Four Things I've Learned From My Grandchildren

I know this is hard to believe, but trust me when I tell you I have six of the most amazing grandchildren the world has ever known.  I’m also lucky to have them all living close enough to see on a weekly if not daily basis.  They are all three years old and younger.  Our family motto could well be “the family that breeds together, stays together”.  I don’t mean that in a creepy way.  Anyhoo, I spend a lot of time with these little people, and wouldn’t you know it, I have learned some of life’s truths from them.  So, here goes.

1. Live in the present.    I come from a long line of worriers.  I fret over the past, and also about the future.   I regret things I said; I plan what I will say.  Recently, my anxiety  had gotten to the point that it was interfering with my sleep.  I eventually went to the doctor and we did a sleep study.  The results came back:  yep, I don’t sleep well at all.  But it wasn’t sleep apnea, restless leg, or anything else organic.  I was given sleeping pills.  But I didn’t want to go there, so I took a course on mindfulness meditation.  The idea is to focus on the present.  I have been working on it, and I am doing markedly better in the sleep department.  But here’s the thing: I could have taken a lesson from my grandchildren.  They are masters at living in the moment and mindfulness.  Often I take walks with them and they point out things I completely missed.  They notice every dog that barks, every airplane that flies over, and every truck that goes by.  They truly live in the moment, and their experience is very rich because of it.  They don’t toss and turn at night, either.
2. Stop eating when you are full.  Tuesday is chicken nugget day at Nana’s house.  You can get 20 nuggets from McDonalds for $5.  It’s a bargain.  The kids all love them, but they only eat as many as they want.  This means that sometimes we throw away uneaten nuggets.  So what.  Is it any less wasteful to eat food you neither need nor want than it is to throw it away?  It isn’t going to help the children in Africa either way.  Kids eat when they are hungry and stop when they are not.  It’s a great lesson.
3. Life is messy.  No need to get worked up over it. Kids are very messy.  They spill everything.  They get food all over themselves.  They play in the dirt.  They love to draw with chalk on the pavement and then sit on their art work.  Chalk gets all over their pants.  They love to roll in the grass and they get leaves stuck in their hair.  They couldn’t care less.  And really, what does it matter?  One of my favorite lines from the movie Leap Year is “throw it in the wash, it’ll be grand.”  It really will. 
4. Be proud of your accomplishments, even if other people think it’s just poop.  Ok, I know this is a little gross, but three of my grandchildren are recently potty trained.  The other day two of them were over playing together.  One had to take a potty break.  I heard him say to his mother who was helping him in the bathroom, “Don’t flush it yet, I want Porter to see my poop”.  Later in the afternoon Porter returned the favor.  Noah came in to admire it and together they watched it all go down the toilet.  

Turning 50

I’m turning 50 next month.  All year long my high school friends and I are passing this milestone one by one.  It seems like a bigger deal than turning 30 or 40.  I’m not sure why.  I suppose part of it is that realistically I have to face the fact that my life is half over. Statistically that was also true at 40, but of course I’m confident that I’ll live longer than average.  We're all above average, right?  It’s hard to convince yourself you’ll live much beyond 100.

My classmates and I were born in 1964.  We missed the assassination of JFK, but we made it in time for the Beatles to come to America. Our earliest memories are of the lunar landings.  We got smallpox vaccines but we suffered through chicken pox.  We carried glass thermoses in our metal Partidge Family lunch boxes. 

So to honor the  occasion I am making a list of the signs I’m turning 50.  I’m starting now so I have time to add things to my list before the big day comes.   Fellow classmates of 1982, what would you add to the list?

Signs I’m 50:

1 - I can’t sit for extended periods of time with my legs curled up underneath me and then jump up and walk with out limping for several steps

2 - I’ve had medical procedures done for things resulting not from disease but from wear and tear.

3 - I’ve lived long enough to not be impressed by the latest diet fad - I remember when calories were all that counted, fats should be avoided like the plague, and salt was the root of all evil.  So pardon me if I don’t jump on the cave man diet.  I’ll sit this one out.

4 - When I’m out with my grandchildren no one mistakes them for my children.  They correctly assume they are my grandchildren.  This really hurt my feelings the first time it happened.

