Apologies to all, but only stay-at-home Moms (or Dads) are going to get this column. I mean no disrespect to the many working parents out there, I used to be one, too. And I know you're with your kids on the weekends, but you're just not going to get this column.
I have two kids, nine and three. David is from my first marriage, and consequently has some stuff to deal with, which has gotten easier as he's gotten older. Suddenly, in the last three weeks or so, the maturity level has gone up a couple of notches. Don't get me wrong, his room's still a mess, I get the eye roll at bed time, I still can't figure out how the water gets out of the shower when there are two shower curtains to keep it in the tub, etc., but he's become attentive, doesn't argue as much, accepts direction and finishes a project before moving on, I'm almost sad (I said almost), I think he's growing up right before my eyes.
Mackenzie is my three year old and from my second marriage. She is amazing to watch because she is so much like my husband and I, throwing back my own words at me can be sometimes hard to hear. Her preschool teachers constantly tell me that sometimes they forget she's three because she articulates her thoughts so well. She idolizes her big brother and he adores her, but they are brother and sister, and when that fact comes into play, it can be ugly.
David is home for the summer, school has been out for a couple of weeks now. Mackenzie is in preschool three days a week, mornings only. So today I had both kids home this morning. David had day camp at school at 9:30 a.m, the same time Mackenzie had her swimming lesson across town (Mom didn't have her organizer with her when she scheduled this mess). It therefore was imperative that we leave our house clean, dressed, and fed by 8:40 a.m. No one wanted to get up, no one wanted to get dressed, no one liked my breakfast choices. St. Vincent de Paul was coming by to pick up the remnants of the garage sale leftover for donation, and I needed to get that stuff out of the garage and leave it up front for them to pick up. The dog and parrot both needed attention. And for some reason, today was the day my phones started ringing at 8:00 a.m.
David has pulled himself together and I ask him to get himself and his sister in the car. Mackenzie is all over the driveway, running from flies (our newest fear) and not getting in the car. David has made the valiant attempt and I tell him not to worry about it, I'll handle her. At the precise moment he decides to swing the door closed, Mackenzie decides she better cooperate. Her hand didn't get caught, there were no broken bones, but she did get some skin scraped on the edge of her finger. She proceeded to cry about her finger for the next four and a half hours -- all the way to David's school (20 minute ride). All the way to the YMCA (25 minute ride). Through the entire swimming lesson (30 minute class). Over to dad's office (20 minute ride). At dad's office (a very quick ten minutes). Back to pick up David (35 minute ride) and drop him off at a friends house (10 minutes).
(Now here I must interject the next piece of good fortune. At dad's office, we utilized part of our visit in the bathroom, she is fully potty trained and I haven't carried a diaper bag or a change of clothes in at least six months. As she went to the bathroom, I noticed she had what I'll call RB (short for Runny Butt, I'm sure you get the idea). I'm surprised, she hasn't had RB in a while, and I'm chalking it up to the fact that she's made herself so upset this morning. I've tried a variety of things at this point to distract her from her pain and get her to smile and nothing is working.)
After the friends house, I decide to take Mackenzie to a local park close to the friends house, thinking I won't have to make the big loop around when I pick David up in a couple of hours. It was hot, so I decided to take Mackenzie to an ice cream store, counting on the sugar to give her energy at the park and make her happy and give Mom a break because the last nerve was about ready to blow. She smiled. Things were good. Just as the ice cream got to the table, we had major RB. She lost it again. I haul her into the bathroom and survey the damage. It couldn't have been much worse. I had baby wipes but that was it, no change of clothes, no diapers or underwear, and she's screaming the whole time. Chucked the underwear in the trash, not salvageable given my current situation. Washed out the pants from the inside, had her put them back on, and I slid baby wipes and paper towels around her bottom. Cleaned up the bathroom as best I could. Got my drink to go, left her ice cream (more screaming) and back home we went (25 minute ride). Changed her at home, caught my breath for five minutes and back for David we went (25 minute ride). Picked David up and now it was time to take him to his dad's house, he's there every Thursday (35 minute ride to dad's). Poor David, he pretty much sucked up to his sister every time he saw her, and she still wanted nothing to do with him -- he tried singing to her, making funny faces at her, telling her jokes, I felt bad when he reached for her hand and tried to kiss it and make it better, she completely blew him off. As I walked him to his dad's door, I told him not to worry about it, she'd be better tomorrow when he saw her. Let's hope that wasn't an extreme stretch of the truth.
