Which kind of person are you? I am the kind that always pretends to know what a word means when the person I am speaking with says something that I have never heard before. I always nod in agreement pretending to speak the same language and hoping I will not be found out. Damon on the other hand is much different. Damon always stops the conversation to ask the meaning of a specific word in a cluster of rambling sentences. I always think to myself, wow, he must appear pretty stupid to the average conversation goer. There I am imagining what the other person might be thinking, while I myself am still pretending to know definitions that are way beyond my scope of knowledge. So who exactly is the stupid one?
Right now, Damon has decided to read many of the classics that you dread reading in school. He has finished Moby Dick and a few others along the way and has now made it to The Scarlet Letter. Demi Moore is in that one right? He seems to really be enjoying each page of his latest adventure, and I am not only in awe of his accomplishment but inspired by his determination. As I write this right now, Jeopardy is blaring in the background, and my husband is spewing out answers about the Great Gatsby and Noah's Ark, and he even occasionally gets one right. Where did I find him? These days Parents Magazine and the highly acclaimed SCV Insider are all that keep my attention. Maybe if I rub Damon's head something will seep into me.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The 5 Second Rule
According to Wikipedia, the 5 second rule applies to foods that have fallen to the ground. The great pedia goes on to explain that normally, customary rules of hygiene dictate that food that has fallen to the ground should be discarded in order to prevent ingestion of disease-causing agents acquired from the dirty surface. The rule states that if the food is picked up within five seconds, it can still be eaten. For the most part our family is a strong believer in this commandment. However, 5 seconds has a whole new meaning to me after this weekend.
My daughter seems to be following in the footsteps of her great Papa Hills. Much like her Dada, she encompasses not only the tenacity for getting what she wants when she wants it, but has the temper to match. On a side note, the poor thing has been ill this weekend, engaging in the battles of usual childhood illness'--stuffy nose, fever, and general tend toward fussiness. However, this Saturday was like no other.
After being simply unable to comprehend her father's incessant need to change her out of her dirty clothes, Miss Fuss launched herself into her usual red face, breath holding, angry muscle clenching stance. In a desperate attempt to reach yours truly, she bumped her mouth, oh so gently on my knee. As if changing her clothes wasn't bad enough, right? Fuss E. Pott then gulped for another breath of air, only to find that she was possessed by her own hysteria. As I tried desperately to console her, I noticed her lips turning blue and her head beginning to slump back onto her shoulders. Just like that she was out. That is right, out. I grabbed her into my arms and for 5 of the most horrifying seconds of my life, I tried to wake her. She was limp. She was not breathing. She was gone.
Without warning and almost as fast as she had disappeared, Olivia was back. Her screams had turned to only whimpers and her face seemed puzzled and confused by the event that had just transpired. As we headed out the door to the local pediatric urgent care, I imagined future trips to the hospital and thought about how both she and I would endure the numerous tests that would surely have to be done. We raced into the medical building, and somewhat panicked, told the gal in the front office what had happened only minutes before. Insurance card, she replied. Not even a please. As Miss Fuss sucked on her pacifier contently, she admired the large television that was blaring Shrek in the waiting room. We handed over our very important card, waited several minutes and explained the situation to the unconcerned and very seasoned nurse. In moments, she described that this could be a common occurrence if Olivia learns to create this empowering spectacle on her own. On her own, I thought. What? My child is going to pass out at will, if she looses her temper? My, my, this is not what I had signed up for. As the nurse left the room, we heard her proclaim to the doctor, Vaso Vagal, room 3. Turns out, that is the response the body has when all of the blood travels to the head, leaving the heart no option but to reduce it's rate of pumping so low that the person passes out.
Rather than cry, I will choose to laugh. I will choose to use all 5 of these seconds to add to the list of stories I will tell her, when she is old enough to appreciate and laugh at herself. I will choose to now call her Vaso Vagal, instead of Olivia Hannah, in an attempt to get me through just one more day.
