Where are all the useful parenting articles, like "How to Keep a Conversation about Community Helpers from Turning into a Lesson on Death"? I'm sure it would start off with sage advice like, "If your 5-year-old asks about dead relatives, just say they are in heaven and quickly change the subject." An article like that would have saved me a trip to the cemetery last week.
The dinner discussion started out on a light note, talking about our relatives who had "community helper" roles, a theme our son's kindergarten class had discussed that day. And then this happened:
Me: "Daddy's grandpa was a mailman."
Noah thought quietly before saying: "Where is he?"
Me: "He died a while ago."
Noah: "What does it mean to die?"
I kept the response as light as possible, making sure to emphasize that most people are really old when they die.
Noah thought quietly again before saying: "Good thing I'm only 5. Mommy, you're 34!"
Thanks kid.
The conversation re-surfaced at breakfast the next morning.
Noah: "When we die, people will just walk over our bodies here?"
Ewww.
Me: "No. You don't just leave people on the floor or the ground."
Noah: "Why not?"
I should note that I HAD NOT had a full cup of coffee at this point.
Me: "Well, people start to smell after they die."
What??? As if we'd leave people hanging around post-mortem if they were still shower-fresh. As I realized the absurdity of what I'd said, Noah came back with "So Daddy's grandpa kinda smells?"
Me: "No! One of two things happen when someone dies." I launched into a somewhat brief, child-friendly description of embalming, coffins, cemeteries, and burials. Luckily, caffeine kicked in and stopped me from even mentioning cremation. I asked him if he knew what a cemetery was. He said no, so I told him that we could go visit one to see what a nice place it is to remember people who have died.
On the way to school, I reminded him that we were stopping at the library that afternoon. "No," he said, "We're going to see dead people, remember?"
After school, he piped up from the back of the car. "Do they fold you so you fit?" I played dumb. "Fit?" "Yeah, in the box, after you die." "Oh no, they don't have to. It's like a big bed, just inside this really nice box."
Then he wanted to know if he would get a new mommy if I died. "Because I won't know how to do anything," he added. Oh, so someone is just worried about who's gonna pack his lunch and make his dinner. I told him that I would be old when I died, and I was thankful he couldn't see me look for wood to knock on.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
BYOK (Bring Your Own Kleenex)
It's natural for a little boy to pick out a book called "Train to Somewhere" at the library. The cover looked so harmless. A painting of two little girls, suitcases in hand, heading toward an old steamer train.
Noah and I settled on the couch tonight to read the book which he borrowed this afternoon. As I briefly skimmed the introduction (silently) my eyes bugged out with alarm as I looked at my husband across the room. Here is start of the introduction:
"From the mid-1850s till the late 1920s, an estimated 100,000 homeless children were sent by train from New York City to small towns and farms in the Midwest."
AAAAGH!!! I looked at Noah. It was too late to hide the book.
The introduction continued:
"Charles Loring Brace of the Children's Aid Society hoped to place them with caring families. Some of the children did well. Some did not. Some exchanged one kind of misery for another." Oh. Dear. God. Please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring.
It concluded:
"This is the story of fourteen orphan children..." Gulp.
Author Eve Bunting gives this brutal (although fictitious and well-illustrated) account of these children who ride the train and make several stops in the Midwest hoping to find a family to adopt them. The sturdy boys are chosen first; the main character, who declares herself "not pretty," is chosen last.
It contains heartwarming dialogue and descriptions such as the following:
"We're not seeing as many going this year as last, though," the conductor adds. "1877 was a peak year for orphans."
"Zachary came to New York on a boat from Liverpool, England, with his father, and then his father left him."
"Clickety-clack, clickety -clee, I'm coming, Mama. Wait for me."
Nine pages later we better understand that line when the main character, Marianne, explains that her mother "kneeled in front of me on the steps of St. Christopher's the day she left me there" and told her she was "going to the West to make a new life" and that she'd come back for Marianne.
The truth is, the story was so sad, I couldn't help but laugh at the horror of reading it out loud to a small child. It was one of those moments where you're thinking, "Is this really happening?" The great thing about kids is that they pick up cues from adults, and since I was laughing so hard trying to keep from sobbing like a baby, Noah thought most of it was hilarious. At other times I wasn't sure what was going through his mind. He was sitting bolt upright staring seriously at me. And that was even with skipping the most horrifying lines. I think we need to switch to SpongeBob.
Noah and I settled on the couch tonight to read the book which he borrowed this afternoon. As I briefly skimmed the introduction (silently) my eyes bugged out with alarm as I looked at my husband across the room. Here is start of the introduction:
"From the mid-1850s till the late 1920s, an estimated 100,000 homeless children were sent by train from New York City to small towns and farms in the Midwest."
AAAAGH!!! I looked at Noah. It was too late to hide the book.
The introduction continued:
"Charles Loring Brace of the Children's Aid Society hoped to place them with caring families. Some of the children did well. Some did not. Some exchanged one kind of misery for another." Oh. Dear. God. Please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring.
It concluded:
"This is the story of fourteen orphan children..." Gulp.
Author Eve Bunting gives this brutal (although fictitious and well-illustrated) account of these children who ride the train and make several stops in the Midwest hoping to find a family to adopt them. The sturdy boys are chosen first; the main character, who declares herself "not pretty," is chosen last.
It contains heartwarming dialogue and descriptions such as the following:
"We're not seeing as many going this year as last, though," the conductor adds. "1877 was a peak year for orphans."
"Zachary came to New York on a boat from Liverpool, England, with his father, and then his father left him."
"Clickety-clack, clickety -clee, I'm coming, Mama. Wait for me."
Nine pages later we better understand that line when the main character, Marianne, explains that her mother "kneeled in front of me on the steps of St. Christopher's the day she left me there" and told her she was "going to the West to make a new life" and that she'd come back for Marianne.
