Breeding Imperfection

oh, la difference kicks some heiny

2009-12-17T21:36:00.009-05:00

If you haven't met this blogger yet, you might want to reconsider: I just read her latest post, and it left me thoughtful. And appreciating what a doctor has to do, in the face of a patient's need.

Oh, my.

But I digress. (go, digress. I'll wait.)

**********************************

I cannot help but muse: one of these years is not, thank heavens, like the other. This time last year, I was wrapping up homemade yumminess for the boys' teachers. It was chocolate chip granola bars last year, and the bittersweetness, the splintering care to teach the Toddles to say thank you, even to the teachers who'd tried, but ultimately failed him. "That was good, the Toddles told me." And, picking my way between pride and sadness, I agreed.

But now, I think: kid, we had no idea.

That was my kid at the Chanuka celebration last week, you know. Mine, shoveling in potato and applesauce with the rest of the pack, singing the funny verses to I Have A Little Dreidel, and thankfully, without the potty humor. Mine. And absolutely, positively safe in a roomful of munching, belly-filling kids. Because the food is safe.

Because the teachers - and the school - gets it.

So, this year we said thank you again, and we did it in style, baby. We did it with sparklies.

The boys made necklaces and bracelets for their teachers, and I had a ridiculously wonderful time talking with them about the colors their teachers wear, what kinds of people their teachers are, and then, oh my goodness about design. Even the Toddles was happy to think about symmetry, and his second necklace was a two thread, three bead design: small black bead, chunky red bead of various types, small black bead. Knot. Switch to the other thread, and repeat. He laid out his beads in advance, considered how best to balance the various shapes and sizes of the red beads, and then patiently threaded and knotted.

See?

And nobody splintered - but my heart was very, very full. For this, as for so much else, I give thanks. Except, possibly, first thing in the morning, when I realize that I have to get the kids out of the house and to the car, and for some reason, this is going to take well over an hour and all of my patience.

But yes, we gave thanks. The Eldest, to nobody's surprise, muttered something about basketball until I mentioned that we could use stone beads. The kid loves stones, filling his pockets with the muddiest he can find, certain that each is enormously valuable and beautiful. He rummaged happily among the stones, and started jamming them on. Um. Not that he shouldn't do it his way, but, well -

I handed him a printout about Morse code. Design, I told him, is code. Sometimes the message is a feeling, or an idea. Sometimes, it's literally words.

And the kid took me up on it. He designed an organdy and cord necklace of unakite, jasper and hematite, of which the stones made perfect sense for my young miner-in-training, but the ribbon was an unexpected touch. And a nice one. And he arranged the stones in a code, to spell out his teacher's name.

And so, we gave thanks. You know, the Toddles' teacher whispered, fingering her necklace, just getting to have him in the classroom is thanks enough. My throat filled, swelling with old splinters and newer joys. I couldn't get the words out to tell her that she was absolutely right.

This year, it feels as if we'd lit our menorah in the midst of memories of desecration and betrayal, hopeful but not letting ourselves rest on that hope. And slept, only to wake and find it still burning, ruthlessly pushing us past sharp memory and into what comes next.

Wishing you all a season of light, joy and shared tables.

plundering buckets

2009-12-13T09:43:00.008-05:00

Of course, there's a story - but most of it is in the letter I carefully didn't write, so I think you're probably up to speed. Fill in my face, trying for calm, reminding myself that if I listen, he will talk, and if I shriek, he'll stop.

(Listen, woman, listen. Oh. And try not to laugh out loud, 'k? Because damn, when my kid decides to get himself tossed out of class, he does some very fine work.)

So, I listened. And I asked him about the teacher's response, looking to see if she gave him warnings (she did), used teamwork to help him change course (yep), and how quickly her head started revolving on her shoulders (inexplicably: didn't). Oh, and how much of each happened before the kid ended up a. in a quiet corner before being b. tossed out and c. talking to the head of the lower school.

Who, to her credit, responded by beginning a revamp of the class that the kid despises. Which I find kind of staggering, and more evidence that the kid is luckier than he knows: I was all in favor of a revamp of the kid. Possibly involving a welder, definitely with some wicked wrench work. Because here's the thing: insofar as I can see, every kid has a quota of Crap You Can Pull, which is dipped out of their Effort You Can Require of the School bucket. And I'm worried about his.

This isn't a question of being a class PIA, it's a question of needs. And this isn't just a question of going to a private (read: teeny religious) school rather than a public one, it's a practical matter. If you have a kid in your class who needs, needs, needs and then some, at some point when you look at that kid, you are going to feel pre-steamrollered. Teachers can give, and the good ones give a hell of a lot. But kids need to give back, too, refilling the bucket - or things can get strained. And strained means that there's less resources left, should you need more, simply because you are dealing with human beings. A long list of needs means that there's less left for that individual to give, because again, you are dealing with human beings.

As I might possibly have cause to know, human beings get tired. Possibly, if you are a mama, that's when you hear that vicious little snap! and begin roaring with all the love that you can muster in the midst of end-of-ropeness. There's a reason why the Short Bus parents talk so much about being tired. But I think about managing 24 kids, their needs and habits and personalities....and shudder. Because to each of their parents, every one of the 24 isn't kid, but rather Kid. And we expect the teachers to think so, too. At the Eldest's little school, we are certain that the teacher must think so. Thus: tired.

We've worked hard to expand the Eldest's EYCRS limits, mostly by being nice people and the best teammates we know how. And we try to refill that bucket by telling his teachers how much we appreciate them, and yes, I'll admit it, by making our by-now famous cookies. (At the Big Meeting before school started, the head of the lower school asked me for the recipe...having been given a tin of these the previous winter. Who knew?) I communicate whatever I can, as best I can, and do a careful if slightly desperate dance between working on the Eldest's interests and maintaining relationships. I actually like the people I'm working with, but it adds an odd flavor to really need them to like me back. In a public school, maybe I could afford to be more of a bitch, or maybe to do less baking. Have fewer meetings.

Maybe not. Because at the end of the day, there's still that bucket, limited in size by the humans toting it around.

So, here's the deal: the Eldest uses EYCRS resources by needing a little extra watchfulness, for his hemophilia. He uses a lot more for his food allergies, which slide themselves into class trips, the Head of the School's beloved squash project, Thanksgiving celebrations, and oh, just about anything Israeli/Jewish and involving food. (Ah, tahini. We meet again.) And he requires more because he tends to feel awkward in social settings, and his response to this is clowning around. Which is lovely in a classroom, dontcha think?

(more on the social thing in another post, but the short version is, unexpectedly: shy)

And oh yes, he uses more EYCRS because he's smart. Not the next Einstein, no, but can do sixth grade math smart (if I explain - okay, look up online - words like "mass," and "factors" to him). It sucks right now that the math problems that he's getting are chock-full of vocabulary that he doesn't understand, or skills that he doesn't have - like drawing a family tree - and so he gets stumped. And frustrated, knowing that part of the problem is something he could do, if he could only reach it. Does his brain fire like that in other areas? I'm not sure. But the kid drew Moh's scale of hardness for me the other day, explained it, and I thought that was pretty flaming awesome.

But hey, I'm his mom.

He's got buds in this wierd, fiery learning thing - a classroom of them, all delighted to learn and alarmingly good at it, in their various ways - and they egg each other on. The school, we're told, is both stunned and tickled. And they're throwing resources at the kids, but still, there am I, asking them to adjust to my kid's quirky levels (because there's never just one level for a kid, they vary by subject, y'know? untidy, that), and drawing on the EYCRS. Because heaven help us all if he gets bored. Trust me on this one.

So when it comes down to it, kiddo me love, you've got too much going on to be pulling more out of the bucket. It's unfair, but that's just how it goes. Can you talk to us, work with us rather than getting wired up and achieving new heights of grinning, PIA kid-ness? We-ell, maybe. The Eldest is blessed with two teachers of an admirable degree of probity and sense of humor, one of whom is openly fond of him. And who tossed him out into the hall. I asked him, she said on Friday, if he could work with me, so that he could make a good choice. I explained that he was not making good choices, she said, and sighed. I dropped my head into my hands. Not again.

I know the answer to the teacher's question: I'm sorry, the Eldest told me recently, but I really just can't. I looked at his earnest face, had seen his efforts to work with me on a calming technique, and I knew he was telling the truth. And it hurt to watch him run out into the hall, jumping and twisting so that his body bounced off the wall, mid-air, land and run on.

He can't help it. We've done testing (more on that later, too), and we know that sometimes, he really can't. Still, the kiddo wants to please the adults, he wants to do right, but it feels good to be ramped up, he told me. And he can't - yet - ramp down without my help, and he certainly doesn't understand why he has to. And I know absolutely and with a fierce pleasure, that the bucket doesn't mean crap-all to him.

And honestly, it shouldn't.

the email not quite written

2009-12-10T00:02:00.003-05:00

I'm procrastinating right now, having sat down 45 minutes ago to write an email to the Eldest's teachers.

