Brain Fart #428 - The Pick

"Mommy, a booger!" she shows me excitedly on her index finger.

Lovely.

I was reading an article in this month's issue of Today's Parent magazine, which talks, coincidentally, about this stage of 3 - 5 year olds when they like to pick their nose. They say it's not uncommon, and the reality is that most adults pick their nose too. Only usually with a tissue and behind closed doors. Kids usually grow out of the habit.

Or sometimes not.

The other day, I was at a three-way stop when an older woman drove up to the intersection on my left. Unfortunately she stopped before me, so she had the right-of-way. I say unfortunately for two reasons. The first of which was what I noticed right off the bat (because I always try to make eye contact at these intersections to make sure people DO REALLY KNOW their right-of-way rules). Mistake.

Because she was picking all right, not just a scratch, no, there was clearly some major excavation going on, along with flicking.

Ugh.

Unfortunate reason number 2? I had to follow her along the residential road, which had a 50 km/h speed limit for most of the way. Little lady pick, though, was driving at a snail's pace, 20 km/h if that. I could not pass her because of oncoming traffic. So I had to bear it for about 4 stop signs before she finally made a turn.

I can barely handle bad drivers on a good day. But bad drivers who are spending their time picking their nose when they should be focusing on the road? When I'm in a rush to drop off work at the printers in time to meet my 11:30 AM gym class?

Sure, pickers are people too...


But when it comes to road safety, I think that nose-picking should be banned in cars along with the cell phones. If for nothing else, to prevent distractions for other drivers. Safety first, right?

Taming my inner shrew

Why can't I just let it go?

I tend to overreact over simple, trivial things. I'm one of those quiet, seemingly well-tempered easy-going chicks who, behind closed doors, can go postal at the drop of a hat.

I think I come by this quite honestly. Although my parents were great while we were growing up, there was our fair share of yelling in the household. I also know from conversation overheard when my parents thought we weren't listening, that my maternal grandmother had a real temper. And through real life experience with my Dad's mother, I knew that she was a force to be reckoned with. And my Dad, also the strong silent type with the dry humour, but can flip if someone buds in front of him in a line-up.

I don't know if it's just that I keep it bottled up; if I just try to suppress my displeasure with things, until the pressure cooker within can no longer contain itself and I just combust. It's genetic, I tell ya.

Unfortunately, my spouse is the one who bears the brunt of Mt. Vesuvius erupting.

Here are a couple of examples:

Case A.

(Here's the back story: my 3.5 year old daughter is sleeping on the mattress on her bedroom floor. Yes, the mattress, as we didn't want her to fall off the bed when she switched from her crib. Yes, that's right, she's been on this mattress on the floor now for over TWO YEARS, exactly the length of time I've been asking for help moving the bedframe and box spring up from the basement. Something that hubby has been promising would be accomplished within this 4 week vacation, finally).

After the whirlwind anniversary trip, things came crashing back to reality on the Monday. We were hosting my "high school reunion" of sorts with four friends, and we hadn't all been together in one room since Ian and my wedding day. Two of them now live out of the country. This also happens to be the - 'ahem' - 25th anniversary of our graduation. Yuck. So I was running around all day preparing the place for the occasion. Nothing special, just needing to tidy it up after being in and out over the last couple of weeks, laundry here and there, unpacking to do etc...Hubby was catching up on e:mails and some work that he was trying to keep up on. Penance for taking so many weeks off.

I finally managed to step out to buy the groceries to prepare the dinner, by about 2:30 PM. We had told people to come by around 5/ 5:30 as it was a weeknight, and it would also be early enough that the kids could play (yes, we invited everyone with their families). I also offered to go the liquor/beer store to pick up the booze, which is usually the "man's" job when we entertain. But he said he'd take care of it.

So when I got back with all the groceries just after 3:30PM, and heard rumbling down in the basement, and the voices of my kids with hubby, I yelled downstairs and asked incredulously :

"Uh, you aren't by chance MOVING THE GIRLIE'S BED UPSTAIRS NOW are you?!!"

