"Good morning, J", I said. "It's show 'n' tell day at school today", I said.
J's school has themes for show 'n' tell. Today, the theme is colours.
"Do you want to take my rainbow maker for show 'n' tell today, J?" I asked.
"Yeah!" responded J, happily.
J was excited for show 'n' tell. He loves to show his friends new things and explain how everything works. The rainbow maker is a very cool thing indeed, and has so many colours for his friends to enjoy. And it has a scientific bent to it; J loves science. So we cuddled together, and I held the rainbow maker and explained its workings to J. He listened attentively, soaking it all in.
"See, J? There's this little suction cup here. You get it wet, and you stick it to a window. Then the sun shines in the window and hits this little black angled rectangle - that's the 'solar panel'."
"Oooooh."
"Yes. And that solar panel powers the 'battery', over here."
"Here?"
"Yup. Right here. Then the battery makes all these brightly coloured wheels turn inside the rainbow maker. See the wheels?"
"Yeah!"
"Those wheels are the 'motor'."
"That's the motor?"
"Yes, it is. And when the motor runs, it turns this big crystal on the bottom. The crystal is a 'prism'."
"A prism?"
"Uh huh. And as the sun shines on the prism, the light becomes 'refracted'. Say refracted, J."
"Refracted," said J, with his typical perfect pronunciation.
"Right! 'Refracted'. See? Light gets refracted through the prism, and then the refracted light shines on all the walls. And that makes the rainbows."
"Oooooh!"
"You love the rainbows, don't you J? You love how they dance around the room, huh?"
And J nodded.
"It's dark and cloudy right now. But we can still see the rainbows, online. Do you want to watch a video of the rainbow maker?"
J nodded again. And we cuddled together and watched a quick Youtube video of the rainbow maker. J stared in awe, rapt with attention, thrilled to see the rainbows flying about the room on my computer screen.
"Pretty! Pretty!"
"Now, it's supposed to be a cloudy day, J. So the rainbow maker might not make the rainbows for your class. But you can tell them how the rainbow maker works, and you can take it back to school on a day when it's sunny so your friends can see the rainbows. Does that sound good?"
"Yeah. That sounds good", J agreed.
"It's delicate, J. You have to be careful with it. It's not a toy to be played with. And you can't put it in your mouth. But we'll tell your teacher how it works, and she'll stick it to the window for you and gently turn the crystal for your class if the sun isn't strong enough to do it for you. Okay?"
"Okay", J agreed. And then he held the rainbow maker, and started manually turning the crystal at the bottom.
"Careful, J", I said. "Remember, that is delicate. You have to be very gentle. You really shouldn't play with it like that".
[No response]
"Gentle, J. J? Please don't play with it like that, J. J? J?"
[No response]
"J????"
And then J was off and running like a shot, rainbow maker in hand. He moves quickly - much more quickly than his old and decrepit mother. He smacked the suction cup down, adhering it to his glass-topped craft table, then grabbed hold of the crystal at the bottom and pulled with all his might.
And this is why J's show 'n' tell item for today is a tri-coloured plastic airplane. At some point today, I hope to figure out how to reattach the crystal to the rainbow maker. That would be lovely.
*sigh*
Friday, September 10, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Gadgets? We don't need no stinking gadgets!
Ordinarily, I delete spam comments. I'm fairly ruthless about it, too. I click on the little "remove forever" button, so no one can even see the trail of spam. Its presence irritates me, and I have no problem with removing forever all traces of it.
But today, I will make an exception. Today, someone posted a spam comment that I was ridiculously tempted to keep. I mean, I couldn't keep it; it is spam, after all. But while I deleted the comment, I didn't check the "remove forever" button; it was a particularly delightful read, and I felt okay about preserving the history on this one for a change.
I decided to write about the experience here. Why, you ask? Because the choice of post for this particular comment was so poor as to make the random comment completely awesome, and I really wanted to share!
Now, since the spammer in question actually had to make it through the word verification feature, you would think he might have taken a moment to read the post he was commenting on. It's a short post. Tiny, really. Would have only taken a couple of seconds. Less time than it takes to go through the pesky word verification feature. But no! No, he couldn't read the post on which he was commenting! And that is what has made this moment truly wonderful and gotten my morning off to a really great start. So, thanks for that!
The comment in question was posted on this old post, about porn spam and poop. Obviously, I've eliminated the comment's link, as ... well - it's spam and all. But the rest of this comment is verbatim:
John. Seriously. Dude. It's a post about porn spam and poop. And you want pictures of gadgets with that? I don't think I have any such pictures. What gadgets did you have in mind, John? Maybe I can help direct you to the right place. Or an appropriate support group for your particular ... problem.
(On a rather unrelated note, I think I'm about ready to return to the bloggy world and write some real posts again. Maybe visit friends' blogs. Maybe even comment! Could happen. Should happen. And I think it will happen very, very soon. Stay tuned!)
But today, I will make an exception. Today, someone posted a spam comment that I was ridiculously tempted to keep. I mean, I couldn't keep it; it is spam, after all. But while I deleted the comment, I didn't check the "remove forever" button; it was a particularly delightful read, and I felt okay about preserving the history on this one for a change.
I decided to write about the experience here. Why, you ask? Because the choice of post for this particular comment was so poor as to make the random comment completely awesome, and I really wanted to share!
Now, since the spammer in question actually had to make it through the word verification feature, you would think he might have taken a moment to read the post he was commenting on. It's a short post. Tiny, really. Would have only taken a couple of seconds. Less time than it takes to go through the pesky word verification feature. But no! No, he couldn't read the post on which he was commenting! And that is what has made this moment truly wonderful and gotten my morning off to a really great start. So, thanks for that!
The comment in question was posted on this old post, about porn spam and poop. Obviously, I've eliminated the comment's link, as ... well - it's spam and all. But the rest of this comment is verbatim:
"Interesting post as for me. It would be great to read something more about this theme. The only thing I would like to see here is a few pics of some gadgets.
John Karverv"
John. Seriously. Dude. It's a post about porn spam and poop. And you want pictures of gadgets with that? I don't think I have any such pictures. What gadgets did you have in mind, John? Maybe I can help direct you to the right place. Or an appropriate support group for your particular ... problem.
(On a rather unrelated note, I think I'm about ready to return to the bloggy world and write some real posts again. Maybe visit friends' blogs. Maybe even comment! Could happen. Should happen. And I think it will happen very, very soon. Stay tuned!)
Friday, December 25, 2009
Deck the halls with your questionable photos?? No. I don't think so.
Merry Christmas!
Today, a spammer posted a random porn link on my blog. On an old post, all about how my darling husband parodied an ABBA song to help our son with his potty training. Yup. Lots of references to fecal matter in that one. Just screams "porn", doesn't it?
Ho. Ho. Ho.
*sigh*
Today, a spammer posted a random porn link on my blog. On an old post, all about how my darling husband parodied an ABBA song to help our son with his potty training. Yup. Lots of references to fecal matter in that one. Just screams "porn", doesn't it?
Ho. Ho. Ho.
*sigh*
Friday, November 13, 2009
Because mouse poop is funny
So apparently, if you don't post for a few months, the spammers come and get you. They put comments in random posts, thinking you won't notice.
I NOTICE!! I DELETE YOU!! HAPPILY!!
So for the sake of dissuading the spammers, I shall post. Though I've still not a great deal to say. I'm going through something of a depressive period, and I can't organize my thoughts coherently. It's easier not to write. But write, I shall. For it is now apparent that the penalty for writer's block is spam in droves, and that is unacceptable to me.
Feel free to skip this nonsensical post if you like. I just haven't got much to say.
