Saturday, March 31, 2007

Passover

Spring Break has come and gone and I've had zero time to write.  Damn kids.  For the record, David has been fine with the exception of one brief headache the day after we saw the doctor.  Now we're getting ready to drive down to San Francisco for Passover.  We'll be back Wednesday night.  I hope to get back into a regular routine after that.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Now I Just Need A Washing Machine In My Yard

David, overheard last weekend:

"Daddy, wake up.  I can't hear the Nascar race over your snoring."

Friday, March 23, 2007

A Visit To The Doctor

David came out of school  Wednesday afternoon, tugged on my sleeve and flopped down onto the bench.  I took one look at him and knew all was not well.  His eyes were glassy, his hair was sweaty, and he looked on the verge of tears.  I sat beside him and asked him what was wrong.  He told me he'd had a headache all day.  School dismissal is a big time for socializing, but I left Juliana with a friend and whisked him into the car where he promptly burst into tears.  This is a surefire indicator  that he (or me) has a fever.  Sure enough, when we got home his temperature was at 101.5.   I felt terrible that he'd been sick all day at school and hadn't told anyone.  (Then I thought of how guilty I would've felt if this had happened the day he went without a lunch.  That would've necessitated converting to Catholicism just to say some Hail Mary's.)

He's been sick on and off for the past two weeks with fevers and headaches.  Some days just a fever, some days just a headache, some days completely fine, some days tired and draggy.  Every time I contemplated calling the pediatrician, he'd perk up and be fine for a few days.  That afternoon I called and got an appointment for the next morning. 

He woke up with a low grade fever that day.  I got Juliana off to school and we headed to the doctor's office.  I adore my pediatrician.  He is as calm, soothing, and reasonable as they come.  My child bursting into flames in the exam room might faze him.  As I tend towards Hypochondriacal Hysteria, this makes for a good working relationship. 

I gave him a quick history of  David's last few weeks.  I made sure to mention that at one point David said his head hurt so badly that his vision got blurry.  About five minutes after telling me that, though, he was kicking a ball around the bonus room.  (In case you're wondering, I spent that five minutes "casually" race-walking downstairs to tell Ritu this development all the while mentally grabbing my purse and starting the van for the drive to the hospital.)  It turns out that Real Doctors put less stock in words like "headaches with visual disturbances" and more in how the patient looks.  My scary report paled in comparison to David running and playing. 

I love our pediatrician because he understands all of my code words.  When I talk about headaches and fevers that don't turn into any recognizable illness, he knows I am really saying B-R-A-I-N-T-U-M-O-R.  He calmly explained to me that what I was describing didn't concern him.  He pointed out that the headaches responded to Motrin and that even when David described his worst headache, he was up and playing again shortly thereafter.  Did he think I could be placated so easily?  I countered that by pointing out a mole on David's chest that I thought looked menacing.  He examined it and again saw no reason for concern.  Then he took a long time examining David, darkening the room and shining his ophthalmoscope into his eyes.  I held my breath. 

He turned the lights back and said he thought that perhaps David has just had a run of small viruses over the past few weeks.  I am sure that is entirely possible.  I know it sounds perfectly reasonable.  I responded with, "and the headache that made his vision blurry...?" in a tone that clearly meant,  "How can you possibly rule out a tumor so easily, you Quack?"  At this point, he said, he didn't see any reason to do any further testing.  He gave me a headache journal to fill out to help keep track of things like dates, level of pain, and  precipitating events.  I felt a little better.  But I couldn't resist asking in a meaningful way,  "What kinds of headaches would concern you?"  He ticked off a list: pain that doesn't respond to Motrin or Tylenol, early morning headaches that get better as the day goes on, and headaches associated with vomiting. 

Finally appeased, David chose a sticker and we left.  I'm sure the doctor took a few minutes to note: Crazy Mother, Possibly Munchausen's on David's chart.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Tough Love

Every school day for months--no, years--we've followed the same routine.  None of it is earth-shattering.   But most mornings, my kids act like it's the first time.  They look at me baffled when I remind them to put their breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.  I can see their little brains trying to process why we've started what must be a brand new tradition of brushing our teeth after we eat.  Sometimes they kind of nod at me with slowly dawning amazement:  Yes, backpacks.  And jackets!  What a good idea! 
 
