Protecting Everychild

 

04.27.06

            We all want our children to be liked by everybody all of the time, right?

            As her parent, I am convinced that my Little Miss is the smartest, the cutest, and the most charming little person in the whole world.  My husband and I were enamored of her from the first moment.  We kept saying to one another, “She really is exceptional, isn’t she?  We’d notice if she were homely, right?”

            Yeah, sure we would.

            I am amazed as she grows and I realize she not only has unique thoughts and ideas, but also her own brand of wit.  She is such a little girl now –  a baby no longer.

            A week or so ago I noticed a night light in the wall plug in her bedroom.  I’d bought it for her several months ago when she graduated from a crib to a bed, but ended up removing it because I could not convince her to leave it alone.  I asked her if Daddy plugged it in for her.  She said, “No, me did it.”  She pulled the light out of the outlet and waved it in the air. With a very serious voice she said,  “This is not a toy, Mom,” and then plugged it back in again.

            This morning we were talking about how Daddy was actually Super Daddy this weekend because he put up a new swing-set on Saturday and took her to the circus on Sunday.  My husband started singing the old Cosby favorite; “Dad is great!  He feeds us chocolate cake!” and my Little Miss looked at me, grinned, and said, “But you not great, Mom. I need a new Mama.”

            Ow!  Talk about a stab through the heart.  Thanks a lot, kid.

            My point is all these little things just make my love for her bigger.  I want her life to be perfect.

            And of course I know that’s not reality.

            Nobody is loved everywhere by everybody.

            So my thoughts turn to wondering how I can protect her from bullies and bitches (nowadays called Queen B’s), from being teased, mocked, or, heaven forbid, ignored?  What defense can I give my precious one against the inevitable trials of living her life?

            So you want to hear what I figured out?

            I will instill in her a strong sense of self.  I will continue to tell her how lucky I am that she is my daughter.  I will love her unconditionally.  I will validate her ideas and take time to listen to them.  I will try not to laugh out loud the next time she says, “This is not a toy, Mom.” 

            I want  her to think outside the box, veer away from the mainstream, and piss off the Queen B because she doesn’t care if she follows the crowd or if the crowd follows her.

            This I give you, my daughter – you are unique in this world, and not everybody will like you, but as long as you like yourself and like being in your own head, who cares?  All will be well. 

            In the words of Elizabeth Stanton, “Nature never repeats herself, and the possibilities of one human soul will never be found in another.”

            Be you.  Be real.  Live large.

            But first get in that bed, you little turkey, because it’s two o’clock in the morning and if you don’t go back to sleep you’re gonna get a spankin.’

 

 

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Childhood Traditions

04.20.06

           So I managed to not quite flub up the Easter Bunny thing, but it was a close call.  I actually feel a little funny about making my kid believe in all the classic childhood fantasy stuff.  Like I’m lying to her.

            I’m a really bad liar.  I have a hard time not giving up the game with eye-rolls and heavy sighs.

            My kid’ll be the one in Kindergarten who tells all the other kids that there is no Santa Claus because Mom just couldn’t sustain the lie.  She’ll be a heartbreaker at age 5.  Oh dear.

            The thing is, I had a really crazy week.  The Wednesday preceding Easter I went to the Train concert in Minneapolis (which was fabulous, by the way), then drove home Thursday and went right to work.  Worked till midnight, and back at work by 7 am on Friday.

            Friday evening I was finally pulling the boxes of Easter decorations out of the upstairs closet.  Easter baskets.  Plastic grass. And two whole boxes that essentially contained rabbits. (Gee, honey, I swear there were only four rabbits in here when I put them away last year, now there’s twelve … damn rabbits, anyway).  There was also an insane number of ducks and chicks in those boxes that I had no recollection of putting there.  Now there’s something to twitch the imagination.

            I looked around at the cluttered mess of my house and truthfully I just could not bear to add rabbits to the chaos.

            So no decorations.

            And no church.  I don’t care much for going to church without a toddler in tow.  With one it becomes a torturous ordeal. 

            It was Easter afternoon before I even realized I’d forgotten all about coloring eggs.

            All the traditions of my childhood out the window.  Well, except one.

            Friday when we found all the rabbits I told my kid that the Easter Bunny was coming Saturday night to fill her basket with candy.  She loved this idea.  Totally.

            “Easter Bunny?  Bring me candy?”  (Exaggerated Questioning Voice).

