Simon has wanted to have a party for the past four days. Four days ago I was laid low, LOW I say, by the consumption of spinach (not e-coli or anything scary like that) and today was the first day that eating didn't feel like being knifed. So. Today we partied. We ate Chinese and drank caffeine free pop and talked about the good things that having another baby means.
I am pregnant. One of the reasons Simon wanted to celebrate was because it is very hard to wrap our brains around the idea. There is no physical proof yet, just the knowledge that there's a little tiny person in my belly.
This stage in my pregnancies is marked by me deciding on a moniker for the little bugger. Boy had no nickname that I recall- I just thought of him as the latest set of names I had picked out. Two and Three were Curly Beans, but I don't think of this one as a Bean. Four was gone before I had a chance to call myself pregnant. I thought about calling this one "Icy Eight Special K", but today's favorite is Moon Unit. I know it's a girl's name technically, but it would work for a boy, don't you think? Actually I should call it "The Last Hurrah" because the tubes are getting tied. Mother of three is plenty.
So far everything has been textbook. I got blood drawn tonight, so we'll have some numbers tomorrow. Honestly I'm scared because until week twelve things are titchy. Peanut spooked us. She taught us all the milestones. Week 12 is the first break- your odds of carrying to term are pretty good if you make it this far. Week 20 is the half way mark. Week 21 is the earliest a pre-term baby has survived (new record). Week 30 is when early babies have a decent shot at making it. Week 38 is full term.
I'm at week five. One more week and we have heartbeat.
On a completely random note, our visiting dog farts. Our dogs never did fart, but then we don't feed them kibbles and bits.
Bits of what?
ephelba and the moon unit
Monday, February 19, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Obsession
The first person to invite me into her New York Home was a mom of one of Boy's friends. I was hunting for Boy and she was barbecuing and she asked me to stay. I've gone over a grand total of three times in the year we've lived here, not because we don't get along, but because I'm slow. I don't want to bug her, and I haven't put any effort into figuring out how to get together without wasting her time because she's a mother of four.
Now she's the mother of three living children, and one little guy who died at the age of five. He got sick and died in the space of a day. Perhaps it was the flu. Perhaps it wasn't.
It is all I think about all day; what they must be going through, what could have happened, what needs doing in their house, etc. I sent Boy over with a note to tape to their door saying we'd watch their dog, since I knew they'd be having lots of family over and their dog is a barker. This morning we went over to get the dog, and even though I barely knew her kiddo we hugged and cried.
I got Peanut squeezed into the Drs office for her second flu shot today. Raw milk suddenly seems like a bad idea to me. I won't be going back to the UU Church until, maybe, June. Every time I leave the house I spend the drive planning ways not to bring germs home with me. Boy wants to walk down the street to go play with friends like he always does, but what with the snow storm and all I can't feature him walking down the dangerous road by himself.
Boy asked me if I was turning into a nut job.
I can't help it. When I imagine what's going on for their family, I imagine us going through that, and the truth is that it is just sheer dumb random luck that has kept it from being our nightmare instead of theirs. How could I not go a little nuts?
Going to wash my hands,
ephelba
Now she's the mother of three living children, and one little guy who died at the age of five. He got sick and died in the space of a day. Perhaps it was the flu. Perhaps it wasn't.
It is all I think about all day; what they must be going through, what could have happened, what needs doing in their house, etc. I sent Boy over with a note to tape to their door saying we'd watch their dog, since I knew they'd be having lots of family over and their dog is a barker. This morning we went over to get the dog, and even though I barely knew her kiddo we hugged and cried.
I got Peanut squeezed into the Drs office for her second flu shot today. Raw milk suddenly seems like a bad idea to me. I won't be going back to the UU Church until, maybe, June. Every time I leave the house I spend the drive planning ways not to bring germs home with me. Boy wants to walk down the street to go play with friends like he always does, but what with the snow storm and all I can't feature him walking down the dangerous road by himself.
Boy asked me if I was turning into a nut job.
I can't help it. When I imagine what's going on for their family, I imagine us going through that, and the truth is that it is just sheer dumb random luck that has kept it from being our nightmare instead of theirs. How could I not go a little nuts?
Going to wash my hands,
ephelba
Thursday, February 08, 2007
My Picture
Urg. I don't like it, no sir, I don't. I wouldn't have added it even, but I asked to get in on two thousand blogs, which means I needed to have my picture up, and that's the only one I have.
I look at the ones other bloggers have and am rather envious. I like the ones that look like the person was holding the camera themselves. I'm also partial to ones that people have drawn. Abstract pictures are good. I'm not partial to ones that are of the children of the blogger. I wouldn't go so far as to say I dislike them, but it's like meeting someone for the first time, and instead of them saying "Hi, I'm Bob" they say "Hi, I'm Timmy's dad". Whatever.
Glamour Shot looking photos weird me out. The ones where the hair is being blown in the wind, or the ones that look like they belong on a book jacket. A little too much effort, perhaps. The saddest, lamest ones, though, are the ones like mine. The ones that say, "I cropped my face out of a family photo because I have no photos of myself by myself." It makes me feel un-artsy. And small. I would like to think I am a little artsy and, ummmm, medium (?), so I'll really have to do something about this. I'm tired of cringing when I leave a comment.
On another note, we got Simon the Firefly box set for his birthday and are enjoying it mightily. We watched all the episodes when it was on TV, then rented them all on netflix. Each time we watch an episode we discover anew how great the show is and how much we really, really enjoy it. It is splendidly clever. This is a show I would recommend to people who don't normally like sci-fi, because I can't imagine anyone not liking this series. Anyone whose company I enjoy.
I told Simon I wanted a Jayne hat and a Dr. Who scarf. He laughed. I asked if he wouldn't wear a set, and he said not if I was wearing a matching set next to him.
We have an appointment with Early Intervention about Peanut tomorrow, and one with a geneticist in Albany coming up. The latest Dr says there is enough stuff to be worrisome, and it's worth doing. I'll go along with that. I am not really worried though, because in the end I chalk all the weirdnesses up to the low birth weight. It just makes sense. Then again, I'd hate to find out I was wrong and wasted valuable time. So. To Albany we'll go.
I am scoring some raw milk tomorrow. A friend is going to hook me up. Sounds like I'm freebasing lactobacilli, doesn't it? It's slightly more legal than that. I am strangely excited about the idea; I haven't had any before. We drink so much milk around here that our milk habit has actually affected our budget. We're lucky to live someplace where raw milk is actually cheaper than store bought organic. We'll be saving $7 a week on the milk, and if we make our own butter and yogurt we'll save even more. Yay!
Which is all to say I have nothing to say. Which is the third post in a row, and it's not even Nablopomo.
Because I'm a blabbertwat,
ephelba
I look at the ones other bloggers have and am rather envious. I like the ones that look like the person was holding the camera themselves. I'm also partial to ones that people have drawn. Abstract pictures are good. I'm not partial to ones that are of the children of the blogger. I wouldn't go so far as to say I dislike them, but it's like meeting someone for the first time, and instead of them saying "Hi, I'm Bob" they say "Hi, I'm Timmy's dad". Whatever.
Glamour Shot looking photos weird me out. The ones where the hair is being blown in the wind, or the ones that look like they belong on a book jacket. A little too much effort, perhaps. The saddest, lamest ones, though, are the ones like mine. The ones that say, "I cropped my face out of a family photo because I have no photos of myself by myself." It makes me feel un-artsy. And small. I would like to think I am a little artsy and, ummmm, medium (?), so I'll really have to do something about this. I'm tired of cringing when I leave a comment.
On another note, we got Simon the Firefly box set for his birthday and are enjoying it mightily. We watched all the episodes when it was on TV, then rented them all on netflix. Each time we watch an episode we discover anew how great the show is and how much we really, really enjoy it. It is splendidly clever. This is a show I would recommend to people who don't normally like sci-fi, because I can't imagine anyone not liking this series. Anyone whose company I enjoy.
I told Simon I wanted a Jayne hat and a Dr. Who scarf. He laughed. I asked if he wouldn't wear a set, and he said not if I was wearing a matching set next to him.
We have an appointment with Early Intervention about Peanut tomorrow, and one with a geneticist in Albany coming up. The latest Dr says there is enough stuff to be worrisome, and it's worth doing. I'll go along with that. I am not really worried though, because in the end I chalk all the weirdnesses up to the low birth weight. It just makes sense. Then again, I'd hate to find out I was wrong and wasted valuable time. So. To Albany we'll go.
I am scoring some raw milk tomorrow. A friend is going to hook me up. Sounds like I'm freebasing lactobacilli, doesn't it? It's slightly more legal than that. I am strangely excited about the idea; I haven't had any before. We drink so much milk around here that our milk habit has actually affected our budget. We're lucky to live someplace where raw milk is actually cheaper than store bought organic. We'll be saving $7 a week on the milk, and if we make our own butter and yogurt we'll save even more. Yay!
Which is all to say I have nothing to say. Which is the third post in a row, and it's not even Nablopomo.
Because I'm a blabbertwat,
ephelba
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Blabbertwat
I'm thinking about making it my new username. Whadda ya think?
going to be a know it all,
ephelba
going to be a know it all,
ephelba
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Racism
Boy read The Cay recently, and, being basically lazy, I looked up a discussion guide to go with it. During the search I discover the book has been both lauded as an anti-racism teaching tool and a heap of racist dung. So I look into it a little further and got sucked into a whole alternate universe. Did you know To Kill A Mockingbird is racist? Do you know what's wrong with Snowy Day?
