NSFW – (from http://www.urbandictionary.com) Not Safe For Work. Used to describe Internet content generally inappropriate for the typical workplace, i.e., would not be acceptable in the presence of your boss and colleagues (as opposed to SFW, Safe For Work).
Unless, of course, you work in a strip club or in the porn industry, right?
This past weekend, after having been in the house with Sheepdog and the kids for Atlanta’s Snowmageddon 2014 for six long days, I decided to go out and run some errands. The kids and their friends had eaten us out of house and home during our impromptu vacation, so I headed for my number two most frequent check-in on Foursquare, the grocery store.
I loaded my cart with the basics, then checked the list to see what other goodies the kids were asking for. One of the requests was “the conditioner that you use that smells good.” Considering the fact that I have no less than 9 bottles in my shower, I had some detective work to do.
So I moseyed on down to the hair care aisle, and started pulling random bottles off the shelves.
Pop! went a lid. Sniff. Eh, I thought to myself. That one’s just okay-smelling.
So, I tried another. And another. And another. Lather, rinse, repeat. They were all starting to smell the same to me until…
Pop! went a final lid, and the creamy, white conditioner shot out all over my face, my hair, and my chest.
Oh, how I wish I was kidding. That totally happened. And my kids are old enough now that I no longer carry a roll of paper towels in a Mary Poppins carpet bag just in case.
I remember making a sort of moaning, why-me? kind of noise, which – in hindsight – probably did not help my NSFW status. I ignored the people around me as best I could while I tried to get all of the conditioner off of me, but I was imagining the worst-case scenario at the same time… mothers pulling 180’s with their carts while shielding their young children’s eyes, and dirty-perv men lingering and watching me while they pretended to peruse their Just For Men grey-blending options. Please, oh please, do not let anybody have a cell phone camera pointed at me right now.
This is what my hair looked like by the time I got to the checkout line
When I was finished with my clean up on aisle 10, my elbows and hands were silky smooth. Then again so were my face, my knees, my pants, my fleece jacket, and the grocery cart handle. There was not a rough patch of anything anywhere, but I decided that it actually smelled really good (thankfully, because that smell stayed with me for days), so I threw two bottles into my cart and moved on to the next aisle.
Oh, the lengths this mother will go to in order to check something off the to do list.
… give them to your cat/ baby and put the video on YouTube.
… take them. Don’t waste free food.
… wing ’em right back, and add some more lemons of your own.
Those are just a few of the gems I found when I googled the old adage. Why was I doing that, you ask? Well, the Swigers have had a run of bad mojo as of late, so I was technically doing some parenting research.
Kid A did not get a fancy scholarship that she was really excited about from one of her top college choices. Kid B did not make the varsity soccer team at her high school. Kid D only qualified for the rec baseball team, not the select one. Kid E was dismayed that I eventually sent him back to kindergarten after a couple of days of staying home sick, watching TV, and playing Minecraft. And Kid C is always very sad that no one else in our family busts out into dance moves when her favorite song comes on.
There has actually been quite a bit of disappointment around here, and the mood at our house hasn’t been awesome. And I hate it when my kids are sad. It makes my Mama Bear come out, and it makes me feel icky feelings. I have been trying to deal with them in a healthy, productive way, but all I really want to do is punch people in the face. Instead, I have been taking lots and lots of deep breaths.
But I guess it also gives me and Sheepdog the opportunity to teach these kids some important life lessons. We are trying to teach them lessons about resilience, dignity in defeat, good sportsmanship, and overcoming adversity. Don’t quit. Work hard. Try harder, try again, or even cultivate a different dream. Life isn’t always fair, you are not as important as you think, and – sometimes – things work out better than you imagined they would, just not in the way you expected.
It’s like a motivational poster factory up in here.
One of my favorite pieces of advice came today from Kid B’s travel team soccer coach. First, he told her it was okay to be disappointed. But only for a minute. Then, he said, “No one else will feel sorry for you in sports. Don’t feel sorry for yourself either.” His message was so good that it made me cry in the frozen pancake aisle at Kroger. But I’m sensitive like that. And it was exactly what she needed to hear. She’ll get lots more playing time on J.V. and she will be just fine.
