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.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Life on the mend and the not-so-single-mom
After we got through the trauma of the break and the surgery and the hospital stay, my son and I headed home for what will be our rather inconvenient, uncomfortable, out-of-sorts life for the next several weeks. The good news is that he broke his left arm and he's right-handed. The bad news is that really means only that he can write and eat reasonably well, leaving a whole world of tasks that are suddenly challenges.
Because of the location of his break and the pins in his elbow (lots of padding around them and then cast), my son's cast is really big. No, I mean freaking HUGE when compared to his body. (See photo, below, that I snapped the other day in the car.)
Given the obvious limitations, let me tell you about a few things that may not have immediately crossed your mind but that have proven to be conundrums, either large or small:
1. Little boy shirt sleeves aren't made to go around a cast this size. The options we've come across thus far have been tank tops (as he's wearing here), which thankfully have larger sleeve openings; too big t-shirts; and just giving up and ripping the seams out of existing shirts. So far I've managed to keep it to the first two options, although it did entail buying him a couple new oversized shirts because...
2. School uniforms falls into the category of clothes that don't fit. His uniforms shirts are all polos with sleeves that certainly won't stretch to accommodate this. He's allowed to wear school t-shirts on Fridays, but only Fridays, so I had to buy a couple extra t-shirts from the school bookstore and ask permission for him to wear them every day. It was happily granted, but still another hurdle.
3. Children who can't bend their elbows in any way can't reach their own pants button and zipper. Cue the search for every pair of elastic waist pants I could dig out of his drawers (and, again, permission to wear them to school in lieu of the standard khakis). Other things on the no-can-do list: tying shoes, putting toothpaste on toothbrush and playing with his Nintendo DS (which would otherwise have been an invaluable resource in staving off the inevitable boredom of his activity restrictions).
4. Nerve damage, which may take months or longer to heal, means my son has little sensation and almost no dexterity in his thumb or forefinger -- and, to a lesser extent, his middle finger. This means that even things he can reach, he can't grasp or manipulate very well. No more Ziploc baggies or Tupperware containers for lunch or snacks -- he can't open them. I bought one of those containers with divided compartments inside and a snap-on lid with handles that he can open with one hand.
5. He can't buckle his seat belt one-handed. I can't tell you how many times over the past week I have hopped in the car and prepared to throw it in reverse when my son has piped up from the back seat, "Mom, I'm not buckled." He's been buckling himself in for so long that I just forget that I'm back to seat belt duty for the time being.
6. Sleep is tortured and elusive. The longest stretch of sleep either of us has gotten since he broke his arm was a luxurious 4 1/2 hours last night. Though he's hurting very little anymore during the day, he wakes all night long complaining of pain. I don't know if lying down makes it worse for some reason or if his 5-year-old brain simply translates discomfort as pain (and surely trying to sleep with that thing on your arm is the very definition of discomfort) or what, but we are just NOT getting much sleep. And when he's had medication already, I can't give him more, leaving him crying and whimpering and me helpless and fraught. It's been a delight.
On the plus side, kids adapt so well and so quickly. He can get his pants up and down one-handed and can go the bathroom alone. He can eat and drink just fine as long as I make sure things are cut up for him. And he can operate a remote control. As much as I normally try to steer him away from the TV, I confess that policy has gone out the window for the duration of this injury. The boy needs something to keep from dying of boredom, and if that something's a few episodes of "Scooby Doo," it ain't the end of the world.
Because of the location of his break and the pins in his elbow (lots of padding around them and then cast), my son's cast is really big. No, I mean freaking HUGE when compared to his body. (See photo, below, that I snapped the other day in the car.)
Given the obvious limitations, let me tell you about a few things that may not have immediately crossed your mind but that have proven to be conundrums, either large or small:
1. Little boy shirt sleeves aren't made to go around a cast this size. The options we've come across thus far have been tank tops (as he's wearing here), which thankfully have larger sleeve openings; too big t-shirts; and just giving up and ripping the seams out of existing shirts. So far I've managed to keep it to the first two options, although it did entail buying him a couple new oversized shirts because...
2. School uniforms falls into the category of clothes that don't fit. His uniforms shirts are all polos with sleeves that certainly won't stretch to accommodate this. He's allowed to wear school t-shirts on Fridays, but only Fridays, so I had to buy a couple extra t-shirts from the school bookstore and ask permission for him to wear them every day. It was happily granted, but still another hurdle.
3. Children who can't bend their elbows in any way can't reach their own pants button and zipper. Cue the search for every pair of elastic waist pants I could dig out of his drawers (and, again, permission to wear them to school in lieu of the standard khakis). Other things on the no-can-do list: tying shoes, putting toothpaste on toothbrush and playing with his Nintendo DS (which would otherwise have been an invaluable resource in staving off the inevitable boredom of his activity restrictions).
4. Nerve damage, which may take months or longer to heal, means my son has little sensation and almost no dexterity in his thumb or forefinger -- and, to a lesser extent, his middle finger. This means that even things he can reach, he can't grasp or manipulate very well. No more Ziploc baggies or Tupperware containers for lunch or snacks -- he can't open them. I bought one of those containers with divided compartments inside and a snap-on lid with handles that he can open with one hand.
5. He can't buckle his seat belt one-handed. I can't tell you how many times over the past week I have hopped in the car and prepared to throw it in reverse when my son has piped up from the back seat, "Mom, I'm not buckled." He's been buckling himself in for so long that I just forget that I'm back to seat belt duty for the time being.
6. Sleep is tortured and elusive. The longest stretch of sleep either of us has gotten since he broke his arm was a luxurious 4 1/2 hours last night. Though he's hurting very little anymore during the day, he wakes all night long complaining of pain. I don't know if lying down makes it worse for some reason or if his 5-year-old brain simply translates discomfort as pain (and surely trying to sleep with that thing on your arm is the very definition of discomfort) or what, but we are just NOT getting much sleep. And when he's had medication already, I can't give him more, leaving him crying and whimpering and me helpless and fraught. It's been a delight.
On the plus side, kids adapt so well and so quickly. He can get his pants up and down one-handed and can go the bathroom alone. He can eat and drink just fine as long as I make sure things are cut up for him. And he can operate a remote control. As much as I normally try to steer him away from the TV, I confess that policy has gone out the window for the duration of this injury. The boy needs something to keep from dying of boredom, and if that something's a few episodes of "Scooby Doo," it ain't the end of the world.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The long absence, the long night and the not-so-single mom
Yes, I know I've been absent from this blog for ages. I apologize. But I hope any readers will forgive me when they find out why I've been absent from my blog. So here goes. I'll try to keep it shorter to read than it felt to live...
I was minding my own business last Wednesday, standing in line at the post office to buy stamps for my wedding invitations, when my cell phone rang. It was my son's school.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Amy, it's Denise (school principal)," she said, in an impossibly calm and soothing voice. "Everything's fine, but we think your son might have a broken arm."
Cue me taking a solid three seconds to compute what she was saying and formulate words. But I managed to get it together and head for the car.
When I got there, in an admittedly disheveled and somewhat frantic state, I found him with an obviously deformed arm, whimpering in pain. He had fallen off the "big slide" on the school's playground, it seems -- a fall, I was later told, of around seven feet.
A few moments after I arrived, the school's emergency responder (a teacher who was, incidentally, a former EMT) came in to scope out the scene and recommended taking him to the hospital by ambulance so that he could be seen much faster than if we drove over by ourselves.
I admit that, as much as I hated to see my son hurting, my immediate response was that that seemed overkill. My brothers had had several broken bones in their youths, and the only time an ambulance was required was the time my brother broke it so badly that he passed out from the pain whenever he was moved in any way. But I took his advice and let him make the call for the ambulance.
I'll go ahead and say it now -- he was totally right.
When we got there, they had a room waiting for him and a pediatrician in there within seconds to order an IV and a dose of morphine for my poor little guy. The x-ray was there within 30 minutes, and the orthopedist right behind. The haste, it turns out, was warranted because my son's upper arm bone was broken and displaced in such a way that the bone was pressing down on important nerves and blood vessels in his arm. The pulse in his wrist was present but weak, and he was losing feeling in some of his fingers. He needed surgery pronto to keep things from getting really bad.
He fell around 4:00 in the afternoon. We were in the ER a little before 5:30, and my son was wheeled into surgery by 8:00. They put his bone back together and inserted three pins to keep it that way and then wrapped him up in the camouflage cast he had managed to ask for even while totally doped up on morphine.