The Cay is racist because it is written from the perspective of the white boy, and the white boy didn't change enough. To Kill a Mockingbird has Negroes (I use this word here because the critique I read used it) whistling past graveyards, a maid who really is a "happy slave" character, and a phrase that goes something like "lies as black as that boy's skin". Snowy Day isn't culturally specific to African Americans, Africans, Caribbeans, or anybody else who's Black.
I was shocked.
Now I have to decide if I agree with these assessments, which brings up a whole mess of questions. I have to know what racism is to decide if I think something is racist. There seems to be no hard and fast definition or too much consensus on the topic. It has something to do with stereotype, and denial and power. The best I can come up with so far (after much reading online) is that racism is when
1) a person in a position of power says that
2) someone who isn't in power can or can't do something
3) on the basis of stereotypes for the race of the person in question.
Sorta.
Which brings me to the whole stereotype thing. Because stereotypes are a little like myths- dig deep enough and you find a truth that's been abused. I'll pick on the Irish, because they're white. The stereotype is that the Irish are drunkards, yes? It's a stereotype, and we know the truth is that all Irish people aren't drunkards. Some are, some aren't. And yet, I had a group of Irish friends when I was younger, and the amount of booze they consumed on a regular basis was astonishing. Simply amazing. They would go to bars full of other Irish people who were putting back amazing quantities of beer, and they would drink lots of beer and sing. You think I'm making this up, but I'm not. Now, if I write a fictional story that includes Irish folks in America who drink a lot and sing in bars, is that racist? If I was Irish and I wrote that story would it change things?
(Updated) I have been stewing on this and I think it depends on some things. It would make a difference if I was Irish. It would make a difference if I said or implied the Irish were drunk because they were Irish, not because they were young and going through a phase and also just happened to be Irish, as was the case with my real world friends. Although, honestly, I wouldn't go near that with a ten foot pole because it would be so damn easy to miss the mark and perpetuate the stereotype.
(End of Update)
Here's a real life dilemma: I read a blog where a parent asked for advice on introducing her kiddo to spicy food. I put in my two cents, then suggested a few sites where I thought people who may have the same issue might be found, namely Kimchi Mommas and Turbanhead. Am I a racist? I am a member of the majority, which means I meet the first condition. How about the second? I have suggested she go to the blog homes of Asian or Indian people to see what they think. So I'm saying that Asian and Indian people can give advice about hot food because they eat it, yes? So I meet condition two. But, I didn't say that she would definitely find the answer there, and I didn't say that everyone who is descended from Asian or Indian folk eats spicy food. But have I implied it? And if I did, does it matter, because what's so bad about spicy food? And why didn't I direct her to a blog run by Latinas (if that's even the right word to use)?
In truth, what I was thinking was that the yummiest, hottest chicken I have ever eaten what made by someone who was visiting from India. I was thinking that Indian food is known to be spicy, as is some Chinese and Thai food. I was thinking that it made more sense to ask the question in a forum run by people from these cultures than one frequented by people who think Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich is hot.I was thinking she mentioned her in-laws were Thai.
I wouldn't have done this if I thought it was racist, but in the end I guess it doesn't matter what I think, because I'm white. It matters what Asians and Indians and Mexicans and Filipinos think. Doesn't it?
Does it matter that I try not to be racist? That I read Kimchi Mommas and Turbanhead to broaden my own view? Does intent matter?
(More updating)
Rosie says she didn't intend to be racist, and basically asserts that she wasn't. She is wrong, I'm pretty sure. It feels like what she did was racist. When I apply my test she meets conditions one and three, but I don't know if she meets two. What was it that she said (or implied) that Chinese(?) people could or couldn't do? She doesn't speak Mandarin, or Cantonese, or any Asian tonal language, so she used poor judgement and executed a poor imitation of what she thought those languages sound like. Which sounds like I'm defending her, which I'm not. I'm not saying she should have done that, I'm saying I don't understand how it fits the definition of racism. Poor taste, rude, insensitive, stupid, trashy, yes, but what is it that she's saying Asian people can or can't do? Do I need to change my definition of racism? I suspect that I don't understand what she did. Or maybe racism is just the wrong word, and prejudice or the like is what I'm looking for.
Maybe I'll ask some of the people I read to help sort things out. People with better brains than mine, and perhaps browner skin.
(End of Updating)
Honestly I don't know what to make of all this. I am in the process of walking Boy through this mess, but I haven't found my own way through it yet, so it's hard.
I have found many interesting sites and discussions. I'll post them later, my real world life will suffer if I blog any longer.
going to pee,
ephelba
The Cay is racist because it is written from the perspective of the white boy, and the white boy didn't change enough. To Kill a Mockingbird has Negroes (I use this word here because the critique I read used it) whistling past graveyards, a maid who really is a "happy slave" character, and a phrase that goes something like "lies as black as that boy's skin". Snowy Day isn't culturally specific to African Americans, Africans, Caribbeans, or anybody else who's Black.
I was shocked.
Now I have to decide if I agree with these assessments, which brings up a whole mess of questions. I have to know what racism is to decide if I think something is racist. There seems to be no hard and fast definition or too much consensus on the topic. It has something to do with stereotype, and denial and power. The best I can come up with so far (after much reading online) is that racism is when
1) a person in a position of power says that
2) someone who isn't in power can or can't do something
3) on the basis of stereotypes for the race of the person in question.
Sorta.
Which brings me to the whole stereotype thing. Because stereotypes are a little like myths- dig deep enough and you find a truth that's been abused. I'll pick on the Irish, because they're white. The stereotype is that the Irish are drunkards, yes? It's a stereotype, and we know the truth is that all Irish people aren't drunkards. Some are, some aren't. And yet, I had a group of Irish friends when I was younger, and the amount of booze they consumed on a regular basis was astonishing. Simply amazing. They would go to bars full of other Irish people who were putting back amazing quantities of beer, and they would drink lots of beer and sing. You think I'm making this up, but I'm not. Now, if I write a fictional story that includes Irish folks in America who drink a lot and sing in bars, is that racist? If I was Irish and I wrote that story would it change things?
(Updated) I have been stewing on this and I think it depends on some things. It would make a difference if I was Irish. It would make a difference if I said or implied the Irish were drunk because they were Irish, not because they were young and going through a phase and also just happened to be Irish, as was the case with my real world friends. Although, honestly, I wouldn't go near that with a ten foot pole because it would be so damn easy to miss the mark and perpetuate the stereotype.
(End of Update)
Here's a real life dilemma: I read a blog where a parent asked for advice on introducing her kiddo to spicy food. I put in my two cents, then suggested a few sites where I thought people who may have the same issue might be found, namely Kimchi Mommas and Turbanhead. Am I a racist? I am a member of the majority, which means I meet the first condition. How about the second? I have suggested she go to the blog homes of Asian or Indian people to see what they think. So I'm saying that Asian and Indian people can give advice about hot food because they eat it, yes? So I meet condition two. But, I didn't say that she would definitely find the answer there, and I didn't say that everyone who is descended from Asian or Indian folk eats spicy food. But have I implied it? And if I did, does it matter, because what's so bad about spicy food? And why didn't I direct her to a blog run by Latinas (if that's even the right word to use)?
In truth, what I was thinking was that the yummiest, hottest chicken I have ever eaten what made by someone who was visiting from India. I was thinking that Indian food is known to be spicy, as is some Chinese and Thai food. I was thinking that it made more sense to ask the question in a forum run by people from these cultures than one frequented by people who think Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich is hot.I was thinking she mentioned her in-laws were Thai.
I wouldn't have done this if I thought it was racist, but in the end I guess it doesn't matter what I think, because I'm white. It matters what Asians and Indians and Mexicans and Filipinos think. Doesn't it?
Does it matter that I try not to be racist? That I read Kimchi Mommas and Turbanhead to broaden my own view? Does intent matter?
(More updating)
Rosie says she didn't intend to be racist, and basically asserts that she wasn't. She is wrong, I'm pretty sure. It feels like what she did was racist. When I apply my test she meets conditions one and three, but I don't know if she meets two. What was it that she said (or implied) that Chinese(?) people could or couldn't do? She doesn't speak Mandarin, or Cantonese, or any Asian tonal language, so she used poor judgement and executed a poor imitation of what she thought those languages sound like. Which sounds like I'm defending her, which I'm not. I'm not saying she should have done that, I'm saying I don't understand how it fits the definition of racism. Poor taste, rude, insensitive, stupid, trashy, yes, but what is it that she's saying Asian people can or can't do? Do I need to change my definition of racism? I suspect that I don't understand what she did. Or maybe racism is just the wrong word, and prejudice or the like is what I'm looking for.
Maybe I'll ask some of the people I read to help sort things out. People with better brains than mine, and perhaps browner skin.
(End of Updating)
Honestly I don't know what to make of all this. I am in the process of walking Boy through this mess, but I haven't found my own way through it yet, so it's hard.
I have found many interesting sites and discussions. I'll post them later, my real world life will suffer if I blog any longer.
going to pee,
ephelba
Monday, February 05, 2007
What I am doing when I should be sleeping.
Watching stuff like this:
Ok, actually I was looking for stuff for biology while I was pumping, but when I found this I couldn't look away. For eight minutes and some odd seconds. It's like, Sesame Street goes to grad school, gets high and tries to explain what it's been studying to some chic it hopes to bed. Or something like that. You'll see.
I have decided I need to figure out a way to blog using the dance idiom,
ephelba
Far Out!
