I don't know what game the boys are playing, but I just overheard Brekken saying:
"This just in. The penguins are all going to die! That's 9News, goodnight."
Monday, March 11, 2013
Me Me Me
I think most people think I'm nice and normal. Pretty much cheerful and easygoing all the time. The truth is, they're only seeing the Outside Me.
Outside Me is relentlessly cheerful. Outside Me writes funny posts for facebook, hangs out with co-workers in the breakroom cracking jokes, and loves a girls' night out every now and then. Outside Me takes the kids to the museum or does a craft or cooking project with them. Outside me is fun to be with. And Outside Me is real, it's just not all of me... or even most of me.
There's also Middle Me... that's the middle ground between the Outside Me that I wish I really was all the time and the Inside Me that is a horrible mess. Middle Me can't quite manage to write a funny post, but can maybe repost something someone else put together. Middle Me stays closed in the office all day to avoid having to talk to co-workers too much. Middle Me finds excuses not to go out to church events or hang out with friends, even knowing it would probably be a lot of fun. Middle Me has a hard time interacting with the kids sometimes. Middle Me takes the kids to the park so they can run around and have fun, with no effort required on Mommy's part. Middle Me lets the kids do a Mommy Makeover, because they do all the work and Mommy just has to sit in the chair. Middle Me gets grumpy and yells at the kids way too easily. Middle Me is low-key, sometimes cranky, a little too quiet, and not a whole lot of fun.
And then there's Inside Me. Inside Me is not fun. Inside Me doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning - or even the afternoon. Inside Me is just tired all the time. Nothing seems to help. Inside Me cries at the drop of a hat... lunch gets burned? Deadline is missed? Low on gas? Turn on the waterworks. Inside Me doesn't play with the kids. Inside Me just sits in the chair and hopes that the kids aren't getting into too much trouble in the next room. Inside Me tries to convince the kids that we should all watch a movie... just because that's easier for Mommy. Inside Me can't manage to do the dishes or sweep the floors because it's just too much effort. Inside Me can't answer the phone or open the mail because there might be bad news. Inside Me can't get anything done at work because Inside Me has lost the ability to concentrate. Inside Me dreads going to church/work/school functions because people might figure out just how inadequate Inside Me really is. Inside Me desperately wants to stop feeling this way, but just can't manage it.
I tried to talk to Aaron about it a little yesterday. But Inside Me doesn't have the words to talk in person. Inside Me can only get out the sentence... "I think I need new meds. These don't seem to be working." But Inside Me can't manage to say what I really meant... "I'm drowning and I need you to help me."
Because Aaron can't read minds, he could only respond to what I managed to say out loud. And he reminded me that I was off my meds for almost two weeks. We had a couple of very large, very unexpected expenses that left us broke. We literally had no money to go refill my prescriptions and I figured it was no big deal to go without for a few days. And then the few days stretched a little longer. And honestly, I didn't notice a difference. Maybe I was a little crankier with the kids, but nothing major. So it seems odd that now that I'm back ON my meds that I'm spiralling down so fast. But as Aaron pointed out, it can take time for the meds to take effect, and maybe I was off them long enough to have to start over building them up in my system. I'm hoping that's what it is, and in another week or so I can stop feeling so terrible all the time. Inside Me just needs to cheer the hell up.
Outside Me is relentlessly cheerful. Outside Me writes funny posts for facebook, hangs out with co-workers in the breakroom cracking jokes, and loves a girls' night out every now and then. Outside Me takes the kids to the museum or does a craft or cooking project with them. Outside me is fun to be with. And Outside Me is real, it's just not all of me... or even most of me.
There's also Middle Me... that's the middle ground between the Outside Me that I wish I really was all the time and the Inside Me that is a horrible mess. Middle Me can't quite manage to write a funny post, but can maybe repost something someone else put together. Middle Me stays closed in the office all day to avoid having to talk to co-workers too much. Middle Me finds excuses not to go out to church events or hang out with friends, even knowing it would probably be a lot of fun. Middle Me has a hard time interacting with the kids sometimes. Middle Me takes the kids to the park so they can run around and have fun, with no effort required on Mommy's part. Middle Me lets the kids do a Mommy Makeover, because they do all the work and Mommy just has to sit in the chair. Middle Me gets grumpy and yells at the kids way too easily. Middle Me is low-key, sometimes cranky, a little too quiet, and not a whole lot of fun.
