The data from the ATLAS study have me in a funk. I've been in a horrendous black cloud of depression all day. The results suggest that premenopausal women with ER positive tumors who take 10 years of tamoxifen rather than standard 5 years of therapy decrease their mortality and disease free interval, especially after the 10th year of medication. Tamoxifen hasn't really bothered me and I don't mind taking it for another 5 years if that is what is suggested by my oncologist. I'd stand on my head and chew gum while reciting the Declaration of Independence if she told me it was good for me. But some of the statistics are a real buzz kill, like: the cumulative risk of breast cancer recurrence is 21.4% in women who stay on tamoxifen for 10 years (versus 25.1% in women who only take it for 5 years) and breast cancer mortality (meaning death due to breast cancer) 5-14 years after diagnosis is 12.2% in the 10 year group versus 15.0% in the 5 year group.
I went running on the bayou today to try to clear my mind. I always go back to my same spot where I gave all of this mess to God 6 years ago. I was silently praying with my head bowed at my favorite tree and when I looked up, there was a butterfly (could have been a moth, but I'm fairly certain it was a butterfly) almost exactly where I had left my pink, plastic breast cancer awareness bracelet offering 6 years ago. Butterflies are reminders of my cousin Rebeca who died 11 years ago. I think I've written about this somewhere before, but at her funeral, her younger brother, my cousin David, relayed an incident that had occurred at their house the morning of Rebeca's funeral. When her immediate family went out into their backyard that morning there were thousands of monarch butterflies in the woods behind their house on their southward migration and David took those butterflies as a sign from Rebeca that everything was going to be okay and every time any of us, her siblings and cousins and parents and aunts and uncles, saw a butterfly, everything was going to be okay and she was right there with us watching over us. I'm not making this up and it couldn't be any more perfect. Literally, the moment I lifted my head from that prayer, in the exact same spot that I had left my offering 6 years earlier just days after my diagnosis when I was so scared and my future seemed do uncertain, there it was - a perfect butterfly. And it just sat there and flapped its wings and didn't move for several minutes. I thought it might have been a moth, because it was kind of old looking and a little battered, but I'm fairly certain it was a butterfly. I even reached out and placed a little kiss on it, transferred from the tip of my finger to its wing and it didn't even move. It just sat there and fluttered its wings. I was about to take a picture of it with my cell phone and it finally flew away. At that moment, I knew everything was going to be okay. It was the exact same spot 6 years ago that God had promised me everything would be okay. If people don't believe in God or don't believe that he speaks to you, then slap me silly and call me a fool because I couldn't have made the situation up and it couldn't have been any more significant. And I think the fact that the butterfly was a little old and part of it's wing was missing was just God's way of emphasizing not only am I gonna be okay, but I'll probably be around for a long time and I'll be a bit tattered, with parts missing and out of place and not so pretty when it's finally time for me to go. And just like that butterfly, when it's time for me to fly away, it will be on His terms, not mine and I'll fly right on out of here before anyone can even stop to take a picture.
So numbers or not, I'm going to be okay and Rebeca, I love you and thanks God.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Water Polo and the ER
Currently I am sitting in an aquatic center located 266 miles from my home. I got up at 4 am and drove 4 hours this morning so my 12 year old could come to an all day water polo training. Of all people least likely to care enough about athletics to drive this far for practice, I am probably it. I love my kid. That is the only reason I'm happy to be here and already calculating the volume of 5 hour energy drinks I'll need to consume to make it back home tonight.
My kid isn't the best but he loves the sport and I think this will be good for his ego/self-confidence. Who could have ever explained to us the things we would be willing to do because we love our kids so much, the sacrifices we'd be willing to make. As I mentioned, he's 12 and the youngest one in his grouping here so he wants me to stay-8 hours on the bleachers watching him practice. But he's my baby, so even though I'd love to sneak away for a couple of hours, each time he steals a glance up here and smiles, it's worth it.
I worked in the ER a couple of days ago. I was called over to help out in the shock rooms towards the end of my shift. During my residency, fellowship and early days of practice I didn't mind taking care of the critically ill patients that were brought into the emergency room. But, it's been about 7 years since I've done that sort of thing so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. And I've never taken care of trauma patients, just patients with heart attacks, strokes and altered mental status. A large volume trauma was coming in and they needed all hands on deck. Lucky for me and the patients, I only had to triage minor injuries. However, the whole experience left me rattled. It reminded me just how fragile life really is. One minute you are going over the grocery list in your head and the next minute you are gone. You could tell a lot of the younger doctors and trainees relished the thrill of it all and the rush of adrenaline. Maybe they went home later that night and contemplated the sanctity of life, but mostly it seemed like a thrill ride for them. That's not bad, just shows you what a few years and a few life experiences will do for you. The experience affected me for days afterwards. I couldn't stop thinking about the fragility of our existence and how, as a health care provider, I'm entrusted with so much.
