toxic information: warning, may not be extractable from brain

Some days, it's just not worth it. You can do everything right - get an allergist to work with you, talk to your kid's school about a 504 plan, have them talk to your kid's doctors, and even buy a cute backpack for your kid to take to school.

Oh, and offer to pick up treats for a school party, because hey, your child might have allergies, but kids should get to celebrate, right? And when you can set it up so that everyone celebrates together, with allergy-friendly yumminess, well. You rock, mama.

It's just too bad that someone forgot to explain this to the other parents.

While I'm torn between an urge to march on down there and start lecturing - and an urge to screech - the truth is that I get it. Let's start with transparency: for the people outside of a process, especially a bureaucratic one, it's really really easy for the process to seem biased, sloppy or just plain wrong. Is the child really that allergic? I wasn't there in the 504 meeting, but a doctor was involved. Was the child correctly diagnosed? Not being an allergist, I'm really in no position to say. Are all of these measures necessary? Oh, goodness knows, but again: not an allergist. Still, in our experience, a small portion of the measures taken to protect our children come from anxiety, or a need for certainty and an extra margin of safeguards. A large percentage comes from medical need, as described to the parents. And there, folks, lies the grey area. Doctors hate questions like, 'is this safe?' because the wrong answer can leave them open to lawsuits. Parents hate undue risk because the wrong choice can mean any number of scary things. So. Schools take on liability, parents have taken on a whopping dose of fear - which means that the doctor's role here should be all the more reassuring, as s/he can provide perspective.

Nonetheless, in this poll, 71% of respondents were certain: the school was wrong. And trying to spring the unfairness on the parents. Why are we being kept in the DARK? read one protester's sign.

It makes me crazy to think about how tiny the opportunity is for lighting that darkness. Once folks apply sharpie to oaktag, the opportunity for reasonableness, or even for education is essentially over. When the school's spokeswoman talked about the 504 plan, the legal requirements and process that the school must undertake to accommodate a child, I don't think people were listening. "Rights" ring more purely than legislation. No wonder that Wrightslaw has such an intense section on advocacy, and how to do it. I've read it, practiced it - and still, my success as an advocate has always depended on who is listening. People who are open to information, flexible and willing to be partners? Love you all. People who have already decided what is true and what is needed? A trainwreck, aimed right at the kid.

"You can't take peanut butter and jelly, or any other right away from my child," a parent screeched. And her message echoes through the school hallways. In a less controversial class, classmates are protesting the limits set for a second peanut allergic child.  "They say, put me in another class," said the little boy. "So that they can eat peanut butter."

His face is bewildered, his mother nearly incoherent. Facing them are passionate, appalled parents, explaining that they don't want to be unfair - but that a child so allergic as to require accommodations affecting the class? Should just stay home.

It's unutterably sad. When did rights mean get out of my way, I want to live my life the way I want? When did this narrow indignation usurp generosity of spirit, or a sense of flexibility, possibility - or heck, kindness? If we could only back up the tape in Florida, I'd sit down with those parents, and say, hey. Let's try this: take a kid who has been shut up at home. A kid who has been inexpressibly lonely, and who would love to leave their bubble - but is probably scared. And let's say this to that kid:

And that's it. Instead of no, you say yes.  You say, we can instead of mine, or I won't. Maybe, wisely, the school says it first, and helps you figure out how. And then? Together, you take the kid who was shut out, whose school told him to go away, and then you open the door. Come on in, you say. Because it really is that easy.*  And then, you show him that you get it.

Maybe you are in preschool, and all you know about allergies is that they make you sick (see the rash?) and that sometimes bees are involved. Oh, and thermometers. That's plenty for a little kid, who doesn't really need the science - they just need the general concept, plus help in being a good friend.

Welcome to lunch, the little kids said, in their own, pre-literate ways. Please don't be that sad, sick kid. Be this kid, instead! 

(for a four year old, that's one seriously happy face. Plus kipa, fyi) Be this kid! Be laughing! Or, says another child, be this kid!

Hair, curling everywhere, arms as wide as the world, and a smile so wide that it's taking over the face - and needs an extra set of eyes to twinkle alongside it.

Welcome to lunch. We're so glad that you are here! they said, and the Toddles sat, proudly, at his special, decorated table. His table was pulled up against the other kids' table, and he sat so carefully. Shining with pleasure. Learning how to be a child - how to be That OMG Allergic child - living in a world without bubbles.

