Sudsy Situation

The first thing is: I know our water softener is working correctly.

On to Bigger and Better Things

Benjamin officially ended his preschool career this morning, with a little song and dance ("I didn't practice the songs, Mom... I'll just copy the other kids") followed by a cookie reception.  With three years of preschool (at two schools) under his belt and his sixth birthday approaching in six weeks or so, I do believe it is safe to say Ben is ready for kindergarten.  And while there's no opportunity for comparison or concrete "proof," I think it's also safe to say we made the right choice in holding back Ben for a year.

That's not to say I think it's the right decision for everyone, or even every boy or every child with a summer birthday.  The truth is, I am a little bit resentful of some of the opinions thrown our way over the past year-- everyone seems to have an opinion on this issue, whether they know my child or not.  Most have been a simply annoying version of this: "Hold him back.  He's a boy.  They're all so immature."  I would not argue the point of Ben's maturity, but I would argue against saying half of the human race is immature due to the presence of testicles.  Other opinions, whether intentional or not, have hit closer to home, and have run through my head throughout this preschool year: suggestions that Ben is best held back because he's physically small-- as though size has something to do with readiness to learn; suggestions that Ben should wait a year to begin school to avoid comparison to other relatives and friends-- as though parents don't compare, anyway.

Not Broadway-Bound

This is quite possibly the world's worst theater-- The kind of "art" to which our "creative" children expose us at least twice a week.  Enjoy!  (Or don't.)

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.4

Happy Memorial Day!

We spent the holiday at home, with no plans to speak of, because how can you make plans when it rains every day?  Anyway, since it did NOT rain today, we mostly just puttered around-- I did laundry and picked up, while Todd worked outside in the yard.  When I "escaped" for just a little while to run an errand, I was enjoying my time alone in the car and making mental lists:

Deep Thoughts About Rain

We worked outside today, in the few, brief hours of warm sunshine between rain showers and thunderstorms.  Now, it is raining again.  We are in a flash flood warning.  The beach is gone and the lakeside landscaping underwater.  The dog doesn't want to go outside to pee.  Other than that, I have run out of things to say about all the rain.  It just generally sucks.  Sitting down at the computer this evening, I was searching for a graphic image of the old SNL bit "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey."  In particular, I was thinking of the one that went: "If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is 'God is crying.'  And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is, 'Probably because of something you did.'" 

Seeing the Museum

On this gray and rainy Saturday, it was obvious none of the much-needed yard work was going to get done...  So, we took the kids on a family excursion.  We spent the day at the Science Museum, taking in all the sights, including the Omnitheater film, the massive dinosaur skeletons, and the musical stairs; and then visiting Cossetta's Italian Market and Pizzeria for supper.  It was quite the adventure for us Krinkelanders, who'd pretty much had our full share of adventure in Walt Disney World at the beginning of the year.


Going anywhere for the day with four children is a significant undertaking.  Those who tell you otherwise are liars... or high on something.  The museum was busy today, but not overly so, and I did NOT observe any other sixsomes, parents with four children.  I was thinking about the reasons for this:

1. It's expensive.  I added up our costs for admission, and the difference between one-day tickets and a year-long season pass for our family was $13 (only $8 if I factor in the member parking rate.)  That didn't include food-- we ate elsewhere and still spent plenty; or souvenirs-- we bought none.
2. It's HARD.  At one point, I lined up all four children in front of an exhibit to try to take a photo.  As I stepped back, Madeline hoisted her rump up onto the guardrail and, in a moment, flipped backward, spun around and nearly cracked her skull on the concrete curb.  I flung my camera over my shoulder and shoved the double stroller toward the wall before sauntering over to her and asking, "Are you kidding me?!"  That response, I do not believe, is what was expected from the parents-of-one-child onlookers.
3. It's a juggling act.  To be fair, the subject matter and level of much of the Science Museum is above the youngest child, probably the youngest two.  On the other hand, it's right in the Old Man's interests.  That meant I spent much of the day counting noses and doling out snacks.

It was still all worth it to see the excitement on their faces... and the glimmers of recognition.  They were LEARNING!  It is such a cool place, and we will be back, because, hey, we bought that membership.

