I really wish there was a significant caloric burn factor for pacing. The reality is, I would be so skinny.
I'm not referring to the act of simply stepping, or using your feet to measure distance, or even the rate of speed that distance is traveled. I'm referring to the intense ambulatory movements of worried parents, as defined by the last two decades of my life. I've paced waiting for fevers to drop when infants have been sick. I've paced waiting for phone calls to be returned when the clock approaches curfew. I've paced waiting for medical test results about internal hemangiomas and nerve-entwined cholesteatomas. And I'm pacing right now.
It seems like, mathematically speaking, pacing plus waiting is equal to the sum total of worry... or, in my case: 9x(P+w) = W. I would like to think I've evolved into a big enough person who is okay with waiting, okay with being patient, okay with "letting go". But truthfully, I'm not. I have a tough time subscribing to the "c'est la vie" approach to life, and I've never been good at math.
For me, there is a common denominator in circumstances that result in The Pace: I'm impatient waiting to DO something. I'm on the cusp of action, or decision, or just wrapping my head around news that might forever change the direction of my life. And there are the infinite conversations in my head: "How will I word this?" "Should I start making phone calls?" "Who can I ask for prayer?" "When should I call 911?" "What will be the length of punishment and does the garage need to be cleaned out again?" So I pace.
My guess is that this struggle comes from a Life Value of "giving 110%". I wrestle with the issues of parenting because I can't stop caring. Trying my hardest means trying more. Giving my best means surprising myself with what I'm capable of, not giving up, not giving in. My wise mother once told me that marriage is not 50/50, but 100/100, and to fully expect to have to pick up the slack and give more. But no one told me about the math of waiting, and how your heart can be fractured, and divided.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Tall Babies
There is a certain comfort about having an infant around. Well, not exactly "comfort". You worry yourself sick about every little squeak and whimper. You chalk up fussiness to gas, or teething, or potential fever with viral seizure. You learn to sleep with one eye open. So, I guess "comfort" is an inadequate term. But, at least the infant stays where you put her. That's what I mean by comfort. If you put her in the swing, she stays in the swing. Crib? Crib. Car seat? Car seat. Well, "car seat", only if the two year old doesn't drag it into another room so the baby can watch him pee all by himself in the big potty.
But, we have tall babies. And as soon as our infants start being mobile, the whole world changes. I recall one visit from my dear grandmother, who was absolutely appalled that our entire set of kitchen dining chairs were lasso-ed with a huge rope and intricate series of knots and loops. As she struggled to wrestle one chair free, she remarked with exasperation, "Why would you let the children DO this?" I just smiled and said, "Actually, Kel did it. So the baby won't get on the table." Nana had an Aha moment when she realized this was a safety measure, but she questioned our creativity.
Just as annoying are all the hook and eye locks at eye level (5'9" or higher) on every door in our house. These were installed when our 4th child, Kieran, was a tall baby. Not only could she maneuver simple locks on doors, she was quick to escape through them as well. The amount of "comfort" time with her was likely the shortest of all our babies. Kel still has some angst about the amount of time she was raised seat belted in her high chair. It's true that by her arrival we already had plenty to distract us... plenty to even sabotage us. But Nana doesn't even complain about all the locked doors now. Maybe they make her feel safer too.
Tall babies usually have long arms that accompany their stature. Rosie is no exception. For quite some time, she could reach a tall counter top from her high chair and unnecessarily scrunch up 125 crisp napkins all at once. (Please don't be offended if you are visiting and we offer you what looks like a used one. It's not. Honestly!) And for a few weeks now she has been able to access the buttons on the computer desk phone. It's a fancy schmancy one that looks like it should belong to a receptionist for a Fortune 500 company. It sits up at attention at an angle, it has a display screen you can see from across the room, and it has a myriad of buttons I don't have time to learn about. We bought it because the handset is actually connected to the phone, and the phone is connected to the wall. (We are always losing important things with buttons. But at least we can find one ringing phone now.) Rosie usually goes for the speaker button, but she has been known to call Papa once or twice. If you call and get a newly recorded answering machine message that is difficult to decipher, would you let me know? Now, even though I have knowledge of these SuperBaby powers which she possesses, it still totally took me by surprise today when I heard my prized camera clunk on the floor. I know I put it on the back corner of the computer desk, and even made sure to pull the neck strap up too. Honestly!
