Somewhere My Mother is Laughing

"Someday I hope you have a daughter just like you." When my mother said this to me as a young girl, I didn't really understand her point. I was a great daughter. I got good grades; I didn't get in trouble at school; I never got busted for shoplifting like my siblings; and I didn't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I was a great child. Just ask me. I'd love to have a daughter like me.

Fast forward to around, oh, now. My mother, God rest her soul, died of breast cancer in 2001. The Girl was just shy of 18 months. Her personality was not yet fully developed and my mother never got a chance to know her. But somewhere, my mother is laughing - at me.

The Girl and I are not much alike. She is blond and blue-eyed, I am brunette (well, I was) and green-eyed. She is outgoing and popular in a way I still am not. She makes friends easily and has several good friends. I take a long time to get close to people, and even to this day have only a few close friends. She is girly - if it's pink, purple, or sparkly she wants it. I'm more practical, if not tomboyish (I have one skirt and the day I wore it to work folks were checking for signs of the Apocalypse). She wants to be a cheerleader. I thought cheerleaders were bimbos. She takes dance lessons, wants to study pointe, and is pretty graceful. I have all the grace of the bird they call the elephant. She is stubborn, determined to get her own way, and pretty vocal when she doesn't. I am...

Okay, you've got me on that one.

In that one sense, The Girl and I are exactly alike. And that one similarity is the cause of many an upward pleading, "Why me?" I was once relating a story to my father highlighting this sharp wit, caustic tone, and stubborn determination to do it her way. My father was no help. "Why, you don't say. Gee, I've never known a little girl to do that before," was his response, delivered in this fake disbelieving tone. Okay, Dad; I get the point.

At seven years old, her vocabulary is astounding. And her ability to argue is impressive. "Mom," she huffs (usually I'm "mama" unless she's getting mad), "that's not the point. You are actually not even listening." And downward it goes. "Well, Mom, it's like this. I have a style, and you are getting in the way." Well pardon the hell out of me.

She even acts like me. I certainly did not teach her that huff of breath, roll of the eyes, and toss of the long hair as she storms up the stairs. I didn't even have hair long enough to toss by the time she was born. But she does it, exactly like I did. Must be in the genetic code.

I really should have seen this coming years ago. When she was four, I tried to get her to buy this cute pair of hiking boots at the store. Brown suede with Winnie the Pooh and Tigger on them. "I don't like those, I like these." But these are really cute. "No." Are you sure? "No." How can you not want these, they are so cute! "No." I tried for 10 minutes to talk her into the shoes. We left with the ones she picked out. To this day when I try to talk her into something, The Hubby will look at me and say, "Are you sure you don't want these Winnie the Pooh shoes?" I usually shut up around that point - or I tell him to shut up.

There are days when I sit down after bedtime and think, "My god, if she's like this at seven, what will she be like as a teenager?" It's a scary thought. You see, if she's so like me at seven, there's a good chance she'll be like me as a teen. And despite what I thought of myself at the time, maturity forces me to admit that I was a smart-mouth bratty teen. Because not only was I the only kid to never get busted for shoplifting, I was the only kid my mother ever smacked across the mouth in public (you know, back in the day when doing that didn't land you in jail). If The Girl turns out like I did at the same age, I'd better stock up on the L'Oreal Feria and the rum. Hitting in public is rather verboten.

As I go through these almost daily battles, I remind myself there is a bright side. My girl knows her own mind. Peers will have a hard time pressuring her to go along with stupid ideas like cigarettes and drugs. She has very firm ideas about those things. I'm sure she'll do her share of "what on earth were you thinking" acts, but I'm equally sure they will all be her own idea. She is confident in herself as I never was in school. She will be the popular girl, the one at the center of things, although I've seen enough of her heart to know she will be that rare gem - the popular kid who is kind to everyone, even the kids the "in crowd" would keep out. She'll face the world on her own terms, knowing she's just as good as everyone else, and hopefully she will avoid the self-esteem problems that plagued me well into adulthood.

So every time we have one of these run-ins that set my teeth on edge, I remind myself that there is a silver lining. That in the long run, her independence and stubborn attitude will be more of a help than a hindrance (when exercised in moderation, of course). Besides, I also know that someday I will have the ultimate revenge.

Someday, she will have a daughter - just like her.