Ok, actually I was looking for stuff for biology while I was pumping, but when I found this I couldn't look away. For eight minutes and some odd seconds. It's like, Sesame Street goes to grad school, gets high and tries to explain what it's been studying to some chic it hopes to bed. Or something like that. You'll see.
I have decided I need to figure out a way to blog using the dance idiom,
ephelba
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Grumpy
I am out of sorts. Not the true PMS seether type of thing. Just generally grumpy.
Small things give me headaches, which is new to me. I always thought that was the sort of thing that only happened in the movies- who knew? I was walking to the car and slipped in the snow a little whilst holding the baby. Excitement! Then, Headache! I got the bill for my student loans after I had made a payment but before they had recorded it. Excitement! Then a headache that lasted quite a while.
Maybe it's the latest pregnancy scare. Or the whole trying to figure out a good budget thing. Sometimes it feel like it's about getting the dishes washed and dinner made. Maybe it's all of the above.
I don't think I've belittled anyone today, or said anything hurtful, but the menfolk know I'm cross. I love my menfolk so much- I really don't mean to vex them. Wish I knew what the be in my bonnet was so I could swat it.
Piss in my Wheaties. Sand in my tw*t. Nose out of joint. Panties in a twist.
Yeah.
Going to wash things.
ephelba
Small things give me headaches, which is new to me. I always thought that was the sort of thing that only happened in the movies- who knew? I was walking to the car and slipped in the snow a little whilst holding the baby. Excitement! Then, Headache! I got the bill for my student loans after I had made a payment but before they had recorded it. Excitement! Then a headache that lasted quite a while.
Maybe it's the latest pregnancy scare. Or the whole trying to figure out a good budget thing. Sometimes it feel like it's about getting the dishes washed and dinner made. Maybe it's all of the above.
I don't think I've belittled anyone today, or said anything hurtful, but the menfolk know I'm cross. I love my menfolk so much- I really don't mean to vex them. Wish I knew what the be in my bonnet was so I could swat it.
Piss in my Wheaties. Sand in my tw*t. Nose out of joint. Panties in a twist.
Yeah.
Going to wash things.
ephelba
What your Nanny/Babysitter Does and Doesn't Do
1) He/She probably does love your child. They won't do anything that they believe will hurt your child.
2) She/He probably does go online, make phone calls, listen to the radio or maybe even watch TV while she/he is "On the Clock". Good ones do this when the bambino is napping. They do this because it keeps them from going crazy. You are a parent, and you should (hopefully) understand the insanity that sets in when you haven't related to another grownup in days.
3) He/she keeps their eye out for things to do with your child that will be interesting and developmentally appropriate, but they don't plan the day's activities like a school teacher would. Yes, yes, your child is their job, but maybe a better way to wrap you brain around it is to say that they are being paid to be the mother for a little while. (This may be an unpopular thing to say, especially given the whole row going on between Meridith and Melissa right now. But still...) This is more true of nannies than daycare providers, perhaps, because nannies may have to clean the house, do the laundry, and get the groceries in addition to raising a baby, as opposed to raising a baby, and another baby, and another baby.... The point remains, watching children involves a lot of actually watching children. Watching children play, watching children eat, watching children play some more. The caregiver does provide stimulation, food and a running commentary (for the littlest folks), but this watching is more in the form of continual glances than a hawk-like stare.
When you're at home with your child do you say "And now we're going to play this:" and do you hover over them and put yourself in their every exploration? I assume that your child's day is a string of explorations undertaken with you in the wings, and that games or songs the two of you do together are strung in the mix randomly and naturally. And while you're hanging out to make sure she doesn't eat the dog or try to climb out the window, your mind wanders. You find something to do until she needs you, because otherwise your brain would go numb. Your nanny is no different from you in this regard.
4) Being a Nanny is akin to being a mother, but it is most like being a Single Mother. No one is there to get the door for you if you're in the middle of a diaper change, watch the baby while you pee, pick up the groceries for you on their way home. They're running your house for you by themselves. Most single moms are doing all this with no money, so a Nanny gets a break there because you are providing the cash, but emotionally it is very similar. It can be stressful and lonely. This is why some Nannies want to talk about themselves when you come home- she has been The Provider all day, and she's ready to switch modes. One would hope she doesn't take this to extremes, that she understands your priority is (rightfully) the child and gives you those juicy details first and freely. But given half a chance she'll probably tell you more than you ever wanted to know about her digestive system or her cats because she needs to talk to somebody about something other than Goodnight Moon and Cheerios.
I wrote this with Nannies/Babysitters in mind, more than Childcare Center Providers. It's a different world when your job is raising 8 children. It is all children all the time, but you are working with other grownups, which helps. You don't have to worry about shopping with children or cleaning the house with children, because you do all that when they leave (generally). And if you want to pee there's someone else to give you a break. You still get sick of Goodnight Moon and Cheerios, but you have coworkers to be sick with. It's hard, but it's different.
I don't know what possessed me to write this. I guess I'm bothered by the stuff I've read lately about parents expecting more of their babysitter than they do of themselves. Probably because you pay a nanny but don't pay a Mom. I can see that. Still. I have been a single mom, a nanny, a daycare provider, a married mom, a working mom and a stay at home mom, and to those who grouse about the humanity of their nanny, I say "Get Over It".
going to get less grumpy,
ephelba
2) She/He probably does go online, make phone calls, listen to the radio or maybe even watch TV while she/he is "On the Clock". Good ones do this when the bambino is napping. They do this because it keeps them from going crazy. You are a parent, and you should (hopefully) understand the insanity that sets in when you haven't related to another grownup in days.
3) He/she keeps their eye out for things to do with your child that will be interesting and developmentally appropriate, but they don't plan the day's activities like a school teacher would. Yes, yes, your child is their job, but maybe a better way to wrap you brain around it is to say that they are being paid to be the mother for a little while. (This may be an unpopular thing to say, especially given the whole row going on between Meridith and Melissa right now. But still...) This is more true of nannies than daycare providers, perhaps, because nannies may have to clean the house, do the laundry, and get the groceries in addition to raising a baby, as opposed to raising a baby, and another baby, and another baby.... The point remains, watching children involves a lot of actually watching children. Watching children play, watching children eat, watching children play some more. The caregiver does provide stimulation, food and a running commentary (for the littlest folks), but this watching is more in the form of continual glances than a hawk-like stare.
When you're at home with your child do you say "And now we're going to play this:" and do you hover over them and put yourself in their every exploration? I assume that your child's day is a string of explorations undertaken with you in the wings, and that games or songs the two of you do together are strung in the mix randomly and naturally. And while you're hanging out to make sure she doesn't eat the dog or try to climb out the window, your mind wanders. You find something to do until she needs you, because otherwise your brain would go numb. Your nanny is no different from you in this regard.
4) Being a Nanny is akin to being a mother, but it is most like being a Single Mother. No one is there to get the door for you if you're in the middle of a diaper change, watch the baby while you pee, pick up the groceries for you on their way home. They're running your house for you by themselves. Most single moms are doing all this with no money, so a Nanny gets a break there because you are providing the cash, but emotionally it is very similar. It can be stressful and lonely. This is why some Nannies want to talk about themselves when you come home- she has been The Provider all day, and she's ready to switch modes. One would hope she doesn't take this to extremes, that she understands your priority is (rightfully) the child and gives you those juicy details first and freely. But given half a chance she'll probably tell you more than you ever wanted to know about her digestive system or her cats because she needs to talk to somebody about something other than Goodnight Moon and Cheerios.
I wrote this with Nannies/Babysitters in mind, more than Childcare Center Providers. It's a different world when your job is raising 8 children. It is all children all the time, but you are working with other grownups, which helps. You don't have to worry about shopping with children or cleaning the house with children, because you do all that when they leave (generally). And if you want to pee there's someone else to give you a break. You still get sick of Goodnight Moon and Cheerios, but you have coworkers to be sick with. It's hard, but it's different.
I don't know what possessed me to write this. I guess I'm bothered by the stuff I've read lately about parents expecting more of their babysitter than they do of themselves. Probably because you pay a nanny but don't pay a Mom. I can see that. Still. I have been a single mom, a nanny, a daycare provider, a married mom, a working mom and a stay at home mom, and to those who grouse about the humanity of their nanny, I say "Get Over It".
going to get less grumpy,
ephelba
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Same shit, different cycle
I used to type all my entries in notepad, then cut and paste them into Diaryland, because I had an old pc that puked frequently. It delighted in waiting until I'd put a fair bit of effort into an entry first. Then I got this Mac, and I've been freely typing away in Blogger with nary a worry. Of course, the "Firefox has unexpectedly quit" messages
ASIDE:
Who? Who doesn't expect it to quit? Because it ain't me. I am dead certain it is about to quit any second now, and am thoroughly nonplussed by that stupid error message.
EXPECTING IT TO QUIT EVEN NOW:
are increasing at an alarming rate, and I lost an entry today. And an email. And one of those thingys you put at the bottom of someone else's blog entry. Comment. Whatever, you knew what I meant.
So.
Back to typing in Notepad.
Of course, notepad "Unexpectedly" quits too, so I may just be up a creek. Surprise!
What the hell was I typing about? I can't remember because I'm tired and nursing and apparently milk is made out of Mom Brains. Yum.
Oh! I remember...
