The other day I struggled to transplant a small palm tree into a bigger container. The palm had suffered a little in it's current home and developed a few thorns in protest. While shoveling soil into the container, I stuck my finger.
It hurt pretty bad, so I finished up and went inside to find some tweezers. I dug around at the spot for a few minutes, but could not find the thorn. I decided that it had just stuck me, but not broken off inside.
The next morning the spot on my finger was still painful and started to swell slightly. Again, I got out the tweezers and looked for a thorn. Still nothing.
Later that day, it became really red and painful and swollen. This time I squeezed my finger and out popped a tiny sliver of thorn. It had gone straight in and must have been too deep to find by scratching the surface. Once it was out, my finger felt so much better. It was still sore, but much less so. Today there is just a tiny spot to remind me where the thorn went in.
This is true for the painful stuff in our hearts too. Like my body teaches me, I have to get the thorns out. If I had ignored my finger, things could have gotten so much worse.
I am working on it.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Join the party!
The weather was glorious today. I ignored my to do list, left the breakfast dishes in the sink, threw on some comfy clothes and met some friends at the park with my Little Guy. The boys played nicely, not a speck of sand was thrown, no one cried, and I think they even managed to take turns playing with the trucks and shovels.
We decided to head out for lunch, a rare treat with the boys in tow, and went to Pita Jungle for heaping plates of delicious Mediterranean food. We had our hearts set on sitting outside, and waited fifty minutes for the privilege. To pass the time, the boys ran up and down the sidewalk. We inspected and counted all of the flowers. We played over and under the bike rack. Somehow, we kept the boys entertained and arrived at our table starving, but in good spirits.
We each ordered a beer, and settled into our seats. As our food made it to the table, my girlfriend's son choked a little on some pretzels. Not enough to warrant the Heimlich, but enough to keep him coughing, eyes watery, for at least a minute. Just when we thought he was fine, the coughing resumed and he upchucked an entire bottle of juice onto the table, the patio floor, and maybe even into the salads. After the projectile trajectory eased into a dribble, we grabbed every available napkin and my friend sopped up the mess. I don't think anyone noticed, except for our twentysomething waiter, who may now be scarred for life. She changed her little buddy into dry clothes and we resumed our meal. We had fun anyway (didn't we?).
It wasn't easy, and in the end we worked pretty hard at having some time out today. A Friday afternoon in '99 would have found us at a bar patio in downtown Atlanta, nary a child in sight. When we party like it's 2009, things are totally different.
Either way, it's like I always say... a party isn't a party, 'til somebody throws up.
We decided to head out for lunch, a rare treat with the boys in tow, and went to Pita Jungle for heaping plates of delicious Mediterranean food. We had our hearts set on sitting outside, and waited fifty minutes for the privilege. To pass the time, the boys ran up and down the sidewalk. We inspected and counted all of the flowers. We played over and under the bike rack. Somehow, we kept the boys entertained and arrived at our table starving, but in good spirits.
We each ordered a beer, and settled into our seats. As our food made it to the table, my girlfriend's son choked a little on some pretzels. Not enough to warrant the Heimlich, but enough to keep him coughing, eyes watery, for at least a minute. Just when we thought he was fine, the coughing resumed and he upchucked an entire bottle of juice onto the table, the patio floor, and maybe even into the salads. After the projectile trajectory eased into a dribble, we grabbed every available napkin and my friend sopped up the mess. I don't think anyone noticed, except for our twentysomething waiter, who may now be scarred for life. She changed her little buddy into dry clothes and we resumed our meal. We had fun anyway (didn't we?).
It wasn't easy, and in the end we worked pretty hard at having some time out today. A Friday afternoon in '99 would have found us at a bar patio in downtown Atlanta, nary a child in sight. When we party like it's 2009, things are totally different.
Either way, it's like I always say... a party isn't a party, 'til somebody throws up.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Mine!
"Miiiiiiiiinnnne!"
It's the new phrase that pays around here. My Little Guy is discovering his voice and learning to lay claim to the things he loves. I am pretty sure Girlie didn't shriek that particular word until she was much older, but then she was an only at the time and didn't have to fight a bossy six year old for her favorite toy.
The thing is, I totally get it. I have to stop myself from yelling the same exact phrase when one of the kids riffles through my purse, or tosses all of the pillows off of the sofa, or runs off with my hairbrush (after swishing it in the toilet, of course). Most of the time, my personal space doesn't exist and my belonging are up for grabs. The only things that are "mine" are the dirty clothes. No one seems to lay claim to the crumpled socks and undies, even the dog.
But somehow I have to teach these children to share, speak nicely, and do onto others. It's a tough task, and half of the time I am not sure if I am up to it for the long haul. Raising decent human beings is an arduous undertaking requiring patience and perseverance, and I am so much more of an instant results kind of gal. It will take decades to know if I have made the right choices, conveyed the values I hoped, and even then I may never know.
Yet, I try my best. I remind the Little Guy that he must say please and learn to ask for things nicely. I tell him to take turns and then show him how it's done. I compliment both of the children when the stars align and they get it right. I even suppress the urge to have a tantrum when they don't (usually).
It's the new phrase that pays around here. My Little Guy is discovering his voice and learning to lay claim to the things he loves. I am pretty sure Girlie didn't shriek that particular word until she was much older, but then she was an only at the time and didn't have to fight a bossy six year old for her favorite toy.
The thing is, I totally get it. I have to stop myself from yelling the same exact phrase when one of the kids riffles through my purse, or tosses all of the pillows off of the sofa, or runs off with my hairbrush (after swishing it in the toilet, of course). Most of the time, my personal space doesn't exist and my belonging are up for grabs. The only things that are "mine" are the dirty clothes. No one seems to lay claim to the crumpled socks and undies, even the dog.