Surrendering Trying to Get This Video on the Previous Post

Beach Party Weekend

We are headed into the Memorial Day weekend with a beachy attitude here in Krinkeland.  This evening, the kids ran (and bounced) around outside at my nephew Oliver's fourth birthday party.  Happy, happy day to the clever and loveable Oliver Thomas!  This morning, Benjamin celebrated his last official day in preschool with a beach party.  Oh, yes, he wore the "unitard."  Last evening, we had the privilege of attending the girls' spring program at school.  The theme celebrated the Beach Boys' 50th anniversary.  It's not too difficult to pick out our beach babes, rockin' along:

Rain, Rain, Go Away

We have seriously had enough.  Apart from the floating landscaping lakeside and the flooded farmers' fields, all this rain is just plain wet... And depressing.  I am pretty sure I could never live in London or Seattle or anyplace else known for lots of rain.  Well, maybe Kauai.

I am taking my bright spots where I can get them:

Benjamin: "Mom, I'm not afraid of thunderstorms. Not at all. They are not scary because I know what lightning actually is. Do you know what it is, Mom?"

Mom: "What, Honey?"

Benjamin: "Whenever there's lightning, God is just taking a picture of me... So I smile."

Mom (thinking that's corny, but cute): "Awww, who told you that?"

Benjamin: "You did, Mom."

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.4

Benjamin on the Ball

I made sure the jersey was clean, filled the water bottle, packed the bat bag, found the cap, gave bathroom reminders, tied shoes, folded a picnic blanket, grabbed my book and loaded the car.  It was Monday evening, and we were headed out to yet another kid's activity.  This sort of thing is old hat to me by now.  We are always going somewhere, always doing something.  If experience has taught me anything, I should know: it will either be too hot or too cold or too windy or too sunny; the non-team-member siblings are going to head right for the playground and never return; some contingency of grandparents will meet us there; someone is going to be thirsty and someone is going to have to go to the bathroom; I am going to forget something; I will inadvertently sit next to the loud, annoying parent; Daddy might be late-- but he will make it.

All those things happened... and, still, last evening was a unique experience.

It was Benjamin's first t-ball game.

You know Benjamin-- he's that smart, adorable, whiny, impulsive, wimpy, little boy who has been enough of a medical mystery to turn his mother's hair gray.  Ben doesn't care to do too much except go to his grandparents' houses and torture his younger sister.  He is used to being the tag-along in all of his big sisters' endeavors.  Plus, I think, being physically smaller and slower-moving than most of the boys his age, he's never been one to sign up for team events.  And, with a mother as un-athletic as me, Ben hasn't exactly been pushed to participate.  However, this spring, Ben decided he wanted to play t-ball.

I cannot explain the overwhelming emotion of watching my little boy take the field.  It affected me in such a way I could not even write about it last night.  Am I being melodramatic?  Of course.  Still, there was a time when we were unsure whether this child would walk.  We had darker moments, when one doctor suspected a terminal condition, another a rare and horrific genetic syndrome.  The day Benjamin was diagnosed with two minor heart defects, you could not have convinced me there was such a thing as a "minor heart defect."

My son.  On the ball field.  32 pounds of toothpick legs, sticky-out ears, braced ankles, and a grin from ear to ear, in a bright green (Go, Alligators!) jersey.

And he did well.  OK, maybe not well... But he was right in line with the rest of his scrumptious 'Gator teammates.  Benjamin understood the game, and he listened to his coaches.  Ben fielded some balls.  He watched some balls roll right past him.  Benjamin hit the ball.  He ran.  Ben ran, all the way to first base.  One time, he even beat the first baseman and got to run to second base and third base and all the way home.

I could not have been more proud if my son had taken a Major League field.

Li'l Slugger

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.4

Book Club

A friend recently invited me and some others to join a new book club.  I kind of missed the Book Club Craze of the last decade, on a number of fronts: (1) I was birthing and nursing babies; (2) I figured I would be a disaster in any book club scenario, because I am too opinionated about everything; and (3) no one ever invited me into a book club.  However, I do love to read, and now that my children are getting a little older, I find I am able to return to novels and memoirs more and more.