The truth is, the story was so sad, I couldn't help but laugh at the horror of reading it out loud to a small child. It was one of those moments where you're thinking, "Is this really happening?" The great thing about kids is that they pick up cues from adults, and since I was laughing so hard trying to keep from sobbing like a baby, Noah thought most of it was hilarious. At other times I wasn't sure what was going through his mind. He was sitting bolt upright staring seriously at me. And that was even with skipping the most horrifying lines. I think we need to switch to SpongeBob.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
License to Cry
Most parents (moms, at least) expect to cry on the first day of kindergarten. But it's those unexpected moments that sneak up and do you in. It started with the dentist hygienist who explained, quite matter-of-factly, "These are his adult teeth right here," as she pointed them out on an x-ray. Adult teeth? You mean this small, dependent creature will one day grow up? I cried blasphemy as I fought back tears. I thought first-timers and kids getting cavities filled were the only ones who got weepy at the dentist. Guess not.
The following week I suggested Noah play with his sand table, and while he happily did so, I got comfy in an adirondack chair, leafing through a magazine. "Ah, this isn't half-bad," I thought. Until I looked up and saw that my child had been replaced by a tiny giant who was practically bent in half to reach down into the Little Tikes sand table. Uh, guess he's not a little tike anymore. Kleenex, please.
I was OK today, at kindergarten drop-off. It startled me last year to see his cubby in a different location, and today was no different. He's at the same school, though, so there was too much familiarity to bring on the waterworks. Fortunately I know how to ruin a good thing with a library visit after school. On the way there, I said, "How'd you like to get your own library card today?" (Dork flashback: I still remember standing at the counter with my mother when I got mine.) Noah was excited at the prospect and added, "And maybe we can take out 'Duck'!" Oh. No. Not "Duck."
I unknowingly picked up "Duck" by Randy Cecil at the library over the winter and choked back tears while I read it. Out loud. To Noah. In public. Duck is a wooden carousel duck who longs to fly, "adopts" a lost duckling, and eventually realizes that she needs to give the duckling up to the real ducks so that he can fly with them. Parents about to send kids off to college should not go within 20 feet of this book. There should be a rating system for kids' books. Let's start with a giant "T" for tears, just to save us the embarrassment of having to pause awkwardly to catch our breaths when duckling, all grown up, comes back to give Duck a ride so she can see what it's like to fly. (I think Mr. Cecil might be hinting to his kids that they need to repay their debts to him, however.)
Alas, I had bigger issues than reading "Duck" without weeping. When the librarian handed his shiny, new card to him, a proud Noah exclaimed, "I feel like I have my own driver's license!" AAAAGH!!!!
The following week I suggested Noah play with his sand table, and while he happily did so, I got comfy in an adirondack chair, leafing through a magazine. "Ah, this isn't half-bad," I thought. Until I looked up and saw that my child had been replaced by a tiny giant who was practically bent in half to reach down into the Little Tikes sand table. Uh, guess he's not a little tike anymore. Kleenex, please.
I was OK today, at kindergarten drop-off. It startled me last year to see his cubby in a different location, and today was no different. He's at the same school, though, so there was too much familiarity to bring on the waterworks. Fortunately I know how to ruin a good thing with a library visit after school. On the way there, I said, "How'd you like to get your own library card today?" (Dork flashback: I still remember standing at the counter with my mother when I got mine.) Noah was excited at the prospect and added, "And maybe we can take out 'Duck'!" Oh. No. Not "Duck."
I unknowingly picked up "Duck" by Randy Cecil at the library over the winter and choked back tears while I read it. Out loud. To Noah. In public. Duck is a wooden carousel duck who longs to fly, "adopts" a lost duckling, and eventually realizes that she needs to give the duckling up to the real ducks so that he can fly with them. Parents about to send kids off to college should not go within 20 feet of this book. There should be a rating system for kids' books. Let's start with a giant "T" for tears, just to save us the embarrassment of having to pause awkwardly to catch our breaths when duckling, all grown up, comes back to give Duck a ride so she can see what it's like to fly. (I think Mr. Cecil might be hinting to his kids that they need to repay their debts to him, however.)
Alas, I had bigger issues than reading "Duck" without weeping. When the librarian handed his shiny, new card to him, a proud Noah exclaimed, "I feel like I have my own driver's license!" AAAAGH!!!!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Climate Uncontrolled: A Diary
Day 1: It’s really hot in the kitchen. The thermostat reads 80 degrees. The oven has only been at 325 for a half hour though. Hey don’t those fan blades on the central a/c unit usually spin when it’s on?
Day 2: Oh joy. Service guy can come today.
Day 2, later: Oh sorrow. Service guy says 18-year-old air conditioner has resigned. Without notice, I might add.
Day 3: Enjoying life with the windows open. Crickets chirping and cool breezes last night; warm sun and fresh air today.
Day 3, later: Discover that house quickly becomes sticky when windows are closed during rainstorm.
Day 5: Begin to get estimates for new unit but still enjoying open windows (and hopefully lower electric bill).
Day 7: We have used the deck for outdoor dining more in seven days than we have in eight years.
Day 8: Uncontrollable sweating after running on treadmill in basement. And after putting up new drapery rods in dining room. Spent rest of evening sitting very still.
Day 9: Back to loving the open windows.
Day 14: Humidity on the rise. Flee to pool in morning. Spend late afternoon in basement. Pant heavily while ascending stairs to main level.
Day 18: Man, it’s hot. Go for run. More profuse sweating.
Day 19: Cross several undone to-do’s off list. Replace with sitting-still time.
Day 20: Wake up realizing I dreamed about ordering gelato for lunch. Head to basement but can’t muster more than a walk on the treadmill. Look at stack of dumbbells. Look away from stack of dumbbells.
Day 20, an hour later: Grimace at cup of hot coffee while stuffing slices of refreshing, cold cucumber in mouth.
