Technologically Obsolete Phrases
Think Pink blogged about her daughter not knowing what a bottle cap was. It got me thinking about obsolete images and phrases that won't be part of my children's world the way they were part of mine. And, then I started thinking that it would be kind of cool to make a list of phrases that just don't work anymore, unless you're old enough to remember that technology.
I can think of two things:
Coke bottle-bottom glasses
broken record (always a classic)
What about you?
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Trying to catch my breath
While idly following links this morning, I ran across this page. If you're reading this at a later date, and the link doesn't work, the page is a review of pregnancy tests and the results of a casual experiment in the possibility of false positives. She's got several pictures of the pregnancy tests she tried out, showing how they looked at various times after being peed on. All of them are negative; she didn't get any false positives.
Looking at those tests I had a kind of flashback. My heartbeat sped up, my breathing got shallow, and I had all those old feelings of grief and despair sweep over me, just like bach when I was looking at my own negative results.
I can hardly believe I reacted like that. I have been thinking of my infertility as a past thing. I have two beautiful daughters. We're not going to try for another child. My family is complete, and while it isn't what I dreamed about when I was a girl, I feel peaceful about where I am now. I still have to deal with the health issues about the underlying causes of my infertility, but that's about it. Over. Done with. In the past.
But I guess the stomach twisting death of hope that accompanied each negative pregnancy test was too powerful a thing to just gracefully fade away. I don't know how I feel about that. It wasn't pleasant reliving that feeling. A part of me is glad I haven't entirely forgotten, thought. It was too important a time to just file it away and never think of it again.
But I think I won't go out of my way to look at negative pregnancy tests again.
While idly following links this morning, I ran across this page. If you're reading this at a later date, and the link doesn't work, the page is a review of pregnancy tests and the results of a casual experiment in the possibility of false positives. She's got several pictures of the pregnancy tests she tried out, showing how they looked at various times after being peed on. All of them are negative; she didn't get any false positives.
Looking at those tests I had a kind of flashback. My heartbeat sped up, my breathing got shallow, and I had all those old feelings of grief and despair sweep over me, just like bach when I was looking at my own negative results.
I can hardly believe I reacted like that. I have been thinking of my infertility as a past thing. I have two beautiful daughters. We're not going to try for another child. My family is complete, and while it isn't what I dreamed about when I was a girl, I feel peaceful about where I am now. I still have to deal with the health issues about the underlying causes of my infertility, but that's about it. Over. Done with. In the past.
But I guess the stomach twisting death of hope that accompanied each negative pregnancy test was too powerful a thing to just gracefully fade away. I don't know how I feel about that. It wasn't pleasant reliving that feeling. A part of me is glad I haven't entirely forgotten, thought. It was too important a time to just file it away and never think of it again.
But I think I won't go out of my way to look at negative pregnancy tests again.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Wanting to be like Gillan.
I just learned Andre Norton died. Now, I can't say I was shocked because, to be honest, I didn't know she was still alive, but it was still rather sobering news.
Andre Norton had a huge impact on my life. One of the first books I was ever given, and the first book of hers that I'm aware of reading, was Octagon Magic. I was, I think, 8 years old, and it was a birthday present. It's a story about misfits, being helped to find their place by the magic of a house and its residents.
I was already a misfit, a situation that wasn't going to resolve itself for several years to come. Octagon Magic, and other books of hers with similar themes that I discovered over the years, helped to strengthen me in coping with that. The protagonists in her books weren't immune to the pain of being different, but they never gave in to that pain, and they didn't run away from it or pretend they were other than they were. They were true to themselves, clinging to the integrity of belief, personality and vision that made them who they were, even in the face of opposition and outright hatred from their families and communities.
I can't say that I made an effort to emulate her characters, because I wasn't into analyzing my reading back then. I just read the books and enjoyed them, seeking out more as I finished those books I already knew about. And as I did that, without thinking about it, her ideas found a home in my world view and I began to value my differences and my uniqueness.
Andre Norton gave me something else, too. I thought, for a long time, that Andre was a man. In fact she used that name because when she got started writing in science fiction a man had a better chance of success than a woman did. I was excited to find out the author of the books I so loved was a woman. I've wanted to be a writer since I was in the first grade. It was encouraging to have an example like her to show me what could be accomplished.
Someday I'll pull out my hardcover copy of Octagon Magic, the one I was given when I was eight, and hand it to my daughter. I hope she enjoys it as much as I did.
My favorite Andre Norton books: Year of the Unicorn, The Beast Master
I just learned Andre Norton died. Now, I can't say I was shocked because, to be honest, I didn't know she was still alive, but it was still rather sobering news.
Andre Norton had a huge impact on my life. One of the first books I was ever given, and the first book of hers that I'm aware of reading, was Octagon Magic. I was, I think, 8 years old, and it was a birthday present. It's a story about misfits, being helped to find their place by the magic of a house and its residents.
I was already a misfit, a situation that wasn't going to resolve itself for several years to come. Octagon Magic, and other books of hers with similar themes that I discovered over the years, helped to strengthen me in coping with that. The protagonists in her books weren't immune to the pain of being different, but they never gave in to that pain, and they didn't run away from it or pretend they were other than they were. They were true to themselves, clinging to the integrity of belief, personality and vision that made them who they were, even in the face of opposition and outright hatred from their families and communities.
I can't say that I made an effort to emulate her characters, because I wasn't into analyzing my reading back then. I just read the books and enjoyed them, seeking out more as I finished those books I already knew about. And as I did that, without thinking about it, her ideas found a home in my world view and I began to value my differences and my uniqueness.
Andre Norton gave me something else, too. I thought, for a long time, that Andre was a man. In fact she used that name because when she got started writing in science fiction a man had a better chance of success than a woman did. I was excited to find out the author of the books I so loved was a woman. I've wanted to be a writer since I was in the first grade. It was encouraging to have an example like her to show me what could be accomplished.
Someday I'll pull out my hardcover copy of Octagon Magic, the one I was given when I was eight, and hand it to my daughter. I hope she enjoys it as much as I did.
My favorite Andre Norton books: Year of the Unicorn, The Beast Master
Sunday, March 27, 2005
The Great Egg Hunt
My family might not have been big on Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, when I was a kid, but as the years went by we did manage to collect an assortment of holiday traditions. For Easter we had two traditions. We'd color eggs the night before and then the next day Mom and Dad would hide them for us. (Although I suspect it was mostly Mom doing the hiding.)
Coloring eggs was always exciting. It was fun to dip the eggs into the cups full of colorful liquid and to pull them out magically changed and beautiful. We'd experiment with double dipping, trying to get rings of color, making our eggs half one color and half another, writing on them with crayon to get white spots, everyway we could think of to exercise our creative sides. There were never enough eggs to satisfy my brother and me.
Sometime the next day, my brother and I would be sent into another room while Mom hid the eggs around the living room. Then we'd be called out to search for them. Since Mom was pretty good at hiding them, this was never particularly easy. Oh, there were always those eggs left pretty much in the open, but there were always those last few eggs that we had to be guided to with broad hints.
And, inevitably, every year Mom would count the eggs and say, "We're missing one!" She never could remember all the places she hid the eggs, so the egg hunt would turn into a family activity, all of us tearing the living room apart to find the lone remaining egg.
We never found it. Not once. The weeks after Easter we always spent speculating on where the last egg was, and why hadn't it gotten smelly yet? Looking back I'm inclined to think that Mom just had questionable counting skills. Or maybe the cat always ate it.
We had an egg hunt today, with the eggs we colored last night. We found all of them. Thank goodness.
My family might not have been big on Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, when I was a kid, but as the years went by we did manage to collect an assortment of holiday traditions. For Easter we had two traditions. We'd color eggs the night before and then the next day Mom and Dad would hide them for us. (Although I suspect it was mostly Mom doing the hiding.)
Coloring eggs was always exciting. It was fun to dip the eggs into the cups full of colorful liquid and to pull them out magically changed and beautiful. We'd experiment with double dipping, trying to get rings of color, making our eggs half one color and half another, writing on them with crayon to get white spots, everyway we could think of to exercise our creative sides. There were never enough eggs to satisfy my brother and me.
Sometime the next day, my brother and I would be sent into another room while Mom hid the eggs around the living room. Then we'd be called out to search for them. Since Mom was pretty good at hiding them, this was never particularly easy. Oh, there were always those eggs left pretty much in the open, but there were always those last few eggs that we had to be guided to with broad hints.
And, inevitably, every year Mom would count the eggs and say, "We're missing one!" She never could remember all the places she hid the eggs, so the egg hunt would turn into a family activity, all of us tearing the living room apart to find the lone remaining egg.
We never found it. Not once. The weeks after Easter we always spent speculating on where the last egg was, and why hadn't it gotten smelly yet? Looking back I'm inclined to think that Mom just had questionable counting skills. Or maybe the cat always ate it.
We had an egg hunt today, with the eggs we colored last night. We found all of them. Thank goodness.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Before Dawn
I woke up when the bedroom door opened. It wasn't that it opened loudly or that I was sleeping lightly. I've just learned to move quickly when the preschooler comes in to wake me up. If I hustle her out of there quickly she might not wake up her father, who's working swing shift right now and needs his rest in the mornings.
So I was already up and moving when I heard her say, "Mommy, panties are not for naptime!"
