And then I woke up, before I even gave my acceptance speech.
About 4 years ago Caroline spent months squinting, running in to things, if I gave her that dirty mom look meaning "you're going to catch it" she pretended she couldn't possibly see my face from across the room, and so forth. "I need glasses," was her common wail. I finally caved and took her to the optometrist. $75 later she was declared to be the owner of perfect vision. Yup. That's my Hollywood bound Carebear.
So she gave up the charade, temporarily. It began again 2 years ago. I rolled my eyes and told her I would give it careful thought and consideration, the Easterman code word for "I've forgotten your request already." (Easterman is my maiden name, in case you wondered and my dear Daddyoski made that phrase famous).
She really has kicked it up a notch the last few months and Sunday's performance was worthy of a Golden Globe. I was actually torn, should I take her to the optometrist or Austin's really fantastic school for the blind? Glasses or a walking stick?
Today in Dr. Duke's office I made a disconcerting discovery. She is in fact blind. Very blind. So blind, I'm amazed she can read her music in orchestra or function on any level. She's almost as blind as I am and I put my glasses on if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night when you can't see anything anyway. I just want the darkness to be 20/20, what can I say?
After my jarring discovery, Caroline got one of her own. She's a serious dork in glasses. It is bad. She may be going to a government school this fall (McCallum Fine Arts Academy, so government school with pink frosting), she may get in with the wrong crowd (at which point she is being promptly shipped to the most horrid convent), but she will be a virgin by choice. It may not be her choice, but I don't think they make better birth control than Caroline's adorable pixie face behind a set of frames and a mouth full of metal and 2 sets of neon colored elastic bands. I offered to wax her eyebrows sympathetically as we went through every pair of glasses in the place. And finally, way off in the corner, we found a "vintage" pair, perfect small gold circles. "Mom, no way,"she protested," those are Harry Potter glasses. "
(Interesting. I'm not sure I'm capable of even grasping that description as my familiarity with Harry Potter is very limited, though my curiousity was recently piqued by a reference my sister-in-law made on Facebook to amazing food descriptions in the books which did motivate me to watch the first movie. After about 20 minutes of the first movie and no food, I was demotivated and had to turn it off but nonetheless, I digress; back to more on my phenomenal abilities in parenting teenage daughters).
Since she had tried on every other pair in the shop (and the staff was on hands and knees pulling bins out of dark recessed cabinetry), she finally donned the vintage pair and voila' it looked half way decent. Or to be more honest, it didn't look really hideous. So she ordered them and they'll be ready in a week.
I'm wondering if sight will have a profound change on Caroline; maybe she'll be a cheerful morning person. Maybe she'll always do a stellar job on the kitchen without being asked. That may be optimistic to the extreme. It'll probably mean in about 3 months she'll start begging for contacts. Hehehe. I could get her hard lenses and watch her enjoy that sandy feeling for a month while making every effort not to complain. That does sound like fun. And my mom card will get punched. I'll probably get Mother of the Year again. Oh, yeah.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Let me guess...You didn't graduate from high school a couple years ago?
Going back to college offers some interesting opportunities. For instance, introducing your classmates to your oldest son and trying not to notice that they are "checking him out." Yeah, that scores WAY up there on the seriously weird scale. Getting tutored by people almost half your age. Finding yourself admonishing and checking up on classmates: "Why weren't you in class today? You didn't get your homework finished? Don't miss the review, you need to be ready for the test?" And then I would remember that I'm not their mother. :)
I decided that I should apply for JAMP, a premed scholarship program for students in Texas that includes tuition money for undergrad and med school, 5 week intensives during undergrad summers to prepare for the mCAT, an opportunity to meet and study with professors in the different med-schools, and a guaranteed "you are in the door" to med-school immediately following college graduation. Yeah, it's a huge deal.
So I went in to see Dr. Altmiller who is the "good shepherd" for pre-med students and oversees student applications, etc., for things like JAMP. Dr. Altmiller was highly amused as I sat down across from him. "Um, let me guess," he began, "You didn't graduate from high school a couple years ago?"
"That's a very good guess," I responded," I graduated almost 2 decades ago."
Dr. Altmiller got a little more serious. "Well, for the purposes of JAMP you are too old and too white. Do you have any minority in your background? What about Native American?"
"I'm the ultimate minority. I'm a mother with six children going back to school to become a doctor. How many of those are there?" It was a good sign when Dr. Altmiller laughed heartily.
So since JAMP does make exceptions (Dr. Altmiller assured me they wouldn't in my case), and I'd rather have an outright rejection than an assumed rejection, with Dr. Altmiller's blessing I'm going through the tedious process of applying to JAMP, and I'm almost FINISHED! I think I'll be able to wrap up the application tonight and I already turned in the arduous stack of paper work.
One minor detail about being a science major, decent grades are not enough. If you have less than a 3.5 GPA, you don't get a letter of recommendation from Dr. Altmiller for med school. So this definitely adds to the general strain of classes.
My first Chemistry exam was a rude awakening to say the least; 60. Uh, huh. A 6 and a 0. I redoubled my efforts, got up every morning at 4am, timed myself working through all the problems, made flash cards (which do not help me, by the way), and faced Exam 2 with more optimism. Optimism that was apparently missplaced when I got my exam back with a big 71 across the top. This is when I did the only rational thing a student can do. I changed my major from Biology to Chemistry. Biochemistry, actually, since it is the most difficult degree St. Ed's offers, and I'm a natural at Chemistry. Because clearly I loved chemistry and chemistry loved me. Furthermore I requested that my advisor be Dr. "K" who was also my current Chemistry teacher. I mean, clearly she loved me, thought I was amazing and would give me excellent guidance as I continued to bomb my way through countless Chemistry exams. I also signed up for vast quantities of tutoring. And thought about Ceasar some more, burning his ships at the coast of Britain. If ever a ship was burned, I felt confident that my status as pyromaniac numero uno was firmly secured.
I quadrupled my efforts. I quintuplled my efforts (how do you spell that?). Meanwhile, I was busy keeping up my grades in Chem lab, Bio lab, Biology II, Intro to Calculus and Speech (which doesn't really count except that I did have to write quite a few speeches, do power points AND take tests, so of course, I got an A, but it wasn't entirely without due diligence).
The next Chemistry exam arrived, thankfully for once not on a day I also had a Biology exam. And I was ready, excited, determined. I would make a 100 and redeem myself. A few days after the exam Dr. K was beaming at me. "Do you want to see your exam?' YES. In eager anticipation I took it and looked at the bright red lettering at the top. 91. "91?" I wailed quickly flipping through the pages looking for my error. I landed on the hybridization problem which was so easy I hadn't spent any time on it. Sigh. WHY do I always miss whatever is easiest? I was crestfallen, disappointed, frustrated. Dr. K was amazed. "Jenny, can you not see all the things you did right? You can only see what you did wrong? That was an excellent grade. Enjoy it. And get out of my office." (Dr. K is truly the best :). It is kind of a problem. I can't really enjoy what I get right because I'm always busy lamenting what I've gotten wrong.
Well, onward ho, my turn around began, and thanks to Dr. K's gracious policy of the largest improvement grade replaces the lowest grade, my 60 was also a 91 and I went into the final exam with at least a solid B, which I had by then more than reconciled myself to.
You could just feel the tension enveloping the science building like a heavy fog around the Austin river as finals approached. In the last two weeks of school, I had 8 exams. The 4th exam for nearly every subject followed by finals and I was not sleeping and stressed and of course, there were plenty of extra curricular needs in my family unit.
