...of Motor Vehicles, and the Drivers' License building.
That's where we spent half of our morning. It actually didn't take too long to register the car at the DMV.
The drivers licensing process, though--my goodness. At least we had all the right documents!
First, there was the line when we first walked in the door, where people waited to find and fill out whichever application fit their need. Since we had already downloaded and printed our appropriate applications from the internet, we slipped by there without hiccups.
The purpose of the second line was to get a number. But this wasn't just a pull-tab machine we waited to see. At the front of this line was a man whose job was to discover our business and then make sure we had all the right documents. I actually think this is a great idea; presumably, with this mechanism in place, people don't waste half their morning waiting for their number to be called, just to be told that they can't do what they've come to do. After he paper-clipped our relevant documents together with a (pull-tab) number on top, we got to sit in the plastic chairs!! (Every DMV building has the same plastic chairs.) There, we watched red digital numbers flash on a small screen. Actually, I helped Tigger bounce on and off the chairs and run up and down the rows, while Doo kept an eye on the numbers.
Since there are so many different people waiting, with so many different reasons for being there, the numbers don't seem to have any consistent order or pattern. It's like winning a raffle when your number flashes in red up on the black rectangle!
Doo and I went to separate windows to hand in our individual paperwork and get a "kiosk number" in order to take the written (open book) exam. Fortunately, I finished my exam by the time Doo was ready to start his, and the Tigger hand-off went very smoothly.
After the exam, there is one more line to wait in: here, the desk clerk hands you a temporary paper license and informs you that the real one will arrive by mail in 4 to 6 weeks.
What?! Is this piece of paper going to work at the liquor store? Or do I need to carry around my birth certificate, marriage license, and social security card for the next month?
:)
Sort of anticlimactic.
But now it's done. Tonight we'll put our new orange and blue plate on the back of the Sonata, proudly displaying our residency in the state that boasts of Arches National Park.
And in about a month we'll again have drivers' licenses that fit into our wallets.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Multi-use
Tigger has been introducing me to the variety of ways that everyday items can be utilized.
For example...
It's a tire lever, used to change tires on the bike and stroller.
OR, it's a nifty hook for pulling all of the dirty clothes out of the laundry basket.
It's an empty waste basket.
OR, it's a household "shopping cart," perfect for pushing around the wood floors and collecting toys.
It's a fly swatter.
OR, it's a really neat toy that bends when you shake it hard.
It's a pot lid.
OR, it's a great metal noisemaker when you throw it on the floor. Again, and again, and again.
It's a dog leash.
OR, it itself is a pet--to be dragged around for a "walk" and checked on every few steps.
It's an unpacked box of books.
OR, it's a jungle gym, perfect for climbing.
For example...
It's a tire lever, used to change tires on the bike and stroller.
OR, it's a nifty hook for pulling all of the dirty clothes out of the laundry basket.
It's an empty waste basket.
OR, it's a household "shopping cart," perfect for pushing around the wood floors and collecting toys.
It's a fly swatter.
OR, it's a really neat toy that bends when you shake it hard.
It's a pot lid.
OR, it's a great metal noisemaker when you throw it on the floor. Again, and again, and again.
It's a dog leash.
OR, it itself is a pet--to be dragged around for a "walk" and checked on every few steps.
It's an unpacked box of books.
OR, it's a jungle gym, perfect for climbing.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Hairy Muffin
My little boy's hair has a very fine texture, but it grows quickly.
When he was about 7 months old, I noticed that it was creeping over his ears and winging out on either side of his head. When I pointed this out to my husband, Doo replied, "Oh, it's fine. We don't need to worry about it yet." I considered this a legitimate response, and finally agreed; he's a baby, not a PFC.
(See those wisps of hair over the ears? At the time, it was very noticeable. Really.)
Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I came home from work to find my little baby's hair much shorter along the sides! My husband had taken his clipper set and gone to work. It actually looked rather cute.
But I voiced my primary "first-time mommy" concern: Did you save a lock of hair?
Doo shook his head, No; I mainly just trimmed the sides. There weren't any strands long enough to save.
I was a little disappointed, but happy to hear that the child still had some "original hair" up top, hanging down over his brow. When we get around to cutting those, I thought, I'll save a nice little bunch.
About 3 months later, the day came. My husband announced his intention to give our son another haircut, and I promptly trimmed a bit of the hair that was now hanging over his eyebrows. I stowed it safely in a plastic sandwich bag to deal with later. For the time being, it got tossed on the kitchen counter.
I forgot about it.
Until the next day.
Doo called from work. He does this often; sometimes he has a question, sometimes he needs me to tell me something or have me go pick something up, and sometimes he just phones to see how we're doing. This call was of the third category, a casual check-in.
So I reciprocated, So, how is everything there?
Oh, it's okay, he replied. Except I couldn't eat that strawberry muffin you put in my lunch today.
Oh, yeah? Why's that? I asked.
It was full of hair! I think you put the muffin in Tigger's hair bag.
WHAT??!! Oh, gross.
Neither of us could stop laughing.
Yeah, I'm sorry. I had to throw it out.
Hey, that's okay.
A few months later, we cut my son's hair for the third time. With the electric clippers, there wasn't enough length to save any.
I'm still not sure if I'll bother to save a lock of Tiernan's hair from his fourth haircut.
Eh.
When he was about 7 months old, I noticed that it was creeping over his ears and winging out on either side of his head. When I pointed this out to my husband, Doo replied, "Oh, it's fine. We don't need to worry about it yet." I considered this a legitimate response, and finally agreed; he's a baby, not a PFC.
(See those wisps of hair over the ears? At the time, it was very noticeable. Really.)
Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I came home from work to find my little baby's hair much shorter along the sides! My husband had taken his clipper set and gone to work. It actually looked rather cute.
But I voiced my primary "first-time mommy" concern: Did you save a lock of hair?
Doo shook his head, No; I mainly just trimmed the sides. There weren't any strands long enough to save.
I was a little disappointed, but happy to hear that the child still had some "original hair" up top, hanging down over his brow. When we get around to cutting those, I thought, I'll save a nice little bunch.
About 3 months later, the day came. My husband announced his intention to give our son another haircut, and I promptly trimmed a bit of the hair that was now hanging over his eyebrows. I stowed it safely in a plastic sandwich bag to deal with later. For the time being, it got tossed on the kitchen counter.
I forgot about it.
Until the next day.
Doo called from work. He does this often; sometimes he has a question, sometimes he needs me to tell me something or have me go pick something up, and sometimes he just phones to see how we're doing. This call was of the third category, a casual check-in.
So I reciprocated, So, how is everything there?
Oh, it's okay, he replied. Except I couldn't eat that strawberry muffin you put in my lunch today.
Oh, yeah? Why's that? I asked.
It was full of hair! I think you put the muffin in Tigger's hair bag.
WHAT??!! Oh, gross.
Neither of us could stop laughing.
Yeah, I'm sorry. I had to throw it out.
Hey, that's okay.
A few months later, we cut my son's hair for the third time. With the electric clippers, there wasn't enough length to save any.
I'm still not sure if I'll bother to save a lock of Tiernan's hair from his fourth haircut.
