Today I was informed that all children are born in India. Then they get on a plane and come to Texas.
When I inquired where India is, The Babe pointed to his abdomen. Then he asked, "How do babies get out of India?"
After we corrected India to "uterus" and discussed anatomically-correct usage of the word, we launched into a discussion of the vagina.
Just for grins, and to test his Mother's ability to keep a straight face in the most hysterical of situations*, I got the following summary:
"So babies are born in the India, come out the 'gina**, and start crying?"
Yup. That pretty much sums it up.
At least if you qualify as a four-year-old boy. With selective hearing and memory. And the inability to use multi-syllabic, anatomically-correct verbiage.
*For which I should get a guest shot on Saturday Night Live, thank you very much.
**I hope he's over this abbreviated, cutsie terminology by the time he marries. Or becomes a proper obstetrician, if that's in his cards.
Showing posts with label doctors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label doctors. Show all posts
Monday, January 18, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Accidentally Accidental
Today I think I ran headlong into the "future" of medicine. I now have a headache to prove it.
Instead of the usual "This is Dr. Soandso's office calling to confirm your appointment on this inconvenient day at this inconvenient time", I received "In order to confirm your appointment and keep unneccessary delays from occuring*, please log onto www.annoyingdoctorjunk.com and click on the patient portal**."
Knowing how much I enjoy pap smears and breast manipulation techniques, I simply couldn't WAIT to follow the instructions.
After a few minor*** issues with the website, I finally got in. Then the REAL fun began. This wasn't any sissy survey of my health. It was completely exhaustive.
My favorite page was the "Health History" section, where you had to click "yes" or "no" on several issues. Stuff like "Diabetes?", "Mental Illness?", "Hysterectomy?" The usual suspects.
Of course, when I got to "Adopted?", I checked "yes". Then I looked at the next question. For what seemed like a long time. Then I took a swig of coffee, hoping the combination of caffeine, heat, and gingerbread creamer would help my brain understand what the heck this question was really asking.
It said "Accident".
Now, this wasn't a drop-down box, implying "Adoption? Accident?" But, it still puzzled me.
Were they referring to "regular" pregnancies where little Johnny, ten years younger than his older brother, comes on the scene? And why, in Sam Hill, would THAT matter? Does your Dr. need to know "Yes. I like sex. Yes. We weren't protected. Yes. We thought we were past reproductive years." Can't he just read the chart, see the gap in years, and, with all his years of doctor knowledge KNOW Johnny wasn't "planned"?
Maybe they were talking about a car crash? A run-in with a saw? Slipping in the shower? The possibilities were endless.
And I still wasn't sure if they were referring to the whole adoption thing. But answering "no" would seem daft. Basically, you don't end up pregnant with the intention of giving your child up for adoption. Unless you are a paid womb, in which case, it has another name and lots of zeroes after it. And there ain't NOTHING accidental about that many zeroes.
Typically, I'm anal enough to feel the need to check every box, even if it appears to be written by someone smoking crack. This time? No. I figure if enough people are as confused as me and leave this particular box mysteriously blank, they'll get the hint.
And I'm saying a little prayer that the server that this chunk of information is stored on never decides to go down and purge my information.
My forehead doesn't need another huge crease and the neurons in my brain don't need another workout like the one caused by the whole adoption vs. accident debate.
*Read: We'll cancel your appointment and bill you for the pleasure of not doing business with us in the way we told you we would do business with you. It's like the dang mafia.
**When you click here, make sounds like blasting off from Star Trek and you can be beamed to other planets to meet very strange little green people. Or not.
***If my tongue was in my cheek any harder it might bust through to the other side. This whole thing was a beatdown of proportions that words can not describe. Other than cuss words, which cost me a quarter a pop starting in just two days, so I'll refrain.
Instead of the usual "This is Dr. Soandso's office calling to confirm your appointment on this inconvenient day at this inconvenient time", I received "In order to confirm your appointment and keep unneccessary delays from occuring*, please log onto www.annoyingdoctorjunk.com and click on the patient portal**."
Knowing how much I enjoy pap smears and breast manipulation techniques, I simply couldn't WAIT to follow the instructions.
After a few minor*** issues with the website, I finally got in. Then the REAL fun began. This wasn't any sissy survey of my health. It was completely exhaustive.
My favorite page was the "Health History" section, where you had to click "yes" or "no" on several issues. Stuff like "Diabetes?", "Mental Illness?", "Hysterectomy?" The usual suspects.
