Category Archives: Family/Parenting

Dogs Get Sick, Too

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting and tagged with , ,

Just in time for My Favorite Domer’s return for summer break, the Sheltie has come down with a urinary tract infection.

“Mr. Piddles” wet his little bed last night. He was rather damp when I let him out for his customary Good Morning hugs, but I didn’t think too much about it.

Must have been hot, I told myself — until I saw a wet spot on his mat. And felt said spot. And sniffed my damp fingers. And smelled pee.

Trying not to react too negatively — he’s got delicate feelings like other Shelties — I greeted him and sent him outside.

I went over the check-list of his bedtime routine. Yes, he’d been out. Yes, he’d pottied. No, he hadn’t had any water.

So why had this dog who’s normally as tidy as a nun suddenly soiled his bedding?

I asked Mom, who kept him while I traveled to Notre Dame to fetch the Domer, how he acted during my absence.

He missed you, she told me. He drank a lot of water. And slept a lot.

How was his appetite? I asked.

Fine.

Hmmm. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together.

I called the vet’s office, explained everything to them, and asked if dogs can get kidney or bladder issues.

Of course, they said. We’ll need a urine sample for the lab to analyze. Either bring him in or have him pee in a container.

Oh boy. I live for first-time events like this.

As I was trying to decide which option was more doable, Domer showed up wanting breakfast.

I need your help, I said, having decided against hauling a wet Sheltie anywhere in my clean car.

We’re going to what? Domer asked.

Shrugging, I dug out a Styrofoam cup. Domer leashed up “Mr. Piddles,” and we all went to the back yard.

He’s not going to do it, Domer said, as he and the dog sauntered through the grass.

Sure he will, I countered.

Eventually, “Mr. Piddles” lifted a leg, and I was Johnny-on-the-spot, shoving that Styrofoam beneath him to catch the stream.

All right, Domer said.

Easy.

I wrapped the cup in tin foil and took it to the vet’s office. Ten minutes later, we had the results.

And the sulfa drugs to treat the infection.

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit cleaning “Mr. Piddles’” bed today. Washing everything, Clorox-ing the wet spot, airing out his mattress.

And hoping I don’t have to do it all over again tomorrow.

Should be a wonderful upcoming ten days.

What are you looking forward to in the next week?

Thinking about Mother’s Day

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting, Seasonal and tagged with , , , ,

My Favorite Domer called me yesterday to wish me a happy Mother’s Day.

“No card. No flowers,” he said. “I just wanted to call and tell you ‘I love you.’”

I had to laugh — it’s easier than crying!

Despite my persistent efforts, Domer has never been a card and flowers kind of guy. Perhaps it’s because he grew up away from his dad, who always did the card and flowers thing when it came to special occasions (thank you, Ex!). Perhaps it’s because Domer never saw his Pa-Pa buy cards and flowers for his grandma.

But I’m convinced it’s because of a new teacher he had when he was an impressionable high school freshman.

One day toward Valentine’s Day, some of the girls in Domer’s class were asking Mr. Young-Attractive-Hot-Shot what kind of flowers he’d purchased for his sweetie. Whereupon, Mr. Young-Attractive-Hot-Shot said he wasn’t giving them, then expounded on his philosophy that flowers were a waste of money. That as soon as you cut flowers, they start to die. That he wouldn’t want anybody special to have to receive dead flowers.

Huh??

I sincerely hope Mr. Young-Attractive-Hot-Shot had an understanding lady friend. Or has since changed his evil ways!

When Domer was little, as soon as he could print his name, I bought cards and had him give them to special people on special occasions. I never failed to give him cards on special occasions, either.

Yes, Hallmark loves me — I must be their biggest fan!

But somehow, Domer never got into cards. He told me yesterday that he can’t imagine being an old person and remembering the verse on a card somebody gave him years ago.

I countered that I might not remember the verse when I’m old, but I’ve saved ALL of my cards in boxes so I can wade through them at leisure. “That way, I can remember that once I was a young mom and I was loved,” I added.

“You’re loved now,” was all he said.

And it’s all that needed to be said.

How did you celebrate Mother’s Day 2012?

“Beautiful” or “Extreme”?

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting and tagged with , , , ,

The newest issue of Time magazine offers a cover that’s sure to stir up debate in parenting circles.

A lovely, blonde, 26-year-old stay-at-home mom from Los Angeles is portrayed breastfeeding her three-year-old son, who’s standing on a chair to reach mom’s milk.

The mother justifies still nursing her young child with the fact that her own mother didn’t wean her until she was six!