Dear teachers, the email should say, I apologise if there is any possibility that I've hurt your feelings. Someone significant who might be cc'ed on this email indicated that I had - or might have - and suggested that I avoid talking to other parents about the possibility that the Eldest is occasionally bored in class. I should have talked to you, instead.

Because I'm not so subtly trying to let the Someone know that we have already discussed this, and that I'm a nice person who knows that teachers are an excellent resource, let me take this particular moment to note that I truly appreciate that you responded to the Eldest's request that you teach a certain subject in a certain way. You rock. Also, thanks for ramping up on the math - and can we ease off now? You know that I know that "bored" isn't necessarily a synonym for "too smart to need to learn this stuff," and yep, the kid didn't know how to solve all of the sixth grade math problems that got sent home with him.

Partly because he doesn't know what prime numbers are - or so saith the Man. Given this, yes please, let's have that meeting to talk about what the kid can and can't do.

And on the subject of what he can't do, thank you for being tolerant while the Eldest honed his newly discovered talents of class pain-in-the-ass. He's now quite certain that if he dislikes a subject (translation: "bored," variant 2.1), then he can be enough of a PIA to get himself tossed out of class. He told me all about the various strategies that he'd used to get himself chucked out, and was very proud. "First I flipped my chair over and sat on it, upside down. THAT's funny - it's an antic, you know. Then, I waved my hand hard when the teacher asked a question, but when she called on me, I said in this voice (oh, that voice), "I dunno." And then? I did it again." It is my hope that he now understands exactly how unacceptable this behavior is, and that while he regrows a variety of maternally-removed limbs, he appreciates your tolerance all the more.

Again, my apologies for checking around to see if other kids were a. bored and b. practicing the fine art of pain in the assness. I should have realized that asking such questions might imply that I was also considering heating up tar and gathering feathers - in truth, we're a feather-free* household for the foreseeable future. But I promise to let you know if that changes, and in the meantime hope that the above note both indicates that I honestly think that you are wonderful while demonstrates to the Someone who beheaded me telephonically this morning, that I appreciate you and yes, I did go and talk to you before consulting other, potentially feather-owning parents.

Sincerely and humbly apologetically, Me.

or something like that.

But since I haven't entirely de-snarked the above, I've been reading this thoughtful article on healthcare reform, by a local doc with a nice little pulpit. And then posting the link.

But having done so, I'm out of excuses and oughter go write that email. Sighhhh.

*thanks to the Toddles' feather allergy

scripting a day (or two)

2009-12-07T10:34:00.003-05:00

The holiday season has begun. Happy hols to all, and to us a merry appointment.

Okay, appointments. Because, yep, this is also the season when my lads make the rounds of their various doctors. The allergy team (twice, in two cities), the hematologists, the coping clinic, the various labs and clinics that administer the tests that need to be done before the actual chat with the doctor (because the "let's test, and see what turns up and THEN talk" line is not so very useful when you have to wait a month or six to have an in-person conversation), and oh yes. The pediatrician.

Last week, we began. Skin testing for the Toddles on Monday (two boys! tiny room! no scratching allowed!), and pharmacokinetics* for the Eldest on Wednesday. And while the skin testing was mercifully brief, the 'kinetics took - always take - all freakin' day. 7.30 am we put in the pair of IVs, 3pm we staggered (okay, I staggered) out to the elevator. But if I could've scripted them, the two days could not have been better.

We walked into Monday after the Eldest took a firm stance on the question of skin testing: it is, he shrieked, unbelievably painful. He handed out protest leaflets to the Toddles, and had to be taken aside, firmly, and told that it is not okay to freak out the kid before testing. Not going to help. Just going to make him scared, and fear = pain. Got it? Begrudgingly, the Eldest got it.

And forgot it.

I prickled my nails on the boys' backs, demonstrating the test. A stomp and roar later, the Eldest had been collared and exiled to his room, there to brood on the unfairness of the mama and the cruelty of the medical world. And the Toddles, close to tears, snuggled with me and read a book about a kid afraid of needles. I'm going to do that, he told me, pointing to a page. I hugged him, and braced for the morrow.

When the Eldest blinked, looking up from his book. Are they going to do the skin testing soon? he asked. His brother gave him a fabulously incredulous look. The testing is done, he said. And it didn't hurt a bit!

In the corner, I did not smile. Nor did the corners of my mouth twitch. (heh)

And then it was the Eldest's turn.

If the Toddles shone on his day of trial, the Eldest was allowed to stand in one spot, while Children's flung glittering confetti at him. Because this was the day when the Big Apple Circus clowns visited the infusion/boring long test room, and taught the kid a magic trick.

And lo, there was delight.

Where there was a paucity of delight, there was a splattering paint machine, a child life person to keep the paint a-flowin', and nurses who really did not care if we left paint fingerprints on, oh, everything.

and lo, art was made.

The artist in residence stopped by to keep the creative juices flowing, but she was asked to wait a bit: the boys were busy eating the special batch of allergy-friendly french fries that the cafeteria's head chef had made for them. Because, y'know, one must have priorities.

Happily, she understood that. And waited until oh, there were rich watercolors on thick smears of crayon and happy paintbrushing boys.

Oh, had I been able to script this day - this pair of days - it could not have gone better. Children's shone for my boys, and they gleamed right back. We are, I know, absurdly, lushly lucky in the hospital(s) that care for our boys. The reality is the testing, and we'd adapt to that because we must. But the gift is being able to sort of revel in that reality, and to roll around in all of that joy and caring and luxurious resources, IVs, hives and all.

Because it is, after all, the holidays....

* the goal of this test is to see how the Eldest is using his clotting meds. For years, he's had an oddly fast and irregular (but reliably irregular) way of using up his meds, with half of the dose vanishing in 30 minutes, then another half in 2 hours, and so on. By testing regularly, we can adjust his preventative treatment and bleed management to suit him. It's a very good trade-off for a serious PIA day, because in a pinch, I know exactly how to calculate his ability to handle the wallop du jour.

feelin' the lovedness

2009-12-03T00:06:00.003-05:00

mama: rant, rant, rant, roar

(pause to be certain that child is listening)

mama: rant, roar

(some several quiet minutes later)

mama: sweetie, do you know that when I'm frustrated with you, I still love you?

Toddles: oh, yes. And when you are roaring at me, I stop listening to your words, and I only hear the lovedness.

(very short pause)

mama: oh. I'm glad to hear it?

The Toddles nods firmly, and kindly offers a hug. Setting her urge to splutter (firmly) aside, the mama takes it.

thankful for....Mike? (a burble and a serious thought)

2009-11-28T22:18:00.007-05:00

I am sitting on magid's couch, half-asleep, and waiting for the laundry to dry. Because, yes, the Mikes have struck again.

On Tuesday, I checked the clock: 10 minutes. 11 minutes. 12 minutes. How long should my oven take to warm up? I checked the oven thermometer: 260F, said the thermometer. Ding! said the oven. I'm at 350F.

Are not, sneered the thermometer.

Aaaargh, said I. And called Mike.

On Wednesday, Mike replaced the heating elements in our oven, and we bid a happy farewell to the smell of gas from the broiler's heating cycle. Ah, said the oven. That's better. Oh - and by the way? F7:E0

F7:E0? said I.

F7:E0, confirmed the oven.

Okay, said Mike. Turn off the circuit, wait a minute and turn it back on. I'll call back in ten minutes. And he did, and I did, and all seemed well until Thursday morning, when....honey? the Man said, shaking my shoulder with a not-as-calm-as-I-sound grip. The oven has some wierd error message, and won't heat up.

Aaargh, said I.

In case you are wondering, the wise people at Kitchenaid inform me that F7:E0 is the product of poorly connected wires. Or possibly a faulty door latch. Or possibly a faulty board (a.k.a. expensive electronics). But once we'd coaxed the oven into heating up a little, the connection relaxed into the heat (how?), and allowed the oven to continue. We flung the rolls into the oven, followed immediately by the stuffing, and I'm delighted to say that the turkey was done a fantabulous three hours before dinnertime. Between Jonathan Reynolds and the temporary hiatus on F7:E0, we had ourselves a feast.

There were rolls and piles of veggies, making small talk with olive tapenade, unMarthaed green sauce and shamrock hummus. There was salad, for those who transition reluctantly to the main course, cranberries and sweet potatoes provided (and funked) by our guests. 21 pounds of moist, crisp-skinned turkey (if I do say so mahself). Hot dog stuffing, which you gotta try to believe. (think: sausage, fennel, pears, herbs, cubes of bread and white wine...) A nice bottle of wine, that had somehow survived its tenure under our window seat. And dessert: strawberry-lime sorbet, pineapple sorbet, blueberry pie and a plateful of fruit for anyone who missed the course's subtle theme.

We draped ourselves over our chairs, moaning quietly. Some people went home, after explaining that next year, they'll show us how this holiday really oughter be done. We staggered off to bed, happily contemplating the tautness of our bellies.

F7:E0, the oven murmured to itself. Three feet away, the washing machine hissed with jealousy, anticipating the Mike to come. And then, inspiration struck.

Water pipe closed? inquired the washing machine.

