58 prominent, accomplished women were asked what they dreamed about becoming when they were children. Surfers, ballerinas, opera singers, Olympians, doctors . . . Each women was featured in a two page layout. Their answers appeared on the left and a photograph portraying them in that role appeared on the right.
What they dreamed about becoming when they were children.
Some of the answers fit the question. But the two that struck me the most didn’t. Instead, they answered the question:
What is your dream? Subtle difference.
The dream of CNN reporter Soledad O’Brien, photographed snuggled in bed with her four children – including twin boys – all under the age of five?
Eight hours of sleep.
Then, you turn the page and you see . . .
Madeleine Albright.
Her dream? Worldwide democracy.
I busted out laughing. Eight hours of sleep vs. worldwide democracy. Did the editors put those two back to back on purpose?
But really. It IS a matter of perspective. Tell me that Madeleine Albright wouldn’t dream of eight hours sleep if she had four kids under five years of age.
I came out of it understanding how and why some parents do their children’s homework FOR them. It would have been so. much. easier.
These children are SO ready for summer. Homework is actually painful. For all of us. In addition to regular homework, this weekend FavoriteSon was working on an outline for a research paper on McCarthyism and PinkGirl was working on a “shoebox book report” on killer whales.
In the end, PinkGirl typed EVERY word of her own book report – WITH her fingers on the “home” keys, thank you very much. (use your left middle finger for the “c” key, use your left middle finger for the “e” key. – repeat.) She also cut all her own (ocean looking and seaweed looking scrapbook) paper, stuck all her own double sided stickers on all her cut paper, stuck her own paper to her shoebox and decorated the box all by herself. I say this because the finished project looked too good for a second grader. But I SWEAR all I did was cut out waves from the lines SHE drew with a wave stencil and put glue on a few pieces of paper for her. She did all the sticking. She’s the crafty one in the family. Regular readers know that crafting makes me break out in hives.
After a weekend that included a Friday night high school district track meet (he’s in middle school) where he placed 6th in the 400 meter dash, (got home after 11:30 p.m), a Saturday morning basketball game, math homework, science homework and yearbook homework (puh leezz), I cut FavoriteSon a break on the research paper outline and typed for him, with him sitting next to me, dictating every word. When he got stuck, FirstHusband or I would ask him a leading question and he would be jump started again. Turns out, the kid knows a heck of a lot more about Joe McCarthy and McCarthyism than I do, he just had trouble organizing all his information.
Domestically? The weekend was largely unproductive. By Sunday evening, our house was trashed. Only patches of carpet visible in places. The contents of both kid’s backpacks strewn from one room to another. The kitchen counter 4 inches thick, the kitchen table covered with craft paraphernalia, library books all over the living room floor, the dryer full of dry clothes, the washer full of wet clothes, the sink full of dirty dishes . . .
FirstHusband and I left it all and fell into bed, exhausted. I got up this morning and, after going to take care of a friend’s cats while she’s out of town, spent more than 2 hours “finding” my house. The kitchen counter is clear, the floors are clear, the washer AND dryer are empty, the sink is empty, the dishwasher is full and running. ahhh. I HATE it when my week starts “in the red” like that. I was finished by 10:45 a.m., just in time for a little coffee/Bible study/prayer journal time before my trainer arrived at 11:30. Then I walked two miles, sauna, shower, lunch and after school pickup.
After school today was intentionally orchestrated. First thing in the door, everyone got a snack and the kids unloaded the dishwasher. Then exactly 15 minutes to do anything they wanted, 15 minutes of homework at the (clear) kitchen table. We rotated that 4 times and all homework was done except for FavoriteSon’s rough draft (due Wednesday). We ate dinner together at the table, all four of us folded the dry laundry together, and we sat back down at the kitchen table, PinkGirl, to show her dad her math, FavoriteSon to work on his rough draft, me to read a book while keeping FavoriteSon on task. Both kids went to bed on time.
