Yesturday on Facebook I posted a comment that got 40 repsonses (some were me responding to responses) but this is more than any wacky kid posting that I have ever put on there. What the hell !?! What was it about? Shoes - Specifically the riding boots that are galloping across women's fashion. I hate them.
I don't hate every knee high boot, in fact many of them can look very stylish to me. Just not these g-damn riding boots. I may have taken the wrong angle on Facebook, however, concentrating mostly on the fact that their functional purpose is for horse-back riding and that I only want to see them used for such. Female facebook friends cried foul, with claims of loving their dear boots. This I have no doubt is true, woman to love these things. My sister-in-law attacked back pointing out that have a pair of clear "jellies" that I have hung on to through the years and my fashion sense must be waining due to birthing three males. I also don't spell well, and if she has to put up with that, I have to put up with her boots. I said fine, but if she wears them in my presence I whinny and neigh at her. Then I left the house and went to Wegmans, where I saw a plethera of female equestrians doing their Thanksgiving grocery shopping.
This morning, I drove my mini-van taking James and Warren to school. They go to two Catholic schools clear across our small city from each other. As I did, I watched people on the sidewalks going to work and kids going to school, and I realized what my deep down problem with the riding boots is - I have politicized these boots.
Fashion can be artistic and handcrafted and thus labels can get expensive. I get this. I also enjoy that this type of art can be "knocked off" so that everyone can enjoy the artistic expression if not the craftmanship. Riding boots (and Sperry's, which I also threw under the bus) are not artistic, they are functional and usually well crafted. But what is their original function? Horseback riding and sailing/yachting, two activities of the Leisure Class (Veblen). These two types of footwear bother me because they mimmic participation in two activities of the (usually) wealthy. There is nothing particularly stylish or artisic about them other than being styled after something some WASP would take off and leave in the mudroom before saying, "Harriet, I have finished with my riding lesson, please draw me a bath and later I will be having cocktails on the yacht with Muffy and Emmett." So, just being wealthy is stylish? Ugh. And the functional footwear of the upper-class's recreational activites is what every day women are going to choose to wear around as part of their personal style? I just won't be a part of it.
You think I'm going too far with this? Is it really that big of a deal? Yes. Just look at the hoopla around Michele Obama and Ann Romney's fashion choices for their husband's conventions. I'm not a big fan of the President right now, as much as I wish I could be, but - Michele Obama takes great pains not to dress in something too expensive. Why? Because buying couture is almost offensive to the everyday woman. But really, why should she care when the everyday woman is running around in riding boots.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Part Deux
Let me get some housekeeping out of the way. A very smart, and very sophisticated Jewish friend of mine told to me that my two references to "Jewish" in the last post were a bit "chilling" for him. This surprised me because since he's a published writer I thought my bad grammer and spelling mistakes would chill him most. I told him - I only included the jokes because Judy is, in fact, Jewish and there are comedic things about that just like there are comedic things about me being Catholic, or a SAHM, or a hippy raw milk drinker, or any crazy shit about me. However, I am no Sarah Silverman, just a goyische girl who may not be able to make these jokes. I don't mean to offend and if I had to marry a son to anyone other than a good Catholic girl I would hope she'd be Jewish because Protestents are really no fun.
So, back to the story...
Yesturday, David came with us. I picked him up at work and as handsome as this guy is, I wish I had reminded him to dress up a little that morning (he's a fashion-free Engineer in a casual work enviroment). We picked up James and then I drove around the block five times trying to find a spot where I could parallel park the mini-van. This annoyed my precision driver husband and the annoyance escalated when I had no money for the meter and he was determined to find some change in the abyss of the van. I told him that I would just get a $10 ticket and it was no big deal... but it was big deal to him because he reminded me that I have never had just a $10 ticket because I never do anything in a timely manner and before I knew it, I'd be in handcuffs in the back of a constable's car making tearfull phone calls to my lawyer brother (yes, this actually happened and it's quite a story). God intervened, and we discovered that the meter was dead.
We entered the courthouse and got in line to go through security. As I was waiting I scanned the loby for either my attorney or team Sheindlin-Radley. I spotted the duo waiting by the elevators. The curls where still gone and this time the hair torture had escalated to a long extension pony-tail. But then I spotted it... the holy grail of natures revenge. As Boo looked up at the elevator numbers, I had a clear view of the top of his head. There, instead of thick annoying red hair, was a bald spot! A friar tuck, round like a yamacha, bald spot! Oh Glory Be of all things assanine and petty! Boo's hair was receding in an inversely porportionate amount to the length of Judy's ponytail like some evil pack with the devil they must have made.
We waited for my attorney and then checked in and waited in the hallway outside of family court. I should have remembered not to be worried about my husbands attire. Apparently, people roll out of bed and come to family court dressing worse than I would to go grocery shopping (maybe not Weis but definately Wegmans!). The court seemed to be running behind and David was definately a comfort as we were waiting. He joked about the times he had been there for his own parent's custody matters. I actually forgot he was old hat at this!
Finally the lawyers went in and out, and then I was brought in with Boo. The Master ordered more counseling and then we would reconvene in February. Again, he talked mostly to me and I don't blame him, team Sheindlin-Radley varies between commical and scary depending on what moment you look at them. I tend to avert my eyes so as not to have any innaproprate expressions on my face. The master also made an interesting concrete anaolgy for Boo's sake. He basically said that Boo had let the concrete cure for 15 years and it would be difficult to try to stir or form it any differently now. Boo must have been ready to say a lot of stupid stuff because Judy kept patting and rubbing his leg, like she was comforting an upset dog at the vet.
Then they wanted to talk about insurance because Boo is responsible for paying for this counseling and it was obviously making him uneasy. They said a lot of confusing things about payments and deductables and I think they were even confusing themselves. I was thinking, "Listen, I have three kids, you have a Bimmer. Just figure this shit out because I am busy woman." My lawyer said it for me in a much nicer way and then we left, but not before I had to go back and get James's early dissmisal school form signed because, you know, that's what us parents have to worry about.
Till next time....
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
50 Shades of Gray...
It's raining today, and I should be getting ready but I'm on here. It's soothing and today is another shade of gray. My life has been shades of gray lately but at least today it's raining and I like rain. It's water after-all and my husband says the only time that I look gracefull is in the water. It also rained on my wedding day and someone told me that the Irish say that that is good luck. I don't know if thats true or if they were just trying to make me feel better. It did, I'm still married, and I like rain.
So, anyway, you know how sometimes the weather around you matches your mood, and when it dosen't it freaks you out. Like how starkly contrasting 9/11 was... beautiful blue skies, the sunshine mocking us. I hated that. But one day a few weeks ago, I was driving my firstborn home in the mini-van. My hand was rubbing his back as he was fighting back tears. The world around me was gray. Gray sky, gray city, dead faded bown leaves swirling around my car. The weather felt me... felt my saddness, my anxiety, and then it felt my anger.
The first shade of gray came in July when I recieved a court document telling me that I was being sued in court for partial custody of James. My 15 year old has spent all 15 years in my sole custody and the past 11 years in the shared physical custody of my husband and I. I felt like laughing and murdering someone at the same time. And by someone, I mean Boo Radley and/or his newly-wedded attorney wife, Judith Sheindlin.
