Success

Aimee handed us a little piece of paper this morning that said we were invited to a Celebration of Learning in her classroom at 2:45. Today. In my new capacity as CRN in charge of staffing, I approved my own absence and Trevor and I both made it on time. I'm so glad we did.

The kids had made board games to play with the parents. They were about magnets and involved true or false questions about magnets and "attract" squares and "repel" squares and rules and everything. It was so cute. But first, the teacher handed out a certificate to each kid. Each kid got an award for something specific to their personality and their achievemtns this year. Aimee's was for "perfectly precise printing" and she also mentioned when she was handing it to Aimee that she is a math whiz. Aimee is by far the smallest kid in her class. One of the moms said when she got up to accept her award, "Oh look at the cute little smoochie-poo". Aimee was a little embarassed when I reminded her of it later.

I am so proud of her. She used to be this shy little moppet prone to major screaming fits and generlal misery. Now she is a moppet who is a "math whiz" and a friendly little girl. She has successfully finished Grade One and she likes school. She has so much potential. I feel like I have closed a lot of doors in my life by virtue of decisions I made along the way (oh, if I only knew then what I know now...) but she has all those options, all those possibilities open to her. She has no limits. She could and can do whatever she wants, she can go anywhere. And yes, she is still prone to fits and misery, but it's predictable and, most times, ignorable.

I wonder where her interestes will lie. I wonder how her decisions will shape her future. It is possibly the most exciting thing about parenting... we need to hang in there until we see what happens. It's a long-term investment of time, but worth every minute.

Graduation

Jack on his graduation from preschool

My little boy graduated from preschool today. He wore a little cap and got a diploma from his "teacher". He was just so cute. Where did his babyhood go? He's going to school in a few weeks!

He is probably the oldest in the group, having turned 5 in January (he could tell you his birthday, if you asked). He sang the loudest when they sang "Kindergarten Here We Come". He is definitely not shy. He wore shorts and a loud printed Cat in the Hat button-up shirt (sufficiently spiffy to satisfy me, garish to his tastes), with a grubby beaded necklace he made weeks ago and has worn ever since. He had a dirty face, as usual, and cowlicks in his hair that he will battle for life. The freckles across his nose are my favourite part of him, when I look at him, though.

I wonder what he will become, what he will do with his life. How he will channel the power in his personality and use it productively. I can see him as a lawyer or something, maybe a teacher. He's got pretty good reflexes, mentally if not physically (although those are pretty good when there's spilled slurpee on bare skin). He can always come, instantly, up with a logical, potentially workable solution to any unsurmountable problem. We can't go to the zoo because Daddy's at work and we won't have a car, I say. Well we can take the bus, he'd say. I can have candy after brushing my teeth, he'll argue. I'll just brush them again. He knows the angles. He does the math.

It's been a bit of a rough year, behaviour-wise. He's been pretty bored, which means he's often pretty miserable. At least one night this week he was in bed by 6:30 for unacceptable behaviour (my theory is that if he's behaving that poorly, it's because he's too tired to remember the rukes if acceptable behaviour, like not screaming that I'm a stupid poo-poo-head that he hates at the dinner table). I kind of predicted it, though.. he has a history of behaviour regression when he's understimulated. And although the daycare staff was wonderful in trying to keep him challenged, intellectually, he really needed Kindergarten this year. Socially, he will benefit forever from the extra year. But I also worry he will be bored in Kindergarten. I hope they can challenge him. He really is a nice kid when he is being pushed to use his power for good, not evil. However, he'll also be the first kid in his class eligible to get a driver's license, and buy beer legally. I see issues in our future.

So we enter a new stage of family life. Aimee is a fully-fledged school-ager, whose tastes run more to GameBoy and her portable CD player these days than Barbie and baby dolls. Jack is heading that way pretty quickly, with more interest lately in Lego than Matchbox cars. Things change. I have loved every stage, and grieved the passing of each, but I love each new stage more. I loved their fat little baby knees, but I don't miss diapers. I loved the language acquisition stage, but I love the conversations we have now. The learning-to-read stage is next. It has been exciting and satisfying for Aimee, and I am so looking forward to Jack having the same experience of the discovery of the written world.