            “Yes.  The Easter Bunny will come while you are sleeping and fill your basket with candy and hide it in the house.”

            “Oh man!”  She does have a way with words, my Little Miss.

            We never had Easter Egg hunts when I was a kid, but our whole basket would be hidden, with jelly bean trails left throughout the house.  As an adult I realize jelly beans must be Easter Bunny poop.  I bet my parents laughed about that.  Or maybe not.

            My husband actually did the Easter Bunny shopping.  He bought weird stuff.  Easter Hershey kisses with caramel and peanut butter inside, rather than rabbit-shaped chocolates.  Easter-colored M&M’s.  Whoppers Robin Eggs … good stuff.  Not my childhood fantasy stuff, but still good.  I had to catch him on the phone and whine a little to get him to buy the large hollow chocolate bunnies.  Easter isn’t Easter without those.

             He also bought a remote control Hummer. 

            Umm.  “Who’s Easter Basket does that go in?”

            As if I had to ask.

            “Mine,” he said with a  grin, “but the kid will love it.”

            Now I have to hide a Hummer somewhere.  Nice.

            Easter Eve my girl went to sleep with visions of Easter Baskets and candy and bunnies in her head.

            I went to bed hoping the stupid dog wouldn’t find the baskets, gorge on chocolate, and leave diarrhea trails throughout the house.

            But it was all good.  The kid found the baskets, the dog didn’t. 

            How does Mom know which basket belongs to who?  Well … Mom’s are special that way (eye roll). 

            Tonight as she was getting tucked into bed my Little Miss said, “I like that Easter Bunny, Mom.  Easter Bunny brought me candy… Oh no, Mom!  I forgot to give the Easter Bunny a hug!”

            “It’s okay, Sweetie, the Easter Bunny has to get in and out fast so he can get to the next kids’ house.  And bunnies get scared real easy so they don’t want to be seen (eye roll, heavy sigh).”

            Oh yeah, I am so gonna pull this one off again next year.

 

            Sometimes you can remember last year’s lies.  I probably won’t.

 

Reader Weekly archive:  http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/367/Sheri_Johnson.html

The L-Word

04.13.06

            So a couple of weeks ago my mother’s rifling through my daughter’s hair and she thinks she sees something.  I have instant recall of my kid waking up from her nap that afternoon and scratching her head like crazy and get the whole sinking/dread/godhelpme feeling of no no no please let’s not do this, I don’t have time or energy to deal with the head itchies.  Ack!

            I look, praying my mum is having a dramatic moment.

            Yeah, right, I should ever be so lucky in my life.  Ha-ha.  The world hates me.

            I take a nice, careful, slow look, begging fate or god or karma or whatever the heck’s out there to let it not be true.  But this is MY life we’re in, so of course fate or god or karma is against me.

            It’s definitely The L word.  And not the Showtime lesbian version of Sex-in-the-City kind of L-Word, either.

            We’ve done this once before.  The only good part of having done this already is there’s still pesticide shampoo in my bathroom closet.  Go directly home to bathtub.  Do not pass go, do not give warm snuggly hugs.   There’s no drawing the “get out of jail free” card on this one.

            Bath and shampoo.  Check.

            Bedding into the washer on hot.  Check.

            Stuffed animals bagged tight and out of sight for two weeks.  Check.

            Carpet vacuumed.  Check.

            Okay … kid’s in bed sleeping and I can finally sit down and relax, except for two things:  My head itches and I have the creepy crawlies all over my body, and … I WANT TO KNOW WHERE IT CAME FROM.

            My kid doesn’t go to daycare, she goes to grandma’s.  Grandma will vacuum and use the shampoo, but she wigs out and gets mad if I suggest such nonsense that the itchies came from her house. 

            Oh yeah, I also want to know if I have it or if my itchies are purely psychological.  My husband looks through my hair and says I’m all good.

            This would be a great relief, except he can’t see toilet paper in the bathroom cabinet, so his powers of observation are suspect.  I decide to use the shampoo every day for at least a week.  Maybe two.

            And don’t think the bath and bedding and stuffed animals and carpets are the end of it.  Oh no.  I still have to examine every strand of my 2 and a half year old’s hair.  Oh yeah, there’s something to look forward to.  She doesn’t sit still to EAT, much less to let mom do anything whatsoever with her hair.  The teenage babysitters seem to do all right with pigtails, etc, but I never have any luck.  Tomorrow’s gonna be so much fun.

