Dolan  Christmas  New Year Easter Quiz – Version 2010

This quiz will count as 53% of your final grade in Dolanology.  Please use a
#2 pencil and fill in your answers completely.

1.  Last summer the Dolans
a.  took our Bedbug Circus on the road to New York City!
b.  spent a lot of time on our vuvuzela lessons.
c.  moved to West Texas.  Yee-haw!

2.  SugarDaddy’s new job
a.  requires him to ask for squatters’ advice from Randy Quaid.
b.  does not involve performing TSA patdowns on perfect strangers.  (That’s just his hobby.)
c.  is [military legal job.]

3.  Last fall, Dolanmama
a.  finally learned the difference between a schlemiel and a schlimazel.
b.  figured out that if she put “Happy New Year” on the Christmas cards, she’d buy herself another week to mail them.  Score!  (Sigh. Still late.)
c.  went back to school and plans to apply for a BSN nursing program this spring.

4.  The big kids
a.  saw a full-on double rainbow all the way across the sky!  So intense!  <delirious sobbing>  What does this mean??
b.  still don’t understand exactly what it is that the Kardashians *do*.
c.  are all playing tennis and really liking high school.

5.  This year, BabyGirl
a.  is a guidette.  Pass the bronzer.
b.  will celebrate the new year with an oral reading of the Constitution.
c.  started preschool two days a week and loves it.

6.  The Dolan family wishes
a.  Kate and William much luck in planning a wedding on such a tight budget.
b.  Bieber would just cut the hair already.
c.  you all a very merry Christmas and a most wonderful New Year!

The first time I registered my 6-year-old quadruplets for soccer, I was surprised; no score would be kept at the matches.  It was explained that no child should feel like a “loser,” so each side would be considered winners regardless of the number of goals scored. Therefore, the kid on the sidelines picking new specimens for his grass-blade collection would be told he plays as well as the future Olympic soccer star.  And they are both put on the same level as the kid who intentionally trips members of the other team and cries to her parents if she doesn’t get to kick the ball every time.

As my children have participated in various activities, the collection of trophies, medals, and certificates has grown rapidly.  It seems that every workshop, competition, and class-completion includes an awards ceremony where no child is overlooked.  I have heard some children comment, “It’s OK if you don’t do it right.  Everyone gets a medal anyway.”  These children understand the underlying concept of  the “entitlement mania” described by Mr. Goodwin:  every child will be rewarded for their performance, even if there was no effort, cooperation, or respect shown in the activity.

This message is also conveyed by “helicopter parents.”  This term, originally used by Cline and Fay in their book Parenting with Love and Logic, refers to parents who are constantly hovering over their children and attempting to shield them from negative experiences, including failure.  What these parents are teaching their children is that others will always bail them out of a difficult situation and that no results are needed to be “successful.”  When a parent constantly runs interference with teachers, coaches, and friends, there is no chance a child will learn to handle their own difficult situations and triumph over adversity.  If Mom and Dad are making sure that the child never founders, there will be no new skills learned or ideas formed by working through a failure.

Dealing with difficulties and failures allows our children to celebrate real success, develop stronger character, and create new concepts and solutions to handle their problems.  As a society, we should value these benefits enough to make sure our children are allowed the opportunity to fail, thereby giving them every chance to succeed.

[Note:  This is an essay I am entering into a scholarship contest based on the book New Threats to Freedom, edited and introduced by Adam Bellow.  I am enjoying the book and encourage my regular readers (that would be you, Mom) to check it out.]

The first was last week when she informed the class that she believed that twins can communicate telepathically.  She then turned to one of my quads and asked, “Can you and your siblings do that?”  He replied, “Yes ma’am, I’m getting something from my brother right now.”  (No idea where he got that sarcastic sense of humor.  Love my kids.)  Witch Mountain may not be the most accurate resource on twins.

Tony and Tia: neither could hide their Eddie Albert fantasies from the other.