Some of the women in this book had previously belonged to a club that had gradually disintegrated.  It is one of these former members who decided to get things going again and who hosted our first meeting.  We have a very loose structure-- once a month meeting with wine and dessert; any book at all, chosen by the rotating host; basic discussion questions written by the host or culled from an Internet search, or provided by the publisher at the back of the book.  We meet late in the evening on a weeknight, since most of us still have small children to tuck into bed, and it's no big deal if you can't make it.  Low pressure.  Lots of laughs.

For our first literary offering, the host chose a novel in a book club kit offered by our local public library.  With this kit, she is able to check out a dozen copies of the book, along with an audio version, and some discussion questions and any additional materials.  There are hundreds to choose from...  She selected one that just "sounded good;" it was a wildly popular title 10 or 15 years ago, but she just never got around to reading it-- neither did I.

The book is "Breath, Eyes, Memory" by Edwidge Danticat.  It was a shorter book, an easy read-- I plowed through it in just a few days.  The book was interesting, offering cultural insight I would never have otherwise had (even though it is a novel.)  And I marveled at the success of the book, as I read about the youth of its author.  Hopefully, when our book club meets next month, I will have some things to say about it... but not too much!

In the meantime, I have now moved on to reading some of the other books recommended to me by other book club attendees.  Turns out there's quite a lot I've been missing.  Today, I cannot put down "Cutting for Stone" by Abraham Verghese.  Then, I still have waiting "Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet" by Jamie Ford.  I guess, a couple years ago, this tome swept the book club circuit, but I missed it.  For the record, my mother (also not a book club joiner) loaned me her copy of this book... guess she knows what to read, too.

I am excited about this endeavor. I am looking forward to learning more about my friends, through their selections and through their opinions.  It will be so nice to have a topic of discussion other than whose kid cursed out the bus driver or which school parents are splitting up.  Books are one of those things I can't really discuss with my husband, who doesn't make much time for recreational reading, and who would have terribly different tastes from me if he did.  I also don't really like to read the same things as my kids (although they are certainly as proficient at reading as their mother.)  I am at the book-screening stage with the 10-year-old-who-thinks-she's-15.  As for the eight-year-old, we are in a tug-of-war over me encouraging her to read more challenging books, up to her ability level.  But, at least they're reading.

Never Enough Time

Don't you think this is the craziest time of year?

I know when you think of busy times, probably the Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's holiday stretch is the most hectic, but, when it really comes to plotting out the family calendar, spring is really out-of-control for us.  Part of it is just the way things fall with our family, including the fact that we have LOTS of spring birthdays, but it's more than that:

First Communion
dance recital
school fundraisers
field trips
Mother's Day
t-ball
puppy class
school music program
preschool graduation
piano recital
Father's Day

With more going on, combined with longer days (more sunlight)-- hey, we're so busy we missed this evening's solar eclipse!-- bedtime battles grow, and then the busy-ness and exhaustion just pile on for the next day.  I'm already dreading having to wake up the kids tomorrow when they're still sleeping and it's time to get ready for school.

Brush Up Your Babysitting

Amanda spent her Saturday attending a babysitters' training course offered through our school district's community education program.  She thinks she's old enough to babysit for her siblings.  Naturally, I think otherwise.  Yes, the truth is that I was babysitting for other people's children at age 10-- even late at night, even three and four kids at a time, even babies.  Those things all seem pretty irrelevant, however, when it comes to my baby taking care of my other babies.

Our oldest child is responsible and attentive and compassionate and caring.  She will, someday soon, make an excellent babysitter.  Before that can happen, however, I told Amanda she had to take the child care first aid course offered by our town hospital (she's not old enough for that one, yet) and this one-day community ed. class.  So, this morning, as though it was a school day, we packed her bag with a lunch, a notebook and pencil, and a practice baby doll and sent her off to learn how to be a great babysitter.

The class was full, and most of the attendees were older than Amanda, as she barely met the minimum age requirement.  She said she recognized a few of the other students from her school bus route, and had no trouble taking part in group discussions or making small talk during breaks.  I am quite certain our Amanda kept the instructor on her toes, asking astute questions and commenting, commenting, commenting, because that's just how she rolls.  After she got home, however, the student became the teacher.  As I folded laundry and prepared supper, Amanda followed me around and quizzed me:

"Do you know how to do the Heimlich maneuver?"

Clifford Has Manners-- Why Don't You?

