Name them one by one," (all together now) "Count your many blessings see what God has done." For those of you not raised in the old-school Southern Baptist tradition, you probably have no idea what I was singing. For those of you who were, you can thank me for putting that brain worm into your head later.
Even if you've never heard the song, you know the message. In this life we all have troubles, but we also all have blessings. I spent yesterday at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital with my six-year-old daughter who had to have surgery. So today, dear readers, today I am counting my blessings.
My daughter has come to an age where I feel like I should no longer freely share her medical issues with every person I meet. If you've known me for any length of time, however, you probably know all about them. But since they are a little embarrassing for her, I feel like I should no longer tell all her business. Suffice it to say, we were there for a minor procedure to try and help with a "quality of life" issue for her.
She has had several procedures at Vanderbilt through the years, and if I know anything at all, I know this: there is always someone who has a problem bigger than yours, ALWAYS. One of her doctors shares a waiting room with the Neurology Department. If you are ever having a bad day, dear reader, I suggest you head on over to the Vanderbilt Children's Hospital Neurology Department waiting room. It will humble you. It will make you ashamed of complaining about your problems. It will make you thankful for the problems you have if that means you don't have to have those other BIG, LIFE-ALTERING problems.
Yesterday her procedure lasted for about 45 minutes, so of course we were there for six hours counting pre-op, post-op and simply waiting our turn through the cases that had gotten backlogged. When I saw her surgeon before her case, I could tell he was a little weary. He said that he had just gotten in the night before from doing several days of surgery in Guatemala with a medical missions group. He had not fully recovered, yet. Oh he was in fine condition to do her surgery, I just mean he was still shell-shocked from being home. I could tell he was still counting all of our collective blessings and that he was thankful for the facility, equipment, medicine, and staff he had to work with -- so was I.
He told me that he did surgery 14 hours a day for four days and there were will still hundreds of patients waiting. He figures there are 11 surgeons in Nashville who can handle pediatric urology cases for a population that is around one million. (This includes adults and children, not just children, but since Vanderbilt has a larger scope than just Nashville, we'll call it a million.) The entire country of Guatemala has (I believe he said) 14 million, seven million of whom are children. And I'm pretty sure he said there are 16 surgeons for those seven million children.
This is not the venue to debate socialized medicine, but I will tell you, dear readers, it scares me to death. I am sure that my daughter would not be able to have a surgery in July and then another one in September if we lived in a country with socialized medicine. I know that medical costs are astronomical for those who do not have good insurance, and I do know that many things about our system need fixing. I know for a fact we spent $5,000 on one test this year for our daughter that was a CYA test. There was probably about a one percent chance she had an issue with her spine, but her surgeon had to order the test. If he hadn't have ordered the test, and ten years later we figured out she did fall into that one percent, we could have sued him. This is madness and it needs to be fixed. But, my prayer is that we do not scrap the good things about our system -- the excellent surgeons and hospitals like those at Vanderbilt -- while we try to fix what is broken. 'Nuf said.
I have a deep respect and fondness for my daughter's surgeon. He has been an excellent doctor for her and is a good man. I truly feel that God has guided his hands while he has operated on her. And the fact that he was doing medical missions does not surprise me. Although my daughter's case is not what I would call complex, there is no easy fix. She is missing some muscle in her body due to a birth defect, and her surgeon, not being God, cannot make muscle. So, he's doing what he can to help fill in the gaps. This is the second time he has done this procedure, but this time he did something a little different to see if it would work better. Today I am finding the results are not great. Last time we saw very good results in the days after the procedure, but after about two weeks, things went back to the way they were before. So maybe this time the results will be mediocre in the short term, but remain steady. That would be progress.
So part of me wants to cry and wants to yell and wants to rail against the fact that six years later we are still dealing with this same issue. The other part of me remembers the mom who was in the waiting room with me waiting for her 17-month-old baby to come out of a one-hour surgery, five hours later. We had a language barrier, but I caught the gist of what she was there for. A week ago her daughter had had an organ transplant from her brother. At first I thought it was the kidney, but now I think it may be the liver? It wasn't working yet, but the doctor said he was giving it a little more time. The night before, a line (I'm guessing to put medicine in) had broken inside her daughter and she was supposed to be in surgery for one hour to fix it. Five hours later, her mother was still waiting. I saw her after I had gotten Langley out of post-operative care. She was crying and distraught and going into the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) where the sickest of children are brought. I knew that we couldn't communicate well enough to ask her what was wrong, so I just told her that I would pray for her and her precious Amelia, and thankfully she understood.
So yeah, Langley's procedure may not have worked as well as I'd hoped. And yes as the Psalmist says, I will continue to "wait on the Lord." But I am waiting on a quality of life issue -- not a life-or-death issue -- of that I am well aware. So yeah, today I'm content to wait. And while I wait, you can find me over here counting my blessings.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Book Signings and S*E*X
Warning: The S*E*X word will be used and briefly talked about in this post. Not in graphic or personal detail, dear readers, but if you are squeamish, look away. You have been forewarned!
So most nights are pretty routine. I cook (or fix) something for dinner, make sure my son does his homework no matter how much he gripes, and run around like a headless chicken trying to get to my three children to football/cheerleading/Cub Scouts/Girl Scouts/fill in the blank with any number of activity choices.
But last night, dear readers, I actually got to feel like a real 'literary' adult. I went to a book signing with one of my favorite authors, Diana Gabaldon. I've been reading her now for a little over 13 years. I'm pretty sure I found out about her the summer I got married and devoured two or three of her five pound books shortly there after. In fact, I remember waiting for eight hours for the movers to show up while I was reading one the books in her Outlander series. Although irritated at their not showing, I was not in the least upset about getting to read all day long! And as luck would have it, a month or two after we moved to Nashville I found out she was coming to Green Hills to do a book signing. Since I didn't have children to worry about and had a husband who worked late quite a bit, I was there early and got a seat up towards the front on a lovely wooden bench. She spoke and did a reading and I just loved her in a very, "oh, she's a great storyteller, and wow isn't she so interesting, and oh my, she's a published author and oh so famous" sort of way.
Contrast this to last night. I had to cook dinner before 5:00, when I had to pick up my son from performing arts club, then get all three of them back home, fed and properly attired for football/cheerleading practice at 6:00. My husband, who is working on a project north of town, had to slog through rush hour traffic to try to get home in time for said practice and for me to make it to Green Hills by 6:30. This was the plan, but as I'm sure you all can guess, it wasn't quite executed. I got my kids ready, but not myself. My hubby got home about 5 minutes after 6:00 (when they were supposed to be at practice), and I still didn't have my books rounded up for her to sign. I made it out of the house at 6:13, only to have to return at 6:16 to get my camera. Needless to say, I showed up about 10 minutes before she spoke at 7:00 and got a really crappy seat in the back.
Just to set the stage, this woman has a cult-like following now. It wasn't no 1996, that's for sure. People came out of the woodwork (some of them came out of some very strange woodwork) to see her. I sat in front of a woman who had brought her six-year-old son with her. I found this mildly interesting at the time because Diana is far from a children's author. In fact, she is the opposite of a children's author. If you have not read her, dear readers, she has what one might call "a gift" for sex scenes. I'm not saying they are graphic, but they are, hmmm, how shall I put it? Vivid, descriptive, erotic? Yep, that about sums it up. Anyway, when I saw her back in '96, she told us that husbands of her readers fall into two camps, a.) they hate her because their wife gets a new book and disappears for a week to read all leventy-hundred pages of it and ignores him, or b.) they love her because they never get as much sex as when their wife is reading her books.