A few days later, she was discussing reproduction.  She informed the class that, “Sometimes people take fertility drugs so they’ll have more than one baby.”  The HOM (Higher Order Multiples) community will be so disappointed to know someone is on to our game.  Many used fertility resources because we wanted our pregnancies to be physically difficult, our kids to be born months early and dangerously underweight, and to watch our babies struggle to stay alive.  Oh, and feeding and caring for four infants at one time is something I had always dreamed of.  (Hey, there’s that sarcasm!)

Apu was just asking for it.

Excluding the OctoMom, everyone I’ve ever met, heard of, or emailed with who has used fertility drugs or procedures has had one goal: to have A baby.  In fact, depending on the medication or procedure, 80-95% of people who use a fertility option have a single baby and no one is ever the wiser.

Currently, the class is spending a lot of time discussing albinism.

A young, bald, albino boy with unusual powers. Yes, but can he talk to his sister with ONLY HIS MIND?!

I think this teacher and I could have a great weekend with our combined Netflix queues and a bottle of chianti.

I prefer mesquite.

The best part about this is that the person who wrote this probably required her “boyfernd” to get a “Baby Gril” tattoo.  There is a high possibility that someone, somewhere, has this permanently etched in their flesh.  And?  Doesn’t even know it’s misspelled.

On a related note, I saw a woman at WalMart with a large tattoo on her arm:  “This to shall pass.”  I was dying to ask her “to whom?”  But she looked like she could seriously mess me up.

I spent the next two days Googling “how to kill scorpions” and inspecting every inch of the girls’ floor with a bottle of Ortho Home Defense in my hand.  I explained to the big kids that scorpions like to hide in clothes lying on the floor and they need to pick up their rooms.  (Hey, I don’t know if it’s true, but why not use the crisis to my advantage?  It could be true.)  We were shaking out our sheets before bed and knocking out our shoes before putting them on.  I was checking with my friend, DeAnna, who was actually stung by a scorpion when we were camp counselors together in North Georgia–that pretty much makes her the most-informed scorpion expert I know.

Researching scorpions on the internet, I read that when exposed to a black light, scorpions will glow green.  It sounded like a way to combine finding the little sucker and doing a cool science experiment.  So I put black light on my shopping list.  (An aside–I haven’t had the strength to write a post covering the move to our new house because that will just bring on the tears.  But the state of the rental house we moved into was appalling.  Stains, odors, holes in the walls, torn carpet . . . the list goes on.  I had to spend an entire week cleaning before we could move in our furniture and belongings.  Cleaned the carpet twice and it was still pulling up dirty water.  Suffices to say, I feel like the house might be clean and presentable about the time we’re ready to vacate in three years.)  The Queen, who has a background in law enforcement and super-smart detective skills, strongly warned me against the black light.  She explained how that light will show all sorts of urine, fecal, blood and other unmentionable-type stains and that, considering what filthy pigs the tenants before us had been, I probably did not want to see that.  I followed her advice.  Really, the whole house probably needs to be bleached.

Anyway, two nights later, SugarDaddy and I are sitting and watching TV and he suddenly points to the floor and dramatically announces, “There.  It.  Is.”  Sure enough, the scorpion was crawling on the living room rug.  The most concerning thing to me was that it had originally been upstairs and was now downstairs.  If nasty little creatures like these are learning to use the stairs, what’s next?  They’ll be texting their friends to come over?  I grabbed a shoe and hammered the thing.  Which made the shoe AND the scorpion bounce up into the air, frightening the cat in SugarDaddy’s lap who left scratches on his arm as she took her little furry butt as far away as possible.  It was still moving, so I picked up the shoe again (I’m sure with just two fingers) and hammered again.  Again, everything bounces up into the air.  There was lots of squealing and jumping and running involved.  But I was victorious.

It just LOOKS evil, amiright?

