Tag: life

New Year, Same Hilary

Much like Christy, I really don’t put much stock into the whole “New-Year-New-Me” mentality. I’ve tried it. I told myself that I would floss more, eat more fish, eat less dessert, work out more, goof off less, blah, blah, blah. I mean, seeing as I am the quintessential Virgo personality, New Year’s like a fresh start bonanza, but this year, I’m done with self-improvement. It’s all about maintaining the status quo.

I’ve often been told that my expectations of other people, of things, of life in general, are too high. The way I see it, if I keep the bar where it was last year, I won’t be disappointed if I don’t honor my resolutions (Forgot to floss? No problem! Had seconds thirds on dessert? Don’t sweat it!). That way, I can only be pleasantly surprised when things take a turn for the better (Did a load of laundry AND emptied the dishwasher? High five!).

Looks like a win, win to me. So, here’s to keeping the expectations around knee level. Happy New Year!

Continue Reading
IN: ON: January 1, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Why Today Could Have Sucked, But Didn’t

When you wake up to howling winds, rain beating down on your roof like it’s the big, bad, wolf, and temperatures hovering in the low 30s, it’s all to easy to just pull the comforter over your head and chalk the day up as a loss before it even starts. And yet, that’s not what happened today. Today could have sucked, but it didn’t.
It’s really a tie for first place for the first thing that happened that was so awesome. I got to sleep in — hello 7:45am — and DH brought me coffee in bed. When your day starts like that, it can only go up from there. I really don’t think I have to go any further, but I will.
I came downstairs to find breakfast made and waiting for me, the girls fresh-faced and well rested, and the Christmas tree lit, shimmering with holiday goodness. We had a leisurely breakfast while the rain steadily fell down, down, down. The girls dropped their dishes in the sink and their pj’s on the floor in favor of dress-up clothes and arts & crafts. I told Mo that I was going to help DH clean up the kitchen and that I wouldn’t be able to help her with arts & crafts. Guess what? She was totally cool with it and she made paper dolls for herself and her sister — BY HERSELF! Will wonders never cease?!
Mo and Co played so nicely downstairs, constructing a mini puppet theatre out of sofa cushions, their anywhere chairs, and an easel. Somehow, the trail of debris wound it’s way upstairs to their room, but guess what? I didn’t care.
At about 10:30, we decided we should probably motivate and hit the Y. Piling into the car, we wound our way through the rainy Norfolk streets, only to realize we should have used an outboard motor instead of the car to get to there. Norfolk was flooded — again. Detour to the Harris Teeter for some groceries because if you can’t work out at the Y and you certainly can’t work out outside, the only thing to do is bake!
DH and I had the kitchen running like a well oiled machine. He decided he want to make Osso Bucco for dinner tonight — I love it when he watches Food Network — and I decided I wanted to make chocolate chip muffins, chocolate & peanut butter chip cookies with walnuts, and cake balls! I think a big part of the reason today could have sucked but didn’t was because I got to say cake balls at least a dozen times.
We decided to order out for lunch since, despite our trip to the grocery, neither one of us wanted to make anything for lunch. We placed our order and were on our way to pick it up when the rains caused the Lafayette River to swell and flood the streets. Our routes to the restaurant were thwarted, so DH called to cancel the order. The restaurant said, “NO! The food is ready! We’ll bring it to you!” Um, have you seen the streets? You? Bring it to us? Doubtful, but we said alright.
Once at home, we pulled out every pot and pan, every mixing bowl and measuring cup. DH got to chopping, I got to stirring. He was sauteeing, I was mixing. We didn’t have any Christmas carols playing in the background; just the sound of the girls playing upstairs. And then the sound of the doorbell. Holy Cake Balls (hee hee)! The delivery guy made it!
Lunch was served, the children were happy, our bellies were full, and even better, the rain stopped. We put the kids down for some quiet time and then took turns heading outside to do some pre–emptive damage control for all of the junk we plan on eating later on.
It was, to quote my grandma, “colder than a witches tit” outside. 3 miles, an excellent Genius mix, and one frozen nose later, the run was done. Success! That run could have totally sucked, but how can you start to walk when “Fire” comes on.
And now the children are watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas”, the Osso Bucco is simmering nicely in the crockpot, and the cakeballs are resting in the fridge. We’re going to a holiday party tonight and I even know what I’m going to wear and I know that it’s going to fit when I put it on (talk about wonder never ceasing).
Yeah, today could have sucked, but it totally didn’t.
Continue Reading
IN: ON: December 19, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Have You Seen It?

