Little m Long a

Stimulating dinner conversation.  I suppose it beats, “So, how was your day?”

Dad, you shouldn’t say stupid.  It’s not a nice word.

I haven’t said anything in the last ten minutes.  I’m eating.  In fact, I don’t use that word.  (Not out loud, at least.)

I know.  I’m just saying, you shouldn’t say stupid.

(Zane steps in)  Zia, you just said it two times.

No, I didn’t.

Yes, you did.

No, I told Dad not to say stupid but I didn’t say stupid.

You just did it again.

No, I didn’t.

Anyone else have problems reasoning with a three year old?

I began my nursing career believing I had been fully prepared to handle anything that could be tossed in my direction.  Oh sure, there were departmental and hospital specific procedures and idiosyncrasies that are naturally a part of the learning curve.  But I had just graduated from one of the best nursing schools in the state and very highly ranked nationally.  I had been prepped, taught by the best.  I was ready.  Or so I thought.

You see, in nursing school they teach you how to treat injuries, how to heal wounds and infections, how to administer medicines and administer care that helps people get better.  What they didn’t tell me my was that sometimes, often times, the patients don’t get better, that despite my best efforts and most earnest attempts people sometimes die.  I wasn’t ready for this.  No one is ever ready for this.  They didn’t teach me about this.  Over time you develop ways and means to deal with the harsh realities but nothing ever seems sufficient.  A part of your very soul is left with every patient that leaves you.  It hurts.  The hurt lingers.  In some ways, it never leaves.  Countless nights I have come home from a difficult shift and hugged Zoë until she said quit.  Then I hugged her more.

I’m not sure if it is because I have been there, witness to the shock in a parent’s eyes when confronted with horrific news, or if because I am parent myself five times over, but I was moved recently by a post from Dan over at All That Comes With It.  You see, Dan has helped to organize a charity walk to take place this summer, 78 miles in six days.  It’s called the Dales Walk and will cover the length of the Dales Way in Yorkshire, England.  Proceeds from the walk are to benefit The Joseph Salmon Trust, a charity set up by Dan’s good friends Neil and Rachel in memory of their son, Joseph who was just three years old when he passed away suddenly and totally unexpectedly in his sleep due to complications from a streptococcal pneumonia. 

Through their experiences with such a devastating personal experience they have organized The Joseph Salmon Trust which aims to “support parents who have lost a child by providing financial assistance to those who need it most. This may be to help with funeral costs or to allow the self employed a break from work while they come to terms with their loss. Grieving families have enough to deal with without worries about where they will find the money to say goodbye to their child or pay the next electricity bill. Nothing we can do can make their situation better, but we can do something to stop it getting worse.”

Neil and Rachel have shown strength unimaginable after enduring what I can only imagine as being the worst experience that anyone would ever have to face.  They are extraordinary people, but I suppose I should expect nothing less from anyone whom Dan should call friend.  He’s a pretty good egg himself.  Although he could probably stand to lose a kilogram or two, but then again, who couldn’t.  The walking will surely help.  So what’s my point?  What can I do to help? you are most assuredly asking yourself by now. 

Easy. 

Give……..That’s it. 

Just Give.

Support Dan on his Dale’s Walk.  All sponsorship monies paid through him go directly to The Joseph Salmon Trust.  Expenses incurred during the six day trek are completely out of pocket for Dan.  I told you he was a good egg.  What’s in it for you?  I think Dan has some buttons and that warm feeling you get inside from knowing you did something good. 
 
           

Visit All That Comes With It and click on the button to the right to donate.  You can also follow the progress of the walk on a page Dan set up called oddly enough, The Dales Walk. 

 Dude, tell me about this nursing gig.  My exact words to my high school buddy, some ten years post graduation.  It had not been my first choice.  Or second for that matter.  Truth be told, it was probably not in the top ten but at the age of 28 and with my life in what can only be described as a state of transition, I needed options.  For different reasons, he too was experiencing a similar life transition and to my benefit, had done all of the necessary leg work in preparation for our next life journey. 

Chemistry.  Biology.  Anatomy.  Physiology.  Prerequisites as they are referred to in the course curriculum.  After wading through these and numerous others you may petition the college for entry into the Nursing School where you may sink your teeth into heartier more relevant courses.  Courses about wound care, post-operative care, general medicine, drug administration, emergency procedures, pediatrics, ob, surgery, pharmacology…..

