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The beginning of letting go.

Came across this interesting article on a message board this morning:

The Dramatic Rise of Anxiety and Depression in Children and Adolescents: Is It Connected to the Decline in Play and the Rise of Schooling? by Peter Gray.

It’s a bit long, and employs some psychological jargon that takes some wading through, but it’s still an interesting read. Basically, Gray says that the increase in amounts of modern industrial schooling correlate to an increase in anxiety and depression in children. And it’s not just about the school day; the control of children’s after-school hours also contribute. Here’s a quote:

In school, children learn quickly that their own choices of activities and their own judgments of competence don’t count; what matters are the teachers’ choices and judgments. Teachers are not entirely predictable. You may study hard and still get a poor grade, because you didn’t figure out just exactly what the teacher wanted you to study or guess correctly what questions he or she would ask. The goal in class, in the minds of the great majority of students, is not competence but good grades. Given a choice between really learning a subject and getting an A, the great majority of students would, without hesitation, pick the latter….

School is also a place where children have little choice about with whom they can associate. They are herded into spaces filled with other children that they did not choose, and they must spend a good portion of each school day in those spaces. In free play, children who feel harassed or bullied can leave the situation and find another group that is more compatible; but in school they cannot. Whether the bullies are other students or teachers (which is all too common), the child usually has no choice but to face those persons day after day. The results are sometimes disastrous.

When I was a kid, I went to school, and then I went home and did my own thing for hours on end. We were poor, so I had no after school activities like dance classes or soccer practices. I just went home and played. Or read. I didn’t even have homework until I was in the fourth grade. We lived in a large apartment complex that was surrounded by patches of forest. All the kids in the neighborhood would roam the woods together, or we’d split off into smaller groups and play other games. On summer nights, there’d be at least two dozen of us still outside way after dark, playing large games of hide and seek, or jumping rope or doing not-so-smart things like setting wasp nests on fire. And then running for it. And yeah, sometimes there’d be fights. But we all survived. When I went into therapy as a young adult, all my running around, unsupervised, late into those summer nights, was not the reason.

When I was older, our financial situation improved somewhat, and for a few years, I had a horse to ride. My mom would drop me off at the stable and I’d saddle up and ride the trails alone for hours on end. I also worked in the stables part time, and at the age of 13 was expected to be able to handle that kind of work. If I couldn’t get a ride to the barn, I’d roam the woods near our house. Alone. As a young teenager. Or I’d play by the creek with my sister. For hours and hours. My mother never came with us. She didn’t look out the window nervously to see if she could still see us. She didn’t say to us: don’t go too far. And I never once considered her inattention to my outside play neglectful.

But that was 30 years ago. Today, kids don’t live like that. They’re rarely left alone, especially outside. All of their after-school hours are filled with sports practices, clubs and other activities, and that, along with their homework is all they have time for. I never see children running around in this neighborhood (except for that pack of middle-school boys who roam the streets on summer evenings and make suggestive comments to second graders eating ice pops, that is), and I don’t let my kids roam around either (because of said pack of middle-school boys). It’s just not done anymore.

We homeschool, so I am able to provide a significant amount of free play time for my kids. But what I’m learning this year is that that’s not good enough. Here’s another quote from Gray’s article, that really drives this point home to me:

By depriving children of opportunities to play on their own, away from direct adult supervision and control, we are depriving them of opportunities to learn how to take control of their own lives. We may think we are protecting them, but in fact we are diminishing their joy, diminishing their sense of self-control, preventing them from discovering and exploring the endeavors they would most love, and increasing the chance that they will suffer from anxiety, depression, and various other mental disorders.

I’m learning that my kids need more unstructured time. What I need to learn now is how to take that next step. How to stop HOVERING. I can say: yeah, I let the kids play and I don’t structure the time or the game. But those hours are still technically supervised by me. I know where the kids are. I can get to them quickly if need be. And I know my 9-year-old wants more autonomy than that. What I don’t know, is how to let go and give it to her.

Of course, the fact that my youngest is only six contributes to my inability to just let them go play. Maybe when they’re a couple years older, this won’t seem so hard. Six seems a bit young to be allowed to wander the neighborhood unattended. The best I can do right now is to take them to the park with their friends and let them get a little far away from me in a group.

Peter Gray promotes an unschooling approach to educating children. I’m not sure I can totally get on board with that. I still believe that a classical education is a good idea. My goal is to educate the kids, and still have a ton of hours of free, unstructured play time. We get our work done in three hours or less, and there is no homework. When we’re done, we’re done. But I’ve still loaded them up with lots of structured activities. Too many, I think. And I do that for the same reason I’ve always done that: because I want to make sure I’m providing enough socialization time. It’s ridiculous, I know. But I still get stuck in that trap.

This summer, we’ll be doing a lot less. And I’m really looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll work up the courage to just let them go play.

Maybe.

Laryngitis.

Published February 16, 2010 Homeschooling , Parenting 2 Comments
Tags: laryngitis

I’ve had this cold for about 10 days now. No big deal. Just a cold.

Trouble is: when you have a cold in the middle of a blizzard, you still have to go out and shovel snow. RegularDad did most of it. But I still had to go out there quite a few times and clear him a spot so that he could get off the street. And it took its toll on me, that little bit I shoveled. The last time I went out there, I could just tell.

So, I guess I didn’t rest as much as I should have. And now I’ve got this horrible dry cough – the kind that makes your head hurt when you really get going – and a nice little bout of laryngitis. Not a big deal, really. Just one more glitch in my February. But it could be worse, of course. I mean – it’s not like the entire country was leveled by an earthquake or anything.

But it’s quite a challenge, let me tell you, to learn that the proper treatment for laryngitis is to STOP TALKING as much as possible, when you live in a household where you have to repeat the same simple instructions (things like: put your shoes on) a half dozen times before both kids actually have their shoes on. And that’s just the shoe thing. You can only imagine how much talking I have to do when it’s time to do things like math. Or ask for help cleaning up the living room.

I’ve never been more aware of how much time I spend TALKING.

I’m considering making a bunch of signs to carry around with me. I can just wave them in front of the kids until they do what’s printed on them.