Of course, all of my sweet friends and family keep saying cheerfully, “You know, where there’s one, there are probably more!”  So I am using the ottoman a lot now to keep my feet up where the scorpions (and sharks and alligators) can’t get them.  My friend, Ben, totally shirked his work responsibilities to make this for me:

I love my friends.

UPDATE:

Number Two? Meet the bottom of my shoe. It's official, my house has SCORPIONS, PLURAL.

Forty years old and I had to get a wisdom tooth pulled last week.  My dentist assured me he could do it since I didn’t feel the need to be put under general anesthesia.  He wiggled and pried.  Tugged and twisted.  For, like, a reaaaalllly long time.  Finally, the tooth started to move and he tried to get it out with one of those instruments I refuse to look at because it looks like something out of a torture scene in a war movie.  But I don’t think a loud “CRACK!” is what you’re supposed to hear when a tooth comes out.  One of the roots broke off and stayed behind in my jawbone.  Niiiiice.

So, he packs my mouth with gauze and sends me to the oral surgeon on an “emergency” basis.  The oral surgeon shoots me up with a little more Novocaine and then, I kid you not, picked up something that looked exactly like a corkscrew and popped the root out.  Which means, with enough wine, I could have performed the procedure in my kitchen.

All goes well for about five days.  And then the real pain hits.

Apparently, dry socket is every bit as painful as the Wikipedia description says.  (A Wiki entry accurate?  Crazy.)  Hours of sitting around holding my jaw, earaches, the ability to see bone when I look into the tooth hole–I pretty much covered all the bases.  I finally dug out the prescription written for me when the tooth was first extracted and took it to the drug store.  All I can say is

Percocet.  Kicks.  Ass.

Three years ago, when BabyGirl was born, I was scheduled for a c-section but went into labor the night before.  The docs admitted me and gave me a bit of narcotics to keep me pain-free until my early-morning operation.  In labor, I slept better than Sugar Daddy (who was over on the futon in my room.)  Afterward, I kept saying, “I finally understand why people get addicted to narcotics–they’re awesome!”

I mean, once you get over the dizziness.

And the whole constipation thing.

Oh, and the uncontrollable itching.  GAH, THE ITCHING!!  Otherwise, though, a winner!

Through the miracle of pharmaceuticals, I was able to live pain-free (at least physically) while I healed.  Now, would it indicate a drug problem if I volunteered to have some other teeth pulled?

-When we moved into our house and I opened my dryer that had been in storage for three years, I found a load of clothes from 2007.  Luckily, they had dried, so no odor.  But I don’t think the wrinkles will ever come out.  I was wondering what happened to those jeans . . .

-My favorite church billboard this week:  “Facebook notification.  God has sent you a friend request.”

-You know you live in Texas when . . .at the store last week I heard this over the intercom: “Attention associates.  Customer needs assistance in Firearms.”

-Driving through the back roads this weekend, I saw a business with a big sign out front–”GUNS and REAL ESTATE.”  Makes you wonder which came first and why the second was thought to be such a good mesh with the original.

-BabyGirl kept insisting that her toy needed Chick-Fil-A batteries.  (Go ahead, say it out loud–any idea what she’s saying?)  Took me way too long to realize she was trying to say Triple A.  (We’re Southern, so our enunciation isn’t always the most exact.)

-Had to order a new toilet seat and when it came in the mail, there was a complimentary sample pack of Jelly Belly jelly beans included.  WTH?

-In our new rental house, the bathrooms have wall phones installed next to the toilets.  Really?  I gotta talk to someone so badly that I can’t wait until after I finish?

-DS2 re-discovered our electric keyboard as we were unpacking.  For about a week it was exclusively used to play the 5-note alien signal from Close Encounters of the Third Kind . . .over and over and over.  And over.

-Found out that in Texas, anyone under the age of 9 must be accompanied by an adult when hunting.

-Passed a road-side business last weekend:  Sheds and Mattresses — Rent to Own!  Again, what would make someone certain that these are two perfectly compatible business ventures?

