Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Throwing in the towel
NaBloPoMo 2007 has beaten me. I just can’t keep up. I love posting every day, and I especially love reading other’s daily posts. But once I got behind, I just kept slipping and fell even further and further behind. My apologies to all 3 of my readers out there. I will try to be a more frequent poster from here on out. A daily poster, I am not.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Frenzied Frantic Frazzled
Today has been one of those days. You know, one of THOSE days. It all started with feeling almost incapable of even lifting my head off the pillow this morning. I think it has something to do with the weather. I love that the weather is finally cool and has some sort of semblance of fall, but this kind of weather always makes me want to lounge around in my pajamas in bed all day. Oh, if only!
Getting to work on time was difficult because of my sloth-like movement around the house this morning. Fortunately, the Professor took charge of dealing with Charlie. After I arrived to work, there was no room for laziness. It was a very busy day and I am wiped out. I had meeting after meeting and project after project. My bosses seem to forget sometimes that they have asked me to take on some serious responsibilities, which makes it difficult for me when they ask me to, I don’t know, be a secretary. Their insignificant requests late this afternoon made me late for a work event (I hate being late!). That event started late, which made me late picking up Charlie from daycare. So now I am out an additional $14 that I have to pay to the daycare for being late. They charge $5 dollars for the first minute late and then $1/minute thereafter. So, I was 10 minutes late.
Did I mention that I hate being late? It aggravates me so much, and I hate the chaotic feeling that comes with it. I grew up in a house where everyone was always late. Always. Always! We spent most mornings rushing out the door, my mom speeding down Poplar to get to school on time. Even with all that rushing, I was still late. I probably had cafeteria duty more than anyone else in my school. I got sent to the office so many times for being late that I think Mr. Champion, the vice principal, felt a little sorry for me. I even took licks (slaps on the palms of the hands with a paddle) once for being late. It was either that or 3 days of detention.
Sunday mornings were no different. They were spent in a mad dash to make it to Sunday school/church on time. It rarely happened. I barely recall ever getting there in time for Sunday school. Instead of leisurely Sunday mornings with pancakes and the newspaper, my family spent time arguing about being late. There was always tension on Sunday mornings. My sister inevitably was much of the root of the problem. She was definitely a girly teenager and could not leave the house without full make-up and coifed hair. And then she had to decide what to wear. And then she had to dig it out of the piles of clothes on the floor. Sometimes it was my dad’s fault because he would take his time getting ready – he believed he had plenty of time because no one else would be ready on time. Other times, it was my mother. She tended to have last minute wardrobe changes (that of course required ironing). And many times, our tardiness was my fault. I had difficult waking up so early on Sunday mornings (it was the weekend!) and I did not like going to church. Especially, our church (that’s another post altogether).
What I hated most about the tardiness of our family, besides the frantic rushing to get somewhere all the time, was the waiting. If I needed to go somewhere, I often had to wait and wait and wait for something to take me. If I needed to be picked up, I usually had to wait and wait and wait for someone to show up. On days that I didn’t take the bus home, I had to wait and wait and wait on my mom. I spent a lot of time waiting in my early teen years and it really messed with me. I’m not talking about a mere 5 minutes here or 10 minutes there. The waiting periods were more like 20, 30, and even 45 minutes. And I’m not trying to imply that I expected my family to jump when I needed or wanted to go somewhere. Most of these instances were timed appointments: school, doctors’ appointments, getting picked up at a certain time from a friend’s house, etc.
When I got my own wheels, I vowed that I would work on my tardiness habit. It was hard pattern of life to shake, and I still am not completely past it. It’s almost as if it is engrained in my DNA or something. I really try, but sometimes I just lose my mind and tell myself that I have more time than I actually have. That’s how the cycle begins.