I was, as you can probably imagine, stressed and rather tearful, though I worked hard to hide that from him. But it got me wondering, how in the world do parents deal with real crises? This was a broken arm, for heaven's sake. Granted, it was a badly broken arm, a serious injury that's going to take some serious care for a while, but it wasn't life threatening or anything.
I've got a childhood friend whose son has leukemia. They're dealing with constant crises, every day, for years. I don't know how they keep it together except that, well, that's just what you do when you're a parent.
But back at Greenville Memorial in the midst of our minor calamity, my son spent the night in the hospital and was sent home Thursday afternoon. Life since then has posed new and ever-changing challenges (more on that later), but I remain glad that, in the end, he's just fine.
So with this tale, am I forgiven for having been absent? I think I can get a doctor's excuse if I need one.
I was minding my own business last Wednesday, standing in line at the post office to buy stamps for my wedding invitations, when my cell phone rang. It was my son's school.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Amy, it's Denise (school principal)," she said, in an impossibly calm and soothing voice. "Everything's fine, but we think your son might have a broken arm."
Cue me taking a solid three seconds to compute what she was saying and formulate words. But I managed to get it together and head for the car.
When I got there, in an admittedly disheveled and somewhat frantic state, I found him with an obviously deformed arm, whimpering in pain. He had fallen off the "big slide" on the school's playground, it seems -- a fall, I was later told, of around seven feet.
A few moments after I arrived, the school's emergency responder (a teacher who was, incidentally, a former EMT) came in to scope out the scene and recommended taking him to the hospital by ambulance so that he could be seen much faster than if we drove over by ourselves.
I admit that, as much as I hated to see my son hurting, my immediate response was that that seemed overkill. My brothers had had several broken bones in their youths, and the only time an ambulance was required was the time my brother broke it so badly that he passed out from the pain whenever he was moved in any way. But I took his advice and let him make the call for the ambulance.
I'll go ahead and say it now -- he was totally right.
When we got there, they had a room waiting for him and a pediatrician in there within seconds to order an IV and a dose of morphine for my poor little guy. The x-ray was there within 30 minutes, and the orthopedist right behind. The haste, it turns out, was warranted because my son's upper arm bone was broken and displaced in such a way that the bone was pressing down on important nerves and blood vessels in his arm. The pulse in his wrist was present but weak, and he was losing feeling in some of his fingers. He needed surgery pronto to keep things from getting really bad.
He fell around 4:00 in the afternoon. We were in the ER a little before 5:30, and my son was wheeled into surgery by 8:00. They put his bone back together and inserted three pins to keep it that way and then wrapped him up in the camouflage cast he had managed to ask for even while totally doped up on morphine.
I was, as you can probably imagine, stressed and rather tearful, though I worked hard to hide that from him. But it got me wondering, how in the world do parents deal with real crises? This was a broken arm, for heaven's sake. Granted, it was a badly broken arm, a serious injury that's going to take some serious care for a while, but it wasn't life threatening or anything.
I've got a childhood friend whose son has leukemia. They're dealing with constant crises, every day, for years. I don't know how they keep it together except that, well, that's just what you do when you're a parent.
But back at Greenville Memorial in the midst of our minor calamity, my son spent the night in the hospital and was sent home Thursday afternoon. Life since then has posed new and ever-changing challenges (more on that later), but I remain glad that, in the end, he's just fine.
So with this tale, am I forgiven for having been absent? I think I can get a doctor's excuse if I need one.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Another Disney question
A few entries ago, I blogged about my son asking some difficult questions related to "The Lion King." It seems now that is not the only Disney movie that's going to elicit questions from my 5 year old's ever-growing and endlessly inquisitive mind. The more he grasps, the less he's watching simply for the pretty configuration of lights and sound emanating from the TV.
Which leads us to this latest practically unanswerable question. He was watching "Aladdin" the other day, and the scene where the genie, in bee form, imitates a plane crashing when Aladdin is talking to Princess Jasmine -- bumbling through his words as he tries, and fails, to woo her.
"Why does the bee have flames coming out of his bottom?" my son asked.
I actually just started typing a recreation of my attempt at a response but then realized that I could be no more coherent on the virtual page here than I was in real life. How does one explain the concept of "crashing and burning" to a 5 year old?
All my efforts were pitiful crash and burns themselves.
"Why is he trying to fly a plane with her?" my son asked quizzically after my first shot at an explanation.
I tried to clear things up and then got, "Oh, so, the magic carpet is going to crash?"
Clearly I'm not getting through.
Plan B: the elimination of all metaphors from our lives. That should go well.
Which leads us to this latest practically unanswerable question. He was watching "Aladdin" the other day, and the scene where the genie, in bee form, imitates a plane crashing when Aladdin is talking to Princess Jasmine -- bumbling through his words as he tries, and fails, to woo her.
"Why does the bee have flames coming out of his bottom?" my son asked.
I actually just started typing a recreation of my attempt at a response but then realized that I could be no more coherent on the virtual page here than I was in real life. How does one explain the concept of "crashing and burning" to a 5 year old?
All my efforts were pitiful crash and burns themselves.
"Why is he trying to fly a plane with her?" my son asked quizzically after my first shot at an explanation.
I tried to clear things up and then got, "Oh, so, the magic carpet is going to crash?"
Clearly I'm not getting through.
Plan B: the elimination of all metaphors from our lives. That should go well.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
The winds of change and the not-so-single mom
I don't know if it's a phase or a mood or just something to do with the weather, but my son has been extraordinarily clingy lately, especially at bedtime. He wants me to lay down and cuddle with him whenever I tuck him in bed (a lovely little time during which I admit I have fallen asleep while scrunched onto one side of his little twin bed with the lights still glaring and me still in my work clothes) or he wants to come sleep with me.
I've always allowed him to sleep with me occasionally, usually on a weekend night or if he's sick or something. Almost never on a weeknight since it's considered a "treat" and, let's be real, I don't sleep as well with him next to me. (Between his wriggling and somehow managing to hog the entire bed with his little 4-foot frame, it's not generally a good night's rest. I can make up for that on the weekend, but it leaves me dragging on a work day.)
But I confess, weekday be damned, I have indulged his requests of late. I could blame some streak of parenting nostalgia or a mushy mood of my own, but in reality it's a creeping awareness of the changes that are coming in my life. It won't be that much longer before that spare side of my bed will be taken up with a big ole' snoring man (and talk about hogging all the bed!). There won't be room for my little guy to cuddle up with me for the night, so I'm taking all the chances I can get right now.
That got me thinking, though, about some of the things I will and will definitely not miss about being a single parent. (For the record, I've been alone with my son since his infancy, so I've really not been anything but a single parent for most of his life, making this whole being married and being a mom thing a bizarrely new experience for me).
THINGS I'LL MISS:
-Naptime (Yes, I can sneak them in on weekends right now when my son is watching a movie or something. I can't imagine being able to do that with three kids in the house.)
-Easy dinners (I can throw together grilled cheese or French toast or spaghetti for two in a jiffy. Takes a bit more planning to feed five, including three growing and perpetually hungry boys.)
-Autocracy (I won't be able to reign unchecked in my house with another parent there. Boo for compromise!)
-Quiet time (Did I mention the three boys?)
-Clean bathrooms (See note above.)
On a happier note (and so Mike won't think I'm dreading marrying him), here are the THINGS I DEFINITELY WON'T MISS:
-Mowing the lawn (yep, that just became his job)
-Candy Land (Hey, there are two other age-appropriate players joining the household. Let them have at it.)
-Trying to squeeze every errand and chore I've got into the two hours between school and bed. (How nice it'll be to be able to have a spare pair of hands to start dinner while I help with homework or something.)
-Quiet time (Yes, I know that's on both lists, but as much as I sometimes enjoy quiet time, I've also known it to be "lonely time," and I'm looking forward to having a house full of voices like the one I grew up in.)
There are not comprehensive lists, and I'm certain I'll encounter surprises along the way -- things I never dreamed I'd miss or be glad to have banished from my life. All of it feels very much like an adventure. Sometimes it feels like the kind of adventure Aron Ralston might have, but an adventure all the same.
I've always allowed him to sleep with me occasionally, usually on a weekend night or if he's sick or something. Almost never on a weeknight since it's considered a "treat" and, let's be real, I don't sleep as well with him next to me. (Between his wriggling and somehow managing to hog the entire bed with his little 4-foot frame, it's not generally a good night's rest. I can make up for that on the weekend, but it leaves me dragging on a work day.)