One would think I would be more preventative, considering all the tall babies I've cared for. Maybe I just suffer from a short memory. What I'm currently learning, however, is that tall babies become tall children. And it's awfully hard to shake your finger at a child who can look you straight in the eye.
But, we have tall babies. And as soon as our infants start being mobile, the whole world changes. I recall one visit from my dear grandmother, who was absolutely appalled that our entire set of kitchen dining chairs were lasso-ed with a huge rope and intricate series of knots and loops. As she struggled to wrestle one chair free, she remarked with exasperation, "Why would you let the children DO this?" I just smiled and said, "Actually, Kel did it. So the baby won't get on the table." Nana had an Aha moment when she realized this was a safety measure, but she questioned our creativity.
Just as annoying are all the hook and eye locks at eye level (5'9" or higher) on every door in our house. These were installed when our 4th child, Kieran, was a tall baby. Not only could she maneuver simple locks on doors, she was quick to escape through them as well. The amount of "comfort" time with her was likely the shortest of all our babies. Kel still has some angst about the amount of time she was raised seat belted in her high chair. It's true that by her arrival we already had plenty to distract us... plenty to even sabotage us. But Nana doesn't even complain about all the locked doors now. Maybe they make her feel safer too.
Tall babies usually have long arms that accompany their stature. Rosie is no exception. For quite some time, she could reach a tall counter top from her high chair and unnecessarily scrunch up 125 crisp napkins all at once. (Please don't be offended if you are visiting and we offer you what looks like a used one. It's not. Honestly!) And for a few weeks now she has been able to access the buttons on the computer desk phone. It's a fancy schmancy one that looks like it should belong to a receptionist for a Fortune 500 company. It sits up at attention at an angle, it has a display screen you can see from across the room, and it has a myriad of buttons I don't have time to learn about. We bought it because the handset is actually connected to the phone, and the phone is connected to the wall. (We are always losing important things with buttons. But at least we can find one ringing phone now.) Rosie usually goes for the speaker button, but she has been known to call Papa once or twice. If you call and get a newly recorded answering machine message that is difficult to decipher, would you let me know? Now, even though I have knowledge of these SuperBaby powers which she possesses, it still totally took me by surprise today when I heard my prized camera clunk on the floor. I know I put it on the back corner of the computer desk, and even made sure to pull the neck strap up too. Honestly!
One would think I would be more preventative, considering all the tall babies I've cared for. Maybe I just suffer from a short memory. What I'm currently learning, however, is that tall babies become tall children. And it's awfully hard to shake your finger at a child who can look you straight in the eye.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Getaway
I don't know anyone who has ever said, "It's easy to get away". Even my single friends have a hard time escaping from Something for a day or two. For our family of eleven, it's exponentially difficult. Even harder still? When it's just me and Kel.
Of course, there's the initial concerns of expense, time away from earning income as well as the time spent spending it. And there are the concerns about actually finding a few open days on the calendar that would accomodate a small excursion. But the greater logistics involve our nine children and who possibly could manage managing them. We don't get many offers. And, we don't often get away.
Lucky for us, we have my mom, a retired 6th grade teacher who doesn't scare easily. She regards our home as a small classroom with laundry facilities. Over many childbearing years, she has made it possible to survive labor/delivery/first few days home. She has cooked and cleaned and taken kids on endless trips to McDonald's playland. She has covered carpool obligations and carted kids to doctor appointments. She comes through the front door with a huge sweeping announcement of her arrival, and arms laden with grocery bags full of ice cream (for breakfast) and junk food (for whenever the mood suits you). She lets the kids eat on my livingroom couch, but swears them to secrecy. She does not enforce bedtimes. She thinks absolutely everything my children do is interesting and fun.
