We took Zane for his three year wellness check today. His birthday was in October, but he was sick, and you just can't do a wellness check when a kid isn't well. Really--it's in some manual somewhere. Almost immediately after I made the appointment, Zane developed s very croupy sounding cough. No fever, no significant congestion, just a honking cough. He sounds like the Aflac duck, as a matter of fact.
"It's whooping cough," announced my husband.
"It is NOT whooping cough," I replied. Larry remained unconvinced, and I had to explain that since Zane had received a vaccination against pertussis, which is whooping cough, he did not currently have whooping cough. I also pointed out that Zane did not have a fever, and that pertussis was called Whooping cough because the cough does NOT sound like the Aflac duck. Larry was still unconvinced, but at least he stopped talking about it.
We finally got back to the exam room, and the nurse told us that we needed to strip Zane down to his underpants for the exam. She then left the room and closed the door behind her.
Zane did not want to strip today. We took off his shoes, and he started crying and protesting. We took off his socks, and Zane upped the decibel level. The pants and the shirt required extra effort, because Zane was as much determined that these articles of clothing should remain on his body as we were to get them off. By the time we got everything off, Zane had worked himself into a fit of epic proportions. He made that girl in the Exorcist look like calm. There we were, wrestling a screaming, writhing, mostly naked child, and all I could think of is that the entire staff, and any other patients, were likely thinking that we were Very Bad Parents indeed. Of course, nobody came in to check on us, but I suppose they figured they would avoid being collateral damage.
Zane tantrummed himself right to sleep while we were waiting for the doctor. The doctor came in eventually, and we talked pleasantly about the cough a minute or two, and the doctor spoke to us about a new vaccine that he wanted Zane to have which would offer more protection from ear infections and other pneumo-baddies like meningitis, and about the flu shot. We decided to postpone any vaccines until Zane was not honking like a duck; no sense in tempting the fates by introducing a new set of viruses when the immune system is off fighting Orcs in the Pellinor fields.
Then the very nice doctor, who has known Zane since right before he left the NICU, wanted to listen to Zane's lungs/heart. Zane woke up and was not agreeable to that, and started crying again.
If you've ever played with a stethoscope, you know that it amplifies sound, which is great when you need to hear what is happening in someone's chest. Not so great when the chest you are listening to happens to be carrying on a tantrum.
"Zane, sweetheart, please don't make the doctor go deaf," I murmured. I was pretty sure that they charge extra for that, and definitely sure that such an event would not be covered by our insurance.
But the doctor maintained his happy demeanor while he checked Zane's abdomen for hernias and his muscle tone and such, then gave us a couple of free samples of cough medicine so we didn't have to worry about a prescription over the holiday weekend. He was smiling, and I was a nervous wreck after all that screaming and crying! I decided that he was probably happy because we were his last patient for the day. Well, that, and nobody had thrown up on him.
In his line of work, any day that nobody throws up on you looks good. Actually, that is a good day for most jobs.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
If You See Yourself As A Victim, Knock it Off
I've decided that I don't like the word 'victim'. I think it should be removed from our collective vocabulary. It's overused and abused; way too many people use the word as an excuse to drop out of life. A victim is someone to whom things just 'happen'. A victim has no control. A victim bears no responsibility for anything, because, well, they're a victim. This attitude is industrial-grade bullshit.
I decided that I hate this word after hearing too many people with the refrain that life "owes" them. These people consider themselves victims, and therefore we all "owe" them. We're expected to give them jobs, houses, cash, etc., because they're victims and can't do things like fill out a job application, attend an interview, or actually DO work.
Then there are the people who see themselves as victims because they have had something happen to them or someone they love. For instance, someone who has a child with a disability might call themselves a victim and wallow in self-pity or blame the child for being disabled. Or someone who has an illness such as diabetes might consider themselves a victim because they can't eat donuts anymore. Or someone is robbed, or beaten, or some other crime that is supposed to happen to other people.
Yes, bad things happen to people. Good things also happen, as well as mediocre things. But a person has a choice in how to respond to all of what happens to them. That you have a choice at all implies a measure of responsibility and control; we can all choose how to respond to the events that happen to us. In other words, even if something bad happens to you, you still have control of how to respond to that situation. If someone points a gun in my face and tries to rob me, I can choose to hand over my cash quietly without incident or refuse to do so. I could also faint, pee my pants, cry, or otherwise collapse into a giant fear noodle. The important thing is that I had a choice, even if that choice involved wetting my pants. A choice is still a choice, whether we like our choices or not. Even if we fail to make a decision, that failure to decide is also a choice that is in our control and nobody else.
So, if you are wallowing in the self-pity puddle, feeling sorry for yourself for whatever reason, stop it. Choose to see yourself as a survivor, not a victim. Take responsibility for yourself and remove the word 'victim' from your vocabulary. You'll be glad that you did.
I decided that I hate this word after hearing too many people with the refrain that life "owes" them. These people consider themselves victims, and therefore we all "owe" them. We're expected to give them jobs, houses, cash, etc., because they're victims and can't do things like fill out a job application, attend an interview, or actually DO work.
Then there are the people who see themselves as victims because they have had something happen to them or someone they love. For instance, someone who has a child with a disability might call themselves a victim and wallow in self-pity or blame the child for being disabled. Or someone who has an illness such as diabetes might consider themselves a victim because they can't eat donuts anymore. Or someone is robbed, or beaten, or some other crime that is supposed to happen to other people.
Yes, bad things happen to people. Good things also happen, as well as mediocre things. But a person has a choice in how to respond to all of what happens to them. That you have a choice at all implies a measure of responsibility and control; we can all choose how to respond to the events that happen to us. In other words, even if something bad happens to you, you still have control of how to respond to that situation. If someone points a gun in my face and tries to rob me, I can choose to hand over my cash quietly without incident or refuse to do so. I could also faint, pee my pants, cry, or otherwise collapse into a giant fear noodle. The important thing is that I had a choice, even if that choice involved wetting my pants. A choice is still a choice, whether we like our choices or not. Even if we fail to make a decision, that failure to decide is also a choice that is in our control and nobody else.
So, if you are wallowing in the self-pity puddle, feeling sorry for yourself for whatever reason, stop it. Choose to see yourself as a survivor, not a victim. Take responsibility for yourself and remove the word 'victim' from your vocabulary. You'll be glad that you did.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
When You Sing, Sing From Your Soul
Soul-singing is singing from the very depths of your soul, the way that all music should be sung. Soul-singing is the joyous, radiant light of Life flooding through the body so powerfully that it flows into the bodies of your neighbors as well. It is the very Spirit of music taking you over and glorying in the sounds you are making. When you are soul-singing, you are transported, ecstatic, and there is no stifling you. It may not be a religious experience, but it very definitely is spiritual. There are no wrong notes in soul-singing because it comes from the heart, and the heart is never wrong about such things.
I know very little music which automatically pulls such glory directly from the soul. One very definitely is the Hallelujah Chorus. I have never heard that song without feeling goosebumps, and I have never sung that song without feeling as though rays of light emerge from my soul. When an entire choir is singing the Hallelujah Chorus, the entire room is exalted. The very air is electrified, it seems. If you speak to other serious vocalists(aka, not Justin Bieber), they will say similar things. Handel captured soul-singing perfectly as if he had experienced it himself. Even if it's a flash mob singing, you can still feel the energy.
I have been trying to think of individual vocalists who sing with their soul, but I'm not having as much luck, probably because I'm still hopped up on Christmas fudge. It's not about technique or skill, it's about something ethereal, so it's hard to describe. You know it when you hear it. So how about it? Anybody know any individual singers/vocalists who seem to sing their souls out, at least for one performance? Post them in the comments!
I know very little music which automatically pulls such glory directly from the soul. One very definitely is the Hallelujah Chorus. I have never heard that song without feeling goosebumps, and I have never sung that song without feeling as though rays of light emerge from my soul. When an entire choir is singing the Hallelujah Chorus, the entire room is exalted. The very air is electrified, it seems. If you speak to other serious vocalists(aka, not Justin Bieber), they will say similar things. Handel captured soul-singing perfectly as if he had experienced it himself. Even if it's a flash mob singing, you can still feel the energy.
I have been trying to think of individual vocalists who sing with their soul, but I'm not having as much luck, probably because I'm still hopped up on Christmas fudge. It's not about technique or skill, it's about something ethereal, so it's hard to describe. You know it when you hear it. So how about it? Anybody know any individual singers/vocalists who seem to sing their souls out, at least for one performance? Post them in the comments!
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
A Product Recommendation: Nosefrida
I have a thing about snot. It just plain grosses me out, especially when it is green. I know that snot serves a very good purpose as part of our immune system, but it's still icky. So I was very concerned, when I became a mother, to realize that I would very likely be dealing with snot on a more personal basis than I was used to. In this part of the world, allergies are extremely common, and as we all know, children are the incubators for a host of odd viruses and bacteria the likes of which make the CDC throw up their collective hands in despair.
Zane has been no different from any other child, particularly since he began daycare. (Mad props to the daycare personnel--I see them wiping down everything in sight on a daily basis in their losing efforts to stem the tide) My son is a booger factory. Unfortunately for him, his snot seems to want to stay in his nose and mutate rather than exit, so Zane becomes congested and has trouble breathing. This scares the bejebus out of me.
It is extremely impossible to explain to a baby or toddler or three year old how to blow their nose. Even if you use pictures, most of them will not comprehend the idea of blowing air through their nose into a tissue. I don't know what the magical age is for a child to figure this out, but it's not the age my son is. So my husband and I generally have to either wait for the green worms to start oozing out of Zane's nose, or we have to go in after the bastards. We initially tried one of those bulb aspirators, but those just did not work well for Zane; his mutating boogers would laugh and taunt us in our efforts. We tried spraying saline up there to rinse the evil snot out, but this was not successful, either, mostly because little kids just are not thrilled about having stuff sprayed up their nose. Plus, I am pretty sure that the mutated snot in my son's nose can swim.
Finally, we found the Nosefrida. Essentially, this device is a straw that you place at the entrance to your child's nostril. You then use your own lung power to suction the snot out of there like a vacuum. For those of you, like me, who are squeamish about snot, there is no danger of the parent breathing in any of their child's snot. (whew!) No, the straw is attached to a long tube which is what the parent puts in their mouth. There are filters also involved as an additional barrier against snot.
