Ups and those other things

I'm having a bit of a turbulent week. We're in the process of having our asbestos-laden retro popcorn ceilings scraped, textured, and repainted. If you haven't tried this before, go for it! It's fun! Just move all of your earthly possessions, wall-hangings, curtains, and whatnot into the very small spaces that weren't sprayed to looking like a woolly coat. Then continue to live in those small spaces while all work is completed. Oh, and if you're looking for the bathroom, it's the big red bucket in the garage.

You mean that doesn't sound like fun? Well, you're right, sort of. It's not fun. It's not easy. It's certainly not convenient. But we are lucky to have big enough small spaces to make it work, and wonderful grandparents who will host the kids for a week while it's done. And we're blessed to have enough money to put a little into our beloved home. I kept my eye on the prize: pristine hand-textured, non-cancer-causing ceilings. I can already tell, post-scraping, that it's going to look marvelous.

I can also tell that the ceiling scrapers didn't tape their plastic well enough. I know this because their water got underneath and now my pristine, beautiful, ever-so-well-loved-as-our-best-home-improvement-ever laminate floor (the one the inspired this favorite post) is bubbling everywhere. There is no fixing this, short of replacing the swollen boards, and there's a lot of them.

My heart hurts, as we say in our house. But even with this--the impending arguments with the flooring company, the turmoil as we will once again be uprooted from our house, the frustration at trading one problem for another--I try to appreciate the bright side. What? There's no bright side? Nonsense. God came that we have life abundantly, and that means relishing in the up times and also relishing in whatever comes between. Already I have called the project manager and very patiently explained what happened and asked what we do next. This is a huge thing for me: shy, shirking me. And I am proud that I stood up and did it. And if I can do that, then I can pick myself and my hurting heart up and march forward, onward and, hopefully, eventually upward. In the end, this too shall pass, as everything, good or bad, does. And when it does, I will hopefully be able to see the character-building that took place. It's so easy to see after the fact, as with the cake, that I'm proud of myself too for seeing it now. It's actually when I need it most.

And it's not all bad. I have a weekend with B, the kids are having fun with their grandparents, and we got to hear my favorite band play for 2.5 fantastic hours. Plus I learned something: you should always keep your razor in a case. Or, if not, at least remember that when your toothbrush won't come out of the overnight bag and you think maybe you should pull really hard, DON'T. It could be stuck on said un-cased razor, which is apt to take off a hefty strip from the top of your index finger when you pull. Yes, let's say it altogether: ouch.

Crumb-diddly-icious

I have a love-hate relationship with running. I've always admired runners and their determination (not to mention their physiques), but I just can't seem to become a runner myself. I'll try it, fleetingly, for a day or day, then give up for more enjoyable exercise (or, honestly, the Wii). The precise reason eludes me, although I've been given to blame flat feet, achy knees, big boobs, asthma, and time-constraints.

But I signed up for a 5K run with some of my mom friends at the beginning of the year. The run takes place next Sunday. I thought I would have plenty of time to train for the run, by which time I would realize that I really do enjoy running and therefore keep it up indefinitely. Only I still don't enjoy it. I trained diligently for about a month, increasing in both time and distance on track with that 5K. Then I took a two week break due to colds and weather. When both cleared up this morning, I found myself dreading the restart.

Hey, I told myself. I could try a new training philosophy, being "Let's not train at all and see how far I can run without any prep!"

Which was tempting. But a cop out. So I strapped on my shoes and went for that run. All the way to the donut store and back. Because nothing celebrates dedication and 2.5 miles like trans fat.

Selfish, lazy, mediocre...

And I did it. Added a picture to my NaBloPoMo page, that is. But no blog posts. I guess people are just going to have to click on over to find out what I'm doing.

In the non-virtual world, I've been tied up with sick kids. Again. I feel like I should tattoo "Beware of Germs" on our foreheads. I feel like my friends are going to start avoiding us and the germs we seem to crawl with. I feel like a failure. I wash hands diligently, feed the kids lots of fruits and vegetables, take multivitamins and supplements, avoid cold-bearing friends and places, etc. And still: the kids get sick. A lot. So much so that I'm starting to have people comment on it.

Look, I know why the kids get sick. They have inherited allergies, asthma, and eczema that tax their immune systems, thus making them more vulnerable to colds. But there is so little I can reasonably do about the allergies. They have some medications (M at least) and we've cleared the house of the big culprits. Still, too much running and coughcoughcough. A little cold turns into a big ordeal. I know it's not enough.

But the alternative? Trying a bunch of radical changes that may or may not do anything, other than throw our whole life for a loop. If I was assured that these changes could help our kids, I'd do them. Even if they were tough. Even if they seemed un-doable. But I don't know that.