And she lies.
She lies that she loves getting rose scented perfume or another frog gift. She lies that my children are helpful and well-behaved. She lies that she is available the 4th weekend in July for an anniversary getaway.
She also lies that everything is "Just fine" when we call home to make sure that the kids are following the rules (they aren't) and we left enough milk in the fridge (we haven't). Friday night, a mere 6 hours after our departure, I detected a slight shrill in her voice in the background when Kieran answered the phone: "Well, it's pouring down rain, Mom. Mimi says I have to get off the phone." My fast fingered texting and subsequent phone calls had my children informing me that "Well, the tornado sirens are going off and we're waking kids up to get into the basement" and then "The power is out", and then "We're waiting for an okay from the fire department."
She lies by ommission too. Not only is my mom selective about the kinds of details she shares, she is quite inclined to embrace a martyr approach, at least until she has to own up when someone else spills the beans. Saturday evening I got to speak to Maddie, and she is an experienced bean spiller. "Hi Sweetie! How was the picnic and pool party?" "Oh, it was lots of fun Mom, until the ambulance showed up." And, our dear screaming Mimi was heard yelling in the background, "I TOLD YOU NOT CALL YOUR MOTHER!"
By all accounts, we had at our door this weekend every local emergency service organization except the National Guard. But honestly, we would have had to read it in the newspaper first. Now, I've matured enough in my parenting to not get so bent out of shape over such news and information, and more than likely I'm just numb to it. Shoot, I live it.
But mom? I fear she may never want to return.
Or, at least she'll lie about it.
Of course, there's the initial concerns of expense, time away from earning income as well as the time spent spending it. And there are the concerns about actually finding a few open days on the calendar that would accomodate a small excursion. But the greater logistics involve our nine children and who possibly could manage managing them. We don't get many offers. And, we don't often get away.
Lucky for us, we have my mom, a retired 6th grade teacher who doesn't scare easily. She regards our home as a small classroom with laundry facilities. Over many childbearing years, she has made it possible to survive labor/delivery/first few days home. She has cooked and cleaned and taken kids on endless trips to McDonald's playland. She has covered carpool obligations and carted kids to doctor appointments. She comes through the front door with a huge sweeping announcement of her arrival, and arms laden with grocery bags full of ice cream (for breakfast) and junk food (for whenever the mood suits you). She lets the kids eat on my livingroom couch, but swears them to secrecy. She does not enforce bedtimes. She thinks absolutely everything my children do is interesting and fun.
And she lies.
She lies that she loves getting rose scented perfume or another frog gift. She lies that my children are helpful and well-behaved. She lies that she is available the 4th weekend in July for an anniversary getaway.
She also lies that everything is "Just fine" when we call home to make sure that the kids are following the rules (they aren't) and we left enough milk in the fridge (we haven't). Friday night, a mere 6 hours after our departure, I detected a slight shrill in her voice in the background when Kieran answered the phone: "Well, it's pouring down rain, Mom. Mimi says I have to get off the phone." My fast fingered texting and subsequent phone calls had my children informing me that "Well, the tornado sirens are going off and we're waking kids up to get into the basement" and then "The power is out", and then "We're waiting for an okay from the fire department."
She lies by ommission too. Not only is my mom selective about the kinds of details she shares, she is quite inclined to embrace a martyr approach, at least until she has to own up when someone else spills the beans. Saturday evening I got to speak to Maddie, and she is an experienced bean spiller. "Hi Sweetie! How was the picnic and pool party?" "Oh, it was lots of fun Mom, until the ambulance showed up." And, our dear screaming Mimi was heard yelling in the background, "I TOLD YOU NOT CALL YOUR MOTHER!"
By all accounts, we had at our door this weekend every local emergency service organization except the National Guard. But honestly, we would have had to read it in the newspaper first. Now, I've matured enough in my parenting to not get so bent out of shape over such news and information, and more than likely I'm just numb to it. Shoot, I live it.
