Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
rain.
It must have been late October or early November. The ivy clung to the brick walls of my sorority house, where, from my room, I witnessed a scattering of green leaves dripping from the vines above the window encased with old, wrought iron. Glenn Gould played Bach's Preludes and Fugues on my black CD player, making the rainy, overcast, dreary day seem that much more melancholy.
I lied in bed, comforted by the cocoon of my down blanket and the faint whistle of steam emitting from the radiator. I never want this to end, I thought. And today, fifteen years later, I want it back.
In the darkness of my children's playroom -- which has become my temporary, long-term bedroom because it sits right next to the boys' rooms -- I hear the rain tap-dancing on the windows, plinking off the metal chimney, dropping heavily on the skylight. Tonight, I also hear the trucks rumbling over the Grand Avenue bridge, suburban trains clanging their bells as they inch toward the station, a plane flying overhead. The sound of nature's washing, my busy, glorious city -- these encase me, inviting me to retreat and examine.
Life seems more set these days than the ones of Glenn Gould. Less possibility, less expanse to imagine, less to choose from, less to behold. The world no longer my oyster, now I am it. My charge: to make a pearl.
Sand, oh I have plenty. It takes only one, rough grain to blanket, cover, contain, perfect. Yet I feel like I've done nothing. It's fifteen years later, and not much to show for it.
Gray hair. I do have that. The single, long strands contrast with my otherwise dark locks. So there is age. I have age to show in fifteen years.
With age comes wisdom, and I believe I've forwarded on that track faster than I could have predicted. With wisdom, though, comes experience. Tough experience. Gut-wrenching. And I wonder if it's worth the trade-off: wisdom for bliss.
I smile at that girl in her sorority room. That girl, soaking up the moment, taking in the details of the worn, beige carpeting that buckled just a little bit near the closet door and the way her feet felt in those fuzzy socks. Little did she know then that her acute awareness of the air, the feeling, the moment would continue to carry her on all the rainy days of her life. She will see through.
I lied in bed, comforted by the cocoon of my down blanket and the faint whistle of steam emitting from the radiator. I never want this to end, I thought. And today, fifteen years later, I want it back.
In the darkness of my children's playroom -- which has become my temporary, long-term bedroom because it sits right next to the boys' rooms -- I hear the rain tap-dancing on the windows, plinking off the metal chimney, dropping heavily on the skylight. Tonight, I also hear the trucks rumbling over the Grand Avenue bridge, suburban trains clanging their bells as they inch toward the station, a plane flying overhead. The sound of nature's washing, my busy, glorious city -- these encase me, inviting me to retreat and examine.
Life seems more set these days than the ones of Glenn Gould. Less possibility, less expanse to imagine, less to choose from, less to behold. The world no longer my oyster, now I am it. My charge: to make a pearl.
Sand, oh I have plenty. It takes only one, rough grain to blanket, cover, contain, perfect. Yet I feel like I've done nothing. It's fifteen years later, and not much to show for it.
Gray hair. I do have that. The single, long strands contrast with my otherwise dark locks. So there is age. I have age to show in fifteen years.
With age comes wisdom, and I believe I've forwarded on that track faster than I could have predicted. With wisdom, though, comes experience. Tough experience. Gut-wrenching. And I wonder if it's worth the trade-off: wisdom for bliss.
I smile at that girl in her sorority room. That girl, soaking up the moment, taking in the details of the worn, beige carpeting that buckled just a little bit near the closet door and the way her feet felt in those fuzzy socks. Little did she know then that her acute awareness of the air, the feeling, the moment would continue to carry her on all the rainy days of her life. She will see through.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
calling.
Church started the way it always does for me on the days that I lector. I made my way to the usher's closet in the back and placed a check-mark after my name to mark my presence. I entered the church, grabbing a missalette, song book and bulletin on my way. As the choir rehearsed their songs for the morning, I found a seat on the aisle, about three rows deep, near the other lectors and Eucharistic ministers.
After draping my coat over the pew, setting my books down and placing my purse in the nook of the raised kneeler (we don't kneel at my church, but there are kneelers available should the spirit so move someone), I walked up to the altar, genuflected while gazing at the very tiny crucifix standing at least 20 feet away, and approached the ambo.
I always take my time at the ambo before Mass starts. The page I read from the lectionary is nearly always laid-out differently than whatever I've used to practice. So I like to give the lectionary a slow once-over, mouthing each word in my head and noting where there may be any letter p's, which tend to pop in the mic.
Feeling comfortable with the reading, I headed back to the pew where I immediately picked up the telephone. My household is always "on," it seems. I happened to be at Mass this morning, but Peer was at home waiting for our new washer and dryer to arrive. Before leaving for church, I had forgotten to let him know that the new dryer vent hook-up was in the front hallway. The crew would need that for installation.
And just as I was about to text him such, a shrill scream ripped through the church, halting the choir nearly immediately. I looked back, and mid-way down the center aisle, all I could see were panic-stricken church goers yelling for help.
I'm not sure who I thought I was, or if I really thought much at all, but I immediately rose from my place and walked calmly, phone in hand, down three rows, across the front of the altar, and up the center aisle about 25 aisles back.
As the sound of a young girl's shrieks continued, I imagined what I was soon about to witness: a psychotic episode. She sounded in terrible pain, and I know that sound, especially the kind from a child. It sounds like a swarm of wailing banshees.
I approached a small crowd of crouched adults hovering in a circle around the small, wailing girl, and inserted myself to offer assistance. It must have been with some determination and confidence that I approached, because everyone stepped aside and let me through. The crowd parted, and then I saw.
A man. An elderly man. On the ground, face up. A girl, who looked to be his granddaughter, was sitting right by his side.
Oh, crap, I thought. This ain't my game. But now I was there. And my game or not, he needed help.
"What happened?" I asked to a woman seated on the aisle next to where the man was lying.
"He just fell down. He fell and bumped his head right here," she said pointing to the back corner of the pew.
That was all the information I needed, and began dialing 911.
"Somebody call 911!" I heard.
"I've already dialed," I said plainly and calmly.
To be honest, I was taken aback with myself at my ability to let the 911 operator know the score. "A gentleman fell and hit his head on the pew on he way down," I said. "He's conscious, eyes are open, breathing and talking. He isn't however, getting up." I worked through the questions with the operator, giving the man's age of 74 after canvasing the crowd.
"He might be pre-diabetic!" a voice shouted out. I relayed as much to the operator who suggested orange juice, which seemed like an impossibility to find among the stained glass windows, stations of the cross, and statues of saints lining the walls.
At the same time, the calm, cool, collected me understood that the word "might" was simply conjecture. No one knew the answer to what had happened to this man and why he fell. Perhaps orange juice was exactly the wrong thing to give him. What if it was a heart problem? Or a stroke? What if had kidney stones? What if they took him to the hospital and he needed emergency surgery? I know for kidney stones and surgery, you should absolutely avoid orange juice. Best not to do anything but wait. I was assured by the operator that an ambulance had been dispatched and would arrive any minute.
"They're on their way," I said, and started toward the back of the church to meet the ambulance when it arrived.
"Did you hear that, Dad?" one of the women crouching next to the man said. "The ambulance is on its way."
On my way out the door, I passed the liturgical coordinator, who looked at me as though I had some kind of great knowledge about the situation. "You have everything under control?" she asked.
"I've got the ambulance coming, and am meeting it out front," I replied as I walked with measured cadence. I'm just a church-goer, I thought, she actually works here. What the hell do I know? I don't know anything about elderly people fainting and falling.
Soon after I exited the church, a woman stood behind me. In a shaken voice, she cried out to those entering the church to "Use the side aisles! Keep the center free! We have a medical emergency!" It was her counterpoint that made me realize just how calm I was during the ordeal. I'm usually the anxious one having panic attacks. It was surreal to me. A role reversal.
The only reason I was so calm is that I thought I was going to help a psychotic child. Obviously my brain wasn't firing on all eight cylinders, because there are no other children I know in a 25 mile radius with a psychotic disorder. The one child I do know isn't going to church here. In fact, her family may not even be religious. Why did I immediately assume it was someone suffering a psychological breakdown?
Regardless of my own misperception of reality, somehow even in the face of that unexpected and dramatic situation, I maintained myself. Over the past several months, I've developed this serene attitude during times of crisis with Ace. That demeanor returned this morning at church, and I see that it was quite helpful during the crisis there.
After the paramedics arrive and the gentleman was whisked to the hospital, I made it back to my seat.
"Super," one of the regular Eucharistic ministers called to me. "Are you a nurse?"
"No," I said, "I just happened to have my phone with me, so I thought I'd help."
But now that I think about it, "psychiatric nurse" is one of the several hats I wear in caring for my son...
After draping my coat over the pew, setting my books down and placing my purse in the nook of the raised kneeler (we don't kneel at my church, but there are kneelers available should the spirit so move someone), I walked up to the altar, genuflected while gazing at the very tiny crucifix standing at least 20 feet away, and approached the ambo.
I always take my time at the ambo before Mass starts. The page I read from the lectionary is nearly always laid-out differently than whatever I've used to practice. So I like to give the lectionary a slow once-over, mouthing each word in my head and noting where there may be any letter p's, which tend to pop in the mic.
Feeling comfortable with the reading, I headed back to the pew where I immediately picked up the telephone. My household is always "on," it seems. I happened to be at Mass this morning, but Peer was at home waiting for our new washer and dryer to arrive. Before leaving for church, I had forgotten to let him know that the new dryer vent hook-up was in the front hallway. The crew would need that for installation.
And just as I was about to text him such, a shrill scream ripped through the church, halting the choir nearly immediately. I looked back, and mid-way down the center aisle, all I could see were panic-stricken church goers yelling for help.
I'm not sure who I thought I was, or if I really thought much at all, but I immediately rose from my place and walked calmly, phone in hand, down three rows, across the front of the altar, and up the center aisle about 25 aisles back.
As the sound of a young girl's shrieks continued, I imagined what I was soon about to witness: a psychotic episode. She sounded in terrible pain, and I know that sound, especially the kind from a child. It sounds like a swarm of wailing banshees.
I approached a small crowd of crouched adults hovering in a circle around the small, wailing girl, and inserted myself to offer assistance. It must have been with some determination and confidence that I approached, because everyone stepped aside and let me through. The crowd parted, and then I saw.
A man. An elderly man. On the ground, face up. A girl, who looked to be his granddaughter, was sitting right by his side.
Oh, crap, I thought. This ain't my game. But now I was there. And my game or not, he needed help.
"What happened?" I asked to a woman seated on the aisle next to where the man was lying.
"He just fell down. He fell and bumped his head right here," she said pointing to the back corner of the pew.
That was all the information I needed, and began dialing 911.
"Somebody call 911!" I heard.