Husband responds: "Well, you've been asking me to move it".

Me: "We've got people coming for dinner in an hour and a half and you're bringing up the bed NOW???!!! Unbelievable!! DO NOT move it up. G will want people to come to her room to play, and I guarantee you won't have the frame up in time, it will be sitting there for kids to run into and crack their knees open with the metal corners. NOT A GOOD IDEA!!!"

Muttering to myself ... I cannot frickin' believe it...

(BTW, the above is a modified polite version)

Husband: "All right, take it easy. Poor judgement perhaps, but don't get so mad at me, it's totally uncalled for!"

Me: "Would you go to the liquor store now? I don't want to be all by myself when guests come which happens about 85% of the time! " (yup, this is me picking a fight)

Husband: "What do you mean, that never happens".

Me: "Oh yes it does, you're getting better, but I swear since we've been married, every time we entertain you run out at the last minute to get booze and I'm by myself to get the door, drinks, and continue to prepare the app's and food..."

And then he went off to have a shower and pop out for the booze.

Case B:

We're rushing around madly to try to get packed and get to the amusement park for the early bird entrance (season's pass holders can get in an hour earlier on certain days). I'm getting the kids dressed, slathered with sunscreen, and had the water bottles on the counter in the kitchen ready to be filled.

As I rush upstairs to finish getting ready myself, I hear the hubby yell that he'll take care of the water bottles.

30 minutes later at the entrance of the park:

We're at the gate where they standardly ask to look at the backpacks. I pull the pack out from the stroller basket and out pours water from the bottom of the pack, and the stroller basket has a small pond in it. I hear the hubby: "What happened there?"

I peer at him with "the look'.

We get through security, and I pull out the backpack, dump out the water, check all the bottles and notice that one of them is COMPLETELY UNSCREWED (you know, the Sigg kind), so of course it would have poured into the pack. Over the spare clothes; but thank goodness I pulled his wallet out.

As he came through the gate I just glared at him as he said, "What, I screwed all of the tops on tight!!".

Me: "Yeah, I guess so tight that it was completely off."

Hubby:" Come on, it's just water. Lighten up a little. Look at your miserable face, it's so sour!" and then he laughs at me.

I shook it off, but it just really irked me to no end. I knew it was a little thing, but I found it oh just sooooo annoying.

******

So yes, you heard it here first. I'm probably the only woman in the world who freaks out at her husband for trying to help out.

Am I insane? I told you I have a problem. Help. Me.

*******

The bedframe, well, it's still gathering dust in the basement as I write this. It is the last day of husband's vacation.

So for now, will you at least pass me another glass of wine?

"Oh they built the ship Titanic..."

I felt a bit of a failure last week. Because it is all about me, o-selfish one.

A while back we signed the boy up for a week of daycamp, with a "major" in golf, and an afternoon of swimming, tennis and soccer. It would be an opportunity for him to explore a new sport, and best of all, he would be going with one of his best friends. Sure, it meant getting up early to catch the bus, but it would only be for a week.

I was so impressed with the organization of the camp, the communication was frequent and they always responded to every question so quickly.

The sun, the play, the friends ... he would LOVE it.

On Day 1, it wasn't surprising that he just wasn't eager. It was something new, there was no school and yet he was being forced out of bed at 7:30 AM after a very late night before. There was no convincing him that it was his fault - that fighting bedtime until he was exhausted at 10:30 PM the previous evening was not such a smart thing after all.

But still, he did it, he got dressed, waited to be picked up and when he saw his friend, off he went.

At 4:30 PM when he was dropped off, the first words out of his mouth were: "It was the worst day of my life!!! The food was horrible, and I only saw B for ONE HOUR!!!"

Gulp. This was going to be a long week.

On Day 2, he woke up again in a terrible mood. He wouldn't eat, he again had been up too late the night before, but he got ready and went again, not convinced that the reassurances I gave him about camp getting better were actually going to be true.