The Nosefrida has been a godsend. It has done the very best job in pulling the snot out in the least painful way possible. We tell Zane that we are going to vacuum out his nose, and most of the time he is okay with it because it tickles a bit. We use it every night and occasionally during the day as well when he is sick. Zane is breathing better and sleeping better and best of all, doesn't have to take any yucky medicine. And it's not expensive, it's easy to clean, and it is just plain wonderful. So I am recommending this product to all parents who have snotty children. Buy it especially if your child has the industrial weight snot like my kid.
**Nobody paid me anything to recommend this product; nobody gave me a free one of these, because that would be very strange indeed. This recommendation is based on my experiences with the product and my general fear of snot.
Zane has been no different from any other child, particularly since he began daycare. (Mad props to the daycare personnel--I see them wiping down everything in sight on a daily basis in their losing efforts to stem the tide) My son is a booger factory. Unfortunately for him, his snot seems to want to stay in his nose and mutate rather than exit, so Zane becomes congested and has trouble breathing. This scares the bejebus out of me.
It is extremely impossible to explain to a baby or toddler or three year old how to blow their nose. Even if you use pictures, most of them will not comprehend the idea of blowing air through their nose into a tissue. I don't know what the magical age is for a child to figure this out, but it's not the age my son is. So my husband and I generally have to either wait for the green worms to start oozing out of Zane's nose, or we have to go in after the bastards. We initially tried one of those bulb aspirators, but those just did not work well for Zane; his mutating boogers would laugh and taunt us in our efforts. We tried spraying saline up there to rinse the evil snot out, but this was not successful, either, mostly because little kids just are not thrilled about having stuff sprayed up their nose. Plus, I am pretty sure that the mutated snot in my son's nose can swim.
Finally, we found the Nosefrida. Essentially, this device is a straw that you place at the entrance to your child's nostril. You then use your own lung power to suction the snot out of there like a vacuum. For those of you, like me, who are squeamish about snot, there is no danger of the parent breathing in any of their child's snot. (whew!) No, the straw is attached to a long tube which is what the parent puts in their mouth. There are filters also involved as an additional barrier against snot.
The Nosefrida has been a godsend. It has done the very best job in pulling the snot out in the least painful way possible. We tell Zane that we are going to vacuum out his nose, and most of the time he is okay with it because it tickles a bit. We use it every night and occasionally during the day as well when he is sick. Zane is breathing better and sleeping better and best of all, doesn't have to take any yucky medicine. And it's not expensive, it's easy to clean, and it is just plain wonderful. So I am recommending this product to all parents who have snotty children. Buy it especially if your child has the industrial weight snot like my kid.
**Nobody paid me anything to recommend this product; nobody gave me a free one of these, because that would be very strange indeed. This recommendation is based on my experiences with the product and my general fear of snot.
Monday, December 27, 2010
A SAHM I Will Never Be...
My mother was a stay-at-home-mom. My dad worked three jobs at one point while he was earning his masters degree, but my mom did not work outside the house. Even after my brother and I were in school, my mom stayed at home. That will never be me. I love my son, but I was never cut out for the hausfrau life.
For one thing, I am a terrible housekeeper. I start one cleaning task, only to see three more than need to be done. Or I start a job and then get distracted by something and forget to finish. Or I decide to clean out a closet and then spend all day going through every single box and traveling down memory lane instead of tossing things out. I doubt that this would improve if I were at home. In fact, it would likely get worse.
Second, I am barely a passable cook. After two or three horrific adventures as a child, my mother essentially banned me from using her kitchen(to be fair, she never was able to get those stains off of the ceiling). I can follow a recipe, but any attempt on my part to deviate from the plan usually results in a less than palatable meal that my husband refuses to even fake eat. Maybe my culinary skills would improve if I were to devote more time to them, but who needs that kind of pressure, especially with a very active child underfoot?
Third, I know myself very well, and I know that if left to my own devices, I would curl up somewhere with a good book and forget about most things. When I am engrossed in reading, I tend to hear nothing and see nothing around me. This is not a good idea with a three year old boy who likes to climb as high as possible and jump off into the stratosphere. And I have to face it, Zane is an extremely active, inquisitive child who needs consistent structure from someone much younger, more active, and less distractible than me.
No, the reality is that I wasn't meant to be a stay-at-home-mom. At the end of the day, I don't do well with too much time on my hands; after my miscarriage in 2003, the deep dark pit of despair I fell into was made much, much, worse by the fact that I really had nothing to do for an entire month before I could go back to work. I unabashedly admit that I live entirely too much in my head most of the time, and time at home would not help. Being at work gets me thinking about other things that are not me and my little troubles. So while I admire those who choose to stay at home with their little ones, and occasionally wish I could spend more time with Zane, I am more than happy to work.
For one thing, I am a terrible housekeeper. I start one cleaning task, only to see three more than need to be done. Or I start a job and then get distracted by something and forget to finish. Or I decide to clean out a closet and then spend all day going through every single box and traveling down memory lane instead of tossing things out. I doubt that this would improve if I were at home. In fact, it would likely get worse.
Second, I am barely a passable cook. After two or three horrific adventures as a child, my mother essentially banned me from using her kitchen(to be fair, she never was able to get those stains off of the ceiling). I can follow a recipe, but any attempt on my part to deviate from the plan usually results in a less than palatable meal that my husband refuses to even fake eat. Maybe my culinary skills would improve if I were to devote more time to them, but who needs that kind of pressure, especially with a very active child underfoot?
Third, I know myself very well, and I know that if left to my own devices, I would curl up somewhere with a good book and forget about most things. When I am engrossed in reading, I tend to hear nothing and see nothing around me. This is not a good idea with a three year old boy who likes to climb as high as possible and jump off into the stratosphere. And I have to face it, Zane is an extremely active, inquisitive child who needs consistent structure from someone much younger, more active, and less distractible than me.
No, the reality is that I wasn't meant to be a stay-at-home-mom. At the end of the day, I don't do well with too much time on my hands; after my miscarriage in 2003, the deep dark pit of despair I fell into was made much, much, worse by the fact that I really had nothing to do for an entire month before I could go back to work. I unabashedly admit that I live entirely too much in my head most of the time, and time at home would not help. Being at work gets me thinking about other things that are not me and my little troubles. So while I admire those who choose to stay at home with their little ones, and occasionally wish I could spend more time with Zane, I am more than happy to work.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
If You Really Are What You Eat...
...I should be mostly chocolate by now. Rich, creamy, smooth, delicious chocolate, with lots of those happy endorphins that make you think you're in love. Chocolate doesn't care if it's a bit larger than it should be, either.
Mostly chocolate, with a little bit of shiraz wine thrown in. Okay, who are we kidding? It would be a little more than a "little bit"!
Just sayin'.
Mostly chocolate, with a little bit of shiraz wine thrown in. Okay, who are we kidding? It would be a little more than a "little bit"!
Just sayin'.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
There is Always a Good Time to Keep Your Mouth Shut
We are getting ready to leave to go somewhere. I have just finished getting myself showered and dressed, coifed, and putting on makeup. Nice makeup, with very pretty eyeliner and a nice red shade of lipstick. I am downstairs with Zane, trying to get his shoes on amid his protests. Larry comes downstairs.
"Well, I guess as soon as you put your makeup on, we can go," he says.
My mouth fell open.
I looked at Larry like he was an idiot. Which, at that point in the conversation, he was. At the very least.
"Could you hurry up? We need to leave," he told me.
So I punched him right in the face. Not really. But could anyone blame me if I had?
"Well, I guess as soon as you put your makeup on, we can go," he says.
My mouth fell open.
I looked at Larry like he was an idiot. Which, at that point in the conversation, he was. At the very least.
"Could you hurry up? We need to leave," he told me.
So I punched him right in the face. Not really. But could anyone blame me if I had?
Traditions--All About Family
This was the very first year that my husband and Zane and I finally got to have Christmas together, just us. So I wanted to start some traditions that Zane could grow up with and carry on to his own family one day.
We had the Christmas stockings, a tradition started by Larry. I added to this tradition by incorporating the treats from Germany that I used to get for Dec. 6th, St. Nicklaus day, and putting those into Zane's stocking.
Next year we will have the Advent Calendar, to help Zane count the days until Christmas. Nothing helps your counting skills like chocolate.
We did the Christmas lights drive-bys, a tradition started by Zane this year so he could see the lights, and a tradition we will continue at least until Zane is a surly teenager. Then we will still do it just to bug him.
We did the Santa visit, because we wanted blackmail photos for Zane's dating years.
We did watch A Christmas Story at least twice, which is MY tradition, because that is the very best Christmas movie ever.
We also watched Die Hard for the first time after Zane was asleep, and this will be a new tradition. Die Hard is the second very best Christmas movie ever, especially if you like a few explosions with your glass of wine. (And we do!)
The presents from Santa are never wrapped because Santa is a busy man and paper is too expensive for the North Pole to foot the costs. There's no trees up there, and importing isn't cheap!
Mom is automatically the person who picks up all the wrapping paper, according to Zane. Dad is automatically the guy who has to film every second, according to Mom.
And apparently Zane is the only one allowed to open all the presents in the house, no matter what name is on the label.
Merry Christmas to all. And if you don't celebrate Christmas, Happy Holidays, whatever they are. No matter the name of the day, or the name of your religion, it's all about family, traditions, and most especially, love.
We had the Christmas stockings, a tradition started by Larry. I added to this tradition by incorporating the treats from Germany that I used to get for Dec. 6th, St. Nicklaus day, and putting those into Zane's stocking.
Next year we will have the Advent Calendar, to help Zane count the days until Christmas. Nothing helps your counting skills like chocolate.
We did the Christmas lights drive-bys, a tradition started by Zane this year so he could see the lights, and a tradition we will continue at least until Zane is a surly teenager. Then we will still do it just to bug him.
We did the Santa visit, because we wanted blackmail photos for Zane's dating years.
We did watch A Christmas Story at least twice, which is MY tradition, because that is the very best Christmas movie ever.
