I was talking with my husband recently about whether we should get Hannah a milkshake while running errands. An important point to bear in mind is that milkshakes and mirrors are Hannah's favorite things in the world. I'll get back to the mirror later. We talked about the relative nutritional value or harm of a milkshake, versus a frozen lemonade, or whatever other frozen-ish beverage we might grab at a drive-through so Hannah would feel like she'd had a treat. Husband pointed out my relative hypocrisy in complaining about the junk content in a milkshake for Hannah, although I eat various other junk without a thought for its nutritional impact. My reply was: That's true. Still.
This double standard is applied to how I spend my time, as well. Hannah has always had a limit on daily screen time. Some days, just because life is busy, she has none; occasionally, on a sick day or rainy day off, she'll get extra time if there is something we all want to watch together. I give myself no such limitation. If I had a timer on my web browser as Hannah does, I might spend less time reading stuff on Cracked.com, although I can't promise that. I check my Facebook and work email multiple times after I come home in the afternoons, even when everyone else is home to offer live human interaction. Then, after Hannah has gone to bed, Husband and I settle in for grown-up television time. Don't get too excited; it's usually old episodes of Cheers or The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes on Netflix. If I added up all my screen time, I'm sure it would better than double Hannah's daily allowance.
Why do I think this is acceptable? It takes approximately four minutes to look at my work email to see if I need to change my schedule for tomorrow. The other 20 minutes are spent trying to catch up a few points on a Words with Friends game or see if anyone has responded to my Facebook status.
That brings me back to the mirror. Hannah loves to look at herself in the mirror. She can spend 30 minutes in the bathroom having a conversation with herself before she gets around to brushing her teeth. I wouldn't let her have a mirror at eye level in her bedroom when she was smaller, because it only exacerbated her tantrums. She loves to look at herself, and talk to herself, and pretend there is someone other than her talking back. I'm pretty sure that's the purpose that social media serves for me. I want to see my reflection, and pretend someone is talking back. Have my friends responded to my last comment? Did anyone Like my status? Do I have any new blog minions?
I'm fourteen years old and I'm electronically checking my hair every 20 minutes.
Someone needs to install some parental controls for me.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
Doin' it wrong on vacation time.
This is the first day of Hannah's Thanksgiving break from school. I have to work, but her Dad is staying home this week. The key here is I don't need to get her to school before I leave for work in the morning. Typically, I get up 3 hours before I have to be at work, so I can get myself ready, then get her ready, then get us both to the places we need to be. On mornings I want to go for a run first, I increase that lag time to 3 1/2 or 4 hours before I need to start work.
So this morning I was up at 5:00 to go out for my run. It was 56 degrees, which passes for cold in Florida, so I was decked out in running tights and an ear warmer, feeling semi-professional about the whole thing. I'd completed my circuit and was passing my own driveway for a cool-down walk when I realized I was out here at least an hour early. No one has to get anywhere under my supervision but myself this morning. I could have slept until 6:30, and still gotten everything done, and been at work by 9:00. Psht. I'm not good at days off.
This, however, pales in comparison to the time I returned from a vacation a day early and actually reported to work on a day that I was NOT SCHEDULED to see clients. I don't remember the trip, but I know it was a trip to someplace, and I recall thinking what a dufus I am because I could have stayed a day longer, if only I'd actually payed attention to the dates I'd requested off from work. I walked into the office, settled into my desk, and went to retrieve my files for the day from the administrative office where they're kept. All the admin women were looking at me funny as I stared into the empty space in the file drawer, but weren't sure it was okay to laugh at me until I started laughing myself.
So after I've returned from this morning's exercise and settled in to
Alas. I sent her to snuggle with her Dad, and I'll go get in the shower, and we'll try to straighten ourselves out here shortly. Happy Monday, everyone!
