Yesterday was the last day of Nita's ninth year--today she turned ten.
Last night, we were driving Kiki to her girl scout leader's house because the troop was having a lock-in overnight at the mall. I had given Kiki some gift cards for her birthday, so she was shopping until one a.m. with her friends. The roads were bad (uh, so what else is new this week), and as EG propelled the car back to the house after dropping off Kiki, Nita became philosphical.
"I can't believe I'm going to be ten already," she mused.
"These last ten years have gone by too fast. Next thing you know, I'll be eleven, then twelve, then in college, and then I'll be fifty."
"Waughk," her father replied. By then, I was hooting with laughter. Not only was she uncharacteristically thoughtful, she was so dumfounded at how fast her life was passing her by.
So happy birthday, Nita, and may it take you a while to get to eleven.
Love, Mom
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Running on empty
I felt rather blah all day yesterday, unable to stayed focused on one thing, having outstanding coursework and being unwilling to do it. This was really unlike me. EG said, "You are the most motivated person I know." Poor guy--what a limited world he has.
I don't know why--perhaps it was because I was going to do a hospice training last night and was revisiting some grief, perhaps I was just tired, perhaps just burned out. Today's not much better--I just don't care.
And it has been sunny here for two days, too.
I will have a yearly funk in April, kind of a reverse seasonal affective disorder, if you will. However, it is a bit early for that, too.
So, today I blunder along, listening in on teleconferences because I am not required to participate, and thinking maybe a nap is in order.
I don't know why--perhaps it was because I was going to do a hospice training last night and was revisiting some grief, perhaps I was just tired, perhaps just burned out. Today's not much better--I just don't care.
And it has been sunny here for two days, too.
I will have a yearly funk in April, kind of a reverse seasonal affective disorder, if you will. However, it is a bit early for that, too.
So, today I blunder along, listening in on teleconferences because I am not required to participate, and thinking maybe a nap is in order.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Kitchen Table Dissertation
I've been gone for three weeks, thereabouts, which is a record for me. Part of the time I was traveling to Milwaukee for business, part of it I was freaked out about an abnormal mammogram (which after a series of films and an ultrasound turned out to be "probably benign", whatever that means, but the Cleveland Clinic thoughtfully got me an appointment within a week of getting the news), part of it was dealing with schoolwork (no wonder professors are nutty--surviving the dissertation takes a certain amount of insanity).
My big complaint right now is that I am trying to write a dissertation online. Yes, I can get questions answered, but communication is done in the courseroom via email, so there is a delay in responses, much like a transatlantic call to Mars might be. Then, it never helps to have the response be, "I normally refer people to the textbook." Uh, do you think it might be something I already did? Now we have one more delay while I point that out.
Anyway, this whole process is rather like trying to build an airplane on a short deadline with a list of requirements and no illustrations, plus having to find your own supplies by foraging within your own neighborhood. And those directions are something like, "Find a metal morganzerizer." So, you consult the textbook, which does not give you a picture of the thing, but defines it as "a metal item used in building an airplane; used for morganzering." So, off goes an email to the instructor who says, "I usually refer people to the textbook because it gives a definition of the item." Eventually, you find a powerpoint slide show which shows what the item looks like, and you find after much aggravation that it is a simple table fork.
That thwacking sound you've been hearing is me banging my head on the table.
Add to that three kids with cabin fever who perversely want a snow day so they can stay indoors even more and share that with each other by screaming and fighting and finding out while in Milwaukee that I had been signed up at the beginning of the school year to do my daughter's class's Valentine's day party (not the romantic surprise I was dreaming of), and you have a person with little energy to blog, for crying out loud.
But, I'm back. And I'll keep coming back. But I wonder how many people wrote their dissertation at the kitchen table.
My big complaint right now is that I am trying to write a dissertation online. Yes, I can get questions answered, but communication is done in the courseroom via email, so there is a delay in responses, much like a transatlantic call to Mars might be. Then, it never helps to have the response be, "I normally refer people to the textbook." Uh, do you think it might be something I already did? Now we have one more delay while I point that out.
Anyway, this whole process is rather like trying to build an airplane on a short deadline with a list of requirements and no illustrations, plus having to find your own supplies by foraging within your own neighborhood. And those directions are something like, "Find a metal morganzerizer." So, you consult the textbook, which does not give you a picture of the thing, but defines it as "a metal item used in building an airplane; used for morganzering." So, off goes an email to the instructor who says, "I usually refer people to the textbook because it gives a definition of the item." Eventually, you find a powerpoint slide show which shows what the item looks like, and you find after much aggravation that it is a simple table fork.
