consider the happy sleepy juice

which nobody would ever let me take home. Just a wee dram of barbituates, darlin', to settle yerself after dinner? No?

dang.

The Man and I are sitting here, thinking about our upcoming parent-teacher conferences. No, dreading them. Considering whether we're going to accept the Man's ability to discover an essential meeting - at work - and admire his ability to be crucial, elsewhere. Because the Eldest has, over the past few years, refined and expounded upon his understanding of a world that just does not quite apply to him.

Like, oh, the classroom.

Forget buckets, the kid says, who the hell are all of you, and why are your faces between me and my book? Shove off.

And, being the Eldest, he's probably offering you a winsome grin, to soothe the shove. But still. The kid has talked his way through class, called out - or been unaware that there's this shoulder joint thing, and you rotate, so! and the elbow - yes, so - and the hand? maybe? Or not. (oh, well, says the Eldest, and tries the grin again.) He's walked out of the classroom, certain that he can simply avoid a lesson, should he so choose. Or, that - they don't need me in there - he can interpret his presence as optional. And offered your astonished, sputtering self some yarn, rich with his time and genuine liking for you, o teacher. (hopeful grin.)

Oh, it's going to be a fun, fun parent-teacher conference. And, in case you were wondering:  the teachers are crackerjack, the school is supportive and the kid is miserable. When he's willing to admit it, that is. Which means that the Man and I are wavering between saying useful things like, wha'? and ohdeargah, and looking for a scapegoat.

Enter, the scapegoat.

Consider this study in the journal Anesthesiology, this news article, and this panel's thoughts regarding anesthesia in young children. No causal link has been shown - and that's crucial to remember when you are reading the next bit -  but the study found that children with 2+ exposures to anesthesia, before the age of 4 yrs, were 59% more likely to have learning disabilities than children without 2 exposures. Kids with three or more exposures to anesthesia? 2.6 times as likely to have a learning disability.

There's lots of unanswered questions, like the role of stress from the procedure, the specific condition requiring an anesthetized procedure, etc. But animal studies confirm that anesthesia has an effect on neurodevelopment.

So, go on - ask me. How many times was the Eldest sedated before age 4? And if I bring that up at the PT conference, will it do us any bloody good whatsoever?

Answer: no, given that bloody good is herein defined as that which gets the kid out of this hole, and helps him stop banging his head on reality. But hey, nice to have a scapegoat.

pre-meeting shivers

Okay, so I think I've been doing this advocacy thing for a little while now. The nice thing about it is that I get to have the same meeting, over and over. Which is also the less-nice thing, because some days I do rather think that hello, world? time to get it already. Hemophilia means X, allergies mean Y (except when they mean Y squared) and don't confuse them with asthma, which is, well, something else. Sheesh, people.

On the other hand, when I'm working my way through my third virus in three weeks, routine is good.

blah, blah, blah, did I mention that I hate talking to groups? look, cute picture of the kid, timed to buy me some breathing room, and yes, everything that I say pretty much translates to please, please, please help me make this work. Or heck, help me understand how to help YOU make this work. And did I mention please? I bring photos, I tell stories, I bring props - oh yes, even the muddy soccer ball - and do everything short of wearing sequins.

please?

I try too hard, I know. And I over-prepare. Oh, dear gollies, I do. I talk out loud, practicing possible directions that the conversation could take, because oh, I am not a negotiator. I'm a burbler, an earnest leaner-forwarder, and a gaping, gasping person hunting for rabbits in my bag of negotiating tricks. But I try anyway. And I get better at the meeting with each rep.(hello? naive much? a tetchy bit of my brain will shrill. Didja forget getting kicked to the curb?)

Which is why tomorrow has me twitching. Medical needs I get - being earnest and a good team player helps there. Having the other teammates be serious mensches also helps. And oh, we sailed right through the meeting about the Toddles' allergies. (more about that some other time) But tomorrow? Tomorrow we talk about the g-word.

gifted


I hate that word. I'm almost nodding along with Malcolm Gladwell on this one: gifted? really? As in past tense, as if that's the entire, smug story? As if being smart is a prize you win, a thing of blind luck, undeserved and shining. Bullshit. The reality that I see isn't a gift, it's a painful irregularity.

In general, I think that kids are lumpy. They grow, they sprout, they soar, they forget to take in their breakfast dishes. Take a kid who has sprouted so dramatically in one area, and he's even more uneven. Jaggedly so, because he knows - the Toddles can see where his skills are mismatched, and he tells us so. Sadly, the adults aren't so clear of eye, and we've fixed our expectations based on the best that we see - which we're defining, foolishly, by accomplishment, and assuming is representative. And we push the kid to live up to that standard, waiting for him to finally get with the program, but he can't - he's too busy getting his nose smushed into our frustration. If you can do X, why can't you put your shoes on the right feet?  

And it's a funny thing about kids, but it's true: they don't want to be the bad kid. Not so fond of being the kid in trouble. Develops perfectionista habits to avoid his weak spots, glares at adults trying to lure him into the possibility of doing something that he considers to be appallingly sub-par.

Sub his par, that is. Or maybe mine. Both?

gifted? ha. gobsmacked is more like it. Codswalloped, because different is hard. Offered the Holland=difference narrative, Rob Rummel-Hudson explains: hard. Hard, especially when you are supposed to be gloriously cruising, offering a target for others - and yourself. (The nice thing about being gobsmacked is that you might be able to design a really inventive catapult for smacking yourself down from that pedestal.) At least I got to float in a relieved cloud of thank gah it's not aspergers or oh I don't know what and now he can save da world!  for all of a week, before the kid came home and wept. N says he's not my friend anymore, because I'm smart and he's dumb. N was, of course, the first friend that the kid had made at that preschool, an older kid, wise in the ways of Bakugon.