I showed the papers to James, and we immediately when into defense mode. James sat at the pool in the sunshine and wrote a letter to the court expressing his desire to have no contact with Boo Radley and stating that he had a good father that he loved. The letter was harsh and beautiful at the same time and it made David and I cry. I started writing my Answer and New Matter. Then I took a trip to the child support office... yeah, that's right. I didn't have an attorney yet, and wasn't ready to get one, but I had worked in a few law firms. I realized that Boo had his attorney wife to help him... but after doing some research and asking around about her, I couldn't figure out what was up with her. I did find a cute wedding/honeymoon site with pictures from their recent destination wedding. They went to the D.R. which only infuriated me more because that was MY honeymoon spot! These two were going to piss on everything!
At the end of July or early August, I had my first custody mediation. I went into the day a little stressed, but really, I have had sole custody of a child who is now 15 for his entire life! And this 15 year old is smart, well-spoken, and an old-soul of sorts... he knows what he wants out of life, and I trust him. I was just going in there to fight for what he wants... to stay completey with the parents and family he's had for 11 plus years.
So, I showed up with James (who demanded to be there), and my brother (an attorney, but not a family attorney). Boo had Judy with him of course. The mediator would only let Boo and myself in for the mediation. We were in there for 20-30 min and this joker didn't make eye contact with me once while I looked him right in the face almost the whole time. His answers were weird. I felt mine were heart-felt. I told the mediator that James wanted to be heard, so she sent Boo and I out and then took James alone. Afterward, she brought us back in. The mediator turned to me and said, "You have a really cool kid." I beamed. Then Boo piped up (imagine a meat-head type of voice) "Yeah, I know! That's why I want to see him!". I stopped beaming and felt rage inside....that rage wanted to say, "Shut the fuck up you shit-head, what the hell do you know? And by the way, his awesomeness is no thanks to you!" Instead, I focused on a picture on the wall and told the rage that I agree but we need to be quiet. Boo wanted a custody schedule set up right there, and dropped a bomb that he wanted James every other weekend. I was like, really? David and I have a teenager that loves us and is bonded to us and he doesn't want to spend that much time with us. You want a teenager that doesn't like you every other weekend? You be crazy! I think the mediator thought so too, because she said that nothing was going to be decided today and she would forward the case to the next level. Boo left in a huff. I went to the lobby and discussed hot-dogs with my brother and James to keep cool.
Next up was that Child Support mediation. This time Judy Sheindlin entered herself as Bo Radley's attorney. So, from that point on I began to refer to them as the Sheindlin-Radley team. First she accosted me in the waiting room with her Louis Vouitton Bag to discuss the support. I told her that since she was the defendents wife, I would just hang tight to discuss with the court mediator. She looked annoyed and stalked off, heals click-clacking and designer hand bag swinging, like some Jewish Kardashian sister. Inside Judy really took over, Boo barely said anything... at one point I pointed out to the mediator the Judy was Boo's wife. The mediator looked at them and said, "Oh, thats weird." I said, "Yeah it is!" Judy started talking fast about how it doesn't matter because she is a registered attorney and is allowed be here. I thought, "Settle down honey, we aren't saying you can't be here, we are just pointing out that it's weird." At the end we settled on an amount that is nice to have, but will barely cover groceries for a teenage boy. I left and got into my mini-van and passed team Sheindlin-Radley getting into a black BMW... the rage started trying to tell me all kinds of things!
The VERY NEXT day James and I showed up for the Custody Conference with a court Master. This time I had hired a family attorney. I must have looked really good the day before because Attorney Judy showed up in lots of make-up and had flat-ironed her J-fro. That was shame because her curls were honestly very pretty and I could actually hear her hair crying. This time the attorneys and/or wives went in first. Then James went in alone for what seemed like forever. When he came out, he was upset. He felt like the Master kept trying to push him, and he felt like he hadn't been heard or that the Master didn't care. My rage started whispering. Then my attorney told me that team Sheindlin-Radley was claiming that I had written James's letter to the court. Anger flashed in James's eyes when he heard this and my rage was talking louder. Then everyone (except James) went in to see the Master. He was a large imposing man who obviously had a lot of life experience and enjoyed hearing himself talk. He spoke mostly to me, telling me that I was obviously a good mom (when he said this, Boo Radley snickered and I had to control my rage from flinging my body over the table to strangle him). The master thought that James was stressed (ya' think) and was ordering counseling to be paid for entirely by Boo Radley, and we would meet again in several weeks. He also told Boo that David was James's father and he needed to respect that no matter what happened. That didn't seem to sit well with the Sheindlin-Radley team, but oh well, the truth hurts.
So, that gray day when I was rubbing my child's back in comfort, we were leaving the counselor's office. He had told James to ask me questions about when I was pregnant and considering adoption, and when I didn't Boo Radley got angry and deserted the pregnancy and the baby. It was a hard, sad talk. I told him that adoption was a good, noble, loving thing to do. But I thought I could do this child-raising thing, and was not strong enough to give him away. Boo didn't want to give the baby away out of nobility or love, he wanted the baby away out of selfishness, to solve the problem. And now he was back out of selfishness.
He doesn't want what's best for James. He wants what's best for him, to clear his guilt or make him look better to his wife and her family and friends. I know this by the things he says... "I deserve to see him...It's MY right to see him, etc".... never about what James wants, just what HE wants. To force a 15 year old young man to spend time with him... suddenly uproot him from a strong nuclear family every other week, take his free time from him, make his work and fun time a hassle. It's about Boo.
So, today I have to drag my ass back to court for Family Court Part Duex and it's raining so I hope it will be good luck... I will let you know more about the antics of team Sheindlin-Radley, and the funny things my rage wants to say or do. Hopefully James wins his battle, and I will do my best to help him and slowly the shades of gray will get lighter and bluer.
*disclaimer* Any references to murder or bodily harm to others are meant in jest.
So, anyway, you know how sometimes the weather around you matches your mood, and when it dosen't it freaks you out. Like how starkly contrasting 9/11 was... beautiful blue skies, the sunshine mocking us. I hated that. But one day a few weeks ago, I was driving my firstborn home in the mini-van. My hand was rubbing his back as he was fighting back tears. The world around me was gray. Gray sky, gray city, dead faded bown leaves swirling around my car. The weather felt me... felt my saddness, my anxiety, and then it felt my anger.
The first shade of gray came in July when I recieved a court document telling me that I was being sued in court for partial custody of James. My 15 year old has spent all 15 years in my sole custody and the past 11 years in the shared physical custody of my husband and I. I felt like laughing and murdering someone at the same time. And by someone, I mean Boo Radley and/or his newly-wedded attorney wife, Judith Sheindlin.
I showed the papers to James, and we immediately when into defense mode. James sat at the pool in the sunshine and wrote a letter to the court expressing his desire to have no contact with Boo Radley and stating that he had a good father that he loved. The letter was harsh and beautiful at the same time and it made David and I cry. I started writing my Answer and New Matter. Then I took a trip to the child support office... yeah, that's right. I didn't have an attorney yet, and wasn't ready to get one, but I had worked in a few law firms. I realized that Boo had his attorney wife to help him... but after doing some research and asking around about her, I couldn't figure out what was up with her. I did find a cute wedding/honeymoon site with pictures from their recent destination wedding. They went to the D.R. which only infuriated me more because that was MY honeymoon spot! These two were going to piss on everything!
