I am on a quest to make my children more self-sufficient. Because I hope that someday they'll move out. Part of my quest involves mastery-by-inches when it comes to the laundry. Chickadee knows how to do her own laundry, and sometimes she even does. But for the most part I take care of the parts involving the washing machine and dryer. It used to be that laundry magically took care of itself, you know, and bit by bit I'm trying to factor myself out of the equation. First it was "nothing gets washed unless it's in the hamper." Then it was "nothing gets washed unless the hamper is placed in...
In general, I believe in parenting with a firm but benevolent hand. I believe in choosing your battles, allowing them room to make their own mistakes, and a lot of prayer. I believe you can't take it personally, but you can't just give up, either. I believe it's our job to mold these kids into human beings who will benefit society, and that said molding can be messy, thankless work a lot of the time, but that the benefits in the end far, far outweigh the drawbacks. That said, if I had to club my daughter to within an inch of her life with, say, this, y'all would totally understand, right?...
The first three days of school were better than I'd dared to hope, and when I walked Monkey over to school yesterday, I decided to stop in and chat with his teacher for a minute. She confirmed that all was well and that she was pleasantly surprised at how problem-free it had been, so far. "Oh, just WAIT," I laughed. "We're still in the honeymoon period! Don't be lulled into a false sense of security!" And we chuckled together and talked about school supplies and then I walked back home with a spring in my step, no idea exactly how prophetic I'd just been. It's probably better that way, but...
It's a funny thing, having a daughter, when your relationship with your own mother is kind of complicated. I never doubted my ability to care for a child; I had years of babysitting and even nannying under my belt by the time Chickadee came along. But I doubted my ability to be a good mother to a girl. Because girls are complicated and touchy and easily wounded. I know this because I am complicated and touchy and easily wounded, and even now I can remember with cutting clarity certain events and statements not meant to cause harm, of course, but that nevertheless sliced jagged tracks through...
So. Um. Hi! It appears that I didn't really think through yesterday's post. I mean, I thought, "This is an important miscarriage of justice that needs to be brought to light, and I have the luxury of readers and so I will ask them to read about it," when really I should've been thinking, "People who are strangers to me will read about this story and then go onto various bulletin boards and claim that I have posted this story to boost my t-shirt sales." Yes, they're on to me, folks. I shared that story because I want your money! BUY A SHIRT, DAMMIT! Ahem. Look; I very rarely use this space...
I took my last Prednisone pill this morning, and am eagerly looking forward to returning to sanity in the nearish future. I hope. Also, Otto reports that I ground my teeth so loudly last night I actually woke him up, so I guess the continued pain in my jaw isn't much of a mystery. One of these days I'm going to be all, "OH EM GEE, YOU GUYS, I WOKE UP WITH A MOUTHFUL OF BUSTED TEETH TODAY!" And you'll think I'm exaggerating, like I always do, only it will be true because WHY LEARN TO COPE WITH STRESS when you can simply destroy your sanity and smile in one fell swoop? The funny (not...
As Otto and I lay in bed last night, I poured out my frustration while he held my hand and listened. Because I have a nice life. Actually, no; I have a pretty wonderful life. And yet I struggle, daily, against my will and my common sense, with the ability to just be happy. I still believe that---as I said once before---there is a certain arrogance in being unhappy when leading a good and blessed and lucky life. And to be clear, I'm not UNhappy. But I am not as happy as I could and should be, much of the time. Somewhere on my permanent medical chart I am officially diagnosed as being...
Well, I was really hoping to give you some sort of definitive THIS IS THE ANSWER sort of update after our latest appointment in regards to Chickadee's skin, but I should've known it wouldn't happen that way. I mean, we've been trying to figure out this rash for three years now; what's the big hurry? The good news is that we started out there seeing the doctor who was taking new patients, rather than the one it had been recommended we see. And after two appointments, we ended up seeing the recommended doctor because our regular doctor was unavailable. And apparently the fourth time's the...
We are more than halfway through the Summer of Pitching In, and have met with varying levels of success on that particular front. Someone---and I am not naming any names, but it is someone who lives here---has not been so much a fan of the whole "helping out" concept. That particular someone has participated very grudgingly, and appears to expect a ticker-tape parade in celebration of every semi-useful activity said person deigns to commit. (Said person has been extremely disappointed by our reaction to said "helpfulness.") And then there is Monkey. Monkey is the kind of kid who would...