And then there's Inside Me. Inside Me is not fun. Inside Me doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning - or even the afternoon. Inside Me is just tired all the time. Nothing seems to help. Inside Me cries at the drop of a hat... lunch gets burned? Deadline is missed? Low on gas? Turn on the waterworks. Inside Me doesn't play with the kids. Inside Me just sits in the chair and hopes that the kids aren't getting into too much trouble in the next room. Inside Me tries to convince the kids that we should all watch a movie... just because that's easier for Mommy. Inside Me can't manage to do the dishes or sweep the floors because it's just too much effort. Inside Me can't answer the phone or open the mail because there might be bad news. Inside Me can't get anything done at work because Inside Me has lost the ability to concentrate. Inside Me dreads going to church/work/school functions because people might figure out just how inadequate Inside Me really is. Inside Me desperately wants to stop feeling this way, but just can't manage it.
I tried to talk to Aaron about it a little yesterday. But Inside Me doesn't have the words to talk in person. Inside Me can only get out the sentence... "I think I need new meds. These don't seem to be working." But Inside Me can't manage to say what I really meant... "I'm drowning and I need you to help me."
Because Aaron can't read minds, he could only respond to what I managed to say out loud. And he reminded me that I was off my meds for almost two weeks. We had a couple of very large, very unexpected expenses that left us broke. We literally had no money to go refill my prescriptions and I figured it was no big deal to go without for a few days. And then the few days stretched a little longer. And honestly, I didn't notice a difference. Maybe I was a little crankier with the kids, but nothing major. So it seems odd that now that I'm back ON my meds that I'm spiralling down so fast. But as Aaron pointed out, it can take time for the meds to take effect, and maybe I was off them long enough to have to start over building them up in my system. I'm hoping that's what it is, and in another week or so I can stop feeling so terrible all the time. Inside Me just needs to cheer the hell up.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Sundays are Hard
Because the realization that it's Sunday inevitably triggers Preston to melt down. Then follows anywhere from 1-4 hours (depending on when Preston learned that it was Sunday) of screaming, crying, refusal to dress, eat lunch, or otherwise cooperate, and dramatic proclamations that we don't love him and we wish he would die. And that's just Preston. Brekken often follows Preston's lead, so he starts throwing fits as well. Haley is generally easier to deal with, but Rylen is a typical 2-year-old and thus a little hard to get ready for the day. I'm exhausted and done and out of patience and spirituality before we even step out the door.
So now I'm sitting here in Sacrament meeting and listening to the speaker tell us that Heavenly Father will not give you more than you can handle... But I feel like I'm in over my head. I don't feel like I'm handling things.
So now I'm sitting here in Sacrament meeting and listening to the speaker tell us that Heavenly Father will not give you more than you can handle... But I feel like I'm in over my head. I don't feel like I'm handling things.
I'm in a hole. It's so deep I feel like I can't climb out. All I want to do I'd sleep and cry. Yet somehow I'm supposed to work and be a good wife and do my church calling and take care of the house and take care of the children and deal with Preston's problems. And I'm failing at all of it.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
What Am I Supposed to Do?
For many years, I didn't plan to have children. None at all. I didn't think
it would be fair to any potential children to bring them into a family like
mine.
Let me be clear - I love my family. They are good people. They are some of my favorite people in the world. My idea of a great time is a chance to visit my family and just hang out.
But the thing about my family is that we have more than our fair share of mental health challenges. I've shared a bit about my recent struggles with anxiety disorder. And I've told you that it seems likely that it has a strong genetic component. I can trace family stories back for a number of generations and tell you about mental health disorders in the family line.
I've heard stories of Grandma Great, who was known to suddenly snap and get angry enough to hurl knives across the kitchen. My grandfather - her son - is prone to depression. My grandmother - his wife - suffers from OCD. Oh, it's undiagnosed, but it's obvious. She is a hoarder. The images you see on the television shows are true... and worse.
So my poor mother got a double-dose of trouble from Grandma and Grandpa. The genetic tendency combined with some horrible things that happened to her as a child led to a lifetime of depression and anxiety. My mother has been hospitalized for treatment many times over the years, and still struggles. Almost all of my siblings have, at one time or another or currently, been medicated for depression and/or anxiety.
My brother Kevin was the worst. He was so young when he startled struggling to deal with life. I remember the kicking, screaming fits when it was time to do something simple like going to church. These weren't normal tantrums that you see in a child who doesn't want to do something. It was levels and levels above. Every day was so hard. He was sad and angry and rebellious and depressed and scared and more - and all at once.
