I'm Suffering All Right

Well, we've reached the last night of Passover.  During the weeklong celebration, Jews refrain from eating anything with leavening in it as a reminder of the unleavened bread the Jews carried when Moses led them out of slavery in Egypt.  We inconvenience ourselves in this small  way to remember the hardship our ancestors endured. 

As with any religious interpretation, there are a number of schools of thought regarding what is and isn't kosher for Passover.  Traditionally, any product containing wheats, oats, barley, spelt or rye that has been leavened is off limits.  Ashkenazi Jews (those with roots in Eastern Europe) also forbid legumes, corn, rice and beans as flour could be made from these substances as well.  Sephardic Jews (those with roots in the Spanish or North African countries) find these foods be acceptable for Passover.  My ancestors come from Lithuania and Russia.  Naturally, I consider myself Sephardic on Passover.  (Look, I figure once I married a Hindu, all bets were off.) 

We don't keep kosher in general, although I don't cook pork.  Ritu, however, likes to fry up bacon on weekend mornings, and I find it quite tasty.  Also, in my book, pizza just isn't pizza unless it has pepperoni.  (My book apparently isn't the Torah.)

As the children grow older, I've tried gradually to incorporate more of the dietary observance of Passover.  At first, it was "No Obvious Bread Products".  So, they could still eat their cereal, but waffles were out.  They had to have peanut butter and jelly on matzah, but they could have goldfish crackers with it.  It was sort of the Don't Ask, Don''t Tell method of Passover.  This year I've been more hard core and for the most part, we've all stuck with it.  But for the love of God, you'd think my children were being tortured.  The complaining, oy, the complaining!  Slavery in Egypt would be a glimmer of hope for them.

We left San Francisco at 6 AM on Wednesday for our 11 hour drive home.  About an hour into the drive, we stopped at a McDonald's to pick up breakfast.  I prepped the kids that there would be no biscuits or pancakes.  We all decided on the breakfast platter that had scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a sausage patty.  (That's right, kids, no bread but eat up that pork!)  Well, all of us except for Ritu who chose a sausage and egg biscuit on the argument that it would be easier to eat while he drove.  Oh, that and the fact that he's NOT JEWISH.  My mom helped Juliana with her tray of food in the back seat.  She took a few bites of egg, then sat there staring at her food.  I'm not sure there is a word in the English language to describe just how forlorn she was.  She refused to take another bite of anything.  She was so sad that she couldn't even muster the energy to cry.  She just sat there, soulless, as if she'd been betrayed by her last friend on earth.  I don't think she could've been more miserable had I cut up her blankie, used it to wrap up her pet guinea pig, cooked it and served it to her. 

I think David summed up their attitude for this entire week when he said, "Mommy, I bet I know what the first ingredient in matzah is.....SUFFERING!"

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.

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."

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.

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.

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. 

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."