Thursday, September 29, 2011
You snooze, you lose
I am convinced that there's a sleep balance with babies and toddlers. There's no point in getting too excited about today's 3 and a half hour nap because it means tomorrow's twenty minute floor nap and an afternoon with a semi-hysterical two-year-old.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Contagion
Bear is in nursery school. Five days ago, while talking nose-to-nose to Bunny, he coughed basically *in* her mouth. All I could do at that point was sigh, certain in the knowledge that in short order Bunny would be a raging ball of viral infection. Sure enough, the next day her poor little nose was stuffy and she was inconsolable. This lead to two days of pitifully broken sleep for both of us. At one point (I can't remember due to extreme sleep deprivation during this time), Bunny screwed up her little face and proceeded let out a huge sneeze that went in my eyes and up my nose. Ahhh, how incidental hygiene becomes once you have children.
One day later, around noon, I felt the tell-tale throat tickle that proceeds 95% of my colds. It's weird when you can pinpoint the moment a cold starts. At that point there was nothing much to do but wait it out. The problem is that when I'm sick I'm a really big baby. Worse than a real baby. I'm on the end of day two and my only observation is that at least colds follow a predictable course and I'm fortunate to hold the misguided belief when I'm sick that tomorrow (always tomorrow) I'll feel better. The crappiest part was that Bear woke up today with a cough and runny nose. Apparently whatever he coughed into Bunny's face five days ago was just a dry run for the real thing in his little body. So Bunny is almost better, I'm in the thick the cold and Bear is at the beginning. So far Kent is still healthy and I hope he stays that way. If he doesn't, the upshot is that I'm now immune and can fully enjoy being irritated about taking care of him. Let the record show that while I am a total baby while I'm sick, I expect others to display appropriate amounts of suck-it-up and continue life as normal.
Please don't let this post color your reflection of me. I am utterly grateful that I can complain about the common cold and not dengue fever or malaria. Now go wash your hands.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Come fly the crabby skies
I've seen a lot of stories in the news lately about the pros and cons of flying with young children. I love this debate, particularly because I love reading the judgmental comments posted by people who don't have kids. Some of the most common statements are: "Children shouldn't fly until they are [insert age here]", "You don't really need to travel with kids", "Why don't you bring toys/snacks/a shot of whiskey to keep your kid quiet" or, my personal favorite, "I'm entitled to a quiet, pleasant flight." I shall now take a few minutes to explain and/or debunk each of these.
1. Children shouldn't fly until they are two/five/a teenager/in college
Oh, how I love these unhelpful observations from people that don't have children. In rebuttal, I'll relate a little story form my own life. When I had Bear, Kent was stationed at Fort Bragg thanks to the Army Reserves. He was gone for a year, which means that he missed the bitchy part of my pregnancy (luckily he was around for the narcoleptic part) and the first few months of Bear's life. We were able to Skype and talk on the phone but it's not the same as being in the same room and changing shit-up-the-back diapers. Since he was required to jump through several completely arbitrary hoops in order to visit us, it was easier to visit him. So at six weeks old I packed up Bear, his car seat, his stroller, and approximately fifty more pounds of gear and flew to North Carolina. Although I required a whole bottle of Tums to deal with my anxiety about flying with an infant, our trip went great. One man commented that he didn't even realize I had a baby with me. (Score! Also, something that would never again be said to me.) So I guess, since we obviously had a lot of choice about Kent being gone, Bear and I should have stayed home and dealt with the separation, rather than go for our visit?
2. You don't really need to travel with kids
First, look at the above story. Also, in case you aren't aware, flying to Kansas City takes two hours. Driving there takes 10 hours. You know which one sucks more with a little kid? THE TRIP THAT TAKES LONGER. Sure, in the car you don't make other people listen to your kid cry, but if your the kind of person that's going to bitch about it on an airplane you're exactly the kind of person I'd like to annoy. And for the record, I've looked into it and leaving your kid at home for five days in a kennel while you and your spouse go to Jamaica is considered abuse. Even if you leave them plenty of food and water. I know. But rules were made to be followed.
