Five, in Words
Flora, I have been grappling for weeks with this letter to you on this, the occasion of your fifth birthday.
To which you would respond, “What does grabpling mean?”
And that sums up you, at 5.
This promises to be an extraordinary year for you. I know that they say that 7 is the ‘age of reason’. But it is only the age of reason, I suspect, because 5 is the age of ‘figuring stuff out.’ (I further suspect that 6 is more of 5, with actual reading.)
Part of my grappling of course is for ME, for having to wrap my head around the fact that five years have passed since you came, eyes wide open, into this world.
The other part of my grappling has to do with YOU. You’ve gone from that little loaf of bread (6 pounds, 2 ounces) to a lanky, chatty girl, curious about just about anything in front of your face.
You, like, have opinions. Maybe not fully formed ones, maybe not about religion or politics (although you have declared that church is boring). You have clearly stated wants, from your favorite meal to your desire to help me make said meal to the clear wish of what we should do after the meal (which usually consists of having a treat and then drawing).
You draw cats and chihuahua dogs (really tall ones) and people and rainbows. You write words now. I’ve recently watched you write, entirely on your own, “cat”, “love Flora”, and “No Kate”. (We should probably talk about that last one.)
We have conversations, often inadvertently funny ones. You tell me stories that make sense. You remember stuff I tell you (unless it’s to finish cleaning up the room). You ask questions, many of which, if I do not want to resort to a) making things up or b) admitting I don’t know, we have to Google so that I can answer them.
You know how to use the computer to play games (usually Curious George). You know a lot, like that red and blue make purple, and 1 + 1 = 2, and that clouds are rain before it’s raining, and that today is your birthday.
You’re sweet and helpful a lot of the time. (Sometimes you still are, decidedly, not.) You are, most of the time, a good big sister.
I’m tearing up as I write this, of course, because I never expected to be here, to have a daughter such as you, you beautiful, brilliant little person. Because I never expected to be so blessed and so lucky. So loved.
I love you, Flora-bean. Happy birthday.
Love,
Mommy
The Mouse is in the House
(Actually, he’s in the car.)
Recently, I discovered Radio Disney.
Before you judge, understand something: I don’t enjoy Radio Disney. I stumbled across it on the AM radio dial during a pledge drive on my usual station of choice (WDUQ, of which I am a supporter. At the lowest level possible, but still).
The CD player in my car is trashed. We don’t (yet) own an iPod. The portable CD player we used on our Cape Cod trip has bitten the dust.
I’m out of options.
I have two daughters who love music. When I pick them up from daycare, they clamor from the back seat: “Song! Song!” They even request certain songs: “Kids song, Mommy.” “Do you have the Broken Song in this car?” (Me: “No.”)
Switching between radio stations in Pittsburgh is untenable. Slow songs are unacceptable to my girls; I can’t handle classic rock or Mark Madden. Bob FM sometimes gets our votes.
Radio Disney is the default.
Now, I also want you to know this: I assume that all female artists on Radio Disney are Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana and that all male artists are The Jonas Brothers.
And if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.
The clear advantage of Radio Disney is that I don’t have to edit for content. Yes, “Party in the USA” may be stuck in my head (at least until the Imagination Movers theme song is), but I’m not going to have to explain what a disco stick is.
Get me?
Rest for the Weary
Saturday night, I got home with the girls from a very busy day. We all got into our pajamas and settled in for the night.
It was barely 6 p.m. We popped some popcorn and watched T.V.
I finally threw in the towel at 10 p.m. Dan was out having a beer with a buddy, so it wasn’t like I had anything to wait up for. I think I was asleep before 10:15.
I woke up Sunday at 6:30 a.m.
I haven’t slept that well in a long time. I didn’t even know I needed to sleep that well.
We had a pretty low-key weekend — obviously. Sunday was spent putzing around the house and yard. What great weather. Sundays without the Steelers seem so formless, but Dan and I got a lot done in terms of cleaning.
We’ve plennn-ty more to do, however.
Bowling with Girls
1. Bowling alleys are very loud.
2. My husband’s BIL, Uncle D.C., was the camera man.
3. Bowling alleys are very loud.
4. I really need a haircut.
Meatless Monday: Consolation Prize
Because I have been almost completely housebound this weekend (and looks as if I will be into the near future as well), and also have had a well-stocked refrigerator, I have managed to do a lot of cooking.
On Friday, I made a crockpot minestrone soup recipe. This was my second stab at it, and it still needs some tweaking. If I get it right next time, I’ll post the recipe.
I joined a CSA farm for the first time this year (Kretschmann Farm), and I was placed on their waiting list in May. I was finally to pick up my first box of veggies a few weeks ago. Beets are big this time of year. For Saturday night’s dinner, I roasted them. Holy heck, roasted beets are tasty! I’ll be doing that again.
