Mixed Feelings
This morning I played at the Texas State Cemetery to honor fallen war veterans. Apparently, this is usually the National Guard Band's gig, but they're otherwise engaged this year. I don't usually consider myself very patriotic, but playing the Star Spangled Banner for a bunch of war veterans, living and not, was one of the most moving musical experiences of my life so far. I honestly had a hard time getting to the end.
On the other hand, I can completely relate to the following quote from Mark Twain on a friend's Blog.
"O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it. "
---Mark Twain, "The War Prayer"
So, that about sums it up for me. I'm a Memorial Day hypocrite. I totally don't get war--and I don't buy into what we're doing right now AT ALL, but I'm moved to tears by a group of men and women simply because they went to war. Who the hell am I?
What happened to the good old days when Memorial Day meant the lake, barbeque, and a six pack of beer? Okay, admitedly, those were never my good old days, but still. . .
Monday, May 29, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
And because all poop and no play makes Robyn an incredibly dull girl (not too mention a very irritable one), I celebrated Mia's intestinal victory today by listening to a recent edition of This American Life. Generally I only allow myself the pleasure of listening to my favorite public radio programs while I work out, but today I figured I'd earned a reward of some kind. And since I found myself with little appetite for chocolate (my usual reward of choice), I decided to break my own rule.
The episode I listened to today ("Fake I.D."---originally aired on 9/20/2002; reaired on 4/21/2006) included a wonderful short story, "This Blessed House" by Jhumpa Lahiri, from her book of short stories The Interpreter of Maladies. The story was read by Mira Nair, who was apparently the director of the movies Mississippi Masala and Monsoon Wedding. I'm not sure why, but I loved this story about a young Indian couple who find kitschy Christian figures hidden in bizarre places all around their new home. It's a strange premise that allows the writer to develop two fascinating characters with conflicting reactions to the items they discover.
If you want to check it out, it can be heard at http://www.thisamericanlife.com/
It's definitely worth the 27 minutes!
The episode I listened to today ("Fake I.D."---originally aired on 9/20/2002; reaired on 4/21/2006) included a wonderful short story, "This Blessed House" by Jhumpa Lahiri, from her book of short stories The Interpreter of Maladies. The story was read by Mira Nair, who was apparently the director of the movies Mississippi Masala and Monsoon Wedding. I'm not sure why, but I loved this story about a young Indian couple who find kitschy Christian figures hidden in bizarre places all around their new home. It's a strange premise that allows the writer to develop two fascinating characters with conflicting reactions to the items they discover.
If you want to check it out, it can be heard at http://www.thisamericanlife.com/
It's definitely worth the 27 minutes!
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Saturday, May 06, 2006
"Freezing the beta: How to kill a sick fish humanely" was definitely my best and most useful parenting tip. . .up to now!
Let's call today's tip "Retrieving the stone: How to search through your child's poo."
Oh yes. It's true. Davy and I are currently inspecting each little poo our sweet Mia produces, and we will get to continue this exercise in family bonding and olfactory adventure until we recover the rock she swallowed on Thursday night.
But I'm not writing for sympathy, my friends. I'm writing to share with you some most helpful tricks of the poo-inspection trade, in the event that you find yourself in a similar position someday--specifically, staring into the toilet wondering how in the hell you're going to do this.
Through trial and error, Davy and I have developed the following tried-and-true method of poo inspection. For best results, you'll want to have the following materials on hand and at the ready:
plastic wrap
disposable gloves
craft sticks
empty plastic grocery bag
Step 1: Suspend a generous sheet of plastic wrap across the toilet bowl, under the seat. You'll want to position said plastic wrap far enough back on the potty to catch what you want but allow any liquid to flow freely into the bowl. (This is a really important detail. Take my word.)
Step 2: Allow child to do what needs to be done. Then take a deep breath and prepare to work quickly.
Step 3: Using one gloved hand, grip specimen from beneath the plastic wrap. Holding a craft stick in the other gloved hand, systematically cut or crush specimen completely.
Step 4: Wrap smashed specimen and craft sticks completely in plastic wrap. Drop into empty plastic grocery bag. Place gloves into bag and knot to seal hermetically. Remove to outdoor garbage receptacle immediately.
One last tip: Prepare to stay close to home for 3-4 days, or take a small stash of supplies with you everywhere you go. It turns out that Sams doesn't keep a supply of gloves and craft sticks in their family restrooms. The Czarnecki method of poo-inspection is much less effective with only a paper towel to work with. Again, take my word for it.
