Itchy, Itchy, Scratchy, Scratchy, Ooh I got One Down My Backy

I have always been a fan of primates. There’s the human family resemblance and advanced skill set, and I really appreciate the way they take care of each other. The kids want another dog, but I'm thinking of adopting an ape, chimpanzee, or snow monkey. I could use the assistance with grooming.

Particularly when dealing with a case of head lice.

See, with Ian, Rob and I having enjoyed foot infections, broken fingers, back surgery, and shingles this year, Abby felt left out. Being competitive by nature, she decided to join the fun with, yep, you guessed it.

The call came from the school nurse late Friday afternoon, ensuring an auspicious start to the weekend. Rob was the one at home for the walk of shame pick up and shampoo round of treatment, while I was lucky enough to return in time for the actual “nit-picking.” While my family would say that I excel in nit-picking, as originally defined, it turns out nit-picking is not one of my strengths. Flake or nit? That is the question. I spent at least an hour going through my daughter’s past-shoulder-length hair, scratching my own head every 15 seconds in the process.

Once the mark of pariahs, it appears that today nits and louses are no big deal. Perhaps because vampires are in vogue, we no longer get worked up about blood suckers. My daughter actually seemed disappointed yesterday when she went to school with the all-clear (or clear enough) from the nurse, particularly because two of her friends were sent home with the creepy crawlers. Like I said, she’s very competitive.

Lice Lifters to the rescue!

Today I went through Abby’s hair again (this will be a daily ritual for the next week or two, hence my need for primate assistance). The good news is that I’m getting better at recognizing the little buggers, the bad news is that I'm still finding the little buggers. The good news is that I may not have to go it alone for long. Forgoing the use of our four-legged relatives, I have learned that there are now brilliant money-making schemes businesses that actually remove head lice for you. Apparently the over-the-counter stuff is no longer doing the trick and with fewer moms staying home to take care of crap like this, some enterprising folks have found a way to ensure a clean bill of hair. One of Abby's friends used a service called Lice Happens which, for a paltry $295, will come to your house and take care of the critters, guaranteed. Another service, Lice Lifters, charges $175 if you come to them.

If I'm still finding these blood suckers tomorrow, I may have to make the call and spend the cash. Think Abby'd be willing to consider it a Christmas present?

And did I mention how freakin' itchy I am?

Anticipation or Angst?

For the past few years, the Christmas season has thrown me into an emotional and mental tailspin. My inner Grinch first appears when I see retailers' holiday displays in October, and hear carols before we've reached Thanksgiving. By the time Black Thursday night rolls around, I'm in quite a state (You crazy shoppers can't even wait till Friday morning at 5:00 a.m.?)

As a Christian, this time leading up to Christmas (also known as Advent) is supposed to be about the waiting, the anticipation of the birth of Christ. The societal madness, however, turns it into a time of rushing and decorating and shopping and planning; the complete opposite of waiting. I'm sure if I was a better Christian I could just overlook the craziness of the season and focus my heart and mind on Jesus. Instead, I get grumpy.

A major factor in my grumpiness is the whole gift-giving aspect of Christmas. Each year my children provide me with their wish lists (which I confess to requesting), and each year that list is made up of more expensive items than the year before. This causes me a good deal of frustration because:

1. If I cut back on the number of gifts since they cost more, the tree will look bare and the kids will be disappointed in having just a couple items to open.
2. Since they were mere babes, I have been conditioning them to expect a substantial pile of loot and I can't do a 180 now.
3. These gifts will mean nothing to them in a year (I'll be lucky if they interest them that long). I'm willing to bet neither of them can remember what they received last Christmas.
4. There are so many children in this world, country, state, and in nearby communities who have nothing. Kids who are asking Santa for food, a home, a job for an unemployed parent.  
5. My children already have so much.

It's not that my children are undeserving of gifts or unappreciative of what they receive. They're both great kids (when they're not trying to kill each other). It's just that I can't get past the thought of those in need. Even buying gifts for those less fortunate, which I do for church and work, doesn't ease my discomfort.

I think another factor in my grouchiness is the sense of obligation I feel during this season. I have to decorate the house. I have to send Christmas cards. I have to make a real meal if it's my turn to play hostess. I have to buy gifts for my kids, my nephew and nieces, my parents, and my husband. It's not that I dislike decorating, sending cards, or buying gifts (although I do dislike cooking), but I like to do these things when the spirit moves me. I enjoy giving someone a gift to surprise them, to show my love when they least expect it. Hitting Amazon.com and ordering a bunch of stuff just doesn't have the same appeal.

