hi ho, hi ho, its off to the ER we go...

Note: This blog was written at the start of the summer, and is part of the long list of blogs that I never got around to posting. My daughter DID NOT get hurt again... I promise!

As parents, we anticipate the possibility of certain events as our children grow up. I would say “look forward to” but that would imply that we are happily anticipating the event. We look forward to birthdays, first time on roller skates, and first time at the circus. We do not, however, look forward to the first ER visit.

And then it happens…

We were playing on the deck and my daughter informed me that she had to pee. I responded with a pleasant “off you go…”and she went inside to respond to nature’s call. This is not new, by the way. My daughter has been taking care of nature’s call on her own for a little while now and only really needs help when she’s wearing a long dress. (I tuck it up better than she does and she gets annoyed when it falls into the potty… go figure) Then we heard the thud, followed by the wailing scream. I don’t run fast by nature, but I FLEW into that house.

My first sighting of her on the tile floor, wailing, next to a pool of blood stopped my heart. For a second I was immobilized. Then I forced myself to breathe and took care of my daughter. I picked her up, located the source of blood. The inch long laceration that resembled a circle and was wide open did not help me relax, but once again, I forced myself to breathe and move along.

I was of no use to my daughter in the throes of a panic attack.

My parents, who were visiting, assisted. They were a great help.  My dad called our pediatrician while my mom watched my son. Then they helped watch my daughter while I dealt with a few quick logistics for getting us out of the house prepared for a possibly extended ER visit.

And off to the ER we went.

My dad drove and I sat in the back with my daughter, holding a bloody ice pack on her head. The location of the cut made my daughter have to hold her head forward. As she was a little pale, I didn’t want her to fall asleep. No small task, considering both my kids were already tired before the event started. Sigh.

That said, the ER was wonderful. You know, in the way that the NICU was wonderful. Highly useful in an unfortunate reality. We got moved instantly to the pediatric waiting room and the wait there was less than noteworthy. The kid with breathing problems got taken before us, which is the way it’s supposed to be.  Every time.

To say that my daughter did a great job would grossly understate my amazement at her behavior during this entire event. Once the initial screaming reaction to the fall ceased (a screaming I was grateful for, by the way, as it meant she hadn’t lost consciousness) she barely cried. She cooperated and let me do everything I needed to do. In the ER, she snuggled in my arms and quietly took comfort without significant sound. When the doctors worked on her head, she didn’t move an inch and complied with every request immediately. They almost passed out, which was a pleasant injection of humor to the moment.

And ironically, I didn’t freak out either. This shocks me, by the way. Astounds me on a level I cannot justify. I’m not a calm person by nature and I have this terrible habit of freezing in the moment of stress impact. It’s annoying to me as well. But I held it together and my little girl was able to as well.

What did I learn? Give myself more credit that I can handle what’s given to me. Oh, and ALWAYS have my purse and some ice packs ready. J

Prancersize if you want to...

There is a video going viral called “prancersizing”. Yes, that’s right. You did, in fact, read it correctly. You may have seen it. It’s this woman jogging and exercising in a style that (not coincidentally) resembles the prancing of a horse. 

The first time I saw it, I cracked up. Really cracked up. It was hilarious. Totally over the top. It’s not often that you are afforded the opportunity to witness an adult being so silly and so earnest. I had to watch it again to be sure I hadn’t missed anything. After watching, I browsed the comments out of sheer morbid curiosity.

I was appalled at what I read. The comments were downright mean. Harsh. Degrading. While some bordered on verbal attack, others crossed that line without question. Seriously? 

Ok… I get it. She’s a little nutty and unusual. Perhaps even a LOT nutty and unusual. I’m not sure her style of exercising is going to be my first choice. But at least she’s exercising. And she’s not hurting anyone. She’s not defacing property and she’s not demoralizing anyone. She’s exercising in a goofy way. And if she’s representing herself accurately, she believes in her method and is an honest person. When did that become grounds for verbal abuse?

A long time ago, in my role as educator, I was present for a technology seminar for the kids. The goal of the seminar was, at least in part, to educate and remind our students about manners in respect during use of technology. We discussed cyber bullying and the way that comments may be taken out of context due to lack of voice.  The words “shut up”, for example. Spoken by your best friend, while laughing and slapping your arm affectionately, these words are harmless. They were probably preceded by some gentle teasing about a school yard crush and followed by giggles as you planned your next sleepover. Spoken angrily at a time when you had the courage to disagree with a powerful social situation, these words are not so benign. In text, how do you know which way to hear them? 

We earnestly discussed these topics with the children and addressed them again when problems arose. We did not consider, however, that their parents might not know the difference either.  

As I obtain more and more of my world information online, I am astounded (and sometimes disgusted) by the comment sections provided below the articles. Most of the comments do little to address the true content of the article, and when they do it’s in a judgmental way. Articles written by “working moms” are judged by stay at home moms accusing them of letting another raise their child. Moms who endorse letting a child cry it out for sleep training are accused of child abuse. 