Friday, September 14, 2012
Doing it wrong in inappropriate clothing
I don't watch daytime TV. I don't watch a lot of TV at all; I don't have cable, so I'd have to watch stuff as it airs. I can't predict the likelihood of actually catching a program on time beyond the degree of "There-Might-Be-Oatmeal," as measured on my personal Probability Scale. But on Wednesday I let Hannah entertain herself for an hour (not exactly a stretch for her) and watched Katie Couric's show at 3:00. I'm not specifically a fan of Katie; I don't have any particular feelings about her, but Jenny Lawson had posted on The Bloggess that she would be on, in a red dress, no less, and I wanted to see her. THEN she posted that Brene Brown would also be on the show, and that moved it up to the Jennifer-Drinks-Coffee level on the scale, which means this eventuality is no longer in question.
I love Brene Brown. She is the most sensible author on relationships and mental health I have read. I love that her big rallying cry is "Be Brave,"and I love the title of her new book: Daring Greatly. It's not a complicated prescription, but the implementation of it is Herculean. I spend my days talking to clients about the value of courage and vulnerability in their relationships, and struggle with implementing it in my own just as much as they do.
And I love Jenny Lawson. She is brave in ways I can only dream about, and has challenges I can not imagine. I love her Red Dress phenomenon. I cried when I read her original post, and I cry every time she has red dress update post. I love the idea of women supporting other women and refusing to allow them to hide in shame without at least inviting them to come out and play dress up for a little while.
My red dress story is not quite as dramatic as some, and, in fact, I didn't recognize it as being a red dress story until this week. When my Dad died 3 years ago I felt all the warmth and color drain out of the world in a very tangible way. I was convinced that my heart was irrevocably broken, and I wasn't really even alive anymore. I could barely participate in the funeral arrangements, other than to criticize the funeral director's grammar when we reviewed the obituary copy. No. Criticize doesn't really describe it right; maybe excoriate? I think I may have tried to wrestle the keyboard out of his hands and do it myself. Raise your hand if that surprises you.
It was all I could do not to say something hateful when the preacher came over to my Mom's house to plan the service. I got into a fight with my Aunt over whether I had to help write thank-you cards to people who came to the funeral. Instead, I spent the week going over my Dad's mysterious balancing act of bill payment; no one else wanted to be involved in that mess, and I was guaranteed to be left alone. I was angry and hurt, and I didn't care what anyone else felt.
I don't remember who suggested it, but someone said we should all wear red to the funeral. It was one of the few suggestions (along with playing the Rolling Stone's Brown Sugar during the viewing) that didn't make me want to punch someone in the face. I figured Daddy would think it was funny if we all wore red dresses to his funeral. Of course, being that we had travelled for a funeral, neither my sister nor I had packed anything red. So the next day, the Aunties brought over armloads of red dresses and skirts for the most bizarre dress-up party I've ever been to.
My sister and Mom and I decided that wearing red to his funeral was the last joke we could tell my Dad. I don't think it was courage so much as defiance and a fierce and blinding love for my Dad that carried us through those days and that funeral. I still hold my breath through much of the month of August, hoping I can keep it together until my birthday, and then September, when I can try to remember how to breathe again.
So now I think I'll buy myself a red dress. Probably not a sparkly gown, but one I can wear regularly. One in which I can be defiant. And fierce. And whatever else it is I'm having trouble mustering up that day.
I love Brene Brown. She is the most sensible author on relationships and mental health I have read. I love that her big rallying cry is "Be Brave,"and I love the title of her new book: Daring Greatly. It's not a complicated prescription, but the implementation of it is Herculean. I spend my days talking to clients about the value of courage and vulnerability in their relationships, and struggle with implementing it in my own just as much as they do.
And I love Jenny Lawson. She is brave in ways I can only dream about, and has challenges I can not imagine. I love her Red Dress phenomenon. I cried when I read her original post, and I cry every time she has red dress update post. I love the idea of women supporting other women and refusing to allow them to hide in shame without at least inviting them to come out and play dress up for a little while.
My red dress story is not quite as dramatic as some, and, in fact, I didn't recognize it as being a red dress story until this week. When my Dad died 3 years ago I felt all the warmth and color drain out of the world in a very tangible way. I was convinced that my heart was irrevocably broken, and I wasn't really even alive anymore. I could barely participate in the funeral arrangements, other than to criticize the funeral director's grammar when we reviewed the obituary copy. No. Criticize doesn't really describe it right; maybe excoriate? I think I may have tried to wrestle the keyboard out of his hands and do it myself. Raise your hand if that surprises you.
