Admittedly, it’s been a difficult month and on occasion I failed to provide my daughter with the attention she desired and deserved. Losing her Mimi may have had a larger impact on her that I originally thought, or maybe in my stressed out and grieving haze, I didn’t notice her unhappiness. In any event, today, she said those magic three little words that start wars and manage to cause the jaws of many a parent to clench… I HATE YOU!
Yep. There it is. She hates me…and she’s 4. My heart seized and my brain convulsed inside my skull, thinking, “Did she just say what I THINK she said?” I managed to make it into my teens before I ever slung that one on my mom! Hearing those words truly horrified me. But I took a breath and said, “That’s okay, you have a right to feel that way, but I love you no matter what.” Yeah, I’ve read a few books, watched some Oprah and scanned a couple of articles in parenting magazines. Yippee for me.
Truth? That little girl hurt my feelings. No one wants to hear that someone hates him or her – not even if you hate him or her right back! (Yikes, second grade, anyone? And by the way, I cannot bring myself to cause grammatical dissonance by using “no one” and “them.”) Especially if you surrendered your body, for 9 months (10 months really, but who’s counting?), labored for 22 hours and underwent major surgery to give life to that person!! This is the thanks I get? I know that lately my heart has been firmly encamped upon my sleeve and feelings run rampant with little or no notice, but should I have to put up with this? How can I allow this little person who can’t spell more than her own name and still wears training pants to bed to damage me so?
After calming down and drowning my sorrows in a 12-ounce can of Diet Dr. Pepper, I realized that it is BECAUSE I surrendered my body to her, at which time I gave over my life – heart and soul – to her, that she can hurt me with her words. Logically, I know the she does indeed NOT hate me, but that she is frustrated by me at times and that’s the only way she can tell me. There are times I wish I never encouraged her to speak, but she needs her little voice to tell me, in her own inimitable way, how she feels. I would rather hear her tell me she hates me than wind up explaining to the media in 10 years that she was a quiet kid and I had no idea she planned to open fire on her school.
This way, we can deal with what she feels when she feels it and I can get on to doing whatever I was doing before my life fell apart.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Funeral for a Friend
When a family member dies, it’s a crushing blow that people around you understand and sympathize with. But when you lose a friend, those around us mention how sorry they are for the loss, but that’s where it ends. You don’t get 3 days leave from work to grieve for a friend, you are not involved in helping with funeral arrangements and you often end up lost in the crowd, being one of the random people paying their respects.
The stark reality is that your grief just isn’t as important as that of the immediate family. Friends are expected to support the family, send flowers, make casseroles and sign guest books. But what most people don’t understand is this: grief attacks everyone who knew the deceased.
I recently lost my most beloved friend of 18 years, Donna. She was a special “chosen relative” and we were more than friends, we were like family. Since my mother passed many years ago, I designated her as the Pie’s grandmother figure…she was Mimi. She treated the Pie just as any grandmother would – spoiled her beyond belief! Donna was the best Mimi any kid could ever wish for and my daughter adored her.
Donna’s health had been rapidly declining over the past few months and we all knew that the prognosis was not a positive one. For weeks, she had been bed-bound with no ability to move without pain. She and I discussed many times – even before her illness became so severe – how she wanted her death handled by those she left behind. In fact, the day she died, we talked about my role in supporting her husband emotionally and helping him through the transition. She again adamantly stated she wanted to be cremated and no services were to be held. In life, Donna wanted no attention brought to herself; she wanted to fade into the background and didn’t like people looking at her. It seemed fitting to honor her wishes, but it was not to be.
Funerals are for the living, to provide closure (if that is possible), to say good-bye and to celebrate the life of the loved one. I totally get that. However, some people are entrenched in tradition and insist on having the textbook service for their lost family member. I struggled mightily to not insert myself into the mix of the arrangements. I mentioned that Donna and I spoke about specifics and how I wanted to honor her memory by following those instructions. But since I had no decision making power, I let the family handle everything. I did ask to read something and to play two songs and I was honored that my requests were approved. It ended up being a nice graveside service with many more people in attendance than were expected. People spoke about how generous and humorous she was and told many funny stories involving her antics.
I found myself surrounded by people – many of them friends – and thought that the only thing missing for the event to be a real party…was Donna.
