I just learned that Davy Jones of the Monkees died today. I'm so bummed. He was my first boyfriend, after all.
When KZ was born, I sang her the song, "I'm a Believer," written by Neil Diamond, and released by the Monkees in 1966, the year I was born.
It was perfect to describe my feels of being a new mom. For your memory lane, listening pleasure ... for KZ and Davy Jones.
I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me
Love was out to get me
That's the way it seemed.
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
I thought love was more or less a givin' thing.
Seems the more I gave the less I got.
What's the use in trying?
All you get is pain.
When I needed sunshine
I got rain.
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
Love was out to get me
Now that's the way it seemed
Disappointment haunted all my dreams
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
Then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
Said I'm a believer
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
I'm a believer
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Friday 24 February 2012
The Letter S
When I picked KZ up from school last Friday, her teacher told me that she was very upset while trying to work on her letter S. Each week they focus on one letter, and last week it was S. She was upset because it was just one long, curvy line. She couldn't stop with the S, like with an R, which is three different strokes. She just didn't think it looked good enough.
All weekend, she worked on her S.
"Mommy, let's work on S's," she would say.
But as we worked on them, she would get so frustrated that she would crumble up the paper, or even take her scissors and cut it up. But then she would come back to it. The S's were not going to win.
We've not had any issues with other letters so far. I honestly didn't even know if she was paying any attention to her letters, until I asked her teachers.
"Oh yes, she really works on them and does well," they told me.
The S was her first test.
At her low point, she just broke down and cried. Big alligator tears ran down her face. Her face was red and she couldn't talk.
"Honey, Mommy and Daddy have made a lot of S's in our lives. Don't worry, you'll get there. Your S's are beautiful," I told her.
"No, they need to be better!" she choked out through her tears.
I felt like a jerk. I want her to work hard but I don't want her making herself sick.
On Tuesday morning, before leaving for school, she wanted to work on her S's again. She stayed very focused. Et voila, a beautiful S.
"Great job!" I said.
"Yeah, I did it!" she said as she danced around the apartment.
"Let's call Grandma and tell her," I said.
"No, they aren't that good yet," she said.
Ugh ... ok, but she was really trying and working hard on them.
On Wednesday morning, before school, she worked on her S's again. This time she was pleased.
"We can call Grandma now. My S's are good enough," she said.
This week, the letter is T. We've had no T issues. She has, however, pointed out every T she's seen on the way home, especially the ones on all the Catholic churches.
All weekend, she worked on her S.
"Mommy, let's work on S's," she would say.
But as we worked on them, she would get so frustrated that she would crumble up the paper, or even take her scissors and cut it up. But then she would come back to it. The S's were not going to win.
We've not had any issues with other letters so far. I honestly didn't even know if she was paying any attention to her letters, until I asked her teachers.
"Oh yes, she really works on them and does well," they told me.
The S was her first test.
At her low point, she just broke down and cried. Big alligator tears ran down her face. Her face was red and she couldn't talk.
"Honey, Mommy and Daddy have made a lot of S's in our lives. Don't worry, you'll get there. Your S's are beautiful," I told her.
"No, they need to be better!" she choked out through her tears.
I felt like a jerk. I want her to work hard but I don't want her making herself sick.
On Tuesday morning, before leaving for school, she wanted to work on her S's again. She stayed very focused. Et voila, a beautiful S.
"Great job!" I said.
"Yeah, I did it!" she said as she danced around the apartment.
"Let's call Grandma and tell her," I said.
"No, they aren't that good yet," she said.
Ugh ... ok, but she was really trying and working hard on them.
On Wednesday morning, before school, she worked on her S's again. This time she was pleased.
"We can call Grandma now. My S's are good enough," she said.
This week, the letter is T. We've had no T issues. She has, however, pointed out every T she's seen on the way home, especially the ones on all the Catholic churches.
Short but Sweet
"Mommy, today is Lincoln's birthday," KZ said.
"Yes, sweetheart, it is," I said.
"What are we going to give him?" she asked.
"Yes, sweetheart, it is," I said.
"What are we going to give him?" she asked.
Friday 10 February 2012
The Crowbar of Love
I wrote the below essay about nine months ago. I submitted it to Real Simple magazine for publication. They said if I did not hear back from them by December 1, I could submit it for publication somewhere else. Well, I gave them a few extra months, but still didn't hear back. I've not submitted it anywhere else, but do feel safe that I can publish it to my blog. I hope you enjoy the journey into my childhood memories.
_________
My dad was from Chance, Kentucky, which made him as much of a foreigner as the Polish parents of my friends on the southwest side of Chicago. Don't bother trying to locate Chance on a modern map. It's no longer there, except in the hearts of the few people who once lived there. My mom was also from the South, a proper Southern Baptist Christian woman. Her main goal in life was to be the perfect stay-at-home mom.
My dad's first language was Mountain English, with an accent that sounded like a mouth full of marbles. He would say her for she, as in "her so pretty," knewed for know, as in "I knewed it," and fire tower, would sound like fur tire. Because of this, people in Chicago had a difficult time understanding him, but I could -- loud and clear. Lord help me if I didn't. A leather belt was ready to improve my hearing. My dad did not spend a lot of time with my younger brother, Jimmy, or me, except for when he would come home tired from the steel mill at 11:15 pm. He and I would sit together silently watching Johnny Carson. Dad would smoke his Kool cigarettes and drink his beer. Affection never entered the room. Dad worked the three to eleven shift with a lot of extra overtime, sometimes sixteen hours a day for the first part of my childhood. No matter if it were a school night or not, my mom let me stay up to see him. Jimmy was sound asleep. I felt special being allowed to share in my dad's presence.