Ok, so I have been shopping for a new birth control method lately. "New" would be anything other than saying "Oh shit" or "Whoopsy!" EVERY GOD DAMN MONTH. I'm frankly scared by the thought of leaving copper up in my hoo-hoo for ten years at a time, because (don't laugh at me) I worry it worsens Alzheimers. There's conflicting research that it either slows or worsens the progression of the disease. I don't want to get an IUD put in and then find out it's rotting my brain. There are progestrone ones, but I tend to get side effects from the hormonal birth control. I was on the ring, which gives you about the lowest dose of estrogen possible, and for my troubles I got a permanent set of brown splotches on my face, a diseased gall bladder, a loss of sex drive, and - oh yeah- A BABY. I'm staying away from the hormonal stuff.
Which leaves things you put on or in. Which is what I'm supposed to be using now. Which I forget to do. Which makes me think I should just go with the copper IUD. And around we go. I have no fucking clue what the hell to do, other than put in a reminder on my Yahoo calendar so that it emails me every month to say "Now would be a good time to use a condom, genius." Starting next month. Because this month we've already fucked up, see?
The thought of a third kiddo still scares me stiff. We talked about going to get the morning after pill or getting a copper IUD put in now, but we agreed the idea was icky. At the time we couldn't put our fingers on why, but I think I've got it figured out since then. Simon and I are parents. If the sperm has romanced the egg, the result is, in effect, our child. Making my uterus uninhabitable for it feels like we're harming our child, which we won't do. We'll give it a fighting chance. Of course, if it misses or bounces we'll have a beer and call it day, but if it sticks... well, you can't imagine the love it's going to get.
Going to "Add an Event",
ephelba
ASIDE:
Who? Who doesn't expect it to quit? Because it ain't me. I am dead certain it is about to quit any second now, and am thoroughly nonplussed by that stupid error message.
EXPECTING IT TO QUIT EVEN NOW:
are increasing at an alarming rate, and I lost an entry today. And an email. And one of those thingys you put at the bottom of someone else's blog entry. Comment. Whatever, you knew what I meant.
So.
Back to typing in Notepad.
Of course, notepad "Unexpectedly" quits too, so I may just be up a creek. Surprise!
What the hell was I typing about? I can't remember because I'm tired and nursing and apparently milk is made out of Mom Brains. Yum.
Oh! I remember...
Ok, so I have been shopping for a new birth control method lately. "New" would be anything other than saying "Oh shit" or "Whoopsy!" EVERY GOD DAMN MONTH. I'm frankly scared by the thought of leaving copper up in my hoo-hoo for ten years at a time, because (don't laugh at me) I worry it worsens Alzheimers. There's conflicting research that it either slows or worsens the progression of the disease. I don't want to get an IUD put in and then find out it's rotting my brain. There are progestrone ones, but I tend to get side effects from the hormonal birth control. I was on the ring, which gives you about the lowest dose of estrogen possible, and for my troubles I got a permanent set of brown splotches on my face, a diseased gall bladder, a loss of sex drive, and - oh yeah- A BABY. I'm staying away from the hormonal stuff.
Which leaves things you put on or in. Which is what I'm supposed to be using now. Which I forget to do. Which makes me think I should just go with the copper IUD. And around we go. I have no fucking clue what the hell to do, other than put in a reminder on my Yahoo calendar so that it emails me every month to say "Now would be a good time to use a condom, genius." Starting next month. Because this month we've already fucked up, see?
The thought of a third kiddo still scares me stiff. We talked about going to get the morning after pill or getting a copper IUD put in now, but we agreed the idea was icky. At the time we couldn't put our fingers on why, but I think I've got it figured out since then. Simon and I are parents. If the sperm has romanced the egg, the result is, in effect, our child. Making my uterus uninhabitable for it feels like we're harming our child, which we won't do. We'll give it a fighting chance. Of course, if it misses or bounces we'll have a beer and call it day, but if it sticks... well, you can't imagine the love it's going to get.
Going to "Add an Event",
ephelba
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Comments I haven't left on other people's blogs...
Alot of the bloggers I read are pregnant right now. They like to kvetch about people asking questions about their pregnancy, about the baby's sex, names, about how people like to fondle the Belly. They are mightily offended.
I haven't commented because everyone needs a place to vent, but I'm baffled by their offense. If you came into work with your arm in a cast, wouldn't you expect people to ask "What happened?". You would, because your injury would be very visible, and presumably your coworkers care about you, at least a little. And having brought the subject up, they would ask questions about how long you were going to have to wear it, etc, because that's what people do. It shows they care. You will, of course, get tired of answering the same questions, but you wouldn't say "It's none of your damn business!". In fact, if you came in and no one mentioned it or asked for details when you pointed it out you'd probably feel hurt.
Are people supposed to notice your pregnancy and not say anything? What is left to discuss if they can't ask about due dates or the baby's gender or even names? "I see you're pregnant! Good luck with that." Or maybe "You'll get over it."
And as for the whole touching the belly thing, I never had anyone rub my belly without asking first. I understand that other people have much higher, thicker and generally more substantial boundaries than I do, so I wouldn't bother to consider rubbing someone else's belly, but I completely understood when people asked me. Pregnancy is awe inspiring. There's a baby in there, and the fact that you can feel the little life riding around in there just blows your mind.
Then I saw a post where someone used their cell and took a picture of a lady who, well, let's just say when she got dressed that morning she chose poorly. And yet, the blogger said she had looked in a store window and admired the view, apparently reassured by her too small jeans and tacky clothing.
Have you ever heard someone with a tin ear try to sing? It's incredible. If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't have believed it possible. The person I heard could carry a tune just fine, but hadn't even the barest notion that she was carrying it in a completely different (and unharmonious) key as the accompaniment. She couldn't tell. It was like being color blind. I think some people have this trouble with clothing. They see an item of clothing on someone and they like the style, so they assume that it will look good on them. Even when they look in the mirror and see evidence to the contrary, all they recognize is that, "Yep, those are those awesome jeans that I like". Not "I should have chosen jeans that come up past my ass crack, or at least my underwear." Bless her heart.
Then tonight we heard about a lady who died from water intoxication after trying to win a contest at a radio station, and I just couldn't fucking believe it. Even though a woman called into the station and told the DJs this could happen, they laughed and said the contestants signed waivers. Nice. And when the lady began to show symptoms did they say, gee, maybe you should call a Dr? No, they said it was her body telling her she needed to barf. She called in sick to work, laid down and died. I just can not get over it. Firstly that this many people haven't heard of water intoxication. Secondly, that the ones who had heard of it didn't insist that the contest was a really, really bad idea. Lastly, that NO ONE THOUGHT TO CALL A DR AT ANY POINT! It just makes me sick. People die every day from war, famine and plague, but somehow death by ignorance and stupidity bothers me more.
On another note, spent a lot of time reading about Peanut's little chin (micrognathia). Turns out she has several symptoms of a kind of dwarfism. Well, except, as Simon so helpfully pointed out, she's not a dwarf. Phew. One less thing to worry about.
There are many scary things that a little chin portends. We have lucked out, in that none of them are things she'll have to face, but I begin to understand why it was such a big deal when she was born. All I really wanted to know was whether I should be doing something about the little chin right now. I think the answer is probably not, but for once I have done the research before I take her in for her checkup, like a good responsible Mommy.
Going to bed, like a good responsible Mommy should,
ephelba
I haven't commented because everyone needs a place to vent, but I'm baffled by their offense. If you came into work with your arm in a cast, wouldn't you expect people to ask "What happened?". You would, because your injury would be very visible, and presumably your coworkers care about you, at least a little. And having brought the subject up, they would ask questions about how long you were going to have to wear it, etc, because that's what people do. It shows they care. You will, of course, get tired of answering the same questions, but you wouldn't say "It's none of your damn business!". In fact, if you came in and no one mentioned it or asked for details when you pointed it out you'd probably feel hurt.
Are people supposed to notice your pregnancy and not say anything? What is left to discuss if they can't ask about due dates or the baby's gender or even names? "I see you're pregnant! Good luck with that." Or maybe "You'll get over it."
And as for the whole touching the belly thing, I never had anyone rub my belly without asking first. I understand that other people have much higher, thicker and generally more substantial boundaries than I do, so I wouldn't bother to consider rubbing someone else's belly, but I completely understood when people asked me. Pregnancy is awe inspiring. There's a baby in there, and the fact that you can feel the little life riding around in there just blows your mind.
Then I saw a post where someone used their cell and took a picture of a lady who, well, let's just say when she got dressed that morning she chose poorly. And yet, the blogger said she had looked in a store window and admired the view, apparently reassured by her too small jeans and tacky clothing.
Have you ever heard someone with a tin ear try to sing? It's incredible. If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't have believed it possible. The person I heard could carry a tune just fine, but hadn't even the barest notion that she was carrying it in a completely different (and unharmonious) key as the accompaniment. She couldn't tell. It was like being color blind. I think some people have this trouble with clothing. They see an item of clothing on someone and they like the style, so they assume that it will look good on them. Even when they look in the mirror and see evidence to the contrary, all they recognize is that, "Yep, those are those awesome jeans that I like". Not "I should have chosen jeans that come up past my ass crack, or at least my underwear." Bless her heart.
Then tonight we heard about a lady who died from water intoxication after trying to win a contest at a radio station, and I just couldn't fucking believe it. Even though a woman called into the station and told the DJs this could happen, they laughed and said the contestants signed waivers. Nice. And when the lady began to show symptoms did they say, gee, maybe you should call a Dr? No, they said it was her body telling her she needed to barf. She called in sick to work, laid down and died. I just can not get over it. Firstly that this many people haven't heard of water intoxication. Secondly, that the ones who had heard of it didn't insist that the contest was a really, really bad idea. Lastly, that NO ONE THOUGHT TO CALL A DR AT ANY POINT! It just makes me sick. People die every day from war, famine and plague, but somehow death by ignorance and stupidity bothers me more.