Finally, Christmas Day goes by too quickly and with too little fanfare. Ironic, isn't it? The build up is overwhelming and the day-of falls flat. Opening gifts takes all of 15 minutes and then everyone goes to their separate corners to play with their new toys. The rest of the day is just like any other with a fairly quiet "real meal" with my parents or Rob's family thrown in. I wish I could spend Christmas surrounded by large numbers of family and friends with laughter, food, drink, music, and merriment. Invitations being accepted at macshimer@gmail.com.

I know many of you have been reading this saying to yourself, "These are your choices, Kim. You don't have to do anything." In theory, you're right. In reality, it's not that simple.

I welcome your suggestions on how I can make the entire season of Christmas merry. My husband and kids would appreciate your advice!

Focus, Commitment, and Perseverance, Oh My!

Our school district has a strong fencing program which Ian participated in last year. Unfortunately, the practice facility moved off-site, membership fees dramatically increased, and Ian wasn't interested enough to make the extra effort and financial investment worthwhile. The other night he mentioned that one of his classmates is now a Junior Olympian in the sport and I asked him if he wished he was still involved. He told me "no" and noted "it would take me about three years to catch up."

Being the pain in the ass thoughtfully concerned mother that I am, I casually responded to Ian's comment, saying:

That's the trouble with kids today. It's interesting that you say that. You don't know what commitment and perseverance mean. I think your generation struggles with commitment and perseverance because life as you know it doesn't require it. You expect to have what you want when you want it immediate results because that's the way things work for you most of the time. Commitment and perseverance involve focus, and it's difficult to focus your attention on one hobby, sport, or talent when life throws new information, entertainment, and opportunities at you at the speed of light. 

Conditioned to life at 4G speeds, it almost seems absurd to ask or expect a kid to invest YEARS mastering anything. They simply aren't used to anything taking time. I have seen this lack of stick-to-it-iveness before with Ian. Regardless of whether he formerly enjoyed an activity, he easily becomes bored and wants to move on. I really believe today's technology conditions kids this way and I expect it will only become worse.

As is the case with most of my posts, I don't have an answer for my conundrum. I suppose I'm pulling a D. Herbert Lipson here (see If Anyone's Going to Insult My Kids, It's Gonna Be Me); just venting and casting a wide net with my fault-finding. The good news is that Ian saw the point I was trying to make during our conversation. The bad news is that he agreed with me, admitted there was nothing he could envision enjoying for years at a time, and will quite possibly see this conversation as justification for the way he is things are.

Two weeks ago Ian joined the gym where Rob and I work out. He's been enjoying weight training and is looking forward to impressing the ladies with his fine physique. I must admit I have had my hopes up that this might be something he could stick with. That was until last night when we were leaving the health club together. Ian pulled up his t-shirt, checked out his abs, and upon discovering that he had not yet developed a six-pack, announced:

This exercising stuff isn't working at all. I quit.

Heaven Gains an Angel

My daughter, like many children, has a favorite saying in times of disappointment:

It's Not Fair.

To which I reply, like every other parent:

Life's Not Fair.

Today I would like to add that death, especially, is not fair.

Yesterday the world lost--and heaven gained--a freakin' angel. Ann Bates lost her second battle with brain cancer. While we take some small measure of comfort in knowing she is restored and at peace, we grieve for our loss. We grieve that Ann leaves behind her young son Nicholas, her husband Chris, her parents, and all her extended family and friends.

Despite pretending via this blog to be a writer, words have a way of failing me when they really count. In particular, moments when my freakin' angel friends offer Scripture to comfort and ease the pain of suffering, I am woefully inadequate. I especially struggle to "pray well with others." All I know is that God somehow let us down. He took from us someone unbelievably good, with a kind and generous spirit, a beautiful smile, an unshakable faith, an inspiring level of love for family, friends, and strangers alike, and a penchant for medical terminology and extra-long conversations. Perhaps God just needed someone like Ann up there with Him. Though I would certainly argue that we need the Anns of the world right here on earth with us.

I have written about our dear Ann before, four times in fact, most recently during my "mad as hell" phase. Please see the April 20, 2010 post to read what her Freakin' Angel friends had to say about her during happier times, shortly before she and her family moved to Princeton.

I leave you with this quote from Scripture as shared by our friend Theresa:

...I will come and do for you all the good things I have promised, and I will bring you home again. For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future. In those days when you pray, I will listen. If you look for me wholeheartedly you will find me. I will be found by you, says the Lord. I will end your captivity and restore your fortunes. I will gather you out of the nations where I sent you and bring you home again to your own land. -- Jeremiah 29: 10-14, New Living Translation

Welcome home, Ann.

If Anyone's Going to Insult My Kids, It's Gonna Be Me

Anyone with a sibling can relate to the "no one can pick on my sister/brother but me," phenomenon. You may regularly beat the snot out of your most immediate family member, but if someone outside the bloodline gets in on the action, you're prepared to rise up in defense. I experienced this with my own sister and I've seen it happen with Ian and Abby.

