Today was Nicknacks's first day of preschool. It's our home church preschool, so he's familiar with the environment because he's been nearby in the nursery twice a week since he was a baby. His little friend (whom we've decided should be his future wife) is in his class, and her mother (my friend from Bible study) is the teacher. So I've been SO excited for him all summer, and especially since Parent Orientation - thinking about the fun projects he'd be doing and all the friends he would make.
The class is only two hours a day, two days a week. He'll also spend another three or four hours a week in the same room for Bible study and church. Since we don't have any friends, neighbors, or relatives with children his age, Nicknack is pretty isolated, socially. So I thought this would be a good chance for him to interact with his peers and learn some new skills. Things I can't easily teach at home, like taking turns.
However, he is the youngest in the class. The birthday cut off for the class is June 1, and he has a May 31 birthday. Some of the children in his class turn three next month. Also, I think he's "young" for his age. He's great with numbers, letters, colors, shapes, and "school" stuff. We have that covered. But he's immature in other ways. Maybe because (for now) he's an only child, or because I'm home with him, or because Penn and I baby him, or just because that's his temperament.
At any rate, it was pretty clear today that he's not ready for preschool. The first five minutes of the class were set aside for "free play," while everyone got adjusted to being there. Then the children and parents were invited to Circle Time, for a story. This was when the trouble began. Nicknack was enraptured with the station full of trains, cars, firetrucks, etc. You know, almost exactly the same toys he spends hours a day playing with at home? So he threw a big fit when we tried to get him to join in at Circle Time. After a minute in the hall to calm down we came back in and just let him keep playing with the vehicles, while all the other children sat at least semi-patiently listening to the story. Except for one little boy who threw a huge tantrum because his parents made him sit with them through the whole story.
So then it was time for the parents to leave. He was fine with that, because he was loving the vehicles so much. He is obsessed with things that go. When I came back to pick him up the children had moved to the playground and Nicknack was having a ball. Pushing a police car along the perimeter of the playground. Again with the vehicles. :)
When I talked to my friend, the main teacher, she told me that he had pretty much just played with cars the entire time. They hadn't even been able to lure him away at snack time (he isn't at all motivated by food - even cookies!) or craft time. His cubby had the only little hand print with no coloring on it. It was kind of sad.
After we finished talking he showed me all around the playground. Then I sat nearby while he played. It was then that I observed him taking a toy another little boy was playing with, which I've never known him to do. He usually plays with older kids (cousins, etc.), which for some reason, always goes perfectly smoothly. Then I watched him get smacked by this other little boy who was frustrated because Nicknack had grabbed his dump truck. I was close enough to step in and told Nicholas to say "no hitting!" and then "helped" him to give the dump truck back and showed them how they could both play with it. I hope that wasn't inappropriate, but I figured that if the situation was reversed I would be okay if another mom did the same thing.
Then it was time to go back to the classroom. It was difficult to convince him to come inside, and he made a beeline for the vehicles again, totally ignoring the "goodbye song." Then he had another meltdown when it was time to leave for the day.
So my friend and are going to give it a couple of weeks to see if he adjusts to the concept of doing different activities. Maybe he would just do well with more of a "free play" environment at this age. There is a one-day-a-week class and he could switch to that, plus still have his unstructured time in the same classroom while I'm at my weekly Bible study. Or we could just skip preschool altogether this year and worry about it next year.
I'm torn because I would like Nicknack to have the experience of being around his peers. But I'm not sure that he's ready for the way the time in the classroom is structured. And, also, I keep thinking about the hitting incident at the playground. I know it is normal behavior, but I wonder if a smaller group of kids - or even just one-on-one would be better at this age. I know we parents aren't supposed to hover and manage all of our children's little problems (I think that's called helicopter-parenting, right?), but at this age a lot of guidance seems appropriate. Probably more guidance than I can realistically expect with 13 classmates.
Sorry this has been such a long and detailed post! Especially when I haven't posted in so long! Any opinions or advice would be appreciated!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Housekeeping
My husband is adorable. He is unbelievably good to me and I am not just saying this to sound humble: I don't deserve him. Ask my family. I still can't believe I "lucked" into such a happy marriage.
Having said that, Jeesh, husbands are so funny sometimes! And not funny as in, "ha ha." Funny as in, "Whattheheck?"
Here is what I don't get. Why can't husbands find anything? Is it just mine? Here are a few of the conversations Penn and I have shared, this week alone.
P: Honey, where are the CAR KEYS? (kind of annoyed-like, as if I've misplaced them)
K: Um, aren't they hanging on the KEY RACK?
P: Oh, yes, HERE they are! (like a big mystery has been solved)
P: Honey, do you know where Nicknack's sunscreen might be?
K: Yes, I know exactly where it is. It's in the third drawer of the secretary desk.
P: Oh, it is?
K: Yes, remember how I told you I was finding a home for the sunscreen because I was sick of looking for it all the time? And how I mentioned I would be putting all the sunscreens there? You nodded and said, "Uh huh, the secretary desk, third drawer, got it."
P: Oh yeah, now I remember. Uuuummm.... What is a secretary desk?
K: It's that big desky drawer thing in the Foyer. (to be fair to Penn we've only had it for a few months.)
P: Oh, okay. (a few seconds of rummaging) Honey, it's not in here!
K: It's definitely there, in the THIRD DRAWER! Did you look in the THIRD DRAWER?
P: Okay, I'll check again... (in a tone that clearly implies the attempt will be futile) ... (prolonged rummaging) Honey, it's not in the THIRD DRAWER!
K: (trying not to stomp over to said secretary desk, opening the third drawer, pointing to the label in the drawer that says "Sunscreen," pointing to the plastic container by the label in the drawer that is also labeled "Sunscreen."
P: Oh, I didn't know it was in a CONTAINER.
I seriously don't know why I bother to label things. I guess I need to invest in brighter label colors or use a much larger font size.
I would need a huge label, the size of a stop sign by our dishwasher. It would read: "Please load all dishes into the dishwasher. Not to be bossy, but kind of NOW, please. As opposed to later." Leonard is so, so helpful around the house. So I try not to nitpick about his one big flaw. He never, ever, ever loads his dishes into the dishwasher as he is finished with them. He leaves them on the counter or in the sink or on the end table or nightstand. Then later, once they've started to accumulate (assuming I haven't picked them up and put them into the dishwasher in the meantime) he loads them in.
And the same goes with recycling and garbage. Why not just empty that soda can and put it straight into the recycling bin or take the extra two seconds now, instead of later, to toss that paper towel in the garbage? I don't understand.
I'm guilty of this sometimes, too. When I'm feeling lazy or I'm super busy. But with Penn, it's just the way he always does things.
It's making a one-step process into a two-step process. Also, you have to look at those dishes, etc. for however long, when you could hide them away. And when one of us loads the dishwasher we almost always have to fish a fork out of the disposal, or scrape some goopy half-dried oatmeal off the cereal bowl.
My mother says my Dad is exactly the same, and he is in all other respects, a neat freak.
My in-laws have a similar housekeeping difference of opinion. Penn's Dad feels the dishes should be done right after dinner so that they can relax for the rest of the evening and wake up to a clean kitchen each morning. Penn's Mom says, "Who cares if dirty dishes sit in the sink all night when no one is awake to see them?" She'd rather tackle them in the morning, when she has more energy.
So Penn's Dad does all the family's dinner dishes. My MIL cooks, so it's now a pretty square deal. But growing up, both of Penn's parents worked and his Dad actually got home first and therefore did the cooking and the clean up. I guess it was worth it for him to just do them himself, rather than live with those dishes on the counter.
So that's kind of where I am about all this housekeeping minutia. I load a dish or two in the dishwasher almost everytime I walk through the kitchen to try to avoid the dreaded big-kitchen-clean-up that seems to be required whenever you let a kitchen sit unattended to for half a day. And I organize the keys and chapstick and spare change and receipts and pens that Penn dumps from his coat pockets each evening. The pile of whatever doesn't bother him. It does me. And I label everything that will sit still long enough. It gives me peace of mind to know that, for example, our maps have a home and I know where it is. And if only Penn would read the drawer label, he, too, could find a map someday when he needs one.