But I confess, weekday be damned, I have indulged his requests of late. I could blame some streak of parenting nostalgia or a mushy mood of my own, but in reality it's a creeping awareness of the changes that are coming in my life. It won't be that much longer before that spare side of my bed will be taken up with a big ole' snoring man (and talk about hogging all the bed!). There won't be room for my little guy to cuddle up with me for the night, so I'm taking all the chances I can get right now.
That got me thinking, though, about some of the things I will and will definitely not miss about being a single parent. (For the record, I've been alone with my son since his infancy, so I've really not been anything but a single parent for most of his life, making this whole being married and being a mom thing a bizarrely new experience for me).
THINGS I'LL MISS:
-Naptime (Yes, I can sneak them in on weekends right now when my son is watching a movie or something. I can't imagine being able to do that with three kids in the house.)
-Easy dinners (I can throw together grilled cheese or French toast or spaghetti for two in a jiffy. Takes a bit more planning to feed five, including three growing and perpetually hungry boys.)
-Autocracy (I won't be able to reign unchecked in my house with another parent there. Boo for compromise!)
-Quiet time (Did I mention the three boys?)
-Clean bathrooms (See note above.)
On a happier note (and so Mike won't think I'm dreading marrying him), here are the THINGS I DEFINITELY WON'T MISS:
-Mowing the lawn (yep, that just became his job)
-Candy Land (Hey, there are two other age-appropriate players joining the household. Let them have at it.)
-Trying to squeeze every errand and chore I've got into the two hours between school and bed. (How nice it'll be to be able to have a spare pair of hands to start dinner while I help with homework or something.)
-Quiet time (Yes, I know that's on both lists, but as much as I sometimes enjoy quiet time, I've also known it to be "lonely time," and I'm looking forward to having a house full of voices like the one I grew up in.)
There are not comprehensive lists, and I'm certain I'll encounter surprises along the way -- things I never dreamed I'd miss or be glad to have banished from my life. All of it feels very much like an adventure. Sometimes it feels like the kind of adventure Aron Ralston might have, but an adventure all the same.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Existential questions and the not-so-single mom
I had a full day of long-procrastinated housework planned for yesterday, so I left my son pretty much to his own entertainment devices for most of the day. At some point, between scrubbing the bathtub, loading the washer and dryer, and vacuuming the carpet, I could hear the faint sounds of the TV wafting upstairs.
He was watching "Lion King," a perennial favorite in our house but one that hasn't seen much airtime of late since a recently dropped prohibition in our house has allowed him to explore the fascinating and far edgier world of "Shrek."
The return of "Lion King," however, prompted a few existential questions that something like "Shrek," as crass and tasteless as I find it to be for a 5 year old, would never incite.
On the way to school this morning, he started asking why Scar was a bad guy even though he was "the little one's" uncle. And how did pushing him off the wall kill the little one's dad? ("Did those animals that were running stab him with their horns?" he asked.)
By the way, did I mention you'll need a working knowledge of this movie to understand this blog? For the uninitiated -- Scar, Simba's uncle, killed Simba's father, Moufassa, by throwing him off a rock wall into a herd of stampeding wildebeest.
Most of his preliminary questions I could answer with either straightforward factual info -- although trying to explain death by trampling to a 5 year old was a fun one -- or a "well, he's just a bad guy" deflection. The next question, though, was not so easy.
"If Simba's dad died, how could he come back and talk to him that time when he said, 'You have forgotten yourself and me'?"
(Again, for the unfamiliar, Moufassa's spirit speaks to Simba years after his death.)
I hadn't really thought about how heady that scene really was until I saw it through the eyes of my son who was really quite perplexed by how a dead person could come back and talk to you. Having seen that movie for the first time as a near-adult, I really hadn't given the scene much thought. Maybe it really was a visit by a spirit. Maybe it was Simba's projecting his own memories of his father at a time of crisis. Maybe it was something else altogether. Suffice it to say, I hadn't exactly parsed it all out and made it jibe with my own personal belief system or anything.
So, here I was, two minutes away from pulling into school, struggling to figure out how to explain the concept of a spirit or soul and how it could "visit" (or even more confusing, psychological trauma and projection -- no, I did not even think about going there). Despite my valiant efforts, I'm pretty sure I screwed up the attempt at explaining anything, and my son now either will be terrorized by nightmares about ghosts or will be sitting around staring at the stars hoping for a message from our late cat.
Maybe "Shrek" isn't such a bad idea after all.
He was watching "Lion King," a perennial favorite in our house but one that hasn't seen much airtime of late since a recently dropped prohibition in our house has allowed him to explore the fascinating and far edgier world of "Shrek."
The return of "Lion King," however, prompted a few existential questions that something like "Shrek," as crass and tasteless as I find it to be for a 5 year old, would never incite.
On the way to school this morning, he started asking why Scar was a bad guy even though he was "the little one's" uncle. And how did pushing him off the wall kill the little one's dad? ("Did those animals that were running stab him with their horns?" he asked.)
By the way, did I mention you'll need a working knowledge of this movie to understand this blog? For the uninitiated -- Scar, Simba's uncle, killed Simba's father, Moufassa, by throwing him off a rock wall into a herd of stampeding wildebeest.
Most of his preliminary questions I could answer with either straightforward factual info -- although trying to explain death by trampling to a 5 year old was a fun one -- or a "well, he's just a bad guy" deflection. The next question, though, was not so easy.
"If Simba's dad died, how could he come back and talk to him that time when he said, 'You have forgotten yourself and me'?"
(Again, for the unfamiliar, Moufassa's spirit speaks to Simba years after his death.)
I hadn't really thought about how heady that scene really was until I saw it through the eyes of my son who was really quite perplexed by how a dead person could come back and talk to you. Having seen that movie for the first time as a near-adult, I really hadn't given the scene much thought. Maybe it really was a visit by a spirit. Maybe it was Simba's projecting his own memories of his father at a time of crisis. Maybe it was something else altogether. Suffice it to say, I hadn't exactly parsed it all out and made it jibe with my own personal belief system or anything.
So, here I was, two minutes away from pulling into school, struggling to figure out how to explain the concept of a spirit or soul and how it could "visit" (or even more confusing, psychological trauma and projection -- no, I did not even think about going there). Despite my valiant efforts, I'm pretty sure I screwed up the attempt at explaining anything, and my son now either will be terrorized by nightmares about ghosts or will be sitting around staring at the stars hoping for a message from our late cat.
Maybe "Shrek" isn't such a bad idea after all.
Monday, March 14, 2011
A not-so-single mom's word to the wise
Here's a little nugget of insight that should probably be intuitive but that maybe you never thought of before (I didn't): Planning a wedding when you have children is markedly different from when you don't.
Take, for example, our search for a wedding venue. Since my fiance and I both have full-time jobs during the day and are both full-time single parents the rest of the time, any spare moment we have for wedding planning, we generally also have our children.
One recent Sunday afternoon, we decided to check out a little chapel in Greenville as a possible wedding site. It's located at one of the city's older churches, which also features an extensive (and also quite old) graveyard.
As soon as we walked through the gates, the younger boys thought we had brought them to the world's most awesome playground. Early on, I lost count at how many times my fiance or I said the sentence, "Don't walk on the graves" (or some variation thereof like, "Don't climb on the tombstones" or "Don't push each other onto the graves").
After a suitable amount of energy-burning time, we decided to mosey from graveyard to chapel, our actual reason for coming here in the first place. There was once a time when I could just go somewhere without having to build in some mandatory play time. Ah, the good ole' days.
Being well aware of the boys' propensity for noise-, chaos- and general trouble-making, we spoke to them before heading into the chapel about being calm, quiet and respectful. And while not on perfect behavior, they honestly did very well.
So well, in fact, that I got a little cocky and ahead of myself and, without really considering how long little boys could hold out on that good behavior thing, invited everyone inside the "big church" (vs. the little chapel) to look around its beautiful sanctuary.
Let me fill you in on something -- little boy shoes' slapping against a marble floor really echoes around a big, empty church, especially when they're racing to see which one is going to be the rotten egg for getting to the altar last. So much for calm, quiet and respectful.
You try getting a couple of kindergartners to NOT want to play with shiny altar rails, velvety kneeling benches, giant organ keyboards and the very tempting door that leads to the bell tower.
