In The Blink Of An Eye

In my first blog entry, I said I didn’t know where this blog thing was headed, but was going to mess around with it anyway. The few things I have written about thus far have been silly, but today I feel compelled to write about something that seemed like a big deal at the time, but to my surprise, has kept growing. The event happened just yesterday, and it keeps knocking around my brain. As someone who tends to ruminate, I try and stay away from “what-ifs” since they can drive you batty, but I have been visited by the what-if monster on this one, and I have had a tough time making it go away.

Recently, a friend told me about a private swim school that sounded great. I gave them a call and was very excited to find out they had a spot available for my son Graham who is 3, so I grabbed it. Yesterday was his first lesson.

The school is held at an upscale hotel in an even more upscale town, so I was very content sitting in a nice poolside chair, letting the sun shine down on me on me thru the glass atrium roof, while I watched Graham having the time of his young life. His lesson was conducted during a major lull, so it was just Graham, and 2 instructors in the pool, and they were showering him with attention. Another mom was off in a corner far from the pool dressing her 2 boys who'd just finished their lessons. I’m guessing they were 3 & 4 years old. As I sat there with a grin on my face watching Graham, I noticed one of the little boys, still in his swim trucks wandering around. I started looking around the beautiful pool setting when I turned my head right and saw the bottom of the little boys feet disappearing into the pool. One second he was wandering, next second in the pool. There were no grown ups around except for me about 15 feet away, both instructors in the middle of the pool with Graham their backs to me, no one else in the pool or poolside, the folks running the swimming school in back at their office area, and a BIG “No lifeguard on duty sign.” This was not a good scenario. I’m pretty sure I yelled something like “he’s in the pool.” Had my performance been an Olympic event my lunge to the cement poolside would have been judged as “ugly,” “lacking grace, and “a disgrace to the American people,” all of which would be accurate. From my knees, I looked down and there was the little boy, going down. He was not fighting. I don’t recall seeing any motion. He was just sinking. Reaching in, I was able to grab his arm and pull him out of the pool. He came out of the water screaming. By then, one of the instructors saw the commotion and made his way over. He looked at me with his jaw open and eyes wide. The mother grabbed up her other child and ran over. The boy was frightened, but otherwise seemed fine.

I kneeled poolside for a few seconds in a state of shock. As best I understand it takes a bit of time for damage to happen when the brain is deprived of oxygen, and the boy was in the water just a few seconds, but they were a scary few seconds for both the little boy and this old girl. My pants and one arm of my turtleneck sweater were soaked thru, so I walked around a little from both nervous energy and trying to pull the clothes off my skin. The mom came up (son still screaming) and gave me a very nice thanks. The instructors thanked and complimented me. (In their defense, the lesson was over and it was no doubt the mom’s job to be supervising her child.)

When the mom and her 2 boys were leaving, they walked by me and she said “say thank you to the lifesaver.” In an aw sucks moment, I responded “someone else would have seen and helped him” and I meant it. But she smiled and said “but you did.”

Once Graham and I got home, my leg had stiffened up a bit and when I looked down I saw blood on the right knee area of my new Levi’s. I got a little pissed as I don’t often buy myself clothes and these were pricey pants. I told my husband what happened, and emailed a few friends interested friends about the lesson and what happened. Aside my my boo boo hurting, I didn’t give it more thought.

A few hours later when I closed my eyes to sleep, it was like the Zapruder film started running in my brain, only it contained the pool incident not the assassination of a president. My brain started to view the whole incident from every possible angle, and examine all the possibilities. I really just wanted to sleep. After a lot of tossing and turning and my trying to turn off the movie in my brain, it looked as if there was a distinct possibility that no one would have noticed the boy was in the pool for a dangerously long time. It turned the film in my brain into more of a horror movie than a documentary.

I’m not trying to claim to have done a grand thing here. It’s much easier to believe that someone else would have seen the situation, acted quickly, and brought about a happy ending. My point is really to try and exorcise the nasty “what-if” demon.

The incident also reinforced a belief I have held for a long time - things happen fast. It can be news someone tells you out of the blue, it can be because you turned your head at the wrong moment, or because weren’t looking in the right direction. Sometimes it's because of a decision someone else makes. Maybe it’s a force of nature. For better or for worse, your life really can change in the blink of an eye.

When it comes to raising kids, it’s tough to balance parental paranoia with allowing a wide range of life experiences. Things do happen fast. I guess part of a parent’s job is to be just a tad faster. Sometimes, if you're lucky, it may make a difference.

Minding the Kids

When talking to my husband about some rule or standard that upsets me, I sometimes preface my preferred version with “In my universe…”

Now that you’ve had that fascinating glimpse into my mind, here is something that really gets me miffed. I recognize it is an incredibly unimportant and trite thing, but it still irks me.