Let's call today's tip "Retrieving the stone: How to search through your child's poo."
Oh yes. It's true. Davy and I are currently inspecting each little poo our sweet Mia produces, and we will get to continue this exercise in family bonding and olfactory adventure until we recover the rock she swallowed on Thursday night.
But I'm not writing for sympathy, my friends. I'm writing to share with you some most helpful tricks of the poo-inspection trade, in the event that you find yourself in a similar position someday--specifically, staring into the toilet wondering how in the hell you're going to do this.
Through trial and error, Davy and I have developed the following tried-and-true method of poo inspection. For best results, you'll want to have the following materials on hand and at the ready:
plastic wrap
disposable gloves
craft sticks
empty plastic grocery bag
Step 1: Suspend a generous sheet of plastic wrap across the toilet bowl, under the seat. You'll want to position said plastic wrap far enough back on the potty to catch what you want but allow any liquid to flow freely into the bowl. (This is a really important detail. Take my word.)
Step 2: Allow child to do what needs to be done. Then take a deep breath and prepare to work quickly.
Step 3: Using one gloved hand, grip specimen from beneath the plastic wrap. Holding a craft stick in the other gloved hand, systematically cut or crush specimen completely.
Step 4: Wrap smashed specimen and craft sticks completely in plastic wrap. Drop into empty plastic grocery bag. Place gloves into bag and knot to seal hermetically. Remove to outdoor garbage receptacle immediately.
One last tip: Prepare to stay close to home for 3-4 days, or take a small stash of supplies with you everywhere you go. It turns out that Sams doesn't keep a supply of gloves and craft sticks in their family restrooms. The Czarnecki method of poo-inspection is much less effective with only a paper towel to work with. Again, take my word for it.
Friday, May 05, 2006
So, Mia could have died last night.
The short story: Davy is at the movies with his friends. I'm downstairs reading. The girls are in bed. Mia screams from upstairs. I mean, SCREAMS. I run upstairs to find her sitting up in her bed wailing. It takes a minute for her to calm down enough to tell me she has swallowed a rock. I immediately know exactly what rock she's talking about--a small polished stone she got at a museum gift shop in New York. About the size of a grape. Apparently (she explained this part later, after she had calmed down), she had been rolling it around on her nose and her cheeks to feel how smooth and cool it was, and it rolled into her mouth. She gasped in surprise and swallowed it. From her reaction, I can tell that she's not choking. She's crying and talking, which are both good signs. But she's only four years old, and she can't tell me whether she actually swallowed it or it's lodged in an airway but not blocking it completely.
I call the doctor. Lots of questions are asked and answered, and Mia finally calms down. I am relatively certain that she has actually swallowed the rock and it is not restricting her breathing at all. However, now we must make sure it comes out. She cannot be apart from me or Davy until she actually passes the thing. And if she hasn't passed it in 4 days, the doctor will have to figure out where it is. Which means I'm going to Walgreens today to buy gloves and craft sticks. Use your imagination.
Or don't.
The most awful thing, much more daunting than the ideas of disecting poo for the next 4 days, is the thought that had she choked on the damn thing, I would very likely not have known until it was too late.
Sometimes this parenting gig is much harder than you expect. You do everything you're supposed to. You follow ALL the rules. And then your kid goes and swallow a rock.
The short story: Davy is at the movies with his friends. I'm downstairs reading. The girls are in bed. Mia screams from upstairs. I mean, SCREAMS. I run upstairs to find her sitting up in her bed wailing. It takes a minute for her to calm down enough to tell me she has swallowed a rock. I immediately know exactly what rock she's talking about--a small polished stone she got at a museum gift shop in New York. About the size of a grape. Apparently (she explained this part later, after she had calmed down), she had been rolling it around on her nose and her cheeks to feel how smooth and cool it was, and it rolled into her mouth. She gasped in surprise and swallowed it. From her reaction, I can tell that she's not choking. She's crying and talking, which are both good signs. But she's only four years old, and she can't tell me whether she actually swallowed it or it's lodged in an airway but not blocking it completely.
I call the doctor. Lots of questions are asked and answered, and Mia finally calms down. I am relatively certain that she has actually swallowed the rock and it is not restricting her breathing at all. However, now we must make sure it comes out. She cannot be apart from me or Davy until she actually passes the thing. And if she hasn't passed it in 4 days, the doctor will have to figure out where it is. Which means I'm going to Walgreens today to buy gloves and craft sticks. Use your imagination.