Eh.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Renewal, and Reasons to Remember
Hopefully this is the post that announces, "I'm baaaack!!!"
I have my doubts.
But I also have some motivation. After lurking at the blogs of various friends, and especially at the site of one member of my family, I have felt the urge to keep my own record again.
I don't know who to credit with the quotation, "The days are long but the years are short;" however, I know I didn't believe it until I had my first child. In the past 16 months of his life so far...
-My DH (whom I refer to as Doodle, or Doo) wrote and defended his thesis, then
-He graduated with his PhD, which allowed him some time to
-Demonstrate what a devoted and loving father he was born to be.
-We've moved 3 times, twice across state lines.
-I've held 4 different part-time jobs outside of the home, as well as one ever-evolving stay-at-home responsibility.
-My son has gone from a helpless infant to a trotting toddler, capable of letting our dog know when he's overstepped his boundaries.
-My son has had 3 haircuts, and needs another (more on that in another post).
-We found out that we're expecting baby #2!
And these are all events that have happened within our young, small, nuclear family. If I include extended family, I have to mention the loss from one death, the gains from two weddings, one college graduation, and many more moves and transitions--physical, emotional, and spiritual--than I can recall.
The thing is, I want to remember. I want to be able to look back and relive the excitement I felt when we discovered we'd be moving west to Utah. I want to remember our family reunion in May of 2010 when we all stayed at the beach house and I announced that the ninth grandchild was on the way. Right now I can tell you that my son starting walking when he was ten and a half months old, but after I've had one or two more children, will I keep all those milestones straight?
When Our Lady experienced the miracle of the Nativity, she "treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart." Luke 2:19
Now that I am a mother, these personal events are my own treasures, and I feel compelled to keep them safe for my children in the future. Someday, if they choose, they can see what their lives mean through my eyes.
Even if no one else cares, I have plenty to record.
Many reasons to hold onto these memories.
And, please God, the grace to do so with honesty, love, and the good of my family at heart.
I have my doubts.
But I also have some motivation. After lurking at the blogs of various friends, and especially at the site of one member of my family, I have felt the urge to keep my own record again.
I don't know who to credit with the quotation, "The days are long but the years are short;" however, I know I didn't believe it until I had my first child. In the past 16 months of his life so far...
-My DH (whom I refer to as Doodle, or Doo) wrote and defended his thesis, then
-He graduated with his PhD, which allowed him some time to
-Demonstrate what a devoted and loving father he was born to be.
-We've moved 3 times, twice across state lines.
-I've held 4 different part-time jobs outside of the home, as well as one ever-evolving stay-at-home responsibility.
-My son has gone from a helpless infant to a trotting toddler, capable of letting our dog know when he's overstepped his boundaries.
-My son has had 3 haircuts, and needs another (more on that in another post).
-We found out that we're expecting baby #2!
And these are all events that have happened within our young, small, nuclear family. If I include extended family, I have to mention the loss from one death, the gains from two weddings, one college graduation, and many more moves and transitions--physical, emotional, and spiritual--than I can recall.
The thing is, I want to remember. I want to be able to look back and relive the excitement I felt when we discovered we'd be moving west to Utah. I want to remember our family reunion in May of 2010 when we all stayed at the beach house and I announced that the ninth grandchild was on the way. Right now I can tell you that my son starting walking when he was ten and a half months old, but after I've had one or two more children, will I keep all those milestones straight?
When Our Lady experienced the miracle of the Nativity, she "treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart." Luke 2:19
Now that I am a mother, these personal events are my own treasures, and I feel compelled to keep them safe for my children in the future. Someday, if they choose, they can see what their lives mean through my eyes.
Even if no one else cares, I have plenty to record.
Many reasons to hold onto these memories.
And, please God, the grace to do so with honesty, love, and the good of my family at heart.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Early mornings
Our morning routine begins when my DH, Doodle, wakes up early and takes our energetic dog, Caomhan, for a walk. This has been especially enjoyable for Doodle during the last month or so, since he is a serious bird-watcher, and it has been the season for Spring Migration. For the past few weeks, he has been returning to the house each day with a different exciting report of various warblers, passing through the state of North Carolina, on their way to points north.
Then Spring Migration was over. Suddenly. Last week.
This removes a huge motivating factor in Doodle's routine to wake up early. Nevermind walking the energetic dog. Add to that the fact that now, he has less than a month before his dissertation defense (and he is still writing his dissertation). This means late nights, followed by very UNrefreshing mornings, as he faces each day with dread and stress.
So last week, I spontaneously took the opportunity--3 times!--to wake up early and take our energetic dog out for a run, while Doodle gratefully stayed in bed with our little son. It was fun to do our usual route (which I walk regularly with him each afternoon), without the heat and weight of the baby on my chest. We also finished in half the time it takes to walk when I'm carrying the baby. Caomhan happily trotted along, and seemed genuinely fatigued when we got back home.
And this is what I found upon re-entering our bedroom, one morning last week:
Then Spring Migration was over. Suddenly. Last week.
This removes a huge motivating factor in Doodle's routine to wake up early. Nevermind walking the energetic dog. Add to that the fact that now, he has less than a month before his dissertation defense (and he is still writing his dissertation). This means late nights, followed by very UNrefreshing mornings, as he faces each day with dread and stress.
So last week, I spontaneously took the opportunity--3 times!--to wake up early and take our energetic dog out for a run, while Doodle gratefully stayed in bed with our little son. It was fun to do our usual route (which I walk regularly with him each afternoon), without the heat and weight of the baby on my chest. We also finished in half the time it takes to walk when I'm carrying the baby. Caomhan happily trotted along, and seemed genuinely fatigued when we got back home.
And this is what I found upon re-entering our bedroom, one morning last week:
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Sleepy Wrap
Doodle wanted to make sure he felt completely comfortable using the Sleepy Wrap...
...before he put our most Precious Cargo into it:
...before he put our most Precious Cargo into it:
Friday, May 08, 2009
Delayed Announcement
I don't currently have access to the internet at home, and it's difficult enough to attempt upkeep of a blog with internet access at work! Now that I'm not working (as of Good Friday, hurray!) it's even harder!
But our precious son, Tiernan Lorenzo, hereafter referred to as "Tigger," was born April 14th at 2:12am, weighing in at 8lb, 4oz.
Behold, the cuteness:
And what's even better is that today he was baptized. So for now, he's our little saint :) . "No malice for several years yet," assured Fr. Check.
But our precious son, Tiernan Lorenzo, hereafter referred to as "Tigger," was born April 14th at 2:12am, weighing in at 8lb, 4oz.
Behold, the cuteness:
And what's even better is that today he was baptized. So for now, he's our little saint :) . "No malice for several years yet," assured Fr. Check.
Friday, April 03, 2009
39 weeks and counting... !
I think this baby is taking his/her time. The baby's head still isn't engaged in my pelvis, so I deferred the internal exam this week.
Maybe by my next appointment, I'll feel a little closer to birth-day!
Thanks for all the prayers!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Another March Birthday!