And so I am here, waiting for the dryer and imposing on magid's hospitality. Mike will be back on Wednesday, having soothed the oven's wounded spirit on Friday (he's 95% certain, says Mike), and determined that the washer requires new water sensors. Of possibly just a new mizzeekatron. A nice giraffe? Something.

So here I sit, trying to figure out if there's a way that we can throw out our enormous, ancient TV and DVD player, and still show the rare DVD to the kids on....some sort of bit of electronics that is neither large, nor expensive. Preferably free? Easily packed away in an over-full cabinet?

(Seriously, people, make with the suggestions here.)

And I'm reading this, about special needs in the Jewish community. Which makes me sad, because I know that outside of our wierd little community-bubble, what Dov and Devorah describe is true. Children with special needs are not well served in religious Jewish institutions, often for financial reasons. Sometimes - as we learned - through ignorance, lack of experience, flexibility or empathy. But often, it's money that stands as a barrier between a special needs child and a religious Jewish school.

Even if you can wedge the kid in, however, the school culture will make or break ya. Parents who embrace you and your oddball kid? Or parents who will sneer, and leave your kid out of the birthday parties, the playdates, the social life that unfurls through the child's school day? If the money for support services, or even just the adaptations isn't there, you don't get to find out. Not at a religious, private school.

But synagogues are a different question. There, the community's culture - their ability to incorporate, or accept (not just the rather arm's-length idea of "tolerance") the child is even more critical than their finances. We go to a shul that is perennially broke, but the community culture is one that has people looking for ways to include us. Last year, when the Toddles was forced out of his preschool, our shul was the place where we showed him that Judaism happened outside of our house. And that it could include him.

I don't need to explain why that's crucial, do I?

Which means that this comes down to a question of leadership. If more rabbis, like Dov, had children with disabilities - invisible or otherwise - then maybe something would shift. Or knew someone, or loved someone with a disability, and saw how this isolated them. Or saw how hard some kids struggle to build a positive image of themselves - their imperfect, frustrating bodies/brains/worlds - and how damaging that closed door can be.

A closed door isn't community. But do the rabbis even realize that the door is closed?

the car strikes again....

2009-11-22T01:39:00.004-05:00

Add to the list of competencies-to-acquire: changing a tire.

I'm now in a position to say that a flat tire on a Friday afternoon, roughly 2 hours before shabbat, is not a circumstance to be desired. But if you can manage it in the school parking lot, with a playground to entertain the (overtired, obviously underfed) boys, other adults to entertain the (cranky, mentally reciting pre-shabbat To Do list), then all might just be well.

The dad who offered to change the tire for me, on the other hand? Bonus. The other dad who came over and showed us how to stand - and then hop - on the wrench to loosen the bolts? Sheer fun. The mom who helped de-bitch any text messages sent to the loving spouse? Probably necessary.

My thanks to them all: we got the tire changed, the boys chased and inserted into the car, peeling out of the lot just in time to pass the roadside assist guy on his way in. (snark) Stopped off to get the bolts checked and tightened, and left the flat tire to be patched or junked. And yet, we still made it home in time to broil the fish, whip the pudding, maple the black beans, flip the laundry into the dryer, turn on lights/oven/dishwasher, boil the water, caramelize and bake the onion tart. Wheee!

But that tears it: somehow, I have got to learn more about my own car. I also have to make that tart again, because damn, that's good.

dribbles of competencies

2009-11-15T18:56:00.009-05:00

In case you were wondering, while I can get blood out of just about anything, I'm a little stumped about the black greasy stuff on my hands. But in a non-neatfreaky shift, I'm loving the black goo.

Last night, my car declined to start. I sat on a random street, betwixt and between errands. And stared. The lights on the dash flared, then faded. The radio went silent. I turned the key, suggested politely, then firmly, finally used the evil mom growl. The car was unimpressed. This, I knew, was many many miles outside of my range of experience.

The lights were on, I said out loud, then they were off. And the NPR - where did it go?

Alas, said the AAA emergency roadside kit booklet, it went with the battery.

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick, said the engine, agreeing. This, I thought, is why I hid a chocolate and peanut bar in my bag for tonight's outing. I'd known that tonight was going to need it.

The chocolate was silky and the peanuts crunched, and mollified, I merely grinned when the booklet informed me that my troubles would be solved if I signed up with AAA. Failing that, said the booklet, find someone to jump-start the battery. I called a friend, it's going to take me a while to get to you, to drop your things off. I sadly looked at the empty bar wrapper, contemplated the lack of chocolate and peanuts. Would tea fill the void? But perhaps we can help, replied the friend. I'll send competent male out to jump-start your car.

Competent male turned up, and was indeed competent.* We compared AAA kits and happily, he knew how to use his. Except that, to his chagrin, there was his car, running - and the keys locked in it. Spare set of keys, he told me, and ran home to fetch them. Spare battery? Not so much.

We finally unlocked his car, untangled the jumper cables and compared identical AAA booklets on What To Do. We were attaching the jumped cables when roadside assistance turned up, and gasped with horror.

Don't do that! exclaimed the RA guy. You'll fry your computers.

Competent male and I looked at each other. We will? Competent male shrugged, and left me in clearly professional - and non cable-using - hands. Battery jumped, I drove home, weaving around and through my route in an effort to charge the battery. But don't expect the car to start again tomorrow, warned the professional. That battery is done.

But the next morning, it did. And when it started, I was prepared: had driving directions in hand, apples in bag and Eldest in the backseat, and we drove straight to AutoZone. Bought a battery. Watched the store's guy try and fail to unscrew the strap holding the old battery in place. Watched the car try and fail to turn on. The hours, which had been sliding away, giggled and picked up speed. Lunchtime came, and the Eldest finished his apple, two bags of potato chips and a pair of cookies. I'm still hungry, he told my rumbling stomach, having eaten my share of the snacks along with his own. I clamped my jaws shut, and worked to preserve any illusions of loving motherhood that he might have left.

Ah, but this time: spare battery.

One Roadside Assistance call later, the troublesome nut had spun off, we had a new battery in place, and I had been talked through hubcap replacement by the RA guy. I drove home considering this - the Home Depot guys are of the opinion that I can do nearly anything myself, including cutting tile. Is the RA guy of this ilk? I'd be disappointed in you if you couldn't, said a friend. I eyed the tires dubiously. Where I grew up, you called a guy. Competent, RA, handy or otherwise. Or caught a bus.

Sure enough, my first efforts popped off. The next round looked oddly askew - I'd covered the air thingie. Bloody car. Need a pack mule. Telecommuting, mutter mutter mutter something about a bicycle. Four new hubcaps and black goo later, I'm of the opinion that competency is a slippery, fluid concept. But I might - possibly - perhaps have dribbles of it.

perhaps. occasionally, I mused, spreading putty over the rusting holes in my paint. But, from the look of the swirling, delightedly unsmooth putty, not terribly often.

*please note that I say this with all sincerity: comparatively and otherwise, he was competent.

*********************************************************************

on an un-lunched day like this, when I'd rather have been doing any number of things other than considering my own dubious compentencies - and not so dubious ignorance of things vehicular, a serious pick-me-up is crucial. Mine? Steaming wedges of plain potato, coconut curried chickpeas from this wonderful cookbook, and unMarthaed green sauce.

unMarthaed green sauce

based on a recipe for green sauce, from a Martha magazine, picked up and carried reasonably far in a slightly chimicurried direction.

1/2 of a red onion

3 cloves garlic, peeled

1/3rd tsp red pepper flakes

most of a bunch of parsley, including stalks (if your food processor is up to the challenge, that is)

3-4 stalks fresh oregano, leaves stripped off (even if your food processor can handle it, the stalks are woody in flavor. I'd pass.)

1/3rd cup stuffed green olives (plain green are fine, too)

juice of 3 lemons

1/4 c rice vinegar, unless you have red wine vinegar (I didn't)

1/3rd to 1/2 cup olive oil

salt, pepper and ground coriander to taste

Add ingredients to the food processor: heavier ingredients first, then leafy and spices. Keep the liquids in reserve as encouragement to the machine when it falters, or has trouble chopping the elusive leaves. A nice, percussive pulse should do the trick: you want your sauce to be finely chopped, and not pureed. Mine was puree, however, and I managed to love it regardless.

Adjust your flavors to suit you - add olive oil if you need the sauce to have less zing, and more smoothness of flavor. Add lemon juice if you need more zing, salt if the flavor feels wimpy, extra onion for more pungency, capers and cornichons if you are having a Marthaesque moment of piquancy, anchovies if you are feeling traditional (but for heavens sake, add the anchovies early on in the percussion, 'k?). In short, have fun.

And when you are done, consider the simple, wonderfully neutral steamed potato as a backdrop to all that flavor, hmmm?

a wry grin, an impressively numbered giggle, and oops

2009-11-11T22:36:00.004-05:00

Oh, I have to laugh at us.

The melodrama (oink flu!), the frenetic mama (dress! gigantic bruises on shins - need thick hose! thicker! where is the thermometer?), and the ridiculously bouncing children.