Then for Sunday night, I made more roasted veggies from the CSA, carrots and potatoes. The kids balked at first, but then sampled a few. Flora preferred the carrots, and Kate preferred the potatoes. Dan liked them all. Also with CSA produce, I made this risotto recipe. Next time, I should make sure I have all the vegetable stock I need because substituting in two cups of water made it too bland. But I will be trying it again, and in the meantime, I think I’m going to try some fried risotto patties with the leftovers. Also to try: this recipe for red cabbage.
Flora’s temp hovers at the 99.5-100 mark, which her pediatrician’s office tells me is part of “this” virus. (She’s also got a runny nose and one heck of a cough.) When I brought her to the doctor’s office Friday, she was diagnosed with an ear infection. After two doses of the antibiotic hadn’t killed the temp, I knew something else was up.
The most remarkable thing is her pallor. Flora is drawn and pale; her lips are too puffy (I am making sure she drinks plenty of fluids, even stooped so low to offer her Yoo-hoo — a ‘treat’ from my FIL); and she’s got dark brown circles under her eyes. The time change didn’t help her — she was up Sunday at the new 5:30 complaining of how thirsty she was; and she was up early today, too — screaming about a “ladybug” on her ceiling. Her appetite isn’t that great; she mostly prefers butter bread. She’s restless as all get out, but doesn’t have either the sustained energy or attention for doing much. (So much for having her help me dust.) (I kid. Kinda.)
Anyway, at this point, the pediatrician says she’ll probably need to be at home at least two more days. I am monitoring her temperature rather obsessively, even going so far as to take it both via an ear thermometer and an oral digital thermometer. I keep checking Kate, too. I wonder if this is the virus she had not too long ago, or if this is something else she’ll pick up.
At least we’ll have lentil soup to feast on this evening. That’s some consolation.
A Modest Proposal*
Last weekend, Flora complained of ear pain. I gave her some ear drops and some Tylenol, and heard nothing the rest of the week. (She didn’t run a fever, either.)
Both the girls have colds; some runny noses, some coughing.
Thursday, Flora’s coughing stepped up a notch. She went to day school; she didn’t complain of a thing.
I picked up the girls yesterday; we had sandwiches for dinner, put on costumes (okay, THEY put on costumes), headed out for trick-or-treat (why not on Saturday? I DON’T KNOW.) Flora was still not complaining. And she’s a drama queen, but she’s no actress. While I wouldn’t put it past Kate even at her tender age, Flora doesn’t fake being well. Even for candy.
We got back from trick-or-treat with lots and lots of treats… and Flora was suddenly shivering. Hard. She crawled under a blanket, shivered some more. Said her ear hurts. In the space of 20 minutes, I watched her temp jump from 98.9 to 99.9. By 2 in the morning, it was 100.5, and she was telling me she needed to throw up. (She hasn’t barfed yet.)
Awesome.
If I don’t get to go into work tomorrow morning (yes, that would be Saturday), I will have to use the rest of my whole 7 hours of vacation time, plus an hour of personal time. When I factor in Thanksgiving day, that leaves me with NO holiday/personal time until the end of December, and NO vacation time until the end of March.
F WORD.
Additionally, my girls seem to find it convenient to get sick on a Friday or a Monday, which undoubtedly makes my work ethic look just fantastic. (Yes, Virginia, that is sarcasm.)
I know that I’m going to have single and/or child-free parents and/or SAHMs jumping down my throat (play nice in the comments, please), but I honestly feel that there are certain situations that require another 40 hours of time from employers. Call it “sick kid time”.
(This is, of course, assuming employment with paid vacation, holiday, and/or personal time in the first place. Which can be assuming a lot, I know.)
If you are a single parent, whether or not you live near family, you get an additional 40 hours a year.
If you are the working spouse/partner of a spouse/partner without paid time, you can apply for the extra 40. This clearly would require a certain “proof of income” level — on the lower end.
If you are a caretaker of any dependent person (child or parent or spouse/partner), you should get an extra 40 hours of time.
This discounts FMLA time (which, really, America, the best we can do is 12 weeks of unpaid time? But you get to keep your job?). While I think FMLA is an excellent program, for these little dribs and drabs of sick kid time, it is worthless. FMLA doesn’t even kick in unless you’re out for five days.
Other options that simply do not exist — or are so very rare as to not exist — are four-day weeks, telecommuting, part-time work with health benefits. I mean, Flora has not moved from the couch since we got home from the doctor’s at 11 a.m. She’s currently napping. If I had server access, I could be doing some work!
What other other family-friendly options can you think of? The American workplace is, generally speaking, not family friendly. In some industries, dads are punished (implicitly or explicitly) for wanting to spend time with their families. I directly lost a job at a small employer (with no FMLA) because I couldn’t (and was unwilling to, I’ll admit it) find a daycare for my six-week-old baby.
