Mrs. Flinger- Based on a True Story

Everything I need to know about life I learned in Kindergarten… yesterday

2010-03-09T15:46:49Z

In the haste of Monday Morning, we forgot my daughter’s sleeping bag for her Kindergarten rest time. Having the luxury of working close to her school, I ran it over at lunch time and decided to stay for a few minutes to see what life is like for her in her mini chairs eating the lunch we packed with the friend she always talks about.

One four year old sitting to my right started quizzing me immediately. “What’s your name? Where do you work? Why are you here? Are you the one that named her? Did you pick out her clothes today?” I answered some politely and ignored others to talk to my own daughter who was quietly eating and singing a song from their morning music class. My daughter’s teachers came over to tell me what a glorious job she’s doing.

The four year old didn’t stop.

And at this point I turned in to one myself thinking, “Hushit! I’m trying to listen to teachers brag about my daughter you little blabbermouth.”

I am SO mature.

Her teachers told me how great she is doing in reading and writing and the knack for language my daughter has. She’s creative! Expressive! Self Confident! And the only one in school that can speak Spanish with the correct accent and all the kids look up to her.

Both literally and figuratively since she IS the tallest one in Kindergarten.

The four year old continued, “Why are you here? Why don’t you look like her? Why is one eye bigger than the other one?”

I stopped trying to ignore her and looked right at her.

She almost gloated.

Kids are like dogs, they know our sensitivities. And the lunge for them.

“No, really, why is that eye bigger? What did you do?”

“I don’t know” I replied, honestly. “It’s my pirate eye. RRrrRRRRR”

At this point her sister, sitting next to her, gets up and looks directly at me as she whispers something in her ear.

The four year old looks at me and says, “Whatever. You’re weird.”

And then I decided that little shit will never hang out with my daughter in my house.

It was at this time I realized how harsh school kids still are. My daughter’s sandwich is different because I make homemade bread. “Why is your sandwich ugly,” she asked. My daughter is tall and clumsy from her long body, one that girls will hate one day, but now can mock, “she’s too tall,” the four year old declared.

Little four year old bully.

My daughter is comfortable there. She is strong and confident and flourishing. Even though she doesn’t turn six until October, her teachers are confident she will do well starting first grade this fall. She is a leader, a gentle spirit, a love of many boys. She includes new children in to her play and creates art hourly with hearts and flowers of her family.

She’s well adjusted and happy.

I’m unsure now what to do.

Yesterday I learned two very conflicting lessons: On the one hand, my daughter is growing and excelling and “ready to move on” and on the other hand there are going to be twice or three times as many bullies when she enters first grade in a glass three times the size she’s in now, in the luxury of her private Kindergarten. I have the option to hold her back academically, giving her another year in this space she is excelling in, or I allow her to move on to continue to be pushed as she reads at a 2nd grade level and strives to challenge herself.

I realized I can’t comfort her against a bully. But her environment gives her the power to let it wash over her back.

I wish I had the same power. I wish I knew the answer of what the best choice for her is. I wish I could see the future to know if she would struggle too much with peer pressure in her teens being one of the younger students or if she’d grow too bored if I held her back and open her up to idle time and temptations to stray.

I wish I knew what to do. Either way we have to choose soon.

The future starts next week in registration.

What would you do?

kindergarten, parenting, education, Gifted And Talented Children

Yoga Thought Of The Day

2010-03-04T21:56:55Z

yoga, Buddhism, family, harmony, faith

At some point you start thinking maybe you are pregnant and don’t know it like one of those tv shows

2010-03-03T15:49:11Z

What’s that expression? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Think I’m pregnant three times I might as well jump off something very very high.

Is that right?

If you’re not following me on twitter (which, wtf, why not?*) you may have missed the part where my daughter’s teacher congratulated me on being pregnant yesterday. I replied, as I have before, “Oh, no, not pregnant” and she stumbled and said, “Oh, I probably look pregnant, too, uh…” and it was awkward, as it always is, and then I went home and cried, like I always do.

Because she’s not in the wrong to think it simply based on appearance.

Here’s the thing: I recently described my body to the doctor as one of those puzzles where you match the head, torso and legs only my torso completely doesn’t match. It’s all round and flabby while the arms are strong and my legs are lean.