At the end of July or early August, I had my first custody mediation. I went into the day a little stressed, but really, I have had sole custody of a child who is now 15 for his entire life! And this 15 year old is smart, well-spoken, and an old-soul of sorts... he knows what he wants out of life, and I trust him. I was just going in there to fight for what he wants... to stay completey with the parents and family he's had for 11 plus years.
So, I showed up with James (who demanded to be there), and my brother (an attorney, but not a family attorney). Boo had Judy with him of course. The mediator would only let Boo and myself in for the mediation. We were in there for 20-30 min and this joker didn't make eye contact with me once while I looked him right in the face almost the whole time. His answers were weird. I felt mine were heart-felt. I told the mediator that James wanted to be heard, so she sent Boo and I out and then took James alone. Afterward, she brought us back in. The mediator turned to me and said, "You have a really cool kid." I beamed. Then Boo piped up (imagine a meat-head type of voice) "Yeah, I know! That's why I want to see him!". I stopped beaming and felt rage inside....that rage wanted to say, "Shut the fuck up you shit-head, what the hell do you know? And by the way, his awesomeness is no thanks to you!" Instead, I focused on a picture on the wall and told the rage that I agree but we need to be quiet. Boo wanted a custody schedule set up right there, and dropped a bomb that he wanted James every other weekend. I was like, really? David and I have a teenager that loves us and is bonded to us and he doesn't want to spend that much time with us. You want a teenager that doesn't like you every other weekend? You be crazy! I think the mediator thought so too, because she said that nothing was going to be decided today and she would forward the case to the next level. Boo left in a huff. I went to the lobby and discussed hot-dogs with my brother and James to keep cool.
Next up was that Child Support mediation. This time Judy Sheindlin entered herself as Bo Radley's attorney. So, from that point on I began to refer to them as the Sheindlin-Radley team. First she accosted me in the waiting room with her Louis Vouitton Bag to discuss the support. I told her that since she was the defendents wife, I would just hang tight to discuss with the court mediator. She looked annoyed and stalked off, heals click-clacking and designer hand bag swinging, like some Jewish Kardashian sister. Inside Judy really took over, Boo barely said anything... at one point I pointed out to the mediator the Judy was Boo's wife. The mediator looked at them and said, "Oh, thats weird." I said, "Yeah it is!" Judy started talking fast about how it doesn't matter because she is a registered attorney and is allowed be here. I thought, "Settle down honey, we aren't saying you can't be here, we are just pointing out that it's weird." At the end we settled on an amount that is nice to have, but will barely cover groceries for a teenage boy. I left and got into my mini-van and passed team Sheindlin-Radley getting into a black BMW... the rage started trying to tell me all kinds of things!
The VERY NEXT day James and I showed up for the Custody Conference with a court Master. This time I had hired a family attorney. I must have looked really good the day before because Attorney Judy showed up in lots of make-up and had flat-ironed her J-fro. That was shame because her curls were honestly very pretty and I could actually hear her hair crying. This time the attorneys and/or wives went in first. Then James went in alone for what seemed like forever. When he came out, he was upset. He felt like the Master kept trying to push him, and he felt like he hadn't been heard or that the Master didn't care. My rage started whispering. Then my attorney told me that team Sheindlin-Radley was claiming that I had written James's letter to the court. Anger flashed in James's eyes when he heard this and my rage was talking louder. Then everyone (except James) went in to see the Master. He was a large imposing man who obviously had a lot of life experience and enjoyed hearing himself talk. He spoke mostly to me, telling me that I was obviously a good mom (when he said this, Boo Radley snickered and I had to control my rage from flinging my body over the table to strangle him). The master thought that James was stressed (ya' think) and was ordering counseling to be paid for entirely by Boo Radley, and we would meet again in several weeks. He also told Boo that David was James's father and he needed to respect that no matter what happened. That didn't seem to sit well with the Sheindlin-Radley team, but oh well, the truth hurts.
So, that gray day when I was rubbing my child's back in comfort, we were leaving the counselor's office. He had told James to ask me questions about when I was pregnant and considering adoption, and when I didn't Boo Radley got angry and deserted the pregnancy and the baby. It was a hard, sad talk. I told him that adoption was a good, noble, loving thing to do. But I thought I could do this child-raising thing, and was not strong enough to give him away. Boo didn't want to give the baby away out of nobility or love, he wanted the baby away out of selfishness, to solve the problem. And now he was back out of selfishness.
He doesn't want what's best for James. He wants what's best for him, to clear his guilt or make him look better to his wife and her family and friends. I know this by the things he says... "I deserve to see him...It's MY right to see him, etc".... never about what James wants, just what HE wants. To force a 15 year old young man to spend time with him... suddenly uproot him from a strong nuclear family every other week, take his free time from him, make his work and fun time a hassle. It's about Boo.
So, today I have to drag my ass back to court for Family Court Part Duex and it's raining so I hope it will be good luck... I will let you know more about the antics of team Sheindlin-Radley, and the funny things my rage wants to say or do. Hopefully James wins his battle, and I will do my best to help him and slowly the shades of gray will get lighter and bluer.
*disclaimer* Any references to murder or bodily harm to others are meant in jest.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
15 years... 15 years... 15 years...
15 years... 15 years... 15 years... It didnt really hit me untill now, on eve of his birthday, that 15 is kind of a big number to be dealing with when your only 32. Oh, I've played the wierd numbers game plenty of times before... Imagine having an 18 year old when your 35, a 30 yr old when your 47.... And then you can play the slots together when you are 70 and 87.
15 years ago on this night I was ready. I had made the tough decisions, gotten rid of the people who were in my way, had gotten over a painful teenage heart-ache that would put that stupid MTV show to shame, and had left my old life in the past. I had put all this in a bottle, threw it out to sea and sat on the beach in a quiet calm watching it float away untill I couldn't see it anymore. Then I left with a determined smirk on my face and a new future growing in my belly. So, on the night of July 2nd, 1997, I went to bed ready.
He was already a week late and I spent the day eating funnel cake at the PA Dutch festival in a nearby town. At this point I was over getting stared at for being a freshed faced teenager with a huge belly and had braved the festival. Speaking of which, embarassment is a tough thing, and in this situation it probablly shaped me for life. Thanks world of rude people, I will forever be a little weird.
The highschool situation had been tough, and I was more than thankful for the summer. My mom had gotten me a counselor to help me deal with the situation of a teenage pregnancy. I remember that I loved going and talking to the woman... she helped me find a lot of inner strength. She told me to just own the situation as it was inevitable the gossipers would be proven right soon (at 5 and 6 months it was still questionable). So, one day in the hall a boy that I had always found irritating approached me and asked point-blank, "Are you pregnant?" "Yes." I answered him, and glowered as he ran away excited with his news-breaking information. The next day I showed up at school in a shirt that said "under construction" across my chest and an arrow pointing to my stomach. "Just own it and keep your head high.", I told myself.
At this point things were getting better and tougher. I found it was actually a big breather to be out in the open but then "friends" starting dropping like flies. There is not a better "friend killer" than having something socially unnacceptable happen to you... or if your on the swim team and you make the district and state relay times slow, the Coach and his party of 3 hench-girls will be up your ass trying to get you to take pregnancy tests with feigned "concern". Then, if you're me, you get pissed and sue the coach. Good-bye swimming friends, thanks for your "concern" fuckers...
