Next week marks the one-year anniversary of my first run with my Calgary friend as part of our virtual self-improvement project.
The idea, as regular readers may recall, was that we would do the beginning running program together, which is a plan of walking and running alternately for about 20 minutes until you spend more time running and less walking. We report in to each other online. After a few agonizing months I could run 20 minutes straight – and more – several times a week.
Despite all this activity the pounds did not melt away from my frame as I had expected. I’m not sure what made me think running was going to be the answer to my tight-waistband issues, but it turned out, surprisingly enough, not to be the miracle cure. In fact, I suspect I could run 10K per day and still be mired where I am.
At some point many months into our plan my virtual buddy informed me you don’t actually lose weight by running.
Wha-?
So, as a one-year anniversary present we decided to come up with a revolutionary plan to take care of that little problem. Are you ready for it? We’re going to – get this – eat better! I know! t’s crazy!
I announced our plan to Groom-boy, who was smugly sitting in a chair reading a men’s health magazine, possibly contemplating his own waistline. “It says here,” he said, “that the sure recipe for being heavier five years from now is to be on a diet today.”
So I threw a running shoe at him. Actually I didn’t. I just threw him a shoe-like glare.
Thing is, I wouldn’t say virtual buddy and I are on a diet. We’re actually just being smarter about eating. Look at it this way. Decades ago, when skinny girls bragged about the fact they could eat anything they wanted and not gain weight, their mamas were probably feeding them reasonably portioned home-cooked meals that didn’t come out of a package or from a drive-thru. So, sure, they could squeak in a cupcake or a sinful snack now and again with barely a blip on the scale.
Now enormous portions are routine and we are tempted by more ready-made junk than ever before.
You don’t need to go on a fad diet to eat better, though. It’s not rocket science. I’ve known how to eat properly (healthy foods and reasonable portions) forever, I just haven’t been doing it well.
We’re talking about things like when that man shows up at the grocery store to make mini sugar donuts in his little booth and they pump the lovely aroma out to the front of the store so you are drawn in like zombies. Eating well can be the difference between walking past those sinister little donuts and bringing them home. Once they are at home, my willpower is gone.
Recently I had to fast for a routine medical test. That was a reminder about what it actually feels like to be “hungry.” For a couple of days afterwards I found I wasn’t eating as much, and (gasp!) I was okay. I survived.
So my friend and I have pledged to watch our portion sizes and to make sure our meals are more balanced. We want to eat less of the junk we shouldn’t be eating anyway.
We are starting by vigorously targeting our mutual trouble spot – supper and beyond. The bedtime snack is a bane of our existence. For a million years I have eaten a bowl of cereal each night while I mock the anchors on the late news. It turns out that something I thought I “needed” is actually just something I “wanted.”
You know, that’s a meal. And who needs a meal to go to sleep? So I’ve been having a glass of milk instead and you know what? I’m okay! I don’t die of hunger in the night! I don’t feel weak and faint in the morning!
And as I continue to combine this earth-shattering food revolution with running, I eagerly look forward to the return of my waist. I’ll keep you posted.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 8/10.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Past Deadline: Sixty-Nine Days and Counting
The kids finished school this week!
Yay!
Sigh.
I have mixed feelings. For one thing, I am utterly overjoyed about not having to pack lunches every day. I’m quite certain the kids are happy about this, too, as the creativity level on that front had dwindled rather dramatically with the passing months. I won’t overly miss tussles about homework, either. Although these skirmishes were relatively mild, it’s still nice to get a break from it to enjoy uninterrupted gardening time for me or play time for the short people.
I’m also looking forward to not having to navigate the construction zone and busy detour area with large groups of children in tow after school. There’s something vaguely kamikaze about some of the drivers by times, and crossing streets with occasionally absentminded short people has left me slightly frazzled.
Those are the reasons why I’m happy to see the school year end. Now for the main event: Keeping Children Busy for 69 Days. But who’s counting?
I was lamenting the end of school to one mom recently, but she is apparently a Good Mother who looks forward to the summer because she likes to have her kids near her. (I probably smiled weakly and nodded in feigned agreement while backing away slowly.)
Since I am clearly not endowed with the same sort of enthusiasm for the summer holidays as good parents are, it became evident I need a concrete survival plan. I’m Type A, you know, so things have to be Just So.
Groom-boy and I are both currently working predominantly from home, so you’d think Keeping Children Busy for 69 Days wouldn’t be a big deal, right? I mean, we’re both in the building.
Well, let’s just say it’s not always that easy.
Despite the benefits that come with working from home, a few things are a tad more difficult, and navigating summer holidays as working-from-home parents is one of them. For example, despite having a communal work calendar at our disposal, it never seems to fail that when one of us has a one- or two-hour commitment, the other one will have a simultaneous obligation, requiring the involvement of third-party child care.
When both parents work full time away from home, it’s pretty obvious they’ve got to set up some sort of full-time child care in the summer. When you work from home on a freelance basis, you often have the flexibility to juggle your schedule in a way that accommodates summer holidays, but it’s not always possible to know when work will suddenly become busy as stink.