Happy 21st!! ...to the Fortunate Alvy, who is becoming more and more beautiful every year.
I have such lovely sisters.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Saturday Work
I love my per-diem Saturday job, at a small regional hospital the next town over. Everyone there is very laid back, welcoming, and sincerely interested in supporting their co-workers.
After attaching a copy of my resignation letter to the director of rehab services there, I received this email reply:
"Dear [Sephora],
I regret to inform you that your resignation has been rejected and declined. Therefore we anticipate your return to PRN following your maternity leave and relocation. Please plan all of your future shifts around your travel time so that you are not late for work. Thank you.
Sorry to see you go!! Congratulations and good luck w/ all of the new changes in your life. If you are ever back in the area and are looking for work don't hesitate to contact us.
[Todd]"
After attaching a copy of my resignation letter to the director of rehab services there, I received this email reply:
"Dear [Sephora],
I regret to inform you that your resignation has been rejected and declined. Therefore we anticipate your return to PRN following your maternity leave and relocation. Please plan all of your future shifts around your travel time so that you are not late for work. Thank you.
Sorry to see you go!! Congratulations and good luck w/ all of the new changes in your life. If you are ever back in the area and are looking for work don't hesitate to contact us.
[Todd]"
Big Day:
Happy Birthday to Portia-Bean! May your day be filled with blessings and some sort of successful outing!
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Kindness from Strangers
I'm 7 months pregnant, but since I wear a big, oversized ski jacket that I've had since early college days, no one can tell that I have a protruding middle when it's cold out.
And it's now wintertime, even in North Carolina (most of the time).
So this means that when I get on the bus to go to work, I look like any other young woman in scrub pants, hat, and huge ski jacket getting on a bus. Since I live relatively close to the hospital, the bus is inevitably full in the morning by the time it stops near my house. I stand and hold the bar for about a half mile before the first main stop comes where half of the students exit, and I find a seat.
At first, I was a bit annoyed that I had to stand "in my condition(!)" and I resented my large jacket. But soon I realized how silly I was being: here I was, going to work as a physical therapist at the hospital, where I'm on my feet all day (except when I'm on my knees instead, crawling around the floor retrieving balls that I've coaxed my young charges to throw!) Why should I need a seat on the bus for a 15 minute ride in the morning? Besides, I can only imagine how awkward I'd start to feel if, everytime I entered the bus, somebody gave me a seat. I'd start to feel guilty that my stop was so late in the route.
As a result of these personal revelations, I've accustommed myself to making sure my jacket is zippered; I expect no special courtesies by others who are also half-asleep while making their ways to their respective jobs.
So of course, it came as a surprise one evening this week when I went grocery shopping (and happened to have my jacket unbuttoned). I pushed my cart up to the register where "Tina" was stationed.
Instead of the company-scripted, "Did you find everything okay?" Tina asked me, "What are you having?"
I looked at her quizzically--I may have even said, "excuse me?" because I had no idea what she was referring to. Did she wonder how everything in my cart might make one dinner menu for the night?
"Boy or girl?" she clarified.
"Oh! I'm sorry--we don't know. We're keeping it a surprise," I respond--just now realizing that my jacket is unzipped. At this point, I wonder whether I should hand her my discount shopping card (DSC); we're so off-script that I'm a bit frazzled. She hasn't asked for my card--and she's already proceeding to the part where she scans my groceries!!
Apparently, the spontaneous nature of the encounter doesn't phase her.
"Is this your first?" she continues, gingerly plucking my DSC from my half-outstretched hand, scannning it, and returning it.
"Yes, it is," I say, half-absently--since now I'm trying to swipe my debit card, and I'm one of those people who actually needs to READ the digital instructions on the card reader to make sure I do everything in the right order.
"That's so exciting," she coos.
"I know! We're very excited," I reply, finally finished with the logistical aspects of my checkout procedures. I move to the end of the counter to start bagging my goods.
Tina refuses to let the belt carry them down to me: "I can do all that when I'm done," she says.
"No, it's okay if I start them," I tell her.
She reluctantly turns her belt on, realizing that I'm about to reach across the counter to grab my blueberries.
I finish about 3 bags' worth when another girl comes up behind me: "I can finish these for you, ma'am!"
I step aside and thank her. Soon there is a third staff member present, and everyone is scanning, or bagging, or loading my cart.
"See, there's plenty of us here to do this for you!" Tina rejoices.
After I pay, Tina goes off-script once again. Instead of, "Would you like help out today?" she looks at me and says, "We're helping you out to your car. You're pregnant enough..." I laugh, but thank her, and chat with the "bagger" on the way out.
Of course, when I get home, I lug all the groceries around the house to our apartment, a few bags at a time, and I'm none the worse for the effort.
But it's refreshing to taste kindness from strangers.
And it's now wintertime, even in North Carolina (most of the time).
So this means that when I get on the bus to go to work, I look like any other young woman in scrub pants, hat, and huge ski jacket getting on a bus. Since I live relatively close to the hospital, the bus is inevitably full in the morning by the time it stops near my house. I stand and hold the bar for about a half mile before the first main stop comes where half of the students exit, and I find a seat.
At first, I was a bit annoyed that I had to stand "in my condition(!)" and I resented my large jacket. But soon I realized how silly I was being: here I was, going to work as a physical therapist at the hospital, where I'm on my feet all day (except when I'm on my knees instead, crawling around the floor retrieving balls that I've coaxed my young charges to throw!) Why should I need a seat on the bus for a 15 minute ride in the morning? Besides, I can only imagine how awkward I'd start to feel if, everytime I entered the bus, somebody gave me a seat. I'd start to feel guilty that my stop was so late in the route.
As a result of these personal revelations, I've accustommed myself to making sure my jacket is zippered; I expect no special courtesies by others who are also half-asleep while making their ways to their respective jobs.
So of course, it came as a surprise one evening this week when I went grocery shopping (and happened to have my jacket unbuttoned). I pushed my cart up to the register where "Tina" was stationed.
Instead of the company-scripted, "Did you find everything okay?" Tina asked me, "What are you having?"
I looked at her quizzically--I may have even said, "excuse me?" because I had no idea what she was referring to. Did she wonder how everything in my cart might make one dinner menu for the night?
"Boy or girl?" she clarified.
"Oh! I'm sorry--we don't know. We're keeping it a surprise," I respond--just now realizing that my jacket is unzipped. At this point, I wonder whether I should hand her my discount shopping card (DSC); we're so off-script that I'm a bit frazzled. She hasn't asked for my card--and she's already proceeding to the part where she scans my groceries!!
Apparently, the spontaneous nature of the encounter doesn't phase her.
"Is this your first?" she continues, gingerly plucking my DSC from my half-outstretched hand, scannning it, and returning it.
"Yes, it is," I say, half-absently--since now I'm trying to swipe my debit card, and I'm one of those people who actually needs to READ the digital instructions on the card reader to make sure I do everything in the right order.
"That's so exciting," she coos.
"I know! We're very excited," I reply, finally finished with the logistical aspects of my checkout procedures. I move to the end of the counter to start bagging my goods.
Tina refuses to let the belt carry them down to me: "I can do all that when I'm done," she says.
