On my dresser is a small crystal bowl with a 15-watt light bulb in it.
I've kept it because I don't know why. I just have.
This past spring, I woke to smell of something burning. It was a thick, heavy smell and was coming from the hallway. Strike that. It was coming from Gavin's room. The realization immediately sent me into a panic. Not only was something burning, but it was IN MY SON'S ROOM.
So I woke the husband and we methodically searched the room, feeling walls for heat, checking outlets. We questioned Gavin endlessly, were you playing with matches, did you smell anything last night, did you jam something into the outlets? By the time Aunt Na arrived to get Gavin off to school, I had the husband in the attic checking the wiring by the ceiling fan in Gav's room.
The smell, however, kept getting stronger and stronger, but nothing -- and I mean nothing -- was burning. Nothing that we could find, anyway.
Then Aunt Na thought to check Gav's bedside lamp, the one he kept on during the night. There it was. The 15-watt bulb, burning sure and bright. Good quality those GE bulbs.
For Christmas, Gavin received an Easy Bake Oven and he learned that you could actually cook using a 100-watt bulb.
I bet you know where this is going, don't you?
Yep. Using his understanding of the Easy Bake, Gav decided to see if he could melt a foam sticker. On his light bulb.
So there's a 15-watt bulb on my dresser. Covered in melted foam. I'm still not sure what to do with it. All I know is that it makes me laugh every time I see it.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Pondering.
Perhaps, if this makes you uncomfortable, you can blame the two glasses of wine. They made the words easier for me.
I've my iPod plugged in and am enjoying some golden oldies. The Skyliners are singing right now, but all I can think of is how Janet Vogel decided to turn start her car one day and leave the garage door closed. They lived just up the street from us, her youngest son is just a year older than me.
Morbid, no doubt. I'm good for that. My mind invariably goes to the process of dying, of what it's like to know your life is ebbing away. I think, too, of how I told my girl friend not to envy me the time had with my father. When Dad was first diagnosed, we were thankful for the time given. By the time he died, it was a curse. We didn't need that much time. We didn't want that much time. No one does. Twenty-odd months are too expensive, too high a price to pay for the chance to say good-bye.
We had time, in those long months, not to talk about the old days and say what needed said. We had time instead to smell death and hear its rattle. In the last month, I couldn't bear to walk into the same room, though I did, holding my breath, because he was already a corpse. But he just happened to be breathing. If that's what you wanted to call the gasp and hiss of air passing in and out of his lungs.
When you sit in the same room with the dying, it's a peaceful hell. There's a simplicity of the moment, for your task is just to be there. Helpless, but there nonetheless. I read, I wrote, sometimes I napped. At regular intervals, my mother or I would put on rubber gloves and rub morphine into the soft skin of his inner arm. We like to think it helped. And, though we each privately thought of it, we were never brave enough to give him more than the prescribed amount at the prescribed time.
The smell of dying goes away after you're in the same room for a few minutes. Olfactory fatigue, it's called. Your nose gets used to it and you begin to ignore it. So by the end of the chapter of the book you think you're reading, you can no longer scent the dying man.
You can still hear him, though. There's no fatigue of the ear strong enough to block out the inhaling gasp and the exhaling hiss, because, in the back of your mind, you're wondering if that gasp will be the last one you hear.
______
There's a box on my dresser. An antique copper box, probably a good 60 or 70 years old. In it are obituaries from the last 50 years. The fallen leaves from our family tree. My mother gave it to me some time ago. Her "Box o' Death," I jokingly called it. It's mine now, and my job is to keep the family obits in there. Someday, I suppose, it will be handed down to Gavin.
But that's a blog for another day.
Must I be so melancholy at the holidays? Yes. No. Perhaps. This Thanksgiving marked six years for my grandfather's death. This Christmas will mark five for Dad. As I said once before, any holiday without a trip to the funeral parlor or hospital is a good holiday.
It was a good holiday.
I've my iPod plugged in and am enjoying some golden oldies. The Skyliners are singing right now, but all I can think of is how Janet Vogel decided to turn start her car one day and leave the garage door closed. They lived just up the street from us, her youngest son is just a year older than me.
Morbid, no doubt. I'm good for that. My mind invariably goes to the process of dying, of what it's like to know your life is ebbing away. I think, too, of how I told my girl friend not to envy me the time had with my father. When Dad was first diagnosed, we were thankful for the time given. By the time he died, it was a curse. We didn't need that much time. We didn't want that much time. No one does. Twenty-odd months are too expensive, too high a price to pay for the chance to say good-bye.
We had time, in those long months, not to talk about the old days and say what needed said. We had time instead to smell death and hear its rattle. In the last month, I couldn't bear to walk into the same room, though I did, holding my breath, because he was already a corpse. But he just happened to be breathing. If that's what you wanted to call the gasp and hiss of air passing in and out of his lungs.
When you sit in the same room with the dying, it's a peaceful hell. There's a simplicity of the moment, for your task is just to be there. Helpless, but there nonetheless. I read, I wrote, sometimes I napped. At regular intervals, my mother or I would put on rubber gloves and rub morphine into the soft skin of his inner arm. We like to think it helped. And, though we each privately thought of it, we were never brave enough to give him more than the prescribed amount at the prescribed time.
The smell of dying goes away after you're in the same room for a few minutes. Olfactory fatigue, it's called. Your nose gets used to it and you begin to ignore it. So by the end of the chapter of the book you think you're reading, you can no longer scent the dying man.
You can still hear him, though. There's no fatigue of the ear strong enough to block out the inhaling gasp and the exhaling hiss, because, in the back of your mind, you're wondering if that gasp will be the last one you hear.
______
There's a box on my dresser. An antique copper box, probably a good 60 or 70 years old. In it are obituaries from the last 50 years. The fallen leaves from our family tree. My mother gave it to me some time ago. Her "Box o' Death," I jokingly called it. It's mine now, and my job is to keep the family obits in there. Someday, I suppose, it will be handed down to Gavin.
But that's a blog for another day.
Must I be so melancholy at the holidays? Yes. No. Perhaps. This Thanksgiving marked six years for my grandfather's death. This Christmas will mark five for Dad. As I said once before, any holiday without a trip to the funeral parlor or hospital is a good holiday.
It was a good holiday.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Daydreaming vs. reality
So we've started second grade. Amazing. Wasn't it yesterday that I was prying him out of the car to go to preschool? Putting stickers on a chart for each day he didn't cry? And yet here we are, moving further and further away from all those "baby" things.
He doesn't hold my hand in public, clinging as if for life itself. Instead he ventures a few feet away, puffed up with his independence and swaggering just a little bit.
At restaurants, he orders for himself, his voice quiet but sure.
At home we argue sometimes. Two very similar personalities trying to get the final word. Because I said so just doesn't seem to work like it used to. He prefers explanations.
My mother says he's another me, whatwith his stubbornness and imagination. I'm okay with that. You need imagination. Without it, what is life but dry facts and numbing repetition?
But never let it be said that life is without bumps. Gav's challenge this year is his imagination. Apparently it's working overtime -- particularly at school. Seems that his mind wanders a bit too much and his teacher needs to constantly remind him to stay on task. We received our first note of the school year. His teacher wants to know how to help him focus during class.
The problem is that I haven't an answer for her.
I spent the vast majority of my elementary education in my own little world, emerging just often enough to do my schoolwork and look like I was paying attention. I didn't struggle academically, which made it all the easier to attend school in body much more than in mind. There seems little point to a lot of the work we did, and I was often corrected doing things my own way (in spite of their being correct). Gav's pretty much the same way. He claims boredom -- and given that he's getting straight-A's -- I believe him.
Actually, I do have an answer for her.
Challenge him. Teach him something that interests him. Teach him something that, to him, has meaning.
Ah, but there's the problem. She can't cater to my son at the cost of his peers. I'm not unreasonable enough to demand it, either. Truthfully, I really don't see his daydreaming as a "problem," except for the fact that he needs to time it a little better and play by the mundane rules of life once in a while. Gav already knows that we expect him to remain focused on his work until it's done (and done correctly). Then, we said, he can let his mind wander to his heart's content.
A parent-teacher phone call is scheduled for tomorrow to discuss this situation. By the tone of her note, his teacher sounds like she values imagination in children, so I'm hopeful that things will go well.
Of course, no matter what, this sure as heck beats another four-boy kicking contest...
He doesn't hold my hand in public, clinging as if for life itself. Instead he ventures a few feet away, puffed up with his independence and swaggering just a little bit.
At restaurants, he orders for himself, his voice quiet but sure.
At home we argue sometimes. Two very similar personalities trying to get the final word. Because I said so just doesn't seem to work like it used to. He prefers explanations.
My mother says he's another me, whatwith his stubbornness and imagination. I'm okay with that. You need imagination. Without it, what is life but dry facts and numbing repetition?
But never let it be said that life is without bumps. Gav's challenge this year is his imagination. Apparently it's working overtime -- particularly at school. Seems that his mind wanders a bit too much and his teacher needs to constantly remind him to stay on task. We received our first note of the school year. His teacher wants to know how to help him focus during class.
The problem is that I haven't an answer for her.
I spent the vast majority of my elementary education in my own little world, emerging just often enough to do my schoolwork and look like I was paying attention. I didn't struggle academically, which made it all the easier to attend school in body much more than in mind. There seems little point to a lot of the work we did, and I was often corrected doing things my own way (in spite of their being correct). Gav's pretty much the same way. He claims boredom -- and given that he's getting straight-A's -- I believe him.
Actually, I do have an answer for her.
Challenge him. Teach him something that interests him. Teach him something that, to him, has meaning.
Ah, but there's the problem. She can't cater to my son at the cost of his peers. I'm not unreasonable enough to demand it, either. Truthfully, I really don't see his daydreaming as a "problem," except for the fact that he needs to time it a little better and play by the mundane rules of life once in a while. Gav already knows that we expect him to remain focused on his work until it's done (and done correctly). Then, we said, he can let his mind wander to his heart's content.