It was all I could do not to say something hateful when the preacher came over to my Mom's house to plan the service. I got into a fight with my Aunt over whether I had to help write thank-you cards to people who came to the funeral. Instead, I spent the week going over my Dad's mysterious balancing act of bill payment; no one else wanted to be involved in that mess, and I was guaranteed to be left alone. I was angry and hurt, and I didn't care what anyone else felt.
I don't remember who suggested it, but someone said we should all wear red to the funeral. It was one of the few suggestions (along with playing the Rolling Stone's Brown Sugar during the viewing) that didn't make me want to punch someone in the face. I figured Daddy would think it was funny if we all wore red dresses to his funeral. Of course, being that we had travelled for a funeral, neither my sister nor I had packed anything red. So the next day, the Aunties brought over armloads of red dresses and skirts for the most bizarre dress-up party I've ever been to.
My sister and Mom and I decided that wearing red to his funeral was the last joke we could tell my Dad. I don't think it was courage so much as defiance and a fierce and blinding love for my Dad that carried us through those days and that funeral. I still hold my breath through much of the month of August, hoping I can keep it together until my birthday, and then September, when I can try to remember how to breathe again.
So now I think I'll buy myself a red dress. Probably not a sparkly gown, but one I can wear regularly. One in which I can be defiant. And fierce. And whatever else it is I'm having trouble mustering up that day.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Let's put that in perspective
My last post referenced Hannah's waking up nicely as coming close-to-never on my probability scale. I worked up the rest of the scale, just to give you some perspective on the relative likelihood of all things. Hannah helped with suggestions for categories of probability. And with the coloring-in.
I think this 5-point Likert-type scale is sufficient to describe the probability of most eventualities. However, it is a work in progress; I mean the concepts, not the quality of the art work. That's not going to get any better. My apologies to people with actual skill...
I think this 5-point Likert-type scale is sufficient to describe the probability of most eventualities. However, it is a work in progress; I mean the concepts, not the quality of the art work. That's not going to get any better. My apologies to people with actual skill...
Friday, August 24, 2012
And now I'm gonna crush a box.
Mornings are not Hannah's thing. Typically there is a 20 minute period of whining and unarticulated mewling that prompts me to sing "Who Let the Goat In?" until Hannah either laughs or gets mad enough that I leave the room before she says something that might get her into trouble.
Fair is fair: annoying songs are bad enough without entrapment for disrespectful behavior.
Today she awakened on her own around 6:45, and was dressed and ready to go before 7:15. Incidentally, this falls on the far side of Unicorns in the Backyard on the Probability Scale. My husband had gone to work early this morning, so he called to say good morning at 7:45. The side of the conversation I could hear went something like this:
I'm dressed already...
Do you remember the pink dress with the flower? That's what I'm wearing.
It is Friday...
(Mom, could you pull up the school lunch menu please?) If it's still Pizza-Friday, then that's what I'm having...
Well, since we don't have gifted today, I get to go to art class.
Yeah...
Yeah...
Yeah...
And now I'm gonna crush a box.
Hannah had been kicking around a cardboard box all morning that I told her she could break down, but not while eating breakfast. She'd waited as long as she could, and just had to get back to work on that thing. She did not put down the phone, or even ask her Dad to hold on. She assumed that the box crushing would become part of the conversation, just as it would have if Dave had been sitting there with her. Not surprisingly, Dave seemed to be asking for commentary on her progress. She described the progression from box-shaped to flat-as-a-pancake, pausing only in her exertion to tackle a particularly resilient corner.
I've been feeling not awesome lately. And when I feel not-awesome, I tend to ratchet up the level of acceptability on my Control Freak meter and do things like iron the sheets and insist that Hannah clean her room before she goes to bed. Dave can sense the disturbance in the Force, and just helps Hannah clean stuff up so I don't have to get all frantic and Mommy-Dearest on the world. I will tell you that I had to suppress the urge this morning to tell Hannah to just stop kicking that box around, please, despite the absolutely stress-free morning we were having. I also don't mind telling you that my suppression behavior was reinforced by the unbearable cuteness of that box-crushing commentary.