On another note, spent a lot of time reading about Peanut's little chin (micrognathia). Turns out she has several symptoms of a kind of dwarfism. Well, except, as Simon so helpfully pointed out, she's not a dwarf. Phew. One less thing to worry about.
There are many scary things that a little chin portends. We have lucked out, in that none of them are things she'll have to face, but I begin to understand why it was such a big deal when she was born. All I really wanted to know was whether I should be doing something about the little chin right now. I think the answer is probably not, but for once I have done the research before I take her in for her checkup, like a good responsible Mommy.
Going to bed, like a good responsible Mommy should,
ephelba
Saturday, January 13, 2007
How to Turn into your Grandmother:
Step One: Don't use a dishwasher. In my case, I totally would if I had a functioning one, but I don't, so I don't.
Step Two: Somehow manage to seem to wash dishes continually all day long. Actually I usually only wash twice a day, but there was a time in my life I could go for several days without washing the dishes. That time is way over. I didn't do the dishes the other night before I went to bed (you wouldn't believe how tired I was), then the next day Simon was helping me catch up. He said it had to have been three days since I did dishes, because look at all of them! To which I replied Nope, just one, welcome to my world.
Step Three: Start thinking about dinner at 3:00 in the afternoon. What you're going to make, how long it's going to take, what to do with the leftovers... Because you want it to be ready when your husband gets home. You do. Really a lot. Which sounds so 1950's housewifey, but the simple truth is that life is smoother when you can get the dishes done early. The dishes are best washed after dinner is over, as opposed to before (they're already clean) or during (your family goes all whiskey foxtrot tango). Therefore, the earlier you eat, the sooner you can clean.
Step Four: Redefine your relationship with foods. When you were younger, food was yummy or not. Now it agrees with you or it argues. Examples - Pizza: some quabbles in the form of heartburn, but otherwise ok. Grapefruit: disagrees most vociferously the entire time it's visiting. And it doesn't stay long.
Step Five: Truly believe in your heart of hearts that a crocheted/knitted anything makes a terrific gift. Know that maybe the person receiving the handmade whatever doesn't make things by hand and won't necessarily recognize what a labor of love it is, but decide you don't care. At least you don't use acrylic yarn.
Step Six: When you drop something you didn't mean to drop, say something like "Sugar" or "Snap". "Fudge" is ok, but seeing as how it does make the mind run toward the "Shit" that anyone else would have said, it's the word of last resort. Alas, I say "Shit" as much or more than I say "Sugar", but I'm trying.
Having said all this, I don't mean to imply I'm feeling old. I don't. I'm just surprised to find myself doing these things that I thought were vaguely silly when she did them. However, there are just some things I never will do, such as dry the dishes (that's what the dish drainer is for), touch something nasty with my bare hands (I know hands can be washed, but still), or eat liver (eeew).
Going to wash something,
ephelba
Step Two: Somehow manage to seem to wash dishes continually all day long. Actually I usually only wash twice a day, but there was a time in my life I could go for several days without washing the dishes. That time is way over. I didn't do the dishes the other night before I went to bed (you wouldn't believe how tired I was), then the next day Simon was helping me catch up. He said it had to have been three days since I did dishes, because look at all of them! To which I replied Nope, just one, welcome to my world.
Step Three: Start thinking about dinner at 3:00 in the afternoon. What you're going to make, how long it's going to take, what to do with the leftovers... Because you want it to be ready when your husband gets home. You do. Really a lot. Which sounds so 1950's housewifey, but the simple truth is that life is smoother when you can get the dishes done early. The dishes are best washed after dinner is over, as opposed to before (they're already clean) or during (your family goes all whiskey foxtrot tango). Therefore, the earlier you eat, the sooner you can clean.
Step Four: Redefine your relationship with foods. When you were younger, food was yummy or not. Now it agrees with you or it argues. Examples - Pizza: some quabbles in the form of heartburn, but otherwise ok. Grapefruit: disagrees most vociferously the entire time it's visiting. And it doesn't stay long.
Step Five: Truly believe in your heart of hearts that a crocheted/knitted anything makes a terrific gift. Know that maybe the person receiving the handmade whatever doesn't make things by hand and won't necessarily recognize what a labor of love it is, but decide you don't care. At least you don't use acrylic yarn.
Step Six: When you drop something you didn't mean to drop, say something like "Sugar" or "Snap". "Fudge" is ok, but seeing as how it does make the mind run toward the "Shit" that anyone else would have said, it's the word of last resort. Alas, I say "Shit" as much or more than I say "Sugar", but I'm trying.
Having said all this, I don't mean to imply I'm feeling old. I don't. I'm just surprised to find myself doing these things that I thought were vaguely silly when she did them. However, there are just some things I never will do, such as dry the dishes (that's what the dish drainer is for), touch something nasty with my bare hands (I know hands can be washed, but still), or eat liver (eeew).
Going to wash something,
ephelba
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
In which Friends come and go.
Loon and her lovely M drove all the way from Michigan just to come visit. It is very humbling to have a friend do that. We did not go out on the town, undertake trendy shopping excursions or take in the sights. We did go to the Salvation Army, make some wicked good chicken and rice, trade x-mas presents and generally fart around.
Simon said it did him good to see me that happy. I felt very happy indeed, but I didn't realize there was such a difference between my normal state and a Loon-is-coming state.
Then, of course, they had to go back home. It took all of, oooo, maybe an hour, for me to have a melt down. I am pleased to report that I didn't belittle anyone or say anything hurtful to anyone, but I did stop traffic by yelling that I was going f-ing nuts and I couldn't take anymore f-ing noise and somebody better turn off at least two of the f-ing radios that were going at the time. Loon said she had friend hang-over too, and had griped a little about having to read directions and drive at the same time. I am treating the symptoms by listening to the mix cds she made for me. A lot.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, right on the heels of the friend hangover I have come down with PMS for the second or third month in a row. In the past it was an occasional event. These days theevilness moodiness starts three or four days in advance of the "moon cycle". Maybe it's because I'm nursing and I need more calcium than I'm getting. I keep meaning to do something about that, but then I bitch at the Boy all day non-stop and realize that, oops, I didn't bone up on my calcium this month either. Can you not do homeschool for a week because your mother is PMSing? Really I think that would be best for everyone. Unfortunately I don't think I can pull it off with out major loads of guilt. I'll just have to try to get by with chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Yeah, because, umm, chocolate has magnesium, which, umm, means you absorb more calcium, which means it's medicinal... yeah, that's the ticket.
Going to get my fix,
ephelba
Simon said it did him good to see me that happy. I felt very happy indeed, but I didn't realize there was such a difference between my normal state and a Loon-is-coming state.
Then, of course, they had to go back home. It took all of, oooo, maybe an hour, for me to have a melt down. I am pleased to report that I didn't belittle anyone or say anything hurtful to anyone, but I did stop traffic by yelling that I was going f-ing nuts and I couldn't take anymore f-ing noise and somebody better turn off at least two of the f-ing radios that were going at the time. Loon said she had friend hang-over too, and had griped a little about having to read directions and drive at the same time. I am treating the symptoms by listening to the mix cds she made for me. A lot.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, right on the heels of the friend hangover I have come down with PMS for the second or third month in a row. In the past it was an occasional event. These days the
Going to get my fix,
ephelba
Thursday, January 04, 2007
What I've been up to lately.
Loon is coming for a visit! Hooray! I have been making her Xmas presents today, seeing as she's coming tomorrow and I am the mistress of procrastination.
I have also been rearranging. Simon says it's because Loon and her beloved helped me move in, and I don't want it to look like I haven't done anything since then. I think it's because I'm too excited to just pick up a little. A quick pick up isn't grand enough, no, I have to rearrange half the house. At least half. Hmmm.
Also, Boy got Super Mario Bros for xmas, so I have been busy discovering the wonders that everyone else my age has already got memorized. I didn't have TV when I was Boy's age, and most "secular" things were banned from the house, so I am still playing catch up on some things.
ASIDE:
As a freshman in college every song I heard was new to me, so I would be like, "This music is AWESOME! Who is this?" And everyone would be like, "Umm, seriously, it's the Beatles". Or CCR, or Jane's Addiction or The Police or They Might Be Giants. Didn't matter who it was, I hadn't heard of them. I did listen to the radio in my car once I hit 16, but if the one station we got didn't play it, I hadn't heard it. The station played bands that printed their T-shirts on black poly-cotton. You can understand why my musical diet was lacking.
MY CHILDREN ROCK TO THE STONES:
Simon thinks Lucy is depressed. I say she's always slept that much. I'll admit she realizes her Pack has changed. It's a good thing I'm a SAHM because I think she'd freak if she were to be left all alone all day after four years of hanging with Mabel. I take her with me in the car to run errands, and today I was one of those nutty ladies with her dog in a bag. "Just trying to keep my dog sane, pay no attention to the dog in the bag..." She does get more attention these days. I don't think it is because she gets Mabel's share. I think it's because we miss Mabel and she's the closest thing to a real dog we have.
Which sounds awful. I love Lucy, I really do. I get a kick out of watching her nearly pop when she hears Simon come up the stairs. I love making her happy by saying "Go for a ride?". You couldn't believe the glee. And yet, it is really is more like having a genius of a guinea pig than a dog.