That would be the date for what I’m hoping is the final “ectomy” in my life. I’ve had a myomectomy and a polypectomy to remove my pesky fibroid tumors in the past but they always come back.
I banked a unit of my blood on Friday afternoon! That’s a big deal because of my low iron. I passed my iron test and I didn’t even study for it. My doctor is very conservative and wanted me to bank two units of my own blood just in case. I’ve done it for my past surgeries and ended up not needing to use it, so hopefully the same will be true for this surgery. (FYI – Donating your own blood for later use is called autologous donation, just in case you ever need to know.)
This time, I had to work a little to stop the bleeding. I’ve never had that happen before. I had to use ice and extended pressure and today my arm looks pretty bad. I guess from where the blood kinda backed up under my skin? It’s a big, oblong, purple/yellow bruise, a little over 3 inches from one end to the other. I’ll spare you the photo, it’s not pretty.
I’m seriously wiped out today. I did an hour of strength training and it was a LONG hour. I was definitely weaker than normal. It took some determination to get through the hour without wimping out. I recently read another blogger say she was able to hold a plank for two minutes and I was freakishly and competitively driven inspired to do the same. I was able to do a minute forty Friday morning and I was hoping to make it to two minutes today. yeah . . . no. A minute forty five. I’m supposed to do strength training again tomorrow. I’ll try again. I started sublingual B-12 supplements today so hopefully that will help.
I have 5 more appointments/tests before the big day, including a complete cardio workup.
I can’t wait for the other side of this surgery. No more fatigue. No more low iron. No more feminine hygiene products. EVER.
2. I am a cool mom. FavoriteSon was asked to move up to Varsity Track now that his middle school track season is complete. He was invited to a “track party” the night before the meet. First high school party. We knew the host parents and the coach was going to be there too, so we let him go. When I picked him up around 10pm, I didn’t go up to the door and knock like the other parents. I pulled up outside, parked the car, turned off the headlights and sent him a text message:
“I’m parked outside. Whenever you’re ready. No rush.”
Then I sat in the car and rehearsed Praise Team music for the next morning’s church service. He came out in 15 minutes. I asked him if he preferred the text message or if he would have been okay with me knocking on the door to get him.
Text message. Good to know.
3. What happens at a high school track party. The coach gives a 90 minute testimony and motivational talk. Also good to know. (Both FavoriteSon and the host parents told me.)
4. I need to wear sunscreen to the Varsity Track Meets. They are during the day on Saturdays. Middle School Track Meets are during late afternoon/evening hours.
5. I need to make sure the memory card is in the camera. Before I leave the house to go to a track meet.
A track meet lasts for hours. HOURS. I suppose I understand. If FavoriteSon doesn’t rest between races, he tends to ralph. But what to feed a runner between races? Too much and again, ralph. Too little and they don’t perform as well. Then there’s getting him to eat something at all.
Here’s the scene: He runs a race (and wins, of course). I walk to the field with Gatorade or water. He waives me off and turns away. (Because it is NOT cool to talk to your mom at a middle school track meet.) His coach says, “Take the Gatorade, your mother knows what she’s doing.” (That’s RIGHT!)
After a few weeks of that nonsense, I explained to FavoriteSon: “When I walk out on that field and hand you a bottle of Gatorade, I’m invisible. Your friends don’t even see me. You know when they see me? When you waive me away and your coach calls you out in front of everyone.”
silence. thinking.
I continue, “Here’s what I’ll do – after a run, I’ll bring a small snack and drink to you on the field, hand it to you and walk away. No one will even notice me. Okay?
“ok.”
It worked out perfectly. After the first race, I walked out to the field, handed him half of a peeled navel orange and walked away. No eye contact necessary. Didn’t even interrupt his conversation. After his second race, I walked out with a banana and some Gatorade and he actually talked to me. I waited and took away the rest of the banana and the Gatorade bottle. I will not take that as a sign that it is now acceptable for me to interrupt him when he’s engaged in post-race conversation with his friends.