Day 20, another hour later: Guys arrive to install new a/c. They’re dressed in flowing white robes with wings and a strange, glowing circle hovers above their heads. One has a harp. The other, a toolkit.
Day 20, early afternoon: A stream of cold air grazes the back of my neck from overhead. I am giddy.
Day 20, does it matter anymore?: Shutting windows.
Day 2: Oh joy. Service guy can come today.
Day 2, later: Oh sorrow. Service guy says 18-year-old air conditioner has resigned. Without notice, I might add.
Day 3: Enjoying life with the windows open. Crickets chirping and cool breezes last night; warm sun and fresh air today.
Day 3, later: Discover that house quickly becomes sticky when windows are closed during rainstorm.
Day 5: Begin to get estimates for new unit but still enjoying open windows (and hopefully lower electric bill).
Day 7: We have used the deck for outdoor dining more in seven days than we have in eight years.
Day 8: Uncontrollable sweating after running on treadmill in basement. And after putting up new drapery rods in dining room. Spent rest of evening sitting very still.
Day 9: Back to loving the open windows.
Day 14: Humidity on the rise. Flee to pool in morning. Spend late afternoon in basement. Pant heavily while ascending stairs to main level.
Day 18: Man, it’s hot. Go for run. More profuse sweating.
Day 19: Cross several undone to-do’s off list. Replace with sitting-still time.
Day 20: Wake up realizing I dreamed about ordering gelato for lunch. Head to basement but can’t muster more than a walk on the treadmill. Look at stack of dumbbells. Look away from stack of dumbbells.
Day 20, an hour later: Grimace at cup of hot coffee while stuffing slices of refreshing, cold cucumber in mouth.
Day 20, another hour later: Guys arrive to install new a/c. They’re dressed in flowing white robes with wings and a strange, glowing circle hovers above their heads. One has a harp. The other, a toolkit.
Day 20, early afternoon: A stream of cold air grazes the back of my neck from overhead. I am giddy.
Day 20, does it matter anymore?: Shutting windows.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Death Benefits, for Members Only
In the market for a casket? Why not check out Costco.com? That’s right. I was glancing across the Costco.com category tabs to see if I could buy a gift card. My eyes floated over Toys & Games, Outdoor, Jewelry, Housewares, Funeral… what??? This I had to see.
The funeral page has links for caskets, urns (even pet urns), keepsakes, and sympathy flowers. Did you know you could buy a pet urn for $79.99? Whatever happened to burial by shoebox in the backyard?
Let’s get one thing straight. There’s nothing funny about death. But when Costco offers both standard shipping and expedited shipping for caskets, I can’t help but giggle. Expedited shipping gets the casket to you by 5 p.m. the next business day, just make sure to place the order by 2 p.m.
-- “Uh, doctor, how’s she doing?”
-- “She’s still holding on.”
-- “Well, do you think she’ll be dead by 2 p.m. ‘cause I gotta get moving if we want the Lady Gaudalupe casket by tomorrow afternoon?”
Of course, standard shipping is the better value. Prices go up as much as $400 for the same casket with expedited shipping, but standard shipping orders need to be placed by noon for three-day delivery. So if Aunt Clara dies at 12:02 p.m. on Thursday before a holiday weekend, she’s hanging around for about a week, just so you can save a few hundred bucks. They always get you on the shipping.
On its FAQ page for caskets, Costco’s first frequently asked question is “Why is Costco Wholesale selling caskets?” Who’s asking this question? Frequently? They’re selling caskets because it’s a great way for them to make money. Duh. Or, as a service to their members, as the page suggests.
Another FAQ: “Do I need to be at the funeral home to receive the casket?” Thankfully the answer is no. However, if the casket is going somewhere other than a funeral home, you do need to be there. So here’s my frequently asked question – where else do people send $2000 caskets???
Another FAQ: “Can you order a casket for preplanning purposes?” I think Costco is missing a business opportunity by only selling them online. Why not have some caskets to try out in the store? I mean, you wouldn’t buy a bed or a couch without trying it first. Why not pick out your own casket? You’re going to be in it for eternity, you may as well have a say in it. And hey, if the price is right, pick it up on the spot. At least you’ll have someplace to store those giant cases of paper towels, ketchup and chicken broth you just bought.
While I’m on the subject of warehouse clubs, I was at BJ’s last night, counting up my items to see if I qualified for the express lane. So let me get this straight, I could have a year’s supply of napkins but the fact that the six packages are bundled into one means it’s only one item? Love it.
The funeral page has links for caskets, urns (even pet urns), keepsakes, and sympathy flowers. Did you know you could buy a pet urn for $79.99? Whatever happened to burial by shoebox in the backyard?
Let’s get one thing straight. There’s nothing funny about death. But when Costco offers both standard shipping and expedited shipping for caskets, I can’t help but giggle. Expedited shipping gets the casket to you by 5 p.m. the next business day, just make sure to place the order by 2 p.m.
-- “Uh, doctor, how’s she doing?”
-- “She’s still holding on.”
-- “Well, do you think she’ll be dead by 2 p.m. ‘cause I gotta get moving if we want the Lady Gaudalupe casket by tomorrow afternoon?”
Of course, standard shipping is the better value. Prices go up as much as $400 for the same casket with expedited shipping, but standard shipping orders need to be placed by noon for three-day delivery. So if Aunt Clara dies at 12:02 p.m. on Thursday before a holiday weekend, she’s hanging around for about a week, just so you can save a few hundred bucks. They always get you on the shipping.
On its FAQ page for caskets, Costco’s first frequently asked question is “Why is Costco Wholesale selling caskets?” Who’s asking this question? Frequently? They’re selling caskets because it’s a great way for them to make money. Duh. Or, as a service to their members, as the page suggests.
Another FAQ: “Do I need to be at the funeral home to receive the casket?” Thankfully the answer is no. However, if the casket is going somewhere other than a funeral home, you do need to be there. So here’s my frequently asked question – where else do people send $2000 caskets???