Needless to say, a children's author she is not. So, she talked for about 20 minutes, telling us how she wrote her first "practice" book (which is Outlander) that was not going to be read by anyone when she was 35 and was working two jobs and had three kids under six. *Okay, now I feel like a slug, and I can never use the "I have small children at home" excuse again.* And then she answered our questions. I asked her what time of day she wrote since she did have three small children, and she was just lovely and very encouraging to me and I felt so special until some crazy lady interupted her to ask another question while she was still answering mine, rude! And then she began her reading.
Well, I knew as soon as Claire (the main character) saw Jamie (her husband, the other main character) taking his spring bath in a creek and she followed him up a path in the mountains what was, er, coming AND I WANTED TO DIE!!! In my brain I am scream whispering the whole time, "She is not reading a sex scene. She is not. She can't be. We're in a book store. In public. IN THE SOUTH! She's going to stop before things go too far and not read an actual SEX SCENE in public." But oh, dear readers, she pretty much did. They didn't do 'the deed,' but Claire was doing something worse to Jamie than the actual deed when it comes to reading it outloud!
And here's the kicker. Remember, there was A SIX-YEAR-OLD LITTLE BOY SITTING DIRECLTY BEHIND ME! I promise you it was all I could do not to turn around, clamp my hands over his pretty little ears and sing the Lalala's to him myself. His momma was all ga ga and fainting over being in the same room with Diana, so I'm pretty sure she didn't have the good sense to do it herself. Did I mention I wanted to die from embarrassment. Even if the little boy had not been there -- and in her defense, there is no way she could have seen him in the way back sitting behind all the grown ups -- I think I would have been embarrassed.
Now don't get me wrong, dear readers, I am working on a book, and I am sure there will be a S*E*X scene or two in there. And frankly, I think there is nothing wrong with me reading or writing about "naughty married people stuff" as Joshilyn Jackson, another of my favorite authors, calls her sex scenes. But I cannot ever even fathom reading it outloud to a group at the Green Hills Mall where unsuspecting patrons are eating dinner at the cafe' next to us, unless I was drunk. And frankly I think an author showing up to a book signing intoxicated would be bad form.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe my Southern Baptist Roots are showing, but Have Mercy!
So most nights are pretty routine. I cook (or fix) something for dinner, make sure my son does his homework no matter how much he gripes, and run around like a headless chicken trying to get to my three children to football/cheerleading/Cub Scouts/Girl Scouts/fill in the blank with any number of activity choices.
But last night, dear readers, I actually got to feel like a real 'literary' adult. I went to a book signing with one of my favorite authors, Diana Gabaldon. I've been reading her now for a little over 13 years. I'm pretty sure I found out about her the summer I got married and devoured two or three of her five pound books shortly there after. In fact, I remember waiting for eight hours for the movers to show up while I was reading one the books in her Outlander series. Although irritated at their not showing, I was not in the least upset about getting to read all day long! And as luck would have it, a month or two after we moved to Nashville I found out she was coming to Green Hills to do a book signing. Since I didn't have children to worry about and had a husband who worked late quite a bit, I was there early and got a seat up towards the front on a lovely wooden bench. She spoke and did a reading and I just loved her in a very, "oh, she's a great storyteller, and wow isn't she so interesting, and oh my, she's a published author and oh so famous" sort of way.
Contrast this to last night. I had to cook dinner before 5:00, when I had to pick up my son from performing arts club, then get all three of them back home, fed and properly attired for football/cheerleading practice at 6:00. My husband, who is working on a project north of town, had to slog through rush hour traffic to try to get home in time for said practice and for me to make it to Green Hills by 6:30. This was the plan, but as I'm sure you all can guess, it wasn't quite executed. I got my kids ready, but not myself. My hubby got home about 5 minutes after 6:00 (when they were supposed to be at practice), and I still didn't have my books rounded up for her to sign. I made it out of the house at 6:13, only to have to return at 6:16 to get my camera. Needless to say, I showed up about 10 minutes before she spoke at 7:00 and got a really crappy seat in the back.
Just to set the stage, this woman has a cult-like following now. It wasn't no 1996, that's for sure. People came out of the woodwork (some of them came out of some very strange woodwork) to see her. I sat in front of a woman who had brought her six-year-old son with her. I found this mildly interesting at the time because Diana is far from a children's author. In fact, she is the opposite of a children's author. If you have not read her, dear readers, she has what one might call "a gift" for sex scenes. I'm not saying they are graphic, but they are, hmmm, how shall I put it? Vivid, descriptive, erotic? Yep, that about sums it up. Anyway, when I saw her back in '96, she told us that husbands of her readers fall into two camps, a.) they hate her because their wife gets a new book and disappears for a week to read all leventy-hundred pages of it and ignores him, or b.) they love her because they never get as much sex as when their wife is reading her books.
Needless to say, a children's author she is not. So, she talked for about 20 minutes, telling us how she wrote her first "practice" book (which is Outlander) that was not going to be read by anyone when she was 35 and was working two jobs and had three kids under six. *Okay, now I feel like a slug, and I can never use the "I have small children at home" excuse again.* And then she answered our questions. I asked her what time of day she wrote since she did have three small children, and she was just lovely and very encouraging to me and I felt so special until some crazy lady interupted her to ask another question while she was still answering mine, rude! And then she began her reading.
Well, I knew as soon as Claire (the main character) saw Jamie (her husband, the other main character) taking his spring bath in a creek and she followed him up a path in the mountains what was, er, coming AND I WANTED TO DIE!!! In my brain I am scream whispering the whole time, "She is not reading a sex scene. She is not. She can't be. We're in a book store. In public. IN THE SOUTH! She's going to stop before things go too far and not read an actual SEX SCENE in public." But oh, dear readers, she pretty much did. They didn't do 'the deed,' but Claire was doing something worse to Jamie than the actual deed when it comes to reading it outloud!
And here's the kicker. Remember, there was A SIX-YEAR-OLD LITTLE BOY SITTING DIRECLTY BEHIND ME! I promise you it was all I could do not to turn around, clamp my hands over his pretty little ears and sing the Lalala's to him myself. His momma was all ga ga and fainting over being in the same room with Diana, so I'm pretty sure she didn't have the good sense to do it herself. Did I mention I wanted to die from embarrassment. Even if the little boy had not been there -- and in her defense, there is no way she could have seen him in the way back sitting behind all the grown ups -- I think I would have been embarrassed.
Now don't get me wrong, dear readers, I am working on a book, and I am sure there will be a S*E*X scene or two in there. And frankly, I think there is nothing wrong with me reading or writing about "naughty married people stuff" as Joshilyn Jackson, another of my favorite authors, calls her sex scenes. But I cannot ever even fathom reading it outloud to a group at the Green Hills Mall where unsuspecting patrons are eating dinner at the cafe' next to us, unless I was drunk. And frankly I think an author showing up to a book signing intoxicated would be bad form.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe my Southern Baptist Roots are showing, but Have Mercy!
Friday, September 18, 2009
I might be falling in love
I am contemplating an affair. No dear readers, not THAT kind of affair. I'm contemplating cheating on a relationship that has been around much longer than my marriage -- my relationship with hot tea.
