There are a lot of reasons why I remain an UnPinterested Mom. Mainly because the whole idea of trying to keep up with the over-achieving, overly-competitive nature that I imagine is intrinsic in being a devoutly Pinterested Mom just makes me more tired than I already am. (Disclaimer: my exposure to devoutly Pinterested Moms has mainly been limited to school room parties, so please forgive me my jaded attitude.) Having said that, I do like to create special memories for my kids whenever I can. BUT, this does not include spending hours planning/researching/constructing/staging anything or robbing their 529s to make it happen.
So I came up with this fun idea to ease the pain for all of us of summer break coming to an end by doing something special as a family every evening the entire week leading up to the first day of school. I tried giving it a clever title, like, "Summer Break-ing Up is Hard to Do" or "Final Fling of Fun", but they all kind of sounded like direct-to-DVD movies, so I skipped the name and just told the fam the general idea. The only rules were that each night it would be a surprise (to them), we all had to do it, electronics were verboten and whatever we did had to be free or cost less than ten bucks. Everyone was on board. Mr. Rockwell, pick up your brush and get ready to paint a portrait.
Night 1: "Ghost in the Graveyard"
Let me splain why playing this simple game would be a real excitement generator for the Boy Child and Girl Child and even my Handsome Husband. I am the most boring person in the world after 7:00pm. Now I'm no Charo prior to that hour either, but my animation level blows a serious leak about the time I finish cooking dinner and depletes at an alarming rate in the hours following. And if you didn't get the Charo reference, Google her. I am too old and too disinterested to keep up with who the Charo of the current generation is, if anyone is actually capable of filling her fringed stiletto boots. Suffice it to say, she is high energy 24/7. I am high energy 10/5. Ish.
So the idea that Mommy was going to be outside after dark in her clothes (as opposed to the PJs I would normally be in at that time, people) while shrieking and running about the yard with no concern for what the neighbors might be thinking (okay, I texted a few of them to give them a heads up, lest they think I have finally and officially cracked) was enough to send the kids maniacally sprinting from window to window at dusk to see if it was as dark as Daddy said it needed to be to start the game.
Once they got the go ahead and we went outside, things rapidly went downhill. From the time I had returned from my run an hour before, the dew point had gone up by ten degrees and was at a very balmy 74. Even my contacts were fogging up. Then when it was the Boy Child's turn to be the Ghost, he got pissed when he didn't catch anyone, quit the game and spent the remainder of the time telling the rest of us (loudly) how stupid being the Ghost, playing the game, family time, bugs, humidity and his life all are. Brush down, Mr. Rockwell.
Night 2: "Family Movie Night"
Again, you may be wondering why this would be of intense interest to my kids since most families do this all the time. We are not most families. Trying to find a movie that appeals to all of us is the main challenge. Case in point; my HH came into the bedroom the other night with the hope that we could watch something together. I told him I was already watching a movie and that he was welcome to join me. He asked what it was, and I told him it was a documentary on the life and times of Mark Twain. He blinked a couple of times and turned heel without another word. Given the fact that he can quote the full dialogue from any Will Farrell or Adam Sandler movie, while I have never even seen a film starring either one, you can sense the issue there.
However, I managed to find a family film I thought we would all enjoy ("Heaven is for Real", in case you're interested), and we all settled in. Everyone was instructed to place their electronics on the coffee table and that no one was to touch them until the movie was over. We snuggled on the couch in a tangle of arms and legs, and I hit play. Brush in hand, Mr. Rockwell.
Now if you actually want to hear any of a movie's dialogue, do not combine a film that is an examination of spiritual beliefs vs. disbelief with two children who, God bless them, like to ask a LOT of questions about everything all the time anyway. Ten minutes in, I had patiently paused the movie so many times for a Q&A session that I had forgotten what we were watching, and my HH was on the verge of totally losing it and retreating to the bedroom to watch baseball. Not to mention the fact that every time someone's device beeped that they had a text or a game notification, they tensed up like I had said we were following up Movie Night with Closet Clean Outs, and I had to apply leg and/or arm pressure to keep them from picking up said device. Brush down.
Night 3: "Trouble" at Krispy Kreme
Now there's a good title. Kind of gives you the impression that the fun activity of the evening is to bust up into Krispy Kreme, hop behind the counter and start throwing Hot N Ready doughnuts at each other from off the conveyor as we are chowing down on them. (I *might* have been involved in a similar incident once back in college.) That wasn't the kind of "trouble" I was planning though.
The actual idea was to go to Krispy Kreme (a novelty both for us to go in to the place and to eat doughnuts in the evening) and play the game Trouble while the fam was enjoying inner tube-shaped morsels of fried crap. In the spirit of keepin' it real, no, there was no way my clean eating self was having any. Not that I don't have a sugary treat from time to time, but as a reformed Krispy Kreme addict, eating one just isn't going to happen. It's either a box of Hot N Readys with a tall glass of milk or nada. These days, nada. But I digress. Ready for a Norman Rockwell picture of doughnuts being gleefully consumed while the family plays a few friendly rounds of Trouble together!
