Walk Tall

There is a song titled Walk Tall by John Mellencamp. I can't get enough of it. I have searched the internets far and wide for months and have not been able to find it to add to my playlist. Boo. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to find this song for me. If you find it, I'll be forever indebted to you. Really.

Here are the lyrics to get you started:

The simple minded
And the uninformed
Can be easily led astray
And those that cannot connect the dots
Hey, look the other way
People believe what they want to believe
When it makes no sense at all
So becareful of those who
Kill in Jesus' Name and don’t believe in
Killing at all.

Somewhere out in the distance
Is the death of you and me
Even though we don't think of it much
It's still out there for us to see
If you treat your life like a bar room fight
You'll die stinking of gin
No drunkards allowed in heaven
No sinners will get in.

So be careful in what you believe in
There's plenty to get you confused
And in this land called paradise
You must walk in many men's shoes
Bigotry and hatred are enemies to us all
Grace, mercy and forgiveness
Will help a man walk tall.

Those are just the verses. The chorus is a bunch of 'walk talls' that sort of run into each other and are kind of a pain to wade through in printed form. Anyway, if you find a link to the song, let me know. My undying gratitude will be your prize. And if you can't find it, well then, enjoy the lyrics.

Grant Me Strength

Some days, I swear I won't make it to the end of this parenting gig with my sanity in tact. My daughter occasionally acts as if she has taken a leave of absence from her body and allowed 47 varieties of hysterical body snatchers to take up residence there. It's enough to reduce my usual calm self to the gnashing of teeth and the wearing of sackcloth and ashes.

:deep sigh:

Today, it began with the refusal to wear the outfit that was perfectly acceptable only 10 minutes earlier. Once the clothing issue was settled, she decided that when I trimmed her hair last night, I trimmed it too short. A continuous wail of "My-hair-is-too-short-I-want-my-hair-long" ensued on the walk out the door, down the stairs, to the car and half way to school.

When I picked her up this afternoon, she pouted when I asked about her spelling test, even though she did extremely well on it. At home, she wanted to paint but we are, sadly, out of both water colors and the not-so-washable washable paint. This was cause for more pouting and whining, "But I want to paaaaaaaaaaaaaaint." A brief time out fixed her attitude momentarily -- until she decided that she wanted to change into her pajamas for movie night.

Now, changing into her pajamas wasn't the problem. (I was just fine with this because pajamas mean sleepiness and sleepiness leads to actual sleep very quickly with this child.) No, the problem occurred when she shouted at her brother to leave the room so she could change. I prompted her to ask politely and she responded by shoving said brother. Another trip to time out, accompanied by more screeching and wailing -- this time, for Daaaaaaaaaaaad-dyyyyyyyyyyyyy. My response? Sweetheart, Daddy wouldn't be too happy about your behavior right now, either.

:deeper sigh:

The rum on top of the fridge is beginning to look very enticing.

My New Favorite Movie

I know I'm about 4 months behind the rest of the country, but I finally watched Juno. Best movie I have seen in a very long time. I enjoyed every minute of it. In fact, I watched it on Monday night and could have watched it again immediately if it hadn't been so late. I did watch it again on Wednesday night. In order to leave it unspoiled for those who haven't seen it, I'll avoid saying anything about specifics.

I will say though, that it is an excellent story, told by wonderful actors in an ordinary setting that makes it easy to relate to. It runs the emotional gamut with hilarious comedic moments, a few incredibly touching scenes and still others that are very uncomfortable. It's tied together perfectly, coming full circle in the end. It even makes you second guess the ending that you know just has to happen. It's a very smart movie, too. Even after seeing it twice, I'm left with a few questions about the back story; they're not important in the grand scheme of the movie, but it's enough of a mystery to be intriguing.

This is one for my meager DVD collection. And I hardly ever say that.

Creative Parenting

There are times during a parent's life when a white lie is easier than most any other route. I discovered this last summer when Solomon developed arachnophobia. It got so bad that he couldn't sleep at night for fear that a spider might crawl on him.

I tried reasoning with him. We had never seen a spider in the house. Spiders are here to help us by eating flies and mosquitoes. Spiders don't want to bite people. On and on my explanations went and still he refused to sleep.

After a week of this, I was at the end of my rope. I dug out a bottle of Bath & Body Works body spray and told my sweet, innocent child that it was No More Spider Spray. I spritzed him, his sheets, his pillow and his bed frame with No More Spider Spray.