Fair is fair: annoying songs are bad enough without entrapment for disrespectful behavior.
Today she awakened on her own around 6:45, and was dressed and ready to go before 7:15. Incidentally, this falls on the far side of Unicorns in the Backyard on the Probability Scale. My husband had gone to work early this morning, so he called to say good morning at 7:45. The side of the conversation I could hear went something like this:
I'm dressed already...
Do you remember the pink dress with the flower? That's what I'm wearing.
It is Friday...
(Mom, could you pull up the school lunch menu please?) If it's still Pizza-Friday, then that's what I'm having...
Well, since we don't have gifted today, I get to go to art class.
Yeah...
Yeah...
Yeah...
And now I'm gonna crush a box.
Hannah had been kicking around a cardboard box all morning that I told her she could break down, but not while eating breakfast. She'd waited as long as she could, and just had to get back to work on that thing. She did not put down the phone, or even ask her Dad to hold on. She assumed that the box crushing would become part of the conversation, just as it would have if Dave had been sitting there with her. Not surprisingly, Dave seemed to be asking for commentary on her progress. She described the progression from box-shaped to flat-as-a-pancake, pausing only in her exertion to tackle a particularly resilient corner.
I've been feeling not awesome lately. And when I feel not-awesome, I tend to ratchet up the level of acceptability on my Control Freak meter and do things like iron the sheets and insist that Hannah clean her room before she goes to bed. Dave can sense the disturbance in the Force, and just helps Hannah clean stuff up so I don't have to get all frantic and Mommy-Dearest on the world. I will tell you that I had to suppress the urge this morning to tell Hannah to just stop kicking that box around, please, despite the absolutely stress-free morning we were having. I also don't mind telling you that my suppression behavior was reinforced by the unbearable cuteness of that box-crushing commentary.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Doin' it wrong with discipline and home remedies
My daughter has some unidentified seasonal allergies, and I've been trying to treat her without industrial quantities of Triaminic and Benadryl. So I went with nasal irrigation. For about a week we had a twice daily ritual of torturing Hannah with a squirt of commercially-produced saline solution in both nostrils and copious nose blowing. Done. Oh, except for the whining, occasional shouting, and half-hearted wrestling on her part.
It's worked pretty well. She breathes easier at night and has much less sneezing and general congestion during the day. So, naturally, I've slacked off. Just one treatment at bedtime now, and sometimes I forget about it altogether.
Turns out that was her plan all along. More about her evil-ness later.
This morning I got up and was so stuffy and dried out, I wanted the saline spray for myself. I looked in the place where I left it out for convenience: nope. I looked in the place it belongs for storage: nope. I looked in the bathroom drawer where sometimes everything gets shoved when I'm cleaning: not there. I looked in the cabinet where everything gets shoved when the drawer is too stuffed with stuff that doesn't belong there: also not there. I looked on the floor behind the wastebasket, behind the pedestal sink base and in the little hidey-hole in the step stool: no dice. So I gave up and just suffered a little.
When Hannah got up later I asked her whether she knew where the nose spray is.
Eyes well up. She looks around a little frantically, touches her nose, sniffs and says, "Why? I don't need it."
Me: But I do. Where is it.
Hannah: *deer-in-headlights look*
Me: Hannah?
Hannah: *opens hidey-hole in step stool and removes a rubber cleaning glove, under which is hidden the nose spray*
Me: *Hysterical laughter*
Hannah: *out right weeping*
Me: Why are you crying?
Hannah: Every day I hide it in a different place, but you keep finding it. So yesterday I hid it in the stool. (still crying)
Me: *still laughing* Why are you crying?
Hannah: Well, usually when people yell at me or have a yelling voice, tears just come into my eyes.
Me: But I'm not yelling; I'm laughing. I don't understand.
Hannah: It's not funny,
Me: But it is clever. You had a problem, and you solved it. Not the way I might have wanted, but you solved it. I think maybe you know it was a little naughty, and you feel guilty. Could that be it?