When kids have diarrhea, the things you worry about most is dehydration. You've got to keep the fluids going down their throat, the idea is to get the fluids in faster than they come out. Of course, the job is twice as hard when they don't want to take them in at all. By 3:00 p.m., I was on my way to the doctor's office, she just wasn't right, the constant crying was starting to worry me even though it didn't sound like the pain cry, it was definitely the wimpy cry, but nonetheless, it was time. And going in to it I knew there was no medicine I could give her, nothing to stop the RB, but I had to try something. She blew twice while we were there. (Thank goodness I picked up a change of clothes.) While the doctor told me lots of stuff I already knew, he did mention something I didn't. Since he figured out her particular case is viral, he said it would be contagious and adults could get the same thing, but in a much milder form. Hmmmm, double extra hand washing for me. Called the husband to tell him what was going on, and was told he had left a little early, had said he was feeling a little tired and run down. Hmmmm, he hadn't mentioned that to me when I talked to him earlier in the day. We got home, and there he was lying down on the bed, said he didn't know why he didn't feel so good. I did.
Why do I direct this column at those stay at home parents? Because this was one of those days that all these things were going to get done and not a darn thing got accomplished. Now the health and well being of my child is paramount and my life can go to hell as long as my kids are OK. But what was shaping up to be a good day fell apart so quickly. My laundry is still on the floor. The dishwasher is still loaded with clean dishes and the sink has dirty ones in it. My kitchen floor is, well, let's not talk about my kitchen floor, OK? My coupons are still on the table waiting to be cut and sorted and my bed didn't even get made this morning (but I don't think the husband cared when he came home and rolled into it) and I didn't even cook dinner today (again, not high on Keith's priorites right now). I know I didn't do a damn thing today and I feel guilty and useless. So it was a surprise when David called me from his dad's, to see how Mackenzie was feeling and to thank me for taking him over to his friend's house today. And Mackenzie announced to her dad that she didn't want him right now, she wanted Mom because I had taken care of her all day. I went to bed thinking I had done a good job for today after all. And maybe if I get up extra early before she wakes up I can unload the dishwasher and fold the laundry, etc. And if she wakes up early, well then we'll just cuddle in Mom and Dad's bed for awhile.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
The Meaning of Discarded Treasures
We had a garage sale this past Saturday and I'm happy to say we netted about $450 for a day's work. We have one every couple of years when there's too much stuff and not enough room. I'm sure as my kids get older the frequency will diminish, right now my kids are still young enough where we're trading up (crib for twin bed, big dresser giving way to smaller dresser plus desk, etc.), and my house is overrun with the small things of infancy and we're almost through toddlerhood at this point, so from time to time the expulsion of all these once needed necessitiies is paramount to ramaining sane. David had 343 remote control objects of various sizes and shapes, how many can a single person control with just one pair of hands? (David's original answer -- 343. His revised answer after my anger started fogging up his glasses from three feet away -- 342). Mackenzie had so many young child toys, stuff she got on her own merits plus some of the good ones I saved from David little kid days, they were everywhere. I had kitchen paraphernalia I don't have a chance to use anymore, Keith had a bunch of really nice polo style shirts with lots of big names on them, but since we've been working out his shoulders and arms don't fit in them anymore, plus other stuff that was once vital and alive, but now gathers dust waiting to be used again.
The decision to discard one's own stuff can be either heartbreaking or made without a second thought. Some of the kid's stuff was easy to put in the discard pile. Some brought back memories of a child's face, lit up like Las Vegas, and for just a minute, you think if you hang on to the item, you'll hang onto the look on that child's face, maybe you can bring back a better time, a happier time, an easier time, you choose the adjective. Coming to the realization that it's just stuff, and the past is just memories can be hard to deal with. Then you have to price the stuff, and it's agony again as you try to put a value on your memories, or worse, a value on your taste. Five dollars for that! I paid thirty dollars seven years ago when it was new and before everybody and their brother had one! I told David that whatever he contributed to the garage sale would be his money if it sold, but if I pulled items from his room and I sold them, the money would be mine. Even my nine year old suffered from the stress of his decision making, I could hear him rationalizing about the train he got for Christmas that year, or how that car was his favorite gift from his dinosaur themed birthday party. In the end, he did contribute about a dozen items, in a range of sizes and shapes and ultimately made $16.
