This morning, I feel a renewed sense of energy. I started feeling it yesterday, but I wasn't sure I could let myself go with it as I didn't want to get too excited and realize I had overdone it. However, I can now safely say that I am on my way to returning to whatever normalcy I am accustomed to in my life.
I feel it's safe to say that I have survived my surgery - which I still look at as being more of a procedure but no longer a PROCEDURE done by TOM. (I didn't realize until writing this today that the all caps must have been some sort of subconscious connection to the The Shining and little Danny's inability to process such things as "REDRUM" which, as we know, is just murder spelled backwards. Can you sense the horror I felt before?) Since I'm no longer scared, I'm not afraid to call it either surgery or procedure, and TOM can go back to being Tom.
I did manage to somewhat block the procedure out of my thoughts until about ten minutes before the orderly wheeled me back to pre-op. Until that point, my husband had been supporting me quietly, just listening to me when I needed to talk, probably still thinking he'd be the loser in the battle between Irrational and Rational me. However at this particular moment, he tried to give me his suck-it-up pep talk usually reserved for his male athletes who are having difficulty facing the challenge presented to them. Looking back, I feel almost honored that he thought I had the mental toughness to handle what he said to me, however at the moment, I dissolved into tears. And while I did try to show him I had some fight in me by giving him a sign of my displeasure with that pep talk, I turned into a blubbery mess admitting that, "I am scared, and I hate being scared, and I hate even more admitting that I am scared." In response, he gave me a kiss on the forehead, and I was wheeled out.
Along the way, the orderly tried to make some small talk to lighten the situation, but probably should have just not talked at all, asking how I incurred my injury, and then commenting, "Well, I guess that's what you get for being active." I said nothing, but seriously wanted to reach up and punch the guy in the face (maybe a residual feeling toward my husband's pep talk?). Even though I was scared to death about being put under anesthesia, the alternative and side-effects of an inactive lifestyle is truly unthinkable. I hope the orderly was being sarcastic or maybe this young lad doesn't have a lot of experience dealing with sniffling females, so I cut him a break and kept my hands to myself.
Once back in pre-op, the nurses and doctors were definitely veterans and accustomed to dealing with crybabies like me. When questioned by them, I freely told my story, each time feeling a bit better admitting that I was scared to death about the anesthesia. They all understood my concerns and fears, but the best comfort I received was from my surgeon, Tom, who said, "I felt the exact same way when I had my knee scoped. I got back here, and I started thinking 'Maybe it's not that bad,' but once I had the Happy Juice, I didn't care. You'll feel like you just slammed a six-pack, and you won't care either." Knowing that my doctor wanted to run away from the pre-op bay too helped me settle down. As did the Happy Juice.
The entire procedure went off without a hitch. My husband redeemed himself immediately post-surgery and was promptly forgiven by ordering me a take-out, not drive through, bacon cheeseburger melt with fries. Actually, I had forgiven him even before I left for surgery, but this was icing on the cake - or in my case, bacon on my cheeseburger.
My recovery has gone well, and I'm headed back toward normal, even if showering with Saran Wrap wound tightly over your knee is not. I'm still gimpy, as my daughter reminded me last night when she hunched over and pretended to walk with a cane, mimicking my 95 year-old woman walk. I'm okay with that - it made me laugh. I am also happy that I can go up and down stairs, drive, and even do laundry and clean the litter box again, as being grounded to the couch for three days was definitely a challenge.
Simply put, being able to live my life how I want to leaves me vitalized, and it is worth the fear and frustration and annoyances I might encounter along the way. It's my own brand of Happy Juice.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Irrational Me vs. Rational Me
I have a little bit of paranoia going on. My knee has been bothering me for several months, so I finally bit the bullet and went to see a sport medicine doctor yesterday. What I found out didn't surprise me: my knee needs to be scoped. Once I have this done, I will be relatively pain free, I won't have to ice my knee after running, I won't have to worry about swelling and that irritating, painful, involuntary locking of the knee, etc., etc. It's an outpatient surgery, no crutches will be needed, and I can go back to activity as soon as I am pain-free. Overall, this softening underneath my kneecap is not a big deal. However, I'm completely freaked out.
In my entire life, I have never been put under with anesthesia or had any sort of surgery. I delivered two babies without much medical intervention, which have been my only experiences as a patient in a hospital. I know I am being completely wimpy. My husband said, "You just need to accept the fact that you are going to be put under, and everything will be fine." The rational side of me knows this will most likely be true. Unfortunately, it is the irrational side that is winning the mental toughness war raging in my head.