It might actually work better. Because Lord knows they never seem to hear me when I’m talking on a regular day around here. Unless the word “candy” falls out of my mouth, that is.

Besides, I think we could still count these days as school days. All that sign reading could count as “reading lessons” and “community skills” as they attempt to actually do whatever’s written on the signs. Things like: “get ailing mother another pillow.”

This is also becoming an interesting exercise in letting the little things go. Like tonight for instance. Tonight after I tucked them in, I came into my office to write a little while, and I could hear the two of them whispering every once in a while. Usually I’d call out to them to stop whispering. But tonight, I let the majority of it just go. Oh… after a half hour or so, I finally gave one call-out to them, but for me, that’s pretty good.

So, who knows? Maybe this is a good thing. We’ll see how well it goes. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I’m off to find a very large glass of orange juice to sip on.

(sigh)

Making mama-bear waves.

Published November 2, 2009 Homeschooling , Parenting 21 Comments

It’s been an exhausting week. Halloween week always is around here.

My 9-year-old is a highly sensitive child. She’s been one since the day she was born, and her sensitivity levels were one the major reasons we decided to homeschool in the first place. She’s always been anxious in crowds, and loud noises freak her out, and she simply cannot handle disturbing visual stimuli well at all. We keep television viewing to a minimum, and we maintain a soothing household, and for the most part, she does fine. But Halloween season is always particularly difficult, because everywhere we go, she sees things that are — quite frankly — deeply disturbing. Halloween decor has really changed since the days of Casper the Friendly Ghost.

During the month of October, I rarely take my daughter into any stores at all because of the decorations, the scare-factor amplified even further on most of the stuff with audio tracks of horrifying screaming and gibberish that send her into full-blown panic attacks. Even grocery stores tend to drape the cereal aisle in fake cobwebbing and then glue terrier-sized fake spiders onto it all. In October, she keeps her nose tucked way down in a book whenever we’re in the car, because she just can’t handle all the TABLEAUX OF HORROR displayed on half the front lawns we drive by.

The Catch-22 in this situation is, of course, the fact that she loves Halloween. She loves dressing up in (non-scary) costumes, she loves going to Halloween parties, and she loves trick-or-treating. Of course. So, I spend the month of October mostly getting her through all of this, and by the end of the month, I’m often exhausted from the effort this requires, and from the fact that she comes to visit me a lot more than usual in the middle of the night.

So, now that I’ve explained all that to you, I’m going to tell you what happened on Saturday afternoon at the Halloween party held by the karate dojo the girls attend, and I want your honest opinion about what happened, and how I handled it. Because I probably got some people “in trouble” and I probably now have a “reputation” around there as “one of THOSE moms.” And I’m okay with that, I guess. But I’m curious what your opinions will be about this, so here goes:

The dojo hosts a Halloween party every year, and the girls really liked it last year, so we signed up for it again this year, and I gritted my mental teeth and donned my Getting-My-Sensitive-Kid-Through-Yet-Another-Halloween-Party hat, and we went. And right off the bat, I’ll admit that there are a few adults there that just irritate the living hell out of me. They have kids who attend the dojo, but they also take classes themselves, and they’re a tight group of people, and there’s nothing wrong with that at all, but they do often act a bit… well… juvenile. At this party, they were all dressed up and acting like adolescents more than responsible adults. One of the men was dressed as a teeny-bopper cheerleader, which was… well… kinda… GROSS. Especially at a party designed primarily for young children. Others were dressed more appropriately, but were acting like they were at a frat party, running around wildly, jumping on furniture, throwing food at each other. I watched them and realized that if any of the children at the party behaved like that, they’d be reprimanded. And the double standard really bothered me.

So, I was already irritated. But I let it all go for the most part, because this party wasn’t about me. This party was about my kids and my job was to work my 9-year-old through her anxiety, which took some effort. Because, first of all, the party was dark. They’d turned off all the overhead lighting and everything was eerily lit by spooky jack-o-lantern plastic lamps and purple spider web light strings stuck to the walls. My 9-year-old really struggled with this at first, but she soon realized that she could escape the dark room by walking up the short hallway to the front waiting area. There’s a large picture window there that let in a decent amount of sunlight. So, when she began to feel anxious she’d simply leave the main party room and go stand in the light near the window for a few minutes. I realized quickly that she’d found a way to self-comfort. I allowed her to do this, and I’d just follow along and stand with her and let her talk to me if she wanted to. She’d say things like: “It’s much easier to see what I’m eating up here,” and I’d chuckle a little and agree with her. There is such a thing as saving face. I get it.

[Interesting side note: most of the times we traveled up the hall to stand near the window, we'd find two other children -- always the same two kids-- sort of hovering in the light as well. How much do you want to bet they're highly sensitive children as well? And that they, too, had found a way to cope with the unnerving visual situation happening in the back area?]

I was pleased with my daughter. Because what I saw was that she had made significant progress. She’d found a way to resolve her own anxiety, instead of just collapsing into utter panic like she used to as a younger child. So, she relaxed into the afternoon and was able to watch a group of teens (some dressed in very disturbing costumes) do a demonstration, and then participate in the games and have a few snacks, and the whole bit. All without freaking out. And every 15 minutes or so, she’d take a quick break up in the front room where the light was, and then she’d come back for some more fun.

Fast forward about 45 minutes:

I had stationed myself near the hallway so that I could see my 9-year-old when she went up to the front. The main door is there, and it’s always good to make sure no one is leaving or coming in unexpectedly. I was talking to RegularDad about something, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw my 9-year-old break away from the main party and once again head for the hallway. For the light. For her Comfort Zone. This time, there were two large men lounging near the hallway exit. One of them stood at least 6 feet tall, maybe more, and was a black belt of some degree or other. He’s a creepy-looking guy.

My 9-year-old approached them and tried to slide between them to get into the hallway, but before she could do that, the two of them drew together in front of her to form a solid wall of Very Large People. The black belt was holding a banjo as part of his costume. He lowered the banjo like a sword and used it to further block my daughter’s path. The two of them looked sternly down at her and one of them said:

“We’re under strict orders to take down anyone who tries to leave this room.”

And my daughter’s face… oh my God… her face PALED and her eyes got very large and her whole body shrank away from these two men.

