Time went by…ever so slowly as the knitting needle rolled smoothly across the glass-topped roundtable. A heavy sigh escaped from pouting lips…mine.
The object and cause of disappointment was sprawled motionlessly on my lap. The string of green that must have gone through World War II seemed to taunt me. Why I couldn’t get it right, I didn’t know. It looked so easy when my friends were doing it.
Simple knitting, Sheryl! I scolded myself. How could something so simple be so complicated?
I knew it was silly being so crestfallen over inanimate objects as if the whole world depended on it. But I wanted to learn the craft. When I saw Meeyan knitting one afternoon with her hands doing a tiptoe dance like those of a ballerina’s feet, I was enamored by such grace.
So there I was late at night trying to knit and shaming the women race. Then Mom came in the kitchen. I colored at the surprise on her face as she asked me why I was still awake.
Sheepishly I told her and regretted it when she burst out laughing. It was clear in her laughter that she thought I was being ridiculous. Yet, her eyes sparkled with something like pride.
Even simplicity, she said, needs to be defined.
She took the needle and the yarn (which both betrayed me and tripped my hands in their dancing) and showed me how to really knit. When she let me do it, I was still a hopeless case. Yet it only made her smile more.
At last, I got it right. The yarn was already in a splice, in a cleaner chain compared to the confused nest I made earlier.
Mom stood up and hinted that I keep practicing. Before she left, she told me, “Life is full of false starts and new beginnings, of failures before success, of tripping and falling. What matters is that you get up in every fall, learn in every mistake and never stop trying until you get it right. While there is room for mistakes, there is room for improvements and, just think, a house of learning.
My mother could have been a great teacher. I remember back when I was seven years old and still could not read. When she found out about it, she was so angry; she scared the hell out of me. Being a topnotcher herself in her youth, she was insulted.
I didn’t know how she did it but overnight she had turned me into a fluent reader. Uhm…okay, there were lots of spanking and pinching (my eyes still water at the thought of it). But it was worth it.
Perhaps I already had it in me but did not know it because I did not care. Why I did not care? Because I was not interested. And why? Because I thought I could never use it. All I cared about was playing. But my mother changed that. She opened one window by teaching me how to read, and lots of doors opened for me since then.
A sigh came out again…but this time of swelling pride and contentment. My thoughts went from the glaring eagle eyes of a hardened face that made me cower at mere sight…to eyes that shine with wisdom from a face gentled by years.
Mom, you’re simply the best, I thought. Then I went back to knitting.
Oops…there’s the mistake again!
I struggled for a while…then went on with my progress.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy Olano
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Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Isis and his chain Take2
Now when he is bounding about in carefree abandon he occasionally meets another dog that seems to speak his language. Isis sees something louche in this. He cannot handle another creature sharing his language, I guess it makes him vulnerable and maybe it affects his sense of significance; which is obviously that he is the only terrestrial creature that can declare to the world the unique message; "Bow Wow".
Isis is a brave dog; he will bite and dismember anything that threatens his Dogness. Cell phones, TV remote controls, pens, rugs, bones and numerous members of the harmless material world have crumbled between his jaws for the simple sin of not satisfactorily affirming his Dogness. Isis will not tolerate any creature questioning or challenging his doghood. He charges and gets into a fight. Isis is very clear about the healthy way to fight. His fights are all about I win and you lose. Somehow, Isis has again been learning the hard way that, some dogs fight back, especially if they are dogs that have lived their lives with out a human in their house.
I do not know if Isis resents the protected environment I have given him but I know that when the war of dogs gets beyond what he can handle he whimpers and comes running to me with his tail between his wobbly legs. The other dogs back off when they realize that Isis has a human attached to him with a chain. The moment he hears the snap clasp of the chain on his collar; he is transformed. His dropping tail starts wagging, his frightened eyes sparkle with confidence and his whimpers turn into aggressive declarations of his dogly message to the world-
"Bow Wow". He declares to the chainless quadrupeds with an attitude that perfected David's discourse with uncircumcised Goliath. "Look you chainless fauna", he says. "I have bow wow with me, don't you dare challenge me". He keeps turning around to check if I am there to support his claims and the more he see me around the more confident he gets. Once again he strains at the chain to take me where he wants to go but I also believe that in his heart he is happy to have a chain that holds me close to him.
The chain that confines him, defines him. It defines his existence in the universe and affirms to him that he is; and yes that he is the one and only Isis and he is reminded that I am indeed his one and only pet "bow wow".
Contributed by: Arul Baliah
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Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
Isis is a brave dog; he will bite and dismember anything that threatens his Dogness. Cell phones, TV remote controls, pens, rugs, bones and numerous members of the harmless material world have crumbled between his jaws for the simple sin of not satisfactorily affirming his Dogness. Isis will not tolerate any creature questioning or challenging his doghood. He charges and gets into a fight. Isis is very clear about the healthy way to fight. His fights are all about I win and you lose. Somehow, Isis has again been learning the hard way that, some dogs fight back, especially if they are dogs that have lived their lives with out a human in their house.
I do not know if Isis resents the protected environment I have given him but I know that when the war of dogs gets beyond what he can handle he whimpers and comes running to me with his tail between his wobbly legs. The other dogs back off when they realize that Isis has a human attached to him with a chain. The moment he hears the snap clasp of the chain on his collar; he is transformed. His dropping tail starts wagging, his frightened eyes sparkle with confidence and his whimpers turn into aggressive declarations of his dogly message to the world-
"Bow Wow". He declares to the chainless quadrupeds with an attitude that perfected David's discourse with uncircumcised Goliath. "Look you chainless fauna", he says. "I have bow wow with me, don't you dare challenge me". He keeps turning around to check if I am there to support his claims and the more he see me around the more confident he gets. Once again he strains at the chain to take me where he wants to go but I also believe that in his heart he is happy to have a chain that holds me close to him.
The chain that confines him, defines him. It defines his existence in the universe and affirms to him that he is; and yes that he is the one and only Isis and he is reminded that I am indeed his one and only pet "bow wow".
Contributed by: Arul Baliah
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Isis and his chain Take 1
My name is Arul, and I live in Gurgaon with a dog named Isis. Isis is a genetically challenged Dalmatian. He grew up and spent almost all his life in the company of an overweight bachelor. I guess the nature vs. nurture phenomenon coupled with his not having too many doggy friends to interact with, has cast a predisposition on his world view- he thinks that he is human and believes with all his heart that I am his pet. I call him Isis and he calls me “Bow Wow”. I guess Isis has defined me with the best faculties of his vocabulary because most of what he says is “Bow Wow”. This is a parable about the chain that comes between us.
Isis has a strained relationship with his chain. He hates it and feels limited by it. However; the fact of the matter is that the chain comes into play only in occasions where his freedom would be hazardous to him and the rest of the universe. In such moments he fails to realize that the chain is not the story of his life. The limits of the chain often save his life. The length of the chain and the amount of freedom he gets is determined by how much freedom is safe and good for him in the given situation.
Isis looks at other dogs in the neighborhood, dogs that do not have a chain attached to their necks and he asks them with the questioning eyes; “Why don’t you have a chain? Why don’t you have a “bow wow” attached to you? Does your life without a bow wow make you happy??? ” When the other dogs ask him what the chain is for he explains that it is a widget he uses to bend my will to match his, to make me go where he wants to go. To drag me around and showoff to the world that he has a 2 legged pet that is fully under his control and dogipulations. I guess, he even feels called to make a public display of how he can use the chain that holds him back to take me where he wants to go. I have to admit that he does do a great job of it. He exercises an effort that would compel a super laden caravan through the eye of a needle.
Every morning Isis loves the sound of me picking up his chain. He argues with every nerve in my body that tells me to go back to sleep. He performs a gleeful prance between me and the door to urge me to go against the laws of the universe which clearly state that: more sleep is equal to a better option than walking a hyperactive cross between a Dalmatian and a creature of unknown origin. He loves to take me for a walk. On days when it is sufficiently early and the traffic is less, I take Isis for a walk without his chain and that makes him the happiest dog in the Dogdom. He runs about the street looks at other people and tries to jump on them and invite them to also be his pets. The people, for some strange reason, do not exactly respond the way he expects them to. Slowly and surely he seems to be learning to face rejection with his tail. He understands that not all potentially competent 2 legged pets are willing to dedicate their entire existence to the singular purpose of his happiness, but he has the dogged persistence of an insurance sales man. He leaves the non-respondents with an attitude of, “it is ok if you do not want to be my pet, I am not losing anything, I guess you have thought about it and I guess your ok with the consequences of not being my pet.” He proceeds to display enjoyment of freedom by zigzagging around me across the road. Isis loves it when I let him enjoy his Dogness without restraint.
Now when he is bounding about in carefree abandon he occasionally meets another dog that seems to speak his language. Isis sees something louche in this. He cannot handle another creature sharing his language, I guess it makes him vulnerable and maybe it also affects his sense of significance; which is obviously that he is the only terrestrial creature that can declare to the world the unique message; “Bow Wow”.
Isis is a brave dog; he will bite and dismember anything that threatens his Dogness. Cell phones, TV remote controls, pens, rugs, bones and numerous members of the harmless material world have crumbled between his jaws for the simple sin of not satisfactorily affirming his Dogness. Isis will not tolerate any creature questioning or challenging his doghood. He charges and gets into a fight. Isis is very clear about the healthy way to fight. His fights are all about I win and you lose. Somehow Isis has again been learning the hard way that, some dogs fight back, especially if they are dogs that have lived their lives with out a human in their house. I do not know if Isis resents the protected environment I have given him but I know that when the war of dogs gets beyond what he can handle he whimpers and comes running to me with his tail between his wobbly legs. The other dogs back off when they realize that Isis has a human attached to him with a chain. The moment he hears the snap clasp of the chain on his collar; he is transformed. His dropping tail starts wagging, his frightened eyes sparkle with confidence and his whimpers turn into aggressive declarations of his dogly message to the world- “Bow Wow”. He declares to the chainless quadrupeds with an improvization of David’s discourse with the uncircumcised Goliath. “Look you chainless fauna”, he says. “I have bow wow with me, don’t you dare challenge me”. He keeps turning around to check if I am there to support his claims and the more he see me around the more confident he gets. Once again he strains at the chain to take me where he wants to go but I also believe that in his heart he is happy to have a chain that holds me close to him.
The chain that confines him, defines him. It defines his existence in the universe and affirms to him that he is; and yes that he is the one and only Isis and he is reminded that I am indeed his one and only pet “bow wow”.
Contributed by: ~Arul Baliah
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Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
Isis has a strained relationship with his chain. He hates it and feels limited by it. However; the fact of the matter is that the chain comes into play only in occasions where his freedom would be hazardous to him and the rest of the universe. In such moments he fails to realize that the chain is not the story of his life. The limits of the chain often save his life. The length of the chain and the amount of freedom he gets is determined by how much freedom is safe and good for him in the given situation.
Isis looks at other dogs in the neighborhood, dogs that do not have a chain attached to their necks and he asks them with the questioning eyes; “Why don’t you have a chain? Why don’t you have a “bow wow” attached to you? Does your life without a bow wow make you happy??? ” When the other dogs ask him what the chain is for he explains that it is a widget he uses to bend my will to match his, to make me go where he wants to go. To drag me around and showoff to the world that he has a 2 legged pet that is fully under his control and dogipulations. I guess, he even feels called to make a public display of how he can use the chain that holds him back to take me where he wants to go. I have to admit that he does do a great job of it. He exercises an effort that would compel a super laden caravan through the eye of a needle.
Every morning Isis loves the sound of me picking up his chain. He argues with every nerve in my body that tells me to go back to sleep. He performs a gleeful prance between me and the door to urge me to go against the laws of the universe which clearly state that: more sleep is equal to a better option than walking a hyperactive cross between a Dalmatian and a creature of unknown origin. He loves to take me for a walk. On days when it is sufficiently early and the traffic is less, I take Isis for a walk without his chain and that makes him the happiest dog in the Dogdom. He runs about the street looks at other people and tries to jump on them and invite them to also be his pets. The people, for some strange reason, do not exactly respond the way he expects them to. Slowly and surely he seems to be learning to face rejection with his tail. He understands that not all potentially competent 2 legged pets are willing to dedicate their entire existence to the singular purpose of his happiness, but he has the dogged persistence of an insurance sales man. He leaves the non-respondents with an attitude of, “it is ok if you do not want to be my pet, I am not losing anything, I guess you have thought about it and I guess your ok with the consequences of not being my pet.” He proceeds to display enjoyment of freedom by zigzagging around me across the road. Isis loves it when I let him enjoy his Dogness without restraint.
Now when he is bounding about in carefree abandon he occasionally meets another dog that seems to speak his language. Isis sees something louche in this. He cannot handle another creature sharing his language, I guess it makes him vulnerable and maybe it also affects his sense of significance; which is obviously that he is the only terrestrial creature that can declare to the world the unique message; “Bow Wow”.
