Round, and around, and around. I watch my lump of pathetic clay spin on my potters wheel. I fill my small disc of sponge with silty water and try again. I stabilize my arm with my left knee. I cup my hands around the base of the clay and I try again. The clay is unyielding against my stiff appendages and tainted water flips across the wheel and spatters on my already caked legs. Again. Again. I fight my clay. It seems to never budge, and when it does budge, it moves too far to one side and I fail once again to be centered. I'm a mess and my clay is still shapeless, and literally...spinning out of control.
I look around at my fellow potters. Some are struggling like I am. Some are centered and have begun creating amazing bowls, plates, or cups. Everyone is in a different spot in their project, and I am stuck at square one. Centering. I push forward again, determined to make my clay bow to my will. I close my eyes and try to figure out which side of the clay is drifting off center. This is impossible when something is spinning. The idea is ridiculous. My ball of ill-shaped clay is now wet and slimy. Pulling it off the wheel would prove disastrous. The clay will be practically unsalvageable, at least until it dries off a bit. Bleh.
It is then that I realize something that I haven't really thought of since beginning this 6 week course 3 weeks ago. I have a teacher. Oh, I know she is there, she's been giving us pointers, amazing us with her perfectly formed pots and agile fingers. She's handed out directions and encouraged us even when our pots looked more like platters and our platters like pots. She's been nice to talk to every once in a while, but I have been focused completely upon my own skills in this class and figured she was just there to supply the clay.
So, in this moment of realization I cry out, "Amber, could you help me center this?"
I have yet in the three weeks I've been in the class, asked her for direct help. I would maybe ask a general question, but never has our teacher put her own hands on my pile of clay. She swiftly walks over and leans into my wheel. I watch her hands gather the clay up, almost in an embrace and force the clay up and down, up and down. She is not creating anything in particular, just molding the clay until it is perfectly placed in the center of the wheel. This happens fairly quickly and she stands back. I push the petal of my wheel and marvel at the immediate difference in my lump. It turns and spins flawlessly. No sway to one side. No leaning. Perfectly centered.
I proceed to create a bowl that actually seems usable. I'm ecstatic. I'm elated. I'm wondering why I never asked our teacher to help me out, specifically, with my project. Why did I wait so long to watch her hands work so closely, so exactly?
Was it pride? Yes. Was I too busy working furiously at my own design? Definitely. Did I worry that she already had her hands full with other class members? Perhaps. All silly reasons not to learn from the teacher. That's what she's there for. That's her job.
Great story right? Well, it was just a story until it came crashing into my consciousness today while I was doing the dishes. Why? It suddenly occurred to me that I've spent a long time working on something within my own soul and haven't quite given it to the "Master Potter". You see, I've got my own lump of clay within my heart that I'm pushing against, constantly fighting, willing it to be "fixed", to find myself "centered". I'm a mess inside because I refuse to do anything but constantly push myself, not really knowing if it's doing any good, and actually pretty sure that it isn't.
Wouldn't it be easier, and certainly much more enlightening if I called over my Savior and watched his hands mold my clay, centering it, and then allowing me-with his guidance- to create something that certainly wouldn't have been possible otherwise?
Is there pride involved? Do I think deep down that I can fix things myself...even perhaps that He wants me to do it all by myself? Do I busy myself with all that is going on in my life and forget that I can ask for help? That someone, the One, is willing and able to help me. Do I forget that helping me is His job? Do I think that He has so many more, perhaps more worthy or in more dire circumstances than I, that He needs to help? Yes to all.
I decide there and then, elbow deep in sudsy water and caked on oatmeal that I'm ready. I'm ready to let go of my clay, and let my Teacher center me. I'm ready to forget about my pride. I'm ready to accept that He wants to help me, as much as I need His help. I'm ready to scoot my stool over and allow someone else to work on me. It might not be comfortable, and sometimes I might wonder if all that pressing and molding and shaping will do any good, but I know it will.
After all, He is the Master Teacher. This is what Matthew says: “And Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness and all manner of disease among the people” (Matt. 4:23).
Well, I know I'm no where near the land of Galilea, but He is the same yesterday, today, and forever and I know that he is willing to teach me. Willing to heal me. Willing to take over my life and help me center myself in Him and then create something I would not otherwise be able to create.
Hopefully, with time and patience, and with His will at work, and not mine...my soul can be molded into something useful and beautiful. And no more spinning in useless circles!
Copywrited by Angie Sullivan 2/17/2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Monday, June 22, 2009
But...We're a Team!
I like to think of my husband and I as a team. We work wonderfully together. But just a few weeks ago...my team was hit with a doozy that left us groping for a run in the last inning.
First let me say that I'm quite sure there is nothing worse than having an ill or injured husband. You see, when you have a child who is sniffling and sneezing, you only have a child who is sniffling and sneezing. When you have a husband who is out of commission, not only is your husband AWOL with all the family responsibilities and stresses, but now you've got another person to care for (don't be offended hubby dear, you are very low maintenance as far as men go...) to take care of.
I experienced this on a larger scale (larger than the usual 24 hour flu) when CK1 called me one beautiful summery day and said in an unusually calm voice,
"Honey, I think I broke my foot".
I was skeptical. "What makes you think you broke your foot?"
"I heard it".
Ugh...and, Oh Dear. At first I'm worried sick. CK1's never injured himself and I don't exactly know how to handle this. It's usually me...I'm the one with the bad back, faulty thyroid, three C-sections, and a removed gall bladder under my belt (forgive the pun).
The first few days I worried and fussed. I couldn't handle seeing him in pain...it wasn't "normal" for us. I winced every time I changed his bandage to reveal the huge bruises and his swollen sausage toes.
The doctors proclaimed, "It's not a break that requires surgery, but he definitely needs to be off his feet for 6 weeks. "
I'm thinking, "This will be good for him, he's always doing things for everyone...it's about time he gets a rest.".
Yet, I didn't take into account how much he did for ME, and that is where the game plan changed.