That night when I got home my 9 year old daughter was still awake. She had been waiting for me and it had been a rough nite for her, arguing with her brothers and subsequently getting in trouble with her father. While she was in the shower with me, letting the hot water carry all our burdens away, she detailed her list of offenses. Mostly, she was to blame and she knew it. She realizes she incites her brothers to anger and can incur the wrath of her father with just a look. Actually, she seemed quite pleased with the control she possesses but at the same time was saddened by its frequent negative outcomes. I decided to tell her about my evening in the shock rooms. At first she was flippant, but as I continued to talk she soaked it all in and for the moment she understood that most squabbles don't matter because life is precious.
That night was God's display of Newton's Third Law of Motion. In one part of the world one family was trying to make sense of the incomprehensible and elsewhere that life, though unknown to her, was being honored by a little girl through her realization that you can't take the people you love for granted. God bless hurting people everywhere and let us be mindful of the precious little time we are gifted.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Friday, November 16, 2012
Mathematics
I just might cry. It's a beautiful, sunny, fall day and my stomach is tied up in knots. I'm perseverating over my middle kid's math grade. He has a C average and I feel like a failure. Presently, I'm indulging in some high-calorie, grease therapy with the consumption of 3 sliders and sweet potato fries.
I'll probably feel worse after I've gobbled them down and I'll just compound my woes. But right now I can't take any responsibility for my future state of mind.
Despite hours and hours of math homework and revision of homework, his latest test score is a 59. What the hell? And what's worse, I know all his errors will be due to carelessness, not checking his work and rushing through the test. With this kid, it's like trying to get to China by running on a treadmill. We might be making progress, but we are getting no where. What if he ends up in an orange jumpsuit some day or sells newspapers on the side of the road? And all because he won't check his work and write neatly. I'll be humiliated and he'll be on government subsidy. And this is the kid who cried when Romney lost the presidential election. He's still not mature enough to realize that his actions don't coincide with his politics.
I know everyone remembers their parents explaining that once we all have children of our own we'll get it. I used to think my mother was so stupid and borderline histrionic when she'd use this as an explanation or a threat. Because, in my infinite 12, 15, 23, 30 year old wisdom I just assumed she didn't know what the heck she was doing and I'd do a far superior job, especially after having had to suffer through all of her inadequacies.
So now here I am doing a shit job ensuring my kid can add and subtract (okay so now I'm being histrionic). I'm not sure what is the most upsetting, his lack of focus or my own wounded pride.
Sometimes I have fantasies of home-schooling. I think I've mentioned this before. But I am quite certain that my children would plot, and quite possibly carry-out, my demise. My intensity and pursuit of perfection would likely cause all three of them to develop various nervous tics.
The other part of this story is that I learned of his grade while stalking his grades on-line. That's the thing about stalking; you always feel dirty and disappointed. The schools and teachers bill it as a good thing, but honestly I think they are just being sadistic. He'll come out of school clueless to the fact that I've been agonizing over his inability to divide 4 digits by one digit without a remainder. And that my internal maternal rating score has plunged to an all-time low. And I'm going to have to resist the urge to make him sit and do math problems on a Friday afternoon. Especially since he probably hasn't even gotten his test back.
Sitting here I realize all this self-loathing is quite indulgent and just a bit ego-centric. So at least while I peck, peck, peck away on my iPhone's teeny-tiny keyboard I am aware that it probably isn't as big of a deal as many other potential real life scenarios that millions of people are living each day. I gotta just take a deep breath and force myself not to threaten Kumon. He's gonna be something awesome some day, because 59 or not, he's already pretty awesome (even if he forgets to show all his steps in long division). Someday he'll be the one wearing the "I'm with stupid" T-shirt and it will be pointing at me because of all my useless worries. This is just a bump in the road, not a mountain to scale. So I'm gonna climb out of my hole of self pity and enjoy this beautiful day and practice a little gratitude. And I didn't even need to consume all 2000 calories to gather perspective.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I'll probably feel worse after I've gobbled them down and I'll just compound my woes. But right now I can't take any responsibility for my future state of mind.