I've been faithful to tea since I was but a tween. It probably began when the Japanese restaurant moved to the town we frequented when I was about 12. They served hot green tea in cute little cups with no handles that I slurped up with abandon. It moved to steeping Lipton tea bags in hot water at home when I was a teen. Then in college on a class trip off campus to watch an international video that never materialized due to technical difficulties, I met Earl. Since we were meeting off campus and many professors were attending, we lowly college students were treated to a bagels and muffins breakfast complete with coffee and tea. My dear, sweet, precious friend Mary was there and offered me some Earl Grey. "What's that?" I asked genuinely ignorant. Being the sweet, precious friend she was, she tried to hide her shock and embarrassment for me and replied sweetly, "It's a kind of hot tea."
*Dear readers, have I mentioned that I grew up in a little town in East Tennessee that was "Country" with a capital "C"? Yes, I have mentioned this more than once? Oh, okay. Just wanted you to know.* Growing up in my house if you asked for some tea, you got a big old glass of iced tea that was so sweet your teeth would ache. My whole family loves iced tea. But hot tea? My parents still wonder why on earth you would want to ruin tea by drinking it hot and putting milk in it for goodness sakes. Needless to say, my knowledge of tea (and pretty much anything culinary that could not be eaten at a 'meat and three') was limited.
Trying to shake off my embarrassment, I agreed to give Earl a try. And we've been together ever since. Earl is my go-to guy. Yes, I love a good strong black tea in the morning such as English or Irish Breakfast, but at "tea time" in the afternoon an hour before my kids get off the bus and while my little one is still napping, give me a big old cup of Earl to drink with any carbohydrate, and I am a happy woman. If that carb happens to be freshly baked scones or little tea sandwiches, I am in heaven on earth!
My love of tea and "tea time" runs deep, so I am sure that Earl and his fellow teas will be a part of my life forever. But even though I love Earl, I'm having a hard time remaining faithful. I've started a flirtation with Lattes. *Everybody is drinking lattes, you say? I'm about 10 years late to this party, you say? Yes, dear readers I know. I am slow to change and have not wanted to jump on the java bandwagon. But have mercy, I cannot seem to help myself.*
I mentioned earlier that I have never been a coffee fan. I blame my mother. (Love you mom!) My mother is one of those women who drinks a scalding hot cup of coffee in the middle of a heat wave in July. To say she is a coffee addict would be a gross understatement. Coffee is not a drink to her, it is a way of life. And frankly, her coffee way of life is a slow one. I cannot count the number of dinners I endured as a child where I had to "sit still" while mom drank her after-dinner coffee. Then there were the afternoons she would spend at Miss Jane's house, the two of them drinking cup after cup of coffee while I was sent to another room "to play." I associate coffee with my mother so much so that one of my fondest pictures of her was taken at Miss Jane's house with a cup of coffee in hand.
So to me coffee was a stinky drink that was so much a part of my mother that I could never consider it to be part of me. Or if it was going to be part of me, it would be me when I was "old" and a mother. When I went off to college, I was told that after the first semester I would love both beer and coffee. While I did acquire a taste for a good margarita and vodka mixed with any fruit juice (in moderation, of course!), I never did acquire a taste for coffee. I got my caffeine from hot tea and iced cold Coca-Cola.
Even when Starbucks hit the scene in the South, I could not be swayed. Spend five bucks on coffee? Are you crazy? I'll pass on the grande mocha locha soy chai whatever it is you are serving at Starbucks and go with the $1.50 32 oz. Coke from McD's. But then Sonic started making lattes for $2.50 and gave a few of them away for free in the beginning. One of my first attempts at drinking coffee was basically a coffee milkshake from Sonic. After drinking two or three of those in one week while my husband was working out of town for the entire summer, I realized that if I kept it up, I'd weigh 300+ pounds when he got home and that probably wasn't a good idea.
So I moved on to Sonic's iced lattes, and every now and then a hot latte. Besides the chocolate and caramel syrup and whipped cream that make it so heavenly, I think what I love most is the JOLT of caffeine that I get. Having been a Coke and tea drinker my whole life, I am just not used to the massive amount of pep I get from the caffeine in a latte. It is amazing. It makes me feel like I can accomplish twice as much in my day. Why oh why haven't I been drinking this stuff for years! *Hi, my name is Lori, and I'm a caffeine addict.*
So I've been drinking an occasional latte at Sonic and yes, even Starbucks, for the last year or so. But on Wednesday, I took the plunge into real coffee. I went to my Bible study in the pouring rain and then sat shivering in the big air conditioned room like a drowned rat. The lovely ladies sponsoring this study had muffins and sweet bread and coffee for us all. I was freezing and a cup of hot anything sounded good. I contemplated drinking this "regular" coffee and then noticed they had hazelnut and regular creamer. I poured half a cup of coffee and then dumped in almost as much of both creamers. And it was drinkable, almost even good. Good enough in fact for me to drink two more cups. Did I mention I was wet and freezing? So now I realize that given enough creamer and sugar, I can even drink "regular" coffee.
The funny thing about my coffee drinking is that I still don't have to reconcile the fact that "I am becoming my mother." My mother, the woman who has coffee running through her veins, hates all things latte and Starbucksy. She thinks Starbucks makes the worst coffee on the planet. To her it is entirely too strong and she will drink her plain McD's coffee with a splash of milk, thank you very much. I find this comforting. Coffee is and always will be my mother's drink, not mine. But lattes, or a facsimile thereof, I think I'm falling love.
I've been faithful to tea since I was but a tween. It probably began when the Japanese restaurant moved to the town we frequented when I was about 12. They served hot green tea in cute little cups with no handles that I slurped up with abandon. It moved to steeping Lipton tea bags in hot water at home when I was a teen. Then in college on a class trip off campus to watch an international video that never materialized due to technical difficulties, I met Earl. Since we were meeting off campus and many professors were attending, we lowly college students were treated to a bagels and muffins breakfast complete with coffee and tea. My dear, sweet, precious friend Mary was there and offered me some Earl Grey. "What's that?" I asked genuinely ignorant. Being the sweet, precious friend she was, she tried to hide her shock and embarrassment for me and replied sweetly, "It's a kind of hot tea."
*Dear readers, have I mentioned that I grew up in a little town in East Tennessee that was "Country" with a capital "C"? Yes, I have mentioned this more than once? Oh, okay. Just wanted you to know.* Growing up in my house if you asked for some tea, you got a big old glass of iced tea that was so sweet your teeth would ache. My whole family loves iced tea. But hot tea? My parents still wonder why on earth you would want to ruin tea by drinking it hot and putting milk in it for goodness sakes. Needless to say, my knowledge of tea (and pretty much anything culinary that could not be eaten at a 'meat and three') was limited.
Trying to shake off my embarrassment, I agreed to give Earl a try. And we've been together ever since. Earl is my go-to guy. Yes, I love a good strong black tea in the morning such as English or Irish Breakfast, but at "tea time" in the afternoon an hour before my kids get off the bus and while my little one is still napping, give me a big old cup of Earl to drink with any carbohydrate, and I am a happy woman. If that carb happens to be freshly baked scones or little tea sandwiches, I am in heaven on earth!
