It is said, at least in the business world, that no one is irreplaceable. I don't disagree with this statement. As much an asset as one maybe to a company, there is always someone that can step in and assume responsbility. Perhaps it's not quite the same. They may do the job differently, but, the job does get done.
My former boss was a very big believer in this theory.
It's been two months since I left.
The req to fill my former job is still open. The tasks I did are piece-mealed out to various invididuals...some of them high priced consultants from the outside world.
I got an urgent call late last week. They want a quote from me - a price - to take on specific project work because they simply can't go any further without getting it done.
The irony, of course, is had they left me alone in my little cocoon of part-time employment this work would have been completed already and at less cost. I must now, to be fair to myself, as well as other clients I've taken on from time to time, charge fair market price for the services they seek. And frankly, that equates to more than what they'd have paid me in hourly rate wages to do the same work three months ago.
Is it wrong that this makes me giggle?
9.24.2006
9.21.2006
Holding Court
Megan's aunt got her a small chest of princess shoes (complete with crown) for her birthday. It arrived on our door step this evening along with the Disney Princess Memory game. Logan likes playing the Memory game even if it is with the "Silly Girlie Princesses." Megan, however, didn't even notice it was there. She was all about the shoes. We made the mistake of telling her the wing chair in the corner of the living room was her throne. Logan explained that princesses get to make the rules. Megan demanded her "magic wand" (although I never did find the right one - oh come on, you know all good princesses have at least three!) and her "fetters." She then held court right through bath time.
Logan, on the other hand quite frustrated that Her Royal Highness kept switching shoes, asked, "Why doesn't she just wear ONE pair?!"
I said simply, "Honey, she's a girl. She needs variety."
He's still quite perplexed.
Logan, on the other hand quite frustrated that Her Royal Highness kept switching shoes, asked, "Why doesn't she just wear ONE pair?!"
I said simply, "Honey, she's a girl. She needs variety."
He's still quite perplexed.
9.19.2006
Mystery
I had a few things swirling in my brain but frankly they are all pretty much drowned out by the fuzz of cold medicine. I really hate the whole sore throat clogged up nose thing.
Instead of an attempt at wit or insightful banter, I give you the chance to be witty and insightful for me. Come on, humor the girl clinging to the box of Tyelnol Severe Head Cold and the steamy cup of tea.
I took this picture on our walk this weekend. So, tell me, where does the door lead?
(this photo is here care of PhotoBucket because Blogger is being a pain in...well never mind.)
Instead of an attempt at wit or insightful banter, I give you the chance to be witty and insightful for me. Come on, humor the girl clinging to the box of Tyelnol Severe Head Cold and the steamy cup of tea.
I took this picture on our walk this weekend. So, tell me, where does the door lead?
(this photo is here care of PhotoBucket because Blogger is being a pain in...well never mind.)
9.17.2006
Relective
The boys in our house our fasincated by lighthouses. It's how they often spend their special "Father-Son" time -- touring lighthouses. Sometimes they let Megan and I tag along. Yesterday was one of those days. Living at the coast it's easy to find a lighthouse or two within a relatively short drive. This time our mission was to tour Twin Lights of Navesink. A deep brown monster of an edifice with two lit towers. One is square, the other is octoganal.
In the base of the building lies a small museum. Megan was quickly fascinated by the reflective lense on display.
(As you can see in the photo.) She looked at the way it made small rainbows. She admired the faint image of herself. She seemed to even listen to the volunteer guide that explained how the lense helped magnify the light. She ran, gleefully, with her brother to see the larger than life full-sized lense in the small annexed building. They both admired it's glowing magic.From there we headed out around the bend in the road to Sandy Hook. Near the end of this sliver of island that houses both a State Park beach and a decommissioned military base (Fort Hood), stands the oldest working lighthouse in the country. It's magestic and awe-inspiring...and closed to visitors under 48 inches tall. Logan is still bemoaning this fact. Yet they had fun inspite of it. We toured bunker remains and batteries.
We walked in the cool shade of old trees and hard concrete slab walls. Above all else, we simply enjoyed the silliness of bad knock knock jokes and the constant chatter of two young kids.It was growing late in the afternoon. Time to move home. We had two options for our drive - the big road with tolls but no traffic lights or the slightly smaller road with lights and beach traffic that ran along the coast. We opted for the scenic route. We stopped at one last lighthouse, a small brick house with a light a top .
This small house is only open for visits on a limited basis. This, was not one of those occasions. Instead we took time out to walk along the boards. There were no games at this particular spot. No rides or arcades. Just fresh ocean breezes and plenty of room to run. And run they did.
We took a break along the walk way in a little gazebo boasting two park benches - one sitting just ahead of the other. The kids scrambled up on the back bench with Dad. I quietly moved to the bench ahead of them. It made for a better spot to take their photo than sitting next to them.
I watched them for a few minutes before speaking. The beach always makes me a bit introspective - maybe it's the sound of the pounding waves or the smell of the salt air. Something about it tends to turn my thoughts inward than outward like a spiritual revival.
I thought about those lighthouses. I looked at my children. A conversation I had had earlier in the week came back to me in bits and pieces. How does one effectively grow a child with strong values and deep rooted beliefs? How does one create a good citizen? I had shrugged a little. I have ideas. I have notions put to practice but I have no live proof that it sticks for a lifetime. My two, will giving, caring, compassionate souls today are still so young. Who knows what really comes tomorrow.
I said something to that effect only a bit more vaguely, or succiently depending on your interpretation. I had it and then I replied - you need to model it. You need to "live" it. You need to BE it. You have to speak it, you have to tell them sure. But most importantly you need to be that beacon, that lighthouse in the dark, to show them the way.
This came to me again, the comparison between large lighted tower on the shore to parenting, when I saw that photo of Megan peering deep into the lense. Her reflection is so faint. Almost an aberration. You need to look close to see her small face in the large glass.
That's parenting. When a child leaves our pervue and starts to live life on their own, we are that reflection. As a child cleaves tight to their own self - defining their lives as they see fit, there is still that reflection we've left behind in their hearts, in their souls, in the back of their minds. It's always there and hopefully it's illuminating.
9.14.2006
The shame of it (aka Not that I'm Bitter)
It happened a week or two ago. See, I'm so heartbroken I can't even bear to remember the details.
Last year, or maybe it's even longer than that now, yes, it might be closer to a year and a half, I left a local mom's group. It's a long story with oodles of sordid details. Let's just say this - those gals were nuts. Logan was getting ready to start school at the time. Meg was too young to care if she had play dates or not. I had no 'need' for the constant catty bickering and backstabbing. (And THAT was just the moms!)
Recently, however, I've been thinking that Megan could stand a few fellow toddlers in her world. Something outside the realm of our once-a-week-paid-for Mom and me class and her new Sunday School class. I headed back to the web site where I had found my old group. I looked for one like it but not it. I found one. I joined.
I found half the fruit-loops that caused me to leave the original group entrenched in this new one. I considered running as fast as possible.
But I didn't.
One day I open my mailbox to find the new group was shut down without notice. I had an invite to join yet another new group -- one formed as a way to purge itself of members that engaged in catty infighting. I had high hopes the fruit-loops had been let go. I joined (again) and shared insights about local pizza joints and whether or not we'd make it to the story time at the library next week.
My hopes were dashed. Fruit Loops showed up.
And then suddenly, as quickly as I had been invited, I was unsubbed.
Now, unless people found offense to my suggestion that the Pizza Joint was better than Carlos, I have no idea what happened. Ok, I take that back. I do have an idea.
Fruit loops.
One of them is mad at me because I refused to gossip with her about a friend of mine. Our girls are in the same Gymboree class. She has yet to admit I'm there. Another is still mad at me for telling the old group that I didn't think we were the appropriate format for constant advertising of home businesses (just as she was widing up a pitch for her new at-home business) and a third is riding along with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
So there you have it. I have offically been booted out of a mom's group. I am a playgroup pariah.
I'm not sure if I should be ashamed or proud. What do you think?
Last year, or maybe it's even longer than that now, yes, it might be closer to a year and a half, I left a local mom's group. It's a long story with oodles of sordid details. Let's just say this - those gals were nuts. Logan was getting ready to start school at the time. Meg was too young to care if she had play dates or not. I had no 'need' for the constant catty bickering and backstabbing. (And THAT was just the moms!)
Recently, however, I've been thinking that Megan could stand a few fellow toddlers in her world. Something outside the realm of our once-a-week-paid-for Mom and me class and her new Sunday School class. I headed back to the web site where I had found my old group. I looked for one like it but not it. I found one. I joined.
I found half the fruit-loops that caused me to leave the original group entrenched in this new one. I considered running as fast as possible.
But I didn't.
One day I open my mailbox to find the new group was shut down without notice. I had an invite to join yet another new group -- one formed as a way to purge itself of members that engaged in catty infighting. I had high hopes the fruit-loops had been let go. I joined (again) and shared insights about local pizza joints and whether or not we'd make it to the story time at the library next week.