A parent-teacher phone call is scheduled for tomorrow to discuss this situation. By the tone of her note, his teacher sounds like she values imagination in children, so I'm hopeful that things will go well.
Of course, no matter what, this sure as heck beats another four-boy kicking contest...
Monday, June 28, 2010
Talks to Strangers (probably runs with scissors, too)
I talk to strangers. A lot.
Thanks to that trait, I've closed a bar with a Russian history professor (as in from Russia), explored the Muhammad Ali Museum with a former Pittsburgh Steeler, experienced homemade Czechoslovakian food in Omaha, and danced the night away outside the Seelbach Hotel at Louisville's Fourth Street Live.
The older I get, the more adventurous I get.
Just two short weeks ago, I packed a bikini, sunscreen, my fountain pen, and a few steno pads and headed down to Destin, FL, for "Operation Girls Gone Writing." Carol and Heidi went with me. We met in person once. Two years ago. For just a few short hours in Indianapolis, IN, when I was there for an economics conference. The rest of the time has been spent "meeting" via e-mail and conference calls, as I've worked with and for both of them on numerous writing projects over the past three years.
Imagine if I hadn't talked to these strangers?
We wouldn't have lounged by the pool and talked about all those things women talk about: food, sex, and diets. We wouldn't have seen dolphins in the bay. We'd have missed the piano bar, the too-friendly old guy, and the taste of rum. We never would have known the sands of Destin, still free from oil at that point, and learned that swimming in algae is something like swimming in hair.
Who would have bought too much candy, too many presents for our boys back home, and too much rum?
I have a blog in the works to sum up the weekend. I'm still pondering what to say exactly, but it's on its way.
All I know is that I'm glad I talked to these strangers and can't wait to do it again.
Thanks to that trait, I've closed a bar with a Russian history professor (as in from Russia), explored the Muhammad Ali Museum with a former Pittsburgh Steeler, experienced homemade Czechoslovakian food in Omaha, and danced the night away outside the Seelbach Hotel at Louisville's Fourth Street Live.
The older I get, the more adventurous I get.
Just two short weeks ago, I packed a bikini, sunscreen, my fountain pen, and a few steno pads and headed down to Destin, FL, for "Operation Girls Gone Writing." Carol and Heidi went with me. We met in person once. Two years ago. For just a few short hours in Indianapolis, IN, when I was there for an economics conference. The rest of the time has been spent "meeting" via e-mail and conference calls, as I've worked with and for both of them on numerous writing projects over the past three years.
Imagine if I hadn't talked to these strangers?
We wouldn't have lounged by the pool and talked about all those things women talk about: food, sex, and diets. We wouldn't have seen dolphins in the bay. We'd have missed the piano bar, the too-friendly old guy, and the taste of rum. We never would have known the sands of Destin, still free from oil at that point, and learned that swimming in algae is something like swimming in hair.
Who would have bought too much candy, too many presents for our boys back home, and too much rum?
I have a blog in the works to sum up the weekend. I'm still pondering what to say exactly, but it's on its way.
All I know is that I'm glad I talked to these strangers and can't wait to do it again.
Twitter Trip
I don't have a Twitter account anymore, but if I did, my Girls Gone Writing weekend in Destin, FL, would read like this:
FRIDAY:
5:30 a.m. --> @ airport, no line for security -- nice change!
8:31 a.m. --> boring flight, played solitaire, lost a lot
9:46 a.m. --> met Bobs @ ATL waiting for tram; Atl Bread Co out of bagels
ate choc chip cookies, Liv still in Indy, plane needs part, missed ATL flight w/ us :(
2: 45 p.m. --> @ hotel, @ pool w/ Bobs, Liv's phone off
3:20 p.m. --> Liv calls, drops f-bomb, 2nd time 2day; taxi $55 = 3rd bomb
6 p.m. --> dinner @ Village, seafood & rum
7:31 p.m. --> refuse to ride zipline due to wearing a dress, buy a daquari instead
8:27 p.m. --> karaoke bar overrun w/ kids, don't go in
8:30 p.m. --> @ piano bar, more rum, sing-a-long to Sweet Caroline
SATURDAY:
8 a.m --> big breakfast, Village for towels, then beach!
8:20 a.m. --> $30 beach towel? wtf?!
10:34 a.m. --> saw dolphins!!!!!!
10:55 a.m. --> shopping for dinner dresses "just because"
11:45 a.m. --> no luck w/ dresses, will eat dinner anyway
11:51 a.m. --> candy store = lunch
1:30 p.m. --> @ beach, no oil, just algie in water, like swimming in hair
2:05 p.m. --> took lots of pics, hope I look ok
4:50 p.m. --> leave beach via resort bus
5 p.m. --> bus driver confused, return to beach
5:05 p.m. --> circle parking lot while driver gets bearings
5:10 p.m. --> leave beach parking lot
6 p.m. --> return to hotel alive
7:30 p.m. --> board bus, new & better driver, off to Village for dinner
9:03 p.m. --> off to dance after delicious dinner... too smokey & expensive, return to piano bar
10:14 p.m. --> fifth bachlorette party @ bar, may hurt someone if have to sing "going to the chapel" again
10:19 p.m. --> leave piano bar in interest of sanity
SUNDAY:
8 a.m. --> breakfast, souvineer shopping
12:15 p.m. --> airport security insists on Ziploc baggie for glass jar of liquid foundation
12:16 p.m. --> baggie now required for airport-approved container of mouthwash
12:18 p.m. --> toothpaste and airport-approved container of powder blush go into third baggie
12:21 p.m. --> airport security detains me over 99-cent can of shaving cream
12:30 p.m. --> allowed to throw out 99-cent can of shaving cream
12:41 p.m. --> sternly told to keep all items in approved Ziploc baggies for remainder of trip
12:43 p.m. --> promise to keep all items in approved Ziploc baggies for remainder of trip
12:44 p.m. --> allowed into airport
1:30 p.m. --> board plane, stewardess announces that our pilot is Capt'n Jack Sparrow
3:30 p.m. --> uneventful flight home, played solitaire, lost a lot
MONDAY:
7 a.m. --> back at work...
FRIDAY:
5:30 a.m. --> @ airport, no line for security -- nice change!
8:31 a.m. --> boring flight, played solitaire, lost a lot
9:46 a.m. --> met Bobs @ ATL waiting for tram; Atl Bread Co out of bagels
ate choc chip cookies, Liv still in Indy, plane needs part, missed ATL flight w/ us :(
2: 45 p.m. --> @ hotel, @ pool w/ Bobs, Liv's phone off
3:20 p.m. --> Liv calls, drops f-bomb, 2nd time 2day; taxi $55 = 3rd bomb
6 p.m. --> dinner @ Village, seafood & rum
7:31 p.m. --> refuse to ride zipline due to wearing a dress, buy a daquari instead
8:27 p.m. --> karaoke bar overrun w/ kids, don't go in
8:30 p.m. --> @ piano bar, more rum, sing-a-long to Sweet Caroline
SATURDAY:
8 a.m --> big breakfast, Village for towels, then beach!
8:20 a.m. --> $30 beach towel? wtf?!
10:34 a.m. --> saw dolphins!!!!!!
10:55 a.m. --> shopping for dinner dresses "just because"
11:45 a.m. --> no luck w/ dresses, will eat dinner anyway
11:51 a.m. --> candy store = lunch
1:30 p.m. --> @ beach, no oil, just algie in water, like swimming in hair
2:05 p.m. --> took lots of pics, hope I look ok
4:50 p.m. --> leave beach via resort bus
5 p.m. --> bus driver confused, return to beach
5:05 p.m. --> circle parking lot while driver gets bearings
5:10 p.m. --> leave beach parking lot
6 p.m. --> return to hotel alive
7:30 p.m. --> board bus, new & better driver, off to Village for dinner
9:03 p.m. --> off to dance after delicious dinner... too smokey & expensive, return to piano bar
10:14 p.m. --> fifth bachlorette party @ bar, may hurt someone if have to sing "going to the chapel" again
10:19 p.m. --> leave piano bar in interest of sanity
SUNDAY:
8 a.m. --> breakfast, souvineer shopping
12:15 p.m. --> airport security insists on Ziploc baggie for glass jar of liquid foundation
12:16 p.m. --> baggie now required for airport-approved container of mouthwash
12:18 p.m. --> toothpaste and airport-approved container of powder blush go into third baggie
12:21 p.m. --> airport security detains me over 99-cent can of shaving cream
12:30 p.m. --> allowed to throw out 99-cent can of shaving cream
12:41 p.m. --> sternly told to keep all items in approved Ziploc baggies for remainder of trip
12:43 p.m. --> promise to keep all items in approved Ziploc baggies for remainder of trip
12:44 p.m. --> allowed into airport
1:30 p.m. --> board plane, stewardess announces that our pilot is Capt'n Jack Sparrow
3:30 p.m. --> uneventful flight home, played solitaire, lost a lot
MONDAY:
7 a.m. --> back at work...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
To Tell The Tooth...
I have nothing to say at the moment except that I should be working on research before the day's activities begin. However, work is a little difficult at the moment as we have "Pajama Pants Head" running around upstairs.
How can I do anything but laugh when I hear his tearing around upstairs and his father trying to (patiently) tell him to take his pajama pants off of his head and get dressed so that we can go out?
A few weekends ago, I attended a baby shower for one of my girl friend. While perusing the adorable baby blankets and onesies the night before, while trying to figure out whether of not a newborn really needed the so-cute-it-hurts sandals, I realized that I have no desire to return to those days. None. Na-dah. Zilch. Zip. Zero.
While she's dealing with the final months of pregnancy, I'm dealing with loose teeth and arranging playdates. She's about to hit the easy part of motherhood, while I'm looking at my kid and wondering how the hell I'll keep him from knocking his face off while he plays "stuntman!"
