Monthly Archives: January 2013

Dirty Little Secret

No one ever told me the dirty little secret of parenthood, which I’m about to blow the lid off – right here, right now. The fact is: having kids is like being on one long, never-ending guilt trip…with no junky snacks, no portable DVD player, and no stops to pee either.

“Are we there yet?”

“NO! And every time you ask, it adds on another half hour to the trip.” (This may or may not be something I’ve said to my children on long car trips).

It’s very possible that I skew more neurotic than most people, but I’m betting that a lot of parents will agree that staggering amounts of time are spent feeling really, really guilty about what you’re not doing for your kids, about what you are doing to your kids, about what dicey genes you may have passed on to them, about what others will think of your parenting skills…For example: I take my camera everywhere I go, but at the ER and at the orthopedist’s this week, I took pictures furtively, whenever no medical personnel were around. Why? Because I was worried the doctors and nurses might suspect me of Münchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy). See what I’m saying? Guilty. And neurotic.

If you’ve been following along this week, you’ll know that my son has a fractured humerus. This was confirmed at yesterday’s appointment to the orthopedist.

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I’ve been indulging in a lot of self-flagellation about the fact that it took me two days to get him to the ER, but…how shall I put this? My son tends to be a kid who is not at all inhibited about expressing his emotions. He is perhaps somewhat more sensitive to pain than other children might be. This has led to more than one “Boy Who Cried Wolf” incident. One time we were booted out of the ER after coming in for his stubbed toe. (See “I Can’t Get it Right“). But then another time when I poo-pooed his stomach ache, it turned out he had to have an appendectomy. It’s slowly dawning on me that I have an absolutely unerring instinct to do the WRONG thing, at least as far as making medical judgment calls. (See, Mom and Dad? I knew I should never be a doctor)!

So how could I make up for screwing up yet again? Here’s what a guilt trip will cost you these days:

1) one fluorescent orange drink from the Coke machine in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, which ordinarily you would never even consider letting your kid anywhere near for fear that he might become radioactive

and

2)IMG_1182

Yeah, that’s right: a double scoop of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in a WAFFLE CONE, no less!

Atonement does not come cheap.

A Fractured Humerus is Not Humorous

I can’t get it right.

When Nicholas was little, mosquitoes would traverse the continent to find him and imbibe his blood as if it were Château-Lafite Rothschild, vintage 1982. He developed a terrible allergy, which caused each bite to become a huge blister. The first time this happened, I was so alarmed I rushed to the Family Medicine Clinic, arriving just as they were closing for the day. I pleaded with the receptionist to get a doctor or nurse to have a look at my poor, suffering baby. A very grumpy doctor came out, took one look at the blister, and shooed me away as if I were an annoying mosquito.

Alfred E. Neuman

I learned my lesson. When a mosquito bit him on the ear and it began to swell so badly he looked like a lopsided, exaggerated version of Alfred E. Neuman, I knew better than to take him into the hospital. We happened to be going to a birthday party that day for a child whose parent was a doctor. Almost all of the parents at the party were, in fact, doctors. As soon as we walked through the door, their mouths fell open and they swarmed around Nicholas, clucking and murmuring to each other in hushed tones as they examined him.  One of them immediately called in a prescription. Once again I felt like a chump, but this time like a negligent chump.

More recently, Nicholas stubbed his toe. He hollered like a crazed banshee for a solid hour. When blood started dripping from my eardrums, I decided I had to take him into the ER. After hours and hours of waiting around in triage, we finally saw a doctor. I’m not going to lie. There was some ill-concealed eye-rolling. I suppose I should be grateful that they managed not to snicker in our faces. We were summarily: DISMISSED!

So this time, when Nicholas came home with his arm dangling uselessly by his side, I thought I’d wait it out to see if he’d snap out of it. Two days later when he was still not using his arm and howled every time someone brushed up against him, it was clear that it was time to visit our friends in the ER again. It turns out that he probably has a fracture. When the nurse asked me when the injury occurred and I confessed that it had happened a couple days before, she pressed her lips together and didn’t say anything. I’m pretty sure she was debating whether or not to call Social Services right then and there. It’s a miracle I wasn’t handcuffed and made to do the perp walk of shame right out of there.