"I've already dialed," I said plainly and calmly.
To be honest, I was taken aback with myself at my ability to let the 911 operator know the score. "A gentleman fell and hit his head on the pew on he way down," I said. "He's conscious, eyes are open, breathing and talking. He isn't however, getting up." I worked through the questions with the operator, giving the man's age of 74 after canvasing the crowd.
"He might be pre-diabetic!" a voice shouted out. I relayed as much to the operator who suggested orange juice, which seemed like an impossibility to find among the stained glass windows, stations of the cross, and statues of saints lining the walls.
At the same time, the calm, cool, collected me understood that the word "might" was simply conjecture. No one knew the answer to what had happened to this man and why he fell. Perhaps orange juice was exactly the wrong thing to give him. What if it was a heart problem? Or a stroke? What if had kidney stones? What if they took him to the hospital and he needed emergency surgery? I know for kidney stones and surgery, you should absolutely avoid orange juice. Best not to do anything but wait. I was assured by the operator that an ambulance had been dispatched and would arrive any minute.
"They're on their way," I said, and started toward the back of the church to meet the ambulance when it arrived.
"Did you hear that, Dad?" one of the women crouching next to the man said. "The ambulance is on its way."
On my way out the door, I passed the liturgical coordinator, who looked at me as though I had some kind of great knowledge about the situation. "You have everything under control?" she asked.
"I've got the ambulance coming, and am meeting it out front," I replied as I walked with measured cadence. I'm just a church-goer, I thought, she actually works here. What the hell do I know? I don't know anything about elderly people fainting and falling.
Soon after I exited the church, a woman stood behind me. In a shaken voice, she cried out to those entering the church to "Use the side aisles! Keep the center free! We have a medical emergency!" It was her counterpoint that made me realize just how calm I was during the ordeal. I'm usually the anxious one having panic attacks. It was surreal to me. A role reversal.
The only reason I was so calm is that I thought I was going to help a psychotic child. Obviously my brain wasn't firing on all eight cylinders, because there are no other children I know in a 25 mile radius with a psychotic disorder. The one child I do know isn't going to church here. In fact, her family may not even be religious. Why did I immediately assume it was someone suffering a psychological breakdown?
Regardless of my own misperception of reality, somehow even in the face of that unexpected and dramatic situation, I maintained myself. Over the past several months, I've developed this serene attitude during times of crisis with Ace. That demeanor returned this morning at church, and I see that it was quite helpful during the crisis there.
After the paramedics arrive and the gentleman was whisked to the hospital, I made it back to my seat.
"Super," one of the regular Eucharistic ministers called to me. "Are you a nurse?"
"No," I said, "I just happened to have my phone with me, so I thought I'd help."
But now that I think about it, "psychiatric nurse" is one of the several hats I wear in caring for my son...
moving.
It occurred to me that each time I have moved, my blog address has moved shortly thereafter. I wonder what that's about. We plan on staying at this new house until the kids are in college at least, so perhaps that will be the same for the blog as well.
So strange. The kids were just fighting hard core over who had rights to a specific toy, and now they are pretending together. What? I don't get kids. Or maybe I just don't get my kids. Too close to the forest to see the trees.
On the docket today: reading at Church, taking Ace to the Shedd Aquarium (even though he has a fear of fish -- he has been begging me to take him), and (yes!) his aide is coming back today at 4PM after having a long Thanksgiving break.
Ace has lots of fish-themed hallucinations and dreams. He said that last night he dreamed/believed that there was a fish flying around him and chasing him. He said he liked it at first, until the fish really went after him. As he told me the story, I could tell that he was having trouble deciphering whether or not his dream was real. I reminded him that fish, in no way, can fly around and chase him.
"But if they could, do you think they would be faster than me? Could they catch me?"
"No. Definitely not," I said. "You're very fast."
"The fish had a name," he said.
"Yeah? What?"
"Skydiver."
Well, I thought to myself, for someone who has trouble determining whether his dreams are real, he sure comes up with very creative and apt names!
So strange. The kids were just fighting hard core over who had rights to a specific toy, and now they are pretending together. What? I don't get kids. Or maybe I just don't get my kids. Too close to the forest to see the trees.
On the docket today: reading at Church, taking Ace to the Shedd Aquarium (even though he has a fear of fish -- he has been begging me to take him), and (yes!) his aide is coming back today at 4PM after having a long Thanksgiving break.
Ace has lots of fish-themed hallucinations and dreams. He said that last night he dreamed/believed that there was a fish flying around him and chasing him. He said he liked it at first, until the fish really went after him. As he told me the story, I could tell that he was having trouble deciphering whether or not his dream was real. I reminded him that fish, in no way, can fly around and chase him.
"But if they could, do you think they would be faster than me? Could they catch me?"
"No. Definitely not," I said. "You're very fast."
"The fish had a name," he said.
"Yeah? What?"
"Skydiver."
Well, I thought to myself, for someone who has trouble determining whether his dreams are real, he sure comes up with very creative and apt names!
gone.
I'm done here at endswith8741.
If you'd like to follow me, head on over to the new digs: My Super Anonymous Blog.
If you'd like to follow me, head on over to the new digs: My Super Anonymous Blog.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
uninspired.
I'm feeling totally uninspired by the graphic design of this blog. I have gone through every single Wordpress blog that's out there, and everything just feels so flat and corporate. Thinking about seeing if my friend Kevin would do some graphic design for me and my new bacon concept. Except that if I actually enlisted his help, it seems like I would need to change the website address to one that fits the idea of continually desiring bacon. This also would mean that I would have to feel really, really tied to that name. I dunno. I changed the name on a whim that day, and I liked it. But long term? Eh. When I stopped writing a blog under my full first and last name and started this one, I also named it on a whim. I've fallen out of love with the name Ends With 8741, which means nothing to anybody else but me. Also, it's hard to remember for anyone else but me. 8741, by the way, are the last four digits of my social security number. So the cat's out of the bag. I don't know. Feeling like I need a re-invention of the blog. A new name, some cool graphics. Wish I were a graphic designer myself. Though I'm totally not a visual person at all. I'm a very conceptual thinker. Not visual. I know that the execution of a particular idea will work (or not work), but I can't actually picture how. So I guess I would be a horrible graphic designer. But good at layout. Anyway. Neither here nor there. Just something I've been thinking about over the lazy weekend. Loving the lazy weekend, by the way...
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
thanksgivings.
Of all the holidays, Thanksgiving is the one I romanticize most. We've done the "normal" Thanksgivings -- being with family, eating a lot. But it's the ones that were different that stand out in my memory.
When I was in college, my dad's first cousin was elevated from a Catholic Bishop to a Cardinal. On Thanksgiving morning, we traveled to Rome where I met a whole slew of priests and cardinals and even got to have a private audience with Pope John Paul II (well, "private" meaning me and 500 of my closest friends). That was the Thanksgiving where I toured the Vatican, walking where much of the general public isn't allowed to tread and standing in the Sistine Chapel with only my sister. (She had accidentally left her sketch book on one of the benches, and we were allowed to go inside by ourselves to retrieve it.) We ate delicious Italian meals well into the night, and all the restaurants doted on "Father B" and his family like we were rock stars. It was the closest I've come to celebrity, and I have to say that access to all the best that Rome had to offer for those three days was pretty damn amazing.
Fast forward a few years to my hands-down favorite Thanksgiving of all. I'm not sure why it played out this way, but I was alone for Thanksgiving that year. I was single, but had been dating Peer over a year. He knew I would be alone, and decided to forego traveling to his parents' home in Minneapolis instead to stay with me. I cooked a well-planned, but probably only okay Thanksgiving dinner. We drank wine, talked, listened to Christmas music, and then I let him in on a little secret: I was a total Black Friday shopper. But it's no fun to hit the stores alone. I wanted him to go with me.
There is no way in hell Peer would ever go shopping with me in a million years now -- especially not on Black Friday (which, incidentally, is now so low on my things to do list, I'd rather clean out the toilet bowl than shop) -- but on that particular Thanksgiving, he made it seem like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
We donned our coats and mittens and walked down The Magnificent Mile -- Chicago's Michigan Avenue. We warmed up with some hot chocolate and hopped from store to store. And then there was Tiffany's. I pulled him in, and asked to see the engagement rings. I may have even tried one. "This looks nice," I commented to a man clenching his fists so tight that his knuckles were translucent and I could see his bones.
And these words I will never forget: "I'm not making any promises," he said, "I'm not making any promises." Over and over again. He must have said it five times in a row.
We left the store, and relief washed over him like the sun at high noon. We continued down the street to Crate and Barrel, where I mentioned that registering for gifts there might be something for us to consider. We stopped in Rand McNally, where he thought he was safe, and I suggested we look at some maps for a honeymoon destination. There was no getting away for him that day, and by the spring, he proposed.
Although, the way he likes to tell that Thanksgiving story, I proposed. Though the words, will you marry me have never spilled from my lips. So you be the judge.
Along with sharing my most favorite Thanksgiving, Peer also happens to have shared the worst Thanksgiving ever with me. It was last year, and apparently he wasn't speaking to me. I guess I wasn't too happy with him at the time, because I honestly wasn't aware of it.
On Sunday morning, his parents urged us to spend the morning with each other -- to go to brunch. So we did. And after an entire weekend of simmering anger, we both exploded. Expletives careened out of my mouth like a mad machine gun, to which he requested in a very low, metered way, "Please stop swearing." He noted that the other patrons in the restaurant were all staring at us. To which I replied, "I will swear if I fucking want to, and you can fucking stop telling me how to live my god-damned life!"
We never went back there again.
Oh, and incidentally, I think I mentioned Peer likes to call the Magnificent Mile Thanksgiving the one where I proposed. He likes to call last Thanksgiving the one where I wanted to take it back! Hey, what's a holiday here and there without a major dramatic smack-down?
So there you have it -- Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. Not always honey and roses. Mostly just family and eating. But some of my most memorable life experiences have happened on Thanksgiving weekend.
Wishing you and yours a very Happy Thanksgiving!
When I was in college, my dad's first cousin was elevated from a Catholic Bishop to a Cardinal. On Thanksgiving morning, we traveled to Rome where I met a whole slew of priests and cardinals and even got to have a private audience with Pope John Paul II (well, "private" meaning me and 500 of my closest friends). That was the Thanksgiving where I toured the Vatican, walking where much of the general public isn't allowed to tread and standing in the Sistine Chapel with only my sister. (She had accidentally left her sketch book on one of the benches, and we were allowed to go inside by ourselves to retrieve it.) We ate delicious Italian meals well into the night, and all the restaurants doted on "Father B" and his family like we were rock stars. It was the closest I've come to celebrity, and I have to say that access to all the best that Rome had to offer for those three days was pretty damn amazing.