I can’t find my cell phone. Again. I hate how dependent I have become on an electronic device! And the worse part is, my phone isn’t even a state of the art slide-phone with apps and GPS and bells and whistles. I can make calls. I can take calls. I can text. That’s it. Yet, when the phone decides to grow legs and take a personal day, I’m left feeling like I’m missing a limb.
I was 20 when I got my first cell phone. We’re talking 1999, people. I had this Sprint flip phone with a digital display window. Mercifully, it wasn’t the size of my shoe, but it surely wasn’t high on style. It was to be used only in case of emergencies, like when my car broke down on the side of the road or when. . .well, when my car broke down on the side of the road. That’s it. And that was okay. I left it in the charger most times, I took it to and from work with me, but mostly forgot that I had it. Fast forward ten years and while the cell phone model I have is just as antiquated, I count it among the things I have to have when I leave the house. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Cell? Check. I have those three things and I’m good to go. Wait, I’m supposed to have something else. What. . .was. . .it? Wallet, keys, cell. Wallet, keys cell. Oh, the kids! Right.
Anyway, the cell phone has been gone for about 48 hours and I’m starting to worry. It’s not as though I haven’t misplaced my phone before. I lost my phone when we were living in our last apartment. I looked everywhere, I called it from the house phone, nothing. I was worried it had gotten stolen and some yahoo was racking up long distances calls on my nickel. So, I got T-Mobile on the phone and was getting ready to have the whole thing shut off when it occurs to me to ask the sales rep when the last call was made. She gives me the info and I’m puzzled because not only did I make the last call, I know exactly where I was when I made it and what I did when I finished. Cut to the front hall closet, and there, in my jacket pocket, on vibrate (of course), is my phone.
But back to my current predicament. I asked the girls if they’ve seen it, which elicits a “yes” from one and a “no” from the other. I’m not even going to pursue it with them. I ask DH if he’s seen it, to which he replies, “Last time I saw it, you had it.” Thanks, honey.
I channel my inner Sherlock and start re-tracing my steps. Of course, the problem is, if I knew where I had it last, I wouldn’t have to do that, right? So, I just start working my way through the rooms of the house. I check our room, the bathroom, the closets, the girls rooms, the guest room, the other bathroom. I head downstairs, and I ransack the laundry room, the kitchen, the living room, and the family room. In the family room, I upend all of the cushions in the sofas and find the following:
1. several popcorn kernels
2. half of a princess tiara
3. 28 cents
4. two pencils
5. a Netflix envelope with no DVD (whew!)
6. a Barbie brush
7. a Barbie shoe
8. a Valentine’s Day sticker
9. 1 broken potato chip
10. my lovely disposition (I was wondering where that had wandered off to)
I go back upstairs and go through my pocketbooks, even the ones I’ve forgotten I own. I look in my gym bag, I look in shoe boxes. I go back downstairs and look in the pockets of all of my coats (again), even the ones I know I haven’t worn in the past 6 months. I even open a package I had wrapped for the UPS guy hoping that maybe I boxed it up by mistake.
No phone.
I call the phone. I mean, I call it using the house phone, though I’m getting to the point where I’m not above calling out to it, “Phone! Phone, you better answer me when I’m talking to you!” Clearly, this is driving me crazy.
I’m thinking about where I had it last. What was I planning to do? Charge it. So it’s probably somewhere without power. Great. Okay, but where was I going? DH and I were going out of town and I planned to charge the phone when we got to our hotel. But the thing is, I realized on the way out of town that I had forgotten the phone. Ugh, I’m just going down one dead end after another. I figure that I’m take a zen approach and stop looking for it. The phone will come to me. Yeah, that lasted all of an hour.
I got up this morning and started going through the house all over again.
My last resort was to check my car. Again. It’s early, about 5:15 am and I look like Zippity-Do-Dah in my pajamas/sweats and winter coat as I head outside. Turns out we forgot to re-arrange the car seats from DH’s car back to mine, so I figure, I’ll handle that before I look for the phone. I unlock his car on the passenger side and something tells me to stick my hand in that little catch-all pocket affixed to the door.
Sonofa–
I’m getting a leash and a bell for this flippin‘ thing.