Despite hours and hours of math homework and revision of homework, his latest test score is a 59. What the hell? And what's worse, I know all his errors will be due to carelessness, not checking his work and rushing through the test. With this kid, it's like trying to get to China by running on a treadmill. We might be making progress, but we are getting no where. What if he ends up in an orange jumpsuit some day or sells newspapers on the side of the road? And all because he won't check his work and write neatly. I'll be humiliated and he'll be on government subsidy. And this is the kid who cried when Romney lost the presidential election. He's still not mature enough to realize that his actions don't coincide with his politics.
I know everyone remembers their parents explaining that once we all have children of our own we'll get it. I used to think my mother was so stupid and borderline histrionic when she'd use this as an explanation or a threat. Because, in my infinite 12, 15, 23, 30 year old wisdom I just assumed she didn't know what the heck she was doing and I'd do a far superior job, especially after having had to suffer through all of her inadequacies.
So now here I am doing a shit job ensuring my kid can add and subtract (okay so now I'm being histrionic). I'm not sure what is the most upsetting, his lack of focus or my own wounded pride.
Sometimes I have fantasies of home-schooling. I think I've mentioned this before. But I am quite certain that my children would plot, and quite possibly carry-out, my demise. My intensity and pursuit of perfection would likely cause all three of them to develop various nervous tics.
The other part of this story is that I learned of his grade while stalking his grades on-line. That's the thing about stalking; you always feel dirty and disappointed. The schools and teachers bill it as a good thing, but honestly I think they are just being sadistic. He'll come out of school clueless to the fact that I've been agonizing over his inability to divide 4 digits by one digit without a remainder. And that my internal maternal rating score has plunged to an all-time low. And I'm going to have to resist the urge to make him sit and do math problems on a Friday afternoon. Especially since he probably hasn't even gotten his test back.
Sitting here I realize all this self-loathing is quite indulgent and just a bit ego-centric. So at least while I peck, peck, peck away on my iPhone's teeny-tiny keyboard I am aware that it probably isn't as big of a deal as many other potential real life scenarios that millions of people are living each day. I gotta just take a deep breath and force myself not to threaten Kumon. He's gonna be something awesome some day, because 59 or not, he's already pretty awesome (even if he forgets to show all his steps in long division). Someday he'll be the one wearing the "I'm with stupid" T-shirt and it will be pointing at me because of all my useless worries. This is just a bump in the road, not a mountain to scale. So I'm gonna climb out of my hole of self pity and enjoy this beautiful day and practice a little gratitude. And I didn't even need to consume all 2000 calories to gather perspective.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Monday, November 12, 2012
Things I am Not
1. Organized
2. A good housewife
3. Skinny enough to fit into my skinny jeans (but I squeeze myself in them anyway)
4. Young
5. Perfect
That last one is the one that always trips me up. My lack of perfection grates on my nerves, usually when I am in the midst of something that isn't going exactly the way I'd envisioned it. For example, in the morning, I set my alarm for 5:45 am therefore I force myself out of the bed at 6:45 am, quietly panicking because I haven't made any lunches or washed any uniforms or clothes. Then I try to rally the troops. In my perfect world scenario, I'd have 3 compliant children who joyfully awake with smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts, brush their teeth, get dressed, pack their backpacks and come to the breakfast table (after having helped prepare breakfast).
This is what actually happens:
I fake calmness and sincerity and go and lovingly wake my children up with a silly song or reminding them of an exciting event planned for the day. I let the dogs out and make a pot of coffee. I stare at the pile of dishes in the sink and curse myself for not taking care of it the night before. I go back in for the second attempt at rousing them, still attempting sweetness, but with a bit more alarm in my voice ("we're going to be late" said in my sing-songiest voice). I go back to the kitchen and set up the lunch making assembly line. About half way through shoving things into eco-unfriendly plastic baggies I look at the clock and it's now 7 am. I've had enough with the nice mommy facade so I start shouting from the kitchen "Get up! We're going to be late!" but I'm still not using my mean voice. I hear nothing from their bedrooms. I unscrew equally eco-unfriendly mini water bottles so they don't spill at the lunch table (common hazard with smallish hands-when attempting to open, they squeeze them and water comes shooting out the top and then the lunch ladies get pissed) and in my mind I sort out who likes cheese sticks and who thinks they are gross, who is embarrassed by Activia yogurt and who likes it (and flavor preference), who wants their apples cut and who doesn't like oranges at school (only at home) and now the clock says 7:05 am and no one has budged, so now I bring on the full-fledged bitch-mommy scream, "Get out of bed! NOW!" with no remaining vestiges of sweetness in my voice. Finally the coffee is ready and I pour myself a cup. By this point the