My daughter seems to be following in the footsteps of her great Papa Hills. Much like her Dada, she encompasses not only the tenacity for getting what she wants when she wants it, but has the temper to match. On a side note, the poor thing has been ill this weekend, engaging in the battles of usual childhood illness'--stuffy nose, fever, and general tend toward fussiness. However, this Saturday was like no other.
After being simply unable to comprehend her father's incessant need to change her out of her dirty clothes, Miss Fuss launched herself into her usual red face, breath holding, angry muscle clenching stance. In a desperate attempt to reach yours truly, she bumped her mouth, oh so gently on my knee. As if changing her clothes wasn't bad enough, right? Fuss E. Pott then gulped for another breath of air, only to find that she was possessed by her own hysteria. As I tried desperately to console her, I noticed her lips turning blue and her head beginning to slump back onto her shoulders. Just like that she was out. That is right, out. I grabbed her into my arms and for 5 of the most horrifying seconds of my life, I tried to wake her. She was limp. She was not breathing. She was gone.
Without warning and almost as fast as she had disappeared, Olivia was back. Her screams had turned to only whimpers and her face seemed puzzled and confused by the event that had just transpired. As we headed out the door to the local pediatric urgent care, I imagined future trips to the hospital and thought about how both she and I would endure the numerous tests that would surely have to be done. We raced into the medical building, and somewhat panicked, told the gal in the front office what had happened only minutes before. Insurance card, she replied. Not even a please. As Miss Fuss sucked on her pacifier contently, she admired the large television that was blaring Shrek in the waiting room. We handed over our very important card, waited several minutes and explained the situation to the unconcerned and very seasoned nurse. In moments, she described that this could be a common occurrence if Olivia learns to create this empowering spectacle on her own. On her own, I thought. What? My child is going to pass out at will, if she looses her temper? My, my, this is not what I had signed up for. As the nurse left the room, we heard her proclaim to the doctor, Vaso Vagal, room 3. Turns out, that is the response the body has when all of the blood travels to the head, leaving the heart no option but to reduce it's rate of pumping so low that the person passes out.
Rather than cry, I will choose to laugh. I will choose to use all 5 of these seconds to add to the list of stories I will tell her, when she is old enough to appreciate and laugh at herself. I will choose to now call her Vaso Vagal, instead of Olivia Hannah, in an attempt to get me through just one more day.
Friday, November 9, 2007
In Due Time
Today we went to the zoo. Yep, that is right. We packed up all ten tons of stuff we "needed" and headed to the Los Angeles Zoo. Mind you, in my hay day, I was a law abiding animal rights activist who bravely yelled out the window at the Barnum and Bailey's Circus and stood in front of Target superstores hounding former customers to sign petitions that would stop the use of steel traps. Me set foot in an "animal prison"--never. But, there I was today, glaring at the bear, gibbons, and tigers, attempting to ignore how they might look and feel different in the wild. It is amazing how one can completely twist their once daunting views of the world and begin to justify something they were so strongly against.
Maybe they are better off at the zoo, safe from predators, poachers, and the destruction of their natural habitats. Maybe they don't realize and remember the difference between their old and new living quarters. Maybe animals don't have the capacity to feel sorry for themselves. Someone even told me once that animals don't feel pain because they have no conscience. Anyone who has ever been lucky enough to be owned by a dog knows that isn't true. Ultimately, I believe my knew acceptance of the zoo boils down to one thing. You guessed it, my daughter. Watching her recognize a lion or a monkey or a bird for the first time and being amazed and excited that she is able to communicate her knowledge with me is unexplainable. A feeling I will never be able to describe for you in a blog. She has plenty of time to learn about man's inhumanity and imposition on the world around him. For now, I will just do my best to shelter and enjoy her innocence.