We never even got to Krispy Kreme. Fluffy (one of my kids' bunnies) had some reproductive surgery that day (thanks again so much to the breeder for the Epic Fail of not giving us the two female bunnies we asked for), and I had to hurry and get his (the bunny's not the breeder's) Rx filled before the pharmacy closed. (By the way, try asking a pharmacist in a major metropolitan suburb if they dispense pain meds for rabbits and see what kind of look you get.) Then my HH started wonking about a trip to KK interfering with the Chiefs game (dude, it's pre-season), which caused round #148 of the ongoing spousal argument over "Why Hubby Cannot DVR a Live Sporting Event". A truce was negotiated by my bringing the doughnuts home, starting Trouble at halftime and limiting play to thirty minutes so that only approximately fifteen minutes of the Chiefs game had to be DVRed. Marriage is all about compromise, right? *sigh*
So in the tradition of typical Rushing Family Game Play, over the course of the thirty minutes, my HH continuously trash talked to the kids (which is the equivalent at our house of poking a poorly tempered dog with a stick), the Boy Child quit three times and the Girl Child gave us an ongoing monologue full of tween angst on why she would not win, she never wins, no one wants her to win, everyone else always gets the number she needs to win....and then she won. Which caused the Boy Child to declare that Trouble is stupid, family time is stupid, going to bed is stupid and not being able to have your own apartment when you're nine is stupid. At this point, if he were still alive, Mr. Rockwell would have packed up his paints and told me to text him when and if we could ever get this familial bliss staging right so he could complete our portrait.
Night 4: "Fun with Aunt Laurie!"
My sister happened to be in town this week and planned to spend the evening with us. Our town was having an art street fair, and the weather was beautiful. Why not combine family time with sister time and throw in a little culture at the same time? Surely Mr. Rockwell would approve? Except HH and the Boy Child opted out as soon as the word "art" left my mouth, and the Girl Child agreed to come along only if she could bring a friend. Sooooo, we take a night off from the week o' family fun then? We'll call tonight the halftime show and get our game back on tomorrow night. Break!
Night 5: "After Hours Private Pool Party"
I can't take credit for this one. A friend of mine won this party at our municipal pool at a charity auction last spring and was kind enough to include us on the guest list. When I floated the idea of attending past the HH, I was shocked when he agreed to go. First of all, it involved a public pool. (See my blog entry about adolescent power trips for more insight into that one.) Second, it involved being social with friends of mine that he doesn't know all that well. (Hey, no judgments from me. If you read my blog entry on pit sweating, you know interactions with people I don't know that well are a social phobia of mine too. My phobia also extends to interacting with some of the people I do know well, but again, I digress...)
So the four of us packed up and headed to the par-tay. Now the one thing that sold the Girl Child on attending a gathering that involved elementary kids, most of whom would be five years or so younger than she, was the fact that one of her friends who is only a year younger was supposed to be in attendance. This friend is acceptable to hang out with because, although she is not in middle school like the Girl Child, they have been friends for years, and she would likely engage in what tweens do at the pool. I don't understand all of the protocol, but it seems to consist mainly of sitting on a chaise with a towel over your heads so you both can see your iPod better. However, Tween Friend did not show for the party. Ugh. Strike One.
I was happily chatting and catching up with friends but kept noticing that the HH was sitting off to himself, talking to no one, and playing on his phone the entire time. This started to amp up my anxiety because I knew it meant he was checking baseball scores and wishing he were at home kicked back on the couch with the remote in hand. Even though he did agree to come, in his defense, he didn't actually agree to have a good time. I was no longer paying much attention to what anyone was saying because I knew he wanted to leave. Strike two.
If you are personally acquainted with my kids, you know that they have about 5% body fat, and that's if you put both of theirs together. So given the fact that the evening had turned cool for early August, after an hour of being at the pool, they both looked like they needed to wrap up in space blankets instead of beach towels. Strike three, and we are out of there. On the bright side, we still had two more nights to get this picture painted.
Night Six: "To the Thea-tah"
We had long-standing evening plans for a Parents' Night Out with the Boy Child's baseball team, so we moved Family Fun Night to the afternoon. It was a rainy day, so the plan was to head to the movies. Again, the recurring issue of cinematic common ground reared its ugly head. The Girl Child wanted to see "Step Up: All In", a tween/teen dance movie that looked to have a pointless script and bad acting. The Boy Child wanted to see "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" with Megan Fox, which assured there would be an even worse script and terrible acting. I prefer dance moves over karate moves, and I knew the HH would appreciate a lil eye candy in the form of Ms. Fox, so divide and conquer it was.