We also watched Die Hard for the first time after Zane was asleep, and this will be a new tradition. Die Hard is the second very best Christmas movie ever, especially if you like a few explosions with your glass of wine. (And we do!)
The presents from Santa are never wrapped because Santa is a busy man and paper is too expensive for the North Pole to foot the costs. There's no trees up there, and importing isn't cheap!
Mom is automatically the person who picks up all the wrapping paper, according to Zane. Dad is automatically the guy who has to film every second, according to Mom.
And apparently Zane is the only one allowed to open all the presents in the house, no matter what name is on the label.
Merry Christmas to all. And if you don't celebrate Christmas, Happy Holidays, whatever they are. No matter the name of the day, or the name of your religion, it's all about family, traditions, and most especially, love.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Game Planning
My husband, who is Mr."We Must Go Overboard On Everything Related to Christmas", spends a lot of time planning the events of Christmas morning so as to achieve maximum impact. In fact, he has been planning the presentation of Christmas for the last month. He's driving me just plain batshit crazy.
"Maybe we should move the couch over there so we can arrange Zane's presents more in a semicircle?"
"Do you think that we should have the presents wrapped and under the tree now, or should we wait until Christmas day?"
"What if we move the tree over to that side, so when Zane comes downstairs the first thing he sees are the presents?"
"We are going to have to go out and buy some more presents. The arrangement is lopsided."
"Where do you think we could find some foam board, so I can make some life-sized pictures?"
"Should we have the presents from Santa wrapped? If so, we are going to need a really big boz."
And so it goes. On Christmas Eve, Larry will stay up late, fussing, arranging the presents just so, posing everything to optimal effect, so that when Zane comes down the stairs on Christmas morning, he will have the 3 year old equivalent of an OMG moment.
And I love him for that. Even though he's driving me nuts. I'm not kidding about that part.
"Maybe we should move the couch over there so we can arrange Zane's presents more in a semicircle?"
"Do you think that we should have the presents wrapped and under the tree now, or should we wait until Christmas day?"
"What if we move the tree over to that side, so when Zane comes downstairs the first thing he sees are the presents?"
"We are going to have to go out and buy some more presents. The arrangement is lopsided."
"Where do you think we could find some foam board, so I can make some life-sized pictures?"
"Should we have the presents from Santa wrapped? If so, we are going to need a really big boz."
And so it goes. On Christmas Eve, Larry will stay up late, fussing, arranging the presents just so, posing everything to optimal effect, so that when Zane comes down the stairs on Christmas morning, he will have the 3 year old equivalent of an OMG moment.
And I love him for that. Even though he's driving me nuts. I'm not kidding about that part.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
My Son Drew a Picture
I asked Zane to draw me a picture of a heart, and this is what he drew:
He told me that it was 'Mama's Heart', so that is what I wrote for him on the picture. I am a bit disconcerted, however. Because this is what an actual heart looks like:
*photo from www.nlm.nih.gov
Not an exact match, but close enough to make me wonder if maybe I need to make an appointment to see a cardiologist...
He told me that it was 'Mama's Heart', so that is what I wrote for him on the picture. I am a bit disconcerted, however. Because this is what an actual heart looks like:
*photo from www.nlm.nih.govNot an exact match, but close enough to make me wonder if maybe I need to make an appointment to see a cardiologist...
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
The Playland Event
Yesterday I had the great fun of taking Zane to the Witte Museum to meet up with a couple of my girly-type friends and their little boys. There is an exhibit showing at the moment of these huge animatronic insects/arachnids, and if there's creepy-crawlies to be examined, that's where most boys are. Zane was very excited, although as soon as he walked into the exhibit and was greeted by a ginormous wasp, his normal exhuberance was a bit dampened.
After the museum we all went to the nearest McDonalds for lunch, because that's what moms who want to wear out their little ones do. There was a playland at this store, so we got our food and let the little ones loose while we gossiped and chatted. All three boys are around the same age and size, and they were romping and chasing and climbing all through the playscape like they were having the best time ever. I naturally turned my head toward the sound of my son's effervescent and quite enthusiastic laughter...
...to find that Zane was not wearing pants. Or socks. He was in his pullup and his shirt and nothing else. I said what anyone in my shoes would say, which is WTF. Then I went over to my son, who wasn't really bothered by his pantsless state.
"Zane, where are your pants?"
"Up there," he pointed somewhere above vaguely.
"Go and get your pants and socks and put them back on!" I wasn't yelling or anything, and I was proud of myself for my restraint. My own mother would have had a major coronary.
"Don't want to put pants on," my boy says.
"Look, Zane..." I took a deep breath. "Do you see that sign?" I point to a sign that says that you must be under 4ft tall to play on the playscape. "That says that you have to have pants on to play on this ride."
Yeah, I lied. Sue me--other parents were starting to look at me funny. Hell, if I wasn't the one whose kid was running about half naked, I'd be looking at me funny, too.
"No," Zane stated unequivocally. I didn't want to resort to drastic measures, but a line had been drawn in the sand. Do NOT mess with Mama!
"That's it--I am calling Santa!"
I pulled out my cell phone and made like I was punching numbers. I held the phone to my ear.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Zane screamed, and of course, started crying piteously. So now I'm the mother of the half-naked kid having a meltdown at McDonalds. Who is also an evil bitch for torturing my son with Santa. Great.
Just then, another little boy brought me Zane's pants, which he had retrieved from the tunnels above us. I looked upon this child as a savior, because I am so severely claustrophic that there would be no way I was going up there. Zane was still sobbing. I made him go up there and find his socks and bring them back down, then helped him get dressed.
"Do you think you can manage to stay dressed, or do I still need to call Santa?" I ask my son. He agreed to remain entirely clothed for at least as long as it took him to forget the whole thing. Which, in Zane's World, is "five minute".
At least I got to finish my cheeseburger.
After the museum we all went to the nearest McDonalds for lunch, because that's what moms who want to wear out their little ones do. There was a playland at this store, so we got our food and let the little ones loose while we gossiped and chatted. All three boys are around the same age and size, and they were romping and chasing and climbing all through the playscape like they were having the best time ever. I naturally turned my head toward the sound of my son's effervescent and quite enthusiastic laughter...
...to find that Zane was not wearing pants. Or socks. He was in his pullup and his shirt and nothing else. I said what anyone in my shoes would say, which is WTF. Then I went over to my son, who wasn't really bothered by his pantsless state.
"Zane, where are your pants?"
"Up there," he pointed somewhere above vaguely.
"Go and get your pants and socks and put them back on!" I wasn't yelling or anything, and I was proud of myself for my restraint. My own mother would have had a major coronary.
"Don't want to put pants on," my boy says.
"Look, Zane..." I took a deep breath. "Do you see that sign?" I point to a sign that says that you must be under 4ft tall to play on the playscape. "That says that you have to have pants on to play on this ride."
Yeah, I lied. Sue me--other parents were starting to look at me funny. Hell, if I wasn't the one whose kid was running about half naked, I'd be looking at me funny, too.
"No," Zane stated unequivocally. I didn't want to resort to drastic measures, but a line had been drawn in the sand. Do NOT mess with Mama!
"That's it--I am calling Santa!"
I pulled out my cell phone and made like I was punching numbers. I held the phone to my ear.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Zane screamed, and of course, started crying piteously. So now I'm the mother of the half-naked kid having a meltdown at McDonalds. Who is also an evil bitch for torturing my son with Santa. Great.
Just then, another little boy brought me Zane's pants, which he had retrieved from the tunnels above us. I looked upon this child as a savior, because I am so severely claustrophic that there would be no way I was going up there. Zane was still sobbing. I made him go up there and find his socks and bring them back down, then helped him get dressed.
"Do you think you can manage to stay dressed, or do I still need to call Santa?" I ask my son. He agreed to remain entirely clothed for at least as long as it took him to forget the whole thing. Which, in Zane's World, is "five minute".
At least I got to finish my cheeseburger.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Santa Chronicles
In 2008, we took Zane to see Santa, stood in line for more than an hour, and...
In 2009, we took Zane to see Santa, stood in line more than an hour, and...
Ever the gluttons for punishment, we tried yet again this year, stood in line more than an hour, and...
I think that we are seeing some progress! At least this time Zane stopped freaking out long enough to tell Santa what he wanted.
*All photographs copyright Noerr Programs, and special thanks to the very calm Santas they provided!
In 2009, we took Zane to see Santa, stood in line more than an hour, and...
Ever the gluttons for punishment, we tried yet again this year, stood in line more than an hour, and...
I think that we are seeing some progress! At least this time Zane stopped freaking out long enough to tell Santa what he wanted.
*All photographs copyright Noerr Programs, and special thanks to the very calm Santas they provided!
Christmas lights in Windcrest
Zane is big on Christmas lights, so if we are out driving around after dark, we are required by Zane law to drive past at least three houses with Christmas lights. Last night we happened to be near Windcrest, a suburb of San Antonio. They have a contest every year, and people seem to be very competitive about their contests here. Well, that, and they seem to have a TON of time on their hands.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Heaven Helps Those Who Get Off Their Butts
I know a lot of helpful people. If you are in trouble and need help, they are very willing, and able, to help you. If you don't have money for food, they can put in a word for you at the food bank or a church. If you lose your job, they can help you find a new one, and if that new job requires training, they will help you get that as well. There are even people who will help you find diapers for your baby. But there's a catch. Those who want help...have to ask for it.
"I need help." Those are some impossibly difficult words for some people to say, including myself. We find ourselves pretending that we don't need anything or anybody because that is safest. We hide behind our pride and claim that we "don't take charity". We can't trust that the person who gives us something won't want something in return. Sometimes this is the case, but most of the time the person is trying to be helpful and nothing else. No strings.
There are people out there, unfortunately, who do nothing. They sit there, while their children go hungry, while their electricity is cut off, while they freeze to death, waiting. Apparently, God is supposed to hand deliver any and all miraculous assistance directly to these people, with the prerequisite angelic trumpets and singing. Jesus himself is supposed to anticipate their needs and come down from the heavens and solve all their problems without these people making any effort at all. These people do not deserve help, in my opinion.
Heaven helps those who help themselves, the saying goes. If you aren't going to make any effort, why should God do it for you? And did you ever stop to think that God put all those helpful people on earth for a reason?