Another FAQ: “Can you order a casket for preplanning purposes?” I think Costco is missing a business opportunity by only selling them online. Why not have some caskets to try out in the store? I mean, you wouldn’t buy a bed or a couch without trying it first. Why not pick out your own casket? You’re going to be in it for eternity, you may as well have a say in it. And hey, if the price is right, pick it up on the spot. At least you’ll have someplace to store those giant cases of paper towels, ketchup and chicken broth you just bought.
While I’m on the subject of warehouse clubs, I was at BJ’s last night, counting up my items to see if I qualified for the express lane. So let me get this straight, I could have a year’s supply of napkins but the fact that the six packages are bundled into one means it’s only one item? Love it.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I Am Not Afraid
I feel a kinship with the Toad character from the “Frog and Toad” series by Arnold Lobel. Toad makes a list of all the things he needs to do one day, and when the list blows away he is crippled without it. The sensible Frog suggests they chase it, but Toad protests that “running after the list” was not on the list. In another story Frog suggests he and Toad need willpower to keep from eating an entire batch of cookies. The clever Frog feeds the cookies to the birds while Toad tells him to keep his willpower, he’s going home to bake a cake. But in my favorite story of the moment, even Frog doesn’t display his usual character traits.
In “Dragons and Giants” Frog and Toad want to be like the brave people who fight dragons and giants in a book they have read. As they face their fears together – a rock avalanche and animals that want to eat them for lunch – they run away, yelling, “I am not afraid!” They run quickly to Toad’s house and hide under the covers and in the closet, “just feeling very brave together.” I too want to be brave. Did you know that this spring I carried a patio umbrella containing three live mice? You didn’t? Well neither did I. At least not at the time or you can bet your sweet cookies I wouldn’t have carried it.
We live in a woodsy area. I don’t even want to know what traverses our backyard at night. But I do know that after an unusually high number of acorns in the fall, a relatively mild winter, and a wet spring, the mouse population is bustling. Plus, the neighborhood cat that used to roam around mysteriously disappeared at the end of last summer. This spring we had mice in the central AC unit and out in the shed (nesting in the patio umbrella). Up until a few weeks ago, any activity in the house had been relegated to the basement, and we had never actually seen a mouse, just evidence of one. I have a system to avoid them when I wake up early to exercise. I turn on the basement lights but wait a few minutes before going down. I am not afraid, of course.
Things got ugly when we realized there was at least one running around the rest of the house. The pest company examined the bait stations and assured me that it was only one or two. In the meantime we had purchased a couple of glue traps which we left near the dryer. Just in case. Not that there was still a mouse running around. I am not afraid, at any rate.
After many days of nothing, I went to the laundry room to get something from the shelf. Wait, is that a…? Yes, it was. A small, dead mouse on the glue trap. I was so brave (because I didn’t scream). I took my son to school and returned to deal with the mouse. Come on Michelle, you can do this, it’s dead. I put on my latex gloves. You are so brave. I got a plastic bag. You are not afraid. I reached for it, and as I pulled the glue trap toward me, I learned that the mouse WAS NOT DEAD! I am not afraid! Those little legs starting kicking as he tried to run away from me, but his little mousy body was stuck to the trap. I am not afraid! OK, yes I am.
It’s a good thing my husband is so brave so I can concentrate on making lists and baking cakes.
In “Dragons and Giants” Frog and Toad want to be like the brave people who fight dragons and giants in a book they have read. As they face their fears together – a rock avalanche and animals that want to eat them for lunch – they run away, yelling, “I am not afraid!” They run quickly to Toad’s house and hide under the covers and in the closet, “just feeling very brave together.” I too want to be brave. Did you know that this spring I carried a patio umbrella containing three live mice? You didn’t? Well neither did I. At least not at the time or you can bet your sweet cookies I wouldn’t have carried it.
We live in a woodsy area. I don’t even want to know what traverses our backyard at night. But I do know that after an unusually high number of acorns in the fall, a relatively mild winter, and a wet spring, the mouse population is bustling. Plus, the neighborhood cat that used to roam around mysteriously disappeared at the end of last summer. This spring we had mice in the central AC unit and out in the shed (nesting in the patio umbrella). Up until a few weeks ago, any activity in the house had been relegated to the basement, and we had never actually seen a mouse, just evidence of one. I have a system to avoid them when I wake up early to exercise. I turn on the basement lights but wait a few minutes before going down. I am not afraid, of course.
Things got ugly when we realized there was at least one running around the rest of the house. The pest company examined the bait stations and assured me that it was only one or two. In the meantime we had purchased a couple of glue traps which we left near the dryer. Just in case. Not that there was still a mouse running around. I am not afraid, at any rate.
After many days of nothing, I went to the laundry room to get something from the shelf. Wait, is that a…? Yes, it was. A small, dead mouse on the glue trap. I was so brave (because I didn’t scream). I took my son to school and returned to deal with the mouse. Come on Michelle, you can do this, it’s dead. I put on my latex gloves. You are so brave. I got a plastic bag. You are not afraid. I reached for it, and as I pulled the glue trap toward me, I learned that the mouse WAS NOT DEAD! I am not afraid! Those little legs starting kicking as he tried to run away from me, but his little mousy body was stuck to the trap. I am not afraid! OK, yes I am.
It’s a good thing my husband is so brave so I can concentrate on making lists and baking cakes.
Monday, June 28, 2010
NASCAR? Really?
I have one theory on why attendance is down at NASCAR races. It could be that there aren’t enough fit Americans to go to these events (more on this later). My family experienced its first, live NASCAR race yesterday at the New Hampshire Speedway in Loudon. Not knowing what to anticipate I formed my expectations based on previous sporting events. But NASCAR is like no other experience…
For starters, you know you’re in trouble when you park your car and you can’t actually see where the sporting event will take place. And it’s not because you paid to park off-site to avoid traffic later…
For anyone who’s not familiar with NASCAR, there are usually two races per year at each speedway on the circuit (although I believe there are road courses that only have one race). So it’s not like most other sports that have several “home games” from which to pick. Also, NASCAR has built a culture of people who travel to the race with RVs and camp for a few days. Needless to say, these speedways hold a lot of people, and they need a place to park.