Of course, I'm selectively neat. Remember how Monica, from Friends, was so insanely organized? She even had a "ribbon drawer." Yet there was that secret, locked closet that no one could open. When Chandler finally picked the lock a huge pile of clutter fell out - Monica's secret shame. I have an entire room like that - our Study. It's 50% perfectly organized and labeled and 50% big jumbled mess. My mother even came for a day to help me organize it. She was so disappointed when she came back a month later and it looked bad again. I've gone in three or four afternoons to finish the room, only to be sidetracked by small projects. I just feel overwhelmed.
I have a timeline to attend to it, because of the room shuffle we'll be doing before the baby arrives in November. Nursery changes ownership from Nicknack to baby. Guest Room becomes Nicknack's Big Boy Room. Study becomes combination Guest Room/Office.
I also may need to invite houseguests for additional motivation. That always does the trick.
Being married is an interesting, challenging, and mostly fun balancing act. It's pretty amazing how two seperate people with different upbringings, habits, philosophies, tastes, priorities, interests, etc. can become so one-minded. Before marrying Penn I worried that we would ever be compatible enough to live together happily. Now I feel like we are the most compatible couple I know.
Except for my occasional quibbling about household details and our every-few-year argument (which is notable, as we rarely fight) about whether or not we could please give away that wretched, gigantic, utterly useless, unattractive, space-wasting, and ridiculously heavy-weight comforter he moved from Connecticut with in 2001 which he refuses to part with. Ugh.
Having said that, Jeesh, husbands are so funny sometimes! And not funny as in, "ha ha." Funny as in, "Whattheheck?"
Here is what I don't get. Why can't husbands find anything? Is it just mine? Here are a few of the conversations Penn and I have shared, this week alone.
P: Honey, where are the CAR KEYS? (kind of annoyed-like, as if I've misplaced them)
K: Um, aren't they hanging on the KEY RACK?
P: Oh, yes, HERE they are! (like a big mystery has been solved)
P: Honey, do you know where Nicknack's sunscreen might be?
K: Yes, I know exactly where it is. It's in the third drawer of the secretary desk.
P: Oh, it is?
K: Yes, remember how I told you I was finding a home for the sunscreen because I was sick of looking for it all the time? And how I mentioned I would be putting all the sunscreens there? You nodded and said, "Uh huh, the secretary desk, third drawer, got it."
P: Oh yeah, now I remember. Uuuummm.... What is a secretary desk?
K: It's that big desky drawer thing in the Foyer. (to be fair to Penn we've only had it for a few months.)
P: Oh, okay. (a few seconds of rummaging) Honey, it's not in here!
K: It's definitely there, in the THIRD DRAWER! Did you look in the THIRD DRAWER?
P: Okay, I'll check again... (in a tone that clearly implies the attempt will be futile) ... (prolonged rummaging) Honey, it's not in the THIRD DRAWER!
K: (trying not to stomp over to said secretary desk, opening the third drawer, pointing to the label in the drawer that says "Sunscreen," pointing to the plastic container by the label in the drawer that is also labeled "Sunscreen."
P: Oh, I didn't know it was in a CONTAINER.
I seriously don't know why I bother to label things. I guess I need to invest in brighter label colors or use a much larger font size.
I would need a huge label, the size of a stop sign by our dishwasher. It would read: "Please load all dishes into the dishwasher. Not to be bossy, but kind of NOW, please. As opposed to later." Leonard is so, so helpful around the house. So I try not to nitpick about his one big flaw. He never, ever, ever loads his dishes into the dishwasher as he is finished with them. He leaves them on the counter or in the sink or on the end table or nightstand. Then later, once they've started to accumulate (assuming I haven't picked them up and put them into the dishwasher in the meantime) he loads them in.
And the same goes with recycling and garbage. Why not just empty that soda can and put it straight into the recycling bin or take the extra two seconds now, instead of later, to toss that paper towel in the garbage? I don't understand.
I'm guilty of this sometimes, too. When I'm feeling lazy or I'm super busy. But with Penn, it's just the way he always does things.
It's making a one-step process into a two-step process. Also, you have to look at those dishes, etc. for however long, when you could hide them away. And when one of us loads the dishwasher we almost always have to fish a fork out of the disposal, or scrape some goopy half-dried oatmeal off the cereal bowl.
My mother says my Dad is exactly the same, and he is in all other respects, a neat freak.
My in-laws have a similar housekeeping difference of opinion. Penn's Dad feels the dishes should be done right after dinner so that they can relax for the rest of the evening and wake up to a clean kitchen each morning. Penn's Mom says, "Who cares if dirty dishes sit in the sink all night when no one is awake to see them?" She'd rather tackle them in the morning, when she has more energy.
So Penn's Dad does all the family's dinner dishes. My MIL cooks, so it's now a pretty square deal. But growing up, both of Penn's parents worked and his Dad actually got home first and therefore did the cooking and the clean up. I guess it was worth it for him to just do them himself, rather than live with those dishes on the counter.
So that's kind of where I am about all this housekeeping minutia. I load a dish or two in the dishwasher almost everytime I walk through the kitchen to try to avoid the dreaded big-kitchen-clean-up that seems to be required whenever you let a kitchen sit unattended to for half a day. And I organize the keys and chapstick and spare change and receipts and pens that Penn dumps from his coat pockets each evening. The pile of whatever doesn't bother him. It does me. And I label everything that will sit still long enough. It gives me peace of mind to know that, for example, our maps have a home and I know where it is. And if only Penn would read the drawer label, he, too, could find a map someday when he needs one.
Of course, I'm selectively neat. Remember how Monica, from Friends, was so insanely organized? She even had a "ribbon drawer." Yet there was that secret, locked closet that no one could open. When Chandler finally picked the lock a huge pile of clutter fell out - Monica's secret shame. I have an entire room like that - our Study. It's 50% perfectly organized and labeled and 50% big jumbled mess. My mother even came for a day to help me organize it. She was so disappointed when she came back a month later and it looked bad again. I've gone in three or four afternoons to finish the room, only to be sidetracked by small projects. I just feel overwhelmed.
I have a timeline to attend to it, because of the room shuffle we'll be doing before the baby arrives in November. Nursery changes ownership from Nicknack to baby. Guest Room becomes Nicknack's Big Boy Room. Study becomes combination Guest Room/Office.
I also may need to invite houseguests for additional motivation. That always does the trick.
Being married is an interesting, challenging, and mostly fun balancing act. It's pretty amazing how two seperate people with different upbringings, habits, philosophies, tastes, priorities, interests, etc. can become so one-minded. Before marrying Penn I worried that we would ever be compatible enough to live together happily. Now I feel like we are the most compatible couple I know.
Except for my occasional quibbling about household details and our every-few-year argument (which is notable, as we rarely fight) about whether or not we could please give away that wretched, gigantic, utterly useless, unattractive, space-wasting, and ridiculously heavy-weight comforter he moved from Connecticut with in 2001 which he refuses to part with. Ugh.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Random Stuff
Oops. It looks like I published a draft version of my last post. I'm sure I had edited it to be much more witty and entertaining. Plus I know I added at least a couple of paragraphs. Obviously not anything terribly important, as I only remember one thing that wasn't included in the published post.
Which is...
Nicholas is short! 5th percentile, in fact. When our new and wonderful Pediatrician told us that I couldn't believe it.
"50th?" I clarified?
"No, fifth."
"Fifteenth?" Penn asked?
"No, fifth... FIVE"
"Ooooh..."
It's surprising because Penn is almost 6'5!
There are apparently two ways to guesstimate one's adult height at this age. The first is to double the age two height. Which would make Nicknack, as a grown man, 5'4. Hmm. That just doesn't seem possible. No males on either side of our family are that height. That's shorter than ME! Plus he is taller than both of his friends, which would mean that both children, each a couple of months older than Nicknack, would be 5'2 grown ups. What are the odds of us all having such little offspring when we are all of average or taller height?
The other way to predict height is to add five inches to the mother's height (I guess I'd be a 5'10 male) and average that with the father's. Which would put Nicknack in the 6'1-6'2 range.
I obviously don't care how tall Nicknack is or will be. But I'm pretty sure most men wouldn't choose to be 5'4. And yet I hope he isn't as tall as his dad, because he's darn hard to buy clothes for.