My love of tea and "tea time" runs deep, so I am sure that Earl and his fellow teas will be a part of my life forever. But even though I love Earl, I'm having a hard time remaining faithful. I've started a flirtation with Lattes. *Everybody is drinking lattes, you say? I'm about 10 years late to this party, you say? Yes, dear readers I know. I am slow to change and have not wanted to jump on the java bandwagon. But have mercy, I cannot seem to help myself.*
I mentioned earlier that I have never been a coffee fan. I blame my mother. (Love you mom!) My mother is one of those women who drinks a scalding hot cup of coffee in the middle of a heat wave in July. To say she is a coffee addict would be a gross understatement. Coffee is not a drink to her, it is a way of life. And frankly, her coffee way of life is a slow one. I cannot count the number of dinners I endured as a child where I had to "sit still" while mom drank her after-dinner coffee. Then there were the afternoons she would spend at Miss Jane's house, the two of them drinking cup after cup of coffee while I was sent to another room "to play." I associate coffee with my mother so much so that one of my fondest pictures of her was taken at Miss Jane's house with a cup of coffee in hand.
So to me coffee was a stinky drink that was so much a part of my mother that I could never consider it to be part of me. Or if it was going to be part of me, it would be me when I was "old" and a mother. When I went off to college, I was told that after the first semester I would love both beer and coffee. While I did acquire a taste for a good margarita and vodka mixed with any fruit juice (in moderation, of course!), I never did acquire a taste for coffee. I got my caffeine from hot tea and iced cold Coca-Cola.
Even when Starbucks hit the scene in the South, I could not be swayed. Spend five bucks on coffee? Are you crazy? I'll pass on the grande mocha locha soy chai whatever it is you are serving at Starbucks and go with the $1.50 32 oz. Coke from McD's. But then Sonic started making lattes for $2.50 and gave a few of them away for free in the beginning. One of my first attempts at drinking coffee was basically a coffee milkshake from Sonic. After drinking two or three of those in one week while my husband was working out of town for the entire summer, I realized that if I kept it up, I'd weigh 300+ pounds when he got home and that probably wasn't a good idea.
So I moved on to Sonic's iced lattes, and every now and then a hot latte. Besides the chocolate and caramel syrup and whipped cream that make it so heavenly, I think what I love most is the JOLT of caffeine that I get. Having been a Coke and tea drinker my whole life, I am just not used to the massive amount of pep I get from the caffeine in a latte. It is amazing. It makes me feel like I can accomplish twice as much in my day. Why oh why haven't I been drinking this stuff for years! *Hi, my name is Lori, and I'm a caffeine addict.*
So I've been drinking an occasional latte at Sonic and yes, even Starbucks, for the last year or so. But on Wednesday, I took the plunge into real coffee. I went to my Bible study in the pouring rain and then sat shivering in the big air conditioned room like a drowned rat. The lovely ladies sponsoring this study had muffins and sweet bread and coffee for us all. I was freezing and a cup of hot anything sounded good. I contemplated drinking this "regular" coffee and then noticed they had hazelnut and regular creamer. I poured half a cup of coffee and then dumped in almost as much of both creamers. And it was drinkable, almost even good. Good enough in fact for me to drink two more cups. Did I mention I was wet and freezing? So now I realize that given enough creamer and sugar, I can even drink "regular" coffee.
The funny thing about my coffee drinking is that I still don't have to reconcile the fact that "I am becoming my mother." My mother, the woman who has coffee running through her veins, hates all things latte and Starbucksy. She thinks Starbucks makes the worst coffee on the planet. To her it is entirely too strong and she will drink her plain McD's coffee with a splash of milk, thank you very much. I find this comforting. Coffee is and always will be my mother's drink, not mine. But lattes, or a facsimile thereof, I think I'm falling love.
Friday, August 28, 2009
My Fiction Writing Career Part Deaux -- Or, why I stopped writing in the first place.
So, I'm trying my hand at fiction. Don't know what I'm doing, seeing as how I've never done this before, unless you count the short stories my friends and I wrote in seventh grade about the new boys we had crushes on, which I certainly do not.
Since I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to fiction, I thought I'd take a class. I went to a free class given by a self-published author at a nearby library. The author had written six or seven books that she had published herself. I was duly impressed. She gave us a formula for writing books. (I like knowing the rules, I just don't always choose to follow them.) She, being the Type-A teacherly person that she is, was emphatic that her method would work for everybody. It was kind of a mix of "outline, make notes and have all your stuff together at hand" and "put your butt in your seat and your fingers on your keyboard every day and write at least four pages a day and do not move from said chair until it is done." That's one way of doing it. Probably a fairly good way of doing it, too.
But silly Type-A people, don't you know that the rest of us live a life you could never imagine? We do not put our notes in one place -- we write one set in a steno pad that sits next to the stove, one on the back of an envelope we found in the car while stopped at a red light, and several in scattered notebooks around the house that may or may not still have our son's name on them. *Oh, you other Type-Messy people don't do this? That's just me? Oh, I can see why...now*
Needless to say, my ways are not her ways. And yes, my ways cause me lots of stress, and it would certainly be better if I broke down and got my proverbial "stuff" together and got organized. Yes it would. It'd also be nice if my six-year-old could sprinkle herself with fairy dust and take off into the air and fly like she keeps wishing for, but that's not going to happen any time soon either.
So, back to the keeping notes in my 8-year-old's notebooks. I don't actually do that. I've taken notes in notebooks that were formerly his. Yes, technically they have his name on them, but that's just because when I bought his supplies last year I accidentally wrote his name on about eight notebooks and I think he only used four. And yes, one of these notebooks has about three pages of his scribbles in them, but the rest of the used pages have things like to-do lists for Girl Scouts and other stuff from my life. He has not used these in months, and I need them, so that means they no longer belong to him.
Now that that's clear, let me tell you about my wonder boy. He will be nine in October. He started third grade two weeks ago. He read the first two Harry Potter books over the summer. I don't know exactly what level he is reading on (I seem to be the only parent on the planet whose child's teacher last year did not tell her her child's reading level, or maybe she did and I lost it. That is a distinct possibility.) but I'm guessing it's slightly above third grade, probably around eighth.
Anywho, I was writing away on my just-another-coming-of-age-in-the-South story, trying to figure out how to e-mail it from the laptop since my e-mail is on the desktop, and my son comes up behind me. I did not realize he was looking, or I would have closed the file. This story has exactly two "bad" words in it, one is a place where every child knows the devil lives and the other is a bad word for a girl/woman that rhymes with witch. These are fairly run of the mill, nothing to get excited over kind of words if you are an adult reading fiction. An 8-year-old reading fiction is another story.
Him: Oooh, you said a bad word mom.
Me: What? What are you doing? Are you reading that? That is none of your business. And I didn't say the bad word, my character did.
Him: What?
Me: I'm writing a short story, and my character said it in the story, and it's not for you to read. It's for adults. Aren't you supposed to be doing your homework?
Him: But why does your story have bad words in it?
Me: It has exactly two bad words in it, and it is for adults, not kids, and it is none of your business really, and I don't appreciate you reading my things, and exactly why aren't you doing your homework right now?
*Playing the homework card really helps in these situations.*
Argh! This is why I have never kept a diary. This is why I have not written since seventh grade. Oh, if I'd kept writing bad fiction back then, maybe I'd know what I was doing by now, but my mother found my short stories back then. I was as innocent as they come in seventh grade, although I did know the basics about "The Birds and the Bees," but I made the mistake of wondering, WONDERING, about S*E*X and why people would want to do that and then was WONDERING about kissing and other silly, innocent seventh-grade-crush stuff and my mother FREAKED OUT! Now, I'm not saying as a mom that she wasn't entitled a freak out moment. I'm sure I will freak out about S*E*X with my children, and what they are thinking about and when, but it scarred me. Not about sex, about writing. I figured if anybody could read what I was MAKING UP and NOT REALLY THINKING ABOUT WANTING TO DO IN REAL LIFE, EWWW! and judge it, and I could GET IN TROUBLE FOR IT, then I really ought not be doing it. So that pretty much ended my interest in a career in fiction.