By the time my Chem final arrived I was deliriously tired with Gabriel in tow, who had a headache, and wanted to stay with me. We sat in the back corner of the classroom and two hours ticked by, very slowly for Gabe. When time was called, I turned in my packet completely dejected. We all congregated in the hall after the exam to "compare notes," Gabriel was horrified to hear me say that I thought I bombed the exam and by the time we got to the car, he burst into tears.
I was astonished. "Gabriel, what on earth is wrong?"
"You've been working so hard. All you ever do is study, and now you think you did terrible on your important exam," he sobbed out, and it was a for real, snot slinging sob fest. Thankfully, I keep kleenex in the car. Actually, I keep a roll of toilet paper in the car for use as kleenex and I handed him a wad of paper to mop up his face. So I gave him a pep talk and I gave me a pep talk. God had it all under control. Of course, I would get into med school in spite of a C, and more along those lines.
And thus began the eternal 5 day wait for grades to roll out. My greatest terrifying fear was a C on my transcript. Dr. Altmiller, amongst other things, had certainly put the fear of the C in me in our very brief chats. I couldn't sleep. I would get up early in the morning and go over all my Chemistry notes remembering the most bizarre mistakes I had made on the exam.
Other grades rolled in. A in Biology, A in Biology Lab, A in Communications, B in Intro to Calculus (that made me mad. The median grade on the final was a 55 because the department head wrote the exam. And you can bet what was on the exam was not the content of the classes we'd been attending for 4 months). Chem Lab and Chem were the last grades to be posted, and finally they were up. Do I need to tell you how much courage it took to open that file? A in Chem Lab. I was searching for the C. It wasn't there. I checked the subjects again. There was chem...a B. I can tell you I have never been so deliriously happy to get a B in all my life and I hope I never will be again. In my complete and utter joy I finally did the one rational, logical, expected thing I had done the entire semester.
I had a total and complete sob fest. And 1/2 a box of kleenex and 20 minutes later I began to feel a little better about the whole thing. So I guess you could say I survived the first semester in college. Maybe not with flying colors, but with 4 A's, 2 B's and a 3.71 GPA. It is my hope that this will be my worst semester. I guess we'll all just have to wait and see.
I decided that I should apply for JAMP, a premed scholarship program for students in Texas that includes tuition money for undergrad and med school, 5 week intensives during undergrad summers to prepare for the mCAT, an opportunity to meet and study with professors in the different med-schools, and a guaranteed "you are in the door" to med-school immediately following college graduation. Yeah, it's a huge deal.
So I went in to see Dr. Altmiller who is the "good shepherd" for pre-med students and oversees student applications, etc., for things like JAMP. Dr. Altmiller was highly amused as I sat down across from him. "Um, let me guess," he began, "You didn't graduate from high school a couple years ago?"
"That's a very good guess," I responded," I graduated almost 2 decades ago."
Dr. Altmiller got a little more serious. "Well, for the purposes of JAMP you are too old and too white. Do you have any minority in your background? What about Native American?"
"I'm the ultimate minority. I'm a mother with six children going back to school to become a doctor. How many of those are there?" It was a good sign when Dr. Altmiller laughed heartily.
So since JAMP does make exceptions (Dr. Altmiller assured me they wouldn't in my case), and I'd rather have an outright rejection than an assumed rejection, with Dr. Altmiller's blessing I'm going through the tedious process of applying to JAMP, and I'm almost FINISHED! I think I'll be able to wrap up the application tonight and I already turned in the arduous stack of paper work.
One minor detail about being a science major, decent grades are not enough. If you have less than a 3.5 GPA, you don't get a letter of recommendation from Dr. Altmiller for med school. So this definitely adds to the general strain of classes.
My first Chemistry exam was a rude awakening to say the least; 60. Uh, huh. A 6 and a 0. I redoubled my efforts, got up every morning at 4am, timed myself working through all the problems, made flash cards (which do not help me, by the way), and faced Exam 2 with more optimism. Optimism that was apparently missplaced when I got my exam back with a big 71 across the top. This is when I did the only rational thing a student can do. I changed my major from Biology to Chemistry. Biochemistry, actually, since it is the most difficult degree St. Ed's offers, and I'm a natural at Chemistry. Because clearly I loved chemistry and chemistry loved me. Furthermore I requested that my advisor be Dr. "K" who was also my current Chemistry teacher. I mean, clearly she loved me, thought I was amazing and would give me excellent guidance as I continued to bomb my way through countless Chemistry exams. I also signed up for vast quantities of tutoring. And thought about Ceasar some more, burning his ships at the coast of Britain. If ever a ship was burned, I felt confident that my status as pyromaniac numero uno was firmly secured.
I quadrupled my efforts. I quintuplled my efforts (how do you spell that?). Meanwhile, I was busy keeping up my grades in Chem lab, Bio lab, Biology II, Intro to Calculus and Speech (which doesn't really count except that I did have to write quite a few speeches, do power points AND take tests, so of course, I got an A, but it wasn't entirely without due diligence).
The next Chemistry exam arrived, thankfully for once not on a day I also had a Biology exam. And I was ready, excited, determined. I would make a 100 and redeem myself. A few days after the exam Dr. K was beaming at me. "Do you want to see your exam?' YES. In eager anticipation I took it and looked at the bright red lettering at the top. 91. "91?" I wailed quickly flipping through the pages looking for my error. I landed on the hybridization problem which was so easy I hadn't spent any time on it. Sigh. WHY do I always miss whatever is easiest? I was crestfallen, disappointed, frustrated. Dr. K was amazed. "Jenny, can you not see all the things you did right? You can only see what you did wrong? That was an excellent grade. Enjoy it. And get out of my office." (Dr. K is truly the best :). It is kind of a problem. I can't really enjoy what I get right because I'm always busy lamenting what I've gotten wrong.
Well, onward ho, my turn around began, and thanks to Dr. K's gracious policy of the largest improvement grade replaces the lowest grade, my 60 was also a 91 and I went into the final exam with at least a solid B, which I had by then more than reconciled myself to.
You could just feel the tension enveloping the science building like a heavy fog around the Austin river as finals approached. In the last two weeks of school, I had 8 exams. The 4th exam for nearly every subject followed by finals and I was not sleeping and stressed and of course, there were plenty of extra curricular needs in my family unit.
By the time my Chem final arrived I was deliriously tired with Gabriel in tow, who had a headache, and wanted to stay with me. We sat in the back corner of the classroom and two hours ticked by, very slowly for Gabe. When time was called, I turned in my packet completely dejected. We all congregated in the hall after the exam to "compare notes," Gabriel was horrified to hear me say that I thought I bombed the exam and by the time we got to the car, he burst into tears.
I was astonished. "Gabriel, what on earth is wrong?"
"You've been working so hard. All you ever do is study, and now you think you did terrible on your important exam," he sobbed out, and it was a for real, snot slinging sob fest. Thankfully, I keep kleenex in the car. Actually, I keep a roll of toilet paper in the car for use as kleenex and I handed him a wad of paper to mop up his face. So I gave him a pep talk and I gave me a pep talk. God had it all under control. Of course, I would get into med school in spite of a C, and more along those lines.
And thus began the eternal 5 day wait for grades to roll out. My greatest terrifying fear was a C on my transcript. Dr. Altmiller, amongst other things, had certainly put the fear of the C in me in our very brief chats. I couldn't sleep. I would get up early in the morning and go over all my Chemistry notes remembering the most bizarre mistakes I had made on the exam.