Indeed, even though you’re at home, things need to be done. You know, like work. This means it is not uncommon to find both Responsible Adults with heads bowed over keyboards pecking madly away at something whilst Lord of the Flies-style anarchy ensues somewhere in the abode.
It has taken me a while to realize that despite a hundred or so years of marriage, Groom-boy and I can’t read each other’s minds – at least not when it comes to work. So even though he might say, “No, I don’t really have much on the agenda this morning,” that doesn’t mean the agenda is clear and that I’m free to work uninterrupted (and vice versa).
Hence the need for a plan – a schedule, even – that clearly denotes when one of us is devoted solely to parental duty. This means avoiding e-mail and phone calls and appointments in favour of carting short people to swimming lessons or frolicking happily in the dew with lambs or whatever.
I also see some visits to grandparents in the short people’s future. I haven’t told the grandparents yet, so shhhhhh!
And, lastly, is the glorious “Lost Harbour Summer School and Military Camp” card. Do you know this place? I’ve been telling my kids about it. The camp is located so far away (on a remote lost harbour) that once you go you have to stay for weeks. The program consists of four hours of school each day followed by marching and building walls out of heavy rocks.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go watch for the delivery truck for my Mother of the Year Award.
Ahem.
Published in The Perth Courier on July 1/10.
Yay!
Sigh.
I have mixed feelings. For one thing, I am utterly overjoyed about not having to pack lunches every day. I’m quite certain the kids are happy about this, too, as the creativity level on that front had dwindled rather dramatically with the passing months. I won’t overly miss tussles about homework, either. Although these skirmishes were relatively mild, it’s still nice to get a break from it to enjoy uninterrupted gardening time for me or play time for the short people.
I’m also looking forward to not having to navigate the construction zone and busy detour area with large groups of children in tow after school. There’s something vaguely kamikaze about some of the drivers by times, and crossing streets with occasionally absentminded short people has left me slightly frazzled.
Those are the reasons why I’m happy to see the school year end. Now for the main event: Keeping Children Busy for 69 Days. But who’s counting?
I was lamenting the end of school to one mom recently, but she is apparently a Good Mother who looks forward to the summer because she likes to have her kids near her. (I probably smiled weakly and nodded in feigned agreement while backing away slowly.)
Since I am clearly not endowed with the same sort of enthusiasm for the summer holidays as good parents are, it became evident I need a concrete survival plan. I’m Type A, you know, so things have to be Just So.
Groom-boy and I are both currently working predominantly from home, so you’d think Keeping Children Busy for 69 Days wouldn’t be a big deal, right? I mean, we’re both in the building.
Well, let’s just say it’s not always that easy.
Despite the benefits that come with working from home, a few things are a tad more difficult, and navigating summer holidays as working-from-home parents is one of them. For example, despite having a communal work calendar at our disposal, it never seems to fail that when one of us has a one- or two-hour commitment, the other one will have a simultaneous obligation, requiring the involvement of third-party child care.
When both parents work full time away from home, it’s pretty obvious they’ve got to set up some sort of full-time child care in the summer. When you work from home on a freelance basis, you often have the flexibility to juggle your schedule in a way that accommodates summer holidays, but it’s not always possible to know when work will suddenly become busy as stink.
Indeed, even though you’re at home, things need to be done. You know, like work. This means it is not uncommon to find both Responsible Adults with heads bowed over keyboards pecking madly away at something whilst Lord of the Flies-style anarchy ensues somewhere in the abode.
It has taken me a while to realize that despite a hundred or so years of marriage, Groom-boy and I can’t read each other’s minds – at least not when it comes to work. So even though he might say, “No, I don’t really have much on the agenda this morning,” that doesn’t mean the agenda is clear and that I’m free to work uninterrupted (and vice versa).
Hence the need for a plan – a schedule, even – that clearly denotes when one of us is devoted solely to parental duty. This means avoiding e-mail and phone calls and appointments in favour of carting short people to swimming lessons or frolicking happily in the dew with lambs or whatever.
I also see some visits to grandparents in the short people’s future. I haven’t told the grandparents yet, so shhhhhh!
And, lastly, is the glorious “Lost Harbour Summer School and Military Camp” card. Do you know this place? I’ve been telling my kids about it. The camp is located so far away (on a remote lost harbour) that once you go you have to stay for weeks. The program consists of four hours of school each day followed by marching and building walls out of heavy rocks.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go watch for the delivery truck for my Mother of the Year Award.
Ahem.
Published in The Perth Courier on July 1/10.
Past Deadline: Gulping Down Summertime
It’s officially summer, and that means it’s time to get all nostalgic (as I am wont to do) and start singing “…why ain’t it always suuuummmmerrrr….”
Or maybe not.
Summer is just one more thing on a long list of items that have changed for me now that I am one of those so-called grown-ups. First came all those novelties like laundry and dishes and cooking that seemed pretty neato when I was living on my own for the very first time. Boy...that wears off after a while. Then came the whole “getting older” part of life, when certain parts of the body become unpredictable or even mutinous. I’m thinking metabolism, blood chemistry, knees and hips to name a few examples. Then there is the part when you truly understand the “responsibility” of adulthood. In general, I more or less grew into my brains as I neared 30. Then I had kids and the weight of being responsible for guiding two young lives hit home. Whoa.