When the giggling and playing reached an unstoppable crest, we finally ushered them back outside where they proceeded to climb every single very old tree they could get their little shoes on. I figure that's the most appropriately respectful thing they did all day. Old trees surely love to be climbed by little boys.
Take, for example, our search for a wedding venue. Since my fiance and I both have full-time jobs during the day and are both full-time single parents the rest of the time, any spare moment we have for wedding planning, we generally also have our children.
One recent Sunday afternoon, we decided to check out a little chapel in Greenville as a possible wedding site. It's located at one of the city's older churches, which also features an extensive (and also quite old) graveyard.
As soon as we walked through the gates, the younger boys thought we had brought them to the world's most awesome playground. Early on, I lost count at how many times my fiance or I said the sentence, "Don't walk on the graves" (or some variation thereof like, "Don't climb on the tombstones" or "Don't push each other onto the graves").
After a suitable amount of energy-burning time, we decided to mosey from graveyard to chapel, our actual reason for coming here in the first place. There was once a time when I could just go somewhere without having to build in some mandatory play time. Ah, the good ole' days.
Being well aware of the boys' propensity for noise-, chaos- and general trouble-making, we spoke to them before heading into the chapel about being calm, quiet and respectful. And while not on perfect behavior, they honestly did very well.
So well, in fact, that I got a little cocky and ahead of myself and, without really considering how long little boys could hold out on that good behavior thing, invited everyone inside the "big church" (vs. the little chapel) to look around its beautiful sanctuary.
Let me fill you in on something -- little boy shoes' slapping against a marble floor really echoes around a big, empty church, especially when they're racing to see which one is going to be the rotten egg for getting to the altar last. So much for calm, quiet and respectful.
You try getting a couple of kindergartners to NOT want to play with shiny altar rails, velvety kneeling benches, giant organ keyboards and the very tempting door that leads to the bell tower.
When the giggling and playing reached an unstoppable crest, we finally ushered them back outside where they proceeded to climb every single very old tree they could get their little shoes on. I figure that's the most appropriately respectful thing they did all day. Old trees surely love to be climbed by little boys.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
A "weekend trip" and the not-so-single mom
As usual, my son and I were chatting in the car yesterday on the ride home from school when he started asking about what the strongest thing on earth was.
While I won't try to recount to you the bizarre twists and turns this meandering conversation took (it would take a 5 year old of your own or a chemically altered state of consciousness to understand it), I will say that it somehow came to involve talk of wrecking balls and cranes, sharks (and whether they bite your skin off), elephants, fire, ants, and cheetahs.
"Strongest," it turns out, can mean myriad things (able to lift vs. capable of destruction, tough vs. mean, etc.), and it took a while for my son to decide what he meant by "strongest" -- and even then it was regularly subject to change. As one point in the conversation, though, he had settled on "strongest" essentially meaning "fastest," thus the cheetah.
In talking about the cheetah -- yes, we had a several-minute conversation about cheetahs -- we ended up at some point talking about a cheetah's prey.
He asked what an antelope was, to which I offered as much of a description as I could muster. He asked if he could see a picture of one, and I told him I'd find one for him.
"You have a picture of an antelope?" he asked eagerly.
Much to his chagrin, I told him, no, I'd find one for him on the Internet.
"Let's find a real antelope and take a picture," he suggested.
"Well, baby, we can't really do that. They live far away, on another continent called Africa," I replied.
"We can go on the weekend," he helpfully suggested.
"No, we can't," I replied. "It takes a really long time to get to Africa. We'd have to go on a plane and everything."
"Well, I can miss a day of school," he said.
"No, sweetie, you can't miss school to go to Africa to take a picture of an antelope."
"Oh, wait, I know. Spring break is next week. We can go then," he said excitedly, thrilled to have found the obvious solution to this conundrum on how to get the perfect antelope photo.
Between barely suppressed chuckles at his overt enthusiasm, I tried to explain that going to Africa was a big deal that would take a lot of time and a lot of money and it wasn't something we were going to do any time soon. It did little to ease his disappointment.
"But I want to see an antelope," he whined.
Though I'm not one to advocate more TV watching (heck, I don't even have cable at home), I think this boy could seriously benefit from some Animal Planet. Springing for cable's definitely going to save me in the long run over two round-trip tickets to Kenya.
While I won't try to recount to you the bizarre twists and turns this meandering conversation took (it would take a 5 year old of your own or a chemically altered state of consciousness to understand it), I will say that it somehow came to involve talk of wrecking balls and cranes, sharks (and whether they bite your skin off), elephants, fire, ants, and cheetahs.
"Strongest," it turns out, can mean myriad things (able to lift vs. capable of destruction, tough vs. mean, etc.), and it took a while for my son to decide what he meant by "strongest" -- and even then it was regularly subject to change. As one point in the conversation, though, he had settled on "strongest" essentially meaning "fastest," thus the cheetah.
In talking about the cheetah -- yes, we had a several-minute conversation about cheetahs -- we ended up at some point talking about a cheetah's prey.
He asked what an antelope was, to which I offered as much of a description as I could muster. He asked if he could see a picture of one, and I told him I'd find one for him.
"You have a picture of an antelope?" he asked eagerly.
Much to his chagrin, I told him, no, I'd find one for him on the Internet.
"Let's find a real antelope and take a picture," he suggested.
"Well, baby, we can't really do that. They live far away, on another continent called Africa," I replied.
"We can go on the weekend," he helpfully suggested.
"No, we can't," I replied. "It takes a really long time to get to Africa. We'd have to go on a plane and everything."
"Well, I can miss a day of school," he said.
"No, sweetie, you can't miss school to go to Africa to take a picture of an antelope."
"Oh, wait, I know. Spring break is next week. We can go then," he said excitedly, thrilled to have found the obvious solution to this conundrum on how to get the perfect antelope photo.
Between barely suppressed chuckles at his overt enthusiasm, I tried to explain that going to Africa was a big deal that would take a lot of time and a lot of money and it wasn't something we were going to do any time soon. It did little to ease his disappointment.
"But I want to see an antelope," he whined.
Though I'm not one to advocate more TV watching (heck, I don't even have cable at home), I think this boy could seriously benefit from some Animal Planet. Springing for cable's definitely going to save me in the long run over two round-trip tickets to Kenya.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The single mom single no more
I got engaged yesterday! Yep, you read that right. I'm engaged.
(My fiance -- wow, that word still sounds a little funny to use -- was sick as a dog for the rest of the afternoon after popping the question, but I'm trying not to take that as a sign of how he feels about our forthcoming nuptials. "He proposed and then started throwing up." That'll be a story to tell forever.)
Mike has been largely absent from this blog, though some keen-eyed readers might have seen him through the thin veil a "close friend" I've mentioned more than once. But he's been in my life for about 2 1/2 years. And he's got two sons of his own, so I'm going from single mom of one to nuclear family of five. Yowsa!
The first order of business -- after we tore ourselves away from just looking at each other, sighing contentedly and smiling incessantly (sickening, I know) -- was not setting a date or picking a spot or even telling our parents. As parents ourselves, our first chore was, of course, telling our kids.
Mike has been floating the idea with his older son (10) for a while now, and he has seemed fine with the idea. In fact, we were eating in a restaurant together not too long ago when his son said, "If y'all get married, whoever does the cooking needs to learn to make macaroni and cheese." Clearly, the getting married part was a blip on his radar and he was looking ahead to his need for someone to be making him some cheesy goodness for supper.
We gathered the kids and got their undivided attention, not an easy task in and of itself since there was a playground nearby at that moment, and told them we had decided to get married and that that meant we'd all live together and be a family.
"I've always wanted a little brother," Mike's younger son cheerfully announced. He's four months older than my son, technically making him a big brother, much to the chagrin of my son.
At the announcement that they would indeed all be brothers, an impromptu wrestling match immediately ensued that was mainly an exuberant expression of excitement and fraternal love... and maybe a little bit of a competition over that whole "big brother/little brother" thing. It was such a spontaneous and real and quite fun and touching reaction on their part. Mike said it's the part of the day he'll remember forever.
Once the fray broke up, though, we asked if they had any questions. Mike's older son, who currently shares a bedroom with his little brother and is growing more eager to have his own space with each passing day, asked immediately if, when we all move in together, the little boys could share a room and he could have a room to himself. Again, I take this as a positive sign that he's not traumatized by the mere thought of our getting married and is instead looking for the best ways to benefit from it.