So hey, we didn't exactly do something all together, but at the end of the afternoon, both kiddos were happy, the HH had a slightly glazed look in his eyes, and I had only a teensy headache from the massive eye rolling I did over the movie's dialogue. Example: "I dance because one move can set a generation free!" (Tell me you didn't just roll your eyes.) Maybe tomorrow, Mr. Rockwell.
Night Seven: "The Final Chapter"
This was it. The last chance to get the portrait of perfect familial bliss right. I should have pulled out all the stops. But given the fact that it also happened to be my first day back to work at school, the only thing I wanted to pull out was the plug on the day and go to bed. (If you work in education, you get this phenomenon knows as "First Day Fatigue". If you don't, just know that you should save the apples for your kid's teacher on the first day and hook her up with some Red Bull and Twizzlers instead. She will be most grateful.)
I did manage to come up with a plan. We would hit the Russell Stover's store for dinner, and the kids could pick out any crap they wanted (budget of $2.50/ea) to eat. This went over like the Beatles on "Ed Sullivan". Or if you're under thirty, like The Jonas Brothers on "Ellen". (Who am I kidding? No one under thirty is reading this blog.) So they happily chowed down, and I managed to keep from laying my head down on the table and napping while they noshed. Maybe not the look I was going for, but I am calling this a win.
So what all of this showed me is that, while we fail dismally at creating traditional Rockwell Family Moments, the Rushing Family Moments form our own traditions, and they work for us. Our kids are happy and secure, and they are living out a childhood many of their less fortunate peers would love to have. Anything that we do together as a family, my kiddos adore. Even if they are simple things, we are creating memories that they will reminisce about when they are grown and wish they could relive.
In short, we are imperfect and all over the place at times, and sometimes we totally miss the mark, but every step and misstep we take together is a blessing. And I think all of those things blended together to create our own beautiful picture. In the end, I guess I realized that we didn't even need Mr. Rockwell in the first place. Each one of us added our own essential element to our custom canvas. So here's to the Handsome Husband, the Girl Child, the Boy Child, myself, and our family for always keepin' it "Rushing Real".
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Monday, June 9, 2014
My Thoughts on: What You Should Know About Turning 40
This is another blog post directed mainly at the ladies. Guys, you can read on, but the same caveat in my Girly Parts Exam posting applies here. I am known for telling it like it is, so be forewarned.
Let me start out by saying that at forty-one and eleven-twelfths, I have very much embraced the decade I am in. There are a lot of benefits. You feel no shame in saying that your favorite place to be at 10pm on a Saturday night is dozing off in bed to "House Hunters". Folks finally dial down the pressure on you to have yet another kid because they do the math and realize you can join AARP at the same time the baby is rushing a fraternity. You can buy spray paint and not get carded. The list is just endless.
However, there are many things for which I was not prepared. You know that friend who takes you aside in junior high and gives you the lowdown on what really happens when you get your period and have sex and all of the other mysteries of the developing years that you know the basics of but not the nitty gritty? Well, there is no such person for giving you some of the harsh facts of turning forty. So allow me to be your tour guide. And unlike your tween pal back in the day who got all of her information from a purloined copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and her cousin's best friend's sister's account of her "first time", I deal only in proven facts. So grab a glass of wine, and keep the bottle handy for refills. Here we go.
Proven Fact #1: You will grow a goatee.
Don't worry, this won't happen overnight, and the actual full-on goatee can be prevented. You can go one of two routes; the tweezers or electrolysis. I am a cheapskate, therefore I pluck. Without going into further details, let's just say that the errant hairs are not always confined to your face. I recommend doing a full body scan once a month for rogue sprouts. If you have dark hair like I do, best make it twice a month. You'll be surprised at what you may find.
Proven Fact #2: Whenever you lean over to the side and see your face in the mirror, you will appear to be having a stroke.
One word: gravity. Unless you want to go the extreme route of having a face lift, the only way to avoid this one completely is to swear off any activity requiring bending or leaning from the waist. (At this point, 90% of the readers of this post will be tempted to pause here and go look in a mirror while doing a side bend. Word of advice: polish off the wine in your glass before you do.)
Proven Fact #3: Your boobs are done.
Chances are, if you've given birth and nursed at all, they threw up the white flag years ago. Again, unless you opt for surgery, gravity ain't gonna do you any favors in this area either. And even if you do drop five gees to the Boob Fairy, time will continue to march across your perky new mams until they become road weary and eventually give up the fight for the second time. Consolation: most men like ALL breasts, whether they look like they have been applied with a toilet plunger or like tube socks with tennis balls in them. Buy good bras, learn how to undress and redress in under twenty seconds, and never do so in front of a mirror.
Proven Fact #4: People are not messing with the font size on your computer/Kindle/phone.
Get readers. Yes, every time you put them on, people will think you're about to read a Dickens novel aloud to them. Embrace this new seemingly intellectual side of yourself and be kind to your aging peepers.
Proven Fact #5: You have two new best friends. Their names are Darkness & Distance.
