Bullet points, in no particular order.
* Juggling is a team sport
* kidney stones are unpredictable at best. One should not encourage one's spouse to attempt mobilization two weeks before Christmas unless one has a very good backup plan for juggling
holiday tasks.
* I lack very good back-up plans
* Cinnamon rolls are not negotiable. Kroger makes them. Note to self for 2012
* Teenagers must be awakened for Christmas morning, or it becomes Christmas afternoon.
* Christmas afternoon is just as good
* Uninspiring music at Christmas mass only affects your spirit if you let it. Don't let it.
* There is no excuse for uninspiring music at Christmas mass.
* Feed your faith wherever you find sustenance. The walls don't matter. It's all in the book.
* There is no such thing as an original translation. It's all conjecture. Who cares.
* Family, no matter how far, no matter what day, makes any day a repeat of Christmas.
* It is a blessing to have everyone gathered under one roof, even during the most frazzled of
times.
* I don't see my neighbors enough. Why is that? They are right here every day. I think I need
to work on that in 2012.
* I am profoundly blessed with good kids, even when they do stupid things.
* My Lord, kids can do stupid things.
* Somewhere along the line, I realized that instant gratification was not only unlikely, but
also unrewarding. I'm not sure when I learned that. I need to get that message across.
* Gift bags are easier, but wrapping paper and tape and bows are more fun.
* One does not require a big meal on Christmas Day
* Some traditional gatherings do not require family at all, but rather friends who are closer
than most family. These traditions must be nurtured. Lasagna and wine are a good start :)
* The Christmas Story is not available on Netflix or Hulu. That's just wrong.
* Babies are beautiful. Babies with challenges are more beautiful. Mothers waiting to deliver
babies are beautiful. God takes care of them all.
* The cookie consumption by an individual child is sometimes mindblowing in its proportion.
Baking cannot occur fast enough. Pack boxes and trays early.
* Thankfully, there is great satisfaction in holiday baking, even the second time around.
* I don't think I could adjust to Christmas at the beach. Well, maybe for one year.
* I am not a good Christmas card sender. I send Epiphany cards. It works for me.
* Every year I vow to do things differently, be organized and less stressed, find the true
meaning of Christmas. You know what? I never lost the true meaning of Christmas, and I am what I am at Christmas, and that is good enough.
Now, about those New Years resolutions.....
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Nurse, heal thyself.
I've worked in a pediatric office for 4 years. I have been exposed to and colonized with a fantastically wide variety of crud. Those cute little people who walk in the front door? A veritable parade ensemble tossing out a plethora of parasitic pathogenic organisms as if they were candy from a float. My hands are perpetually peeling. This is because I wash them 200 times a day. That Geiko lizard looks like SILK next to the skin on my knuckles.
I'm a nurse. We know a few things about infection control. We do our darndest to avoid bringing work home from the office. But it seems, when one of our lot does succumb to the virus du jour, we do it in a big way! No one I work with gets the sniffles. We get a full-blown (no pun intended) sinus Chernobyl-like meltdown resulting in copious amounts of completely disgusting stuff. In nurse fashion, the truly dedicated come to work anyway. We do not get a nagging cough. We get bilateral multi lobe pneumonia. We cough so hard our ears pop. We cough so hard our backs go out. We cough up ridiculous amounts of the afore-mentioned disgusting stuff. And we go to work. I've considered the possible truth that as nurses we may diagnose ourselves with illnesses slightly more severe than the reality--after all, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, a lot of knowledge is a hypochondriac's playground. We are very willing to sympathize with and support the martyrdom of the co-worker who risks personal physical collapse to support the team. We respect that go-to-work attitude (of course, we prefer that same colleague remain a safe distance away, lest any of us come into the path of his/her flying germs).
Why is it that the very profession which should know all about rest, recovery, rest, fluids, rest, and rest, is one of the most likely to drag our virulent selves in to the office when we should clearly be staying home making hot toddies and watching bad daytime TV? Why do we preach to our patients about the necessity of taking care of one's health, then totally ignore that advice for ourselves? I asked myself that today as I completely disinfected my work area so as not to expose my co-workers to whatever I'm incubating in my physiological petri dish.
After all, I do NOT want to infect my teammates with the illness I've been carrying around for 5 days. If any one of them catches this crud, I will feel tremendously guilty. I will have to sit and listen to them cough and hack and blow and moan and generally be miserable, because Lord knows if they are sick they will come to work. Just like I did.
I'm a nurse. We know a few things about infection control. We do our darndest to avoid bringing work home from the office. But it seems, when one of our lot does succumb to the virus du jour, we do it in a big way! No one I work with gets the sniffles. We get a full-blown (no pun intended) sinus Chernobyl-like meltdown resulting in copious amounts of completely disgusting stuff. In nurse fashion, the truly dedicated come to work anyway. We do not get a nagging cough. We get bilateral multi lobe pneumonia. We cough so hard our ears pop. We cough so hard our backs go out. We cough up ridiculous amounts of the afore-mentioned disgusting stuff. And we go to work. I've considered the possible truth that as nurses we may diagnose ourselves with illnesses slightly more severe than the reality--after all, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, a lot of knowledge is a hypochondriac's playground. We are very willing to sympathize with and support the martyrdom of the co-worker who risks personal physical collapse to support the team. We respect that go-to-work attitude (of course, we prefer that same colleague remain a safe distance away, lest any of us come into the path of his/her flying germs).
Why is it that the very profession which should know all about rest, recovery, rest, fluids, rest, and rest, is one of the most likely to drag our virulent selves in to the office when we should clearly be staying home making hot toddies and watching bad daytime TV? Why do we preach to our patients about the necessity of taking care of one's health, then totally ignore that advice for ourselves? I asked myself that today as I completely disinfected my work area so as not to expose my co-workers to whatever I'm incubating in my physiological petri dish.
After all, I do NOT want to infect my teammates with the illness I've been carrying around for 5 days. If any one of them catches this crud, I will feel tremendously guilty. I will have to sit and listen to them cough and hack and blow and moan and generally be miserable, because Lord knows if they are sick they will come to work. Just like I did.
Monday, November 21, 2011
It's the most wonderful time of the year
I started hearing that song on November 1, from the delightful local station which thought the listening public needed some motivation to get into the retail, I means Christmas, spirit. 2 months? Really? I'm already over it. Let's examine a few concepts of that little musical ditty.
1. Kids jingle-belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer.
I am down to only 2 children in my house in the residential sense. The older two, when they do stop in, do not make a great deal of noise. Becca usually manages to stay home for 26 seconds before finding a social engagement of some sort to which she must Escape, literally and figuratively. And Erik, well, he has been taught not to talk with his mouth full, and he doesn't stop eating from the moment he walks in the door until his departure. General Mills puts on extra shifts just to manufacture enough Honey Nut Cheerios for his extended trips home. Now the youngest two, delightful as they may be, create enough noise to drown out a small political rally--like the Democratic National Convention. Do we really want to suggest adding bells to that??? Are my ears not ringing enough??? With all that festive noise, the first person who tells me to be of good cheer runs the risk of a short left hook to the jaw. I revel in contemplating the solitude of a silent night. That's about as likely as Josh Groan caroling at my door.
2. Parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow.
Hosting a party requires time, of which I have little; planning, at which I am completely unskilled; and a clean house. Please. My house has not been clean since the Reagan administration. When I deck the halls I create enough airborn dust to give the effect of new-fallen snow. Very festive. Not that it matters. By mid-September it is already clear that I will not have a free evening until the vernal equinox. I spend much of my holiday time scheduling my shifts driving the kids' taxi to and from events of both social and educational nature. On the off chance that I might scare up an evening for revelry, there will likely be a Martha Stewartesque friend who has gone where I fear to tread and graciously invited me to her soiree--who am I to deprive her of the holiday hostess experience?
Toasting marshmallows requires glowing embers in the fire. A fire requires wood. Wood requires someone, and it is NOT me, to drag logs from the backyard woodpile up the steps and to the wood crib. I dont like marshmallows that much. One could argue that smores cannot be made without toasted marshmallows, but they have always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good bar of chocolate to me. Forget that.
Caroling out in the snow has some merit. Unless of course, it snows. Or is cold. Cold throats don't sing--they croak. Cold carolers just shiver and develop hypothermia. Truly effective caroling requires a flask of a heat-producing adult beverage, taken regularly and with gusto. Then there is the practical side of dealing with snow. I live just south of the Ohio River, where it snows every year and every year the locals are STUNNED that snow is sticking to the ground, often in multiple inches. People would not dream of braving the elements to clear a sidewalk, preferring to let the spring thaw take care of that detail. Carolers risk compound femoral fractures and severe concussions slip-sliding down the sidewalk. Flask-carrying carolers are even more at risk. Of course, those same non-shovelers WILL hop into their 1978 VW Rabbits to make their way to the grcery at 3 MPH to secure enough bread, goetta and beer to make it to Independence Day. Go figure.
3. Mistletoeing, and hearts glowing when loved ones are near.
Mistletoe? Two words: infection control. Good Lord, people, have you not heard of Influenza? Rhinovirus? Noravirus? Mononucleosis? You go right on mistletoeing, my friends. It is job security for me. But I will bypass the poison plant, take my vitamins, and keep my flask to myself, thankyouverymuch.
That takes us to those loved ones. We all love family gatherings at the holidays. No, really--we do. At no other time of year is familial dysfunction more fun!!! Who's going where, and with whom, and for how long? Who will come? Who will stay? Who wont come if someone else comes? Who wont go home at all? How can we be in 3 different places at the same time? Whose turn is it this year? How long before the kids melt down? How long before the adults melt down? So many traditions to uphold! It boggles the mind. Where is that flask I had at the caroling party?
I admit--I really do love the holidays. But let's be realistic about expectations. Expecting them to be the most wonderful time of the year is like expecting a Hippopotamus for Christmas. There's an annoying song about that, too. Let the wild rumpus start!!!!
1. Kids jingle-belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer.
I am down to only 2 children in my house in the residential sense. The older two, when they do stop in, do not make a great deal of noise. Becca usually manages to stay home for 26 seconds before finding a social engagement of some sort to which she must Escape, literally and figuratively. And Erik, well, he has been taught not to talk with his mouth full, and he doesn't stop eating from the moment he walks in the door until his departure. General Mills puts on extra shifts just to manufacture enough Honey Nut Cheerios for his extended trips home. Now the youngest two, delightful as they may be, create enough noise to drown out a small political rally--like the Democratic National Convention. Do we really want to suggest adding bells to that??? Are my ears not ringing enough??? With all that festive noise, the first person who tells me to be of good cheer runs the risk of a short left hook to the jaw. I revel in contemplating the solitude of a silent night. That's about as likely as Josh Groan caroling at my door.
2. Parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow.
Hosting a party requires time, of which I have little; planning, at which I am completely unskilled; and a clean house. Please. My house has not been clean since the Reagan administration. When I deck the halls I create enough airborn dust to give the effect of new-fallen snow. Very festive. Not that it matters. By mid-September it is already clear that I will not have a free evening until the vernal equinox. I spend much of my holiday time scheduling my shifts driving the kids' taxi to and from events of both social and educational nature. On the off chance that I might scare up an evening for revelry, there will likely be a Martha Stewartesque friend who has gone where I fear to tread and graciously invited me to her soiree--who am I to deprive her of the holiday hostess experience?
Toasting marshmallows requires glowing embers in the fire. A fire requires wood. Wood requires someone, and it is NOT me, to drag logs from the backyard woodpile up the steps and to the wood crib. I dont like marshmallows that much. One could argue that smores cannot be made without toasted marshmallows, but they have always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good bar of chocolate to me. Forget that.
Caroling out in the snow has some merit. Unless of course, it snows. Or is cold. Cold throats don't sing--they croak. Cold carolers just shiver and develop hypothermia. Truly effective caroling requires a flask of a heat-producing adult beverage, taken regularly and with gusto. Then there is the practical side of dealing with snow. I live just south of the Ohio River, where it snows every year and every year the locals are STUNNED that snow is sticking to the ground, often in multiple inches. People would not dream of braving the elements to clear a sidewalk, preferring to let the spring thaw take care of that detail. Carolers risk compound femoral fractures and severe concussions slip-sliding down the sidewalk. Flask-carrying carolers are even more at risk. Of course, those same non-shovelers WILL hop into their 1978 VW Rabbits to make their way to the grcery at 3 MPH to secure enough bread, goetta and beer to make it to Independence Day. Go figure.
3. Mistletoeing, and hearts glowing when loved ones are near.
Mistletoe? Two words: infection control. Good Lord, people, have you not heard of Influenza? Rhinovirus? Noravirus? Mononucleosis? You go right on mistletoeing, my friends. It is job security for me. But I will bypass the poison plant, take my vitamins, and keep my flask to myself, thankyouverymuch.
That takes us to those loved ones. We all love family gatherings at the holidays. No, really--we do. At no other time of year is familial dysfunction more fun!!! Who's going where, and with whom, and for how long? Who will come? Who will stay? Who wont come if someone else comes? Who wont go home at all? How can we be in 3 different places at the same time? Whose turn is it this year? How long before the kids melt down? How long before the adults melt down? So many traditions to uphold! It boggles the mind. Where is that flask I had at the caroling party?
I admit--I really do love the holidays. But let's be realistic about expectations. Expecting them to be the most wonderful time of the year is like expecting a Hippopotamus for Christmas. There's an annoying song about that, too. Let the wild rumpus start!!!!
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Rock bottom
There are bumper-sticker worthy statements which speak to this sentiment. "When you hit the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on." "When life knocks you to your knees, you're right where you need to be." "You don't have to see the whole staircase at once, just the first step, one step at a time." It is the idea that you will reach a place when you can't get any lower, so there has to be a way to drag yourself back up. Either you find it yourself, or life finds it for you. Rock bottom is the absolute end of the free fall, right?
Is there an Ephiphanical second (I am virtually POSITIVE I made that word up--so it is probably, at best, redundant) when one says "Enough." Do you believe in an "AHAH!" moment? divine inspiration? All of the above? I do. I believe change is born of these revelations. There is a particular turning point at which we start to seek the path back out of whatever place we're in. If it is a place we've seen before, the realization that we're back can be even more defeating.
We could be talking about any low point in life: Emotional, financial, personal, professional. It is quite possibly a combination of several things, which lead to one particular crisis point. But whatever it is, I believe it has to promote change. Either a change in the way one lives, or a change in the way one thinks. For me, it has been a lifelong war, with battles won and lost. But if today was my rock bottom (again), then there must be a way to get back to the top of my rope, out of my pit, and on to something better. Painful as it may be, the hard part is not hitting the bottom--it is finding the hand and footholds I'll need to climb up again.
