the one in the back is mine

Day Five:

it was the day of the big show, and the day that the Eldest woke up to find his cousins in the house. I'm not going to camp, you know, he said conversationally. Ah. Come sit down with me, I invited. As we sat, I explained that he was part of a team that was putting on this show, and that we'd all zip out to watch him - and his team - put it on. He thought this over.

You'll all come and see me? I nodded. Cousins too? I grinned, and hugged him. Cousins too, I promised. And the Eldest went to camp.

Come the appointed hour, cousins, sibling and one excited-nervous-excited mama were in the auditorium. Oh, oh, oh, what we saw. We saw

• girls spinning in great hoops
• tumbling
• girls swinging themselves up and round and down and round with long silks
• boys and girls doing magic tricks
• acrobatics on a trapeze
• a disappearing act
• an Indiana Jones bit
• clowns and balloons
• silks draped from the ceiling, and people twining themselves through

.......but we didn't see the Eldest.

Eventually, it came time for a clownish boxing match. Out trooped the clowns, out trooped the kids in their costumes. And out came the Eldest, wearing his regular clothes. He stood there, a little kid poised awkwardly but happily on the stage, with a huge sign: CHEER. He waited for his moment, and held up the sign. CHEER.
And we did.

When his counsellor, dressed in a silly clown costume (but no scary painted face) ran out on stage, the Eldest bravely chased him around a bit with a big foam mallet. And then wandered around, looking lost. The audience waited patiently, while the Eldest found his bearings. Which was good: he had one, last job to do.

It was the juggling act, his father's hobby and the Eldest's favorite. But he'd felt no need to actually learn any control over the balls, nor to practice any specific moves. Instead, the kid liked to throw the ball. High. And then catch it. Mostly.

So, out walked the Eldest onto the empty stage, holding his ball. At center stage he paused, grinned and yelled, ball! and threw it. Up, up, up. And tried to catch it. A horde of kids with juggling paraphernalia come pouring out, and filled the stage in front of the kid throwing and catching his single ball. They perform, and then line up for a bow. In the back, the Eldest was still throwing and catching his ball, oblivious.

Eventually, he realized that he should join the group, and shyly tried to find a spot to stand. He found one, was edged out by a more enthusiastic kid, looked for another spot, gave up and went back to throwing. Bow, go the group of kids. Hooray! shouted the adults. Ball, whispered the Eldest to himself, and tried to catch it. Watching my non-theatrical son find pleasure on the stage, I laughed and smiled until it hurt. (Oh, little love.)

The show over, we all hustled outside, to cheer for the kids trying to swing - and get caught - on the big trapeze. (remember the net?) The Eldest watched, awed, as his friend swung and was caught, a rare success among the courageous. Safety harness on, the Eldest had other plans.

He found his favored circus staff, and she hooked him up to the little swing. I looked up at the Eldest, dangling from that thing, and considered how I would really rather not get on it, myself. But there he was, trying to swing his body back and forth. Going down, said Renata, and let him down. Whoops! Going up! she said, and yanked him up. The Eldest, a firm believer in ample advance warning was somehow grinning as she hauled him up and down, comfortable with having her manage his safety. He was relaxing, I thought, into his body and what it could do. He was, I hoped, thinking less about what he couldn't do - or about what might happen if he did.

Look! said Renata, laughing, he trusts me now! I looked. I saw the Eldest laughing, Renata's understanding of all that he let go in order to laugh, and I smiled so hard my eyes watered.

If that's the kid's boundary, then he crossed it this week. And I can smile - and get damp - over that. Bravo, Eldest. Bravo, dear one.

the boy who flew. Sort of. A little bit.

When you first see it, the whole thing looks like some giant playground structure, with a net.


A net? you wonder to yourself. But then you get closer, and you realize: that ladder goes all the freakin' way up. Up. And more up. Holy crap: it's time for camp.




