Adventures In Learning

I can't believe the summer is winding down.
Little Miss is very excited to be returning to Her montessori school, where She will be starting Kindergarten.  She's very, very excited to be staying all day this year.  I am very, very much in denial about the whole thing.  I like to tell myself that it's the same montessori class (mixed ages 3-6) so it's not really really kindergarten.  Even though it is.  I try not to think at all about Her being gone all day.  I just can't with all that.  But I'm glad She's going back to a school that we all love and which I am pretty sure will be a positive educational, social, and emotional experience for Her.
That's Montessori, though.  You get all this happy fuzzy stuff, and all it costs is an arm and a leg.
Public school, on the other hand.  That is free!
Sadly, Little One's kindergarten year was worth just about exactly what we paid for.
I actually liked the school.  The principal was competent and nice, the teacher was friendly, the kids were all as cute as only a bunch of snaggletoothed 6 year olds can be.  I liked the other parents and hosted a weekly coffee and cake so I could hang out with all their awesomeness.  I got to know the nurse (a little too well) and trust her to look out for my girl.  I PTA'd it up and was elected to be the VP this year.  Little One and I started a book club after school.  It was a dream to be able to walk both Sisters to school every morning.  I mean, Little One's school is about one block from our house!
The thing is, Little One had all that Montessori pre-school.  And She has this voracious appetite for learning.  She's been known to randomly get interested in something- the revolutionary war, or greek mythology- and go on a bender where She can't read or hear enough until She feels like She's learned Alllllll The Things about it!  So.  Before school started, I met with the principal, and said I thought maybe She should start in first grade.
The principal smiled, and chuckled, and gave me a "hey now, Tiger Mom, let's take it down a notch!" speech, and showed me the door.  Ok.  So, maybe, her points about Little One having just moved to the area, and going to public school for the first time, and the food allergies and all that being overwhelming as it is were valid.  So we went to kindergarten.
At the first teacher conference of the year, in October, Her teacher said to me,
"well, Little One has already met all the indicators for the end of the whole year! So... She's good!" Thumbs up.
I said, "Great, but, so....what's next, then?  I mean, She needs to keep learning throughout the year...new things, right?  So...what's the plan for Her then?"
Teacher stopped smiling.  And that was the start of the trouble.
Little One loved kindergarten, in that She loved recess.  She made lots of friends and became "leader of the girls team" on the playground, and loved everyone in class.  She got awards for being helpful and respectful in class. But She complained a lot about being bored.  She would finish the homework for the month in one evening, but I gave Her other work from bookstore workbooks, and She read a lot, so I wasn't really worried.
Then I went to parent day.  Waiting for my turn to observe the class, another mom greeted me all teary.  "What happened?" She asked.  "What did Little One do, to be punished like that?"
I was alarmed.  What DID She do?!
"She has to sit all by Herself! All the other kids are together in groups, but She had to be in the corner by Herself all morning!" 
So I asked the teacher.  "Oh no, She's never in trouble! But mornings are reading centers, and She's in Her own group.  There's one kid who reads at a level 8, but the others are all 2s and 3s, and Little One...is a 16.  She just can't read with the other kids." 
I observed.  Little One, who was reading chapter books at home, still had to sit at circle time and repeat over and over, "C says Cuh! C says Cuh!"    
She raised Her hand after a story, and was waved away, "Little One I KNOW you know the answer, so let me ask someone new".  There were worksheets later. She finished Hers in two minutes.
"What does She do now?" I asked the teacher.
Blank stare. "Well, it's a 15 minute center... so.  She can rotate when the bell rings."
"Could She read a book or something while She waits?"
"We can't let everyone do whatever they want. They have to stay at their center. The rules are the same for everyone."
I was in class for three hours and Little One did basically nothing, the whole time.  But She was still expected to sit still and be quiet.  By Herself.  Keep in mind, because of Her food allergies, She was already seated at Her own table at lunch.  She already had to stay apart from other kids while they ate the school provided breakfast (which She wasn't allowed to skip watching Her classmates eat, as that would have made Her tardy and reported as a truant).  So except for recess, She was set apart all day.
At home, She started saying that reading wasn't fun, because you couldn't have friends if you can read. She started pretending She didn't know how to do math.  She became so used to doing all academic work in 3 minutes or less, that when I introduced a challenging problem at home- something She would have exalted in before- She would get frustrated and call it dumb and give up.
I talked to the teacher.  I asked if She could be grouped with kids from other classes who were at Her reading and math levels.  But it was no longer "policy" to group kids out of their assigned class.
I asked if She could get worksheets from first grade teachers to work on while She waited during center time.  I was told it was absolutely not allowed to introduce anything outside the KG curriculum.
I pleaded for Her to be allowed to do Her work at a table with other kids. I had to actually beg, and promise to tell Her to hide Her worksheets so She wouldn't be a "show off" and make the other kids "feel bad".  Later, Her teacher said she turned out to love having Little One at the table with other kids, because She "helped them all with their work".  But, other than getting different books to read and some extra homework (to appease Her mom), She was never allowed to have any work that entailed learning something new.  All. Year.
Now, I know that a kindergarten teacher has a really tough time, because there are 15 students and they are all across the spectrum of learning.  Some have had 3 years of preschool, like Little One, some have had no school, or are just learning English.  That's a lot to handle, trying to meet all those needs.  I understand prioritizing the kids who need help to catch up- they need that help.
But as an advocate for my child, I couldn't accept that She had to spend six hours a day bored out of Her mind and being made to feel like an outcast.  I couldn't stand seeing Her wonderful passion for learning squelched as if it were a nasty habit.  I had a lot of talks with Her teacher and even the principal about how I could help Her, and got nowhere.
At the end of the year, I went to an info session on what the curriculum covers for each grade level.  It was clear that the work She was doing at home was about the middle of second grade level stuff.  So J and I asked to skip Her to second grade next year.  People, you would think we had asked for the actual Holy Grail. You would think I had asked them to bring me a pink unicorn.
The administration had heard of this mythical "skipping of grades"....but never actually SEEN it. It didn't really exist.
But since we insisted, they had to do something.  So they decided on an "evaluation period".  They pulled Little One out of class parties and music and art, to test Her and test Her with reading and math specialists.  At the end of this three month period, I went to a meeting.
I was told that, while She got the answers right on the math tests, She had to be failed on the evaluation, because She wouldn't always explain why She got those answers. She was docked points for doing math in Her head, because She didn't show Her work.
Example:
"what is 18 take-away 7?"
"It's 11".
"WHY is it 11?"
"... Because you had 18...then you took away 7."
"Can you show me why on paper?"
(on paper): "18 minus 7 is 11 because that is what is left."
Wrong.
I was told that, while She was reading on an end of second grade level, She wasn't ready to start second grade, because when the specialist asked Her about the books, Her answers were short and to the point, and She preferred non-fiction, factual information over discussing how She felt about things.
The reading specialist pointed out that not once, not once, did Little One ever re-open a book to look for the answers- which was a VERY important indicator for using resources.

C: "Did you know, that on the school's red-yellow-green behavior scale, Little One has been green, every single day?"

Punk Reading Specialist: "No, but what does that have to do with.."

C: "Ms. LittleOnesTeacher, has Little One ever broken a rule in your class or failed to ask your permission before doing anything She didn't know the rule about? No? So, Ms ReadingSpecialist, I have to ask.  Did you ever tell Little One that She was Allowed to look for answers in the book?"

PRS: "Um...no."

C: "Because I'm pretty sure She would have thought that would be cheating."

PRS: "Well. Oh.  Well.  She still was supposed to...it's a...uh...it's an indicator...."

Right.
In the end of the meeting, it was clear to see that they had never really considered skipping Her.  They don't believe in unicorns at all.  All of the reasons given were basically that while She could get all the answers right, She was shy enough with strangers to give them a reason not to move Her.
In the meantime, while all this testing was going on, the principal called me in for a talk.
"You know, not that we're trying to get rid of you, because we love you guys. But there is this school, a magnet school, for kids like Little One who are just...how can I... who are sort of....humming along at a different frequency.  You might just consider it." 
It happened to be the day before the deadline to apply for this mysterious odd-frequency school, so we just turned in the paper, just in case.
Then we had to send letters from teachers, letters from us, transcripts, report cards.  Little One had to do an interview and go to a testing session which we were not allowed to watch.
We googled and found that there are people whose whole career consists of tutoring little snaggletoothed 6 year olds to pass that test.  That hundreds of people apply, and only 25 get in. So we forgot all about it, and went back to trying to skip Her a grade.  
Then we got an acceptance letter.  
Supposedly, it is the same curriculum, but there are "acceleration opportunities" for STEM subjects. And there will, they promised without my having to ask, definitely be other kids in Her reading and math groups, doing the same stuff.
The place is an hour away.  Little One has to be there, and leave there, at the exact same time Missy has to be at, and leave from, Her school over here.
Instead of walking 5 minutes, I'll have to drive Her 15 minutes to the bus stop, where She will have an hour long bus ride to school.  If She has an allergic reaction or an asthma attack that doesn't respond to medication, as She did last year, I won't be able to rush right over.  There will have to be an ambulance.  This school does NOT sound fun, for ME.
So we deliberated and discussed, talked and thought, J and I.  What to do? Then we asked Her.
The so-called Queen of recess, who loved Her friends and teachers so much, what Her preference would be, so we could consider that in our decision.
She didn't miss a beat.  She didn't hesitate, and She was unequivocal.
"Please.  Please please.  PLEASE let me go to the new school!"