And what I saw instantaneously was that they were just joking with her. That obviously someone had asked them to make sure no kids were messing around unattended up front, and that this was their way of trying to make light of their assigned position. But what they didn’t know was all the stuff I told you at the start of this post. What they didn’t know — couldn’t know — was that in my child’s mind, two very large strangers were keeping her away from the one place in the building she had established as Her Safe Place. My child — my daughter — felt threatened and menaced by two very large, very burly men, (one of whom was an accomplished higher degree black belt) in a place where I took her twice a week to learn karate, a place that was supposed to be a safe environment for children.

All of that happened in the space of maybe 35 seconds.

And every single Mama Bear Instinct in every fiber of my being went into TOTAL SYSTEM OVERLOAD. I took two large steps and as my daughter’s body was still shrinking away from these men, my own body was there in time to back her up.

I looked at those men, who had no idea what they’d just done, what their idea of a joke had cost my child, and inside my head I was ROARING and HOWLING and SCREAMING, but what came out of my mouth was a fumble of words, mild and pleasant, something to the effect of:

“My daughter needs to get through here. It’s okay. She has my permission to do so. I told her she could go through the hall.”

They separated from each other and my daughter shot through the gap and disappeared into the light. I followed her and found her sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. She was crying and hiding her face. She thought she’d done something wrong; she thought she was in trouble; she was frightened; she just wanted to stand in the light for a minute.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “They were just trying to make a joke. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Yes I did,” she cried.
“No, you didn’t. You were just going to a safe place. Going to a safe place is never wrong.”
“They said I couldn’t. I’m not supposed to.”
“They were wrong. Honey, listen to me: those men are not in charge of you. Only I am in charge of you, and I told them that you are allowed to be up here.”

We sat together for a few minutes, and then she was ready to go back to the party. No one was guarding the hallway when we went through it. My daughter wiped her tears away and disappeared into the darkness. It was almost time for the pinata.

I stood there for a few minutes, trying to get my act back together. While I was standing there, the woman who runs the office, dressed as a witch, approached me and asked if I was okay. I guess my face looked funny. I sure felt weird. And so incredibly tired of Halloween. I tried to pass it off on that, too. “Oh, this just isn’t my favorite time of the year,” I said to her. She nodded — all understanding — and said… oh, I don’t know what she said, but pretty soon I was telling her the whole damn story, everything I just told you here, and I knew, the whole time I was talking, that she’d tell it to the owner, who is a very nice man, and very gifted with teaching children, a man who never, ever, EVER would have done something like that to a child. The woman winced a lot as I talked, and she apologized for the whole thing, and I nodded and said that I understood that the men were just trying to be funny, but that the joke had fallen so incredibly flat that it was actually creepy and horrifying. She said she understood. She has a daughter herself, who takes classes at the dojo. She got it.

We left soon afterwards. And we’d been home maybe a half hour when the phone rang. It was the dojo owner. He asked me to tell the story again, and I did, and when I got to the part where the men said they were going to take her down, he started saying oh my God… oh my God… over and over again in a very tired, whispery sort of way. I reiterated the fact that I understood that they were just kidding around, and I made sure he understood I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble over this, but I told him quite simply that the adults who attend his classes need to be more careful and more aware of how they approach the children in the program. These kids know who the black belts are. And the adults have a responsibility to conduct themselves so that no children feel threatened while in their presence. And the bottom line is just this: One day, my daughter will grow up and be a young woman. She will face risks that women the world over have faced for eons. And I enrolled her in a karate program so that in the event that she finds herself threatened by a man, she will have some potential to defend herself. I find it incredibly upsetting that she found herself in a situation that looked too much like that type of scenario for my comfort. In a place where she is supposed to BE SAFE. The owner said he understood, and that was the end of the conversation.

And that’s what happened at the Halloween party yesterday. So, tell me: did I over-react? I was already irritated with some of the adults’ behavior before the whole thing at the hallway happened. How much of that irritation fueled my response? Does it seem more like I was looking to pick a fight? What would you have done, if it had been you? I need to know. Because I’ve made some big giant mama-bear waves over this one, and we still have to see these people and if I was wrong, I need to know. I need to find a way to apologize. Because this is a good karate place, and I don’t want to pull my kids out of it.

Tell me what you think. Tell me what you really, honestly think.

Unfrazzling the frazzled.

Published March 19, 2009 Dysfunction Junction , Homeschooling , Parenting 13 Comments

Last week I took the kids through the McDonald’s drive-through. (I know, I know – a homeschooler eating fast food – freaky ain’t it? Next thing you know, we’ll be cursing like sailors and playing video games.)

Anyway. So, it’s dinner hour, and the kids are a bit of a sopping mess after swimming lessons, and RegularDad’s working late or bowling with his boss, or something, so I’m all: “Hey, who wants McDonald’s?” and reveling in those spare few moments when I am THE GREATEST MOM IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, and I pull into a mildly long line at our local McD’s and wait a while.

Now, mildly long lines at the drive through don’t bug me all that much, because it gives me time to take the girls’ orders, and let me just say that the decision between a Hamburger Happy Meal or a Chicken McNugget Happy Meal followed by the agony of not being allowed to get soda because it’s not the weekend followed by the interminable silence that is my 5-year-old deciding between chocolate milk and apple juice can take a FREEKIN’ ETERNITY. So a long line can sometimes be a bit of a boon sometimes, is all I’m sayin’.

ANYWAY.

So, we get up to the speaker and upon hearing that age-old metallic garbled welcome-to-mcdonalds- can-I-take-your-order, I give the kids’ orders, and then I ask a question about something on the menu, something that’s just a dollar. I dunno what. Just something. And there’s this utter silence at the other end — like the girl in there fell into some BLACK HOLE OF UTTER DOOM AND OBLIVION because I didn’t just say And gimme a #4 with Coke — and then someone else gets on the line and answers my question and we move on to the payment window, and finally up to the next window where I’m handed a few bags of “food” and I pull up a little bit so the car behind me won’t be delayed, and CHECK THE BAGS.

Because long experience has taught me that you never just drive away from the McDonald’s drive-through without CHECKING THE BAGS. Because they always forget the sauce. Or the straws. Or the fries. Or something.

