Laughter, sunshine, breeze
Blissful moments pass, until
Two kids crap their pants
3 years ago
Showing posts with label daily. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daily. Show all posts
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Yet, (hopefully) not halfway there
OMG.
As if there weren't enough signs bombarding me with the fact that I am now old. Among them that my butt now has more dimples than the prepubescent Shirley Temple. But I digress. . .
People, The Matrix is celebrating its tenth anniversary. I might actually be a relic of the cretaceous period.
Which brings me to this week's (month's? What is time, anyway???) mantra:
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
As if there weren't enough signs bombarding me with the fact that I am now old. Among them that my butt now has more dimples than the prepubescent Shirley Temple. But I digress. . .
People, The Matrix is celebrating its tenth anniversary. I might actually be a relic of the cretaceous period.
Which brings me to this week's (month's? What is time, anyway???) mantra:
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
Friday, March 13, 2009
I could've put the crib in the backyard
I just happened to be cruising around some baby-related websites and came across an article on letting newborn babies "cry it out" in the middle of the night. Written by a PhD from Children's Hospital in Philadelphia, it talks about how "sleep training," her term for allowing infants to cry for half an hour at two in the morning, teaches them (in just a couple of nights) the self-soothing skills they need to fall asleep on their own.
Isn't that special?
Immediately I had this flashback to early spring, 2005, when I was propped up in my bed at three in the morning flipping through my paperback copy of Babywise, trying to decipher the print through my hormone and fatigue-induced fit of tears. It's a strict, schedule-based sleep-training book complete with graphs. Full of facts: sleep statistics, success percentages, the requisite troubleshooting section. I followed its advice, TO A TEE. Problem was, my kid wasn't in any of its two-hundred-twenty-something, whip-cracking pages.
Then there was the first time I showed up at the hospital-sponsored Mommy and Me class when Bugglegirl was six months old and still not sleeping through the night. When I lamented to the instructor that "crying it out" just didn't work with my baby, she coolly responded, "Oh, it works if you do it right." I almost invited that bee-atch back to my place for a two-hour, middle-of-the-night screamfest, but instead I just never went back. I also never let Bugglegirl cry for hours in the middle of the night again. I didn't need some wannabe Dr. Spock to tell me how to handle my kid. Intuitively, I knew that my little bundle of joy was destined to be the exception to every rule.
[Sorry - I just glanced up through the French patio doors to glimpse Buggleboy streaking through the backyard. Bugglegirl in her panties, carrying a purse and chasing him. Excuse me for just a moment.]
My point is: experts, schmexperts. It took Bugglegirl ten months to sleep though the night completely (my pediatrician's assessment: some babies just get hungry). And Buggleboy woke throughout the night until he had tubes put in his ears at fourteen months.
It was a frustrating, exhausting process, but now both of them sleep regularly from seven to seven. Sleep training, indeed.
Isn't that special?
Immediately I had this flashback to early spring, 2005, when I was propped up in my bed at three in the morning flipping through my paperback copy of Babywise, trying to decipher the print through my hormone and fatigue-induced fit of tears. It's a strict, schedule-based sleep-training book complete with graphs. Full of facts: sleep statistics, success percentages, the requisite troubleshooting section. I followed its advice, TO A TEE. Problem was, my kid wasn't in any of its two-hundred-twenty-something, whip-cracking pages.
Then there was the first time I showed up at the hospital-sponsored Mommy and Me class when Bugglegirl was six months old and still not sleeping through the night. When I lamented to the instructor that "crying it out" just didn't work with my baby, she coolly responded, "Oh, it works if you do it right." I almost invited that bee-atch back to my place for a two-hour, middle-of-the-night screamfest, but instead I just never went back. I also never let Bugglegirl cry for hours in the middle of the night again. I didn't need some wannabe Dr. Spock to tell me how to handle my kid. Intuitively, I knew that my little bundle of joy was destined to be the exception to every rule.
[Sorry - I just glanced up through the French patio doors to glimpse Buggleboy streaking through the backyard. Bugglegirl in her panties, carrying a purse and chasing him. Excuse me for just a moment.]
My point is: experts, schmexperts. It took Bugglegirl ten months to sleep though the night completely (my pediatrician's assessment: some babies just get hungry). And Buggleboy woke throughout the night until he had tubes put in his ears at fourteen months.
