This is going to sound strange, but there is something I look forward to each year with doing our taxes. I don't like the actual doing of the taxes. It is tedious. I'm organized enough that I have the needed papers. The program on my computer is straightforward enough that I don't get too many headaches (although curses to HSAs). As a child, I remember the one or two days a year, my father would get out all of the things he would need to complete our taxes. The papers, the books, a calculator, scrap paper, pencils, stapler, paperclips, a few envelopes, file folders, the check book, and a pen to do the final draft with along with White Out. Typically, my parents paid bills sitting at their desk. For this, the whole dining room table was commandeered for the event. The tablecloth pulled off and folded up on a chair. I remember being told to stay out of the dining room and stay quiet because he was "doing taxes". It was an adult thing to do. Grown ups do it. I wondered when I would do it myself.
I didn't start doing our own taxes until the year Pyrope was born. Before that, my dad being the CPA he was always did them for me, then us. The first year after he passed away, we had W-2's from 4 states (well, one was technically the District of Columbia) and several other special circumstances. I didn't feel like I could handle them myself that year. After that, I took them on myself. Just a tax program and me (I had been well trained to gather all of the documents in a manila envelope, I just had never opened it up myself to deal with the papers within). I could get my mom to do them (as she is a "professional tax preparer", she does all of my siblings). It would save me time, and it is something that my mother would not mind doing (particularly because unlike my one brother who literally calls at 9 or 10 at night when they need to be postmarked by midnight, I would have all of my stuff to her with a couple of months to spare). I do have her look over my return each year. And call for questions. But I do them myself.
What I look forward to is the final step, dropping them in the mailbox. I love the feeling that I have accomplished something. Something that many others find too daunting, or time consuming, or whatever other reason hire someone else to do.
Today, I dropped the final part of our taxes in the mail. And smiled. As I know I will do again next year.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Thoughts of a picture
I am not one for painting my walls different colors. I don't "do" white, but my walls for the most part are pale colors. Sometimes I think about painting them more vivid colors. But I never do, the neutral pale colors are more my style. My comfort zone.
However, I have to have decorations on my walls. Rooms and hallways have a tendency to have themes. Most rooms, well at least many, are decorated by prints that someone I know has taken (with a handful of ones taken off of flickr to supplement).
2/3 of our basement is playroom. It is the only room of the house we left as white (all but 3 rooms of the house were painted entirely in white when we moved in, walls and ceilings in the same color, it was dreadful, although one of the rooms that was painted in color was even worse, but that is a different story). Nothing down there is glass (as previously noted, it is a playroom. Balls and other objects are regularly thrown down there). On the walls are 16 x 20 black and white prints in poster frames (all plastic, simple black frames). Each print is a snapshot of a child or children blown up to a 16x20. All children related to my children (i.e. my husband and his sister, me and my brother, my other siblings, my parents as children, Jet's parents as children, and even a couple of our grandparents as children). I took a picture of Pyrope when he was about 6 months old, and that is down there. However, I have not thought of a good picture to take, or have randomly taken and thought would be perfect, of Obsidian. Yesterday I was cleaning down there and putting back up two of the pictures that had been knocked off the walls, and with Obsidian driving trains over my feet as I was doing this, I decided. I need a picture of Obsidian playing with trains. It is my mission for the week.
It is funny how this has been lurking in my head for so long, that it came with an odd surge of relief, just to know what I want a picture of him doing. I'm not sure why it is so important, as it isn't very expensive so I can really change it whenever I want.
However, I have to have decorations on my walls. Rooms and hallways have a tendency to have themes. Most rooms, well at least many, are decorated by prints that someone I know has taken (with a handful of ones taken off of flickr to supplement).
2/3 of our basement is playroom. It is the only room of the house we left as white (all but 3 rooms of the house were painted entirely in white when we moved in, walls and ceilings in the same color, it was dreadful, although one of the rooms that was painted in color was even worse, but that is a different story). Nothing down there is glass (as previously noted, it is a playroom. Balls and other objects are regularly thrown down there). On the walls are 16 x 20 black and white prints in poster frames (all plastic, simple black frames). Each print is a snapshot of a child or children blown up to a 16x20. All children related to my children (i.e. my husband and his sister, me and my brother, my other siblings, my parents as children, Jet's parents as children, and even a couple of our grandparents as children). I took a picture of Pyrope when he was about 6 months old, and that is down there. However, I have not thought of a good picture to take, or have randomly taken and thought would be perfect, of Obsidian. Yesterday I was cleaning down there and putting back up two of the pictures that had been knocked off the walls, and with Obsidian driving trains over my feet as I was doing this, I decided. I need a picture of Obsidian playing with trains. It is my mission for the week.
It is funny how this has been lurking in my head for so long, that it came with an odd surge of relief, just to know what I want a picture of him doing. I'm not sure why it is so important, as it isn't very expensive so I can really change it whenever I want.
Friday, March 25, 2011
What used to be and what is
Starting in grade school, I would bake if I needed to relax. It was calming. I like comfort food, but I like it even more when I make it then eat it. I always seemed to be in better spirits and just a certain peace starting to creep in as I worked.
When I was going to bed last night, I decided today was going to be a jammie day. Just hanging out. Going nowhere.
I knew I was going to be watching a friend's 2.5 year old. She is 4 months younger than Obsidian. Size wise, she is his polar opposite. Personality wise, they are very similar. It is hilarious to watch them play together when things are going well.
After B got here, I decided that today was the day that I was going to make Jet his peanut butter cookies with a kiss in the middle. I was supposed to for his birthday but kind of sort of forgot to pick up peanut butter, so he had sugar cookies. That was over a month ago. I decided I would really like some chocolate chip cookies. I always bake my gluten free stuff before I start in on the gluten stuff to minimize my risk of getting wheat into my stuff. So we (being Pyrope, Obsidian, B, and I) make the chocolate chip ones. Then I decide that they are not going to wait or be patient long enough to make the peanut butter, so I pull out a package of break apart snickerdoodle cookies and tell them to pull them apart. The did, then proceeded to eat a good portion of the dough. And we baked them. And they ate more of the baked ones. As the peanut butter cookies were baking, the three of them unwrapped the kisses to put on them. Then Obsidian got out his scissors so he could cut the foil into "snowflakes". We needed a significantly larger number of Kisses to be unwrapped than we had peanut butter cookies. No one ate a decent lunch. To be honest, I didn't bother to try very much. During Obsidian's nap, Pyrope helped me clean the kitchen. It should have taken me a fair amount of time to clean it. It took a rather good amount of time.
At bedtime tonight, Pyrope says:
"Thank you God for messes. They mean you had fun. And chocolate. And a really good lunch. I clean the messes too. Almost by myself. But it is more fun to have Mommy be a big helper. I so proud of her."
I think I have to agree, "messes" can mean a lot of fun. I didn't get any feelings of calm, or peace. But it was fun.
When I was going to bed last night, I decided today was going to be a jammie day. Just hanging out. Going nowhere.
I knew I was going to be watching a friend's 2.5 year old. She is 4 months younger than Obsidian. Size wise, she is his polar opposite. Personality wise, they are very similar. It is hilarious to watch them play together when things are going well.
After B got here, I decided that today was the day that I was going to make Jet his peanut butter cookies with a kiss in the middle. I was supposed to for his birthday but kind of sort of forgot to pick up peanut butter, so he had sugar cookies. That was over a month ago. I decided I would really like some chocolate chip cookies. I always bake my gluten free stuff before I start in on the gluten stuff to minimize my risk of getting wheat into my stuff. So we (being Pyrope, Obsidian, B, and I) make the chocolate chip ones. Then I decide that they are not going to wait or be patient long enough to make the peanut butter, so I pull out a package of break apart snickerdoodle cookies and tell them to pull them apart. The did, then proceeded to eat a good portion of the dough. And we baked them. And they ate more of the baked ones. As the peanut butter cookies were baking, the three of them unwrapped the kisses to put on them. Then Obsidian got out his scissors so he could cut the foil into "snowflakes". We needed a significantly larger number of Kisses to be unwrapped than we had peanut butter cookies. No one ate a decent lunch. To be honest, I didn't bother to try very much. During Obsidian's nap, Pyrope helped me clean the kitchen. It should have taken me a fair amount of time to clean it. It took a rather good amount of time.
At bedtime tonight, Pyrope says:
"Thank you God for messes. They mean you had fun. And chocolate. And a really good lunch. I clean the messes too. Almost by myself. But it is more fun to have Mommy be a big helper. I so proud of her."
I think I have to agree, "messes" can mean a lot of fun. I didn't get any feelings of calm, or peace. But it was fun.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Thankful Thursday
This week this does not seem to be a daunting task like it did last week. This week still was a long one, but for some reason I'm in better spirits for the most part. I think part of it is I was thinking about my reading. No negative books for me right now. It is either non-fiction learn about a concept or something positive, uplifting, inspiring me. Or just plain fun fantasy (which I typically don't like). But this is what I'm thankful for:
- MIL has now completed 4 of her 6 rounds of chemo. Although the first 2 rounds, she did not take 1 of the drugs, so I don't know if they are going to extend it so she gets 6 rounds. Irregardless, she has made it this far. And this is good. It was not Jet and my working assumption that she would make it this far.