But everyone is good at different things, said the Eldest, trying to comfort a soggy Toddles.

Measure the kids, and you are defining inequalities. Creating them, even, according to Rosenthal and Jacobson's work. (see here for more)  Design a system to give them what they need, and you find gifts sprouting everywhere. Because, after all, how exactly do you define a gift?

I define it by me, said the Eldest. I am a gift.

And he's right. Ah,  says my internal cynic. But without the label, you won't be able to fund your utopia. And she's right, too. So, then, the meeting.


So, do you want to kick us off by talking about why we are here?

(no.)
And I don't know what I'll say. But I know what I'd like to say:  meet my zebra. He's a funky, intuitive leaping kid - and yes you have that other word but I hate it and can we maybe use a label that won't have me spitting cat pee and sand cocktails? Zebra, zebra, zebra. With pink butterfly boots. Quirky, funky, definitely unexpected, stripily delightful zebras. Who might just arrive holding their own, lumpily gouache yardsticks. If any.***


And I don't know what we do about that. But I'm pretty sure that 'happy' should be in there, somewhere.


And then I'll do the awkward silence thing, because hey, you know what? I'm just waiting for the part that gets scary. I was hissed at by a mom at a kindergarten event at one school, and glared at by others, so yeah, my working assumption is that people hate the mom-of-gifted-kid. Her ego is taking up more than it's share of oxygen, and you just know that she's got Quadratic Equations For All bumpersticker. That she is certain that her child is better than yours, and she's got the testing to prove it. So this meeting won't be about advocacy, it's going to be struggling to persuade people that I'm there to work with them. That I'm really not there to demand that we all admire my kid's marvellousness, while handing over the keys to the academic candy store.

This isn't going to be advocacy. It'll be apologies, self-abasement, hopeful questions about what they already do, what they already know. And then, maybe some advocacy. Gently done, because I won't have any street cred here. Because, come on? What kid can do exponents at this age - really? I've just got to be making this stuff up. I am mom, therefore he is brilliant, right? In fact, yes; in a recent babycenter poll, 71% of the parents who responded said that their kids are gifted. (but not lumpy?)

Oh, crap. Past tense, gift. A kid who has gifts, stars shining down upon him, providence in a pocket. So to be effective, I have to show him to be flawed, lumpy, uneven, fragile? And that somehow, that his fragility is greater than another child's, because he's - oh. a zebra. Ha. Or not.


You've done this before, right? I'll say. Help me understand what works in the classroom and what doesn't. Tell me what to advocate for, I'll be saying. Because even after weeks of visiting schools and interviewing directors of admissions and reading and reading and yeah. That. I don't know.

Oh, and -


please








***Got hoofbeats? say the ER docs, look for horses.

hot. me. cold. oh.

Somehow, I thought I was being efficiently grumpy about the last virus. You know, the Virus That Ate Vacation Week, while I worked on sitting upright, and the boys constructed new and exciting Lego machines that decapitate and/or catapult things. Except when the Toddles took a break to contemplate poison Rice Krispie treats. (I thought he was thinking about the egg in many rice crispie treat recipes, but no. There was something about ice, possibly dirty ice contaminated with bacteria, and then also the poison, but I'm unclear. Hopefully the virus took notes)

The Virus That Ate Vacation Week got extra, super duper points for showing up right on the heels of the Virus That Bulldozed The Mamas, which romped through the school, knocking over mamas left and right. Oddly, the children were (mostly) immune. But hey, points for the bulldozer virus: I spent the week before vacation slightly dazed, muttering things like I can't be sick now - the children are coming! the children are coming! must. accomplish. things. ergh.

Somewhere in the middle of this, the Toddles visited the Eldest's elementary school. There was tea, there were other parents, glaring at the Toddles, who was essentially running his own Sumoku game while I worked on sitting in the chair (in. chair. sit. hot. me?) and we all waited for the screenings to start. 

(playtime! said the nice people, and the parents stretched their mouths in a smile-ish way)

Hey, I didn't teach him multiples of whatever number that was. Didn't y'all notice the kid correcting me on my fours? No? Does it help that he pulled the game out and decided to bring it - but I suggested that we bring a nice book instead? No. Right, then. You know, if you hold the glare for a few minutes, I'm going to have some really entertaining chills during the head of the school's fireside chat thing, and possibly even say any number of not-quite coherent things. None of which I'll remember later. You wouldn't want to clobber the viral mess o' mom in the parking lot, right?

(hot. me. cold!) (oh, crap.)

Tomorrow, of course, is the big meeting with the school, to talk about the Toddles' educational needs. And don't ask me what they are - I don't really know. But we've got a lovely, crackerjack learning specialist coming along, who played games with the Toddles for hours and hours. Mostly, I have to sit there. In the chair. Me and the Virus That Was Just Plain Repetitive.

You look tired, said a lovely rabbinic person. I nodded, hugged her (oh, cripes) and then went home to spend a night shivering. (hot. cold. me. hot. waves. thermostat?)

wanted: Tufte, or possibly a skilled semaphore operator

I plonked my hands on my hips, and glared. The Man, on the other end of the glare, was infuriatingly stolid.


Fine. I flung my hands up, and stomped for emphasis. Be like that. Although, for the record, "I turned out just fine" is what you said about formula, also.  He winced slightly, remembering the MIL's lecture about his early babyhood and what, exactly, he'd been tippling at the time.

Actually, he said, there is something that we do agree upon.  Reached over, grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes.

Many sticky notes later, we were still quibbling over the details, but we had this:

Assume a graph.

One axis is P = a child's potential. Keeping in mind that a good chunk of this is bunk, because potential shifts, depending on any number of things, including that nasty 'use it or lose it' thing. Add in circumstance, opportunities available, etc, and you may feel yourself perfectly free to sneer at the axis in question.