I waved her out of the bedroom with an rapid flutter of my hand in the direction of the door as I slipped on my robe, then rushed to follow her out. If I stayed closed enough to her I could keep her from doubling back into the room and heading for Daddy.
If you turn the doorknob before you close the bedroom door, you can slowly release the knob and latch the door after pulling it shut, without making too much noise. After so many months of shifting sleeping patterns, it's an automatic action. I closed the door quietly and at the same time looked in the direction of the girls' bedroom door. Sure enough, I could see a little head poking up from behind the dresser.
Darn. It would have been nice if the toddler hadn't woken up yet.
I lifted her out of her crib and we all walked into the living room together as I tried to remember the dream I'd been having when the preschooler woke up. Something about six idols and six tribal ... somethings ... which held the power of the idols and having to try to get the luck back for my tribe. Hmm, inspiration for a story, there.
"Mommy, panties are not for naps, pullups are for naps!" It was the preschooler again, sounding rather urgent and annoyed, as if I'd done something wrong.
The toddler was fussing. "That's right, honey, pullups are for naps," I said to the preschooler, then asked the toddler, "Want a banana?"
Bananas were an excellent suggestion. The toddler nodded her head vigorously as she let me put her down so that I could peel one for her. I peeled a second one for the preschooler, but she refused it.
"No! Mommeeee!" She was whining now, no longer making the statement as cheerfully and matter of factly as she had in my bedroom. "Panties are not for naps."
I forced my eyes to focus, something I'd been able to avoid doing until then, and really looked at her, a dreadful suspicion growing.
"Did you wear panties last night?" Sure enough, as I looked closer I could see she didn't have a stitch on.
She put her fingers in mouth and looked down at the ground as she nodded. "Yes."
"Did you take off your pullups and put on panties last night?"
"Yes."
Poor little thing. She must have woken up soaking wet. I could remember waking up like that when I was little.
"Is your bed all wet?"
"Yes. Panties are not for naps," she said again.
So now I have a couple of extra loads of laundry to take care of. Thank goodness for washing machines and plastic mattress covers. And that she didn't have a bowel movement.
I woke up when the bedroom door opened. It wasn't that it opened loudly or that I was sleeping lightly. I've just learned to move quickly when the preschooler comes in to wake me up. If I hustle her out of there quickly she might not wake up her father, who's working swing shift right now and needs his rest in the mornings.
So I was already up and moving when I heard her say, "Mommy, panties are not for naptime!"
I waved her out of the bedroom with an rapid flutter of my hand in the direction of the door as I slipped on my robe, then rushed to follow her out. If I stayed closed enough to her I could keep her from doubling back into the room and heading for Daddy.
If you turn the doorknob before you close the bedroom door, you can slowly release the knob and latch the door after pulling it shut, without making too much noise. After so many months of shifting sleeping patterns, it's an automatic action. I closed the door quietly and at the same time looked in the direction of the girls' bedroom door. Sure enough, I could see a little head poking up from behind the dresser.
Darn. It would have been nice if the toddler hadn't woken up yet.
I lifted her out of her crib and we all walked into the living room together as I tried to remember the dream I'd been having when the preschooler woke up. Something about six idols and six tribal ... somethings ... which held the power of the idols and having to try to get the luck back for my tribe. Hmm, inspiration for a story, there.
"Mommy, panties are not for naps, pullups are for naps!" It was the preschooler again, sounding rather urgent and annoyed, as if I'd done something wrong.
The toddler was fussing. "That's right, honey, pullups are for naps," I said to the preschooler, then asked the toddler, "Want a banana?"
Bananas were an excellent suggestion. The toddler nodded her head vigorously as she let me put her down so that I could peel one for her. I peeled a second one for the preschooler, but she refused it.
"No! Mommeeee!" She was whining now, no longer making the statement as cheerfully and matter of factly as she had in my bedroom. "Panties are not for naps."
I forced my eyes to focus, something I'd been able to avoid doing until then, and really looked at her, a dreadful suspicion growing.
"Did you wear panties last night?" Sure enough, as I looked closer I could see she didn't have a stitch on.
She put her fingers in mouth and looked down at the ground as she nodded. "Yes."
"Did you take off your pullups and put on panties last night?"
"Yes."
Poor little thing. She must have woken up soaking wet. I could remember waking up like that when I was little.
"Is your bed all wet?"
"Yes. Panties are not for naps," she said again.
So now I have a couple of extra loads of laundry to take care of. Thank goodness for washing machines and plastic mattress covers. And that she didn't have a bowel movement.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Fevered mind, raving, not terribly coherent and not caring too much.
The girls are both sick. Not terribly ill, just enough that they're feeling yucky and congested and terribly, terribly whiny.
Whining is hard to deal with under the best of circumstances, but especially so right now as I've caught the same bug they have. I do hate being sick and yet being busy taking care of my sick family. The little girl inside me wants my mom to come take care of me! It is useful, on the other hand, to have their bug, because it lets me know what they're going through. After all, it's not like they're very capable of letting me know what's wrong.
Of the two of them, the preschooler is best able to communicate how she feels. I just have to decode what she's saying.
"Maaaaw-meeee," she said, when she woke me up sometime after 5 a.m. this morning, "My nose doesn't work." I gave her a tissue and talked her through the process of using it.
"It tickles in my mouth," she whined later, heaving a couple of sobs to let me know how upsetting this all was. That one took a little longer to figure out. I coaxed her to eat a dry piece of toast to clear her throat.
The husband is off today, but not being very helpful. He told the preschooler that she had a frog in her throat, which created some consternation until he explained that it wasn't a real frog, just an expression. The explanation didn't really work. She just told me, "I have a frog in my mouth."
I've been letting both girls watch lots of TV, not something we normally do. It's been rainy and gloomy and chilly, though, on top of these colds, which has made everyone feel even worse, I think. Under the circumstances heavy TV viewing has been the only way to maintain my sanity.
The toddler has gotten very diligent about getting her diaper changed. I swear I'm changing her diaper more now than I did when she was a newborn. The minute anything happens she runs over to me, patting her bottom and repeating, "'tinky! 'tinky!" until I remove the offensive object and give her a nice clean diaper. She's so determined to keep clean that I've started musing about the wisdom of starting her on toilet training.
I need to go shopping. The girls only want to eat apples, bananas and such, and we're out. I am down to one plum, which has led to further great whining.
The husband has a doctor appointment. I think when he comes back I'm going to blackmail him into taking care of the girls while I take a nap.
The girls are both sick. Not terribly ill, just enough that they're feeling yucky and congested and terribly, terribly whiny.
Whining is hard to deal with under the best of circumstances, but especially so right now as I've caught the same bug they have. I do hate being sick and yet being busy taking care of my sick family. The little girl inside me wants my mom to come take care of me! It is useful, on the other hand, to have their bug, because it lets me know what they're going through. After all, it's not like they're very capable of letting me know what's wrong.
Of the two of them, the preschooler is best able to communicate how she feels. I just have to decode what she's saying.
"Maaaaw-meeee," she said, when she woke me up sometime after 5 a.m. this morning, "My nose doesn't work." I gave her a tissue and talked her through the process of using it.
"It tickles in my mouth," she whined later, heaving a couple of sobs to let me know how upsetting this all was. That one took a little longer to figure out. I coaxed her to eat a dry piece of toast to clear her throat.
The husband is off today, but not being very helpful. He told the preschooler that she had a frog in her throat, which created some consternation until he explained that it wasn't a real frog, just an expression. The explanation didn't really work. She just told me, "I have a frog in my mouth."
I've been letting both girls watch lots of TV, not something we normally do. It's been rainy and gloomy and chilly, though, on top of these colds, which has made everyone feel even worse, I think. Under the circumstances heavy TV viewing has been the only way to maintain my sanity.
The toddler has gotten very diligent about getting her diaper changed. I swear I'm changing her diaper more now than I did when she was a newborn. The minute anything happens she runs over to me, patting her bottom and repeating, "'tinky! 'tinky!" until I remove the offensive object and give her a nice clean diaper. She's so determined to keep clean that I've started musing about the wisdom of starting her on toilet training.
I need to go shopping. The girls only want to eat apples, bananas and such, and we're out. I am down to one plum, which has led to further great whining.
The husband has a doctor appointment. I think when he comes back I'm going to blackmail him into taking care of the girls while I take a nap.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Turning to outside help
We've decided to try family counseling, and we're in the process of finding someone to work with. (Side note: something people often don't realize, is that you don't have to take the first therapist you talk to. It's OK to "interview" a therapist to make sure that you can work with him or her.)
It's not really the angry outbursts that have prompted this. They've been a problem, but what we're concerned about is the depression that we think is underlying much of his behavior. Since he utterly refuses to see a counselor we're going to try going together to see if that will overcome his resistance.
The husband and I will be going anyway, even if the teen won't. We need help to deal with him. Nothing is working. We can't make any impact on him. The only time he's ever in a good mood is when we leave him alone to do what he wants, which is playing video games, getting on the internet, going to the mall, eating junk food, and playing RPGs.
The only handle we have on him, one we use only when absolutely necessary, is to threaten to take away all his RPG stuff. We made a list of couple of months ago of various negative consequences that we could use as behavior motivators. It included things like, losing internet privileges for an hour, two hours, evening, multiple days, weekend; losing video game playing time for similar periods; losing phone privileges, no going to the mall, no time with friends, etc., etc.