But mom? I fear she may never want to return.
Or, at least she'll lie about it.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
I Forgot My Camera
In honor of our 23 Wedding Anniversary, Kel found a way to solicit my mom's help in watching the children so we could enjoy a weekend in St. Louis.
But I forgot my camera.
No pictures of fireworks over the arch, the revelry and musicians on Laclead's Landing, or a foreign taxi driver from the casino. No pictures of the historic (but newly renovated) Mayfair hotel, back door tour of the Clydesdales at Annhauser-Busch, or Llewellyn's Irish Pub. No pictures of the reflecting pond in Forest Park, Chuck Close's amazing painting of Keith or Gerhard Richter's thoughtful grey glass reflection in the Art Museum. No pictures of the expansive city skyline, or tiny mosaic tiles at the Cathedral Basilica. (Or, the Archbishop giving us an anniversary blessing afterwards). No pictures to help me remember the characters in the European-like open market at Soulard's, nor the gorgeous fresh cut flowers, produce, meats, cheese, fish for sale. No pictures of us under the patio lights at the Italian restaurant on The Hill, nor meandering through the prayerful walkways at Our Lady of the Snows.
I don't have a photographic memory.
Fond memories will have to do.
But I forgot my camera.
No pictures of fireworks over the arch, the revelry and musicians on Laclead's Landing, or a foreign taxi driver from the casino. No pictures of the historic (but newly renovated) Mayfair hotel, back door tour of the Clydesdales at Annhauser-Busch, or Llewellyn's Irish Pub. No pictures of the reflecting pond in Forest Park, Chuck Close's amazing painting of Keith or Gerhard Richter's thoughtful grey glass reflection in the Art Museum. No pictures of the expansive city skyline, or tiny mosaic tiles at the Cathedral Basilica. (Or, the Archbishop giving us an anniversary blessing afterwards). No pictures to help me remember the characters in the European-like open market at Soulard's, nor the gorgeous fresh cut flowers, produce, meats, cheese, fish for sale. No pictures of us under the patio lights at the Italian restaurant on The Hill, nor meandering through the prayerful walkways at Our Lady of the Snows.
I don't have a photographic memory.
Fond memories will have to do.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Real Vacation Packing Story
We went camping for our family vacation, and of course ended up packing more than just swimsuits and toothbrushes because of it. Despite renting two cabins, we still had to haul linens (for ten), shoes (for nine), sunscreen (for eight), recharging cords (for seven), badminton rackets (for six), five golden inner tube rings, hair thingies (for four), life vests (for three), margaritas (for two), and a porta-crib (for one). I think there is a Christmas song with a similar theme which must have originated from another overzealous Dad who had to pack up a family for vacation. We also hauled cooking supplies, including a small fridge, smaller microwave, 10 cup coffee maker, and perhaps most surprising of all, Kel's coffee grinder. (Pummeling Dunkin Donuts coffee beans with rocks and sticks is just not the same!) I won't complain about the extra appliances one bit, except to say it does not look much like camping when you back into your campsite with a U-haul. Good thing we only have a 15 passenger extended van, and really long extension cords.
Michigan was wonderful: big dunes, warm sand, lake waves, and blueberries. After the squirrel episode in our van, I half expected an ominous tone to our trip. But honestly, the three nights away were simply wonderful.
Michigan was wonderful: big dunes, warm sand, lake waves, and blueberries. After the squirrel episode in our van, I half expected an ominous tone to our trip. But honestly, the three nights away were simply wonderful.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Packing a Car for Vacation
I'm a decent organizer. I can plan ahead, make lists, anticipate obstacles, strategize solutions. And I'm getting much better at organizing as the years go by (and as we accrue more and more children).
But tonight as I collected bathing suits and counted toothbrushes (what more do you really need when you're going to the beach in the morning?), there was one thing I absolutely could not have planned for: the rotting carcass of a BB ridden squirrel in the engine of my 15 passenger "going to the beach" van. I might have laughed aloud if the stench were not so awful and sucking the very air right out of my lungs.