I don't know for sure how old he was when this all started. I do know that it was before he started kindergarten. The year he started kindergarten, they were building a new high school and jr. high school in our town. There wasn't enough room in the current school to accommodate all the current 6-9th graders, so we were on a split schedule. The jr. high students went to school from early morning until lunch. The middle school students went to school after lunch and stayed late. I was in middle school, so my mornings were free. In an effort to help Kevin deal with kindergarten better, I became the teacher's aide for his morning kindergarten class and went to school with him every day. I don't really remember how much (or how little?) this helped during that year. But I know that it didn't help in the long run. School especially became a trigger for him. Every day my parents had to quite literally drag him - kicking, screaming, and fighting - to take him to school.
At home, we never knew what to expect from Kevin. He could be fun to play with. But there were also were violent outbursts. You didn't know what might trigger it, but suddenly he was so angry and aggressive and frightening. He was uncontrollable.
I believe he was in first grade the first time he was hospitalized. He was an inpatient at Primary Children’s Hospital as they tried to get his depression, anxiety and anger under control. After all these years, I don’t remember how long he was there. I do remember that my mother was hospitalized at the same time. So our weekends were spent driving the 3 hours from Vernal to Provo to visit my mother. We children got to see her for 5-10 minutes. And then I watched the other children out on the lawn while my dad met with mom and her doctors for a couple of hours. Then we drove the hour to Salt Lake City to visit Kevin in his hospital. We were not allowed to visit him, so again we waited outside for what felt like a very long time while dad met with Kevin and the doctors. Then it was home again for the week, where we functioned as a partial family. We were luckier than many in our situation might have been. We had a strong and loving father who held us together. We had grandparents, aunts, and uncles to help. We got through that episode and other times when mom and/or Kevin was hospitalized.
As Kevin got older and stronger, it just got harder and harder to deal with him. He continued to resist efforts to get him to engage in school or church. Eventually it was easier to let him stop going to church. To let him spend his days at school as a librarian assistant instead of attending class. Then to transfer his to the special needs school. Then to let him stop going to school altogether.
I don’t know what might have happened if Kevin was growing up in today’s climate. If he was growing up in a time where kids respond to their problems by shooting up a school or a mall, might he have decided to go that route? I do know that every time I hear about a Dylan Klebold, Eric Harris, Adam Lanza, or James Holmes, I wonder if my brother might have become like them. I feel so much sympathy for the victims and their families, but also for the families of the perpetrators, because I know that they might have tried everything in their power for years and years, and yet were not able to help.
Kevin’s story does get better. Shortly after high school he married sweet girl named Heather and they had three children together. These days, his anger and depression seem to be under control and he is a family man who holds down a job. He is still not a friendly guy. In truth, he’s still a little intimidating. Partly because he is a large, kind of rough looking guy. Partly because I do remember how out of control he was once upon a time. And I wonder if he might become that way again.
I don’t know all that happened during those years. A lot of it I tried to ignore as it was happening so I didn’t have to deal with it. A lot of it I don’t remember anymore because it’s better for my peace of mind if I don’t. I remember the constant stress and worry. I remember my parents trying to do everything they could to get him help, when no one seemed willing or able to provide that help. I remember that instead of help, at one point they were instead reported to CPS and investigated. I remember thinking it would never end and never get better. And I remember making the decision that I was never going to have children of my own because I didn’t want to risk having a child like Kevin.
And yet, years later I got married. And I began thinking about children. By that time, I was more distanced from the whole unhappy situation. Both geographically – I had moved to Logan, then Provo, California, and Colorado – and time-wise. It had been several years since Kevin was at his worst. He had recently married and seemed pretty stable. I didn’t think much about his challenges anymore. My mother was still depressed and struggling, but it was kind of just the way things were. That was my mom and that’s just the way she was. I stopped thinking that I could never have children.
I had four beautiful, wonderful children. I cannot and will not ever regret that. Though I know some people would agree with my younger self and say that I should not have risked passing on these mental health troubles, the world would have missed out on some wonderful spirits. We would all have been poorer for their absence.
So I cannot regret having my children, but now I am struggling as I watch my
beautiful, sweet boy Preston try to deal with the world. He’s so happy and
cheerful and fun to be with. Except when he isn’t. When he isn’t, he is so sad
or so angry. He throws things and shouts and tells us that he hates us. He hits
his brothers and sister and topples chairs and tables. He tells us that he is
miserable. That every day is the worst day of his life. That he isn’t happy and
he will never be happy. That he is worthless. That he can’t do anything right.
That he wishes he could run away and never see us again. That he knows that we
hate him. That our family and the world would be better if he was never born.
That he thinks we want to kill him. That he wishes he was dead and wishes he
could kill himself.