Speaking of teeth, the day before the baby shower, when I picked Gav up at my mother-in-law's, I asked what had become my usual greeting: "Do you still have your tooth?"
"Um, no." It wasn't there.
He didn't believe me, of course, and ran to check in the mirror. After all, for the last several weeks I'd been telling him it was turning purple, green, or whatever other color popped to mind. I'd also told him that the tooth fairy was going to start charging him for the tooth because he was keeping it too long. Why believe me now?
It was indeed gone. FINALLY gone.
Of course, the next mystery was where had it gone?
We ransacked the couch where he'd been sitting, sifted through his bowl of Cheeze-Its, looked under the couch, ran our hands over the carpet, checked his shoes that were next to the couch, shook out the afghan he'd sat on, checked his tumbler full of iced tea... nothing. Na-dah. Zilch. Zip. Zero.
You can probably put two and two together on this one and guess where the tooth disappeared to, given that he'd been snacking at the time it apparently fell out.
But, please, no more jokes about "this tooth shall pass." Really. I'm sure it did by now and, no, I didn't look.
How can I do anything but laugh when I hear his tearing around upstairs and his father trying to (patiently) tell him to take his pajama pants off of his head and get dressed so that we can go out?
A few weekends ago, I attended a baby shower for one of my girl friend. While perusing the adorable baby blankets and onesies the night before, while trying to figure out whether of not a newborn really needed the so-cute-it-hurts sandals, I realized that I have no desire to return to those days. None. Na-dah. Zilch. Zip. Zero.
While she's dealing with the final months of pregnancy, I'm dealing with loose teeth and arranging playdates. She's about to hit the easy part of motherhood, while I'm looking at my kid and wondering how the hell I'll keep him from knocking his face off while he plays "stuntman!"
Speaking of teeth, the day before the baby shower, when I picked Gav up at my mother-in-law's, I asked what had become my usual greeting: "Do you still have your tooth?"
"Yep!"
"Let me see."
He opened wide, proud to show me the tooth that was hanging by a thread and would not, not for anything, fall out."Um, no." It wasn't there.
He didn't believe me, of course, and ran to check in the mirror. After all, for the last several weeks I'd been telling him it was turning purple, green, or whatever other color popped to mind. I'd also told him that the tooth fairy was going to start charging him for the tooth because he was keeping it too long. Why believe me now?
It was indeed gone. FINALLY gone.
Of course, the next mystery was where had it gone?
We ransacked the couch where he'd been sitting, sifted through his bowl of Cheeze-Its, looked under the couch, ran our hands over the carpet, checked his shoes that were next to the couch, shook out the afghan he'd sat on, checked his tumbler full of iced tea... nothing. Na-dah. Zilch. Zip. Zero.
You can probably put two and two together on this one and guess where the tooth disappeared to, given that he'd been snacking at the time it apparently fell out.
But, please, no more jokes about "this tooth shall pass." Really. I'm sure it did by now and, no, I didn't look.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
So much to say, yet nothing. I haven't posted since February, though a lot of nothing has happened.
I think.
I've four posts that I keep meaning to finish, but each time I start them... well... nothing seems to "work." And, perfectionist that I can be, I refuse to publish them just to publish them.
So I've the blog on February's snow storm and what it was like to be trapped in Moon Township in a hotel without power, water, or heat. Then there's one on my trip to Omaha at the end of April when I was -- once again! -- trapped in a hotel (with power, water, and heat). This time it was thanks to a three-hour flight delay that would have caused me to miss my connection in Chicago. I spent the night in Omaha at the Holiday Inn and went to bed at the gloriously decadent hour of 8:30 p.m. I've a third post about my tendency to talk to strangers and how much fun it can be.
Fourth is the unfinished post about Gavin turning seven.
Seven!
How can I say that nothing has happened when my little miracle is no longer that little? The little boy who came into this world two months early is in the family room right now, playing bowling on Wii and yelling "yeah baby!" each time he successfully knocks down the pins.
"Yeah baby!"
My son has his own catch-phrase. Everything is "yeah baby," though sometimes we alternate with "now that's what I'm talking about!"
When I choose clothes that he likes, he pronounces that I "know his style." When I read his mind and tell him that he can't ride his scooter down the sliding board and do other "mean mommy" things designed to keep him alive and in once piece, he sadly tells me that I always "foil his plans."
He has definite opinions that about what is cool and not cool, but don't think they always coincide with the rest of the world. He also has definite opinions about why things work, why they don't work, and why he should be allowed to test his theories. He will bargain and cajole and pester for everything. While it makes me insane sometimes to explain things umpteen times, I have to admit I like that side of him too much to change it. Give me an independent thinker who questions me over a well-behaved lemming any day.
At bedtime, we read books like Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. When he reads on his own, he likes to peruse the two medical terminology books that he appropriated from my bookshelf. While I miss having a little boy who could comfortably fall asleep in my arms as I sang to him, I have more fun with the interactive boy who listens to the same music as I do and is not above dancing around the kitchen with him mom to the sounds of Lady Gaga and Pitbull. (American Pie, however, is his current favorite.)
How can I have nothing to write about?
Perhaps I have too much.
(Such a blessing. No?)
I think.
I've four posts that I keep meaning to finish, but each time I start them... well... nothing seems to "work." And, perfectionist that I can be, I refuse to publish them just to publish them.
So I've the blog on February's snow storm and what it was like to be trapped in Moon Township in a hotel without power, water, or heat. Then there's one on my trip to Omaha at the end of April when I was -- once again! -- trapped in a hotel (with power, water, and heat). This time it was thanks to a three-hour flight delay that would have caused me to miss my connection in Chicago. I spent the night in Omaha at the Holiday Inn and went to bed at the gloriously decadent hour of 8:30 p.m. I've a third post about my tendency to talk to strangers and how much fun it can be.
Fourth is the unfinished post about Gavin turning seven.
Seven!
How can I say that nothing has happened when my little miracle is no longer that little? The little boy who came into this world two months early is in the family room right now, playing bowling on Wii and yelling "yeah baby!" each time he successfully knocks down the pins.
"Yeah baby!"
My son has his own catch-phrase. Everything is "yeah baby," though sometimes we alternate with "now that's what I'm talking about!"
When I choose clothes that he likes, he pronounces that I "know his style." When I read his mind and tell him that he can't ride his scooter down the sliding board and do other "mean mommy" things designed to keep him alive and in once piece, he sadly tells me that I always "foil his plans."
He has definite opinions that about what is cool and not cool, but don't think they always coincide with the rest of the world. He also has definite opinions about why things work, why they don't work, and why he should be allowed to test his theories. He will bargain and cajole and pester for everything. While it makes me insane sometimes to explain things umpteen times, I have to admit I like that side of him too much to change it. Give me an independent thinker who questions me over a well-behaved lemming any day.
At bedtime, we read books like Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. When he reads on his own, he likes to peruse the two medical terminology books that he appropriated from my bookshelf. While I miss having a little boy who could comfortably fall asleep in my arms as I sang to him, I have more fun with the interactive boy who listens to the same music as I do and is not above dancing around the kitchen with him mom to the sounds of Lady Gaga and Pitbull. (American Pie, however, is his current favorite.)
How can I have nothing to write about?
Perhaps I have too much.
(Such a blessing. No?)
Saturday, February 20, 2010
I think it was the snow bank. His car must have glanced it, just enough as he came down the hill, to veer more to the right than the left. That's the only reason I can think of. It had to be the snow.
We were getting out of the car, ready to go to karate class, when a faded black car came tearing up the parking lot that connects a back road to Route 30. Gavin was still climbing out of the back seat, actually, as the punk roared past us. I looked at the driver, annoyed at his speed, but more interested in the beige 4 x 4 that was pulling out of the adjacent parking area and making sure that Gavin didn't run out in front of him.
He didn't. The driver saw us, paused, and I herded Gavin -- who is "almost seven" as opposed to "only six" -- to the passenger side of the car. He deals well with my eternal belief that parking lots are full of cars ready to careen out of control and slam into him.
The parking lot is a hill, so when you pull in it's easier to get out of the driver's side (which is the downhill side) than the passenger side. He'd left his bag with sparring gear in the backseat, as usual, so I got it out. Closing the doors on that side take a little extra umph depending on just where one parks on the slope, but the over-sized button on my coat caught on the frame and the umph was for naught. Gav was patiently waiting on the other side of the car.
I didn't hear the crash itself. It was the sound of something metal dragging along the pavement that made me look up as I made my way to my little guy to hand him his bag.
The faded black car was speeding down the hill. It's front end now smashed, the bumper barely attached.
I remember screaming Gavin's name as I ran to him, dragging him backwards, remember realizing that it was making a beeline for my car's back end, and remember watching -- just watching -- as the driver somehow managed to miss by inches.
And then he was gone.
And I was kneeling and holding my son, shaking, because I had dragged us towards the front of my car and, had that punk hit my bumper, the force very well could have turned the car around and slammed it into us.
"That front was really destroyed," Gav said. "It was totally destroyed!"
"Yes, it was." My voice sounded normal, for which I was thankful.
"It was totally destroyed, Mom!" He had no clue what could have happened. Small mercies.
We made it inside and class started and I sat there, just not quite able to focus on the economics paper I was supposed to be writing.
My mind was racing and I kept seeing the car coming down the hill. Sometimes I saw my button caught on the door frame and wondered what would have been different had it not caught. I went back outside and looked at the snow piled high next to the building and at the fresh mark where he must have hit it, walked up the hill to where the accident had happened. Only the bumper of the car he'd hit remained by now. A man was on the phone, and I told him that I saw where the driver had sped off to, pointed out the road, and said I'd be in the karate school if there were any questions once the police arrived. Then I went back inside. Then back outside.
A police car was quietly sitting at the entrance to the dead end road that I'd seen the black car head down once he'd left the parking lot.
I went back inside.
