I've often heard people describe parenting as the only true "full-time job" on the planet. Until I had my own, I didn't know exactly what they meant. Now I do, in spades.
Here is a typical rundown of the day in Chez Korn:
5:00 The alarm goes off. Hit snooze once or twice, then roll out of bed and enjoy a few minutes on the computer with my donut and milk.
5:30 Jenna wakes up. Everyone else should be up too, according to her. Attempt to pack her lunch for daycare while she stands, zombielike, in the kitchen, with her sippy cup.
5:45 I hop in the shower, sometimes with a fuzzy 6-year-old, sometimes without. Jenna needles Daddy until he rolls out of bed also.
6:00 Time to steer Sierra towards the car while Rob attempts to give Jenna yet another dose of Omnicef. We try to reason with her; "It's this or tubes, honey, take your choice." She doesn't understand. Hair Trigger just wails.
6:45 Arrive at school, steer Sierra towards the sink in my classroom so she can brush her teeth. Lay out papers for my students.
Back at home ... Rob showers, dresses, dresses Jenna, feeds the dogs, loads Jenna in the car, and he's off. Drops Jenna off at daycare, receives hugs from every kid in her class. It's the highlight of his day.
7:40-1:40 Deal with a whirlwind of students. Hug Sierra at some point after dismissal, as our paths cross on her way to After-School.
1:40-2:30 Meetings, meetings, meetings. Lay out sub plans every day, in detail, because a small child could be barfing on me in a matter of hours and I have to be prepared.
2:30 Pack it in for the day at school, gather Sierra from After-School, drive 30 minutes to pick up Jenna, drive another 30 minutes home.
3:30 Enjoy 20-30 minutes of computer time while the girls munch on their afternoon snack. Plop Jenna on the golf cart and take her to Grandma's house for some pampering. Golf cart home, help Sierra change into her workout clothes, load her in the car, drive off.
4:30-5:30 Choi Kwang-Do practice. My one hour of the day totally by myself. Jenna's with Grandma, Sierra's in class, and I can sit and read. Or go to the grocery store unencumbered. How sad my life has become, that I look forward to picking up milk and bread by myself.
5:30 Back home, collect Jenna, plop the girls in front of TV for Spongebob (I'm going for Mom-of-the-Year here), straighten up the house a bit, throw in a load of laundry, more computer time, wait for Rob to call.
6:30-ish Rob calls after his own hectic day. He's on his way home, so it's time to start dinner.
7:00-7:30ish Dinner. More Omnicef. More crying. More battles with the TV during dinner.
7:30 Evening playtime, possibly a ride on the golf cart to soothe a little one's nerves.
8:00 Bathtime for whomever is interested. Another time of day for me to relax and read a book tubside, while the girls splash in the tub. Of course, I must keep an ear and eye out for potential drowning.
8:30 Bedtime for Jenna. Hug her, lay her down.
8:35-9:30 Return for repeated reassuring hugs while Jenna settles in. Attempt to get Sierra ready for bed during the same time, if she hasn't already fallen asleep on the couch watching -- you guessed it -- Spongebob.
9:30 Herd Sierra to bed, or carry her limp body from the couch.
9:30-10:30 Time for me! Wait, is that crying I hear down the hall?
10:30-11:00 Fold that load of laundry, if I remember.
11:00-5:00 This is designated as sleeping time, but the girls have other ideas. Sierra generally sleeps like a rock, unless she's had a bad dream or is puking. Jenna just wants more hugs. Several times. Sleep, kid. It's great, I promise.
It's not just the day-to-day routine that makes parenting a "full-time job." It's the fact that, even when the girls are preoccupied and I'm enjoying a book or surfing the 'net, some catastrophe could erupt somewhere in the house and I have to jump to action. I can't just pack up my book and a soda and huff it to the dock. Someone has to be "available" for the girls at all times. Rob and I must always think about contingency plans ... who stays home tomorrow while Sierra acts like a human furnace in my arms?
