We’ve all been healthy for a whole week, and without major nighttime disruptions. At least, none involving anyone’s vomit, nor requiring full bed changes at 3 a.m.
There are so many potential topics of interest… I could write about one of the several extremely complex and vexing inpatient cases I’ve had, appropriately camouflaged to protect people’s identities… But it’s so hard to keep details secret and still deliver the punch.
I could write about our ongoing complex and vexing child behavioral issues… But I’m just too tired.
So I’ll keep it very brief with a little anecdote about culture.
Babyboy and I took our two fat, happy felines to the vet. See, we’re considering adding a family dog to the household, and the rescue organization we plan to apply through requires a veterinary reference. Meaning, we need a veterinarian to vouch that we’re good animal parents.
Now, we hadn’t brought our beasts in for a physical in about four years. They don’t go outside, except when Leo dashes out the door and makes a break for the birdfeeders, only to be caught about thirty seconds later. They have no health issues, apart from being overweight. So, we haven’t bothered to take them in.
I know, I know. BAD ANIMAL PARENTS.
So, I made an appointment. It was my day off. I planned to get them in the cages in the car, pick up Babyboy at school, and take everyone to the vet, like for an outing.
Leo was cake to get in his cat cage. I opened the little door and he walked right in. Raffy had to be stuffed in backwards.
Babyboy was very excited at the prospect of a visit to the animal doctor. He’s fairly obsessed with doctors, not because of me, but because he worships his pediatrician, Dr. Ben. He actually pretends to be Dr. Ben, by wearing a stethoscope around his neck in classic fashion, plus my pager or anything resembling a pager tucked into his pants waistband, and carrying a notepad that he scribbles little o’s and lines and says he’s “writing a ‘scription”.
So we all walked into the vet office, a tad early. The very young vet technician bubbled over Babyboy. “What are your cat’s names?” she asked.
Babyboy readily answered, pointing at each one. “DIS one is RAFFY, and DIS one is LEO.”
“Oh!” She exclaimed. “Is Raffy named after Raffy, the children’s singer?”
Now, I’ve kind of heard of that guy, but Babyboy hadn’t, and he just seemed kind of confused.
“No,” I stepped in, “They’re named actually for Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael…We got them before the kids were born,” extra info offered by way of explanation for the artsy names.
“Oh!” She exclaimed again. “Of course! Of course they would be named after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. That’s so cute.”
I bit my lip here. There was not a trace of irony on her part. I do not think the girl knew that the Turtles were actually named for Italian Renaissance painters.
But when I related the story to Hubby later, and we talked about it, it was not in a making-fun way. It was more in a how-do-we-prevent-that kind of way. How do we raise children who hear the name Leonardo Da Vinci and know he was not just a cartoon turtle? Who know some basics about art and music and history…
We talked about playing more classical music at home. And (again) about turning off the T.V. Reading more books. Taking them to museums. Et cetera.
But it’s just SO HARD right now. Going to the supermarket is a risky adventure. What if Babyboy spits on someone, again? What if Babygirl throws one of her new and spectacular tantrums, again? What if she vomits during it, again? What if either/ both has a blowout poopie, again? What if they pummel each other and scream and yell and cry and, oh, hell, I’ll just stay home and order from Peapod.
Forget the museum. Not right now.
But how do we raise cultured children?