Irrational Me thinks back to a movie or Twilight Zone-like television show I saw in middle school or high school. In this movie, some guy dies in horrible car-bicycle accident, and while he's pronounced dead, his brain is still processing everything that is going on around him. I'm pretty sure he ended up being buried with a still active brain. Combine that with the thought of a short story I read at some point in my life in which a person is put under anesthesia, yet they can feel everything that is happening to them. The theme from the aforementioned movie, brain activity and/or feelings when you shouldn't have them, is still prevalent. I'm pretty sure no one in the operating room will notice the tears trickling out of my seemingly sedated closed eyes as I undergo this routine surgery.
Words like surgery and operating room are terrifying to me as well. Can't we just call it a procedure? As the doctor, who asked me to call him by his first name - Tom (probably some sort of attempt to gain my trust; I'm very suspicious now), as TOM explained the PROCEDURE to me, he told me that he'd make three small incisions to insert the scope and clean out the soft, rough surface underneath my kneecap. I thought covering my ears while rocking in the fetal position and singing, "La! La! La!" might be rude, so sat there listening like a big girl trying not to vomit. Again, in an attempt to calm my nerves when I shared these thoughts with my husband, I was advised, "They're just very small instruments that he inserts into your knee to clean out all of the crud." To which I responded, "Really? Because I thought TOM was going to use something the size of a garden hose or maybe that pick-axe tool that the dentist uses to scrape plaque off your teeth to clean out the crud." There is no rationalizing with Irrational Me.
I really don't know who will be considered the winner in the battle of Rational Me vs. Irrational Me. In the end, I am pretty sure that I will follow through with this PROCEDURE as it will allow me to continue living an active lifestyle, and realizing that is what I will focus on to get me through this. However, in the meantime, I will choose to not think about what will happen next Wednesday. Is blocking it out being rational or irrational? Does it even matter? I have found a way to move past my paranoia with no harm done.
In my entire life, I have never been put under with anesthesia or had any sort of surgery. I delivered two babies without much medical intervention, which have been my only experiences as a patient in a hospital. I know I am being completely wimpy. My husband said, "You just need to accept the fact that you are going to be put under, and everything will be fine." The rational side of me knows this will most likely be true. Unfortunately, it is the irrational side that is winning the mental toughness war raging in my head.
Irrational Me thinks back to a movie or Twilight Zone-like television show I saw in middle school or high school. In this movie, some guy dies in horrible car-bicycle accident, and while he's pronounced dead, his brain is still processing everything that is going on around him. I'm pretty sure he ended up being buried with a still active brain. Combine that with the thought of a short story I read at some point in my life in which a person is put under anesthesia, yet they can feel everything that is happening to them. The theme from the aforementioned movie, brain activity and/or feelings when you shouldn't have them, is still prevalent. I'm pretty sure no one in the operating room will notice the tears trickling out of my seemingly sedated closed eyes as I undergo this routine surgery.
Words like surgery and operating room are terrifying to me as well. Can't we just call it a procedure? As the doctor, who asked me to call him by his first name - Tom (probably some sort of attempt to gain my trust; I'm very suspicious now), as TOM explained the PROCEDURE to me, he told me that he'd make three small incisions to insert the scope and clean out the soft, rough surface underneath my kneecap. I thought covering my ears while rocking in the fetal position and singing, "La! La! La!" might be rude, so sat there listening like a big girl trying not to vomit. Again, in an attempt to calm my nerves when I shared these thoughts with my husband, I was advised, "They're just very small instruments that he inserts into your knee to clean out all of the crud." To which I responded, "Really? Because I thought TOM was going to use something the size of a garden hose or maybe that pick-axe tool that the dentist uses to scrape plaque off your teeth to clean out the crud." There is no rationalizing with Irrational Me.
I really don't know who will be considered the winner in the battle of Rational Me vs. Irrational Me. In the end, I am pretty sure that I will follow through with this PROCEDURE as it will allow me to continue living an active lifestyle, and realizing that is what I will focus on to get me through this. However, in the meantime, I will choose to not think about what will happen next Wednesday. Is blocking it out being rational or irrational? Does it even matter? I have found a way to move past my paranoia with no harm done.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Today's Agenda: Finishing One Project
When I quit my job, I realized somewhat inadvertently that my suddenly open schedule would allow me time to finish some projects that I previously didn't have time for (the irony is that I decided to quit my job while finishing a project). Truth be told, these were tasks I didn't want to make time for because they were difficult or time consuming.