3. Why don't you bring toys/snacks/a shot of whiskey to keep your kid quiet
This is never phrased as a question but always a statement, like you're too stupid to figure out that your kid won't be content chewing on the emergency instructions in the seat pocket for a three hour flight to New Orleans. Obviously I brought a snack but I don't think it's my fault that I ate it after my child took one bite and then smeared half of it all over me, the seat, the window, and the hair of the person sitting in front of us. I was hungry and the airlines are cheap. I'm sorry but one of the 100 calorie bags of "snacks" are not going to keep me happy. Maybe I should take your airline provided snack instead? As to the toys...well, we have those as well but my kid is much more interested in taking everything out of my purse and throwing it on the floor. And the whiskey? Well naturally I brought that for me. I was going to share it with you, but frankly you're being kind of a jerk and now I want to keep it all for myself.
4. I'm entitled to a quiet, pleasant flight
Oh this is my favorite one of all. If you truly think that you are entitled to a quiet, pleasant flight then you best save your pennies and charter a private jet or buy your own, a la John Travolta. Even if my kid quietly colors the tray and the window and doesn't disturb you at all, you'll still have to contend with the teenager playing his iPod so loud you can hear every single filthy word of the most popular rap songs, the extremely drunk vacationers, the 8-year-old kicking your seat and the person sitting next to you who is apparently extremely relaxed on the idea of "personal space." Let's make it clear: you are entitled to a flight where you get to your destination alive and with most of your luggage intact. You are not entitled to a flight where no one annoys you. If that's your view of a realistic life then I think you're going to spend a lot of time disappointed.
Unless the parent of the child in question is blatantly ignoring their distressed child, why don't you go ahead, cut some slack, and stop being an asshole?
1. Children shouldn't fly until they are two/five/a teenager/in college
Oh, how I love these unhelpful observations from people that don't have children. In rebuttal, I'll relate a little story form my own life. When I had Bear, Kent was stationed at Fort Bragg thanks to the Army Reserves. He was gone for a year, which means that he missed the bitchy part of my pregnancy (luckily he was around for the narcoleptic part) and the first few months of Bear's life. We were able to Skype and talk on the phone but it's not the same as being in the same room and changing shit-up-the-back diapers. Since he was required to jump through several completely arbitrary hoops in order to visit us, it was easier to visit him. So at six weeks old I packed up Bear, his car seat, his stroller, and approximately fifty more pounds of gear and flew to North Carolina. Although I required a whole bottle of Tums to deal with my anxiety about flying with an infant, our trip went great. One man commented that he didn't even realize I had a baby with me. (Score! Also, something that would never again be said to me.) So I guess, since we obviously had a lot of choice about Kent being gone, Bear and I should have stayed home and dealt with the separation, rather than go for our visit?
2. You don't really need to travel with kids
First, look at the above story. Also, in case you aren't aware, flying to Kansas City takes two hours. Driving there takes 10 hours. You know which one sucks more with a little kid? THE TRIP THAT TAKES LONGER. Sure, in the car you don't make other people listen to your kid cry, but if your the kind of person that's going to bitch about it on an airplane you're exactly the kind of person I'd like to annoy. And for the record, I've looked into it and leaving your kid at home for five days in a kennel while you and your spouse go to Jamaica is considered abuse. Even if you leave them plenty of food and water. I know. But rules were made to be followed.
3. Why don't you bring toys/snacks/a shot of whiskey to keep your kid quiet
This is never phrased as a question but always a statement, like you're too stupid to figure out that your kid won't be content chewing on the emergency instructions in the seat pocket for a three hour flight to New Orleans. Obviously I brought a snack but I don't think it's my fault that I ate it after my child took one bite and then smeared half of it all over me, the seat, the window, and the hair of the person sitting in front of us. I was hungry and the airlines are cheap. I'm sorry but one of the 100 calorie bags of "snacks" are not going to keep me happy. Maybe I should take your airline provided snack instead? As to the toys...well, we have those as well but my kid is much more interested in taking everything out of my purse and throwing it on the floor. And the whiskey? Well naturally I brought that for me. I was going to share it with you, but frankly you're being kind of a jerk and now I want to keep it all for myself.