It worked like a charm. He was asleep within 5 minutes. For the next few months, any time he sensed that it was spider dinner time, he asked for the spray and I complied. Crisis averted. I felt slightly guilty about lying to my child, but bed time was so much easier that I didn't let it bother me too much. It got us through a rough patch and everything is fine now.

I had to tell another white lie tonight, though. Samuel just knew there was a monster hiding behind the shower curtain. Did you know it's impossible to brush your teeth with a monster in the bathtub? Well, it is -- until Mommy saves you with her magic No More Monster Spray.

Making a Difference

I miss my old job. It was frustrating in a lot of respects. There was always something unfinished. I was usually behind on at least half a dozen things. Some of the parents were maddening in their capacity for complete ignorance, no matter how many conversations I had with them.

But I miss it because I really felt like I made a difference to some people. I knew it when a mother left my office, relieved that she had a dentist to take her child to. I knew it when a panicked child calmed down during his breathing treatment. I knew it when a Spanish-speaking-only parent realized that not only could I understand him, but I could also help him get a doctor's appointment for his child with a 104 degree fever.

I miss the people I worked with. They knew what I was going through because they were going through it, too. All my frustrations and victories were the same for them. We were a team and we worked together so well.

I miss the kids in the school. So many of them were in my office regularly. I got to know them and their conditions. I worked with their parents to coordinate things at school and at home. I wonder how a few of them are doing now and how much they've grown.

I really miss feeling like I am making a difference. Some people might think I have an over-blown sense of myself after reading that sentence. I don't know; maybe I do, maybe I don't. Whatever it is, I know I don't get the same feeling from my current job. I really hope to get back to the same environment some day.

PSA 2

To All Parents:

When you take your young child to the doctor's office, do not lie and say that the nurse is not going to give them a shot. Do not say to your child, "She's only checking your leg," as the nurse lays the child on the table, immoblizing arms and legs. Do not continue denying that they are getting a shot as their thigh is swabbed with alcohol and the nurse uncaps the needle. Just don't do it. They will grow up hating nurses, doctors and anyone else who wears scrubs or lab coats. And a tiny part of them will resent you forever.

Conversely, do not threaten your child with the punishment of getting shots for misbehaving in the waiting room. No one likes shots. Even nurses don't like giving them. But they serve a purpose and it's pretty useful. It isn't punishment, it's just a fact of life. Teach your child how to deal with this fact of life. Failing that, shut up and let the nurse deal with educating your child and holding them down.

My Favorite Things

Homemade popcorn, popped the old-fashioned way, with a little oil in a heavy pan. Real butter drizzled over it and a slight dusting of salt and pepper make it perfect.

The smell of my children's necks, not right after a bath when they are scent-heavy with fruity shampoo, but about 24 hours afterward. Just like when they were infants, their own scent is about the best in the universe.

An overcast sky with a hint of balminess in the air, rain coming in with the wind. I could sit outside for hours like that.

Driving to and from work while listening to audiobooks. It's the only way I have time for anything remotely resembling contact with literature while I'm in school and working.

Fresh, clean sheets on my bed. This is best after a long day of house cleaning and laundry. Going to bed after a day like that is heavenly.

Learning a new job and being good at it. This week, I've learned how to document immunizations on the state registry, mix and administer a variety of injections, run urinalysis, draw up urine cultures, run strep tests and read the results.

Running the car through a good wash, vacuuming the whole thing out, scrubbing melted candy off the seats, wiping smeared fingerprints off the windows and throwing out all the garbage that collects under the booster seats.

Discovering a new, awesome song. Today, it was "My Medicine" by Snoop Dogg. Seriously.

Hillary Clinton has admitted she won't gain enough delegates to win the Democratic presidential nomination. She won't concede the race to Barack Obama (because she thinks a winner will be declared at the DNC), but she's admitted at least that much and it makes me giggle.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

A thoughtful essay, well worth your time. The writer presents the reality of Martin Luther King, Jr. and what his death has meant for this nation.

http://www.time.com/time/specials/2007/article/0,28804,1726656_1727254_1726040,00.html

Bigfoot Lives Upstairs

It has to. Seriously. That's the only explanation for the thumping, stomping, pacing footsteps to which I am subjected every evening.

It's worst on Friday afternoon and evening. I think it's because the beast must be attempting to clean its cave of an apartment after a long week of neglecting household chores. I picture the creature clomping about on hairy feet with crusted toenails, picking up clutter, putting laundry in to wash, loading the dishwasher.