This time, HORROR OF HORRORS, they’d forgotten the TOYS!

MOM!!!!!!!!!! my 5-year-old cried. THERE’S NO TOY!!!!!!

(AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!! Let Loose The Hounds of Hell!!!!!!!!!)

What? I said. What do mean? No toy?

Then my 8-year-old said: I don’t have one either.

And so much for the drive-through. We parked the car and went inside and waited 10 minutes for someone to help us. There was only one register open, and the girl working that register was obviously, PAINFULLY new at this job. She had someone shadowing her, telling her exactly what to say, which buttons to push, where to find the apple pies, etc, etc, etc.

And you could SEE IT on her face: how frantic she was. What a nighmare her afternoon had been, and that the evening was probably going to be at least just as bad, if not worse. I suspected that if I were to elbow my way to the front of the line and wave my receipt and demand a couple of Happy Meal Toys for Girls, she’d have just collapsed onto the floor in a sobbing teenage ruin, and who needs that on their conscience?

So, I waited in the regular line with my two anxious daughters, watching this frazzled teenager learning valuable lessons about life and capitalism and the importance of a good college education. And eventually, we made it up to the front there and I showed her my receipt and asked for our toys and then we left.

“Thanks, Mom!” the girls said to me, skipping out to the car with their treasures. “You’re the BEST!!!”

They didn’t tack on that part about the WHOLE UNIVERSE, but that’s okay. The universe is expanding anyway. It’s better to not be compared to things that are expanding these days. I am 40 now, after all.

Tonight, I ran out to the grocery store to pick up salad fixings, some cauliflower, and milk (things that will definitely not earn me the GREATEST MOM IN THE ENTIRE EXPANDING UNIVERSE AWARD), and I jumped into the express line and proceeded to wait quite a while because someone up there had written an actual check to pay for her items, and it practically made the clerk’s head explode. He had to type in all these codes and numbers and it wasn’t working at all. He tried it three times, and he couldn’t get it to work. And he was starting to panic. He kept trying, and after every failed attempt, he’d look over his shoulder to where another clerk was working a line and say: “Hey man! I really NEED your help over here!”

By then I was doing that special crane dance: where you start stretching your neck around to see if anyone else is open, because this could take FOREVER. But the only other guy open was the guy that was going to end up over here helping this dude out, so why bother moving, right? Besides, it was the express lane. The lady in front of me had maybe 7 items. And let’s face it, a trip to the store alone is like a mini-vacation anyway. Why rush things? So, I waited. I read some of the Enquirer’s headlines. Patrick Swayze’s not looking too good these days. It’s very sad.

After a while, and without the other guy’s help at all, this dude managed to figure it out. He was so relieved! “You’ve got to hit the pound sign at the end,” he confessed. Ah, yes, we all nodded sagely. The elusive pound-sign maneuver. It’s gotten the best of all of us at one time or another, hasn’t it? But, we all smiled and cheered for him a little. We could tell he was new at this job. He thanked all of us individually for being so kind and patient. And when I whipped out my Visa card instead of a check book at the end, you could tell it totally made his night.

So, there’s me: being patient. Me: being nice.

Isn’t it nice?

yeah…

What I wish for, is that I could remember how to act nice like this when it’s the kids who are frazzled. I wish that I could remember that when they’re freaking out, it’s not at all unlike what these two people were going through. That in their little heads, there’s this weird buzzing sound, and nothing seems to be connecting right. And they don’t need me adding to their stress by being impatient. Or yelling at them and sending them to timeout.

That’s what I wish.

OMG! I’m posting.

Published March 17, 2009 Homeschooling , Parenting 6 Comments

And just for the record, I’m probably way too old to be even using the OMG! thing.

But there you have it. Me — 40 and trying to be cool. Good thing the kids aren’t in regular school. They don’t really have a good grasp of just how out-of-it I really am.

So, things are on the mend around here. Things have been on the mend for a while, but how many times did you really want me to post: Things are on the mend here today…. We did a little math….

OMG! Could I BE anymore BORING?

So, I stayed away. For your reading pleasure.

But we are finally – somewhat – on the mend. It took a massive sinus infection for my 5-year-old, the flu for me, which I still think was really a sinus infection — but we’ll never really know, and then a sudden bout of strep for my 8-year-old, and all of this finished up today with yet another visit to the doctor to find out why my 5-year-old is STILL COUGHING bad enough to keep herself awake at night. Which led, of course, to another trip to the pharmacy for yet another prescription for something that probably won’t do any good. My kitchen window sill, where I keep most of the medicines, looks like an ICU in-house pharmacy. And I’m seriously considering investing in some CVS stock. Because business is BOOMING there right now.

And I almost forgot to mention that 7 days into my round of antibiotics, I developed a nice little case of hives. So I stopped taking the antibiotics and switched over to Benadryl and spent a few days Not Scratching. Note to self: mention this to the doctor next time.

And in the middle of all this happy crappy, yeah, we did a little work. Just the basics. Just a little. A that little bit seems to have been enough. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been homeschooling long enough to know better than to think in terms of behind or ahead. We are where we are. And today, my 5-year-old sat down with me and read me most of Go Dog! Go. Because she wanted to. Which means we are right where we’re supposed to be.

Boy I sure do sound confident. Like I’ve really got my act together! Don’t I? Before you get all annoyed that I’m so TOGETHER, I should mention the state of the house. I really should. The house is a mess. I’d take pictures, but I’m too tired. It’s just gotten out of hand. The kitchen I’ve managed to keep a handle on, but everything else is just covered with clutter and dust and cheese stick wrappers and dog-eared books and just CRAP.

And I don’t even want to talk about the Laundry Situation. Except to tell you that it’s definitely A SITUATION. And that’s all I’m gonna say about it. Because I don’t want to talk about it.

But that’s okay.

Because we’re on the mend.

In which I envison a great many peanut butter sandwiches in the near future.

