Somedays, today included, I look in my emotional mirror and don't recognize myself. And that's a good thing.
I'm not sure where it has come from, but I'm beginning to feel balance and control in my life. Is this how the rest of you usually feel? Where once things would have spun me completely out of control, I take one look, assess what I can do, do it, and then go "Meh." It's awesome.
I think that it has a lot to do with being put through some situations that I'd rather not deal with. I may have said this a couple of posts ago, but it bears repeating as I feel that it is the theme for the first three months of this year: It is absolutely amazing what you can cope with when you have no other choice.
Do you ever look at someone else's life and think that there is no way that you could deal with (X)? Guess what? That person probably would have felt the same way before they had to deal with it.
This year so far has been chock-full of "aha" moments for me, most of them being things that most people already know but they're new to me.
Several months ago someone told me that people can't do this or that around me because I don't handle it. Something like that. That statement sent my brain spinning. I wondered what exactly does "handling it" mean? How on earth is anyone qualified to judge whether or not another person is handling something? Maybe I don't handle things the same way you do. Does that make me wrong? Not necessarily. Think of one of your worst days ever. Lost job, lost money, fight with a loved one, a horrible combination of several of these things...then throw one more awful thing on top of it. If an outside observer only witnesses the last straw and the subsequent reaction, I don't think that makes them qualified to assess the degree of handling that is done.
I think you either handle it or you don't, and the "don't" mostly equals you die, because any way you look at it, as long as you're alive, you will experience it, whatever "it" may be. Denial will only get you so far.
Ahem...so anyway...
Today I was told that my baby, Jack, most likely has Asperger's. He may not have it and if he does, he is a very high functioning Aspie. It's still not the greatest news to find out that things that come naturally to other people are going to be extra hard for Jack. It still makes my heart break when I think of the extra obstacles that he will have to overcome. But the news didn't send me reeling. I didn't even think of how it was affecting me until someone asked me about an hour ago how I was handling it. I had to stop and think. How am I handling it? ...umm, okay, I guess. It's just news. There are therapies available and so much out there to help Jack. Am I sad that my baby will have to deal with this? Yep. Am I going to dissolve into a puddle of helpless, hopeless tears? Nope.
I don't know where this inner strength has come from. I don't really care. I do know that I am vastly different than I was six months ago, and I'm loving it. I feel like I finally know what it feels to be normal. I feel almost invincible. (but let's not test that, God, okay?) It feels so good to not feel as if everything around me is out of my control. I don't remember the last time that I felt like I was in control of my life. I know that I'm actually not in control, but I'm okay with that. What I am in control of now is how I deal with what life throws at me. I still have bad days. I still miss my husband and wonder if his being away is going to be the undoing of my family and marriage. So far things are okay, but God didn't give us the institution of marriage so that we could spend 80% of our days apart. I still worry about my children, the economy, the price of gas, but those worries don't consume me. I can take them out of their little box, examine them, decide what, if any, action I can take, and then, this is the best part, I put those worries back in their box, dust off my hands and get back to living.
This whole regulated emotions thing is pretty cool, really. I sorta feel like you all have been holding out on me.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Out of the Mouths of Babes, Toddlers and Tweens
My kids have been on a collective roll. It seems that every time I turn around, one of them is spouting off with a gem that I want to share. The following are just a handful of the things they have said lately, which mostly means that these are the ones I can remember.
In January, Adam graduated from the Nursery in our church to the big kids' class, or Primary. Alas, there are no toys in Primary, so every week that we go I hear the lament, "I don't want to go to Crymary! I want to go to the toy class!"
Additionally, we are not the most regular church attendees. I really do want to go, but so many Sunday mornings I wake up, take a look at my four pajama-clad children and think that it's not worth the effort. As a result, we usually only attend one or two Sundays per month. In Nursery, the kids take turns bringing snacks to share. I noticed that it seemed like we were being asked every other Sunday to supply the treats and I was wondering why I was being asked so frequently. Then I had the realization that I was most likely not being asked any more frequently than the other parents, it's just that when you only attend 25% of the time, it's going to feel like you get asked all of the time. Duh, self.
~
Michael is growing more mature every day, and as a result is getting to be so much more like a peer to talk to. One day we were having a conversation about cloning and what we would do if we could clone ourselves. Mike said, "If you had a clone, you guys would probably talk about boring stuff, like naps and crazy pills." Boring is definitely a matter of perspective.
Another time I asked the kids to go downstairs with me and help me clean the living room. Noel and I headed down immediately but Mike took a few minutes to get there. By the time he showed up, we were mostly done. I wasn't upset because I knew that he had been taking care of some things upstairs so I jokingly said, "Hey, thanks for your help cleaning." He retorted, "Hey, thanks for the sarcasm." Touche, son. Also, you are awesome.
~
Noel is still Noel, which means she pops off with some of the most random stuff ever. You honestly never know what is going to come out of her mouth. She's at that dangerous age where she understands enough and appears to outsiders to be mature enough to be trusted with normal conversation. The thing with Noel is that somewhere between her ears and her information processors there is a short. The following conversation is a good illustrator of that.
In January, Adam graduated from the Nursery in our church to the big kids' class, or Primary. Alas, there are no toys in Primary, so every week that we go I hear the lament, "I don't want to go to Crymary! I want to go to the toy class!"
Additionally, we are not the most regular church attendees. I really do want to go, but so many Sunday mornings I wake up, take a look at my four pajama-clad children and think that it's not worth the effort. As a result, we usually only attend one or two Sundays per month. In Nursery, the kids take turns bringing snacks to share. I noticed that it seemed like we were being asked every other Sunday to supply the treats and I was wondering why I was being asked so frequently. Then I had the realization that I was most likely not being asked any more frequently than the other parents, it's just that when you only attend 25% of the time, it's going to feel like you get asked all of the time. Duh, self.
~
Michael is growing more mature every day, and as a result is getting to be so much more like a peer to talk to. One day we were having a conversation about cloning and what we would do if we could clone ourselves. Mike said, "If you had a clone, you guys would probably talk about boring stuff, like naps and crazy pills." Boring is definitely a matter of perspective.
Another time I asked the kids to go downstairs with me and help me clean the living room. Noel and I headed down immediately but Mike took a few minutes to get there. By the time he showed up, we were mostly done. I wasn't upset because I knew that he had been taking care of some things upstairs so I jokingly said, "Hey, thanks for your help cleaning." He retorted, "Hey, thanks for the sarcasm." Touche, son. Also, you are awesome.
~
Noel is still Noel, which means she pops off with some of the most random stuff ever. You honestly never know what is going to come out of her mouth. She's at that dangerous age where she understands enough and appears to outsiders to be mature enough to be trusted with normal conversation. The thing with Noel is that somewhere between her ears and her information processors there is a short. The following conversation is a good illustrator of that.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Party Barge
My son Mike is totally awesome. He is nearly eleven and gets more mature and more fun to talk to every day. He is very intelligent and creative, and I used to think that he had just the right touch of feminism. I was wrong.
This afternoon he was showing me the party barge that he made with his Legos.
There is so much detail here; every single piece has a purpose. He was explaining each of the components of the barge but when we got to the barge kitchen my mind came to a screeching halt.
When he originally showed me the barge, there were a total of 16 minifigures (for those of you not initiated in Lego-ese that would be Lego people). Out of those 16 figures there were two females. Where did my sweet son see fit to put them? Oh yes. The kitchen. He assures me that they volunteered. I assured him that he would volunteer to cook dinner tonight.
Barring the blatant sexism shown here, the barge is still a delightful peek into the workings of my son's mind. He isn't here right now to explain everything, but I took some close-ups of my favorite parts.
I think that the frosted windows may be a bit of a liability for the pilot and co-pilot.
This is the captain. Eerily, he resembles Mike. When I asked why there were decapitated bodies near the captain, I was informed that they were his uniforms. Duh, Mom. I didn't question the skateboard. Who knows when the captain may come upon some sweet half-pipes? Ditto with the gun and hand cuffs.
When I was taking pictures, I thought that this guy had fallen down and was going to stand him back up. Then I noticed the boom box. Oh yeah. This guy is break dancing.
Also, did you notice the variety of people who are partying together? Besides the captain, the break dancer and theindentured servants women, there is an under-sea dude from Atlantis, a business man (complete with briefcase), a man in a pith helmet whom I believe to be Dr. Jones, Sr. (if you didn't get the Indiana Jones reference you probably shouldn't be here), a fire fighter and a police officer. Sounds like a party!
This afternoon he was showing me the party barge that he made with his Legos.
There is so much detail here; every single piece has a purpose. He was explaining each of the components of the barge but when we got to the barge kitchen my mind came to a screeching halt.
When he originally showed me the barge, there were a total of 16 minifigures (for those of you not initiated in Lego-ese that would be Lego people). Out of those 16 figures there were two females. Where did my sweet son see fit to put them? Oh yes. The kitchen. He assures me that they volunteered. I assured him that he would volunteer to cook dinner tonight.Barring the blatant sexism shown here, the barge is still a delightful peek into the workings of my son's mind. He isn't here right now to explain everything, but I took some close-ups of my favorite parts.
I think that the frosted windows may be a bit of a liability for the pilot and co-pilot.
This is the captain. Eerily, he resembles Mike. When I asked why there were decapitated bodies near the captain, I was informed that they were his uniforms. Duh, Mom. I didn't question the skateboard. Who knows when the captain may come upon some sweet half-pipes? Ditto with the gun and hand cuffs.
When I was taking pictures, I thought that this guy had fallen down and was going to stand him back up. Then I noticed the boom box. Oh yeah. This guy is break dancing.
Also, did you notice the variety of people who are partying together? Besides the captain, the break dancer and the
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
You Should Probably Disregard the First Line of This Post
I am not crazy. At least, not in the textbook way. I do, however, have an entire myriad of ways that I am interesting. I have become used to most of these interesting quirks of mine, but throw me into a new or stressful situation and things can quickly get out of hand.