The stark reality is that your grief just isn’t as important as that of the immediate family. Friends are expected to support the family, send flowers, make casseroles and sign guest books. But what most people don’t understand is this: grief attacks everyone who knew the deceased.
I recently lost my most beloved friend of 18 years, Donna. She was a special “chosen relative” and we were more than friends, we were like family. Since my mother passed many years ago, I designated her as the Pie’s grandmother figure…she was Mimi. She treated the Pie just as any grandmother would – spoiled her beyond belief! Donna was the best Mimi any kid could ever wish for and my daughter adored her.
Donna’s health had been rapidly declining over the past few months and we all knew that the prognosis was not a positive one. For weeks, she had been bed-bound with no ability to move without pain. She and I discussed many times – even before her illness became so severe – how she wanted her death handled by those she left behind. In fact, the day she died, we talked about my role in supporting her husband emotionally and helping him through the transition. She again adamantly stated she wanted to be cremated and no services were to be held. In life, Donna wanted no attention brought to herself; she wanted to fade into the background and didn’t like people looking at her. It seemed fitting to honor her wishes, but it was not to be.
Funerals are for the living, to provide closure (if that is possible), to say good-bye and to celebrate the life of the loved one. I totally get that. However, some people are entrenched in tradition and insist on having the textbook service for their lost family member. I struggled mightily to not insert myself into the mix of the arrangements. I mentioned that Donna and I spoke about specifics and how I wanted to honor her memory by following those instructions. But since I had no decision making power, I let the family handle everything. I did ask to read something and to play two songs and I was honored that my requests were approved. It ended up being a nice graveside service with many more people in attendance than were expected. People spoke about how generous and humorous she was and told many funny stories involving her antics.
I found myself surrounded by people – many of them friends – and thought that the only thing missing for the event to be a real party…was Donna.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Alone Again? No Way, Jose!
Greta Garbo had the right idea when she uttered the famous lines, “I vant to be alone…” There comes a time in all our lives when the very idea of another person intruding into our personal space, whether in person or by phone, is simply unbearable. This is one of those times for me.
Inside of two weeks, I have had my dad in the hospital with pneumonia and excessive fluid gain twice. I am exhausted ! He’s an old man, so when he feels poorly, he acts poorly: grumpy, inconsiderate, bossy, frustrated. It’s a lot to handle when trying balance the needs of a preschooler at the same time. The Pie’s idea of a good time is most certainly not hanging out in a hospital emergency room and waiting for something to happen. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, so I can give her a pass, but my dad should know better.
Closed doors are fairly handy sometimes, but they also separate as well as protect. No one can see behind the closed doors of our home to witness what happens on a regular basis, so here’s a glimpse:
Dad sits in his recliner the majority of the day, barking orders trying to be heard over the blaring television. Then he routinely cusses the dog for reasons I have yet to figure out. He shuffles into the kitchen a few times a day and merely stands there, gaping at the room, demonstrating no knowledge of where he is or what he wants. I have to lead him back to the dinner table and play 20 questions to determine what he needs. He slings swear random swear words at inanimate objects – the fridge, the barstools, the drawers or chairs. In his case, I need to escape the noise that surrounds him.
The Pie is under the impression that she must be touching me at every waking moment. She will not tolerate us being in different rooms in the house, so I have not voided in private in nearly 6 months! Upon occasion, she will allow me to take a shower uninterrupted, but those times are few. When I am in the shower, I sometimes wash a few extra times just to take up some time. The Pie follows me from room to room, touching my leg, my shirt, my arm, my hair, my face…anything she can reach. I feel like an alien being probed on the mother ship!
Want I want more than just about anything in the world is a few hours with no one to do nothing. I want quiet…I want solitude…I want to be alone.
Inside of two weeks, I have had my dad in the hospital with pneumonia and excessive fluid gain twice. I am exhausted ! He’s an old man, so when he feels poorly, he acts poorly: grumpy, inconsiderate, bossy, frustrated. It’s a lot to handle when trying balance the needs of a preschooler at the same time. The Pie’s idea of a good time is most certainly not hanging out in a hospital emergency room and waiting for something to happen. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, so I can give her a pass, but my dad should know better.