If your children are hungry, get off your backside and find food for them. If you don't have a job, get off your ass and go look for one. If you don't have any money for a few Christmas presents, or clothes, or heat, get off your butt, go out into the world, and say "I need help." You will be surprised at what happens, and I hope, grateful.
"I need help." Those are some impossibly difficult words for some people to say, including myself. We find ourselves pretending that we don't need anything or anybody because that is safest. We hide behind our pride and claim that we "don't take charity". We can't trust that the person who gives us something won't want something in return. Sometimes this is the case, but most of the time the person is trying to be helpful and nothing else. No strings.
There are people out there, unfortunately, who do nothing. They sit there, while their children go hungry, while their electricity is cut off, while they freeze to death, waiting. Apparently, God is supposed to hand deliver any and all miraculous assistance directly to these people, with the prerequisite angelic trumpets and singing. Jesus himself is supposed to anticipate their needs and come down from the heavens and solve all their problems without these people making any effort at all. These people do not deserve help, in my opinion.
Heaven helps those who help themselves, the saying goes. If you aren't going to make any effort, why should God do it for you? And did you ever stop to think that God put all those helpful people on earth for a reason?
If your children are hungry, get off your backside and find food for them. If you don't have a job, get off your ass and go look for one. If you don't have any money for a few Christmas presents, or clothes, or heat, get off your butt, go out into the world, and say "I need help." You will be surprised at what happens, and I hope, grateful.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
How Most Shopping Trips Go Awry
I am sitting at the table in the kitchen, writing down the items we need from the grocery store.
"What you doing, Mama?" Zane asks as he rides his 'bike' into the kitchen.
"I am making a list of things to get from the grocery store, my little Cheesy-poof," I reply, "Do you have anything you want from the store?"
"Yep," came the reply.
"What would you like?" I ready my pencil.
"Um...Candy,"
"Okay," I write down the word. "Anything else?"
"Uhhh...Astrid(character from How to Train Your Dragon)...Batman...Candy...Batman...Superman...Candy..."
I may have to get a second cart...Batman being a pretty big guy and all...
"What you doing, Mama?" Zane asks as he rides his 'bike' into the kitchen.
"I am making a list of things to get from the grocery store, my little Cheesy-poof," I reply, "Do you have anything you want from the store?"
"Yep," came the reply.
"What would you like?" I ready my pencil.
"Um...Candy,"
"Okay," I write down the word. "Anything else?"
"Uhhh...Astrid(character from How to Train Your Dragon)...Batman...Candy...Batman...Superman...Candy..."
I may have to get a second cart...Batman being a pretty big guy and all...
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Life's Little Interruptions
I get interrupted quite a bit when I am doing housework, and today was no different. No sooner had I opened the dryer to get the clothes out then I heard a crash, which this time was my son attempting to leap from the couch to the chair. When I came back, I found this further interruption.
I can totally understand--the inside of the dryer was a nice and cozy place. Cats just can't resist these sorts of opportunities, and I really say that I blame them. I just wish that while she was in there she would fold a few items and stack them nicely.
I can totally understand--the inside of the dryer was a nice and cozy place. Cats just can't resist these sorts of opportunities, and I really say that I blame them. I just wish that while she was in there she would fold a few items and stack them nicely.
Friday, December 17, 2010
My Husband the Fixer
I was in the middle of cleaning the kitchen a couple of days ago when I discovered the sink wasn't draining. I hollered something to Larry, who murmured something unintelligible from the other room. I finished cleaning up and went on to other, more pleasant activities. About an hour later, my husband gets up from his Xbox game and comes into the kitchen to get a drink.
"Why didn't you tell me the garbage disposal was broken?" he yells from the kitchen.
"I did tell you!" I yell right back. We are all about the communicating, my sweetheart and I.
Larry decided to sleep on the matter, and to be honest, I was glad. My husband is not known for his maintainence skills. Most of the little odd jobs that need to get done around the house are done by...my dad or someone we can ply with alcohol. Larry means well, but he's a computer geek. Geeks just don't tend to pay attention to how to fix stuff around the house unless it's some sort of electronic device. Understandably, I was worried that we would end up having to pay extra because Larry 'fixed' things.(and to be fair, I am no better at "fixing" things. There is a really good reason that I am not allowed to have power tools.)
The next morning as we were getting ready to leave to go to lunch, Larry poured Drano into the disposal. When we came back, everything looked...exactly the same. Larry made a bold decision to put on gloves and reach into the disposal and see if he could pull some of what was blocking the drain out of there. I say it was a bold decision because we've both seen way too many horror movies where bad things happen to people who stick their fingers down the garbage disposals; let's just say that it never ends well and that it creeps me out.
Larry stuck his hand down in there. He looked perplexed. I watched, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. I had no idea what the heck I was going to do, but I was going to do it quickly.
This time, thankfully, my services were not required. One of Zane's cups had fallen into the disposal and become wedged in there, blocking the drain. Larry was able to get a knife and pry it out of there. After that, of course, the disposal worked perfectly, as did the drain. Larry began dancing in the kitchen, his hands in the air.
"I fixed it! I fixed it!" he chortled. "You were going to pay a plumber to fix that, and I did it!!!" I just smiled and let him dance. Sometimes the key to a good marriage is knowing when to keep your mouth shut.
"Why didn't you tell me the garbage disposal was broken?" he yells from the kitchen.
"I did tell you!" I yell right back. We are all about the communicating, my sweetheart and I.
Larry decided to sleep on the matter, and to be honest, I was glad. My husband is not known for his maintainence skills. Most of the little odd jobs that need to get done around the house are done by...my dad or someone we can ply with alcohol. Larry means well, but he's a computer geek. Geeks just don't tend to pay attention to how to fix stuff around the house unless it's some sort of electronic device. Understandably, I was worried that we would end up having to pay extra because Larry 'fixed' things.(and to be fair, I am no better at "fixing" things. There is a really good reason that I am not allowed to have power tools.)
The next morning as we were getting ready to leave to go to lunch, Larry poured Drano into the disposal. When we came back, everything looked...exactly the same. Larry made a bold decision to put on gloves and reach into the disposal and see if he could pull some of what was blocking the drain out of there. I say it was a bold decision because we've both seen way too many horror movies where bad things happen to people who stick their fingers down the garbage disposals; let's just say that it never ends well and that it creeps me out.
Larry stuck his hand down in there. He looked perplexed. I watched, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. I had no idea what the heck I was going to do, but I was going to do it quickly.
This time, thankfully, my services were not required. One of Zane's cups had fallen into the disposal and become wedged in there, blocking the drain. Larry was able to get a knife and pry it out of there. After that, of course, the disposal worked perfectly, as did the drain. Larry began dancing in the kitchen, his hands in the air.
"I fixed it! I fixed it!" he chortled. "You were going to pay a plumber to fix that, and I did it!!!" I just smiled and let him dance. Sometimes the key to a good marriage is knowing when to keep your mouth shut.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Book Review: The Charlatan's Boy
I recently joined a website called Blogging For Books that sends you free books to review. This is a very awesome thing for me, since I love to read anything and everything I can, and I am pretty opinionated about most things. They sent me a free book, and all I have to do is review that book. It's a win-win!
The book I chose, The Charlatan's Boy, by Jonathan Rogers, caught my eye almost immediately. The author holds a PhD in seventeeth-century English literature, which immediately raised him in my esteem as both an intelligent man and a glutton for punishment.
The very word, charlatan, is so out of use as to be almost considered archaic, yet you won't find a better word to describe the profession described in detail in this book. (The word huckster comes close, but I feel that it lacks the elegance of charlatan.) Yet the use of such a word gave me pause; I really didn't want to read dry and dull words, however elevated they might be. I wanted to be entertained!
The charlatan in question here is named Floyd, and the narrator is Grady, who is also the title character. Grady and Floyd are together, but not family. In fact, Floyd makes a living off of exploiting Grady as a He-Feechie, a hideous creature of legend who lives in the swamps. As the story begins, the Feechie trade, as they call it, is dying out. Nobody believes in Feechies anymore, it seems. This presents a problem for Grady, because his whole life up to this point has been spent pretending to be a He-Feechie like Floyd taught him. The rest of the book follows with Grady trying to find his own identity apart from Floyd. If he can't find out where he came from, Grady aims to try and find a place to be, after one last big Feechie roundup.
The language used in the book is wonderfully evocative. It was easy to picture the events taking place on the page in my mind, especially the cattle drovers. The book seemed to start very slowly and appeared to be meandering about, trying to find a direction. The story did not completely grab my attention until the first set of cattle drovers arrived on the scene. While I wouldn't quite go so far as to agree with the claim that The Charlatan's Boy is "C.S. Lewis and Mark Twain rolled into one," I certainly did find similarities to Twain in the storytelling.
This would be a great book for a teenager who loves to read, but I also think that this would be an excellent book to read aloud. There's a lyrical flow to the language that seems to lend itself to being spoken; you can almost hear a voice in your head while you are reading. So this might be a book that could be read aloud to someone who perhaps has trouble reading or who cannot read because of vision issues.
This is Why Daddy is Not in Charge
I've been sickly the past few days, and not my usual on the ball self. So my wonderful husband stepped up to the plate, and did a great job, except:
The sad thing is that Larry said that he was sitting right next to Zane while he did this, and didn't notice a thing. Talk about hyperfocus!
The sad thing is that Larry said that he was sitting right next to Zane while he did this, and didn't notice a thing. Talk about hyperfocus!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Confessions of a Lipstick Junkie
I like lipstick. I like how it feels, but mostly I like the colors. When I go to the store, I have to at least look at the lipsticks. I usually end up buying at least one lipstick. I've always been a sucker for pretty packaging, and am a firm believer in love at first sight.
And in the store, that particular shade of Frosted Rose looked perfect to me. It seemed to look luminous on my skin tone, which is somewhere between dead pallor and geisha mask pale. The purveyors of these lipsticks promise so much! Plumper lips! Smooth lips! Lips that shine! Lips that stop traffic!!(Seriously--Red Light Red. Great name.) Lips that do laundry! Well, not really. You get the idea, though. Lots and lots of promises. Promises don't mean much if the lipstick can't perform.