In the first few days I was shocked at how often I had needed his help. I was used to a routine that looked something like this: He cleaned up dinner while I bathed the kids. He put the kids in the car while I ran around grabbing last minute diaper bag necessities. He told me to take a nap when I'd hit "I have one nerve left and you're standing on it" status. He carried the huge laundry baskets while I folded everything. He was my assistant...my better half.
It was wrong! We were a team, and now my very best player was out of commission, completely benched, and I was out in left field desperately trying to cover for him. How quickly I realized how I'd taken my assistant coach for granted. How could I have been so oblivious to all that he had done to help me...and now, what was I to do now that not only was his help absent, but he needed me to take care of him in addition to the regular load I carried?
I was flummoxed. I ran around the house like a mad woman, staying up all hours desperately trying to keep my normal routine with the kids and the house all while trying to help him. Then, one night I learned something about our "team". I went on an errand...one of the first since his "accident". I left the kitchen and dining room in an absolute shambles...yet I came home to them sparkling clean. Immediately I yelled out, "CK1! I can't believe you did these dishes? Are you nuts?"
"It wasn't me honey." he chirped from the front room.
What? If it wasn't him, oh....oh dear. Please don't tell me the Relief Society has been here. I'll just die, I'll die of humiliation! Of course, it wasn't the kids, the quality of the work was way above their capacity...
"The girls did it!". I was shocked...stunned really. The granite was sparkling, which I had a hard time accomplishing, and even the rug looked vacuumed.
Over the next few weeks I became more and more dependent on my new found "help". The girls realized that we were in an awful fix, and they were willing, and able- to pitch in. Food was fixed for dad while mom rocked Sweet and Sour, the vacuum was turned on after the box of Cheerios toppled out of the cupboard. The laundry was put away after mom spent hours folding it. Now, lest you believe that my Chickies were totally useless before this experience, let me tell you that I did have jobs for them to do...they were just grossly below their level, as I soon realized when they began to compensate for dad's confinement to the proverbial "bench". We even hosted a triple, yes triple, family baptism at our home while dad was still on crutches. Whoa.
I learned that our ability to function can be put to the test. Nevertheless, maybe, just maybe we are grossly underestimating our abilities. I learned that a team isn't just made up of the coaches, but more importantly, team members...teammates...people who are convinced that if they work together, everyone wins.
So, you see, my first thoughts of protest after CK1's injury "This can't happen, we're a team!" turned into "Look what happened...we're a team!"
First let me say that I'm quite sure there is nothing worse than having an ill or injured husband. You see, when you have a child who is sniffling and sneezing, you only have a child who is sniffling and sneezing. When you have a husband who is out of commission, not only is your husband AWOL with all the family responsibilities and stresses, but now you've got another person to care for (don't be offended hubby dear, you are very low maintenance as far as men go...) to take care of.
I experienced this on a larger scale (larger than the usual 24 hour flu) when CK1 called me one beautiful summery day and said in an unusually calm voice,
"Honey, I think I broke my foot".
I was skeptical. "What makes you think you broke your foot?"
"I heard it".
Ugh...and, Oh Dear. At first I'm worried sick. CK1's never injured himself and I don't exactly know how to handle this. It's usually me...I'm the one with the bad back, faulty thyroid, three C-sections, and a removed gall bladder under my belt (forgive the pun).
The first few days I worried and fussed. I couldn't handle seeing him in pain...it wasn't "normal" for us. I winced every time I changed his bandage to reveal the huge bruises and his swollen sausage toes.
The doctors proclaimed, "It's not a break that requires surgery, but he definitely needs to be off his feet for 6 weeks. "
I'm thinking, "This will be good for him, he's always doing things for everyone...it's about time he gets a rest.".
Yet, I didn't take into account how much he did for ME, and that is where the game plan changed.
In the first few days I was shocked at how often I had needed his help. I was used to a routine that looked something like this: He cleaned up dinner while I bathed the kids. He put the kids in the car while I ran around grabbing last minute diaper bag necessities. He told me to take a nap when I'd hit "I have one nerve left and you're standing on it" status. He carried the huge laundry baskets while I folded everything. He was my assistant...my better half.
It was wrong! We were a team, and now my very best player was out of commission, completely benched, and I was out in left field desperately trying to cover for him. How quickly I realized how I'd taken my assistant coach for granted. How could I have been so oblivious to all that he had done to help me...and now, what was I to do now that not only was his help absent, but he needed me to take care of him in addition to the regular load I carried?
I was flummoxed. I ran around the house like a mad woman, staying up all hours desperately trying to keep my normal routine with the kids and the house all while trying to help him. Then, one night I learned something about our "team". I went on an errand...one of the first since his "accident". I left the kitchen and dining room in an absolute shambles...yet I came home to them sparkling clean. Immediately I yelled out, "CK1! I can't believe you did these dishes? Are you nuts?"
"It wasn't me honey." he chirped from the front room.
What? If it wasn't him, oh....oh dear. Please don't tell me the Relief Society has been here. I'll just die, I'll die of humiliation! Of course, it wasn't the kids, the quality of the work was way above their capacity...
"The girls did it!". I was shocked...stunned really. The granite was sparkling, which I had a hard time accomplishing, and even the rug looked vacuumed.
Over the next few weeks I became more and more dependent on my new found "help". The girls realized that we were in an awful fix, and they were willing, and able- to pitch in. Food was fixed for dad while mom rocked Sweet and Sour, the vacuum was turned on after the box of Cheerios toppled out of the cupboard. The laundry was put away after mom spent hours folding it. Now, lest you believe that my Chickies were totally useless before this experience, let me tell you that I did have jobs for them to do...they were just grossly below their level, as I soon realized when they began to compensate for dad's confinement to the proverbial "bench". We even hosted a triple, yes triple, family baptism at our home while dad was still on crutches. Whoa.
I learned that our ability to function can be put to the test. Nevertheless, maybe, just maybe we are grossly underestimating our abilities. I learned that a team isn't just made up of the coaches, but more importantly, team members...teammates...people who are convinced that if they work together, everyone wins.
