your self-esteem boost for the weekend

When we first moved into this house, we noted that the previous owners had added a few design flourishes which were a little bit, shall we say, rococo for our tastes. Some of them came down immediately--the full wall mirrors in several areas, the gold-painted mirror flanked by a roulade and cherub motif in the half bathroom. But some of the others, like the gold (colored) doorknobs on the French doors throughout, while not quite my taste, seemed innocuous and certainly functional enough.

Seemed.

The problem with these doorknobs, I've found, is that I keep getting hooked on them. Not anyone else, just me. Everyone else in this house is either tall enough or short enough to avoid this particular problem, but at my height (5'2" and a half--and if you don't think that half inch is important, you much be much taller than 5'2") these doorknobs all over the house are right at waist height. Belt loop height, to be exact. I keep getting hooked on these doorknobs. And you would think that it's easy enough to unloop oneself, but look at that doorknob a little closer. The loop is a little bit spiralled, like a nautilus. Like one of those barbed fishooks. And once you get hooked, it's actually unusually difficult to extricate yourself.

Yesterday, I went to Costco to do some grocery shopping. We had a nice time in Orlando, but when we came home the food situation in the larder was a little bare-bones, and breakfast that morning was somewhat thin, which inexplicably panicked the kids. (Under normal circumstances I don't think they'd have any trouble with a breakfast of cereal and milk, but the fact that that's all there was to eat suddenly had them eyeing the USDA food pyramid and acting like we were the Joads in Dust Bowl Americana or some such thing.)  So anyway, I went to Costco and stocked up on, whatever, a coffin-sized flat of strawberries, cinder-block sized bricks of cold cuts, the like--and headed back to the house to stick the perishables in the fridge before heading out again to pick up the kids from school.

Only, as usual, I got hooked on the doorknob. One of my back belt loops. And I had turned the home security alarm on before I'd left for the store, so now that was counting down the 40 seconds or however much time I had to punch in my code until the alarm went off. I calmly laid down my drum of peanut butter and body-bag-sized sack of raisins and went about calmly disentangling myself, only to grow increasingly less calm as the second continued to tick by and I was still caught on the spiral of the doorknob hook. Looking at it straight on, it seems like it should be easy enough, but looking at it from above and behind, for some reason I couldn't get my belt loop out.

The forty seconds elapsed, and now the external security alarm started to go off with a loud whoop whoop whoop sound which, in theory, would bring the police (or at the very least, a local citizen militia) running to help defend the old homestead. I began to panic. I had to turn off that alarm, but the security pad was at least ten feet away on the far wall of the kitchen. Plan A, the straightforward plan, was not working, so I thought: my pants. If I can't get my pants out of the doorknob, I had to take off my pants instead.

So I took off my shoes. I undid my top pants button and unzipped the fly. As I started to shimmy out of my pants it occurred to me that if someone did show up to investigate the alarm, what they'd find would be a pair of beige corduroys hanging from my kitchen door, and me, pantsless, standing in a scattered pile of bulk pistachio nuts, BUT NEVER MIND ABOUT THAT NOW, JUST TURN OFF THE ALARM, DUMBASS.

It took a little while longer to realize that it's actually pretty difficult to take off your pants if you can't pull your pants down--the pants were still hooked on the doorknob at waist-level, remember--when suddenly, I was free.  Free!  I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS, FUCKERS!  What happened eventually was that the beltloop broke. Thank you, Gap Incorporated, for your shoddy tailoring. I hurriedly punched in the security code, stopped the alarm, and waited for the security company to call and make sure that I was OK, just like in all those commercials where the dark-clothed, stocking capped burglar (in broad daylight, like, nice camoflage job, guy) inexplicably tries to break into that house in where the mom and her daughter are baking cookies or whatnot else wholesome and good.