The other axis is A = the child's achievement. The kid's five. I'd settle for consistent bottom-wiping on that axis, said one of us, maintaining deniability. Er, yes, said the other. Good point.  So, unless you think that achievement is something that can be pinned to a clear and appropriate standard, feel free to wave off that axis, too. Or, if you are Malcolm Gladwell, fling up your hands and consider stalking out of the room.

But, for the sake of argument, let's consider this: assuming that not all gifted kids are created equal. And that some of those kids will soar, no matter what. For them, P = A, and we all want to know how their parents did it. Or, possibly, how it was done despite, even irrespective to their parents. (I'm not just using Malcolm as a prop here, he really does have some fascinating thoughts on the subject.) See their happy, rising bubble? That's them.

Let's say that some kids aren't gifted. Blithely ignoring the question of the specifics of their education, the problems with how we identify giftedness, or any of the other things that make me inSANE where the concept of giftedness is concerned. Right. For these kids, ignoring a host of issues and a recent, smack-you-in-the-face documentary, let's have their P = A, although without the happy rising bit. See the square where the two axes meet? That's them. We've circled them for emphasis, and possibly in rebellion against the over-simplistic divide between the two groups.

At this point, I'm worked up into a seriously pissy maternal bundle, but our sticky's not done. Going back to the idea that not all gifted kids are equal - nor are they homogeneous - and for the sake of making a semi-clear point, ignoring the fact that we didn't extend this reasonable consideration to the non-gifted kids. The sticky be small, people. For this third group, the P is way ahead of their A, which means that in the classroom, these kids are likely to be one heck of a PIA. Or quietly miserable.


I wonder if those are the kids who drop out, one of us said, morose in the aftermath of an overdose on nastily personal statistics.

That's what I'm worried about. That he'll be in that group. At which point, his P slides back to smack him in the A.

The Man folded his arms and considered. Okay,  he said. I understand that.


We contemplated the sticky note, letting silence replace the discussion about why, how, and what the hell are we supposed to do now. So, if I show people the sticky, will that avoid all of these awful -  

No. But at least you'll be able to explain what you are worried about.


So, there you go.

I want my script back

Okay, so this is how it is supposed to go:
[scene]
Congratulations, your child is gifted. You can stop worrying about how much you suck at saving for college, he's going to go anywhere he wants, on a full scholarship, partly because he's spent his summers doing some really astonishing and groundbreaking biochemical research or maybe something involving quantum physics, which you don't understand because you are just his mom - but that's okay. 


Oh, he's also going to be wonderfully happy, because he's going to have a rich intellectual life, energized by the pleasures of research and discovery. And yes, there will be grandchildren.
[end scene]

Except, this is how it really does go:
[scene 1]
Gifted? What about his brother? Are you saying that the Eldest isn't gifted?
[incoherent, defensive end to scene]

[scene 2]
Gifted? who isn't? 
[silence, end of scene]


[scene 3]
Gifted? I see. So what kind of learning environment are you looking for?
um. I don't know. In your experience, what works?
Depends on the child. 
[insert garbled explanation from the parent, shuffling of paperwork by expert hands, lapsing into silence by parent]
Well, there's a gifted school that we usually refer children like this to.
[flabbergasted end to scene. repeat with each school visited.]

[scene 4]
Gifted? Are you saying that you want the school to take resources away from struggling kids for a gifted program?
um, no. Kids should get the help they need.
Differentiated instruction already has the teachers working with different kids, at different levels. I think you are making a fuss over nothing.  And is it really necessary? Lots of gifted kids turn out just fine.
[abashed end to scene]

[scene 5]
Gifted? Really. And you are asking schools to do what?
Well, see, the expert said - 
My kid is gifted, and I'm not asking the school to do that. What makes your child so special?
[abrupt silence. merciful end to scene]

And here is the short guide to the gifted conversation. Insert silent, notetaking mama with appropriate facial expressions as needed.

[scene]
Well, so your child is gifted. Do you know what that means? No? We-ell, school is going to be a bit of a challenge. There's only one gifted school in your area, and it's oh, an hour away. You'll take him there, right? No? Well, then, most of his real learning will probably happen outside of school for a while. Most schools don't have gifted programs until the 6th grade, and right now, most of those are on the budgetary chopping block. So, even if he's willing to sit politely and be quietly bored - because, you know, boys are good at that - then he's likely still SOL, which means that you are going to have to keep a careful eye on behavior issues that arise. Setting aside, of course, that a good early education experience is pretty important, let's just assume that he's going to be fine, no matter what.** Work habits aren't really important, because, you know, he's so smart - and he's going to be really popular because he'll know the answers to all the questions. Oh yes, all. Because he's gifted, so by definition, he's going to be gifted at everything. 


Except sports. There's a rule about that somewhere.


And that 18-25% drop out rate for these kids? Don't worry about it. You can afford to pay for extracurriculars, right? Good. Resources for parents are online, and you should know that it's a really bad idea to talk about this to anyone in person, and most parents-of-gifteds will refuse to admit to anything of the sort if you ask them, in person. Talk about it with others, and you will be seen as elitist, bragging, a pain in the academic arse, and so on. Also, you'll have a sudden urge to sew suede patches onto perfectly whole sleeves, and start smudging your home with certain aromatic pipe tobaccos. Either that, or you will begin to explore marketing options for your child's artwork or other salable skills - he what? no, the arrangement of Star Wars scenes does *not* count.