We have precious little spontaneity in our activities anymore. Dinner out is no longer staring at each other over a freezer-full of unappetizing food, and deciding to slam the door shut, grab the car keys, and head off to Olive Garden. What time is it? Did Jenna have a nap today? Will she be cranky in the restaurant? How late can Sierra stay up on a school night? Do we have any sitters available? Is the diaper bag packed? Did you explain to Sierra that we can't leave until she potties because it's a long drive to the restaurant? Who fed the baby corn chips? So what if she was hollering? She needs to eat a real dinner. She's rubbing her eyes already? We can't get a sitter now because she'll spend the next hour up and down in her crib, and we can't inflict that on any of our friends. Next Friday? Yeah, maybe I can find a sitter. How about frozen lasagna? It's freezer-burned? It's still edible, right?
Most of all, parenthood requires you to live with one ear cocked, with one nerve always ready to jump, with an emergency diaper kit hidden in the car so that you can fly to the hospital at a moment's notice. It's not just theoretical ... we've done it several times. Nothing changes your perspective on having a child with a high fever than living through her screaming through a spinal tap and coming up positive for meningitis. Nothing changes your perspective on the fragility of life than knowing that you will never, ever sleep soundly again, because that thump in the next room could be the dog flopping down, or it could be the baby hopping out of the crib, padding through the house, trying the doorknob, and heading to the river. Thankfully, that's not happened. Yet.
The deciding word that makes parenthood different from every other phase of adulthood. Yet. It's coming, it is. You just don't know when, or where, or how.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Video overload
YouTube is a great time killer. If you can weed through all the junk out there, you'll find some stuff that's pretty cool. Here are some of my favorites.
I love Animusic. In short, Animusic is computer-generated music with computer-generated images to coincide with it. If you concentrate, you'll notice that every note has a specific movement assigned to it. The girls love these videos too. Here's one that's quite moving:
And then there's the guy who had too much fun with his Christmas lights and probably riled up all of his neighbors:
Rob and I are convinced that this kid needs a recording contract, or a coveted position as a student at Juilliard:
This woman has one of the most amazing voices I've heard, not to mention a riveting stage presence:
I'm not a big fan of country music, but Rob has discovered the genre recently and has become quite fond of it. I can tolerate some of it. This one by Lonestar is pretty cute:
And, to stay true to my roots, I must share one of my favorite songs ever:
I love Animusic. In short, Animusic is computer-generated music with computer-generated images to coincide with it. If you concentrate, you'll notice that every note has a specific movement assigned to it. The girls love these videos too. Here's one that's quite moving:
And then there's the guy who had too much fun with his Christmas lights and probably riled up all of his neighbors:
Rob and I are convinced that this kid needs a recording contract, or a coveted position as a student at Juilliard:
This woman has one of the most amazing voices I've heard, not to mention a riveting stage presence:
I'm not a big fan of country music, but Rob has discovered the genre recently and has become quite fond of it. I can tolerate some of it. This one by Lonestar is pretty cute:
And, to stay true to my roots, I must share one of my favorite songs ever:
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Happy Children
Rob and I have generally happy children. They smile when we pick them up from school, they smile when they're filling the hallway with umpteen stuffed animals (known as "stuffies" in our house), they smile when we take them to the river to swim and fish. Then why, oh why, can they not smile during dinner? We had the classic tear-fest this evening, with Jenna refusing to eat anything, and Sierra wetting her cheeks because Daddy turned off Spongebob so that she would focus on her food. In the midst of this high drama, I turned to Rob and said, "Don't you want six more?" He shot me a look that would peel chrome off a bumper.
We need happy children at dinnertime. Every other kid on the planet looks forward to snack time, lunchtime, treats in the evening before bed. Do they think we're putting liver in the casserole? Do they have tacks in their seats, unseen by adult eyes? What gives?
We need happy children at dinnertime. Every other kid on the planet looks forward to snack time, lunchtime, treats in the evening before bed. Do they think we're putting liver in the casserole? Do they have tacks in their seats, unseen by adult eyes? What gives?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Mommy Time
We live in a very isolated rural area, on a relatively undeveloped river. Our private road is over a mile long, and its termination only leads us as far as another unpaved (but county-maintained) road. To say we have a lot of privacy is an understatement.