I have plans to make her a doggie bag. By which I mean, a bag for her to ride in, not a bag in which to keep the bits of her we were too full to eat.
going to impersonate an Italian plumber,
ephelba
I have also been rearranging. Simon says it's because Loon and her beloved helped me move in, and I don't want it to look like I haven't done anything since then. I think it's because I'm too excited to just pick up a little. A quick pick up isn't grand enough, no, I have to rearrange half the house. At least half. Hmmm.
Also, Boy got Super Mario Bros for xmas, so I have been busy discovering the wonders that everyone else my age has already got memorized. I didn't have TV when I was Boy's age, and most "secular" things were banned from the house, so I am still playing catch up on some things.
ASIDE:
As a freshman in college every song I heard was new to me, so I would be like, "This music is AWESOME! Who is this?" And everyone would be like, "Umm, seriously, it's the Beatles". Or CCR, or Jane's Addiction or The Police or They Might Be Giants. Didn't matter who it was, I hadn't heard of them. I did listen to the radio in my car once I hit 16, but if the one station we got didn't play it, I hadn't heard it. The station played bands that printed their T-shirts on black poly-cotton. You can understand why my musical diet was lacking.
MY CHILDREN ROCK TO THE STONES:
Simon thinks Lucy is depressed. I say she's always slept that much. I'll admit she realizes her Pack has changed. It's a good thing I'm a SAHM because I think she'd freak if she were to be left all alone all day after four years of hanging with Mabel. I take her with me in the car to run errands, and today I was one of those nutty ladies with her dog in a bag. "Just trying to keep my dog sane, pay no attention to the dog in the bag..." She does get more attention these days. I don't think it is because she gets Mabel's share. I think it's because we miss Mabel and she's the closest thing to a real dog we have.
Which sounds awful. I love Lucy, I really do. I get a kick out of watching her nearly pop when she hears Simon come up the stairs. I love making her happy by saying "Go for a ride?". You couldn't believe the glee. And yet, it is really is more like having a genius of a guinea pig than a dog.
I have plans to make her a doggie bag. By which I mean, a bag for her to ride in, not a bag in which to keep the bits of her we were too full to eat.
going to impersonate an Italian plumber,
ephelba
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Dead Dog
We had to put Mabel to sleep yesterday, or, as Boy prefers to tell it, we killed our dog yesterday. Either way you phrase it the dog is dead.
There is something profoundly disturbing about watching the life leave a body, even if it is a dog's life. One minute it's your dog, the next minute it's just a body and the dog isn't in it any more... If you've been lucky enough to not have to witness this yet, maybe you can't understand it. I don't know how else to put it. All I know is that there comes a moment when you're petting the body and you realize there's no one in it any more and you feel like the rug's been pulled out from under you.
Boy was in the vet's office and he wanted to be there for Mabel, but I wouldn't let him stay. I told him I didn't think anything good would come of it. It is very, very sad to have a dog one minute and not have one the next, but it's a whole nuther world of hurt to watch it happen. As it was he spent two whole days crying- the first because she was sick and likely to die, the second because she did. I can't see telling him to buck up and not be sad. He should be sad. Then again, I can't see making it worse. Hopefully he won't end up in therapy because I wouldn't let him stay when I had them kill the dog.
Guilt is rather narcissistic, I think. Indulge me this once, please. I feel guilty because when Mabel passed a bladder stone two years ago I took her to the cheap vet. Because he was cheap. I told the cheap vet to manage things cheaply. He didn't do an xray, but he did determine the stones were struvite stones. I asked if we should change her diet, and he said to feed her a vegetarian diet, which he would be happy to sell to me.
A vegetarian diet.
For a Dog.
I looked it up and found that although the vegetarian diet can actually be a good thing for some conditions, this was not one of them, so I kept Mabel on her current diet. What I should have done was more research. I should have googled "struvite medical treatment canine" like I did last night, and I would have learned that her treatment was grossly inadequate. Of course, another option would have been to take her to a real vet and spend some real money on her, but I didn't do that either. The net result is that two years later my dog suffered and died from a treatable condition.
So now we're down to one dog. One sad little Lucy, who is strangely clingy and follows me everywhere, not just to the kitchen. I still say the wrong things, like "Take the dogs out". I still expect to hear two dogs barking.
Mostly I miss Mabel's intelligence. Mabel had intention. She had moods, most of them good ones. She could be silly, or hyper, or giddy. She could be cuddly (rare) or calm or lovey. If you wanted to know the meaning or sheer joy, you could set her loose in my Aunt's yard to chase the birds. She'd tear off, go into that "Bunny Run" where both the front legs go out at the same time- now That was a happy dog.
Lucy isn't the same. She's more like a very smart guinea pig. She doesn't have moods so much as modes- food seeking, in which she follows you into the kitchen and hoovers the floor. Heat seeking, in which she stealthily works her way into your lap with out you noticing. And comfort seeking, in which she finds the softest thing in the room to curl up on, and if it isn't soft enough she'll fluff it with her paws. Frankly she's cold comfort right now. I almost want to go get another dog.
Alright. I'm done playing Captain Buzzkill and the Bring Downs,
ephelba
There is something profoundly disturbing about watching the life leave a body, even if it is a dog's life. One minute it's your dog, the next minute it's just a body and the dog isn't in it any more... If you've been lucky enough to not have to witness this yet, maybe you can't understand it. I don't know how else to put it. All I know is that there comes a moment when you're petting the body and you realize there's no one in it any more and you feel like the rug's been pulled out from under you.
Boy was in the vet's office and he wanted to be there for Mabel, but I wouldn't let him stay. I told him I didn't think anything good would come of it. It is very, very sad to have a dog one minute and not have one the next, but it's a whole nuther world of hurt to watch it happen. As it was he spent two whole days crying- the first because she was sick and likely to die, the second because she did. I can't see telling him to buck up and not be sad. He should be sad. Then again, I can't see making it worse. Hopefully he won't end up in therapy because I wouldn't let him stay when I had them kill the dog.
Guilt is rather narcissistic, I think. Indulge me this once, please. I feel guilty because when Mabel passed a bladder stone two years ago I took her to the cheap vet. Because he was cheap. I told the cheap vet to manage things cheaply. He didn't do an xray, but he did determine the stones were struvite stones. I asked if we should change her diet, and he said to feed her a vegetarian diet, which he would be happy to sell to me.
A vegetarian diet.
For a Dog.
I looked it up and found that although the vegetarian diet can actually be a good thing for some conditions, this was not one of them, so I kept Mabel on her current diet. What I should have done was more research. I should have googled "struvite medical treatment canine" like I did last night, and I would have learned that her treatment was grossly inadequate. Of course, another option would have been to take her to a real vet and spend some real money on her, but I didn't do that either. The net result is that two years later my dog suffered and died from a treatable condition.
So now we're down to one dog. One sad little Lucy, who is strangely clingy and follows me everywhere, not just to the kitchen. I still say the wrong things, like "Take the dogs out". I still expect to hear two dogs barking.
Mostly I miss Mabel's intelligence. Mabel had intention. She had moods, most of them good ones. She could be silly, or hyper, or giddy. She could be cuddly (rare) or calm or lovey. If you wanted to know the meaning or sheer joy, you could set her loose in my Aunt's yard to chase the birds. She'd tear off, go into that "Bunny Run" where both the front legs go out at the same time- now That was a happy dog.
Lucy isn't the same. She's more like a very smart guinea pig. She doesn't have moods so much as modes- food seeking, in which she follows you into the kitchen and hoovers the floor. Heat seeking, in which she stealthily works her way into your lap with out you noticing. And comfort seeking, in which she finds the softest thing in the room to curl up on, and if it isn't soft enough she'll fluff it with her paws. Frankly she's cold comfort right now. I almost want to go get another dog.
Alright. I'm done playing Captain Buzzkill and the Bring Downs,
ephelba
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Crazy Making, or How To Make The Perfect Purchase
Step 1: Google reviews for the type of item you had in mind, say, for instance, "Camcorders". Discover that you need to be looking at how many chips the camera uses to record light, how good it is in low light, and of course, price.
Step 2: Try to find a camera that has those features. Read fifty million "10 Best Camcorder" reviews on fifty million sites, frequently discovering that the review is two years old.
Step 3: Thinking you have THE camcorder, Google the specific model and read some more Expert reviews. Discover that a Key quality is lacking in the model you've chosen. Go back to Step 2.
Step 4: Having found a camera with the qualities you desire, begin to read customer reviews. This will undoubtedly lead you to discover that your camera is HATED by the masses. Go back to step 2.
Step 5: Decide you don't care what the reviewers think, you can live with a certain Camcorder because someone on one website said it didn't suck, and it's cheap. Now focus on finding the cheapest price. Google the product name and model number along with the word "Buy". Google will return a million websites listing the same three prices.
Step 6: Google the item and a low-ball price. Google will return a list of cheapskate forums where everyone is talking about how they paid $100 less than anything you've seen the camcorder for, and how they're all jealous of the dude who's bragging that he bought it for $50 less than that.
Step 7: Begin to try to get the camera at the uber-cheap price. This involves skinning a chicken at midnight on the full moon, but you're hard core! It is important to spend several hours on this step, especially if your goal is to make yourself crazy. After pursuing many, many strategies for getting The Super Deal, discover the camcorder is All Sold Out. Everywhere within driving distance. Since the final step in all the strategies is usually taking advantage of the brick and mortar store's price matching policy, this means you're screwed.
Step 8: Repeat step 5, but scroll to the bottom of the page and click the last "o" in Google. On this page will be a little known store that still has the camcorder and is offering it for almost $100 less than the worst prices you've seen.