- I am officially done with early intervention for Obsidian. His transition meeting was held. I have issues with the school district, but I don't feel they are the complete idiots like I was dealing with for his early intervention. It is hard for me to believe that Obsidian will be 3 in a few months.
- Pyrope's ice skating teacher got her grand jury deffered to May. This means she will be teaching next session. She is a good teacher and Pyrope is learning a lot from her. Pyrope is not quite as excited about this as he is not going to straight up hockey classes, but has one more session that is more on the basics of skating. Since she learned of Pyrope's goal of hockey, she has spent part of each lesson teaching them very basic hockey (as in how to move the puck across the ice, how to catch the puck with your stick, how to keep the puck with you while skating backwards). In the long run, I think he is much better off with this teacher for 6 more weeks.
- This week, the snow has melted, I see signs of my daffodils coming up (I have tried multiple other bulbs, but everything else seems to get eaten).
- The weather was nice enough for Pyrope to ride his bike to school one day this week (I won't mention what the weather was like the following day).
- We had a... nice... meal at a restaurant. It was a fundraiser meal for a group I do a lot with the kids, and we met with some friends (who are not part of the organization). Pyrope and Obsidian had a great time talking with our friends at our table, and running to various other tables with and talking with their friends (one of the quotes was Pyrope running up to a friend "L, I haven't seen you in so long!!! I missed you", Um, Pyrope, you were with her 2 hours ago at school).
- Jet is fine with me homeschooling if that is what I choose to do. Actually that is his first choice.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Unexpected
Today I took Obsidian for a second opinion in with a different geneticist. I did not particularly feel the need to do so, but this particular doctor had been brought up to me by 3 different people who do not know each other (a doctor, a friend, and a co-worker who happens to be a doctor). So I figured, if each of these people brought it up, I should do it. Just to cover the bases.
I liked her. In many ways she is more friendly than the one we have, but he is nice enough. And he is a preferred provided (and she is not). She commented on how I had covered all of my bases appropriately, but at this point, it does not appear that there is "an answer". Obsidian's chromosomal deletion might be the root of his issues, but it might not. That to keep plodding along with eyes open to clues of what is the underlying cause, and to treat any of the specific symptoms that can be treated. Essentially, continue on with what we are doing.
The unexpected came from doing the family tree. Jet's mother was diagnosed in a span of 3 months, 3 types of unrelated cancer. This is good in the sense it isn't mets in 2 places as well as an original site. However, it is suggestive of a genetic basis. Particularly with her sister (her only sibling) having a fairly advanced colon cancer diagnosed in her 50's. Her suggestion was at least genetic counseling for my MIL to look at the risk of it being a genetic predisposition so there can be a recommendation if it is advisable for genetic testing. Since 2 of my MIL's 3 cancers are female reproductive cancers, the implications are significantly more for my SIL and her two children (that are both girls). I asked about Jet and our boys, she said that the chances for them are most likely not that affected even if it is genetic because Jet is male, and our kids are male. But it could be.
Jet didn't have a lot to say after I brought this up. He was thinking. He did try to call his mother, but just got the answering machine (she doesn't go out much, but sits with her laundry as someone in the building keeps stealing laundry... this is a senior apartment complex. Really, stealing laundry?)
So it was what I was expecting as far as Obsidian. But I was caught unawares...
I liked her. In many ways she is more friendly than the one we have, but he is nice enough. And he is a preferred provided (and she is not). She commented on how I had covered all of my bases appropriately, but at this point, it does not appear that there is "an answer". Obsidian's chromosomal deletion might be the root of his issues, but it might not. That to keep plodding along with eyes open to clues of what is the underlying cause, and to treat any of the specific symptoms that can be treated. Essentially, continue on with what we are doing.
The unexpected came from doing the family tree. Jet's mother was diagnosed in a span of 3 months, 3 types of unrelated cancer. This is good in the sense it isn't mets in 2 places as well as an original site. However, it is suggestive of a genetic basis. Particularly with her sister (her only sibling) having a fairly advanced colon cancer diagnosed in her 50's. Her suggestion was at least genetic counseling for my MIL to look at the risk of it being a genetic predisposition so there can be a recommendation if it is advisable for genetic testing. Since 2 of my MIL's 3 cancers are female reproductive cancers, the implications are significantly more for my SIL and her two children (that are both girls). I asked about Jet and our boys, she said that the chances for them are most likely not that affected even if it is genetic because Jet is male, and our kids are male. But it could be.
Jet didn't have a lot to say after I brought this up. He was thinking. He did try to call his mother, but just got the answering machine (she doesn't go out much, but sits with her laundry as someone in the building keeps stealing laundry... this is a senior apartment complex. Really, stealing laundry?)
So it was what I was expecting as far as Obsidian. But I was caught unawares...
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Thankful Thursday
I don't feel much like being "thankful", which all the more reason I need to do this. I mentioned being in a snarky mood to my BFF, she said, she knew and I had been that way for a while. And I have. I don't feel like I've been completely under a black cloud, but more like it has been a while since I've been really in the sun. And I would really like to be in the sun. Without further ado, my list for the week.
- As of today, the swim lessons at the rec center issue is resolved and done. It was the error of a person at the front desk. The girl in Pyrope's class should not have been allowed into it. She will not be allowed to sign up for another session of the lessons until she is 3.5 years old. I didn't necessarily want to have her not be allowed to take more, but I wanted equality. Really I feel the situation was handled well.
- To have my Nook. I do like it in many ways. It is much more convenient to take with me, and particularly when my elbow is bothering me, it is easier to hold that than a physical book.
- That I found out that Jet is supportive, very supportive, of the idea of homeschooling. It was not in my original plans, but it is definitely on the board and a real possibility at this point.
- That I'm researching my options for homeschooling now, not when it is a crisis. I'm getting a very good feeling of what my options are. And there are a lot of options.
- That I get to listen to Obsidian's chatter. He is talking more and more. At times it is really amusing to listen to, sometimes it just makes good stories.
- That there has been no further flooding in our basement. We had another rain then snow then rain to melt all the snow cycle this week, and all was dry (in our basement).
- That I have a bouquet of flowers on my kitchen table. I haven't had one for quite a while. I bought them for myself but I still like looking at them and having them (I was buying some for my mother and decided I should have some too)
- That the big move at work is soon to be complete. The official last day can not be any later than the 28th, but I think it will be sooner. I'm not really happy with the change, but how long it has dragged out to make it has made everyone miserable, and really just extended the time that everyone was miserable.
- That this St. Patrick's Day, I should be able to comfortably enjoy time outside. That is not the case many years.
- That most likely, Pyrope passed not one but two levels of ice skating this time (he won't find out for sure until next week after testing, but his teacher said that she thinks he will pass 2 levels). This means he can start ice hockey. Ever since he saw an ice hockey game on the TV during the Olympics last winter, it is all I have heard about. He wants to play ice hockey (and watch it too). At our rink, you have to pass a certain level of basic skating prior to starting hockey (he did 2 sessions last spring, it didn't fit in during the fall, and now another 2 this winter). This session, something really clicked and he has progressed so much. To say he is excited about the prospect is an understatement.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Thumbs up? Thumbs down?
So I got a Nook.
I like it and I don't.
I like reading books on it. I like the size of it. And I like the relative easy of getting books onto it. I like that I can access the internet on it.
I don't like the fact that I can only check out 10 books from the library and can't return any of them early. So I'm stuck with whatever I check out for 21 days, then it is magically gone. I'm at a point in my life, if I don't like the book I'm reading, I just stop reading it. My time for reading is too limited at this point to read something I don't really like. Next, I don't like the limited selection there is for the library books. It is a very odd selection, and I really can't predict many of the books that are going to appear. And the majority of them are checked out. I can get on the wait list, but if I have my 10 books already checked out, and none will be returned in 2 days, I'm out of luck and I have to try again. I'm not particularly into buying books but I do. And after I do, I very frequently loan them out. I know a good number of people who have eReaders. If I buy a book for BN that you can lend (and not all of them you can do that), then I can only lend it one time for 14 days, and that is it. I don't like that (for instance, I have bought the whole Percy Jackson series, and now the Kane Chronicles, and the new Olympian series... after I've read each book, I pass it to my mother, then to a friend, then to another friend, and then finally to my sister. Another friend buys many books, she reads it, then my friend, then I do, then usually my mom, then it goes back to the owner. So I don't like my limits on sharing. I understand one person at a time, but I would like the right to lend more freely.) I have a hard time justifying buying a copy of an eBook, that in many cases I can get for a similar price (and some cases lower price) in a physical copy, that I'm then free to pass along. My sister says she was able to find a good number of books that she wanted to read for free from various places on the web. I think I need to try this more, in my very limited time. Or have her show me where she goes next time she is around.
So I like reading books on my Nook. But the negatives just about outweigh the positives. I don't think I would purchase one if I tried it before I bought it, but it isn't all bad either. It has some major pros. If I had a better (meaning cheaper and I can lend what I do buy) of getting books, it would be a definite thumbs up. I'm guessing these issues will change with time, but we just aren't there yet.
I like it and I don't.
I like reading books on it. I like the size of it. And I like the relative easy of getting books onto it. I like that I can access the internet on it.