At the same time as I am looking forward to what is around the corner for our family, I am reticent to wish away their childhood, striving for the next stage. Never have I said, "I can't wait ntil they..." use the toilet, can stay home alone, sleep through the night. I know it will pass in a blur... it already is. And truth be told, the next, whichever it is, always scares me. I like familiarity. I resist change. But, thankfully, the changes happen gradually enough that I don't notice. One day I'll say, hey, he speaks in full sentences. Hey, her fat little knee dimples are gone. Hey, she just rolled her eyes at me. But he still needs his blankie and his mom when he's hurt; she still comes to us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when she's the first one up in the morning. They still need us. I'm not ready to be peripheral yet. I'm glad I won't know exactly which time will be the last time I pick him up to cuddle in my lap. I wouldn't be able to bear it.

So barring infidelity or surgical failure, I have just seen my baby, my last child, take the first step toward the next stage of our family's natural history. It's exciting and sad all at the same time. I suddenly understand the meaning of "bittersweet". I am a parent of two school-agers. I am the luckiest mom in the world. They are healthy, and smart, and normal. And extraordinary.

Five

Five. The number of jobs I have now held since my graduation 21 months ago. Seems I'm never satisfied. Good thing I really love my husband.

Although there were five, all the jobs were only at two different institutions, though, so it's not like I'm really job-hopping or anything. Really, I'm not. Each one is better than the last.

For better or for worse, I accepted the position of Clinical Resource Nurse at my current place of employment. What it means is that I have exactly the same assignment (a requirement I stipulated before accepting) but added on is the responsibility of arranging staffing when there are sick calls. For an additional buck an hour.

Although they were careful not to say so, I am pretty sure I was the only applicant. I think this is one of those don't-touch-with-a-ten-foot-pole positions. Although they said I was qualified and would do the job well. I actually think they might be crazy. I am not sure I am experienced, or qualified, for it, and I told the managers that. I also told them I wasn't sure if I wanted it, but then I had an out-of-body experience and heard myself accepting. I will now have to take a turn with a pager, in case of emergencies, such as approving overtime requests (Trevor says that I really secretly wanted the job so I would know I was important enough to have a pager... I don't entirely deny it. It will be fun until my first page and I don't know what to do). I know I can learn it, and I am excited about the extra challenge, and the experience, and the fact that it is a 6 month term...

Wish me luck. I need it. Not as badly as my sister, though. I wish some of this karma could rub off. I'd be happy to share a little of my job satisfaction so she can have some...

Remarkable

I want to do something remarkable. I want to be famous (or infamous) for something.

We ran a 5 km race yesterday. It was reasonably fun; as fun as masochism can be, I guess. I wanted to run it in 25 minutes, which I knew to be unreasonably ambitious, but what the heck. My best friend, Siobhan, who is, apparently, an impressively fast runner, wanted to run it in 22:00, but mostly, she wanted to run it in less time than the Trevors. The Trevors are my Trevor and our friend, also, aptly, named Trevor. The Trevors have some testosterone, being male, and tend to make any race a friendly competition (less emphasis on the "friendly", maybe). They tend to set lofty goals and then hurt themselves trying to finish them. Other Trevor (OT), on the whole, has more willpower, where my T has more sense. He tends to pull up in time to avoid damage to himself. OT will take it to the mat to achieve his goal. In this case, his goal was to not get beaten by Siobhan. So, he achieved his goal, by a few short seconds. Both said the presence of the other kept them going, and it kept her going all the way to a second-place finish in her category. She is my hero. And it can be stated for certain that if she had managed to beat him, he would be far more bitter than she was (proving, perhaps, that she is actually the bigger man?). Anyway, she is my hero. I have no desire to run a 22 minute 5k, but I want to accomplish something equally impressive (Siobhan will probably say I have, but I can't think of anything right now...)