At nap/quiet time, Benjamin brought me the book "Clifford's Manners."  There are so many story books on that bookshelf, and the kids seem to fixate on titles from time to time, so I think a lot of picture books get overlooked.  I couldn't recall having read this one for a long time, if ever.  However, as I read it, I thought, "Not only are these good lessons for children, but I think I should send copies of this book to many of the adults I know."

Now, no one would say I am "Miss Manners."  I can be as rude and as ill-behaved as the next numskull.  Still, for the most part, I believe I was raised with manners.  I try to be equally gracious as a guest and as a host.  I reply in a timely manner to invitations.  I write thank-you notes-- or have the kids write thank-you notes-- not as often as I should, but certainly whenever a gift is received or opened not in the presence of the giver.  In this time we live in, it seems few people do that anymore.  Some are great at it, but they seem more "exceptions" than "rules."  I have noted this year that one young teacher is particularly conscientious about thank-you notes.  Once or twice, I have run into that teacher's mother, and I have considered complimenting the mom on the way she raised her daughter.  I've resisted because I thought that might be creepy and ill-mannered. 

At a recent physical exam, I stood up when my doctor entered the room.  He got an odd look on his face and then smiled and gave me a hug.  Later, he told me that most of his other patients had quit showing him that respect years ago.  So, apparently, I am old-fashioned.  But I do believe respect and mutual consideration for another person go a long way.

One of my friends has such ingrained manners, I don't know how else to describe her but "well bred."  I enjoy inviting her to gatherings, because, even if she can't come, I know I will get a tender and timely reply.  She says complimentary things about my children.  She can express a differing opinion without being rude or brash.  So simple.  So lovely.


In the book, Clifford leads by example, not only saying "please" and "thank you," (which you would probably expect from a children's book on manners,) but he also arrives places on time; he shakes hands and/or kisses his hosts; he offers to help with clean-up; Clifford does not litter and even picks up after others.  When Clifford goes visiting, he always calls ahead.  Then, he knocks on the door before he enters.  You don't even want to know how many of these basic rules of good manners have been violated at my home this week.

Dog Tired

One of the puzzling (to me) and somewhat annoying things about my children is that they seem incapable of just laying down and going to sleep.  Not only do they stall and whine and make trips to the bathroom and beg for just one more book, but they are always asking me to "snuggle" with them (or "'nuggle right next to by me," as the Little One pleads.)  This does not seem to phase my husband, who is all too happy to lay right down and promptly fall asleep, most often before the child who made the request.  But it is a struggle for me.  We are still in this stage where the kids are young-- and now there's a puppy-- and I really look forward to the times when they are in bed, and I am not.

Sometimes, I do lay down with the kid or kids, if it seems like the smallest battle to fight.  More often, I tell the child to lay down and try to go to sleep, and promise I will return to check on him/her.  Typically, when I say "no," that child will request a replacement snuggler: "Ben come 'nuggle right next to by me?"  To that, I usually respond, "We'll see" or "I'll ask him" or "Maybe, if you can lay down and be really still."

House of Poo

I realize this is an indelicate topic, downright disgusting, in fact.  However, if it grosses you out too much to continue reading, then you will be of no help to me, anyway, because you must not be a mother.  If you are a mother, then this is just the kind of thing you talk about on a daily basis.  It is sad, but you know it's true.

Madeline poops her pants.

I declared her potty trained a month ago, and I am sticking to it.  The girl knows when she has to go, generally takes her little tush to the toilet and does go, is capable of wiping and flushing and washing her hands, and even stays dry through naps and nighttime.  She frequents public restrooms (want to talk about a REALLY YUCKY topic?!)  Madeline adores her underpants (though often puts them on sideways.)  She reveled in being the star of her potty party and still talks about it.

But, we are having this major issue with the doo-doo.  About half the time, she does go to the bathroom on her own, and then is proud to announce her creation and invite others in to shower her with praise.  Yet, the other half of the time, she will dance around, dance around, dance around and lead me on false alarm after false alarm until, all of a sudden, it's too late.  Then she cries and tells me, "I sorry Mommy.  I won't do it again. I WON'T!"  Until she does it again.