Fast forward a few years to my hands-down favorite Thanksgiving of all. I'm not sure why it played out this way, but I was alone for Thanksgiving that year. I was single, but had been dating Peer over a year. He knew I would be alone, and decided to forego traveling to his parents' home in Minneapolis instead to stay with me. I cooked a well-planned, but probably only okay Thanksgiving dinner. We drank wine, talked, listened to Christmas music, and then I let him in on a little secret: I was a total Black Friday shopper. But it's no fun to hit the stores alone. I wanted him to go with me.
There is no way in hell Peer would ever go shopping with me in a million years now -- especially not on Black Friday (which, incidentally, is now so low on my things to do list, I'd rather clean out the toilet bowl than shop) -- but on that particular Thanksgiving, he made it seem like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
We donned our coats and mittens and walked down The Magnificent Mile -- Chicago's Michigan Avenue. We warmed up with some hot chocolate and hopped from store to store. And then there was Tiffany's. I pulled him in, and asked to see the engagement rings. I may have even tried one. "This looks nice," I commented to a man clenching his fists so tight that his knuckles were translucent and I could see his bones.
And these words I will never forget: "I'm not making any promises," he said, "I'm not making any promises." Over and over again. He must have said it five times in a row.
We left the store, and relief washed over him like the sun at high noon. We continued down the street to Crate and Barrel, where I mentioned that registering for gifts there might be something for us to consider. We stopped in Rand McNally, where he thought he was safe, and I suggested we look at some maps for a honeymoon destination. There was no getting away for him that day, and by the spring, he proposed.
Although, the way he likes to tell that Thanksgiving story, I proposed. Though the words, will you marry me have never spilled from my lips. So you be the judge.
Along with sharing my most favorite Thanksgiving, Peer also happens to have shared the worst Thanksgiving ever with me. It was last year, and apparently he wasn't speaking to me. I guess I wasn't too happy with him at the time, because I honestly wasn't aware of it.
On Sunday morning, his parents urged us to spend the morning with each other -- to go to brunch. So we did. And after an entire weekend of simmering anger, we both exploded. Expletives careened out of my mouth like a mad machine gun, to which he requested in a very low, metered way, "Please stop swearing." He noted that the other patrons in the restaurant were all staring at us. To which I replied, "I will swear if I fucking want to, and you can fucking stop telling me how to live my god-damned life!"
We never went back there again.
Oh, and incidentally, I think I mentioned Peer likes to call the Magnificent Mile Thanksgiving the one where I proposed. He likes to call last Thanksgiving the one where I wanted to take it back! Hey, what's a holiday here and there without a major dramatic smack-down?
So there you have it -- Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. Not always honey and roses. Mostly just family and eating. But some of my most memorable life experiences have happened on Thanksgiving weekend.
Wishing you and yours a very Happy Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 21, 2010
thanksgiving dinner recipes.
When I started this blog a couple of years back, it began with the recipes I was going to use for Christmas dinner. It continues today with recipes for Thanksgiving 2010. On the menu: real turkey, tofurkey, brussels sprouts, cheesy potatoes, vegetarian gravy, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, plum tart.
Real Turkey
Preheat a large skillet over medium high heat and add the olive oil. Season turkey cutlets with salt, pepper and poultry seasoning. Saute 5 minutes on each side, then transfer cutlets to a warm plate and cover plate with aluminum foil. Thank you, Rachel Ray.
Tofurkey
We have a couple of non-meat eaters and yours truly who loathes fowl.
Gardein Savory Stuffed Turk'y, found at Whole Foods
Brussels Sprouts
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
Cut off the brown ends of the Brussels sprouts and pull off any yellow outer leaves. Mix them in a bowl with the olive oil, salt and pepper. Pour them on a sheet pan and roast for 35 to 40 minutes, until crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. Shake the pan from time to time to brown the sprouts evenly. Sprinkle with more kosher salt ( I like these salty like French fries), and serve immediately. Thank you, Ina Garten.
Cheesy Potatoes
This is a special request from my niece. I like that you can microwave it!
Thank you, MEAMIGOS.
Vegetarian Gravy
Heat oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Saute onion and garlic until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes. Stir in flour, nutritional yeast, and soy sauce to form a smooth paste. Gradually whisk in the broth. Season with sage, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer, stirring constantly, for 8 to 10 minutes, or until thickened. Thank you, Becky.
Stuffing
Whatever comes out of a box at the grocery store. I love me some Stove Top. Seriously. I do.
Plum Tart
Real Turkey
- 1 1/3 pounds turkey breast cutlets, the average weight of 1 package
- Salt and pepper
- 1 teaspoon poultry seasoning
- 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
- Chopped flat-leaf parsley, for garnish, optional
Preheat a large skillet over medium high heat and add the olive oil. Season turkey cutlets with salt, pepper and poultry seasoning. Saute 5 minutes on each side, then transfer cutlets to a warm plate and cover plate with aluminum foil. Thank you, Rachel Ray.
Tofurkey
We have a couple of non-meat eaters and yours truly who loathes fowl.
Gardein Savory Stuffed Turk'y, found at Whole Foods
Brussels Sprouts
- 1 1/2 pounds Brussels sprouts
- 3 tablespoons good olive oil
- 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
- 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
Cut off the brown ends of the Brussels sprouts and pull off any yellow outer leaves. Mix them in a bowl with the olive oil, salt and pepper. Pour them on a sheet pan and roast for 35 to 40 minutes, until crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. Shake the pan from time to time to brown the sprouts evenly. Sprinkle with more kosher salt ( I like these salty like French fries), and serve immediately. Thank you, Ina Garten.
Cheesy Potatoes
This is a special request from my niece. I like that you can microwave it!
- 4 large potatoes, peeled and sliced
- 1 small onion, finely chopped
- 1 1/2 cups shredded Cheddar cheese
- 1 teaspoon margarine
- salt and pepper to taste
- Layer the potatoes, onion, cheese, salt and pepper into a microwave safe casserole dish. Once finished layering, place 1 teaspoon of margarine on the top of the uppermost layer. Cover and cook in the microwave oven on HIGH for 10 minutes.
- Remove the dish from the microwave and stir before cooking for another 10 minutes or until done. Stir well and serve.
Thank you, MEAMIGOS.
Vegetarian Gravy
- 1/2 cup vegetable oil
- 1/3 cup chopped onion
- 5 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
- 4 teaspoons nutritional yeast
- 4 tablespoons light soy sauce
- 2 cups vegetable broth
- 1/2 teaspoon dried sage
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
Heat oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Saute onion and garlic until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes. Stir in flour, nutritional yeast, and soy sauce to form a smooth paste. Gradually whisk in the broth. Season with sage, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer, stirring constantly, for 8 to 10 minutes, or until thickened. Thank you, Becky.
Mashed Potatoes
Even this non-cook knows how to make mashed potatoes. Thank you, Mom!
Cranberry Sauce
- 12 ounces cranberries
- 1 cup white sugar
- 1 cup orange juice
In a medium sized saucepan over medium heat, dissolve the sugar in the orange juice. Stir in the cranberries and cook until the cranberries start to pop (about 10 minutes). Remove from heat and place sauce in a bowl. Cranberry sauce will thicken as it cools. Thank you, Toni.
Stuffing
Whatever comes out of a box at the grocery store. I love me some Stove Top. Seriously. I do.
Plum Tart
- 1 ready-made pie crust
- 2 cups sliced plums
- 9 1/4 teaspoons sugar, divided
- 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
- 1 egg, lightly beaten
In a bowl, combine the plums, 3 tablespoons sugar and flour. Place on the center of pastry. Bring edges of pastry over filling, leaving 3-1/2 in. of filling uncovered. Brush crust with egg white, then sprinkle with remaining sugar. Bake at 375 degrees F for 40-45 minutes or until bubbly and crust is golden brown. Adapted from a recipe by Liz Myers.
Thanksgiving
I'm thankful for my family and my friends. They are the stuff of life.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
for elizabeth and her dear sophie.
If you keep up with Elizabeth's blog, you'll note that her daughter Sophie has been having a rough go of it for quite some time now. In honor of her 1,000th post, Elizabeth asked her readers to make a paper crane. She explained if you fold 1,000 origami paper cranes, your wish comes true. Here's to wishing for relief, relief, relief.
Friday, November 19, 2010
morph.
Ace's psychotic "episodes" are much more reality-based than in years past. (I'm using quotes around the word episodes because these breaks seem less episodic and more fluid.) Instead of insisting there are suckerfish catfish lining the inside of his coat (which I know is impossible), he has started describing events that are within the realm of possibility (for instance, being R2D2 for Halloween). I'm not sure what to make of it: progress, maturation, or simply morphing.
In the past, I've felt like I'm raising Dennis Rodman -- a person with incredible physical gifts, yet a very unstable psychological condition. More recently, I've been feeling like I'm raising John Nash, the main character who has schizophrenia in the based-on-a-true-story movie A Beautiful Mind.
For clarification, Ace doesn't have schizophrenia. While people with schizophrenia have hallucinations and delusions (as is the case with Ace), people with schizophrenia also tend to be socially withdrawn and isolate themselves (which is not the case with Ace).
Anyway, according to the movie, for years, John Nash was able to convince his wife that he worked for the CIA decoding spy messages, had a roommate in college who had since had a daughter. John Nash ultimately went on to receive the Nobel Prize in mathematics, so it was entirely possible that he was working for the CIA decoding encrypted messages. It is also entirely possible that he had a roommate in college who had a daughter.
The thing was, neither of those activities occurred. When he was hospitalized, his wife found out that he never worked for the CIA, that the boss he constantly talked about didn't exist, and he never had a college roommate. None of it was true, and she was absolutely floored. He had her convinced...for years!
It's been feeling that way with Ace lately. He tells people things that are absolutely within the realm of possibility -- that he was a goblin for Halloween (he really liked changing up Halloween characters!), that he has bunk beds in his room, that we have a small gym space in our new house with big exercise balls. He's told my sister that he likes it when her chihuahua Matilda comes to our house to sleep over. And he told Peer and I the other day that he lost free time at school for not completing his homework.
This is where things are going to get hard. How will people know when he is talking about reality or has cobbled together several possibilities to create a new "reality" for himself?
I wrote a note to his teacher explaining that he was upset for having lost free time during the day, and was unable to complete his homework at night because he was so emotionally distraught. She wrote back, "Never happened!" She said he was great during the school day. But she was concerned about him not telling the truth and sent him to the school psychologist.
For the past few months, as I've witnessed his reality breaks move from true impossibilities (like number ones talking with him) to more plausible occurrences, I've been wondering about the whole childhood lesson about telling the truth versus lying.
The problem is, what Ace is saying he believes to be true. When he told the story about the bunk beds or the Halloween costume or the homework, he wasn't trying to be deceitful. He wasn't trying to pull the wool over someone's eyes. When he tells the story, to him, it's true.