The other kids will be alright, too. Kid A is in the running for another fancy scholarship at another of her top-choice colleges, and she has already been accepted at some really great schools. Sheepdog ended up signing up as head coach of Kid D’s rec baseball team, went to the draft last Sunday, and amassed an awesome team of great kids and parents that will make for a really fun season. Kid E went back to kindergarten on the 100th Day of School and came home with a fancy hat. And Kid C has decided that she doesn’t have a favorite song, but she’s going to keep dancing anyway.
So, even when life gives you lemons… it’s all good.
Once upon a time, there were two young girls. They were friends with one another. They laughed together, they imagined together, they danced together. They enjoyed their time together very much. They became better people for having known one another.
One day, the friends discovered a boy. He was smart and funny and kind. One of the girls decided that she liked this boy. Coincidentally, so did the other girl. But when friends like the same boy, it can often lead to trouble.
The girls were aware of this, so they decided to settle their dilemma with a contest. They would both try to learn information about the boy. Each unique fact would be worth a point. At the end, the girl with the most points would be the winner.
So the girls set off separately, each trying to gather as many particulars relevant to the boy as possible. Eye color = 1 point. First job = 1 point. Most cherished book = 1 point. Preferred style of music = 1 point. Strongest subject in school = 1 point. Most frequently quoted movie = 1 point. On and on the girls went, gathering their data.
After a fair amount of time has passed, the girls totaled their points. They were tied, dead even. How ever would they determine the victor?
They decided that the girl who could be the first to learn the boy’s favorite color would be the winner. Conveniently, the girls were both performing in a dance recital, which the boy planned to attend.
The girls were very excited about dancing on stage… the costumes, the makeup, the lights, and the applause all brought them so much joy. Most of all, the girls loved to dance. Dancing is freedom and precision and feelings, all rolled into one. For these two girls, there was little else better than dancing, except dancing with a true friend.
As the girls prepared to take the stage, they remembered this. At that moment, they decided that no boy was worth the destruction of their beautiful friendship. They hugged right before they took their positions.
After the show, the girls saw the boy and posed for a photograph with him. The girls stood on either side, but a boy would never come between them again.
…and then there was MY kid, photobombing their beautiful moment.
A week ago, on New Year’s Eve, I had an appointment to donate at Atlanta Blood Services. I have been going there every other month ever since Kid A’s boyfriend, Braden, was diagnosed with leukemia, mainly because he needed blood products (we always joked that he would know when he got mine because he would have a wine hangover afterwards), but also it gave me something to do at a time when I felt in control of nothing. Even after he died, I keep going back to donate.
It was really hard to go back at first, especially since the infusion clinic is directly across the hall and he and his mom spent a lot of time over there during his treatment. The very first time I returned, I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts and got some treats and a jug of coffee because I wanted to give it to the staff over there. I even planned ahead and made a little card with a picture of him that said something like “In Memory of Braden Dean Smith” so that everybody would think of him while they were eating their yummy donuts. I intended to ask the receptionist if I could put them in the break room once I got there. But I was so overcome with emotion and grief that I was a blubbering, snotty mess and I couldn’t even get words to come out of my mouth. Instead, I showed the girl the picture of Braden and held up the jug of coffee, all while tears and weird noises kept pouring out of me. I was like the deaf/ mute people who hand out cards asking for money, except I had a Box O’ Joe and two warm dozen. She didn’t even bat an eye as she buzzed me through to the back and guided me through the labyrinth of halls to a room marked “Staff Only.”
I was eventually able to calm down and I finally went across the hall to Atlanta Blood Services to start the donation process that day. Each time has gotten a little bit easier after that.
Until last Tuesday.
Looking back on it, it turns out that last Tuesday, the 365th day of the 2,013th trip ’round the sun, Anno Domini, was a fitting end to a quite sucky 2013.
Each time I go in to donate, I first have to do the dance for the lawyers (reading some legalese, mumbo-jumbo, CYA crap that basically says “I know I can die at any time and it’s nobody’s fault but my own”). Then I answer a long set of questions on a computer from 1999 in a tiny, private room (questions like “Have you ever had a transplant of your dura matter?” and “Have you ever had sex with a man who has had sex with another man?”), and then they take my vitals. Following the computer exam, I get poked for a blood sample, and they run tests to see what and how many blood products they can safely and most efficiently extract from me over the next two hours. They always want my platelets.