I don't know how common teenage pregnancy was in 1997, but another wierd thing that happened that I can't imagine happening now is that random couples would call or send letters looking to adopt my baby. This was really weird and kind of made me protective of my pregnancy. But now, when I look back, the desperation of these people is palpatable. Good, able parents reaching out to find that baby they so desperately want. And to be perfectly honest... my baby was white and most adoptive parents are white... it was a situation these people couldn't help but try for. When I hear of unwanted pregnancies and what people do with them, I think of these desperate couples and my heart aches.
I woke up early in the morning on July 3rd, 1997 with my first contraction. I didn't know what it was... I waited untill I felt another. Then I timed it untill I felt another one.... then I timed again... the time was the same. I woke up mom (my dad was traveling). And we we checked into the hospital around 5 am. My mom and my older brother kept my company untill it got too bad... walking around with me and feeding snow-cones to me. When I got my epidural and was sitting in bed, my mom and brother ate hot-dogs and chit-chatted... it was all very relaxed. The docter asked if I minded if students helped with my delivery for training and educational purposes. I didn't mind, and I actually loved having them there. While the docter was getting down to buisness and I was pushing out the baby... they would say things like, "Oh! I can see his head! He has brown hair!" And it would make me smile. When when I delivered him, they were the first to ask me his name with tears in their eyes to match my own... "James", I said.
15 year.... 15 years.... 15 years.... 15 years has passed and it's now the morning of his birth. In 15 years, I graduated highschool and college, I continued to have a successfull college swimming career, I got married, and have bought my second house... I have 2 more boys, a dog and a cat. I have had good jobs and am now a stay-at-home-mom writing this blog and driving a mini-van. Most importantly, I have raised a good kid, who's on the brink of adulthood, which he will enter with a good head on his shoulders and a personality to die for.
July 3rd is a celebration of two lives that had everything against them, but had the whole world ahead of them. Happy Birthday James, and thank you... without you, I don't know where I'd be right now.
15 years ago on this night I was ready. I had made the tough decisions, gotten rid of the people who were in my way, had gotten over a painful teenage heart-ache that would put that stupid MTV show to shame, and had left my old life in the past. I had put all this in a bottle, threw it out to sea and sat on the beach in a quiet calm watching it float away untill I couldn't see it anymore. Then I left with a determined smirk on my face and a new future growing in my belly. So, on the night of July 2nd, 1997, I went to bed ready.
He was already a week late and I spent the day eating funnel cake at the PA Dutch festival in a nearby town. At this point I was over getting stared at for being a freshed faced teenager with a huge belly and had braved the festival. Speaking of which, embarassment is a tough thing, and in this situation it probablly shaped me for life. Thanks world of rude people, I will forever be a little weird.
The highschool situation had been tough, and I was more than thankful for the summer. My mom had gotten me a counselor to help me deal with the situation of a teenage pregnancy. I remember that I loved going and talking to the woman... she helped me find a lot of inner strength. She told me to just own the situation as it was inevitable the gossipers would be proven right soon (at 5 and 6 months it was still questionable). So, one day in the hall a boy that I had always found irritating approached me and asked point-blank, "Are you pregnant?" "Yes." I answered him, and glowered as he ran away excited with his news-breaking information. The next day I showed up at school in a shirt that said "under construction" across my chest and an arrow pointing to my stomach. "Just own it and keep your head high.", I told myself.
At this point things were getting better and tougher. I found it was actually a big breather to be out in the open but then "friends" starting dropping like flies. There is not a better "friend killer" than having something socially unnacceptable happen to you... or if your on the swim team and you make the district and state relay times slow, the Coach and his party of 3 hench-girls will be up your ass trying to get you to take pregnancy tests with feigned "concern". Then, if you're me, you get pissed and sue the coach. Good-bye swimming friends, thanks for your "concern" fuckers...
I don't know how common teenage pregnancy was in 1997, but another wierd thing that happened that I can't imagine happening now is that random couples would call or send letters looking to adopt my baby. This was really weird and kind of made me protective of my pregnancy. But now, when I look back, the desperation of these people is palpatable. Good, able parents reaching out to find that baby they so desperately want. And to be perfectly honest... my baby was white and most adoptive parents are white... it was a situation these people couldn't help but try for. When I hear of unwanted pregnancies and what people do with them, I think of these desperate couples and my heart aches.
I woke up early in the morning on July 3rd, 1997 with my first contraction. I didn't know what it was... I waited untill I felt another. Then I timed it untill I felt another one.... then I timed again... the time was the same. I woke up mom (my dad was traveling). And we we checked into the hospital around 5 am. My mom and my older brother kept my company untill it got too bad... walking around with me and feeding snow-cones to me. When I got my epidural and was sitting in bed, my mom and brother ate hot-dogs and chit-chatted... it was all very relaxed. The docter asked if I minded if students helped with my delivery for training and educational purposes. I didn't mind, and I actually loved having them there. While the docter was getting down to buisness and I was pushing out the baby... they would say things like, "Oh! I can see his head! He has brown hair!" And it would make me smile. When when I delivered him, they were the first to ask me his name with tears in their eyes to match my own... "James", I said.
15 year.... 15 years.... 15 years.... 15 years has passed and it's now the morning of his birth. In 15 years, I graduated highschool and college, I continued to have a successfull college swimming career, I got married, and have bought my second house... I have 2 more boys, a dog and a cat. I have had good jobs and am now a stay-at-home-mom writing this blog and driving a mini-van. Most importantly, I have raised a good kid, who's on the brink of adulthood, which he will enter with a good head on his shoulders and a personality to die for.
July 3rd is a celebration of two lives that had everything against them, but had the whole world ahead of them. Happy Birthday James, and thank you... without you, I don't know where I'd be right now.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Nobody likes a Skinny Baby
*Disclaimer - this is my own experience and and my own thoughts and is in no way meant catagorize or denigrate the medical field.
A year has come and gone since the birth of my third child, my sweet baby David. I hate the way I feel about his birth. In fact, I don't like to think about it. For the first three months of his life, I was stripped of any mothering confidence I had developed over 14 years (and there was a lot of it) by every docter and nurse I came across. It was a miserable, anxious time for me because (gasp!) he was a slow weight gainer.
14 years prior, I delivered James like a champ. I was 17 and built like an East German swimmer, so pushing out 8 lbs of baby boy went smoothly. Out he came with a perfectly pitched scream and top notch apgar scores. They gave him right to me, and the nurses helped me put him to my breast... I looked down with complete adoration at my little treasure from God snuggled as close to his mother as he could get outside the womb.
I nursed him all summer, and then, when I went back to highschool that fall, I kept nursing and pumped for him in the nurses office. I was determined. Everyone second guesses a teenage mother. What could she possibly know for God's sake? So, nursing was mine... no one could argue with it. James gained well and grew fast. He was above the 90% percentile for everything, and I resided in that happy mom's club of fat, huge babies that everyone loves to talk about.
Warren was a c-section and I was completely unprepared for it. I never even considered that a section would be in my cards. But there I was in labor and that little punk was breech. Off we went to the surgery table. His head got stuck as they were getting him out, and when he delivered he was silent. I kept thinking, "Where is that beuatiful cry?" His scores were all 0's and 1's... they had to resuscitate him and then... he screamed and 5 min later was perfect. They wheeled me to recovery where I demanded my baby, struggled to get up in my bed, and put him to my breast. He was a little more difficult to get going, but by the time we left the hospital he had gained weight and we were off and running.
