Action Plans
Some might call it a form of mental illness. Perhaps it is; but I call it being prepared. For as long as I can remember, (and more so since I’ve become a Mommy,) I’ve had in my head what my family and I lovingly refer to as "action plans." Action plans are simply this: pre-thought out "actions" that will occur in certain situations including, but not limited to things like:
- an unsolicited knock at the door by trench-coat-wearing-petitioners, sales persons, or religious zealots, in which case the scenario is pretty much the same as a fire as in, "Stop, Drop, and Roll" (to the nearest wall where one can not be seen or heard under any circumstances by someone standing at the front door and stay there for at least five minutes or until Mommy gives the "all clear."
Or
- a dog loose in the neighborhood while we play outside (Action Plan would be to elevate the children in any way possible, such as placing the kids on top of a car or preferably a mini-van (if the adrenalin is pumping enough) while Mommy fends off the dog with yet-to-be-learned karate vs. dog techniques until children can be brought safely inside or dog is somehow contained.)
They’ve been a constant source of entertainment for my husband and mom, as in "What would you do if ‘x’ happens?" It only takes me a second to get going because in some form or another, I’ve already thought them out and thoroughly, Jack Bauer style. Got a wrench to throw into my plan mid stream, as in unsolicited team of sales persons are now at both front and back doors? Bring it on; I’ve got the answers. My family is always shocked to hear me answer without hesitation in explicit detail about how I would deal with virtually any situation. While they laugh, I’m streamlining my action plan for possible implementation. I’m quite serious about them, and am rarely caught without an executable plan.
This is how they come about. I see something on the news or in a TV show that gets in my head. Maybe it will be something about how unsuspecting children were playing when a swarm of bees attacked, or maybe it will be something more sinister. Either way, I come up with a series of events that would take place if said terrible thing would happen to me. I know, it’s a little crazy; but it makes me feel better knowing I’m prepared for anything, and that’s all that really matters.
When I was pregnant for the second time, my action plans were in overdrive. So much so, that when a young pregnant woman was attacked in the Midwest by some crazy loon who wanted her baby, I went to karate that week and asked my instructor to please teach me immediately how to fend off a knife attack. My instructors are happy to feed the frenzy of my action plans. One instructor spent an hour teaching me all the different ways to get away from someone with a knife. His shoulder was recovering at the time from an injury; and in one overly energetic move, I fended off the rubber knife and simultaneously did something to his shoulder that sounded like a twig snapping. He walked it off; I felt terrible. But I found out it worked and the lesson continued. . .at a little bit slower pace.
At my local grocery store, a woman was forced into her own car with a gun at her back by two armed men and driven around the city for hours before finally being released unharmed. I immediately developed a plan of attack for such an occurrence should that ever happen to me. That week, a pregnant me learned the fine art of swinging my elbows in the style of "Eww, back off, I so do NOT want to dance with you" to move a gun trajectory out of the way of important parts like, oh say, my head, chest, etc. and I felt much better about going to the grocery store again.
The truth is, I am so hyper aware when I am out in public or even in my own yard that the likelihood of some stupid criminal deciding that I am a worthy target is probably slim to none. It just wouldn’t be worth their while to attack someone who is so vigilant and constantly paying attention to her surroundings. And if they did decide to attack, well, let’s just say that I already know that I don’t freeze up when someone attacks me. I’ve been there in the past and the recipient of my wrath was not a very happy camper (and that was pre-karate).
It doesn’t matter if you are 5’2", 90 lbs. and your attacker is 6’8" 280 lbs. I’ve learned that you may not be able to overpower your attacker in the traditional sense; but there are so many cool untraditional ways to make your attacker beg for mercy. I am 5’9"; my husband is 6’3". He’s also got me by about 60 lbs. (Oh, you totally thought I was going to give our weights, didn’t you! So not EVER going to happen, especially with mine, and now that you have the formula, Mr. B minus 60=me. . .I’ll never tell you Mr. B’s either so just get it out of your head). Anyway. . .
I often come home from karate all keyed up with what I’ve learned that evening and with school girl excitement tell my husband, "Come on, grab me in a bear hug," or "Grab my arm like this." Usually, he obliges so quickly that I have to stand there for a few seconds and collect my butt-kicking thoughts before I work my moves. Sometimes they work; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes he’s hurting a bit; sometimes I pull a muscle or break a nail. But a few weeks ago I learned something very cool that will work on anyone. . .
All you need is one finger. Add to that one very unnatural angle to bend it, and you’ve got a winner. All you need is one finger to have someone begging for mercy. It totally works, and that one finger is just one of the reasons why I LOVE going to karate class each week. It’s empowering and confidence building. What bad guy ever thinks you’re going to take his pinky, or any finger for that matter, and have him begging for his mama?
None, and that is precisely why it works . . . (at least against my husband).