So, when I found myself late picking Charlie up last night from daycare, I was frantic and rushed. I didn’t care about the fact that they would charge me for the extra minutes. What I cared about was the pattern of tardiness that I was practicing and teaching Charlie. I hated that I was making him wait, wondering if anybody was coming to pick him up. I hated that I knew he was hungry and needed dinner. I hated that I usually pick him up at 5:15 and it was now 6:10 - almost an entire hour of waiting. I hate that I did that to him because I know what it feels like.
I know these things are impossible to avoid sometimes. I know that it is probably good to teach him that things don’t always work out the way you want or expect them to. But, I hope to never make him wait for me again.
Getting to work on time was difficult because of my sloth-like movement around the house this morning. Fortunately, the Professor took charge of dealing with Charlie. After I arrived to work, there was no room for laziness. It was a very busy day and I am wiped out. I had meeting after meeting and project after project. My bosses seem to forget sometimes that they have asked me to take on some serious responsibilities, which makes it difficult for me when they ask me to, I don’t know, be a secretary. Their insignificant requests late this afternoon made me late for a work event (I hate being late!). That event started late, which made me late picking up Charlie from daycare. So now I am out an additional $14 that I have to pay to the daycare for being late. They charge $5 dollars for the first minute late and then $1/minute thereafter. So, I was 10 minutes late.
Did I mention that I hate being late? It aggravates me so much, and I hate the chaotic feeling that comes with it. I grew up in a house where everyone was always late. Always. Always! We spent most mornings rushing out the door, my mom speeding down Poplar to get to school on time. Even with all that rushing, I was still late. I probably had cafeteria duty more than anyone else in my school. I got sent to the office so many times for being late that I think Mr. Champion, the vice principal, felt a little sorry for me. I even took licks (slaps on the palms of the hands with a paddle) once for being late. It was either that or 3 days of detention.
Sunday mornings were no different. They were spent in a mad dash to make it to Sunday school/church on time. It rarely happened. I barely recall ever getting there in time for Sunday school. Instead of leisurely Sunday mornings with pancakes and the newspaper, my family spent time arguing about being late. There was always tension on Sunday mornings. My sister inevitably was much of the root of the problem. She was definitely a girly teenager and could not leave the house without full make-up and coifed hair. And then she had to decide what to wear. And then she had to dig it out of the piles of clothes on the floor. Sometimes it was my dad’s fault because he would take his time getting ready – he believed he had plenty of time because no one else would be ready on time. Other times, it was my mother. She tended to have last minute wardrobe changes (that of course required ironing). And many times, our tardiness was my fault. I had difficult waking up so early on Sunday mornings (it was the weekend!) and I did not like going to church. Especially, our church (that’s another post altogether).
What I hated most about the tardiness of our family, besides the frantic rushing to get somewhere all the time, was the waiting. If I needed to go somewhere, I often had to wait and wait and wait for something to take me. If I needed to be picked up, I usually had to wait and wait and wait for someone to show up. On days that I didn’t take the bus home, I had to wait and wait and wait on my mom. I spent a lot of time waiting in my early teen years and it really messed with me. I’m not talking about a mere 5 minutes here or 10 minutes there. The waiting periods were more like 20, 30, and even 45 minutes. And I’m not trying to imply that I expected my family to jump when I needed or wanted to go somewhere. Most of these instances were timed appointments: school, doctors’ appointments, getting picked up at a certain time from a friend’s house, etc.
When I got my own wheels, I vowed that I would work on my tardiness habit. It was hard pattern of life to shake, and I still am not completely past it. It’s almost as if it is engrained in my DNA or something. I really try, but sometimes I just lose my mind and tell myself that I have more time than I actually have. That’s how the cycle begins.
So, when I found myself late picking Charlie up last night from daycare, I was frantic and rushed. I didn’t care about the fact that they would charge me for the extra minutes. What I cared about was the pattern of tardiness that I was practicing and teaching Charlie. I hated that I was making him wait, wondering if anybody was coming to pick him up. I hated that I knew he was hungry and needed dinner. I hated that I usually pick him up at 5:15 and it was now 6:10 - almost an entire hour of waiting. I hate that I did that to him because I know what it feels like.
