Unsolicited Advice to the Peri-menopausal: If you run out of your hormones unexpectedly (as in you forgot to send in the new prescription), it is ill-advised to fly solo for a couple of weeks, as you may not realize the extent to which, unbeknown to you, the menopause symptoms have taken over your life.
Seriously. The hot flashes, night sweats, the insomnia.
Then again, maybe it's just the warm summer nights.
Or my cold. I got my first cold sore. Are cold sores a sign of out of whack hormones?
But then again, why have my children suddenly gone off the tantrum deep end?
Or is that due to my limited patience? Or maybe my irritability colors my perception.
Can I blame their father?
Haleluja, my happy pills have arrived in the mail.
P.S. I have to say that thanks to a great parenting book I'm actively reading (active as in I've been known to lock myself in the bathroom mid-tantrum with the book to talk myself down and brush up on tantrum coping skills before exiting and calmly dealing with the situation), I did manage, despite the multi-hour physically and verbally abusive tantrum, not to loose my cool. We have arrived this evening at bedtime, with no blood or bruises and with a mutually agreed upon set of consequences, and a 7-year-old trying his best to make up for his poor behavior with a happy and cooperative demeanor. I'd say it's a successful, if trying day of parenting.
P.S.S. I purposely did not mention the 4-year-old sobbing himself to sleep in the guest room.
P.P.S.S. But that is his own doing. I didn't lose it with him either.
P.P.P.S.S. I promise. I just denied him a popsicle. It doesn't take much.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
War of the Rodents, Part Next
Dear Bats,
I don't even know if you qualify as rodents, but it doesn't really matter. Perhaps I should have been more explicit in my previous communication. When I said "stay out of my stuff", I assumed you would understand that to mean ALL my stuff, as in not just my stuff in the attic, but inclusive of the main living part of the house. But we all know what assuming does . . .
Regardless, let this be fair warning. And the two of you who entered the interior my home and lived to tell about it (oh, and sorry about the little guy--I can only assume the cat was faster) , you can warn all your friends (just don't mention the part about me crying, and the protective hooded mumu. Oh, and the super long pole with the broom taped to it for added buffer, which, though possibly fearsome to a small creature, was mostly just ridiculous and a bit overkill--yeah, you don't have to mention that. Just tell them about the part where we threw your terrified little selves outside). You can warn them that their days inside my walls are numbered.
Yes, numbered.
I have been patient. More than patient I would say. The first breach was considered an accident. The second, I chalked up to an unfortnuate encounter between wandering infant bat and my house cat. But the third and final breach was the beginning of the end. I have listened to you scratching and squirming and squeaking in my office/bedroom wall for many months and I pretended you were some sort of loose ductwork, or occasional rodent. But no more. I am ignorant no more. Since you have chosen to show yourselves inside the confines of the interior of my home and squeak directly at me, I can no longer pretend the muffled sounds in my walls are anything else. I know you now. Shall we say, as the Spaniards do: There were a few, and then grandmother gave birth! I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I do know that I will be patient no longer. I'm all for live and let live, but certain boundaries must be established and maintained if we are to coexist in peace.
Your blatant disregard of social bat/human cohabitational norms has forced my hand. I may have mentioned previously that I don't know how to tackle you. But, I'm learning. And, more importantly, I have a new friend--Trapper Bob. Trapper Bob will be here in a couple of weeks to serve you your official eviction notice. You will then have approximately six weeks to move. This long notice is in respect of the important job you do (that of eating the mosquitos--although, could you step it up a little--we're itching here!) and the expectation that your little ones will continue the mosquito-eating tradition. Trapper Bob informs me that many of your wee ones in my walls cannot yet fly (though I suspect the little bugger I chased out the other night, given the location in which I found him, could likely fly, although I did not witness said flying as I flung him out the second story window into the darkness. I can only assume he swooped off to safety, but again, we all know about assuming). In that timeframe, Trapper Bob tells me that your children should be all grown up and able to fly their hairy little selves out of my walls.
