Sigh. It's here. Again.
Most of you probably didn't say those words to yourself when you saw the newest Time magazine cover (here it is if somehow you missed it: http://lightbox.time.com/2012/05/10/parenting/#1), but I did. Being a mom, especially one who has been part of a moms board, the whole breastfeeding debate is not a new one to me. And being a mom, I would be remiss if I didn't address this magazine cover controversy. :)
There are so many mommy debates to engage in, and when you're part of a moms board, "hiding" behind a computer as they say, those debates are often sparked. Sometimes by accident, sometimes by way of someone saying mischievously, "So, what can we discuss today?" Working moms vs. stay-at-home moms, cloth diapering vs. disposables, co-sleeping or crib sleeping - and the big mama bear of them all, breastfeeding vs. formula feeding. A greater categorization of all of these smaller arguments could be condensed into attachment parenting vs.... well, "regular" parenting. Many women on the moms board I was on, and many others I'm sure, are proud to label themselves as "AP." I suppose this is because the child is, in theory, attached to you... your breast, your hip, your whole body. Regular moms don't have a label.
The "everybody else" group isn't as easy to categorize. In my case, I seemed to straddle both groups. It seemed right on par with my Libra personality that I saw both sides because, to an extent, I experienced both sides. I co-slept with my kids... when they were babies, sometimes, out of necessity, when it was the only way I could get some sleep and also because it made it easier to breastfeed. I made baby food... sometimes. I cloth diapered... for about 2 minutes, in the beginning, with my first, and then gave up and guiltily used disposables. I used a baby sling with my daughter and "wore" her in the beginning (I hate that stupid term... she's not a coat), at least until she got too heavy. (Weighing in at 10 pounds at birth, my son was ALWAYS too heavy for that.)
And I nursed. My son for 9 months, my daughter for 14. Alexander was a huge eater from the beginning, and when he was done with me, he would cry for more, and so we supplemented with formula. After Colette was born, she was losing weight rapidly in the beginning, and I was instructed to supplement to get her weight up. Thankfully this lasted only a few weeks, and I was able to breastfeed exclusively from then on until it was time to introduce regular milk. It was a fantastic experience for me and, fortunately, I had no problems at all with breastfeeding... no pain - not even in the beginning, no bleeding, not one instance of thrush or mastitis. I lucked out. It was always my intention to breastfeed, but for the sake of my sanity, I went into it with low expectations. I know that despite their hardest efforts, some women suffer numerous problems and their best-laid plans fall through. I remember my mother-in-law asking me if I planned to nurse, and I answered that I hoped to. I didn't want to make any assumptions... just in case. Maybe that was part of my good fortune. :)
So when I saw the Time magazine cover, I didn't quite know what to make of it. Why did they publish that photo? Are subscriptions down? Wanted to stir things up a bit? They have to know that such a cover and subject matter is going to accomplish only one of three things: 1) kick off World War III between moms, 2) cause said moms hate Time magazine or 3) make moms who apparently are not "mom enough" feel bad about themselves or guilty about what they, for whatever reason, did not accomplish when it came to breastfeeding or any other parenting choices. I think that #3 is the most likely.
Seriously, Time. Has this subject not been beaten to death by now? Was it a slow news week? Why did the magazine feel the need to pit moms against each other, against Time, against themselves? In other words, what good does this article accomplish?! (Aside from potentially making moms who have chosen extended breastfeeding feel smug and secure in their decision.) Both new and seasoned moms have enough to deal contend with without something like this smacking them in the face. There are enough aspects of parenthood that are going to result in stress, sleepless nights, second-guessing, guilt, etc. How about supporting us instead of making us angry? There's enough competition going on. All you need to do is make a choice and you're competing with someone else who has made the opposite choice. Not everyone is going to view this as a competition, but even if you don't, you can't help but feel your way is the "right" way... or else, you know, you wouldn't be doing it. This goes all the way from how you feed your child to how you sleep to what kind of stroller you buy. If you let it, it becomes a huge competition that essentially has no end.
And to answer your question, Time... well, I really can't. What does that even mean? Am I mom enough to breastfeed my kid while he's playing video games? COULD I have? Well, sure, I could have. Did I WANT to? No sir. I didn't want to, and that's why I didn't. And don't. Nursing your child until he or she is in elementary school doesn't make you the grand champion of motherhood, and I don't understand why it's made out to be that way. I'm a big supporter (hee hee) of breastfeeding, but this is just unnecessary. Plus, I just don't like the smug, superior look on her face, dammit.
The magazine cover set me off in and of itself, but to be fair, I thought I should read the article inside. It wasn't easy to pin down (checked out of the library, no copies at the extensive magazine section at Target, and I wasn't about to subscribe to time.com just to read it), but I was finally able to access it via my local library's web site. Not as inflammatory as one might expect... not inflammatory at all, in fact. Most of it focused on Dr. Bill Sears, famous baby doctor who embraces much of the AP style, and his family life. It seems almost a shame that such a non-accusatory, almost gentle article should have such an in-your-face cover to represent it. It certainly got a lot of people to read the article, that's for sure, and I guess at the end of the day that's all that really matters to the editors. But in my opinion it's misleading and instantly puts women on the offensive before they even read one word.
For "established" mothers (ok, let's say for argument sake those who have been parenting for five years or more. Not that that's really ESTABLISHED, but just to say that they're not brand-new moms with newborn babies), I think that Time's cover doesn't incite so much of a "mommy war." At this point, we've taken the road that we have, accepted it and are doing the best we can. The exception, of course, is with those who are harboring some kind of regret over whether or not they should have breastfed... or tried a home birth... or established a "family bed" from the very beginning instead of letting their baby cry for a while in the crib. Most of us are just left feeling pissed-off at Time magazine for such a stupid cover.
The so-called mommy wars, I fear, will be ignited in the new moms and moms-to-be who may not know yet which road they're going to take. Those who want to go one way, no matter what it is, but fear judgment from others. Like I said before... there's enough competition without this kind of fuel thrown on the fire. Basically, it all comes back to... whatever works for you. What works for one doesn't work for all, and trying to force women into one particular kind of parenting is only going to backfire and cause hurt feelings. Some of the elements of the article that I found to be gentle and non-accusatory are going to completely set off the next person, so. Big shocker there. We're all not exactly alike.
Am I mom enough? I'm mom enough not to be bullied by an asinine magazine cover, a gentle and well-meaning doctor, or any other moms whose parenting viewpoints differ from mine. I'm mom to my own kids, no one else's, and the choices I've made seem to have worked out pretty well for them so far and I think they'd agree. And speaking of bullies, I'm sure my kids also appreciate my not throwing them to the wolves at school after having them pose for the cover of Time magazine like that with their mom. That poor, poor kid.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Losing my religious language
There are few constants in life.
Death and taxes are the big two that always get top billing. Death, which isn't even life, I mean people say that it's a "part" of life but, come on. How can it be a part of life if you're not alive? But, still, we'll count that because it's the next step after life. After it, you know, finishes.
And then taxes. The other thing we can unfortunately all count on.
