What a week.
With Ainsley starting school on Monday, and me starting Wednesday, it's been a rough five days. Some funny things have happened, and I have been blogging inside my own head all week, but when dinner is over and the kid's in bed and I finally have a few minutes to relax, I simply have not had the energy to put the thoughts on digital paper. One night this week, we put a very tired Ainsley in bed at 7:30 and Jason and I turned in at 8:30. I didn't think I would ever go to bed that early until I was 90 and in a home. But that's the first week of school for you.
I've been in a bad place all week; before school ever started I felt overwhelmed and felt like I had taken on too much. Then once my new crop of library students came in, and I started their week-long "boot camp" to get them ready to help me run this place, and found myself repeating the same script 45 minutes a period six times a day, I lost my will to live. Just a little.
At a meeting I had last week, a colleague started to complain about one of the many things there are to complain about in our economy-bitten schools this year. The person running the meeting advised her that things are going to seem dark but that we all need to put a positive spin on everything, including, apparently, our complaints.
So in that spirit of zen-like (or propaganda-like, take your pick) rethinking about bad situations, I am going to rephrase my own complaints about the first week of school in the form of positive speech. Will it make me feel better? Probably not, but that's what the beer I will pop open at 6pm is for.
Getting up at 5am every day is a great cure for insomnia!
I had too much free time this summer, anyway. I no longer have the ugly specter of leisurely boredom to worry about.
Getting chewed out by a colleague in front of your 1st period students during the first five minutes of the first day of school for something that's not even your fault just shows those students that working in a library is a thankless job that involves working with a hard-to-please public. It's a good thing that this is the first library lesson they got. Really. It is.
Being able to prepare a nice lunch for me and Ainsley in my own kitchen was contributing to some weight gain; inhaling a cold sandwich that has gotten soggy from being in plastic all day during my 20-minute lunch is much more the American way. It will insure that I fit in with all those friends of mine who work in the "real world."
Having a child not of the "morning person" persuasion allows for some mother/daughter bonding in the form of being cranky over our cereal together. It's good practice for when she's a teenager and acts like that all the time.
Your turn. Take a complaint you currently have about your life and spin it. Turn that frown upside down. It's cheaper than therapy, and almost as ineffective.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Out Of The Mouth Of Ains: The Mommy Book
Today has the double distinction of being both Ainsley's 7th birthday and her first day of second grade. Yes, I know that kinda sucks.
She took it in stride this morning, getting back into the routine of getting ready for school with minimal fuss (I know this won't last; I give it until Wednesday morning.) Once we got to school, she showed her "I'm seven now" independence. She saw that most parents were parking their cars and walking their kids inside the building to get them off to a good start.
"Mommy, I don't want you to walk me in. Just drop me off at the doors," she said. Just turned seven and already too cool to be seen with Mom--they become obnoxious so fast.
"Ainsley, I have to be a good mom here and do what the other parents are doing," I said, tongue firmly planted in cheek. "I have to walk you in and say goodbye to you and give you a big hug in front of all your friends on your first day."
Then she said, without a hint of sarcasm,
"Why? Is that in your Mommy Book?"
I had to laugh. Quietly, so she wouldn't see.
"My Mommy Book? What do you mean?"
"You know. Where you get all your big ideas."
I have no idea where she got this, but I'm just going to roll with it. When she complains about one of my "big ideas", I have something to pin it on. No treats after dinner if she doesn't eat her peas? Sorry, the Mommy Book says so. In bed by 8 on a school night? Mommy Book. Can't sit slack-jawed in front of the TV for two hours watching Phineas and Ferb on a beautiful day when she should be playing outside? Sooo the Mommy Book.
Plus, now I have a great baby shower present idea for her when she has her first kid. A long, long time from now.
She took it in stride this morning, getting back into the routine of getting ready for school with minimal fuss (I know this won't last; I give it until Wednesday morning.) Once we got to school, she showed her "I'm seven now" independence. She saw that most parents were parking their cars and walking their kids inside the building to get them off to a good start.