Another notable grown-up thingy relates to summer. During the years a person is attending school, summer tends to be the shining beacon at the end of the tunnel. Whether you like school or hate it, finishing a grade or a year comes with that sweet reward of having anywhere from eight to 16 weeks of holidays.
Through high school and university those weeks came with having summer jobs, but they were jobs I really loved, so they didn’t feel like work at all. Plus, I made money. My own money. How cool is that?
So when I graduated from school and got my first full-time job, it took a little while to adjust to the new schedule. It also changed the way I felt about summer. No longer was it a span of time that involved seemingly endless days of frolic; it became a season to be scheduled and navigated. Instead of miles of fun punctuated by occasional spates of boredom, summer became a race to cram everything in – and not all of it was frolic.
I particularly have noticed this when it comes to vacationing. Before having kids, vacations were a time to get out of Dodge and relax and unwind. With very young kids, however, you pretty much have to take Dodge with you in order to be comfortable, and it sometimes takes more days to pack and then recover than the vacation itself.
My kids are a bit older now, so the days of lugging strollers and playpens and extra everything and ample toys have subsided. It definitely makes me appreciate all the preparation my parents had to do when they took us camping.
Now that the kids are a bit older, there’s still a lot to do and it’s still super busy, but the busyness is peppered with more relaxing times.
Lots of people have talked about how parenting allows you to return to your childhood and relive things. At first, as the resident pack mule, I didn’t really find that happening so much, but now that Girlchild is four and Boychild is eight I can see it.
I think back to my eight-year-old self and I remember those summers of camping in the tent trailer with my parents and brother and sometimes my grandmother. We went all over Ontario and also to New York State and I remember how everything seemed special and different.
Sometimes kids today need a big “wow” factor to get their attention, but I’ve seen my kids’ happiness unfurl at a cottage or a playground, so I feel confident that experiencing some of the little things I loved as a kid will etch good memories for them, too.
I remember the smell of my new Nancy Drew books mingling with the scent of canvas as I lay on my sleeping bag and immersed myself in reading. I remember “surfing” rollers on Lake Ontario. I remember how cool it seemed to wade out into a big lake and suddenly climb up onto a sandbar. I remember camping not far from a farm field and watching hundreds of fireflies cavort with sleepy, lowing cows.
Now if I only I could figure out how to make summer slow down so we can drink it in sips instead of gulps.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 24/10
Or maybe not.
Summer is just one more thing on a long list of items that have changed for me now that I am one of those so-called grown-ups. First came all those novelties like laundry and dishes and cooking that seemed pretty neato when I was living on my own for the very first time. Boy...that wears off after a while. Then came the whole “getting older” part of life, when certain parts of the body become unpredictable or even mutinous. I’m thinking metabolism, blood chemistry, knees and hips to name a few examples. Then there is the part when you truly understand the “responsibility” of adulthood. In general, I more or less grew into my brains as I neared 30. Then I had kids and the weight of being responsible for guiding two young lives hit home. Whoa.
Another notable grown-up thingy relates to summer. During the years a person is attending school, summer tends to be the shining beacon at the end of the tunnel. Whether you like school or hate it, finishing a grade or a year comes with that sweet reward of having anywhere from eight to 16 weeks of holidays.
Through high school and university those weeks came with having summer jobs, but they were jobs I really loved, so they didn’t feel like work at all. Plus, I made money. My own money. How cool is that?
So when I graduated from school and got my first full-time job, it took a little while to adjust to the new schedule. It also changed the way I felt about summer. No longer was it a span of time that involved seemingly endless days of frolic; it became a season to be scheduled and navigated. Instead of miles of fun punctuated by occasional spates of boredom, summer became a race to cram everything in – and not all of it was frolic.
I particularly have noticed this when it comes to vacationing. Before having kids, vacations were a time to get out of Dodge and relax and unwind. With very young kids, however, you pretty much have to take Dodge with you in order to be comfortable, and it sometimes takes more days to pack and then recover than the vacation itself.
My kids are a bit older now, so the days of lugging strollers and playpens and extra everything and ample toys have subsided. It definitely makes me appreciate all the preparation my parents had to do when they took us camping.
Now that the kids are a bit older, there’s still a lot to do and it’s still super busy, but the busyness is peppered with more relaxing times.
Lots of people have talked about how parenting allows you to return to your childhood and relive things. At first, as the resident pack mule, I didn’t really find that happening so much, but now that Girlchild is four and Boychild is eight I can see it.
I think back to my eight-year-old self and I remember those summers of camping in the tent trailer with my parents and brother and sometimes my grandmother. We went all over Ontario and also to New York State and I remember how everything seemed special and different.
Sometimes kids today need a big “wow” factor to get their attention, but I’ve seen my kids’ happiness unfurl at a cottage or a playground, so I feel confident that experiencing some of the little things I loved as a kid will etch good memories for them, too.
I remember the smell of my new Nancy Drew books mingling with the scent of canvas as I lay on my sleeping bag and immersed myself in reading. I remember “surfing” rollers on Lake Ontario. I remember how cool it seemed to wade out into a big lake and suddenly climb up onto a sandbar. I remember camping not far from a farm field and watching hundreds of fireflies cavort with sleepy, lowing cows.