It was a frustrating, exhausting process, but now both of them sleep regularly from seven to seven. Sleep training, indeed.
Monday, March 9, 2009
What if they grow up to be Picasso?
I'm sitting here at my desk and the smell of Barbasol is overwhelming. Right next to my laptop, at the apex of a toppling pile of preschool masterpieces (merely one of many such piles dotting my household landscape), sits an eleven by seventeen sheet of paper covered in a smelly, puffy, mint-green concoction of shaving cream and glue. And while I'm confident that Bugglegirl's preschool instructors could offer up a ten minute treatise on its developmental necessity in promoting tactile stimulation, fine motor skills and right-brain augmentation, one reality remains: I haven't the foggiest idea what the hell to do with it.
I'm drowning here, people.
How is it even possible for two children, with a combined age of only six and a half years, to generate so much paperwork? I've worked in animation, in publishing, IN STATIONERY, for God's sake, and I've never seen so many scraps and sheets strewn about.
The other day I was over at my neat friend's house. It is utterly immaculate - no dishes, no junk mail, no errant socks - which she will insist is due to the fact that they are trying to sell it, but I know better. She is one of those clutter-proof souls, those totally infuriating people who inspire me, after I return home, to dash breathlessly from room to room, frantically seeking something, anything, that I can throw into the garbage or donate to Goodwill to placate my inadequacy.
So I started quizzing her: What about the school artwork? The torn-out, half-completed coloring book pages? She winced, just a wee bit, and in a noticeably lowered voice she admitted: I throw it all away.
PARDON? My head started reeling. She might as well have told me that she'd shredded the Dead Sea Scrolls. Really? She proceeded to tell me that she does keep the special holiday projects, and that she expects to preserve more art as the boys get older. As I sat there listening, a curious wave of conflicting emotion washed over me - the same feeling I get when I'm watching the E! channel and Pamela Anderson flashes (practically) across the screen: horrified. . .yet, intrigued.
But I just can't get rid of it all. I harbor a guilty sense of sentimentality that results in my reluctance - and often, my downright inability - to part with mementos (have I told you about my cocktail napkin collection from elementary school?). At the same time, I can't function in this never-ending ticker-tape madness any longer.
So, myself and I have reached a compromise: stash some, trash some, send the rest to the grandparents. I'm going to curb, if not purge, this needless nostalgia.
I'm drowning here, people.
How is it even possible for two children, with a combined age of only six and a half years, to generate so much paperwork? I've worked in animation, in publishing, IN STATIONERY, for God's sake, and I've never seen so many scraps and sheets strewn about.
The other day I was over at my neat friend's house. It is utterly immaculate - no dishes, no junk mail, no errant socks - which she will insist is due to the fact that they are trying to sell it, but I know better. She is one of those clutter-proof souls, those totally infuriating people who inspire me, after I return home, to dash breathlessly from room to room, frantically seeking something, anything, that I can throw into the garbage or donate to Goodwill to placate my inadequacy.
So I started quizzing her: What about the school artwork? The torn-out, half-completed coloring book pages? She winced, just a wee bit, and in a noticeably lowered voice she admitted: I throw it all away.
PARDON? My head started reeling. She might as well have told me that she'd shredded the Dead Sea Scrolls. Really? She proceeded to tell me that she does keep the special holiday projects, and that she expects to preserve more art as the boys get older. As I sat there listening, a curious wave of conflicting emotion washed over me - the same feeling I get when I'm watching the E! channel and Pamela Anderson flashes (practically) across the screen: horrified. . .yet, intrigued.
But I just can't get rid of it all. I harbor a guilty sense of sentimentality that results in my reluctance - and often, my downright inability - to part with mementos (have I told you about my cocktail napkin collection from elementary school?). At the same time, I can't function in this never-ending ticker-tape madness any longer.
So, myself and I have reached a compromise: stash some, trash some, send the rest to the grandparents. I'm going to curb, if not purge, this needless nostalgia.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Who you calling "Toxic"?
I can't seem to recall exactly how the stars aligned recently to allow me a few spare moments to peruse an old issue of People magazine. Probably has something to do with the fact that Oprah was taking yet another vacation. At any rate, I managed to catch up with the likes of Jennifer Garner (battling a stalker!), Nicole Richie (debuting a jewelry line!) and Michael J. Fox (not cured!).
