April 12, 2007

I’ve Been Interviewed

I love interviews.  I love learning about other people.  The fabulous author of A Mommy Story was interviewed by Mrs. Chicky last week and I thought it would be fun to answer a few questions.  Here’s how it works:  If you haven’t played yet and want to be interviewed, send your e-mail to thedanafiles [at] hotmail [dot] com.  I’ll send you five unique questions that you can answer and post at your blog.  Once your interview is posted, be sure to send me the link and I’ll link to it here so everyone can learn more about you! 

Here’s what Christina asked me: 

1. What is your greatest fear?

My greatest fear is dying young and leaving Dawson without his mother.  I can’t imagine not being alive to watch him grow up, to see him graduate from high school and college, to dance with him at his wedding and be there for him when he has children of his own. 

The logical side of my brain knows that Doug could always remarry and Dawson would have a wonderful step-mother, but is that really good enough?  How can you replace a child’s mother?  I don’t have any plans to die before my time, but ultimately that’s up to God and I worry about car accidents and plane crashes and tripping down the stairs and breaking my neck.  It’s a bit neurotic I know, but that’s the one fear that scares me most.

2. If you could choose between being rich (unlimited supply of money) or in perfect shape (at the perfect size with no exercise, and eating anything you want), which would you choose?

As someone who has been on the heavy, stocky side since the age of ten, I’ve always had issues with my body.  If you had asked me this question 6 months ago, I’d have asked for the perfect figure, never having to exercise and being able to eat whatever I’d like. 

Now that I’m focusing on Weight Watchers and going to the gym 5 days a week, I realize it’s up to me to change my shape and maintain a healthy weight.  Even though having a baby readjusted my entire body, I’m not as easily discouraged as I once was.  I’ve lost many inches and a few pounds.  I know I can’t expect to lose the fat overnight when I sure as heck didn’t put it all on in one day.

If I had unlimited amounts of money….Hmmm.  I hate typing those words because no good can come from being filthy rich.  I imagine I would turn into a spoiled brat like Paris Hilton or Ivanka Trump. 

I would probably have multiple plastic surgeries performed because I’d never be happy with myself and money would seem to resolve those problems. 

I believe I’d donate to charities and important causes, but would I be doing it for the sheer joy of helping others?  Or would it be done as a way to boost social status? 

Would my big house in the Caribbean really keep me happy?  Would my kids have a feeling of entitlement and decide never to hold a job and learn to be self-sufficient?

I suppose my answer is that I’d want neither the perfect body nor an unlimited bank account.  I feel wonderful knowing that everything I own, everything I’ve wanted, I’ve had to work for.  I thank my father for teaching me that valuable lesson.

3. What is the happiest memory you have?

It’s a toss up between my wedding day and the day Dawson was born.  Both are so very important to me.  These are the mile markers in my journey of life.  I can’t choose one over the other because neither would have been possible if I had not met my husband.  Love is a funny emotion.  It makes a person crazy, happy and goofy all at once.  Even when my husband drives me completely nuts with his quirky habits, I love him as much (if not more) as I did when we tied the knot.

Little Dawson, my Doodlebug, is the light of my life.  He is stubborn (like his Momma), determined (like his Daddy), intelligent (like mother), playful (like my father), observant (like Doug’s father) and cautious (like Doug’s mother).  When I look at my son, I see myself, I see my husband and our parents and all the personality traits he inherited from us.  I can’t imagine my life without the Doodlebug.  I thank God for giving me this beautiful boy.  

4. How many kids do you think Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt will adopt?

I think Angie (yes, I call her Angie) and Brad will adopt as many children as they can afford to love and care for.  They are very committed to their children.  I admire them as parents because even though they are very famous celebrities, they make time for Maddox, Zahara, Shiloh and Pax.  A nanny is not the primary caregiver of the Jolie-Pitt kids.  It’s wonderful to see how much they love their children.

5. Do you believe in ghosts?

I do believe in ghosts.  I think I’ve witnessed a few as a child.  I can’t remember much of the experience, but as a young child, I’d often talk to my grandfather who had passed away before I was born. 

My mother and grandmother would tell me the hair on the back of their necks would stand up because I would talk to my “imaginary” grandfather with such detail.  I had conversations about things I couldn’t possibly know about.  My mom thinks it was a way for Grandpa to communicate because he left this Earth too soon.  It’s strange to me, but it does explain my fascination with shows like Medium and The Ghost Whisperer.

April 11, 2007

Get Outta Hair

You’ve watched the commercials.  You’ve probably laughed at the funny, yet mean-spirited, remarks of women who are dueling about what hair color is better.  It’s frustrating to hear the annoying voice of “Anthony Marantino” telling us to “Get Hairapy”, but Brunettes vs. Blondes is the title of the theme at the Color Sowdown sponsored by Sunsilk.

