You think getting a child ready for camp is hard work? Try two. Last year, we sent Doodle, at age eight, to overnight camp for five days, an experiment to see if he liked it (Doodle not being the most outdoorsy kid in the world). He loved it, and asked if he could go back the next summer for a full, two week session. Naturally, Scooby chimed in that she wanted to go to overnight camp, too. I, foolishly promised that I’d think about it.
I’ll think about it in August eventually morphed into, Yes, of course you can go to overnight camp this summer by March. And so, I resigned myself that both kids would go away for at least a week in 2011. Imagine my surprise (and chagrin) when I learned that camps generally have a minimum age of eight years old. Scooby would have to wait another year. I braced myself for the Howl of Injustice.
At the last moment, however, Rev came to the rescue, finding a camp (run by a charity) just a few miles south of us, a five-day session that seemed a perfect introduction for seven-year old Scooby. I scheduled both children to be away for the same week, with Doodle taking a second week at his camp. I filled out the mind-numbingly repetitive paperwork, copied health forms, and calendared the due dates.
Now, I’m a good packer. I can throw together a weekend’s or week’s worth of clothing for myself on a moment’s notice, and I rarely need more than one bag. How hard could packing up a kid for camp be?
Good grief, people. Six loads of laundry later, I had chased down every single pair of underwear and socks, every wearable t-shirt and pair of shorts. I haunted dollar and discount stores for water bottles and laundry bags, hunted down fleece sweatshirts and sweatpants (in the middle of July!) just in case the temperature dared dip out of the eighties. And then I labeled each and every article with Sharpied initials, and stuffed them into their respective duffel bags. I packed and unpacked and re-packed until I was fairly satisfied that they would be able to find everything they needed with reasonable ease. They wouldn’t have me to lay out their clothes each morning.
The kids were beside themselves with excitement and anticipation. They talked about overnight camp all the time. Last night, they whispered late into the night, giggling about the cool things they would do while they were away. This morning, Scooby and I left church early to make the half-hour drive to her camp, with her chattering all the way. Seconds after we pulled up to the gate, Scooby leaped out of the car and made impatient faces at me through the window as I powered down the GPS.
But her demeanor took an abrupt, one-hundred eighty-degree turn as we ventured into the main hall of the camp. The rest of the campers, who had arrived by bus just ahead of us, were seated and having lunch quietly and calmly. Suddenly, Scooby didn’t want to stay. Tears welled up as she clung to my waist. This isn’t how I thought it would be, she whispered urgently. I want to go back home.
Perhaps if hadn’t put so much time, energy, and effort into accumulating and organizing all that stuff over the past couple of weeks, I might have been more sympathetic. Or maybe I was thinking about the fact that, if she didn’t stay, I’d have to find someplace else for her to be this week. Or maybe I knew, from long experience, that shortly after I left, Scooby would be making friends like she always does, happily putting on her life jacket to go on a cruise of the harbor, and having the time of her life. I hugged her, promised to bring her a big, red, swirly lollipop when I picked her up at the bus stop on Friday, and told her I loved her. Then I smiled and walked out the door. When I peeked back, she wasn’t crying anymore.
Occasionally over the next couple of days, she’ll get homesick. She may get teary. But she’ll get over it, and come back on Friday a little more independent than she’d been when I saw her last.
Tomorrow, I’ll kiss Doodle and give him a great big hug and send him off to his own two-week adventure. He’s already looking forward to archery and swimming and camping out in the woods.
Rev and Boy and I will move in our separate, slightly intersecting orbits this week. Rev’s got work and school; Boy has school and basketball; and I have work and, well, everything else. We’re planning on going to see Cowboys and Aliens one night; I can’t remember the last time we did something just the three of us. But for the next five days, at least, there will be pieces of my heart floating around out there, learning how to live independently of me, their mom, and, God willing, enjoying the heck out of the process.
And that’s a good thing, right? Right?
Yeah, this whole camp thing is hard, hard work.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Twain, Meet
Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself. – Mark Twain.
Rev discovered this quote last night and I thought it was so completely appropriate, given this debt-ceiling, budget deficitdebate schoolyard fight going on, that I had to share it.
Rev discovered this quote last night and I thought it was so completely appropriate, given this debt-ceiling, budget deficit
Counting Lesson
And what did I learn today?
I learned that, to my children:
Seven is old enough not to have to eat squash anymore.
Ten is “grown.”
Thirteen is “teen.”
Eighteen is “adult,” although you’re also still a “teen.” And,
Twenty-four, twenty-five is “elderly.”
Sigh.
I learned that, to my children:
Seven is old enough not to have to eat squash anymore.
Ten is “grown.”
Thirteen is “teen.”
Eighteen is “adult,” although you’re also still a “teen.” And,
Twenty-four, twenty-five is “elderly.”