I have a big number, the Toddles informed me.

I nodded. He'd clocked in at 104.9F, and yes, that was a nicely large number. The Toddles, satisfied that I'd understood the situation, curled up in our battered papasan chair, and patiently waited for me to tuck a blanket around him. He peeped out.

I'm better now, though. And damn, but he was.

One nap later, he ate lunch, had hot cocoa (sans chocolate - duh), tested some homemade sunflower spread, and generally climbed all over his brother. (But he wants me to jump on top of him, said the Toddles, and I waited for the Eldest to disagree.) And declined to take his ritual afternoon nap - to my horror. Instead, we made family sorta-trees, had a blast requesting every book we could think of from the library, and made necklaces and bracelets.

Yep, we might be just about fine.

Just so long as nobody else gets it.

Hey, honey. Listen, the boss sent me home from work - apparently, I'm sick.

(sighhhh)

oink, oink y'all

2009-11-10T16:40:00.007-05:00

Don't worry, the Eldest told me, his neutrophils, macrophages and lymphocytes are on the job, fighting. He'll be fine.

I blinked. I gaped.

Oh, I said weakly. Good to know.

Watching me stagger slightly, the Eldest beamed a benevolent, if deeply satisfied grin.

Bloody hematologist. Doesn't he know that I'm the one in charge of quirking my kid?

**********************************

In case you were wondering, yes, the boys have H1N1. Confirmed? Oh, no. But there's one case of confirmed H1N1 in the Eldest's school, and why the pediatricians aren't testing more possible cases is beyond me, but hey: my boys match the differential. Well, sighed the pediatrician, we know what this is.

I nodded. It was conjunctivitis gonna getcha followed by oink, oink my head hurts because I'm griddle-ready, followed by oink, oink (the encore). Oh, yes. I knew what this is.

Half of the Eldest's class was home today. Large swathes of the Toddles' preschool was home on Friday. Parent teacher conferences have been canceled for the Eldest's class tomorrow. Need I go on? This oink flu is packing a tidy punch, and ow.

The poor Eldest was flattened by a migraine on Friday, which then introduced the 102F temps. They do-si-doed the headache until last night, when the virus managed to trigger a measly 100.1F as a farewell gesture. I waved at the departing bug, watching the Eldest sink into a healthier, deeper sleep. Down the hall, the Toddles was considering the merits of 102F, but by morning would have settled on a red cheeked, limp 103F. Despite that - or okay, yes: because of that, the boys are more or less adorable when they're sick. The Eldest, his head aching and the Tylenol waffling, was a cuddly sweetheart. The Toddles, despite a tendency to burst into tears, is proving to be much the same.

And they're egging each other on. When the Eldest was sick, the Toddles brought him books. Today, the (now healthy) Eldest began his morning by building a display box for the Toddles' treasured rocks - and ball.

then another for himself.

And curled up on the futon with his brother, and a book that his hematologist had recommended for him. Flinging up my hands over my calendar, my editor, my ridiculously untouched list of Things I Really Gotta Do Soon, the continuing lack of those crucial quiet&alone moments in my days, I spent a satisfying few minutes stomping around, muttering. Overlooking the thoughtful child on the couch, interpreting his world. And pretending that I really did understand this oink flu thing, that I could read around the hype to decide how worried I wanted to be.

Don't worry, the Eldest told me, his neutrophils, macrophages and lymphocytes are on the job, fighting. He'll be fine.

I blinked. I gaped.

Oh, I said weakly. Good to know.

Watching me stagger slightly, the Eldest beamed a benevolent, if deeply satisfied grin. Lookit, I thought. Brain on the loose! Neurons at large! At home! With me!

Help?

enter: the dress

2009-11-08T20:53:00.004-05:00

Well, the Toddles had classic, bacteria gonna getcha conjunctivitis. Whee! and where's the Purell?

He was deeply irked by the news, but mollified by not having to go to the pediatrician (who diagnosed him over the phone) and was willing to consider the possibility of eye drops. He's still willing to consider them, albeit with less enthusiasm as each dose goes by.

But there went Thursday. And Friday.

Blessed be, the Eldest came home from a playdate on Friday with a squashed ball of a dress in a paper bag, courtesy of one of those moms who always look wonderful. Dunno how she does it, but she always looks great, with a flavor of quirky humor, playful style that flares or settles as needed. She'd sent along her dullest dress, and I felt alarmingly unlike myself in it.

Hello, said the dress, politely stretching across my (larger) torso. You don't happen to own a pair of kicky boots, do you? I had to admit that no, I did not. The dress considered this, swishing gently, and decided to forgive me.

It might have reconsidered when I discovered that I had tossed most of my makeup, but if so, I appreciate the tactful silence. Goodness knows I was grumbling loud enough for the two of us.

The wedding behind me, I've been considering the phenomenon of the well-dressed woman. I dunno how it's done, no, not even after years at Loehmann's and the group dressing rooms populated by lots of helpfully opinionated strangers. Getting dressed ought to be a simple process, I know this:

1. consider the message you want to send (put together, casual, educated, harmless),

2. consider your audience

3. given 1 + 2, make choices.

And that's where I crawl back into bed, overwhelmed. For years, I'd happily stay home on Sabbaths, if only I could avoid getting dressed. So the idea of someone who can do that, day after day, well. I wonder if she'll do tutorials for friends? Teach me how to assemble things? As much as I love color, texture, and happily admire fun, funky style - I'm still the mom who looks faintly rumpled, whose bra strap is perennially peeking out from that ancient shirt, and yes, wears the same three sweaters because I understand what they do and how they read in the language of clothing.

Perhaps my mental audiences are too loud. Perhaps they are fashionistas, claws extended. Perhaps not. Either way, the dress wasn't afraid of them, and I was happy to lead where it followed.

But I'll say one thing: pearls go with everything.

the eyes have it

2009-11-04T22:49:00.004-05:00

Dear school,

please excuse my mom for being late today. She seems to have had bit of her brain leak, somewhere in the 112 minutes spent in TJ Maxx. There were words to describe the experience, but mostly all she says now is aaaaaaaaagggggh.

sincerely, Eldest

***************************************

Point the First: we have a wedding on Sunday

Point the Second: I did not know this, which might possibly explain why I did not a. arrange for a babysitter or, b. buy a present

Question: how on earth did the Man end up with the wedding invitation?

Point the Third: I actually have nothing to wear. Not a dramatic, arms flung wide nothing - I actually do not own a dress that is appropriate to wear to a wedding. (For the sake of brevity, I'm not counting the ones that really, holy moly, do they not fit.)

Point the Fourth: Clothing shopping is, generally speaking, a timeless sort of hell. So I don't do it, except under extreme duress, such as when I'm about to visit my parents. Then, I might go - but always to the same stores - and pull a few things off the (sales) racks - but always in the same colors - and then mutter something about needing to wear something other than black/grey/blue/brown and put things back. It's an astonishingly effective experience, and may account for why my clothes are still all black/grey/blue/brown. And not increasing in number.

Point the Fifth: there will be any number of people at this wedding that I've known since grade school, high school, etc. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggh?

Point the Sixth: this would be the week when I pick up a lovely, oh so delicately colored zit. Smack on my nose.

Question: 112 minutes in TJ Maxx?

Answer: because if you are going to have a soul sucking, jaw dropping (who wears THAT? and how does it stay ON? - Judge's Note: extra points for saying that out loud) experience, now would be the time. And that is an excellent place for it.

Point the Seventh: the Toddles appears to have conjunctivitis.

Question: if your child has conjunctivitis, can you haul him to the local thrift shop to bargain hunt? If your child has conjunctivitis, is this an excuse for staying home from the wedding to tend his poor infected self? (um)

Note to self: child with conjunctivitis + allergies = child with three possible types of conjunctivitis (bacterial, viral and allergic). Therefore, child with conjuctivitis is not = child with clear course of treatment. Which means that child with conjunctivitis, if bacterial = child who may remain untreated for an additional 24 hours after visible symptoms begin, to rule out non-bacterial options. (The Imperfects are a little low on antibiotic options, and have been kindly asked to use as few antibiotics as we possibly can. And even then, to use fewer yet.) Conclusion? child is likely to have a compatriot in eye-ooze unless we're really, really lucky.

sigh.

(unless the eye-ooze upshot is that I get to avoid the whole hose-and-dress thing, in which case, whee! That's almost worth 7 days of half-nelsons at dosing times.)

splatters and portents

2009-10-29T21:15:00.004-04:00

okay, so there was a post here. Better yet, there was a story, about how a friend offered me one of those generously open, raw moments, a sliver of her life: my world is exploding, she said. And I opened my mouth, shuffling through answers ranging from I (for idiotic) to I (for inane) and blinked, realizing that I was late for picking up the Eldest.

and said nothing, really.

Later that night, my pancake batter flung itself around the kitchen, through the pass-through, splattering the dining corner (area?), the ceilings, the cabinets, my beloved $19.99 wool jacket with the Pockets, and oh yes, me. Damn thing just exploded, I said, and then wondered why I suddenly felt like a bloody idiot.

oh. That's why.