4. I'm entitled to a quiet, pleasant flight
Oh this is my favorite one of all. If you truly think that you are entitled to a quiet, pleasant flight then you best save your pennies and charter a private jet or buy your own, a la John Travolta. Even if my kid quietly colors the tray and the window and doesn't disturb you at all, you'll still have to contend with the teenager playing his iPod so loud you can hear every single filthy word of the most popular rap songs, the extremely drunk vacationers, the 8-year-old kicking your seat and the person sitting next to you who is apparently extremely relaxed on the idea of "personal space." Let's make it clear: you are entitled to a flight where you get to your destination alive and with most of your luggage intact. You are not entitled to a flight where no one annoys you. If that's your view of a realistic life then I think you're going to spend a lot of time disappointed.
Unless the parent of the child in question is blatantly ignoring their distressed child, why don't you go ahead, cut some slack, and stop being an asshole?
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Remembering
I suppose telling you I spent time today reflecting on the terrorist attacks ten years ago wouldn't come as much of a surprise. Most people did, I suppose. With the media coverage I think you'd have to make a special effort to avoid it, although I'm guessing most people wanted to take time to reflect and mourn. That so many people were killed for no good reason is tragic. Watching their friends and relatives today at Ground Zero well...it's heartbreaking.
I could write so much about what I think of the individual loss. I could easily speculate on how their relatives feel about the terrorists, about Islam, about the public nature of the crime. I could make assumptions about how they feel today and how they've coped the last ten years. But you know what? I would be talking out of my ass. I'm not one of them and I can't relate. That part of the tragedy isn't mine. It belongs only to those that experienced that day, and that loss, first-hand. My father-in-law covered the attacks in mid-town Manhattan as a cameraman for NBC and I've talked to him about it, so I suppose I could speculate on how people feel who were there and survived. But again, that's not my story so I won't presume to tell it. The story I think of is the one that I feel, the one I think of every September 11.
My story isn't dramatic; in fact it's not even a story. Rather, it's a series of emotions based solely on the perspective of an outsider. I was 19 on September 11, a college student living in Denver. I didn't know anyone in New York. I'd never been to New York. That didn't negate the horror I felt watching the carnage unfold but it did minimize how it related to me. Did things change in Denver? Maybe, but not a lot. My emotions now are related less to New York City, Washington DC and Pennsylvania and instead to the country and its citizens as a whole. In the immediate aftermath I do think people were nicer, kinder. They took more time and some of the hard edges were softened, but it didn't last. I don't know when the change started--it probably didn't take too long, Americans have notoriously short memories--but I'm certain that by the time we invaded Iraq in March 2003 the tides were starting to shift. People were becoming divided and it would only get uglier as time went on.
I think of the utter loss of human life. The 2,977 on September 11; 6,240 U.S. soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan; countless Iraqi and Afghani civilians who'd done nothing more than live in a country America invaded; at least a handful of people that committed suicide in the wake of September 11. I think of how our politicians have squandered the opportunity to work together a build a better country. This isn't about Democrat or Republican (as far as I'm concerned my personal politics have no place on my blog), this is about the absolute selfishness of our elected officials and the utter selfishness of the American public. In the last ten years, unless you or a loved one are in the military, nothing has been asked of you except perhaps a little more inconvenience when you go to the airport. Maybe if we all were being asked to sacrifice something the outcome of our wars would matter a little bit more. As it is, people can turn on the TV, hear about a soldier or six that was killed and go back to dinner.
Frankly, I'm pissed off. If there's anything I could impart on my countrymen it's this: BE BETTER. Do what's right. Try harder. The divisiveness, the anger, the petty infighting in regard to politics. This is the legacy left behind in the ten years since September 11? This is what all those people died for? We should be ashamed of ourselves. The people who died deserve better than this. We deserve better than this. If we can't figure out how to lay down our proverbial swords, solve our problems like the adults we claim to be and make our country and this world a better place then maybe there really is no hope.