Another constant, according to me, is that if you were raised Catholic and went to church and Catholic school and/or CCD for many, many years, you can return to Mass after being absent for 79 consecutive years and recite all of the prayers and responses without skipping a beat.
That one? Yeah, that is now GONE.
I went to Mass today for the first time in, well, a LONG time with family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 89 today, and after a brief and quiet visit to the chapel where she rests in peace, we attended church. This also happens to be the second Sunday of Lent, which pleased me as I could kind of count it as going to church at Easter (close enough).
As long as it may be since I've gone to church (and I can't even venture a guess here), I find solace in the fact that all of the prayers and responses are as ingrained in my brain as multiplication tables. (Which might not be the best analogy as I'm afraid those are starting to erode a bit.) So imagine my surprise when I discovered that some of them have CHANGED!
Now, it wasn't a complete shock. I did have a small amount of warning from a regular churchgoing friend on Facebook, although to be completely honest I never paid too close attention. I didn't know if it was for a specific holiday Mass, or rite, or was something so small I wouldn't even notice.
Well. I noticed. And I clapped my hand over my mouth so many times during that Mass because I was saying the wrong thing, you know, the "old" way. But my question is WHY? I mean, what's wrong with "And also with you"? It rolls off the tongue and is perfectly polite without being too sappy. And why make it holy church instead of just church? It's a church. Isn't the holiness implied?
I mentioned this change to my uncle who was seated beside me, and he confirmed that there were several changes made to the Mass. "Like a lot of the music. They've changed it to rap to appeal to young people," he said.
I found this to not be true.
Still, I wondered why the change. So I looked it up online. This is reportedly only the THIRD time in the 1700-year history of the church that the Mass has been formally changed. And this couldn't have happened before *I* was born?! (And no, I'm not that old.) Until 1965, Catholic Mass was said only in Latin and so they thought, and rightfully so, that this might exclude a whole heck of a lot of people who came to Mass, and therefore it was translated into many different languages also meant to reflect the everyday vernacular. Apparently the whole point of this newest change is to try and bring the Mass a bit closer to its Latin roots.
Now, not being a regular churchgoer anymore, maybe I don't have a lot of room to complain when they decide to change the wording of the Mass. But I am anyway. Still, I thought I'd ask a friend who does attend church on a regular basis what he thought.
Surprisingly to me, he wasn't up in arms about it. (And he gets up in arms about a lot of stuff.)
"Personally, I don't have a problem with the new language. Of course, I'm also the kind of Catholic who likes going to the Latin Mass occasionally," says my good little churchgoing friend Mike. "I like that the new English version is more accurate and a little more solemn, although I agree that it can be jarring.
"However, even after 5 months of using the new language every week, I still go to 'And also with you' instead of 'And with your spirit.' But you can't expect 40 years of Catholic training to be replaced in just a few months."
Yes. THAT.
But still, it may not be for *me* to say what's right and what's wrong. Maybe if I start attending church again on a regular basis, I'll get used to the "new" way... after many, many years have gone by. And then they'll probably just go and change it on me again. But at least by that point I'll have the right to complain.
Death and taxes are the big two that always get top billing. Death, which isn't even life, I mean people say that it's a "part" of life but, come on. How can it be a part of life if you're not alive? But, still, we'll count that because it's the next step after life. After it, you know, finishes.
And then taxes. The other thing we can unfortunately all count on.
Another constant, according to me, is that if you were raised Catholic and went to church and Catholic school and/or CCD for many, many years, you can return to Mass after being absent for 79 consecutive years and recite all of the prayers and responses without skipping a beat.
That one? Yeah, that is now GONE.
I went to Mass today for the first time in, well, a LONG time with family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 89 today, and after a brief and quiet visit to the chapel where she rests in peace, we attended church. This also happens to be the second Sunday of Lent, which pleased me as I could kind of count it as going to church at Easter (close enough).
As long as it may be since I've gone to church (and I can't even venture a guess here), I find solace in the fact that all of the prayers and responses are as ingrained in my brain as multiplication tables. (Which might not be the best analogy as I'm afraid those are starting to erode a bit.) So imagine my surprise when I discovered that some of them have CHANGED!
Now, it wasn't a complete shock. I did have a small amount of warning from a regular churchgoing friend on Facebook, although to be completely honest I never paid too close attention. I didn't know if it was for a specific holiday Mass, or rite, or was something so small I wouldn't even notice.
Well. I noticed. And I clapped my hand over my mouth so many times during that Mass because I was saying the wrong thing, you know, the "old" way. But my question is WHY? I mean, what's wrong with "And also with you"? It rolls off the tongue and is perfectly polite without being too sappy. And why make it holy church instead of just church? It's a church. Isn't the holiness implied?
I mentioned this change to my uncle who was seated beside me, and he confirmed that there were several changes made to the Mass. "Like a lot of the music. They've changed it to rap to appeal to young people," he said.
I found this to not be true.
Still, I wondered why the change. So I looked it up online. This is reportedly only the THIRD time in the 1700-year history of the church that the Mass has been formally changed. And this couldn't have happened before *I* was born?! (And no, I'm not that old.) Until 1965, Catholic Mass was said only in Latin and so they thought, and rightfully so, that this might exclude a whole heck of a lot of people who came to Mass, and therefore it was translated into many different languages also meant to reflect the everyday vernacular. Apparently the whole point of this newest change is to try and bring the Mass a bit closer to its Latin roots.
Now, not being a regular churchgoer anymore, maybe I don't have a lot of room to complain when they decide to change the wording of the Mass. But I am anyway. Still, I thought I'd ask a friend who does attend church on a regular basis what he thought.
Surprisingly to me, he wasn't up in arms about it. (And he gets up in arms about a lot of stuff.)
"Personally, I don't have a problem with the new language. Of course, I'm also the kind of Catholic who likes going to the Latin Mass occasionally," says my good little churchgoing friend Mike. "I like that the new English version is more accurate and a little more solemn, although I agree that it can be jarring.
"However, even after 5 months of using the new language every week, I still go to 'And also with you' instead of 'And with your spirit.' But you can't expect 40 years of Catholic training to be replaced in just a few months."
Yes. THAT.
But still, it may not be for *me* to say what's right and what's wrong. Maybe if I start attending church again on a regular basis, I'll get used to the "new" way... after many, many years have gone by. And then they'll probably just go and change it on me again. But at least by that point I'll have the right to complain.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Childhood lost
There is a conspiracy going on here. Someone is trying to kill my childhood, little by little.
I still see a kid when I look in the mirror (if the lighting is good, I have makeup on, and maybe some rose-colored glasses as well) but it seems to be more and more of a challenge every day. A force greater than I just seems bound and determined to ruin it.
In 2009, Michael Jackson died suddenly. Sure, this was 2 and a half years ago now, but I really think it was the beginning of the end for me. It was a shocking event, and while you'd hardly call me an MJ fanatic, my teen years were accompanied by his music like a soundtrack. So when that happened, I was upset and felt like a small part of my growing up years was now dead. But on the bright side, at least I was still in my thirties.