*sigh*
First things first: I got scholarships! Two scholarships! One of them is a coveted national award. Annually, there's only one of these granted in each level. And I took it for Level 4. So I'm happy. There's cash involved. Now I can afford to buy tires. Because they continue to be punctured on a fairly regular basis. I still don't know why, but continue my conspiracy theories.
Secondly, J was moved into Pre-Kindergarten at school. I thought I had another year of preschool, but Pre-K is here. I'm getting used to it. He likes it a lot.
J says many funny things these days. But by the time I get to my computer, I've usually forgotten. I live in something of a fog lately, I'm afraid. But off the top of my head:
J: When I get big, I'm going to paint all the street lights green.
J: Can we go to the AC/DC Centre?
Note: This is J's term for the "ACT Centre", a pool and rec centre that he really enjoys.
J: Today, we talked about our favourite books at show and tell. Thali's favourite book is called 'Diarrhea Mouse'.
T: I think you mean 'Diary of a Mouse'.
J: No. It's 'Diarrhea Mouse'.
T: 'Diary of a Mouse'?
J: No. 'Diarrhea Mouse'.
H: J. Is the book about a mouse that sits on the toilet all the time and does absolutely nothing else? Or is it about a mouse that writes in a little book?
J: Oooooh ... [giggle] It's about a mouse that writes.
T: Ah. 'Diary of a Mouse'.
The final thing that I shall report on is N. Who is sick. Constantly. He's having teething issues. He had a flu bug a week or two ago. He now has a cold with fever. He is rather inconsolable. Last night, he even cried during bathtime. Poor little Pineapple.
There. I posted. Now quit spamming my comments, you nasty robots!
I NOTICE!! I DELETE YOU!! HAPPILY!!
So for the sake of dissuading the spammers, I shall post. Though I've still not a great deal to say. I'm going through something of a depressive period, and I can't organize my thoughts coherently. It's easier not to write. But write, I shall. For it is now apparent that the penalty for writer's block is spam in droves, and that is unacceptable to me.
Feel free to skip this nonsensical post if you like. I just haven't got much to say.
*sigh*
First things first: I got scholarships! Two scholarships! One of them is a coveted national award. Annually, there's only one of these granted in each level. And I took it for Level 4. So I'm happy. There's cash involved. Now I can afford to buy tires. Because they continue to be punctured on a fairly regular basis. I still don't know why, but continue my conspiracy theories.
Secondly, J was moved into Pre-Kindergarten at school. I thought I had another year of preschool, but Pre-K is here. I'm getting used to it. He likes it a lot.
J says many funny things these days. But by the time I get to my computer, I've usually forgotten. I live in something of a fog lately, I'm afraid. But off the top of my head:
J: When I get big, I'm going to paint all the street lights green.
J: Can we go to the AC/DC Centre?
Note: This is J's term for the "ACT Centre", a pool and rec centre that he really enjoys.
J: Today, we talked about our favourite books at show and tell. Thali's favourite book is called 'Diarrhea Mouse'.
T: I think you mean 'Diary of a Mouse'.
J: No. It's 'Diarrhea Mouse'.
T: 'Diary of a Mouse'?
J: No. 'Diarrhea Mouse'.
H: J. Is the book about a mouse that sits on the toilet all the time and does absolutely nothing else? Or is it about a mouse that writes in a little book?
J: Oooooh ... [giggle] It's about a mouse that writes.
T: Ah. 'Diary of a Mouse'.
The final thing that I shall report on is N. Who is sick. Constantly. He's having teething issues. He had a flu bug a week or two ago. He now has a cold with fever. He is rather inconsolable. Last night, he even cried during bathtime. Poor little Pineapple.
There. I posted. Now quit spamming my comments, you nasty robots!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
My apologies
I wish to take a moment to apologize for the rather severe case of writer's block that I have experienced of late. I promise that there will be new posts, just as soon as I can come up with something worthwhile to write.
I will be back. Sometimes, it just takes awhile.
Sorry.
I will be back. Sometimes, it just takes awhile.
Sorry.
Monday, July 27, 2009
YESSSSS!!
Just a quick post to update.
J saw a pediatric gastroenterologist today. They think he has a reflux issue. He'll start getting treated with some meds. Hopefully, if food stops making his tummy hurt and he stops gagging and throwing up, he'll be more inclined to eat. I think his eating is slowly getting better, and I think his time is starting to improve also ... it no longer seems to take the boy several hours to eat a quarter of a sandwich. So that's good.
What's great, though? He's in the 25th percentile for height and weight! We've gotten so used to a struggle - used to hearing bad news ... he's below the 5th percentile ... try this nutritional supplement ... he's too small ... if he won't gain, we'll have to do a G-tube ... failure to thrive ...
So yeah. Today was such a welcome change. Today, we got good news. He's smaller than averaqe in both height and weight. But at last, he's on the charts. He's not a malnourished starving kid who needs to be tube fed. He's not stunting his growth by refusing to eat. He's in the normal range, at last!
Now the trick is keeping him there. But I am feeling optimistic now. Sweet little J may be okay yet. We keep plodding along, and do our best.
It's all we can do.
J saw a pediatric gastroenterologist today. They think he has a reflux issue. He'll start getting treated with some meds. Hopefully, if food stops making his tummy hurt and he stops gagging and throwing up, he'll be more inclined to eat. I think his eating is slowly getting better, and I think his time is starting to improve also ... it no longer seems to take the boy several hours to eat a quarter of a sandwich. So that's good.
What's great, though? He's in the 25th percentile for height and weight! We've gotten so used to a struggle - used to hearing bad news ... he's below the 5th percentile ... try this nutritional supplement ... he's too small ... if he won't gain, we'll have to do a G-tube ... failure to thrive ...
So yeah. Today was such a welcome change. Today, we got good news. He's smaller than averaqe in both height and weight. But at last, he's on the charts. He's not a malnourished starving kid who needs to be tube fed. He's not stunting his growth by refusing to eat. He's in the normal range, at last!
Now the trick is keeping him there. But I am feeling optimistic now. Sweet little J may be okay yet. We keep plodding along, and do our best.
It's all we can do.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A quick non sequitur
H: I think I'm right.
J: Well, I think I'm right.
H: So you think Daddy's wrong, then?
J: Yes. You're wrong, and I'm right.
H: No. You're wrong, and I'm right.
J: No. You're wrong, and I'm right.
H: But I'm the Daddy. So I'm always right.
J: But we have a Daffy Duck movie. So I'm always right.
Yup. Makes perfect sense.
J: Well, I think I'm right.
H: So you think Daddy's wrong, then?
J: Yes. You're wrong, and I'm right.
H: No. You're wrong, and I'm right.
J: No. You're wrong, and I'm right.
H: But I'm the Daddy. So I'm always right.
J: But we have a Daffy Duck movie. So I'm always right.
Yup. Makes perfect sense.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
RTT: Because I'm sick and the baby's angry. Apparently.
Make the baby stop crying. Make the baby stop crying? Make the baby stop crying!
Debt sucks. Just sayin'.
The Reese's peanut butter cup commercial mocks me, since I am out of peanut butter cups. Oh, delicious peanuty goodness, why do you taunt me?
New class, new policy. I no longer answer questions on the student collaborative board if they are addressed to me personally. I'm not the course tutor, and I won't give out my assignment answers. That would be called "cheating". So just stop asking, and we'll get along much, much better. I promise.
OMG! "Vision Quest" is on! And I'm watching it!
Sick as a dog yesterday. Slightly better today. Hopefully I'll be all fine tomorrow.
There are dishes to be washed, but I'm still lacking energy. Tired and sick. Must rest. Maybe later tonight, I'll be up for some chores. Just now, I need to nap and try to knock out this cold virus. But it's totally not working. I just can't nap. And why can't I nap?
