Category: Family and Friends

A Florida Winter.

“Hey Beth, do you want to go outside and feel how cold it is this morning”, daddy asked at 8 a.m. this morning. “Yeah!!”, Beth replied enthusiastically. “O.K., I’ll pick you up and carry you since you don’t have any shoes on.”

They go just out side the door and rush back inside without hesitation.

“Daddy, what temperature is it in here?” asked Beth. Daddy replied, “well, its about 70 degrees in here.”
“And what temperature is it out there?” asked Beth. Daddy replied, “its 40 degrees out there now.”
“Ooo, that’s a lot of cold daddy.”

Child Takes Initiative, “Cleans” Bathroom.

DUNEDIN – Using only the objects available to her: a toilet (the sink was too high to reach) and the brush beside it; Elizabeth Kauffman did her best to clean her parents bathroom early this evening. “I put the brush in the water and I put the water there and there and there and there and there” said Elizabeth, describing the scene to her father. Those on the scene describe the bathroom as “wet.” “You wouldn’t believe how much water there is in a toilet”, said Beth’s father, arriving late on the scene. “There was water everywhere. . .and there was still some in the toilet. . .!@#$%^& unbelievable!”

The child’s mother was reportedly working this evening and was not available for comment.

Remembering my grandmother.

These last several years, I had the impression that my grandmother was not a happy person. Perhaps I am not the best person here today to make this assessment, but despite being separated by geography and circumstances, we did speak on the phone occasionally. When we did, she invariably mentioned that most of her loved ones and friends were long gone.

I was listening to National Public Radio the other day and I heard a piece which was relevant for today. An older woman was relating a story she heard from a friend who was a midwife. This friend was delivering a baby whose amniotic sack had not yet broken. This friend claimed that, for a brief moment, she was able to see the baby’s face through the dilated birth canal, and it was an amazing sight – the baby’s head not yet deformed by the trauma of child birth. Eventually, the sack was broken and the baby was born soon thereafter. The woman telling this story mused about how she thought that death may be much like child birth: a long, drawn out struggle of a journey, climaxed by a birth into a new reality. She then wondered if sometimes people experience something similar to that baby being born – that they perhaps catch glimpses of friends, offering a helping hand on their final journey to heaven from life on Earth.

I don’t know if I quite believe the story about that baby; but I do pray that my grandmother was met by those that loved her and completed the journey before her; and that at long last, she is with them now.

My heart aches for the things I feel I could have done, and for opportunities that sadly can no longer come.

Siblings.

Every so often, the topic of having more children comes up. Sometimes it is a joking reference from an acquaintance. Sometimes it is a prodding from my in laws. Sometimes it is a serious conversation with Cheryl. Other times, it is just me. . .sitting and thinking. . .like right now. On most of these occasions, many of the same tired arguments are raised: “do we want Beth to be an only child?”, “didn’t we always want to have at least two?”, “can we afford another child in day care?”; or, “can we afford another child, period?” Less often, I think of my experience as the oldest of three. If I were to think only of my childhood, then the decision would be easy. . .we’ll take just the one please. It’s not that simple however. At some point we all grew up. Something happened as I grew older; I found that I loved my family a great deal. As a child, my sisters were rivals and competitors for attention and scarce resources (like Jello Pudding Pops). Now I look back through my old pictures and I find that some of my happiest moments caught on film, since high school graduation, were spent with my sisters. Perhaps it’s not the best reason for having more children, but it has been one of the most persuasive reasons to date.

You’re Never Too Young

Beth started the day, like nearly every other weekday, at 6 am. Although this is not out of the ordinary, getting up any earlier than 8 am is inherently bad. I’m neither looking for, nor do I expect any sympathy from those of the medical persuasion, but I think we all can agree to this in principle.

From there, Beth went to school and suffered through a long day. When she arrived, she discovered her teacher would not be there. Instead, she had a substitute – which is almost never a good thing. She didn’t get in a nap which is definitely never a good thing.

Tired from a lack of sleep, and already weary from suffering through a substitute teacher, Cheryl picked her up early to go to the dentist. It was her first time with the poke, prod, scrape, and polish routine. When the pain in her mouth was still around an hour later, we called on our good friend Motrin.

Not until later that night, when Beth was on the potty struggling with something too gross to describe, Beth pitifully announced: “Mommy, I’m having a bad day.”

Good Excuses.

In the last week or so, Beth has been doing an excellent job of: as we say, “putting her pee-pee and poopy in the potty.” (This weekend was an exception, but I won’t get into that now.) She has even graduated to wearing underpants to school, and she wears the same pair all day. Today however, she had a bit of a set back, but its hard to blame her. As a general rule, Beth has been very afraid of things that make a lot of noise; and vacuum cleaners in particular. Well for some reason the staff at her school decided that it would be a good idea to do some vacuuming while the students were in the room. Beth was caught off guard and did not react well. I understand she was quite a sight; a mostly four year old child screaming at the top of her lungs, dirty from her good time on the playground, with a steady stream running down her legs and emptying into the puddle of fear in which she stood. The appropriate response of a parent would be one of sympathy, and I swear that I was at least in part sympathetic. But when Beth confided to me later that “the vacuum scared the pee-pee out of me”, I just had to giggle a little, even if it was just to myself.