Last Tuesday was no exception, as I had just shy of 400,000. Be amazed, people, because that makes me a rock star, if only in that room.
So I went into the donation room with the nice nurse (are they even nurses?… I honestly don’t even know) who had reviewed my Scantron and all of my bodily tests (she was new), and she put me in a bed which was not my regular spot. That kind of thing doesn’t really bother me, so I didn’t say anything, but the other nurses/ people who enjoy extracting other people’s blood products without proper qualifications were all like, “Whoa, Nelly! That’s not her bed. She goes over there!” The new lady and I just laughed at them and I stayed put. Mistake #1.
The machine was on the other side of this particular bed – the right one, which meant that I would be donating from my dominant arm. Traffic had been really easy that morning (some days it takes me 2 hours to get there, especially since they started taking down the toll on GA-400!), so I was all, “NBD and whatever!” I climbed in and snuggled under the warm blankets (it makes the blood flow better). Mistake #2.
While she was setting everything up, the machine started to do weird things. It was being quirky and disagreeable. It crossed my mind that I should suggest a move to my regular spot then, but I was doing a great job of being laid back, so I decided to commit fully. I said nothing. Mistake #3.
There was a man donating to my left who is also a true regular. He comes in every two weeks and donates one or two bags of platelets, which means he donates at least 26 bags a year. That is super impressive. It also takes a whole lot of his time, but he teaches yoga and his schedule seemed flexible. He also video blogs (or “vlogs”) about his donations, because he wants people to see that donating is easy and painless and everybody can (and should) do it. He had already vlogged on YouTube about his own New Year’s Eve donation, his final one of 2013, but made a big deal about me sitting next to him (remember that I am a triple donation rock star here), so much so that he made an addendum vlog about me!
So, I had fully committed to this different spot, and I was talking to my new friend, and the new nurse finally tamed the machine and got me hooked up and started my actual donation process. Pinch, release, then slowly and continually squeeze the stress ball to keep the blood pumping. Eventually, I settled in and everything was A-OK.
About two bags in to my donation, I started watching The Truman Show on my laptop. When the second bag was just about done, the nurse wanted me to eat a snack and drink something. I asked for crackers and water. She brought them to me and proceeded to open the water bottle (I only had one free hand… everybody knows you are not supposed to move the arm with the needle in it).
Then came the slow-motion, yet speeded-up combination of events.
The water bottle was not level on the bottom, as sometimes happens with disposable plastic water bottles (I suppose it is karmic punishment for selfishly destroying Mother Earth with those BPA-laden landfill staples). When she put the bottle on my tray, it promptly tipped over onto the keyboard of my MacBook Pro. She reacted and I reacted too. She yelled something and ran to get paper towels, and I moved my dominant arm (along with my left one) to save my laptop.
Yep. I did that. Even though I know better, I moved my arm with the needle plunged into the vein. It immediately hurt (I don’t know which hurt more… the needle or knowing that my laptop just took a shower), so I quickly brought it back to immobile station zero on the arm bar. All of the nurses freaked out and checked on me, making sure I was okay, drying off my laptop, and checking on my arm and the apheresis machine. The new nurse was so freaked out that she came over to help clean up and accidentally dropped the water bottle again, this time into my purse (fortunately, my phone was not in there). I honestly felt so bad for her. It was a complete and total accident. And for whatever reason, I was (honest to goodness) not even upset about it.
The pain in my arm went away quickly. We determined that the needle likely punctured through the vein and I would have some bruising afterwards, but it was not life-threatening. I even finished my full donation and they collected three whole bags from me. I’m still a rock star!
Except this past week, my arm looked like that of a rock star who shoots up (poorly), or maybe a rock star who dates Chris Brown.
Day 1
Day 4
Day 7
“Yes, but you should see the other guy!”
It is getting better every day. It doesn’t hurt at all. It just looks awful. And because Sheepdog took excellent care in drying out my laptop, even the MacBook Pro is recovering nicely. No harm, no foul. I plan to go back in 7 weeks or so. I promise that donating is easy and safe and something that I hope everyone will consider doing.
Except next time, I am sitting in my regular donation bed. And I’m bringing my own reusable water bottle.
Well, with the “winter break” (Ha! Raise your hand if you actually feel any kind of post-vacation bliss right about now. Nobody? Me neither. How about if I ask who feels “winter broken?” Yep… me too.) drawing to a close, things are starting to get back to “normal” around here.