And yes, there's more, but it's mostly variation on the me-as-idiot thing, which you've probably got by now. And yes, there was a post on this, but somehow it slid and wiggled itself into something too complex about whether I believe in signs and portents, clockmakers, and hey, a little Spinoza never hurt anybody. Except possibly a post.

All I have to say in my defense is that, if I were thorough enough to go back and check Anne Lamott, I'd probably be able to find that she was the one who warned me that being published is a nasty experience. It's given me one hell of a case of writer's block, and I firmly blame it for the theologic blather that had derailed this post. And the lecture on gender which derailed three or four posts earlier this summer. And the one on economics that solidly knocked a rather wry Eldest story on its narrative ass.

(alotted moment for self-pity happening.....here)

right, then: moving on. Oh, and before I forget -

************************

To the unknown person on the street:

Thank you for waving to the excited small boy sitting in the window seat, next to the "ART FOR SALE!!" sign. He was thrilled to be noticed.

Thank you also for not choosing to ring our doorbell, despite his enthusiastic encouragement, gesticulation and apparently ample signage.

Oh, and child o' mine? Thank you for not running to open the door, and chase that doubtless lovely person down the street. And thank you for explaining the plan to me. It's really great that you want to start earning money now, so that you can help pay for things. But maybe - just maybe - we can find a different way for you to help?

(but: I love you for trying)

and it did, too

2009-10-19T23:17:00.007-04:00

In case you were wondering, I have found the perfect place to spend a birthday. Particularly one of those pesky, divisible-by-five types.

This past weekend, someone else cooked. Someone else cleaned. And someone played endless games of ski-ball and basketball and almost-air hockey. Someone laughed an awful lot, drank hot cocoa, got rained on, warmed toes at a fire and yes, the fun really did start there. Right before we crossed the dam at Pearson's Pond. Shortly before the big wheeled chair with the Happy Birthday sign, the stuffed giant hand and the musical accompaniment as I was pushed around and around the room of singing people.

By, among other people, the Eldest. Wearing a grin so ridiculously big, that you'd think it was his birthday, rather than mine.

Toddliciousness: four

2009-10-14T11:31:00.006-04:00

with apologies to imiriam, I should admit that the Toddles has had a birthday.

Oh, yes, the boy is FOUR, people. A calmly certain, then bouncing-and-shrieking, then curling up and cuddling, then leaping on my back four.

(Actually, right now he's a coughing, febrile, self-hydrating and calmly vomiting four, but let's not get sidetracked. Four.)

And he's in preschool.

It's like wandering in a haze, a sort of improbable dream, but one with sad edges in it - but yes, he's in preschool. I bring him to school, and the lead teacher smiles at me. Thank you for bringing our boy today, she tells me. I pick him up, and one of the teachers waves good-bye. Thank you for sharing your boy with us, they say. And over and over, we're so glad to have you as part of our school.

No, really? Even if we roughly triple the costs of your food budget - and we know that you are on a shoestring, and one of the classrooms is pretty small this year...really? Really. And that's when they hug me.

I keep waiting for them to become human, to make a snarky comment or look irritated. To make a decision based purely on pragmatism, rather than on what is best for my child- and for all of their children. Hey, I wrote to the director. We're going to be away on Friday, we're driving to NY for the holidays. This might be a good time, if you wanted to serve non-Toddle-friendly challah at snack time. The next day, the lead teacher caught me on my way in the door. We had a staff meeting, she said, and we talked about your suggestion. Our concern is that the children might learn that some things can be had when the Toddles isn't at school, and that this is something to look forward to. We don't want them associating his presence with something negative, or his absence as something to look forward to. Oh.

Who are these women? How do they get this so absolutely, astonishingly right? Sure, sure, they're mothers and grandmothers, former health care professionals, people who think and care and dammit, build and design a lot of their classroom materials. But anyone can do that, right?

All of that?

(I'm admitting now that my astonishment and wonder is, yes, a defense mechanism. I'm very much hoping that the bar really isn't that high...because dang, I left my pole-vaulting shoes at home. Um, or something.)

Look what I have for you, kiddo! said the lead teacher one morning. The Toddles, fresh from a 35 minute car ride in which the backseat taught the front about basic addition (oh, me achin' head), grinned. She held up a lunch tray, and showed him the circle that she'd drawn on it with a marker. The Toddles watched, carefully. She handed him a handful of little duck erasers. Count them, she invited. And he did. Ten!

Okay, now toss them on the tray. And he did.

How many landed inside the circle? The Toddles counted: six.

How many landed outside of the circle? The Toddles counted: four.

So how many ducks do you have? I was tempted to whip out some fingers and count, but he Toddles beamed - this was a no-brainer: ten! And threw the ducks again.

The next day, he asked for dice, and the teacher offered him a bowlful. And a notebook. I left him, rolling dice, adding up the numbers and carefully inscribing his equations in the notebook.

So I ask again, who the hell are these people? We have an ongoing debate as to whether people can really understand chronic care from empathy alone. Whether you just have to walk it in our shoes - or some other pair of diagnosed shoes - to understand just how crucial a child's life is. How potentially fragile, how not ever, ever to be taken lightly. And then, once you understand the seriousness and scope of the challenge, how to grin and joke about it.

Sometimes, I think that you have to wear the shoes. Sometimes, I'm wrong. Sometimes, it just takes a person with enough caring to think about a kid on their own terms, rather than how the kid fits into a relevant silhouette, or pigeonhole. These women do just that: they think Toddle when they see Toddle, they think Adorable Girl when they see Adorable Girl.

He's got a brain in motion, they told me. Full of thoughts. He led circle time on the difference between what God created and what Man creates - ask him about it. And did you know, he'd rather write than draw? (I didn't) And we've noticed that he doesn't like loud noises. (I nod) Or transitions. (I smack my head, thinking of the umpteen impossibly irritating late departures, the Toddles running around, delightedly bare-arsed, despite having already been absolutely, firmly dressed for the day.) But even when he doesn't want to join the class, he's very cheerful about finding something that he will do. Like doing everything that the class does during music, while standing in the doorway. (we grin at each other, delighted by the idea of the kidlet finding a way to take part in the goings-on - but on his own terms. We pause to reassure each other that this is, in fact, just fine. That we consider preschool to be a good thing, even if the boy isn't in the middle of the room, clanging away on a tambourine or whatnot with the other tambourine clangers. We stop reassuring, realizing that we actually agree.)

Bloody hell, you'd think I built these people from a kit. A parenting, pedagogical, caring something that had me folding an intricate origami of preschool as I'd wish it to be. And yet, there it is, sans papercuts. Worth every bit of the 40 minute drive. And just as I'd started twitching, waiting for the other shoe to drop, the dream to pop, there it was:

the vast majority of the parent population appear to be Republicans.

I'm not kidding here, people, and let me tell ya: I demand caring, I demand that my child be accepted and adapted to (or else I'll leave, so there!) and I require open-mindedness. I do not appear to return the favor, however, to those who sneer about public options.

Bloody idiots. (But I owe them for providing that shoe)

a sign and a bowl of leaves

2009-09-29T22:52:00.008-04:00

At some point, autumn arrived. Which frankly, is kind of rubbing my nose in the absence of summer. The disappearance of August, the blur that was September.

Really, any number of things appear to have vanished on me. The summer, bursting at the seams with discoveries, such as this local resource, which allowed slightly grubby, map-wielding boys to practice the fine art of hiking, getting lost, unlost and peeing into local waterways.

(and no, I won't show you a picture)

The school prep arrived, mid-summer, hoisting a mammoth set of lists (school A, preschool B, to do for meeting 1, for meeting 2, for meeting 3, for follow-ups until late into many wee a.m.s), hollered continuously in my ear from oh, June onwards, and then suddenly, fell silent. School! School! School! School! rushed in to fill the space, with a small dash of ohmygoodbritchesandstiches - a carpool? Appallingly, we found ourselves inadvertently early to school, and then to preschool. For three weeks straight. Who can keep that up?

(When we pulled in 2.5 minutes late today, I offered up a quiet sigh - of relief.)

And then, the chagim were upon us.

If I stop being chipper for a moment, I'll admit that the second half of summer was an ordeal. Not the parenting part, that was tough in spots in an entirely (okay, almost entirely) standard-issue fashion. But the school prep was enormous, and worse, it was shared. The Man and I worked together on it for the first time evah to assemble resources for the teachers, to write explanations of how to handle allergens in the classroom, what Good Manufacturing Practices actually means - and why it's not even close to reliable as a way of saying "safe." And recipes, and lunch ideas, and snack ideas, birthday party ideas, and develop a gluten-free, vegan, kid-friendly *and* easy challah recipe, and, and, and, ack.

Let me put this simply: some things, it's easier to do myself. Some things, it's easier to do with someone - okay,anyone -besides the person I love, cherish and really hope to spend as many years with as possible. Some things, I should be smart enough to do with a girlfriend, or maybe a minion. (note to self: get minion) And, if I have to do it with my loved, I've got to remember to brush up on the diplomacy, and brace for long conversations about how the process is going, when I'm really just twitching to stop talking and get back to getting the job done.