THEN, I turned 40. Sure, that was a year and a half ago, but I'm still getting over it. Most days I like to pretend it didn't actually happen. In fact, maybe it didn't. You know, when my parents tell me that I was born on October 3, 1970, I'm really just taking their word for it. It was the age of hippies and self-searching, and I think it's safe to say things were hazy and my birth year could have easily gotten confused. That should buy me at least 5 or so years.
Seriously, when you're like 21 or 25, you know you're supposed to turn 40 sometime in the distant future, barring any terrible accidents or illnesses, but it just seems so far AWAY. Like it's supposed to happen but it's not really going to. So, when all of a sudden you find yourself holding on to the edge of your 30s for dear life, you need to resign yourself to the fact that it's going to happen no matter how inconceivable it may seem. This is just one of many things people older than you don't tell you.
Ok. So, while I'm apparently still reeling from that birthday, Whitney Houston goes and drowns in a bathtub while under the influence and now Davy Jones kicks it! What the hell is going on? Someone is happily chipping away at my solid childhood and I have nothing to say about it and no control over it. Whitney Houston was bad enough, but Davy Jones and the Monkees were one of my first musical memories as a child where I felt like a "fan." I will proudly tell anyone about the Easter that my brother and I came down to our baskets and the brand-new Monkees greatest hits album that was propped up against them. We LOVED that album and nearly wore it out. I used to watch repeats of the Monkees show as a child in the afternoons after school. The ridiculous physical comedy was hilarious to me as a little kid, and most likely set the stage for my imminent Beatles obsession (which is ironic considering the Beatles' strong influence on the Monkees). And of course, like all other kids my age, I watched Marcia Brady come face-to-face with her teen crush, Davy Jones himself. Score one for the everyday girl (at least it seemed to us).
And somewhere in the middle, just a day or two before Davy Jones' death, was the quiet and media circus-free passing of Jan Berenstain, one half of the husband-and-wife team who authored the Berenstain Bears book series. I'd like to find just one person for whom just hearing the word "Berenstain" doesn't conjure up a picture in his or her mind of the lovable bear family, remembers reading the books as a kid and probably even has a book or two on their child's bookshelf right now.
Now, I'm a sentimental person. Every time I'm in the area, I pass by my old house in Moorestown and wish I could go inside one more time and look around. Even more, while we're wishing for stuff, I wish my parents had never sold it and I could come back on a regular basis, this time with my kids so that they could enjoy it too. I like looking at old photos, watching old home movies and reminiscing about fun times past with friends and family. Somehow, telling the same story over and over and over doesn't get stale to me, they just get funnier and more dear.
Not everyone is like that, though, I know. I enjoy looking back in time and reliving the old memories. Some people, like my husband, will not willingly sit down to look at old photos, considers old home movies a punishment, and refuses to join facebook to reconnect with old classmates and maybe even his best friend from when he was 6 years old. :) And some people just don't care when a celebrity, even one whom we feel we "know," suddenly dies. To them, it's just another person, just another death.
People die every day, some people we do know and plenty we don't, but when those names are somehow tied to your childhood and growing-up years, at least to me, it's like a little piece of you is forced to grow up a little more as well. And when you are not just young at heart but even downright immature, like me, it can be even harder to swallow.
So, short of freezing time indefinitely (which to my knowledge is not possible - although it may be worth looking into during my limited spare time), the options for preventing this kind of passing appear slim to none. While these kind of childhood memories will most likely continue to deepen their rosy hue as time slips past, perhaps the canned-and-preserved variety are not the only ones that can be sweet. While I may be mourning the passing of days gone by, we are constantly making new ones in the every day, and perhaps I should be focusing on new and unique experiences to help usher in the new as well. I've long been searching for a new outlet and maybe the time is now, so that when the solid foundation of my childhood memories takes yet another ding, it won't hurt quite so much. I'm thinking that there's still so much more to build.
I still see a kid when I look in the mirror (if the lighting is good, I have makeup on, and maybe some rose-colored glasses as well) but it seems to be more and more of a challenge every day. A force greater than I just seems bound and determined to ruin it.
In 2009, Michael Jackson died suddenly. Sure, this was 2 and a half years ago now, but I really think it was the beginning of the end for me. It was a shocking event, and while you'd hardly call me an MJ fanatic, my teen years were accompanied by his music like a soundtrack. So when that happened, I was upset and felt like a small part of my growing up years was now dead. But on the bright side, at least I was still in my thirties.
THEN, I turned 40. Sure, that was a year and a half ago, but I'm still getting over it. Most days I like to pretend it didn't actually happen. In fact, maybe it didn't. You know, when my parents tell me that I was born on October 3, 1970, I'm really just taking their word for it. It was the age of hippies and self-searching, and I think it's safe to say things were hazy and my birth year could have easily gotten confused. That should buy me at least 5 or so years.
Seriously, when you're like 21 or 25, you know you're supposed to turn 40 sometime in the distant future, barring any terrible accidents or illnesses, but it just seems so far AWAY. Like it's supposed to happen but it's not really going to. So, when all of a sudden you find yourself holding on to the edge of your 30s for dear life, you need to resign yourself to the fact that it's going to happen no matter how inconceivable it may seem. This is just one of many things people older than you don't tell you.
Ok. So, while I'm apparently still reeling from that birthday, Whitney Houston goes and drowns in a bathtub while under the influence and now Davy Jones kicks it! What the hell is going on? Someone is happily chipping away at my solid childhood and I have nothing to say about it and no control over it. Whitney Houston was bad enough, but Davy Jones and the Monkees were one of my first musical memories as a child where I felt like a "fan." I will proudly tell anyone about the Easter that my brother and I came down to our baskets and the brand-new Monkees greatest hits album that was propped up against them. We LOVED that album and nearly wore it out. I used to watch repeats of the Monkees show as a child in the afternoons after school. The ridiculous physical comedy was hilarious to me as a little kid, and most likely set the stage for my imminent Beatles obsession (which is ironic considering the Beatles' strong influence on the Monkees). And of course, like all other kids my age, I watched Marcia Brady come face-to-face with her teen crush, Davy Jones himself. Score one for the everyday girl (at least it seemed to us).
And somewhere in the middle, just a day or two before Davy Jones' death, was the quiet and media circus-free passing of Jan Berenstain, one half of the husband-and-wife team who authored the Berenstain Bears book series. I'd like to find just one person for whom just hearing the word "Berenstain" doesn't conjure up a picture in his or her mind of the lovable bear family, remembers reading the books as a kid and probably even has a book or two on their child's bookshelf right now.
Now, I'm a sentimental person. Every time I'm in the area, I pass by my old house in Moorestown and wish I could go inside one more time and look around. Even more, while we're wishing for stuff, I wish my parents had never sold it and I could come back on a regular basis, this time with my kids so that they could enjoy it too. I like looking at old photos, watching old home movies and reminiscing about fun times past with friends and family. Somehow, telling the same story over and over and over doesn't get stale to me, they just get funnier and more dear.