In 1976, when I was ten, and already 5'7" tall, my dad gained enough seniority to work the day shift. Five fifteen AM his alarm would sound and he would jump out of bed. There was no snooze alarm, at least not in our home, in 1976. He would go to the bathroom, have his first Kool cigarette, dress, then walk downstairs for his first cup of Hills Bros. coffee and his second cigarette.
As he made the coffee, I would slip out of bed, use the Kool scented bathroom, and creep downstairs. I knew he wanted silence, so I did my best to keep quiet. He would sit at the kitchen table, staring out our patio window at his latest vehicle. Cars were his greatest source of pleasure. I would pour myself a cup of coffee, and sit silently beside him. Wrapping my hands around my cup of coffee, and crossing my legs, just like my dad did.
The winter months in Chicago next to that patio window could be bone chilling, but I continued my ritual so that I could spend time with my dad.
Everything seemed perfect -- at least in the mornings. Unfortunately, Dad's
new work schedule had a negative side effect. It allowed him more social time to drink beer, which he did nightly in large amounts. We no longer watched Johnny Carson. Dad would pass out well before the show started. He talked even less in the mornings, most likely due to hangovers which he never mentioned. The more he drank after work, the more unsettled my world became. He would go from absolute quiet to plate throwing outbursts of rage within seconds. Where the anger come from no one knew.
The more my dad drank, the more my parents fought. Mom mainly wanted my father to spend time with us, stop drinking, and give us more money for groceries. Dad saw no reason to do any of these things.
A few days after one of my parents' frequent fights, I silently drove home with my dad in his new 1977 steel grey Pontiac Grand Prix from Jimmy's Little League game.
My mom and Jimmy were driving home from the exact same game in her 1976 red Pontiac Grand Prix .
As I stared out the window towards Resurrection Cemetery, my dad simultaneously swore and accelerated. I had to brace myself against the dash in order not to hit the windshield. After we fishtailed to a stop on the main road, I saw that our neighbor, Old Man Macaroff, had run my mom off the road. He was out of his car yelling at Mom and Jimmy.
Old Man Macaroff had once owned all the land in our area of Chicago. In the
early 1960's, he sold his cornfields to developers. The only thing left was his original ranch house at the end of our street which stuck out so wide that the street had to curve around it. Now the cornfields were subdivided into smaller suburban ranch homes and split bi-levels. We were certain Old Man Macaroff had made money on the deal, but that didn't mean he had to be friendly with his new neighbors. What we kids did know for certain was to avoid his house on Halloween.
My dad reached below the driver's seat and grabbed a crowbar, surprising me because I didn't know it was there.
"Stay in the car," he said.
Of course I was staying in the car. It seemed like the only safe place at that moment.
Dad made his way through the oncoming traffic.
I'm not sure exactly what my dad said while he threatened to bash in Old Man Macaroff's car. Next, Dad went for Old Man Macaroff. He didn't hit him, just threatened.
I rolled down the window to listen.
"Stop, please, stop!"
"I don't want to ever see your god damned face around my family again. Do you understand me? Apologize to my wife and son."
Old Man Macroff apologised. Mom drove away, clearly shaken. I quickly
rolled up the window as fast as I could as Dad walked back to the car. Without a
word, we drove home.
My chest burst with a sense of pride. My dad actually spoke and was clearly understood. But more importantly, he had acted in my mom and brother's defense.
In 1994, after a near death experience, my father finally gave up drinking. With a lot of hard work on his part, he became a loving father and husband to our family, including the most doting grandfather to my daughter. But, at that moment in 1976 out by Resurrection Cemetery, I knew that in his way, my Dad truly loved us.
_________
My dad was from Chance, Kentucky, which made him as much of a foreigner as the Polish parents of my friends on the southwest side of Chicago. Don't bother trying to locate Chance on a modern map. It's no longer there, except in the hearts of the few people who once lived there. My mom was also from the South, a proper Southern Baptist Christian woman. Her main goal in life was to be the perfect stay-at-home mom.
My dad's first language was Mountain English, with an accent that sounded like a mouth full of marbles. He would say her for she, as in "her so pretty," knewed for know, as in "I knewed it," and fire tower, would sound like fur tire. Because of this, people in Chicago had a difficult time understanding him, but I could -- loud and clear. Lord help me if I didn't. A leather belt was ready to improve my hearing. My dad did not spend a lot of time with my younger brother, Jimmy, or me, except for when he would come home tired from the steel mill at 11:15 pm. He and I would sit together silently watching Johnny Carson. Dad would smoke his Kool cigarettes and drink his beer. Affection never entered the room. Dad worked the three to eleven shift with a lot of extra overtime, sometimes sixteen hours a day for the first part of my childhood. No matter if it were a school night or not, my mom let me stay up to see him. Jimmy was sound asleep. I felt special being allowed to share in my dad's presence.
In 1976, when I was ten, and already 5'7" tall, my dad gained enough seniority to work the day shift. Five fifteen AM his alarm would sound and he would jump out of bed. There was no snooze alarm, at least not in our home, in 1976. He would go to the bathroom, have his first Kool cigarette, dress, then walk downstairs for his first cup of Hills Bros. coffee and his second cigarette.