Is there an Ephiphanical second (I am virtually POSITIVE I made that word up--so it is probably, at best, redundant) when one says "Enough." Do you believe in an "AHAH!" moment? divine inspiration? All of the above? I do. I believe change is born of these revelations. There is a particular turning point at which we start to seek the path back out of whatever place we're in. If it is a place we've seen before, the realization that we're back can be even more defeating.
We could be talking about any low point in life: Emotional, financial, personal, professional. It is quite possibly a combination of several things, which lead to one particular crisis point. But whatever it is, I believe it has to promote change. Either a change in the way one lives, or a change in the way one thinks. For me, it has been a lifelong war, with battles won and lost. But if today was my rock bottom (again), then there must be a way to get back to the top of my rope, out of my pit, and on to something better. Painful as it may be, the hard part is not hitting the bottom--it is finding the hand and footholds I'll need to climb up again.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
No time to do what you love? Better love what you do!
In a perfect, Lake Wobegonesque world, I would love to spend my days of late summer putting up the bountiful harvest, traveling to quaint little destinations with my husband and children, enjoying the many blessings of nature so graciously given, and then returning to my perfectly charming cottage chic home where we would gather around the bonfire in the evenings and share our favorite moments of the day. There would be good wine, dark chocolate, and fine, rich tea interspersed throughout. There would also be a housekeeper. and a chef.
Right.
I see no mention of work in there, home or otherwise. No endless shifts of physical exams and phone calls. No grocery shopping. No cleaning. No laundry. I did not include any of the back to school madness of book procurement, orientation meetings, uniform shopping, tuition payments. No arranging carpools or worrying about how everyone gets to where they need to be at the appropriate time when there is only one available form of transportation--and she is working.
But life is what you make it, so it's worth trying to love the pesky and mundane things in life. Seek out the joy in the little things: I may not be making pint after pint of perfect salsa, but I have plenty left from last year. This year, I will content myself with a few perfect fruits from my lone tomato plant, sliced fresh and served with basil and fresh mozzarella. I am not whipping up a new school wardrobe for my offspring (dear Lord, how DID my mother manage that for five children?), but I am ridiculously proficient with a computer, a discount code, and an eye for a bargain! I am not organizing my home to perfection ala Betty Boom-Boom Crocker, but I am managing to prod my baby girl into some semblance of preparing for her move to college.
My travels are not to lofty mountain grandeur or deep emerald green forests, no sparkling pools of clear water with splashing falls and glistening mist. But I thoroughly enjoyed trekking north for mom's 88th birthday, meeting my new and completely adorable grand niece Jozie, and seeing the family. If my weekends are spent here at home, I can enjoy celebrating a birthday, the return of my oldest for a few days, the opportunity to relax with a book, or just to politely ignore my to-do list in order to calm my mind.
If I must go to work, and it does seem that I must for many years to come, I can at least feel that what I do is important, is appreciated, and in some ways makes another mom's life a little easier. I am blessed to at least be able to work in my chosen field and use my education, while still balancing the other important things in my life.
I get great joy from clipping coupons, and smile at the loving teasing I receive from my offspring as I whip out the product I got for FREE! I delight in whipping up some zucchini bread from a friend's unending supply. There is satisfaction in matching all the socks which come out of the dryer, or just clearing the kitchen counter. I occasionally even find a hidden stash of chocolate!
Life is good.
Right.
I see no mention of work in there, home or otherwise. No endless shifts of physical exams and phone calls. No grocery shopping. No cleaning. No laundry. I did not include any of the back to school madness of book procurement, orientation meetings, uniform shopping, tuition payments. No arranging carpools or worrying about how everyone gets to where they need to be at the appropriate time when there is only one available form of transportation--and she is working.
But life is what you make it, so it's worth trying to love the pesky and mundane things in life. Seek out the joy in the little things: I may not be making pint after pint of perfect salsa, but I have plenty left from last year. This year, I will content myself with a few perfect fruits from my lone tomato plant, sliced fresh and served with basil and fresh mozzarella. I am not whipping up a new school wardrobe for my offspring (dear Lord, how DID my mother manage that for five children?), but I am ridiculously proficient with a computer, a discount code, and an eye for a bargain! I am not organizing my home to perfection ala Betty Boom-Boom Crocker, but I am managing to prod my baby girl into some semblance of preparing for her move to college.
My travels are not to lofty mountain grandeur or deep emerald green forests, no sparkling pools of clear water with splashing falls and glistening mist. But I thoroughly enjoyed trekking north for mom's 88th birthday, meeting my new and completely adorable grand niece Jozie, and seeing the family. If my weekends are spent here at home, I can enjoy celebrating a birthday, the return of my oldest for a few days, the opportunity to relax with a book, or just to politely ignore my to-do list in order to calm my mind.
If I must go to work, and it does seem that I must for many years to come, I can at least feel that what I do is important, is appreciated, and in some ways makes another mom's life a little easier. I am blessed to at least be able to work in my chosen field and use my education, while still balancing the other important things in my life.
I get great joy from clipping coupons, and smile at the loving teasing I receive from my offspring as I whip out the product I got for FREE! I delight in whipping up some zucchini bread from a friend's unending supply. There is satisfaction in matching all the socks which come out of the dryer, or just clearing the kitchen counter. I occasionally even find a hidden stash of chocolate!
Life is good.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The offical last day of July
Somehow, we have arrived at the last day of July. I have no idea how this happened. Seems to me we just got through the end of school, and graduations, and spring allergy season. Suddenly, *BAM*! We are entering the month which signals back-to-school sales, carpool plans, moving to college and multiple tuition payments.
I've considered lamenting the unbelievably rapid passing of time, but instead have decided to look forward. No point in reviewing what I thought summer might bring, as it still has a few weeks to surprise me. Rather, what do I want tomorrow to be? How do I want it to look? What do I want to share with people with whom I come in contact? What do I want for my family? My Home? My job?
In no particular order of priority or importance: I would like my daughter to settle into college, and find in and for her classes an enthusiasm and success she may have missed in high school. I would like my oldest son to finish his master's degree on schedule and be accepted into the dental school of his choice. I would like my youngest children to find their first years of high school both challenging and managable. I would like Chad and I to carve out some "couple time" amidst the chaos of once again being the sole transportation for not one but two high school students (how I will miss my other driver!). I would like to FINALLY tackle the house redecorating task of which I've dreamed for several years, even if it is just paint. I would like to find a schedule which allows me to keep my job and still keep my sanity amidst the challenging kid schedules. I would like to see the morale in my workplace returned to the level it was when I hired on. I would like to find the time to be a resource for expectant and new moms, either within or outside my job, to somehow impact the next generation of parents and children. Surely somethign I have learned in the last 20 years could be valuable those who look at the next 20 with fear and trepidation. I would like to see our country on a firm financial foundation, so that my grandchildren don't look back and wonder how this generation could morally and financially have bankrupted their future.
I have no idea why I am pondering both the mundane and the mountainous. Perhaps it is the current political unrest, or the incessent hundred-degree heat index, or possibly even a desire to avoid returning to my kitchen (which requires more attention to cleaning detail that I have energy today). When I read over my list, which is certainly not all inclusive, I find things over which I have great control. More, however, can be impacted only by fervent and hopeful prayers. I think I'll tackle those things first. After all, tomorrow is another day!
I've considered lamenting the unbelievably rapid passing of time, but instead have decided to look forward. No point in reviewing what I thought summer might bring, as it still has a few weeks to surprise me. Rather, what do I want tomorrow to be? How do I want it to look? What do I want to share with people with whom I come in contact? What do I want for my family? My Home? My job?