David was a planned section. His older brother messed it up for everyone because they gave me a "classic" cut to get him out. So, this was a whole other experience. It was kind of weird... like checking into a hotel, except that afterward they hook you up to an IV and keep you awake while they cut your pelvis open. He came out crying nicely... I asked for him as soon as I got to recovery and started the nursing. He latched on like a pro and reminded me of James... I sighed with relief.
That was Monday, March 21st and by Wednesday morning he was in the NICU and so was I. There were claims about low-blood sugar and jaundice, but I was already on my iphone looking stuff up and arguing with people. I was in a panic and fighting with the NICU nurses (who can be quite possessive of their tiny wards) gave me some sense of control. Right away I fought about whether he needed to be under a heat lamp because I needed nurse him. I went behind my nurses back (they apparently hate this) and went to the floor docter. The docter had him taken off the heat-lamp and I spent the next week living there in a little chair (literally, I even slept there) next to his bassinette, nursing and testing.... testing and nursing.... oh, and pumping. I kept my own little vigil over his progress in between weighing diapers, taking his temperature, and watching his blood sugar scale like a jail prisoner making hash marks on a wall.
Nights in the NICU are weird. Most of the babies are not full term, not crying, and are not easily disturbed. Me and and my full term 7 lb-er didn't fit in. During the day, the NICU is quiet and somewhat solemn. They have signs up everywhere about "quiet and dark times" and the parents of the premies come in and sit quietly beside their little beeping babies. Night is a different story. The lights are on, the nurses chit-chat, and I was miserable. Trying to sleep upright in a rocking chair with the lights on is hard enough, without listening to conversations about basket raffles, the best place to buy k-cups, and a little bit of flirting with male nurses. My kid and I just wanted to sleep for gods sake! And when he did wake and cry (which was often in that environment), the nurses would joke, "Oh my gosh! What is that? We don't hear that around here!" "Oh yeah?", I would think, "You probablly don't often hear of an overly stressed mother strangling someone with an IV cord or stabbing someone with that damn heel pricker either!"
We went home after a week and for the next 2 months he gained weight slowly. They plotted him on that god forsaken growth chart. You know, the one that most parents are so excited about. "Guess what! Little Bradey is in the 75 percentile for height and weight!" Go fuck yourself. For me that chart was a panacea. So, because my baby wasn't following his "curve" on that chart, the pediatrician wanted me to suppliment with formula and I fought it tooth and nail. They sent me to a lactation consultant and I was eating oatmeal out the wazo and drinking every herb that had anything to do with milk production. At one point the pediatrician told me that I needed to eat more cheeseburgers. Eat more cheeseburgers? Does this guy know who he's talking too? The entire beef industry is supported by my appetite! But anyway, my instincts told me that it had nothing to do with my milk or our nursing. I felt that it was something with his system or metabolism. No one wanted to hear what I thought and he chugged along slowly.
Besides being skinny, he was a perfectly happy and developing baby... so I decided to trust my instincts and I stopped going to the docter all together. (Here is where I want my mother-in-law to know that it's nothing personal... I ignore and do what I want no matter who it is) I ignored calls for weight-check appointments and cancelled his 2 month well visit. I just needed to get away from them all. I needed to take care of my child. I needed to mother him and do what I felt was best. I also stopped looking at people's FB pictures of their plump newborns and claims of amazing well visit stats.
I can tell you this, one bad experience in the hospital or with medicine in general can make you a little nutty. I reacted by cloth diapering, driving to Mennonite farms for raw milk and buckwheat honey, and attachment parenting. I would probablly do most of these things anyway, but I cleaved to them in my search for controll over my child's well-being. I worked hard on him all summer with the nursing. I even got a new docter, a much more laid back one, who was willing to work with me. And slowly, but surely, he started to gain weight. By September he was gaining over 2 lbs a month.... by December he had gone from below the 5% to between the 40-50%.
My little guy is 13 months old now. People remark on how much he's grown, especially his fat chunky legs. These comments make me happy but also make me smart with a bit of pain for that skinny newborn and his haggard mother. But here we are, he his chubby and I am slowly regaining my trust in medicine and my confidence in myself. It's important as a mother to have confidence in yourself because no one cares more for your children than you do. You are their gaurdian, their champion, their protector. Docters are smart, educated people. But you, the mother, made a God-given, natural, or cosmic bond the minute you saw that second line on the stick and smiled or freaked out.
I do realize that after three babies I can be more cavalier about pish-poshing what a docter is saying. If it had been my first child I probably would have taken their word for it because that instinct would have been so new. But even a first time mom shouldn't let anyone rip them of their burgeoning confidence. There should be a healthy balance between a docter's knowledge and a mother's instincts and love. You should be a team, both of you dedicated to the well being of your child. The docter should be your "go-to person". But don't forget that you are the head coach. Afterall, as the floor docter in the NICU told me after one of my rumbles with a nurse, "He is your baby first and our patient second."
A year has come and gone since the birth of my third child, my sweet baby David. I hate the way I feel about his birth. In fact, I don't like to think about it. For the first three months of his life, I was stripped of any mothering confidence I had developed over 14 years (and there was a lot of it) by every docter and nurse I came across. It was a miserable, anxious time for me because (gasp!) he was a slow weight gainer.
14 years prior, I delivered James like a champ. I was 17 and built like an East German swimmer, so pushing out 8 lbs of baby boy went smoothly. Out he came with a perfectly pitched scream and top notch apgar scores. They gave him right to me, and the nurses helped me put him to my breast... I looked down with complete adoration at my little treasure from God snuggled as close to his mother as he could get outside the womb.
I nursed him all summer, and then, when I went back to highschool that fall, I kept nursing and pumped for him in the nurses office. I was determined. Everyone second guesses a teenage mother. What could she possibly know for God's sake? So, nursing was mine... no one could argue with it. James gained well and grew fast. He was above the 90% percentile for everything, and I resided in that happy mom's club of fat, huge babies that everyone loves to talk about.
Warren was a c-section and I was completely unprepared for it. I never even considered that a section would be in my cards. But there I was in labor and that little punk was breech. Off we went to the surgery table. His head got stuck as they were getting him out, and when he delivered he was silent. I kept thinking, "Where is that beuatiful cry?" His scores were all 0's and 1's... they had to resuscitate him and then... he screamed and 5 min later was perfect. They wheeled me to recovery where I demanded my baby, struggled to get up in my bed, and put him to my breast. He was a little more difficult to get going, but by the time we left the hospital he had gained weight and we were off and running.
David was a planned section. His older brother messed it up for everyone because they gave me a "classic" cut to get him out. So, this was a whole other experience. It was kind of weird... like checking into a hotel, except that afterward they hook you up to an IV and keep you awake while they cut your pelvis open. He came out crying nicely... I asked for him as soon as I got to recovery and started the nursing. He latched on like a pro and reminded me of James... I sighed with relief.