My wonderful sweet boy thinks he would be better off dead or never born. I am sobbing ugly cries just typing these words. It hurts so much to think about how he hurts. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help. I just want to hold him and never let him go and never have to think about this again. And I can’t. I can’t make it better with a hug and a kiss. I don’t know if I can make it better at all. What am I supposed to do? Really, truly –
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?
We took him to the pediatrician. Things have improved somewhat since Kevin was a child. At least now more people and doctors do acknowledge that it’s possible for a young child to be depressed. There are some treatment options. Our pediatrician herself has children who are dealing with mood disorders, so she is very understanding and wants to help. She gave us an immediate referral to a child psychiatrist’s office so they could evaluate him and begin to help him. And I called them right away. I want to try everything I can to help him… but I was told I couldn’t get him in to be seen until March 27. And that was the EARLY option. The children’s hospital could get us in after 6-8 weeks. Another hospital offered 8-10 weeks.
How can I call for help and tell them that my 6-year-old child is having suicidal thoughts, and they think that we should be fine waiting for at least 3 more WEEKS before someone will even talk to him? How can this be the help that we’re looking for? What are we supposed to do for 3 more weeks while we wait for them to fit us in? I know that they have other patients and that every one of those patients wants help as well. But this is MY CHILD that I’m worried about, and I cannot be so understanding about it. I just want him to see someone for help. And I want it now. And once again, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
For now, the only option I've been given is to watch him. Keep an eye on him so he won't be a danger to himself or others. Take him to the ER if he gets out of control. Unfortunately, I know from experience that taking him to the ER is a ticket to a 72-hour hold. I've been through this before, and I don't want to put my baby in a hospital. So instead we wait. We hope that things stay on this side of OK for just a little longer. And I hope and pray with all my might that when we finally get to that appointment, someone will be able to help us and tell us what we are supposed to do now.
Let me be clear - I love my family. They are good people. They are some of my favorite people in the world. My idea of a great time is a chance to visit my family and just hang out.
But the thing about my family is that we have more than our fair share of mental health challenges. I've shared a bit about my recent struggles with anxiety disorder. And I've told you that it seems likely that it has a strong genetic component. I can trace family stories back for a number of generations and tell you about mental health disorders in the family line.
I've heard stories of Grandma Great, who was known to suddenly snap and get angry enough to hurl knives across the kitchen. My grandfather - her son - is prone to depression. My grandmother - his wife - suffers from OCD. Oh, it's undiagnosed, but it's obvious. She is a hoarder. The images you see on the television shows are true... and worse.
So my poor mother got a double-dose of trouble from Grandma and Grandpa. The genetic tendency combined with some horrible things that happened to her as a child led to a lifetime of depression and anxiety. My mother has been hospitalized for treatment many times over the years, and still struggles. Almost all of my siblings have, at one time or another or currently, been medicated for depression and/or anxiety.
My brother Kevin was the worst. He was so young when he startled struggling to deal with life. I remember the kicking, screaming fits when it was time to do something simple like going to church. These weren't normal tantrums that you see in a child who doesn't want to do something. It was levels and levels above. Every day was so hard. He was sad and angry and rebellious and depressed and scared and more - and all at once.
I don't know for sure how old he was when this all started. I do know that it was before he started kindergarten. The year he started kindergarten, they were building a new high school and jr. high school in our town. There wasn't enough room in the current school to accommodate all the current 6-9th graders, so we were on a split schedule. The jr. high students went to school from early morning until lunch. The middle school students went to school after lunch and stayed late. I was in middle school, so my mornings were free. In an effort to help Kevin deal with kindergarten better, I became the teacher's aide for his morning kindergarten class and went to school with him every day. I don't really remember how much (or how little?) this helped during that year. But I know that it didn't help in the long run. School especially became a trigger for him. Every day my parents had to quite literally drag him - kicking, screaming, and fighting - to take him to school.
At home, we never knew what to expect from Kevin. He could be fun to play with. But there were also were violent outbursts. You didn't know what might trigger it, but suddenly he was so angry and aggressive and frightening. He was uncontrollable.
I believe he was in first grade the first time he was hospitalized. He was an inpatient at Primary Children’s Hospital as they tried to get his depression, anxiety and anger under control. After all these years, I don’t remember how long he was there. I do remember that my mother was hospitalized at the same time. So our weekends were spent driving the 3 hours from Vernal to Provo to visit my mother. We children got to see her for 5-10 minutes. And then I watched the other children out on the lawn while my dad met with mom and her doctors for a couple of hours. Then we drove the hour to Salt Lake City to visit Kevin in his hospital. We were not allowed to visit him, so again we waited outside for what felt like a very long time while dad met with Kevin and the doctors. Then it was home again for the week, where we functioned as a partial family. We were luckier than many in our situation might have been. We had a strong and loving father who held us together. We had grandparents, aunts, and uncles to help. We got through that episode and other times when mom and/or Kevin was hospitalized.