I don't like the fact that I can only check out 10 books from the library and can't return any of them early. So I'm stuck with whatever I check out for 21 days, then it is magically gone. I'm at a point in my life, if I don't like the book I'm reading, I just stop reading it. My time for reading is too limited at this point to read something I don't really like. Next, I don't like the limited selection there is for the library books. It is a very odd selection, and I really can't predict many of the books that are going to appear. And the majority of them are checked out. I can get on the wait list, but if I have my 10 books already checked out, and none will be returned in 2 days, I'm out of luck and I have to try again. I'm not particularly into buying books but I do. And after I do, I very frequently loan them out. I know a good number of people who have eReaders. If I buy a book for BN that you can lend (and not all of them you can do that), then I can only lend it one time for 14 days, and that is it. I don't like that (for instance, I have bought the whole Percy Jackson series, and now the Kane Chronicles, and the new Olympian series... after I've read each book, I pass it to my mother, then to a friend, then to another friend, and then finally to my sister. Another friend buys many books, she reads it, then my friend, then I do, then usually my mom, then it goes back to the owner. So I don't like my limits on sharing. I understand one person at a time, but I would like the right to lend more freely.) I have a hard time justifying buying a copy of an eBook, that in many cases I can get for a similar price (and some cases lower price) in a physical copy, that I'm then free to pass along. My sister says she was able to find a good number of books that she wanted to read for free from various places on the web. I think I need to try this more, in my very limited time. Or have her show me where she goes next time she is around.
So I like reading books on my Nook. But the negatives just about outweigh the positives. I don't think I would purchase one if I tried it before I bought it, but it isn't all bad either. It has some major pros. If I had a better (meaning cheaper and I can lend what I do buy) of getting books, it would be a definite thumbs up. I'm guessing these issues will change with time, but we just aren't there yet.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Bad, good, or neither
This morning, I went up to the rec center. Alone. I tried to talk with the aquatic director, but learned something interesting. Something that gave me hope that there is a reasonable explanation instead of out right discrimination with the swimming lesson and Obsidian thing. There is a new aquatics director. However, she was not there today. I explained to the woman at the front desk my issue. Her comment was essentially, "That sounds like a problem" Which I take as a positive comment. I will see where this goes. I left my name and phone number to be called back about. And if I don't get a call, I'm there often enough, I will run into her. That is my "good". I really try to be optimistic, and really try to believe that people do not so blatantly discriminate.
I have been thinking about what I'm going to say to Obsidian when the questions start. And knowing him, they will. I have some time, as for the next 3 weeks he will be in gymnastics class at the same time and will not see the little girl in Pyrope's class. But Pyrope's swimming class has 3 more sessions after Obsidian's gymnastics is over. Obsidian does not miss much. He knows he doesn't go to swimming lessons at the rec center because he is too young to take them there. He wants to be in a class with Pyrope and other kids he knows. Jet and I are very careful with our wording of "too small" and "too young". And we have consistently said "too young" for swimming. And knowing him, he will realize the other little girl is about his age. (If something has a height requirement, we tell him he is "too small", if it is because he is not old enough, we say "too young"... once again we are somewhat anticipating him always being very small but we don't want that to stop him or for him to use it as an excuse). I want to be honest with him. I want to teach him to defend himself. There is a good chance that his height will remain a lifelong issue for him. But he is 2.5 years old. This potentially will be the first time I will have to directly address this with him. And I'm not looking forward to it. I want to set a standard tone from the beginning. A positive tone, but one that does not put up with discrimination.
The bad is my MIL. She is feeling worse since her last round of chemo. She is not beginning to feel any better, and it has been over a week. Most bothering, she is short of breath quite a bit (even just talking on the phone) and seems to be retaining fluid. She is thinking of stopping chemo at this point. Very shortly after it has shown signs of improving. It is a choice. And only hers to make. But it is hard to watch. Most specifically, it is hard for me to watch Jet have to go through it. I don't interact with my MIL much. We (the kids and I) see her once a year now. The kids talk to her on the phone occasionally, but she is almost more abstract to them than a person involved in their lives. I find myself praying for peace and acceptance. I have a feeling at this point, that is the most I can do (I'm willing to do more, I just don't think there is anything to be done).
I have been thinking about what I'm going to say to Obsidian when the questions start. And knowing him, they will. I have some time, as for the next 3 weeks he will be in gymnastics class at the same time and will not see the little girl in Pyrope's class. But Pyrope's swimming class has 3 more sessions after Obsidian's gymnastics is over. Obsidian does not miss much. He knows he doesn't go to swimming lessons at the rec center because he is too young to take them there. He wants to be in a class with Pyrope and other kids he knows. Jet and I are very careful with our wording of "too small" and "too young". And we have consistently said "too young" for swimming. And knowing him, he will realize the other little girl is about his age. (If something has a height requirement, we tell him he is "too small", if it is because he is not old enough, we say "too young"... once again we are somewhat anticipating him always being very small but we don't want that to stop him or for him to use it as an excuse). I want to be honest with him. I want to teach him to defend himself. There is a good chance that his height will remain a lifelong issue for him. But he is 2.5 years old. This potentially will be the first time I will have to directly address this with him. And I'm not looking forward to it. I want to set a standard tone from the beginning. A positive tone, but one that does not put up with discrimination.
The bad is my MIL. She is feeling worse since her last round of chemo. She is not beginning to feel any better, and it has been over a week. Most bothering, she is short of breath quite a bit (even just talking on the phone) and seems to be retaining fluid. She is thinking of stopping chemo at this point. Very shortly after it has shown signs of improving. It is a choice. And only hers to make. But it is hard to watch. Most specifically, it is hard for me to watch Jet have to go through it. I don't interact with my MIL much. We (the kids and I) see her once a year now. The kids talk to her on the phone occasionally, but she is almost more abstract to them than a person involved in their lives. I find myself praying for peace and acceptance. I have a feeling at this point, that is the most I can do (I'm willing to do more, I just don't think there is anything to be done).
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Standards
Today was the closest I've come to uncontrollably A) losing my temper B) crying or most likely C) both in a long time. I didn't. But it was close. And in many ways I wish I did.
It was back to swimming lesson drama. Inadvertently, Obsidian was allowed to sign up for swimming lessons at the rec center with Pyrope this past fall. The first lesson, the usual teacher was away. The substitute did fine with the kids. Second lesson comes, normal teacher takes one look at Obsidian and says he can't be in the lessons. He is too little, then revises it to he is too young. Substitute teacher winds up coming back for the remainder of the lessons and teaching Obsidian and one other boy that was supposed to be in the class (as his skills were far below everyone else's, including Obsidian's). I'm told that I can't sign up Obsidian for this teacher's class, but I can try the Saturday morning classes. Saturday morning classes are much much louder as there are multiple classes going on in the pool at the same time (weekday classes, it is the one class, and a few people doing water exercises, at the most). First Saturday morning class goes fine. Second Saturday morning class comes, the kid sitting next to Obsidian on the wall pushes him, and Obsidian winds up in the pool. There was no harm done, but every time Obsidian is left on the wall with the other kids (next to kid who pushed him in), he cries. I'm told he is too little and I have to wait until he is 3.5 years old and not any sooner. That is the policy, they only let him try because of the previous mistake (which I was told would not happen again). I eventually find a place that will take Obsidian for swim lessons despite his age and size. It is comically watching him in his class as he is so much smaller, and at least 6 months younger, than anyone else. He loves his swimming class. The classes are a similar quality. But I have to drive 20 minutes instead of 5 and pay twice as much. Not to mention the fact that I have to take Pyrope to the one set of lessons and Obsidian to another, instead of the 1 trip it would be to the rec center (the lessons are set up differently in that there are a lot of levels where Obsidian is now so they would be in different levels that are not offered at close to the same time, and at the rec center there are less levels so they would be in the same). But if the rule is not until you are 3.5 years old, it is the rule. When Obsidian is old enough, I was going to switch back.
Today was the 2nd class in Pyrope's swim lessons. There was a new little girl in it. She is 2.5 years old. Another mom (who knows the Obsidian swim lesson story, as her daughter was in the class this fall) asked. The teacher (same one who flat out refused to let Obsidian even try with her this fall), said that the little one will try to copy from the big kids, and the big kids will try to help the little one so it will all work out. I nearly lost it. This child has a good 4 inches and 5 pounds on Obsidian, but that is it. She is a cute little thing, and did fine in the class. She doesn't have as many skills as Obsidian, and is not as used to being in a group as he is, but she did fine. I was furious. I wanted to yell at the teacher. I wanted to cry. I didn't want to make the situation worse. I didn't want the mom to think I was mad at her (as I'm not, and we live in a small community, so chances are our paths will cross many times in the years to come). I stopped and thought. And decided I was reacting way too emotionally to be constructive. And then I was thinking more. I told the two moms that I know that I needed to go for a walk (we aren't supposed to leave the viewing area during swim lessons, but this was too much for me). I came back and was able to sit through the rest of the lesson.
I've cooled off some. I'm thinking more clearly. Tomorrow, I will go to the rec center, without my kids with me. I'll talk to the aquatic director (who will be there then, but was not today). I'm not even sure what I'm looking for. The class is limited to 4 kids. And with the little one, there is now 4. This is the last once a week session before summer. There is one twice a week session left after that, but I was unsure if I was going to do it with Pyrope anyhow. I don't do swimming lessons during the summer for the kids.