A few weeks ago, I had a visit with an ear, nose and throat specialist. Depending on your point of view, he had news that was both super and supremely crappy. First off, all of my airways are far too small for a grown woman to receive adequate air flow. He actually used the word petite, but I think that he was just trying to soften the blow by using a complimentary word. What woman doesn't want to hear that she's petite, right? Add to the petiteness of my airways a severely curved septum, a soft palate that is too long and a too-large tongue base and you get what he called a "poster child for sleep disorders". I have so many obstructions in my airways that it is difficult for me to get enough oxygen, especially when sleeping. Which makes for a very sleepy-all-of-the-time Julie. He actually said that my condition was so severe that he would like to have students come take a look at my messed up airways. At least I know I'll always have the option of sideshow freak as an occupation.
Fast forward one week: I am headed to the sleep study which has been scheduled for me. I'm a little freaked out by the thought of going to a strange place for the sole purpose of having people watch me sleep. I posted a facebook status saying something along those lines and this is the gem that my friend Sterling commented with:
So, as you lay down on a squeaky cot a group of doctors assembles in the room with those reflective light thingies on their heads. One of them says to you "Mmmkay, just go ahead and fall asleep. We will be right here watching you, taking notes on whatever weird, funny or strange thing you do. Don't be nervous. Only about 3/4 of our patients actually fart when they fall asleep... and you don't look like a farter to me."
Thanks for the confidence booster, Sterling. That doesn't make it worse at all. Also, I have completely awesome friends.
So I showed up that night, was told to change into my jammies and then wait for the sleep technician, Pauline, to get the other woman hooked up and then she would come take care of me. I laid on a super comfy bed and read for about an hour. It was total bliss. No kids, no diapers, no responsibilities, just quiet and my book. Then I noticed the cameras. I quit looking for them after I saw two. I knew that I would be filmed because I had to sign a consent form for the process, but actually seeing cameras mounted on the wall, aimed at my bed made me feel like this was the worst hotel room in the history of ever.
Pauline showed up and began the process of attaching 28 different electrodes to various parts of my body. She explained what she was doing as she went, telling me that she had to attach this electrode to my scalp over this part of my brain and these electrodes to my face to track the muscle movement. As she worked, we talked a little about ourselves. It took nearly an hour, so I learned that she had two children and was five months along with her third, which I hadn't even noticed because I was pretty nervous about the upcoming night when I met her.
She finished hooking me up and then told me that if I need to get up in the night for anything to call her so that she could help me unhook all of the wires. Glancing around for a call button, I asked how to call her.
"Just say my name. I'm going to be watching and listening all night so I'll hear you."
Super.
She then had me get in bed and get comfortable. She told me that she would go back to her room, call me on the intercom and have me do some movements so that she could ensure that everything was hooked up correctly. Then I was free to relax and go to sleep.
I followed the instructions that her disembodied voice gave a few moments later, opening and closing my eyes, looking up, down, right and left. I opened my mouth, closed it, held my breath, moved each leg in turn and then was told, "Okay! Go ahead and fall asleep."
The following is the mental conversation that I had with myself. What? You don't have conversations with yourself? Well, you see, no matter how sad, angry or totally nuts I feel, there is a woman in the back of my mind. She is the sane me. Her name is Julie and she is very well dressed, completely rational and has the most calming voice. She never shouts or raises her voice. She is the sane, perfect me. I think of her as my very own Jiminy Cricket. The prevalent voice in my head is Jules. She is way more fun, but she is also way more neurotic. Jules is who's in charge most of the time. She is louder than Julie and usually forgets that Julie even exists. Jules is kinda weird. But I like her.
Jules: Okay. Fall asleep ... How do I fall asleep? It's not really something that you can do on command, you know. How do I usually do it at home? Relax, breathe deep ... She's watching me on that damn camera, wait, TWO damn cameras. And those are just the ones that I saw. How am I supposed to sleep with someone watching me?
Julie: It's fine. She's just doing her job. You signed up for this. Relaaaaax.
Jules: Yes. Relax. These electrodes stuck on my scalp feel weird. I wonder if it will pull my hair out in the morning when she removes them. She said that she had to place them over certain parts of my brain. Different parts of the brain are in charge of different parts of things, different emotions ... I wonder if she can tell what sorts of things I am thinking of right now ... OH. MY. GOSH! She can read my mind! She knows what I'm thinking!
Julie: She can't read your mind.
Jules: She most certainly can! If different parts of the brain control different parts of things, she can tell if I'm sad or happy or totally freaking out, like I am now. She also can tell if I'm looking up or down, or if my mouth is closed. She could tell if I laid here and stared at the toilet all night long. Then she would wonder what sort of toilet fascination I have.
Julie: She can't read your mind. You just need to calm down and try to sleep.
Jules: Try to sleep? That's like telling someone not to yawn, or not to scratch themselves. They'll immediately yawn or have something start to itch. *big yawn* Crap. Now the electrodes itch and I can't scratch them. Telling me to sleep makes me completely unable to do just that ... Okay, clear my mind ... No thoughts ... Just a blank space ... ... ... That was pretty embarrassing that I didn't realize that she was pregnant. I hope that she didn't think that I thought that she was enormously fat ... FRICK! Now she can read my thoughts and she can tell that I'm thinking that I thought that she thought that I thought that she was huge! What if she only caught part of that thought and just saw that part that said "Pauline is fat". ARGH! youarenotfatyouarenotfatyouarenotf-
Julie: Stop it. She can't read your thoughts. That is not possible.
Jules: You're probably right. But I'm sure that she can tell what sorts of emotions I am feeling. Like what does she see on her monitors if I think about my kids? ... Now I'll think about Moe ... okay, becoming X-rated ... moving on ... I'll think about this bed ... now I'll see if I can remember where I parked ... Oh, you are a wily one, Pauline. You think you can mess with me? Watch this.
I then began to focus on the image of my friend Sterling stomping out a flaming bag of dog poo that I had threatened to mail to him. (It was a continuation of the facebook thread. This post is long enough without including that here.) The image was so awesomely clear that I actually giggled out loud. Crap. She must know that I'm still awake because of those blasted God-like electrodes and now she can hear me giggling to myself. She must think that I'm absolutely insane.
Julie: She doesn't think that you're insane. Just take deep breaths, please try to clear your mind and sleep. The purpose for you being here is not to be made fun of, but if you keep this up that may not matter anymore.
Jules: You are absolutely right. And this is all being recorded, and if it gets out of hand, this may be the video that Pauline saves for the technician who comes in to replace her. She'll say something like, "Oh my gosh! You will not believe the woman who came in here last night! She was totally off her rocker! Check out her video - all fifteen angles I captured on film. Plus, her mental images were so vivid that I was able to get clear video of those as well." Then he'll show the next guy, and the next thing you know, they'll be posting it on YouTube and showing it at the company Christmas party.
Julie: Jules? Really. It's all okay. Just relax.
Jules: *takes deep breath* Aaahhhhh. I can do this...
Eventually I did fall asleep. But I woke up several times during the night and it would start all over again. I could barely meet Pauline's eye the next morning when she came in to unhook me from everything.
I have an appointment next week to discuss the findings of my sleep study. I have no idea what the doctor will say about my oxygen levels or airflow obstructions, but I would not be surprised at all if he hands me a pamphlet on mental disorders, along with business cards for several psychiatrists.
But really? I'm not crazy. If you want to be technical about it, the clinical term is insane.
A few weeks ago, I had a visit with an ear, nose and throat specialist. Depending on your point of view, he had news that was both super and supremely crappy. First off, all of my airways are far too small for a grown woman to receive adequate air flow. He actually used the word petite, but I think that he was just trying to soften the blow by using a complimentary word. What woman doesn't want to hear that she's petite, right? Add to the petiteness of my airways a severely curved septum, a soft palate that is too long and a too-large tongue base and you get what he called a "poster child for sleep disorders". I have so many obstructions in my airways that it is difficult for me to get enough oxygen, especially when sleeping. Which makes for a very sleepy-all-of-the-time Julie. He actually said that my condition was so severe that he would like to have students come take a look at my messed up airways. At least I know I'll always have the option of sideshow freak as an occupation.
Fast forward one week: I am headed to the sleep study which has been scheduled for me. I'm a little freaked out by the thought of going to a strange place for the sole purpose of having people watch me sleep. I posted a facebook status saying something along those lines and this is the gem that my friend Sterling commented with:
So, as you lay down on a squeaky cot a group of doctors assembles in the room with those reflective light thingies on their heads. One of them says to you "Mmmkay, just go ahead and fall asleep. We will be right here watching you, taking notes on whatever weird, funny or strange thing you do. Don't be nervous. Only about 3/4 of our patients actually fart when they fall asleep... and you don't look like a farter to me."
Thanks for the confidence booster, Sterling. That doesn't make it worse at all. Also, I have completely awesome friends.
So I showed up that night, was told to change into my jammies and then wait for the sleep technician, Pauline, to get the other woman hooked up and then she would come take care of me. I laid on a super comfy bed and read for about an hour. It was total bliss. No kids, no diapers, no responsibilities, just quiet and my book. Then I noticed the cameras. I quit looking for them after I saw two. I knew that I would be filmed because I had to sign a consent form for the process, but actually seeing cameras mounted on the wall, aimed at my bed made me feel like this was the worst hotel room in the history of ever.
Pauline showed up and began the process of attaching 28 different electrodes to various parts of my body. She explained what she was doing as she went, telling me that she had to attach this electrode to my scalp over this part of my brain and these electrodes to my face to track the muscle movement. As she worked, we talked a little about ourselves. It took nearly an hour, so I learned that she had two children and was five months along with her third, which I hadn't even noticed because I was pretty nervous about the upcoming night when I met her.
She finished hooking me up and then told me that if I need to get up in the night for anything to call her so that she could help me unhook all of the wires. Glancing around for a call button, I asked how to call her.
"Just say my name. I'm going to be watching and listening all night so I'll hear you."
Super.
She then had me get in bed and get comfortable. She told me that she would go back to her room, call me on the intercom and have me do some movements so that she could ensure that everything was hooked up correctly. Then I was free to relax and go to sleep.