A similar phenomenon takes place with parents and their children. It is perfectly acceptable for me to criticize, condemn, and express disappointment with my child(ren), but should a neighbor, teacher, or even another relative find fault with the fruit of my loins, look out cause momma bear won't stand for that.

Recently this momma bear felt the need to sharpen her claws after reading an opinion piece in the November issue of Philadelphia magazine. In his Off the Cuff column, a certain D. Herbert Lipson, 81, chairman of magazine, penned what amounted to an attack on today's young adults and the parents who raised them. Lipson began by bemoaning the general state of our nation and then specifically turned his attention to:

• Occupy Wall Street/Philadelphia and the "ragtag bunch" of "perpetually unemployed" 
• The "fundamental decline in our competitive spirit"
• The dismal state of our educational system as evidenced by our ranking 9th in percentage of citizens who are college graduates and 51st in science and math education 
• The fact that more students major in psychology than in engineering...because engineering, or physics, or math, "requires a great deal of work." And, "That’s not something our young people are interested in."

Lipson didn't hold back when describing the future leaders of this country:

There are very few 22-year-olds—excuse me, make that 25-year-olds, because most kids don’t graduate from college in four years—who impress me as going anywhere. They seem poorly educated and unmotivated. They strike me as lazy and immature. 

But he made sure to share the blame:

The fault isn’t entirely theirs—we’re all responsible. Somehow, we’ve substituted coddling young people, shielding them from pain and the problems of growing up, for the real lessons of life. Our culture now insists that childhood is a time to make sure no hardship punctures the pristine bubbles in which we keep our children. No wonder they’ve become lazy and uninterested in tough challenges. The great irony is that in protecting our children—and not introducing them to the obvious idea that nothing is obtained in life without prodigious toil and hardship—we are relegating them to lives that will not be as successful or happy as ours.

And most importantly, Lipson offers a solution:

They’d be much better off getting prepared for the real world instead of having a childhood of fun and games.

Okay, take a deep breath with me.

My reaction to Mr. Lipson's angry old man rant ran the gamut from "You make a couple reasonable points," to "I beg to differ," to "No one calls my kids lazy and immature but me!" Okay, technically I don't have children in this age group. I do, however, know several young adults who qualify based solely on their age and most definitely NOT as he describes them. In fact, since I first started this blog nearly two years ago, I've wanted to celebrate these young adults and write a post that recognizes them for the outstanding contributions they make to this world. Mr. Lipson's "off the cuff" commentary provided the incentive I needed. So allow me to celebrate:

• The entire Northern Ireland young adult group that came to this country a few years ago to join my church mission team working in the poorest areas of western North Carolina. Today they are in ministry, teaching, and other careers that make a difference in the lives of others.
• Neighborhood "kids" Richard, Ryder, and Bridget. Perhaps the most mature, well-rounded, intelligent young adults you ever want to meet. Richard is in his 2nd year at Swarthmore College (I don't know what he's majoring in, but even if it's not science or math related, he's going to kick butt with whatever he does), and Bridget and Ryder are in high school. And they're not just smart and respectful. They're funny, personable, and great to be around. And they made top-notch babysitters when my kids were little.
• Salim, the boy next door. We watched him grow from a smart high school kid who built his own computers, to a  U of Pitt graduate in engineering and chemistry. He's currently working on his graduate degree (PhD, I think) in biomedical engineering and is employed by Pittsburgh's UMPC Artificial Heart Program. Oh, and his slacker sister is a child psychiatrist who works in war-torn countries with Doctors without Borders. How embarrassing for the family.
• Our dearly departed Cara. She was God's gift to children's ministry before she left us for the west coast. She's now in seminary in California.
• My kids' summertime babysitters. This exemplary lot included: 
• Laura Jean - Newly married occupational therapist
• Kevin - Physical therapy major at Ithaca College
• Nicole - Student at Grove City College; children's ministry intern (and her brother Mike is in dental school)

Quite a poorly educated, unmotivated, lazy and immature bunch, eh?

Finally, I need to address one of Mr. L's concluding remarks:

They’d be much better off getting prepared for the real world instead of having a childhood of fun and games.

Wow. REALLY? This is where we parents can't win. On one hand, my generation and the one before has been criticized for stressing out our kids. Expecting too much. Overscheduling them with sports, music, volunteer work. Preparing them for the Ivy League when selecting a preschool. Baby Einsteining them into the Mensa society. Now this curmudgeon suggests our children are having too much fun.

