It is written in to our genes, I am sure of it. Worrying from dawn to dusk about our children must be an obsessive compulsive behavior that is pre-determined in mothers by genetic factors. How else can I explain biting my cuticles off when my child got on the bike without training wheels for the first time and wobbled her way around the cul-de-sac while my husband stood on the curb cheering for her?
I cannot speak for others but worrying is almost a hobby for me. Some folks knit, read, putter around the garden, write blogs or cook for fun. I worry. If the President ever gives me an executive order to stop worrying for one day, I would be completely lost. What, in all that is holy, am I supposed to do with myself if I can’t worry?
I worry if my kid will miss the school bus when she wakes up 5 minutes later than usual; I worry if she brushes her teeth for 2 minutes like the dentist says; I worry if she gets enough protein when she chooses to not have eggs for breakfast; I worry if she will lose weight when she refuses cookies and sits down with a glass of juice after school; I worry if she will gain weight when she indulges in a candy still left over from last year’s Halloween; I worry if she has trouble making friends when she opts to stay by my side at a party; I worry if she has studied enough for the test next day when she goes to bed at 9.00 pm; I worry if she will get dark circles under her eyes when she stays up to finish a project one night. It is simply exhausting to worry so much.
My husband, on the other hand, is a fatalist and believes that the French “Que sera sera” is the right motto for child rearing. “The child will do what she is supposed to do and what she does do will shape who she will become” and “Let the children make their own mistakes and learn from them” are his favorite responses to my heart-wrenching laments of worry. “Stop worrying” he says as if it is a valve I can shut off at any time. Have you ever heard of anything more illogical? No wonder they say “Men are from Mars.”
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
My mind quits on me
More often than not, my mind feels like a cleanly wiped counter top; a true blank page if there ever is one. I am afraid the day is not very far when one of my children (I do have some, don’t I???) is going to initiate a conversation that is going to go like this:
"Mom, did you see my homework?"
“What homework?”
“The Science homework. I showed it to you in the car on the way to my swimming lesson yesterday.”
“Who is taking swimming lessons?”
“Both of us. Remember, you and Dad take turns driving us there every week?”
“Dad who?”
“Your husband” snaps my daughter.
“Oh really...When did that happen?”
“When you said ‘I do’ 15 years ago. Now coming back to the point, do you know where my homework is?” She sighs with impatience.
“What homework?”
The way my mind quits on me makes me wonder if I have an early onset of Alzheimer disease. If it is, I think it is a big rip-off considering I am only in my thirties. Don’t ask me if it is early or late 30s, my mind is a little foggy on that detail. What annoys me most about the way my mind kicks back and goes to sleep is:
1. It happens a lot and
2. It happens at the most awkward times.
Take, for example, the other day when we were mingling at a social gathering. There I was, walking around with a glass of punch and a goofy grin on my face. No one would have guessed the turmoil I was in. The names of half the people at the place escaped me. And all of them seemed to remember mine. That is not all. Folks were embracing me with such familiarity that you would think that we meet every other day for a game of cards. Or do we? Oh well, I know better than to ponder on that one.
If the DMV ever found out the logic (or the lack thereof) behind my driving technique, my license is sure to be revoked. Anytime I get behind the wheels, I need a quarter. No, there is no toll road in my neighborhood and I do not use a coin laundry. Every time I leave home and turn the corner to arrive at the ‘STOP’ sign, my mind quits on me. Do I turn left or right? What is the destination? If my kids are in the car with me, they shout out the destination but if I am driving solo, I use the coin. Before the advent of the coin usage, I used to sit there at the ‘STOP’ sign with my brow creased in intense concentration in an effort to determine which way I should go before folding under the pressure of honking cars from behind and turn to drive around on auto pilot mode. These days, I flip the coin. Heads, I go right and Tails, I go left.
Quarter – I don’t leave home without it.
"Mom, did you see my homework?"
“What homework?”
“The Science homework. I showed it to you in the car on the way to my swimming lesson yesterday.”
“Who is taking swimming lessons?”
“Both of us. Remember, you and Dad take turns driving us there every week?”
“Dad who?”
“Your husband” snaps my daughter.
“Oh really...When did that happen?”
“When you said ‘I do’ 15 years ago. Now coming back to the point, do you know where my homework is?” She sighs with impatience.
“What homework?”
The way my mind quits on me makes me wonder if I have an early onset of Alzheimer disease. If it is, I think it is a big rip-off considering I am only in my thirties. Don’t ask me if it is early or late 30s, my mind is a little foggy on that detail. What annoys me most about the way my mind kicks back and goes to sleep is:
1. It happens a lot and
2. It happens at the most awkward times.
Take, for example, the other day when we were mingling at a social gathering. There I was, walking around with a glass of punch and a goofy grin on my face. No one would have guessed the turmoil I was in. The names of half the people at the place escaped me. And all of them seemed to remember mine. That is not all. Folks were embracing me with such familiarity that you would think that we meet every other day for a game of cards. Or do we? Oh well, I know better than to ponder on that one.