Okay, but I do know that I ought to just try. I mean, it's my kids and their health. But it seems like such a huge thing to do that I find myself praying, thinking, hoping that things will just resolve themselves on their own. Isn't that how we are about so many problems, parenting or otherwise? It's just a phase. Or, It's just this one time. Or, It's not really a big deal. We tell ourselves these things when the nagging little spirit within--often the Holy Spirit, if you're of faith--is telling you otherwise.

Why? Human nature. Laziness. Denial. Envy, even, of other people who have it so easy. Common sense, which tells me that other people are fine without these extreme measures. But we're not fine, right? And these aren't other people. They're us.

And I know parents who've made similar changes. I know they've managed, that they live happy lives, but it seems like such a big change fraught with such uncertainty. So what made them decide to do it? And does the fact that they made the same decision that I continue to avoid make me a worse parent? Or just a realist? Just some combination therein?

It just seems like I can't manage the daily stuff. How in the world can I tackle something so big? Where do you come up with that strength? Or am I just shortchanging myself? Because I know--regardless of whatever else there is--that I'm just a capable of a mom and person as anyone else. It's just a matter of application.

And today, the only application I've managed is a fork and knife to the Pizza Hut lunch buffet. And my NaBloPoMo page. And the photo book I'm making for my grandmother. Which seems in writing like a lot less necessity and a lot more avoidance. Great--Now I can add shallow to growing list in my head.

But he's forty with good teeth

Today was M's first official visit to the dentist. I strongly suggested that we go to the pediatric dentist his friend used, thinking it would be so much more fun and exciting.

"No," he insisted. "I'd just like to use the dentist mommy and daddy use."

I prodded more, pointing out the toys, television, and fancy decor. Still no dice.

So we go to the regular old dentist, starting with the regular young hygienist. She tries her darnedest to entertain M with the rubber glove bit and the dancing finger. Wrong kid. M continues to gently rebuff her with nearly soundless No, thank you's. She seems perplexed, but grudgingly goes on with a nearly perfect cleaning, after which the dentist pops in for review. Again, he tries to engage the boy with a whale of tale--literally. All the while, M sits with his mouth opened wide, as if wondering when this strange people will just get on with the work at hand.

As soon as we get the all clear, we're presented with a smorgasbord of stickers.

"I'd just like one of those firemen," M says politely.

I'm a bit flustered that they're working so hard with so little success. "And then we can go do something special, just you and me," I say to both him and the dentist, just so they might see that his mind is on another kind of reward.

"Yes," he replies earnestly, "like go get some coffee."

All of which leads me to believe he's a forty-year-old soul trapped in a three-year-old's body.

And then I think about it some more, and start wondering whether perhaps I've squashed his child's spirit through the course of my parenting. And I'd really worry, except then I peek into his room at nap time and find him goofing around on his pillow with an entire daddy-shirt stuffed into his underwear.

"Why do you have a shirt in your underwear?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even and curious and, most importantly, without laughter.

At which point he pulls the shirt from his underwear, heaves a sigh highly indicative of fun spoiled, and says, "Just go, Mom."

Ah, yes, three years old. I never thought I'd be so glad to see it.

How much is that immune system in the window?

Coming off a two-week cold (and still not fully recovered), I contacted some of my holistically-minded friends to see if I could come up with any natural ways to protect me and the kids from repeating this whole scenario throughout the winter. After all, it is M's first year in preschool, and K still does do a lot of finger-chewing regardless of how many times I gently drill her that there might be germies on those.

Armed with a list of supplements, I toted the kids into Jimbo's. Then, while each child was eagerly finding and playing with every breakable glass bottle in the vicinity, I quickly gathered the things I'd been suggested.

And then I added up the price.

And then I put everything back.

See, the housing market was good to B and I, and then it was not so good. So I'm busying myself cutting corners where I can. Not to mention that I'm trying to consume less, overall. The hundred-plus dollars I was about to shell out made my new principles quiver.

But what if these supplements really do keep us healthy all winter? Wouldn't it be better to spend a hundred bucks now and enjoy ourselves? Why, absolutely! But what if they don't? What if I mix them into every vulnerable food--and sometimes just plunge them down a throat--only to find that we're getting just as sick as usual?

I know there's no answer, of course. After all, if there really were an air-tight prevention for the common cold, we'd all be using it already. But that much money makes me start thinking that I ought to just plant some grapefruit trees and press my own seeds, because I really am that cheap. And then I could sell it to my friends. And then I wouldn't have to worry about money at all. Hmm...

In the meantime--you know, while the grapefruit trees are growing--I've checked out a stack of books on immunity and homeopathy from the library. Because if there's anything I love more than saving money, it's researching something until it no longer has any meaning at all.