For the record, my Trevor's time was about 24:00 and mine was about 27:20, which, once I caught my breath, I figured I could have done quicker. But then this morning I woke up and realized that it was three nine-minute miles and I was okay with it again. It's no 7:20 pace, but respectable nonetheless.

No, my desire to be memorable was sparked today by the story I heard of one of our docs throwing a tantrum in the clinic. He slammed things around and swore and then carried on as if nothing had happened. He screams, wrecks some stuff, and then gets what he wants. I want that kind of power. He just doesn't seem to know, or care, that he is doing little to engender any respect when he behaves like a child. The mere fact of his impressive education and power to grant access to lifesaving treatments does not entitle him to behave inappropriately. In fact, Jack, tonight, went to bed 90 minutes early without much supper for very similar behaviour. His excuse, of course, is that he is 5. No such luck for our doc, although he acts like it.

Regardless, I would like to have the experience, just once, where I could have a good old, rip-roaring fit, and get what I want. I want to not apologize and I want people to remember it and fear me thereafter. Ok, not really, but I think I could get off on that kind of power. I would like to be less restrained in life, I think. I could accomplish much more. If I lived with a blatant disregard for consequences, I may have pushed to my 25 minute 5 k (hell, if we're dreaming, let's just say I am physically capable of running it in 22, assuming I don't really need to walk again for a week or more). I could move to an exotic location or live outside my means or pursue my muse (whatever the hell that means). I want something good to put on my tombstone. Something other than Wife, Mother, Nurse (my major identities, not necessarily in that order, depending on the time of day). I want to be famous for something. I want to be indispensable in a larger context than my little family.

I have a cousin who is newly engaged to a man who is studying to be one of six people in the world who are qualified to do whatever it is that he wants to do. I want that kind of notoriety. It's a small community, but a world-wide one where legions of undergrads look up in awe at him. I want to be something other than a footnote in someone's photo album. I want immortality in the way Elvis is immortal. Maybe that's why I write this drivel... I have a little fantasy that I am slowly gathering my own legion of fans (unrelated to me; the relatives have to read) who will augment the reason for my existence by reading and sending fan letters.

I would rather, of course, be known and respected for what I did to become famous (Elvis, Siobhan), than feared and ridiculed (our flame-throwing doc), so I guess the easy way to fame (for example, crime, obsessive stage-parent) is out. No one respects the skivers, the freeloaders, the silver spoon-born. They get what they want by virtue of circumstances or harm to others. So I guess I'd better figure out what it is I'll be famous for. Maybe I'll make that conservative solicitor from the other day happy by becoming a politician and making everything right in the world (which hopefully I could do before the inevitable corruption of the expense account hit). Oh, well, time's a wasting. I think I'll go to bed and consider my options. Problem is that they all seem so hard. Maybe crime is the way to go... it's guaranteed press, anyway. I'll keep you posted.

Exposure

Hmmmm..... apparently people other than my family and close friends (those who are required by the ties that bind) read my blog. I have been solicited by someone wanting a favour from "Conservative political blogs". They describe themselves as supporters of Individual Rights... and they want me to link to the blog of a woman who "despises the ACLU". Didn't know I was either Conservative or political. Although I refuse to offer my opinion on the ACLU, and those who despise it, I would prefer if my political leanings were a little less obvious than that. I guess I'll just need to slip off my soapbox and head up to read a trashy novel and defy the stereotype. What else could I do to confuse people about my political leanings? I could buy a hybrid car, a really big one with a huge stereo that interferes with pacemakers in the people in cars near it at red lights. I could go around topless in the summer(... ok maybe not, they're much nicer molded into the perfect shape by structural steel). I could wear gray business suits with hairy legs and Birkenstocks and smoke dope right after church on Sunday, at which I could teach Sunday school (if I could remember anything to teach). I could put all the signs on the lawn at election time and then write "None of the Above" on my ballot (sounds like a good idea, actually). I could advocate for universal birth control chemicals to be added to the water supply and a parenting exam before prospective parents were given the antidote, or tax relief for people willing to support five or more cats. I could read the financial pages like I care (oh, was that an opinion?). Better yet, I could play the stock market and pick wine based on something other that how pretty the label is.

