood, and to apologize for it:
Hi Lisa
I'm so glad to hear from you...believe it or not, I've thought about you a lot over the years. I was not very nice to you in elementary school, and this thought has distressed me a lot into my adult years. I am so thankful to have been reconnected with you through Facebook so that I can finally ask for your forgiveness. I hope that I can teach my daughter to one day be a much kinder, generous and thoughtful child than I was.
Hope that you are well.
Lauren
I didn't know what to expect in return. I had spent so many years feeling guilty for my behavior that I assumed that Lisa had been clocking many hours on a therapist's couch sorting out her early childhood experiences and how I had made them hell. I am such a narcissist. Her very quick reply was:
Lauren,
Honestly I just remember being the tomboy that other girls hated! Lol. I'm good. I am glad you are in good and happy to hear that you have a daughter. I have a ten year old soon to be eleven year old son. Apology accepted and thanks for accepting me as a fb friend.
Lisa
Clearly, she had moved on. But, evidently, I wasn't quite ready, so I had to write back:
Thank you, Lisa. Your forgiveness does my heart good. And, by the way, I didn't hate you in grade school...I was so caught up tryng to be accepted by the 'cool" girls that I thought being mean to other kids was my ticket in to their clique. So stupid, I know, but I was a misguided 5th grader.
Her response, even shorter this time, told me she was not interested in reliving the past, it was time for me to get over it, and enough was enough:
Lol. Yeah its okay. I had my moments in high school and had to check myself.
So, do I still feel bad? Absolutely. Maybe Lisa is okay and has moved on (and maybe Rebekkah has, too) but I think the lasting impact might actually be on the bully him/herself. The knowledge as an adult that you were capable of being really mean to someone...that you weren't the person that you are teaching your own children to be, is halting. I'm so grateful that Lisa forgave me; hopefully in time, I just might be able to forgive myself.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Old Blue Eyes
I debated posting this because after my last story, I was afraid someone would think I'd finally lost my marbles and had caused my child bodily harm. In actuality, Bryony smacked herself in the eyelid with the cabinet door while rifling through DVD's beneath the TV set the other day. After sustaining a minor cut that bled a little bit, there was minimal bruising and I thought it was over. But then, the next day, while on our nightly jogging route, we both were bombarded by a swarm of mosquitoes, and my lucky daughter got a lovebite from one on her cheek, up by the same eye she'd earlier smacked with the cabinet door. So, the next day she woke up with a nice swollen blue eye (of the black-and-blue variety, not in the vein of Frank Sinatra).
In the midst of "a moment"
A fleeting period of calmness
"Pow! Right in the kissa!" says the cabinet door.
Adam returned last night from a one-week trip back East for business. I was almost at the end of my rope and was glad to finally have him back for some much-needed co-parenting assistance. He suggested that I take this coming Saturday off--pump some milk for Miss B., go to a day spa and do a little shopping afterward. In essence, have a "Me Day" that I haven't enjoyed since I became a mother. He will have an all-day long parenting session with Bryony, which has never happened before. I am simultaneously thrilled, worried and anxious. Thrilled to have a good chunk of time to myself, worried to leave Adam alone with her all day and anxious to be away from her for an extended period for the first time since her birth.
But, as I'm lying on the table getting my deep tissue massage, I think I'll manage to get through it.
In the midst of "a moment"
A fleeting period of calmness
"Pow! Right in the kissa!" says the cabinet door.
Adam returned last night from a one-week trip back East for business. I was almost at the end of my rope and was glad to finally have him back for some much-needed co-parenting assistance. He suggested that I take this coming Saturday off--pump some milk for Miss B., go to a day spa and do a little shopping afterward. In essence, have a "Me Day" that I haven't enjoyed since I became a mother. He will have an all-day long parenting session with Bryony, which has never happened before. I am simultaneously thrilled, worried and anxious. Thrilled to have a good chunk of time to myself, worried to leave Adam alone with her all day and anxious to be away from her for an extended period for the first time since her birth.
But, as I'm lying on the table getting my deep tissue massage, I think I'll manage to get through it.
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