Continue Reading
IN: ON: December 14, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Bits and Pieces on a Wednesday Afternoon

I’ve been feeling like crap on toast since Saturday. I’ve gotten a post-Thanksgiving head cold and have been taking a Claritin/Alka-Seltzer Cold cocktail to fight the germs. My mom made me a hot toddy last night, and my train of thought has been boarding at the station ever since. Consider this post Exhibit A.
— What is is it about public toilets? Mo is obsessed with public toilets, or as she simply calls them, “publics“. Like any mother worth her Calgon moments, I make sure everyone has hit the bathroom before we leave the house. When we get to our destination for the day, I ask if anyone has to go to the bathroom. I carry a portable potty in the trunk for this very reason. And still, I find myself in the middle of Wal-Mart with a cart full of food and a 4 year old singing, “Pee pee is coming! Pee is coming!” When we do get to the bathroom, Mo dutifully lines the seat, either with the toilet seat cover or one she fashions out of toilet paper. Once perched upon the seat, she asks me, “Is this a publics?” Um, are we at home? Yes, yes, it’s a public toilet! This past week-end, DH and I took the girls out furniture shopping (a.k.a Dante’s seventh circle of hell). Not five minutes into the trip, Mo announces she has to use the toilet. DH decides to take her, saint that he is, but quickly returns to where Co and I are perusing merchandise and says, “You gotta take her. Someone’s dropping a deuce in the men’s room and it stinks.” Mo looks at me and says, “I went into that publics and I was like, ‘Ewwwww,'”. *sigh*
—- Speaking of public toilets, why is it that no matter how many stalls are in a public bathroom, I always, always, ALWAYS get the one with the warm toilet seat?! *barf*
— If you were to look in the front seat of my car, you’d think that I was living out of my Murano. I can’t take on any passengers because the seat and the floor are full of shopping bags. Now, let me clarify. These aren’t bags full of clothes and shoes from the mall (well, maybe one or two), but it’s stuff that I take with me when I leave the house for the day.
Honestly, it looks as though we’re moving out every morning. Since we’re up and out shortly after 8am every day, I try to be as prepared as possible and pack things that we’ll need until we come home in the late afternoon. I look like Matthew Henson leaving for the North Pole. I’ve got Mo, Co and their school bags. I’ve got my gymbag with a change of clothes and my essential personal care products. I’ve got my purse with my planner, my wallet, a piece of fruit and a bottle of water in it. I’ve got my computer bag holding the computer, the power cord and several magazines. I’ve got our lunch bag with juice boxes, snacks and sandwiches in it. I’ve got my bag of items that need to be returned or exchanged to their respective stores. I’ve got a bag of clothes to drop off at Goodwill. I’ve got a Trader Joe’s bag full of library books that need to be returned. I’ve got another Trader Joe’s bag full of leftover’s from my fridge that I’ll give my parents because my mom doesn’t cook and my dad hates to miss a meal.
I need a Sherpa and a llama.
— Daylight savings means it gets darker earlier, right? It’s barely 3:30 and I just saw the postman walking down the street wearing a miner’s helmet with a canary perched on her shoulder.
Ugh, I’m so congested, I sound like Darth Vader.

Continue Reading
IN: ON: December 2, 2009 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Say, Aren’t You In School?

I have been spending quite a bit of time writing about the goings on that make up the bulk of how I spend my days. I haven’t talked much about nursing school, and that’s been for good reason. I’m not in nursing school any more.

For those of you who know me well, you probably already heard this story, but for those of you who don’t, let me tell you. This is an abbreviated version, but all the facts are true and recalled to the best of my recollection.

What is comes down to is that I didn’t want to be a nurse. It was never my dream. It was more like something I thought I could do and be good at. I have never doubted my abilities when it comes to trying new things. Want to learn a new language? Why not. Want to try a new instrument? Hand it over. Want to try grad school? Absolutely. See, some folks thought my leaving school was because I couldn’t handle the clinicals. Sure, no one wants to wipe senior citizen ass, but you do it because it’s part of the curriculum and it’s part of being a nurse. Did I want to wipe ass and give sponge baths? Nope, not really. Did I wipe ass and give sponge baths. Yes, I did and I was very good at it, too (toot, toot! beep, beep!).
It was never a question of can I or can’t I do it. I can do anything. It was whether I wanted to do it. When you have a passion for something, it doesn’t matter the peaks and valleys you cross to get there. Whatever your goal is, you are so passionate about it, you can’t see yourself separated from that goal. That goal is who you are, what you know. It’s what you eat, sleep, and breathe. It’s what makes you say, “I have always wanted to be XYZ. I have always known that I am supposed to do XYZ.”