Eventually, the adrenaline rush ends and rational thought returns. By the end of class, I was able to focus much better and was, for the most part, done replaying it in my mind. Thoughts of what could have happened were replaced by white hot rage and what I wanted to do to that son of a bitch who could have killed my son. The enduring image is a meat grinder and his hands so that he never drives again.
(Just because rational thought returns, doesn't mean one has to be rational, you know.)
And when we left karate and walked through the parking lot once more, Gavin listed all of the karate kicks he would have used on the driver had I been hurt.
Maybe a meat grinder is too humane.
We were getting out of the car, ready to go to karate class, when a faded black car came tearing up the parking lot that connects a back road to Route 30. Gavin was still climbing out of the back seat, actually, as the punk roared past us. I looked at the driver, annoyed at his speed, but more interested in the beige 4 x 4 that was pulling out of the adjacent parking area and making sure that Gavin didn't run out in front of him.
He didn't. The driver saw us, paused, and I herded Gavin -- who is "almost seven" as opposed to "only six" -- to the passenger side of the car. He deals well with my eternal belief that parking lots are full of cars ready to careen out of control and slam into him.
The parking lot is a hill, so when you pull in it's easier to get out of the driver's side (which is the downhill side) than the passenger side. He'd left his bag with sparring gear in the backseat, as usual, so I got it out. Closing the doors on that side take a little extra umph depending on just where one parks on the slope, but the over-sized button on my coat caught on the frame and the umph was for naught. Gav was patiently waiting on the other side of the car.
I didn't hear the crash itself. It was the sound of something metal dragging along the pavement that made me look up as I made my way to my little guy to hand him his bag.
The faded black car was speeding down the hill. It's front end now smashed, the bumper barely attached.
I remember screaming Gavin's name as I ran to him, dragging him backwards, remember realizing that it was making a beeline for my car's back end, and remember watching -- just watching -- as the driver somehow managed to miss by inches.
And then he was gone.
And I was kneeling and holding my son, shaking, because I had dragged us towards the front of my car and, had that punk hit my bumper, the force very well could have turned the car around and slammed it into us.
"That front was really destroyed," Gav said. "It was totally destroyed!"
"Yes, it was." My voice sounded normal, for which I was thankful.
"It was totally destroyed, Mom!" He had no clue what could have happened. Small mercies.
We made it inside and class started and I sat there, just not quite able to focus on the economics paper I was supposed to be writing.
My mind was racing and I kept seeing the car coming down the hill. Sometimes I saw my button caught on the door frame and wondered what would have been different had it not caught. I went back outside and looked at the snow piled high next to the building and at the fresh mark where he must have hit it, walked up the hill to where the accident had happened. Only the bumper of the car he'd hit remained by now. A man was on the phone, and I told him that I saw where the driver had sped off to, pointed out the road, and said I'd be in the karate school if there were any questions once the police arrived. Then I went back inside. Then back outside.
A police car was quietly sitting at the entrance to the dead end road that I'd seen the black car head down once he'd left the parking lot.
I went back inside.
Eventually, the adrenaline rush ends and rational thought returns. By the end of class, I was able to focus much better and was, for the most part, done replaying it in my mind. Thoughts of what could have happened were replaced by white hot rage and what I wanted to do to that son of a bitch who could have killed my son. The enduring image is a meat grinder and his hands so that he never drives again.
(Just because rational thought returns, doesn't mean one has to be rational, you know.)
And when we left karate and walked through the parking lot once more, Gavin listed all of the karate kicks he would have used on the driver had I been hurt.
Maybe a meat grinder is too humane.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Captain Chaos and the Matchbox Cars
Gav inherited a solid wooden box from my Dad. It's about 13" x 8", roughly, and was a Christmas gift to Dad years ago. A bucolic hunting scene is on the front. For those years that Dad was alive, it sat next to the fireplace at the cottage.
It's still next to a fireplace, but now it's our fireplace. The box used to hold matches for the fireplace. Now it holds Matchbox cars. It's a good little box, sturdy enough to survive the abuse even a six-year-old can dish out.
And the other night, well...
Chaos does not own just brand name, indestructible Matchbox cars. He also owns a few dozen cheaper ones from the local dollar store. Those cars break rather easily -- which he discovered that Friday night. The handle of a wrench can easily smash one of these cars.
Very easily.
Six cars later, the Big Guy told him that enough was enough, that his curiosity should be appeased, and to quit bashing cars on the kitchen table.
Always a good little man, Gav handed over the wrench. Reluctantly, I might add.
The Big Guy was wrong, however. Curiosity was not appeased.
Stripped of his wrench, he needed a new method to crush the cars. Preferably one that was a bit less noisy so as not to attract the notice of his parents (who have this crazy tendency to back each other up on things like this).
The next thing I knew, he was adjusting the kitchen chair, then sitting down rather hard, then adjusting the chair, then sitting down rather hard, then adjusting... well, you get the idea.
I'm not sure if I should take the science books off of him or not. Seems that we've moved from Rube Goldberg machines to simple machines. You see, he was putting the cars under the chair's leg then slamming all fifty pounds of himself onto the seat to effectively (quite effectively) crush them.
Wheels, fake glass, and cheap plastic were flying all over the place. While it was certainly quieter than the wrench, and certainly more thorough, it was much less controlled. I'm still finding occasional pieces of the wreckage in distant corners of the kitchen, leading me to think it wasn't so much a crushing but an explosion.
Chaos demolished two cars before I had to swoop in, hide my laughter, and make him stop.
He, again, was reluctant to obey, but he knew that it was the wiser course of action. Anything else would have resulted in the remaining cars residing on top of the fridge.
But he hadn't really stopped. He'd paused. It was now all a matter of determining what he would use next to accomplish his objective.
Ah, but bedtime has a way of hampering the best of plans, so he had to wait until morning to annihilate the remaining ten cars. So for the next nine hours, all was calm in the Louch house.
"Mom. Mom. Hey, Mom. Are you getting up yet? Mom. Mom..." When he was three, I would wake up and be eyeball-to-eyeball with him. Now that he's six, he has to lean over a bit, but we're still eyeball-to-eyeball when I open my eyes. "Mom, can we go downstairs yet?"
Gathering my wits, I got up and we did just that. He fussed with his cars while I made breakfast. I was curious that he hadn't started trying to smash them, but wasn't about to remind him.
Then I saw it. The wooden box, which is a good 15 pounds or so when filled with toy cars, sitting a bit a-tilt on the fireplace hearth. Underneath, a cheap plastic car, slowly... very slowly... being flattened...
It's still next to a fireplace, but now it's our fireplace. The box used to hold matches for the fireplace. Now it holds Matchbox cars. It's a good little box, sturdy enough to survive the abuse even a six-year-old can dish out.
And the other night, well...
Chaos does not own just brand name, indestructible Matchbox cars. He also owns a few dozen cheaper ones from the local dollar store. Those cars break rather easily -- which he discovered that Friday night. The handle of a wrench can easily smash one of these cars.
Very easily.
Six cars later, the Big Guy told him that enough was enough, that his curiosity should be appeased, and to quit bashing cars on the kitchen table.
Always a good little man, Gav handed over the wrench. Reluctantly, I might add.
The Big Guy was wrong, however. Curiosity was not appeased.
Stripped of his wrench, he needed a new method to crush the cars. Preferably one that was a bit less noisy so as not to attract the notice of his parents (who have this crazy tendency to back each other up on things like this).
The next thing I knew, he was adjusting the kitchen chair, then sitting down rather hard, then adjusting the chair, then sitting down rather hard, then adjusting... well, you get the idea.
I'm not sure if I should take the science books off of him or not. Seems that we've moved from Rube Goldberg machines to simple machines. You see, he was putting the cars under the chair's leg then slamming all fifty pounds of himself onto the seat to effectively (quite effectively) crush them.
Wheels, fake glass, and cheap plastic were flying all over the place. While it was certainly quieter than the wrench, and certainly more thorough, it was much less controlled. I'm still finding occasional pieces of the wreckage in distant corners of the kitchen, leading me to think it wasn't so much a crushing but an explosion.
Chaos demolished two cars before I had to swoop in, hide my laughter, and make him stop.
He, again, was reluctant to obey, but he knew that it was the wiser course of action. Anything else would have resulted in the remaining cars residing on top of the fridge.
But he hadn't really stopped. He'd paused. It was now all a matter of determining what he would use next to accomplish his objective.
Ah, but bedtime has a way of hampering the best of plans, so he had to wait until morning to annihilate the remaining ten cars. So for the next nine hours, all was calm in the Louch house.
"Mom. Mom. Hey, Mom. Are you getting up yet? Mom. Mom..." When he was three, I would wake up and be eyeball-to-eyeball with him. Now that he's six, he has to lean over a bit, but we're still eyeball-to-eyeball when I open my eyes. "Mom, can we go downstairs yet?"
Gathering my wits, I got up and we did just that. He fussed with his cars while I made breakfast. I was curious that he hadn't started trying to smash them, but wasn't about to remind him.
Then I saw it. The wooden box, which is a good 15 pounds or so when filled with toy cars, sitting a bit a-tilt on the fireplace hearth. Underneath, a cheap plastic car, slowly... very slowly... being flattened...
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Once upon a time...
Right now, my boy is sitting beside me with a small whiteboard and a bajillion questions.
"How do you spell dinosaur in cursive?"
"How do you spell perfect in cursive?"
"Did I write that right?"
"Can you write my name in cursive?"
"Why does the G look like that?"
"I'm drawing a sandbox."
A little scattered, maybe disjointed to the casual observer, but not really. His mind is jumping all over the place, but I can follow.
"Look, Mom, the eraser got rid of everything. Now it's growing back. The ground. People. Plants. Street lights. Back came the grass."
He's telling me a story, from start to finish. It all started with a sandbox and a sand kicker who kicked so much sand that the whole world went away; but when the sand kicked died, the world came back. Gav's drawing the return of the world and narrating it.
"The sun came back. The sky."
The sun has spikes coming from it, they're "sunbeams." The sky is a scribble along the top of the page.
"Here's people."