Now if I only I could figure out how to make summer slow down so we can drink it in sips instead of gulps.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 24/10
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Past Deadline: A Great Catch
Here’s a fishing tale of a different colour. Sort of a blood-red colour.
On Friday night a bunch of us trekked out to Otty Lake to our friend’s dad’s house so the kids could do some fishing. Apparently it was not a good night for the Gray women. The first calamity involved a zebra mussel cutting Girlchild’s thumb. To quell the blood and tears, Groom-boy headed up to the house to retrieve a Band-Aid.
While he was gone, friend’s eldest child, let’s call him Buddy, lands a Huge Giant Bass. It was a beautiful multi-pound fish!
I was first on the scene. He had used one of those big lures with the sets of three hooks at the front and the back. One hook was through the fish’s lip, and I figured I could free it fairly easily. (I daresay I’ve become reasonably adept at de-luring fish over the last few years as the kids and I ply various waters.)
Buddy says, “You should use the pliers.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say in my best Voice of Experience. “I think I can get it.”
Can you guess what happened next? Multi-pound bass flops a bit and the back end of the big lure flips up and snags me in the left thumb.
Dang.
By this time Buddy’s mom had arrived on the scene. The fish struggled and tugged on the lure, which wasn’t really the best part of my day. We rearranged ourselves a bit and she was able to cut through the line with the pliers (shoulda used them pliers in the first place, you know).
The World’s Largest Bass was freed and I had the evidence in my hand. Literally.
So now both Gray women are bleeding at the thumb. Groom-boy shows up with a couple of Band-Aids and is advised the extra one probably isn’t going to cut it. He reassures the weeping Girlchild she wouldn’t have to go to “The Merge,” as she calls it. Mom, however, who is all brave and stoic and didn’t weep at all, does.
In the faint hope I could release the lure myself I ran my thumb under cold water at the house. Everyone knows most medical problems are solved by running them under cold water, right?
Wrong.
So we loaded everyone up and I was unceremoniously dumped off at The Merge while the other grown-ups took kiddies home for bed. It was busy at The Merge, so I twiddled my thumbs (ha!) while a few people looked surreptitiously at the paper towel that was protecting us all from being impaled by the remaining five barbed hooks.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that this sort of injury is pretty common. In fact, as I sat there, three older fellas from Pennsylvania came in. They come up every year to fish at Newboro and one of them had – surprise! – been hooked in the thumb. We compared notes. It’s hard to say which of the fish in question was more enormous, but we agreed everyone was lucky to have escaped without losing an arm to these mighty bass. I showed off Buddy’s lure. My American friend had already cut off the bulk of his lure, but apparently it was a dandy one that flashes when it goes in the water.
I was called in first. The doctor, who had worked for a while at one of Ontario’s fishing meccas – Dryden – was an experienced de-lurer. The worst part was the needle to freeze my thumb, but after that it was an interesting procedure. First an assortment of workbench tools was used to cut off the lure. I’ll spare you the details of how barbed hooks are removed, other than to say they can’t come out the same way they go in.
It’s easy to see fish don’t really have a chance.
After some antiseptic, a bandage and a tetanus shot I was good to go. First I stopped in the waiting room to report to my new American friends about what to expect.
So there is my unorthodox fishing tale. And since bass season isn’t in yet, we don’t even have a keeper to show off – unless you want to count me and my thumb.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 17/10
On Friday night a bunch of us trekked out to Otty Lake to our friend’s dad’s house so the kids could do some fishing. Apparently it was not a good night for the Gray women. The first calamity involved a zebra mussel cutting Girlchild’s thumb. To quell the blood and tears, Groom-boy headed up to the house to retrieve a Band-Aid.
While he was gone, friend’s eldest child, let’s call him Buddy, lands a Huge Giant Bass. It was a beautiful multi-pound fish!
I was first on the scene. He had used one of those big lures with the sets of three hooks at the front and the back. One hook was through the fish’s lip, and I figured I could free it fairly easily. (I daresay I’ve become reasonably adept at de-luring fish over the last few years as the kids and I ply various waters.)
Buddy says, “You should use the pliers.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say in my best Voice of Experience. “I think I can get it.”
Can you guess what happened next? Multi-pound bass flops a bit and the back end of the big lure flips up and snags me in the left thumb.
Dang.
By this time Buddy’s mom had arrived on the scene. The fish struggled and tugged on the lure, which wasn’t really the best part of my day. We rearranged ourselves a bit and she was able to cut through the line with the pliers (shoulda used them pliers in the first place, you know).
The World’s Largest Bass was freed and I had the evidence in my hand. Literally.
So now both Gray women are bleeding at the thumb. Groom-boy shows up with a couple of Band-Aids and is advised the extra one probably isn’t going to cut it. He reassures the weeping Girlchild she wouldn’t have to go to “The Merge,” as she calls it. Mom, however, who is all brave and stoic and didn’t weep at all, does.
In the faint hope I could release the lure myself I ran my thumb under cold water at the house. Everyone knows most medical problems are solved by running them under cold water, right?
Wrong.