5 - People add “for your age” to compliments.  Example:  You are in great shape for your age.  Um.  Thanks.

6 - Oldies channels play songs that aren’t oldies to me.  Some of them came out way after I graduated from school.

7 - I’ve lived enough of life to value mercy more than justice.  I need mercy. 

8 - Let’s just say my skin has lost some of its elasticity.  This in spite of the fact that I hopped on the sunscreen bandwagon early in life.  

9 - My daughter told me her friend said I was “adorable”.  How quaint. 

10 - I’ve switched from wondering if I can afford to eat at a given restaurant to wondering if my digestive system can handle a given restaurant.

Nightmare at Davis (Part 2)

The mystery of the dirty underpants remained unsolved as day turned to night.   I didn’t get much sleep, but I didn’t expect to. My night nurse was kind.  With all the fluids I was getting through the IV plus what I was drinking to combat a dry mouth, she spent a lot of time helping me to the bathroom.

The next shift change brought my next nightmare: Lupe, my nurse. She was terrible.  I try to keep these blog posts to 500 words, so I can’t go into detail.  It would be kind to just say she was lazy.  She was incompetent.  Trust me when I say the example I’m citing is just the straw that broke the camel’s back.  

It was time for me to take a shower but I still had my IV in my hand, so it needed to be capped. Lupe disconnected the tubing, but rather than put a cap on it, she covered the end with the wrapper from an alcohol wipe and said I was good to go.  I told her I wasn’t comfortable with that - showers are dirty places and there was a straight line into my blood vein.  I told her I wanted a cap.  She got in my face and asked if I’d ever heard of alcohol and its sterilizing qualities.  I told her I wanted a cap.  She left to get one, but when she came back she told me to not be surprised if she “accidentally” pulled out my IV while putting the cap on.

At this point I had had enough.  I told her to leave my room and send in her supervisor.  I got a new and competent nurse who put a cap on my IV and also had a cheery disposition.  Yay for ShaNae! The supervisor came and she apologized for Lupe and said she needed some re-educating.  She had heard about the mystery underpants but had no answers.

I came home from the hospital that afternoon.  I’ve chatted with the patient advocate, Michael Paul, three times since then.  He called on Friday with the underpants mystery solved.  It seems that while I was on the operating table my hospital bed was in the hall waiting for me.  Meanwhile, a man was taken to the operating room next door.  When he went to surgery it was discovered that he hadn’t taken off his underpants.  Someone removed them, and rather than following hospital policy and placing them in a plastic bag labeled with the patient’s name, he or she threw them on the hospital bed in the hall - my bed. Michael Paul said they would be re-educating the staff on proper procedure.

He also said Lupe had received a written reprimand in her file for the IV fiasco.  He said she would be re-educated on the proper procedure.  It seems like the proper procedure is the best kept secret at Davis Hospital. 

Nightmare at Davis (Part 1)

I had back surgery last week.  Now there’s a sentence I could have lived my whole life without ever wanting to write.  After my hysterectomy two years ago I promised myself I would never have surgery again, but with the doctor telling me I was risking paralysis and loss of bladder and bowel control, I thought it would be prudent to reconsider.  I hope it was the right decision.  

The surgery seemed to go okay.  I didn’t get an infection and I can move all my extremities and control my bodily functions - so hey, who am I to complain.  My left leg isn’t working quite up to snuff, but I can walk without a limp and I’m hoping that soon I will be back to mostly normal.  I may never jump on the trampoline again, or ride a horse, which are two things I enjoy, but life goes on.  

I had my surgery at Davis Hospital, which is a smaller local hospital.  It wasn’t my first choice, but that is where my surgeon has rights.  I would have preferred McKay-Dee, and I even tried to get an appointment with a surgeon who does work there, but he had a waiting list of over a month for a consultation and it seemed like time was of the essence.  I had two grandsons born and Davis, and both deliveries went well, so I figured it would be fine.  