I get upset when someone says their spouse, one half of the parenting team, are “babysitting” their own offspring. While I have heard the term babysitting used by women to explain that their husband would be watching the kids while she goes out, I’m sure there are husbands who refer to their wives as babysitting as well; I’ve just never heard it. It’s also not unusual to hear dads refer to themselves as “babysitting” for their own children. As best I can recall, I have never heard a woman refer to herself or another woman as babysitting for their own kids.

In my universe, the mother/father who stays at home with their child while their spouse goes out is not babysitting. He/She is watching their children, spending time with their children, overseeing their children. The parent is not babysitting. And what about single parents who are pretty much always watching their kids. Are they babysitting?

Here is what dictionary.com says about the word babysitter:

ba·by·sit·ter also ba·by-sit·ter

n :
A person engaged to care for children when the parents are not home
A person engaged to care for one or more children in the temporary absence of parents or guardians

Naturally, I did not include the below definition because it did not suit my needs:

A person who cares for or watches over someone or something that needs attention or guidance

There is a series of books called “The Babysitter Club” which I doubt feature parents trying to improve their babysitting skills. Red Cross offers a Babysitting Certification class that is probably not scheduled at 8pm weeknights so parents can attend after their long commute home from work.

In my universe where I make the rules and set the standards, if you are watching your own children, you are not babysitting. You are watching your kids. A certain percent may even be enjoying the experience. If you are fortunate enough to have grandparents, aunts, uncles, other relatives or even nice neighbors who watch your children while you and your spouse go out on the town (either together or apart), they are babysitting. The person you pay to watch your children: a babysitter.

In my universe, if you are the only adult home with your pre-adolescent child or children, it’s not called babysitting. It’s called being a parent. It pays less than babysitting but once the kids are in bed, you can control the remote, snack unsupervised, and chat away on the phone. When I was in my teens and an actual babysitter, I never had a boyfriend to sneak over. When my husband goes away for a night next month, I still won’t have a boyfriend to sneak over. Some things never change.

Almost Like Winning the Lottery

A few days ago, my husband and I were talking about how our son Harry’s hair looks good, looks good, and the next day is too long and looks bad. So after school today, I took him for a haircut. When he was younger and hard to manage he got the twenty dollar cut at the old fashioned barber shop downtown where my husband has been going since he was ten. Now, for the past 3 years or so, it’s Supercuts. I walk out of there for just $11.95 plus tip so I find it tremendously thrilling and Harry enjoys it.

We had a very nice stylist named Denise, who was very attentive and into the cut. She was a good sport when Harry announced his ability to wiggle his ears, and kept displaying his skill while she trimmed around his ears as they went up and down, up and down. As I sat in the next chair keeping an eye on the cut, I noticed a big sticker running across the mirror in front of the chair I was sitting in. It said something like “Did we ask you if you wanted a shampoo treatment?” In smaller letters next to it, it said something like “if not, your haircut is free.” Well, Denise never asked! Never even HINTED. Could that possibly mean a FREE HAIRCUT for Harry? I was embarrassingly excited over the prospect of a free twelve dollar haircut. So, how to cash in on my good fortune? Denise was very nice and giving Harry a fine cut. I also figured that Supercuts is not able to offer a hearty income to its stylists. Would Denise get in trouble for not offering a shampoo service and forcing the shop to give a free haircut? Don’t get me wrong, I wanted the free cut. I could feel the extra money in my pocket. But I didn’t want Denise to get into trouble. I sat thinking about my approach, when I noticed another sticker on the mirror in front of Harry’s chair. This one said something to the effect “Did we ask you if you wanted a color treatment?” Like the other sticker it added “if not, your haircut is free.” Wow, they were serious about this free haircut stuff. I doubt many 7 year old boys need color treatments, but I figured this was my way in. I looked up at Harry’s mirror and said “Hey Harry, are you getting a color treatment today?” We all laughed. It was time to make my move. I swung around to my mirror and looked up at the big sticker. “Wow, free haircut for not asking about a shampoo treatment!” Denise was mid cut with her shears in one hand, comb in the other and she laughed. Not exactly what I had hoped for. Denise then started talking about a really good hair product for dandruff and I asked all kinds of questions thinking my suck up move might get me the free cut. Nope, I just learned about a dandruff shampoo you can also use on really dry skin.

The haircut complete, and Harry looking handsome, it was time to go. While standing at the register awaiting my final chance to score, a different stylist greeted a customer and asked very clearly “will you be wanting a shampoo or color service today?” I looked at Denise. Denise looked at me. She said “that’s $11.95.” I paid and gave her a tip. The free haircut had slipped through my fingers. Her jugular was there, healthy and plump, but I could not go after it. I whimped out. I lacked the killer instinct.

Ninety minutes have now passed since I paid up and I know now it’s for the best. I had planned to pay for the cut, so I wasn’t out anything. It would have been sweet, but I’d like to think my lack of assertiveness saved a nice woman her job.

But if it was a twenty dollar cut, she’d be toast.