I fully acknowledge the overuse of quotation marks in that opening statement. Cut me some slack as I ease back into this writing thing.
Sheepdog is spending more time at the office, the teenagers are slowly backing off from sleeping during business hours more than nighttime ones, and the littles are walking around like zombies, muttering “I’m hungry” and “I’m sooooooo bored” even after they have eaten us out of house and home and played their way through every single clamshell case and blister package that found its way under our Christmas tree.
What? Those were legitimate quotes. Compulsory marks do not count.
So, after just ONE MORE DAY of winter break, Sheepdog will go to work and the kids will go to school and I will… I will…
Wait.
What will I do? What will I do? What will I do?
What will I do?
There are no more decorations to put up or take down. There are no more presents to buy or wrap or deliver (well, Kid A does have her 18th birthday coming up in a few days, but how do you even begin to wrap a tattoo?). There are no more goodies to make or bake or eat. There are no more envelopes to address and cards to mail, no more trips to pack for (or unpack from), no more holiday parties to plan or attend. It’s like November and December are 100-mile-an-hour months in a BMW hard-top convertible (sometimes with the top down…BRRRR, Green Bay!) – fun but fast. Then in January you can’t go over 50 m.p.h. because you are driving around in one of those exclusively electric cars, like a Nissan Leaf.
Seriously, what will I do?
Fortunately, there is always something to do around here. Mostly, there are chores… shopping for, preparing, and cleaning up after meals, laundry, cleaning out closets and the garage to make room for our holiday haul. Then there’s the driving… lots and lots and lots of driving. And sometimes I have to take care of sick kids. And following the hustle and bustle of November and December, I now have to add “pay many, many bills,” “exercise,” and then “exercise some more because you sure didn’t ever say ‘no’ to the shrimp fondue or the wine, dummy” to my To-Do ASAP list.
All legitimate quotes, dammit.
So, I have all of the boring, repetitive stuff, but I also have some fun stuff coming up too. I plan on being really committed to my attempts at writing a book this year. I started in November during NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), which challenges people to write over 50,000 words during the month, using inspirational quotes and emails and a really unrealistic timeline. I wrote a chapter (a good one!) during the first few days, but nobody showed up at my front door to rough me up or chase me if I didn’t keep it up, so then I did the other things first that were higher on my priority list. Seriously, who has time to flesh out the back story of a secondary, yet pivotal, character while they are simultaneously basting a turkey and making cranberry sauce from actual cranberries and agave nectar for 30 people?
“Ain’t nobody got time for that.” – Sweet Brown
But I do have time to continue to keep up this blog and occasionally write chapters of a book that has been knocking around in my head for years. Especially during January.
And then there is my workout routine, which over the years has been spotty at best, and non-existent if I’m being realistic. I have two workout speeds… maniacal and eating raw cookie batter when nobody is watching. Acknowledging that unhealthy discrepancy, and the fact that I have been blessed with an extremely responsive overall body type, I have decided that 2014 is going to be the year for me to stop making excuses and screwing around and I am going to get healthy. Even if nobody chases me.
When I go to Atlanta Blood Services to donate platelets, my body can produce three bags at one time. Every time. No kidding. And that is apparently not a normal thing. I am freakishly strong. I once moved a couch and a love seat from the living room on the main floor down to the playroom in the basement all by myself. And then I carried two ginormous leather chairs up the stairs. I grew five healthy babies from scratch in this body (with a little starter help from Sheepdog, of course), and helped them grow even stronger and healthier by breastfeeding them. And a year after I had Kid E, I did P90X and I was legitimately rocking a bikini on the beach. I just got lazy and let things slide after that. And that’s just wasteful.
Well, no more. No more sliding, no more excuses, no more cookie batter. Santa brought me P90X3 and I’m going to go push play. Right after I finish this post and fold the laundry.
Sick kids. Last-minute Christmas panic. More sick kids. Angry, grouchy people everywhere. Now I’m starting to feel sick. Everybody wants something from me. Full moon coinciding with another especially wicked and unholy round of PMS. Sheepdog is sleeping with one eye open, just in case.