I Just Can’t
My Lil C is 5.5 months old; and I can not bring myself to move her from the cradle beside my bed to her crib, where she desperately needs to be. She needs to be there because she is a loooonnnngggg baby. She is off the charts when it comes to length and she literally has about a quarter inch from the top of her head to the top of the cradle with her toes grazing the bottom of the cradle. I know she’d probably be more comfortable in her room, in her crib. She takes naps there and I can deal with that. But the whole night, in a different room? I’m seriously having some issues with this.
Big I slept in our bed for just about the first two years of her life. She was not a great sleeper and liked to wake up for feedings often. So for me, it was an issue of "do I want to get any sleep or not?" So, she slept with my husband and me and it was fine. She went to her own bed and room when she was just about two and has been doing so since. (She actually sleeps in a loft bed now which was a whole other issue for me to deal with!) With Big I, there were no issues regarding the whole co-sleeping thing; although there were certain well-meaning family members and other people who had issues with it and weren’t shy about letting us know. My husband and I did with it what we do with other well-meaning advice. . . considered it briefly and then decided to promptly dismiss it.
Before I had Lil C, my husband and I bought a new bed, bigger and softer. The bigger part is good for a new baby, but the softer part is not so good. So Lil C slept in our bed, but in a co-sleeping infant bed that fit inside our bed. That worked for a while but then the little munchkin got so long so fast that we had to move her to the cradle. That was tough for me too, but bearable because she was still in our room.
I think the hardest part about moving her out of our room is that there is really no going back once I move her out. We’ll need to establish a routine; and then I have to really disconnect the umbilical cord. It’s so hard to do. What’s making it harder is that I always wanted to have three kids. After the pregnancy with Lil C, the gestational diabetes, the non-stress tests, the endless finger sticks, the glyburide which gave me low blood sugars and made me feel like I had heart-burn constantly, the ridiculous diet that limited carbs and sugars (how dare they do such a thing to a pregnant woman, for God’s sake?), I don’t know if a third is in the cards for us.
For any other person, maybe it wouldn’t be an issue. I gave birth to two perfectly healthy, full term babies. What’s a little gestational diabetes, right? Wrong. In my family there is a strong history of diabetes. My mother is a type 1 who was diagnosed with gestational during her second pregnancy and then it never went away. Although mine appears to have been a true gestational diabetes, who’s to say that it wouldn’t come back and stay? Is that a risk worth taking to have another child? And then there’s that whole thing about it taking over a year to get Lil C on her way into this world. I’m not getting any younger; and I like that my girls are 4.5 years apart.
If the experience of giving birth to Lil C wasn’t so amazing, I think I would be able to accept not having another child. In fact, throughout the pregnancy, I swore this was it because I would not go through all these ridiculous tests and finger sticks and stress EVER again. However, I had a wonderful midwife deliver Lil C and it was a truly beautiful experience. I was actually able to reach under her arms and deliver her myself. There was no i.v., no drugs (besides a miso to get labor going), and no knees-to-your-ears-counting-bright lights-pushing either. We even went home the same day I gave birth. She came into this world in such a relaxed way, which is why we think she is such a mellow and easy to care for baby.
It’s just hard to say that I won’t be doing that again. It’s hard to get rid of the 0-3 month clothes (which is why I don’t). It’s hard to accept that the giving birth part of my life might be done; so for now. . . I won’t.
Lil C is sleeping in her cradle tonight.
You’re only as old as the kids think you are
Filed under: Tales from the dojo
I pre-tested for karate tonight. This means that our class sits along the back of the dojo and our instructors call us up one at a time and have us go through our material. For whatever reason, (maybe because I’m the oldest by about, oh 13 years in this class) my instructor made me wait until last to get up and do my thing. I can not tell you how much I HATE going last. By the time it’s my turn, my heart is pounding out of my chest; I’m sweating; And, I can’t remember for the life of me what the heck my next move is, even though 10 minutes ago I knew it perfectly. To make matters worse, this is the first time that I have to do a weapons kata as well as an open hand kata. Double stress.
You would think that since I was a high school English teacher for two years, standing up in front of a bunch of kids would not even make me blink. But for some stupid reason it does. It makes me feel like I’m a kid again and I hate feeling that way. Tonight, as I sat there waiting for my turn, a girl of about eight years old, leans over to me and whispers, "Were you in the tournament?" I’m like, "shaa, yeah right." Seriously, maybe I feel like a kid because the kids think I’m a kid.
The same thing happened to my husband. At 36 weeks pregnant with Lil C, I finally had to stop going to karate. My husband started up so that Big I would have a partner she knew. At their first class, the average age of the student was about six. When it was Mr. B’s turn to stand up and punch the heavy bag, he punched once and all you heard was a collective gasp of awe and wonder at his amazing ability to nail that bag. One little boy’s eyes almost popped out of his head as he blurted out a simple, "Wow." My husband and the instructor got hysterical; and I had to make a trip to the little girls’ room since laughing, second pregnancies, and 9 months along so do not make for a good combination.