-Freshly hand-made tortillas ROCK!

-You know what probably should not mix?  Fresh peach daiquiris and the process of eliminating wasp nests.  Hilarity ensued.  (You do NOT want your point, spray, duck, and run reflexes slowed.)

I love being a mom.  I love spending time with  my kids and teaching them new things. All that is great.  I am not, however, cut out for this potty-training thing.  Not sure what it is about a little pee pee in the potty that throws me for such a loop on the stress roller coaster.  Maybe because I don’t want to spend weeks cleaning up child waste, but also don’t want to psychologically damage said child . . . any more than  would be considered normal in the Dolan home.

BabyGirl is almost four.  And has been in diapers until the recent jump into training.  The big kids trained late, but were very pliable and eager-to-please.  BabyGirl?  Not so much.  A few weeks ago, I was able to sit her on the potty and get one (1) pee pee and one (1) surprise poo nugget.  After that, whenever we’d talk about how big girls go potty in the toilet, she’d look at me like I was a total idiot and reply, “I did go potty in the toilet.”  Like, she had checked that box and was quite happy to move on in her increasingly-snug diapers.

We tried the “oh-goodness-we’re-out-of-diapers” strategy.  We tried telling her she could choose any toy in the Wal-Mart if she used the toilet.  (And subsequently had to explain that this meant all. the. time. Not just that once.)  We told her that she could move up to the “big girl” Sunday school at church.  She replied that she wanted to be a baby and wear diapers forever.  She refused to watch any of us go.  She’d turn her back and hide her face in her hands.  She had no problem sitting in her own filth for hours or until the diapers began to leak.

So, three weeks ago, we started prepping her for the final push.  There was a big party at church a week away and we started telling her that after the party, there were no more daytime diapers.  She was very enthusiastic!  Yes, yes!  I can’t wait to go pee pee in the potty!  This is going to be awesome!

The day after the party, she was struck with a sudden case of amnesia.  Wait, what?  Potty who?  I spent an hour and a half that first morning kneeling on the floor of the church ladies’ room trying to reason with a three year-old.  (A futile endeavor, btw.)  But as soon as we got home, she had a successful potty visit.  Yay!  She still was a little resistant, but getting the hang of it.

Fast forward two weeks and she has pretty much mastered the #1 potty visits.  We’re half-way there.  But during the day I will often see her walking on her toes and clenching her little tush, her face a picture of concentration.  Apparently, we still have a ways to go with the #2 jobs.

Hmm.  I got nothin’.

Being anxious and depressed when everything is going OK really makes you feel like a whiner.  But you can’t change your brain chemistry by trying to look on the bright side, despite all the times you’re told to “get over it.”  (BTW? Totally. Not. Helpful.)

I was still on the Wellbutrin that has been my constant anti-depressant for the past ten years or so, but something had gone seriously wrong and I needed more that could relieve the overwhelming anxiety.  I tried every prescription medication you can think of.  They either had side effects I couldn’t live with (hello, Zoloft, Celexa, Lexapro, Cymbalta) or made me feel ten times crazier than before (lookin’ at you, Abilify, with hatred in my heart.)  My psychiatrist literally threw up her hands and said, “I don’t know what else to do with you.”

Years ago, I had taken some herbal supplements for my depression and anxiety, and decided that I had nothing to lose by trying those again.  The thing that had given me the most relief for anxiety in the past was Kava Kava.  Within three weeks of starting back on the Kava, I started to feel the dark cloud lift.  After EIGHT MONTHS of daily crying jags and thinking I’d never feel “normal” again, I began to feel better.  It wasn’t all at once, and I still had a few melancholy days here and there, but my anxiety improved over the next month or two and those down days became less and less frequent.  My horrible social anxiety also was reduced down to almost zero.  Don’t want to sound like a Kava commercial, but I wish more mental health professionals knew about this and could recommend it.  Can’t say enough good stuff about it.