I’ve visited the website and I saw the headline, “Prove you’ve got both beauty and brains.” There’s an actual scoreboard and instructions to “give your team points for answering questions and participating in secret experiments”. 

I was even more shocked to see actual video-jokes about blondes, sex and their alleged lack of brain cells as well as brunette jokes stating they’re proud of their hair because it matches their mustaches.

It seems like a harmless, but clever way to advertise and promote a hair care product, but I find myself wondering if this isn’t another way to pit women against each other.

It’s not enough that the Good Morning, America piece on Alpha Moms has created a stir in the world of mothering (and blogging, as Jenn Satterwhite writes).  GMA led the story in a direction that seemed to propose that Alpha Moms are the all knowing, Type-A women who are perfect mothers and the rest of us are just Beta Moms who follow the A-list mommies.

Now, we have to worry about what our hair color tells the world.  If we’re blonde we’re dumb sluts who are only looking for a rich sugar daddy to keep us in sexy clothes and designer pumps.  If we’re brunette, we’re ugly, can’t get a date and we’re ultimately jealous of the blondes because, well let’s face it; they have more fun.

I may sound like I’m reading too much into this little competition, but I can’t justify buying a product that tries to start a trivial feud about hair color.

Give your color a boost, it says.  A boost of what?  By using Sunsilk I’m going to boost my brain power?  I’ll be smarter and prettier than the average blonde?  But what about Redheads?  Are they just irrelevant?   Or is Sunsilk grouping them into the “Brunettes with Auburn Undertones” group?

I think Sunsilk needs to rethink this marketing campaign.   Instead of getting “hairapy”, I think I’m just going to get outta hair.  That’s my own clever, brunette pun.

April 10, 2007

Easter Exhaustion

Easter has come and gone and I’m feeling very, very tired.  I often feel like I need an extra day off after a holiday just to recover from the eating, drinking and…did I say eating?

This holiday was off to a rough start.  Thursday, Dawson woke up in a cranky mood.  His right eye was red and rather swollen, and he had green “eye boogers” clogging his tear ducts.  I thought perhaps it was the last symptoms of his lingering cold.  I got him dressed and dropped him off at daycare, only to pick him up a few moments later.

His daycare provider explained that he looked as though he had pink eye and she couldn’t risk infecting the other children with such a highly contagious infection.  I called my father and he volunteered to take care of Dawson while I finished working, and I set up an afternoon visit to the pediatrician.

Dr. K. was able to squeeze us in at 3:30 and Doug met Dawson and me at the clinic.  I was very worried about pink eye.  I remember having it in first grade and my mother had to pin me down on the ground and force horrible drops into my eyes.  I couldn’t imagine doing that to my sweet Doodlebug.

When it was our turn to be seen, Dawson immediately turned into a clingy, crabby, screaming banshee.  He refused to let Dr. K. come near him with his otoscope.  I had to hold my child as still as possible in order for the doctor to get a good look at Dawson’s ears and his eye of puss.

It turned out that Dawson had come down with a combination ear/eye infection and an antibiotic similar to amoxicillin was prescribed; one teaspoon every twelve hours for ten days.

Dawson refused to take this medicine and so I was forced to turn into my mother and pin him down on the floor while I pried his mouth open with pliers to inject the chalky, white liquid down his gullet.

The ordeal was awful.  At one point, Dawson turned his head and bit the inside of my knee.  I’ve never screamed so loud!  I think I scared the dog, because he started to bark incessantly.

The worst part is that this antibiotic has caused my son to have horrible diarrhea and all weekend I was held hostage by a two-year-old and his unpredictable bowel movements.  It was not my idea of a great time.

I’m not very good at parenting when Dawson is ill because he has temper tantrums that drive me to drink.  The constant whining, crying and hitting are intolerable.  But, we managed.  Even though someone* had a crying fit every twenty minutes on Easter Sunday, it was a pretty great day.

We had pork roast, baked potatoes, spinach salad, delicious dinner rolls with enough poppy seeds to throw a urine test and an excellent cheese cake my sister-in-law made.

I may have to skip Weight Watchers today because I know I gained a pound or thirty.

It’s a good thing I’m going to the gym tonight to burn some of this off.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s post and Thursday’s interview questions which were provided by Christina.

*Nice guess, but no, the crying jags were not mine.  They were Dawson’s… 

April 8, 2007

Easter: Life, Death, Memories & Love

It’s Easter Sunday and we’re spending the day with Doug’s family at their cabin in northern Wisconsin.  I managed to wake early and attend church services at St. Bronislava, our parish.  During mass I started to cry.  I can’t say this is the first time, because I sometimes tear up in church over the silliest things.  For example, when singing beautiful hymns or hearing the choir sing will make me cry. 