But I refuse to let it bring me down. I am going to enjoy the crap out of this Christmas season, dammit, no matter what it takes. There ARE good things happening all around me. Sometimes I just have to look extra hard in order to find them.
Kid E finally caught a version of whatever ick it was that landed Kid D in the emergency room last week for IV fluids and some anti-nausea medicine. Fortunately, he didn’t have it nearly as bad, but he was home from school and laying on the couch this week, wrenching my plans to get stuff done during the countdown to Christmas. And, since he is a kid-in-training, who follows and copies almost everything his older brother does down to the last dangerous couch flip, he, too, asked to have a walkie-talkie by his side so he could call me whenever he “needed” something during his convalescence.
I set him up for success… he was tucked in and his pillow was fluffed, with fluids, toys, and all of his electronics within reach. Plus, I had queued up Star Wars V in the Blu-ray. I was crossing my fingers that he didn’t feel the need to use the dreaded walkie talkie.
Star Wars is a fairly recent obsession for Kid E, although he has dabbled a bit in the past. The original trilogy comes on TV every year during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, so I always record it. As a result, the kids have seen IV, V, and VI at least a time or two. Eventually, I just bought the DVDs. Back in 1977, Star Wars IV was the very first movie I ever saw in the theater (just a seven-year-old me and my seven-year-old date, Kevin Mc), and I immediately fell in love (with the movie, not the boy). We played Star Wars for hours upon hours. I am fan for life. Of Star Wars. I haven’t seen Kevin Mc since my wedding to Sheepdog in 1993. I wonder what he’s doing now.
Anyway… Sheepdog shares my love of the franchise, but being much more cerebral than I, he tends to lean more toward analyzing the movies rather than re-enacting the scenes with toys. Here’s the gist of Sheepdog’s thoughts on Star Wars… Anakin Skywalker’s choice to join the Emperor/ Darth Sidious and the rest of the bad guys as Darth Vader the Sith Lord is a metaphor for the struggles that an alcoholic faces on a daily basis. Yoda even warned him, “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” It is a very compelling theory and I’m sure he would talk about it in depth with anyone who is interested. Me? I really like the toys.
Fortunately for me, my kids really like the toys too. Especially Kid E.
“Truly wonderful the mind of a child is.” – Master Yoda
So, sick Kid E is all set and I ask one last time (sure it is) if he needs anything before I go do stuff. He shakes his head and gets to the movie watching.
I settled into my chores and was on a roll in no time. I couldn’t run errands, but I could tackle the things that were waiting for me around the house, and there was quite a lengthy list. But I was finally getting stuff done. I was on fire!
Then it started. Blip, went the walkie talkie.
“Mom!?!”
Blip.
I took a deep breath and responded on the handheld unit, even though he was in the very next room and I could hear him yelling at me through the open door.
Blip.
“I’m here, honey.”
Blip.
Blip.
“Mom! They are in the swamp, Mom! R2-D2 went missing for a while, but Luke found him and they are in the swamp now, Mom!”
Blip.
OK. So, he doesn’t need anything, but I am still going to get a play-by-play of the movie. Whether I like it or not.
Blip.
“Mom?”
Blip.
“Did you hear me?” he yelled from the other room. His hand had fallen off the button before he was done annoying me talking. I took another deep breath.
Blip.
“10-4. I did hear you, sweet boy. Thank you for telling me what was happening on a movie I have seen no less than one hundred times.”
Blip.
Blip.
Static. Blip. His sweaty hand must have slipped again, because whatever diatribe he had next came from the next room, not through the walkie talkie. Ugh. I got up to go talk to him face to face. He was still explaining something when I sat down next to him.
“You know, you have to hold down that button the whole time you are speaking, not just when you start.” I said to my little, sick boy, who I noticed was buried under his blanket on the couch, surrounded by toys and all of his gear. And this time I really looked at him… his face was pale and he had circles under his eyes. His color was off, too. He was trying so hard to get better, mostly because he knew how much stuff I had to get done before next Wednesday. I had certainly said it enough times.
Well, crap.
I told him I’d be right back. I went into my office and turned off my computer. I put away my files and turned off the lights. I was done for the day. Nothing else was important.
I went back into the living room and I climbed under the blanket with my little, sick boy and we cuddled as we watched the rest of the movie.