Fast forward 20 years, (okay 25 if I'm being honest) and it's happening again. A family member is reading my writing without my permission and making judgements and I hate it. It is more a feeling of my right not to be read until I am ready being violated than worrying about what he was thinking or reading. The story he was reading was about a sixth grader and, except for one minor part, I would have no problem with him reading it by himself. The other minor part I would let him read while I explained it, so he'd understand. And the bad words, although shocking to see in print, are nothing worse than what he has heard slip from my lips on more than one occasion. *I am not perfect! Quit judging me!*
Oh, and back to those notebooks. He found one of his, er my, notebooks that same day that had a few questions in it. I'm also working on another novel where the protagonist gets pregnant her senior year in college while living on her sorority's dorm floor. He did not read about this! I needed to research what would happen to her. So I wrote these questions to remind myself: "What happens if you get pregnant in a sorority? Do you get kicked out? Do you get kicked off the floor?"
Him: What did you write in my notebook? (a little shrill in tone)
Me: (To self, "$#@%, he's found the questions. Seriously, what is wrong with me!?! Why can't I put my crap back where it belongs. I am the world's worst mother!") What? Those are questions for a story I am writing. What are you doing looking in my notebook reading my things? (a little shrill myself)
Him: It's my notebook.
Me: That is not your notebook. It only has your name on it, because I messed up and wrote it on there last year.
Him: But look, I wrote on a couple of pages.
Me: You haven't used that in months, and I needed a notebook. It has lots of lists and notes and things I need in there and what are you doing reading that notebook when you should be doing your homework!?!
Now, looking back over the actual questions and not the meaning they held for me, I could have handled this differently. There was no need to panic, because they really aren't that bad. I'm sure he was confused, but at least they didn't say what I was thinking, "What happens if you get pregnant in college by your jerk of a boyfriend you shouldn't have been in love with and who now won't marry you, and then you lose your housing and end up on your own and you are told by more than one friend to get an abortion, but you soldier on and decide to have it without the help of the 'father' and your 'friends' and you manage to somehow make a good life for yourself anyway?" No the questions, thankfully, did not say all that. They didn't even say you got pregnant when you were not married. I could have played them off, but instead I went for changing the subject and bringing up the unfinished homework, which is guaranteed to cause him to scramble since he is not one to sit down and dutifully do homework.
Yes one day, dear reader, I will get my proverbial crap together and keep my notes and computer files where they belong, and I will write a book that is well received by critics and the public alike, and then I will have to deal with my mother and my oldest child reading it and being upset that their daughter/mother writes about such things as, oh I don't know, life? But for now, I'm getting the Sharpie out and plastering my name across every notebook in the house and then hiding them in my room. Maybe that will serve as a deterrent.
Since I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to fiction, I thought I'd take a class. I went to a free class given by a self-published author at a nearby library. The author had written six or seven books that she had published herself. I was duly impressed. She gave us a formula for writing books. (I like knowing the rules, I just don't always choose to follow them.) She, being the Type-A teacherly person that she is, was emphatic that her method would work for everybody. It was kind of a mix of "outline, make notes and have all your stuff together at hand" and "put your butt in your seat and your fingers on your keyboard every day and write at least four pages a day and do not move from said chair until it is done." That's one way of doing it. Probably a fairly good way of doing it, too.
But silly Type-A people, don't you know that the rest of us live a life you could never imagine? We do not put our notes in one place -- we write one set in a steno pad that sits next to the stove, one on the back of an envelope we found in the car while stopped at a red light, and several in scattered notebooks around the house that may or may not still have our son's name on them. *Oh, you other Type-Messy people don't do this? That's just me? Oh, I can see why...now*
Needless to say, my ways are not her ways. And yes, my ways cause me lots of stress, and it would certainly be better if I broke down and got my proverbial "stuff" together and got organized. Yes it would. It'd also be nice if my six-year-old could sprinkle herself with fairy dust and take off into the air and fly like she keeps wishing for, but that's not going to happen any time soon either.
So, back to the keeping notes in my 8-year-old's notebooks. I don't actually do that. I've taken notes in notebooks that were formerly his. Yes, technically they have his name on them, but that's just because when I bought his supplies last year I accidentally wrote his name on about eight notebooks and I think he only used four. And yes, one of these notebooks has about three pages of his scribbles in them, but the rest of the used pages have things like to-do lists for Girl Scouts and other stuff from my life. He has not used these in months, and I need them, so that means they no longer belong to him.
Now that that's clear, let me tell you about my wonder boy. He will be nine in October. He started third grade two weeks ago. He read the first two Harry Potter books over the summer. I don't know exactly what level he is reading on (I seem to be the only parent on the planet whose child's teacher last year did not tell her her child's reading level, or maybe she did and I lost it. That is a distinct possibility.) but I'm guessing it's slightly above third grade, probably around eighth.
Anywho, I was writing away on my just-another-coming-of-age-in-the-South story, trying to figure out how to e-mail it from the laptop since my e-mail is on the desktop, and my son comes up behind me. I did not realize he was looking, or I would have closed the file. This story has exactly two "bad" words in it, one is a place where every child knows the devil lives and the other is a bad word for a girl/woman that rhymes with witch. These are fairly run of the mill, nothing to get excited over kind of words if you are an adult reading fiction. An 8-year-old reading fiction is another story.
Him: Oooh, you said a bad word mom.
Me: What? What are you doing? Are you reading that? That is none of your business. And I didn't say the bad word, my character did.
Him: What?
Me: I'm writing a short story, and my character said it in the story, and it's not for you to read. It's for adults. Aren't you supposed to be doing your homework?
Him: But why does your story have bad words in it?
Me: It has exactly two bad words in it, and it is for adults, not kids, and it is none of your business really, and I don't appreciate you reading my things, and exactly why aren't you doing your homework right now?
*Playing the homework card really helps in these situations.*
Argh! This is why I have never kept a diary. This is why I have not written since seventh grade. Oh, if I'd kept writing bad fiction back then, maybe I'd know what I was doing by now, but my mother found my short stories back then. I was as innocent as they come in seventh grade, although I did know the basics about "The Birds and the Bees," but I made the mistake of wondering, WONDERING, about S*E*X and why people would want to do that and then was WONDERING about kissing and other silly, innocent seventh-grade-crush stuff and my mother FREAKED OUT! Now, I'm not saying as a mom that she wasn't entitled a freak out moment. I'm sure I will freak out about S*E*X with my children, and what they are thinking about and when, but it scarred me. Not about sex, about writing. I figured if anybody could read what I was MAKING UP and NOT REALLY THINKING ABOUT WANTING TO DO IN REAL LIFE, EWWW! and judge it, and I could GET IN TROUBLE FOR IT, then I really ought not be doing it. So that pretty much ended my interest in a career in fiction.