If you aren't already crazy, go back to step 2 and repeat until you are. That is, of course, unless your goal was to buy a camcorder. If you meant to buy a damn camcorder DO IT NOW! DO NOT SPEND ONE MORE SECOND OVERTHINKING THIS STUPID PURCHASE THAT YOU'VE ALREADY SPENT HOURS, HOURS, DIDDLING YOURSELF OVER!!!
Going to buy a futhermucking camcorder, tra-la, tra-la,
ephelba
Step 2: Try to find a camera that has those features. Read fifty million "10 Best Camcorder" reviews on fifty million sites, frequently discovering that the review is two years old.
Step 3: Thinking you have THE camcorder, Google the specific model and read some more Expert reviews. Discover that a Key quality is lacking in the model you've chosen. Go back to Step 2.
Step 4: Having found a camera with the qualities you desire, begin to read customer reviews. This will undoubtedly lead you to discover that your camera is HATED by the masses. Go back to step 2.
Step 5: Decide you don't care what the reviewers think, you can live with a certain Camcorder because someone on one website said it didn't suck, and it's cheap. Now focus on finding the cheapest price. Google the product name and model number along with the word "Buy". Google will return a million websites listing the same three prices.
Step 6: Google the item and a low-ball price. Google will return a list of cheapskate forums where everyone is talking about how they paid $100 less than anything you've seen the camcorder for, and how they're all jealous of the dude who's bragging that he bought it for $50 less than that.
Step 7: Begin to try to get the camera at the uber-cheap price. This involves skinning a chicken at midnight on the full moon, but you're hard core! It is important to spend several hours on this step, especially if your goal is to make yourself crazy. After pursuing many, many strategies for getting The Super Deal, discover the camcorder is All Sold Out. Everywhere within driving distance. Since the final step in all the strategies is usually taking advantage of the brick and mortar store's price matching policy, this means you're screwed.
Step 8: Repeat step 5, but scroll to the bottom of the page and click the last "o" in Google. On this page will be a little known store that still has the camcorder and is offering it for almost $100 less than the worst prices you've seen.
If you aren't already crazy, go back to step 2 and repeat until you are. That is, of course, unless your goal was to buy a camcorder. If you meant to buy a damn camcorder DO IT NOW! DO NOT SPEND ONE MORE SECOND OVERTHINKING THIS STUPID PURCHASE THAT YOU'VE ALREADY SPENT HOURS, HOURS, DIDDLING YOURSELF OVER!!!
Going to buy a futhermucking camcorder, tra-la, tra-la,
ephelba
Thursday, December 21, 2006
More Randomness
1) At age thirty something I am finally beginning to appreciate "Round Mouth" singing. That is, opera, some choral music, etc... I can tolerate the women, and sometimes I even enjoy hearing a choir. There's no helping the men though, they just sound silly. The vibrato sounds like the fakest laughing ever. Give me another 30 ears and I might warm up to it.
2) Even though it's only 20 minutes long, you should bother to rent Harvey Krumpet. It is amusing. I am especially fond of the crazy mother's burbles.
3)We just watched Mysterious Object at Noon. This is a movie that proves that a degree from film school doesn't mean you really know how to make a movie. The premise is that the film makers travel through Thailand and get locals to complete a story "Exquisite Corpse" style. They don't do much of that though. They enjoy taking tiny peeks into the local's lives, but don't much with that either. It had lovely bits and pieces in it, enough to keep you watching, but not enough to satisfy.
My favorite person met was an older lady who starts telling the story of a dream her father had. Then she tries to get the film maker to have a beer. Then she can't remember when she got the beer, she'd traded some oranges for it, got it from the village elder, but was it yesterday evening or afternoon? She finally realizes she's forgotten what story she was telling. She laughs with complete abandon. Both Simon and Boy say she reminds them of me; I'm flattered.
4)The Peanut crawls. This, combined with her compulsion to eat all things fuzzy/dirty on the floor, promises to keep me busy this week. It is a huge relief, as we were worried she might not crawl for a month or more, if ever. She is also pulling up on things, yet another normal thing that normal babies do in their normalness. Oh yeah, she's normal and a bag of chips.
5) JK Rowling has announced the title of book seven. This brings home the fact that it is nearing completion. My family loves the series. It started out as a fling, but after the third re-read it got serious. It's gone past that now. We know all the flaws intimately. In couple-stages, we're at the point we're planning retirement together and have given up on the seat up or down argument.
6) My son put the decorations on the tree all by himself. He was briefly injured by a dried puffer fish that my mom gave us several years ago. And now you gain a little insight into who I am and how I got to be that way; I was raised by a woman who hangs dead fish on her xmas tree. Now I am that woman. Go figure.
7)I loathe the Boy Scouts more with every passing meeting. They just had a Christmas party that everyone, even the lone Jew, was welcome to attend. I pointed out to Boy that maybe this was a bit icky, and he went off. The Boy Scouts can't do anything right in my eyes and he should just quit.
OK.
Seriously, I had used the word "Icky". We ended up having a huge family discussion, complete with intervention by Simon, because of it. Super-Bitchy-Mom strikes again.
I can't let it go, but apparently I shouldn't have brought it up.
Fucking Boy Scouts.
8)I apologize about the quality of the writing in this post. I am tired. The Peanut sleeps pretty well, but she wakes up three or four times a night just for fun. I get lots of sleep, I just don't get it all in a row, and I suffer for it. I'm constantly word hunting. I get the suckers cornered pretty good (the canine quadruped thingy there) but I have a hard time actually spearing it (dog).
Hey! I made a whole entry without bitching about Christmas!
You'll have to do it yourself,
ephelba
2) Even though it's only 20 minutes long, you should bother to rent Harvey Krumpet. It is amusing. I am especially fond of the crazy mother's burbles.
3)We just watched Mysterious Object at Noon. This is a movie that proves that a degree from film school doesn't mean you really know how to make a movie. The premise is that the film makers travel through Thailand and get locals to complete a story "Exquisite Corpse" style. They don't do much of that though. They enjoy taking tiny peeks into the local's lives, but don't much with that either. It had lovely bits and pieces in it, enough to keep you watching, but not enough to satisfy.
My favorite person met was an older lady who starts telling the story of a dream her father had. Then she tries to get the film maker to have a beer. Then she can't remember when she got the beer, she'd traded some oranges for it, got it from the village elder, but was it yesterday evening or afternoon? She finally realizes she's forgotten what story she was telling. She laughs with complete abandon. Both Simon and Boy say she reminds them of me; I'm flattered.
4)The Peanut crawls. This, combined with her compulsion to eat all things fuzzy/dirty on the floor, promises to keep me busy this week. It is a huge relief, as we were worried she might not crawl for a month or more, if ever. She is also pulling up on things, yet another normal thing that normal babies do in their normalness. Oh yeah, she's normal and a bag of chips.
5) JK Rowling has announced the title of book seven. This brings home the fact that it is nearing completion. My family loves the series. It started out as a fling, but after the third re-read it got serious. It's gone past that now. We know all the flaws intimately. In couple-stages, we're at the point we're planning retirement together and have given up on the seat up or down argument.
6) My son put the decorations on the tree all by himself. He was briefly injured by a dried puffer fish that my mom gave us several years ago. And now you gain a little insight into who I am and how I got to be that way; I was raised by a woman who hangs dead fish on her xmas tree. Now I am that woman. Go figure.
7)I loathe the Boy Scouts more with every passing meeting. They just had a Christmas party that everyone, even the lone Jew, was welcome to attend. I pointed out to Boy that maybe this was a bit icky, and he went off. The Boy Scouts can't do anything right in my eyes and he should just quit.
OK.
Seriously, I had used the word "Icky". We ended up having a huge family discussion, complete with intervention by Simon, because of it. Super-Bitchy-Mom strikes again.
I can't let it go, but apparently I shouldn't have brought it up.
Fucking Boy Scouts.
8)I apologize about the quality of the writing in this post. I am tired. The Peanut sleeps pretty well, but she wakes up three or four times a night just for fun. I get lots of sleep, I just don't get it all in a row, and I suffer for it. I'm constantly word hunting. I get the suckers cornered pretty good (the canine quadruped thingy there) but I have a hard time actually spearing it (dog).
Hey! I made a whole entry without bitching about Christmas!
You'll have to do it yourself,
ephelba
Friday, December 15, 2006
Things that Confuse me:
1) Syriana. Does this stuff really happen? Is this supposed to be a warning? Is the take away message that you can get electrocuted in a pool? If you aren't touching land, then doesn't that mean you aren't grounded and you're ok until you try to get out of the pool? I know, I know, that's exactly how the movie confused you too.
2) If you design a bottle brush, shouldn't the brush handle fit inside the opening of the bottle?
Maybe it's a "No Scratch Brush" because you can't reach the inside of the bottle, much less scratch it.
3) If someone suggested that you take an entire paycheck, buy gifts for everyone you know all at the same time, wrap the gifts in paper that's a huge waste of natural resources, get your house in tip top shape, redecorate it, stock it with homemade goodies at random intervals throughout the month, then top it off with a day spent cooking in the kitchen, all during the season when your family is most likely to be fighting colds would you say "That sounds like the most wonderful time of the year!", or would you say "What a stoopid idea! It'll never catch on."
"Christmas leads to stress, stress leads to beer, beer leads to pissing. Celebrate Christmas and piss away your month you will. "
Maybe I'll leave the dark side and try Channakuh. Hannaka. Channukah.
Maybe I better make it Kwanzaa, because I can spell that.
