Late fall and winter are what I think of as "airplane season." It's about the only time of year I fly for work, and when I do, I always like a window seat. I like to see what's down below as we zoom overhead, and imagine the lives of the people down there.
But I've also found that I'd like to know exactly what I'm flying over as I pass. What's the name of that town? What's that river? Who's crop circles are those? (I'm sure there's an app for that, but I'm not exactly a "first adopter" for technology.)
I'm not sure where this need to know comes from. Maybe I just like to have my bearings. But I do find that I'm more interested in what I'm passing as I travel than what's going to happen when I get there. Is this a "live for the moment" mentality? A fear of the future? Or am I just usually too preoccupied with the lingering questions from the homefront to think too far ahead?
"Did I leave the milk out? Is the coffee pot on? Did my family get to their respective daily destinations without breaking anything?" These are the questions that rattle quietly around in the back of my mind as I travel. On this last trip, the break count was two items — my daughter's soap dispenser and my husband's ankle. Par for the course.
I think perhaps my focus on the present also comes from a healthy realization that I don't want to know what's going to happen next. Information about the future is indeed a stressful thing, whether it's keeping a surprise party a secret, not telling co-workers that you overheard they're being laid off, realizing that you're responsible for classroom snacks for an entire week next month, knowing that your best friend has a little spinach in her teeth and not being able to signal to her across a crowded room before she goes to talk to that great-looking man.
These are all small things, so the knowledge of knowing the big things in advance, like when you will die, would be too overwhelming. Talk about the stress of planning the perfect outfit!
No, I prefer to coast. Do I have hopes for the future? Of course. Do I plan for it? You bet. Would I want to see into the future, given the chance? No way.
I like to know as much as possible about the here and now, and the week or two to come. But as for the bigger future, I'm happy with a strictly need-to-know basis.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The Fountain of Youth
As I mentioned before, at my house, we're obsessed with the urination habits of our 3-year-old son.
By weekday, he's a well-trained, cotton-undies wearin' kind of guy. I picture him at pre-school, standing next to the other boys at a row of pint-sized urinals, giving and getting high fives for solid bulls eyes.
But at home, he becomes like a spoiled cat. Urine is weapon used to show displeasure, and he's not afraid to use it.
This morning, I told him that he needed to get dressed before he came downstairs. He stripped off his jammies and pull-up happily as I went downstairs to answer the phone.
Over the next several minutes, I frequently called up the stairs, "Are you getting dressed?"
Answers varied from "not yet," to "in just a second." (Hmm, wonder where he learned that one?)
Eventually, I went to check on him, and found him happily playing with a toy shark and one of his favorite CDs submerged in a sink full of water. Still nothing on down below.
I took him to his room and saw the puddle on the floor.
"Is that water?" I asked.
"Nooo."
"Did you pee on your floor?"
A sly grin.
"Why did you DO that?" (loudly)
"Well...I didn't want to get dressed."
Guess he showed me.
I shared this story with friends this evening, and one jokingly suggested a clothespin to stem the tide. Can't say I didn't think about it. But instead I admitted defeat for the moment and wrote a haiku in honor of my worthy opponent:
Water on the floor
A boy's discovered power
The fountain of youth.
Want more haiku? Check out Haiku and Food to Suit Your Mood. It's simple recipes for the body and witty haiku for the soul.
By weekday, he's a well-trained, cotton-undies wearin' kind of guy. I picture him at pre-school, standing next to the other boys at a row of pint-sized urinals, giving and getting high fives for solid bulls eyes.
But at home, he becomes like a spoiled cat. Urine is weapon used to show displeasure, and he's not afraid to use it.
This morning, I told him that he needed to get dressed before he came downstairs. He stripped off his jammies and pull-up happily as I went downstairs to answer the phone.
Over the next several minutes, I frequently called up the stairs, "Are you getting dressed?"
Answers varied from "not yet," to "in just a second." (Hmm, wonder where he learned that one?)
Eventually, I went to check on him, and found him happily playing with a toy shark and one of his favorite CDs submerged in a sink full of water. Still nothing on down below.
I took him to his room and saw the puddle on the floor.
"Is that water?" I asked.
"Nooo."
"Did you pee on your floor?"
A sly grin.
"Why did you DO that?" (loudly)
"Well...I didn't want to get dressed."
Guess he showed me.
I shared this story with friends this evening, and one jokingly suggested a clothespin to stem the tide. Can't say I didn't think about it. But instead I admitted defeat for the moment and wrote a haiku in honor of my worthy opponent:
Water on the floor
A boy's discovered power
The fountain of youth.
Want more haiku? Check out Haiku and Food to Suit Your Mood. It's simple recipes for the body and witty haiku for the soul.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
A new take on potty training
Amid the chaos of work and family life lately, I've noticed a little sub-theme emerging. And sadly, it's all about pee. Not mine, but my three-year-old son's. He's so close to being potty trained that my husband and I each have one thumb on the champagne cork, so to speak.