My hopes were dashed. Fruit Loops showed up.
And then suddenly, as quickly as I had been invited, I was unsubbed.
Now, unless people found offense to my suggestion that the Pizza Joint was better than Carlos, I have no idea what happened. Ok, I take that back. I do have an idea.
Fruit loops.
One of them is mad at me because I refused to gossip with her about a friend of mine. Our girls are in the same Gymboree class. She has yet to admit I'm there. Another is still mad at me for telling the old group that I didn't think we were the appropriate format for constant advertising of home businesses (just as she was widing up a pitch for her new at-home business) and a third is riding along with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
So there you have it. I have offically been booted out of a mom's group. I am a playgroup pariah.
I'm not sure if I should be ashamed or proud. What do you think?
9.12.2006
Two
Happy Birthday little girl. Oh, wait, I'm sorry. That is "Big Girl." She's quite insistant lately. Although, according to her brother she does not meet the basic requirements of 'big.'
We don't always agree with Logan's pronouncement however. Megan Rose is a BIG spitfire. She's quite big in feistiness. She's got a large amount of love to share and a bucket full of giggles.
She's stubborn. We have no idea where this comes from.
She's a bit bossy. Ok a lot bossy. Again - big question mark. (See me be facetious?)
She's incredibly compassionate and innately mothering. All her brother needs to do is stub his toe and she's all over him with hugs and "That's ok Woden. I here."
She's got a great sense of humor. Her eyes literally twinkle as she teases us...for real.
She's confident and yet she's shy at times.
She's got a memory that gets us in trouble and a set of smarts that gets us into even more.
She's creative and daring. She's girlie right down to the feather boa she requested and the dress up shoes she scuffs around in. She's a tom-boy that can scale the slides with the best of them. She adventurous.
She's talktive. She's musical. She's not even quite in her sleep. She's rarely still. Always on the go and always exploring. She's a parrot with a big brother she follows around and worships. She's his shadow and he's usually happy to have her.
So are we.
9.11.2006
Remembering
Eight years ago I said something that seems so amazingly naive in retrospect.
I was working for a public relations firm at the time. The person I interfaced with at my largest client had become a friend of mine. Still is. She was born and raised in Idaho. She was currently living in Utah. She had never been to New York City. She was afraid of heights.
When you want to meet with members of the technology press, you can easily set up clusters of meetings by heading to three major US cities - San Francisco/San Jose, Boston and New York. We were in Manhattan for the New York leg of our press tour. Her and I in the "Big City" with time on our hands between appointments.
She had a list of places her grandmother told her she simply could not miss while in town. Grandma wanted her to see the Statue of Liberty. *That* we did not have time to do. We'd never make it over to the little island and back. Instead we agreed on seeing it from a far. We headed downtown.
When the cab dropped us off on Manhattan's southern tip, she decided she'd never get a good view of Lady Liberty unless she pushed down her fears and went somewhere high. We got online at the Trade Center - we'd go to the top. I didn't tell her of it's past. I simply rode the elevator up with her and held on to her hand for support as she stood next to the great windows on the upper level admiring the views.
She was happy to set her feet on the ground again. She stopped a moment in the courtyard between the two towers and did what I had told her earlier would make her look as much the part a tourist as she really was - she looked up and exhaled deeply in awe. I did too.
I told her then. "They tried to bring these down. Can you imagine?" I said softly.
"Here? That was here? Those bombs underground? That was here?" she said. I regretted saying something. She was clearly uneasy being there.
I didn't think much about my response. I felt it. I felt safe and secure and I told her why - "But they already tried. Don't you see. They already tried. They're not going to try it again. They'll try something new."
Three years later I heard a plane struck the Trade Center through the interoffice grapevine. I couldn't fathom it being on purpose. I rationalized it being a small prop plane with a novice pilot losing control. They told me of the second. That one somehow made more sense - a plane getting lost in the smoke caused by the fire of the first.
I couldn't get online. Every web site of any sort of news outlet was unaccessible - overloaded with people desperate for news. I couldn't get a phone line out. Lines were jammed. I finally pulled up a baseball bulletin board I sometimes frequented. A college student in Alabama and a former New Yorker living in New England began feeding the rest of us news. They'd transcribe reports from the television so we could feel not so in the dark.
When Alabama typed "commerical airline" into his update I began to feel sick to my stomach. When New England typed "hijacked" I wanted to throw up. I read "Pentagon hit" and I walked away from the computer.
My mind raced. My stomach churned. I wanted to call my friend in Utah and tell her I lied. Tell her I was so very ignorant of evil back then. Instead I went out back for fresh air - only the air was not fresh.
I was in an office building an hour and half south of New York by car yet you could see the skyline from the beach. The air to the northeast was filling with black smoke. You could smell the fires. I'm not sure that's something I'll ever forget.
My office mates and I headed back in - most of us. We left behind a group of women crying and praying off to the side of the building. The rest of us couldn't stand to see or smell the evidence. Somehow seeing the details on TV was bad but not quite the same as seeing the real thing somewhat removed.
One of our accounts was pushing a news feed into our customer support center. We all huddled in and around that space staring at the three screens broadcasting CNN. Tears flowed without inhibition. People muttered prayers. Our president walked around in a trance saying over and over, "I was supposed to be there today. I was supposed to be there. Oh. Oh Thank God they canceled. It could have been me."
I do not personally know anyone that died that day. I know lots of people that could have or should have been there. I do know lots of people that did lose a loved one. In fact I'm about to email one of them to let her know I'm thinking of her...and him. I know people that were injured - the effects of which still linger for some.
It's been 5 years since four planes erased my ignorance. Five years and yet to this day I can not drive up the New Jersey Turnpike without a lump in my throat because until September 11, 2001, the skyline I knew always had two giant Towers at the southern end of it. I always turn to my husband and say quietly, "It still doesn't look like New York to me."
And he, who was a boy when those big monstrosities were erected nods, "I remember the city without them and then with them...and I agree."
I look at my children and I realize they'll never see the same hole in the skyline and pray it's something they only ever have to read in history books. Yet I'm not that naive any more.
I was working for a public relations firm at the time. The person I interfaced with at my largest client had become a friend of mine. Still is. She was born and raised in Idaho. She was currently living in Utah. She had never been to New York City. She was afraid of heights.
When you want to meet with members of the technology press, you can easily set up clusters of meetings by heading to three major US cities - San Francisco/San Jose, Boston and New York. We were in Manhattan for the New York leg of our press tour. Her and I in the "Big City" with time on our hands between appointments.
She had a list of places her grandmother told her she simply could not miss while in town. Grandma wanted her to see the Statue of Liberty. *That* we did not have time to do. We'd never make it over to the little island and back. Instead we agreed on seeing it from a far. We headed downtown.
When the cab dropped us off on Manhattan's southern tip, she decided she'd never get a good view of Lady Liberty unless she pushed down her fears and went somewhere high. We got online at the Trade Center - we'd go to the top. I didn't tell her of it's past. I simply rode the elevator up with her and held on to her hand for support as she stood next to the great windows on the upper level admiring the views.
She was happy to set her feet on the ground again. She stopped a moment in the courtyard between the two towers and did what I had told her earlier would make her look as much the part a tourist as she really was - she looked up and exhaled deeply in awe. I did too.
I told her then. "They tried to bring these down. Can you imagine?" I said softly.
"Here? That was here? Those bombs underground? That was here?" she said. I regretted saying something. She was clearly uneasy being there.
I didn't think much about my response. I felt it. I felt safe and secure and I told her why - "But they already tried. Don't you see. They already tried. They're not going to try it again. They'll try something new."
Three years later I heard a plane struck the Trade Center through the interoffice grapevine. I couldn't fathom it being on purpose. I rationalized it being a small prop plane with a novice pilot losing control. They told me of the second. That one somehow made more sense - a plane getting lost in the smoke caused by the fire of the first.
I couldn't get online. Every web site of any sort of news outlet was unaccessible - overloaded with people desperate for news. I couldn't get a phone line out. Lines were jammed. I finally pulled up a baseball bulletin board I sometimes frequented. A college student in Alabama and a former New Yorker living in New England began feeding the rest of us news. They'd transcribe reports from the television so we could feel not so in the dark.
When Alabama typed "commerical airline" into his update I began to feel sick to my stomach. When New England typed "hijacked" I wanted to throw up. I read "Pentagon hit" and I walked away from the computer.
My mind raced. My stomach churned. I wanted to call my friend in Utah and tell her I lied. Tell her I was so very ignorant of evil back then. Instead I went out back for fresh air - only the air was not fresh.
I was in an office building an hour and half south of New York by car yet you could see the skyline from the beach. The air to the northeast was filling with black smoke. You could smell the fires. I'm not sure that's something I'll ever forget.