How is it that no matter what decision I make regarding my child’s medical care, it’s ALWAYS the wrong one?!

Nicholas will be seeing an orthopedist today and I’ll give the full report tomorrow. For now, I’m just going to go hang my head in shame.

 

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I got nothing…

and this is why:

Hunkering down for the long wait.
“You’re not going to BLOG about this, are you?”

Let this be a lesson to all you reckless Monkey-in-the-Middle Players out there!

(Four children [one extra child whose parents entrusted him to my care while they went out of town] – one parent [Colin’s at a conference]) + two hours in the ER on Saturday + the rest of the weekend wrangling and ferrying kids hither and yon by myself = no time or energy to write.

Single parents of the world I salute you. You all deserve medals.

(Nicholas is o.k. No obvious fractures. We’ll follow up with an orthopedist in a week).

P.S. Oops. I wrote this before checking my phone messages late last night. The first one said we should come back to the ER as soon as possible to have Nicholas reexamined as he may have a fracture after all. The second one said we should call the orthopedic surgeon as soon as possible.

To be continued…

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“For love is strong as death”

Screen Shot 2013-01-09 at 7.05.50 PMI met my friend’s mother for the first time when I stayed at her house many, many years ago. I think we may have both still been in college at the time. I remember her mother as a quiet, petite woman with blonde hair swept back into an elegant, old-fashioned bun. She had a gentle, golden presence.

My friend’s mother, like mine, was an émigré and spoke in softly accented English. She, like my own mother, was a gifted gardener. Her garden, like my mother’s, was an exquisite masterpiece wrought of love and an instinctual eye for beauty. If my memory serves me correctly, her mother, like my own, loved peonies best of all. When my friend and I recently reconnected, we made the sad discovery that both of our mothers were suffering from the same, fairly rare disease.

Last week she wrote to tell me that her mother had just lost her battle with the disease. I never have the right words for moments like these, so I am borrowing Edna St. Vincent Millay’s instead:

Dirge Without Music

This is for you and your mom, my dear friend. In my mind, she is in a beautiful garden. She is in a skirt and a blouse with a cardigan draped over her shoulders. She is bending to smell the lovely fragrance of a peony.

Sending you oceans of love.

“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.” -Song of Solomon

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Korean Food

When I was in high school I went with a group of Korean people to a retreat center located on a remote mountain near the border between Virginia and West Virginia. Down-home American meals were served three times a day. Every day the Koreans would politely choke down their meatloaf, fried chicken, or sloppy joes without complaint. But every night, as soon as the cooking staff had all gone home, they would go out into the courtyard with their chopsticks, hunch over jars of kimchi they’d packed in their suitcases, and eat to their heart’s content by the light of the moon. From behind you might think they were freebasing crack cocaine.

American people like to try different cuisines when they eat out: Chinese, Mexican, Italian, Indian…When Korean people go out to eat, they almost always go to a Korean restaurant. My parents’ favorite Korean restaurant is Yechon in Annandale, Virginia. It’s open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, all 365 days of the year. The tables are equipped with little call buttons, and the hardest-working waitstaff in all the Western Hemisphere hustle and bustle in their hanboks (traditional Korean dresses) to serve the many diners in the always crowded restaurant.

If you go to Yechon, check out Breeze Bakery Café. It’s owned by the same people and is right next door. I’m not crazy about Korean desserts. I personally don’t think sweetened red bean paste should ever be a dessert ingredient, but Breeze is irresistible. There’s a huge assortment of Korean cakes that you can sample, as well as more Western-style desserts. They have seating on two levels and in warmer weather, the upper level gives out onto a balcony. My kids love the gelato. I like the green tea bubble tea.

Over the holidays we ate here and at several other Korean restaurants with my extended family.