"No, it's okay if I start them," I tell her.
She reluctantly turns her belt on, realizing that I'm about to reach across the counter to grab my blueberries.
I finish about 3 bags' worth when another girl comes up behind me: "I can finish these for you, ma'am!"
I step aside and thank her. Soon there is a third staff member present, and everyone is scanning, or bagging, or loading my cart.
"See, there's plenty of us here to do this for you!" Tina rejoices.
After I pay, Tina goes off-script once again. Instead of, "Would you like help out today?" she looks at me and says, "We're helping you out to your car. You're pregnant enough..." I laugh, but thank her, and chat with the "bagger" on the way out.
Of course, when I get home, I lug all the groceries around the house to our apartment, a few bags at a time, and I'm none the worse for the effort.
But it's refreshing to taste kindness from strangers.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Obama's Statement
So this is the rhetoric we're given on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade:
"On the 36th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, we are reminded that this decision not only protects women's health and reproductive freedom, but stands for a broader principle: that government should not intrude on our most private family matters. I remain committed to protecting a woman's right to choose.
While this is a sensitive and often divisive issue, no matter what our views, we are united in our determination to prevent unintended pregnancies, reduce the need for abortion, and support women and families in the choices they make. To accomplish these goals, we must work to find common ground to expand access to affordable contraception, accurate health information, and preventative services.
On this anniversary, we must also recommit ourselves more broadly to ensuring that our daughters have the same rights and opportunities as our sons: the chance to attain a world-class education; to have fulfilling careers in any industry; to be treated fairly and paid equally for their work; and to have no limits on their dreams. That is what I want for women everywhere."
Aaaargh.
I have to start working, but I just have to say something about this.
First of all, this is quite a principle: "government should not intrude on our most private family matters." REALLY!
Then why won't he allow abortion to AT LEAST be a "family matter"--and let the parents stay informed about what's going on, espeically in those states where parental consent is already required? Instead, he wants to pass FOCA, which lifts all restrictions on abortion; which allows "the family" to be left behind, which allows impressionable and distressed young women to face healthcare pressures alone.
The reason is that it's NOT about the family. If it were, he might also support school vouchers, and even--gasp--homeschool! These things share that broader principle that says the government needn't get involved, because the family can look after their children's educational needs.
And this statement drives me nuts: "we must also recommit ourselves more broadly to ensuring that our daughters have the same rights and opportunities as our sons." Meaning, "our sons are able to run away from the consequences of promiscuity--why shouldn't our daughters be able to do the same?" Perhaps we should consider ways to make adoption services more accessible to both unwed mothers and to couples looking to adopt children--and MAYBE even encourage fathers to take more responsibility for their actions, even if they're not anatomically connected to the "punishment" of pregnancy!
And yet you read the news, and everyone is all excited about this man's commitment to finding "common ground."
God bless and save America.
"On the 36th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, we are reminded that this decision not only protects women's health and reproductive freedom, but stands for a broader principle: that government should not intrude on our most private family matters. I remain committed to protecting a woman's right to choose.
While this is a sensitive and often divisive issue, no matter what our views, we are united in our determination to prevent unintended pregnancies, reduce the need for abortion, and support women and families in the choices they make. To accomplish these goals, we must work to find common ground to expand access to affordable contraception, accurate health information, and preventative services.
On this anniversary, we must also recommit ourselves more broadly to ensuring that our daughters have the same rights and opportunities as our sons: the chance to attain a world-class education; to have fulfilling careers in any industry; to be treated fairly and paid equally for their work; and to have no limits on their dreams. That is what I want for women everywhere."
Aaaargh.
I have to start working, but I just have to say something about this.
First of all, this is quite a principle: "government should not intrude on our most private family matters." REALLY!
Then why won't he allow abortion to AT LEAST be a "family matter"--and let the parents stay informed about what's going on, espeically in those states where parental consent is already required? Instead, he wants to pass FOCA, which lifts all restrictions on abortion; which allows "the family" to be left behind, which allows impressionable and distressed young women to face healthcare pressures alone.
The reason is that it's NOT about the family. If it were, he might also support school vouchers, and even--gasp--homeschool! These things share that broader principle that says the government needn't get involved, because the family can look after their children's educational needs.
And this statement drives me nuts: "we must also recommit ourselves more broadly to ensuring that our daughters have the same rights and opportunities as our sons." Meaning, "our sons are able to run away from the consequences of promiscuity--why shouldn't our daughters be able to do the same?" Perhaps we should consider ways to make adoption services more accessible to both unwed mothers and to couples looking to adopt children--and MAYBE even encourage fathers to take more responsibility for their actions, even if they're not anatomically connected to the "punishment" of pregnancy!
And yet you read the news, and everyone is all excited about this man's commitment to finding "common ground."
God bless and save America.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The power of the bone
My very hard-working (and late-working!) husband, Doodle, arrived home one night this week to find me fuming smoke from my ears and growing sticks from my fingertips. I felt like I had reached my last nerve.
I also felt somewhat like the proverbial overtired mother who hands off her toddler to her (equally overtired) husband as soon he walks in the door, muttering something like, "YOU deal with him."
Within the first five minutes--err, make that seconds--of Doodle being inside the door, I launched into a tirade of our 13 month-old dog's behavior. Yes, that's right; Caomhan, the puppy.
"I can't TAKE it anymore," I seethed. "He whines for more food, I tell him 'no,' but he won't stop whining. So I tell him to go to the couch, I spray him with the water squirter when he whines until he's quiet. Then he starts being rough with the cat, so I put him in the cage, spray him again with every whine 'til he stops whining. When I let him out, he goes over to his food bowl and whines for more food!So I put him on the couch... AAaargh!"
This had been going on, in varied sequences, for about 3 hours. I was exhausted and frustrated from having to stop whatever I was doing every 10 seconds to walk over and spray the dog (consistent feedback whenever he whines), only for him to let out little whines as soon as I got back to my task of making dinner.
"Are you being a bad dog?" Doodle asked the dog. "No whining."
Of course, Caomhan, with a bowed head, looked up at Doodle with contrite eyes. Then--without any suggestion of a whine--cautiously approached my husband with a wagging tail to receive some petting.
For the rest of the evening, there was no more whining. Although I was miffed that the dog would not listen to me as well as he would listen to Doodle, the precious silence surrounding the large animal on the couch was a blessing, after 3 hours of nonstop irritation.
I even apologized for my initial outburst. "It's okay," Doodle said. "Everyone needs 10 minutes to vent everyday."
Yesterday evening, I went to the grocery store. "Try to pick up some bones when you're there," Doodle reminded me the night before. "Caomhan hasn't had any since before Christmas." So I did....
When I got home from the store, I made Caomhan do an elaborate trick (dramatically fall and play dead after being shot down by my hand-shaped-like-a-gun). His reward, of course, was one of the bones.
And my reward was 2 hours of peace and quiet, while he lay on the couch with the bone between his front paws, knawing away.
By the time Doodle came home, only one of the knotted ends was left.
"How did he do today?" Doodle asked.