I have to say something. As it is wrong. Obsidian and the little girl are very very similar, apart from size. I was told Obsidian can not do swimming lessons because of his age and size, not his ability. This girl proves that it is not his age that is stopping him. Which leaves his size. Which is discrimination. I can not let this just happen. Even if it doesn't change things for Obsidian, that is not how things should be run.
It was back to swimming lesson drama. Inadvertently, Obsidian was allowed to sign up for swimming lessons at the rec center with Pyrope this past fall. The first lesson, the usual teacher was away. The substitute did fine with the kids. Second lesson comes, normal teacher takes one look at Obsidian and says he can't be in the lessons. He is too little, then revises it to he is too young. Substitute teacher winds up coming back for the remainder of the lessons and teaching Obsidian and one other boy that was supposed to be in the class (as his skills were far below everyone else's, including Obsidian's). I'm told that I can't sign up Obsidian for this teacher's class, but I can try the Saturday morning classes. Saturday morning classes are much much louder as there are multiple classes going on in the pool at the same time (weekday classes, it is the one class, and a few people doing water exercises, at the most). First Saturday morning class goes fine. Second Saturday morning class comes, the kid sitting next to Obsidian on the wall pushes him, and Obsidian winds up in the pool. There was no harm done, but every time Obsidian is left on the wall with the other kids (next to kid who pushed him in), he cries. I'm told he is too little and I have to wait until he is 3.5 years old and not any sooner. That is the policy, they only let him try because of the previous mistake (which I was told would not happen again). I eventually find a place that will take Obsidian for swim lessons despite his age and size. It is comically watching him in his class as he is so much smaller, and at least 6 months younger, than anyone else. He loves his swimming class. The classes are a similar quality. But I have to drive 20 minutes instead of 5 and pay twice as much. Not to mention the fact that I have to take Pyrope to the one set of lessons and Obsidian to another, instead of the 1 trip it would be to the rec center (the lessons are set up differently in that there are a lot of levels where Obsidian is now so they would be in different levels that are not offered at close to the same time, and at the rec center there are less levels so they would be in the same). But if the rule is not until you are 3.5 years old, it is the rule. When Obsidian is old enough, I was going to switch back.
Today was the 2nd class in Pyrope's swim lessons. There was a new little girl in it. She is 2.5 years old. Another mom (who knows the Obsidian swim lesson story, as her daughter was in the class this fall) asked. The teacher (same one who flat out refused to let Obsidian even try with her this fall), said that the little one will try to copy from the big kids, and the big kids will try to help the little one so it will all work out. I nearly lost it. This child has a good 4 inches and 5 pounds on Obsidian, but that is it. She is a cute little thing, and did fine in the class. She doesn't have as many skills as Obsidian, and is not as used to being in a group as he is, but she did fine. I was furious. I wanted to yell at the teacher. I wanted to cry. I didn't want to make the situation worse. I didn't want the mom to think I was mad at her (as I'm not, and we live in a small community, so chances are our paths will cross many times in the years to come). I stopped and thought. And decided I was reacting way too emotionally to be constructive. And then I was thinking more. I told the two moms that I know that I needed to go for a walk (we aren't supposed to leave the viewing area during swim lessons, but this was too much for me). I came back and was able to sit through the rest of the lesson.
I've cooled off some. I'm thinking more clearly. Tomorrow, I will go to the rec center, without my kids with me. I'll talk to the aquatic director (who will be there then, but was not today). I'm not even sure what I'm looking for. The class is limited to 4 kids. And with the little one, there is now 4. This is the last once a week session before summer. There is one twice a week session left after that, but I was unsure if I was going to do it with Pyrope anyhow. I don't do swimming lessons during the summer for the kids.
I have to say something. As it is wrong. Obsidian and the little girl are very very similar, apart from size. I was told Obsidian can not do swimming lessons because of his age and size, not his ability. This girl proves that it is not his age that is stopping him. Which leaves his size. Which is discrimination. I can not let this just happen. Even if it doesn't change things for Obsidian, that is not how things should be run.
Friday, March 11, 2011
But it is
My brother (DB1) who is closest in age (2.5 years younger than me), has always marched to his own drummer. A black sheep of sorts in my family. Not so much because we want him to be, but because he chooses to be.
He rarely returns phone calls, says he will show up and doesn't, and rarely joins us for family things unless it is a big formal event. Most things he does are last minute. He tells us he is coming at the last moment, he tells us of things he is planning at the last minute. He has a 15 month old son. I have seen him 8 times. I have held him 3 times. We live less than 8 miles apart. My mom lives less than 3 miles away. I don't think she has seen her grandson 2 dozen times.
My aunt recently made the comment "Well, at least it isn't personal."
Yes. And no.
Yes, it isn't personal in the sense, I don't think it matters my exact personality. He would do it no matter what it was. No matter why my immediate family dynamics are. I am family, and DB1, and to a greater extent his wife, have issues with his family. At Christmas, his wife's mother said to my mother, that she doesn't want my mom to baby sit my nephew because she (SIL's mother) doesn't want him to like my mom more than herself. DB1 was in the room, SIL was in the room. No one said anything, other than listen to SIL mother go on and on about how much said little boy loves her. My children love both of their grandmothers. Both have their things that they do with my children. Grandmotherhood is not a competition. Kids will love both for what that person is to them.
On the other hand, no-- it is personal. DB1 is my brother. We did a lot growing up. We did a lot as teens. I would like to be a part of his life. Or if he chooses to not, I would like less ambiguity about it. My dad and I are the only ones who ever have confronted DB1 about his behavior. And since Dad is no longer around, that leaves me. Yes, I periodically do. Then DB1 and SIL say I'm overreacting and that isn't want happens, I have conspiracy theories. My mother, sister, and other two brothers watch in silence. Not knowing what to do. After each blow up, there is inevitably a larger family event, and I wind up just moving on.
How much longer I will do this I don't know. This week, my kids had their closest friends over (a set of sisters). While they were here, my mom came over. As my mom was mobbed literally before she could close the door at my house with what games each wanted to play with her (and each wanted a different game), she made a pointed comment that she knows my kids' friends and they know her better than she knows her grandson (DB1's son). She loves playing with my kids and their friends. She was tickled pink when I called and told her the request of the day was to play with her, could she please come over? In the past she has commented that she has baby sat my friend's kids (the same ones) more than her grandson (sometimes we try to do things with just the bigs or just the littles, and she will watch the opposite 2). By a lot. My sister piped in that she has baby sat these same kids more as well (and she only has watched them a couple of times, as she lives 2 hours away but if she is visiting and they need a sitter, she'll watch them). My mom is good with kids. She loves kids. She particularly loves her kids and her grandsons.
So it is personal. Very personal.
Things that personal, you can get flairs of my temper. Each time before I see DB1 at this point, I remind myself to think before I speak. I think about monitoring my feelings, my temper. In particular, I don't want to do something I regret my kids seeing. Or my nephew. I don't want to further hurt my mother. My mother never understood me, from the time I was very little. She did understand DB1, they had a closeness that we didn't. I didn't mind it, as it was not about love. She loves both of us. I would tell her things, and I would get a blank look of not being able to understand where I was coming from. She didn't belittle this for me, we just didn't connect on that level. To be honest, we still don't. But with DB1, it was different. They seemed to understand each other. So this pushing aside is hard. I never sought her out as a child or teenager, DB1 would. Yet as an adult, I'm the one who randomly shows up at her house. Is there to help when it is needed. And has her as an active participant in my children's lives. DB1 sees her a few times a year. Typically only if he needs something or it is some major life event (not, "just because" as is the reason behind most of my kids visits and my trips to her house, or hers to mine).
I get bitter when I hear DB1 and SIL talk about watching her nephew (who is a year older than Pyrope) and his 2 half sisters (not related to SIL). Listening to all of the things they do with them, or the sleepovers they have for all 3 of them, I get bitter why we can't meet at a park. Or come to my house. Or me go to theirs.
So it is personal that DB1 doesn't return our calls, or emails, or include us in his life. I suppose I shouldn't let it hurt me, but it does. And it hurts even more to hear the pain in my mom's comments.
He rarely returns phone calls, says he will show up and doesn't, and rarely joins us for family things unless it is a big formal event. Most things he does are last minute. He tells us he is coming at the last moment, he tells us of things he is planning at the last minute. He has a 15 month old son. I have seen him 8 times. I have held him 3 times. We live less than 8 miles apart. My mom lives less than 3 miles away. I don't think she has seen her grandson 2 dozen times.
My aunt recently made the comment "Well, at least it isn't personal."
Yes. And no.
Yes, it isn't personal in the sense, I don't think it matters my exact personality. He would do it no matter what it was. No matter why my immediate family dynamics are. I am family, and DB1, and to a greater extent his wife, have issues with his family. At Christmas, his wife's mother said to my mother, that she doesn't want my mom to baby sit my nephew because she (SIL's mother) doesn't want him to like my mom more than herself. DB1 was in the room, SIL was in the room. No one said anything, other than listen to SIL mother go on and on about how much said little boy loves her. My children love both of their grandmothers. Both have their things that they do with my children. Grandmotherhood is not a competition. Kids will love both for what that person is to them.