So far, he's given up the computer entirely, just to avoid having his teachers sign a notebook stating what homework is required for each class. It's been weeks since he's been online. It's been the same way with everything we've tried. He gives it up rather than make even a minimal effort in his life.
We need help. We don't know what to do anymore. Should we keep fighting with him over this, keep restricting him until there's nothing left in his life but going to school, coming home and sitting in his room all night and weekend? That doesn't seem like a solution. It's already not working and it doesn't hold any promise of working in the future.
Reasoning with him is something we've already concluded doesn't get us anywhere.
Let's see, what else have we tried? Bribery? That doesn't feel right.
Find a way to get him excited and motivated on his own? Tap into his interests in such a way that he finds a reason to care about something? Tried it. That didn't worked either.
We discussed homeschooling him, but after thinking it over we both decided it was far more likely we'd just have even more of nothing happening than we already do. You have to have some cooperation to make homeschooling work, after all.
What we're left with, as far as we can see right now, is waiting until he comes to his senses, while practicing enough tough love to try to keep him from going completely off the rails. Which doesn't feel like any kind of answer at all. He's digging himself in so deeply there's not much chance he can pull himself out, anymore.
What do you do? What do you do if you've got a kid who's just determined to throw his life away? How can you stand by and let him? How can you stop him, though?
I hope talking to an outsider will give us some ideas on where to go from here.
We've decided to try family counseling, and we're in the process of finding someone to work with. (Side note: something people often don't realize, is that you don't have to take the first therapist you talk to. It's OK to "interview" a therapist to make sure that you can work with him or her.)
It's not really the angry outbursts that have prompted this. They've been a problem, but what we're concerned about is the depression that we think is underlying much of his behavior. Since he utterly refuses to see a counselor we're going to try going together to see if that will overcome his resistance.
The husband and I will be going anyway, even if the teen won't. We need help to deal with him. Nothing is working. We can't make any impact on him. The only time he's ever in a good mood is when we leave him alone to do what he wants, which is playing video games, getting on the internet, going to the mall, eating junk food, and playing RPGs.
The only handle we have on him, one we use only when absolutely necessary, is to threaten to take away all his RPG stuff. We made a list of couple of months ago of various negative consequences that we could use as behavior motivators. It included things like, losing internet privileges for an hour, two hours, evening, multiple days, weekend; losing video game playing time for similar periods; losing phone privileges, no going to the mall, no time with friends, etc., etc.
So far, he's given up the computer entirely, just to avoid having his teachers sign a notebook stating what homework is required for each class. It's been weeks since he's been online. It's been the same way with everything we've tried. He gives it up rather than make even a minimal effort in his life.
We need help. We don't know what to do anymore. Should we keep fighting with him over this, keep restricting him until there's nothing left in his life but going to school, coming home and sitting in his room all night and weekend? That doesn't seem like a solution. It's already not working and it doesn't hold any promise of working in the future.
Reasoning with him is something we've already concluded doesn't get us anywhere.
Let's see, what else have we tried? Bribery? That doesn't feel right.
Find a way to get him excited and motivated on his own? Tap into his interests in such a way that he finds a reason to care about something? Tried it. That didn't worked either.
We discussed homeschooling him, but after thinking it over we both decided it was far more likely we'd just have even more of nothing happening than we already do. You have to have some cooperation to make homeschooling work, after all.
What we're left with, as far as we can see right now, is waiting until he comes to his senses, while practicing enough tough love to try to keep him from going completely off the rails. Which doesn't feel like any kind of answer at all. He's digging himself in so deeply there's not much chance he can pull himself out, anymore.
What do you do? What do you do if you've got a kid who's just determined to throw his life away? How can you stand by and let him? How can you stop him, though?
I hope talking to an outsider will give us some ideas on where to go from here.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Going over the numbers. One. More. Time.
"MOM!" I shouted into the phone. "I love you, but sometimes you make me want to hit my head against a wall."
I took a deep breath to try to bring my adrenaline levels down. The knot of frustration in my stomach didn't relax with the increased oxygen levels, though. Don't yell at her, I reminded myself.
She was talking in the background, trying to explain why things weren't as bad I could so clearly see they were. I spoke over her, loudly, so that she would stop talking and listen. "No, that is not what I need to know."
The voice in my ear didn't stop, and I upped the volume again, stopping myself just barely short of yelling again. "No. That is not what I need to hear. How many mortgages are on the house right now? How much of that have you seen and how much did Dad take out?"
The answers were not reassuring. I love my mother, but wow, she can make me feel crazy.
Mom called while I was in the middle of writing a post about the teen (you'll see it tomorrow.) She wanted help understanding a financial deal she is in with my father. When they got divorced, everything was split evenly, community property, all of it, including the house. Mom stayed in the house, with my younger siblings, and went back to college. She was in no position to buy out Dad's half of the house.
Dad, being used to strongarming Mom into doing what he wanted, talked Mom into letting him use the house as collateral for a mortgage on a piece of property he wanted to buy as an investment for his retirement years. (Take notice here. This wasn't just his half of the property, but all of the property that was used as collateral.) Mom, used to being a good little codependent, went along without question, over my fierce objections. I tried and tried and simply could not talk her out of going along with cosigning the loan.
At some point in the years since then, Dad has not only talked Mom into paying him rent on the house, but talked her into refinancing the loan, then, while he took additional money out, she made the mortgage payments. The house was nearly paid off when they got divorced. It is now almost fully mortgaged again and somehow Mom has been persuaded to assume all the financial liability while Dad walked off with most of the cash.
This makes my father sound really evil. He's not. It's just that he lives in this world in which he is the center of the universe. There's no malice, no forethought involved in his actions. He honestly believes that this is the way things should be. His logic is really screwed up, but it's real to him and therein lies the problem. Not only does he believe 2+2=11, he is really good at persuading other people of the same thing. Especially Mom. He can talk rings around her, and she still has so little faith in herself that she assumes she's too stupid to understand and that he must be right.
I have spent so many hours on the phone with her, talking her out of things he's talked her into, only to find out later that she let him talk her into going ahead with what he wanted. He used to pay her only part of the child support, because "he just couldn't afford it this month." Once, I asked him for financial assistance, only to find out a month later he took it out of child support. Mom just let it go, sure that his reasoning was correct. I made sure I never asked him for help again.
Now, they are finally getting out of this mess. Mom is going to own the house outright. The only problem is getting her out of this without winding up owing Dad money. She called me tonight because she realized that, while he owes her a substantial amount of money, he is probably going to hit her up with the argument that, since she is getting the house, she really should be paying him. She wanted me to talk her through it, explain why that wasn't true, so that she'll be less likely to be ensnared by Dad's reasoning.
Which is when things started getting out of hand. I didn't realize they'd refinanced, or that he took almost all the refinance money. Neither did I realize she was actually paying him rent.
"Mom," I told her, "if Dad tries to talk you into paying him anything, call me and get me involved. I want to go over the numbers and make sure everything is OK. I appreciate that you're an adult and can run your own life, but I really want to make sure this isn't ripping you off. SO CALL ME."
I've never felt so strongly before that I needed to intervene in her life. This is extreme, however, and I have no intention of letting my dad manipulate her like this. Somebody has got to step in and protect her from herself, and I'm not only the oldest, I'm the one of all us who is best at dealing with Dad when he's like this. I'm butting in, and I'm not letting them push me out. This is my mother and she needs to be out of debt as she goes into retirement, not taking on her ex-husband's debt.
"I'm so glad I have smart children," Mom said.
"Mom, you're not dumb. You're smart. You're very smart," I told her. "You're just too used to doing what Dad tells you to do."
Sometimes I feel like her daughter. Too often I feel like her mother.
Excuse me. I'm going to go climb in the shower and practice my primal screaming for a while.
"MOM!" I shouted into the phone. "I love you, but sometimes you make me want to hit my head against a wall."
I took a deep breath to try to bring my adrenaline levels down. The knot of frustration in my stomach didn't relax with the increased oxygen levels, though. Don't yell at her, I reminded myself.
She was talking in the background, trying to explain why things weren't as bad I could so clearly see they were. I spoke over her, loudly, so that she would stop talking and listen. "No, that is not what I need to know."
The voice in my ear didn't stop, and I upped the volume again, stopping myself just barely short of yelling again. "No. That is not what I need to hear. How many mortgages are on the house right now? How much of that have you seen and how much did Dad take out?"
The answers were not reassuring. I love my mother, but wow, she can make me feel crazy.
Mom called while I was in the middle of writing a post about the teen (you'll see it tomorrow.) She wanted help understanding a financial deal she is in with my father. When they got divorced, everything was split evenly, community property, all of it, including the house. Mom stayed in the house, with my younger siblings, and went back to college. She was in no position to buy out Dad's half of the house.
Dad, being used to strongarming Mom into doing what he wanted, talked Mom into letting him use the house as collateral for a mortgage on a piece of property he wanted to buy as an investment for his retirement years. (Take notice here. This wasn't just his half of the property, but all of the property that was used as collateral.) Mom, used to being a good little codependent, went along without question, over my fierce objections. I tried and tried and simply could not talk her out of going along with cosigning the loan.
