My kids are smarter than me.
They are fourteen (almost) and fifteen years old. And they are decidedly, absolutely, unarguably smarter than me. Here's how I know:
I can no longer help either of my children with their math homework. In truth, I had a hard time helping my son with his homework when he was in sixth grade and trying to teach himself algebra. We got him a tutor, and that tutor was well worth the money. That tutor saved me from having to say, over and over again, "Well, sweetie, I'm not quite sure how to do that one. Is it an odd number, so you can look at the answer in the back of the book?" Proud parenting moment #214: teaching your child that math books provide you with the answers to every other problem if only you know where to look.
Steven is currently in Calculus AB. I never made it past Algebra 2, and quite frankly didn't do super great in that class. One afternoon he was explaining some mind-blowing concept to me--something about a point on a graph disappearing but still being there, or getting infinitesimally smaller forever. He was kind of excited about the idea (in a way only someone who actually understood what he was talking about can be). At first I was really trying to understand what he was saying. It quickly became clear that wasn't going to happen. So then I was trying to just follow what he was saying. Nope, lost that battle. So then I was just trying to maintain the facade that I was understanding. And then that degenerated into me just nodding my head vigorously and saying "uh huh" a lot so he at least knew I was listening. That was all that was left for me to do at that point, just listen. Even just doing that made my head feel like it was going to explode. The kid is flippin' smart.
My eighth grade daughter is now in geometry, and working hard for her A, which she has maintained all year. I took geometry (in the tenth grade), and I'm here to tell you that this is NOT the same geometry that I took. I have no idea how something based on numbers and angles and invented by ancient Greeks could have possibly changed over the last twenty-five years, but it seriously has. I have no idea how to do the proofs that she does. If I had been placed in the class that she is taking when I was her age (or any age thereafter), that would have been the end of my mathematical education (it didn't last much longer anyway). Yet she can spend hours reasoning out these equations that are pages long. Even if I had the smarts to do that, I'm not sure I would have the patience. She's got it all over me on both counts.
Another way I know that my kids are smarter than me is when they expect an answer from me when they ask questions like, "Mom, in MLA format, would that be situational or dramatic irony?"
Huh?
First of all, I have no idea what MLA stands for. I can tell you what SLA stood for, I can tell you what MLB stands for. MLA? No idea.
As for situational vs. dramatic irony, what's the difference? In my day (oh, my god, did I just think that?) there was just irony. Again, how did something as timeless as irony change in the last couple of decades?
Both Steven and Olivia far surpass me in more than just intellectual smartness. Watching them on the computer makes me feel like a dinosaur. It's not that I can't do things on our Mac. I can. I can word process. I can Google things. I can make a playlist on iTunes. I can even create a blog. But I'm telling you, my kids can do things that never would have occurred to me were possible.
Yesterday, I was asking Steven for Christmas ideas. We were browsing a website that he likes because they have hundreds of t-shirts. Every time he would point one out that he liked, I would go up to the URL and copy it, and then paste it onto an email that I was going to send to my mom. Silly me. You can simply grab whatever icon is at the left of the URL and drag the whole thing onto your desk top, or into your open email. Who knew? Not me. Never would have guessed. How do you find out things like that? How did he know to do that?
Just last week, I was about to buy a song on iTunes. Olivia happened to be watching me, and told me not to buy it because she already had the song. She then proceeded, in about eight clicks, to open her iTunes, open my iTunes, click open song libraries, drag the song from one place to another, and BINGO! Her song was now my song, and I did not have to pay an additional $1.29 for it. I realize that this isn't that complicated a procedure. Nor is it that new a feature--song sharing between libraries. I just cannot remember how to do it. I will admit, a little embarrassingly, that I have, in fact, actually paid the $1.29 for a song that I really, really wanted (and that I knew one of them had already purchased) when the kids weren't home to conduct the transfer for me.
I realized the full force of my kids' surpassing intelligence (and simultaneously felt archaic and anachronistic) when I watched them operate their cell phones for the first time. I swear, they never touched the instruction manual (got that from me!). Yet they knew how to turn the phone on, how to enter addresses and phone numbers, how to assign ring tones, how to download ring tones, how to send and retrieve email, how to get to camera mode, and how to sync up their music and photos. They did most of that in the first ten minutes of having their own cell phone for the first time. It's taken me years of owning the iPhone, the most user-friendly, intuitive device ever invented, to figure some of that stuff out. My kids do not have iPhones. Their phones are, in my estimation, neither user-friendly nor intuitive, so much so that I have been unsuccessful just trying to answer their phones. How do they know how to do that stuff? Is phone technology part of their generation's DNA?
So there you have it. I cannot even manage to answer my own childrens' phones. I don't understand their math or their Language Arts. They run circles around me on the computer.
I'm okay with my kids being smarter than me. It makes me happy that they've eclipsed my IQ (although if they could have waited until they were past the age of 12 to do it I might feel a little better about myself). Just like you want your kids to succeed more than you did, you also want them to be smarter than you are. Mission accomplished.
Knowing how brilliant they are, I think it's only a matter of time before they figure out what the big chest of drawers in their rooms are for. Or what the chute that leads to the cupboard right above the washing machine is designed for. Or why that long, silver bar is hanging on the bathroom wall. Or what those plastic triangles hanging in their closets are there for. Or that if you pull on that handle on the dishwasher, it actually opens up, and you can put things inside...
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Vacations Together
This one's for you, Dave! Happy Thanksgiving Break!
The last couple of times I've been working on this blog, when my husband walks by, he's asked if I'm writing about him. Specifically, he asked if I was writing the "Oh, My God, I'm Only On Day Two Of My Nine Day Vacation With My Husband And I Want To Kill Him" entry. I was not writing that, nor, actually, had it even occurred to me to write that. But it did get me thinking.
My husband is a teacher. So his vacations consist of either one week off (Thanksgiving, Spring Break), two weeks off (Christmas), or eight weeks off (summer). One week off is almost nothing (not that I'm complaining, mind you). It's just not enough time to do much. In fact, by the time he actually gets relaxed and can sleep past his normal alarm-clock induced waking time of 4:30am, which takes a few days, it's then time to ramp back up and prepare to go back to work. One week is not enough time to fully relax.
Now, two weeks (or eight weeks) is another matter entirely. When Christmas and summer breaks begin, Dave likes to announce their arrival as he walks through our door with the words, "Kids, there's a new sheriff in town!" This is as much, I think, a proclamation to me as it is to our two teenagers.
You see, when Dave is working, things run the way I run them. It's not because I'm bossy or controlling (I don't think). It's more out of necessity. I'm the one home the most, so I set the schedule. He's busy earning a living and supporting our family, and I'm busy trying to make sure things run smoothly. By smoothly, I mean there's groceries in the fridge, homework gets done, the house is decent, teenagers get where they need to go, dinner's on the table each night, the kids are happy (or content, depending on the mood), and we don't run out of coffee. So that's MY definition of 'running smoothly'.