I could write so much about what I think of the individual loss. I could easily speculate on how their relatives feel about the terrorists, about Islam, about the public nature of the crime. I could make assumptions about how they feel today and how they've coped the last ten years. But you know what? I would be talking out of my ass. I'm not one of them and I can't relate. That part of the tragedy isn't mine. It belongs only to those that experienced that day, and that loss, first-hand. My father-in-law covered the attacks in mid-town Manhattan as a cameraman for NBC and I've talked to him about it, so I suppose I could speculate on how people feel who were there and survived. But again, that's not my story so I won't presume to tell it. The story I think of is the one that I feel, the one I think of every September 11.
My story isn't dramatic; in fact it's not even a story. Rather, it's a series of emotions based solely on the perspective of an outsider. I was 19 on September 11, a college student living in Denver. I didn't know anyone in New York. I'd never been to New York. That didn't negate the horror I felt watching the carnage unfold but it did minimize how it related to me. Did things change in Denver? Maybe, but not a lot. My emotions now are related less to New York City, Washington DC and Pennsylvania and instead to the country and its citizens as a whole. In the immediate aftermath I do think people were nicer, kinder. They took more time and some of the hard edges were softened, but it didn't last. I don't know when the change started--it probably didn't take too long, Americans have notoriously short memories--but I'm certain that by the time we invaded Iraq in March 2003 the tides were starting to shift. People were becoming divided and it would only get uglier as time went on.
I think of the utter loss of human life. The 2,977 on September 11; 6,240 U.S. soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan; countless Iraqi and Afghani civilians who'd done nothing more than live in a country America invaded; at least a handful of people that committed suicide in the wake of September 11. I think of how our politicians have squandered the opportunity to work together a build a better country. This isn't about Democrat or Republican (as far as I'm concerned my personal politics have no place on my blog), this is about the absolute selfishness of our elected officials and the utter selfishness of the American public. In the last ten years, unless you or a loved one are in the military, nothing has been asked of you except perhaps a little more inconvenience when you go to the airport. Maybe if we all were being asked to sacrifice something the outcome of our wars would matter a little bit more. As it is, people can turn on the TV, hear about a soldier or six that was killed and go back to dinner.
Frankly, I'm pissed off. If there's anything I could impart on my countrymen it's this: BE BETTER. Do what's right. Try harder. The divisiveness, the anger, the petty infighting in regard to politics. This is the legacy left behind in the ten years since September 11? This is what all those people died for? We should be ashamed of ourselves. The people who died deserve better than this. We deserve better than this. If we can't figure out how to lay down our proverbial swords, solve our problems like the adults we claim to be and make our country and this world a better place then maybe there really is no hope.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Today we went to the zoo
Today we went to the zoo. If by zoo, you mean PetSmart. You know why? Aside from the obvious fact that we needed cat and dog food, it's also Bear's No. 1 favorite place to go. We tell him it's the zoo. Hey, don't judge. He can see fish, reptiles, birds, small rodents that some people call pets, and a few cats and dogs. Before you go thinking we're mean let me remind you: he's TWO. His attention span is, at best, ten minutes and the real zoo is 40 minutes from our house and $40 in admittance. So yeah, we're going to keep pushing the PetSmart-as-a-zoo for as long as possible.
And shhh...don't tell but I'm hoping to discourage any ownership of a pet that isn't a cat or dog. If he thinks that fish, birds, reptiles and rodents live in the zoo then hopefully he won't want them to live at my house. See how that works?
And shhh...don't tell but I'm hoping to discourage any ownership of a pet that isn't a cat or dog. If he thinks that fish, birds, reptiles and rodents live in the zoo then hopefully he won't want them to live at my house. See how that works?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
What is justice?
I actually wasn't going to post tonight but I read the news and saw the story of the murder of 19-year-old Kenia Monge. This has been sort of a big story in Denver. She disappeared at a club on March 31. She gave a friend her purse, cell phone and keys, told her that she was going to the restroom and never came back. A man, Travis Forbes, came forward and said that he saw her downtown, drunk, and offered her a ride. They stopped a gas station because she wanted cigarettes and, according to him, she ended up walking off with a different guy. Forbes went on the news and talked about it and the guilt he felt over letting her leave. Unsurprisingly, since he was the last confirmed person with her, he became a person of interest. But there wasn't enough evidence to charge him with anything so he went free and the case of Kenia Monge languished. Maybe it didn't really languish but it dropped off the media's radar. That is, until the middle of July. Travis Forbes was arrested and charged with attempted first-degree murder, first-degree assault, arson, sexual assault and aggravated motor-vehicle theft in connection with a Fort Collins woman. The media perked up a little bit again on Kenia Monge's case but when nothing was immediately forthcoming it again drifted from the public's attention.