“You will know (the good from the bad) when you are calm, at peace. Passive. A Jedi uses the Force for knowledge and defense, never for attack.” – Master Yoda
Apparently, I forgot to add “take care of sick kid(s),” “go to doctor’s office and pharmacy,” and “go to doctor’s office and pharmacy (again)” to the run-on To Do list that is giving me chronic whiplash this month. Kids C and D were both home sick on Monday. Poor Kid D still hasn’t gone back and we are now on Day Four of the Ick.
I feel so sorry for my kids when they are sick… I dote on them, I baby them, I bring them whatever they need or want. I let them watch movies and play video games. I fluff their pillows and tuck (and re-tuck)(and re-re-tuck) their woobies. I am usually a very nice Nurse Mommy. But, frankly, by Day Four… I am a little bit over it. Certainly by Day Four during whiplash season I am so done. Mama’s got places to go and presents to wrap, kiddos. How about you get better all ready? “Sometimes you just have to be tougher than the sickness” has been heard escaping my lips a time or two in the last day, even as my child is unable to keep down crackers.
I know, I know. I sound heartless. But the “what if?” guilt always wins out and I’m currently muttering things while I’m on the phone with the doctor, planning our strategy and likely our next meet and greet. And why couldn’t the kids’ pediatrician look like my OB/GYN? That would make having sick kids totally awesome. A girl can dream…
On a brighter note, being stuck at home has allowed me ample time to stuff and address my Christmas letters, which thankfully brought me a little more of the Christmas spirit. I truly love planning out my cards or letter every year. I also love hand writing each recipient’s name and address. I think about the people and their families and what each person means to me. I’ve even been known shed a sentimental tear or two as I write them out. It is one of my favorite traditions… the thinking and remembering. Not the crying. Because a crying tradition would just be weird.
So I thought that maybe I’d like to share my card here on This Is How I Do It as well. It required a bit of redacting, but I think it still works. I may not get the benefit of writing out your names on an envelope, but I am very grateful for each and every one of you.
To all of my readers… Thank you for all of your comments and support. Thank you for commiserating with me, encouraging me, and even for showing me other points of view. Thank you for sharing my posts with your friends. Writing this blog is a true labor of love, and knowing that there are people who care about the fruits is homemade icing on my cake. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
“Mom! I can’t find my North Face jacket. I think I left it in North Carolina.”
“Mom, my elf didn’t do anything last night.”
“(via text) We need to discuss 2014. Let’s talk tonight.”
“Stacy, I swear to God, if you don’t get me your Christmas lists right now, I’m gonna make you buy all your own shit.”
It is December. The smell of fried turkey may still linger in the garage, but Thanksgiving 2013 is already a distant memory.
It is December: put up tree and decorate house http://www.amazon.com buy Sheepdog some egg nog design Christmas cards remind kids of real reason for the season ask them for wish lists Nutcracker end of season team party ding-dong (www.amazon.com delivery) make and refrigerate cookie dough watch “Love, Actually” design photo calendars for family presents class party money collection for bus drivers buy Sheepdog more egg nog ask kids for better wish lists (no, you may not ask for cash) http://www.amazon.com go to stores for things not available on amazon label and stamp and mail Christmas cards decorate gingerbread houses money collection for teachers buy dress for Sheepdog’s law firm’s holiday party buy snowman tablecloths and small water bottles and help with wintry craft at another class party watch “Elf” ding-dong (another http://www.amazon.com delivery) wrap presents Toys for Tots go see Santa get hair cut and colored need to buy Sheepdog more nog go to Sheepdog’s law firm’s holiday party bake cookies drive around to look at lights wrap presents hide presents http://www.amazon.com because there is not an even distribution of presents watch “Rudolph” cousins pollyanna party unwrap presents pack suitcases pack presents pack Christmas socks (that’s what Kid E calls our stockings) ding-dong (whew – glad that last delivery made it in time!) wrap presents hide presents make more cookies because we tore through the first batch Christmas Eve remind kids (again) of real reason for the season visit family deliver presents Christmas Magic wake up early run down stairs make strong coffee open presents open more presents finish off second batch of cookies and egg nog while sitting in sea of crinkled wrapping paper plastic toys electronics and happy faces. Count our many, many blessings. Whew.
Speaking of wood, Kid D is about due for The Talk. Yes, I mean THE Talk. He is in the third grade. Too young, you say? Seriously, have you ridden on a public school bus? Have you watched a rerun of Friends on television? Have you heard of a little thing called the internet?