It follows a similar pattern to my own housecleaning. Lots of moving about in the kitchen. Living room to bedrooms. Back and forth from laundry room to closets. I could feel something of a kinship to it, if the the rumblings weren't so mind-numbingly loud.

Follow Up

So. I was right. Today was not fun, but not for the reasons I expected. The drive was fine -- at that hideous hour, even I-25 is practically empty. And the weather was fine. It took forever to defrost my windshield and scrape it but there was no ice on the streets.

No, today was completely unfun for a totally different reason. I was responsible for 18 patients in a geriatric facility. These 18 patients are all on at least a dozen medications, many of them are on more. Half of them required blood glucose monitoring and/or insulin injections, both at breakfast and at lunch. I dispensed and accounted for way too many narcotics.

I arrived at 6:15 and didn't leave until 3:45. I had no breaks, no lunch and went to the bathroom once. I stood, walked, climbed stairs, knelt and bent non-stop, for 9 1/2 hours.

I have homework to do tonight for my pharmacology class. I'm not doing it. I've counted mgs, meqs, gtts, units and mls for too long today already. I can't look at another drug or think about another drug until at least tomorrow.

6:30 Is For the Birds

I am not very smart. I agreed to work a shift tomorrow that starts at 6:30 AM. The facility is in downtown Denver, a good 30 minute drive from here, in good weather and good traffic. My vehicle is currently under a half inch of ice and snow. This is not going to be fun. Good night.

An Unbalanced Relationship

A song by Ingrid Michaelson ...

If you were falling, then I would catch you.
You need a light, I'd find a match.

Cuz I love the way you say good morning.
And you take me the way I am.

If you are chilly, here take my sweater.
Your head is aching, I'll make it better.

Cuz I love the way you call me baby.
And you take me the way I am.

I'd buy you Rogaine if you start losing all your hair.
Sew on patches to all you tear.

Cuz I love you more than I could ever promise.
And you take me the way I am.
You take me the way I am.
You take me the way I am.

Are you kidding me? This dude loves her just like she is and takes her just the way she is? And she responds by buying him Rogaine so he won't go bald. Why can't she just take him the way he is, bald head and all?

I know, I know -- I'm cynical. Whatever. It just strikes me as a tad callous that she can't accept her other half being bald.

I Am Here

And apparently, you are all there. A lot of you. I have had several conversations with family and friends in the past few days and everyone says they are reading my blog. I'm flattered and a little overwhelmed.

I mean, yes, I sent the link to all of my family and many of my friends. But I guess I didn't expect everyone to actually read it and to read it with regularity. I kind of thought my blatherings would just hang out on the internet (which is a good place for them, otherwise they clog up my brainwaves) and I wouldn't have to worry about them.

But if multitudes (okay, a dozen) of you are reading my blatherings, it puts a new perspective on them. I have to sit up straight in my chair, do something with my hair and, for pete's sake, stop picking my nose. Ack, the pressure!

Really though, I appreciate that you are all interested in what I think and what I have to say. And now I want to know what you have to say. If there are people reading, there should be people commenting! (Thank you, Dad and Uncle Tommy.)

Earth Hour

Please join me in taking a stand against global warming. On Saturday March 29, 2008, turn out all your lights for one hour at 8:00 pm, your local time. You may be only one person, but it must start with one person. Watch the video below for more information. To be counted among the millions, go to http://www.earthhour.org/.

A Touching Story

A Few Thoughts About Our New Home

The wind blows a lot more than I expected. A windy day here is not unlike a normal day in West Texas.

The winter isn't that bad. See my previous post dedicated to just this subject.

The mountains look different every day. Something always changes, whether it's the snow on them, the clouds over them, the haze around them, the haze here. It's always something.

Plowed snow is not pretty a week after it falls. It's nasty, slushy, black muck. It sticks around forever. And Samuel gravitates to it like lint to a sweater.

People are exceedingly nice. I have gotten full-blown smiles from complete strangers in Target, at the bank, in the library, every where.

Service in stores and restaurants -- even fast food -- is amazing.

It's not as hard to find my way around as I thought it would be. I thought I'd be dragging Jennifer every where with me or calling her for directions for months.

I have found two radio stations I love. One is called Martini Radio. They play Jack Johnson, Death Cab for Cutie, Amy Winehouse and lots of other artists you don't typically hear on Top 40 only stations. The other one is a Spanish station, with none of the Norteño that I can't stomach. They play Maná, Juanes, Marco Antonio Solís and everyone else I love. Yay!