Last week, I packed us a dinner and brought an ice chest in an effort to stave off concession stand food. The big hit was the chicken salad. It takes about 5 minutes to make! The first version was canned chicken breast, drained, shredded and mixed with light mayo and white grapes, sliced in half. BIG hit! This week, I ran out of mayo and had to substitute spinach dip. LOVED it!
I don’t assemble the sandwiches before the meet because they tend to get soggy. I just bring the salad in a container (square, of course), some bread and a fork. I can assemble the sandwiches right there in the stands. Here’s my sandwich from today, using the leftover Chicken Grape Salad:
This past week, Grace came straight from God, through me, directly to my mother. It was a fairly constant flow.
My mother is visiting from Arkansas. I have been filling her days and evenings with activities (with me) to distract her from my dad and sisters. FirstHusband says they owe me big time. She leaves Monday morning, early. I plan on sitting on my love seat on Monday morning, with a cup of coffee, listening to the clocks tick.
Here’s an example of this week’s conversation with my mother:
My Mother: “Did I tell you my joke about the zebra?”
Me: “No.”
My Mother: “The zebra asked St. Peter if he was white with black stripes or black with white stripes.”
Me: (no. please no. not one of these jokes.)
My Mother: “St. Peter told the zebra to ask God. God said, “You are what you are.” The zebra went back to St. Peter and said he didn’t understand God’s answer. St. Peter said, “You are white with black stripes.” The zebra asked, “How do you know?” St. Peter said, because he said “You are what you are.” If you were black with white stripes, he would have said . . . ”
Me: (oh, please don’t say it. please. somebody please tell me that my own mother doesn’t think this is funny. Thank you God, that we are in the car and I’m the only one who can hear this. )
My Mother: She finishes the joke. (and if you don’t know what she said, GOOD!!! That means we’re making progress in the world.)
Me: (instead of the expected laugh, smile or chuckle) “You know I teach cultural competence, right?”
My Mother: “Yeh.” (chuckle.)
Me: “Please tell me you don’t tell that joke in public places.”
(I already know she tells these jokes in non-public places. And I’ve known her long enough to know that’s not going to change. The last time she included my email address in a group email and sent an “inappropriate” email to our family shared inbox, she concluded with “anyone who doesn’t think this is hilarious just doesn’t have a sense of humor.”)
My Mother: “Sometimes. But not when anyone can hear me.”
Me: “There are a lot of people who wouldn’t find that joke funny.”
My Mother: (sigh.) “I know.”
Later that afternoon, at my house, in front of FavoriteSon, with PinkGirl a few feet away:
My Mother: “Can I tell my zebra joke to YourFavoriteSon?”
Me: “No, mom. He doesn’t think like that.”
My Mother: “Please?” (sticks her bottom lip out in a childish pout, which she somehow believes has persuasive power)
Me: “No. I’ve done a lot of work here. Please don’t chip away at it.”
I will spare you the comment she made about the black pastor of the church she has been attending. I will skip the mocking imitation of the Latin accented sales lady as we were leaving a store.
I know she was leveling. She needs to see others as less.
Any time I’m around someone who makes fun of others, I see it as leveling. I perceive the person making fun as lacking in self-confidence and finding it easier to put others at a lower level than bring themselves up to a higher one. I believe the same is true for people who use non-joking sarcasm to make others look stupid.
When I witness a person making fun of someone or being snidely or cruelly sarcastic (or when I am the target myself), my view is that it stems from the attacker’s weakness and deep need to be better than others. If I can view them this way, I don’t get angry so much. I feel pity for them, and can give them Grace. But not respect.
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9 (NIV)
“. . . So we didn’t go to church. But what an amazing time together, listening to my children talk about their faith they way they never do when we are rushing through our day and our week. PinkGirl even forgot about the storm. Now, we can say: “Have I not commanded you . . . ” and she will repeat it and continue through the end of the verse.