Isis is a brave dog; he will bite and dismember anything that threatens his Dogness. Cell phones, TV remote controls, pens, rugs, bones and numerous members of the harmless material world have crumbled between his jaws for the simple sin of not satisfactorily affirming his Dogness. Isis will not tolerate any creature questioning or challenging his doghood. He charges and gets into a fight. Isis is very clear about the healthy way to fight. His fights are all about I win and you lose. Somehow Isis has again been learning the hard way that, some dogs fight back, especially if they are dogs that have lived their lives with out a human in their house. I do not know if Isis resents the protected environment I have given him but I know that when the war of dogs gets beyond what he can handle he whimpers and comes running to me with his tail between his wobbly legs. The other dogs back off when they realize that Isis has a human attached to him with a chain. The moment he hears the snap clasp of the chain on his collar; he is transformed. His dropping tail starts wagging, his frightened eyes sparkle with confidence and his whimpers turn into aggressive declarations of his dogly message to the world- “Bow Wow”. He declares to the chainless quadrupeds with an improvization of David’s discourse with the uncircumcised Goliath. “Look you chainless fauna”, he says. “I have bow wow with me, don’t you dare challenge me”. He keeps turning around to check if I am there to support his claims and the more he see me around the more confident he gets. Once again he strains at the chain to take me where he wants to go but I also believe that in his heart he is happy to have a chain that holds me close to him.
The chain that confines him, defines him. It defines his existence in the universe and affirms to him that he is; and yes that he is the one and only Isis and he is reminded that I am indeed his one and only pet “bow wow”.
Contributed by: ~Arul Baliah
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Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
Finding Little Heaven
The news came as a shock to us all. He who had been ill for days had been taken to the hospital. It was found out that he had very high amount of creatinine in his blood, resulting from a stone in one of his kidneys.
Creatinine is a liquid waste. It causes slow blood circulation, making even breathing difficult. While the normal amount of creatinine in our body is 1.5%, he had 23.3% of it.
He had assured us it was only a frustrating duo of ulcer and bronchitis so no one thought it was a kidney problem, which I only used to hear about from other people's sob stories but never thought would happen to my own flesh and blood- my father.
A tube was inserted into my father's body to start the perritonial dialysis. The nurse had warned it would be painful because the anesthesia would not reach the innermost part of his body. Still, I was shaken to hear his tortured scream as the nurse punctured his abdomen.
For days my father struggled with a tremble to move a muscle or to eat without vomiting the food out. He couldn't seem to swallow anything down his throat. My father…whom I neglected while others longed for a paternal presence in their homes…oh, how I had wronged him!
For the first time, my siblings and I showed how we truly felt, even humbling down to our knees to pray and beg God, in the midst of weeping and yes…running noses, to show us mercy. It was quite a scene…sure beats "Maalaala Mo Kaya".
Friends became out of reach, or perhaps it was me who was withdrawing from them. In their absence, strangers and people I hadn't heard for years came pouring in to help.
It took great effort to focus at work but like a puppet I moved on, not daring to disturb normalcy. Somehow I had kept myself from bawling for moping could not help my father.
Our prayers and (this will sound corny as hell) love have done wonders to my father although he still has to undergo hemodialysis. Now he could even make faces at us. Funny how he tries to make us smile in the face of grief.
My siblings and I have become closer than ever. And the realization that our parents had raised us well dawned in. In this hell we are going through, we've found a little heaven. Indeed I had a lot to thank God for. He had allowed us the pain that has shaken us to the core. But a pain meant to heal us spiritually and emotionally, a pain that has brought with it people we could count on. Sigh, God's mysterious ways!
Only now have I heeded to the good ol' saying romantics often chided to me: Always take the chance of showing that you care, for you never know when that chance would be taken away from you.
Thank God, I still have that chance
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
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Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
Creatinine is a liquid waste. It causes slow blood circulation, making even breathing difficult. While the normal amount of creatinine in our body is 1.5%, he had 23.3% of it.
He had assured us it was only a frustrating duo of ulcer and bronchitis so no one thought it was a kidney problem, which I only used to hear about from other people's sob stories but never thought would happen to my own flesh and blood- my father.
A tube was inserted into my father's body to start the perritonial dialysis. The nurse had warned it would be painful because the anesthesia would not reach the innermost part of his body. Still, I was shaken to hear his tortured scream as the nurse punctured his abdomen.
For days my father struggled with a tremble to move a muscle or to eat without vomiting the food out. He couldn't seem to swallow anything down his throat. My father…whom I neglected while others longed for a paternal presence in their homes…oh, how I had wronged him!
For the first time, my siblings and I showed how we truly felt, even humbling down to our knees to pray and beg God, in the midst of weeping and yes…running noses, to show us mercy. It was quite a scene…sure beats "Maalaala Mo Kaya".
Friends became out of reach, or perhaps it was me who was withdrawing from them. In their absence, strangers and people I hadn't heard for years came pouring in to help.
It took great effort to focus at work but like a puppet I moved on, not daring to disturb normalcy. Somehow I had kept myself from bawling for moping could not help my father.
Our prayers and (this will sound corny as hell) love have done wonders to my father although he still has to undergo hemodialysis. Now he could even make faces at us. Funny how he tries to make us smile in the face of grief.
My siblings and I have become closer than ever. And the realization that our parents had raised us well dawned in. In this hell we are going through, we've found a little heaven. Indeed I had a lot to thank God for. He had allowed us the pain that has shaken us to the core. But a pain meant to heal us spiritually and emotionally, a pain that has brought with it people we could count on. Sigh, God's mysterious ways!
Only now have I heeded to the good ol' saying romantics often chided to me: Always take the chance of showing that you care, for you never know when that chance would be taken away from you.
Thank God, I still have that chance
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
Send in your articles for free publication
Part of the Dream Weave Walk network
A lesson in the park
It was a usual scene -- a park teeming with joggers. Every sphere of life-- i.e. childhood, youth, and old age—was scattered all over the park. Sweating faces, sloshing paunches, and swift legs ruled the early morning hour of the park.
I was there sitting on a bench after taking a light stroll. Since, I was in the middle of the oval garden, I was able to reckon rounds that people were taking. Some took 20 laps of swift walk, while some preferred to only 5.
After a while a couple with an almost 10 years old boy entered the park and started their rounds of health. Both parents had clutched hands of the boy from either side. The boy was walking in the middle of his parents. They took one lap and completed second and went on. When this family crossed my eyes after the third lap, a little girl of six caught my attention. She was insisting her grandfather on playing football with her. It was obvious from grandpa’s gestures that due to his arthritis, he was trying to persuade the little lady to be confined to his lap. Grandpa tried to veer her attention from football and pointed his finger toward the sky to show a flock of birds. And I assumed (the constant stare of the girl toward the sky helped me assume) that the old chap conjured up a story then and there to placate the football passion of the girl. The girl lost into the story; I, into the Sky.
“How vast the bosom of the Sky is?” I thought. The decoration of the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars weaves a spectacle for the eyes. There is very hardly any roof in this world as sumptuously accoutered as the Sky. I was enthralled at the grandeur of nature.
My attention pertaining to the glorification of the nature broke by the footsteps coming toward a bench beside mine. It was those three who had entered a while ago. After the tiring rounds of walk, they had come to relax on the bench. For some time they relished the breathtaking view around the park, before being disturbed by the honking horn of an ice-cream-man. The child tugged on the sari (a dressing piece of cloth for women in India) of her mother to let her know his demand of an ice cream cone. Mother complied with his demand and bought him a cone of ice cream.
I wondered why he himself didn’t reach out for the ice cream trolly, like many children do?
On closer examination, I came to know that he was unable to see. That is why his parents were helping him to finish up the ice cream. After devouring the delicious dollops, he rested his back on the rear part of the bench. His translucent eyeballs rolled from one corner to the other corner of his eyes tracing every sound that happened in the atmosphere. In fact the eyeballs were corresponding with the directions his ears gave him as to a sound. He was continuously active with his two organs to explore the surrounding he was in.
“What an irony!” I thought. “There is so much of color around him, but he was deprived of that.” My heart got filled with sympathetic feelings for him. I felt vicarious pain for his inability to see things. I cursed every thing from God to nature for the injustice done to this little soul.
With feelings of despondency, I made an approach to converse with him by asking his name. (His father erased skepticism in his eyes for a stranger’s voice by addressing me as uncle and told him to tell me his name.)
“Sumit” he sounded sonorously.
“In which class do you read, Sumit?” I asked.
“Class five”
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“He sings very well, has won many music competitions too.” Informed his father.
“Oh! Is it?” “… Then why no have a music treat from you?”
The boy was shy to start with, but once he started singing (upon his mother’s encouragement), I was spellbound. The voice of his had a glimpse of aplomb, which can surmount any difficulties of life; the shimmer in his eyes had grains of grit, that can pierce any citadel of success; and the whole body of his had elements of ebullition, which can indefatigably encourage him to stay optimistic in life.
The song, which was a hymn, ended and ‘bravo’ spelt out of my mouth. His parents clapped.
The pleasant duration of morning was passing by quickly and the Sun was becoming a little bitter to bear. All three rose to take leave, I insisted to walk for some distance with them. Halfway our journey, I found a grocery shop. I went into it and bought a packet of chocolates for Sumit. I came out and gifted the packet to him in appreciation of his entertaining performance for me. He received the packet with élan; he was ecstatic. I could feel his emotions through his smiling lips. After a few minutes, we parted ways.
I was alone and strolling back to my destination. Some notions started springing up in my mind. They were troublesome for me. These views were about my prior contemplation about the kid. I thought why I felt pessimistic about the existence of the kid. The boy was full of life and I had described his life as drab and bland. Why I thought downside about the boy, only because he couldn’t see. Is it that only people with ability to see have the right to enjoy the gifts of life? No, life can be enjoyed even without the ability to see.
Enjoyment of life has nothing to do with the ability to see, but to the ability to feel. If one can feel life, then one is alive, otherwise dead. But this is not the situation with the ability to see. One can miss the light of eyes and at the same time enjoy the life to the full. I am not sure whether I was dead, when I thought hopeless things about the lad, but am sure about now that I am alive. Because, I am enlightened and know something more as to life than I did an hour or so before.
Finnaly, it dawned on me that I was utterly wrong in assessing his plight. And the acknowledgement of mistake was with a guilt feeling. That day I promised myself that I won’t fell sorry for any disabled person in the future, for this belittles the importance of their struggle and courage that they use to lead this life. The crux of my thinking session was that the moment I feel that somebody is disabled; I make myself disabled too. Because this way I manifest my disabilities to comprehend the import of their existence in encouraging us (the abled ones) to conquer the impediments of life without any grievances. Anyways life is a learning curve and everyone is learning something or the other by every passing moment. I have learnt a lesson too that I will remember until I die err as long as I live.
Contributed by:~Neeraj Kumar
I was there sitting on a bench after taking a light stroll. Since, I was in the middle of the oval garden, I was able to reckon rounds that people were taking. Some took 20 laps of swift walk, while some preferred to only 5.
After a while a couple with an almost 10 years old boy entered the park and started their rounds of health. Both parents had clutched hands of the boy from either side. The boy was walking in the middle of his parents. They took one lap and completed second and went on. When this family crossed my eyes after the third lap, a little girl of six caught my attention. She was insisting her grandfather on playing football with her. It was obvious from grandpa’s gestures that due to his arthritis, he was trying to persuade the little lady to be confined to his lap. Grandpa tried to veer her attention from football and pointed his finger toward the sky to show a flock of birds. And I assumed (the constant stare of the girl toward the sky helped me assume) that the old chap conjured up a story then and there to placate the football passion of the girl. The girl lost into the story; I, into the Sky.
“How vast the bosom of the Sky is?” I thought. The decoration of the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars weaves a spectacle for the eyes. There is very hardly any roof in this world as sumptuously accoutered as the Sky. I was enthralled at the grandeur of nature.
My attention pertaining to the glorification of the nature broke by the footsteps coming toward a bench beside mine. It was those three who had entered a while ago. After the tiring rounds of walk, they had come to relax on the bench. For some time they relished the breathtaking view around the park, before being disturbed by the honking horn of an ice-cream-man. The child tugged on the sari (a dressing piece of cloth for women in India) of her mother to let her know his demand of an ice cream cone. Mother complied with his demand and bought him a cone of ice cream.
I wondered why he himself didn’t reach out for the ice cream trolly, like many children do?
On closer examination, I came to know that he was unable to see. That is why his parents were helping him to finish up the ice cream. After devouring the delicious dollops, he rested his back on the rear part of the bench. His translucent eyeballs rolled from one corner to the other corner of his eyes tracing every sound that happened in the atmosphere. In fact the eyeballs were corresponding with the directions his ears gave him as to a sound. He was continuously active with his two organs to explore the surrounding he was in.
“What an irony!” I thought. “There is so much of color around him, but he was deprived of that.” My heart got filled with sympathetic feelings for him. I felt vicarious pain for his inability to see things. I cursed every thing from God to nature for the injustice done to this little soul.