            I can hardly sleep for imagining those little suckers hatching and breeding and hatching and breeding.  Ugh.  Somebody shoot me.

            So the next morning I’m at Walmart by six o’clock.  More pesticide shampoo, fancy fine-tooth combs … and a brand new Dora the Explorer video because a new video gives me a slight edge on the sitting still issue.  As I’m buying all this crap I wonder for the umpteenth time when they’re going to institute the First National Bank of Walmart.  I figure once they get that all settled I can just direct deposit my paychecks and skip the middle-man that is my credit union.      I wake the kid up and pop her right in the tub to do the shampoo thing again.  Put all her bedding in the washer AGAIN.  Vacuum AGAIN.

            Park her in front of the video and start combing through her hair.   

            Do you know where the term “nit-pick” comes from? 

            I do.

            Her hair is so fine that the combs aren’t worth a damn.  Anything that needs to be removed requires fingernails.  And every time I found anything to remove our dear friend Dora would start singing, and my kid would start bouncing and I’d lose track of what needed removing.  Oh fer fun!

            I’m really, really (and I mean REALLY) happy to find, over the course of two hours, that I’ve caught the whole awful itchy life cycle early in the game.  Still, I want this to be over with TODAY so I pick at my daughter’s hair until she pretty much hates me.

            She naps, exhausted from our battles.  When she wakes up the bedding goes back into the wash and so on and so forth.  I think you’ve got the idea by now.

            At bedtime I park her in her high chair (which hasn’t been used for months) and put the video on again.  Comb through her hair until I’ve found nothing at all over the course of an hour.

            I put her to bed fairly confident that the problem is solved, although over the next week I know I’ll be checking her head compulsively.

             I shampoo my own head one more time.

            Sometimes the creepy-crawlies are all in your head.  Sometimes they’re real.

 

Reader Weekly archive: http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/366/Sheri_Johnson.htm

Stellar Parenting

04.06.06

            Ahh, the glamorous wealthy stinking rich… they have all the advantages of being able to buy the  very best – the very best nannies, advice from child care consultants, and feng shui to keep them centered, grounded, and in control because god knows you can solve most of your troubles by moving your couch.

            Why shouldn’t we emulate the parenting styles of the Hollywood stars? 

            A few things I have learned by observation…

            It’s important to socialize your children.  One way to do this is to show them off, and it’s even better if can teach them not to be afraid of heights and public speaking at the same time.  Most importantly, however, is to be aware that bad spirits inhabit cameras and full facial exposure to such devil rays is dangerous and bad.  So when you do socialize your kid by hanging him over a balcony for all to see it’s essential to cover his face.  And make sure your children wear the silliest Mardi Gras masks you can find when you take them among the poor blighted masses.  This is really, really important for the mental health of the child.  Perhaps more important than anything else.  (Thank you, Mr. Jackson)

            Being photographed is very evil, and one of the most dangerous things to the health and well-being of a child.  It’s so dangerous, in fact, that I’m surprised the National Safe Photography Organization hasn’t issued wider warnings about the bad spirits in cameras and how they escape via devil rays so more people can take appropriate precautions.  Did you know, for example, that an infant is more likely to be hurt or injured by a Rag Mag photographer than getting into a car accident while unrestrained?  Even the American Association of Photo-safety (AAP)  advises driving with your infant on your lap to avoid photographers. (Thank you, Ms Spears).     

            Last but not least (and a little off-topic, I suppose) is the way celebrities who work with animals can raise our comfort level with creatures otherwise very scary.  They know crocodiles are perfectly sensible and trustworthy individuals that can tell the difference between a dead chicken and a live newborn at four and a half feet.  And crocs actually prefer to eat dead chickens.  Let me tell you, that’s a load off my mind, because it’s almost the direct opposite of my parenting classes, which spent considerable time teaching how to avoid committing my child to the food chain.  My class also gave the mistaken impression that reptiles carry salmonella and therefore could actually be a danger to infants and small children.  But I’m really glad to have all that cleared up.  (Thank you, Mr. Irwin).

            Anyway, my point is… be sure to watch the stars for important parenting tips you might otherwise miss, because people with money is smart.

            Sometimes all you can do is shake your head…

 

 

(note to readers ... this was intended for the parody issue, but someone else (ahem!) got my page!)