I followed the instructions that her disembodied voice gave a few moments later, opening and closing my eyes, looking up, down, right and left. I opened my mouth, closed it, held my breath, moved each leg in turn and then was told, "Okay! Go ahead and fall asleep."
The following is the mental conversation that I had with myself. What? You don't have conversations with yourself? Well, you see, no matter how sad, angry or totally nuts I feel, there is a woman in the back of my mind. She is the sane me. Her name is Julie and she is very well dressed, completely rational and has the most calming voice. She never shouts or raises her voice. She is the sane, perfect me. I think of her as my very own Jiminy Cricket. The prevalent voice in my head is Jules. She is way more fun, but she is also way more neurotic. Jules is who's in charge most of the time. She is louder than Julie and usually forgets that Julie even exists. Jules is kinda weird. But I like her.
Jules: Okay. Fall asleep ... How do I fall asleep? It's not really something that you can do on command, you know. How do I usually do it at home? Relax, breathe deep ... She's watching me on that damn camera, wait, TWO damn cameras. And those are just the ones that I saw. How am I supposed to sleep with someone watching me?
Julie: It's fine. She's just doing her job. You signed up for this. Relaaaaax.
Jules: Yes. Relax. These electrodes stuck on my scalp feel weird. I wonder if it will pull my hair out in the morning when she removes them. She said that she had to place them over certain parts of my brain. Different parts of the brain are in charge of different parts of things, different emotions ... I wonder if she can tell what sorts of things I am thinking of right now ... OH. MY. GOSH! She can read my mind! She knows what I'm thinking!
Julie: She can't read your mind.
Jules: She most certainly can! If different parts of the brain control different parts of things, she can tell if I'm sad or happy or totally freaking out, like I am now. She also can tell if I'm looking up or down, or if my mouth is closed. She could tell if I laid here and stared at the toilet all night long. Then she would wonder what sort of toilet fascination I have.
Julie: She can't read your mind. You just need to calm down and try to sleep.
Jules: Try to sleep? That's like telling someone not to yawn, or not to scratch themselves. They'll immediately yawn or have something start to itch. *big yawn* Crap. Now the electrodes itch and I can't scratch them. Telling me to sleep makes me completely unable to do just that ... Okay, clear my mind ... No thoughts ... Just a blank space ... ... ... That was pretty embarrassing that I didn't realize that she was pregnant. I hope that she didn't think that I thought that she was enormously fat ... FRICK! Now she can read my thoughts and she can tell that I'm thinking that I thought that she thought that I thought that she was huge! What if she only caught part of that thought and just saw that part that said "Pauline is fat". ARGH! youarenotfatyouarenotfatyouarenotf-
Julie: Stop it. She can't read your thoughts. That is not possible.
Jules: You're probably right. But I'm sure that she can tell what sorts of emotions I am feeling. Like what does she see on her monitors if I think about my kids? ... Now I'll think about Moe ... okay, becoming X-rated ... moving on ... I'll think about this bed ... now I'll see if I can remember where I parked ... Oh, you are a wily one, Pauline. You think you can mess with me? Watch this.
I then began to focus on the image of my friend Sterling stomping out a flaming bag of dog poo that I had threatened to mail to him. (It was a continuation of the facebook thread. This post is long enough without including that here.) The image was so awesomely clear that I actually giggled out loud. Crap. She must know that I'm still awake because of those blasted God-like electrodes and now she can hear me giggling to myself. She must think that I'm absolutely insane.
Julie: She doesn't think that you're insane. Just take deep breaths, please try to clear your mind and sleep. The purpose for you being here is not to be made fun of, but if you keep this up that may not matter anymore.
Jules: You are absolutely right. And this is all being recorded, and if it gets out of hand, this may be the video that Pauline saves for the technician who comes in to replace her. She'll say something like, "Oh my gosh! You will not believe the woman who came in here last night! She was totally off her rocker! Check out her video - all fifteen angles I captured on film. Plus, her mental images were so vivid that I was able to get clear video of those as well." Then he'll show the next guy, and the next thing you know, they'll be posting it on YouTube and showing it at the company Christmas party.
Julie: Jules? Really. It's all okay. Just relax.
Jules: *takes deep breath* Aaahhhhh. I can do this...
Eventually I did fall asleep. But I woke up several times during the night and it would start all over again. I could barely meet Pauline's eye the next morning when she came in to unhook me from everything.
I have an appointment next week to discuss the findings of my sleep study. I have no idea what the doctor will say about my oxygen levels or airflow obstructions, but I would not be surprised at all if he hands me a pamphlet on mental disorders, along with business cards for several psychiatrists.
But really? I'm not crazy. If you want to be technical about it, the clinical term is insane.
Friday, January 28, 2011
My Friend is Famous
My pal Emily is being featured today as a guest writer on Rants From Mommyland. My best pal ever and my most favorite blog in the world. It's better than popcorn and M&Ms. Click on over and show them all some love!
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Catch-Up Post
In October, we left our home in the sticks and moved in with my mom. Into her basement. Into two bedrooms. For six people and a dog. It's been super fun. We'll stay here until the school year is out and then we're thinking of moving to a new town. But...it's all up in the air and still open for discussion at the moment.
Morgan got a job driving truck for a company in Hazleton in September. He hauled cattle and was gone from Monday until Friday or Saturday. It was tough at first, but we got used to it. As soon as we got used to it, in the middle of November, he lost that job. He started working for Swift Transportation driving truck in December. He completed all of his training before Christmas and then stayed home with me while I recovered from my surgery. He finally headed out on the road the first week of January and has been gone ever since. We're hoping to see him on Thursday, but he is currently in Kentucky and waiting for the company to assign him a load that will bring him back west. We have no idea how long that will take, so I'm just hoping to see him before I send the kids off to college.
It was his choice to stay out for three weeks, the reasoning being that since it's been so long since we have had a paycheck that it would be a good idea to work a lot right at first. However, it has turned out being not such a great idea as the kids have missed him terribly and he's run into a few other logistical concerns being out that long. The company requires that the drivers be out for at least two weeks, though, so he'll still be gone for long stretches with only two days home at a time. We feel that this is a temporary set up and that we can tough it out for a year or so and then possibly he'll be able to get a local job.
In the meantime...
I never imagined that I would be 32 years old and live with my mother. It's amazing how much I care what she thinks about me, my personal habits, my parenting techniques, etc. now that I'm back under her roof. In my own house, I didn't feel guilty if there were days that the kids stayed in their jammies until 3:00. Now I feel as if I'm watched every minute of the day. I have taken to calling her "The Warden" when I talk to Morgan because I feel like every single move I make is under constant surveillance.
In all fairness, I know that it can't be easy for her, either. She has given up her regularly scheduled life to allow us to be here and we do our best to respect her home and her privacy but I have toddlers, people. Toddlers are respecters of no one and no thing. Cats fall into that same category, but it only took one of them pooping on her brand-new bedspread twice for them to become permanent outside cats. You just can't do that with toddlers.
There are pros and cons to living here. For instance, I only make dinner and do dishes half of the nights. Also, if I don't abuse the privilege, a quick run to the store for a gallon of milk can be just that, a quick run to the store, instead of the diapers-wipes-sippy cups-coats-boots-hats-mittens-car seats odyssey that it used to be. Yep, I just hop in the car, buckle my seat belt, and head out. It's quite a new and magical experience. I think that once, long ago, I used to do the same thing, but I believe that all memories of those times are erased by progesterone and oxytocin. Now, they are nothing but wisps of déjà vu.
My privacy, however, is something that I kissed goodbye the very first week that we lived here. I was in the shower, you know, showering. The door was firmly closed. I turned off the water, opened the curtain, and as I was reaching for the towel, my mom opened the bathroom door. She actually looked surprised to see me naked. The door was closed, the water was on less than ten seconds ago - what did she think I was doing? Gone are the days of checking facebook in my undies while eating a bowl of cereal. Gone are the days of quiet lounging.
But I am grateful. We are here for a season, and soon we will begin another season in our lives. And in that season, I will do everything while wearing nothing but my underwear.
Morgan got a job driving truck for a company in Hazleton in September. He hauled cattle and was gone from Monday until Friday or Saturday. It was tough at first, but we got used to it. As soon as we got used to it, in the middle of November, he lost that job. He started working for Swift Transportation driving truck in December. He completed all of his training before Christmas and then stayed home with me while I recovered from my surgery. He finally headed out on the road the first week of January and has been gone ever since. We're hoping to see him on Thursday, but he is currently in Kentucky and waiting for the company to assign him a load that will bring him back west. We have no idea how long that will take, so I'm just hoping to see him before I send the kids off to college.
It was his choice to stay out for three weeks, the reasoning being that since it's been so long since we have had a paycheck that it would be a good idea to work a lot right at first. However, it has turned out being not such a great idea as the kids have missed him terribly and he's run into a few other logistical concerns being out that long. The company requires that the drivers be out for at least two weeks, though, so he'll still be gone for long stretches with only two days home at a time. We feel that this is a temporary set up and that we can tough it out for a year or so and then possibly he'll be able to get a local job.
In the meantime...
I never imagined that I would be 32 years old and live with my mother. It's amazing how much I care what she thinks about me, my personal habits, my parenting techniques, etc. now that I'm back under her roof. In my own house, I didn't feel guilty if there were days that the kids stayed in their jammies until 3:00. Now I feel as if I'm watched every minute of the day. I have taken to calling her "The Warden" when I talk to Morgan because I feel like every single move I make is under constant surveillance.
In all fairness, I know that it can't be easy for her, either. She has given up her regularly scheduled life to allow us to be here and we do our best to respect her home and her privacy but I have toddlers, people. Toddlers are respecters of no one and no thing. Cats fall into that same category, but it only took one of them pooping on her brand-new bedspread twice for them to become permanent outside cats. You just can't do that with toddlers.
