"I think the basic anti-aging diet is also the best diet for prevention and treatment of diabetes, scleroderma, and the various "connective tissue diseases." This would emphasize high protein, low unsaturated fats, low iron, and high antioxidant consumption, with a moderate or low starch consumption.
In practice, this means that a major part of the diet should be milk, cheese, eggs, shellfish, fruits and coconut oil, with vitamin E and salt as the safest supplements."
- Ray Peat
Small boy has a bladder issue - he has a bladder and it's an issue. We *think* that he doesn't want to stop whatever it is he's doing so he doesn't, he wets himself. We are beginning to really lose it with him - we've tried rewards for remembering, we've tried explaining he smells, we've tried all the things Elizabeth Pantley would lynch us for. No dice. He can have a good week and then he can wet himself three times in one day. He also seems to do it deliberately sometimes, just to wind us up (but that might be the frustration talking).
The day husband nearly belted small boy at school - note please that neither of us has ever hit him - I decided a change of tack was necessary.
What if, I said, it's a medical issue? Before we really do come to blows over this we should at least get him checked out. Husband made the appointment, but all of us went.
I went in first. Doctor, we need a sanity check. We have three issues with small boy that are almost certainly behavioural, but might just be physiological. I explained the daytime 'accidents' (he's dry overnight); the stomach cramps at dinnertime; the concern we have that his hearing is not as sharp as it should be. Small boy and husband joined us.
Doctor examined small boy. Asked him what his favourite food was, this is Easter Sunday, small boy said..."chocolate"
Ah, but what's your favourite dinner?
"Carrots!" (I win a billion mother points, the doctor's expression changes)
Small boy is booked in for a few tests. First up, urine sample. Husband takes small boy to pathology on Monday to get a sample pot/provide a sample. Nurse gives pot to small boy and asked him to go. She then gave him the option of taking the bottle home to do it, he quickly took that option.
Walking out of the doctor's surgery he turned to husband and quietly said: "I didn't think that was very appropriate."
There have been no accidents this week.
I need to get bed so only took time to read your last post. Great story - made me laugh out loud - but no doubt it's been very frustrating for you and your husband. You sound like really good parents and small boy sounds like a hoot. Hope things continue to stay pee-free.
Anyway, thanks for the 'Welcome back' post. Really appreciated it!
My primal journal: http://www.marksdailyapple.com/forum/thread63591.html
Somewhere, pages back, is an account of a particularly traumatic bath I took with small boy. My parenting fails pop up with some regularity. Thank you for dropping by here. I'm a fan of your journal.
By the way, the quilt finally reached its destination (after a two-week sojourn in a Hong Kong sorting office). The recipient said: "look how well you know me, perfectly matching existing cushions and prints on wall. Just perfect, perfect, perfect"
Now, what should I make next...
Last edited by badgergirl; 04-08-2013 at 09:49 PM. Reason: possessive not contraction
I liked the pee-post. Reminds me of my trials with my four. First didn't want to do it because I had always made changing her a big fun event as my first baby (back when all my time was hers) and she didn't want that to stop - I finally put my foot down at age 4. Second wanted what First had, namely underwear, and practically trained herself in 2 weeks shortly after First got her big kid panties, which would have made Second 2-1/2. Third, being the special snowflake she is, did it between 7 and 8 after we got her GI issues under control. Fourth was, as always, the toughest nut to crack - hubby outlasted her in a marathon book reading session on the training potty at age 5. Yup, you read right - 5. She knew absolutely how and why and could, just wouldn't - she even hid behind the couch to squeeze out a poops into her pullups before I could herd her off to the toilet, little stinker.
After that, though, continence was super unless sick here and there. I look forward to hearing how this pans out with Small Boy.
Since Small Boy is your first, I do have to tell you that potty and wetness stories are almost universal - and not a parenting fail. Right now our piano teacher is having the devil of a time getting her 3 yo potty trained, she recently told me. I am glad you are checking for physical reasons, though, and not just beating his ass, which is the locally preferred method of child-rearing. Needless to say, I do not subscribe to that school of philosophy either.
