I have been alerted by Sister #2 that my post for Wednesday didn't actually post. I'm mystified. Operator error, no doubt. But what error, exactly?
Annoying, friends. Because it was a really great post that I don't have another copy of. Now I'm left to reconstruct it. But if T. E. Lawrence can re-write his 500 page memoir from scratch after the original was lost a train station, then I can re-write this one post. Because that's the kind of serious blogger I am.
B:
B's wife got him a terrific Christmas present:
A Nerf N-Strike Rapid Fire AS-20 Dart Blaster that Shoots 20 Darts with Automatic Fire
Gemma and Josh already had nerf guns. They were the great enticement for Joshua to commit to using the toilet.
(e.g. "Josh, if you get 10 X's in a row on your poop chart, you get your grand prize!" That 10th poop happened while at church, and as soon as his pants were pulled up, he announced--to anyone he met--"I pooped, so I get a gun!")
Gemma got a gun, too, because our policy is that you cannot shoot at someone who is not armed. But in the weeks between The 10th Poop and Christmas, the war was really between Josh and Bryan, with Bryan saying often, as he loaded up Gemma's 6-shooter, "Joshua, go get your gun!"
This Christmas morning, Bryan was grinning as he loaded up his 20-shooter. "Joshua, go get your gun!"
Well. Gemma got hers, too. And I got mine. Oh yes, Mommy gave Mommy a present this year: my own 6-shooter. We had a family gun battle on Christmas morning.
G:
A Christmas morning that started a lot later than yours, I am guessing. Because, I guess again, you did not spend the wee hours of your Christmas morning in the ER and/or scrubbing blood out of your carpet.
What's this?
Gemma rolled out of bed at 12:30 AM, climbed back in, and then noticed through her stupor that there was blood on her pillow.
She screamed that panic scream, which woke me, and then raced to our room to tell me she had a bloody nose.
As you would have, I leaped out of bed to rush her to the bathroom. Maybe you'd have done it out of parental concern. I did it out of blood-on-the-rug concern and found that it was not a nose bleed. Instead, there was a gash across her chin, below her lip, and it was gushing.
While Bryan got dressed for the trip to the ER, I explained to her why she had to go, and what would happen there. Her eyes were wide, forehead creased--she was all dread. A dread I knew well and I figured that 6 years old was not to young to know: There are somethings we don't want to do, but that we just have to do. Things that aren't like trying a new food we think we will hate and then are surprised by how much we like it. But things we think are going to suck and then, yes, they do indeed suck.
I think her ER experience did suck. Bryan reported that as soon as the nurse said, "We're all done here," Gemma hopped off the bed and started putting on her shoes, wasting no time to high-tail it out.
But I don't think it sucked as much as she'd dreaded it would. They used a numbing agent, so the 6 sutures were tolerable. And they have her a little stuffed bear, her 'Hospital Teddy,' which she took to heart.
From Bryan's point of view, it was a great visit because they got in right away and out soon after.
We examined her bed and still don't understand what she could have hit her chin on. But we've put up a sleeping gate, which she'll probably want to use through high school, perhaps even bring to college with her. . .
At 4 AM that night, everyone was home and back in bed, Gemma in ours. I asked her, "When you fell out of bed, did you think, 'My chin hurts a little'?" It was amazing to me that she had thought it was just a bloody nose.
She said, "No, Mommy. When I fell out and then got back into bed, my chin felt just like every other person's chin that was not wounded and bleeding like mine."
J:
Joshua slept well that night. But he was very concerned to see his sister's bandaged chin, and to hear about a trip to the hospital. He even offered his doggers to her for comfort.
Then, later, he shot her full of nerf darts.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
'Tis the Season
Permit a tardy Deep Christmas Thought:
One of the primary lessons I've learned through the military life of moving around, changing jobs, changing churches, changing ministries, changing roles, changing changing changing--one of the lessons of this is that life happens in seasons.
For instance, our normal Ponce Family Policy is that the children don't watch many movies throughout the week. (We don't have television, so it's easy to count just how much DVD time they get.)
Then I did chemotherapy and suddenly we were in a new season: A time whence Gemma and Josh got out of bed, got their own breakfast and put a movie in to watch until Mommy managed to get out of bed herself.
I have been thinking about Mary's seasons of motherhood. It must have been a hard adjustment for her when baby #2 came along and was a sinner, unlike his big Brother. . .