As much as I hate to admit it, I am awful about completing projects. Take for instance, the deck. Two summers ago, we decided to refinish our deck and put up a new railing. Surrendering weeks to this project, I spent time: stripping the paint with noxious chemicals, power washing the boards, sanding the splintery 2x6's, fighting to remove the old railing (this battle involved my husband and a few neighbors), and putting up the new railing. The part I was looking forward to the most was staining it. And, lucky for me, I found the perfect color of stain on clearance at a local hardware store. Armed with my purchase, I was informed that I needed to let the new lumber weather. Disappointed, I put the stain in the basement, thinking that it would have to wait till a nice fall day. That nice fall day didn't arrive until a mild summer day, two years later.
This isn't the only project I've procrastinated completing. Drywalling, texturizing, and painting the header beam we installed to replace the wall we removed when we bought our house took two years, painting the trim in the living room, kitchen, and hallway took three years, which happened long before we finished painting the trim in the bedrooms. I still need to paint the ceiling in the stairwell and basement. The wood trim in the basement also needs to be completed. The cabinets could use another coat of paint, the bathroom walls need to be retextured (attempt two - now that I've mastered this skill) and then repainted, and the list goes on an on.
Thankfully, with my husband's help, I have completed many projects. About a month ago, we made a huge "To Do" list, and I've kept adding to it, but most importantly, I've been crossing off quite a few things as well. That's the best part - crossing off those nagging items. Of course, upon completing each one, I make my husband view it and provide feedback, just like when the kids come home from school and show me their school work, "Look what I did today! Isn't this a good job? I messed up a little bit here, but then I figured out what I did wrong, so then I fixed it. Do you like it?" Of course, his answer is always positive, and even if he is feigning enthusiasm, as I sometimes do with the kids school work (because let's face it, how many times can you really get excited about an organized storage closet or a freshly painted room?), I appreciate the positive feedback.
I enjoy projects. I don't mind the labor, and I'm always excited to see the improvements. I especially love the projects that make something look fresh and new - like a warm, cheerful coat of paint (Lowe's calls it Whipped Apricot) on the office/guest bedroom walls. But what I do not enjoy is the finishing touches - the details that don't seem to be that big of a deal, but still need to be completed.
Which brings me to today's agenda - finish painting the trim in the office/guest bedroom, hang decor on the walls, and put everything back in its place. And, as I sit here typing, one coat of paint along the trim is drying. One more to go!
My little home improve projects have made me remember something I already knew about life in general. Sometimes it's the big things that we get excited about. But often, it's the little things that make us feel complete.
As much as I hate to admit it, I am awful about completing projects. Take for instance, the deck. Two summers ago, we decided to refinish our deck and put up a new railing. Surrendering weeks to this project, I spent time: stripping the paint with noxious chemicals, power washing the boards, sanding the splintery 2x6's, fighting to remove the old railing (this battle involved my husband and a few neighbors), and putting up the new railing. The part I was looking forward to the most was staining it. And, lucky for me, I found the perfect color of stain on clearance at a local hardware store. Armed with my purchase, I was informed that I needed to let the new lumber weather. Disappointed, I put the stain in the basement, thinking that it would have to wait till a nice fall day. That nice fall day didn't arrive until a mild summer day, two years later.
This isn't the only project I've procrastinated completing. Drywalling, texturizing, and painting the header beam we installed to replace the wall we removed when we bought our house took two years, painting the trim in the living room, kitchen, and hallway took three years, which happened long before we finished painting the trim in the bedrooms. I still need to paint the ceiling in the stairwell and basement. The wood trim in the basement also needs to be completed. The cabinets could use another coat of paint, the bathroom walls need to be retextured (attempt two - now that I've mastered this skill) and then repainted, and the list goes on an on.
Thankfully, with my husband's help, I have completed many projects. About a month ago, we made a huge "To Do" list, and I've kept adding to it, but most importantly, I've been crossing off quite a few things as well. That's the best part - crossing off those nagging items. Of course, upon completing each one, I make my husband view it and provide feedback, just like when the kids come home from school and show me their school work, "Look what I did today! Isn't this a good job? I messed up a little bit here, but then I figured out what I did wrong, so then I fixed it. Do you like it?" Of course, his answer is always positive, and even if he is feigning enthusiasm, as I sometimes do with the kids school work (because let's face it, how many times can you really get excited about an organized storage closet or a freshly painted room?), I appreciate the positive feedback.