S-E-X is everywhere. And it has basically been motor boating my son since he was born. He just wasn’t aware that boobs could be used as anything but food or a soft pillow until now. And he has questions… I can see them trying to escape from his little boy mouth. Mostly I see them now when I am showering and he lingers for a fraction of a second too long in my bathroom. Then he leaves quickly, muttering, “…nevermind…” because his little boy brain doesn’t yet know the words he wants to use for the things he wants to ask. And his body will be changing soon and his friends will be saying things. And I don’t want him to feel like he is an alien growing a fifth limb.
“Erections sometimes don’t know when they’re not wanted.” – from “What’s Happening to Me, ” written by Peter Mayle and illustrated by Arthur Robins
I have several options about how I can handle this. I can leave some brochures and books on his nightstand for him to peruse at his leisure. But that seems so isolating and scary, and likely the pages would get stuck together before long. I could ignore the issue and let him find out on his own, in a more organic way. But what if he gets the wrong information or has questions or it freaks him out? At that point, he likely won’t feel comfortable enough to come to me with questions because I never approached him with the facts in the first place. Then sex becomes a dirty little secret in our house. And those are NOT feelings that I want my kids to associate with sex, ever (well, the dirty part can be acceptable, but that’s a much more advanced lesson for later).
I learned about sex in a combination of all of the ways listed above. I regularly organized my mom’s walk-in-closet (honestly, she had a ton of clothes that always ended up on the floor, and it gave me tremendous peace to fold them or hang them back up), and she conveniently left a copy of “What’s Happening to Me?” on a shelf for me to “find” when I was about eleven or twelve. Little did she know that my cousin, now a lesbian for what that’s worth, had told me all about the nitty gritty when I was at her house for a sleepover. I was nine. Any other facts about body development or intercourse or STDs trickled in over the years via sex education classes, Seventeen magazine quizzes, and my friend McWorm, who explained to me in the 7th grade that Dexy’s Midnight Runners most definitely did not want Eileen to hurry up.
Taking what I learned from my own experiences, I went into my own parenting wasteland wishing to make a complete 180 when it came to talking to and teaching my kids about sex. I’m not judging my parents for not talking to me. I know firsthand how hard it is to have The Talk, for both the parents AND the kids. And honestly, my parents didn’t get The Talk from their parents either. So the dirty little secret is all they knew. But I was adamant that I would try to make it, if not easy, than at least a smidge easier for my kids to talk to me about all things related to sex. I would start being open when they were very young and we could build trust from there. I thought it was a good plan.
When the girls were little, I drove a minivan. A silver Mazda MPV, pre-sliding doors, but it was still super convenient for the car seat-toting set. It was also the place where we had some of our best sex talks when they were young. I was laying the groundwork. For example:
One morning on the way to carpool, Kid A, who was in 1st grade at the time, asked what I’d be doing while she and her sisters were in school all day. I took a deep breath and said that I had a doctor’s appointment.
“A well visit, Mommy? Do you have to get a shot?” asked a very curious Kid B, who was in preschool. She was used to her own pediatrician.
“Um, no, actually. I am going to a mommy doctor called an OB/GYN.” I steadied my nerves and looked straight ahead at the road (talks in the car were most awesome because there was never any eye contact involved). “The OB stands for ‘obstetrician,’ and that’s a doctor who delivers babies. I am not pregnant, so I’m not going for that.”
“Whew,” said a smartass Kid A, “‘Cause you’re usually pregnant a lot.”
“No, I am not pregnant right now. So I am going for the GYN part – the ‘gynecologist…’ ” I took a very deep breath. “…and that is a doctor who takes care of your vagina.”
If the girls had brake pedals, we would have skidded out right there in the middle of the road.
“Whaaaaaaaaaat?” squealed both of the older kids. Kid C toddler-giggled at their reaction.
“There is a doctor just for your your cha-china?” More giggles from the backseat.
“Yes, ” I answered, determined to be calm and cool and all NBD about sex. “He will check my weight and my blood pressure and ask me medical questions and do a check to make sure my vagina is all healthy and good. ”
“Well, that’s just like a well visit, Mommy, ” Kid A pointed out.