But in general, that time between His birth and His public ministry starting about 30 years later must have been a joyful season. Not without its trials and difficulties (she did, probably, lose her husband at some point). Not without its similarities to the work of all mothers everywhere. But also, not without its joys at seeing such a marvelous Boy grow to manhood.
Then came that dark day. And a dark 3 days following. Throughout these, we should always remember, those who loved Jesus had no hope at all that they would ever see Him again before they themselves died. They had no expectation that He would resurrect. They had only their grief and dispair and whatever other ache their hearts held.
Multiplied by a hundred in the case of His mother, I would expect.
Then He appeared. And everything changed forever.
This Christmas, I was thinking about how Mary knew a joyful season of motherhood, and only after that crucible of grief--indeed, only out of its event--came a new and glorious season.
This is what the living Savior does. He makes the season new. He turns a dark hour into a dawn.
My own marathon proceeds. A lot of radiation left. Then surgery. And though I'd expected to be of very light heart by this time--the worst is behind us, no?--there's more sadness now than ever before. Even so, I know this is just a season.
And I do sense that there is something glorious ahead. The darker this season seems to me, the brighter, I believe, will be His triumph.
One of the primary lessons I've learned through the military life of moving around, changing jobs, changing churches, changing ministries, changing roles, changing changing changing--one of the lessons of this is that life happens in seasons.
For instance, our normal Ponce Family Policy is that the children don't watch many movies throughout the week. (We don't have television, so it's easy to count just how much DVD time they get.)
Then I did chemotherapy and suddenly we were in a new season: A time whence Gemma and Josh got out of bed, got their own breakfast and put a movie in to watch until Mommy managed to get out of bed herself.
I have been thinking about Mary's seasons of motherhood. It must have been a hard adjustment for her when baby #2 came along and was a sinner, unlike his big Brother. . .
But in general, that time between His birth and His public ministry starting about 30 years later must have been a joyful season. Not without its trials and difficulties (she did, probably, lose her husband at some point). Not without its similarities to the work of all mothers everywhere. But also, not without its joys at seeing such a marvelous Boy grow to manhood.
Then came that dark day. And a dark 3 days following. Throughout these, we should always remember, those who loved Jesus had no hope at all that they would ever see Him again before they themselves died. They had no expectation that He would resurrect. They had only their grief and dispair and whatever other ache their hearts held.
Multiplied by a hundred in the case of His mother, I would expect.
Then He appeared. And everything changed forever.
This Christmas, I was thinking about how Mary knew a joyful season of motherhood, and only after that crucible of grief--indeed, only out of its event--came a new and glorious season.
This is what the living Savior does. He makes the season new. He turns a dark hour into a dawn.
My own marathon proceeds. A lot of radiation left. Then surgery. And though I'd expected to be of very light heart by this time--the worst is behind us, no?--there's more sadness now than ever before. Even so, I know this is just a season.
And I do sense that there is something glorious ahead. The darker this season seems to me, the brighter, I believe, will be His triumph.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Radiation Update
BTW,
Three pieces of good news to report:
1. While I still get a touch nauseous from treatments, it's milder than before and I don't need to medicate for it.
2. The standard reaction is for the skin to burn red first, then turn into a tan. I had some itchiness, but mostly, the skin is going straight to a tan. A little weird, I admit, to be tanned by radiation, but I'm thankful I'm not suffering a skin burn right now.
3. So far, no lymphedema has been triggered in my arm, which happens about a quarter of the time during radiation. Please keep praying that side effect would be warded off now and forever! (I met a woman in the chemo barn whose lymphedema was triggered 12 years into remission. . .)
Three pieces of good news to report:
1. While I still get a touch nauseous from treatments, it's milder than before and I don't need to medicate for it.
2. The standard reaction is for the skin to burn red first, then turn into a tan. I had some itchiness, but mostly, the skin is going straight to a tan. A little weird, I admit, to be tanned by radiation, but I'm thankful I'm not suffering a skin burn right now.
3. So far, no lymphedema has been triggered in my arm, which happens about a quarter of the time during radiation. Please keep praying that side effect would be warded off now and forever! (I met a woman in the chemo barn whose lymphedema was triggered 12 years into remission. . .)
The New Name Game
Well, well, well.
My oncologist's name triggered the original Name Game, whence we identified over 200 male names used in popular music.
Perhaps my radiologist's name has triggered another past time for us. I asked if you knew any doctors' names that were oddly appropriate/inappropriate/ironic or otherwise apt. And a few of you have already ponied up.