Is that all?

No.  Then there are the clinicals that accompany the upper level classes where you actually spend real time working in the hospitals applying to real life situations the scenarios we have discussed in class and read about in our texts and workbooks.  Long hours toiling on the floors of various hospital wards and units for absolutely no pay and no reward save completing a course requirement.  But after completing this course of study you may be deemed worthy to graduate. 

So, that’s it?

No.  You’ll need a review course that goes over everything you just learned for graduation.  That’s about a week of misery, but only 8 hours a day in a cramped classroom setting.  Then, before you can go to work, anywhere, you have to pass a test, the National Licensing Exam.   Only then will you get to call yourself a Registered Nurse and be eligible for employment.  Fail this test and it’s over, all for naught.

And….that’s it?

That’s it.

Sounds great.  Where do I sign up?

And so there we were, two high school buddies re-united for completely different circumstances about to embark on phase two of our adult lives.  Fearful times made somewhat easier by the fact that I was back in my home town, my old bedroom, familiar faces, familiar haunts. 

Our local college had a reputation as one of the best nursing colleges in the state and ranked very highly overall in the country.  All good stuff.  In no time at all we would be completely prepared to handle any experience with which we might be faced in our newly chosen field.  The college of nursing through text, classroom studies and clinical practices would make sure we were ready.  But they didn’t teach us everything…….

Come back tomorrow for a very special part two.

 She looked up and forced a smile, half of a smile, really for what she would have preferred were tears.  I saw it in her eyes, in her face, in her body.  Did you hear it, her eyes were asking.  Do you think Mrs.  Bender noticed?  What about the the rest of them.  Do you think they heard it?  She was being brave, consummate, strong.  I smiled, proud and winked at her.  You did good.  I didn’t bring it up, never even hinted.

We’ve signed a contract, Zoë and I.  Ninety minutes a week.  It’s usually more but never less.  We gave our word and must honor that.  It’s not easy what with the numerous directions we are pulled on any given day.  But you would think just 15 minutes a day would be a cinch.  I’m hear to tell you–it’s not.  Miss one day and you quickly find out just how difficult a task it is.  We didn’t have time for 15 minutes today and you think we’ll have time for 30 tomorrow?  Miss two days and your time management skills become the stuff of legend. Yet, at the close of each week we are able to say with all honesty we’ve given our 90 minutes.   We have kept our word.   We practiced piano like we said we would.

For the second year now, we have opened our home serving as a guest host in the Family Recital Piano Series, one of three such scheduled events to take place during the year.  Mrs. Bender, Zoë’s piano instructor created the series as a way of getting the families of her students together away from the structured, formal studio atmosphere and allowing the students to showcase their hard work.  It’s a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon in a casual setting meeting wonderful families and listening to some fantastic kids showcase some extraordinary talents. 

Zoë had worked extra hard to prepare her pieces for the recital and could not have been more excited.  Add to the mix that she got to wear a new dress and the enthusiasm was scarcely containable.  She was ready.  And she played beautifully.  But it did happen.  During one of her songs there was an extra note, a fumbled finger, an extra pause.  She didn’t stop, never quit smiling and took her bow and applause with the grace of a seasoned performer.  But she knew she had made the mistake and it was eating away at her on the inside.  I made no mention of it, never even hinted.

The rest of the day was without incident.  Laughter, food, games and good conversation filled the house.  Zoë even won one of the games and as a reward received a huge Hershey’s bar.  Without prompting she immediately divided the whole thing and gave a piece to all in attendance.  After everyone had left, the kids and I relaxed for the remainder of the evening enjoying leftover treats and punch.  Before heading off to bed, everyone chipped in and helped me clean up.  Truly, a banner day.  As I tucked the kids into bed and said my good nights I told them all that they were very good today and thanked them for all of their help during the recital.  Zoë at long last opened up saying, “Yeah, but I messed up a little bit on my song.”

“Zoë, you made me proud today.  I think you did a fantastic job and you played beautifully.  I loved it!” 

I could see immediately that the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.  She had been set free, realizing in that instant that it’s OK to not be perfect.  That sometimes it’s alright to make a mistake.  That Daddy will still love you.  She is an amazing little girl and I am honored, privileged to say that she is my daughter.  And a pretty darn good pianist.