My office mates and I headed back in - most of us. We left behind a group of women crying and praying off to the side of the building. The rest of us couldn't stand to see or smell the evidence. Somehow seeing the details on TV was bad but not quite the same as seeing the real thing somewhat removed.
One of our accounts was pushing a news feed into our customer support center. We all huddled in and around that space staring at the three screens broadcasting CNN. Tears flowed without inhibition. People muttered prayers. Our president walked around in a trance saying over and over, "I was supposed to be there today. I was supposed to be there. Oh. Oh Thank God they canceled. It could have been me."
I do not personally know anyone that died that day. I know lots of people that could have or should have been there. I do know lots of people that did lose a loved one. In fact I'm about to email one of them to let her know I'm thinking of her...and him. I know people that were injured - the effects of which still linger for some.
It's been 5 years since four planes erased my ignorance. Five years and yet to this day I can not drive up the New Jersey Turnpike without a lump in my throat because until September 11, 2001, the skyline I knew always had two giant Towers at the southern end of it. I always turn to my husband and say quietly, "It still doesn't look like New York to me."
And he, who was a boy when those big monstrosities were erected nods, "I remember the city without them and then with them...and I agree."
I look at my children and I realize they'll never see the same hole in the skyline and pray it's something they only ever have to read in history books. Yet I'm not that naive any more.
9.10.2006
The illustrated prattle
Don't you just love a mom with a camera?
Logan headed back to school this week. This makes me very happy because I finally stop answering the question, "Is it time yet? Can I go to school?" Now I can start answering, "How many more sleeps until I see Mrs. D?" I really hope he never loses this passion for the classroom. (If you're wondering, as Daddy had, what in the world Logan is doing with his hands - that'd be two thumbs up for school.)
The very next day we began life as a soccer family. Logan had a blast for the first 35 minutes - 30 of instruction and 5 of a game. Then the coach decided a few other kids needed a turn on the field and Logan had to wait on the sidelines until he was called back in. The first bench warming went well enough. The second? Not so much. Grandma is blaming the boy on the team that cried the entire hour we were there. She thinks he set the mood. Grandma's are fun.
Fresh (or not so fresh as the case may be) off of soccer, the family headed over to the party store. We had balloons to retrieve and a party to throw. Although her birthday is Tuesday, Meg is pretty much done with the whole 'year older' thing now that her little party and that pile of gifts is behind her. (We blame the rotten quality of the photo on the fact that someone - I'm not saying who - forget to tell the photographer he had to manually open the flash in order for it to go off inside.)
If you ask Megan how old she is you might be surprised. "I am eight," she could say with utter distain that you dare ask a lady her age.
One day, however, she surprised Grandma and told a lady at the store her real age. Grandma, in some bit of shock perhaps, said, "I thought you were eight? That's what you usually say."
Megan sighed and said, "No, I just two. I *want* to be eight."
I am so sunk when she's a teenager, aren't I?
The Uncle and Aunt-in-waiting gave Megan a certificate to Build-A-Bear. She's been there once before and she loved it. When we suggested a certificate to The Uncle he rolled his eyes. We reminded him he didn't have to go make a bear, just send Megan to do so.
It's apparently an immature male response. Logan wanted to buy Meg's Ribbit (the frog she made last time we went) an outfit as a birthday gift. Grandma took him in. He picked out exactly what would look good, helped pay and then handed Grandma the bag to carry.
"I can't be seen with this!" he said in horror. "THAT is a girl store."
About a month ago Megan started picking out outfits from a catalog for "Baby" - her American Girl Bitty Baby. She found the one she wanted and told her grandmother to buy that. After correcting the behavior that would have sent Miss Manners into convulsions, we created the "birthday list."
The list grew and included specifically assigned items. Grandma had two - Baby's outfit and a blue dress. Grandma, being a good spoiling sort of Grandma, looked high and low for a blue dress. Finding none she settled on a demin skirt and a shirt that honestly and perfectly described Megan.
We told her once what it said. Meg smiled. We dressed her in it today for her very first day of 'real' Sunday School. She walked into her two year-old class for crafts and stories. She came home carrying both her worksheet and her project in her hands. She refused to change out of her little outfit for our trip to make her dog (and get it's bed, and it's puppy...and it's bowl.) I stuck her in a tree out front to take her annual black-and-white photo.
"Do you know what that shirt says?" I asked her as she began to quip a series of humorous and yet twerpy remarks. I switched over to the digital camera for a few 'just because I can' photos.
"Yes," she said with a big smile. "My shirt says Cute and Sassy. That's me! I cute. I sassy."
Logan headed back to school this week. This makes me very happy because I finally stop answering the question, "Is it time yet? Can I go to school?" Now I can start answering, "How many more sleeps until I see Mrs. D?" I really hope he never loses this passion for the classroom. (If you're wondering, as Daddy had, what in the world Logan is doing with his hands - that'd be two thumbs up for school.)
The very next day we began life as a soccer family. Logan had a blast for the first 35 minutes - 30 of instruction and 5 of a game. Then the coach decided a few other kids needed a turn on the field and Logan had to wait on the sidelines until he was called back in. The first bench warming went well enough. The second? Not so much. Grandma is blaming the boy on the team that cried the entire hour we were there. She thinks he set the mood. Grandma's are fun.
Fresh (or not so fresh as the case may be) off of soccer, the family headed over to the party store. We had balloons to retrieve and a party to throw. Although her birthday is Tuesday, Meg is pretty much done with the whole 'year older' thing now that her little party and that pile of gifts is behind her. (We blame the rotten quality of the photo on the fact that someone - I'm not saying who - forget to tell the photographer he had to manually open the flash in order for it to go off inside.)
If you ask Megan how old she is you might be surprised. "I am eight," she could say with utter distain that you dare ask a lady her age.
One day, however, she surprised Grandma and told a lady at the store her real age. Grandma, in some bit of shock perhaps, said, "I thought you were eight? That's what you usually say."
Megan sighed and said, "No, I just two. I *want* to be eight."
I am so sunk when she's a teenager, aren't I?
The Uncle and Aunt-in-waiting gave Megan a certificate to Build-A-Bear. She's been there once before and she loved it. When we suggested a certificate to The Uncle he rolled his eyes. We reminded him he didn't have to go make a bear, just send Megan to do so.
It's apparently an immature male response. Logan wanted to buy Meg's Ribbit (the frog she made last time we went) an outfit as a birthday gift. Grandma took him in. He picked out exactly what would look good, helped pay and then handed Grandma the bag to carry.
"I can't be seen with this!" he said in horror. "THAT is a girl store."
About a month ago Megan started picking out outfits from a catalog for "Baby" - her American Girl Bitty Baby. She found the one she wanted and told her grandmother to buy that. After correcting the behavior that would have sent Miss Manners into convulsions, we created the "birthday list."
The list grew and included specifically assigned items. Grandma had two - Baby's outfit and a blue dress. Grandma, being a good spoiling sort of Grandma, looked high and low for a blue dress. Finding none she settled on a demin skirt and a shirt that honestly and perfectly described Megan.
We told her once what it said. Meg smiled. We dressed her in it today for her very first day of 'real' Sunday School. She walked into her two year-old class for crafts and stories. She came home carrying both her worksheet and her project in her hands. She refused to change out of her little outfit for our trip to make her dog (and get it's bed, and it's puppy...and it's bowl.) I stuck her in a tree out front to take her annual black-and-white photo.
"Do you know what that shirt says?" I asked her as she began to quip a series of humorous and yet twerpy remarks. I switched over to the digital camera for a few 'just because I can' photos.
"Yes," she said with a big smile. "My shirt says Cute and Sassy. That's me! I cute. I sassy."
9.05.2006
The flu would have been better. . .
On Saturday Megan ate a peanut-butter chip or two as we baked.
A few moments later Megan threw up a peanut-butter chip or two. Then she emptied her stomach some more and sported a nice set of big red splotches all over her stomach and chest.
She got a special ride with Mommy to the doctor's office where they handed down the diagnosis: potential allergic reaction.
Today we got the referral. We called the allergist. We saw the allergist.
It *is* a peanut allergy.
Frankly, I would have preferred she had simply picked up the stomach virus her uncle and grandmother seem to be sharing lately.
I know that *we* can manage this. I know we can read labels and watch what we give her. I'm actually quite ok with that. I'm even ok with managing her non-allergic brother's disappointment in the asbsence of some of his old stand-bys. For the time being, anyway, he seems to understand the severity of it. I have every confidence that her grandparents will cooperate fully with the list of restrictions - the obvious and not so obvious. They've already begun to clear out certain potential threats.
It is, let me be honest, the other people I worry about. It's the relatives and aquaintences that are caviler and don't quite 'get' that "may contain peanuts" is as a bad as "Get your 100% nothing but peanut here." It's the other kids she'll run into when she's entering school. It's the young teacher she'll have beginning this week in Sunday School. It's the meal I didn't prepare.
