Sunday, November 26, 2006
"DIRTY"
That was the comment on the parking stub when I retrieved my car from Texas Children's Hospital. Evidently the valets make notes for themselves to better distinguish one vehicle from another. And what was most noteworthy about my car was that it was Unclean.
DIRTY.
As if God himself had rendered judgment.
Never mind that I'd spent the last eight days tending to a pitifully sick child. No one cared to mention that the oil is changed regularly, the tires freshly balanced and the engine, she still purrs after nearly 100,000 miles. Nor did anyone remark on the emergency preparations so thorough that we could survive for several days if stranded (hypothetically, of course) in a blizzard or hurricane evacuation.
DIRTY.
It was true, of course. But I felt the same sting of shame as when my housekeeper remarked about my home, "I may be poor, but at least my house is clean." (Am I the only one who sees the irony in this? My housekeeper complaining about the condition of my house...you know, given that I pay her to clean the bloody place?!)
With two kids, two dogs and 4,000 square feet, I could spend every waking moment of the day maintaining my house to Mommy Dearest standards and torturing my kids into various neuroses in the process. But I choose otherwise. I choose puzzles and painting. I choose planting seeds and harvesting citrus from the backyard. I choose homemade waffles and meatballs and banana bread. I choose Go Fish and Goodnight, Moon.
After the kids are down for the night, the choices aren't any easier. Wash clothes or write Christmas cards? Restore order to the playroom or read a book? Sweep or sleep?
I think I'm making the right choices for my family and my sanity, but still. The dust and disorder that builds up in my house and car bugs me. Infuriates me. Makes me absolutely crazy. Because, you see, I'd love to have a house that gleams from light fixtures to baseboards. I'd love clean-enough-to-eat-off-of floors. I'd love windows that are utterly transparent. I'd love a place for everything and everything in its place.
But I have to choose.
Ann Richards famously said, "I didn't want my epitaph to read, 'She kept a clean house.'"
Neither do I. But I do so wish it were true.
DIRTY.
As if God himself had rendered judgment.
Never mind that I'd spent the last eight days tending to a pitifully sick child. No one cared to mention that the oil is changed regularly, the tires freshly balanced and the engine, she still purrs after nearly 100,000 miles. Nor did anyone remark on the emergency preparations so thorough that we could survive for several days if stranded (hypothetically, of course) in a blizzard or hurricane evacuation.
DIRTY.
It was true, of course. But I felt the same sting of shame as when my housekeeper remarked about my home, "I may be poor, but at least my house is clean." (Am I the only one who sees the irony in this? My housekeeper complaining about the condition of my house...you know, given that I pay her to clean the bloody place?!)
With two kids, two dogs and 4,000 square feet, I could spend every waking moment of the day maintaining my house to Mommy Dearest standards and torturing my kids into various neuroses in the process. But I choose otherwise. I choose puzzles and painting. I choose planting seeds and harvesting citrus from the backyard. I choose homemade waffles and meatballs and banana bread. I choose Go Fish and Goodnight, Moon.
After the kids are down for the night, the choices aren't any easier. Wash clothes or write Christmas cards? Restore order to the playroom or read a book? Sweep or sleep?
I think I'm making the right choices for my family and my sanity, but still. The dust and disorder that builds up in my house and car bugs me. Infuriates me. Makes me absolutely crazy. Because, you see, I'd love to have a house that gleams from light fixtures to baseboards. I'd love clean-enough-to-eat-off-of floors. I'd love windows that are utterly transparent. I'd love a place for everything and everything in its place.
But I have to choose.
Ann Richards famously said, "I didn't want my epitaph to read, 'She kept a clean house.'"
Neither do I. But I do so wish it were true.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Mom Was Right
It wasn't enough to be born with fair Irish skin. During my foolish--make that my really stupid teens, I added baby oil and an occasional nap under a 70's era tanning light. Not that I ever tanned, of course. Instead, I pre-paid my dues for the skin cancer club with a few blistering sunburns and joined the waiting list.