Not everyone is like that, though, I know. I enjoy looking back in time and reliving the old memories. Some people, like my husband, will not willingly sit down to look at old photos, considers old home movies a punishment, and refuses to join facebook to reconnect with old classmates and maybe even his best friend from when he was 6 years old. :) And some people just don't care when a celebrity, even one whom we feel we "know," suddenly dies. To them, it's just another person, just another death.
People die every day, some people we do know and plenty we don't, but when those names are somehow tied to your childhood and growing-up years, at least to me, it's like a little piece of you is forced to grow up a little more as well. And when you are not just young at heart but even downright immature, like me, it can be even harder to swallow.
So, short of freezing time indefinitely (which to my knowledge is not possible - although it may be worth looking into during my limited spare time), the options for preventing this kind of passing appear slim to none. While these kind of childhood memories will most likely continue to deepen their rosy hue as time slips past, perhaps the canned-and-preserved variety are not the only ones that can be sweet. While I may be mourning the passing of days gone by, we are constantly making new ones in the every day, and perhaps I should be focusing on new and unique experiences to help usher in the new as well. I've long been searching for a new outlet and maybe the time is now, so that when the solid foundation of my childhood memories takes yet another ding, it won't hurt quite so much. I'm thinking that there's still so much more to build.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A plague on our house
Since about mid-December, at least one person in my house has been sick at any given time. This by far is the sickest winter our household has ever experienced, and it's beginning to wear on me. I do wash, I do disinfect, I've Lysoled the entire house, and yet it continues to happen. At this point I'm getting ready to drink a glass of bleach.
Unfortunately, the hardest hit has been the littlest one. Maybe it's just because she hasn't been around as long as the rest of us that her immune system still has some toughening up to do. So, it seems like every single time she finishes a round of antibiotics, and we celebrate "no more medicine!" before bed every night, just a few days later, she's coughing again. Which no doubt signals the beginning of yet another bout of illness.
Colette is a little ray of sunshine, even on the cloudiest, most dismal winter days, so for her to get sick over and over again just doesn't seem fair. Every single day, she's an explorer looking for treasure... or an agent trying to diffuse bombs (masked as air vents in the walls)... or she is a princess waving to her subjects in front of the castle. Every day, I hear dramatic screams of terror coming from her squinkies, her zhu-zhu pets are attending a ball in her wooden play castle, or marbles and flower-shaped buttons are having in-depth conversations with each other. She says "ribbit" and hops like a frog around the house, or she is jumping out from behind a door and yelling "BOO!" (Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes she doesn't.)
When she's really sick, the pretend play wanes and she lies on the couch looking tired and miserable. That's when I know that she can skip dinner, get a cold washcloth placed on her head, and watch as much TV as she wants before an early bedtime comes around. But, usually, even when she's feeling under the weather, her imagination still feels perfectly fine and new adventures arise every day.
The mundanity of stay-at-home parenthood hiccups when a child is sick. As sick and tired as I am of the ongoing sickness in my house, a sick child is something special. It's true that while an ill child will tack on at least an extra half an hour of prep before bedtime (ibuprofen, cold medicine, blowing noses, putting aquaphor on that same red, irritated nose, temperature-taking, and Vicks out the wazoo), tending to your ailing child is always a bit of a smack in the face to remind you that what you're doing really is Important. (I hate seemingly random capitalizations, but that one deserved it.)
I was reminded of this the other night when Colette woke up, crying and sweaty, nearly choking on her own phlegm that once again was proving to be too much for her little body. She needed relief, and unfortunately she was already medicated to the max at that particular point. We tried to sit her up to help relieve some of the congestion, which was hard to do as she was so tired she kept flopping back down onto the bed, and I got a washcloth dampened with cold water and put it on her head. Instantly, she started to calm down... I cooled her head, her neck, and unzipped the top of her sleeper to cool her neck and chest. She was still stuffy, and not entirely comfortable, but for the time, she was at least comforted.
After a while, I told her she needed some more rest. As I was leaving the room, I said our customary "I love you" which is our last exchange before I leave her to sleep. She said something low. I couldn't understand what it was and tried to figure out what she wanted. Water? A tissue? Another hug?
"What is it, honey?" I asked tentatively.
A pause, and then she spoke. "Ribbit," she said weakly.
My poor sick little sweetie. Don't worry, you're getting better again.
Unfortunately, the hardest hit has been the littlest one. Maybe it's just because she hasn't been around as long as the rest of us that her immune system still has some toughening up to do. So, it seems like every single time she finishes a round of antibiotics, and we celebrate "no more medicine!" before bed every night, just a few days later, she's coughing again. Which no doubt signals the beginning of yet another bout of illness.
Colette is a little ray of sunshine, even on the cloudiest, most dismal winter days, so for her to get sick over and over again just doesn't seem fair. Every single day, she's an explorer looking for treasure... or an agent trying to diffuse bombs (masked as air vents in the walls)... or she is a princess waving to her subjects in front of the castle. Every day, I hear dramatic screams of terror coming from her squinkies, her zhu-zhu pets are attending a ball in her wooden play castle, or marbles and flower-shaped buttons are having in-depth conversations with each other. She says "ribbit" and hops like a frog around the house, or she is jumping out from behind a door and yelling "BOO!" (Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes she doesn't.)
When she's really sick, the pretend play wanes and she lies on the couch looking tired and miserable. That's when I know that she can skip dinner, get a cold washcloth placed on her head, and watch as much TV as she wants before an early bedtime comes around. But, usually, even when she's feeling under the weather, her imagination still feels perfectly fine and new adventures arise every day.
The mundanity of stay-at-home parenthood hiccups when a child is sick. As sick and tired as I am of the ongoing sickness in my house, a sick child is something special. It's true that while an ill child will tack on at least an extra half an hour of prep before bedtime (ibuprofen, cold medicine, blowing noses, putting aquaphor on that same red, irritated nose, temperature-taking, and Vicks out the wazoo), tending to your ailing child is always a bit of a smack in the face to remind you that what you're doing really is Important. (I hate seemingly random capitalizations, but that one deserved it.)
I was reminded of this the other night when Colette woke up, crying and sweaty, nearly choking on her own phlegm that once again was proving to be too much for her little body. She needed relief, and unfortunately she was already medicated to the max at that particular point. We tried to sit her up to help relieve some of the congestion, which was hard to do as she was so tired she kept flopping back down onto the bed, and I got a washcloth dampened with cold water and put it on her head. Instantly, she started to calm down... I cooled her head, her neck, and unzipped the top of her sleeper to cool her neck and chest. She was still stuffy, and not entirely comfortable, but for the time, she was at least comforted.
After a while, I told her she needed some more rest. As I was leaving the room, I said our customary "I love you" which is our last exchange before I leave her to sleep. She said something low. I couldn't understand what it was and tried to figure out what she wanted. Water? A tissue? Another hug?
"What is it, honey?" I asked tentatively.
A pause, and then she spoke. "Ribbit," she said weakly.
My poor sick little sweetie. Don't worry, you're getting better again.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Have you made your New Year's re-delusion yet?
Happy new year!