Remembering the Moments

I will confess up front, that I am slightly inebriated at this writing. Friends and family have just left my apartment after a very nice evening of chatting, drinking, listening to music, eating. Basically, being our boring selves. But we like our boring selves and we have fun.

I am tired, but I don't want to go to bed. I want to bask in the glow of this moment here. Friends, family, food, a little vodka, good times. It's a nice moment. So I am imprinting the details into my memory so maybe they won't fade quite as quickly as they might otherwise.

On Motherhood

I came across the essay posted below on a message board I frequent. It's an online community for mothers and so the topic is more than fitting. I decided to post it here because it is a reminder of what I am doing, all day, every day, with every breath and every step.

I often pause to look at my children and marvel at how far they have come. I always kick myself for not remembering some mundane detail of their infancy or toddlerhood. The mundane things are the things that I must work to remember. I will always remember their very first day of school; but will I remember the overalls they wore, or the pigtails, or the scuffed up tennis shoes? I surely hope so.

There are days when I must count to 10 (or 1000) to avoid doing or saying something I know I will regret. Those are the days when I silently chant to myself, "Only 14 more years. Only 14 more years."

And then there are moments like this, when I am reminded of how little time I have, how they will one day -- all too soon -- be capable of living on their own. I remember my tiny little babies, that heavenly newborn scent, their toothless, milky smiles and I tear up and think, "Only 14 more years."


All My Babies Are Gone Now
By Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author

All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow, but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education -- all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.

When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the "Remember-When-Mom-Did" Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language -- mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, "What did you get wrong?" (She insisted I include that here.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.

I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

I Belong!

I finally got my Colorado license plates yesterday. So now, since total strangers can't tell that I am a transplant, I actually feel like I belong here. Little do they know that I still possess a Texas driver's license with a hole punched in it and an addendum to prove that I have applied for a Colorado driver's license. I'm fooling them all! Mwahahaha!

I really don't know what that means. I guess it means that I can cross off a few other things on the To Do List. Other than that, the significance is pretty close to nothing. Whatever. I just like typing out the evil laugh.

I felt a little twinge of nostalgia while removing my Texas plates and securing the Colorado ones yesterday. That vehicle was bought in Texas and I've driven it primarily in Texas for well over 5 years. At the time it was purchased, I never considered that I'd ever move to Colorado. I was living a totally different life with no desire to change anything.

I have no idea why the simple act of changing license plates triggered all that thought. The significance of that is pretty nonexistent, too.

At Long Last! A New Sofa!

I finally ordered a new couch. I am so excited. It is going to be delivered tomorrow. I cannot wait! No more sitting on the floor to watch television and fold laundry!

It has taken two weeks of shopping and I mean real, hard-core shopping. I first checked out hundreds of sofas on line to get an idea of what I might want. I sat on dozens of sofas in half a dozen stores. I drove all over Denver looking for an outlet store that I finally discovered doesn't technically exist.

And then all the questions. Leather or fabric? Couch and chair or just a couch? How evil is microfiber, really? Will this particular fabric 'pill' and leave my couch looking like a sheepdog? Should I spring for the sofa sleeper? On one hand, it means an extra bed which can often come in handy. On the other hand, it makes the couch weigh a ton, is generally not fit for actual sleeping and will tack on at least $200 to the cost. How will this couch stand up to the trampling of a wild herd of buffalo? (Because that's what three children and their assorted cousins and friends amount to over 5 to 20 years.) What kind of person actually spends $2000 on a pit sectional for their living room?

I have come to the conclusion that I am the pickiest person on earth, when it comes to my couch. I want durable fabric that is still soft to the touch. I want thick, comfortable cushions that don't look too poofy. I want a tailored look that can still accomodate a few throw pillows. I want a sofa deep enough that I can snuggle all three children on while watching movies. I do not want a printed fabric. I want a solid color that can go with a variety of different colors so if I like blue throw pillows this week but green ones next week, everything will still look okay.

No wonder it took so long to make a decision. But I am pleased with the final choice. More than pleased -- overjoyed really. I am glad I took the time to make sure I am happy with this couch, because I do not want to do this again for oh, say 30 years. And I am so glad that they can deliver in two days, rather than making me wait a week or more. That might kill me.

I am currently searching the store's website for a picture of the sofa I ordered. I am not having any luck. So, since you can't see it here, you'll just have to come visit me to appreciate my new sofa in all its glory.