Apparently, post delivery joints and kata don’t make for a good combo either. As I was doing my kata tonight, my hip cracked so loudly that a parent of one of the other students, who was sitting in the waiting area, actually commented that he heard it. Yeah, well I felt it buddy and trust me, that was so. much. worse. I swear I take karate classes at a place where there are adult students. I am NOT a Kramer; and I don’t make it a habit of making myself feel good by beating up on unsuspecting five year olds. It just seems that the other adults. . . are always attending classes other than the one that I go to.
When it was all said and done tonight, my instructor pointed out a few things to work on. So next week will be the week that I will officially test for 5th kyu green belt (or two brown stripes on a green belt for those non-karate literates). Tonight, after I did the first kata I have to do for testing, my instructor told me to start over, which is never a good sign. I shot a quick glance at my usual instructor (a college student who pointed out a few weeks ago that I was doing something so ridiculously wrong in the one kata that it could seriously be confused with hula dancing) and asked if they were going to point out another awkward dance move that I’d decided to incorporate into this kata too.
Luckily this time, I had just screwed up a minor step and corrected it without prompting on the second go round. The hula move from the previous kata was probably just a side effect of my body compensating for my ridiculously HUGE and LOW stomach at the time. Seriously, I mean check out that belly! Lil C was a LOW RIDER so I’m going to blame it on her. She apparently took the whole, "Get low, get low, get low," rap lyrics of the summer a bit too seriously.
Speaking of serious, I need to do some intense practicing for this testing next week. My husband has a fear that I will take it to the streets and start swinging around my bo outside and freaking out the neighbors and I’ll tell you what, if the weather is nice this weekend, you better believe I’ll be out there.
I think I can hear Mr. B upstairs now quietly praying for a freak blizzard just in time for the weekend. . .
Butt Flinging “Ash Holes”
I’ve inherited many things from my dad: my nose, my temper, my perfectionist attitude. I’ve also inherited his disgust for litterbugs. I CAN NOT STAND when someone throws trash from their car. It drives me absolutely insane to see trash on the side of the road, in the parking lot, and especially in my yard. The litter item that takes the cake as far as maddening to me. . . cigarette butts. Nothing quite burns me up like littered cigarette butts. They are NOT biodegradable. When left outside, they can be picked up by babies and children, eaten by dogs and other animals, etc. It is just plain nasty and it seriously ticks me off. I especially hate litterbugs at the beach who treat the sand as a public ash tray.
Last year, we went to Pensacola Beach for a few days and were enjoying a beautiful afternoon on the beach. My husband was wading out in the water and Big I and I were hanging out on the beach. 
Big I started to tell me that her stomach hurt, but I was completely distracted as I watched a woman standing nearby smoking a cigarette and polluting the air around me. Normally, the smell of a cigarette will make me sick; but I was at the end of my first trimester so the smell was completely disgusting and I was seriously pissed that this woman was standing in my air. As I was trying to avoid the stream of nastiness, she flicked her cigarette onto the sand. She didn’t even bother to cover it up. The water was lapping at the butt, and I was fixated, infuriated and ready to burst. I composed a tirade in my head. It went something like this: "Would you mind picking up your cigarette and disposing of it in a more appropriate place?" If she gave me a problem, I was prepared to go off something like this, "This beach is not your personal ash tray. There are young children playing only feet away from you! Pick up your cigarette butt now before I pick it up and shove it down your throat!" (Anyone who knows me at all knows that I have what I lovingly refer to as "action plans" for certain situations, and I was fully prepared to put this one into motion.) Big I played a few feet behind me in the sand as I took a step toward the woman and started to open my mouth. Just then, the woman’s husband says to me, "Is that your kid?" as he points to Big I. I don’t even look because I know she’s right behind me and then he says, "She’s pukin’". She’s WHAT????
I turn around and there is Big I, projectile vomiting onto the sand. Now puke is disgusting any way it comes, but imagine a breakfast that includes pineapple and chocolate milk and you’ve got a first trimester mama about to join her little one in the regurgitation activities. The only thing I could think to do was run over to her, take one of her sand toys and start burying it in the sand. I mean, what else could I do? I scooped her up, turned towards Mr. B and started waving wildly as he was pretty far out in the gulf on a sand bar. I took one last cursory glance at the cigarette lady and thought, "How can I possibly say anything to her about her cigarette butt when my daughter just desecrated the beach with puke?" So, I shot her an awkward look, nodded a firm thanks towards her husband and marched our butts down the beach as the water lapped up the cigarette for some hungry fish to choke on.