Of course, when I got to "Adopted?", I checked "yes". Then I looked at the next question. For what seemed like a long time. Then I took a swig of coffee, hoping the combination of caffeine, heat, and gingerbread creamer would help my brain understand what the heck this question was really asking.
It said "Accident".
Now, this wasn't a drop-down box, implying "Adoption? Accident?" But, it still puzzled me.
Were they referring to "regular" pregnancies where little Johnny, ten years younger than his older brother, comes on the scene? And why, in Sam Hill, would THAT matter? Does your Dr. need to know "Yes. I like sex. Yes. We weren't protected. Yes. We thought we were past reproductive years." Can't he just read the chart, see the gap in years, and, with all his years of doctor knowledge KNOW Johnny wasn't "planned"?
Maybe they were talking about a car crash? A run-in with a saw? Slipping in the shower? The possibilities were endless.
And I still wasn't sure if they were referring to the whole adoption thing. But answering "no" would seem daft. Basically, you don't end up pregnant with the intention of giving your child up for adoption. Unless you are a paid womb, in which case, it has another name and lots of zeroes after it. And there ain't NOTHING accidental about that many zeroes.
Typically, I'm anal enough to feel the need to check every box, even if it appears to be written by someone smoking crack. This time? No. I figure if enough people are as confused as me and leave this particular box mysteriously blank, they'll get the hint.
And I'm saying a little prayer that the server that this chunk of information is stored on never decides to go down and purge my information.
My forehead doesn't need another huge crease and the neurons in my brain don't need another workout like the one caused by the whole adoption vs. accident debate.
*Read: We'll cancel your appointment and bill you for the pleasure of not doing business with us in the way we told you we would do business with you. It's like the dang mafia.
**When you click here, make sounds like blasting off from Star Trek and you can be beamed to other planets to meet very strange little green people. Or not.
***If my tongue was in my cheek any harder it might bust through to the other side. This whole thing was a beatdown of proportions that words can not describe. Other than cuss words, which cost me a quarter a pop starting in just two days, so I'll refrain.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Cow vs. Woman
Today I sat in the waiting room of a doctor's office. Save me, there was only one other being in the room. I was having trouble telling if it was a woman or a cow.
See, it was chewing. With its mouth open, jaw grinding side-to-side, no doubt, enjoying Juicy Fruit or cud. Hard to tell.
Me? I sat all the way across the waiting room growling on the inside and glaring at it across the way. I was trying to read Kiplinger's magazine, which, in and of itself, is no small feat, but my reading was being thwarted by the evil sound of jaws-meeting-springy-substance.
Now, MOST people wouldn't be bothered by a little background noise. Truly, if I listened, there were also the sounds of cars moving outside the window, typing on the computer in the office, and voices talking in the exam rooms. But, my ears are hyper-vigilant and I hear everything. Cripe, if a mouse throws up in another room I'm asking someone "What WAS that?"
I grew up with a person who chewed gum with such intensity that she should have an Olympic medal in mandible manipulation. She, like my cell mate in the waiting area from Hades, used to have NO CLUE she was chewing gum, even though she had clearly unwrapped the piece, placed it in her mouth, and started the process of gnawing on it.
There were times I would say "COW" and, immediately, like a Pavlovian dog, she would realize "OH! I'm chewing gum" and tone it down for a little while. It actually became a little bit of a game between us for awhile there, me trying to catch her, she trying to stay under the ear-dar. Then she up and quit gum. I'm sure Wrigley's executives cried big tears over that decision.
Years later my ears are still hyper-sensitive, and, like firemen hear cries from a burning building, I hear the sound of gum chewing from miles away.
Thankfully, back in the waiting area, I was saved by the nurse who called me to the back for my appointment.
As I was leaving I noticed cow-woman had maintained the same position she took when she originally sat: head cocked to one side, mouth opening and shutting, reading a magazine. She never looked up and she never stopped torturing that gob of stuff.
Which left me wondering: Did she grow up in the proverbial barn I ask my kids if they are being raised in? That would certainly explain all the chewing.
It would not, however, explain why she was waiting for an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist instead of a vet.
See, it was chewing. With its mouth open, jaw grinding side-to-side, no doubt, enjoying Juicy Fruit or cud. Hard to tell.
