A quick recap: when my son broke his elbow about six weeks ago, the end of the broken and dislocated bone was pressing against the nerves and blood vessels in his arm -- one of the reasons they hurried him into surgery. The blood flow returned immediately, but the bruised nerves are slow to heal. "They hold grudges," one of the orthopedists told me. That means that my son still has very little feeling, movement or strength in about half of his left hand -- his thumb, forefinger and middle finger, to be precise.
A friend of mine gave him a Lego set as a "get well" present after the break. We sat down to put it together the other day, constructing an alien-looking creature whose arms and legs fit together with ball-and-socket-type connections.
The nerve damage means that my son has practically no ability to grasp anything, particularly not when any kind of exertion is required. He can barely hold a piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger, much less squeeze a Lego tight enough to press a ball end into a socket.
So he did what kids do so well: Figure something out. He would first try to grasp the piece between his pinkie and ring finger in an awkward way that involved wrapping his pinkie around the piece and pressing it tightly against his ring finger. That worked sometimes, but, let's face it, that's not the strongest grasp on anything (try holding a pen like that and just making a line on a piece of paper or something).
On the times when the piece would slip out of the makeshift grasp, my son, sitting cross-legged on the floor, would put the soles of his feet together and slide the Lego piece between them to hold, while using his "good hand" to connect the other side. It was a little funny to watch but worked like a champ.
The thing is that sitting on the floor and watching him do all this nearly brought me to tears. It was so pitiful seeing him try to find some way just to put two stinking Lego pieces together because his poor little hand just wouldn't do it.
Even though I was itching to reach out and help him, I was determined not to intervene unless he asked for it. There's no telling how long it'll take for the nerve to heal up (the doctor said he's seen it take eight or nine months), and he needs to make his own accommodations until then.
And, truthfully, he was handling it great, much better than many adults would, I'd venture to say. He didn't complain or whine that he couldn't get a good hold. He didn't get frustrated and give up on the project. He asked for help only once or twice and that was after his own repeated efforts couldn't get a couple of particularly stubborn pieces to snap in place. He just sucked it up and figured out how to make it work for himself.
He probably didn't even give it that much thought. He just did it because, well, Legos are fun and he wanted to put it together. Kids are amazing, I tell ya', just amazing.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Quotable quotes and the not-so-single mom
Anyone who has ever spent more than 10 minutes around kids knows that the things that sometimes come out of their mouths are pure comic gold. Here are a few gems from this weekend from my son and my fiance's younger son (both age 6).
I wasn't personally present for this quote from my fiance's son, but it's been repeated ad nauseum (by the adults and out of earshot of the child) since it was uttered on Saturday simply because it's so flipping funny.
While sitting on the deck of his grandparents' house and, I suppose, checking out the birds that were hanging out in the nearby trees, he said, "Robins are popular birds. They're so popular that a team was named after them: the Cardinals."
--- :-D ---
And then on Sunday, the whole crew stopped by the Bruster's on Woodruff Road for an ice cream treat. My son, who has become adept at and keenly interested in reading every scrap of paper, billboard and street sign around, was sounding out the name of the restaurant on the other side of the parking lot: Sexy Taco.
He promptly asked what "sexy" means, and my fiance and I both practically tripped over our tongues trying to come up with an explanation of the word. My son, clearly annoyed with our meager and failing attempts, professed his own definition:
"Sexy means purple, and purple means kissy."
Well, there you have it, folks. "Purple means kissy."
I wasn't personally present for this quote from my fiance's son, but it's been repeated ad nauseum (by the adults and out of earshot of the child) since it was uttered on Saturday simply because it's so flipping funny.
While sitting on the deck of his grandparents' house and, I suppose, checking out the birds that were hanging out in the nearby trees, he said, "Robins are popular birds. They're so popular that a team was named after them: the Cardinals."