There are pros and cons to living here. For instance, I only make dinner and do dishes half of the nights. Also, if I don't abuse the privilege, a quick run to the store for a gallon of milk can be just that, a quick run to the store, instead of the diapers-wipes-sippy cups-coats-boots-hats-mittens-car seats odyssey that it used to be. Yep, I just hop in the car, buckle my seat belt, and head out. It's quite a new and magical experience. I think that once, long ago, I used to do the same thing, but I believe that all memories of those times are erased by progesterone and oxytocin. Now, they are nothing but wisps of déjà vu.
My privacy, however, is something that I kissed goodbye the very first week that we lived here. I was in the shower, you know, showering. The door was firmly closed. I turned off the water, opened the curtain, and as I was reaching for the towel, my mom opened the bathroom door. She actually looked surprised to see me naked. The door was closed, the water was on less than ten seconds ago - what did she think I was doing? Gone are the days of checking facebook in my undies while eating a bowl of cereal. Gone are the days of quiet lounging.
But I am grateful. We are here for a season, and soon we will begin another season in our lives. And in that season, I will do everything while wearing nothing but my underwear.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Parenting Fail
If you have not yet discovered the greatness that is Rants From Mommyland, you need to check it out. I laugh every time I read their posts. They say the things that I won't say in my blog because I'm afraid to be judged. That could be the reason why they write for the Huffington Post and a newspaper in DC and I have eleven followers.
Anyway...
I'm totally stealing the idea behind their Parenting Fail posts.
I usually put my children to bed without the aid of sippy cups, books or movies. I'm mean that way. I have this totally unreasonable expectation that children should go to bed and be asleep soon thereafter instead of watching ten episodes of Phineas and Ferb.
Since I now live with my mother (which is fodder for innumerable posts), I sometimes have to cave and go against my best parenting judgment in order to keep the peace. One night last week I was working on a quilt that needed to be finished. When I'm working on a project, I'm working and I don't let much distract me, including screaming, climbing, destroying toddlers. My mother is not blessed with toddler blindness and deafness. She finally marched them into their bedroom and demanded that I put something on for them to watch, with the unspoken threat 'or else'.
I started some Handy Manny, or as Jack calls it 'Hammy Hammy' and left them to veg out while I went back to work and my mom went back to Law and Order. I went to check on the boys a while later, only to find that Hammy Hammy was over and The Godfather was now playing.
Yep, My two- and three-year-old sons were watching Don Corleone and getting such sage pieces of wisdom as, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli."
Adam said, "Mom, Hammy Hammy is over. You should turn off the TV now."
If I find a severed horse's head in my bed, I'll have no one to blame but myself. Even though I deserve it.
Anyway...
I'm totally stealing the idea behind their Parenting Fail posts.
I usually put my children to bed without the aid of sippy cups, books or movies. I'm mean that way. I have this totally unreasonable expectation that children should go to bed and be asleep soon thereafter instead of watching ten episodes of Phineas and Ferb.
Since I now live with my mother (which is fodder for innumerable posts), I sometimes have to cave and go against my best parenting judgment in order to keep the peace. One night last week I was working on a quilt that needed to be finished. When I'm working on a project, I'm working and I don't let much distract me, including screaming, climbing, destroying toddlers. My mother is not blessed with toddler blindness and deafness. She finally marched them into their bedroom and demanded that I put something on for them to watch, with the unspoken threat 'or else'.
I started some Handy Manny, or as Jack calls it 'Hammy Hammy' and left them to veg out while I went back to work and my mom went back to Law and Order. I went to check on the boys a while later, only to find that Hammy Hammy was over and The Godfather was now playing.
Yep, My two- and three-year-old sons were watching Don Corleone and getting such sage pieces of wisdom as, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli."
Adam said, "Mom, Hammy Hammy is over. You should turn off the TV now."
If I find a severed horse's head in my bed, I'll have no one to blame but myself. Even though I deserve it.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
It Just Keeps Getting Better
Warning: If you are a man, this post discusses lady parts, and not in a way that is exciting, unless you're a gynecological intern. Proceed at your own risk. If you don't like to hear about lady business, go away. But only for this post. We can still be friends.
As was noted in a previous post, I am having a hysterectomy in about a week. I'm still super stoked about it. I'm actually even more excited about it now, after I had my pre-op appointment today. My doctor asked me if we were also doing a bladder repair. I told him that I wasn't aware that that was an option, but if it was available, sign me up! He asked if I peed when I laughed, coughed or sneezed. I laughed right then and almost demonstrated the problem for him. He did an exam and told me that I am an excellent candidate for the something-something-incontinence-something-sling, or, as I like to call it, the peeper fix.
Hooray! No more crossing my legs when I sneeze! No more coughing bouts followed by, "Oh, man!" Of course, I immediately texted my husband and good pals to let them know the wondrous news. If you haven't met Emily, you are missing out. No one gets my humor the same way she does. She is the only person with whom I know that I will never cross the line and have to say, "Oh, that was offensive, huh." She giggles along with me. She and I have discussed, along with practically every woman who has ever given birth, the unfortunate side effects of childbirth, i.e. a weakened pelvic floor. She has expressed her desire for the peeper fix. So my text was a two-fold mission. First, to inform her of my good fortune and second, to make her jealous. It's what friends do. But because she is the awesome friend that she is, this is what she had to say:
Julie: I'm getting my peeper fixed! No more
crossing my legs when I sneeze!
Emily: What?! No more uterus or pee pants? It's a Christmas miracle!
Julie: I KNOW! There really is a Santa Claus.
Emily: Yes, Vagina, there is a Santa.
And then the nurse and the receptionists inquired as to my well-being, as I was purple-faced and gasping for breath. Can't...stop...laughing. So I repeated the conversation to them and they all laughed so hard that I'm willing to bet at least one of them tinkled a little. Don't you just love irony?
*sigh* I have great friends.
So now, I have a serious question. It has already been determined that Shirley must go. But I have been given the option to bid adieu to my ovaries, Thelma and Louise, as well. They are essentially healthy, other than the fact that I have poly-cystic ovarian syndrome. Ovulation is painful. I can feel the follicle burst and then I have pain when the egg descends. Other than that, those two girls don't cause much trouble. I don't have a family history of ovarian cancer. Every other type of cancer, yes, but not ovarian. My doctor says that he recommends leaving them in because
Here is my question: what would you do? Have any of you had a hysterectomy, either partial or complete? What, if anything, would you change? What about experiences with hormone replacement therapy?
I would really like to hear some feedback on this before I go in next Monday. Please, please give me some opinions! Ultimately, it is my decision, and I'm already leaning more one way than the other. But I would still like to hear some opinions from those who have experience.
Go ahead and leave a comment here, or if you would prefer to comment privately, email me at hoolianna55(at)hotmail(dot)com or send me a message on facebook.
Thanks in advance, ladies! And, uh, men, too, if you braved reading this post and have advice. Weirdos.
As was noted in a previous post, I am having a hysterectomy in about a week. I'm still super stoked about it. I'm actually even more excited about it now, after I had my pre-op appointment today. My doctor asked me if we were also doing a bladder repair. I told him that I wasn't aware that that was an option, but if it was available, sign me up! He asked if I peed when I laughed, coughed or sneezed. I laughed right then and almost demonstrated the problem for him. He did an exam and told me that I am an excellent candidate for the something-something-incontinence-something-sling, or, as I like to call it, the peeper fix.
Hooray! No more crossing my legs when I sneeze! No more coughing bouts followed by, "Oh, man!" Of course, I immediately texted my husband and good pals to let them know the wondrous news. If you haven't met Emily, you are missing out. No one gets my humor the same way she does. She is the only person with whom I know that I will never cross the line and have to say, "Oh, that was offensive, huh." She giggles along with me. She and I have discussed, along with practically every woman who has ever given birth, the unfortunate side effects of childbirth, i.e. a weakened pelvic floor. She has expressed her desire for the peeper fix. So my text was a two-fold mission. First, to inform her of my good fortune and second, to make her jealous. It's what friends do. But because she is the awesome friend that she is, this is what she had to say:
Julie: I'm getting my peeper fixed! No more
crossing my legs when I sneeze!
Emily: What?! No more uterus or pee pants? It's a Christmas miracle!
Julie: I KNOW! There really is a Santa Claus.
Emily: Yes, Vagina, there is a Santa.
And then the nurse and the receptionists inquired as to my well-being, as I was purple-faced and gasping for breath. Can't...stop...laughing. So I repeated the conversation to them and they all laughed so hard that I'm willing to bet at least one of them tinkled a little. Don't you just love irony?
*sigh* I have great friends.
So now, I have a serious question. It has already been determined that Shirley must go. But I have been given the option to bid adieu to my ovaries, Thelma and Louise, as well. They are essentially healthy, other than the fact that I have poly-cystic ovarian syndrome. Ovulation is painful. I can feel the follicle burst and then I have pain when the egg descends. Other than that, those two girls don't cause much trouble. I don't have a family history of ovarian cancer. Every other type of cancer, yes, but not ovarian. My doctor says that he recommends leaving them in because
- I'm only 32.
- Hormone replacement therapy is iffy and not always successful or without complication.
- I am very young to go through menopause and removing the ovaries would induce that lovely life change. Apparently it is much more traumatic to your body to go through menopause artificially than if you let nature take its course and do it in its own sweet time, which my doctor estimates to be about nineteen years from now.
- There is no immediate threat of illness or problem if I leave them in. He has left the choice up to me.
Here is my question: what would you do? Have any of you had a hysterectomy, either partial or complete? What, if anything, would you change? What about experiences with hormone replacement therapy?
I would really like to hear some feedback on this before I go in next Monday. Please, please give me some opinions! Ultimately, it is my decision, and I'm already leaning more one way than the other. But I would still like to hear some opinions from those who have experience.
Go ahead and leave a comment here, or if you would prefer to comment privately, email me at hoolianna55(at)hotmail(dot)com or send me a message on facebook.
Thanks in advance, ladies! And, uh, men, too, if you braved reading this post and have advice. Weirdos.
Friday, December 17, 2010
It Made Me Giggle
I found an old cell phone memory card tonight and found this picture:
I think I laughed harder tonight than I did when I saw this in a store. I have a juvenile sense of humor.