So as we move toward actually planning our wedding and, more importantly, our life together, this blog is likely to be filled with all sorts of stories about getting my own child and his ready for our blended family-to-be. Wish me luck!
(My fiance -- wow, that word still sounds a little funny to use -- was sick as a dog for the rest of the afternoon after popping the question, but I'm trying not to take that as a sign of how he feels about our forthcoming nuptials. "He proposed and then started throwing up." That'll be a story to tell forever.)
Mike has been largely absent from this blog, though some keen-eyed readers might have seen him through the thin veil a "close friend" I've mentioned more than once. But he's been in my life for about 2 1/2 years. And he's got two sons of his own, so I'm going from single mom of one to nuclear family of five. Yowsa!
The first order of business -- after we tore ourselves away from just looking at each other, sighing contentedly and smiling incessantly (sickening, I know) -- was not setting a date or picking a spot or even telling our parents. As parents ourselves, our first chore was, of course, telling our kids.
Mike has been floating the idea with his older son (10) for a while now, and he has seemed fine with the idea. In fact, we were eating in a restaurant together not too long ago when his son said, "If y'all get married, whoever does the cooking needs to learn to make macaroni and cheese." Clearly, the getting married part was a blip on his radar and he was looking ahead to his need for someone to be making him some cheesy goodness for supper.
We gathered the kids and got their undivided attention, not an easy task in and of itself since there was a playground nearby at that moment, and told them we had decided to get married and that that meant we'd all live together and be a family.
"I've always wanted a little brother," Mike's younger son cheerfully announced. He's four months older than my son, technically making him a big brother, much to the chagrin of my son.
At the announcement that they would indeed all be brothers, an impromptu wrestling match immediately ensued that was mainly an exuberant expression of excitement and fraternal love... and maybe a little bit of a competition over that whole "big brother/little brother" thing. It was such a spontaneous and real and quite fun and touching reaction on their part. Mike said it's the part of the day he'll remember forever.
Once the fray broke up, though, we asked if they had any questions. Mike's older son, who currently shares a bedroom with his little brother and is growing more eager to have his own space with each passing day, asked immediately if, when we all move in together, the little boys could share a room and he could have a room to himself. Again, I take this as a positive sign that he's not traumatized by the mere thought of our getting married and is instead looking for the best ways to benefit from it.
So as we move toward actually planning our wedding and, more importantly, our life together, this blog is likely to be filled with all sorts of stories about getting my own child and his ready for our blended family-to-be. Wish me luck!
Friday, February 11, 2011
Gender bias and the single mom
My mom picked up my son from school yesterday and kept him for the evening while I worked a few late hours. I got home just as he was getting ready for bed, and when I walked in the door, he didn't even get out a "Hi, Mom" before he was chomping at the bit to show me the new sign hanging outside his bedroom door.
"No girls allowed, huh? What about Mommy?"
"Nope," he replied defiantly.
"What about your cousin?" my mom asked, knowing that he loved the chance to play with the girl who's only four months older than he.
"Nope, not even her," he insisted.
I have no idea where the seed of this idea came from, but my mom said he was eager all through their dinner out to make that sign and hang it outside his room. When they got to my house, she was urging him upstairs to start getting ready for bed, but he was fixated on getting that sign made.
"Make me a sign that says 'no girls allowed' while I get my pajamas on," he hollered down the stairs to her on his way to his room.
My dad kindly complied with that request (no, my 5 year old does not write as well as that sign), and they hung it up, much to my son's great delight.
He did allow one small exception to his strict "no girls" policy: I could come in to read him a story and tuck him in. Other than that, though, he didn't want to see so much as my pinky toe over the threshold of his door.
Rather than drop his prohibition and let me in, he even went so far as to empty his laundry hamper and drag all the clothes, a handful or two at a time, into the hall so I could do laundry last night.
This morning, as we were getting ready to leave the house, he was feeding the cat, one of his regular chores and made this somewhat disjointed comment: "If we're gone and a girl comes over to feed Henry (that's the cat), and she wants to look around my room, she'll go upstairs and see the sign and won't be able to go in, right Mommy?"
Let's ignore for a moment the questions of why a random girl would be coming to feed our cat in our absence and why she would then feel the need to explore his room. We'll focus instead on his joy at how that random intruder might be thwarted from snooping through his room by the sheer might of his sign.
While I have always known, of course, that the time would come that my sweet boy would begin to morph into a real, well, boy, I was kinda hoping to last a little longer before girls started being icky. Of course, girls being icky is probably way better than the years to come when girls will be so very not icky, so I'll take it for now and be grateful that I can still sneak in at night while he's sleeping, tuck the covers around him, stroke his soft cheek and kiss him goodnight.
"No girls allowed, huh? What about Mommy?"
"Nope," he replied defiantly.
"What about your cousin?" my mom asked, knowing that he loved the chance to play with the girl who's only four months older than he.
"Nope, not even her," he insisted.
I have no idea where the seed of this idea came from, but my mom said he was eager all through their dinner out to make that sign and hang it outside his room. When they got to my house, she was urging him upstairs to start getting ready for bed, but he was fixated on getting that sign made.
"Make me a sign that says 'no girls allowed' while I get my pajamas on," he hollered down the stairs to her on his way to his room.
My dad kindly complied with that request (no, my 5 year old does not write as well as that sign), and they hung it up, much to my son's great delight.
He did allow one small exception to his strict "no girls" policy: I could come in to read him a story and tuck him in. Other than that, though, he didn't want to see so much as my pinky toe over the threshold of his door.
Rather than drop his prohibition and let me in, he even went so far as to empty his laundry hamper and drag all the clothes, a handful or two at a time, into the hall so I could do laundry last night.
This morning, as we were getting ready to leave the house, he was feeding the cat, one of his regular chores and made this somewhat disjointed comment: "If we're gone and a girl comes over to feed Henry (that's the cat), and she wants to look around my room, she'll go upstairs and see the sign and won't be able to go in, right Mommy?"
Let's ignore for a moment the questions of why a random girl would be coming to feed our cat in our absence and why she would then feel the need to explore his room. We'll focus instead on his joy at how that random intruder might be thwarted from snooping through his room by the sheer might of his sign.
While I have always known, of course, that the time would come that my sweet boy would begin to morph into a real, well, boy, I was kinda hoping to last a little longer before girls started being icky. Of course, girls being icky is probably way better than the years to come when girls will be so very not icky, so I'll take it for now and be grateful that I can still sneak in at night while he's sleeping, tuck the covers around him, stroke his soft cheek and kiss him goodnight.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The most infuriating conversation in the world and the single mom
As indicated by the title, I had the single most infuriating conversation I've ever had with anyone in my entire life recently with my 5-year-old son.
He had spent a long weekend with his father, heading over on Saturday morning and coming back Monday evening -- two nights and three days, for the record. (That simple calculation is about to become very important.)
For reasons that I cannot recall, the topic of how long he'd been with his dad came up in the car while we were heading to the grocery store one day, and he insisted he'd been with his father for three nights.
"No," I said gently. "You were there for two nights."
"No," he said. "I was there for three nights."
I couldn't figure out why he cared or why he was stuck on the subject, but he was absolutely certain in his mind that he had been there for three nights. And I, for reasons surpassing understanding because I should have learned long ago not to try respond rationally to irrationality, was hellbent on getting him to see that he was wrong.
"You went there Saturday morning, and you slept there Saturday night, remember. Then you got up Sunday, went to church, spent the day there and then went to bed again Sunday night. Then you got up Monday and hung out for a while and then came home. See? You slept there for two nights."
He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and I thought for a fleeting moment that he was about to realize his mistake and relent. But then no.
"No, I slept there three nights," he retorted.
"No, baby. Listen. You slept there Saturday night. Hold up one finger. OK, you slept there Sunday night. Hold up another finger. And then you came home Monday. See, you've got only two fingers up. You were there two nights. "
Pause for reflection...
"No, I was there three nights."
Aaaarrrgghhh!
"How could you possibly have been there three nights? You were home with Mommy Friday night, right?"
"Right."
"And you slept at Daddy's Saturday and Sunday and then came home Monday, right?"
"Right"
"So you were there two nights."
"No, I was there for three."