No, I think I prefer the apolitical, boring stories of my kids. It's safer than having committed to a platform and risking the wrath of my fans and constituents if I should change my mind. I don't want to be forced by peer pressure to subscribe to a political principle if I think the person who supports it is an asshole. I reserve the right to be inconsistent. I'm guessing the True supporters of Individual Rights would have to agree with that.

Lost

Yesterday we were leaving the community centre after the kids' soccer tournament, and there was a little boy, probably 2 years old, about to run across a very busy street. He was crying and could not speak intelligibly, but he was asking for his mommy. Another family had stopped and kept him from going across the street, but he was determinedly hysterical that his mom was over there and he needed to get to her. We stopped and I got out to help. He had no concept of traffic. He was a little aboriginal kid with a mouth full of capped silver teeth like baby-bottle mouth kids get. We tried to herd him back into the club but he was adamant. He couldn't or wouldn't tell us his name or where he lived. Soon, a smaller girl, who was, by resemblance, obviously his sister, and still in diapers, wandered around the corner of the club from the opposite direction. She was not upset. The little boy went to her when he saw her but he was still crying hard and wanting to go across the busy street. When he made a break for the road I scooped him up and carried him kicking and screaming into the club. There were no adults in the vicinity who appeared to be looking for them. I suggested we call the police. Another mom agreed, just as a very pregnant aboriginal woman came in through the back door of the club. While the kids did not immediately run for her, they did go to her and I was satisfied enough with their reaction that I felt comfortable leaving, assuming that she was someone they at least knew.

Our kids, sitting in the van with Trevor, watched this process and, of course, asked questions when I got back to them. Who was that kid? Where was his mom? Why was he scared? Why was the little girl not scared? Did his mom come back? I tried to tone down the experience and not make a big deal about it, but I was a bit rattled. I realized how lucky our kids are. They trust us implicitly, because we have never given them reason not to trust us. They have a safe home, and a nice new van with car seats and parents who can, and do, enroll them in soccer and swimming lessons. I am thankful every day that I do not need to worry about them when I go to work, because I am satisfied that their caregivers are trustworthy and nurturing and I have absolute faith that they are safe.

It would be easy to assume that these wandering kids are poorly parented and live in the low-income project behind the club, not the middle-income neighbourhood across the busy street where the kid was headed. I am hoping that their mom, or babysitter, or whoever, was in the bathroom for a minute and the kids just opened the door and wandered away, got turned around, and couldn't remember how to get home. I hope that she was just as panicked when she realized they were gone as Trevor was the day Jack had his adventure. I keep telling myself 'there but for the grace of Someone go I', because it can happen so fast. Unfortunately, I think in this case, my benefit of the doubt may be overly generous. I wonder how long until they get away and get good and lost or hurt. I wonder if she knows how lucky she is (and they are) that it was us and not some pervert, or a semi doing 70 km per hour who found them.

While I ought not assume that these two little lost kids are/were poorly parented, seeing them and their silver teeth and their unintelligible language, makes me grateful that mine have two parents who are, perhaps, attentive to a fault, educated, and who were able to give them the advantage of planned pregnancies with all the benefits contained therein. I give that credit to Trevor and I being attentively-parented, which gave us the tools to make good choices about behaviour and education and when and under what circumstances to have children, not to mention role-models. It all filters down. Our parents gave us good advantages, and we are giving the same ones to the next generation. Cycles are hard to break, good or bad.

Having said that, there is obviously a cycle at work in the lives of those two little kids, but I am not a generous enough human being not to pass some judgment on their mom (assuming she was not at work and the barely-interested pregnant woman was a babysitter or something). It's a character flaw, but one I readily acknowledge. I was lucky; I had little, if anything to overcome. She would get a lot more credit from me if she managed to break the cycle. It's not fair, it sucks, but if she is to fully accept the responsibility that she took on when she had (and kept) those kids, she she has a collateral responsibility to make a concerted effort to give them a safe and healthy upbringing. Assuming, of course, my impressions of their family situation are correct.