Or don't.
The most awful thing, much more daunting than the ideas of disecting poo for the next 4 days, is the thought that had she choked on the damn thing, I would very likely not have known until it was too late.
Sometimes this parenting gig is much harder than you expect. You do everything you're supposed to. You follow ALL the rules. And then your kid goes and swallow a rock.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
I happened across this quote today, which was attributed to Bill Moyers. I wonder if it's accurate. Either way, it made me chuckle--and then sigh. . .
"Other than the war in Iraq , the Katrina disaster, the deficit, the CIA leak, torture, stopping stem cell research, homeland security, global warming and undercutting science, we've yet to really feel the negative effects of the Bush administration." -- Bill Moyers
"Other than the war in Iraq , the Katrina disaster, the deficit, the CIA leak, torture, stopping stem cell research, homeland security, global warming and undercutting science, we've yet to really feel the negative effects of the Bush administration." -- Bill Moyers
And now for some good news.
In some unrelated tests a few weeks ago, a doctor discovered a giant tumor-looking mass growing on my friend's lung. No point in doing a biopsy, the doctor said, since the mass would have to be removed regardless of whether it is malignant or benign. So she went in yesterday to have the thing removed--in a procedure that required breaking her ribs and from which she will need several months to recover.
Today she got the news that the thing (the likes of which the doctor says he'd never seen before) is a neurofibroma, a benign tumor that grows on nerve cells.
Her recovery from the surgery is going to be rough--especially considering she has a six year old and a four year old at home--but this should be the worst of it. I'm guessing the surgical recovery plus chemo and/or radiation plus the terror of living with cancer would have been much, much worse.
When did I get old enough to be having shit like this happen to my friends???
I have to say, April has been quite February-like in terms of relative suckitude. Assuming I and my family and friends all survive the next 10 days, I'll be happy to put up my virtual May pole this year. Hell, I'll be so happy to see April end I might just make May baskets for all of my neighbors and leave them on their front porches in the middle of the night. Goodbye crappy April! Hello May!
In some unrelated tests a few weeks ago, a doctor discovered a giant tumor-looking mass growing on my friend's lung. No point in doing a biopsy, the doctor said, since the mass would have to be removed regardless of whether it is malignant or benign. So she went in yesterday to have the thing removed--in a procedure that required breaking her ribs and from which she will need several months to recover.
Today she got the news that the thing (the likes of which the doctor says he'd never seen before) is a neurofibroma, a benign tumor that grows on nerve cells.
Her recovery from the surgery is going to be rough--especially considering she has a six year old and a four year old at home--but this should be the worst of it. I'm guessing the surgical recovery plus chemo and/or radiation plus the terror of living with cancer would have been much, much worse.
When did I get old enough to be having shit like this happen to my friends???
I have to say, April has been quite February-like in terms of relative suckitude. Assuming I and my family and friends all survive the next 10 days, I'll be happy to put up my virtual May pole this year. Hell, I'll be so happy to see April end I might just make May baskets for all of my neighbors and leave them on their front porches in the middle of the night. Goodbye crappy April! Hello May!
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Davy's grandmother died last night. I'm so glad we were able to visit this winter. I hope the girls will remember her. It's funny that I felt such a strong connection with her inspite of the fact that Davy says he was terrified of her when he was a kid. Age must have really mellowed her. I enjoyed cooking with Ann, and talking about her life as young girl. We had a lot in common, despite coming from completely different times and backgrounds. I'm glad I got to know her.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Anatomy of My Shitty Day
by Robyncz
8:00 a.m.--Desperate phone call from dear friend having a panic attack. She can't breathe. Her rat-bastard husband of 12 years has been cheating on her the whole damn time they've been married (some of which she knew about, some of which she didn't) and he's decided that now he doesn't love her any more. She's a wreck. I quickly organize a meeting of Good Friends who happen also to be Very Strong Women to try to lovingly beat some emotional sense into her.
11:00 a.m.--En route from pow-wow of Very Strong Women, I have a flat tire. Crap. Desperate Friend turns the tables and rescues me. I hang out at her house while tire is being replaced.
1:30 p.m.--En route from tire place du jour I discover that Underpaid Tire Idiots have broken the sensor that tells my fancy-pants car computer whether tires are inflated correctly. Warning, Warning Will Robinson!