I do get tired of saying the same thing every morning,  but I feel like my job as a stay at home mom is to ensure things don't get overlooked.  I am there to make sure homework gets completed, that children have their library books on library day, and that nobody goes to school unprepared.  Deep down, I know that it's important to let kids make mistakes, and to learn from them.  I've been told that if we don't let our children experience small failures at this age then it makes it a much harder lesson to learn later in life.  Logically it makes perfect sense, but I have a really hard time putting it into practice.   But I grow weary of being the brains of the operation all the time.  So on Tuesday morning, I let David make a mistake. 

The children's lunches were packed and sitting in plain sight.   I asked David if he had everything he needed.  His lunch was on the counter.  He said yes.  I bit my tongue and said ok.  He stood by the door as Juliana finished getting ready.  Juliana picked up her lunch box, which was right next to David's.  I held my breath hoping she would point it out to him.  No such luck.  I positioned myself at the far end of the counter.  David stood at the front door.  To see me, his line of vision had to pass right over his lunch box.  I asked one last time if he had everything he needed.  Again, he answered that he did.  I found I was gripping the underside of the countertop to stop myself from saying,  "Come get your lunch."   Our neighbor, Andrew, showed up to walk to school with them.  I quickly scanned him to see if he was carrying a lunch with the hopes that it would serve as a visual reminder to David.   Andrew was carrying a guitar.  Unless David knew a strummy song about lunch boxes, this wasn't going to help.  The three of them set off for school.  I waited about five minutes in case he remembered and came back, then I put his lunch into the fridge and informed Ritu that we were doing Tough Love today.

As his morning snack was safely tucked inside his lunch box, the guilt started almost immediately.  He's so little.  He's the smallest fourth grade boy in his class.  He's actually smaller than most of the third graders.  Obviously what will really help with that is to have him eat less.  And lets not forget the way his blood sugar plummets when he doesn't eat.  I'm sure having him collapse in a glucose-deprived sobbing fit will do wonders for his long-term social standing.  Hell, I still remember the kid who peed his pants when I was in third grade.  Now  David will forever  be known as the Hungry-Crier.  Jesus, why didn't I just make him go to school naked?

I went for a walk to calm myself.  When I got home, there was a message on my phone.  It was from David's teacher.  She called to say that David told her that he'd forgotten his lunch and he was wondering if I could drop it off at the school.  I could let her know via a message through the office or an email.

Well.  I sat down to email his teacher.  I knew she'd be on board.  She totally subscribes to the theory of not rescuing kids all the time.  I thought back to last year when David was in third grade (he's in a 3/4 blend so he's had this teacher for two years) and he'd forgotten to bring one of his worksheets home.  This was back when I was still walking him into his class each day.  Back when I still thought it was my job to smooth things out with the teacher.  I stood there with him as he explained what had happened.  I chimed in that I'd been sick and so I hadn't been on top of things.  She calmly looked at me and explained to both of us that this was David's responsibility.  He'd had other options such as calling a friend andfinding out the assignment.  As I stood there, she told David that he could go to study hall in lieu of recess that day and get the assignment done.  I knew what I was supposed to do.  I stood there and kept my goddamned mouth shut.  Inside, I burned with anger.  Couldn't she see how little he was?  My God, it was the beginning of third grade.  Why did she feel the need to crack down on him like that? I knew it had to be her way of punishing ME.  Why else would she have made such a big deal out of it with me as an audience?  I spent most of David's third grade year completely convinced that his teacher hated me.  Despite that,  David was having a great year.  He loved school and his teacher and was learning a lot.  But this woman kept me out of the loop in a big way.  Turns out she didn't want to have chatty little conversations each morning.  She didn't want to give me quick updates on David's day when I saw her in the halls.  Oh, and get this.  She wanted to give the assignments--even for big projects--directly to the students.  How was I supposed to oversee and make sure things were getting done correctly if I didn't even know what the end results were supposed to be?  I struggled that year.  Much more than David did.  It finally dawned on me that I was being educated right alongside him.  She was teaching me a whole lot about parenting as we went. 

So, I sat down to email her about David's lunch.  Here's what I wrote: 

I am fully aware that David left his lunch here.  I asked him twice if he had everything he needed and he said yes.  Let's let him roll with it today and see what he can figure out.