Nothing will send a woman over forty scurrying like a cockroach faster than someone coming at them with a camera in a well-lit room. Please, a little understanding here. If you can see the color of her eyes in your lens, zoom out. If it's bright enough to discern whether she is wearing a light or a dark color, no flash is really necessary. Now, if you're a professional photographer and proficient in the art of image editing, the aforementioned advice is retracted. Honey, you are the third BFF of the Woman Over Forty. Snap away! (I am not a proponent of narcotics, but if everyone could see us all the time through the same dreamy, soft-focus filter that peyote users view the world, THAT would be a ideal for WOF. Just sayin'.)
Proven Fact #6: I can't remember what it was.
Again, if you're a mom, you are probably already into the forgetfulness thing. Turning forty is not going to help this. The good news is that this is a phenomenon that eventually transcends gender, so your hubby is probably going through it as well. No judgments will be forthcoming from him. He's too busy trying to remember where he put his readers.
Proven Fact #7: You will be tempted to start lying to your ob/gyn about fake problems with your uterus so (s)he will remove it.
You're done having babies, you've been through approximately 300 shark weeks in your life, and you're just over the whole thing. Menopause is still many years away, and the whole idea of another decade or so of a shark week every month is tiring. Maybe I'm in the minority on this one, I don't know. Some of my friends have been shocked when I tell them that since I've shuttered the Baby Factory for good, I'd like it torn down and hauled off. They say they want to keep theirs in case their daughter or DIL can't carry a baby, and then they can carry their own grandchild. *crickets* Huh? Yeah, not happening over here. Demo can start anytime, Doc.
Proven Fact #8: Speaking of grandbabies, some of you will have them before you turn 50.
If you haven't polished off that wine yet, this idea might send you to the bottom of the bottle. According to the latest statistics, 40% of people today between the ages of 40 and 49 will become grandparents before they hit 50. Four out of ten of us. I'm choosing to exempt myself from being part of that four since I had my kids in my 30s, and they will still be teenagers when I turn 50. Before you start throwing teen pregnancy stats back at me, this is MY blog, and I declare here that I shan't be a grandparent when my kids are teens. I'm going to ask you to just be nice and humor me on that one. Which may be challenging if you have personal knowledge of the Boy Child. But I digress.
Proven Fact #9: You WILL start seeing your mother in the mirror.
This could be worse. I look nothing like my mom and am the spitting image of my dad. Count your lucky stars your reflection doesn't resemble a seventy-six year old man, and carry on.
Proven Fact #10: Despite all the ways your forties can be frightening, they are also completely spectacular.
They say your twenties are your "me" decade. I disagree. In your forties, it really is about you and your journey of self-discovery. You gain wisdom and enlightenment in ways you could have never imagined. Your life on this earth is half gone, so it takes on a precious and delicate quality it never had before. The material takes a back seat, and the people and beliefs you hold dear stand at the forefront. Every day you are given is a blessing. At least that's how it is for me.
The physical body getting older does stink, there are no two ways about it. But since we are powerless to stop it, just don't let it overshadow all the amazing things getting older does for your mind and spirit. In the words of Betty Friedan, "Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength". I couldn't agree more. So raise that wine glass to yourself, to me, and to all of the other fabulous forty-somethings who are not just doing life, but who try and find the beauty and blessing in living it well each and every day.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Let me start out by saying that at forty-one and eleven-twelfths, I have very much embraced the decade I am in. There are a lot of benefits. You feel no shame in saying that your favorite place to be at 10pm on a Saturday night is dozing off in bed to "House Hunters". Folks finally dial down the pressure on you to have yet another kid because they do the math and realize you can join AARP at the same time the baby is rushing a fraternity. You can buy spray paint and not get carded. The list is just endless.
However, there are many things for which I was not prepared. You know that friend who takes you aside in junior high and gives you the lowdown on what really happens when you get your period and have sex and all of the other mysteries of the developing years that you know the basics of but not the nitty gritty? Well, there is no such person for giving you some of the harsh facts of turning forty. So allow me to be your tour guide. And unlike your tween pal back in the day who got all of her information from a purloined copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and her cousin's best friend's sister's account of her "first time", I deal only in proven facts. So grab a glass of wine, and keep the bottle handy for refills. Here we go.
Proven Fact #1: You will grow a goatee.
Don't worry, this won't happen overnight, and the actual full-on goatee can be prevented. You can go one of two routes; the tweezers or electrolysis. I am a cheapskate, therefore I pluck. Without going into further details, let's just say that the errant hairs are not always confined to your face. I recommend doing a full body scan once a month for rogue sprouts. If you have dark hair like I do, best make it twice a month. You'll be surprised at what you may find.
Proven Fact #2: Whenever you lean over to the side and see your face in the mirror, you will appear to be having a stroke.
One word: gravity. Unless you want to go the extreme route of having a face lift, the only way to avoid this one completely is to swear off any activity requiring bending or leaning from the waist. (At this point, 90% of the readers of this post will be tempted to pause here and go look in a mirror while doing a side bend. Word of advice: polish off the wine in your glass before you do.)