"But you know you won't see all of your friends any more. It will be all new. You won't know anyone there, and it will be different."

"Yes, I know.  But I can make new friends! And different stuff is good, cause that's what's an adventure, mom.  And besides...maybe...maybe...maybe at the new school, I won't have to teach the kids stuff all day with their work.  Maybe we could work together instead. That's all I want."  

 Ok then. I'm nervous about Her being so far if something goes wrong.  I'm scared to death of the bus.  I'm going to miss Her those two hours a day She will be commuting to school, and I can only hope it will be worth it.  And truthfully?  I'll miss the PTA and the moms I chatted with at pick up and all of that too.  All I can do is try to follow my Little One's lead, and make new friends. Hope that just maybe it will be a place where She can fall back in love with learning.  And realize that different is good, because that's what's an adventure.

Bad Blood

A benefit to writing your own story is you get to be the hero if you want!  Which, of course, I do.  SuperC! Saving the day by changing the baby with one hand and sticking a bandaid on the preschooler with the other, while answering the gradeschooler's questions about why a / is used to denote fractions.  Tum-ta-da!

But every good hero has nemeses. One of mine, is Kidzbop.  

This diabolical entity is many things.  But in my life it takes the form of a Pandora station that plays all the crap pop songs you have never heard of because you are not a 12 year old girl, and then plays them in re-mixes performed by Alvin and the bleeping Chipmunks.  

I have Little One's Kindergarten teacher to thank for this monstrosity.  Apparently, she liked to play it in the afternoons and let the kids dance around to such educational gems as "all about that base".  The Disneyfied version.  She let Little One set it up, so Little One knows all about how to get Kidzbop on any device.  And She is. OBSESSED.  

It is all Kidzbop, all day.  Every. Day.  And so, SO loud.  

In my effort not to already be the curmudgeonly older generation (too much) I mostly try to just plaster on my haunted grin, and bear it.  Though sometimes it feels a little like the CIA is probably playing a joke on me, spying to see how long it will be until I crack under the torture.  

Sometimes I get into it and dance along. But really, guys, as a general thing?  

Chipmunks singing Katy Perry??? Why????

Every time I think I win a battle against this villain, playing something else, or hiding the iPad, it's little minions find a way to blast it again. 

Last month I arrived in Ethiopia, allllll the way across the world, in a place where there is no Pandora.  No Spotify.  No iAnything.  No Kidzbop! And what do I see. 

 I CAN'T ESCAPE!

Both Sisters are into this stuff.  

But at least I have my uncorrupted baby. 

Last night, I was washing Little Mister in the tub.  He started singing. 

Mr: "ya wa ga baaaah bod! ya wa ga baaaaah bod!"

He's so cute! Right?  So cute, all innocent and tiny, singing in His sweet little voice in the tub.  Singing His cute little made-up song.  

His sisters hear Him and start giggling.  A little too something, those giggles.  

They clap for Him and say, "Yes! Yes that's right!"

Then they start signing.  They start singing: "baby now we got bad blood you know we used to be bad love..."  

And I realized my sweet baby was singing some violent, angry, girl-drama Taylor Swift song.  

He learned Bad Blood before the ABCs.  I die.  

Kidzbop Strikes again.    

Living The Dream

There's a thing about my job with this charity.  It's amplified, I think, by every heartbeat with which I truly believe in what I am doing, in who I am working for.  It's this inability to keep work and life separate, at all, because the two things live together in my heart.  They share real estate, so there isn't such a thing as moving from one to the other at the end of the day.
There's not such a thing as leaving anything at the office, because for one thing my office is my house, so I'm literally always in it.  But for another, the work isn't about place, it's about what's taking up space in my thoughts, in my heart.  I have a photo above my desk of the AFC kids when they were small.  It's tacked up with the little handmade cards and pictures they've given me over the years.  So that when things get hard, I can look up and be forced to remember why.
I read something lately about this "do what you love, love what you do" mantra.  I believe in that concept in a sense.  But it sounds so breezy, like doing what you love means you're just hanging out riding on endorphins all the livelong day.   That would be some strong kool-aid.
This past weekend we had a big fundraiser in Los Angeles, and there were so many wonderful things about it.  I had the chance to work with some really good people, to share a story and cause I wholeheartedly believe in.  The team there did a good job and people came and understood the mission and supported and that was great.
I also missed a lot of sleep, missed my kids, missed the only weekend J has off this month.  As happens in life, there were also glitches and issues and problems, and in the end I'm home still dealing with those things and I'm entirely exhausted.  I'm feeling a little defeated, discouraged, overwhelmed.  In all honesty?  I feel like quitting.  I want to pack up and go be a hermit on a mountain somewhere and stuff my fingers in my ears and sing "LALALA!" to just completely drown out the world.  I would bring a lot of chocolate.
Haven't we all had those days? Maybe not the hermit thing.  But days when it feels like your best is not enough? Like there's never going to be an end in sight where it will be enough? When we feel like quitting.
I feel about this job much the way I feel about parenting.  I love it.  I love it.  I love it deep down to my core, out my fingertips and toes and through the atoms of each cell in me.  I want to be here.  I asked for this, and I jumped for joy when it happened, and I feel it is my great privilege and honor and joy to get to do this with my one life.  I. Love. What. I. Do.
But that is the easy part.
The hard part is not the loving.  It's the doing.  It's the part where even when I feel like quitting, I just... don't.  It's the part where I'm so tired, in my body, in my heart, that I can't get out of bed in the morning.  But- for the things I love- I do.  It is rehashing the same issue with the same people on the phone for hours and hours when I was supposed to be at dinner with my family.  It's staying up all night going over the books and the math again and again.  It's telling my son for 500th time to please sit down in the bath tub.  It's cleaning the pee off the floor.  It's enforcing the rules when I'm too tired to talk, and wondering what I'm doing wrong that I really have to explain again why we don't jump on the trampoline with pencils in our hands.  It's laying down finally at one am and popping right back up to soothe a nightmare. It's stopping what I'm doing- even if it's something very important to me- to ooh and ahh over the leaf She found with the orange spots, because that's something that is important to Her.  The hard part is doing what I love.
No matter how big and how sincere my Love is, for my work, for my kids, for the people and things I care about, there are times I fail them.  There are times I feel like I have no business doing anything for anyone, and times I really think the hermit thing with the chocolate has got to be the way to go.  Things are hard sometimes. Even the ones I love. Maybe especially those.
I won't do everything right or take everything in stride, and I certainly don't expect to be kicking back with my kool-aid riding those perpetual endorphins anytime soon.  I'm tired and I have heartburn and someone else's snot is in my hair and I've been yelled at a lot today.  But when my alarm clock goes off in the morning, I'll will get up, and just start moving.
Because I love what I do, I do what I love. 