I need that verse too. I mentioned that I am FINALLY going to get rid of my fibroids by having a hysterectomy this year. Things are progressing and the realization that I’m going to have another surgery and go under general anesthesia – which is scarier to me than any pain resulting from the surgery – is settling in. I HATE going under. See when I’m under, I have NO control over what’s happening. I have to trust OTHER PEOPLE with my LIFE. I’m continuing through the process, taking action one step at a time, but I know the night before the surgery is going to come with some Ambien.
What I need to see is GOD working through those people. Let me tell myself that again. I need to see GOD working through those other people. He’ll be there in the operating room with me because he loves me. He’ll be there in the operating room. He’ll be there in the operating room. He’ll be there . . .
What I also need to do is to stop feeling guilty about having this surgery. Thoughts creep in and out of my day – I could just live with the daily iron pills and frequent bleeding. It’s not like I have a “real” problem. I’ve had a pap smear, an internal and external sonogram, a cervical biopsy, and two different kinds of endometrial biopsies. There is no cancer, there are no polyps, nothing suspicious. Just annoying bleeding and low iron that can be treated with a daily supplement. But. I know that life will be better if my iron levels are normal. I know I will be more active if I don’t have to deal with the bleeding. I KNOW the surgery is the right thing to do. My hormone levels are completely normal – no sign of menopause. So if I wait for menopause to stop the bleeding, I’ll be waiting a very long time.
1. I learned that it is possible for me to make 4 round trips to school in one day.
Drop off.
Take FavoriteSon to the athletic trainer to get a rehab plan for a strained quad and hip flexor he RE-strained after running at yesterday’s track meet – and return him to school to take two quizzes in two classes.
Pick up FavoriteSon just before P.E. – which he can’t participate in anyway – to bring him home so he can crash because his allergies are winning today.
PinkGirl pickup.
2. I learned another reason I love my house. It is 10 minutes from school.
4. I learned that it is possible to forget to pick up my new iron prescription 4 times in one day.
5. I learned that cold medicine can elevate my blood pressure.
6. I learned to use a Neti Pot to clear my sinuses. Amazing. I was a little concerned about getting saline down my throat and being able to breathe while using it, but it was surprisingly easy. And effective. We own THIS ONE because it has a lid. We actually own two because FirstHusband is a germaphobe and needs his own. With his name on it, so there’s no confusion. FavoriteSon and I just wash the other one after we use it.
7. I learned that I HATE it when a man talks to me like I have a giant pink bow on top of my head. Okay. I already knew that. (That would be the trainer at the track meet yesterday – NOT the trainer I took FavoriteSon to today. The trainer we saw today talks to me like I can understand big words and doesn’t speak in a “sing song” voice.)
8. I learned that, apparently, when a man talks to me like I have a giant pink bow on top of my head, my facial expression may give him the impression that I think he is an idiot. Which is good. Because he stopped. And I didn’t have to actually TELL him to talk to me like I was a man.
Tina has inspired me again. A few weeks ago, she wrote a post on a Bible study she was doing and what she gleaned from it.
“Being kind is definitely something I struggle with. Not with the rest of the world, but with my own children. I get impatient, frustrated, short-tempered and unkind. And I really SO do not want to be that mom. I am praying now for a gentle spirit. I’ve always admired women who have that….godly women that love the Lord and seem to just live and breathe Proverbs 31. Believe me, my children don’t, as a rule, arise and call me blessed.”
My daughter sure as heck doesn’t arise and call me blessed. Often, she’s a crank in the morning until after we give her some orange juice or Ovaltine and her blood sugar levels out. We OFTEN wake her up with a no-spill sippy cup in our hand. (Try it, you might be amazed at the difference in your kiddo’s morning attitude and cooperation.)
I write about my parenting strategies and my perspective, and it may seem like I’m getting it right, but I need to clarify. I fall off the “good mom” wagon all the time. I just get back on as fast as I can. AND, I used to fall off MUCH more often when my kids were home with me 24-7. AND I know some of the reasons why.