I’m a broken puzzle, y’all.

I work out. I cut back on sugar. I endulge sometimes because I believe in having a life-style, not a diet, but I try to drink lots of water, eat lots of veggies and pick the right thing more times than not.

And yet, these abs, y’all. THESE ABS. They are stretched in ways they hang like last year’s coat in my childrens’ closet.

Blech.

I see it at Yoga. I am strong and powerful. I’ve been told I have a “beautiful practice” and yet I look like no yogi in the room. Instead, I lay over my flabby abs in Pigon and stare at disdain for the stomach that used to hold a shape. I tell myself not to hate it because it grew the children I adore and love and who love me regardless of how I feel about my abs.

My abs stretched and created life and why I hate them for it is simply because of this one fact:

THERE IS NO MORE LIFE IN IT.

Now it is painful ovulation and one big hazard to anyone wanting to wish me well.

Like my friend’s Mother in Law.

Like the Pioneer Woman, Ree.

Like my daughter’s teacher.

I took a picture of my shirt realizing it’ll be the last time I wear it. I can understand why she thought I was pregnant. I don’t hate her for it. I don’t think she was rude. I think she made a mistake, one I’d probably make myself if I wasn’t all too aware of the hurt it caused.

It’s not her fault I look pregnant. It’s mine.

There is an amazingly powerful denial that happens each morning in the mirror. A denial not strong enough to ignore three separate instances (actually, four, but that’s another story) of false congratulations. Denial I can’t allow to shield me from this one fact: My belly, it is soft. It is soft and round and nothing like the rest of my body.

Now, the choice is mine to decide: What am I going to do about it?**

What would you?

*If you are following me on twitter and I’m not following you back, it’s because SPAM bots have forced me to ignore most everything and all you gotta do is send a lovely “@mrsflinger I AM FOLLOWING YOU AND I AM REAL” and I’ll be sure to follow back.

** Yes yes, not wearing empire waisted shirts/dresses/anything is my first place to start. :: facepalm ::

If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?

2010-03-02T12:29:49Z

One of my favorite parts about having children is that sayings you haven’t heard since 1982 become part of daily life again. “You know what? Chicken Butt.” Kids either keep you young or toss you right back in time to create a very large, somewhat over weight ten year old. It’s awesome.

I picture you taunting me as I write this post. “Leslie and Yoga sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage…” Or else you’re just poking your eyes out, “STOP WITH THE YOGA DEAR GOD STOP”

No. You’re not the boss of me.

During this time of transition, we’re all a little wonky. Bat-shit-crazy. Losing our ever loving minds. We’re all bumping in to boxes and searching for things and coming up cussing, “Did you already pack the [insert important item here]?!” HULK SMASH.

It’s like, so totally rad. Not.

I have a tendency to “pile on” as Mr. Flinger says. When things get hard, I make them harder. Deadline at work? Why not try to get four sites done instead of that one big one? Moving and having most of your food in chaos? Why not start a diet and freak out about not losing weight because you’re eating out too often? Worried about paying bills? Why not make a long spreadsheet about how you need to repair the cars before they both die and OMG WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE ONE DAY MOTHER OF ALL MERCY.

See? Piling on.

It just so happens that I’ve also decided to love me some Yoga. Yoga makes the piling on go away. Yoga makes the weight, well, in theory, go away. (I have yet to experience this phenomenon even though I’m sore most every day. I’m working really hard not to pile on right now about why my body hates me so much.)

Seriously, someone stop me. I’m about to post pictures.

OH YES I AM.

I’m trying to find balance. To be OK with a touch of chaos. To reflect on the fact that it always gets done, one way or another, it always gets done.

I’m trying to reach inward, not outward, to find strength. To be a woman capable of keeping the family in harmony when harmony is most impossible.

I’m seeking ideals from new foundations, bringing outside, fresh, new perspectives in; finding quotes comforting and challenging, as much as new poses and the rhythm of the Vinyasa in Yoga class are. “Buddhism holds that everything is in constant flux. Thus the question is whether we are to accept change passively and be swept away by it or whether we are to take the lead and create positive changes on our own initiative. While conservatism and self-protection might be likened to winter, night, and death, the spirit of pioneering and attempting to realize ideals evokes images of spring, morning, and birth.” -Daisaku Ikeda quotes

At the end of the day, I strive to find hope, spring, morning, birth. To focus on the lengthening daylight and the new buds of life. I remind my family that soon, very soon, our lives will become what we always strived for. My daughter reads and talks about first grade. My son asks how to spell words and writes his own two-year-old version. We tackle growth and learning and becoming as one: a family adapting, growing, seeking.