In no particular order of priority or importance: I would like my daughter to settle into college, and find in and for her classes an enthusiasm and success she may have missed in high school. I would like my oldest son to finish his master's degree on schedule and be accepted into the dental school of his choice. I would like my youngest children to find their first years of high school both challenging and managable. I would like Chad and I to carve out some "couple time" amidst the chaos of once again being the sole transportation for not one but two high school students (how I will miss my other driver!). I would like to FINALLY tackle the house redecorating task of which I've dreamed for several years, even if it is just paint. I would like to find a schedule which allows me to keep my job and still keep my sanity amidst the challenging kid schedules. I would like to see the morale in my workplace returned to the level it was when I hired on. I would like to find the time to be a resource for expectant and new moms, either within or outside my job, to somehow impact the next generation of parents and children. Surely somethign I have learned in the last 20 years could be valuable those who look at the next 20 with fear and trepidation. I would like to see our country on a firm financial foundation, so that my grandchildren don't look back and wonder how this generation could morally and financially have bankrupted their future.
I have no idea why I am pondering both the mundane and the mountainous. Perhaps it is the current political unrest, or the incessent hundred-degree heat index, or possibly even a desire to avoid returning to my kitchen (which requires more attention to cleaning detail that I have energy today). When I read over my list, which is certainly not all inclusive, I find things over which I have great control. More, however, can be impacted only by fervent and hopeful prayers. I think I'll tackle those things first. After all, tomorrow is another day!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
teenagers
Let's talk teenagers, by whom I am totally surrounded. I have never lived with so many at once. My first child left home at 16 and for all intents and purposes has never come back. He visits from time to time, eating me out of Honey Nut Cheerios and filling my refrigerator with tofu and hummus, but his visits are never very long. Now his sister has reached the magical year of 18, my youngest boy is weeks from 14, and the baby is in her 13th year.
I have a confession to make. As much as I love my older children, and as proud as I may be, this is not always my favorite age. I don't often regret experiencing the first child's later teen years largely via telephone, text and email, 100 miles away. Sometimes ignorance is bliss (now that he's 20, that is truer than ever).
I look back at those long gone days of childhood, when all I needed to do was kiss a booboo to make it better, rock a child with a fevered head, sing a lullaby to soothe a bad dream. I know, I know--there was so much more hair-pulling going on at the time, but when I choose to reminisce, I don't bother with the annoying stuff! Those are good years. I try to tell mothers that as often as I can. It doesn't get worse, but it does get different. You'll miss those little people, even as you are delighting in the new-found big people.
By the ripe old age of 18, the wisdom we need to hear most is the knowledge we are least willing to listen to. Sure, there were plenty of people willing to save me from making bad choices, but I thought I knew everything. Like Dorothy and the ruby slippers, the lessons learned by making my own mistakes were lessons I had to learn for myself. Do I wish I had listened to my parents more? Absolutely. Do I think I rolled my eyes and stomped my feet and threw a young-adult style little hissy-fit on occasion? Most definitely. It's a part of letting go, on both sides. As much as I would love to save my children from themselves, it is better if I watch as they make their own way.
That is not to say that I do not offer my opinion. Repeatedly. In various forms, and forums. Sometimes my suggestions/thoughts/insights are met with immediate flippancy or argument. Sarcasm is spoken fluently and regularly in my house: If there were college credits to be had, we'd all be tenured professors. But it has been my experience that those conversations immediately dismissed by the teenager as stupid and irrelevant are later pondered, taken in, and occasionally (gasp!) acknowledged as worthy.
Someone once described parenting in the teen years as being pecked to death by chickens. I figure the chickens will all fly the coop long before they can be the death of me. But whether they take off at 16, 18, or 24, I will have earned my bragging rights and my battle scars.
I have a confession to make. As much as I love my older children, and as proud as I may be, this is not always my favorite age. I don't often regret experiencing the first child's later teen years largely via telephone, text and email, 100 miles away. Sometimes ignorance is bliss (now that he's 20, that is truer than ever).
I look back at those long gone days of childhood, when all I needed to do was kiss a booboo to make it better, rock a child with a fevered head, sing a lullaby to soothe a bad dream. I know, I know--there was so much more hair-pulling going on at the time, but when I choose to reminisce, I don't bother with the annoying stuff! Those are good years. I try to tell mothers that as often as I can. It doesn't get worse, but it does get different. You'll miss those little people, even as you are delighting in the new-found big people.
By the ripe old age of 18, the wisdom we need to hear most is the knowledge we are least willing to listen to. Sure, there were plenty of people willing to save me from making bad choices, but I thought I knew everything. Like Dorothy and the ruby slippers, the lessons learned by making my own mistakes were lessons I had to learn for myself. Do I wish I had listened to my parents more? Absolutely. Do I think I rolled my eyes and stomped my feet and threw a young-adult style little hissy-fit on occasion? Most definitely. It's a part of letting go, on both sides. As much as I would love to save my children from themselves, it is better if I watch as they make their own way.
That is not to say that I do not offer my opinion. Repeatedly. In various forms, and forums. Sometimes my suggestions/thoughts/insights are met with immediate flippancy or argument. Sarcasm is spoken fluently and regularly in my house: If there were college credits to be had, we'd all be tenured professors. But it has been my experience that those conversations immediately dismissed by the teenager as stupid and irrelevant are later pondered, taken in, and occasionally (gasp!) acknowledged as worthy.
Someone once described parenting in the teen years as being pecked to death by chickens. I figure the chickens will all fly the coop long before they can be the death of me. But whether they take off at 16, 18, or 24, I will have earned my bragging rights and my battle scars.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
the beginning of the end of the beginning....
My daughter is a high school senior.
I could stop right here, because any reader who has lived through this life event has just had an emotional flashback profound enough to measure on the richter scale.
I love this rite of passage. Parenting is carousel of praying, loving, advising, praying, laughing, watching, praying, talking, holding your tongue, and praying some more. At graduation, the ride slows down enough to reach for one of the brass rings. It is a time to celebrate the baby turned toddler turned child turned teen who has worked hard, accepted challenges, overcome obstacles, reached the end of a very long and winding road. The diploma she will hold next week will state that she has completed the academic course work necessary to be deemed a high school graduate in the eyes of Notre Dame Academy and the State of Kentucky. That, in itself, is worthy of shouting and praise!
That document will make no mention of her progress in the school of life. How does one measure success in learning who you are, or what you believe, or where you want to go? There is no letter grade to tell her if she has developed the knowledge to lead a good life, to fight for what she believes in, to work in a vocation which will bring her happiness in any measure. There is no final exam to establish her readiness to take on the world, to face the challenges of not only college, but whatever adversity or success life may throw at her. Has she found the source of her strength? Has she developed a moral character which will allow her to stand up for herself and others? Does she know that as a child of God she is worthy of the greatest of love and respect and honor? Does she hear the call to share that love with the people around her? These are the questions which are asked, and answered, and asked again.
Commencement means, literally, the beginning of something, not the end. When she walks across the stage to accept her scroll, she deserves to take pride in the hard work she has done and the delightful, loving and confident young woman she has become. She can look forward to her years at UofL with excitement. Her accomplishments are admirable, and we will celebrate them with great joy. But LIFE is just beginning! Her real education begins with every new obstacle, achievement, every new day. The homework, and the questions, and the answers, are always changing. As a parent, I will rejoice in all she has done, but am even more excited and proud to think of what she has yet to do.
I could stop right here, because any reader who has lived through this life event has just had an emotional flashback profound enough to measure on the richter scale.