That was Monday, March 21st and by Wednesday morning he was in the NICU and so was I. There were claims about low-blood sugar and jaundice, but I was already on my iphone looking stuff up and arguing with people. I was in a panic and fighting with the NICU nurses (who can be quite possessive of their tiny wards) gave me some sense of control. Right away I fought about whether he needed to be under a heat lamp because I needed nurse him. I went behind my nurses back (they apparently hate this) and went to the floor docter. The docter had him taken off the heat-lamp and I spent the next week living there in a little chair (literally, I even slept there) next to his bassinette, nursing and testing.... testing and nursing.... oh, and pumping. I kept my own little vigil over his progress in between weighing diapers, taking his temperature, and watching his blood sugar scale like a jail prisoner making hash marks on a wall.
Nights in the NICU are weird. Most of the babies are not full term, not crying, and are not easily disturbed. Me and and my full term 7 lb-er didn't fit in. During the day, the NICU is quiet and somewhat solemn. They have signs up everywhere about "quiet and dark times" and the parents of the premies come in and sit quietly beside their little beeping babies. Night is a different story. The lights are on, the nurses chit-chat, and I was miserable. Trying to sleep upright in a rocking chair with the lights on is hard enough, without listening to conversations about basket raffles, the best place to buy k-cups, and a little bit of flirting with male nurses. My kid and I just wanted to sleep for gods sake! And when he did wake and cry (which was often in that environment), the nurses would joke, "Oh my gosh! What is that? We don't hear that around here!" "Oh yeah?", I would think, "You probablly don't often hear of an overly stressed mother strangling someone with an IV cord or stabbing someone with that damn heel pricker either!"
We went home after a week and for the next 2 months he gained weight slowly. They plotted him on that god forsaken growth chart. You know, the one that most parents are so excited about. "Guess what! Little Bradey is in the 75 percentile for height and weight!" Go fuck yourself. For me that chart was a panacea. So, because my baby wasn't following his "curve" on that chart, the pediatrician wanted me to suppliment with formula and I fought it tooth and nail. They sent me to a lactation consultant and I was eating oatmeal out the wazo and drinking every herb that had anything to do with milk production. At one point the pediatrician told me that I needed to eat more cheeseburgers. Eat more cheeseburgers? Does this guy know who he's talking too? The entire beef industry is supported by my appetite! But anyway, my instincts told me that it had nothing to do with my milk or our nursing. I felt that it was something with his system or metabolism. No one wanted to hear what I thought and he chugged along slowly.
Besides being skinny, he was a perfectly happy and developing baby... so I decided to trust my instincts and I stopped going to the docter all together. (Here is where I want my mother-in-law to know that it's nothing personal... I ignore and do what I want no matter who it is) I ignored calls for weight-check appointments and cancelled his 2 month well visit. I just needed to get away from them all. I needed to take care of my child. I needed to mother him and do what I felt was best. I also stopped looking at people's FB pictures of their plump newborns and claims of amazing well visit stats.
I can tell you this, one bad experience in the hospital or with medicine in general can make you a little nutty. I reacted by cloth diapering, driving to Mennonite farms for raw milk and buckwheat honey, and attachment parenting. I would probablly do most of these things anyway, but I cleaved to them in my search for controll over my child's well-being. I worked hard on him all summer with the nursing. I even got a new docter, a much more laid back one, who was willing to work with me. And slowly, but surely, he started to gain weight. By September he was gaining over 2 lbs a month.... by December he had gone from below the 5% to between the 40-50%.
My little guy is 13 months old now. People remark on how much he's grown, especially his fat chunky legs. These comments make me happy but also make me smart with a bit of pain for that skinny newborn and his haggard mother. But here we are, he his chubby and I am slowly regaining my trust in medicine and my confidence in myself. It's important as a mother to have confidence in yourself because no one cares more for your children than you do. You are their gaurdian, their champion, their protector. Docters are smart, educated people. But you, the mother, made a God-given, natural, or cosmic bond the minute you saw that second line on the stick and smiled or freaked out.
I do realize that after three babies I can be more cavalier about pish-poshing what a docter is saying. If it had been my first child I probably would have taken their word for it because that instinct would have been so new. But even a first time mom shouldn't let anyone rip them of their burgeoning confidence. There should be a healthy balance between a docter's knowledge and a mother's instincts and love. You should be a team, both of you dedicated to the well being of your child. The docter should be your "go-to person". But don't forget that you are the head coach. Afterall, as the floor docter in the NICU told me after one of my rumbles with a nurse, "He is your baby first and our patient second."
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Intervention
"Thats it, James! We have to do something! Here's the plan... I am going to the gym and taking your brothers. While I'm gone I want you to gather all the bags of soda cans that your father is hoarding and put them in the garage. When I get home we will load them into the minivam and take them to the recycling place." Then I ignored the fact that my teenager looks at me like I'm the grim-reaper everytime I ask him to do anything and left the house.
I went to the gym, lifted weights, ran, and looked around with contempt at the women in their too perfect workout ensambles while I picked breakfast off of the t-shirt I slept in. When I got home, I pushed the garage door button and was met with a horrific sight. A wall, literally a wall almost as tall as me, of stacked garbage bags filled with aluminum cans loomed before me. I stumbled out of my car and stood in a woozy state of shock untill James came out of the house with a smirk on his face.
"James", I said in a raspy, desperate voice, "I can't believe this. We need to do an aluminum can intervention." We loaded the bags into the mini-van and almost completely filled up the car and yet could only get half of them in. Warren thought that sitting in a sea of recycling was awesome. The baby not so much.
So, off we went with our load to the recycling center. There a scary white overlord (nobody does scary better then caucasians) and his crew of hard working Mexican men unloaded my husband's stash. I jumped out to help, my white guilt making me intrinsically uncomfortable with the scene, but the guys chivalrously waved me away. James got out to help and they allowed that. Then came the big moment... the weighing of the cans.... 83 lbs! 83 F-ING lbs of empty soda cans! And this was only the first load... I was ready to ask one of the guys if they had any spare Mexican passports.
We went home and loaded the second half of the cans. This time our legit hoarder neighbor, Mark, came out to watch and even he was all "shock and awe" over the immense quantity of the aluminum collection. He sat on his stoop with his silly old dog and chuckled while telling us a how he used to collect cans but it never got THAT bad.
To be fair, the hoarding stared off with good intentions. David thought it would be a fun project for James. He even ordered him a wall mounted can crusher. But then it started to get out of hand. James succumbed to the teenage ailment of laziness and my husband succumbed to hoarding precious metal. I started to see trash bags of soda cans stashed in every nook and cranny of the garage and basement. The cans were even making their way home from David's office. I tried to make an ultimatum that no more cans be collected untill the ones we had were gone but all that happened was that the cans were snuck around behind my back. I in turn would try to sneak them out in the recycling bin. This caused road-side domestic disturbances with the two of us playing tug-of-war with the green bin. It was getting weird.
My husband has moderate OCD, which can translate into a lot of great qualities and some scarey ones. I tease him all the time about hoarding because he loves junk and finds usefullness in almost anything. This often leads to silly arugments about the amout of shoes I have. But please, my shoe collection is the most beautiful thing God created second only to my children. I recently asked him if he had any hoarders in his family because I heard its genetic. He answers, "I'm Pennsylvania Dutch, love, its in my blood." Crap.
