Life Lessons

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An Itchy Pity Party

What is the point of poison ivy? Can someone answer that for me, please? Having gone nearly four decades without any run-ins with the nasty three-leafed offender, I hardly ever gave it any thought. This highlights my folly, because it allowed me to smugly ignore the warning “leaves of three, let them be”.  I not only didn’t let them be, I brashly and aggressively tried banishing them from my property during a Labor Day weekend brush-clearing episode. Well, truth be told, I didn’t actually realize I was removing poison ivy. Nor did I realize that poison ivy could grow like a vine – as in Jack and the beanstalk-sized vines that were wrapping themselves around shrubs and climbing walls. So there I was pulling “weeds” like a woman possessed as I tried to compensate for having completely ignored this particular overgrown patch of yard all summer long. Needless to say, in this case ignorance was not bliss. Not my proudest yard care moment. Not. At. All.

And now, almost four weeks and a prescription of prednisone later, I am still itchy and my legs still look like I challenged a tiger to fight club, and lost. Admittedly the itch has subsided considerably and my legs now sport red splotches in place of “fluid filled vesicles” (thanks to my sister for that incredibly accurate but disturbing description), so there has been measurable improvement.  I’m impatient, though, and ready to move beyond this whole poison ivy incident. I don’t want diminished symptoms; I want to be symptom-free. I’d like to wear a pair of shorts again while there is still some temperate weather without eliciting stares and concerns that perhaps leprosy is on the rebound.  Do you notice this post is photo-free – I’m sparing you. Trust me, you’re grateful.

But seriously, back to my original question — why is there poison ivy? What is its function? If its ooze-inducing poison had some higher purpose, like protecting a rare, fragile yard nymph from extinction, or if it was an incredibly beautiful plant to look at, I might be more willing to accept its existence. But it seems to me that it has no real purpose at all, other than to put humans through an itchy misery should they come in contact with it.  It’s like the mean girl of the garden – rude and spiteful just because it can be, because it enjoys watching others suffer. A total beoch.
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I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to know about poison ivy these past few weeks: home remedies (fyi, as counter-intuitive as it may sound, the hot water treatment seemed to provide the most relief), whether or not you can spread it (only the urushiol is poisonous, you can’t “spread” poison ivy through your disgusting, weeping vesicles; although folks will probably feel pretty ill just looking at them), the tenacity of poison ivy and its death-defying abilities (yes, it comes in plant and vine form, and apparently can remain poisonous for up to five years after the plant has been killed, and no matter what, do not try burning it to kill it!). If you’re feeling particularly adventuresome, the Internet can also serve up a bevy of pictures of extreme poison ivy rash, although I wasn’t very interested in those since I’m too busy having a pity party for my own case to start comparing ooze with other victims of the toxicodendron radicans plant.  I’ve also learned two other important lessons: (i) itchiness, just like sleepiness and hunger, can make a girl quite cranky – yikes, sorry family!, and (ii) there is no such thing as not scratching poison ivy, no way, no how. People who are able to refrain from scratching poison ivy are probably the same people who don’t pop zits and have never once polished off a pint of ice cream by themselves, and I don’t want to even know about those self-control-aholic people.

At this point, I’d like to call a truce with poison ivy. I figure we can co-exist in this world without the need for animosity or vengeance. I’ll occupy my space, it can occupy its own (preferably on an isolated plot of land surrounded by barbed wire with a large sign alerting others to the danger), but we’ll agree not to do harm to each other. The truce can commence now that we’ve applied “Brush Be Gone” to every three-leafed organism in our yard. And if this truce thing doesn’t work out? Well, then I’ll just leave all the weeding to my husband.

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Three, already?

I’m not sure if it’s maternal denial or a side effect of the sugar coma from ingesting two pieces of birthday cake and a multitude of other treats tonight that has me in disbelief that my son turned three this week. Three? Are you kidding me?