Where Does It All Come From?

Last Monday, which was the last day I was home before returning to work (see "Stop the World" below for why), I decided to clean the kids' rooms. I don't mean the shove-everything-under-the-bed-or-in-the-closet clean that they usually do. I mean CLEAN the rooms. Something I very rarely do because it is such a colossal undertaking. At ages 7 and 5, you wouldn't think it should be, but it is. However, as such cleanings are usually difficult because everything I want to throw away must be kept, I figured I had the perfect opportunity. You see, they were at daycare.

Armed with a kitchen garbage bag, I sallied forth to do battle. The Boy's room was not too bad. Got rid of some broken crayons, bunches of crumpled paper, and a few fast-food restaurant toys (the bane of any parent's existence, of that I am convinced). I found at least 2 of the 3 missing socks that have plagued me for a few months now, as well as the bottoms to two pairs of pjs. Found and reassembled the pieces of a Spiderman toy, and put away all the wooden Thomas the Tank Engine pieces. A quick vacuum and voila! clean room.

I knew that The Girl's room would be more work. First, it's bigger. Second, she's a pack rat, just like her aunt (not that my sister likes that comparison, but it's true). So I decided to eat lunch first. Good call.

Two and a half hours, and two full bags of garbage later, I had finished. The list of stuff I found would go on for several paragraphs. In addition to the typical litter, I found underwear that had be stuffed under the radiator for at least a month (good thing it was unsoiled), two missing socks, and 2 missing pairs of shoes. I picked up feet for those Bratz dolls by the dozen. I filled an entire tin full of little jewelry beads. I tossed out not only crumpled paper, dried-out markers, and broken crayons, but at least 12 old copies of National Geographic. Oy vey.

As I worked through this chore, and then as I recovered afterward, all I could think of was, "Where does a 7-year old get so much junk?" The answer is people give it to her.

And people are always giving her things. My father's fiancee is an older woman who loves kids. How can I possibly break her heart and say, "I don't want you bringing my kids any more crap"? Last time it was a miniature china tea set and a Spiderman motorcycle. I've managed to win the "no toys with a billion tiny pieces" battle, but that's not the same as "no toys."

Compounding the problem is The Girl saves everything. And I do mean everything. Don't ask how many of those cheapie fast-food toys I pitched from her room. There's an entire corner of stuffed animals, none of which she really plays with. In fact, I'd say she really only plays with about half of the stuff in her room, yet all of it is "special to me." Her first-grade teacher sent a thank-you note for the end-of-year gift the class sent. Me, I would have read it, said "How nice," and thrown it away. The Girl taped it to her bed. Sentimental, of course, but rough on the furniture.

My daughter is at an odd spot in her life. Too old for baby toys, just old enough for books. Not quite ready to ditch the Barbie dolls. Wants all the bead kits to make jewelry, but not quite ready to string the tiny ones. The result? A mess. The magazines she brought home from school at the end of the year. Said she liked the pictures, which she cuts out to make art projects. She's just entering the "signs on the door stage too" - things like "Girls Only" or "No Boys Alowd" (her spelling), or "Cool Girl Lives Here."

It's been a long time since I was at that spot in my life, but I dimly remember it. And that's why I have a hard time making her stop. Oh sure, every once in a while we go through the toy bins and stuffed animals, make both kids decide what to keep and what to give to charity, and thin the mess. But to lay down a law that says, "Don't make any more signs?" What kind of parent would I be?

Because at the heart of the mess - the broken crayons, the beads, the markers, the glitter glue, and used up paper - is her growing desire to express her personality. The same goes for The Boy, he's just a little further behind his sister. Through expression comes definition - who am I. It's process we all have to go through, and usually go through multiple times in our lives. The misspelled signs and collages of ballerinas are my child's attempt to define herself in a world where she still doesn't have a lot of control. Yeah, I could put an end to it, but while that sure would be easier on me I don't think it would be that great for her.

So I will continue to fight the losing battle against clutter, probably for many years to come. One piece of advice: Buy stock in whatever company makes Glad trash bags. I'm going to be using a lot of them.

Stop the World, I Want to Get Off

The human body, so we are told, is a very complicated machine. There are literally millions of mini-systems that allow us to function from the moment we wake up, to the moment we go to sleep, as well as while we are peacefully slumbering. And we take this for granted. Don't believe me? Just have part of the system stop working. Let's say your vestibular system.

