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Because you asked... here's how I spend my hour of yoga each day:
“Mom. I’m thinking of 12 kinds of candy to get you for Mother’s Day. See if you can guess them.”
“Smarties are my favorite, so I know you’ll get me that.”
“Yessss, and what else.”
“Chocolate kisses?”
“Yes, and don’t forget Starbursts.”
“But I don’t like those.”
“Well, that’s why I’ll eat them for you.”
Isn’t this street gorgeous. I’m happy I grabbed a shot this year.
See more love shots at Shutter Sisters.
I have my system for our six-person family’s dental cleanings down to a science. I’ve learned in life not to try to accommodate other people’s needs, who are getting paid to service me; I make it as easy on myself as possible, and let them figure it out. Here’s the drill:
This means, there are two hygienists at the dentist, each one working on three family members. The hygienists, these two wonderful, chatty, loving ladies just smile and talk all the way through it, and don’t even blink an eye when I arrive with four boys in tow. They’re so happy to see my boys, and through experience with a lot of kids, know that it’s best to show everything to curious little minds so they don’t become afraid.
My boys are pretty talkative, and ask lots of questions, so the hygienists are always carefully pulling down the false teeth model, to show them how they count teeth. They squirt the water in their mouth so they can see what it feels like. The show them the little sink and where and how it drains.
Until they’re too big to stay in the car-seat carrier on the floor, the little guys sit on my lap while my teeth are cleaned. She turns them around to face me, and she explains every little step, along the way, so that they’ll know exactly what will happen when it’s their turn.
The benefit? I’m not stuck with metal implements in my mouth trying to keep up a conversation — I can just sit and and enjoy not having to do a thing, while the hygienist entertains my sons. Ahhh, I know, what you’re thinking. The luxurious life I lead.
So yesterday at 8 a.m. was the date of 6 month appointment. I had it all planned. Husband and oldest son would go first at 8. That way, he could get off to work, and I wouldn’t have to wait the entire time trying to occupy all the boys in the waiting room. I would show up around 8:20 or so, just when they were finishing up, so that we could get right in, and no wait.
However, I arrived a little early, 8:10, to a new hygienist, someone I will now call Miss Hissy. I gave our name, and she goes off on some kind of tirade about how they’ve been frantically trying to contact me (no messages?!) because there are 3 hygienists today, and they were tag-teaming us, 3 on 3. And where, have I been all morning?
Ummm hummm… are you new? Miss Hissy has been with the office for ten years, but only works on Mondays, and I begin to explain, while she interrupts with this “We’ll see if what we can do to work you in… I’m not making any promises.” Good grief. Ten minutes.
I’m a tired woman, I’m learning that it’s just best to not argue with people like this, keep my mouth shut and save my energy for more important things. So, I give her my look that says simply, “So, are you going to take us now, or turn it into a 20 minute delay… because I don’t have time for this lecture.”
We go back, and I head into my normal routine, but she pulls out a little chair for my boys to sit on. No lap cleaning today. She explains it’s “dangerous” as I could get poked by a sharp instrument. I look at her and realize how unhappy she is with me, and choose not to argue with her on that one. My guy can’t sit still. He knows that dental office like his own bedroom, and he wanders over to the treasure box, stops in the adjoining rooms to say Hi to his brothers, and say Hi to the other hygienists that he knows so well…. Miss Hissy has a fit.
There is a strange phenomenon, that Miss Hissy’s daughter has yet to successfully teach her mother, that happens whenever you tell a kid to stop doing something. They become more persistent. Almost as if they have a “calling” to do the opposite of what you just said. They have heard this: “Please keep wandering around the office and get on my nerves.” Because that’s exactly what the little guys did. She stops, several times, scraping my teeth to unsuccessfully rein my boys back in… and I’m thinking about her need to rush. I’m remembering how calm and well-behaved my boys were when they sat on my lap during these visits, and how much I miss their warm little bodies on top of my legs.
I notice that the two nice hygienists are just smiling like nothing’s going on, and completely ignore Miss Hissy’s frantic shenanigans. Thanks, a lot, I breathe to them. Without my son in my lap, I’m forced to endure her life story. How she manages to feed me all this information while chasing my boys, is bewildering, but she did it. She has a daughter, and they’ve been kicked out of four different daycare centers because “they just can’t make it to the pick-up times.” Traffic, she explains. Hmmmm. I start to become a little bit judgemental, as I remember the reprimand she gave me earlier this morning. But, I refrain myself again.
