I wish I had the giggles

I was reading a couple of hilarious blogs today and I couldn’t help noticing how fun it is to laugh.  Not to just chuckle at something mildly humorous, but to be stricken with involuntary giggles, the ones that become so funny on their own that your laughter feeds off of itself. 

I think the last time that I experienced this was during an all-night law exam cram session.  My friend and I were taking turns reading the Law Exam in a Flash flashcards, which feebly interject humor into mind-numbingly boring legal theories.  Using names taken from literature as characters in criminal hijinks that play on the actual happenings from those characters’ books (think Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde filing cross-claims for copyright infringement), the flashcards try to keep you interested enough to continue subjecting yourself to the disappointment and self-hatred that realizing your own ignorance causes.  Anyway, by 3 a.m. we were over-caffeinated and sleep deprived, and beginning to feel a little punch-drunk.  Along comes a flashcard with an inventive and sneakingly funny name for a gynecologist involved in some dire legal situation, and my friend and I lost control.  (I so wish I could remember that name!  Or even which subject the cards were!  Or which year of law school!)  We laughed so hard tears streamed down our faces, and as hard as we tried, we couldn’t stop giggling long enough to complete any more questions that night, because once we stopped laughing the situation became so sober and grim-feeling that we just called it quits.

Some smaller examples have occurred in situations where I started laughing, but realized that audible chortling was inappropriate, which just made my laughter compound when I tried to stifle it.  Then there was this one time in college…anyway, I laughed so hard I cried.  No, bawled.  For some reason, the intensity of my laughing fit just overloaded my senses, I guess, and I morphed chuckles into sobbing.  Talk about cracking up.

For the most part, a good laugh is just a huge release of pent-up energy and emotions, much like a good cry is.  Most of the time, I prefer the funny to the sad, even though I usually end up laughing at myself any time I have a teary meltdown.  A few nights ago, my husband was laughing out loud at the computer screen.  He invited me over to watch some “hilarious” videos on YouTube and some other sites.  For 30 minutes I sat through a bunch of home movies of idiots trying to swallow a spoonful of cinnamon or eat lots of habaneros.  One of them made me grin a little, just because the kid in it was genuinely funny, separately from his decision to chow down on the hottest peppers on the planet.  It just goes to show that there are as many different tastes in humor as there are in any other personal likes and dislikes.  I just don’t think that gagging and puking are fun activities to watch — but millions of “Fear Factor” viewers would have probably disagreed.

So, I’ll just keeping finding my funnies in small bits and pieces and wait for the rare occasion when something strikes me with the artful balance of humor and spontaneity so as to make me shoot a beverage from my nose.

Snow in the South

It snowed for a couple of hours yesterday, lightly covering the ground before melting away in the afternoon sun.  I can’t remember the last time I saw snow, maybe three years ago, but my five-year-old really can’t remember it.  She was two, and we were visiting my husband’s parents in Minneapolis.  Yesterday, we used the little snowsuit she wore then to bundle up her little sister, and we ventured out into the wintry weather to play.

My younger daughter couldn’t stay out long because she’s still fighting a nasty cold, but it was still a great experience for them both.  The flakes were small and coming down fairly fast, and everything looked pretty for the first time in months.  You couldn’t see the dead grass, and the tree limbs were highlighted with a thin line of white.  For once, the wind was low enough that you weren’t miserable in the freezing temperature.  My five-year-old (having been this age for less than a month) approached the frosting like an expert, showing her two-and-a-half-year-old neighbor how to make snowballs and snow angels (which were hard to distinguish in the quarter-inch of snow and pinestraw).  They had a blast, going inside for hot chocolate while their clothes dried.

Meanwhile, my littlest one viewed the snow with slight curiosity, then disdain.  She wanted to be outside and to watch her older sister, but she had no more interest in walking around in it.  She asked to be picked up, and if I tried to set her down, she clamped her little legs and arms down and cried her new favorite phrase, “No way!”  To be fair, it took a lot of muscle to walk while bundled in a snowsuit, and she knows that she’s still small enough to get a free ride when she wants one.  I let her stay out for about 30 minutes, then took her inside.  Though she seems to be feeling better, her cough sounds so horrible.  Hopefully, she’ll be fully recovered by the end of this week, in light of the antibiotic ear drops she started out with, oral antibiotics she’s on now, the medicine to loosen up and stop her congestion, and Tylenol if she’s feeling particularly miserable.  I hate having to give all of these to a 22-month-old — this had better do the trick.