And still, we sit at the dinner table telling very corny knock knock jokes and one-upping each other with “that’s what she said.”

Because some things never change.

(Heh, I said when things get hard.)

Yoga, Buddhism, Change, moving, family, harmony

PCOS Signs, Definitions, and a Poem

2010-02-26T21:12:28Z

For the last 20 ohmygodI’mnotkidding years, I’ve had painful ovulation followed by puffy, painful, uterus-numbing cramps. I’ve been told to “suck it up”, to take an Asprin and call back in the morning, to eat some chocolate and get over it.

When I turned 25 and had my first “real job” with my first “real insurance” and “real boyfriend”, I decided to stop putting up with it and have someone fix me. Mr. Flinger (pre-Flinger days) urged me to find someone to help because sitting on the floor crying in the bathroom for 5 days during your period just didn’t seem right. Either that or suck-it-up and eat a Hersheys.

The doctors told me, after a short conusltation (three times) that having a baby would help. “Are you ready to be pregnant?” “Um, no?” “Oh, too bad, having a baby would really fix this.” “I was hoping for another solution than bringing a child in to the world because I wanted to skip my period for nine months.” “oh.” * (this conversation actually happened. Kaiser Permanente is a joy to be a part of.)

Finally I did have a baby! And oh! She was right! I had no ovulation pain! And then I had a baby cut out of my body, a uterine infection, post-partum depression, and a revenge from my ovaries they could’ve made a movie out of. Rated R.

After another baby and a few more years, I decided I didn’t want to take Birth Control Pills any longer as I near the age of “WOOPS” where hormones are no longer reliable and pills can have more damange to the body and produce tiny people in the mean time.

And it happened again.

And again.

I sought out my OB here. She confirmed it’s a cyst. “Some people get those,” she said. And sent me home to let it burst and get re-absorbed.

That motherfucking hurt.

Both emotionally and physically.

Finally, oh FINALLY, a week ago I found a doctor who sat and talked to me for an hour. In one hour she figured out the key to look in to.

PCOS. Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.

PCOS, according to Medline:

Polycystic ovary disease affects hormone cycles. Hormones help regulate the normal development of eggs in the ovaries. It is not completely understood why or how hormone cycles are interrupted, although there are several ideas.

Follicles are sacs within the ovaries that contain eggs. In polycystic ovary disease, there are many poorly developed follicles in the ovaries. The eggs in these follicles do not mature and, therefore, cannot be released from the ovaries. Instead, they form cysts in the ovary.

So when I ovulate, which doesn’t happen on Birth Control pills or during pregnancy, the only times I’ve had relief, my body starts the ovulation process as usual putting cysts in the follicles. One grows to maturity and the others get pissed off and jealous and start a war in my ovaries. Then they grow, get angry, and burst and I cry on the bathroom floor.

Illustration:

Yesterday, ass I lay on the floor in Yoga, cussing out my ovaries, I heard a “pop” of the egg getting released. (ok, not really, but aren’t you that in tune to your body, too? no?) I told Mr. Flinger, “THERE WILL BE NO SEXY TIME” as our potential child makes its way down the long hall to the exit. I find myself curling up and squeezing my ovaries like I could just pop the cysts all bubble-wrap style.

For the first time in my life, though, I have something to look up. Some reason. Something to diagnose.

It can lead to stroke, type 2 diabetes, and heart disease.

It’s painful. It prevents losing weight. It causes depression.

I’ve never been to happy to hear those words.

Knowing is not just half the battle, it’s been my whole battle. Knowing means finding a solution.

So here, this week, as I clutch my pissed off ovaries again, I’m hopeful it’s one of the last months I do this. An end of a horrific era. And in that light, I find myself singing ALA Adam Sandler: Piece Of Shit Ovaries.