Never heard of the vestibular system? I hadn't either until about a week ago when I started feeling as though I was stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a typical amusement park. Your vestibular system is your balance system. Most people know that your inner ear controls balance, but it doesn't do it alone. The vestibular system is actually comprised of four parts:

• Eyes
• Ear, specifically your inner ear and a structure called the labyrinth
• Joints
• Skin

All of these things - input from your eyes, input from your ears, messages from your joints as you move, and air/water pressure on your skin - are what keep you knowing what way is up, what way is down, and everything in between. When the different parts of the vestibular system send different messages, it results in a condition called vertigo. Vertigo is the perception of motion - either of you or your surroundings - where there is none. This differentiates it from simple dizziness, where you just feel like you are going to pass out.

And that brings this all back to me. Slightly over a week ago, I started having episodic vertigo, although I didn't recognize it. I just thought the old blood sugar was plummeting. It wasn't until the feeling became somewhat permanent that I figured something was wrong. My sister and The Hubby said, "Probably a sinus infection putting pressure on your ears. Just call and get some antibiotics." When I called in sick on Monday, my boss said the same thing. "They'll probably give you some antibiotics for the infection and meclizine for the vertigo. Happens to me all the time." Oh, if it were only that easy.

No simple sinus infection for me, no sirree bob. Instead, I wind up with a diagnosis of labyrinthitis - and inflammation of the labyrinth. The doc says the magic words: It's viral. Those doggone viruses. So pesky, and so convenient for the medical community. Because once those fateful words are uttered, they are followed up with "Nothing to do except wait it out." Wonderful. So I left with a prescription for meclizine, a sedative. Didn't seem to be doing anything, but hey, what the hell do I know. I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. So I kept taking it.

But when things were no better on Wednesday, I called the doc again. Back to the office. Couple more brief tests. Nope, really just labyrinthitis. Doc offers Atavan, which is related to valium. Again, what the hell do I know? One Atavan later I know this much - I don't want another one.

By Friday, I am still no better and in fact now can't get out of bed. The pressure in my ears is killing me and I can't walk from my bedroom to my bathroom, which is only about 15-20 feet. Doc sends me to an Ear/Nose/Throat specialist. He says, "Yep, definitely vertigo. Could be labyrinthitis, could be benign positional vertigo (BPV). Both can be viral. Take more meclizine." There are those pesky viruses again. At least he says that when it goes away, it will most likely go away for good. Thank god for small favors. They do a quick hearing test (I passed), and some repositioning exercises. See, BPV is caused when small calcified debris gets stuck in the wrong part of your inner ear. The exercises get it out of where it's not supposed to be so it can be reabsorbed. No driving, they say (great, just what I need to hear). Schedule me for an ENG, which is stands for a big long word for a balance test. Recommend a routine MRI - because it our current lawsuit-happy culture, the doc has to run every possible test even if, as in my case, he doesn't think it will actually find anything. Of course now the insurance companies are understandably sick of paying for tests that are performed simply to cover the doctor's ass, so it has to be cleared first.

This brings us all to Saturday afternoon. I'm in the basement, feeling stoned out of my mind. I miss the bottom stair (I mean, my eyes told me there was a stair there), fall backward, and throw laundry everywhere. I start crying - this is freaking ridiculous. Eight days and all the medical community can offer is, "It will go away eventually." If I had cancer, they could treat me. Modern medicine can save the life of a baby born at 20 weeks. They can transplant major organs. Vertigo? Sorry, no can do.

The Girl, who is amazingly smart for a 7 year old, grabs my cell phone and calls her father (who is working). He calls the neighbor, who comes over to get me off the basement floor. Neighbor sends his son the EMT to check me out. Son sees no visual signs of vertigo (called nystgmus - I've learned such cool words over the last week), but tells me my blood pressure is 88/60 and my pulse is 104. To say those numbers are not normal would be an understatement. He recommends I call my PCP.

And my PCP offers this. "Well, meclizine is a sedative. You're not having a bad reaction, they are normal side effects - you're supposed to feel like that. Don't like it, stop taking it. I really can't do anything else for you, unless you want to go to the hospital. There's two possibilities - the vertigo will go away on its own or it will never go away and you'll adapt." Great, thanks doc.