Three stick figures appear. A tall one and two short ones.
"How do you spell family?"
I write it down, and he copies it along the top of the white board, right under the sky.
"This is a family. It's a dad and two kids."
"Where's the mom?"
"She went to Canada."
"Why did she go to Canada?"
"She's coming back December fourth."
Before I could pose my next question, he ran the eraser over the picture and wrote gone.
"They went to visit her. They didn't want to wait."
When Gav's taking things apart with a hammer, when he's laughing hysterically at Spongebob, or when he's giving me an innocent look and the words "I wasn't thinking," I glance at the husband and tell him that there's no doubt in my mind that he is that boy's father. When I go in to kiss Gav goodbye before going to work, I marvel at how much he looks like his dad -- from facial expression to sleeping position. There's not much about him, at first glance, that would suggest he was mine, unless you count athletic ability and his cute little nose. I'm okay with that.
But when he's creating, when he's making up stories complete with characters and plots, with beginnings and middles and ends, he's all mine. When he's building complex Lego creations of his own design and explaining the function of every tower and building, he's all mine. And when he's planing yet another Rube Goldberg machine, he's all mine.
What's really amazing to me is that I never taught him any of this.
The truth is that he's not really "mine," no more than he's his dad's.
He's his own little soul from his own little world. We're just lucky enough to borrow him for a while.
"How do you spell dinosaur in cursive?"
"How do you spell perfect in cursive?"
"Did I write that right?"
"Can you write my name in cursive?"
"Why does the G look like that?"
"I'm drawing a sandbox."
A little scattered, maybe disjointed to the casual observer, but not really. His mind is jumping all over the place, but I can follow.
"Look, Mom, the eraser got rid of everything. Now it's growing back. The ground. People. Plants. Street lights. Back came the grass."
He's telling me a story, from start to finish. It all started with a sandbox and a sand kicker who kicked so much sand that the whole world went away; but when the sand kicked died, the world came back. Gav's drawing the return of the world and narrating it.
"The sun came back. The sky."
The sun has spikes coming from it, they're "sunbeams." The sky is a scribble along the top of the page.
"Here's people."
Three stick figures appear. A tall one and two short ones.
"How do you spell family?"
I write it down, and he copies it along the top of the white board, right under the sky.
"This is a family. It's a dad and two kids."
"Where's the mom?"
"She went to Canada."
"Why did she go to Canada?"
"She's coming back December fourth."
Before I could pose my next question, he ran the eraser over the picture and wrote gone.
"They went to visit her. They didn't want to wait."
When Gav's taking things apart with a hammer, when he's laughing hysterically at Spongebob, or when he's giving me an innocent look and the words "I wasn't thinking," I glance at the husband and tell him that there's no doubt in my mind that he is that boy's father. When I go in to kiss Gav goodbye before going to work, I marvel at how much he looks like his dad -- from facial expression to sleeping position. There's not much about him, at first glance, that would suggest he was mine, unless you count athletic ability and his cute little nose. I'm okay with that.
But when he's creating, when he's making up stories complete with characters and plots, with beginnings and middles and ends, he's all mine. When he's building complex Lego creations of his own design and explaining the function of every tower and building, he's all mine. And when he's planing yet another Rube Goldberg machine, he's all mine.
What's really amazing to me is that I never taught him any of this.
The truth is that he's not really "mine," no more than he's his dad's.
He's his own little soul from his own little world. We're just lucky enough to borrow him for a while.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Somewhere, tucked in my papers from my undergrad years, is a quote about how being killed because you are a writer is "the ultimate expression of respect."
Or something like that.
It means, of course, that you are killed because you are good at your craft. Too good. You are killed because the people listen to you and because you have become a voice that powerful cowards cannot bear to hear.
This past weekend, Cuban bloggers Yoani Sanchez, Claudia Cadelo, Orlando Luis Pardo, and Ciro DÃaz.were picked up by thugs, thrown into a van, beaten, and thrown onto the street. The bloggers' crimes? Blogging about Cuba as it is today under castro. Telling the truth.
Yoani was voted one of the world's 100 most influential people by Time Magazine. You can find her blog here: Generacion Y. (Google offers a reasonable translation for those who aren't fluent in Spanish.)
Chantel's Yucababy blog provided a translation of Pardo's post, a recount of the experience:
Below, is my translation of an excerpt from Orlando Pardo's post at Penultimos Dias:
Within seconds, Yoani and I had our arms twisted in a car imported from our Stepmother Country: China
My head against the car's carpet, and Yoani with her feet in the air.I couldn't see her, identifying her only because she would not be quiet. I heard her scream with the vehemence of a being more free than the planet itself
She had a Cuban man's knee nailed against her chest, and still she rebuked him
From that energy I borrowed the strength to revive a bit my own voice.
They told me to tell Yoani to be quiet.
That phrase, pronounced by three unknowns in the name of the Cuban State, sums up the obsolescence and obscenity of this country.
Tell Yoani to be quiet.
Tell Yoani to be quiet.
Tell Yoani to be quiet.
Despotically, they deposited us in a corner that I confused with the patio of a barracks.
I was dizzy.I felt nauseous, felt like vomiting.
I could not move my neck.
I embraced Yoani (which I'd never done before).
She began to sob.
The greatest woman in Cuba seemed like an infant.
Because Yoani is such: the future of Cuba crystallized on a fragile and unstoppable body.
I kissed her head. Her hair pulled with such hate smelled like liberty.
Once.
Twice.
Ten.
Uncountable times I kissed her ageless head.
But I never told her to be quiet.
But I never told her to be quiet.
But I never told her to be quiet.
-- Orlando Luis Pardo
Or something like that.
It means, of course, that you are killed because you are good at your craft. Too good. You are killed because the people listen to you and because you have become a voice that powerful cowards cannot bear to hear.
This past weekend, Cuban bloggers Yoani Sanchez, Claudia Cadelo, Orlando Luis Pardo, and Ciro DÃaz.were picked up by thugs, thrown into a van, beaten, and thrown onto the street. The bloggers' crimes? Blogging about Cuba as it is today under castro. Telling the truth.
Yoani was voted one of the world's 100 most influential people by Time Magazine. You can find her blog here: Generacion Y. (Google offers a reasonable translation for those who aren't fluent in Spanish.)
Chantel's Yucababy blog provided a translation of Pardo's post, a recount of the experience:
Below, is my translation of an excerpt from Orlando Pardo's post at Penultimos Dias:
Within seconds, Yoani and I had our arms twisted in a car imported from our Stepmother Country: China
My head against the car's carpet, and Yoani with her feet in the air.I couldn't see her, identifying her only because she would not be quiet. I heard her scream with the vehemence of a being more free than the planet itself
She had a Cuban man's knee nailed against her chest, and still she rebuked him
From that energy I borrowed the strength to revive a bit my own voice.
They told me to tell Yoani to be quiet.
That phrase, pronounced by three unknowns in the name of the Cuban State, sums up the obsolescence and obscenity of this country.
Tell Yoani to be quiet.
Tell Yoani to be quiet.
Tell Yoani to be quiet.
Despotically, they deposited us in a corner that I confused with the patio of a barracks.
I was dizzy.I felt nauseous, felt like vomiting.
I could not move my neck.
I embraced Yoani (which I'd never done before).
She began to sob.
The greatest woman in Cuba seemed like an infant.
Because Yoani is such: the future of Cuba crystallized on a fragile and unstoppable body.
I kissed her head. Her hair pulled with such hate smelled like liberty.
Once.
Twice.
Ten.
Uncountable times I kissed her ageless head.
But I never told her to be quiet.
But I never told her to be quiet.
But I never told her to be quiet.
-- Orlando Luis Pardo
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Nanowrimo 2009
Once more, I'm taking up the challenge: 50,000 words in 30 days..
Ought to be interesting this year -- especially since I'm working on that doctorate, working full-time, and trying to get through the last (almost painful) edit of Killing Julie.
Thanks to Nano, I finished KJ. Perhaps this year, thanks to Nano, I'll get that next one rolling (as opposed to bouncing around in my brain).
The plot? Darned if I know.
Ought to be interesting this year -- especially since I'm working on that doctorate, working full-time, and trying to get through the last (almost painful) edit of Killing Julie.
Thanks to Nano, I finished KJ. Perhaps this year, thanks to Nano, I'll get that next one rolling (as opposed to bouncing around in my brain).
The plot? Darned if I know.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A Hands-on Education
To say that this past week has been "educational" is quite the understatement. Thanks to one boss being on vacation and the other deciding to snap his ankle in half, I've been holding down the fort at work.
It went quite well, if I do say so myself.
I have learned that I can keep track of the attendance records of 50+ new starts not only on paper but in my head. I found out that I actually make some program directors try not to cringe when I walk into their offices holding my list of students on extern or of possible re-enters for next term. I discovered that all I need is a white board to help me keep track of returning students for the next five months. I uncovered the administrator within and learned how to say things like "this is unacceptable" in a tactful yet firm manner -- and get results. I even managed to delegate once in a while, despite some odd genetic tendency to avoid it at all costs.
All in all, when the bosses come back next week, they'll find that the school is still standing and that the student population remains intact.
I also learned, this past Tuesday night, that I still can't figure out my left from my right when it comes to karate. "Form 1," which my six-year-old has mastered, still escapes me. Don't ask me what the Korean name for it is, for I can neither pronounce it not spell it. When I do manage to say it, it comes out sounding like young emu. I still can't count to ten in Korean. The ability to tell the difference between ahp cha ki (front kick) and yup cha ki (side kick) eludes me until someone shows me. Again. While I can write an entire course on medical terminology, remembering that mok is my neck and moo roop refers to my knee is apparently a challenge above and beyond my talents.
it is possible that this all goes back to my generally non-existent athletic abilities paired with a completely un-deserved sense skill. I always think I can do something. I think I can hit a golf ball. I think I can hit a softball. I think I can shoot hoops. You see, I have a tendency to watch others and then, unreasonably and illogically, think to myself "how hard can that be?"