So how did I get here? How did I learn the difference between capability and desire as motivating forces? Let’s start at the beginning. When I was pregnant with Co, I had some fantastic pre-natal nurses at my OB’s office. They were smart, efficient and personable women that had a great camaraderie in this practice. I thought, “That looks pretty cool. I could do this.” I talked to some several of the nurses throughout my pregnancy, culling information about how they had gotten into the field. One in particular woman, Lecia, said that she had been an investment banker before deciding that at age 35, that she wanted to be a nurse. At the time, she was married and had two small children. Still, she went back to school and became a nurse. I thought, “Oh, I could totally do that!”

So from there, I started the process of visiting schools, collecting transcripts, fulfilling pre-requisites, and submitting applications. Throughout my education, teachers always wrote on my report cards that I was a great student, but that I needed to slow down and stop rushing. That is advice that I have had a hard time following and my foray into nursing school was no exception. I see that I completely jumped into the whole thing without fully knowing what I was getting into.
In any event, I went through my pre-requisites, I agonized over A&P, as I’m sure you recall. I found that I still enjoyed being in school. I liked being a student, learning something, talking it over with my peers. I made it through first and second semester and submitted my nursing school application. I got in last spring and opted to take the summer off to have one last family filled summer before giving myself over to two years continuous years of school.
School started and I threw myself into it the way I always do. I completely removed myself from all forms of social interaction. School became all consuming. The grading system in nursing school is pretty brutal. Anything less than a 70% is a failing grade. A 94% is the low end of an A-. My grades, of course, were spot on. I have always been the type that bellyaches about how I totally didn’t study for a test, how I’m going to absolutely fail it, blah, blah, blah. Then I get 105 points on an exam. Yeah, this time was no exception either.

I was a little more way through the semester when three things happened:
1. I had just taken an exam that I went into feeling as though I would do alright. I came out of it thinking, “I completely jacked that test up– and not in a good way.” I left the lecture hall and just thought, “You know what? I don’t even care. I just don’t care.” I had called a friend who is about to graduate nursing school this winter and we commiserated on how stressful our lives had become. She said how she had wanted to quit school every single day the past two years, but “[I] have never wanted anything more badly than to be a nurse.” Hmmmm. I chewed on that the rest of the night, but knew full well that I just didn’t feel the same way.

2. That same week, my instructor, now keenly aware of my school related neuroses, pulls me aside and says, “I graded your exam. You got a 100 out of 105.” Okay. . . . . I mean, seriously, I said, “Okay,” as though he said, “Your shoe’s untied.”

3. That week-end, I went to bed around 10pm and woke up at 1:00am. My mind was cycling at top speed and my stomach was doing a slow, roiling burn. I sat down on the couch in a sleep deprived daze. I started to put some pieces together about school, my attitude, my emotions, my place in the world, and how I saw myself.

And here’s where the Aha! moment kicked in — I didn’t want to be a nurse. There it was. It was like this stone I had been carrying in my stomach and I finally coughed it up. I’m not going to say the clouds parted, the Hallelujah chorus kicked in and angels appeared from on high, because that totally didn’t happen. What happened was, in that moment, I grew up.

When they say growing up is hard to do, they ain’t never lied! What followed from that moment was a number of discussions with God, with myself, with DH about what to do next. Was I really going to walk away? Was I going to stick out the rest of the semester? Was I just needing a break from the stress? What am I going to do next? See, school has always been the one thing I could call myself good at. I’m a marginal dancer, I can kinda-sorta play some sports. I know enough French to get through an afternoon if I ever find myself in Paris (one can hope, right?). But school was where I was the master. To walk away from it? Could I really do that? Yes, I could. So, I did.
I wish it was as easy as I’m making it sound, but this is an abridged version of events and I’ve got to rouse the troops. There’s not much more to tell, anyway. And to answer the question, “What did DH say?” — DH is/was/has been/will continue to be supportive of me, though I think it’s because he subscribes to the “Happy Wife, Happy Life,” theory of relationships (kidding, kidding).