So, we’re staying in our warm house today, our last day of the weekend (though lots of people are off of work tomorrow, and my preschooler doesn’t have school — but I’ll be at the office), so we’ve got lots to do.  Cleaning and laundry, preparing for preschool and daycare, gathering tax stuff, paying bills, and other stuff we generally put off during the week.  Sundays are so wistful; it’s a full day to enjoy, but there’s so much to be done and you know that it’s back to the daily grind the next day.  I wish it would snow some more — where we live, that’s an automatic vacation day.

Mommy’s inadequacy problem

My littlest one is sick, feeling miserable, coughing a lot and having a runny nose with an unlimited supply.  My husband and I shifted plans around last night to accommodate her, forgoing a planned night out together.  I found myself wondering what would be so bad about letting the sitter watch the girls for a few hours — she knew in advance that my 21-month-old was under the weather.  Thoughts about how my daughter wasn’t suffering from a life-threatening illness, just the “crud,” and wouldn’t feel any worse with a sitter in the house while she slept than she would if it were her parents downstairs, kept bouncing around my mind.  My husband decided that he didn’t feel comfortable going anywhere while she was sick.  Immediately, I felt selfish and branded: “Terrible Mother.”

Most of the time, I’m the one jumping into protective mode first, fulfilling the mommy role for my girls.  When they’re sick or hurt, they come straight to Mommy to make it better.  They know that there is a window in which I will cater to them and baby them, because mommies know that there’s no better way to make boo-boos and sore throats feel better.  I am happy to be that go-to mom, and I’ll take these opportunities to cuddle up with my girls any time, as they’re already growing up way too fast.

Last night was a little different.  The first part of our evening was to attend an event that was related to both my and my husband’s jobs.  Part networking, part party, we both felt that the occasion called for our presence, and that it would be beneficial to go, not to mention a chance to score some brownie points at my new job.  Since we knew that the actual fun to be had there was limited, we planned to use one of our two restaurant gift cards and enjoy a nice dinner and bottle of wine while we were all dressed up.  We had really been looking forward to that part of the night.

But, as fate would have it, this was not meant to be.  My daughter started showing symptoms on Wednesday morning, and I decided to keep her out of school and call the doctor.  I wanted to get her in quickly — we have seen this same illness with her time and time again — so we could shorten the length of time she felt bad.  I called my boss and worked from home as much as I could that day, actually managing to be fairly productive.  That afternoon, just before her doctor’s appointment, the weather threw an unexpected curve ball.  It began to sleet heavily.  I balked about driving her across town in the sleet, which is a weather condition I’m unaccustomed to (and that goes for almost every other driver in this city), so I rescheduled the appointment.  My husband volunteered to take her early the next morning.

On Thursday, I was able to return to work at the office, and I had another day full of good results, so I was happy with my performance there.  I seem to put some pretty intense pressure on myself to begin with, which multiplied when I felt guilty about missing work, having only started the job two-and-a-half weeks ago.  My daughter was prescribed antibiotic ear drops and a decongestant/antihistamine, and we were given a prescription for an oral antibiotic if she does not significantly improve by the weekend.  She went to daycare after the appointment.  When I picked her up at the end of the day, I’m told that both of her class teachers have pneumonia.  Great.

It was obvious very, very early Friday morning that she couldn’t go to daycare that day.  Her cough had worsened and she was running a low fever.  I stayed home with her in the morning and switched places with my husband so I could work the afternoon.  We cancelled our new sitter who was coming over and scheduled our veteran sitter, daycare coordinator and mom.  It just felt like a little more security to have her watching a sick baby than a college student.  Then, my husband made his executive decision, and we cancelled sitter #2.  He encouraged me to go to the party by myself.  In cocktail attire, alone, at a party?  I don’t think so.

Enter thoughts that make me feel like a bad mother.  Couldn’t we both go?  What can we do to make our daughter feel any better in those few hours?  I felt a very definite need to attend the event, especially as a form of work redemption in light of my missed work so early in my tenure.  After struggling with the pros and cons of going, I finally called two friends, also attorneys, and bribed them to go with me.  I needed a respectable date!  My friends totally came through on a moment’s notice, and I had not one, but two respectable dates.