Me? I sat all the way across the waiting room growling on the inside and glaring at it across the way. I was trying to read Kiplinger's magazine, which, in and of itself, is no small feat, but my reading was being thwarted by the evil sound of jaws-meeting-springy-substance.
Now, MOST people wouldn't be bothered by a little background noise. Truly, if I listened, there were also the sounds of cars moving outside the window, typing on the computer in the office, and voices talking in the exam rooms. But, my ears are hyper-vigilant and I hear everything. Cripe, if a mouse throws up in another room I'm asking someone "What WAS that?"
I grew up with a person who chewed gum with such intensity that she should have an Olympic medal in mandible manipulation. She, like my cell mate in the waiting area from Hades, used to have NO CLUE she was chewing gum, even though she had clearly unwrapped the piece, placed it in her mouth, and started the process of gnawing on it.
There were times I would say "COW" and, immediately, like a Pavlovian dog, she would realize "OH! I'm chewing gum" and tone it down for a little while. It actually became a little bit of a game between us for awhile there, me trying to catch her, she trying to stay under the ear-dar. Then she up and quit gum. I'm sure Wrigley's executives cried big tears over that decision.
Years later my ears are still hyper-sensitive, and, like firemen hear cries from a burning building, I hear the sound of gum chewing from miles away.
Thankfully, back in the waiting area, I was saved by the nurse who called me to the back for my appointment.
As I was leaving I noticed cow-woman had maintained the same position she took when she originally sat: head cocked to one side, mouth opening and shutting, reading a magazine. She never looked up and she never stopped torturing that gob of stuff.
Which left me wondering: Did she grow up in the proverbial barn I ask my kids if they are being raised in? That would certainly explain all the chewing.
It would not, however, explain why she was waiting for an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist instead of a vet.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Breakfast Food Belongs on Plates
Forget Komen. The American Heart Association. Jerry's Kids.
I have a new not-for-profit that rises above any need, past, present, or future.
You see, I just had my annual mammogram done and I am still considering the length of time it will take for my breasts to stop looking like breakfast products that should be served with butter and syrup.
So, for those of you reading this, I am announcing the new, not-for-profit, soon-to-be-collecting-from-you: "PANCAKES UNITE".
As a woman who has been enduring this yearly ritual now for the past 18 years*, I have a little bit of knowledge about this process. It is a necessary evil, kind of like giving blood or birth.
This much I know about the big, cumbersome, pain-inducing machine they use to reduce tissue to paper-like thickness: if men had to endure this, there would be new technology TOMORROW.
So, my organization will focus on better ways to keep ourselves out of the vices of medical technology, in favor of a gentler, kinder way of doing business.
Any woman who has inadvertently scheduled her squishing session just prior to her monthly cycle will want to marry me, in a non-sexual kind of way. Men will honor my name as they will no longer have to hear their wives gripe about this injustice.
Man or woman, husband or wife, Father or Mother, this is a huge win-win.
So, if you are a budding entreprenuer, I want to hear from you. Just don't think I'm volunteering for any kind of research.
I already gave at the office.
*When you are 25 and have "abnormal" written on your chart right next to "breast", you get to start boob squashing 15 years ahead of all your friends. This is NOT an honor.
I have a new not-for-profit that rises above any need, past, present, or future.
You see, I just had my annual mammogram done and I am still considering the length of time it will take for my breasts to stop looking like breakfast products that should be served with butter and syrup.
So, for those of you reading this, I am announcing the new, not-for-profit, soon-to-be-collecting-from-you: "PANCAKES UNITE".
As a woman who has been enduring this yearly ritual now for the past 18 years*, I have a little bit of knowledge about this process. It is a necessary evil, kind of like giving blood or birth.
This much I know about the big, cumbersome, pain-inducing machine they use to reduce tissue to paper-like thickness: if men had to endure this, there would be new technology TOMORROW.
So, my organization will focus on better ways to keep ourselves out of the vices of medical technology, in favor of a gentler, kinder way of doing business.
Any woman who has inadvertently scheduled her squishing session just prior to her monthly cycle will want to marry me, in a non-sexual kind of way. Men will honor my name as they will no longer have to hear their wives gripe about this injustice.
Man or woman, husband or wife, Father or Mother, this is a huge win-win.
So, if you are a budding entreprenuer, I want to hear from you. Just don't think I'm volunteering for any kind of research.
I already gave at the office.
*When you are 25 and have "abnormal" written on your chart right next to "breast", you get to start boob squashing 15 years ahead of all your friends. This is NOT an honor.