I don't know. I'm kind of lost right now on what to do here. Of course, there's no parenting book out there that gives me any sort of pointers on this. More therapy for me. Never ending. I'm thankful for having an insightful parent coach to help me through these things.
What's weird is that I'm realizing so much of my parenting comes from how my own parents parented me. For instance, if Ace really were lying, I have a whole lot of experience around what my parents did with me when I was caught in a lie -- whether I agreed with what they did or not, I still have that experience from which to base my own reaction. But there is no experience around psychosis that I have in my hip pocket, at my disposal. I can only gather a lay of the land, survey the situation, and admit that I have no freaking clue what to do.
Obviously, I want to protect Ace from harm. And I want to get him help for his thoughts and underlying anxiety. In order to do both, it means the people who are working with him at school and the people who he encounters every day need to be educated and informed on the particulars of his psychosis. Those particulars baffle me to this day. How am I supposed to communicate with them on something that overwhelms me and befuddles me at every turn?
This is tough stuff.
In the past, I've felt like I'm raising Dennis Rodman -- a person with incredible physical gifts, yet a very unstable psychological condition. More recently, I've been feeling like I'm raising John Nash, the main character who has schizophrenia in the based-on-a-true-story movie A Beautiful Mind.
For clarification, Ace doesn't have schizophrenia. While people with schizophrenia have hallucinations and delusions (as is the case with Ace), people with schizophrenia also tend to be socially withdrawn and isolate themselves (which is not the case with Ace).
Anyway, according to the movie, for years, John Nash was able to convince his wife that he worked for the CIA decoding spy messages, had a roommate in college who had since had a daughter. John Nash ultimately went on to receive the Nobel Prize in mathematics, so it was entirely possible that he was working for the CIA decoding encrypted messages. It is also entirely possible that he had a roommate in college who had a daughter.
The thing was, neither of those activities occurred. When he was hospitalized, his wife found out that he never worked for the CIA, that the boss he constantly talked about didn't exist, and he never had a college roommate. None of it was true, and she was absolutely floored. He had her convinced...for years!
It's been feeling that way with Ace lately. He tells people things that are absolutely within the realm of possibility -- that he was a goblin for Halloween (he really liked changing up Halloween characters!), that he has bunk beds in his room, that we have a small gym space in our new house with big exercise balls. He's told my sister that he likes it when her chihuahua Matilda comes to our house to sleep over. And he told Peer and I the other day that he lost free time at school for not completing his homework.
This is where things are going to get hard. How will people know when he is talking about reality or has cobbled together several possibilities to create a new "reality" for himself?
I wrote a note to his teacher explaining that he was upset for having lost free time during the day, and was unable to complete his homework at night because he was so emotionally distraught. She wrote back, "Never happened!" She said he was great during the school day. But she was concerned about him not telling the truth and sent him to the school psychologist.
For the past few months, as I've witnessed his reality breaks move from true impossibilities (like number ones talking with him) to more plausible occurrences, I've been wondering about the whole childhood lesson about telling the truth versus lying.
The problem is, what Ace is saying he believes to be true. When he told the story about the bunk beds or the Halloween costume or the homework, he wasn't trying to be deceitful. He wasn't trying to pull the wool over someone's eyes. When he tells the story, to him, it's true.
I don't know. I'm kind of lost right now on what to do here. Of course, there's no parenting book out there that gives me any sort of pointers on this. More therapy for me. Never ending. I'm thankful for having an insightful parent coach to help me through these things.
What's weird is that I'm realizing so much of my parenting comes from how my own parents parented me. For instance, if Ace really were lying, I have a whole lot of experience around what my parents did with me when I was caught in a lie -- whether I agreed with what they did or not, I still have that experience from which to base my own reaction. But there is no experience around psychosis that I have in my hip pocket, at my disposal. I can only gather a lay of the land, survey the situation, and admit that I have no freaking clue what to do.
Obviously, I want to protect Ace from harm. And I want to get him help for his thoughts and underlying anxiety. In order to do both, it means the people who are working with him at school and the people who he encounters every day need to be educated and informed on the particulars of his psychosis. Those particulars baffle me to this day. How am I supposed to communicate with them on something that overwhelms me and befuddles me at every turn?
This is tough stuff.
Monday, November 15, 2010
bottlecapping it.
There really is so very, very much to relay about Ace and school. So, so much. A self-proclaimed blabbermouth, I've been finding it quite difficult not to spew all of it all over this blog. The self-restraint I've shown here really is a feat to behold, though because of the silence, there is nothing to behold.
In other news that I can share, T-Bone said some pretty funny things today. It started with counting down the floors while we were in an elevator: "Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, five-teen, fourteen, three-teen, two-teen, one..." And after he couldn't figure out how to say eleven counting backwards, he donned such a look of utter confusion. Really, it was something I wish I could bottle-cap!
Moments later, he ran to the car so quickly around the corner, I could barely keep up. Once inside, we had this little conversation:
"Wow, T-Bone, you sure are getting faster as you get older!"
"Did you see me whip around the corner?"
"I sure did. You're faster than me!"
"That's because I'm five now." Incidentally, the reason he does everything well now is because he is five. "I'm bigger."
"You're bigger."
"And I'm faster than you."
"You're certainly faster than me."
"And I'm smarter than you, too!" EEEK. The car nearly came to a screeching halt, considering we had just rode down the elevator counting backwards.
I started to say, "I don't know if..."
Which is when he interrupted with, "I know about cars and roads and colors and bridges and gates and the sky and clouds and coats and hands and finger nails and car seats and steering wheels and yellow lines and brick and bottle caps!"
And after hearing the litany of items he professed to know as he looked around, I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth...
In other news that I can share, T-Bone said some pretty funny things today. It started with counting down the floors while we were in an elevator: "Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, five-teen, fourteen, three-teen, two-teen, one..." And after he couldn't figure out how to say eleven counting backwards, he donned such a look of utter confusion. Really, it was something I wish I could bottle-cap!
Moments later, he ran to the car so quickly around the corner, I could barely keep up. Once inside, we had this little conversation:
"Wow, T-Bone, you sure are getting faster as you get older!"
"Did you see me whip around the corner?"
"I sure did. You're faster than me!"
"That's because I'm five now." Incidentally, the reason he does everything well now is because he is five. "I'm bigger."
"You're bigger."
"And I'm faster than you."
"You're certainly faster than me."
"And I'm smarter than you, too!" EEEK. The car nearly came to a screeching halt, considering we had just rode down the elevator counting backwards.
I started to say, "I don't know if..."
Which is when he interrupted with, "I know about cars and roads and colors and bridges and gates and the sky and clouds and coats and hands and finger nails and car seats and steering wheels and yellow lines and brick and bottle caps!"
And after hearing the litany of items he professed to know as he looked around, I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth...
Sunday, November 14, 2010
poolside chat.
Ran into a sorority sister at the pool on Friday. Glad she introduced herself, "Super? It's Betty." I would never have remembered her name in a million years. Although, it sounds like she barely remembered where she knew me -- "Were we in the same sorority?" -- so we were even.
Quite soon after answering those two questions came one that threw me: "Where are you working?"
I think I've mentioned more than a few times on this blog that I attended a pressure-cooker of a college. Everyone graduated to fill the world with more investment bankers (or, as they liked to call it "I Bankers") and consultants. My roommate went off to become a highly successful patent attorney. A good friend of mine is in the running to become the CEO of a Fortune 500 company's operations in Europe. Someone else I know is a surgeon. And apparently Betty works in marketing at another Fortune 500 company. And our mutual friend from the sorority, so says Betty, is general counsel for another Fortune 500 company in San Francisco.
So, yeah, I went to college with a bunch of smarty pantses (which, what is the plural of smarty pants?). And then there was me. Trying to make a plural out of a word that is already plural.
I didn't graduate with any type of degree that would get me ahead in any type of corporate way at all. I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Music. And if you're a musician, you are probably well aware that I didn't graduate with a degree that would get me anywhere in music, either. My degree isn't a Bachelor of Music in, say, piano performance (which is where I started). The only other degree just as useless in the job world is probably a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy.
So here I am, a graduate with a degree to nowhere from a university where most everyone is on the road to somewhere. And it defines them. "Where are you working?" Because the assumption is that if you attended my school, you absolutely are some kind of go-getter after some kind of big-wig gig.
I'm sure when I answered her I tramped over my words a million times over. Not because I have some kind of hang-up about being gainfully (and interestingly or powerfully) employed. But because I think what someone does doesn't really help me understand how they're doing.
When I first reconnect with someone, my immediate question is how they are. How's life? Hard, fast, easy, enjoyable? How are things? Are you well? Is your family well? What do you enjoy? Where have you traveled?
The last question that comes to mind -- in fact, it pretty much never comes to mind -- is where are you working and how are you making your money. That's never front of mind to me. Ever.
But I suppose I bowed out of the rat race (or never really entered it, considering my degree) early on. It's not what moves me through the world.
Anyway, I thought after seeing someone all these years later, it was a neat sort of litmus test. Where am I working? As the philosophers would say, everywhere...and nowhere.
Quite soon after answering those two questions came one that threw me: "Where are you working?"
I think I've mentioned more than a few times on this blog that I attended a pressure-cooker of a college. Everyone graduated to fill the world with more investment bankers (or, as they liked to call it "I Bankers") and consultants. My roommate went off to become a highly successful patent attorney. A good friend of mine is in the running to become the CEO of a Fortune 500 company's operations in Europe. Someone else I know is a surgeon. And apparently Betty works in marketing at another Fortune 500 company. And our mutual friend from the sorority, so says Betty, is general counsel for another Fortune 500 company in San Francisco.
So, yeah, I went to college with a bunch of smarty pantses (which, what is the plural of smarty pants?). And then there was me. Trying to make a plural out of a word that is already plural.
I didn't graduate with any type of degree that would get me ahead in any type of corporate way at all. I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Music. And if you're a musician, you are probably well aware that I didn't graduate with a degree that would get me anywhere in music, either. My degree isn't a Bachelor of Music in, say, piano performance (which is where I started). The only other degree just as useless in the job world is probably a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy.
So here I am, a graduate with a degree to nowhere from a university where most everyone is on the road to somewhere. And it defines them. "Where are you working?" Because the assumption is that if you attended my school, you absolutely are some kind of go-getter after some kind of big-wig gig.
I'm sure when I answered her I tramped over my words a million times over. Not because I have some kind of hang-up about being gainfully (and interestingly or powerfully) employed. But because I think what someone does doesn't really help me understand how they're doing.
When I first reconnect with someone, my immediate question is how they are. How's life? Hard, fast, easy, enjoyable? How are things? Are you well? Is your family well? What do you enjoy? Where have you traveled?
