Pediatrician Turned Glove Slapper

You have not lived in this lifetime until your kids pediatrician says to you, "do you want to roll over on your side or stand up and bend over for this" as he's slapping on a pair of gloves staring at you butt naked sans fashion forward medical paper dress. It started with being exhausted ... what mom is not exhausted? It led into a potential diagnosis of internal bleeding and the man who was once the kids pediatrician seeing a whole new side of the woman who created his little patients. And ...

Facebook ... Schizophrenic Mania

I'm officially THAT old.  It started with a fb account.  "Open one, seriously, it's awesome, everyone is doing it."  The latter portion of that sentence should have clued me in that it may not be a good idea.  "Everyone is doing it ..."  Indeed, everyone is doing it. In college some guy offered me a beer at a frat party because, "everyone was doing it." I declined (hate beer) and he stared into the wilderness, "but EVERYONE is doing it." It didn't make sense then, but apparently it makes sense to me now. Age and wisdom have not held hands in some areas of my life.

In the past few months it has become glaringly apparent that the "who" on FB apparently has a schizophrenic alter ego with several personalities. One page. One person. I think there should be rules that if your schizophrenic alter takes over and decides you might need 2 or 12 facebook pages with several versions of yourself to present to your 2 or 12 different groups of friends please pick one and defriend, block, and delete the others.  Please pick one personality.  Go with it.  It's yours.  All yours. And you aren't going to change that, no matter how many FB personalities you choose to create.

FB as a whole is a relatively new thing for me. I'm. That. Old. I opened an account with the sheer intention of keeping up with global friends.  A retired USAF husband and a few dozen moves under our belt has left us with friends all over the world.  Facebook seemed like a good way to keep in touch, post a few highlights about life, click send, and get it all out in the open with a select group of people I call friend.  I do not have alot of friends.  In fact, I recently noticed I have 293 and that seems excessive. I don't have 293 friends who really care about my politics, my family, or my life.

BUT, I've realized if I even have one friend, that means I have all of their friends, and their friends, and so on and so forth.  Unless I can set the parameters (and seriously, who can really do that, because if you could I would suggest global domination because you are an evil genius) to only show posts to that one person, I'm setting my thoughts free and awkward ill advised tagged photos for the world.  And now, now I am noticing people taking "screen shots" of what other people say (who knows, maybe I have been screen shotted multiple times and I am just not that sophisticated to know about it) and posting it for public comment. Uh-huh.

A few months ago I noticed the whole schizophrenic FB phenomenon ... one post.  One post from a girl I thought had a FB name of "jane smith" was suddenly "jane anderson" (duh, fake names at my attempt to protect the innocene of apparent FB schizophrenic actions). In an attempt to keep things all orderly and all those friends situated, FB has come up with groups.  Groups are a fancy way of putting people together who MIGHT care about each other's hobbies/politics/pictures of their cats.  Limiting the creation of groups (because there is one for EVERYTHING) is like limiting the creation of hamsters. One cage, riddled with toilet paper rolls shredded into nests. It's happening and nobody can stop it.

Back to Jane. The Jane I knew as married "smith" was suddenly posting in a group (not even a group I was in mind you, another group a friend was in who shared a thread and so it goes on and on into eternity, amen) under jane "anderson".  Jane.  Jane.  It's the same profile pic ... but the comments were completely different and the "Janes" obviously two different people sharing the same body.  High school maiden name Jane, an apparent cool hipster now with definite opinions on things versus married PTA president Jane. It took me at least a day to wrap my head around the fact that people do not play "fair" on FB and they create alter egos to post on different groups, or threads, or whatever because they aren't satisfied with the self they have to portray (I'm just guessing here).

I feel kind of dirty.  Dirty in a way that is exposed, shared, and passed around for everyone to comment. And I can't keep up.  If I want to participate in life as I know it here in 2012 almost 2013 I have to FB.  I have to FB to keep up with my kids schools, I have to FB to participate in my neighborhood and the current great "park your car on the street so the snow plow can get by" debate (for the love of all that is holy, please park your car in your driveway, on your yard, or in your front room for hells sake, let's just put that FB battle to rest cause I'm tired of reading people "one upping" each other posting first their opinion, then links on the local law). Tragically, I have to FB to keep up with my own friends, family and their lives... because that's where people talk these days.

I want desperately to look away.  But I cannot.  I can't stop reading or posting.  And I suppose that's the sad part.  Where did we get to a point in the world where reading and posting was a part of our sense of society and belonging?  When did we blow past phone calls to texting, letters to emails? I miss that.  I miss the connection of the personal touch. I'm sitting here blogging my feelings (cruel irony) because I want to think there is a girl in the world that feels like me besides my grandma. I want to hope in the universe another soul exists who thinks greeting someone with "what's your facebook name?" is weird.  It's Cortney.  Just Cortney.  P.S. I have 293 friends.

The Oldest Mom in Preschool, Minus Bedazzled Jeans

Caden started preschool this year.  The whole debacle began last Spring when I realized that my imperfect little barrel of random phrases (sometimes explosions of fervor involving words better suited for a prison inmate, ie: "come at me bitches" referring to his older brothers) needed to start preschool.  I trembled at the thought of a macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken preschool teacher taking on this child. Common preschool redirect phrases such as, "that is so sad ... we don't eat glue .... put down the sharp scissors" exist in Caden's world as starting points of negotiation.