Monday, September 14, 2009
A Partial Argument for Hating-on the Media....
I'm positive my son has been sneaking around watching the "Nightly News" behind our backs because, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to even put the words "swine" and "flu" in the same sentence.
I can though: "If you kiss a pig or a chicken, you might get a "special" flu that causes people to go hysterical when their kid runs a 99.1 degree fever."
Below are actual emails between one son's school and me. Names and locations have been changed to protect the innocent.
Email number one:
From: Sweet Teacher
Subject: Question
To: SWINEFLUFAMILY@EMAIL.COM
Date: Thursday, September 10, 2009, 12:20 PM
Hi MOMMAJ,
Your son mentioned this morning during prayer time that his younger brother has the swine flu. He also said many of his cousins have the swine flu right now. I wanted to first of all run this by you to see if this is true. If so, is your youngest son contagious? I don’t know a whole lot about swine flu, but I know we want to take every precaution to keep it away from school. I told your son to wash his hands a WHOLE lot these next few days. If he shows any signs whatsoever of swine flu, please keep him home.
I will be calling next week all the moms to check in about homework. I hope it is going well so far. Your son is such a reader - I hope his love of reading continues all year long! Have a great afternoon.
Sweet Teacher
Response Email:
I'm not sure where my son went to school to diagnose his brother, but I think we owe that institution a check for education expenses :)
We don't know exactly what the Babe has, though he does have a high fever and it started around 10pm last night. His cousin was sick this weekend; though originally it appeared to be his "usual" seasonal sinus infection kicking in, I talked with my sister-in-law last night and he is just returning to school today. His sister, our niece, has had the same symptoms and is still home today. Neither of the kids went to the doctor for diagnosis, so I can't tell you what they contracted, just that it took about five days before they were able to return to school.
Both brothers have had a minor, hacking cough during the day. It is not keeping them up at night and neither has (or had) a runny nose, fever, body aches, nausea, vomiting, lack of appetite, etc., from the list of swine flu symptoms.
At this point, the only symptom the Babe has is fever. As is usual with fever, he doesn't want much to eat or drink. He is sleeping some but mostly watching cartoons and movies, just to keep him quiet and give him needed rest. If the symptoms change or if we end up in the doctor's office and get a diagnosis, I'll let you know.
Now we just need to be sure that "Dr. Brother" doesn't spread hysteria to anybody else.....
Thanks for your concern. MommaJ
Here's the truth. Unless this conversation ensues:
"Mom? OINK. I'm HOT. OINK."
And I do this:
"MIKE?! I think he definitely has the swine flu."
And he says this:
"I agree."
Then we won't be going to spend $125 on a visit to the doctor to learn what type of flu we have, followed by a visit to the pharmacy to get meds we probably don't need.
Let's face it, those of us who have the privilege of visiting the pediatrician KNOW that you face a wildly high probability of picking up some random strain of yet ANOTHER condition when you enter the "sick" side of the waiting room. Plus, there's enough green snot and yellow eye discharge to make triage nurses hurl.
Really, I'm happy watching "Dirty Jobs" and getting my gross-out for the week via the hi-sterical Mike Rowe. It pleases me NOT to be within five feet of such disgusting things or have smell-o-vision in my life. Truly, "Dirty Jobs" is the show that could be filmed in the throwing-up-out-of-our-noses side of the sub-teen doctor's suite. I don't have to experience the real thing when the divine Mr. Rowe is doing the heavy lifting for me.
So, no diagnosis, dear readers, at least not this time. Stay tuned, though; Fall is upon us and the season is long.
PS: Approximately 36 hours after this incident began, Babe is running through the house, talking NON-STOP, eating like a hungry teenager. All accomplished with copious hours of cartoons in Mom and Dad's bed*, children's Tylenol every four hours, entirely too much "juice"**, and LONG naps.
Hold your applause, please.
*Which has since been fumigated.
**Actually, XXX Vitamin Water. Don't ask. Just try it and be sure to read the very funny bottle commentary. And don't blame me if you get hooked.
I can though: "If you kiss a pig or a chicken, you might get a "special" flu that causes people to go hysterical when their kid runs a 99.1 degree fever."
Below are actual emails between one son's school and me. Names and locations have been changed to protect the innocent.