"Mommy, I don't want you to walk me in. Just drop me off at the doors," she said. Just turned seven and already too cool to be seen with Mom--they become obnoxious so fast.
"Ainsley, I have to be a good mom here and do what the other parents are doing," I said, tongue firmly planted in cheek. "I have to walk you in and say goodbye to you and give you a big hug in front of all your friends on your first day."
Then she said, without a hint of sarcasm,
"Why? Is that in your Mommy Book?"
I had to laugh. Quietly, so she wouldn't see.
"My Mommy Book? What do you mean?"
"You know. Where you get all your big ideas."
I have no idea where she got this, but I'm just going to roll with it. When she complains about one of my "big ideas", I have something to pin it on. No treats after dinner if she doesn't eat her peas? Sorry, the Mommy Book says so. In bed by 8 on a school night? Mommy Book. Can't sit slack-jawed in front of the TV for two hours watching Phineas and Ferb on a beautiful day when she should be playing outside? Sooo the Mommy Book.
Plus, now I have a great baby shower present idea for her when she has her first kid. A long, long time from now.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Puppy Love
Last night, I met my new nephew.
He's tiny, at just over three pounds. He felt so fragile in my arms that I worried about breaking him. He needs a lot of care right now, and my sister isn't getting much sleep, but one look into that precious little furry face and I was in love.
My new nephew is a canine. And even though I am more of a cat person, this new puppy has been all I can think about all morning.
Right before vacation, my sister and her family lost their 11-year-old dog, Daisy. It was a peaceful death; she had been having serious heart problems and was making them have long talks with the vet about euthanasia. Yet she ended up leaving this world the way so many of us want to: in her sleep. Her death, though peaceful, devastated them. In particular my nephew, an only child who grew up with Daisy. Unable to cope with a house made so empty, they decided to get another dog.
I will be honest: I didn't really approve of their choice at first. Not so much the new dog part, because we have always been people who need some kind of critter in the house. What I questioned was the choice in dogs. They chose to contact a breeder in our state and picked a dog that costs more than a monthly house payment. Never mind that the breed they chose is the only breed of dog I have ever considered making a house dog myself. Once I found out how much those puppies were, I was shocked and appalled and casted my vote for a shelter dog.
But all my misgivings went out the window once I met their furry bundle of joy. It's not a yippy, hyperactive toy breed, but it is a breed of dog that will stay fairly small. I've never met such a small puppy; most puppies I've had the pleasure of knowing were destined to grow into large dogs. When I held him, his fur was like spun silk against my chin. And when he licked my nose, I didn't mind at all. I could picture myself dog-sitting and taking him for walks. After he's been well and thoroughly house-trained and grown out of the furniture-chewing stage, of course.
Oh, no. He's going to make a dog person of me yet.
He's tiny, at just over three pounds. He felt so fragile in my arms that I worried about breaking him. He needs a lot of care right now, and my sister isn't getting much sleep, but one look into that precious little furry face and I was in love.
My new nephew is a canine. And even though I am more of a cat person, this new puppy has been all I can think about all morning.
Right before vacation, my sister and her family lost their 11-year-old dog, Daisy. It was a peaceful death; she had been having serious heart problems and was making them have long talks with the vet about euthanasia. Yet she ended up leaving this world the way so many of us want to: in her sleep. Her death, though peaceful, devastated them. In particular my nephew, an only child who grew up with Daisy. Unable to cope with a house made so empty, they decided to get another dog.
I will be honest: I didn't really approve of their choice at first. Not so much the new dog part, because we have always been people who need some kind of critter in the house. What I questioned was the choice in dogs. They chose to contact a breeder in our state and picked a dog that costs more than a monthly house payment. Never mind that the breed they chose is the only breed of dog I have ever considered making a house dog myself. Once I found out how much those puppies were, I was shocked and appalled and casted my vote for a shelter dog.