As is par for living with Rob The Tinkerer, we have several personal transportation devices on our property. Rob has his noisy, gas-guzzling, rugged Cushman Truckster, and I have a quiet, comfy-cushioned golf cart. Either vehicle allows us to be "one" with the roads and trails around here.
I prefer my golf cart simply because it's so dang easy to sneak up on the wildlife with it. We regularly see deer, gopher tortoises, wild turkey, hawk, fox squirrels, and snakes on our road. We love to play "tracker" with the girls and identify the various tracks laid out in the sand and gravel. One of the neatest phenomena is to drive down the road, only to return an hour later and see new animal tracks on top of our old tire tracks.
But by far the best part of our road is its therapeutic value. After a hectic day teaching (me), attending school (Sierra) and daycare (Jenna), repairing computer networks (Rob), going to Chess Club (Sierra) and Choi Kwang-Do practice (Sierra), running to the grocery store, et al, it's an automatic stress reliever to drive home and see the houses and businesses fall away, watch the trees move ever closer to the edge of the road, and possibly spook a deer around the next turn. Even hectic nights within our own home are tempered by the lack of sirens, car horns, and people conversing as they walk the neighborhood sidewalks. We have no sidewalks. We have no neighbors. It's just us.
Jenna tends to get rather cranky in the evenings. This is typical for a two-year-old who has spent her whole day stimulated, over-stimulated, and ultra-stimulated. By the end of dinner, she's a mess. She cries, wails, and carries on like she's going to burst. So I've found that it's quite centering to put her on the golf cart, back out of the carport, and take her on a peaceful ride down the road to set her right.
Her favorite part of the drive is when I finally let her cuddle up on my lap while I'm rolling along the road (keep in mind, we have zero traffic, and my top speed is about 10 mph). She'll snuggle into my shoulder, sucking her favorite fingers, while I lazily make my way down the road. Quite often I'll just stop the cart and take in the sounds around us. They are remarkably few. A cricket here, a cardinal there, a rustling in the bushes off to our left. We stop, and sit, and snuggle, and listen. It's just us. And it's great.
To be fair, Sierra gets her share of Mommy Time as well. Her favorite pastime is cuddling up with me in the recliner as I read her the latest library book she's checked out from school. It's about the only time in her life when she readily and eagerly will turn off the TV to do "something else." We try to explain to her that she has several "something else"s in her room (as is noted by the 27-foot-high pile of toys in her toyboxes) and outside (like her own armada of personal transportation devices like a Barbie Jeep and a battery-powered racecar). But nothing quite holds her attention as much as a good read in that recliner. She looks forward to it all day.
I'm pretty sure Jenna looks forward to our "me-time" rides on the golf cart, too, but until she learns how to better articulate her desires, she'll be screaming for it, as usual.
As is par for living with Rob The Tinkerer, we have several personal transportation devices on our property. Rob has his noisy, gas-guzzling, rugged Cushman Truckster, and I have a quiet, comfy-cushioned golf cart. Either vehicle allows us to be "one" with the roads and trails around here.
I prefer my golf cart simply because it's so dang easy to sneak up on the wildlife with it. We regularly see deer, gopher tortoises, wild turkey, hawk, fox squirrels, and snakes on our road. We love to play "tracker" with the girls and identify the various tracks laid out in the sand and gravel. One of the neatest phenomena is to drive down the road, only to return an hour later and see new animal tracks on top of our old tire tracks.
But by far the best part of our road is its therapeutic value. After a hectic day teaching (me), attending school (Sierra) and daycare (Jenna), repairing computer networks (Rob), going to Chess Club (Sierra) and Choi Kwang-Do practice (Sierra), running to the grocery store, et al, it's an automatic stress reliever to drive home and see the houses and businesses fall away, watch the trees move ever closer to the edge of the road, and possibly spook a deer around the next turn. Even hectic nights within our own home are tempered by the lack of sirens, car horns, and people conversing as they walk the neighborhood sidewalks. We have no sidewalks. We have no neighbors. It's just us.