With feelings of despondency, I made an approach to converse with him by asking his name. (His father erased skepticism in his eyes for a stranger’s voice by addressing me as uncle and told him to tell me his name.)
“Sumit” he sounded sonorously.
“In which class do you read, Sumit?” I asked.
“Class five”
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“He sings very well, has won many music competitions too.” Informed his father.
“Oh! Is it?” “… Then why no have a music treat from you?”
The boy was shy to start with, but once he started singing (upon his mother’s encouragement), I was spellbound. The voice of his had a glimpse of aplomb, which can surmount any difficulties of life; the shimmer in his eyes had grains of grit, that can pierce any citadel of success; and the whole body of his had elements of ebullition, which can indefatigably encourage him to stay optimistic in life.
The song, which was a hymn, ended and ‘bravo’ spelt out of my mouth. His parents clapped.
The pleasant duration of morning was passing by quickly and the Sun was becoming a little bitter to bear. All three rose to take leave, I insisted to walk for some distance with them. Halfway our journey, I found a grocery shop. I went into it and bought a packet of chocolates for Sumit. I came out and gifted the packet to him in appreciation of his entertaining performance for me. He received the packet with élan; he was ecstatic. I could feel his emotions through his smiling lips. After a few minutes, we parted ways.
I was alone and strolling back to my destination. Some notions started springing up in my mind. They were troublesome for me. These views were about my prior contemplation about the kid. I thought why I felt pessimistic about the existence of the kid. The boy was full of life and I had described his life as drab and bland. Why I thought downside about the boy, only because he couldn’t see. Is it that only people with ability to see have the right to enjoy the gifts of life? No, life can be enjoyed even without the ability to see.
Enjoyment of life has nothing to do with the ability to see, but to the ability to feel. If one can feel life, then one is alive, otherwise dead. But this is not the situation with the ability to see. One can miss the light of eyes and at the same time enjoy the life to the full. I am not sure whether I was dead, when I thought hopeless things about the lad, but am sure about now that I am alive. Because, I am enlightened and know something more as to life than I did an hour or so before.
Finnaly, it dawned on me that I was utterly wrong in assessing his plight. And the acknowledgement of mistake was with a guilt feeling. That day I promised myself that I won’t fell sorry for any disabled person in the future, for this belittles the importance of their struggle and courage that they use to lead this life. The crux of my thinking session was that the moment I feel that somebody is disabled; I make myself disabled too. Because this way I manifest my disabilities to comprehend the import of their existence in encouraging us (the abled ones) to conquer the impediments of life without any grievances. Anyways life is a learning curve and everyone is learning something or the other by every passing moment. I have learnt a lesson too that I will remember until I die err as long as I live.
Contributed by:~Neeraj Kumar
A Picture is Worth a Thousand Wrinkles
Why is it when you spend time with an older person (the kind with graying hair that always leaves their turn signal blinker on for mile after mile when they are not turning) they always get around to showing you photographs? Usually it is a picture of their grandchildren. They carry them with pride right next to their preparation H. If that isn't love I don't know what is! They are usually good looking youngsters too. However, whenever you are shown the grandparent's own portrait from "back in the day" they always look equally gorgeous! I'm not kidding. Folks in the 1930's, 40's, and 50's have stellar snapshots of themselves. It was perhaps the heyday of portrait photography. Most look professionally placed and have the appearance of a model posing for a magazine cover.
My high school graduation picture doesn't look anything like me either so that's gonna be my benchmark when I'm old and wrinkly! Their head is tilted just so and they have a smile on their face. Their skin is a creamy white and they are always pleasant upon the eye. You look at their picture then you look at them standing there with you in the present moment. You look again at the picture and back to them once more. If you squint just right you catch the resemblance to the beauty in the photo.
What happened? Time, the avenger of all that is skin deep, is having a slow yet equally amusing laugh at our expense. We, the culture that worships wrinkle free, smooth skin, single chinned, firm breasted, muscle toned, hard bodies are fighting a losing battle. It's similar to climbing a hill of sand. The longer we struggle toward the heights of beauty the more the foundation under our feet ebbs away. If only those old fogies taught us that sometimes you peak right at the beginning then maybe we could handle aging more gracefully. I guess they weren't warned either so they probably secretly enjoy watching our slow motion battle to stay pretty and chuckle to themselves.
Women especially have been targeted to fight the good fight that they are destined to lose. If you are not 18 years old with a tight face and butt to go with it then you've got a problem. As a woman you become old while a man who has considerable mileage on him can be viewed as "a catch" long past his prime. Being self-delusional, rationalizing shell of oneself, helps keep the illusion alive.
I have never seen one of those older people's youth photos that were an ugly one. C'mon! With all of the goofy looking young adults running around our streets the ugly gene must go back generations! The term ugly gene is the technological term for those in the field of human genome study. It's easier to say than "ewe doggie did ya see that ugliosis thrombosis case in the waiting room?"
Why is there no pictorial evidence to back up the logic of this "they weren't all beautiful once" theory? Is it that photographers didn't take pictures of homely people or something? It is nearly as disturbing to check out the obituary page of metropolitan newspapers and see the dearly departed 110 year old with a picture from when they were 35 standing next to Herbert Hoover (and of course they are good looking). Sure when we get over 40 we begin the slide into the hideous and gruesome category of eye pain inflictor. Somewhere after the 50- 60-year range we begin to look like our ravaged beauty should be gauged by something akin to a Richter scale.
Perhaps it is a matter of perspective. If you had stood next to the older person when the picture was initially taken you would recognize a lot more of that beauty that is still on their face. Since you only know them as an older person it is more of a shock to your mind to fathom that they could have ever looked as good as you think you do! Boy you'll have a surprise when the Choo- choo train of time runs over your illusions.
Then again this is the age of plastic surgery, face-lifts, tummy tucks, body lift's and fountain of youth beauty supplies. Perhaps with a little dab of beauty cream and the right doctor you will be able to regress into a second childhood of sorts. Just make sure you look good doing it and turn off that damn turn signal!
Contributed by:Giosue' Santarelli
My high school graduation picture doesn't look anything like me either so that's gonna be my benchmark when I'm old and wrinkly! Their head is tilted just so and they have a smile on their face. Their skin is a creamy white and they are always pleasant upon the eye. You look at their picture then you look at them standing there with you in the present moment. You look again at the picture and back to them once more. If you squint just right you catch the resemblance to the beauty in the photo.
What happened? Time, the avenger of all that is skin deep, is having a slow yet equally amusing laugh at our expense. We, the culture that worships wrinkle free, smooth skin, single chinned, firm breasted, muscle toned, hard bodies are fighting a losing battle. It's similar to climbing a hill of sand. The longer we struggle toward the heights of beauty the more the foundation under our feet ebbs away. If only those old fogies taught us that sometimes you peak right at the beginning then maybe we could handle aging more gracefully. I guess they weren't warned either so they probably secretly enjoy watching our slow motion battle to stay pretty and chuckle to themselves.
Women especially have been targeted to fight the good fight that they are destined to lose. If you are not 18 years old with a tight face and butt to go with it then you've got a problem. As a woman you become old while a man who has considerable mileage on him can be viewed as "a catch" long past his prime. Being self-delusional, rationalizing shell of oneself, helps keep the illusion alive.
I have never seen one of those older people's youth photos that were an ugly one. C'mon! With all of the goofy looking young adults running around our streets the ugly gene must go back generations! The term ugly gene is the technological term for those in the field of human genome study. It's easier to say than "ewe doggie did ya see that ugliosis thrombosis case in the waiting room?"
Why is there no pictorial evidence to back up the logic of this "they weren't all beautiful once" theory? Is it that photographers didn't take pictures of homely people or something? It is nearly as disturbing to check out the obituary page of metropolitan newspapers and see the dearly departed 110 year old with a picture from when they were 35 standing next to Herbert Hoover (and of course they are good looking). Sure when we get over 40 we begin the slide into the hideous and gruesome category of eye pain inflictor. Somewhere after the 50- 60-year range we begin to look like our ravaged beauty should be gauged by something akin to a Richter scale.
Perhaps it is a matter of perspective. If you had stood next to the older person when the picture was initially taken you would recognize a lot more of that beauty that is still on their face. Since you only know them as an older person it is more of a shock to your mind to fathom that they could have ever looked as good as you think you do! Boy you'll have a surprise when the Choo- choo train of time runs over your illusions.
Then again this is the age of plastic surgery, face-lifts, tummy tucks, body lift's and fountain of youth beauty supplies. Perhaps with a little dab of beauty cream and the right doctor you will be able to regress into a second childhood of sorts. Just make sure you look good doing it and turn off that damn turn signal!
Contributed by:Giosue' Santarelli
Are Our Young Women In Trouble? Today’s Illusionary Icons
My generation grew up watching Mary Tyler Moore proudly hold her own in the boorish business world, Edith innocently defy Archie’s intolerance, and Maude argue for social reform. We read about the “women’s movement” in Cosmopolitan magazine, while Cher broke new ground with her unabashed sexuality. Over the years, the struggles of our older sisters made it possible for us to open doors, to attain more than they had, to soar. As we grew up, we dreamed of meeting our Prince Charming, but we also envisioned working in the city or becoming a doctor or a lawyer. Indeed, over the years we made important strides in our quest for equality with men in business and in society, but what about in relationships?
Science tells us that women’s domesticity and nurturing qualities are instinctive, however, we also learned ways of thinking and interacting with others from our mothers, who had, of course, learned from their mothers. But what had we learned? Thirty years ago, most of us saw our mothers cater to our fathers, while dismissing their own ideas, and neglecting themselves. They did what was expected of them, but were they happy? As one woman said, “I’ll never forget that look on my mother’s face… she couldn’t have been happy.” We told ourselves that things would be different in our relationships, and they are, to some extent. But had the freedom and independence that had finally bubbled to the surface made us wiser and more connected to our inner selves, or did it just give us more outside choices? Had those achievements influenced our roles as loving and lovable companions?
In discussing this subject with women as young as thirteen and as old as never mind, I could see that the older women who had been influenced by our pioneer sisters, knew how important individuality and respect were to women. The younger ones, however, seemed to demonstrate the same self-effacing behavior as in years past, putting the needs and desires of men ahead of their own. This new breed of female seemed unprepared, naïve, and oblivious to what women before us had accomplished. Accordingly, if how we think and behave is a result of what we were taught and exposed to as children, what does that tell us about girls growing up today?
Have you noticed how obsessed most young women appear to be with having the best body, face, and hairstyle? Why is physical “perfection” such a priority today? Could it be the dozens of makeover and plastic surgery shows on television or the constant marketing of products consuming the airwaves and billboards, luring our young women with false promises of happiness and everlasting love, and almost hypnotizing them into buying their magical potions and gadgets -- look like your favorite movie star, and have a wonderful life! Those kinds of deceitful messages are shameful and potentially harmful to women who try futilely to reach the media’s ideal archetype. Our young women need to believe that they don’t have to look, think, or behave like the rich and famous, or do what the so-called “trendsetters” dictate just so advertisers and retailers can make a buck.
I am also concerned that a lot of girls feel they need to have a man (actually, a boy) in their lives in order to feel complete. Part of the reason is age -- the dawn of hormones -- but could it also be a result of reality shows where a dozen women compete for one man by using any means necessary? These shows have turned meeting and winning the heart of a man (a/k/a “falling in love”) into a spectator-driven, cut-throat event featuring ruthless women who act as if men were almost extinct!
Now, I admit that as young girls we wanted to have boyfriends and we wore makeup (remember that black eyeliner and blue eye shadow?), but I also remember that all of that was just a part of our lives as budding young women. We were also curious about the world, about finding out who we were, and what we would become.
One reason for the somewhat distorted thinking of young women today could be that the world around them is not teaching them about integrity, confidence, or self-esteem. Parents today work really hard and can only hope that their children will listen to their words of wisdom and experience. It’s a losing battle when young women are then bombarded by self-serving, deceptive messages emanating from the media around them.
Please know that when I state my case I am not advocating censorship here. Nor am I in favor of producing a class of male-hating women -- far from it. I am talking about taking responsibility for teaching our young people the difference between what is true and appropriate for them in real life, and what is put out there for “shock value” and entertainment purposes. We need to spread the word to our young women that they have a choice not to be that woman in the video dancing half naked and that they will still get a boyfriend (and one of better quality). We have to tell them that it’s okay to refrain from using (and listening to) offensive and disgusting language, and that Britney and Christina are dressed like that because they are on stage (not in a classroom), and that yes, blow jobs are sex!
We have to teach our little sisters how to be comfortable in their own skin by shouting Be kind to yourself! Don’t obsess about your looks or berate yourself because you’re not model-thin. As women, we are our harshest critics and hold ourselves to ridiculous standards. Be independent! Don’t just say, “Wouldn’t it be nice to…” Do it! Set limits! Don’t let anyone mistreat you -- stand up for yourself and keep your word. Express your appreciation! When we embrace gratitude and humility, even more goodness and love comes to us. Listen to your inner voice! Don’t be someone who jumps to conclusions, but if you have that “feeling” deep down, don’t ignore it -- trust your instincts. Believe in yourself! Decide what you want, go after it whole-heartedly, and stay committed. Let ‘em see your joy! Joy comes through in our smiles and our eyes, and enables us to attract even more love into our lives. Remember, what you give out, you get back.