Closed doors are fairly handy sometimes, but they also separate as well as protect. No one can see behind the closed doors of our home to witness what happens on a regular basis, so here’s a glimpse:
Dad sits in his recliner the majority of the day, barking orders trying to be heard over the blaring television. Then he routinely cusses the dog for reasons I have yet to figure out. He shuffles into the kitchen a few times a day and merely stands there, gaping at the room, demonstrating no knowledge of where he is or what he wants. I have to lead him back to the dinner table and play 20 questions to determine what he needs. He slings swear random swear words at inanimate objects – the fridge, the barstools, the drawers or chairs. In his case, I need to escape the noise that surrounds him.
The Pie is under the impression that she must be touching me at every waking moment. She will not tolerate us being in different rooms in the house, so I have not voided in private in nearly 6 months! Upon occasion, she will allow me to take a shower uninterrupted, but those times are few. When I am in the shower, I sometimes wash a few extra times just to take up some time. The Pie follows me from room to room, touching my leg, my shirt, my arm, my hair, my face…anything she can reach. I feel like an alien being probed on the mother ship!
Want I want more than just about anything in the world is a few hours with no one to do nothing. I want quiet…I want solitude…I want to be alone.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Terror in a Child's Eyes
It’s been 10 years. Seems like it was just last month, but in truth, an entire decade has passed since the worst terrorist attack in American history. Of course, the Pie was six years from being born and the last thing I ever expected was to have to explain to a child what happened that fateful day.
With all the media coverage and network specials flooding the television, the Pie was bound to see something she didn’t understand. She witnessed a shot of the twin towers spewing smoke into the sky and simply asked, “What happened?”
My initial response explained that it was not happening right now, but that it happened a long time ago. I had to set her mind at ease we faced no imminent danger. She climbed into my lap, stared at me with her indigo eyes and asked, “Is it bad?”
I told her that a long time ago, some very bad men stole some airplanes and flew them into some buildings to hurt American people. Of course, her natural response followed: “Why?” I was stumped. I couldn’t answer the why…fact, is I have never known the real reason it happened. I only know that it resulted in death and destruction. If I can’t understand it, how can I explain it to a four-year-old?
I was not directly affected by 9/11 but as a member of the national community, it left an impression on me. I get emotional when I hear stories of bravery and sacrifice that occurred that day. On a trip to New York in 2004, I stood at Ground Zero and wept. Still, I’m at a loss as to how to bring understanding to my daughter about the horrific events.
The images she sees on the television are of burning buildings, ominous clouds and people running for their lives. Not exactly Sesame Street fodder, so she has questions. But I don’t believe she needs to know details about what happened; she needs to know how to live with the knowledge that it happened.
In her eyes, she is safe and nothing bad will ever happen to her. In my eyes, the world is just waiting for her…
With all the media coverage and network specials flooding the television, the Pie was bound to see something she didn’t understand. She witnessed a shot of the twin towers spewing smoke into the sky and simply asked, “What happened?”
My initial response explained that it was not happening right now, but that it happened a long time ago. I had to set her mind at ease we faced no imminent danger. She climbed into my lap, stared at me with her indigo eyes and asked, “Is it bad?”
I told her that a long time ago, some very bad men stole some airplanes and flew them into some buildings to hurt American people. Of course, her natural response followed: “Why?” I was stumped. I couldn’t answer the why…fact, is I have never known the real reason it happened. I only know that it resulted in death and destruction. If I can’t understand it, how can I explain it to a four-year-old?
I was not directly affected by 9/11 but as a member of the national community, it left an impression on me. I get emotional when I hear stories of bravery and sacrifice that occurred that day. On a trip to New York in 2004, I stood at Ground Zero and wept. Still, I’m at a loss as to how to bring understanding to my daughter about the horrific events.
The images she sees on the television are of burning buildings, ominous clouds and people running for their lives. Not exactly Sesame Street fodder, so she has questions. But I don’t believe she needs to know details about what happened; she needs to know how to live with the knowledge that it happened.
In her eyes, she is safe and nothing bad will ever happen to her. In my eyes, the world is just waiting for her…
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Mother Tongue
Being an English major, I am quite a stickler for correct grammar, spelling and pronunciation. I know I have made spelling mistakes in this very forum, and they have mortified me, but they were usually results of bad typing in a dark room at 3 in the morning…so sue me.