Between the bathroom and the laundry room, I have gone through a full gallon of bleach.  Plus, Madeline pooped her pants once for Grandpa R., once for Grandma P., and once for beloved babysitter Maria.  I NEED those people to keep taking care of my kids... and I fear they are not going to return, because they don't want to risk dodging turd bombs.

So, what do I do?

OK, before you answer that, here is what I have tried:
1. forcing her to sit on the toilet
2. putting her back in diapers
3. praising her and rewarding her when she does go
4. feeding her tons of fruit and even small amounts of laxatives so she has no choice but to go

I asked the pediatrician, who was totally unconcerned and said this is "completely normal" at this age.  None of my other children ever did this.  And, while I cannot speak to our childhoods, I assure you neither Todd nor I walk around with posterior deposits.  Yesterday, Madeline was coloring with markers and ended up with a big, brown smudge down her nose.  I nearly lost it.

May Days

Every evening for the past week or more, the kids have wanted to go fishing.  With this ridiculously warm spring, it's easy to forget it's only the second week in May.  But, that it is.  School is still in session.  It is the busiest time of year.  Still, fish they must... until sunset... until bedtime... until dark.  The Good Mom part of me knows this is a bad idea.  The Better Mom part of me thinks it's OK, and loves hearing their fish tales.

The Gifts of Motherhood

Among the great things about being Mom to preschool- and elementary-school-aged children are the automatic, handmade gifts.  These are the school projects, thought up and overseen by dedicated and creative teaches, which guarantee that even the littlest one won't turn up empty-handed on Mother's Day morning.  I delight in these gifts each year, for my children give me great insight into how they see me.  And they are always so proud of their artistic endeavors.

Happy Birthday, Hayden!

Today, at the girls' school, the student body and staff honored the life of Hayden Solien, the little boy who died this past winter, after being struck by a car at the school bus stop. This day would have been Hayden's eighth birthday.

The Age of Purposeful Stupidity

As it is my vocation to raise four people, even though I know each precious child is truly an individual, I am starting to see some trends and similarities from kid to kid.  Today, Madeline proved something I had suspected and observed in the others:  Three begins the Age of Purposeful Stupidity.  By this I mean, the age of three is when kids start to do dumb things, on purpose, as in, they have some idea before they do the thing that it is a really bad idea, but they go ahead and do it, anyway. Am I still not clearly explaining my theory?  Let me give you the example that should illustrate my point:

This morning, Madeline Super-Glued her fingers together.

Costco to the Rescue

I did not even watch that CNBC special on Costco... but I already know all the secrets.  Figgered 'em out all by my lonesome.  Like how Costco only carries one higher-end toothpaste, so, if you need toothpaste, you buy that one, no questions asked.  And like how Costco gets in a shipment of something and then it sells like hotcakes and then it goes away, so you can't ever get it again, and once you know that, you snap up whatever the cool thing is the moment you see it so you don't miss out.

Overbooked

I think I set a new record: six trips to school today.

Toe Trouble

It's a pretty well-known fact that I'm a total klutz.  You've read my previous rants-against-self.  You've laughed as you've witnessed me trip over cracks in the sidewalk.  You've watched in stunned disbelief as I've run straight on into doors and other seemingly obvious obstacles.

I've harbored countless dessert-plate-sized bruises on my thighs from running into the same corner of the footboard of our bed, which has been in exactly the same place since we purchased it about 14 years ago.  Walking in my own home, I have missed a step on the same familiar staircase and twisted a knee, sprained an ankle.  My husband doesn't even look up anymore when I exclaim, "Ow!"  My children laugh at me-- even the little one-- well, all but the oldest one who, sadly, has exhibited some klutz-like tendencies of her own, and I think fearfully sees her future in my clumsy ways.

The most typical and most obvious evidence of my lack of steadiness and grace is the broken toe.  I am certain that I have broken each and every one of my ten tootsies on repeated occasions.  Some injuries happened in dramatic fashion, like while downhill skiing or having a car back over my foot.  More often, however, the little bones have broken in everyday ways-- by a can of soup or soda landing on my foot, or by running into a door jamb or a furniture leg.

Just a couple weeks ago, I took this shot of my baby toe and sent it to a friend in a plea for sympathy.  I had run into the corner of our bedroom door jamb.  It really hurt, and I may have even said a bad word.  You can't really see how the rest of the toe turned greenish-yellow, but you can plainly make out the bruise along the fault line.