And as for what I’m going to do now? Well firstly, I’m going to slow. . .down. . .and then, I’m going to do a whole lot of nothing. Or as close to nothing as one can do when you’re a wife and mother. There’ll probably a bottle of wine and straw involved. . .
Continue Reading
IN: ON: November 25, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Breakfast of Champions

Einstein said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Yeah, I’m manifesting that definition every day.
Every morning, I get up while it’s still dark to savor a few moments by myself. I usually throw on my gym clothes and head downstairs. My routine is pretty much the same: check email, check my buddies’ blogs, toss in a load of wash and empty the dishwasher. I’ve even started making lunches and prepping dinner (yeah, I’m kind of Type A). At about quarter to seven, I set out making breakfast for the girls. Once they get up, I’ve got a pretty tight routine that carries us right up to pre-school drop off.
Take yesterday morning:
6:45 – get breakfast ready
7:00 – get the girls up
7:40 – wrap up breakfast and get dressed for school
8:15 – playtime for Mo and Co/tidying up for me
8:30 – out the door, into the car, off to school
And despite all of my micromanaging, the one thing I haven’t figured out is why is it that by the time I get the girls settled down for breakfast, I realize I haven’t gotten anything for myself? I mean, they’re happily munching away and I haven’t got anything on my plate. I haven’t even got a plate!
Part of this stems from my relentless devotion to Weight Watchers. In the not too distant past, I wouldn’t let anything cross my lips that hadn’t been weighed, measured and calculated for it’s caloric impact on my body. Just grab some toast and slather on some jelly?! Not unless it’s Nature’s Own White Wheat Bread with 7 squirts of I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter and 1/2 tbs of Welch’s Sugar Free Jelly per slice (points=2). Bacon and eggs? Only if it’s two slices Jennie-O turkey bacon and a quarter cup of EggBeaters cooked in a non-stick pan that has been lightly sprayed with olive oil cooking spray (points=2). Weight Watchers can make the even the most sane turn into Sally Albright.
Another part of the problem comes from the fact that I am a notoriouly finicky eater. I eat pizza and baked ziti, but I don’t like cheese. No grilled cheese, cheese and crackers or cheeseburgers. I like shrimp, but not when it’s cooked. I like tomatoes, but on my sandwiches and salads, not in chunks in my spaghetti sauce. I drink fat-free milk, which is the equivalent of water that a cow has walked past, but only with cereal. Milk and cookies? Why desecrate the goodness of the cookie with a sub-par beverage? I like my Cream of Wheat with about a tablespoon of water in it so it’s the consistency of paste rather than soup. I can eat yogurt and bananas, but when I get down to the last bite, I start to gag (I know, I’m starting to make Sally Albright look normal).
Anywhoodle, when it dawns on me that all I have is air-pie while the girls chew on Cheerios, I get up to remedy the situation. The minute my buns break contact with the chair I’m peppered with requests:
Mommy, can I have milk?
Mommy, can I have apple juice?
Mommy, can I have more milk?
Mommy can I have more apple juice?
Mommy, can I have toast without jelly?
Mommy, can I have toast without butter?
Mommy can I have toast with jelly and with butter?
Mommy can I have waffles with bacon and side of French Fries?
I spin and whirl between the fridge and the toaster, each trip pushing my own breakfast that much farther from my grasp. No wonder my stomach to think my throat has been cut. Truth be told, I should know better than to indulge Mo and Co with every breakfast request. On the one hand, I don’t want them to be hungry at school and unable to concentrate. On the other hand, let’s face it: they’re in school from 8:50 to 11:50. 3 hours without nourishment does not a famine make.
I’m only re-inforcing bad behavior with my up and down, up and down antics. I only have myself to blame when my reminders that “I’m not a short-order cook!” bring up snorts and snickers. For Christmas, they’ll probably get me a plastic name badge and a matching hairnet.
By the time I’ve gotten them sufficiently satiated and pull together some kind of semblance of breakfast for myself, they’re done and trying to pull out puzzles, crayons, finger paints, dress-up clothes, and bicycles.
So, I’ve begun a new regime after running through a couple of options. I was tempted to just put the milk, the cereal, the bread, the butter and all les accoutrements on the table during breakfast, but who wants to schlepp it out only to schlepp it back? Besides, I’ve got this thing about milk being left out (gross!), even if it is only for a 20 minute breakfast. I thought about prepping breakfast the night before, but I kept forgetting until I was already in the bed for the night. So I’ve come up with three suggestions rules to keep our morning routine machine well oiled.
1. Breakfast is what is. There are no exceptions, no substitutions, and definitely no returns.
2. Eat what’s on your plate, not what’s on my plate, your sister’s plate, or anyone else’s plate. Quelle surprise! We all have the same thing.