I have no patience for people who incorrectly pronounce words or use words in the wrong context, but it seems that those people are the only ones crossing my path lately. My dad has home health nurses and a health aide that visit a few times a week and in an effort to quell some of the awkwardness of that time, I will invariably strike up some inane conversation with them. It never fails that one or all of them will end up with her foot in her mouth.
Also, as the Pie learns her native language, she cracks me up with some of the pronunciations she comes up with. I have never used “baby talk” with her but simply spoke to her as if she understood what I meant. By the age of 9 months, she knew the meaning of “dangerous.” At 18 months, she knew what “understand” meant and used it correctly. Now, at the age of 4, she uses words like “appropriate, investigate and completely.” However, some words do give her a little trouble. What follows is a small compendium of some of the incorrect usages and pronunciations I have heard recently. I have noted first the incorrect pronunciation, a definition and finally, an example sentence of how it wasbutchered…er, used.
ROT-A-TOO-LEE – a French vegetable dish. I like to fix up some ROT-A-TOO-LEE for a quick supper.
PA-NAN-O – a musical instrument. Can I play the PA-NAN-O?
NUH-VILL-UH – a flavor of ice cream. I don’t like chocolate; I want NUH-VILL-UH.
KWAY-SO – a Mexican cheese dip. I want to order some KWAY-SO.
NUKE-YOU-LER – it’s NUKE-LEE-ER, you bucket heads! Come on!!!
FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL – referring to money matters. We need to go over our FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL status.
SIM-FON-ICK – working together as one. We have such a SIM-FON-ICK relationship.
KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN – the start of a school career. I have a son going into KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN.
MISS-CHEE-VEE-US – up to no good. Look at him…he’s being MISS-CHEE-VEE-US.
TORE-TILL-YUH – a flat dough made of corn or flour. Do you want some TORE-TILL-YUH chips and dip?
SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE – speculated. She was SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE coming by today.
ECK-SET-ER-RUH – and so on. We need office supplies: pens, paper, ECK-SET-ER-UH.
ATH-UH-LEET – one who participates in sporting activities. He is the greatest ATH-UH-LEET to ever play the game.
So in summary, always make sure to pronounce your words correctly…it will be a blessing in the skies.
I have no patience for people who incorrectly pronounce words or use words in the wrong context, but it seems that those people are the only ones crossing my path lately. My dad has home health nurses and a health aide that visit a few times a week and in an effort to quell some of the awkwardness of that time, I will invariably strike up some inane conversation with them. It never fails that one or all of them will end up with her foot in her mouth.
Also, as the Pie learns her native language, she cracks me up with some of the pronunciations she comes up with. I have never used “baby talk” with her but simply spoke to her as if she understood what I meant. By the age of 9 months, she knew the meaning of “dangerous.” At 18 months, she knew what “understand” meant and used it correctly. Now, at the age of 4, she uses words like “appropriate, investigate and completely.” However, some words do give her a little trouble. What follows is a small compendium of some of the incorrect usages and pronunciations I have heard recently. I have noted first the incorrect pronunciation, a definition and finally, an example sentence of how it was
ROT-A-TOO-LEE – a French vegetable dish. I like to fix up some ROT-A-TOO-LEE for a quick supper.
PA-NAN-O – a musical instrument. Can I play the PA-NAN-O?
NUH-VILL-UH – a flavor of ice cream. I don’t like chocolate; I want NUH-VILL-UH.
KWAY-SO – a Mexican cheese dip. I want to order some KWAY-SO.
NUKE-YOU-LER – it’s NUKE-LEE-ER, you bucket heads! Come on!!!
FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL – referring to money matters. We need to go over our FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL status.
SIM-FON-ICK – working together as one. We have such a SIM-FON-ICK relationship.
KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN – the start of a school career. I have a son going into KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN.
MISS-CHEE-VEE-US – up to no good. Look at him…he’s being MISS-CHEE-VEE-US.
TORE-TILL-YUH – a flat dough made of corn or flour. Do you want some TORE-TILL-YUH chips and dip?
SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE – speculated. She was SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE coming by today.
ECK-SET-ER-RUH – and so on. We need office supplies: pens, paper, ECK-SET-ER-UH.