I remember the first time Zoë read Go, Dog. Go! by P.D. Eastman on her own.  It seemed to take an eternity, each turn of the page leaving her stumbling over and phonetically attempting to sound out words.  I would start a word giving her the sounds and she would finish it.  We repeated the process page after page my frustration level rising though not in proportion to her excitement level as the end of the book neared.  “Look how much I’ve read, Daddy,” she would exclaim after every couple of pages.  She refused every offer and attempt of mine to take over the reading and let her just listen to the story.  She was on a mission.  By the time she had finished I was completely spent.  She was totally stoked.  “How many pages was that?  Did you see me?  Daddy, look.  I just read this whole book!”  Pride transformed my weariness and my frustration dissipated. 

This week’s Story Time with Zoë brings us back to a great beginner book, the Seuss styled meter and pattern of Eastman’s Go, Dog Go! are the perfect balance of ease and challenge for the young reader.  So grab your copy and your little readers and gather round as Zoë entertains us this week with an oldie but a goodie, Go, Dog. Go!

No, this post is not about Pink Floyd or their 1987 post Roger Waters album A Momentary Lapse of Reason.  I do own that one though and despite what the critics say think it was a pretty good one.  You see, Roger Waters left the band in 1985 stating that creatively the unit had run it’s course.  He officially declared the band defunct.  Guitarist David Gilmour and drummer Nick Mason had other notions.  They re-entered the recording studio in 1986 to work on a new project despite opposition from Waters over the use of the name Pink Floyd.  Although legal stuff ensued with name calling, mudslinging and regrets over being mean to each other (this part is not really true, there are no regrets) several months into 1987 Gilmour and Mason released, as Pink Floyd, A Momentary Lapse of Reason sans Roger or any of his influences.  Bands do this.  They fight amongst themselves and display what can only be described as poor interpersonal communication skills.  Members quit when they feel that their personal creative genius is under appreciated by their band mates or are booted from the band when the other members feel that their behavior is not nice, that their super inflated distorted self-worth has clearly affected their ability to be a cooperative and contributing member of the band.  Floyd had done this a mere 20 years earlier when they booted Syd Barrett, the founding member, from the band because of his increasingly erratic behavior secondary to his addictions.  But again I say, this is not about Pink Floyd.

For reasons I have yet to discern, my good friend James over at Quirkee.com has offered me the opportunity to post there as a guest columnist.  Quirkee.com ….is an award winning humor and online publication, a collective of writers, artists, photographers, and all-around quirky personalities. If nothing else, we hope Quirkee.com brings a little light into your otherwise hopeless and repetitive existence…..  I have sent you to this site in the past.  You may recall that James, again for reasons I have yet to discern, chose me as one of the subjects for his series of interviews with fathers who have given up the rat race to chase rug rats.  In case you missed it or need to refresh your memory you can find the interview here.  When James approached me with the idea of posting more regularly on their site my initial reaction was, “You have got to be kidding me!  Have you lost your mind?”  Actually, I told him I’d be honored.  I consider it the highest of compliments.  For the life of me, I don’t know what took him so long to ask but I’m not here to quibble.

So there you have it.  I’ve branched out, extended myself.  I’m growing.  It would by all indices appear that James, Scott and the cohorts at Quirkee have had a grossly inopportune loss of their faculties as evidenced by their offer to me.  Never let it be said that I refused to take advantage of another person’s lack of good judgment accept a good opportunity when one presents itself.  Check out my new column, World-Colored Glasses at Quirkee.com.  Then stick around to check out some of the other great writers and blogs on the site and be sure to come back and let me know what you think.  Oh, and don’t forget to feed the cat.

She’s asleep now, a pattern of slow rhythmic inhalations and exhalations intermittently disrupted with a soft sniffle.  She’s already forgotten the reasons she started crying those memories having vanished with hugs and I’m sorrys.  She’s resting .  At peace.  So why aren’t  I?  Why do I find it so difficult to forget, to forgive to start anew?  My stomach aches, my head hurts, my heart beats heavy and I torment myself with disparaging analysis of my own worth.   I have failed her.  I’ve failed them all.  I’ve failed myself.  My execrable behavior has left me demoralized, ashamed.  She’ll wake up tomorrow joyous, excited to start another day.  Carefree and happy.  I’ll rise apprehensive, still doubting.  Anxious to prove that I can be better.  That I am better.

It doesn’t matter what happened or why.  That is past.  What matters is that there are never good excuses for bad behavior.

