No Time for Healthcare

If you are like me, your primary source of health care is a combination of your OB and the kind physicians at your nearest urgent care center.  In my adult life, I have never had a primary care physician and am often embarrassed when I am asked to provide his or her contact information and either fill in contact information for my midwife (who is the person at my OB's office who actually takes care of me) or write N/A.  Recently, we have had several serious health care situations in my family that have give me cause to rethink my current keep well strategy.  I even took the time to Google local physicians with the firm plan to make an appointment to get a physical.  Since my last physical was about eight years ago and the result of my insurance company threatening to cancel my life insurance if I didn't make and keep an appointment, I thought, I should really get the works and make sure that all is as it should be for an almost forty super sleep deprived mother of five.  Whatever that baseline set of test results looks like.  The problem was that you have to fast for eight hours prior to the appointment.  For me, that means that I would have to forgo my morning rung (which requires that I eat something before hitting the road), in favor of a physical.  It was a pretty hard bargain as my run is the only thing that allows me to go into the day with any semblance of calm.   As luck would have it, I had to drop by Walgreens yesterday afternoon to pick up a new pack of hair bands for my girls.  At some point I would love to understand where the thousand or so bands I have purchased to date have gone -- separate point.  And found myself in a very interesting aisle which includes a whole host of home health care tests.  It turns out, that if you are willing to spend $200, instead of $20 on a co-pay, you can check for diabetes, cholesterol, colon issues and high blood pressure.  So I walked to the counter with a basket filled with goodies and headed home to read the instructions and take stock of my overall health.  I won't bore you with the details of the colon health test or the diabetes test, but I will tell the story of my cholesterol check.  The cholesterol test requires you to drop "one large droplet of blood" into the test well.  I thought, no problem, I've always been a good bleeder and have no fear of pain.  This will be a snap.  It turns out that piercing my finger to extract a drop of blood was slightly more challenging than I thought it would be.  I flinched.  I flinched again.  I called my husband in for assistance.  I chickened out.  Later that day, I was pulling paper off of my printer when I accidentally sliced open my finger.  I thought -- fantastic, I've got a little blood.  I'm off to run the test.  After smearing blood all over the well, I became concerned that I hadn't submitted a full droplet.  So I bravely tore open the lancet and poked my finger.  I hung my arm.  I squeezed.  The blood started to flow, but my aim stunk so once again, there was a smear of blood over the well, blood on my shirt, my cuffs and all of my fingers, but not a whole lot in the test area.  Alex came into the room right about then and said, "Mommy how did you cut all of your fingers?"  I decided to take my chances and run the test.  10 minutes later I read the result.  My cholesterol count was too low to read. My husband was peering over my shoulder looking at the results. He chuckled as he left the room mumbling something about me being crazy.   Hats off to the investors of the Cholestrak.  It appears to be utterly useless, but did provoke one user to find the time to get her cholesterol level checked using a professional lab and a full vial of blood.

The Talk

Me

I know this might be a tough conversation for you to have with me, but I really want to make sure that you understand the changes that are happening to your body.  You are becoming a young woman and . . .

Zoe

[Huge eye roll]  I hate that you keep talking to me about this.

Me

Right.  But the problem here is that part of my job is to make sure that you are not the girl that becomes the subject of jokes starting now and ending when you graduate from high school.

Zoe

[Not talking -- scowling at me and starting to bite on a towel]

Me

So, can we have this discussion or should I just leave a book on your bed and hope you read it?

Zoe

[Biting on the towel and kicking the headboard of her bed]

Me

That would be a get the book, correct?

Zoe

[Crying]

Me

Zoe -- if I was trying to have a discussion with you about a hard topic, Grandma's heart disease, for example.  I would understand this reaction.  But I am really trying hard to connect with you and give you an opportunity to ask me questions in a forum that feels comfortable for you. [I heard that last part on Oprah]

Zoe

You should stop trying and leave me alone.  I never want to speak with you about this again. You are the meanest mother I know.

Me

Ok sweetie. I have to run and jump on a conference call.  Good talk.  Love you.

Next topic.   Pre-Teen Crushes.

[Post Script:  Bought the book.  Left it on her bed.  She ripped out the pages, shredded them and left them on my office chair.  It's really a shame.  There are some funny photos in that book.]