As I said, I appreciate the vital role you play and invite you to continue living in my yard. Just not my house. You see, I never invited you into my living room, or kitchen, or bedroom, and yet you came anyway. I don't care whether this breach was for thrill, shock, fun, by accident or whatever. Regardless the intent, the line has been crossed and you are hereby uninvited from habitation within my walls, attic, roof, basement or any other portion of this human habitation.
However, as a token of goodwill, I plan to educate our family over the next few weeks about your habitat, your diet, and your lifecycle. Then we will either build or purchase a bat house and have it installed nearby. When Trapper Bob evicts you, we invite you to take up residence in said bat house, and leave my walls alone.
In the meantime--STAY OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!
I don't even know if you qualify as rodents, but it doesn't really matter. Perhaps I should have been more explicit in my previous communication. When I said "stay out of my stuff", I assumed you would understand that to mean ALL my stuff, as in not just my stuff in the attic, but inclusive of the main living part of the house. But we all know what assuming does . . .
Regardless, let this be fair warning. And the two of you who entered the interior my home and lived to tell about it (oh, and sorry about the little guy--I can only assume the cat was faster) , you can warn all your friends (just don't mention the part about me crying, and the protective hooded mumu. Oh, and the super long pole with the broom taped to it for added buffer, which, though possibly fearsome to a small creature, was mostly just ridiculous and a bit overkill--yeah, you don't have to mention that. Just tell them about the part where we threw your terrified little selves outside). You can warn them that their days inside my walls are numbered.
Yes, numbered.
I have been patient. More than patient I would say. The first breach was considered an accident. The second, I chalked up to an unfortnuate encounter between wandering infant bat and my house cat. But the third and final breach was the beginning of the end. I have listened to you scratching and squirming and squeaking in my office/bedroom wall for many months and I pretended you were some sort of loose ductwork, or occasional rodent. But no more. I am ignorant no more. Since you have chosen to show yourselves inside the confines of the interior of my home and squeak directly at me, I can no longer pretend the muffled sounds in my walls are anything else. I know you now. Shall we say, as the Spaniards do: There were a few, and then grandmother gave birth! I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I do know that I will be patient no longer. I'm all for live and let live, but certain boundaries must be established and maintained if we are to coexist in peace.
Your blatant disregard of social bat/human cohabitational norms has forced my hand. I may have mentioned previously that I don't know how to tackle you. But, I'm learning. And, more importantly, I have a new friend--Trapper Bob. Trapper Bob will be here in a couple of weeks to serve you your official eviction notice. You will then have approximately six weeks to move. This long notice is in respect of the important job you do (that of eating the mosquitos--although, could you step it up a little--we're itching here!) and the expectation that your little ones will continue the mosquito-eating tradition. Trapper Bob informs me that many of your wee ones in my walls cannot yet fly (though I suspect the little bugger I chased out the other night, given the location in which I found him, could likely fly, although I did not witness said flying as I flung him out the second story window into the darkness. I can only assume he swooped off to safety, but again, we all know about assuming). In that timeframe, Trapper Bob tells me that your children should be all grown up and able to fly their hairy little selves out of my walls.
As I said, I appreciate the vital role you play and invite you to continue living in my yard. Just not my house. You see, I never invited you into my living room, or kitchen, or bedroom, and yet you came anyway. I don't care whether this breach was for thrill, shock, fun, by accident or whatever. Regardless the intent, the line has been crossed and you are hereby uninvited from habitation within my walls, attic, roof, basement or any other portion of this human habitation.
However, as a token of goodwill, I plan to educate our family over the next few weeks about your habitat, your diet, and your lifecycle. Then we will either build or purchase a bat house and have it installed nearby. When Trapper Bob evicts you, we invite you to take up residence in said bat house, and leave my walls alone.
In the meantime--STAY OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!
Elliotism
Heavenly Father . . . please bless us not to say bad words.
--Tuesday Dinner Blessing with 10 Guests
--Tuesday Dinner Blessing with 10 Guests
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Femininity
You know what I'm just a little tired of? Well yes, all that too, but, today's post is about the feminine and the tomboyish. I'm tired of the general assumption that all women are somehow oh so sensitive and nurturing. Growing up LDS, it used to drive me batty every time we had to sing As Sisters In Zion. Let me give you a little excerpt.