But all my misgivings went out the window once I met their furry bundle of joy. It's not a yippy, hyperactive toy breed, but it is a breed of dog that will stay fairly small. I've never met such a small puppy; most puppies I've had the pleasure of knowing were destined to grow into large dogs. When I held him, his fur was like spun silk against my chin. And when he licked my nose, I didn't mind at all. I could picture myself dog-sitting and taking him for walks. After he's been well and thoroughly house-trained and grown out of the furniture-chewing stage, of course.
Oh, no. He's going to make a dog person of me yet.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Out Of The Mouth Of Ains: $5 Footlong
One day last week, in a fit of productivity brought on by knowing I had to come back to work Monday, Ainsley and I went to the closest laundromat to wash comforters. No, it's not a fun way to spend one of our last days of summer break. But it's housework, and I am a little OCD about that stuff, so there we were.
Right next door was a Subway. We don't eat there much because it's not one of Ainsley's favorites, and sadly, her tastes dictate where we go when we need to grab a quick bite. We don't complain; she chooses Chipotle over McDonald's.
This time Ainsley agreed to get a sub to munch while we watched our cold-weather bedding spin in the 50 pound washer. She devoured her little ham and cheese mini-sub, and apparently the experience stuck with her.
"Mommy, how come we never eat at Subway?" she asked me days later.
"Well, until the other day, you never seemed to like it much. You wouldn't eat your sandwich."
"But I really like it now."
"Well, that's good to know. Next time we want to stop somewhere for lunch, maybe we'll try it again."
"Sweet. I hear they have footlongs. I wonder what a footlong sandwich tastes like."
I love the hold advertising has on children.
"Yes, Ainsley, they do. But a footlong is just a bigger version of the same sandwich you ate the other day. It doesn't taste any different. It's just...more."
She thought about that for a minute.
"Well, I still want to try it. 'Cause sometimes I have an appetite for a lot of sandwich."
Don't we all?
Right next door was a Subway. We don't eat there much because it's not one of Ainsley's favorites, and sadly, her tastes dictate where we go when we need to grab a quick bite. We don't complain; she chooses Chipotle over McDonald's.
This time Ainsley agreed to get a sub to munch while we watched our cold-weather bedding spin in the 50 pound washer. She devoured her little ham and cheese mini-sub, and apparently the experience stuck with her.
"Mommy, how come we never eat at Subway?" she asked me days later.
"Well, until the other day, you never seemed to like it much. You wouldn't eat your sandwich."
"But I really like it now."
"Well, that's good to know. Next time we want to stop somewhere for lunch, maybe we'll try it again."
"Sweet. I hear they have footlongs. I wonder what a footlong sandwich tastes like."
I love the hold advertising has on children.
"Yes, Ainsley, they do. But a footlong is just a bigger version of the same sandwich you ate the other day. It doesn't taste any different. It's just...more."
She thought about that for a minute.
"Well, I still want to try it. 'Cause sometimes I have an appetite for a lot of sandwich."
Don't we all?
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Farewell, Youth. I Hardly Knew Ye.
Saturday I attended the wedding reception of my last remaining single friend.
It came as a surprise. I am ashamed to say that even though this person, Jason's college roommate his senior year, was just a few years ago one of our closest friends, we had lost touch with him. Chalk it up to being busy working parents. We didn't even know he was seeing someone until the reception invitation came in the mail just before we left for vacation.
Seeing him, and sitting at a table with a couple of other Centre alumni, was like old times. Except that it wasn't. On the one hand, none of us has changed very much in appearance and we all still look pretty young and as cute as any of us ever did. On the other hand, everything has changed.
At one point, during a lull in conversation, Jason looked at our glasses.
"When did we all start drinking wine?"
This same crew a decade ago would have been taking advantage of the open bar by downing Bud Lights or shots of Goldschlager or Jager bombs. Now it's Pinot Noir and Riesling.