This time, I have really gone just too far, I told the SIL. This cannot be right. How on earth did we talk the hematologists into this? She grins at me, and tells me that the hematologists and I are both just doing our jobs. They defend their boundaries, and I push them.

And yet. It is, after all, circus camp. With trapezes. That was one hell of a push.

Day One:
I'm just not sure that this is going to work. I have spent the previous week talking to the wall, the air (okay, myself) and the hematologists. I have not spent the previous week looking over the camp itself, training the staff and discussing this with the on-site nurse. Can we do all of this on the first day of camp? Effectively? For something that's frankly a little bit of a crazy idea? The night before, I have wierd stress dreams about flying and trying to find nets to land on.

But we go, and I talk hemophilia and allergies with a very nervous looking blond guy with muscles, and an extremely calm woman (also with muscles, I note, and consider a gym membership for the nth time. Nah). I hope the calm woman will be assigned to the Eldest's group. She is not.

As I am leaving, the Eldest and the blond guy climb onto a folding table and sit companiably, watching the kids do tricks. They look comfortable - until the table collapses under them, dumping them both on their butts on the floor. Bag on my shoulder, I wait - this is a field test for my newly trained deputy, and I want to see how Mister Nervous handles it. There's a long pause, then I guess that's why they call them folding tables, the blond guy says, ruefully. The Eldest gives him a well, duh look. I grin and walk out the door. As twitchy-nervous as the staffer looks, he's obviously got a handle on how to manage an incident. Fine.

Later, the Eldest looks at the trapeze and refuses to go near it - as predicted. He learns about diablos and juggling, and consents to swing on the smaller trapeze (7-8 feet off the ground). He swings for perhaps 5 seconds. Tomorrow, I'm going to try that again! he tells us.

That night, he has a nosebleed. Same side of the nose as before, and the Man panics. I am asleep, and wake up just long enough to delegate panicking to my beloved spouse. More stress dreams: now I am hunting for pharmacies.

Day Two:
I stop off at camp to dose the kid with Amicar, and find him swinging his legs in the JCC pool. You should really teach me to swim, Mum, he says sternly. I agree, and again reconsider our lack of membership at someplace like this. I go home and look at the pricetag on membership and remember why we don't do that. Yeeouch.

I pick the kid up from school, and he regales me with tales of hats, lost underwear and a faux boxing match. Ah. So, kid, what about flying? You were going to try it again today, right? He looks at me, defensively. I forgot.

Oh.

Am I going to spend time being preemptively sad that the Eldest might just miss this opportunity? Hell, it's his opportunity to miss, and mine to provide it for him. Silly woman. But going to be a little sad anyway, for my poor scared Eldest and the silly adults (me included) who taught him his fears. Some of them, anyway.

okay, most of them.

Day Three:
I drive out to camp, sitting on myself. I will keep my mouth shut, I will keep my mouth shut, I will keep my mouth shut. We wend our way from the parking lot to the trapeze setup. Have a wonderful day, hon, I tell him. And don't - have - fun! It's the ritual goodbye for my kids, and the standing joke: moms are in charge of squelching all fun and joy. The Eldest hugged me back, and ran off to join his friend.


By noon, the Toddles and I were back with the Eldest's next dose of Amicar. Words leaked past my mouth, so, did you fly today? The kid looked at me, his eyes shining. THREE times! on the little swing! That night, he positively glowed during dinner. I went on the little swing FOUR times, Dad, he told the Man. I only stopped because the counsellor made me.


(This I knew - the counsellor, noting the Eldest's glow, apologized to me. He had to supervise other children when the Eldest was ready to fly a fifth time on the little trapeze, and felt terrible about letting the kid - literally - down.)


Tomorrow, he vowed, I'm going again. And this time on the big swing, too.


That night, he has another nosebleed. I consider it a cosmic sign of balance, or possibly a reminder: he can fly, but he's still bound.