The security company never checked in, by the way. And while, yes, there was no real emergency, it was just me, my pants, and an over-designed doorknob, for all they know, I COULD BE DEAD. Whether it's a good thing or a bad thing that no one in this densely populated neighborhood came around to witness my shame, I can't quite decide yet.

next stop, Madame Pomfrey's

OK, not to make this page, like, HARRY POTTER CHAT or anything like that, but do you have a kid in your life who likes Harry Potter?  Because then by all means, if you're ever in Orlando, take them to Universal Studios and go to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  Because oh my god you guys, HARRY POTTER.

We were in Orlando last week for the annual meeting of the American Academy of Ophthalmologists, which basically gave us a great excuse to do something that we wanted to do anyway.  Universal Studios even had a night where they kept the park open for special extended hours for Academy members and their families, and while this meant that none of my outdoor pictures turned out at all (my cell phone camera does decently with low light conditions, but there are limits, after all), you'll just have to trust me that, perhaps especially at night, this place looked really magical.

The area is set up as some sort of amalgam of Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, and while there were a few rides and a replica of the Hogwarts Express (which puffed smoke but didn't actually go anywhere), the area basically consisted of numerous storefronts (Zonko's! Dervish and Banges!) and food vendors (Three Broomsticks, scattered Butterbeer stands) in order to move Potter-branded merchandise.  And I realize that that's sort of the cynical reality of things, and that everything was of course ridiculously overpriced and designed to prey on your love of the books or your weakness for indulging your own children--but look guys, I'm not made of stone.  Kids, hope you're in the mood to stay up late, because WE BE GETTIN' SOME CHOCOLATE FROGS AT HONEYDUKES.

The absolute best thing at Harry Potter World though (and the one thing that Cal really, really wanted to see) was Ollivander's Wand Shop.

The wand shop was set up as more of a show really, where small groups of about thirty people at a time were escorted into the store and Ollivander picks a kid out of the throng to perform what they called a "wand-pairing demonstration." The demonstration is much as was depicted in the movies--Ollivander hands various wands to the chosen, instructs him to do some kind of magical task, and the magic goes all haywire until Ollivander finally picks the correct wand, at which point a spotlight shines and aaaaaahhh! a chorus of angels sings from on high because the wand has selected the wizard, blah blah magic talk.

This bit of whimsey, of course, is followed by the cold hard reality of them shuffling you out to the storefront where you have the "option" to purchase the special, magical wand that chose you above all others. (You'll notice that I put the word option in quotes, because really, unless you're some kind of steely-willed gorgon, there is no way in hell after that little show where your kid is looking at you with the wide-eyed wonder of oh my god, this shit just got real that you're not going to buy that thing. There's just no way. In fact, if you're really determined not to shell out for a wand, do yourself a favor and don't even walk in there.  I WARNED YOU.)

I do also find it ironic that it was the annual meeting for the American Academy of Ophthalmologists that led to a night of so many kids running around pointing long tapered sticks out in each others faces, but perhaps they haven't been doing as many ruptured globe or orbital trauma repairs as usual and want to make up the shortfall before year's end. Well played, ophthalmologists. Well-played.

lumos

I was excited when Cal started making the move from reading-as-deciphering to reading-for-comprehension because finally, finally, we could do nerd stuff together.  As a child endowed with neither facility at sports nor a particularly gregarious nature, I read a lot of books as a child, many of which I remember vividly to this day.  Not that they were all quality books by any means--I do think I read both "Sweet Valley High" and "The Babysitters Club" series in their entirety well beyond the age when I should have known better--but I read a lot of other books too.  And I read constantly.  I read at dinner, with the book in my lap under the table.  I read in the shower (note: not advisible).  I read on the subway on the way to school, and I read when I was outdoors, ostensibly getting some fresh air and exercise.  I read a lot.  So when Cal started to get to the age where he could actually start read on his own, for fun, I was super-excited, both for him, and for me to finally have an excuse to re-read the full Beverly Cleary opus.