I'm not much of a garage sale shopper myself. There's a time constraint involved, plus the fact that I can't do much shopping with a nine and three year old around, it puts the damper on shopping of any kind. When I lived in Southern California, a garage sale might net a great Disney find, or a piece of transferware to add to my collection. Here in Idaho, the chances of that Disney find are more rare, and while I might be able to find something of value worth my time, it's not high on my list right now. I wanted to sell my stuff Saturday morning, but it was a great way to watch people for awhile. Watch and see what they were looking for, watch them and see them criticize my stuff, and then of all the injustices, watch them as they turned their nose up at my valuable stuff. What do they seek among my discarded memories? I watch them and wonder -- what are they looking for? Are they trying to replace something they once had? Are they looking for a more inexpensive version of something? Having been on the extremely tight and fixed budget at one point in my life, I can certainly understand shopping with quarters and dimes, but was still taken aback when I actually saw my former self buying a small toy for a child. A two dollar toy with one dollar being scraped out of the ashtray holder in her car. I used to do the same thing for french fries for my child, and often couldn't scrape the lousy 99 cents together. And it wasn't that my child needed french fries everyday, but I wanted to be able to provide them. I took her money and put the toy in a bag for her, and as she was leaving I offered a couple of cookies to her child, who eagerly shot out a hand. They were cookies that I was selling, a quarter a piece. As she went to stop her child (she had seen the sign), I told her if it was OK with her, it was OK with me, it's hard to say no to a child and I had been giving them away to kids all morning long. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part, but I think she understood I had been there once, too, and let her child take the cookies. My husband said he thought I was going to just give her the toy. I told him that I wouldn't haven't robbed her pride from her for anything. To me it was a two dollar toy, but that child needed to see his Mom buy that toy and hand it to him, and she needed to buy it and give it to him. He was so happy in the back seat of his car, clutching his new toy and wiping cookie crumbs from his face.
A simple reminder that one person's trash is another's treasure. That toy brought my daughter joy and I'm glad to see it continues to do it's job elsewhere.
The decision to discard one's own stuff can be either heartbreaking or made without a second thought. Some of the kid's stuff was easy to put in the discard pile. Some brought back memories of a child's face, lit up like Las Vegas, and for just a minute, you think if you hang on to the item, you'll hang onto the look on that child's face, maybe you can bring back a better time, a happier time, an easier time, you choose the adjective. Coming to the realization that it's just stuff, and the past is just memories can be hard to deal with. Then you have to price the stuff, and it's agony again as you try to put a value on your memories, or worse, a value on your taste. Five dollars for that! I paid thirty dollars seven years ago when it was new and before everybody and their brother had one! I told David that whatever he contributed to the garage sale would be his money if it sold, but if I pulled items from his room and I sold them, the money would be mine. Even my nine year old suffered from the stress of his decision making, I could hear him rationalizing about the train he got for Christmas that year, or how that car was his favorite gift from his dinosaur themed birthday party. In the end, he did contribute about a dozen items, in a range of sizes and shapes and ultimately made $16.
I'm not much of a garage sale shopper myself. There's a time constraint involved, plus the fact that I can't do much shopping with a nine and three year old around, it puts the damper on shopping of any kind. When I lived in Southern California, a garage sale might net a great Disney find, or a piece of transferware to add to my collection. Here in Idaho, the chances of that Disney find are more rare, and while I might be able to find something of value worth my time, it's not high on my list right now. I wanted to sell my stuff Saturday morning, but it was a great way to watch people for awhile. Watch and see what they were looking for, watch them and see them criticize my stuff, and then of all the injustices, watch them as they turned their nose up at my valuable stuff. What do they seek among my discarded memories? I watch them and wonder -- what are they looking for? Are they trying to replace something they once had? Are they looking for a more inexpensive version of something? Having been on the extremely tight and fixed budget at one point in my life, I can certainly understand shopping with quarters and dimes, but was still taken aback when I actually saw my former self buying a small toy for a child. A two dollar toy with one dollar being scraped out of the ashtray holder in her car. I used to do the same thing for french fries for my child, and often couldn't scrape the lousy 99 cents together. And it wasn't that my child needed french fries everyday, but I wanted to be able to provide them. I took her money and put the toy in a bag for her, and as she was leaving I offered a couple of cookies to her child, who eagerly shot out a hand. They were cookies that I was selling, a quarter a piece. As she went to stop her child (she had seen the sign), I told her if it was OK with her, it was OK with me, it's hard to say no to a child and I had been giving them away to kids all morning long. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part, but I think she understood I had been there once, too, and let her child take the cookies. My husband said he thought I was going to just give her the toy. I told him that I wouldn't haven't robbed her pride from her for anything. To me it was a two dollar toy, but that child needed to see his Mom buy that toy and hand it to him, and she needed to buy it and give it to him. He was so happy in the back seat of his car, clutching his new toy and wiping cookie crumbs from his face.
A simple reminder that one person's trash is another's treasure. That toy brought my daughter joy and I'm glad to see it continues to do it's job elsewhere.