Make the baby stop crying. Make the baby stop crying? Make the baby stop crying!
Head on over to Keely's. Grab a button. Create your own Random Tuesday Thoughts. Do it. You know you want to.
'Kay, I gotta go. Obviously, the baby's crying.
*sigh*
Thursday, July 09, 2009
It's educational, because I didn't know Maleficent was British
First, a word of caution.
Please ignore the nasty Blair Witch Project type special effects that occur largely at the tail end of this video as I searched frantically for the stop button. The camera is still pretty new, and I have yet to learn to edit these things.
And now for our feature presentation. We are pleased to present the opening sequence of "Sleeping Beauty", as told by J.
My kid, ladies and gentlemen. He's teh awesomeness. Yup, yup.
(One day, I hope to be able to upload videos through the button in Blogger, instead of having to use Youtube. Sadly, Blogger keeps giving me failure messages. This does not help my self-esteem issues, Blogger. Smarten up.)
Please ignore the nasty Blair Witch Project type special effects that occur largely at the tail end of this video as I searched frantically for the stop button. The camera is still pretty new, and I have yet to learn to edit these things.
And now for our feature presentation. We are pleased to present the opening sequence of "Sleeping Beauty", as told by J.
My kid, ladies and gentlemen. He's teh awesomeness. Yup, yup.
(One day, I hope to be able to upload videos through the button in Blogger, instead of having to use Youtube. Sadly, Blogger keeps giving me failure messages. This does not help my self-esteem issues, Blogger. Smarten up.)
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Don't sweat the small stuff ... or, you know, sweat a lot
I had a moment today. A moment where I felt really stupid. A moment where I thought to myself "I can't finish my designation; I'm not smart enough". You ever get like that? It happens to me more than I'd really care to admit. But then, today, I realized that it's a nonsensical feeling. I am not stupid. I can't be. My course grades negate the concept. I'm actually very bright. I'm just not highly functional in a number of other very important ways.
No. I'm not stupid. But ...
You know how, when you go in for a job interview and the interviewer asks you to outline your weaknesses ... and everyone always tries to pick something that's actually a good trait but make it sound kind of negative? Remember saying: "I can be too much of a perfectionist"? Oh, admit it; we've all said it. The thing is, though, that for me, this is actually true. And incidentally, it's not a good trait at all. Actually, it kind of sucks.
I waste time. Everything must be just so. For if it is not absolutely perfect, then it is wrong. Other things are pushed aside as I work to make it perfect, totally functional, and beautiful to boot. Because I care, even if no one else does. And everything else that is actually of utmost importance suffers for it. I try to move on, but I am unfocused, knowing that I just blew something over, leaving it complete but not 100% perfect in every single minute and irrelevant way. And to get past it and carry on, I must first go back and finish the fool thing to my satisfaction.
It's pathetic.
I think it's some kind of weird undiagnosed OCD problem. It must be. I redo, and redo, and redo, trying to make everything in my world fit with absolutes, when the reality is that some things just don't matter that much. Other things are of greater importance. But I can't look at any of those things just now, because this spreadsheet is not evenly spaced and the fonts go all weird partway down, and the symbols switch from red to blue and back again with no rhyme or reason whatsoever, and it's making me crazy. Because it's not perfect.
It's not my fault. If the chairs are not completely straight, evenly spaced, and precisely the right distance from the table, something bad will happen. I just know it. Apparently.
Today, I realized that if I were in the army, I'd be the guy who routinely lags 10 minutes behind the batalion (and ultimately gets ambushed and offed by the enemy) because my bootloops were not perfectly symmetrical and I simply had to fix it before I could march.
Yup. That's me. I am just that insane. And over time, the problem appears to have gotten worse. Much to my chagrin, I appear powerless to just carry on and accept that things don't always have to be perfect. Sometimes, it just has to be good enough. And you move on, accepting that it's as good as it needs to be and no one else cares.
But I care! And dammit, that's good enough. Isn't it? Well, it should be. And if other people don't care about it as much, then they're just wrong. Apparently.
This is a flaw. It's a big one, actually. You don't want it.
Though at times when there are serious things going on around you, it can be helpful. It provides a distraction from the serious, as you work on fixing the inconsequential. This can help you keep your sanity in what might otherwise be a terribly stressful situation. Because you can focus on tiny details and completely ignore the fact that your hair is on fire, if you so choose. The problem with this, of course, is that you really have no choice in the matter. You must deal with your flaming hair. And yet, while your hair burns brightly, you find yourself completely disabled because you have observed a small scratch on the side of your fire extinguisher and you really can't bring yourself to deploy it until it is properly resurfaced.
This annoying trait means that everything takes me too long. And I don't like it. But I appear unable to change this in myself, and it's really, really irritating. Plus it creates stress. The stress of having to do it perfectly. It's a hard thing to handle. And then, you start irrationally feeling stupid, because you ran out of time or missed something or ... and it's at that moment that you feel like you're teetering on the edge of a precipice, still balancing on the appropriate side of the idiot line but just about to topple over. And you just don't know how you'll manage to carry on, because the slightest movement will push you right over the edge.
I really don't have time to be like this. Busy. Yes, with things that actually matter. I must find a way to get over it; some way to not care so much about trivialities. But I don't know how.
You know?
No. Of course you don't. Because you are not deranged.
Are you?
*sigh*
No. I'm not stupid. But ...
You know how, when you go in for a job interview and the interviewer asks you to outline your weaknesses ... and everyone always tries to pick something that's actually a good trait but make it sound kind of negative? Remember saying: "I can be too much of a perfectionist"? Oh, admit it; we've all said it. The thing is, though, that for me, this is actually true. And incidentally, it's not a good trait at all. Actually, it kind of sucks.
I waste time. Everything must be just so. For if it is not absolutely perfect, then it is wrong. Other things are pushed aside as I work to make it perfect, totally functional, and beautiful to boot. Because I care, even if no one else does. And everything else that is actually of utmost importance suffers for it. I try to move on, but I am unfocused, knowing that I just blew something over, leaving it complete but not 100% perfect in every single minute and irrelevant way. And to get past it and carry on, I must first go back and finish the fool thing to my satisfaction.
It's pathetic.
I think it's some kind of weird undiagnosed OCD problem. It must be. I redo, and redo, and redo, trying to make everything in my world fit with absolutes, when the reality is that some things just don't matter that much. Other things are of greater importance. But I can't look at any of those things just now, because this spreadsheet is not evenly spaced and the fonts go all weird partway down, and the symbols switch from red to blue and back again with no rhyme or reason whatsoever, and it's making me crazy. Because it's not perfect.
It's not my fault. If the chairs are not completely straight, evenly spaced, and precisely the right distance from the table, something bad will happen. I just know it. Apparently.
Today, I realized that if I were in the army, I'd be the guy who routinely lags 10 minutes behind the batalion (and ultimately gets ambushed and offed by the enemy) because my bootloops were not perfectly symmetrical and I simply had to fix it before I could march.
Yup. That's me. I am just that insane. And over time, the problem appears to have gotten worse. Much to my chagrin, I appear powerless to just carry on and accept that things don't always have to be perfect. Sometimes, it just has to be good enough. And you move on, accepting that it's as good as it needs to be and no one else cares.
But I care! And dammit, that's good enough. Isn't it? Well, it should be. And if other people don't care about it as much, then they're just wrong. Apparently.
This is a flaw. It's a big one, actually. You don't want it.