The last question that comes to mind -- in fact, it pretty much never comes to mind -- is where are you working and how are you making your money. That's never front of mind to me. Ever.
But I suppose I bowed out of the rat race (or never really entered it, considering my degree) early on. It's not what moves me through the world.
Anyway, I thought after seeing someone all these years later, it was a neat sort of litmus test. Where am I working? As the philosophers would say, everywhere...and nowhere.
die hard.
It's the middle of November, and I swam outside today. Amid the grayed-over skies, forlorn looking skyscrapers, and 48 degree air with wind gusts that scattered fallen, yellow leaves in the ferociously rippling water...I swam.
Today I was a die hard, and it felt fabulous.
Today I was a die hard, and it felt fabulous.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
(double) date night.
And now for something fun. I never wrote an update on my new friend! You might recall that I was so excited to have found a new friend from T-Bone's school. We nearly have the same name, so I'm going to call her kms. Her son, Jay, is super good friends with T-Bone.
Last Friday, we went out to dinner with our husbands. Double date at a tapas place. Great food. I made an early dinner reservation because on Fridays, Peer is pretty exhausted from a long work week. I figure we'd have dinner at 6:30 and be home by 8:30 or 9.
We arrive, and she's already there with her husband. We sit down to dinner and discuss our mutual topic: school. There's really no other way to write this, but to write the script of the conversation...which will be well worth the read. So here goes:
kms: Hey, how did your parent teacher conferences go?
Peer: cms didn't go. We were moving that day. So it was just me. They were late starting. I told them they had 10 minutes, and then I needed to go back to work.
kms: Seriously? You gave them a deadline?
Peer: Absolutely. Otherwise, these things can go on and on and on.
kms [looking at her husband]: Yeah, 'cause ours was 45 minutes.
me: Forty-five minutes? Oh my God. What did you talk about?
kms: Oh, it wasn't good.
me: What? What could a four-year old do that's so bad within the first couple of months of school?
k-hub [kms' hubby]: You don't have to tell this story.
kms: Oh, yes I do. But anyway. First, you finish up. What did they say about T-Bone?
Peer: They basically said that he seemed like a natural leader of the group, and they wanted to work on his leadership ability.
kms: Oh my God. Are you serious? That is so NOT what they said to us.
k-hub: Don't do it.
kms [rolling eyes]: They told us that one of the parents came to them and said that Jay or one of his little buddies -- but they were pretty sure it was Jay -- had taught their daughter...the F-Bomb.
me [because I have the maturity of a 12 year old, or apparently a four-year old]: Fuck?
kms: Yeah! We were absolutely mortified. Mortified! I mean, we don't use that word at home. If it were "damn it," [looking straight at k-hub]...or even "Jesus," then I would know where it was coming from. But the F-Bomb? We just don't use that word. So when Jay came home, I wanted to see if he even knew the word. I asked him to think of every word he knew that rhymed with truck...and the F-Bomb wasn't one of them.
me: You know kids. Maybe someone said it and thought they made it up. Maybe they have no idea what it even means.
kms: Except that the teachers said that the word was being used appropriately: "what the..."
[And just as she said it, Peer and I looked at each other, faces turning beet red.]
me: Oh my God.
kms: What?
me: Oh, I am so, so, so, so sorry.
kms: What?
me: T-BONE taught them that!
kms: What?
me: Not "what the fuck," but, "what the...duck!"
[Peer nods in head, laughing.]
me [looking at him]: Remember that?
Peer: Oh, I remember.
me: All this summer, T-Bone kept repeating "what the...duck." It's a line in some kids movie, and it's the one line that got him tons of attention. He said it first when Peer's sister was in town, and she laughed hysterically at him. This summer when Peer's side of the family took a tour of a mine, T-Bone kept saying it for everyone to hear -- and you know, the mine echoes and echoes. The laughs were uproarious. Everybody thought it was hysterical. So I bet that he started saying it with the kids at school, and poor Jay got busted!
kms: So Jay's getting in trouble from something T-Bone said?
Peer [a bit proud and slightly embarrassed]: I guess so.
kms [totally laughing at this]: You mean to tell me they want that foul-mouthed kid to be a leader in class?
cms: Absolutely.
kms: Oh, this is classic. I can just hear it now. "Hey you! Yeah, you over there. Get your ass in the fucking line like the teacher said!"
Which is when all of us busted out in laughter and ordered another round of sangria. As we continued talking, we came to find out that Peer and k-hub work in he same industry and know the same people. I mean, how often is it that both the men and the women get along? It really was great. So fun.
We all enjoyed ourselves so much, that we didn't end up leaving the restaurant until 11:30!!! A five-hour double date.
What did they say at the end of Casablanca? Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship...
Last Friday, we went out to dinner with our husbands. Double date at a tapas place. Great food. I made an early dinner reservation because on Fridays, Peer is pretty exhausted from a long work week. I figure we'd have dinner at 6:30 and be home by 8:30 or 9.
We arrive, and she's already there with her husband. We sit down to dinner and discuss our mutual topic: school. There's really no other way to write this, but to write the script of the conversation...which will be well worth the read. So here goes:
kms: Hey, how did your parent teacher conferences go?
Peer: cms didn't go. We were moving that day. So it was just me. They were late starting. I told them they had 10 minutes, and then I needed to go back to work.
kms: Seriously? You gave them a deadline?
Peer: Absolutely. Otherwise, these things can go on and on and on.
kms [looking at her husband]: Yeah, 'cause ours was 45 minutes.
me: Forty-five minutes? Oh my God. What did you talk about?
kms: Oh, it wasn't good.
me: What? What could a four-year old do that's so bad within the first couple of months of school?
k-hub [kms' hubby]: You don't have to tell this story.
kms: Oh, yes I do. But anyway. First, you finish up. What did they say about T-Bone?
Peer: They basically said that he seemed like a natural leader of the group, and they wanted to work on his leadership ability.
kms: Oh my God. Are you serious? That is so NOT what they said to us.
k-hub: Don't do it.
kms [rolling eyes]: They told us that one of the parents came to them and said that Jay or one of his little buddies -- but they were pretty sure it was Jay -- had taught their daughter...the F-Bomb.
me [because I have the maturity of a 12 year old, or apparently a four-year old]: Fuck?
kms: Yeah! We were absolutely mortified. Mortified! I mean, we don't use that word at home. If it were "damn it," [looking straight at k-hub]...or even "Jesus," then I would know where it was coming from. But the F-Bomb? We just don't use that word. So when Jay came home, I wanted to see if he even knew the word. I asked him to think of every word he knew that rhymed with truck...and the F-Bomb wasn't one of them.
me: You know kids. Maybe someone said it and thought they made it up. Maybe they have no idea what it even means.
kms: Except that the teachers said that the word was being used appropriately: "what the..."
[And just as she said it, Peer and I looked at each other, faces turning beet red.]
me: Oh my God.
kms: What?
me: Oh, I am so, so, so, so sorry.
kms: What?
me: T-BONE taught them that!
kms: What?
me: Not "what the fuck," but, "what the...duck!"
[Peer nods in head, laughing.]
me [looking at him]: Remember that?
Peer: Oh, I remember.
me: All this summer, T-Bone kept repeating "what the...duck." It's a line in some kids movie, and it's the one line that got him tons of attention. He said it first when Peer's sister was in town, and she laughed hysterically at him. This summer when Peer's side of the family took a tour of a mine, T-Bone kept saying it for everyone to hear -- and you know, the mine echoes and echoes. The laughs were uproarious. Everybody thought it was hysterical. So I bet that he started saying it with the kids at school, and poor Jay got busted!
kms: So Jay's getting in trouble from something T-Bone said?
Peer [a bit proud and slightly embarrassed]: I guess so.
kms [totally laughing at this]: You mean to tell me they want that foul-mouthed kid to be a leader in class?
cms: Absolutely.
kms: Oh, this is classic. I can just hear it now. "Hey you! Yeah, you over there. Get your ass in the fucking line like the teacher said!"
Which is when all of us busted out in laughter and ordered another round of sangria. As we continued talking, we came to find out that Peer and k-hub work in he same industry and know the same people. I mean, how often is it that both the men and the women get along? It really was great. So fun.
We all enjoyed ourselves so much, that we didn't end up leaving the restaurant until 11:30!!! A five-hour double date.
What did they say at the end of Casablanca? Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
need a shower.
Just got done with the IEP meeting. It was absolutely awful. We are going to meet...again. Will these goals ever get written?
Round two before Thanksgiving...
Round two before Thanksgiving...
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
upset.
Upset stomach. Upset emotions.
Yep, round dos of Ace's IEP starts tomorrow at 11:30AM central time. I have given myself a crash course in Illinois Learning Standards, both the versions for Language Arts and Math adopted in 1997 (which our school is using) and the more recent Common Core State Standards that seems the whole country is using as of June.
My favorite IEP standards and goals have to do with the government, considering we're dealing with the government (public schools) on this IEP. "Early elementary" students must be able to "describe the fundamental principles of government..." When I read that, all I could think of was "jukin' the stats, baby."
Anybody out there watch The Wire? I hate to admit, I didn't. But what I hear is that the show examines urban life in Baltimore and what all these government agencies do to mis-report information, a.k.a. "jukin' the stats."
Take for instance the Chicago Public Schools. Every year we get money from the federal government through the No Child Left Behind act. The funding is based on the number of low-income students who attend school. The more low-income students there are, the more funding a particular school receives. The more funding particular schools receive, the more funding CPS receives as a whole. The thing is, the way the federal government tallies student population is through attendance on the first day of school.
Do you live in Chicago? Are your ears perked on the Tuesday after Labor Day? If your kids are in public school, aren't you answering the go-back-to-school robo-call at least twice over the weekend? All the news outlets, news papers, and town criers are telling everybody to get your hiney in school. They're not saying it every day of the year; hell, they don't care if you go to school on Wednesday. They're saying it the first day of the year so that the city -- the city's schools to be precise -- gets more money.
All they want is for all those truant kids who are always truant to show up just that very first day. That way they can get their funding, and when the truant kids skip school, there's more money to go around for the smaller population. Think I'm being cynical? It's called realistic. Though I'm sure no one with any type of responsibility level within the school or government would cop to it.
So, anyway, back to the IEP and jukin' the stats. It seems that in my own little microcosm of CPS, it's happening again. My son attends a CPS school due to his severe emotional disturbance. He's got ADHD and anxiety, which I'm sure lots of kids have in CPS. But he also has the kicker of "breaks from reality," "irrational thinking," and aggression that can become "a danger to self and others."
Interesting, though, as I have hashed through the draft of his IEP this way and that way, that there is no mention of these severe emotional issues and what the school is doing to treat them. So eight ways from Sunday, I have gone through every single blasted Illinois Learning Standard and Social Emotional Learning Standard and Common Core State Standard to determine where we can insert ways in which to help him keep his mind in reality, his physical being safe, and developing good connections with his peers.