Ah, meta-conversations. So almost-nearly-useful. Except when they are.

And a word of advice? If you do end up in this loving but rushed, ginormous To Do list of kid-with-thing school prep, buy a rope. And a shovel. Take up meditation. And when your partner suggests that maybe it's not worth doing something that you are certain is critical to helping walk that fine line between the child's needs and the school's needs, well, breathe. Put the stapler down, hon - it's really not going to make you feel better. Not in the long run, anyway.

Just breathe. (FYI, gritted teeth are acceptable)

And then blink, realize that the summer ended shortly before the kids hoisted their backpacks and bounced down the stairs, oh, a good four minutes before I managed to follow. Oh, and that so far, so good. And then, hello, it's Rosh Hashana, and there's the Eldest, unsubtly holding this:

Because if you are going to begin a new year, well, Nahman of Breslav might've had something there. Take another deep breath, hon, and find a way to greet each man with a pleasing face. The gargoyle thing does not seem to suit me, saith the Toddles, and he informed me that I was the grumpy parent, while the Man is definitively the fun parent.

Oh, ouch.

I walked around, smarting, and occasionally ranting about working parents vs home-working parents. And then apologizing to my offspring, when my rants became audible. Don't worry, Mum, I'm used to it, the Eldest soothed.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow bloody ow.

Some years, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are a necessity. A chance to back up and rethink, after a time of change and grumps. Happily for me, neither of our boys are subtle. Panim yafot it is, then. And a healthy bowl of these:

We sat on the bed, the boys and I, with Yom Kippurd daylight fading outside our window. A bowl of autumn, of color and leaves fading from bend to crackle, between us. We looked at the bowl.

Every year, I told my unexpectedly solemn audience, leaves grow. Leaves fall. And then, they grow again. And every year, we make mistakes, realize our mistakes, and try to do better.

Every day, the Eldest corrected me. And I grinned. Yes.

These leaves are falling, and we can let them take some of our mistakes with them. What kind of mistake, or "I'm sorry" do you want them to be?*

I'm sorry for hitting my brother.

I'm sorry for not cooperating

I'm sorry for taking his Pokemon card

I'm sorry, said the mama, for not taking good enough care of myself, so that I can take better care of you.

two pairs of small boy eyes swivelled towards me. One set of eyebrows arched.

Because, said the mama, when I'm tired or I have too much to do, then I'm grumpy. And then I'm not having fun with you, am I?

two heads nodded solemnly. So, then. I'm sorry. And I'll try to do better, to find boy time in each day. Because boy time is part of taking care of me, you know. Boy time is good.

two grins quirked. They already knew that, but were too nice to say so, I suspect. And so we sat, a bowl of sorry leaves by our legs, our hands and arms wound around each other. And we watched as the sky striped with pink, shading grey and blues at the fading of the day.

*****************************************************************

*this was a type of Tashlich , in which we cast away the burdens and sins of the past year, by throwing bits of bread or cracker into a body of water. The Eldest's class, however, raised the problem of throwing stuff into the waterways, and they chose to do a class tashlich with peat moss. Give nature to Nature, the Eldest intoned. And glared when I suggested a family tashlich with Imperfect-friendly bread. So, leaves.

dinner? anyone?

2009-09-21T18:21:00.006-04:00

Note to self: anyone making a highly aromatic soup on a fast day, gets what she deserves.

(siiiighhh)

*******************************

Badly Timed, Deliciously Smelled Tomato Soup

(serves 4)

6 cloves of garlic, smashed and peeled

2 tsp cumin seeds

1 stick cinnamon

3 slices of ginger root, matchsticked (note: smaller or larger slices as per your ginger-lovin' preferences)

2 cardamom seeds

1/3rd tsp coriander seeds

3 bay leaves

3-4 Tb olive oil

4 nearly overripe tomatoes (or canned equivalent), plus 28 oz diced tomatoes

salt and black pepper to taste

4 cups water/broth

toss spices and oil into a large pot, and let them heat - and start sizzling while you finish smashing and peeling the garlic. Fling the garlic in as you go along, because surely dinner should have been on the table 20 minutes ago? And hey, isn't anyone setting the table?

While you holler for the kids to come and bring plates, forks, knives and spoons to the table, roughly chop the fresh tomatoes, if you are using any, and toss those in. Remind the boys to bring glasses, also, while you open the canned tomatoes. Stir the pot, toss in anything remaining, cover and abandon to simmer while you go and chivvy the troops.

And dig up the napkins - how on earth did they end up down there? Hmmm. Resist the urge to go and find the guilty party (and congratulate him on his creativity), because at this point the soup's been simmering nicely for about 20 minutes, and you need to find a stick blender.

Use the stick blender.

Remind the children that dinner is traditionally eaten at the table. Remind them again. Disentangle the younger one from his Lego, and airlift him to his seat. Pour soup, and pass bowls of toppings, like cubed avocado, the slightly crushed tortilla chips from the bottom of the bag, bits of cucumber, and consider the days when you might've plopped sour cream on top.

Note: if you have, for some unimaginable reason, just discovered that your defrosted salmon went into the oven with a lovely pomegranate sauce (open bottle, pour) with a hint of plastic (take scissors, release salmon, release plastic), then possibly you are 1. overtired and 2. could happily dump a can of small white beans, great Northern beans or another mild white bean into this soup. Cook briefly, puree and serve with salad and maybe some of Gamma's improbably good croutons. Or, consider some leftover chicken, shredded and added post-puree, or possibly as a topping.

Note the second: this would never happen to me. Nope. Nuh uh. And especially not after a long, thoughtful conversation with the Man whilst returning home from Rosh Hashana, in which we identified a prompt 6 pm dinner as being the key to many happy widgets. Like timely bedtimes, less tired children and smoother evenings and mornings. Nope. I'd pick that plastic out before it melted into an alarmingly viscous sauce and swirled into the lovely pomegranate stuff. Yep. That's what I'd do.

and there it went

2009-09-15T21:46:00.006-04:00

Did you drive past Battle Green today? I was one of the slightly melted looking figures, sitting in the grass, and blinking.

*blink*

and there went two hours of quiet chat, a very respectable pair of blushes and a rather nice peach Greek yogurt. (Thanks, L) And grass, and a guy in Revolutionary garb, and oh, was that a mom from the Eldest's school, wearing a bonnet and - no - hoop skirts? Funky.

Did I mention that there were trees? Grass?

*blink*

And I'm driving home with the Toddles, who is opening his car-friendly lunch. He sees the note I've tucked inside, and puzzles out the words. I help: Toddles, I love you! - Mummy

Oh, says the Toddles, thoughtfully. That makes sense. (I cock an eyebrow at him from the front seat.) Sense, clarifies the Toddles, like it's possible. (I wait, stifling giggles. He re-reads the note.) Yes. That makes sense.

I love you too, Mummy.

*blink*

and the boys are splashing in the BigFamousClever University's pool near our home, somehow having managed to collect the Eldest and leave the school parking lot in under 10 minutes. How? I have no idea. Possibly by using the same pixie dust that now has the Eldest zooming across the pool. Long, straight strokes of the arm - then a few slightly panicky short ones - and the kid pops up to breathe, gifting me with a lovely, gaptoothed grin. Look, Mom! What did you think of that?

As it happens, I think a great deal of that. And I tell him so, delightedly, while fishing the Toddles out of deepish water.

*blink*

and the boys are asleep after a hilarious Tanith Lee short story, the dishes are mostly in the dishwasher and the Man walks in the door. A wee trigger in my brain responds: exhale now?

But at some point in the day, I realize, I'd already done so.

any minute now: exhale. (ahem: ANY minute now?)

2009-09-14T22:20:00.006-04:00

okay, okay, so it's been a ridiculous summer. And a quiet bloggish one, mostly because you couldn't hear me wailing, and there's this - and that - and I'm not ever getting enough sleep and ohmyfriggin'mmmmmphm there's THAT, and I just don't have time to blog about it (dissolves)

On the other hand, if you live within roughly 6.31 miles of me, probably you did.

It has been a ridiculous summer. Wonderful kid stuff, improbable mama stuff, some absurd kid stuff, some astonishing family stuff. And then slog stuff, which is expected and yet somehow seems to do a wonderful pufferfish imitation, when it comes to the amount of work-time it required.

I have a backlog of stories to tell you, but let me just let it rest with this: school has started.

The Eldest has begun second grade, and managed to be tense but pleased last week. He was even more pleased when the puppydog eyes worked on one of the teachers, and she let him take home one of the classroom books. He finished it the next day, and I spent a lot of time hollering for him, blinking at the silence before noticing the attachment of nose to binding.

Had that one coming, no? (Mother-mine, your comments aren't needed at this point. And yes, I can hear you laughing. You don't have to call and tell me how funny that is, because I was just like - oh. Hi, Mom.)

