Taking one on the chin

Well, Samantha has finally learned how it feels to get stitches. Last night at bath time, she was monkeying around in the tub, slipped, and smacked her chin on the side of the tub. I tell me kids to refrain from leading with their chins, but they just don’t listen. I was sitting about a foot away from her when it happened, undressing the Bean for a bath. I witnessed the whole thing, and it was bad. Children’s heads make a revolting thud whenever they make impact with solid objects. Samantha came up screaming and holding her chin. I didn’t notice the blood streaming through her fingers at first, because she was also bleeding inside her mouth.
Kate took her to the ER, where she ended up with 5 stitches. The poor child was so scared and upset that she wouldn’t even let the triage nurse place the pulse ox. She had to be given a dose of Versed just to calm her down to the point where they could stitch her back together.
The eerie thing about all of this, is that she was horsing around, doing the same thing that Patrick was doing when he fell and cut his chin last year. She landed on the same part of the tub, and received the same amount of stitches. A co-worker of mine said that we need to do something to our tub to make it safe. I agree. The one thing that would make our tub more safe would be to keep my kids out of it…

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I work in a hospital, so I see many strange things. Things that would have bothered me a few years ago don’t anymore. I usually note strange behavior more than anything else now. Last week I stepped into the men’s room only to be forced back by a gentleman who was attempting to leave the restroom with his bicycle. It was the first time I’ve seen someone take a bike into the bathroom with him.
Several times I’ve seen women walk into the men’s room, only to realize the mistake and hurry back out blushing. But one day while I was in the hall waiting for a co-worker, I saw a woman walk in, and spend quite a bit of time in there. When she strolled out, she acted like she owned the place. Either she wasn’t really a woman, or she didn’t care, or she didn’t know. Either way, what do I care?
I had one of my most embarrassing moments in a bathroom here at the hospital. I walked into the bathroom to find an older man with a prosthetic forearm trying to pick a notebook up off of the floor. In an attempt to be useful, I inquired, “Can I give you a hand?” As soon as I said “hand” and looked again at the hook on the end of his arm I realized what an ass I am. He politely declined my help, picked up his notebook and left.
The funniest moment I had in that bathroom was one day when I was standing at the urinal, and I looked over my shoulder to see a man, clad in biking shorts and a biker’s helmet enter. He was holding a clear bottle with some pink powder in the bottom. He turned the sink on, filled the water bottle, shook it up, and set it on the counter. He then proceeded to the stall. Meanwhile, another gentleman stepped away from the urinal, turned the sink on, picked up the biker’s bottle, and poured some of the biker’s “Kool-Aid” on his hands. After rubbing his hands together and rinsing them off, he dried his hands and left the restroom. I wanted to tell him about his mistake, but I figured it didn’t matter. He probably went the rest of the day walking around with fresh-smelling cherry scent on his hands.

I know I haven’t updated my blog in a couple of weeks, and for that I apologize. I have just been lazy. I work full time, go to school full time, and have a wife and four kids. There is no reason I shouldn’t have time to blog as well. Since it has been a while I do have many random things to say, but I will subtitle them, so you can skip the boring stuff.

Just Like the Old Days

Thursday night I got home from school early, about 8:30. As I pulled into the neighborhood I noticed that the streetlight was out. I was struck by how dark it made the street seem before I realized that there were no lights at all in the neighborhood. Pulling into the driveway I saw a flashlight moving through my living room, and I realized on the porch that it was so dark I couldn’t see my door key. I knocked, and after a pause, Kate yelled “Who is it?” She hadn’t been expecting me that early, and I scared her to death.
After she let me in I saw my kids running down the stairs, soaking wet and draped in towels. It seems that the power had just gone off right before I got home. Kate had sent the kids upstairs to get ready for bath time while she went downstairs to move laundry. When the power went out all four of the kids were in the tub, naked and hysterical. It took Kate a while to get upstairs, as it was pitch black. So the children ended up getting a bath by candle light.
We found out that the power company didn’t expect the electricity to be back on until 2 AM, so after the kids were dressed we decided the best course of action was bed time. This was no easy feat. Patrick and Samantha have a duck night light, and Whitney and Lauren have a lava lamp. Without the night lights the kids would not go into their rooms (except Bean, who was so tired that when put in her crib she crashed). So we gathered all of our blankets and made a bed on the floor at the foot of our bed, where Patrick, Samantha and Whitney could have a slumber party.
Before we went to bed I walked around the house, flashlight in hand, getting drinks for the kids and turning off all light switches. Patrick was at my side, my protector. He would say, “I will go with you Papa. I can punch the monsters in half and then break them into four more pieces!” One time, just to test him I said, “There’s a monster! Get it.” He dove headlong onto the floor and yelled, “Pow! I got it!”
Needless to say no one slept well that night. The power was on when we awoke, and order was restored. It reminded me of the first time the power went off when Whitney was still an only child. She slept with us that night, and the next morning, I awoke and left for work before Whitney and Kate. When Whit woke up she ran over and turned on the light, then said, “Papa fixed it!” That’s right. Papa fixed it.