"Oh, don't you know, we're friends now," I replied, "Since I gave him that bone!"
I also felt somewhat like the proverbial overtired mother who hands off her toddler to her (equally overtired) husband as soon he walks in the door, muttering something like, "YOU deal with him."
Within the first five minutes--err, make that seconds--of Doodle being inside the door, I launched into a tirade of our 13 month-old dog's behavior. Yes, that's right; Caomhan, the puppy.
"I can't TAKE it anymore," I seethed. "He whines for more food, I tell him 'no,' but he won't stop whining. So I tell him to go to the couch, I spray him with the water squirter when he whines until he's quiet. Then he starts being rough with the cat, so I put him in the cage, spray him again with every whine 'til he stops whining. When I let him out, he goes over to his food bowl and whines for more food!So I put him on the couch... AAaargh!"
This had been going on, in varied sequences, for about 3 hours. I was exhausted and frustrated from having to stop whatever I was doing every 10 seconds to walk over and spray the dog (consistent feedback whenever he whines), only for him to let out little whines as soon as I got back to my task of making dinner.
"Are you being a bad dog?" Doodle asked the dog. "No whining."
Of course, Caomhan, with a bowed head, looked up at Doodle with contrite eyes. Then--without any suggestion of a whine--cautiously approached my husband with a wagging tail to receive some petting.
For the rest of the evening, there was no more whining. Although I was miffed that the dog would not listen to me as well as he would listen to Doodle, the precious silence surrounding the large animal on the couch was a blessing, after 3 hours of nonstop irritation.
I even apologized for my initial outburst. "It's okay," Doodle said. "Everyone needs 10 minutes to vent everyday."
Yesterday evening, I went to the grocery store. "Try to pick up some bones when you're there," Doodle reminded me the night before. "Caomhan hasn't had any since before Christmas." So I did....
When I got home from the store, I made Caomhan do an elaborate trick (dramatically fall and play dead after being shot down by my hand-shaped-like-a-gun). His reward, of course, was one of the bones.
And my reward was 2 hours of peace and quiet, while he lay on the couch with the bone between his front paws, knawing away.
By the time Doodle came home, only one of the knotted ends was left.
"How did he do today?" Doodle asked.
"Oh, don't you know, we're friends now," I replied, "Since I gave him that bone!"
Saturday, December 27, 2008
25 weeks, ...what?
This week of Christmas also marks the first week of the ominous Third Trimester.
So, far, so good.
Our first overnight in Colorado--December 25th itself--I got up about 4 times in the middle of the night, with my mouth as dry as chalk, feeling as if someone had beat me up. I actually made a trip upstairs to the kitchen (such a long way in the middle of the night!) to fetch a large glass of water--which I finished almost immediately after filling it.
I don't attribute this nocturnal experience to the Third Trimester, though. This year, Doodle and I spent Christmas Eve going to "Midnight Mass" at 7pm, then eating dinner, then packing, then getting a few hours of sleep before waking up at 3am to be at the airport in time for our flights to Colorado. Note that 3am in North Carolina is 1am in Colorado. By the time we went to bed on the night of the 25th, we had been awake for over 20 hours, with just a fraction of time here and there on the flights to snooze. Couple that with the dry mountain air, and you have the ingredients for "mouth dry as chalk" and "feeling beat up."
By the time I awoke to greet the day on December 26th, my body (including my mouth) was refreshed. Doodle and I even took a little hike up the mountain behind my parents' house while the snow was falling.
I suppose the real effects of Third Trimester take some weeks to set in. :)
Meanwhile, we're scheduling a hike-a-day while we have the vacation time this week, in between visiting with family and friends, eating good food and Christmas treats, and catching up on some blogging!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
So, far, so good.
Our first overnight in Colorado--December 25th itself--I got up about 4 times in the middle of the night, with my mouth as dry as chalk, feeling as if someone had beat me up. I actually made a trip upstairs to the kitchen (such a long way in the middle of the night!) to fetch a large glass of water--which I finished almost immediately after filling it.
I don't attribute this nocturnal experience to the Third Trimester, though. This year, Doodle and I spent Christmas Eve going to "Midnight Mass" at 7pm, then eating dinner, then packing, then getting a few hours of sleep before waking up at 3am to be at the airport in time for our flights to Colorado. Note that 3am in North Carolina is 1am in Colorado. By the time we went to bed on the night of the 25th, we had been awake for over 20 hours, with just a fraction of time here and there on the flights to snooze. Couple that with the dry mountain air, and you have the ingredients for "mouth dry as chalk" and "feeling beat up."
By the time I awoke to greet the day on December 26th, my body (including my mouth) was refreshed. Doodle and I even took a little hike up the mountain behind my parents' house while the snow was falling.
I suppose the real effects of Third Trimester take some weeks to set in. :)
Meanwhile, we're scheduling a hike-a-day while we have the vacation time this week, in between visiting with family and friends, eating good food and Christmas treats, and catching up on some blogging!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Gift pressure
My dear husband, Doodle, also comes from a large family. Like my own immediate family, his family members choose names every year for Christmas gift-giving. And being a new member of his family this year, I "picked" his older sister's husband, Eric.
I just sent a very long email to Doodle's sister, listing all the various ideas I've had for the perfect Christmas gift. Pleading for help.
Each idea that I think must be "the one" has been met with visible hesitation from my husband. Who happens to be one of the best gift-givers I know. (Number One on his Love Language test results). So I tend to listen to him when he has anything to say about gifts. Besides, he's known Eric for longer than I have. He and Eric get along really well, and Eric was his best man. But even with all of that being said, Doodle admits that I picked a "tough one" for gift-giving. "Eric likes a lot of different things, but they're very specific things."
So far, the idea of which he's been most supportive is a Williams Sonoma Cookbook, on the condition that it be one with a baking theme.
???
Yes, my brother-in-law is a very creative man, and an amazing chef. But a baking cookbook for Christmas? I guess I really don't have the gift-giving knack yet in this family.
First Christmas Pressure!!!
I just sent a very long email to Doodle's sister, listing all the various ideas I've had for the perfect Christmas gift. Pleading for help.
Each idea that I think must be "the one" has been met with visible hesitation from my husband. Who happens to be one of the best gift-givers I know. (Number One on his Love Language test results). So I tend to listen to him when he has anything to say about gifts. Besides, he's known Eric for longer than I have. He and Eric get along really well, and Eric was his best man. But even with all of that being said, Doodle admits that I picked a "tough one" for gift-giving. "Eric likes a lot of different things, but they're very specific things."
So far, the idea of which he's been most supportive is a Williams Sonoma Cookbook, on the condition that it be one with a baking theme.
???
Yes, my brother-in-law is a very creative man, and an amazing chef. But a baking cookbook for Christmas? I guess I really don't have the gift-giving knack yet in this family.
First Christmas Pressure!!!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Attitude of Gratitude
My first wake-up call today is the soft paw of Panther (our cat) on my cheek, accompanied by his rather loud "Nee-OW," which of course is referring to the moment in which he thinks he must get his breakfast. I assume that since my 6am cell phone alarm has not rung, then it must not yet be 6am. So it must not yet be time for Panther's breakfast. He has this habit of trying to weasle his breakfast out of his sleeping mistress at first light--recently, around 5:40am.