I skimmed most of it, but I got sucked into an article about Britney Spears and her "I hate when people call this a" comeback. There she was, all depressed-looking in the full-page photograph, followed a page later by a shot of her juggling a bunch of music awards. And while I delved into the article ready to mock the stupid redneck rich girl, it became immediately obvious: this chick is really miserable. All the money and hair extensions in the world can't change the fact that she went nuts, lost her kids and now, isn't even allowed to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba without an OK from Jamie Spears (the dad, not the loose little sister).
But for some reason, I still had this nagging suspicion that all that cash must cushion the crazy just a teeny bit. Isn't driving to your court mandated prescription drug rehab in your Ferrari better than taking the Big Blue Bus?
I had forgotten about the article until a couple of days ago, when I watched a Diane Sawyer exposé on 20/20 about the Appalachian "mountain folk." These people live in trailers surrounded by garbage. They have no teeth because they put Mountain Dew IN THEIR BABY BOTTLES. Many of them are addicted to prescription pills and the ones who aren't spend their black-lung-shortened lives buried in the coal mines. I spent a summer during college delivering pizzas to people just like this, in the Appalachian foothills. An otherworldly combination of stunningly beautiful scenery inhabited by stunningly impoverished people. I got lost a lot, tooling around the backroads in my Subaru wagon with directions like: Turn left at the crossroads. About four miles up the hill, take a right. Follow the path to the clearing, third trailer on the left. A gaggle of dogs, chickens and barefoot kids would come running up to the car. Their dad (brother? uncle?) would offer me fourteen bucks for a thirteen dollar and sixty seven cent pepperoni pizza and a two liter of soda (Mountain Dew, natch).
Point is, it reminded me of my roots (well, if not exactly upper-middle-class suburbia, my brief foray into the real world) and how I used to imagine what people in California might be like. With their fancy cars and their five hundred dollar haircuts. And it made me realize that to somebody in the Appalachian wilderness - darkest dark I've ever seen - I might as well be Britney.
So now I'm gonna spit out my gum and say a little prayer.
I skimmed most of it, but I got sucked into an article about Britney Spears and her "I hate when people call this a" comeback. There she was, all depressed-looking in the full-page photograph, followed a page later by a shot of her juggling a bunch of music awards. And while I delved into the article ready to mock the stupid redneck rich girl, it became immediately obvious: this chick is really miserable. All the money and hair extensions in the world can't change the fact that she went nuts, lost her kids and now, isn't even allowed to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba without an OK from Jamie Spears (the dad, not the loose little sister).
But for some reason, I still had this nagging suspicion that all that cash must cushion the crazy just a teeny bit. Isn't driving to your court mandated prescription drug rehab in your Ferrari better than taking the Big Blue Bus?
I had forgotten about the article until a couple of days ago, when I watched a Diane Sawyer exposé on 20/20 about the Appalachian "mountain folk." These people live in trailers surrounded by garbage. They have no teeth because they put Mountain Dew IN THEIR BABY BOTTLES. Many of them are addicted to prescription pills and the ones who aren't spend their black-lung-shortened lives buried in the coal mines. I spent a summer during college delivering pizzas to people just like this, in the Appalachian foothills. An otherworldly combination of stunningly beautiful scenery inhabited by stunningly impoverished people. I got lost a lot, tooling around the backroads in my Subaru wagon with directions like: Turn left at the crossroads. About four miles up the hill, take a right. Follow the path to the clearing, third trailer on the left. A gaggle of dogs, chickens and barefoot kids would come running up to the car. Their dad (brother? uncle?) would offer me fourteen bucks for a thirteen dollar and sixty seven cent pepperoni pizza and a two liter of soda (Mountain Dew, natch).
Point is, it reminded me of my roots (well, if not exactly upper-middle-class suburbia, my brief foray into the real world) and how I used to imagine what people in California might be like. With their fancy cars and their five hundred dollar haircuts. And it made me realize that to somebody in the Appalachian wilderness - darkest dark I've ever seen - I might as well be Britney.
So now I'm gonna spit out my gum and say a little prayer.
Monday, February 9, 2009
I'm kinda partial to Double Cross
As of this moment, I have been on the phone with the the Prince of Darkness - Anthem Blue Cross of California - for forty minutes, twenty-three seconds and counting. How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved by You) Muzak is tinkling annoyingly from my speakerphone. Normally, I'd be multitasking right now - job hunting on Craigslist or folding laundry, for example - but I can't. I'm too pissed off.