To read Stellar Parenting from the Reader Weekly archives click below:

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The Art of Picking Playmates

03.23.06

            We have grandma daycare, which is very cool for a variety of reasons, one of them being that it’s really cheap.  The only real problem is that Little Miss never has other kids to play with.

            People talk about play dates, play groups, mom groups and so on and so forth which is great in theory except … I find I don’t like other people very much.

            But I’m trying.  When someone says they have a two year old I immediately size them up for play date potential.  The parent, not the kid, that is.  Cause here’s the thing – I have to go, too.  We’re talking toddlers here – you don’t just drop them off with persons unknown and pick them up later. 

            So here’s what runs through my head:  Is that saggy diaper a cloth diaper?  Am I talking to a co-op geek?  What the heck is a whole food, anyway?  And what’s so special about hydroponic tomatoes?  Will we have anything at all in common, or will this person be just plain out disturbed when they realize I’m a lunatic?

            Will we be able to talk about anything other than how I am single-handedly destroying the earth by using disposable diapers?  Because that’s just not true.  Walmart’s doing that with their “no more than 3 items to a bag” policy. 

            I often meet very nice-looking parents who say, “Wow, look at our kids playing so nice together here at the library.” 

            “Yes,” I say, “cool.”

            “What church do you go to?”

            “Umm…” I say, backing off both mentally and physically.

            “Our pastor is just the greatest,” they continue, “you and your daughter should come to our church on Sunday.”

            “Umm…” I say, backing away a bit more.  I try so hard to keep my mouth shut.  I’m not so arrogant or paranoid as to think any god that may exist should bother with me enough to send good things my way because I prayed – or put wrenches into the workings of my life because I didn’t.  Most the bad stuff that happens to me is my own fault one way or another.  Same with the good stuff.

            Usually what slips out is one of the less interesting things about me;  “I write vampire novels for fun.”  In fact, I’m thinking of getting a t-shirt made so I don’t even have to say it out loud.  I can just wear it and scare the co-op geeks and church freaks away right from the get.

            See how they run.

            Here’s my deal… if I can’t be me around you, then why bother hanging out together?  I have no use for fake-nice chit chat.  I suck at small talk because it’s boring.  I pretty much don’t care what your husband does for a living, or how great your kids are at soccer.  And I don’t want to go to your church.  Church is boring.

            I work hard, live a decent life, and try not to hurt anybody.  I figure if there’s a heaven or a god, that ought to get me in.

            Now, before anybody gets revved up and wants to tap-dance on my head, let me say that I know it’s me and not them.  I’m sure they’re great parents, and will raise fine, upstanding, socially conscious people.  It’s all good.

            And I’ll do okay, too, even though I’m liberal and laid back as faras parenting goes.  I don’t cry over spilled milk and I keep figuring my Little Miss will come around to the whole potty-training thing eventually.

            But man, I’m getting sick of hearing, “Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy”  8,721,695 times a day.  There are moments when I just want to scream, “MAKE IT STOP!”  We need some play dates of the toddler variety.

            Perhaps there’s hope yet.  I work with a bad-boy turned super-daddy who also has grandparent daycare.  We’re talking about getting our kids together.  I suspect he’s sick of hearing “Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy”  8,721,695 times a day.

            “You’re not a co-op geek, are you?” I ask.

            “What the hell is that?”

            That’s promising.

            “Are you a Jesus freak?”

            “I am Jesus.”

            That I can work with because obviously he’s a fellow lunatic. 

            We talk about our kids and I when I say I still water down my girl’s apple juice he laughs and says I’m a sugar-Nazi, which gives me a pause because suddenly I’m the conservative parent.  There’s something new.

            I wonder if his son will corrupt my daughter with Mountain Dew and candy?  We shall see.  Corruption isn’t always a bad thing.

 

            Sometimes you don’t like other people.  Sometimes you do.

 

Reader Weekly archive: http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/363/Sheri_Johnson.html

Character Queens

03.16.06

 

            When I was childless and knew everything I swore I would never buy into the blatant commercialism of Disney, et all.

            For example, I was never going to pay more for a pair of pants because they had a Disney Princess appliqué on the left leg.  I wasn’t going to be suckered in to that trap.  Just say NO to character clothing, bedding, and toys right from the get go.  Problem solved.

            This is my position on Character Labels.

            Now watch it crumble and fly away like snowflakes on the wind.