--- :-D ---
And then on Sunday, the whole crew stopped by the Bruster's on Woodruff Road for an ice cream treat. My son, who has become adept at and keenly interested in reading every scrap of paper, billboard and street sign around, was sounding out the name of the restaurant on the other side of the parking lot: Sexy Taco.
He promptly asked what "sexy" means, and my fiance and I both practically tripped over our tongues trying to come up with an explanation of the word. My son, clearly annoyed with our meager and failing attempts, professed his own definition:
"Sexy means purple, and purple means kissy."
Well, there you have it, folks. "Purple means kissy."
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The big wish and the not-so-single mom
Since my son's birthday is tomorrow, this seemed like an appropriate time to share a short, but perhaps telling, anecdote.
I was standing in line at a local restaurant with my son and a friend of mine, waiting patiently to get our burritos and sit down to dinner, when my son casually and with no preface whatsoever looks up at me and asks, "Mommy, can I have an iPod?"
"What?" I said, already laughing out loud. "Do you even know what an iPod is?"
"Yes," he said, "it's something you play games on."
Let me confess here that, although I do know iPods are primarily for music, I have absolutely no idea if they can be used for games or not because -- and here's what makes this scenario even funnier -- I don't even have an iPod.
I should have seized the opportunity to explore further why my son was suddenly compelled to ask for this bit of technology, but all I could do was laugh at what a different world it is for kids these days. Or maybe it just seems different because the technology's different. Did I want a Walkman when I was turning 6? I really don't think so. I think I was older before I became aware and enamored of the technology of my day.
Lest any of you be concerned about my son being overly indulged, however, rest assured: there's no iPod coming for him for his birthday. At the very least, I get one before he does.
I was standing in line at a local restaurant with my son and a friend of mine, waiting patiently to get our burritos and sit down to dinner, when my son casually and with no preface whatsoever looks up at me and asks, "Mommy, can I have an iPod?"
"What?" I said, already laughing out loud. "Do you even know what an iPod is?"
"Yes," he said, "it's something you play games on."
Let me confess here that, although I do know iPods are primarily for music, I have absolutely no idea if they can be used for games or not because -- and here's what makes this scenario even funnier -- I don't even have an iPod.
I should have seized the opportunity to explore further why my son was suddenly compelled to ask for this bit of technology, but all I could do was laugh at what a different world it is for kids these days. Or maybe it just seems different because the technology's different. Did I want a Walkman when I was turning 6? I really don't think so. I think I was older before I became aware and enamored of the technology of my day.
Lest any of you be concerned about my son being overly indulged, however, rest assured: there's no iPod coming for him for his birthday. At the very least, I get one before he does.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
C-day and the not-so-single mom
C-day arrived Tuesday. Yes, that's "cast day."
My son was downright giddy as we crossed the parking lot and headed into the doctor's office. That happy feeling sadly didn't last long (see expression below).
The saw scared him; the people getting the cast off couldn't avoid touching his uber-sensitive hands; and then there were the pins.
The sorrowful look on his face in that picture is not from being skeeved out (as I very much was). It was his simply trying to relax and gather his bearings after the pain they inflicted on him just to get to this point.
Being careful not to hit the pins with the saw, they cut out the top portion of his cast and lifted it off, with the idea being the bottom part could then slide off. The problem with that well-intentioned plan was that the bottom part was A) barely wide enough to fit around his arm under normal circumstances and B) not nearly roomy enough to slide around his pins, which were also completely tangled up in all the gauze and padding inside the cast.
When the woman who was taking off the cast at first ran into trouble, she called in a man, whom, in a misguided effort at lightheartedness, she called "Big John." He was big alright -- and strong. And he used every bit of that muscle power to tug and pull and stretch and try to pry that cast off my son. And since the cast that he was manipulating like it was a particularly tough side of beef was hung up on the pins that were embedded in my son's flesh and bone, it hurt a touch. And by a "touch," I mean that my son was literally crying and begging him to stop. It was utterly heartbreaking.
