This is the time I start regretting my incredibly lazy, unproductive life. Every four years, when I see a bunch of sixteen year-old kids prancing around in sequined leotards, overcoming mind-numbing pressure that would bring the rest of us to our knees, I feel more than a little inadequate. They get themselves into the gym every morning, rain or shine. I can't even follow through on my promise to do 100 crunches every night. They juggle training, school, and competitions. I haven't vacuumed in two weeks and I work twenty hours a week. They've accomplished a life-long goal of winning an Olympic gold medal before they were able to drive a car. It took me fifty-six years to write the novel I always dreamed of writing and I still haven't managed to finish editing the darn thing.
It may sound like I've given in to a lot of whining (now there's an Olympic event I would excel in) but, the truth is, I'm in awe. I can't fathom the determination, drive, and dedication it takes to be a world-class athlete in any sport. And I also can't fathom the commitment of the parents. When I see them in the stands, I think about all the early morning wake-up calls, all the traveling, all the meets they've sat through. I also think about the financial commitment they've all made. Sure, the parents of the Fab Five should see some return on that investment but what about the parents of the skeet shooters or the synchronized divers? I don't think their kids will be showing up on the cover of Sports Illustrated anytime soon. I like to tell myself that I would have done whatever I could to help my children achieve their dreams but I think I'm secretly relieved that neither of them showed extraordinary talent in a sport that would have forced me to confront that issue. Would I really have taken out that second mortgage?
So, why do I spend every night glued to my TV? Why do I torture myself? The answer is, I can't help it. I love watching people triumph over adversity (especially when NBC puts together one of those tear-jerker back story pieces). I love watching people dig down and find strength and ability they didn't know they had. I love watching people (even if they are still teenagers) achieve their dreams. And why wouldn't I? I know it's too late for me to do a back handspring on that balance beam but I still have a few unfulfilled dreams that I can take a crack at.
And I can use all the inspiration I can get.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
See No Evil
I was watching the Olympics the other night (okay, every night) when the American men were trying to qualify for the team gymnastic final. Up in the crowd, with perfectly manicured fingernails placed directly over her eyes, was the mother of one of the participants. One of the cameras stayed on her as her son performed and when they replayed the footage, it turned out that the mom had never uncovered her eyes until she heard the crowd applauding. Hearing the all-clear signal, she knew it was safe to look and immediately started clapping wildly. She knew by the crowd's reaction that nothing terrible had happened, nothing terrible was going to happen. It was safe. For now.
Any mom can relate; we all know exactly what John Orozco's mom was going through. There are so many times we have to watch when our kids are in the middle of something that we know has a pretty good chance of ending badly. You want to help but you can't. You want to intervene but you shouldn't. You want to advise but . . . what the hell, you know they're not going to listen anyway.
So, we sit there like that mom in the stands with our hands half over our eyes, trying hard not to look until the danger has passed. But Mrs. Orozco had something we non-Olympic moms don't have.
She knew when it was safe to look.
Any mom can relate; we all know exactly what John Orozco's mom was going through. There are so many times we have to watch when our kids are in the middle of something that we know has a pretty good chance of ending badly. You want to help but you can't. You want to intervene but you shouldn't. You want to advise but . . . what the hell, you know they're not going to listen anyway.
So, we sit there like that mom in the stands with our hands half over our eyes, trying hard not to look until the danger has passed. But Mrs. Orozco had something we non-Olympic moms don't have.
She knew when it was safe to look.
Friday, July 27, 2012
The Hills Are Alive . . .
I woke up this morning to the sound of music. No, the Oscar-winning movie was not playing on my TV. This was better. This was so much better. I woke up to the sound of my daughter singing - a beautiful noise that hasn't been heard around here much over the last few years.
When we finished the basement when our kids were teenagers, we built a stage. Since our little girl was old enough to turn a hairbrush into a microphone, she had been performing for anyone who would listen. She would jump up on fireplace ledges or stand on ottomans, ready to sing her little Reba McIntire or Brittany Spears-lovin' heart out. It seemed only right to create a suitable place for our dedicated songstress to flap her artistic wings and so we elevated a platform, covered it in parquet flooring and outfitted it with a three disc karaoke machine, complete with a cordless mic. Happy that she could finally stash her hairbrush back in the bathroom drawer, she would spend endless hours downstairs belting out Pink's latest hits or wrapping her pipes around Mariah's latest ballad.