As I invariably find out, it is much harder than I ever suspected.
However, I'm not totally hopeless... and perhaps that is where the sense of "I can do that" comes from. I am a very good at street hockey. Pucks stay on the ground (usually) and are easier to hit than softballs, which insist on being airborn when I'm supposed to hit them. My whole concept of hockey is "get the puck in the net," and I do that reasonably well.
Had we had volleyball in high school, I would have played. While the volleyball isn't on the ground like a puck, I don't have to worry about swinging a bat or about aiming at some impossibly small basketball hoop. All I have to do is aim at the large space above the volleyball net -- or, I admit it, the face of the person on the other side of the net.
But as for karate? Right up there with softball, baby. A total testament to my lack of coordination. It's a nice stress reliever, but I'll never be a contender. (And I'm okay with that!)
I'll stick to tracking 500+ students and 20+ teachers on a daily basis.
Much easier than that left v.s right stuff.
It went quite well, if I do say so myself.
I have learned that I can keep track of the attendance records of 50+ new starts not only on paper but in my head. I found out that I actually make some program directors try not to cringe when I walk into their offices holding my list of students on extern or of possible re-enters for next term. I discovered that all I need is a white board to help me keep track of returning students for the next five months. I uncovered the administrator within and learned how to say things like "this is unacceptable" in a tactful yet firm manner -- and get results. I even managed to delegate once in a while, despite some odd genetic tendency to avoid it at all costs.
All in all, when the bosses come back next week, they'll find that the school is still standing and that the student population remains intact.
I also learned, this past Tuesday night, that I still can't figure out my left from my right when it comes to karate. "Form 1," which my six-year-old has mastered, still escapes me. Don't ask me what the Korean name for it is, for I can neither pronounce it not spell it. When I do manage to say it, it comes out sounding like young emu. I still can't count to ten in Korean. The ability to tell the difference between ahp cha ki (front kick) and yup cha ki (side kick) eludes me until someone shows me. Again. While I can write an entire course on medical terminology, remembering that mok is my neck and moo roop refers to my knee is apparently a challenge above and beyond my talents.
it is possible that this all goes back to my generally non-existent athletic abilities paired with a completely un-deserved sense skill. I always think I can do something. I think I can hit a golf ball. I think I can hit a softball. I think I can shoot hoops. You see, I have a tendency to watch others and then, unreasonably and illogically, think to myself "how hard can that be?"
As I invariably find out, it is much harder than I ever suspected.
However, I'm not totally hopeless... and perhaps that is where the sense of "I can do that" comes from. I am a very good at street hockey. Pucks stay on the ground (usually) and are easier to hit than softballs, which insist on being airborn when I'm supposed to hit them. My whole concept of hockey is "get the puck in the net," and I do that reasonably well.
Had we had volleyball in high school, I would have played. While the volleyball isn't on the ground like a puck, I don't have to worry about swinging a bat or about aiming at some impossibly small basketball hoop. All I have to do is aim at the large space above the volleyball net -- or, I admit it, the face of the person on the other side of the net.
But as for karate? Right up there with softball, baby. A total testament to my lack of coordination. It's a nice stress reliever, but I'll never be a contender. (And I'm okay with that!)
I'll stick to tracking 500+ students and 20+ teachers on a daily basis.
Much easier than that left v.s right stuff.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Don't Think
There are things that I simply try not to think about, particularly when it comes to my son.
I try not to think about the night he was born and the fact that I made it to the hospital just in time. I don't like thoughts of what could have -- would have -- happened had we been just twenty minutes later.
I try not to think about the tetnus he didn't get after stepping on a rusted 40-year-old carpet nail last summer. The thin white scar on his neck -- compliments of a picket fence at Idlewild this summer -- still makes a cringe.
When he came home from a fishing trip with his dad, his nose and forehead showing evidence of a face-plant in the berber carpet (unintentional high dive off a chair in the living room), I tried not to think about his newly grown front teeth and almost knocking them out.
Last night, after he fell asleep, I went into his room and just sat on the side of his bed. For a good while, I sat there, just looking at my baby. His knee and right hand are all scraped up from (unwillingly, unintentionally) sliding along the pavement en route to the token machine at the zoo. He has a bandage on his knee, though he doesn't need it. We had a small battle over that, I admit. He likes Band-Aids, and I have the philosophy of "no blood, no bandage." Our compromise was one for his knee and none for his hand.
I feel silly now. It's just a Band-Aid. No big deal. You put them on, you take them off. Slap some antibiotic cream on whenever you have to. Everything heals and in a few days the bandage is gone. I don't know what the big deal is, really.
Social networking is wonderful for those of us who sit in the office all or most of the day. Facebook lets us "escape" just a little bit and chat with friends, post silly comments, or just send pokes back and forth. It let's the world in, too, sometimes a bit too much. A friend of mine is now watching his nephew battle an illness that no Band-Aid can cover. He's posting updates for us, drawing us into this world, showing us pictures.
I can't understand how the Fates roll their dice. I never will. But, because of those wicked mythical sisters and their whims, last night I just sat and marveled at my son. And tried very hard not to cry.
I try not to think about the night he was born and the fact that I made it to the hospital just in time. I don't like thoughts of what could have -- would have -- happened had we been just twenty minutes later.
I try not to think about the tetnus he didn't get after stepping on a rusted 40-year-old carpet nail last summer. The thin white scar on his neck -- compliments of a picket fence at Idlewild this summer -- still makes a cringe.
When he came home from a fishing trip with his dad, his nose and forehead showing evidence of a face-plant in the berber carpet (unintentional high dive off a chair in the living room), I tried not to think about his newly grown front teeth and almost knocking them out.
Last night, after he fell asleep, I went into his room and just sat on the side of his bed. For a good while, I sat there, just looking at my baby. His knee and right hand are all scraped up from (unwillingly, unintentionally) sliding along the pavement en route to the token machine at the zoo. He has a bandage on his knee, though he doesn't need it. We had a small battle over that, I admit. He likes Band-Aids, and I have the philosophy of "no blood, no bandage." Our compromise was one for his knee and none for his hand.
I feel silly now. It's just a Band-Aid. No big deal. You put them on, you take them off. Slap some antibiotic cream on whenever you have to. Everything heals and in a few days the bandage is gone. I don't know what the big deal is, really.
Social networking is wonderful for those of us who sit in the office all or most of the day. Facebook lets us "escape" just a little bit and chat with friends, post silly comments, or just send pokes back and forth. It let's the world in, too, sometimes a bit too much. A friend of mine is now watching his nephew battle an illness that no Band-Aid can cover. He's posting updates for us, drawing us into this world, showing us pictures.
I can't understand how the Fates roll their dice. I never will. But, because of those wicked mythical sisters and their whims, last night I just sat and marveled at my son. And tried very hard not to cry.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
PFEW-less in 2009
I missed PFEW Week III this year. Had to. Between my RMU class schedule, the amount of sick and vacation time accumulated, and the week that the students' summer break was scheduled, I just couldn't swing it.
For the record, it nearly killed me.
I did not get to make my usual drive to Williamsport, make my usual stops along the way, take the new route that I learned last year, wear my collection of PFEW polo shirts, hear the usual banter, or take the usual abuse about my inability to tell jokes.
I did not get to hang out with people that I have known, for over ten years. Or ten weeks, depending on how you count.
I did not get to drink responsibly in the hospitality room, stay up irresponsibly late, laugh until I could not breathe, or function on an average of six hours sleep per night for seven nights.
I did not get to tell my latest joke, one that is deliberately bad. (If I told a good one, well... my fellow CA's would probably not know what to do.)
Last but not least, I did not get to work with a team of teens who are among the best and the brightest. I did not get the privilege of seeing them grow from a group of total strangers to a team -- or from a group of not-always-so-certain kids to confident business folk.
That's okay.
After all, it's only 50 weeks until PFEW, Week III, 2010.
For the record, it nearly killed me.
I did not get to make my usual drive to Williamsport, make my usual stops along the way, take the new route that I learned last year, wear my collection of PFEW polo shirts, hear the usual banter, or take the usual abuse about my inability to tell jokes.
I did not get to hang out with people that I have known, for over ten years. Or ten weeks, depending on how you count.
I did not get to drink responsibly in the hospitality room, stay up irresponsibly late, laugh until I could not breathe, or function on an average of six hours sleep per night for seven nights.
I did not get to tell my latest joke, one that is deliberately bad. (If I told a good one, well... my fellow CA's would probably not know what to do.)
Last but not least, I did not get to work with a team of teens who are among the best and the brightest. I did not get the privilege of seeing them grow from a group of total strangers to a team -- or from a group of not-always-so-certain kids to confident business folk.
That's okay.
