All right. I'm not famous for my patience. But I feel that this is due more because of the definition for patience most individuals choose to use. For instance, if I have a clear objective in which I am determined to succeed, and there are certain requirements that must be accomplished in order to meet my objective, even if these requirements take me years of incessant, unrelenting, hard work, doing things I truly dislike on a molecular level, I will in fact do them, in a constant cloud of irritation, but still giving 150% all the time.
However, there are other things that I cannot endure for 45 seconds. Take for instance the classmate who desires my assistance with some difficulty he is experiencing in grasping the concepts and executing the homework requirements of a course. Should this individual begin, after my inquiry as to the specificities of his confusion, by spending 1-5 minutes describing his emotional state as a result of being unable to "get" the material--within about 10 seconds, steam will begin to come out of my nose...followed speedily by steam escaping from my ears and eyes, my eyes turn red, horns begin emerging from my skull, and by minute 2, steam is escaping from every pore of my body with the exuberant abandon of a steam locomotive having arrived joyfully at the station, think circa 1890.
But what is remarkable is that I do not lash out verbally enlightening the student as to his insurmountable state of idiocy in wasting precious time examining his emotional state rather than fixing the actual problem, but instead I put in my imaginary ear plugs, turn away from the noise box, open my text, and resume my work. This is a feat of amazing patience! (As an aside, what is truly impressive is that 9 times out of 8 this individual will continue talking as if he were paying me $200 an hour to lie on the sofa and tell me about his problems and will eventually drift into the consciousness and attention of a fellow student who makes the mistake of looking interested, at which point the aforementioned dullard carries on with the new student as if a transition never took place).
However, if a student, in response to my query, explains precisely the point of confusion, I will take an extensive amount of time in carefully going through the problems, sharing my notes, giving clues as to short cuts and helpful supplemental instruction, and providing support not only in that moment but ongoing throughout the remainder of the course.
In dealing with my children, I can only say that I could never be an adoptive parent. I need the absolute assurance when dealing with the ineptitude of small humans, that I am entirely responsible for all the bad traits, illogical habits, and the genetic composition that produces a catastrophe on this level which I have to deal with on a second by second basis.
The other day, when I would have done better to put in my ear plugs, apply duct tape to my mouth, and continue on with my own homework rather than overseeing the work of the resident humans, Oliver asked," Mom, do you even have a fuse today? Because I'm sensing there is only the bomb." To which I responded," I have a very long fuse when I'm not dealing with complete idiots." At this juncture four people exploded in laughter and Oliver voiced the opinion of the whole with the words," Yeah, that means you have no fuse today."
Mmm. Perhaps the lack of fuse is the reason that these people have the epidermis of a rhino hide. Just a thought.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Thursday, July 9, 2015
An Open Letter to all Female Adventurers in Dieting (and those who wish to laugh with/at us)...
Dear Fellow Diet-"er,"
I have been in the process of removing the 10-15 lbs I have acquired as to my lack of exercise and my bounty in chocolate cake over the past several years in school...With these preliminaries...on to the adventure...
A most dreadful thing happened to me this morning, due to my horrific optimism. I had noticed that my feet are getting smaller as a result of my diet. This unfortunately led me to believe that the rest of me was getting smaller also. One dilemma I have is that the arm holes, also known as sleeves, in my short sleeved blouses, are too small for my big, fat, chunky arms. By too small, I do not mean a slight degree of discomfort. I mean, so tight that you couldn't possibly undo the button with my arm encased.
I have been in the process of removing the 10-15 lbs I have acquired as to my lack of exercise and my bounty in chocolate cake over the past several years in school...With these preliminaries...on to the adventure...
A most dreadful thing happened to me this morning, due to my horrific optimism. I had noticed that my feet are getting smaller as a result of my diet. This unfortunately led me to believe that the rest of me was getting smaller also. One dilemma I have is that the arm holes, also known as sleeves, in my short sleeved blouses, are too small for my big, fat, chunky arms. By too small, I do not mean a slight degree of discomfort. I mean, so tight that you couldn't possibly undo the button with my arm encased.
Back to this morning, being in slight haste thanks to a 9am class 45 minutes away, I chose a pink skirt, A line, which means it fits for about 6 sizes, and then couldn't find a white top beyond a massage school t-shirt. I rummaged through my white blouses and found a cute one-- size medium, not extra small. I figured I had lost enough weight for a medium, made sure the side zip was open along with the buttons, enthusiastically pulled it over my head, past my bosom (which should have been a glaring clue that enough weight loss had not occurred if I was in possession of a bosom)...and then I was at the point of no return...my arms had become one with the sleeves, and by one, I do in fact mean one. I immediately broke out into a sweat, which was a bummer since not only was the blouse clean, having been laundered and ironed several years back, but I was freshly showered, and also sweat doesn't generally aid the process of removing apparel. Or putting it on, for that matter.
I could see my email to my professor:
Dear Professor,
I would have preferred being at stats this morning, but instead I had to wrestle my way out of a blouse with arm holes so tight, that it cut the circulation off in both limbs, and I had to get my children to cut me out of the damn thing with a pair of scissors. That may have been the most terrifying part of the process. AND I had to bribe them all not to tell ANYONE about this, which cost me a fortune, as you can well imagine....
My imaginary letter never became reality because my frantic requests that ascended into the heavens were answered! I was able to extricate my self from the blouse, my poor fat arms didn't appear to be bruised from the assault, and a much wiser me, hung the blouse back in the closet, with the other forsaken for the sake of fat, blouses.
I then donned the white t-shirt with massage school lettering, whose arm holes were plenty big, and took my much humbled self to school.
~Jenny
P.S. There is simply no justice in the world when after weeks of dieting, your feet are so small that you have to walk funny to keep your shoes on when you walk, and all your clothes are still too small.
P.P.S. My dad sent me a Valentine card yesterday which contained a $100 bill. Random valentine cards with $100 are very pleasant.
P.P.P.S. I therefore took my plump body and skinny feet to DSW where I bought two pair of the world's most comfortable shoes. It cost $98.67.
P.P.P.P.S. Heretofore, I had concluded that I simply love myself too much to take up some obscene habit like jogging. I may be forced to reconsider. The universe is a mean place.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
And Mother of the Year goes to....Mama Hodge
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