For example, a few weekends ago we went to my parents' for the weekend and I forgot to pack any pants for Penn. Just shorts (it's usually blazing in Ellensburg this time of year), but it became increasingly windy and sprinkly. I can tell you that their good-sized Fred Meyer did not contain a SINGLE pair of jeans or pants that were 34s (Penn's length), even in the Big and Tall section. I know this because my mother and I checked each and every pair of pants in the place. Literally. They should just call the Big and Tall section the Big section because the pants get larger and larger around the waist, but not any longer!
Thank heavens for Land's End, which has lots of nice, well-made, basic, classic, inexpensive "big and tall" clothes. And it's so convenient to order everything online, have it delivered to our door, and we are able to make returns at Sears.
I just hate shopping in person. I know, that's unusual for a woman. I truly detest going to the mall. I only go about twice a year and we live in a good-sized city, full of great malls. I am rarely invited to go shopping with female friends and relatives because a)I usually decline and b)I'm not fun to shop with. After about three stores I'm so bored my eyes start to glaze over and I have a difficult time not acting impatient because I'm so ready to go. I especially hate waiting while people try things on in the dressing room. Just those last two words make me want to run screaming.
The exception is shopping for Nicknack's clothing at the outlet mall. I love doing that, but Penn I have a very efficient system and breeze through the stores at a breakneck speed. I know exactly what style I like, what colors looks nicest on Nicknack, what he'll get the most use of of, and what brands fit him best. And best of all, no one has to try on a thing. It's beautiful.
Speaking of shopping, this year I started visiting the consignment stores in our area, and even the big used stores like Value Village and Goodwill. A couple of years ago I wouldn't have stepped foot in such places. I would have been embarassed and also kind of grossed out at the thought of putting Nicknack in clothing previously worn by random strangers.
But this is something that is quite socially acceptable in our neck of the woods. We live in an older inner-ring suburb between two of the fancier Seattle zipcodes. Our church happens to be located in one of these nicer areas and so most of the women in my Bible study have homes two or three times larger than our modest late fifties ranch.
So imagine my surprise one day when one of my Bible study ladies called to tell me that such-and-such consignment store was having a huge sale and everything one could fit in a bag was only a dollar!
I was so taken off guard. My first thought was "maybe she thinks we're poor!?" But no, she would have to be in the store herself to know about this sale, right?
Then a few weeks later several of the women in my group were standing by their monstrously large and tricked out SUVs, discussing the best day to shop at Goodwill. Okaaay.
Finally one day my friend and I were having coffee and she asked me if I wanted to stop at Value Village on the way home. I really did not, but I didn't want to be rude.
So I went with her and I was shocked to find a whole bunch of great stuff for Nicknack. Ralph Lauren, Janie and Jack, Lacoste, J Crew Crewcuts, etc. Plus all of our standby brands like Gap, Carters, and Osh Kosh. I seriously have his Christmas photo outfits put away for the next few years.
So since then I've been back a few times and it's kind of fun! I can fill a bag with dozens of things for the price of one of the items new.
Heaven help us if this baby is a girl. We are going to take a big financial hit. They just make the most darling little girl clothing and I know I won't be able to control myself. But I guess as long as I stick with the outlet mall and the consignments stores I won't be able to do too much damage.
Which is...
Nicholas is short! 5th percentile, in fact. When our new and wonderful Pediatrician told us that I couldn't believe it.
"50th?" I clarified?
"No, fifth."
"Fifteenth?" Penn asked?
"No, fifth... FIVE"
"Ooooh..."
It's surprising because Penn is almost 6'5!
There are apparently two ways to guesstimate one's adult height at this age. The first is to double the age two height. Which would make Nicknack, as a grown man, 5'4. Hmm. That just doesn't seem possible. No males on either side of our family are that height. That's shorter than ME! Plus he is taller than both of his friends, which would mean that both children, each a couple of months older than Nicknack, would be 5'2 grown ups. What are the odds of us all having such little offspring when we are all of average or taller height?
The other way to predict height is to add five inches to the mother's height (I guess I'd be a 5'10 male) and average that with the father's. Which would put Nicknack in the 6'1-6'2 range.
I obviously don't care how tall Nicknack is or will be. But I'm pretty sure most men wouldn't choose to be 5'4. And yet I hope he isn't as tall as his dad, because he's darn hard to buy clothes for.
For example, a few weekends ago we went to my parents' for the weekend and I forgot to pack any pants for Penn. Just shorts (it's usually blazing in Ellensburg this time of year), but it became increasingly windy and sprinkly. I can tell you that their good-sized Fred Meyer did not contain a SINGLE pair of jeans or pants that were 34s (Penn's length), even in the Big and Tall section. I know this because my mother and I checked each and every pair of pants in the place. Literally. They should just call the Big and Tall section the Big section because the pants get larger and larger around the waist, but not any longer!
Thank heavens for Land's End, which has lots of nice, well-made, basic, classic, inexpensive "big and tall" clothes. And it's so convenient to order everything online, have it delivered to our door, and we are able to make returns at Sears.
I just hate shopping in person. I know, that's unusual for a woman. I truly detest going to the mall. I only go about twice a year and we live in a good-sized city, full of great malls. I am rarely invited to go shopping with female friends and relatives because a)I usually decline and b)I'm not fun to shop with. After about three stores I'm so bored my eyes start to glaze over and I have a difficult time not acting impatient because I'm so ready to go. I especially hate waiting while people try things on in the dressing room. Just those last two words make me want to run screaming.
The exception is shopping for Nicknack's clothing at the outlet mall. I love doing that, but Penn I have a very efficient system and breeze through the stores at a breakneck speed. I know exactly what style I like, what colors looks nicest on Nicknack, what he'll get the most use of of, and what brands fit him best. And best of all, no one has to try on a thing. It's beautiful.
Speaking of shopping, this year I started visiting the consignment stores in our area, and even the big used stores like Value Village and Goodwill. A couple of years ago I wouldn't have stepped foot in such places. I would have been embarassed and also kind of grossed out at the thought of putting Nicknack in clothing previously worn by random strangers.
But this is something that is quite socially acceptable in our neck of the woods. We live in an older inner-ring suburb between two of the fancier Seattle zipcodes. Our church happens to be located in one of these nicer areas and so most of the women in my Bible study have homes two or three times larger than our modest late fifties ranch.
So imagine my surprise one day when one of my Bible study ladies called to tell me that such-and-such consignment store was having a huge sale and everything one could fit in a bag was only a dollar!
I was so taken off guard. My first thought was "maybe she thinks we're poor!?" But no, she would have to be in the store herself to know about this sale, right?
Then a few weeks later several of the women in my group were standing by their monstrously large and tricked out SUVs, discussing the best day to shop at Goodwill. Okaaay.
Finally one day my friend and I were having coffee and she asked me if I wanted to stop at Value Village on the way home. I really did not, but I didn't want to be rude.
So I went with her and I was shocked to find a whole bunch of great stuff for Nicknack. Ralph Lauren, Janie and Jack, Lacoste, J Crew Crewcuts, etc. Plus all of our standby brands like Gap, Carters, and Osh Kosh. I seriously have his Christmas photo outfits put away for the next few years.
So since then I've been back a few times and it's kind of fun! I can fill a bag with dozens of things for the price of one of the items new.
Heaven help us if this baby is a girl. We are going to take a big financial hit. They just make the most darling little girl clothing and I know I won't be able to control myself. But I guess as long as I stick with the outlet mall and the consignments stores I won't be able to do too much damage.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Mr. Two
Well, it's official. Nicknack is two.
The weirdest thing happened. He must have received some kind of secret memo, because he woke up on the morning of his birthday and started acting... well, two. And everyday since.
Have you ever heard of such a thing? 729 days old and he is pretty much easy. Day 730 rolls around and all of a sudden he's "difficult."
This morning I ordered a time-out mat, like the one I noticed on Jon & Kate Plus Eight (that show is my new obsession, by the way).
May I please take a moment to do something I never do? I would like to complain about the weather. Usually, when other people have unkind things to say about Seattle's weather, I stick up for her. For one thing, it's not usually that bad. Drizzly all fall and winter and pretty much perfect all summer. Except this year has been terrible. I think we have literally had three days of actual sunshine all year. Yesterday I could actually see my breath outside. It's JUNE!