Other grades rolled in. A in Biology, A in Biology Lab, A in Communications, B in Intro to Calculus (that made me mad. The median grade on the final was a 55 because the department head wrote the exam. And you can bet what was on the exam was not the content of the classes we'd been attending for 4 months). Chem Lab and Chem were the last grades to be posted, and finally they were up. Do I need to tell you how much courage it took to open that file? A in Chem Lab. I was searching for the C. It wasn't there. I checked the subjects again. There was chem...a B. I can tell you I have never been so deliriously happy to get a B in all my life and I hope I never will be again. In my complete and utter joy I finally did the one rational, logical, expected thing I had done the entire semester.
I had a total and complete sob fest. And 1/2 a box of kleenex and 20 minutes later I began to feel a little better about the whole thing. So I guess you could say I survived the first semester in college. Maybe not with flying colors, but with 4 A's, 2 B's and a 3.71 GPA. It is my hope that this will be my worst semester. I guess we'll all just have to wait and see.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
With My Eyes Wide Shut...
I was informed that I was brave and courageous to go back to college. I didn't really feel brave and courageous. I felt excited and relieved that the time had FINALLY arrived because of all the hurdles to even get to the moment of sitting in my first class, attempting to take in vast quantities of a foreign language (Chemistry) and feeling as if I were attemping a sip from a fire hydrant.
I have a special knack for attempting things that are not entirely possible. When I met with the admissions director in the fall of 2012, she told me I didn't qualify for acceptance because I had a mere 10 credit hours (16 if my AP English Exam score of 5 were rolled in as 6 English credits) and 30 were required for admittance. Being a rational, logical creature, I applied anyway, and the director sent my stacks of papers and application on to a "board" that decides when to make exceptions to the rules. And after a few weeks on pins and needles and finally resigning myself to applying for admittance to the local community college, I got the beautiful, colorful, seriously expensive printjob of a congratulations, you're a St. Ed's student letter. With that crazy sentence, you can safely assume I'm not an English major.
Next up, HOW AM I GOING TO PAY FOR THIS? Um, yeah. We are kinda a "no debt" sort of couple. The idea of school debt is terrifying to my husband, and St. Ed's is a whopping 15k per semester. Uh, huh. So like me, my husband cried when I got my acceptance letter, but for another reason entirely.
I went in to see my assigned financial advisor. OH, NO! She was black. Yeah, I know, that isn't necessarily a problem. Frankly, I prefer black people. However, when you need a black person's help, you also need them not to imagine a) all white people are born into immense wealth with a trust fund the size of Texas, b) everything is easy for white people, c) if it isn't easy for them, it's about time they had it hard. As I sat in the chair opposite her taking in her face and tone and her total LACK of helpfulness, my heart sank. I signed on the dotted line committing myself to a vast sum of money and thought of Ceasar burning the ships at the shore of Britain. I had to succeed now. And get a new financial advisor.
In the meantime, I applied for financial aid (insert nervous 3 week wait here) AND received a scholarship and a grant which at least covered two thirds of my tuition and I figured even I could find some private scholarship to cover the other third, and I could apply in all my spare time during the semester (insert loud hysterical laugh here).
On to registering for classes. So I sat down with all the necessary materials and plotted out how to graduate by spring of '15. By taking 18 hours a semester, going during the summer, never sleeping, I could definitely pull it off. With this bright enthusiasm I went in to see my advisor. He was highly amused, and joined in with equal enthusiasm registering me for a stack of impossible classes. When he bid me adieu he said, "I'll see you by the end of week 1 when you decided to be an English major and change classes." That did give me a bit of a jolt. Me, English major? Fat chance. I was going to take the Science department by storm.
It was a storm all right. Of bad grades, late nights, wee hours of the morning, and a general frantic state of realization, catching up was not going to happen. The object of the game was to try not to fall too far behind. I was drowning. It was like the time I was learning how to ski, my cousin gave a quick demo, tossed me the line, and I sat at the edge of the deck, skis properly positioned, life jacked firmly strapped on, breathing in nervous anticipatiion. My cousin failed to mention that when I fell off the skis, I should simultaneously let go of the line. Perhaps he felt that part was rather obious. Instead when I fell off the skis, I held more firmly to the line, and went half way round the lake taking in a good deal of water, sea weed, algae and passing some very amused ducks while my cousin laughed hysterically and attempted to yell, "let go of the line, Jenny!" Let go of the line? Processing, processing. Oh, let go of the line. And I did, and floated and bobbed in the water, my legs pulled up to my chest for fear something in the murky dark water would pull me to the bottom, while my cousin circled the boat.
No one is circling the boat, coming for you when you're an old person in college trying desperately to catch up and keep up with a vast quantity of kids who in spite of partying regularly, relationship and room mate drama, and piles of school debt, seem to breeze in and out of classes with a sleepy nonchalance that's quite impressive, when you think about it.
But slowly I adjusted. I adjusted to no sleep, intense concentration for hours on end, going to school and for hours on end forgetting I was a wife, a mother, a human. I was just a robot attempting to stay on top of an impossible load. I discovered free tutoring, SI sessions, better note taking systems. Students began asking me for help and requesting my notes when they missed class. There's no fixing feeling incredibly old and experienced when on campus with a lot of people around the age of 20, but I was slowly beginning to fit in..the way the Amish fit in at Superbowl Sunday.
In fact, there were some theories stirring amongst the student body to attempt to explain what a bizarre person I was, sharing jokes with the teachers, laughing hard in a room full of silent students, why I dressed so...modestly, for lack of a better word. (The students should thank me on that score as my body has seen the ravages of downloading six humans. This is a human delivery system that needs clothing). The students knew I was old, but in their minds that meant 27. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
And my family, where were my six children and my husband in all this? Jon took over the laundry on day one knowing that the possibility of his finding something to pack for business trips had just gone to negative digits unless he saw to it. My children were proud of me. Some more than others. Charles would glow. "Wow, Mom, you are the most amazing mom, ever. What other mother with six kids would study all the time and become a doctor?" Mmmm. Maybe that's because the other mothers still have some remaining intelligence, which I apparently left behind long ago.
I learned to climb out of bed at 4 am, look a bit jealously at my slumbering husband and head out to the dining room to pour over Biology texts and chemistry problems. I learned to listen to the sounds of my family hanging out, laughing it up, watching movies on the weekends, while I bent over my books at my desk and wished for ear plugs so I could focus better. I learned to hold Vivs or Gabe in my lap while working through math problems. I learned to let the kids do as much for themselves as they could.
But did I learn enough to maintain a good GPA? And did I get the private scholarships? Guess you'll have to read the next posting...
I have a special knack for attempting things that are not entirely possible. When I met with the admissions director in the fall of 2012, she told me I didn't qualify for acceptance because I had a mere 10 credit hours (16 if my AP English Exam score of 5 were rolled in as 6 English credits) and 30 were required for admittance. Being a rational, logical creature, I applied anyway, and the director sent my stacks of papers and application on to a "board" that decides when to make exceptions to the rules. And after a few weeks on pins and needles and finally resigning myself to applying for admittance to the local community college, I got the beautiful, colorful, seriously expensive printjob of a congratulations, you're a St. Ed's student letter. With that crazy sentence, you can safely assume I'm not an English major.