Harrumph.
[end scene in a whiff of disapproving silence]

or, if you prefer the condensed version:

[scene]
Your kid is gifted. He - and you - are screwed.
[end scene]


Offended yet? I am.
Coming next: a conversation with graphs


**"The observations reported by Barbarin and Crawford (2006) are entirely consistent with numerous research studies that have shown the quality of the teacher-child relationship to be a major contributor to school success in the early childhood years (Birch & Ladd, 1998; Hamre & Pianta, 2001; Howes et al., 2008). Howes and colleagues (2008) found that the best predictor of gains in academic outcomes for preschoolers was high quality instruction and close teacher-child relationships. Hamre and Pianta (2001) found that children's relationships with their kindergarten teachers predicted academic and behavioral outcomes through eighth grade. Combining scores on conflict and dependency scales into a variable they called relational negativity, they found that, "Particularly for boys, kindergarten teachers' perceptions of conflict and overdependency were significantly correlated with academic outcomes throughout elementary and middle school" (p. 634). "  more can be found here.

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.

compare and contrast: asthma in three scenes, and a reading list

scene one:

boy whines, mom looks up from cooking and replies. Boy wails. Slinks up stairs and flops onto bed. Mom pauses, considers, and walks up the stairs. Finds boy flat on his back, arms spread wide. Watches his ribs expand upwards and outwards, as if his mouth was a lacrosse stick, swooping, arcing, then netting the ball.

scene two:

boy looks dubious, blows into peak flow meter. Mom cajoles, grins, dares him to beat the results. He does. She raises an eyebrow. Rising to the challenge, boy offers to beat even that. He does. Mom high fives him, as he sinks back down onto the bed. Arms spread and ribs resume their push up, arc out, up, arc out, a net grasping at elusive air as mom notes: 35% below standard peak flow score.

scene three:

distastefully, boy clamps his mouth on the inhaler's spacer tube. Pssshhhhhht. Ten hippopotomuses tango past. Psssshhhhhht. Another ten hippos, foxtrotting. Boy blinks. Mom freezes, uncertain whether she is hoping for success (tool that works!) or failure (crazy mommy invented data = fake diagnosis!). Boy grins, jumps up and down. Shows a certain Mister Checkers how the twist really oughtta be done.

Mom slathers a grin on, and joins boy, who offers some suggestions on just how to coordinate hips and knees.

Right, then. We have a diagnosis.

*********************************

After a kick to the stomach chat with Dr. Allergy about the rates of kids with asthma, misdiagnosed with ADHD, or anxiety disorders, etc (guilt, guilt, guilt, anyone?), it is past time for some reading. Here's what I'm looking at (and regretting the good old days of grad school, when I could read more than just abstracts!):

Asthma history and presentation, which points out that "Pediatric asthma and psychiatric mimics require special attention to prevent misdiagnosis." Oh, you are so right. And,

Psychological considerations of the child with asthma, which suggests that "The link between asthma and psychiatric illness, however, is often underappreciated by many pediatric and child mental health professionals." And may have a point, starting with quality of life, and continuing down the path of chronic illness = risk factor for psychiatric somethings. Sigh. And then,

Symptom perception in children with asthma: cognitive and psychological factors,

which offers a thought not entirely relevant to the Eldest, but still intriguing; "Children's attentional abilities had more of a bearing on their symptom monitoring abilities than their IQ estimates and psychological symptoms." Oh. Well, that makes sense.

And the jeez, I want to see THAT! abstract, Children's illness drawings and asthma symptom awareness, which points out that girls are more in touch with their physical *and* psychological feelings. Um. Alas, but this may be so.

Sweltering and cursing the system that assumes that any consumer that wants to read this stuff has, necessarily, oodles of cash to drop ($31 per article, available for TWENTY-FOUR HOURS? wtf?), I'm off to take refuge in children's books. Like the cheery (but vaguely written) Abby's Asthma and the Big Race.

This appears to be a story for the knowledgeable asthma child-parent dyad, and it's a pleasant vehicle for its message: kids with asthma can be athletic. As an educational device, however, the book doesn't go much farther. The text assumes that we know about allergens as triggers, that moving from cold to hot rooms can trigger asthma attacks, and that we can identify the school nurse as not knowing enough about asthma - why else would she discourage Abby from running in the big race? I'd love to have seen Abby's rebellion against these skeptics, but I'm willing to concede on the ways that too much information can clutter and drag on a narrative.

And I'll forgive much for the letter at the back, written by an allergist at CHOP, who notes that 10% of the recent American Olympic team has asthma. The Eldest loved that....and speculated happily on why this might be so.

(he thinks they're all adrenaline junkies. FYI.)

plundering buckets

Of course, there's a story - but most of it is in the letter I carefully didn't write, so I think you're probably up to speed. Fill in my face, trying for calm, reminding myself that if I listen, he will talk, and if I shriek, he'll stop.

(Listen, woman, listen. Oh. And try not to laugh out loud, 'k? Because damn, when my kid decides to get himself tossed out of class, he does some very fine work.)

So, I listened. And I asked him about the teacher's response, looking to see if she gave him warnings (she did), used teamwork to help him change course (yep), and how quickly her head started revolving on her shoulders (inexplicably: didn't). Oh, and how much of each happened before the kid ended up a. in a quiet corner before being b. tossed out and c. talking to the head of the lower school.

Who, to her credit, responded by beginning a revamp of the class that the kid despises. Which I find kind of staggering, and more evidence that the kid is luckier than he knows: I was all in favor of a revamp of the kid. Possibly involving a welder, definitely with some wicked wrench work. Because here's the thing: insofar as I can see, every kid has a quota of Crap You Can Pull, which is dipped out of their Effort You Can Require of the School bucket. And I'm worried about his.

This isn't a question of being a class PIA, it's a question of needs. And this isn't just a question of going to a private (read: teeny religious) school rather than a public one, it's a practical matter. If you have a kid in your class who needs, needs, needs and then some, at some point when you look at that kid, you are going to feel pre-steamrollered. Teachers can give, and the good ones give a hell of a lot. But kids need to give back, too, refilling the bucket - or things can get strained. And strained means that there's less resources left, should you need more, simply because you are dealing with human beings. A long list of needs means that there's less left for that individual to give, because again, you are dealing with human beings.