So, you see, my first thoughts of protest after CK1's injury "This can't happen, we're a team!" turned into "Look what happened...we're a team!"
Thursday, March 26, 2009
My Magic Pill
I'm sitting on my bed, laptop placed squarely on my flannel covered thighs. I'm working on a project that is looming in my near future...threatening to make my life an anxiety induced nightmare for the next month.
I'm moving my head around in circles, desperately trying to calm the muscles in my neck that are beginning to cramp. I run my fingers through my short hair, making it stand on end, surely epitomizing my current state of mind.
I mentally pace the floor. What do I need to do to get this anxiety under control? Maybe I need some sort of tranquilizer, perhaps an antidepressant, a muscle relaxant, or maybe even some Valium. I continue to putter away at my project, not really getting anywhere because my hands are starting to curl into fists as my anxiety heightens.
Suddenly, in a barefooted fury, my youngest runs in and jumps up onto my bed. Daddy usually reads to her and gets her to sleep at night. He says it's his "bonding time", but he has unexpectedly, and unusually fallen into a quick sleep next to me. She looks up at me with those "Disney Eyes" as my mom puts it, and says in her sweet as honey voice reserved only for the most important of requests...
"Mommy, you wead me a dory?"
I continue to gaze at my monitor. "MmmHmm. Sure, go get mommy a book and I'll read to you."
I'm hoping that hubby realizes he's missing out on his "bonding" time and takes over so I can finish this project, and go find something to calm my nerves.
He continues to snore away peacefully and I don't have the heart to stir him. He works so hard and always let's me fall asleep while he takes this littlest one and puts her to bed.
"Dat one mama!" she cries as she spots one of my favorite Dr. Suess books on the dresser.
I can't resist Dr. Suess. He makes me feel silly and philosophical all at the same time. She curls up on my lap, in her purple Sleeping Beauty pajamas, with her bumpy post braid hair tickling my lips and I begin to get tongue tangled in my Dr. Suess world. We rhyme and we laugh, and we look at the pictures twice, just in case we missed some odd creature that we might enjoy. I finish the book, and she requests another round. What the heck...I didn't pronounce half the words right the first time! Let's try 'er again!
After our second round with the good Doc, we sneak out ever so quietly so as not to wake Daddy and we crawl into my little one's bed. She pulls up her soft brown blanket and says, "Oh, smell it mommy".
I pull the time worn fabric up to my nose and take a deep breath. Downy, and a hint of Cheerios. It smells...calming. I pull it up to my chest and pick up a stack of books and begin to read.
We read about the little chicks, the pig, the cow. The pictures provide tactile fur, and feathers to touch. We take our time, stroking the kitty's tummy, scratching the doggy's ear. She decides she must nuzzle noses with the pig. I feel my anxiety beginning to wane.
We read about the little creature, who likes to curl up in a ball. He likes to run, he likes to yell, he likes to jump up and down. But most of all, he likes to curl up in a ball, next to his mom at the end of the day. I struggle saying those last few phrases:
"So I find somewhere safe, somewhere cozy and small, and that's where I like to curl up in a ball".
The picture shows the little creature, curled up on his mommy's arm in their little warm burrow.
My little creatures looks up at me, "Mommy, I yay on you arm?"
I turn off her purple lamp and turn on my side. She cradles up against me, laying on my outstretched arm. Her legs find their way between mine where it's nice and warm and she laces the tiny fingers on her right hand into mine.
At this moment, I am completely at peace. My anxiety has melted away. My mind is no longer filled with deadlines and stress. I'm thinking about that sweet little pig and seeing Evie explore all the animals. I'm thinking of my clever Dr. Suess. I'm relishing being "curled up in a ball" with my "Littles". I lay there, completely at peace listening to her breathe and finally hearing the little sigh that always signals that she has finally reached dreamland.
I lay there for several more minutes, relishing in the feeling. Realizing now, why hubby is so intent on taking this bedtime ritual for himself. I wait until my arm is completely numb and my hip is nearly paralized before I force myself from my little nook.
I'm not worried, frantic, anxious. I'm calm. I'm relaxed. I feel complete. Move over Valium, there's a new little pill who's just what the Dr. ordered! (Dr. Suess that is!)
I'm moving my head around in circles, desperately trying to calm the muscles in my neck that are beginning to cramp. I run my fingers through my short hair, making it stand on end, surely epitomizing my current state of mind.
I mentally pace the floor. What do I need to do to get this anxiety under control? Maybe I need some sort of tranquilizer, perhaps an antidepressant, a muscle relaxant, or maybe even some Valium. I continue to putter away at my project, not really getting anywhere because my hands are starting to curl into fists as my anxiety heightens.
Suddenly, in a barefooted fury, my youngest runs in and jumps up onto my bed. Daddy usually reads to her and gets her to sleep at night. He says it's his "bonding time", but he has unexpectedly, and unusually fallen into a quick sleep next to me. She looks up at me with those "Disney Eyes" as my mom puts it, and says in her sweet as honey voice reserved only for the most important of requests...
"Mommy, you wead me a dory?"
I continue to gaze at my monitor. "MmmHmm. Sure, go get mommy a book and I'll read to you."
I'm hoping that hubby realizes he's missing out on his "bonding" time and takes over so I can finish this project, and go find something to calm my nerves.
He continues to snore away peacefully and I don't have the heart to stir him. He works so hard and always let's me fall asleep while he takes this littlest one and puts her to bed.
"Dat one mama!" she cries as she spots one of my favorite Dr. Suess books on the dresser.
I can't resist Dr. Suess. He makes me feel silly and philosophical all at the same time. She curls up on my lap, in her purple Sleeping Beauty pajamas, with her bumpy post braid hair tickling my lips and I begin to get tongue tangled in my Dr. Suess world. We rhyme and we laugh, and we look at the pictures twice, just in case we missed some odd creature that we might enjoy. I finish the book, and she requests another round. What the heck...I didn't pronounce half the words right the first time! Let's try 'er again!