2:00--I pick up youngest daughter from preschool. She's pissed because I forgot to bring her a fresh cup of juice for the ride home. Yeah, well I haven't been home since I dropped you off, punkin'. You're going to have to live with it!!!!
4:45--I take the girls to swim lessons and spend 45 minutes running on the indoor track at the Y. The air conditioning is b a r e l y hanging on. Still, it's definitely the best part of my day.
6:00--Davy's mom calls to say his grandmother, age 93, and a woman I hold very dear, has had a heart attack and is going into kidney failure. She's not expected to live through the night. Davy, the girls, and I visted her in Milwaukee in February. I knew at the time it might be our last chance, but I'm feeling very unprepared for this nonetheless.
Did I mention the three huge projects I'm working on right now--for three different clients? All with major deadlines this week? I had sketched out a critical schedule of the tasks I needed to complete each day in order to make the deadlines. Let's just toss that baby in the garbage. My schedule is screwed, and I can't seem to concentrate on the work I need to do. It might be a good night to catch up on tivo'ed episodes of the Real World Key West (shhhhh, nobody knows my dirty little secret) with a large tumbler of moderately priced pinot noir.
Crap. This day sucks.
by Robyncz
8:00 a.m.--Desperate phone call from dear friend having a panic attack. She can't breathe. Her rat-bastard husband of 12 years has been cheating on her the whole damn time they've been married (some of which she knew about, some of which she didn't) and he's decided that now he doesn't love her any more. She's a wreck. I quickly organize a meeting of Good Friends who happen also to be Very Strong Women to try to lovingly beat some emotional sense into her.
11:00 a.m.--En route from pow-wow of Very Strong Women, I have a flat tire. Crap. Desperate Friend turns the tables and rescues me. I hang out at her house while tire is being replaced.
1:30 p.m.--En route from tire place du jour I discover that Underpaid Tire Idiots have broken the sensor that tells my fancy-pants car computer whether tires are inflated correctly. Warning, Warning Will Robinson!
2:00--I pick up youngest daughter from preschool. She's pissed because I forgot to bring her a fresh cup of juice for the ride home. Yeah, well I haven't been home since I dropped you off, punkin'. You're going to have to live with it!!!!
4:45--I take the girls to swim lessons and spend 45 minutes running on the indoor track at the Y. The air conditioning is b a r e l y hanging on. Still, it's definitely the best part of my day.
6:00--Davy's mom calls to say his grandmother, age 93, and a woman I hold very dear, has had a heart attack and is going into kidney failure. She's not expected to live through the night. Davy, the girls, and I visted her in Milwaukee in February. I knew at the time it might be our last chance, but I'm feeling very unprepared for this nonetheless.
Did I mention the three huge projects I'm working on right now--for three different clients? All with major deadlines this week? I had sketched out a critical schedule of the tasks I needed to complete each day in order to make the deadlines. Let's just toss that baby in the garbage. My schedule is screwed, and I can't seem to concentrate on the work I need to do. It might be a good night to catch up on tivo'ed episodes of the Real World Key West (shhhhh, nobody knows my dirty little secret) with a large tumbler of moderately priced pinot noir.
Crap. This day sucks.
Something I didn't anticipate when I set up this whole bloggy thing was that I wouldn't have anything to say. Actually, I have plenty to say, but I double-think everything I consider writing about based on who might read it. Which is silly, really, considering I haven't told anyone I know about this blog, so absolutely no one is reading it. I don't want to write much about my family because "the Internet is a dangerous place" and I've been warned not to give out to much informaton. I'm hesitant to write about my extended family, because like most families, mine is complicated and messy and writing about in public could seriously inflame things--if ever they were discovered. I don't want to write anything negative or controversial related to my friends, because I don't want to publish anything on the web that might come back to haunt someone. And since my friends are the people most likely to see this someday, even if I were to use fictional names, people would know when they were reading about themselves.
I could write about cooking, knitting, music, or politics, but it's been done and done and done. Frankly I've got nothing innovative or compelling to add.
So what does that leave? Not much.
Waiting for inspiration.
(Something else I didn't anticipate when creating this blog was that it would be too complicated for my middle-aged mommy mush brain to cope with. Who knew that if you clicked on the wrong button your carefully composed posts would disappear in some previously unrecognized draft folder instead of publishing itself on the web for all the world to see?!? Well I know now! This post was written [and ostensibly posted] early today when I had no readers. I have since gone out on a limb and invited one, count 'em one, friend to view my blog. Thanks, Jake!) (Baby steps. . .)
