When we were growing up, there was an understood rule that Mom could not be gone from the house for more than two days. Dad could handle work and kids and dinner and soccer practice and piano lessons for approximately 48 hours; but much longer after that, and order would slowly start to unravel. Outside of the yard, the "Home Front" just wasn't quite Dad's "niche."
However, since his retirement and Mom's hat trick of injuries the past couple of years, Dad has slowly found himself embarking on a new career of domestic training. Dad has had learn how to navigate the inner aisles of the grocery store (as opposed to the perimeter where the steak, eggs, and milk live). He has honed his skills in bathroom cleaning, kitchen mopping, and dog walking; and my mother has even let him iron. (No burns or scorches, to his credit.)
As blase' as this all may sound, we must recall that my mom has organized the daily cooking and cleaning of our household as though she had it mentally laid out on a multi-colored spreadsheet. (Perhaps she does, for all I know.) As a result, she has a certain mindset about how things "should" be done. Sheets should be washed on a certain day; freezers should be defrosted in a certain month; and all of these things should be done with a smile and a song worthy of Mary Poppins herself.
My dad's not really a "Julie Andrews musical" kind of guy. He has done pretty well in spite of it. But there has been the occasional... miscommunication, as would be expected. For example, Mom had told Dad what settings to use for a particularly tricky load of laundry. Mom's instructions did not reconcile with what Dad saw in the laundry room; so Dad (former engineer), drew a schematic of the front of the washing machine and took it to Mom for her to clarify. In response, my mother (former schoolteacher) sent my dad to the "Household Appliances" folder in her four-drawer filing cabinet to get the manual. A consensus was reached, and the laundry was finished; but this should answer a lot of questions for people who wonder why my brother and I are as... "detail-oriented" as we both are. And Type A shall wed Type A, and they shall begat Type A and Type A...
Sunday, February 24, 2008
How to Be a Hospital Belle
Lessons Learned from Mom's Hospital Stay
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Xena: Beyond Thunderdome
My mom broke her leg last week (more on that later), and in the meantime, I am babysitting Xena here in Oxford while Mom transitions from hospital to home. Xena isn't overly aggressive or anything, but a 75-lb dog unexpectedly standing, sitting, or deciding to sleep on you can take your breath away whether or not you recently had orthopedic surgery.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
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