I love this rite of passage. Parenting is carousel of praying, loving, advising, praying, laughing, watching, praying, talking, holding your tongue, and praying some more. At graduation, the ride slows down enough to reach for one of the brass rings. It is a time to celebrate the baby turned toddler turned child turned teen who has worked hard, accepted challenges, overcome obstacles, reached the end of a very long and winding road. The diploma she will hold next week will state that she has completed the academic course work necessary to be deemed a high school graduate in the eyes of Notre Dame Academy and the State of Kentucky. That, in itself, is worthy of shouting and praise!
That document will make no mention of her progress in the school of life. How does one measure success in learning who you are, or what you believe, or where you want to go? There is no letter grade to tell her if she has developed the knowledge to lead a good life, to fight for what she believes in, to work in a vocation which will bring her happiness in any measure. There is no final exam to establish her readiness to take on the world, to face the challenges of not only college, but whatever adversity or success life may throw at her. Has she found the source of her strength? Has she developed a moral character which will allow her to stand up for herself and others? Does she know that as a child of God she is worthy of the greatest of love and respect and honor? Does she hear the call to share that love with the people around her? These are the questions which are asked, and answered, and asked again.
Commencement means, literally, the beginning of something, not the end. When she walks across the stage to accept her scroll, she deserves to take pride in the hard work she has done and the delightful, loving and confident young woman she has become. She can look forward to her years at UofL with excitement. Her accomplishments are admirable, and we will celebrate them with great joy. But LIFE is just beginning! Her real education begins with every new obstacle, achievement, every new day. The homework, and the questions, and the answers, are always changing. As a parent, I will rejoice in all she has done, but am even more excited and proud to think of what she has yet to do.
Friday, April 29, 2011
musings on the royal wedding
Unless you've been hiking on Bouvet Island for several months, you are probably aware of the royal wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton.
In the last several days, I have read opinions ranging from unashamed Anglophile devotions to blanket denouncing of the entire British realm. I have heard the happy couple revered as socially aware and infinitely philanthropic. I have also heard suggestions that they are ridiculously extravagent and totally inappropriate in celebrating their nuptials while the world faces crisis after crisis. Frosting these comments was the assertion that we should not give a crap about them, because they would never give a crap about us, unless it somehow affected their income.
First, let me proudly say my veins run with British blood. My grandfather emigrated to this country at the age of 16 from Bath, England, fought with the allies in WW1, and made his home in Michigan. 25% of my genetic makeup is steeped in good, strong tea.
I grew up revering the monarchy long before I could recognize the political disproportion of the institution. I didn't care about nonrepresentative government or parliamentary unrest. I didn't see the aloof disdain for the commoners, and the layers of separation between the rulling class and the working class. There was a QUEEN, for God's sake, and princes and princesses and castles and carriages-- this is the stuff of fairy tales!!! All the history, pageantry, beauty. Like generations of little girls, I imagined being a princess, and marrying a prince, and living happily ever after (and may I say as an aside, that dream came true in its own very real and perfect way). At its most basic, this wedding, for me, was just a fun celebration of that fairy tale, that dream, that glitter frosted vision. The music, the guests, the bridesmaids, the men in uniform, oh MY! Westminster Abbey has never looked so beautiful, and still paled in comparison to the bride as she floated down the aisle to meet her prince. Lighten up, people, it's a ROYAL WEDDING!
It saddened me to see reality lived out with Charles and Diana. They were a couple practically doomed from the start by differences so vast that one wondered what ever brought them together, outside the royal desire to see the prince finally wed to someone--providing a positive shine for the tarnished image of the monarchy. Their two beautiful boys made their public struggles even more tragic--how could you not love those impish little mischief makers whose adorable smiles shined under public scrutiny? All grown up now a delightfully handsome, those same little boys are the faces of the future of the monarchy. They are also the most "real" royals we have ever met. Both are serving with pride and hard work in the armed forces, on the front lines, respected by superiors and those they lead. The future king chose as his bride a "common" woman by royal terms, but uncommon in her ability to charm and endear them both to the people. Their request for charitable giving in lieu of wedding gifts is admirable. Their residence is not a palace, but rather a house in the country. They're happy, relaxed, and in LOVE!
A year ago, I visited in the sitting room of my cousins in Bristol. The British people are well aware that their monarchy is without much real power. The Queen, at 88, is respected as intelligent, shrewd, and steady. They are figureheads, their roles more social than political. While the government in Great Britian fights the ever-present battle to balance the left and the right, the Royals stand as somewhat antiquated quardians of the crown jewels. The changing of the guards is coming, and the generation of William and Harry think much differently than do their parents and grandparents. It shows on the faces and in the actions of the newlyweds. It shows in how they conduct themselves as leaders in their country. That's enough to keep me hopeful that "happily ever after" can be more than a fairy tale.
In the last several days, I have read opinions ranging from unashamed Anglophile devotions to blanket denouncing of the entire British realm. I have heard the happy couple revered as socially aware and infinitely philanthropic. I have also heard suggestions that they are ridiculously extravagent and totally inappropriate in celebrating their nuptials while the world faces crisis after crisis. Frosting these comments was the assertion that we should not give a crap about them, because they would never give a crap about us, unless it somehow affected their income.
First, let me proudly say my veins run with British blood. My grandfather emigrated to this country at the age of 16 from Bath, England, fought with the allies in WW1, and made his home in Michigan. 25% of my genetic makeup is steeped in good, strong tea.
I grew up revering the monarchy long before I could recognize the political disproportion of the institution. I didn't care about nonrepresentative government or parliamentary unrest. I didn't see the aloof disdain for the commoners, and the layers of separation between the rulling class and the working class. There was a QUEEN, for God's sake, and princes and princesses and castles and carriages-- this is the stuff of fairy tales!!! All the history, pageantry, beauty. Like generations of little girls, I imagined being a princess, and marrying a prince, and living happily ever after (and may I say as an aside, that dream came true in its own very real and perfect way). At its most basic, this wedding, for me, was just a fun celebration of that fairy tale, that dream, that glitter frosted vision. The music, the guests, the bridesmaids, the men in uniform, oh MY! Westminster Abbey has never looked so beautiful, and still paled in comparison to the bride as she floated down the aisle to meet her prince. Lighten up, people, it's a ROYAL WEDDING!
It saddened me to see reality lived out with Charles and Diana. They were a couple practically doomed from the start by differences so vast that one wondered what ever brought them together, outside the royal desire to see the prince finally wed to someone--providing a positive shine for the tarnished image of the monarchy. Their two beautiful boys made their public struggles even more tragic--how could you not love those impish little mischief makers whose adorable smiles shined under public scrutiny? All grown up now a delightfully handsome, those same little boys are the faces of the future of the monarchy. They are also the most "real" royals we have ever met. Both are serving with pride and hard work in the armed forces, on the front lines, respected by superiors and those they lead. The future king chose as his bride a "common" woman by royal terms, but uncommon in her ability to charm and endear them both to the people. Their request for charitable giving in lieu of wedding gifts is admirable. Their residence is not a palace, but rather a house in the country. They're happy, relaxed, and in LOVE!