And Dave does not ever complain. He's never been a complainer. Also, he's so busy when he's working that I think he's very appreciative of my efforts to get things done that need to be done, regardless of how I get them done. He will gladly contribute to the effort in any way I ask, again without complaint, but is also demonstrably grateful when he can come home from a long day at work and not have to take charge of the running of the household.
When Dave is home for an extended period of time, however, we occasionally run into what I shall delicately call a 'difference in approach' on some issues.
A recap: re-read my definition of 'running smoothly' above.
Dave's definition of "running smoothly": groceries in the fridge are not past the printed due dates on their labels and if we need to have a 'scavenge night' for dinner, there is more than just tortillas and cheddar cheese with which to compose the meal; homework gets done by a reasonable hour (as defined by a parent, not a teenager), and 'done' does not mean the 'easy stuff' is left to do while eating breakfast; the kitchen table gets wiped down thoroughly with 409 every night after dinner and the sink gets rinsed out after the kids do the dishes; teenagers try to find a ride at least one way to all of the school and extraneous activities that they like to tell us about at the last minute; Kraft Mac n' Cheese is available in the pantry for Steven to make for himself and his sister if we want to go out to dinner just the two of us (the fact that Steven is in charge of the Mac n' Cheese is another blog); the kids are alive, and if not happy, well, damn it, give them a few hours--they'll get over it; we do not run out of coffee--ever.
Now, neither of our definitions of 'running smoothly' are bad or wrong. Our definitions just happen to suit our individual personalities. We have different personalities. Hence, the difference of opinion on certain things.
Dave is, as I said earlier, a teacher. He is used to setting goals, making lesson plans, and being in charge of getting large groups of teenagers to get things done. He is and always has been a person who appreciates order, efficiency, and expediency. And neatness. As an example, when we take a road trip somewhere new, the first thing Dave will do when he gets into my car is clean up any garbage that might be on the floor between the driver and passenger seat. He'll ask if everyone has everything they might need (like jackets, iPods, etc...), and then he'll check to see that we have directions to where we are going--actual directions, either printed on paper or typed into the Mapquest app on my phone.
I used to be a teacher, too. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Setting goals, making lessons, and being in charge of lots of teens was also part of my job. However, our paths diverged, and remain so, when we hit the order and expediency and efficiency parts. And the neatness part. Back to the above example: the first thing I do when I get into the car is see if there's any candy in the little 'car organizer' that's jammed between the two front seats. Hot Tamales, amazingly, are still good a week after you've opened the box and then forgotten about them. I assume everyone has what they need, and invariably double-back when one of the kids realizes he/she forgot his/her phone or shoes or race number (yeah, I'm talking to you, Steven). As for directions, my favorite phrase when we head out on a little excursion is, "I can get us there!" And I always do. Just not necessarily in the most expedient or efficient manner.
But you know what? Even though we approach things differently, it seems to work. It's not an 'opposites attract' thing, because we truly are not even close to being opposites. We are more like the melody and the harmony of a song. Both perform their own unique function, both sound good on their own, but when you put them together, it's just better.
My way works great most of the time, but I must admit that sometimes having the kids do the dishes, wipe down the table, go to bed not stressed out over incomplete assignments, and going to dinner with just my husband is really, really nice. Being the sheriff is a great job, and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but I'm happy to occasionally hand over my tin star (for no less than two weeks and no greater than eight weeks).
The last couple of times I've been working on this blog, when my husband walks by, he's asked if I'm writing about him. Specifically, he asked if I was writing the "Oh, My God, I'm Only On Day Two Of My Nine Day Vacation With My Husband And I Want To Kill Him" entry. I was not writing that, nor, actually, had it even occurred to me to write that. But it did get me thinking.
My husband is a teacher. So his vacations consist of either one week off (Thanksgiving, Spring Break), two weeks off (Christmas), or eight weeks off (summer). One week off is almost nothing (not that I'm complaining, mind you). It's just not enough time to do much. In fact, by the time he actually gets relaxed and can sleep past his normal alarm-clock induced waking time of 4:30am, which takes a few days, it's then time to ramp back up and prepare to go back to work. One week is not enough time to fully relax.
Now, two weeks (or eight weeks) is another matter entirely. When Christmas and summer breaks begin, Dave likes to announce their arrival as he walks through our door with the words, "Kids, there's a new sheriff in town!" This is as much, I think, a proclamation to me as it is to our two teenagers.
You see, when Dave is working, things run the way I run them. It's not because I'm bossy or controlling (I don't think). It's more out of necessity. I'm the one home the most, so I set the schedule. He's busy earning a living and supporting our family, and I'm busy trying to make sure things run smoothly. By smoothly, I mean there's groceries in the fridge, homework gets done, the house is decent, teenagers get where they need to go, dinner's on the table each night, the kids are happy (or content, depending on the mood), and we don't run out of coffee. So that's MY definition of 'running smoothly'.
And Dave does not ever complain. He's never been a complainer. Also, he's so busy when he's working that I think he's very appreciative of my efforts to get things done that need to be done, regardless of how I get them done. He will gladly contribute to the effort in any way I ask, again without complaint, but is also demonstrably grateful when he can come home from a long day at work and not have to take charge of the running of the household.
When Dave is home for an extended period of time, however, we occasionally run into what I shall delicately call a 'difference in approach' on some issues.
A recap: re-read my definition of 'running smoothly' above.
Dave's definition of "running smoothly": groceries in the fridge are not past the printed due dates on their labels and if we need to have a 'scavenge night' for dinner, there is more than just tortillas and cheddar cheese with which to compose the meal; homework gets done by a reasonable hour (as defined by a parent, not a teenager), and 'done' does not mean the 'easy stuff' is left to do while eating breakfast; the kitchen table gets wiped down thoroughly with 409 every night after dinner and the sink gets rinsed out after the kids do the dishes; teenagers try to find a ride at least one way to all of the school and extraneous activities that they like to tell us about at the last minute; Kraft Mac n' Cheese is available in the pantry for Steven to make for himself and his sister if we want to go out to dinner just the two of us (the fact that Steven is in charge of the Mac n' Cheese is another blog); the kids are alive, and if not happy, well, damn it, give them a few hours--they'll get over it; we do not run out of coffee--ever.
Now, neither of our definitions of 'running smoothly' are bad or wrong. Our definitions just happen to suit our individual personalities. We have different personalities. Hence, the difference of opinion on certain things.
Dave is, as I said earlier, a teacher. He is used to setting goals, making lesson plans, and being in charge of getting large groups of teenagers to get things done. He is and always has been a person who appreciates order, efficiency, and expediency. And neatness. As an example, when we take a road trip somewhere new, the first thing Dave will do when he gets into my car is clean up any garbage that might be on the floor between the driver and passenger seat. He'll ask if everyone has everything they might need (like jackets, iPods, etc...), and then he'll check to see that we have directions to where we are going--actual directions, either printed on paper or typed into the Mapquest app on my phone.