As I might possibly have cause to know, human beings get tired. Possibly, if you are a mama, that's when you hear that vicious little snap! and begin roaring with all the love that you can muster in the midst of end-of-ropeness. There's a reason why the Short Bus parents talk so much about being tired. But I think about managing 24 kids, their needs and habits and personalities....and shudder. Because to each of their parents, every one of the 24 isn't kid, but rather Kid. And we expect the teachers to think so, too. At the Eldest's little school, we are certain that the teacher must think so. Thus: tired.

We've worked hard to expand the Eldest's EYCRS limits, mostly by being nice people and the best teammates we know how. And we try to refill that bucket by telling his teachers how much we appreciate them, and yes, I'll admit it, by making our by-now famous cookies. (At the Big Meeting before school started, the head of the lower school asked me for the recipe...having been given a tin of these the previous winter. Who knew?) I communicate whatever I can, as best I can, and do a careful if slightly desperate dance between working on the Eldest's interests and maintaining relationships. I actually like the people I'm working with, but it adds an odd flavor to really need them to like me back. In a public school, maybe I could afford to be more of a bitch, or maybe to do less baking. Have fewer meetings.

Maybe not. Because at the end of the day, there's still that bucket, limited in size by the humans toting it around.

So, here's the deal: the Eldest uses EYCRS resources by needing a little extra watchfulness, for his hemophilia. He uses a lot more for his food allergies, which slide themselves into class trips, the Head of the School's beloved squash project, Thanksgiving celebrations, and oh, just about anything Israeli/Jewish and involving food. (Ah, tahini. We meet again.) And he requires more because he tends to feel awkward in social settings, and his response to this is clowning around. Which is lovely in a classroom, dontcha think?

(more on the social thing in another post, but the short version is, unexpectedly: shy)

And oh yes, he uses more EYCRS because he's smart. Not the next Einstein, no, but can do sixth grade math smart (if I explain - okay, look up online - words like "mass," and "factors" to him). It sucks right now that the math problems that he's getting are chock-full of vocabulary that he doesn't understand, or skills that he doesn't have - like drawing a family tree - and so he gets stumped. And frustrated, knowing that part of the problem is something he could do, if he could only reach it. Does his brain fire like that in other areas? I'm not sure. But the kid drew Moh's scale of hardness for me the other day, explained it, and I thought that was pretty flaming awesome.

But hey, I'm his mom.

He's got buds in this wierd, fiery learning thing - a classroom of them, all delighted to learn and alarmingly good at it, in their various ways - and they egg each other on. The school, we're told, is both stunned and tickled. And they're throwing resources at the kids, but still, there am I, asking them to adjust to my kid's quirky levels (because there's never just one level for a kid, they vary by subject, y'know? untidy, that), and drawing on the EYCRS. Because heaven help us all if he gets bored. Trust me on this one.

So when it comes down to it, kiddo me love, you've got too much going on to be pulling more out of the bucket. It's unfair, but that's just how it goes. Can you talk to us, work with us rather than getting wired up and achieving new heights of grinning, PIA kid-ness? We-ell, maybe. The Eldest is blessed with two teachers of an admirable degree of probity and sense of humor, one of whom is openly fond of him. And who tossed him out into the hall. I asked him, she said on Friday, if he could work with me, so that he could make a good choice. I explained that he was not making good choices, she said, and sighed. I dropped my head into my hands. Not again.

I know the answer to the teacher's question: I'm sorry, the Eldest told me recently, but I really just can't. I looked at his earnest face, had seen his efforts to work with me on a calming technique, and I knew he was telling the truth. And it hurt to watch him run out into the hall, jumping and twisting so that his body bounced off the wall, mid-air, land and run on.

He can't help it. We've done testing (more on that later, too), and we know that sometimes, he really can't. Still, the kiddo wants to please the adults, he wants to do right, but it feels good to be ramped up, he told me. And he can't - yet - ramp down without my help, and he certainly doesn't understand why he has to. And I know absolutely and with a fierce pleasure, that the bucket doesn't mean crap-all to him.

And honestly, it shouldn't.

the email not quite written

I'm procrastinating right now, having sat down 45 minutes ago to write an email to the Eldest's teachers.

Dear teachers, the email should say, I apologise if there is any possibility that I've hurt your feelings. Someone significant who might be cc'ed on this email indicated that I had - or might have - and suggested that I avoid talking to other parents about the possibility that the Eldest is occasionally bored in class. I should have talked to you, instead.

Because I'm not so subtly trying to let the Someone know that we have already discussed this, and that I'm a nice person who knows that teachers are an excellent resource, let me take this particular moment to note that I truly appreciate that you responded to the Eldest's request that you teach a certain subject in a certain way. You rock. Also, thanks for ramping up on the math - and can we ease off now? You know that I know that "bored" isn't necessarily a synonym for "too smart to need to learn this stuff," and yep, the kid didn't know how to solve all of the sixth grade math problems that got sent home with him.

Partly because he doesn't know what prime numbers are - or so saith the Man. Given this, yes please, let's have that meeting to talk about what the kid can and can't do.

And on the subject of what he can't do, thank you for being tolerant while the Eldest honed his newly discovered talents of class pain-in-the-ass. He's now quite certain that if he dislikes a subject (translation: "bored," variant 2.1), then he can be enough of a PIA to get himself tossed out of class. He told me all about the various strategies that he'd used to get himself chucked out, and was very proud. "First I flipped my chair over and sat on it, upside down. THAT's funny - it's an antic, you know. Then, I waved my hand hard when the teacher asked a question, but when she called on me, I said in this voice (oh, that voice), "I dunno." And then? I did it again." It is my hope that he now understands exactly how unacceptable this behavior is, and that while he regrows a variety of maternally-removed limbs, he appreciates your tolerance all the more.