I had done all the pre-op stuff the day before, so check-in at the hospital went well.  In no time at all I was in the paper gown with my IV running.  There was some confusion over whose turn it was to go next, and my anesthesiologist told me he’d been called back on his way home to do my surgery, but he was pleasant about it.  Soon I was wheeling down the hall to the last surgery suite.  An OR nurse put a mask over my face and I remember wondering what the flow rate was because I couldn’t feel it at all.  Meanwhile the anesthesiologist put two things into my IV that stung on their way in. I resisted the urge to ask him what size ETT tube he was going to use and how many ml/kg he would ventilate me at.  I thought I showed amazing restraint.

Next thing I knew I was awake and wishing I weren’t.  I hurt pretty bad and my wonderful nurse, Nadine, was hurrying to offer chemical relief.  My mother was also there.  Dave had left to switch cars with my daughter.  As my mom and Nadine arranged the bed covers for me they both were startled, and no doubt horrified, to discover that I had a pair of DIRTY men’s underpants in the bed with me.  Not what a woman wants to find in her bed when she’s been unconscious for 2 hours.

Nadine vowed to get to the bottom of it (ha ha),and she and my mother changed my sheets.  I was quickly distracted by the need to avoid vomiting in the supine position.  I hate surgery.  

The Babysitter and the Boys

I’m going to try my hand at story with a take-home message.  Actually, three take-home messages.  There are probably more.  Before I start let me say that the names have been changed to protect both the guilty and the innocent, and I harbor no ill will towards any of the parties involved.  Honest.

So, we have a 14 year old daughter.  I know I’m her mother, but the record still has to show that she is a very cute girl.  She has long dark hair, a tiny little figure, and the bluest eyes and longest lashes you will ever see.

Friday night she had a babysitting job for a family with three young boys who live just around the corner.  Off she went and her dad and I went out to dinner.  When we got home, there were four teenage boys just walking up to our house.  One asked if our daughter was home.  I said no, that she was babysitting at the Smith’s house.  Yes, this was a mistake on my part.

We decided to take an after-dinner walk and as we rounded the corner we saw those boys walking in the Smith’s front door.  Naturally we went to investigate.  One of the boys saw us and by the time we got there the place resembled a meth house when the SWAT team arrives.  We saw one boy jump over the back fence, another ran out the front door, one sauntered out whistling Dixie, and one (let’s call him John) held his ground.  

Now you have to know that John has always been my favorite, and I have to admire his fortitude, if not his chutzpa.  I entered the house to check on my daughter and her charges while my husband had a little chat with John.  My daughter insisted that they had just walked into the house without knocking, and the little boys confirmed it.  Having said that, I’m not convinced their visit was entirely unwelcome on her part.  However, her tears were real and after I got her mopped up, I joined my husband out front.

My husband was shaking his head.  He had told John it wasn’t acceptable for the boys to be there while our daughter was babysitting.  John replied that it was none of my husband’s business what the boys did.  

Well, call me old-fashioned, but I beg to differ.  So did my husband.  So did John’s father when my husband paid him a call.  A few minutes later we got a phone call from John apologizing for his actions and his words.  Thank goodness for good parents.  In fact, that is the real moral of my story.  Boys will be boys, girls will be girls, and we need parents to be parents.

But I also have three take-home messages for the kids, although they will probably never read this.  A - although it is true we live in the safest neighborhood in America and nothing remotely dangerous will ever happen here (obscure reference to “Home Alone”), it is still a good idea to lock the door when you are baby sitting. 2 - employers generally frown on their employees socializing during working hours.  D - although I’m not sure that John has any romantic interest in my daughter, some day he will have interest in someone’s daughter and the wooing will go better if he doesn’t tick off her dad.

Cannonball! Otherwise entitled: I Tend to Act First and Think Second

I don’t know how to dabble.  When I decide to do something I tend to jump in with both feet and get in way over my head before I even know what happened.  It’s kind of strange, because I don’t think I’m a particularly spontaneous person, but once I make up my mind to do something I go at it full speed ahead.  

Several years ago I decided to join a chorus of Sweet Adelines.  This is a group of women who sing barbershop quartet style music.  I found a group, showed up for rehearsal, and tried out.  Within weeks I was a section leader and had formed a quartet with three other women.  It took over my life.  I was singing several nights a week, had signed up for voice lessons, costumes, competitions and shows.  