I ovulate like a Terminator.
Not like other gals
Producing eggs and cysts and such
that never make it down canals

It hurts like a mothah
and you crackers otta know
Being an egg in my ovary
Is one giant free throw

There’s competition among the follicles
and most always lose
‘cause that piece of shit ovary
Stubborn and refuse

Piece of Shit Ovary
I got a piece of shit ovary
Broken mother uckah ovary
I got a piece of shit ovary

Nothing Beyond

2010-02-24T19:04:15Z

The room is hot today. Hotter than usual. I ponder this as my heart races.

Perhaps it is not the room, but my head.

Thoughts pound within the sides of my skull. Anger, frustration, uncertainty. I hear the sound of the room breathing, Pranayama. In. Out. In. Out.

We begin our salutations. I stretch. I try to release. My tummy folds on itself and I judge it. I feel myself tense and I release again. I remind myself it birthed two children that I love dearly and not to hate it for its work.

I breath in again. And out.

We fold in to downward dog. Breathing. The voice from the teacher reminds us to be center. “Nothing Beyond” she says. Nothing Beyond I remind myself. Centered. On this mat. In this room. In this heat. Right now.

Nothing Beyond.

I find myself rattling off a todo list and wondering if I’ve heard back from so-and-so. I catch myself.

Nothing Beyond.

I envision a mountain. I try, as two of my favorite authors both stated in their path to meditation, to let my thoughts be as clouds to me, the mountain. I try to acknowledge my thoughts but not dwell upon them.

I do another pushup, another stretch, another Vinyasa.

In our final Savasana I feel myself pulled by gravity. I am grounded. I am stable. I am strong and empowered.

I am a little more able to work. To focus. To be.

It is the “being” that I am most working on.

Being nothing beyond.

This is the goal.

Yoga, Buddhism, Vinyasa, Savasana, Breathing, Faith, Meditation

Change

2010-02-23T16:02:29Z

Life is a constant ebb and flow. It is change. I’ve been revisiting my favorite Buddha Book, re-reading the passages I underlined 10 years ago. Change is a big topic in Buddhism. Change is a big topic in my life right now.

Even if it’s great, change is still…. Change.

Change is leaving a house you brought your baby home in. Change is giving the children a backyard to grow in. Change is watching your baby grow in to a caring little man. Change is watching your daughter learn to read.

I’ve never dealt well with change and yet I seek it almost in earnest. I seek to better our lives daily. I push to find new challenges. I work to bring a healthier lifestyle and a better approach to obstacles. But sometimes, even so, I wish for things to stay as they were. Not physically, perhaps, except in the way my body used to look at 18. No, more on an existential plane. In the way my children snuggled my chest as they slept as babies. In the way my husband looked in my eyes on our wedding day. In the way we celebrated our accomplishments the day we got news we were moving back to Seattle.

Change can be powerful, wonderful and completely overwhelming. One day, I know, I’ll look back at these two weeks and know it went well.

In the mean time, I’ll just push on keeping my head above water however hard I have to tred. Change is coming like a tide. I’m gearing up for the ride.

change, buddhism, moving, growing

Be vewy vewy quiet

2010-02-19T16:06:35Z

I feel a bit like Elmer Fudd these days. I can see the rabbit, our house, just right——-> there. Right now we’re close. We’re SO CLOSE. We have a closing date that is nearly impossible to believe. We have boxes in the house. We have painters coming. We have a zillion tons of energy and hope surging through our family. We buzz in anticipation.

But oh god do not say a word or you’ll scare it.

Denial is a funny thing. Denial says not to pack a single box until you know for sure. But denial hears good news and waits. Denial hears a closing date and doubts. Denial looks around the house and thinks, “we don’t have that much stuff anyway.”

Denial. She’s funny, no?

We enter the last seven days. THE LAST SEVEN DAYS. Paperwork is signed, bank records are sent. Boxes are stacking. Painters are scheduled.

Work is intense these days. A deadline lands the day after we close. But it focuses me. Grounds me. Keeps me from too much denial.

I see the date coming faster and closer and all I can think of is “be vewy vewy quiet.”

Please god to not scare the rabbit away. It’s always my luck to be chasing a bunny in women’s clothes. And dooped in the end.

It’s time to change all that.

In the softest most quiet voice I can muster: We got the house.

Our house.

You’re all invited to our backyard for a huge BBQ and fresh lettuce.

And rabbit stew.

moving, seattle, house, family