My blood pressure is spiking right now just from the recollection and retelling of this conversation. And it went on much longer than I'm subjecting you to right now. Every little exchange I've recounted here happened at least three times in almost identical duplication before I moved on to try another tack. It was absolutely infuriating.
"I want to ask my daddy," he said.
"Fine," I spat out, frustrated to my very core, and began to dial the phone.
My ex, of course, confirmed that he'd been there for two nights, although he complicated things even further for a moment by saying he'd been there for three days. But, still, we had a solid "two night" confirmation from his father, yet my son remained skeptical.
"Forget it," I said, having reached the end of my rope. "Let's just get in the grocery store and get what we need. I can't talk about this anymore."
So he climbed out of the car and slipped his little hand in mine as we began to make our way across the parking lot. He was quiet until just before we reached the door.
"My daddy lied to me," he said.
I paused and squatted down next to him. "What, baby?"
"My daddy lied," he said. "He said I was going to be there for three nights."
Oooohhhh, so this is what this was all about? Daddy, he thought, had told him he would be there for three nights, and so even in the face of obvious evidence to the contrary, he remained utterly convinced that he had been there for the time period his daddy said he would be.
Lying, he's come to understand, is a very bad thing, and I could see he was feeling crushed that he thought his daddy lied.
As little tears welled in his eyes at his hurt, my frustration melted away and I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that his daddy had not lied to him, that daddy meant he was going to be there for three days -- Saturday, Sunday and Monday -- and didn't mean to say he was going to spend three nights.
That finally seemed to make everything OK. Yes, of course he had been there for only two nights, he suddenly realized (insert eye rolling here).
While I'm not sure I've ever been so frustrated in my entire life, I did feel a little glow of warmth after it was all said and done. So steadfast was my son's faith in his parents that he would defy the very bounds of logic to believe in them. That's pretty cool.
He had spent a long weekend with his father, heading over on Saturday morning and coming back Monday evening -- two nights and three days, for the record. (That simple calculation is about to become very important.)
For reasons that I cannot recall, the topic of how long he'd been with his dad came up in the car while we were heading to the grocery store one day, and he insisted he'd been with his father for three nights.
"No," I said gently. "You were there for two nights."
"No," he said. "I was there for three nights."
I couldn't figure out why he cared or why he was stuck on the subject, but he was absolutely certain in his mind that he had been there for three nights. And I, for reasons surpassing understanding because I should have learned long ago not to try respond rationally to irrationality, was hellbent on getting him to see that he was wrong.
"You went there Saturday morning, and you slept there Saturday night, remember. Then you got up Sunday, went to church, spent the day there and then went to bed again Sunday night. Then you got up Monday and hung out for a while and then came home. See? You slept there for two nights."
He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and I thought for a fleeting moment that he was about to realize his mistake and relent. But then no.
"No, I slept there three nights," he retorted.
"No, baby. Listen. You slept there Saturday night. Hold up one finger. OK, you slept there Sunday night. Hold up another finger. And then you came home Monday. See, you've got only two fingers up. You were there two nights. "
Pause for reflection...
"No, I was there three nights."
Aaaarrrgghhh!
"How could you possibly have been there three nights? You were home with Mommy Friday night, right?"
"Right."
"And you slept at Daddy's Saturday and Sunday and then came home Monday, right?"
"Right"
"So you were there two nights."
"No, I was there for three."
My blood pressure is spiking right now just from the recollection and retelling of this conversation. And it went on much longer than I'm subjecting you to right now. Every little exchange I've recounted here happened at least three times in almost identical duplication before I moved on to try another tack. It was absolutely infuriating.
"I want to ask my daddy," he said.
"Fine," I spat out, frustrated to my very core, and began to dial the phone.
My ex, of course, confirmed that he'd been there for two nights, although he complicated things even further for a moment by saying he'd been there for three days. But, still, we had a solid "two night" confirmation from his father, yet my son remained skeptical.
"Forget it," I said, having reached the end of my rope. "Let's just get in the grocery store and get what we need. I can't talk about this anymore."
So he climbed out of the car and slipped his little hand in mine as we began to make our way across the parking lot. He was quiet until just before we reached the door.
"My daddy lied to me," he said.
I paused and squatted down next to him. "What, baby?"
"My daddy lied," he said. "He said I was going to be there for three nights."
Oooohhhh, so this is what this was all about? Daddy, he thought, had told him he would be there for three nights, and so even in the face of obvious evidence to the contrary, he remained utterly convinced that he had been there for the time period his daddy said he would be.
Lying, he's come to understand, is a very bad thing, and I could see he was feeling crushed that he thought his daddy lied.
As little tears welled in his eyes at his hurt, my frustration melted away and I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that his daddy had not lied to him, that daddy meant he was going to be there for three days -- Saturday, Sunday and Monday -- and didn't mean to say he was going to spend three nights.
That finally seemed to make everything OK. Yes, of course he had been there for only two nights, he suddenly realized (insert eye rolling here).
While I'm not sure I've ever been so frustrated in my entire life, I did feel a little glow of warmth after it was all said and done. So steadfast was my son's faith in his parents that he would defy the very bounds of logic to believe in them. That's pretty cool.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Eewww, eewww, eewww and the single mom
Yes, this post merits a title of three "eewww"s, so consider yourself forewarned if discussions of oozing pus, detached fingernails and painful procedures on screaming 5 year olds isn't up your entertainment alley.
About two weeks ago, my son pinched or slammed two of his fingers in a screen door. I wasn't with him and don't have the full report of exactly what happened, but he came home with obvious bruises on his fingers. Over the next few days, the nail on his ring finger turned purple, seemingly from blood pooled underneath it.
Last Friday, he told me his finger was feeling sore, but I didn't notice anything and didn't think much of it. By late that afternoon, though, it became obvious there was a problem.
We were at Toys 'R Us shopping for a birthday present for a friend whose party was the next day when he reached for something on the shelf. I caught a glimpse of his hand and immediately grabbed it to look at his finger, which was obviously ragingly infected -- red, swollen, hot to the touch, crusty from oozing pus and, best of all, entire fingernail a funky greenish white color. (This is as tame a description as I can come up with. It's all downhill from here for the squeamish.)
It was 4:56 on a Friday afternoon when I grabbed the phone and muttered a prayer under my breath that someone would still be answering the phone at his doctor's office. She was -- whew! -- and had us meet the on-call doc there at 5:30.
The doc decided we needed to drain some of the pus from my son's finger and proceeded to cut a hole in the skin just under the edge of the nail. My son winced a little but took it like a champ. That move wasn't as effective as she was hoping, though, so she moved on to Plan B.
Plan B, unfortunately, was to jab a hole through my son's fingernail, into his very inflamed and tender flesh, and squeeze and prod his painful finger to coax out the offending pus. He laid there on the crinkly exam bed paper with tears streaming down his cheeks and into his ears, whimpering "ouch, Mommy, ouch" while a nurse bodily held him down and I stroked his head and tried valiantly to choke back tears. It was really awful.
But it was over relatively quickly, and we were sent home with an oral antibiotic and instructions to soak his finger in warm water and squeeze it a couple times a day. Great.
By Tuesday, though, it was clear that the antibiotics weren't making a dent in the infection. His finger was getting more red, more obviously filled with pus, more painful to the touch, so back to the doctor's office we went.
We saw a different physician this time who, although he's not been my favorite doctor in the past because of a somewhat lacking bedside manner, impressed me with his thoroughness.
Upon realizing that the original problem came from his finger being slammed in the door (which the first doctor also knew), he took an x-ray to make sure a broken bone wasn't contributing to the problem (no break). One point for the previously unfavored doc.
He also put a hole in my son's fingernail to drain the pus, but he used a different implement and did it in such a way that caused my son next to no pain. Two points for the previously unfavored doc.
He lastly asked if the previous doctor had cultured any of the pus to determine what type of bacteria was going on (she hadn't), so he sent some of what he got out to check for MRSA (that antibiotic-resistant bug that goes around hospitals a lot). That's a scary thought, but nevertheless, three points for the now obviously favored doc.
He sent us home on a stronger oral antibiotic, a topical antibiotic and, again, instructions to soak finger and squeeze. The infection has since cleared up wonderfully and is well on the road to healing (lab tests finally returned today -- no MRSA).
The last bit of ick I'll foist on you, though, will be this tidbit: his fingernail, which I knew he was destined to lose through all this, is now hanging by little more than a gooey bit of flesh near the base of his nail. I can lift the whole thing up and use a q-tip to get the antibiotic ointment down in there, which is probably great, but still pretty nasty. It literally makes my skin crawl every time I touch it -- and is giving me the heebie jeebies while I sit here and type about it. Ugh (insert bodily shudder here).