I think I laughed harder tonight than I did when I saw this in a store. I have a juvenile sense of humor.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
She Totally Ratted On Herself
Noel's third grade class wrote letters to Santa last week. She brought hers home last night and showed it to Morgan and me. I didn't want to keep this all to myself...
"Dear Santa,
I don't think I have been good this year because I have been getting in a bunch of trouble this year. How's the North Pole? I'm getting in trouble by talking back to my mom, being mean to my brothers, and whining when I don't want to do something or when I wasn't the one who did it.
My parents are the Santa Claus so we don't have you anymore. How do your reindeer fly? What's your favorite Christmas song? Mine is The First Noel because Noel is my name! I'll leave milk and cookies for you and carrots for your reindeer! Even though you don't exist to my parents you still exist to me.
Love,
Noel Bennett"
I love that girl. She must have had a bad day and been feeling particularly down that day. She really isn't that poorly behaved. We reassured her that her good behavior far outweighs the bad.
Is it bad that this letter makes me giggle?
"Dear Santa,
I don't think I have been good this year because I have been getting in a bunch of trouble this year. How's the North Pole? I'm getting in trouble by talking back to my mom, being mean to my brothers, and whining when I don't want to do something or when I wasn't the one who did it.
My parents are the Santa Claus so we don't have you anymore. How do your reindeer fly? What's your favorite Christmas song? Mine is The First Noel because Noel is my name! I'll leave milk and cookies for you and carrots for your reindeer! Even though you don't exist to my parents you still exist to me.
Love,
Noel Bennett"
I love that girl. She must have had a bad day and been feeling particularly down that day. She really isn't that poorly behaved. We reassured her that her good behavior far outweighs the bad.
Is it bad that this letter makes me giggle?
Saturday, December 11, 2010
An Unorthodox Christmas Wish
Are you familiar with the song "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas"? Familiarize yourself.
I went to see my OBGYN a few weeks ago and sang this song to him, only I substituted 'hysterectomy' for 'hippopotamus'.
After a battery of blood tests, physical exams, biopsies, etc., I'm excited to announce that my uterus and I will be parting company on December 27.
I never thought that I would be so excited for invasive surgery as I am to have the cursed organ removed.
My uterus, whom I shall call Shirley, and I have had a love/hate relationship. When I wanted Michael, she willingly obliged by the end of the first month of trying. Then when it was time for Noel, baby number two, Shirley was again most accommodating. However, when Morgan and I decided that we wanted a third child, Shirley put her foot down. Repeatedly. And she shouted a lot. To add injury to insult, my period of infertility was also when my heinously horrible menstrual cramps began. I had never experienced a single menstrual cramp until Noel was about three years old. But once they started, Shirley made up for lost time. The first two days of my cycle for the past six years have entailed me lying in bed, wishing that the sharp-toothed spiny tennis ball in my belly would just chew its way out already.
After three years of tears and infertility treatments, Morgan and I decided to quit trying. We had two healthy children; we were blessed and grateful. We got rid of our crib, our car seat, all of the accoutrements that one accumulates with the raising of small children. We looked at the bright side. The kids were (mostly) potty trained and relatively independent. No more bottles, diapers or sleepless nights.
Then Shirley promptly removed her foot. The one she had put down, remember? Yep. I got knocked up.
We were very excited, even though we had just gotten rid of every. baby. item we had ever owned and we had no medical insurance.
So Adam came along, and with his delivery came extensive hemorrhaging and the threat of an emergency hysterectomy. The doctor and nurses were able to stop the bleeding, however, and Shirley got to come home from the hospital with me, firmly rooted in my belly instead of floating in formaldehyde in a glass specimen jar.
I decided, being the frugal and incredibly stupid woman that I am, that no contraceptives were necessary since I had been, for all intents and purposes, infertile for three years. I considered my third pregnancy to be a fluke. Which is why I got pregnant with baby number four when Adam was eight months old. Shirley is a jerk. She has a twisted sense of humor. I taught her a lesson, though, when I had a tubal ligation after Jack was born. No more practical jokes for you, Shirley. Hah!
She has chosen to fight back the only way she knows: miserable, agonizing, wretched periods. She has to go.
Sorry, Shirley. You have no one to blame for this but yourself. Thank you for my children.
Goodbye.
I went to see my OBGYN a few weeks ago and sang this song to him, only I substituted 'hysterectomy' for 'hippopotamus'.
After a battery of blood tests, physical exams, biopsies, etc., I'm excited to announce that my uterus and I will be parting company on December 27.
I never thought that I would be so excited for invasive surgery as I am to have the cursed organ removed.
My uterus, whom I shall call Shirley, and I have had a love/hate relationship. When I wanted Michael, she willingly obliged by the end of the first month of trying. Then when it was time for Noel, baby number two, Shirley was again most accommodating. However, when Morgan and I decided that we wanted a third child, Shirley put her foot down. Repeatedly. And she shouted a lot. To add injury to insult, my period of infertility was also when my heinously horrible menstrual cramps began. I had never experienced a single menstrual cramp until Noel was about three years old. But once they started, Shirley made up for lost time. The first two days of my cycle for the past six years have entailed me lying in bed, wishing that the sharp-toothed spiny tennis ball in my belly would just chew its way out already.
After three years of tears and infertility treatments, Morgan and I decided to quit trying. We had two healthy children; we were blessed and grateful. We got rid of our crib, our car seat, all of the accoutrements that one accumulates with the raising of small children. We looked at the bright side. The kids were (mostly) potty trained and relatively independent. No more bottles, diapers or sleepless nights.
Then Shirley promptly removed her foot. The one she had put down, remember? Yep. I got knocked up.
We were very excited, even though we had just gotten rid of every. baby. item we had ever owned and we had no medical insurance.
So Adam came along, and with his delivery came extensive hemorrhaging and the threat of an emergency hysterectomy. The doctor and nurses were able to stop the bleeding, however, and Shirley got to come home from the hospital with me, firmly rooted in my belly instead of floating in formaldehyde in a glass specimen jar.
I decided, being the frugal and incredibly stupid woman that I am, that no contraceptives were necessary since I had been, for all intents and purposes, infertile for three years. I considered my third pregnancy to be a fluke. Which is why I got pregnant with baby number four when Adam was eight months old. Shirley is a jerk. She has a twisted sense of humor. I taught her a lesson, though, when I had a tubal ligation after Jack was born. No more practical jokes for you, Shirley. Hah!
She has chosen to fight back the only way she knows: miserable, agonizing, wretched periods. She has to go.
Sorry, Shirley. You have no one to blame for this but yourself. Thank you for my children.
Goodbye.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Monster Quilt (!)
I don't usually share my crafting projects on this blog but I'm going to make an exception for this project. I wanted to try applique, something which, until now, seemed too intimidating. I got the idea for a monster quilt from Little Birdie Secrets. Their monsters inspired some of mine and the remainder I made up. Each piece is hand drawn, cut out and fused, then machine stitched. There was a ton of time involved in the making of this quilt but it was a lot of fun and I love the end results!
I also used this quilt as an opportunity to try out a few other firsts, namely basting spray and stipple quilting. The basting spray was nice and I think I'll be using it again in the future. The stipple quilting took a while to get used to. I had trouble getting the tension right and there were issues with the top looking great but the back being too tight. Also, I learned the value of good quality thread. I thought that I was using good stuff but after it broke innumerable times and I finally switched to a different brand, I was much more pleased with the results.
All in all, it was a great learning experience and I'm very proud of the end results!
I also used this quilt as an opportunity to try out a few other firsts, namely basting spray and stipple quilting. The basting spray was nice and I think I'll be using it again in the future. The stipple quilting took a while to get used to. I had trouble getting the tension right and there were issues with the top looking great but the back being too tight. Also, I learned the value of good quality thread. I thought that I was using good stuff but after it broke innumerable times and I finally switched to a different brand, I was much more pleased with the results.
All in all, it was a great learning experience and I'm very proud of the end results!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
All right, blog land. I have 947 things to do before my kids get off of the bus in an hour but I would be derelict if I didn't take the time to post this.
My pal Brittany posted a very similar blog last month and I've thought about it ever since. I've thought how wonderful it is that God sees fit to bestow miracles upon us as we obey Him.
Lots of things happened to bring us to a very bad place yesterday morning. I won't chronicle all of them, suffice it to say that Moe's check had finally become available in the checking account (thanks, long weekend!) and I paid all of our bills. It was a good bill-paying, too, because we actually had money left over, which is always nice. Then, just to be safe, I checked the other check register (yeah, I have two, but I use one almost exclusively) just to make sure that I hadn't missed anything. I had. I figured it all out and we were in the hole ninety some-odd dollars and pay day isn't for another ten days. Frick. We had no cash on hand; no money socked away, nothing for a rainy day. Additionally, I had paid all of my bills online and you can't take that stuff back.
Note: Yeah, we're still stupid and we're still learning. This is embarrassing to write but it gets better, I promise. Don't judge.
Anyway, distraught does not quite cover how I felt all day yesterday. My diabetes is out of whack, therefore my insulin is out of whack and insulin is a hormone so therefore my hormones have been, you guessed it, out of whack. It's been stressful. On top of all the crazy emotions that I've been fighting every day, I behaved like a complete idiot last week, did some stupid crap, said some even stupider crap and in the process learned that honesty really isn't the best policy when you're dealing with personal opinions of another person's behavior. Did you know that not everyone likes to hear what other people think about them? Yeah, shocker. I'm an idiot, but at least I've learned that lesson. It's been a tough lesson to learn and the situation is not fully resolved. I fear that in my idiocy I have forever closed a door on some relationships that I cherish.
So, let's sum up what we've got so far, shall we?
This brings me to yesterday. Financial ruin, checks will soon start bouncing like a twelve-year-old at a bar and there's not a thing to be done about it.