Ok, comment away. It's late, I've been judgmental enough for one night. It may not have been eloquent (in fact a little stream-of-consciousness, in review), but it all boils down to what I consider a parent's responsibility. Give it your best shot. Maybe I can elaborate in response. But, if you don't mind, sign your comments, so I know to whom to direct my defense.

Surgeons

Today I had the opportunity to enjoy some rarely-experienced phenomena. I got to watch a giant boil be lanced, and I got to put a surgeon in his rightful place (somewhere under my shoe).

We have a patient who has been complaining of a lump in his hip where he got an injection (not by me) a few months ago as part of his cancer treatment. Finally this week, things came to a head, literally, and we brought him in to the clinic to assess it. I had the first look, and, really, it looked like the biggest zit you have ever seen. I could see why this poor guy had been calling me every other day for a week.

I told the doc about it and she, a radiation oncologist, who has not had to get her hands dirty in years, told me to call surgery and have them come and drain it. I have issues with surgeons at the best of times. That is, I have an inferiority complex, but just enough ego for my psychological deficiency to piss me off, and surgeons think they are God. I call it Surgeon Syndrome (is it the ego that attracts them to the profession, or the profession that nurtures the ego?). So to start off, I had an attitude.

So I paged surgery, and a resident called me back. Yes, a resident. A baby surgeon. It went like this:

Me: We have a patient with an abscess on his hip from an injection, we need you to come and drain it.

BS (audibly rolling his eyes): Why don't you call ortho?

Me (attitude swelling): Why would I call ortho?

BS: You said it's on his hip.

Me: It's subcutaneous, on his butt.

BS: Doesn't your resident know how to handle a scalpel?

Me (restrained): I don't have a resident, I work with a radiation oncologist, and this thing looks like it's going to blow. Will you at least come and assess it?

BS: How big is it?

Me: Maybe not quite as big as my fist.

BS (pausing, thoughtfully): Fine, I will be there.

So Baby Surgeon, a small (frequently another interesting component of Surgeon Syndrome), swarthy man who introduced himself as Nelson, of all names, came and had a look at it, and agreed that it needed to be drained and that he was the one for the job. We gathered up the supplies (that only I could find, because he works in the hospital, not the cancer clinic and because I have recently, conveniently, been trained in surgical nursing), I opened things and handed him things and generally assisted in a professional and efficient way. He numbed the area with xylocaine and made a tiny incision, and buckets of goo started pouring out. I will have mercy on the faint of heart and not describe exactly how cool it all was in detail, but suffice it to say that there was a good half-cup of crud. And it didn't just drain, it squirted. It was under pressure. I mean, it got some air. It was gross. It took a good half hour to milk it all out.

So he finished, and packed the cavity, and we sent the patient on his way, and the Baby Surgeon turns to me and says, "I'm really sorry I was such an ass earlier. We get calls constantly from the ward to pop blisters and lance boils. It's such a waste of time. Those docs are capable. When you said it was the size of your fist, I figured I'd better come. This was worth a page." I do a little internal dance. Ha! A surgeon apologizing for being a jerk! It's too good to be true! It'll never happen again in my lifetime.

He even apologized to my doc. I'm flying high on the wings of my monumental victory. Despite his rudeness, I did a good job, I restrained myself and acted in a professional manner, and, as a final coup de grace, I got an apology. There's nothing like taking an undeservedly arrogant pinhead down a notch or two. Even if an opportunity like today's never comes up again, I will always remember Nelson fondly.

I'm covering the surgical oncology clinic on Monday... when the surgeon throws a temper tantrum, and they will, I can insulate myself from the wrath by remembering Nelson saying, "I'm sorry I was such an ass..." and take heart in the fact that there is at least one surgeon in the world who may not be an arrogant egomaniac right down to the DNA. It's comforting.