As he made the coffee, I would slip out of bed, use the Kool scented bathroom, and creep downstairs. I knew he wanted silence, so I did my best to keep quiet. He would sit at the kitchen table, staring out our patio window at his latest vehicle. Cars were his greatest source of pleasure. I would pour myself a cup of coffee, and sit silently beside him. Wrapping my hands around my cup of coffee, and crossing my legs, just like my dad did.
The winter months in Chicago next to that patio window could be bone chilling, but I continued my ritual so that I could spend time with my dad.
Everything seemed perfect -- at least in the mornings. Unfortunately, Dad's
new work schedule had a negative side effect. It allowed him more social time to drink beer, which he did nightly in large amounts. We no longer watched Johnny Carson. Dad would pass out well before the show started. He talked even less in the mornings, most likely due to hangovers which he never mentioned. The more he drank after work, the more unsettled my world became. He would go from absolute quiet to plate throwing outbursts of rage within seconds. Where the anger come from no one knew.
The more my dad drank, the more my parents fought. Mom mainly wanted my father to spend time with us, stop drinking, and give us more money for groceries. Dad saw no reason to do any of these things.
A few days after one of my parents' frequent fights, I silently drove home with my dad in his new 1977 steel grey Pontiac Grand Prix from Jimmy's Little League game.
My mom and Jimmy were driving home from the exact same game in her 1976 red Pontiac Grand Prix .
As I stared out the window towards Resurrection Cemetery, my dad simultaneously swore and accelerated. I had to brace myself against the dash in order not to hit the windshield. After we fishtailed to a stop on the main road, I saw that our neighbor, Old Man Macaroff, had run my mom off the road. He was out of his car yelling at Mom and Jimmy.
Old Man Macaroff had once owned all the land in our area of Chicago. In the
early 1960's, he sold his cornfields to developers. The only thing left was his original ranch house at the end of our street which stuck out so wide that the street had to curve around it. Now the cornfields were subdivided into smaller suburban ranch homes and split bi-levels. We were certain Old Man Macaroff had made money on the deal, but that didn't mean he had to be friendly with his new neighbors. What we kids did know for certain was to avoid his house on Halloween.
My dad reached below the driver's seat and grabbed a crowbar, surprising me because I didn't know it was there.
"Stay in the car," he said.
Of course I was staying in the car. It seemed like the only safe place at that moment.
Dad made his way through the oncoming traffic.
I'm not sure exactly what my dad said while he threatened to bash in Old Man Macaroff's car. Next, Dad went for Old Man Macaroff. He didn't hit him, just threatened.
I rolled down the window to listen.
"Stop, please, stop!"
"I don't want to ever see your god damned face around my family again. Do you understand me? Apologize to my wife and son."
Old Man Macroff apologised. Mom drove away, clearly shaken. I quickly
rolled up the window as fast as I could as Dad walked back to the car. Without a
word, we drove home.
My chest burst with a sense of pride. My dad actually spoke and was clearly understood. But more importantly, he had acted in my mom and brother's defense.
In 1994, after a near death experience, my father finally gave up drinking. With a lot of hard work on his part, he became a loving father and husband to our family, including the most doting grandfather to my daughter. But, at that moment in 1976 out by Resurrection Cemetery, I knew that in his way, my Dad truly loved us.
Thursday 9 February 2012
The Rules of Dating 101
When I was little, I never liked boys. They were icky. They smelled funny, dressed badly, and were immature. I was no delicate flower myself. I road bikes, climbed trees, and played in and on all the new home construction sites. This was the late 1960's and early 1970's. OSHA didn't start until 1971, and it took them years to be concerned about little kids playing in construction sites. As I got older, the boys seemed to stay the same. We had three boys living next door to us -- two, four, and six years older than I. Their favorite activity was wiffle ball. Even in high school they played it. Even when I left home, and they were all in college or beyond, they were still living at home, playing wiffle ball.
"You're so immature," I would yell across the fence.
They laughed. But I'm sure their parents were ready for them to get the hell on with their lives.
Note to parents of boys: You are not doing your sons or future daughter-in-laws any favors by letting them live with you and play wiffle ball until they get married in their 30's or beyond. That is enabling immaturity. Yes, mom, I'm talking to you.
Since most boys were still very icky when I got into high school, what I found I was most attracted to was their brains. Smart people ruled. I was smart, and I wanted to hang out with the smart ones. Ok, so they didn't bathe that often or dress that well, but at least they could hold a conversation about more than the latest beer commercial on during the latest whatever game. I never laughed at the smart guys. I even knew way back then that they were the ones that the football player types would one day be working for.
When I got married the first time, I was so happy with my choice. I was only nineteen. He was thirty, with degrees from both MIT and the University of Chicago. He looked great on paper. Plus, he was the first man to ask me out who wasn't wearing a baseball cap or driving his father's car. I was sold. May I just say, not my best choice in the long run. After eleven abusive years, I learned much about myself including what I would and would not put up with.
I was, again, at the point of not being interested in boys. They still hadn't changed much. Sure, maybe they bathed more, dressed a bit better, but most were still immature. After a few years of being single, I decided I was just going to take a full year off of even thinking about dating ... and I did. It was wonderful! I really got to focus on what made me happy. Not what I needed to do to make me happy with someone else who needed to be made happy. No, just me, thank you. Towards the end of that year, I made a list of everything I was looking for in a significant other. I really boiled it down to the main things that I found were wrong with all my other relationships.