It's amazing what becomes cause for celebration once you have kids. It's also amazing how pervasive bodily functions become in everyday conversation. This was reinforced earlier this week when I called a friend - a mother of three - and overheard her saying in exasperation "there's no pee in the bathtub!" to her daughter before she could get the receiver to her mouth to say "hello" to me.
Potty training is the Holy Grail of early parenthood. But perhaps my husband and I have pushed the whole "potty training" obsession too far. We must have discussed the phrase one time too many within earshot of the boy. Here's why I say that:
The other evening, as we're wrapping up a family dinner with Grandma ("Ganna") at our house, I notice the tell-tale sign of something amiss — the boy is quiet. I spy him around the corner, leaning a little to the left and shuffling a foot.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Don't look at me," he says.
I know what that means. He's peed in his pants...again.
Daddy cleans him up and the evening continues, until I happen to notice Thomas the Train playing cards on the living room floor. In a puddle. Soaked. And it ain't water.
I grab the rag and cleaner and re-soak everything. My mother looks on in amusement.
Only later does it occur to me: He needed to go to the potty. He saw trains.
Maybe he was "potty training!"
Pop the cork, honey! That's good enough for me!
It's amazing what becomes cause for celebration once you have kids. It's also amazing how pervasive bodily functions become in everyday conversation. This was reinforced earlier this week when I called a friend - a mother of three - and overheard her saying in exasperation "there's no pee in the bathtub!" to her daughter before she could get the receiver to her mouth to say "hello" to me.
Potty training is the Holy Grail of early parenthood. But perhaps my husband and I have pushed the whole "potty training" obsession too far. We must have discussed the phrase one time too many within earshot of the boy. Here's why I say that:
The other evening, as we're wrapping up a family dinner with Grandma ("Ganna") at our house, I notice the tell-tale sign of something amiss — the boy is quiet. I spy him around the corner, leaning a little to the left and shuffling a foot.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Don't look at me," he says.
I know what that means. He's peed in his pants...again.
Daddy cleans him up and the evening continues, until I happen to notice Thomas the Train playing cards on the living room floor. In a puddle. Soaked. And it ain't water.
I grab the rag and cleaner and re-soak everything. My mother looks on in amusement.
Only later does it occur to me: He needed to go to the potty. He saw trains.
Maybe he was "potty training!"
Pop the cork, honey! That's good enough for me!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Why NOT to yell at your kids
My husband sometimes says I shouldn't "scream" at our kids. Not that it's an everyday occurrence. I do raise my voice occasionally. Sometimes I may even yell. But as I once told my husband, "That isn't screaming. You've never heard me scream. You'd know it if you did."
Well, the young son heard it this morning. While daughter and Dad were away, in the midst of the get-ready-for-school rush, he pees in his pants not once, but twice. This from a kid who's pretty much potty trained, and who had told me only minutes before the second incident, "I won't do it again."
The first time just got one brief, exasperated outburst. But the second? Boy howdy. I let loose with a tantrum like the 13-year-old girl next door.
I let him know, loudly, that I was disappointed in his behavior. (Not him, but his behavior. See, I'm up on some of the modern parenting psycho-tactics.) I let him know that pee on the floor was gross. I plopped him into the bathtub to remove his second set of soiled clothes by himself. I stomped back and forth cleaning up the puddle.
And you know what that little booger did next? He giggled. Giggled! Apparently Mommy acting like a pre-teen is FUNNY!
I'd like to say that in that moment, I suddenly realized the humor in the situation, too. That we both collapsed on the floor in laughter, had a big TV-moment hug and went on with our morning.
Sadly, that wasn't the case. I continued my rant for a little while longer and we eventually got out the door and off to school. (But we did have a hug - always.)
Did I make my point and convince him never to pee in his pants again? Of course not. Did I feel better after losing my cool? Nope. Can I now see the humor in the situation? Begrudgingly, yes.
Do I feel better sharing this with my fellow SLUTS? Damn straight.
Look for me in the kindergarten carpool line in a couple of years, ladies. I'll be the one laughing while I send my son into class with a bag of pull-ups.
- Betsey
Well, the young son heard it this morning. While daughter and Dad were away, in the midst of the get-ready-for-school rush, he pees in his pants not once, but twice. This from a kid who's pretty much potty trained, and who had told me only minutes before the second incident, "I won't do it again."
The first time just got one brief, exasperated outburst. But the second? Boy howdy. I let loose with a tantrum like the 13-year-old girl next door.