And laughing.
****************************
You can read the school's puzzled response in HuffPo (hint: ADA? not so familiar), an opinion piece (also, not so much with the ADA), this pithy response or this one. Or you could cut to the chase, and go straight to this call for everybody to just stop, and take a deep breath.

But I would rather that you thought about this: when people aren't educated about food allergies, this is one thing that can happen.  Death threats were made, and the child's parents chose not to keep her in the school. That's one outcome. And this, sadly, is another. An educated peer - an aware adult - someone could have asked the question, is this safe for you? And we'd have one teenager, sans coma.



* and if you are having trouble, there are wonderful resources out there, like this one: http://www.school-lunch-ideas.com/
**but you can laugh about it. Like in this cartoon.

MA: bullying & derech eretz

Driving to preschool, listening to WBUR's Morning Edition. Marty Walz is being indignant about the failure of Massachusetts schools to comply with the new anti-bullying laws. And the Toddles is rapt.

Do you know what she's talking about?
he blinks. No. But she's not happy with the schools.
Right. She wants them to work on stopping bullying, which is when you make someone feel bad about who they are.


We work through some examples of targets - a Muslim girl in a headscarf, a Jewish boy with a kipa, a kid with food allergies, or when i went to school, a kid with glasses was picked on for having to wear them. The Toddles shook his head. Maybe this is why all of the Jewish kids should go to school together, because then they will all be  the same? 
I grinned. And are they the same, at your school? 
He paused. Shook his head. Looked worried.

Yesterday, Y made me feel bad because of an accident that I did. Is he against the law?

That's a kid getting mad - and there's a difference between being mean to someone, over and over and over, getting other kids to be mean to them, too - and a kid getting upset. Kids get upset! It happens. The difference is the culture of the school, like Marty said. Your school thinks a lot about derech eretz, so even if a kid gets angry once in a while, the teachers are helping them learn how to be good, caring people.


The kid thinks this over.

Then it's good that you changed the school, he says, decisively.


Absently, weaving through traffic, I realize that something didn't quite parse. Wha?


My first preschool didn't show much derech eretz. So it's good that you changed to this one.

choosing an opinion

Some days, I think that everybody is testing their kid for this or that. Other days, I think that this must be impossible - if it takes 24 months to get an appointment for developmental testing at the local children's hospital, then how? where? are these tests being done?

I'm not sure if we can get to you before next fall, said the nice lady from the public schools. We've got quite a wait list. 
It's going to take a while to set up the appointments, said the friendly person from the pediatrician's chosen psych department. Do you need to see a psychiatrist, or a social worker? A developmental pediatrician?

I had no idea. Who should we see? Who could look at the Toddles, and see through the carapace, and past any filters created by our fears? We were, after all, filling out the questionnaires - and I knew well how easy it is to talk our way into a diagnosis. At chez Imperfect, if we're not being pushed off-base by some parenting worry, some medical concern or other, would we know what to do with ourselves? Hemophilia, allergies, immunology, dermatology, rheumatology, neurology - by now, I think we're beyond worried, we've paddled around in skepticism, and now? Now, I fear, we might be in a rut. Diagnose our kid with something new? Sighhhh. Lacking the expertise to argue against it, all too vulnerable to our own worries, all we could do is stack the deck in the favor of clear-sightedness.

Test him? Fine. But not once - twice. That spring and summer, we talked to two thoughtful, careful women, one recommended by the Eldest's heme team, another by our pediatrician. Realizing their doubled role, the two talked to each other.

And they tested the kid.

It was three days of stomach twisting. The Toddles refused to enter any offices, so the testing happened in waiting rooms, on the floor. And I sat behind the child, silent and oh, scared shitless. Filling my hands with yarn, because, hey, it was something to do.

And stared.

I've only seen this once before, the developmental neuropsych told me, but he's beyond even that.  I watched the Toddles, and found nothing to say. I don't think there's a school in the area that can handle him,  the neuropsych said, gently. I'll give you the name of an educational specialist, and maybe she can help. 


Behind us, the Toddles was playing with three, four digit numbers. Flying airplanes. Whisking through school competency tests for 14 year olds. Giggling. Was this hiding in the carapace? Did it have a name?

Gifted, the neuropsych told me. Do IQ numbers mean anything to you? [name of tests] scores?
I shook my head. Breathed a bit. Not autistic? Not -  I rattled off the litany of our fears.
No. But, she said, you might think - and began explaining how this or that behavior looked like this or that psychiatric/developmental condition, but - but I was gone.