Proven Fact #3: Your boobs are done.
Chances are, if you've given birth and nursed at all, they threw up the white flag years ago. Again, unless you opt for surgery, gravity ain't gonna do you any favors in this area either. And even if you do drop five gees to the Boob Fairy, time will continue to march across your perky new mams until they become road weary and eventually give up the fight for the second time. Consolation: most men like ALL breasts, whether they look like they have been applied with a toilet plunger or like tube socks with tennis balls in them. Buy good bras, learn how to undress and redress in under twenty seconds, and never do so in front of a mirror.
Proven Fact #4: People are not messing with the font size on your computer/Kindle/phone.
Get readers. Yes, every time you put them on, people will think you're about to read a Dickens novel aloud to them. Embrace this new seemingly intellectual side of yourself and be kind to your aging peepers.
Proven Fact #5: You have two new best friends. Their names are Darkness & Distance.
Nothing will send a woman over forty scurrying like a cockroach faster than someone coming at them with a camera in a well-lit room. Please, a little understanding here. If you can see the color of her eyes in your lens, zoom out. If it's bright enough to discern whether she is wearing a light or a dark color, no flash is really necessary. Now, if you're a professional photographer and proficient in the art of image editing, the aforementioned advice is retracted. Honey, you are the third BFF of the Woman Over Forty. Snap away! (I am not a proponent of narcotics, but if everyone could see us all the time through the same dreamy, soft-focus filter that peyote users view the world, THAT would be a ideal for WOF. Just sayin'.)
Proven Fact #6: I can't remember what it was.
Again, if you're a mom, you are probably already into the forgetfulness thing. Turning forty is not going to help this. The good news is that this is a phenomenon that eventually transcends gender, so your hubby is probably going through it as well. No judgments will be forthcoming from him. He's too busy trying to remember where he put his readers.
Proven Fact #7: You will be tempted to start lying to your ob/gyn about fake problems with your uterus so (s)he will remove it.
You're done having babies, you've been through approximately 300 shark weeks in your life, and you're just over the whole thing. Menopause is still many years away, and the whole idea of another decade or so of a shark week every month is tiring. Maybe I'm in the minority on this one, I don't know. Some of my friends have been shocked when I tell them that since I've shuttered the Baby Factory for good, I'd like it torn down and hauled off. They say they want to keep theirs in case their daughter or DIL can't carry a baby, and then they can carry their own grandchild. *crickets* Huh? Yeah, not happening over here. Demo can start anytime, Doc.
Proven Fact #8: Speaking of grandbabies, some of you will have them before you turn 50.
If you haven't polished off that wine yet, this idea might send you to the bottom of the bottle. According to the latest statistics, 40% of people today between the ages of 40 and 49 will become grandparents before they hit 50. Four out of ten of us. I'm choosing to exempt myself from being part of that four since I had my kids in my 30s, and they will still be teenagers when I turn 50. Before you start throwing teen pregnancy stats back at me, this is MY blog, and I declare here that I shan't be a grandparent when my kids are teens. I'm going to ask you to just be nice and humor me on that one. Which may be challenging if you have personal knowledge of the Boy Child. But I digress.
Proven Fact #9: You WILL start seeing your mother in the mirror.
This could be worse. I look nothing like my mom and am the spitting image of my dad. Count your lucky stars your reflection doesn't resemble a seventy-six year old man, and carry on.
Proven Fact #10: Despite all the ways your forties can be frightening, they are also completely spectacular.
They say your twenties are your "me" decade. I disagree. In your forties, it really is about you and your journey of self-discovery. You gain wisdom and enlightenment in ways you could have never imagined. Your life on this earth is half gone, so it takes on a precious and delicate quality it never had before. The material takes a back seat, and the people and beliefs you hold dear stand at the forefront. Every day you are given is a blessing. At least that's how it is for me.
The physical body getting older does stink, there are no two ways about it. But since we are powerless to stop it, just don't let it overshadow all the amazing things getting older does for your mind and spirit. In the words of Betty Friedan, "Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength". I couldn't agree more. So raise that wine glass to yourself, to me, and to all of the other fabulous forty-somethings who are not just doing life, but who try and find the beauty and blessing in living it well each and every day.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Monday, March 24, 2014
My Thoughts On: The Annual Girly Parts Inspection
If you're a guy, and you value the mysteries of women in the slightest, this is your jumping off point. Seriously, I'm generally known for telling it like it is, and in this case, it's not how the Madison Ave boys have spent 150 years trying to convince you fellas that it is over here in Woman World. Still convinced you want to read on? Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...
So for the ladies and the three guys that are still reading this blog post, today's topic is your annual girly parts inspection, a/k/a, your pap smear and breast exam. Unless you are the type who charts your bowel movements and knows by heart what your baby's Doppler heartbeat was at every check up for all of your pregnancies, you greet this appointment with all the enthusiasm that you would a six a.m. alarm clock after you have been up all night with a vomiting child. I'm in the latter group.