Later, when I relayed the story to my husband he said I should have carried on with my critique of her disposal methods. Puke is 100% biodegradable. . .cigarette butts are most certainly not.
So, I got very excited last year when my dad informed me about a program in our state and several others to combat litter bugs. The concept is simple: see a person littering out of their car and record their car make/model, license, description of person, location and time of incident and report them. They get a nice warning letter letting them know that a caught litter bug pays a $300 fine, along with a litter bug bag for their car. It’s not much, but it does make me feel incredibly good when I call and report someone. If I could figure out how to work my cell phone camera, it would be even better. Instead, you’ll find me trying not to swerve on and off the road as I try to scribble a license number and all the other information necessary, usually with an eye or lip liner on a receipt for shoes or groceries.
I’m not a tree hugger; I don’t bleed green. I don’t even have a problem with smokers. But if you’re going to smoke, please do me the courtesy of not doing it in my air space (or especially in the vicinity of my kids); and throw your butt away! And when all is said and done, it does give me a good feeling knowing that the punky blonde littering teenager whose parents probably don’t even know she smokes, are going to get a letter saying that someone with her description was seen tossing a cigarette butt out their car window. If you’d like to make some teenager’s day, you can report litter bugs too at http://www.litterbutt.com. You’ll make your day and mine!
The “Mean” Mommy or Other People’s Annoying Kids
Filed under: Things that get my gi all in a bunch
My husband informed me that I will be known as the "mean" mommy if I don’t watch it. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care. My daughters know I love them and only want the best for them, which is why I watch them like hawks and am maybe slightly overprotective, or as others would call it, insanely overprotective. I proudly admit it. We live in a small housing community and there are limited options for playmates for my 4 year old. Her best friend moved hundreds of miles away a few months ago and so our playdate schedule has been relatively wide open. Add to the fact that I am still nursing Lil C and don’t really feel like making new friends who would inevitably have to see (or pretend not to see) an exposed me and you have a social disaster in the making for Big I.
On nice days, Big I will play outside while Daddy is washing the car or Mommy is planting flowers and will usually be joined by two little future serial killers girls whose guardians don’t exactly make it a habit of watching them closely or even at all. They are both two years older than Big I and one is particularly precocious which makes it partially understandable why her mother chooses to leave her outside without supervision. The latest activities outside include digging up other people’s yards (ripping out grass, gathering up mulch, taking decorative stones that are there for a purpose, etc.) in order to make what they call, "Outside Stew." When they are finished with said "outside stew," the older girls will inevitably dump it in someone else’s yard where an unsuspecting gardener will mow over top and probably take an eye out of someone standing nearby or himself.
So, while this stew gathering was taking place, I was standing outside with Lil C strapped in a baby wrap, watching like a hawk and telling Big I, "Only pick up pine cones; no pulling out grass; do NOT dig in the dirt; those stones are NOT yours," etc. etc. hoping that the other kids would catch on or that their parents would, oh, I don’t know, maybe NOTICE that their child is digging up someone else’s yard!?!? My problem with this is that I am ALWAYS the one saying, "no." I am always the ‘bad guy’ and I am sick and tired of other parents/guardians not caring if their child runs two blocks away near a busy road where anyone could stop a car and pick up a kid and be gone. So, while the other kids run free doing whatever they please, my Big I ends up standing at her perimeter that she may not cross longingly looking at the kids whose parents don’t care that they’re on the verge of being kidnapped, and I end up looking like the creep.
Because I don’t really care what the other parents/kids think about me, I will continue to be the way I am. But, this doesn’t keep my husband from telling me I’m like a 5-year old myself. The one child who we shall call satan Sandy always talks to adults like she’s the smartest person on the face of the Earth. I know, I know, it sounds like I’m back in junior high, but it’s ANNOYING and it’s my blog, so I’m going to complain about it. Yesterday, Sandy casually strolls over to me with Big I behind her and says, "I’m going to let Big I borrow these two toys." (Big I looks at me like, "What?") This was obviously the first she was hearing of this. These two toys are miniscule little animal figurines, a perfect choking hazard for my starting-to-get-around five month old. I very nicely tell Sandy that Big I doesn’t need to borrow her animals and before the statement is even finished, she cuts me off and says, "But I said she CAN borrow them." I take a deep breath, remembering that Lil C is strapped onto the front of me and calmly say to her smart butt, "I understand the concept of borrowing Sandy, but Big I is not going to borrow them. We don’t need to borrow them. She can play with you and them now instead." I firmly nod at Big I and she’s off to play. She could care less about borrowing these stupid animals.
As Mr. B stands there washing the car, I stroll over out of ear shot and say, "I can’t stand that kid," and he erupts in laughter. "You’re like a five year old," he says. Five year old or not, I know I have spared myself the return visit of Sandy to retrieve these small figurines, and for today. . . that’s all that really matters.
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