On the other hand, no-- it is personal. DB1 is my brother. We did a lot growing up. We did a lot as teens. I would like to be a part of his life. Or if he chooses to not, I would like less ambiguity about it. My dad and I are the only ones who ever have confronted DB1 about his behavior. And since Dad is no longer around, that leaves me. Yes, I periodically do. Then DB1 and SIL say I'm overreacting and that isn't want happens, I have conspiracy theories. My mother, sister, and other two brothers watch in silence. Not knowing what to do. After each blow up, there is inevitably a larger family event, and I wind up just moving on.
How much longer I will do this I don't know. This week, my kids had their closest friends over (a set of sisters). While they were here, my mom came over. As my mom was mobbed literally before she could close the door at my house with what games each wanted to play with her (and each wanted a different game), she made a pointed comment that she knows my kids' friends and they know her better than she knows her grandson (DB1's son). She loves playing with my kids and their friends. She was tickled pink when I called and told her the request of the day was to play with her, could she please come over? In the past she has commented that she has baby sat my friend's kids (the same ones) more than her grandson (sometimes we try to do things with just the bigs or just the littles, and she will watch the opposite 2). By a lot. My sister piped in that she has baby sat these same kids more as well (and she only has watched them a couple of times, as she lives 2 hours away but if she is visiting and they need a sitter, she'll watch them). My mom is good with kids. She loves kids. She particularly loves her kids and her grandsons.
So it is personal. Very personal.
Things that personal, you can get flairs of my temper. Each time before I see DB1 at this point, I remind myself to think before I speak. I think about monitoring my feelings, my temper. In particular, I don't want to do something I regret my kids seeing. Or my nephew. I don't want to further hurt my mother. My mother never understood me, from the time I was very little. She did understand DB1, they had a closeness that we didn't. I didn't mind it, as it was not about love. She loves both of us. I would tell her things, and I would get a blank look of not being able to understand where I was coming from. She didn't belittle this for me, we just didn't connect on that level. To be honest, we still don't. But with DB1, it was different. They seemed to understand each other. So this pushing aside is hard. I never sought her out as a child or teenager, DB1 would. Yet as an adult, I'm the one who randomly shows up at her house. Is there to help when it is needed. And has her as an active participant in my children's lives. DB1 sees her a few times a year. Typically only if he needs something or it is some major life event (not, "just because" as is the reason behind most of my kids visits and my trips to her house, or hers to mine).
I get bitter when I hear DB1 and SIL talk about watching her nephew (who is a year older than Pyrope) and his 2 half sisters (not related to SIL). Listening to all of the things they do with them, or the sleepovers they have for all 3 of them, I get bitter why we can't meet at a park. Or come to my house. Or me go to theirs.
So it is personal that DB1 doesn't return our calls, or emails, or include us in his life. I suppose I shouldn't let it hurt me, but it does. And it hurts even more to hear the pain in my mom's comments.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Thankful Thursday
- That my kids love spending time with my mom, and that my mom loves spending time with my kids. This week, Pyrope and Obsidian's friends (sisters, one is each of their ages) came over to play. The popular request by all 4 kids was to have Grandma come over and play with them. She did. Fun was had by all.
- Shrink art. I loved making it as a kid. This week I introduced it to Pyrope and Obsidian. They really didn't "get" it until they watched the first projects shrink in the oven. We have since made a host of shrink art. It is still cool.
- That I choose to see the patient that we were all dreading seeing. It was what we were expecting, except I got to meet her visitor. I was reminded why I do like working Hospice (I'm not now, but I have in the past)
- That Pyrope is able to take ice skating lessons with the teacher he currently is. She only teaches on Wednesday mornings, but he can make it at that time for now. She is a fabulous teacher, and Pyrope does well with her.
- That I have a friend that I can say most things that come into my head without fear of judgement. I don't have to censor much at all.
- Pyrope slept through the night this week, or at least didn't wake anyone up. This is a first. Ever. He will be 5 in a few months.
- The new radio station around here. It plays and eclectic mix of music. I like it. I now have something to listen to other than NPR in my car (my CD player only sometimes works, and I can't plug in my MP3 player in my car)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Preparation
Growing up, the first sign I saw of spring was the discussions revolving around Lent. Each year, my dad in particular would ask us what we were going to do for Lent. It could be something we were going to do or something we would give up. Something to help us prepare for Easter. A sacrifice, or a penance, to acknowledge what a wondrous gift God gave us in sending His Son here to earth as a sacrifice for us to gain eternal life with Him in heaven. The penance is for my sins, my many sins throughout the year. A sign that I am trying, that I want to be worthy of the rewards of heaven. An acknowledgment that I will always fall short, but I will keep trying.
I carefully contemplate my options of what to do. I want something that is challenging. But I want to be able to do it. It is more serious than the other "resolutions" or goals. For this is also a gift of sorts. As I've grown older, it typically becomes a 3 pronged gift. I try to do something to grow my prayer life, something I give up or do, and then something I give to others that is beyond my typical.
This year, I will try to get to church once a week by myself. Not that I need to be in a church to pray, but the quiet there allows me a focus I don't have in my life right now. I will not use my computer until after the boys are asleep unless I have to do something specific. I don't know what I'm going to do for others, but this is the one I'm least concerned about, as something always seems to come up. I just have to look for it and be willing to act.
As I think about this each year, I know as I come toward this season of Lent, spring will be starting to come in full force. This year, spring should be here in earnest. So always, I think of these things, I think of hope, and life, and spring.
I carefully contemplate my options of what to do. I want something that is challenging. But I want to be able to do it. It is more serious than the other "resolutions" or goals. For this is also a gift of sorts. As I've grown older, it typically becomes a 3 pronged gift. I try to do something to grow my prayer life, something I give up or do, and then something I give to others that is beyond my typical.
This year, I will try to get to church once a week by myself. Not that I need to be in a church to pray, but the quiet there allows me a focus I don't have in my life right now. I will not use my computer until after the boys are asleep unless I have to do something specific. I don't know what I'm going to do for others, but this is the one I'm least concerned about, as something always seems to come up. I just have to look for it and be willing to act.
As I think about this each year, I know as I come toward this season of Lent, spring will be starting to come in full force. This year, spring should be here in earnest. So always, I think of these things, I think of hope, and life, and spring.
Monday, March 7, 2011
A visitor
Two weeks ago, a perfectly healthy woman in her 50's was in a car accident. The "only" injury was to her head. Unfortunately, she has never regained consciousness. She has not once responded to her name, the voices of loved ones, a touch, or painful stimulus. A ventilator is breathing for her. She is getting her nutrition through a tube. As I was moving her joints and positioning her, I felt nothing. Her vital signs did not change as I was moving her. Her family is not ready to see her go.
As I was moving her, her daughter and a co-worker of hers came to her side. Her daughter spoke to her, told her to open her eyes, told her to move, positioned her in bed, repositioned her in bed, asked for her nurse, asked about her care, asked for her co-worker to talk to her mother. I could feel the pain of the daughter. How much she wants her mom to get better. I've felt it before from other family members, for other patients. It makes me want to cry. Not for the patient, but for the family that is here on earth.
Today was different in a sense. It was the co-worker. A co-worker that cared enough that she was visiting her in ICU. And it was obviously not her first visit. That alone would be enough. The act of visiting.
But there was more. The words that were spoken. There were no words of wishes that she would get better. Or commands to move that would not be responded to. But simple observations of what was happening that the patient would have reacted to. Things at work. Happenings of friends and family. Life.
When the daughter would ask "Did you see that?", then look at the co-worker and I. I would respond with a simple "no", wishing I could answer yes but I never saw anything. It would have been easier for the co-worker to say "yes" or "I wasn't looking" or any other number of lines that I have heard others give when questioned if they saw a perceived active movement. But the co-worker each time responded "no". The truth is hard to speak.
Even above this, was the visitor's touch. She touched this woman with a kindness, a tenderness. A patience and well practiced hand that had obviously care for others. There was no hesitation or fear in her touch. A simple act of love and peace. So many times, touching someone in a similar condition is met with fear, a fear that you can feel in the air. That you can see with the hesitation in the moments, the uncoordination with the touch.
It was a quite peace that surrounded the visitor.
I wanted to thank her for visiting. For the patient. For being with the daughter. For her kindness and love. For her quiet honesty, peace, and strength.
Yet, I couldn't. As it was time for me to move on. And she was in the middle of a conversation with her daughter. A conversation that didn't seem right to interrupt. And I didn't know what I really wanted to say other than thank you.
Thank you.
As I was moving her, her daughter and a co-worker of hers came to her side. Her daughter spoke to her, told her to open her eyes, told her to move, positioned her in bed, repositioned her in bed, asked for her nurse, asked about her care, asked for her co-worker to talk to her mother. I could feel the pain of the daughter. How much she wants her mom to get better. I've felt it before from other family members, for other patients. It makes me want to cry. Not for the patient, but for the family that is here on earth.
Today was different in a sense. It was the co-worker. A co-worker that cared enough that she was visiting her in ICU. And it was obviously not her first visit. That alone would be enough. The act of visiting.
But there was more. The words that were spoken. There were no words of wishes that she would get better. Or commands to move that would not be responded to. But simple observations of what was happening that the patient would have reacted to. Things at work. Happenings of friends and family. Life.