The Jeff Corwin Betrayal

I have a 7 year old son Harry, who is a very curious nature lover. When it comes to anything non-fiction, when he has a question he will not relent until satisfied. He grills me and my and my husband, forces me to look it up online, and reviews the various reference books we have laying around the house. I particularly enjoy that whenever he wants me to look something up online, he tells me “look up naked mole rat.com.” Back when his thing was dinosaurs, he asked me to look up stegosaurus.com. Everything of interest to him must end in dot-com. The kid can also ebay like a madman, but that’s another story.

Anyway, yesterday around dinner time I was in the kitchen doing the whole dinner prep/domestic thing while Harry was in the family room watching Animal Planet. His favorite nature show is “The Jeff Corwin Experience” so as I worked on dinner, he was very content watching Jeff and creating something beyond my abilities with legos.

For those of you not in the know, Jeff Corwin is a very enthusiastic herpetologist (snake guy) who travels all over the world and tracks and captures all kinds of animals. His enthusiasm flows from his pores, and he does a good job offering interesting and detailed facts. Jeff is also very goofy, playing tricks with the camera and making it look like he is in peril. He gets a lot of laughs from my son.

So, here is the scene. Me, at the kitchen sink able to hear the TV clearly but not very focused on Jeff Corwin, and Harry in the family room. A commercial break is coming up and Jeff does a voice over referring to a “horny” animal of some sort. Horny was the word that stood out. I froze at the sink. Did Jeff Corwin just say HORNY? No, no, no, it’s a nature show kids watch. Jeff wouldn’t do this to me. He wouldn’t say horny. I’m not entirely a prude when it comes to harsh language (I can drop the F bomb just fine), but Jeff’s use of term horny had me petrified. Because of him, I would have to answer the question “What does horny mean?” Harry is tenacious about getting answers so I didn’t dare leave my post at the sink for fear of drawing attention to myself. If Harry saw me, it might remind him he wanted to ask me about horny. So, I just stayed at the sink. I tried composing an answer in my head. “Well, horny means that a girl animal wants a boyfriend, and if it’s a boy animal, he wants a girlfriend.” Naturally, that could lead to other questions I am simply not ready to answer, nor do I think he is ready to hear. My so-so answer at the ready, I stood at the sink. I did not turn on the water. I made no noise for about 2 minutes. After the commercials were over and Jeff came back on, I was finally able to relax. With the program on again, I knew Jeff would move onto some other interesting animal or offer up nice scientific yet wholesome explaination of horny, sparing me.

Thanks to the hypnotic effects of building legos, I had really dodged a bullet that time.

But I know a whole battery of artillery is still on its way.

It's MY day!!!

This is my blog. Welcome to it.

I actually set it up more than a year ago, and as I felt a good blogger should, I posted a test to be sure I had it set up correctly. The answer was yes, the blog was functioning as intended. That was the last time I blogged. Since it was a test and not actually an entry made up of opinion, circumstance or actual content, by most any reasonable standards, I remain a blogging virgin.

When I awoke this morning, I had no idea today would be “the day.” Yet here I am, blogging. Overall, I’d say that’s usually the best way to do things...to just do them. Just doing it (sorry Nike) can save valuable hand wringing time from thinking about it too much. Another benefit to “just doing it” (sorry porn people) is if you’re like me, your brain has trouble downshifting so the mere anticipation of attacking a challenge/highly anticipated project/dreaded chore keeps you awake in bed swearing you will not open your eyes to check the time, but opening them anyway only to be dismayed that only 4 minutes have past since you last broke your vow. You then get all stressed out because you KNOW you have to get up in 4 hours so become even more determined to fall asleep which only increases the stress that was keeping you up in the first place. Writing that makes me really hope you are not like me.

If you did happen upon my blog, blame Frank. In today’s 12 Step World, I guess I’m supposed to take responsibility for my own actions. But, since I’m not a 12 Stepper, I’ve decided it’s perfectly appropriate for me to blame Frank. I invite you to join me. Who IS Frank you ask? No, he is not a higher power unless you count geography. Frank is my writer pal from Canada. He is remarkably talented, supportive and an A1 pest. His primary topic to pester me about is writing. He knows I write, but he also knows I don’t show my writing to anyone (you’re probably thinking thank heaven for that and shut up Frank). Anyway, earlier today we were having one of our all-too-rare Instant Message chats when he mentioned I should have a blog. (Yes frank, I will post your blog address and website address.) I told him I did have a blog and had one for some time however, I had only ever posted a test. His limited finger shaking at this disclosure put the blog somewhere in the front of my brain and it has stayed there for a few hours now. I had a bit of time (not free time because I do have other stuff to get done) and decided to see what would spill out on my keyboard. So, this is it. My first blog post. I’m not even going to edit it. There is no way to know where this blog experiment will go, so I’ll just post this and see if it worked.

I am no longer a blog virgin. Now, I have just have one question.

Do I look different?



Here is the Frank info I promised www.frankbaron.com and for his blog http://fpbaron.blogspot.com/

Enjoy!!!!