Email number one:
From: Sweet Teacher
Subject: Question
To: SWINEFLUFAMILY@EMAIL.COM
Date: Thursday, September 10, 2009, 12:20 PM
Hi MOMMAJ,
Your son mentioned this morning during prayer time that his younger brother has the swine flu. He also said many of his cousins have the swine flu right now. I wanted to first of all run this by you to see if this is true. If so, is your youngest son contagious? I don’t know a whole lot about swine flu, but I know we want to take every precaution to keep it away from school. I told your son to wash his hands a WHOLE lot these next few days. If he shows any signs whatsoever of swine flu, please keep him home.
I will be calling next week all the moms to check in about homework. I hope it is going well so far. Your son is such a reader - I hope his love of reading continues all year long! Have a great afternoon.
Sweet Teacher
Response Email:
I'm not sure where my son went to school to diagnose his brother, but I think we owe that institution a check for education expenses :)
We don't know exactly what the Babe has, though he does have a high fever and it started around 10pm last night. His cousin was sick this weekend; though originally it appeared to be his "usual" seasonal sinus infection kicking in, I talked with my sister-in-law last night and he is just returning to school today. His sister, our niece, has had the same symptoms and is still home today. Neither of the kids went to the doctor for diagnosis, so I can't tell you what they contracted, just that it took about five days before they were able to return to school.
Both brothers have had a minor, hacking cough during the day. It is not keeping them up at night and neither has (or had) a runny nose, fever, body aches, nausea, vomiting, lack of appetite, etc., from the list of swine flu symptoms.
At this point, the only symptom the Babe has is fever. As is usual with fever, he doesn't want much to eat or drink. He is sleeping some but mostly watching cartoons and movies, just to keep him quiet and give him needed rest. If the symptoms change or if we end up in the doctor's office and get a diagnosis, I'll let you know.
Now we just need to be sure that "Dr. Brother" doesn't spread hysteria to anybody else.....
Thanks for your concern. MommaJ
Here's the truth. Unless this conversation ensues:
"Mom? OINK. I'm HOT. OINK."
And I do this:
"MIKE?! I think he definitely has the swine flu."
And he says this:
"I agree."
Then we won't be going to spend $125 on a visit to the doctor to learn what type of flu we have, followed by a visit to the pharmacy to get meds we probably don't need.
Let's face it, those of us who have the privilege of visiting the pediatrician KNOW that you face a wildly high probability of picking up some random strain of yet ANOTHER condition when you enter the "sick" side of the waiting room. Plus, there's enough green snot and yellow eye discharge to make triage nurses hurl.
Really, I'm happy watching "Dirty Jobs" and getting my gross-out for the week via the hi-sterical Mike Rowe. It pleases me NOT to be within five feet of such disgusting things or have smell-o-vision in my life. Truly, "Dirty Jobs" is the show that could be filmed in the throwing-up-out-of-our-noses side of the sub-teen doctor's suite. I don't have to experience the real thing when the divine Mr. Rowe is doing the heavy lifting for me.
So, no diagnosis, dear readers, at least not this time. Stay tuned, though; Fall is upon us and the season is long.
PS: Approximately 36 hours after this incident began, Babe is running through the house, talking NON-STOP, eating like a hungry teenager. All accomplished with copious hours of cartoons in Mom and Dad's bed*, children's Tylenol every four hours, entirely too much "juice"**, and LONG naps.
Hold your applause, please.
*Which has since been fumigated.
**Actually, XXX Vitamin Water. Don't ask. Just try it and be sure to read the very funny bottle commentary. And don't blame me if you get hooked.
Monday, August 17, 2009
That's with a "J", thank you
I used to babysit for a doctor, his nurse-cum-housemaker wife, and their three girls. It was during this period in my life I had the realization that, if my body produced all girls, I might just throw myself off something HIGH.
It's not that I couldn't handle the little darlings. It was that I didn't UNDERSTAND them. They were WHINY, high-pitched screamers who were prone to crying fits, unlike the boys I babysat for who just wanted to roughhouse, spit, and generally try to gross me out. With only a brother at home, this latter environment made sense to me.*
But, with all their shortcomings, I still enjoyed BEING with the doctor's girls. We had fun playing Barbies, braiding hair, and telling secrets. As long as bedtime wasn't too far from the time I arrived, I was able to keep my sanity.
Their Mom, on the other hand, never quite won my heart.
Every time I babysat, that woman wrote a check to me. Each time she spelled my name "Gill". As a teenager, I just dismissed it as a spelling issue and I, respectfully, NEVER corrected her. Sure, it annoyed me--all the way to the mall.