Now older and wiser, I'm nearly hypochondriacal about changes to my skin. In September, when a small, pink blemish near my right temple didn't clear up as it should have, I speed-dialed my dermatologist.
"How long has this been there?" she asked.
"A couple of weeks."
"Is that all?" (Evidently, I am a little hypochondriacal....) She pulled out the bright lights and magnifying glass for a closer look.
"Yeah, and I was due for my regular check-up anyway, so I figured this was a good reason for an appointment.
And it was. A biopsy and a week later, I had my first case of skin cancer. If you get to choose, basal cell carcinoma is the cancer you want. Slow growing. Never metastisizes. Has polite table manners, too. Given what people I love have endured in the name of cancer, I hardly deserve to appropriate the term. But still, mine needed to go. I was referred to a plastic surgeon.
Using a lifetime of well-honed avoidance techniques, I gave little thought to what an excision might entail. In my four and a half second analysis, I'd concluded the procedure would be a dressy version of the biopsy--a little numbing here, a little scraping there, a tiny band-aid, perhaps in a designer color, and I'd be on my way. I'd even demoted the whole business from "surgery" to "procedure."
Then, too, Max has been sick. Really, really sick. Pink eye, followed by an ear infection, which led to an allergic reaction to antibiotics, leaving him more vulnerable to (what is probably) pneumonia. Yet he has managed to face doctors and needles and hospitals and X-ray machines and a counterful of medicines with quiet courage. So who was I to whine about a little out-patient procedure?
The first thing the nurse did when she came to prep me for surgery was to ground me. GROUND ME! There are some things I don't want to know, and I have elected thus far not to google this, but as best I can tell, the doctor wanted to make sure I wouldn't be electrocuted if there was any static electricity in the room when it came time to cauterized my head.
This was my first clue that I was not having another biopsy.
When you're (blissfully) numb, and when you close your eyes like the See No Evil monkey to avoid the glint of needle or scalpel, what takes over is your ears. I will not describe the noises involved in the surgery because I don't want to imagine how those sounds related to my own flesh. But I do have more sympathy for people who opt for a little pre-op valium.
My second clue that this was not another biopsy was when the nurse returned from Pathology ("clean margins"--what beautiful words) and declared, "Now it's time to repair you."
To this point, I hadn't envisioned myself in need of restoration. But I was. First the doctor elongated the divot so that it resembled the shape of an eye and the "lids" could be pulled closed. And then he began to stitch, clip, stitch, clip, stitch, clip...until I lost count. As wounds go, mine is very tidy--more invisible zipper than railroad tracks. It's still a little tender, but it's done. And for that, I am very thankful.
P.S. The moral of this story? Mom was right. And I am the new posterchild for sunscreen.
Now older and wiser, I'm nearly hypochondriacal about changes to my skin. In September, when a small, pink blemish near my right temple didn't clear up as it should have, I speed-dialed my dermatologist.
"How long has this been there?" she asked.
"A couple of weeks."
"Is that all?" (Evidently, I am a little hypochondriacal....) She pulled out the bright lights and magnifying glass for a closer look.
"Yeah, and I was due for my regular check-up anyway, so I figured this was a good reason for an appointment.
And it was. A biopsy and a week later, I had my first case of skin cancer. If you get to choose, basal cell carcinoma is the cancer you want. Slow growing. Never metastisizes. Has polite table manners, too. Given what people I love have endured in the name of cancer, I hardly deserve to appropriate the term. But still, mine needed to go. I was referred to a plastic surgeon.
Using a lifetime of well-honed avoidance techniques, I gave little thought to what an excision might entail. In my four and a half second analysis, I'd concluded the procedure would be a dressy version of the biopsy--a little numbing here, a little scraping there, a tiny band-aid, perhaps in a designer color, and I'd be on my way. I'd even demoted the whole business from "surgery" to "procedure."