Dear God,
As you know, you have blessed me with an extremely active little man who loves to be outside running amuck and making a mess. He's been spending a lot of time indoors lately, running amuck and making a mess. Multiple messes. Constant messes. So many messes. Please, please, please send summer. I would settle for 65 degrees and partly cloudy at this point. But I would be so, so grateful for a little sunshine. You know, short sleeved weather? Maybe even shorts weather? I would love to set up his sand/water table and kiddie pool and watch him frolick in the sprinkler. I promise to slather him (and myself) with sunscreen.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
I have nothing else to report. Thank heavens there is another baby in the works, so Penn and I didn't have to make fools of our selves blubbering over Nicknack's milestone birthday. Knowing we get to do it again helps us to let go a little and enjoy Nicknack's
The weirdest thing happened. He must have received some kind of secret memo, because he woke up on the morning of his birthday and started acting... well, two. And everyday since.
Have you ever heard of such a thing? 729 days old and he is pretty much easy. Day 730 rolls around and all of a sudden he's "difficult."
This morning I ordered a time-out mat, like the one I noticed on Jon & Kate Plus Eight (that show is my new obsession, by the way).
May I please take a moment to do something I never do? I would like to complain about the weather. Usually, when other people have unkind things to say about Seattle's weather, I stick up for her. For one thing, it's not usually that bad. Drizzly all fall and winter and pretty much perfect all summer. Except this year has been terrible. I think we have literally had three days of actual sunshine all year. Yesterday I could actually see my breath outside. It's JUNE!
Dear God,
As you know, you have blessed me with an extremely active little man who loves to be outside running amuck and making a mess. He's been spending a lot of time indoors lately, running amuck and making a mess. Multiple messes. Constant messes. So many messes. Please, please, please send summer. I would settle for 65 degrees and partly cloudy at this point. But I would be so, so grateful for a little sunshine. You know, short sleeved weather? Maybe even shorts weather? I would love to set up his sand/water table and kiddie pool and watch him frolick in the sprinkler. I promise to slather him (and myself) with sunscreen.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
I have nothing else to report. Thank heavens there is another baby in the works, so Penn and I didn't have to make fools of our selves blubbering over Nicknack's milestone birthday. Knowing we get to do it again helps us to let go a little and enjoy Nicknack's
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Fear of Flying (with Nicknack)
A million years ago I was a nanny. I traveled quite a bit with the family, but the trip that stands out in my mind was the time the Dad and I took the two boys by ourselves, while Mom stayed home with the new baby.
Thanks to the combined efforts of the Mom, the Housekeeper, the Laundress, and myself, we were extremely well-prepared. We shipped the bags and car seats ahead of time so that we didn't have any pesky luggage to worry about. We had a carefully planned itinerary to stick to. The travel agent had coordinated our car service and other logistical details - all we had to do was show up. It should have been the least stressful trip in the world.
Unfortunately, we ran into some bad weather at the airport and were stuck out on the runway for about 90 minutes, waiting for our turn to take off. In the meantime, the younger brother (age 2 and a few months) threw a tantrum. Like, the entire time. Like, the loudest and most enthusiastic tantrum I'd ever seen.
We were in the first row of first class, just a few feet from a stern and eagle-eyed flight attendant. All the little mister wanted was for us to unbuckle his seatbelt. I tried to stealthily unlatch it while the mean lady was looking the other way, but she noticed immediately (probably because the crying/screaming/wailing/kicking suddenly stopped). She then proceeded to remind us in a nasally monotone about FAA regulation blah-blah-blah which states blah-blah-blah... basically, he had to wear the seatbelt. No exceptions. Buckle up or get off the aircraft. Then she stood guard for the duration of our wait to make sure that we complied. I know she was just doing her job but it was hard to remember that, what with all the screeching and hollering.
It probably doesn't sound like a big deal, but it was extremely stressful. Upsetting. And mortifying.
Ever since that incident I've always said I'd never fly anywhere with my children until the youngest was at least three. Until then, car trips would be good enough for us.
Except for the fact that my cousin got married and is having the reception in August. In Alaska. Have you ever driven the Al-Can Highway? With a toddler? For one thing, it would take us a week to get there and back.
I decided I just wouldn't go to the reception, especially since Penn has to work and I'd be traveling with Nicknack all by myself. Oh, and six months pregnant.
But I can't shake off the nagging feeling that I absolutely need to go. I don't want to miss it! And I can't leave Nicknack at home, so he has to come along.
So now the great debate has begun. I've been waffling back and forth all day. Should I book our seats in coach and just hope and pray that 24 hours before each flight I'll be able do web check-in and pay the extra $200 (each way) to upgrade us to first class? Or should I bite the bullet and pay the $1000 (!) extra to just book us in first class now, so I don't have to worry about it until August. Or we could just deal with coach.
I just can't imagine my big-fat-pregnant bee-hind squeezed into a middle seat. And if Nicknack is in his giant carseat in the aisle seat, what a pain for the person in the window seat to get in and out. On the other hand, if Nicknack is in the window seat, what if he needs to get up and go potty or wants to walk up and down the aisle? Either way the third person in our row will be disturbed.
Worst of all, what if Nicknack throws a huge fit and the that random person sitting next to us gets upset? The flights to Alaska are packed in the summer, so we are sure to have a neighbor.
Of course, if we're in coach there are likely to be a more families/children so there might be other kids misbehaving and the other travelers might be more sympathetic to an unruly little person.
What do you think? Have you traveled with a toddler before? Do you have any advice? Do you think I need the extra space/privacy of first class so as not to annoy the heck out of an unsuspecting stranger? Can I risk the fact that we might get stuck in coach if I don't cough up the extra money now? I hate to waste money? And if we don't, should we sit in the aisle/middle or window/middle?
Did I mention that Nicknack will be the exact same age as that little boy was when he threw that big fit?
Thanks to the combined efforts of the Mom, the Housekeeper, the Laundress, and myself, we were extremely well-prepared. We shipped the bags and car seats ahead of time so that we didn't have any pesky luggage to worry about. We had a carefully planned itinerary to stick to. The travel agent had coordinated our car service and other logistical details - all we had to do was show up. It should have been the least stressful trip in the world.
Unfortunately, we ran into some bad weather at the airport and were stuck out on the runway for about 90 minutes, waiting for our turn to take off. In the meantime, the younger brother (age 2 and a few months) threw a tantrum. Like, the entire time. Like, the loudest and most enthusiastic tantrum I'd ever seen.
We were in the first row of first class, just a few feet from a stern and eagle-eyed flight attendant. All the little mister wanted was for us to unbuckle his seatbelt. I tried to stealthily unlatch it while the mean lady was looking the other way, but she noticed immediately (probably because the crying/screaming/wailing/kicking suddenly stopped). She then proceeded to remind us in a nasally monotone about FAA regulation blah-blah-blah which states blah-blah-blah... basically, he had to wear the seatbelt. No exceptions. Buckle up or get off the aircraft. Then she stood guard for the duration of our wait to make sure that we complied. I know she was just doing her job but it was hard to remember that, what with all the screeching and hollering.
It probably doesn't sound like a big deal, but it was extremely stressful. Upsetting. And mortifying.
Ever since that incident I've always said I'd never fly anywhere with my children until the youngest was at least three. Until then, car trips would be good enough for us.
Except for the fact that my cousin got married and is having the reception in August. In Alaska. Have you ever driven the Al-Can Highway? With a toddler? For one thing, it would take us a week to get there and back.
I decided I just wouldn't go to the reception, especially since Penn has to work and I'd be traveling with Nicknack all by myself. Oh, and six months pregnant.
But I can't shake off the nagging feeling that I absolutely need to go. I don't want to miss it! And I can't leave Nicknack at home, so he has to come along.
So now the great debate has begun. I've been waffling back and forth all day. Should I book our seats in coach and just hope and pray that 24 hours before each flight I'll be able do web check-in and pay the extra $200 (each way) to upgrade us to first class? Or should I bite the bullet and pay the $1000 (!) extra to just book us in first class now, so I don't have to worry about it until August. Or we could just deal with coach.
I just can't imagine my big-fat-pregnant bee-hind squeezed into a middle seat. And if Nicknack is in his giant carseat in the aisle seat, what a pain for the person in the window seat to get in and out. On the other hand, if Nicknack is in the window seat, what if he needs to get up and go potty or wants to walk up and down the aisle? Either way the third person in our row will be disturbed.
Worst of all, what if Nicknack throws a huge fit and the that random person sitting next to us gets upset? The flights to Alaska are packed in the summer, so we are sure to have a neighbor.