The Selflessness of Selfishness

A couple of months ago, I was having a rough night.  I was shuffling around.   J was working night shift, I was home with three fussy kids, all with colds.  The Littles were finishing up dinner, I was at the stove.  I was getting more for someone?  I was starting to clean up? I don't remember.
What I remember is a sudden shooting pain, from my heels my shoulders.  Like lightning.  Like fire.
I went rigid, I drew a sharp breath.  And then, I had no legs.  They were gone.  It felt as though someone had actually pulled them out from beneath me; they simply were not there.
Without legs to stand on, I fell.  I tried to catch myself on the edge of the stove, but I wasn't strong enough.  I crumpled to the floor, took a moment to get my bearings, and was shocked to find that I still had no legs.
The Sisters could see me from the dining room; they were asking if I was all right, if I fell down.
I was telling them I was ok, I'll be there in a minute, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears.  Disassociated from me, like the lower half of my body.
I stayed there awhile. 10 minutes that felt like hours. Finally, I was able to grab onto the bar of the oven door, and pull myself up.
I was able to shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the water.  I got Mister into the tub.  But it was hard; it was very hard.  I carried Him from the high chair to the tub on Faith. I carried him inches at a time, with great effort, telling myself all the way- my legs are there; I see them.  I can do this; I'm fine.  I put Him in the bath.  I could tell now, that my legs were not gone.
But my legs and my back felt strange.  Weak and heavy, sort of transparent. My arms began to feel heavy, like I was lifting them through thick mud instead of air.  I tried to pick Mr up out of the tub and found that I couldn't.  I just could not.  I may as well have been trying to lift the house itself.
It wasn't because it hurt, I just couldn't make my arms lift Him.  I began panic.  But what about my kids?  Because they were watching, I didn't get hysterical.  Because there were there, depending on me, I didn't have the luxury of that.
So instead, they got a very, very long bath.
I waited.  Eventually, with my direction, Little One was able to get Mr into my lap, where he held onto my neck like a little monkey. From there I stood up and was able to get Him to the changing table, put Him to bed.  Because they are so independent now, I was able to get the Sisters into bed, and then I laid down too.
By the morning,  I was as good as I had been before the lighting at the stove.
Which was really only kind of ok, actually.  I'd been having numbness in my feet and hands for weeks.  So much so that once I'd been holding my flat iron with my finger on the plate and not noticed until I smelled burning skin.  So much that I'd gone out and bought flat shoes because I could no longer balance in my heels.  I stopped going to yoga because I kept falling down. So I went to a doctor.  I had bloodwork, MRIs, lots of tests.
It turns out I was lucky.  I apparently had Guillon-barre syndrome; a problem in which the immune system reacts to a mild illness by attacking the cells of the nervous system.  Only a third of people who get this remain able to walk at all.  Many people become totally paralyzed; in some even their heart and lungs stop.  I had a really mild case, and the best thing about this syndrome compared to other things I was tested for, is that (as long as you don't die), it goes away.
It can take a long time, I'm told, for nerve cells to heal.  But they almost always do, eventually, heal. I'm already a whole lot better.  I still have some numbness and tingling in my hands and feet; I still cannot feel my big toes even if you were to stick a needle in them, even if you put them in ice.  But I will, in time.
Looking back now I feel stupid.  All those weeks of struggling to braid the girls' hair, of dropping everything, of straining to walk the kids to school, before even making an appointment to see my doctor.  I think of that night at the stove and am horrified.  It could have become so much worse than it did- it's incredibly lucky that it didn't- why on earth did I not call for help?  What if it had become worse- and my kids were there alone in the bath.  
The thing is.  At the time, I wasn't so much worried about the problems I was having as I was ashamed of them.  With my new job, J's residency hours, the kids' new schools, and getting used to a new home, I was stressed out and missing a lot of sleep.  I would stumble or drop something and think, "wow, I am just really not handling things very well".  I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull myself together.  I just needed to try harder, to manage time better and get more rest. The night I couldn't lift Mister from the tub I was scared.  But more than that, I was angry at myself for being so weak.  For making such a big deal out of a strained muscle or something, for not being able to make myself push through it and look after my kids.
As a mother, the primacy of caring for your children can become so overwhelming that you start to forget yourself. You stop being able to see yourself as a person, start to forget that you need things. As your focus shifts to the people who need you, it's easy to feel less human and more like the machine that keeps the conveyor belt of life rolling.  How many times have I packed well-balanced, allergy-safe, carefully planned-out snacks for three kids for an all day excursion- and not even thought of bringing an apple for myself?  How many times have I insisted J take a nap after a long shift- yet after staying up all night with sick or fussy kids, when have I ever asked for a nap? I have cancelled lots of plans and pushed plenty of deadlines because someone was sick or tired and needed to be in bed- but I've never skipped gymnastics practice, story time, or field trips because I had a fever or headache.  Machines are not supposed to take sick days, or naps, or even bathroom breaks.
Usually, it's not my line to complain about those facts.  I believe that parenting requires sacrifice and prioritizing my kids needs over my own, and I'm good with that.  I don't resent anyone when we are in our sixth hour of Smithsonian museums and I'm starving while the kids munch organic apples dipped in home-made soy-yogurt.  It's no one's fault.
But mine.  Because sacrifice implies that you are giving something up for the good of others.  Prioritizing kids means doing the best thing for them.  Is it really for their good, is it really what's best for them, if I get hungry or exhausted and can't quite be at my best?  Or if I get sick and sicker and end up unable to get my baby out of a bath tub?
This whole experience has left me feeling extremely fortunate.  Because it wasn't bad enough to have caused any permanent damage.  But it was bad enough to shock me into reassessing the way I see myself, and into realizing that the way I take care of myself directly and profoundly impacts my ability to take care of everyone else.  Sometimes toughing it out and ignoring yourself to be there for others isn't brave or valiant or generous.  It's just stupid.
As I recover from that bizarre episode, I feel a lot like Mister, discovering the joy of movement and abilities.  I go to yoga and I'm grinning through the poses that burn- because I can do it without falling over!  I put on my old shoes and do a little dance in them.  Because I can! Everything seems like so much fun; things I had taken for granted are significant again. I'm practicing french-braiding the Sisters hair, I'm mending things by hand, I'm cutting stuff out with scissors.  And.
I'm eating breakfast, even if we will be a little late for school.  I'm locking the bathroom door.  And today (after tucking in two post-scary-dream Littles and soothing one who bumped His head in the middle of the night) even though the kitchen was messy and there was work to do, when Mister took a nap, I did too.  It may seem strange, but for my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to try to take better care of my family- by being a little more selfish.

Flap-jackie Chan

I'm entrenched in a ridiculous drama in which GoogleVoice has abducted my cell phone number and refuses to give it back.  It terrorizes me, Peanuts.  It's a mean, scurvy pirate.  One of the ways it messes with me is by randomly transcribing voicemails and sending them to me as a text that would take all of the Pentagon's cryptologysts to decipher.
I was picking up Missy from school one day, when one of these encoded nonsensical messages came in.  I wasn't yet familiar with this phenomenon, and so for a minute I just stared at it dumbly, wondering which one of us was crazy.  It made no sense, guys, none.
But I could pick out three words:
school
daughter
allergy
Which were the only ones I needed to see to turn my stomach inside out.  I smiled at Miss, who I had been unsuccessfully beguiling away from the sandbox, walked over to Her calmly, picked Her up, and sat Her on Mister's lap in His stroller.  I measured my words out like sugar in a teaspoon, "There is an emergency, so we are leaving right. now.  Hang on love!"
And I hauled our three tushies down the path, up the road, past the park and through the parking lot in record time, dialing the school as we trucked it.
She was ok.  She was looking scared and embarrassed, but She was breathing normally.  Other than some hives on Her face, She looked fine.  Except for the eye.
Her left eye looked as if She'd jammed a ping-pong ball under Her lids.  It was big and puffy, swollen and red.
The school features pancakes for lunch (got to start those healthy habits early).  One of Little One's friends was eating pancakes with her hands, and reached across the table to get Little One's attention. She touched Her face.  That's it.  That's all.  That's all it took to blimp up Her eye like that and freckle Her with hives.  The nurse had washed it out and put ice on it, but it was still swelling.
I was relieved.  It could have been so much worse than a swollen eye.  I was just getting my heart to start beating normally again, when She took off the ice pack to let me look.  The white of Her eye was bulging.  The whole eyeball was swollen and eerily fat, and a lima-bean sized pouch was extruding from the white sclera and swelling up and over the iris, covering the color of Her eye.
Eyes, Peanuts.  Heebiejeebie.  Eye stuff is ick.  It was the one part of EMT school I cringed in.
So because I was worried about the eye, and because it was only getting worse, we left kindergarten and spent a long afternoon in the ER.  Little One got some medicine and a cold compress, and after a couple of days was just fine; good as new.
But the scariest part of the story, to me, wasn't physical at all.  It was that when Her eye had started bothering Her, She covered it with one hand, and kept writing.  When Her teacher asked if She was ok, She lied and said yes.  She excused Herself to the bathroom.
She didn't come back for a long time, and so the teacher checked and found Her hiding in the bathroom, embarrassed by Her freakish look, rinsing Her eye in the sink.
Her teacher had FREAKED OUT.  The nurse said she was hysterical.  When she spoke to me, she was angry at Little One for the lie.
I didn't talk to Her about this until we were home, I knew She was ok, and we'd all had a chance to rest and decompress.  Then I filled J in, and we talked to Her together.  We told Her the truth.
"Little One.  It's lucky it was just a pancake and a swollen eye.  Because you need to know that if it had been maybe a nut, and you had gone off and hid like that...you could have died in the bathroom.  You could have stopped breathing and no one would be there to help you.  You HAVE to tell your teacher.  It is the most important thing." 
The silver lining is that when these things happen I don't get brushed off as the over-dramatic mom as much.  Now that Her teacher has seen Little One get a freaky fat eye from one roundhouse-kick by a pancake molecule, She is much more interested in asking me to read labels for snacks and keeping Little One away from spills.  Between our chat and missing a birthday party to spend hours in an ER waiting room, I'm hoping Little One has learned something, too.
The struggle between caution and level-headed moderation is a line as thin as the blade on a double-edged sword.  On one hand, we don't want Her to be paranoid so that She is living under a constant shadow of fear.  We want Her to go out into the big world, have adventures, live.  We don't want Her to be sheltered in a bubble of parental protection to the point that She doesn't learn how to navigate the reality on Her own (after all, the great majority of deaths from allergic reactions occur in teens and young adults- basically as soon as children outgrow their parent's reach).  And we don't want to ignore how real the social pains of food allergy can be at Her age; isolating Her and pointing out Her difference and making Her friends uncomfortable being around Her.  
On the other hand.  There is this story of a seven year old who died at school when a friend gave her a peanut on the playground. And this one, where a girl died in her school cafeteria.  Or this boy, who had two cardiac arrests, despite being given his epipen, when teacher forgot and gave him a hazelnut  candy in one of those dreaded birthday crap-eating fests that happen in Little One's class every other week.  This one, who nearly died after building a gingerbread house in school.
And many others.
Because talking about food allergy sometimes seems to get across about as well as that text message I got from the nurse. People are so attached to and in love with food. It's like hearing that your best friend goes around and axe-murders people at night- "cookies? really?  cookies are harmless! My cookies could never hurt anyone! It's just a cookie."  People seem to almost take offense.  When I was discussing Her food allergies with Her teacher at the beginning of the year, the teacher seemed a little annoyed- "obviously, I want to keep Her safe."  Yes.  No one is saying you are going to tie Her up and force peanuts down Her throat.  No one is calling you a sadist.
But something that is inherently nice, nourishing, even comforting to you, is- believe it! It's true!- deadly poison for some of us.  It is that big a deal to hand out a treat that "looks ok" without reading the label.  Or to expect that a little child not only have the 100% infallible judgement to stay away from allergens "because they are old enough to know better", but also to expect them to have superhuman psychic powers and know what ingredients were used in every processed cracker or home-baked treat brought into school, or that someone spilled milk on their chair yesterday and it wasn't washed with soap and water.  Or that the girl eating pancakes across the table is about to reach out.
A kindergarten teacher tasked with a bunch of crazy mini-people who have various special needs, language abilities, and behavior problems can easily view a food allergy as just one more kid issue to add to a long list.
Especially when my child does know better, is personally responsible beyond Her years, and classroom days go by smoothly without incidents.  It starts to feel like, hey.  What's the big deal?  She  must not be that sensitive, because every time we've bent the rules and let kids with peanuts/eggs/milk sit next to Her at the table so far, it's been fine.
Until it isn't.
It may seem harsh to tell a five-year-old that She could have died on a bathroom floor.  Or to tell it to Her teacher.  But it's true.
It's a strange world, as a parent, when you spend a whole afternoon in the ER, when your child gets a big swollen eye, and you feel thankful.  But I'm dance-a-jig, shout-to-the-stars, prayers-of-thanks grateful for that ugly swollen eye.
Because even though She had a couple of really bad days- She's still here.
As for the nurse and the teacher, of all the info I've showered them with since before school even started, this episode I think had the effect on them that those three intelligible key words in the transcribed text had on me.  It was just a swollen eye.  But, I hope, it was enough for them to get the message.   