three dogs have been let in and out about 37 different times in various couplings and I've had to yell about seven thousand times to stop barking. Forget feeding them. Finally, they emerge from their bedrooms (the children, not the dogs) one by one and have the audacity to ask if they can take a shower. It's 7:10 am and we have to leave in 15 minutes, so obviously I say...."Fine, but it had better be quick!". At 7:15 am I am banging on the bathroom door yelling at my oldest to get out of the shower and asking my younger two if they really did brush their teeth (who lies about brushing their teeth? How is it an unsavory enough task that you have to lie about it?). Generally at least two of them come out and tell me they can't find various articles of clothes and do I know where they are and have I washed them. I'm almost always vilified for my lack of clothes washing expediency although sometimes the housekeeper gets blamed. Socks are usually the culprit and this is mainly due to the fact that both boys can only wear one specific brand of socks (and not the same between the two). So even if there are 12,000 pairs of socks in their drawers, if they aren't THE socks that they want. Now I've let the dogs out another 32 times and had to listen to their complaints about the lack of kibble in their bowls. My husband then emerges from the bedroom after taking a cold shower because the 3 kids used all the hot water and asks if I have taken in the dry cleaning yet. (That would be a negatory). He lets the dogs out again. It is now 7:25 and lunches are made, kids are mainly clothed (middle kid usually wears the same thing several days in a row, so it makes the clothes picking easy for him. We only have to ask him if he has changed his underwear in the last several days. And he isn't opposed to wearing yesterday's socks) and the process of shoving shit into backpacks takes place. Seventy-five percent of the time there is a forgotten packet of homework that has to be signed and upon rushing to flip through the grades, a 67% is buried within the packet (thus, the reason it was "forgotten") and I'm too anxious to shove them all out the door that don't even care about the grade. I get them out the door but not after one or two of them volley back for a jacket, a forgotten lunch, or tri-board project (the heinous tri-board project, the curse of parents everywhere and a subject all to itself) and I lock the top lock and lean my back against the door and sink to the ground. I've only had to hear I'm a mean mom about 12 times this morning and only seen a pair of eye-rolling 3 times and "Geez!" about 8 times. It's a good morning. The dogs are scratching at the back door to get back in, so I get up and let them in, but not till I wipe the mud off of 12 paws. At last I get to go drink my cup of coffee that is now cold but easily fixed by 30 seconds in the microwave. Amazingly, as soon as I get them out the door, I remember how much I love them and how lucky I am and really this only lasts for a little while.
2. A good housewife
3. Skinny enough to fit into my skinny jeans (but I squeeze myself in them anyway)
4. Young
5. Perfect
That last one is the one that always trips me up. My lack of perfection grates on my nerves, usually when I am in the midst of something that isn't going exactly the way I'd envisioned it. For example, in the morning, I set my alarm for 5:45 am therefore I force myself out of the bed at 6:45 am, quietly panicking because I haven't made any lunches or washed any uniforms or clothes. Then I try to rally the troops. In my perfect world scenario, I'd have 3 compliant children who joyfully awake with smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts, brush their teeth, get dressed, pack their backpacks and come to the breakfast table (after having helped prepare breakfast).
This is what actually happens:
I fake calmness and sincerity and go and lovingly wake my children up with a silly song or reminding them of an exciting event planned for the day. I let the dogs out and make a pot of coffee. I stare at the pile of dishes in the sink and curse myself for not taking care of it the night before. I go back in for the second attempt at rousing them, still attempting sweetness, but with a bit more alarm in my voice ("we're going to be late" said in my sing-songiest voice). I go back to the kitchen and set up the lunch making assembly line. About half way through shoving things into eco-unfriendly plastic baggies I look at the clock and it's now 7 am. I've had enough with the nice mommy facade so I start shouting from the kitchen "Get up! We're going to be late!" but I'm still not using my mean voice. I hear nothing from their bedrooms. I unscrew equally eco-unfriendly mini water bottles so they don't spill at the lunch table (common hazard with smallish hands-when attempting to open, they squeeze them and water comes shooting out the top and then the lunch ladies get pissed) and in my mind I sort out who likes cheese sticks and who thinks they are gross, who is embarrassed by Activia yogurt and who likes it (and flavor preference), who wants their apples cut and who doesn't like oranges at school (only at home) and now the clock says 7:05 am and no one has budged, so now I bring on the full-fledged bitch-mommy scream, "Get out of bed! NOW!" with no remaining vestiges of sweetness in my voice. Finally the coffee is ready and I pour myself a cup. By this point the three dogs have been let in and out about 37 different times in various couplings and I've had to yell about seven thousand times to stop barking. Forget feeding them. Finally, they emerge from their bedrooms (the children, not the dogs) one by one and have the audacity to