Published February 25, 2009 Dysfunction Junction , Homeschooling , Parenting 6 Comments

flu

Yesterday afternoon, I took my 5-year-old to the doctor because her cold was going on Day 8 and wasn’t showing any signs of improvement whatsoever. We ended up getting the doctor that drives me batty, the one who reminds me a bit of Dr. House. He doesn’t limp, and he’s not so OBVIOUSLY rude to people, but he’s brilliant enough that he just does not understand how to talk to a 5-year-old during an appointment. In fact, he barely talks to the 5-year-old at all. He talks to me, and he says things like “Oh man, THIS is really gonna be a TOUGH one!” when my 5-year-old shows signs of distress at the thought of a stick or a Q-tip swab anywhere near her throat (which is so sore that she can barely talk or swallow).

What my 5-year-old hears isn’t so much that she’s the tough one. It’s that something will be DIFFICULT during this visit. Which translates into something will be PAINFUL during this visit. Her distress increases visibly.

What I think when I hear this sort of thing is: WHY did this guy ever get into pediatrics in the first place? What I want to SAY is “Dude, do you even HAVE children?”

What I wish is that I could have magically transported our entire pediatric facility from Colorado along with us when we moved, so that the girls would have the same doctors they’d had ever since they first popped out onto this unsuspecting world. The doctors that knew how to talk to them when they felt sick. The ones that looked right at them when they came through the door and gave them a commiserating frown/rueful smile and said: “Not feeling so good, huh? Well, let’s have a look-see.” and then just went ahead and did what needed to be done without pausing to comment on how difficult it might be, just transferring them from the exam table to my lap and encircling arms for things that might prove uncomfortable, and GETTING IT DONE.

But no. None of them thought uprooting their entire practice was a reasonable idea when I told them we were moving. So I’m stuck with this guy, who is apparently BRILLIANT and the ultimate Go-To-Guy when your kid has got some serious rare disease. But apparently, if your kid is just plain old sick, and happens to have some wax in her ear so he can’t really see if there’s an infection in there, and happens to have this aversion to Strep tests, he’s really not all that good.

And in the end, he simply decided Not To Do The Tests. He would give her antibiotics anyway at this point, so he didn’t see the reason for putting her through an ear cleaning and a Strep test that might or might not have resulted in a prescription for Amoxicillin. He saw how worried my kid was, and apparently didn’t want to deal with it. So, we lucked out, I guess, and just got a prescription. At first, I was all: Gee that’s nice of him. Maybe he’s not so bad after all. But then not ten minutes after he’d explained why he wasn’t going to do the test, he gave us a mini-lecture about how we couldn’t ALWAYS EXPECT to get off this easy. That NEXT TIME, she’d probably have to have the tests.

At that point I told him, as nicely as possible, that if he felt the procedures were necessary, we certainly would do them. That he was the doctor. That I relied on his professional opinion about these things. And that if my daughter showed stress or reluctance I was RIGHT THERE ON HAND, IMMEDIATELY AVAILABLE to help her through it. That I considered it my JOB to help my child through difficult medical moments, just as I considered it HIS JOB to tell me what was required.

He gave me a prescription and we left. Without doing any tests.

I guess it would be prudent to mention at this point that I, also, was still dealing with the very same symptoms as my 5-year-old, which made it very hard for me to maintain any sort of perspective or patience regarding this whole doctor visit. And if he was any other doctor, I’d have called the office to complain when we got home. But considering that he’s the uber-brilliant guy there, I figure it would be bad karma to, like, alienate him or something. So, I took my kids, the prescription, their various Webkinz that they brought in with them, all my own personal cold symptoms and got into my car and left.

And this morning, still feeling pretty crappy, I decided to stop pretending I wasn’t really sick, and called my own doctor’s office. I told them I suspected I have a sinus infection, and they said to come on in. So, I took my kids, their Webkinz toys, some Goldfish crackers, and all my symptoms down to my doctor’s office a couple of hours ago, where I was informed by my kindly young doctor that it’s not a sinus infection.

It’s the flu.

“The flu?” I said to him. “Are you sure? I thought the flu would be one of those I-can’t-even-get-out-of-bed-because-of-the-utter-agony type things. I’m up and around. How can it be the flu?”

“Well,” he said. “Not everyone gets the exhaustion. In fact, it’s almost worse when they don’t, because they tend to think it’s just a cold and go about their business, and it takes longer to recover that way.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Did you get a flu shot this year?” he asked.

“Well… no.” I said.

“Definitely the flu,” he said, and started scribbling like mad on his prescription pad. “I’m gonna give you some Amoxicillin along with everything else I’m prescribing, just in case, but chances are, it won’t make a difference. Go home and rest.”

We’re home now. And resting as best we can.

Except for one event tomorrow that we simply cannot back out of, we’re cancelling everything for the next week or so.

I’ve decided that Mr. Uber-Brilliant Doctor Who Never Should Have Been A Pediatrician doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I’ve decided to treat my 5-year-old’s cold as if it were the flu. Sure, she’ll take the damn antibiotics. Just in case. But chances are, it’s the flu, and we’ve just got to get through it.

I’ll be back when I’m on the other side of all this.

The best kind of snowstorm…

Published January 28, 2009 Parenting , Photos 4 Comments

is the unexpected one. The one that wasn’t supposed to happen, or if it was supposed to happen, it wasn’t supposed to amount to anything, but then it did.

Last night and today, we’ve had snow and ice and then rain – the kind that makes the day dreary because there’s no going out in it. And by the time you DO get to go out, it’s all turned to a pathetic, good for nothing slush. And we knew it was coming. The local news and the Weather Channel just couldn’t shut up about this storm. How dull it was, listening to them go on about it, knowing that it really wasn’t going to be such of a much, that all it would amount to was some extra work with a shovel. La-dee-da.

But, a week ago Monday was totally different. A week ago Monday was just supposed to be a slight chance of flurries. The newscasters barely gave it a minute. And Monday afternoon, we got a little flurry. The girls looked out the window and cheered.

“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “This isn’t supposed to last.”

They grumbled. But then the flurry just kept on flurrying. And flurrying. And flurrying. And by 3:30 I had to tell them we’d have to skip karate because I didn’t want to be driving in this. They wailed. But then I told them to get their snow gear on because we were going out into all that delicious snow. And the wails immediately ceased as they scrambled for their boots.