Her response:

Thanks - what a good mother you are!!!  He was standing beside me when I read this message - He said, "Dang!" I think he will figure something out - there's always salad bar - he won't starve.  

I loved that she included his quote.  I could hear his long, drown out delivery of the word.  The tone he always takes when he knows I'm on to him.  I felt vindicated in my decision making.  Nonetheless, I went to pick him up at the end of the day armed with a granola bar in my purse. I asked him what he had for lunch.  I knew they were having corn dogs, which he loves, so I was a little concerned that my lesson may have backfired.  But since he wasn't in the original lunch count, there weren't any extra corn dogs.  He ended up having a vanilla yogurt and a roll for lunch. 

When Ritu got home, we talked about it a bit and Ritu asked him if he'd learned anything.  And this is why I love my child. Instead of hanging his head and murmuring the importance of keeping track of one's belongings, he went into a soliloquy using his brightest,  most sincere voice: "Yes!  I learned that vanilla yogurt for lunch is awesome.  It's like the best lunch ever.  I'm so glad I  had a chance to find that out.  I mean, it was soooo good!" 

When we sat down to dinner, we started our usual discussion of the best and worst parts of our days.  David started with, "I'd definitely say the best part of  my day was...." and Ritu and I lost it laughing, convinced he was going to say "vanilla yogurt for lunch".  Instead he talked about the visit from the police officer who talked about Stranger Danger.  I swear, if he'd kept that going, I would've put an extra dessert in today's lunch.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Quick Check In

My apologies for the lack of updates.  I saw my new doctor on Thursday.  She was great.  She's calm and reasonable, but with a nice sense of humor.  And, although she's a few years younger than I am, it turns out we lived in the same dorm at the University of Michigan.  Obviously, our doctor-patient relationship was meant to be.  She officially diagnosed me with ulnar neuropathy.  Doesn't that sound impressive?  Basically it means that nerve from my elbow into my hand is irritated.  It shows its displeasure by sending tingling sensations into my forearm, hand, and fingers.  I've been taking Aleve twice a day and doing my best to rest it.  (Did I mention it's my left arm?  Did I mention I'm left-handed?)  My elbow still hurts, but the tingling seems limited to when I'm in a sitting position.  Say, like, at the computer.  My mother thinks it may have something to do with the fact that I type with a grand total of three fingers.  She feels this unorthodox typing style may have something to do with my problem.  I think if she were any kind of a mother, she would offer to stand behind me massaging my shoulder and arm while I type. 


Thursday, March 15, 2007

Heh

You know the little Paper Clip Guy who gives you helpful tips on Microsoft Word?  Today he told me "If you run with scissors, you could get hurt."

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

A Poetry Interlude

Today's update:

1.  Took off a big chunk of my fingernail with a butter knife.  Sweet God in Heaven, a butter knife.  Pathetic doesn't even begin to describe me.

2.  Found out it will cost $635 to fix the damage on the van.  <sigh>

3.  I made an appointment today with a new doctor.  She can see me tomorrow morning.  I like her already.

*****
Last night during dinner, Juliana managed to spill her burrito all over herself.  (Where does she get that?) We'd been going around the table having each person share the best and worst parts of the day.  Juliana's worst part was "having burrito lap".  Her messy state inspired her to write a poem: 



Isn't she awesome?  For those of you who aren't fluent in 7 year old, here's what it says:

Whether I'm Clean
Whether I'm clean or
not as you've always
seen I'll lay on
yellow deedee and dream


Yellow deedee is a crocheted yellow, green, and white blanket that her grandmother made for her before she was born.  She's used it every day of her life and loves it more than anything else in the world.  If her love for deedee were an SAT question it would read like this:   Transitional Object is to Yellow Deedee as Marijuana is to Crystal Meth.  You can see how she represented deedee in the picture, the circles being the holes made by crocheting. 

I love the illustration she drew.  I love the blissful smile on her face and the closed, dreamy eyes.  I love the thinking bubble above her head.  I love how she's imagining herself as a princess with a crown.  I love how my husband (who has known her just as long as I have, it turns out) looked at the picture and asked, "Why are you dreaming about a chicken?"