Hannah: *blank stare*
Me: Never mind. *still laughing*
Partly, it was so funny because I'd looked in that hiding place, just not well enough. I thought the little bottle had gotten knocked over somewhere and just carelessly lost. I hadn't anticipated it having been conscientiously squirrelled away under multiple obstacles. I'm still chuckling about it.
Maybe not my best parenting response, but the most genuine, I think.
It's worked pretty well. She breathes easier at night and has much less sneezing and general congestion during the day. So, naturally, I've slacked off. Just one treatment at bedtime now, and sometimes I forget about it altogether.
Turns out that was her plan all along. More about her evil-ness later.
This morning I got up and was so stuffy and dried out, I wanted the saline spray for myself. I looked in the place where I left it out for convenience: nope. I looked in the place it belongs for storage: nope. I looked in the bathroom drawer where sometimes everything gets shoved when I'm cleaning: not there. I looked in the cabinet where everything gets shoved when the drawer is too stuffed with stuff that doesn't belong there: also not there. I looked on the floor behind the wastebasket, behind the pedestal sink base and in the little hidey-hole in the step stool: no dice. So I gave up and just suffered a little.
When Hannah got up later I asked her whether she knew where the nose spray is.
Eyes well up. She looks around a little frantically, touches her nose, sniffs and says, "Why? I don't need it."
Me: But I do. Where is it.
Hannah: *deer-in-headlights look*
Me: Hannah?
Hannah: *opens hidey-hole in step stool and removes a rubber cleaning glove, under which is hidden the nose spray*
Me: *Hysterical laughter*
Hannah: *out right weeping*
Me: Why are you crying?
Hannah: Every day I hide it in a different place, but you keep finding it. So yesterday I hid it in the stool. (still crying)
Me: *still laughing* Why are you crying?
Hannah: Well, usually when people yell at me or have a yelling voice, tears just come into my eyes.
Me: But I'm not yelling; I'm laughing. I don't understand.
Hannah: It's not funny,
Me: But it is clever. You had a problem, and you solved it. Not the way I might have wanted, but you solved it. I think maybe you know it was a little naughty, and you feel guilty. Could that be it?
Hannah: *blank stare*
Me: Never mind. *still laughing*
Partly, it was so funny because I'd looked in that hiding place, just not well enough. I thought the little bottle had gotten knocked over somewhere and just carelessly lost. I hadn't anticipated it having been conscientiously squirrelled away under multiple obstacles. I'm still chuckling about it.
Maybe not my best parenting response, but the most genuine, I think.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Doin' it wrong with operant conditioning and pest control
Today I'm putting my curtains back up. I took them down at the beginning of June when my husband pointed out that they were serving as a nursery for tick larvae. We spent a frantic and disgusted weekend washing curtains and bedding, vacuuming every milimeter of carpet and upholstery in the house, and spraying every crevice and surface with a combination of purportedly environmentally-neutral pesticides bought at a do-it-yourself joint.
Yeah, yeah. Chemicals shmemicals.
Those of you who know me outside of Bloggerland know how I feel about bugs. I never liked them, and I really screwed myself up several years ago in a behavioral psychology workshop during a demonstration of virtual operant conditioning or some such thing. The group was instructed to imagine a thing we fear, in the most vivid manner we could, while touching together the thumb and index finger of our left hands. Then we were instructed to imagine, in an equally vivid manner, a peaceful and comfortable setting, while touching together the thumb and index finger of our right hands. Being me, I screwed it up. I got stuck on Thing-I-Fear, and did the whole Right Hand thing wrong. This only exacerbated my fear of bugs. Observe:
I once thought I saw a large bug scoot across the carpet in the doorway of my office, and began thinking immediately of the possibility of climbing out the window, and whether the screen popped out easily, or if I'd have to tear through it. Turns out it was a pen cap that my client had been fiddling with, and shot across the room accidentally. It was all very amusing for him, but I'm not kidding about thinking of climbing out that window.
