Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Springtime in San Francisco
You can tell it's springtime in San Francisco because the homeless play with their pet rats in the park. It's hard to tell, but the little white dot is the rat. I couldn't get a better shot without getting yelled at, or explaining to Conor why I was taking the picture. Honey, mommy thinks homeless people are funny and should be mocked on the internet!
Labels: So San Francisco
Television!
Our television is broken, and we're having it repaired. How old-school is that? And not even cool old-school, either. The television has broken before, in the exact same way, but this was apparently in the age before computers because they couldn't find a record of the repair. Based on the address the repair shop had on file, it must have been 1998.
So we're getting it fixed, and as I speak two men are in our living room breathing life back into it. I considered, very briefly, that this was a sign and maybe we should live without television. And then I laughed! Television is one of the (many) leisure activities mothers who work outside the home give up. I, however, have rediscovered it! Netflix! Replay! How you entertain me, and keep me from re-reading the classics! Oh, I love the (occasional) illicit pleasure of watching television during the day. And how could I deprive Conor of his Mythbusters and Dirty Jobs? Oh, Television, how could we live without you?
Our television is broken, and we're having it repaired. How old-school is that? And not even cool old-school, either. The television has broken before, in the exact same way, but this was apparently in the age before computers because they couldn't find a record of the repair. Based on the address the repair shop had on file, it must have been 1998.
So we're getting it fixed, and as I speak two men are in our living room breathing life back into it. I considered, very briefly, that this was a sign and maybe we should live without television. And then I laughed! Television is one of the (many) leisure activities mothers who work outside the home give up. I, however, have rediscovered it! Netflix! Replay! How you entertain me, and keep me from re-reading the classics! Oh, I love the (occasional) illicit pleasure of watching television during the day. And how could I deprive Conor of his Mythbusters and Dirty Jobs? Oh, Television, how could we live without you?
Labels: Home Front
Friday, March 02, 2007
T I R E D
Asking someone if they're tired can be a tricky question. Who isn't? Only someone straight from the spa or a weekend away can admit to being well-rested. For anyone else, it's like admitting you're not busy--something shameful.
But the language is also missing. Like the many words for snow the Eskimos have, we need more, better, words for tired.
There's the red-eye tired, when you've been up all night. The good tired, when you've worked out or exerted yourself. The chemo tired, which you know won't go away no matter how long you rest. And the too-tired-to-sleep when you're all kinds of tired. And the adrenaline-fueled, no-way-I-can-really-sleep tired of the parents of a newborn.
But am I tired? More than before? Less? Couldn't tell you. The joys of a slow decline! But I do think longingly of naps, I do go to bed when the kids do about once a week, and I do self-medicate with an afternoon cup of coffee--how else am I going to remain cheery at those 4:30pm Friday soccer practices? A caffeine buzz is the only way I won't turn on Conor and say, "I didn't come here to see you cry, I came here to see you play soccer--get out there and play!"*.
Maybe I need to go back to the oncologist early and tell her that I'm yelling at my kids more because I'm so freaking tired all the time.
*Yes, I have said that. But he was crying because he was wrestling with another kid and got whacked in the head. And I had already told both of them once that we came to play soccer, not horse around.
Asking someone if they're tired can be a tricky question. Who isn't? Only someone straight from the spa or a weekend away can admit to being well-rested. For anyone else, it's like admitting you're not busy--something shameful.
But the language is also missing. Like the many words for snow the Eskimos have, we need more, better, words for tired.
There's the red-eye tired, when you've been up all night. The good tired, when you've worked out or exerted yourself. The chemo tired, which you know won't go away no matter how long you rest. And the too-tired-to-sleep when you're all kinds of tired. And the adrenaline-fueled, no-way-I-can-really-sleep tired of the parents of a newborn.
But am I tired? More than before? Less? Couldn't tell you. The joys of a slow decline! But I do think longingly of naps, I do go to bed when the kids do about once a week, and I do self-medicate with an afternoon cup of coffee--how else am I going to remain cheery at those 4:30pm Friday soccer practices? A caffeine buzz is the only way I won't turn on Conor and say, "I didn't come here to see you cry, I came here to see you play soccer--get out there and play!"*.
Maybe I need to go back to the oncologist early and tell her that I'm yelling at my kids more because I'm so freaking tired all the time.
*Yes, I have said that. But he was crying because he was wrestling with another kid and got whacked in the head. And I had already told both of them once that we came to play soccer, not horse around.
Labels: oncology