Instead of getting up, I grab Panther around his middle, hold him against my front like a stuffed animal, and start scratching him under his chin. His purr immediately becomes palpable against my chest. He settles in for a few minutes, and I guess I doze off, because the next thing I know, there's a paw in my face again, with another announcement of the time: "Nee-OW."
This time, I push him down toward my legs and start moving them back and forth, like I'm walking in my sleep. This sends him jumping off the bed. For 5 seconds. Then I hear him pounce back up, and I brace myself for another face rub. Instead, I hear my husband behind me let out a little grunt, and I know that Panther has launched his secondary attack plan. I am the morning feeder, and Panther knows it. When he starts trying to wake up my husband, I know he must be hungry. So I reach over and check the time on my phone: 5:45am. "Man!" I whisper, "okay, I'll get you food." Fifteen minutes is not worth battling wills with the cat, especially now that he's involving the innocent third party!
...
I climb back into bed, reset my alarm, and feel my feet begin to get warm again.
At 7am, my cell phone alarm goes off; I turn it off, and immediately roll over and tell my husband how much I don't want to go to work today. Then I remember that today is Thanksgiving Day. So in the next breath, I say, "Happy Thanksgiving!"
He replies, "Happy Thanksgiving to you!"
In that moment, God allows me to have an attitude adjustment.
"I'm very grateful that I have a job," I say to my husband. "So it's really okay that I'm going to work today."
"Oh, that's good," he says.
...
As I make my way from the parking deck to the hospital, I pass many nurses going in the opposite direction, just finished with their night shift. I pass my old roommate, who's listening to her voice messages on her cell phone, her glasses shielding--but not hiding--tired eyes. She flashes me a smile as we pass and calls out, "Happy Thanksgiving!"
I wonder if she's driving home to the coast today to be with her family. And I am suddenly grateful that I never have to work a shift overnight; that I'm not going home right now, exhausted and ready for bed, perhaps with a turkey in the refrigerator waiting to be cooked, perhaps with a long car drive ahead with bleary eyes and a weary body to see family. I'm grateful that I never have to start my workday at 7pm, but then start my day off at 8am.
...
I pass a lot of kitchen staff today at work. All of the patients' trays have a paper placemat on the bottom with a festive image of a cornucopia; they're serving turkey today for lunch, with green beans and mashed potatoes, yams, and cherry cobbler. I think about the patients in the hospital that have just switched from I.V. fluids to clear broth.... They won't be getting Thanksgiving dinner today. I look at the cafeteria workers, and I recall why I chose to go back to school to be a physical therapist. My mind flashes back to any year, Thanksgiving Day, 3pm, filling ice buckets and polishing wine glasses, moving tables, passing hors d'oeuvres and making cocktails, running my tail off all night to fetch extra gravy or make a cappucino...and then later, kicking back at midnight with the rest of the staff for a cold beer and some leftover turkey goodness from the restaurant kitchen. After that respite, then it was time to grab our stacks of cloth napkins (just up from the laundry) and the trays of clean silverware, and start rolling sets for the morning. No, I don't miss it. It was a great time in my life, but not for those busy holiday shifts. I'm glad it's over. I'm grateful that my job now is to spend time with individuals and their families, helping them recovery from illnesses, procedures, or accidents so that they can go home.
My husband pages me around 12:30pm and we plan to meet at 1pm for lunch. My co-worker has given me her holiday "free meal" pass for him to use, so we both get turkey dinner from the hospital cafeteria line.
We agree that it is the absolute worst "turkey dinner" that either of us has ever eaten. But I'm so grateful that we work so close to one another, that sometimes I get to see him during the workday, that he's sitting here with me today on a bench in front of the hospital. It's a beautiful day and we're sitting in the sunshine; I'm laughing at his imitation of the dog this morning, who apparently whined and yelped in distress at the change of morning routine, until my husband finally took him for a walk at 8:30am.
We're not with either of our families this Thanksgiving, but we're together, and these are the beginnings of our own family. I'm grateful that we don't have children waiting at home for us while we both go to work today. I know that there must be families who have to deal with that today.
It's a busy work day. I'm supposed to work until 4:30pm. I finish seeing my last patient at 7pm. But I'm grateful that I don't have a room assigned to me here. I'm neither a patient, a patient's family member, or a resident on-call for the night.
I get to go home. With my unborn child, who's been bravely reminding me of his/her presence all day. To my "family"-- my husband, my dog, and my cat. To leftover beef chili. To plan my first turkey dinner tomorrow.
I am so grateful.
Instead of getting up, I grab Panther around his middle, hold him against my front like a stuffed animal, and start scratching him under his chin. His purr immediately becomes palpable against my chest. He settles in for a few minutes, and I guess I doze off, because the next thing I know, there's a paw in my face again, with another announcement of the time: "Nee-OW."
This time, I push him down toward my legs and start moving them back and forth, like I'm walking in my sleep. This sends him jumping off the bed. For 5 seconds. Then I hear him pounce back up, and I brace myself for another face rub. Instead, I hear my husband behind me let out a little grunt, and I know that Panther has launched his secondary attack plan. I am the morning feeder, and Panther knows it. When he starts trying to wake up my husband, I know he must be hungry. So I reach over and check the time on my phone: 5:45am. "Man!" I whisper, "okay, I'll get you food." Fifteen minutes is not worth battling wills with the cat, especially now that he's involving the innocent third party!
...
I climb back into bed, reset my alarm, and feel my feet begin to get warm again.
At 7am, my cell phone alarm goes off; I turn it off, and immediately roll over and tell my husband how much I don't want to go to work today. Then I remember that today is Thanksgiving Day. So in the next breath, I say, "Happy Thanksgiving!"
He replies, "Happy Thanksgiving to you!"
In that moment, God allows me to have an attitude adjustment.
"I'm very grateful that I have a job," I say to my husband. "So it's really okay that I'm going to work today."
"Oh, that's good," he says.
...
As I make my way from the parking deck to the hospital, I pass many nurses going in the opposite direction, just finished with their night shift. I pass my old roommate, who's listening to her voice messages on her cell phone, her glasses shielding--but not hiding--tired eyes. She flashes me a smile as we pass and calls out, "Happy Thanksgiving!"
I wonder if she's driving home to the coast today to be with her family. And I am suddenly grateful that I never have to work a shift overnight; that I'm not going home right now, exhausted and ready for bed, perhaps with a turkey in the refrigerator waiting to be cooked, perhaps with a long car drive ahead with bleary eyes and a weary body to see family. I'm grateful that I never have to start my workday at 7pm, but then start my day off at 8am.
...