But I'm not thinking about promises at this moment; all I care about is the pretty in front of me. I fall hard. At that moment, that lipstick is my lips' soul mate and I must have it. Now. Before anyone else gets it. I rush to the checkout clutching my Precious to my chest, pay for it, and rush home.
But in the light of day, I have regrets. What was I thinking? This color is too orange! I look like a two dollar whore in a fifty-cent town! Ack! The color is never as it was when it first caught your eye.
Another problem that I have with the lipsticks I fall for is their stamina. I might put on lipstick at 8am, and by 9am the color is either gone or faded so as to be invisible. Worse, sometimes the color is gone from the center of my lips, but there is a vestige of Honeysuckle Red hovering around the edges of my lips like one of those chalk outlines around a dead body that you see in the movies. Even those so-called 8hr, 16hr, 24hr, long-wearing lipsticks don't stick around. They just can't complete the mission. It's so sad. It would be nice to have at least one lipstick that can go all night like a drunken sailor on shore leave, but for me, it is not to be.
What I search for is to find the perfect shade for me, which in my mind is a little bit darker than my natural color. I would like this particularly perfect shade to be long lasting, so that I can put it on in the morning and it lasts until I take it off in the evening, no matter how many breakfast tacos or glasses of champagne I consume. The color would be so fabulous that passerby would stop their cars and just stare at my lips, and I would feel very lovely indeed. I would call this particular lipstick, if it existed, Holy Grail.
And in the store, that particular shade of Frosted Rose looked perfect to me. It seemed to look luminous on my skin tone, which is somewhere between dead pallor and geisha mask pale. The purveyors of these lipsticks promise so much! Plumper lips! Smooth lips! Lips that shine! Lips that stop traffic!!(Seriously--Red Light Red. Great name.) Lips that do laundry! Well, not really. You get the idea, though. Lots and lots of promises. Promises don't mean much if the lipstick can't perform.
But I'm not thinking about promises at this moment; all I care about is the pretty in front of me. I fall hard. At that moment, that lipstick is my lips' soul mate and I must have it. Now. Before anyone else gets it. I rush to the checkout clutching my Precious to my chest, pay for it, and rush home.
But in the light of day, I have regrets. What was I thinking? This color is too orange! I look like a two dollar whore in a fifty-cent town! Ack! The color is never as it was when it first caught your eye.
Another problem that I have with the lipsticks I fall for is their stamina. I might put on lipstick at 8am, and by 9am the color is either gone or faded so as to be invisible. Worse, sometimes the color is gone from the center of my lips, but there is a vestige of Honeysuckle Red hovering around the edges of my lips like one of those chalk outlines around a dead body that you see in the movies. Even those so-called 8hr, 16hr, 24hr, long-wearing lipsticks don't stick around. They just can't complete the mission. It's so sad. It would be nice to have at least one lipstick that can go all night like a drunken sailor on shore leave, but for me, it is not to be.
What I search for is to find the perfect shade for me, which in my mind is a little bit darker than my natural color. I would like this particularly perfect shade to be long lasting, so that I can put it on in the morning and it lasts until I take it off in the evening, no matter how many breakfast tacos or glasses of champagne I consume. The color would be so fabulous that passerby would stop their cars and just stare at my lips, and I would feel very lovely indeed. I would call this particular lipstick, if it existed, Holy Grail.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Some Thoughts on Bullying
When we were kids, my brother and I were often bullied by other kids. We were always the new kids, and as such were teased and tormented by our peers. That was just the way it was back then, and while we fought like cats and dogs with each other, when you picked on one of us, you had to contend with both of us. Family sticks together, especially when you're an Army brat who moves often. We sometimes had to physically fight, but most of the time we just had to deal with exclusion, ignoring, teasing, or other events that were just as harmful. For instance, some boys buried my brother in a box in the back yard of the apartment building in which we lived; he went along with it because he wanted them to like him. In my own case, a group of girls knocked me down one day when I was wearing a dress and gave me a wedgie.
We were visiting my brother's house a few weeks ago, which seems to be the place for everyone to meet. Zane was having a blast, running around, playing in the back yard, etc. Being a happy three year old. He decided that he wanted to go upstairs and find his cousin Tristan. I followed Zane up the stairs several steps behind to make sure that he got up there okay; while I was on the stairs, I could hear voices talking and laughing. The second Zane got to the top of the stairs, there was dead silence. That got my attention; silence is not a normal occurrence at my brother's house. I had to investigate.
It took me a second to realize that MY child was being specifically excluded from this particular gathering. These kids didn't want to play with my son, but rather than tell him that in some form or fashion, they were excluding him by pretending to be asleep. That exclusion, if it happened at school, would have been called indirect bullying. I was angry, hurt, and horrified to realize that my son was experiencing bullying at three years of age. I never expected that someone would be deliberately cruel to my child, but there it was, a big, stinking pile of it. I was so horrified/angry that I was shaking. It was as if I was reliving all those moments years ago when I was excluded as the "weird" kid. And I felt helpless. After all the things I try to do to protect my child, it didn't mean a damn thing.
Once I calmed down, I started thinking. Tristan is your average, garden-variety teenager. He is a good person. He's generally polite, if monosyllabic around adults. Tristan has spent hours playing with Zane, teaching him how to play soccer. He doesn't get into trouble for anything except forgetting his chores and forgetting his homework. Yet here Tristan is, engaging in bullying. Bullying behavior seems to be pervasive.
Our new kitten has a habit of attacking our ankles and legs when we walk past her, and I have lots of little cuts and scratches on my legs as a result. My husband and I joke about a "death by a thousand cuts" from her attacks. Bullying is like that, I think. Death by a thousand cuts--a thousand moments of teasing, exclusions, and threats. A person dies a little every time they are bullied--if they can't defend themselves against it. I am not talking about violence, I am talking about resilience. Being able to pick yourself up off the ground, dust yourself off, and go on about your day and not letting the bullying emotionally beat you down. We seem to be focusing so much on the bullying itself that we aren't working on the very survival skills a kid needs to handle being bullied. I wish that wasn't so. The fact of the matter is that we as parents cannot be there every single second of the day to shelter and protect our children; they need to be able to handle this on their own. And we have our own bullies to deal with, be it our boss, a coworker, a parent, or that police officer who pulled us over for a bad brakelight this morning. It is in watching us that our children learn the most about what they will face as adults. How do they see us dealing with the bullies in our life?
My brother and I survived the bullying over the years because we were smart and, more importantly, resilient. I personally made a decision to never to define myself as a victim, and I began to shrug those feelings off like an old coat that no longer fit. That does not mean that I don't remember what it was like to be bullied; it means that I can handle being bullied. And make no mistake--bullying behavior happens everywhere, every day, every place. You can let it get to you, or you can let it roll off of you like water, right into the gutter where it belongs. That's what I want to teach my son.
Oh, and those girls in fifth grade who gave me a wedgie? I got up, walked about ten feet away from them, and smiled as sweetly as I could through my tears. Then I mooned them. And ran as fast as I could, laughing, all the way home.
We were visiting my brother's house a few weeks ago, which seems to be the place for everyone to meet. Zane was having a blast, running around, playing in the back yard, etc. Being a happy three year old. He decided that he wanted to go upstairs and find his cousin Tristan. I followed Zane up the stairs several steps behind to make sure that he got up there okay; while I was on the stairs, I could hear voices talking and laughing. The second Zane got to the top of the stairs, there was dead silence. That got my attention; silence is not a normal occurrence at my brother's house. I had to investigate.
It took me a second to realize that MY child was being specifically excluded from this particular gathering. These kids didn't want to play with my son, but rather than tell him that in some form or fashion, they were excluding him by pretending to be asleep. That exclusion, if it happened at school, would have been called indirect bullying. I was angry, hurt, and horrified to realize that my son was experiencing bullying at three years of age. I never expected that someone would be deliberately cruel to my child, but there it was, a big, stinking pile of it. I was so horrified/angry that I was shaking. It was as if I was reliving all those moments years ago when I was excluded as the "weird" kid. And I felt helpless. After all the things I try to do to protect my child, it didn't mean a damn thing.
Once I calmed down, I started thinking. Tristan is your average, garden-variety teenager. He is a good person. He's generally polite, if monosyllabic around adults. Tristan has spent hours playing with Zane, teaching him how to play soccer. He doesn't get into trouble for anything except forgetting his chores and forgetting his homework. Yet here Tristan is, engaging in bullying. Bullying behavior seems to be pervasive.
Our new kitten has a habit of attacking our ankles and legs when we walk past her, and I have lots of little cuts and scratches on my legs as a result. My husband and I joke about a "death by a thousand cuts" from her attacks. Bullying is like that, I think. Death by a thousand cuts--a thousand moments of teasing, exclusions, and threats. A person dies a little every time they are bullied--if they can't defend themselves against it. I am not talking about violence, I am talking about resilience. Being able to pick yourself up off the ground, dust yourself off, and go on about your day and not letting the bullying emotionally beat you down. We seem to be focusing so much on the bullying itself that we aren't working on the very survival skills a kid needs to handle being bullied. I wish that wasn't so. The fact of the matter is that we as parents cannot be there every single second of the day to shelter and protect our children; they need to be able to handle this on their own. And we have our own bullies to deal with, be it our boss, a coworker, a parent, or that police officer who pulled us over for a bad brakelight this morning. It is in watching us that our children learn the most about what they will face as adults. How do they see us dealing with the bullies in our life?
My brother and I survived the bullying over the years because we were smart and, more importantly, resilient. I personally made a decision to never to define myself as a victim, and I began to shrug those feelings off like an old coat that no longer fit. That does not mean that I don't remember what it was like to be bullied; it means that I can handle being bullied. And make no mistake--bullying behavior happens everywhere, every day, every place. You can let it get to you, or you can let it roll off of you like water, right into the gutter where it belongs. That's what I want to teach my son.
Oh, and those girls in fifth grade who gave me a wedgie? I got up, walked about ten feet away from them, and smiled as sweetly as I could through my tears. Then I mooned them. And ran as fast as I could, laughing, all the way home.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Empathy, Schmempathy
We've been trying to teach Zane about empathy, or at least paying attention to the feelings of others. It's been slow going, to say the least. On the one hand, he seems to understand that when someone is crying you are supposed to help them. For instance, I've seen him approach a peer when they are crying and pat them on the shoulder and tell them, "It's okay." Except for the fact that, occasionally, Zane IS the reason the child might crying in the first place, I think that is pretty good.