(What's a little funny is that before this medieval torture experiment, my son, who had heard the woman refer to the man as "Big John," told me he wanted to change his name to "Big John." John, he said, was a good name, but the "Big" part made it extra awesome, and henceforth he would be known as "Big John." I didn't ask, but I'm guessing he might have changed his mind about that once the cast was off.)
The cast did finally come off, though, and the doctor reported excellent results from his x-ray, so out came the pins. While that part would seem, on the surface, to be the more painful bit of the day, particularly since it involved nothing more than a big pair of pliers and some gauze, it turned out to be a piddly nuisance compared to getting the cast off.... for my son, anyway.
I, on the other hand, did not fare as well. I'm not the type who can't handle the sight of blood, but there was something about seeing these pins embedded in my son's arm that really made me queasy. And it just got worse and worse the more I thought about it. And then very nearly reached a catastrophic crescendo when they started pulling those things out. I can't say for sure how I looked at the time, but I will say that the nurse very quickly brought me a chair at one point. I can only imagine that I was turning either a pale shade of white or a putrid shade of green.
My son made it through with flying colors, though, and is now cast-free, though he still has to wear a sling and still can't pursue any of the standard little-boy activities until his arm heals a little more. They warned me at the beginning this was going to be a long recovery, so while I hope the cast was the worst part (since the break and surgery at least), it's certainly not the last.
My son was downright giddy as we crossed the parking lot and headed into the doctor's office. That happy feeling sadly didn't last long (see expression below).
The saw scared him; the people getting the cast off couldn't avoid touching his uber-sensitive hands; and then there were the pins.
The sorrowful look on his face in that picture is not from being skeeved out (as I very much was). It was his simply trying to relax and gather his bearings after the pain they inflicted on him just to get to this point.
Being careful not to hit the pins with the saw, they cut out the top portion of his cast and lifted it off, with the idea being the bottom part could then slide off. The problem with that well-intentioned plan was that the bottom part was A) barely wide enough to fit around his arm under normal circumstances and B) not nearly roomy enough to slide around his pins, which were also completely tangled up in all the gauze and padding inside the cast.
When the woman who was taking off the cast at first ran into trouble, she called in a man, whom, in a misguided effort at lightheartedness, she called "Big John." He was big alright -- and strong. And he used every bit of that muscle power to tug and pull and stretch and try to pry that cast off my son. And since the cast that he was manipulating like it was a particularly tough side of beef was hung up on the pins that were embedded in my son's flesh and bone, it hurt a touch. And by a "touch," I mean that my son was literally crying and begging him to stop. It was utterly heartbreaking.
(What's a little funny is that before this medieval torture experiment, my son, who had heard the woman refer to the man as "Big John," told me he wanted to change his name to "Big John." John, he said, was a good name, but the "Big" part made it extra awesome, and henceforth he would be known as "Big John." I didn't ask, but I'm guessing he might have changed his mind about that once the cast was off.)
The cast did finally come off, though, and the doctor reported excellent results from his x-ray, so out came the pins. While that part would seem, on the surface, to be the more painful bit of the day, particularly since it involved nothing more than a big pair of pliers and some gauze, it turned out to be a piddly nuisance compared to getting the cast off.... for my son, anyway.
I, on the other hand, did not fare as well. I'm not the type who can't handle the sight of blood, but there was something about seeing these pins embedded in my son's arm that really made me queasy. And it just got worse and worse the more I thought about it. And then very nearly reached a catastrophic crescendo when they started pulling those things out. I can't say for sure how I looked at the time, but I will say that the nurse very quickly brought me a chair at one point. I can only imagine that I was turning either a pale shade of white or a putrid shade of green.
My son made it through with flying colors, though, and is now cast-free, though he still has to wear a sling and still can't pursue any of the standard little-boy activities until his arm heals a little more. They warned me at the beginning this was going to be a long recovery, so while I hope the cast was the worst part (since the break and surgery at least), it's certainly not the last.