Contributed by: Audrey Valeriani
Science tells us that women’s domesticity and nurturing qualities are instinctive, however, we also learned ways of thinking and interacting with others from our mothers, who had, of course, learned from their mothers. But what had we learned? Thirty years ago, most of us saw our mothers cater to our fathers, while dismissing their own ideas, and neglecting themselves. They did what was expected of them, but were they happy? As one woman said, “I’ll never forget that look on my mother’s face… she couldn’t have been happy.” We told ourselves that things would be different in our relationships, and they are, to some extent. But had the freedom and independence that had finally bubbled to the surface made us wiser and more connected to our inner selves, or did it just give us more outside choices? Had those achievements influenced our roles as loving and lovable companions?
In discussing this subject with women as young as thirteen and as old as never mind, I could see that the older women who had been influenced by our pioneer sisters, knew how important individuality and respect were to women. The younger ones, however, seemed to demonstrate the same self-effacing behavior as in years past, putting the needs and desires of men ahead of their own. This new breed of female seemed unprepared, naïve, and oblivious to what women before us had accomplished. Accordingly, if how we think and behave is a result of what we were taught and exposed to as children, what does that tell us about girls growing up today?
Have you noticed how obsessed most young women appear to be with having the best body, face, and hairstyle? Why is physical “perfection” such a priority today? Could it be the dozens of makeover and plastic surgery shows on television or the constant marketing of products consuming the airwaves and billboards, luring our young women with false promises of happiness and everlasting love, and almost hypnotizing them into buying their magical potions and gadgets -- look like your favorite movie star, and have a wonderful life! Those kinds of deceitful messages are shameful and potentially harmful to women who try futilely to reach the media’s ideal archetype. Our young women need to believe that they don’t have to look, think, or behave like the rich and famous, or do what the so-called “trendsetters” dictate just so advertisers and retailers can make a buck.
I am also concerned that a lot of girls feel they need to have a man (actually, a boy) in their lives in order to feel complete. Part of the reason is age -- the dawn of hormones -- but could it also be a result of reality shows where a dozen women compete for one man by using any means necessary? These shows have turned meeting and winning the heart of a man (a/k/a “falling in love”) into a spectator-driven, cut-throat event featuring ruthless women who act as if men were almost extinct!
Now, I admit that as young girls we wanted to have boyfriends and we wore makeup (remember that black eyeliner and blue eye shadow?), but I also remember that all of that was just a part of our lives as budding young women. We were also curious about the world, about finding out who we were, and what we would become.
One reason for the somewhat distorted thinking of young women today could be that the world around them is not teaching them about integrity, confidence, or self-esteem. Parents today work really hard and can only hope that their children will listen to their words of wisdom and experience. It’s a losing battle when young women are then bombarded by self-serving, deceptive messages emanating from the media around them.
Please know that when I state my case I am not advocating censorship here. Nor am I in favor of producing a class of male-hating women -- far from it. I am talking about taking responsibility for teaching our young people the difference between what is true and appropriate for them in real life, and what is put out there for “shock value” and entertainment purposes. We need to spread the word to our young women that they have a choice not to be that woman in the video dancing half naked and that they will still get a boyfriend (and one of better quality). We have to tell them that it’s okay to refrain from using (and listening to) offensive and disgusting language, and that Britney and Christina are dressed like that because they are on stage (not in a classroom), and that yes, blow jobs are sex!
We have to teach our little sisters how to be comfortable in their own skin by shouting Be kind to yourself! Don’t obsess about your looks or berate yourself because you’re not model-thin. As women, we are our harshest critics and hold ourselves to ridiculous standards. Be independent! Don’t just say, “Wouldn’t it be nice to…” Do it! Set limits! Don’t let anyone mistreat you -- stand up for yourself and keep your word. Express your appreciation! When we embrace gratitude and humility, even more goodness and love comes to us. Listen to your inner voice! Don’t be someone who jumps to conclusions, but if you have that “feeling” deep down, don’t ignore it -- trust your instincts. Believe in yourself! Decide what you want, go after it whole-heartedly, and stay committed. Let ‘em see your joy! Joy comes through in our smiles and our eyes, and enables us to attract even more love into our lives. Remember, what you give out, you get back.
Contributed by: Audrey Valeriani
A day with Children
I had always thought I was a failure around kids. I feared I would either spoil them rotten or choke them to death. The first one was more probable though.
Then one day I was stuck into an outreach program where I was assigned to handle three kids. The first time I heard about it I was mortified…er…close to panicking to be exact. Instantly I imagined toddlers running around and ducking from my every grasp, pulling at my clothes and ruining my hair. My little sis gave me the phobia when she reached four and I was nine. (If she reads this she's going to kill me.)
Yet the havoc the little ones could cause was not really the problem. I feared they would hate me. What was I to do with them? I was never good at babysitting and most people thought I was too serious and boring.
Still I showed up at Family Park. A sense of responsibility made me. I could not resist it. I just hoped the lessons I learned in the Educational Psychology classes I took back in college would work.
When the banner was hung and chairs were positioned in the field, the children came bounding in. Children of different colors and sizes. Right away I spied two of them knocking down two chairs. I thought, oh boy, this would be one forgettable day.
Soon the children fell in line like cherubs as my colleagues and I handed them their nametags. I searched for my adopted kids Joely (age six), Jeimes (four) and Beam (14).
As I walked to and fro I saw this little slim, tan girl with long tresses and bangs watching me. Suddenly a little hand grabbed my shirtsleeve. It belonged to another little girl with shoulder-length hair.
She pulled me closer as she accused a grinning chubby boy of pushing her.
Somehow I got the boy to behave and pacified the girl with mere words, words that came out of nowhere. I then asked them if they knew Joely and they pointed at the girl with the bangs.
Getting along with Joely was easy. She was sweet and gentle. She even gave her mineral water to another girl who was thirsty. I was so proud of her I could not bear not to show it, and it was easy to tell she was pleased. Though she seemed to want to shy away out of embarrassment at my outright admiration, the flushing of her cheeks could not hide the fact that her eyes were dancing.
Unlike Joely, I had quite a hard time with Jeimes. I had to keep an eye on him and make sure he would not run off, which he managed to do every once in a while. I could not blame him. It was getting hotter by the minute. Other kids got restless too, and the demand for water was fast rising. I had to go up and down the stage for the supply.
Then there was Beam - a tight-lipped loner. He was taller than I, with a skin a hue darker than Joely's. I kept encouraging him to join the games so he would not get bored and be another runaway Jeimes.
I was surprised I was having fun with the sack race though my only role was to scream. And yes, there was the job of picking up a kid or two at every stumble. I had to hold their IDs and nametags so they could move freely and enjoy the game without being distracted.
Jeimes shunned away from me even at lunchtime. I thought he would grow up as a man with his own mind. I told him to roam around and help me find Beam. Instead, he stayed put. Reverse Psychology…of course! I eventually won the cute one over.
Beam, on the other hand, would lower his head every time I would speak to him. He was, however, a gentleman. He helped in carrying boxes of Zesto and other stuff.
All of a sudden I became everybody's sis. Kids took turns in pulling me to their side. They huddled close to me and they didn't even touch my hair! They would lean to me and ask me questions such as what grade I was in (kids don't know much about high school and especially college).
I answered that I was already working. Joely looked shocked. To make sure I was telling the truth she asked me if I finished grade one, grade two...and so on. When another kid declared that I would soon get married, Joely verified it to me again with sullen expression on her face. I couldn't help but laugh. I was in Pluto where marriage is concerned.
Then came Jollibee and the angels around me, who were hanging on my every word, morphed into mobsters. I had to help my fellows keep the kids at bay. They were murdering the poor mascot. It was a nightmare on Jollibee's poor butt. Only when he had gone back to his truck did the kids become human at last. They asked me if Jollibee was a man and not really a mutated oversized bee that could dance. I looked at their expectant faces, and replied in a manner they could understand, laugh at, yet always remember. I told them that Jollibee was also human and that he could also get hurt. Kamo bay tabangag sumbag di ba mo mabun-og, I told them. If you were the one being punched to death, wouldn't you be all black and blue? They laughed, but their faces gentled with a new light.
I actually enjoyed being with the kids. I got lots of hugs. I never felt so alive and so young for such a long time.
Before leaving, Joely asked if she would see me again. I told her yes, if she would be a good girl and that, she promised. She gave me a great big hug though she only managed to wrap her hands around my waist. But this she told me: Ate She, you're a very good person. I wish you were my sister.
Does a six-year-old lie? I wondered. Why did I ever say I hate kids? Perhaps it was because I was scared of the responsibilities and commitment but then, I'm no longer a nine-year-old.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy Olano
Then one day I was stuck into an outreach program where I was assigned to handle three kids. The first time I heard about it I was mortified…er…close to panicking to be exact. Instantly I imagined toddlers running around and ducking from my every grasp, pulling at my clothes and ruining my hair. My little sis gave me the phobia when she reached four and I was nine. (If she reads this she's going to kill me.)
Yet the havoc the little ones could cause was not really the problem. I feared they would hate me. What was I to do with them? I was never good at babysitting and most people thought I was too serious and boring.
Still I showed up at Family Park. A sense of responsibility made me. I could not resist it. I just hoped the lessons I learned in the Educational Psychology classes I took back in college would work.
When the banner was hung and chairs were positioned in the field, the children came bounding in. Children of different colors and sizes. Right away I spied two of them knocking down two chairs. I thought, oh boy, this would be one forgettable day.
Soon the children fell in line like cherubs as my colleagues and I handed them their nametags. I searched for my adopted kids Joely (age six), Jeimes (four) and Beam (14).
As I walked to and fro I saw this little slim, tan girl with long tresses and bangs watching me. Suddenly a little hand grabbed my shirtsleeve. It belonged to another little girl with shoulder-length hair.
She pulled me closer as she accused a grinning chubby boy of pushing her.
Somehow I got the boy to behave and pacified the girl with mere words, words that came out of nowhere. I then asked them if they knew Joely and they pointed at the girl with the bangs.
Getting along with Joely was easy. She was sweet and gentle. She even gave her mineral water to another girl who was thirsty. I was so proud of her I could not bear not to show it, and it was easy to tell she was pleased. Though she seemed to want to shy away out of embarrassment at my outright admiration, the flushing of her cheeks could not hide the fact that her eyes were dancing.
Unlike Joely, I had quite a hard time with Jeimes. I had to keep an eye on him and make sure he would not run off, which he managed to do every once in a while. I could not blame him. It was getting hotter by the minute. Other kids got restless too, and the demand for water was fast rising. I had to go up and down the stage for the supply.
Then there was Beam - a tight-lipped loner. He was taller than I, with a skin a hue darker than Joely's. I kept encouraging him to join the games so he would not get bored and be another runaway Jeimes.
I was surprised I was having fun with the sack race though my only role was to scream. And yes, there was the job of picking up a kid or two at every stumble. I had to hold their IDs and nametags so they could move freely and enjoy the game without being distracted.
Jeimes shunned away from me even at lunchtime. I thought he would grow up as a man with his own mind. I told him to roam around and help me find Beam. Instead, he stayed put. Reverse Psychology…of course! I eventually won the cute one over.
Beam, on the other hand, would lower his head every time I would speak to him. He was, however, a gentleman. He helped in carrying boxes of Zesto and other stuff.
All of a sudden I became everybody's sis. Kids took turns in pulling me to their side. They huddled close to me and they didn't even touch my hair! They would lean to me and ask me questions such as what grade I was in (kids don't know much about high school and especially college).
I answered that I was already working. Joely looked shocked. To make sure I was telling the truth she asked me if I finished grade one, grade two...and so on. When another kid declared that I would soon get married, Joely verified it to me again with sullen expression on her face. I couldn't help but laugh. I was in Pluto where marriage is concerned.
Then came Jollibee and the angels around me, who were hanging on my every word, morphed into mobsters. I had to help my fellows keep the kids at bay. They were murdering the poor mascot. It was a nightmare on Jollibee's poor butt. Only when he had gone back to his truck did the kids become human at last. They asked me if Jollibee was a man and not really a mutated oversized bee that could dance. I looked at their expectant faces, and replied in a manner they could understand, laugh at, yet always remember. I told them that Jollibee was also human and that he could also get hurt. Kamo bay tabangag sumbag di ba mo mabun-og, I told them. If you were the one being punched to death, wouldn't you be all black and blue? They laughed, but their faces gentled with a new light.
I actually enjoyed being with the kids. I got lots of hugs. I never felt so alive and so young for such a long time.
Before leaving, Joely asked if she would see me again. I told her yes, if she would be a good girl and that, she promised. She gave me a great big hug though she only managed to wrap her hands around my waist. But this she told me: Ate She, you're a very good person. I wish you were my sister.