So we loaded everyone up and I was unceremoniously dumped off at The Merge while the other grown-ups took kiddies home for bed. It was busy at The Merge, so I twiddled my thumbs (ha!) while a few people looked surreptitiously at the paper towel that was protecting us all from being impaled by the remaining five barbed hooks.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that this sort of injury is pretty common. In fact, as I sat there, three older fellas from Pennsylvania came in. They come up every year to fish at Newboro and one of them had – surprise! – been hooked in the thumb. We compared notes. It’s hard to say which of the fish in question was more enormous, but we agreed everyone was lucky to have escaped without losing an arm to these mighty bass. I showed off Buddy’s lure. My American friend had already cut off the bulk of his lure, but apparently it was a dandy one that flashes when it goes in the water.
I was called in first. The doctor, who had worked for a while at one of Ontario’s fishing meccas – Dryden – was an experienced de-lurer. The worst part was the needle to freeze my thumb, but after that it was an interesting procedure. First an assortment of workbench tools was used to cut off the lure. I’ll spare you the details of how barbed hooks are removed, other than to say they can’t come out the same way they go in.
It’s easy to see fish don’t really have a chance.
After some antiseptic, a bandage and a tetanus shot I was good to go. First I stopped in the waiting room to report to my new American friends about what to expect.
So there is my unorthodox fishing tale. And since bass season isn’t in yet, we don’t even have a keeper to show off – unless you want to count me and my thumb.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 17/10
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Past Deadline: It Kills Me To Wake Up
Sunday night was a great night for sleeping. The temperature was perfect. I was tired. It had been a busy weekend. When I fell into bed Sunday night I was primed for some heavy-duty sleeping.
Can you guess where this is going?
First, Girlchild crashed into the room at 1:30 a.m. I tucked her back into her bed then fumed as she tried to figure out what CD might lull her to sleep. I’m not always the role model for patience in the middle of the night. An hour or so later, Boychild was at the foot of the bed. Back to bed for him, too.
Who are these people who are trying to kill me? And they ARE trying to kill me – don’t even bother suggesting they’re not. I read about it in the newspaper, so it must be true.
I laughed when I looked at the front page of the Ottawa Citizen on Monday morning and saw the headline: “Sleepless nights can prove deadly, study suggests: Risk of premature death three times higher.”
“See?” I said to my children. “You’ll kill me if you won’t let me sleep!”
Whatever, Mom.
Of course the story had more to do with people who suffer from insomnia, but I wouldn’t be the first person to take a suitable quote out of context. The lead was also appealing: “Dying for a good night’s sleep? That may be truer than you think.”
The article indicated a group of people in the U.S. was surveyed over several years, and they were asked to indicate how often they had trouble falling asleep or getting back to sleep, or if they awakened repeatedly or too early.
I immediately picked up on that awakening repeatedly thing. Probably there is a technical difference between being awakened and your body waking itself, but hey! Sleep is sleep. There are particular times in the night when, if I am awakened, I have an awful time falling back to sleep. (It wasn’t a problem Sunday night – it’s just people wouldn’t leave me alone.)
According to the story, people are considered to have chronic insomnia if they report any of those symptoms more than five times per month over a period of a few years. Hm. Does that mean parents of small children are, in general, insomniacs?
The article goes on to say how more research is needed, particularly to look at the different types of insomnia symptoms and how they relate to specific causes of death, as well as whether death-by-insomnia (my term) is connected to other chronic conditions.
The point is, though, that “sleep is essential to life.”
No kidding.
Although it is not perfectly understood what is so crucial about sleep, it is known short sleep affects stress hormones. (Those would be my short-fuse days.) Stress, of course, affects metabolism and this can lead to a whole bunch of other problems with the immune system or make it difficult to function well on a daily basis because, well, you’re just too tired!
This is nothing new. We all know things don’t necessarily go very well when we’re tired. I know my kids waking me up in the night from time to time does not make me an insomniac – it just makes me cranky.
So, what can I do about this little problem? I have some ideas:
1. If I sleep in a tent in the backyard, it would be harder for the children to find me in the night and they’d have to wake up Groom-boy every time.
2. Maybe I could install one of those invisible fences for dogs at the bedroom door so people who cross the line would get a little jolt.
3. Ear plugs. Big ones.
4. Work all night and sleep while the kids are at school.
5. Put it into perspective by having another baby so we can look back fondly on all the sleep we were getting. (NOT going to happen.)
6. Duct tape. I’m not sure what I would use it for, but it generally solves all problems, right?
7. Suck it up. This too shall pass. After all, it’s not as if the kids are up every night. It only seems like it is.
Sweet dreams, let’s hope!
Published in The Perth Courier, June 10/10
Can you guess where this is going?
First, Girlchild crashed into the room at 1:30 a.m. I tucked her back into her bed then fumed as she tried to figure out what CD might lull her to sleep. I’m not always the role model for patience in the middle of the night. An hour or so later, Boychild was at the foot of the bed. Back to bed for him, too.
Who are these people who are trying to kill me? And they ARE trying to kill me – don’t even bother suggesting they’re not. I read about it in the newspaper, so it must be true.