I know these things are impossible to avoid sometimes. I know that it is probably good to teach him that things don’t always work out the way you want or expect them to. But, I hope to never make him wait for me again.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Potty for Christmas
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about potty training and how much I DON’T know about it. I’ve looked on line and read things here and there and have heard others stories about the ins and outs of this milestone of their children’s lives. Most of the advice I get has at its core the notion that “when they’re ready to do it, they are ready.” Cool. I can live with that.In my potty training research, I have read several stories about kids potty training at ages as young as 16 months. Wow! I had no idea it could happen that early! And these stories weren’t necessarily about those who decide to notice the rhythms of their child’s body and then holding them over the toilet when the think they need to go. You’ve heard of those people, the ones who apparently have all the time in the world to watch when their kid flinches in just that way and then rushes them to the toilet. I’m all for having fewer diapers in the world, but I just cannot ever imagine a time when I would be available enough to do this.
I guess I’ve just been a little obsessed with this topic lately because I’m feeling a bit guilty about using disposable diapers. I went on the gDiapers website and saw the horrifying evidence that disposables really are that bad for the environment. I could make myself feel better and just start using the gDiapers but they are so expensive, too expensive. I even toyed with the idea of switching to cloth diapers but fear that the experiment would backfire because Charlie is so accustomed to disposables. And I am not even sure my daycare is willing to accommodate the change either.
Thus, the potty. I plan to get Charlie a training toilet soon. I don’t plan to begin the actual training right away, but I want him to have the opportunity to explore the option as soon as possible. I thought about getting him one as one of his Christmas presents, but the Professor won’t let me. In his mind, a potty is not an appropriate gift. In my mind, giving it as a gift might give Charlie a reason to love it more.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
When I say blue, yell blue!
I’ve failed. I missed a post yesterday. I had full intentions of logging on to the computer and whipping out something witty and quick. But it never happened. What with all the business of the day, I just could not find the energy to pull my self off the couch last night to write something. It doesn’t help that I fell asleep on said sofa before 10:00 p.m. To make up for it, I’ll try to do a double post today (or sometime this week). Posting every day is difficult, especially on the weekends.
Yesterday, I went to my nieces’ cheerleading competition. M (5) and T (7) are both cheerleaders this year, and their teams participated in the competition called Cheer Off. M is on the Flag team and T is on the Pee Wee team. They were anxious, nervous and excited and both did very well. I was so proud of them, and of course they were adorable.
When my sister signed them up for cheerleading, at first I was a little apprehensive. I guess I reverted back to my high school days and the stereotype that cheerleaders are just a bunch of bubbly back-stabbing-bitches. But then I thought more about it and dug deep into my memory. And really, I don’t remember cheerleaders at my school being this way at all. In fact, some of them were my friends, and most of them were pretty cool. For example, Leigh Hood was a cheerleader. For those of you that remember her, you know what I’m talking about. One of my close friends Stephanie was also a cheerleader, and she’s not like that either. She is one of the kindest people who will go out of her way to do something for a friend. Now that’s rare.
So, I thought and thought about why I had this nagging uneasiness about cheerleading. And then it dawned on me. In 4th grade, I was a cheerleader. At the time, I was going to a private school but I was somehow able to cheer for the neighborhood public school. I think I was eligible because I had gone to that school in previous years. At the same time, I was taking violin lessons twice a week. The expensive private violin lessons that my parents could not afford made me about 15 minutes late for cheerleading practice. And I always got chewed out for it by our sponsor, Mrs. Shipp. It always made me feel wretched.