ATH-UH-LEET – one who participates in sporting activities. He is the greatest ATH-UH-LEET to ever play the game.
So in summary, always make sure to pronounce your words correctly…it will be a blessing in the skies.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Today's Care Giver
During a recent trip to the hospital with my father, I noticed a magazine on a table in the waiting room. The title was “Today’s Care Giver” and I admit being somewhat intrigued. How can a magazine devoted entirely to people who take care of other people be a successful publication? I suppose since it’s a niche market and they only seem to be available in hospitals, it meets the desired circulation.
The glossy cover features a pseudo-celebrity whose interview promises to reveal inside secrets to caring for elderly parents. If we talked about it in real terms, there would be no need for psycho-babbly publications and do-it-yourself seminars. Yeah, the editor-in-chief of this magazine travels all over the country and holds conferences on how to be a caregiver. Where can I sign up for that gig? The one secret you won’t learn in a magazine or at a seminar is this: Have limitless resources.
Financially, it is a huge strain to manage a household that includes a 4-year old, a 46-year old and an 82-year old. I do not work “outside the home” (as they say), so we depend on my dad’s very fixed income to support us. Utility bills, groceries, prescriptions, other personal necessities must be managed with very little financial wiggle room. In fact, for the past couple of months, I have relied on good friends to help me make my ends meet. But really, money is the least of my concerns.
It’s my personal resources that are being drained. It may look to those outside the situation that I have a free ride, but nothing could be further from the truth. I work my fanny off every day to make sure that our odd little household is running smoothly and everyone is well cared for. For example, just this morning, I realized that I had done more in a couple of hours than most people get done in a whole day.
I awoke to my daughter whacking me in the head with her cup, demanding more milk. As I stumbled through the living room, my father greeted me from his recliner (his throne), his leg covered in blood and stuck in a plastic grocery sack. He had injured his shin during the night and spent the rest of the wee hours with his leg propped up. So… I rinsed, refilled and delivered the Pie’s cup and grabbed medical supplies from the bathroom. I washed Dad’s lacerated shin with normal saline (just happen to have it lying around), and then cleaned the dried blood with warm soapy water. I covered the wound with antibiotic cream and dressed it with sterile bandages. Upon completion of this task, I had been awake for about 20 minutes.
After washing my hands, I set to work preparing breakfast. Before I could locate the pancake mix in the cabinet, my daughter blasts into the kitchen with the force of Iron Man and declares she is hungry. I explain that I am preparing our regular Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausage, but she rebuts that she will starve if she doesn’t have something to eat RIGHT THIS SECOND!!! A quick talking-to and instructions to stand in the corner took care of that, so back to breakfast. While I wait for the griddle and frying pan to heat up, I remove the dishes from the dishwasher and put them away. Why is it there is ALWAYS a dirty dish somewhere in this house? With that done, I grab a load of laundry and start it on it’s merry, agitating way.
Back to breakfast: sausage in the pan, batter on the griddle…we are good to go. Oh, suddenly, from the corner where she still stands, my daughter announces that she needs a new band-aid on her toe (this will be the 17th since her injury less than 24 hours ago) and it must take priority over anything else I am doing. She’s so funny…. I flip the pancakes, get the required accoutrements from the pantry and run to the bathroom for a new princess band-aid. I realize I carried the syrup with me all through the house as I sit the Pie down for a new wound dressing. I go back to the kitchen to finish up pancakes and sausage and serve them up an empty dining table. My dad has wandered off to the bathroom, which could take up to 45 minutes, and my daughter…well; she’s still standing in the corner. At least she takes direction well!
As I wait for everyone to be seated, I decide to do a little dusting in the living room when the phone rings and it’s a company to which my dad has applied for Medicare Prescription Part D insurance, explaining why we are unable to enroll him at this time, blah, blah, blah… By the time I hang up, both my charges sit at the table looking at me like Oliver in the movie asking for more gruel! Oh, but wait…where the hell is the syrup? I honestly had to remind myself why I was ever in the entry foyer to begin with when I discovered the Log Cabin sitting forlornly in the corner. Now, let the eating commence.
After 4 bites, the Pie explains that she is full. This from the child who swore she would shrivel up and die if she didn’t eat something. Dad eats silently, that is until he says, “The sausage is a little browner than I like.” Fortunately for all involved, I say nothing. Breakfast is finally, mercifully over and now the real work begins.