Then, too, Max has been sick. Really, really sick. Pink eye, followed by an ear infection, which led to an allergic reaction to antibiotics, leaving him more vulnerable to (what is probably) pneumonia. Yet he has managed to face doctors and needles and hospitals and X-ray machines and a counterful of medicines with quiet courage. So who was I to whine about a little out-patient procedure?
The first thing the nurse did when she came to prep me for surgery was to ground me. GROUND ME! There are some things I don't want to know, and I have elected thus far not to google this, but as best I can tell, the doctor wanted to make sure I wouldn't be electrocuted if there was any static electricity in the room when it came time to cauterized my head.
This was my first clue that I was not having another biopsy.
When you're (blissfully) numb, and when you close your eyes like the See No Evil monkey to avoid the glint of needle or scalpel, what takes over is your ears. I will not describe the noises involved in the surgery because I don't want to imagine how those sounds related to my own flesh. But I do have more sympathy for people who opt for a little pre-op valium.
My second clue that this was not another biopsy was when the nurse returned from Pathology ("clean margins"--what beautiful words) and declared, "Now it's time to repair you."
To this point, I hadn't envisioned myself in need of restoration. But I was. First the doctor elongated the divot so that it resembled the shape of an eye and the "lids" could be pulled closed. And then he began to stitch, clip, stitch, clip, stitch, clip...until I lost count. As wounds go, mine is very tidy--more invisible zipper than railroad tracks. It's still a little tender, but it's done. And for that, I am very thankful.
P.S. The moral of this story? Mom was right. And I am the new posterchild for sunscreen.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Rendered Speechless
This afternoon I was playing dinosaurs with Max and farm animals with Boo (simultaneously) when Max hurled this one in from left field:
"I want a little sister."
Initially I didn't take him too seriously.
"Who would you like to have as a little sister?"
"I don't know her. I want her to come from inside your tummy."
"Mmm hmmm."
A few months ago I picked up a rather well-known book called "How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids Will Talk." I vaguely remember this as technique numero uno, and now seemed like an appropriate time to use it.
"I know what I want her name to be."
"Mmm hmmmm?"
"Red Rose."
"Mmmmmm hmmmmm."
I just couldn't think of anything else to say.
"I want a little sister."
Initially I didn't take him too seriously.
"Who would you like to have as a little sister?"
"I don't know her. I want her to come from inside your tummy."
"Mmm hmmm."
A few months ago I picked up a rather well-known book called "How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids Will Talk." I vaguely remember this as technique numero uno, and now seemed like an appropriate time to use it.
"I know what I want her name to be."
"Mmm hmmmm?"
"Red Rose."
"Mmmmmm hmmmmm."
I just couldn't think of anything else to say.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
But someone's got to do it...
Max earned himself a day off from school today by coming down with a case of pink eye. Rather than learning about the changing of the seasons and corn and Hiawatha, he got to accompany me on a trip to the hospital to pick up x-rays. As we were waiting for the elevator in the parking garage, I gave him the job of remembering on which floor we were parked. Walking toward the hospital building, it dawned on me that this was where Max had been born. His only return visit was for Boo's birthday party two years later.
"Max! This is a very important building. Do you know why?"
"No."
"It's where you were born! It's where I got to see you for the very first time!"
"No way."
"Yes way. And did you know that Poppi actually designed this building?"
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
"Neat building."
"Isn't is incredible that Poppi designed this building and then something like twenty-five years later you were born here?"
"Yep. What floor was I born on?"
"The third."
And so it went as we headed for Radiology, signed out my films, and made our way back to the parking garage.
"Hey, Max. Do you remember what floor we parked on?"
"The third."
"Good job, Buddy. Now we won't get lost."
Max sighed. "It's hard being in charge of everything."
"Max! This is a very important building. Do you know why?"
"No."
"It's where you were born! It's where I got to see you for the very first time!"
"No way."
"Yes way. And did you know that Poppi actually designed this building?"
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
"Neat building."