At some point in the years since then, Dad has not only talked Mom into paying him rent on the house, but talked her into refinancing the loan, then, while he took additional money out, she made the mortgage payments. The house was nearly paid off when they got divorced. It is now almost fully mortgaged again and somehow Mom has been persuaded to assume all the financial liability while Dad walked off with most of the cash.
This makes my father sound really evil. He's not. It's just that he lives in this world in which he is the center of the universe. There's no malice, no forethought involved in his actions. He honestly believes that this is the way things should be. His logic is really screwed up, but it's real to him and therein lies the problem. Not only does he believe 2+2=11, he is really good at persuading other people of the same thing. Especially Mom. He can talk rings around her, and she still has so little faith in herself that she assumes she's too stupid to understand and that he must be right.
I have spent so many hours on the phone with her, talking her out of things he's talked her into, only to find out later that she let him talk her into going ahead with what he wanted. He used to pay her only part of the child support, because "he just couldn't afford it this month." Once, I asked him for financial assistance, only to find out a month later he took it out of child support. Mom just let it go, sure that his reasoning was correct. I made sure I never asked him for help again.
Now, they are finally getting out of this mess. Mom is going to own the house outright. The only problem is getting her out of this without winding up owing Dad money. She called me tonight because she realized that, while he owes her a substantial amount of money, he is probably going to hit her up with the argument that, since she is getting the house, she really should be paying him. She wanted me to talk her through it, explain why that wasn't true, so that she'll be less likely to be ensnared by Dad's reasoning.
Which is when things started getting out of hand. I didn't realize they'd refinanced, or that he took almost all the refinance money. Neither did I realize she was actually paying him rent.
"Mom," I told her, "if Dad tries to talk you into paying him anything, call me and get me involved. I want to go over the numbers and make sure everything is OK. I appreciate that you're an adult and can run your own life, but I really want to make sure this isn't ripping you off. SO CALL ME."
I've never felt so strongly before that I needed to intervene in her life. This is extreme, however, and I have no intention of letting my dad manipulate her like this. Somebody has got to step in and protect her from herself, and I'm not only the oldest, I'm the one of all us who is best at dealing with Dad when he's like this. I'm butting in, and I'm not letting them push me out. This is my mother and she needs to be out of debt as she goes into retirement, not taking on her ex-husband's debt.
"I'm so glad I have smart children," Mom said.
"Mom, you're not dumb. You're smart. You're very smart," I told her. "You're just too used to doing what Dad tells you to do."
Sometimes I feel like her daughter. Too often I feel like her mother.
Excuse me. I'm going to go climb in the shower and practice my primal screaming for a while.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Food? Or clothing? Decisions, decisions.
Where we used to live there was this great little thrift store that I loved to go to. Mostly they were like a normal thrift store, except that they had this section where they sold their marked down stuff.
This stuff was seriously marked down. It was all the stuff they hadn't been able to sell for one reason or another - lost buttons, odd colors, just plain ugly - all marked down to 10 cents each. And on a regular basis, they'd have sales where all the marked down stuff was 50% off. Five cents each.
Do you have any idea how quickly you can fill up garbage bags full of clothing when it's that cheap?
Since we were unemployed for that first year after the preschooler was born, I made heavy use of that place. Most of the stuff they had for that price was children's clothing and I made sure I got not just baby clothes but larger sizes, too, for when she was older. It wasn't hard at all to find things that just needed basic repairs to be entirely usable. Cute, too. Oh, sure, there weren't the nice things, like jeans and tennis shoes, but the way I looked at it, she didn't know and didn't care what she was wearing. I knew, but still didn't care. It was clean, it kept her warm, and cute doesn't lie in a brand name.
I've been thinking about that lately, because I've had to go shopping for clothes for the preschooler. She's run out of almost everything I had stockpiled in the larger sizes. So, we went to a local consignment shop last week. Things were cheaper than Walmart, but still, after paying five cents for a dress it's hard to start paying $10.
Then I went to the store Saturday (I had a whole two hours with the husband watching the girls, to do whatever I wanted! Yippee!) and bought some clothes for myself. I haven't gotten anything since before the move, and that shopping trip was only out of desperation because I didn't have any nonmaternity clothing that fit anymore. So I bought a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans and a pair of denim capris. $60. Ouch. They look really nice on me and I'm happy to have something I don't feel like a complete mess in, but still. Ouch. I need to make more time for sewing.
You should see how pretty I look, though! Wheee!
Where we used to live there was this great little thrift store that I loved to go to. Mostly they were like a normal thrift store, except that they had this section where they sold their marked down stuff.
This stuff was seriously marked down. It was all the stuff they hadn't been able to sell for one reason or another - lost buttons, odd colors, just plain ugly - all marked down to 10 cents each. And on a regular basis, they'd have sales where all the marked down stuff was 50% off. Five cents each.
Do you have any idea how quickly you can fill up garbage bags full of clothing when it's that cheap?
Since we were unemployed for that first year after the preschooler was born, I made heavy use of that place. Most of the stuff they had for that price was children's clothing and I made sure I got not just baby clothes but larger sizes, too, for when she was older. It wasn't hard at all to find things that just needed basic repairs to be entirely usable. Cute, too. Oh, sure, there weren't the nice things, like jeans and tennis shoes, but the way I looked at it, she didn't know and didn't care what she was wearing. I knew, but still didn't care. It was clean, it kept her warm, and cute doesn't lie in a brand name.
I've been thinking about that lately, because I've had to go shopping for clothes for the preschooler. She's run out of almost everything I had stockpiled in the larger sizes. So, we went to a local consignment shop last week. Things were cheaper than Walmart, but still, after paying five cents for a dress it's hard to start paying $10.
Then I went to the store Saturday (I had a whole two hours with the husband watching the girls, to do whatever I wanted! Yippee!) and bought some clothes for myself. I haven't gotten anything since before the move, and that shopping trip was only out of desperation because I didn't have any nonmaternity clothing that fit anymore. So I bought a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans and a pair of denim capris. $60. Ouch. They look really nice on me and I'm happy to have something I don't feel like a complete mess in, but still. Ouch. I need to make more time for sewing.
You should see how pretty I look, though! Wheee!
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Some days you're the windshield, some days you're the bug.
I went shopping for a slip for the preschooler today. She's hitting that age and that size, where some of her dresses just need to have something under them. It wasn't easy to find one. They're not very much in demand anymore I would guess. The store I went to had only five or six slips, total, only one of them in the preschooler's size.
So, I got it, even though I didn't care for it much, along with a few other things. When I got home though, the slip, which I could have sworn was in the same bag as the tights, was gone.
I tore the bags apart, not quite believing this. Not there. No slip. I shook things out. Nothing.
Feeling a little sick I called the store and told them what had happened and they said to come back in. They'd replace it.
I was impressed. I figured they'd say it was my problem, since I was out of the store when I found the slip missing. It's nice to be trusted once in a while.
So. Load everyone back into the car, drive back to the mall, haul everyone back out of the car, walk half a mile to the entrance, load everyone into a shopping cart, get the new slip (one that was too large, since the original one in her size hadn't turned up,) go back out to the car, lather, rinse, repeat.
We finally got home, tired and ready for dinner. I hauled the girls out, grabbed the diaper bag and went to grab the store bag which held the slip. Only it wasn't there. I'd left it in the shopping cart.
I give up. The universe is against me today. The preschooler will have to live without a slip for awhile. I'm going to bed.
Gasoline to drive to the mall (twice): $1
One slip for a preschooler: $6 (not counting tax)
Not having to drive back to the mall again tonight? Priceless (or $6 at least)
I went shopping for a slip for the preschooler today. She's hitting that age and that size, where some of her dresses just need to have something under them. It wasn't easy to find one. They're not very much in demand anymore I would guess. The store I went to had only five or six slips, total, only one of them in the preschooler's size.
So, I got it, even though I didn't care for it much, along with a few other things. When I got home though, the slip, which I could have sworn was in the same bag as the tights, was gone.
I tore the bags apart, not quite believing this. Not there. No slip. I shook things out. Nothing.
Feeling a little sick I called the store and told them what had happened and they said to come back in. They'd replace it.
I was impressed. I figured they'd say it was my problem, since I was out of the store when I found the slip missing. It's nice to be trusted once in a while.
So. Load everyone back into the car, drive back to the mall, haul everyone back out of the car, walk half a mile to the entrance, load everyone into a shopping cart, get the new slip (one that was too large, since the original one in her size hadn't turned up,) go back out to the car, lather, rinse, repeat.
We finally got home, tired and ready for dinner. I hauled the girls out, grabbed the diaper bag and went to grab the store bag which held the slip. Only it wasn't there. I'd left it in the shopping cart.
I give up. The universe is against me today. The preschooler will have to live without a slip for awhile. I'm going to bed.
Gasoline to drive to the mall (twice): $1
One slip for a preschooler: $6 (not counting tax)
Not having to drive back to the mall again tonight? Priceless (or $6 at least)
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Perfect Day
I picked up a couple of bottles of bubble liquid at the grocery store the other day. They were on sale, 3/$1, and I thought they might be a nice thing to put in the Easter baskets. (Other things going in the Easter baskets: Play-Doh, sidewalk chalk, and a jumprope for the preschooler. Candy? Are you kidding? It's not coming in this house until the day before Easter. My waistline can't afford the temptation.)