Here is what I came up with ...
1) He must be straight. I met plenty of men who were not sure, or maybe they were sure, but didn't want their families to know that they were gay. Come on, guys, this is the 21st Century, ok, the 20th Century back then. If you live north of the Mason Dixon Line, you are pretty much safe. If you don't, women beware when dating.
2) He must be single. Clarification ... not married, engaged, just broken up, "getting divorced" or "separated". Getting divorced or separated are just euphemisms for still married and having an affair. We've all have heard the lines, and maybe even believed them. If a man is truly interested in you, he needs to have burned his bridges. I'm not here to babysit, play therapist, or feel sorry for you. Move on!
3) He cannot live with his parents. Any man who is living with his parents after college is a nightmare waiting to happen. Again, I am not here to babysit a man unless I give birth to him. A man needs to be able to do his own laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, bill payments, etc. I don't want to be the next "mommy" in his life.
4) He must be gainfully employed. By gainfully, I don't mean the local Dairy Queen, unless he owns it, preferably a number of them. I didn't care if he made more than me, but he did have to have a real job.
I have also found that men have two basic rules when it comes to women,
1) The man must be taller. Even men married to uber tall super models have issues with this one. It is their lost, but do yourself a favor ladies, go for a taller guy. I'm 5'7", I learned this the hard way.
2) The man must make more money. Now, my husband will tell you that he would have no issues with my making more money. And I do think this one is changing, but I speak from my experience and that of some of my girlfriends. I have some very successful girlfriends who cannot get a second date after the man finds out how much money she makes ... or thinks he's figured it out. On the other hand, the guy may look at the woman as a meal ticket. A successful woman doesn't want a loser guy around. He needs to bring something to the relationship besides a stack of credit card bills.
So that's it, you say, only four basic rules plus the two "men rules"? Trust me, these are very hard to come by. Think of the single men you know, and see how many fit this criteria. I can even take my brother as an example. He only meets number 1 on this list. He's 44. I give full disclosure whenever anyone inquires about him.
I do want to give a few pieces of advice, especially to my girlfriends here in New York City, where there are more women than men ... approximately 210,000 more women than men.
1) BE SELF-CONFIDENT! Trust yourself and what you are doing. Walk proudly down the street, holding your shoulders back and your head up high. It truly doesn't matter what you look like. It matters that you are confident in that look.
2) RESPECT YOURSELF! As the saying goes, if you don't respect yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?
3) NEVER LOWER YOUR STANDARDS! After I made my above list, I met my second husband four days later. I've never been happier.
4) DO NOT CARE WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK! And I truly mean that, man or woman. I guess that means you can tell me to shut up also. Don't worry about finding someone to be your soul mate. Ugh, I gag thinking about that. Be your own soul mate. Do what is important to you. If you are true to you, then others will be attracted to you. I dated several men when I was younger who told me I was the sexiest woman they knew because I acted as if I didn't care. You know what, I wasn't acting.
"You're so immature," I would yell across the fence.
They laughed. But I'm sure their parents were ready for them to get the hell on with their lives.
Note to parents of boys: You are not doing your sons or future daughter-in-laws any favors by letting them live with you and play wiffle ball until they get married in their 30's or beyond. That is enabling immaturity. Yes, mom, I'm talking to you.
Since most boys were still very icky when I got into high school, what I found I was most attracted to was their brains. Smart people ruled. I was smart, and I wanted to hang out with the smart ones. Ok, so they didn't bathe that often or dress that well, but at least they could hold a conversation about more than the latest beer commercial on during the latest whatever game. I never laughed at the smart guys. I even knew way back then that they were the ones that the football player types would one day be working for.
When I got married the first time, I was so happy with my choice. I was only nineteen. He was thirty, with degrees from both MIT and the University of Chicago. He looked great on paper. Plus, he was the first man to ask me out who wasn't wearing a baseball cap or driving his father's car. I was sold. May I just say, not my best choice in the long run. After eleven abusive years, I learned much about myself including what I would and would not put up with.
I was, again, at the point of not being interested in boys. They still hadn't changed much. Sure, maybe they bathed more, dressed a bit better, but most were still immature. After a few years of being single, I decided I was just going to take a full year off of even thinking about dating ... and I did. It was wonderful! I really got to focus on what made me happy. Not what I needed to do to make me happy with someone else who needed to be made happy. No, just me, thank you. Towards the end of that year, I made a list of everything I was looking for in a significant other. I really boiled it down to the main things that I found were wrong with all my other relationships.
Here is what I came up with ...
1) He must be straight. I met plenty of men who were not sure, or maybe they were sure, but didn't want their families to know that they were gay. Come on, guys, this is the 21st Century, ok, the 20th Century back then. If you live north of the Mason Dixon Line, you are pretty much safe. If you don't, women beware when dating.
2) He must be single. Clarification ... not married, engaged, just broken up, "getting divorced" or "separated". Getting divorced or separated are just euphemisms for still married and having an affair. We've all have heard the lines, and maybe even believed them. If a man is truly interested in you, he needs to have burned his bridges. I'm not here to babysit, play therapist, or feel sorry for you. Move on!
3) He cannot live with his parents. Any man who is living with his parents after college is a nightmare waiting to happen. Again, I am not here to babysit a man unless I give birth to him. A man needs to be able to do his own laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, bill payments, etc. I don't want to be the next "mommy" in his life.