Really? Would say this out loud in a public forum if you were forced to show your face? I doubt it, at least for most of the comments. 

So, prancerize if you want to. It’s your life. Live it true to yourself. OH… and have fun!

Living in a fishbowl...

Earlier this year, my book club read a book called “Orange is the new Black”. It’s popular enough that many of you may have heard of it. It’s also been turned into a Netflix series. 

For those of you that are not aware of this novel, I’ll summarize it for you. 

Piper, A 22 year old WASP, makes some silly choices in her early 20’s and gets involved with a woman who is part of an international drug ring. She participates once and (justifiably terrified) ends the relationship. 10 years later, with a new life and much better judgment, the drug ring is caught and she is implicated. She pleads guilty and spends 15 months in prison. 

During that time, she becomes intimately acquainted with the prison system and the women housed by it. She learns about their lives, not just their mistakes. She suffers under the oppression of being powerless. She makes friends. Good friends. She gets lost in her world, despite knowing that her time was relatively short and that she had a fiancé outside waiting for her.  

She refers to “living in a fishbowl” with no real ability to sense the world outside, despite being aware of its existence. This causes tension with her fiancé, on the outside, who has vowed to wait for her. His expectations are based on his own reality and he struggles to understand her current priorities. 

 I have never been in prison but I did work at an 8 week sleep away summer camp, as a counselor. I know, not the same. Except for the fishbowl effect, that is. Any of you that have spent any significant time away from the outside world, totally immersed in a pseudo world of sorts, will know what I mean. We used to refer to “camp time” when it came to dating. A week felt more like a month, due to constant exposure to each other and total lack of exposure to anyone else. Days, even good ones, felt longer. At the end of a summer, it felt like a year had passed. A great year, but still much longer than the days counted on a calendar. Friendships felt more intense and arguments felt more significant. Everything felt exaggerated. After all, there was NO BREAK from each other. We didn’t really interact with the outside world much, so our senses forgot it was there. 

Sometimes, I remember a funny story from camp and attempt to tell my husband about it. (Like, one time in band camp… ) I provide him with the background information to understand the context. And then he just looks at me like I’m insane, waiting for the punch line. And it’s not that he didn’t understand. It’s that he didn’t understand. It wasn’t humorous to him.

He didn’t understand why we would have sung that song in the first place. He didn’t understand why cheering at meal time would create a spirit of competition. And no. He has never understood why cheering about bagels on Sunday makes any sense at all. (My apologies to anyone who did not attend a Jewish camp, as you will likely not understand that reference either.) And I can’t explain it, because the explanation is simply not logical. It’s visceral. Emotional. And the emotion was so strong that we didn’t even contemplate questioning it at the time we were feeling it. 

Amazing how that works. 

As a primarily stay at home mom of twins, I frequently feel like I live in a fishbowl. Some days the hours fly by and others find me looking at the clock asking myself “How can it ONLY be 1:00?  Do I REALLY have 4 more hours till my husband gets home?  I have found myself embarrassed by my lack of awareness of current events and non reaction to names that everyone seems to recognize. “Small” moments feel prominent. I feel as if that momentous tantrum in public must have lasted hours, when in reality it was less than 2 minutes. Two VERY LONG minutes from my perspective, but statistically insignificant nonetheless. 

Many stay at home moms complain about their “working” partner’s inability to understand why that one annoying behavior is so very important. They are accused of “obsessing” about seemingly small details of the day. To them, it’s not small. It’s huge, because it’s part of a larger problem. And when it’s your whole day, every day, it’s hard to see it as anything but. 

I suppose it’s all relative. I’ll keep that in mind the next time my kids complain about waiting a REALLY LONG TIME.

                                                        

What I learned from watching Dumbo

My children are currently obsessed with watching “Dumbo”, so I have had the opportunity to become well acquainted with the script and story lines. Good thing I actually like the move. Here’s what I have learned.

1-      I learned that storks bring babies. Really? I thought that babies came from… uhm… well… you know. J The first time we watched it, I taught my kids the word “stork”, but then I got concerned when they decided that THEY came from storks and felt the need immediately clarify that it was just being silly in the movie.  Really, they came from my tummy. Hmm…. Thank goodness they didn’t ask how they got in there. I DO NOT look forward to that conversation as my daughter’s BS detector is gonna cause me big problems.

2-      I learned that you can sit on clouds, like a chair. Actually, this one made me laugh. As a kid, I always believed that clouds would feel like cotton balls and now, as an adult, I still feel like they should. I know enough about science to know that they don’t but I still (in that small child part of me) feel like they would. Silly… I know. I guess we all hang on to a few of our childhood beliefs, despite being taught the truth that contradicts them.