The errand of angels is given to women; And this is a gift that, as sisters, we claim: To do whatsoever is gentle and human, To cheer and to bless in humanity's name.
Now don't get me wrong, it's all feel-goody-uplifting and engenders feelings of sisterhood. But really, the errand of angels? To cheer and to bless in humanity's name? Doesn't that set up quite a lofty expectation of an entire gender? What if I'm not very gentle? Am I somehow less of a woman? Why? Because I'm not naturally gentle, nurturing or compassionate or overly caring. I have to work hard to eek out a little bit of those traits. Yes, over the years, especially as I've had children, perhaps I've learned a little more nurture and compassion, but honestly, mostly I've just learned patience (and that not very well).
And how about when society defines femininity like it's a dress code. I read about and talk to women that "just can't wear anything but heels" because it makes their legs look so feminine and who can't go out of the house without make up and just love to shop and can't imagine going swimming without waxing their entire body . . . yada yada. Someone once commented how her daughter is finally starting take care of herself again since she's wearing make-up and doing her hair and whatever. So what does that make the rest of us? The ones who think waxing is akin to water-boarding and who don't judge our femininity by the number of beauty products on the bathroom counter? Have we just let ourselves go? What if we never had a hold of ourselves in the first place?
I used to say I was a tomboy, but I don't really feel that describes it. I'm not boy-ish, I'm not butch. I'd say I'm rather feminine and curvy. I like feeling attractive and I think I can be pretty--when I want to be. I just don't give a rat's toosh about designer hand bags and I think pointy-toed shoes were invented by Satan. I don't cry at the drop of a hat (most days) and I find that my husband is much more nurturing and compassionate than I'll ever hope to be (in my defense, I handle power-tools much more effectively than he does).
This is not a post about equality or feminism. More-so, it's a post about individualism. I'm tired of any male/female stereotypes. I think it's grand if you like pumps and eyeliner and find your true calling in nurturing your child's every footstep. Let's just not assume that I'm somehow less of a woman if I prefer loafers and struggle daily to figure out how to keep my children alive, let alone nurture them. Some things just don't come naturally to some of us.
Let me try and figure out what my point is. I think it is this; feminine traits don't come automatically imprinted on the extra X chromosome. I think they are made up of part DNA and part of your own nurturing. You know, the old nature nurture argument. What comes so naturally to some, perhaps even most women, I've had to try and learn through hardscrabble trial and error--and I still don't quite get it--I can fake it, sometimes, which often is good enough.
I think I was prepared by both my nature and nurturing for the responsibilities and experiences the Lord has in store for me. Perhaps this is why I don't have daughters (I'm sure this is why I don't have more than two children, my nurture well is bone dry with just two. I cannot fathom trying to spread it around to 5 or so). Can you imagine what a terrible mother I'd be to a tiara-wearing princess of a little girl? I mean really, where do you stick the bow for starters?
So, I suppose this is a shout out to all those ladies out there that don't fit the mold, which really, is all of us--we all got a little sprinkling of this and that, mixed up with a generous helping of the other. Together it makes quite a stew and individually, we're fascinating. I love me some girly-girl friends (just don't be offended if I don't want to go shopping with you). It keeps life interesting. I just ask that you don't judge my worth on a few leg hairs (well, more than a few) and frumpy man-shoes. We'll get a long just fine.
P.S. I have a friend who still laughs at me because the first thing I did when I bought clothes to wear to the temple, was to cut the little bows of the slippers. Really, who needs a bow there? She's the only one who's ever notices though--or said something anyway.
P.P.S. And I once got really mad at my mother and told her never to buy me anything pastel EVER again.
P.P.S.S. When I was in high school, my brother and his friends formed a club called A.P.W.H.P.W.W.P. (say "App-whoop-whoop"). It stands for the Association of People Who Hate People Who Wear Pink. I wanted to join. He even made little business cards with a pink circle with a line through it. I thought it was awesome.