Sigh.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Donating My Body To Science
Ah, July. The time of year when New Englanders start complaining about the heat after eight months of cursing the cold.
It’s also what may or may not be the worst time to go to a teaching hospital.
Now, we have interns in our office, but since it’s a legal environment, and since they spend all their time looking up cases we already know about and writing arguments we will never use in any brief we intend on filing with the court, there’s not a whole lot of damage they can do, beyond maybe jamming the printer a zillion times a day.
But hospitals are a different story. In mid-July, which marks the first week of rotations after the medical school academic year ends, you have med students becoming new interns, interns becoming new residents, and residents becoming new attendings.
There’s a soft spot in my heart (and maybe my head) for med students. Probably this is because one of my two best friends in the world is a doc. I call her Dr. Wenchface, for reasons which I will never explain to you, so don’t ask. We met in college (her freshman year, my sophomore) and I watched her grind her way through organic and inorganic chemistry and bio-med, while I read Jane Austen (for my English major) and watched China Beach (for my history minor). Back before there was email, Wench used to call me at night and we’d commiserate for hours – her about med school and me about law. (Just an aside: student doctors learn their craft on cadavers; student lawyers practice on poor people. Which one is scarier, do you think?)
So I’m always mindful of the rigorous and difficult training that doctors go through, and the part that I as a patient contribute to their becoming physicians. They have to learn this stuff somehow, and early, from taking a thorough and accurate medical history to doing a competent exam.
A medical student taking a history is relatively harmless, and it’s a skill they MUST learn early on. Personally, I never refuse when my doc asks me if I will let a med student (or intern, who has graduated from med school) observe an exam. If I’m not in pain, I’ll even let the student have a feel. Why? Because they have to learn it somehow, and almost every hospital in my city is a teaching hospital.
Last year, during a post-op follow up, Dr. Adorkable asked my permission to have a med student present. I said okay, shrugging. No biggie. He put his hands out for emphasis and insisted, “You don't have to; you can say no.” I looked at him and said, At this point in my life, I've had pretty much the population of Vermont looking all up in my youknowwhat. One more isn't going to kill me. Have a party. Invite your friends.
It was a few moments before he could collect himself enough to go and get the kid.
I find it educational, too, because I have to be very specific in describing my history and symptoms accurately, because if I’m vague or shorthand it, it will end up being taken down wrong.
Eleven years ago, pregnant with twins, which involved some fairly intensive medical intervention, I ended up in the emergency room at 8 weeks with severe pain. Since they couldn’t do anything with radiation (no xrays, no MRIs, no CT scans) without potentially harming the babies, they couldn’t rule in or rule out appendicitis or ovarian hyperstimulation (either of which could have been fatal). So in the course of bouncing from the doc’s office to the ultrasound factory to the ER, I had 18 different exams (and not the fun kind) over the course of 10 hours.
In the ER, a brand spanking new intern (as in “I graduated last week”) came to take my medical history. My timing couldn’t have been worse – it was July 10. He took my complicated history on the back of an envelope and I had to spell all of the specialized drugs I was on.
Finally, after endless consultations, they decided to admit me and wait and see if the sudden absence of pain meant my appendix had burst. I remember all the different residents and attendings standing at the foot of the gurney (OB, GYN, ER, MED-SURG) making the decision to admit me – and this baby faced intern waaay in the back of the crowd, peering over the shoulders of the grownups. Finally, the GYN attending sheepishly asked would I mind if the intern did one last exam, his first one? Sure, I said, to my husband’s dismay. I will never forget the look on that young man’s face; you’d think I’d granted him amnesty. He was very gentle, a little tentative, and very, very careful. Every one of the various attendings and residents thanked me as they left.
Of course it’s up to every individual patient, how comfortable she feels about participating in this kind of learning exercise, and it is her right to say no. Personally, I think to myself, who knows where that doc is now, eleven years later? Maybe he has as vivid a memory as I do, recalling that lady in the ER that July night during his first rotation as an actual MD, who let him do his first exam. Maybe he’s somebody’s awesome GYN right now.
I like to think so.
It’s also what may or may not be the worst time to go to a teaching hospital.
Now, we have interns in our office, but since it’s a legal environment, and since they spend all their time looking up cases we already know about and writing arguments we will never use in any brief we intend on filing with the court, there’s not a whole lot of damage they can do, beyond maybe jamming the printer a zillion times a day.
But hospitals are a different story. In mid-July, which marks the first week of rotations after the medical school academic year ends, you have med students becoming new interns, interns becoming new residents, and residents becoming new attendings.