I enjoy projects. I don't mind the labor, and I'm always excited to see the improvements. I especially love the projects that make something look fresh and new - like a warm, cheerful coat of paint (Lowe's calls it Whipped Apricot) on the office/guest bedroom walls. But what I do not enjoy is the finishing touches - the details that don't seem to be that big of a deal, but still need to be completed.
Which brings me to today's agenda - finish painting the trim in the office/guest bedroom, hang decor on the walls, and put everything back in its place. And, as I sit here typing, one coat of paint along the trim is drying. One more to go!
My little home improve projects have made me remember something I already knew about life in general. Sometimes it's the big things that we get excited about. But often, it's the little things that make us feel complete.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
What's your "activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation"?
Over the last few weeks, I've come to realize how much I enjoy my hobbies. For years, I've been answering different sorts of questionnaires that ask me about my hobbies - whether online or simply as a get to know you activity at a workshop. A hobby, by definition, is "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation." Coming up with an answer for something that I pursue for "pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation" was always a tough question for me to answer. Why? Because according to this definition, I had none.
The thoughts that rolled through my head when asked this simple question usually went like this: Hobbies? Do I have any? What do I do for pleasure or relaxation? Well, something that gives me pleasure is being caught up with my school work, yet since a hobby is not supposed to be a main occupation, I can't list that. Plus, I'll sound like a workaholic. Cleaning? Again, something that I don't necessarily enjoy doing, but I do feel better when our house doesn't look like a tornado swept through, which in turn makes me feel less tense, but I don't recall "less tense" being a part of the definition. Running, hmm.... I don't necessary feel "pleasure" when doing this, but running consistently is good for my health, and when I feel strong, I do feel better about myself. Sometimes a good run does give me that runner's high. Okay, that's one that I will write down, but I'm not truly convinced it's a hobby, by definition. Cooking - well, not the daily stuff, there's no pleasure there. I like to make pies and cupcakes and try out new recipes, and all that takes time, and I sure as hell don't have time to do that which is too bad because both kids love to do it too, and it's so cute and fun when they help, but then the process takes so much longer, and I really don't have time for that. What about reading? I love to read, but after reading papers and prepping for school and cleaning the house and reading with the kids before bedtime (not my choice of reading materials), the last thing I have the energy to do is keep my eyes open and read at bedtime. Plus, if I do actually sit down and get engrossed in a book, then I can't get anything else done because I become so wrapped up in the book that I lose track of time and forget to feed the kids and don't get that damn school work done. Writing...yeah, right. I do love to write - even in college when it was papers for class, that was easy, but that was a long time ago, and I didn't get to choose the topics. When did I actually write something when I chose the topic? Ah, the Christmas letter from three years ago. That was fun, unfortunately, it doesn't quite classify as a hobby if it's been three years since I've done it, and last year's letter was never written even after I ordered the "Here's to a Happy 2012" cards - those are still sitting in a box downstairs. Scrapbooking! Rats! I spent $300 at a Creative Memories party when I was pregnant with Ellie. I busted that thing out and made a scrapbook of our wedding - that was fun. I haven't scrapbooked since, and Ellie's almost 10. Oh! I love a good glass of wine or a flavorful beer, and I do this "for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation"! But, I probably shouldn't list that because even if I write "fine wine connoisseur" or "beer aficionado" I will look like a drunk. Hmm.
So I lied.
If I had the time, my hobbies would be.....reading, running, cooking. I will leave out writing (I don't want anyone to know that it's my dream, but I never do it), relaxing with an adult beverages (we'll keep this our little secret), and traveling (because let's face it, even though I want to do it, it doesn't make it a hobby).
A friend recently told her husband to get a hobby. They bought a smoker, and now he smokes their own meat. It's tasty, too. I looked at my own husband, and thought, he does not get a hobby if I don't, but at the time, I was sour grapes because I was still working, and why should he get one if I don't? But does watching sports on T.V. or playing video games with our son count as a hobby? Maybe. Another friend says she runs for sanity. My own father has always had an interest in horses. The math teacher I worked with was always borrowing books off my shelves to read before bedtime.
