using the plural

My sympathies are with Persephone, as I start digging through snack options for the boys' schools. It's a maze of information, misinformation and irritating details.

And yes, I did say boys, as in plural: the Toddles has a preschool for next year.

After last year's disaster, I researched my maternal ass off, looking at just about every Jewish preschool in the area, and any number that I would have sworn were too far away. Many treated me graciously, many emailed or called me sadly, days after my visit, to admit that they couldn't handle the Toddles' allergies. Too much risk, or too much liability, or we're just not set up for it. And occasionally, ah, and we wish that we could....

I was grateful for every school that turned me down. How else? I'd rather a school say no, realistically, than to casually, or even idealistically take on my child - and not be able to manage him. And I said as much to each school I visited, candid about why we were there, and how I'd contributed to our departure from his previous school.

In the end, two schools remained. One wait-listed us, while the other invited me to meetings, built files and began working with me even as I waffled, wondering if the first school would open up a spot... In the end, I was won over by a lady with an armful of detailed, careful notes, an organized file and a memory for detail. She understood my situation to a degree that is rare, outside of parents doing the constant micro-adjustment dance for their own, complex child.

Oh, but it is a small school. Tiny. Maybe 25 children, in three rooms. All of the rooms flow into each other, and the open doors between the classrooms are a key element to the curriculum. So, said the director calmly, fearlessly, we'll have the entire school become Toddle-friendly. 

I gasped. I gaped. I stared at her, searching her face for any sign that she was slagging me. But she wasn't, which is how it comes to be that the Toddles will be going to her school. Her pluralistic preschool, run by a right wing Jewish organization. But who cares who funds the place, when it's run by someone who understands, and isn't afraid to adapt. 

So, the boys' schools. Plural. And lists of snacks, phone calls to companies, website searches, and ugh, oy, freakin' bloody inconsistent labelling. But enough of that. Try, instead, this:

And, lest you think that the Eldest is the only one who can nerve himself to stick a needle in his arm, I should note here: he's not. With a box of my very own factor in the fridge, I had to admit to the pharmacist that yes, my infusion plan included waiting for the seven year old to come home from school. 

um.

So, the Eldest and I did it together. But no, he did not hold my hand. After all, it's just not a big deal....and he kindly explained why. And, two days later, he demonstrated.

See?
(like hell. I was scared poopless.)