Next up, HOW AM I GOING TO PAY FOR THIS? Um, yeah. We are kinda a "no debt" sort of couple. The idea of school debt is terrifying to my husband, and St. Ed's is a whopping 15k per semester. Uh, huh. So like me, my husband cried when I got my acceptance letter, but for another reason entirely.
I went in to see my assigned financial advisor. OH, NO! She was black. Yeah, I know, that isn't necessarily a problem. Frankly, I prefer black people. However, when you need a black person's help, you also need them not to imagine a) all white people are born into immense wealth with a trust fund the size of Texas, b) everything is easy for white people, c) if it isn't easy for them, it's about time they had it hard. As I sat in the chair opposite her taking in her face and tone and her total LACK of helpfulness, my heart sank. I signed on the dotted line committing myself to a vast sum of money and thought of Ceasar burning the ships at the shore of Britain. I had to succeed now. And get a new financial advisor.
In the meantime, I applied for financial aid (insert nervous 3 week wait here) AND received a scholarship and a grant which at least covered two thirds of my tuition and I figured even I could find some private scholarship to cover the other third, and I could apply in all my spare time during the semester (insert loud hysterical laugh here).
On to registering for classes. So I sat down with all the necessary materials and plotted out how to graduate by spring of '15. By taking 18 hours a semester, going during the summer, never sleeping, I could definitely pull it off. With this bright enthusiasm I went in to see my advisor. He was highly amused, and joined in with equal enthusiasm registering me for a stack of impossible classes. When he bid me adieu he said, "I'll see you by the end of week 1 when you decided to be an English major and change classes." That did give me a bit of a jolt. Me, English major? Fat chance. I was going to take the Science department by storm.
It was a storm all right. Of bad grades, late nights, wee hours of the morning, and a general frantic state of realization, catching up was not going to happen. The object of the game was to try not to fall too far behind. I was drowning. It was like the time I was learning how to ski, my cousin gave a quick demo, tossed me the line, and I sat at the edge of the deck, skis properly positioned, life jacked firmly strapped on, breathing in nervous anticipatiion. My cousin failed to mention that when I fell off the skis, I should simultaneously let go of the line. Perhaps he felt that part was rather obious. Instead when I fell off the skis, I held more firmly to the line, and went half way round the lake taking in a good deal of water, sea weed, algae and passing some very amused ducks while my cousin laughed hysterically and attempted to yell, "let go of the line, Jenny!" Let go of the line? Processing, processing. Oh, let go of the line. And I did, and floated and bobbed in the water, my legs pulled up to my chest for fear something in the murky dark water would pull me to the bottom, while my cousin circled the boat.
No one is circling the boat, coming for you when you're an old person in college trying desperately to catch up and keep up with a vast quantity of kids who in spite of partying regularly, relationship and room mate drama, and piles of school debt, seem to breeze in and out of classes with a sleepy nonchalance that's quite impressive, when you think about it.
But slowly I adjusted. I adjusted to no sleep, intense concentration for hours on end, going to school and for hours on end forgetting I was a wife, a mother, a human. I was just a robot attempting to stay on top of an impossible load. I discovered free tutoring, SI sessions, better note taking systems. Students began asking me for help and requesting my notes when they missed class. There's no fixing feeling incredibly old and experienced when on campus with a lot of people around the age of 20, but I was slowly beginning to fit in..the way the Amish fit in at Superbowl Sunday.
In fact, there were some theories stirring amongst the student body to attempt to explain what a bizarre person I was, sharing jokes with the teachers, laughing hard in a room full of silent students, why I dressed so...modestly, for lack of a better word. (The students should thank me on that score as my body has seen the ravages of downloading six humans. This is a human delivery system that needs clothing). The students knew I was old, but in their minds that meant 27. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
And my family, where were my six children and my husband in all this? Jon took over the laundry on day one knowing that the possibility of his finding something to pack for business trips had just gone to negative digits unless he saw to it. My children were proud of me. Some more than others. Charles would glow. "Wow, Mom, you are the most amazing mom, ever. What other mother with six kids would study all the time and become a doctor?" Mmmm. Maybe that's because the other mothers still have some remaining intelligence, which I apparently left behind long ago.
I learned to climb out of bed at 4 am, look a bit jealously at my slumbering husband and head out to the dining room to pour over Biology texts and chemistry problems. I learned to listen to the sounds of my family hanging out, laughing it up, watching movies on the weekends, while I bent over my books at my desk and wished for ear plugs so I could focus better. I learned to hold Vivs or Gabe in my lap while working through math problems. I learned to let the kids do as much for themselves as they could.
But did I learn enough to maintain a good GPA? And did I get the private scholarships? Guess you'll have to read the next posting...
Monday, May 13, 2013
Remember Me? I'm not really recognizable, but I am still insane...
Hi, I'm back. Ready to communicate with the 4 people that have subscribed to my blog eons ago to hear about an inept mother of many with three in diapers and a lot of laundry. You wouldn't really think this would be fodder worthy of 4 subscribers. Maybe you guys are really bored. Or think your life is the pits and my journey made you feel better about yours.
So since one of the people subscribed to this blog is dead, I'll just reintroduce myself to the remaining three of you. I'm old. 37 to be exact. More importantly, my children are getting oldER which means they are that much farther from having worn diapers and that much closer to moving out. Both very good things.
Jonathan is 16, a junior in high school, who attends a government school, aka Fine Arts Academy, where he brings back hilarious stories and very good grades. He's also a violinist, composer, guitarist. He's destined to be poor and philisophical and snobby. And I love him, a lot. His sense of humor is really pretty good. He could always fall back on being a comedian. As his mother, I've given him years of material.
Caroline is 14 and finishing 8th grade. She's still stormy, and moody, and blond. She's a cellist, she's got a great sense of humor when she chooses to use it, and this summer she'll be gone working as a nanny. This gives us a wonderful break from each other.
Charles is 12, violist, dependable, traditionalist, the spitting image of his father.
Oliver is 10, a violinist, great student, sparkly, bubbly, and loves to irritate. Caroline receives most of his attention and is rewards him with all the umbrage he longs for.
Gabriel is my son with a sense of style and art who does not enjoy activities that include sweat or sunlight. He turned down the deep sea fishing trip. However, had he been told his Grand-dad was coming along on the deep sea fishing trip, I think he would have gone. The child adores his grand-dad and the feelings are pretty mutual, I think. He plays the cello, draws rather well, and makes straight A's. He is 8, and I've decided I'll keep him a few more years anyway.
Vivian got through a pretty serious illness that lasted for nearly 3 years. Before the illness she was feisty, headstrong, and joyful. After the illness she's clingy, needy, timid, insecure, and will get very ill very quickly if parted from me long. She's willing to endure the most boring hours of waiting in order to be always with me. And she's a just turned 7 year old dolly.
We live in Austin, Texas because 3 years ago my husband Jon was offered a position with the same company he's been with nearly 15 years now, and an executive re-lo package, and we thought, Austin sounds cool.
Austin is cool. Very cool..and windy..and hot, incidentally. We attend an awesome church, we have a very satisfactory circle of friends (though we miss our Atlanta crowd LIKE CRAZY) and all in all, life is pretty good. And different. Definitely different.
In the summer of 2011 I decided it was time to go back to school to become a doctor, as in, an MD. Because I'm bored and seeking fulfillment. No, not really. But I've gotten the opportunity to experience a lot of the brokenness of western medicine, and I'd like an opportunity to make that brokeness more whole for a community of people beyond the reaches of hospitals...but hopefully not beyond the reaches of hot water, because I'm exceedingly fond of hot showers in the morning.