Jenna tends to get rather cranky in the evenings. This is typical for a two-year-old who has spent her whole day stimulated, over-stimulated, and ultra-stimulated. By the end of dinner, she's a mess. She cries, wails, and carries on like she's going to burst. So I've found that it's quite centering to put her on the golf cart, back out of the carport, and take her on a peaceful ride down the road to set her right.
Her favorite part of the drive is when I finally let her cuddle up on my lap while I'm rolling along the road (keep in mind, we have zero traffic, and my top speed is about 10 mph). She'll snuggle into my shoulder, sucking her favorite fingers, while I lazily make my way down the road. Quite often I'll just stop the cart and take in the sounds around us. They are remarkably few. A cricket here, a cardinal there, a rustling in the bushes off to our left. We stop, and sit, and snuggle, and listen. It's just us. And it's great.
To be fair, Sierra gets her share of Mommy Time as well. Her favorite pastime is cuddling up with me in the recliner as I read her the latest library book she's checked out from school. It's about the only time in her life when she readily and eagerly will turn off the TV to do "something else." We try to explain to her that she has several "something else"s in her room (as is noted by the 27-foot-high pile of toys in her toyboxes) and outside (like her own armada of personal transportation devices like a Barbie Jeep and a battery-powered racecar). But nothing quite holds her attention as much as a good read in that recliner. She looks forward to it all day.
I'm pretty sure Jenna looks forward to our "me-time" rides on the golf cart, too, but until she learns how to better articulate her desires, she'll be screaming for it, as usual.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Rainy Days and Mondays
... actually keep me pretty up.
It's been an overcast, where-did-the-sun-go kind of day, with spitty rain everywhere. I don't mind that at all. It makes for a calm and centered Mommy. Children, however, respond to this type of weather quite differently. Just as a shrieking toddler at 8 p.m. is a sure sign that bedtime is nigh, as she is so tired she's working extra hard to keep herself awake, children in the "calm" zone of low pressure systems tend to ramp things up. This was evidenced not only in my own house but in my classroom. It's like they all get an extra-sensory kid memo that says, "Weather conditions are excellent for tornadoes. Go be one."
Sierra had lots of extra energy today, to the point that she fell asleep in the car about three minutes after I pulled out of our school's parking lot. She slept like a rock all the way home, 60 minutes later, even after I picked up Jenna, who decided that today was the day to occupy her mouth with her sister's name. "Sierra ... Sierra ... Sierra! ... SIERRA! ... Siiiiiiiieeeeeeeerrrrra ...." I am blessed with the fact that Sierra is able to sleep through tropical storms, fireworks, and barking dogs at the foot of her bed. Now we can add persistent little sisters to that list.
Jenna, on the other hand, is just plain feeling better after starting her second course of antibiotics for a stubborn ear infection. She's ready to take on the world. The only problem is that most of the world isn't ready for her. We're all grown-ups. We're all asleep today. Could you please join us? It's comfy on the lazy side of adolescence. We know you won't be on this end of things for a couple of decades, but we can dream, can't we?
The icing on the cake, at least for the girls, is that Rob has had extensive dental work done today, so he has a sore mouth. This means comfort food for dinner. We'll be having the quintessential kid cuisine staple of macaroni and cheese with tuna, and crescent rolls. At the behest of an adult. It'll be like child heaven.
Maybe the sun will come out tomorrow and the kids will be more centered. Then all the adults can go back to their neurotic, angst-ridden, I-have-a-million-deadlines-today lives. And the kids will go back to suffering through dinners consisting of lima beans and pork roast.
Enjoy the clouds while they last, little ones.