There is a chance she could outgrow it. I'm not clinging to that possibility since it's a statisically low one. There's also a chance a future reaction from some potential accidental ingestion requires use of the EpiPen that now sits in my purse. There is that chance that we'll be rushing to the ER after I've stabbed her leg with that thing. That doesn't scare me for some reason. What scares me is that she'll have that reaction and someone that doesn't think fast enough to give her the injection will be there not reacting in time.
Shortly after picking Logan up at Grandma's I began to explain to him what Megan had to cope with.
He first said to me, "But pollen bothers me."
"Yes it does Logan, but the worst that happens is you get a runny nose and maybe you get a cold that medicine makes better."
He remembered Megan vomiting all over this weekend. He asked if peanuts made her belly sick. I told him it did but it might also make her throat swell up and make it hard to breathe. He thought a moment and then said very seriously, "But if she can’t breathe she could die."
I agreed with him. "Yes she could, but that's why we're going to get her some very special medicine to help her if she ever reacts that badly." We talked about all the things that could cause her problems. He nodded in earnest as he agreed to give up certain occasional treats and limit particular stables (the boy could LIVE on nothing but PB without the J sandwiches!)
When we walked into the pharmacy to pick up the Epi-pens, he walked a wide berth around the candy aisle. An older woman was at the register as we waited on line. She was buying these store brand bags of candy – buy one get one free. She asked Logan if he was getting any candy. He told her no. She said something about the sale and how he should.
He glared at her and said a bit more polietly that I wanted to at that moment, "I am not getting candy because I want to help my sister. She is allergic to peanuts and so I am helping her not want candy. Please don’t tell her about it."
I love that kid. I really do.
A few moments later Megan threw up a peanut-butter chip or two. Then she emptied her stomach some more and sported a nice set of big red splotches all over her stomach and chest.
She got a special ride with Mommy to the doctor's office where they handed down the diagnosis: potential allergic reaction.
Today we got the referral. We called the allergist. We saw the allergist.
It *is* a peanut allergy.
Frankly, I would have preferred she had simply picked up the stomach virus her uncle and grandmother seem to be sharing lately.
I know that *we* can manage this. I know we can read labels and watch what we give her. I'm actually quite ok with that. I'm even ok with managing her non-allergic brother's disappointment in the asbsence of some of his old stand-bys. For the time being, anyway, he seems to understand the severity of it. I have every confidence that her grandparents will cooperate fully with the list of restrictions - the obvious and not so obvious. They've already begun to clear out certain potential threats.
It is, let me be honest, the other people I worry about. It's the relatives and aquaintences that are caviler and don't quite 'get' that "may contain peanuts" is as a bad as "Get your 100% nothing but peanut here." It's the other kids she'll run into when she's entering school. It's the young teacher she'll have beginning this week in Sunday School. It's the meal I didn't prepare.
There is a chance she could outgrow it. I'm not clinging to that possibility since it's a statisically low one. There's also a chance a future reaction from some potential accidental ingestion requires use of the EpiPen that now sits in my purse. There is that chance that we'll be rushing to the ER after I've stabbed her leg with that thing. That doesn't scare me for some reason. What scares me is that she'll have that reaction and someone that doesn't think fast enough to give her the injection will be there not reacting in time.
Shortly after picking Logan up at Grandma's I began to explain to him what Megan had to cope with.
He first said to me, "But pollen bothers me."
"Yes it does Logan, but the worst that happens is you get a runny nose and maybe you get a cold that medicine makes better."
He remembered Megan vomiting all over this weekend. He asked if peanuts made her belly sick. I told him it did but it might also make her throat swell up and make it hard to breathe. He thought a moment and then said very seriously, "But if she can’t breathe she could die."
I agreed with him. "Yes she could, but that's why we're going to get her some very special medicine to help her if she ever reacts that badly." We talked about all the things that could cause her problems. He nodded in earnest as he agreed to give up certain occasional treats and limit particular stables (the boy could LIVE on nothing but PB without the J sandwiches!)
When we walked into the pharmacy to pick up the Epi-pens, he walked a wide berth around the candy aisle. An older woman was at the register as we waited on line. She was buying these store brand bags of candy – buy one get one free. She asked Logan if he was getting any candy. He told her no. She said something about the sale and how he should.
He glared at her and said a bit more polietly that I wanted to at that moment, "I am not getting candy because I want to help my sister. She is allergic to peanuts and so I am helping her not want candy. Please don’t tell her about it."
I love that kid. I really do.
9.01.2006
Another reason to love 'em
Logan's long been fascinated by the night sky. As an infant there would be nights he'd simply not settle down. The only thing that would settle his crying jag and eventually lull him to sleep would be bringing him outside. Hot night, cold night. Didn't matter. We'd be out there in our yard with a infant still softly sobbing until the momentum of his fit subsided. He'd tip back his fuzzy little head and just stare.
As the nights began to arrive earlier sometime after that first birthday we started to include the night sky into our bed time routine. Bath. PJs. Stories. Good Night Moon for real. New moon or cloudy nights really messed things up.
This ritual introduced astronomical words to Logan's vocabulary - he knew planets. He knew certain constellations. As he grew he expanded the depth of both his fascination and his knowledge. The point is, although he's only 4 years old, Logan has been quite attached to the idea of 9 planets for at least the last 3 years. Seriously. And quite frankly he loves Pluto.
When the vote came down and outer space changed recently we didn't tell him right away. "It'd confuse him," said Dad, "No need to break it to him now."
"This is Logan," I said. "He's going to fight with the first teacher that tells him there are only 8 planets. We need to start weaning him off Pluto now."
Days passed. Almost a week. We told him.
He said simply, "That's silly. Why'd they go and do that. When I grow up I'm going to be a space scientist first so I can change Pluto back into a planet."
Go right ahead young man. Knock your socks off.
Tonight, as we pulled up the covers and shut off the lights Logan started with his nightly routine of questions. "How long does it take light to get from the sun to the moon and then to Pluto?"
Really, this is not something Mommy knows. I, aching to sit down and relax, flippantly said, "A very long time." He glared at me through the darkness. I added, "How about we look it up tomorrow?"
It was my turn to ask a question. "If you discover a planet some day what would you name it?"
He didn't even think. "Pluto!" he said with conviction. "And then I'm going to tell those silly people Pluto's moon Charon is really a planet too."
As the nights began to arrive earlier sometime after that first birthday we started to include the night sky into our bed time routine. Bath. PJs. Stories. Good Night Moon for real. New moon or cloudy nights really messed things up.
This ritual introduced astronomical words to Logan's vocabulary - he knew planets. He knew certain constellations. As he grew he expanded the depth of both his fascination and his knowledge. The point is, although he's only 4 years old, Logan has been quite attached to the idea of 9 planets for at least the last 3 years. Seriously. And quite frankly he loves Pluto.
When the vote came down and outer space changed recently we didn't tell him right away. "It'd confuse him," said Dad, "No need to break it to him now."
"This is Logan," I said. "He's going to fight with the first teacher that tells him there are only 8 planets. We need to start weaning him off Pluto now."
Days passed. Almost a week. We told him.
He said simply, "That's silly. Why'd they go and do that. When I grow up I'm going to be a space scientist first so I can change Pluto back into a planet."
Go right ahead young man. Knock your socks off.
Tonight, as we pulled up the covers and shut off the lights Logan started with his nightly routine of questions. "How long does it take light to get from the sun to the moon and then to Pluto?"
Really, this is not something Mommy knows. I, aching to sit down and relax, flippantly said, "A very long time." He glared at me through the darkness. I added, "How about we look it up tomorrow?"
It was my turn to ask a question. "If you discover a planet some day what would you name it?"
He didn't even think. "Pluto!" he said with conviction. "And then I'm going to tell those silly people Pluto's moon Charon is really a planet too."
8.29.2006
Fountain of Youth
Although my bug bitten legs would not agree, Saturday was a nice evening. An old friend came over for dinner. We used to get together so our "babies" could play - mine had bright orange-red yarn hair. Her's had brown yarn. I'm not sure about her's, buy my Cabbage Patch Kid is still around. Meg likes to drag it from place to place by it's ratty looking pig-tails.
We sat chatting in the yard - perhaps we were giddy on the fumes of our non-effective bug spray (although perhaps spreading it on one's legs might lend more protection from said bites then forgetting about one's legs.) It was like old times - times in green heavy canvas tents hung on the wooden frames of Girl Scout camps where we'd huddle with two other giddy girls and giggle under the glow of flashlights.
"You know I'm going to end up having to write this in my blog," I had said. She knew. (Now, you all take a moment to wave to her because she is currently shaking her head at me and laughing as she reads this. Go on. I'll wait. Wave to her.)