Then I remembered the $100 in cash that I had set aside for tithing. Hmm. I talked with Moe. We could always use the $100 in the bank account and pay the tithing later. But we have been taught that we pay our tithing first, even if we don't feel we have the money and then trust in God to take care of us. We prayed for quite a while and I'm a little ashamed at how hard it was to make the decision. But once we knew, we knew. That wasn't our money to use. We had set it aside for tithing and using it for anything other than tithing would be disobedience.
Once the decision was made, it really didn't lessen my stress level. I was trying to have faith that all would work out, but I just couldn't figure out how. I talked with a friend about it and she suggested calling my Relief Society president. I hesitated, knowing that she would go to the bishop. I was already embarrassed enough at the situation and I didn't want to go running to the church to bail us out of a hole that we had dug ourselves. I finally called the RS president, if only because she always asks me why I never call her when things go wrong. She said that she would call the bishop, ask his opinion and then get back with me.
She called back a few minutes later and said that the bishop thought that we should put the tithing money into our checking account as it would be too late by the time he was able to do anything for us. Then we could talk with him on Sunday and figure out how to handle the issue of the tithing. I was still on the phone with the RS president as I sat down at the computer to check the bank account before I headed into town to deposit the money. There was a deposit of $100 in our account that neither I nor my husband had made. The checks that we had written and forgotten about hadn't cleared yet so there were no overdraft fees and that $100 deposit made it so that once everything had cleared we would still be in the black. We would have less than $10, but there wouldn't any overdraft fees. I told the RS president who got a little choked up. I was too stunned to cry (which will shock you if you know me at all).
I went through the evening feeling buoyed on a cloud of obedience and blessings. All I could think was "Wow."
Today came and I settled down to the task of trying to figure out a way to get a little bit of cash to get us through until the next pay day. The mystery deposit solved the immediate crisis, but there was still the matter of needing money to pay for gasoline and other necessities for the next several days.
To make a long story short(er), I received orders for two quilts this afternoon and one of the women paid me $60 in advance.
After Moe and I had made the decision not to use our tithing money to save our bacon, I tried to relax and have faith but I just could not see any way that we were going to get the money. I knew that things would work out, even if "work out" meant that we would end up with six overdraft fees that would eat up the next pay check but I would survive. That doesn't sound like the most pleasant way for things to work out, but again, I had faith that God would provide.
Provide he did, and in a most spectacular and obvious way. I think He wanted to make sure that I saw His hand in it. I did, and thanks.
Now the thought that is niggling at the corners of my brain is this: Why do we ever choose anything but the way we know to be right? If God has promised, he will come through.
I am proof.
My pal Brittany posted a very similar blog last month and I've thought about it ever since. I've thought how wonderful it is that God sees fit to bestow miracles upon us as we obey Him.
Lots of things happened to bring us to a very bad place yesterday morning. I won't chronicle all of them, suffice it to say that Moe's check had finally become available in the checking account (thanks, long weekend!) and I paid all of our bills. It was a good bill-paying, too, because we actually had money left over, which is always nice. Then, just to be safe, I checked the other check register (yeah, I have two, but I use one almost exclusively) just to make sure that I hadn't missed anything. I had. I figured it all out and we were in the hole ninety some-odd dollars and pay day isn't for another ten days. Frick. We had no cash on hand; no money socked away, nothing for a rainy day. Additionally, I had paid all of my bills online and you can't take that stuff back.
Note: Yeah, we're still stupid and we're still learning. This is embarrassing to write but it gets better, I promise. Don't judge.
Anyway, distraught does not quite cover how I felt all day yesterday. My diabetes is out of whack, therefore my insulin is out of whack and insulin is a hormone so therefore my hormones have been, you guessed it, out of whack. It's been stressful. On top of all the crazy emotions that I've been fighting every day, I behaved like a complete idiot last week, did some stupid crap, said some even stupider crap and in the process learned that honesty really isn't the best policy when you're dealing with personal opinions of another person's behavior. Did you know that not everyone likes to hear what other people think about them? Yeah, shocker. I'm an idiot, but at least I've learned that lesson. It's been a tough lesson to learn and the situation is not fully resolved. I fear that in my idiocy I have forever closed a door on some relationships that I cherish.
So, let's sum up what we've got so far, shall we?
- Emotions: out of whack
- Hormones: out of whack
- Judgment: out of whack
- Finances: out of whack
- Personal relationships: out of whack
- Life: pretty stinking whacktacular
This brings me to yesterday. Financial ruin, checks will soon start bouncing like a twelve-year-old at a bar and there's not a thing to be done about it.
Then I remembered the $100 in cash that I had set aside for tithing. Hmm. I talked with Moe. We could always use the $100 in the bank account and pay the tithing later. But we have been taught that we pay our tithing first, even if we don't feel we have the money and then trust in God to take care of us. We prayed for quite a while and I'm a little ashamed at how hard it was to make the decision. But once we knew, we knew. That wasn't our money to use. We had set it aside for tithing and using it for anything other than tithing would be disobedience.
Once the decision was made, it really didn't lessen my stress level. I was trying to have faith that all would work out, but I just couldn't figure out how. I talked with a friend about it and she suggested calling my Relief Society president. I hesitated, knowing that she would go to the bishop. I was already embarrassed enough at the situation and I didn't want to go running to the church to bail us out of a hole that we had dug ourselves. I finally called the RS president, if only because she always asks me why I never call her when things go wrong. She said that she would call the bishop, ask his opinion and then get back with me.
She called back a few minutes later and said that the bishop thought that we should put the tithing money into our checking account as it would be too late by the time he was able to do anything for us. Then we could talk with him on Sunday and figure out how to handle the issue of the tithing. I was still on the phone with the RS president as I sat down at the computer to check the bank account before I headed into town to deposit the money. There was a deposit of $100 in our account that neither I nor my husband had made. The checks that we had written and forgotten about hadn't cleared yet so there were no overdraft fees and that $100 deposit made it so that once everything had cleared we would still be in the black. We would have less than $10, but there wouldn't any overdraft fees. I told the RS president who got a little choked up. I was too stunned to cry (which will shock you if you know me at all).
I went through the evening feeling buoyed on a cloud of obedience and blessings. All I could think was "Wow."
Today came and I settled down to the task of trying to figure out a way to get a little bit of cash to get us through until the next pay day. The mystery deposit solved the immediate crisis, but there was still the matter of needing money to pay for gasoline and other necessities for the next several days.
To make a long story short(er), I received orders for two quilts this afternoon and one of the women paid me $60 in advance.
After Moe and I had made the decision not to use our tithing money to save our bacon, I tried to relax and have faith but I just could not see any way that we were going to get the money. I knew that things would work out, even if "work out" meant that we would end up with six overdraft fees that would eat up the next pay check but I would survive. That doesn't sound like the most pleasant way for things to work out, but again, I had faith that God would provide.
Provide he did, and in a most spectacular and obvious way. I think He wanted to make sure that I saw His hand in it. I did, and thanks.
Now the thought that is niggling at the corners of my brain is this: Why do we ever choose anything but the way we know to be right? If God has promised, he will come through.
I am proof.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I'm Busted
A Quick and Incomplete Summary of the Current Goings-On in the House of Bennett
As you may have read, I have chickens. (That sounds funny if you read that like some sort of terminal disease - "Did you hear? She has Chickens." "Oh, no! Once that gets into the blood stream they don't usually make it past a month.") Ahem. I decided that if I was going to feed and clean up after the critters that I might as well make it interesting, so this spring we bought Araucanas, a breed of chicken which lays colored eggs. For reals.
My family has waited in wild anticipation for the colored eggs to appear, and they finally did. But they were brown. Brown. If I had wanted brown eggs, I would have bought any number of other breeds of chickens that lay plain ol' brown eggs. I was schnookered. But then, wonder of wonders, look what we found:
In the upper left is an egg laid by one of our two Leghorns, which are a year older and therefore lay bigger eggs than the newbies. In the bottom right is an egg laid by the only chicken who read the manual. Colored eggs, girls, blue and green and sometimes lavender.
On a side note, the brown egg to the immediate right of the white egg had two yolks. I was frying a bunch of eggs for my nieces and nephews for breakfast and we were admiring how cute they were, the widdo biddy teeny fwied eggs, and then we were like "Whoa! Two yolks! Sweet!" We also wondered if the green egg would be lime-flavored. It wasn't. It was mint.
~
Adam's newest thing whenever he is angry with me or has to do something that he doesn't want to do is to yell, "You're busted!" At first, because he's three and doesn't speak all that clearly, I thought that he was calling me a bastard. And I was like, "Wha...?" How do you even know that word? I have a couple of bad words that I say occasionally, but that's not one of my favorites. Then I realized that he watches Phineas and Ferb. A lot. So, now I get to hear "You're busted!" several times a day, followed by the tinier and more mangled version of the same phrase exclaimed by Jack. Because anything Adam does, Jack does also.
~
I am totally the world's worst mother. Mike left Sunday night to spend several days with his grandmother and before he departed, he left me with this admonition: "I'm out of bird seed. Can you make some egg mash for my bird while I'm gone?" Yep. I can. Nope, I didn't. I figured that I was headed to the store the next day to buy more bird seed and that the little bugger could wait one day for his food. Obviously, he couldn't, as I found him dead in his cage half an hour before I left for the store. I haven't told Mike yet. How do you tell a ten-year-old kid that you starved his pet to death? After you had promised to feed it? I was sorely tempted to buy a new bird that matched the old one, but I can't bring myself to lie to the kid. As Moe told me, how can we expect our kids to tell the truth if we lie to them? So when he gets home tomorrow, I will put on my big girl panties and tell him. I hope he still likes me after that.