Yesterday the news reported that a body was found and suspected to belong to Kenia Monge. According to the Denver Post an anonymous source said that Travis Forbes led the police to her body. I don't have all the information and I don't want to jump to conclusions but it seems pretty likely that he killed her. It seems plausible that there might have been others before her. Certainly he was on his way to killing someone else. My thoughts have less to do directly with this case specifically and are more philosophical. It's easy to want his head. But is it right? This is a topic I struggle with addressing. This type of discussion tends to be very vehement with the potential for a lot of name calling. No name calling guys, seriously. Reading comments on Denver Post's website there are many, many people who not only want him dead but want him tortured and raped before he gets a needle in him arm. It doesn't seem right to me to wish that kind of evil on someone, even if they have committed tremendous evil. I just don't think that we can let the savagery of one person turn us into savages. However, that's difficult and if it were my child I'm not sure that I wouldn't want to exact a terrible revenge myself. That being said, I don't think it's right to wish such terrible things on another person. I think that we should strive to be better than the people who commit atrocities. I don't know if that's possible. Not get all Bible-ly on you guys but this brings to mind Paul's letter to the Romans: "Bless them that persecute you: bless, and curse not. Rejoice with them that rejoice: weep with them that weep. Being of one mind one towards another. Not minding high things, but consenting to the humble. Be not wise in your own conceits. To no man rendering evil for evil. Providing good things, not only in the sight of God but also in the sight of all men. If is be possible, as much as is in you, have peace with all men. Revenge not yourselves, my dearly beloved; but give place unto wrath, for it is written: Revenge is mine, I will repay, says the Lord. But if the enemy be hungry, give him to eat; if he thirst, give him to drink. For, doing this, you shall heap coals of fire upon his head. Be not overcome by evil: but overcome evil by good." (Romans 12:14-21) Or, in the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.: "Nonviolence means avoiding not only external physical violence but also internal violence of spirit. You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him." I'm not sure I could ever achieve my high-minded ideals if I suffered the brutal loss of someone I dearly loved, especially one of my children but I do want to keep the this belief in head as an ideal, however unattainable and unrealistic it might be in times of crisis.
Take a minute to hold you kids, give them a kiss, tell them you love them. And may your life be peaceful.
Yesterday the news reported that a body was found and suspected to belong to Kenia Monge. According to the Denver Post an anonymous source said that Travis Forbes led the police to her body. I don't have all the information and I don't want to jump to conclusions but it seems pretty likely that he killed her. It seems plausible that there might have been others before her. Certainly he was on his way to killing someone else. My thoughts have less to do directly with this case specifically and are more philosophical. It's easy to want his head. But is it right? This is a topic I struggle with addressing. This type of discussion tends to be very vehement with the potential for a lot of name calling. No name calling guys, seriously. Reading comments on Denver Post's website there are many, many people who not only want him dead but want him tortured and raped before he gets a needle in him arm. It doesn't seem right to me to wish that kind of evil on someone, even if they have committed tremendous evil. I just don't think that we can let the savagery of one person turn us into savages. However, that's difficult and if it were my child I'm not sure that I wouldn't want to exact a terrible revenge myself. That being said, I don't think it's right to wish such terrible things on another person. I think that we should strive to be better than the people who commit atrocities. I don't know if that's possible. Not get all Bible-ly on you guys but this brings to mind Paul's letter to the Romans: "Bless them that persecute you: bless, and curse not. Rejoice with them that rejoice: weep with them that weep. Being of one mind one towards another. Not minding high things, but consenting to the humble. Be not wise in your own conceits. To no man rendering evil for evil. Providing good things, not only in the sight of God but also in the sight of all men. If is be possible, as much as is in you, have peace with all men. Revenge not yourselves, my dearly beloved; but give place unto wrath, for it is written: Revenge is mine, I will repay, says the Lord. But if the enemy be hungry, give him to eat; if he thirst, give him to drink. For, doing this, you shall heap coals of fire upon his head. Be not overcome by evil: but overcome evil by good." (Romans 12:14-21) Or, in the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.: "Nonviolence means avoiding not only external physical violence but also internal violence of spirit. You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him." I'm not sure I could ever achieve my high-minded ideals if I suffered the brutal loss of someone I dearly loved, especially one of my children but I do want to keep the this belief in head as an ideal, however unattainable and unrealistic it might be in times of crisis.