Different Parenting Views

Last week Kate was upset about a conversation she had with one of her co-workers. It seems that the co-worker was putting Kate down because we let our kids leave the house dressed in T-shirts and Levis. This woman felt that children should always be dressed in designer clothes, and if they are not, the parents are at fault for the shoddy dress of the kids. This woman told Kate that she doesn’t buy T-shirt and Levis for her kids, even to wear around the house. This nurse would get upset if she wasn’t able to curl her daughter’s hair, because she knew that her husband couldn’t do it. And the daughter couldn’t leave the house without her hair done up.
This woman said that if kids aren’t dressed to the nines that it is a poor reflection on the parents. In her eyes if children are dressed poorly, the parents look lower class. I feel that this is the height of vanity, and faulty logic.
I have to dress at least in business casual for work, and most days need a tie. While I don’t mind this dress code, I feel most comfortable in Levis and a T-shirt and when I am not at work or church you are most likely to find me dressed this way. It doesn’t make me low class. It makes me comfortable, but not sloppy. My kids are the same way. Kids can dress casually without looking like orphans. I will admit that my children at times look like street urchins, and it is usually because they have played in the dirt or spilled dinner on their clothes, but the clothes themselves aren’t what make the kids look bad.
As far as the argument that how the kids look reflects on the parents that is simply foolish. I know many people whose children do not dress in designer clothes who are still outstanding people. I don’t look at children who are disheveled and think, “What’s wrong with their parents?” And I think that anyone who does is a fool. On the other side I know many people whose children are dressed well all the time, yet the parents are not ideal people.
Saying that you can judge a person by how their children are dressed is, to use an old cliché, judging a book by its cover. It is separating people by appearances, and that, in my opinion is a very bad idea.
So for now, I will continue to dress my kids how I will, in a way that is comfortable to them. And if one of my children’s hair is ratty because he or she fell asleep on it, then so be it. It doesn’t mean that I will neglect how they look, but if Samantha wants to wear sweat pants when we are going to Costco, then so be it. Do I really need to curl her hair before going to buy cat food? As far as the woman who looks down on us because our children aren’t dressed like models all the time, well I feel bad for her. But I really feel worse for her children, because she is raising them to be just like her: Vain and Superficial.

Suzy Homemaker

A few weeks ago Kate bought a pattern for a witch’s dress for a Halloween costume for our girls. At the time I was concerned, because Kate doesn’t sew. Not that she couldn’t sew, she just doesn’t. After working on our old hand-me-down sewing machine for a few days she had three orange and black witches’ dresses for the girls. They turned out really nice.
Before I knew it Kate purchased some Halloween patterned fabric with the intention of making a couple of scrub tops for her. Pretty soon she was making scrub tops for her mother, and then some tops commissioned by some of her co-workers.
I was wondering how far Kate would get into the sewing, when her mother commissioned 24 pairs of matching fleece pants for the whole family for Christmas. I think that the sewing will come to an abrupt end by the time the pants are all made. While pants are a lot easier than dresses or scrub tops, that’s a lot of damn sewing. Kate is very detailed and committed to perfection, so she will take the time to pick out stitches that are not perfect. The end product is high quality, but for her it is a lot of hard work.
The other night I got home from work to find her busy sewing the pants, so I started to make dinner. Kate’s Dad called during this time, and gave her a hard time for how “domestic” we are: Kate sewing and me cooking. It made it worse because we still had some pumpkins and tomatoes from our vegetable garden sitting on our kitchen counter.






* I finally broke down and saw “The Passion of the Christ”. While I thought it was well done and moving, I still think the book was better…*