A couple of weeks ago, we received a letter from the insurance company indicating that, as of March 2009, due to rising health care costs, our monthly premium would be increasing by twenty-seven percent. This on top of 2008's increase of nearly the same. You're correct, dear readers: that's approximately seven times the current average rate of inflation. When I called them last year demanding to know exactly what it was that was getting so damn expensive, they balked, spewing out some ridiculously circuitous nonsense for which I had no retort. What was I going to do, cancel and reapply for an even higher rate someplace else?
I decided to call today not to demand an explanation for corporate avarice, but simply to obtain an overview of my (so-called) options. I'd been inspired to act after a visit last week to Buggleboy's pediatrician. He's got another ear infection, natch. She was also following up with me regarding his visit to urgent care last weekend for pinkeye (we're just a rainbow of ailments over here):
Doc: What drops did they prescribe?
B-Mama: Vigamox. You know, the ones made with real gold flecks?
Doc: How much did you pay?
B-Mama: Sixty bucks.
Doc: With insurance?
B-Mama: I don't get brand name coverage until I spend five hundred dollars per person. And now they're raising our premiums again.
Doc: Those motherfuckers. I've got a cousin in Redlands who could disappear your troubles, no problem. Capice?*
*My intuitive interpretation. Actually, that part went more like:
Doc: Don't even get me started. You'd probably be better off paying everything out of pocket and just having emergency coverage. Make some calls, do the math.
I can tell you, friends, what Anthem Blue Cross is not spending its yearly blood money on: telephone representatives. After forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, some chick picks up. And she has absolutely no idea where Earth is. When I try to ask her about the various plans, particularly a group called Lumenos (christened, no doubt, by one of those pricey, trend-forecasting consulting firms), this is what happens:
Representatard: Which Lumenos plan are you interested in?
B-Mama: I don't know. Your website offers no real explanation at all. What kind of plans are they, exactly?
Representatard: I'm not really sure. You have to set up an account through Mellon Bank. Shall I give you that number?
B-Mama: No. I don't want to talk to a bank. I called you to find out more about these plans.
Representatard: What number did you call?
B-Mama: The one on the bottom of the screen. The one that says, For more information, call 1-800. . .
Representatard: I'm sorry ma'am but that's not the number where I'm at. I handle things like if you want to change your address, things like that. You need to talk to your agent. . .
This degenerates into a bad sitcom, with my having no idea that I even have an agent, the Representatard offering me this agent's name and extension and ultimately, his turning out to be a very genial guy who handles only new accounts and alas, can't help me at all. But he does joke with me about Anthem's utter incompetence (You're preachin' to the choir. They got a lotta new people. A lot of 'em don't know what they're doin'. Note to job seekers: no barriers to entry at Anthem!!). He offers to transfer me, then promises to throw in a couple Hail Marys to help me end this phone debacle.
So ten minutes later I'm still on hold, my kid is now awake and I put the phone on speaker, set it down, and IT HANGS UP.
I wasted an entire nap time - and it ends like this? With misplaced karma? Please. I didn't actually call her Representatard out loud.
This whole episode has got me thinking about what an amazing job the health care lobby has done, evoking McCarthy-style fears: that if we move even one little inch toward a national health care initiative, we'll fall into some kind of socialist nightmare. The fact is, we spend more on health care than any other industrialized nation (many of which offer universal health care) and still have forty-six million uninsured (check out www.nchc.org for more puke-in-your-mouth-a-little tidbits).
Like so many other gnarly, socio-political conundrums, it reminds me of a scene in Dirty Dancing, the one in which Baby's big sister Lisa posits insightfully:
I've been thinking a lot about the Domino Theory. Now, when Vietnam falls, is China next?
Then there's this classic gem:
You wouldn't care if I humped the entire army - as long as we were on the right side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What you care about is that you're not Daddy's girl anymore. He listens when I talk now. You hate that.
But I digress. . .
I mean please, people. I don't see anybody freaking out about the fire department. Or the library. Yes, both local, rather than federal, institutions. But let's see. . .the F.B.I.? Anybody complaining lately that nationalizing crime investigation and prevention has us careening down a slippery slope toward communism? Where is my beige, iridescent lipstick?