When the daughter would ask "Did you see that?", then look at the co-worker and I. I would respond with a simple "no", wishing I could answer yes but I never saw anything. It would have been easier for the co-worker to say "yes" or "I wasn't looking" or any other number of lines that I have heard others give when questioned if they saw a perceived active movement. But the co-worker each time responded "no". The truth is hard to speak.
Even above this, was the visitor's touch. She touched this woman with a kindness, a tenderness. A patience and well practiced hand that had obviously care for others. There was no hesitation or fear in her touch. A simple act of love and peace. So many times, touching someone in a similar condition is met with fear, a fear that you can feel in the air. That you can see with the hesitation in the moments, the uncoordination with the touch.
It was a quite peace that surrounded the visitor.
I wanted to thank her for visiting. For the patient. For being with the daughter. For her kindness and love. For her quiet honesty, peace, and strength.
Yet, I couldn't. As it was time for me to move on. And she was in the middle of a conversation with her daughter. A conversation that didn't seem right to interrupt. And I didn't know what I really wanted to say other than thank you.
Thank you.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Scarring
When walking home from high school, I had a pair of sunglasses in my pocket (I don't know why I was not wearing them, maybe it wasn't sunny) and my arm brushed against the corner of them, and I got a cut. It didn't bleed much. There was nothing really noteworthy of the event apart from it left a small think scar. I still have it. I always will. I've cut myself many times worse than that, but that one scarred. I'm not sure why.
At lunch today, I read a blog that talked about words that stayed with you. Hurtful words. Some of the words were not intended to have long term effects, but they did. Or should I say they do.
I got to thinking about the words that surround me. According to wiki.answers, adults speak an average of about 16,000 words per day. They participate in an average of about 1270 conversations. That is a lot of words, and a lot of conversations. For the most part, the words don't make a lasting impression. But others stick with me. Some of these words are positive. Some are negative. And I've been thinking of some of the words that have truly stayed with me.
I remember in 8th grade, the stinging words of a teacher, my teacher telling me I shouldn't think about going to college because I wasn't smart enough but I was very good with children so I think about working in childcare. I remember the feeling of fury over being told that. Of swearing to myself I would go to and graduate from college. I did. And I remember the irony and glee I felt when I ran into the mother of my classmate from that year. This classmate always had the highest grade on every test. We were always told how smart she was. I was visiting my family on the 4th of July, waiting for fireworks to start. Classmate's mom walked by. Stated how classmate was going to graduate that December in a challenging field. I asked what. My field. The exact degree I had received two years earlier. Classmate mom then asked me what I did. I very happily stated my job. Classmate's mom tried to say I was an aide or an assistance (which there is nothing wrong with those jobs, just they are/were not my job). I corrected her politely. She said there was no way I could have graduated with a degree in that, much less before her daughter did. She then walked away. My mom laughed and complimented me that I acted so mature. Then she laughed some more and said it felt so good for her to hear that conversation but knew it must have felt better for me. Both my teacher's and my classmate's mom's words scarred into me and my sense of ability and accomplishment than most comments on tests, papers, and formal job evaluations.
I remember one night after swim practice my freshman year, my coach saying to me if I put in as much effort and determination into my career as I did into swimming, I would excel. And I still get a warm feeling when I think about the compliment. I doubt if she remembers making the specific comment that night. But I do.
I remember the day my dad got his terminal diagnosis of cancer. I was at work. Long story short, everyone in the room including some people that we shared a break room with but nothing else, knew from the look on my face what had just happened in my phone conversation. Everyone but my boss. She made the comment, "I've been trying so hard to not know you, I had no idea what was happening." I think about this comment a good bit because it is my only clear recollections of spoken words that day. I don't remember what was said or how it was said in the phone conversation with my dad. I don't remember how I told Jett that evening. I don't remember what I said to my 12 year old brother that was visiting us (I know I didn't tell him specifically of the diagnosis, but he knew Dad was going to the doctor, and he must have asked something, and I must have responded). I'm assuming my co-workers said words of sympathy. But I don't remember any of them, I remember the hug that a co-worker whose mother was diagnosis with breast cancer 2 days earlier before I even had a chance to open my mouth. I remember another co-worker who carried most of the weight of my job for the rest of the day. But it bothers me that the only words that I remember were that of my boss telling me she had been trying to not get to know me. That should not have been a statement that was worthy of being remembered from that day, or week really. Why were those the words that were scarred into my brain?
My sister and I talk a lot. She knows that I would love to have another child. Last summer, she made a comment, a single comment, that has caused me to not bring up that hope with her. I doubt I will again, or at least not until she is in a different place. She said "With all the problems you have with Obsidian (referring to his medical mystery issues) and not as much with Pyrope (referring to his speech and social issues), it is probably best you don't have another." The words instantly cut. I knew it was a deep cut. One that would scar. One that would alter what I say to her. She did not mean the words to be mean or vindictive. More of just a statement. I have wanted to write a blog entry about the statement, but I can't. Not yet. At the same time, it was the comment that really gave me a push to start blogging. More of a place for me to write and try to figure out what I'm thinking and feeling more than anything else.
Other scarring words bring a smile to my face. "Is this the house?" Was asked to me and my sister while we were standing in our front yard, by a man dressed in an immaculate black suit, peering over the top of his very dark sunglasses, sitting next to another man dressed in a black suit, driving a black minivan hertz an hour after our dad passed away. It felt like it should be a scene in a movie. Not asking us if it was the residence of our surname, or our address, or something along those lines but "Is this the house?" My sister and I looked at each other on the spot and laughed. We then said in all seriousness "We hope so." (At that point, on our street, there was a lady in very poor health, one "normal" house, our house, one "normal" house, then a house with another man on hospice. We sincerely were hoping that there were not two deaths on the street that afternoon (there weren't). I do remember parts of conversations with others from that day, but "Is this the house?" is always right up there.
I worked at a residential summer camp for 4 summers. One of the two comments that specifically stay with me from that experience, was by a camper, who I don't remember her name, that said her favorite part of the week was when she did something that she didn't think she could do but I said we were going to do it, and we did. I wonder if she still remembers sleeping outside all night...
Some of the more obvious words, I understand why they stayed with me. I struggle to figure out why some comments that I should have just let roll off of me, scar so deeply. I wonder why some words have been forgotten.
And I resolve to think at least twice before I speak. I don't know which of my 16,000 words I speak each day will scar. And I know even less if that scar will be good or bad.
At lunch today, I read a blog that talked about words that stayed with you. Hurtful words. Some of the words were not intended to have long term effects, but they did. Or should I say they do.
I got to thinking about the words that surround me. According to wiki.answers, adults speak an average of about 16,000 words per day. They participate in an average of about 1270 conversations. That is a lot of words, and a lot of conversations. For the most part, the words don't make a lasting impression. But others stick with me. Some of these words are positive. Some are negative. And I've been thinking of some of the words that have truly stayed with me.
I remember in 8th grade, the stinging words of a teacher, my teacher telling me I shouldn't think about going to college because I wasn't smart enough but I was very good with children so I think about working in childcare. I remember the feeling of fury over being told that. Of swearing to myself I would go to and graduate from college. I did. And I remember the irony and glee I felt when I ran into the mother of my classmate from that year. This classmate always had the highest grade on every test. We were always told how smart she was. I was visiting my family on the 4th of July, waiting for fireworks to start. Classmate's mom walked by. Stated how classmate was going to graduate that December in a challenging field. I asked what. My field. The exact degree I had received two years earlier. Classmate mom then asked me what I did. I very happily stated my job. Classmate's mom tried to say I was an aide or an assistance (which there is nothing wrong with those jobs, just they are/were not my job). I corrected her politely. She said there was no way I could have graduated with a degree in that, much less before her daughter did. She then walked away. My mom laughed and complimented me that I acted so mature. Then she laughed some more and said it felt so good for her to hear that conversation but knew it must have felt better for me. Both my teacher's and my classmate's mom's words scarred into me and my sense of ability and accomplishment than most comments on tests, papers, and formal job evaluations.
I remember one night after swim practice my freshman year, my coach saying to me if I put in as much effort and determination into my career as I did into swimming, I would excel. And I still get a warm feeling when I think about the compliment. I doubt if she remembers making the specific comment that night. But I do.
I remember the day my dad got his terminal diagnosis of cancer. I was at work. Long story short, everyone in the room including some people that we shared a break room with but nothing else, knew from the look on my face what had just happened in my phone conversation. Everyone but my boss. She made the comment, "I've been trying so hard to not know you, I had no idea what was happening." I think about this comment a good bit because it is my only clear recollections of spoken words that day. I don't remember what was said or how it was said in the phone conversation with my dad. I don't remember how I told Jett that evening. I don't remember what I said to my 12 year old brother that was visiting us (I know I didn't tell him specifically of the diagnosis, but he knew Dad was going to the doctor, and he must have asked something, and I must have responded). I'm assuming my co-workers said words of sympathy. But I don't remember any of them, I remember the hug that a co-worker whose mother was diagnosis with breast cancer 2 days earlier before I even had a chance to open my mouth. I remember another co-worker who carried most of the weight of my job for the rest of the day. But it bothers me that the only words that I remember were that of my boss telling me she had been trying to not get to know me. That should not have been a statement that was worthy of being remembered from that day, or week really. Why were those the words that were scarred into my brain?