In the past, I have relied upon the school to judge what his goals should be and what standards to use. What I have found is that I have trusted them entirely too much, and when it comes down to it, they're jukin' the stats just like everybody else.
The goals they want for him remain primarily in empirical places, places where irrational fears and breaks from realities don't show themselves. Places like consonant-vowel-consonant words and two-digit addition without regrouping. So obviously missing, now that I have taken a good look at the standards, are goals pertaining to differentiating fiction and nonfiction, and relating stories to real life. The language arts goals -- the goals that request the child to communicate about their experience with literature -- are missing entirely. I can't help but think that these goals are not only harder to measure, but also place Ace in that world between fantasy and reality...that place where 2 + 2 is far, far, far away.
Isn't it better for the school to report that a child is achieving by focusing on his strengths, and hoping to bury his weaknesses? Wouldn't they get more funding by showing success stories instead of failures? Call me cynical, but in terms of that goal around the fundamental principles of government, I kinda feel like we're being juked here.
Please excuse me as I go barf in my mouth a little...
Yep, round dos of Ace's IEP starts tomorrow at 11:30AM central time. I have given myself a crash course in Illinois Learning Standards, both the versions for Language Arts and Math adopted in 1997 (which our school is using) and the more recent Common Core State Standards that seems the whole country is using as of June.
My favorite IEP standards and goals have to do with the government, considering we're dealing with the government (public schools) on this IEP. "Early elementary" students must be able to "describe the fundamental principles of government..." When I read that, all I could think of was "jukin' the stats, baby."
Anybody out there watch The Wire? I hate to admit, I didn't. But what I hear is that the show examines urban life in Baltimore and what all these government agencies do to mis-report information, a.k.a. "jukin' the stats."
Take for instance the Chicago Public Schools. Every year we get money from the federal government through the No Child Left Behind act. The funding is based on the number of low-income students who attend school. The more low-income students there are, the more funding a particular school receives. The more funding particular schools receive, the more funding CPS receives as a whole. The thing is, the way the federal government tallies student population is through attendance on the first day of school.
Do you live in Chicago? Are your ears perked on the Tuesday after Labor Day? If your kids are in public school, aren't you answering the go-back-to-school robo-call at least twice over the weekend? All the news outlets, news papers, and town criers are telling everybody to get your hiney in school. They're not saying it every day of the year; hell, they don't care if you go to school on Wednesday. They're saying it the first day of the year so that the city -- the city's schools to be precise -- gets more money.
All they want is for all those truant kids who are always truant to show up just that very first day. That way they can get their funding, and when the truant kids skip school, there's more money to go around for the smaller population. Think I'm being cynical? It's called realistic. Though I'm sure no one with any type of responsibility level within the school or government would cop to it.
So, anyway, back to the IEP and jukin' the stats. It seems that in my own little microcosm of CPS, it's happening again. My son attends a CPS school due to his severe emotional disturbance. He's got ADHD and anxiety, which I'm sure lots of kids have in CPS. But he also has the kicker of "breaks from reality," "irrational thinking," and aggression that can become "a danger to self and others."
Interesting, though, as I have hashed through the draft of his IEP this way and that way, that there is no mention of these severe emotional issues and what the school is doing to treat them. So eight ways from Sunday, I have gone through every single blasted Illinois Learning Standard and Social Emotional Learning Standard and Common Core State Standard to determine where we can insert ways in which to help him keep his mind in reality, his physical being safe, and developing good connections with his peers.
In the past, I have relied upon the school to judge what his goals should be and what standards to use. What I have found is that I have trusted them entirely too much, and when it comes down to it, they're jukin' the stats just like everybody else.
The goals they want for him remain primarily in empirical places, places where irrational fears and breaks from realities don't show themselves. Places like consonant-vowel-consonant words and two-digit addition without regrouping. So obviously missing, now that I have taken a good look at the standards, are goals pertaining to differentiating fiction and nonfiction, and relating stories to real life. The language arts goals -- the goals that request the child to communicate about their experience with literature -- are missing entirely. I can't help but think that these goals are not only harder to measure, but also place Ace in that world between fantasy and reality...that place where 2 + 2 is far, far, far away.
Isn't it better for the school to report that a child is achieving by focusing on his strengths, and hoping to bury his weaknesses? Wouldn't they get more funding by showing success stories instead of failures? Call me cynical, but in terms of that goal around the fundamental principles of government, I kinda feel like we're being juked here.
Please excuse me as I go barf in my mouth a little...
Monday, November 8, 2010
continually desiring bacon.
Seemed like time for a re-invention. So I did it. Ends With 8741 is gone. Blog address still the same. New blog name? continually desiring bacon. Because, well, I do continually desire bacon. Though I stop myself, because too much really is bad for you.
In the shower the other day I was thinking about all the things I want to experience in life: retiring to Santa Barbara, traveling around the U.S. in an R.V., writing a book that somebody publishes and people actually buy, standing outside of the Today Show with a cheesy banner to get on TV, gaining a balance between taking care of myself and taking care of my family and creating and working and volunteering, putting together a house that comforts me in every way, getting a firm tummy and fit ass, feeling like I made a lasting improvement on some aspect of humanity and getting recognized for it before I die, gorging on copious amounts of bacon never to gain an inch of fat or hint of cholesterol, hosting extraordinary but intimate dinner parties that last deep into the night and abound with great conversation and music and wine and food, being interviewed as some kind of expert on something on an NPR radio program, gardening and eating from it, developing and continuing to develop deep and lasting friendships, being a mother to my children that will last them even beyond my own life, loving and showing love to my husband so that he'll know always I am with him, being with all my family in deed and in spirit and in love. You know, the usual.
I'm sure everyone has their list of wild goals they'd love to achieve -- their dreams. Those are pretty much mine.
You know, though, I look at that list. I think to myself, damn. If I did absolutely everything on that list, would I feel content? Satisfied? Maybe, but probably not. I'd probably want more. Like the Nobel Prize or a Pulitzer or going down in history as the world's greatest something or other. Know why? Because I continually desire bacon.
Those dreams are my bacon, and there is always something I yearn for. Something just beyond reach.
There is this happy balance between satisfaction and death, as with bacon. A few strips at a time ain't so bad. Lots and lots and lots of bacon equals a coronary. How much bacon is so much that I can still tolerate it, yet not enough to kill me? And so it goes with my unending string of dreams. How much dreaming can I do before it renders me absolutely useless, impractical and in my head? But what if I stopped dreaming? What's the point of life, then? I must desire to dream; it's what keeps me among the living. I must continually desire my bacon!
But really, is that the healthiest outlook? To continually desire bacon both literally and metaphorically? Probably not. So perhaps I'll dedicate this period of time to continually desiring bacon, with the hope that one day I'm able to cure my psyche of this really unattainable desire. Develop a worldview that's more realistic and less fantastic. Though, could you imagine what the world would be like without dreamers? I don't know. It ain't my boat.
This is an awful lot of naval-gazing here. Maybe I've been in therapy too long. I come up with some chippy little ho-hum blog name, and now I'm analyzing it up and down.
It is what it is...and is more than that, too.
Continually desiring bacon. Aren't we all?
In the shower the other day I was thinking about all the things I want to experience in life: retiring to Santa Barbara, traveling around the U.S. in an R.V., writing a book that somebody publishes and people actually buy, standing outside of the Today Show with a cheesy banner to get on TV, gaining a balance between taking care of myself and taking care of my family and creating and working and volunteering, putting together a house that comforts me in every way, getting a firm tummy and fit ass, feeling like I made a lasting improvement on some aspect of humanity and getting recognized for it before I die, gorging on copious amounts of bacon never to gain an inch of fat or hint of cholesterol, hosting extraordinary but intimate dinner parties that last deep into the night and abound with great conversation and music and wine and food, being interviewed as some kind of expert on something on an NPR radio program, gardening and eating from it, developing and continuing to develop deep and lasting friendships, being a mother to my children that will last them even beyond my own life, loving and showing love to my husband so that he'll know always I am with him, being with all my family in deed and in spirit and in love. You know, the usual.
I'm sure everyone has their list of wild goals they'd love to achieve -- their dreams. Those are pretty much mine.
You know, though, I look at that list. I think to myself, damn. If I did absolutely everything on that list, would I feel content? Satisfied? Maybe, but probably not. I'd probably want more. Like the Nobel Prize or a Pulitzer or going down in history as the world's greatest something or other. Know why? Because I continually desire bacon.
Those dreams are my bacon, and there is always something I yearn for. Something just beyond reach.
There is this happy balance between satisfaction and death, as with bacon. A few strips at a time ain't so bad. Lots and lots and lots of bacon equals a coronary. How much bacon is so much that I can still tolerate it, yet not enough to kill me? And so it goes with my unending string of dreams. How much dreaming can I do before it renders me absolutely useless, impractical and in my head? But what if I stopped dreaming? What's the point of life, then? I must desire to dream; it's what keeps me among the living. I must continually desire my bacon!
But really, is that the healthiest outlook? To continually desire bacon both literally and metaphorically? Probably not. So perhaps I'll dedicate this period of time to continually desiring bacon, with the hope that one day I'm able to cure my psyche of this really unattainable desire. Develop a worldview that's more realistic and less fantastic. Though, could you imagine what the world would be like without dreamers? I don't know. It ain't my boat.
This is an awful lot of naval-gazing here. Maybe I've been in therapy too long. I come up with some chippy little ho-hum blog name, and now I'm analyzing it up and down.
It is what it is...and is more than that, too.
Continually desiring bacon. Aren't we all?
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
thanksgiving.
This year we're hosting both Thanksgiving and Christmas at our house! Actually, a more accurate statement would be, this year Peer's side of the family is coming to Chicago for Thanksgiving and Christmas, so I will host them here and be able to attend my side of the family's celebrations in town as well.
It kind of reminds me of high school, but I wasn't married back then. My high school boyfriend would come to my house for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and then we'd stop by his for a little while.
Somethings change. Some things stay the same.
I wonder what ever happened to that high school boyfriend of mine. He seemed like someone who was a free spirit trapped in what he perceived to be many responsibilities. I wonder if he was ever able to let go of everything and be free. Here's to hoping so.
Anyway, back to Thanksgiving and Christmas 2010. Not only do I need to do some serious meal planning, this is the only time of the year that I actually break out cookware. I haven't cooked a home-cooked meal since last Christmas. So it's not like I have some repertoire built or even a few techniques up my sleeve.
Aside: I was watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills last night and one of them talked about how she has a chef because she can't cook and would never "do that" to her kids. Not having the luxury of having a chef, but definitely making good use of our gym's take-out food center, I absolutely understood where she was coming from.