Project Mom

As I might have noted in earlier posts, crafts have never been my thing.  All of my grade school projects were well researched, had great supportive evidence and thinking and looked like they were assembled by a drunk monkey.  Fortunately, throughout my academic career, my work ethic and charm caused my teachers to overlook the fact that I couldn't sketch, paint or model. In college, I should have taken an elective art class, but I was so focused on my GPA, that I was unwilling to take the risk of a bad grade in an effort to learn how to draw an appropriately proportioned face.  Then I had children, and realized that my lack of natural craftiness could be a real handicap in my parenting life.  And of course it was my good fortune to give birth to children who love arts and crafts.  By love I mean that when we go to Michael's, I walk out with a cart overflowing with paint, sequins and poster board.  We then spend hours making sparkly paintings of people who's bodies are wildly out of proportion with their heads.  This past weekend, I was feeling really ambitious and took the twins on a trip to the fabric store.  After an hour, we left with fabric for a pillow project and fabric for two size 5 girls sundresses.  You can see where this is headed.  I don't own a sewing machine because I don't know how to sew.  I assumed that you can hand stitch both pillows and dresses and that sewing machines are for people who are either in a hurry or very concerned that their stitches all line up in a perfect row.  This was a project so we had plenty of time -- and I was certain that the girls wouldn't get hung up on how perfectly straight my stitches were.  Last night we started the pillow project. Mattie and Ella sat with me of the floor while I cut their fabric and threaded their needles.  I showed them how to make a basic stitch (I believe that is the correct term) along the edge of the fabric.  Ella sat through about four stitches before losing interest and asking me to finish her edge work.  Mattie was much more committed to seeing the project through.  She stitched away, feet pointed in, eyes carefully focused on each stitch.  She lost a little steam after 20 minutes and asked me to finish her pillow.  I finished the stitching and the girls started stuffing. They happy stuffed handfuls of cotton into each pillow, smiling broadly as their projects came to life.  While they stuffed, I tended to my bleeding thumb which I had jabbed as I rushed to get them to the stuffing step.  Did I mention that I'm not naturally crafty?  We finished the pillows and the girls broke out markers and proceeded to draw on and personalize them.  An hour later, they fell asleep with their brightly decorated pastel satin pillows tucked beneath their arms, marker rubbing off on their faces and stitches stretching open.  And while we will never produce finished goods that are worthy of a table at our school's craft fair, they love what we make and I'll take a bloody thumb for that any day.

Girls in the Band

Last year my husband was making our morning coffee when he turned away from the grinder and announced that he was going to recruit our 10 year old daughter’s friends into an all girl band. I asked the obvious question. “Why in the hell would you want to do that? I think Zoë might be the only one who plays an instrument.” “No – Kelly plays the violin and Lucy and Greta are both taking piano lessons too.” I think I either furrowed my brow or made a sarcastic face at him. “Ok, so first, it’s a little weird that you know that and second, four classical pianists and a violin player do not a band make.” He finished grinding and started brewing. “They can learn the other instruments and they could play a great song at assembly on the last day of school. I think it would be a wonderful bonding experience for all of them.” I reached for my mug. “I think they will enjoy it for a week then drop it like a rock but if you think it is a good idea, talk to the other parents and see what they think.” The parents thought it was a fantastic idea, as did the girls who immediately dubbed the band the Soho Six (we all live on Soho Drive). Two weeks later Ren had purchased a ridiculous number of used instruments (four electric guitars, a drum set, microphones with stands and an amplifier) and had signed the girls up for lessons at a local music school. At first, the girls were really excited about the prospect of learning to play “Vacation” by the Bangles on the last day of school. They burned it onto a CD and played it hundreds of times. They all jumped into the car on the day of their first lesson and came out of the music school delighted that they could all strum C, D and E on their electric guitars. The only band member who seemed a less than thrilled with the prospect of rocketing to pop star status was our drummer whose first lesson had been taught by a plump long haired hard core ex member of a 70s rock band who was extremely talented but somewhat impatient with beginners. They practiced every day, banging on the drums, playing C, D and E over and over again and screeching the Vacation lyrics. We took to wearing earplugs during their jam sessions. About a month into lessons, I walked into the garage during the first major band fight. Evidently there was a dispute over who should be the lead singer and who should play rhythm guitar. The result was a screaming match that revealed long held tensions (by long I mean they had been festering for more than a full week) and a desire to move away from 80s classics and forward to 90s pop. The fight also included a heated exchange relating to costumes which divided the band into the girls who wanted to dress like Britney and the girls who wanted to dress like Joni Mitchell. It got ugly and soon everyone headed home in tears. After the dust settled several band members came back to the garage and attempted to rekindle the band fire, but after two band members became vocal critics of the Soho (Four and Counting) it became apparent that the dream was dead. Last weekend I went down to the garage to put a bag of ice in the freezer and was a little sad to see the dust covered Hello Kitty electric guitars lined up against the band lockers (did I mention that Ren bought them lockers so they could store their music and eventually their fan mail). Ren walked in behind me carrying a case of Diet Coke and said “Don’t sweat it honey. The first band was just a test run. As soon as the girls are in school, we will get them going with guitar lesson and put together an all Solis band. We could be a modern day Partridge Family. Come on get happy . . .