Unfortunately for my Easter plans the preschooler saw the purple and green bottles and immediately got excited and wanted to play with "da bubbles, Mommy!" I rushed them off, but alas, she is too old to just conveniently forget things anymore.
When she started begging to play with bubbles again yesterday, I gave in. There was no point in keeping them for the baskets if it was just going to blow the Easter bunny's cover.
It was a perfect day for blowing bubbles. The sky was overcast, the temperature still chilly, but at least a notch past cold, the air was moist and there was a slight breeze. It all made for some of the longest lasting bubbles I've ever seen, that blew all over the yard and bounced over the car into the neighbor's yard.
The preschooler loves to play a game of catching and popping the bubbles. She ran about madly, laughing and leaping, while the yard filled with bubbles. The toddler was a little confused by the whole thing, reaching after bubbles but not sure what all the fuss was about. It was fun just to be outside, though, and playing with Mommy and big sister, so she laughed and ran about too. The yard was filled with bubbles, dipping up and down in the breeze until they landed in the dormant lawn to sit there like enormous jewels.
I blew bubbles until I started to feel a little light-headed, then I waved the wand the air, spinning in a tight half-circle, until my arm got tired, when I would start blowing again. I think I laughed as much as the girls did.
It was a very fun time.
I picked up a couple of bottles of bubble liquid at the grocery store the other day. They were on sale, 3/$1, and I thought they might be a nice thing to put in the Easter baskets. (Other things going in the Easter baskets: Play-Doh, sidewalk chalk, and a jumprope for the preschooler. Candy? Are you kidding? It's not coming in this house until the day before Easter. My waistline can't afford the temptation.)
Unfortunately for my Easter plans the preschooler saw the purple and green bottles and immediately got excited and wanted to play with "da bubbles, Mommy!" I rushed them off, but alas, she is too old to just conveniently forget things anymore.
When she started begging to play with bubbles again yesterday, I gave in. There was no point in keeping them for the baskets if it was just going to blow the Easter bunny's cover.
It was a perfect day for blowing bubbles. The sky was overcast, the temperature still chilly, but at least a notch past cold, the air was moist and there was a slight breeze. It all made for some of the longest lasting bubbles I've ever seen, that blew all over the yard and bounced over the car into the neighbor's yard.
The preschooler loves to play a game of catching and popping the bubbles. She ran about madly, laughing and leaping, while the yard filled with bubbles. The toddler was a little confused by the whole thing, reaching after bubbles but not sure what all the fuss was about. It was fun just to be outside, though, and playing with Mommy and big sister, so she laughed and ran about too. The yard was filled with bubbles, dipping up and down in the breeze until they landed in the dormant lawn to sit there like enormous jewels.
I blew bubbles until I started to feel a little light-headed, then I waved the wand the air, spinning in a tight half-circle, until my arm got tired, when I would start blowing again. I think I laughed as much as the girls did.
It was a very fun time.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
But I don't have a small screwdriver!
The preschooler locked my bedroom door. Then closed it. While she was standing in the hall. I found out when I went to hide some Easter stuff in my closet. And couldn't turn the handle. Because it was locked!!!
I've never had to open up one of those types of doorknobs before. It's got a small hole on the outside knob, but when I looked up online how to get it open all anything says is to insert a small screwdriver. I don't have a screwdriver that small! The only thing I have that will fit into it is a pick from a nutcracker set. Even that's a tight fit.
I should have learned this sooner, but I never thought it would be complicated.
I wrote a frantic email to the husband. Hopefully he'll know how to get something like that open.
UPDATE: I practiced on the teen's bathroom door, which has the same kind of doorknob, until I figured out the mechanism. I had to get the pick in just the right spot and then push to the right. There was much rejoicing when I finally got it opened. I'd told the preschooler she couldn't play on the computer until Mommy got the door unlocked!
The preschooler locked my bedroom door. Then closed it. While she was standing in the hall. I found out when I went to hide some Easter stuff in my closet. And couldn't turn the handle. Because it was locked!!!
I've never had to open up one of those types of doorknobs before. It's got a small hole on the outside knob, but when I looked up online how to get it open all anything says is to insert a small screwdriver. I don't have a screwdriver that small! The only thing I have that will fit into it is a pick from a nutcracker set. Even that's a tight fit.
I should have learned this sooner, but I never thought it would be complicated.
I wrote a frantic email to the husband. Hopefully he'll know how to get something like that open.
UPDATE: I practiced on the teen's bathroom door, which has the same kind of doorknob, until I figured out the mechanism. I had to get the pick in just the right spot and then push to the right. There was much rejoicing when I finally got it opened. I'd told the preschooler she couldn't play on the computer until Mommy got the door unlocked!
Monday, March 14, 2005
Punishing Proposals
So I'm at a playdate for the preschooler today and I call home from my cell phone to make sure the teen knows how to get hold of me if he needs to, because the playdate was pretty late in the day and he got home from school not long after we left. And, while on the phone I ask him if he has any homework and he replies, "No. Oh, I forgot to get my notebook signed until halfway through the day."
Then he drops it on me. In a very serious tone he says, "I need to talk with you and Dad about something. Is he going to be home tonight?"
Well, no, as a matter of fact the husband will not be home before the teen goes to bed, because the husband is working swing shift tonight. I tell the teen this, and he says, "Well, OK, I guess I'll talk to you about it then."
Naturally I spent the rest of the playdate wondering what he wanted to talk about, instead of getting to know the mother of the child the preschooler was playing with. Given the juxtaposition with the discussion about homework and the notebook, the conversation would probably just be a matter of trying to talk his father and me into caving in on the "incomplete signature list = no computer" stance. Not that that stopped me from worrying.
First I started wondering if it had occurred to him that he will soon be old enough to drop out of school. I started planning how to explain to him the realities of life without provoking a confrontation. In our family, the reality of life means, no school, no support from the parents. If you're old enough to drop out, you're old enough to pay room and board. Have fun in the adult world!
That was just the beginning. On the way home I started thinking about other possibilities. Had he finally crossed the line so badly in school that he'd been expelled? Was he now flunking every single class? A fight, he might have gotten into a fight. Or - ooooh, badthoughtbadthoughtbadthought - had he gotten a girl pregnant? Never mind that he has no girlfriend. There was that day that he skipped school and then wouldn't tell us where he'd gone. Maybe? Possibly?
(Yeah, I'm really good at coming up with things to worry about.)
I got the answer soon enough. He threw the idea at me not long after I'd walked in the door.
He wanted us to prorate his punishment.
He proposes that we give him 1/2 hour on the computer for every teacher signature he gets, up to three hours a night. Never mind that three hours is the entire evening, never mind that would give him the freedom to ignore those classes he doesn't like - which is the entire reason we started this system in the first place - never mind that he isn't getting any signatures at all right now. Nope, just let him have that half hour for every signature and he'll be a happy camper and cease to give us any trouble.
I own this waterfall in the Mojave desert ...
So I'm at a playdate for the preschooler today and I call home from my cell phone to make sure the teen knows how to get hold of me if he needs to, because the playdate was pretty late in the day and he got home from school not long after we left. And, while on the phone I ask him if he has any homework and he replies, "No. Oh, I forgot to get my notebook signed until halfway through the day."
Then he drops it on me. In a very serious tone he says, "I need to talk with you and Dad about something. Is he going to be home tonight?"
Well, no, as a matter of fact the husband will not be home before the teen goes to bed, because the husband is working swing shift tonight. I tell the teen this, and he says, "Well, OK, I guess I'll talk to you about it then."
Naturally I spent the rest of the playdate wondering what he wanted to talk about, instead of getting to know the mother of the child the preschooler was playing with. Given the juxtaposition with the discussion about homework and the notebook, the conversation would probably just be a matter of trying to talk his father and me into caving in on the "incomplete signature list = no computer" stance. Not that that stopped me from worrying.
First I started wondering if it had occurred to him that he will soon be old enough to drop out of school. I started planning how to explain to him the realities of life without provoking a confrontation. In our family, the reality of life means, no school, no support from the parents. If you're old enough to drop out, you're old enough to pay room and board. Have fun in the adult world!
That was just the beginning. On the way home I started thinking about other possibilities. Had he finally crossed the line so badly in school that he'd been expelled? Was he now flunking every single class? A fight, he might have gotten into a fight. Or - ooooh, badthoughtbadthoughtbadthought - had he gotten a girl pregnant? Never mind that he has no girlfriend. There was that day that he skipped school and then wouldn't tell us where he'd gone. Maybe? Possibly?
(Yeah, I'm really good at coming up with things to worry about.)
I got the answer soon enough. He threw the idea at me not long after I'd walked in the door.
He wanted us to prorate his punishment.
He proposes that we give him 1/2 hour on the computer for every teacher signature he gets, up to three hours a night. Never mind that three hours is the entire evening, never mind that would give him the freedom to ignore those classes he doesn't like - which is the entire reason we started this system in the first place - never mind that he isn't getting any signatures at all right now. Nope, just let him have that half hour for every signature and he'll be a happy camper and cease to give us any trouble.
I own this waterfall in the Mojave desert ...