As Kevin got older and stronger, it just got harder and harder to deal with him. He continued to resist efforts to get him to engage in school or church. Eventually it was easier to let him stop going to church. To let him spend his days at school as a librarian assistant instead of attending class. Then to transfer his to the special needs school. Then to let him stop going to school altogether.
I don’t know what might have happened if Kevin was growing up in today’s climate. If he was growing up in a time where kids respond to their problems by shooting up a school or a mall, might he have decided to go that route? I do know that every time I hear about a Dylan Klebold, Eric Harris, Adam Lanza, or James Holmes, I wonder if my brother might have become like them. I feel so much sympathy for the victims and their families, but also for the families of the perpetrators, because I know that they might have tried everything in their power for years and years, and yet were not able to help.
Kevin’s story does get better. Shortly after high school he married sweet girl named Heather and they had three children together. These days, his anger and depression seem to be under control and he is a family man who holds down a job. He is still not a friendly guy. In truth, he’s still a little intimidating. Partly because he is a large, kind of rough looking guy. Partly because I do remember how out of control he was once upon a time. And I wonder if he might become that way again.
I don’t know all that happened during those years. A lot of it I tried to ignore as it was happening so I didn’t have to deal with it. A lot of it I don’t remember anymore because it’s better for my peace of mind if I don’t. I remember the constant stress and worry. I remember my parents trying to do everything they could to get him help, when no one seemed willing or able to provide that help. I remember that instead of help, at one point they were instead reported to CPS and investigated. I remember thinking it would never end and never get better. And I remember making the decision that I was never going to have children of my own because I didn’t want to risk having a child like Kevin.
And yet, years later I got married. And I began thinking about children. By that time, I was more distanced from the whole unhappy situation. Both geographically – I had moved to Logan, then Provo, California, and Colorado – and time-wise. It had been several years since Kevin was at his worst. He had recently married and seemed pretty stable. I didn’t think much about his challenges anymore. My mother was still depressed and struggling, but it was kind of just the way things were. That was my mom and that’s just the way she was. I stopped thinking that I could never have children.
I had four beautiful, wonderful children. I cannot and will not ever regret that. Though I know some people would agree with my younger self and say that I should not have risked passing on these mental health troubles, the world would have missed out on some wonderful spirits. We would all have been poorer for their absence.
So I cannot regret having my children, but now I am struggling as I watch my
beautiful, sweet boy Preston try to deal with the world. He’s so happy and
cheerful and fun to be with. Except when he isn’t. When he isn’t, he is so sad
or so angry. He throws things and shouts and tells us that he hates us. He hits
his brothers and sister and topples chairs and tables. He tells us that he is
miserable. That every day is the worst day of his life. That he isn’t happy and
he will never be happy. That he is worthless. That he can’t do anything right.
That he wishes he could run away and never see us again. That he knows that we
hate him. That our family and the world would be better if he was never born.
That he thinks we want to kill him. That he wishes he was dead and wishes he
could kill himself.My wonderful sweet boy thinks he would be better off dead or never born. I am sobbing ugly cries just typing these words. It hurts so much to think about how he hurts. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help. I just want to hold him and never let him go and never have to think about this again. And I can’t. I can’t make it better with a hug and a kiss. I don’t know if I can make it better at all. What am I supposed to do? Really, truly –
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?
We took him to the pediatrician. Things have improved somewhat since Kevin was a child. At least now more people and doctors do acknowledge that it’s possible for a young child to be depressed. There are some treatment options. Our pediatrician herself has children who are dealing with mood disorders, so she is very understanding and wants to help. She gave us an immediate referral to a child psychiatrist’s office so they could evaluate him and begin to help him. And I called them right away. I want to try everything I can to help him… but I was told I couldn’t get him in to be seen until March 27. And that was the EARLY option. The children’s hospital could get us in after 6-8 weeks. Another hospital offered 8-10 weeks.
How can I call for help and tell them that my 6-year-old child is having suicidal thoughts, and they think that we should be fine waiting for at least 3 more WEEKS before someone will even talk to him? How can this be the help that we’re looking for? What are we supposed to do for 3 more weeks while we wait for them to fit us in? I know that they have other patients and that every one of those patients wants help as well. But this is MY CHILD that I’m worried about, and I cannot be so understanding about it. I just want him to see someone for help. And I want it now. And once again, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
For now, the only option I've been given is to watch him. Keep an eye on him so he won't be a danger to himself or others. Take him to the ER if he gets out of control. Unfortunately, I know from experience that taking him to the ER is a ticket to a 72-hour hold. I've been through this before, and I don't want to put my baby in a hospital. So instead we wait. We hope that things stay on this side of OK for just a little longer. And I hope and pray with all my might that when we finally get to that appointment, someone will be able to help us and tell us what we are supposed to do now.