3. Eat what you’ve been given before you ask for more.

4. Half a spoonful of yogurt cannot possibly constitute fullness, so don’t even try it.

5. A courtesy taste is required of all foods. This includes a small portion of the food on the tines of the fork/in the bowl of the spoon going into your mouth, being chewed and swallowed. Touching the tip of your tongue to something for 0.007 seconds and declaring, “I don’t like it” isn’t the same thing.
3. When Mommy sits down, she ain’t gettin‘ up until her plate is clean. In other words, chew slowly and take small sips on that apple juice, ya dig?

I’m thinking this little list can be modified for lunch and dinner, too. What with Thanksgiving dinner all but here, I’m about to xerox this and affix it to everyone’s water glass. Then, when I sit down to eat, I’ll sit down and stay down. And we all know thankful I’ll be for that.

Continue Reading
IN: ON: November 11, 2009 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Feeling (dis)Oriented

So, this week I have been at orientation for school. Every day from 8am to 12pm, I’ve been bombarded with expectations, available resources, best practices, course scheduling, long-lines at the bookstore and fractions. Yes, fractions. I knew that there was some degree of mathematical knowledge involved with nursing, but to be slammed with the addition, subtraction, multiplication and division of fractions at 8am on a Monday morning is cruel and unusual punishment.

Now, I’m a Type A personality, an endearing character quirk that has consistently served me in good stead ‘lo these 30 years of mine. Before going back to school for anatomy last year, I invested in a teach-yourself-math workbook. Notice I said “invested in”, as opposed to “opened and used”. Yeah, that joker sat pristine for the past year on a shelf in my closet until about two weeks ago. In the orientation packet, there was one brief line about a math assessment and seriously, I saw my life flash before my eyes. And then I remembered the work-book. So I pulled it out, blew the dust off of the cover and started Chapter 1, Basic Mathematics. Then Season 1 of True Blood came in the mail on Netflix and well. . .here we are.

Math and I have never gotten along. In fact, one of the lowest grades I ever received was in math. In more fact, aside from getting a violation for talking in Chemistry, the only other mark on my school discipline came from my algebra teacher. I had long come to the realization that I had a bad attitude towards math. I didn’t get it, therefore, I didn’t like it, therefore, I chose to just eke out passing grades and deal with it later. Shocking, I know, but truly, I couldn’t stomach it. So, having embraced that mentality, I thought nothing of sticking whatever fiction book I was reading into my algebra book and reading that during class. Of course, the teacher had been calling on me, I hadn’t been paying attention and the charade came crashing down like my test scores over the semester.

How bad did it get? How about in sophomore geometry, when we were learning proofs, I put CPCTC for every answer on a test. Every. Single. Answer. I just looked at those proofs and knew absolutely nothing.

Fast forward to my A&P class first semester last year. My professor was talking about how tough the course was going to be, how the attrition rate was astronomical, and so on and so forth. She then went on to say that if we had a good attitude towards the class, if we acted excited when we opened our books, we’d basically trick our brains into retaining more info because we’ve been telling ourselves that A&P was the shiggity! Can you say, “skeptical”?

That little nugget of info remained with me. This past week, as we’ve continued to work on fractions, percents, and ratios, I’ve tried to get happy about it. I’ve tried positive self-talk. I’ve admitted to myself that while Math and I have agreed to disagree, we will make a truce for the sake of my impending nursing career. I will open up desirable accommodations in my memory bank and decorate it any which way Math wants, so long as the concepts move-in for an extended stay.

As the week draws to a close, I can quite honestly say that I have become quite oriented to what the next 24 months of school will be like. Seeing as I already broke the seal on my 60 pound Concepts of Nursing book, I guess I’ll be staying, fractions and all.

Continue Reading
IN: ON: August 20, 2009 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading
1 … 11 12 13 14 15