He's Not a Brain Surgeon

Nine-year old spontaneously begins discussing the brain - naming the parts and their functions.  He admits to finding it interesting.  Pushy mom (me) suggests he might become a doctor.  No, he says.  But it would be fun to build a brain out of legos.

New plan . . . if the lego brain can actually think, then the kid's a genius.

Update:  both grandmothers asked the same question - whether he's going to be a doctor

Stuff I Say to My Kids

Sometimes I get it right.  I inform the kids of matters on which I have no actual knowledge, using only my common/mommy sense.  Shockingly, they listen.

For years, I've told them that the only thing that hurts more than getting a tattoo, is having it removed.   I, myself, do not have any tattoos and therefore have never had one removed.  But I can imagine.  Correctly.  Minutes ago, I heard an interview with Mark Wahlberg where he said that he is having his tattoos removed and has his children attend the procedures as a deterrent to their getting tattoos.

There's no need to send them any articles about Wahlberg and the pain.  The two eldest express disdain for tattoos.  They already know.

Call Me Crazy

I did it again.  Almost exactly one year ago, I wrote about the silliness of starting and committing to a blog in the midst of holiday season.  Insanity, I said, would be doing it again next year.   http://mauramusing.blogspot.com/2011/01/insanity-is.html

Oops.

But it made me wonder whether something about the winter solstice (or doldrums, for me) precipitates writing.  It's not the approaching New Year as I intend to neither reflect nor resolve.  My life still pivots with the school calendar, so January is a continuation not a true beginning.  My musing knows no season.  My devices facilitate mobile posting - from beaches or tennis courts.

Which leaves . . . coincidence?  Six months from my last post took me to late December.  Six months from that June piece hubby finally noticed the new dining room chandelier that inspired the post.  Six months . . . put me in the holiday season.  Insane, I know.

What crazy things do you take on?

Cheap Thrill

It never fails to make me smile . . . cars dressed like reindeer.  I laugh aloud driving on the highway, even as I dodge actual deer.  Merry Everything . . . http://mauramusing.blogspot.com/2010/12/christmakkuh-kwanzadan-and-other.html

Another Injeanious Idea, Not

Pajama jeans for men.  You know, those pajamas that look like jeans for the super-lazy-can't-be-bothered-to-button-my-pants crowd (as distinguished from the trendy jeggings bunch).  A version is now available for men.  Oy.

It took me years to get hubby out of the ubiquitous "dad jeans" and into "designer denim." He was attached to his cheap, baggy, faded Old Navy/Levis/Gap/Target/insert-name-here jeans.  Convincing him to part with more than $100+ for dark straight jeans that look great with a blazer, was an uphill battle.  And I won.  As long as they weren't too low, too tight, too straight, too distressed, button fly (as opposed to button with zipper) and really too expensive.  It was difficult but I found a pair or two.  He looked good.  Other wives noticed my success with envy.

With my kids, I've insisted that "pants must cover boxers and not hang below" and "pants cannot look like leggings." I guess I must add another for hubby:  pants must have button/snap/zipper.  Or they're not pants.







http://www.glamour.com/fashion/blogs/slaves-to-fashion/2011/12/alert-your-dude-or-um-dont-paj.html

Pro-propofol

Michael Jackson apparently knew his drugs. Propofol is amazing.

Yesterday I had that certain middle-aged procedure with the yucky prep which shall go unnamed, and I was put out with propofol. Conrad Murray was not on the premises. I asked. Twice. The pre-op nurse laughed and said he wasn't there. The anesthesiologist took it more seriously; Murray wasn't qualified to administer propofol. Fortunately, he was.

The nerves hit me as I was wheeled into the "procedure room.". It looked like a small hospital operating room. The anesthiologist waited for my doctor to finish an urgent call before loading my iv. I was watching some monitor as I felt a little chill in my vein. And then, I didn't.

Some time later - could have been two minutes or two years - I gently awakened in another room. No nausea. No grogginess. No disorientation. Peaceful.

Derailed By A Lost Train

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It's been six months since my last post. It was not for lack of desire. Nor was I devoid of thoughts. Certainly, like most, I've been busy. Life interfered with my best intentions. But something else happened: my lost train.

On June 15, as I often do, I wrote myself a note regarding a future post: "Not intended to be the maudlin musings of a middle-aged mom". Nice alliteration. Perhaps even
insightful. But, we'll never know. When I returned to write, the thought was gone. My own words no longer held any meaning. Frustrated that my great idea was gone, my blog went off the rails. It was hard to climb back aboard.

But, I miss the writing. And it strikes me now that my lost train could indeed be maudlin musings of middle age: the ideas that come and go may be stand-ins for the dreams and ideals that once were. Who I want to be is anchored by who I already am. Maybe my thought was flawed from the outset. Matter-of-fact replaces maudlin. Acceptance is closer. Is it possible I've grown up?  Or maybe I just forgot.  Either way, I'm back.  I hope.