The “party” was not the greatest event I have ever attended, but it wasn’t the worst, either.  I made my appearance, shared a little small talk, avoided the dance floor, and exchanged a few business cards.  The cash bar was nice, but the hors d’oeurves were basically gone when we got there.  I came home at a reasonable hour and crawled into bed with my husband.  Soon, we added my daughter to the bed, to monitor her yucky cough and breathing.  Now I need to apply my drive to being an excellent mother this weekend, in the same fashion I attempted at work this week, to make up for the time when those skills were missing.

How in the world are we supposed to balance work and home when they refuse to operate independently?  My daughters come first, of course, but how do I provide for them without a good job?  What else do I need to sacrifice to do my best in both of these arenas, but still exist as a person?  If anyone knows the answers, please tell me.  My candle is burning at both ends, and feels guilty and inadequate.

Eight days a week

There aren’t enough hours in the day.  It seems like I hurry around, trying to take care of my most basic responsibilities, and still fall short.  I have fallen asleep each night in various states of completion of my daily tasks, meaning things always get pushed to the next day, making that day’s to-do list impossibly long.

I don’t think I’m going about this all wrong — I prioritize, shedding things that can wait or don’t have to be addressed at all.  I combine outings so that I make a nice, efficient circuitous trip to all of the places I need to go.  I try to keep an accurate calendar so I don’t forget the important stuff.  Unfortunately, I just can’t keep up.

So I find myself wishing I could manufacture more time.  I think there really should be eight days in a week, so that the one extra day could be devoted to all of the errands and other personal business we all have to take care of.  Of course, being Americans, we would probably find a way to turn it into an extra work day.  Or, some of us more casual types would use it as a do-nothing day.  No matter, I would be thrilled at the chance to get caught up.

It would take us much less time to adjust to an eight-day week than it would a longer day because there would be no need to adjust the body’s natural circadian rhythm.  Some sort of scientist could develop a new calendar, and arrange it so holidays and other landmark days wouldn’t be disturbed.  Politicians could have their terms either shortened or extended to make up for the difference (which could be non-existent — just shorten the number of weeks in a year accordingly).  Everyone would be less-stressed, higher-functioning individuals.  Children would have a little more time with working parents.  The standard 40-hour workweek would still exist; there would just be slightly fewer in a year.

Hmm, that last observation made me realize that there may be a reduction in annual salaries to compensate for the days lost during the year.  Well, if I had time, I would keep working on my eight-day week model, but I don’t.  I’m on a deadline.  Oh well.

Morbid, but strangely encouraging

With morbid curiosity, I visited www.day4death.com, entered a little personal information, winced slightly and clicked “Calculate my day of death.”  Imagine my surprise when I discover that I’ll live to see 90!  Though I’d rather not be in a nursing home, as the calculator also predicted, I was thrilled at the notion of a long life.   

When you will die:

Tuesday May 15, 2068, at age of 90.

Where you will die:

• Nursing Home:     43.10%
• In Patient:             33.70%
• Residence:             15.30%
• Out Patient/ ER:    4.00%
• Other places:          2.80%
• Dead on Arrival:    1.00%
• Status unknown:   0.00%
• Place unknown:     0.00%

How you will die:

• Heart disease:                     38.20%
• All other causes:                 19.60%
• Malignant cancer:               11.70%
• Stroke:                                 10.20%
• Influenza and pneumonia:  4.80%
• Alzheimer’s disease:            4.30%
• Lower respiratory disease: 4.20%
• Diabetes:                                2.10%
• Kidney disease:                     1.80%
• Accidents:                              1.80%
• Blood poisoning:                    1.40%

Who died on May 15:

• 2002 – Actor, “Our Gang” – Darwood Smith, dies at 73, car accident
• 1998 – MN champion body-builder – William W. Carlson, dies at 67, car crash
• 1982 – Race car driver – Gordon Smiley, dies, racing crash

(After reading how the above people passed, I’m a little surprised my percentage in the “Accidents” column isn’t higher.)

Another morbidity calculator was less kind, giving me 18 fewer years to live.  At www.deathclock.com, I received the following prediction:

	Your Personal Day of Death is:
	Saturday, July 9, 2050

—

Still, to survive until I reached 72 is quite an accomplishment to me.  Though I do eat fairly well, I have a few unhealthy vices, carry a lot of excess stress and anxiety, and avoid exercising.  In an effort to create a self-fulfilling prophecy, and to take an optimistic, encouraging take on personal death calculators, I resolve to make a daily attempt to nix at least one occasion of life-limiting behavior and replace it with a healthy alternative.

There, I feel better already.