I really liked cheerleading for a while. My best friend was on the team and we had fun practicing together. I was into gymnastics so I liked the tumbling aspect of it as well. But digging through the dark cave of my cheerleading memories, I found that I probably disliked it more than I liked it. Here’s why:
1. Getting chewed out for being late to practice because my mom was also making me take violin lessons. I guess she thought that violin and cheerleading would be a good balance. Come to think of it, Leigh Hood played the violin and was a cheerleader. Again, she was cool. Maybe I should have stuck with both?
2. Having to put on a fake smile all the time and pretend I was having the time of my life when in reality, I was trying to keep count to the routine in my head and not screw up.
3. Some of the other girls on the team actually were bubbly back-stabbing bitches. Mrs. Shipp’s daughter was on the team, and she was one of them. I didn’t go to school with any of them either, which made my sense of belonging that much more difficult.
4. Homecoming. A boy had to escort me on the football field. I hated that moment. I was in 4th grade and did not know the guy, and I simply found this experience to be horrifying.
5. Competitions. Boy, were these girls serious about the competitions. They made me so nervous and sick. I always did my job and never screwed up, but we never won. This made some of those bubbly back-stabbing bitches even bitchier. I remember one competition where half of our pyramid fell down. It was unavoidable because the girl on top lost her footing which led to a fall which left the spotter unable to keep another girl from falling off the side – it was an honest mistake. Before we even made it back to the stands after our routine, there was already some serious blame being thrown around. Tears were shed, feelings were hurt, and it was an altogether unpleasant experience that is burned into my memory. In another competition, our girls were confident. We did our routine perfectly and everyone was sure we would win. We didn’t. We didn’t even place. The other teams were just better. But gosh, you would have thought someone died there were so many tears that day. The disappointment was just brutal.
This is why I do not like cheerleading.
BUT, I do think that there are good things that can come from it. I’m not that much of a pessimist. First of all, I think it is good for building strong, confident women. The health aspects are great and the sense of teamwork is like none other in the world of athletics. The girls get to be with their friends, dance, tumble, and scream their heads off, all the while having people cheer for them. They have to work hard, discipline themselves, and learn about the value of practice and having a focus. Now who couldn’t use a little more of that in their lives?
My nieces did a great job yesterday, and I was happy that I was there to cheer them on in support. I think they had a great time, which is all that matters anyway. And if I have anything to do with it, they will never become my stereotype of a cheerleader. Instead, they’ll be strong, confident, and happy.
Yesterday, I went to my nieces’ cheerleading competition. M (5) and T (7) are both cheerleaders this year, and their teams participated in the competition called Cheer Off. M is on the Flag team and T is on the Pee Wee team. They were anxious, nervous and excited and both did very well. I was so proud of them, and of course they were adorable.
When my sister signed them up for cheerleading, at first I was a little apprehensive. I guess I reverted back to my high school days and the stereotype that cheerleaders are just a bunch of bubbly back-stabbing-bitches. But then I thought more about it and dug deep into my memory. And really, I don’t remember cheerleaders at my school being this way at all. In fact, some of them were my friends, and most of them were pretty cool. For example, Leigh Hood was a cheerleader. For those of you that remember her, you know what I’m talking about. One of my close friends Stephanie was also a cheerleader, and she’s not like that either. She is one of the kindest people who will go out of her way to do something for a friend. Now that’s rare.
So, I thought and thought about why I had this nagging uneasiness about cheerleading. And then it dawned on me. In 4th grade, I was a cheerleader. At the time, I was going to a private school but I was somehow able to cheer for the neighborhood public school. I think I was eligible because I had gone to that school in previous years. At the same time, I was taking violin lessons twice a week. The expensive private violin lessons that my parents could not afford made me about 15 minutes late for cheerleading practice. And I always got chewed out for it by our sponsor, Mrs. Shipp. It always made me feel wretched.