The point it, it's important to have "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation." I think that's part of the reason why I was teetering on the edge. In the last year, I read four books. Four! And I was an English teacher. And those books didn't really count because I had read them before, and I was reading them section by section with my seventh graders "as [my] main occupation." I had started a few books at home, but I hadn't completed them. Now that I am committed to making time for my hobbies, I am reading a non-fiction book by one of my all-time favorite fiction writers, Stephen King. In On Writing (another book I started years ago and never finished), he says you can't be a writer if you don't read, and he personally is a slow reader, yet he manages to read 70-80 books a year. I was simply amazed; he takes the time to read all of those books and still manages to crank out a few books of his own.
Maybe you have already figured out this balance between work and pleasure, but I know that there are a lot of people out there who haven't. And until recently, I was one of those people. For years I had been telling myself that I would be okay as long as I could keep my head above the water with my job. I didn't realize just how exhausting treading water becomes if you never stop. I simply never felt I had the time to enjoy "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation."
I am looking forward to maintaining a balance between work and pleasure. I can't wait to see how many books I can read, miles I can log, and cupcakes I can bake all because I'm doing "an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation." And, putting all of this in writing helps keep me focused and accountable.
What will you do?
Monday, September 10, 2012
Organizing, Cleaning, and Scrounging for Sanity
When I quit teaching, someone asked me what I was going to do with my free time. My answer was that I was going to clean the closet in our guest bedroom. She pointed out to me that eventually all of my closets would be clean, and then I'd have to do something else. However, knowing just how many closets and storage areas in our basement were crammed full of long-forgotten items and random things that didn't have a home, I felt good about the fact that it would be a long time before I got this mess I call my home straightened out and had to worry about what to do next.
The purging and organizing began with easy items. With each trip to Goodwill and the many trips to the trash and recycle bins, my house began to feel lighter.
But things have drastically slowed down these last few days as I have developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder looking for missing game and puzzle pieces. For example, Ellie went through a phase where she would stack the deck with all the good picture pieces in the game Candy Land. At some point, years ago, all of the good picture pieces went missing. I am happy to say, today they've been located in boxes of dried out Play-Doh, race tracks, and Legos. It's too bad we don't have the game anymore since we discreetly trashed it when playing the game became too traumatic because all of the good pieces were gone.
Today I hit jackpot, or so I thought, when I found, mixed in with the 10,962 Duplo pieces stored in our basement, all of the white marbles from Hungry Hungry Hippo, the cherries from Hi Ho Cherri-O, and the pegs for the game Trouble. Upon reassembly of these games, I've realized that while we do have all four blue pegs for Trouble, we are missing two yellow, one red, and one green. Hi Ho Cherry-O isn't much better off - this summer's drought must have affected the cherry crop because we don't have enough cherries to fill the cherry trees equally, and as all of us moms know, "That's not FAIR!" Two more games out to the trash. I did manage to scrounge up enough marbles for Hungry Hungry Hippo, but that game will go into the Goodwill box because it's just too loud. The kids have outgrown playing that game by the rules anyway, as they just like to see how hard they can slam the hippos tail-lever while marbles fly around the room and the pink hippo's neck breaks.
And don't get me started on the puzzles! Because they're educational, I thought I would be a good friend and pass along some of my kids' puzzles to a friend. Most of the girl puzzles are in good shape, as Ellie has always been good about keeping her puzzles in tact. However, the boy puzzles were apparently missing many pieces, and I started receiving texts from my friend stating, "Tate is killing us!" followed by picture texts of the Lightening McQueen puzzle and the Thomas the Tank Engine puzzle with one or two missing pieces. Ugh! The missing pieces are as bad as the flu spreading from house to house. This is not a good way to keep friends.
Before I lost a complete grip on my sanity earlier today scrounging through boxes, drawers, and couch cushions for the elusive Polly Pocket light blue sparkly pump while trying to avoid the sharp Lego pieces that always seem to hide in the carpet waiting to create a puncture wound in my foot, I decided if the game/puzzle/toy didn't look like it had all the necessary parts to function in a somewhat normal way, it was going to the trash. And, as long as I get the games out of the house before the kids come home from school today and then bury them deep in the garbage can underneath real trash, all will be well in my house.
The purging and organizing began with easy items. With each trip to Goodwill and the many trips to the trash and recycle bins, my house began to feel lighter.