I used to be a teacher, too. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Setting goals, making lessons, and being in charge of lots of teens was also part of my job. However, our paths diverged, and remain so, when we hit the order and expediency and efficiency parts. And the neatness part. Back to the above example: the first thing I do when I get into the car is see if there's any candy in the little 'car organizer' that's jammed between the two front seats. Hot Tamales, amazingly, are still good a week after you've opened the box and then forgotten about them. I assume everyone has what they need, and invariably double-back when one of the kids realizes he/she forgot his/her phone or shoes or race number (yeah, I'm talking to you, Steven). As for directions, my favorite phrase when we head out on a little excursion is, "I can get us there!" And I always do. Just not necessarily in the most expedient or efficient manner.
But you know what? Even though we approach things differently, it seems to work. It's not an 'opposites attract' thing, because we truly are not even close to being opposites. We are more like the melody and the harmony of a song. Both perform their own unique function, both sound good on their own, but when you put them together, it's just better.
My way works great most of the time, but I must admit that sometimes having the kids do the dishes, wipe down the table, go to bed not stressed out over incomplete assignments, and going to dinner with just my husband is really, really nice. Being the sheriff is a great job, and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but I'm happy to occasionally hand over my tin star (for no less than two weeks and no greater than eight weeks).
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Noises
I've been thinking about noises lately. No, let me rephrase that. I've been listening to noises lately. There are a lot of them, a wide range of sounds from soft to loud, harmonious to incongruous, inviting to unpleasant. But the noises I've been most intent on, the ones that I seem to hear more than any others, are the ones that come from me. Now before you say to yourself, "Ew, gross," and click over to Facebook to check and see if anyone has commented on your latest post, I am not talking about bodily noises. Per se. More about the noises that I utter in response to the aches and pains my now-over 40 year old body has developed in the last several years. Whoever first uttered the phrase "40 is the new 30" was clearly trying to boost her self-esteem and had no real idea what she was in for. And she absolutely had not turned 40 yet.
But before I get to the noises, a brief rant about turning 40:
I absolutely remember my parents each turning 40. I even remember our neighbor turning 40 (but really, I only remember that because there was a pizza with 40 written on it in pepperoni, and I thought that was a really cool idea at the time). It seemed like such an old age at the time. Ancient. If you asked me now, at my present age of 44, to describe to you what my parents looked like when THEY were 40, I would recollect that they looked SO MUCH OLDER at that age than I do now. And yet when I go back and look at photos of me at thirteen and my parents at 40 and 43 respectively, they in fact look quite young. Why do I not remember them that way in my mind? How do my kids see me?
It's funny (not ha ha funny; more ironic funny). You hear about "turning 40" your whole life, or at least you register it as a huge event from the point that age is of any significance to you. After the Sweet 16 party, there's not much else of note until you turn 40 (okay, 21 is noteworthy, but truly not many people actually remember that one after the fact, so I'm not counting it). And then BAM, 40 hits (for all of you that hold at 39, you're not fooling anyone) and all the sudden instead of looking forward to your birthday, you're supposed to dread it. Instead of asking for the first and biggest slice of your favorite flavor of cake (Lady Lord from the Holiday Snack Bar in Beach Haven, New Jersey thank you very much), you request a thin slice with no ice cream. Calories getting harder to burn off. Do you get 40 candles on your cake? No you do not. You get either a giant "4" candle and a giant "0" candle, or you get a few candles in the shape of a 40. Or one symbolic candle. People wear black armbands to your party. They buy plates with "Over the Hill" emblazoned in black writing on them for god's sake. In what I think is the most back-handed compliment-disguised as an insult ever conceived, you all the sudden get compared to fine bottles of wine.
What's so terrible about turning 40, I always wondered before I turned 40 (ok, that's not entirely true--I thought turning 40 meant the end of youth and fun and freedom up until I was about 34; then, when faced with the prospect of turning 40 in the not-so-distant future, I conveniently started wondering what the big deal would be, as I clearly would be the youngest-seeming/looking 40 year old EVER). What's the big deal? It's a number. It doesn't define you. It's not like some anti-Peter-Pan fairy swoops down on you at 40 and sprinkles you with "now you're old" dust.
I mocked people who were afraid of 40. I mocked people who were over 40 and talked about it like it was some sort of life-altering change.
Until I actually turned 40. Okay, I get it now.
As it turns out, there may be some correlation between that "over the hill" thing and 40.
Things began to happen. Not giant things. And not all at once. But little things. My shoulder all the sudden began to hurt, and I couldn't move it a certain way. My back ached a bit when I got up in the morning. My running pace slowed down (see previous blog to get the full impact of just how slow I now must be going). It got harder to lose a pound or two. My right knee began to hurt if I ran more than seven miles (lucky for me, this didn't occur too terribly often). I had trouble getting to sleep some nights. I began to think that 2pm naps sounded like an idea whose time had arrived. I couldn't hear as well. I began talking to myself--out loud ("Okay, keys, I know you're here. If I were my keys, where would I be? Got back from the store, put away the groceries... hmmm... walked over to the sink..."). You get the idea.
All the sudden, I felt old. Not older, just plain old.
Which brings me back to the noises.
When I get up in the morning, I make this "uuuhhh" noise as I get out of bed because my back is so stiff.
When I bend down to pick up the wet towel that has been left on my daughter's floor (that's a whole other blog, by the way, soon to come) an audible groan escapes me.
When I get up off the couch, I have been known to say something akin to "oofff".
Still talking to myself, still out loud.
There's a whole list of maladies and noises that I am compiling. And all of them have developed in the last couple of years, since I turned 40.
So I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to my parents.
I'm sorry, Mom, that I could not understand why you liked to take a nap in the afternoons when I was a teenager, and that I thought it wasn't fair that when we went camping you got to have a cot or a pad under your sleeping bag while the rest of us slept on the ground. A sore back (likely brought on by doing so many things for all of us, for which we probably never said proper thank you's), I now understand, requires special pampering.
I'm sorry, Dad, that we (and by we, I'm implicating both my brothers) thought it was funny that you could fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and occasionally we might have tried to wake you up to amuse ourselves. I truly wish I had that talent now--falling asleep anywhere, anytime. Being able to get good sleep makes for a happy, content person, which you always were and still are. And even though we (again, implicating the siblings) poked fun at you not hearing what was going on around you, I think that two out of three of us REALLY understand that situation at this point in our lives. Thanks for always being such a great sport.
I get it now. I really do. And lest I forget to note them, there are certainly some upsides to being in my 40's. I have finally learned how to take ibuprofen for maximum effectiveness (thank you, honey, for your patience with that one--sooner or later I'll actually follow through). I have thighs of steel (from bending at the knees to save my back). My kids are now old enough to do some of the literal heavy lifting that I can no longer do because it hurts my back. My son will very soon be old enough to do some of the chauffeuring duties--he will be able to drive himself to school, pick up his sister, take her to dance class, whiz by the store for some ingredient I forgot for dinner, and pick up milkshakes late at night when we all get a sweet tooth. And of course I can't forget that amidst all the aches and pains and noises, there's not much I truly cannot do, so I'm grateful for that.
I'm using my new-found understanding of this decade of my life to look forward, to anticipate the realities (read: pains) and joys of turning 50. I'm ready to embrace the AARP, the senior discount, medicaid (if it's still around) and the early-bird special.