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Development (Children, Not Property)
Oh, my. The baby just came up to me and clear as a bell, said, "I want my Daddy."
OK, so it was actually more like, "Ah wan' mah Da-deeeee," with the ultimate syllable on Daddy trailing off into a sort of buzz. But! It was a clear and recognizable sentence, no question about it at all!
I've suspected for the last couple of weeks that she was popping out with the occasional sentence, but I wasn't sure if I was really seeing (hearing) something, or if I was just being a loving mommy reading too much into random sounds. It sure sounded, though, like she was coming up with "I want" an awful lot.
And now there's no doubt about it! Woohoo!
In honor of this moment, I'm really going to have to stop calling her The Baby on here and move her up a notch to The Toddler. She's been walking for months now, talking almost as long, and now she's using complete sentences. It's time to let her move on.
Excuse me while I go whimper in the corner for a few moments.
Moving on to the preschooler, she is currently wandering about the living room, singing to an imaginary friend. She's been doing that a lot lately. Both the singing and the imaginary friend, that is. The identity of the imaginary friend keeps changing. One moment it's Uniqua from the Backyardigans, the next it's Anna from preschool, who we are having a playdate with on Monday. Only the preschooler wants to play with her now, so the part of Anna will be played by the imaginary friend.
It's fascinating to hear her narrate her life in song like this. She gets embarrassed and stops for awhile if I let her know I'm paying attention to her singing, so I try not to. Sometimes I can't help it, because she's so sweet and funny I'll smile at her in spite of myself, but if I do that she'll lower her head and give me an embarrassed little smile as she looks up at me from under her bangs.
I can remember doing that when I was little. It was a very private thing, I remember. I stopped doing it because ... well, I'm not really sure why, except that it had to do with being very sad. And Dad. Naturally.
The preschooler is singing, "Be a dinosaur, and my costume, and my dinosaur. Oh, I love my oh-own costume. The pumpkin is my slipper." (She's wrapped up in an old scarf of mine, and has a plastic pumpkin bucket from Halloween on her foot. I'm not quite sure how that translates into being a dinosaur, but hey, it works for her!)
Oh, my. The baby just came up to me and clear as a bell, said, "I want my Daddy."
OK, so it was actually more like, "Ah wan' mah Da-deeeee," with the ultimate syllable on Daddy trailing off into a sort of buzz. But! It was a clear and recognizable sentence, no question about it at all!
I've suspected for the last couple of weeks that she was popping out with the occasional sentence, but I wasn't sure if I was really seeing (hearing) something, or if I was just being a loving mommy reading too much into random sounds. It sure sounded, though, like she was coming up with "I want" an awful lot.
And now there's no doubt about it! Woohoo!
In honor of this moment, I'm really going to have to stop calling her The Baby on here and move her up a notch to The Toddler. She's been walking for months now, talking almost as long, and now she's using complete sentences. It's time to let her move on.
Excuse me while I go whimper in the corner for a few moments.
Moving on to the preschooler, she is currently wandering about the living room, singing to an imaginary friend. She's been doing that a lot lately. Both the singing and the imaginary friend, that is. The identity of the imaginary friend keeps changing. One moment it's Uniqua from the Backyardigans, the next it's Anna from preschool, who we are having a playdate with on Monday. Only the preschooler wants to play with her now, so the part of Anna will be played by the imaginary friend.
It's fascinating to hear her narrate her life in song like this. She gets embarrassed and stops for awhile if I let her know I'm paying attention to her singing, so I try not to. Sometimes I can't help it, because she's so sweet and funny I'll smile at her in spite of myself, but if I do that she'll lower her head and give me an embarrassed little smile as she looks up at me from under her bangs.
I can remember doing that when I was little. It was a very private thing, I remember. I stopped doing it because ... well, I'm not really sure why, except that it had to do with being very sad. And Dad. Naturally.
The preschooler is singing, "Be a dinosaur, and my costume, and my dinosaur. Oh, I love my oh-own costume. The pumpkin is my slipper." (She's wrapped up in an old scarf of mine, and has a plastic pumpkin bucket from Halloween on her foot. I'm not quite sure how that translates into being a dinosaur, but hey, it works for her!)
Friday, March 11, 2005
Penny Swallowing: The followup
I have had a request to know what happened. I've also already had my first search string on "child swallowed coin." So, I guess I should let y'all know the, if you'll excuse the word, outcome.
One of the big problems I had is that the preschooler's insides seem to work very slowly. They always have. When I took her to her to her 1 month well baby visit, they asked how many bowel movements she was having. The nurse about dropped the chart when I told her, "Once a week." She wasn't too reassured when I protested, "But, she's being breastfed!" Luckily the doctor didn't seem to think it was a big deal.
I've never been too sure how this translated into what's going on inside her. She certainly eats huge amounts of food (or used to - she has suddenly entered the toddler eating stage, for the first time ever. "Look, Mommy! I see food! I'm full now.") I think she just uses everything that goes in that little body very efficiently. I was hoping that was the case at any rate, because if everything was just moving very slowly then that would cause a problem with the penny.
Sure enough, she didn't have a bowel movement for the next couple of days. I held off on going to the doctor Monday because she still hadn't done anything. Luckily I didn't have to make a decision about what to do Tuesday, because she came running out Monday night, after going to bed, with the announcement that she needed to be changed.
Euww.
I'd talked to my mom about the whole thing, and she had suggested using toothpicks, which I thought was a brilliant suggestion. The toothpicks worked well.; I highly recommend them if you are ever in the same situation.
I'll spare you the gruesome details. Suffice it to say, the coin was there. It was not a penny, it was a dime, which was comforting, but now makes me worry about my daughter's ability to tell the difference between a dime and a penny! The preschooler watched the whole process with great fascination, and then asked to have the coin back. I told her, "No!!!" and threw it away with the pull-up.
Never doing that again would be just fine with me.
Shudder
I have had a request to know what happened. I've also already had my first search string on "child swallowed coin." So, I guess I should let y'all know the, if you'll excuse the word, outcome.
One of the big problems I had is that the preschooler's insides seem to work very slowly. They always have. When I took her to her to her 1 month well baby visit, they asked how many bowel movements she was having. The nurse about dropped the chart when I told her, "Once a week." She wasn't too reassured when I protested, "But, she's being breastfed!" Luckily the doctor didn't seem to think it was a big deal.
I've never been too sure how this translated into what's going on inside her. She certainly eats huge amounts of food (or used to - she has suddenly entered the toddler eating stage, for the first time ever. "Look, Mommy! I see food! I'm full now.") I think she just uses everything that goes in that little body very efficiently. I was hoping that was the case at any rate, because if everything was just moving very slowly then that would cause a problem with the penny.
Sure enough, she didn't have a bowel movement for the next couple of days. I held off on going to the doctor Monday because she still hadn't done anything. Luckily I didn't have to make a decision about what to do Tuesday, because she came running out Monday night, after going to bed, with the announcement that she needed to be changed.
Euww.
I'd talked to my mom about the whole thing, and she had suggested using toothpicks, which I thought was a brilliant suggestion. The toothpicks worked well.; I highly recommend them if you are ever in the same situation.
I'll spare you the gruesome details. Suffice it to say, the coin was there. It was not a penny, it was a dime, which was comforting, but now makes me worry about my daughter's ability to tell the difference between a dime and a penny! The preschooler watched the whole process with great fascination, and then asked to have the coin back. I told her, "No!!!" and threw it away with the pull-up.
Never doing that again would be just fine with me.
Shudder
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Life goes on
There have been some really good sales on right now at the local grocery stores - Easter dinner and St. Patrick's Day type stuff. So, I've been taking advantage of the situation to get some stuff canned up. Which is why I didn't post yesterday.
Canned so far:
7 pints of salsa
6 pounds of corned beef
15 pounds of turkey breast
Only actually, that should really read, 11 or 12 pounds of turkey breast. Because I cut half of one breast up into steaks to be cooked up in a couple of days for a yummy dinner.
Tomorrow I'll can up the stock I got out of the turkey bones, and give it a rest for a few weeks.
You know there are people who can who do massive marathon canning sessions. They do hundreds, even thousands of jars every year. I don't think I could do that without melting down. Short little sessions like this work very well for me. I'm tired just after these little bits.
Speaking of which, I'm going to bed.
There have been some really good sales on right now at the local grocery stores - Easter dinner and St. Patrick's Day type stuff. So, I've been taking advantage of the situation to get some stuff canned up. Which is why I didn't post yesterday.
Canned so far:
7 pints of salsa
6 pounds of corned beef
15 pounds of turkey breast
Only actually, that should really read, 11 or 12 pounds of turkey breast. Because I cut half of one breast up into steaks to be cooked up in a couple of days for a yummy dinner.
Tomorrow I'll can up the stock I got out of the turkey bones, and give it a rest for a few weeks.
You know there are people who can who do massive marathon canning sessions. They do hundreds, even thousands of jars every year. I don't think I could do that without melting down. Short little sessions like this work very well for me. I'm tired just after these little bits.
Speaking of which, I'm going to bed.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.
Willa Cather
An online acquaintance died yesterday. I didn't know her very well, although we'd exchanged emails on occasion. But we'd been on the same list for years, which made it feel like I knew her better than I did. She posted a lot, too, which left me feeling even more as if I knew her well. So hearing that she'd died was a real shock.