I pass a lot of kitchen staff today at work. All of the patients' trays have a paper placemat on the bottom with a festive image of a cornucopia; they're serving turkey today for lunch, with green beans and mashed potatoes, yams, and cherry cobbler. I think about the patients in the hospital that have just switched from I.V. fluids to clear broth.... They won't be getting Thanksgiving dinner today. I look at the cafeteria workers, and I recall why I chose to go back to school to be a physical therapist. My mind flashes back to any year, Thanksgiving Day, 3pm, filling ice buckets and polishing wine glasses, moving tables, passing hors d'oeuvres and making cocktails, running my tail off all night to fetch extra gravy or make a cappucino...and then later, kicking back at midnight with the rest of the staff for a cold beer and some leftover turkey goodness from the restaurant kitchen. After that respite, then it was time to grab our stacks of cloth napkins (just up from the laundry) and the trays of clean silverware, and start rolling sets for the morning. No, I don't miss it. It was a great time in my life, but not for those busy holiday shifts. I'm glad it's over. I'm grateful that my job now is to spend time with individuals and their families, helping them recovery from illnesses, procedures, or accidents so that they can go home.
My husband pages me around 12:30pm and we plan to meet at 1pm for lunch. My co-worker has given me her holiday "free meal" pass for him to use, so we both get turkey dinner from the hospital cafeteria line.
We agree that it is the absolute worst "turkey dinner" that either of us has ever eaten. But I'm so grateful that we work so close to one another, that sometimes I get to see him during the workday, that he's sitting here with me today on a bench in front of the hospital. It's a beautiful day and we're sitting in the sunshine; I'm laughing at his imitation of the dog this morning, who apparently whined and yelped in distress at the change of morning routine, until my husband finally took him for a walk at 8:30am.
We're not with either of our families this Thanksgiving, but we're together, and these are the beginnings of our own family. I'm grateful that we don't have children waiting at home for us while we both go to work today. I know that there must be families who have to deal with that today.
It's a busy work day. I'm supposed to work until 4:30pm. I finish seeing my last patient at 7pm. But I'm grateful that I don't have a room assigned to me here. I'm neither a patient, a patient's family member, or a resident on-call for the night.
I get to go home. With my unborn child, who's been bravely reminding me of his/her presence all day. To my "family"-- my husband, my dog, and my cat. To leftover beef chili. To plan my first turkey dinner tomorrow.
I am so grateful.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Joining Nutmeg...
What Your Height Says About You |
 You are a very vulnerable and spiritual person. Your emotions run deep. You have a philosophical and poetic soul. You think things through and are a bit of a skeptic. You tend to be very opinionated. You are a perfectionist with high standards. You prefer to work alone. You work hard, and you don't like interruptions. You are about as tall as the average Japanese woman. |
Saturday, November 22, 2008
With this Magic Belt,...
Speaking of glimpses into my work environment, ...
"Sephora might look like just a sprite of a thing, but she can do wonders with that belt!"
Another of my essential pieces of equipment when I see adult patients is my Gait Belt. Mine has yellow and blue stripes on it. It's quite fashionable.
The gait belt is used to help patients "transfer;" yes, "transfer" is a verb in the rehabilitation world. It means to move successsfully from one surface to another. With a gait belt around a patient's middle, combined with a little physics and excellent body mechanics, a smallish therapist can help a patient of almost any size transfer. Such things as getting from the bed to a bedside chair (or a toilet, or a wheelchair) can be accomplished by bringing the patient's weight forward on his feet, pivoting toward the desired surface, then gently letting the patient's weight shift back down to his hips to sit. If the patient has use of his arms, I usually ask him to push from the surface behind them when getting up, and reach back for the surface behind them as he's lowering down.
Patient safety with a gait belt is also addressed during ambulation, or "gait." Hence, the term gait belt. In school, we practice "guarding" people using a gait belt during all kinds of activities, including ambulation on flat surfaces, up and down stairs, with crutches, with less than full use of 2 healthy legs, you-name-it. We also learn how to lower people slowly, safely, and gently to the ground if they so happen to fall while we're guarding them.
Anyway--back to my favorite use of gait belts: transfers.
I believe in the utility of the belt. Some nurses look at me a little funny when I give it so much credit, but when you know how to use it, it can make some "two person" transfers possible with just one person. Many times I will qualify my report to a patient's nurse: "He was a max-assist transfer of one to the chair, but I also had a gait belt. If you don't have a belt, you'll probably want two people to get him back to bed."
Many of my patients come to believe in the gait belt, too. Sometimes it's an unhealthy belief. Kind of like Dumbo's feather: they associate their ability to move from here to there with the belt. And if you don't have a belt, then it's NOT going to work.
True Story:
I knock on the hospital room door of a patient for whom the physicians have ordered a Physical Therapy consult. Apparently, this woman has been very sick for a few weeks, to the point where she has not been out of bed for a few weeks, either. Therefore, she is profoundly deconditioned.
She answers my knock, "Come in?"
"Hello!" I smile as I walk in the door, rubbing my hands with the sanitizing foam positioned directly outside the door. "How are you today Mrs. Deconditioned? My name is Sephora and I am a physical therapist. I'm here because your physicians have ordered a physical therapy evaluation."
I explain to her the role of physical therapists in the hospital setting (which is not, by the way, to give out deep tissue massages--nor is it to "walk" people, as if they are pets that need to do their business 3 times a day).
The role of physical therapists in the hospital setting is to assess patients' mobility. We help the medical team determine whether patients are safe to discharge home, based on their ability to perform daily mobility activities--one of which activities, is, YES, walking. One must almost always demonstrate safety with ambulation in order for a physical therapist to recommend discharge home. However, there are frequent exceptions to this rule: equipment, family members who can be of assistance, home modifications, and other outstanding factors must be taken into account. Every patient is different.
If I conclude from an assessment that a patient is not able to perform mobility activities, I help him as much as possible while he is in the hospital, and make recommendations for follow-up if he has not met the physical therapy goals by the time he is medically ready to leave. Some patients are finished with physical therapy by the time they are discharged to home.
I explain to Mrs. Deconditioned that I understand she has not been moving very much recently, and that I am here to see how strong she is, and to help her get stronger so that she is ready to leave the hospital when the medical team is ready to send her.
"YOU're going to help me get up?" she asks, incredulous. "But you're a such a tiny little thing. I don't want to fall."
Next comes my memorized--but sincere--mini monologue, where I explain to her that I am a physical therapist and that means that I am a professional who is specially trained to help her move, even if she is not strong. I explain to her that this is an assessment, and that we are not going to do anything that she is not ready for, or that might be unsafe.
"Besides," I add to every such encounter where I determine it appropriate, "I have a magic belt here. With this belt, I have helped many patients who are much larger than you."
That gets them, one way or another, almost every time. Sometimes the patients are so confused, they don't remember that I just introduced myself as the physical therapist, and so they give some non-sequitor response such as, "Libby, you look so much like your mother in that outfit" or "I wonder why the bubbles are moving up and down the wall again." But most of the time, they're willing to try out the magic belt. Even if it's to challenge the truth of my claim.
In the case of this particular lady, she was super-weak. She had been through it all, and had seen much more across the span of healthcare than I ever wish to discover, even as a healthcare provider. But throughout my examination I continually explained everything we were going to do, along every step of the way, which is always appreciated by people who are apprehensive.
Incidentally, I have found apprehension to be a common denominator among patients in the hospital who are moving for the first time after a long sickness, with the assistance of someone they barely know...)