Let's start with booking the experience. (Do you like how I kinda made it sound like a cruise or a trip to Disney? Yeah, right.) I don't know about your ob/gyn office, but to see most of the doctors at mine, you have to book next year's appointment at THIS year's appointment. For crying out loud. Yes, I'm a planner, but do I know whether Tuesday at 2:00 or Friday at 9:00 is going to work better for me a YEAR from now? Um, and how about the fact that you can't even get a pap smear if it is Shark Week. (Read between the lines on that reference.) My cycles are regular, but if I need a calendar, a piece of paper and five full minutes to come up with the date for the nurse when she asks me when my last last Shark Week began, I'm going to be standing at the check out desk until every pregnant woman in the waiting room has gone into labor trying to predict when it's going to hit a year ahead of time.
I've had my babies, so it really doesn't matter to me who I see anymore. Just let me call the office and schedule me with someone within a couple of weeks at a date and time that works with my schedule. The examiner having gone to medical school is not even essential to me. If someone would come up with some sort of home exam kit, I could easily talk my husband into performing most of the procedures in the comfort of our bedroom. We could send the sample off to the lab, they email me the results, and I've scored some Wife Points in the process. Everybody wins!
Until that day comes, I'm stuck going into the office. Let's start with the Waiting Room. It's all right there in the name. It's not called the "Expediting Room", or the "In-and-Out of Here Room". It's the Waaaaaaaiting Room. I'm not the most patient or the most impatient person in the world. Somewhere in between. I can easily amuse myself during life's inevitable little delays. But there is something about someone forcing me to cool my jets on my dime that really chaps my hide. Yes, I have medical insurance, so BCBS is picking up most of the tab, but that and my co-pay make me a paying customer. This creates an expectation of Good Customer Service in my book.
Making me wait more than ten minutes is not GCS. Booking another patient for my doctor at the same time as me is not GCS. Being pissy with me the moment I walk in the door and approach the desk is not GCS. Seriously, what is up with putting people who are perpetually in a bad mood up front to greet people? You bark at me in monosyllables, thrust 24 pages of paperwork at me, and give me a pen with a cheery flower attached to it so I don't rip it off? Not feeling any GCS at all here. This office staff crankiness anomaly seems to be pervasive in the medical industry. Doctor's offices, hospitals, vision centers, labs, and so on. If you are a receptionist in the medical field and you're perky and welcoming, first, I apologize. Secondly, if you're in the KC area, please message me your medical group's info so I can patronize your practice.
So we're waiting. And waiting. And. Waiting. After thirty minutes, I approach the Keeper of the Poppy Pens behind the desk to inquire if the doctor is running on time. "Pretty much" is the reply I get. Pretty much? What does that mean? I'm going to need some clarification here, ma'am. In my book, if she were "pretty much" running on time, I'd have my feet in some stirrups by now. I think we passed "pretty much" about fifteen minutes ago. Is she here? Across the street at the hospital doing an emergency c-section? What's the haps? After being told in an exasperated tone that "it should only be a few more minutes", I give in and go to the restroom.
I've needed to pee ever since I got there, but I'm afraid if I hit the ladies room, they will call my name back in the Waaaaaiting Room. If I'm not there, you KNOW they are going to shrug their shoulders, scratch my name off the list and go on to the next one. I'm looking at another year before I can get back to the top of that list again. So I take my chances and go to the restroom but tell everyone in the Waaaaiting Room and that I encounter in the hall along the way, "I'm Deborah Rushing, and I'm going to the restroom". This annoys the office staff and puzzles the other patients, but hey, one of them may hear my name get called and have the kindness to shout out, "She's in the restroom!" and save me from being bumped off the list. Not my first rodeo, kids. And I'd do it for them too.
After fifty(!) minutes, I get called back to the exam room. I know better than to see any proverbial light at the end of the tunnel at this point. We're just changing venues here. The doctor has not taken the stage. I'm not even sure she's even in the wings or in her dressing room, er, office. The nurse does the scale thing and the blood pressure thing and the inevitable question about last month's Shark Week, then points at a piece of material that is manufactured for use both as an exam gown and for someone who is eating crab legs and tells me to completely undress and put it on. She hands me a table napkin and tells me to cover my lap with it, gives me permission to leave my socks on, and leaves. I comply but leave my hat on too just as a passive-aggressive silent protest. And I wait some more.
Time that is spent waiting while (mostly) naked is comparable to time spent waiting while clothed as dog years are to people years. One minute of clothed waiting is like seven minutes of (mostly) naked waiting. So in (Mostly) Naked Waiting time, I cool my heels (not literally since I still have my fuzzy socks on and my feet are the only part of me that are not freezing) for another two hours and ten minutes. Then Dr. Luminous comes in. That's not her real name. I'm just calling her that to respect her privacy and because she really is luminous. Her countenance and her spirit just shine. She is quite literally one of the kindest, most positive and most infectious people I have ever met. Yes, I have a (non-sexual) girl crush on my ob/gyn.