After our second round with the good Doc, we sneak out ever so quietly so as not to wake Daddy and we crawl into my little one's bed. She pulls up her soft brown blanket and says, "Oh, smell it mommy".
I pull the time worn fabric up to my nose and take a deep breath. Downy, and a hint of Cheerios. It smells...calming. I pull it up to my chest and pick up a stack of books and begin to read.
We read about the little chicks, the pig, the cow. The pictures provide tactile fur, and feathers to touch. We take our time, stroking the kitty's tummy, scratching the doggy's ear. She decides she must nuzzle noses with the pig. I feel my anxiety beginning to wane.
We read about the little creature, who likes to curl up in a ball. He likes to run, he likes to yell, he likes to jump up and down. But most of all, he likes to curl up in a ball, next to his mom at the end of the day. I struggle saying those last few phrases:
"So I find somewhere safe, somewhere cozy and small, and that's where I like to curl up in a ball".
The picture shows the little creature, curled up on his mommy's arm in their little warm burrow.
My little creatures looks up at me, "Mommy, I yay on you arm?"
I turn off her purple lamp and turn on my side. She cradles up against me, laying on my outstretched arm. Her legs find their way between mine where it's nice and warm and she laces the tiny fingers on her right hand into mine.
At this moment, I am completely at peace. My anxiety has melted away. My mind is no longer filled with deadlines and stress. I'm thinking about that sweet little pig and seeing Evie explore all the animals. I'm thinking of my clever Dr. Suess. I'm relishing being "curled up in a ball" with my "Littles". I lay there, completely at peace listening to her breathe and finally hearing the little sigh that always signals that she has finally reached dreamland.
I lay there for several more minutes, relishing in the feeling. Realizing now, why hubby is so intent on taking this bedtime ritual for himself. I wait until my arm is completely numb and my hip is nearly paralized before I force myself from my little nook.
I'm not worried, frantic, anxious. I'm calm. I'm relaxed. I feel complete. Move over Valium, there's a new little pill who's just what the Dr. ordered! (Dr. Suess that is!)
Friday, March 13, 2009
I'm Sorry and I Love You!
Sweet and Sour has a gift. She can put on a pout face, and take a pout stance, and stand in her pout corner in less than 2.3 seconds. Let's just say this child is one we would consider "easily offended". She also tantrums very easily...usually over the slightest disturbance in her day. Sometimes she is distressed over something that never really happened. This began to wear on my nerves to the point that I began completely ignoring these "episodes". I figured this was the best solution. I'd say..."girls, just ignore her!" when her older sisters seemed concerned by some rampage being run through in the living room.
Sugar would say, "Mom, do you want me to go get her?".
"Nope.", I'd say, "That will just encourage her bad behavior".
Then, one day, completely exasperated by one of Sweet and Sours tantrums about something completely imaginary in my opinion, Sugar once again asked if she could go talk to Vesuvius erupting in the other room.
"OK". I buckled.
If she wanted to coddle the tyrant, I was at the point that I didn't care what lesson was learned, I just wanted to stop the lava flow. Suddenly, the tantrum stopped and Sweet and Sour skipped into the room and calmly requested a sippy cup of milk. I took one look at Sugar, who had a I told you sort of look on her freckled face and I said, "What did you do?".
"Mom, I've figured out that if Sweet and Sour is freaking out, no matter what it was that happened, if I say I'm sorry and I love you she's OK."
This was a parental epiphany. At first thought, I wanted to say "Why would you say your sorry? You didn't do anything wrong!?" but I thought a little deeper (this was a strain you realize) and discovered that we say we're sorry all the time when things aren't our fault. Children rarely do this, because sorry means "I did something bad I'm apologizing for", but that isn't what is should be used for exclusively. We say "I'm so sorry" when someone loses a loved one. We say "I'm sorry" when someone loses a job. We say "I'm sorry" when someone gets hurt. We even say "I'm sorry" when someone gets a bad grade...which happens to be their own fault! So, what Sugar was telling me was that she recognized that something had disturbed Sweet and Sour, and despite what it was, she was sorry about it. It could have been something naughty that got her in trouble, or the fact that her beautiful birthday balloon just popped because she chose to chew on it. Regardless, she was sorry that Sweet and Sour was hurt. Sorry doesn't justify actions, it just means we're sorry it happened.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I learned something that day that I have been using with quite a bit of success with all my kids, and with others too. Sometimes when someone is throwing a fit, has been hurt, or is just about to erupt and blow lava all over everyone...you don't have to ignore them to teach them a lesson, you can and should say,
"I'm sorry, and I love you!"
Sugar would say, "Mom, do you want me to go get her?".
"Nope.", I'd say, "That will just encourage her bad behavior".
Then, one day, completely exasperated by one of Sweet and Sours tantrums about something completely imaginary in my opinion, Sugar once again asked if she could go talk to Vesuvius erupting in the other room.
"OK". I buckled.
If she wanted to coddle the tyrant, I was at the point that I didn't care what lesson was learned, I just wanted to stop the lava flow. Suddenly, the tantrum stopped and Sweet and Sour skipped into the room and calmly requested a sippy cup of milk. I took one look at Sugar, who had a I told you sort of look on her freckled face and I said, "What did you do?".
"Mom, I've figured out that if Sweet and Sour is freaking out, no matter what it was that happened, if I say I'm sorry and I love you she's OK."
This was a parental epiphany. At first thought, I wanted to say "Why would you say your sorry? You didn't do anything wrong!?" but I thought a little deeper (this was a strain you realize) and discovered that we say we're sorry all the time when things aren't our fault. Children rarely do this, because sorry means "I did something bad I'm apologizing for", but that isn't what is should be used for exclusively. We say "I'm so sorry" when someone loses a loved one. We say "I'm sorry" when someone loses a job. We say "I'm sorry" when someone gets hurt. We even say "I'm sorry" when someone gets a bad grade...which happens to be their own fault! So, what Sugar was telling me was that she recognized that something had disturbed Sweet and Sour, and despite what it was, she was sorry about it. It could have been something naughty that got her in trouble, or the fact that her beautiful birthday balloon just popped because she chose to chew on it. Regardless, she was sorry that Sweet and Sour was hurt. Sorry doesn't justify actions, it just means we're sorry it happened.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I learned something that day that I have been using with quite a bit of success with all my kids, and with others too. Sometimes when someone is throwing a fit, has been hurt, or is just about to erupt and blow lava all over everyone...you don't have to ignore them to teach them a lesson, you can and should say,
"I'm sorry, and I love you!"