Then the music stopped. For almost five years, our daughter didn't have much to sing about. Strangled by the effects of a five-year battle with an eating disorder, her once strong, vibrant voice withered away. Her daily trips to the basement ended. Her daily trips to the bathroom escalated. And, while our main goal was helping her find the resolve to beat the greatest enemy she had ever encountered, it was heartbreaking to think the loss of her beautiful voice might be permanent.
Six months ago, everything changed. Through the grace of God and the intervention of a couple of amazing people He put in our daughter's path, she is on her way back from the abyss. With her new-found strength and determination, she has fought back to reclaim her life. She has rediscovered her sense of joy. She has found her voice.
And the sound of it is once again filling our home.
When we finished the basement when our kids were teenagers, we built a stage. Since our little girl was old enough to turn a hairbrush into a microphone, she had been performing for anyone who would listen. She would jump up on fireplace ledges or stand on ottomans, ready to sing her little Reba McIntire or Brittany Spears-lovin' heart out. It seemed only right to create a suitable place for our dedicated songstress to flap her artistic wings and so we elevated a platform, covered it in parquet flooring and outfitted it with a three disc karaoke machine, complete with a cordless mic. Happy that she could finally stash her hairbrush back in the bathroom drawer, she would spend endless hours downstairs belting out Pink's latest hits or wrapping her pipes around Mariah's latest ballad.
Then the music stopped. For almost five years, our daughter didn't have much to sing about. Strangled by the effects of a five-year battle with an eating disorder, her once strong, vibrant voice withered away. Her daily trips to the basement ended. Her daily trips to the bathroom escalated. And, while our main goal was helping her find the resolve to beat the greatest enemy she had ever encountered, it was heartbreaking to think the loss of her beautiful voice might be permanent.
Six months ago, everything changed. Through the grace of God and the intervention of a couple of amazing people He put in our daughter's path, she is on her way back from the abyss. With her new-found strength and determination, she has fought back to reclaim her life. She has rediscovered her sense of joy. She has found her voice.
And the sound of it is once again filling our home.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Tattoo Me, Tattoo Me Not
Anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile knows that I'm not a fan of tattoos. While I'm all for expressing yourself, I just can't buy into all the permanent scribbling that is now being sported by everyone from teenage cashiers to Medicare applicants. I'm standing strong, fighting the ubiquitous trend. Just as I'm sure that I will never be subjecting my hair to another perm, I know that my pasty-white ankles will remain butterflyless.
None of this matters, of course, since my daughter seems to be embracing the craze enough for the two of us. This week, she added to her body art count with a cross/Bible verse combo on her remaining wrist. It's tough to criticize her choice. (What parent wouldn't be pleased that her child was quoting God instead of Lady Gaga?) I just wish she could have had it done in henna or, better yet, engraved it on a nice piece of jewelry.
Her dad's reaction to the reveal was priceless. Mumbling things like 'the mutilation continues' and 'when is this graffiti going to end?' he sent his usual oh-so-subtle message that he wouldn't be pitching his tent in the tattoo camp anytime soon. My hero.
In the end, it doesn't matter what her father or I think. It is her body (despite my occasional reminders that she has one courtesy of yours truly) and she does have the right to "decorate" it as she sees fit. I just hope I'm around when she's searching the Internet (I was going to say 'paging through the Yellow Pages' but stopped myself) for tattoo removal someday.
I'll try my best not to say I told you so.
None of this matters, of course, since my daughter seems to be embracing the craze enough for the two of us. This week, she added to her body art count with a cross/Bible verse combo on her remaining wrist. It's tough to criticize her choice. (What parent wouldn't be pleased that her child was quoting God instead of Lady Gaga?) I just wish she could have had it done in henna or, better yet, engraved it on a nice piece of jewelry.