            In January we moved our girl from a crib to a twin size bed.  To do that we had to buy bedding.  My 2 year old picked out a very appropriate bed-in-a-bag from SuperWalmartHell.  The fun peach, teal, purple and yellow stripes go great with the tropical fish stenciled on her walls.

            All right.  Not knowing that  the crib-to-bed move would erase all potty training progress for the next many moons, I thought it wise to purchase extra sheets.  The cost of extra sheets to match her comforter was horrifying, so off to the children’s section we went.  There we found Spongebob and Spider Man (who are not revered in our house) and an assortment of Disney Princesses.  Oh, yes, and Bratz, which leads me to ask, “Who or what the heck are Bratz?”  To be honest, the Bratz characters just don’t look like good role models for children.  They don’t seem trustworthy.  Okay, I’ll just come right out and say it – they look like prostitutes.

            But anyway.  My daughter points and yells, “Dora!”  Dora the Explorer is a heroine in our household.  I mean, how can any 2 year old resist a 4 year old that goes on adventures through the jungle with her best friend, who happens to be a monkey, with not a parent in sight?  Dora sails ships, rides in hot-air balloons, and always saves the day at great personal peril.

            Come to think of it, she’s not all that great a role model, either.

            The Dora sheet set was on clearance and six dollars cheaper than the non-Dora one.  Well, okay, my creed was not to pay more for character items than other items, so how could I argue?  The Dora sheets were a better value.  And who can put a price on a child’s sense of security as she lays her head on Dora’s face every night, confident that Dora will chase away (in Spanish) any monsters that should appear from under the bed?

            Fast forward a few weeks.  Little Miss tells her dad, “My shoes too tight, Dad, need new shoes.”  Dad hands her an exorbitant amount of cash and says, “Give this to Mom and tell her you need new shoes and I need new pants.”

            When she hands me the money she says, “Shoes, Mom.  Pants.  Go to Kohls.”

            We bought pajamas at Kohl’s once, and she’s never forgotten.

            As it turned out she was cutting molars and running a high fever, so she stayed with grandma while I shopped.

            I browsed the shoe department.  They had Dora shoes.  With crazy flashing red lights.  They were only a couple dollars more than non-Dora shoes.  I thought, “My girl is miserable with fever.  These shoes will make her squeal with delight and her face will light up.”  I felt a glow.  Thrilling my kid makes me feel great.

            And so it begins.

 

            Sometimes you win, right?  And sometimes you change your mind.

           

 

Reader Weekly archive: http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/362/Sheri_Johnson.html

 

The Bedtime Blues

03.09.06

            Bedtime at our house is a disaster. When Little Miss was oh so tiny I couldn’t sleep for staring at her.  Watching her breathe and sigh, staring at the dark feathers her eyelashes made against her cheeks …

            The only time I see eyelash feathers against her cheeks these days is in the car when I’m horrified to find her asleep.  If she falls asleep in the car no one gets a nap at home.  Including me.  I’ve developed paranoid nervous tic trying to keep her awake in the car.

            Bedtime, though, is a much bigger issue.  It goes like this:

              “Miss, it’s pajama time.”

            “Soon,” she says.

            “Now.” I hold up her pj’s.  Sometimes I hum few bars of MC Hammer and end with “It’s Jamma time!”  Then I grab her and wrestle her into her pajamas.

            I get the sippy cup of juice (yeah, I know it’s bad for her teeth, but sleep deprived Mommy is bad for her life –I choose the lesser of two evils).  I herd her up the stairs, “March! 2-3-4!” She giggles the whole way.

            We read a story.  I tuck her in and turn on her music.  She gets out of bed to close the door so she can see the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling.  She wiggles around and makes sure her babies, flashlight, blankie, and juice are ‘just so.’  I give her a kiss and say “Sleep tight.”

            I get to the door and she yells, “Cuddle me!” 

            At this point when Dad’s in charge he says, “What, are you goofy?” and he goes downstairs and she goes to sleep.  If I say that she laughs hysterically and then screams for an hour.

             “Ok, I’ll cuddle you for a little bit.”