Anyway, that dark hole pretty much colored most of my year.  As my wonderful, patient, wise husband told me, “Sometimes you have to force yourself to appreciate your life and experiences until you start to feel better.”  That’s what I did.  So, in spite of everything, I can look back and know I enjoyed time with my family on several vacations, proudly watched my husband get promoted, saw my beautiful children grow into people that I both love and like, and spent time with friends–even if I was bat-shit crazy for most of those engagements.

As I was getting ready for Christmas this year, we had a huge snowstorm hit our area.  All of the gifts that I had ordered online were late arriving and by the 23rd, not a single one of DD3′s presents were here.  I was talking to her and told her how upset I was that her stuff might not make it by Christmas morning and how I might just have to print pictures of the presents to give her instead.  I was just about to cry when my smart, sarcastic, dear daughter said, “Uh, remember the REAL meaning of Christmas, Charlie Brown?”

So, I guess I just can wish that anyone going through a dark time inside their head will try to remember the big picture.  The REAL meaning of Christmas, family, life.  And force yourself to focus on that until your natural abilities return.  It may not seem like it, maybe not for a really long time, but it can get better.

This is the annual Dolan Quiz (Version 2009)—we hope you have your pencils sharpened and all of your books under your desk.  You may begin . . .now.

1. In August, Sugar Daddy
   1. built a large silver balloon to carry BabyGirl over the surrounding countryside.
   2. asked (yet again), “Why can’t we just do a normal Christmas letter?”
   3. was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel.

1. Over the summer, the big kids
   1. were instrumental in bringing the 2016 Olympics to Rio. (Sorry, Chicago.)
   2. finally got rid of that stubborn skin infection.
   3. turned 13 and went white water rafting with their grandparents.

1. Our family’s travels this year
   1. were part of our court-mandated “family time.”.
   2. helped to spread the H1N1 virus up and down the east coast.  We licked every shopping handle we could find.  Purell, schmurell.
   3. included trips to Niagara Falls; the Outer Banks, NC; Montreal; and a family reunion in Pigeon Forge, TN.  (Where you can find the world’s largest collection of salt and pepper shakers, y’all!)

1. Summer 2010 will find the Dolans
   1. searching for our missing red Swingline stapler.
   2. expressing our feelings about DC traffic through interpretive dance.
   3. moving back to Texas.  We’ll be hangin’ in [Texas town] this time.

1. DS1 and DS2n are enjoying
   1. hanging out with Kanye . . .but they never seem to be able to finish a sentence.
   2. perfecting their dart skills.  If only they’d hit the dart board.  The vet says the cat should recover.
   3. playing soccer after school and chatting on their new Facebook accounts.

1. DD3 and DD4’s smiles are brighter these days because
   1. there’s an app for that.
   2. they know that all the boys are getting for Christmas are leopard print Snuggies.
   3. they’ve had their braces removed after 1½ years of orthodontia.

1. This year, BabyGirl
   1. went Rogue.
   2. accepts full responsibility for our Christmas cards not being sent out until December 29th.
   3. debated princess vs. pirate for her Halloween costume. (Her decision?  Princess, natch.)

1. Dolanmama
   1. can haz cheezburger?
   2. needs to be anesthetized to get to sleep every night.  (What?  Too soon for Michael Jackson jokes?  Maybe next year . . .)
   3. moved to a new Irish dance school and helps out with our church’s Women’s Fellowship.

1. In November, Dolanmama and the big kids
   1. sculpted a miniature Taj Mahal out of butter.  (Unsalted.)
   2. attended a White House function.  Guest list, schmest list.
   3. rocked it at the Tobymac concert!

1. The Dolans
   1. have never met a cookie they didn’t like.
   2. Love cash and clunkers.  Why do we have to choose?
   3. hope you have had a wonderful year and holiday season and send you our best wishes for 2010.

When you are done, you may put down your pencil and sit quietly until the bell rings.