Again, my apologies for checking around to see if other kids were a. bored and b. practicing the fine art of pain in the assness. I should have realized that asking such questions might imply that I was also considering heating up tar and gathering feathers - in truth, we're a feather-free* household for the foreseeable future. But I promise to let you know if that changes, and in the meantime hope that the above note both indicates that I honestly think that you are wonderful while demonstrates to the Someone who beheaded me telephonically this morning, that I appreciate you and yes, I did go and talk to you before consulting other, potentially feather-owning parents.

Sincerely and humbly apologetically, Me.

or something like that.

But since I haven't entirely de-snarked the above, I've been reading this thoughtful article on healthcare reform, by a local doc with a nice little pulpit. And then posting the link.

But having done so, I'm out of excuses and oughter go write that email. Sighhhh.

*thanks to the Toddles' feather allergy

a thought for those considering education

thus spake the Eldest:

Good teachers are like Dick Cheney (pause, then clarification for the puzzled and obviously simple-of-mind adults) - hard to find.

wonder if the union ID lets you swipe into a bunker? Pedagogical, financial or otherwise?

But the Toddles was happy: part 3

When I talk to a school about food allergy, they are waiting for me to be the Crazy Allergy Mom, demanding extreme measures that they can walk away from, certain that anything that strict cannot possibly be necessary. No, they soothe themselves, these can only be the ideas produced by the fevered, overprotective neurotic parent. Cannot possibly be necessary.

And with that comforting thought, doors close.

So, my approach is a bit different. I talk people through anaphylaxis (scary, scary) and talk them through how moderates develop into anaphylaxis (oy with a dose of sheesh) and review how different each allergic kid is. Allergies are like toddlers, I tell teachers/admin/people in charge. You never can tell what they're going to do, you can only make sure the sharp stuff is out of reach. (wry, almost funny, see not so bad, come smile with me)

When I'm done, I offer a dose of serious combined with teamwork. I know my kid, I tell the teachers/admin/p.i.c, and you know your environment. Together, we can figure this out. I know we can. A chemist-friend calls that declaration of trust manipulative, and well, yes. But usually, the schools and I do work it out, and that initial, instinctive trust is earned many times over in that process.

One nursery school, one preschool and one grade school have worked with me, had follow-up meetings, stop-and-review meetings and happily used my approach to hammer out workable guidelines. Often, they start with too much strictness, then scaling back. They wait for me to take extreme stances, and are often surprised to find that they prefer those positions, for their safety and simplicity. Identify allergen, remove allergen, right? Still, they look to me to do it first. Parents will say anything where their children are concerned, and I expected you to have demands. I thought that taking the Eldest was just crazy, the assistant head of the Eldest's school told me. But you didn't, and your approach made the difference. (summarized, not quoted)

I agree. And, had I walked in with firm guidelines as to practice (no X in the classroom), rather than firm statements as to the Eldest's needs (not touching anaphylactics), then the staff/teachers/admin/p.i.c would not have understood the needs as well. Which is crucial, in my view.

Classrooms are not static. Things happen, children bring in mice from home and teachers realize that there's something problematic in the mouse food. They need to understand the issue without being specifically prepped for it, and respond. (although in reality, the mother of the mouse-lover called me first, but still, it makes a nice example) One kid wants to sit next to the Allergy Kid at lunch, but he's got something allergy-questionable in his lunchbox. Now what? There's a bunch of wrappers at the bus stop during the field trip. What do you do?

It's just not enough to have a food allergy management plan. People also have to understand why it's there, and be able to work with the underlying principles. Not just follow bullet points. And this understanding is my real goal. The bullet points build habits to reinforce the understanding, or to buy time while the understanding develops.

When it works, this is an astonishingly powerful approach. But it's great weakness is that it depends on the ability of the teachers/admin/p.i.c to partner, or work with me. We walked away from a grade school that had no interest in doing so, and I was surprised to be sitting in a meeting that, post-allergic reaction, demonstrated that I'd walked into another.

We don't understand why we're here, they told me. Can you explain what you want us to do here? I took a deep breath. No point going postal on them, they really don't understand. (Note to self: they don't understand? Oh. my. god. They do not understand. And yet.)

I explained that I've been at this point before, where something happens that is alarming, but it's part of the deal: no bubbles for my boys. Sending my boys to school means accepting the chance that something can happen to them. It's a harsh reality. But, we all work to do our best to keep them safe, and when something like this does happen, it can shake you. Then, it's good to sit down and review what we're doing.

Silence followed. I fell into the trap, and leaned forward to explain.

I'm not as interested in what happened as I am in what happens next. In this room, we have caring people who are putting in the time and energy to keep the Toddles safe, and to let him have this opportunity. We have experience here, we have knowledge, and we have caring, right in this room. We have everything we need to make this situation work, and I know that it's working this well because of the systems and arrangements you have in place. What I'd like to do is understand those better, so that I can help support them, and we can look for where they need to be enhanced.

I looked at a circle of blank - and one closed - faces, counted to ten, and pressed on in the silence. I handed out a copy of the Board of Jewish Ed's excellent "Managing Food Allergies in Jewish Schools" (oddly unlisted on their site). As the director took her copy, she began to look offended, while the teachers looked bemused. I handed out the FAAN's guide to managing food allergies in schools, speckled with seals from approving organizations, and explained that I'd used these as guides to think about what is typically done for food allergy management plans. The director's jaw clenched. And I handed out a skeleton FA management plan based on these, in which I'd identified things that I thought of as the parent's responsibility, teacher's responsibility and team responsibility. I explained that this was a potential template, and perhaps we could use it to clarify together how the Toddles' allergies are being managed.

Too much paper for one meeting, I know. It's a failing.