As a phonics-Mom, I realize she was way too intelligent, with her nursing degree and all, to chronically make this error. There is a big difference between pronouncing "G" and "J"**.
Yet, in case I thought she was the only person who learned pronunciation from a hair-lipped woman from Transylvania, I was lucky enough to cross paths with these fine folk:
This same town boasted a great friend whose Dad put fires in the "chimley". I'm glad he never "burled" down the house.
A close relative had co-workers who offered her "uranges" the first day she worked with them. I think they must eat "Ureos" when they need a good snack.
Mike would like to put a plant on the "window seal" above the cabinets that have "pools". I can't figure out where in the hell he is living, but it's not in the house with the "windowsills" and drawer "pulls".
Dr. B, the phonics guru, states that English is the most difficult of all languages to learn. Just because I've always been fascinated by language and, therefore, have studied it more than the average Joe, I shouldn't be such a hard-butt when people make pronunciation errors. I really should give everyone a break.
But, then, blog reader, you wouldn't be reading this post today. I CAN'T let you down. I WILL continue my evil ways and sacrifice so YOU have something to read.
Today, the girls I used to babysit are likely Moms; sometimes I wonder what happened to them. Did they have girls of their own? Where do they live? Did they ever realize how often I put them to bed early after changing the clock on the stove to "prove" it was 7:30?
Likely, I'll never know.
I just really hope they found "jynocolojist" in the phone book when they became "prejnant".
*Now you know why God graced me with boys.
**I know you are trying it, so, admit it, I'M RIGHT.
It's not that I couldn't handle the little darlings. It was that I didn't UNDERSTAND them. They were WHINY, high-pitched screamers who were prone to crying fits, unlike the boys I babysat for who just wanted to roughhouse, spit, and generally try to gross me out. With only a brother at home, this latter environment made sense to me.*
But, with all their shortcomings, I still enjoyed BEING with the doctor's girls. We had fun playing Barbies, braiding hair, and telling secrets. As long as bedtime wasn't too far from the time I arrived, I was able to keep my sanity.
Their Mom, on the other hand, never quite won my heart.
Every time I babysat, that woman wrote a check to me. Each time she spelled my name "Gill". As a teenager, I just dismissed it as a spelling issue and I, respectfully, NEVER corrected her. Sure, it annoyed me--all the way to the mall.
As a phonics-Mom, I realize she was way too intelligent, with her nursing degree and all, to chronically make this error. There is a big difference between pronouncing "G" and "J"**.
Yet, in case I thought she was the only person who learned pronunciation from a hair-lipped woman from Transylvania, I was lucky enough to cross paths with these fine folk:
This same town boasted a great friend whose Dad put fires in the "chimley". I'm glad he never "burled" down the house.
A close relative had co-workers who offered her "uranges" the first day she worked with them. I think they must eat "Ureos" when they need a good snack.
Mike would like to put a plant on the "window seal" above the cabinets that have "pools". I can't figure out where in the hell he is living, but it's not in the house with the "windowsills" and drawer "pulls".
Dr. B, the phonics guru, states that English is the most difficult of all languages to learn. Just because I've always been fascinated by language and, therefore, have studied it more than the average Joe, I shouldn't be such a hard-butt when people make pronunciation errors. I really should give everyone a break.
But, then, blog reader, you wouldn't be reading this post today. I CAN'T let you down. I WILL continue my evil ways and sacrifice so YOU have something to read.
Today, the girls I used to babysit are likely Moms; sometimes I wonder what happened to them. Did they have girls of their own? Where do they live? Did they ever realize how often I put them to bed early after changing the clock on the stove to "prove" it was 7:30?
Likely, I'll never know.
I just really hope they found "jynocolojist" in the phone book when they became "prejnant".
*Now you know why God graced me with boys.
**I know you are trying it, so, admit it, I'M RIGHT.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wanna feel stupid? Try THIS!
I've yet to meet a Mother who has a perfect child.* The little buggers are full of faults. From the moment they arrive, it becomes apparent that they aren't going to
a. eat on the schedule you got from the pediatrician's office
b. poop the right color
c. sleep according to when the moon comes out OR
d. let you get a shower before 5pm during the first nine months of their life.
As a Mom, you are reduced to a quivering bowl of nerves, afraid that you are going to say/eat/do the wrong thing JUST ONCE and the result will catapult your child into a mass-murderer. Basically, you lose your former "cool" self to this new person who looks suspiciously like a parent strung out on crack. With OCD tendencies.