Today is different.  On April 8, 2004, my grandmother, Helen Jurgella passed away.  I’m always at a loss for words when it comes to Grandma Helen.  Growing up, I wasn’t very close to her.  The Jurgella Family was large and there were so very many grandchildren that it was hard for her and Grandpa Florian to spend time with all of us.  My brother Nathan, my sister Rachel and I saw her and Grandpa mostly at weddings, funerals and during the summer at softball games. 

Grandma Helen was a tough old bird.  She never took any crap from anyone.  If she didn’t like something that was said she was the woman who could verbally tear apart the person who made the remark.  To say she was opinionated was an understatement.  She was a spitfire who loved Polka music and dancing, playing the card game Pinochle and drinking “whiskey -sours” or “brandy-old-fashioned-sweets”.  She prayed the rosary often and she believed in tough love.  Teaching her grandchildren the tough lessons of life was something we expected and feared.  She expected us to grow up and be fearless.

Occasionally, she’d give us a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek to say she loved us, but it was more important to her that we grew up strong and not coddled.

I remember one of my early birthday parties.  I may have been six or seven years old.  Grandma Helen was sitting at our dining room table with my dad and my uncles, playing cards.  I think the game was poker.  I was standing at Grandma’s side with my elbows resting on the table and my chin on my hands.  I was just tall enough to see the table and everything on it. 

Grandma Helen had her usual brandy drink in a tall glass with a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry on a toothpick.  Before she’d take a sip of her cocktail, she’d mix the drink with the green stir stick because she didn’t like straws.  “Straws are for wimps,” she’d tell me.  “A real woman can drink as well as the men.”  She never liked being made to feel less than a man. 

My grandmother was the first feminist I’d ever meet.  She loved Loretta Lynn and one of her favorite songs by the country star was called “One’s on the Way”.  It was about a woman who is forever pregnant and her husband is never around to take care of the kids or give her a break.  My grandma had nine children.  I can only imagine how hard it was for her to raise my dad and his brothers and sisters.

A pack of cigarettes was on the table next to the napkin under Grandma’s glass.  I remember the cigarette pack was red and white, probably Marlboro Reds, and a bright yellow lighter was on top of the pack.  She had several dollars in quarters, nickels and dimes in front of her and she held her cards close, careful as to not let her sons see her hand. 

I looked up at Grandma, her pale blue eyes focusing on the faces of her opponents.  She had many wrinkles around her mouth and laugh lines around her eyes.  I remember how her eyelids seemed puffy, as though she were so very tired and wished to lay down.  But she made it to my birthday party; she said she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  Grandma looked down at me and said, “I’ll teach you how to bluff.  You’ll be the best card player in town, but I get 10% of the winnings in exchange for all my secrets. Nothing in life comes for free.”  She demanded that I take out two dollars in coins from my piggy bank and she let me play the game, sitting on her lap.

Another valuable lesson I learned.  Nothing in life comes for free.  I can’t help but laugh.  I miss the old bat.  I miss her and I don’t know why.  She wasn’t always the easiest to get along with.  Lord knows she had her secrets and made mistakes in her life.  Mistakes that I can’t talk about.  She didn’t always make her children’s lives easy.  My father had his own falling out with her, years earlier when his father was suffering from Alzheimer’s in the nursing home.

I was nearly 4 months pregnant when Grandma Helen died.  I remember crying at her wake and funeral.  But it wasn’t because I was sad she passed away.  I mean, I was sad, but not only for the obvious reason that Helen died.  I cried because I was emotional.  I cried because carrying a life inside me was amazing but witnessing death was heartbreaking.  It was unbelievable that I’d never see her again.  She was eighty-six when she died.  

I expected her to live forever. 

I cried the most because I saw my father cry over the loss of his mother.  A woman he swore he’d never forgive for the things she had done, but he shed his tears and he taught me how important it is to forgive.  To let go of a grudge.  To love unconditionally.  To appreciate the time I have here on Earth with the people I love.  I was distraught when I realized that someday, my own father would leave this world for Heaven.

My father taught me tough love.  Just like Grandma Helen.  He was his mother’s son.  We learn to love by our parents and grandparents.  Tough love is something I grew to dislike.

I asked my father if Grandma ever said she loved him.  He said, “My mother was a hard-nosed Polish woman.  She worked hard, she made mistakes, just like we all do.  When I was young, you didn’t ask your parents if they loved you…You just knew.  By the lessons they taught you, but the chores you were required to do, by the food they put on the table.  You just knew.”

I made a vow that day to never succumb to such a thing.  I would tell my husband, my son, my parents, my siblings, my friends; I would tell them how much I loved them.  Because when I die — when I leave this Earth — I don’t want anyone to wonder if I loved them.  I want them to know it, to feel it and to remember it — because I’ve said the words “I love you” often.

So here, on Easter Sunday, the day that Jesus has raised from the dead, the anniversary of Helen’s death — I’m telling my family just how much I love them.  And I love all of you, too.

Happy Easter.