Cut To Scene

I think it's so annoying, in movies, how there will be this one scene, and then suddenly the next scene makes no sense because there's a terrible discontinuity. But then the movie tries to get you to waive all that by flashing a little subtitle... "*Two Months Later*".
Lazy.  That's what it is guys.
But that's basically what this post is.  I want to share more about our Great American Road Trip! But for now lets just say that we left off somewhere in Indiana, and now:
*Two Months Later*
Here we are in Maryland.  Ta Da!
The scene begins in total and utter chaos, with me wondering about without even decent shoes on, looking a little like the survivor of a zombie apocalypse.  Moving piles of Things up and down stairs, and here and there, and drinking a little too much coffee.
Of the six we have made together, this was the roughest move we have had so far, for several reasons.  Add that to also trying to unpack and recover from a two month trip, and add that to the fact that J has started residency in earnest and now only exists in our scene as one of the aforementioned zombies, shuffling and groaning occasionally through the background, and what you get is overwhelmed.
Oh no, sorry, that's me.  I get overwhelmed.  I get overwhelmed and drink some more coffee.  (Because caffeine is great for raw nerves.)  What you get is nada, because who can type when the laptop is lost in a sea of ohmigoshwehavewaytoomuchSTUFF?!
Thankfully, the scene has a hero, and it is my mom.  My mom who is taking children to zoos all day, cooking, cleaning, painting walls, sewing curtains, and making some more coffee.  She understands me, Peanuts.  Thanks, mom.
Add mom to the fact that my kids are amazing and rolling with the punches (like how I rearrange their room every day), and J somehow in the little time before he turned into a zombie built a whole ton of stuff and bought food, to the fact that the neighbors are super nice, the neighborhood is cute, and we have already been welcomed in the most generous ways by good friends, and what you get is hope.  Ok, right, that's me again. But hope is good for all of us, Peanuts, amiright?
We're going to work it out.  As for the trip and some pictures and maybe something interesting (the last one might be too hard), let's just say...
*To Be Continued* 

Phase One Complete

Well, Peanuts.  We somehow survived the pack out.
People always say, "oh how nice! How nice that they pack for you! That saves you so much time and effort!"  Yes.  It is and it does.  But.
I have learned from experience now, that sitting back with a cocktail as the (lowest bidders for the job) packers do it all for you, is a decision that will only necessitate a great many cocktails on the other end of that move.  The packers are about speed; they see something, dump it in a box, move on.  So if, for instance, you have a little box of pins in your sewing drawer, it will be all kinds of interesting unpacking the box they got dumped into when you get to the new place.  Like your own welcome cactus in a box!  Or if, for instance, you are me and you like things to be organized and so you put everything into little labeled boxes and baskets and such, you are going to be silently listing all the expletives you know when you see that the packers took aaaallllll the categorized, organized toys in the whole playroom, and dumped each box out together in one big box, and then put all your boxes in another box. Why?  Why commingle the barbies with the trains?  Why all the legos all mixed in with the monopoly game pieces and hundreds of puzzle pieces?  Did I insult someone's mother?  I mean, why?  Imagine how fun it is to have a whole house to set up, and have to spend an entire afternoon sitting on the floor....playing puzzles. And jewelry. 20 little chain necklaces all in one giant knot.  That will take two afternoons.  If there is trash in the wastebasket, it's getting dumped in a box (with other stuff!) and packed.  If there are wet washcloths hanging, you are getting a box of mold on the other end. And so.  I have learned the importance of pre-packing.  This time around, with J's help, I managed to get it all done in two (very long) days (and most of the night).  Here are my tips for military movers:

1) Have a yard sale and/or donation cleanse first.  I think it helps the transition to involve the kids.  We went through all their stuff and made a pile of things that "someone else might love to have".  On yard-sale day, I spread out two big blankets, gave them a cash box, a stool, and an box for a counter, and let them set up their "store".  They spent half the morning working on their displays, putting shoes here and books there. They were in charge of setting prices, negotiating with buyers, collecting and counting money, and giving back change.  The rule is, whatever money is made from the sale of their things, they get to keep.  This is a pretty good motivation to let things go.

2) Go through all bottles of shampoo and such and either ziplock them or be sure those lids are closed and tight.  The packers do not always care if the shampoo is open and upside-down.

3) Tiny things like needles, thumbtacks, paperclips, and jewelry have to be placed into a container that will not open.  For jewelry, I fold each necklace or pair of earrings into a handkerchief; roll, place another in, roll, etc. to keep them padded and separate.  Then I put the rolled handkerchiefs into a jewelry bag zip it up, and wrap it.

4)Movers wrap is my best friend.  It's basically a ginormous roll of really strong saran wrap.  All my little boxes and baskets, all the puzzles, and so on get wrapped up in that stuff.  This time I wrapped an entire cabinet of little drawers.  Because I am not separating dress-up shoes from tiaras all day in July.  I would rather have the moving guy look at me funny.  I explain in the beginning that if it's wrapped in plastic, it goes as is.  Some packers hate me for it (takes up a lot more boxes), some love it (most of the job is done for them).  But it's the difference between unpacking a room in one day, or taking a week to sort things out.  I've even taken drawers out of dressers, wrapped them, and had them pack the drawers into boxes.  When I get there, I just stick the drawers in and I'm done! It's easy to wash a drawer at a time and put a whole load back in one place, rather than re-sort everything.

5) Make signs.  I empty a closet or two myself, then put everything I don't want packed in there and make a "do not pack" sign on the door.

6) Because things can be handled roughly, lost, or stored in uncontrolled conditions, go through and take out anything that is really special, or can't be replaced (like old film photo albums, little clay baby handprints, old family things, and a hard-drive with photos and videos), and pull it out.  Usually we put them in our trunk and drive it to the new house ourselves, but since that would mean hauling it around for six weeks (and I have to admit I have a ton of old photo albums), we left it with a friend this time.  We also had a generous friend collect and babysit our house plants until we can pick them up.