And, I recently heard that 50 is the new 40, so I'll have that going for me!
But before I get to the noises, a brief rant about turning 40:
I absolutely remember my parents each turning 40. I even remember our neighbor turning 40 (but really, I only remember that because there was a pizza with 40 written on it in pepperoni, and I thought that was a really cool idea at the time). It seemed like such an old age at the time. Ancient. If you asked me now, at my present age of 44, to describe to you what my parents looked like when THEY were 40, I would recollect that they looked SO MUCH OLDER at that age than I do now. And yet when I go back and look at photos of me at thirteen and my parents at 40 and 43 respectively, they in fact look quite young. Why do I not remember them that way in my mind? How do my kids see me?
It's funny (not ha ha funny; more ironic funny). You hear about "turning 40" your whole life, or at least you register it as a huge event from the point that age is of any significance to you. After the Sweet 16 party, there's not much else of note until you turn 40 (okay, 21 is noteworthy, but truly not many people actually remember that one after the fact, so I'm not counting it). And then BAM, 40 hits (for all of you that hold at 39, you're not fooling anyone) and all the sudden instead of looking forward to your birthday, you're supposed to dread it. Instead of asking for the first and biggest slice of your favorite flavor of cake (Lady Lord from the Holiday Snack Bar in Beach Haven, New Jersey thank you very much), you request a thin slice with no ice cream. Calories getting harder to burn off. Do you get 40 candles on your cake? No you do not. You get either a giant "4" candle and a giant "0" candle, or you get a few candles in the shape of a 40. Or one symbolic candle. People wear black armbands to your party. They buy plates with "Over the Hill" emblazoned in black writing on them for god's sake. In what I think is the most back-handed compliment-disguised as an insult ever conceived, you all the sudden get compared to fine bottles of wine.
What's so terrible about turning 40, I always wondered before I turned 40 (ok, that's not entirely true--I thought turning 40 meant the end of youth and fun and freedom up until I was about 34; then, when faced with the prospect of turning 40 in the not-so-distant future, I conveniently started wondering what the big deal would be, as I clearly would be the youngest-seeming/looking 40 year old EVER). What's the big deal? It's a number. It doesn't define you. It's not like some anti-Peter-Pan fairy swoops down on you at 40 and sprinkles you with "now you're old" dust.
I mocked people who were afraid of 40. I mocked people who were over 40 and talked about it like it was some sort of life-altering change.
Until I actually turned 40. Okay, I get it now.
As it turns out, there may be some correlation between that "over the hill" thing and 40.
Things began to happen. Not giant things. And not all at once. But little things. My shoulder all the sudden began to hurt, and I couldn't move it a certain way. My back ached a bit when I got up in the morning. My running pace slowed down (see previous blog to get the full impact of just how slow I now must be going). It got harder to lose a pound or two. My right knee began to hurt if I ran more than seven miles (lucky for me, this didn't occur too terribly often). I had trouble getting to sleep some nights. I began to think that 2pm naps sounded like an idea whose time had arrived. I couldn't hear as well. I began talking to myself--out loud ("Okay, keys, I know you're here. If I were my keys, where would I be? Got back from the store, put away the groceries... hmmm... walked over to the sink..."). You get the idea.
All the sudden, I felt old. Not older, just plain old.
Which brings me back to the noises.
When I get up in the morning, I make this "uuuhhh" noise as I get out of bed because my back is so stiff.
When I bend down to pick up the wet towel that has been left on my daughter's floor (that's a whole other blog, by the way, soon to come) an audible groan escapes me.
When I get up off the couch, I have been known to say something akin to "oofff".
Still talking to myself, still out loud.
There's a whole list of maladies and noises that I am compiling. And all of them have developed in the last couple of years, since I turned 40.
So I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to my parents.
I'm sorry, Mom, that I could not understand why you liked to take a nap in the afternoons when I was a teenager, and that I thought it wasn't fair that when we went camping you got to have a cot or a pad under your sleeping bag while the rest of us slept on the ground. A sore back (likely brought on by doing so many things for all of us, for which we probably never said proper thank you's), I now understand, requires special pampering.
I'm sorry, Dad, that we (and by we, I'm implicating both my brothers) thought it was funny that you could fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and occasionally we might have tried to wake you up to amuse ourselves. I truly wish I had that talent now--falling asleep anywhere, anytime. Being able to get good sleep makes for a happy, content person, which you always were and still are. And even though we (again, implicating the siblings) poked fun at you not hearing what was going on around you, I think that two out of three of us REALLY understand that situation at this point in our lives. Thanks for always being such a great sport.
I get it now. I really do. And lest I forget to note them, there are certainly some upsides to being in my 40's. I have finally learned how to take ibuprofen for maximum effectiveness (thank you, honey, for your patience with that one--sooner or later I'll actually follow through). I have thighs of steel (from bending at the knees to save my back). My kids are now old enough to do some of the literal heavy lifting that I can no longer do because it hurts my back. My son will very soon be old enough to do some of the chauffeuring duties--he will be able to drive himself to school, pick up his sister, take her to dance class, whiz by the store for some ingredient I forgot for dinner, and pick up milkshakes late at night when we all get a sweet tooth. And of course I can't forget that amidst all the aches and pains and noises, there's not much I truly cannot do, so I'm grateful for that.
I'm using my new-found understanding of this decade of my life to look forward, to anticipate the realities (read: pains) and joys of turning 50. I'm ready to embrace the AARP, the senior discount, medicaid (if it's still around) and the early-bird special.
And, I recently heard that 50 is the new 40, so I'll have that going for me!
Monday, November 1, 2010
I Have a Teenage Daughter
I have a teenage daughter--she's thirteen, almost fourteen. I am officially an MOTG (mom of a teenage girl). I'm working on a better acronym.
Now, if you have a teenage daughter, have been a teenage daughter, or know someone who is a mother of a teenage daughter, or frankly if you just know a teenage girl, you probably have that look on your face right now. You probably didn't even realize it came over you--it just comes instinctively. It's that look of sympathy combined with exhilaration, fear and exhaustion.
For some reason, I have found that the mere mention of a teenage daughter in conversation provokes some sort of reaction amongst, well, almost anyone.
When you talk to a fellow MOTG, you get immediate support for any injustice your child may or may not have committed. Moms share stories. If you don't have a good one, your friends will tell you theirs (it's almost like a blood sport--everyone's got a story that's worse than the previous one). And at the end of their stories they will tell you with no uncertainty (and a little bit of badly masked joy) that their stories WILL BE your stories--it's only a matter of time.
When you talk to those who have never had a teenage daughter (they only have boys, or their girls are still toddlers), their thoughts immediately go all Pollyanna on you. They will ask you, with a lilt in their voices and an innocent smile on their faces, if it's so fun to go shopping together and share makeup and girl talk and give boyfriend advice. They want to know if you share clothes and shoes. Your reality is not even in the same dimension as what they perceive to be your reality. You just have to listen, smile, pretend. Nothing you say will convince them that teenage girls are not all Disney princesses.