It’s now 9:25, and her 9:20, Matt, has yet to arrive. Miss Hissy calls up to the front desk, “Will you please call to find out where my 9:20 is? At 9:40, we are all done, no cavaties, thanks to this, and I’m scheduling my next appointment, quietly saying that “Monday’s are no good for us,” when Matt, the 9:20 walks in.
OMG. Is all I can think. Matt is cute in a boyish way, with his auburn deshelved hair from what looks like a “good night’s sleep.” He’s wearing army fatigue shorts, flip flops, and yesterday’s t-shirt, which he undoubtedly slept in, and is two sizes too small. The shirt says simply, “Got Ups?”As a mother of boys, I can’t help but think that one day my boys will be heading to the dentist all by themselves, making appointments in advance. Yet, Matt has a distinct odor. He smells exactly like “reefer madness.”
Miss Hissy… you’re next appointment has arrived.
When the leaves begin to turn in the Fall in 2008, I will be sending my third boy to first grade. Full-day, for the first time in our lives.
With Mother’s Day approaching, the boys already have a plan in action. They have the perfect gift in mind for Mom, as she assumes her new role as the primary play mate of the youngest brother. We’ll get her this:
Because, around here, everyday is Mother’s Day.
As part of their responsibility to the global community, Johnson’s has hand-selected dozens of charities around the world that mirror their deep commitment to caring for the health and well-being of mothers and children through Johnson’s Baby Cause - not just on Mother’s Day, but every day of the year. To learn more about this global charity work, check out PBN. Be sure to check out their celebrity e-Bay auction — a chance to win Matt Damon’s diaper bag.
Also, check out my post at Midwest Parents, on how to spot a fake smile.
It’s craft time, I say!
trace his body on paper.
This is not enough.
I pull out the stuff;
every Mother’s worst nightmare;
glittery sprinkles.
It’s OK, I think,
We’ll be outside! No messes.
Friends, I am so calm.
What is the big deal
when they cover the driveway
in sprays of sparkle?
My son said it best;
I think our driveway looks cool.
He’s right about this.
But things turn ugly,
“Take these glitter tubes inside!”
The laundry suffers.
Now, I must learn this
one rule about the glitter
It’s ALWAYS a mess.
So, no wonder this guy’s hiding…If you would like to see the mess they made, you how two little boys sabotaged a perfectly peaceful calm yoga morning, visit here. Happy Haiku Friday Everyone.
No I didn’t move. Yes… I still live in the “city.”
Kids seem to enjoy them.
Almost Wordless Wednesday
A post in the form of a bridal announcement
The young man (age 6) was wearing these dainty, although soiled socks, at the end of the school day; and he’s not talking about where he got them. The unveiling of the socks took place in the backyard of the boy’s best friend at 4:30 in the afternoon of a school day. The walkway through the garden was paved in red brick; lilac’s were beginning to present their buds; and cardinals could be spotted on tree branches. Present at this unveiling was the boy’s Mother, two of her other two children, the boy’s best friend and at his side, the best friend’s Grandmother. The day was sunny, bright and unseasonably warm, and all were wearing spring attire, all appropriately soiled from a full day’s work of play.
The accompanying music was a chorus of whines and cries as the boys had “tired themselves out” in the unusual show of sunshine, and were basically at the end of their ropes. During the walk back home, the boy did pick one of the Mother’s first blooming Daffodil’s in the front yard and presented it to her.
It is believed that the socks were initially soiled at a playground, not too far from the school. When asked “where on earth did you get these socks, and where are yours?” The boy responded that he didn’t know. He left the house at noon, late from a busy morning of playing, as usual, wearing his plain white socks with HANES clearly spelled out in red letters.
The mother of the boy is guessing the sock-exchange occurred sometime during afternoon kindergarten between 12 and 2:50. The mother of the girl of the missing lavender-trimmed socks has yet to be identified.
The mother of the boy is considering rounding up a few Knights who can canvass the school, asking the little girls to try on the socks to see which foot the socks belong to. Once found, she’s considering taking the two out for a celebration Banana Split, the boy’s favorite dessert, at the play area of the local Grater’s Ice Cream.
Anyone with information regarding the rightful owner of the sock can respond in the comments section below.
This is for BSM, and Painted Maypole’s Monday Mission. This mission was to write a post in the form of a bridal announcement. I hope you can do better. Mine seems to be part bridal announcement part crime-scene report!
Also, April is poetry month, and I have just the perfect poetry book that will excite every boy.