Friday, March 1, 2013
W is for Why?
I wonder about things... I'd like to ask people to explain, but I don't think I'd get a great reaction.
To my neighbors next door and across the street:
Why do you warm your car up for so long every morning? Seriously, how warm does it need to be? It's not like we have such terribly cold mornings, even. Sure, it's usually 17-18 degrees out when I leave the house in the morning, but that's not THAT bad for a short time. Yet you must be really worried about it, because you warm up the car for so long every morning. I leave the house most mornings at 5:45, and both of your cars are already puffing away while you're inside doing whatever it is you do. I can come out the door, put my things in the car, scrape my windows, start the car, and drive away while your cars idle in the driveway. More than that, if I'm driving to the office or taking a later bus, I leave the house at 6:15... and the cars are STILL sitting in the driveway warming up. You must be making better money than I am, because I certainly can't afford the gas to run the car for an extra 30+ minutes every morning.
To the other people who walk along my route to work:
Why must you spit on the sidewalk? I don't understand it. I've never been walking along and suddenly felt that I just had to spit a big wad of mucous and saliva onto the ground. Yet obviously many of you do, because I have to watch where I'm walking every morning to avoid stepping in the numerous disgusting little puddles on the sidewalks. Ick.
To Michelle Obama:
Why did you decide to go with the bangs? I know you're making the rounds of the talk shows right now and everyone raves about the new look and bangs. But you know, they kind of HAVE to tell you they love it. You're right there in front of them after all. And you don't tell someone to their face that you liked the old haircut better. No, you wait and talk about it with your friends or husband (even though he doesn't really care) or write a snarky pretend letter about it so you can point out that the bangs are way too heavy and too low across the eyes. And the combination of the bangs and the style of the rest of your hair makes your face look shorter and chubbier. And given your obssession with America's eating habits, I can't think chubbier is the look you were going for.
To my brain:
Why can't you remember things for more than a few minutes at a time? You used to be so good. You could pull up entire pages of a textbook in a single glance, just to help me pass a test. And now, you won't even hold onto simple information - like who's phone number did I just dial? Is it because I don't treat you right? I did get you that brain-training app... and yes, I only got the free trial version because I wasn't willing to pay $1.99 for the real thing, but it was something at least. And besides, Candy Crush is surely about the same - it requires a lot of thinking and gives you a good workout. I try to get you enough rest - 4-5 hours at night plus an hour or so on the bus and an occasional involuntary nap at my desk. I don't know what more you want from me, but you need to straighten up and start helping out a little more around this place!
I had more... but I seriously can't remember. Actually, I've written a number of blog posts lately and they were great. Witty, thought-provoking, fun... but by the time I get out of the shower and get dressed, I've forgotten almost all of it. That's how you ended up with this one, instead. Darn brain, anyway.
To my neighbors next door and across the street:
Why do you warm your car up for so long every morning? Seriously, how warm does it need to be? It's not like we have such terribly cold mornings, even. Sure, it's usually 17-18 degrees out when I leave the house in the morning, but that's not THAT bad for a short time. Yet you must be really worried about it, because you warm up the car for so long every morning. I leave the house most mornings at 5:45, and both of your cars are already puffing away while you're inside doing whatever it is you do. I can come out the door, put my things in the car, scrape my windows, start the car, and drive away while your cars idle in the driveway. More than that, if I'm driving to the office or taking a later bus, I leave the house at 6:15... and the cars are STILL sitting in the driveway warming up. You must be making better money than I am, because I certainly can't afford the gas to run the car for an extra 30+ minutes every morning.
To the other people who walk along my route to work:
Why must you spit on the sidewalk? I don't understand it. I've never been walking along and suddenly felt that I just had to spit a big wad of mucous and saliva onto the ground. Yet obviously many of you do, because I have to watch where I'm walking every morning to avoid stepping in the numerous disgusting little puddles on the sidewalks. Ick.
To Michelle Obama:
Why did you decide to go with the bangs? I know you're making the rounds of the talk shows right now and everyone raves about the new look and bangs. But you know, they kind of HAVE to tell you they love it. You're right there in front of them after all. And you don't tell someone to their face that you liked the old haircut better. No, you wait and talk about it with your friends or husband (even though he doesn't really care) or write a snarky pretend letter about it so you can point out that the bangs are way too heavy and too low across the eyes. And the combination of the bangs and the style of the rest of your hair makes your face look shorter and chubbier. And given your obssession with America's eating habits, I can't think chubbier is the look you were going for.