7)Anything you don't want dirty (throw pillows, sofas, anything) or that is really fragile, wrap yourself.

7) Do ALL the laundry, empty wastebaskets, wash ALL the dishes, and keep people from using them.  So hard with little kids who are in the routine of throwing things away in certain places.  And changing their outfits five HUNDRED times a day.

Not to mention, all the stuff in high cabinets or shelves has to be brought down, all the stuff on the walls taken down, swing sets and play houses dismantled, electronics unplugged and serial numbers listed, hardware labeled, etc.

So even though it truly is a huge service to have packers come and do the heavy work, it's not exactly a breeze, unless I want to pay for it later.
We arranged to have the Sisters stay late at school on those days to keep them out of harms way, and after the packers left I would move things around to make their room safe again.
Coming home and seeing all your stuff gone and a bunch of boxes in its place can be upsetting for little ones.  To help ease the pain, we bend some of our rules during moving time.  We let them watch a movie on a school night (bonus of keeping them entertained safely, away from towers of boxes that could topple if climbed), have popsicles, and stay up late for extra cuddles.  I also gave them a sheet of "This box belongs to me" stickers to put on their boxes so we can find them right away when we get there.

And the last night, we got to go to a hotel with a swimming pool.  Oooohhhh.  Aaaaahhhhh.

So far Missy actually seems to be loving the adventure of it all, and until She collapses from the lack of naps at the end of the day is extraordinarily cheerful.  Little One is very, very sad to leave friends behind, and to leave the familiar, and alternates between being happy and excited, sad and tearful, and moody and obstinate.  Frankly I'm pretty much the same, so I get it.  Moving is hard.  It takes a lot of work and is, in every sense of the word, unsettling.  The one I'm looking to as a role model in all of this is Little Mister.  Mister has had some protesting over the disruption of His perfect schedule.  But overall He is dealing with it all better than any of us.

He doesn't care about our stuff being boxed up, or whether it will arrive in one piece, or at all.  Who cares about a bunch of stuff?  He doesn't care that His fancy play gym is gone and He has to roll around on a flattened box, playing with some sunglasses and a random plastic lid.  Why not be happy with whatever we have in this moment?  He doesn't care that we are leaving places and people behind. Why not focus on Now, on the sound of the birds in the trees and the warm breeze through the window and the amazing entertainment of our own toes? Really, so long as He has His most basic of needs covered and is with His loved and trusted family, He hardly cares what else goes on.

I have cleaned, sorted, padded, wrapped for our move.  I have packed, labeled, planned, back-up planned for our trip.  I have good-byed, thanked, and KIT promised many friends.  Ok.  But now?  Now is the time to be like Mister, and let it all go.  Now we set off on our next chapter, and take it day by day, moment by moment.  Despite all of it, things will get lost.  They will break.  Vacation failures will happen and some friendships will fade.  But we have our most basic needs covered, and we are all together.  We really couldn't ask for more.
Of course, swimming, warm baths, The Magic School Bus, and a pizza party in our hotel room aren't bad bonuses at all.

Seven

You might not believe it.  But really, you can ask J, his mom, teachers, friends, and many random strangers we've been in elevators or standing in lines with.  And they will tell you it's true.
For months, Little One has been announcing to everyone who would listen: "Mommy haves a baby boy in hers tummy! It's a brother! He's coming on December 7."  
We would gently correct Her; He's due on the 12th, love.  Not the 7th.
"But that's when He's coming." 
We figured She guessed 7 because it's the day of the month Her own birthday falls on.  Or maybe She confused the date with the AFC Charity Benefit, since we'd told Her I'd be traveling to DC that day to volunteer, as I do every year.  Whatever the reason, She stuck to Her prediction. On December 6th, as I prepared for my trip, we all joked.  Wouldn't it be so funny if She was right and the baby suddenly came the day of The Event?  I mean.  What are the chances.
On the 6th, I woke up full of energy.  I had a lot to do to get ready for my trip.  All day my Mother In Law kept saying, "Don't you ever stop?  Won't you sit down for just a minute?!"  But I didn't.
I emptied and scrubbed and vacuumed the inside of the car.  I rearranged the car seats; one, two, three.  I cleaned out all the the kids' closets, organizing by size and season, folding and hanging.  I did six loads of laundry.  Organized the pantry. Took out the recycling. Cleaned the house top to bottom, hauling the vacuum up the stairs.  Hauling it back down.  I got out all the baby stuff from the garage; I washed the bottles and the teethers and the crinkly toys.  Cleaned up and swept the garage while I was at it.  I finished up some wrapping and decorating, I started the holiday cards.  I painted my toenails.  At- no kidding- 9pm, my generous MIL accompanied me shopping so I could wrap up a gift for the birthday party the Littles were attending later that weekend.  I just needed to get stuff done.  All the while I noticed that the Braxton-Hicks contractions I've had so many of this pregnancy were a little stronger than usual.  But I didn't think much of it, until around the time we were walking the store that evening.  "You've dropped," my MIL noticed, "like, way dropped."  I did feel like I was waddling around.  I did feel a lot of those practice contractions. 
Hmm, I thought.
Nah.
But then, ouch.  Hmmm.....
By around eleven PM I was writing them down, timing them.  Just to see. 
"Is it today?", J asked.
"NO.  It is NOT today.  I'm going to DC in the morning.  I'm going to the event."
J gave me a certain smile.  "Ok."  He said.  But, like Little One, he knew.
By midnight there was no more denying it.  The contractions were strong and the list I'd been keeping read one every ten minutes like clockwork.
"So.   Today?" 
"Maybe."  
I walked around the house awhile.  The list read- five minutes, five minutes, five minutes.
But guys.  It was late. And after all that productivity all day, I was dead tired.  I mean, SO tired.
I laid down.  They spaced out again.  All night, the contractions got stronger and more painful.  But the timing didn't budge- ten minutes, ten minutes.
I tried to rest between them, but it was a long night.  As the sun came up, I was struggling through each one, wondering how long this was going to take, for goodness' sake.  The Littles came bounding in, bubbling with hugs and cuddles and can-we-please-have-waffles-it's-Saturday! And looking at me funny when I would suddenly sit up straight and take deep breaths.
J took them down to eat and kept checking in on me.  I was sitting in bed, just waiting out contractions. They were really strong, now. 
"Why don't you take a hot shower?" J suggested.  "It helped you the other times." 
"Ok, but will you stay?  I'll call out when a contraction starts and you can help me keep timing them."
I stood up.  I had two contractions just walking across the room.  That was weird.
I got into the hot water.  But, just like that, the contractions had gone from 10 minutes apart to two minutes apart.  I was in the shower yelling- "another one! ....And now!... NOW!" After about ten minutes J came in and told me to get out.  But I didn't want to. 
"The hot water just helps so much though."
"GET OUT. GET DRESSED." 
J does not often, in fact basically does not ever, outright order me around.  But he knew. Thank goodness for J.
I got dressed and, because I am apparently myself even when in transition-stage labor, stood there putting on my mascara and brushing my hair with contractions coming one minute apart.
"GET IN THE CAR!" J was almost yelling now.
I put on my favorite new maternity/nursing dress, so I could wear it at the hospital, after.
"GET. IN. THE.CAR."
I got in the car. A contraction came on, stronger than ever.
"Whoa...J.  J!! We're not going to make it.  We're never going to make it!"  
"I know! That's why I said to get in the car!"
"AHH! J! Drive faster.  DRIVE FASTER!"
J was racing along the freeway, thankfully free of traffic for once.
A contraction would hit and I would start hollering,
"It's too hot in hereTooHotTooHot!!!"
He rolled the window down.
"NOOOOO!  NO NotGoodEitherThatIsNOT GOOD EITHER!"
It would pass.
"Sorry.  Sorry J.  Yelling helps.  It just does."
"I know."
"Don't pay attention I don't mean to yell at you"
"I know that, love, it's ok."
"AHHH!  WHY-IS-IT-SO-HOT-DRIVE-FASTER!"
And so it went.  It became very real to me how close to having a baby we really were.  I remembered Little Miss, and began to become seriously concerned that this baby was going to be born in the downtown tunnel.  
But He wasn't.  We made it to the hospital and parked the car.  And then, because this is how patient-friendly this hospital is, I got to walk.  Across the parking garage.  Down the long hallway.  Through the pharmacy, where the pregnant lady and her friend stood with their small children cooing to them, "Look!  Look, guys, that lady's going to have a baby!  She's having a...yikes don't have it here in the hallway."  
I was not yelling, now. I was walking, very slowly.  A contraction would come on and I would stare at the floor and take a deep, silent breath, and think to myself, "Keep walking.  Keep walking. Keep walking."  And I did.
At the elevator, the mothers let us on first.  "Go ahead, we'll take the next one. Good luck!" 
Some hospital staff person got on with us.  "I'm guessing four?" She said.  Labor and Delivery. 
We nodded.  The doors opened and we got off.  I was squeezing the bajeezus out of poor J's hand.
We realized it was the wrong floor.  The lady had gotten off on three.  We waited for the elevator again. We finally made it to labor and delivery, though, and I could (TMI alert) actually feel the baby at this point.  We walked up to the window where the nurse was sipping a coffee, looking at a computer screen.
We stood there.
She sat there.
We stood there.
contraction.  "HI! Hi, hello?"  Deep breaths.
"Yes? Can I help you with something."
I looked at her like she had five heads.
"I'm having a baby."  Deep breaths.  Deeeeep breath.
"ok....?"
I started wondering which one of us was crazy.
"This is labor and delivery, right?  I mean..." contraction. "I'M HAVING A BABY RIGHT. NOW!!!"
She got annoyed with my rudeness.  She took a sip of her coffee.
"Ok, well, if you'll just take a seat over there, I'll get your paperwork together."
I could feel the baby's head.  I pressed my hands on the counter.
"I don't think you understand."   contraction.  "I REALLY THINK YOU SHOULD LET ME BACK! I REALLY NEED TO GO BACK NOW!"
J tried to calm me down, he stepped to the window to try to talk to her. 
She blinked twice, very slowly.  She handed J a clipboard.
"If you'll just complete this paperwork,  then I will let triage know you have arrived."
Triage.  Triage?! I looked at the form.  I could barely see through the blur of pain from another contraction, but the thing seriously had like 50 questions.  It might as well have been a biochemistry final exam. J's pen was flying over it and I was ready to kill people.
"NO! NO!  THIS BABY IS COMING! IT'S COMING NOW!"  
The nurse looked at me and sipped her coffee.  She didn't say a thing.
This is the point when some kind of instinctive delirium took over.  I felt the baby coming and I knew it was time and any slight grasp on reason or logic I'd been clinging to was gone.  I went over to the locked double doors to the delivery deck and began screaming.
"HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE! PLEASE SOMEONE HELP!!!" 
The doors swung open and some visibly annoyed nurses rushed over. 
"Ok, ok.  Calm down, please.  Lets get you into triage and- " contraction.
 "AH! THE BABY IS COMING! IT IS COMING!"
 "-and we will see if you are dilated.  Do you need to use the restroom first?"
This was such an insane question to me at that moment that it totally threw me off.
"What? No! Wait yes.  No.  Yes. NOOOOOO!!! THE BABY IS COMING HELP!"
They pulled me into triage and as I climbed onto the bed, my water broke.
It was the end of that lovely dress I'd bothered changing into.  
Suddenly, there was a rush of activity.  I was flying down a hallway and someone was yelling out "Meconium! Meconium!" and I was looking around for J and calling "Is my baby ok? Is he ok??"  We got into the delivery room and they were telling me to get off the stretcher onto the bed. 
These people, guys. I had been doing everything within my power, I mean everything,  since the moment we left the house to hold that baby in.  But we'd made it to the delivery room.  And the fact that they were asking me to get up and move told me they were all freaking insane and would never get it, and I decided in that moment: the hell with you people. And I stopped trying so hard to hold him in.  I just closed my eyes and did nothing.
So, as the nurses were lifting me from the stretcher to the bed- literally in midair- the baby's head popped out.  The moment I was on the bed someone said "ok push!" and I did, and the rest of the baby was out.  We had made it just in the nick of time.  We had a son.
Born after almost 14 hours of labor, yet all at once.  With a fairly dramatic entrance, weighing exactly seven pounds.  And born (with no regard whatsoever for my weekend plans, just as His sister predicted) on the seventh.
Did I ever tell you?  Seven happens to be my lucky number. 