I really liked cheerleading for a while. My best friend was on the team and we had fun practicing together. I was into gymnastics so I liked the tumbling aspect of it as well. But digging through the dark cave of my cheerleading memories, I found that I probably disliked it more than I liked it. Here’s why:
1. Getting chewed out for being late to practice because my mom was also making me take violin lessons. I guess she thought that violin and cheerleading would be a good balance. Come to think of it, Leigh Hood played the violin and was a cheerleader. Again, she was cool. Maybe I should have stuck with both?
2. Having to put on a fake smile all the time and pretend I was having the time of my life when in reality, I was trying to keep count to the routine in my head and not screw up.
3. Some of the other girls on the team actually were bubbly back-stabbing bitches. Mrs. Shipp’s daughter was on the team, and she was one of them. I didn’t go to school with any of them either, which made my sense of belonging that much more difficult.
4. Homecoming. A boy had to escort me on the football field. I hated that moment. I was in 4th grade and did not know the guy, and I simply found this experience to be horrifying.
5. Competitions. Boy, were these girls serious about the competitions. They made me so nervous and sick. I always did my job and never screwed up, but we never won. This made some of those bubbly back-stabbing bitches even bitchier. I remember one competition where half of our pyramid fell down. It was unavoidable because the girl on top lost her footing which led to a fall which left the spotter unable to keep another girl from falling off the side – it was an honest mistake. Before we even made it back to the stands after our routine, there was already some serious blame being thrown around. Tears were shed, feelings were hurt, and it was an altogether unpleasant experience that is burned into my memory. In another competition, our girls were confident. We did our routine perfectly and everyone was sure we would win. We didn’t. We didn’t even place. The other teams were just better. But gosh, you would have thought someone died there were so many tears that day. The disappointment was just brutal.
This is why I do not like cheerleading.
BUT, I do think that there are good things that can come from it. I’m not that much of a pessimist. First of all, I think it is good for building strong, confident women. The health aspects are great and the sense of teamwork is like none other in the world of athletics. The girls get to be with their friends, dance, tumble, and scream their heads off, all the while having people cheer for them. They have to work hard, discipline themselves, and learn about the value of practice and having a focus. Now who couldn’t use a little more of that in their lives?
My nieces did a great job yesterday, and I was happy that I was there to cheer them on in support. I think they had a great time, which is all that matters anyway. And if I have anything to do with it, they will never become my stereotype of a cheerleader. Instead, they’ll be strong, confident, and happy.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Not that I'm trying to tell you what to do but...
This morning, the Professor and I headed to Easy Way to begin our regular weekend shopping. I love that store. I especially love that we leave with an overflowing cart and have only spent $20. What I don't love is the tight quarters of the place, and that shopping there early on a Saturday morning means vying for cart space with some of our fair city's older population. Usually, I am appreciative of the adoring comments these ladies lay on Charlie, but on this particular day, I got very annoyed.
A woman (probably in her mid to late 70s) made the usual Oh, he's so cute comment about Charlie. I smiled and said thanks and prepared to move on. [I failed to mention that at this time, Charlie is busy sucking on one of the plastic produce bags. We gave him this to avert his attention from throwing the contents of our shopping cart across the store.] Here is how the conversation went.
Her: You shouldn't let him play with that bag. They're dangerous.
Me: Yes, I know. But I am keeping a very close eye on him. As long as I keep watching him, I'm sure nothing will happen. He's happy and he's fine.
Her: Well, you shouldn't let him play with it. He could put it over his head and suffocate.
Me: Thanks, but he won't do that because I am watching him.
Her: You shouldn't let him play with it. He could suffocate.
Me: (BIG sigh) Okay, thanks (with gritted teeth).
Did she really think I would let my kid, the love of my life, put a plastic bag OVER his head?
Charlie and I walked back over to the Professor while he was trying to pick out the freshest head of romaine. He could tell I was annoyed and asked me what happened. I gave him the run-down of the conversation, let him know I was fine, but that I really did not want unsolicited (and stupid) advice from a perfect stranger.
His response: You should have just said, "how about I put this plastic bag over your head? What do you think would happen then?"