It wasn't the evening I wanted to muse on. It was one particular topic of conversation. There we were, two grown women in our early (but inching closer to 'mid') 30s and both of us wondering exactly when it was that we'd feel like grown-ups.
I had expected to feel more grown-up when I got a 'real' job. Nope. I thought maybe when I got married. Nada. Certainly children would make me feel all grown-up. And yet, it hasn't. At least not completely.
Sure, I have adult responsibilities. I have bills. I pay them. I have young charges to keep in one relative piece. I raise them. I have a career. I have a house with a mortgage that has my name on it -- my married name.
And yet, I still don't feel like a "grown-up."
As a kid, grown-ups were "old." They were 30. They were 40. They were my people my parents' age. Here I am now -- my parents' "age", at least what they were when I was a child musing about what constituted grown-up. The funny thing is my perception has changed. Grown-ups are *still* people my parents age, only now that has shifted to '50' or '60.' I am some sort of stuck-in between adult that's not done growing.
It's true, of course, None of us, no matter what the calender says we should be, are ever truly grown-up then. We never stop growing, evolving. . .adapting. We are in a perpetual state of growing-up. This is something I never knew way back then. I expected 'grown-up' to feel so very different than what being "adult" feels like.
There are times, as my friend and I discussed, when we step back and think "Wow, holy crap, I'm an adult." It's not when we're paying bills or settling into our desks in our offices. No. it's when we're standing on fences, glaring at those loud, obnoxious "kids" in the yard behind us and telling them to keep that racket down so some of us could sleep because hell, we have jobs to go to in the morning.
I do feel decidely grown-up when a young new hire giggles about blowing her first ever real paycheck on new designer duds because really, she's still at home with her parents and can afford to go crazy with what seems to be so very much money at that moment. I grin at her and think of how very far that same check wouldn't go if she had a home to finance and children to feed. I feel a bit of envy for her zeal. I also, however, feel a bit smug knowing I have what she does not - that loving group of arms to greet her when she gets home at night - the big ones to hold her up when she needs it and the little ones to bolster her spirits.
I feel rather grown-up, but only briefly, when someone uses the term "your son/your daughter." Or, when someone refers to me as Mrs. [last name], Logan/Megan's Mom, or, better yet, Ma'am. Those grown-up feelings though are only fleeting because in the moment the words fade from the air, their weight fades too.
Sometimes, as that feeling of 'grown-upness" dissipates it leaves behind this sense of being young and over my head - a kid dressing up in her mother's clothes, playing in the make-up bin. I used to like to put on my mother's only remaining vestiage of the 60's. Her knee high, white stretch leather go-go boots with the big chunk heel. I could barely walk in them but I loved to try.
Today, my daughter, all 23 months of her, likes to pull my rarely worn heels from the closet. She pushes her small feet into them - slipping deep down into the leather toes. She stands next to me in the little master bathroom and begs, "Do my eyes please. Color my eyes too!" I use the side of my finger to gently brush across her closed, expectant lids, fooling her into thinking she's all made-up. She smiles. She twirls. "I look like mommy!" she coos and she shuffles off down the hall way in her blue satin and white netted princess tutu pulled up high over her shorts - her pig-tails bobbing up and down as she goes.
And in that moment, she does look like me - the me that's not yet grown-up deep inside. I hope the two of us keep that little girl within us forever.
We sat chatting in the yard - perhaps we were giddy on the fumes of our non-effective bug spray (although perhaps spreading it on one's legs might lend more protection from said bites then forgetting about one's legs.) It was like old times - times in green heavy canvas tents hung on the wooden frames of Girl Scout camps where we'd huddle with two other giddy girls and giggle under the glow of flashlights.
"You know I'm going to end up having to write this in my blog," I had said. She knew. (Now, you all take a moment to wave to her because she is currently shaking her head at me and laughing as she reads this. Go on. I'll wait. Wave to her.)
It wasn't the evening I wanted to muse on. It was one particular topic of conversation. There we were, two grown women in our early (but inching closer to 'mid') 30s and both of us wondering exactly when it was that we'd feel like grown-ups.
I had expected to feel more grown-up when I got a 'real' job. Nope. I thought maybe when I got married. Nada. Certainly children would make me feel all grown-up. And yet, it hasn't. At least not completely.
Sure, I have adult responsibilities. I have bills. I pay them. I have young charges to keep in one relative piece. I raise them. I have a career. I have a house with a mortgage that has my name on it -- my married name.
And yet, I still don't feel like a "grown-up."
As a kid, grown-ups were "old." They were 30. They were 40. They were my people my parents' age. Here I am now -- my parents' "age", at least what they were when I was a child musing about what constituted grown-up. The funny thing is my perception has changed. Grown-ups are *still* people my parents age, only now that has shifted to '50' or '60.' I am some sort of stuck-in between adult that's not done growing.
It's true, of course, None of us, no matter what the calender says we should be, are ever truly grown-up then. We never stop growing, evolving. . .adapting. We are in a perpetual state of growing-up. This is something I never knew way back then. I expected 'grown-up' to feel so very different than what being "adult" feels like.
There are times, as my friend and I discussed, when we step back and think "Wow, holy crap, I'm an adult." It's not when we're paying bills or settling into our desks in our offices. No. it's when we're standing on fences, glaring at those loud, obnoxious "kids" in the yard behind us and telling them to keep that racket down so some of us could sleep because hell, we have jobs to go to in the morning.
I do feel decidely grown-up when a young new hire giggles about blowing her first ever real paycheck on new designer duds because really, she's still at home with her parents and can afford to go crazy with what seems to be so very much money at that moment. I grin at her and think of how very far that same check wouldn't go if she had a home to finance and children to feed. I feel a bit of envy for her zeal. I also, however, feel a bit smug knowing I have what she does not - that loving group of arms to greet her when she gets home at night - the big ones to hold her up when she needs it and the little ones to bolster her spirits.
I feel rather grown-up, but only briefly, when someone uses the term "your son/your daughter." Or, when someone refers to me as Mrs. [last name], Logan/Megan's Mom, or, better yet, Ma'am. Those grown-up feelings though are only fleeting because in the moment the words fade from the air, their weight fades too.
Sometimes, as that feeling of 'grown-upness" dissipates it leaves behind this sense of being young and over my head - a kid dressing up in her mother's clothes, playing in the make-up bin. I used to like to put on my mother's only remaining vestiage of the 60's. Her knee high, white stretch leather go-go boots with the big chunk heel. I could barely walk in them but I loved to try.
Today, my daughter, all 23 months of her, likes to pull my rarely worn heels from the closet. She pushes her small feet into them - slipping deep down into the leather toes. She stands next to me in the little master bathroom and begs, "Do my eyes please. Color my eyes too!" I use the side of my finger to gently brush across her closed, expectant lids, fooling her into thinking she's all made-up. She smiles. She twirls. "I look like mommy!" she coos and she shuffles off down the hall way in her blue satin and white netted princess tutu pulled up high over her shorts - her pig-tails bobbing up and down as she goes.
And in that moment, she does look like me - the me that's not yet grown-up deep inside. I hope the two of us keep that little girl within us forever.
8.24.2006
Offically a demographic
It's offical. I am now a real, honest to goodness soccer mom from the mini-van right down to the kid in cleats.
Earlier this summer we heard that the local soccer clubs had instructional leagues for the preschool set. Bruce and I agreed. When the kids got old enough to really be 'joining' things it was going to be their choice, not ours. We let it slide. Didn't even mention it. We didn't want him to think we were urging him or 'hinting.' When he came to us asking to play, we'd discuss it.
He plays soccer in the backyard with Dad. Up and down the backyard. Passing the ball. Kicking the ball. Sometimes guarding the net. He loves it.
One recent day he said to me, quite matter of factly, "I want to play soccer."
And I said, quite naively, "With Daddy after dinner or with me now?"
He looked at me like I had four heads. "I do want to play with you and Daddy, but I mean I want to play on a team with kids my age."
I was dumbstruck. Huh? Team? Kids? Organized sports? You're 4. I mean really? You want a team?
The best I could do in response was, "Oh yeah? When?"
He shrugged. "When I'm a bit older and they have teams for me."
It's been nagging at me. Those last words he left me with - when they have teams for me. They do, I wanted to say, but I didn't.
I thought we were past the registration deadline. I didn't want to get his hopes up. I finally got online today to check. Deadline was extended to August 31st. We conferred. We agreed. I sat him down and asked if he really wanted to play. He beamed. I mean the boy practically glowed.
"Yes!" he said with the largest smile I may have ever seen on his face. The smile so big traces of it continued to linger around his mouth all day long. All. Day. Long. The boy is giddy with anticipation. He even giggled.
So I did it. I signed him up. His first game is September 9th. He has 20 minutes of instruction and 20 minutes of a skirmage amongst his team mates. 10 little 4 year old boys out to have fun and learn how to kick a ball without nailing each other in the shins. . .or something like that.