Camden surmised the corpse was about a week old. He determined this primarily from recalling the last time he had the BB gun out and shot at squirrels. He recalled one squirrel that disappeared under the van, and did not reappear even when he gave that van a little rocking action. Can you just picture the child walking away, shrugging his shoulders, tilting the head wearing that half cocked baseball cap?
The solution for this pre-vacation dilemma was not immediate. In fact, the efforts of several hours, gloved hands and long crowbars could not free the vermin from its almost final resting place. In the end, Kel had to consult a local mechanic neighbor friend, who braved the reeking funk for a closer look. The rapid blinking of his eyes may have been to protect them from toxic fumes, but I think it was from the fond memories of raising two hooligans of his own. I left when he shared his expert advice which included extension tools and bolt unfasteners. Ugh.
I'm happy to report that the van is reassembled, and we are still going to the beach in the morning, sans squirrel. Thank God for Febreeze... It really works!
But tonight as I collected bathing suits and counted toothbrushes (what more do you really need when you're going to the beach in the morning?), there was one thing I absolutely could not have planned for: the rotting carcass of a BB ridden squirrel in the engine of my 15 passenger "going to the beach" van. I might have laughed aloud if the stench were not so awful and sucking the very air right out of my lungs.
Camden surmised the corpse was about a week old. He determined this primarily from recalling the last time he had the BB gun out and shot at squirrels. He recalled one squirrel that disappeared under the van, and did not reappear even when he gave that van a little rocking action. Can you just picture the child walking away, shrugging his shoulders, tilting the head wearing that half cocked baseball cap?
The solution for this pre-vacation dilemma was not immediate. In fact, the efforts of several hours, gloved hands and long crowbars could not free the vermin from its almost final resting place. In the end, Kel had to consult a local mechanic neighbor friend, who braved the reeking funk for a closer look. The rapid blinking of his eyes may have been to protect them from toxic fumes, but I think it was from the fond memories of raising two hooligans of his own. I left when he shared his expert advice which included extension tools and bolt unfasteners. Ugh.
I'm happy to report that the van is reassembled, and we are still going to the beach in the morning, sans squirrel. Thank God for Febreeze... It really works!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Negotiating for Candy
We have a 15 passenger van, because, well, we need it to transport our family. And, being in such close quarters for any length of time can provide ample writing topics that can come from just listening in to conversations like the exchange below:
Maddie: Mooooommmm! Why does Kieran get the last
Smarties? Why can't I have more Smarties?
Kieran: Because I'm 13 now.
Maddie: Well, I'm sixteen.
Kieran: No you're not! You're eleven.
Maddie: Well, I'm GOING to be sixteen.
Kieran: Well, I'm going to be 40.
Maddie: And I'm going to be 90.
Kieran: And I'm going to be dead!
Maddie: Then I can have your Smarties!
Kieran: No you can't! I'll be in heaven!
Maddie: No you won't! You'll be in Portugal.
Kieran: (***pause***) Portugal? PORTUGAL? Oh! You mean Purgatory!
Maddie: Yea. Whatever. You should share your Smarties and stay out of Portugal.
Maddie: Mooooommmm! Why does Kieran get the last
Smarties? Why can't I have more Smarties?
Kieran: Because I'm 13 now.
Maddie: Well, I'm sixteen.
Kieran: No you're not! You're eleven.
Maddie: Well, I'm GOING to be sixteen.
Kieran: Well, I'm going to be 40.
Maddie: And I'm going to be 90.
Kieran: And I'm going to be dead!
Maddie: Then I can have your Smarties!
Kieran: No you can't! I'll be in heaven!
Maddie: No you won't! You'll be in Portugal.
Kieran: (***pause***) Portugal? PORTUGAL? Oh! You mean Purgatory!
Maddie: Yea. Whatever. You should share your Smarties and stay out of Portugal.
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