In order to make my education as drawn out as possible I first attended and graduated from the Lauterstein-Conway School of Massage and got my license as a massage therapist. I really enjoy being a massage therapist except when I don't. :) I'll leave that part to your imagination since there's that whole client therapist confidentiality thing. Anyway, I got my license so I could expand my knowledge base of osteopathy via The Jones Institute which you can google if you really are curious. And in order to take their courses and eventually stand for the 3 day exam to get certified you must be a massage therapist, or an OT or a PT. So there you have it.
Then I went on to St. Edward's University, an awesome private school here in Austin, where I'm majoring in Biochemistry, because I'm a glutton for punishment and that is the hardest degree they offer, so I thought, great! Sign me up.
And that's where this blog re-begins. My adventures as a wife, mother and pre-med student. If you're looking for inspiration, I suggest you move on. If you are looking for laughs and an opportunity to better appreciate your personal sanity and the quality of your existence, look no farther. I hope to provide you ample opportunities for all of that. And much, much more.
So since one of the people subscribed to this blog is dead, I'll just reintroduce myself to the remaining three of you. I'm old. 37 to be exact. More importantly, my children are getting oldER which means they are that much farther from having worn diapers and that much closer to moving out. Both very good things.
Jonathan is 16, a junior in high school, who attends a government school, aka Fine Arts Academy, where he brings back hilarious stories and very good grades. He's also a violinist, composer, guitarist. He's destined to be poor and philisophical and snobby. And I love him, a lot. His sense of humor is really pretty good. He could always fall back on being a comedian. As his mother, I've given him years of material.
Caroline is 14 and finishing 8th grade. She's still stormy, and moody, and blond. She's a cellist, she's got a great sense of humor when she chooses to use it, and this summer she'll be gone working as a nanny. This gives us a wonderful break from each other.
Charles is 12, violist, dependable, traditionalist, the spitting image of his father.
Oliver is 10, a violinist, great student, sparkly, bubbly, and loves to irritate. Caroline receives most of his attention and is rewards him with all the umbrage he longs for.
Gabriel is my son with a sense of style and art who does not enjoy activities that include sweat or sunlight. He turned down the deep sea fishing trip. However, had he been told his Grand-dad was coming along on the deep sea fishing trip, I think he would have gone. The child adores his grand-dad and the feelings are pretty mutual, I think. He plays the cello, draws rather well, and makes straight A's. He is 8, and I've decided I'll keep him a few more years anyway.
Vivian got through a pretty serious illness that lasted for nearly 3 years. Before the illness she was feisty, headstrong, and joyful. After the illness she's clingy, needy, timid, insecure, and will get very ill very quickly if parted from me long. She's willing to endure the most boring hours of waiting in order to be always with me. And she's a just turned 7 year old dolly.
We live in Austin, Texas because 3 years ago my husband Jon was offered a position with the same company he's been with nearly 15 years now, and an executive re-lo package, and we thought, Austin sounds cool.
Austin is cool. Very cool..and windy..and hot, incidentally. We attend an awesome church, we have a very satisfactory circle of friends (though we miss our Atlanta crowd LIKE CRAZY) and all in all, life is pretty good. And different. Definitely different.
In the summer of 2011 I decided it was time to go back to school to become a doctor, as in, an MD. Because I'm bored and seeking fulfillment. No, not really. But I've gotten the opportunity to experience a lot of the brokenness of western medicine, and I'd like an opportunity to make that brokeness more whole for a community of people beyond the reaches of hospitals...but hopefully not beyond the reaches of hot water, because I'm exceedingly fond of hot showers in the morning.
In order to make my education as drawn out as possible I first attended and graduated from the Lauterstein-Conway School of Massage and got my license as a massage therapist. I really enjoy being a massage therapist except when I don't. :) I'll leave that part to your imagination since there's that whole client therapist confidentiality thing. Anyway, I got my license so I could expand my knowledge base of osteopathy via The Jones Institute which you can google if you really are curious. And in order to take their courses and eventually stand for the 3 day exam to get certified you must be a massage therapist, or an OT or a PT. So there you have it.
Then I went on to St. Edward's University, an awesome private school here in Austin, where I'm majoring in Biochemistry, because I'm a glutton for punishment and that is the hardest degree they offer, so I thought, great! Sign me up.
And that's where this blog re-begins. My adventures as a wife, mother and pre-med student. If you're looking for inspiration, I suggest you move on. If you are looking for laughs and an opportunity to better appreciate your personal sanity and the quality of your existence, look no farther. I hope to provide you ample opportunities for all of that. And much, much more.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Jolly Ollie
Over the summer Charles injured his toe very badly. He dropped the x-box on it such that the toe swelled to an enormous size, the nail gradually turned black, and then at camp the nail fell off (and you thought this post was going to be about Oliver).
When the kids were all at camp, Charles big toe nail fell off and the news spread like wild fire. There were 5 other classes at camp who had a kid related to the kid who lost his nail. So 6 people got to feel relatively important with the loss of Charles toe nail. A trophy he carried around in his pocket for weeks.
The notoriety didn't go far enough for the psycho member of the family, namely Oliver, who peppered me with questions along the lines of: "How common is it to lose a toe nail? Do very many people lose a toe nail? How badly do you have to hurt the nail in order for it to fall off?" What he was really asking was: "What are my chances, mom, what are my chances?"
Yesterday, Oliver decided to take his scooter out around the neighborhood, shoeless as always. He ended up crashing on some lever, I really don't know the details as I never had enough curiosity to garner them, but suffice it to say he came in proudly with a bloody stump of a big toe. He calmly displayed the toe to me and said with great hope," Do you think the nail will fall off?"
After inspecting it, I informed him it was a mere flesh wound and wished him better luck next time. He was completely crestfallen but my parting "blessing" gave him hope and he bounced back pretty quick. Enough so that he was back on the scooter with the bloody toe stump (still no shoes) in a very short amount of time.
When the kids were all at camp, Charles big toe nail fell off and the news spread like wild fire. There were 5 other classes at camp who had a kid related to the kid who lost his nail. So 6 people got to feel relatively important with the loss of Charles toe nail. A trophy he carried around in his pocket for weeks.
The notoriety didn't go far enough for the psycho member of the family, namely Oliver, who peppered me with questions along the lines of: "How common is it to lose a toe nail? Do very many people lose a toe nail? How badly do you have to hurt the nail in order for it to fall off?" What he was really asking was: "What are my chances, mom, what are my chances?"
Yesterday, Oliver decided to take his scooter out around the neighborhood, shoeless as always. He ended up crashing on some lever, I really don't know the details as I never had enough curiosity to garner them, but suffice it to say he came in proudly with a bloody stump of a big toe. He calmly displayed the toe to me and said with great hope," Do you think the nail will fall off?"
After inspecting it, I informed him it was a mere flesh wound and wished him better luck next time. He was completely crestfallen but my parting "blessing" gave him hope and he bounced back pretty quick. Enough so that he was back on the scooter with the bloody toe stump (still no shoes) in a very short amount of time.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Things My Kids Say....
My children tell me some of the most shocking things without shame or inhibition of any kind. It's amazing. I would never, ever, ever have told things of the same nature to my parents....or anyone for that matter, had the thoughts crawled across my brain. But at our house, anything is acceptable fodder for conversation with mom, or so it would seem.