Anyway, the good news is that for Thanksgiving, the family who is coming are vegetarian. I'm not going to screw up vegetables, am I? How hard can it be to steam asparagus and fill a store-bought pastry with fruit and throw it in the oven?
I don't plan on cooking a bird at home. I go to Whole Foods for the bird. Like I said, not a cook, and not going to screw up the main dish on Thanksgiving. I may end up just getting some turkey breast slices, though. I don't eat turkey or chicken. I think they're disgusting. No fowl of any kind.
I actually don't like fish too much or even red meat when it's served like steak. The only real meat that I seem to like is ground beef, which is the worst kind of meat for you, isn't it? Ground beef and ham. That's it. Those are the two meats I will eat. Otherwise, forget it.
Back to my point, the only people who will eat meat on Thankgiving in this house are Peer and T-Bone. A grown man and a five year-old probably don't constitute enough mouths to warrant purchasing an entire bird. I'll get them some nice turkey breast slices and call it a day.
So the menu goes: a few slices of turkey breast, lots of veggies of the raw and cooked varieties, some kind of easy fruit dessert, maybe even some ice cream! I'm not sure how to work in protein for the vegetarians (I often have trouble with this myself, considering I don't eat ground beef or ham on any type of regular basis). Maybe sprinkle some nuts over the sweet potatoes? A side of beans??? I wonder what kind of beans go with Thanksgiving. Baked beans don't seem right.
Anyway, there's my long-winded post about Thanksgiving. I'm thinking about it.
It kind of reminds me of high school, but I wasn't married back then. My high school boyfriend would come to my house for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and then we'd stop by his for a little while.
Somethings change. Some things stay the same.
I wonder what ever happened to that high school boyfriend of mine. He seemed like someone who was a free spirit trapped in what he perceived to be many responsibilities. I wonder if he was ever able to let go of everything and be free. Here's to hoping so.
Anyway, back to Thanksgiving and Christmas 2010. Not only do I need to do some serious meal planning, this is the only time of the year that I actually break out cookware. I haven't cooked a home-cooked meal since last Christmas. So it's not like I have some repertoire built or even a few techniques up my sleeve.
Aside: I was watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills last night and one of them talked about how she has a chef because she can't cook and would never "do that" to her kids. Not having the luxury of having a chef, but definitely making good use of our gym's take-out food center, I absolutely understood where she was coming from.
Anyway, the good news is that for Thanksgiving, the family who is coming are vegetarian. I'm not going to screw up vegetables, am I? How hard can it be to steam asparagus and fill a store-bought pastry with fruit and throw it in the oven?
I don't plan on cooking a bird at home. I go to Whole Foods for the bird. Like I said, not a cook, and not going to screw up the main dish on Thanksgiving. I may end up just getting some turkey breast slices, though. I don't eat turkey or chicken. I think they're disgusting. No fowl of any kind.
I actually don't like fish too much or even red meat when it's served like steak. The only real meat that I seem to like is ground beef, which is the worst kind of meat for you, isn't it? Ground beef and ham. That's it. Those are the two meats I will eat. Otherwise, forget it.
Back to my point, the only people who will eat meat on Thankgiving in this house are Peer and T-Bone. A grown man and a five year-old probably don't constitute enough mouths to warrant purchasing an entire bird. I'll get them some nice turkey breast slices and call it a day.
So the menu goes: a few slices of turkey breast, lots of veggies of the raw and cooked varieties, some kind of easy fruit dessert, maybe even some ice cream! I'm not sure how to work in protein for the vegetarians (I often have trouble with this myself, considering I don't eat ground beef or ham on any type of regular basis). Maybe sprinkle some nuts over the sweet potatoes? A side of beans??? I wonder what kind of beans go with Thanksgiving. Baked beans don't seem right.
Anyway, there's my long-winded post about Thanksgiving. I'm thinking about it.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
sick day, birth day.
Well, after all that awake time in the middle of the night, Ace managed to compromise his immune system and get sick. Fever, headache, lethargy, throwing-up.
It's the first time he's ever been sick and stayed on the couch all day. It's the first time I've ever seen his ADHD completely put to rest. Though he's grouchy when he's sick, it's nice to only deal with grouchy instead of grouchy and inattentive.
So that was the day.
In other news, I got a full night's sleep. It's amazing what a difference a straight seven hours can make! Hoping to get back in the pool tomorrow.
In other news, today was T-Bone's fifth birthday. He spent it manning-up for the flu shot...and for the first time, didn't cry! He was quite proud of himself for being able to withstand the pain, and managed to then tell everyone he met -- in elevators, in the hallway, on the street -- that he was five and no longer cried for shots.
So that was a big accomplishment.
Peer and I celebrated his birthday at Peer's office for lunch. Sushi, carrots and a weird tasting chocolate-strawberry-cream cake. Since Ace was sick today and we didn't want T-Bone to get the cold/virus, T-Bone spent the rest of the afternoon with his grandparents and will sleep at their house tonight.
We're going to do a family celebration with T-Bone over the weekend, and next week he's having a birthday party with his classmates at Pump It Up.
So there you have a day in the life. Thankfully, a rather mellow day in the life. And now...to rest.
It's the first time he's ever been sick and stayed on the couch all day. It's the first time I've ever seen his ADHD completely put to rest. Though he's grouchy when he's sick, it's nice to only deal with grouchy instead of grouchy and inattentive.
So that was the day.
In other news, I got a full night's sleep. It's amazing what a difference a straight seven hours can make! Hoping to get back in the pool tomorrow.
In other news, today was T-Bone's fifth birthday. He spent it manning-up for the flu shot...and for the first time, didn't cry! He was quite proud of himself for being able to withstand the pain, and managed to then tell everyone he met -- in elevators, in the hallway, on the street -- that he was five and no longer cried for shots.
So that was a big accomplishment.
Peer and I celebrated his birthday at Peer's office for lunch. Sushi, carrots and a weird tasting chocolate-strawberry-cream cake. Since Ace was sick today and we didn't want T-Bone to get the cold/virus, T-Bone spent the rest of the afternoon with his grandparents and will sleep at their house tonight.
We're going to do a family celebration with T-Bone over the weekend, and next week he's having a birthday party with his classmates at Pump It Up.
So there you have a day in the life. Thankfully, a rather mellow day in the life. And now...to rest.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
just...more.
You know Ace's talk about adoption? It's not about adoption.
So says his psychiatrist. He believes that Ace is questioning whether we love him as much as we love T-Bone. And it's not because T-Bone isn't adopted. Adopted is the smoke screen. It's because T-Bone doesn't cause us all the hurt, angst, anger and grief. Ace witnesses us angry at him on a regular basis, though we aren't even close to as upset with T-Bone...ever. T-Bone also doesn't happen to spit in my face, push me down the stairs, destroy our house, cause the babysitter 8 weeks of physical therapy for her elbow, create scars and scabs on my arms and legs, the list goes on.
This is going to take lots of therapy on our entire family's part to overcome Ace's insecurity. In the meantime, to help him sleep at night, Ace's psychiatrist would like to start Ace on a small dose of Seroquel, an anti-psychotic. Strange as this may sound, my son with a diagnosed psychotic disorder doesn't take anti-psychotics. Anymore.
I know this is going to cause conflict between Peer and I. He doesn't want to have Ace "drugged up." During Ace's hospitalized in 2009, we washed out the high doses of anti-psychotics Ace was taking, and haven't added any back in that period of time. The hospital doc's logic was that Ace is a bright kid. Anti-psychotics slow the brain. Why slow his thinking, when his intellect is one of his strengths.
Peer liked this logic, and has stuck to it.
This is where we tug-of-war. I'm always more progressive in Ace's treatment -- the first to conclude to hospitalize, to try a new therapy, to try a different medication. Peer is much, much, much more conservative. And then we butt heads.
Welcome to crisis-land. Hello, "friend."
Last spring our arguments and disagreements made it feel like a wrecking ball tumbled through our marriage. Remember that post I wrote that the New York Times picked up? About how we were at a crossroads and that something had to give.
We never really addressed the issue after I used the woman's ultimate secret weapon -- sex -- to woo my husband back. And now, we're coming here again. This time it's not about something as heavy as residential placement, but around something much lighter like a small dose of an anti-psychotic every night. I just know this is going to cause an argument. I hate this. I hate this for our marriage and I hate this for my son.
When we moved a few weeks ago, my attitude was "whatever." I was able to get through it not only without stress, but actually enjoying it and joking around! I've been thinking to myself that the "whatever" attitude has served me quite well. Even my acupuncturist noticed -- last week she said my tongue looked significantly less red and purple than she has ever seen it. (Apparently, the tongue is a very important tool in diagnosing.) It feels good to be chipper and in a sincerely calm state.
The thing is, I know myself, and the "whatever" attitude doesn't fly with me for Ace's treatment. If anything, I'm the most opinionated, stalwart, not-backing-down advocate for what I think is the right thing for him -- even if it means confronting my husband about it.
I just hope we are able to sustain Round 2. Because you know our ensuing fight about the Seroquel? It's not about the Seroquel.
So says his psychiatrist. He believes that Ace is questioning whether we love him as much as we love T-Bone. And it's not because T-Bone isn't adopted. Adopted is the smoke screen. It's because T-Bone doesn't cause us all the hurt, angst, anger and grief. Ace witnesses us angry at him on a regular basis, though we aren't even close to as upset with T-Bone...ever. T-Bone also doesn't happen to spit in my face, push me down the stairs, destroy our house, cause the babysitter 8 weeks of physical therapy for her elbow, create scars and scabs on my arms and legs, the list goes on.
This is going to take lots of therapy on our entire family's part to overcome Ace's insecurity. In the meantime, to help him sleep at night, Ace's psychiatrist would like to start Ace on a small dose of Seroquel, an anti-psychotic. Strange as this may sound, my son with a diagnosed psychotic disorder doesn't take anti-psychotics. Anymore.
I know this is going to cause conflict between Peer and I. He doesn't want to have Ace "drugged up." During Ace's hospitalized in 2009, we washed out the high doses of anti-psychotics Ace was taking, and haven't added any back in that period of time. The hospital doc's logic was that Ace is a bright kid. Anti-psychotics slow the brain. Why slow his thinking, when his intellect is one of his strengths.
Peer liked this logic, and has stuck to it.
This is where we tug-of-war. I'm always more progressive in Ace's treatment -- the first to conclude to hospitalize, to try a new therapy, to try a different medication. Peer is much, much, much more conservative. And then we butt heads.
Welcome to crisis-land. Hello, "friend."
Last spring our arguments and disagreements made it feel like a wrecking ball tumbled through our marriage. Remember that post I wrote that the New York Times picked up? About how we were at a crossroads and that something had to give.