It's 2012. What does that mean to me? I quickly scan the list in my mind. Well, it means that in September, Colette will start kindergarten and Alexander will begin second grade. Colette will turn 5 and in December, Alexander turns 8! My delusional husband will turn 40 this September, whether he believes it will actually happen or not. And in October I will turn... well, whatever. Something that ends with a 2. Who's counting?
That's a lot for the last three months of the year. But what about NOW? Zach asked me the other night if I have any resolutions for the new year. I knew the question was coming, at some point, and even though I was aware of this, I didn't have an answer at the ready. Do I have any resolutions?
Well, of course I do... pretty much the same ones I have every year. Read more, eat healthier, have more date nights (with my husband, that is) and exercise more so that I can finally lose those stupid 15 or so pounds that I've wanted to lose since before Zach and I even met. Those are my standbys. But when exactly do they stop counting as resolutions and become more, say, vague hopes? And isn't saying that just pretty much giving up? Am I just deluding myself over and over again?
Resolutions used to be kind of fun. Maybe they still are for some people, I don't know. Maybe I've become old at heart and jaded that any of the resolutions will ever actually pan out. ;) Maybe I need to change my resolutions... or perhaps I just need to change how I look at them. Perhaps they don't have to be so insurmountable if you just take small steps at a time instead of attempting a huge life change all at once.
The other day, I brought up the whole notion of New Year's resolutions to Alexander. We talked about what resolve is, what resolutions are, and examples of some typical New Year's resolutions. Afterward, I asked him what his New Year's resolution might be and I waited with bated breath to hear the answer. His blue eyes glazed over a bit, looking past me. "I don't know," he said finally. "Hey, can I have a cookie?"
Well. Maybe I'll ask him another day.
Maybe they are just re-delusions by this point, but perhaps baby steps really are the way to go. Viewing instituting life changes as all-or-nothing is probably the key to failure, or at least to starting things off on the wrong foot.
That's ok. I can do baby steps. Here's a perfect example: I hear that those little snack baggies are perfect for 100-calorie snacks. You can pack it full and rest assured that you'll only consume 100 calories. Here is my first one:
So I'm excited about that. Now I mean business!
Yep. Baby steps.
It's 2012. What does that mean to me? I quickly scan the list in my mind. Well, it means that in September, Colette will start kindergarten and Alexander will begin second grade. Colette will turn 5 and in December, Alexander turns 8! My delusional husband will turn 40 this September, whether he believes it will actually happen or not. And in October I will turn... well, whatever. Something that ends with a 2. Who's counting?
That's a lot for the last three months of the year. But what about NOW? Zach asked me the other night if I have any resolutions for the new year. I knew the question was coming, at some point, and even though I was aware of this, I didn't have an answer at the ready. Do I have any resolutions?
Well, of course I do... pretty much the same ones I have every year. Read more, eat healthier, have more date nights (with my husband, that is) and exercise more so that I can finally lose those stupid 15 or so pounds that I've wanted to lose since before Zach and I even met. Those are my standbys. But when exactly do they stop counting as resolutions and become more, say, vague hopes? And isn't saying that just pretty much giving up? Am I just deluding myself over and over again?
Resolutions used to be kind of fun. Maybe they still are for some people, I don't know. Maybe I've become old at heart and jaded that any of the resolutions will ever actually pan out. ;) Maybe I need to change my resolutions... or perhaps I just need to change how I look at them. Perhaps they don't have to be so insurmountable if you just take small steps at a time instead of attempting a huge life change all at once.
The other day, I brought up the whole notion of New Year's resolutions to Alexander. We talked about what resolve is, what resolutions are, and examples of some typical New Year's resolutions. Afterward, I asked him what his New Year's resolution might be and I waited with bated breath to hear the answer. His blue eyes glazed over a bit, looking past me. "I don't know," he said finally. "Hey, can I have a cookie?"
Well. Maybe I'll ask him another day.
Maybe they are just re-delusions by this point, but perhaps baby steps really are the way to go. Viewing instituting life changes as all-or-nothing is probably the key to failure, or at least to starting things off on the wrong foot.
That's ok. I can do baby steps. Here's a perfect example: I hear that those little snack baggies are perfect for 100-calorie snacks. You can pack it full and rest assured that you'll only consume 100 calories. Here is my first one:
So I'm excited about that. Now I mean business!
Yep. Baby steps.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Road rules
A small independent study has shown that approximately 75% of drivers are unfit to operate a vehicle due to poor judgment, inferior reflex time and overall stupidity.
Never heard of it? Well, it was a small study. A really, really small, extremely independent study. Ok, it was conducted by me over the years as I have been forced to endure the idiocy of fellow drivers.
It's hard being the best driver on the road, because, obviously, everyone else falls miserably short when it comes to driving ability. Just the other day I was en route to DSW to search for the elusive pair of comfortable dressy flats that will match a taupe bridesmaid's dress. (I thought I found them but since have realized that they're not so comfortable after all... anyway...)
I guess the fact that I was driving south on Route 9 on a Saturday should have been enough for me to realize that I was going to be sitting in UNBELIEVABLE traffic for at least a little while. But, really, the stupid drivers surrounding me just made the situation even worse. Like the guy who pulled out onto the highway right in front me, too close, and way too slow. And the best part? Yep, you guessed it. There was no one behind me for like a mile. (This was before the aforementioned traffic jam hit.)
So I leaned on the horn. I'm not shy about using it when someone is so clearly in the wrong. When you use the horn though, of course, you run a risk. You don't know how the Beepee is going to react when you beep at them with such anger. (Beep doesn't sound like an angry word, but I feel that when you do it with enough feeling, that emotion somehow will be conveyed through the beep. And now that I've said beep so many times, it just looks weird. Should there be an a in there? A silent e at the end?)
Like I said, you run the risk of the offending driver's reaction when you let them know that you are, to say the least, not pleased with their driving performance. I've found that the reactions tend to fall in one of four categories:
1. The Ignorer
This person will stare straight ahead as you inevitably give them the Death Glare as your car passes theirs. Some will even go so far as to lean on their hand which is propped oh-so-naturally against their head, elbow resting on the car window. This is an effort to prove that, you know what, I'm so bored by your beeping that you didn't anger me at all. In FACT, you relaxed me so much I'm ready to go to sleep, right here behind the wheel. Usually, however, the Beeper knows that what they're really trying to do is avoid making eye contact because, let's face it, they know they're in the wrong. (This particular driver fell into this category... except for his female passenger, who stared at me bewilderingly as I passed them.)
2. The Accidental Flipper
This person also employs the head-resting-on-hand technique, but with a passive-aggressive twist: the middle finger is primarily responsible for the head-resting. This accomplishes getting back at you for DARING to beep your horn while at the same time avoiding eye contact. "What? The finger? No, I'm just resting my head like this. I didn't do that on purpose! What finger? I thought I lost that in a vegetable-chopping accident many years ago, in fact! When the heck did THAT grow back?"
3. The Shifty Eyed
This is the driver who takes his or her cue from you. Head bobbing from side to side to keep looking at you and eyes shifting, the offending driver is quickly trying to figure out just HOW mad you are at their behavior. Depending on your reaction to their transgression, they may simply stare you down or flip the hell out. They could go either way.