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
I'm With Mim!
Remember that old Disney movie "Sword in the Stone" where Merlin and Mad Madame Mim are "Wizard Dueling"? They are switching from persona to persona, from dragons to fierce beasts. Suddenly Merlin has a stroke of genius and transforms himself in to one of the most horrifying things in the world...a germ.
Mad Madame Mim is aghast upon learning that she has contracted the Merlin germ. She breaks out into purple spots and suddenly runs a fever. She is rightfully disgruntled and dismayed. I'm with Mim. I'd rather face a dragon than the stomach flu.
Unfortunately, my family has proven less than healthy during the monstrous cold and flu season. My cupboard is justifiably filled to the brim with tonics and syrups that are supposedly created to help deal with the bugs that plague us each winter. My sister took a look at my stash the other day and was overwhelmed by my bulging shelves. She isn't sure she's even gone through an entire bottle of children's ibuprofen yet. I think I've gone through seven since Sweet and Sour was born 2 years ago. That doesn't count the children's quick tabs that I use for Sugar. Heaven help me. The worse part is, I just recently called for a dosage of a decongestant for Sweet and Sour, and was told that they no longer recommend those for children under the age of 6 because studies show that they aren't good for their systems and they rarely work. Oh sure, you realize this now that I've administered at least 2 bottles of it over her lifetime? Thanks a lot American Academy of Pediatrics! No really, it's OK, she doesn't need her liver anyway.
I've also discovered that my family has a ill-fated tendency to puke. Yep. We don't need the stomach flu to have a barf-a-rama at our house. Spice could stub her toe and she'd need to puke. We puke if we're stuffy, puke if our throat hurts, and puke if we laugh too hard. Therefore, I am always prepared and have tucked into my sick cupboard a barf bowl. It is lined with a garbage bag and can be grabbed at a moments notice, which is usually all you get when the pukes come.
The most dreaded thing besides vomiting, in my humble, yet ever so experienced sickness opinion, is the NIGHTTIME FEVER. Oh, I get chills just thinking about it (no pun intended!) Nothing sends me into a more frantic mind frame than a midnight fever. Suddenly my night is transformed in to a frenzied, brow touching, feet squeezing (my kids feet get hot when they have a fever), temperature taking, medicine administering nightmare. I worry about infection, I worry about viruses, I even worry that they have something even worse. Often my children hallucinate when they fever. Spice will sit up and talk and try to wander the house and I'm following her bumping into walls trying to get my bearings and wishing that 9 am would hurry and come so I can call the doctor!
When 9 am finally comes, I don't even have to explain anything to the nurse. I just say, "Hi, it's Sweet and Sour's mom." and they pencil me in an appointment without any further questions. I walk in and they all look at me with sympathetic eyes. "Now what?" is often how I'm greeted at the Pediatricians office. Dr. Sympathetic finally gave me his home number and told me to call him if I had any questions. A personal line to the doctor, that's when you know it's bad.
But you know it's really bad when you pray that your child actually does have an infection, something that can be diagnosed and treated with a yummy antibiotic. I've been known to hope for an ear infection, strep, or anything that isn't a virus that we must "let run it's course". No! I want a course of antibiotics! Now, don't me judge too harshly because usually, when a diagnosis of virus is made, I know that within a few short days I will be revisiting the pediatrician with what they call a "secondary infection". That's when your virus creates an environment where a bacteria can take over. Like a cold turning into an ear infection. We are masters at that trick.
So, I sit and ponder at all the reasons why we are so prone to illness. I do try hard to prevent the germs from creeping in. I use Lysol whenever I think something could be spreading. I make the kids use sanitizer whenever we leave a public place. I worry that maybe my home isn't clean enough, my food not nutritious enough to keep the germs at bay. But it seems that this is my lot in life. Maybe I was meant to never sleep through the night, to always be laundering yacked on linens, to constantly be wiping at runny noses.
Alas, as I write this illness memoir, I am thinking about my three little chickies curled up in their beds and I'm grateful that now, at this very moment, no one is ill. Nevertheless, I also know that somewhere, perhaps lurking upon the very keys that I use to type this there is a little Merlin germ. A nasty little bug just waiting to make my life a flurry of dosage cups, thermometers, and sleepless nights. So excuse me now, I must go fetch my Lysol...
Mad Madame Mim is aghast upon learning that she has contracted the Merlin germ. She breaks out into purple spots and suddenly runs a fever. She is rightfully disgruntled and dismayed. I'm with Mim. I'd rather face a dragon than the stomach flu.
Unfortunately, my family has proven less than healthy during the monstrous cold and flu season. My cupboard is justifiably filled to the brim with tonics and syrups that are supposedly created to help deal with the bugs that plague us each winter. My sister took a look at my stash the other day and was overwhelmed by my bulging shelves. She isn't sure she's even gone through an entire bottle of children's ibuprofen yet. I think I've gone through seven since Sweet and Sour was born 2 years ago. That doesn't count the children's quick tabs that I use for Sugar. Heaven help me. The worse part is, I just recently called for a dosage of a decongestant for Sweet and Sour, and was told that they no longer recommend those for children under the age of 6 because studies show that they aren't good for their systems and they rarely work. Oh sure, you realize this now that I've administered at least 2 bottles of it over her lifetime? Thanks a lot American Academy of Pediatrics! No really, it's OK, she doesn't need her liver anyway.