Because of said crush, all of the time I spent waiting, the rudeness of Elphaba and the rest of the Poppy Coven out front and my hypothermia are quickly forgotten. Dr. Luminous shines her light on me, and she catches up on my health and my sweet babies that she delivered. Then we move on to exam time. Here's where it gets awkward. When I'm staring at the ceiling, my legs are akimbo, and the exam is happening, it's a little harder to bask in the light. The doctor continues chatting on, but her words take on the effect of Charlie Brown's teacher, and I can't follow. It doesn't matter that I've been in this position every year for over twenty years or that I've given birth in it twice. Unless I am married to the person who kindly asks me to assume it, it's just awkward. Enough said.
As Dr. Luminous is chatting away, I sense we are nearing the end of the exam and start to fight the mental fog to dial back into what she is saying. I snap completely back when I hear the words "after forty, we conclude with a quick rectal exam" HOLD IT. Say what??? Before I can find my vocal cords and object, she is in and out and done. Huh? Wait. What just happened? Why was this not presented in the 24 pages of paperwork I was given? Surely some sort of release needs to be signed beforehand? At the very least I should have been given a bottle of wine an hour ago and some chocolate immediately after she was finished. What the heck?
The doctor congratulates me on my excellent health and leaves the room. The light is gone, and all I'm left with is a crumpled bib and a serious desire to take a shower. I get dressed and leave, irrationally feeling that everyone there knows exactly what went down in that room and will not make eye contact with me as a result. Not that I'm looking to make it with anyone myself, mind you. As I quickly move past the check out desk, they ask me if I want to go ahead and make next year's appointment. Um, thanks, I'll pass. I need some time and some distance and the all too distinct memory of this year's overall experience to fade quite a bit first. Don't call me, I'll call you.
In the meantime, I remember to be grateful that my Girly Parts are healthy and that I took the time to make sure of that. Even if it's two hours of my life that I'll never get back, that piece of mind makes it time well spent. If you haven't done it recently, get yours checked too. You owe it to yourself and your family. And when you're staring at the ceiling, just remember that there is a sisterhood out there who knows exactly how you feel, my friend. ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
So for the ladies and the three guys that are still reading this blog post, today's topic is your annual girly parts inspection, a/k/a, your pap smear and breast exam. Unless you are the type who charts your bowel movements and knows by heart what your baby's Doppler heartbeat was at every check up for all of your pregnancies, you greet this appointment with all the enthusiasm that you would a six a.m. alarm clock after you have been up all night with a vomiting child. I'm in the latter group.
Let's start with booking the experience. (Do you like how I kinda made it sound like a cruise or a trip to Disney? Yeah, right.) I don't know about your ob/gyn office, but to see most of the doctors at mine, you have to book next year's appointment at THIS year's appointment. For crying out loud. Yes, I'm a planner, but do I know whether Tuesday at 2:00 or Friday at 9:00 is going to work better for me a YEAR from now? Um, and how about the fact that you can't even get a pap smear if it is Shark Week. (Read between the lines on that reference.) My cycles are regular, but if I need a calendar, a piece of paper and five full minutes to come up with the date for the nurse when she asks me when my last last Shark Week began, I'm going to be standing at the check out desk until every pregnant woman in the waiting room has gone into labor trying to predict when it's going to hit a year ahead of time.
I've had my babies, so it really doesn't matter to me who I see anymore. Just let me call the office and schedule me with someone within a couple of weeks at a date and time that works with my schedule. The examiner having gone to medical school is not even essential to me. If someone would come up with some sort of home exam kit, I could easily talk my husband into performing most of the procedures in the comfort of our bedroom. We could send the sample off to the lab, they email me the results, and I've scored some Wife Points in the process. Everybody wins!
Until that day comes, I'm stuck going into the office. Let's start with the Waiting Room. It's all right there in the name. It's not called the "Expediting Room", or the "In-and-Out of Here Room". It's the Waaaaaaaiting Room. I'm not the most patient or the most impatient person in the world. Somewhere in between. I can easily amuse myself during life's inevitable little delays. But there is something about someone forcing me to cool my jets on my dime that really chaps my hide. Yes, I have medical insurance, so BCBS is picking up most of the tab, but that and my co-pay make me a paying customer. This creates an expectation of Good Customer Service in my book.
Making me wait more than ten minutes is not GCS. Booking another patient for my doctor at the same time as me is not GCS. Being pissy with me the moment I walk in the door and approach the desk is not GCS. Seriously, what is up with putting people who are perpetually in a bad mood up front to greet people? You bark at me in monosyllables, thrust 24 pages of paperwork at me, and give me a pen with a cheery flower attached to it so I don't rip it off? Not feeling any GCS at all here. This office staff crankiness anomaly seems to be pervasive in the medical industry. Doctor's offices, hospitals, vision centers, labs, and so on. If you are a receptionist in the medical field and you're perky and welcoming, first, I apologize. Secondly, if you're in the KC area, please message me your medical group's info so I can patronize your practice.