PinkGirl and I have our moments. MOST of the time, I can give her grace when she has a blood sugar dip and starts crying for no apparent reason. But sometimes, I find myself asking her, “WHY are you crying NOW?” and saying my standard, “Handle this differently” or “Solve your problem.” in a frustrated, impatient tone of voice instead of my encouraging, reminder voice. Sometimes, when she is “disagreeable,” I completely forget to calculate when she ate last and I react with what is to me, a lack of empathy and a toneless voice. What SHE sees is a mom “who doesn’t care about me when I’m upset!” (and she tells me exactly that.) Instead of responding with grace and providing her a complex carb/protein combo before continuing in a reasonable conversation with her, I react immediately and escalate the situation. The whole episode steals time and energy and peace from our day. It’s a waste. And I know it. I don’t like it. So I try to take my own advice and “Solve my problem” by “handling things differently.”
When find myself impatient or frustrated with my kids, I start by looking for the root causes so I can fix my real problem. Physiological, psychological, spiritual . . . I always start with the physiological. (I’ve got my fair share of problems, but today I’m only focusing on ONE of the the physical problems.) I do a little self-check.
Am I tired?
Am I hungry?
Is my iron low because I keep forgetting to take that stupid pill?
Until I “fix” these physical issues I can’t consistently parent intentionally or well. Unfortunately, “fixing” isn’t an instantaneous, one time thing. Often I have to make consistent changes over time to completely get RID of these problems rather than just trying to manage them. If I’m not careful, I could end up like this: (the first two minutes)
But back to fixing my (physical) problems and handling things differently. Let’s start with “tired.”
I sometimes have trouble getting to sleep. Sometimes I don’t get enough sleep. So I’ve made a few changes:
First, I now take Ambien when I need it. Not every day – only when I can’t get to sleep. I started with Tylenol PM. One was too much. Half was just enough. When both my GP and my GYN heard I was taking it, they both suggested Ambien instead. I started with 10mg control release. Too much. I need to wake up when a kid needs me. Then I went with the regular 10mg. Too much. Drowsy the next morning. I now take 5mg.
I also intentionally GO TO BED earlier. Sometimes (not often) as early as 10:00 p.m. I’m a night owl. Sometimes I’m not sleepy at 10:00 p.m. If I can’t get to sleep, I take some Ambien. My goal is to go to bed the same day I wake up instead of wake up the same day I go to bed.
When I read in bed, I only read fiction. I don’t need to be learning when I’m trying to calm my mind. Even when I read a devotional, I find my brain ramping up when it should be ramping down. To make sure I don’t slip up, I don’t keep any non-fiction books in the bedroom.
The low iron can make me weak and tired too, so I take a prescription iron supplement. (But I’m fixing that too.)
No coffee after 1:00 p.m. or so. Enough said.
Back when PinkGirl was a baby, I would nap when she napped. I read this over and over again when FavoriteSon was a baby and I rarely followed the advice. When PinkGirl was born, I was older, with more on my plate and more tired. I kinda had no choice.
Sometimes it was the kid’s sleep cycles that threw a wrench in mine. When a kid won’t go to sleep or wakes up in the middle of the night, what are you going to do? Sleep anyway? Not likely. I’ll write another post on overcoming kid sleep problems. We had to do that too.
I removed things from my “To Do” list. Some jobs get harder the longer they are delayed. Like dishes and laundry. But some jobs take the same amount of time and effort each time you do them, regardless of whether you last did them yesterday or last week. Like vacuuming, cleaning the toilet or dusting. So my house wasn’t up to white glove standards. big whoop.
So, given my history and challenges, I have a question for moms like Tina and I who sometimes get, as Tina put it, “impatient, frustrated, short-tempered and unkind:”
What kind of sleep are you getting? Supposedly, a sleep cycle is 90 minutes. I know that when my sleep is fragmented or I don’t get enough of it, I’m predisposed to a lack of patience and frustration. It doesn’t take much to push me off the “good mom” wagon.