The Toddles has begun preschool, and did so with an astonishing lack of fanfare. While I hovered, teary-eyed in the background, the Toddles checked in with me once, twice, and then went to fall in love with his two new friends, Girl Adorable and Girl Lovely. When I picked him up, he asked if they could come and have a playtime with us? And sure enough, Girl Adorable did.

My teacher has a smile, he confided in me, that when I see it, I can tell that she gives hugs. I nodded. I knew that because, seeing me sniffle, she'd hugged me.

I inserted fanfare by managing to set off the fire alarm just before the kids sang happy birthday to the Toddles - a story that deserves its own post. (see? backlog!) And then took pictures of the aftermath, all of which have other people's children in them, so I can't show them to you.

Oh, and we managed to be on time 4 out of 5 times: an Imperfect record. This may have something to do with the promise of hot cocoa for children who are ready to go early, possibly related to the alarm clock that says hilarious things when you hit snooze, and then wake up enough to listen. And laugh. Which seems to set the day off to a good start. (except when they slow down and keep hitting snooze, rather than brushing teeth. Funny clock vs toothbrushing - can you see where this is going?)

But oh, yes. All manner of things will be well, and all manner of things will be well. Regular amounts of sleep will slink back in, and routines will establish. Even carpools. But for now, while the Man is resting his post-Jimmy Fund walk bones in another part of the country, I have to go and washdishesmakelunchespacksnacksprintdrivingdirectionsmaillettersfindcleanclothes and find the Eldest's bloody OT report (see? a whole backlog), so that I can argue with the insurance people tomorrow. Danged thing isn't filed, it's not in the random pile of Papers To File, and it's not, as I suspected, in the Man's inbox. He gave me permission to rummage through it, and while I did find any number of things that should have been dealt with 4-7 months ago, I didn't find the report.

At which point, still alarmingly tired and now out of sorts, I tossed out the surprising amount of extraneous paper, stapled repeat notices of various sorts together, put all of the recipes into a folder marked "RECIPES," and have made another folder marked "REQUIRING ACTION."

Because every escape from the loving home and hearth should come with a price, don't you think?

adjustments in progress: dairy

2009-08-21T10:41:00.002-04:00

Yes, that was me, standing in the baking aisle and giggling. Possibly, that high pitched, slightly hysterical voice was also me, half-shrieking, half-whispering something incoherent about nonfat dry milk.

But I'm sure that it was someone else who stared at the milk in the dairy aisle, and said, it's been so long. Which one do we like? Any? All? and trailed off into a hiss of laughter. Nope. Definitely not me.

Dairy. In our home.

It's funny to think that after years of refusing to make myself nuts (ahem) by having an easily scattered, easily missed allergen in my home, I now have one. And the doctors think it's a good idea. Of course, they don't watch dry milk powder puffing into the air, and wonder where it's landed. And, until the stuff is baked into submission, it's still very dangerous.

For the next six months, the Eldest will have extremely specific kinds of dairy, heated to specified degrees. I have three whole recipes, and those alone I am to use for the next month. After that, we can have a few more options - but, yes. Calipers.

It's an odd thing, to be allowed something under such controlled circumstances, and not otherwise. It's almost a conditional allergy, a conditional concern. And when it is a concern, well, it's absolutely present, and looms large enough to highlight the challenges of the next month. The next six.

The floodgates have hardly opened.

The Eldest has proven that he can tolerate milk, in a pudding that was baked for 2 hours in the oven. Or dry milk powder, in a muffin that spent 40 minutes in the oven. Cheese, broiled on a slice of pizza. And I do mean broiled: when I followed the recipe from the allergy clinic, my cheese pizza was a brown cheese cracker.

Ice cream, feta cheese, cottage cheese, yogurt, sour cream, milk and oh yes, haloumi will cause a reaction. This, the doctors can say with certainly. But what about a grilled cheese sandwich? Cheese inside a lasagne? We walk the bounds of knowledge here, and we're staying inside an oh-so thin line of what is likely safe, what is nearly known and certainly guessed at. And the terms of the trial are that we don't experiment. The crack in our floodgates comes with a price - and a more specific awareness of the risks.

We're disinclined to test this farther, but oh, are we spending hours wondering and speculating.

We stayed late at the clinic after the trial's dramatic finish, asking questions. And, as best as I understand it, here's the deal:

Allergies, as you probably know, are a moving target. One day, a child's immune system may be mildly irked by an allergen, and another day, that child's immune system may start shrieking, like an under-caffeinated mother who has just stepped on some particularly tiny, spiky lego pieces. Or something.

An exposure to an allergen can cause the immune system to sharply hike up the degree of its response, without warning. Or not. An egg allergic child might eat egg after egg after egg with nothing beyond a slight itch, or a child might eat that seventh egg and the itch will metamorphose into a closing throat. Or not.

Different children react to different quantities of an allergen, and the nature of the reaction can be tweaked by whether they're also affected by oh, the pollen count. An immune system that's already irked and muttering about pollen, or dust mites, or whathaveyou, will roar more loudly over that egg, than an immune system that was quietly reading a book when the egg came along. How much pollen does it take to have a serious contributing factor? Dunno. Depends on the kid. But apparently, a virus can have a similar effect, and can prime the body to react harder, and more harshly, when the allergen comes along.

Okay, so that's not going to make things simple.

Now, some immune systems get all het up and go looking for trouble. The body recognizes it's chosen Evil Food by the shape of a protein in the food, but which one? Foods have tons of different proteins, and different people are allergic to different proteins in, say, a peanut. Which is why you can't really develop an allergy-free peanut, but that's another bitter laugh for another time.

So, the body identifies the protein, and maybe, maybe it then decides to go after some of the allergen's cousins, as well. Maybe. And when it does, that's how peanut allergy can lead to another legume allergy, like soy, or lentils, chickpeas, etc. But not every protein tends to sendthe body on a cross-reactive rampage: patterns of cross-reactivity vary widely from individual to individual, and are not really predictable. Mango, banana, latex and avocado all have proteins with related shapes, but the number of people who develop allergies to the group is much smaller than the number of people who, for example, are allergic to one nut and go on to be allergic to six nuts. Why? dunno. Why do some people cross-react/allerge to thirteen things, and others just have one allergy? At this point, allergists start muttering things about predestination, or preconcieved notions, or predisposition or prior authorizations, but it boils down to: dunno.

What we do know is this: the body has the capacity to pick one protein shape out of a crowd, and to hang Wanted posters for similar shapes. Maybe you have a laidback body on the poster-hanging, maybe you have one of those irritatingly energetic types with a stack of posters and a look of determination. But, if you reshape that protein somewhat with heat, say, by baking it in a batch of cookies, the body may not recognize it. Or, at least might not be troubled by it. maybe. Possibly. It's a big, honking 'don't try this at home' perhaps that the reshaped protein slides past our alert, cranky immune system. Why?

A biochemist-immunologist cross might be able to explain this better, but all I've got is: dunno.

But I think that's the reason that an egg allergic child can *sometimes* tolerate an egg, well-baked in a batch of crisp cookies. But not necessarily two eggs, because denaturing, or reshaping the protein doesn't seem to be an absolute fix. And, as the Eldest has proven, that's the reason that a dairy allergic child can sometimes tolerate a bit of milk, well baked in the oven. Perhaps the boiled milk was insufficiently heated, and its proteins insufficiently denatured. Or, perhaps it was too much milk, too fast. Dunno.

Even with the trial-approved foods, there are limits. Can't have pudding and pizza at the same meal - we learned that the hard way. Muffin and pizza? Muffin and pudding? unpredictable. But the worst it brings, thus far, is an upset tum.

Which means that we're proceeding with caution. No floodgates have opened, just a careful window. With oh, such a vista behind it....

listening in water

2009-08-20T01:19:00.005-04:00

i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders i will remember to use sunblock on my shoulders.

Also, on the little strip of nose that sits under the bridge of my glasses.

(ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch)

And yet, we had an amazing time at the beach. The Toddles, however, declined to go in the water. He explained, calmly, that he won't go in when his swimming instructor is present, and he has no intention of going in without the instructor. I tried to argue the point, and settled for luring him in, calf-deep, to help hunt for pretty seashells, barnacles and the odd hermit crab.

(oh, yes: ouch.)

***********************

Courtesy of the Grandmere, the boys have had three swimming lessons at a local dam-building pool, and so far, so mixed. The Eldest jumped into the pool on his first lesson, spluttered, caught a faceful of chlorine, and reconsidered. And then jumped into the pool again. By the end of his second lesson, he happily kicked from one end of the (shallow) pool to the other, using a kickboard. By his third, he was debating the wisdom of trying the odd stroke or three without the kickboard.

The Toddles, however, was debating the wisdom of the instructor. And possibly pools in general.

Hooray for us, that we have a friendly, energetic guy doing the teaching. With extremely long arms, able to easily reach and pluck a sputtering child from the water. He's calm, certain, pleasant, and really likes to keep the momentum going during a class. Which means, of course, that when the Eldest shouts, 'wait - stop!' the instructor will respond verbally - but not physically. 99% of the time, the Eldest only needs that verbal response, however.