But somehow I have to teach these children to share, speak nicely, and do onto others. It's a tough task, and half of the time I am not sure if I am up to it for the long haul. Raising decent human beings is an arduous undertaking requiring patience and perseverance, and I am so much more of an instant results kind of gal. It will take decades to know if I have made the right choices, conveyed the values I hoped, and even then I may never know.
Yet, I try my best. I remind the Little Guy that he must say please and learn to ask for things nicely. I tell him to take turns and then show him how it's done. I compliment both of the children when the stars align and they get it right. I even suppress the urge to have a tantrum when they don't (usually).
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
On sacrifices and speedos
Hubs and I recently downgraded our Netflix to one movie at a time. It's just our little way of saving a few bucks, after all our new President said everyone would have to make sacrifices. Sometimes, this presents a problem on Saturday night when we have already watched our one allotted movie on Friday night and there is not one stinking thing on. Yeah, we are watching DVD's on most Friday and Saturday nights, but if you have kids, most likely you do it too. Anyway, at least we're awake.
Last weekend, Hubs convinced me to watch cycling on the Versus channel. For those of you not familiar with it, Versus is the channel that gets everything kinda sports related, after ESPN and ESPN2 have rejected them. You are likely to find bull riding (which is actually somewhat entertaining to watch, don't tell anyone I said so) and hunting and fishing (snore, does anyone really watch fishing?), but also NHL and cycling. Hubs is a HUGE fan of cycling. It was between that and Apollo 13, so I grabbed a book and we watched cycling.
About halfway through the show I look up and see some guy in a speedo and running shoes running alongside the cyclists. I am all "what the?" and Hubs explains that that's just what the fans do during bike races.
Okay, so let me get this straight. During bowling, the crowd is reverently hushed while a slightly overweight balding dude flings his ball down the lane. But during time trials in cycling, a sport that is home to the recently returned Lance Armstrong, Mr. Hotness Himself, the fans run naked in the streets? Huh? Now, I am not suggesting that cycling deserves the polite observation of say, a golf tournament, but if I am pushing with all I have up some winding stretch of California tarmac, it would seem that that last thing I would want is another guy running alongside me in bikini swim trunks. Cheer from the sidewalk dude, your speedo is killing my mojo.
(Okay, I just proofed this post and came to the conclusion that we might really have to bite the bullet and pay the extra $10 a month for those extra movies!)
Last weekend, Hubs convinced me to watch cycling on the Versus channel. For those of you not familiar with it, Versus is the channel that gets everything kinda sports related, after ESPN and ESPN2 have rejected them. You are likely to find bull riding (which is actually somewhat entertaining to watch, don't tell anyone I said so) and hunting and fishing (snore, does anyone really watch fishing?), but also NHL and cycling. Hubs is a HUGE fan of cycling. It was between that and Apollo 13, so I grabbed a book and we watched cycling.
About halfway through the show I look up and see some guy in a speedo and running shoes running alongside the cyclists. I am all "what the?" and Hubs explains that that's just what the fans do during bike races.
Okay, so let me get this straight. During bowling, the crowd is reverently hushed while a slightly overweight balding dude flings his ball down the lane. But during time trials in cycling, a sport that is home to the recently returned Lance Armstrong, Mr. Hotness Himself, the fans run naked in the streets? Huh? Now, I am not suggesting that cycling deserves the polite observation of say, a golf tournament, but if I am pushing with all I have up some winding stretch of California tarmac, it would seem that that last thing I would want is another guy running alongside me in bikini swim trunks. Cheer from the sidewalk dude, your speedo is killing my mojo.
(Okay, I just proofed this post and came to the conclusion that we might really have to bite the bullet and pay the extra $10 a month for those extra movies!)
Pass the popcorn
Movies are on my mind. Since we moved to Phoenix (and a new time zone that is neither mountain nor pacific), I can actually stay up until the very end of the Oscars. What a treat! But there is something else. You see, my friends call my husband a sleeper hit. That used to bother me a little. I want them to see how amazing he is right away, but that's not his style. He doesn't jump in with his tongue blazing like me. He observes, eases into things at his own pace. He is comfortable revealing himself slowly and without a great deal of self promotion.
If he were a film, he would be the kind of movie you add to your Netflix list because it got five stars, maybe even won some indie film award, but you wouldn't have heard of it. He would arrive in the mail and you might forget about why you chose him. You would watch your blockbuster action film and your screwball comedy first. You would consider, briefly, sending him back, but choose to give him a chance anyway reasoning that you must have had a good rationale for putting him on your list. You would watch him and then be a better person for it. You would call everyone you know and say you have to see this movie! You would love him.
He's in good company though, with films like Star Wars and most recently Slumdog Millionaire, neither of which were blockbusters until word of mouth elevated them to hit movie status. Yes, my husband is indeed a sleeper hit. He may never win an Oscar, or get picked up by a major studio, but to me he is a cult classic. Saw him the first time years ago, watched him again and again, still love him.
If he were a film, he would be the kind of movie you add to your Netflix list because it got five stars, maybe even won some indie film award, but you wouldn't have heard of it. He would arrive in the mail and you might forget about why you chose him. You would watch your blockbuster action film and your screwball comedy first. You would consider, briefly, sending him back, but choose to give him a chance anyway reasoning that you must have had a good rationale for putting him on your list. You would watch him and then be a better person for it. You would call everyone you know and say you have to see this movie! You would love him.
He's in good company though, with films like Star Wars and most recently Slumdog Millionaire, neither of which were blockbusters until word of mouth elevated them to hit movie status. Yes, my husband is indeed a sleeper hit. He may never win an Oscar, or get picked up by a major studio, but to me he is a cult classic. Saw him the first time years ago, watched him again and again, still love him.
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