ask if they can take a shower. It's 7:10 am and we have to leave in 15 minutes, so obviously I say...."Fine, but it had better be quick!". At 7:15 am I am banging on the bathroom door yelling at my oldest to get out of the shower and asking my younger two if they really did brush their teeth (who lies about brushing their teeth? How is it an unsavory enough task that you have to lie about it?). Generally at least two of them come out and tell me they can't find various articles of clothes and do I know where they are and have I washed them. I'm almost always vilified for my lack of clothes washing expediency although sometimes the housekeeper gets blamed. Socks are usually the culprit and this is mainly due to the fact that both boys can only wear one specific brand of socks (and not the same between the two). So even if there are 12,000 pairs of socks in their drawers, if they aren't THE socks that they want. Now I've let the dogs out another 32 times and had to listen to their complaints about the lack of kibble in their bowls. My husband then emerges from the bedroom after taking a cold shower because the 3 kids used all the hot water and asks if I have taken in the dry cleaning yet. (That would be a negatory). He lets the dogs out again. It is now 7:25 and lunches are made, kids are mainly clothed (middle kid usually wears the same thing several days in a row, so it makes the clothes picking easy for him. We only have to ask him if he has changed his underwear in the last several days. And he isn't opposed to wearing yesterday's socks) and the process of shoving shit into backpacks takes place. Seventy-five percent of the time there is a forgotten packet of homework that has to be signed and upon rushing to flip through the grades, a 67% is buried within the packet (thus, the reason it was "forgotten") and I'm too anxious to shove them all out the door that don't even care about the grade. I get them out the door but not after one or two of them volley back for a jacket, a forgotten lunch, or tri-board project (the heinous tri-board project, the curse of parents everywhere and a subject all to itself) and I lock the top lock and lean my back against the door and sink to the ground. I've only had to hear I'm a mean mom about 12 times this morning and only seen a pair of eye-rolling 3 times and "Geez!" about 8 times. It's a good morning. The dogs are scratching at the back door to get back in, so I get up and let them in, but not till I wipe the mud off of 12 paws. At last I get to go drink my cup of coffee that is now cold but easily fixed by 30 seconds in the microwave. Amazingly, as soon as I get them out the door, I remember how much I love them and how lucky I am and really this only lasts for a little while.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Why must siblings argue with each other? Why can't everyone in the litter just get along? Why do I sometimes feel like punching my children in the face when I hear them talking ugly amongst themselves. I wonder if this is why some animal species eat their young-because they can't stand the bickering? (Mom and dad hamster look at one another with a look of bewilderment and defeat and shrug their little hamster shoulders and realize the only answer lies within the cannibalization of their own young).
Tonite was one of those nights when I wanted to punch my kids in the face. I would actually never do it, but sometimes the thought brings me so much glee that I feel better instantly. They all wanted me to lie in bed with them (well just the youngest two) and my maternal popularity ratings were soaring tonite hence the rancor between siblings. Per one's description of the other my daughter is the bride of Chucky and my son is just an asshole. So the big love fest never took place. Instead I had the pleasure of listening to a laundry list of why the other was unworthy of love.
I must be the worst mother on the planet or at least on my block because I'm pretty sure all the experts would advise against you telling your children, "You take the joy out of motherhood." Or explaining to your 10 year old son why he can't act like an asshole (yes I did use those words). Still need to tell the 9 year old girl that she isn't winning any congeniality contests among her brothers.
Wow, being a referee in real life Lord of the Flies is hazardous. It's not a spectator sport. Most days are ok but some days you feel violated.
I got to help my mother pick out a Medicare plan today. There is a lot of redundancy in the plans and the explanations yet it is still a very baffling process. Honestly, she could have done it on her own but now I get why you might want to think it through with someone else. It's like reading the fine print on a product sweepstakes entry form; exceptions may apply. I think they should dumb it down to a glossy menu with pictorial choices, kind of like an IHOP menu. And things like Part B, prescription drug plans and gap policies would be your supersize value meals.
All is quiet here except for some snoring so gonna go take advantage of the stillness!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tonite was one of those nights when I wanted to punch my kids in the face. I would actually never do it, but sometimes the thought brings me so much glee that I feel better instantly. They all wanted me to lie in bed with them (well just the youngest two) and my maternal popularity ratings were soaring tonite hence the rancor between siblings. Per one's description of the other my daughter is the bride of Chucky and my son is just an asshole. So the big love fest never took place. Instead I had the pleasure of listening to a laundry list of why the other was unworthy of love.