My brain hurts. And hell knows I'm not going to be pre-approved for a neurology visit anytime soon.
A couple of weeks ago, we received a letter from the insurance company indicating that, as of March 2009, due to rising health care costs, our monthly premium would be increasing by twenty-seven percent. This on top of 2008's increase of nearly the same. You're correct, dear readers: that's approximately seven times the current average rate of inflation. When I called them last year demanding to know exactly what it was that was getting so damn expensive, they balked, spewing out some ridiculously circuitous nonsense for which I had no retort. What was I going to do, cancel and reapply for an even higher rate someplace else?
I decided to call today not to demand an explanation for corporate avarice, but simply to obtain an overview of my (so-called) options. I'd been inspired to act after a visit last week to Buggleboy's pediatrician. He's got another ear infection, natch. She was also following up with me regarding his visit to urgent care last weekend for pinkeye (we're just a rainbow of ailments over here):
Doc: What drops did they prescribe?
B-Mama: Vigamox. You know, the ones made with real gold flecks?
Doc: How much did you pay?
B-Mama: Sixty bucks.
Doc: With insurance?
B-Mama: I don't get brand name coverage until I spend five hundred dollars per person. And now they're raising our premiums again.
Doc: Those motherfuckers. I've got a cousin in Redlands who could disappear your troubles, no problem. Capice?*
*My intuitive interpretation. Actually, that part went more like:
Doc: Don't even get me started. You'd probably be better off paying everything out of pocket and just having emergency coverage. Make some calls, do the math.
I can tell you, friends, what Anthem Blue Cross is not spending its yearly blood money on: telephone representatives. After forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, some chick picks up. And she has absolutely no idea where Earth is. When I try to ask her about the various plans, particularly a group called Lumenos (christened, no doubt, by one of those pricey, trend-forecasting consulting firms), this is what happens:
Representatard: Which Lumenos plan are you interested in?
B-Mama: I don't know. Your website offers no real explanation at all. What kind of plans are they, exactly?
Representatard: I'm not really sure. You have to set up an account through Mellon Bank. Shall I give you that number?
B-Mama: No. I don't want to talk to a bank. I called you to find out more about these plans.
Representatard: What number did you call?
B-Mama: The one on the bottom of the screen. The one that says, For more information, call 1-800. . .
Representatard: I'm sorry ma'am but that's not the number where I'm at. I handle things like if you want to change your address, things like that. You need to talk to your agent. . .
This degenerates into a bad sitcom, with my having no idea that I even have an agent, the Representatard offering me this agent's name and extension and ultimately, his turning out to be a very genial guy who handles only new accounts and alas, can't help me at all. But he does joke with me about Anthem's utter incompetence (You're preachin' to the choir. They got a lotta new people. A lot of 'em don't know what they're doin'. Note to job seekers: no barriers to entry at Anthem!!). He offers to transfer me, then promises to throw in a couple Hail Marys to help me end this phone debacle.
So ten minutes later I'm still on hold, my kid is now awake and I put the phone on speaker, set it down, and IT HANGS UP.
I wasted an entire nap time - and it ends like this? With misplaced karma? Please. I didn't actually call her Representatard out loud.
This whole episode has got me thinking about what an amazing job the health care lobby has done, evoking McCarthy-style fears: that if we move even one little inch toward a national health care initiative, we'll fall into some kind of socialist nightmare. The fact is, we spend more on health care than any other industrialized nation (many of which offer universal health care) and still have forty-six million uninsured (check out www.nchc.org for more puke-in-your-mouth-a-little tidbits).
Like so many other gnarly, socio-political conundrums, it reminds me of a scene in Dirty Dancing, the one in which Baby's big sister Lisa posits insightfully:
I've been thinking a lot about the Domino Theory. Now, when Vietnam falls, is China next?
Then there's this classic gem:
You wouldn't care if I humped the entire army - as long as we were on the right side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What you care about is that you're not Daddy's girl anymore. He listens when I talk now. You hate that.
But I digress. . .
I mean please, people. I don't see anybody freaking out about the fire department. Or the library. Yes, both local, rather than federal, institutions. But let's see. . .the F.B.I.? Anybody complaining lately that nationalizing crime investigation and prevention has us careening down a slippery slope toward communism? Where is my beige, iridescent lipstick?
My brain hurts. And hell knows I'm not going to be pre-approved for a neurology visit anytime soon.
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