Three more loads of laundry, dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, wound care for both of those clumsy clods I love, then some playing with Barbies, Play-Doh and the Littlest Pet Shop. Preparing and cleaning up from lunch and dinner will also make their way onto the list.
If I have time, I plan to write that magazine and suggest they change the name to: “Today’s Care Giver is Tomorrow’s Exhausted Raving Lunatic.”
The glossy cover features a pseudo-celebrity whose interview promises to reveal inside secrets to caring for elderly parents. If we talked about it in real terms, there would be no need for psycho-babbly publications and do-it-yourself seminars. Yeah, the editor-in-chief of this magazine travels all over the country and holds conferences on how to be a caregiver. Where can I sign up for that gig? The one secret you won’t learn in a magazine or at a seminar is this: Have limitless resources.
Financially, it is a huge strain to manage a household that includes a 4-year old, a 46-year old and an 82-year old. I do not work “outside the home” (as they say), so we depend on my dad’s very fixed income to support us. Utility bills, groceries, prescriptions, other personal necessities must be managed with very little financial wiggle room. In fact, for the past couple of months, I have relied on good friends to help me make my ends meet. But really, money is the least of my concerns.
It’s my personal resources that are being drained. It may look to those outside the situation that I have a free ride, but nothing could be further from the truth. I work my fanny off every day to make sure that our odd little household is running smoothly and everyone is well cared for. For example, just this morning, I realized that I had done more in a couple of hours than most people get done in a whole day.
I awoke to my daughter whacking me in the head with her cup, demanding more milk. As I stumbled through the living room, my father greeted me from his recliner (his throne), his leg covered in blood and stuck in a plastic grocery sack. He had injured his shin during the night and spent the rest of the wee hours with his leg propped up. So… I rinsed, refilled and delivered the Pie’s cup and grabbed medical supplies from the bathroom. I washed Dad’s lacerated shin with normal saline (just happen to have it lying around), and then cleaned the dried blood with warm soapy water. I covered the wound with antibiotic cream and dressed it with sterile bandages. Upon completion of this task, I had been awake for about 20 minutes.
After washing my hands, I set to work preparing breakfast. Before I could locate the pancake mix in the cabinet, my daughter blasts into the kitchen with the force of Iron Man and declares she is hungry. I explain that I am preparing our regular Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausage, but she rebuts that she will starve if she doesn’t have something to eat RIGHT THIS SECOND!!! A quick talking-to and instructions to stand in the corner took care of that, so back to breakfast. While I wait for the griddle and frying pan to heat up, I remove the dishes from the dishwasher and put them away. Why is it there is ALWAYS a dirty dish somewhere in this house? With that done, I grab a load of laundry and start it on it’s merry, agitating way.
Back to breakfast: sausage in the pan, batter on the griddle…we are good to go. Oh, suddenly, from the corner where she still stands, my daughter announces that she needs a new band-aid on her toe (this will be the 17th since her injury less than 24 hours ago) and it must take priority over anything else I am doing. She’s so funny…. I flip the pancakes, get the required accoutrements from the pantry and run to the bathroom for a new princess band-aid. I realize I carried the syrup with me all through the house as I sit the Pie down for a new wound dressing. I go back to the kitchen to finish up pancakes and sausage and serve them up an empty dining table. My dad has wandered off to the bathroom, which could take up to 45 minutes, and my daughter…well; she’s still standing in the corner. At least she takes direction well!
As I wait for everyone to be seated, I decide to do a little dusting in the living room when the phone rings and it’s a company to which my dad has applied for Medicare Prescription Part D insurance, explaining why we are unable to enroll him at this time, blah, blah, blah… By the time I hang up, both my charges sit at the table looking at me like Oliver in the movie asking for more gruel! Oh, but wait…where the hell is the syrup? I honestly had to remind myself why I was ever in the entry foyer to begin with when I discovered the Log Cabin sitting forlornly in the corner. Now, let the eating commence.
After 4 bites, the Pie explains that she is full. This from the child who swore she would shrivel up and die if she didn’t eat something. Dad eats silently, that is until he says, “The sausage is a little browner than I like.” Fortunately for all involved, I say nothing. Breakfast is finally, mercifully over and now the real work begins.