I am annoying in the totally opposite direction. No OCD here! Just CDD Compulsive Disorganized Disorder (I made that up). But my scatter-brain leaves me with a lot less mental anquish... I am not a perfectionist, I don't tend to get depressed, or have trouble sleeping, housework can come and go, I don't get a lot of road rage, or have trouble throwing or giving things away, and stuff can be "good-enough". My flighty brain leaves me free of a lot of stress that many people have to live with. And I am thankfull for that. Yes, I wish I was more organized and thoughtful... but being free of depression, bi-polar disorder, post-partum depression, sleep-disorders, hoarding, OCD, etc is worth a million bucks and I think its directly related to my careless brain-type. I am slightly narcissistic and anti-social, but thats for someone else to complain about and this is my blog.
David and I are opposites in many ways. In fact, he still hasn't told me who he voted for in '08 presidential election and I stopping asking, both of us scared that his answer would cause me to divorce him. But, I don't like the term, "opposites attract" because what we find opposite about each other is hardly attractive.
I'm going to get a little Catholic on you now, but bear with me. During our Pre-Cana (for you non-Catholics, this is Church mandated pre-martial counseling) David and I took a compatiblity test and the Priest bestowed on us the honor of having the worst test results he had ever received. He married us anyway for James's sake, but I can explain the results. We have a lot of the same ideals and thoughts of how married life should be, but our brains think differently. So, we can take a simple question like, "How important is money to you?" and come up with completely different answers. David looks at that question and logically answers, "Very Important" because in David's mind, you need money to live so its very important. I read that question and answer "Not very important" because money is important for living but I'm not a "money person" and I'm not marrying a rich dude (just some engineer with a lousy Lehigh degree) so how could I say that money is "very important" to me? We both know that money is very importnant for living, but we answer the same question differently.
The most important thing I learned in Pre-Cana is the 100% rule that Father James taught us. It is an amazing way to look at marriage. You hear a lot of people say that marriage is 50/50. But Father James said that you should only look at marriage as 100%. You are both trying to get to 100%. If one person (for whatever reason) can only give 30% at a certain time or for a specific thing the other person has to give 70 to pick up the slack and get to 100%. If you go about marriage thinking you only have to give your 50% its going to fail because you'll never get to 100. So, that's what we do... try to pick up the slack for each other, work around each others idiosyncracies, be patient with our opposite brain types, laugh at each other and at ourselves, and do our best to get to 100% even if soda cans are involved.
Speaking of cans, the grand total of the aluminum can collection was 130 lbs and about $75 in our pocket. James called Dad to tell him the amazing stats. David said, "Wow! Tell your mother thank you. We will go out to dinner with the money." So with that the intervention was over. I was rid of the dreaded can collection, and my husband and I had managed to get to 100%.
I went to the gym, lifted weights, ran, and looked around with contempt at the women in their too perfect workout ensambles while I picked breakfast off of the t-shirt I slept in. When I got home, I pushed the garage door button and was met with a horrific sight. A wall, literally a wall almost as tall as me, of stacked garbage bags filled with aluminum cans loomed before me. I stumbled out of my car and stood in a woozy state of shock untill James came out of the house with a smirk on his face.
"James", I said in a raspy, desperate voice, "I can't believe this. We need to do an aluminum can intervention." We loaded the bags into the mini-van and almost completely filled up the car and yet could only get half of them in. Warren thought that sitting in a sea of recycling was awesome. The baby not so much.
So, off we went with our load to the recycling center. There a scary white overlord (nobody does scary better then caucasians) and his crew of hard working Mexican men unloaded my husband's stash. I jumped out to help, my white guilt making me intrinsically uncomfortable with the scene, but the guys chivalrously waved me away. James got out to help and they allowed that. Then came the big moment... the weighing of the cans.... 83 lbs! 83 F-ING lbs of empty soda cans! And this was only the first load... I was ready to ask one of the guys if they had any spare Mexican passports.
We went home and loaded the second half of the cans. This time our legit hoarder neighbor, Mark, came out to watch and even he was all "shock and awe" over the immense quantity of the aluminum collection. He sat on his stoop with his silly old dog and chuckled while telling us a how he used to collect cans but it never got THAT bad.
To be fair, the hoarding stared off with good intentions. David thought it would be a fun project for James. He even ordered him a wall mounted can crusher. But then it started to get out of hand. James succumbed to the teenage ailment of laziness and my husband succumbed to hoarding precious metal. I started to see trash bags of soda cans stashed in every nook and cranny of the garage and basement. The cans were even making their way home from David's office. I tried to make an ultimatum that no more cans be collected untill the ones we had were gone but all that happened was that the cans were snuck around behind my back. I in turn would try to sneak them out in the recycling bin. This caused road-side domestic disturbances with the two of us playing tug-of-war with the green bin. It was getting weird.
My husband has moderate OCD, which can translate into a lot of great qualities and some scarey ones. I tease him all the time about hoarding because he loves junk and finds usefullness in almost anything. This often leads to silly arugments about the amout of shoes I have. But please, my shoe collection is the most beautiful thing God created second only to my children. I recently asked him if he had any hoarders in his family because I heard its genetic. He answers, "I'm Pennsylvania Dutch, love, its in my blood." Crap.
I am annoying in the totally opposite direction. No OCD here! Just CDD Compulsive Disorganized Disorder (I made that up). But my scatter-brain leaves me with a lot less mental anquish... I am not a perfectionist, I don't tend to get depressed, or have trouble sleeping, housework can come and go, I don't get a lot of road rage, or have trouble throwing or giving things away, and stuff can be "good-enough". My flighty brain leaves me free of a lot of stress that many people have to live with. And I am thankfull for that. Yes, I wish I was more organized and thoughtful... but being free of depression, bi-polar disorder, post-partum depression, sleep-disorders, hoarding, OCD, etc is worth a million bucks and I think its directly related to my careless brain-type. I am slightly narcissistic and anti-social, but thats for someone else to complain about and this is my blog.
David and I are opposites in many ways. In fact, he still hasn't told me who he voted for in '08 presidential election and I stopping asking, both of us scared that his answer would cause me to divorce him. But, I don't like the term, "opposites attract" because what we find opposite about each other is hardly attractive.
I'm going to get a little Catholic on you now, but bear with me. During our Pre-Cana (for you non-Catholics, this is Church mandated pre-martial counseling) David and I took a compatiblity test and the Priest bestowed on us the honor of having the worst test results he had ever received. He married us anyway for James's sake, but I can explain the results. We have a lot of the same ideals and thoughts of how married life should be, but our brains think differently. So, we can take a simple question like, "How important is money to you?" and come up with completely different answers. David looks at that question and logically answers, "Very Important" because in David's mind, you need money to live so its very important. I read that question and answer "Not very important" because money is important for living but I'm not a "money person" and I'm not marrying a rich dude (just some engineer with a lousy Lehigh degree) so how could I say that money is "very important" to me? We both know that money is very importnant for living, but we answer the same question differently.
The most important thing I learned in Pre-Cana is the 100% rule that Father James taught us. It is an amazing way to look at marriage. You hear a lot of people say that marriage is 50/50. But Father James said that you should only look at marriage as 100%. You are both trying to get to 100%. If one person (for whatever reason) can only give 30% at a certain time or for a specific thing the other person has to give 70 to pick up the slack and get to 100%. If you go about marriage thinking you only have to give your 50% its going to fail because you'll never get to 100. So, that's what we do... try to pick up the slack for each other, work around each others idiosyncracies, be patient with our opposite brain types, laugh at each other and at ourselves, and do our best to get to 100% even if soda cans are involved.