~
There is another vote in my favor of Worst Mom Ever as yesterday was a tough day. The boys played Dueling Diapers, as I have not yet had the courage to begin potty-training. Jack would poop, then minutes later Adam would, then Jack, etc. Three times each, for a total of six nasty, nasty diapers. Jack bit me so hard that it brought tears to my eyes and I couldn't get my finger out of his mouth. He'd stuck a bolt in his mouth and I was attempting to retrieve it. He laughed as I struggled to get my finger out of his mouth. A few chickens got out and I had to rescue them from the dog, wearing only a nightshirt. A short nightshirt. It occurred to me only as I was walking into the house that there may have been farm hands around. If there were and they saw me, I'm sure they got a show, and I don't just mean me running barefoot after my deaf dog, yelling at him (yeah, he's deaf and I was yelling), and assuredly flashing everyone who cared to look. You're welcome. As mentioned above, I killed Mike's bird. Throughout the day there were many screams of "You're busted!" and the old standby, "NNNOOOOO!" because simply saying it isn't enough. It must be screamed until the voice cracks. It was a rough day. My nerves were fried. Then Noel walked into the house with an armful of carrots freshly pulled from the garden and deposited them on the counter I had just washed. "Look at all the carrots I picked, Mom!" I hung my head, thinking that I was now going to have to pull off the tops, wash the carrots and the counter and find something to do with them so that they didn't go to waste. She saw my reaction and started to cry. She'd been trying to be helpful. I. Suck.
~
On the bright side, my flowers are all doing wonderfully as there are no goats to eat them this year. One of my sunflowers is over ten feet tall. I'm going to take pictures as soon as it blooms. It will be wicked awesome.
~
I'm working on several sewing projects right now including capes and jammies for my small terrors and a quilt and some new baby stuff for a friend who's due really soon.
~
Adam has become very protective of Jack. If anyone is harassing Jack (read: changing his diaper, dressing him, wiping his nose) and Jack is unhappy about it, Adam will yell, "Leave my bludder alone!" while glowering menacingly over the offender.
~
We have adopted two stray cats, Edward and Babs, or as Jack says Eddard and Bob. They are friendly and the mousingest cats I've ever seen, which is great. As my good pal says, we live in the middle of a field surrounded by mouse food. We've got lots o' mice. We also have a pair of Great Horned Owls living in the tree in our front yard, which is really cool yet also kind of scary as I read that they occasionally attack humans. Super.
~
The natives are beginning to stir. Adam just plunked his sippy cup in front of me on the desk and demanded "More milk!" The kid really needs some manners. So I'd better go. I most definitely do not want to be busted.
As you may have read, I have chickens. (That sounds funny if you read that like some sort of terminal disease - "Did you hear? She has Chickens." "Oh, no! Once that gets into the blood stream they don't usually make it past a month.") Ahem. I decided that if I was going to feed and clean up after the critters that I might as well make it interesting, so this spring we bought Araucanas, a breed of chicken which lays colored eggs. For reals.
My family has waited in wild anticipation for the colored eggs to appear, and they finally did. But they were brown. Brown. If I had wanted brown eggs, I would have bought any number of other breeds of chickens that lay plain ol' brown eggs. I was schnookered. But then, wonder of wonders, look what we found:
In the upper left is an egg laid by one of our two Leghorns, which are a year older and therefore lay bigger eggs than the newbies. In the bottom right is an egg laid by the only chicken who read the manual. Colored eggs, girls, blue and green and sometimes lavender. On a side note, the brown egg to the immediate right of the white egg had two yolks. I was frying a bunch of eggs for my nieces and nephews for breakfast and we were admiring how cute they were, the widdo biddy teeny fwied eggs, and then we were like "Whoa! Two yolks! Sweet!" We also wondered if the green egg would be lime-flavored. It wasn't. It was mint.
~
Adam's newest thing whenever he is angry with me or has to do something that he doesn't want to do is to yell, "You're busted!" At first, because he's three and doesn't speak all that clearly, I thought that he was calling me a bastard. And I was like, "Wha...?" How do you even know that word? I have a couple of bad words that I say occasionally, but that's not one of my favorites. Then I realized that he watches Phineas and Ferb. A lot. So, now I get to hear "You're busted!" several times a day, followed by the tinier and more mangled version of the same phrase exclaimed by Jack. Because anything Adam does, Jack does also.
~
I am totally the world's worst mother. Mike left Sunday night to spend several days with his grandmother and before he departed, he left me with this admonition: "I'm out of bird seed. Can you make some egg mash for my bird while I'm gone?" Yep. I can. Nope, I didn't. I figured that I was headed to the store the next day to buy more bird seed and that the little bugger could wait one day for his food. Obviously, he couldn't, as I found him dead in his cage half an hour before I left for the store. I haven't told Mike yet. How do you tell a ten-year-old kid that you starved his pet to death? After you had promised to feed it? I was sorely tempted to buy a new bird that matched the old one, but I can't bring myself to lie to the kid. As Moe told me, how can we expect our kids to tell the truth if we lie to them? So when he gets home tomorrow, I will put on my big girl panties and tell him. I hope he still likes me after that.
~
There is another vote in my favor of Worst Mom Ever as yesterday was a tough day. The boys played Dueling Diapers, as I have not yet had the courage to begin potty-training. Jack would poop, then minutes later Adam would, then Jack, etc. Three times each, for a total of six nasty, nasty diapers. Jack bit me so hard that it brought tears to my eyes and I couldn't get my finger out of his mouth. He'd stuck a bolt in his mouth and I was attempting to retrieve it. He laughed as I struggled to get my finger out of his mouth. A few chickens got out and I had to rescue them from the dog, wearing only a nightshirt. A short nightshirt. It occurred to me only as I was walking into the house that there may have been farm hands around. If there were and they saw me, I'm sure they got a show, and I don't just mean me running barefoot after my deaf dog, yelling at him (yeah, he's deaf and I was yelling), and assuredly flashing everyone who cared to look. You're welcome. As mentioned above, I killed Mike's bird. Throughout the day there were many screams of "You're busted!" and the old standby, "NNNOOOOO!" because simply saying it isn't enough. It must be screamed until the voice cracks. It was a rough day. My nerves were fried. Then Noel walked into the house with an armful of carrots freshly pulled from the garden and deposited them on the counter I had just washed. "Look at all the carrots I picked, Mom!" I hung my head, thinking that I was now going to have to pull off the tops, wash the carrots and the counter and find something to do with them so that they didn't go to waste. She saw my reaction and started to cry. She'd been trying to be helpful. I. Suck.
~
On the bright side, my flowers are all doing wonderfully as there are no goats to eat them this year. One of my sunflowers is over ten feet tall. I'm going to take pictures as soon as it blooms. It will be wicked awesome.
~
I'm working on several sewing projects right now including capes and jammies for my small terrors and a quilt and some new baby stuff for a friend who's due really soon.
~
Adam has become very protective of Jack. If anyone is harassing Jack (read: changing his diaper, dressing him, wiping his nose) and Jack is unhappy about it, Adam will yell, "Leave my bludder alone!" while glowering menacingly over the offender.
~
We have adopted two stray cats, Edward and Babs, or as Jack says Eddard and Bob. They are friendly and the mousingest cats I've ever seen, which is great. As my good pal says, we live in the middle of a field surrounded by mouse food. We've got lots o' mice. We also have a pair of Great Horned Owls living in the tree in our front yard, which is really cool yet also kind of scary as I read that they occasionally attack humans. Super.
~
The natives are beginning to stir. Adam just plunked his sippy cup in front of me on the desk and demanded "More milk!" The kid really needs some manners. So I'd better go. I most definitely do not want to be busted.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Hello, My Name Is...
A couple of weeks ago, my good bloggy pal That Girl did a getting-to-know-you blog and encouraged her readers to do the same. So I am. Even though I have approximately 2.7 readers and 98% of them know me personally. So without further ado, ME.
I have five older brothers and sisters and I don't know any of them as well as I would like to. I probably love each and every one of them more than they think I do.
My dad died ten and-a-half years ago and I still have moments when I think "I should call Dad and ask what he thinks about this..." and then I cry.
Oldies music (real oldies, not eighties music, kids) makes me think of my dad.
I just found out that I am in fact older than most of my girl pals when I thought that I was younger. Not quite sure what that means...
I swear a lot more than I should, sometimes in front of my kids.
I love my husband more than I ever thought loving someone was possible. He makes me laugh every single day and I love being on his arm. You should all be jealous, because he is awesome.
I use the word "awesome" a lot.
I almost never eat leftovers. They gross me out.
I am terribly shy and don't like meeting people, even though I am aware that most people mistake my shyness for haughtiness. It's always a delight when someone is finally able to get past my prickly exterior and find out that I'm sorta like a burned marshmallow: not all that appealing on the outside but warm, soft and awesome on the inside.
I am easily annoyed by small, repetitive sounds. Squeaking rocking chairs, clicking pens, smacking gum; all have caused me to leave the room.
As you may have gathered from the last statement, I do my best to avoid confrontations. I pick my fights carefully, but when something has my dander up high enough you will hear about it. It just takes a while to get me to that point.
I have this insane idea that I look completely different than I did in school so whenever I see someone that I haven't seen in ten years or more, I pretend that I don't know them so that I don't look stupid when I say "Hi!" and they don't know who I am. Yes, I see the irony.
I love animals and have had more pets than I can even count.
I have four kids, am a stay-at-home-mom and never ever wish to have a "real" job again.
My kids alternately delight, astound, infuriate and amuse me each and every day.
When I was little, I loved Indiana Jones and I aspired to marry him, be known as Indiana Julie and have wonderful adventures with him.
I worry every day that my children will need to have therapy because of the fact that I am their mother. Really.
I have recently developed a crush on the country of Scotland and all things Celtic. It's pretty lame, but I am enamored. Thank you, Diana Gabaldon.
I love SpongeBob. I could watch it all day and I get really excited when an episode comes on that I've never seen.
I have a supremely over-active sense of guilt. I feel guilty about nearly everything. If there are any lonely, orphaned feelings of guilt out there, I will gather them to me and make them my own.
I hate shopping, especially clothes shopping. I haven't purchased clothing for myself in at least a year, maybe two. I always spend more than I need to because my shopping philosophy is "Get in, get the stuff, and get out. Quickly."
There you have it, in a nut shell, or a turtle shell, or a bomb shell, or whatever kind of shell you like.
I have five older brothers and sisters and I don't know any of them as well as I would like to. I probably love each and every one of them more than they think I do.