Drink, customarily my deliverance, is past as is the majority of my debasement.   I’ve nowhere to turn.  Although addicting and somewhat soothing, I scarcely consider Java Chip Frappuccino intoxicating or for that matter, escape.  And proclaiming, “I’ll take a Grande Java Chip Frappuccino with 2 extra shots of espresso, whole milk and yes—I want whipped cream on that” doesn’t quite seem to convey your total self loathing and utter frustration quite like, “Holy F***!  I need a drink!”  That, and the fact that there’s Grey Goose in the cabinet, not Starbuck’s.

It beckons.  Softly.  Silently.  The voice of an old friend.  Like a lover.  At times it screams loudly.  Taunting.  Daring.  Like a lover.  Either way, the voices are omnipresent.  My will is tattered, beaten down and  San Pelligrino doesn’t burn like vodka did.

Last week’s initial offering of Story Time with Zoë was a resounding success.  Dr. Seuss is an all-time favorite of mine and Green Eggs and Ham still ranks as one of my top choices.  All of my kids seem to like his works and I find that the rhyming and meter of his stories lends itself to not only an engaging active listen but also encouraging early reading.  It helps that the stories are fun, timeless and bring to mind some of my most fond childhood memories.  We could read a Seuss book every day and scarcely grow tired of the story.  It is pure joy to be able to pass that on to my children.

This week’s story also reminds me of my youth, of times when what was going on in the world around me didn’t matter because there was a little place nothing short of utopia deep within the heart of the city.  A place where I could lose myself and become a part of someone else’s wonderful world learning to read, count and bang a drum like an animal.   Wait, animal was a Muppet.  Anyway, I’m talking about Sesame Street.  Good times!  (Disclaimer:  I find it very difficult to watch Sesame Street as an adult.  That fuzzy red guy’s voice is like fingers on a chalk board and just the thought of having to sit through an episode today makes me long for a pile of laundry or a trip to the dentist.)  That being said, kids love Sesame Street!  And, this is Story Time with Zoë not Story Time with the Cynic That is Zoë’s Dad.  She gets to pick the books, not me.

This week’s edition of Story Time with Zoë is from the Sesame Street collection of stories, It’s Not Easy Being Big, a story about how Bird Bird finds out that sometimes being big is not as easy as one would expect.  Sorry, Darren.  Zia wasn’t finished with our only copy of Huck Finn and wasn’t willing to share.  We’ll work on Huck–and sharing a little bit later.

So there you have it, this week’s story.  I hope you enjoyed it.  I know Zoë enjoys reading them!  If you missed last week’s story check it out here.

Five minutes, maybe longer.  That’s all I took, honest.  After breakfast this morning I took just a short constitutional to the family library.  Don’t be impressed.  Remember the little hovel of a bedroom that Harry Potter had under the staircase in his uncle’s house?  Yeah, think that but smaller.  It’s got a light, a lavatory and a seat that is quite comfortable and best of all the door locks.  It’s one of the few locking doors in the house.  This morning’s read, a magazine or sales flyer, back of a tissue box, whatever else may be within arms reach and a cup of coffee.  Five minutes.  Then I would be off to the tasks of the day.  My list was quite extensive and there would be little time for dilly dally.

The twins, had other plans.

This was not on my list today.  Are they trying to tell me something?

In other news….The Lenten Season begins tomorrow.  Ash Wednesday.  As is tradition in the Catholic faith, or so I’m told, Lent represents the 40 day liturgical season of fasting and prayer before Easter the purpose being preparation through prayer, penitence, alms giving and self denial.  It represents the 40 days that Christ spent alone in the desert fasting, praying and enduring the temptations of the devil.  Throughout history the season of Lent has been one of tightly held traditions.  For the non-Catholic I’m sure it brings to mind little more than the phrase, “So, what are you giving up for Lent?”, the exact question I posed to my children this afternoon.

Zoë, after giving the matter considerable thought decided to give up candy and sweets.  More discussion among the kids and Zane eventually relented. 

“OK.  I’ll give up candy, too”, he said.

“So, Zia.  What are you going to give up for Lent?” I asked.

(Long pause.)

“I’m going to give up…….

TOOTHPASTE.”

It’s going to be a long 40 days.

