Zoe is quite the character. She talks constantly and keeps us laughing. When we tell her she’s smart, or thoughtful, or sweet, or cute, or any one thing (we usually expand, of course), she always adds, “AAAAND funny! Dbbldeedut.” That’s her personification of “funny.” It seems clear that developing her comedienne self is important to her.
Sometimes this saves her from punishment made in irritation. We have to be firm, but it is SO HARD to keep a straight face with some of the things she does.
Yesterday we were making Homesick Texan’s biscuits. She was very helpful and involved, and throughout the process she told me how much she likes to make things with me. I know. My heart was a big puddle of happy. So I reprimanded her lightly when she started eating the small pieces of butter she was cutting for the dough.
We beat, rolled out, and cut the dough using my great-grandmother’s tools and carefully arranged them on the cookie sheets. (With each lovely circle she made, she reminded me that she “sure needs a coin for that one!” — she can earn coins for good deeds to go in her Hello Kitty bank.) The pan with fewer biscuits needed a more decorative touch, and we made a flower. Zoe decided it needed a dough stem. So I borrowed some dough from one of the larger biscuits and she made a stem while I went to get my camera.
When I returned, she told me, “I did NOT eat the biscuit muffins,” and she held up the cookie sheet for me to take a picture. There was no stem.
“Where is the stem?” I asked.
“I put it right there,” she said, pointing to an appropriate, but empty, place on the cookie sheet.
“And where is it now?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes darted.
“Did you eat the stem?”
“Um, yes.”
I appreciated that she told the truth, and I didn’t care if they had a stem or not, and she hadn’t lied: she did not eat the biscuit muffins – only the stem. (The biscuits turned out beautifully. Make them once you can feel your blood just flying through those arteries and you’d like to slow it down.)
Later she asked for noodles; specifically, she wanted to make pasketti noodles with my assistance. Directing her toady from atop her stool, we boiled water, discussed the repercussions of the various heat-induced injuries that are possible when using the stove, and broke the dry noodles in half for her later convenience in eating. When the timer went off, she sampled and approved the pasketti for draining. I took the pot to the sink to do said job, and when I came back to the stove, she was quickly removing her finger from the softened butter, which was waiting in the wings for its time to shine.
“Zoe, are you eating the butter again?”
Her lips are glistening when she tells me no.
“Are you telling the truth?”
She waits a beat, looks down at the ground, and quietly says, “No.”
I’m glad again that she is admitting her lie and getting around to the truth, and when she lifts those eyes of hers to meet mine, coupled with an impish smile, the only thing I can do is hug her.
In the style of Zoe at 18-months-old, so far I like it MS2. After three full days I can say that the classes are interesting, and I’m excited to be continuing with a brighter attitude than I began last year. Actually last year on day one of my personal groundhog day, I was a black hole; this year I’m the sun, and mark my words, I will honor at least one class.
We’re off to a pretty good start on the home front, though as always, our sleep schedule needs to improve. The good news is that I’m sleeping at all, which is more than I can say for the past few months. The entire summer I rarely slept a full night, and when I did, the quality was poor. I reasoned that despite being physically exhausted on occasion, and working out intensely most days, my brain was floating on its back. Compared to the previous nine months of being pounded by the waves of med school’s inundation, there was not much mental exercise going on, for which I do not apologize nor do I regret in the least. Last night, however, it was a short night but solid sleep, and it was glorious. I’m planning to crawl in bed even earlier tonight.
Last week we prepared for a successful year by taming the apartment. We…moved…everything. The office is usable and organized. Things in the living room have a place. We donated many things and are shuffling around less unnecessary junk. Certainly there is more to do, but this was a major goal of the summer, and we finished it just in time to host another couple for dinner. They and Zoe became fast friends.
I have more pictures of the cruise to post to flickr. Words cannot describe the beauty and the fun. We went to the Bahamas (Princess Cays), Ocho Rios in Jamaica, Grand Cayman, and Cozumel. It was a fantastic trip, and it has inspired Joel and me to add vacation savings into the budget and spending more time, perhaps someday again living, near the ocean. Zoe asks daily if I remember the big boat, and when are we getting back on it? I thoroughly enjoyed being at sea and getting to spend some quality time with the family for a whole week. We returned to an excited Chief Licky who had developed kennel cough despite his vaccination. He is doing well, and now that it’s subsiding I can say that minus the phlegm, a dog coughing is one of the more bizarrely amusing experiences I’ve witnessed in awhile.