He even gets a uniform. And cleats. And shin guards.
Did I mention he's still giddy?
Did I mention *I* am? I'm so excited for him. My little trigger finger is practically itching to get all the photos of him in uniform...and in action.
I'm a soccer mom now. And some how it's yet to make me gag.
Earlier this summer we heard that the local soccer clubs had instructional leagues for the preschool set. Bruce and I agreed. When the kids got old enough to really be 'joining' things it was going to be their choice, not ours. We let it slide. Didn't even mention it. We didn't want him to think we were urging him or 'hinting.' When he came to us asking to play, we'd discuss it.
He plays soccer in the backyard with Dad. Up and down the backyard. Passing the ball. Kicking the ball. Sometimes guarding the net. He loves it.
One recent day he said to me, quite matter of factly, "I want to play soccer."
And I said, quite naively, "With Daddy after dinner or with me now?"
He looked at me like I had four heads. "I do want to play with you and Daddy, but I mean I want to play on a team with kids my age."
I was dumbstruck. Huh? Team? Kids? Organized sports? You're 4. I mean really? You want a team?
The best I could do in response was, "Oh yeah? When?"
He shrugged. "When I'm a bit older and they have teams for me."
It's been nagging at me. Those last words he left me with - when they have teams for me. They do, I wanted to say, but I didn't.
I thought we were past the registration deadline. I didn't want to get his hopes up. I finally got online today to check. Deadline was extended to August 31st. We conferred. We agreed. I sat him down and asked if he really wanted to play. He beamed. I mean the boy practically glowed.
"Yes!" he said with the largest smile I may have ever seen on his face. The smile so big traces of it continued to linger around his mouth all day long. All. Day. Long. The boy is giddy with anticipation. He even giggled.
So I did it. I signed him up. His first game is September 9th. He has 20 minutes of instruction and 20 minutes of a skirmage amongst his team mates. 10 little 4 year old boys out to have fun and learn how to kick a ball without nailing each other in the shins. . .or something like that.
He even gets a uniform. And cleats. And shin guards.
Did I mention he's still giddy?
Did I mention *I* am? I'm so excited for him. My little trigger finger is practically itching to get all the photos of him in uniform...and in action.
I'm a soccer mom now. And some how it's yet to make me gag.
8.23.2006
Green Thumb
I've had my garden for three years. Each year I attempt pumpkins. For some reason I keep going back to them despite miserable failure.
The first year I successfully grew about three pumpkins. They ripened and were ready to pick in August. They made lovely bread long before the autumn 'decorating' season. The vines, by the way, managed to be coated in ugly white powdery scum.
The second year I planted both orange and white pumpkins. We also added watermelon. I grew two melons. One between our chain link fence and the neighbors wooden one. The only way to free it was to slice it to pieces. It was too mangled to eat. The other seemed ripe. I picked it. We cut it open. It wasn't ripe.
I grew a small number of pumpkins too. The one little orange one that grew ended up out front with the other pumpkins last year. The white ones? Ready to pick long before we needed them. They rotted on the kids picnic table waiting for use. Oh, that is unless you count the one that grew on the other side of the fence for my neighbors to pick.
This year we tried again. I planted a packet of "Jack-0-Latern Pumpkin" seeds. One vine grew. I pretty much wrote off success early on in the season.
Near my one rinky-dink pumpkin vine appeared a surprise watermelon vine. Apparently a seed from my 'rescue the melon between the fence' mission produced an unplanned surprise. I transfered the fledging vine to another part of the garden. It's produced a lot of leaves. No watermelon. That is until recently. I appear to have one or two growing now. I promise to not touch them.
When we were building the patio last month my brother pointed to part of the pumpkin vine growing outside the cheesey garden fence. "You have a pumpkin you know," he said.
I didn't know and even as he pointed, I didn't see it.
It got ignored until one day it could no longer be ignored. It grew and it grew. It is the ONLY pumpkin being fed by one, GIANT, vine with huge leaves. Leaves bigger than your head. This means it's getting to be a fairly big pumpkin.
Megan likes to climb into the cave of leaves and hug the giant produce. "I love you punkin," she says as she rests her head on it. It makes for a cute picture and a good example of how big our single orange globe really is turning out to be. Surely not 'blue ribbon at the county fair' big, but big.
The first year I successfully grew about three pumpkins. They ripened and were ready to pick in August. They made lovely bread long before the autumn 'decorating' season. The vines, by the way, managed to be coated in ugly white powdery scum.
The second year I planted both orange and white pumpkins. We also added watermelon. I grew two melons. One between our chain link fence and the neighbors wooden one. The only way to free it was to slice it to pieces. It was too mangled to eat. The other seemed ripe. I picked it. We cut it open. It wasn't ripe.
I grew a small number of pumpkins too. The one little orange one that grew ended up out front with the other pumpkins last year. The white ones? Ready to pick long before we needed them. They rotted on the kids picnic table waiting for use. Oh, that is unless you count the one that grew on the other side of the fence for my neighbors to pick.
This year we tried again. I planted a packet of "Jack-0-Latern Pumpkin" seeds. One vine grew. I pretty much wrote off success early on in the season.
Near my one rinky-dink pumpkin vine appeared a surprise watermelon vine. Apparently a seed from my 'rescue the melon between the fence' mission produced an unplanned surprise. I transfered the fledging vine to another part of the garden. It's produced a lot of leaves. No watermelon. That is until recently. I appear to have one or two growing now. I promise to not touch them.
When we were building the patio last month my brother pointed to part of the pumpkin vine growing outside the cheesey garden fence. "You have a pumpkin you know," he said.
I didn't know and even as he pointed, I didn't see it.
It got ignored until one day it could no longer be ignored. It grew and it grew. It is the ONLY pumpkin being fed by one, GIANT, vine with huge leaves. Leaves bigger than your head. This means it's getting to be a fairly big pumpkin.
Megan likes to climb into the cave of leaves and hug the giant produce. "I love you punkin," she says as she rests her head on it. It makes for a cute picture and a good example of how big our single orange globe really is turning out to be. Surely not 'blue ribbon at the county fair' big, but big.
8.21.2006
Now that's love
Today was race day. If you don't take spin classes, you likely have no idea what I'm talking about. Let me explain.
You sit on a bike - that has one wheel - and you tighten the resistance rod as high as you can stand it. Your goal is make it hard to pedal through. You want to mimic riding up a mountain. There are several styles of class: endurance, strength, high-intensity training and race day. Each style includes a variety of different spin techniques designed to get you working out within a target heart rate. Typically you aim to stay within an aerobic threshold, about 75-85%. (Ideally smack in the center at 80%) On race day, however, you go all out. On race day, you strive to hit and maintain a heart rate of about 92% your normal standing heart rate. And, if you're really looking to build heart strength, you might even push a little harder.
For 30 minutes straight.
Race day comes with a few ground rules, at least at my gym:
1. Work at your own pace - set your restiance and your pedal stroke at YOUR level. Ignore everyone else. You race only with your own past performace, not the person next to you.
2. Drink a lot during the race.
3. Drink at least 16ozs immediately AFTER race and continue to drink water all day long. (or you will be destined for a head-ache any self-respecting hang-over would envy.)
4. Do nothing strenuous the rest of the day or the next day.
5. Nap if you need to.
6. Go ahead and honor your cravings. You body is trying to tell you something.
With two young children demanding I, you know, parent, I've only managed to drink my water and give in to cravings. (SHhhh....)
The kids, as is our custom, came into the spin room with me when we first arrived at the gym. They like to help me get my towel and water set-up on the bike before heading into child care. I dropped them off, put my heart monitor on, settled in the saddle and began to warm up gently.
We started. I raced. I pushed hard. I finished. I was exhausted.
We stopped to empty my life savings into the gas station attendant's hand on our way home. As the nice man filled our tank with regular unleaded, I laid out the rest of our day for my two gym rats.
Logan interrupted before we got too far into our plans, "Why do you need to take a shower?"
"Umm, because I just worked out at the gym and I feel gross and stinky."
"You don't stink," he said with complete (I'm sure disillusioned) sincerity.
"Thank you honey, but regardless, I'm taking a shower," I said thinking that was the end of it.
But it wasn't. Logan wanted to know more. He wanted to know what we do in class. I tried to explain it as best I could. "Today we pretended to race on our bikes," I told him.
He wanted to know how we all got around that little room on our bikes.
I explained the one wheel thing. The whole stationary bike concept. I told him how we had special dial on our bike to make it harder to pedal so it was like going up the mountain.
"You know how hard it can be sometimes to get your bike up the hill on our block?" I asked him. He nodded. "Well, it's sort of like that, only I don't have Daddy to push me when it gets too hard."
"Oh Mommy!" Logan said alarmed, "You should have come to get me from the kid room. I would help push you!"