Of course, if we're in coach there are likely to be a more families/children so there might be other kids misbehaving and the other travelers might be more sympathetic to an unruly little person.
What do you think? Have you traveled with a toddler before? Do you have any advice? Do you think I need the extra space/privacy of first class so as not to annoy the heck out of an unsuspecting stranger? Can I risk the fact that we might get stuck in coach if I don't cough up the extra money now? I hate to waste money? And if we don't, should we sit in the aisle/middle or window/middle?
Did I mention that Nicknack will be the exact same age as that little boy was when he threw that big fit?
Thursday, May 8, 2008
I've started to write this post a half dozen times and I either get interrupted or don't like what I've written.
So let me just get right to the point.
We're expecting another baby! Yay!
I found out two days after I wrote my last post. No wonder I was in a sentimental mood! I was already pregnant.
We've taken a test every two weeks since Nicknack was about six months old. We weren't sure how best to space our kids, but we immediately knew we wanted another, God willing. We weren't sure if God would bless us in this way, again. We've always wanted to adopt (and still do), so we wondered if that was God's plan for us now.
But one morning, as I was rushing around to finish packing for a weekend trip I suddenly realized that I'd been feeling seasick for a few days. And I was really, really, really tiiiiiiired. So on a whim, I took another test. It was immediately positive. Two happy pink lines that took my breath away. (Yes, it's taped to the fridge, just like last time.)
I'd been planning on telling Penn in a cute or creative way, should we ever have the joy of another positive pregnancy test. But instead I flung open the shower door and shoved the piece of plastic in his confused, soapy face. He was not wearing his glasses, so I also had to tell him what I was showing him and why.
Then I ran to tell Nicknack, who was eating his breakfast and enjoying the antics of his second family, the gang from Sesame Street. When I told him he was going to be a big brother he smiled at me with a mouthful of french toast. Even though he had no idea what I was sharing with him with such excitement, he was happy about it. It was sweet.
Unlike last time, we immediately accepted this pregnancy and celebrated with a lot less worry. The first time around it just seemed to good to be true. This time it is not as shocking, since we know it is possible.
I feel like we've won the lottery, twice!
It's still pretty early and we don't have a real due date yet. Probably the third week of November, sometime around Thanksgiving.
So we have tons of time to get Nicknack moved to his "big boy" room, unpack all the infant clothing, and come up with the perfect name. If you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them!
In the meantime I'm looking forward to moving out of the first trimester and the fatigue that comes with it. I don't remember being this tired with Nicknack. But I could have a selective memory. Also, I didn't have a toddler to chase after and clean up after. And I had a lot more time for naps.
I can't wait until that nesting instinct kicks in! I distinctly remember scrubbing our garage doors and exterior window sills with kitchen cleaner when I was about eight months pregnant. Lest you think I'm a fastidious housekeeper, I haven't done any such thing since. So I'm thinking it was pregnancy-related.
We're off to the Oregon this weekend to visit my Dad, the lovely coast, and Sesame Street Live! (Thank you for the idea, Sunni!
Have a wonderful spring weekend!
So let me just get right to the point.
We're expecting another baby! Yay!
I found out two days after I wrote my last post. No wonder I was in a sentimental mood! I was already pregnant.
We've taken a test every two weeks since Nicknack was about six months old. We weren't sure how best to space our kids, but we immediately knew we wanted another, God willing. We weren't sure if God would bless us in this way, again. We've always wanted to adopt (and still do), so we wondered if that was God's plan for us now.
But one morning, as I was rushing around to finish packing for a weekend trip I suddenly realized that I'd been feeling seasick for a few days. And I was really, really, really tiiiiiiired. So on a whim, I took another test. It was immediately positive. Two happy pink lines that took my breath away. (Yes, it's taped to the fridge, just like last time.)
I'd been planning on telling Penn in a cute or creative way, should we ever have the joy of another positive pregnancy test. But instead I flung open the shower door and shoved the piece of plastic in his confused, soapy face. He was not wearing his glasses, so I also had to tell him what I was showing him and why.
Then I ran to tell Nicknack, who was eating his breakfast and enjoying the antics of his second family, the gang from Sesame Street. When I told him he was going to be a big brother he smiled at me with a mouthful of french toast. Even though he had no idea what I was sharing with him with such excitement, he was happy about it. It was sweet.
Unlike last time, we immediately accepted this pregnancy and celebrated with a lot less worry. The first time around it just seemed to good to be true. This time it is not as shocking, since we know it is possible.
I feel like we've won the lottery, twice!
It's still pretty early and we don't have a real due date yet. Probably the third week of November, sometime around Thanksgiving.
So we have tons of time to get Nicknack moved to his "big boy" room, unpack all the infant clothing, and come up with the perfect name. If you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them!
In the meantime I'm looking forward to moving out of the first trimester and the fatigue that comes with it. I don't remember being this tired with Nicknack. But I could have a selective memory. Also, I didn't have a toddler to chase after and clean up after. And I had a lot more time for naps.
I can't wait until that nesting instinct kicks in! I distinctly remember scrubbing our garage doors and exterior window sills with kitchen cleaner when I was about eight months pregnant. Lest you think I'm a fastidious housekeeper, I haven't done any such thing since. So I'm thinking it was pregnancy-related.
We're off to the Oregon this weekend to visit my Dad, the lovely coast, and Sesame Street Live! (Thank you for the idea, Sunni!
Have a wonderful spring weekend!
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Jury Duty
Poor Penn. He is on his third full day of jury duty selection, and they still haven't chosen the actual jury. It's been a very frustrating and inefficient process. We are just crossing our fingers that he won't get chosen for this four week criminal trial in downtown Seattle. He would have to spend his days at the courtroom and then cram his normal ten or eleven hour work day into about four hours in the evening. This is what he's been doing for the past few days and it has required leaving before Nicholas gets up in the morning and returning home after I've put him to bed. He's hoping to be dismissed this afternoon.
I can't help but blush when I think of the one and only time I was called for jury duty.
It was a few years ago. My group at Washington Mutual, the Innovation and Consumer Research Group, had just been "disbanded." I was "working from home" until my official lay off date. This involved checking my e-mail a few times a day and... that's just about it. So when I received my jury summons in the mail I figured the timing was perfect. Someone has to be on juries, and many people find it to be very disruptive to their schedules, jobs, families, and finances. Not true in my case.
I was almost looking forward to it. After all, it was my civic duty.
I went to our little local courthouse on a Monday morning in September. It was a three minute drive from our house. The wait wasn't very long at all. I hardly had any time to read the book I'd brought. We were speedily questioned and I was the first name called for the first jury. I felt kind of proud. Like I'd won some kind of good citizen award. The case lasted until Thursday, when we easily reached a unanimous decision. Guilty of DUI.
The only really terrible part was walking back into the courtroom after making the decision, and especially filing past the defendant trying to make the same casually friendly amount of eye contact I had all week. It was excruciating waiting for the verdict to be read. Imagine how he must have felt. He was very pleasant about it and even thanked us afterward. He didn't seem surprised at all. He was just... very humble.
That night, as I tried to fall asleep, I couldn't get him out of my mind. I couldn't stop seeing the expression on his face. I kept replaying every word he'd said in the trial. I couldn't shake the thought, "What if we were wrong!?" I had nightmares that night and slept terribly.
And, unfortunately, I had to go back the very next day to see if I might be selected for another jury.
I woke up early that Friday morning. And I realized something. Something I was expecting hadn't arrived. So I took a test, just in case. I didn't get my hopes up, as I'd taken dozens of these tests in the 15 or 16 months that we'd been trying to conceive. I'd been visiting my OB/Gyn several times a month for follicle studies and shots. The last visit had been the worst. It appeared that I hadn't ovulated at all that month, rather than just being way later than the average woman. My doctor was troubled and I'd sat in her office crying as she said doubtfully, "It's possible that you ovulated much earlier than usual... Stranger things have happened."
A blood test confirmed that I had, indeed ovulated. I held out a tiny bit of hope that maybe this month would be the month, but it wasn't likely. I couldn't even remember if Penn and I had timed things correctly, since we hadn't known we should be ttc so much earlier than usual.
It had been almost three weeks since that visit, and I'd already gotten a negative pregnancy test on Monday or Tuesday. But that Friday morning I decided I'd better take another test, just to be sure.