4. The Psychopath
... and for some people, it just doesn't matter what your reaction is. As soon as you're within view, they're going to lose it.
Road rage is not pretty. I've had people get out of the car to yell at me (it was an old guy, and ALL I was doing was giving him a little beep to let him know that he had the right of way), follow me in their car (that was scary - and ALL I did was not let him pass me - he was in the merge lane and was supposed to yield!) and others flip out at me for no apparent reason. I wonder if my confused face served to amuse or piss those people off.
Now, with two little kids who are usually in the car with me, I try to make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen anymore. If someone cuts me off, I grit my teeth and mumble unintelligibly to myself. If someone just HAS to be first and guns it in the merge lane, I (usually) let them. Again, more teeth gritting and mumbling usually accompany it. I haven't even gotten a speeding ticket in many years, in spite of the fact that my former police captain uncle continues to hand me a new PBA card every year, saying, "You like to speed. Here you go." Thanks Uncle Eddie.
Still, while I've relaxed considerably behind the wheel, other idiots have cropped up to take my place. Some are new idiots; some are seasoned idiots who just never learn. Unfortunately, my blood pressure still rises a bit when I encounter them, but it doesn't bother me as much anymore. I'm secure in my status as the best driver in the world. Trust me, you don't want to challenge me on that.
Never heard of it? Well, it was a small study. A really, really small, extremely independent study. Ok, it was conducted by me over the years as I have been forced to endure the idiocy of fellow drivers.
It's hard being the best driver on the road, because, obviously, everyone else falls miserably short when it comes to driving ability. Just the other day I was en route to DSW to search for the elusive pair of comfortable dressy flats that will match a taupe bridesmaid's dress. (I thought I found them but since have realized that they're not so comfortable after all... anyway...)
I guess the fact that I was driving south on Route 9 on a Saturday should have been enough for me to realize that I was going to be sitting in UNBELIEVABLE traffic for at least a little while. But, really, the stupid drivers surrounding me just made the situation even worse. Like the guy who pulled out onto the highway right in front me, too close, and way too slow. And the best part? Yep, you guessed it. There was no one behind me for like a mile. (This was before the aforementioned traffic jam hit.)
So I leaned on the horn. I'm not shy about using it when someone is so clearly in the wrong. When you use the horn though, of course, you run a risk. You don't know how the Beepee is going to react when you beep at them with such anger. (Beep doesn't sound like an angry word, but I feel that when you do it with enough feeling, that emotion somehow will be conveyed through the beep. And now that I've said beep so many times, it just looks weird. Should there be an a in there? A silent e at the end?)
Like I said, you run the risk of the offending driver's reaction when you let them know that you are, to say the least, not pleased with their driving performance. I've found that the reactions tend to fall in one of four categories:
1. The Ignorer
This person will stare straight ahead as you inevitably give them the Death Glare as your car passes theirs. Some will even go so far as to lean on their hand which is propped oh-so-naturally against their head, elbow resting on the car window. This is an effort to prove that, you know what, I'm so bored by your beeping that you didn't anger me at all. In FACT, you relaxed me so much I'm ready to go to sleep, right here behind the wheel. Usually, however, the Beeper knows that what they're really trying to do is avoid making eye contact because, let's face it, they know they're in the wrong. (This particular driver fell into this category... except for his female passenger, who stared at me bewilderingly as I passed them.)
2. The Accidental Flipper
This person also employs the head-resting-on-hand technique, but with a passive-aggressive twist: the middle finger is primarily responsible for the head-resting. This accomplishes getting back at you for DARING to beep your horn while at the same time avoiding eye contact. "What? The finger? No, I'm just resting my head like this. I didn't do that on purpose! What finger? I thought I lost that in a vegetable-chopping accident many years ago, in fact! When the heck did THAT grow back?"
3. The Shifty Eyed
This is the driver who takes his or her cue from you. Head bobbing from side to side to keep looking at you and eyes shifting, the offending driver is quickly trying to figure out just HOW mad you are at their behavior. Depending on your reaction to their transgression, they may simply stare you down or flip the hell out. They could go either way.
4. The Psychopath
... and for some people, it just doesn't matter what your reaction is. As soon as you're within view, they're going to lose it.
Road rage is not pretty. I've had people get out of the car to yell at me (it was an old guy, and ALL I was doing was giving him a little beep to let him know that he had the right of way), follow me in their car (that was scary - and ALL I did was not let him pass me - he was in the merge lane and was supposed to yield!) and others flip out at me for no apparent reason. I wonder if my confused face served to amuse or piss those people off.
Now, with two little kids who are usually in the car with me, I try to make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen anymore. If someone cuts me off, I grit my teeth and mumble unintelligibly to myself. If someone just HAS to be first and guns it in the merge lane, I (usually) let them. Again, more teeth gritting and mumbling usually accompany it. I haven't even gotten a speeding ticket in many years, in spite of the fact that my former police captain uncle continues to hand me a new PBA card every year, saying, "You like to speed. Here you go." Thanks Uncle Eddie.
Still, while I've relaxed considerably behind the wheel, other idiots have cropped up to take my place. Some are new idiots; some are seasoned idiots who just never learn. Unfortunately, my blood pressure still rises a bit when I encounter them, but it doesn't bother me as much anymore. I'm secure in my status as the best driver in the world. Trust me, you don't want to challenge me on that.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Face value
A couple of days ago, I went with a friend for my second-ever facial. The first one was about five years ago, and while it was nice, it wasn't something I came home raving about and eagerly anticipating my next one. I didn't go actively seeking this one either - one morning my local Groupon delivered to my inbox a deal for an anti-aging and "photo rejunvenation" facial. A really good deal, and still stinging from my recent birthday which is already 9 months past, I decided to go for it. My friend was thrilled to take part and we were happy to spend the day together.
It ended up that she spent most of the day in the car battling Saturday morning traffic to NJ from Long Island, but once there, we were whisked into separate tiny rooms at the salon. The room was dimly lit, soft music playing, and a small bed in the middle of the room with a purple velvet comforter on top of it. The woman indicated a small terry wrap lying on a side table, suggested I put it on and left the room. As I undressed I felt a bit like I was expecting a doctor to come in, but quickly dismissed that thought as NOTHING in the room even remotely resembled my doctor's office. (Thankfully. That would have been disturbing.)
I liked my facialist (is that a word? Face master?) from the start because she was small and seemed very mild-mannered. While a heavy accent prevented me from understanding everything she was saying, I felt pretty comfortable with her.
The session started with a blast of hot steam on my face. I tried to quell my inner wishes for that part to end quickly because, well, it was HOT. It's kind of difficult to breathe properly when hot steam is shooting up your nose. Unfortunately, it continued for a while, and I tried to relax as she slapped one cool gloppy cream after another on my face while I breathed in steam.