I laughed when I looked at the front page of the Ottawa Citizen on Monday morning and saw the headline: “Sleepless nights can prove deadly, study suggests: Risk of premature death three times higher.”
“See?” I said to my children. “You’ll kill me if you won’t let me sleep!”
Whatever, Mom.
Of course the story had more to do with people who suffer from insomnia, but I wouldn’t be the first person to take a suitable quote out of context. The lead was also appealing: “Dying for a good night’s sleep? That may be truer than you think.”
The article indicated a group of people in the U.S. was surveyed over several years, and they were asked to indicate how often they had trouble falling asleep or getting back to sleep, or if they awakened repeatedly or too early.
I immediately picked up on that awakening repeatedly thing. Probably there is a technical difference between being awakened and your body waking itself, but hey! Sleep is sleep. There are particular times in the night when, if I am awakened, I have an awful time falling back to sleep. (It wasn’t a problem Sunday night – it’s just people wouldn’t leave me alone.)
According to the story, people are considered to have chronic insomnia if they report any of those symptoms more than five times per month over a period of a few years. Hm. Does that mean parents of small children are, in general, insomniacs?
The article goes on to say how more research is needed, particularly to look at the different types of insomnia symptoms and how they relate to specific causes of death, as well as whether death-by-insomnia (my term) is connected to other chronic conditions.
The point is, though, that “sleep is essential to life.”
No kidding.
Although it is not perfectly understood what is so crucial about sleep, it is known short sleep affects stress hormones. (Those would be my short-fuse days.) Stress, of course, affects metabolism and this can lead to a whole bunch of other problems with the immune system or make it difficult to function well on a daily basis because, well, you’re just too tired!
This is nothing new. We all know things don’t necessarily go very well when we’re tired. I know my kids waking me up in the night from time to time does not make me an insomniac – it just makes me cranky.
So, what can I do about this little problem? I have some ideas:
1. If I sleep in a tent in the backyard, it would be harder for the children to find me in the night and they’d have to wake up Groom-boy every time.
2. Maybe I could install one of those invisible fences for dogs at the bedroom door so people who cross the line would get a little jolt.
3. Ear plugs. Big ones.
4. Work all night and sleep while the kids are at school.
5. Put it into perspective by having another baby so we can look back fondly on all the sleep we were getting. (NOT going to happen.)
6. Duct tape. I’m not sure what I would use it for, but it generally solves all problems, right?
7. Suck it up. This too shall pass. After all, it’s not as if the kids are up every night. It only seems like it is.
Sweet dreams, let’s hope!
Published in The Perth Courier, June 10/10
Past Deadline: Speaking of Bossy McBossyPants
The mouth is a powerful weapon. Sometimes it emits very loud things, such as shrieking. Sometimes it’s mid-range, such as whining. Other times it’s only a whisper of complaint. No matter what the decibel level, sometimes it’s hard to take back the words that come out.
One day recently Girlchild was stalling about going to school. She occasionally comes up with a litany of reasons why she shouldn’t go. Usually it’s related to some feigned illness – a tactic she has undoubtedly learned from her older brother. On this day, however, she pouted and told me it was my fault.
See, she had a birthday party back in the fall and we invited several little girls from her class. It was her first big event with a large number of her peers – girls – and she was very excited. She had a blast. At one point, though, she was ordering everyone around, telling them how they should dance to the music, and they were meekly following her. I piped up and asked the girls, “Is she always this bossy at school?” They shook their heads no, ever loyal to their queen.
At some point during the party, however, I apparently called her “Bossy McBossyPants.” I don’t remember saying this – at least not at the party. I know I’ve used the term before when she tries to order people around at home.
She remembers, though, and it embarrassed her. It hurt her feelings enough that she dredged up the memory as an excuse to avoid school one day more than six months later. (It didn’t work.)
It makes you think, however, about the things we say to our kids and how they are remembered or interpreted.
I used to have occasional sleepovers at my grandparents’ house when I was a kid. I remember asking for an apple as a bedtime snack one time, but they said an apple was too heavy before bed and it would give me bad dreams. I believed that for years – even when an apple would have been a better choice than, say, a slice of pizza. The words stuck.
Sometimes as parents we grasp at reasons for things and blurt stuff without thinking. One time a few years ago we were packing up to leave a lakeside place we were visiting with friends and the kids were frolicking with abandon – reluctant to go home. “C’mon, you guys,” Groom-boy hollered. “When it gets dark at this place the monsters come out.”
“Are you nuts!?” I hissed, imagining the ensuing nightmares and late-night awakenings that would follow. Fortunately that particular blurt didn’t seem to stick.
I think we forget how powerful our words can be with our kids, although it’s understandable since so many of our words are ignored, especially anything that includes “stop,” “come” or “no.” Kids feel things just as deeply as we do. As I learn more about what my kids retain and how they respond to and remember some of the dumb things I say, it helps put a lot of broader communication issues into perspective.
It’s hard, sometimes, to be understanding when someone says something nasty or mean. I bet we’ve all been givers and receivers on this front. I was harsh with a poor fellow on the telephone when ordering food one day not long ago. How was he to know I was on my very last nerve due to a long, tiring day when he had the gall to ask the probing question: “Can you tell me what the coupon says?” (Sorry about that.)