I don't know about you, but I can never wait the recommended two or three minutes, so I just stare at the thing until the results appear. Trying to will that second line to appear. This particular test was of the plus or minus variety. Before I could even go through my normal routine of mentally bracing myself for a negative response, it was positive.
My body reacted before my brain did. I was shaking and crying before my mind even recognized the symbol as a plus. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. I thought of all the times I'd looked down at a negative test with tears in my eyes, wondering if I'd ever know what it was like to see that blessed positive sign or second line appear.
I was over the moon. Ecstatic would be a huge, huge understatement. Hysterical. Blubbering. Shaking. I was violently happy.
Penn was sleeping. I stumbled out of the bathroom and tried to control my voice, but accidentally scream-whispered "PENN!" (We had houseguests in the next room, by the way.) I attempted to regain my composure as I calmly screamed "PENN!!!!" and added "canyoulookatsomethingplease?" Penn literally JUMPED up out of bed with the confused and alarmed expression of one who is abruptly and urgently yanked out of a deep sleep. At first, he thought there was a big spider in the bathroom that I needed help with.
He was as overwhelmed as I was and we just sat on the bed looking at the test, screaming in hushed voices, crying, hugging, then looking at the test again. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
I kept saying over and over, "Let's not get our hopes up!" And, yet, I did. We called the 1-800 number on the box to verify that the light line was still a "real" line. We figured out our due date. We did a happy dance and jumped up and down.
Then I had to rush to get ready for jury duty.
That morning at the courthouse was not pretty. I was seated in the very first row, against the wall, so I was the first one called when they asked us to raise our hands if we would rather not serve on a jury that day. I was asked to stand and explain why.
"Um, well, see, I was on a jury earlier this week, and, um, I've just been kind of HAUNTED by our verdict, you know, just kind of questioning, what if we made the wrong decision, feeling very guilty about it, and very stressed about it, and I thought about it all night, and even had nightmares about it, and well, it's just too much responsibility for me, and I don't think I'm cut out to be on a jury, thank you."
As I stood there waiting for the the prosecutor and defense attorney to whisper amongst themselves, I realized I was kind of...well, crying, actually. I wasn't sure why. But... Yes, I was definitely crying. Perhaps no one had noticed. Being in the front row most of the other hundreds of people were behind me. I was pretty sure I was disguising my emotion fairly well. I started to calm down. Until the person behind me offered me a tissue.
And that just made it so much worse. I am a sympathetic crier. If someone else cries, for any reason, I will cry. Last night, for example, I cried while watching "Girlicious, the Search for the Next Pussycat Doll." One of the girls was homesick and crying, so I cried, too. The other thing about being a sympathetic crier is that if anyone shows any sympathy for me, as the crier, it will be ten times worse.
I tried so hard not to lose it. I had no real reason to cry. I was just so emotionally raw from receiving the biggest and best news of my life earlier in the morning. And the sympathetic look of the gentleman who gave me the tissue was just too much to bear.
You know when your mouth gets all sticky and your throat feels dry and tight and you wipe your eyes and can tell that your eyelids are all swollen? Almost like an allergic reaction. I could just feel the ugly cry face coming on.
The prosecutor continued to question me, although my answers were becoming less and less coherant. He paused and looked at me and asked, "Mrs. Hox, Don't you think that, because you obviously take this responsibility so seriously, it means that you would make a good juror?" (Or something to that effect.)
All I could say was "Noooooooooo!" sob, sob, sniffle
Relenting, he asked, "Mrs. Hox, Would you like me to ask the judge if he will dismiss you from jury duty today?"
"Yeeeeessssssss." sniffle, sob, blubber
He went over and conferred with the judge, who kindly said, "Thank you for your service, Mrs. Hox, you are free to leave."
I edged past the dozen people in my row, shoulders heaving, and walked out of the courtroom - facing all the other potential jurors in their rows - with tears and snot streaming down my face. It was so, so humiliating. A few of the people from my jury group waved at me on my way out. They must have thought I was emotionally unstable.
As I got in my car and tried to fix my face I said out loud to myself, twice: "Either I am pregnant or I have gone crazy."
I came home and took another test, and called Penn, my doctor, and my mother. Then I taped those two tests to the fridge. They served as a reminder - until it became physically apparent - that I wasn't dreaming. My mother even took a photo of me, beaming with pride, in front of the fridge by those purple pieces of plastic that revealed my destiny. Motherhood.
Next to the day Nicholas was born, that was the best the day of my life. Jury duty and all.
I can't help but blush when I think of the one and only time I was called for jury duty.
It was a few years ago. My group at Washington Mutual, the Innovation and Consumer Research Group, had just been "disbanded." I was "working from home" until my official lay off date. This involved checking my e-mail a few times a day and... that's just about it. So when I received my jury summons in the mail I figured the timing was perfect. Someone has to be on juries, and many people find it to be very disruptive to their schedules, jobs, families, and finances. Not true in my case.
I was almost looking forward to it. After all, it was my civic duty.
I went to our little local courthouse on a Monday morning in September. It was a three minute drive from our house. The wait wasn't very long at all. I hardly had any time to read the book I'd brought. We were speedily questioned and I was the first name called for the first jury. I felt kind of proud. Like I'd won some kind of good citizen award. The case lasted until Thursday, when we easily reached a unanimous decision. Guilty of DUI.
The only really terrible part was walking back into the courtroom after making the decision, and especially filing past the defendant trying to make the same casually friendly amount of eye contact I had all week. It was excruciating waiting for the verdict to be read. Imagine how he must have felt. He was very pleasant about it and even thanked us afterward. He didn't seem surprised at all. He was just... very humble.
That night, as I tried to fall asleep, I couldn't get him out of my mind. I couldn't stop seeing the expression on his face. I kept replaying every word he'd said in the trial. I couldn't shake the thought, "What if we were wrong!?" I had nightmares that night and slept terribly.
And, unfortunately, I had to go back the very next day to see if I might be selected for another jury.
I woke up early that Friday morning. And I realized something. Something I was expecting hadn't arrived. So I took a test, just in case. I didn't get my hopes up, as I'd taken dozens of these tests in the 15 or 16 months that we'd been trying to conceive. I'd been visiting my OB/Gyn several times a month for follicle studies and shots. The last visit had been the worst. It appeared that I hadn't ovulated at all that month, rather than just being way later than the average woman. My doctor was troubled and I'd sat in her office crying as she said doubtfully, "It's possible that you ovulated much earlier than usual... Stranger things have happened."
A blood test confirmed that I had, indeed ovulated. I held out a tiny bit of hope that maybe this month would be the month, but it wasn't likely. I couldn't even remember if Penn and I had timed things correctly, since we hadn't known we should be ttc so much earlier than usual.
It had been almost three weeks since that visit, and I'd already gotten a negative pregnancy test on Monday or Tuesday. But that Friday morning I decided I'd better take another test, just to be sure.
I don't know about you, but I can never wait the recommended two or three minutes, so I just stare at the thing until the results appear. Trying to will that second line to appear. This particular test was of the plus or minus variety. Before I could even go through my normal routine of mentally bracing myself for a negative response, it was positive.
My body reacted before my brain did. I was shaking and crying before my mind even recognized the symbol as a plus. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. I thought of all the times I'd looked down at a negative test with tears in my eyes, wondering if I'd ever know what it was like to see that blessed positive sign or second line appear.
I was over the moon. Ecstatic would be a huge, huge understatement. Hysterical. Blubbering. Shaking. I was violently happy.
Penn was sleeping. I stumbled out of the bathroom and tried to control my voice, but accidentally scream-whispered "PENN!" (We had houseguests in the next room, by the way.) I attempted to regain my composure as I calmly screamed "PENN!!!!" and added "canyoulookatsomethingplease?" Penn literally JUMPED up out of bed with the confused and alarmed expression of one who is abruptly and urgently yanked out of a deep sleep. At first, he thought there was a big spider in the bathroom that I needed help with.
He was as overwhelmed as I was and we just sat on the bed looking at the test, screaming in hushed voices, crying, hugging, then looking at the test again. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
I kept saying over and over, "Let's not get our hopes up!" And, yet, I did. We called the 1-800 number on the box to verify that the light line was still a "real" line. We figured out our due date. We did a happy dance and jumped up and down.
Then I had to rush to get ready for jury duty.
That morning at the courthouse was not pretty. I was seated in the very first row, against the wall, so I was the first one called when they asked us to raise our hands if we would rather not serve on a jury that day. I was asked to stand and explain why.