Maybe they are better off at the zoo, safe from predators, poachers, and the destruction of their natural habitats. Maybe they don't realize and remember the difference between their old and new living quarters. Maybe animals don't have the capacity to feel sorry for themselves. Someone even told me once that animals don't feel pain because they have no conscience. Anyone who has ever been lucky enough to be owned by a dog knows that isn't true. Ultimately, I believe my knew acceptance of the zoo boils down to one thing. You guessed it, my daughter. Watching her recognize a lion or a monkey or a bird for the first time and being amazed and excited that she is able to communicate her knowledge with me is unexplainable. A feeling I will never be able to describe for you in a blog. She has plenty of time to learn about man's inhumanity and imposition on the world around him. For now, I will just do my best to shelter and enjoy her innocence.
Monday, November 5, 2007
How much for the Green One?
Is it 2:00 yet? Lunch was good. The soup was a little salty though. I bet I could play Jingle Bells on her xylophone? Did I spell xylophone right? Hey, sounds like Jingle Bells. How did that happen? It is already 1:40. We better get going. Hi. Olivia is here for her haircut. OK. Lisa will take care of you. Why is she fussing? She did just fine the last time. Don't cry. Here is Dora. Do you want to see Dora? Oh, what about this cat in the funny black costume. Look at him. Do you want to drive the hot pink car? What do cars say? vroom....vroom....this isn't working. Should we just give up? How old is Lisa? Am I getting a complex about my age? Every post mentions age. She couldn't be more than 16. How does that look? Are her bangs to short? Well, you probably couldn't fix that now anyway, right? That will be $22. Did she just say $22? She only cut 3 hairs! Does Lisa know she is only 1? Really, $22? Can she have a balloon? Please, we need something for $22. Here is a red one. Don't let the balloon go. Oh no, if she lets the balloon go, I will have to hear it the whole way home. Let mama hold the balloon. OK, we are home. Are those still the sweet potatoes that I spilled on the garage door months ago? Lazy sweet potatoes.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
1921
My 86 year-old father recently stayed with us for roughly 5 days. That time seemed to reinforce for me just how little it is that I have experienced. As my dad described a conversation that he had had with a man from the phone company, he explained that he was only 30 or so, so what the hell would he know.
No one seems to know better than he, how to put things into perspective. He is my go to guy, whenever I am sweating small stuff like a job interview, intense social interaction, or financial decision. In his opinion, most things are very small. He even has a song he sings to me that somehow always makes me laugh, even when I am sobbing uncontrollably. I would sing the song to you all, but I might be kicked off blog spot for the unnecessary use of profanity.
My dad is rude, crass, and always says what everyone else is thinking. For some reason though, I always slap him on the arm and pretend to be offended, even though I was thinking the very same offensive thing. He has truly witnessed the change in the times, has experienced the change in himself, and struggled with the changes in others. As he often reminds me, I will never know what it is that he has already forgotten. Wow, does he really say that? Yes he does, and we usually both chuckle afterward.
Who knows, he is probably correct, but for right now it just seems that I am too young to know much of anything but old enough to realize just how little it is that I do know.
No one seems to know better than he, how to put things into perspective. He is my go to guy, whenever I am sweating small stuff like a job interview, intense social interaction, or financial decision. In his opinion, most things are very small. He even has a song he sings to me that somehow always makes me laugh, even when I am sobbing uncontrollably. I would sing the song to you all, but I might be kicked off blog spot for the unnecessary use of profanity.
My dad is rude, crass, and always says what everyone else is thinking. For some reason though, I always slap him on the arm and pretend to be offended, even though I was thinking the very same offensive thing. He has truly witnessed the change in the times, has experienced the change in himself, and struggled with the changes in others. As he often reminds me, I will never know what it is that he has already forgotten. Wow, does he really say that? Yes he does, and we usually both chuckle afterward.
Who knows, he is probably correct, but for right now it just seems that I am too young to know much of anything but old enough to realize just how little it is that I do know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)