Friday, May 13, 2011
The countdown and the not-so-single mom
There is a countdown going on in my house. It's not the countdown to my son's birthday, which is only a week away. It's not the countdown to my wedding, which is only three months away (still so much to do -- eek!) It's not the countdown to a vacation or a fun outing. No, all of that pales in comparison to what's happening on Tuesday -- the cast comes off (insert a deep, echoing "dun-dun-dun!" here).
We head back to the orthopedist on Tuesday to get his cast off and, assuming the x-rays look good, pins out. The doctor has indicated that my son will have a sling or something on his arm afterward for a while to let it continue healing, but he doesn't expect to put a cast back on.
My son is, in a word, eager.
Since at least the 7th of this month, he's been telling me every morning how many days remain until he gets his cast off.
"Morning, sweetie."
"Morning, Mommy. 10 more days," he mutters as he stretches and yawns his way toward wakefulness.
I'll also get regular reports throughout the day, just in case I'd forgotten since the morning or, you know, failed to grasp how counting works.
"It's 8 days until I get my cast off. And tomorrow it'll be 7. And the next day it'll be 6. And the next day it'll be 5..."
I won't write this sequence all the way to the end in order to spare your eyes and sanity, gentle reader, but I assure you I'm subjected to it day in and day out, often several times a day. I'm not sure he has ever learned a math skill better, faster or more thoroughly than he has counting backwards for the sake of this countdown.
Despite my grumblings here, I have expressed nothing but excitement for my son every time he launches into this daily recitation. He's been so utterly miserable hauling that thing around for the past three weeks. Sleeping has remained difficult and uncomfortable, and that legendary itching that comes along with casts has set in. Though he still has a lot of recovery to go (not the least of which is persistent nerve damage that is causing him a lot of pain and still making his left hand practically useless), both of us are quite ready for this part to be done.
Only 4 days left. And tomorrow it'll be 3. And the next day it'll be 2. ...
We head back to the orthopedist on Tuesday to get his cast off and, assuming the x-rays look good, pins out. The doctor has indicated that my son will have a sling or something on his arm afterward for a while to let it continue healing, but he doesn't expect to put a cast back on.
My son is, in a word, eager.
Since at least the 7th of this month, he's been telling me every morning how many days remain until he gets his cast off.
"Morning, sweetie."
"Morning, Mommy. 10 more days," he mutters as he stretches and yawns his way toward wakefulness.
I'll also get regular reports throughout the day, just in case I'd forgotten since the morning or, you know, failed to grasp how counting works.
"It's 8 days until I get my cast off. And tomorrow it'll be 7. And the next day it'll be 6. And the next day it'll be 5..."
I won't write this sequence all the way to the end in order to spare your eyes and sanity, gentle reader, but I assure you I'm subjected to it day in and day out, often several times a day. I'm not sure he has ever learned a math skill better, faster or more thoroughly than he has counting backwards for the sake of this countdown.
Despite my grumblings here, I have expressed nothing but excitement for my son every time he launches into this daily recitation. He's been so utterly miserable hauling that thing around for the past three weeks. Sleeping has remained difficult and uncomfortable, and that legendary itching that comes along with casts has set in. Though he still has a lot of recovery to go (not the least of which is persistent nerve damage that is causing him a lot of pain and still making his left hand practically useless), both of us are quite ready for this part to be done.
Only 4 days left. And tomorrow it'll be 3. And the next day it'll be 2. ...
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Counting conundrum and the not-so-single mom
It became clear to me yesterday that either I or my son's teacher has failed him in one distinct but important way.
We were driving from home to my future stepson's baseball practice last night when my son announced that he was going to count to "ten hundred."
"Ten hundred," I told him, wasn't a number. What he was thinking of was one thousand.
He brushed off that information as trivial to the task he was about to undertake and began counting aloud.
"1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 ... 45 - 46 - 47 - 48 ... 71 - 72 - 73 ... 98 - 99 - 100."
He was flawless right up until that point, but then here's where things went horribly wrong.