One of you, in fact, Ben of Germany, gave us two names, which is a 200% increase over his contribution to our first Name Game.
That is, he told us of a German dentist whose name is a homonym for the German word that translates into "scream." Hence: Dr. Scream.
And there was also the doctor who was instrumental in saving his life (following appendicitis, if I remember his mother's story correctly), Dr. Luc, pronounced "Luck."
Not that it was "luck" that did the saving.
Sister #2 gave us a Dr. Clutts, surgeon extraordinaire who managed to botch a vasectomy. A mistake that became clear only after a child was sired. This is particularly amazing to me. . . I mean, how much is going on down there that something can be cut, and yet have no detectable effect?
She also gave us Dr. Awesome, from Milwaukee, whose name at least sounds that way, and who makes the name oddly appropriate because, if we are to believer her testimony, he was a good-looking guy.
So:
(Listed by phonetic spelling if different from actual spelling)
1. Dr. Scream
2. Dr. Luck
3. Dr. Clutts
4. Dr. Awesome
I cannot wait to bring these into Dr. Tanner. I'd love a list of, say, 20. It could be your Christmas gift to me. . .
My oncologist's name triggered the original Name Game, whence we identified over 200 male names used in popular music.
Perhaps my radiologist's name has triggered another past time for us. I asked if you knew any doctors' names that were oddly appropriate/inappropriate/ironic or otherwise apt. And a few of you have already ponied up.
One of you, in fact, Ben of Germany, gave us two names, which is a 200% increase over his contribution to our first Name Game.
That is, he told us of a German dentist whose name is a homonym for the German word that translates into "scream." Hence: Dr. Scream.
And there was also the doctor who was instrumental in saving his life (following appendicitis, if I remember his mother's story correctly), Dr. Luc, pronounced "Luck."
Not that it was "luck" that did the saving.
Sister #2 gave us a Dr. Clutts, surgeon extraordinaire who managed to botch a vasectomy. A mistake that became clear only after a child was sired. This is particularly amazing to me. . . I mean, how much is going on down there that something can be cut, and yet have no detectable effect?
She also gave us Dr. Awesome, from Milwaukee, whose name at least sounds that way, and who makes the name oddly appropriate because, if we are to believer her testimony, he was a good-looking guy.
So:
(Listed by phonetic spelling if different from actual spelling)
1. Dr. Scream
2. Dr. Luck
3. Dr. Clutts
4. Dr. Awesome
I cannot wait to bring these into Dr. Tanner. I'd love a list of, say, 20. It could be your Christmas gift to me. . .
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Another Big Reveal
I've been calling him Dr. X-Ray.
This is because I wasn't sure if I'd end up liking him, given that accessibility blip from the first week. And I didn't want to disparage someone's real name. "____ Who Shall Remain Nameless" has already been used here.
But I know for sure that I like him now. We had our Wednesday appointment, and in doctor-patient terms, the only thing we talked about is that I don't yet have a skin reaction. (Thank You, God.) A reaction in the second week is usually bad news for the remainder of treatment, because the skin just gets worse. What's typical is that late 3rd or early 4th week, a slight burn shows up, and that this turns to a tan.
As we had nothing medical beyond this to discuss, we just chatted for about 15 minutes. I got the impression he wouldn't have minded staying there for another hour.
What did we talk about? My probing questions for him:
"Why did you become a radiology in oncology? Isn't this kind of sad work to be drawn to?"
Answer:
He likes the technology of it. He'd been an engineer for IBM before med school, and decided he didn't want to do that for the rest of his life and "Be such a nerd," pause, bashful dip of the head, "Of course, I'm still kind of a nerd."
And this isn't really the same kind of oncology as doctors like Markus sign up for. Dr. X-Ray's "really just a consultant for those guys"--gestured to other half of the cancer center--"I see patients for a short time, usually after they're already well into treatment. They're done with me before they go back to the other side and then really decline--" he looked up, as though remembering his bedside manner, and said, "Of course, you'll be fine."
Then he told the story of when he worked in Hinsdale, and he referred a 12 year old girl (who lived nearby) with a brain tumor down to Children's in Chicago. They saw her and then sent her back to Dr. X-Ray. He told them he didn't want to treat her, he wasn't a pediatric radiologist, she should be with specialists.