To my brain:
Why can't you remember things for more than a few minutes at a time? You used to be so good. You could pull up entire pages of a textbook in a single glance, just to help me pass a test. And now, you won't even hold onto simple information - like who's phone number did I just dial? Is it because I don't treat you right? I did get you that brain-training app... and yes, I only got the free trial version because I wasn't willing to pay $1.99 for the real thing, but it was something at least. And besides, Candy Crush is surely about the same - it requires a lot of thinking and gives you a good workout. I try to get you enough rest - 4-5 hours at night plus an hour or so on the bus and an occasional involuntary nap at my desk. I don't know what more you want from me, but you need to straighten up and start helping out a little more around this place!
I had more... but I seriously can't remember. Actually, I've written a number of blog posts lately and they were great. Witty, thought-provoking, fun... but by the time I get out of the shower and get dressed, I've forgotten almost all of it. That's how you ended up with this one, instead. Darn brain, anyway.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
V is for... Violet?
It could be puce. I really don't know what color puce is. (What a horrible name for a color, though. Puce. Puce. Definitely doesn't sound like anything I'd want on my walls.)
I don't think it's lavender... maybe lilac?
This was running through my head this morning as I looked at my bathroom walls. Why? Because two nights ago I got Brekken settled with a bedtime snack of yogurt and told him to go use the potty when he was done. I took my attention off him for just a few minutes. Just long enough to change Rylen's diaper and get him into his pajamas for bedtime. I saw that Brekken was not at the table anymore, but (foolishly) assumed he had just finished his yogurt and was following instructions to go use the potty.
Of course it was nothing so well-behaved. When I headed back to the bedroom to check on everyone, I discovered that Brekken had taken his yogurt to the bathroom with him. And his spoon. And had then decided to use his spoon (Angry Birds-style) to launch spoonfuls of yogurt onto the bathroom walls, cabinets, and floor.
Something in my expression (red-faced astonishment with a touch of rage?) must have tipped him off that this was not acceptable behavior. Because he quickly pitched the yogurt in the trash and tried to start cleaning up... by grabbing my good feather duster, dipping it in the water of the toilet, and beginning to swab the floors and walls.
This was less than successful in calming me down. I was definitely in ORANGE territory on the Mommy Advisory System.
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| courtesy of Rants from Mommyland http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/ |
I attempted to clean up and disinfect quickly so I could get them all to bed before I reached the RED zone. But in my hurry, I must have overlooked a couple (or several) spots.
Which led to this morning, when I noticed the spots while getting ready for work. And realized, really, they're a very nice color. A very pale, purple-ish/pink-ish kind of color that actually goes very nicely with the Monet Water Lilies print hanging on the wall next to the spots. In fact, I think my whole bathroom would look lovely if the dingy white paint was replaced with this lovely shade. I wonder if Home Depot can color-match mixed berry yogurt?
Friday, January 25, 2013
U is for Understand
Sometimes it's more important than you think to actually understand what your kids are saying.
Admit it, sometimes when your kids are talking and they get into minute 43 of non-stop chatter, your eyes start to glaze over a little. And you don't listen quite as closely as you did at the beginning of the conversation. And maybe you don't understand every word they utter (even older kids are sometimes a little hard to understand) but it's ok because you've got the gist of the story, right?
But sometimes understanding that one word makes all the difference in the story. For example, a few nights ago Preston was telling me about his day. I'm actually not exaggerating when I say that he started into this section of his stories after 40-45 minutes of near non-stop talking. I may be exaggerating to say he hadn't paused to take a breath (let alone let his siblings speak) for that entire time. But I'm not exaggerating by much. Preston is quite the talker. So, especially since I was also trying to fix dinner at the time, I think I can be forgiven for not being entirely focused on the conversation.
"And then we were all running around the playground and we were trying to kick each other in the Crocs. And sometimes somebody would get kicked in the Crocs and they would trip and fall down. And one time I got kicked in the Crocs and it hurt and I fell down but then I got up again and I chased **** and kicked him in the Crocs so it was okay. And then later I was sliding on the pole and I jumped on the pole and I banged my Crocs on the pole but it didn't even hurt so I laughed. And then another time **** told us about a movie he watched and this guy was really stupid and he poured oil on his Crocs and then he lit the oil on fire! But his Crocs didn't even burn up and it was okay. But I don't think I would want to have my Crocs be on fire. Why is it called a Crocs, anyway? Just like the shoes? I think that's really weird."