"Um, well, see, I was on a jury earlier this week, and, um, I've just been kind of HAUNTED by our verdict, you know, just kind of questioning, what if we made the wrong decision, feeling very guilty about it, and very stressed about it, and I thought about it all night, and even had nightmares about it, and well, it's just too much responsibility for me, and I don't think I'm cut out to be on a jury, thank you."
As I stood there waiting for the the prosecutor and defense attorney to whisper amongst themselves, I realized I was kind of...well, crying, actually. I wasn't sure why. But... Yes, I was definitely crying. Perhaps no one had noticed. Being in the front row most of the other hundreds of people were behind me. I was pretty sure I was disguising my emotion fairly well. I started to calm down. Until the person behind me offered me a tissue.
And that just made it so much worse. I am a sympathetic crier. If someone else cries, for any reason, I will cry. Last night, for example, I cried while watching "Girlicious, the Search for the Next Pussycat Doll." One of the girls was homesick and crying, so I cried, too. The other thing about being a sympathetic crier is that if anyone shows any sympathy for me, as the crier, it will be ten times worse.
I tried so hard not to lose it. I had no real reason to cry. I was just so emotionally raw from receiving the biggest and best news of my life earlier in the morning. And the sympathetic look of the gentleman who gave me the tissue was just too much to bear.
You know when your mouth gets all sticky and your throat feels dry and tight and you wipe your eyes and can tell that your eyelids are all swollen? Almost like an allergic reaction. I could just feel the ugly cry face coming on.
The prosecutor continued to question me, although my answers were becoming less and less coherant. He paused and looked at me and asked, "Mrs. Hox, Don't you think that, because you obviously take this responsibility so seriously, it means that you would make a good juror?" (Or something to that effect.)
All I could say was "Noooooooooo!" sob, sob, sniffle
Relenting, he asked, "Mrs. Hox, Would you like me to ask the judge if he will dismiss you from jury duty today?"
"Yeeeeessssssss." sniffle, sob, blubber
He went over and conferred with the judge, who kindly said, "Thank you for your service, Mrs. Hox, you are free to leave."
I edged past the dozen people in my row, shoulders heaving, and walked out of the courtroom - facing all the other potential jurors in their rows - with tears and snot streaming down my face. It was so, so humiliating. A few of the people from my jury group waved at me on my way out. They must have thought I was emotionally unstable.
As I got in my car and tried to fix my face I said out loud to myself, twice: "Either I am pregnant or I have gone crazy."
I came home and took another test, and called Penn, my doctor, and my mother. Then I taped those two tests to the fridge. They served as a reminder - until it became physically apparent - that I wasn't dreaming. My mother even took a photo of me, beaming with pride, in front of the fridge by those purple pieces of plastic that revealed my destiny. Motherhood.
Next to the day Nicholas was born, that was the best the day of my life. Jury duty and all.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Fear
A couple of weeks ago I went to bed early. I awoke at 11pm or so to the sound of Penn rummaging around our bedroom, for a flashlight. "How can you sleep through that?!" he asked in a stage whisper. I listened. There was a very loud helicopter hovering over our home. It had apparently been doing so for several minutes. It's search light was sweeping the steep wooded cliff that runs along the other side of our backyard fence, and those of our neighbors.
I jumped up, made sure Nicholas was still asleep in his bed and checked all the doors and windows. Penn looked out every window with a flashlight to make sure no one was around our house. He and I had a brief argument about whether or not all the lights in the house should be on or off. I was of the mind, ON. If there was someone out there I wanted him to know we were awake and at the ready! Penn felt very strongly that they should be OFF, so that we could see out but no one could see in. I realized he was right so we hunkered down at our respective bedroom windows and peeked through the curtains for a few minutes.
The search continued. The helicopter searchlight hovered for a minute on this neighbor's patio, a minute on that neighbor's tree, a minute on our own bushes. I tried to stay calm and not let my mind run away with me. "But really, what could it be?" I wondered. My first thought was escaped convict. Except, to my knowledge, we don't live near a prison. Missing person maybe? Dear God, it could be a body. I tried to think of something positive that could result in a helicopter search, but my mind drew a blank. So I waited and prayed.
Finally I couldn't take it. This thing had been hovering around our house for almost forty-five minutes by now! I turned on the TV and looked for a breaking story. Nothing. I opened my laptop and found a report on one of the local news channel's websites. There had just been a pitbull attack at our closest Target. One of the dogs had been shot by officers, the other was on the loose. It seemed kind of far away (at least five miles), but I guessed that a dog could run pretty far, pretty fast, if extremely motivated. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of a pitbull on a rampage in our neighborhood, but I immediately felt hugely relieved. There was no way it could get in our home. I got the stray cat inside and we promptly went to bed.
The helicopter must have been waiting on us, because almost the moment we said goodnight its noise started to fade and it was soon gone. I still had some residual butterflies in my stomach, so I prayed and fell asleep almost immediately.
Imagine my surprise when, yesterday, my husband handed me the neighborhood newsletter. I scanned the thing, wondering what in the world could have attracted my husband's attention. The upcoming Easter egg hunt, maybe? A change to the recycling pickup schedule, perhaps? At the bottom of the second page was a small blurb about the "excitement" in our neighborhood a couple of weeks prior. It turns out it was an armed robber on the loose. In our neighborhood! In our yards! I have no idea what this person robbed, but he'd led police on a chase right down our street. We live on cliffside lane that is full of sharp curves, steep hills, and lots of dead ends. The suspect had accidentally gotten lost in our 'hood and stuck on street that didn't go through. He'd abandoned his car on a neighbor's lawn and hoofed it. Right through our super quiet, little-old-lady-filled neighborhood.
I have no idea what to think of this. I'm not really worried, since it happened some time ago and I doubt he has any reason to come back. For heaven's sake, we live three doors down from a police officer. No one knows whether the robber was apprehended. I'd like to think so. But mostly I am exceedingly and overwhelmingly grateful that I didn't know what was really happening at the time it was happening. Obviously, it would have been a sleepless night. In fact, I'm fairly certain I would have lost my mind. I had already suggested to Penn that we all get in the car and drive to a hotel (before I found out about the pitbull incident). Penn shot that down right away. Luckily. Can you imagine if we'd opened our garage door and made ourselves vulnerable to someone - someone with a gun - in desperate need of a getaway vehicle!?
It may not seem like it from the details of this post, but God has really healed me from so much of the anxiety and fear I used to live with. Since childhood, I've spent the bulk of my nights lying awake, imaging worst case scenarios. What I would do in a fire. How I would react if there was an earthquake. Or nuclear-terrorist attack. My course of action if gunmen broke into the house. Or an axe murderer. Or a baby thief. What if something happened to my mother. Or Penn. Or me. Who would take care of Nicholas if Penn and I, and my parents all died? I would get so wrapped up in my imaginings that I often found myself trembling with fear or my eyes full of tears.
Talk about borrowing trouble! Why not wait until one of those things actually happened to feel the terror or grief of it?
There are so many Bible verses that speak to us about what to do with our anxieties and fears, as well as how to battle the evil of the world. The kind of evil that we see on the evening news or even willingly invite into our minds when we chose to watch certain television shows or movies. This is why I've had to swear off crime dramas and can't watch anything, fiction or non-fiction, about crashes of any kind. And I haven't watched anything remotely scary for years. Seriously, we rented Nancy Drew a couple of days ago and I was scared! My husband had to laugh at me with my hands over my eyes, peeking through my fingers. But it was suspenseful!
I've spent most of my life going to church every Sunday. And Sunday School, youth groups, the choir. But I never really got serious about Bible study or having a regular "quiet time" until the past couple of years. And It's really creating profound changes in a whole bunch of areas of my life, including fear and anxiety. I don't live under the cloud of fear or in the depression fog that consumed me for most of my adult life. I still have those same flashes of thought. My trigger thoughts. At night they tend to be either "What's that noise?" or worst of all "What if..." But I don't indulge them anymore.
It's kind of like when I quit chewing my nails many years ago. It wasn't that I quit cold turkey. I would have had to cover all my nails in band-aids to do that, because it was such an unconscious habit. Instead, the moment I caught myself chewing my nails I'd just stop, immediately. Sometimes I'd chew a whole nail off before I even noticed what I was doing. But pretty soon I noticed more quickly. And pretty soon I had stopped chewing my nails. Every once in a while I would briefly reverting back, and I would just stop in mid-chew, because it felt unnatural and because I had developed the habit to stop myself and choose another course.