They told him she wasn't going to make it, but she might be able to get 6 more months, and it would be a shame if she had to spend them commuting 80 miles round trip every day for radiation. So he treated her. She made it for 3 more months. And he said then that he never wanted another case like this.
"But she did make it to Disneyworld, or Hawaii or somewhere. . .one of those Make a Wish trips." He went on to say that he now tells terminal patients who are thinking of taking a trip somewhere to "Go now, not later."
So. He's tasted this sadness before and wants no more of it. I don't blame him one bit. But it makes the Drs. like Markus shine as that much more heroic, doesn't it?
I asked Dr. X-Ray if he believes, as posters all over the cancer center and billboards all over Colorado proclaim, that "Love Heals." (That is, this is the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center's ad campaign that is quite ubiquitous: Love Heals.)
He shrugged and said, "Sure. There are studies that show terminal people will die just after a big even like a graduation or wedding and not right before." It says something when a person responds to a "what do you believe?" question with a citation of a scientific study.
Finally, I asked him a probing question when he first entered the room. The first question, reported here last of all:
"So, Dr. Tanner," because that is his name, "Do patients often comment on the appropriateness of your name?"
He laughed as though this was the first time he's heard the suggestion. No, they don't. But he's heard of other doctors with either ironic or oddly appropriate names. Right in that moment, he couldn't think of one.
And neither could I.
Isn't that annoying? When you know you've heard examples of a thing, but cannot recall them for the right moment?
I'd like to go back to him in 2 weeks (because Dr. Tanner will be working on his own tan on vacation next week) with a bunch of examples for him.
And I'm sure you know of some. . .
This is because I wasn't sure if I'd end up liking him, given that accessibility blip from the first week. And I didn't want to disparage someone's real name. "____ Who Shall Remain Nameless" has already been used here.
But I know for sure that I like him now. We had our Wednesday appointment, and in doctor-patient terms, the only thing we talked about is that I don't yet have a skin reaction. (Thank You, God.) A reaction in the second week is usually bad news for the remainder of treatment, because the skin just gets worse. What's typical is that late 3rd or early 4th week, a slight burn shows up, and that this turns to a tan.
As we had nothing medical beyond this to discuss, we just chatted for about 15 minutes. I got the impression he wouldn't have minded staying there for another hour.
What did we talk about? My probing questions for him:
"Why did you become a radiology in oncology? Isn't this kind of sad work to be drawn to?"
Answer:
He likes the technology of it. He'd been an engineer for IBM before med school, and decided he didn't want to do that for the rest of his life and "Be such a nerd," pause, bashful dip of the head, "Of course, I'm still kind of a nerd."
And this isn't really the same kind of oncology as doctors like Markus sign up for. Dr. X-Ray's "really just a consultant for those guys"--gestured to other half of the cancer center--"I see patients for a short time, usually after they're already well into treatment. They're done with me before they go back to the other side and then really decline--" he looked up, as though remembering his bedside manner, and said, "Of course, you'll be fine."
Then he told the story of when he worked in Hinsdale, and he referred a 12 year old girl (who lived nearby) with a brain tumor down to Children's in Chicago. They saw her and then sent her back to Dr. X-Ray. He told them he didn't want to treat her, he wasn't a pediatric radiologist, she should be with specialists.
They told him she wasn't going to make it, but she might be able to get 6 more months, and it would be a shame if she had to spend them commuting 80 miles round trip every day for radiation. So he treated her. She made it for 3 more months. And he said then that he never wanted another case like this.
"But she did make it to Disneyworld, or Hawaii or somewhere. . .one of those Make a Wish trips." He went on to say that he now tells terminal patients who are thinking of taking a trip somewhere to "Go now, not later."
So. He's tasted this sadness before and wants no more of it. I don't blame him one bit. But it makes the Drs. like Markus shine as that much more heroic, doesn't it?
I asked Dr. X-Ray if he believes, as posters all over the cancer center and billboards all over Colorado proclaim, that "Love Heals." (That is, this is the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center's ad campaign that is quite ubiquitous: Love Heals.)
He shrugged and said, "Sure. There are studies that show terminal people will die just after a big even like a graduation or wedding and not right before." It says something when a person responds to a "what do you believe?" question with a citation of a scientific study.
Finally, I asked him a probing question when he first entered the room. The first question, reported here last of all:
"So, Dr. Tanner," because that is his name, "Do patients often comment on the appropriateness of your name?"