At drop off: "It wasn't much better, Mom. At least the sandwich wasn't soggy; but all we did was hit the ball in tennis. And sit around. Soccer was way easy, not fun at all! But the waterslides were all right (he grudgingly admitted)".

At bedtime the whining would not let up. He was almost in tears. "But I HATE IT!!!!".

On Day 3, a different tactic from Mom. "You don't know how lucky you are, you should be happy to be able to be out playing in the sun, with your friends, learning about sports. There are so many kids who don't have this opportunity. And Mom and Dad are paying a LOT OF MONEY for this so you'd better go and you'd better have fun!"

Desperately seeking solution here. Guilt, maybe that was the answer?

"Okay ..." sighing as he walked out the door.

End of Day 3 - you know the score. "It was awful. It is sooooo boring! I can't stand it! I'd rather stay at home and work on WORKBOOKS all day. Or play with little G. Seriously!!! And it's so, so far away!"

I was butting heads with him. It was annoying the hub, our arguing, whining. We finally got him to bed. And suspected that the underlying root of distress for him was being away from home. Even though it was only a 20 minute drive to camp, he took two buses to get to the golf course. It probably seemed like he was in another town.

So we decided to cancel the rest of the week. It just wasn't worth it. Ian found that some of my own issues were coming out in my arguments with our son. After all, I hated daycamp as a kid, but I had no choice. My parents were both working, and without camp there was nowhere else for me to go. I had to suck it up and in the end came to actually enjoy the camp experience somewhat. It was a life lesson.

I was probably overreacting. But honestly, I thought he should have the fortitude to suck it up and finish the week. If I could do it, he certainly could. But hubs said it should be something he enjoys. It's not like he's quitting school or anything. Point well taken. Still, I felt by cancelling, we had failed.

I don't want to raise a quitter. I want my kids to be exposed to new things, to give themselves a chance to try to succeed before giving up too easily. I'm a perfectionist, almost to the point of being held stagnant by my fears of not succeeding. From a very young age I have been hesitant to try new things lest I not be terribly good at it. I hate failing. I don't like the feeling of failure. But however cliche it is, the learnings from failure are more important than the failure itself.

And that is what I'd like for my kids. I see so much more for them. I don't want them to fail all the time; far from it. It's so much easier to succeed. I wish they could be good at everything.

But obviously they can't be. So at least I'd like them to know that finishing something that you've started is important. It can be so difficult sometimes as a parent. Is this really anxiety that's driving him to avoid this new situation; or is it just blowing smoke at me when all he wants to do is hang around and play video games all day? Do I just not push him hard enough; or will pushing him too far drive him over the edge so he will be unwilling to try any new experiences in the future?

I'm still waiting to see what I will learn from my own "failure" in this scenario. As my kids get older, I suspect I'll continue to be learning more life lessons of my own.

So should you blog when you're angry?

Probably not. But I'm going to anyway.

You know my last post? Well, here I was, ready to go all lovey-dovey. I had even come up with a solution. Just blog while in the same room with the man if we're watching TV. His show.

But then he went out to watch a movie last night. Without me. (Which, you know, he's certainly entitled to do after a long week at the office).

And when he went out to get a DVD to watch tonight, he brought home the newest Rambo. Because apparently there was nothing else there (he did phone me), and he wanted to watch it. Knowing full well that I HATE those movies. Pretty much spelled the evening out for me, don't cha think?

So I sat down in the family room with him to blog, while screaming emanated from the TV, accompanied by exploding huts and flying, bloodied, Asian bodies littered the screen.

"What are you doing here; if it bugs you so much, why are you sitting there and complaining!" (which I wasn't, complaining I mean). So I picked up my laptop and left the room.

I'll likely regret this post later, but screw it.

I'm keeping it really real.

It's Saturday night, and I'm bloghopping with my boyfriends and girlfriends.

That anniversary weekend better work wonders.