Day Four:
I'm not going to camp, he told me. Stop driving me to camp. I quit camp. Why are you still driving me to camp? Hands firmly on the steering wheel, I nodded. That's fine, I told him. But you have to tell the counsellors in person that you are quitting. And you need to give me a good reason for why you want to quit. The Eldest argued the entire way there, and stomped over to the trapeze set. Nobody was there.


They were all inside, rehearsing for tomorrow's big show. The juggling act, the acrobatic act (I want to climb that rope in the show! he told me. It's just like that one on the playground), the clowning and the magic act. Hey, kid, one of the counsellors called, do you want to climb inside the box? The Eldest shook his head, vehemently - and settled down to watch. Fascinated, he said, I think I like watching them better than I like doing these things. And so he watched. After a while, he waved distractedly as I left, and then looked up calmly when I returned, Amicar in hand.


How's it going? I asked. He nodded thoughtfully. It's okay, he said. I don't want to do things, but I do have a couple of jobs. A counsellor drew me aside to apologize: the kid just wasn't going to be the star of the show. It's okay, I told him. All I want is for him to have a chance to try. Quietly, I was a little bit, secretly sorry not to have the Disney-esque spectacle ending, with the challenged hero rising triumphant.


But hey, this is real life, right? Not a movie. And so, that night: you know that I'm quitting camp now. I am NOT going back tomorrow.


sigh.

coming soon......Day Five: the boy, the stage and the swing

of shared badnesses

I've handed in my last draft (for now), and it's in the hands of the scary, scary anonymous reviewer people. So, I'm bloghopping to distract myself.

I found this kind note at DovBear, and this fascinating one at Juggling Frogs. The question of good or bad mothering is pretty near and dear, as you can imagine, mostly because when I want to wail about being an awful mum, any number of people tell me this: well, but you have so much going on, it's so hard!

This may be true, but as Carolyn points out, the wail itself is important. And, inevitable. No matter how hard we supermommies work, badness is unavoidable. Mostly, of course, because good mommydom is only partly based on our terms. My kids don't care how much I've got going on. To them, I'm operating on normal terms - we work hard to make their normal seem manageable and dull - so, say the children, why can't I get my ass in gear and oh, stop screeching? It might be hard, but they couldn't care less.

Kids are kind of ruthless that way, when you think about it. They need what they need (I'm thirsty, mum) - and they don't care if you've got the flu. You can browbeat them into accepting less (hold on a sec, kid, I'm busy), you can talk them into awareness of the other person (you look awful, Mum, can I help?), but none of this changes the basic need.

And when you have kids who need more, well that's just the deal, mom. So pony up. And so we do. But honestly, people, there are limits.

I appear to be a little tricky to talk to on the 'bad mommy' front. I tried to play the other day, and someone stopped me cold. What you do is heroic, she said, and I stared at her. She's no slouch herself as a medico-parent, and yet. Hunh? Why can't I be a bad mom, too? I took a shot: Whatever you think of what my kids demand of me, I claim the right to be as lousy as anyone else. Just the other day, I screeched bloody murder at the wee horrors for.... - and yet, end of conversation. New subject.

So, no bad mommy playtime for me. Partly because people like to pop me up on the Hero Mom pedestal (let me tell you, it's chilly up there and slightly two-dimensional), and partly because if my kids wailed over me not making it to their soccer game, I'd snort at them. It's a soccer game, I'm sorry I missed it, but there will be more. 'kay?

End up with a bleed or need me to yank soy out of the diet, and I'm there for you. Need a hug, and I'm happy to cuddle. Need any number of things that I can provide, and I will. But if you want something and it's just not going to happen, then I fully expect that we'll have a calm, caring conversation - and then you will deal, o child of mine. This isn't the smugness of a mum who has it all figured out, this is the can't be bothered-ness of a mum who knows she's only just got her nose about water. I get that, and so do my kids. Perspective is crucial. I bet Rix knows that.

Need vs want, I tell the kids. We can really want that which we don't need, and that's okay. Can't have the ice cream, can need a treat to replace it. Must trust me - and yourself - to do your best. Work with me, people.