Take a minute to hold you kids, give them a kiss, tell them you love them. And may your life be peaceful.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Perfect
Perfect. Seven letters. Two syllables. It's amazing that such a small word can, at turns, inspire dread and pride. Perfection is difficult to attain so when, for an elusive moment it seems to be reached, the high can be as good as a drug. Unfortunately...the attainment of perfection is not always a satisfying endeavor. In fact, more often than not the outcome is a letdown. Perfecting a task requires either an extremely high threshold for attention to detail, lots of practice, or both. It certainly requires at least one. I think striving for perfection can be an extremely admirable undertaking. Working hard and being dedicated is a great way to find success in life. And honestly, if you aren't going to do your best in every undertaking then what's the point? There gets to be a point there where the quest for perfection veers from worthwhile to unhealthy or, at the very least, unproductive. A couple days ago I posted on my Facebook: "Don't let perfect be the enemy of good enough." It's also one of my personal commandments. Just because something isn't perfect doesn't mean that you haven't given it your best and there's nothing wrong with that.
Unless you're like me (and I'm sure some of you are) and you think that unless you can achieve perfection in each and every think you attempt there's no point in trying. This is a terrible quality of mine. I'm ashamed to admit that I have pretty much have no ability to persevere. This goes hand-in-hand with my other commandment: practice, practice, practice. If I'm not good of something, I won't keep trying. I'll just quit. I would like to place more value in practicing and working to reach my goals, because I'm pretty sure that's what people do in Grown Up World if they want to get better at something. I don't know if this has always been a trait of mine or if this is something that's happened as I've gotten older. I can tell you that I have, uh, pretty much no hobbies. Growing up I was good at school so I threw myself into schoolwork, and I was good at it. As an adult I am (and I'm not remotely being facetious) good at cleaning my house and organizing and...that's about it. In fact, it's almost a compulsion. I can't stand for drawers or closets to be messy. I can't stand to go to bed without the house being perfect. As a consequence, I restrict the kids from going into a large portion of the house (although I think there's an element of practicality in that too) and spend at least an hour a night cleaning up, rather than cultivating a hobby. These behaviors, especially cleaning in the evening, are good examples of letting perfect be the enemy of good enough. Spending twenty minutes on picking up would probably be sufficient almost all the time; ninety minutes is probably overkill. I have several things I would be interested in but when I try them I'm not a professional, or even in a lot of cases, very much good. One of the things I'm trying to work on is to enjoy the process, instead of worrying about the outcome. Practice, practice, practice so I get better at things.
I will probably continue to be obsessive-compulsive about the house though. I'm already pretty good at that so why quit?
Unless you're like me (and I'm sure some of you are) and you think that unless you can achieve perfection in each and every think you attempt there's no point in trying. This is a terrible quality of mine. I'm ashamed to admit that I have pretty much have no ability to persevere. This goes hand-in-hand with my other commandment: practice, practice, practice. If I'm not good of something, I won't keep trying. I'll just quit. I would like to place more value in practicing and working to reach my goals, because I'm pretty sure that's what people do in Grown Up World if they want to get better at something. I don't know if this has always been a trait of mine or if this is something that's happened as I've gotten older. I can tell you that I have, uh, pretty much no hobbies. Growing up I was good at school so I threw myself into schoolwork, and I was good at it. As an adult I am (and I'm not remotely being facetious) good at cleaning my house and organizing and...that's about it. In fact, it's almost a compulsion. I can't stand for drawers or closets to be messy. I can't stand to go to bed without the house being perfect. As a consequence, I restrict the kids from going into a large portion of the house (although I think there's an element of practicality in that too) and spend at least an hour a night cleaning up, rather than cultivating a hobby. These behaviors, especially cleaning in the evening, are good examples of letting perfect be the enemy of good enough. Spending twenty minutes on picking up would probably be sufficient almost all the time; ninety minutes is probably overkill. I have several things I would be interested in but when I try them I'm not a professional, or even in a lot of cases, very much good. One of the things I'm trying to work on is to enjoy the process, instead of worrying about the outcome. Practice, practice, practice so I get better at things.