It's been an overcast, where-did-the-sun-go kind of day, with spitty rain everywhere. I don't mind that at all. It makes for a calm and centered Mommy. Children, however, respond to this type of weather quite differently. Just as a shrieking toddler at 8 p.m. is a sure sign that bedtime is nigh, as she is so tired she's working extra hard to keep herself awake, children in the "calm" zone of low pressure systems tend to ramp things up. This was evidenced not only in my own house but in my classroom. It's like they all get an extra-sensory kid memo that says, "Weather conditions are excellent for tornadoes. Go be one."
Sierra had lots of extra energy today, to the point that she fell asleep in the car about three minutes after I pulled out of our school's parking lot. She slept like a rock all the way home, 60 minutes later, even after I picked up Jenna, who decided that today was the day to occupy her mouth with her sister's name. "Sierra ... Sierra ... Sierra! ... SIERRA! ... Siiiiiiiieeeeeeeerrrrra ...." I am blessed with the fact that Sierra is able to sleep through tropical storms, fireworks, and barking dogs at the foot of her bed. Now we can add persistent little sisters to that list.
Jenna, on the other hand, is just plain feeling better after starting her second course of antibiotics for a stubborn ear infection. She's ready to take on the world. The only problem is that most of the world isn't ready for her. We're all grown-ups. We're all asleep today. Could you please join us? It's comfy on the lazy side of adolescence. We know you won't be on this end of things for a couple of decades, but we can dream, can't we?
The icing on the cake, at least for the girls, is that Rob has had extensive dental work done today, so he has a sore mouth. This means comfort food for dinner. We'll be having the quintessential kid cuisine staple of macaroni and cheese with tuna, and crescent rolls. At the behest of an adult. It'll be like child heaven.
Maybe the sun will come out tomorrow and the kids will be more centered. Then all the adults can go back to their neurotic, angst-ridden, I-have-a-million-deadlines-today lives. And the kids will go back to suffering through dinners consisting of lima beans and pork roast.
Enjoy the clouds while they last, little ones.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Inauguration
I have woefully attempted blogging before, with pitiful results. One was a cooking blog. I don't cook. One was a writing blog. I didn't write anything. One was a teaching blog. I teach, but I couldn't figure out how to share the trials and tribulations of my teaching day while keeping my students completely anonymous to the outside world.
So now I've decided to start a blog based on something that I do, and do well, and can't avoid even if I tried. I'm going to blog about raising my family. My husband, Rob, and I have two little darlings who have inherited my blonde hair (thus, "Blonde(x)3") but who have Rob's fiesty personality. Maybe the title of this blog is a misnomer ... maybe it should be called "Pistol(x)3." Only time will tell.
Sierra is our firstborn, and will be six very soon. She'll be the first to tell you she's almost six. She brushes her teeth well because she's almost six. She can run really fast because she's almost six. She believes that she'll turn into a princess when she turns six. She has princess everything in this house ... a princess castle (big enough for an afternoon nap), a princess play-tube, princess nightgowns, princess tiaras, princess shirts, princess sneakers, a princess backpack, a princess lunchbox, the list goes on. What happened to my tomboy? Oh yeah, she'll make her appearance later this afternoon when she begs Daddy to take her fishing at our shoreline. She will spear a worm onto a hook with the best of them. And she'll come home with toads in her princess pockets.
Jenna is our baby, who turned two in June. She's growing up fast, faster than her sister, because, well, her sister is showing her the ropes. She loves to jump. Off of things. High things. Like the back of the couch. And the dining room chairs. And the concrete steps on our back porch. My heart jumps right along with her. I'm thinking that Jenna will live her life eternally striving to catch up or exceed her big sister in life. I'm thinking that she wants to start by having the first broken bone. I'm wondering how to explain to a two-year-old that this is, in fact, not a goal to covet.
Of course, none of these adventures would be complete, would be even possible, without Rob, my husband of 11 years. He is the anchor to our family, bringing home the bacon (well, I do that too), caring for the girls (well, I do that too), and fixing things around the house (well, I ... broke that). He is a brunette, but obviously he has blonde in his veins because he passed it on to our girls. He would be the first to point out to you that he is living in a household of yellow-haired females, and ain't it amazing. So amazing, in fact, that he has made a solemn promise to me that when our girls reach puberty, he will unabashedly, unashamedly, and unhesitatingly support their journey through it ... from his man-cave in the barn. He will leave me to the vultures. Oh, he has an idea of what it's like to be around adolescent females (given his interest in them when he was an adolescent male), but he points out that only I know what it's like to BE an adolescent female. That was 20 years ago, but no matter. I will get the drama.