But things have drastically slowed down these last few days as I have developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder looking for missing game and puzzle pieces. For example, Ellie went through a phase where she would stack the deck with all the good picture pieces in the game Candy Land. At some point, years ago, all of the good picture pieces went missing. I am happy to say, today they've been located in boxes of dried out Play-Doh, race tracks, and Legos. It's too bad we don't have the game anymore since we discreetly trashed it when playing the game became too traumatic because all of the good pieces were gone.
Today I hit jackpot, or so I thought, when I found, mixed in with the 10,962 Duplo pieces stored in our basement, all of the white marbles from Hungry Hungry Hippo, the cherries from Hi Ho Cherri-O, and the pegs for the game Trouble. Upon reassembly of these games, I've realized that while we do have all four blue pegs for Trouble, we are missing two yellow, one red, and one green. Hi Ho Cherry-O isn't much better off - this summer's drought must have affected the cherry crop because we don't have enough cherries to fill the cherry trees equally, and as all of us moms know, "That's not FAIR!" Two more games out to the trash. I did manage to scrounge up enough marbles for Hungry Hungry Hippo, but that game will go into the Goodwill box because it's just too loud. The kids have outgrown playing that game by the rules anyway, as they just like to see how hard they can slam the hippos tail-lever while marbles fly around the room and the pink hippo's neck breaks.
And don't get me started on the puzzles! Because they're educational, I thought I would be a good friend and pass along some of my kids' puzzles to a friend. Most of the girl puzzles are in good shape, as Ellie has always been good about keeping her puzzles in tact. However, the boy puzzles were apparently missing many pieces, and I started receiving texts from my friend stating, "Tate is killing us!" followed by picture texts of the Lightening McQueen puzzle and the Thomas the Tank Engine puzzle with one or two missing pieces. Ugh! The missing pieces are as bad as the flu spreading from house to house. This is not a good way to keep friends.
Before I lost a complete grip on my sanity earlier today scrounging through boxes, drawers, and couch cushions for the elusive Polly Pocket light blue sparkly pump while trying to avoid the sharp Lego pieces that always seem to hide in the carpet waiting to create a puncture wound in my foot, I decided if the game/puzzle/toy didn't look like it had all the necessary parts to function in a somewhat normal way, it was going to the trash. And, as long as I get the games out of the house before the kids come home from school today and then bury them deep in the garbage can underneath real trash, all will be well in my house.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
The Differences Between a Boy and a Girl
Raising my son has been a completely different experience than raising my daughter, and he's only six. I know there is much more to come, but so far the differences, at least in my household, have been astounding.
The wildest, most out of character thing Ellie has ever done was when she was three. We happened to have a halogen pole floor lamp in our living room at the time. Ellie climbed onto the edge of the couch and took a flying leap onto the lamp, expecting, I suspect, to slide down it like a fireman slides down a pole in a firehouse. I will never forget the image of her soaring through the air, blonde hair flying back, arms outstretched and knees hitching forward, grasping for the lamp. Nor will I forget the subsequent crashing of the lamp, into the corner, bulb flashing out, lamp busting in half, and the shocked look on her face as she climbed from the rubble. Ellie also went through through a cussing stage when she was three - she's always had a strong vocabulary - but nothing she said then truly shocked me like the lamp incident.
My son, on the other hand, blows my mind on a daily basis. Take last night, for instance. In his bedroom after his bath, Tate began a very inappropriate naked dance, changing the words to a popular song to fit his bodily contortions. I am not comfortable sharing the specific words and gyrations, and unlike Ellie, he's never gone through that cussing phase, so it wasn't awful, but I did let him know that if he tried something like that in school, he could be suspended. And then I turned around to my husband, who also witnessed this fine performance, and shared a look of awe, horror, and slight amusement. Where does he get this stuff?
Tate's also had his own run in with a lamp, which makes me extremely happy I only buy $10 lamps. Tate loves the Indiana Jones movies. One of Indiana Jones's most necessary and reliable props is his whip. The arm of the floor lamp made a great place for my young Indy to swing from with his whip (known to you and me as a Spiderman action figure with a shoe string and plastic web attached). Lamp number two, destroyed.
He's at that age where he's not afraid to be creative. He's not afraid to imagine "What if" situations or think outside the box, like:
Tate: Mommy, what if, there was a bomb, and it created a mushroom cloud on our street, but there was a force field around our house, and around (insert all the names of the neighbors, individually, on our street)'s house, and what if I was outside, when the mushroom cloud came, and I was walking around in my own force field....