So, another unexpected and rather disgusting travail of parenting under my belt. I just thought you'd all like to know.
About two weeks ago, my son pinched or slammed two of his fingers in a screen door. I wasn't with him and don't have the full report of exactly what happened, but he came home with obvious bruises on his fingers. Over the next few days, the nail on his ring finger turned purple, seemingly from blood pooled underneath it.
Last Friday, he told me his finger was feeling sore, but I didn't notice anything and didn't think much of it. By late that afternoon, though, it became obvious there was a problem.
We were at Toys 'R Us shopping for a birthday present for a friend whose party was the next day when he reached for something on the shelf. I caught a glimpse of his hand and immediately grabbed it to look at his finger, which was obviously ragingly infected -- red, swollen, hot to the touch, crusty from oozing pus and, best of all, entire fingernail a funky greenish white color. (This is as tame a description as I can come up with. It's all downhill from here for the squeamish.)
It was 4:56 on a Friday afternoon when I grabbed the phone and muttered a prayer under my breath that someone would still be answering the phone at his doctor's office. She was -- whew! -- and had us meet the on-call doc there at 5:30.
The doc decided we needed to drain some of the pus from my son's finger and proceeded to cut a hole in the skin just under the edge of the nail. My son winced a little but took it like a champ. That move wasn't as effective as she was hoping, though, so she moved on to Plan B.
Plan B, unfortunately, was to jab a hole through my son's fingernail, into his very inflamed and tender flesh, and squeeze and prod his painful finger to coax out the offending pus. He laid there on the crinkly exam bed paper with tears streaming down his cheeks and into his ears, whimpering "ouch, Mommy, ouch" while a nurse bodily held him down and I stroked his head and tried valiantly to choke back tears. It was really awful.
But it was over relatively quickly, and we were sent home with an oral antibiotic and instructions to soak his finger in warm water and squeeze it a couple times a day. Great.
By Tuesday, though, it was clear that the antibiotics weren't making a dent in the infection. His finger was getting more red, more obviously filled with pus, more painful to the touch, so back to the doctor's office we went.
We saw a different physician this time who, although he's not been my favorite doctor in the past because of a somewhat lacking bedside manner, impressed me with his thoroughness.
Upon realizing that the original problem came from his finger being slammed in the door (which the first doctor also knew), he took an x-ray to make sure a broken bone wasn't contributing to the problem (no break). One point for the previously unfavored doc.
He also put a hole in my son's fingernail to drain the pus, but he used a different implement and did it in such a way that caused my son next to no pain. Two points for the previously unfavored doc.
He lastly asked if the previous doctor had cultured any of the pus to determine what type of bacteria was going on (she hadn't), so he sent some of what he got out to check for MRSA (that antibiotic-resistant bug that goes around hospitals a lot). That's a scary thought, but nevertheless, three points for the now obviously favored doc.
He sent us home on a stronger oral antibiotic, a topical antibiotic and, again, instructions to soak finger and squeeze. The infection has since cleared up wonderfully and is well on the road to healing (lab tests finally returned today -- no MRSA).
The last bit of ick I'll foist on you, though, will be this tidbit: his fingernail, which I knew he was destined to lose through all this, is now hanging by little more than a gooey bit of flesh near the base of his nail. I can lift the whole thing up and use a q-tip to get the antibiotic ointment down in there, which is probably great, but still pretty nasty. It literally makes my skin crawl every time I touch it -- and is giving me the heebie jeebies while I sit here and type about it. Ugh (insert bodily shudder here).
So, another unexpected and rather disgusting travail of parenting under my belt. I just thought you'd all like to know.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Apparel woes and the single mom
I have always been able to keep my son in clothing relatively inexpensively. My mom's an ace at catching end-of-season clearance sales where she helps me stock up for the next year. And I'm a huge fan of consignment sales and any hand-me-downs I can get my hands on. So for the past 5 1/2 years, with a little planning and a little luck, I've been able to keep my son's wardrobe stocked without forking out a pretty penny.
That golden era has officially come to an end.
Over the past few weeks, I have thrown away no less than four pairs of pants that suddenly turned up with giant holes in the knees. And I don't mean some dainty little tear where a well placed patch could buy me at least a few more washes. No, I'm talking serious side seam to side seam rips, the likes of which would seem to require sharp objects to render in previously intact cloth. And yet son manages this kind of damage with nothing more than playground sand, living room carpet and little boy enthusiasm.
I know some of you are mumbling to yourself, "Of course little boys wear the knees out of their pants." First, I hold he's beating some kind of record for the speed with which he's going through these things. And, second, it's not just the britches. He came home from school Friday with a nickel-sized hole inexplicably in the middle of his shirt. He had no reasonable explanation for how it got there -- something about somebody grabbing or jerking on his shirt or something. Just a big hole right in the middle of his shirt.
And since he has to wear uniforms to school, every school item that meets its untimely end has to be replaced at, what seems to me and my secondhand-buying ways, a hefty price. I've come to the conclusion that I should just start forking my paycheck directly over to Land's End.
The problem has been compounded lately by a growth spurt my son has gone through, making many of his remaining intact clothes suddenly too small. When he got dressed for school for the first morning after Christmas break, I nearly burst out laughing at him wearing a shirt that had no chance of being tucked in and cuffs that stopped two inches too soon. This was a shirt (size 5/6, by the way) that fit just fine -- not roomy, but just fine -- in the weeks leading up to Christmas.
So back to the Land's End site I go for shirts in a bigger size. I might as well get some more pants while I'm at it. Heaven knows he'll run through or grow out of the three pairs he's still got in the next week or two.
And, oh my stars, the shoes. Don't get me started on the shoes. Can you order footwear in bulk?
That golden era has officially come to an end.
Over the past few weeks, I have thrown away no less than four pairs of pants that suddenly turned up with giant holes in the knees. And I don't mean some dainty little tear where a well placed patch could buy me at least a few more washes. No, I'm talking serious side seam to side seam rips, the likes of which would seem to require sharp objects to render in previously intact cloth. And yet son manages this kind of damage with nothing more than playground sand, living room carpet and little boy enthusiasm.
I know some of you are mumbling to yourself, "Of course little boys wear the knees out of their pants." First, I hold he's beating some kind of record for the speed with which he's going through these things. And, second, it's not just the britches. He came home from school Friday with a nickel-sized hole inexplicably in the middle of his shirt. He had no reasonable explanation for how it got there -- something about somebody grabbing or jerking on his shirt or something. Just a big hole right in the middle of his shirt.
And since he has to wear uniforms to school, every school item that meets its untimely end has to be replaced at, what seems to me and my secondhand-buying ways, a hefty price. I've come to the conclusion that I should just start forking my paycheck directly over to Land's End.
The problem has been compounded lately by a growth spurt my son has gone through, making many of his remaining intact clothes suddenly too small. When he got dressed for school for the first morning after Christmas break, I nearly burst out laughing at him wearing a shirt that had no chance of being tucked in and cuffs that stopped two inches too soon. This was a shirt (size 5/6, by the way) that fit just fine -- not roomy, but just fine -- in the weeks leading up to Christmas.
So back to the Land's End site I go for shirts in a bigger size. I might as well get some more pants while I'm at it. Heaven knows he'll run through or grow out of the three pairs he's still got in the next week or two.
And, oh my stars, the shoes. Don't get me started on the shoes. Can you order footwear in bulk?
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Hyperbole and the single mom
There's been a decent delay between when the story I'm about to tell actually happened and now, when I'm finally getting a chance to post about it. That's mainly due to the snow and the adventures it has caused in my life over the last few days, but that's a story for the next post.
On Friday, my mom, who quite conveniently works in the financial offices of my son's school, picked my son up for me. I got out of an appointment late and wasn't going to make it to get him from late stay on time.
When I got to her office to retrieve him, I found him literally rolling on the floor professing an agonizing headache. He would stand up when cajoled and then immediately drop back to the floor like a discarded rag doll, declaring that it hurt too badly for him to stand.
It was quite obvious, of course, that he was hamming it up a bit, but I figured he did at least have an authentic headache and told him we'd get him some Tylenol at home.