"Isn't is incredible that Poppi designed this building and then something like twenty-five years later you were born here?"
"Yep. What floor was I born on?"
"The third."
And so it went as we headed for Radiology, signed out my films, and made our way back to the parking garage.
"Hey, Max. Do you remember what floor we parked on?"
"The third."
"Good job, Buddy. Now we won't get lost."
Max sighed. "It's hard being in charge of everything."
Sunday, November 05, 2006
My Latest Compulsion, in Draft
I've become a compulsive planner. As neurotic behavior goes, it's pretty harmless. And it has some fringe benefits. But it's still neurotic. Want to know just how compulsive I am? Lee took the kids to the horse pasture this morning for a couple of hours, and after I cleaned up the house, I started working on the kids' carpool schedule. For next year. No, no, not next semester. Next year.
After I'd worked through a couple of permutations, I started writing my Christmas letter. I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving. But last week I saw a fully decorated Christmas tree. (Consider the source--it was in a store.) And I know people whose neighbors have already hung their outdoor holiday lights. I started feeling anxious and maybe even a little behind. Then, too, I've written so little this year that I feel stale. Stuck. Struggling. I've missed writing and the reflection that goes along with it. So I began. I don't write a Christmas letter every year, but when I do, I try to avoid a boring, banal recitation of family accolades and ailments. It goes to our friends from college and grad school who are scattered across the country, and most of whom we haven't seen since our wedding. I'm not satisfied yet with the beginning, or with some of the transitions, but I've begun. And at least I'm in the right year. Here's a draft:
Lee and I couldn’t have gotten more dissimilar children if we’d ordered them. Max (age 5) is an explorer, an imp, a rogue, and a negotiator. After returning from a stint in outer space, he plans to live in a tent in Africa, protect animals, and visit us occasionally. Reed (age 3, a.k.a. Boo) looks like the cherub model for a Rubens painting and usually has the disposition to match. Likes to serenade us with “Jesus Loves Me” and “Home on the Range.” Boo aspires to be a farmer. Probably will marry his high school sweetheart, too. (He’s taken a pass on Max’s voyage to outer space. No gravity? No, thank you.)
Gregarious/shy. Distracted/focused. Energetic/calm. Exuberant/cautious. Chaotic/orderly. Chocolate/vanilla. The boys are yin and yang, except for this: They both love all things construction—tools, vehicles, hardware stores, dirt piles and orange cones on the side of the road.
I suspect they contracted construction fever from us, because we’ve been in a building frenzy this year. I’ll spare you the details because you’d be bored and I’ve finally recovered. But for our trouble, we have a lovely garage apartment for Lee’s mom, horse facilities for our herd, and major landscaping projects completed at the ranch—bulkheading, concrete steps for swimming and fishing and launching the kayak, a sandy beach when the lake is low, and a clearing for an organic garden and orchard as soon as we find energy enough to plant.
Lee’s other construction project—his enterprise risk management software—continues, too. I will not say again that the software is nearly complete and that marketing is priority #1 for next year. No. I will not. Lee’s attorney says that he often sees prospective clients, in the throes of a midlife crisis, toying with the idea of starting a company, or leaving their spouse, or getting a sports car. His job, as he sees it, is to talk them into buying the car. Now that’s some good legal advice, I think. Unless you absolutely, positively, will regret your life if you do not start the company. And so Lee did. He’s a million lines of code into this thing, and there’s no turning back now.
Shortly before Max’s fifth birthday, I told him the story of the day he was born. In summation, I said, “Your birthday was one of the best days of my life.” I expected Max to be pleased that his arrival meant so much to me. Instead, with the wisdom of a Tibetan monk, he asked: “But what about all the other days?”
We’re just back from the ranch, where Max and Reed have collected fall leaves, swung on the gates, constructed chain reactions with dominoes, bobbed for apples, caught tadpoles, and made sand angels in the arena. Lee’s living his dream in the start-up world, and I’m living mine raising kids at home and horses at the ranch. No doubt about it—today has been one of the best days of my life.