"100 - 200 - 300 - 400 - 500"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a sec. Do you realize that you're actually counting by hundreds there? Did you know it's actually 101 - 102 - 103 and so on before you get to 200?"
*Stunned silence from the back seat.*
He took a few moments to process that revolutionary information and then began to count again, starting for some reason at 220 and proceeding through about 370 before we made it to the park. And he did pretty well with this newfound world of counting beyond 100. There were occasional times when he'd have trouble when a ten turned over, i.e. saying something like 229, 203. I assume he was trying to mentally picture these numbers that seemed ridiculously cumbersome and easily mistook "30" for "03."
Still, that overcomeable error is small potatoes to skipping entire swaths of numbers by virtue of simply not understanding they exist. I must pay better attention from now on.
We were driving from home to my future stepson's baseball practice last night when my son announced that he was going to count to "ten hundred."
"Ten hundred," I told him, wasn't a number. What he was thinking of was one thousand.
He brushed off that information as trivial to the task he was about to undertake and began counting aloud.
"1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 ... 45 - 46 - 47 - 48 ... 71 - 72 - 73 ... 98 - 99 - 100."
He was flawless right up until that point, but then here's where things went horribly wrong.
"100 - 200 - 300 - 400 - 500"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a sec. Do you realize that you're actually counting by hundreds there? Did you know it's actually 101 - 102 - 103 and so on before you get to 200?"
*Stunned silence from the back seat.*
He took a few moments to process that revolutionary information and then began to count again, starting for some reason at 220 and proceeding through about 370 before we made it to the park. And he did pretty well with this newfound world of counting beyond 100. There were occasional times when he'd have trouble when a ten turned over, i.e. saying something like 229, 203. I assume he was trying to mentally picture these numbers that seemed ridiculously cumbersome and easily mistook "30" for "03."
Still, that overcomeable error is small potatoes to skipping entire swaths of numbers by virtue of simply not understanding they exist. I must pay better attention from now on.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The latest thing and the not-so-single mom
The other day my son suddenly insisted that he needed to have a keychain. Specifically, he needed to hang a keychain on the bookbag he carries to school.
"Well," I suggested, "keychains can be a cool thing to collect when you travel. Maybe we should start getting a keychain at the places we visit."
No, he insisted, that wasn't soon enough. He needed a keychain and he needed it now.
Still unsure of why in the world this was a pressing need but willing to go along for the ride, I told him, "OK, I think we have some extras at home. I'm sure we can find you one."
Nuh-uh, nothing doing. We needed to get the $2 a family member had recently given him and head to his school's bookstore -- and pronto.
Actually, let me be clear (and fair). He asked about this for like three days in a row and was very patient with his pokey, difficult-to-wake mom when, for three days in a row, we didn't make it to school in time to catch the bookstore, which closes about 5 minutes before the "late bell," open.
But finally we made it one day last week, and he proudly presented his $2 (and 12 cents of mine for tax) for a squishy, rubber pig keychain. And then before we could even head into his class, we had to get that keychain out of its plastic baggie and onto the handle of his bookbag.
I was veritably rolling my eyes at the import my son was assigning to this bizarre little thing. But then I walked into his classroom, and the veil was lifted.
As soon as we cleared the doorway, one of his classmates came running up and said, "Hey, you got a keychain! Chip," he called to another boy across the room, "he got his first keychain!" This was clearly a moment of importance and delight, one that merited the excited attention of nearly everyone within those four walls who carried a "Y" chromosome.
My son's friend then proceeded to grab his bag to show my son that, among the huge wad of 30 or so keychains dangling from his bookbag strap, he also had the same pig one. I then started noticing that the bags of several students, seemingly just the boys, had collections of keychains, of various quantity, hanging from them. Apparently keychains are the new Silly Bandz (or at least the ones not disallowed by school rules).
Though I've always tried to be one who turned a cynical eye on fads, I couldn't help but feeling a twinge of guilt when I learned why my son had been asking for keychains. Of course he wanted to be cool with his buddies at school. Of course he wanted to have what the other kids have. I'm quite frankly impressed that his requests had been pretty low-key and mild, given the obvious importance his friends placed on the keychain as soon as we walked in.