I let him know, loudly, that I was disappointed in his behavior. (Not him, but his behavior. See, I'm up on some of the modern parenting psycho-tactics.) I let him know that pee on the floor was gross. I plopped him into the bathtub to remove his second set of soiled clothes by himself. I stomped back and forth cleaning up the puddle.
And you know what that little booger did next? He giggled. Giggled! Apparently Mommy acting like a pre-teen is FUNNY!
I'd like to say that in that moment, I suddenly realized the humor in the situation, too. That we both collapsed on the floor in laughter, had a big TV-moment hug and went on with our morning.
Sadly, that wasn't the case. I continued my rant for a little while longer and we eventually got out the door and off to school. (But we did have a hug - always.)
Did I make my point and convince him never to pee in his pants again? Of course not. Did I feel better after losing my cool? Nope. Can I now see the humor in the situation? Begrudgingly, yes.
Do I feel better sharing this with my fellow SLUTS? Damn straight.
Look for me in the kindergarten carpool line in a couple of years, ladies. I'll be the one laughing while I send my son into class with a bag of pull-ups.
- Betsey
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Subconscious Deadline
In order to get my child out of the house on time, I move up the deadline of dressing, eating. and brushing teeth. The kitchen clock runs 5 minutes ahead of itself.
Accepting that I will want to snuggle in for at least 10 minutes with the warm body of my husband in bed every weekday morning – I set the white noise on the alarm that far ahead of the actual alarm to get me to the lala state of feeling but not knowing. The deadline of rising is moved up to fool myself.
During the month of August, I won a large battle to relocate my daughter to Asheville, NC, and marry my high school sweetheart. I could do nothing to move that clock ahead; it took 1 1/2 years to just be heard in front of the judge. I had 1 week to move us and our furniture up here, merge it with someone who already had 3 children, and get my daughter settled into a brand new school. (Did I say get it on the moving truck and unpack? Did I tell you I also got married?) After that deadline, which would not budge, I had the due date of October 1 to contend with: the birth of my second cookbook. Could I move it back? I did not dare.
So in 6 weeks, basically, I developed and tested and edited and blurbed 140 recipes. That is a lot of energy expended along with settling down, getting married, and transitioning a child from private to wonderful public schools. I pretty much said, “Honey I love you but we’ll catch up after October 1.”
In some ways, having that work deadline helped me not freak out about all of the other personal issues that were swirling around. I was able to claim absolute tiredness under the guise of all that physical recipe testing.
So, after all of that trauma that I put my family through with my book deadline of Oct. 1., I read the contract again today, because I wanted to see the format I was to send in the manuscript.
And the deadline is October 31, not October 1. All of the theatrics of “my having to work” and “y’all have to go out for dinner “was for naught.
Or was it? Did I unintentionally move that deadline in my head to October 1, knowing it would keep me in work up to my eyeballs and I would not have time to worry about what sofa went where? It was almost a ploy for me to help me keep my sanity.
And I will tell you that nothing feels better than to finish a major project 1 month before the deadline. I like pushing deadlines ahead; that way you are ready for everything that comes along.
- A. Diva
Accepting that I will want to snuggle in for at least 10 minutes with the warm body of my husband in bed every weekday morning – I set the white noise on the alarm that far ahead of the actual alarm to get me to the lala state of feeling but not knowing. The deadline of rising is moved up to fool myself.
During the month of August, I won a large battle to relocate my daughter to Asheville, NC, and marry my high school sweetheart. I could do nothing to move that clock ahead; it took 1 1/2 years to just be heard in front of the judge. I had 1 week to move us and our furniture up here, merge it with someone who already had 3 children, and get my daughter settled into a brand new school. (Did I say get it on the moving truck and unpack? Did I tell you I also got married?) After that deadline, which would not budge, I had the due date of October 1 to contend with: the birth of my second cookbook. Could I move it back? I did not dare.
So in 6 weeks, basically, I developed and tested and edited and blurbed 140 recipes. That is a lot of energy expended along with settling down, getting married, and transitioning a child from private to wonderful public schools. I pretty much said, “Honey I love you but we’ll catch up after October 1.”
In some ways, having that work deadline helped me not freak out about all of the other personal issues that were swirling around. I was able to claim absolute tiredness under the guise of all that physical recipe testing.
So, after all of that trauma that I put my family through with my book deadline of Oct. 1., I read the contract again today, because I wanted to see the format I was to send in the manuscript.
And the deadline is October 31, not October 1. All of the theatrics of “my having to work” and “y’all have to go out for dinner “was for naught.
Or was it? Did I unintentionally move that deadline in my head to October 1, knowing it would keep me in work up to my eyeballs and I would not have time to worry about what sofa went where? It was almost a ploy for me to help me keep my sanity.
And I will tell you that nothing feels better than to finish a major project 1 month before the deadline. I like pushing deadlines ahead; that way you are ready for everything that comes along.
- A. Diva
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