Browsing Archives for The Country Doctor

We are a family of movie watchers.  Well, actually five of us are movie watchers.  The Country Doctor is not a movie watcher.  He can’t sit still long enough to watch a movie.  It is far too self indulgent of an activity for him and besides, surely there are some punishing, maggot infested trees he needs to chop down with a dull axe, in a frozen forest, which he can only reach on foot, wearing a thread bare t-shirt and some ripped, paint-stained shorts.  

My boys and I often watch movies huddled in a large pile on my bed with the lap top propped on a pillow at the footboard. It is very cozy.  I  watched “The Brother’s Grimm” last night with my two oldest boys because they have the day off from school today.  
We watch a lot of different kind of movies together.  My kids have watched Miss Marple, and Poirot, and most of the Jane Austen films.  Of course we have seen all the Harry Potters and the Spidermans, and the Jason Bourne films.  We watch a lot of PG 13 action films, we still watch a lot of animated films and we all especially love Wallace and Grommit. I don’t have a lot of  parameters for what they can and can’t watch, except no “R” films are allowed.  Mostly I pay attention to the critics and if a film receives decent reviews we will probably check it out at some time.
The Country Doctor has a far different perspective than I do regarding movies.  First of all, he hates to see his family lying motionless, mesmerized by any type of video screen, and if he catches us watching a movie, we all feel like we are committing some sort of obscure crime. Secondly, the only movies that the Country Doctor thinks are truly okay for his family to watch are rated “G’ and usually involve bearded mountain men, a log cabin, a hound dog, and a friendly Native American named Feather Foot.  The story line always seems to revolve around a blonde, freckled child that gets lost in the mountains but then is saved by both his hound dog and his friend, Feather Foot.  The story concludes with the mom wearing a gingham dress, serving a batch of fresh baked biscuits and a kettle of stew to her family and the whole tribe.
Oh… and he also likes the film “The Bridge Over The River Kwai”.  
So tonight as I was driving my kids home from a football game, I called the CD and let him know that I planned to get a movie for our older boys.  This conversation took place…
Him – Would you like me to pick up the movie on my way home?
Me – Hey boys… would anyone like Dad to pick out the movie tonight?
Me – Um… Honey… They don’t want you to pick out the movie.
Him – Why?
Me – Because you pick out terrible movies with mountain men and goats and hound dogs and women making biscuits on a coal stove… and well… we much prefer Spiderman.
Him – Where did I go wrong?  Why isn’t my family more like me?
I didn’t know how to answer that question and the CD didn’t really want to hear the truth – that being that the days of stews being cooked in kettles over open fires by happy moms, and lost children being saved by Native Americans are long over – if they ever existed at all. 
Later that same evening, he came home to find three of us huddled on my bed watching “The Brother’s Grimm.”  As usual, he was clearly appalled and the boys and I felt worthless and guilt-ridden until he walked out of the room to go drain the pond with a pair of rusting forceps, a leaky bucket and a three legged gurney.  

Last night, we had some very special guests from London arrive with our good friends Mike and Liz. I worked half the day at the Garden Center before their arrival, so was in a bit of a tiz when I got home to get the house ready for company and preparations for dinner under way. 

The Country Doctor had taken half of the day off so he was already home when I arrived.  He asked me what he should do to help get things ready and I mentioned picking up the yard, checking the boy’s bedrooms, and cleaning up the grill.  He set the boys to picking up the yard and sort of limped half heartedly upstairs to check the bedrooms. He glanced out of the window at the grill, but I could tell that none of my “jobs” were very inspiring to him. They were simply too mundane… too simple… too easy… He was looking for a challenge.  
He is ALWAYS looking for a challenge.  
Preferably something that includes a lot of suffering and pain.    

Then he noticed the screen porch.

The screens on the screen porch had accumulated a layer of cotton from some nearby cottonwoods. He decided to spray them off.

So FIRST… he had to move all of the screen porch furniture into my freshly cleaned living room.

And I thought… okay… well okay… but just hurry up!  
Our guest were due to arrive in about half an hour!

Next, he REMOVED THE DOOR to the screen porch!  
And I thought.. what…. huh… wait… what…?

THEN he took that door out to the barn and decided to shorten it a little bit because it was sticking… 
And I thought…. wait… hold on… just wait a second… you know… it could probably stick for a few more days as OUR COMPANY from LONDON is going to BE HERE ANY MINUTE… and my LIVING ROOM… is now a total WRECK!!!  AND my screen porch is EMPTY!!!  And now I have to stop what I AM DOING and BLOG THIS!!!

The Country Doctor was not moved by my vivid emotional outburst, which included both of my hands wrapped around his neck in an attempt to rid myself of the problem once and for all!   Instead, he removed my hands from his neck, and calmly went about fixing that STUPID DOOR as if he did not even know that me and my emotional pain existed. 
Which is nothing new!