The end result was that this lady stood for a few seconds next to her bed before having to sit down again. There were plenty "tricks of the trade" that were utilized, but the most visible one was the use of the gait belt.
This patient was now a believer in the gait belt.
I knew for sure that she was convinced, because the next day when I went to see her again, and this time, one of her daughters was in the room. I greeted my patient and introduced myself to her daughter. Before I could proceed, my patient turned to her daughter with these words:
"Sephora might look like just a sprite of a thing, but she can do wonders with that belt!"
Friday, November 21, 2008
Five...
Hurray for Month-versaries :).
And this week also marks 20 weeks of pregnancy. Strangely coincidental.
Some--no, many--of my contemporaries or senior co-workers offer, or at least agree with the common wisdom, "wait at least year" after marriage to have children. They have a variety of reasons that all seem plausible:
"Marriage is such a big adjustment, you need to get used to it first..."
"You want to make sure that you're stable emotionally and financially before you intorduce another dimension into the relationship..."
"Treasure this time together, because when children come, it will never be the same..."
My husband and I were bantering about this the other day, and laughing about the fact that the same people were sooo excited when they found out we were expecting. I don't think I wear my Faith or my beliefs on my sleeve, at least not as much as I should. But those same co-workers who would nod in affirmation to the advice listed above, said to me in giddy tones, "Oh, that's awesome! Great! So wonderful--you're so ready to be a mom!"
What?
Polar opposite reaction.
Yes, there are plenty of children in my family--immediate, extended, and among close friends. Yes, I've done my share of babysitting and there is no doubt that I want to raise several children of my own. But, really, any tips you may have of coming attractions would be appreciated!
Sometimes, I'm super-excited to hold this little one, to watch my own child grow into an adult like I've watched even my youngest sisters.
Other times, honestly, I'm scared to death.
My work environment feeds both of these emotions.
The little babies I get to see are all so precious; I can't imagine that soon, I'll be holding one that comes from my husband and myself. Our child. Wow.
The things kids say...
"What is the name for a baby horse?" I ask one of my kids while we're doing her exercise for the day.
"Pony!" she yells.
"Right! Now, what is the name for a baby cow?"
"Coward!"
But then there is the reminder, all the time, of the hardships that parents face.
I meet many teenage girls with scoliosis that need rods placed in their backs--only after years of trying to manage the curve with bracing. The pain of recovery, even though it is temporary, is felt by the parents, and especially by the mothers.
Some of the notes written about my pediatric patients have phrases such as "patient is well-known to this physician, now admitted for x, y, or z." These are children with chronic disease, or recurring infections, or complications from past treatments, or what have you; the parents go through so much more than the children, in some ways. Their level of control of their children's happiness slips through their hands when they run through the doors of the Emergency Room. It is heartbreaking to see their heartbreak.
At some point, I know I will experience my children's pain. It is likely that there will be hospital visits, but even if there are none, there will be real pain. I am reminded of it every day at work; some days, it frightens me.
My automatic defense is to respond to myself, "You work in a hospital. And not just a hospital, but a Level 1 Trauma Center, a State Hospital, and a specialized Children's Hospital. Of course, what you see everyday is a concentrated collection of the worst cases in the state, sometimes in the southeast."
But I know that every one of those cases could be anyone. My child could be one of the 3 in 10,000 births to have this specific complication or that chronic disease.
Am I strong enough to handle it?
Am I "so ready" to be a mom?
I told my husband that because we're not "waiting a year" before having children, we'll really only have one huge adjustment to make, all at once! A few decades down the road, I continued, it might be hard for us to even remember this time before children.
"OH, no it won't! I will NEVER forget this," he replied. He wasn't being romantic or anything--he's just under a lot of stress right now, trying to complete his graduate work. "I will remember this as the most miserable time of my life," he continued.
How sweet.
Happy fifth month of marriage, and bring on the children!
And this week also marks 20 weeks of pregnancy. Strangely coincidental.
Some--no, many--of my contemporaries or senior co-workers offer, or at least agree with the common wisdom, "wait at least year" after marriage to have children. They have a variety of reasons that all seem plausible:
"Marriage is such a big adjustment, you need to get used to it first..."
"You want to make sure that you're stable emotionally and financially before you intorduce another dimension into the relationship..."
"Treasure this time together, because when children come, it will never be the same..."
My husband and I were bantering about this the other day, and laughing about the fact that the same people were sooo excited when they found out we were expecting. I don't think I wear my Faith or my beliefs on my sleeve, at least not as much as I should. But those same co-workers who would nod in affirmation to the advice listed above, said to me in giddy tones, "Oh, that's awesome! Great! So wonderful--you're so ready to be a mom!"
What?
Polar opposite reaction.
Yes, there are plenty of children in my family--immediate, extended, and among close friends. Yes, I've done my share of babysitting and there is no doubt that I want to raise several children of my own. But, really, any tips you may have of coming attractions would be appreciated!
Sometimes, I'm super-excited to hold this little one, to watch my own child grow into an adult like I've watched even my youngest sisters.
Other times, honestly, I'm scared to death.
My work environment feeds both of these emotions.
The little babies I get to see are all so precious; I can't imagine that soon, I'll be holding one that comes from my husband and myself. Our child. Wow.
The things kids say...
"What is the name for a baby horse?" I ask one of my kids while we're doing her exercise for the day.
"Pony!" she yells.
"Right! Now, what is the name for a baby cow?"
"Coward!"
But then there is the reminder, all the time, of the hardships that parents face.
I meet many teenage girls with scoliosis that need rods placed in their backs--only after years of trying to manage the curve with bracing. The pain of recovery, even though it is temporary, is felt by the parents, and especially by the mothers.
Some of the notes written about my pediatric patients have phrases such as "patient is well-known to this physician, now admitted for x, y, or z." These are children with chronic disease, or recurring infections, or complications from past treatments, or what have you; the parents go through so much more than the children, in some ways. Their level of control of their children's happiness slips through their hands when they run through the doors of the Emergency Room. It is heartbreaking to see their heartbreak.
At some point, I know I will experience my children's pain. It is likely that there will be hospital visits, but even if there are none, there will be real pain. I am reminded of it every day at work; some days, it frightens me.
My automatic defense is to respond to myself, "You work in a hospital. And not just a hospital, but a Level 1 Trauma Center, a State Hospital, and a specialized Children's Hospital. Of course, what you see everyday is a concentrated collection of the worst cases in the state, sometimes in the southeast."
But I know that every one of those cases could be anyone. My child could be one of the 3 in 10,000 births to have this specific complication or that chronic disease.
Am I strong enough to handle it?
Am I "so ready" to be a mom?
I told my husband that because we're not "waiting a year" before having children, we'll really only have one huge adjustment to make, all at once! A few decades down the road, I continued, it might be hard for us to even remember this time before children.
"OH, no it won't! I will NEVER forget this," he replied. He wasn't being romantic or anything--he's just under a lot of stress right now, trying to complete his graduate work. "I will remember this as the most miserable time of my life," he continued.
How sweet.
Happy fifth month of marriage, and bring on the children!
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