Blogging/writing is built into my schedule as relaxing/sanity time, so stay tuned, and if I go too long without a post, I’ve probably gone mad, so contact me and remind me to take some time out.
We went to the Astros game tonight. They played the Cubs. $10 got you a hot dog, a soda, chips, and the ticket. Well I don’t eat that stuff. So I didn’t get the deal; my ticket was $12, but Zoe got in free with it, so we all won, and there’s not a bad seat in Minute Maid Park. I brought along my study materials, and since it was raining, my cute new golashes got to come, and the roof was closed, so I didn’t sweat. Joel got to share his enthusiasm with a very adorable Zoe who ate up the attention and cheered for both teams. Later that night she became significantly unattractive in many ways, but we’ll not harp on that. Though we might. I’d recommend an evening at the ball park as fun and inexpensive IF you don’t stay the whole time with your tantrum throwing toddler AND you eat dinner first, as ball park food will in fact kill you. Those of you who know me are aware of my intense moderate disdain for sports, especially on tv, but I can handle live events in small doses. I was studying anyway. That is when I wasn’t captivated by the morbidly obese man’s devouring of an impressively decorated chili cheese footlong, or the family with four children posing with their one hundred dollars times four helmet ice creams for a picture, or the family with six children under five, whose only peculiarity was their sheer number – it made my head spin. Well, and the Girl. But she shares my DNA so what’re you gonna do.
There had been no time for dinner before we left, as we decided at the last minute to go, but I was super hungry. It smelled like the State Fair of Texas and I wanted it all. After rationalizing that my muffin top finally seems to have shrunk just recently, I decided there would be little harm in sharing some fries with the fam. One hundred dollars later, I had some fries. Zoe and Joel ate 98% of them I think, though Zoe used them only as a vessel for ketchup, which she would drink if I weren’t so disgusted by it.
Joel had gotten Zoe some pink cotton candy (-I know-) and later some ice cream in a pink helmet as a bribe so he could see the whole game. It was something we all were excited about, as we have fond memories of helmet ice cream in our youth. In an unfortunate turn of evens, the concessionaires had exhausted their pink strawberry ice cream supply by the 7th inning. Zoe balked and grumbled and squnched up her face and refused to eat the inferior treat, thus the whole experience was soured. Until we sat down, and things were looking up for the helmet ice cream. She ate a few bites, managing to drip vanilla Blue Bell and chocolate sauce and rainbow sprinkles all over her Dad, perhaps in some twisted attempt at retribution for buying the one hundred dollar ice cream that was NOT pink. She remembered it was not pink in between each bite, and finally decided that yes, it WAS horrible that the ice cream was not pink, and no, it was NOT fixed by the pinkness of its bowl, the helmet. Couple that with the fact that the playground to which she was ushered during a span of short attention was also temporarily closed, and her report when we got in the car to go home was, “Mama, I had a bad day.” She did get pushed today at school in my presence. I shamed little Jeffrey for pushing at all, and a girl at that. He seemed to feel no remorse. So I’ll grant that parts of her day did not go her way, but we’ll be working on her attitude.
We all were exhausted by the time we got home, and Zoe fell asleep shortly after. Finally I could assuage my growling barely-lunch-no-dinner-barely-snack tummy with a delicious concoction of Texas peaches (the very, very best – I thank my generous grandparents for introducing me to their magic early and often), frozen blueberries, rice puffins, and coconut milk yogurt. It is a lovely midnight dinner.
Whew! I have been a neglectful blog mama, and for those of you who missed me enough to ask if I’ll ever write again (Amanda), thank you, and I apologize. It has been a painful and sanity-sapping absence, and I can feel myself relaxing already.
This is my last week of my family medicine preceptorship (reflections to come), after which time I will be focusing on vacation preparation!!! We are all very excited.
Part of this preparation began with the end of spring semester. I believe I mentioned that my friend-study-workout-partner, Krystal, and I ferociously began Jillian Michaels’s 30 Day Shred. It is not a joke. With vacations and a few missed days in between, we decided to go some extra time and thus we technically are well past 30 days.
So despite a few misgivings, I took some “before” pictures. It was humbling. At the end of level 1, I took some progress pictures. I had made progress. Things were tighter, smaller, more proportional. I felt good. I felt strong. (Zoe was getting easier to carry longer distances – turns out, after her recent week-long stomach virus, she has lost 4 pounds…) I was on track to have wowza results in ample time to be fit as ever for our upcoming cruise and the big 3-0.