My dad died ten and-a-half years ago and I still have moments when I think "I should call Dad and ask what he thinks about this..." and then I cry.
Oldies music (real oldies, not eighties music, kids) makes me think of my dad.
I just found out that I am in fact older than most of my girl pals when I thought that I was younger. Not quite sure what that means...
I swear a lot more than I should, sometimes in front of my kids.
I love my husband more than I ever thought loving someone was possible. He makes me laugh every single day and I love being on his arm. You should all be jealous, because he is awesome.
I use the word "awesome" a lot.
I almost never eat leftovers. They gross me out.
I am terribly shy and don't like meeting people, even though I am aware that most people mistake my shyness for haughtiness. It's always a delight when someone is finally able to get past my prickly exterior and find out that I'm sorta like a burned marshmallow: not all that appealing on the outside but warm, soft and awesome on the inside.
I am easily annoyed by small, repetitive sounds. Squeaking rocking chairs, clicking pens, smacking gum; all have caused me to leave the room.
As you may have gathered from the last statement, I do my best to avoid confrontations. I pick my fights carefully, but when something has my dander up high enough you will hear about it. It just takes a while to get me to that point.
I have this insane idea that I look completely different than I did in school so whenever I see someone that I haven't seen in ten years or more, I pretend that I don't know them so that I don't look stupid when I say "Hi!" and they don't know who I am. Yes, I see the irony.
I love animals and have had more pets than I can even count.
I have four kids, am a stay-at-home-mom and never ever wish to have a "real" job again.
My kids alternately delight, astound, infuriate and amuse me each and every day.
When I was little, I loved Indiana Jones and I aspired to marry him, be known as Indiana Julie and have wonderful adventures with him.
I worry every day that my children will need to have therapy because of the fact that I am their mother. Really.
I have recently developed a crush on the country of Scotland and all things Celtic. It's pretty lame, but I am enamored. Thank you, Diana Gabaldon.
I love SpongeBob. I could watch it all day and I get really excited when an episode comes on that I've never seen.
I have a supremely over-active sense of guilt. I feel guilty about nearly everything. If there are any lonely, orphaned feelings of guilt out there, I will gather them to me and make them my own.
I hate shopping, especially clothes shopping. I haven't purchased clothing for myself in at least a year, maybe two. I always spend more than I need to because my shopping philosophy is "Get in, get the stuff, and get out. Quickly."
There you have it, in a nut shell, or a turtle shell, or a bomb shell, or whatever kind of shell you like.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I'm a Whiner
This post is about potty training and everything that goes along with it. You have been warned.
I have two sets of two kids. The Big Kids are 20 months apart. Five years later, we had the first of the Little Kids who are 16 months apart.
The Big Kids were nightmares to potty train. We were first time parents, reading all the materials, talking with the pediatrician, watching for all of the signs that said that our son was ready. We started when he was two. It didn't take. We tried again at three and he was finally fully potty trained sometime after his fourth birthday. I potty trained that kid for almost two years. We started with his sister when she was almost three years old. She is now eight and a half and is just barely, barely, dry during most days. She still has some days when she will have an accident and she wets the bed every. single. night. We have seen the pediatrician, counselors, a urologist; everyone says she will grow out of it. The way I see it, I potty trained her for nearly six years. Six years, people. Six years of washing multiple pairs of undies and pants per day. You can only imagine the smell.
Now the Little Kids are potty training age. One just turned three and the other will be two in a few months. Occasionally I'll set them on the potty and occasionally they'll go, but for the most part I ignore the fact that I should be working with them. I've heard it all.
Don't wait too long.
Don't start too early.
You have to be consistent.
Mine trained themselves.
Just wait until they're ready.
This weekend, we visited relatives across the state; a drive of about three hours. On the way home, we took our time, seeing the sites and stopping for lots of breaks. We were on the home stretch, the last hour of the trip when little Jack piped up. "Out!"
"You can't get out of your seat, buddy."
"Out!"
"I'm sorry. I know that you want out but we're not home yet."
A few moments of silence, then, "I poopy."
"You're poopy?"
"Uh-huh. A change a bum."
This seemed highly suspect to me, so I asked big brother Mike to give him a sniff. The verdict?
"He smells fresh."
The little smarty pants was just looking for an excuse to get out of his seat, which I thought was very sweet, endearing and sneaky.
I was sharing this story with my best pal and she said "That kid asks to have his bum changed? He needs to be potty trained!"
She is so right. I'm just prolonging the arrival of that most dreaded parenting landmark: potty training.
The point was further hammered home when, ten minutes ago, my three-year-old walked up to me, informed me that he was poopy and then asked me to change his diaper.
I really need to work on potty training, but my heart is not in it. I wish there was a camp you could send your kids away to and they would come home potty trained.
I need to just put on my big girl panties, put them in big boy underpants and do it, but I don't want to. (Imagine that last bit in the whiniest voice you can imagine, because that's how I say it.) I know that we'll save a bunch of money if we don't have to buy diapers or wipes. Yeah, I'm not green. I guess I'll also be doing my environmental part. Plus it's just ridiculous to have kids that old not potty trained.
I just don't want to!
I have two sets of two kids. The Big Kids are 20 months apart. Five years later, we had the first of the Little Kids who are 16 months apart.
The Big Kids were nightmares to potty train. We were first time parents, reading all the materials, talking with the pediatrician, watching for all of the signs that said that our son was ready. We started when he was two. It didn't take. We tried again at three and he was finally fully potty trained sometime after his fourth birthday. I potty trained that kid for almost two years. We started with his sister when she was almost three years old. She is now eight and a half and is just barely, barely, dry during most days. She still has some days when she will have an accident and she wets the bed every. single. night. We have seen the pediatrician, counselors, a urologist; everyone says she will grow out of it. The way I see it, I potty trained her for nearly six years. Six years, people. Six years of washing multiple pairs of undies and pants per day. You can only imagine the smell.
Now the Little Kids are potty training age. One just turned three and the other will be two in a few months. Occasionally I'll set them on the potty and occasionally they'll go, but for the most part I ignore the fact that I should be working with them. I've heard it all.
Don't wait too long.
Don't start too early.
You have to be consistent.
Mine trained themselves.
Just wait until they're ready.
This weekend, we visited relatives across the state; a drive of about three hours. On the way home, we took our time, seeing the sites and stopping for lots of breaks. We were on the home stretch, the last hour of the trip when little Jack piped up. "Out!"
"You can't get out of your seat, buddy."
"Out!"
"I'm sorry. I know that you want out but we're not home yet."
A few moments of silence, then, "I poopy."
"You're poopy?"
"Uh-huh. A change a bum."
This seemed highly suspect to me, so I asked big brother Mike to give him a sniff. The verdict?
"He smells fresh."
The little smarty pants was just looking for an excuse to get out of his seat, which I thought was very sweet, endearing and sneaky.
I was sharing this story with my best pal and she said "That kid asks to have his bum changed? He needs to be potty trained!"
She is so right. I'm just prolonging the arrival of that most dreaded parenting landmark: potty training.
The point was further hammered home when, ten minutes ago, my three-year-old walked up to me, informed me that he was poopy and then asked me to change his diaper.
I really need to work on potty training, but my heart is not in it. I wish there was a camp you could send your kids away to and they would come home potty trained.
I need to just put on my big girl panties, put them in big boy underpants and do it, but I don't want to. (Imagine that last bit in the whiniest voice you can imagine, because that's how I say it.) I know that we'll save a bunch of money if we don't have to buy diapers or wipes. Yeah, I'm not green. I guess I'll also be doing my environmental part. Plus it's just ridiculous to have kids that old not potty trained.
I just don't want to!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Exactly How Much...
...is a butt-load of sand?
Is that a metric or imperial measurement?
Who cares? That is one happy kid.
Is that a metric or imperial measurement?
Who cares? That is one happy kid.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
My Son the Feminist
I was weeding in my flower bed this evening and admiring a particularly stunning pansy. I pointed it out to Mike and said, "Look at this! The color combinations, the symmetry, there isn't a man on this planet who can create beauty as well as God does."
He agreed, thought for a moment and then asked, "What about a woman? Do you think there's a woman who could make something as beautiful as what God makes?"
My son is awesome.
Credit Card Case
I carry a lot of cards. A lot. Debit card, driver's license, insurance card for every family member (seriously), library cards, rewards cards for every freaking store in a thirty mile radius. Lots of cards. I can never find a wallet that will fit all of my cards. I finally found one of those hard shell cases that fit all of my cards (hooray!) and I've loved it for a couple of years.
Today that case bit the dust. (boo!)
So I decided to make a new one. Behold:
I made it up as I went along, so it's a little rough. I used striped fabric, which enhanced the crooked stitching. I also didn't give myself enough extra room so each pocket is a little tighter than I'd like it to be. There are two pockets behind each of the card pockets that could be used for receipts or cash. I originally wanted to include a pocket on the outside for my phone, but I had to cut, re-cut, sew, pick out seams and re-sew so many times that I just said "Forget it!"
Maybe if I make another one it will have a phone pocket. And I won't use striped fabric.
Today that case bit the dust. (boo!)
So I decided to make a new one. Behold:
I made it up as I went along, so it's a little rough. I used striped fabric, which enhanced the crooked stitching. I also didn't give myself enough extra room so each pocket is a little tighter than I'd like it to be. There are two pockets behind each of the card pockets that could be used for receipts or cash. I originally wanted to include a pocket on the outside for my phone, but I had to cut, re-cut, sew, pick out seams and re-sew so many times that I just said "Forget it!"
Maybe if I make another one it will have a phone pocket. And I won't use striped fabric.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Adam Shows Us...Blue Steel!
Jack has been playing with the kitten for most of the morning and I decided to get it on video because it's so stinking cute. I ended up getting more than cute boy and kitty footage, as you will see.
I have no idea what Adam is doing, but it's awesome. I think Derek Zoolander is his inspiration.
I have no idea what Adam is doing, but it's awesome. I think Derek Zoolander is his inspiration.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)