Cousins
Me and my dad
The girls. My cousin and sister are giving Tatiana hair extensions.
The boys
My mom and her sister
“Let’s fix our hair, too!”

There was love:

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There was laughter. (Nicholas was called upon to judge whose pet was cutest):

There was kimchi:

IMG_1859And there was…squirrel food acorn jello!

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Other favorite Korean restaurants to try in the Northern Virginia area:

Choong Hwa Won in Annandale.

We go here for the jajangmyun (see below) – these are noodles drenched in black soybean sauce. I swear it tastes better than it sounds! In Korea, ordering jajangmyun for delivery is like ordering pizza for delivery in the U.S.

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Han Sung Oak in Falls Church

HeeBeen in Alexandria and Arlington (buffet)

Korshi in Centreville (buffet)

Woo Lae Oak in Vienna (Tyson’s Corner)

Do you have a favorite Korean restaurant near you?

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I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll

My daughter’s black eye (see yesterday’s post) gives her a smoky Joan Jett sort of look. Every time I look at her “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” goes through my head. I keep singing it to her and playing it for her in the hope that she’ll take the bait and start growling it out like the rock star that she is. It would be so awesome if I could even just get her to do the “OWWWW!” Although she steadfastly refuses to sing the song, she consented to do some Joan Jett poses for her crazy mama:

I can’t even tell you how much I love this girl.

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Epiphany

My daughter got into a brawl this weekend…with a metal pole in our basement:

IMG_1125 Ouch.

She recovered her aplomb to play the role of Mary in an Epiphany skit in Sunday School:

The wise men brought gifts. (Wise men always bring gifts).

 Nothing like a little gold, frankincense and myrrh to perk a girl up.

Jesus was pretty happy with his haul too:

But when the last gift was presented, my daughter held it up and asked hopefully, “Is this one platinum?” Enhanced by Zemanta

Cute, but Rotten, Part 2

In which I discover that my cute, but rotten dogs are not stupid after all, but are in fact, geniuses.

(If you haven’t read yesterday’s post, you may want to start there).

Fortunately, our cute, but rotten dogs recovered from their nasty stomach issues. Friends and neighbors would be dogsitting for us while we were out of town for the holidays and we felt it was imperative that we caution them about our dogs’ penchant for mischief. I wrote a lengthy and detailed instruction manual for the boy who would be taking care of them first, which included the following warnings and exhortations:

“They cannot be left outside of their crates unattended as they are beyond stupid and WILL get into trouble of some sort…Chloe eats ROCKS!…In general, they really can’t ever be trusted to be by themselves outside of their crate…they’re exceedingly stupid!”

The boy’s mother sent me a follow-up email after Christmas that concluded with: “dogs were fine and very cute (and very bad as you said!)” The family left town for a vacation of their own as soon as we came back, so I haven’t yet been able to find out all the bad things the dogs did in our absence. The boy did email me to let me know that Chloe had eaten a Hershey’s Kiss, wrapper and all, before he could stop her. And we found rock hard pellets of poop on a little carpet by the door in the breakfast room that the boy must not have noticed. At least the dogs didn’t eat it. One must be grateful for small mercies.

The day before we left for our New Year’s trip to Arlington, our next set of neighbors came over to get the lowdown on the doggie schedule. I launched into my speech about how the dogs would need hyper-vigilant supervision with a recitation of the many acts of stupidity they had recently committed.

My very kindly neighbor gently interrupted my litany to suggest that the problem was not actually the dogs, but the low expectations I had for them.

“They’re hearing you say they’re stupid, so they feel like they have license to behave in stupid ways.”

That night when I typed up a new set of instructions, I concluded my note with:

“We expect them to have mastered Trigonometry, Molecular Biology, Greek, Latin, and Heideggerian Existentialism by the time we get back through the power of your more elevated expectations for them!”

When we returned home on New Year’s Day, imagine our surprise to see this:

Of course, I wrote a thank you to my neighbor, who had set me straight (click for larger view):

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Hope you have a wonderful, wonderful weekend!Enhanced by Zemanta