Saturday, June 05, 2004
Headaches
I suffer from migraines. I have since I was about sixteen. So seeing as I'm well into over twenty years with them, I consider myself an expert on the subject. I've read everything I can get my hands on about them, I know all about the latest pharmaceutical inventions in order to seek relief, I have a personal list of how and sometimes why I get them, and how to deal with them when they attack. And yet with all my knowledge about them, and even what produces migraines in my own head, I still suffer their agony.
Sometimes, the pain is on one side of my head, sometimes it's the other. It can be in the front or in the back of my head. And that is where the differences end. My migraines are always an unrelenting throbbing pain, I literally can hear the pounding inside my head echoing through my ears. And while I wait to see if my medication will do me the favor of easing my pain, I assume gymnastic positions in order to put pressure on the offending part of my head. I'm in the dark, because the most miniscule drop of light on my eyes is nothing short of blade-like steel being pushed through my brain. My eyes are closed, I pull a blanket over my head, bury my face in the pillow, and yet I still see light -- damn that knife!
The medications are at once wonderful and frightening. I remember when I could take one Vicodin and blissfully sleep for twelve hours on just the smell of the drug alone; now, I take two Vicodin and stay awake long enough to feel the headache burner get turned down from scorch to simmer before I sleep for a couple of hours. I've been through a handful of drugs to help in easing my pain, some didn't work for me at all, some worked great until my body refused to allow them to do their job. My body, rejecting what could save it from the headache inferno, deciding instead to suffer the pain until something better comes along. At times, I am powerless, and I must seek the attention of someone with more power than I have, someone who can give me what I need and quickly. The doctors string me out often enough, having me answer their stupid questions (can't they see I am an expert in the suffering of migraine headaches?) before giving me the relief I seek. Their medicines are much better now, I feel the immediate effects of tranquility and know that when I wake later there will be no drug hangover for three days.
Why do I write about my migraines? Because I had one yesterday, a small headache that ibuprofen had no effect on, which through the course of the day started developing into something that could have undermined my plans for the weekend. I was at the point of the second to last step, when thankfully my medicine decided I had had enough for today and slowly eased its way back to wherever it is it comes from. And I think about my migraines and wonder why. Why did yesterday's migraine retreat after just a minor skirmish? Why didn't it stay and fight, like it has so many other times, and win? Did my body have something in it yesterday it didn't have before, something that turned it into a killing machine against the headache ravage? If so, can I figure out what it was and bottle it, to save for the next attack?
What possible use could there be for having a migraine headache?
Sometimes, the pain is on one side of my head, sometimes it's the other. It can be in the front or in the back of my head. And that is where the differences end. My migraines are always an unrelenting throbbing pain, I literally can hear the pounding inside my head echoing through my ears. And while I wait to see if my medication will do me the favor of easing my pain, I assume gymnastic positions in order to put pressure on the offending part of my head. I'm in the dark, because the most miniscule drop of light on my eyes is nothing short of blade-like steel being pushed through my brain. My eyes are closed, I pull a blanket over my head, bury my face in the pillow, and yet I still see light -- damn that knife!
The medications are at once wonderful and frightening. I remember when I could take one Vicodin and blissfully sleep for twelve hours on just the smell of the drug alone; now, I take two Vicodin and stay awake long enough to feel the headache burner get turned down from scorch to simmer before I sleep for a couple of hours. I've been through a handful of drugs to help in easing my pain, some didn't work for me at all, some worked great until my body refused to allow them to do their job. My body, rejecting what could save it from the headache inferno, deciding instead to suffer the pain until something better comes along. At times, I am powerless, and I must seek the attention of someone with more power than I have, someone who can give me what I need and quickly. The doctors string me out often enough, having me answer their stupid questions (can't they see I am an expert in the suffering of migraine headaches?) before giving me the relief I seek. Their medicines are much better now, I feel the immediate effects of tranquility and know that when I wake later there will be no drug hangover for three days.
Why do I write about my migraines? Because I had one yesterday, a small headache that ibuprofen had no effect on, which through the course of the day started developing into something that could have undermined my plans for the weekend. I was at the point of the second to last step, when thankfully my medicine decided I had had enough for today and slowly eased its way back to wherever it is it comes from. And I think about my migraines and wonder why. Why did yesterday's migraine retreat after just a minor skirmish? Why didn't it stay and fight, like it has so many other times, and win? Did my body have something in it yesterday it didn't have before, something that turned it into a killing machine against the headache ravage? If so, can I figure out what it was and bottle it, to save for the next attack?
What possible use could there be for having a migraine headache?
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