Monday, March 12, 2007

A Couple More Things

First of all, thank you for all the feedback on the bedding.  Although, I must say you people are ever so slightly maddening.

Me:  Which do you like best? A or B?
You All:  C!  D!  E!  F!  G!

I'm guessing you don't do well on True or False tests.

However, I think Tina may be on to something with the following link:  Simply Wild.
Target seems to have the same bedding, but the Sears link shows it in purple as well.  This is a compromise I may be willing to make. 

*****
As you know, I am terrible about making phone calls.  But I've had this pain in my left shoulder/arm/elbow/wrist/hand for about three weeks now.  Sometimes I'll wear my splint and that helps, sometimes it doesn't.  Sometimes I'll spend 3 or 4 days taking Aleve and that helps.  Sometimes is seems like it's coming from my neck, sometimes it feels like it's a repetitive stress sort of thing because typing aggravates it.  Sometimes it involves really dramatic tingling in my fingers.  It took me a while to make the connection that this may be the cause of it all.  I discounted that idea because I'd fallen on my right side and all the pain was on my left.   Turns out both sides are connected.  Der.  Today I finally put in a call to my doctor.  We had the following conversation:

Me:  I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. So-and-So.
Receptionist:  Oh, she isn't at this office any longer.
Me:  Where is she now?
Receptionist:  We don't know.  We're waiting to hear from her.
Me: You mean you lost her?
Receptionist: She hasn't been with us since February 1st.

They offered me an appointment with a Physician's Assistant that I politely declined.  I don't have a problem with Physician's Assistants.  I have a problem with doctors who disappear and leave their patients in the dark about it.  This was the first primary care doctor I've had in years.  With all the moving we've done, I went maybe 7 years with only having  OB/GYNs.  That combined with a physician husband who could sneak me into the Emergency Department as needed worked for awhile, but I was thrilled to have a doctor of my own. 

Looks like I'm starting from scratch again. I'd really like to bitch some more about this whole thing, but my fingers are starting to tingle.....


Friday, March 9, 2007

Juliana's Words Of Wisdom

"I know how to get a burp out.  If you have a bathrobe with a tie, take it, put it on, and pull the tie really tight and it will squeeze the burp out."

Thursday, March 8, 2007

This Blog Is Accident Free For 2 Days!

Good news!  I did no damage to myself or others today. 

Now, a little of this and little of that:

In our master bathroom we have a big ol' jetted tub.  As far as I can tell, the jets don't work.  Nobody in our family takes baths on a regular basis so our tub's job is mainly ornamental.  Since no one uses it, I sometimes forget that it needs to be cleaned.  I'm guessing it's a sign you've waited too long when the act of cleaning it actually makes it dirtier.  Turns out that when you add liquid of any kind--even a cleaning liquid--to a totally dusty tub, it makes mud.  Well, mud and giant wet lint balls.  Then you have to let it dry until eventually you can kind of sweep it clean.  I guess I really should just vacuum the damn thing in the first place.  Do other people vacuum their bathtubs?  Does Mr. Clean make a vacuum?

*****

Ritu and I went out to lunch the other day and as we were walking across the parking lot, I grabbed his arm and said, "Make it stop!"  He followed my gaze and saw the source of my horror.  There was a woman wearing a flouncy knee length denim skirt over--shudder--fishnet leggings.  Let that sink in for a moment.  They were a wide fishnet pattern and there was a band of solid black around her ankles.  They looked like this.  I can't begin to describe how wrong it was.  Especially given the fact that this woman had to be as old as I am.  We're talking Autumn Chicken here, people.  The Fug Girls would've lost their shit had they seen it.  Sure, I know I'm supposed to celebrate the fact that she didn't care what other people thought, but--no.  Just NO.

*****
I'm thinking of buying some new bedding for Juliana. Which of these two do you like best:  Cats or Dreamsicles?  She just turned 7 if that helps with your decision making.  My mother (Hi Mom!) saw the cat one and said it might be too "young" for her.  Juliana likes this one, but I think it's both too grown up and too ugly.



Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Today's Score

1.  While cleaning the kids' bathroom, I straightened up and hit my head on the underside of the towel bar.

2.  While backing out of my garage this afternoon, I swung wide to get by Ritu's car which was parked in the driveway and scraped the front left side of my van on the edge of the garage opening.  In addition to the scrapes, something in the wheel well looks cracked and the driver's side door now makes a funny rubbing side when you open it.  Did I mention that the van had spent the entire morning at the shop having the brakes and power steering repaired?