We walked at least a mile or so to get from our car to the speedway, and then we ascended several flights of stairs to get to our seats which were in row 46 of the main grandstand. No elevators. No ramps between levels. I kept thinking, hey, this is a great workout! We went up and down those stairs multiple times yesterday, and then we walked back to the car at the end of the day. Sure there were a few people being driven around on golf carts, but most people seemed pretty spry and able to get around. And that’s when it dawned on me… perhaps NASCAR races are just too much of a workout for the average American, if all the headlines about our health are true.
The NASCAR crowd is like no other.
I pictured the worst, based on previous sporting events and the fact that “this is NASCAR.” I’ll admit it, I pictured backwoods Billy Bob sucking down a 12-pack of Budweiser, shootin’ off his mouth from his RV. Not so. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen some drunken loudmouth at a professional sporting event ruining the day for the people around him. Yesterday I saw a courteous crowd – no one was pushing, no one was shoving, despite the throngs of people. There was courtesy in the ladies room. There was respect during the national anthem – even the Canadian one. There was little, if any, foul language. I saw no one who appeared drunk. No one threw anything or yelled at someone because he was rooting for an opposing driver.
Even if someone cursed me out, I wouldn’t have heard him.
NASCAR is l-o-u-d. What? I said it’s LOUD!!! You do not watch the race and listen to an announcer. You can barely hear what the guy next to you is saying. So most people wear headsets that are tuned in to race coverage. It might seem odd, but trust me, it helps to have some analysis during the race. Part of NASCAR’s excitement is the teams’ pit strategies and the driver feedback on the cars, and you can’t get that by watching live unless you have audio. Other people just wear earplugs to block some of the sound. And there are a few folks who watch bravely without any ear protection. Regardless, you have thousands of fans sitting closely together having very little interaction with each other. It’s amazing.
As I said, it’s an experience like no other.
First off, NASCAR seems more ‘accessible’ to fans than a lot of other sports. You can buy a pass to walk around in the pits and maybe meet some drivers and their crews before the race. Plus, we had the bonus of sitting in traffic with a few of the haulers who transport the cars from race to shop.
But let’s talk about what draws someone to a live event as opposed to watching NASCAR on TV. Do you know what it sounds like when 45 stock car engines start up? How about when they speed past you at more than 100 miles per hour? Indescribable.
For starters, you know you’re in trouble when you park your car and you can’t actually see where the sporting event will take place. And it’s not because you paid to park off-site to avoid traffic later…
For anyone who’s not familiar with NASCAR, there are usually two races per year at each speedway on the circuit (although I believe there are road courses that only have one race). So it’s not like most other sports that have several “home games” from which to pick. Also, NASCAR has built a culture of people who travel to the race with RVs and camp for a few days. Needless to say, these speedways hold a lot of people, and they need a place to park.
We walked at least a mile or so to get from our car to the speedway, and then we ascended several flights of stairs to get to our seats which were in row 46 of the main grandstand. No elevators. No ramps between levels. I kept thinking, hey, this is a great workout! We went up and down those stairs multiple times yesterday, and then we walked back to the car at the end of the day. Sure there were a few people being driven around on golf carts, but most people seemed pretty spry and able to get around. And that’s when it dawned on me… perhaps NASCAR races are just too much of a workout for the average American, if all the headlines about our health are true.
The NASCAR crowd is like no other.
I pictured the worst, based on previous sporting events and the fact that “this is NASCAR.” I’ll admit it, I pictured backwoods Billy Bob sucking down a 12-pack of Budweiser, shootin’ off his mouth from his RV. Not so. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen some drunken loudmouth at a professional sporting event ruining the day for the people around him. Yesterday I saw a courteous crowd – no one was pushing, no one was shoving, despite the throngs of people. There was courtesy in the ladies room. There was respect during the national anthem – even the Canadian one. There was little, if any, foul language. I saw no one who appeared drunk. No one threw anything or yelled at someone because he was rooting for an opposing driver.
Even if someone cursed me out, I wouldn’t have heard him.
NASCAR is l-o-u-d. What? I said it’s LOUD!!! You do not watch the race and listen to an announcer. You can barely hear what the guy next to you is saying. So most people wear headsets that are tuned in to race coverage. It might seem odd, but trust me, it helps to have some analysis during the race. Part of NASCAR’s excitement is the teams’ pit strategies and the driver feedback on the cars, and you can’t get that by watching live unless you have audio. Other people just wear earplugs to block some of the sound. And there are a few folks who watch bravely without any ear protection. Regardless, you have thousands of fans sitting closely together having very little interaction with each other. It’s amazing.
As I said, it’s an experience like no other.
First off, NASCAR seems more ‘accessible’ to fans than a lot of other sports. You can buy a pass to walk around in the pits and maybe meet some drivers and their crews before the race. Plus, we had the bonus of sitting in traffic with a few of the haulers who transport the cars from race to shop.
But let’s talk about what draws someone to a live event as opposed to watching NASCAR on TV. Do you know what it sounds like when 45 stock car engines start up? How about when they speed past you at more than 100 miles per hour? Indescribable.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Don't Watch with your Mouth Full
I guess I don't get out much. Dine-in movie theatres have been on the scene for years, but my husband and I just had our first experience yesterday. It was a belated anniversary date that we planned back in the winter when we saw the promo poster for IronMan 2. "Ooh, I know, let's go see IronMan 2 in the lux level for our anniversary!" Feel free to laugh, everyone else has. Watching from the lux level and eating during the show seemed like a fun way to jazz up the date, but yesterday as I put on one of my favorite skirts I thought, "Hmmm, lunch in the dark...should I bring the Tide-to-go pen?"