Though at times when there are serious things going on around you, it can be helpful. It provides a distraction from the serious, as you work on fixing the inconsequential. This can help you keep your sanity in what might otherwise be a terribly stressful situation. Because you can focus on tiny details and completely ignore the fact that your hair is on fire, if you so choose. The problem with this, of course, is that you really have no choice in the matter. You must deal with your flaming hair. And yet, while your hair burns brightly, you find yourself completely disabled because you have observed a small scratch on the side of your fire extinguisher and you really can't bring yourself to deploy it until it is properly resurfaced.
This annoying trait means that everything takes me too long. And I don't like it. But I appear unable to change this in myself, and it's really, really irritating. Plus it creates stress. The stress of having to do it perfectly. It's a hard thing to handle. And then, you start irrationally feeling stupid, because you ran out of time or missed something or ... and it's at that moment that you feel like you're teetering on the edge of a precipice, still balancing on the appropriate side of the idiot line but just about to topple over. And you just don't know how you'll manage to carry on, because the slightest movement will push you right over the edge.
I really don't have time to be like this. Busy. Yes, with things that actually matter. I must find a way to get over it; some way to not care so much about trivialities. But I don't know how.
You know?
No. Of course you don't. Because you are not deranged.
Are you?
*sigh*
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Cat toys are not suitable presents for your 4-year old son
Tonight, H and I stopped at a Second Cup to get expensive coffee drinks, because an occasional treat is a good thing and also because J had just announced that he needed to pee and Second Cup was close-by, and we can't abide being "those people"; you know, the ones who use an establishment's bathroom and then leave without buying anything and just really tick everyone right off. But mainly, we bought drinks because an occasional treat is a good thing. And to that end, when J spotted a special cookie that made his eyes just light up, we decided to get it for him.
A happy J skipped out of the Second Cup, cookie in hand. It was a big sugar cookie, shaped like a teddy bear and decorated with green and yellow icing, and J couldn't have been happier. It was very cute, and it looked delicious. We were sure that J would want to eat his treat right away.
J got back in the van, and H strapped him into his carseat. H then removed the cellophane wrap from the cookie and presented it to J so that J might eat his special cookie at once. And as H handed the teddy bear cookie to J, one of the bear's legs broke off. J looked kind of stunned for a moment. But we told him this wasn't a big deal; the cookie would taste the same, and J could just eat the leg first. Apparently placated, J began to eat his cookie. And we headed off for home.
As J continued to eat his cookie, he discussed the situation as he saw it. "Poor teddy bear", said J. And we explained to him that the teddy bear cookie was made to be eaten. It wanted to be eaten. This was the teddy bear cookie's sole purpose. But though J continued to munch on the cookie, he appeared somewhat upset. Periodically, J would look at his cookie with sad eyes and sigh mournfully at the poor teddy bear's plight.
J ate his cookie slowly. He ate the bear's legs, and arms, and then he started working on the bear's head. And then suddenly, he cried out "His eyes are gone!", in the same urgent tone of voice one might use to say "I backed over your brother! Call 911!" And I again told J that the teddy bear was made to be eaten, and that his eyes would surely disappear as he was eaten, and that it was all going to be okay.
To my dismay, J's big bright eyes welled up with tears, and he started to sob uncontrollably. He wouldn't eat the rest of the cookie. It was too painful for him.
He cried for the loss of his teddy bear, whose beautiful yellow and green icing was now completely gone. J wanted his teddy bear cookie to be whole, with yellow and green icing, and eyes that would last forever. He did not want to eat this special cookie. And he would not have done so had the teddy bear cookie's leg not fallen off when its package was opened. To J, this cookie was a real teddy bear, meant to be slept with, played with, and cuddled, and certainly not meant to be eaten. J was horrified that he had mistakenly eaten his new friend.
H considered going back to Second Cup to get J a new teddy bear cookie, but we realized that doing so would be problematic. J would try to sleep, cuddling his replacement cookie. And he would be upset when the cookie crumbled, or when it grew old and stale and had to be thrown in the garbage. Food is not forever. And cookies are meant to be eaten. We needed to come up with something else.
Toy stores are closed. Drug stores, however, are open. And so we stopped at one, looking for a teddy bear. Something small and inexpensive. Something inedible. Something that J could cuddle with and keep.
There were no teddy bears at the drug store. There was a large green ball with a picture of Winnie the Pooh on it, though. But J was unimpressed. A ball was not a friend. A ball was a poor substitute for a teddy bear. A ball could not take the sting off J's wounds. And as he looked at the ball, he tried to be happy. But the tears were still flowing, and they spilled over and wet his sweet little cheeks. He liked the ball, but it was just not the same.
Grocery stores are also open. And we need baby food. And so, with a basket of baby food in hand, I searched. I looked at baby toys, but there were no bears. I looked through the seasonal area, but there were no bears. Specialty items? Giftware? Greeting cards? Yeah, no. There were no bears. Ummm ... cat toys? (Don't judge me. I was desperate.) Oddly enough, there were no bears.
I had nearly given up when at last, I found them. In the back of the floral section. In an area that I think is actually reserved for employees only, but I didn't really care anymore. Balloons, frogs, dogs, unicorns ... and bears! Bears! Cute little stuffed teddy bears! They even had them in yellow and green! Perfect!!!
J sleeps now, with new bears in yellow and green. They are not meant to be eaten. They are not filled with catnip. And when he awakes, he will not be stunned and saddened by their unexpected deterioration into a pile of crumbs.
I am the mom who cannot bear to see tears in your eyes. I will do anything in my power to protect you and to make you smile. Heaven knows that there are harsh realities and disappointments to be faced in this life. You will encounter them someday. And much as it pains me to realize it, I won't always be able to make it better. But just now, you are four. You are four, and you are mine, and I can look out for you. I can't give you everything, but I can give you this. I can wipe your tears and kiss your ow-ies and offer you small tokens that bring a smile to your sweet face once more.
And at the end of the day, I promise that there will be teddy bears.
I love you, J.
A happy J skipped out of the Second Cup, cookie in hand. It was a big sugar cookie, shaped like a teddy bear and decorated with green and yellow icing, and J couldn't have been happier. It was very cute, and it looked delicious. We were sure that J would want to eat his treat right away.
J got back in the van, and H strapped him into his carseat. H then removed the cellophane wrap from the cookie and presented it to J so that J might eat his special cookie at once. And as H handed the teddy bear cookie to J, one of the bear's legs broke off. J looked kind of stunned for a moment. But we told him this wasn't a big deal; the cookie would taste the same, and J could just eat the leg first. Apparently placated, J began to eat his cookie. And we headed off for home.
As J continued to eat his cookie, he discussed the situation as he saw it. "Poor teddy bear", said J. And we explained to him that the teddy bear cookie was made to be eaten. It wanted to be eaten. This was the teddy bear cookie's sole purpose. But though J continued to munch on the cookie, he appeared somewhat upset. Periodically, J would look at his cookie with sad eyes and sigh mournfully at the poor teddy bear's plight.
J ate his cookie slowly. He ate the bear's legs, and arms, and then he started working on the bear's head. And then suddenly, he cried out "His eyes are gone!", in the same urgent tone of voice one might use to say "I backed over your brother! Call 911!" And I again told J that the teddy bear was made to be eaten, and that his eyes would surely disappear as he was eaten, and that it was all going to be okay.
To my dismay, J's big bright eyes welled up with tears, and he started to sob uncontrollably. He wouldn't eat the rest of the cookie. It was too painful for him.
He cried for the loss of his teddy bear, whose beautiful yellow and green icing was now completely gone. J wanted his teddy bear cookie to be whole, with yellow and green icing, and eyes that would last forever. He did not want to eat this special cookie. And he would not have done so had the teddy bear cookie's leg not fallen off when its package was opened. To J, this cookie was a real teddy bear, meant to be slept with, played with, and cuddled, and certainly not meant to be eaten. J was horrified that he had mistakenly eaten his new friend.