When you talk to dads they go all second amendment on you and divulge what kinds and how many weapons they have in the house, and exactly what they will do with those weapons should a boy choose to throw a glance in the wrong direction. And they will wrap up their discourse by telling you, in a slightly hushed voice, that they were once teenage boys themselves and they know EXACTLY what all boys are thinking and EXACTLY what all teenage boys would like to do with and/or to their daughters. They will also let you in on the fact that they will wait up for their daughters to arrive home when their daughters begin dating (which according to most dads will be when they turn 29).
Now, I will admit that as an MOTG (still working on that acronym...) I have certainly had my share of stereotypical experiences. We've argued over clothing styles. We've tussled over curfews. We've squabbled about her messy room. We've had "the talk". We've debated the right age to be allowed to wear makeup and dangly earrings. We've discussed the purpose of the entire movie rating system and the philosophy behind PG-13. But isn't that to be expected? Kids of certain ages go through certain stages. We've all read the parenting magazines--we should know what's coming down the pike shouldn't we? Knowing what's ahead and preparing for it is responsible parenting.
What I could never have prepared for, however, is watching my daughter, as she enters her teen years, transform into the most amazing young woman I could ever hope to know. Seemingly against all odds (according to MOTG's everywhere), I have a teenage daughter who is polite, and not just to her own friends, but to everyone. She can carry on a conversation with my best friend just as easily as she can carry on a conversation with her own best friend. She makes eye contact. She listens. She asks engaging questions and even provides answers that go beyond the monotone "yeah" or "nah".
I have a teenage daughter who, while she will not necessarily offer you a bite of the cookie she just nabbed out of the just-opened package (she enjoys her sugar in a way that can only be described as euphoric), if it is the LAST cookie in the box, she will ask you if you want the whole thing.
I have a teenage daughter who went to a birthday party at her friend's house. They watched a very scary, gory movie, which she had no idea they were going to watch. When I picked her up late in the evening, she got into the car and, as the door closed, she burst into tears. Between sobs, she told me that the movie was really gross and bloody and she did not want to watch it. I asked her why she didn't call me to come and get her. Still crying, she explained that it was her friend's birthday, and she did not want to be rude.
I have a teenage daughter who last week, on a Saturday when she could have been out hanging with her friends, gathered her mom, dad and big brother onto the couch next to her and put in an old home-movie of our family from when she and her brother were toddlers. We watched that DVDall together, laughing so hard at some moments that we couldn't catch our breath. One particular scene of an Easter morning will be quoted in our family for years to come (hearing your 13 year old ask you, at the most sarcastically opportune moment, "You know who's proud of you, Mom? Jesus is," makes you simultaneously laugh out loud and realize that your kids in fact do listen to you and they do pick up on your irreverent attitudes, for better or worse).
I have a teenage daughter who is fun to be around. Apparently that is rare. I've heard people talk about what nightmares teenage daughters are, how disrespectful they can be. Those words have never crossed my mind to describe mine. I would choose, instead, the following words: kind, generous, big-hearted, compassionate, forgiving, smart, persistent, conscientious, talented, supportive, funny beyond belief.
I have a teenage daughter who says "I love you" as she walks out the door for school, when she leaves to go on a bike ride, when her dad leaves for a meeting, when her brother goes to spend the night at a friend's house, as she's about to hang up the phone with her grandparents.
I have a teenage daughter who, every single night as I tuck her into bed, says "Best mommy ever!"
And my response, from my heart every single night, will always be, "Best Bia in the world!"
I've given the acronym thing (MOTG) as much consideration as it's going to get, and I've decided that there is no acronym that rightly describes my situation. I think that I will, simply and very proudly, call myself Olivia's mom.
Now, if you have a teenage daughter, have been a teenage daughter, or know someone who is a mother of a teenage daughter, or frankly if you just know a teenage girl, you probably have that look on your face right now. You probably didn't even realize it came over you--it just comes instinctively. It's that look of sympathy combined with exhilaration, fear and exhaustion.
For some reason, I have found that the mere mention of a teenage daughter in conversation provokes some sort of reaction amongst, well, almost anyone.
When you talk to a fellow MOTG, you get immediate support for any injustice your child may or may not have committed. Moms share stories. If you don't have a good one, your friends will tell you theirs (it's almost like a blood sport--everyone's got a story that's worse than the previous one). And at the end of their stories they will tell you with no uncertainty (and a little bit of badly masked joy) that their stories WILL BE your stories--it's only a matter of time.
When you talk to those who have never had a teenage daughter (they only have boys, or their girls are still toddlers), their thoughts immediately go all Pollyanna on you. They will ask you, with a lilt in their voices and an innocent smile on their faces, if it's so fun to go shopping together and share makeup and girl talk and give boyfriend advice. They want to know if you share clothes and shoes. Your reality is not even in the same dimension as what they perceive to be your reality. You just have to listen, smile, pretend. Nothing you say will convince them that teenage girls are not all Disney princesses.
When you talk to dads they go all second amendment on you and divulge what kinds and how many weapons they have in the house, and exactly what they will do with those weapons should a boy choose to throw a glance in the wrong direction. And they will wrap up their discourse by telling you, in a slightly hushed voice, that they were once teenage boys themselves and they know EXACTLY what all boys are thinking and EXACTLY what all teenage boys would like to do with and/or to their daughters. They will also let you in on the fact that they will wait up for their daughters to arrive home when their daughters begin dating (which according to most dads will be when they turn 29).
Now, I will admit that as an MOTG (still working on that acronym...) I have certainly had my share of stereotypical experiences. We've argued over clothing styles. We've tussled over curfews. We've squabbled about her messy room. We've had "the talk". We've debated the right age to be allowed to wear makeup and dangly earrings. We've discussed the purpose of the entire movie rating system and the philosophy behind PG-13. But isn't that to be expected? Kids of certain ages go through certain stages. We've all read the parenting magazines--we should know what's coming down the pike shouldn't we? Knowing what's ahead and preparing for it is responsible parenting.
What I could never have prepared for, however, is watching my daughter, as she enters her teen years, transform into the most amazing young woman I could ever hope to know. Seemingly against all odds (according to MOTG's everywhere), I have a teenage daughter who is polite, and not just to her own friends, but to everyone. She can carry on a conversation with my best friend just as easily as she can carry on a conversation with her own best friend. She makes eye contact. She listens. She asks engaging questions and even provides answers that go beyond the monotone "yeah" or "nah".
I have a teenage daughter who, while she will not necessarily offer you a bite of the cookie she just nabbed out of the just-opened package (she enjoys her sugar in a way that can only be described as euphoric), if it is the LAST cookie in the box, she will ask you if you want the whole thing.
I have a teenage daughter who went to a birthday party at her friend's house. They watched a very scary, gory movie, which she had no idea they were going to watch. When I picked her up late in the evening, she got into the car and, as the door closed, she burst into tears. Between sobs, she told me that the movie was really gross and bloody and she did not want to watch it. I asked her why she didn't call me to come and get her. Still crying, she explained that it was her friend's birthday, and she did not want to be rude.