I will probably continue to be obsessive-compulsive about the house though. I'm already pretty good at that so why quit?
Monday, September 5, 2011
I use my stove for playdoh
I'm the room mom at Bear's nursery school. I have no idea what this yet entails, other than making playdoh. This evening, instead of sitting at watching reruns of "30 Rock" I had to stand by the stove, continually stirring a testy mix of flour, salt, water, oil and blue food coloring. While watching "30 Rock." Well. I'm not going to do it without the distraction of Emmy and Golden Globe-winning TV. I won't say that it's the first time I've used my stove in months, but it is the first time that something I've cooked on it has been blue on purpose. It turned out really well, if I do say so myself. Normally this is the type of task I hate, mainly because I think it's going to be a lot more work then it really is, so I procrastinate and procrastinate and procrastinate until it's too late and I'm racing hysterically through the aisles at Target and spending $30 on eighteen packages of Play-Doh. However, in an effort to work on one of my personal commandments, do what ought to be done, I decided to make it tonight so it's all ready for Wednesday. Surprisingly it didn't take me that long and I didn't mess it up. I mean, I guess that's not really surprising, since I followed all the directions, but it would have made for a better story if it turned out badly.
On the subject of Bear and nursery school: I find it weird and awkward every time I go there and pick-up or drop-off. Now, I was not that young when he was born. He came along right before I turned 27 which if you do the math makes me thisclose to turning 30. But the other moms all look like they waited to start having kids until they were into their 30s. The way the look at me, you would think I was one of the dum dums featured on "16 & Pregnant." (Don't get offended. I don't think all teen moms are dum dums, but the ones on that show and "Teen Mom" shouldn't be trusted with a houseplant, let alone a human child.) They all look at me side-eyed and except for two (one of which is actually a nanny) have all avoided conversations with me. The other mom is really nice though and seems extremely down for drinking margaritas during the day which is a big perk for mom-friendship in my book.
Since it's impossible to fill a post with playdoh and standoffish moms at nursery school (unless you're nominating yourself for admittance to Crazyville) I'll share a quick story about the best teachers I ever had. Don't misread that and think I've said the favorite teachers I've ever had, or the most friendly teachers I've ever had. You would be 100% wrong if you think either of those qualities apply to people I'm referring to. The best teachers I've ever had were a husband and wife who both taught English in my high school. I had the wife for for 11th grade advanced English and the husband for AP English my senior year. Everyone loved them. LOVED. I'm surprised they don't have a fan page or something. However, from the outset it was dismaying clear that I would never be the type of student that they lavished praise on. I was a good reader and a good writer. My problem was that, ugly vintage clothes aside, I was a little too conventional. A little too right of center, if you will. I was also incapable of the kind of ass kissing they loved. And they loved it. They loved the kids that pandered to them. I was too interested in boys, driving around with my best friend PK and making sure that my math homework looked meticulous to stick around being chatty after class. In fact, as people I generally disliked them. I found them pretentious. Maybe I still would but it's hard to say. I definitely think I'm still not cool enough to be "in" with them. Anyway, all that aside they were the two best teachers I've ever had. From them I learned how to actually write in a way that showed some semblance of sophistication. I read good literature, stuff I never would have though to pick up otherwise. I remember the proudest moment of my entire sixteen years of formal education came during the poetry unit of my senior year. We had to read poems and them perform tedious analyses of them that resulted in at least one primal scream and book throwing every night. They took about four hours. One of the tasks was to write a one page essay about each poem. After my teacher graded them he'd share the best one with the class to go over what the writer did well. There were two or three kids that always had essays shared while most of us sat forlornly in our desks wishing we had the magic formula. One day, near the end of my senior year I finally earned a coveted spot on the overhead projector. He also that he wasn't sure he agreed with my premise but found it so well done that he gave it a 5 (or whatever his highest mark was) anyway. I liked that. I actually liked that he didn't agree with my writing. It seemed, and still does, that if people like what you say and DON'T agree with you it's means that you've hit a higher standard than someone who likes what you say and also agrees with you. So wherever you are Mr. and Mrs. I'm-Not-Posting-Your-Last-Name-On-My-Blog, THANK YOU. Thank you for all you taught me, and thanks for that one time we got to color in class and draw pictures of famous people we'd want to have dinner with. Oh. And I hated every minute of Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Well. You can't win everything.