A year ago, I visited in the sitting room of my cousins in Bristol. The British people are well aware that their monarchy is without much real power. The Queen, at 88, is respected as intelligent, shrewd, and steady. They are figureheads, their roles more social than political. While the government in Great Britian fights the ever-present battle to balance the left and the right, the Royals stand as somewhat antiquated quardians of the crown jewels. The changing of the guards is coming, and the generation of William and Harry think much differently than do their parents and grandparents. It shows on the faces and in the actions of the newlyweds. It shows in how they conduct themselves as leaders in their country. That's enough to keep me hopeful that "happily ever after" can be more than a fairy tale.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The perfect vacation
Vacations come in a wide range of colors, sizes and shapes. Some are so well planned that they cannot possible go wrong. Others are spur-of-the-moment wanderings which somehow go surprisingly right.
This one was perfect. First, let me say that it is hard not to enjoy a week when the only variation is the weather is how many little white puffy clouds are blown across the azure sky by the ocean breeze. 90 degrees hardly seems hot when one is laying by the pool or strolling the crystal beach. And while we did plan the occasional outing, much of the time was spent--especially by the girls--lounging poolside in the sun, kicking out a ridiculous amount of reading, and tanning as only the Seibt women can. That means much sunscreen was slathered, and we all burned anyway. Especially the porcelain-skinned Princess Rebecca.
We were able to spend a good deal of time with the grandpa we don't often see. The guys spent many a morning with dad, meeting a couple hundred of his closest friends and doing all that "guy stuff." There was fishing, and boating, lumber yards, car repair, and numerous meals with familiar waitresses who delight in meeting more charming Seibt men. There were late family meals from the grill eaten on the patio with a good wine or a cold beer, sunset ocean cruises to find the dolphins, Key Lime pie created by the island man himself.
There was time with the Naples grands as well, driving the golf cart and playing cards in the heat of the day. Delightful to see Grandma's friend Rose and catch up with her family news, too. A wonderful concert by the Naples Philharmonic of Frank Sinatra music which turned out to be a little Sinatra, a nod to the Italians, and a LOT of opera--GLORIOUS!
20 years ago there would not have been a cell phone. In retrospect, perhaps we should ALL leave our cells at home for the next trip. There was certainly enough contact to throw an occasional hiccup into our holiday bliss, what with the continuing familial drama on any given day. Would I have been better off not knowing what was going on up north? Realistically, being out of the loop is probably as hard as being in. And God knows the kids would be shaking with the DT's after two days of tech withdrawal.
Yep. 8 days spent doing very little, in a wonderful location, with the people I love most. Rest, relax, read, renew, recharge, rewind. The ultimate week of R&R (&R&R&R&R). It might not have achieved total and permanent bliss, but it sure took a huge edge off a tremendously bad winter, and gave me back a smile.
When can we go again?
This one was perfect. First, let me say that it is hard not to enjoy a week when the only variation is the weather is how many little white puffy clouds are blown across the azure sky by the ocean breeze. 90 degrees hardly seems hot when one is laying by the pool or strolling the crystal beach. And while we did plan the occasional outing, much of the time was spent--especially by the girls--lounging poolside in the sun, kicking out a ridiculous amount of reading, and tanning as only the Seibt women can. That means much sunscreen was slathered, and we all burned anyway. Especially the porcelain-skinned Princess Rebecca.
We were able to spend a good deal of time with the grandpa we don't often see. The guys spent many a morning with dad, meeting a couple hundred of his closest friends and doing all that "guy stuff." There was fishing, and boating, lumber yards, car repair, and numerous meals with familiar waitresses who delight in meeting more charming Seibt men. There were late family meals from the grill eaten on the patio with a good wine or a cold beer, sunset ocean cruises to find the dolphins, Key Lime pie created by the island man himself.
There was time with the Naples grands as well, driving the golf cart and playing cards in the heat of the day. Delightful to see Grandma's friend Rose and catch up with her family news, too. A wonderful concert by the Naples Philharmonic of Frank Sinatra music which turned out to be a little Sinatra, a nod to the Italians, and a LOT of opera--GLORIOUS!
20 years ago there would not have been a cell phone. In retrospect, perhaps we should ALL leave our cells at home for the next trip. There was certainly enough contact to throw an occasional hiccup into our holiday bliss, what with the continuing familial drama on any given day. Would I have been better off not knowing what was going on up north? Realistically, being out of the loop is probably as hard as being in. And God knows the kids would be shaking with the DT's after two days of tech withdrawal.
Yep. 8 days spent doing very little, in a wonderful location, with the people I love most. Rest, relax, read, renew, recharge, rewind. The ultimate week of R&R (&R&R&R&R). It might not have achieved total and permanent bliss, but it sure took a huge edge off a tremendously bad winter, and gave me back a smile.
When can we go again?
Friday, April 8, 2011
I am my father's daughter
I've been trying to write a note about dad for a couple months now. Not normally at a loss for words, I had trouble. But today dad seems closer, and it seems a little easier. It's a start.
Dad died two months ago to the day. It was not a "good death" in hospice terms, at least physically. So, in the days after his death, along with the grief and loss, there was also a sense of relief that his suffering was over, and he was in a much better place. Throughout his life, dad was firmly faithful in what I think of as an old-school, Wisconsin Lutheran, God-fearing-hell-and-damnation way. How glorious it must be for him now to know the eternal, gentle love of the Lord and Savior.
Over the past few years, dad declined in health and wholeness. There were signs of confusion, dementia. There was profound depression. And there was a marked physical loss of strength and mobility born of joint degeneration and pain, and forced inactivity. It angered him, and made him difficult to live with. It was difficult for all of us to watch the man who was the patriarch of such a large family slowly brought down by the realities of aging and multiple health challenges.
It's easy to keep these later-years scenes at the forefront of memory, and lose the man of my youth. The Wild Bill dad, legendary in the tales told by my older brothers of their childhood adventures and forays into mischief, rarely able to deceive the man who seemed to have eyes everywhere. The father who taught us all the importance of shooting straight, both with a rifle, and in life. The man remembered by hundreds of people who came to his visitation to share their stories, and their love. The larger than life dad, whose hunting adventures, card-playing genius, and bourbon drinking revelry included 4 generations of family and friends. The protective dad, ever worried about his only daughter, ever ready to stand between me and harm, to bail me out, and always just a little flummoxed as to what to DO with a girl! Dad had opinions, advice, expertise, and a lot of love, and he shared them all generously with those around him. That's the dad who shaped who I was, and who I was to become.
Which brings me to vacation. You see, dad was a planner. Whether it was a family trip, a yearly hunting expedition, or a Sunday afternoon drive, dad anticipated every possibility, made plans and provisions, then could not wait to get up and go!!! Today, we leave on a little family journey of our own. It's a vacation I've looked forward to for weeks, especially after the last several months. I am not the planner my father was. I am much more willing to fly by the seat of my pants, take a little detour if need be. But when my eyes popped open at 4am, and I was up like a kid at Christmas, I had to think of dad. He'd have been right beside me with the keys in his hand. And as I pack the car--an invaluable skill I learned from a man who was genius in his ability to get the maximum luggage in minimal space--I will remember the dad who shaped the heart in which he will always live on. And I will smile.
Dad died two months ago to the day. It was not a "good death" in hospice terms, at least physically. So, in the days after his death, along with the grief and loss, there was also a sense of relief that his suffering was over, and he was in a much better place. Throughout his life, dad was firmly faithful in what I think of as an old-school, Wisconsin Lutheran, God-fearing-hell-and-damnation way. How glorious it must be for him now to know the eternal, gentle love of the Lord and Savior.
Over the past few years, dad declined in health and wholeness. There were signs of confusion, dementia. There was profound depression. And there was a marked physical loss of strength and mobility born of joint degeneration and pain, and forced inactivity. It angered him, and made him difficult to live with. It was difficult for all of us to watch the man who was the patriarch of such a large family slowly brought down by the realities of aging and multiple health challenges.