There’s a soft spot in my heart (and maybe my head) for med students. Probably this is because one of my two best friends in the world is a doc. I call her Dr. Wenchface, for reasons which I will never explain to you, so don’t ask. We met in college (her freshman year, my sophomore) and I watched her grind her way through organic and inorganic chemistry and bio-med, while I read Jane Austen (for my English major) and watched China Beach (for my history minor). Back before there was email, Wench used to call me at night and we’d commiserate for hours – her about med school and me about law. (Just an aside: student doctors learn their craft on cadavers; student lawyers practice on poor people. Which one is scarier, do you think?)
So I’m always mindful of the rigorous and difficult training that doctors go through, and the part that I as a patient contribute to their becoming physicians. They have to learn this stuff somehow, and early, from taking a thorough and accurate medical history to doing a competent exam.
A medical student taking a history is relatively harmless, and it’s a skill they MUST learn early on. Personally, I never refuse when my doc asks me if I will let a med student (or intern, who has graduated from med school) observe an exam. If I’m not in pain, I’ll even let the student have a feel. Why? Because they have to learn it somehow, and almost every hospital in my city is a teaching hospital.
Last year, during a post-op follow up, Dr. Adorkable asked my permission to have a med student present. I said okay, shrugging. No biggie. He put his hands out for emphasis and insisted, “You don't have to; you can say no.” I looked at him and said, At this point in my life, I've had pretty much the population of Vermont looking all up in my youknowwhat. One more isn't going to kill me. Have a party. Invite your friends.
It was a few moments before he could collect himself enough to go and get the kid.
I find it educational, too, because I have to be very specific in describing my history and symptoms accurately, because if I’m vague or shorthand it, it will end up being taken down wrong.
Eleven years ago, pregnant with twins, which involved some fairly intensive medical intervention, I ended up in the emergency room at 8 weeks with severe pain. Since they couldn’t do anything with radiation (no xrays, no MRIs, no CT scans) without potentially harming the babies, they couldn’t rule in or rule out appendicitis or ovarian hyperstimulation (either of which could have been fatal). So in the course of bouncing from the doc’s office to the ultrasound factory to the ER, I had 18 different exams (and not the fun kind) over the course of 10 hours.
In the ER, a brand spanking new intern (as in “I graduated last week”) came to take my medical history. My timing couldn’t have been worse – it was July 10. He took my complicated history on the back of an envelope and I had to spell all of the specialized drugs I was on.
Finally, after endless consultations, they decided to admit me and wait and see if the sudden absence of pain meant my appendix had burst. I remember all the different residents and attendings standing at the foot of the gurney (OB, GYN, ER, MED-SURG) making the decision to admit me – and this baby faced intern waaay in the back of the crowd, peering over the shoulders of the grownups. Finally, the GYN attending sheepishly asked would I mind if the intern did one last exam, his first one? Sure, I said, to my husband’s dismay. I will never forget the look on that young man’s face; you’d think I’d granted him amnesty. He was very gentle, a little tentative, and very, very careful. Every one of the various attendings and residents thanked me as they left.
Of course it’s up to every individual patient, how comfortable she feels about participating in this kind of learning exercise, and it is her right to say no. Personally, I think to myself, who knows where that doc is now, eleven years later? Maybe he has as vivid a memory as I do, recalling that lady in the ER that July night during his first rotation as an actual MD, who let him do his first exam. Maybe he’s somebody’s awesome GYN right now.
I like to think so.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Parental Guidance Suggested
Rev has been out of town for a couple of days, leaving me plenty of opportunity to appreciate these deep thoughts on parents from the monsters little kids.
From Scooby, on the way home from day camp:
Scooby: Hey, mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Sausages. Brown beans [a/k/a baked beans] for you and scrambled eggs for Doodle, because he doesn’t like brown beans.
Scooby: Yay! I LOVE brown beans! Mom, you’re sooooo much nicer to us since camp started!
Me: As opposed to the mean witch I was during school?!
Scooby: (realizing what she said) Um, noooooo . . . .
Yeah, too late, kid. That cat is out of the bag.
From Doodle and Scooby, at dinner.
Doodle: I can’t wait til Dad gets home on Wednesday.
Scooby: I hope he brings us something.
Doodle: Kind of like Santa.
Scooby: Only he’s not white and he’s not fat and he doesn’t have a curly beard.
Doodle(looking at Scooby as if she’s mental): You know that Santa is just Satan with the letters rearranged, right?
Scooby (freaked out): Ummmmmm . . . .
Me: No more talking. Eat your dinner.
I hope whatever treats Rev brings home are enough to prove he isn’t the devil. I should probably text him and give him the heads up. Right?
Sigh. One more day to go. Maybe we can all play The Quiet Game until then.
From Scooby, on the way home from day camp:
Scooby: Hey, mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Sausages. Brown beans [a/k/a baked beans] for you and scrambled eggs for Doodle, because he doesn’t like brown beans.
Scooby: Yay! I LOVE brown beans! Mom, you’re sooooo much nicer to us since camp started!