Fast forward 20 years, (okay 25 if I'm being honest) and it's happening again. A family member is reading my writing without my permission and making judgements and I hate it. It is more a feeling of my right not to be read until I am ready being violated than worrying about what he was thinking or reading. The story he was reading was about a sixth grader and, except for one minor part, I would have no problem with him reading it by himself. The other minor part I would let him read while I explained it, so he'd understand. And the bad words, although shocking to see in print, are nothing worse than what he has heard slip from my lips on more than one occasion. *I am not perfect! Quit judging me!*
Oh, and back to those notebooks. He found one of his, er my, notebooks that same day that had a few questions in it. I'm also working on another novel where the protagonist gets pregnant her senior year in college while living on her sorority's dorm floor. He did not read about this! I needed to research what would happen to her. So I wrote these questions to remind myself: "What happens if you get pregnant in a sorority? Do you get kicked out? Do you get kicked off the floor?"
Him: What did you write in my notebook? (a little shrill in tone)
Me: (To self, "$#@%, he's found the questions. Seriously, what is wrong with me!?! Why can't I put my crap back where it belongs. I am the world's worst mother!") What? Those are questions for a story I am writing. What are you doing looking in my notebook reading my things? (a little shrill myself)
Him: It's my notebook.
Me: That is not your notebook. It only has your name on it, because I messed up and wrote it on there last year.
Him: But look, I wrote on a couple of pages.
Me: You haven't used that in months, and I needed a notebook. It has lots of lists and notes and things I need in there and what are you doing reading that notebook when you should be doing your homework!?!
Now, looking back over the actual questions and not the meaning they held for me, I could have handled this differently. There was no need to panic, because they really aren't that bad. I'm sure he was confused, but at least they didn't say what I was thinking, "What happens if you get pregnant in college by your jerk of a boyfriend you shouldn't have been in love with and who now won't marry you, and then you lose your housing and end up on your own and you are told by more than one friend to get an abortion, but you soldier on and decide to have it without the help of the 'father' and your 'friends' and you manage to somehow make a good life for yourself anyway?" No the questions, thankfully, did not say all that. They didn't even say you got pregnant when you were not married. I could have played them off, but instead I went for changing the subject and bringing up the unfinished homework, which is guaranteed to cause him to scramble since he is not one to sit down and dutifully do homework.
Yes one day, dear reader, I will get my proverbial crap together and keep my notes and computer files where they belong, and I will write a book that is well received by critics and the public alike, and then I will have to deal with my mother and my oldest child reading it and being upset that their daughter/mother writes about such things as, oh I don't know, life? But for now, I'm getting the Sharpie out and plastering my name across every notebook in the house and then hiding them in my room. Maybe that will serve as a deterrent.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wherein I open a can of worms
I have issues with the Girl Scouts. There, I've said it. Seeing as how I am a card-carrying member of the Girl Scouts -- a Daisy Leader no less -- I am sure they are going to knock on my door any minute and kick me out. I don't have issues with my local Girl Scout peeps -- I love them -- I just have issues with the national organziation. I'd probably be just fine and even forget they exist on a national level, if they didn't keep sending me these darn catalogs reminding me that I really don't like them very much. Argh!
A little background. I'm married to an Eagle Scout. My third grader is in his third year of Cub Scouts and my husband, the Eagle Scout, is his den leader. It would not be a stretch to say, "I love the Cub/Boy Scouts." I love that my son promises every week to do his duty to God and country and to help other people and to obey the law of the pack (follow directions from the leader and be a good Cub Scout). I love the values he's learning, and I love that he will get a pocketknife and learn how to use it safely this year. Seeing as how my brother got his first B.B. gun and a course in hunter safety at age 7, a pocketknife at 9 that comes with safety instructions is not cause for alarm for me.
Back to Girl Scouts (hereby known as G.S.) I thought long and hard about letting my daughter join G.S. I researched the organization, and frankly what I found I did not like. I knew they had kicked God out a while back. (He now has an * beside His name.) They bowed to secular pressure. I get it. They aren't the first organization, and sadly won't be the last, that goes along to get along. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.
Dropping their Christian Heritage is just one of the things I found about the national G.S. organization that I do not like. Since this post is about making hard decisions as a parent and not about politics, I will not get into all of the things I don't like. You can always Google it youself. Suffice it to say that as a whole, the national G.S. organization is very liberal, and I am not. In fact, I am pretty conservative.
So, here's the hard questions I faced, "Do I let my child be part of a group that doesn't share our family's values?" Or, "Do I disappoint my daughter and make her miss out on an opportunity to grow and learn with other girls her age." Yes, I realize there was another option. I could have started a "Christian-based" scouting group for my daughter and this would have solved my dilemma. There is a great one out there that is not yet in my community. To start the group here would have taken countless hours and support from a local church and many volunteers. I researched it and prayed about it and decided it just wasn't the time for me to do it. It would have taken time away from my family and away from any other volunteer activity I might want to do, and frankly, I didn't have the energy. But I do admit that every time I read about it, I wish my daughter was a part of it instead of G.S.
My mother had the same dilemma when I was growing up. She chose not to let me join Brownies, because she did not agree with the leader's morals and values. (This was before the organization as a whole became really liberal.) Lets just say the leader wasn't the type of woman my mother wanted me spending time with. I was a little bit upset with my mom because I was missing out, and I thought she was being judgemental -- she told me why I couldn't join. But I was also relieved. She wasn't like any of the other moms I knew and her brashness made me nervous. When I was older, my mom told me that she had tried to see if I could be in another troop, but there wasn't one. She decided that it was better for me to miss out on that opportunity than to let me be influenced by a woman who did not share her values. As a mom now, I really respect her decision.
But the situation with my daughter is a little different. She was desperate to be a scout. Remember the Eagle Scout dad and Cub Scout brother? So I really felt that it wouldn't be fair to keep her from being a scout. But obviously I was concerned about what she would be learning in scouts. So what's a mom to do? Why, volunteer to co-lead the group of course.
So now I'm the crazy mother of three co-leading 13 girls in a G.S. troop, and I really like it when I'm not worn out by it. I am not only shaping my daughter's values, I'm helping shape those of 12 other little girls and that's a responsibility I take seriously. And the good thing about G.S. in my small town is that the other leaders are awesome women who love the girls and whose values match my own. And when you lead a G.S. troop, you can kind of make it whatever you want. So right now, I'm taking what I think is good about G.S. and leaving the rest. My troop is made up of first graders, so as long as we have a snack and play a game, they are pretty happy. But we're also learning about virtues like honesty, kindness, helpfulness, being responsible for what we say and do, using resources wisely and being a sister to every Girl Scout, which is the really good part of Girl Scouts.
I'm pretty sure that other hard decisions I'll have to make for my children won't turn out with every body being happy, if tired, but this one did. So I'll chalk this up as a success and keep nurturing (and yes sheltering) my daughter as long as I can.
A little background. I'm married to an Eagle Scout. My third grader is in his third year of Cub Scouts and my husband, the Eagle Scout, is his den leader. It would not be a stretch to say, "I love the Cub/Boy Scouts." I love that my son promises every week to do his duty to God and country and to help other people and to obey the law of the pack (follow directions from the leader and be a good Cub Scout). I love the values he's learning, and I love that he will get a pocketknife and learn how to use it safely this year. Seeing as how my brother got his first B.B. gun and a course in hunter safety at age 7, a pocketknife at 9 that comes with safety instructions is not cause for alarm for me.
Back to Girl Scouts (hereby known as G.S.) I thought long and hard about letting my daughter join G.S. I researched the organization, and frankly what I found I did not like. I knew they had kicked God out a while back. (He now has an * beside His name.) They bowed to secular pressure. I get it. They aren't the first organization, and sadly won't be the last, that goes along to get along. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.