We never really addressed the issue after I used the woman's ultimate secret weapon -- sex -- to woo my husband back. And now, we're coming here again. This time it's not about something as heavy as residential placement, but around something much lighter like a small dose of an anti-psychotic every night. I just know this is going to cause an argument. I hate this. I hate this for our marriage and I hate this for my son.
When we moved a few weeks ago, my attitude was "whatever." I was able to get through it not only without stress, but actually enjoying it and joking around! I've been thinking to myself that the "whatever" attitude has served me quite well. Even my acupuncturist noticed -- last week she said my tongue looked significantly less red and purple than she has ever seen it. (Apparently, the tongue is a very important tool in diagnosing.) It feels good to be chipper and in a sincerely calm state.
The thing is, I know myself, and the "whatever" attitude doesn't fly with me for Ace's treatment. If anything, I'm the most opinionated, stalwart, not-backing-down advocate for what I think is the right thing for him -- even if it means confronting my husband about it.
I just hope we are able to sustain Round 2. Because you know our ensuing fight about the Seroquel? It's not about the Seroquel.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
oh, please not again or who am i kidding?
Um, are we on the outskirts of yet another psychological crisis at Chez 8741? If it smells like a rat, feels like a rat, looks like a rat...I have to say that it's a rat. Though I'm in denial about that. Maybe it's just a blip.
It's 4:20AM, and I have been awake since approximately 1AM because that's what time Ace woke up and has been up. Just left his room...again. He said he wants to go to the hospital because maybe they could help him figure out how to sleep.
If I were a single parent, I probably would do it. This isn't good. But, there's another parent here who likes to try to ride things out at home. I guess we're a good balance for each other. I guess. Maybe not. Who knows. I'm too tired to judge.
Anyway. Maybe I should try to go back to bed for the fourteenth time tonight. Though, I fall asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of the word, "Mom?" coming from the other room. I'm beginning to feel like Pavlov's dogs. Once bitten, twice shy.
It's 4:20AM, and I have been awake since approximately 1AM because that's what time Ace woke up and has been up. Just left his room...again. He said he wants to go to the hospital because maybe they could help him figure out how to sleep.
If I were a single parent, I probably would do it. This isn't good. But, there's another parent here who likes to try to ride things out at home. I guess we're a good balance for each other. I guess. Maybe not. Who knows. I'm too tired to judge.
Anyway. Maybe I should try to go back to bed for the fourteenth time tonight. Though, I fall asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of the word, "Mom?" coming from the other room. I'm beginning to feel like Pavlov's dogs. Once bitten, twice shy.
sleep eludes me still.
Ace continues to struggle about his adoption. Though he knew them less than 72 hours -- his first 72 hours -- he misses them as any connected child would miss his parents. At the same time, he is angry at them, so angry, that they would abandon him. Yet, his feelings are mutually exclusive to the deep love and unquestionable connection he has with us, his parents, his brother, his family.
Last night he (and, consequently, I) was awake from 1AM until 4:15AM. He wanted my attention: to fill his cup of water, to get him a snack, to help him go to the bathroom, to lay next to him, to cry to me that he "misses the old house" (which therapy has taught me is a metaphor, which I believe represents missing his birth parents and a life he was destined for, but was taken from him).
It's pretty heavy stuff for anyone to contemplate, let alone a six year-old who is wise beyond his years,delayed in his understanding of emotions, and mentally fragile at the same time.
So that's where life stands today. Sleep deprived, sad, confused, and sleep deprived. I can't let this fall into the vicious circle we had last year that landed Ace in the hospital for a month and me unable to keep up the demands of daily life due to extreme sleep deprivation. I also know there is only so much I can control...
Last night he (and, consequently, I) was awake from 1AM until 4:15AM. He wanted my attention: to fill his cup of water, to get him a snack, to help him go to the bathroom, to lay next to him, to cry to me that he "misses the old house" (which therapy has taught me is a metaphor, which I believe represents missing his birth parents and a life he was destined for, but was taken from him).
It's pretty heavy stuff for anyone to contemplate, let alone a six year-old who is wise beyond his years,delayed in his understanding of emotions, and mentally fragile at the same time.
So that's where life stands today. Sleep deprived, sad, confused, and sleep deprived. I can't let this fall into the vicious circle we had last year that landed Ace in the hospital for a month and me unable to keep up the demands of daily life due to extreme sleep deprivation. I also know there is only so much I can control...
Monday, November 1, 2010
dresses.
Great swim today! I was in the pool for a good half an hour -- 20 minutes doing the breast stroke, 5 doing freestyle (that stroke kicks my ass!!), and another 10 doing the kickboard.
Weird, when I was swimming, all these negative thoughts about myself kept coming up. I think I'm a closet-hypochondriac. When I'm very anxious and stressed-out about life, I'm a full-on hypochondriac. Otherwise, I keep it to myself.
Since last summer, I keep wondering if I have some kind of early-onset or very mild neurological issue. My legs twitch quite frequently, especially noticeable at night. I find myself losing my balance every now and again, or sometimes just feeling unsteady. The other day, typing the password I have used on every website for everything since the internet was invented felt funny in my fingers. It was as though I had never typed it with my right hand and it was still "learning" how to do it. When I was swimming today, I noticed that the right half of my body didn't seem quite in sync with the left side.
Of course, hypochondriac that I am, I saw the doctor about the leg twitching last summer. All he said to me was, "Hmmm." He didn't think it was a big deal. It wasn't like my whole leg was shaking then (or now when it does). It feels kind of like when your eye twitches, but it's your leg instead.
What makes more sense than a neurological problem is a sleep disorder. For about a year, my sleep has been pretty poor. Actually, starting a year ago on Thursday, my sleep has been pretty poor. At first, it wasn't because of me -- it was because Ace was waking up at all hours of the night, terrified and hallucinating. Later, he continued waking up at night or waking up early. That happens to this day. I can't seem to get enough sleep, no matter how hard I try.
There are all sorts of strange things that happen when bodies don't get enough sleep -- as mine has not had consistently in the past 365 days. It includes muscle twitching, cloudy thinking (hypochondria!), depression, increased anxiety, difficulty remembering things (another issue that has been bothering me lately). It makes more sense that I have a sleep disorder than some sort of neurological degeneration.
It makes me start to wonder, though, if you lose enough sleep...can you lose your mind? Not just psychologically, but neurologically as well?
Anyway. I named this post "dresses," and I don't want to forget about that. After my wild tangent on sleep deprivation -- ha, ha, loss of focus!! -- let's get back to the topic at hand. Dresses.
I hate pants. It's official. It has been coming for several years now. Ever since my stomach stretched out well beyond its normal bounds, creating an excessive amount of skin. When I wear pants -- I'm not sure why this happens, considering when I stand my tummy is relatively flat -- the skin seems to find itself hanging over the waist of the pants. Why is that? It needs a rest, I guess. A place to hang out and let loose. Seriously?
So I'm done with pants. Unless there is a nice, wide waistband with lots of give...I'm done. It's dresses all the time now. Even in the winter.
I'm not doing it out of vanity. I'm doing it out of comfort. I hate the way that muffin top feels. Hate it. It's a pet peeve, probably equally as bad as being stuck in traffic. At least you can maneuver your way out of traffic. If you're in a bad pair of pants, there goes the day.
I'm excited that leggings have made a come-back. This entire winter will be spent in a heavy dress, leggings, a long parka (which hopefully Santa will bring me for Christmas), and boots. It's not like I spend a lot of time outside in the winter, anyway. I'm mostly running errands which involve the car. And if I do plan on being outside for a while, then there are my snow pants, which are super high-waisted and don't bother me in the least.
So there it is. Dresses. And swimming. And dresses.
Weird, when I was swimming, all these negative thoughts about myself kept coming up. I think I'm a closet-hypochondriac. When I'm very anxious and stressed-out about life, I'm a full-on hypochondriac. Otherwise, I keep it to myself.
Since last summer, I keep wondering if I have some kind of early-onset or very mild neurological issue. My legs twitch quite frequently, especially noticeable at night. I find myself losing my balance every now and again, or sometimes just feeling unsteady. The other day, typing the password I have used on every website for everything since the internet was invented felt funny in my fingers. It was as though I had never typed it with my right hand and it was still "learning" how to do it. When I was swimming today, I noticed that the right half of my body didn't seem quite in sync with the left side.
Of course, hypochondriac that I am, I saw the doctor about the leg twitching last summer. All he said to me was, "Hmmm." He didn't think it was a big deal. It wasn't like my whole leg was shaking then (or now when it does). It feels kind of like when your eye twitches, but it's your leg instead.
What makes more sense than a neurological problem is a sleep disorder. For about a year, my sleep has been pretty poor. Actually, starting a year ago on Thursday, my sleep has been pretty poor. At first, it wasn't because of me -- it was because Ace was waking up at all hours of the night, terrified and hallucinating. Later, he continued waking up at night or waking up early. That happens to this day. I can't seem to get enough sleep, no matter how hard I try.
There are all sorts of strange things that happen when bodies don't get enough sleep -- as mine has not had consistently in the past 365 days. It includes muscle twitching, cloudy thinking (hypochondria!), depression, increased anxiety, difficulty remembering things (another issue that has been bothering me lately). It makes more sense that I have a sleep disorder than some sort of neurological degeneration.
It makes me start to wonder, though, if you lose enough sleep...can you lose your mind? Not just psychologically, but neurologically as well?
Anyway. I named this post "dresses," and I don't want to forget about that. After my wild tangent on sleep deprivation -- ha, ha, loss of focus!! -- let's get back to the topic at hand. Dresses.
I hate pants. It's official. It has been coming for several years now. Ever since my stomach stretched out well beyond its normal bounds, creating an excessive amount of skin. When I wear pants -- I'm not sure why this happens, considering when I stand my tummy is relatively flat -- the skin seems to find itself hanging over the waist of the pants. Why is that? It needs a rest, I guess. A place to hang out and let loose. Seriously?
So I'm done with pants. Unless there is a nice, wide waistband with lots of give...I'm done. It's dresses all the time now. Even in the winter.
I'm not doing it out of vanity. I'm doing it out of comfort. I hate the way that muffin top feels. Hate it. It's a pet peeve, probably equally as bad as being stuck in traffic. At least you can maneuver your way out of traffic. If you're in a bad pair of pants, there goes the day.
I'm excited that leggings have made a come-back. This entire winter will be spent in a heavy dress, leggings, a long parka (which hopefully Santa will bring me for Christmas), and boots. It's not like I spend a lot of time outside in the winter, anyway. I'm mostly running errands which involve the car. And if I do plan on being outside for a while, then there are my snow pants, which are super high-waisted and don't bother me in the least.
So there it is. Dresses. And swimming. And dresses.
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