But this empathy training doesn't always work out the way we want it to work.
"Zane, I need you to pick up all of your super heroes and put them back in the bucket," I said this afternoon.
"No," was the response.
"Zane, Mama spent all morning cleaning up the house and if you don't pick up your toys I will be very sad," I tell him.
"That's too bad," was the reply. Hmmm. So much for that!
But this empathy training doesn't always work out the way we want it to work.
"Zane, I need you to pick up all of your super heroes and put them back in the bucket," I said this afternoon.
"No," was the response.
"Zane, Mama spent all morning cleaning up the house and if you don't pick up your toys I will be very sad," I tell him.
"That's too bad," was the reply. Hmmm. So much for that!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
An Innie in a World of Extras
I dread the holidays. Not just because I seem to fall into a deep depression every year around the beginning of December(December 9th, to be exact), but because somewhere over the years I became a severe introvert.
I used to be more extroverted. I used to go out dancing every Friday with my friends. I traveled places alone. I used to approach strangers and strike up conversations with them. I randomly bought drinks for interesting-looking people I didn't know just because I wanted to talk to them. Now, it is all too much.
They say that extroverts become more energized around lots of people. I become drained. I can handle a few people, people I know, or perhaps one or two strangers. If there are too many people around, I feel like I can't focus on anything.
Part of it is brain-related; my brain tries to hear every single conversation around me instead of concentrating on the person who is in front of me. So while I am trying to listen to my mother talk about Aunt Susie, I am hearing a conversation in the next room about football, and I am also listening to what my nephew is saying in the front of the house. Before anyone freaks out(OMG! She's like Superman or something!), I don't actually comprehend all that extra noise, but my brain certainly tries. But you can see where this would be an issue. (and yes, restaurants present special challenges.)
Part of my sudden reticence is also that I am much more attentive one-on-one or in small groups. Not only do I have an easier time with following conversations, but I can focus on the person. Any more than five people, and I can't keep track of who is talking, let alone what is being said. Then I start to get nervous about missing something important, hurting someone's feelings by accidentally ignoring them, or saying the wrong thing. I didn't really used to care about saying the wrong thing, but I have a son now. That changes everything. I don't want someone to be cruel to my son because of something that I said or didn't say. He doesn't deserve that, but people are what they are. Karma and all that.
So I'm an introvert now. If we go to a party and you can't find me, I'm probably hiding in the quietest corner I can find, watching everyone else having fun and wishing I could be home, curled up with a good book.
I used to be more extroverted. I used to go out dancing every Friday with my friends. I traveled places alone. I used to approach strangers and strike up conversations with them. I randomly bought drinks for interesting-looking people I didn't know just because I wanted to talk to them. Now, it is all too much.
They say that extroverts become more energized around lots of people. I become drained. I can handle a few people, people I know, or perhaps one or two strangers. If there are too many people around, I feel like I can't focus on anything.
Part of it is brain-related; my brain tries to hear every single conversation around me instead of concentrating on the person who is in front of me. So while I am trying to listen to my mother talk about Aunt Susie, I am hearing a conversation in the next room about football, and I am also listening to what my nephew is saying in the front of the house. Before anyone freaks out(OMG! She's like Superman or something!), I don't actually comprehend all that extra noise, but my brain certainly tries. But you can see where this would be an issue. (and yes, restaurants present special challenges.)
Part of my sudden reticence is also that I am much more attentive one-on-one or in small groups. Not only do I have an easier time with following conversations, but I can focus on the person. Any more than five people, and I can't keep track of who is talking, let alone what is being said. Then I start to get nervous about missing something important, hurting someone's feelings by accidentally ignoring them, or saying the wrong thing. I didn't really used to care about saying the wrong thing, but I have a son now. That changes everything. I don't want someone to be cruel to my son because of something that I said or didn't say. He doesn't deserve that, but people are what they are. Karma and all that.
So I'm an introvert now. If we go to a party and you can't find me, I'm probably hiding in the quietest corner I can find, watching everyone else having fun and wishing I could be home, curled up with a good book.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
The Joys of Language
My son's language has just taken off since he started daycare. The other day I realized that he is speaking in complete sentences more often, and using words he's never used before, and I get excited about that. Well, I get excited that I can actually understand him well enough to know that what he's saying is a sentence, anyway. I still have moments where I have absolutely no idea what he is saying, times where his words are too mushy for me to even guess. I will ask him to repeat himself, but Zane tends to be consistent in his speech, so if I didn't understand it the first time, chances are pretty good that I still won't comprehend, but then I will just "wing it".
Zane is now starting to throw plurals into the mix, which is great. I love it, and do a mental cartwheel(I'm really good at those kinds of cartwheels) inside when Zane correctly uses a plural. The other day Zane and I were in the car and several school buses passed us on their way back to the bus barn.
"Mama, School Bus-es-es-es!" Zane said. This is the only word where he says it this way. But he's very proud of himself. We do correct him and he says the word correctly then, but I like it when he says it that way.
It makes me giggle.
Zane is now starting to throw plurals into the mix, which is great. I love it, and do a mental cartwheel(I'm really good at those kinds of cartwheels) inside when Zane correctly uses a plural. The other day Zane and I were in the car and several school buses passed us on their way back to the bus barn.
"Mama, School Bus-es-es-es!" Zane said. This is the only word where he says it this way. But he's very proud of himself. We do correct him and he says the word correctly then, but I like it when he says it that way.
It makes me giggle.
Friday, December 10, 2010
My Cat Morris is Jewish
Last night when I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, I heard a voice.
"L'chaim!"
I looked around, thinking it was my husband. Nobody is there. Then I go back to brushing my teeth.
"L'chaim!"
I look around again. I shut off the water and listen.
"L'chaim!"
My cat Morris had somehow been shut in the closet, and was trying to get me to let him out. Through the closet door, his meow sounded like an old Jewish man, which I had never noticed before.
Morris is the cranky old man of the house. Before he ever met me(October 17th, 1998), someone had Morris declawed. This did something to him neurologically, I think. He's the messiest eater ever, for one, and if you scratch him under the chin he seems to have a seizure. And he meows weird. His meows are closer to barks. He doesn't meow a lot, but it gets your attention when he does meow. But at least now he's seems to be speaking an actual language, which just goes to show that everyone can learn something.
"L'chaim!"
I looked around, thinking it was my husband. Nobody is there. Then I go back to brushing my teeth.
"L'chaim!"
I look around again. I shut off the water and listen.
"L'chaim!"
My cat Morris had somehow been shut in the closet, and was trying to get me to let him out. Through the closet door, his meow sounded like an old Jewish man, which I had never noticed before.
Morris is the cranky old man of the house. Before he ever met me(October 17th, 1998), someone had Morris declawed. This did something to him neurologically, I think. He's the messiest eater ever, for one, and if you scratch him under the chin he seems to have a seizure. And he meows weird. His meows are closer to barks. He doesn't meow a lot, but it gets your attention when he does meow. But at least now he's seems to be speaking an actual language, which just goes to show that everyone can learn something.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Everything Looks A Lot Like Christmas
Zane's first Christmas was spent quietly at home with as little fanfare as possible. He'd only been home for a month, and we had essentially been told that he should have as little contact with others as possible during the winter months due his preemie status. Plus he was only three months old and completely oblivious to just about everything except eating and pooping.
Zane's second Christmas, he was a bit more aware that SOMETHING was up, but still not clear on the concept. Christmas last year was better. Zane was excited on Christmas morning when he came downstairs and beheld the tower of toys that was comprised his "loot". (Yes, we went overboard.)
But THIS Christmas, Zane is not only aware that something is up, he actually understands that it is Christmas(which equals "PEZ-ENTS"). He is so excited that the very air he breathes seems to vibrate. Which is cool, even to a bah-humbugger like me. Christmas was made for the child in all of us, after all.
However, Zane is of the opinion that it is HIS Christmas. So the lights and the decorations so painstakingly put up on houses all over our neighborhood? Those are Zane's, he will tell you. Our Christmas tree is his, but so is the tree at his daycare center and the tree at his grandparent's house. Your tree, which you probably spent hours setting up with gorgeous ornaments in the front window of your house? Yeah, Zane will tell you that's his. He reminds me of the kid in the movie A Christmas Story(THE very best Christmas movie EVER) who was looking at the presents under the tree and yelling "That's mine!" about all of them.
But it's not just a Christmas tree to Zane--it's his Christmas. The physical representation of Christmas itself is the tree. And that's kind of awesome, since the Christmas tree does represent symbolically the hopes and desires of the family who puts up a tree, even if we tend to forget that small fact amongst all the materialistic stuff. But Zane doesn't know all that yet--he just knows that lights are bright, and the half of the tree that hasn't been demolished by Zena the Destroyer(our kitten) is very pretty.
It's HIS Christmas, after all.
Zane's second Christmas, he was a bit more aware that SOMETHING was up, but still not clear on the concept. Christmas last year was better. Zane was excited on Christmas morning when he came downstairs and beheld the tower of toys that was comprised his "loot". (Yes, we went overboard.)
But THIS Christmas, Zane is not only aware that something is up, he actually understands that it is Christmas(which equals "PEZ-ENTS"). He is so excited that the very air he breathes seems to vibrate. Which is cool, even to a bah-humbugger like me. Christmas was made for the child in all of us, after all.
However, Zane is of the opinion that it is HIS Christmas. So the lights and the decorations so painstakingly put up on houses all over our neighborhood? Those are Zane's, he will tell you. Our Christmas tree is his, but so is the tree at his daycare center and the tree at his grandparent's house. Your tree, which you probably spent hours setting up with gorgeous ornaments in the front window of your house? Yeah, Zane will tell you that's his. He reminds me of the kid in the movie A Christmas Story(THE very best Christmas movie EVER) who was looking at the presents under the tree and yelling "That's mine!" about all of them.