And apparently, it was offensive. The director's jaw tightened farther, while the teachers looked astonished. And then, after a brief, gaping pause, the hail began to fall.

Why do we need to write this stuff down? It's just what we do.

Why do you need to know this? You could come and watch us. (I could, I'd see what you do, but I also want to understand why)

Look, look what we do for him! (example A, example B, example overwrought C)

See, here's all of his foods (cupboard opened), just like we told you. See? the baking things? (cupboard opens again), all kept separate.

But why do you need to go through this? We're doing what you told us to do. See, we use paper plates for his food. (I find an internal wall, and bang my head on it.)

Here, here - this is our food allergy plan for the school. (I look at this piece of paper, surprised. I'd never heard of its existence until then, but oh - before I pause to be reassurred, there's the Toddles' allergies listed at the top, along with every allergic child's list. Except that many of the Toddles' are missing. Sigh. But enough rumination - people are hollering now.)

Here, here - this is what we do for him, specifically. (Another piece of paper, also missing great big important things. I ignore the sense of disorganization from these bits of different, incomplete papers. Be positive, I remind myself. Point out opportunities - not lack. I find with my finger a few such on the FA management skeleton I've given them, and then my hand goes limp as the tide rushes past me.)

Okay, so what about this? (finger jabs at page) What does that mean? Realizing that I actually get to speak, I open my mouth. This means that one of you does a quick visual scan of a room when you enter it with the kids. You don't have to leave the children, just run your eyes over the area, and if you see some food there, be prepared to respond accordingly. (Referee's call: clock runs out for the mama, possession turned over to the other team)

What do you mean scan? We have responsibilities to the other children, we can't just abandon them - and what if we see something, we'd pick it up, but can he react to the crumbs? (blood pressure climbing - mine. blood pressure climbing - theirs.) And what if there are crumbs that we don't see? Is he that sensitive? (penalty to the mama for opening her mouth, preparatory to trying to respond, saith the ref) Does every room, asks the director almost gleefully, have to be vacuumed before he walks in? Because that, she says, the glee shifting to triumph, we cannot accommodate.

sigh. Did I ask you to?

Oh, but I can't narrate the meeting. It washed over me like a bad sitcom, predictable once it got going, and with an inevitable result. Hours, minutes, who knows what later, I felt like a herd of elephants had been testing their hot pink stilettos on my skull. Don't you trust us? asked the director, and I nearly began roaring.

Trust is earned, I nearly said. I trust that you will learn with me - not from me, with me - to figure out how to keep him safe. That we will work together. This is not the same as trust that you'll instantly become an expert on my son's specific allergies. That would be unfair to ask of you, I explained, actually managing to get a couple of full sentences out before the next stiletto descended.

But on they went. Until finally, it ended.

So, will he be back at school tomorrow?

Gathering up my things, I held myself together. While for the first 2/3rds of the meeting, my job had been to listen - but never, ever criticize (note: asking a question implied criticism, criticism implied a lack of appreciation for the astonishing, unbalanced and deeply caring effort the teachers had put in), for the last 1/3rd my job had been not to lose my temper. Or, worse, burst into tears. I respected those tears, but I knew that the room of defensive, perplexed - and one rather spiteful - women would not. So.

I took a deep breath, and spent a steadying moment putting my pencil too carefully into my bag. Then I stood. No, I said, gasping a bit. I'm sorry. He won't be back tomorrow.

But it's his shabbat!*

I struggled a bit, and then said, very low, yes. But we haven't resolved my concerns about the allergy management plan, so no, he cannot come back. And I left, brushing past blurring faces in the hall, and making it nearly to the curb before the shakes started.

Oh, no, said one of the parents as I rushed past. That doesn't look good.

I couldn't have agreed more.

* each child takes a turn bringing the challah for the shabbat circle, lighting the candles with one or both parents, and sharing the challah they'd brought with the class. For the Toddles, this would have been especially significant, as he is always the child who isn't shared with. And he notices that.
************************************************

I am sorry to admit that no, this was not the ending. I wish it were. But I'll continue telling this story. In the meantime, I've finally licked every damned flap on the Chanuka cards, a tradition stalled for three years (buy the cards, refuse to spend extra on preprinted, buy card stock in bulk, plan to cut stock, print photos, cut photos, glue photos, write sweet little message, make list of people to send to, find addresses, address envelopes, seal, mail. Or not).

This year, off go about 20 or so cards into the wild, addressed to a slightly random assortment of people whose mailing addresses were close enough at hand. And especially to my grandmother, recovering from emergency hip surgery and doing her best to prove that she can go home, rather than to a nursing home. Oh, yes. Especially to her.

Wishing you all light and joy and health this season, and especially some listening, caring ears. My thanks to the oh-so patient skulls attached to mine. Yes, I know I'm droning on. I wish I weren't. Change the channel, somebody, 'kay?

Coming Soon: Talking to the Toddles (part 4, but the Toddles was happy)

Backtracking? See here for parts 1 and 2.

But the Toddles was happy: part 1

I have a deadline today, and a bit of writing that is occasionally lovely, sometimes wry and entirely entangled in something that crept in when I wasn't looking. I know what I need to do for it, but I haven't the time to do the difficult stepping-back and patient fresh-sheet-of-paper rewriting.

More to the point, when I think about doing the work, I can feel how stuffed full I am with story already, holding myself together while bits of narrative and emotion leak out the edges. Generous, wise friend after thoughtful patient friend have now listened to me wail, and still I'm walking carefully, feeling stuffed full of something unwieldy and sharp-edged. Holding my seams closed, I think that I have forgotten this blog, and how it lets me just drop my mess onto the screen. Story told, and clean, breathable spaces inside my chest.

So.