Her dad's reaction to the reveal was priceless. Mumbling things like 'the mutilation continues' and 'when is this graffiti going to end?' he sent his usual oh-so-subtle message that he wouldn't be pitching his tent in the tattoo camp anytime soon. My hero.
In the end, it doesn't matter what her father or I think. It is her body (despite my occasional reminders that she has one courtesy of yours truly) and she does have the right to "decorate" it as she sees fit. I just hope I'm around when she's searching the Internet (I was going to say 'paging through the Yellow Pages' but stopped myself) for tattoo removal someday.
I'll try my best not to say I told you so.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Play Misty For Me, Part 2
I read recently that the average couple will spend somewhere north of $250,000 for medical costs in their retirement years. Hopefully, that means some co-operative hypochondriac in Nebraska will be plunking down $500,000 or so, enabling the couple I'm half of into a more moderate range, allowing us to budget for a meal once in awhile as well. Based on my recent medical activity, I'm not counting on it.
Today, was a repeat visit to Misty. You remember her, the cheeriest Urologist on the planet? I was back in the office to discuss the effects of the medication she had prescribed for me a couple of months ago. After leaving the tiniest urine sample of my entire life behind that little silver door (note to self: do not use the bathroom before leaving the house when your Urologist's office is ten minutes away), I settled in to wait for Misty to make her appearance. When she did, she asked me the usual litany of questions. How was I feeling? Were the pills helping? Did I have any adverse side effects? When I answered "okay", "yes" and "dry mouth, weird taste in my mouth and, oh, yeah, a possible disturbance in my vision" I could tell I had her attention.
That's when we started talking about my alternatives. She suggested another medication at a lower dose (a non-generic, highly advertised drug that had a monthly cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a night in a hotel room in Florence) while I suggested setting up a chair and TV in the bathroom and a UPS delivery of a carton of Depends.
We compromised. I'm going off the current, possibly vision-robbing medication and playing the wait and see what happens game. I'm also going to cut carbonated drinks and caffeine out of my diet. If I'm lucky, that will be enough to bring my symptoms into the 'tolerable' range. But, if I end up returning to the previous pattern of making more than twenty-seven visits to the bathroom in a single twenty-four hour period, I might have to break down and turn to Plan B - the free month's supply of that other, expensive drug that was Misty's parting gift.
And, if all else fails, you can bet I'll be watching my Sunday paper for a decent coupon for that box of Depends.
Today, was a repeat visit to Misty. You remember her, the cheeriest Urologist on the planet? I was back in the office to discuss the effects of the medication she had prescribed for me a couple of months ago. After leaving the tiniest urine sample of my entire life behind that little silver door (note to self: do not use the bathroom before leaving the house when your Urologist's office is ten minutes away), I settled in to wait for Misty to make her appearance. When she did, she asked me the usual litany of questions. How was I feeling? Were the pills helping? Did I have any adverse side effects? When I answered "okay", "yes" and "dry mouth, weird taste in my mouth and, oh, yeah, a possible disturbance in my vision" I could tell I had her attention.
That's when we started talking about my alternatives. She suggested another medication at a lower dose (a non-generic, highly advertised drug that had a monthly cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a night in a hotel room in Florence) while I suggested setting up a chair and TV in the bathroom and a UPS delivery of a carton of Depends.
We compromised. I'm going off the current, possibly vision-robbing medication and playing the wait and see what happens game. I'm also going to cut carbonated drinks and caffeine out of my diet. If I'm lucky, that will be enough to bring my symptoms into the 'tolerable' range. But, if I end up returning to the previous pattern of making more than twenty-seven visits to the bathroom in a single twenty-four hour period, I might have to break down and turn to Plan B - the free month's supply of that other, expensive drug that was Misty's parting gift.
And, if all else fails, you can bet I'll be watching my Sunday paper for a decent coupon for that box of Depends.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Tooth or Dare
You know those little reminder postcards you get in the mail from your dentist every six months? Here's a little piece of advice. Don't ignore them. You'll be amazed at how quickly six months can turn into two and a half years. And when that happens, you will undoubtedly find yourself more intimately acquainted with that silver instrument of plaque-scraping torture than you could ever have imagined.