An Overly Opinionated Post

Little one snuggled up for an extra long goodnight hug, and sighed, her lip blooming into a little pout.
"What is it?" I asked
LO: "Mommy...why is it? Why is it you and daddy has always to work so much? All the time?! Why is you always taking care of the house, and cleaning the things, and folding stuff and all those things? Why does you have to work so much?"
C: "Well, Little One, because that's my job right now.  To take care of you and Missy and take care of the house.  I have to try to work hard at my jobs."
LO: "But whaa-hyyyyy? You don't need take care of the house! Its fine! You should do other stuff!"
C: "Oh. What do you think I should do instead?"
LO: "Sleep! Sleep and rest! And color, draw pictures.  And play."
C: "You think I need more playing time."
LO: "Yes! Stop washing all the stuff mama.  You and daddy work too much."

Later, when we'd said our goodnights, I thought about what she'd said.  My first impulse was to feel terribly guilty, jump on the sappy-mom-blog post all us moms have seen a hundred iterations of, and throw down the mop. Let the dust bunnies collect and organize and start a union, and dedicate each of my darling babies' waking hours to coloring fields of flowers, being ordered about in endless games of pretend, and mixing mud pies.
I wanted to, I really did.  For a minute.
And then I remembered that I do all of those things. I do them all! Just not constantly.
And here's the thing about that.  Part of being a good mom is actually taking care of my kids.  Not taking care to cherish them, not taking care to fulfill their every emotional need- taking actual, physical care of them.  Part of that includes making sure that they have healthy meals, clean clothes, and a hygienic environment in which we can all find things and feel at peace.  When did it really become fashionable to let children live in a sty and eat take-out so that mom has more time to play dress-up? And who does that really sound like it benefits?
There's another reason I think I'll hang onto that mop, after all.  While I could try to do it all, play with the children all day and then madly rush to get every chore done while they sleep, I don't actually want them to think that the laundry washes itself and the toothpaste on the counter evaporates overnight.  I want them to know that having a nice life takes work.  I want them to know about work.
I want them to see me work, and know that J has a job and works hard and I have a job and work hard, because that is what grown-ups do. It's certainly what I expect my kids to do, when they are grown up.  And rather than spring that lovely little reality on them all at once around college age, as I've seen done many times, I personally would rather break it to them gradually.  In a way that it becomes a part of the background, the fabric of living, taken for granted that in life you grow up, and you work hard.
So that you can have what you need, so that you can contribute to the greater good of your choice, so that you make goals and meet them, and know what it means to achieve and be productive.  And so that when you have children to provide for, with your job or by personally scrubbing the aftermath of an afternoon of mud pies in the garden, you can do a good job for them.
I know my kids wish I spent all my time revolving around them like tiny suns, letting the rest of the universe take care of itself.  Sometimes, to tell the truth, that's what I dream of too.  Building a duplo city is a lot more appealing than picking up the dog poo in the yard.  But I'm not going to hide behind the "cool moms don't care about chores" trend when I'd rather play.  I'm going to get my stuff done, so we don't all step in it.
And so my kids learn that although they are the center of the little universe inside my heart, always, they are not the actual center of the literal universe, all the time.  Sometimes. We have to be with ourselves.  Or play with our siblings and friends, even if they are less likely to take directives. Or to wait.  And sometimes, actually a lot of times, we have to work.  Hard.  I want my kids to learn that everything is not about them.
And then, when they grow up, if they know how to set goals and persist until they achieve them, how to get along with others and how to be alone sometimes, and how to do their own laundry for Pete's sake; if they look back over a childhood that felt organized and smelled like coconut curry instead of stale laundry, then.  Then I hope they will see that actually, it was all about them, after all.  

Living Large

Today I spent eight hours with Littles and Bananas at the hospital.  We did a sort of tour of waiting rooms, triage stations and exam tables.  Then I dragged the lot of them across a parking deck in wind and rain to find an exploding diaper.  Changed the poor shivering buns on the passenger seat, then drove the soaked bunch of hungry, no-nap children whining in harmony through two hours of rush hour to get home.  J is out of town again.
It's not all rainbows and sunshine all the time, is it?
In fact, it is simply amazing how much actual, literal crap is involved in this job.  I honestly would write more for you Peanuts about our current lives, except that practically every story involves poo or vomit or both.  If I can't be spared it, Peanuts, at least you can.  Some of it, anyways. 
Tomorrow we go back to a doctor, Friday to another.  Between the four of them we are the traveling band of medical maladies.  Since I've been hit with a good strong respiratory infection the last week, I make a perfect ringleader!
But even though the house is a wreck and the kids and I all had a great laugh today about the state of my rainy-day hair, we are hanging in there.  At the end of the day we get to snuggle up, all smelling like baby soap, all in our fuzzy jammies, and read stories.
Suddenly the rain seems cozy and friendly, the messy house still feels like home.  The long day melts away behind us.  That too has passed.  And now we're Here, wrapped in blankets, cuddled together in an imaginary adventure to dream about soon. 
This season of life feels large to me.  As large as I am! The days are so long, the work is so ponderous.  The headaches are so blinding and the sacrifices demanding.  But the payoffs.  The sweet moments.  They are breathtakingly huge as well. As long as I remember to hold on to those while the challenges fall into my lap, life may get heavy, but maybe there will be balance. 
And hot chocolate.  There will always be that. 