4) He must be gainfully employed. By gainfully, I don't mean the local Dairy Queen, unless he owns it, preferably a number of them. I didn't care if he made more than me, but he did have to have a real job.
I have also found that men have two basic rules when it comes to women,
1) The man must be taller. Even men married to uber tall super models have issues with this one. It is their lost, but do yourself a favor ladies, go for a taller guy. I'm 5'7", I learned this the hard way.
2) The man must make more money. Now, my husband will tell you that he would have no issues with my making more money. And I do think this one is changing, but I speak from my experience and that of some of my girlfriends. I have some very successful girlfriends who cannot get a second date after the man finds out how much money she makes ... or thinks he's figured it out. On the other hand, the guy may look at the woman as a meal ticket. A successful woman doesn't want a loser guy around. He needs to bring something to the relationship besides a stack of credit card bills.
So that's it, you say, only four basic rules plus the two "men rules"? Trust me, these are very hard to come by. Think of the single men you know, and see how many fit this criteria. I can even take my brother as an example. He only meets number 1 on this list. He's 44. I give full disclosure whenever anyone inquires about him.
I do want to give a few pieces of advice, especially to my girlfriends here in New York City, where there are more women than men ... approximately 210,000 more women than men.
1) BE SELF-CONFIDENT! Trust yourself and what you are doing. Walk proudly down the street, holding your shoulders back and your head up high. It truly doesn't matter what you look like. It matters that you are confident in that look.
2) RESPECT YOURSELF! As the saying goes, if you don't respect yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?
3) NEVER LOWER YOUR STANDARDS! After I made my above list, I met my second husband four days later. I've never been happier.
4) DO NOT CARE WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK! And I truly mean that, man or woman. I guess that means you can tell me to shut up also. Don't worry about finding someone to be your soul mate. Ugh, I gag thinking about that. Be your own soul mate. Do what is important to you. If you are true to you, then others will be attracted to you. I dated several men when I was younger who told me I was the sexiest woman they knew because I acted as if I didn't care. You know what, I wasn't acting.
Tuesday 7 February 2012
Can We Have Story Time Now?
KZ is three years and nine months now. She is becoming more autonomous by the day. If she asks me for her safety scissors, and I tell her one minute, the next thing I hear is a chair being pulled along the floor.
"Don't worry, Mommy. I got it."
She may be smiling and very proud, but she is also holding my big girl scissors while standing on a chair. Not the best choice. My job as a parent is to help her make the best choices, not be her best friend.
Last night, we had a teachable moment.
"BUT I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED!"
This, of course, is from KZ, not me or my husband. I would give my right arm to go to bed and have a full night's sleep, let alone be able to go to bed by 7:30 pm and sleep until I woke up twelve or more hours later. My husband would be a close second. And the dogs just sleep all day ... I want to come back as a one of my friend's dog.
"No! No!, NO!"
Well, really it isn't normally all the dramatic. She screams NO as she walks over to hug and kiss he sleeping dogs goodnight. Then, if daddy is home, she gives him a kiss goodnight. We head off to her bedroom where we have story time, apply moisturizer, and put on her princess pajamas. A little teeth brushing and potty action one or two times, and she's out. The entire process takes about twenty minutes.
However, last night was a bit difference.
On her way to her bedroom, she slammed the door in my face. I stood there for a second and just thought before I acted. Many scenarios went through my head.
Oh, she is so cute!
Oh, look, she is learning to express her feelings!
Oh, my mother would just laugh and tell her how much she loves her Angel.
But the big thing that hit me was ...
If I let a three year old slam a door in my face, what is going to happen when she is thirteen?
I promised myself that I would learn from past experiences with teenagers and not allow KZ to behave disrespectfully. With all this going through my head within three seconds, I walked away from her door. A few minutes later, KZ came out of her room.
"Mommy, we need to do story time, moisturizer, and pajamas."
"KZ, you were rude and mean to Mommy. That was unacceptable behavior. Now go to bed, there will be no story time tonight."
She wailed! The neighbors probably thought that I had beat her. I did not go into her room.
About ten minutes later, the crying subsided. She walked out again.
"Mommy, I'm sorry."
"I accept your apology, KZ."
"Can we have story time now?"
"No, sweetheart, we cannot. I want you to know I love you more than anything in the world. I would do anything for you. But, I would never slam a door in your face. What you did to Mommy was not nice. When we do not nice things, we cannot expect people to be nice to us. Tomorrow night, if you behave properly, we'll have story time. Ok."
"Ok, Mommy. I love you."
"I love you too."
She went to bed, and not a peep out of her the rest of the night.
This parenting thing is so hard. We all pray we make the right decisions. I just try to do my best, every day. Only time will tell.
"Don't worry, Mommy. I got it."
She may be smiling and very proud, but she is also holding my big girl scissors while standing on a chair. Not the best choice. My job as a parent is to help her make the best choices, not be her best friend.
Last night, we had a teachable moment.
"BUT I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED!"
This, of course, is from KZ, not me or my husband. I would give my right arm to go to bed and have a full night's sleep, let alone be able to go to bed by 7:30 pm and sleep until I woke up twelve or more hours later. My husband would be a close second. And the dogs just sleep all day ... I want to come back as a one of my friend's dog.
"No! No!, NO!"