It seems like the first six months of his life went by in normal speed, or sometimes even in slow motion when his colicky fussiness was peaking. In hindsight, it feels like we had so much time. Lazy days when long walks and tummy time were the heaviest things on our agenda. And then we were off to the races. It was as though there was a direct correlation between the speed of time passing and his increased mobility and self-sufficiency.

Of course, as will always be, there were other life events that naturally contributed to the whir and blur of time — moving, loss of a loved one, home renovations, returning to work, leaving work, pregnancy, birth, among others. My daughter can be the scapegoat for the past year and a half passing so quickly. Pregnancy and multiple children have a way of eating time. The pregnant time is spent in anticipation. I found it to be even more so with a subsequent pregnancy because you possess the intimate knowledge, which the first time around is more of an abstract expectation, of how incredibly wonderful it will be to welcome that new soul to the world and feel his or her warm body against yours for the first time. Then adding a new baby to the family means a busy juggling act. Making both children feel your love, keeping both clean, fed and clothed, changing way too many diapers, adjusting to new sleeping and eating schedules, and wondering how the heck those people with four or five kids manage not to go insane or at least have intermittent psychotic episodes where they walk down the street naked yelling at strangers.

This is what causes the disorders generic line viagra and ailments. Tadalis soft tabs act against PDE5 inhibitor and direct the blood supply cialis tadalafil 50mg towards vital organs of the body. He even fails to talk to his partner and always has fear to answer his partner’s cheapest viagra in uk question related to their physical relation. In this instance, it’s possible to prefer to try non-medication solutions for migraine. buy levitra without prescription The first three years are overrun with firsts. First touch, first smile, first rollover, first time sitting up, first tooth, first food, first crawl, first word, first birthday, first step, first sentence, first friends, running, jumping, singing and so on. It’s as though you jump on the developmental highway of firsts and it’s hard to put the brakes on and savor the everyday. As my son’s birthday was approaching, I found myself getting caught up in the unhealthy exercise of measuring out the future — four times his life so far, and he’ll be in middle school, five times and he’ll be in high school and on the brink of driving, six times and he’ll be off to college and voting age, seven times and he’ll be 21, nine times and he’ll be the age I was when I got married; okay, breathe, stop the hyperventilating. Let’s not rush.

And now, the birthday has passed. The squeeze hug that I insisted on giving at the exact minute of his birth was but a distraction to him that kept him a moment from playing with the toy trains. The birthday party is over. The concept of being another year older has no impression on him, except that he likes to tell me he’s a “big boy” and proudly give me his muscle pose. And he mostly remembers now to answer “three” when asked how old he is. But these are things that are coaxed from him by the grown ups around him that know too well the passage of time, the expectations and responsibilities that grow as the years pass, and who encourage revelry in youth because we know there are no do-overs. He is still at the point where he sees every day as a do-over. Every day presents a new opportunity, a new word learned, a new sight to see. For him, time has but a few measures — day, night, “after my nap” and when daddy gets home from work.

He’s recently started asking me what time it is; probably something he’s picked up from hearing his non-watch-wearing daddy ask me. No matter what time I tell him, he usually responds with the same declaration, “oooh, it’s late, mommy.” No, baby, it’s early, so early. And I can wait to have all the time in the world with you.

Hey Baby
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Hey Baby

Elephant Pants & Onesie

What is it that makes babies so appealing? And not just your own baby being appealing to you; I mean that strangers going gaga in public over someone else’s baby reaction that babies so easily elicit. Is it the cherubic faces, little fingers that grab onto yours without hesitation or judgment, coos that sound extraterrestrial, chubby cheeks and limbs made for kissing? Or is it more than the physical? Perhaps they force the recognition, consciously or not, of the importance of life, and family, and carrying on, and symbolize hope and potential. I’m not sure. In fact, at the risk of turning this into a confessional, I’ll admit I didn’t understand the whole baby “thing” until about 4 years ago.