Not autistic. Nor normal. Going to be okay? The two developmental medical folks thought so, but offered qualifications. Footnotes. Gentle explanations of what their expertise did and did not cover. But didn't my expertise cover the kid? And what about -

I whipped out my phone.

Um, yeah.  the teacher replied. We knew that.
Oh,  I said. I didn't.


The kid curled into me. Let's go home, he breathed, and sank into his carapace. I carried him to the car, red curls tickling my chin, his legs wrapped around my hips. Can it be quiet now? he asked, and lost in my own thoughts, I agreed.

What lens do I need, to see him clearly? What lens had I wearing?

testing an outcome, finding the kid

Fine, then. We'll test him. 
firm, parental nods all 'round. Then, a pause.
What kind of testing are we supposed to do?
Um. I dunno. Maybe the pediatrician knows? The school?

And then, there I was. Holding a list of bullet points that the Toddle's teacher had given me, the pediatrician on speed dial, and the local public school's phone number written carefully, clearly in my calendar. And I couldn't dial the bloody phone.

Three days later, I still couldn't dial the bloody phone.

It had been one hell of a year - and more - since the Toddles' preschool disaster. With QG to keep us sane, he'd been happy at home, loving his playdates, and generally growing into a snuggly, independent little terror. He missed his classmates, sure, but found joys aplenty in the world we were creating with him.  And, after visiting preschool after preschool, I had finally found two that felt they were up to the Toddles' challenge: an anaphylactic wheat allergy, plus rye, barley, spelt, egg and more! Enough to warrant a raid on the art supplies, enough to require some very, very careful thought about snack time, school events, and oh yes, coexistence with a parent who thinks she's an advocate. All things that the Toddles' first preschool didn't seem to want.

One offered us a spot on their waiting list. The other asked me to drop by and talk. And then there I was, talking, and the boss lady telling the preschool director, oh, yes. You can do this.  And then there I was again, talking, and the teachers were nodding. Sure, we can do that. One of them, delighted, clapping, Oh! I'm going to get to have the giggle boy in my class! And she did.

Thank you for bringing our boy, they said. And hugged me.

I spent months staring, wandering around and trying to grasp this. The school provides all snacks for the children, and with the arrival of the Toddles and a few other allergic kidlets, decided to avoid all of the relevant allergens. They checked their art supplies. They were polite about my first efforts at lighter, sweeter faux-challah, and offered generous quantities of honey to the dubious children. When I set the fire alarm off while baking for the Toddles' birthday celebration, they told me their own embarrassing mom-stories, and took photos of the kids with the fire truck. And wrote it up in the newsletter, as part of the birthday fun. And hung a big sign on the doors: WARNING! ALLERGIC CHILDREN. DO NOT BRING FOOD INTO THIS AREA. Atmosphere wasn't a problem here: one of the teachers made the sign with collage. Lovely, creative, and very, very clear.

It was unreal, wonderful, humbling. There was so much oxygen, I was gasping. But the Toddles saw none of this. When am I leaving preschool? he asked, but didn't believe the answer.  He pulled in, curling tight and then tighter inside himself, avoiding eye contact, sound, touch, as if he could create a perfect, protective carapace. Huddle inside. His balancing touch-and-suck had become a place to vanish, and its gravitational pull was immense. Time to get dressed? He'd have to pull himself out of the carapace twice: once to take his jammies off, and once to put the day's clothes on. Going somewhere? He'd need to pull himself out to get his jacket one, again to get into the car, and yet again, agonizingly, to get out of the car.

It's like you are inside of a box, and can't hear me, I told him. He nodded. This did not trouble him - the carapace was good. I need that, sometimes, he explained. I nodded. But sometimes, love, you get stuck in there. He thought this over.

I think we need some balance in this one.

But balance had been trumped by a need. Snuggled into his carapace, the Toddles didn't mind that he was alone, riding 'round and 'round on the playground. He was untroubled, if a bit wistful, by his lack of friends. Friends vanish, he knew. This was safer. And, in his safety, he pulled in the tendrils of connection, avoiding eye contact, hiding from hands, hugs, hesitating once, twice, fifteen times before trusting the adults around him. He was safe.

Except, of course, he wasn't. Humming quietly, wrapped in his carapace, he couldn't hear me tell him not to run into the street - with a car coming. I heard your sounds, but not the words, he said. Or just stared, bemused and puzzled by my gasping horror. He grabbed at knife blades, broken glass, rolled on challah-crumbed floors, and from deep in the carapace, he stared, bewildered, when I gritted my teeth and explained. Why. That. Was. Not. Good.