Well, really it isn't normally all the dramatic. She screams NO as she walks over to hug and kiss he sleeping dogs goodnight. Then, if daddy is home, she gives him a kiss goodnight. We head off to her bedroom where we have story time, apply moisturizer, and put on her princess pajamas. A little teeth brushing and potty action one or two times, and she's out. The entire process takes about twenty minutes.
However, last night was a bit difference.
On her way to her bedroom, she slammed the door in my face. I stood there for a second and just thought before I acted. Many scenarios went through my head.
Oh, she is so cute!
Oh, look, she is learning to express her feelings!
Oh, my mother would just laugh and tell her how much she loves her Angel.
But the big thing that hit me was ...
If I let a three year old slam a door in my face, what is going to happen when she is thirteen?
I promised myself that I would learn from past experiences with teenagers and not allow KZ to behave disrespectfully. With all this going through my head within three seconds, I walked away from her door. A few minutes later, KZ came out of her room.
"Mommy, we need to do story time, moisturizer, and pajamas."
"KZ, you were rude and mean to Mommy. That was unacceptable behavior. Now go to bed, there will be no story time tonight."
She wailed! The neighbors probably thought that I had beat her. I did not go into her room.
About ten minutes later, the crying subsided. She walked out again.
"Mommy, I'm sorry."
"I accept your apology, KZ."
"Can we have story time now?"
"No, sweetheart, we cannot. I want you to know I love you more than anything in the world. I would do anything for you. But, I would never slam a door in your face. What you did to Mommy was not nice. When we do not nice things, we cannot expect people to be nice to us. Tomorrow night, if you behave properly, we'll have story time. Ok."
"Ok, Mommy. I love you."
"I love you too."
She went to bed, and not a peep out of her the rest of the night.
This parenting thing is so hard. We all pray we make the right decisions. I just try to do my best, every day. Only time will tell.
Monday 6 February 2012
My Personal At-Home Stylist
My clothing choice for Saturday night was a black min-dress, dark grey tights, and a light grey turtle neck. As I looked in the mirror, I knew this wasn't working. KZ ran through the room. Without even stopping, she says,
"Mommy, you need black tights."
She was right.
"Mommy, you need black tights."
She was right.
Friday 3 February 2012
Breast Cancer Screening Saves Lives ... Not a Pink Ribbon
I must admit, I've been preoccupied with Susan G. Komen's decision to drop funding to Planned Parenthood for breast cancer screening. At the time of my writing this, 3:06 pm Eastern Time on Feb. 3, 2012, they have reversed their decision. I give the exact time, because only they know if they'll reverse their decision again before I post this. What really upset me the most about this was that we, women in general, were being stabbed in the front by women, who we thought were concerned for our health! I'm use to having to fight the good old Southern boys on issues. I don't expect to ever change the mind of a Southern Baptist man south of the Mason Dixon Line. But, I never expected to get hit head on by a women's health organization. True, Susan G. Komen is headquartered in Dallas, which is conservative. But Cecile Richards, the current president of planned Parenthood and the daughter of the late Governor of Texas Anne Richards, is also from Texas.
And their excuse, "Planned Parenthood was under investigation." PLEASE, Planned Parenthood has been under investigation since the day Margaret Sanger opened the first Planned Parenthood clinic in Brooklyn. As soon as she opened the doors, she was arrested, and sentenced to 30 days. It was illegal to even discuss birth control, let alone distribute it. The year was 1916. And here we are, 96 years later, and women's health issues are still a hot topic. It is infuriating. If you want to read the whole story, the New Yorker had a wonderful essay called Birthright, from their November 14, 2011 issue. http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/11/14/111114fa_fact_lepore
I want to commend all the people who stood up for Planned Parenthood and against the decision made by Susan G. Komen. Facebook was just flooded. My running groups were buzzing with how people were dropping out of the races. And my favorite, Michael Bloomberg, the mayor of New York, personally donating $250,000 to Planned Parenthood. I really do respect that man, and do so now more than ever. It was impressive to be a part of people standing up for what is right. It was even more impressive that Susan G. Komen listened.
I read that one in five American women have used Planned Parenthood at some point in their lifetime. I am one of the one in five. Planned Parenthood was there for me when no one else was. I couldn't ask for help from my family, and was just plain too embarrassed to talk to friends. Planned Parenthood was wonderful. I feel as if they saved my life. I wouldn't be the person I am today if it weren't for Planned Parenthood being there for me back then. I started making monthly donations to them when I got older, and started making money. As of this last incident, my husband and I have decided to increase our donation amount. Unfortunately, I think there will always be "another attack" on women's health issues waiting in the wings. I want to make sure the Planned Parenthood is well armed to fight, while still providing women's health services.
And please remember, my friends, breast cancer screening saved my mother's life, and a number of my girlfriends' lives ... not a pink ribbon.
And their excuse, "Planned Parenthood was under investigation." PLEASE, Planned Parenthood has been under investigation since the day Margaret Sanger opened the first Planned Parenthood clinic in Brooklyn. As soon as she opened the doors, she was arrested, and sentenced to 30 days. It was illegal to even discuss birth control, let alone distribute it. The year was 1916. And here we are, 96 years later, and women's health issues are still a hot topic. It is infuriating. If you want to read the whole story, the New Yorker had a wonderful essay called Birthright, from their November 14, 2011 issue. http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/11/14/111114fa_fact_lepore
I want to commend all the people who stood up for Planned Parenthood and against the decision made by Susan G. Komen. Facebook was just flooded. My running groups were buzzing with how people were dropping out of the races. And my favorite, Michael Bloomberg, the mayor of New York, personally donating $250,000 to Planned Parenthood. I really do respect that man, and do so now more than ever. It was impressive to be a part of people standing up for what is right. It was even more impressive that Susan G. Komen listened.