She's been sick since late last year, first complaining of congestion, then a virus. Then it turned out to be pneumonia. They put her in the hospital and I thought, "Oh, oh, I've seen this happen before." See, I had a friend a year ago of pneumonia. Even with hospital care they just couldn't hang on to her. The way things were going with Bea, I just didn't have a good feeling about things.
Which means, I guess, that I shouldn't have been so shocked to see the announcement. Yet I was. I saw the note from our listowner and thought it was going to be about getting a group gift of flowers or something. We've done that many times. Then I opened it, and felt like I'd been punched in the gut.
I don't know why this has effected me so much. I hardly knew her, but I've been in such a somber mood ever since I heard. I just feel ... weird.
There's been an enormous outpouring of affection on the list. She touched a lot of lives. Huge numbers of list members have written in about how a letter from her touched them, helped them, or made them feel better on a bad day, about how generous she was of her time and energy in helping other people, how loving she was and how thoughtful. I wonder if people will say those kind of things about me when it's my time?
From everything I know about her, it sounds like Bea Sheftel lived a full life. She said in her last letter to the list that she wasn't ready to go yet. It's sad that she died, but, in the end, what an epitaph to leave for yourself - that you lived your life in such a way that you wanted to stay, not to flee it.
I hope when my time comes that I want to stay.
Willa Cather
An online acquaintance died yesterday. I didn't know her very well, although we'd exchanged emails on occasion. But we'd been on the same list for years, which made it feel like I knew her better than I did. She posted a lot, too, which left me feeling even more as if I knew her well. So hearing that she'd died was a real shock.
She's been sick since late last year, first complaining of congestion, then a virus. Then it turned out to be pneumonia. They put her in the hospital and I thought, "Oh, oh, I've seen this happen before." See, I had a friend a year ago of pneumonia. Even with hospital care they just couldn't hang on to her. The way things were going with Bea, I just didn't have a good feeling about things.
Which means, I guess, that I shouldn't have been so shocked to see the announcement. Yet I was. I saw the note from our listowner and thought it was going to be about getting a group gift of flowers or something. We've done that many times. Then I opened it, and felt like I'd been punched in the gut.
I don't know why this has effected me so much. I hardly knew her, but I've been in such a somber mood ever since I heard. I just feel ... weird.
There's been an enormous outpouring of affection on the list. She touched a lot of lives. Huge numbers of list members have written in about how a letter from her touched them, helped them, or made them feel better on a bad day, about how generous she was of her time and energy in helping other people, how loving she was and how thoughtful. I wonder if people will say those kind of things about me when it's my time?
From everything I know about her, it sounds like Bea Sheftel lived a full life. She said in her last letter to the list that she wasn't ready to go yet. It's sad that she died, but, in the end, what an epitaph to leave for yourself - that you lived your life in such a way that you wanted to stay, not to flee it.
I hope when my time comes that I want to stay.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Paving Paradise
Just down the highway from my subdivision is an apple orchard. It's big, lining the highway for a quarter of a mile and extending back even further. I see it every time I pull out of the nearby grocery store and last year I enjoyed watching the apples grow and ripen as the year turned.
If I step out of my house and look left I can see the thick, undeveloped forest that covers the hills less than a mile from our house. There are houses up there, but they're spaced few and far apart, impossible to see within the trees unless you're nearly upon them.
Across the highway from our subdivision's entrance is a year round fruit stand. There are fields on either side of the stand, and behind, too. Cows wander them constantly, so that we never leave the subdivision without exclamations of delight from the preschooler.
There's a lot of that around here. Not just orchards, but pastures and fields, and undeveloped areas, making something as simple as driving to the store a gift to my eyes. It goes a long way toward making up for the fact that our lot is somewhat smaller than a handkerchief, as are all the lots in the subdivision.
It's not going to stay this way long, though. Just the other day I was driving past the orchard and saw a wide expanse of uprooted trees. To someone who loves trees as much as I do, it was gut-wrenching. I felt a little sick to my stomach the rest of the day. I haven't driven past since, afraid of what I'll see.
I'd guess the orchard owner sold at least part of the orchard to a developer. There's a huge demand for housing in this area. It's the last place where you can get somewhat reasonably priced housing within a drivable range of the city where the husband works.
If you read the local paper, you'll see a lot of outrage expressed over the huge influx of outsiders and what we've done to the housing market here. Letters to the editor, editorials, opinion columns by long-time residents, all expressing disdain for people like my family, and horror over the change to the landscape as our houses and subdivisions have sprouted up like diseased mushroom patches.
I feel very conflicted about all this. On the one hand, I'm appalled to see the changes just since we moved here. I bought three bushels of apples at that orchard last fall. Where am I going to go to buy apples for canning this next fall? I don't want to lose the cows to more cookie-cutter houses. I hate the way the houses in all the new developments are crowded in together, with no privacy and no room to spread out. The neighbors probably hear everything I say every time I lose my temper and yell at one of the girls.
Our family, though, is everything the locals complain about. The husband works 2 hours away from here. We only moved here because of the relatively cheap housing. (We can rent a house here for the cost of an apartment closer to the husband's job.) We're going to be buying a house this next summer. (We're renting now, which is wildly expensive. Not only are we paying into someone else's equity, we figured out we can buy a larger house than this one and pay less on the mortgage than we're currently paying for rent.) We don't know the area, we don't know the culture, we don't know the locals. Most of the people we meet are in the same position we're in, with one or both spouses gone most of the day to distant employment. I even met a cop who lives here because she can't afford to live where she works.
As guilty as I feel, though, I keep coming back to one question. What else are we supposed to do? I need somewhere to live. I need somewhere with room for my children to run around, somewhere with good schools and lots of fresh air. We just can't afford to have that anywhere but here.
It's not like we ever planned to move to this area. Those of you who have been following this a while might remember how we wound up in this mess. This was the only job we could find and this was the only place we could find to live in. As it is, I feel very grateful that we moved here before things got too expensive. It seems like house prices go up another several thousand dollars every couple of months. We've got to buy as soon as our lease is up because we can't afford to wait any longer.
Being in the position we are, how can I begrudge others moving here too, looking for a decent home and life, even with what it means in the loss of our rural setting?
I feel conflicted, but it doesn't affect my decision. We're buying here, and we're staying. I want a house with a yard and basement more than I want to help preserve this area. I want my children to have a good place to grow up more than I want orchards.
I just can't stop feeling guilty.
Just down the highway from my subdivision is an apple orchard. It's big, lining the highway for a quarter of a mile and extending back even further. I see it every time I pull out of the nearby grocery store and last year I enjoyed watching the apples grow and ripen as the year turned.
If I step out of my house and look left I can see the thick, undeveloped forest that covers the hills less than a mile from our house. There are houses up there, but they're spaced few and far apart, impossible to see within the trees unless you're nearly upon them.
Across the highway from our subdivision's entrance is a year round fruit stand. There are fields on either side of the stand, and behind, too. Cows wander them constantly, so that we never leave the subdivision without exclamations of delight from the preschooler.
There's a lot of that around here. Not just orchards, but pastures and fields, and undeveloped areas, making something as simple as driving to the store a gift to my eyes. It goes a long way toward making up for the fact that our lot is somewhat smaller than a handkerchief, as are all the lots in the subdivision.
It's not going to stay this way long, though. Just the other day I was driving past the orchard and saw a wide expanse of uprooted trees. To someone who loves trees as much as I do, it was gut-wrenching. I felt a little sick to my stomach the rest of the day. I haven't driven past since, afraid of what I'll see.
I'd guess the orchard owner sold at least part of the orchard to a developer. There's a huge demand for housing in this area. It's the last place where you can get somewhat reasonably priced housing within a drivable range of the city where the husband works.
If you read the local paper, you'll see a lot of outrage expressed over the huge influx of outsiders and what we've done to the housing market here. Letters to the editor, editorials, opinion columns by long-time residents, all expressing disdain for people like my family, and horror over the change to the landscape as our houses and subdivisions have sprouted up like diseased mushroom patches.
I feel very conflicted about all this. On the one hand, I'm appalled to see the changes just since we moved here. I bought three bushels of apples at that orchard last fall. Where am I going to go to buy apples for canning this next fall? I don't want to lose the cows to more cookie-cutter houses. I hate the way the houses in all the new developments are crowded in together, with no privacy and no room to spread out. The neighbors probably hear everything I say every time I lose my temper and yell at one of the girls.
Our family, though, is everything the locals complain about. The husband works 2 hours away from here. We only moved here because of the relatively cheap housing. (We can rent a house here for the cost of an apartment closer to the husband's job.) We're going to be buying a house this next summer. (We're renting now, which is wildly expensive. Not only are we paying into someone else's equity, we figured out we can buy a larger house than this one and pay less on the mortgage than we're currently paying for rent.) We don't know the area, we don't know the culture, we don't know the locals. Most of the people we meet are in the same position we're in, with one or both spouses gone most of the day to distant employment. I even met a cop who lives here because she can't afford to live where she works.
As guilty as I feel, though, I keep coming back to one question. What else are we supposed to do? I need somewhere to live. I need somewhere with room for my children to run around, somewhere with good schools and lots of fresh air. We just can't afford to have that anywhere but here.