Does a six-year-old lie? I wondered. Why did I ever say I hate kids? Perhaps it was because I was scared of the responsibilities and commitment but then, I'm no longer a nine-year-old.
Contributed by: Sheryl Joy Olano
Saturday Night
Did I really come in on Saturday night and see my mother-in-law passed out on the living room floor? Did I leave my three little kids with the poser that posed as a grandma a few days earlier, saying that she would be happy to watch them while we went out to dinner?
We were only gone for two hours. More than a lot of scotch happened in those two hours. We left after they were all in bed and mostly asleep. We scrapped our plans for going to a hotel for some much needed...um...privacy in exchange for a nice dinner, in part because I wasn't all that hot on leaving the kids for too long.
But I did because I think I was high with the possibility of actually having something to do, somewhere to be - so much of my time here so far has been spent waiting for the hours to pass until I can go to bed. I wash dishes, I do laundry, I mess around on the computer forever (reading weblogs), I go to the grocery store, I take Jake to and from school, I talk to Molly and play with Sammy. I try to ignore the fact that I am unhappy here with a life in a house that's not my own and with no end in sight. So, when Chris asked Bunny Grandma to watch the kids so we could go out and she said she would, I almost got excited about something! I had an excuse to wash my hair, to put on perfume and wear my favorite bracelet. I was excited to have some time alone just to talk with this person that brought me here.
Turns out I had a lot more to say than I thought I did. Did I let my enthusiasm for these little things cloud my judgment when it came to the safety of my children? Probably. And they were and are fine. Thank you to whomever was really watching them.
Contributed by: C Linnen
We were only gone for two hours. More than a lot of scotch happened in those two hours. We left after they were all in bed and mostly asleep. We scrapped our plans for going to a hotel for some much needed...um...privacy in exchange for a nice dinner, in part because I wasn't all that hot on leaving the kids for too long.
But I did because I think I was high with the possibility of actually having something to do, somewhere to be - so much of my time here so far has been spent waiting for the hours to pass until I can go to bed. I wash dishes, I do laundry, I mess around on the computer forever (reading weblogs), I go to the grocery store, I take Jake to and from school, I talk to Molly and play with Sammy. I try to ignore the fact that I am unhappy here with a life in a house that's not my own and with no end in sight. So, when Chris asked Bunny Grandma to watch the kids so we could go out and she said she would, I almost got excited about something! I had an excuse to wash my hair, to put on perfume and wear my favorite bracelet. I was excited to have some time alone just to talk with this person that brought me here.
Turns out I had a lot more to say than I thought I did. Did I let my enthusiasm for these little things cloud my judgment when it came to the safety of my children? Probably. And they were and are fine. Thank you to whomever was really watching them.
Contributed by: C Linnen
A bond between a Mother and a Child
What a women goes through before and after having a child is a miracle. Having a child is a blessing and a whole new way of life.
After a child is born a women faces many challenges physically and mentally. When a woman gives birth she needs to heal tremendously and mentally she realizes she just became a mom. She realizes that the last 9 months she spent with someone is now over.
A women's body goes through a lot before she delivers, weight gain, motion sickness, water gain, nausea, cravings, mood swings, dr. visits and shots. When she delivers the shild she now faces new challenges like losing the weight, taking care of herself and not only the baby, nuture this child and face the responsiblities.
Some women are happy , excited, and some reach postpartum. She must get check by a doctor or midwife within a week or two. As for her and her new child live life from now on caring, loving and bonding with each other.
They are called mother and child, a bond that can never be broken. When raising this child is hard enough sometimes there are more responsiblities for the mom. She is faced with this child forever. No turning back and no returning her/him. The mother will have this child for the rest of her life.
She needs to love, teach, praise, feed, clothe, house, care and most of all LOVE this child. Children don't disappear or hide they are with the mom for 24/7 unless she goes back to work. A child needs its mom no matter what ages/stages, newborn, toddler, adolscent or an adult.
The mother needs to take care of herself as well as this child. She needs to get out and spend time alone, join a gym, join the community, or som e go back to work to have a social life. Most causes for depression are known fact for women who do not have a social life.
A new mom has just giving birth and now has 2 instead of one to provide for so that is a lot of work. Raising a child is not only a lot of work, time, money, stress, worries, commitment and responsilbities but a friendship that can not be broken. These are my honest words and experience.
Contributed by:~Photohappymama
After a child is born a women faces many challenges physically and mentally. When a woman gives birth she needs to heal tremendously and mentally she realizes she just became a mom. She realizes that the last 9 months she spent with someone is now over.
A women's body goes through a lot before she delivers, weight gain, motion sickness, water gain, nausea, cravings, mood swings, dr. visits and shots. When she delivers the shild she now faces new challenges like losing the weight, taking care of herself and not only the baby, nuture this child and face the responsiblities.
Some women are happy , excited, and some reach postpartum. She must get check by a doctor or midwife within a week or two. As for her and her new child live life from now on caring, loving and bonding with each other.
They are called mother and child, a bond that can never be broken. When raising this child is hard enough sometimes there are more responsiblities for the mom. She is faced with this child forever. No turning back and no returning her/him. The mother will have this child for the rest of her life.
She needs to love, teach, praise, feed, clothe, house, care and most of all LOVE this child. Children don't disappear or hide they are with the mom for 24/7 unless she goes back to work. A child needs its mom no matter what ages/stages, newborn, toddler, adolscent or an adult.
The mother needs to take care of herself as well as this child. She needs to get out and spend time alone, join a gym, join the community, or som e go back to work to have a social life. Most causes for depression are known fact for women who do not have a social life.
A new mom has just giving birth and now has 2 instead of one to provide for so that is a lot of work. Raising a child is not only a lot of work, time, money, stress, worries, commitment and responsilbities but a friendship that can not be broken. These are my honest words and experience.
Contributed by:~Photohappymama
Skittling, the Lethal Fad among Teens
If you thought the fight against drug abuse is limited to illegal substances such as marijuana, ecstasy, phencyclidine hydrochloride (PCP), etc. Think again. When you sit down to talk to your kids about drug abuse, you may want to add cough medicine to your list of no-no's.
Robitussin, Coricidin, Nyquil, Vicks, even some generic brands, these drugs are legal and sold over-the-counter everywhere. Cough and cold medications containing Dextromethorphan (DXM) are chemically related to codeine and is a component in over 140 non-prescription over-the -counter (OTC) cough and cold medications in forms of cough drops, syrup and tablets.
The use of Robitussin and Coricidin are the most popular among teenagers and young adults looking for a cheap high. "Skittling" or "Robotripping" is a growing trend among 13-19 year olds and some cases are even being seen in middle school. Availability of the OTC drugs may be the reason it has become so popular. It is easy to obtain through any store, gas station or through the Internet. They are cheap to purchase and easy to steal.
DXM is safe in the recommended doses you see on the label to treat coughs and colds, but in large doses, such as 100 mg or more can cause hallucinations, impaired judgement, even seizures. In some cases, overdoses and deaths have occurred when caregivers have treated small children with inappropriate doses of cold medicine containing DXM.
Street names are adapted from the similar appearance to candy or obvious slang: Skittles, Red Devils, Robo, Triple C, Poor man's PCP, Dex, Tuss, DXM. The high is called "robotripping" referring to taking large amounts of Robitussin and "skittling" when ingesting large amounts of Coricidin, that also contains an antihistamine called chlorpheniramine (akas Triple C's). Effects are similar to alcohol intoxication and can increase heart rate and blood pressure.
An on-line survey showed that only 1 in 10 people were aware of Skittling
This lack of awareness may be the reason DXM abuse has more than doubled since last year. All across the country, emergency room doctors have been reporting an increasing amount of overdose cases due to DXM abuse. In some cases, death had occurred.
Parents should be aware of signs to look for in their children such as: agitation, drowsiness, confusion, blurred vision, impaired judgement, dizziness, paranoia, excessive sweating, slurred speech, seizures, fever, nausea, vomiting, itchiness, lethargy, pupil dilation, hot and cold flashes, oedema, hypertension, hallucinations and skin rashes. Long term problems include: panic attacks, psychotic break downs, depression, high blood pressure, mania, liver, heart, central nervous centre damage and sometimes coma.
Check your medicine cabinet and know what is in there, if anything is missing find out why. Look for these DXM products or empty bottles in jackets, backpacks, purses, bedroom, trash, or even the car if your teen drives. Do not ignore the signs or assume it is only a phase, this phase can kill. Parents are encouraged to sit down and talk to you children about the potentially deadly affects of OTC medications.
Contributed by:Donna M. Shelton
Robitussin, Coricidin, Nyquil, Vicks, even some generic brands, these drugs are legal and sold over-the-counter everywhere. Cough and cold medications containing Dextromethorphan (DXM) are chemically related to codeine and is a component in over 140 non-prescription over-the -counter (OTC) cough and cold medications in forms of cough drops, syrup and tablets.
The use of Robitussin and Coricidin are the most popular among teenagers and young adults looking for a cheap high. "Skittling" or "Robotripping" is a growing trend among 13-19 year olds and some cases are even being seen in middle school. Availability of the OTC drugs may be the reason it has become so popular. It is easy to obtain through any store, gas station or through the Internet. They are cheap to purchase and easy to steal.
DXM is safe in the recommended doses you see on the label to treat coughs and colds, but in large doses, such as 100 mg or more can cause hallucinations, impaired judgement, even seizures. In some cases, overdoses and deaths have occurred when caregivers have treated small children with inappropriate doses of cold medicine containing DXM.
Street names are adapted from the similar appearance to candy or obvious slang: Skittles, Red Devils, Robo, Triple C, Poor man's PCP, Dex, Tuss, DXM. The high is called "robotripping" referring to taking large amounts of Robitussin and "skittling" when ingesting large amounts of Coricidin, that also contains an antihistamine called chlorpheniramine (akas Triple C's). Effects are similar to alcohol intoxication and can increase heart rate and blood pressure.
An on-line survey showed that only 1 in 10 people were aware of Skittling
This lack of awareness may be the reason DXM abuse has more than doubled since last year. All across the country, emergency room doctors have been reporting an increasing amount of overdose cases due to DXM abuse. In some cases, death had occurred.
Parents should be aware of signs to look for in their children such as: agitation, drowsiness, confusion, blurred vision, impaired judgement, dizziness, paranoia, excessive sweating, slurred speech, seizures, fever, nausea, vomiting, itchiness, lethargy, pupil dilation, hot and cold flashes, oedema, hypertension, hallucinations and skin rashes. Long term problems include: panic attacks, psychotic break downs, depression, high blood pressure, mania, liver, heart, central nervous centre damage and sometimes coma.
Check your medicine cabinet and know what is in there, if anything is missing find out why. Look for these DXM products or empty bottles in jackets, backpacks, purses, bedroom, trash, or even the car if your teen drives. Do not ignore the signs or assume it is only a phase, this phase can kill. Parents are encouraged to sit down and talk to you children about the potentially deadly affects of OTC medications.
Contributed by:Donna M. Shelton
The Au Pair
When I envisioned myself having five kids, I never once thought I would need "help." I don't mean the professional kind with a couch in their office. I mean the help as in Mary Poppins or Alice Nelson from "The Brady Bunch."
In all of my dreams of motherhood, I assumed that with five perfect children who never fought and who obeyed my every word, I could do it all myself. I would have the kids' laundry perfectly cleaned and pressed. A five coarse dinner would be whipped up every night, without so much a complaint from the kids about what I was serving. They would love broiled fish, steamed green vegetables, you name it…after all, and they were perfect children. And of course, my four-bedroom house (the two girls were thrilled to be sharing a room, as were the twins!) was always immaculate. I did it all. I was the quintessential chauffeur/ babysitter/ housekeeper/nurse/psychologist and I was a successful paediatrician too!
Reality hit me in the form of a positive result for baby number two. My first words to my loving husband were "Get the number for that Au Pair agency our friends use!" Mind you, we wanted our first two kids to be close in age. According to my mother-in-law, my husband and his younger brother were 14 months apart and they have always been close. Naturally, we wanted the same thing for our own children.
I don't know if my panic was because I saw that plus sign only seven months after I had my C-section. All I know is that I thought of the Au Pair agency as I was watching my petite, beautiful daughter moving around on her hands and knees, drooling helplessly and wishing she could get the right words out. And I never looked back.
I never understood why a good friend of mine needed a nanny. I figured, she had three children so how hard could that be? It didn't dawn on me that her kids were close in age and she just might need someone to help keep her sane. Three kids just seemed easy to me. My mother did it. I am almost three years younger than my brother and two years older than my other brother. She never had any help with us kids. She had a lady who came into clean once or twice a week but there was no nanny or Au Pair. I assumed that I could handle five (or for sure, two) kids without any hired help.
Wrong! All it took was one look at that plus sign (seven tests later!) and all of my principles went out the window! Of course, I reasoned that I wanted an Au Pair to help me balance my motherhood. I just couldn't see myself schlepping a newborn to my daughter's Mom and me playgroups and Gym boree classes. She and I were a team and I didn't want her to miss out on our special time out together, just because there was another baby in the house.