But it's not just a Christmas tree to Zane--it's his Christmas. The physical representation of Christmas itself is the tree. And that's kind of awesome, since the Christmas tree does represent symbolically the hopes and desires of the family who puts up a tree, even if we tend to forget that small fact amongst all the materialistic stuff. But Zane doesn't know all that yet--he just knows that lights are bright, and the half of the tree that hasn't been demolished by Zena the Destroyer(our kitten) is very pretty.
It's HIS Christmas, after all.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
My Kingdom for a Good Bra
I read somewhere that most women are wearing the wrong size bra, and that this is not a good thing. I agree wholeheartedly that the wrong bra is a bad situation. When the straps keep falling off your shoulder or you are otherwise having to pull the bra down or move the cups or adjust your accoutrements constantly, the world is not a happy place.
I honestly don't think that this particular issue is entirely the fault of women. I am one of those who has actually measured myself according to the sizing recommendations of most companies. I am supposed to be a 40C. Should be a simple thing to walk into a store and buy a 40C, right?
Not. You also have to see if the bra is a pushup bra, or a minimizer, or for fuller figures(just freakin' say 'FAT'--we all know that's what you're thinking). There's a bra if you're wearing a t-shirt, a bra if you're wearing a strapless dress, and a bra if you're running a marathon, among other activities. There may even be a specific bra required if you get to serve tea to the Queen, for all I know. All of these different types of bras fit differently. So while a 40C in a minimizer bra might fit, a 40C in a pushup is a different story. And the only way to figure this out is to try them on, so I do. I end up buying anywhere from a 36D to a 42B, depending on the bra and my patience, but the bras I buy fit me when I leave the store.
I leave the store with bras that fit, check. Except they only seem to fit for one wearing. After that, the straps start to slide off my shoulders, the back rides up, the cups all of a sudden are too big, etc. What the heck is up with that, bra makers?
Case in point: I just bought one of those ASSETS bras that they sell in Target.
This bra is supposed to be BRILLIANT, it says on the label. It has special hooks on the straps that are on the underside of the straps so that everything looks smooth on the outside. The back of the bra is a stretchy material so that everything back there is smooth underneath clothing. And the scrawny model wearing the bra looks very comfortable, which is definitely a good recommendation in my book.
Except that those hooks on the straps keep coming unhooked while I am wearing the bra. Which means that the straps become loose and...guess where I am going with this? I don't think that I have overly high expectations for bras. All I want is a bra that fits consistently, with straps that stay secure and a back that doesn't ride up, that makes me look exactly like one of those Victoria's Secret models. That isn't too much to ask, is it?
I nominate myself to be an official bra tester. If a bra fits me, and continues to fit me after a month or so, then it's a good bra and is ready for public consumption. If it does not meet those requirements, the bra is not acceptable and should be sent back to the factory. Maybe the bad bras could be recycled...I hear hats are making a comeback.
I honestly don't think that this particular issue is entirely the fault of women. I am one of those who has actually measured myself according to the sizing recommendations of most companies. I am supposed to be a 40C. Should be a simple thing to walk into a store and buy a 40C, right?
Not. You also have to see if the bra is a pushup bra, or a minimizer, or for fuller figures(just freakin' say 'FAT'--we all know that's what you're thinking). There's a bra if you're wearing a t-shirt, a bra if you're wearing a strapless dress, and a bra if you're running a marathon, among other activities. There may even be a specific bra required if you get to serve tea to the Queen, for all I know. All of these different types of bras fit differently. So while a 40C in a minimizer bra might fit, a 40C in a pushup is a different story. And the only way to figure this out is to try them on, so I do. I end up buying anywhere from a 36D to a 42B, depending on the bra and my patience, but the bras I buy fit me when I leave the store.
I leave the store with bras that fit, check. Except they only seem to fit for one wearing. After that, the straps start to slide off my shoulders, the back rides up, the cups all of a sudden are too big, etc. What the heck is up with that, bra makers?
Case in point: I just bought one of those ASSETS bras that they sell in Target.
This bra is supposed to be BRILLIANT, it says on the label. It has special hooks on the straps that are on the underside of the straps so that everything looks smooth on the outside. The back of the bra is a stretchy material so that everything back there is smooth underneath clothing. And the scrawny model wearing the bra looks very comfortable, which is definitely a good recommendation in my book. Except that those hooks on the straps keep coming unhooked while I am wearing the bra. Which means that the straps become loose and...guess where I am going with this? I don't think that I have overly high expectations for bras. All I want is a bra that fits consistently, with straps that stay secure and a back that doesn't ride up, that makes me look exactly like one of those Victoria's Secret models. That isn't too much to ask, is it?
I nominate myself to be an official bra tester. If a bra fits me, and continues to fit me after a month or so, then it's a good bra and is ready for public consumption. If it does not meet those requirements, the bra is not acceptable and should be sent back to the factory. Maybe the bad bras could be recycled...I hear hats are making a comeback.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Very Important Philosophical Questions
This morning my husband attempted to show my son Star Wars. Zane was only interested in the first five minutes, like he is with most movies...except Star Trek. And secretly I think that is awesome.
I am a Star Trek person. My husband claimed to be a Star Trek geek. In fact, that's sort of how we met: we were waiting for a parent to show up for a meeting, and in the course of our conversation Star Trek was mentioned. My husband claims that he was smitten at that moment. Except he's not really a ST geek, because he really only likes The Next Generation and Captain Picard. I let this slide in the name of love. Unfortunately, my husband also loves Star Wars. He's bi-sci-fi, I guess you could say. While I was as enamored of Han Solo as every other woman on Planet Earth, I was never quite converted to the Church of Star Wars.
I use the word "church" because when the average ST geeks and the SW geeks get together, it almost seems to approach the fervor of a Pentecostal revival the way the arguments fly over which is best and why. These people don't seem to practice religious tolerance, either: I've known perfectly calm and rational individuals to come out fighting if you slander "their show" by saying that Jar Jar was adorable or that Spock's ears are crooked.
We've already decided to raise Zane as Catholic with a side of Methodist, but we have not discussed the ST vs. SW question. My feeling is that there are advantages to both 'religions'. With SW you get to play with a light saber a lot, hang out in seedy bars with bounty hunters, and use the Force to smack people around. With ST you get to dance with some scantily clad green women, time travel, fight Klingons, and drink Romulan ale(throw in Duran Duran and we are describing my college years). Both ST and SW have characters that are archetypes that offer guidance on how to approach life, so that's not necessarily a deal breaker. But dammit, ST has George Takei! I think George Takei trumps Chewbacca any day!
Once the ST vs. SW question is resolved, hopefully before Zane is in his forties, there's an even bigger philosophical question we as parents will have to address, one that could have long-term repercussions for Zane and his ability to live in the state of Texas: Beans in the chili or no beans?
This parenting gig is tough!!
I am a Star Trek person. My husband claimed to be a Star Trek geek. In fact, that's sort of how we met: we were waiting for a parent to show up for a meeting, and in the course of our conversation Star Trek was mentioned. My husband claims that he was smitten at that moment. Except he's not really a ST geek, because he really only likes The Next Generation and Captain Picard. I let this slide in the name of love. Unfortunately, my husband also loves Star Wars. He's bi-sci-fi, I guess you could say. While I was as enamored of Han Solo as every other woman on Planet Earth, I was never quite converted to the Church of Star Wars.
I use the word "church" because when the average ST geeks and the SW geeks get together, it almost seems to approach the fervor of a Pentecostal revival the way the arguments fly over which is best and why. These people don't seem to practice religious tolerance, either: I've known perfectly calm and rational individuals to come out fighting if you slander "their show" by saying that Jar Jar was adorable or that Spock's ears are crooked.
We've already decided to raise Zane as Catholic with a side of Methodist, but we have not discussed the ST vs. SW question. My feeling is that there are advantages to both 'religions'. With SW you get to play with a light saber a lot, hang out in seedy bars with bounty hunters, and use the Force to smack people around. With ST you get to dance with some scantily clad green women, time travel, fight Klingons, and drink Romulan ale(throw in Duran Duran and we are describing my college years). Both ST and SW have characters that are archetypes that offer guidance on how to approach life, so that's not necessarily a deal breaker. But dammit, ST has George Takei! I think George Takei trumps Chewbacca any day!
Once the ST vs. SW question is resolved, hopefully before Zane is in his forties, there's an even bigger philosophical question we as parents will have to address, one that could have long-term repercussions for Zane and his ability to live in the state of Texas: Beans in the chili or no beans?
This parenting gig is tough!!
Monday, December 6, 2010
Xbox Kinect Brings Out Competitive Natures
My husband is a gamer. Video games, computer games, phone apps, it doesn't matter; Larry would play them all 24/7 if given the opportunity. And if he got paid for it, I would let him indulge himself about 22/5. Sometimes Larry would very much like for ME to play a particular game or two with him, and he pesters me until I agree to at least try. The problem with a husband who is an avid gamer is that he tends to be automatically better at every game than me. He wins practically every game we ever play.
Now, a very smart man would know that a spouse is not going to continue to play a game they keep losing horrifically. But my husband's natural competitiveness prevents him from even pretending to make mistakes that might result in Happy Wife Syndrome(a combination of symptoms which make said wife feel somewhat romantic toward her spouse). As a result of this, it's a BIG deal when I beat my husband at any game. When I checkmated Larry at computer chess, for instance, I actually had to call my dad(who taught me how to play) and tell him the good news, conveniently forgetting to mention the 372 games that Larry had won prior to that.
Now we have a Kinect. For those of you living under a rock, the Kinect is Microsoft's answer to the Wii, except there is nothing to hold in your hand and accidentally hurl at the television set. The whole reason that we got the Kinect was for the exercise programs, since we both need to get off our backsides and move around a lot more. One of the games has bowling, and you can play against the computer or against an opponent. Larry suggested a game, I agreed, and selected bowling because I thought this game offered the least embarrassment potential. I can sort of bowl in real life, after all.
To my surprise, I started off getting four strikes in a row during the first game, then five strikes in a row during the second. I actually whomped my husband at this game! Larry was a bit upset, so I didn't make too big a deal about it, but inside I was doing a serious victory dance, cartwheels, backflips, and anything else I could think of to celebrate. It was as if, for the very first time in the history of our relationship, it was a even playing field.
I think I am going to like this Kinect.