I have a teenage daughter who last week, on a Saturday when she could have been out hanging with her friends, gathered her mom, dad and big brother onto the couch next to her and put in an old home-movie of our family from when she and her brother were toddlers. We watched that DVDall together, laughing so hard at some moments that we couldn't catch our breath. One particular scene of an Easter morning will be quoted in our family for years to come (hearing your 13 year old ask you, at the most sarcastically opportune moment, "You know who's proud of you, Mom? Jesus is," makes you simultaneously laugh out loud and realize that your kids in fact do listen to you and they do pick up on your irreverent attitudes, for better or worse).
I have a teenage daughter who is fun to be around. Apparently that is rare. I've heard people talk about what nightmares teenage daughters are, how disrespectful they can be. Those words have never crossed my mind to describe mine. I would choose, instead, the following words: kind, generous, big-hearted, compassionate, forgiving, smart, persistent, conscientious, talented, supportive, funny beyond belief.
I have a teenage daughter who says "I love you" as she walks out the door for school, when she leaves to go on a bike ride, when her dad leaves for a meeting, when her brother goes to spend the night at a friend's house, as she's about to hang up the phone with her grandparents.
I have a teenage daughter who, every single night as I tuck her into bed, says "Best mommy ever!"
And my response, from my heart every single night, will always be, "Best Bia in the world!"
I've given the acronym thing (MOTG) as much consideration as it's going to get, and I've decided that there is no acronym that rightly describes my situation. I think that I will, simply and very proudly, call myself Olivia's mom.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Training, It Turns Out, Does Matter
I went running with my fifteen year old son last weekend.
A little background: I ran on the cross-country team in high school for three years. I started sporadically running again after the kids were born, and gradually began running in local races--some 5k's, then on to some 10k's, and then half-marathons. I've run six half-marathons. I've completed two sprint triathlons. I've completed an Avon 2 Day Walk, where my sister-in-law and I walked 26 miles on Day 1 and 13 miles on Day 2. So I've had some experience with exercise, and more than a passing interest in running in particular.
You can imagine how thrilled I was, after years of encouraging my kids to give running a try, when my son joined the cross-country team this year. He is a sophomore, and has a definite runner's build--tall and lanky. He was made for running.
He has had an impressive first year in the sport. He runs on the frosh-soph team. He talks about VO2 MAX, and PR's, and hill sprints and overpass repeats. He's run at altitude. He's run a mile in six minutes. He's done things in his first year that I have not, and will not, ever accomplish as a runner.
Which brings me to our weekend run a few days ago.
We go to the beach a lot--same beach each time. There's a hill at this beach that I have run many times. It's long. It's steep. It's challenging. It calls to me. I've told my son about this hill before, but last weekend was the first time he has ever been interested in going with me to tackle it. In my defense, I have not been running regularly. Or sporadically. Or at all. For awhile. A long while. Probably eight months. But none-the-less, when I'm at the beach, the hill calls. I must answer.
So we set out, the two of us, to get to the hill. The only way, unfortunately, to get to the hill is to run along the beach. Running on sand, while it looks all romantic in commercials and on soap operas, is not fun. It is not a stable or flat surface. You twist your ankles and run at an angle and generally do not do your lower back any good. If you have to run on sand, you try to run on the harder sand, near the water's edge. For some reason, that day, there was no hard sand. Every step we took we sank about two inches down. My son kept running the whole time, not finding any discomfort in the torturously uneven surface. My son was practically jogging in place I was going so slow. He actually ran backward at one point for a few steps. He chatted. He smiled. I struggled.
Finally, after what to me felt like a ten mile run, we covered the quarter mile it takes to get to the base of the hill. There we were, at the bottom, staring up the road that led up to the top. I gave my son the obligatory, "Hey, you run faster than me. Feel free to go at your own pace. I'll meet you at the top." Yes, I said that, but in my mind I was thinking, "Yeah, I'll be right behind you. I've got this. I know this hill. I've conquered it before. You won't be far ahead of me, the seasoned runner."
So off we went. My son virtually sprinted up the hill--at least that's what it looked like to me. His blond hair was flowing backwards he was going so damn fast. He quickly disappeared over the ridge line ahead of me as I reached about a quarter of the way up the hill. A group of men were walking down the hill, and I tried to think of something witty to say to them as we passed one another, but a combination of oxygen depravation and the inability to utter anything but a gasping-for-breath sound prevented me from doing so. We passed in silence (other than my gasping).
I began to walk. Or maybe it could have been categorized as a very, very, very slow run. Perhaps a very, very, very slow jog. Okay, I walked. And then I began to run again. And then I walked. And then I ran. And walked. I finally made it to the top of the hill. My son was nowhere in sight. It gets really flat at the top of the hill for a few hundred yards (before it goes up yet again), so I decided this was my best chance at running for more than twenty steps without having to stop and walk. From the side road, my son appeared. He hadn't run ahead--he had been running loops on the side roads that go into the campgrounds while he waited for me. Yep, I was that slow. I commented on my lack of prowess. He reminded me that he had been training for five months. I considered that perhaps, yes, that might make a difference. Perhaps I wasn't in peak shape. Mind you, I merely considered these thoughts. I was not convinced of them. I was seriously still thinking that I might make a miraculous comeback at some point on this run, that my past running abilities and long-ago training would suddenly come back to me, sending waves of shock and awe through my son as I passed him by (or at least caught up to him).
We continued on. Up a bit more--again, he ran ahead and disappeared. He reappeared as he ran back down (yes, back down--he had chosen to run up this optional little side hill while waiting for me to catch up) a boardwalk-like path that went up the dunes to give what is, according to my son, a breathtaking view of the ocean and the hills. He was so excited about the view--"Do you want to run up the path and see it Mom?" Seriously? I am fighting to catch my breath even walking this regular hill, and he's literally running circles around me and finding additional hills to add in just for fun. I am feeling all 44 of my years at this point, with perhaps a few tacked on for good measure.
We continued on, down the other side of the hill. Damn it, he was even faster than me on the downhill. Now we were at a crossroads. We could either retrace our steps and head back the way we came, or run a flat (er) route back to the condo. We weighed the pros and cons of each.
retrace steps over hill:
pro: faster, and we'd been gone quite a while at this point--I was afraid a search party might be out looking for us
pro: the hill is a fun challenge (that was from my son)
pro: it's a shorter distance back
con: it's a hill (that was from me)
run flat(er) route:
pro: it's flat(er)
con: it takes longer
con: it is a longer distance, and I don't think I can run that far right now (again, that was from me, not my son)
So, you can see that the pro's were greater for retracing our steps. We turned around and headed back up over the hill. Once again, my son disappeared up into the distance, leaving me to hum the Rocky theme song to myself as I tried to imagine that the hill in front of me was the set of steps that Rocky inspirationally ran up without stopping. I imagined I could run the whole thing, just like Rocky did. Turns out my imagination needs some work. I walked. And I ran. And I walked. And when I finally caught up with my son, he was waiting for me at the top so we could do the last downhill stretch together. Which we did. And it hurt. Downhills hurt. Uphills hurt. It all hurts! The hill wins! I will not approach the hill again unless I am better prepared.