Sadly, this doesn't get much better as your kids age. In fact, in many ways, it gets worse. Is Johnny at grade level in PE? Will his friends in the first grade pick their noses, too? Does he have the talent to join the badminton league? And on it goes.
So, the current worry around the Nowell house is phonics. Do our kids know what a diphthong is? Can they correctly pronounce "qu"? If we don't give them the training, will they pronounce BRAZIER, as in the burger at Dairy Queen, BRASSIERE?** ARGH.
In our quest to get this as right as possible, we have decided to err on the side of overexposure and take on an in-depth phonics course. With a neuropsychologist. In Houston. Can you say O-V-E-R-K-I-L-L?
Upon arrival at said wonderful locale, I am handed a book, scratch that, a BIBLE, of sorts. A phonics bible about three inches thick. And I'm expected to read and ingest chapter one whilst the phonics-starved one is testing***.
Said chapter is entitled "Getting Ready". I imagine it will be a stroll through choosing "phonics-appropriate" books, loading up on pencils and paper, and practicing the phrase, "You are doing SUCH a good job."
Try again, sweetness. How about the FOXP2 gene which runs in families with severe language deficits****, the fusiform gyrus, and Logan's instantiation hypothesis?
I can just imagine the doctor getting offended when I say, "Honey, this horse is barely out of the gate and I think I just broke my leg."
Thankfully, it gets better before I leave for lunch. I'm handed a stack of pretty, colored cards, with letters on them. G, Z, H, T, S...you get my drift. My only task is to figure out the sounds these letters make before we return from break. SO much easier than that reading stuff.
Or, so I thought. Upon checking my answers, I realize I've missed more than HALF the sounds. How the hell did I make it this far in life? I should really just get in the car and drive as far away from my kids as possible because it has just become blatantly obvious that I know NOTHING. And I have a secondary degree to teach ENGLISH.
Day one ends. I'm moving to Stupidville. Young stud is learning TONS from our doctor friend but Mom obviously donated a considerable chunk of her brain cells to science without even knowing*****. I vow to get a better sleep, lest I get sucker-punched again on day two.
Day two's lessons are intense but interesting and my guy is GETTING IT! Praise be! Me? I learn that the "bossy E" controls the vowel in front of it, forcing it to say it's name. I KNEW this but I certainly couldn't have taught it. But, I'm told, I'll get my chance, because tomorrow it's MY TURN TO TEACH!
Much to our delight, at the hotel we've been joined by another Mom/student combo, who are a little ahead of us in the program. The other Mom seems to have developed a slight compulsion to rub her eyes, drag her fingers through her hair, and say "MY gosh." Since the best defense is a good offense, we dine on wine and brownies for dinner. Hey, if I die teaching this stuff, at least I'll die a happy woman.
The next morning, after two cups of piping hot coffee, we arrive and I am summoned to do my teaching gig. We run through everything I'm supposed to do and I feel pretty confident. Sounds? Check. Spelling exercises? Check. Empty bladder? Check.
Then my baby sits down in front of me. The doctor perches to my right, like the angel of death sitting on my doorstep, waiting to pounce on my next mistake and drag me to a place where all they do, day in and day out, is phonics. I'm shaking and my mind keeps singing "My blood runs cold and my memory has just been sold"******. I think I'm losing my mind!
And then it happens: we work together, I make tons of mistakes and get corrected a bazillion times, and I realize I CAN DO THIS! Without losing my sanity or turning my baby into a psychopath. I'm not that stupid after all.
Look out world! Up in the sky! It's a bird. A plane. NO, it's phonics Momma, here to save the day!
I know, \ˌō-vər-ˈkil\
*Though I have met a few mothers who THINK they have perfect children. BIG difference.
**True story. Cracked everyone in the car up, except the person reading the sign because he was too young to know what a bra was.
***OOPS. Didn't envision this when I drove from Dallas the night before then stayed up in the hotel room until 2:30am watching TV.
****Yet something ELSE to fret about.
*****Or, was it the donation to the fairy who visits each time you deliver a child?
******Hearts and hugs to the J. Geils band. Sorry to use your lyric this way.....
a. eat on the schedule you got from the pediatrician's office
b. poop the right color
c. sleep according to when the moon comes out OR
d. let you get a shower before 5pm during the first nine months of their life.