When Jonathan was a lot smaller, he was telling me some rather incriminating things and I said,"You know, maybe you should talk to your dad about that," to which Jonathan got very serious and said,"Oh, no, mom, I could never tell dad. He doesn't sin." I laughed hard. I guess that makes me an approachable sinner. I can handle that.
Tonight at dinner--and to give you more of a sense of the moment, I shall offer the seating arrangements. Jon sits at the head of the table, though he's mostly gone these days, so the head of the table is empty. I sit to what would be Jon's right, Vivian next to me, Caroline next to Viv, Jonathan at the foot of the table, and then continuing counter clockwise, Oliver, Gabriel and last Charles who sits directly across from me.
There were a few moments of silence this evening as bowls of chicken, rice and vegetables with a yummy broth were handed round the table. In the silence Gabriel suddenly piped up. "Mom, when I'm 7 my foot will be 12." I had to pause and do what Jonathan calls "processing" and then I realized he was talking shoe size. For Gabriel that was a rather deep thought. "Yes, Gabriel, when you are 7, your foot will probably be 12." He responded," And then I'll need new shoes." "Yes," I confirmed, "Then you will need new shoes." He thought about this. "I will need flip flops." I looked at Gabriel and said, "You brain is a very interesting place. How did you land on flip flops? " Caroline chimed in,"I was thinking about flip flops,too." To which Jonathan said, "that doesn't surprise me."
(This reminds me of when the family was in the suburban together over the weekend. Jon was driving, I was knitting and there was a general sense of noise and chaos. Through the noise I began to focus on what Caroline was saying and I interrupted her. " Caroline, that conversation will stop now. You have said nothing of substance and the sum total of what you are saying is drivel, and frankly none of our business." There was silence for a few moments. Jonathan piped up," Um, mom?" "Yes," I answered. Jonathan cleared his throat, "Just for the record, there was no conversation. Caroline was talking in monologue. I had tuned out a long time ago.")
On to dinner tonight:
"Mom, do you think there are aliens, because I'm really beginning to think it's possible with all these astronomy classes," said Charles. "I mean the universe is just so huge! Anything could be out there." I remained silent as the other children weighed in. "Of course there are aliens," Jonathan offered," Where do you think we got Caroline?"
I decided to bring up blends with Gabriel. "Gabriel, do you remember your new blends?" I asked. He got all excited. Together we said "st, st, stick" and then "gr, gr, green." Oliver decided to pipe up, "br, br, breast. That's an important one, Gabriel." I rolled my eyes.
Charles hit the breast topic like a duck on a june bug. "Did you know that there was once a woman with three breasts?" I was rather intrigued. "Really? Where was the third?" He was ready for that question--"I learned all about it in that book about historical mutants. The third breast was on the side of her leg." You know I asked the obvious question. "Well, did it produce milk?" That was the very question he had hoped I would ask-"Yes, it did. In fact there was a drawing of her nursing her third child with the breast on the side of her leg while nursing her younger twin babies in the regular way."
I had to digest that idea for a moment. "Wow, that'd be a bit of a shock I think to marry someone and not know ahead of time about that sort of thing." But the train of thought was interrupted by Vivian who pulled on my arm." Want to see my lucky freckle?" she said with immense enthusiasm followed by," It has a hair in it" and everyone exploded into laughter and I looked at Vivian wondering where in the world that came from.
The entire conversation devolved from there rather rapidly. I had to bring everyone back to order. "Enough," I said. In the short pause, Boofin-Biddles came up.
Let me explain the origin of Boofin-Biddles. In the book of mutants, there is a wee man whose trunk is of proper size as are his head, hands and feet. But he has no arms or legs. Only hands and feet that come out where his limbs should come out of his trunk. Charles will tuck his arms into his shirt so only his hands are visible, and then pull his shirt over his knees to the floor as he crouches down, and he calls himself Boofin-Biddles when in this attitude. He gallops across the floor and does the most hilarious stunts and such. One day he was doing a Boofin-Biddles demonstration and he lost his balance and was on his side, his hands and feet flailing a bit but he stayed in form. "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up," and he rocked around on the floor in this pose. We were laughing until the tears fell.
So of course at dinner Boofin-Biddles came up, and Charles struck the pose instantly leaping from his chair and landing to the floor crouched low.
Charles also has created his own nonsense language that does have a very particular cadence and consonant arrangement. Gabriel attempted to speak in Guddish, as it is called. Charles corrected him with a stream of perfectly cadenced Guddish that is so nonsensical you can't help but laugh, and when Charles spoke it, it did in fact sound proper, and when Gabriel spoke it, it sounded wrong.
At the end of dinner, after I'd said more than once, "Ok, enough. Have you people no shame? Do you not realize that I don't want to know every thought that crawls through you brain?" Charles said," But why not? Our thoughts are so interesting." You know, he has a point.
After dinner--and we had dinner rather late--I announced it was time for a moonlight walk around the neighborhood. Everyone scattered to get their shoes and walk accoutrements. I walked around making sure pre-dinner chores had been completed. They had not been completed and the sinners stayed behind while the saints took Daisy for a walk.
Four children were left home soberly completing their chores, Jonathan and Oliver came with me. Oliver gleefully grabbed my hand thrilled to be able to hog me for the entire walk. "Mom, right over there the other day I found 2 dead toads," he announced after we'd gone maybe a hundred feet. "But don't worry, I grabbed them quick and put them in my treasure box." I took in the information silently thinking," So that would explain the smell in your room." Another block and Oliver suddenly released my hand, darted right, and then caught back up next to me with a HUGE toad in his hand. "This is a nice one," he said admiring it. I just raised my eyebrows and nodded.
Oliver then piped up again," I'm glad you brought wine cuz now I can smell the yumminess through the whole walk." I did in fact have a glass of wine in hand. When we got home, Oliver wearily departed. He said," I gotta go recharge my batteries," and off he went.
The house is silent, even Daisy is asleep. It's almost tragic to go to bed rather than sit here and enjoy the quiet.
When Jonathan was a lot smaller, he was telling me some rather incriminating things and I said,"You know, maybe you should talk to your dad about that," to which Jonathan got very serious and said,"Oh, no, mom, I could never tell dad. He doesn't sin." I laughed hard. I guess that makes me an approachable sinner. I can handle that.
Tonight at dinner--and to give you more of a sense of the moment, I shall offer the seating arrangements. Jon sits at the head of the table, though he's mostly gone these days, so the head of the table is empty. I sit to what would be Jon's right, Vivian next to me, Caroline next to Viv, Jonathan at the foot of the table, and then continuing counter clockwise, Oliver, Gabriel and last Charles who sits directly across from me.
There were a few moments of silence this evening as bowls of chicken, rice and vegetables with a yummy broth were handed round the table. In the silence Gabriel suddenly piped up. "Mom, when I'm 7 my foot will be 12." I had to pause and do what Jonathan calls "processing" and then I realized he was talking shoe size. For Gabriel that was a rather deep thought. "Yes, Gabriel, when you are 7, your foot will probably be 12." He responded," And then I'll need new shoes." "Yes," I confirmed, "Then you will need new shoes." He thought about this. "I will need flip flops." I looked at Gabriel and said, "You brain is a very interesting place. How did you land on flip flops? " Caroline chimed in,"I was thinking about flip flops,too." To which Jonathan said, "that doesn't surprise me."