We made it to the bottom, and jogged out onto the beach to head home.
We decided, together, that it's too hard to run on the sand (thank you, my wonderful son, for that one--I know you could have run it no problem). We took off our shoes, and walked the last stretch talking about what college he currently wants to go to, what majors he's interested in, and what he's looking for in a college. He told me he'd like to stay sort of close to home.
I went running with my fifteen year old son last weekend. It may have been the best run of my life.
A little background: I ran on the cross-country team in high school for three years. I started sporadically running again after the kids were born, and gradually began running in local races--some 5k's, then on to some 10k's, and then half-marathons. I've run six half-marathons. I've completed two sprint triathlons. I've completed an Avon 2 Day Walk, where my sister-in-law and I walked 26 miles on Day 1 and 13 miles on Day 2. So I've had some experience with exercise, and more than a passing interest in running in particular.
You can imagine how thrilled I was, after years of encouraging my kids to give running a try, when my son joined the cross-country team this year. He is a sophomore, and has a definite runner's build--tall and lanky. He was made for running.
He has had an impressive first year in the sport. He runs on the frosh-soph team. He talks about VO2 MAX, and PR's, and hill sprints and overpass repeats. He's run at altitude. He's run a mile in six minutes. He's done things in his first year that I have not, and will not, ever accomplish as a runner.
Which brings me to our weekend run a few days ago.
We go to the beach a lot--same beach each time. There's a hill at this beach that I have run many times. It's long. It's steep. It's challenging. It calls to me. I've told my son about this hill before, but last weekend was the first time he has ever been interested in going with me to tackle it. In my defense, I have not been running regularly. Or sporadically. Or at all. For awhile. A long while. Probably eight months. But none-the-less, when I'm at the beach, the hill calls. I must answer.
So we set out, the two of us, to get to the hill. The only way, unfortunately, to get to the hill is to run along the beach. Running on sand, while it looks all romantic in commercials and on soap operas, is not fun. It is not a stable or flat surface. You twist your ankles and run at an angle and generally do not do your lower back any good. If you have to run on sand, you try to run on the harder sand, near the water's edge. For some reason, that day, there was no hard sand. Every step we took we sank about two inches down. My son kept running the whole time, not finding any discomfort in the torturously uneven surface. My son was practically jogging in place I was going so slow. He actually ran backward at one point for a few steps. He chatted. He smiled. I struggled.
Finally, after what to me felt like a ten mile run, we covered the quarter mile it takes to get to the base of the hill. There we were, at the bottom, staring up the road that led up to the top. I gave my son the obligatory, "Hey, you run faster than me. Feel free to go at your own pace. I'll meet you at the top." Yes, I said that, but in my mind I was thinking, "Yeah, I'll be right behind you. I've got this. I know this hill. I've conquered it before. You won't be far ahead of me, the seasoned runner."
So off we went. My son virtually sprinted up the hill--at least that's what it looked like to me. His blond hair was flowing backwards he was going so damn fast. He quickly disappeared over the ridge line ahead of me as I reached about a quarter of the way up the hill. A group of men were walking down the hill, and I tried to think of something witty to say to them as we passed one another, but a combination of oxygen depravation and the inability to utter anything but a gasping-for-breath sound prevented me from doing so. We passed in silence (other than my gasping).
I began to walk. Or maybe it could have been categorized as a very, very, very slow run. Perhaps a very, very, very slow jog. Okay, I walked. And then I began to run again. And then I walked. And then I ran. And walked. I finally made it to the top of the hill. My son was nowhere in sight. It gets really flat at the top of the hill for a few hundred yards (before it goes up yet again), so I decided this was my best chance at running for more than twenty steps without having to stop and walk. From the side road, my son appeared. He hadn't run ahead--he had been running loops on the side roads that go into the campgrounds while he waited for me. Yep, I was that slow. I commented on my lack of prowess. He reminded me that he had been training for five months. I considered that perhaps, yes, that might make a difference. Perhaps I wasn't in peak shape. Mind you, I merely considered these thoughts. I was not convinced of them. I was seriously still thinking that I might make a miraculous comeback at some point on this run, that my past running abilities and long-ago training would suddenly come back to me, sending waves of shock and awe through my son as I passed him by (or at least caught up to him).
We continued on. Up a bit more--again, he ran ahead and disappeared. He reappeared as he ran back down (yes, back down--he had chosen to run up this optional little side hill while waiting for me to catch up) a boardwalk-like path that went up the dunes to give what is, according to my son, a breathtaking view of the ocean and the hills. He was so excited about the view--"Do you want to run up the path and see it Mom?" Seriously? I am fighting to catch my breath even walking this regular hill, and he's literally running circles around me and finding additional hills to add in just for fun. I am feeling all 44 of my years at this point, with perhaps a few tacked on for good measure.
We continued on, down the other side of the hill. Damn it, he was even faster than me on the downhill. Now we were at a crossroads. We could either retrace our steps and head back the way we came, or run a flat (er) route back to the condo. We weighed the pros and cons of each.
retrace steps over hill:
pro: faster, and we'd been gone quite a while at this point--I was afraid a search party might be out looking for us
pro: the hill is a fun challenge (that was from my son)
pro: it's a shorter distance back
con: it's a hill (that was from me)
run flat(er) route:
pro: it's flat(er)
con: it takes longer
con: it is a longer distance, and I don't think I can run that far right now (again, that was from me, not my son)
So, you can see that the pro's were greater for retracing our steps. We turned around and headed back up over the hill. Once again, my son disappeared up into the distance, leaving me to hum the Rocky theme song to myself as I tried to imagine that the hill in front of me was the set of steps that Rocky inspirationally ran up without stopping. I imagined I could run the whole thing, just like Rocky did. Turns out my imagination needs some work. I walked. And I ran. And I walked. And when I finally caught up with my son, he was waiting for me at the top so we could do the last downhill stretch together. Which we did. And it hurt. Downhills hurt. Uphills hurt. It all hurts! The hill wins! I will not approach the hill again unless I am better prepared.
We made it to the bottom, and jogged out onto the beach to head home.
We decided, together, that it's too hard to run on the sand (thank you, my wonderful son, for that one--I know you could have run it no problem). We took off our shoes, and walked the last stretch talking about what college he currently wants to go to, what majors he's interested in, and what he's looking for in a college. He told me he'd like to stay sort of close to home.
I went running with my fifteen year old son last weekend. It may have been the best run of my life.
Monday, October 25, 2010
An Explanation of My Blog, "The Fish Jumped"
October 25, 2010
I just dated my blog. That is how little I know about blogs. I'm guessing that somewhere the template I chose probably dates the entry automatically. But again, I'm guessing. What if I'm wrong? Thus, the date. Clearly, I did not do much research before diving into this.
One might think, from reading the title of this blog, that it is about fish. One would be wrong. This is very much not about fish. This is about the everyday goings on of me, my husband, my kids, and our lives. Sometimes funny things happen. Sometimes they are tragically funny. Or funnily tragic. I make up words. You should know that about me.