I was so proud for being straightforward and honest and open about sex with my daughters. They understood. I was making progress. Change is good! And then Kid B broke me.
“But what about if you make a stinker out of your vagina when the doctor is checking you. What happens then, Mommy? If you make a stinker? Out of your vagina?”
I slammed on the brakes at that point, both figuratively on the conversation and literally on the minivan. Fortunately, we had just pulled in to the school drop off. “Have a good day, girls!” I fake-smiled and waved and completely ignored the final, utterly unnerving question about S-E-X. I was actually shaking in my seat. Where was that kid from?
Kids are evil. They are ornery. Kids are put on this earth to pulverize their parents’ best intentions into dust particles and then throw them into our faces. Groundwork, shmoundwork.
Now that I think about it, I’ll wait just a little while longer before I give Kid D The Talk. He can learn about S-E-X like everybody else, the old-fashioned way… from a Victoria’s Secret catalog.
I can’t remember if I told you all this before, but in the 8th Grade I won the Industrial Arts Award. Yes, I deserved it. And yes, I went to a co-ed school. At my school, the boys and the girls had to take both wood shop and home economics. I was okay at the home economics stuff (much better at the cooking and baking than I was at the sewing). But I was really good at the wood shop stuff, both in theory and practical application. Plus, I really enjoyed the class. When you pulled my elephant’s trunk, that light came ON! Every time.
Here is a picture of me receiving the Award for Excellence in Industrial Arts at my 8th grade graduation ceremony. I am the one dressed like an Amish girl. What you can not see (or hear, actually) is my dad in the bleachers proudly exclaiming, “That’s my SON!” when the award was announced.
I guess you can say I have had a life-long admiration for quality woodworking and beautiful things created from quality wood. Maybe it comes from me being born so close to all of those Redwood trees in California. I find wood to be amazing. Wood is very pleasing to my senses. Whether rough or smooth, natural or stained, I love the feel of it. I love to touch it. I love the smell of it. I love it in all forms… raw and freshly cut, finished, or even as sawdust. The lines and the swirls in the grains of each piece of wood, as unique as snowflakes, are incredibly interesting and I love imagining the stories of how they came to be. Hard wood, soft wood, dark wood, light wood… it is all good. Wood is very, very sexy.
But even more amazing to me is someone who has the ability to manipulate wood into something more, something functional. A person who can take a piece of wood and build something beautiful and strong is a true artist in my mind.
That is one of the reasons why I love everything about the show “This Old House.” I started watching Norm Abram on “The New Yankee Workshop” back when Sheepdog and I first got married. I was in awe of what he could do with pieces of wood in that magical barn. “This Old House” was a companion show for me… it took it up a notch by delving in to building and renovating entire homes, but it also strayed from the actual woodworking and furniture making components that got me hooked in the first place. Together, these shows and the people on them (Kevin O’Connor, Norm Abram, Rich Trethewey, Tom Silva, and Roger Cook), have helped foster and intensify my love of all things wood.
I have been playing my favorite game of “Million Dollar Listing” again by perusing the local real estate market. During my birthday week I went with my dad to see an 8.5 acre property that was on the market for $1.875 million, after having been dropped down from $2.3 million (that made it a really good deal in my mind). It was spectacular for so many reasons… the privacy, the wooded land, the gunite-salt water-infinity pool out back, the gorgeously refinished kitchen and bathrooms, but mainly because of all of the wood inside of the house. There is no drywall in this home. All of the walls are made of wood. It felt like a mountain cabin in Colorado. It seriously took my breath away and made me all tingly.
Wood. On. The. Walls. And notice how the inlayed starburst pattern on the floor mirrors the beams on the ceiling. How does this NOT turn everyone on? P.S. There is no way I can afford this otherworldly home.
So now you will totally understand just how freaking excited I was when I found out recently that one of my fun college peeps actually knows Kevin O’Connor, the host of “This Old House.” They went to high school together and are still good friends. When I told him how cool I thought that was, he was like, “Seriously, you actually watch PBS? He’s no Ty Pennington.”
Last week a package arrived for me in the mail. When I opened it, I could not contain myself. I was giggling and laughing and smiling and could not wait to put on my new t-shirt and read my very own signed copy of The Best Homes from “This Old House.” I was ecstatic. I was over the moon. I was so excited.
This is How I Do It... 