P.P.S.S.S Now I sometimes buy pink stuff for myself, though rarely anything with a bow.
The errand of angels is given to women; And this is a gift that, as sisters, we claim: To do whatsoever is gentle and human, To cheer and to bless in humanity's name.
Now don't get me wrong, it's all feel-goody-uplifting and engenders feelings of sisterhood. But really, the errand of angels? To cheer and to bless in humanity's name? Doesn't that set up quite a lofty expectation of an entire gender? What if I'm not very gentle? Am I somehow less of a woman? Why? Because I'm not naturally gentle, nurturing or compassionate or overly caring. I have to work hard to eek out a little bit of those traits. Yes, over the years, especially as I've had children, perhaps I've learned a little more nurture and compassion, but honestly, mostly I've just learned patience (and that not very well).
And how about when society defines femininity like it's a dress code. I read about and talk to women that "just can't wear anything but heels" because it makes their legs look so feminine and who can't go out of the house without make up and just love to shop and can't imagine going swimming without waxing their entire body . . . yada yada. Someone once commented how her daughter is finally starting take care of herself again since she's wearing make-up and doing her hair and whatever. So what does that make the rest of us? The ones who think waxing is akin to water-boarding and who don't judge our femininity by the number of beauty products on the bathroom counter? Have we just let ourselves go? What if we never had a hold of ourselves in the first place?
I used to say I was a tomboy, but I don't really feel that describes it. I'm not boy-ish, I'm not butch. I'd say I'm rather feminine and curvy. I like feeling attractive and I think I can be pretty--when I want to be. I just don't give a rat's toosh about designer hand bags and I think pointy-toed shoes were invented by Satan. I don't cry at the drop of a hat (most days) and I find that my husband is much more nurturing and compassionate than I'll ever hope to be (in my defense, I handle power-tools much more effectively than he does).
This is not a post about equality or feminism. More-so, it's a post about individualism. I'm tired of any male/female stereotypes. I think it's grand if you like pumps and eyeliner and find your true calling in nurturing your child's every footstep. Let's just not assume that I'm somehow less of a woman if I prefer loafers and struggle daily to figure out how to keep my children alive, let alone nurture them. Some things just don't come naturally to some of us.
Let me try and figure out what my point is. I think it is this; feminine traits don't come automatically imprinted on the extra X chromosome. I think they are made up of part DNA and part of your own nurturing. You know, the old nature nurture argument. What comes so naturally to some, perhaps even most women, I've had to try and learn through hardscrabble trial and error--and I still don't quite get it--I can fake it, sometimes, which often is good enough.
I think I was prepared by both my nature and nurturing for the responsibilities and experiences the Lord has in store for me. Perhaps this is why I don't have daughters (I'm sure this is why I don't have more than two children, my nurture well is bone dry with just two. I cannot fathom trying to spread it around to 5 or so). Can you imagine what a terrible mother I'd be to a tiara-wearing princess of a little girl? I mean really, where do you stick the bow for starters?
So, I suppose this is a shout out to all those ladies out there that don't fit the mold, which really, is all of us--we all got a little sprinkling of this and that, mixed up with a generous helping of the other. Together it makes quite a stew and individually, we're fascinating. I love me some girly-girl friends (just don't be offended if I don't want to go shopping with you). It keeps life interesting. I just ask that you don't judge my worth on a few leg hairs (well, more than a few) and frumpy man-shoes. We'll get a long just fine.
P.S. I have a friend who still laughs at me because the first thing I did when I bought clothes to wear to the temple, was to cut the little bows of the slippers. Really, who needs a bow there? She's the only one who's ever notices though--or said something anyway.
P.P.S. And I once got really mad at my mother and told her never to buy me anything pastel EVER again.
P.P.S.S. When I was in high school, my brother and his friends formed a club called A.P.W.H.P.W.W.P. (say "App-whoop-whoop"). It stands for the Association of People Who Hate People Who Wear Pink. I wanted to join. He even made little business cards with a pink circle with a line through it. I thought it was awesome.
P.P.S.S.S Now I sometimes buy pink stuff for myself, though rarely anything with a bow.
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