I read that one in five American women have used Planned Parenthood at some point in their lifetime. I am one of the one in five. Planned Parenthood was there for me when no one else was. I couldn't ask for help from my family, and was just plain too embarrassed to talk to friends. Planned Parenthood was wonderful. I feel as if they saved my life. I wouldn't be the person I am today if it weren't for Planned Parenthood being there for me back then. I started making monthly donations to them when I got older, and started making money. As of this last incident, my husband and I have decided to increase our donation amount. Unfortunately, I think there will always be "another attack" on women's health issues waiting in the wings. I want to make sure the Planned Parenthood is well armed to fight, while still providing women's health services.
And please remember, my friends, breast cancer screening saved my mother's life, and a number of my girlfriends' lives ... not a pink ribbon.
Thursday 2 February 2012
What a Drag it is Getting Old - Self Esteem or is it Something Else?
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU, MOMMY!" KZ says as she runs away from me as I ask her to put away her shoes ... for the tenth time in the last ten minutes.
KZ sees me tripping over Jeremy's shoes all over the apartment. If daddy doesn't have to do it, why does she? Because KZ is still trainable.
"KZ ... SHOES!"
"Mommy, I want blueberries."
"If you want blueberries, then you need to put your shoes away."
She rolls her eyes then takes the shoes and throws them in the closet.
"That is not the way you put away your shoes. Neatly, please."
More eye rolling as she does it properly. It took about twelve and a half minutes, but she did it.
My head is spliting, my stomach hurts, and I'm one breath away from running away as well.
The poor kid doesn't know that she is wearing on my last nerve. It isn't her fault. She's fine. She's three and a half. She's doing exactly what she is suppose to do. The problem is with me. In a word, menopause.
I often heard people say, "Have your kids when your young You'll have more energy." Ok, energy is one thing, but no one ever mentioned menopause. What? Is that a dirty word? I wouldn't equate having no energy with menopause. I can always take a nap and get more energy, or use to. Menopause is a totally different thing ....
- hot flashes coupled with cold flashes -- I now dress in layers at all the time;
- night sweats -- which means I've not had a full night's sleep in years;
- loss of libido -- let's not talk about it;
- mood swings -- say tripping over Jeremy's shoes;
- sudden tears -- from an HSBC credit card commercial;
- fatigue -- not getting sleep helps that one;
- thinning hair on the entire body, except the face where it starts to grow;
- difficulty concentrating;
- difficulty concentrating;
- dizziness -- I checked, it's not a tumor;
- irregular periods -- because once every 28 days is so boring;
- weight gain -- and YES, I run and do yoga and watch my diet, thank you very much for the helpful suggestions;
- sudden bouts of bloating, which lead to the "When are you due?" moments;
- fingernails breaking -- which has never happened to me before;
- allergies -- such a fun process to figure this one out;
- rapid heart beat -- which happens to me at night and makes me think that I'm having a heart attack;
- depression, anxiety -- I won't even start because I don't want to drown my sorrows by eating cupcakes right now;
- irritability -- at almost anything. I use to count to 10, now I count to 100 then just walk away. It's safer that way;
- headaches -- for no reason at all, except that they just show up like an unannounced relative who wants to stay with you for a "little" while;
- panic attacks -- I have a problem walking down the streets of New York when they are crowded, which is most of the time;
- breast pain -- like when I was pregnant. It really hurts;
- and digestive problems such as indigestion, flatulence, gas pain, and nausea.
Oh what fun.
For those of you who aren't familiar with this lovely transition in a woman's life, the above is NOT the complete list of symptoms. It is a list of the symptoms that I have. And my darling, perfect three year old is in the middle of it.
Due to my blood clotting disorder, I cannot take HRT (hormone replacement therapy). But even if I could take it, I wouldn't. My mother took HRT for over thirty years. Yes, thirty years. I don't know why she did it, but what troubles me more is that the doctors kept giving it to her. After the thirty years, she ended up with breast cancer and had to have a double mastectomy.
I'm doing what I can to control my symptoms. I take vitamins under the guidance of my hematologist. He has prescribed over fifty, yes, 5-0, pills a day. They really do help with all the symptoms overall, but I still feel them to a degree. I try to do yoga once a day to get the calming effects. And, I really do back away when I just want to kick in people's teeth. So many people don't realize how close they've been. But honestly, what good would that do anybody, especially me since New York is full of lawyers and I don't want to be sued. This entire process does make me more empathic to other woman, and in hindsight, my mom. She went through it in her mid-30's. She didn't have a clue of what was hitting her, and no one was there to help her. Some crazy quack doctor gave her a miracle drug that took away her "pain", and she was sold. I have no idea what I would have done in her shoes. Yes, I do. I would have had taken the pill.
I've read multiple times that when women hit their 40's that they "know" themselves. They really don't put up with things or people that they did when they were younger. They always call it self-esteem. I'm going to call it menopause.
KZ sees me tripping over Jeremy's shoes all over the apartment. If daddy doesn't have to do it, why does she? Because KZ is still trainable.