I find that I have to do the same thing to keep my thoughts under control. I don't know how to go cold turkey from dark thoughts, because I don't have control of every thought that crosses my mind, before I think it. But every time I catch myself thinking the thoughts that I know I shouldn't, I stop. Sometimes I've gotten far along enough in my line of thinking that I'm already frightened or depressed. But more and more I notice almost right away that I just had a destructive thought.
Then I can do one of the many things the Bible instructs when I feel fear, anxiety, melancholy, etc. Rather than focusing on negative thoughts I can think about "whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right..." (Philippians 4:8). I can choose to turn away from my anxiety and "in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving" present my concerns to God. (Philippians 4:6) Why worry about something I can't handle when I can give those concerns to God and enjoy a good night's sleep? I can refuse to let the evil of the world overwhelm me and can instead "overcome evil with good." (Romans 12:21) I don't have the power to change the terrible things that are a part of each evening's news report. But I do have power. The power to pray. The power of good deeds to share the love of Christ with those who suffer. And the power to combat all the bad and dark things of this world by doing my best to glorify and share the one true source of goodness and light, Jesus Christ.
I can personally testify that God's instruction can lead to less anxiety and more sleep. And more importantly it has a radical impact on our souls and our needy world. And best of all, when we chose to believe and follow God's Word, we tell him that we have put our trust in him and in his ways, not our silly broken cistern way of life.
Is it just me, or is the Bible the best "self-help" book in all of creation? It works!
I jumped up, made sure Nicholas was still asleep in his bed and checked all the doors and windows. Penn looked out every window with a flashlight to make sure no one was around our house. He and I had a brief argument about whether or not all the lights in the house should be on or off. I was of the mind, ON. If there was someone out there I wanted him to know we were awake and at the ready! Penn felt very strongly that they should be OFF, so that we could see out but no one could see in. I realized he was right so we hunkered down at our respective bedroom windows and peeked through the curtains for a few minutes.
The search continued. The helicopter searchlight hovered for a minute on this neighbor's patio, a minute on that neighbor's tree, a minute on our own bushes. I tried to stay calm and not let my mind run away with me. "But really, what could it be?" I wondered. My first thought was escaped convict. Except, to my knowledge, we don't live near a prison. Missing person maybe? Dear God, it could be a body. I tried to think of something positive that could result in a helicopter search, but my mind drew a blank. So I waited and prayed.
Finally I couldn't take it. This thing had been hovering around our house for almost forty-five minutes by now! I turned on the TV and looked for a breaking story. Nothing. I opened my laptop and found a report on one of the local news channel's websites. There had just been a pitbull attack at our closest Target. One of the dogs had been shot by officers, the other was on the loose. It seemed kind of far away (at least five miles), but I guessed that a dog could run pretty far, pretty fast, if extremely motivated. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of a pitbull on a rampage in our neighborhood, but I immediately felt hugely relieved. There was no way it could get in our home. I got the stray cat inside and we promptly went to bed.
The helicopter must have been waiting on us, because almost the moment we said goodnight its noise started to fade and it was soon gone. I still had some residual butterflies in my stomach, so I prayed and fell asleep almost immediately.
Imagine my surprise when, yesterday, my husband handed me the neighborhood newsletter. I scanned the thing, wondering what in the world could have attracted my husband's attention. The upcoming Easter egg hunt, maybe? A change to the recycling pickup schedule, perhaps? At the bottom of the second page was a small blurb about the "excitement" in our neighborhood a couple of weeks prior. It turns out it was an armed robber on the loose. In our neighborhood! In our yards! I have no idea what this person robbed, but he'd led police on a chase right down our street. We live on cliffside lane that is full of sharp curves, steep hills, and lots of dead ends. The suspect had accidentally gotten lost in our 'hood and stuck on street that didn't go through. He'd abandoned his car on a neighbor's lawn and hoofed it. Right through our super quiet, little-old-lady-filled neighborhood.
I have no idea what to think of this. I'm not really worried, since it happened some time ago and I doubt he has any reason to come back. For heaven's sake, we live three doors down from a police officer. No one knows whether the robber was apprehended. I'd like to think so. But mostly I am exceedingly and overwhelmingly grateful that I didn't know what was really happening at the time it was happening. Obviously, it would have been a sleepless night. In fact, I'm fairly certain I would have lost my mind. I had already suggested to Penn that we all get in the car and drive to a hotel (before I found out about the pitbull incident). Penn shot that down right away. Luckily. Can you imagine if we'd opened our garage door and made ourselves vulnerable to someone - someone with a gun - in desperate need of a getaway vehicle!?
It may not seem like it from the details of this post, but God has really healed me from so much of the anxiety and fear I used to live with. Since childhood, I've spent the bulk of my nights lying awake, imaging worst case scenarios. What I would do in a fire. How I would react if there was an earthquake. Or nuclear-terrorist attack. My course of action if gunmen broke into the house. Or an axe murderer. Or a baby thief. What if something happened to my mother. Or Penn. Or me. Who would take care of Nicholas if Penn and I, and my parents all died? I would get so wrapped up in my imaginings that I often found myself trembling with fear or my eyes full of tears.
Talk about borrowing trouble! Why not wait until one of those things actually happened to feel the terror or grief of it?
There are so many Bible verses that speak to us about what to do with our anxieties and fears, as well as how to battle the evil of the world. The kind of evil that we see on the evening news or even willingly invite into our minds when we chose to watch certain television shows or movies. This is why I've had to swear off crime dramas and can't watch anything, fiction or non-fiction, about crashes of any kind. And I haven't watched anything remotely scary for years. Seriously, we rented Nancy Drew a couple of days ago and I was scared! My husband had to laugh at me with my hands over my eyes, peeking through my fingers. But it was suspenseful!
I've spent most of my life going to church every Sunday. And Sunday School, youth groups, the choir. But I never really got serious about Bible study or having a regular "quiet time" until the past couple of years. And It's really creating profound changes in a whole bunch of areas of my life, including fear and anxiety. I don't live under the cloud of fear or in the depression fog that consumed me for most of my adult life. I still have those same flashes of thought. My trigger thoughts. At night they tend to be either "What's that noise?" or worst of all "What if..." But I don't indulge them anymore.
It's kind of like when I quit chewing my nails many years ago. It wasn't that I quit cold turkey. I would have had to cover all my nails in band-aids to do that, because it was such an unconscious habit. Instead, the moment I caught myself chewing my nails I'd just stop, immediately. Sometimes I'd chew a whole nail off before I even noticed what I was doing. But pretty soon I noticed more quickly. And pretty soon I had stopped chewing my nails. Every once in a while I would briefly reverting back, and I would just stop in mid-chew, because it felt unnatural and because I had developed the habit to stop myself and choose another course.
I find that I have to do the same thing to keep my thoughts under control. I don't know how to go cold turkey from dark thoughts, because I don't have control of every thought that crosses my mind, before I think it. But every time I catch myself thinking the thoughts that I know I shouldn't, I stop. Sometimes I've gotten far along enough in my line of thinking that I'm already frightened or depressed. But more and more I notice almost right away that I just had a destructive thought.
Then I can do one of the many things the Bible instructs when I feel fear, anxiety, melancholy, etc. Rather than focusing on negative thoughts I can think about "whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right..." (Philippians 4:8). I can choose to turn away from my anxiety and "in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving" present my concerns to God. (Philippians 4:6) Why worry about something I can't handle when I can give those concerns to God and enjoy a good night's sleep? I can refuse to let the evil of the world overwhelm me and can instead "overcome evil with good." (Romans 12:21) I don't have the power to change the terrible things that are a part of each evening's news report. But I do have power. The power to pray. The power of good deeds to share the love of Christ with those who suffer. And the power to combat all the bad and dark things of this world by doing my best to glorify and share the one true source of goodness and light, Jesus Christ.
I can personally testify that God's instruction can lead to less anxiety and more sleep. And more importantly it has a radical impact on our souls and our needy world. And best of all, when we chose to believe and follow God's Word, we tell him that we have put our trust in him and in his ways, not our silly broken cistern way of life.
Is it just me, or is the Bible the best "self-help" book in all of creation? It works!
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