If the DMV ever found out the logic (or the lack thereof) behind my driving technique, my license is sure to be revoked. Anytime I get behind the wheels, I need a quarter. No, there is no toll road in my neighborhood and I do not use a coin laundry. Every time I leave home and turn the corner to arrive at the ‘STOP’ sign, my mind quits on me. Do I turn left or right? What is the destination? If my kids are in the car with me, they shout out the destination but if I am driving solo, I use the coin. Before the advent of the coin usage, I used to sit there at the ‘STOP’ sign with my brow creased in intense concentration in an effort to determine which way I should go before folding under the pressure of honking cars from behind and turn to drive around on auto pilot mode. These days, I flip the coin. Heads, I go right and Tails, I go left.
Quarter – I don’t leave home without it.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I was out the day they taught 'Organization' at School
My kid asked me the other day “Mom, Sara’s mom says that being organized is a trait that passes through generations genetically. Are you organized?” Fortunately, I didn’t have to think long on that question. Quoting Grandma and myself as exemplary examples, I assured her that these things are known to miss a couple of generations.
If you are one of those people that get their jollies by making lists and checking them off going through life packing for a trip down to the neighbor’s house or shopping for spring plants, school supplies, groceries, underwear and all else under the sky, do me a favor, will you?. Can you clear your calendar for an hour sometime this week and give me some pointers? Actually, if I were a computer program, you will have to rewrite the code from scratch.
Organized people are a puzzle that I have yet to solve.
Have you ever noticed how they all have a notepad and a pencil on the refrigerator within easy reach in case the mood to make lists strikes them? “Honey, we are running low on breakfast items. Can you start a list for Wal-Mart?” or “It is time for our annual camping trip. You know what that means? Let’s start making lists for camping supplies, emergency phone numbers, all Chevron gas stations with clean restrooms on our way and a separate one for travel games that we will need.” In my house, we run to the store when we dump the cereal box over a bowl of milk and can’t shake loose any crumbs.
Another trait found common amongst all ‘Organized’ folks is their ability to pull vital information like birthdays and anniversaries right out of their mental rolodex in a moment’s notice. These are the same people that can take one look at a person that they had met as a child and remember the day she lost her first tooth and enquire on a neighbor of hers who was 7 months pregnant at that time. I once forgot my husband’s birthday and still haven’t heard the end of it.
You might think “Oh, this Meena, she always exaggerates. She is not that disorganized. Take her family room. It is always tidy enough to seat a dozen people.” I will let you in on a secret. When our realtor wanted our requirements to shortlist properties to show us, I was emphatic about having a bedroom in the first floor. I let everyone assume that this room is for the visiting parents or in-laws but the truth is when company knocks on the front door, I need a place to dump the many clothes, socks, toys, remote controls, books and crayons lying around the place.
I was very surprised the other day to open the refrigerator only to find empty shelves staring at me. Now why didn’t I notice that before? Hmmm…… I decided to give the list making idea a shot and reached for the notepad on the fridge. Oops…..just remembered that there has not been a notepad on that refrigerator ever since the day we moved into the house. Oh well, you can’t blame me. At least I tried.
If you are one of those people that get their jollies by making lists and checking them off going through life packing for a trip down to the neighbor’s house or shopping for spring plants, school supplies, groceries, underwear and all else under the sky, do me a favor, will you?. Can you clear your calendar for an hour sometime this week and give me some pointers? Actually, if I were a computer program, you will have to rewrite the code from scratch.
Organized people are a puzzle that I have yet to solve.
Have you ever noticed how they all have a notepad and a pencil on the refrigerator within easy reach in case the mood to make lists strikes them? “Honey, we are running low on breakfast items. Can you start a list for Wal-Mart?” or “It is time for our annual camping trip. You know what that means? Let’s start making lists for camping supplies, emergency phone numbers, all Chevron gas stations with clean restrooms on our way and a separate one for travel games that we will need.” In my house, we run to the store when we dump the cereal box over a bowl of milk and can’t shake loose any crumbs.
Another trait found common amongst all ‘Organized’ folks is their ability to pull vital information like birthdays and anniversaries right out of their mental rolodex in a moment’s notice. These are the same people that can take one look at a person that they had met as a child and remember the day she lost her first tooth and enquire on a neighbor of hers who was 7 months pregnant at that time. I once forgot my husband’s birthday and still haven’t heard the end of it.
You might think “Oh, this Meena, she always exaggerates. She is not that disorganized. Take her family room. It is always tidy enough to seat a dozen people.” I will let you in on a secret. When our realtor wanted our requirements to shortlist properties to show us, I was emphatic about having a bedroom in the first floor. I let everyone assume that this room is for the visiting parents or in-laws but the truth is when company knocks on the front door, I need a place to dump the many clothes, socks, toys, remote controls, books and crayons lying around the place.
I was very surprised the other day to open the refrigerator only to find empty shelves staring at me. Now why didn’t I notice that before? Hmmm…… I decided to give the list making idea a shot and reached for the notepad on the fridge. Oops…..just remembered that there has not been a notepad on that refrigerator ever since the day we moved into the house. Oh well, you can’t blame me. At least I tried.
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