We felt pretty special as we ascended the staircase to the lux level. The host brought us to a pair of comfy leather chairs (a definite upgrade over regular theatre seating) that had small tables about the size of an airplane tray table. As I perused the menu, I found myself sizing up meals based on mess-factor and whether they would need to be cut. I'm not sure I trust myself with a knife in the dark. As I narrowed down the selections, I tried to decide what would go with a Robert Downey Jr. movie. Something about eating fried food watching Downey chiseled down to an IronMan physique didn't seem quite right.
My husband settled on a Cuban sandwich, and I opted for the grilled tandoori pizza with proscuitto (something I generally don't like to eat in the light), tomatoes, mozzarella and brie (those last three things I'd eat in the day or in the night, in a house, with a mouse, on a train, in the rain)...and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. The food arrived just as the lights were getting dimmer. I looked at that balsamic vinegar, and I looked at my skirt, and I was a little scared. That said, I had no trouble getting the food to my mouth in the dark, which doesn't really surprise me.
And then the movie started, and this disgustingly grimy man appeared on-screen. Greasy hair, dirty fingernails, and a face that just creeped me out. Ugh, my stomach churned, and I put down my pizza. As the opening credits ran, I realized that there would be an issue larger than the lack of light. Mickey. Rourke. Now this man is a good actor, but he completely skeeves me out. I see him, and I think, "You. Bath. Now." I had been waiting for this movie for months -- how did I not know he was in it? And more importantly, would my deliciously gooey entree go to waste? I formulated a plan -- eat during the Downey and Cheadle scenes, drink beer during the Rourke scenes. Occasionaly I was caught off-guard when Rourke appeared while I was finishing a bite, but I kept everything down.
And, my skirt made it through, vinegar-free.
We felt pretty special as we ascended the staircase to the lux level. The host brought us to a pair of comfy leather chairs (a definite upgrade over regular theatre seating) that had small tables about the size of an airplane tray table. As I perused the menu, I found myself sizing up meals based on mess-factor and whether they would need to be cut. I'm not sure I trust myself with a knife in the dark. As I narrowed down the selections, I tried to decide what would go with a Robert Downey Jr. movie. Something about eating fried food watching Downey chiseled down to an IronMan physique didn't seem quite right.
My husband settled on a Cuban sandwich, and I opted for the grilled tandoori pizza with proscuitto (something I generally don't like to eat in the light), tomatoes, mozzarella and brie (those last three things I'd eat in the day or in the night, in a house, with a mouse, on a train, in the rain)...and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. The food arrived just as the lights were getting dimmer. I looked at that balsamic vinegar, and I looked at my skirt, and I was a little scared. That said, I had no trouble getting the food to my mouth in the dark, which doesn't really surprise me.
And then the movie started, and this disgustingly grimy man appeared on-screen. Greasy hair, dirty fingernails, and a face that just creeped me out. Ugh, my stomach churned, and I put down my pizza. As the opening credits ran, I realized that there would be an issue larger than the lack of light. Mickey. Rourke. Now this man is a good actor, but he completely skeeves me out. I see him, and I think, "You. Bath. Now." I had been waiting for this movie for months -- how did I not know he was in it? And more importantly, would my deliciously gooey entree go to waste? I formulated a plan -- eat during the Downey and Cheadle scenes, drink beer during the Rourke scenes. Occasionaly I was caught off-guard when Rourke appeared while I was finishing a bite, but I kept everything down.
And, my skirt made it through, vinegar-free.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Learning as We Go
As I drove to a nearby hospital to teach a writing workshop, I began thinking about how the course's concept related to parenting. The workshop helps nurses complete a professional portfolio through several pieces of writing that demonstrate where their levels of practice reside. The concept behind the portfolio is based on the book, "From Novice to Expert: Excellence and Power in Clinical Nursing Practice," by Patricia Benner, RN, PhD. Benner first introduced the idea that nurses learn how to be nurses by -- are you ready? -- being nurses. It's not that she thinks nurses don't need formal education, but she believes that a nurses' experiences shape them as clinicians and guide future actions and decision-making. I'd argue that the same theory holds true for moms and dads.
Here goes...
Criteria: Demonstrates foresight in anticipating patient/unit (child!) problems
-The novice parent hears crying and finds her toddler engaged in battle with another toddler. "Mine!" they both shout as they tug on the same toy. The parent tries to distract her child with another toy while gingerly extracting her kid's fingers from the other kid's hair.
-The expert parent asks the child to put anything in the closet that he doesn't want to share during a playdate. And then the parent hides any toys that could be used as weapons and all the markers that are non-washable.
Criteria: Is proactive in addressing patient (child!) needs
-The novice parent arrives at an appointment without an extra diaper, snacks and toys only to find that the doctor is running an hour late.
-The expert parent needs weekly chiropractor appointments to correct the bulging discs resulting from regularly carrying diapers, water, goldfish, granola bars, board books, crayons, wind-up toys, dolls, etc.
Criteria: Serves in a formal or informal leadership role
-The novice parent exhibits a deer-in-the-headlight look upon returning home with his/her firstborn. The novice parent does know enough to call the expert parent, also known as Grandma, to come for a visit.
Criteria: Role models the value of ongoing learning
-Too overwhelmed with parenting duties, the novice parent is too tired to read and instead watches television to unwind.
-The expert parent escapes from the house through the convenient excuse of "It's book group night!"
Criteria: Encourages the participation of others in learning opportunities
-The novice parent can't imagine her babies leaving home.
-The expert parent counts the days until summer vacation ends.
Criteria: Capable of organizing and coordinating multiple patient care and unit operational issues in an effective and efficient manner
-The novice parent's home has dusty stacks of mail, spit-up rags under the couch, and an interesting green puddle on the bottom shelf of the fridge.