(This reminds me of when the family was in the suburban together over the weekend. Jon was driving, I was knitting and there was a general sense of noise and chaos. Through the noise I began to focus on what Caroline was saying and I interrupted her. " Caroline, that conversation will stop now. You have said nothing of substance and the sum total of what you are saying is drivel, and frankly none of our business." There was silence for a few moments. Jonathan piped up," Um, mom?" "Yes," I answered. Jonathan cleared his throat, "Just for the record, there was no conversation. Caroline was talking in monologue. I had tuned out a long time ago.")
On to dinner tonight:
"Mom, do you think there are aliens, because I'm really beginning to think it's possible with all these astronomy classes," said Charles. "I mean the universe is just so huge! Anything could be out there." I remained silent as the other children weighed in. "Of course there are aliens," Jonathan offered," Where do you think we got Caroline?"
I decided to bring up blends with Gabriel. "Gabriel, do you remember your new blends?" I asked. He got all excited. Together we said "st, st, stick" and then "gr, gr, green." Oliver decided to pipe up, "br, br, breast. That's an important one, Gabriel." I rolled my eyes.
Charles hit the breast topic like a duck on a june bug. "Did you know that there was once a woman with three breasts?" I was rather intrigued. "Really? Where was the third?" He was ready for that question--"I learned all about it in that book about historical mutants. The third breast was on the side of her leg." You know I asked the obvious question. "Well, did it produce milk?" That was the very question he had hoped I would ask-"Yes, it did. In fact there was a drawing of her nursing her third child with the breast on the side of her leg while nursing her younger twin babies in the regular way."
I had to digest that idea for a moment. "Wow, that'd be a bit of a shock I think to marry someone and not know ahead of time about that sort of thing." But the train of thought was interrupted by Vivian who pulled on my arm." Want to see my lucky freckle?" she said with immense enthusiasm followed by," It has a hair in it" and everyone exploded into laughter and I looked at Vivian wondering where in the world that came from.
The entire conversation devolved from there rather rapidly. I had to bring everyone back to order. "Enough," I said. In the short pause, Boofin-Biddles came up.
Let me explain the origin of Boofin-Biddles. In the book of mutants, there is a wee man whose trunk is of proper size as are his head, hands and feet. But he has no arms or legs. Only hands and feet that come out where his limbs should come out of his trunk. Charles will tuck his arms into his shirt so only his hands are visible, and then pull his shirt over his knees to the floor as he crouches down, and he calls himself Boofin-Biddles when in this attitude. He gallops across the floor and does the most hilarious stunts and such. One day he was doing a Boofin-Biddles demonstration and he lost his balance and was on his side, his hands and feet flailing a bit but he stayed in form. "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up," and he rocked around on the floor in this pose. We were laughing until the tears fell.
So of course at dinner Boofin-Biddles came up, and Charles struck the pose instantly leaping from his chair and landing to the floor crouched low.
Charles also has created his own nonsense language that does have a very particular cadence and consonant arrangement. Gabriel attempted to speak in Guddish, as it is called. Charles corrected him with a stream of perfectly cadenced Guddish that is so nonsensical you can't help but laugh, and when Charles spoke it, it did in fact sound proper, and when Gabriel spoke it, it sounded wrong.
At the end of dinner, after I'd said more than once, "Ok, enough. Have you people no shame? Do you not realize that I don't want to know every thought that crawls through you brain?" Charles said," But why not? Our thoughts are so interesting." You know, he has a point.
After dinner--and we had dinner rather late--I announced it was time for a moonlight walk around the neighborhood. Everyone scattered to get their shoes and walk accoutrements. I walked around making sure pre-dinner chores had been completed. They had not been completed and the sinners stayed behind while the saints took Daisy for a walk.
Four children were left home soberly completing their chores, Jonathan and Oliver came with me. Oliver gleefully grabbed my hand thrilled to be able to hog me for the entire walk. "Mom, right over there the other day I found 2 dead toads," he announced after we'd gone maybe a hundred feet. "But don't worry, I grabbed them quick and put them in my treasure box." I took in the information silently thinking," So that would explain the smell in your room." Another block and Oliver suddenly released my hand, darted right, and then caught back up next to me with a HUGE toad in his hand. "This is a nice one," he said admiring it. I just raised my eyebrows and nodded.
Oliver then piped up again," I'm glad you brought wine cuz now I can smell the yumminess through the whole walk." I did in fact have a glass of wine in hand. When we got home, Oliver wearily departed. He said," I gotta go recharge my batteries," and off he went.
The house is silent, even Daisy is asleep. It's almost tragic to go to bed rather than sit here and enjoy the quiet.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Tonight I Took Daisy for A Walk
If you know anything about a 'coon dog, you know that this is a story of lies because no one can take a 'coon dog on a walk. Or if you have ever heard of such a person, unless you see it with your own eyes, don't believe it.
Daisy is a 'coon dog, which means if you were to compare her body parts in terms of effectiveness, her nose would be about the size of the lies told in the 9/11 commission report (notice the lie theme :-). She can smell anything and everything, and she's big, and she's strong. That said, when Daisy is on her leash, you are essentially at the mercy of her good will because she is stronger than you, and her will is a thing to behold. Especially if you come across a small deer or a 'coon in the course of your whiplash style jaunt across the neighborhood.
Today was an especially long day and not because it was filled with many exciting though exhausting events. First, I was awakened before 6 by the chime sound of Daisy's collar. I'm a light sleeper and if anyone or thing is stirring in the night, I know about it immediately. Since I am also the janitor of all Daisy's gastro-intestinal problems or when her nose gets the best of her and she must ransack the garbage can in the kitchen, if I hear the collar too early in the morning signaling Daisy is up and about, I bolt.
So it was this morning. Around 5:30 Daisy was up and about, I hastily got out of my bed, stopped to put on my flip flops and softly called to Daisy in the darkness. She came immediately. I took her out to the backyard and she set to work exhibiting all the lovely symptoms of a full and complete puke fest. Unfortunately for Daisy, Jon had just cut the grass over the weekend, so she had to scrounge a bit to find nice grassy bits to get the job done. I sorrowfully remembered that I had pitied her hound dog eyes last night and given her the remnants of pork roast and gravy. I knew better then, and I knew even better now.
I settled into a folding chair I brought from the sunroom since the teak chairs were soaking wet from the rain, wrapped up in an afghan (incidentally, the afghan my Aunt Ann crocheted for my step-dad a few years before I was even born which made me rather happy--I love things with stories), and enjoyed the sun rise to the sounds of the poor puking, gagging, Daisy.
Daisy got it worked out of her system by the time the sun was up and it was time for me to get the kids and breakfast going. And so the long day was off to a running start. I cleaned out a disgusting clogged toilet (small people who over use toilet paper....sigh), mopped the bathroom floor--(yeah, that's gross when the toilet over flows), taught school, did the radio show, produced 3 meals, did the dishes, took the kids to the park, took out garbage, milled wheat, and stirred up biga and started several batches of bread for tomorrow...yeah, I was tuckered out and needed a walk.
It was after 10 pm and I had my hand on the door knob when the hound dog eyes that had been my downfall the night before were again upon me. Surely I was not going to galavant across the neighborhood and leave my faithful friend behind? I sighed. No, I was not. Instead, I was going to put on her leash (just for show since the security patrol is usually cruising the neighborhood on the lookout for frisky 80 year olds keeping the neighbors up with their high action and rather loud basketball games) and let her drag me around for several blocks.