I've also discovered that my family has a ill-fated tendency to puke. Yep. We don't need the stomach flu to have a barf-a-rama at our house. Spice could stub her toe and she'd need to puke. We puke if we're stuffy, puke if our throat hurts, and puke if we laugh too hard. Therefore, I am always prepared and have tucked into my sick cupboard a barf bowl. It is lined with a garbage bag and can be grabbed at a moments notice, which is usually all you get when the pukes come.
The most dreaded thing besides vomiting, in my humble, yet ever so experienced sickness opinion, is the NIGHTTIME FEVER. Oh, I get chills just thinking about it (no pun intended!) Nothing sends me into a more frantic mind frame than a midnight fever. Suddenly my night is transformed in to a frenzied, brow touching, feet squeezing (my kids feet get hot when they have a fever), temperature taking, medicine administering nightmare. I worry about infection, I worry about viruses, I even worry that they have something even worse. Often my children hallucinate when they fever. Spice will sit up and talk and try to wander the house and I'm following her bumping into walls trying to get my bearings and wishing that 9 am would hurry and come so I can call the doctor!
When 9 am finally comes, I don't even have to explain anything to the nurse. I just say, "Hi, it's Sweet and Sour's mom." and they pencil me in an appointment without any further questions. I walk in and they all look at me with sympathetic eyes. "Now what?" is often how I'm greeted at the Pediatricians office. Dr. Sympathetic finally gave me his home number and told me to call him if I had any questions. A personal line to the doctor, that's when you know it's bad.
But you know it's really bad when you pray that your child actually does have an infection, something that can be diagnosed and treated with a yummy antibiotic. I've been known to hope for an ear infection, strep, or anything that isn't a virus that we must "let run it's course". No! I want a course of antibiotics! Now, don't me judge too harshly because usually, when a diagnosis of virus is made, I know that within a few short days I will be revisiting the pediatrician with what they call a "secondary infection". That's when your virus creates an environment where a bacteria can take over. Like a cold turning into an ear infection. We are masters at that trick.
So, I sit and ponder at all the reasons why we are so prone to illness. I do try hard to prevent the germs from creeping in. I use Lysol whenever I think something could be spreading. I make the kids use sanitizer whenever we leave a public place. I worry that maybe my home isn't clean enough, my food not nutritious enough to keep the germs at bay. But it seems that this is my lot in life. Maybe I was meant to never sleep through the night, to always be laundering yacked on linens, to constantly be wiping at runny noses.
Alas, as I write this illness memoir, I am thinking about my three little chickies curled up in their beds and I'm grateful that now, at this very moment, no one is ill. Nevertheless, I also know that somewhere, perhaps lurking upon the very keys that I use to type this there is a little Merlin germ. A nasty little bug just waiting to make my life a flurry of dosage cups, thermometers, and sleepless nights. So excuse me now, I must go fetch my Lysol...
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Not a Private Practice
Privacy goes completely out the door the second you decide to become a mother. No, no, not the moment the baby is born, I'm talking, the moment you conceive. All of a sudden, everyone wants to know when your last menstrual cycle was, when you think you ovulated, and especially, what 40 weeks from that date is.
I had my first child exactly 9 months to the day I was married. I like to claim that she was 3 weeks early, which she was, but let's just be honest, CK1 and I wanted to have a family and the "4 months to a year" that my OB told me it would take was surely a sufficient amount of time for us. Apparently, my ovaries didn't get the memo. We didn't take into account the fact that I could be nicknamed "Fertile Myrtle" and it would be distressingly accurate. So, for those of you who think that perhaps we jumped into parenthood and didn't get to "know" each other well enough, how does "Can you hold my hair back while I puke my guts out and then clean up after I peed my pants at the same time?" sound for "getting to know you"? Yah, that's where the full attack on my privacy began!
Slowly, but surely, my privacy was stripped from me, layer by layer. Literally. (Gowns anyone?) I remember going into the OB, being asked to wear a "sheath" and sitting, sweaty bottomed on the white paper. After that experience, you are asked to give a urine sample. Yikes. I'm supposed to hand you that cup and then look you in the eye while you make me stand on a scale, during which someone I knew in high school and just happens to be on the last month of her pregnancy and I'm on my first, stands on the scale right after me and we weigh the same!? So much for privacy.
As if that wasn't enough, as the day of delivery progresses, people begin looking at you like just an object, or better yet, an extention of the baby. My mom loved to pull up my shirt in front of people and make them peer wide mouthed at my "measuring 4 weeks ahead" belly. Then, there's the constant touching. Touching, rubbing, pushing; everyone wants to feel the baby. Did you every think that in the process of trying to feel this baby, you've succeeded in feeling the entire perimeter of my stomach? How would you feel if I tried that on you? Then, people begin talking to you like your body is a biology book. They begin asking questions about your breasts (I shiver at the word), your belly button (so what if mine sticks out?), and then there's the mucus plug. Oh dear me, when you've discussed your mucus plug with more than one person, you think you've hit the pinnacle of privacy infringement. But no, oh no, it's only just begun.
In my case, I also happened to have my water break at my parent's home in front of my younger brother. I'm sure he still has nightmares over that. I was admitted to the hospital and then was administered an enema (which I think is illegal by now, and if it isn't, it should be!) I won't even try to describe the chaos that ensued after 5 gallons of water were pumped into my colon. Let's just say it was...messy.
Just to add insult to injury, during all of these awful situations, there is a constant stream of friends and family walking in and out as you lay prostrate on your back, wearing nothing but a white gown (couldn't they make they at least a darker, more slimming and discrete color?), and at any moment, a nurse (whom you also went to high school with) will come in and want to put her hand "where the sun don't shine"!
Then, as was my situation, it is decided that you will go in for a C-section. Ahhh, the first hint of privacy that I've been given all day! Yay, no one will be holding my legs while I try to have a bowel moment and produce a baby! I am relieved and feeling quite smug at the idea. Not so fast Ang, they've got to shave you (What? Can't I do that by myself?) and douse you in a gallon of iodine. They wheel me into the ER and suddenly strip me of all coverings and quickly leave the room. I'm already placed behind the "curtain" that will keep me from seeing my own surgery, and I look over at my husband and ask, "is there anything covering me?" To which he nods his head from left to right and adds an apologetic ,"Nope." To heck with it anyway, it's not like I've got a scrap of privacy left...