-The expert parent made lunch, got a child off to school, answered urgent emails via Blackberry, put chicken in the slow cooker for dinner, picked up the dry cleaning, went to the bank, coordinated the school's car wash, attended a work meeting, and finished three loads of laundry. And managed to squeeze in an episode of "Real Housewives of New Jersey."
So you see, we're better at this parenting thing then the first time we walked through our front doors with those wrinkly beings strapped into infant seats. And as the years go on and new challenges crop up, we'll continue to hone those skills even though we might feel like pulling our hair out at times. As Benner's title indicates... from novice to expert...excellence and power. Sure, in this case the kids actually have the power, but you gotta admit, the parenting thing is pretty excellent.
Here goes...
Criteria: Demonstrates foresight in anticipating patient/unit (child!) problems
-The novice parent hears crying and finds her toddler engaged in battle with another toddler. "Mine!" they both shout as they tug on the same toy. The parent tries to distract her child with another toy while gingerly extracting her kid's fingers from the other kid's hair.
-The expert parent asks the child to put anything in the closet that he doesn't want to share during a playdate. And then the parent hides any toys that could be used as weapons and all the markers that are non-washable.
Criteria: Is proactive in addressing patient (child!) needs
-The novice parent arrives at an appointment without an extra diaper, snacks and toys only to find that the doctor is running an hour late.
-The expert parent needs weekly chiropractor appointments to correct the bulging discs resulting from regularly carrying diapers, water, goldfish, granola bars, board books, crayons, wind-up toys, dolls, etc.
Criteria: Serves in a formal or informal leadership role
-The novice parent exhibits a deer-in-the-headlight look upon returning home with his/her firstborn. The novice parent does know enough to call the expert parent, also known as Grandma, to come for a visit.
Criteria: Role models the value of ongoing learning
-Too overwhelmed with parenting duties, the novice parent is too tired to read and instead watches television to unwind.
-The expert parent escapes from the house through the convenient excuse of "It's book group night!"
Criteria: Encourages the participation of others in learning opportunities
-The novice parent can't imagine her babies leaving home.
-The expert parent counts the days until summer vacation ends.
Criteria: Capable of organizing and coordinating multiple patient care and unit operational issues in an effective and efficient manner
-The novice parent's home has dusty stacks of mail, spit-up rags under the couch, and an interesting green puddle on the bottom shelf of the fridge.
-The expert parent made lunch, got a child off to school, answered urgent emails via Blackberry, put chicken in the slow cooker for dinner, picked up the dry cleaning, went to the bank, coordinated the school's car wash, attended a work meeting, and finished three loads of laundry. And managed to squeeze in an episode of "Real Housewives of New Jersey."
So you see, we're better at this parenting thing then the first time we walked through our front doors with those wrinkly beings strapped into infant seats. And as the years go on and new challenges crop up, we'll continue to hone those skills even though we might feel like pulling our hair out at times. As Benner's title indicates... from novice to expert...excellence and power. Sure, in this case the kids actually have the power, but you gotta admit, the parenting thing is pretty excellent.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Santiago
Whether traveling for one day or one week, by car, by train, or by plane, the same line from "A Few Good Men" runs through my head the night before: "Santiago was leaving for the rest of his life. Yet he hadn't called a soul, and he hadn't packed a thing."
Dramatic, I know, but the key to that line is the part about not having packed a thing. Granted, vacation doesn't mean leaving a place for the rest of one's life, but when I have to pack luggage, it sures feels like it. As Jack Nicholson's character replied, "Maybe he liked to pack in the morning," I thought, 'Yes, yes, that's it crazy Marine colonel, I, Michelle Apuzzio, am a morning packer!' I think it goes back to the couple of times that I left my toothbrush on the bathroom sink, having forgotten to stow it in my luggage after brushing my teeth on the morning of those departures. There's nothing worse than arriving at your destination at night and realizing you don't have a toothbrush.
I like to make sure I'm ready for the day's travels before I get to work with my my handy travel checklist. I used to have that luxury...before I had a child. Now it's prudent to work like an elf, getting all those mundane tasks completed while the child sleeps the night before. Still, habits are hard to break.
Last Friday I sat on the couch reading the local newspapers while my husband began packing the one suitcase that we agreed we'd bring. When I had combed through every possible nugget of news, even reading the event listings for that weekend despite the fact that we'd be more than 800 miles away, I finally made my way upstairs where my husband had already pulled together clothes for both him and our son.
Me: "I hate packing."
Him: "It takes two seconds."
Me: "One (pause), two (pause), I'm not packed yet. It takes more than two seconds."
I'm not sure why I procrastinate when it comes to packing. It's not for a lack of wanting to leave home. Maybe I just don't like determining so far in advance what I'll be wearing. I like to have everything in my wardrobe at my disposal, although I'll admit it's so much easier getting dressed when there are fewer choices. Whatever the reason, I flitted around for a few minutes as my husband occasionally popped his head in to check on my (lack of) progress.
Me: "What kind of restaurants do they have in Greensboro?"
Him: "Do you need to bring different outfits for Friday's and Cracker Barrel? Because I think that's what we're looking at."
[For the record, we did eat at a Friday's. And a Biscuitville, but that's a whole other post.]
"What's the weather going to be like?" I asked, still searching for any straw that might delay my putting clothing into a suitcase. He took pity and humored me by starting up his laptop to check on the weather.
"Ooh wait, will there be any Piggly Wiggly supermarkets in the area? I always wanted to go to a Piggly Wiggly!" I exclaimed. I looked over his shoulder as he discovered there would be none in the area of North Carolina that we were to visit.
Him, while looking up weather: "You could at least start packing socks and underwear."
Me: "Oh no I can't. I pack those last, once I have the outfit set."
I was dead serious, but I knew my excuses were getting flimsier so I got to work with my travel checklist.