But this was a parenting problem, and not a developmental one. I was sure. I had experience with this dance between parenting, the kid and the yardstick of the normal. I knew. I was also a mess. And holding a phone.

Maybe it's wiring. Neurology.
Maybe it isn't.
Maybe, I admitted to the other parental pair of worried eyes, maybe it's me.


We watched the Toddles lining up number flashcards in some mysterious order. And again. And again.

Maybe it's not.

And I made the call.

a tangle of threads (and clearing a clog)

I think 2011 slipped in when I blinked - or possibly while I was lighting shabbat candles. Nonetheless, hiya! Time to flip that page in the calendar, eh?

I'm not calendrically aligned enough to have new year's resolutions, nor do I really have the will to rehash that goes with a year-in-review post. Still, I do have the collected points of determination, or fed-upness that compose my Change This, Dammit list. That list sort of blurs into my Things I Want To Do Daily list. Which combined, look something like this:

• do less
• sleep more
• prioritizing is great, but first? learn how to estimate how LONG it will take me to do things. Remember that in so many things, I work slowly.
• play with my sons. More.
• learn to love Lego. (see above)
• eat chocolate every day. (can I use chocolate as a bribe for getting up in the morning?)
• make food that I want to eat
• budget!!!!
• remember that a tired child is tired. And can't do better, even if he tries. Remember that the same is true of me.
• have dedicated home maintenance and writing days in each week - and be stubborn about them.
• have dedicated time with my friends - and be stubborn about that, too.
• get hugged. A lot.
• start washing dishes with The Man. Talk about inconsequentialities. (is baseball an inconsequentiality?) Hell, talk about anything. Have I mentioned that the guy is wonderful and funny and generally fabulous? 
• go on dates (note: find a babysitter?)
• learn how to listen to podcasts.
• every single day:
• make something
• write something
• fix something
• be loving and loved.

I've been working on my make/write/fix challenge for a little while now, and I'm loving it. But I have to admit that I've been making and fixing far, far more than I've been writing. To my chagrin, I seem to lack a crucial degree of recklessness, or possibly a degree of ruthlessness needed to write some stories down. Or, to put those particular posts up on the blog. And, that not doing the writing and putting up can clog up the rest of the works, so that I can't push past the things I'm not-saying, or not-writing, and silence ensues.

I am not good at silence.

So, I'm going to inaugurate 2011 with the first of the clogged posts. I suspect that the blog's current quiet state will serve me well here - this is going to lead to a subject that seems, oddly, to piss people off. Which makes the following all the more appropriate.
******************************************
March, 2010

Peace, this month, is two hours of sitting on a nicely lichened rock by a lake, a glow of sunshine, and a suspicious mother duck herding her wee bits of fluff away from the two chatting persons.

I did go home and need to scrub bits of me, having noted all of that lovely, flourishing poison ivy - and later, admired the odd, itchy pattern on one leg. But all is well now, and the 80's style shocking pink arms (and nose) have faded to a merely retro hot pink shade. And, well, I may or may not have spent the past 40 minutes looking up bug bites, thanks to a casual hey, did you get bit? from the Man, glancing at the back of my neck. Solid, big swelling. Hot. Ow. (note to self: not brown recluse spider. Also not tick. Whew.)

With the Toddles leashed to the toilet by some really appalling GI virus, I've got a whole lot of indoors ahead of me. So I'm storing up that sunshine, the warmth of the rock and the patterns of the lichen. And the wry grin in her voice, as she narrated the odd rock and shoal of her days. Followed by a quiet thoughtfulness as I told her: the preschool wants us to get the Toddles evaluated. We had a meeting yesterday, and I've started making calls.

I tell this story badly, choosing details that can only prove how wrong we all are (your child sits on the toilet for 45 minutes? mine has sat there for an hour - and he's just fine) and how flawed our idea of 'normal,' or 'age appropriate' must be. We must need reassurance that the Toddles is fine. Or perhaps we need perspective on his age - or refocusing on his strengths, and the things that make our boy that wonderful twirl of light and joy. Or maybe we just need a nice barbituate and a glass of wine, hm?

I never thought that he was autistic, our pediatrician said. I nodded - but knew from her response that I'd told the story badly, said the wrong things, my chosen details pointing in the wrong direction. Oh, I don't think he is, either, I said.

Kids are just like that, said a lovely person. They grow out of these things. I shrugged, resisting the urge to degenerate into a defensive whine.