You sit on a bike - that has one wheel - and you tighten the resistance rod as high as you can stand it. Your goal is make it hard to pedal through. You want to mimic riding up a mountain. There are several styles of class: endurance, strength, high-intensity training and race day. Each style includes a variety of different spin techniques designed to get you working out within a target heart rate. Typically you aim to stay within an aerobic threshold, about 75-85%. (Ideally smack in the center at 80%) On race day, however, you go all out. On race day, you strive to hit and maintain a heart rate of about 92% your normal standing heart rate. And, if you're really looking to build heart strength, you might even push a little harder.
For 30 minutes straight.
Race day comes with a few ground rules, at least at my gym:
1. Work at your own pace - set your restiance and your pedal stroke at YOUR level. Ignore everyone else. You race only with your own past performace, not the person next to you.
2. Drink a lot during the race.
3. Drink at least 16ozs immediately AFTER race and continue to drink water all day long. (or you will be destined for a head-ache any self-respecting hang-over would envy.)
4. Do nothing strenuous the rest of the day or the next day.
5. Nap if you need to.
6. Go ahead and honor your cravings. You body is trying to tell you something.
With two young children demanding I, you know, parent, I've only managed to drink my water and give in to cravings. (SHhhh....)
The kids, as is our custom, came into the spin room with me when we first arrived at the gym. They like to help me get my towel and water set-up on the bike before heading into child care. I dropped them off, put my heart monitor on, settled in the saddle and began to warm up gently.
We started. I raced. I pushed hard. I finished. I was exhausted.
We stopped to empty my life savings into the gas station attendant's hand on our way home. As the nice man filled our tank with regular unleaded, I laid out the rest of our day for my two gym rats.
Logan interrupted before we got too far into our plans, "Why do you need to take a shower?"
"Umm, because I just worked out at the gym and I feel gross and stinky."
"You don't stink," he said with complete (I'm sure disillusioned) sincerity.
"Thank you honey, but regardless, I'm taking a shower," I said thinking that was the end of it.
But it wasn't. Logan wanted to know more. He wanted to know what we do in class. I tried to explain it as best I could. "Today we pretended to race on our bikes," I told him.
He wanted to know how we all got around that little room on our bikes.
I explained the one wheel thing. The whole stationary bike concept. I told him how we had special dial on our bike to make it harder to pedal so it was like going up the mountain.
"You know how hard it can be sometimes to get your bike up the hill on our block?" I asked him. He nodded. "Well, it's sort of like that, only I don't have Daddy to push me when it gets too hard."
"Oh Mommy!" Logan said alarmed, "You should have come to get me from the kid room. I would help push you!"
8.18.2006
Tigers and Lions and Bears. Oh my!
There's something about a trip to the zoo that sparks the return of one's inner child. Maybe it's the smells (gag!) or the sounds (ROAR!) or just the general melee of the crowds. Whatever it is, the four of us took the two hour ride south to the *free* zoo at the very end of our state to be childlike together.
I've nothing witty to say. I took loads of photos. I chased a toddler for what must have been a million miles. I paid more than a human being ought to for cold bottled drinks on a hot day. I had a good time.
Animals have the ability to appear contemplative and playful all at once. Sometimes you get to capture that in pictures - if the cage doesn't get in your way. Here are a few of my favorite images from the day. I find something beyond the mundane and past face-value in each of these. What do they speak to you? (click on each image to see a larger copy.)
I've nothing witty to say. I took loads of photos. I chased a toddler for what must have been a million miles. I paid more than a human being ought to for cold bottled drinks on a hot day. I had a good time.
Animals have the ability to appear contemplative and playful all at once. Sometimes you get to capture that in pictures - if the cage doesn't get in your way. Here are a few of my favorite images from the day. I find something beyond the mundane and past face-value in each of these. What do they speak to you? (click on each image to see a larger copy.)
8.16.2006
Hot Diggity Dog
Do you have kids? Are they fans of the new (and computer animated) Mickey Mouse Clubhouse? Mine are. In fact, both the four year old and the nearly two year old can be heard singing Mickey's farewell song at any odd moment of any old day. "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog. Now we got ears, it's time for cheers. . . "
Well friends. We got ears and it's time for cheers.
When Logan recieved his piggy bank - ahh, well when I recieved it as a shower gift - we began to put spare change in with the sole purpose of using it one day for a family vacation. Not just any family vacation. A Disney World family vacation.
With Megan's arrival we put the trip on tempoary hold. We wanted to find that magic time when Logan was young enough to not miss a week of anything other than preschool and Megan was old enough to actually enjoy at least some of the trip.
And that time has come.
I just booked it.
It will arrive in 2007. By the time we take off in our airplane headed to Orlando, Logan will be 4 1/2 years old. Megan will be 2 1/2.
The girl seems content to see JoJo and Princesses...and to shop. She's got a list. Really.
The boy already has his list of things he MUST see while we were are their - the LEGO Imagination Center, the "Tea Cup" ride with Grandma, the Star Wars ride with Mommy and Papa, and Tom Sawyer's Island with anyone up for it. His list tends to end with the phrase, "And I will bring my allowance so I can buy those Mickey Mouse ears Grandma keeps talking about."
My parents are going the same time and staying in the same resort. Can you say "built in babysitters?" I mean really, this means at least one night of child free dining for the husband and me. It means when my 'early to bed' spouse and the children nod off for the night...and my dad for that matter...I have Mom to go with me to the comedy club and jazz clubs of Pleasure Island.
I'm excited. Bruce is excited. The kids are excited. The grandparents are excited. We're all excited.
Is it time to go?
Well friends. We got ears and it's time for cheers.
When Logan recieved his piggy bank - ahh, well when I recieved it as a shower gift - we began to put spare change in with the sole purpose of using it one day for a family vacation. Not just any family vacation. A Disney World family vacation.
With Megan's arrival we put the trip on tempoary hold. We wanted to find that magic time when Logan was young enough to not miss a week of anything other than preschool and Megan was old enough to actually enjoy at least some of the trip.
And that time has come.
I just booked it.
It will arrive in 2007. By the time we take off in our airplane headed to Orlando, Logan will be 4 1/2 years old. Megan will be 2 1/2.
The girl seems content to see JoJo and Princesses...and to shop. She's got a list. Really.
The boy already has his list of things he MUST see while we were are their - the LEGO Imagination Center, the "Tea Cup" ride with Grandma, the Star Wars ride with Mommy and Papa, and Tom Sawyer's Island with anyone up for it. His list tends to end with the phrase, "And I will bring my allowance so I can buy those Mickey Mouse ears Grandma keeps talking about."
My parents are going the same time and staying in the same resort. Can you say "built in babysitters?" I mean really, this means at least one night of child free dining for the husband and me. It means when my 'early to bed' spouse and the children nod off for the night...and my dad for that matter...I have Mom to go with me to the comedy club and jazz clubs of Pleasure Island.
I'm excited. Bruce is excited. The kids are excited. The grandparents are excited. We're all excited.
Is it time to go?
8.14.2006
For the Love of Headphones
The owner of my gym has decided her customers need a little motivation in the summer months. Something to get us to continue coming with regularity as the outdoors or the central air calls our names.
For spinners like me, we are given points for every class we take. The point value, or rather 'mile total', varies based on the goal of the day. Endurance class? 50 miles/points. Strength class? 25. Race day? 150. As you accumulate points, you rack up the prizes.
I missed two weeks of the program. Megan is a new convert to accepting, and enjoying, the child care room at the gym. Prior to that, I managed one class a week. So, that patio building Saturday eliminated a class for me as did the stomach flu the next weekend. However, Meg suddenly began to cooperate and I was suddenly able to take additional classes. By the second week of my new three times a week class habit, it occured to me that perhaps I really could make some use out of this incentive program.
As of this Friday I will have amassed enough points to earn myself a pair of cardio-headphones. I have no idea what cardio-headphones are - Ok, that's not true. I do. They are standard headphones you can use to hook up into the standard gym equipment. However, I have no idea what I'm going to do with cardio-headphones other than display them a big note that says "I went to Spin for 750 miles!"
Next week is the last week of the incentive program. It's a big week for classes, at least the ones I've been attending regularly of late. In this week alone I'll tact on another 425 points. And that, my friends, is enough to earn me a $10 drink card with points to spare.
It's not the prizes, although at $1.25 for water per class that I forget my water bottle the drink card is nice. It's not the reward; it's the accomplishment. It's seeing my name on that bar graph with the nice long line. It's accomplishment.
And, it's enough to get me to rethink my schedule starting September. With preschool and activities starting up, I can't make three spin classes. I can make two. But I can make two class plus two other days of general gym time. That's a huge step forward for me and some how I owe it all to a pair of headphones I'll likely never really use.
Funny how that happens.
For spinners like me, we are given points for every class we take. The point value, or rather 'mile total', varies based on the goal of the day. Endurance class? 50 miles/points. Strength class? 25. Race day? 150. As you accumulate points, you rack up the prizes.
