the meetings that bloom in the spring (tra la)

Welcome to spring. My garden blooms, the boys poke gently at worms, and I talk to administrators and fill out forms for summer camp and (oh me, oh my) school for next year. The local Parks Department runs a couple of inexpensive summer programs, including a well staffed little one that will suit the Eldest and a friend. Its got music, its got messy crafts, and there's lots of playground time. Perfection! But first, the dragons.

(during the initial conversation) Oh, but we aren't peanut free.

(after, I'd guess, looking up hemophilia on-line) Oh, but we'd need a nurse.

(during the second conversation) Oh, but we have the parents do the shopping for foods, and it's hard to regulate what they buy.

(a last effort) Oh, but we haven't the budget to feed the kids lots of fresh fruits.

Legally, the Parks department has to make "reasonable accommodations," as decreed by the Rehabilitation Act (known to we medico-mamas as the bit with Section 504) to suit the Eldest and others of his medical ilk. Practically speaking, they can make things sufficiently unfriendly and define "reasonable" so as to shape a situation entirely unsuited for accommodating a kid like mine. Either of them, to think of it. And so, I was worried.

Another mama offered to come along and nod calmly, indicating that all manner of things were - in her eyes - reasonable. A deep breath later, there we were. So, said the grand high duchess of the Parks Department, what do you need from us? I put on my calmest face.

Essentially, there are two choices that schools have made for food allergies. You can serve one snack to everybody - and have it suit everybody - or you can serve one snack to the kids without allergies and a safe one to the kids with allergies. Then, of course, I said in a ruthlessly pragmatic tone, you also need to supervise the kids with the non-safe snack, make sure they get cleaned up afterwards, clean your surfaces and check for residue. The choices that schools have made often depend a lot on their staffing, the ages and temperaments of the children, and the school's willingness to take on risk.

There was a brief silence. Then, we'll go with just one snack, said the grand high duchess. I nodded. Okay, then. And onwards we went.

The Toddles, too, comes also with a sheaf of papers - how odd to think of the Toddles as going to school. How unthinkable the allergies made this stage for my mother (but who would possibly take him? who could? she cried). But here we are.

I rather like the boring paperwork for schools, especially when you get to the temperament parts. How would I describe my child? What does he like to do? And, especially, what does he like to eat? Hm. I thought about the Toddles' continuing love of spices and his willingness to eat just about anything. Currently, his favorite lunch is brown rice, with a tomato-cilantro-peach salsa, and a garlicky basil pesto. I like the colors of the three dishes when laid out on my plate. The Toddles likes eating them.

My boys' love of food is a great joy to me, and I do drone on about it - happily, mind you. So, what does the Toddles like to eat? Well.

a moment in blue and white

Happy Yom Ha'Atzma'ut, everyone.

It's Israel's Independance Day today, and after the seriousness of Yom Hashoah (Holocaust memorial day) and Yom Hazikaron (rememberance of Israeli veterans and victims of terrorist attacks), the Eldest's school abruptly stopped draping the hallways in somber black and yellow, and switched to bright paper chains.

The Toddles and I, arm-deep in our newly awakened garden, considered this. We eventually washed up and (with QG's help) produced this:

Please note the artistry involved in the design, the sheer skill and astonishing use of Cherrybrook Kitchen's boxed mix. Yep, I rock.
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On a completely different note, had you ever noticed how absolutely side splittingly funny, how pee-your-pants (a phrase chosen with some cause) hilarious the sabbath z'mirot can be?

Personally, while I enjoy a nice tune, I'd never giggled over a zemer until dinner came up my nose. And yet, there we were at the table when the Toddles suddenly said, 'Yonah matza vo ma'noach.' The Eldest grinned, then giggled, and then the pair of them roared with delight.
He thought for a moment, and then suggested 'yom ze mechubad, mikol yamim.' The Toddles nearly fell off his chair from body rattling laughter.
Shabbat zemirot. Who knew? Ah, but who didn't see this coming, hmmm? Behind my befuddled parental face I was thinking, well, they're developing sib-speak, complete with jokes. Next come the fart jokes - and indeed, here they are - and lots of giggling from that end of the corridor.

And so there is.

Mr. Ortiz, meet the household economies

I think a statistician is actually another name for a baseball fan in the post-season. Now that baseball's in full swing, however, the Man is back at his post, announcing the Red Sox' every move. His position as family sports announcer is pretty secure, given that our TV doesn't get reception and the major source of sports news in our house is the Man's much reviled Palm Pilot.

sigh. And I so wanted to ban that thing from family-time.

The boys, to nobody's surprise, adore baseball. Given the history of Red Sox mania in the Imperfect household, it was probably a tactical error to have bought the Toddles a Red Sox shirt (above). There are the odd dividends: should the Toddles adamantly refuse to have his diaper changed, Mr. Ortiz is always happy to cooperate. And we'll pause briefly to consider Big Papi and my little redheaded Toddles. I assure you that they overlap quite nicely, to the point that they become quite distressed at the idea of being separated.

Vocally distressed. Two-ish, one might say. The Toddles takes his investment in the Red Sox quite seriously, and we all were very solemn during Mr. Ortiz' hitting slump. Oh yes, the boys do love their baseball.

This morning, I was awakened by a small pajama-ed person, deputized by his clever dad to go and wake up the mama.

So, said the Toddles, bouncing onto the bed, what do you think?
I opened one eye, noted the proximity of his bum to my nose, and decided to pay attention.
Hmmmmm-wha?
So, pursued the Toddles, what do you think about it?
I sat up. About what?
About the Red Sox game last night. (clearly, the Toddles was making an effort to be patient with his sleepy parent)
Um. I dunno.
The Toddles took a deep breath, and launched:
I was there - I was David Ortiz, and [the Eldest] was there an he was Josh Beckett and Daddy was there and he was 'coby Ellsbury.
I blinked, considered Josh Beckett's previous incarnation in our home and grinned. Oh. And how did it go?
We played baseball an' basketball an' football - no, just baseball an' basketball - an' we did our best and I stepped in dog poop.
Thinking it over, I decided that I was going to need some coffee for this one.
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Mother's Day is coming, and we at chez Imperfect are getting ready.

Thus far, I've set the Man up with a Mother's Day gift, arranged this morning for the boys to do Mother's Day cards (for Grandma, kids. And I'm just going to take my coffee upstairs, in case you want some privacy), and admired the Eldest's guess-and-go spelling of Happy Muthr's Day.

With this preparation, the Eldest took a moment to consider the actual value of maternal appreciation.
Mum, I have a present for you.
The Toddles and I, poised on the top step, shared a look and decided to sit down. Moments later, the Eldest was back.
This is for you, he said solemnly and presented me with a half-dollar. It's for all of the work you do, cleaning up around here.
I smiled and took it, hugged him and explained that I really appreciate you noticing the work that I do. I really feel valued. Thanks, sweetie.
Oh, you're welcome, said the Eldest airily. And if you do your work again (he paused to consider) another fifty times, I'll give you a penny.

Pondering the household economics implied by this offer, I went downstairs. There I found the Man admiring a dollar coin that the Eldest had given him, for dishwashing.

Heywhatthenow? Sigh. And yet I'm still not going knee-jerk feminist enough to vote for Hillary. But perhaps Mr. Beckett and I should have a little chat about women, hmmm?