After all, it's only 50 weeks until PFEW, Week III, 2010.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Cat(no)nap
4:31 a.m., cat wants fresh water in bowl, makes this known with pitter-patter of cat feet on my head
4:32 a.m., cat lands on the floor
4:33 a.m., cat jumps onto nightstand and begins to rub against lampshade to create annoying squeak-thump
4:35 a.m., cat lands on the floor again
4:40 a.m., cat begins to prowl around the bed, stalking prey (me)
4:43 a.m., cat's furry butt dragged into bathroom, tub faucet turned on, then off, cat happily drinks drips
5:01 a.m., wet cat feet squish across pillow as she demands more water
5:02 a.m., cat lands in hallway, bedroom door shuts
4:32 a.m., cat lands on the floor
4:33 a.m., cat jumps onto nightstand and begins to rub against lampshade to create annoying squeak-thump
4:35 a.m., cat lands on the floor again
4:40 a.m., cat begins to prowl around the bed, stalking prey (me)
4:43 a.m., cat's furry butt dragged into bathroom, tub faucet turned on, then off, cat happily drinks drips
5:01 a.m., wet cat feet squish across pillow as she demands more water
5:02 a.m., cat lands in hallway, bedroom door shuts
5:30 a.m., pitiful "mommy-why-do-you-hate-me" meowing begins, threatening to wake son
5:32 a.m., bedroom door opens, cat -- now dry -- jumps up on bed and curls up at the foot of the bed, where feet normally belong
5:40 a.m., cat lands on floor after attacking ankles as punishment for trying to get comfortable
5:41 a.m., cat back on bed, makes cautious peace with bumps under blanket that can send her back to the floor... by sleeping on them
6:17 a.m., cramp in calf forces movement for the first time since cat plopped on leg, movement causes cat to wake prematurely, retaliation comes in form of teeth
6:17 and 5 seconds, cat lands on floor again
6:18 a.m., cat returns to bed, sleeps on husband's side, continued snoring indicates that he's fine with that
7:01 a.m., cat having dream and begins meowing in sleep, waking me
7:05 a.m., cat wakes and decides it's time to start the day
7:07 a.m., jumps off bed and goes to window, pushes light-blocking curtains out of way -- admitting blinding morning sun
7:10 a.m., cat decides others must enjoy the morning and begins breathing in owner's face to wake her
7:11 a.m., owner discovers cat can't find her when she puts a pillow over her head
7:25 a.m., cover blown when son comes in wanting to play Legos
7:30 a.m., cat gets fresh water in bowl
Growing up, I had Molly, a plump little hairball of a cat who had the sweetest disposition ever. For years, she would wake up with my Dad when he got ready for work. He would feed and water her, and she would be as happy as a lark. There was always a misunderstanding, however, each weekend. He wanted to sleep past 6 a.m. and she wanted feed/watered at 6 a.m. As she got older, she got less patient. The last few years of her life were marked by a very specific pattern: on days when Daddy didn't get up at 6 a.m., she would simply prowl around the edge of the bed until he got up and did her bidding.
It's Dad's birthday today, so the fact that my cat is now (apparently) channeling Molly seems a good way to mark Dad's day.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Trust
Gav is hitting "that" age -- the one where I have to decide between sending him to the men's room alone or dragging him into the women's room with me. His six going on seven, meaning that I'm rational going on paranoid-obsessive.
Is there anyone lurking in there? Is some pervert waiting for a trusting mom to send her son in to him? Will Gavin know enough to scream and run? Or will he be just too frightened to act? How much trouble will I get in if I open the door to check on my son's safety?
Wait, do I really care about how much trouble I might get in? Not really.
I stand right outside the bathroom door, ready to leap to action and kill anyone who looks at my son "funny" and makes him nervous.
Well, really, they don't have to make him nervous. Making me nervous is about all it will take for me to push that door open and charge in. While I haven't yet, have no doubt about it, I will should I feel the need. (I've chased my son into men's dressing rooms at department stores when he was a curious toddler, so a men's restroom isn't particularly intimidating.)
It should be noted at this point that Gavin -- in spite of training by parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and teachers -- says that he "knows" what to do when approached by a stranger. He will hit him with a baseball bat. Throw him under a car. Run him over. Brake a table over his head. Throw the cat in his face. And, finally, feed him to monsters.
THEN he will run.
(No wonder I get nervous.)
Other mothers share their stories with me, which does not help. While I realize that it's good to be aware, why does every story seem to have an evil stranger haunting it?
Frankly, excluding this, I'm a pretty happy-go-lucky chick. I believe that people are generally good at heart and that more of them are likely to help than to hurt. I think that things tend to turn out right, even when it seems that they won't. I talk to strangers, and I smile at people on the street if we make eye contact. I am, probably, the sort who some would say is bound to end up on a milk carton someday.
When it comes to conferences, I hop on planes and head to big cities all by myself. Airports are adventures just waiting to happen -- so much so that I make it a point to change planes whenver possible and pick layovers in states I've yet to visit. When I drive to conferences, I seek out local mom-and-pop restaurants and invite other conference attendees. I've been known to close bars with my closest friends as well as those I met at meetings that morning. And if there's a club to be found, I'll be there.
Ah, and the stories! The culture! To be with people from other worlds who look at everything so very differently then you, whose economic systems were so defining in their lives (uh, yeah, I should probably mention that I meet the bulk of these folks at economics conferences)... it's really quite the drug to me.
I want Gavin to be like that, and he's showing signs of it already... well, that is, when he's not hiding behind me because he's shy around g-i-r-l-s. He, too, looks at everything as an adventure and won't hesistate to ask questions (unless it's a "do you want to come over and play" question, which is another blog for another day).
The trick is to teach him when to talk and when to run without terrifying him into avoiding all strangers, to teach him how to trust his gut in situtations without actually putting him in those situations to learn what a "gut feeeling" feels like.
In the meanwhile, I'll stand outside of the men's room, ready to charge at the first sign of danger. Real or imagined.
Is there anyone lurking in there? Is some pervert waiting for a trusting mom to send her son in to him? Will Gavin know enough to scream and run? Or will he be just too frightened to act? How much trouble will I get in if I open the door to check on my son's safety?
Wait, do I really care about how much trouble I might get in? Not really.
I stand right outside the bathroom door, ready to leap to action and kill anyone who looks at my son "funny" and makes him nervous.
Well, really, they don't have to make him nervous. Making me nervous is about all it will take for me to push that door open and charge in. While I haven't yet, have no doubt about it, I will should I feel the need. (I've chased my son into men's dressing rooms at department stores when he was a curious toddler, so a men's restroom isn't particularly intimidating.)
It should be noted at this point that Gavin -- in spite of training by parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and teachers -- says that he "knows" what to do when approached by a stranger. He will hit him with a baseball bat. Throw him under a car. Run him over. Brake a table over his head. Throw the cat in his face. And, finally, feed him to monsters.
THEN he will run.
(No wonder I get nervous.)
Other mothers share their stories with me, which does not help. While I realize that it's good to be aware, why does every story seem to have an evil stranger haunting it?
Frankly, excluding this, I'm a pretty happy-go-lucky chick. I believe that people are generally good at heart and that more of them are likely to help than to hurt. I think that things tend to turn out right, even when it seems that they won't. I talk to strangers, and I smile at people on the street if we make eye contact. I am, probably, the sort who some would say is bound to end up on a milk carton someday.
When it comes to conferences, I hop on planes and head to big cities all by myself. Airports are adventures just waiting to happen -- so much so that I make it a point to change planes whenver possible and pick layovers in states I've yet to visit. When I drive to conferences, I seek out local mom-and-pop restaurants and invite other conference attendees. I've been known to close bars with my closest friends as well as those I met at meetings that morning. And if there's a club to be found, I'll be there.
Ah, and the stories! The culture! To be with people from other worlds who look at everything so very differently then you, whose economic systems were so defining in their lives (uh, yeah, I should probably mention that I meet the bulk of these folks at economics conferences)... it's really quite the drug to me.
I want Gavin to be like that, and he's showing signs of it already... well, that is, when he's not hiding behind me because he's shy around g-i-r-l-s. He, too, looks at everything as an adventure and won't hesistate to ask questions (unless it's a "do you want to come over and play" question, which is another blog for another day).
The trick is to teach him when to talk and when to run without terrifying him into avoiding all strangers, to teach him how to trust his gut in situtations without actually putting him in those situations to learn what a "gut feeeling" feels like.
In the meanwhile, I'll stand outside of the men's room, ready to charge at the first sign of danger. Real or imagined.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Prof. Gavin
Gavin is the eternally adorable child. For starters, he is a stick -- all arms and legs, elbows and knees. He now wears a size 7 for length, but needs a 6 for his waist. And, wonderfully, his two front teeth are now M.I.A.
We spent our Fourth of July weekend in Williamsburg, VA. It was our second trip in two years, and -- given how well things went -- if the fates work with us, we'll head back for July 4, 2010.
This time around, Gav was even more "into" the whole experience... and I'm not talking about the kids' activities (which we didn't get to this year, to be honest). He was the one front-and-center at the cabinet maker's shop asking how wooden hinges worked and how they made animal glue and what a particular hammer was for. He learned how a lock worked at the blacksmith's (but was disappointed that they weren't making nails like last year). He tried to answer the questions posed during the lantern tour we took on Friday night (only got one right, but I'm more awed by the fact that he made the attempt). He dragged us through the gardens and the flowerbeds, asking a bajillion questions, identifying the ones he knew, and trying to pick as much as he could without us noticing.
We spent our Fourth of July weekend in Williamsburg, VA. It was our second trip in two years, and -- given how well things went -- if the fates work with us, we'll head back for July 4, 2010.
This time around, Gav was even more "into" the whole experience... and I'm not talking about the kids' activities (which we didn't get to this year, to be honest). He was the one front-and-center at the cabinet maker's shop asking how wooden hinges worked and how they made animal glue and what a particular hammer was for. He learned how a lock worked at the blacksmith's (but was disappointed that they weren't making nails like last year). He tried to answer the questions posed during the lantern tour we took on Friday night (only got one right, but I'm more awed by the fact that he made the attempt). He dragged us through the gardens and the flowerbeds, asking a bajillion questions, identifying the ones he knew, and trying to pick as much as he could without us noticing.
The best moment, however, was Saturday afternoon.
Because I was still a bit miserable from a lingering cold, I sent my boys on without me on Saturday morning. Sleep was a necessity -- particularly if I was going to make it to the fireworks that night. When they returned at noon, we went to lunch and then began our walk back to Colonial Williamsburg (CW).
First, however, we had to stop at the Great Hope Plantation, which is next to the Visitor's Center and en route to CW. Gav wanted to show me the piglets they had seen that morning. My boys had spent the morning there, learning a good bit about a tobacco plantation.
So, what made it so wonderful? Professor Gavin, of course.
My little man gave me the grand tour, reciting everything he'd learned that morning. He showed me the barn, the tobacco, the dried tobacco, the tools used to farm the tobacco, the piglets, the chickens, the slave quarters, the well, the smoke house, the hams in the smoke house, the tools outside of the smoke house, the cows... you get the picture. It wasn't "what's this, mom?" it was "look at this, mom, and this is what it was used for."