He laughed as though this was the first time he's heard the suggestion. No, they don't. But he's heard of other doctors with either ironic or oddly appropriate names. Right in that moment, he couldn't think of one.
And neither could I.
Isn't that annoying? When you know you've heard examples of a thing, but cannot recall them for the right moment?
I'd like to go back to him in 2 weeks (because Dr. Tanner will be working on his own tan on vacation next week) with a bunch of examples for him.
And I'm sure you know of some. . .
Thursday, December 17, 2009
B, G and J Day: GingerDucks!
B:
In general, men have a much harder time than women hearing about and talking about my cancer. Lots of reasons for this. I suspect it would not be so if my cancer were in a body part that they have, too, for instance.
But I also suspect it's because a man personalizes it by wondering, "What if that were my wife?" And the thought scares the crap out him. Not just because of the body part involved, but because he recognizes as we all do that cancer is not an outside invader that can be dispatched with a home defense weapon.
He sees that there's practically nothing he can do to save his wife's life. This kind of helplessness, or even the possibility of it, rattles men.
Here's the good news for these men regarding the body part issue, if we were to gauge from Bryan's experience: When you are told that your wife is going to lose her breasts, the very last thing you care about is whether your wife will have breasts a year into the future. The only thing you care about is that your wife is alive one year, and many years, into the future.
Truly. It's amazing how unimportant breasts become.
As for the bigger concern, the helpless-in-the-face-of-a-killer concern, it's difficult. The part Bryan hated the most was seeing the styes in my eyes after each round of chemo because they looked so painful. The styes and all the rest of it--all just a crappy physical experience for me that he couldn't spare me from. He really hated it.
Which brings me to my homeschool co-op Christmas party this past Wednesday. I hosted it, taught a poetry lesson, and then we all decorated gingerbread train.
Gingerbread trains? Oh yes. One engine for each family (7 of them), and one open box car for each child (16 of those). Gingerbread pieces that were designed and baked by Bryan himself.
For a whole week, he was a gingerbread fool. He made 12 batches of dough. Rolled and cut and baked and trimmed and bagged and then started rolling again.
The night before, I made the icing and assembled the trains, which was a 4 hour job in all. Nothing compared to the 20 hours he spent on the baking.
Why would we do this? I did it because
a) I love a good party
b) I love decorate gingerbread structures
c) I love to see children decorate gingerbread structures
d) I love the women in my co-op and so enjoy talking with them and
e) I LOVE when our house is filled with people and we actually use all these square feet of shelter.
Normally, the living we do could happen comfortably in half the space we own. But at a gingerbread train decorating party, with 23 people present and a project going full-blast, we use a lot of space.
And he did it because of points a through e.
A terrific time was had by all. And all helped clean up such that my house was in better shape than when the crowd arrived. I did have to take a 2 hour nap after everyone left, but it was a good kind of exhaustion.
We collapsed into bed on Tuesday night, after the last of the baking and assembly, with the party ahead of me, and Bryan, for the first time since June, looked. . . satisfied. Peaceful. Un-Anxious.
"Well, Babe," I said to him, "You couldn't go through my chemotherapy, but you could bake a crapload of gingerbread for me!"
He smiled the smile that says I got it exactly right.
G:
Gemma made something for Bryan's birthday last week, a set of 4 stars, 2 big, 2 small, all glued together by their side points. She drew smiling faces on them. Star people!
"This one's Daddy, this one's you, this one's me and this one's Josh!" she explained to me before wrapping it up.
I said, "But my star doesn't have any hair drawn on top like the others."
Gemma leaned in close and said, as though she were breaking bad news, "That's because you're bald."
Yes. 7 weeks after the last round of chemo went in: still bald. I'll keep you posted on the hairfront.
J:
He's reached that amazing stage of verbal acquisition and explosion. He's now doing more than just communicating the concrete and the basics. For instance:
Last night he said from the stairs, at a time when he should have been in bed, "Mommy, I have to whisper you a question."
I recognized this as a ploy to get downstairs where he'd probably ask for gingerbread or candy and said, "You can ask me from right there. You don't need to whisper it."
"But I want to whisper it."
"No. Just say it out loud. Right there."
"But I want to whisper it!"
"Joshua, either ask me right now or go back to bed."
"Well now I can't find it."
"You 'can't find' your question?"
"No, I lost it. Now I'm looking for it."