Then the massage started. I guess there are only so many creams and high-tech gadgets they can use on your face to fill up the time before they resort to just, you know, rubbing it. I've never been a fan of massages, and while I knew this was coming, I didn't know she would be massaging my EYEBALLS. Eyes closed, I suddenly felt her fingertips on top of my eyes as she started to knead. I tried to just go with it until I remembered... I have contacts! She started to rub harder and I quietly interrupted and told her that she would need to be a little gentler on my eyes since I had contacts in. All I needed was to lose one somewhere on the back of my eyeball, which would be annoying in and of itself, but couple that with the fact that I wouldn't be able to make the hour drive home and it would just be downright irritating. Actually, I probably could have done it, as I can still see, albeit blurrily, large objects such as lanes and cars. It's the smaller stuff like signs that elude me... and maybe even dotted lines on the road too... and police lights... (Anyway, two contact lens rinses after the facial was over and I was good to go.)
As she quietly moved from step to step, I wondered what exactly she was doing. I suppose you're expected to just trust them, but she could have been bleaching my skin for all I knew and I wouldn't have been the wiser. (Not that anyone would have noticed.) So when I heard one particularly ominous-sounding whirring sound begin, I decided to ask what that was for. Again, the language barrier was a bit of a problem, but I got the gist of it and she began haltingly to explain what she was doing as she started something new. I figured as long as I wasn't hearing words like "searing," "bleeding," or "melting flesh," then I was pretty safe. I began to relax.
Wait. I don't have to pee, do I? No, of course not. I just went less than an hour ago before the facial began! I pushed that ridiculous thought out of my mind as soon as it surfaced.
As I lie there, relaxing of course, I started to feel a warm, gooey sensation on my eyebrow. Um, what? Oh... um...
"I do your eyebrows? Yes?"
"Um..." I was undecided. I wanted to do the wax but I was afraid. What if it was really painful and I passed out on the bed? Sure, that would cure my wriggling around on the table trying to prevent my back from getting stiff, and it would also solve the having-to-pee feeling, but I'd rather not leave myself so vulnerable like that. As I was mulling my fate, the facial master took my indecision as an answer.
"Ok, yes I do it. Yes yes," she nodded. (I assume she was nodding. I couldn't see her.) I tried to protest, weakly, but her mind was made up and I was just along for the ride. I was surprised and pleased at how little it hurt. Displeased, however, when she slapped some of it in between my brows. EXCUSE me? Are you insinuating that I have a unibrow?! A few stray hairs here and there do not a unibrow make, my Asian friend. However, I kept my mouth shut for the sake of vanity and the peaceful zen vibe of the salon.
A short while later, while I continued to fight off ever-growing sensations of having to empty my bladder, she began the last part of the facial, which was the photojuvenation part. This involved more gloppy creams on my face followed by a smooth wand shooting light beams into my skin. From what I could gather, the light would help the send all of the wonderful vitamins or whatever kind of crap is in a mask down to the base of the skin instead of just lying around on top where it wouldn't do anything. So I obediently laid as still as I could for the next 10 or so minutes while she used this light saber on my face. When the light saber portion was over, she laid small hot cloths on my eyes, wrapped my entire face in plastic wrap except for my nostrils and mouth, and whispered, "Now I give you nice massage."
Great. Massage again? Why did these people have to keep rubbing me? This time, it was the neck, shoulders and upper arms. Her gentle voice and timid giggle did nothing to prepare me for what was to come next. Apparently, at some point while I laid there with my eyes closed, she secretly switched places with a 400-pound sumo wrestler who proceeded to beat the crap out of me for the next 5 or so minutes. She started SMACKING ME on the upper arms for no apparent reason. Had I done something wrong? Verbalized some of my thoughts? Was she trying to smack the pee out of me once and for all? Whatever the reason, she seemed to take great delight in slapping, punching, and overzealously kneading my muscles as I tried my best to be tough and not protest. After all, people pay good money to be beaten up by a masseuse like this. I'm supposed to enjoy it!
By this point, I was just looking for a good window of opportunity to excuse myself to use the bathroom. But how could I? My face was wrapped up like a mummy. I didn't want to look like an idiot and risk it all sliding off my face so that I could pee. Surely this had to be almost over - I wouldn't know, because I hadn't seen the clock in at least 45 minutes, but it just felt like the end had to be near. She would probably take the mask off when she was finished beating me up.
Suddenly, the dim light that I could make out from behind my eyelids and underneath the cloths was switched off and I heard the door close. Silence. I was alone. Alone, my face immobilized in plastic wrap and eyes shut, in the dark, lying on a bed, with my legs wrapped around each other like a pretzel from having to pee so bad. Great. Now what? I would have laughed except that I couldn't move my mouth. I did chuckle on the inside at the absurdity of the situation, all the while a nagging thought at the back of my mind: You know, if I were the claustrophobic type, I might start panicking at this particular moment. But thankfully, I'm not. Or am I? I can't remember. I don't think so, but if I'm left here too much longer, I might turn into one. They would find me hunched over and crying, plastic wrap hanging in shreds off of my face, having slipped and fallen in a puddle of the facial mask that dripped off my cheeks, lying face down in a pool of my own urine. The main problem was not knowing how long I would be lying there. Five minutes? Ten? What the hell time is it, anyway? Is there an alarm button somewhere I can press?
Thankfully, she returned not two minutes later. (Which also begs the question, what was I supposed to do during that time? Nap? For two minutes? I can't fall asleep at will that way. And even if I started to doze off during that time, she would have just awakened me as I was getting nice and sleepy and dozy. Which then would have left me groggy and extremely cranky.) Fortunately it was time to de-mummify my face and wipe off all of the glop. I thanked her profusely for a job well done. Well, she did do a great job. A+ for enthusiasm! I waited what I felt was an appropriate (short) period of time to smile and thank her for the experience before darting to the bathroom.
When it was all over, I didn't feel I looked any younger, although my skin was nice and soft. According to the salon's Web site, you're supposed to have 5 or 6 of these treatments to get the "full effect." If I spent that much money on these facials I probably could just get a facelift instead. Instead of looking younger, I looked like I'd been put through the wringer - shiny, greasy skin, greasy hairline, red spots around my eyebrows and especially in between (damn nonexistent unibrow) and, of course, no makeup. I still expect the bruises to show up on my upper arms any day now. Thankfully beauty is only skin deep, because otherwise, I'd have to come into some serious money.
This morning I received another Groupon: a detoxifying seaweed body wrap, claiming to reduce cellulite, saggy skin, and stretch marks. That sounds awesome! I don't really NEED that, but who can resist such a deal? A 50-minute body wrap, where I assume you can't move a muscle... that's ok, I can do it. I'll just make sure to use the bathroom beforehand.
It ended up that she spent most of the day in the car battling Saturday morning traffic to NJ from Long Island, but once there, we were whisked into separate tiny rooms at the salon. The room was dimly lit, soft music playing, and a small bed in the middle of the room with a purple velvet comforter on top of it. The woman indicated a small terry wrap lying on a side table, suggested I put it on and left the room. As I undressed I felt a bit like I was expecting a doctor to come in, but quickly dismissed that thought as NOTHING in the room even remotely resembled my doctor's office. (Thankfully. That would have been disturbing.)
I liked my facialist (is that a word? Face master?) from the start because she was small and seemed very mild-mannered. While a heavy accent prevented me from understanding everything she was saying, I felt pretty comfortable with her.