But apparently I do, because the invasions of privacy continue as you are shown by the La Leche League (aka, the Boob Nazi's) exactly how to get your baby to latch on. She is unruffled by the idea of having you expose yourself completely in front of her. I on the other hand, am completely ruffled. Then, in the case of a C-section, you have a doctor come in and pull up your gown and make you show them the scar, which by the way, is very low on the abdomen. Very, very low.
My moments of humiliation continued to escalate with each child, yet I discovered by baby 3 that just about nothing ruffles me anymore. I realized I'd hit this "I've got no pride" moment when I was wheeled just after surgery to see my youngest in the NICU. I stand up to get a better look at my little darling and proceed to bleed all over the floor. I continue to oooh and ahhh over this bundle as a kind nurse quickly mops up. I could care less. And, as if that wasn't enough, I decide to change my gown on my own later that day and realize that because I'm wearing a gown in front, and one in back, along with a robe, and I'm still hooked up to a catheter and my IV, I proceed to put myself into such a pretzel that after about 45 minutes, I summon a nurse (please don't let it be the one I know from high school!) to help me out of the mess I've made. Please, please, don't try to visualize this. It's horrific. Trust me.
So, I've said my final farewells to my Privacy. It was nice while I had ya, but alas, we are not meant to be together anymore. Though I'm done having children, I'm afraid my fair weather friend "Privacy", continues to elude me. I've been accosted while leaving the shower by my 2 year old, to which she explains, "Ewww!" (Not good for the self confidence level). Not to mention the fact that I've had someone in the stall with me while I'm using the bathroom for almost 9 years straight. So, it is officially over, me and my Privacy. And as I've just realized, I've even lost the last shred I may have been holding on to by sharing this all with you! Oh well! Now there's really nothing left to lose!
I had my first child exactly 9 months to the day I was married. I like to claim that she was 3 weeks early, which she was, but let's just be honest, CK1 and I wanted to have a family and the "4 months to a year" that my OB told me it would take was surely a sufficient amount of time for us. Apparently, my ovaries didn't get the memo. We didn't take into account the fact that I could be nicknamed "Fertile Myrtle" and it would be distressingly accurate. So, for those of you who think that perhaps we jumped into parenthood and didn't get to "know" each other well enough, how does "Can you hold my hair back while I puke my guts out and then clean up after I peed my pants at the same time?" sound for "getting to know you"? Yah, that's where the full attack on my privacy began!
Slowly, but surely, my privacy was stripped from me, layer by layer. Literally. (Gowns anyone?) I remember going into the OB, being asked to wear a "sheath" and sitting, sweaty bottomed on the white paper. After that experience, you are asked to give a urine sample. Yikes. I'm supposed to hand you that cup and then look you in the eye while you make me stand on a scale, during which someone I knew in high school and just happens to be on the last month of her pregnancy and I'm on my first, stands on the scale right after me and we weigh the same!? So much for privacy.
As if that wasn't enough, as the day of delivery progresses, people begin looking at you like just an object, or better yet, an extention of the baby. My mom loved to pull up my shirt in front of people and make them peer wide mouthed at my "measuring 4 weeks ahead" belly. Then, there's the constant touching. Touching, rubbing, pushing; everyone wants to feel the baby. Did you every think that in the process of trying to feel this baby, you've succeeded in feeling the entire perimeter of my stomach? How would you feel if I tried that on you? Then, people begin talking to you like your body is a biology book. They begin asking questions about your breasts (I shiver at the word), your belly button (so what if mine sticks out?), and then there's the mucus plug. Oh dear me, when you've discussed your mucus plug with more than one person, you think you've hit the pinnacle of privacy infringement. But no, oh no, it's only just begun.
In my case, I also happened to have my water break at my parent's home in front of my younger brother. I'm sure he still has nightmares over that. I was admitted to the hospital and then was administered an enema (which I think is illegal by now, and if it isn't, it should be!) I won't even try to describe the chaos that ensued after 5 gallons of water were pumped into my colon. Let's just say it was...messy.
Just to add insult to injury, during all of these awful situations, there is a constant stream of friends and family walking in and out as you lay prostrate on your back, wearing nothing but a white gown (couldn't they make they at least a darker, more slimming and discrete color?), and at any moment, a nurse (whom you also went to high school with) will come in and want to put her hand "where the sun don't shine"!
Then, as was my situation, it is decided that you will go in for a C-section. Ahhh, the first hint of privacy that I've been given all day! Yay, no one will be holding my legs while I try to have a bowel moment and produce a baby! I am relieved and feeling quite smug at the idea. Not so fast Ang, they've got to shave you (What? Can't I do that by myself?) and douse you in a gallon of iodine. They wheel me into the ER and suddenly strip me of all coverings and quickly leave the room. I'm already placed behind the "curtain" that will keep me from seeing my own surgery, and I look over at my husband and ask, "is there anything covering me?" To which he nods his head from left to right and adds an apologetic ,"Nope." To heck with it anyway, it's not like I've got a scrap of privacy left...
But apparently I do, because the invasions of privacy continue as you are shown by the La Leche League (aka, the Boob Nazi's) exactly how to get your baby to latch on. She is unruffled by the idea of having you expose yourself completely in front of her. I on the other hand, am completely ruffled. Then, in the case of a C-section, you have a doctor come in and pull up your gown and make you show them the scar, which by the way, is very low on the abdomen. Very, very low.