As a Mom, you are reduced to a quivering bowl of nerves, afraid that you are going to say/eat/do the wrong thing JUST ONCE and the result will catapult your child into a mass-murderer. Basically, you lose your former "cool" self to this new person who looks suspiciously like a parent strung out on crack. With OCD tendencies.
Sadly, this doesn't get much better as your kids age. In fact, in many ways, it gets worse. Is Johnny at grade level in PE? Will his friends in the first grade pick their noses, too? Does he have the talent to join the badminton league? And on it goes.
So, the current worry around the Nowell house is phonics. Do our kids know what a diphthong is? Can they correctly pronounce "qu"? If we don't give them the training, will they pronounce BRAZIER, as in the burger at Dairy Queen, BRASSIERE?** ARGH.
In our quest to get this as right as possible, we have decided to err on the side of overexposure and take on an in-depth phonics course. With a neuropsychologist. In Houston. Can you say O-V-E-R-K-I-L-L?
Upon arrival at said wonderful locale, I am handed a book, scratch that, a BIBLE, of sorts. A phonics bible about three inches thick. And I'm expected to read and ingest chapter one whilst the phonics-starved one is testing***.
Said chapter is entitled "Getting Ready". I imagine it will be a stroll through choosing "phonics-appropriate" books, loading up on pencils and paper, and practicing the phrase, "You are doing SUCH a good job."
Try again, sweetness. How about the FOXP2 gene which runs in families with severe language deficits****, the fusiform gyrus, and Logan's instantiation hypothesis?
I can just imagine the doctor getting offended when I say, "Honey, this horse is barely out of the gate and I think I just broke my leg."
Thankfully, it gets better before I leave for lunch. I'm handed a stack of pretty, colored cards, with letters on them. G, Z, H, T, S...you get my drift. My only task is to figure out the sounds these letters make before we return from break. SO much easier than that reading stuff.
Or, so I thought. Upon checking my answers, I realize I've missed more than HALF the sounds. How the hell did I make it this far in life? I should really just get in the car and drive as far away from my kids as possible because it has just become blatantly obvious that I know NOTHING. And I have a secondary degree to teach ENGLISH.
Day one ends. I'm moving to Stupidville. Young stud is learning TONS from our doctor friend but Mom obviously donated a considerable chunk of her brain cells to science without even knowing*****. I vow to get a better sleep, lest I get sucker-punched again on day two.
Day two's lessons are intense but interesting and my guy is GETTING IT! Praise be! Me? I learn that the "bossy E" controls the vowel in front of it, forcing it to say it's name. I KNEW this but I certainly couldn't have taught it. But, I'm told, I'll get my chance, because tomorrow it's MY TURN TO TEACH!
Much to our delight, at the hotel we've been joined by another Mom/student combo, who are a little ahead of us in the program. The other Mom seems to have developed a slight compulsion to rub her eyes, drag her fingers through her hair, and say "MY gosh." Since the best defense is a good offense, we dine on wine and brownies for dinner. Hey, if I die teaching this stuff, at least I'll die a happy woman.
The next morning, after two cups of piping hot coffee, we arrive and I am summoned to do my teaching gig. We run through everything I'm supposed to do and I feel pretty confident. Sounds? Check. Spelling exercises? Check. Empty bladder? Check.
Then my baby sits down in front of me. The doctor perches to my right, like the angel of death sitting on my doorstep, waiting to pounce on my next mistake and drag me to a place where all they do, day in and day out, is phonics. I'm shaking and my mind keeps singing "My blood runs cold and my memory has just been sold"******. I think I'm losing my mind!
And then it happens: we work together, I make tons of mistakes and get corrected a bazillion times, and I realize I CAN DO THIS! Without losing my sanity or turning my baby into a psychopath. I'm not that stupid after all.
Look out world! Up in the sky! It's a bird. A plane. NO, it's phonics Momma, here to save the day!
I know, \ˌō-vər-ˈkil\
*Though I have met a few mothers who THINK they have perfect children. BIG difference.
**True story. Cracked everyone in the car up, except the person reading the sign because he was too young to know what a bra was.
***OOPS. Didn't envision this when I drove from Dallas the night before then stayed up in the hotel room until 2:30am watching TV.
****Yet something ELSE to fret about.
*****Or, was it the donation to the fairy who visits each time you deliver a child?
******Hearts and hugs to the J. Geils band. Sorry to use your lyric this way.....
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