I honestly can say that I do not know what happened after that. When I really think about it, the only reasonable answer is lack of quality sleep to help my body recover. Whatever it is – I am more giant than when I began. Muscle weighs more than fat, retains water as it’s breaking and building, yadayadayada… This is little consolation to the girl in the mirror. Brain knows if I get the fat off, I have a good base of muscle, so that’s what I have to do, but damn if it isn’t super disappointing to work so hard and weigh more and not fit into clothes. I am stronger, so I can focus on that.
What’s funny to me is that – it turns out – this fat ass gets more attention. Today on my walks to and from the bus stops, I got 50% more honks than the thinner me used to. It’s such a shame to me that I’m on foot and they’re in fast vehicles – if only I could run fast enough to catch one of those superfly winners who can both honk AND whistle. I’ve put a lot of thought into scenarios in which I’m able to reach them, and for which one I would leave my husband and beautiful child. In the end, it doesn’t matter: either way, I’ll get a creative guy who is so overcome by attraction to the blur of girl-shaped mass sweating her way down the street that he must make this grand romantic gesture befitting a true lady. And that’s exactly what I want. Exactly.
Come a little closer. I’ve just disembarked the luxurious Metro bus, where I acquired a wide array of water-borne microbes due to my and every other passenger’s swack*. In fact, I’ve spent the past 60+ days sweating constantly – indoors, outdoors, no place is cool enough. Hot, right? Do you still want to honk? By all means.
I’ll tell anyone how much I love Houston. I really do. And it would be a great place to stay for residency in terms of the medicine I could see. But they say to pick a place based on location first – do you want to live there? I’m strongly considering limiting my search to more temperate, or even cooler, climates. That’s probably the summer sweats talking. On that note, I think I’ll go grab Zoe for our daily swim now.
*sweaty back. Thank you, Rachel Brady, for the rights to use this concept; its flexibility ensures a whole vocabulary worth of combinations, using any noun for which “sweaty” could be an adjective. Try it – you’ll see.
Let me start by saying I have no affiliation with nor am I receiving compensation from Chick-fil-A.
Last night we went to the Galleria to retrieve our reserved — for free — new spicy chicken sandwiches from Chick-fil-A. This was post-Zumba (my second killer sweaty powerhouse workout of the day), and I had been looking forward to this sandwich for a solid two weeks.
Excitedly I presented our printed reservation coupon things to the young man behind the counter. I asked that Joel‘s not have pickles. I ordered a four-pack of nuggets for the munchkin, in case the spiciness was too much to handle (it totally was). And a medium fry to share. And a cherry Coke. And a water.
“You only want the one drink? And one fry?” I was confused. Was he calling me cheap for getting three sandwiches on the house and only ordering three additional items?
“Well, I…”
“Because each sandwich comes with a drink.”
“OH!!! Great!!!” I ordered our drinks. “Two cherry cokes. And a pink lemonade for the girl. No! Wait! One cherry coke, one Barq’s, and the pink one.” I had decided to splurge and drink my soda. The freedom and choices overwhelmed me. The cashier — Calvin, my receipt tells me — seemed amused that this pleased me so.
“And so one fry?”
“I, well, we’ll share…” Calvin smiled again, about to deliver some additional wonderful news.
“Because each sandwich also comes with a medium fry.”
WHAT?! I’m certain my face revealed all of my true frugality and love of food at once.
Gleefully giggling as I handed over $1.57 in cash for the nuggets, my eyes widened at Joel, who, surprisingly, also looked excited.
The sandwiches were tasty. Spicy. Very, very spicy. Midway through my sammich, Joel asked the question to which I’m sure everyone is waiting with baited breath to hear the answer: Would I order this over anything else on the menu and pay for it?
Not if I were sharing it with either Joel or Zoe. It’s too spicy for that. But on my own, in the mood for something spicy, yes. Yes, I would. Now, I do have a suggestion, Chick-fil-A: make some extra dough and offer not cheese, but heart-healthy and cooling avocado (or guacamole) as an extra. I think you’ll find people thrilled with this option.
But not inexplicable. I have been busy. COMPLETING MY FIRST YEAR! Finally. Jeez.