Still, it took no small amount of repeated requests and mounting frustration to get him to stay on his feet long enough to get to the car. If I got him to stand up and then made the mistake of pausing for a moment to say a sentence or two to my mom, he'd crumple right back to the ground.
And this was not a case of simply sitting down on the floor with legs crossed and head moping. No, no. This was full-body lying down in the middle of the hallway, arms and legs flayed out as if he were poised to make a snow angel or something.
Based on the dramatic dives this boy was taking, it would seem he's destined for a life as an actor or maybe one of those soccer players who always manages to get a penalty called on his opponent by virtue of his feigned agony.
But we finally made it to the car and headed for home. The ride proved therapeutic for my son, who gradually grew less interested in complaining about his headache and more interested in the toys that perpetually fill my back seat.
By the time we got home, all mention of his earlier pain had dissipated completely. He headed straight into the house -- he somehow mustered the strength to not collapse on the sidewalk on the way in -- and into his playroom where he dove right into some toys with nary a mention of his headache or the aforementioned Tylenol or anything.
I've long known that distraction was a key weapon in a parent's arsenal. It can stave off tantrums, dispel awkward moments and alleviate disappointments, all by simply turning a kid's attention to something more interesting.
"Oh dear, it seems the playground has been overrun by snakes, lizards and mustached bullies and we can't go play. ...Oh, look at that shiny thing over there! Let's go see what it is." -- It works like a champ, I swear.
I learned from this latest incident, though, that distraction wields even more power than I originally realized, apparently packing a great anesthetic punch, able to cure incapacitating headaches in 3.2 seconds with the application of cool toys.
On Friday, my mom, who quite conveniently works in the financial offices of my son's school, picked my son up for me. I got out of an appointment late and wasn't going to make it to get him from late stay on time.
When I got to her office to retrieve him, I found him literally rolling on the floor professing an agonizing headache. He would stand up when cajoled and then immediately drop back to the floor like a discarded rag doll, declaring that it hurt too badly for him to stand.
It was quite obvious, of course, that he was hamming it up a bit, but I figured he did at least have an authentic headache and told him we'd get him some Tylenol at home.
Still, it took no small amount of repeated requests and mounting frustration to get him to stay on his feet long enough to get to the car. If I got him to stand up and then made the mistake of pausing for a moment to say a sentence or two to my mom, he'd crumple right back to the ground.
And this was not a case of simply sitting down on the floor with legs crossed and head moping. No, no. This was full-body lying down in the middle of the hallway, arms and legs flayed out as if he were poised to make a snow angel or something.
Based on the dramatic dives this boy was taking, it would seem he's destined for a life as an actor or maybe one of those soccer players who always manages to get a penalty called on his opponent by virtue of his feigned agony.
But we finally made it to the car and headed for home. The ride proved therapeutic for my son, who gradually grew less interested in complaining about his headache and more interested in the toys that perpetually fill my back seat.
By the time we got home, all mention of his earlier pain had dissipated completely. He headed straight into the house -- he somehow mustered the strength to not collapse on the sidewalk on the way in -- and into his playroom where he dove right into some toys with nary a mention of his headache or the aforementioned Tylenol or anything.
I've long known that distraction was a key weapon in a parent's arsenal. It can stave off tantrums, dispel awkward moments and alleviate disappointments, all by simply turning a kid's attention to something more interesting.
"Oh dear, it seems the playground has been overrun by snakes, lizards and mustached bullies and we can't go play. ...Oh, look at that shiny thing over there! Let's go see what it is." -- It works like a champ, I swear.
I learned from this latest incident, though, that distraction wields even more power than I originally realized, apparently packing a great anesthetic punch, able to cure incapacitating headaches in 3.2 seconds with the application of cool toys.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The conniving button-pusher and the single mom
Yes, the conniving button-pusher mentioned in this blog title is none other than my precocious little 5-year-old.
Children have, surely for the entire length and breadth of human history, strived to wrap their parents around their little fingers. And generation upon generation of them have succeeded, at least to some degree. Kids know their power, and they wield it well.
Who else in your life (excepting, perhaps, a spouse or partner) knows so intimately what makes you happy, what makes you frustrated, what makes you sad? Has lived with and observed you day in and day out for years and knows exactly what makes you tick? Who else but a child can read the exact moment you're going to blow your lid and sidestep it adeptly with a quick apology or a race to pick up those toys after all?
And, let's face it, it's in a kid's best interest to master these things. A little parental wheedling and manipulating goes a long way for a child who just doesn't want to be fussed at, made to do chores or sent to bed without dessert.
My son has learned this lesson well and has been demonstrating his new skills of late.
He's always been something of a sensitive soul. If I raise my voice at him, he dissolves into tears and asks if I still love him, at which point, of course, my heart immediately melts. I drop to my knees, wrap my arms around him. "Even when I'm angry or frustrated, I will always love you with all my heart," I say, tears likely streaming down my cheeks.
Well, Capt. Manipulator has learned from me quite well. He knows my tenderness; he knows I value love and affection even through anger; he knows I'll reverse emotional tracks instantly with the right prodding. So now when I get frustrated with something, he has taken to saying something along the lines of, "I'm always trying to be nice, Mommy. Even when you're angry, I'm trying to be nice."
Or if I fuss at him for some infraction, I'll get something like, "I'm sorry for everything I ever did wrong in my life," uttered with tears welling and lower lip trembling, quite possibly the most pitiful sight in the world.
Wow, here's the dagger from my heart, sweetie. I believe this belongs to you.
I can't decide if it's a more appropriate parental reaction to ignore these (obviously manipulative) statements -- he clearly wants me to just stop whatever negative emotions I'm projecting to him at the time -- or to see them as my son's ingenious, though perhaps unintentional, relief valve for me.
Those things he says certainly have the effect of making me calm down, take a deep breath and look at myself with a more critical eye. Am I overreacting to something? Is my response appropriate or overkill? And sometimes the answers to those questions are eye-opening, even with only a moment's reflection.
But here's the really scary question to ponder: if he's this good at handling me when he's 5, what am I in for when he has gained the psychological maturity and manipulating skills of a teenager? I'll just go ahead and start sharpening those daggers for him now.
Children have, surely for the entire length and breadth of human history, strived to wrap their parents around their little fingers. And generation upon generation of them have succeeded, at least to some degree. Kids know their power, and they wield it well.
Who else in your life (excepting, perhaps, a spouse or partner) knows so intimately what makes you happy, what makes you frustrated, what makes you sad? Has lived with and observed you day in and day out for years and knows exactly what makes you tick? Who else but a child can read the exact moment you're going to blow your lid and sidestep it adeptly with a quick apology or a race to pick up those toys after all?
And, let's face it, it's in a kid's best interest to master these things. A little parental wheedling and manipulating goes a long way for a child who just doesn't want to be fussed at, made to do chores or sent to bed without dessert.
My son has learned this lesson well and has been demonstrating his new skills of late.
He's always been something of a sensitive soul. If I raise my voice at him, he dissolves into tears and asks if I still love him, at which point, of course, my heart immediately melts. I drop to my knees, wrap my arms around him. "Even when I'm angry or frustrated, I will always love you with all my heart," I say, tears likely streaming down my cheeks.
Well, Capt. Manipulator has learned from me quite well. He knows my tenderness; he knows I value love and affection even through anger; he knows I'll reverse emotional tracks instantly with the right prodding. So now when I get frustrated with something, he has taken to saying something along the lines of, "I'm always trying to be nice, Mommy. Even when you're angry, I'm trying to be nice."
Or if I fuss at him for some infraction, I'll get something like, "I'm sorry for everything I ever did wrong in my life," uttered with tears welling and lower lip trembling, quite possibly the most pitiful sight in the world.
Wow, here's the dagger from my heart, sweetie. I believe this belongs to you.
I can't decide if it's a more appropriate parental reaction to ignore these (obviously manipulative) statements -- he clearly wants me to just stop whatever negative emotions I'm projecting to him at the time -- or to see them as my son's ingenious, though perhaps unintentional, relief valve for me.
Those things he says certainly have the effect of making me calm down, take a deep breath and look at myself with a more critical eye. Am I overreacting to something? Is my response appropriate or overkill? And sometimes the answers to those questions are eye-opening, even with only a moment's reflection.
But here's the really scary question to ponder: if he's this good at handling me when he's 5, what am I in for when he has gained the psychological maturity and manipulating skills of a teenager? I'll just go ahead and start sharpening those daggers for him now.
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