I began the search for an Au Pair. I filled out all of our application forms and waited for the girls to start a' calling. I don't remember how many applications we read through. Picking our first Au Pair was easy. She had a lot of child care experience, she was patient and she loved children. Her background check was impressive and she sounded like a dream over the phone.
Fast forward to my life today. I have my five wonderful children. My criteria for the perfect Au Pair has changed quite a bit since the kids were little. Granted, I make sure to check out the references and the childcare experience. After all, I don't just hire anyone to watch my precious babies. But I don't lose sleep over it. If a girl can stay on the line after hearing about "the five children" part, I make like Donald Trump on a finale of "The Apprentice" and let out a "You're Hired!"
Contributed by:Hildee Weiss
In all of my dreams of motherhood, I assumed that with five perfect children who never fought and who obeyed my every word, I could do it all myself. I would have the kids' laundry perfectly cleaned and pressed. A five coarse dinner would be whipped up every night, without so much a complaint from the kids about what I was serving. They would love broiled fish, steamed green vegetables, you name it…after all, and they were perfect children. And of course, my four-bedroom house (the two girls were thrilled to be sharing a room, as were the twins!) was always immaculate. I did it all. I was the quintessential chauffeur/ babysitter/ housekeeper/nurse/psychologist and I was a successful paediatrician too!
Reality hit me in the form of a positive result for baby number two. My first words to my loving husband were "Get the number for that Au Pair agency our friends use!" Mind you, we wanted our first two kids to be close in age. According to my mother-in-law, my husband and his younger brother were 14 months apart and they have always been close. Naturally, we wanted the same thing for our own children.
I don't know if my panic was because I saw that plus sign only seven months after I had my C-section. All I know is that I thought of the Au Pair agency as I was watching my petite, beautiful daughter moving around on her hands and knees, drooling helplessly and wishing she could get the right words out. And I never looked back.
I never understood why a good friend of mine needed a nanny. I figured, she had three children so how hard could that be? It didn't dawn on me that her kids were close in age and she just might need someone to help keep her sane. Three kids just seemed easy to me. My mother did it. I am almost three years younger than my brother and two years older than my other brother. She never had any help with us kids. She had a lady who came into clean once or twice a week but there was no nanny or Au Pair. I assumed that I could handle five (or for sure, two) kids without any hired help.
Wrong! All it took was one look at that plus sign (seven tests later!) and all of my principles went out the window! Of course, I reasoned that I wanted an Au Pair to help me balance my motherhood. I just couldn't see myself schlepping a newborn to my daughter's Mom and me playgroups and Gym boree classes. She and I were a team and I didn't want her to miss out on our special time out together, just because there was another baby in the house.
I began the search for an Au Pair. I filled out all of our application forms and waited for the girls to start a' calling. I don't remember how many applications we read through. Picking our first Au Pair was easy. She had a lot of child care experience, she was patient and she loved children. Her background check was impressive and she sounded like a dream over the phone.
Fast forward to my life today. I have my five wonderful children. My criteria for the perfect Au Pair has changed quite a bit since the kids were little. Granted, I make sure to check out the references and the childcare experience. After all, I don't just hire anyone to watch my precious babies. But I don't lose sleep over it. If a girl can stay on the line after hearing about "the five children" part, I make like Donald Trump on a finale of "The Apprentice" and let out a "You're Hired!"
Contributed by:Hildee Weiss
Is it Spring yet?
So, tell me. Do you know how they get the yellow cream in the middle of a Cadbury’s Crème Egg?
I am currently eight months along in my fifth pregnancy and crave those chocolate dreams daily. But, alas, in the United States, the stores only sell these alluring delicacies in the spring. It is September. This is where my problem begins.
Last night, well, actually in the wee hours of the morning… (1:37am to be precise,) my husband who knows I have been dying for a crème egg broke the silence of the night with, “I wonder how they get the yellow part of the crème perfectly in the center of the egg.”
Good question isn’t it? How Do they do it?
As long as I can remember the Cadbury Crème Egg has been a staple food for my Easter breakfast, lunch and dinner. It is amazing how popular these crème eggs are. This morning when I woke up, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. So, as per normal morning routine to check email, what’s happening in the world and my daily weather, I did a search on the eggs. Have you ever googled Cadbury Crème Eggs? Wow! There are endless sites and forums about these delectable eggs. There are even tribute sites! I was agog at all the talk, and yet stupefied at the same time.
“How do you eat yours?” was a catchphrase that Cadbury used to market their eggs back in the mid eighties. Want to know how some people replied to that question? Of course you do! Some say they eat the crème with a spoon… a special, tiny spoon just for that job. Others just pop it all in their mouth at once and let the chocolate and crème unite for a divine taste explosion. A few say they carefully cut and divide the egg in half and eat it like a deviled egg. Strangely enough, I found that some even pierce a hole in the egg, and watch the inside drip out, and then eat the parts separately. But I, like many others bite the top of the egg off and then lick out all the crème. Then when I am so sick of sugar I can hardly stand it, I start on the chocolate egg which leaves me so incredibly thirsty; no amount of water can quench it. Why do I eat the whole thing if it does that to me? Well, the answer is universal among all Cadbury Crème Egg lovers. Of all the chocolate eggs produced; this one is truly the classic. Could you really imagine life without them?
Well, back to my quest of finding out how Cadbury positions the yellow crème just so, I have learned some things that all you trivia buffs like me will find interesting. The world was first acquainted with the Cadbury Crème Egg in the early 1920's by the Cadbury brothers, John and Benjamin. People began their passion for the eggs in 1923 when they became available to the public. But the crème egg as we know it today was not unleashed until 1971.
Ok, enough with the history lesson and onto the point of this article… the yellow center. The Cadbury Crème Egg is made by forging a chocolate shell into a half-egg mould. One side of the egg is laid out and filled with the gooey and savory white fondant and a dollop of yellow fondant that simulates yolk. Then, the two egg halves are closed quickly and allowed to cool which sets the chocolate and the crème inside. Somehow the white fondant magically spreads all around the yellow fondant perfectly. The eggs then travel on a conveyor for their final journey to be foiled and packed. And voila, the Cadbury Crème Egg is born!
There you have it folks, the answer to the impossible question that was proposed to pregnant, craving me, who still has an unbelievable urge to eat one of these suckers.
My next phase into figuring these eggs out is this; what flavor is the center crème? This is something we never really think about while eating it. It’s not vanilla, but it is similar. It is a mystery that will leave me googling until I find it out!
So, I leave you with this thought since you know the all-inclusive truth about how the yellow gets in the egg; how do you eat yours?
Contributed by: Amanda Goodall
I am currently eight months along in my fifth pregnancy and crave those chocolate dreams daily. But, alas, in the United States, the stores only sell these alluring delicacies in the spring. It is September. This is where my problem begins.
Last night, well, actually in the wee hours of the morning… (1:37am to be precise,) my husband who knows I have been dying for a crème egg broke the silence of the night with, “I wonder how they get the yellow part of the crème perfectly in the center of the egg.”
Good question isn’t it? How Do they do it?
As long as I can remember the Cadbury Crème Egg has been a staple food for my Easter breakfast, lunch and dinner. It is amazing how popular these crème eggs are. This morning when I woke up, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. So, as per normal morning routine to check email, what’s happening in the world and my daily weather, I did a search on the eggs. Have you ever googled Cadbury Crème Eggs? Wow! There are endless sites and forums about these delectable eggs. There are even tribute sites! I was agog at all the talk, and yet stupefied at the same time.
“How do you eat yours?” was a catchphrase that Cadbury used to market their eggs back in the mid eighties. Want to know how some people replied to that question? Of course you do! Some say they eat the crème with a spoon… a special, tiny spoon just for that job. Others just pop it all in their mouth at once and let the chocolate and crème unite for a divine taste explosion. A few say they carefully cut and divide the egg in half and eat it like a deviled egg. Strangely enough, I found that some even pierce a hole in the egg, and watch the inside drip out, and then eat the parts separately. But I, like many others bite the top of the egg off and then lick out all the crème. Then when I am so sick of sugar I can hardly stand it, I start on the chocolate egg which leaves me so incredibly thirsty; no amount of water can quench it. Why do I eat the whole thing if it does that to me? Well, the answer is universal among all Cadbury Crème Egg lovers. Of all the chocolate eggs produced; this one is truly the classic. Could you really imagine life without them?
Well, back to my quest of finding out how Cadbury positions the yellow crème just so, I have learned some things that all you trivia buffs like me will find interesting. The world was first acquainted with the Cadbury Crème Egg in the early 1920's by the Cadbury brothers, John and Benjamin. People began their passion for the eggs in 1923 when they became available to the public. But the crème egg as we know it today was not unleashed until 1971.
Ok, enough with the history lesson and onto the point of this article… the yellow center. The Cadbury Crème Egg is made by forging a chocolate shell into a half-egg mould. One side of the egg is laid out and filled with the gooey and savory white fondant and a dollop of yellow fondant that simulates yolk. Then, the two egg halves are closed quickly and allowed to cool which sets the chocolate and the crème inside. Somehow the white fondant magically spreads all around the yellow fondant perfectly. The eggs then travel on a conveyor for their final journey to be foiled and packed. And voila, the Cadbury Crème Egg is born!
There you have it folks, the answer to the impossible question that was proposed to pregnant, craving me, who still has an unbelievable urge to eat one of these suckers.
My next phase into figuring these eggs out is this; what flavor is the center crème? This is something we never really think about while eating it. It’s not vanilla, but it is similar. It is a mystery that will leave me googling until I find it out!
So, I leave you with this thought since you know the all-inclusive truth about how the yellow gets in the egg; how do you eat yours?
Contributed by: Amanda Goodall
Two-timing a three-year-old and the television set
When I say kids don't become human till about the age of seven, it's not for lack of human emotion, but rather the excess of it; they cry for everything, laugh at nothing and get excited at the most mundane things (see, the sun! wow, a toilet roll! bah!)
Consider this: I have been stuck with babysitting my American-born and fastidious three-year-old niece on and off for the past few days because the poor little thing has been really sick lately.
For the many hours that I have spent in this humongous task, I have realized that two-timing her and the television set is the only reasonable way to do this. After all, the idiot box has in the past helped me deal with stress, impending doomsday and plain boredom; it failed miserably at the job of taming a toddler, however. I still think I did extremely well for the fact that I have never been left in charge of such a tiny little thing ever in the past. So, I decided to take a leaf out of my book and leave it for anyone else (god forbid!) stuck in a similar situation:
First of all, if a kid lives around a 50 feet perimeter of the television, never turn the TV off on a possible kids-channel---Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network and Disney are strictly off limits (your local PBS channel is the most deceptive---beware if you watched the NewsHour the night before). Here's what happens: after a lot of nerve-racking, you somehow figure out a way to keep the child occupied and heave a sigh of relief before finally turning on the TV ---and bam, in float the high pitched shrills of Dora and her fellow-adventurers. That's it: she turns to eye the idiot box, is totally absorbed in no time, downright oblivious of the hundred other channels a fully-grown human being would rather watch.
And don't ever forego a news show and switch to a sitcom --- believe me, to a three year old, it doesn't make a whit of difference --- the background laughter doesn't seem to fool the kids like it does us (the fact that they guffaw at the most serious statements is a different point entirely; "you'll get very sick if you don't take this medicine" *peals of laughter* duh!) If you are indeed watching a news program, choose one carefully--- she's a little more sympathetic to good looking anchors, so I'm sticking with Brian Williams; this is not the time for old newsmen like Scheiffer and Larry King is definitely off the table (sure respect her judgment there!)
On sitcoms, there's a wider range of choices; Full House and The Cosby Show are likely to be better tolerated; believe me, nothing interests them more than their own kind (read: those that shriek with delight on spotting a spider and giggle uncontrollably at the sight of a ball). Which reminds me, if you absolutely have to play a game, play ball or Hide-and-Seek. Tossing the ball back and forth not only allows you to watch TV in peace, you'd be impressed at a three-year-old's hand-eye coordination. Hide-and-seek is not only a fun game (from age 3 to 33) but it also allows you to sneak into the den and check your e-mail while you are "hiding" and sometimes you can just "forget" to seek. Leaves the three-year-old out of your hair for a while.
If she decides its story time, I choose to listen. In that case I can get off with an 'uh-huh' every five minutes. In my defense, the few minutes that I do turn my attention to her, she doesn't make any sense. But you can't escape your turn at reading. So, make sure you pick your times right. And at this, I have advice for the so-called kids' book writers. Can't they make it just a tad interesting? I read a 15-page book, the entire content of which was: "Shhhhh, tigger, pooh is asleep. Shhhhh, tigger, piglet is asleep. Shhhhh, tigger, Eeyore is asleep. Shhhhh, tigger, roo is asleep. Goodnight, tigger"! It's only fair, because she, for one, is not even listening to it. I might as well be reading The Times. That, by the way, is another good strategy: reading the newspaper out loud. Choose the Art or Sports section as opposed to Politics. And put up with her absolutely frivolous observations--- "Blue shorts" as opposed to 'Federer won the Nasdaq Open'. It has something to do with the colors. Reason why Barney's purple. Speaking of which, kids' videos are brilliant. I actually watched three Barney videos and would watch more if I have to.