            This might be a good place to say that my kid never stops talking. EVER.  If she has nothing to say she’ll happily settle for “Mommy, Mom, Mommy, Mommy, Mom, Mom” ad infinitum. While I’m cuddling her (or trying to, at least) she runs a non-stop monologue.  “Light on stars, Mom.  Light on Fish.  Light on you, Mom, light on my fingers now!  Need my juice.  Light on my pajamas.  Need door open now.”  She clambers over me and opens the door so the hall light illuminates the room.  Comes back to the bed and clambers over me again.

            “Boom-boom on my new bed!”  She starts jumping on the bed.

            I’m getting irritated.  “I’m going downstairs because I only cuddle little girls who are trying to go to sleep.”

            She crashes down beside me and grabs her blankie.  “Pacifier, Mom, need pacifier.”

            I’m flabbergasted.  “Since when do you need a pacifier?  You’re two years old.”

            “Okay, need to kiss you, Mom,  Kiss your cheek.  Kiss your nose, Mom.  I threw your nose – go get it!  Need to close door now.”

            I need to be done with this.  “I’ll cuddle for one more minute, than I’m going downstairs and you need to go to sleep.”

            “Okay, Mom.”

            After a minute I whisper, “Sleep tight,” and she says, “Okay.”

            I escape downstairs.  Me time.  Yay!

            From upstairs I hear, “I need milk, Mom.  Need Milk.  Milk Mom,” which I can ignore, thinking tough luck, kid, go to sleep.

            Five minutes later, “Mom!  I pooped!  Need change!  Need change, Mommy,” and she starts to wail.

            Every single night.  I swear she holds one in reserve on purpose to lure me upstairs so she can start the whole “cuddle me” fiasco all over again. 

            Did I mention she wakes up and cries for me two or three times a night still?

            Sigh.  Sometimes you sleep.  I never do.

 

To read the Bedtime Blues from the Reader Weekly archives click below:

http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/361/Sheri_Johnson.html

Click, Click, Click

03.02.06

            The Little Miss and I were cleaning the house recently (okay, it was today), which is a rarity around here, occurring pretty much only when we expect someone to come over (did I say that out loud?)  Anyway, This morning I looked at the entertainment center and thought, “Holy film of dust evilness,” and decided to get busy.  The mess is worse than usual because of tooth pain in February, the “crud” going around in January, and a tattoo infection in December. 

            Now I know everybody these days makes jokes about the remote control – how you have to hide it to get your husband’s attention, and how you need a decorative basket in the living room to put them in because every electronic doo-hickey you buy comes with one … but really!

            I wonder if anyone could possibly guess how many remote control devices I found in my living room today?

            Okay, I won’t make you guess.  I’ll just tell you.  Eight.

            There are eight remote controls tuckedin and around the VCR, DVD/surround sound/tuner, playstation, and cable box.  Eight.  E-I-G-H-T (consider this your spelling lesson of the day).

            Let me tell you how many of them we actually use – and believe me, this is ridiculous enough.  There’s one we need to change the channel of the TV so we can use the VCR for VHS tapes.  That same one also needs to be used to change the “input select” on the TV to play DVDs in the DVD/surround sound/tuner thingy.  Then there’s a whole separate remote required to actually make the DVD/surround sound/tuner play anything.  And another one for the cable box.  There should be one for the VCR, too, but apparently  that one really is lost (maybe inside the couch?) because it wasn’t one of the eight found today.  Which means technically I should have found nine.

            Sigh.  Oh, and before moving on, let me just mention that somehow the DVD/surround sound/ tuner became disconnected from the little speakers, eight of them, in fact, that are wired to all points of the living room.  So even after finding all the required remote controls I still can’t make that work.  I’d try, but one glance behind that entertainment center sends me running to check that my house insurance is paid up.  There’s no way I’d ever make sense of the spaghetti back there.

            I wonder if there’s actually a remote control for each speaker?  That might explain things.

            The main thing I’m wondering is this:  What is it that stops me from throwing the extra remote controls in the garbage?  In the little pile of remotes we don’t use is one for Dish Network.  We haven’t had Dish Network in well over a year.  There’s also one for a Sony something, but I looked all over the house and no Sony lives here.  Zenith, yes.  Magnavox, yes.  Symphonic, General Instruments … yes.  Sorry, no Sony.

            Now I have a clean living room and a few remote controls.  Tomorrow I’ll tackle another room.

            Now, Little Miss, it’s time for your nap.

            What?  Food?

            Oh dear, it’s noon and we haven’t eaten anything yet.  Goodthing I have a daughter.  I might starve to death otherwise.

             Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t.  And sometimes you have way too many remote controls.

 

To read Click, Click, Click from the Reader Weekly archive, click below

http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/360/Sheri_Johnson.html

Loss of Wisdom

02.16.06

            This past week has not been a good one.  I seem to be exhibiting a remarkable shortage of brain power.

            I’m thinking either some gray matter leaked out last week when I had my wisdom teeth pulled, or a whole lotta wisdom was actually stored within those bony nuisances that rested along my lower jaw bone.

            Something. 

            According to everyone I know, I am OLD to have so recently had this surgery.  So maybe as you age and your brain gets full the wisdom teeth (if you still have them) become an overflow container for common sense.

            Here’s an example. 

            I got sent home after this minor surgery with prescriptions and a whole lot of instructions that  I was too dazed to comprehend or remember.  One my prescription bottles has a white sticker with bold black letters that reads, “Take with FOOD.”

            Ha-ha.  That’s a joke, right?  I just had three teeth removed and it feels like I might as well have had my jaw wired shut.  But my husband (who never reads instruction manuals for anything) is so gullible he believes everything that happens to be written on a bottle of pain pills.  At supper time he made cheese-broccoli soup and stood over me while I ate it. 

            The next day my daughter is home from the babysitter and before leaving for work my husband says to her, “Tell Mommy to eat today.” 

            Thankfully the memory of a 2 year old is a bit sketchy.  I avoid food and she doesn’t harass me about it.  I spend the day on the couch with an ice pack to my face,  popping pain pills as often as the directions allow.  Okay, maybe a little oftener than the directions allow. 

            Thank the powers that be yet again for the creation of Dora the Explorer.  My kid can count to ten perfectly in Spanish, something she is not quite able to do yet in English.  Yay!  Go Dora!

            Late in the afternoon I get a sudden horrendous debilitating pain in my gut.  Searing, stabbing, breath-catching pain.

            My daughter asks for some juice.  I manage to make it to the refrigerator, hunched over, clutching my abdomen, and pour her some orange juice.  But I can’t make it back to the couch.  I go to my knees on the kitchen floor, barely able to breathe, and then finally curl into a ball on the linoleum.  I lay there gasping and thinking, “Okay, this is pathetic.”

            My daughter comes back for me.  “What are you doing?” Her voice rises with the word “doing,” exhibiting what I call her Exaggerated Questioning Voice, which I will henceforth abbreviate as EQV.

            “It’s okay, Miss, Mommy’s resting.”

            She pulls at my shirt, “No Mom!  Nap on couch!  On couch, Mommy!”

            Deep breath.  I can do it.  If Dora were here she could do it, so I can do it.

            I get to the couch. 

            And I smell something funky.  Oh, don’t tell me she needs her diaper changed?  She confirms this.  “Change me, Mom,” and the final straw, “Need to eat, Mom.  Hungry.”

            The pain comes in rolling waves and I know that I can’t do it.  I grab the phone and call my husband, “I’m sick.  You need to come home right now because your daughter  needs her diaper changed and she needs food and I can’t move.”  I start crying and hang up the phone.

            My Little Miss comes and pushes my hair out of my face and says, “Oh no, Mom, you need a Kleenex,” and she runs upstairs, reappearing a few minutes later with a Kleenex

            My husband arrives home, changes the offending diaper, makes my girl a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and asks her, “Did mom eat today?”

            She says, “Eat?” (EQV).  “Mom?” (EQV).  “No!”  Her use of the word “no” is loud and strong and definite.  So much for memory impairment.

            He makes me a PB&J sandwich, pours a glass of milk, says, “Didn’t I tell you to eat?” and stands over me with a whip (kidding, really).  Then he picks up the prescription bottle and shows it to me, “Right here.  See this?  Take with FOOD.  Do you think they’re making it up?”

            I shrug.  I tear the sandwich into tiny bites and slip some to the dog when my husband isn’t looking. 

            The kid rats me out.  “Mom feeding Jazz!” and she claps with glee.  We have a rule, you see, about not feeding the dog from the table.

            Dang, I’m living with the assistant principal from Junior High School and his mini-Nazi sidekick.

            And this is only the beginning.

 

To read Loss of Wisdom from the Reader Weekly archives, click below ....

http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/358/Sheri_Johnson.html

 

Loss of Wisdom, part 2

02.23.06

            Recap:  Wisdom teeth removed, too many pain killers, too little food, Mom ends up sick and Dad comes home from work to take care of kid.  EQV equals Exaggerated Questioning Voice.  With me so far?