They’d been waiting a long time for a day like this. A day with the Good Kind Of Snow.

sledding1

In fact, now that I think about it,

sledding2

This was the first good snow they’ve been able to play in since we moved here two years ago.

sledding3

I know this because I bought these red sleds for them for Christmas back in 2006, right before we moved.

sledding4

And they never used them once. Until this Monday a week ago, when the snow we weren’t supposed to get turned into the best surprise ever. The whole time they were sledding, I kept hearing Etta James singing in my head: At Last….

sledding5

So, it was funny the next day to hear that song played over and over again because that was the theme song for the President and First Lady’s inaugural dance. I suspect that if they had watched my daughters sledding down our little hill for the first time ever, they’d totally understand why I had that song stuck in my mind. They’ve got daughters, too. I think they’d get it.

sledding6

But the best part about that day was the laughing. I laughed in a way I haven’t laughed in years. I laughed because I saw the joy light up their faces as the sleds picked up a little speed and they were sailing in the gorgeous snowy dusk and I saw in their eyes, in their excited smiles, that it was better than they ever even expected it could be. I laughed with them, and at one point, I’m pretty sure I was jumping up and down with excitement.

And then, the next day… THIS happened

and it was the icing on the cake. The best kind of icing. The kind you weren’t expecting, but turned out to be exactly what you wanted all along. The kind that was worth the wait.

RegularMom’s ultimate gift picks.

Published December 23, 2008 Hallmark Moments From Hell , Parenting 8 Comments

Worried about breaking the bank this year, getting your kids those essential gifts? Tired of the endless commercialism and consumerism that practically forces you to buy those essential electronic gadgets that break all too soon? Dreading spending more than you can afford on a slew of toys for your kids only to have them complaining of boredom six weeks later? Well, look no further. Here are some fabulous gift ideas that won’t break your budget and that are guaranteed to keep your kids entertained for more than 45 minutes.

10. Car Keys.
Not the plastic play ones…the real deal. Have an extra set of your car keys made this year for your little ones. If you’re really lucky, you’ll have one of those digital car keys, the kind with the buttons that you push once or twice to open doors automatically. Your little angels will spend several delightful hours pushing these buttons and opening your car doors all while you’re busy making doctor appointments or helping someone go potty. There’s no greater joy than knowing that when you look out your window, you’ll find that your car doors have been gaping wide open all afternoon for the neighbors to see, and for anyone to perhaps dig through your CD’s or leftover happy meal toys. On the bright side, at least your car will be cleaned out, and not by you.

9. Toothpaste.
Who needs finger paints when you can just stock up on various flavors of Buzz Lightyear and My Little Pony Toothpaste? Your children will love a couple of tubes of toothpaste in their stockings this year. They come in all flavors, colors and Disney character brands. Kick back and relax with a cup of coffee while your kids go wild in the bathroom, knowing deep in your heart that at some point they will eat some of it (thus accidentally protecting their teeth against cavities), that the bathtub is only a foot and a half away from where the action is happening, and that those toothpasty handprints will dry to a fine pasty piece of memorabilia on your bathroom cabinets and mirrors.

8. Floss.
To continue stressing the importance of good dental hygiene, how about a roll of dental floss or two? They make excellent stocking stuffers and if you can’t get your kids to actually floss the candy out of their teeth, they’ll at least enjoy unspooling the entire roll of floss into a dish to make spagetti. Old cassette tapes are also good for this kind of play.

7. Trash.
If your kids are like mine, they love trash. All the little bits of fuzz and paper, cheese stick wrappers and broken plastic pieces of… well, stuff that used to be important…it’s all more valuable than gold. Just skip the vaccuuming this year and sweep all that crap into an old battered shoebox, wrap it up, and give it to your kids as TREASURE. Because to them, THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT IT IS.

6. Your heirloom jewelry.
They learned it at Grandma’s house, how much fun it is to play with real jewelry. Now you too can give your kids this simple joy of losing all your diamonds down the heating ducts.

5. Dad’s heavy-metal-band black boots.
Your kids will LOVE trying these clunkers on, and you’ll love the fact that once they’re actually laced up in them, they simply can’t move anywhere. Perfect for those moments when you just need to use the bathroom.

4. Remote controls.
If you’re like me, you’ve got dozens of these things all over the house, and you’ve never really figured out how to use them anyway. Half of them go to old broken down televisions hidden away in your basement or attic. Give them to your kids and witness the miracle of built-in DNA as they show you how all those little buttons work.

3. Styrofoam.
There’s nothing more exciting than a pile of styrofoam packing material just-pulled from the box of something your husband just bought off E-bay. Rather than throwing that packing material away, give it to your kids. Watch as they crumble it up into roughly two million tiny pieces of “snow” and spread it all over your livingroom. Delight in their endless giggles as they watch you try to pick up all those static-electricity-charged snow drifts. This is a gift that keeps on giving, as you spend days picking it off your sweaters and their underwear.

2. Scissors.
Surely you’ve got an extra pair somewhere? Just hand them over and watch your preschooler amuse herself for hours on end as she cuts through your un-read copy of Time, your clothing and hers, your expensive duvet, her Barbies and stuffed animals, and of course, her own hair.

1. A Christmas tree they can actually climb.
Bring in some heavy equipment, smash through your living room floor and just plant a damn tree. Leave it up all year and let them go at it. Let the kids decorate it with the little bits of uneaten food they leave behind. Then they can enjoy hours of climbing without even having to stop to get a snack, and you can relax in the eco-friendly knowledge that you planted a tree this year instead of chopping one down.

Well, that should take care of all your I-Don’t-Know-What-To-Get-My-Kids-This-Year woes. Good luck with your last minute shopping! I don’t know about you, but I’m already wrapping up piles of stale Goldfish cracker crumbs and dust bunnies to put under the tree. Nothing says Merry Christmas more than that. My kids are gonna be THRILLED!

It’s RegularSis’s birthday today, but I didn’t call her. Here’s why:

Published December 12, 2008 Dysfunction Junction , Parenting 11 Comments

So, I decided to take the girls to see my mother today. We’ve been here almost 2 years now, and we still hadn’t managed to ever visit Nana at HER PLACE, mostly because she moves a lot, so it’s been hard to keep up with her and all her condos and houses and whatnots that she rents. Usually after about 6 months of living in one place, she’ll decide that the neighbors are All Out To Get Her, or that there are BUGS coming through the ventilation system and biting her in the night, or that…

well… you get the idea. So, she moves a lot.