If its pee time or poop time, there's no way out. Just your hard luck. Time to start cursing the digestive system that you marveled at in high-school biology. Paraphrasing Marge Simpson, "How did you make that into that?"
At the end of the day, when she has just spent an hour to successfully finish a bowl of ten pasta shells and your patience is wearing thin, she looks up with a winning smile and shrieks "love you, maasi". That's when you hug her, decide she's adorable and switch off the television. Only for a bit though. Friends is up next....
You explain to her that Friends is the grown-up Barney and that you can't get through an entire day without it…Hearing her chirpy "okay" you switch on the idiot box only to watch Monica, Rachel and Phoebe ogle at pictures of little Ben. Can't the world function without little kids anymore?
Contributed by:Karthika Muthukumaraswamy
Consider this: I have been stuck with babysitting my American-born and fastidious three-year-old niece on and off for the past few days because the poor little thing has been really sick lately.
For the many hours that I have spent in this humongous task, I have realized that two-timing her and the television set is the only reasonable way to do this. After all, the idiot box has in the past helped me deal with stress, impending doomsday and plain boredom; it failed miserably at the job of taming a toddler, however. I still think I did extremely well for the fact that I have never been left in charge of such a tiny little thing ever in the past. So, I decided to take a leaf out of my book and leave it for anyone else (god forbid!) stuck in a similar situation:
First of all, if a kid lives around a 50 feet perimeter of the television, never turn the TV off on a possible kids-channel---Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network and Disney are strictly off limits (your local PBS channel is the most deceptive---beware if you watched the NewsHour the night before). Here's what happens: after a lot of nerve-racking, you somehow figure out a way to keep the child occupied and heave a sigh of relief before finally turning on the TV ---and bam, in float the high pitched shrills of Dora and her fellow-adventurers. That's it: she turns to eye the idiot box, is totally absorbed in no time, downright oblivious of the hundred other channels a fully-grown human being would rather watch.
And don't ever forego a news show and switch to a sitcom --- believe me, to a three year old, it doesn't make a whit of difference --- the background laughter doesn't seem to fool the kids like it does us (the fact that they guffaw at the most serious statements is a different point entirely; "you'll get very sick if you don't take this medicine" *peals of laughter* duh!) If you are indeed watching a news program, choose one carefully--- she's a little more sympathetic to good looking anchors, so I'm sticking with Brian Williams; this is not the time for old newsmen like Scheiffer and Larry King is definitely off the table (sure respect her judgment there!)
On sitcoms, there's a wider range of choices; Full House and The Cosby Show are likely to be better tolerated; believe me, nothing interests them more than their own kind (read: those that shriek with delight on spotting a spider and giggle uncontrollably at the sight of a ball). Which reminds me, if you absolutely have to play a game, play ball or Hide-and-Seek. Tossing the ball back and forth not only allows you to watch TV in peace, you'd be impressed at a three-year-old's hand-eye coordination. Hide-and-seek is not only a fun game (from age 3 to 33) but it also allows you to sneak into the den and check your e-mail while you are "hiding" and sometimes you can just "forget" to seek. Leaves the three-year-old out of your hair for a while.
If she decides its story time, I choose to listen. In that case I can get off with an 'uh-huh' every five minutes. In my defense, the few minutes that I do turn my attention to her, she doesn't make any sense. But you can't escape your turn at reading. So, make sure you pick your times right. And at this, I have advice for the so-called kids' book writers. Can't they make it just a tad interesting? I read a 15-page book, the entire content of which was: "Shhhhh, tigger, pooh is asleep. Shhhhh, tigger, piglet is asleep. Shhhhh, tigger, Eeyore is asleep. Shhhhh, tigger, roo is asleep. Goodnight, tigger"! It's only fair, because she, for one, is not even listening to it. I might as well be reading The Times. That, by the way, is another good strategy: reading the newspaper out loud. Choose the Art or Sports section as opposed to Politics. And put up with her absolutely frivolous observations--- "Blue shorts" as opposed to 'Federer won the Nasdaq Open'. It has something to do with the colors. Reason why Barney's purple. Speaking of which, kids' videos are brilliant. I actually watched three Barney videos and would watch more if I have to.
If its pee time or poop time, there's no way out. Just your hard luck. Time to start cursing the digestive system that you marveled at in high-school biology. Paraphrasing Marge Simpson, "How did you make that into that?"
At the end of the day, when she has just spent an hour to successfully finish a bowl of ten pasta shells and your patience is wearing thin, she looks up with a winning smile and shrieks "love you, maasi". That's when you hug her, decide she's adorable and switch off the television. Only for a bit though. Friends is up next....
You explain to her that Friends is the grown-up Barney and that you can't get through an entire day without it…Hearing her chirpy "okay" you switch on the idiot box only to watch Monica, Rachel and Phoebe ogle at pictures of little Ben. Can't the world function without little kids anymore?
Contributed by:Karthika Muthukumaraswamy
Caring in My Sister's Way
Last summer, I had an acute case of bronchitis. I was downright bummed. Summer for me meant sun, sand, sea…a gazillion trips to the mall or to my friends’ houses, or to another province. I was supposed to exhaust every excess fat on my calves, thighs and belly to hours and hours of fun. Instead I was stuck in the house, stuck with bronchitis.
I didn’t have a night’s worth of sleep since my cough attacks chose to antagonize the peaceful slumber of the entire household.
My sister, a sub-zero in the sensitivity department, would grumble about people not having enough sleep and that I should take dear old doggie’s job.
I wanted to cut off her oxygen supply. Bummer. I didn’t even have the voice to put her to place, only an ancient queen’s glare which, unfortunately, didn’t work.
Thank God for the good doctor. The expensive medicine he prescribed made its worth and soon my bout with bronchitis was over…sadly, so did summer.
Once again my lungs were pumped up for cleaning duty. While doing my room, I accidentally nudged a notebook from my cluttered desk (sis was always a human tornado). I recognized the all too familiar carefree scribbles revealing a prayer for me to be well again because it hurt seeing me suffer like that.
A tear dropped from my eyes- okay, okay. So the Niagara was in town. Who would know the brat felt that way about me? She, who had lived to contradict me, who had continuously stretched my patience to the limit. It was like she had grown a new head. The little weirdo was so beyond me. But this I finally know- my sis does care about me.
She had done the sweetest thing in my life without letting me know it. She could have rubbed it to my face and proclaimed it to the world to make me look like an ungrateful beast. But she didn’t do any of those things.
Sometimes, the most unthinkable of persons turn out to be the ones who truly care for us. They just find it awkward to be obvious. They don’t need an audience to boost their ego because their kindness is not for show. They are merely content that we are well.
Most of the time, we judge people by the way they treat us and by how they make us feel. We don’t bother to dig dipper, to skim below the surface of Jack or Jill. We never can know what is hidden in the flesh because we see only what our eyes expect to see, because we see only what they want us to see.
To little sis who would bet a week’s allowance to hear me say, thank you. You may get goose bumps as I am getting while writing this, but it comes from my heart.
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
I didn’t have a night’s worth of sleep since my cough attacks chose to antagonize the peaceful slumber of the entire household.
My sister, a sub-zero in the sensitivity department, would grumble about people not having enough sleep and that I should take dear old doggie’s job.
I wanted to cut off her oxygen supply. Bummer. I didn’t even have the voice to put her to place, only an ancient queen’s glare which, unfortunately, didn’t work.
Thank God for the good doctor. The expensive medicine he prescribed made its worth and soon my bout with bronchitis was over…sadly, so did summer.
Once again my lungs were pumped up for cleaning duty. While doing my room, I accidentally nudged a notebook from my cluttered desk (sis was always a human tornado). I recognized the all too familiar carefree scribbles revealing a prayer for me to be well again because it hurt seeing me suffer like that.
A tear dropped from my eyes- okay, okay. So the Niagara was in town. Who would know the brat felt that way about me? She, who had lived to contradict me, who had continuously stretched my patience to the limit. It was like she had grown a new head. The little weirdo was so beyond me. But this I finally know- my sis does care about me.
She had done the sweetest thing in my life without letting me know it. She could have rubbed it to my face and proclaimed it to the world to make me look like an ungrateful beast. But she didn’t do any of those things.
Sometimes, the most unthinkable of persons turn out to be the ones who truly care for us. They just find it awkward to be obvious. They don’t need an audience to boost their ego because their kindness is not for show. They are merely content that we are well.
Most of the time, we judge people by the way they treat us and by how they make us feel. We don’t bother to dig dipper, to skim below the surface of Jack or Jill. We never can know what is hidden in the flesh because we see only what our eyes expect to see, because we see only what they want us to see.
To little sis who would bet a week’s allowance to hear me say, thank you. You may get goose bumps as I am getting while writing this, but it comes from my heart.
Contributed by:~Sheryl Joy P. Olano
The day my children became Teenagers
It's not that I didn't see this coming; I did. But many endings in life come on gradually, with no fixed, calendared date.My youngest child is almost ten and I can't remember the last diaper I changed, the last time I filled a bottle with juice, or emptied a potty chair. The lines between babyhood, childhood and the teen years are blurred simply because you rarely know when something significant is happening for the last time. But one day last summer, the childhood of my 12 year old abruptly came to an end when he suddenly told me to "lay off the kisses will you? "Sheesh! You're acting like we're married or something"
Now let me make it clear, I am not a mouth kisser. I know that many families kiss all relatives on the lips, but the family I grew up in were cheek kissers; I was not laying a bunch of sloppy kisses on this kid's lips, just quick, occasional pecks on his beautiful forehead. To hide my disappointment, I immediately made a joke out of it, walking over to our golden retriever, kissing the side of his head and asking him if we were married now. But I had gotten the point, loud and clear: I was to lay off displays of affection for my most affectionate child. .
For up until that day, that's what he was. When he was a baby, he simply loved being held. While Aaron, my oldest, stopped nursing the moment he learned to walk, Jeremy would have been content to nurse according to La Leche standards. Even when he became an active toddler with a penchant for wandering, what he loved most - when he tired of his peregrinations -- was to be held. By mom. As recently as this past year, he would sometimes absent-mindedly hold my hand as we walked through store parking lots, abruptly pulling away when he realized that he was in public.
And here he was declaring, what sounded to me, like complete emotional independence. My nine-year-old daughter, Abigail, immediately put her own signature on this same declaration by chiming in with, "yeah Mom You should stop kissing us like we're babies or something " Suddenly I was greatly relieved that we had pets. After all, John and I had showered affection on our beloved cat Nathaniel long before Aaron was born. Let's see: two cats and a dog. And they all love me. And, of course, I can always wait for the grand-babies: hmmmm . . . Aaron is 14; if he was married by age 25, the babies might start coming around the year..."
Walking up the stairs, trying to work rather unsuccessfully through the math of this upsetting new development, I realized something horribly selfish about myself. I love children and babies, not only because they are adorable, but also because they are so easy to get along with, so easy to entertain and so easy to win love from. I mean, how hard is it to make a baby laugh? "Peek-a-boo " Or the never-fail put-the-top-of-your-head-into-their-middle routine that gets them every time. With toddlers, you only have to be there and actively listen to their latest babbling about a bug, a bird, a doll or a garbage truck. But the best part is that babies and toddlers can't get enough hugs and kisses. It seems I could never love my babies too much, and they always returned that affection so adorably. Would I never again be invited to kiss those smooth cheeks, those darling foreheads and feel their sweet kisses on my own cheeks? Perhaps now it would be harder to show love for the kids and to receive their love.
Twelve-year-old problems are not fixed with a clean diaper, a full bottle, a good nap and a hug. Although the baby days were difficult in their own way, my children's love for me was never in question, simply because I was their mother. Meeting the needs of babies and toddlers is, of course, exhausting, but it is also simple. Like they are. How would I ever begin to understand and respond properly to the complex emotions of my budding teen-agers?
I decided to stay out of their way for a while. I wanted to take my cues from them, and not vice versa. But before I had completely descended the stairs, Jeremy, oblivious to my inner turmoil, eagerly called me over to show me a funny Calvin & Hobbes strip from his library book. Aaron, my 14-year-old, who was the first to declare displays-of-affection-independence, insisted that I watch X-Men 2 with him that afternoon. In spite of the unforgivable fact that I am his mother, he really likes to discuss his favourite movies and stories with me, something he has done since his precocious toddler days. Abby? She got some dental work done a few days later and I got quite a few voluntary hugs. I think her declaration was a little premature.
Although I will tread very carefully from now on, I'll always be there for them emotionally, whether it means watching a movie, reading a comic strip or giving a welcomed hug. I will try and love them the way that they need, not the way I need. And maybe, once in a while, and only on special occasions, I'll be able to steal a precious little forehead kiss. Let's see now, how many years until those grand babies get here . . .?