(come to think of it, this ruthlessness may have something to do with the pedestal. Still. Brr.)

"It's just that complacency and smugness are incompatible with the authenticity and flexibility required for any important relationship," says Carolyn, and I wouldn't disagree. Thus the lack of parenting gurus in my life. Even Dr. Sears had to make it up at some point, so why not me? But I think that there's a certain degree of smugness in bad mommyhood - telling the bad mom story gives you an in to an intriguing social function: the anti-perfection patrol.

Martha bad, FlyLady good? Where do you draw the line on perfection? Individually, we can be amazingly harsh on ourselves, no matter how much we sneer at Martha. (and I'll admit here to having made one of her recipes for dinner. Yum) But watch how the discourse works in groups.

Try this. Note how the bad mom invites others to be bad, also? She creates a new normal, in which any number of relatively sane-sounding women are bad, too. It's okay to be imperfect, the women tell each other, and then reset their common denominator a few, socially sanctioned notches down from the pedestal. (again, I note: brr) This has the equivalent function of slugging back a nice cold beer - the women now relax and actually begin to talk to each other.

Bad mommying creates a connection, and sets a boundary in which more honest conversation is possible. It's a pretty good deal, when you think about it.

if you find yourself lacking in bad mommy inspiration - I, alas, am my own personal source - the parentblogger blog (say that three times fast? six times fast?) suggested this for bad mothering with trailer park style. Got to get me a copy...
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The feast of comfort food continues over at Chez Imperfect, and I can feel my skirts tightening. Looks like with comfort, comes padding. Alas for the slimmer version of me, and oh, well. But mmmm. Good.

Today, we reinvented a dish of my childhood. My mum used to make this for me, I told the boys. They dumped crisp, fresh blueberries on top and chewed thoughtfully, considering the gustatory virtues of their mum's mum. Finally, the Eldest swallowed. And when is she going to come and visit? he asked, and filled his spoon. Oh, I said, working it through. So you like this dessert?

Mouth full, he nodded. Right. Gotcha, kid.

Childhood Chocolate Pudding
serves 4

batter:
1 cup gluten-free self raising flour mix (recipe from Living Without magazine, below
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 cup sugar
1 soup spoonful of cocoa/carob powder (for the Aussies and English, this is actually a dessert spoon)
2 Tb melted butter/margarine
1/2 cup soy milk/dairy milk

Mix ingredients together, and pour into a 8x8 pan. Heat oven to 375 F.

sauce:
1 c brown sugar
2 soup spoonfuls (or dessert spoonfuls, for the Anglophilic) of cocoa or carob
1 and 1/2 c water

Heat and mix together until sugar has melted. Pour on top (no, really) of the batter.
Bake at 375F for approximately 45 minutes. Serve with a cold, crisp-flavored fruit, like blueberries or raspberries. Or, if you aren't dairy allergic (or vegan), serve with whipped cream.
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GF self-raising flour, by Living Without magazine:
1 and 1/4 c sorghum flour
1 and 1/4 c rice flour
1/2 c tapioca flour
2 tsp xantham/guar gum
4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt

....and the Imperfectly virtuous, Martha-made-us-make-it dinner: leftover watercress, a handful of olives (although we like this also with pickles), a teaspoon of child-despised capers (see, they don't eat everything), a can of well-rinsed chickpeas, and a cookie sheet of wonderfully garlicky fresh croutons. Tossed with olive oil (4 Tb) and red wine vinegar (2 Tb). Ahh.

Oh, yes. The croutons: I cut shabbat bread/challah into bite sized chunks, tossed with about six smashed, peeled cloves of garlic, a 1/4 cup or so of olive oil, salt, coarse black pepper and 1 Tb cumin seeds. Then we baked the croutons at 425 for about 15 minutes, and finished them off with a minute or three under the broiler. Then I chased small bums out of my kitchen when they ate too many pre-dinner croutons.

bah. Eat the bad mommy's croutons, will they?