Three more loads of laundry, dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, wound care for both of those clumsy clods I love, then some playing with Barbies, Play-Doh and the Littlest Pet Shop. Preparing and cleaning up from lunch and dinner will also make their way onto the list.
If I have time, I plan to write that magazine and suggest they change the name to: “Today’s Care Giver is Tomorrow’s Exhausted Raving Lunatic.”
Thursday, July 14, 2011
What's In My Hand?
I am The Pie Baker...and I am a spanker. But, wait! Before you call Social Services on me, let me explain. When the Pie gets a spank, it's only after she meets certain criteria established upon the first incident of undesired behavior. I only spank with my hand, no other object is used. And a singular spank is what she gets. Not a barrage of smacks on the buttocks. but one solidly landed spank. I know there is an ongoing and fiercely heated debate regarding this issue and I'm not, repeat, AM NOT asking for support, a comment blast, or chastisement, or finger-waving or whatever else fanatical people do to make normal people feel bad about themselves. So, kindly zip it. Now, let's move on.
It occurred to me that The Pie has received more spanks in the months since she turned 4 than she received in her entire first 3 years. Now, I have not conducted empirical, variable or any other kind of real research on this fact, but the only sense I can make out of it is that for the first 2 years she did nothing that warranted an actual spanking and now as her personality takes a more solid shape (some days it's a gargoyle, but most days it's a sunflower) she is testing the boundaries as well as my willingness and ability to enforce them. I get it...it was part of the sign-on bonus I got when I gave her life. But what I do often wonder is what will she remember about my hands?
Will she be haunted by memories of my hand hitting her little bottom or will she smile when she recalls my fingers clenching her tiny chubby hands as she took her first steps? Will she suffer flashbacks of getting spanked for an act of defiance or will she one day revisit when my hands soothed her boo-boos and gently wiped tears from her soft cheeks? It's my hope that she remembers all of these things and more...because what I hold in my hands is the story of a life. Mine. Hers. Ours.
I like to think of it this way...a sculptor begins with a raw material and his or her job is to create beauty from that material. Whether it is clay that must be pounded repeatedly to obtain the perfect curve, or steel that must be hammered into shape, every medium used to create art sustains hitting in order to achieve the artist's vision. During the process, the artist becomes just as much a part of the medium as the piece of art itself.
In that vein, The Pie must withstand my hand occasionally hitting her bottom so that I can shape her into the work of art I see but cannot describe. She must learn consequences and discipline and focus and order. The lessons she learns by my imprinting my hand on her tushy I hope will be passed down to her child as she holds it in her hands and shares its secrets.
It occurred to me that The Pie has received more spanks in the months since she turned 4 than she received in her entire first 3 years. Now, I have not conducted empirical, variable or any other kind of real research on this fact, but the only sense I can make out of it is that for the first 2 years she did nothing that warranted an actual spanking and now as her personality takes a more solid shape (some days it's a gargoyle, but most days it's a sunflower) she is testing the boundaries as well as my willingness and ability to enforce them. I get it...it was part of the sign-on bonus I got when I gave her life. But what I do often wonder is what will she remember about my hands?
Will she be haunted by memories of my hand hitting her little bottom or will she smile when she recalls my fingers clenching her tiny chubby hands as she took her first steps? Will she suffer flashbacks of getting spanked for an act of defiance or will she one day revisit when my hands soothed her boo-boos and gently wiped tears from her soft cheeks? It's my hope that she remembers all of these things and more...because what I hold in my hands is the story of a life. Mine. Hers. Ours.
I like to think of it this way...a sculptor begins with a raw material and his or her job is to create beauty from that material. Whether it is clay that must be pounded repeatedly to obtain the perfect curve, or steel that must be hammered into shape, every medium used to create art sustains hitting in order to achieve the artist's vision. During the process, the artist becomes just as much a part of the medium as the piece of art itself.
In that vein, The Pie must withstand my hand occasionally hitting her bottom so that I can shape her into the work of art I see but cannot describe. She must learn consequences and discipline and focus and order. The lessons she learns by my imprinting my hand on her tushy I hope will be passed down to her child as she holds it in her hands and shares its secrets.
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