And it’s not always easy to bite one’s tongue and put oneself in the other person’s shoes (or whatever other tired cliché you want to throw in there), when you are at the receiving end of a sharp tone, but it definitely helps to depersonalize it. There’s always a reason for something – even if it’s not a very good one.
Kids, though, even bossy ones, aren’t usually equipped to depersonalize thing. That’s why, with kids especially, one has to make sure the brain has caught up with the mouth before one utters something stupid.
As much as we would like them to, spoken words don’t always just float away into the clouds. Ask any politician.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 3/10
One day recently Girlchild was stalling about going to school. She occasionally comes up with a litany of reasons why she shouldn’t go. Usually it’s related to some feigned illness – a tactic she has undoubtedly learned from her older brother. On this day, however, she pouted and told me it was my fault.
See, she had a birthday party back in the fall and we invited several little girls from her class. It was her first big event with a large number of her peers – girls – and she was very excited. She had a blast. At one point, though, she was ordering everyone around, telling them how they should dance to the music, and they were meekly following her. I piped up and asked the girls, “Is she always this bossy at school?” They shook their heads no, ever loyal to their queen.
At some point during the party, however, I apparently called her “Bossy McBossyPants.” I don’t remember saying this – at least not at the party. I know I’ve used the term before when she tries to order people around at home.
She remembers, though, and it embarrassed her. It hurt her feelings enough that she dredged up the memory as an excuse to avoid school one day more than six months later. (It didn’t work.)
It makes you think, however, about the things we say to our kids and how they are remembered or interpreted.
I used to have occasional sleepovers at my grandparents’ house when I was a kid. I remember asking for an apple as a bedtime snack one time, but they said an apple was too heavy before bed and it would give me bad dreams. I believed that for years – even when an apple would have been a better choice than, say, a slice of pizza. The words stuck.
Sometimes as parents we grasp at reasons for things and blurt stuff without thinking. One time a few years ago we were packing up to leave a lakeside place we were visiting with friends and the kids were frolicking with abandon – reluctant to go home. “C’mon, you guys,” Groom-boy hollered. “When it gets dark at this place the monsters come out.”
“Are you nuts!?” I hissed, imagining the ensuing nightmares and late-night awakenings that would follow. Fortunately that particular blurt didn’t seem to stick.
I think we forget how powerful our words can be with our kids, although it’s understandable since so many of our words are ignored, especially anything that includes “stop,” “come” or “no.” Kids feel things just as deeply as we do. As I learn more about what my kids retain and how they respond to and remember some of the dumb things I say, it helps put a lot of broader communication issues into perspective.
It’s hard, sometimes, to be understanding when someone says something nasty or mean. I bet we’ve all been givers and receivers on this front. I was harsh with a poor fellow on the telephone when ordering food one day not long ago. How was he to know I was on my very last nerve due to a long, tiring day when he had the gall to ask the probing question: “Can you tell me what the coupon says?” (Sorry about that.)
And it’s not always easy to bite one’s tongue and put oneself in the other person’s shoes (or whatever other tired cliché you want to throw in there), when you are at the receiving end of a sharp tone, but it definitely helps to depersonalize it. There’s always a reason for something – even if it’s not a very good one.
Kids, though, even bossy ones, aren’t usually equipped to depersonalize thing. That’s why, with kids especially, one has to make sure the brain has caught up with the mouth before one utters something stupid.
As much as we would like them to, spoken words don’t always just float away into the clouds. Ask any politician.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 3/10
Past Deadline: No Chair Jumping Necessary
I have a confession to make. I have trouble with bugs.
No no no…I don’t mean I’m infested. I mean they make me a bit twitchy. Give me snakes, frogs, toads, worms any day. I like it when fish nibble my toes. I live with a turtle. Even though reptiles and amphibians can sometimes show up in surprising locations, my momentary startle quickly transforms into: “Oh, cool!”
Bugs? Not so much.
Don’t get me wrong. I know insects are important. Many of them are beautiful. I have no quarrel with bees or butterflies. I absolutely love dragonflies because they are gorgeous and fly in squadrons to eat pesky horseflies and deerflies.
Insects and I start to have trouble when they invade my space. Arguably it’s their space, too. Possibly they were there first, even. Likely we have destroyed their habitat and forced them to infiltrate our space, just as we have with so many other creatures (such as deer, bears and coyotes). Somehow, though, I find it harder to come to the defence of bugs.
I’ve written about ants before and how much I did not appreciate their unwelcome visit in our house one summer. Although I understood the temptation of the kids’ sticky table in the den, it was still, in my humble opinion, an entirely inappropriate invasion of my space.
I do not scream and jump on chairs when I see a snake, but my reaction is not far from that when one of those creepy centipede dudes that love old houses shows up. I am especially not fond of the ones that are almost as big as a cat. I was working in the garden on the weekend and a couple of those centipedes scrambled away when I moved some woody stalks. I said, “Ew,” but I did not scream or jump on a lawn chair. Why? Because they were outside. That works for me.