My moments of humiliation continued to escalate with each child, yet I discovered by baby 3 that just about nothing ruffles me anymore. I realized I'd hit this "I've got no pride" moment when I was wheeled just after surgery to see my youngest in the NICU. I stand up to get a better look at my little darling and proceed to bleed all over the floor. I continue to oooh and ahhh over this bundle as a kind nurse quickly mops up. I could care less. And, as if that wasn't enough, I decide to change my gown on my own later that day and realize that because I'm wearing a gown in front, and one in back, along with a robe, and I'm still hooked up to a catheter and my IV, I proceed to put myself into such a pretzel that after about 45 minutes, I summon a nurse (please don't let it be the one I know from high school!) to help me out of the mess I've made. Please, please, don't try to visualize this. It's horrific. Trust me.
So, I've said my final farewells to my Privacy. It was nice while I had ya, but alas, we are not meant to be together anymore. Though I'm done having children, I'm afraid my fair weather friend "Privacy", continues to elude me. I've been accosted while leaving the shower by my 2 year old, to which she explains, "Ewww!" (Not good for the self confidence level). Not to mention the fact that I've had someone in the stall with me while I'm using the bathroom for almost 9 years straight. So, it is officially over, me and my Privacy. And as I've just realized, I've even lost the last shred I may have been holding on to by sharing this all with you! Oh well! Now there's really nothing left to lose!
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Feed the World
I am convinced, I could stop the hunger in Haiti simply by donating the food hidden beneath my couch. I'm concerned with the fact that the White Pearl (my van) has enough sustenance hidden between the cushions and under the seats it could keep us quite full if we were stuck in the mountains in a blizzard until spring. Nope, I wouldn't even have to ration the Cheerios, there's plenty for all. I am worried about how many popcorn kernels are wedged beneath the coffee table legs. I worry because there are entire nations starving, and my floors are, at this very moment, covered in 20 pounds of grain.
This concern about the abundance of food ground into my floor is due to reading this month's National Geographic. I love this magazine, and yet, I despise it. The harsh realities of life come cascading out of it's pull out pages like a rushing river, drowning me in guilt. It makes me realize how terribly blessed I am, and how much I take for granted. People are starving all over the world, and I have to dump the holder on my swivel sweeper every 45 seconds due to the spillage on my dining room floor. I look in my cupboards and I realize that I have 11 boxes of cereal. 11. Yikes. All of which are half eaten, and will perhaps be sent to the garbage that way. (Except the Cheerios, Sweet and Sour sees to devouring those...).
When I clean out the fridge, I send a sink full of leftovers, long forgotten, down the disposal. Perhaps it is the voice of my father in my head, reminding me over and over as a child, that we shouldn't waste. Perhaps it's the impoverished people staring back at me from the pages of the magazine. Perhaps it's the fact that we are so overwhelmed with food, we actually have to limit ourselves, not for rationing purposes, but to keep our waste lines under 30 inches. (I read that number somewhere and it horrified me. Do they give allowances for women with multiple C-sections?)
I don't know what the answer is, how this huge chasm could exist between me, and them. Are they sitting there, completely aware of the fact that I count my calories in an attempt to lower them, and throw away leftovers just so they won't clutter my fridge, yet they are making pies out of clay and lard? How do I feel about that? I feel bad. I feel negligent. I again feel like I need to save them all, even if it's just by offering my leftover spaghetti and those last few slices of bread no one wants and I end up throwing away. But, it seems selfish, to think that they deserve my cast offs. They don't, they deserve more, but how?
Then, reality checks in for me, which usually comes in the form of my hubby, and I realize there are many things I can do. I can donate to the food drive. I can give more fast offerings. I can raise good, noble spirited children, who will grow up to do these same things. I don't have to feel guilt over the spilled cheerios, the left out mayonnaise. I just need to be conscious, careful, and generous. I can't feed the world, though I'm still convinced I could with my vacuum contents, but I can do a little. And hopefully, someone else is doing a little, and someone else too. And maybe, all those little things can become something really big. That's all it takes. It's not some of us doing it all, it's all of us doing some. Now if some of us could just do something about my kitchen floor...
This concern about the abundance of food ground into my floor is due to reading this month's National Geographic. I love this magazine, and yet, I despise it. The harsh realities of life come cascading out of it's pull out pages like a rushing river, drowning me in guilt. It makes me realize how terribly blessed I am, and how much I take for granted. People are starving all over the world, and I have to dump the holder on my swivel sweeper every 45 seconds due to the spillage on my dining room floor. I look in my cupboards and I realize that I have 11 boxes of cereal. 11. Yikes. All of which are half eaten, and will perhaps be sent to the garbage that way. (Except the Cheerios, Sweet and Sour sees to devouring those...).
When I clean out the fridge, I send a sink full of leftovers, long forgotten, down the disposal. Perhaps it is the voice of my father in my head, reminding me over and over as a child, that we shouldn't waste. Perhaps it's the impoverished people staring back at me from the pages of the magazine. Perhaps it's the fact that we are so overwhelmed with food, we actually have to limit ourselves, not for rationing purposes, but to keep our waste lines under 30 inches. (I read that number somewhere and it horrified me. Do they give allowances for women with multiple C-sections?)
I don't know what the answer is, how this huge chasm could exist between me, and them. Are they sitting there, completely aware of the fact that I count my calories in an attempt to lower them, and throw away leftovers just so they won't clutter my fridge, yet they are making pies out of clay and lard? How do I feel about that? I feel bad. I feel negligent. I again feel like I need to save them all, even if it's just by offering my leftover spaghetti and those last few slices of bread no one wants and I end up throwing away. But, it seems selfish, to think that they deserve my cast offs. They don't, they deserve more, but how?
Then, reality checks in for me, which usually comes in the form of my hubby, and I realize there are many things I can do. I can donate to the food drive. I can give more fast offerings. I can raise good, noble spirited children, who will grow up to do these same things. I don't have to feel guilt over the spilled cheerios, the left out mayonnaise. I just need to be conscious, careful, and generous. I can't feed the world, though I'm still convinced I could with my vacuum contents, but I can do a little. And hopefully, someone else is doing a little, and someone else too. And maybe, all those little things can become something really big. That's all it takes. It's not some of us doing it all, it's all of us doing some. Now if some of us could just do something about my kitchen floor...
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