You can laugh all you want at my hair in that picture; but it was 1989, and I thought I looked cool.
On a whim, truly that impulsive, I joined a bunch of friends for a two hour drive to go skydiving. The airport was tiny, and only flew propeller (prop planes). We arrived around 10 in the morning, and the planes were lined up getting fuel, and the professional sky divers were busy packing chutes for the day.
In one tent, there was a class going on for those people who were jumping free fall for the first time, either via a static line, or the accelerated free fall. We were bypassing those classes. We only needed minimal instruction; I was preparing to do a tandem skydive; the skydive that requires the barest, minimalist instruction. You can get your training, and jump — all in the same day! I would literally be going along for the ride with a master skydiver, (someone who has already been certified through thousands of jumps) as I would simply be harnessed to him throughout the entire jump. My master skydiver, Mike, would be responsible for packing the parachute. I had only one task: to pull the rip cord when he said “ready.”
The master jumper can help the novice jumper move through any fear or anxiety that just might creep up during the experience of falling at 120 mph from 13,000 feet.
Our friends, including my boyfriend, and I (now my husband) went through about 30 minutes of “ground prep training.” Parts of the parachute were explained, how to read the altimeter that would be strapped around my neck, and then to sign the “release papers.” I’ll admit; that got me for a second or too. If it was so safe… then, why bother with these release papers? Still, not one to be outdone by her peers, I signed and was ready to go.
I spent most of the rest of the afternoon waiting, and watching my friends, and other strangers float out of the sky. Later, I would often hear this question, “Why? What made you jump?” Looking back, this could have been the time I backed-out, but then, I knew, I would always be left wondering what it would have been like to fall 13,000 feet in the air. I would rather know, than wonder.
Dusk was falling when it was my turn to climb aboard the decrepit-looking propeller plane. My boyfriend and I were going up at the same time… wasn’t that sweet? I was introduced to my master jumper; a gray-bearded, blue-eyed fella named Mike who seemed more like 19 than 65. My stomach started to lurch. I was beginning to become aware that the safety of the earth would soon be leaving my own “force field,” and my hands began to sweat, and I began to take shorter breaths.
When the plane choked several times at take-off, I was starting to feel a bit of relief; maybe we wouldn’t make it up after-all. If the plane couldn’t make it up, I would be spared from what I now was beginning to consider the trauma, of skydiving. When the plane did lift off the ground, it continued its spitting and sputtering, and dipping as we continued out ascent to higher altitudes.
It’s bad enough to be just a tad bit afraid of your first skydiving experience; it’s quite another to add the possibility of engine failure to the ascent of your jump. I was quickly becoming a nervous wreck. A quiet nervous wreck. Still, the master jumpers, and the pilot in the plane were laughing about the old “Betsy’s problems” and were exchanging stories about the mechanic’s latest attempt to swap out pistons… I can’t remember anything else. I shut down and tried not to hear the discussion about the frailty of this plane’s engine’s woes.
I did manage to hear this, though: “At least we have our parachutes.” These men added a whole new dimension to my fear of flying. If anything would happen to the plane; they could always jump out and free-fall with their parachutes. “Safest way to land,” they would say. Interesting thought. Still, I remembered those scenes in my mind of all those master jumpers packing the parachutes. They were laughing; yet so focused on what they were doing. Did they do it right? What if they forgot something?
Miraculously, Betsy made it to 13,000 feet. Now it was time to get ready to go. My boyfriend said, “Here we go, Susie,” and he winked at me, grinning ear to ear. I didn’t need this distraction; the thought that I may never see the love of my life again. You know that feeling when you’re climbing to the top of the first hill on a roller coaster? When that happens to me, I want to get off that roller coaster right then. I really do. The pressure, the anxiety and the awareness of that pending drop is more than I can stand. That’s how I felt right then on the plane. I was paralyzed with fear, and the idea of standing up in this plane to become strapped to someone else was beyond my body’s physical and mental capability.
Despite my protest, I was lifted up by Mike, and he began his work of securing the parachute, and securing my body to his. That’s when I saw the hooks. Simple, metal clasp hooks — two of them attached to a nylon belt that wrapped around Mike’s back, across his waist, and then around my waist. That’s it. A simple hook that could break, give out, or accidentally become unfastened. And the parachute, of course, is on his back; not mine. I guess I had never really thought about this before, but I had assumed that we would be more securely attached. Maybe I had envisioned something sturdier — I couldn’t think of what — but I felt extremely vulnerable. When I heard the clasp click shut, I looked over and down to check them, and my stomach lurched. “Oh, God… what have I done?”