Me, interrupting: Like a hamster in a hamster ball?
Tate, continuing: Yeah, and Beau (the neighbor dog), was outside, and he was in a hamster ball force field too?
Me: Well, I guess we'd all be okay then.
Tate: Yeah, it couldn't touch me.
Sometimes, I know exactly where he gets this "stuff," yet Ellie can watch the exact same scene from a movie or listen to a story in a book, and come away with a completely different conversation. Ellie sees the mushroom cloud and asks, "Why?" She wants to know the scientific facts behind what she's experiencing. And if we can't give her an answer, she will look it up. She's logical, which probably explains why she wants to be an archeologist when she grows up. Relentlessly digging for answers, literally.
Logic holds no boundaries for Tate. At times, I am honestly thankful for this; I hope it will serve him well in the future. Our world needs people who can come up with creative ideas to solve problems. Granted, these problems will need to have more depth than, "What if I'm on the Space Shot (a ride at the nearby amusement park that shoots its riders straight up into the air and then drops them quickly back down), and I wet my pants....." Other times, I fear these antics and scenarios will make him wildly popular in college, but not for the reasons that makes a mom proud. In the meantime, I will remember to stay firm with what's appropriate and what's not. I will not laugh (when he can see me) because I know that only encourages his behavior. I will also begin cataloging these stories, because eventually, when I get around to writing books, he will have provided me with some fantastic material.
The wildest, most out of character thing Ellie has ever done was when she was three. We happened to have a halogen pole floor lamp in our living room at the time. Ellie climbed onto the edge of the couch and took a flying leap onto the lamp, expecting, I suspect, to slide down it like a fireman slides down a pole in a firehouse. I will never forget the image of her soaring through the air, blonde hair flying back, arms outstretched and knees hitching forward, grasping for the lamp. Nor will I forget the subsequent crashing of the lamp, into the corner, bulb flashing out, lamp busting in half, and the shocked look on her face as she climbed from the rubble. Ellie also went through through a cussing stage when she was three - she's always had a strong vocabulary - but nothing she said then truly shocked me like the lamp incident.
My son, on the other hand, blows my mind on a daily basis. Take last night, for instance. In his bedroom after his bath, Tate began a very inappropriate naked dance, changing the words to a popular song to fit his bodily contortions. I am not comfortable sharing the specific words and gyrations, and unlike Ellie, he's never gone through that cussing phase, so it wasn't awful, but I did let him know that if he tried something like that in school, he could be suspended. And then I turned around to my husband, who also witnessed this fine performance, and shared a look of awe, horror, and slight amusement. Where does he get this stuff?
Tate's also had his own run in with a lamp, which makes me extremely happy I only buy $10 lamps. Tate loves the Indiana Jones movies. One of Indiana Jones's most necessary and reliable props is his whip. The arm of the floor lamp made a great place for my young Indy to swing from with his whip (known to you and me as a Spiderman action figure with a shoe string and plastic web attached). Lamp number two, destroyed.
He's at that age where he's not afraid to be creative. He's not afraid to imagine "What if" situations or think outside the box, like:
Tate: Mommy, what if, there was a bomb, and it created a mushroom cloud on our street, but there was a force field around our house, and around (insert all the names of the neighbors, individually, on our street)'s house, and what if I was outside, when the mushroom cloud came, and I was walking around in my own force field....
Me, interrupting: Like a hamster in a hamster ball?
Tate, continuing: Yeah, and Beau (the neighbor dog), was outside, and he was in a hamster ball force field too?
Me: Well, I guess we'd all be okay then.
Tate: Yeah, it couldn't touch me.
Sometimes, I know exactly where he gets this "stuff," yet Ellie can watch the exact same scene from a movie or listen to a story in a book, and come away with a completely different conversation. Ellie sees the mushroom cloud and asks, "Why?" She wants to know the scientific facts behind what she's experiencing. And if we can't give her an answer, she will look it up. She's logical, which probably explains why she wants to be an archeologist when she grows up. Relentlessly digging for answers, literally.