Me: As opposed to the mean witch I was during school?!
Scooby: (realizing what she said) Um, noooooo . . . .
Yeah, too late, kid. That cat is out of the bag.
From Doodle and Scooby, at dinner.
Doodle: I can’t wait til Dad gets home on Wednesday.
Scooby: I hope he brings us something.
Doodle: Kind of like Santa.
Scooby: Only he’s not white and he’s not fat and he doesn’t have a curly beard.
Doodle(looking at Scooby as if she’s mental): You know that Santa is just Satan with the letters rearranged, right?
Scooby (freaked out): Ummmmmm . . . .
Me: No more talking. Eat your dinner.
I hope whatever treats Rev brings home are enough to prove he isn’t the devil. I should probably text him and give him the heads up. Right?
Sigh. One more day to go. Maybe we can all play The Quiet Game until then.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Dream State
And now, a silly.
I had a dream last night, which is remarkable only because I never remember dreams in the morning. But this one was still crystal clear when I opened my eyes.
In my dream, it is the morning of the first day of trial in a case I’ve been working on for a couple of years. I get to work super early, but realize I am not dressed appropriately for court. I’m not naked, but I’ve got on normal clothes: a short-sleeved top and some trousers.
Okay, no problem, I’ll just go down the street to the mall and get a suit. So I drive into this big garage, where, of course, I get lost in the levels. For some reason, I head to the Ann Taylor store, thinking that I’ll just be able to grab a suit in my size off the rack and throw it on with no alterations.
I find myself in a black skirt suit, with tags hanging off of it. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by people who insist on doing my hair and makeup. I’m starting to panic because I realize I am entirely unprepared for trial and haven’t composed my opening statement. And then, over in the corner I see the one guy in the universe who can help me:
Yes, I am dreaming about Mr. Barnard Thompson, the sophisticated concierge from Pretty Woman. He blanches each time I yank the tags off my suit (they keep reappearing), and barks at the minions to bring me shoes that match my outfit better, like he’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
He reaches over gently but impatiently to straighten my collar – and I wake up laughing.
Maybe I’m stressed about work in general and this case in particular.
Maybe I still have a secret crush on Hector Elizondo (and really, who doesn’t?).
Maybe my subconscious is telling me to stop taking my life so damn seriously – or to work a little harder to pull myself together. I don’t know. At any rate, it appears I have Mr. Barnard on my side, and that’s pretty impressive.
After all, he did wonders for Julia Roberts. From this:
to this:
’Nuff said.
I had a dream last night, which is remarkable only because I never remember dreams in the morning. But this one was still crystal clear when I opened my eyes.
In my dream, it is the morning of the first day of trial in a case I’ve been working on for a couple of years. I get to work super early, but realize I am not dressed appropriately for court. I’m not naked, but I’ve got on normal clothes: a short-sleeved top and some trousers.
Okay, no problem, I’ll just go down the street to the mall and get a suit. So I drive into this big garage, where, of course, I get lost in the levels. For some reason, I head to the Ann Taylor store, thinking that I’ll just be able to grab a suit in my size off the rack and throw it on with no alterations.
I find myself in a black skirt suit, with tags hanging off of it. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by people who insist on doing my hair and makeup. I’m starting to panic because I realize I am entirely unprepared for trial and haven’t composed my opening statement. And then, over in the corner I see the one guy in the universe who can help me:
Yes, I am dreaming about Mr. Barnard Thompson, the sophisticated concierge from Pretty Woman. He blanches each time I yank the tags off my suit (they keep reappearing), and barks at the minions to bring me shoes that match my outfit better, like he’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
He reaches over gently but impatiently to straighten my collar – and I wake up laughing.
Maybe I’m stressed about work in general and this case in particular.
Maybe I still have a secret crush on Hector Elizondo (and really, who doesn’t?).
Maybe my subconscious is telling me to stop taking my life so damn seriously – or to work a little harder to pull myself together. I don’t know. At any rate, it appears I have Mr. Barnard on my side, and that’s pretty impressive.
After all, he did wonders for Julia Roberts. From this:
to this:
’Nuff said.
Monday, July 4, 2011
An Old Woman Can Wear Purple On Her Birthday If She Wants To
The thing I love most about Independence Day is that everyone, whether from a red state or a blue, can find common ground in celebrating the line in the sand drawn by those courageous visionaries in Philadelphia that July day in 1776. If you've never read this document in its entirety, here it is. It is a thing of beauty: brief and to the point, listing the crimes committed by their Sovereign, King George III, and informing him that they refuse to be associated with him any longer. And then they signed it.
How extraordinary is that?
Hey, America? Happy 235th birthday. I must say, today you look lovely in purple:
How extraordinary is that?
Hey, America? Happy 235th birthday. I must say, today you look lovely in purple:
Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple
By Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
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