With a little more distance from the moment, though, my thoughts on this little encounter have changed a bit. First, I'm glad that, despite what is surely some miniature version of peer pressure, my son seems completely content to have only the one keychain, rather than 20-pound collection of his classmate. That perhaps bodes well for the future when the pressure to have far more expensive accoutrements will surely creep into his life.
Second, I'm giving some thought to the importance of those accoutrements. Being acceptable to your peers is, I know, a huge part of school years. I remember not being able to afford the cool jeans my classmates were wearing in middle and high school and how ostracized I felt by that. On the other hand, not having everything, like expensive jeans, handed to me on a silver platter surely taught me some important life lessons.
I get that these are topics far too weighty to have much bearing on kindergarten, but they're out there and they're coming -- and sooner than I'll want, I know. Meanwhile, if you see any cool keychains, I've got a kid who'd probably love to hang them on his bookbag.
"Well," I suggested, "keychains can be a cool thing to collect when you travel. Maybe we should start getting a keychain at the places we visit."
No, he insisted, that wasn't soon enough. He needed a keychain and he needed it now.
Still unsure of why in the world this was a pressing need but willing to go along for the ride, I told him, "OK, I think we have some extras at home. I'm sure we can find you one."
Nuh-uh, nothing doing. We needed to get the $2 a family member had recently given him and head to his school's bookstore -- and pronto.
Actually, let me be clear (and fair). He asked about this for like three days in a row and was very patient with his pokey, difficult-to-wake mom when, for three days in a row, we didn't make it to school in time to catch the bookstore, which closes about 5 minutes before the "late bell," open.
But finally we made it one day last week, and he proudly presented his $2 (and 12 cents of mine for tax) for a squishy, rubber pig keychain. And then before we could even head into his class, we had to get that keychain out of its plastic baggie and onto the handle of his bookbag.
I was veritably rolling my eyes at the import my son was assigning to this bizarre little thing. But then I walked into his classroom, and the veil was lifted.
As soon as we cleared the doorway, one of his classmates came running up and said, "Hey, you got a keychain! Chip," he called to another boy across the room, "he got his first keychain!" This was clearly a moment of importance and delight, one that merited the excited attention of nearly everyone within those four walls who carried a "Y" chromosome.
My son's friend then proceeded to grab his bag to show my son that, among the huge wad of 30 or so keychains dangling from his bookbag strap, he also had the same pig one. I then started noticing that the bags of several students, seemingly just the boys, had collections of keychains, of various quantity, hanging from them. Apparently keychains are the new Silly Bandz (or at least the ones not disallowed by school rules).
Though I've always tried to be one who turned a cynical eye on fads, I couldn't help but feeling a twinge of guilt when I learned why my son had been asking for keychains. Of course he wanted to be cool with his buddies at school. Of course he wanted to have what the other kids have. I'm quite frankly impressed that his requests had been pretty low-key and mild, given the obvious importance his friends placed on the keychain as soon as we walked in.
With a little more distance from the moment, though, my thoughts on this little encounter have changed a bit. First, I'm glad that, despite what is surely some miniature version of peer pressure, my son seems completely content to have only the one keychain, rather than 20-pound collection of his classmate. That perhaps bodes well for the future when the pressure to have far more expensive accoutrements will surely creep into his life.
Second, I'm giving some thought to the importance of those accoutrements. Being acceptable to your peers is, I know, a huge part of school years. I remember not being able to afford the cool jeans my classmates were wearing in middle and high school and how ostracized I felt by that. On the other hand, not having everything, like expensive jeans, handed to me on a silver platter surely taught me some important life lessons.
I get that these are topics far too weighty to have much bearing on kindergarten, but they're out there and they're coming -- and sooner than I'll want, I know. Meanwhile, if you see any cool keychains, I've got a kid who'd probably love to hang them on his bookbag.
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