My sister and I talk a lot. She knows that I would love to have another child. Last summer, she made a comment, a single comment, that has caused me to not bring up that hope with her. I doubt I will again, or at least not until she is in a different place. She said "With all the problems you have with Obsidian (referring to his medical mystery issues) and not as much with Pyrope (referring to his speech and social issues), it is probably best you don't have another." The words instantly cut. I knew it was a deep cut. One that would scar. One that would alter what I say to her. She did not mean the words to be mean or vindictive. More of just a statement. I have wanted to write a blog entry about the statement, but I can't. Not yet. At the same time, it was the comment that really gave me a push to start blogging. More of a place for me to write and try to figure out what I'm thinking and feeling more than anything else.
Other scarring words bring a smile to my face. "Is this the house?" Was asked to me and my sister while we were standing in our front yard, by a man dressed in an immaculate black suit, peering over the top of his very dark sunglasses, sitting next to another man dressed in a black suit, driving a black minivan hertz an hour after our dad passed away. It felt like it should be a scene in a movie. Not asking us if it was the residence of our surname, or our address, or something along those lines but "Is this the house?" My sister and I looked at each other on the spot and laughed. We then said in all seriousness "We hope so." (At that point, on our street, there was a lady in very poor health, one "normal" house, our house, one "normal" house, then a house with another man on hospice. We sincerely were hoping that there were not two deaths on the street that afternoon (there weren't). I do remember parts of conversations with others from that day, but "Is this the house?" is always right up there.
I worked at a residential summer camp for 4 summers. One of the two comments that specifically stay with me from that experience, was by a camper, who I don't remember her name, that said her favorite part of the week was when she did something that she didn't think she could do but I said we were going to do it, and we did. I wonder if she still remembers sleeping outside all night...
Some of the more obvious words, I understand why they stayed with me. I struggle to figure out why some comments that I should have just let roll off of me, scar so deeply. I wonder why some words have been forgotten.
And I resolve to think at least twice before I speak. I don't know which of my 16,000 words I speak each day will scar. And I know even less if that scar will be good or bad.
Friday, March 4, 2011
How I write
One of my quirks is choosing what I use to write with. I have a vast array of pens and pencils. I spend money all the time to "just try" a new pen or pencil.
For as long as I can remember, I have thought about the physical act of writing and what I use to accomplish it. When I was in kindergarten and younger, I only liked to use crayons or wide markers. Nothing else. I didn't like how the others felt in my hands. In 1st and 2nd grades, I was only allowed to use "Laddie" pencils. I did not like these blue pencils. First off, they had no eraser. Second, they were wider and I didn't like how it felt in my hand. However, they were the only thing I was allowed to write with in school. 3rd, we could use any #2 pencil we liked, and I was okay as long as my pencil was a hexagon one with a good eraser. 4th grade came ball point pens. I discovered that I only liked how certain brands of pens write. How smoothly they write on the paper, how much I smear the ink while I'm writing (ahem, my grip is not that great on my pens/pencils, which is amusing considering my profession), the size of the ball of the pen, the color of the ink, the type of ink, they size of the shaft, exc. Then enter in mechanical pencils, fountain pens, and dip pens.
I have definite preferences of what I use to write with in what circumstance. Up until this fall, at work, I did my paperwork on carbon paper sheets (then tear them part and put each copy where it belongs). I had a certain brand of "clicky" pen that I liked best. I could use the pens they gave me at work, but I always had to go out an buy "my" pens. We now do our "paperwork" on the computer for the most part. I still need to write notes for myself throughout the day so I can remember what to write on the computer. I hate my clicky pens for that. I was having issues with them not writing when I wanted them to. I've gone to mechanical pencils with a gel type clicky pen with a larger ball for items I have to actually sign (would not like to use this to write for any length as I would smear it and would go though too many pens too quickly). I have specific pens I write on the calendar with, others that I like to jot down messages with. If I am to physically write a letter, I still like my fountain pen. It is more labor intensive, but I do like the results for a personal letter.
Jet thinks I'm nuts about this in many ways. He loves nice pens, but does not have such, um, strong feelings for having the right (pun intended) pen or pencil for the specific job.
I wonder why I have such strong feelings on the subject. I could care less if my shoes match my outfit. Heck, I would be happy wearing a pair of athletic shoes or strap sandals (weather pending) all of the time (or boots if it is too cold outside). I am somewhat mystified by people that have a lot of shoes and are always looking for more. Many of them (and others) are probably mystified about my constant looking for, buying, and trying new pens and pencils (yes, I even have strong feelings of what type and brand of pencil I use).
The oddest part of this obsession with how I write is this. I'm dyslexic. I do, by far, my best writing on a computer, by typing. It is far more efficient. I get more of my ideas out. I can write them more concisely. I was actually accused/suspected of plagiarism in college when I was asked to write an essay with pen and paper instead of on a computer (it was an English class, but part of the class was also on using word processing programs on computer, but due to a power outage, we had to write with a pen and paper one day in class. My essay was so different than what I had been turning in, I had to sit with the professor looking over my shoulder as I typed a different essay later that week to prove I really could write as well as my previously written on computer papers).
Tonight, I came home from the store with a different type of mechanical pencil to try at work. And a new pen. I have no idea what I will use this pen for, but I want to see how it writes. How it feels in my hand. How it feels on different types of paper. Sometimes I say it is a professional interest (which I can somewhat get away with). But if I'm honest, I would do it no matter what my profession.
For as long as I can remember, I have thought about the physical act of writing and what I use to accomplish it. When I was in kindergarten and younger, I only liked to use crayons or wide markers. Nothing else. I didn't like how the others felt in my hands. In 1st and 2nd grades, I was only allowed to use "Laddie" pencils. I did not like these blue pencils. First off, they had no eraser. Second, they were wider and I didn't like how it felt in my hand. However, they were the only thing I was allowed to write with in school. 3rd, we could use any #2 pencil we liked, and I was okay as long as my pencil was a hexagon one with a good eraser. 4th grade came ball point pens. I discovered that I only liked how certain brands of pens write. How smoothly they write on the paper, how much I smear the ink while I'm writing (ahem, my grip is not that great on my pens/pencils, which is amusing considering my profession), the size of the ball of the pen, the color of the ink, the type of ink, they size of the shaft, exc. Then enter in mechanical pencils, fountain pens, and dip pens.
I have definite preferences of what I use to write with in what circumstance. Up until this fall, at work, I did my paperwork on carbon paper sheets (then tear them part and put each copy where it belongs). I had a certain brand of "clicky" pen that I liked best. I could use the pens they gave me at work, but I always had to go out an buy "my" pens. We now do our "paperwork" on the computer for the most part. I still need to write notes for myself throughout the day so I can remember what to write on the computer. I hate my clicky pens for that. I was having issues with them not writing when I wanted them to. I've gone to mechanical pencils with a gel type clicky pen with a larger ball for items I have to actually sign (would not like to use this to write for any length as I would smear it and would go though too many pens too quickly). I have specific pens I write on the calendar with, others that I like to jot down messages with. If I am to physically write a letter, I still like my fountain pen. It is more labor intensive, but I do like the results for a personal letter.
Jet thinks I'm nuts about this in many ways. He loves nice pens, but does not have such, um, strong feelings for having the right (pun intended) pen or pencil for the specific job.
I wonder why I have such strong feelings on the subject. I could care less if my shoes match my outfit. Heck, I would be happy wearing a pair of athletic shoes or strap sandals (weather pending) all of the time (or boots if it is too cold outside). I am somewhat mystified by people that have a lot of shoes and are always looking for more. Many of them (and others) are probably mystified about my constant looking for, buying, and trying new pens and pencils (yes, I even have strong feelings of what type and brand of pencil I use).
The oddest part of this obsession with how I write is this. I'm dyslexic. I do, by far, my best writing on a computer, by typing. It is far more efficient. I get more of my ideas out. I can write them more concisely. I was actually accused/suspected of plagiarism in college when I was asked to write an essay with pen and paper instead of on a computer (it was an English class, but part of the class was also on using word processing programs on computer, but due to a power outage, we had to write with a pen and paper one day in class. My essay was so different than what I had been turning in, I had to sit with the professor looking over my shoulder as I typed a different essay later that week to prove I really could write as well as my previously written on computer papers).
Tonight, I came home from the store with a different type of mechanical pencil to try at work. And a new pen. I have no idea what I will use this pen for, but I want to see how it writes. How it feels in my hand. How it feels on different types of paper. Sometimes I say it is a professional interest (which I can somewhat get away with). But if I'm honest, I would do it no matter what my profession.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Thankful Thursday
- The flooding in our finished basement was minimal. It was only at one end, and was not sewer issue, the water literally come up through the floor. Many, many of my friends and neighbors (some just a house or two away) were not so lucky and had a couple of feet of water in their basements with everything totaled (furnace, hot water heater, exc, exc)
- After today, Pyrope is not going to weekly speech therapy. I was the one who initiated it stopping for the time being but he is doing much better. If he keeps up momentum, he will not need to restart. I'm thankful he is doing well enough I can choose to do this. And I'm thankful that I don't have to go weekly and entertain Obsidian in the waiting room for an hour.
- Options. I'm tired of my job, but really I have options of where I can go. I just need to decided that I really want to move on, and what I want to do.
- That I really like Obsidian's PT, on many levels.
- Getting out to see plays with just Jet on close to a monthly basis. Last month we didn't due to the weather. This month, the weather was good enough, and on top of that the play was good.