Not that our lives are devoid of drama now. Ever try to administer Omnicef to a earache-riddled, willful, vocally-demonstrative whirlwind of a two-year-old? Ever try to convince a headstrong six-year-old that yes, in fact, it IS appropriate to put on shorts under a minidress because, while her princess panties are just lovely, the checkout girl at the supermarket does not need to see them directly to acquiesce that point?
I close now with a visual icon of what I have discovered, in the last six years, is the only truth in parenthood, one "they" don't tell you about until it's too late, and you're in the throes of body-wracking contractions, and the pain you're feeling now is NOTHING compared to what's coming:
No, these are not my children. But they could be. And that's the point.
So now I've decided to start a blog based on something that I do, and do well, and can't avoid even if I tried. I'm going to blog about raising my family. My husband, Rob, and I have two little darlings who have inherited my blonde hair (thus, "Blonde(x)3") but who have Rob's fiesty personality. Maybe the title of this blog is a misnomer ... maybe it should be called "Pistol(x)3." Only time will tell.
Sierra is our firstborn, and will be six very soon. She'll be the first to tell you she's almost six. She brushes her teeth well because she's almost six. She can run really fast because she's almost six. She believes that she'll turn into a princess when she turns six. She has princess everything in this house ... a princess castle (big enough for an afternoon nap), a princess play-tube, princess nightgowns, princess tiaras, princess shirts, princess sneakers, a princess backpack, a princess lunchbox, the list goes on. What happened to my tomboy? Oh yeah, she'll make her appearance later this afternoon when she begs Daddy to take her fishing at our shoreline. She will spear a worm onto a hook with the best of them. And she'll come home with toads in her princess pockets.
Jenna is our baby, who turned two in June. She's growing up fast, faster than her sister, because, well, her sister is showing her the ropes. She loves to jump. Off of things. High things. Like the back of the couch. And the dining room chairs. And the concrete steps on our back porch. My heart jumps right along with her. I'm thinking that Jenna will live her life eternally striving to catch up or exceed her big sister in life. I'm thinking that she wants to start by having the first broken bone. I'm wondering how to explain to a two-year-old that this is, in fact, not a goal to covet.
Of course, none of these adventures would be complete, would be even possible, without Rob, my husband of 11 years. He is the anchor to our family, bringing home the bacon (well, I do that too), caring for the girls (well, I do that too), and fixing things around the house (well, I ... broke that). He is a brunette, but obviously he has blonde in his veins because he passed it on to our girls. He would be the first to point out to you that he is living in a household of yellow-haired females, and ain't it amazing. So amazing, in fact, that he has made a solemn promise to me that when our girls reach puberty, he will unabashedly, unashamedly, and unhesitatingly support their journey through it ... from his man-cave in the barn. He will leave me to the vultures. Oh, he has an idea of what it's like to be around adolescent females (given his interest in them when he was an adolescent male), but he points out that only I know what it's like to BE an adolescent female. That was 20 years ago, but no matter. I will get the drama.
Not that our lives are devoid of drama now. Ever try to administer Omnicef to a earache-riddled, willful, vocally-demonstrative whirlwind of a two-year-old? Ever try to convince a headstrong six-year-old that yes, in fact, it IS appropriate to put on shorts under a minidress because, while her princess panties are just lovely, the checkout girl at the supermarket does not need to see them directly to acquiesce that point?
I close now with a visual icon of what I have discovered, in the last six years, is the only truth in parenthood, one "they" don't tell you about until it's too late, and you're in the throes of body-wracking contractions, and the pain you're feeling now is NOTHING compared to what's coming:
No, these are not my children. But they could be. And that's the point.
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