I must be the worst mother on the planet or at least on my block because I'm pretty sure all the experts would advise against you telling your children, "You take the joy out of motherhood." Or explaining to your 10 year old son why he can't act like an asshole (yes I did use those words). Still need to tell the 9 year old girl that she isn't winning any congeniality contests among her brothers.
Wow, being a referee in real life Lord of the Flies is hazardous. It's not a spectator sport. Most days are ok but some days you feel violated.
I got to help my mother pick out a Medicare plan today. There is a lot of redundancy in the plans and the explanations yet it is still a very baffling process. Honestly, she could have done it on her own but now I get why you might want to think it through with someone else. It's like reading the fine print on a product sweepstakes entry form; exceptions may apply. I think they should dumb it down to a glossy menu with pictorial choices, kind of like an IHOP menu. And things like Part B, prescription drug plans and gap policies would be your supersize value meals.
All is quiet here except for some snoring so gonna go take advantage of the stillness!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Location:Supersize
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Chocolate Chip Pancakes
I have miscellaneous children in my home. Since the bell rang at 3pm yesterday I've had about 9 extra kids in my house. Honestly, I can't keep track. We also have a new family member, JJ the guinea pig. My daughter's friend just asked me if we liked living in a messy house. Ha! She doesn't even know what she said is a metaphor for our life.
At this very moment I have 2 almost 9 year old girls watching music videos on the computer, 4 boys roaming the house in search of weaponry to recreate the program Deadliest Warriors, 3 dogs (one of whom is a mildy demented, geriatric beast abandoned by my mother bc she didn't want her new hard wood floors scratched) searching for scraps of bacon, sausage and chocolate chip pancakes (the ingredients and remainders on which are still splayed across the kitchen counters and table), a hamster buried under soiled shavings that I'm not even certain is still alive and a new guinea pig (spell check keeps trying to autocorrect to New Guinea pig) that is probably mildly traumatized that he has been removed from the confines of his safe and warm and quiet PetSmart home to be brought into this world of chaos. My husband is selfishly at work and our only computer has been commandeered by an army of minions smaller than me so I have to type on my phone with my thumbs.
I was supposed to take my daughter to a soccer clinic this morning and my oldest was supposed to go volunteer with his youth group, but at the last minute I decided to reject convention and expectations to allow all of this. So, I'm not complaining. I'm just trying to paint a portrait.
When does the transition of authority take place? When I was lying in bed this morning I was reminiscing about my own youth and with the wonders of Google Maps I could instantly transport myself back to Chamblee, Georgia and revisit all those places so dear to my heart. I hope that is what Lee and I are creating for our children and even their friends. Maybe we're only creating fodder for their future therapist, but I have hope. Sometimes I wonder how I advanced beyond my learner's permit in this thing called adulthood. And why isn't anyone issuing any tickets?
I have more in my head that needs to be written, but for now I have to actually go and referee...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Weaponry
I just spent the past hour cleaning out the crevices in my kitchen cabinets with a steak knife. Not sure why it's important to start that job close to midnight, but suddenly I couldn't let another moment lapse without getting down on my hands and knees and obsessively scrub. My initial intention was to unload and then reload the dishwasher because I always feel bad about myself when I leave a nasty pile of dishes for our nanny/housekeeper. I know she judges me, but leaving a nasty pile of dishes is just so blatant and screams, "JUDGE ME!" As I started to put some cups away I noticed the thick layer of film that was wedged between the cabinet and the decorative frame and I was struck with paralysis in pure disgust. So, I abandoned my efforts at unloading the dishwasher (my LEAST favorite job in the whole world) and starting picking out almost 9 years of dust and grime. Unloading the dishwasher is so loathsome of a task to me that I think cleaning out crevices with a steak knife was infinitely more appealing. Before anyone gets too congratulatory on me, I must confess that I only did 4 cabinets. I think there are probably about 30 more to go.
Every once in a while I have this fantasy that my husband takes my kids away for a whole week so I can completely clean my house like it's never been cleaned before. Of course, I know I'd spend about one afternoon cleaning and the rest of the week surfing the internet or doing puzzles, but it's my fantasy so I can keep on dreaming. For instance, tonight while I was cleaning baseboards I had never before even laid eyes upon, I wistfully imagined myself scrubbing all the baseboards and cleaning grout while Lee communed with the kids at his dad or mom's house. Then I wondered when you sell your house, do you have to do things like clean baseboards? Is that a deal breaker?