Logic holds no boundaries for Tate. At times, I am honestly thankful for this; I hope it will serve him well in the future. Our world needs people who can come up with creative ideas to solve problems. Granted, these problems will need to have more depth than, "What if I'm on the Space Shot (a ride at the nearby amusement park that shoots its riders straight up into the air and then drops them quickly back down), and I wet my pants....." Other times, I fear these antics and scenarios will make him wildly popular in college, but not for the reasons that makes a mom proud. In the meantime, I will remember to stay firm with what's appropriate and what's not. I will not laugh (when he can see me) because I know that only encourages his behavior. I will also begin cataloging these stories, because eventually, when I get around to writing books, he will have provided me with some fantastic material.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
What's your time?
I love the early morning. There is just something about the taste of that first cup of coffee once I drag myself out of bed, that makes everything - bleary eyes, aching feet, tripping over the cat in the dark - worth it. There is something about the peaceful quietness of the house, knowing that everyone is still asleep and that no demands can be made upon me until I've finished this first cup of coffee. There is something about the coolness of the air, no matter how high the temperature is supposed to be, when I walk outside to go for that caffeine-fueled morning run. There is something about this time of day that gives me clarity of thought and an ability to focus that I just can't always find later in the day. This is my time of day, and I love it!
Lately, I've been missing out on my morning time. Since my schedule has changed to being pretty much wide-open, I don't have to get up at 5:00 AM to start my day. I don't have to workout before I go to school because I can still get my morning workout in after I drop the kids off at the bus. I don't sit down to write until after all the above has been done, along with morning dishes, straightening up the house, and starting some laundry. But then other things pop up throughout the day - an invitation to lunch? Sure, delicious! A run with a friend? Please! A trip to the grocery store by myself? Heavenly! Tate needs a bigger bike because his knees are getting bruised from bumping the handle bars of the bike we bought him 2 1/2 years ago with each pump of his peddles? Let's go bike shopping! It's the simple pleasures of my newly found "free time" that I've come to enjoy.
However, all this "free time" has really thrown a wrench into my new lack of schedule. The nice thing is, I can always do whatever I need to get done later...but sometimes later doesn't come. So on this Saturday morning, I decided to set my alarm for 5:30 AM, so I could get up and spend some quality time with myself. Today is going to be a day of family, friends, football, and fun, but before all that starts, I want to steal some time for myself. 5:30 AM is that time.
I don't think it matters when your time of day is, but what matters is that you find it. Recently, I read a Facebook post in which a friend said something about sitting outside and reading before she started work that day. I thought, incredulously, "What? That can be done?" I have been thinking about that a lot lately - taking the time to do something you love each and every day - no matter how much time you have or don't have.
My time of day is up - people are on the prowl at my house, and the hustle and bustle of a new day has begun. But that's okay; I've had my time, and I feel rejuvenated. Find your time of day. Do whatever you need to do, even if it's only for a few minutes, and make it your time. That's one thing that you shouldn't put off!
Lately, I've been missing out on my morning time. Since my schedule has changed to being pretty much wide-open, I don't have to get up at 5:00 AM to start my day. I don't have to workout before I go to school because I can still get my morning workout in after I drop the kids off at the bus. I don't sit down to write until after all the above has been done, along with morning dishes, straightening up the house, and starting some laundry. But then other things pop up throughout the day - an invitation to lunch? Sure, delicious! A run with a friend? Please! A trip to the grocery store by myself? Heavenly! Tate needs a bigger bike because his knees are getting bruised from bumping the handle bars of the bike we bought him 2 1/2 years ago with each pump of his peddles? Let's go bike shopping! It's the simple pleasures of my newly found "free time" that I've come to enjoy.
However, all this "free time" has really thrown a wrench into my new lack of schedule. The nice thing is, I can always do whatever I need to get done later...but sometimes later doesn't come. So on this Saturday morning, I decided to set my alarm for 5:30 AM, so I could get up and spend some quality time with myself. Today is going to be a day of family, friends, football, and fun, but before all that starts, I want to steal some time for myself. 5:30 AM is that time.
I don't think it matters when your time of day is, but what matters is that you find it. Recently, I read a Facebook post in which a friend said something about sitting outside and reading before she started work that day. I thought, incredulously, "What? That can be done?" I have been thinking about that a lot lately - taking the time to do something you love each and every day - no matter how much time you have or don't have.
My time of day is up - people are on the prowl at my house, and the hustle and bustle of a new day has begun. But that's okay; I've had my time, and I feel rejuvenated. Find your time of day. Do whatever you need to do, even if it's only for a few minutes, and make it your time. That's one thing that you shouldn't put off!
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