So as I'm listening to this conversation I'm adding little interjections here and there to show I'm listening. "Um-hmm. ... Really? ... I'm glad you were okay - maybe next time you should find a game where you don't kick each other. ... That's good, you have to be a little careful on the pole sometimes. ... Wow, that doesn't sound like a good choice! What a waste of his shoes. ... Wait - what? What's just like the shoes? Aren't we talking about the shoes?"
*heavy sigh * eyeroll * "NO, Mom. Your Crocs... you know... down here?" *gestures below the belt like Vanna White in an anatomy class* "Crocs... the penis spot!"
The what now? Oooooh... not Crocs. Crotch. Suddenly the whole previous conversation has a very different slant. Not only were the boys running around tripping each other, but they were kicking each other in the crotch to do it. And then discussing some idiot who decided to set his crotch on fire. (I can only assume this is some movie like JackAss? And who is letting their first-grader watch that? It's just a recipe for disaster... old enough to watch, think it's funny, and decide to replicate it. Not old enough to have any filter or thought about consequences of repeating a stupid stunt. Yikes.)
Follow up with discussion on correct pronunciation of the word, good and not-so-good things to do with your crotch (good: use the bathroom, keep private; not-so-good: kick, light on fire), the best way to interact with other people's crotches (which is to say, not at all, especially not at school), and how people in movies don't always make good choices and that's why we shouldn't do the things we see on TV or movies without talking to Mom or Dad about it first. (And we especially shouldn't do anything like that at the sleepover coming up on Saturday with the other boys from the crotch-kicking game and are we sure we really understand that point?)
*Whew* That was exhausting. And at the same time... hee-hee. Worth a giggle. :)
But sometimes understanding that one word makes all the difference in the story. For example, a few nights ago Preston was telling me about his day. I'm actually not exaggerating when I say that he started into this section of his stories after 40-45 minutes of near non-stop talking. I may be exaggerating to say he hadn't paused to take a breath (let alone let his siblings speak) for that entire time. But I'm not exaggerating by much. Preston is quite the talker. So, especially since I was also trying to fix dinner at the time, I think I can be forgiven for not being entirely focused on the conversation.
"And then we were all running around the playground and we were trying to kick each other in the Crocs. And sometimes somebody would get kicked in the Crocs and they would trip and fall down. And one time I got kicked in the Crocs and it hurt and I fell down but then I got up again and I chased **** and kicked him in the Crocs so it was okay. And then later I was sliding on the pole and I jumped on the pole and I banged my Crocs on the pole but it didn't even hurt so I laughed. And then another time **** told us about a movie he watched and this guy was really stupid and he poured oil on his Crocs and then he lit the oil on fire! But his Crocs didn't even burn up and it was okay. But I don't think I would want to have my Crocs be on fire. Why is it called a Crocs, anyway? Just like the shoes? I think that's really weird."
So as I'm listening to this conversation I'm adding little interjections here and there to show I'm listening. "Um-hmm. ... Really? ... I'm glad you were okay - maybe next time you should find a game where you don't kick each other. ... That's good, you have to be a little careful on the pole sometimes. ... Wow, that doesn't sound like a good choice! What a waste of his shoes. ... Wait - what? What's just like the shoes? Aren't we talking about the shoes?"
*heavy sigh * eyeroll * "NO, Mom. Your Crocs... you know... down here?" *gestures below the belt like Vanna White in an anatomy class* "Crocs... the penis spot!"
The what now? Oooooh... not Crocs. Crotch. Suddenly the whole previous conversation has a very different slant. Not only were the boys running around tripping each other, but they were kicking each other in the crotch to do it. And then discussing some idiot who decided to set his crotch on fire. (I can only assume this is some movie like JackAss? And who is letting their first-grader watch that? It's just a recipe for disaster... old enough to watch, think it's funny, and decide to replicate it. Not old enough to have any filter or thought about consequences of repeating a stupid stunt. Yikes.)
Follow up with discussion on correct pronunciation of the word, good and not-so-good things to do with your crotch (good: use the bathroom, keep private; not-so-good: kick, light on fire), the best way to interact with other people's crotches (which is to say, not at all, especially not at school), and how people in movies don't always make good choices and that's why we shouldn't do the things we see on TV or movies without talking to Mom or Dad about it first. (And we especially shouldn't do anything like that at the sleepover coming up on Saturday with the other boys from the crotch-kicking game and are we sure we really understand that point?)
*Whew* That was exhausting. And at the same time... hee-hee. Worth a giggle. :)
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