Okay, so there's a virus going 'round. This is new? I have kids, they spend time with other, kid-shaped persons, therefore we live in a petrie dish. There is always, always something going around, solemnly heralded as 'a really nasty one.'
Because if your kid gets it, and the carpool crumbles and the work thing stops dead in its delicately, fragilely balanced tracks, well. It done stopped. And catching up is something that people do in lieu of sleep, insofar as I can tell.
So.
Last night, the short one came into bed with us. I was already tossing and turning a bit - had an odd sore throat, bit of a stuffy nose. So, the little fellow climbs in, rotates to a finely judged 45 degree angle, and this time I do not wait for the feet to hook themselves, delicately, around my throat. I get out, hoist my pillow, and go find the empty bed that the kid has left for me. Done.
Tonight, he returns. Chattier this time, wanting to tell me about how he can feel his tummy when he breathes, and he's not sure that is a good thing. Water? oh, yes please, he says, politely. Blow your nose? Oh, that helps! he says, and is delighted by the discovery.
Forget minutes later, he is drinking determinedly, trying to keep things going down - rather than up. But nope, up they come, while the Man and I are still coming to grips with the situation, and splash! go many unmentionable things across the floor. On the bed. On, of course, the child.
Bathe the child. Shoo the sib and his father down the hall. Strip the bed. Splash vinegar cleanser liberally. Mop. Remake the bed, tuck the little in, and breathe. But you know what? The place still smells like sick, now overlaid with a heavy aroma of vinegar.
Mop again. And again. Realize that vinegar now had an association of sick. Pause.
One splash of tea tree oil on a rag, and now the room smells like a warm garden, with an almond tree growing in it. Most of the almonds are still green and fuzzy, and a tiny lady with a narrow, unlovely face is calling me for some mashed bananas, warm and sprinkled with carob. Somehow, this flavor is exotic and delicious, and sitting in here kitchen, I am content.
My Babcia always smelled of tea tree oil, which she swore was antibacterial - good for cleaning, she told me. That she was proven right is almost incidental tonight, when the scent carries comfort as much as it does hygiene.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
it's okay to be different when...
A few weeks ago, I showed Beauty and the Beast to the boys. We're too lazy to have a TV - or rather, to police one, sneer at it, and usefully deconstruct it for the kidlets. (literally and otherwise) But once in a great while, we creep out of our lazy Luddite cave to try something like this. As predicted, the Toddles bolted for the futon, hid behind his father - and eventually tugged the Man up and away from the overwhelmingness.
Could we have a story, instead?
But the Eldest was enthralled. Wanted to talk about why the Beast was drawn that way, so that he's scarier looking there and why Gaston eats all of those eggs - is he serious? and just - stare. And stare, frowning slightly - then hugely relieved - then curled into me, waiting. Oh! he said, watching Gaston fall into the castle depths. I wasn't expecting that. And grinned.
The next morning, when the Toddles crept out of hiding, the Eldest was still locked onto the movie. And, apparently, so was his brother. Forget the Beatles, forget the Black Eyed Peas - and even They Might Be Giants. No Little Richard or Benny Goodman - we've even sworn off Trout Fishing in America for now (not for long, kids - please? not for long?), while the Beauty and the Beast album is on endless loop. Play the Beauty and the Beast music! the back seat insists. Go get the mob song - it's missing from the iPod!
And, don't sing along, Mum - you are getting between me and the words.
Right. Sorry, kid. (hrrumph)
Eventually, the cross-eyed stares melted into something else. By the nth repetition of the mob song, the shorter one was looking thoughtful.
Why are they afraid of things they don't understand? the Toddles asked, and ruthlessly, waited for my reply. I tried to explain about how things in the dark are scarier than in the daytime, things you don't know can be scarier than things you do know - or can figure out - and he weighed my reply carefully. That makes sense, he conceded.
Actually, I'm afraid of Gaston, he confided. The Beast has scary drawing, but Gaston really *is* scary.
I nodded. Deep, soul-certain self-centeredness is absolutely scary. I told the kid so, and he looked sad. Yes, he said. That's why we learn about derech eretz, right?
The next day, the Eldest passed by the mob song, choosing instead Belle's theme song. He listened to it once, twice, brushing off my rather paltry 'different but special' routine. No, Mum, he said, suddenly. Listen to it. They [the townspeople] call her odd, and strange, and say that she doesn't fit in. But it's not until Gaston says that he wants to marry her that they say that she's different but special. And that's only because they like Gaston, see?
I did see. Difference is only special if someone is willing to value it - or you.
We don't like what we don't understand, eh? I suggested. In the back seat, a kid nodded. So, perspective matters? or understanding?
Both, he told me. Firmly. He had reason to know.
Could we have a story, instead?
But the Eldest was enthralled. Wanted to talk about why the Beast was drawn that way, so that he's scarier looking there and why Gaston eats all of those eggs - is he serious? and just - stare. And stare, frowning slightly - then hugely relieved - then curled into me, waiting. Oh! he said, watching Gaston fall into the castle depths. I wasn't expecting that. And grinned.
The next morning, when the Toddles crept out of hiding, the Eldest was still locked onto the movie. And, apparently, so was his brother. Forget the Beatles, forget the Black Eyed Peas - and even They Might Be Giants. No Little Richard or Benny Goodman - we've even sworn off Trout Fishing in America for now (not for long, kids - please? not for long?), while the Beauty and the Beast album is on endless loop. Play the Beauty and the Beast music! the back seat insists. Go get the mob song - it's missing from the iPod!
And, don't sing along, Mum - you are getting between me and the words.
Right. Sorry, kid. (hrrumph)
Eventually, the cross-eyed stares melted into something else. By the nth repetition of the mob song, the shorter one was looking thoughtful.
Why are they afraid of things they don't understand? the Toddles asked, and ruthlessly, waited for my reply. I tried to explain about how things in the dark are scarier than in the daytime, things you don't know can be scarier than things you do know - or can figure out - and he weighed my reply carefully. That makes sense, he conceded.
Actually, I'm afraid of Gaston, he confided. The Beast has scary drawing, but Gaston really *is* scary.
I nodded. Deep, soul-certain self-centeredness is absolutely scary. I told the kid so, and he looked sad. Yes, he said. That's why we learn about derech eretz, right?
The next day, the Eldest passed by the mob song, choosing instead Belle's theme song. He listened to it once, twice, brushing off my rather paltry 'different but special' routine. No, Mum, he said, suddenly. Listen to it. They [the townspeople] call her odd, and strange, and say that she doesn't fit in. But it's not until Gaston says that he wants to marry her that they say that she's different but special. And that's only because they like Gaston, see?
I did see. Difference is only special if someone is willing to value it - or you.
We don't like what we don't understand, eh? I suggested. In the back seat, a kid nodded. So, perspective matters? or understanding?
Both, he told me. Firmly. He had reason to know.
Monday, March 28, 2011
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.
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.
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!
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)