And I have to admit, it was a bit of an uphill climb at first.  Cal liked being read to (I think I'd mentioned the "Illustrated Classics" series here already, and he particularly enjoyed the science-fiction-adventure story picks of that lot--your War of the Worlds, your 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, what have you) but I still think he viewed reading for himself as a bit of a slog.  I got him some easier chapter books (in particular he had mentioned reading some of the "Cam Jansen" books at school--basically your standard kid mystery series, Case of the Missing Dinosaur Bones, that kind of thing--and while it didn't seem like great storytelling I did particularly like that the protagonist was a girl and her best friend was a boy who was always babysitting his baby brother) and Cal worked his way through a dozen of those, mostly when I asked him to.  But it still kind of felt like that to him: work.  He'd read two or three chapters after school, mostly on assignment, and then, duty dispensed, he'd go and do something he really wanted to do, like write the definitive illustrated reference guide to prehistoric reptiles or some such thing.

I figured I wouldn't push it.  I figured he wasn't ready.  I figured (and this I kept to myself, but with growing dismay) that not every kid loves to read, and just because Cal didn't want to read in the bathtub didn't mean that he wouldn't have a rich intellectual life.  (This was a recurring theme--many of my paperbacks from childhood and adolescence were more than a little warped from water exposure.)

I got the Harry Potter series for Cal...kind of...but also just because I thought they were books that were worth owning, period.  I expected Cal would like to read them eventually, of course, but I didn't really think he'd be quite ready for them yet--some of the writing and plot are a little dense at points, and the dialogue and vernacular is a touch continental (stuff like Ron exclaiming "bloody hell!" all the time, people referring to large groups of students as "you lot"--which I guess is the British version of all y'all) but, you know, I figure we'd have them lying around for later, and maybe Cal would pick them up and leaf through them if and when he wanted to.

A couple of months ago, we started reading "The Sorcerer's Stone" to Cal at bedtime.  We watched the movie.  Cal started getting interested, pointing out that while he liked the movie because it "showed what things look like," he liked the book better because it had details and some side plots that necessarily got dropped from the film version.  (I'd argue, actually, that they weren't judicious enough in their editorial process for that first film--have you tried to re-watch that thing?  God, it's like Exposition City, and it just goes on forever.)  We got through "The Chamber of Secrets," Joe and I reading most of it aloud, Cal reading some of it himself.  First he read it aloud to us.  Then I started noticing him silently reading it alone, while I was cooking dinner, or taking care of Mack.  We finished the second book and instantly he picked up "The Prisoner of Azkaban."  He started reading in the car.  I took him to Target the other day (to buy underwear for Mack, remember), and he was reading as we made our way down the aisles.  These past few weeks, we've been seeing more of this:

He has one of the lanterns from our camping trip in the bottom bunk of his bed, and he says up late, reading Harry Potter.  He begs us to let him read for ten more minutes, to let him finish the chapter, he'll go to sleep right after, but it's the part with Quidditch, mom, just let me finish the part with the Quidditch.  Right under our noses, he's made the jump from reading for comprehension to reading for enjoyment.

I guess the real conclusion from all this is something that no one needed me to point out, which is that J.K. Rowling is a very good writer.  That, and maybe we need to get a better reading light for Cal's room.

the underwear drawer

I can be a gunner as much as anyone else, but when it comes to my approach towards getting my kids reliably toilet-trained, my attitude can euphemistically described as...well, lackadaisical.  To be fair, that's their attitude toward the enterprise as well (toilet training is one of the few "big boy" things in which Mack has absolutely no interest--his approach towards pooping in a diaper is the same as Homer Simpsons take on littering: "It's easier.  Duh."), but we figured he's not quite ready and we're kind of lazy, so let's all kill the earth a little more and subscribe and save on Amazon Prime, shall we?  (Diapers.  I'm talking about buying diapers.)

Thankfully (?) the preschool that we're sending Mack to has a more hardline approach towards the matter, and now that he's moving up one level (from the two-and-a-half year-old classroom to the two-and-three-quarters year-old classroom, apparently) they are going full on immersion therapy.  No more diapers at school.  Only underwear.  Sink or swim.  Oh, and also, please send in four or five spare changes of clothes for the first few weeks.