The cockroach factor contributes to this unease. When I was away at school I worked part time for a home-care agency and cleaned for elderly clients. (I know. Hard to believe I know how to clean.) Anyway, one of the clients, who was a feisty petite lady and a real sweetheart, lived in a cockroach-infested high-rise near downtown Ottawa.
It was awful.
I would brace myself and take a deep breath whenever I moved a dish or a canister on her kitchen counter because I knew a cockroach would come scuttling out. Despite the fact I was expecting it and was trying to be brave, I would always emit some sort of involuntary peep. That’s when she’d fly into the kitchen, usually armed with a shoe, and bash the critter to bits.
Yes!
One of my last jobs for her before I graduated was to help her move things out of her cupboards as they prepared to fumigate the building. Not fun.
My current buggy drama: ticks.
Sigh.
Perhaps you’ve heard the blacklegged tick (deer tick) has started to show up in this area and because they can carry Lyme disease, we need to be aware. Gulp. I’m trying to tell myself millions of North Americans deal with ticks all the time and we just need to train ourselves to check for them when we spend any time in forests and fields. We’ll get used to doing this.
I helped with a children’s outdoor program this winter and we’re in the midst of another one right now, and I find it ironic that with all this work to encourage kids to spend more time outside, along come the ticks to add an ick factor to the outdoors.
It would be easy to overreact and jump on a chair, yelling, “I’m never going outside again!” but there’s something to be said for knowledge.
On the weekend I saw a tick. A friend found it on her leg. A bunch of us got a good look at it and it became a “teachable moment.” I suppose it’s like everything else – snakes and bats and even ants and centipedes. Once you understand a thing and what motivates it, you realize there’s no need to go screaming onto chairs. Just deal with it.
So far so good. (Learn more at www.healthunit.org/hazards/documents/lyme.htm or www.health.gov.on.ca/en/public/publications/disease/lyme.aspx.)
Published in The Perth Courier, May 27/10
No no no…I don’t mean I’m infested. I mean they make me a bit twitchy. Give me snakes, frogs, toads, worms any day. I like it when fish nibble my toes. I live with a turtle. Even though reptiles and amphibians can sometimes show up in surprising locations, my momentary startle quickly transforms into: “Oh, cool!”
Bugs? Not so much.
Don’t get me wrong. I know insects are important. Many of them are beautiful. I have no quarrel with bees or butterflies. I absolutely love dragonflies because they are gorgeous and fly in squadrons to eat pesky horseflies and deerflies.
Insects and I start to have trouble when they invade my space. Arguably it’s their space, too. Possibly they were there first, even. Likely we have destroyed their habitat and forced them to infiltrate our space, just as we have with so many other creatures (such as deer, bears and coyotes). Somehow, though, I find it harder to come to the defence of bugs.
I’ve written about ants before and how much I did not appreciate their unwelcome visit in our house one summer. Although I understood the temptation of the kids’ sticky table in the den, it was still, in my humble opinion, an entirely inappropriate invasion of my space.
I do not scream and jump on chairs when I see a snake, but my reaction is not far from that when one of those creepy centipede dudes that love old houses shows up. I am especially not fond of the ones that are almost as big as a cat. I was working in the garden on the weekend and a couple of those centipedes scrambled away when I moved some woody stalks. I said, “Ew,” but I did not scream or jump on a lawn chair. Why? Because they were outside. That works for me.
The cockroach factor contributes to this unease. When I was away at school I worked part time for a home-care agency and cleaned for elderly clients. (I know. Hard to believe I know how to clean.) Anyway, one of the clients, who was a feisty petite lady and a real sweetheart, lived in a cockroach-infested high-rise near downtown Ottawa.
It was awful.
I would brace myself and take a deep breath whenever I moved a dish or a canister on her kitchen counter because I knew a cockroach would come scuttling out. Despite the fact I was expecting it and was trying to be brave, I would always emit some sort of involuntary peep. That’s when she’d fly into the kitchen, usually armed with a shoe, and bash the critter to bits.
Yes!
One of my last jobs for her before I graduated was to help her move things out of her cupboards as they prepared to fumigate the building. Not fun.
My current buggy drama: ticks.
Sigh.
Perhaps you’ve heard the blacklegged tick (deer tick) has started to show up in this area and because they can carry Lyme disease, we need to be aware. Gulp. I’m trying to tell myself millions of North Americans deal with ticks all the time and we just need to train ourselves to check for them when we spend any time in forests and fields. We’ll get used to doing this.
I helped with a children’s outdoor program this winter and we’re in the midst of another one right now, and I find it ironic that with all this work to encourage kids to spend more time outside, along come the ticks to add an ick factor to the outdoors.
It would be easy to overreact and jump on a chair, yelling, “I’m never going outside again!” but there’s something to be said for knowledge.
On the weekend I saw a tick. A friend found it on her leg. A bunch of us got a good look at it and it became a “teachable moment.” I suppose it’s like everything else – snakes and bats and even ants and centipedes. Once you understand a thing and what motivates it, you realize there’s no need to go screaming onto chairs. Just deal with it.
So far so good. (Learn more at www.healthunit.org/hazards/documents/lyme.htm or www.health.gov.on.ca/en/public/publications/disease/lyme.aspx.)
Published in The Perth Courier, May 27/10
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