I'm not the only one awake at 1 am. Lee is out in the den watching some Richard Gere movie. He could stay up watching movies till 1 am every night. I get too distracted (by things like baseboards and chopping up watermelon and putting it into 8 different plastic containers). He's on his way to bed now. I can hear him mulling around in the kitchen. He's in our bathroom now making me admit that I'm crazy as hell.
"Admit it! You're crazy! That's what is wrong with you! You just spent the past 2 hours cleaning grout or some shit like that! Admit it!"
This is coming from the man who does lock down every night in our house and it takes him about 15 minutes to check all the doors and set the alarm and make sure the oven is turned off. About once or twice a year, something will be askew in his nightly beat and then he has to "check the house for killers". This entails opening every closet, looking under every bed, going into all 3 attic spaces (including the one in the garage that he has dead-bolted because a killer might come in through the garage, go into the garage attic and crawl over to the house and come in and kill us in our sleep). So all I"m saying is I'm not the only one who is crazy in this house.
Actually, speaking of crazy and basically just poor decision making in general, I think Lee gets the gold star today. On my way back from yoga (where I practically passed out from the heat and my lack of hydration) I call Lee to tell him I'm on my way. He tells me that our new neighbor (who is really an old neighbor who moved away and then came back. But that is a story for another day) has a friend who owns a bow shop (as in bow and arrow) and he is going to take the boys to go look at them, but not to worry, because HE wasn't going to buy our 11 year old son a cross bow. If he wanted one, he was going to have to put it on lay away and buy it himself. Seriously. A cross bow for an 11 year old. So he can keep us all safe during the apocalypse? In a really nice, not at all bitchy or judgmental way, I asked him if he really thought it was a good idea, letting our 11 year old get a cross bow? He didn't really seem to appreciate the areas of concern that I had such as safety and not killing his brother or sister or one of the dogs or generally not encouraging scary weapon love. But, because I was so nice and laid out my arguments so rationally, he quickly changed allegiances and agreed with me. When I got home he proudly showed me the text he sent to our neighbor telling him that he had to tell Evan he was too young for a bow. "See, I sent this before I even talked to you on the phone." Even though the text was timed some 10 minutes after we hung up. And I want to send our kids away with this man for a week?
Evan has a one track mind. He's relentless. He won't let this damn bow thing die until he has one in his hands. Every conversation will involve bows and earning money to acquire said bow and taking lessons to learn how to use a bow and do I think it's illegal to practice in your own back yard and look at this web search I just did that has a cost analysis of bows. Other than target practice in the back yard ("I won't practice back there till I'm really good mom."), which I told him I was fairly certain was not legal ("Can people have handgun practice in their backyards?", I asked him), he told me he was going to use it to go hunting. We are not a hunting people. My husband doesn't hunt. I don't hunt. My uncles hunt and so does Lee's dad (if you can actually call it hunting. He just pays a bunch of money to kill birds they let out of a cage), but generally, we aren't a killing shit kind of family. But somehow my oldest has a deep and abiding love of killing defenseless woodland animals.
One last story then I really need to go to bed because it's late people. Another one of Lee's shining moments in parenthood was the time he let Evan buy a Bear Grylls bowie knife. ("He wanted it and he wouldn't shut up about it. I made him use his own money.") About a month ago our middle kid had a friend over. They were hanging out outside in the front yard and I was folding clothes in the garage (it sure sounds like I do a lot of housework, huh? Fooled ya!) and I look out onto the driveway and there is middle kid's friend, sitting cross-legged making a spear with the bowie knife. His mom texts about the same time as I witness the spear making. She asks how the kids are doing. I reply, "Fine as long as you are okay with your son bringing home a finger in a zip-lock baggie with ice. They are busy playing with knives right now, I hope you don't mind." She responds, "You're funny." Then I'm like, "No, I'm serious. It's like Lord of the Flies over here. I just overheard part of their conversation. They are playing Hunger Games and making spears and hurling them at each other like javelins." And then I reassured her that my 11 year old was supervising and her kid's glasses served as protective eye wear. She's a forensic psychiatrist so her answer was, "The overwhelming appeal of Hunger Games to preadolescents proves innate aggression drive in kids! I know it's a nerdy thing to say, but I just love listening to them play!"
See, not everyone can be great parents like us and we have advanced degrees and shit!
Every once in a while I have this fantasy that my husband takes my kids away for a whole week so I can completely clean my house like it's never been cleaned before. Of course, I know I'd spend about one afternoon cleaning and the rest of the week surfing the internet or doing puzzles, but it's my fantasy so I can keep on dreaming. For instance, tonight while I was cleaning baseboards I had never before even laid eyes upon, I wistfully imagined myself scrubbing all the baseboards and cleaning grout while Lee communed with the kids at his dad or mom's house. Then I wondered when you sell your house, do you have to do things like clean baseboards? Is that a deal breaker?
