Last year, only a couple of weeks after we moved into our new house, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a small, sobbing person, who had thrown up. I got her cleaned up, changed her bedding, put her back in bed - and then the other small person in the room woke up and starting vomiting also.
By the time I got Gabrielle taken care of, Arielle had thrown up again. Then Gabrielle again, then Arielle again and somewhere in all of this Michael woke up and made a made dash for the bathroom, and the husband woke up and monopolized the master bathroom, and I started running out of clean bedding and feeling very grateful that 1) I wasn't showing any signs of getting sick, and 2) our new washing machine had been delivered just a day or two before.
I never did get sick from whatever everyone else had. They were all pretty miserable for a few days and then life went back to normal. My new washing machine got one heck of a work out though!
I've been thinking about this today, because we are coming up on the end of our first year in this house. (My first year ever as a for-real homeowner!) And, at 6 a.m. this morning I was awoken by a sobbing, and very sick, Arielle. The husband, who was gone last night to a weekend group of meetings for the volunteer group he belongs to, called me not long after that to say good morning and share the information that he had spent a great deal of the previous night worshipping the porcelain god. He now faces a two hour drive to get back home, not a good idea when you are sick, shaky and vomiting frequently. I suggested that he might want to just check into a local hotel and wait until he's feeling better.
Once again, I am not sick, and I sincerely hopes it stays that way. It's so much easier to take care of a sick family when you're not throwing up too!
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Just jumping in, pretending I haven't been gone.
On one of my email lists they've been discussing nicknames lately. Joshilyn sent in a (naturally) well-written letter about why she hates to be called Josh instead of Joss.
It got me thinking about my name and nicknames and how that's played out in my life. As I read her letter, Joshilyn basically put nicknames into two categories - ones given to you by people who are close to you and who love you, and ones given to you by strangers and/or bullies, who don't know you and are simply being presumptuous and rude, if not actually trying to be cruel.
I've never been a person who has inspired nicknames. Which is a shame, because I've longed desperately for them. Nicknames always seemed such a badge of acceptance. To be given a nickname meant you were part of the group, one of the gang, a friend close enough not to demand formality. Nicknames meant you were loved and I wanted that desperately.
When I was seven I decided to take matters into my own hands and give myself a nickname. I was the only person in the family who didn't have one. So, I started telling everyone to call me "Jenny". It wasn't the same as being given a nickname, but I was tired of waiting for one to happen.
It didn't feel the way I thought it would, though. It was like telling someone you want them to say, "I love you," and having them repeat it back to you. It didn't mean anything and it didn't do anything to fill that ache inside me. "Jenny" stuck, however, and for years I was called that.
Then, in 7th grade, I had this math teacher. Oh, he was horrible. Mean, impatient, angry, sarcastic - I dreaded going to his class. He really didn't seem to like working with kids and I couldn't figure out why he'd gone into teaching. He spent all period sitting at his desk with his feet up, reading paperback novels turned over on themselves to hide the covers (which, from the glimpses I caught of them, were pretty lurid.) He only came out from behind the book when things got out of hand, or when some poor kid had set himself up to be humiliated.
He always called me Jenny (Lastname), in this nasal, mocking way that grated on my nerves. It felt like he was making fun of me, making fun of my name. Looking back, I think he just hated all adolescents, but at the time it felt as if he was deliberately making a point that he disliked me more than anyone else. After a year of putting up with that, I hated the name Jenny. I didn't ever want to hear it again and so I started telling people to call me Jennifer. It worked with my friends, but not my family. They were too used to calling me Jenny.
After that I went without a nickname, except in my family. I had friends, but I was a serious kid, and very shy. I also have quite the tendency to be ... well, it's like this. I start off being equals in a friendship, but inevitably something bad happens in my friend's life and I feel the need to be supportive by taking care of them. I'm so good at this, that before long the relationship has changed and I find myself almost in a parent role, with my friends coming to me for advice and nurturing. People talk about how they admire me, and are impressed with my understanding of human nature. If I'm not being ignored, I'm being respected. Neither is conducive to the sort of casual friendship that leads to nicknames.
In all my life I've only had two people give me nicknames, and they both chose the same nickname. My best friend and the husband both call me Jen-Jen. I cherish that nickname like someone else would cherish getting flowers. I never feel more loved than when I hear one of those two calling me Jen-Jen.
It got me thinking about my name and nicknames and how that's played out in my life. As I read her letter, Joshilyn basically put nicknames into two categories - ones given to you by people who are close to you and who love you, and ones given to you by strangers and/or bullies, who don't know you and are simply being presumptuous and rude, if not actually trying to be cruel.
I've never been a person who has inspired nicknames. Which is a shame, because I've longed desperately for them. Nicknames always seemed such a badge of acceptance. To be given a nickname meant you were part of the group, one of the gang, a friend close enough not to demand formality. Nicknames meant you were loved and I wanted that desperately.
When I was seven I decided to take matters into my own hands and give myself a nickname. I was the only person in the family who didn't have one. So, I started telling everyone to call me "Jenny". It wasn't the same as being given a nickname, but I was tired of waiting for one to happen.
It didn't feel the way I thought it would, though. It was like telling someone you want them to say, "I love you," and having them repeat it back to you. It didn't mean anything and it didn't do anything to fill that ache inside me. "Jenny" stuck, however, and for years I was called that.
Then, in 7th grade, I had this math teacher. Oh, he was horrible. Mean, impatient, angry, sarcastic - I dreaded going to his class. He really didn't seem to like working with kids and I couldn't figure out why he'd gone into teaching. He spent all period sitting at his desk with his feet up, reading paperback novels turned over on themselves to hide the covers (which, from the glimpses I caught of them, were pretty lurid.) He only came out from behind the book when things got out of hand, or when some poor kid had set himself up to be humiliated.
He always called me Jenny (Lastname), in this nasal, mocking way that grated on my nerves. It felt like he was making fun of me, making fun of my name. Looking back, I think he just hated all adolescents, but at the time it felt as if he was deliberately making a point that he disliked me more than anyone else. After a year of putting up with that, I hated the name Jenny. I didn't ever want to hear it again and so I started telling people to call me Jennifer. It worked with my friends, but not my family. They were too used to calling me Jenny.
After that I went without a nickname, except in my family. I had friends, but I was a serious kid, and very shy. I also have quite the tendency to be ... well, it's like this. I start off being equals in a friendship, but inevitably something bad happens in my friend's life and I feel the need to be supportive by taking care of them. I'm so good at this, that before long the relationship has changed and I find myself almost in a parent role, with my friends coming to me for advice and nurturing. People talk about how they admire me, and are impressed with my understanding of human nature. If I'm not being ignored, I'm being respected. Neither is conducive to the sort of casual friendship that leads to nicknames.
In all my life I've only had two people give me nicknames, and they both chose the same nickname. My best friend and the husband both call me Jen-Jen. I cherish that nickname like someone else would cherish getting flowers. I never feel more loved than when I hear one of those two calling me Jen-Jen.
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