H considered going back to Second Cup to get J a new teddy bear cookie, but we realized that doing so would be problematic. J would try to sleep, cuddling his replacement cookie. And he would be upset when the cookie crumbled, or when it grew old and stale and had to be thrown in the garbage. Food is not forever. And cookies are meant to be eaten. We needed to come up with something else.
Toy stores are closed. Drug stores, however, are open. And so we stopped at one, looking for a teddy bear. Something small and inexpensive. Something inedible. Something that J could cuddle with and keep.
There were no teddy bears at the drug store. There was a large green ball with a picture of Winnie the Pooh on it, though. But J was unimpressed. A ball was not a friend. A ball was a poor substitute for a teddy bear. A ball could not take the sting off J's wounds. And as he looked at the ball, he tried to be happy. But the tears were still flowing, and they spilled over and wet his sweet little cheeks. He liked the ball, but it was just not the same.
Grocery stores are also open. And we need baby food. And so, with a basket of baby food in hand, I searched. I looked at baby toys, but there were no bears. I looked through the seasonal area, but there were no bears. Specialty items? Giftware? Greeting cards? Yeah, no. There were no bears. Ummm ... cat toys? (Don't judge me. I was desperate.) Oddly enough, there were no bears.
I had nearly given up when at last, I found them. In the back of the floral section. In an area that I think is actually reserved for employees only, but I didn't really care anymore. Balloons, frogs, dogs, unicorns ... and bears! Bears! Cute little stuffed teddy bears! They even had them in yellow and green! Perfect!!!
J sleeps now, with new bears in yellow and green. They are not meant to be eaten. They are not filled with catnip. And when he awakes, he will not be stunned and saddened by their unexpected deterioration into a pile of crumbs.
I am the mom who cannot bear to see tears in your eyes. I will do anything in my power to protect you and to make you smile. Heaven knows that there are harsh realities and disappointments to be faced in this life. You will encounter them someday. And much as it pains me to realize it, I won't always be able to make it better. But just now, you are four. You are four, and you are mine, and I can look out for you. I can't give you everything, but I can give you this. I can wipe your tears and kiss your ow-ies and offer you small tokens that bring a smile to your sweet face once more.
And at the end of the day, I promise that there will be teddy bears.
I love you, J.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
At least he knows what's most important
J: My teacher swallowed a frog.
T: You mean she has a frog in her throat?
J: Yes. She swallowed it but it got stuck. And now, she can't eat her french fries.
T: I see.
T: You mean she has a frog in her throat?
J: Yes. She swallowed it but it got stuck. And now, she can't eat her french fries.
T: I see.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Maddie's Song
Two months.
(Photo courtesy of Heather Spohr)
Two months ago, Mike and Heather Spohr lost their precious daughter, Maddie. She was 17 months old.
Born prematurely after a complicated pregnancy, Maddie was a fighter. She defied the odds to survive the pregnancy, to be born, and to be released from a prolonged stay in the NICU. And though she had weak lungs and struggled to gain weight, she did well at home overall.
Until one day, she didn't.
For 17 precious months, Maddie grew in beauty and intelligence, making new friends and earning the love and admiration of all who saw her. And then, one day, she caught a cold, just as she had many times before. And she quickly developed a chest rattle and required oxygen, just as she had many times before. And she was admitted to hospital with pneumonia, just as she had been many times before because her lungs, weakened from prematurity, made her more susceptible to complications from colds. And she should have recovered and been released to her loving parents, just as she had always been before. But this time, she wasn't. And no one saw it coming.
She was special. And she is greatly missed.
**********
I never met Maddie. And I don't know her parents in real life. But for some reason, Maddie's story had an impact on me, and I don't rightly know just why.
Maybe it's because she passed away on J's birthday this year. Or because of the similarities between my pregnancies and Heather's. Or perhaps it's because Maddie was a preemie, just like J and several other children who we love so deeply. Or that she, like J, struggled to gain weight. Or the fact that she bears a bit of a physical resemblance to our baby N.
Or maybe it's because, after their loss, her parents threw themselves headlong into fundraising efforts for the March of Dimes, raising about $60,000 in Maddie's name, in hopes that other parents may not have to go through this pain.
And maybe it's because, several years ago, a couple of really close friends of ours who we love deeply also lost a much loved baby born too soon. At the time, I wanted to write something in tribute to their beautiful little Aiden. But I was shredded, too close to the loss and pain, and I couldn't pass through it all to find a way. Sometimes, that's how it happens.
Maybe it's any of these. Or more likely, it's a combination of all. But Maddie inspired me, just as she has inspired and continues to inspire so many of us. And this is why I wrote to her mother, Heather, and asked permission to use some of her words, so beautifully written on her blog, in a tribute to the incredible Madeline. And she agreed.
**********
And so, I am now posting a song. Lyrics by Heather and myself, together with music that I wrote. Maddie's Song. And I hope you like it.
MADDIE'S SONG
Verse 1
There’s a heaven in your smile.
There’s a halo of light around Madeline.
Though I shared it for only just awhile.
Verse 2
Your bright eyes and golden curls.
Such a beautiful child is my Madeline.
An angel sent from another world.
Smart, sweet little girl.
Chorus
Heaven
Right in front of me.
You will always be
The daughter I always wanted.
Remembered
For all eternity.
You will always be
The daughter I always wanted.
Verse 3
There’s a hole here in my arms.
A space left by my Madeline.
Exquisite pain I can’t comprehend.
And a world that makes no sense.
[Chorus]
[Musical Break]
Verse 4
There’s a heaven in your smile.
There’s a halo of light around Madeline.
And I know that someday, we’ll meet again.
[Chorus x 2]
For Madeline Alice Spohr. And for her parents. And for all children whose lives have been cut too short, and their parents as well. For those left behind to grieve and mourn a loss none should have to bear.
For all of you. I wish you strength to bear up, hope for the future, and a world with no pain.
Two months ago, Mike and Heather Spohr lost their precious daughter, Maddie. She was 17 months old.
Born prematurely after a complicated pregnancy, Maddie was a fighter. She defied the odds to survive the pregnancy, to be born, and to be released from a prolonged stay in the NICU. And though she had weak lungs and struggled to gain weight, she did well at home overall.
Until one day, she didn't.
For 17 precious months, Maddie grew in beauty and intelligence, making new friends and earning the love and admiration of all who saw her. And then, one day, she caught a cold, just as she had many times before. And she quickly developed a chest rattle and required oxygen, just as she had many times before. And she was admitted to hospital with pneumonia, just as she had been many times before because her lungs, weakened from prematurity, made her more susceptible to complications from colds. And she should have recovered and been released to her loving parents, just as she had always been before. But this time, she wasn't. And no one saw it coming.
She was special. And she is greatly missed.
I never met Maddie. And I don't know her parents in real life. But for some reason, Maddie's story had an impact on me, and I don't rightly know just why.
Maybe it's because she passed away on J's birthday this year. Or because of the similarities between my pregnancies and Heather's. Or perhaps it's because Maddie was a preemie, just like J and several other children who we love so deeply. Or that she, like J, struggled to gain weight. Or the fact that she bears a bit of a physical resemblance to our baby N.
Or maybe it's because, after their loss, her parents threw themselves headlong into fundraising efforts for the March of Dimes, raising about $60,000 in Maddie's name, in hopes that other parents may not have to go through this pain.
And maybe it's because, several years ago, a couple of really close friends of ours who we love deeply also lost a much loved baby born too soon. At the time, I wanted to write something in tribute to their beautiful little Aiden. But I was shredded, too close to the loss and pain, and I couldn't pass through it all to find a way. Sometimes, that's how it happens.