One of the first things we did after perusing the wine list was to whip out pictures of our kids. Our conversation was dominated by them; who they look like, how they do in school, what sports and extracurriculars they enjoy and show promise in. After we had exhausted the topic of our kids, we moved on to the exciting worlds of careers and saving for retirement and home improvement.
As we watched the bride and groom dance, and moved out onto the dance floor ourselves, I realized this was a kind of goodbye. The group of people moving around us on the dance floor were key players in some of my most reckless moments of youth. But now we're so settled. The last bachelor is married off and soon will start a family of his own. We drink decent wines in moderation and carry around pictures of our kids and talk about health care and the stock market. We look like slightly better-dressed versions of our old selves, with only a few more lines around the eyes and a couple more pounds around our middles betraying how much time has passed since college. But dig a little deeper, and everything has changed. Our priorities, our tastes, even our capacity for staying out late (we all started yawning and saying our goodbyes at 11:30.) We parted with promises that those of us who live in the area would stay in touch, but the reality is that staying in touch will probably mean saying "hey" on Facebook. Not that I don't still love these people. It's just that adult life gets in the way.
Bittersweet: it's not just for chocolate. It's how you feel when you realize you're truly a grownup.
It came as a surprise. I am ashamed to say that even though this person, Jason's college roommate his senior year, was just a few years ago one of our closest friends, we had lost touch with him. Chalk it up to being busy working parents. We didn't even know he was seeing someone until the reception invitation came in the mail just before we left for vacation.
Seeing him, and sitting at a table with a couple of other Centre alumni, was like old times. Except that it wasn't. On the one hand, none of us has changed very much in appearance and we all still look pretty young and as cute as any of us ever did. On the other hand, everything has changed.
At one point, during a lull in conversation, Jason looked at our glasses.
"When did we all start drinking wine?"
This same crew a decade ago would have been taking advantage of the open bar by downing Bud Lights or shots of Goldschlager or Jager bombs. Now it's Pinot Noir and Riesling.
One of the first things we did after perusing the wine list was to whip out pictures of our kids. Our conversation was dominated by them; who they look like, how they do in school, what sports and extracurriculars they enjoy and show promise in. After we had exhausted the topic of our kids, we moved on to the exciting worlds of careers and saving for retirement and home improvement.
As we watched the bride and groom dance, and moved out onto the dance floor ourselves, I realized this was a kind of goodbye. The group of people moving around us on the dance floor were key players in some of my most reckless moments of youth. But now we're so settled. The last bachelor is married off and soon will start a family of his own. We drink decent wines in moderation and carry around pictures of our kids and talk about health care and the stock market. We look like slightly better-dressed versions of our old selves, with only a few more lines around the eyes and a couple more pounds around our middles betraying how much time has passed since college. But dig a little deeper, and everything has changed. Our priorities, our tastes, even our capacity for staying out late (we all started yawning and saying our goodbyes at 11:30.) We parted with promises that those of us who live in the area would stay in touch, but the reality is that staying in touch will probably mean saying "hey" on Facebook. Not that I don't still love these people. It's just that adult life gets in the way.
Bittersweet: it's not just for chocolate. It's how you feel when you realize you're truly a grownup.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Climate Change
I've heard that frogs are a good indicator of an area's ecological well-being. If the frog population in your part of the world is thriving and going largely unmutated, things must be in balance.
So I wonder what it means for northern Kentucky that a large toad hopped out of our juniper and onto my foot yesterday.
On the one hand, it indicates a potentially large population. We've lived here 8 years now and never seen an amphibian of any sort in our yard, not even those tiny little frogs that I've seen hop onto suburban driveways in other neighborhoods.
On the other hand...well, we have no body of water close by. There isn't a pond or marsh in walking distance for a human that I'm aware of. And last I heard, frogs need water. So where the hell did this big boy come from?