Anyway. I’d been trying to get on over to Nana’s New House for almost a month, and after two cancellations and working carefully over the phone with my mom to figure out a day that would actually work for all of us, TODAY WAS THE DAY. There was no way I was gonna cancel this again. So, I piled the kids and some snack bags into the minivan and headed out by 11:00. For once, I was on time, and the kids weren’t fussing. The 2 days of rain had ended, and the sun was coming out and drying the world and making things look cheerful. Hell, I’d even managed to not only REMEMBER my cell phone, but to have charged it all night over night.

Not that I ever USE the damn thing.

As we were pulling out of the driveway, I looked in my mini-rearview mirror and said to my 5-year-old: “Honey, pull on that seatbelt until it’s nice and tight… it’s too loose” like I’ve said to her for months and months and months now, and she dutifully pulled on it until it was tight.

Maybe 15 minutes later, just as I was merging onto another road, another car slammed right into the back of my van, seemingly out of nowhere. KA-BLAM!!!!!!!!

You’ve been rear-ended before, haven’t you? You know what it sounds like, yes? That loud hollow KRUMP! The weird way in which you suddenly realize you’ve been jolted badly, even though it will be quite a few minutes before you realize that the rearview mirror is no longer hanging on the windshield but has come THIS CLOSE to clocking your kid in the forehead and now rests on the floor in between the kids’ seats behind you.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” my 8-year-old asked, as I was yanking the wheel over to the right, pulling over to the shoulder. “MOMMY? WHAT WAS THAT?”

“Someone hit us,” I said, “but WE’RE ALL RIGHT. Okay?” I looked around at the two of them. Their eyes were so big and round and stunned. “We’re OKAY, you guys,” I said again. Then, after considering for a moment, I asked them: “Are you okay?”

And they both started to cry.

After a little bit of soothing, I got out of the van and went around to the back, where a woman was waiting. She looked to be about in her late 50′s. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and then I said: “You okay?” She nodded. “We’re okay. You okay?” “Yeah, we’re okay.” and I stuck out my hand and said, “Shake?” and we shook. “You came out of nowhere,” she said to me. I’d been stopped at a stop sign. My van is not equipped with a cloaking device, so I’m pretty sure we were VISIBLE the entire fucking time, but WHATEVER. People say stupid things when they’re at fault in an accident. I didn’t correct her. I just let it slide.

Her husband had been driving and he was still surveying the damage over at his front end while I shook hands with his wife. He wandered over pretty soon. By now, I’d moved from the back of the van to the side and opened the door so the kids could see me. I called the police. Then I called RegularDad. All of this on my rarely-used, often uncharged and forgotten cell phone. I was still on the phone with RegularDad when the police arrived and I was trying to write down my insurance information with shaking hands all while balancing a cell phone in the crook of my (already aching) neck.

The kids had recovered from their fear by now, and the excitement was setting in. They’d unbuckled themselves and had crawled to the rear of the van. They were gaping out the back window at the crumpled car parked behind us and generally test-driving life as Kids Who’d Survived A Car Crash.

The cop took notes and told us what to do next. There were no serious injuries, and the damages weren’t bad enough that we couldn’t drive away. The couple who had hit us were on their way to a wedding, of all things, so they drove off pretty soon, promising to be in touch, and I pulled off into a parking lot, off the main road so I could make phone calls in peace. I called my mother, told her we’d been in an accident and that I wasn’t sure if we could come or not. The kids heard me say that and immediately began to wail. “We Wanna Go To Nana’s!!!!!!!!!!!! WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

So, I hung up with my mom, called RegularDad back, told him I thought we could still go on to Nana’s, so (sweet guy that he is) he drove over to us and traded cars with us. I called our pediatrician’s office because the girls had each said in passing: “Wow, my neck feels funny!” and talked to the nurses about it, and we made appointments for both girls for Monday morning. I’m torn between concern that I shouldn’t wait until Monday and relief that we don’t have to actually go into an Emergency Room. I hate Emergency Rooms. With all of my heart and soul.

We drove on to Nana’s house and arrived only two hours late. We had a late lunch, and then the girls looked at piles of old photographs of me and RegularSis from way back when. For some reason, I’ll never understand, my mother had saved some pictures of me with probably every boyfriend I ever had as a teenager, and those were peppered in among the shots of me and the dogs, me and the horse, me at graduation, etc, etc etc. “Who’s this?” my 8-year-old asked, holding up a shot of me and some old asshole boyfriend I used to date.

“Mom!” I said. “GROSS! Why do you still have these?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “This stuff was in storage for a while. I can’t remember what’s in there.”

I fielded quite a few cell phone calls all afternoon, from insurance people and RegularDad, and I was just starting to get tired and my neck was starting to complain even more, and I was ready to head back home when my mother said: “Hey, let’s take a drive into town!” “HOORAY!” the kids said, so I stifled my sighs and we all clambered into Nana’s car and headed on into town.

And suddenly, I was force-fed a trip down memory lane. That’s where the candy store was, that was our pizza place, and there’s the fountain but it’s closed up for winter, oh look the old theater’s still there, they just refurbished it because it was so moldy in there that people were getting sick every time they saw a show but it’s really nice now, and look! there’s the dry-cleaners where Aunt Susan used to work, remember that…

And I swear to God, the whole time she’s driving the car and pointing out landmarks, she’s simultaneously holding her cell phone with her right hand and flipping through her call history, looking for RegularSis’s new phone number. Because it was RegularSis’s birthday today (Hey, Happy Birthday RegularSis! Sorry I didn’t call you, but you wouldn’t fucking BELIEVE the day I’ve had!) and she thought we should call her to wish her a Happy Birthday. So, she’s driving down narrow, crowded streets and stamping on the breaks whenever another landmark from my crappy childhood comes up, and then after pointing it out, she steps on the gas again and turns her attention BACK TO HER CELL PHONE, and I’m sitting there in the front passenger seat (THE SEAT OF DOOM), not 6 hours out of an earlier car accident, asking myself: Oh for the love of God and All the Saints, IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING???