Now, I’m way past the nursing stage. My son is 21 years old, in college, and by all definitions, a man. But I find myself disturbed by “attachment parenting,” something concocted by Dr. Bill Sears 20 years ago.

“Attachment parenting” proponents believe moms should rush to their child, respond to its every cry, form close bonds by hovering physical contact, let the child sleep in its parents’ bed, and carry children in slings rather than pushing them in strollers.

That goes against the grain of what I learned about child care.

I believe children grow and mature when they learn they’re able to do things for themselves. Things like sleeping. And eating.

Domer’s pediatrician told me when my son was just about to turn over his first birthday that the bottle had to go, or I’d have trouble weaning him. He also said rocking and singing to Domer every night before bedtime was nice but unnecessary, suggesting I put my son in the crib, turn out the light, and shut the door.

Doc (bless him!) was right on both counts.

So it concerns me when I read about a three-year-old still nursing. I mean, this child has teeth, for crying out loud! Not only that, but most kids three years old are in day care or preschool. Do they expect mom to show up periodically for feedings there?

And another thing. What psychological effect does breastfeeding have on the development of a young child, if that child is almost old enough to realize what’s happening? Doesn’t it become more than mere “food” when a child is walking, talking, interacting with others, thinking, and reasoning?

Years ago, I came into contact with a woman who admitted breastfeeding her four-year-old child “occasionally. I thought that was odd. Now I learn some breastfeeding proponents are hoping American moms will become comfortable nursing children of any age!

Seriously? Are we supposed to follow them to college, too? Maybe they can nurse on us while their kids nurse on them!

I didn’t buy into this “trend” when Domer was little, and I’m not buying it now. It’s like these moms are finding their sole mission in life being tethered to their kids. Making decisions for them. Refusing to let them grow up. Refusing to welcome their own next stage of life.

Parenting means giving your kids roots and wings. Roots to ground them. Wings to fly.

“Attachment parenting” prolongs the baby stage, which is already long enough, isn’t it?

What do you think? Is breastfeeding beyond babyhood beautiful, or is it extreme?

Easter Egg Hunting

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting, Seasonal and tagged with , , ,

Sad to say, My Favorite Domer learned from an early age that Easter Egg hunts aren’t as much fun as they’re cracked up to be.

When he was but a young’un, Domer signed up to participate in the annual YMCA egg hunt.

There would be prizes. And candy. And a visit from the Easter Bunny. And fun.

Or so we thought.

The day of the hunt dawned cold (typical Midwest weather). We arrived at the park, registered, and were shown which fenced-off area the kids in his age group would comb.

So far, so good.

When the whistle blew, the kids were off. Problem was, so were the parents.

Yep, the adults got involved in a kids’ Easter Egg hunt. They mowed down the fence and muscled their way toward the hidden eggs, knocking down little kids right and left.

Kids were crying and screaming; other parents were hollering.

Nobody had much fun.

Especially Domer, who, like his mom, doesn’t particularly like crowds.

Or aggression.

Our Easter Egg hunts then became more tandem affairs. I’d hide the eggs; he’d find them. When he got older, he’d hide the eggs and let me look for them (but mostly, he just couldn’t stand not telling me where each one was!)

Fast-forward a few years. Domer was fifteen when a darling Sheltie came to live with us.

Too old for egg hunts.

So we decided to hold an egg hunt for the dog.

We took some treats (broken bits of Pupperoni work especially well!) and inserted them into plastic eggs. One of us went outside with the dog while the other hid the eggs in plain sight inside.

With the hiding completed, we let the Sheltie inside to search.

He LOVED it! Amid much clapping and laughing and encouragement from us, he raced around the house looking for the eggs with the treats. Finding one, he’d bust it open and scarf down the tidbit.

So that’s become our Easter tradition — a dog’s egg hunt.

No pushing, no shoving, no screaming. Everybody has fun, and isn’t that what Easter Egg hunts are supposed to be like? Here, take a look at a few of this year’s hunting photos:

Finding a pink egg

Finding a yellow egg

Domer helps with the blue egg

When ‘Boy’ Becomes ‘Man’

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting and tagged with , , , , ,

Happy 21st Birthday, Domer! (image via Google Images)

My Favorite Domer (A.K.A. my son) celebrates one of those Milestone birthdays this week and since he says he doesn’t read my blog, I’m going to wax nostalgic.

You see, Domer is turning 21.

Legal. With all the privileges — and responsibilities — that brings.

For him.

For me, it brings a certain dash of worry.