It's easy to keep these later-years scenes at the forefront of memory, and lose the man of my youth. The Wild Bill dad, legendary in the tales told by my older brothers of their childhood adventures and forays into mischief, rarely able to deceive the man who seemed to have eyes everywhere. The father who taught us all the importance of shooting straight, both with a rifle, and in life. The man remembered by hundreds of people who came to his visitation to share their stories, and their love. The larger than life dad, whose hunting adventures, card-playing genius, and bourbon drinking revelry included 4 generations of family and friends. The protective dad, ever worried about his only daughter, ever ready to stand between me and harm, to bail me out, and always just a little flummoxed as to what to DO with a girl! Dad had opinions, advice, expertise, and a lot of love, and he shared them all generously with those around him. That's the dad who shaped who I was, and who I was to become.
Which brings me to vacation. You see, dad was a planner. Whether it was a family trip, a yearly hunting expedition, or a Sunday afternoon drive, dad anticipated every possibility, made plans and provisions, then could not wait to get up and go!!! Today, we leave on a little family journey of our own. It's a vacation I've looked forward to for weeks, especially after the last several months. I am not the planner my father was. I am much more willing to fly by the seat of my pants, take a little detour if need be. But when my eyes popped open at 4am, and I was up like a kid at Christmas, I had to think of dad. He'd have been right beside me with the keys in his hand. And as I pack the car--an invaluable skill I learned from a man who was genius in his ability to get the maximum luggage in minimal space--I will remember the dad who shaped the heart in which he will always live on. And I will smile.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Bathing Suits and abject fear
Going to the beach for spring break.
It is the classic vacation, revered by young and old alike. The weather in Ft Myers should be perfect! Grab my sandals, my sunscreen, my shorts (eek!) and t-shirts (yikes), throw on my bathing suit...
GGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Dear Lord, how could this happen? I leave in 2 weeks? I have to put on a bathing suit in 2 weeks????? OK, clearly this has not been well thought out. Could we, perhaps, look at an Alaskan vacation? At the very least, I hear London is persistently rainy in April, requiring long coats of the trench variety. But really-sunshine? heat? tanning? What was I thinking?
First, the swimsuit I own has seen a couple seasons. That means at any moment, there could be an errant strand of Lycra which, with one false move, could spring loose and cause a serious wardrobe malfunction. Those fibers were designed to hold several things in places to which gravity has long denied them orientation. One frightening loss of structural integrity could prove hazardous to bystanders.
Second, my bathing suit is black and white. Stray just a bit too far from shore and harpoons become a significant threat. Short of finding a bathing cap (and really, who wears those?) with a 5-foot safely flag attached, I could easily be mistaken for Shamu's much younger, curvier, but no less buoyant, sister. Nope, black and white will not do.
Lastly, my bathing suit lacks fabric. This season, I am opting for the height of new fashion. No slave to the ugly, skimpy, way too tacky styles--I am opting for a groundbreaking fashion statement! No more will I bow to the voyeuristic whims of the Budweiser-slugging, taco-belching demographic whose lecherous fixation feeds on the insecurities of women in lounge chairs. No more will I worry about the extreme exposition of skin and areas better left to the imagination than to the harsh UV rays of the sun.
This year, I am committed to the resurrection of a more genteel era. A time when modesty was valued over enhancement. A time when alabaster skin was admired, and tanning was something which happened to those unfortunate enough to have to leave the shaded porch of the estate and its cool pitchers of iced tea, and venture into the fields in the heat of the day. Think Victorian Age. Think early 1900's. I am in search of the perfect combination of jaunty nautical stripes (vertical, of course) and full ankle to neck coverage. I want layers! Long bloomers, full sleeves, pinafores! And no flimsy fabric for me. Lets go for a full control jersey knit, or perhaps a nice summer-weight worsted wool. Sure, if I venture into the water the very weight of my bathing costume would likely drag me down like a stone, but that is a small price to pay for trend-setting modesty, don't you think?
It is the classic vacation, revered by young and old alike. The weather in Ft Myers should be perfect! Grab my sandals, my sunscreen, my shorts (eek!) and t-shirts (yikes), throw on my bathing suit...
GGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Dear Lord, how could this happen? I leave in 2 weeks? I have to put on a bathing suit in 2 weeks????? OK, clearly this has not been well thought out. Could we, perhaps, look at an Alaskan vacation? At the very least, I hear London is persistently rainy in April, requiring long coats of the trench variety. But really-sunshine? heat? tanning? What was I thinking?
First, the swimsuit I own has seen a couple seasons. That means at any moment, there could be an errant strand of Lycra which, with one false move, could spring loose and cause a serious wardrobe malfunction. Those fibers were designed to hold several things in places to which gravity has long denied them orientation. One frightening loss of structural integrity could prove hazardous to bystanders.
Second, my bathing suit is black and white. Stray just a bit too far from shore and harpoons become a significant threat. Short of finding a bathing cap (and really, who wears those?) with a 5-foot safely flag attached, I could easily be mistaken for Shamu's much younger, curvier, but no less buoyant, sister. Nope, black and white will not do.
Lastly, my bathing suit lacks fabric. This season, I am opting for the height of new fashion. No slave to the ugly, skimpy, way too tacky styles--I am opting for a groundbreaking fashion statement! No more will I bow to the voyeuristic whims of the Budweiser-slugging, taco-belching demographic whose lecherous fixation feeds on the insecurities of women in lounge chairs. No more will I worry about the extreme exposition of skin and areas better left to the imagination than to the harsh UV rays of the sun.
This year, I am committed to the resurrection of a more genteel era. A time when modesty was valued over enhancement. A time when alabaster skin was admired, and tanning was something which happened to those unfortunate enough to have to leave the shaded porch of the estate and its cool pitchers of iced tea, and venture into the fields in the heat of the day. Think Victorian Age. Think early 1900's. I am in search of the perfect combination of jaunty nautical stripes (vertical, of course) and full ankle to neck coverage. I want layers! Long bloomers, full sleeves, pinafores! And no flimsy fabric for me. Lets go for a full control jersey knit, or perhaps a nice summer-weight worsted wool. Sure, if I venture into the water the very weight of my bathing costume would likely drag me down like a stone, but that is a small price to pay for trend-setting modesty, don't you think?
Friday, March 18, 2011
company morale
I saw one of those funny, sarcastic posters once: "The beatings will continue until morale improves." It made me smile. Still does. But over the course of several months I relate more to that thought than I care to. And today it has me pondering some things.
I work in a good sized medical office. I have some fantastic, intelligent, devoted co-workers. These are people who would, and frequently have, stepped in to help at times of heavy illness or patient load, and willingly help out co-workers who need schedule changes. They are conscientous, and they understand that for the office to run smoothly, it must be staffed adequately. I am surrounded by good people, from the docs to the nurses to the patient service reps. I firmly believe that I work in one of the best places available, so I don't want to sound like I'm bitching.
Except I AM bitching.
Many of us are feeling a little beaten down. maybe a lot beaten down. We all feel the blow when someone calls off and goes unreplaced. When we are in the midst of a boom of maternity leaves (God bless all those prolific mommies!), and staffing is already spread thin, the hit is even harder. Patient care and communication is negatively affected when we're working short. The whole office suffers, tensions run high, and morale takes a dive. Today was one of those nose dives. straight down. from 30,000 feet. And that kind of atmosphere is not enjoyable.