I am, needless to say, proud as proud can be of my young historian... particularly since all of this is innate. The husband and I had nothing to do with his decision to give mom a spontaneous history lesson. Or perhaps we had everything. Nature or nurture? Don't know, to be honest. All I know is that he was having the time of his life teaching mom everything she ever needed to know about running a tobocca plantation. And, frankly, so was I.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Who are you and why did you "friend" me?
To date, I have 58 friends on Facebook (FB).
On occassion, I get friend requests from people that, apparently, like to collect friends because -- as you all know -- he who friends the most wins... um... wins... wins what? To the best of my knowledge, no one wins anything for having 783 friends more then the next person. Actually, I'm often hard-pressed to keep track of my 58 friends. (I mean, OMG, one can only have so many BFFs, y/k.)
I haven't much time to "poke" and "superpoke." I sometimes "send a round" of various drinks, but rarely are they all imbibed, meaning that I don't get points enough to unlock more concoctions or to become cyber-drunk. I wonder what that feels like -- and should I have a designated typist for those times when I am virtually toasted?
There are days when I get the chance to send special on-line charms to friends for their on-line charm bracelets, but I can only send 15 each day -- meaning that friend #16 has to wait until the next day. And how am I supposed to determine who is important enough to get a charm today and who is not important enough, so thus must wait until tomorrow?
Also, when I send a round of hugs, what if I forget someone? And is it appropriate to "hug" my male friends? After all, not all of them are ones I'd hug in real life. Actually, ditto for some of the women I friend. Is there a "send a handshake" option?
Oh dear.
It's really quite interesting, all of this social contract stuff on FB. So much to worry about. Take, for example, the two friends who vanished from my friend list within days of each other and could not be found for anything. Being that I considered them good friends, I actually spent long minutes wondering why they un-friended me and trying to figure out what happened. Turns out, happy day, that they didn't un-friend me. They deleted their profiles. In essence, they un-friended themselves from everyone.
I felt so much better. It's nice to be part of a giant group of un-friends, that means that it's nothing personal.
In the realm of un-friending, I myself have committed that very action. It's true. To my knowledge, no one missed me. If someone un-friends up and you don't notice, were you ever friends? (That's much like my other question: if you blog and no one reads it, did you really blog?)
Given the apparently angst that comes to me with FB, it's obvious that I don't tweet. Twittering would probably put me over the cyber-edge. I have too much on my mind to keep it to under 140 characters and -- frankly! -- I'm not sure I'm interesting enough (or boring enough?!) to make tweeting titillating enough to merit followers. Maybe once I sell my novel, I'll send out vital tweets like "buying my venti tea at Starbucks right now" and "wow, that pizza was really good!"
Maybe.
But probably not.
(Tweet, that is. I've every intention of selling that novel once I finish killing off the dead first husband.)
On occassion, I get friend requests from people that, apparently, like to collect friends because -- as you all know -- he who friends the most wins... um... wins... wins what? To the best of my knowledge, no one wins anything for having 783 friends more then the next person. Actually, I'm often hard-pressed to keep track of my 58 friends. (I mean, OMG, one can only have so many BFFs, y/k.)
I haven't much time to "poke" and "superpoke." I sometimes "send a round" of various drinks, but rarely are they all imbibed, meaning that I don't get points enough to unlock more concoctions or to become cyber-drunk. I wonder what that feels like -- and should I have a designated typist for those times when I am virtually toasted?
There are days when I get the chance to send special on-line charms to friends for their on-line charm bracelets, but I can only send 15 each day -- meaning that friend #16 has to wait until the next day. And how am I supposed to determine who is important enough to get a charm today and who is not important enough, so thus must wait until tomorrow?
Also, when I send a round of hugs, what if I forget someone? And is it appropriate to "hug" my male friends? After all, not all of them are ones I'd hug in real life. Actually, ditto for some of the women I friend. Is there a "send a handshake" option?
Oh dear.
It's really quite interesting, all of this social contract stuff on FB. So much to worry about. Take, for example, the two friends who vanished from my friend list within days of each other and could not be found for anything. Being that I considered them good friends, I actually spent long minutes wondering why they un-friended me and trying to figure out what happened. Turns out, happy day, that they didn't un-friend me. They deleted their profiles. In essence, they un-friended themselves from everyone.
I felt so much better. It's nice to be part of a giant group of un-friends, that means that it's nothing personal.
In the realm of un-friending, I myself have committed that very action. It's true. To my knowledge, no one missed me. If someone un-friends up and you don't notice, were you ever friends? (That's much like my other question: if you blog and no one reads it, did you really blog?)
Given the apparently angst that comes to me with FB, it's obvious that I don't tweet. Twittering would probably put me over the cyber-edge. I have too much on my mind to keep it to under 140 characters and -- frankly! -- I'm not sure I'm interesting enough (or boring enough?!) to make tweeting titillating enough to merit followers. Maybe once I sell my novel, I'll send out vital tweets like "buying my venti tea at Starbucks right now" and "wow, that pizza was really good!"
Maybe.
But probably not.
(Tweet, that is. I've every intention of selling that novel once I finish killing off the dead first husband.)
Monday, July 13, 2009
All Stressed Out and No One to Choke
At the risk of making several readers laugh hysterically: I am a calm person.
I don't yell, I don't scream, and I never lose my temper. In the face of others yelling and screaming, I serenely sit and wait, watching the show, until the performers tire and are ready to be sane. I live with the idea that I cannot change people's behaviors, only my reactions to them. How very zen. Very stoic. If I keep myself in check, I can avoid a lot of issues. I am quite the lady, in fact. It's something I work hard to be, because everyone likes women who are ladies. We're easier to handle, easier to deal with, and easier to control.
Until we break, anyway. Until our bodies scream that it's high time we knocked off the "good girl" shitck and moved into "real person (complete with emotions)" mode.
No, I'm not about to turn into a ranting anything. Sorry. Go watch some other sideshow. However, due to this calm nature of mine, I can now tally three ambulance rides in my life.
One, just a week prior to my tenth birthday, was due to some guy who lived at the top of the hill taking a spare tire out of his trunk and leaning it against his car. Seems he forgot that round objects roll... and moments later I was flattened by the maverick tire. No injuries of merit, though the sling that I was to wear for a few days was pretty cool.
The second, the winter before I got pregnant with Gav, was earned after I hit ice and then a wall. The backboard I was strapped to was not pretty cool. Neither was the whiplash.
Number three was just a few weeks ago, when my body made the decision that I needed to get a handle on a few things and get my stressors in order and staged a revolt in the form of an anxiety attack (rather like a heart attack, I learned, but without the pain). I suppose one could call it a tradition of sorts in that I was exceedingly calm the entire time -- just as I was when the tire hit me and when I hit the wall. (Can you even have a calm panic attack? Is that an oxymoron?)
So there I was, finding it impossible to take a deep breath and wondering at the odd tingling sensation in both of my hands. I suppose I would have panicked if there had been any pain. But there wasn't. I just, as I kept saying, "felt funny."
Obviously, everything checked out okay. I was given orders to relax and slow down -- which made me laugh rather heartily once the doctor left the room. You see, I did slow down recently. I'm between writing gigs, not adjuncting, and only working my day job. Essentially, I work my eight-hour day and go home to my son and make dinner and play with him a bit and go to bed. Any slower and I'd be in a coma.
However, doctor's orders is doctor's orders. Never let it be said that I don't know how to listen. In the quest to relax, I've since contracted three writing gigs, have taken on cleaning out the basement, and signed up for karate.
It's nice to be back to normal...
I don't yell, I don't scream, and I never lose my temper. In the face of others yelling and screaming, I serenely sit and wait, watching the show, until the performers tire and are ready to be sane. I live with the idea that I cannot change people's behaviors, only my reactions to them. How very zen. Very stoic. If I keep myself in check, I can avoid a lot of issues. I am quite the lady, in fact. It's something I work hard to be, because everyone likes women who are ladies. We're easier to handle, easier to deal with, and easier to control.
Until we break, anyway. Until our bodies scream that it's high time we knocked off the "good girl" shitck and moved into "real person (complete with emotions)" mode.
No, I'm not about to turn into a ranting anything. Sorry. Go watch some other sideshow. However, due to this calm nature of mine, I can now tally three ambulance rides in my life.
One, just a week prior to my tenth birthday, was due to some guy who lived at the top of the hill taking a spare tire out of his trunk and leaning it against his car. Seems he forgot that round objects roll... and moments later I was flattened by the maverick tire. No injuries of merit, though the sling that I was to wear for a few days was pretty cool.
The second, the winter before I got pregnant with Gav, was earned after I hit ice and then a wall. The backboard I was strapped to was not pretty cool. Neither was the whiplash.
Number three was just a few weeks ago, when my body made the decision that I needed to get a handle on a few things and get my stressors in order and staged a revolt in the form of an anxiety attack (rather like a heart attack, I learned, but without the pain). I suppose one could call it a tradition of sorts in that I was exceedingly calm the entire time -- just as I was when the tire hit me and when I hit the wall. (Can you even have a calm panic attack? Is that an oxymoron?)
So there I was, finding it impossible to take a deep breath and wondering at the odd tingling sensation in both of my hands. I suppose I would have panicked if there had been any pain. But there wasn't. I just, as I kept saying, "felt funny."
Obviously, everything checked out okay. I was given orders to relax and slow down -- which made me laugh rather heartily once the doctor left the room. You see, I did slow down recently. I'm between writing gigs, not adjuncting, and only working my day job. Essentially, I work my eight-hour day and go home to my son and make dinner and play with him a bit and go to bed. Any slower and I'd be in a coma.
However, doctor's orders is doctor's orders. Never let it be said that I don't know how to listen. In the quest to relax, I've since contracted three writing gigs, have taken on cleaning out the basement, and signed up for karate.
It's nice to be back to normal...
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