<sigh>

Monday, March 5, 2007

Why I Don't Send David To Neptune

On Monday as I was getting breakfast ready, David came to me with a serious look on his face and said, "Mom, something very, very important happened on Thursday and I forgot to tell you about it".

Well, shit.  Here we go again, I thought.  I had heard from David's teacher on a handful of occasions last fall about things he was not getting done in class or at home.  It seemed to be a matter of organizational skills and his ability to focus on the kinds of details that allow you to say, bring home the papers you need to do your homework.  (She's a terrific teacher and really knows David well, but she doesn't sugarcoat anything with the parents.  In one of my favorite parent-teacher moments, she gestured at his messy desk, overflowing with loose papers and referred to it as "a cry for help". )

Last fall, we'd had a number of conversations with David stressing his need to communicate with us.  To avoid getting in trouble, he'd taken to not telling us the things he'd forgotten to bring home or get done and that part of it made me crazier than anything.  Let me give you an example.  David does the Worldly Wise spelling program.  That means that each week he has to learn the spelling and definitions of 15 words.  The test is given on Fridays.    It's an independent study program and we've developed a great system that breaks it down into a week-long process.  But some weeks if there is a lot going on, his class doesn't have spelling.  It's David's job to know when there is or isn't spelling.  A few days after one of our talks on honesty and open communication regarding schoolwork,  and after denying that he had spelling that week, he tearfully admitted on a Thursday morning that he did indeed have a spelling test the next day.  My head nearly blew off.  I debated letting him just fail the test, but I didn't like the idea of letting him off the hook for doing the work.  Instead, he came home after school that day and worked on them all evening.  The next day he aced the test.    Still not exactly sure the lesson learned by that experience...


So, even though this issue hadn't come up for months, I braced myself to hear about some looming deadline or undone assignment.  Instead, this is what he said:  "On Thursday during P.E., Hannah held a hockey stick and tried to hit the ball with it.  It's the first time she ever tried to use the equipment." 

Hannah is a girl in his class who has a severe disability.  She and her younger brother have a genetic condition in which they are missing a part of the corpus collasum which connects the two hemispheres of the brain.  The condition is so rare that it doesn't even have a name and Hannah and her brother are thought to be the only two people in the world who have it.  Hannah doesn't talk at all but when she's happy, she smiles and flaps her arms to show she's excited.  David loves Hannah.  His favorite classroom job is to be Hannah Helper which means escorting Hannah to and from the classroom to her structured learning room or to recess.  (Another reason why I love his teacher is the way she introduced them to having Hannah in their class.  She told the class that the principal thought long and hard about which room would be right for Hannah.  He looked until he found a class that was filled with kind and caring children and that's where he placed her.  Not surprisingly, with a build up like that, the class has embraced her in a big way.)

The next time I was at school, I took a moment to speak with the aide who works with Hannah in the classroom.  She said it was indeed the first time Hannah had participated in any of the activities.  She and the P.E. teacher were thrilled.  The aide was amazed that David had even noticed, much less bothered to tell me. 

Something like this makes up for a lot of whistling.

Saturday, March 3, 2007

Proud Moments

Here are a few of my recent proud moments:

On Monday, I was retrieving laundry from the washer.  Unbeknownst to me, the cabinet door above the washer was slightly ajar.  I straightened up and cracked my head so hard on its edge that my teeth actually collided with a loud clackity sound.  I had to put an ice thingy on my head.  Also, I had to think long and hard about crying.

Last week I was slicing an apple for David when I managed to slice right into my thumb nail.  My friend Jimmy recently sharpened some of our knives.  Originally I took it as a thoughtful gesture.  But providing me with sharp knives?  I'm thinking this may be his attempt to get away with the perfect crime.

This morning I was using the sprayer to rinse out the sink.  I used my right hand to replace it in the little holder and somehow sprayed cold water directly onto my right elbow.  Underneath two layers of long-sleeved shirts.  My wrist and cuffs were perfectly dry.  How is that even possible? 

In other news, David took the right shoes to soccer this morning.  And pancakes were enjoyed by all.