From the bleachers, I can see the smallish gulp that the Eldest takes, before adapting to the teacher's chosen pace and goal. He's a good sport, that kid, but eventually, he does run out of flex (as magid says). The Toddles may not see the gulp. But he did explain to me that he didn't listen to my brother. Oh, said I, but watch: he's not going to let the Eldest get into trouble. See? And he is talking to the Eldest. The Toddles, firmly not-in-pool, shook his head. But he didn't listen.

And therefore, the Toddles does not think that the instructor will listen to him. Um. Point taken, kid.

Having little to lose, I said as much to the instructor, who promised to adapt to the boys. The Eldest, when I related this, burst into tears. Tears of relief as well as over-flexedness, and he admitted that he loved the pool and lessons, and he feared that I'd take them away, if they weren't working out. I should have seen this coming: when the Grandmere went home, he burst into tears. I'd wanted to go swimming with her again, he wailed.

The Grandmere had spent three? years? bugging me about arranging swimming lessons, but neither of us had foreseen just how much this child would love the water... And as for his brother, well, I'm working on it. Possibly even in a (cringe) bathing suit.

school prep & advocacy couture

2009-08-10T21:27:00.007-04:00

shhhh - I'm not here.

I'm actually at a cafe, in the Cone of Silence, working. Except when I stop, and do paperwork for the boys. IHPs, allergy action plans, emailing (not begging. certainly not begging) for meetings with admin, teachers, People With Power, and occasionally, ogling lunchboxes.

(I don't have a proper, official lunchbox - is that a good enough excuse? mneh. Maybe not. Admission: I carry my lunches and snacks in a former wet diaper bag....works great for holding liquids.)

We're assembling lists of potential lunches for the Eldest's classmates, lists of snacks, medical kits, and researching our heinies off. Occasionally, we test out dairy-free, egg-free (etc) and gluten-free challah recipes, for the Toddles' preschool. Many thanks to a certain river, who offered a number of excellent suggestions, not to mention a really, really patient rabbit, who let the boys love her to the point of rabbit-terror. And possibly six or seventeen steps beyond.

And then there's the editing, due this past Monday. And the column, due alarmingly soon. Ack. And the garden bed that is, somehow, not quite built. Four of the boards were, oh, imperfectly cut by the friendly Home Despot guys. They gave me a free measuring tape, to my astonishment, but then cut the boards too long.

Which will teach me to use my brand-new measuring tape next time. Smiling the apologetic, harmless/semi-hapless female smile as I do it, because somehow, that seems to suit what the Despot lumber guys expect of me. (The folks in the garden section, however, use a very different paradigm. Hm.)

Paradigms are exactly the major topic of discussion around here, as the Man participates in school prep for the first time. We're talking about what the teachers want to see, what builds confidence, and the many, many ways that we think we could screw up. Honestly, I can't quite shake the certainty that we will - that I will. Because, of course, we're trailing the albatross of last year's preschool behind us.

Okay, mostly behind me.

It's funny how one trip to the Despot can get a mama thinking. The moment I stepped into the construction materials section, I realized that I was carrying the solitary pair of ovaries - and was treated accordingly. Kindly, and with a degree of amusement, and I happily played the role I was assigned. And then went home, thinking. Oh, yes, I'm focussing furiously on looking ahead - no pillars of salt here, thank you. But I can't help shuffling through the flip-deck of paradigms for school prep season: the alarmingly competent mom, the earnest mom, the wry mom, the medico-mom, and oh, I hope not, the martyr mom. I'll shuffle through many of these as I write and talk over the next few weeks. And occasionally, I'll flip off the albatross, dipping into silliness (and rabbits) to leaven the paperwork, the editing and the column.

Which means that I'm punchy and flibberty enough to be considering couture:

which of these (this, that or the other) should I choose for that first meeting with the teachers? for the Eldest's school? for the Toddles? Something that inspires a comfortable relationship, fitting with a sense of relaxed, engaged teamwork, but that says just enough about authority for the teachers to listen when I tell them something beyond their philosophy, o Horatio.

Help! my wardrobe genius moved to Philly, and the Eldest isn't playing style guru this month. What would you wear?

hat tip for finding the funny shirts....thanks!

trim? cut? build

2009-08-09T07:47:00.003-04:00

Note to self: it's hardly a short haircut, without getting the back of my neck buzzed.

And, whilst I contemplate this fine (no, no, resisting the urge not gonna no no refuge of the weakminded hell.), hairsplitting distinction (ouch ouch ouch bloody hell, puns? at this hour?), I'll be doing so en route to Home Despot. There, I shall coax lovely gentlemen (because it's always 'men) to cut lengths of wood for me, as the token slightly-hapless female in the builders' section.

A trunkful of dirt and cow poop, and home I go: it's bed-building time.

We live in a former industrial building, which was rehabilitated for people use in the late '70s. Yep, the year that the lead laws went into place. But, there were no garden laws, so our garden is made of landfill. Every year, I pick glass shards and bits of broken brick, even trash out of the ground -the glass fragments are never sharp, their edges somehow dulled by the dirt and stones around it. But still.

For five years, I've layered dirt onto my planting areas, trying to create a root network that would help hold some of the junk down. It's working, too. But I wouldn't eat anything that grew in that soil. Thus, of course, the bed. And I would go on and say something slightly witty and irretrievably thoughtful about growing and boys'n'dirt and maybe even drop a slight hint vis a vis eco-whatnot, or allergies, but hey: Home Depot opens at 8am, so I've gotta go.

Got wood to buy, things to measure and dirt to play with. Should be a morning full of possibilities, as the Eldest would say. Should be a morning of making possibilities happen, I'd reply.

(and he will, too.)

iterations

2009-08-05T17:18:00.002-04:00

one temp, two temp, red boy, pale boy.

This one has a little nap. That one has a silly hat.

no, really - he does. See?

(okay, fine: hair)

The Toddles is flaring into a complex little person, capable of toileting when bare-arsed, confident that no such effort is needed when diaper-arsed. And please note: as per the Toddles, there is only a minor distinction between diaper and pull-up/training pants. I am hardly in a position to argue.

He's a rather focussed little fellow, when he gets into gear, and his internal rhythms and logic are a little too sturdy for my tastes. But, as a friend once said, when I complain of uncooperative kids, she's still checking mine for a pulse. Um. Well. And the Toddles does come by a good deal of his internal certainty honestly. Trust me: the Man and I have been having the same (er) conversations for years for a reason possibly related to this. Possibly.

The boys are spending an intensely sibling summer, and there are a reasonable number of flare-ups between the King o' Order and the Prince o' Play. More so this week, thanks to somewhat cranky, viral siblingness. The Toddles has learned how to use his wail to best parental advantage, calling down the (unwarranted) Wrath O Mom onto his brother's head. The Eldest merely looks confused. Or indignant. And the Toddles is, to a large degree, sincere: he's truly upset when he wails. But he's also aware that the volume and intonation is effective. My bad, to be sure. Particularly as the guilty parties tend to be a one and a two and a one, two, here-we-go.

But once in a while, the Toddles will surprise us. After a week of rain and a morning of squabbles...

Toddles: Eldest, you are the best brother I could know.

E: um, thanks.

T: you know a lot of things - you know everything - and I only know some things.

E (looking up): thuh-thanks

T: and you -

E (interrupting, breezily): yeh, thanks, thanks, thanks, thanks, thanks.

******************************************************

Hooray for Gina Clowes, who appears here, offering tips on hosting an allergic child. I thought her 10 Things Every Allergic Child Wishes You Knew. Personally, I'll be printing that out and using it at my next school meetings...which are very very soon.

oh, boy. Very soon. Yipes!

caveat emptor & philosopher

2009-08-03T02:30:00.000-04:00

With both boys alternately sick (fever! high! whee!) and healthy (bounce! bounce! bounce!), I give you, in lieu of post, two mini-posts that don't appear to be growing up. Welded into one by my very elegant use of asterisks as a page divider. Whaddaya think?

***************************** (see? elegant, n'est pas?) ************************

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman, having waited 16.7 months to buy a laptop, no, the right laptop - the bashert laptop - must now worry that she's made the wrong choice.

sheesh.

Because all of that time spent thinking, researching, trying to pretend that I don't have to make a decision because ooh, what if I get it wrong, watching my laptop flicker and then refuse to fade but rather, crash, borrow a laptop and pretend that huzzah! all is well, then admit that I now have to re-research the damn laptop, research, dither, ask for help, dither more, then finally hold my nose and jump in, means that surely I moved too fast?

Bought in haste? To repent at leisure?

In case I wasn't clear the first time: sheesh.

******************************************

Changing gears: a thought from the Eldest

Mum, I think that the weather is an expression of God's feelings.

oh? how so?

When it's nice out, God is happy. When it's raining, then God is sad. Maybe crying.

ah. But what if the plants need the rain?

Then God's happy. But I don't think that's true if there's lots of thunder and lightning.

Next up: anthropomorphism meets divine clockmaking. Two falls out of three.