Because it’s the one I have.
Lee and I think of you often. We miss you. We tell stories about you. We want our kids to meet your kids. Come visit. Bring your children, even if (especially if!) they’re old enough to babysit. Come join us for a weekend at the ranch—it’s like summer camp, with better sheets.
Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. A safe and prosperous New Year. And God bless us all.
After I'd worked through a couple of permutations, I started writing my Christmas letter. I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving. But last week I saw a fully decorated Christmas tree. (Consider the source--it was in a store.) And I know people whose neighbors have already hung their outdoor holiday lights. I started feeling anxious and maybe even a little behind. Then, too, I've written so little this year that I feel stale. Stuck. Struggling. I've missed writing and the reflection that goes along with it. So I began. I don't write a Christmas letter every year, but when I do, I try to avoid a boring, banal recitation of family accolades and ailments. It goes to our friends from college and grad school who are scattered across the country, and most of whom we haven't seen since our wedding. I'm not satisfied yet with the beginning, or with some of the transitions, but I've begun. And at least I'm in the right year. Here's a draft:
Lee and I couldn’t have gotten more dissimilar children if we’d ordered them. Max (age 5) is an explorer, an imp, a rogue, and a negotiator. After returning from a stint in outer space, he plans to live in a tent in Africa, protect animals, and visit us occasionally. Reed (age 3, a.k.a. Boo) looks like the cherub model for a Rubens painting and usually has the disposition to match. Likes to serenade us with “Jesus Loves Me” and “Home on the Range.” Boo aspires to be a farmer. Probably will marry his high school sweetheart, too. (He’s taken a pass on Max’s voyage to outer space. No gravity? No, thank you.)
Gregarious/shy. Distracted/focused. Energetic/calm. Exuberant/cautious. Chaotic/orderly. Chocolate/vanilla. The boys are yin and yang, except for this: They both love all things construction—tools, vehicles, hardware stores, dirt piles and orange cones on the side of the road.
I suspect they contracted construction fever from us, because we’ve been in a building frenzy this year. I’ll spare you the details because you’d be bored and I’ve finally recovered. But for our trouble, we have a lovely garage apartment for Lee’s mom, horse facilities for our herd, and major landscaping projects completed at the ranch—bulkheading, concrete steps for swimming and fishing and launching the kayak, a sandy beach when the lake is low, and a clearing for an organic garden and orchard as soon as we find energy enough to plant.
Lee’s other construction project—his enterprise risk management software—continues, too. I will not say again that the software is nearly complete and that marketing is priority #1 for next year. No. I will not. Lee’s attorney says that he often sees prospective clients, in the throes of a midlife crisis, toying with the idea of starting a company, or leaving their spouse, or getting a sports car. His job, as he sees it, is to talk them into buying the car. Now that’s some good legal advice, I think. Unless you absolutely, positively, will regret your life if you do not start the company. And so Lee did. He’s a million lines of code into this thing, and there’s no turning back now.
Shortly before Max’s fifth birthday, I told him the story of the day he was born. In summation, I said, “Your birthday was one of the best days of my life.” I expected Max to be pleased that his arrival meant so much to me. Instead, with the wisdom of a Tibetan monk, he asked: “But what about all the other days?”
We’re just back from the ranch, where Max and Reed have collected fall leaves, swung on the gates, constructed chain reactions with dominoes, bobbed for apples, caught tadpoles, and made sand angels in the arena. Lee’s living his dream in the start-up world, and I’m living mine raising kids at home and horses at the ranch. No doubt about it—today has been one of the best days of my life.
Because it’s the one I have.
Lee and I think of you often. We miss you. We tell stories about you. We want our kids to meet your kids. Come visit. Bring your children, even if (especially if!) they’re old enough to babysit. Come join us for a weekend at the ranch—it’s like summer camp, with better sheets.
Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. A safe and prosperous New Year. And God bless us all.