Then he carried the door back in, rehung it, sprayed off the porch and put the furniture back out just in time for our company to arrive.  
But that is not the point!
The point is – HOW MANY YEARS OF MY LIFE DISAPPEARED due to this callous act of disregard for my feelings!   
How many I tell ya!!!  

The World’s Loudest Quiet Man

February 25th, 2008

Motherhood comes with a few unexpected surprises don’t it?. I find that I can no longer do any jumping jacks without… well without… well… I just can’t do them. I also stopped sleeping deeply, with any rhythm or with much hope of ever sleeping well again. As my children have grown, I have somewhat re-discovered the benefits of a good’s nights sleep, but I still sleep lightly, waking up at the smallest sounds and then struggling to get back to sleep. I am sure this is some sort of built in safety mechanism for a mother to protect her young. Unfortunately, I am married to the world’s loudest quiet man so that long after my kids are sleeping through the night, I am still wakened by him and his strange ability to creep and pound at the same time.

The Country Doctor is a night owl. He prefers the wee hours to any others. I have explained to him on numerous occasions, that I do not share his proclivity for two a.m. and three a.m. and four a.m. to no avail. He claims he is “quiet as a mouse.” He claims he is “silent as the grave.” He claims to “move with the stealth of ninja” and yet I am awake and he is the one clanging the metal spoon on the cereal bowl as if he were testing out a new drum for Metallica. I lie in bed wondering how much longer he will pound, slam, squeak, and wrench before he finally gives up the ghost. I can hear him creeping from the computer where he has just finished clattering out a missive as if using an ax to type with, and then I hear him silently glide to the kitchen and pick up a bag of chips and crush it into a tiny ball over and over again, pausing only to slam the cabinet doors, open and shut all the drawers in the kitchen, empty all the silverware onto the floor and then rearrange the living room furniture. He finishes his bedtime routine off by tiptoeing up the stairs, where he then sorts through the medicine cabinet tossing all the medicine bottles, and ointments over his shoulder where they clatter to the tile floor. Afterwards he drops to his knees, army crawls to his side of the bed, shimmys under the covers and falls dead asleep while I lay beside him wide awake plotting his grisly demise and making a mental note to make sure I paid the latest life insurance premium .

I feel a strong urge to validate my tale with a witness. My sister stayed with us one night back when the Country Doctor was still in medical school. The next morning she stared at him in awe as she recounted how amazingly noisy he was. She mentioned the pounding and the slamming and the stomping and the clattering. I have never felt so vindicated in my entire life. Thank you April for that precious gift. The Country Doctor of course, believes that my sister and I share some sort of genetic intolerance to the mildest squeakings of a gerbil and that since he never makes any noise louder than the sound of a cotton ball landing on a bath towel, it is we who have the problem and not of course, himself.

As a new bride and shortly thereafter a new mother, I was mystified by his need to make enough noise during the hours between midnight and dawn to raise the dead, but I suffered in silence. Until….. Until….

The Country Doctor’s brother, Mr. Panties, was visiting us when our first born was an infant. My nerves were completely fried from waking up every two hours to feed my son and then listening to my husband storm around our small home during the hours in between.

On the eve, that has gone down in infamy as “the night Rechelle became Rechelle” The Country Doctor and Mr. Panties set up camp in the basement. They were having a great time combing through every experience that had ever happened to them since they first became aware of their own existence. I grew tired of this and excused myself to put the baby to bed. Up to that point, I had managed to portray myself as reserved, shy, and even a bit mousy around the CD’s family. The Country Doctor’s family is huge and loud and quite sure of themselves. They are also completely unafraid to forcefully argue a point or issue a proclomation, or interject an opinion. Not really knowing how to fit in with them, I stayed pretty quiet. I laid down in our tiny bedroom where I could clearly hear every word of their conversation in the basement. They were not even trying to talk quietly and their conversation was riddled with loud laughter. I tossed and turned and covered my head with a pillow. I tried counting fluffy sheep jumping over a sweet little fence, but all I could picture was myself kicking the Country Doctor and Mr. Panties through a goal post over and over again. After an hour of this, I raised my gray shrunken head off the pillow. I twisted my trembling, sleepless, ragged frame from the bed, and I silently scuffled to the basement. At the top of the stairs I announced my true self to the world, my new husband and his brother.


A silence rapid and profound, instantly permeated our tiny house. I shuffled back to bed and fell asleep immediately, only to be awakened by my infant son 2.3 seconds later. Mr. Panties never looked at me the same again. The Country Doctor resumed his nightly bedlam shortly thereafter, which still includes the deafening roar that he has never been able to hear. And I… well I… still scuffle to the top of the stairs and tell him to PUHLEEEEZ!!! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY AND RIGHT AND GOOD IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE WOULD YOU PLEEEEEZ SHUT THE HELL UP! After which a gorgeous silence descends… and I sleep.