"KZ ... SHOES!"
"Mommy, I want blueberries."
"If you want blueberries, then you need to put your shoes away."
She rolls her eyes then takes the shoes and throws them in the closet.
"That is not the way you put away your shoes. Neatly, please."
More eye rolling as she does it properly. It took about twelve and a half minutes, but she did it.
My head is spliting, my stomach hurts, and I'm one breath away from running away as well.
The poor kid doesn't know that she is wearing on my last nerve. It isn't her fault. She's fine. She's three and a half. She's doing exactly what she is suppose to do. The problem is with me. In a word, menopause.
I often heard people say, "Have your kids when your young You'll have more energy." Ok, energy is one thing, but no one ever mentioned menopause. What? Is that a dirty word? I wouldn't equate having no energy with menopause. I can always take a nap and get more energy, or use to. Menopause is a totally different thing ....
- hot flashes coupled with cold flashes -- I now dress in layers at all the time;
- night sweats -- which means I've not had a full night's sleep in years;
- loss of libido -- let's not talk about it;
- mood swings -- say tripping over Jeremy's shoes;
- sudden tears -- from an HSBC credit card commercial;
- fatigue -- not getting sleep helps that one;
- thinning hair on the entire body, except the face where it starts to grow;
- difficulty concentrating;
- difficulty concentrating;
- dizziness -- I checked, it's not a tumor;
- irregular periods -- because once every 28 days is so boring;
- weight gain -- and YES, I run and do yoga and watch my diet, thank you very much for the helpful suggestions;
- sudden bouts of bloating, which lead to the "When are you due?" moments;
- fingernails breaking -- which has never happened to me before;
- allergies -- such a fun process to figure this one out;
- rapid heart beat -- which happens to me at night and makes me think that I'm having a heart attack;
- depression, anxiety -- I won't even start because I don't want to drown my sorrows by eating cupcakes right now;
- irritability -- at almost anything. I use to count to 10, now I count to 100 then just walk away. It's safer that way;
- headaches -- for no reason at all, except that they just show up like an unannounced relative who wants to stay with you for a "little" while;
- panic attacks -- I have a problem walking down the streets of New York when they are crowded, which is most of the time;
- breast pain -- like when I was pregnant. It really hurts;
- and digestive problems such as indigestion, flatulence, gas pain, and nausea.
Oh what fun.
For those of you who aren't familiar with this lovely transition in a woman's life, the above is NOT the complete list of symptoms. It is a list of the symptoms that I have. And my darling, perfect three year old is in the middle of it.
Due to my blood clotting disorder, I cannot take HRT (hormone replacement therapy). But even if I could take it, I wouldn't. My mother took HRT for over thirty years. Yes, thirty years. I don't know why she did it, but what troubles me more is that the doctors kept giving it to her. After the thirty years, she ended up with breast cancer and had to have a double mastectomy.
I'm doing what I can to control my symptoms. I take vitamins under the guidance of my hematologist. He has prescribed over fifty, yes, 5-0, pills a day. They really do help with all the symptoms overall, but I still feel them to a degree. I try to do yoga once a day to get the calming effects. And, I really do back away when I just want to kick in people's teeth. So many people don't realize how close they've been. But honestly, what good would that do anybody, especially me since New York is full of lawyers and I don't want to be sued. This entire process does make me more empathic to other woman, and in hindsight, my mom. She went through it in her mid-30's. She didn't have a clue of what was hitting her, and no one was there to help her. Some crazy quack doctor gave her a miracle drug that took away her "pain", and she was sold. I have no idea what I would have done in her shoes. Yes, I do. I would have had taken the pill.
I've read multiple times that when women hit their 40's that they "know" themselves. They really don't put up with things or people that they did when they were younger. They always call it self-esteem. I'm going to call it menopause.
Post, TImes, or Smack?
After dropping KZ off at school today, I started walking home with one of the other mothers. She's a smart, independent, professional from the Bronx. I wouldn't try to cross this woman, ever. We walk a couple blocks south before she stopped for a paper.
"Post, please," she said.
The newspaper man didn't even seem to notice her.
"Post! Please!" she said as she waved a dollar in front of his face.
The guy perks up, gives her the paper and her change.
"It so obvious that these guys don't make their money selling papers," she said
Obvious, yes, obvious, that is what it is. I agree because I'm guessing no one could make a living selling papers on the street corner in New York.
"If you see a deal going down, just walk away," she said.
"I know. I don't want to even be involved in that," I said.
"Well, at least you know where to get drugs in our neighborhood."
Oh, I guess I do now. I know downtown people used the NYU delivery service. I guess we live too far north for that. Honestly, I think I'll just keep getting my paper delivered. It's safer, albeit more boring, that way.
"Post, please," she said.
The newspaper man didn't even seem to notice her.
"Post! Please!" she said as she waved a dollar in front of his face.
The guy perks up, gives her the paper and her change.
"It so obvious that these guys don't make their money selling papers," she said
Obvious, yes, obvious, that is what it is. I agree because I'm guessing no one could make a living selling papers on the street corner in New York.
"If you see a deal going down, just walk away," she said.
"I know. I don't want to even be involved in that," I said.
"Well, at least you know where to get drugs in our neighborhood."
Oh, I guess I do now. I know downtown people used the NYU delivery service. I guess we live too far north for that. Honestly, I think I'll just keep getting my paper delivered. It's safer, albeit more boring, that way.
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