Another example:
We needed to leave the house by 8:40 today and though I'd asked Josh to get his shoes on a few times, he was still dawdling.
I finally said, sternly, loudly, though it was not yelling, "Get your shoes on now!"
"Whoah," he said, "That was a huge voice!"
This made me laugh. And he did, finally, get his shoes on.
In general, men have a much harder time than women hearing about and talking about my cancer. Lots of reasons for this. I suspect it would not be so if my cancer were in a body part that they have, too, for instance.
But I also suspect it's because a man personalizes it by wondering, "What if that were my wife?" And the thought scares the crap out him. Not just because of the body part involved, but because he recognizes as we all do that cancer is not an outside invader that can be dispatched with a home defense weapon.
He sees that there's practically nothing he can do to save his wife's life. This kind of helplessness, or even the possibility of it, rattles men.
Here's the good news for these men regarding the body part issue, if we were to gauge from Bryan's experience: When you are told that your wife is going to lose her breasts, the very last thing you care about is whether your wife will have breasts a year into the future. The only thing you care about is that your wife is alive one year, and many years, into the future.
Truly. It's amazing how unimportant breasts become.
As for the bigger concern, the helpless-in-the-face-of-a-killer concern, it's difficult. The part Bryan hated the most was seeing the styes in my eyes after each round of chemo because they looked so painful. The styes and all the rest of it--all just a crappy physical experience for me that he couldn't spare me from. He really hated it.
Which brings me to my homeschool co-op Christmas party this past Wednesday. I hosted it, taught a poetry lesson, and then we all decorated gingerbread train.
Gingerbread trains? Oh yes. One engine for each family (7 of them), and one open box car for each child (16 of those). Gingerbread pieces that were designed and baked by Bryan himself.
For a whole week, he was a gingerbread fool. He made 12 batches of dough. Rolled and cut and baked and trimmed and bagged and then started rolling again.
The night before, I made the icing and assembled the trains, which was a 4 hour job in all. Nothing compared to the 20 hours he spent on the baking.
Why would we do this? I did it because
a) I love a good party
b) I love decorate gingerbread structures
c) I love to see children decorate gingerbread structures
d) I love the women in my co-op and so enjoy talking with them and
e) I LOVE when our house is filled with people and we actually use all these square feet of shelter.
Normally, the living we do could happen comfortably in half the space we own. But at a gingerbread train decorating party, with 23 people present and a project going full-blast, we use a lot of space.
And he did it because of points a through e.
A terrific time was had by all. And all helped clean up such that my house was in better shape than when the crowd arrived. I did have to take a 2 hour nap after everyone left, but it was a good kind of exhaustion.
We collapsed into bed on Tuesday night, after the last of the baking and assembly, with the party ahead of me, and Bryan, for the first time since June, looked. . . satisfied. Peaceful. Un-Anxious.
"Well, Babe," I said to him, "You couldn't go through my chemotherapy, but you could bake a crapload of gingerbread for me!"
He smiled the smile that says I got it exactly right.
G:
Gemma made something for Bryan's birthday last week, a set of 4 stars, 2 big, 2 small, all glued together by their side points. She drew smiling faces on them. Star people!
"This one's Daddy, this one's you, this one's me and this one's Josh!" she explained to me before wrapping it up.
I said, "But my star doesn't have any hair drawn on top like the others."
Gemma leaned in close and said, as though she were breaking bad news, "That's because you're bald."
Yes. 7 weeks after the last round of chemo went in: still bald. I'll keep you posted on the hairfront.
J:
He's reached that amazing stage of verbal acquisition and explosion. He's now doing more than just communicating the concrete and the basics. For instance:
Last night he said from the stairs, at a time when he should have been in bed, "Mommy, I have to whisper you a question."
I recognized this as a ploy to get downstairs where he'd probably ask for gingerbread or candy and said, "You can ask me from right there. You don't need to whisper it."
"But I want to whisper it."
"No. Just say it out loud. Right there."
"But I want to whisper it!"
"Joshua, either ask me right now or go back to bed."
"Well now I can't find it."
"You 'can't find' your question?"
"No, I lost it. Now I'm looking for it."
Another example:
We needed to leave the house by 8:40 today and though I'd asked Josh to get his shoes on a few times, he was still dawdling.
I finally said, sternly, loudly, though it was not yelling, "Get your shoes on now!"
"Whoah," he said, "That was a huge voice!"
This made me laugh. And he did, finally, get his shoes on.
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