Oh - but my son/daughter/goldfish is just like that, said another, worriedly. I watched that parent reassessing their child/parakeet/magazine rack, looking for the cracks that suddenly might be there - particularly now that she's heard me worry that 'normal' has sidled away, excluding the Toddles. The gulping lump of sadness in my throat is sidelined, and you know what? I'm slightly irked by being upstaged. I'm going to focus on that, rather than on the familiar, edged fear and sadness that come from watching your child for fragile, ruthless flaws.

I can't tell the story well, and I'm not going to try to do it here. It's all tangled up, each thread complexly looped and knotted somewhere on that complex spectrum** of kid. I can't imagine picking the right threads, can't figure out where I'd need to start, but I also can't stop trying. And being told not to worry, to read a book, to get perspective, to get a life, a hobby, some sleep, or to learn how to parent without slapping diagnoses on everything. Or heck, just learn how to parent. Wouldn't he be easier to manage, if I were only better at my job? Which may be fair, and I hope that you'll excuse me if I start throwing things. While shrieking.

Don't you think that I've already asked those questions? Don't you think that those questions have weighed in my reasoning, etching their bitter shapes on my answers? The translation to 'but he's so normal' might just be, 'don't diagnose him for your convenience,' or 'don't label him for your failures.' I know that. It might even be true.

Mine is the sweet kid, who loves to be carried - but doesn't want to hug you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He's a crackling bundle of energy, but doesn't want to leave the house - even to go to the park. He's the friendly kid, who helps you find a chair at circle time, but he doesn't know how to say hello, and definitely doesn't know how to join a game. Or what to do, if invited, but if you could read the script that he's worked out for this interaction, then maybe it'll all be okay.

He's the caring kid, who asks me if I need a hug on the tough days, but is shocked by your tears when he kicks over your sandcastle, draws slashing lines across your carefully lettered homework. He's still waiting for me to explain why it's not okay to bite, or scratch when angry, or that a pinch isn't just a different kind of handhold.

True, he's the silent kid at music time, but he knows all of the words to the songs, and sings them to himself when we're alone in the car. The bloodmobile is a silly idea, he says, criticizing the lyrics. It's confusing! You have blood and it moves through you, but it's not a bloodmobile. But his favorite books are the simpler board and picture books, more rhythm than language, more picture than narrative. And many days, he asks me to shut the music off, because it's too much sound. Unless, of course, you let him listen to the same song over and over and over.

He's the kid who makes the same, simple, two-dimensional shapes with Lego - until he's built one, and then he adorns it elaborately. He's a lover of complex kinetic puzzles like this one, plotting complex, counter-intuitive routes to his goal - and also can't figure out which article of clothing to put on first in the morning. Or what to put on his toothbrush first, the paste or water. But he'll light up with pleasure if you show him.

He's the oh-so verbal kid, eloquent and fascinating, but his words can spill out, shocking him. I'll hiss at an insult, then realize that he's near tears. I said the wrong words, he wails, and his distress is so sudden and raw that I pull him into my lap. Slowly, he tells me what he meant to say, or what tangled around his words, and I thank my lucky stars for my insightful, communicative son. But that flow of thought and language vanishes three, four times daily, when he shuts down so absolutely that he cannot speak. Doesn't know that you've spoken, even if you stand in front of him.

You can try talking to him, maybe say his name, or even put a hand on his shoulder, but his eyes are wide and distant, and they don't really see you. He's somewhere else, his mouth sucking and his skin focussed on the specific touch of a specific, worn fabric, brushed just so over his cheek.

When the Eldest does that, feeling for the rub of my skin over bone, he's balancing himself. But he's there. I can crack a joke, catch his eye, lift a wry eyebrow, and he'll respond. The Toddles goes deeper, maybe, to balance himself. My boys are points on a spectrum, but I couldn't tell you where the center lies. Not sure it matters.

I'm not afraid of your child, someone told me, gently. He looked me in the eye. But my tongue tangled, remembering the OT, the Eldest's rebellion, and my belief in that damned bucket. And the Toddles' face, earnest, bewildered, intent, gleeful, or lost in a need for balance.

I am, I wanted to say, but it wasn't true - was too melodramatic to be true. Besides, fear is just one thread in this story, and couldn't possibly be the right one to choose.