When a broken toe would happen to the child klutz I used to be, sometimes I would see a doctor who might x-ray, might not, and would mostly just tell me, "Tape your toe to another toe as a splint and wait for it to heal.  That's all you can do."  After a while, I quit going to the doctor for broken toes and just self-medicated with ice cream.  I once read that a broken toe never truly heals because the bones are so small it is impossible for them to properly come back together.  So, that makes it even easier for someone not-surefooted to knock things out of whack again in the future.

Yesterday, it was this toe:

Again, the camera-in-phone does not do justice to the graphic nature of this injury.  The entire toe is purple, and more blackish-blue up close to the nail.  It happened while I was walking down the stairs, trailing the puppy, and somehow my fourth and fifth toes got folded under my foot.  It hurt at the time, but not so badly.  I slipped on loose sandals the rest of the day, and even went for my usual evening walk.  However, when I returned home and peeled off my tennis shoes and socks, that thing really started to throb.

The Difference Between 2nd Grade Girls and 4th Grade Girls

I eavesdropped on this conversation between my daughters, and found I was amused and horrified and sad, all at the same time.

2nd: "You know what my friend and I are going to do at recess tomorrow?  We are going to find someone who doesn't have anyone to play with and we are going to play with them."
4th: "Awww, that's a nice idea."
2nd: "I know.  That's why we're going to do it-- because sometimes you see someone who's all alone, but you can be a friend to that person.  Everyone needs a friend."
4th: "That's true, but you already have friends."
2nd: "I know, but I'm talking about the people who don't have friends."
4th: "I used to do that, too... try to be friends with everybody.  But, then, I figured out that if someone was all alone, there was probably a reason for it, like: mean, naughty, or just doesn't want to play with anyone."
2nd: "Well, we aren't going to play with the mean ones."

Sacrament, Received

Elisabeth made her First Holy Communion today.  What a joyous and beautiful day for her, for all of us.  It has been a crazy, busy time, but we wouldn't have it any other way!  Five of six grandparents were on hand for the celebration, along with all of Libby's aunts, uncles and cousins.  The rain even held off through the ceremony, dinner and all the photos.  Tonight, everyone is tired, and grateful.  Libby told me at bedtime, "I'm going to be holy from now on."  "You are?" I asked.  She replied, "Well, I'm going to try."

Oh, yes, the flowers are orange.  Who would want white when she could have her favorite color?  Our little Libby is an individual!

Libby made her First Communion with all her classmates.

Both godparents joined us.  Can you tell Libby is in heaven with their attention?

All but one grandparent-- what a lucky girl!

Well, this is who we are.

The Boy Who Cried Wienie

Bedtime seems to evoke the most interesting excuses, complaints, and causes for delay.  This one is a doozy on so many fronts, it requires no further set-up than: Benjamin ran into our bedroom, just moments after being tucked into his own bed for the night.  His sister and roommate, Madeline, followed--

Benjamin: "I can't go to sleep.  My penis hurts."
Dad: "Go back to your bed and go to sleep."
Benjamin: "I can't.  My penis hurts.  It really, really hurts."
Dad (looks at Mom): "What is he talking about?"
Mom (shrugs) : "He says his penis hurts."
Dad: "Let me see."
Benjamin (moves closer, jockeys pajama bottoms)
Dad: "Looks fine to me.  I think it hurts because you're touching it too much."
Benjamin: "No, Dad.  It really hurts!"
Madeline: "My penis hurts, too!"
Mom: "You don't have a penis."
Madeline (holding crotch): "But it hurts!"
Dad: "Madeline, go back to bed.  You don't even have a penis.  Ben, what would make your penis feel better? Want a Band-Aid?  Want some lotion?  Want some different pajamas?"
Ben: "No, none of those things would help.  It hurts!"
Dad: "What would make your penis feel better?"
Ben: "Sleeping in here."
Dad: "How could sleeping in Mom and Dad's room make your penis stop hurting?"
Ben: "It only hurts in my room."