By the time a “child” gets to the ripe old age of 21, a parent has had lots of opportunities to worry:

  • While Baby is still in the womb, we worry whether he will be healthy. Will he have all his fingers and toes? Will we be adequate in training up this babe in the way he should go? When will he sleep through the night??
  • As he goes off to school, we worry whether other kids will like him. Will he behave in class and respect his teachers? Will he ever learn cursive handwriting or multiplication tables?
  • Then comes middle school, and we continue to worry whether the other kids will like him. Will he be chosen last in P.E. class? Will he find bullies? Will they find him? In his eagerness to explore lots of different things, are we pushing him too hard, loading him up with too many activities and lessons?
  • As he enters high school, we worry whether the other kids will like him (yes, it’s kind of an ongoing thing!). Will he find a class that sparks his passion? Will he manage to juggle his courses and extra-curricular activities? Will he find work, at least part-time? Will he test well enough to get into college, if that’s his goal? Will he steer clear of the troubled kids and choose to be alone, if that’s what it takes?
  • Then he goes off to college and regardless whether it’s the place of his dreams, we worry. Will he adapt to dorm life, to life on his own? Will he zero in on a major and a career path? Will he eat enough, keep his clothing clean, get enough sleep? Will the other kids like him?

Unlike cars and home appliances, babies don’t arrive with a manual. Parents, especially first-time parents, often find themselves navigating uncharted waters when it comes to making decisions. I’m told it’s easier with number two and later, but I wouldn’t know; my guess is, if you’re conscientious, you’ll find it equally difficult, since siblings don’t necessarily come with the same set of abilities or personality.

Worrying just seems to be part of the parenting package.

And now that Domer is turning 21, it feels only natural for me to worry.

Will he get sucked into those drinking games where you take 21 shots in rapid succession, then pass out? Or will he be the responsible adult I know and drink sensibly? Will he skip classes as a present to himself? Or will he buck up to his responsibilities and celebrate afterward?

A 2006 survey at Virginia Tech University found that 72 percent of men and 65 percent of women don’t feel that getting drunk on their 21st birthday is a rite of passage. In addition, 95 percent of the women surveyed and 80 percent of the men didn’t attempt the 21 drinks.

That’s good to know. Because college is hard enough without trying to do it drunk.

Do you remember how you celebrated your 21st birthday?

Are We Having Fun Yet??

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting, Seasonal, Uncategorized and tagged with , , , , ,

I’m stripped naked and lying face up on a steel table while a group of stone-faced people — all with clipboards and calculators — surround me.

“How much money did you make last year?” one demands. “What’s your Adjusted Gross Income, line x of the IRS tax form?”

“Your cash on hand — and your child’s — how much do you have?” another chimes in.

“Drivers license number? Social security number? Investments, if any?”

“Oh, we see you have a business. What’s its net worth?”

“Did you receive any government assistance — food stamps, TANF, WIC, SSI?”

My head spins. Dutifully I scramble through income tax records, checking and savings accounts, frantic to round up the figures I need to meet their March 1 deadline.

Everybody says February is the cruelest month. Probably they’re referring to how miserable its weather typically is — cold, wet, ice, snow, wind.

Fun with FAFSA (thanks to Google Images)

I contend February is the cruelest month because of Financials.

That’s right — income taxes aren’t bad enough. For parents of college students, there’s the FAFSA to complete.

Those yet to experience the Wonderful World of Student Financial Aid have a treat in store. My best advice? Save everything!

The FAFSA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid) is being linked with your federal income tax returns, but you’ll need plenty of other materials, and it’s never too late to become a pack rat.

Nobody (except a few “experts”) claims completing the FAFSA is a piece of cake. Far from it, if you’re like me and your eyes glaze over when you see numbers! It’s especially daunting when they change your ID numbers from year to year (to protect you, of course) or refuse to let you access the system if you’re not using the Internet browser they prefer.

While students are busily filling out college applications, writing essays, taking virtual (and in-person) tours of campuses and such, parents are jumping through government hoops in hopes of proving their son or daughter is eligible for “free money.”

We bare our souls — and our finances. We answer questions never asked in polite circles. We go online and complete page after miserable page of data, sign it all with a government-issued electronic PIN, and pay for the pleasure with a credit card.

Then we wait to see if our student qualifies for grants or loans or work-study.

Oh, and don’t think the FAFSA is everything — some universities (like Notre Dame) require completion of the IDOC (College Board’s Institutional Documentation Service). This delightful gem really gets into your business and has an über number of steps to follow.

One of my favorites? Providing copies of your income tax records to prove you aren’t cheating or lying.

I’ve endured this assault to my sensibilities for three whole years now, but I see light at the end of the tunnel. Checking the box that indicates my son will be a senior next fall, I realize with a start this will be my LAST FAFSA nightmare.