(Edited to add: he paused the show to come pour me more wine; maybe I'll be less mad while drunk?!)

Not Quite Baby Steps

"Wipe that smile off your ****ing face, I say to you;

Wipe that smile off your face"

-Fallout Boy w/ Timbaland

So much for PG rated. That's just the type of year it was that followed. Further lows.

I am a nut about roller coasters, but you expect to CLIMB at some point. The year following our first visit with the specialist, in review:

1/ Step by Step ( and sorry, for NKOTB fans, I never was and never will be a fan, so a musical reference will NOT be included here. But the title seemed appropriate)

Everything on the BBT chart looked normal; the man’s specs were normal. No reason on the surface why it should be taking so long. Still, it wasn't happening. So onward to to Step 2; the HSG. Maybe the tubes are blocked. Oh what fun …

2/ Day of the HSG: When I made the appointment I ensured that my husband would be there with me. Because if there was going to be another man to witness the first pictures of my lovely innards, then my husband better be there too.

The day of the procedure, I was quite nervous. It was to be performed at the hospital, supposedly a painless procedure. I got into my hospital gown with my whoo-hoo a-showin’ with every move I made. Walked into the operating room with the hubby, and in came my doctor… with a pimply-faced med student. My doctor asked if it would be all right if his student “observed”. I was taken aback, but, hey, all in the name of science.

In went the probe; I won’t go into specifics, but honestly, although it wasn’t exactly painful, having a fair volume of dye injected where it doesn't normally go doesn’t classify as a picnic in my opinion. It was quite fascinating to see my textbook reproductive system in all its blue glory on the screen. But fortunately/ unfortunately, all was clear. Beautiful set of tubes I’ve got.

No signs of obstructions, fibroids, nothing you could put your finger on.

Ironically, in Ontario anyway, if both fallopian tubes are totally blocked it would have been a cause for celebration. This is the only condition whereby the government will pay for IVF. That's a whole other issue.

3/ So what the hey? Well, we had another couple of cyles monitored, and look, lo and behold, it appears that even though my periods were like clockwork, I may not have been actually ovulating. My BBT charts would be normal some months; but not others. Not too sure.

Monitoring itself, now that was not a piece of cake either. Have I mentioned in one of my random weird facts about me ... I HATE having blood drawn? Great. The first time I ever had it done in my life I was about 14, my mom had to bring a litre of milk for me to drink after. I almost passed out. Now I was facing a life of very frequent, daily blood draws at various points in my cycle every month.

I would drive to the downtown clinic at 7 AM on the way to work, have my blood drawn. Then as we got further into the treatment, I had to go to another lab for transvaginal ultrasounds to monitor the development of the follicles. Before heading to the lab for the blood draw. And then up north of the city for work. For several days in a row. The schedule was exhausting. But we were lucky at least, we lived in a major city centre. There were women coming in from all over.

4/ The next step... Clomid. Perhaps that would help trigger ovulation. But there was a risk of multiple births with this treatment. Something to think about. We sat on it for a couple of months; further delay, yes, but we had to be sure that we would be ready for multiples. We both have histories of twins/ triplets in the family.

Taking a deep breath, by the winter of 1998, we decided to try the drug therapy.

5/ Well, you know how it sort of helps to conceive a baby if both partners are in town at the same time? In 1998 hubby took a job in sales, which required him to work some evenings, sometimes weekends for certain events and out-of-town meetings. You guessed it, they usually happened at the most opportune time during the cycle.

I was doing a little travel on my own. This was the dilemma. We were reluctant to say anything to people at work (it's only smart, unfortunately). So it was impossible to really come up with excuses to miss very important meetings. Therefore I didn't.

We were still doing our darnedest, with work, school, schedules and then adding Clomid therapy on top of that to increase our chances. For five excruciating months. Results?

Less than zero.

We were hoping that we could party like it was 1999 , because that's exactly what it was. Into year four of infertility.

Party on.