Knows Flavor, Not Vocabulary

Elisabeth critiquing the flavor of a new kind of gum: "This does not taste like green apple. It tastes like sour apple. Really sour apple. Rotten apple. It doesn't even taste like apple at all. It tastes like disinfectant.  NO, wait-- it tastes like INfectant!"

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.4

A Basic Need

Living in a small town, and having kids attend a small school, means I see people I know pretty much everywhere I go.  I like that-- that feeling of belonging, of being a part of something larger than myself, my family.  I enjoy calling others by name, waving on the street, and chit-chatting at the checkout.

That's not to say this everybody-knows-everybody lifestyle doesn't get me into trouble sometimes.  Just ask my mom about the last time we ran into my priest at Target.  Other times, running into someone I know changes the course of my day.  That's not-- I repeat, NOT-- a bad thing, but it does give me pause.

While out running errands with the two little ones, I ran into a kind acquaintance, someone who used to work in a place my family frequents.  Her family, a little over a year ago, met with some unpredictable, life-altering changes.  She told me of these, I promised to pray and I wished her well.  While this is a small town, and while we live near one another, I have not run into her again... until yesterday.

In this chance encounter, we exchanged pleasantries, discussed the weather, bemoaned changes in her former workplace, compared puppies.  Then, she told me more about her family... and more... and more.  I am not complaining.  This was not one of those situations where I could not wait to break away.  This IS one of those situations where I wanted to help, but it was clear there was nothing I could do.

Well, there is not much I can do... but I can pray.  So can you.

And That's the Truth, Pbbbbbt!

Some days, the children are amusing, we have exciting adventures and interesting encounters in the world, I'm engaged and entertaining, and blog posts flow from my fingertips like water from the downspouts.
Some days, the sun is shining and life is grand and we're much too busy for me to take the time to blog.
Some days, kids are sick, the house is messy and things are generally cruddy, but I don't want to blog about anything like that for fear of sounding whiny or ungrateful or incompetent.
Some days, I blog about those things, anyway.
Some days, I'm really ticked off and I write things I wish I hadn't written.
Some days, I'm exhausted and overwhelmed and I just want to go to bed, but I feel an obligation to blog, so I do.
Some days, the computer is so slow, I want to punch something.
Some days, I punch something.

Infected and Cranky in Krinkeland

I joked with the registration clerk at the clinic this morning that they really should offer some kind of a customer loyalty rewards program-- every seventh copay is free, or frequent customers go to the head of the lab line, something.  Yes, we were at the clinic AGAIN because, yes, Elisabeth has strep throat AGAIN.  As stated on many previous occasions, I feel so fortunate that our children are healthy.  Really, they are.  And, if I keep telling myself this, maybe it will actually be true.

In all sincerity, everybody has something, and, so far, we've gotten really lucky that the "stuff" our kids have does not get in the way of what they want to do and how we all want to live.  Still, like any concerned parent, I do sweat the small stuff.  And I am agonizing over this strep thing.

I raise the issue knowing full well that is "opening a can of worms," as the cliche goes.  EVERYONE has different opinions on this subject.  I know for sure I don't know what's right.  But, I figure if I keep talking about it, eventually someone will say something that will sink in and solve everything.

To recap: Up until February 2011, NO ONE in Krinkeland ever had strep throat.  EVER.  I figured we couldn't get it, wouldn't get it, just didn't get it.  To my knowledge, neither Todd nor I has ever had strep, so it made sense to me that our kids wouldn't get it either.  When other families were infected, often repeatedly, with strep bacteria, I thought to myself:
1. "Poor, unfortunate souls."
2. "Those kids must not be getting enough sleep/healthy food/hand sanitizer/love."
3. "Hmmm, maybe her house isn't as clean as she thinks it is."
4. "Must be defective genes."

Then, last winter, after a Saturday morning basketball game, Amanda and Elisabeth were both complaining so mightily that their throats hurt, I took them in to Urgent Care... and they both tested POSITIVE for strep.  So, now we get strep.  Amanda and Elisabeth both had it twice last winter.  This spring, Amanda's had it once, Benjamin's had it once, and Libby has had it twice, as of today.  Now, those might not sound like alarming statistics, because they are not.