While I don't agree with harming others to get them to back off, I did get a good chuckle from this.
A woman (probably in her mid to late 70s) made the usual Oh, he's so cute comment about Charlie. I smiled and said thanks and prepared to move on. [I failed to mention that at this time, Charlie is busy sucking on one of the plastic produce bags. We gave him this to avert his attention from throwing the contents of our shopping cart across the store.] Here is how the conversation went.
Her: You shouldn't let him play with that bag. They're dangerous.
Me: Yes, I know. But I am keeping a very close eye on him. As long as I keep watching him, I'm sure nothing will happen. He's happy and he's fine.
Her: Well, you shouldn't let him play with it. He could put it over his head and suffocate.
Me: Thanks, but he won't do that because I am watching him.
Her: You shouldn't let him play with it. He could suffocate.
Me: (BIG sigh) Okay, thanks (with gritted teeth).
Did she really think I would let my kid, the love of my life, put a plastic bag OVER his head?
Charlie and I walked back over to the Professor while he was trying to pick out the freshest head of romaine. He could tell I was annoyed and asked me what happened. I gave him the run-down of the conversation, let him know I was fine, but that I really did not want unsolicited (and stupid) advice from a perfect stranger.
His response: You should have just said, "how about I put this plastic bag over your head? What do you think would happen then?"
While I don't agree with harming others to get them to back off, I did get a good chuckle from this.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Random and uninspired
I’m feeling good today because last night was my final event for The Big Read. We held an event at Theatre Memphis and it was totally awesome. Lots of students showed up, the acting was superb, and the discussion was enlightening. This was a great way to end this program. Now I just have to write the report for the grant. Wretch.
________________________________________
I’ve been curious about Google Ads on blogs. I am not necessarily for it or opposed to it. I wonder if any money can actually be made, especially for a blog that is not widely read. The Professor and I had a discussion last night about credit card debt. We have a 5-year plan to pay it off, but the 5-year plan has been in existence for 5 years already, and we still have 5 years to go. Maybe Google Ads could help whittle those bills down?
________________________________________
My baby will be walking any day now! For the longest time, he would only walk if someone held both of his hands. But yesterday when I picked him up from school, he walked all the way from his classroom to the water fountain and then from the water fountain to the car, the whole time only holding one of my hands. In the other hand, he held his cup. He was so proud of himself! I was proud of him, too. Unfortunatley, learning to walk also comes with a multitude of bumps and bruises. He now has a bruise on his forehead, a bruise on his temple, a cut on that place between the top lip and the nose, and several bruises on his legs. Let’s hope no one mistakenly calls Child Protective Services on me! But, with all the falls, missed steps, bumps, cuts and bruises, my little man persists and gets right back up to getting from point A to B. So, I guess that is inspiring.
________________________________________
I’ve been curious about Google Ads on blogs. I am not necessarily for it or opposed to it. I wonder if any money can actually be made, especially for a blog that is not widely read. The Professor and I had a discussion last night about credit card debt. We have a 5-year plan to pay it off, but the 5-year plan has been in existence for 5 years already, and we still have 5 years to go. Maybe Google Ads could help whittle those bills down?
________________________________________
My baby will be walking any day now! For the longest time, he would only walk if someone held both of his hands. But yesterday when I picked him up from school, he walked all the way from his classroom to the water fountain and then from the water fountain to the car, the whole time only holding one of my hands. In the other hand, he held his cup. He was so proud of himself! I was proud of him, too. Unfortunatley, learning to walk also comes with a multitude of bumps and bruises. He now has a bruise on his forehead, a bruise on his temple, a cut on that place between the top lip and the nose, and several bruises on his legs. Let’s hope no one mistakenly calls Child Protective Services on me! But, with all the falls, missed steps, bumps, cuts and bruises, my little man persists and gets right back up to getting from point A to B. So, I guess that is inspiring.
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