As a parent I struggle daily with what to expect from my children. How hard I should make them work. What hardships they should endure. Will my parenting make them stronger and more resiliant or push them over the proverbial edge? The last thing I need is someone at least thirty years out of parenting young children to deliver such a scathing review of the efforts we're making.

What is your reaction to Mr. Lipson's "Off the Cuff" comments?

A Thanksgiving Public Service Announcement

You often hear how smart animals are. The pot-bellied pig who saves his owner after a heart attack. The dolphins who guide a drowning man to shore. And of course, Lassie who always manages to bring help when Timmy is stuck in a well. I, for one, have not enjoyed the company of particularly intelligent animals. In fact, more often than not, I have had a front row seat for "animals behaving badly." The dog who eats cat poop out of the litter box, follows it up with an entire shoo fly pie, and spends the evening throwing up on my carpet. The deer which, despite watching his buddy get hit by a car, decides to cross the highway at rush hour anyway. And who can forget watching the chimp at the zoo scratch his butt and then stick his gnarly long "finger" into his mouth? This is not intelligent behavior.

It's a good thing we human animals are significantly more advanced.

My higher level thinking, much like my dearly departed dog Maddie, reveals itself when it comes to food. In the past I have had issues when making poor nutritional choices. But, being the intelligent creature that I am, I have learned from my mistakes. Yesterday was a case in point. I made a healthy lunch selection: chicken cordon bleu sandwich with fries and a Coke. I then treated myself to the required movie theater popcorn while taking in a 4:00 p.m. showing of the new Twilight movie (still more evidence of my advanced intellect). After sitting in ridiculous rainy evening rush hour traffic and arriving home past 7:00 p.m., I decided to indulge in the one food I've been craving for weeks: chocolate chip pancakes. Dinner of champions. I inhaled five of them in about five minutes flat, washed them down with a nice cold glass of milk, and spent the rest of the evening doubled over in the bathroom.

My purpose in sharing this story is not to make you feel badly about your less than intelligent choices. We can't all be as highly evolved as Maddie and me. But with Thanksgiving Day upon us, I wanted to give you the support and encouragement you may need to survive the onslaught of challenges that present themselves on this most gastronomical of days. Think of me and my example before you:

• Drink too much in order to drown out the embarrassing family stories being shared around the table
• Eat yourself into a turkey coma thereby missing the big game
• Pig out on broccoli and other veggies to generate room-clearing gas
• Consume an entire pie by yourself because your pants were already too tight anyway

As a public service, should you find yourself tempted by any of these scenarios, call me immediately and we'll go to the movies.

Popcorn's on me.

What's Up, Doc?

Doctor's offices are a world unto themselves. Or maybe little universes with each specialty doctor making up its own little world. 2011 has been a banner year for the MacShimers and doctors and frankly, I've had enough. What other professional can get away with making you sit in a crowded waiting room for an hour or more for a scheduled appointment? How is it that they manage to book five appointments for the same doctor at the same time? Do many people decide to skip their appointment, ultimately leaving only two competing for the 2:30 time slot? I can't imagine that's a frequent occurrence given the hefty missed appointment fees they're now charging. And who do they think they're fooling when they bring you to the exam room, take your vitals, strip you down, and tell you the doctor will be in a "minute?" In this alternate universe, a minute is equal to at least fifteen.

And then there's the all-to-frequent "non-diagnosis." I suppose this should be relief. I know no news is supposed to be good news, but when you're feeling like crap and the doctor you just waited an hour for can't find anything wrong with you, it's more than a little frustrating. According to my latest scientific research, at least 95% of children's doctor's appointments are a complete waste of time and money. The diagnosis is invariably "a virus," or "allergies." I believe these are code words for "Who the hell knows. Kids get sick. Give him Tylenol and some 'fluids', and get out of my office since I have five other appointments booked in this same time slot." At least my recent adventure with shingles resulted in an actual diagnosis, with prescription meds and even a bit of sympathy. Is that too much to ask?

I would like to propose that doctors come up with a name for those mystery conditions that make you feel like your intestinal track is going to fall out of your backside, or your head is going to explode into a million tiny messy pieces, or with one more step you're going to fall over because your world is spinning and a mad case of puppy love is not the culprit. I suggest the medical community approves the use of the term MAD. We can pretend it stands for Mystery Ailment Diagnosis, but we all know what's really meant. And it's completely accurate because either I'm crazy or I'm really ticked off that you don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Yes indeed, I'm mad.

Finally, I would like to propose that you never leave the doctor's office empty-handed. If you're MAD, you should receive a small official-looking bottle of pills containing tic-tacs or cinnamon hearts or something so you can at least feel as if your visit and your co-pay wasn't a complete loss. And if you grow tired of taking those "meds," you can shout out "I may be MAD as hell, but I'm not going to take these any more!"