The session started with a blast of hot steam on my face. I tried to quell my inner wishes for that part to end quickly because, well, it was HOT. It's kind of difficult to breathe properly when hot steam is shooting up your nose. Unfortunately, it continued for a while, and I tried to relax as she slapped one cool gloppy cream after another on my face while I breathed in steam.
Then the massage started. I guess there are only so many creams and high-tech gadgets they can use on your face to fill up the time before they resort to just, you know, rubbing it. I've never been a fan of massages, and while I knew this was coming, I didn't know she would be massaging my EYEBALLS. Eyes closed, I suddenly felt her fingertips on top of my eyes as she started to knead. I tried to just go with it until I remembered... I have contacts! She started to rub harder and I quietly interrupted and told her that she would need to be a little gentler on my eyes since I had contacts in. All I needed was to lose one somewhere on the back of my eyeball, which would be annoying in and of itself, but couple that with the fact that I wouldn't be able to make the hour drive home and it would just be downright irritating. Actually, I probably could have done it, as I can still see, albeit blurrily, large objects such as lanes and cars. It's the smaller stuff like signs that elude me... and maybe even dotted lines on the road too... and police lights... (Anyway, two contact lens rinses after the facial was over and I was good to go.)
As she quietly moved from step to step, I wondered what exactly she was doing. I suppose you're expected to just trust them, but she could have been bleaching my skin for all I knew and I wouldn't have been the wiser. (Not that anyone would have noticed.) So when I heard one particularly ominous-sounding whirring sound begin, I decided to ask what that was for. Again, the language barrier was a bit of a problem, but I got the gist of it and she began haltingly to explain what she was doing as she started something new. I figured as long as I wasn't hearing words like "searing," "bleeding," or "melting flesh," then I was pretty safe. I began to relax.
Wait. I don't have to pee, do I? No, of course not. I just went less than an hour ago before the facial began! I pushed that ridiculous thought out of my mind as soon as it surfaced.
As I lie there, relaxing of course, I started to feel a warm, gooey sensation on my eyebrow. Um, what? Oh... um...
"I do your eyebrows? Yes?"
"Um..." I was undecided. I wanted to do the wax but I was afraid. What if it was really painful and I passed out on the bed? Sure, that would cure my wriggling around on the table trying to prevent my back from getting stiff, and it would also solve the having-to-pee feeling, but I'd rather not leave myself so vulnerable like that. As I was mulling my fate, the facial master took my indecision as an answer.
"Ok, yes I do it. Yes yes," she nodded. (I assume she was nodding. I couldn't see her.) I tried to protest, weakly, but her mind was made up and I was just along for the ride. I was surprised and pleased at how little it hurt. Displeased, however, when she slapped some of it in between my brows. EXCUSE me? Are you insinuating that I have a unibrow?! A few stray hairs here and there do not a unibrow make, my Asian friend. However, I kept my mouth shut for the sake of vanity and the peaceful zen vibe of the salon.
A short while later, while I continued to fight off ever-growing sensations of having to empty my bladder, she began the last part of the facial, which was the photojuvenation part. This involved more gloppy creams on my face followed by a smooth wand shooting light beams into my skin. From what I could gather, the light would help the send all of the wonderful vitamins or whatever kind of crap is in a mask down to the base of the skin instead of just lying around on top where it wouldn't do anything. So I obediently laid as still as I could for the next 10 or so minutes while she used this light saber on my face. When the light saber portion was over, she laid small hot cloths on my eyes, wrapped my entire face in plastic wrap except for my nostrils and mouth, and whispered, "Now I give you nice massage."
Great. Massage again? Why did these people have to keep rubbing me? This time, it was the neck, shoulders and upper arms. Her gentle voice and timid giggle did nothing to prepare me for what was to come next. Apparently, at some point while I laid there with my eyes closed, she secretly switched places with a 400-pound sumo wrestler who proceeded to beat the crap out of me for the next 5 or so minutes. She started SMACKING ME on the upper arms for no apparent reason. Had I done something wrong? Verbalized some of my thoughts? Was she trying to smack the pee out of me once and for all? Whatever the reason, she seemed to take great delight in slapping, punching, and overzealously kneading my muscles as I tried my best to be tough and not protest. After all, people pay good money to be beaten up by a masseuse like this. I'm supposed to enjoy it!
By this point, I was just looking for a good window of opportunity to excuse myself to use the bathroom. But how could I? My face was wrapped up like a mummy. I didn't want to look like an idiot and risk it all sliding off my face so that I could pee. Surely this had to be almost over - I wouldn't know, because I hadn't seen the clock in at least 45 minutes, but it just felt like the end had to be near. She would probably take the mask off when she was finished beating me up.
Suddenly, the dim light that I could make out from behind my eyelids and underneath the cloths was switched off and I heard the door close. Silence. I was alone. Alone, my face immobilized in plastic wrap and eyes shut, in the dark, lying on a bed, with my legs wrapped around each other like a pretzel from having to pee so bad. Great. Now what? I would have laughed except that I couldn't move my mouth. I did chuckle on the inside at the absurdity of the situation, all the while a nagging thought at the back of my mind: You know, if I were the claustrophobic type, I might start panicking at this particular moment. But thankfully, I'm not. Or am I? I can't remember. I don't think so, but if I'm left here too much longer, I might turn into one. They would find me hunched over and crying, plastic wrap hanging in shreds off of my face, having slipped and fallen in a puddle of the facial mask that dripped off my cheeks, lying face down in a pool of my own urine. The main problem was not knowing how long I would be lying there. Five minutes? Ten? What the hell time is it, anyway? Is there an alarm button somewhere I can press?
Thankfully, she returned not two minutes later. (Which also begs the question, what was I supposed to do during that time? Nap? For two minutes? I can't fall asleep at will that way. And even if I started to doze off during that time, she would have just awakened me as I was getting nice and sleepy and dozy. Which then would have left me groggy and extremely cranky.) Fortunately it was time to de-mummify my face and wipe off all of the glop. I thanked her profusely for a job well done. Well, she did do a great job. A+ for enthusiasm! I waited what I felt was an appropriate (short) period of time to smile and thank her for the experience before darting to the bathroom.
When it was all over, I didn't feel I looked any younger, although my skin was nice and soft. According to the salon's Web site, you're supposed to have 5 or 6 of these treatments to get the "full effect." If I spent that much money on these facials I probably could just get a facelift instead. Instead of looking younger, I looked like I'd been put through the wringer - shiny, greasy skin, greasy hairline, red spots around my eyebrows and especially in between (damn nonexistent unibrow) and, of course, no makeup. I still expect the bruises to show up on my upper arms any day now. Thankfully beauty is only skin deep, because otherwise, I'd have to come into some serious money.
This morning I received another Groupon: a detoxifying seaweed body wrap, claiming to reduce cellulite, saggy skin, and stretch marks. That sounds awesome! I don't really NEED that, but who can resist such a deal? A 50-minute body wrap, where I assume you can't move a muscle... that's ok, I can do it. I'll just make sure to use the bathroom beforehand.
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