The emptiness of the room was short lived.  I had really only a few short moments to stand absorbing the vastness of the space.  Void the result of my dismantling.  Piece by piece, screw by screw.  Zoë helped with the project with what little time she had before leaving for school.  Zane took over when she left ably carrying out the bulk of the work as in Zoë’s absence he was senior.  Good fortune for Zia that there had been a two hour school delay otherwise she would have been entrusted to tasks she probably is not ready for.  But she cheerfully assisted when asked carrying things here and there and generally keeping the twins occupied and out of the way.  Generally, I say because more than once I had to inform Zella that she was holding the hammer backwards or ask Zander to please bring back the screws. 

It was a family project.  Rightly so, I suppose as our subject had directly affected each one of them.  Comfort….  Warmth….  Security….  Serenity….  Peace….  Rejuvenation….  Exploration….  Laughter….  Tears….  Sunrises….  Moonlight….    Five perfect children….  Seven and one half years….

They write books that tell you what to expect.  Poop is not always brown, or solid but usually stinky.  They made diaper pales for this.  Ears sometimes hurt.  They made antibiotics for just such occasions.  Feelings sometimes hurt.  They made hugs for these times.  Band aids have magical pain relieving powers.  Keep plenty on hand.  Sometimes your baby gets hot.  They make Tylenol for this.  Babies goo-goo, toddlers fall down (a lot), kids can scream (real loud).  All these things they tell you in books.  But there’s something missing.

Babies grow up.  I suppose that since this is something the writers of these books assume that we as parents expect, they don’t have a whole lot of information on how to handle that.  The guide books give all sorts of advice about what the kid is supposed to be doing and when they are expected to be doing it.  What they left out is what I am supposed to do when they get there.  How am I supposed to handle the transition, the transformation, the inevitable?  They didn’t tell me that when my kids grow older I would miss their innocence, their infancy, their past.  They didn’t tell me that I may hurt.  They assumed that my expectation that my children would grow up meant that I could handle it. 

Friday morning, the twins celebrated their second trip around the sun.  They sat in a chair without their booster seats to eat cake and ice cream.  They tore open presents with a fervor.  They said things like, “Please,” and “Thank You.”  And later that evening, they went to bed. 

In their new beds.

Friday morning, with the help of my children, I dismantled the cribs.  Seven and one half years a part of the room.  Comforting first Zoë, then Zane, Zia, Zella and Zander.  Now stored neatly in the attic next to boxes of onsies and infant outfits long since forgotten.  The emptiness of the room was quickly filled with the seeming enormity of twin beds making it seem much smaller than it actually is.  And much more grown up than I am actually ready to handle.  My kids are growing up.

I’m not ready.

Welcome to the first of what I hope to be a recurring entry on the pages you see before you.  I got the idea for this as I painstakingly labored to bring my adoring masses (all three of you) some Christmas Cheer.  It was my first attempt at a podcast.  Songs were mislabeled, some were left out, others snuck in there all in an attempt to provide some Yuletide Cheer.  Honestly, the entire process was horribly painful and by the time I had completed the podcast, I could care less if Old Saint Nick ever came to see me or for that matter any of you.  That’s right.  For all I cared the fat little elf could find himself stuck in your chimney only to be discovered as his rotting charred corpse began to fall into the embers of your fireplace after months of winter log burning.  “Honey, you forgot to open the flue, again.  No.  Wait.  Good God!  Honey, take the kids and run, get outta here.  That’s not soot–it’s Santa!  Dear Lord in Heaven.” 

But I’m better now. 

And I’ve a refurbished sense of purpose as it pertains to the podcast.  I’m very proud of the fact that my children are excellent readers.  In all honesty, it’s something I was, and still am not very good at doing.  Oh, I’d love to tell you that my youth was spent absorbed in the fantasies of Twain, London, Thoreau and the likes.  But it wasn’t.  On the other hand, Zoë, at the seasoned age of just turned 7, is an excellent reader and is making huge strides with every passing day.  She will dive headfirst into a book and seldom emerge until she has devoured every single page.  Zane is just as passionate about his reading and in my opinion is going to catch up to Zoë’s reading level in no time.

So here it is, the very first edition of Story time with Zoë.  Round up the kiddies and grab your copy of this week’s story, Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss.  It’s one of the very first books I ever read to Zoë (it’s one of the first books I ever read to myself) and it is still just as enjoyable and fun to read as ever. 

So let me know.  Do we keep Story time with Zoë as a regular posting?  If so, got any books you’d like her to try?  We love new books!