I have a mantra that I have spouted for years... "If I eat right, I feel right. If I feel right, I exercise right. If I exercise right, I think right. If I think right, I eat right..." Phil-SC
Folks, meet proto-second-husband...'the older I get, the more English I become'
The man and boy have been away since Thursday. My meals have degenerated into protein and fat at odd hours and I have degenerated into...peaceful happiness. It's only noisy when I want it to be. Every room I enter is empty and exactly how I left it (whether that is spotless or covered in fabric...for, lo, I have another two quilts brewing).
They are returning this afternoon and I rather wish they weren't.
I try to think that if they were gone longer I would miss them; be overcome with longing for their presence. The bed is gloriously expansive, the days are full of independent possibilities. Perhaps I would miss husband sooner, I think hopefully. Perhaps I'd be overcome with longing for small boy if I didn't know my hours alone are small in number?
No. I don't think so. I like being by myself (I've never lived alone - always house shares). I wish I'd realised that 12 years ago.
Last edited by badgergirl; 04-06-2013 at 05:34 PM.
When Virginia Stephen (later to be Woolf) read, which she did at a standing desk, she would keep a notebook open beside the book so that she could make contemporaneous notes, complete with page references and quotes. I wish I had the discipline to do the same. Instead, I read greedily in snatched moments (hours, honestly) on the train, before bed, while ignoring the shouts of the small boy. And then, as I walk to the office, I interrogate what I have read, but my memory for detail is faulty and the questions are less than sharp.
Jeanette Winterson read English Literature A-Z from the shelves of the Accrington (a Northern mill town) public library, memorising as she went so that no one would be able to take the words away from her. I wish I had the discipline to do the same. Or the memory. The beauty of the construction trickles out of my memory: imperceptible in process, but noticeable in effect.
If words are small lumps of wet clay and sentences are bricks - compressed and fired until they are strong enough to build with - editing husband's books is like trying to turn sloppy sculptures into real buildings. The intended shape is there, but the substance and the strength, the transmogrification that is the craft of writing, is missing. I keep trying to get him to understand what he's lacking. Regard (dual meaning - look at and honour) the sentence. Without the sentence there can be no solid building, only roughs and concepts.
Hilary Mantel knew she could write, but felt uncertain about creating stories so she spent years writing A Place of Greater Safety (fictionalised history) before she could move on to fiction proper. Husband has stories - coming out of his ears - but he cannot write. To edit his work is the most exquisitely devised torture: applying the skill I have to the over abundant evidence of the skill I lack.
I have one story that I've been thinking about writing for fifteen years and sometimes I write a few thousand words and then I spend another year thinking and the structure of the story changes and so I write another thousand words and so on. It's not my story, as in the story of me, though it has a lot of me in it. I sometimes wonder if it is the only story in me that is not the story of me. I have on occasion sat down and tried to write other stories, normal stories with a plot and quotidian characters, but I never get further than a page.
If writing was really important to me, I would stand at a desk, take notes, learn my craft and memorise the greats. But, more importantly, I would do it. I need space, I need time. I need a room of one's own... or do I simply need to stop making excuses?
I can take clay, mix it until it is smooth, shape it and place it in a pressurised furnace. My sentences are as strong as the nori bricks of Accrington. However, I cannot seem to build. I make a wall here, dig a trench there. I stare at all the piles of bricks and am baffled by how these will ever be mortared into place.
There will be more on this - an amalgam of all I'm reading - soon. I've also, in between Mantel and Winterson, read this: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Examined...I3R0JYHQ3YXVCZ and I'm about to start this http://www.amazon.co.uk/Desiring-Wom...desiring+women. I miss university English, I really do.
Last edited by badgergirl; 04-08-2013 at 06:24 PM. Reason: learned more about brickmaking and had to amend my metaphor