I'm not the only one awake at 1 am. Lee is out in the den watching some Richard Gere movie. He could stay up watching movies till 1 am every night. I get too distracted (by things like baseboards and chopping up watermelon and putting it into 8 different plastic containers). He's on his way to bed now. I can hear him mulling around in the kitchen. He's in our bathroom now making me admit that I'm crazy as hell.
"Admit it! You're crazy! That's what is wrong with you! You just spent the past 2 hours cleaning grout or some shit like that! Admit it!"
This is coming from the man who does lock down every night in our house and it takes him about 15 minutes to check all the doors and set the alarm and make sure the oven is turned off. About once or twice a year, something will be askew in his nightly beat and then he has to "check the house for killers". This entails opening every closet, looking under every bed, going into all 3 attic spaces (including the one in the garage that he has dead-bolted because a killer might come in through the garage, go into the garage attic and crawl over to the house and come in and kill us in our sleep). So all I"m saying is I'm not the only one who is crazy in this house.
Actually, speaking of crazy and basically just poor decision making in general, I think Lee gets the gold star today. On my way back from yoga (where I practically passed out from the heat and my lack of hydration) I call Lee to tell him I'm on my way. He tells me that our new neighbor (who is really an old neighbor who moved away and then came back. But that is a story for another day) has a friend who owns a bow shop (as in bow and arrow) and he is going to take the boys to go look at them, but not to worry, because HE wasn't going to buy our 11 year old son a cross bow. If he wanted one, he was going to have to put it on lay away and buy it himself. Seriously. A cross bow for an 11 year old. So he can keep us all safe during the apocalypse? In a really nice, not at all bitchy or judgmental way, I asked him if he really thought it was a good idea, letting our 11 year old get a cross bow? He didn't really seem to appreciate the areas of concern that I had such as safety and not killing his brother or sister or one of the dogs or generally not encouraging scary weapon love. But, because I was so nice and laid out my arguments so rationally, he quickly changed allegiances and agreed with me. When I got home he proudly showed me the text he sent to our neighbor telling him that he had to tell Evan he was too young for a bow. "See, I sent this before I even talked to you on the phone." Even though the text was timed some 10 minutes after we hung up. And I want to send our kids away with this man for a week?
Evan has a one track mind. He's relentless. He won't let this damn bow thing die until he has one in his hands. Every conversation will involve bows and earning money to acquire said bow and taking lessons to learn how to use a bow and do I think it's illegal to practice in your own back yard and look at this web search I just did that has a cost analysis of bows. Other than target practice in the back yard ("I won't practice back there till I'm really good mom."), which I told him I was fairly certain was not legal ("Can people have handgun practice in their backyards?", I asked him), he told me he was going to use it to go hunting. We are not a hunting people. My husband doesn't hunt. I don't hunt. My uncles hunt and so does Lee's dad (if you can actually call it hunting. He just pays a bunch of money to kill birds they let out of a cage), but generally, we aren't a killing shit kind of family. But somehow my oldest has a deep and abiding love of killing defenseless woodland animals.
One last story then I really need to go to bed because it's late people. Another one of Lee's shining moments in parenthood was the time he let Evan buy a Bear Grylls bowie knife. ("He wanted it and he wouldn't shut up about it. I made him use his own money.") About a month ago our middle kid had a friend over. They were hanging out outside in the front yard and I was folding clothes in the garage (it sure sounds like I do a lot of housework, huh? Fooled ya!) and I look out onto the driveway and there is middle kid's friend, sitting cross-legged making a spear with the bowie knife. His mom texts about the same time as I witness the spear making. She asks how the kids are doing. I reply, "Fine as long as you are okay with your son bringing home a finger in a zip-lock baggie with ice. They are busy playing with knives right now, I hope you don't mind." She responds, "You're funny." Then I'm like, "No, I'm serious. It's like Lord of the Flies over here. I just overheard part of their conversation. They are playing Hunger Games and making spears and hurling them at each other like javelins." And then I reassured her that my 11 year old was supervising and her kid's glasses served as protective eye wear. She's a forensic psychiatrist so her answer was, "The overwhelming appeal of Hunger Games to preadolescents proves innate aggression drive in kids! I know it's a nerdy thing to say, but I just love listening to them play!"
See, not everyone can be great parents like us and we have advanced degrees and shit!
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