We all understand that emergencies arise, kid and adults get sick, life situations require some time for recovery; in short: shit happens. We've all been there--we get that. But it's harder to summon up that understanding for the repeat offenders, the chronically tardy, the perpetually absent. You know when your shift starts--be there at that time, not 30 minutes later. Unless something serious befalls you after you leave your house, it is NEVER OK to call in after your shift has started to say you won't be showing up. And it is simple and necessary courtesy to try to find a replacement for yourself when you can't be there--it shows respect for your coworkers and for the practice as a whole. Try to understand: no matter how much your co-workers may like you, we don't appreciate being dumped on over and over again. It gets old, it gets tiring, and we get pretty beaten up.
I work in a good sized medical office. I have some fantastic, intelligent, devoted co-workers. These are people who would, and frequently have, stepped in to help at times of heavy illness or patient load, and willingly help out co-workers who need schedule changes. They are conscientous, and they understand that for the office to run smoothly, it must be staffed adequately. I am surrounded by good people, from the docs to the nurses to the patient service reps. I firmly believe that I work in one of the best places available, so I don't want to sound like I'm bitching.
Except I AM bitching.
Many of us are feeling a little beaten down. maybe a lot beaten down. We all feel the blow when someone calls off and goes unreplaced. When we are in the midst of a boom of maternity leaves (God bless all those prolific mommies!), and staffing is already spread thin, the hit is even harder. Patient care and communication is negatively affected when we're working short. The whole office suffers, tensions run high, and morale takes a dive. Today was one of those nose dives. straight down. from 30,000 feet. And that kind of atmosphere is not enjoyable.
We all understand that emergencies arise, kid and adults get sick, life situations require some time for recovery; in short: shit happens. We've all been there--we get that. But it's harder to summon up that understanding for the repeat offenders, the chronically tardy, the perpetually absent. You know when your shift starts--be there at that time, not 30 minutes later. Unless something serious befalls you after you leave your house, it is NEVER OK to call in after your shift has started to say you won't be showing up. And it is simple and necessary courtesy to try to find a replacement for yourself when you can't be there--it shows respect for your coworkers and for the practice as a whole. Try to understand: no matter how much your co-workers may like you, we don't appreciate being dumped on over and over again. It gets old, it gets tiring, and we get pretty beaten up.
Friday, February 4, 2011
finding myself again
Good heavens--I fell into the holidays and never came out.
Actually, that's truer than I probably realize. I haven't taken time to write in months. I'm sure as things got busier, and winter's shroud covered the daily sunshine, writing was the first to go. It went with all the other "extras" that fill in the cracks of time in my life. But how did it get to be February? And why am I mired in this gray cloud?
I know some of it is the time of year. I don't do winter well. Never have. Some years are worse than others, depending on outside forces as well as natural rythms. The outside forces of winter 2011 are, frankly, rather sucky.
I am a child in the sandwich generation. I guess that means I am in the bologna and cheese of my life. On one side, I have the parents. That's not going well. And I am far enough away to be helpless, but close enough to feel guilty that I'm not traveling I-75 even more than I do. I am so grateful for my brothers and my SIL who take on so much every day. Dad is getting good care, even though the decline is difficult to watch. Mom is struggling, but relieved of the caregiver role she can at least focus her energies on her own health. It is just a case of "screw the Golden Years" and none of us wanted it to progress this way.
On the other side, there are my littles. Not so little anymore, they are making big people decisions, and the time is flying by: College choices, scholarships, housing, career plans. In a few short months I will pack yet another of my dear ones off to Louisville. She'll be excited, challenged, thrilled with her newfound freedoms and friends, and I am so excited to see her getting ready to stretch her wings. But when she flies, a large piece of my heart flies with her. I already feel the emptiness.
I'll most likely have two starting high school next year. One will be able to nurture his love for music ministry and will have opportunities to experience music in places I only dream about. He will also have to be ready for the challenge of high school outside the sheltered school environment he has known so far. AS Dorothy would say "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." I think he will thrive in a place where diversity means more than different hair color, but it will be a new world with plenty to distract him. The youngest will finally see what educational challenge really means. No more coasting along in her own little world, she will need to step up and pull herself together. It will be good for her, but also a terrific life change.
All this is enough. But just for fun, let's throw in a puppy who snuggled himself right into my heart for a few weeks when I was most vulnerable, then went on to a forever home leaving an already fractured heart much the worse for wear. He had just enough medical crises while here to keep stress levels at an all-time high, and now that he is gone, he just leaves us all a bit bewildered and sad. We know he will be loved, and never lonely, and we will see him from time to time, all good things. I just miss the little furry ball of energy!
Life is hard. There is pain. One can realize that others have things much, much worse in life, but that does not take the heartache out of one's own experience every day. I pray, and often fail to pray, and am grateful for the belief that God knows the needs at my lowest and my highest. Some days it's all I can do to take the next step, and I know he'll hold me up whether or not I remember to ask. But I long to see the sun return, figuratively and literally, in my life. I need the light.
Actually, that's truer than I probably realize. I haven't taken time to write in months. I'm sure as things got busier, and winter's shroud covered the daily sunshine, writing was the first to go. It went with all the other "extras" that fill in the cracks of time in my life. But how did it get to be February? And why am I mired in this gray cloud?
I know some of it is the time of year. I don't do winter well. Never have. Some years are worse than others, depending on outside forces as well as natural rythms. The outside forces of winter 2011 are, frankly, rather sucky.
I am a child in the sandwich generation. I guess that means I am in the bologna and cheese of my life. On one side, I have the parents. That's not going well. And I am far enough away to be helpless, but close enough to feel guilty that I'm not traveling I-75 even more than I do. I am so grateful for my brothers and my SIL who take on so much every day. Dad is getting good care, even though the decline is difficult to watch. Mom is struggling, but relieved of the caregiver role she can at least focus her energies on her own health. It is just a case of "screw the Golden Years" and none of us wanted it to progress this way.
On the other side, there are my littles. Not so little anymore, they are making big people decisions, and the time is flying by: College choices, scholarships, housing, career plans. In a few short months I will pack yet another of my dear ones off to Louisville. She'll be excited, challenged, thrilled with her newfound freedoms and friends, and I am so excited to see her getting ready to stretch her wings. But when she flies, a large piece of my heart flies with her. I already feel the emptiness.
I'll most likely have two starting high school next year. One will be able to nurture his love for music ministry and will have opportunities to experience music in places I only dream about. He will also have to be ready for the challenge of high school outside the sheltered school environment he has known so far. AS Dorothy would say "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." I think he will thrive in a place where diversity means more than different hair color, but it will be a new world with plenty to distract him. The youngest will finally see what educational challenge really means. No more coasting along in her own little world, she will need to step up and pull herself together. It will be good for her, but also a terrific life change.
All this is enough. But just for fun, let's throw in a puppy who snuggled himself right into my heart for a few weeks when I was most vulnerable, then went on to a forever home leaving an already fractured heart much the worse for wear. He had just enough medical crises while here to keep stress levels at an all-time high, and now that he is gone, he just leaves us all a bit bewildered and sad. We know he will be loved, and never lonely, and we will see him from time to time, all good things. I just miss the little furry ball of energy!
Life is hard. There is pain. One can realize that others have things much, much worse in life, but that does not take the heartache out of one's own experience every day. I pray, and often fail to pray, and am grateful for the belief that God knows the needs at my lowest and my highest. Some days it's all I can do to take the next step, and I know he'll hold me up whether or not I remember to ask. But I long to see the sun return, figuratively and literally, in my life. I need the light.
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