And then my 5-year-old said: “Aren’t there any toy stores around here?” and just as I was finished saying, “Hey! Christmas is two weeks away. The last thing you need today is new toys,” my mother said, “But there is a toy store here! A really great one!”

So we ended up in a toy store TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS where the kids took forever picking out a toy each because I’d imposed a $20 limit on them, and then I said to my mother JUST TO BE CLEAR: “Are YOU paying for this? Or am I paying for this?” because with Nana, you’re just never sure who’s picking up the tab.

She paid. She probably can’t afford it, but she paid.

So, after that, I told my mother that we really needed to get going, because RegularDad was waiting to take us all out to dinner. We were walking back towards the car, and the wind was picking up. It was cold. “Let’s just stop and see the Christmas tree lights!” Nana said, so we crossed to the square and ran through to where there was a tree with lots of colorful lights. “Pretty!” I said, “now, let’s go.”

“Doesn’t anyone want ice cream?” Nana asked. “Or coffee?”
“No,” I said. “Not today.”
“Who eats ice cream in THIS kind of weather?” my 8-year-old said, shivering.
“Mom, we’ll come back in the summer,” I said to her.
“Okay,” she said, and we trooped back to the car.

There was still a half hour of time left on the meter. “Well,” Nana said, “we’ll just have to sit here for another 30 minutes.” and she laughed a little at her little joke. But then, instead of starting the car, she spent a good 5 minutes digging through her purse, looking for God knows what.

“What are you looking for?” I asked her.

“My notebook,” she said. “I took it out in the store, when I was getting my money, and now I can’t…” and she trailed off, all while emptying the contents of her purse out into her lap. Then (mercifully), she held up a little book and said, “oh, thank goodness. Here it is.” and then she flipped through it, still looking for RegularSis’s phone number, but to no avail. “Mom,” I said, “we can call her later. We really need to get going.”

So, we started back to her house, but she took the long way back to show us the surrounding country side and her friend’s property, complete with horses and goats. It was getting dark by now, and I’d be driving back to Pennsylvania in the dark and in rush hour traffic, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Finally, we arrived back at her place. I rushed both girls from her car to mine and said a fast, fast goodbye, which means we were out of there in ten minutes — a personal record for us. Five minutes into the drive, I tried to dig through my purse one-handed to find my cell phone to call RegularDad to tell him we were late. But I couldn’t find it, and considering that we were in New Jersey and it’s illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving, I gave up. Two minutes later, my 5-year-old had a tantrum in the backseat because the toy she’d picked out didn’t have quite what she thought it did in the box. Forty-five seconds into that tantrum, I read her the riot act. The word “damn” made its way out into the air of the car. Things got quieter.

Suddenly my cell phone began to ring from somewhere in the depths of my purse. The word “dammit” floated out into the air as I groped for it again. I found it and managed to flip it open one-handed just as the last ring died away and the thing chirped out its signal that I’d missed a call.

“ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!” I yelled, at the top of my lungs.

Instant quiet in the back seat. The kind that makes you feel like the worst parent in the world.

I managed to call RegularDad back and told him we were late and started blowing off steam before I could even stop myself, and he said: “So, I guess we probably won’t go out to dinner then?” And I was beyond the ability to even think about dinner. All I could think about was getting across the God Forsaken Delaware River and home to where I wouldn’t have to drive a car, or be in a car, for the rest of the day.

We made it back home without further incident, complaint or tantrum. We took the kids to a diner for dinner. I ordered a Bacon Burger with Fries, A Pepsi, and Chocolate Ice Cream for dessert. I didn’t make the kids eat a single vegetable. I lingered over dessert.

We’re home now and it’s well after 9:00 and the kids are still up. And they’re watching television. Lots and lots of television.

And now that I’ve gotten this all out for you to read, I’m gonna go put the kids to bed, and I’m gonna go have a nice hot shower and then I’m gonna make myself some popcorn and watch whatever’s on.

Because this day is DONE, my friends.

Happy Birthday, RegularSis.

I’ll call you tomorrow.

Zen and the Art of Being Five Years Old.

Published December 11, 2008 Hallmark Moments From Hell , Parenting , Snippets 8 Comments

20 MINUTES BEFORE BEDTIME:

5-year-old: Mom, can I watch TV?

Me, loading the dishwasher: No.

5-year-old: Well, what am I supposed to do until bedtime, then?

Me, impatiently: I don’t know. Go in the living room and meditate or something until I’m ready to read you a story.

5-year-old: Meditate? What’s that?

Me: You know, like Master Shifu in Kung Fu Panda… “inner peace… inner peace…”

5-year-old, suddenly lifted to penultimate heights of excitement: OKAY!!!

She then runs into the living room and sits down in a lotus position and starts chanting inner peace… inner peace… over and over again, while I congratulate myself on not only handling that conversation so well, but on finding an activity for her that might possibily help soothe her turbulent 5-year-old soul, and not to mention the fact that it might come in handy on those nights when I just need an extra 15 minutes or so before I sit down to read to her.

15 MINUTES LATER:

Me, finished with the dishes: Okay… it’s time to pick out a story book.

5-year-old: WHAT??? NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Shen then jumps up from her lotus position and begins stamping her feet in the throes of an escalating tantrum and pretty soon she’s practically throwing herself to the floor and screaming the entire time:

I WANT TO KEEP INNER-PEACE-ING!!!!! I WANT TO KEEP INNER-PEACE-ING!!!!!!! I WANT TO KEEP INNER-PEACE-ING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And the Buddha wept.

So much for those extra 15 minutes.

Like I Have Time For This?

Archive for the 'Parenting' Category

The beginning of letting go.

Laryngitis.

Making mama-bear waves.

Unfrazzling the frazzled.

OMG! I’m posting.

In which I envison a great many peanut butter sandwiches in the near future.

The best kind of snowstorm…

RegularMom’s ultimate gift picks.

It’s RegularSis’s birthday today, but I didn’t call her. Here’s why:

Zen and the Art of Being Five Years Old.

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