That thwacking sound you've been hearing is me banging my head on the table.
Add to that three kids with cabin fever who perversely want a snow day so they can stay indoors even more and share that with each other by screaming and fighting and finding out while in Milwaukee that I had been signed up at the beginning of the school year to do my daughter's class's Valentine's day party (not the romantic surprise I was dreaming of), and you have a person with little energy to blog, for crying out loud.
But, I'm back. And I'll keep coming back. But I wonder how many people wrote their dissertation at the kitchen table.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Mission Accomplished
I broke the boy after five days.
Friday, I had to work, so Rocky decided this would be the day. He, ahem, forgot his lunch at home, taking the chance that his dad wouldn't notice and I wouldn't have time to take the lunch to the school, thus giving himself the opportunity to avail himself of a hot lunch.
He underestimated me. I called the school immediately and informed them that I didn't want him to miss out on a nutritious meal, so I was bringing him the lunch, and only charging 44 cents a mile. I took the lunch into the office, and the one woman who works there gets him. I told her, "I normally would be coming in my bunny slippers and bathrobe, but I am on my way to work, so I won't get to embarrass him this time."
"Oh, that's okay," she said. "I have no problem embarrassing him."
She did. She told him sweetly, "Tell your mom I love her slippers."
Rocky is now working on earning back his privileges. And there is soup in the freezer just in case we need it.
Friday, I had to work, so Rocky decided this would be the day. He, ahem, forgot his lunch at home, taking the chance that his dad wouldn't notice and I wouldn't have time to take the lunch to the school, thus giving himself the opportunity to avail himself of a hot lunch.
He underestimated me. I called the school immediately and informed them that I didn't want him to miss out on a nutritious meal, so I was bringing him the lunch, and only charging 44 cents a mile. I took the lunch into the office, and the one woman who works there gets him. I told her, "I normally would be coming in my bunny slippers and bathrobe, but I am on my way to work, so I won't get to embarrass him this time."
"Oh, that's okay," she said. "I have no problem embarrassing him."
She did. She told him sweetly, "Tell your mom I love her slippers."
Rocky is now working on earning back his privileges. And there is soup in the freezer just in case we need it.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Blackout
Rocky has finally gone too far. Much like the dog who wants to sit on the sofa--gradually, stealthily, sneaking into the room, eventually landing on the cushions, remaining so still that no one notices--Rocky has stealthily, carefully been phasing out all responsibilities.
First, he has been "forgetting" to take out the trash. I will eventually take the can out of the cupboard and stand guard over it while he blunders around for shoes and a coat, which of course he cannot find, as they are wherever he has dropped them. I have actually dragged him out of bed at 11:59 p.m. to complete the chore, but that is extra aggravation for me, as Nash, who gets hysterical at just about everything, thinks it is morning and time to EAT and barks for a good two hours or so until EG goes in and bellows at him. Nash then subsides to a deep "errrrrr, errrrrrr, errrrrrrrrr" for another thirty minutes until he gives up. By then it is 2:30, and inevitably someone has to go to the bathroom, which sets Nash's dysfunctional alarm off again.
No wonder I go to sleep at traffic lights.
Second, Rocky's other job is to clean up after the dogs in the yard. Over the last month or two, he has been slowly neglecting first one, then two, then all the messes, last Sunday going out in the yard and staring off into space rather like Stevie Wonder, completely ignoring his job. Nita went out and--ahem--helpfully told him that he needed to address this job, and he said, "I have no place to put them." What? Like the garbage is suddenly not accessible?
Then the continuing saga of "find church clothes." Saturday EG told Rocky to find church clothes. Were they appropriate for the weather? Yes. Were they in good shape? Yes. Were they free of holes and stains? Yes. Did they fit? Oh, yes.
Sunday afternoon I told Rocky to get church clothes. He said he had them and that his dad had him get things together the day before. I revisited all the above questions and added two more: Did you pick something which I have designated as a church shirt for winter? Yes. And will I be happy at your choice? Oh, yes.
Right.
Thirty minutes before Mass, after ten minutes of blundering about in his room, he comes out in a school shirt from two years ago, one which is stained and torn. I scolded him and sent him back for something APPROPRIATE. He returns in an old white dress shirt, one missing buttons and which is at least two sizes too small. "What happened to the four shirts I bought you to wear to church?" I shriek.
"Oh, they're in there," he replied, "right in my closet."