After all of this, I know several things:

1. Meclizine is the work of the devil.
2. Why anybody would actually choose to be stoned is incomprehensible to me. It is, without a doubt, the worst feeling I've ever had.
3. While we know a lot about human physiology, what we know is dwarfed by what we don't know. Again, it would be easier to treat me if I had cancer.
4. No wonder they call it "practicing" medicine. There's a lot of exact science there, but a lot of guesswork too.
5. Vertigo is now in my list of Top 5 Un-fun Life Experiences.

So here it is Monday and it's my sixth day off work. Enough is enough. There's one more drug to try, which is a steroid (because this could also be caused by vestibular neuronitis, which is an inflammation of the nerve ending in the ear that sends balance signals to the brain and steroids are anti-inflammatories). At least I know I won't get stoned from a steroid. As no physician can give me a reason not to work, I'm back on the job tomorrow; if I still can't drive, The Hubby will drop me off and pick me up.

Someone asked me, "Do you think this could be some kind of enforced R&R?" If the God or the universe or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (depending on your personal beliefs) wanted me to slow down, I would have preferred a broken leg. And if this is some body's idea of a cosmic joke, well, it sucks.

My personal advice? Stay away from vertigo. If you crave the dizzy feeling, visit the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Vacation (All I Ever Wanted)

My apologies to the Go-Gos.

So last week was our family vacation. My father-in-law owns a place on the shore of Lake Erie, and every year we go up for a week. This year was probably the best, mostly because the kids are now old enough to truly entertain themselves. It's a little hard to enjoy yourself when you're chasing two rugrats up and down the sand.

Mostly we had a good time. But sometimes, I really do have to wonder what planet The Hubby lives on. For example, we arrived at the beach on Saturday. And the week before we leave, The Hubby says to me, "Oh, my cousin and her kids are coming on Saturday and staying the night." Really? So on the day we arrive, have to unpack, go shopping for the week I also have to entertain guests? And find somewhere for them to sleep in a trailer with only one bedroom? Great. I mean, not that these people are difficult to deal with; they are rather nice actually. But it's the first day of my vacation!

Then he tells me that his cousin's husband and the kids are coming back on Thursday. The day he's going golfing. At least this time I only have to feed them lunch.

Crossing into Canada is not really that easy any more. Well, that's not true - it isn't getting into Canada that's the problem, it's getting back into the US. With apologies to all you Canadians, I grew up next door to Canada. Visiting was more like going to another state than another country. But I digress.

So knowing that they are paying more attention, on Friday he says we're going back to the States to visit yet another cousin. Good grief! Now not only do I have to visit yet more relatives (what is this, the grand tour?) I have to go back into the US. My worst nightmare is now that we will get into the US and not be able to get back.

Turns out, that was the least of my worries. I didn't count on the 45 minutes it would take to get through customs. In a car with no air conditioning. In 85-degree weather. Oh, and did I mention that The Boy gets carsick when he overheats?

By the time we get through customs, I'm trying to coax my son into not puking in the car. And we're all starved; I've only had an English muffin at 9:00 and it's now 12:30. My father-in-law suggest a restaurant right on the canal that serves roast beef on weck (look it up). Lovely, let's go. We get there, and I immediately ask for cold water. The Boy's face looks like curdled milk. I get the water and my father-in-law asks what I want to order. I mention I haven't seen a menu and the bar tender says, "We only serve roast beef and chili." Hmm, I see a trip to Burger King in my very near future. Meanwhile, I'm trying to tempt The Boy with popcorn. No dice. The Hubby says, "He gets about 1 more minute, then he's just making a scene."

Suddenly, "I have to go to the bathroom." Oh god. Sure enough, we get into the bathroom and he starts to gag. And while he retches into the toilet, I start mopping up what didn't make it. Five minutes later, The Girl sticks her head in the bathroom. "Daddy wants to know what's taking so long."

"You're brother is puking."

"I told him so."

Pretty bad when your 7-year old knows more than your spouse. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed when I came back to the table.

In the end, we survived. We even made it back into Canada, and then back into the US on Saturday. Oh, and by the way I know what hell is like now. Hell is being stuck at the US-Canada border for 2 hours, in the sun, when it's 85 degrees out, and your car has no air conditioning.

But next year, I'm not moving from my beach chair.