And I say all this coming from a very generous workplace. When we thought Nanny was leaving us, my boss, in so many words, said, “Get lost, and don’t worry about the time.”
I know that there are a lot of untenable aspects to handing out 40 hours of paid or unpaid time to certain employees. But I really wish it were at least a consideration.
*With apologies to Jonathan Swift, as this is not at all intended as satire.
Busted
I accidentally taught Flora the definition of sarcasm last night.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, ostensibly eating her peas. Unfortunately, she was also dropping them on her father’s jacket, which was laying on the floor. (Don’t ask me how it got there. Just don’t.)
I walked over, picked up Dan’s jacket, and picked up Flora’s peas. “Your father’s just going to be thrilled you’re dropping food on his jacket,” I told Flora.
After putting things where they belonged (jacket on hook, peas in sink) I went back to sit down. Flora had clearly been thinking.
Flora: What does thrilled mean?
RPM: It means to be excited about something.
F: Why would Daddy be thrilled about me dropping food on his coat?
RPM: I was being sarcastic.
F: What does sa… that mean?
RPM: Sarcastic means saying something when you mean the opposite. Daddy would be very upset that you were dropping food on his jacket. Not thrilled.
This morning, the girls were up before I was out the door. This makes my mornings so much more difficult, as I am trying to get ready for work, and my girls are busy being all dependent on me and crap.
In the midst of dressing myself, they butted heads about something. Shrill little girl voices were being raised.
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “I just love when you guys get up before I leave for work!”
“Mommy, you’re being sarstastic again,” Flora pointed out.
Note to self: The older one is retaining information now. Be careful what you decide to explain thinking, “She won’t remember this.” Thanks, Me
Cliche
(Dad, you really don’t want to read this post.)
(Oh, it’s about sex. So anyone else can opt out now, too.)
The thing about back and neck pain, of which I have had my fair share as of late, is that it seriously interferes with an already problematic sex life. I don’t mean that Dan and I have problems having sex, except if you count the fact that it is very difficult to find the time (or, primarily on my part, the energy) to have sex. (As Dan put it, “I would have sex during surgery.”)
I never would have foreseen this 10 or 15 years ago. I used to read magazine articles about ‘keeping the spark in your marriage’ or ‘how to prevent children from ruining your sex life’, and I would scoff.
Scoff, I tell you!
Now I want to go out and buy Babyproofing Your Marriage to find out how to do exactly that.
Ah, I look back on those innocent days quite fondly. (Dad, seriously, you’re not reading, right?) I never would have pictured becoming a married woman with children who would choose sleep over sex. Not as a lusty 20-something, whose libido sometimes outstripped those of my boyfriends. One of the things I wished for in a partner was one with a high libido.
Well, be careful what you wish for.
I like sex with my husband very much and (as it’s the only sex I’m having these days, and presumably, the rest of my days) I would like to have more of it. Dan and I are very compatible in many, many way, including sexually — which, don’t let any lame advice columnist tell you otherwise, is vital to a marriage.
Yes, the ardor cools, the passion wears off. The heady early days of getting to know another person physically change into the attraction and comfort of a known quality.
And I am totally cool with that.
What I miss is the fact that by the time I am dragging myself to bed, I am too tired — and these days in too much pain — to invite my husband to come upstairs with me. Most of the time. (We both still get lucky, thank heavens!). If Dan is home “early” on any given night (early defined as 8 p.m. in my husband’s case) I would like to exercise my marriage rights, for him sometimes even more-so than for me.
I do a lot of stuff in the evenings. Not even counting the whole feeding-bathing-putting to bed of the children, there is laundry, kitchen duty, lunches to pack, bills to pay, etc., etc., etc. What I call here ‘the daily’.
And that’s all fine. If it’s been long enough and/or I want to feel intimate with my husband, I can (sometimes) muster up the energy for lovin’.
It’s when I do all ‘the daily’ while having back and neck issues. Or if I don’t do any of it (aside from the feeding-putting to bed of children) because of the pain.
Then Hugh Jackman could show up at my door with a bottle of Viagra, and I’d be like, “Hugh, not tonight, babe.”
What the heck chance does my poor husband have?
Snippet: Sweet
As is noted, the Halloween extravaganza has begun. As a result, the girls have some candy already.
Yesterday I packed them each a 3 Musketeers “fun size” bar in their lunches. Flora saved hers — my children often “save” a part of their lunch to eat on the ride home…because it’s such a long 5 minute ride.
So yesterday when I got them in the car, Flora opened her lunch pack, and got out the chocolate bar. She opened it, broke about a third of it off and handed it to Kate.
I hadn’t asked her to share. Kate hadn’t asked her to share. Just, “Here, Kate. You can have some of my chocolate.”
Although I was utterly flabbergasted, I simply said to her, “Flora that was a very nice thing you did. You’re a good big sister.”
Sometimes, my kids just blow me away.