Contributed by: ~ Kathryn Atwood
Now let me make it clear, I am not a mouth kisser. I know that many families kiss all relatives on the lips, but the family I grew up in were cheek kissers; I was not laying a bunch of sloppy kisses on this kid's lips, just quick, occasional pecks on his beautiful forehead. To hide my disappointment, I immediately made a joke out of it, walking over to our golden retriever, kissing the side of his head and asking him if we were married now. But I had gotten the point, loud and clear: I was to lay off displays of affection for my most affectionate child. .
For up until that day, that's what he was. When he was a baby, he simply loved being held. While Aaron, my oldest, stopped nursing the moment he learned to walk, Jeremy would have been content to nurse according to La Leche standards. Even when he became an active toddler with a penchant for wandering, what he loved most - when he tired of his peregrinations -- was to be held. By mom. As recently as this past year, he would sometimes absent-mindedly hold my hand as we walked through store parking lots, abruptly pulling away when he realized that he was in public.
And here he was declaring, what sounded to me, like complete emotional independence. My nine-year-old daughter, Abigail, immediately put her own signature on this same declaration by chiming in with, "yeah Mom You should stop kissing us like we're babies or something " Suddenly I was greatly relieved that we had pets. After all, John and I had showered affection on our beloved cat Nathaniel long before Aaron was born. Let's see: two cats and a dog. And they all love me. And, of course, I can always wait for the grand-babies: hmmmm . . . Aaron is 14; if he was married by age 25, the babies might start coming around the year..."
Walking up the stairs, trying to work rather unsuccessfully through the math of this upsetting new development, I realized something horribly selfish about myself. I love children and babies, not only because they are adorable, but also because they are so easy to get along with, so easy to entertain and so easy to win love from. I mean, how hard is it to make a baby laugh? "Peek-a-boo " Or the never-fail put-the-top-of-your-head-into-their-middle routine that gets them every time. With toddlers, you only have to be there and actively listen to their latest babbling about a bug, a bird, a doll or a garbage truck. But the best part is that babies and toddlers can't get enough hugs and kisses. It seems I could never love my babies too much, and they always returned that affection so adorably. Would I never again be invited to kiss those smooth cheeks, those darling foreheads and feel their sweet kisses on my own cheeks? Perhaps now it would be harder to show love for the kids and to receive their love.
Twelve-year-old problems are not fixed with a clean diaper, a full bottle, a good nap and a hug. Although the baby days were difficult in their own way, my children's love for me was never in question, simply because I was their mother. Meeting the needs of babies and toddlers is, of course, exhausting, but it is also simple. Like they are. How would I ever begin to understand and respond properly to the complex emotions of my budding teen-agers?
I decided to stay out of their way for a while. I wanted to take my cues from them, and not vice versa. But before I had completely descended the stairs, Jeremy, oblivious to my inner turmoil, eagerly called me over to show me a funny Calvin & Hobbes strip from his library book. Aaron, my 14-year-old, who was the first to declare displays-of-affection-independence, insisted that I watch X-Men 2 with him that afternoon. In spite of the unforgivable fact that I am his mother, he really likes to discuss his favourite movies and stories with me, something he has done since his precocious toddler days. Abby? She got some dental work done a few days later and I got quite a few voluntary hugs. I think her declaration was a little premature.
Although I will tread very carefully from now on, I'll always be there for them emotionally, whether it means watching a movie, reading a comic strip or giving a welcomed hug. I will try and love them the way that they need, not the way I need. And maybe, once in a while, and only on special occasions, I'll be able to steal a precious little forehead kiss. Let's see now, how many years until those grand babies get here . . .?
The Artificial Womb
I suppose from the first moment of existence the primary will of man is to avoid pain and find pleasure. This can be looked at as a constant dynamic, which is hardwired into our psyches, by nature itself. From this, I shall conclude that throughout the life span of the human species Natural Selection favored those who maximized pleasure and minimized pain, hence the term “Artificial Womb”. This can be taken in a literal and figurative sense. This is literal in the sense that actual pleasures can be derived from comfort and safety. This term also can be figurative in the sense that our minds ultimately are designed to propagate the genes which created it; this can give a sense of security in many realms of thought. The womb itself insulates us to a degree, creating a buffer zone to reduce the awesome shock of any random reality, and inevitable fate.
Aspects of the artificial womb cross both ends of the psychological spectrum, from the casually superficial to the outright essence of who a person is. Spirituality, religion, beliefs in deities all stem from the desired warmth and protection of the womb. These “safety nets” bring reassurance that everything will be “ok” in the end, that life and your existence is important in the grand scheme of things. These socio-psychological devices, which men have designed to substitute for the lack of actual meaning and relevance.? From the moment of conception we have striven as human beings to recreate a particular sensation, which does not exist; the chasing of artificiality is the ultimate practice in futility. Fictional accounts of characters (The Bible and all other religious text) all served and continue to serve the purpose of containment, let say of ignorance against enlightenment.
Security stems from ignorance. The less conscientious you are, the more secure you feel. Tragedy and pain are created from exposure to an alternate perception of your reality, in other words, the pain of exposure outside of the womb, which was false in the first place. Civilization’s structural foundation is founded on maintaining the collective artificiality of the womb for the masses. Sometimes this is not enough, other modes of maintenance are explored. Drugs, for example, keep those moments of pain away momentarily; this is a literal symbol of how artificial it all really is. As I’ve stated before religion and conventionality are the biggest methods to insure the masses feel secure in their false sense of relevance.
From the first breath at birth to the last at death we search for the warmth, the security, the content obliviousness, which can only be found in the womb. Outside of this, is a harsh, bitterly chilled visceral reality. We forsake logic, lucid thought processes, and honest reflection for disillusionment, conformity and abstractions that keeps us in a daze which seems more pleasurable than the former. Throughout our brief and ultimately irrelevant existences we trap ourselves in the artificial womb, never truly comprehending that it does not exist. I would gather from this, that maybe the unrelenting appeal comes from the artificiality itself. If ignorance is bliss, then enlightenment must be torture.
Contributed by: ~Kenneth Thomas
Aspects of the artificial womb cross both ends of the psychological spectrum, from the casually superficial to the outright essence of who a person is. Spirituality, religion, beliefs in deities all stem from the desired warmth and protection of the womb. These “safety nets” bring reassurance that everything will be “ok” in the end, that life and your existence is important in the grand scheme of things. These socio-psychological devices, which men have designed to substitute for the lack of actual meaning and relevance.? From the moment of conception we have striven as human beings to recreate a particular sensation, which does not exist; the chasing of artificiality is the ultimate practice in futility. Fictional accounts of characters (The Bible and all other religious text) all served and continue to serve the purpose of containment, let say of ignorance against enlightenment.
Security stems from ignorance. The less conscientious you are, the more secure you feel. Tragedy and pain are created from exposure to an alternate perception of your reality, in other words, the pain of exposure outside of the womb, which was false in the first place. Civilization’s structural foundation is founded on maintaining the collective artificiality of the womb for the masses. Sometimes this is not enough, other modes of maintenance are explored. Drugs, for example, keep those moments of pain away momentarily; this is a literal symbol of how artificial it all really is. As I’ve stated before religion and conventionality are the biggest methods to insure the masses feel secure in their false sense of relevance.
From the first breath at birth to the last at death we search for the warmth, the security, the content obliviousness, which can only be found in the womb. Outside of this, is a harsh, bitterly chilled visceral reality. We forsake logic, lucid thought processes, and honest reflection for disillusionment, conformity and abstractions that keeps us in a daze which seems more pleasurable than the former. Throughout our brief and ultimately irrelevant existences we trap ourselves in the artificial womb, never truly comprehending that it does not exist. I would gather from this, that maybe the unrelenting appeal comes from the artificiality itself. If ignorance is bliss, then enlightenment must be torture.
My House with Kids
Being a parent, even in the best of situations, is not easy and with five kids, ages eight to fifteen; my house can get quite chaotic. Rarely, if ever, does a person around here obtain a single moment of peace, let alone any privacy. Every day and at any given time someone in this house has a problem.
No matter how trivial the issue at hand may be, my utmost attention is generally required. For instance, the constant bickering over petty things never seems to end. Who will watch what on TV? Should this even matter, for goodness sake, we have three televisions. Who sits here? Who plays there? Honestly, who really cares? Somebody is always hitting this one while another is teasing that one. There is the frequent name-calling, which might consist of moron, dummy, or stupid. These are, however, only a few since many of the other names would make a sailor blush. Quite often I find myself amazed by their ability to create such elaborate words while at the same time they seem to be lacking such simple behaviours like self-discipline, manners, or common sense. Walk into my house and you are sure to hear, "Mom, she hit Me." or "I'm telling!" Everyday there is someone accused of taking something; yet, upon my inspection, the item in question is usually just overlooked and sitting right under their noses.
Chores are another aspect in my home that often get overlooked by these five hooligans as well. Naturally, most all day-to-day tasks fall on me if anything is actually going to get done. Laundry is always fun. With three girls forever changing clothes, I am never short of items to wash; and the two boys, well let's just say they really enjoy mud. Trying to persuade any of my joyous children to pitch in occasionally is pretty much a joke. How hard could it be to pick something up and put it back where it belongs? Of course, when there's some money involved, everybody is open to helping out. What the kids do not seem to realize is the fact that if I could afford to pay someone to help with the household chores, I would have hired a maid a long time ago. This brings up another issue; it costs to run all of them back and forth, especially with the price of gas today. From doctor and dentist appointments to ball games, after-school activities, and sleepovers, my mini van is continually on the road.
Patience is something not yet achieved by any of my children. Before they go outside after school, all homework must be completed; however, none of them wants to wait for his or her turn. Instead, each of them will read aloud at the same time. Since I am normally the only person available during these hours, there is no possible way for me to listen to or help all of them at once. When supper nears, I hear a lot of "What are we having?" and "Is it done yet?" As if it makes any difference, they will not sit still long enough to eat it. Depending on whether or not the blessed varmints actually lie down at night, I might be able to get into bed at a decent hour. More often than not, this rarely happens as planned. There is sure to be the sudden outbursts of thirst, which are, always followed by, endless bathroom breaks.
I desperately long for the moment when I can finally sit down and relax, hopefully, with my sanity intact. The stress I receive is overwhelming and continuous, but my responsibility as a parent keeps me going. Even though there have been times when I have felt like running away to a deserted island, I thrive on trying to make sense and order out of this chaos. No matter how minor the problem or stressful the job, these are my kids, and I would not have it any other way
Contributed by: ~ Nikki Phipps
No matter how trivial the issue at hand may be, my utmost attention is generally required. For instance, the constant bickering over petty things never seems to end. Who will watch what on TV? Should this even matter, for goodness sake, we have three televisions. Who sits here? Who plays there? Honestly, who really cares? Somebody is always hitting this one while another is teasing that one. There is the frequent name-calling, which might consist of moron, dummy, or stupid. These are, however, only a few since many of the other names would make a sailor blush. Quite often I find myself amazed by their ability to create such elaborate words while at the same time they seem to be lacking such simple behaviours like self-discipline, manners, or common sense. Walk into my house and you are sure to hear, "Mom, she hit Me." or "I'm telling!" Everyday there is someone accused of taking something; yet, upon my inspection, the item in question is usually just overlooked and sitting right under their noses.
Chores are another aspect in my home that often get overlooked by these five hooligans as well. Naturally, most all day-to-day tasks fall on me if anything is actually going to get done. Laundry is always fun. With three girls forever changing clothes, I am never short of items to wash; and the two boys, well let's just say they really enjoy mud. Trying to persuade any of my joyous children to pitch in occasionally is pretty much a joke. How hard could it be to pick something up and put it back where it belongs? Of course, when there's some money involved, everybody is open to helping out. What the kids do not seem to realize is the fact that if I could afford to pay someone to help with the household chores, I would have hired a maid a long time ago. This brings up another issue; it costs to run all of them back and forth, especially with the price of gas today. From doctor and dentist appointments to ball games, after-school activities, and sleepovers, my mini van is continually on the road.
Patience is something not yet achieved by any of my children. Before they go outside after school, all homework must be completed; however, none of them wants to wait for his or her turn. Instead, each of them will read aloud at the same time. Since I am normally the only person available during these hours, there is no possible way for me to listen to or help all of them at once. When supper nears, I hear a lot of "What are we having?" and "Is it done yet?" As if it makes any difference, they will not sit still long enough to eat it. Depending on whether or not the blessed varmints actually lie down at night, I might be able to get into bed at a decent hour. More often than not, this rarely happens as planned. There is sure to be the sudden outbursts of thirst, which are, always followed by, endless bathroom breaks.
I desperately long for the moment when I can finally sit down and relax, hopefully, with my sanity intact. The stress I receive is overwhelming and continuous, but my responsibility as a parent keeps me going. Even though there have been times when I have felt like running away to a deserted island, I thrive on trying to make sense and order out of this chaos. No matter how minor the problem or stressful the job, these are my kids, and I would not have it any other way
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