Maybe it's any of these. Or more likely, it's a combination of all. But Maddie inspired me, just as she has inspired and continues to inspire so many of us. And this is why I wrote to her mother, Heather, and asked permission to use some of her words, so beautifully written on her blog, in a tribute to the incredible Madeline. And she agreed.
And so, I am now posting a song. Lyrics by Heather and myself, together with music that I wrote. Maddie's Song. And I hope you like it.
MADDIE'S SONG
Verse 1
There’s a heaven in your smile.
There’s a halo of light around Madeline.
Though I shared it for only just awhile.
Verse 2
Your bright eyes and golden curls.
Such a beautiful child is my Madeline.
An angel sent from another world.
Smart, sweet little girl.
Chorus
Heaven
Right in front of me.
You will always be
The daughter I always wanted.
Remembered
For all eternity.
You will always be
The daughter I always wanted.
Verse 3
There’s a hole here in my arms.
A space left by my Madeline.
Exquisite pain I can’t comprehend.
And a world that makes no sense.
[Chorus]
[Musical Break]
Verse 4
There’s a heaven in your smile.
There’s a halo of light around Madeline.
And I know that someday, we’ll meet again.
[Chorus x 2]
For Madeline Alice Spohr. And for her parents. And for all children whose lives have been cut too short, and their parents as well. For those left behind to grieve and mourn a loss none should have to bear.
For all of you. I wish you strength to bear up, hope for the future, and a world with no pain.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
This video must have been terrible before they fixed it
I've been remiss in posting. I'm unrepentant and continuing to do it. I promise a real post will come soon. Honest. Maybe even before my exam next Friday. Who can tell?
In the meantime, enjoy this new and improved Bonnie Tyler video.
Her hair. It's awesome.
In the meantime, enjoy this new and improved Bonnie Tyler video.
Her hair. It's awesome.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Chuck E Cheese is not ...
Today was N's first birthday. Such a big boy! He had a cupcake party at daycare this afternoon. Apparently, he quite enjoyed his chocolate cupcake. They made him a little party hat of construction paper that he wore without complaint. He was a happy little guy. Everything was good.
To celebrate his birthday this evening, we decided to go out to Chuck E Cheese. N wore a little birthday boy crown, and ate some pizza. And with considerable prompting, J ate a hotdog. Games were played. Fun was had. Exhaustion ensued.
And people were people. As they often are. And because of them, I have decided to make a list of the things that Chuck E Cheese is not. Because there appears to be some misunderstanding.
So, in case anyone was wondering, Chuck E Cheese is not:
To celebrate his birthday this evening, we decided to go out to Chuck E Cheese. N wore a little birthday boy crown, and ate some pizza. And with considerable prompting, J ate a hotdog. Games were played. Fun was had. Exhaustion ensued.
And people were people. As they often are. And because of them, I have decided to make a list of the things that Chuck E Cheese is not. Because there appears to be some misunderstanding.
So, in case anyone was wondering, Chuck E Cheese is not:
- quiet.
- representative of the fine dining experience.
- relaxing.
- an excellent choice for a romantic evening out.
- appropriate for a group with no children present.
- nutritious.
- a place that children want to leave. Like, ever.
- staffed by friendly, knowledgable, polite employees.
- a library.
- a magical place where all your dreams come true.
- responsible for any loss or damage.
- the best place to really tick off an over-tired mother of two who has just worked a full day and is now at a really loud establishment trying to get a picture of her one-year old sitting in a pretend car next to a giant rat as her insanely hyper four-year old throws up in a place as yet to be determined, because he refused to tell her.
- cleaned on a regular basis.
- quiet. (I know I said it before, but it bears repeating.)
- an alternative to daycare.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Shopping FAIL! Bedtime WIN!
Today, we met up with our friend L and her girls I & G at Ikea. L was a bit late arriving, since she had to come from the other side of the city, and also since she drives like someone's grandma. (Seriously, L - the gas is the little skinny pedal on the right. ;))
We decided to meet up for lunch. And then, we thought it would be fun to let the three big kids play together in Small Land while the rest of us shopped. J is finally tall enough to be admitted to Small Land. When we found out he could get in, H and I were over the moon! (Imagine the prospect of shopping sans preschooler!) But it was not to be. Because J, after taking far too long to eat and tying everyone up for a prolonged period, refused to go into Small Land. And he started having a tantrum, so we picked him up and just left. And poor L had to shop all by herself while we took J for a much needed nap. She must have been so lonely, shopping all alone, with not even a screaming preschooler for company. ;)
As we drove, we passed what appeared to be a carnival. Big rides. Looked like fun. J wanted to go and play, but we weren't about to have him miss his nap after his earlier display. Besides, there are those pesky height restrictions to think of. J is still pretty short for his age, the result of his continued refusal to eat, and he probably wouldn't come up to most ride height restriction lines. So we took a pass.
H: No, J. You have to be a certain height to ride.
J: I AM a certain height!
Well, he's right. We're all a certain height. But he still didn't get to go on any rides.
**********
Sadly, today's Ikea experience was more familiar to us than we'd like to admit. These days, we just don't get to spend quite enough time with other adults without children present. As a result, four-year old logic is starting to make sense to us. Like so:
J: Look at the big nose on my watch pointing over here.
H: That's an arm, J. Not a nose.
J: But it's on the watch's face!
Incidentally, does anyone know why watches have arms on their faces? Were they designed by Pablo Picasso or something?
**********
J has many interests. Mostly balls and blocks. But sometimes, other toys get his attention. Like paints. Or Star Wars.
H: Maybe they just know we're busy with our two?
J: D2.
(Seriously. Think about it. Say it out loud. It makes sense; I promise.)
**********
In other news, tonight N had a bath. While that doesn't sound like much, it was significant. It was the first time that N did not sob uncontrollably during bath time. He sat up in the tub and splashed happily, chasing after his little toy seal and spraying me with water. He frequently stood up for hugs, smiling happily. And he would lie back, knowing Mommy would catch him, and then roll over onto his tummy to crawl around in the warm soapy water. Such a fun time!
Then the kids went to bed. J wanted snuggles, and I happily complied. Always with a tune in my head, I lay next to my little guy with my eyes closed and I hummed. And J looked at me with love in his eyes, and sang me an impromptu lullaby:
Go to sleep.
Go to sleep.
Go to sleep, and sing.
I love you.
I love you so much.
So go to sleep, and sing.
You will be my mommy forever.
You will be my mommy forever.
And I love you forever.
Now go to sleep.
Sometimes, J can be a bit of a demon. But tonight's lullaby really made up for a lot.
Good night, J. Good night, N. I love you.
We decided to meet up for lunch. And then, we thought it would be fun to let the three big kids play together in Small Land while the rest of us shopped. J is finally tall enough to be admitted to Small Land. When we found out he could get in, H and I were over the moon! (Imagine the prospect of shopping sans preschooler!) But it was not to be. Because J, after taking far too long to eat and tying everyone up for a prolonged period, refused to go into Small Land. And he started having a tantrum, so we picked him up and just left. And poor L had to shop all by herself while we took J for a much needed nap. She must have been so lonely, shopping all alone, with not even a screaming preschooler for company. ;)
As we drove, we passed what appeared to be a carnival. Big rides. Looked like fun. J wanted to go and play, but we weren't about to have him miss his nap after his earlier display. Besides, there are those pesky height restrictions to think of. J is still pretty short for his age, the result of his continued refusal to eat, and he probably wouldn't come up to most ride height restriction lines. So we took a pass.
H: No, J. You have to be a certain height to ride.
J: I AM a certain height!