"Then. Get. One." I said through clenched teeth, causing the dog look at me in alarm and decamp to the kitchen.
"Yes, mom," he went into his room and blundered around for five more minutes. I finally said, "If you don't come out here dressed in fifteen seconds, I will dress you."
Fourteen and a half seconds later, he came out of his room, finally appropriately dressed. Off to Mass, which is likely a good thing, Rocky going out the door into the fifteen degree weather without a coat. We followed and locked the door. "Oh," he says, halfway up the road. "I need my coat."
"Too late," EG snapped.
"And my gloves." We ignore him. He sighs and proceeds to verbalize his teeth chattering, much like a cartoon character. We ignore him. He sighs louder. We ignore him. He gives up.
After Mass, I sit Rocky down and ask him what is going on. "I don't like doing chores," he says.
"Oh, I like doing laundry and cooking and cleaning?"
"Maybe not, but you have to do those things."
I ask, "Why do I have to do those things and you don't have to do any chores?"
"Because I don't want to."
Well, neither do I. So I made a big pot of chicken soup with vegetables and black-eyed peas on Monday morning before work and informed Rocky that was what he was going to be eating three meals a day, as I didn't WANT to be cooking for him. Rocky apparently thought that, the faster he ate the soup, the faster this would be over, so he devoured most of the pot that day.
No problem. After I served the soup for breakfast, I came home with ten pounds of chicken on Tuesday afternoon.
Wednesday I asked him, "How is this going? Are you ready to talk about chores?"
"YES!"
"Well, I don't want to right now, so maybe Thursday we can talk."
In the meantime, he can enjoy the soup. Or not.
"
First, he has been "forgetting" to take out the trash. I will eventually take the can out of the cupboard and stand guard over it while he blunders around for shoes and a coat, which of course he cannot find, as they are wherever he has dropped them. I have actually dragged him out of bed at 11:59 p.m. to complete the chore, but that is extra aggravation for me, as Nash, who gets hysterical at just about everything, thinks it is morning and time to EAT and barks for a good two hours or so until EG goes in and bellows at him. Nash then subsides to a deep "errrrrr, errrrrrr, errrrrrrrrr" for another thirty minutes until he gives up. By then it is 2:30, and inevitably someone has to go to the bathroom, which sets Nash's dysfunctional alarm off again.
No wonder I go to sleep at traffic lights.
Second, Rocky's other job is to clean up after the dogs in the yard. Over the last month or two, he has been slowly neglecting first one, then two, then all the messes, last Sunday going out in the yard and staring off into space rather like Stevie Wonder, completely ignoring his job. Nita went out and--ahem--helpfully told him that he needed to address this job, and he said, "I have no place to put them." What? Like the garbage is suddenly not accessible?
Then the continuing saga of "find church clothes." Saturday EG told Rocky to find church clothes. Were they appropriate for the weather? Yes. Were they in good shape? Yes. Were they free of holes and stains? Yes. Did they fit? Oh, yes.
Sunday afternoon I told Rocky to get church clothes. He said he had them and that his dad had him get things together the day before. I revisited all the above questions and added two more: Did you pick something which I have designated as a church shirt for winter? Yes. And will I be happy at your choice? Oh, yes.
Right.
Thirty minutes before Mass, after ten minutes of blundering about in his room, he comes out in a school shirt from two years ago, one which is stained and torn. I scolded him and sent him back for something APPROPRIATE. He returns in an old white dress shirt, one missing buttons and which is at least two sizes too small. "What happened to the four shirts I bought you to wear to church?" I shriek.
"Oh, they're in there," he replied, "right in my closet."
"Then. Get. One." I said through clenched teeth, causing the dog look at me in alarm and decamp to the kitchen.
"Yes, mom," he went into his room and blundered around for five more minutes. I finally said, "If you don't come out here dressed in fifteen seconds, I will dress you."
Fourteen and a half seconds later, he came out of his room, finally appropriately dressed. Off to Mass, which is likely a good thing, Rocky going out the door into the fifteen degree weather without a coat. We followed and locked the door. "Oh," he says, halfway up the road. "I need my coat."
"Too late," EG snapped.
"And my gloves." We ignore him. He sighs and proceeds to verbalize his teeth chattering, much like a cartoon character. We ignore him. He sighs louder. We ignore him. He gives up.
After Mass, I sit Rocky down and ask him what is going on. "I don't like doing chores," he says.
"Oh, I like doing laundry and cooking and cleaning?"
"Maybe not, but you have to do those things."