Thar She Blows!

“Her bowels blew!” said Beth’s teacher, describing Beth’s explosive trip to the potty this afternoon.

The “big” potty at home took the brunt of another sudden burst this evening. When you get a good deal of the product on the under side of the toilet seat, you know your dealing with a powerful force not to be reckoned with lightly.

Pop Quiz: What do you get when you take an extremely constipated young girl to a specialist; he gives her Enulose (to loosen her up); she takes it for four days without a movement; she goes to her regular doctor for something unrelated; he determines that she has a sinus infection; and, he prescribes an antibiotic which she takes for two days (along with the Enulose)?

Answer: A great big mess.

Break out the 409, it’s Bounty time.

Reflux Redux; and, why do I bother sending these to Christy?

Reflux rears it’s ugly head, and Christy’s email probably remains unaccessible; but the show must go on.

Beth went to see the latest doctor in what has been called, “the Grand Tour of Pediatric Specialists”; or, in honor of my in-laws: “le Tour de Docteur Medecin Enfant Specialiste.” (Bet you’d never guess I don’t have a lick of French in me, and I made that all up on the fly.)

The most recent addition to the tour was the G.I. specialist. We went because Beth was full of crap, or so we were told. The G.I. Guy said it was more likely our primary was full of it. The good doctor said Beth’s only problem was a strong desire to hold it in. He prescribed lactulose to loosen her up – to force the issue, if you know what I mean.

We quickly passed that however, because he seemed to be more interested in another one of her quirks: her thing with mixing-up a common cliche. In Beth’s case it’s: “what goes down must come back up.” He seemed to think she still has reflux, noting it’s not normal to throw up so often. He prescribed Zantac and Reglan.

As a result, our mornings now start with a virtual parade of prescription medications. To finish off her bronchitis and ear infection, we start the morning with Zithromax. We immediately follow with a Zantac/Reglan/Delsym cocktail chaser. She gets a half hour break to eat breakfast. If we’re lucky we get a pinch of vomiting in between. Last, before leaving for school, we give a dose of lactulose to send her off on her day nice and loose. When we all get home, we get to do much of it all over again, with a vitamin and Zyrtec added into the mix.

Ah, the joy of prescription medications. Perhaps an appropriate toy for our next child (if we have another) would be the Fisher Price “My First Pharmacy.”

Life is a classroom.

Beth, with her faux medical bag in hand, explains “this will just take a minute daddy.” She opens her bag and produces a stethoscope. She puts the ear pieces up to her ears, pulls up my shirt and reassures me, in her best bed-side manner: “this won’t hurt daddy, this won’t hurt, this will just take a minute daddy. . . .There, you feel better now daddy?”

Where does she come up with this stuff?

When the alarm doesn’t sound.

About two years ago, my department gave everyone a personality test. This test gave everyone a score based on how strongly each of four defined personality types appeared in a person. One of these defined types, labeled “gold”, was for those who valued rules, structure, organization, well defined plans, thinking things out ahead of time, and being well prepared. Since taking this test, I’ve held the notion that Cheryl had more gold than a goldfish.

Well, a certain “gold” individual had their worst nightmare come true this morning. I woke up on my own this morning and immediately determined that it was much too bright outside for 5:45 am. I went through a hopeful, half awake “is it the weekend or am I late for work” self examination before succumbing to the awful truth; I was indeed late for work (or soon would be). Depending on the type of person you are, this realization speeds the waking process significantly. As you can probably guess by now, the alarm did not go off. Without naming any names, it appears. . .aw hell. . .CHERYL did not remember to set the alarm. Being a sworn non-gold person**, this awoke a healthy dose of anxiety even in me. Cheryl on the other hand was having tremors that likely registered on seismographs out west. Since she had more responsibilities, and would get into more trouble for being late, I volunteered to diaper, dress and deliver the young one on my own.

Now Beth is accustomed to getting up with us at 5:45. The normal routine is to get her up, give her food, turn on the TV, and let her do her thing while we get ready for work. After we are ready, and she has had a chance to eat (or smear half chewed, formerly dry cereal in her hair like mousse – one of the two), we get her ready and head out the door. I followed this same formula this morning. It was apparent that Beth knew something was amiss (and I found it amusing) when she walked into the bathroom while I was shaving and said, “daddy, something is wrong. The clock doesn’t say five this morning!” What could I possibly say to that?

**Slowly but surely, I feel I am being pushed to the dark side by an unstoppable, determined force; Cheryl.