Dropping their Christian Heritage is just one of the things I found about the national G.S. organization that I do not like. Since this post is about making hard decisions as a parent and not about politics, I will not get into all of the things I don't like. You can always Google it youself. Suffice it to say that as a whole, the national G.S. organization is very liberal, and I am not. In fact, I am pretty conservative.
So, here's the hard questions I faced, "Do I let my child be part of a group that doesn't share our family's values?" Or, "Do I disappoint my daughter and make her miss out on an opportunity to grow and learn with other girls her age." Yes, I realize there was another option. I could have started a "Christian-based" scouting group for my daughter and this would have solved my dilemma. There is a great one out there that is not yet in my community. To start the group here would have taken countless hours and support from a local church and many volunteers. I researched it and prayed about it and decided it just wasn't the time for me to do it. It would have taken time away from my family and away from any other volunteer activity I might want to do, and frankly, I didn't have the energy. But I do admit that every time I read about it, I wish my daughter was a part of it instead of G.S.
My mother had the same dilemma when I was growing up. She chose not to let me join Brownies, because she did not agree with the leader's morals and values. (This was before the organization as a whole became really liberal.) Lets just say the leader wasn't the type of woman my mother wanted me spending time with. I was a little bit upset with my mom because I was missing out, and I thought she was being judgemental -- she told me why I couldn't join. But I was also relieved. She wasn't like any of the other moms I knew and her brashness made me nervous. When I was older, my mom told me that she had tried to see if I could be in another troop, but there wasn't one. She decided that it was better for me to miss out on that opportunity than to let me be influenced by a woman who did not share her values. As a mom now, I really respect her decision.
But the situation with my daughter is a little different. She was desperate to be a scout. Remember the Eagle Scout dad and Cub Scout brother? So I really felt that it wouldn't be fair to keep her from being a scout. But obviously I was concerned about what she would be learning in scouts. So what's a mom to do? Why, volunteer to co-lead the group of course.
So now I'm the crazy mother of three co-leading 13 girls in a G.S. troop, and I really like it when I'm not worn out by it. I am not only shaping my daughter's values, I'm helping shape those of 12 other little girls and that's a responsibility I take seriously. And the good thing about G.S. in my small town is that the other leaders are awesome women who love the girls and whose values match my own. And when you lead a G.S. troop, you can kind of make it whatever you want. So right now, I'm taking what I think is good about G.S. and leaving the rest. My troop is made up of first graders, so as long as we have a snack and play a game, they are pretty happy. But we're also learning about virtues like honesty, kindness, helpfulness, being responsible for what we say and do, using resources wisely and being a sister to every Girl Scout, which is the really good part of Girl Scouts.
I'm pretty sure that other hard decisions I'll have to make for my children won't turn out with every body being happy, if tired, but this one did. So I'll chalk this up as a success and keep nurturing (and yes sheltering) my daughter as long as I can.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Suzie Q. Homemaker ain't got nothin' on me!
If you know me, or if you've read more than one entry of my blog, you probably know that Suzie Q. Homemaker I am not. In fact, I am not crazy about the title homemaker (you can read about that here), but not for any PC reason. It's because I feel like I am crappy at making a home and if that is my title, I am afraid I might be failing miserably. Cooking and cleaning just aren't my thing.
However, I must have been bitten by the Suzie Homemaker bug this week, because last night I bit the bullet and cooked an actual meal from scratch *I can hear your oohs and ahhs from here* much to my children's chagrin. There was broccoli involved. My kids think there should never be broccoli involved in dinner, and they weep and wail and gnash their teeth accordingly when there is. Even this could not put me off my Suzie Q. Homemaker kick this week. This morning after the older two went out the door on their merry way to the bus stop, I browned up a pot roast -- using an apron and everything -- and threw it in the crock pot to cook. Nothing makes me feel more like Suzie Q. Homemaker than cooking while wearing an apron, except maybe sewing.
When it comes to sewing, I am a total throw back. Suzie Q. Homemaker's sewing skills ain't got nothin' on me. My mother is still confused by this turn of events. I am the girl who swore off HomeEc class, because by golly I was going to be a successful business woman, and I didn't need to learn "stupid, old-fashioned stuff" like cooking and sewing to do that. Seeing as how my mother barely made it through HomeEc herself, I don't think she batted an eye over my protest. Fast forward more years than I care to count, and here I am a bonafide sewing addict.
For every special occasion my children partake in, a special outfit must be made. First day of first grade? Let mommy make you a skirt with an attached apron out of Dick and Jane and coordinating polka dot fabric. Birthday girl turning three? Let me make a jumper with an appliqued giraffe holding three balloons for our zoo party theme. Earned a co-lead role in the first grade play? Let mommy make you and your co-lead matching shark costumes. Yes, I may be up until 2 a.m. the night before putting in buttonholes and finishing up hems, and I may look like a glassy-eyed loon taking their pictures at the event, but by golly my kids look good in their custom outfits! Dear readers, I have one thing to say for myself, "Hi, my name is Lori, and I'm a sewing addict."
One mom I know says she thinks that stay-at-home moms who sew for their kids do so for one main reason, recognition. I'm inclined to agree. When strangers come up to you at Disney World and ask you where on earth you got the precious Minnie Mouse t-shirt dress with the embroidered Minnie Mouse head on it, you can smile demurely and say, "Oh, you mean my daughters' dresses? Well, actually I made those." To which said stranger will ooh and ahh and tell you how talented you are. Or her husband will ask your husband in the men's room, no less, "Where did you get your daughter's dress? My wife would love one of those for our daughter." And your husband will smile and proudly say, "My wife makes them," and then he'll tell you that next time you should make up a bunch to bring to Disney to sell and thus pay for the trip. To which you will reply, "Uh, no thanks. I'm pretty sure you go to Disney jail if I you do that."
It's sad, but true, that when you put your heart and soul, as well as every moment of your day, into raising your kids, and you don't get a yearly review or end up with a glowing article about your mothering skills in the paper, all you want is a little recognition. For me, that recognition comes from sewing. (And now from writing again thanks to you, my dear readers, who comment on my blog!) Of course compliments on what nice manners your children have are even nicer than those on your sewing skills, but really, how often does that happen?
So yes, I do love the recognition I get from sewing, but I'm pretty sure that it runs deeper than that. There is something soothing about taking a piece of fabric, a pattern and an idea, and making it into something my daughters can wear. (I would make things for my 8-year-old son, but he isn't that interested in the things I make anymore. Can't say I blame him. I don't make graphic tees and cargo shorts.) Sewing is a creative process that has tangible, wearable results.
My love of sewing also comes from the relationships it has brought me. I love to sew in a group, and I love to talk sewing. I love to look at fabric and discuss patterns and bounce ideas off a friend. I love to get e-mails from Amy saying, "How cute is this!?!" and "We need to make that!" It's creativity with a little help from your friends, which might be the very best kind.
The height of this creativity amongst friends comes at my semi-annual (sometimes quarterlyish) sewing weekend. I, and several of my sewing friends, head out of town to a beautiful retreat that one of the friend's father-in-law owns. And we sew. For two and a half days and we LOVE it! Okay, so we've sort of incorporated a movie/wine drinking portion into Friday night, which means I don't sew once the wine flows, because my personal motto is "Just Say No to Drinking and Sewing." I have a hard enough time making my seams straight without the influence of alcohol.