Now, a very smart man would know that a spouse is not going to continue to play a game they keep losing horrifically. But my husband's natural competitiveness prevents him from even pretending to make mistakes that might result in Happy Wife Syndrome(a combination of symptoms which make said wife feel somewhat romantic toward her spouse). As a result of this, it's a BIG deal when I beat my husband at any game. When I checkmated Larry at computer chess, for instance, I actually had to call my dad(who taught me how to play) and tell him the good news, conveniently forgetting to mention the 372 games that Larry had won prior to that.
Now we have a Kinect. For those of you living under a rock, the Kinect is Microsoft's answer to the Wii, except there is nothing to hold in your hand and accidentally hurl at the television set. The whole reason that we got the Kinect was for the exercise programs, since we both need to get off our backsides and move around a lot more. One of the games has bowling, and you can play against the computer or against an opponent. Larry suggested a game, I agreed, and selected bowling because I thought this game offered the least embarrassment potential. I can sort of bowl in real life, after all.
To my surprise, I started off getting four strikes in a row during the first game, then five strikes in a row during the second. I actually whomped my husband at this game! Larry was a bit upset, so I didn't make too big a deal about it, but inside I was doing a serious victory dance, cartwheels, backflips, and anything else I could think of to celebrate. It was as if, for the very first time in the history of our relationship, it was a even playing field.
I think I am going to like this Kinect.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
It Just Hit Me in the Head
I was sitting in my car when it struck me that I cannot remember the last time I had a margarita. Ack!!!
This is a big deal, because this particular realization means several things that I would rather not think about. Like the idea that I am an adult now, who has to worry about cholesterol and high blood pressure. Or the idea that I am a parent who has to set some sort of a horribly good example. Or worse. I could have become just plain boring.
I am going to have nightmares about ordering a walker and asking for the senior citizens discount.
This is a big deal, because this particular realization means several things that I would rather not think about. Like the idea that I am an adult now, who has to worry about cholesterol and high blood pressure. Or the idea that I am a parent who has to set some sort of a horribly good example. Or worse. I could have become just plain boring.
I am going to have nightmares about ordering a walker and asking for the senior citizens discount.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Saturday Stalk
Welcome to Saturday Stalk, a blog hop hosted by us... Just Married with Coupons AND Debbie Does Coupons & YOU! We will pick one featured guest each week to hop with us. We will randomly pick a participant. Make sure you post our button each week if you would like to be eligible!
Thanks for those who have been participating from week to week and a big welcome to you if this is your first time. We are so glad you are here! This blog hop is all about having fun, meeting new bloggers and building new readership!
Grab our Hop Button
This week's featured guest is:
Being Frugal and Making It Work
Blog Hop Rules
Please follow the hosts and featured host: Just Married with Coupons, Debbie Does Coupons & Being Frugal and Making It Work then we WILL FOLLOW YOU BACK!
Copy the Saturday Stalk into a blog post on your site.
Come back and post the direct link to that blog post here into the link forms below..
Follow as many participants as you would like, leave them a comment letting them know you're are following them.
Follow back anyone that is now following you and leave them a comment back letting them know you're following back through this event
HAVE FUN STALKING!
Thanks for those who have been participating from week to week and a big welcome to you if this is your first time. We are so glad you are here! This blog hop is all about having fun, meeting new bloggers and building new readership!
Grab our Hop Button
This week's featured guest is:
Being Frugal and Making It Work
Blog Hop Rules
Please follow the hosts and featured host: Just Married with Coupons, Debbie Does Coupons & Being Frugal and Making It Work then we WILL FOLLOW YOU BACK!
Copy the Saturday Stalk into a blog post on your site.
Come back and post the direct link to that blog post here into the link forms below..
Follow as many participants as you would like, leave them a comment letting them know you're are following them.
Follow back anyone that is now following you and leave them a comment back letting them know you're following back through this event
HAVE FUN STALKING!
Autism is Not a Fashion Accessory
A few of the parents I meet in the course of a special education referral want their child to qualify for services as autistic. I've heard them discussing all the celebrities who have autistic children, and they seem to be excited about the possibility of a similar diagnosis. If it turns out that a child does not have autism, parents will sometimes argue with the school. Some parents will even take their child to doctor after doctor and spend lots of money just looking for one who will say the "A-word".
To these parents, I would really like to say, in as nice a way as I can, to just...stop it. (I actually would like to say something else, but I do like to have a paycheck.)
Autism is not cool, even if rock stars and actresses are on television talking about it. Autism is difficult. Autism is scary. The parents that I know who have children with autism do not feel "cool". They feel helpless a lot of the time as they struggle to help their child. They cry a lot. Autism, for these parents, is not glamorous; it is exhausting, difficult work that sometimes yields only tiny gains. Yet these parents struggle on because they love their children, not because they want to be 'cool'.
Please give those parents of autistic children the respect they deserve by not acting like their child is some sort of fashion accessory that they can take on and off like a watch. They can't, even if some of them wanted to.
To these parents, I would really like to say, in as nice a way as I can, to just...stop it. (I actually would like to say something else, but I do like to have a paycheck.)
Autism is not cool, even if rock stars and actresses are on television talking about it. Autism is difficult. Autism is scary. The parents that I know who have children with autism do not feel "cool". They feel helpless a lot of the time as they struggle to help their child. They cry a lot. Autism, for these parents, is not glamorous; it is exhausting, difficult work that sometimes yields only tiny gains. Yet these parents struggle on because they love their children, not because they want to be 'cool'.
Please give those parents of autistic children the respect they deserve by not acting like their child is some sort of fashion accessory that they can take on and off like a watch. They can't, even if some of them wanted to.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
A Sticker is NOT always Positive Reinforcement.
We have Zane on a sticker program for his potty training. Zane goes potty on the toilet, he gets a superhero sticker, which is supposed to go on a chart. After so many stickers, Zane gets to go to his favorite place, Chuck E. Cheese, or he gets some other wonderful prize if we are too tired to brave a room full of overstimulated children.
Zane recently started to ask us to go to the potty. My husband and I were doing small victory dances over this, until we noticed something.
1. Zane would ask to go to the potty.
2. We would take him.
3. Zane would 'go'.
4. We would perform proper cheerleading routines.
5. Zane would get a sticker to put on his chart.
6. Zane would put the sticker on the chart.
7. Zane would ask to go to the potty.
The third time this happened in a fifteen minute period, we had to face facts: our little con artist was gaming the system. (If you stop and think about that for a second...a three year old boy figured out how to con his parents into getting what he wanted without anyone teaching him. That's pretty smart. I'm sort of proud of him, in a weird way.) We decided to let Zane earn all the stickers he could stand for now, and start changing up once we were sure that he had the habit established.
So the other night, Zane asks to go potty, and my husband takes him. I was cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. I heard Larry tell Zane to go get a sticker from me, and my proud little boy comes racing into the kitchen.
"I pee-pee in potty, Mama!" He announced.
"What?!! That's amazing!!! Yay for Zane!" I pretend to be completely enthralled, but I am in my "cleaning" zone and a bit distracted. I get the sheet of superhero stickers, and ask Zane to pick one. Zane picked the Invisible Woman sticker. I remember making a snarky comment that it wasn't really invisible since you could see her on the sticker. I gave Zane the sticker, pointed out the spot on the chart where he needed to put the sticker, hi-fived Zane twice, and then went back to cleaning the kitchen. Zane had done this routine before, so I figured that he could do the task independently and didn't need me to be standing right there.
At some point I realized that Zane wasn't wearing pants or a pullup, but since he was going to be taking a bath shortly, I didn't worry about it because apparently I am apparently a bad mom. There was no sound coming from behind me, and this vaguely registered as a bad thing, but I was determined to get the kitchen clean so I didn't have to do anything later.
Suddenly, I heard an "Ow", and a horrible thought popped in my head: a boy without underpants and a sticker for a job well done...
I suppose that my son wanted to offer a reward of some sort. Or maybe he did it to follow a variation of the No Pants rule. Whatever the reason, the "Ow" had come when Zane decided that he didn't want to leave that sticker "there", after all.
They don't tell you about stuff like this in the parenting books.
Zane recently started to ask us to go to the potty. My husband and I were doing small victory dances over this, until we noticed something.
1. Zane would ask to go to the potty.
2. We would take him.
3. Zane would 'go'.
4. We would perform proper cheerleading routines.
5. Zane would get a sticker to put on his chart.
6. Zane would put the sticker on the chart.
7. Zane would ask to go to the potty.
The third time this happened in a fifteen minute period, we had to face facts: our little con artist was gaming the system. (If you stop and think about that for a second...a three year old boy figured out how to con his parents into getting what he wanted without anyone teaching him. That's pretty smart. I'm sort of proud of him, in a weird way.) We decided to let Zane earn all the stickers he could stand for now, and start changing up once we were sure that he had the habit established.
So the other night, Zane asks to go potty, and my husband takes him. I was cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. I heard Larry tell Zane to go get a sticker from me, and my proud little boy comes racing into the kitchen.
"I pee-pee in potty, Mama!" He announced.
"What?!! That's amazing!!! Yay for Zane!" I pretend to be completely enthralled, but I am in my "cleaning" zone and a bit distracted. I get the sheet of superhero stickers, and ask Zane to pick one. Zane picked the Invisible Woman sticker. I remember making a snarky comment that it wasn't really invisible since you could see her on the sticker. I gave Zane the sticker, pointed out the spot on the chart where he needed to put the sticker, hi-fived Zane twice, and then went back to cleaning the kitchen. Zane had done this routine before, so I figured that he could do the task independently and didn't need me to be standing right there.
At some point I realized that Zane wasn't wearing pants or a pullup, but since he was going to be taking a bath shortly, I didn't worry about it because apparently I am apparently a bad mom. There was no sound coming from behind me, and this vaguely registered as a bad thing, but I was determined to get the kitchen clean so I didn't have to do anything later.
Suddenly, I heard an "Ow", and a horrible thought popped in my head: a boy without underpants and a sticker for a job well done...
I suppose that my son wanted to offer a reward of some sort. Or maybe he did it to follow a variation of the No Pants rule. Whatever the reason, the "Ow" had come when Zane decided that he didn't want to leave that sticker "there", after all.
They don't tell you about stuff like this in the parenting books.
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