Well, he's right. We're all a certain height. But he still didn't get to go on any rides.
Sadly, today's Ikea experience was more familiar to us than we'd like to admit. These days, we just don't get to spend quite enough time with other adults without children present. As a result, four-year old logic is starting to make sense to us. Like so:
J: Look at the big nose on my watch pointing over here.
H: That's an arm, J. Not a nose.
J: But it's on the watch's face!
Incidentally, does anyone know why watches have arms on their faces? Were they designed by Pablo Picasso or something?
J has many interests. Mostly balls and blocks. But sometimes, other toys get his attention. Like paints. Or Star Wars.
H: Maybe they just know we're busy with our two?
J: D2.
(Seriously. Think about it. Say it out loud. It makes sense; I promise.)
In other news, tonight N had a bath. While that doesn't sound like much, it was significant. It was the first time that N did not sob uncontrollably during bath time. He sat up in the tub and splashed happily, chasing after his little toy seal and spraying me with water. He frequently stood up for hugs, smiling happily. And he would lie back, knowing Mommy would catch him, and then roll over onto his tummy to crawl around in the warm soapy water. Such a fun time!
Then the kids went to bed. J wanted snuggles, and I happily complied. Always with a tune in my head, I lay next to my little guy with my eyes closed and I hummed. And J looked at me with love in his eyes, and sang me an impromptu lullaby:
Go to sleep.
Go to sleep.
Go to sleep, and sing.
I love you.
I love you so much.
So go to sleep, and sing.
You will be my mommy forever.
You will be my mommy forever.
And I love you forever.
Now go to sleep.
Sometimes, J can be a bit of a demon. But tonight's lullaby really made up for a lot.
Good night, J. Good night, N. I love you.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Random Tuesday: April can kiss my a$$
Okay. Here goes.
April sucked, with a suckage that cannot be adequately described. Death was featured prominently in April. Many posts were begun and abandoned in their entirety, due to pronounced despondence. I cried a whole lot more than I would like. Concentration lapsed completely. It was dreadful.
I hope May is a better month. April can just go screw itself.
I'm anemic. Again. Not a big surprise. I'm actually surprised the level is as good as it is. Usually, it's lower. They're still concerned enough to call in a prescription, though. Meh.
I went back to work last week. It's going fairly well. So far, I haven't done my customary act of destroying everything in my path. I haven't fallen down at the office. No one has been injured. So it's been good.
Been working on a new song. It's almost done now. Of course, it's heavily steeped in April, which sucks. But it's pretty, and I hope those for whom it was written will like it. I can't take the pain away, but I can give them this. It's not enough. I don't know what would ever be enough. I don't know ...
I had a group of friends who came up with a super power club. One had super-human strength. Another had super-human speed. The guy who got to pick first chose "impervious to everything", which meant he couldn't really do much except sit in the bar, drinking and smoking, and not be affected by it. But it was a good super power, and people enjoyed it. If I had a super power, it would be "can fix everything". Cancer would be gone. Crime would be gone. Babies would be born healthy, at full term. There would be no pain. There would be no grief. And the world would be a perfect place. But then, what would be the point of heaven? I guess my chosen super power just can't exist here. Which is a shame, because it really should.
Finally, I got 96% on my auditing exam! (I didn't find that out until May ... had marks been released in April, the month of complete and utter suckiness, I'd undoubtedly have flunked.)
So there you have it. Kind of random, in an "April totally sucked and I hate the entire month" kind of way. But it'll have to do. At least it's a post, right?
April sucked, with a suckage that cannot be adequately described. Death was featured prominently in April. Many posts were begun and abandoned in their entirety, due to pronounced despondence. I cried a whole lot more than I would like. Concentration lapsed completely. It was dreadful.
I hope May is a better month. April can just go screw itself.
I'm anemic. Again. Not a big surprise. I'm actually surprised the level is as good as it is. Usually, it's lower. They're still concerned enough to call in a prescription, though. Meh.
I went back to work last week. It's going fairly well. So far, I haven't done my customary act of destroying everything in my path. I haven't fallen down at the office. No one has been injured. So it's been good.
Been working on a new song. It's almost done now. Of course, it's heavily steeped in April, which sucks. But it's pretty, and I hope those for whom it was written will like it. I can't take the pain away, but I can give them this. It's not enough. I don't know what would ever be enough. I don't know ...
I had a group of friends who came up with a super power club. One had super-human strength. Another had super-human speed. The guy who got to pick first chose "impervious to everything", which meant he couldn't really do much except sit in the bar, drinking and smoking, and not be affected by it. But it was a good super power, and people enjoyed it. If I had a super power, it would be "can fix everything". Cancer would be gone. Crime would be gone. Babies would be born healthy, at full term. There would be no pain. There would be no grief. And the world would be a perfect place. But then, what would be the point of heaven? I guess my chosen super power just can't exist here. Which is a shame, because it really should.
Finally, I got 96% on my auditing exam! (I didn't find that out until May ... had marks been released in April, the month of complete and utter suckiness, I'd undoubtedly have flunked.)
So there you have it. Kind of random, in an "April totally sucked and I hate the entire month" kind of way. But it'll have to do. At least it's a post, right?
Friday, May 01, 2009
It's all fun and games until the dinosaur tackles you and rips out your throat
J has a dinosaur. A big, black and white, remote controlled robotic dinosaur with artificial intelligence components. You push a button (conveniently located right on the beast's unmentionables) to start and stop the thing. But you must (MUST) have the remote control in hand to deal with the ramifications. For without the remote control, the dinosaur acts of its own volition. With its fierce jaws aimed at your jugular, the dinosaur will violently shake its tail and roar angrily before it lunges, leaping across the room. And honestly, it can be pretty difficult to get close enough to turn the fool thing off again.
Today, I was in the kitchen feeding baby N when J, alone in the living room, pushed the Button of Doom as the remote control sat, unattended, on the opposite end of the room.
The dinosaur took off like a shot, roaring and shaking its tail, as it aimed itself at J. Cleverly, J evaded the beast by leaping onto the couch. The fierce creature then turned its attention kitchen-ward. It bounded across the room, presumably aiming for N's apple sauce and Cheerios, but was temporarily distracted by the basement door. Which it tried to eat. In an effort to protect his household, J took the opportunity to bravely run toward the dinosaur. Grabbing the creature by its violently shaking tail, J attempted to pull it away from the door. And the dinosaur turned. It lowered its head. It roared at J. Not to be bested by a toy animal, J stood firm and, raising himself to his full thirty-eight inches, shouted "Stop, Dinosaur! I command you!!"
Not surprisingly, the dinosaur was unimpressed. It advanced on J, who backed away quickly while continuing to scream "I SAID STOP!! STOP DINOSAUR!! I COMMAND YOU!!!" And so, I protected my child. I snuck up behind the out-of-control animal as it menacingly approached my 4-year old. I reached under its tail, and I hit the power button, stopping the mad beast dead in its tracks and quite possibly saving my child from a tragic dinosaur-related end.
And then, of course, J got mad at me for turning off his dinosaur when he wanted to play with her. Ungrateful little so-and-so.
(We're sending it to preschool next week for show-and-tell. Because we're awesome like that.)
Today, I was in the kitchen feeding baby N when J, alone in the living room, pushed the Button of Doom as the remote control sat, unattended, on the opposite end of the room.