            When Dad changed our girl’s diaper he said, “She’s getting a rash.  You’re not giving her orange juice, are you?”

            Umm.  Maybe. 

            “We’re out of apple.  She wanted orange.”  Will I never get any sympathy?  I’m in PAIN.

             “It doesn’t matter if she wants orange.  She’s two. It gives her a rash.  Who’s the Mommy here?”

            I get the Bad Mommy award. 

            When the Little Miss is tucked into bed Daddy goes to the store and comes home with, I swear, an 8 gallon container of apple juice.  I can hardly lift it, much less pour with any accuracy.  But he gets the Good Daddy award.  (Yes, I know there are probably a lot of mommies out there who don’t have heavily involved daddies and you’re thinking, “Suck it up, he actually KNOWS orange juice gives her a rash.”  Okay, he gets the Good Daddy award for that, too).

            Life continues.  I take my pain pills very regularly.  And I have to go back to work. 

            I drop my girl off at Grandma’s.  Grandma asks, “Did she put her own shoes on?”

            “No,” I say.  I have a very clear memory of her screaming while I wrestle her shoes onto her feet.

            Grandma says, “Well they’re on the wrong feet.”

            “That can’t be.”  I bend down to look.  Sure enough.

            Should I even be driving?

            A week after the extraction, running out of the refill of “good” painkillers, I give up.  Must be dry socket.  There’s an over the counter remedy called Canfield’s Dry Socket Treatment.  It’s a pre-filled syringe.

            I expect those of you who have tried this remedy are laughing hysterically. 

            The package says do not use if allergic to cloves or petroleum jelly.  (The musical score of my life apparently doesn’t contain the kind of music with which to offer fair warning).

            I push a little of the gel out of the syringe.  It smells exactly like clove cigarettes

            My daughter is watching.  “What you doing, Mom?” (EQV).

            “I’m fixing my mouth where it hurts.”

            “Fixing your mouth?” (EQV).

            I stick the tip of the syringe into where I think is the hole left behind from removal of the bottom right wisdom tooth.  Push the plunger a little bit.  Wonder if the stuff is getting in there.  Push the plunger a little more.  The stuff wells out of the tooth socket and onto my tongue.

            HOLY FREAKING WHAT THE HECK IS THIS STUFF? – MY MOUTH IS ON FIRE!

            Some gunk goes down my throat while I’m freaking out and that burns, too.

            My eyes water and I need cold water.

            “Need drink, Mom.”  Two year old tugging at my pants, “Drink, drink, drink agua (thanks Dora) Mom, AGUA!”

            She needs a drink of water?  I’m dying here.  I have clove oil acid in my mouth and throat.  I hand her the glass and catch water from the tap in my hands.  Rinse, spit. Swallow.  It still burns.

            I have to put this stuff in the other side.  I try, but it’s a half-hearted effort.

            I go downstairs and my husband says, “How was that for you?”

             “If you lit a clove cigarette,” I say, “and shove the burning tip under your tongue, you might feel a fraction of what I just went through.”

            I can still taste it and it’s making me sick.

            “Have some pizza,” he says.

            The pizza is my first food of the day, (yeah, yeah, I KNOW already) and I hope it gets the horrid taste of cloves out of my mouth.

            It works, sort of, except for a little later when I throw it up.

            Now I give up for real.  I call work and tell them I can’t make my shift in the morning.  I have to see my oral surgeon.

            On the positive side, the Canfield’s Dry Socket Torture Treatment dulled the pain.  I think it’s designed to burn out the nerves completely.  I’ve only taken one pain pill since last night.  That’s progress.

            The moral of the story?  Beware you might lose some wisdom along with your wisdom teeth.  And for goodness sake, if the bottle says take with FOOD, then take with food.  And if the pain after surgery is killing you, go back to the doctor even if it’s not convenient.  And finally, beware of Canfield—he’s a sadist.

 

Postscript: the oral surgeon packed in dressing strips soaked with … can you guess?  Clove oil.  I’m pain free, but I’ll be tasting cloves well into next week.  Sometimes you win.  Sometimes not so much.

 

To read Loss of Wisdom, part 2 in the Reader Weekly archives click below ...

http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/359/Sheri_Johnson.html