But after Friday night, it is down to business for all of us. There are Easter outfits, a ball gown (Now that was an interesting weekend. Missy's husband will never give her that much lead time on a black-tie event again!), back-to-school, and Christmas items being made. The projects are as varied as the women making them. If I'm lucky I can embroider some items for a friend, while she puts some buttonholes in one of my garments. I hate buttonholes. Or, I can get their advice on what to do with a yard of funky fabric I picked up for a song. I can borrow patterns, suggest ideas on what they are making, and laugh and stay up far too late in the night trying to get one more ruffle on one more pant leg.
It is good times indeed, and I will relish these weekends while they last. I am sure our days of sewing for our children are numbered. One day far too soon they will look at us and say "I don't want to wear that," and we will have to face the fact that they are too old to wear what we make them. But for now, we sew on. And maybe after the children's garments are done, we'll take up home dec sewing. Or maybe start a movie/wine drinking club. I won't worry about that now. I don't have time. I need to get my fabric and patterns ready for the weekend. Can't wait to see you Friday, girls!
Monday, August 24, 2009
A Dizzy Confused State of Mind
Merriam-Webster's dictionary defines vertigo as: a.) a sensation of motion in which the individual or the individual's surroundings seem to whirl dizzily b.) a dizzy confused state of mind. I define mild vertigo as that feeling you get when you've had one too many cocktails and you need just a teensy bit of help walking straight.
You don't even want to hear about moderate to severe vertigo. Let's just say it resembles the feeling you might get after drinking all night at a band party in college (not that I would know, I'm just speculating here). Or it could also be described as that feeling you get after riding one of those cups and saucers rides at Disney, or one of those rides at the fair that uses centrifugal force to keep you slammed back against the back of the ride so you don't go flying off into space. Anyway you slice it, it is NOT GOOD.
However, vertigo doesn't just come after drinking one too many cocktails with the girls and having an overall good time, or after making a very poor decision to climb up on that ride at the fair. No, for me vertigo comes with sinus problems, or after a week or two of not getting enough sleep, or when I move my head a certain way, or do something stupid like get on a kiddy ride at the fair, or just whenever the heck it wants to show up and leave me feeling slightly drunk (without the benefit of cocktails) and just a tad bit cranky for three to four days, before it decides to slink off and invade some other poor unsuspecting soul's brain.
I've been diagnosed with sinus issues. I've been diagnosed with Benign Positional Vertigo. I've even been diagnosed with Meniere's Disease (which I am pretty sure that I do not have, seeing as how I do not have horrible, debilitating, life-altering vertigo that some people have, God bless them.) So basically, they don't know why I have vertigo, nor do they know how to stop it. It's not a huge deal, since I only get it a few times a year. But while it's here rolling around in my brain, I feel icky and out of sorts, like I'm going to fall down every time I bend down to tie somebody's shoe. I hate icky and out of sorts.
The doctor who diagnosed me with Meniere's said that I should go on a low-salt diet, because Meniere's (which I'm convinced I do not have) may or may not be caused by excess fluid in the inner ear somewhere and going on a low-salt diet may or may not help it. Okay? When I told the doctor that a low-salt diet sounded like a lot of work for something that may or may not help. He said it wasn't hard at all and that I would probably lose 10 pounds and love it, and he just knew that I wouldn't want to take a water pill every day (all said while he was walking out the door of the exam room).
Well, lets just refer to him as Dr. Lying McLiar and go to his house and see what his salt intake is, because I guarantee you it is four times what he told me I should consume. Anyone ever tried low-salt ketchup? It's disgusting. And how would he know whether or not I want to take medicine without actually asking me? And couldn't I just take the water pill when I feel the vertigo coming on? As far as the comment about my weight goes, bite me! My completely average weight for my height is none of his Ear, Nose and Throat business.
Did I mention there really is no good medicine for vertigo? There is an anti-dizzy medicine which I think is basically Benadryl, and the only way it works is to knock you flat on your back asleep, so you don't feel the dizzy. Exactly how am I supposed to take care of three kids when I am prostrate in the bed? The other option is the "water pill" which Dr. Lying McLiar thinks I don't want to take, and I'm not convinced would work anyway. (Don't worry. If I want to take the water pill, I can certainly get it. I know of a Dr. Feelgood that would prescribe it and also any other drug I might think I need. Scary! But that is a post for a day called "Never" because I really do not want to get sued.)
I am currently having a bought of vertigo, and I'm a little Cranky McCranky myself. But I'm guessing you already knew that by now, right? Grrrr!
You don't even want to hear about moderate to severe vertigo. Let's just say it resembles the feeling you might get after drinking all night at a band party in college (not that I would know, I'm just speculating here). Or it could also be described as that feeling you get after riding one of those cups and saucers rides at Disney, or one of those rides at the fair that uses centrifugal force to keep you slammed back against the back of the ride so you don't go flying off into space. Anyway you slice it, it is NOT GOOD.
However, vertigo doesn't just come after drinking one too many cocktails with the girls and having an overall good time, or after making a very poor decision to climb up on that ride at the fair. No, for me vertigo comes with sinus problems, or after a week or two of not getting enough sleep, or when I move my head a certain way, or do something stupid like get on a kiddy ride at the fair, or just whenever the heck it wants to show up and leave me feeling slightly drunk (without the benefit of cocktails) and just a tad bit cranky for three to four days, before it decides to slink off and invade some other poor unsuspecting soul's brain.
I've been diagnosed with sinus issues. I've been diagnosed with Benign Positional Vertigo. I've even been diagnosed with Meniere's Disease (which I am pretty sure that I do not have, seeing as how I do not have horrible, debilitating, life-altering vertigo that some people have, God bless them.) So basically, they don't know why I have vertigo, nor do they know how to stop it. It's not a huge deal, since I only get it a few times a year. But while it's here rolling around in my brain, I feel icky and out of sorts, like I'm going to fall down every time I bend down to tie somebody's shoe. I hate icky and out of sorts.
The doctor who diagnosed me with Meniere's said that I should go on a low-salt diet, because Meniere's (which I'm convinced I do not have) may or may not be caused by excess fluid in the inner ear somewhere and going on a low-salt diet may or may not help it. Okay? When I told the doctor that a low-salt diet sounded like a lot of work for something that may or may not help. He said it wasn't hard at all and that I would probably lose 10 pounds and love it, and he just knew that I wouldn't want to take a water pill every day (all said while he was walking out the door of the exam room).
Well, lets just refer to him as Dr. Lying McLiar and go to his house and see what his salt intake is, because I guarantee you it is four times what he told me I should consume. Anyone ever tried low-salt ketchup? It's disgusting. And how would he know whether or not I want to take medicine without actually asking me? And couldn't I just take the water pill when I feel the vertigo coming on? As far as the comment about my weight goes, bite me! My completely average weight for my height is none of his Ear, Nose and Throat business.
Did I mention there really is no good medicine for vertigo? There is an anti-dizzy medicine which I think is basically Benadryl, and the only way it works is to knock you flat on your back asleep, so you don't feel the dizzy. Exactly how am I supposed to take care of three kids when I am prostrate in the bed? The other option is the "water pill" which Dr. Lying McLiar thinks I don't want to take, and I'm not convinced would work anyway. (Don't worry. If I want to take the water pill, I can certainly get it. I know of a Dr. Feelgood that would prescribe it and also any other drug I might think I need. Scary! But that is a post for a day called "Never" because I really do not want to get sued.)
I am currently having a bought of vertigo, and I'm a little Cranky McCranky myself. But I'm guessing you already knew that by now, right? Grrrr!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)