The dinosaur took off like a shot, roaring and shaking its tail, as it aimed itself at J. Cleverly, J evaded the beast by leaping onto the couch. The fierce creature then turned its attention kitchen-ward. It bounded across the room, presumably aiming for N's apple sauce and Cheerios, but was temporarily distracted by the basement door. Which it tried to eat. In an effort to protect his household, J took the opportunity to bravely run toward the dinosaur. Grabbing the creature by its violently shaking tail, J attempted to pull it away from the door. And the dinosaur turned. It lowered its head. It roared at J. Not to be bested by a toy animal, J stood firm and, raising himself to his full thirty-eight inches, shouted "Stop, Dinosaur! I command you!!"
Not surprisingly, the dinosaur was unimpressed. It advanced on J, who backed away quickly while continuing to scream "I SAID STOP!! STOP DINOSAUR!! I COMMAND YOU!!!" And so, I protected my child. I snuck up behind the out-of-control animal as it menacingly approached my 4-year old. I reached under its tail, and I hit the power button, stopping the mad beast dead in its tracks and quite possibly saving my child from a tragic dinosaur-related end.
And then, of course, J got mad at me for turning off his dinosaur when he wanted to play with her. Ungrateful little so-and-so.
(We're sending it to preschool next week for show-and-tell. Because we're awesome like that.)
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Proof that urine is acidic
J is a poor eater. You may remember me discussing it at some length. He doesn't eat; therefore, he doesn't grow. He is now the smallest kid in his class. We've been working on it. Different strategies have been employed, doctors and nutritionists have been consulted, medications have been used. But J still just doesn't eat enough. It's a problem.
J is on an appetite stimulant. It seems to work marginally, but does not provide a great improvement. It also makes him tired. The doctor assures us that this is a good thing; kids experience most of their growth when they are asleep. And so, J needs a lot of sleep. He sleeps well at night, and also has an afternoon nap. Sometimes, it's easy to get J to nap. Other times, it's more difficult. Usually on the weekends, J would prefer not to nap at all. Various delay tactics will be employed as J works to stay awake in the afternoon. If he succeeds, he will be grumpy and act out as the day wears on; eventually, he will start getting in trouble and will have to go to bed early because he's too tired to carry on.
Today is just such a day.
J's usual delay tactics are just not especially noteworthy. Really, any kid trying to delay bedtime will employ most of the same tactics; his are no different. But today, one of his stalling techniques was somewhat unique. It must therefore be shared, and preserved, and probably brought up again in the future, possibly on his wedding day.
And so it goes.
After being tucked in, J climbed out of bed and started going through his stuffed animal toybox, eventually finding an animal that makes noise. He then played with the noisy animal for a bit, ran around his room, and kicked his wall several times. Eventually, he grew bored and started knocking on his bedroom door and shouting (his ever-so-subtle signal that "IT'S TIME TO GET UUUUU-UUP"). I went up, and told him that it was still nap time. J insisted that he needed to get up to give Daddy a kiss. I called H up so that J could kiss him (much to the chagrin of J who wanted to go downstairs to kiss Daddy). J then said that he needed to pee. So I took him to the bathroom, and then tucked him back in. He then insisted that he was thirsty and needed a drink of water.
Now here's where it got interesting.
J: I need a drink of water because my throat hurts. My throat is soooo sore, because I needed to pee soooo badly. So that's why I need a drink of water.
I couldn't really relate. Must be a guy thing?
J is on an appetite stimulant. It seems to work marginally, but does not provide a great improvement. It also makes him tired. The doctor assures us that this is a good thing; kids experience most of their growth when they are asleep. And so, J needs a lot of sleep. He sleeps well at night, and also has an afternoon nap. Sometimes, it's easy to get J to nap. Other times, it's more difficult. Usually on the weekends, J would prefer not to nap at all. Various delay tactics will be employed as J works to stay awake in the afternoon. If he succeeds, he will be grumpy and act out as the day wears on; eventually, he will start getting in trouble and will have to go to bed early because he's too tired to carry on.
Today is just such a day.
J's usual delay tactics are just not especially noteworthy. Really, any kid trying to delay bedtime will employ most of the same tactics; his are no different. But today, one of his stalling techniques was somewhat unique. It must therefore be shared, and preserved, and probably brought up again in the future, possibly on his wedding day.
And so it goes.
After being tucked in, J climbed out of bed and started going through his stuffed animal toybox, eventually finding an animal that makes noise. He then played with the noisy animal for a bit, ran around his room, and kicked his wall several times. Eventually, he grew bored and started knocking on his bedroom door and shouting (his ever-so-subtle signal that "IT'S TIME TO GET UUUUU-UUP"). I went up, and told him that it was still nap time. J insisted that he needed to get up to give Daddy a kiss. I called H up so that J could kiss him (much to the chagrin of J who wanted to go downstairs to kiss Daddy). J then said that he needed to pee. So I took him to the bathroom, and then tucked him back in. He then insisted that he was thirsty and needed a drink of water.
Now here's where it got interesting.
J: I need a drink of water because my throat hurts. My throat is soooo sore, because I needed to pee soooo badly. So that's why I need a drink of water.
I couldn't really relate. Must be a guy thing?
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Will the circle be unbroken? Um ... NO!
Today, H picked up J from preschool. Inexplicably, J burst into song. "Santa Claus is Coming to Town". (Yes, in April.) This drew attention from one of J's teachers, who laughed and then relayed a little story from today's "circle time".
In "circle time", the class takes part in various activities. Show and tell ... music ... yoga ... Spanish class ... stories ... the list goes on and on. It's a very active preschool. Today in circle, the kids were playing a game called "Who stole the cookies". The idea is to rhythmically say: "Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? [Name of child] stole the cookies from the cookie jar". And there are a few more silly little lines, with fun and innocent rhyming responses from the child in question, and then you keep going down the line of children until you've done all of the names. It's very cute.
All good, right? Except J doesn't like being falsely accused. So ...
Class: Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? J stole the cookies from the cookie jar.
J: (sporting his best "mad-face") I DID NOT!!!
Teacher: It's just a game, J. We go down the line. So next, we're going to say that B stole the cookies from the cookie jar.
J: Well, then maybe he did it. But I didn't! **
J quite enjoys circle time. Only problem: he and his best little preschool friend A aren't allowed to sit together any longer. They chat and play during the planned activities, and I've been told that they get quite disruptive. I also note in recent days that they are also no longer allowed to eat lunch together. But they still get lots of good play time in, so I think they're pretty happy all told.
**********
** Note: The following is how "Who stole the cookies" should actually play out:
Class: Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? [Child] stole the cookies from the cookie jar.
Child: Who, me?
Class: Yes, you.
Child: Couldn't be.
Class: Then who?
In "circle time", the class takes part in various activities. Show and tell ... music ... yoga ... Spanish class ... stories ... the list goes on and on. It's a very active preschool. Today in circle, the kids were playing a game called "Who stole the cookies". The idea is to rhythmically say: "Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? [Name of child] stole the cookies from the cookie jar". And there are a few more silly little lines, with fun and innocent rhyming responses from the child in question, and then you keep going down the line of children until you've done all of the names. It's very cute.
All good, right? Except J doesn't like being falsely accused. So ...
Class: Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? J stole the cookies from the cookie jar.
J: (sporting his best "mad-face") I DID NOT!!!
Teacher: It's just a game, J. We go down the line. So next, we're going to say that B stole the cookies from the cookie jar.
J: Well, then maybe he did it. But I didn't! **
J quite enjoys circle time. Only problem: he and his best little preschool friend A aren't allowed to sit together any longer. They chat and play during the planned activities, and I've been told that they get quite disruptive. I also note in recent days that they are also no longer allowed to eat lunch together. But they still get lots of good play time in, so I think they're pretty happy all told.
** Note: The following is how "Who stole the cookies" should actually play out:
Class: Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? [Child] stole the cookies from the cookie jar.
Child: Who, me?
Class: Yes, you.
Child: Couldn't be.
Class: Then who?
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