When I decided to go back to school to finish my degree I went from mulling it over to applying for the respiratory therapy program in 5.3 seconds.  When I walked into the counselors office to discuss my options I’d never even heard of respiratory therapy. No lie. I had my own stethoscope and pulse oximeter before the program even started.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that once I went shooting with my dad I decided to get my own gun.  Sure, I shopped around and asked a few questions.  Then I bought myself a little .38 special revolver.  Next thing I know I’ve signed up to get a concealed firearms permit.  I took the class, had my fingerprints taken, and sent off the forms for my permit.  I bought myself a holster, and as soon as my permit comes in the mail I’ll be a pistol packin’ mama.  This weekend I’m going to my first meeting of the “Sassy shooters” women shooters club.

I don’t know why I go from idea to action so quickly.  It’s like when you want to jump off a high dive but you’re afraid you’ll lose your nerve so you just run to the end of the diving board and throw yourself off.  I seem to do it with big decisions rather than small ones.  For example, if you were to call me up on the phone right now and ask if I wanted to go to see a movie tonight I would probably bow out because I just have  a hard time being that spontaneous.  But today I went and looked at carpet, chose  the one I want, and arranged to have the room measured.  And the cat hasn’t died yet.  

The funny thing is that I very rarely regret these rash decisions.  It’s true that my attention span seems to be about three years, but that doesn’t bother me.  There are so many exciting things to learn about and try that something else will come along when the new wears off of my interest.  By throwing myself into something I tend to learn a great deal about it in a short time.  

So maybe I do know how to dabble.  I just dabble in a big way.

A One, a Two, a One Two Three And

Who came up with the idiotic idea of quantifying pain on a scale of 0 to 10?  Does this work for anyone?  I’m just asking, because it isn’t working for me.

Late last year I wrenched my shoulder.  I was trying to hang a heavy duffle bag on a hook over my head.  I kept missing (no surprise there) but kept trying.  I finally caught the handles on the hook, but my shoulder protested loudly.  I shook it off in “big girl” fashion, and figured it would get better.  Well, it has gotten worse.  Now every time I wash my hair, pull a shirt over my head, or roll over in bed my shoulder cries out in pain.  You’ll notice it cries out.  It doesn’t do a math problem.

Last month I finally gave in and went to the doctor.  He sent me to physical therapy.  My physical therapist, Jeremy, and I are developing a close relationship.  He’s a nice guy.  I know how he met his wife (high school), where he went on his mission (Ireland), where he went to PT school (Nebraska), and his children’s names (Olivia and Coi).  He has magic hands when he maneuvers my shoulder just right.  But at every session he wants me to tell him what number I would assign to my pain.  I explained to him that my pain isn’t mathematically inclined.  It’s has more of a bend for music.  

All my pains make sounds.  Headaches, stomach aches, bruises, cuts and abrasions all have different pitches and rhythms.  Does this make sense to anyone else?  If you want to know what my shoulder pain is like, listen to “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.  It kind of thumps along and then “wawawawa” a high pitched pain zings in.  I’m not making this up.  I discovered this one morning while taking a shower.  My iphone was on the back of the toilet, as my faithful reader will know, and as this song came on, I realized it was matching the pain involved in raising my arms to wash my hair!  

So I explained this to Jeremy and he even listened to the song with me.  He really is a very patient man.  But he still wanted  a number, so I told him 7.  He wrote it down. 

I’m not opposed to using the number system to quantify things.  I use it with my husband all the time.  Say we can’t decide on which movie to watch.  I will tell him I’m a 3 on (insert action flick) and a 8 on (insert chick flick), but if he is feeling like a 10 on (insert that action flick), I’ll watch it with him.  This works for us and we watch a lot of chick flicks together.  

But it doesn’t work with my pain.  Every day I faithfully do my exercises and while I’m doing them I try to determine what number Jeremy wants me to tell him.  I’m sure he wants to feel successful, so I imagine he wants me to tell him a lower number.  But the truth is, I’m still feeling “Are you happy, Are you satisfied  How long can you stand the heat Out of the doorway the bullets rip To the sound of the beat” of my pain.