It's not like we ever planned to move to this area. Those of you who have been following this a while might remember how we wound up in this mess. This was the only job we could find and this was the only place we could find to live in. As it is, I feel very grateful that we moved here before things got too expensive. It seems like house prices go up another several thousand dollars every couple of months. We've got to buy as soon as our lease is up because we can't afford to wait any longer.
Being in the position we are, how can I begrudge others moving here too, looking for a decent home and life, even with what it means in the loss of our rural setting?
I feel conflicted, but it doesn't affect my decision. We're buying here, and we're staying. I want a house with a yard and basement more than I want to help preserve this area. I want my children to have a good place to grow up more than I want orchards.
I just can't stop feeling guilty.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Why do emergencies always happen on the weekend?
The preschooler came up to me complaining about her "tummy" hurting. She was holding her hand over her chest, as she got confused about where her tummy was early on, and ever since has refused to accept anything else.
I thought it was nothing. Something hurting generally means that she bumped something. I've been trying to teach her lately not to get so upset about minor bumps, so I just gave her a quick hug and told her she was OK.
She was silent a few seconds. Then she said (from around the fingers in her mouth,) "I lost the coin."
"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," I told her, as I kept reading the newspaper over her head. "Where was it when you lost it?"
"In my mouth."
I put the paper down.
"You swallowed it?" My response was a little louder than I had intended.
"No," she said, her voice a whisper. Then she started crying. "My tummy hurts!"
"It's OK, honey. You're not in trouble." I stroked her hair, trying to think of a way to get the information I needed out of her. "Is the coin in your tummy?"
She nodded, her mouth turned down so far it forced her lower lip into a pout. She rubbed her chest again. "Here."
"What kind of coin was it?"
She looked blank. That's right, she doesn't know the difference between coins yet, I reminded myself.
I looked around for coins. Naturally there were none. She'd swallowed the only around.
I needed to wake the husband up anyway. If it was stuck in her ... what? Esophagus? Well, whatever it was called, if it was stuck there we were going to have to go to the hospital. Naturally something like would happen on a weekend when the doctor's office was closed.
I shook the husband awake before making my way to the dresser where he dumped his pocket contents. I grabbed a handful of coins and showed them to the preschooler. "What did the coin you swallowed look like?"
She considered the coins carefully, then pointed to a penny.
The husband, not ready to wake up after working a swing shift the night before, said, "Just give her some breakfast."
"She already had breakfast," I told him.
"Oh. Well, she'll be fine. We don't need to go the hospital."
I gave up on him. I'd try to get him up later if I decided we needed to visit the emergency room.
The suggestion to feed her was a good one, though. I decided to get the apple juice I'd bought a few days before, out of hiding. (If I don't hide juice and soda they disappear within hours of bringing them home. This particular bottle was hidden behind my pressure canner. I'll have to find another hiding place, since the preschooler saw me get it out.)
I gave her a full cupful, knowing she'd gulp it down quickly. Hopefully that would push the penny down.
Knowing she was going to be allowed to have juice made everything better as far as the preschooler was concerned. She chugged the entire amount within half a second and handed the cup back to me. "I'm all done! I need more!"
I sidestepped the request, not wanting to deal with tears right then. "How do you feel?"
"Better! Can I have more juice?"
She took my refusal surprisingly well.
So this is where we stand now:
She's been lectured about putting coins in her mouth. Several websites now have a new search string in their stats, "child swallowed coin". I found out from the Mayo Clinic site that if your child is going to swallow a coin a penny is the worst one. "... pennies are made almost entirely of zinc. When zinc mixes with stomach acid, it forms a compound as corrosive as battery acid." (We will now pause while Jennifer hyperventilates a bit.) But (again according to the Mayo Clinic,) I don't have to take her to the emergency room since it looks like she swallowed the penny all the way. (She insists she feels fine now.) I just have to check her stools for a couple of days (what fun!) and watch for anything that might indicate something is wrong. (Throwing up blood would be very bad.) If I don't see the penny by Monday, we'll go to the doctor. The preschooler is going to start bouncing off the walls any second from all the apple juice she drank.
Five, four, three, two ...
The preschooler came up to me complaining about her "tummy" hurting. She was holding her hand over her chest, as she got confused about where her tummy was early on, and ever since has refused to accept anything else.
I thought it was nothing. Something hurting generally means that she bumped something. I've been trying to teach her lately not to get so upset about minor bumps, so I just gave her a quick hug and told her she was OK.
She was silent a few seconds. Then she said (from around the fingers in her mouth,) "I lost the coin."
"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," I told her, as I kept reading the newspaper over her head. "Where was it when you lost it?"
"In my mouth."
I put the paper down.
"You swallowed it?" My response was a little louder than I had intended.
"No," she said, her voice a whisper. Then she started crying. "My tummy hurts!"
"It's OK, honey. You're not in trouble." I stroked her hair, trying to think of a way to get the information I needed out of her. "Is the coin in your tummy?"
She nodded, her mouth turned down so far it forced her lower lip into a pout. She rubbed her chest again. "Here."
"What kind of coin was it?"
She looked blank. That's right, she doesn't know the difference between coins yet, I reminded myself.
I looked around for coins. Naturally there were none. She'd swallowed the only around.
I needed to wake the husband up anyway. If it was stuck in her ... what? Esophagus? Well, whatever it was called, if it was stuck there we were going to have to go to the hospital. Naturally something like would happen on a weekend when the doctor's office was closed.
I shook the husband awake before making my way to the dresser where he dumped his pocket contents. I grabbed a handful of coins and showed them to the preschooler. "What did the coin you swallowed look like?"
She considered the coins carefully, then pointed to a penny.
The husband, not ready to wake up after working a swing shift the night before, said, "Just give her some breakfast."
"She already had breakfast," I told him.
"Oh. Well, she'll be fine. We don't need to go the hospital."
I gave up on him. I'd try to get him up later if I decided we needed to visit the emergency room.
The suggestion to feed her was a good one, though. I decided to get the apple juice I'd bought a few days before, out of hiding. (If I don't hide juice and soda they disappear within hours of bringing them home. This particular bottle was hidden behind my pressure canner. I'll have to find another hiding place, since the preschooler saw me get it out.)
I gave her a full cupful, knowing she'd gulp it down quickly. Hopefully that would push the penny down.
Knowing she was going to be allowed to have juice made everything better as far as the preschooler was concerned. She chugged the entire amount within half a second and handed the cup back to me. "I'm all done! I need more!"
I sidestepped the request, not wanting to deal with tears right then. "How do you feel?"
"Better! Can I have more juice?"
She took my refusal surprisingly well.
So this is where we stand now:
Five, four, three, two ...
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Roaster: A tragedy in one sentence
If you ever happen to have a favorite nonstick roaster, which is so large that it's a pain to put under the cabinet, so you store it in the oven (because hey, you're using it all the time anyway, since it's your favorite pan) then you might want to make sure to remember to take it out before running the self-cleaning cycle of the oven, because running such a pan through the self-cleaning cycle will clean the nonstick surface off the roaster, and then just think how unhappy you will be.
If you ever happen to have a favorite nonstick roaster, which is so large that it's a pain to put under the cabinet, so you store it in the oven (because hey, you're using it all the time anyway, since it's your favorite pan) then you might want to make sure to remember to take it out before running the self-cleaning cycle of the oven, because running such a pan through the self-cleaning cycle will clean the nonstick surface off the roaster, and then just think how unhappy you will be.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
A revoltingly frank post about a disgusting topic ...
... so any males reading might want to skip this entry.
I just had my first period since the baby was born. Which means it's been something over two years since I last endured this. I'd forgotten how bad it was.
Not the cramps and backache so much. No, I forgot that I needed to sleep on a towel to avoid waking up in the morning with blood everywhere. I forgot about the best way to arrange the towel to minimize waking up every time I turn over. Not to mention such delightful things as the faint odor that you can never quite get rid of, no matter how clean you are. Dripping pads. Wearing your oldest and most tattered underclothes because of the inevitable stains. Not being able to go more than an hour between restroom visits.
Naturally, it was one of the heaviest periods I've ever had. And I spent the week in a simmering rage that took way too much of my energy to keep under control.
My 80 year old grandmother once said to me that she didn't know why the Creator didn't just make us women with a flap we could unbutton once a month and let everything out all at once instead of suffering through a week of misery. (Yeah, my grandma was quite a character.)
Two years wasn't long enough.
... so any males reading might want to skip this entry.
I just had my first period since the baby was born. Which means it's been something over two years since I last endured this. I'd forgotten how bad it was.
Not the cramps and backache so much. No, I forgot that I needed to sleep on a towel to avoid waking up in the morning with blood everywhere. I forgot about the best way to arrange the towel to minimize waking up every time I turn over. Not to mention such delightful things as the faint odor that you can never quite get rid of, no matter how clean you are. Dripping pads. Wearing your oldest and most tattered underclothes because of the inevitable stains. Not being able to go more than an hour between restroom visits.
Naturally, it was one of the heaviest periods I've ever had. And I spent the week in a simmering rage that took way too much of my energy to keep under control.
My 80 year old grandmother once said to me that she didn't know why the Creator didn't just make us women with a flap we could unbutton once a month and let everything out all at once instead of suffering through a week of misery. (Yeah, my grandma was quite a character.)
Two years wasn't long enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