She was out the door in a flash, sniffing the air with an eager fascination. We made it past 3 houses before the sounds of a cooped up canine or three became very audible. Daisy had to respond in her hoarse hoop for a bark. I was exasperated. "Come on, Daisy, for heaven's sake." Heaven must have heard because Daisy was suddenly silent. I was cautiously pleased and she continued, nose to the ground, meandering along the sidewalk, first one side, then the other, than darting back under a bush, than darting forward sensing something. I soon wished I had worn different foot wear from the flip flops. But in a bit that would be the lesser of my problems.
I will pause here to say that dog owners who walk their dog and leave behind their dog's exhaust for others to step in and otherwise enjoy, should be shot along with their dog at sunrise the next morning. That is my pet-test of pet-peeves. There is a special place in purgatory for you if you leave behind dog poop. I don't even believe in purgatory, but I think hell might be going a bit far. For instance when I weigh Hitler sending all those millions to their deaths and leaving behind dog poop, I'm thinking Hell for Hitler and Purgatory for the Poo Leaver. But currently I'm having a lovely glass of wine, so I might feel differently in the morning. Check back.
Back to the story, we were many more blocks from the house than I could count, I was enjoying a moon that was bursting through breaks in the clouds which were finally clearing up after a fiesty late afternoon rainstorm, and Daisy was maintaining a somewhat predictable cycle of jog, trot, dart, stop, jerk, and pull that could be enjoyed on some sick level. Suddenly, she got that position and I realized I had left home without the poo bag. "Noooo" I mournfully said as Daisy finished up her business. This dog never poops on walks. I mean, NEVER.
I looked around to see if I had been spotted by neighbors on the prowl. All was quiet. I checked for some sort of block identification since I was going to have to trot back, bag in hand, a little while later. When I did get back home, Caroline was sprawled on the sofa reading. "I thought Daisy never left exhaust on walks?" I whined--or maybe sighed is a better word. Caroline affirmed my thinking. "Yeah, mom, she never does unless you forget the bag. It's the strangest thing."
I got a couple bags and headed back out. It was at this time that I was a bit pleased I had to go fetch the exhaust because it gave me an opportunity to wander along in the moonlight at a happy pace unencumbered by a crazy 'coon dog intent on nabbing some furry animal in the midst of a concrete jungle. Mission accomplished a short time later and my guilt relieved. The patrol car lazily moseyed on by, the window down. "Evening," said the patrol man who looked a decade or two past retirement age. I cheerfully said evening back and went on my way. A few silent bicyclists went by and I was back home.
Daisy is a 'coon dog, which means if you were to compare her body parts in terms of effectiveness, her nose would be about the size of the lies told in the 9/11 commission report (notice the lie theme :-). She can smell anything and everything, and she's big, and she's strong. That said, when Daisy is on her leash, you are essentially at the mercy of her good will because she is stronger than you, and her will is a thing to behold. Especially if you come across a small deer or a 'coon in the course of your whiplash style jaunt across the neighborhood.
Today was an especially long day and not because it was filled with many exciting though exhausting events. First, I was awakened before 6 by the chime sound of Daisy's collar. I'm a light sleeper and if anyone or thing is stirring in the night, I know about it immediately. Since I am also the janitor of all Daisy's gastro-intestinal problems or when her nose gets the best of her and she must ransack the garbage can in the kitchen, if I hear the collar too early in the morning signaling Daisy is up and about, I bolt.
So it was this morning. Around 5:30 Daisy was up and about, I hastily got out of my bed, stopped to put on my flip flops and softly called to Daisy in the darkness. She came immediately. I took her out to the backyard and she set to work exhibiting all the lovely symptoms of a full and complete puke fest. Unfortunately for Daisy, Jon had just cut the grass over the weekend, so she had to scrounge a bit to find nice grassy bits to get the job done. I sorrowfully remembered that I had pitied her hound dog eyes last night and given her the remnants of pork roast and gravy. I knew better then, and I knew even better now.
I settled into a folding chair I brought from the sunroom since the teak chairs were soaking wet from the rain, wrapped up in an afghan (incidentally, the afghan my Aunt Ann crocheted for my step-dad a few years before I was even born which made me rather happy--I love things with stories), and enjoyed the sun rise to the sounds of the poor puking, gagging, Daisy.
Daisy got it worked out of her system by the time the sun was up and it was time for me to get the kids and breakfast going. And so the long day was off to a running start. I cleaned out a disgusting clogged toilet (small people who over use toilet paper....sigh), mopped the bathroom floor--(yeah, that's gross when the toilet over flows), taught school, did the radio show, produced 3 meals, did the dishes, took the kids to the park, took out garbage, milled wheat, and stirred up biga and started several batches of bread for tomorrow...yeah, I was tuckered out and needed a walk.
It was after 10 pm and I had my hand on the door knob when the hound dog eyes that had been my downfall the night before were again upon me. Surely I was not going to galavant across the neighborhood and leave my faithful friend behind? I sighed. No, I was not. Instead, I was going to put on her leash (just for show since the security patrol is usually cruising the neighborhood on the lookout for frisky 80 year olds keeping the neighbors up with their high action and rather loud basketball games) and let her drag me around for several blocks.
She was out the door in a flash, sniffing the air with an eager fascination. We made it past 3 houses before the sounds of a cooped up canine or three became very audible. Daisy had to respond in her hoarse hoop for a bark. I was exasperated. "Come on, Daisy, for heaven's sake." Heaven must have heard because Daisy was suddenly silent. I was cautiously pleased and she continued, nose to the ground, meandering along the sidewalk, first one side, then the other, than darting back under a bush, than darting forward sensing something. I soon wished I had worn different foot wear from the flip flops. But in a bit that would be the lesser of my problems.
I will pause here to say that dog owners who walk their dog and leave behind their dog's exhaust for others to step in and otherwise enjoy, should be shot along with their dog at sunrise the next morning. That is my pet-test of pet-peeves. There is a special place in purgatory for you if you leave behind dog poop. I don't even believe in purgatory, but I think hell might be going a bit far. For instance when I weigh Hitler sending all those millions to their deaths and leaving behind dog poop, I'm thinking Hell for Hitler and Purgatory for the Poo Leaver. But currently I'm having a lovely glass of wine, so I might feel differently in the morning. Check back.
Back to the story, we were many more blocks from the house than I could count, I was enjoying a moon that was bursting through breaks in the clouds which were finally clearing up after a fiesty late afternoon rainstorm, and Daisy was maintaining a somewhat predictable cycle of jog, trot, dart, stop, jerk, and pull that could be enjoyed on some sick level. Suddenly, she got that position and I realized I had left home without the poo bag. "Noooo" I mournfully said as Daisy finished up her business. This dog never poops on walks. I mean, NEVER.
I looked around to see if I had been spotted by neighbors on the prowl. All was quiet. I checked for some sort of block identification since I was going to have to trot back, bag in hand, a little while later. When I did get back home, Caroline was sprawled on the sofa reading. "I thought Daisy never left exhaust on walks?" I whined--or maybe sighed is a better word. Caroline affirmed my thinking. "Yeah, mom, she never does unless you forget the bag. It's the strangest thing."
I got a couple bags and headed back out. It was at this time that I was a bit pleased I had to go fetch the exhaust because it gave me an opportunity to wander along in the moonlight at a happy pace unencumbered by a crazy 'coon dog intent on nabbing some furry animal in the midst of a concrete jungle. Mission accomplished a short time later and my guilt relieved. The patrol car lazily moseyed on by, the window down. "Evening," said the patrol man who looked a decade or two past retirement age. I cheerfully said evening back and went on my way. A few silent bicyclists went by and I was back home.
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