After more than a few tense moments, I can say with confidence that I will begin second year in August. I’m really excited. And in a couple of weeks, I’m starting my preceptorship with a family physician; I’m looking forward to that as well.
Since I took my last exam I’ve spent a lot of time hanging out with the fam. Zoe is sweeter than ever. This weekend she had her very first recital.
Adorable, yes? Our little ballerina. Forgive the early cutoff – I had to cheer loudly for my tiny dancer.
Does it get any better than this?
All of her grandparents (and everyone else in spirit!) cheered her on, showered her with post-performance flowers, and generally made a large fuss, which she loved. I must admit I wasn’t sure how the whole thing would go, given that we missed the dress rehearsal. But she was so excited to be on stage, and we were so proud of her – she just shined up there. I believe a star was born.
Other excitement has included time to straighten things around here. I still have plenty to do, of course. It’s a project. Speaking of straight… I also became free of my braces! I only had them for ten months, and they came off last Thursday. No real pictures yet, much to my sister’s dismay, though I did send her one… But I’m sure they’re coming. So far I’ve had to tell most people that they’re off, which makes me think I should have been less self-conscious all along – though I really like having straight teeth.
I also started Jillian Michaels’s 30 Day Shred. Krystal and I are on day 6, officially. I started a couple of days before to see how it was, then I took a day off to do Zumba. It’s kicking our asses; I feel stronger and better. Now to get my diet polished…
That hardly covers two months. So I’ll sum up the time before the last ten days or so: I was studying. Now to live it up during my last summer ever!
Growing up we ate dinner together almost every night. Even when our schedules got extra hectic during high school, the family sat down and had a real meal. It’s something I admire in my parents, especially because I’ve gotten a taste of how difficult it is to balance life as a busy family. Often I saw them cooking together in the kitchen, my sister and I would set the table, and afterward, I remember everyone pitching in for clean-up before we dispersed, either for homework or activities or, on a pretty regular occasion, family game night. It was consistent, and a healthy habit that I want to continue in our own routine. (Thanks, y’all. Oneluvholla.) Zoe already likes setting the table.
It’s easy for a household to fill up a dishwasher every other day, if not daily. My parents would set the dishwasher to run in the evening after we were in bed or at least heading there. Laundry, in my memory, was done on the weekends, in the background of a still day, and the peaceful contrast of quiet after a good vacuuming always gave me a little zen.
I pinpointed recently that I associate the lulling, cleansing sound of the dishwasher with cleared, clean counters in the kitchen; calm, quiet, and bedtime.
Perhaps this is why I get a little ragey when these things are not done, or done in a frenzy. The noise is too much. Picture rush hour: too many cars, too many ads on the radio, too much glare from a sun threatening to set. Keys clanging, whiny pets with full bladders, fussy children because it’s just that time, cranky adults from a day of idiots and studying that still needs to happen. Meal preparation, evening television, phone calls/texts. Run the dishwasher now and you’ll be yelling over a hundred other noises just to ask a simple question. Right now, if the laundry room door is open and I hear the button on those jeans clank one more time, I’ll think only of the folding I have to do later and why, oh why, are the last three loads still on the love seat? When the buzzer goes off, it will sound to me like an angry driver laying into his horn. If central air comes on now, I will think about how it’s getting warmer and something really must be done about the summer electric bill.
These machinery whirs of modern living can be overwhelming amidst the daytime chaos. But at night everything changes. We’re in pajamas. There are just a few, unimpeded cars traveling in their luxurious lanes. When the dishwasher runs at night, the kitchen is closed except for nightstand water cup refills. The dryer is rhythmic. The fridge hums, and central air promises homeostasis. These are our urban crickets.
Zoe and I went to her three-year-old check-up on Tuesday, and everything went swimmingly. She ushered us out the door so we could “get to our appointment on time,” and when we got there, despite some concern that shots may be on the menu, cooperated with the doctor much better than usual. She was a little quiet but did tell the doctor, “I write Zs very well.” All our practice exams must have made a difference, because she didn’t even pretend to squirm when it was time to look in her ears.
When I was practicing for my comprehensive physical exam for class, she was my willing patient many, many times, so she picked up a few things. (I’m fairly confident she could do the full exam, and she clearly has down the blood pressure, deep tendon reflexes, heart, lung and belly sounds, eyes and ears, and Babinski testing.) Here’s how it goes when we pretend for a focused exam and she’s the doctor:
Z: [knock, knock, knock]
B: Come in!