- Slow cookers. I love the smell of food cooking in it. And I love dinner being done without a whole lot of time spent immediately before the meal.
- That diesel trains can not steal the alphabet from us because they are machines and we make them work. And that after a 10 minute discussion, I convinced Obsidian of this as well so he could fall asleep.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
At the end of the day
Today was crazy. I don't know how else to explain it. After I write this, I will go to bed and pass out. But unless I process some of it, I will not pass out.
We started with a series of thunderstorms last night, sometime right after midnight. These were not small thunderstorms, but wicked strong ones, ones that I would expect in the middle of the summer on a hot day. Three nights earlier we had a snowstorm, it dumped 12" on us, and drifted above my waist in parts of my yard. It was a blast to dig out from. Obsidian had been waking up on and off since 10:30 pm. And at least for the beginning of each round of thunderstorms. We lost power for a couple hours in there. At 4 am, Obsidian decided to talk. And talk. And talk. Jet and I 1/2 listened in our sleep to his views on everything from the classic cars Jet owns, to his tricycle, to "Grandpa's train", to "Uncle M diesel train", to Toy Story, to favorite foods. And he kept talking. All day. Our city's public schools were closed due to flooding and no phones. Pyrope goes to a private preschool, but often they follow the city's schools. After several calls, I found out Pyrope does have school. We decided to have a playdate, we debated which of our house's, and eventually decided here. By 9:30, they were here. As the kids were playing, they kept coming up from our basement with wet socks. We yell at them for spilling things. I go down stairs a couple of times and throw a towel or 2 (which really in the end totaled 8 towels during the playdate, and another 4 before I figured out what was happening; but I wasn't paying that much attention and didn't realize the number until I looked in my washing machine). I get a phone call from a co-worker. Another co-worker of ours had called off the day before (Sunday) because her in-laws were in a serious car accident and life flighted to a trauma center. We knew that the driver (who had lost control of the car because of the previously mentioned snowstorm had not fully been cleaned up) had passed away. We knew the passenger in that car had been life flighted as well and was in critical condition (co-worker's in-laws were in stable condition by Sunday). So today (Monday), co-worker who was calling me husband goes into work. He is a school teacher. His favorite student had passed away on Sunday after being in a car accident that also killed his mother. Yes, it was the same accident. He was 15. So I listen to my co-worker talk. I offered a few words, but she wanted to talk. A boy she had heard so much about, was gone. And she indirectly knows the other vehicle involved. What a small world. And how much our world can change in the blink of an eye. After her kids needed her, I hung up and told my friend but in general went back to my crazy day. The "spills" in my basement continued. As she was leaving with her kids around noon, she tells me to call her if I figure out what the kids have spilled, its odd. So I am soaking up the spots with towels and decide to look on Facebook. One of the first posts I read is from another friend that lives a 1/2 mile away. Her basement flooded early this morning. Her furnace, hot water tank, a refrigerator, washer, drier, computer, and most of her kids toys were destroyed. They started smelling something funny, call the fire department, the fire department tells them to turn off the power to the house... yes electrical fires were starting because the flooding was so bad in some basement yet the power lines were not down, so fires were starting. I feel terrible for her. Then as I'm picking up yet another towel, I realize "My kids aren't spilling things, my basement is flooding!!!" I call my friend, who turns around and takes my kids to her house (although it takes a while because a good number of roads are closed due to flooding). I call my husband, who doesn't pick up his cell phone. I call his boss and tell her that I can't get a hold of Jet, and our basement is flooding, can she please find him and tell him. The basements that got flooded really bad were sump pump failures. Ours on the other hand, the ground was so saturated, it was literally coming up from the concrete floors (then through the padding and carpet). It was only one section (that is finished, part of our basement is not, but this was in the finished part). So I was shop vac the areas, picking up the electrical stuff and more valuable stuff. Cranking up the dehumidifier. Turning up the heat in the house. Setting up fans to blow the moisture upstairs out of the basement. Shop vacuum some more. Repeat. Jet was shoveling and snow blowing all the snow he could from around the house, then was checking the down spouts and gutters. The one down spout was washing away dirt from under our deck and effecting a couple of the deck's supports. A trip to Home Depot and shoveling of dirt later, it is much better. Our basement is in okay shape. The water isn't coming in nearly as quickly (for a while I was clearing out a gallon or so an hour). Our carpet at a minimum will need to be professionally cleaned. It might need to be removed. But that is it. Our house is fine. Our stuff is fine. More importantly, we are fine.
And as I'm doing all of this, I keep thinking. "This isn't bad. This is all stuff. What is important, my husband, my kids, and my friends, are not in serious harm's way. Even if this is destroyed, it is stuff. And it is stuff we don't need. We like it, but we don't need it. We need a safe house to live in, but if it was gone we would have my mom's, my friend's house that my kids are at, several co-workers house's, exc."
And that is what I have at the end of the day. My family. My friends.
We started with a series of thunderstorms last night, sometime right after midnight. These were not small thunderstorms, but wicked strong ones, ones that I would expect in the middle of the summer on a hot day. Three nights earlier we had a snowstorm, it dumped 12" on us, and drifted above my waist in parts of my yard. It was a blast to dig out from. Obsidian had been waking up on and off since 10:30 pm. And at least for the beginning of each round of thunderstorms. We lost power for a couple hours in there. At 4 am, Obsidian decided to talk. And talk. And talk. Jet and I 1/2 listened in our sleep to his views on everything from the classic cars Jet owns, to his tricycle, to "Grandpa's train", to "Uncle M diesel train", to Toy Story, to favorite foods. And he kept talking. All day. Our city's public schools were closed due to flooding and no phones. Pyrope goes to a private preschool, but often they follow the city's schools. After several calls, I found out Pyrope does have school. We decided to have a playdate, we debated which of our house's, and eventually decided here. By 9:30, they were here. As the kids were playing, they kept coming up from our basement with wet socks. We yell at them for spilling things. I go down stairs a couple of times and throw a towel or 2 (which really in the end totaled 8 towels during the playdate, and another 4 before I figured out what was happening; but I wasn't paying that much attention and didn't realize the number until I looked in my washing machine). I get a phone call from a co-worker. Another co-worker of ours had called off the day before (Sunday) because her in-laws were in a serious car accident and life flighted to a trauma center. We knew that the driver (who had lost control of the car because of the previously mentioned snowstorm had not fully been cleaned up) had passed away. We knew the passenger in that car had been life flighted as well and was in critical condition (co-worker's in-laws were in stable condition by Sunday). So today (Monday), co-worker who was calling me husband goes into work. He is a school teacher. His favorite student had passed away on Sunday after being in a car accident that also killed his mother. Yes, it was the same accident. He was 15. So I listen to my co-worker talk. I offered a few words, but she wanted to talk. A boy she had heard so much about, was gone. And she indirectly knows the other vehicle involved. What a small world. And how much our world can change in the blink of an eye. After her kids needed her, I hung up and told my friend but in general went back to my crazy day. The "spills" in my basement continued. As she was leaving with her kids around noon, she tells me to call her if I figure out what the kids have spilled, its odd. So I am soaking up the spots with towels and decide to look on Facebook. One of the first posts I read is from another friend that lives a 1/2 mile away. Her basement flooded early this morning. Her furnace, hot water tank, a refrigerator, washer, drier, computer, and most of her kids toys were destroyed. They started smelling something funny, call the fire department, the fire department tells them to turn off the power to the house... yes electrical fires were starting because the flooding was so bad in some basement yet the power lines were not down, so fires were starting. I feel terrible for her. Then as I'm picking up yet another towel, I realize "My kids aren't spilling things, my basement is flooding!!!" I call my friend, who turns around and takes my kids to her house (although it takes a while because a good number of roads are closed due to flooding). I call my husband, who doesn't pick up his cell phone. I call his boss and tell her that I can't get a hold of Jet, and our basement is flooding, can she please find him and tell him. The basements that got flooded really bad were sump pump failures. Ours on the other hand, the ground was so saturated, it was literally coming up from the concrete floors (then through the padding and carpet). It was only one section (that is finished, part of our basement is not, but this was in the finished part). So I was shop vac the areas, picking up the electrical stuff and more valuable stuff. Cranking up the dehumidifier. Turning up the heat in the house. Setting up fans to blow the moisture upstairs out of the basement. Shop vacuum some more. Repeat. Jet was shoveling and snow blowing all the snow he could from around the house, then was checking the down spouts and gutters. The one down spout was washing away dirt from under our deck and effecting a couple of the deck's supports. A trip to Home Depot and shoveling of dirt later, it is much better. Our basement is in okay shape. The water isn't coming in nearly as quickly (for a while I was clearing out a gallon or so an hour). Our carpet at a minimum will need to be professionally cleaned. It might need to be removed. But that is it. Our house is fine. Our stuff is fine. More importantly, we are fine.
And as I'm doing all of this, I keep thinking. "This isn't bad. This is all stuff. What is important, my husband, my kids, and my friends, are not in serious harm's way. Even if this is destroyed, it is stuff. And it is stuff we don't need. We like it, but we don't need it. We need a safe house to live in, but if it was gone we would have my mom's, my friend's house that my kids are at, several co-workers house's, exc."
And that is what I have at the end of the day. My family. My friends.
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