Back to the title. Years ago, I'm guessing maybe eight years ago or so (I could be off by several years either way--you should also know that I'm not a detail person) we had a large fishtank. It sat on a shelf halfway up the wall going up our stairs. Our tank had two fish I think. Might have been one. Again, not a detail girl. But I'm pretty sure it was two. They had names. One might have been named Mr. Frumble, like the little character from the Busy Town books and cartoon show. The other had a name, also, but it escapes me. It was something girly sounding, like Lilya or Petunia.
Our two kids (who would have been around 5 and 7 at the time) would occasionally watch the fish swim around. My husband would feed the fish (I think it's great that the word fish is actually both the singular and plural, because now it doesn't really matter if it was one or two, does it?) every night as he walked up the stairs to go to bed. When the glass on the front of the tank got so green that you couldn't tell if there was anything in the tank, someone (and by someone, I mean my husband) would clean the tank, making the glass clear and the water sparkling. It looked beautiful when it was clean, so much so that we would always comment that since the tank was in such a prominent place in our home, we should always keep it looking so clean. We didn't really follow through much on that.
Anyway, so here's this tank with fish. And everything seemed to be fine. Or so I thought.
One morning, after getting the kids off to school and getting some errands done, I noticed that the lid to the tank was half open. You have to open it like that to feed the fish, so I assumed that perhaps it had gotten left open after the fish were fed the previous evening. It had happened many times before, no big deal. However, this time I noticed that there were little water droplets on the table just below the fish tank. Odd. The filter was on as usual, and it was bubbling, but no more than it usually did. Certainly not enough to splash outside of the tank.
And then I saw her. Him. It. I really don't know which fish it was.
He/she/it was lying on the floor, on the cold, hard saltillo paver tile, lifeless, in a tiny little pool of water. I didn't know what to do. This kind of thing had never happened to me before. So I did the only thing I could think of upon encountering a non-breathing body. I gently lifted him/her/it to the kitchen counter, and tried gentle compressions to get its tiny body to breathe. I know. Really, I know. That poor little fish. If there was any life left in him/her/it at that point, I'm sure I CPR'd it right out. I sort of forgot that fish don't have the whole "P" part of CPR. In my defense, when my heroic actions did not bring any life back to the little guy, I did try putting it in a bowl of water. Probably should have tried that first.
I wasn't thinking clearly. All I could think about at the time was how I was going to tell our kids that their fish had died. I knew they wouldn't take it well. Our son would be stoic, but he would be so sad. And our daughter, I was positive, would collapse into wrecks of sobbing tears and never get over the emotional scar. And I would have to somehow carry on knowing that life in the tank had gotten so bad for our poor little fish that he/she/it had jumped. The fish jumped.
So, this blog--not about fish. Just about funny or quirky or adventurous or interesting little things that happen in the lives of our family.
Epilogue: The kids came through with no permanent traumatization. My son now has a somewhat large fishtank in his room. Luckily for him, the fish he has in there apparently need no light, as the front glass is 99% of the time covered in a thick, green algae (that according to him, the fish love, because they like to eat it....dubious). My daughter has a small fish bowl in her room, with one fish in it. The bowl has no cover on it. I check everyday to make sure that fish looks happy.
I still do not know the names of any of my kids' fish.
I just dated my blog. That is how little I know about blogs. I'm guessing that somewhere the template I chose probably dates the entry automatically. But again, I'm guessing. What if I'm wrong? Thus, the date. Clearly, I did not do much research before diving into this.
One might think, from reading the title of this blog, that it is about fish. One would be wrong. This is very much not about fish. This is about the everyday goings on of me, my husband, my kids, and our lives. Sometimes funny things happen. Sometimes they are tragically funny. Or funnily tragic. I make up words. You should know that about me.
Back to the title. Years ago, I'm guessing maybe eight years ago or so (I could be off by several years either way--you should also know that I'm not a detail person) we had a large fishtank. It sat on a shelf halfway up the wall going up our stairs. Our tank had two fish I think. Might have been one. Again, not a detail girl. But I'm pretty sure it was two. They had names. One might have been named Mr. Frumble, like the little character from the Busy Town books and cartoon show. The other had a name, also, but it escapes me. It was something girly sounding, like Lilya or Petunia.
Our two kids (who would have been around 5 and 7 at the time) would occasionally watch the fish swim around. My husband would feed the fish (I think it's great that the word fish is actually both the singular and plural, because now it doesn't really matter if it was one or two, does it?) every night as he walked up the stairs to go to bed. When the glass on the front of the tank got so green that you couldn't tell if there was anything in the tank, someone (and by someone, I mean my husband) would clean the tank, making the glass clear and the water sparkling. It looked beautiful when it was clean, so much so that we would always comment that since the tank was in such a prominent place in our home, we should always keep it looking so clean. We didn't really follow through much on that.
Anyway, so here's this tank with fish. And everything seemed to be fine. Or so I thought.
One morning, after getting the kids off to school and getting some errands done, I noticed that the lid to the tank was half open. You have to open it like that to feed the fish, so I assumed that perhaps it had gotten left open after the fish were fed the previous evening. It had happened many times before, no big deal. However, this time I noticed that there were little water droplets on the table just below the fish tank. Odd. The filter was on as usual, and it was bubbling, but no more than it usually did. Certainly not enough to splash outside of the tank.
And then I saw her. Him. It. I really don't know which fish it was.
He/she/it was lying on the floor, on the cold, hard saltillo paver tile, lifeless, in a tiny little pool of water. I didn't know what to do. This kind of thing had never happened to me before. So I did the only thing I could think of upon encountering a non-breathing body. I gently lifted him/her/it to the kitchen counter, and tried gentle compressions to get its tiny body to breathe. I know. Really, I know. That poor little fish. If there was any life left in him/her/it at that point, I'm sure I CPR'd it right out. I sort of forgot that fish don't have the whole "P" part of CPR. In my defense, when my heroic actions did not bring any life back to the little guy, I did try putting it in a bowl of water. Probably should have tried that first.
I wasn't thinking clearly. All I could think about at the time was how I was going to tell our kids that their fish had died. I knew they wouldn't take it well. Our son would be stoic, but he would be so sad. And our daughter, I was positive, would collapse into wrecks of sobbing tears and never get over the emotional scar. And I would have to somehow carry on knowing that life in the tank had gotten so bad for our poor little fish that he/she/it had jumped. The fish jumped.
So, this blog--not about fish. Just about funny or quirky or adventurous or interesting little things that happen in the lives of our family.
Epilogue: The kids came through with no permanent traumatization. My son now has a somewhat large fishtank in his room. Luckily for him, the fish he has in there apparently need no light, as the front glass is 99% of the time covered in a thick, green algae (that according to him, the fish love, because they like to eat it....dubious). My daughter has a small fish bowl in her room, with one fish in it. The bowl has no cover on it. I check everyday to make sure that fish looks happy.
I still do not know the names of any of my kids' fish.
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