Things Are Going....Swimmingly.

Now that J is home (yay!),  things are running right along at home. We have a rhythm going. 
The Baby Banana is as adorable as it is possible to be.  Baby Banana relishes the attention of the Littles and so they pour it on.  They jump along with the jumper (in fact Little One is the one who taught BB to jump!) they bring soft toys to jingle, and help BB practice babbles and silly faces.  Little One sits in front when BB does tummy time and gently pulls BB onto Her lap.  BB curls up and rests on Her thigh, sucks on those fingers and coos.  Little One melts.  She croons- "Oh baaaby, pretty baaaby, you are so sweeeet.  You are a daaaarling, a wonderful baaaaby.  How I love you! Sweet angel baaaaby!" BB is sleeping.  She melts again.
Missy asks to hold BB in Her lap.  I prop them up together on the couch; BB is almost as big as She is.  Miss looks like a proud mother hen.  "Look I'm so big gul! I a Momma! I can be so gentle see?  I can do a good job!  Hi baby! You my friend?  I think baby say yes, Mommy!"
Little Banana seems a bit younger, but is just Missy's age.  When they aren't having a standoff over who can be the Most Two, they play nicely; when Little One is around they are three peas in a pod.  Missy calls Little Banana "Friend", LB calls Missy "sis-er".  The two of them follow Little One around like ducklings, to Little One's great delight.  The baby dolls in this house are exquisitely cared for. 
Little Banana has been here long enough to begin settling in and testing me carefully. What if I say "no"? Lb wonders. What if I dangle this piece of turkey over the floor until I catch an eye, and then drop it?  What happens if I knock over Miss's milk?  Or take Her toy?  Or paint pictures on the glass with my snot?  Or refuse to eat- anything- and instead say "banana. cookie." over and over and over?  This is the nature of things.  There is an adjustment, a settling in.  A readjustment.  Typically Bananas aren't supposed to be with us long enough for that second phase. 
Since Little Mister is poised to hit this family like a precious, adorable wrecking ball in a swaddling blanket, we were only approved for short-term foster care placements.  However, there have been some twists and turns in the life story of these two particular bananas, and it appears they may be with us for some time. 
I'm sad about that, because foster care is no place for children.  I know it's an odd thing to say, but though the system is certainly better than nothing (I've seen places where there's Nothing; broken is drastically better than Nothing), it is still a mess.
I'm happy about it, because they are precious and despite the medical issues and the testing and all the car seat buckles (why has no one invented the self-buckling car seat?!) I like having them here.  It's fun having four- there are more snuggles and giggles.  I like them in particular; they are sweet little people I'm honored to know.
And then I'm sad about it again because as much as having four is fun, as much as I love these special bananas with all my heart already, taking care of them is not the hard part.  It's that broken system.  It's being constantly sent all over town to appointments which may or may not exist, with people who may or may not show up.  It's spending 3 hours every day on the phone with social workers and lawyers and various affiliated people who are all somehow involved in the Bananas' case, but who never seem to speak to each other, only to me.  ALL the time.  And they rarely agree. 
It's never being able to clean my house because there is always someone coming over to judge the cleanliness of my house.  It's being asked why I don't have them on a morning nap schedule by the same people who have insisted I drag all the children out to some meeting or doctor every. single. morning. since they have been here.  That stuff.  That's the stressful part.  A couple little kids, with or without some health issues, is no problem.  The kids are lovely.  It's the grown-ups, guys.  The grown-ups are driving me CRAZY. 
It's funny, but I had been prepared for the kids to be so much harder to deal with than any of them have been.  But, ignorantly I suppose, I was not prepared for the grown-ups to be so terribly frustrating and exhausting.  You have no idea how many times a day I want to send them to time-out. 
Instead, I am channeling my favorite cartoon fish (hey we all need a role model), and trying to just keep swimming, just keep swimming.  Luckily for me, J is my emotional life-vest as I swim, and he always gives me a little lift when I start to feel in over my head.  Luckily for me I have a few really, really good friends who have been there to help me along;
luckily my own Littles are such expert swimmers themselves that all I really have to do is try to keep up with them. 
And when it really starts to get to me, Baby Banana coos and gurgles at me with big, shiny eyes. Little Banana reaches for me and wants to sit and rock for awhile, hugging me tight.  My Littles climb up too, and for just a minute before they start to bug each other or get bored and run off to make messes, I stop swimming.  In fact, I'm floating. 
Long enough to catch my breath. Long enough to remember the Whys.  And then off we go again....swimming, just keep swimming.....

This Beat Is Bananas

The Department of Human Services cares about me.
It cares in a diefied way, an omniscient way.  It cares about my deeper being; my long-term character development.  It wants me to be all I can be.
I know this because days like today, I feel confident that DHS knows me.  It knows my soul.  My flaws.  DHS knows that I am an impatient person.  That I am a type A, lets-get-things-done, according-to-plan person.  It knows that I have raging Mama-bear tendencies when it comes to any child within detectable existence, much less those in my care, and that rage is bad.  Rage and impatience and all of that.
DHS is like a swami, people.  It knows.
That, I am certain, is why it goes to such loving, meticulous lengths to help me overcome these character flaws, by giving me such extreme and mandatory opportunities to practice patience.  And changing of plans.  Three times.  Eight times.  16 times.  To practice not becoming ballistic when seven different people make mistakes in one day and all of them adversely affect my babies.  Rage is not a good thing.  Not a good thing.  Ooooommmmm.  DHS has even given me a mantra!
After spending three hours waddling back and forth across every wing of a hospital while pushing a decrepit double-wide stroller with one trick wheel and simultaneously balancing a two-year old on my pregnant belly, after SIX HOURS of waiting rooms and car seats with three, and then four children and NO LUNCH for anyone, after over a dozen fruitless phone calls, I can say for sure.
DHS cares about me extra today. 
How they managed to throw in the exploding diarrhea child and the vomiting baby I really don't know.  But after today I feel confident they had it all covered.  It's the omniscience.
Now it could possibly be the strained muscle from hauling a pack and play upstairs with a child on my back, but I don't think so.  I think it's just growing pains, you know, from all the personal growth.  I'm feeling it!  Thanks DHS.  I practiced patience all day.  Keep it up! Keep it coming!  Someday I'll learn.  Ommmmmmmmm. 

Bananas In Pajamas

So awhile ago, J left to go bobbing about the sea on a boat again.  Not for long, just for a bit.  Such is the Navy life.  Wouldn't you know it, he'd been gone just a day when I got a call saying there was an emergency need for two Bananas to find a place to sleep.  Four kids under five, on my own, 7 months pregnant can't be that hard, right?  Right?  ....hello?...... Right.
So they came.  In their pajamas, just in time to meet us, wonder what they'd gotten into, and go to sleep.   They've been playing and sleeping and eating and reading with us since.  After spending today at a farm/playground AND a shopping trip through a packed commissary with the lot of them, I can honestly say these things:

1) Ok, friends with large families, ok.  I always thought maybe you were being a little unfriendly, a little sensitive.  But no, really, it gets super obnoxious really fast when every other random stranger in public has some comment or invasive question about the kids you are hauling.  I mean, seriously. Call me crazy again and I will show some crazy TO you, people! 

2) The question "are they all yours?" is particularly common and particularly awkward when, no, they aren't- but, well, kind of- and anyways they are listening and probably would not love being pointed out as Not Belonging seven times a day.  So I'm going with "aren't they sweet?" as an answer. And then just laughing as they look at my belly, and the baby, and then the belly, and just stand there doing math in their heads and looking confused.

3) There needs to be a minivan version of shopping carts.

4)  Four Under Five are not that hard.  Even pregnant, even J-less.  In fact,

5) It's pretty fun.  There are a lot of extra giggles around here.  Lots of them are mine.

6) There may be nothing more inspiring than the way children can instantly accept and love each other.  What is wrong with adults that we can't do that?

7) I'm tired.

In fact, I'm too tired to make it to 10.  Let's assume it would have been something funny and/or insightful.  And on that note, I will make like my kids and the bananas, put on some pajamas, and go to bed.  There will be adventures waiting and giggling to do in the morning, I'm sure. 

Adventures of Allergy Girl

Putting up that Epipen Apron post the other day reminded me that it might be past time for an update here about that sort of thing.  I like to keep the Littles' Fan Club here posted on food allergy stuff for three reasons:
1)It helps me keep track of it all.  Let's be honest, I have the memory of an aging ex-acid-junkie.
2)There is a shocking amount of outdated or plain wrong information out there about food allergies.  This is my version of shouting from the rooftops, "A LITTLE ICE CREAM IS NOT BETTER THAN A LOT! A LITTLE DEATH IS THE SAME AS A LOT OF DEATH!"
3) Since so many of you three loyal readers spend time with the Littles in real life, I'd sure love you to know what's going on.  So you're never tempted to, say, give Little One just a little ice cream.