So I asked Mike, “If these clasps break, can I just wrap my legs around yours, pretzel-like, and still stay attached for the fall?” “No way, he laughed, “the force is too great.” Poor Mike. His comment elicited fear, and a knee jerk reaction. But first, the door of the plane opened, and my crazy boyfriend and his master jumper jumped out and disappeared. Our turn. Fear had already made my legs nothing less than concrete. Mike, as a master jumper, had evidently seen this reaction before. He was undaunted, as he moved me closer to the door, tightened our straps, and exited the plane; me attached. I kicked, in an attempt to wrap my legs around his, pretzel-style, just in case he was wrong about the force. I hurt Mike; I made his shin bleed… even through his fancy, sturdy parachute jumpsuit.
Mike was a nice, decent guy, just trying to help people out. I regret hurting Mike. And still, I don’t think I said I was sorry.
Now, I know what Mike knew: the only cure for my stomach’s anxiety, my wildly-beating heart, and my fear, was to get out of that plane and out into the fresh air. I do not use the word “fresh” here lightly. The air smells fresher up there. Still, as the air hit my face, and all I could see was the ground rushing up fast to meet me, I could … barely…. breathe. Thankfully, for Mike, I couldn’t move either; so he was safe from any future injury.
While the parachute was on Mike’s back; the rip cord was attached to me, and it was my job to read the altimeter and pull the cord at just the right moment. I must have taken the laissez-fare attitude, “you got me into this mess, you can get me out of it,” because Mike ended up fumbling around to read the altimeter and pulled the cord for us.
Once the cord was pulled, I think we went straight back up in the air higher briefly, before beginning to fall, slowly. By now, I was really enjoying the pristine, crisp cold air; the air smelled better than the freshest spring day you’ve ever known. And this feeling of buoyancy was nothing like I had ever felt before. In a word; breathtaking. The view, unhindered by tiny airplane windows and wing, is unlike anything you will ever experience when your feet are firmly planted on the ground.
Then, I think I had one of those epiphany moments; where I felt “one” with the universe, so grateful that I had experienced the earth from this vantage point. This “jumper’s high” is what keeps the skydiving sports so popular, as jumpers keep going back for more. I interviewed an astronaut once for a business client, and he confessed: “Astronauts do go through depression when they come back to earth; it’s hard to leave space, and once they knew the lightness of space. It’s very hard to live within the Earth’s pull of gravity, once you know the freedom of space.”
When I landed, light as a feather, I was never so happy to be back on earth.
I felt like I had been gone for months. When I called my Mom to tell her what I had done, she was mad at me, for not telling her before I left. She wanted the privilege of worrying about me all day. Logic only a mother can understand.
A few months later, Mike showed up in the newspaper. There was some accident, a fault with the parachute. Mike was the hero in the story. As the master jumper that he is, he maneuvered his body around during the tandem jump, so that the novice jumper fell on top of him, and Mike’s body took the full brunt of the fall. In the picture, he was sitting on the ground, after the fall, still smiling, miraculously suffering from only a broken leg from the incredible fall. Mike was a good man.
Sunday Scribbling’s prompt this week is fearless.
No way to make it,
on time, to school everyday.
See, we have BIG plans.
As caped crusaders,
we’ve got our costumes to wear,
plus, there’s crime to fight.
We’re up at seven,
ready, serious, for play
Still, not enough time.
Tears at 11,
time for lunch,
and real clothes too,
still, play makes us late.
We are getting later, and later everyday. Breaks my heart to break up their playtime. You can read more Haiku Friday’s here.
On another note, I know that most of my readers are non-bloggers. Alltop is a new “magazine rack-style” blog reader that I love because of its elegant simplicity. Bloggers, and especially non-bloggers who love to read blogs, will appreciate this uncluttered blog reader. Alltop is the latest brain child of Guy Kawaski, ( who I’m pretty sure loves Guinness cake, by the way) Will Mayall, and Kathryn Henkensa. The website launched on March 11, 2008. This team also created Truemors. I found Alltop through Twitter, a great way to spread news fast.
Alltop has over 46 (and growing) categories, and its clean design made for easy browsing. And yep, I’m included, go see me under Moms.
These really make me laugh, although I know I should probably take these more seriously. I wish phone numbers or email addresses were attached to visitors IP addresses. Then, I could kindly direct them to more appropriate places for help.