At first I told myself I was saving money. No one really needed their teeth cleaned twice a year. That was a total scam perpetuated by your dentist and Crest toothpaste. Armed with my electric toothbrush, I was sure I could pocket the extra $100 I would save and use it for something really important like my People magazine subscription. So I waited. And waited. Two appointments, several shots of Novocaine and one session of scaling (if you don't know what that is, I'm happy for you) later, I can safely say those 125 issues of People magazine weren't worth it, (with the possible exception of the Sexiest Man Alive Ryan Reynolds issue).
So, today, a mere six months and three days after my last cleaning, I reluctantly leaned back and opened wide. Twenty minutes later, I was the owner of a shiny, blue toothbrush and a brand new pack of dental floss - a product I now actually use. More importantly, I learned something that I should have figured out a whole lot earlier in my life.
People really do need to have their teeth cleaned twice a year.
At first I told myself I was saving money. No one really needed their teeth cleaned twice a year. That was a total scam perpetuated by your dentist and Crest toothpaste. Armed with my electric toothbrush, I was sure I could pocket the extra $100 I would save and use it for something really important like my People magazine subscription. So I waited. And waited. Two appointments, several shots of Novocaine and one session of scaling (if you don't know what that is, I'm happy for you) later, I can safely say those 125 issues of People magazine weren't worth it, (with the possible exception of the Sexiest Man Alive Ryan Reynolds issue).
So, today, a mere six months and three days after my last cleaning, I reluctantly leaned back and opened wide. Twenty minutes later, I was the owner of a shiny, blue toothbrush and a brand new pack of dental floss - a product I now actually use. More importantly, I learned something that I should have figured out a whole lot earlier in my life.
People really do need to have their teeth cleaned twice a year.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Why?
I'm glad I don't have a small child living in my house anymore. I wouldn't want to try to explain what happened in Aurora, Colorado to anyone looking to me for answers. I wouldn't want to calm their fears about going to the mall, going to school and, now, going to a movie. I wouldn't know where to start.
When I was ten, President Kennedy was assassinated. I couldn't understand why everyone was crying; why everyone was glued to the television set that had pre-empted all my favorite cartoons. In my teens, I experienced the murders of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King in a different way. I mourned the loss of leaders who inspired me. I felt sadness that our country would be deprived of their potential to solve our problems; to bring us together. The one thing I never felt was any sense of personal fear for my own safety. I never felt the insanity that was cutting short the lives of world leaders would ever trickle down to me.
Since Columbine, since 9/11, since Oklahoma City, that's all changed. I know now that everyone is at risk. Anywhere, anytime, any one of us may encounter some disenfranchised loner with a grudge to settle or a fanatic who wants to drive home a point by obliterating as many lives as he can. And he won't be doing it with a knife or a baseball bat. He won't even be doing it with a revolver or shotgun. He'll be doing it with an arsenal of automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition he bought at the local Wal-Mart or on the Internet.
Like I said, I'm glad I don't have to explain any of this to anyone.
When I was ten, President Kennedy was assassinated. I couldn't understand why everyone was crying; why everyone was glued to the television set that had pre-empted all my favorite cartoons. In my teens, I experienced the murders of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King in a different way. I mourned the loss of leaders who inspired me. I felt sadness that our country would be deprived of their potential to solve our problems; to bring us together. The one thing I never felt was any sense of personal fear for my own safety. I never felt the insanity that was cutting short the lives of world leaders would ever trickle down to me.
Since Columbine, since 9/11, since Oklahoma City, that's all changed. I know now that everyone is at risk. Anywhere, anytime, any one of us may encounter some disenfranchised loner with a grudge to settle or a fanatic who wants to drive home a point by obliterating as many lives as he can. And he won't be doing it with a knife or a baseball bat. He won't even be doing it with a revolver or shotgun. He'll be doing it with an arsenal of automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition he bought at the local Wal-Mart or on the Internet.
Like I said, I'm glad I don't have to explain any of this to anyone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)