Last year when we moved here we went to the new pediatric allergist, who is very good and very kind.  He's a practical, evidence-based doctor, which I like.  However, because of these beneficial traits, he did not quite believe my story.
I couldn't really blame him, so when he insisted on starting from scratch and doing all the tests and challenges on Little One to See For Himself, I sighed and went along with it.  He started with bloodwork.
When the results came in, he talked about how these tests can sometimes be unreliable, and these probably were off a bit, making things look worse than they are.  So, to really know what was going on, he would need to go with the most accurate, gold-standard method of testing for allergy- the food challenge. 
Little One's food allergies are down to three:
1) Nuts (ALL nuts)
2) Dairy
3) Eggs
So we started with the one Her bloodwork shows She is least allergic to- eggs.
Allergist explained that most people with egg allergy can still tolerate egg that is baked- say in a cake or bread- because the high temperature of an oven changes the protein so that it isn't recognized by the body.  So to start with a Sure Bet, we would do that first.
I baked a batch of 18 muffins. I used ONE egg in the recipe.
We started by giving her a crumb about the size of a lentil.
He gave me a wink and a nod and said he'd check back in 15 minutes.
After three, the nurse hauled him back.
Little One's face was covered in hives, which were rapidly spreading down Her torso and arms.  Her eye was puffing up.
The Allergist just stood there dumbstruck for a moment.  His jaw actually dropped. 
And that was the end of that.

Later we came back to try milk.  Because of the first experience, instead of starting with drinking even a drop of milk, they started with a scratch test.  She was given a tiny needle prick to make an invisible disruption in the natural barrier of Her skin. Then they placed a drop of diluted milk protein- we are talking about only a few molecules of milk- on that spot.  And waited.
Before a full minute had passed, the area around that spot was covered in hives so large they exceeded the chart used by the clinic to record them.
Not only that. At some point, She must have bent Her arm, and a little of the serum, placed on Her forearm, must have touched Her bicep.  Because that part was also swollen with hives. No scratch needed!
Obviously, our "three-hour food challenge" was stopped after that one minute.  She was given benadryl and steroids and made to sit there for an hour in case She stopped breathing.  She didn't, but it sure made an impact on Allergist.

We didn't even try peanuts.  As Allergist joked, we'd better not let Her so much as look at a peanut.

"I'll be honest with you ma'am", he said to me later, "I kind of wanted to be the knight in shining armor, riding up and giving you some of your life back.  I know how hard it is to do what you are doing for your daughter.  But it turns out all I can do is ask you to,  for goodness sake, be even more careful than you already are.  Your daughter's immune response is incredible.  I called your other Allergist and boy did he remember you!  She is the most highly allergic patient either of us have ever seen. Please.  BE SO CAREFUL."

Living with Little One's food allergies is so much a part of what we do in this family, that by now it truly doesn't feel like a lot of work; it really isn't hard.  It's as natural as breathing for us to scan picnic tables for food remnants before sitting, to cut Her apple on a separate board from the one we used to slice the cheese.  It's such an automatic thing for me to keep one hawks eye on your yogurt-eating child, noting everything he touches, and one on Little One, making sure She has a wide berth, that I can do it without changing my expression or interrupting my conversation with you. When you leave my house, there isn't a surface those yogurt-eating hands have touched that I haven't scrubbed within minutes.
I don't do it while mentally cursing you and your evil, toxic snack.  I do it while chatting with the Littles about how fun the playdate was.  Because it isn't an imposition.  It's just life.  This is just the way we do things.  It's so natural that occasionally it strikes me that our normal isn't everyone's, and I have to laugh.  But all families are different.  We all have our own normal.
I don't want people to avoid us, or to scare everyone by screaming at their child to Stay Away! You had eggs for breakfast! Truly, one of the very hardest things about this is that She is old enough to feel left out, old enough to be embarrassed by being made to sit alone at lunch or pointed out by well-meaning friends.
But I do want people to understand that it's real.  That sharing "just a little" birthday cake with Her is not just going to break my anal-retentive rules, or give Her a little tummy ache.  It could be the last thing She eats. Ever.  That She isn't being rude when She won't shake your hand.  She saw you eating goldfish crackers, and knows that your unwashed hand will hurt Her.  That I'm not judging housekeeping when I point out a sticky spot on your couch to my child; I'm alerting Her to a potential danger.
We don't want to keep Her in a bubble; we have to raise Her to live, as She is, in the real world.  For the most part, we keep our epipens handy and a sharp eye, and go about life like we always would have. But it helps to have friends and family who ask before offering Her food, or give us a heads-up when they know Junior spilled peanut butter on his shirt today, and a handshake would be better than a hug.
I don't need people to freak out over what She's doing and touching- that's my job.  But it does help when they understand that we have to do some things differently, and don't mention it when we break out our own cupcake at a party, go over the restaurant booth with a wet wipe, or put a blanket down before She rides in a friend's car seat.  We're not putting on a show.  We're just doing our version of normal. 
Next month we will go back to Allergist and see where She is. To be honest I don't have any expectations that there will be nights in shining armor arriving this year, either. But that's ok.  For now we try to walk the balance between helping Her feel "normal" and teaching Her to Be SO Careful. And I try to teeter along the line between keeping Her safe and throttling the teacher that handed Her a bowl of ice cream.  Ahem. 
For all you who hang around us, thanks for accepting our version of normal, thanks for being mindful that food can be a danger for us.  And for everyone else, there's probably an allergy kid in your life somewhere too.  Maybe you can be their superhero. Maybe you could print the ingredients to the homemade treats you bring to class.  Maybe you could make sure you put your peanut shells in the trash instead of scattering them on the ground at the park.  Maybe when a parent says, "my kid can't have any" you could just say, "okay".  And then, it will be. 
 

Yes, We Have No Bananas

We spent the weekend getting ready for our new banana. 
We rearranged furniture and car seats, put together the new bed.  We did a few things we'd been meaning to, that we knew we wouldn't be able to while Banana was here. 
We camped in the backyard

Complete with S'mores, of course!

We went to our very first theater movie.

Dressed For The Red Carpet

It was a fun theater here which also serves dinner, so we had dinner and a movie.  Fancy.  We saw Planes, which Little Miss enjoyed, and which was only a little too scary for Her big sister. 
We had lots of talks about how this would be a special banana, and the Littles were wonderful about understanding, accepting, and brainstorming ways for our family to make accommodating changes to make Banana feel at home. 
They spent the entire day before the arrival getting ready.  They'd heard blocks were a favorite toy, and so they took each and every one of 4 sets of blocks and polished them with damp cloths.  To make them "super clean and shiny".  They chose the favorite set to keep in Bananas room.  They went through all their toys, picking out the ones they thought Banana would like best, polishing them up, and setting them out to be easily discovered.  They planned games like:
"How about we build up a big tower, and then let Banana smash it! Then we can do it again!" They went through the car carefully cleaning up stray leaves and paper bits and and washing the windows and dash.  They drew some Welcome! pictures.  They saw me off excitedly. 
I went to the meeting to pick up Banana.  I was there, discussing particulars with parents, previous foster-parents, social workers.  Part way through, I was pulled aside. 
The placement had been cancelled.  Just then, that minute. 
In the end, I agree it was the best decision for Banana, for various reasons, which is what matters most.  But I felt an odd combination of relief and disappointment.  And.  I had to go home and face the Littles. 
Little One rushed me at the door, all lit up.  There was a moment of dead silence. 
..."where's Banana?" 
When I told Her She melted into Her father's lap and didn't speak to me for a few minutes.  I broke the news to Miss.  She glared and shook Her head vehemently.  "Not ok! I want my new friend! I am SAD!" There was some moping around. 
I am not a mom that changes plans on my daughters at the last minute if I can help it.  Infamous throughout my youth for being the one who was eternally late for everything, I have come to have a strong disdain for flakiness, and have myself become a lot more dependable, at least when there are children involved.  Because I hate to teach my daughters that I can't be trusted.  Because I hate to teach them that because they are little their feelings don't matter.  Because I hate to see them dejected.
So I often don't tell my kids about play dates or plans with friends- especially if I know they can be flaky- until the last minute, when I'm sure it won't fall through. I'd rather surprise them than get them excited and let them down.
But in the case of life-altering changes, like adding a person to the family for awhile, it's important to give them some time to ask questions and get used to the idea.  So, since this foster care business is anything BUT dependable, what's the answer?  I'd love some advice from the Peanut Gallery on this one. 
In the meantime I guess I will just hope that it's character-building to learn to be flexible and live with disappointment sometimes.  But I sure wish I had done something differently, to make it easier.  I guess we are all learning as we go, especially me.