Penguins Flying – Are Pigs Next?
Lucy and I have started a new tradition of surfing You Tube for videos of cool animals. I figure I might as well show her that the Internet can be used for good not just for playing video games. So yesterday we came across this video previewing a documentary by the BBC:
Well, OH MY GOSH!! I could not believe that penguins fly. This was AMAZING. Lucy and I giggled and talked all about how amazing it is. We IM’d David at work who quickly sent us back this video:
Huh. The British have a sense of humor. Who knew? Of course, it was quite a lesson to explain to Lucy why the penguins weren’t REALLY flying.
Sticks & Stones WILL Break Bones
It was going to happen. I mean, it was really just a matter of time. You get notified of the impending disaster when they send you home from the hospital with your baby boy. He WILL injure himself. What I didn’t expect is to be making my first trip to the emergency room before he was five years old.
On Friday Micki, our sweet, sweet nanny, informed me that after returning home from a simple trip to the park Max quickly broke out into large hives all over his face. She took him to his room to change his diaper and as she went to lay him down he went “dead weight” on her and threw himself backwards — she was still holding on to his wrists. Max broke out into tears. Micki broke out into an anxiety attack. She put some ice in a bag, gently placed him on the couch and tapped her foot nervously until I returned.
When I came home Max was lying on the couch with a tiny bag of ice on his left wrist. The 
hives had magically disappeared except for a couple on his legs and neck. Micki anxiously related all the details to me and with a proper amount of hand-wringing said “I’m just not sure what is wrong with him”. I quickly reassured her that Max can be wild and that it probably is “nothing” and for her to go on home. She left, apologizing all the way out the door.
Well, it quickly became obvious that Max was NOT fine. He didn’t move – AT ALL. Not a toe. If I even thought about touching his arm he broke into hysterics and started shouting “Owwww”. When I tried to remove the now warm bag of water from his arm he clung to it like his own personal life-saver in a pool of toddler despair. I didn’t know what to do.
Well, after a restless night of Max crying and not moving we took him to the emergency room Saturday. We waited – because after all that is really what one does in the ER. I took Max to the xray room where they asked me to hold his arm straight, and flat. A position I knew hurt him. He whimpered and cried, but he didn’t move. Max and I returned to the hospital room and waited for the news. We watched Dora on my iPhone while I tried to block out the sound of vomiting in the room next to us.
The doctor returned and in a voice that belied the truth he said “Well, it looks like the little guy has dislocated his elbow. So, this is what we are going to do, I’m going to pop it back into place. It will hurt him, but within 30 minutes he will feel great.” My stomach sunk. I knew what was about to happen was going to be excruciating for my little man. I knew that it was going to hurt, but I also knew that Max had already been hurting for at least 24 hours. I held my breath. The doctor looked deep into Max’s eyes, gently grabbed his hand and elbow and ever so delicately pulled his hand. I HEARD and FELT his elbow pop back into place. Max turned to me with eyes that accused me of the biggest violation of trust and started the silent scream. The doctor repeatedly assured me that he quickly would be fine and not to worry. I wanted to believe him – I really did, but the hot tears were flowing fast and hard down Max’s face.
The nurse returned and stressed to me how easy it will be for this to happen again. We signed the required 50 pages of disclaimers and promises that we’ll pay them and weaved our way back to the waiting room. Max meekly asked for a lollipop and so we stopped at the nurses’ station. No lollipops. Seriously? What kind of two-bit hospital is this place that they can’t offer my 2 year old boy who has just withstood pain that makes grown men pass out a lollipop? We met up with the rest of the family and walked out to the car. Just as my stomach was starting to settle back down Max did something incredible. He used both of his hands and crawled up into the car, and then into his car seat. I got into the driver’s seat and he said in his sweet voice, “Mommy? I hungie!”
And just like that he was fine. The doctor was right. To say I’m proud of how he handled his little trauma would be an understatement. However, I’m actually more proud that I managed to keep myself together and neither burst into tears nor beat up the doctor.
My Name is Beth and I’m a Bibliophile
I start every semester assuming that my students don’t like to read and don’t like to write. I figure it is good to have low expectations, that way they can only go up. Most semesters my students pleasantly surprise me with a smattering of interest in reading and rather average writing. However this semester I’ve seen outright anger at reading. I’ve had students say that reading is for those with nothing better to do with their time. That fiction reading is for those who lack true imagination. Ironically, while I was having these conversations with my students I found myself falling into the love pit with a book (“Twilight” see the review below). And all of this made me think about how I came to love books and why I so passionately love them.
My first true love was with “Alice in Wonderland”. I’m sure I had read other books up to this point but this was the first “grown-up” chapter book I remember reading. I loved Alice. I loved her logical approach to life and yet her willingness to go with the magical things that happened around her. Mainly, I remember the feeling of disappearing from the world. I eagerly jumped down the rabbit hole and I’ve never really returned.
After Alice, came thousands of adventures. I solved murder after murder with Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. I traveled into the future with Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury. I cried with Jane Erye and I fell in love with Elizabeth Bennett. Then a whole parade followed of Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Dickens, Wordsworth, Petrarch, Steinbeck, etc. I’ve spent endless hours with my nose stuck in a book and not once did I think I was wasting my time. Could I have found a more practical use for my time? Certainly, but never a better use of it.
People talk about drug addicts going on “binges” where they sit in a house somewhere and do drugs for 24-36 hours straight and nobody can find them. Although I have never done drugs that is the closest I can come to describe what it feels like to lose yourself in a book. Your reality disappears around you and the only world you really know is the one in that book. That is true escapism, it is the perfect drug. It is selfish, it is passionate, it is addictive, it is expensive.
When I finish reading a long, tasty, delicious book I emerge in a haze. The book world is somehow inextricably intertwined with mine and I’m left confused. Where does my world end and the other world begin? And like a drug addict it may take me a good 24 hours to “come down from my high”. When I reengage with the world around me I’m instantly looking for the next great book with which to fall in love. I could go on and on about the feeling of the pages in my hand, of the anticipation I feel in my stomach with each new page, the sound and look of the words on the page. It is glorious. It is the mark of a true bibliophile. My books are the security blanket that encircles me. Because for every problem, for every challenge, for every question I can find a book to meet it, to beat it, to make it seem common.
And now for the truth — I teach to support my habit. My book habit. My name is Beth and I’m a bibliophile.