3-      I learned that the state of being drunk is actually more like being high on acid. Ok, I’m half joking. I don’t know what it’s like to be high on acid, but I do know what it’s like to be drunk and it’s certainly NOT that crazy drugged out scene from Dumbo and his mouse friend’s perspective.  Waltzing pink elephants? Interesting…  Then again, maybe I just haven’t been drunk enough.

4-      I learned that size doesn’t matter. (Ok… have your laugh here and get it out of the way. I didn’t mean it that way.) Timothy the mouse is tiny and Dumbo is huge. Despite that size difference, Timothy is the older, wiser and more confident of the two characters. He’s in charge and takes great care of Dumbo when his mom can’t be there. Sort of reminds me of those small statured people whose personalities take up the whole space with their poise, confidence and enthusiasm.

5-      I learned that all anyone really needs is one good friend on their side to survive. You can be down and out, but if just one person is committed to your well being, you will probably be ok in the long run. Even if it doesn’t feel like that at the time.  That piece of news wasn’t entirely new to me, but it’s always nice to be reminded.

6-      I learned that a soul’s destiny is not necessarily in line with the assumption made by those around them, those judging by stereotypes and generalizations.  A flying elephant? No way… But it was Dumbo’s destiny to succeed by being different. By using his distinct (and initially mocked) features to move in his own direction, find his own success. I love that. We should all have that perspective on our own lives.

7-      I learned that sometimes the story ends happily. I know. It’s Disney. OF COURSE they have a happy ending. But here’s the thing. They don’t promise that Dumbo is never treated badly by the other elephants again. They don’t promise that it’s happily ever after. They simply show Dumbo flying, reunited with his mom, and happy for the moment. And that’s promising. It’s good enough.

Who knew watching Disney with your kids could be so educational?

Jumping head first, and heart first, into a book...

I just finished teaching a two week creative writing class, to middle school age kids. It was wonderful.

They were eager and smart, creative and funny. They had enough umph to be ever present, but not so much that they were hard to handle. Needless to say, I had a tremendous amount of fun teaching them. 

During the course of the teaching, we discussed the question, “What makes a piece of writing good?”.  I posed this question to the group and listened carefully to their responses. Some students commented on picking a good character or theme, while others commented on the importance of using interesting words. All the students brought up excellent points, but were effectively circling what I considered to be the more central answer. 

A good piece of writing elicits an emotional response from the reader. This response may be happiness, sadness, anger, frustration, intense curiosity, or intellectual stimulation. The reaction needs to be present or the reader will simply be bored. And not every piece of writing appeals to every reader. James Michener has been around for ages, earning a decent sized popularity over the years. I, however, consider the best possible use for his novels to be the cure for insomnia or fuel for my fireplace in wintertime. I could not find his writing more boring. It simply does not reach me. And that’s ok. Others disagree with me and they are entitled to do so. More copies for them. 

I just finished reading a novel called “unorthodox” by Deborah Feldman. It’s the story of a woman who escapes from her life in a Hasidic Jewish community. I just finished the book, and I will tell you this. I spent the entire book consumed with the desire to jump into the book and hug the main character. Seriously. She’s miserable. She’s confused. She’s trapped in her life, unable to express herself, and she sees no way out. Every moment of her life that she has anticipated to be joyful turns bitter and she is left profoundly disappointed and feeling unworthy of happiness. 

Have I mentioned that I just want to hug her? I want to hold her and tell her that she will be alright. That she is not strange or demented. That she is simply ill fitted to the world into which she was born. I want to inform her that some women are liberated from her life of restraint and limitations. Happily, the book ends with her successful escape from the community, taking her young son with her.

Ironically, I was mentally planning this blog while I was baking pies. It was a Sunday afternoon and my family and I had gone berry picking that morning. The farm did well by us. We bought blackberries, onions, tomatoes, peaches and potatoes. We bought so many blackberries because we love them. Especially my husband. He is nuts about them. He also loves crumbles, so instead of making traditional pies, I was making crumbles. He had “suggested” that maybe crumbles would be nice to make. Hint, hint, hint… 

 

So there I am, baking crumbles while he mows the lawn and the kids are playing outside on a beautiful summer day. Go me, liberated woman. I should be the one to talk, right? 

I suppose the equation needs to be balanced by the fact that I love to cook and bake. I find it satisfying and before kids I would spend hours in the kitchen by choice on bad weather weekends. I adore the instant gratification of a meal or dessert in its finished form, a concrete result of the hard work. I find comfort in the sound of food sizzling and knives chopping on cutting boards. It’s a Zen thing, culinary therapy at its best. My choice of afternoon activities would have much larger implications if the opposite were true. 

But still, I have to wonder. Do I love to cook because I was raised that way? Because my mom cooked and society told me that it was my duty? Is my desire to cook and bake well simply a symptom of my desire to fit into my role or would I have loved it anyway? 

It’s an interesting question, with no possible way of truly answering.What I will tell you is this. 

It was a good book, a great story. And it made me feel something significant. Congratulations to the author. She achieved her goal and should be proud.