I could write about cooking, knitting, music, or politics, but it's been done and done and done. Frankly I've got nothing innovative or compelling to add.
So what does that leave? Not much.
Waiting for inspiration.
(Something else I didn't anticipate when creating this blog was that it would be too complicated for my middle-aged mommy mush brain to cope with. Who knew that if you clicked on the wrong button your carefully composed posts would disappear in some previously unrecognized draft folder instead of publishing itself on the web for all the world to see?!? Well I know now! This post was written [and ostensibly posted] early today when I had no readers. I have since gone out on a limb and invited one, count 'em one, friend to view my blog. Thanks, Jake!) (Baby steps. . .)
Monday, April 17, 2006
I truly hate the word "clinch." As in "Blue Devils clinch playoff berth." Come to think of it, I'm not a huge fan of "berth" in this context, either. But it's "clinch" that causes me to grind my teeth. No particular reason. I'm sure this is a perfectly acceptable use of the word. And it's not like I had a traumatic clinching experience as a young child. It just really bugs me.
That's all.
That's all.
Monday, April 10, 2006
So here's something I never say out loud--and I'm not sure why. Perhaps because nobody wants to hear it. Or maybe because I'm too busy sweating the small stuff. But here it is. . .
I have an amazing life. It's not perfect. And it's not interesting by any standard, but it's sweet. I have a good, smart, and loyal husband who puts up with an almost unspeakable amount of my shit. Every day. I bitch at him. I complain about everything. I'm annoyed by something ridiculous a good 75 percent of the time. But that's all the surface stuff. I don't tell him nearly enough (well, ever) how much I love and appreciate him. But it's true.
I have two amazing daughters who are beauty, and joy, and everything else that is good. They amaze me daily with their generosity, creativity, their intellect, and the fact that they are complete little people. And very different little people at that. They both drive me nuts in very different ways, but I'm so glad they're mine.
I've been very lucky to be able to manage my career so that I get to do work I enjoy pretty much when I want to do it, and I get to be around for my kids. It's a complicated bitch to organize sometimes, but a luxury that very few people enjoy.
So why do I usually feel like it should be better? Like *I* should be better. At all of it: wife, mother, daughter, friend, individual? Why do I feel like I should be doing more? Why do I continue to moan and complain when I am clearly one of the luckiest people alive?
Answer me that, smart people!
I have an amazing life. It's not perfect. And it's not interesting by any standard, but it's sweet. I have a good, smart, and loyal husband who puts up with an almost unspeakable amount of my shit. Every day. I bitch at him. I complain about everything. I'm annoyed by something ridiculous a good 75 percent of the time. But that's all the surface stuff. I don't tell him nearly enough (well, ever) how much I love and appreciate him. But it's true.
I have two amazing daughters who are beauty, and joy, and everything else that is good. They amaze me daily with their generosity, creativity, their intellect, and the fact that they are complete little people. And very different little people at that. They both drive me nuts in very different ways, but I'm so glad they're mine.
I've been very lucky to be able to manage my career so that I get to do work I enjoy pretty much when I want to do it, and I get to be around for my kids. It's a complicated bitch to organize sometimes, but a luxury that very few people enjoy.
So why do I usually feel like it should be better? Like *I* should be better. At all of it: wife, mother, daughter, friend, individual? Why do I feel like I should be doing more? Why do I continue to moan and complain when I am clearly one of the luckiest people alive?
Answer me that, smart people!
Looky here! I have a blog.
I set it up for the sole purpose of commenting on someone else's, but here it is.
Now what?
I had absolutely no intention of ever maintaining an online journal of any sort. Hell, I'm not even entirely sure what a blog is supposed to be. In as much as I haven't been living in a cave for the past five years, I *do* know that the wordlet "blog" is short for "weblog" but besides that, I have little idea.
So, again I ask--Now what?
I suppose I'll leave it at that while I consider the possibilities. And try to think of a clever title.
I set it up for the sole purpose of commenting on someone else's, but here it is.
Now what?
I had absolutely no intention of ever maintaining an online journal of any sort. Hell, I'm not even entirely sure what a blog is supposed to be. In as much as I haven't been living in a cave for the past five years, I *do* know that the wordlet "blog" is short for "weblog" but besides that, I have little idea.
So, again I ask--Now what?
I suppose I'll leave it at that while I consider the possibilities. And try to think of a clever title.
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