So we're waiting. And waiting. And. Waiting. After thirty minutes, I approach the Keeper of the Poppy Pens behind the desk to inquire if the doctor is running on time. "Pretty much" is the reply I get. Pretty much? What does that mean? I'm going to need some clarification here, ma'am. In my book, if she were "pretty much" running on time, I'd have my feet in some stirrups by now. I think we passed "pretty much" about fifteen minutes ago. Is she here? Across the street at the hospital doing an emergency c-section? What's the haps? After being told in an exasperated tone that "it should only be a few more minutes", I give in and go to the restroom.
I've needed to pee ever since I got there, but I'm afraid if I hit the ladies room, they will call my name back in the Waaaaaiting Room. If I'm not there, you KNOW they are going to shrug their shoulders, scratch my name off the list and go on to the next one. I'm looking at another year before I can get back to the top of that list again. So I take my chances and go to the restroom but tell everyone in the Waaaaiting Room and that I encounter in the hall along the way, "I'm Deborah Rushing, and I'm going to the restroom". This annoys the office staff and puzzles the other patients, but hey, one of them may hear my name get called and have the kindness to shout out, "She's in the restroom!" and save me from being bumped off the list. Not my first rodeo, kids. And I'd do it for them too.
After fifty(!) minutes, I get called back to the exam room. I know better than to see any proverbial light at the end of the tunnel at this point. We're just changing venues here. The doctor has not taken the stage. I'm not even sure she's even in the wings or in her dressing room, er, office. The nurse does the scale thing and the blood pressure thing and the inevitable question about last month's Shark Week, then points at a piece of material that is manufactured for use both as an exam gown and for someone who is eating crab legs and tells me to completely undress and put it on. She hands me a table napkin and tells me to cover my lap with it, gives me permission to leave my socks on, and leaves. I comply but leave my hat on too just as a passive-aggressive silent protest. And I wait some more.
Time that is spent waiting while (mostly) naked is comparable to time spent waiting while clothed as dog years are to people years. One minute of clothed waiting is like seven minutes of (mostly) naked waiting. So in (Mostly) Naked Waiting time, I cool my heels (not literally since I still have my fuzzy socks on and my feet are the only part of me that are not freezing) for another two hours and ten minutes. Then Dr. Luminous comes in. That's not her real name. I'm just calling her that to respect her privacy and because she really is luminous. Her countenance and her spirit just shine. She is quite literally one of the kindest, most positive and most infectious people I have ever met. Yes, I have a (non-sexual) girl crush on my ob/gyn.
Because of said crush, all of the time I spent waiting, the rudeness of Elphaba and the rest of the Poppy Coven out front and my hypothermia are quickly forgotten. Dr. Luminous shines her light on me, and she catches up on my health and my sweet babies that she delivered. Then we move on to exam time. Here's where it gets awkward. When I'm staring at the ceiling, my legs are akimbo, and the exam is happening, it's a little harder to bask in the light. The doctor continues chatting on, but her words take on the effect of Charlie Brown's teacher, and I can't follow. It doesn't matter that I've been in this position every year for over twenty years or that I've given birth in it twice. Unless I am married to the person who kindly asks me to assume it, it's just awkward. Enough said.
As Dr. Luminous is chatting away, I sense we are nearing the end of the exam and start to fight the mental fog to dial back into what she is saying. I snap completely back when I hear the words "after forty, we conclude with a quick rectal exam" HOLD IT. Say what??? Before I can find my vocal cords and object, she is in and out and done. Huh? Wait. What just happened? Why was this not presented in the 24 pages of paperwork I was given? Surely some sort of release needs to be signed beforehand? At the very least I should have been given a bottle of wine an hour ago and some chocolate immediately after she was finished. What the heck?
The doctor congratulates me on my excellent health and leaves the room. The light is gone, and all I'm left with is a crumpled bib and a serious desire to take a shower. I get dressed and leave, irrationally feeling that everyone there knows exactly what went down in that room and will not make eye contact with me as a result. Not that I'm looking to make it with anyone myself, mind you. As I quickly move past the check out desk, they ask me if I want to go ahead and make next year's appointment. Um, thanks, I'll pass. I need some time and some distance and the all too distinct memory of this year's overall experience to fade quite a bit first. Don't call me, I'll call you.
In the meantime, I remember to be grateful that my Girly Parts are healthy and that I took the time to make sure of that. Even if it's two hours of my life that I'll never get back, that piece of mind makes it time well spent. If you haven't done it recently, get yours checked too. You owe it to yourself and your family. And when you're staring at the ceiling, just remember that there is a sisterhood out there who knows exactly how you feel, my friend. ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
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