It was alarming in many ways. There I was, weeding our landscaping, which had gotten out of control while we were on vacation. I felt something hard whack against the side of my foot. I figured a rock rolled out of the bushes, which didn't make sense, but was the only thing I could think of.
Until I looked down and saw that the "rock" was breathing.
I didn't holler as loudly as you might expect.
I stood there for a minute, marvelling. It wasn't a tiny little frog. It was a brown, warty toad as big as my fist. The kind of thing you see in illustrated fairy tales that usually end with a lovelorn damsel puckering up in hopes of finding a prince.
I wasn't about to try this.
We've had a lot of rain here. In fact, right before the toad leapt at me, I had trudged through our side yard wondering how in the world things were ever going to dry out enough in that swamp land for Jason to mow. This July was the coolest on record in the tri-state area. It has not been a normal Kentucky summer.
Troubling even before one finds unusual animals species in her front yard.
I know weather is cyclical, and this all might be some kind of normal fluctuation, but I see Mr. Toad's not-so-wild ride as a harbinger for bad things to come. I've never seen a summer so not-summery in my 35 years. The reality of climate change has hit me (literally) in the form of a misplaced bullfrog.
So I wonder what it means for northern Kentucky that a large toad hopped out of our juniper and onto my foot yesterday.
On the one hand, it indicates a potentially large population. We've lived here 8 years now and never seen an amphibian of any sort in our yard, not even those tiny little frogs that I've seen hop onto suburban driveways in other neighborhoods.
On the other hand...well, we have no body of water close by. There isn't a pond or marsh in walking distance for a human that I'm aware of. And last I heard, frogs need water. So where the hell did this big boy come from?
It was alarming in many ways. There I was, weeding our landscaping, which had gotten out of control while we were on vacation. I felt something hard whack against the side of my foot. I figured a rock rolled out of the bushes, which didn't make sense, but was the only thing I could think of.
Until I looked down and saw that the "rock" was breathing.
I didn't holler as loudly as you might expect.
I stood there for a minute, marvelling. It wasn't a tiny little frog. It was a brown, warty toad as big as my fist. The kind of thing you see in illustrated fairy tales that usually end with a lovelorn damsel puckering up in hopes of finding a prince.
I wasn't about to try this.
We've had a lot of rain here. In fact, right before the toad leapt at me, I had trudged through our side yard wondering how in the world things were ever going to dry out enough in that swamp land for Jason to mow. This July was the coolest on record in the tri-state area. It has not been a normal Kentucky summer.
Troubling even before one finds unusual animals species in her front yard.
I know weather is cyclical, and this all might be some kind of normal fluctuation, but I see Mr. Toad's not-so-wild ride as a harbinger for bad things to come. I've never seen a summer so not-summery in my 35 years. The reality of climate change has hit me (literally) in the form of a misplaced bullfrog.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Addendum to the Cruisin' Journal
After Jason reminded me of this, I couldn't believe I forgot it in my trip journal.
On Puerto Rico night, the night of the big ship-wide party they had, Jason got chosen by one of the activity leaders to participate in a male "shake your booty" contest. He was one of six guys who got pulled out of the huge crowd. He didn't make it to the finals, but only because his entourage only consisted of me and the other contestants had posses of friends and relatives cheering them on. (I did cheer loudly enough to get the attention of the emcee, who said, "Did you hear his wife out there shouting, 'That's MY man!' ")
Do with this information as you will. He is on Facebook.
On Puerto Rico night, the night of the big ship-wide party they had, Jason got chosen by one of the activity leaders to participate in a male "shake your booty" contest. He was one of six guys who got pulled out of the huge crowd. He didn't make it to the finals, but only because his entourage only consisted of me and the other contestants had posses of friends and relatives cheering them on. (I did cheer loudly enough to get the attention of the emcee, who said, "Did you hear his wife out there shouting, 'That's MY man!' ")
Do with this information as you will. He is on Facebook.
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