The thing that is alarming to Mama Bear is this: Each and every time Elisabeth has contracted strep throat, her first course of antibiotics comes to an end and she is STILL POSITIVE.  I was convinced this had something to do with her anatomy-- maybe she has extra nooks and crannies in which to harbor bacteria?  I started getting really worried based on the anecdotal evidence of two friends, one child and one adult, who both contracted rheumatic fever from strep bacteria that had not been eradicated from their bodies.


Just last week, you will remember I took Libby to see a pediatric ENT.  I chose this particular specialist on the criteria I use for choosing all my kids' doctors:
1. strong recommendations from smart friends who parent the way I do
2. laid-back, conservative approach
3. procedures done at Children's Hospital, where, in my very biased opinion, they are the best at caring for children (and also where my SIL works)
As previously mentioned, Dude was remarkably UNconcerned about the lovely Libby.  He said he would be hard-pressed to make an argument for removing her adenoids, and really wouldn't even consider taking her tonsils.  His criteria is: three strep infections in each of three consecutive years or FIVE in one year.  The doctor also suggested the reason Libby was having trouble shaking the strep was because of previous long-term exposure to antibiotics due to bladder issues earlier in life.  All this made sense.  He told Libby she did NOT need her tonsils out, and we left.  The sun was shining and everyone was happy.

Until this morning.

Elisabeth stood next to my side of the bed at 6 a.m., crying for ibuprofen because her throat hurt so badly.  Still recovering from the virus that knocked me on my butt over the weekend, I told her she was fine and sent her back to bed.  But, when it was time to dress for school, Libby was still whimpering and not doing much else.  Since she was not running a fever, I told her to dress for school and we'd have the school nurse take a look when we arrived.

Do you know how much I love the school nurse?  No, you cannot possibly know how much I love the school nurse.  She is smart, sensible, cautious, firm and tender.  She knows all the kids in that school and she loves all the kids in that school.  I am not exaggerating.  She is like Mother Teresa and Florence Nightingale and a conservative Eleanor Roosevelt and Oprah Winfrey before she started giving away cars and Princess Diana minus the whole Charles mess and the goodwill ambassador parts of Angelina Jolie all rolled into one.  I am not exaggerating.

So, the school nurse took one look in Libby's throat and made a polite little exclamation before smiling and suggesting I take my daughter to the clinic for a throat culture.  Naturally, she was right.  Our regular pediatrician works a late schedule on Tuesdays, so we saw one of her partners, a guy a really like and to whom I sometimes consider defecting, except I really like the kids' pediatrician, too, and I think there's something to be said about a medical professional who has literally known and cared for the children from birth.

After the quick-strep test came back positive, this doctor and I started talking about Libby's symptoms, her history, and which antibiotic to try this time.  He declared, "This girl needs her tonsils out!"  I told him about our recent visit to the specialist, and he agreed philosophies have shifted away from being so aggressive with surgery.  He also said the doctor we saw is excellent.  BUT, he still second-guessed him and suggested I get another opinion.

So, that's where I am this afternoon-- sitting in bed with a mouth-breathing child next to me, reading her book and exhaling bacteria into the atmosphere.  She swallowed her pill and she's savoring her juice.  She can't go back to school until sometime tomorrow.  As for the rest of it, I don't know what to do.

One of those nosy, pushy moms whose opinion I never ask for but I always seem to get cornered me on the way out of school this morning.  It didn't take her long to gather a bit of information from me-- here I was walking OUT of school at the BEGINNING of the day with a uniformed child in tow.  It doesn't take a Mensa member to figure out the kid must be sick.  This mom would not let me go until she drilled home her point about getting those tonsils out and how it made all the difference in the world for her 85 children and how she couldn't imagine why I would continue to let my child suffer.  I finally escaped by asking her to pray for us.

Then, I have this friend who is really nice, really compassionate and ridiculously intelligent (why is she friends with me?!) but she also has some really different ideas about life than I do.  This is not to say her ideas are wrong... just out of my comfort zone.  She and her husband own their own chiropractic practice, and also do a lot of treatment through a natural approach to wellness.  Months ago, when I was seeking recommendations for an ENT (results outlined above) my friend offered, "I don't have any traditional medicine contacts for you, but would you consider letting me see your daughter to see how I can help?"  I said, "I don't know.  Let me think about it."  The matter never came up again.  (See what I mean about what a nice friend she is?)