I ask, "Why do I have to do those things and you don't have to do any chores?"
"Because I don't want to."
Well, neither do I. So I made a big pot of chicken soup with vegetables and black-eyed peas on Monday morning before work and informed Rocky that was what he was going to be eating three meals a day, as I didn't WANT to be cooking for him. Rocky apparently thought that, the faster he ate the soup, the faster this would be over, so he devoured most of the pot that day.
No problem. After I served the soup for breakfast, I came home with ten pounds of chicken on Tuesday afternoon.
Wednesday I asked him, "How is this going? Are you ready to talk about chores?"
"YES!"
"Well, I don't want to right now, so maybe Thursday we can talk."
In the meantime, he can enjoy the soup. Or not.
"
Thursday, January 14, 2010
People of WalMart
I was out running errands, and I had several odd, unrelated things to get: plastic native Americans for a diorama, construction paper, coffee creamer, caulk, a cucumber, and toothpaste, so I decided to go into Super WalMart.
I normally don't like shopping in Supercenters, which is odd for a person who managed one of the first superstores, a Kmart with groceries on one side and the regular discount offerings on the other. However, I was not in the mood to mess around with stopping at three or four stores, so in I went.
At the checkout, I had a panic attack. Panic attacks are not something new to me, and I know that I can ride them out and am not having a heart attack after all, and this is not the first time I had a panic attack at the registers. Kind of ironic, considering I am spending money.
What intrigues me is that I am not the only woman my age who is having these episodes in stores. I wonder what it is--the number of choices, the lighting, the noise and stimulation, or even those carousels for bagging? Dear God, am I getting so old that I can't process?
One of my male co-workers recently referred me to the website peopleofwalmart.com, and when I told him I was aware of it (and a bit frightened by it), he accused me of holding out on him. Fortunately, I do not suspect I will end up on there (a very good reason for those panic attacks, I'm sure you'd agree, as my company on the site would be a bit odd).
Now that I think about it, maybe it's the company in the store which causes me issues. Website notwithstanding, I won't be going back in there again too soon.
I normally don't like shopping in Supercenters, which is odd for a person who managed one of the first superstores, a Kmart with groceries on one side and the regular discount offerings on the other. However, I was not in the mood to mess around with stopping at three or four stores, so in I went.
At the checkout, I had a panic attack. Panic attacks are not something new to me, and I know that I can ride them out and am not having a heart attack after all, and this is not the first time I had a panic attack at the registers. Kind of ironic, considering I am spending money.
What intrigues me is that I am not the only woman my age who is having these episodes in stores. I wonder what it is--the number of choices, the lighting, the noise and stimulation, or even those carousels for bagging? Dear God, am I getting so old that I can't process?
One of my male co-workers recently referred me to the website peopleofwalmart.com, and when I told him I was aware of it (and a bit frightened by it), he accused me of holding out on him. Fortunately, I do not suspect I will end up on there (a very good reason for those panic attacks, I'm sure you'd agree, as my company on the site would be a bit odd).
Now that I think about it, maybe it's the company in the store which causes me issues. Website notwithstanding, I won't be going back in there again too soon.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
History repeats itself
Tonight I am going to sit at the bedside of a dying person, providing support for his family as they wait for the inevitable.
I am always so honored to be asked to do this, to be permitted to be present during this most private of times.
What is interesting is that I many times will read the obituary of the person, getting to know a little about them after the fact, and I will think, "Oh, I wish I had known this person before."
Last time I drove to a vigil, it was late at night, snowing lightly, with a large, nearly full moon shining through the clouds. The car was quiet and peaceful, and I remembered my great grandmother on my father's side. She was a midwife, and she cured many illnesses with herbs and home remedies, many times going out in the night to assist with the sick and dying. I am sure it was a calling for her, as well, a mission if you will, and I felt a connection to her as a traveled in the silvery light.
And I wished that I had been able to know her then.
I am always so honored to be asked to do this, to be permitted to be present during this most private of times.
What is interesting is that I many times will read the obituary of the person, getting to know a little about them after the fact, and I will think, "Oh, I wish I had known this person before."
Last time I drove to a vigil, it was late at night, snowing lightly, with a large, nearly full moon shining through the clouds. The car was quiet and peaceful, and I remembered my great grandmother on my father's side. She was a midwife, and she cured many illnesses with herbs and home remedies, many times going out in the night to assist with the sick and dying. I am sure it was a calling for her, as well, a mission if you will, and I felt a connection to her as a traveled in the silvery light.
And I wished that I had been able to know her then.
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