Halleluiah!

Revisiting Junior Parents Weekend

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting, Notre Dame and tagged with , , , , ,

Today marks the beginning of Junior Parents Weekend at the University of Notre Dame.

That three-day period when parents and their students come together with other parents and students for various activities, to meet the professors, visit campus, and affirm that their hard-earned dollars are being put to good use.

But I’m missing it.

My Favorite Domer turned thumbs-down on this event a long time ago. He’s too busy for such orchestrated activities, he said. His friends’ parents aren’t coming. He didn’t want me to spend money for tickets and clothing and transportation and lodging — when I’m already on campus monthly.

‘Are you sure?’ I wondered.

Yes, he said. It’s not like we’ll have quality time together, with all the planned activities. And you know how hard those large-group gatherings are.

I certainly do.

Some folks excel in a cocktail party setting. They mix and mingle, kiss everybody within grabbing distance, and make small talk like they’ve known those people forever.

I’ve never been like that.

‘Shy’ would have described me as a kid. Or ‘Wallflower.’

Today, I prefer ‘Introverted.’

Nothing wrong with that. Introverts (and many writers fall into that category) choose our companions and friends after they’ve been tested and found true.

When the invitation came in the mail, I assumed we’d go. Despite the certain cold weather, the itchy new clothing, and the uncomfortable socializing.

I never expected Domer wouldn’t want to attend.

The schedule of events was full, to say the least:

  • An Opening Gala, complete with music, dancing, and fancy food.
  • Hall Luncheon to meet my son’s friends and see his quad in its “natural” state.
  • Saturday Mass at the Joyce Center (nobody does Mass the way ND does Mass!)
  • President’s Dinner.
  • Closing Brunch on Sunday, with tearful good-byes all around.

‘Are you certain?’ I kept asking.

His reply continued in the affirmative.

Some parents would have signed up and coerced their kid to tag along. Not me.

ND is his school, his home. Right or wrong, the decision on attending these festivities would be his.

And he said No.

A big part of me is sad. Sad at not seeing him this weekend. Sad at not being on campus, even at this dismal time of year. Sad at not being part of the students’ enthusiasm, their intelligence, their wit.

You see, I love ND as much as is possible for someone who didn’t go there!

But growing up means assuming responsibility for our choices. The world (and our own family) might not approve. But we each must listen to that quiet, inner Voice which leads us in the direction that’s right for us.

Sometimes we call that Voice, ‘conscience.’ Other times, it’s ‘compass.’

Domer is blessed with a strong one, and I couldn’t be prouder.

One Day I’ll Get My Wings

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting and tagged with , , ,

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to fly.

Not so much in a machine, mind you, but to fly. On my own accord.

When I was a kid, my sister and I would drape rain slickers — fastened at the neck by one button, our arms hanging free — across our backs, then race down our swing set slide, flapping like mad. The plan was, once we neared the bottom of the slide, to give a mighty leap and take off into the air!

Needless to say, that didn’t happen.

But I never quit hoping.

My parents, I’m sure, figured I’d outgrow this “nonsense.” Unlike me, they never wanted to be in the air, even in a plane.

When I became an adult, I casually entered a contest in which the prize was a flight around town in a hot air balloon.

Hot air balloon (thanks, Google Images!)

My parents thought I’d gone mad.

“What if it crashes?” they fretted. “What if it tangles up in power lines?”

I come from a long line of worriers, you see. Anything and everything has the potential for being life-threatening. Dangerous. Scary. Better off avoided.

But I wasn’t concerned.

I never win contests.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Imagine my surprise when the phone rang to inform me I’d won!

My Favorite Domer was just a little kid, and part of me wondered what would happen to him if the unthinkable occurred and my balloon did crash. The other part of me, however, looked into his little eyes and knew I had to model brave behavior — for him.

He had to see that Mommy didn’t let fear hold her back. That sometimes, you’ve just got to suck it up, turn a deaf ear to the naysayers, and live your dream.

My heart was tripping the day of the balloon ride. But the sky was cloudless and blue, the temperature was warm, and there was a perfect light breeze.

I watched the couple who were my pilots ready their (our) balloon for flight. Before I knew it, we were off!

What freedom! What glory!

Floating over the corn and soybean fields of central Illinois, high over the country roads, cars, and buildings.

It was truly as the balloonists’ say, “Mother Nature has taken you into the skies and returned you gently to Earth.”

Too soon, it was over. Besides my memory, I’m left with an empty bottle of champagne, autographed by my pilots and used in their “christening” ceremony for my virgin flight.

Would I go again? In a heartbeat!