We had a few pairs of underwear lying around (I had originally bought them about six months ago as an enticement towards the idea of toilet training--Mack cheerfully tugged one pair on over his diapers and and pair over his head and has continued to wear them this way ever since, so the bloom is kind of off the rose for that one) but this afternoon, in anticipation of the new, uh, addition to his curriculum, we bought a few more packs of briefs for the rotation.

I'm sure in the next few days we're going to be pretty sick of washing these things, but you have to admit--those teeny tiny underoos are pretty freaking cute.

where context is key

The season that it is cool enough to wear sweaters and scarves, but not cold enough to have to wear those big poofy winter jackets.  Since we live in Atlanta, weather like this will last until, oh, just around Thanksgiving, and resume probably by the end of January.  Not a bad deal.

(Also, if you're thinking that the only reason to have kids is to dress them up in cute little clothes for the fall, you're 75% right.  The other 25% is to legitimize buying a lot of Halloween candy.  DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN.)

Anyway, this spawned a good amount of discussion on Twitter when I first posted it, but I just wanted to open it up here in the > 140 character arena.  An article in The New York Times today detailed the growing trend of non-physician practitioners (such as, to give one example, nurse practitioners) introducing themselves as "doctors" to patients in a clinical setting.  One argument is that, as someone with a doctoral degree, they deserve the honorific, and earning these doctoral degrees (I'll quote directly from the article here) "can help them land a top administrative job at a hospital, improve their standing at a university and win them more respect from colleagues and patients."

My personal take is this: indeed, anyone who earns a doctoral degree has earned the right to be called "doctor."  No one is disputing that, or taking respect or recognition from anyone who has earned that doctorate.  But I would also point out that the term "doctor" has a very specific meaning in a clinical setting, and that the shades of grey ("I'm not a medical doctor but I do have a doctorate in nursing,") can be confusing or simply lost on a patient or their family, especially in the setting of an already complicated interaction in the hospital.

Some people argue that there is ego involved, and I don't doubt it--and might I point out there's likely a lot of ego on both sides, from the physician side for wanting to "defend" the title of doctor, and from the non-physician side in their desire to assert their own rich and well-deserved credentials.  But like with most things in medicine, context is everything, and if we can all agree that the shades of differentiation of the term "doctor" are particularly fraught in the clinical milieu (and thus confusing to patients) perhaps ego can and should be put aside in the name of transparency.

There is also the issue of responsibility.  In most situations in the hospital, the physician has the ultimate responsibility for the patient and what happens to them.  As the physician, I am the bottom line, and whatever happens "under" me (someone misinterprets my order, a medical trainee under my supervision causes patient injury, a medication error occurs not directly because of me but under my watch)--in the end that's my responsibility and no one else's.  When I introduce myself as "Doctor Au," that's part of the implicit understanding, and patients need to enter into that doctor-patient relationship where trust and the assumption of that ultimate responsibility go hand in hand.  It may not seem like more than semantics to some people, but when you present yourself to a patient as their "doctor," in a hospital, that has to mean something very specific, for the understanding and ultimately the protection of the patients under all of our care.

In my mind, if someone calls themselves "doctor" during a professional interaction in the hospital, I assume that they are a physician, and I think I'm safe to say that most patients feel the same way.  Just the same way that, if I'm in a college French class and the professor introduces him or herself "Doctor Webb," I assume that they have an academic doctoral degree and don't start, you know, taking off my clothes and showing them my rashes.  In medicine, context is everything.

(Incidentally, on the flip side, if a patient asks me to call them "Doctor So-and-so," I will absolutely oblige them, no questions asked.  But then again, I will pretty much call a patient whatever they ask me to call them, including the one patient I had who specifically requested that, when we woke up him up from anesthesia after surgery, we address him as "Big Poppa" because it was the only name he really responded to.  No problem, uh, Mr. Poppa.)