I live in a very ... conservative community.  I found a neighborhood preschool in said community.  I interviewed the macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken preschool teacher last Spring (her idea, certainly not mine, and whether or not I gave Caden benadryl preceeding the interview is not relevant to his incoherent silence during said interview, kidding). Caden was quiet (he was not high, maybe), I was hopeful our family would pass. We did, he got in, and I've spent the better part of the summer biting off my fingernails trying to make my erratic mess (Caden) socially acceptable so he doesn't get kicked out of conservative neighborhood preschool. 

Open house. When you are a new mom, open house is a competetive sport. You look perfect, your child is perfect, and every other parent is simply hoping to be that sort of perfect.  The reality is, it's a sham.  You are clueless and the first time you catch a clue is when your child utterly and completely shatters your image of perfection.  They will, you wait.  You will be called to the floor of humility on more than one occasion trying to explain their stupidity.  You will be mortified in the beginning, but with time you will realize the farce of perfection takes alot of effort when faced with, "is that your son eating dirt?" Yes, yes he is.  

When you are a veteran mom, you are no longer concerned with this idea of perfection.  Your once competetive edge is replaced with reality.  Your child will eat dirt, maybe even glue, they will romance the idea of a vocabulary better suited for the gutter (in public places, of course), they will tantrum and scream, "don't spank me!" (again, in public).  As their vocabulary takes off they will tell you they hate you and all the reasons you "suck". They will lie, they will work you over like a well oil machined until you take the bullet train to reality town. And finally, you, you my friend, are no longer a slave to bedazzled jeans.  One does not draw attention to 38 years and 4 children worth of backside.

When I looked around the preschool realizing I was not a)pregnant b) recently delivered c) bedazzled, I suddenly realized I am a veteran. Honestly, I felt very smug and full of wisdom. I am the token older Mom in this preschool, but with that age comes an appreciation my younger counterparts have yet to realize. I love that Caden asks me for a kiss every day when I drop him off at school... because I know sooner than later he will roll his eyes when I ask for a hug in public.  I love the school projects he proudly brings home to display because I know the day will soon be here when those little art projects end replaced by the days of "I can't doooooo it!" homework.

I have been told, "I hate you!" and even though I thought my heart would break into a million pieces, I survived to realize that phrase is really an emotionally packed shock value of, "listen to me, I'm hurting but I don't have the words to tell you how much". I've dried tears, felt intense pride (and intense embarassment).  I have learned to not place my aspirations of perfection on my kids ... they will be what they will be, imperfect, flawed, and amazing.

Caden is doing amazingly well in conservative neighborhood preschool.  His favorite part is snacks ... and yes, the teacher has already gently and apologetically explained to me that Caden cannot have his self-requested 2 snacks, only 1.  It's okay macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken-prechool-teacher.  I can handle it. Hopefully, you will do the same if/when Caden graces you with his ever expanding vocabulary skills, which until this time, he has not demonstrated for the class. 

Casa Eldridge Amenities Adjustment

ATTENTION: COST TO SERVICES

Dear Members of Casa Eldridge,

As of late it has come to the attention of management that membership and invited guests are increasingly unaware of the high cost of Casa Eldridge amenities.  Until this time, membership enjoyment of the services offered at Casa Eldridge has come with minimal skill set required.  This has been beneficial to members and their invited guests considering the maximum skilled worker amongst you has an eighth grade education and a preschool sense of entitlement.  At this time, you have pushed management to the verge of mental extinction.  Given that all of you will require some semblance of mental acuity via management (lest you die trying to fend for yourselves), it is required that management clarify the importance of the inner working dynamic of Casa Eldridge.  A fee structure is listed below:

Santa's Andrenal Fatigue

So I have this friend ... I met her via FB and in person a couple times.  She has this blogpage, and I love it.  I'm sharing one of her most recent articles, because I have so much to add (oh, that and the fact that I was laughing so hard I was crying!).  Here's the whole article, I'll be using her great stuff and adding my own personal response! 

http://utahcountyskeptics.blogspot.com/2012/07/fake-thing-based-on-real-thing-adrenal.html

So Johanna writes this blog talking about a fake thing based on a real thing ... adrenal fatigue.  Immediately my ears perk up because this two words seem to be the new buzz word phenomenon for women, um, cough, sputter, entering my age group.  Adrenal Fatigue, in essense, is a diagnosis for all that ails you.

Teenage boys ...

I love my 14 year-old, Drew.  He's entertaining.  He see's the world through a lens of the immaturity of a 14 year-old boy sprinkled with adult sarcasm.  The two worlds don't always successfully merge, but when they do it's comedic magic.  Drew has one- liners he occasionally drops that are vastly innapropriate.  He lacks the finesse of adult maturity to drop these little bombs, but he's insistent they make total sense.  I have to bite the insides of my cheeks, often, to try and not fall into hysterical laughter.  The
"mom" in me will kick in thinking, "teach him he is totally inappropriate" while simultaneously being completely entertained by his humor.

Really? Gross.

You Go Girl ...

"She got caught up in a net sometime ago....with deep cuts all over her body she made it to the hotel . Some people at the hotel nursed her back to health for 3 months. Everyday she returns to rest after being out to sea. She is now pregnant and expecting within a month. Her name is Panchita..."

You go Panchita, you go girl.