Z: Hellooooo! How are you today? What’s going on?
B: (I explain an injury or complaint.)
Z: Oh! Okay. Let me wash my hands right away and take a look. [She washes her hands thoroughly and reaches out to shake my hand.] I’m Doctor Zoe. Okay. Now. Okay. Let me see. Mmmhmm. Okay. You’ll need a shot. And a sticker. And here’s your lollipop.
So for posterity, her stats are as follows:
Height: 35 7/8 inches (25th percentile); “The doctor says I’m growing very well and very tall.”
Weight: 32 pounds (50th percentile); (How long until I can’t post her weight?)
And according to her school report, she’s excelling by standards for someone almost a year older than she is. Not to brag or anything. Maybe a little bit.
The sweet little bug thanked me several times over the next two days for going to the doctor with her. No shots were sustained, only because I didn’t have a copy of her shot record with me (still need to go get that… Mama oops, but it just has to be done sometime in the next year), much to her relief, though that appears to be her panacea, especially when coupled with a sticker.
Last Friday we headed to the Great White North – Dallas had claimed a record 12 inches of snow – to visit Grandma Shirley and Uncle Dan who were in town from Minnesota; as a result, Zoe had eight grown people to fawn over her in person this year, and even more by phone, mail, and Internet. Saturday Zoe experienced the rare powdery snow, frolicking, throwing snowballs, building a small snowman, and exclaiming, “I just LOVE the snow of winter!” (There’s video – to be uploaded.) In the evening, Grandma took all of us to Kona Grill to celebrate the many February birthdays, and it was delicious as always. Sunday we had a Hello Kitty mini-extravaganza to celebrate, and I think she enjoyed herself. (See Flickr for pictures of the weekend and Zoe’s first experience with real snow.)
The birthdays are getting more fun each year. This time she talked about it for a week before and has relived it this week as well. On Friday she had her school birthday party, and it was so cute to see her with her friends. (Pictures to come.)
At three years old, she goes by many names, and whenever we call her a nickname or adjective, we get, “I’m not ________; I’m just Zoe!” Occasionally she adds, “Z.O.E. Zoe! That’s my name!” Some examples to fill the blank:
munchkin
sweetie
pants (fancy pants, sassy pants, Zoepants)
house ape
ladies
baby
little girl
silly
Miss Priss
lovely
pumpkin
precious
Of course she is growing so quickly and getting even better by the day. She knows what she wants and likes, and when we have clashes of wills, I remind myself that this feisty spirit will be a source of strength in her life. Just when I think there is no way she could be any sweeter or cuter, she outdoes herself, repeatedly. I’m glad she knows who she is and how to spell her name and speak her mind. She is smart, funny, grateful, empathic, creative, energetic, smiley, confident, thoughtful, strong-willed, cuddly, and helpful. I’m proud of the little person she is and her sparkling personality. I love everything about her, from her wild, untamable curls to her pink painted toenails.
She is spectacular. And yet so humble. Because she would say she’s “just Zoe”.
French Corner has a little satellite branch on the school’s ground floor. Two pertinent pieces of information to understand my frustration: they give a small student discount, and at any given time one of two ladies works the cash register, both of whom are friendly, smiling, saying, “Hi, how are you?” as if they recognize me. I know they see untold numbers of people during the day, but it’s not like I’m so inconspicuous. Ratty hair, braces, walking death – I’m kind of a sight. Plus, so far in 2010 I have been in there almost every single day, either for coffee or a breakfast taco or both. (Of late I am a very hungry girl, what with the workouts. That sounds facetious but seriously – Krystal and I have been running and/or lifting consistently for three weeks.) And since 2008 I have been in there at least weekly. And EVERY.SINGLE.DAY. I am asked, incredulously, if I’m a student. I show my badge. I give them a tip. Most days I have to ask for non-dairy creamer, and most days they’ll put out more.
But not today. No. Today they were 1. out of non-dairy creamer, and – what’s worse – 2. completely unapologetic about it. In addition, 3. their potato tacos, which most days are worthy of high praise, were not hot. And by hot I mean temperature, which is all the more important now that I’m more aware of what bugs may lurk in less-than-hot food. Thus they have been sacked. This was just the thing I needed to get myself out of bed earlier to make my own breakfast. Maybe now I’ll get to the bus on time.