** often, when people talk about a "spectrum" in relation to children, they are, of course, talking about the autism spectrum. I think people should talk more about autism, but I wince at the casual use of "on the spectrum" for autism-specific descriptions. Autism has a spectrum, hemophilia has a spectrum, metabolisms have a spectrum, temperaments....etc. So, when I say, "spectrum of kid," I mean exactly that.

patent leather and merry grunge

It's pick-up time at the OK Corral, and I am the lone mama, stalked by children with a variety of agendas. One needs hugging, another needs admiring, a third needs a mama-substitute, the fourth wants to be sure that I'm up to some good/tie a shoelace/ be awestruck by a bit of stick-and-fluff, and my quarry - well. Er.

He's zoom! over there zoom! somewhere - no, wait - zoom! he's over, well. It's an enclosed area, and we're bound to find him eventually.

Aside from the adorableness of the kids wanting hugs, and the poignancy of the ritual mama-substitute, I hate picking up the Toddles. Love having him with me, hate the pick-up itself - and the teachers noticed. Politely suggested that perhaps I could use some help? The kid looks so tired...

(sprawled on the floor, binky in his mouth, the Toddles was humming quietly to himself as his eyes closed)

(blurring in our sight, the Toddles charged up and down the hall, vibrating with glee and absolutely not even a tiny wee bit with full bladder)

(swaying gently, the Toddles stood still, unable to remember how to put his coat on)

(pause. maternal nudge. pause. maternal encouragement. pause. maternal snap. pause. maternal implosion. The Toddles blinked with surprise, looking up.)

Does he really still take a nap? What time does he go to bed - oh, really? Hunh. Was there somewhere that I could take a nap, perhaps before coming to get the kiddo? No? Maybe, then, ah - hm. They huddled, I tried not to look like I was hiding behind my own jacket, nope, not humiliated here, nooooo. Cripes.

Days later, the Toddles proudly showed me a tiny clipboard, with a checklist that he'd made with his teacher.

• 12 o'clock: Mummy-mom comes
• hug Mom
• go to the bathroom
• put on bag and coat
• go out the door
• go to the car

The last one proves, you know, that the teachers had watched the Toddles make it (glacier-like) to the door, and then sprint with astonishing agility and momentum for anything other than the car. Sigh. The Toddles was super-proud of having made it, drawn some of the pictures, and loved filling it out all of oh, twice. And then didn't want to touch it again.

(Hey, square one, how've you been?)

I do hate pick-up. Except, perhaps, this past week.

I arrived at the playground, where the Toddles was zooming round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round on a tricycle, waving a sparkly silver wand in the air. Expelliarmus! he shrieked, and tried to ram his tricycle into someone's plastic pedal-car. From the looks of his clothes, he'd tried this before, and overturned once or thrice in the process.

A pair of perfect patent leather shoes stepped forward, attached to a young lady of extreme style. She put her hands on her hips, and looked at me sternly. WE don't want to play the games that HE is playing. Behind her, another little girl looked sheepish but determined. Patent Leather considered tossing her head, tried it, pulled it off - and the Toddles, grungy, giddy with speed and the wattage of his grin, zoomed past.

I'm going to drop an atom bomb on you and make you dead! he shrieked. His pants were beige with dust, sand was leaking out of his pockets. The pale pink socks with hearts-and-flowers (Mum, MumMumMumMum - look! aren't they beautiful?) were now pinkish-greyish. I waved, he brandished the wand, and took the corner with style. I looked at him. Looked at Miss Patent Leather. Grinned.

No, I guess you don't, I said. But I do.

***********

Now, I'd be a tidy story-builder if I let the post rest there, but the truth is stragglier than my sense of narrative aesthetics prefers. The next day, the Toddles went over to Miss Patent Leather, and tried to tell her his best jokes. And alas,

that's not funny, she told him. He tried again.

that's STILL not funny, she said. And moth to a shiny-shoed flame, you can guess what happened next. The teachers and I, watching the new kid fumble his way through the social minefield, stood back. Let him fumble, then pause, bewildered. Periodically, he'd be quietly steered him to a safe harbor. But all too soon,

oh. says Miss P.L. What do YOU want?

Which makes me suspect the following: first, that youth is not wasted on the young. It's clearly the time when you get to be too young to remember all of your humiliations. And that learning definitely comes with social mud in yer eye. Second, that the laid-back caring person watching this, might possibly be quietly chewing through their lip, albeit in the most mellow way possible. Because I don't care how normal this may be, it sucks uber-allergenic smelly eggs. And third, that in a world where the balance is tipped towards aaaaargh at 12 noon, when only one kid goes home and that kid is the least equipped to do so gracefully (and matched with a mama of his ilk), it's nice for that mama to be the hero once in a while.

Because oh, yes, I'll play with him - he's a wicked fun little guy.

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.)