I missed two weeks of the program. Megan is a new convert to accepting, and enjoying, the child care room at the gym. Prior to that, I managed one class a week. So, that patio building Saturday eliminated a class for me as did the stomach flu the next weekend. However, Meg suddenly began to cooperate and I was suddenly able to take additional classes. By the second week of my new three times a week class habit, it occured to me that perhaps I really could make some use out of this incentive program.
As of this Friday I will have amassed enough points to earn myself a pair of cardio-headphones. I have no idea what cardio-headphones are - Ok, that's not true. I do. They are standard headphones you can use to hook up into the standard gym equipment. However, I have no idea what I'm going to do with cardio-headphones other than display them a big note that says "I went to Spin for 750 miles!"
Next week is the last week of the incentive program. It's a big week for classes, at least the ones I've been attending regularly of late. In this week alone I'll tact on another 425 points. And that, my friends, is enough to earn me a $10 drink card with points to spare.
It's not the prizes, although at $1.25 for water per class that I forget my water bottle the drink card is nice. It's not the reward; it's the accomplishment. It's seeing my name on that bar graph with the nice long line. It's accomplishment.
And, it's enough to get me to rethink my schedule starting September. With preschool and activities starting up, I can't make three spin classes. I can make two. But I can make two class plus two other days of general gym time. That's a huge step forward for me and some how I owe it all to a pair of headphones I'll likely never really use.
Funny how that happens.
8.11.2006
Rodent State
When Megan naps, Logan and I play. We play a lot of different things. Computer games. Board games. Make pretend games. Outdoor games. Indoor games. We're not particularly picky.
Lately we've played a lot of board games. One of Logan's favorites in this genre is "Great States Junior." Using one of those little quirky shaped game pieces and a multi-colored cube you make your way around a red, white, blue and yellow (with a white star) path that surrounds a brightly colored map of the United States. As you land on a colored square, you need to answer questions from the color coordinated stack of cards.
Logan landed on a red square. These cards require you to find states that start with a specific letter or word. I pulled a red card from the pile.
I showed him the card and he read aloud, "Name three states that start with the word NEW."
Without missing a beat he began to poke a finger at the board as he called out his answer:
"New Jersey." Check.
"New Mexico" Check.
Then with a finger next to Vermont, he said, "New Hamster"
Ahhh, close enough.
Feelings
I feel like I've been rather neglegent with blog writing lately. It's not that I have nothing to say. I just can't seem to get my head around saying it. Perhaps this format will help me. Blogging by emotion. I'm feeling:
Content - The new job is three weeks old and I'm content. It's taken some adjustment. (For example, this is the second week I forgot to do my timesheets before leaving on Thursday.) In the past jobs took time to ramp up for. Training. Understanding. Getting my arms around concepts. Employers putting education before production. This job I hit the ground running and it feels good. We sent out our first e-newsletter yesterday. All my own. It was recieved with big smiles and loads of accolades from the owners - my boss and his brother.
Tired - I've been staying up late and for some reason the girl has been getting up at least once during the night to protest the great injustice that is sleep. And then one or the other kid is up by 6:30 am. I am tired. I am tired and coffee is my bestest friend.
Proud - When Meg naps, Logan and I play. Wednesday he was on a board game kick. We played the "State game" (Great States Junior) and we relearned geography. We played Sum Swamp and we practiced our addition and subtraction skills. We played Word Bingo and we practiced our reading. He did it all. I watched him whisper to himself as he held up his fingers to figure out how many spaces to move - "6 - 4. I have six. I take away 4...I have 2." My little boy isn't so little anyway.
Prouder still - I have a cold. Or maybe it's allergies. Either way it stinks. Logan overheard me comment about the sore throat and the general ick feeling in my head. He decided it was up to him to take care of me. He's been over the top with "extra attention" for me since last night. He even drags around my lap quilt so I can wrap up and feel better. His methods can be a bit much. Somehow extra attention translates to extra work and/or overwhelming. Yet it's sweet. It's indicitive of the caring, compassionate young man we've got on our hands.
Angry - The deal with old job was that I'd get paid within two weeks of invoicing. It's happened more or less that way for four years only because I had the ability to plant myself in accounting and glare. I've been gone for three weeks. I have now have an invoice that has sat with them for 5 weeks and another for 3 weeks. I call. I email. The response, "Oh I'm so sorry, we'll see about getting it in this weeks check run." My former direct supervisor is funneling me a project or two. I told him I'm finishing the current one but will not touch another until I get paid on the open invoices. He needs the project. He desperately needs it. He's now camping out in accounting.
Relieved - New job opted to skip the 'contact status' for me and put me on payroll. I got my first check yesterday. Direct deposit. They managed to pay me in my third week for my first two weeks. I'm still waiting for old place.
Content - The new job is three weeks old and I'm content. It's taken some adjustment. (For example, this is the second week I forgot to do my timesheets before leaving on Thursday.) In the past jobs took time to ramp up for. Training. Understanding. Getting my arms around concepts. Employers putting education before production. This job I hit the ground running and it feels good. We sent out our first e-newsletter yesterday. All my own. It was recieved with big smiles and loads of accolades from the owners - my boss and his brother.
Tired - I've been staying up late and for some reason the girl has been getting up at least once during the night to protest the great injustice that is sleep. And then one or the other kid is up by 6:30 am. I am tired. I am tired and coffee is my bestest friend.
Proud - When Meg naps, Logan and I play. Wednesday he was on a board game kick. We played the "State game" (Great States Junior) and we relearned geography. We played Sum Swamp and we practiced our addition and subtraction skills. We played Word Bingo and we practiced our reading. He did it all. I watched him whisper to himself as he held up his fingers to figure out how many spaces to move - "6 - 4. I have six. I take away 4...I have 2." My little boy isn't so little anyway.
Prouder still - I have a cold. Or maybe it's allergies. Either way it stinks. Logan overheard me comment about the sore throat and the general ick feeling in my head. He decided it was up to him to take care of me. He's been over the top with "extra attention" for me since last night. He even drags around my lap quilt so I can wrap up and feel better. His methods can be a bit much. Somehow extra attention translates to extra work and/or overwhelming. Yet it's sweet. It's indicitive of the caring, compassionate young man we've got on our hands.
Angry - The deal with old job was that I'd get paid within two weeks of invoicing. It's happened more or less that way for four years only because I had the ability to plant myself in accounting and glare. I've been gone for three weeks. I have now have an invoice that has sat with them for 5 weeks and another for 3 weeks. I call. I email. The response, "Oh I'm so sorry, we'll see about getting it in this weeks check run." My former direct supervisor is funneling me a project or two. I told him I'm finishing the current one but will not touch another until I get paid on the open invoices. He needs the project. He desperately needs it. He's now camping out in accounting.
Relieved - New job opted to skip the 'contact status' for me and put me on payroll. I got my first check yesterday. Direct deposit. They managed to pay me in my third week for my first two weeks. I'm still waiting for old place.
8.06.2006
Flutter-fly
The wireless reciever for our weather contraption said the temperature was in the mid-80s, but after a week long triple-digit heatwave, the air felt downright breezily, comfortably warm. Not hot.
We piled in the 'Mommy van.' We drove to the little park on the Bay in the next Borough - which is a mere 5 miles if that from our front door. The kids played on the swings and various park equipment. I stood next to the small butterfly garden off one corner of the play area.
Megan joined me. First telling me, "Butterfly scared me flying by my head." Then she discovered what I had - the beauty, the peace, the calming and yet at the same time, the exciting impact of their fluttering and attacking the various flowers for a meal. We took a lot of photos. (Of course I'm already plotting which to frame and where to hang them.)
This was the same place I managed to snag some of my favorite floral photos a few months ago - the same ones that are now part of a framed grouping of floral shots hanging over Meg's bed. It's quickly become my favorite place to photograph anything other than my children. . .although I tend to photograph them there as well.
My guess is everyone with a mild passion for photography has such a place as well. Where is yours?
We piled in the 'Mommy van.' We drove to the little park on the Bay in the next Borough - which is a mere 5 miles if that from our front door. The kids played on the swings and various park equipment. I stood next to the small butterfly garden off one corner of the play area.
Megan joined me. First telling me, "Butterfly scared me flying by my head." Then she discovered what I had - the beauty, the peace, the calming and yet at the same time, the exciting impact of their fluttering and attacking the various flowers for a meal. We took a lot of photos. (Of course I'm already plotting which to frame and where to hang them.)
This was the same place I managed to snag some of my favorite floral photos a few months ago - the same ones that are now part of a framed grouping of floral shots hanging over Meg's bed. It's quickly become my favorite place to photograph anything other than my children. . .although I tend to photograph them there as well.
My guess is everyone with a mild passion for photography has such a place as well. Where is yours?
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