Some people seem born to procreate; it’s as if they have an innate understanding of how personally transforming parenthood and children can be. As my family is often quick to remind me, I definitely was not born into that category. Picture the person that rolls her eyes every time she hears a baby cry and is quick to apportion blame on the parents (it’s possible, pre-motherhood, that on more than one occasion I muttered “what’s wrong with those parents?” upon being subjected to a noisy baby in a restaurant, airplane, mall, anywhere). Yep, for a very long time, that was me. And then it all changed, and after years of feeling quite sure that I did not envision myself as a mother, I decided I wanted to have a child. And then another. And I feel lucky and grateful to have them. No regrets.

And I even get excited about other people’s babies now, too. No, I’m not the crazy lady who is pinching stranger babies’ cheeks in line at the deli, but I do get a thrill from babies. I think maybe it’s that they serve as a reminder of how much I love my own children and how much joy they bring me (that is, when the toddler is not testing me with new, highly creative, insanity-inducing shenanigans).

It’s wonderful to see that thrill and baby-joy in others, too. This weekend I met my cousin’s four-month-old son for the first time, as he made a whirlwind tour from North Carolina up to New England for introductions to family and friends that had so far known him only in pictures. But what Facebook and emails can’t convey is the powerful conversion from cousin to mother, from aunt to grandmother. It was fantastic to gather with family and meet the newest addition, and so amazing to see how easily and completely my cousin, her husband and my aunt wore their new roles.  Hey little guy, you are changing lives already!

 
Since the damages are serious, patients have the right to file a online pharmacy sildenafil personal injury claim. Performance anxiety and the stress that goes together order levitra canada with it is the main source of problems. These online stores give the patient different rebates. valsonindia.com buy viagra cheap He chats benevolently with the patient to determine his personality that is, whether he is indecisive or hot tempered- a shrewd viagra canadian way to know about his gall bladder troubles.
 

 

Cotton print pants (fabric: Laurie Wisbrun for Robert Kaufman Fabrics, Urban Circus Elephants). Pattern pieces drawn by tracing a pair of my daughter’s pants.

 

Freezer paper stenciled onesie.

Elephant Onesie

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Learn, Create, Share, Breathe

Just about a year ago I enrolled in a sewing class.  It was a one-day, basic sewing skills class taught locally.  I had no idea what to expect but was willing to give it a try.  So, I dragged my (generally not very craft-inclined) self to the studio on a hot Saturday morning and hoped for the best.  It was wonderful.  What was supposed to be a five hour class, rolled on into very late afternoon as the other two students and I struggled to finish our projects and the instructor kindly guided us and encouraged us without once mentioning the time. By day’s end, I simultaneously felt weary from the effort of trying to execute new skills, and worn by the heat thrown from the iron in a weakly air conditioned room, but energized from the experience and inspired.

It’s hard to narrow down what made it so wonderful:  The challenge of learning a new skill.  The thrill of creating something – a tote bag, which certainly bore the signs of newly acquired and not yet honed skills. The camaraderie of the small classroom, as three women with no prior sewing skills spent the day earnestly trying to learn from a gracious and patient designer, sharing stories over lunch, and laughing at our mistakes (at least among the students) and cheering each other on.  And I’ll admit, walking out of the studio that evening, I was damn proud of that tote bag, mistakes and all.

I learned so much that day, and found a new pursuit.  And I’ve stuck with it and continue to learn with each new project. And the more I sew, the more I realize how very much more there is to learn still. And yet despite all the useful, technical skills the instructor imparted that day, the lesson I come back to most frequently was about breathing.
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The conversation had wandered over lunch and the instructor was actually talking about knitting at the time, and described how she felt one’s personality was so often directly reflected in her knitting.  She relayed how her anxious friend holds her needles so tightly, body tensed, and makes close, tight, little stitches, and her laid back, gregarious friend makes large, loopy stitches, and so on.  And she reminded us to breathe when we’re at the sewing machine.  Breathe, relax your shoulders; after all, this is supposed to be fun. Good advice for sewing, and life.

My 'learn to sew' tote bag, now a scrap holder