As I’ve gotten older and people in my parents’ generation are dying around me, I’m reminded of something the nuns used to tell us in Catechism class:

One day, we, too, will die.

As a child, that didn’t worry me too much.

After all, I reasoned, when I die, I’ll probably get wings.

And wings will help me soar.

On my own!

Won’t THAT be cool?!

A Full Planner

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting and tagged with , , ,

Don’t get me wrong — I love my mom to pieces, but for the foreseeable future, it looks like I’m going to be hauling her back and forth between doctor’s offices.

And I’m NOT happy about that.

The human body, as we all know, has gazillions of different parts. Any of those parts can malfunction at any time. All of those parts periodically need examination by a member of the medical profession.

Therein lies the problem.

Rather than making an appointment for a “complete physical,” local doctors seem to want to “piece-meal” a person’s care. You know, check heart on one day, do lab testing on one day, check female parts on another day, etc. As of today, we’ve got nearly ten medical appointments scheduled in the coming two months. What’s up with that?

What if auto mechanics decided they’d work on our car’s transmission on Monday, brakes on Tuesday, muffler on Wednesday, and so on?

It doesn’t make sense, and we’d never stand for it!

Nor do we let our accountant do the expenses portion of our taxes on one day and the income portion the following week.

Brighter minds than mine should have long ago developed a plan for performing medical check-ups on humans.

Take Mayo Clinic, for example. There, a patient in for a physical exam will check in the day before the exam; they receive a note card with their appointments all listed, one following the other, for the next day.

You might be poked and prodded from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., but hey, at the end of the day, it’s ALL done. Who wouldn’t like that? Talk about efficient!

My poor Mom, on the other hand, who still isn’t driving, must depend on me to chauffeur her back and forth to an appointment here, the lab there, eye doctor here, dentist there.

Inconvenient? Sure, for me and for her.

But doctors don’t worry about how their patients are going to get to an appointment. Nor do they care how many people are inconvenienced.

You know, it’s easy to feel put upon when you work out of your house. Nobody seems to believe you’re working if you’re not dressed to the nines and commuting to and from an office downtown.

Same goes for writing.

I’ve long tried to schedule everything (like taxiing my mom and running errands) on one day or maybe two; that way, I have the rest of the week open for my work and my writing.

But the medical profession, I believe, is out to thwart that.

And I’m really NOT happy about it!

Any thoughts or advice you care to share?

Back to Campus Again

Posted by Debbie in Family/Parenting, Seasonal and tagged with , , , , , , ,

Ever since Thanksgiving, I’ve been fighting a cold (upper respiratory something) that’s offered me a range of delights from stuffy nose to runny nose, sore throat, cough, sinus pressure, and pain.

It’s been a nuisance.

But I’ve learned something about myself. Something I guess I’ve known all along but never really admitted.

Especially to myself.

I’m not a spitter.

You remember that scene in “Titanic” when Rose insists that Jack teach her “to spit like a man”?

I never had a Jack Dawson to teach me that.

So I can’t just hock it back and open my mouth to release it.

The mucus, I mean.

It won’t come out.

The nasty stuff drains down the back of my throat in a marble-sized ball, then slithers away like some kind of raw oyster, never to be seen again.

It’s not that I haven’t tried.

Spitting. Expectorating.

But the agony of choking something up and trying to release it is more than my poor body can endure.

My eyes tear up. My nose stops up. And I fear I’m going to throw up.

Something that’s on par with spitting.

Ain’t gonna happen.

Not in my lifetime.

I don’t do vomit.

Period.

I can count on one hand the number of times in my life that I’ve thrown up. Most were after anesthesia. Or the flu.

Imagine my dismay when, the night before Domer and I were to leave to return him to campus after Christmas Break, he came down with a horrid stomach virus.

The poor kid was “blowing and going” from both ends for a solid four hours.

I was ready to haul him to the hospital. He wouldn’t consider it.

“Vomiting is a sensory experience,” he told me. “You see it coming up, you hear it, and you taste it. Again. Then, you smell it and you touch it when you clean it all up.”

Right, I thought, as my own stomach knotted up.

Nothing like too much imagery ;)

Needless to say, we postponed our trip a day.

And, while he wasn’t exactly “well” then, we had to travel if he was going to start the semester on time.

So why, when I was doing the right thing for the right reasons, did I feel like “The meanest mom in the world”?

I mean, look at the likes of Susan Smith, who sent her two young sons to their deaths while strapped in their carseats. Or Andrea Yates, who drowned five of her kids in their Houston bathtub.

Now that’s mean.

Not hauling a kid back to a college he loves!