On the subject of Bear and nursery school: I find it weird and awkward every time I go there and pick-up or drop-off. Now, I was not that young when he was born. He came along right before I turned 27 which if you do the math makes me thisclose to turning 30. But the other moms all look like they waited to start having kids until they were into their 30s. The way the look at me, you would think I was one of the dum dums featured on "16 & Pregnant." (Don't get offended. I don't think all teen moms are dum dums, but the ones on that show and "Teen Mom" shouldn't be trusted with a houseplant, let alone a human child.) They all look at me side-eyed and except for two (one of which is actually a nanny) have all avoided conversations with me. The other mom is really nice though and seems extremely down for drinking margaritas during the day which is a big perk for mom-friendship in my book.
Since it's impossible to fill a post with playdoh and standoffish moms at nursery school (unless you're nominating yourself for admittance to Crazyville) I'll share a quick story about the best teachers I ever had. Don't misread that and think I've said the favorite teachers I've ever had, or the most friendly teachers I've ever had. You would be 100% wrong if you think either of those qualities apply to people I'm referring to. The best teachers I've ever had were a husband and wife who both taught English in my high school. I had the wife for for 11th grade advanced English and the husband for AP English my senior year. Everyone loved them. LOVED. I'm surprised they don't have a fan page or something. However, from the outset it was dismaying clear that I would never be the type of student that they lavished praise on. I was a good reader and a good writer. My problem was that, ugly vintage clothes aside, I was a little too conventional. A little too right of center, if you will. I was also incapable of the kind of ass kissing they loved. And they loved it. They loved the kids that pandered to them. I was too interested in boys, driving around with my best friend PK and making sure that my math homework looked meticulous to stick around being chatty after class. In fact, as people I generally disliked them. I found them pretentious. Maybe I still would but it's hard to say. I definitely think I'm still not cool enough to be "in" with them. Anyway, all that aside they were the two best teachers I've ever had. From them I learned how to actually write in a way that showed some semblance of sophistication. I read good literature, stuff I never would have though to pick up otherwise. I remember the proudest moment of my entire sixteen years of formal education came during the poetry unit of my senior year. We had to read poems and them perform tedious analyses of them that resulted in at least one primal scream and book throwing every night. They took about four hours. One of the tasks was to write a one page essay about each poem. After my teacher graded them he'd share the best one with the class to go over what the writer did well. There were two or three kids that always had essays shared while most of us sat forlornly in our desks wishing we had the magic formula. One day, near the end of my senior year I finally earned a coveted spot on the overhead projector. He also that he wasn't sure he agreed with my premise but found it so well done that he gave it a 5 (or whatever his highest mark was) anyway. I liked that. I actually liked that he didn't agree with my writing. It seemed, and still does, that if people like what you say and DON'T agree with you it's means that you've hit a higher standard than someone who likes what you say and also agrees with you. So wherever you are Mr. and Mrs. I'm-Not-Posting-Your-Last-Name-On-My-Blog, THANK YOU. Thank you for all you taught me, and thanks for that one time we got to color in class and draw pictures of famous people we'd want to have dinner with. Oh. And I hated every minute of Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Well. You can't win everything.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Let me cut that for you
Guess what? I can't cut hair. I especially can't cut the hair of a wiggly, under-napped two-year-old.
The end.
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