Speaking of cans, the grand total of the aluminum can collection was 130 lbs and about $75 in our pocket. James called Dad to tell him the amazing stats. David said, "Wow! Tell your mother thank you. We will go out to dinner with the money." So with that the intervention was over. I was rid of the dreaded can collection, and my husband and I had managed to get to 100%.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The Lively Child
It starts out with a text exchange something like this...
Single Male Relative: Does Warren snore?
Me: Not really.
Me: What's up about Warren's sleep?
Single Male Relative: Something on the news. Then no apnea or snoring? Not a mouth breather, either?
Me: Nose breather, I think. He goes to bed, falls asleep in 5 minutes and is in a coma untill the magical hour of 7 am.
Then I do a little research on this cryptic exchange and find out that a study was done linking children who regularly snore with behavioral and emotional problems. Really? REALLY? My child is "lively"! Just ask his pre-school teacher! She told me so! Sigh.
Life is tough for the parent of a "lively" child. People are always trying to figure out whats up with your kid. Why IS he that way? Does he snore? Does he eat too many products with corn-syrup? Are you disciplining him regularly... and are sticking to what you say? How were you when you were little? (I was shy) How was your husband? (perfectly well behaved... just ask him and his mom) Do you baby him? Do you beat him? NO, NO, NO! He's just LIVELY!
Don't get me wrong, I had my doubts. Coming off of a calm, passive first child, Warren took me by storm. It was a lot to get used to. From the quiet child who stood dutifully with me in the store... to Warren who runs the 100 yard dash up and down aisles, refuses to leave the lobster tank like someone who chained themself to a tree, and will moan and complain about not getting fruit snacks like an Israelite in the desert for 40 years. Speaking of which, he went to Bible camp and told me that Moses was WAY awesomer than Jesus. I mean, come on mom, Moses was like a SUPER HERO! (poor pacifist Jesus didn't leave much of an impression with all that blah blah blah about loving and what-not) But don't worry, he did pay some attention during the boring New Testament stuff, because the next thing I know, he's pretending to nail a kid to the cross at his older brother's swim meet. And this kid doesn't care about punishments, threats, ultimateums. Literally, he just does not care. Whatever it is, he can do without it or go on to something else... it just doesn't matter to him. So, at one point, I checked with a professional I know. He's fine... just "lively".
There is a mysterious exception to this lack of decent behavior and it's preschool. It's the reason I just go with the flow out here in the real world. I'll stand in the checkout line and be patient with him when he's trying to sit in the bagging station because the second he steps into preschool he is the perfect citizen. He's good at sharing, will play with anyone, and is a kind leader in the classrom. The teacher told me that school would always be "easy" for Warren. He knows every answer to the point that she has to tell him, "Warren, let other kid's have a turn!" One exhausting day (I can't remember which, there are so many of them) I said to his teacher, "But, Mrs. M., he's so... so...." "Lively", she finishes for me and gives me a knowing smile. A weight is lifted from shoulders and angels sing.
So, I no longer worry if his body composition is made up of fun-dip and hawaiian punch or if people wonder if he was raised by wolves. It's all good, I accept it - My kid is wild... but when you stop and look at things from his little boy eyes there is a lot to be wild about. He has a spirit for everything and everything is exciting... everything is a game to be played, a competition to have, something to get...to get to. There is just too much to do, to see, to be involved in. He doesn't want to be slowed down by parental authority. There is no time for that in his world. You can keep your rules and restrictions.... ultimatums and silly star charts. If he wants to spend an extra 15 minutes at the lobster tank he's going to do it god damn it! YOU can toe tap all you you want. YOU will just have to wait. I mean, what on earth could be cooler than a tank of live lobsters, mom? Don't you get it? Don't you see?
Of course there is a time for discipline, health food, and worrisome studies... but if you have a "lively" child sometimes you just have to say, "No, he dosen't snore, he's just awesome!"
Single Male Relative: Does Warren snore?
Me: Not really.
Me: What's up about Warren's sleep?
Single Male Relative: Something on the news. Then no apnea or snoring? Not a mouth breather, either?
Me: Nose breather, I think. He goes to bed, falls asleep in 5 minutes and is in a coma untill the magical hour of 7 am.
Then I do a little research on this cryptic exchange and find out that a study was done linking children who regularly snore with behavioral and emotional problems. Really? REALLY? My child is "lively"! Just ask his pre-school teacher! She told me so! Sigh.
Life is tough for the parent of a "lively" child. People are always trying to figure out whats up with your kid. Why IS he that way? Does he snore? Does he eat too many products with corn-syrup? Are you disciplining him regularly... and are sticking to what you say? How were you when you were little? (I was shy) How was your husband? (perfectly well behaved... just ask him and his mom) Do you baby him? Do you beat him? NO, NO, NO! He's just LIVELY!
Don't get me wrong, I had my doubts. Coming off of a calm, passive first child, Warren took me by storm. It was a lot to get used to. From the quiet child who stood dutifully with me in the store... to Warren who runs the 100 yard dash up and down aisles, refuses to leave the lobster tank like someone who chained themself to a tree, and will moan and complain about not getting fruit snacks like an Israelite in the desert for 40 years. Speaking of which, he went to Bible camp and told me that Moses was WAY awesomer than Jesus. I mean, come on mom, Moses was like a SUPER HERO! (poor pacifist Jesus didn't leave much of an impression with all that blah blah blah about loving and what-not) But don't worry, he did pay some attention during the boring New Testament stuff, because the next thing I know, he's pretending to nail a kid to the cross at his older brother's swim meet. And this kid doesn't care about punishments, threats, ultimateums. Literally, he just does not care. Whatever it is, he can do without it or go on to something else... it just doesn't matter to him. So, at one point, I checked with a professional I know. He's fine... just "lively".
There is a mysterious exception to this lack of decent behavior and it's preschool. It's the reason I just go with the flow out here in the real world. I'll stand in the checkout line and be patient with him when he's trying to sit in the bagging station because the second he steps into preschool he is the perfect citizen. He's good at sharing, will play with anyone, and is a kind leader in the classrom. The teacher told me that school would always be "easy" for Warren. He knows every answer to the point that she has to tell him, "Warren, let other kid's have a turn!" One exhausting day (I can't remember which, there are so many of them) I said to his teacher, "But, Mrs. M., he's so... so...." "Lively", she finishes for me and gives me a knowing smile. A weight is lifted from shoulders and angels sing.
So, I no longer worry if his body composition is made up of fun-dip and hawaiian punch or if people wonder if he was raised by wolves. It's all good, I accept it - My kid is wild... but when you stop and look at things from his little boy eyes there is a lot to be wild about. He has a spirit for everything and everything is exciting... everything is a game to be played, a competition to have, something to get...to get to. There is just too much to do, to see, to be involved in. He doesn't want to be slowed down by parental authority. There is no time for that in his world. You can keep your rules and restrictions.... ultimatums and silly star charts. If he wants to spend an extra 15 minutes at the lobster tank he's going to do it god damn it! YOU can toe tap all you you want. YOU will just have to wait. I mean, what on earth could be cooler than a tank of live lobsters, mom? Don't you get it? Don't you see?
Of course there is a time for discipline, health food, and worrisome studies... but if you have a "lively" child sometimes you just have to say, "No, he dosen't snore, he's just awesome!"
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