Spreading my usual Christmas cheer,
ephelba
2) If you design a bottle brush, shouldn't the brush handle fit inside the opening of the bottle?
Maybe it's a "No Scratch Brush" because you can't reach the inside of the bottle, much less scratch it.
3) If someone suggested that you take an entire paycheck, buy gifts for everyone you know all at the same time, wrap the gifts in paper that's a huge waste of natural resources, get your house in tip top shape, redecorate it, stock it with homemade goodies at random intervals throughout the month, then top it off with a day spent cooking in the kitchen, all during the season when your family is most likely to be fighting colds would you say "That sounds like the most wonderful time of the year!", or would you say "What a stoopid idea! It'll never catch on."
"Christmas leads to stress, stress leads to beer, beer leads to pissing. Celebrate Christmas and piss away your month you will. "Maybe I'll leave the dark side and try Channakuh. Hannaka. Channukah.
Maybe I better make it Kwanzaa, because I can spell that.
Spreading my usual Christmas cheer,
ephelba
Sunday, December 10, 2006
In which I admit I'm crazy.
A while back I began having dizzy spells. And shortness of breath. And sometimes chest pains or headaches, but most worryingly, a general wooziness that made me think I might pass out cold. After one rather long lasting spell, I decided to go to the Doctor, and since there were no appts available I was sent to the urgent care.
Here's a confession: I was scared to go, because I was afraid they wouldn't find anything wrong, and they'd think I was crazy. I waited until the symptoms were so bad that I was just sure they'd find something. How could I feel this bad, and they not find anything?
They did an EKG. They took x-rays. They took blood. They listened to my heart and lungs. They didn't find anything wrong.
The Doctor was so kind. He didn't say I was crazy. He didn't say I should relax and forget it. He said I should see my regular Doctor so we could get to the bottom of it.
I did not make an appt. I did not want to go through more tests so they could tell me nothing was wrong. I figured at some point it would get worse. I would actually pass out, or some symptom would become visible and then I would have something tangible to show a Dr.
But the good Dr was thorough, and my Doctor's office called me and told me I really should come in. So I did. And my Doctor looked at my tests, and he looked at me, and then he had me hyperventilate on purpose. Did that feel like my woozy spells? Yep. Then he had a diagnosis- I was having anxiety attacks. But, says I, I didn't feel anxious and panicky when they happened, just woozy. He said that's why it's a disorder.
Recap for the ironically impaired: So I delayed going to the Doctor because I thought they'd think I was crazy, then I went to the Doctor and found out I was crazy.
I have been exploring this notion carefully. I would prefer not to go on meds, seeing as how I'm a walking milk bar right now. Can I control my crazies just by thinking different thoughts? I'm apparently so stressed that my body is having unhealthy reactions to it, but my conscious mind is unaware. Would I feel better if I got my conscious mind to recognize the stress I was apparently under?
I have been trying this for about a week now. I have discovered that I am mainly worried that I just can't get everything done that I need/want done. Therefore I have been trying to get help when I need it. I have also been trying to be my own cheerleader, reminding myself that I can do whatever I set my mind to. I'm getting into new helpful housekeeping habits, and am trying to sucker the guys into some too. It appears to be helping.
I feel ashamed though. Simon gets stressed, but he doesn't have anxiety attacks. Lots of people are stressed and they aren't freaking. I feel weak and lame. Broken.
Perhaps if I can get my act together without medicine then I can call my brokenness fixed? Instead of thinking of myself as weak, I can call it a momentary weakness?
Of course, when I think of other people who have problems with anxiety or panic attacks, I know their troubles are much worse than mine. Their problems are valid, and chemically/genetically based. And totally not about weakness. Their problems are real. Their problems are nothing for them to feel guilty about, only I can do that.
Hey, I don't have to be rational, because I'm crazy - remember?
Doing just fine, really,
ephelba
Here's a confession: I was scared to go, because I was afraid they wouldn't find anything wrong, and they'd think I was crazy. I waited until the symptoms were so bad that I was just sure they'd find something. How could I feel this bad, and they not find anything?
They did an EKG. They took x-rays. They took blood. They listened to my heart and lungs. They didn't find anything wrong.
The Doctor was so kind. He didn't say I was crazy. He didn't say I should relax and forget it. He said I should see my regular Doctor so we could get to the bottom of it.
I did not make an appt. I did not want to go through more tests so they could tell me nothing was wrong. I figured at some point it would get worse. I would actually pass out, or some symptom would become visible and then I would have something tangible to show a Dr.
But the good Dr was thorough, and my Doctor's office called me and told me I really should come in. So I did. And my Doctor looked at my tests, and he looked at me, and then he had me hyperventilate on purpose. Did that feel like my woozy spells? Yep. Then he had a diagnosis- I was having anxiety attacks. But, says I, I didn't feel anxious and panicky when they happened, just woozy. He said that's why it's a disorder.
Recap for the ironically impaired: So I delayed going to the Doctor because I thought they'd think I was crazy, then I went to the Doctor and found out I was crazy.
I have been exploring this notion carefully. I would prefer not to go on meds, seeing as how I'm a walking milk bar right now. Can I control my crazies just by thinking different thoughts? I'm apparently so stressed that my body is having unhealthy reactions to it, but my conscious mind is unaware. Would I feel better if I got my conscious mind to recognize the stress I was apparently under?
I have been trying this for about a week now. I have discovered that I am mainly worried that I just can't get everything done that I need/want done. Therefore I have been trying to get help when I need it. I have also been trying to be my own cheerleader, reminding myself that I can do whatever I set my mind to. I'm getting into new helpful housekeeping habits, and am trying to sucker the guys into some too. It appears to be helping.
I feel ashamed though. Simon gets stressed, but he doesn't have anxiety attacks. Lots of people are stressed and they aren't freaking. I feel weak and lame. Broken.
Perhaps if I can get my act together without medicine then I can call my brokenness fixed? Instead of thinking of myself as weak, I can call it a momentary weakness?
Of course, when I think of other people who have problems with anxiety or panic attacks, I know their troubles are much worse than mine. Their problems are valid, and chemically/genetically based. And totally not about weakness. Their problems are real. Their problems are nothing for them to feel guilty about, only I can do that.
Hey, I don't have to be rational, because I'm crazy - remember?
Doing just fine, really,
ephelba
Friday, December 08, 2006
Is it really that difficult?
So Weds I was expecting my period, and when it didn't arrive I looked at the calendar and realized that Simon had his surgery during the "danger zone" and was out of commission, so there was no reason to worry.
Today being Friday, I began to worry.
I peed on a stick. The stick said "No worries".
So I looked at the calendar again, and realized I was off by a week. I've been off by a week for a week. Which means we thought we were out of the danger zone when we technically weren't.
So now we worry.
Actually, we don't worry much. Looking at the actual days that things actually happened we figure we're ok, but Simon was distressed that I could mix up a thing like that. He said "Don't you women know how to keep track of these things from birth? At any point shouldn't I be able to ask and have you answer 'Two weeks and one day ago'?"
If I were that person, I wouldn't have two kids right now.
Seriously. I can not be trusted with my own fertility. I can't count and I can't remember crap and if we don't end up with another surprise baby it will be Such a miracle.
Tell me you believe in miracles,
ephelba
Today being Friday, I began to worry.
I peed on a stick. The stick said "No worries".
So I looked at the calendar again, and realized I was off by a week. I've been off by a week for a week. Which means we thought we were out of the danger zone when we technically weren't.
So now we worry.
Actually, we don't worry much. Looking at the actual days that things actually happened we figure we're ok, but Simon was distressed that I could mix up a thing like that. He said "Don't you women know how to keep track of these things from birth? At any point shouldn't I be able to ask and have you answer 'Two weeks and one day ago'?"
If I were that person, I wouldn't have two kids right now.
Seriously. I can not be trusted with my own fertility. I can't count and I can't remember crap and if we don't end up with another surprise baby it will be Such a miracle.
Tell me you believe in miracles,
ephelba
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Well shit.
I've been following the whole James Kim thing pretty closely. I was rooting for him hard, and when I heard he had died I was just, I don't know what I was. I've been telling Simon for two days that if it's us, he has to stay in the car. Tonight I added "It's just so sad" to the litany. I was sure James was going to make it, because the whole thing seemed like a made for TV story. How could it not end happily?
There's something reassuring when you hear about something like this and it turns out well. Like maybe there really is a God, or at least some kind of rationality to the universe. And there's something especially devastating about this kind of tragedy happening to such a lovely family, something along the lines of "it could happen to you" I suppose.
Some dear friends of ours, who we always thought of as the loveliest couple, split up just before we moved out here, and for weeks after we heard about it we'd exclaim "I just can't believe it" at random intervals. It wasn't our divorce, but it was truly upsetting for us. Same Cool-Hand-Luke effect I guess. We want somebody to succeed because it would mean that we could too.
It's just so sad.
If it happens to any of you, stay in the car, k?
ephelba
There's something reassuring when you hear about something like this and it turns out well. Like maybe there really is a God, or at least some kind of rationality to the universe. And there's something especially devastating about this kind of tragedy happening to such a lovely family, something along the lines of "it could happen to you" I suppose.
Some dear friends of ours, who we always thought of as the loveliest couple, split up just before we moved out here, and for weeks after we heard about it we'd exclaim "I just can't believe it" at random intervals. It wasn't our divorce, but it was truly upsetting for us. Same Cool-Hand-Luke effect I guess. We want somebody to succeed because it would mean that we could too.
It's just so sad.
If it happens to any of you, stay in the car, k?
ephelba
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