Yes, when I get more sleep, my day is shorter. I have less time to accomplish all the things I “need” to. But when I get more (and better) sleep, my day – and my family’s day – is BETTER. And all those things I “need” to do? Some get done. Some don’t. Some jobs I keep doing. Some jobs FirstHusband handles. Some jobs the kids take care of. Some I decide not to do anymore.
You CAN change your situation. Even minor changes can add up. We have choices to make every day. When you say to yourself, “I HAVE to do (insert urgent, important task here).” Rethink it. Do you? What’s the worst thing that would happen if you didn’t? What things can you let go of? What things can you allow others to take responsibility for? Maybe the person who picks up your slack doesn’t do things exactly like you would. Is it THAT important that something be done your way?
I used to think I had no choices. But I was confusing “no choice” with “difficult choice.”
Monday – FavoriteSon’s appointment with the allergist. Two levels of skin testing. Basically poking him with allergens and waiting to see how he reacts. The appointment started almost on time at 12:45 p.m. and we left at 2:50 p.m. Results suggest he’s allergic to oak and mold. He’s continuing his anti-biotic for the infection, but with Allegra AND Singulair, he is symptom free!! His symptoms usually plague him from October to February, so we’ll see what he can cut down on in March. But FINALLY. Answers! And an effective treatment!
My endometrial biopsy was scheduled for 3:15 p.m. and I barely made it to my doctor’s office. Of course they didn’t call for me until 4:10 p.m. With all the medical tests and doctor appointments I’ve been having lately, I anticipated the waiting. I had a book. The procedure wasn’t even as bad as I thought it would be. I had managed to completely block it out of my mind until the night before, but that was still enough time for me to dread it. I did my research so I knew what to expect and I took 4, yes 4 ibuprofen tablets before the appointment. I know, it was probably overkill. Big whoop. Biopsy results not in yet.
Tuesday – Mammogram (okay ladies. due for one? GET one. no excuses. Just GET one. It’s not that bad.)
The worst thing for me was the wait. And it wasn’t even the actual wait. Remember, I anticipated the waiting. I still had my book. The worst part was the television shows in the waiting rooms. The main waiting room was showing “Bizarre Foods” and I will spare you the details. I’ll just tell you that in this particular episode the host congratulated a small Asian woman for “cooking the only food that ever beat me” as he put it. eww. and again. ewwwww.
The second waiting room was playing a soap opera. Like fingernails on a chalkboard. I was trying to read, really I was, but everyone was so emotional and there was crying and indigent verbal lashing and audible thought bubbles . . . aaaaah!!! I actually LEFT the woman’s waiting room, WEARING the smock (with my jeans and shoes too) to sit in the HALLWAY to escape the groaning and gnashing of teeth (my own). The technician had to hunt me down. They need pagers like restaurants.
All this took place from 1:45 p.m. (my actual appointment time) and 3:10 p.m. (the time of the actual mammogram.) I’m not going to get all upset about the waiting, though. I figure if someone takes their time with the patients ahead of me, they will take that same amount of care and time with me. Right? That’s my theory anyway.
The only thing I hate about the wait is the lack of communication. PinkGirl’s carpool is over at 3:00 p.m. but if I pick her up before 3:30 p.m. I don’t get charged for after care. This Tuesday, she was in pod casting club until 4:00 p.m. so it was no big deal. But when I know I’m going to be late on a regularly scheduled day, I can make arrangements for her brother or another parent to get her for me and save me the $8.00.
I try to make people aware of the communication issue without complaining. Yesterday, when the technician brought me back to the smock/soap opera room, it was 2:40 p.m. and when I saw two people ahead of me, I asked her if I should go ahead an make arrangements for someone to pick up my kids from school. I knew I didn’t need it that particular day, but I wanted her to be aware that information is helpful. She brushed me off initially, but when she came to get me, she apologized and I told her not to worry about it, I already took care of it. She apologized again and I told her that I didn’t really mind the wait, it was the not knowing that was the problem. (And the soap opera). Who knows, maybe she’ll communicate delays to patients in the future.
I’m still carrying a book in my purse. And I’m going to keep taking action, doing what I need to do.