Another time, I was out shopping with my friend Amee. I discovered a palmetto bug crawling around on the floorboard of my car when we returned to the parking lot. I got out, closed the door, and loudly declared I needed a new car. I don't remember how we got home. I'm sure Amee had to chase the bug out of the car.
When I saw a German cockroach in my office one day last year, I told my boss I might have to resign. He had the pest control guy in the same day. I'm not kidding. I really hate bugs.
So when, this spring, I began to fear I'd permanently lost the war with the creepy little parasites, I was considering how I might burn down my house, and get the two 75+ year old live oaks in the back yard to go up with it. I had even silently and regretfully thought that I might have to give up my dog. You remember my dog, right?
The weekend of the ferocious scouring I took the dog to the vet for a bath and tick treatment. The vet called me to find out what wildernss I'd abandoned my dog in that caused him to be so virulently infested. "My backyard," was my only reply. After about 30 minutes' lecture, the vet suggested a new super-tick-and-flea-control product. Seeing how my next idea was Napalm and the SPCA, I was game. She only had one dose, but I happily bought it. The dog was a sleepy lump for three days, but that could have been due to the overwhleming trauma of having been left at the vet for 8 hours. He hates that place.
The good part of this story is that the magic product worked! For a few weeks I found only dead ticks in the house, and, although I fear to say it aloud, I haven't seen any in 2 weeks. Shh. Don't repeat that. I know those little bastards are still in the yard, and I don't want to jinx myself. Those stupid curtains have been hanging in the laundry room for 2 months, and I'd like my pants hangers back now.
Yeah, yeah. Chemicals shmemicals.
Those of you who know me outside of Bloggerland know how I feel about bugs. I never liked them, and I really screwed myself up several years ago in a behavioral psychology workshop during a demonstration of virtual operant conditioning or some such thing. The group was instructed to imagine a thing we fear, in the most vivid manner we could, while touching together the thumb and index finger of our left hands. Then we were instructed to imagine, in an equally vivid manner, a peaceful and comfortable setting, while touching together the thumb and index finger of our right hands. Being me, I screwed it up. I got stuck on Thing-I-Fear, and did the whole Right Hand thing wrong. This only exacerbated my fear of bugs. Observe:
I once thought I saw a large bug scoot across the carpet in the doorway of my office, and began thinking immediately of the possibility of climbing out the window, and whether the screen popped out easily, or if I'd have to tear through it. Turns out it was a pen cap that my client had been fiddling with, and shot across the room accidentally. It was all very amusing for him, but I'm not kidding about thinking of climbing out that window.
Another time, I was out shopping with my friend Amee. I discovered a palmetto bug crawling around on the floorboard of my car when we returned to the parking lot. I got out, closed the door, and loudly declared I needed a new car. I don't remember how we got home. I'm sure Amee had to chase the bug out of the car.
When I saw a German cockroach in my office one day last year, I told my boss I might have to resign. He had the pest control guy in the same day. I'm not kidding. I really hate bugs.
So when, this spring, I began to fear I'd permanently lost the war with the creepy little parasites, I was considering how I might burn down my house, and get the two 75+ year old live oaks in the back yard to go up with it. I had even silently and regretfully thought that I might have to give up my dog. You remember my dog, right?
 |
| He's so sweet. He didn't even murder me for this cone-head incident. He totally could have; I'm a very sound sleeper. |
The weekend of the ferocious scouring I took the dog to the vet for a bath and tick treatment. The vet called me to find out what wildernss I'd abandoned my dog in that caused him to be so virulently infested. "My backyard," was my only reply. After about 30 minutes' lecture, the vet suggested a new super-tick-and-flea-control product. Seeing how my next idea was Napalm and the SPCA, I was game. She only had one dose, but I happily bought it. The dog was a sleepy lump for three days, but that could have been due to the overwhleming trauma of having been left at the vet for 8 hours. He hates that place.
The good part of this story is that the magic product worked! For a few weeks I found only dead ticks in the house, and, although I fear to say it aloud, I haven't seen any in 2 weeks. Shh. Don't repeat that. I know those little bastards are still in the yard, and I don't want to jinx myself. Those stupid curtains have been hanging in the laundry room for 2 months, and I'd like my pants hangers back now.
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