Although I didn't pack any clothes until the next day, I was packed and ready with plenty of time to spare the next morning. Because, after all, I am a morning packer.
Dramatic, I know, but the key to that line is the part about not having packed a thing. Granted, vacation doesn't mean leaving a place for the rest of one's life, but when I have to pack luggage, it sures feels like it. As Jack Nicholson's character replied, "Maybe he liked to pack in the morning," I thought, 'Yes, yes, that's it crazy Marine colonel, I, Michelle Apuzzio, am a morning packer!' I think it goes back to the couple of times that I left my toothbrush on the bathroom sink, having forgotten to stow it in my luggage after brushing my teeth on the morning of those departures. There's nothing worse than arriving at your destination at night and realizing you don't have a toothbrush.
I like to make sure I'm ready for the day's travels before I get to work with my my handy travel checklist. I used to have that luxury...before I had a child. Now it's prudent to work like an elf, getting all those mundane tasks completed while the child sleeps the night before. Still, habits are hard to break.
Last Friday I sat on the couch reading the local newspapers while my husband began packing the one suitcase that we agreed we'd bring. When I had combed through every possible nugget of news, even reading the event listings for that weekend despite the fact that we'd be more than 800 miles away, I finally made my way upstairs where my husband had already pulled together clothes for both him and our son.
Me: "I hate packing."
Him: "It takes two seconds."
Me: "One (pause), two (pause), I'm not packed yet. It takes more than two seconds."
I'm not sure why I procrastinate when it comes to packing. It's not for a lack of wanting to leave home. Maybe I just don't like determining so far in advance what I'll be wearing. I like to have everything in my wardrobe at my disposal, although I'll admit it's so much easier getting dressed when there are fewer choices. Whatever the reason, I flitted around for a few minutes as my husband occasionally popped his head in to check on my (lack of) progress.
Me: "What kind of restaurants do they have in Greensboro?"
Him: "Do you need to bring different outfits for Friday's and Cracker Barrel? Because I think that's what we're looking at."
[For the record, we did eat at a Friday's. And a Biscuitville, but that's a whole other post.]
"What's the weather going to be like?" I asked, still searching for any straw that might delay my putting clothing into a suitcase. He took pity and humored me by starting up his laptop to check on the weather.
"Ooh wait, will there be any Piggly Wiggly supermarkets in the area? I always wanted to go to a Piggly Wiggly!" I exclaimed. I looked over his shoulder as he discovered there would be none in the area of North Carolina that we were to visit.
Him, while looking up weather: "You could at least start packing socks and underwear."
Me: "Oh no I can't. I pack those last, once I have the outfit set."
I was dead serious, but I knew my excuses were getting flimsier so I got to work with my travel checklist.
Although I didn't pack any clothes until the next day, I was packed and ready with plenty of time to spare the next morning. Because, after all, I am a morning packer.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
You've Got a Little Somethin' There...
Tomorrow marks Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent for Catholics worldwide. As a child, I dreaded Ash Wednesday. Sure it meant that winter would soon be over, and a bevy of chocolates in a basket would follow. And I'd like to think that I seriously reflected on the Catholic teachings of Jesus and his sacrifices at some point. But on Ash Wednesday, the only thought in my head was, "Dear God, I hope I don't run into anybody with these ashes on my forehead."
Mercifully we went to church after school to receive the ashes, which the priest rubbed on our foreheads. The ashes are supposed to be a sign of penance, reminding the person of his/her mortality. Apparently the saying is "Remember (O man) that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." (A hefty message for an 8-year-old to absorb, eh?)
At any rate, my sister and I would try to wipe as much of the ashes off as possible without arousing my mother's suspicions. Eventually she got wise (moms always do) and would warn us ahead of time not to wipe off the ashes. Afterward she tried to catch us in the act. I still remember her peeping into the rearview mirror as we drove home.
In the car we'd slink down in our seats, lest we pull up next to some hot guy in a Trans Am (yes, this was 1980s New Jersey), only to reveal our ashy faces out the window. Worse yet, we might see someone from school. Going straight home after getting ashes was the best case scenario. As it turned out, sometimes a "quick trip to the A&P" was required to get some last-minute item for dinner. Agh! Now there was even more of a chance we'd run into a classmate (hot guys with Trans Ams generally didn't hang out at the A&P).
Looking back it seems silly to be so self-conscious about a spot of ashes on one's forehead for a few hours. I'm sure I've had much worse on my face (late 1980s makeup applications, anyone?). If you see someone tomorrow who has a little somethin' on his face, don't point it out to him or you'll end up with something on your face...egg!
Mercifully we went to church after school to receive the ashes, which the priest rubbed on our foreheads. The ashes are supposed to be a sign of penance, reminding the person of his/her mortality. Apparently the saying is "Remember (O man) that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." (A hefty message for an 8-year-old to absorb, eh?)
At any rate, my sister and I would try to wipe as much of the ashes off as possible without arousing my mother's suspicions. Eventually she got wise (moms always do) and would warn us ahead of time not to wipe off the ashes. Afterward she tried to catch us in the act. I still remember her peeping into the rearview mirror as we drove home.
In the car we'd slink down in our seats, lest we pull up next to some hot guy in a Trans Am (yes, this was 1980s New Jersey), only to reveal our ashy faces out the window. Worse yet, we might see someone from school. Going straight home after getting ashes was the best case scenario. As it turned out, sometimes a "quick trip to the A&P" was required to get some last-minute item for dinner. Agh! Now there was even more of a chance we'd run into a classmate (hot guys with Trans Ams generally didn't hang out at the A&P).
Looking back it seems silly to be so self-conscious about a spot of ashes on one's forehead for a few hours. I'm sure I've had much worse on my face (late 1980s makeup applications, anyone?). If you see someone tomorrow who has a little somethin' on his face, don't point it out to him or you'll end up with something on your face...egg!
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