When the Toddles was roughly a year, we already knew about his egg and wheat allergies, and had realized - together with the Eldest's preschool - that this was not going to be something the preschool could manage. Not in the youngest classroom, but perhaps the one afterwards? Relieved to have an honest opinion from folks we trusted to do their damndest, we waited. A year later, we all agreed that yes, this could work - if the floors were replaced before school started.

I was on the committee that managed to not get this done. But there was Mary Jr, and QG, and how could we possibly be so lucky? How can he ever go to school, my mother fretted, but I was certain we would figure it out. And we did.

Last year, the Toddles was offered spots at three different preschools, one which had had the Eldest at his youngest and non-clottingest. We chose a Jewish preschool with a nicely low-key religious approach. It had a promising trifecta: near enough to the Eldest's school for the commute to be manageable, with a strong enough budget to be able to afford accommodations for an allergic child, and above all, a range of experience with food allergy. It also happened to have a kickass curriculum, which I rather liked. Anything you need, just tell us, the director exclaimed, expansively. I suggested that perhaps we could work together, instead of me issuing instructions, and we smiled at each other.

But it was difficult to set up a meeting before school started - the teachers are on vacation, the director said, and I'm buried in work, can you email me back in September? and there we were, early September, days before school started, and the director offered me 15 minutes. I took 45, and the teachers hung in there with me.

We all did our best, but one meeting could only scratch the practical challenge of a wheat allergy in the classroom. And the director had stayed at that meeting just long enough to nix the idea of a wheat-free classroom, leaving me worried and gaping in her wake. The teachers, however, looked unsurprised. And unconcerned. They'd handled a kid with celiac the year before, they pointed out, in addition to others with severe allergies. A deep breath, and I'm going to trust you, but I'll admit that this makes me very, very nervous, I said. Just let me know if you have concerns about managing his allergy in a classroom with wheat, okay? I clamped my mouth shut before it labelled me a nervous mum, and shoved my gaze back to my notes.

Despite our years of experience with food allergy and classrooms, this was bound to be different. I knew that, going in. While I'm not a fan of the peanut-free rule, generally speaking, it does offer a beautiful simplicity. Identify allergen, remove allergen. Bam. But the peanut-free rule doesn't reconfigure itself automatically for the wheat allergic kiddos, even if they are laying claim to one of the big 8 allergens. Sorry, kidlets - wheat is so pervasive in the traditional early ed classroom that the early ed folks tend to stop and stutter when they think this one over. There go the snacks, they think. There goes the playdough. There goes the baking projects. There goes - oh, no. And they fall silent.

Obviously, a wheat-free, or gluten-free classroom can be managed - of course it can - but setting one up can only be a labor of love, driven by the deepest commitment to the individual child's needs. A big ass budget doesn't hurt, either, but we'd seen the Eldest's astonishing preschool director manage food allergies without one. Having seen her head off to the wilds of PA, we knew our chances of another paragon were slim. And so they were, but

It doesn't take a paragon to do a good job. Still, I admitted to the Man, I'm nervous. It's a bigger risk than we've taken before, and it's hard to walk the line between showing how serious the allergy is and working out terms for the allergen's management in the classroom. If the allergy is that bad, then why is the kid there at all? That's the real challenge: explaining that choice to the teachers and admin. The Man nodded, quiet.

There was no time to be nervous. Art supplies needed to be checked for wheat and egg, baking projects needed to be rethought, snack needed to be figured out, not to mention birthday celebrations, clean-up procedures, all school programs flagged for potential issues, and anaphylaxis training done. We did our best, and scrambled to keep up as school began.

Inevitably, there were mistakes. Unwarrantedly, we were lucky. When the teachers didn't have diaper wipes for the children to use at the door, the Toddles popped out in hives. The next day, children and their parents carefully wiped hands and face with wipes, and the Toddles was fine. Art supplies were used before I'd checked them, once and then twice. And look, he's fine now, the teachers said happily, and We cleaned him up carefully afterwards. I took deep breaths, and explained again.
***********************************
Building an Allergy Friendly Classroom, Imperfectly (part 1):

Step One: don't automatically go peanut/whatever-free. Breathe. Mutter "balance" to yourself repeatedly. Assess the situation with the teachers & admin, and then decide if you need to go X-free. Check your decision with your allergist, if need be.

Step Two: brainstorm as follows. Mutter "ruthless pragmatism" as you do so.

The teachers and director (education/classroom experts) work with the parent (individual kid-expert) to identify risks and rank them by degree of hazard. Minor and moderate risks accumulate beyond manageable levels, surprisingly fast. Eliminate those that can be easily eliminated. Look at the remaining risks, and decide which must be eliminated for the child to be safe. Decide which can be managed, and work out how. Make sure you are taking on a reasonable, sustainable level of effort at any one time, and consider how much focus and stress can be handled over the course of the day, for teacher and student. See if the final situation seems manageable.

Above all, remember partnership. The parent has responsibilities to make this manageable, just like the teachers and administration. With good training, even the child has a part to play in making an allergy-friendly classroom work. (As do his classmates.)

translation: if you can avoid using something that is potentially risky, and it's simple to do so, then do. Especially if the avoidance is temporary, budget-friendly and helps folks relax by reducing risk. Convenience is not worth the risk of a reaction. Major imposition and effort by the teachers, staff and parent, however, should make us all stop and think.
****************************
Hallway conversation after hallway conversation followed, and the teachers and I worked to be clear and responsive. Baking projects became Toddle-friendly, and I grimly dropped their cost onto our already irked budget. Birthday celebrations became Toddle-friendly, and the budget sighed with relief when parents took the shopping over from me. But I couldn't help worrying about the emails unanswered, and the risks of the hallway chat - was I clear enough? Did I absorb enough of the information I was given? did I understand enough about how the wheat-based snack was handled? but the Toddles was happy, chattering and tired, and the "but he's fine so far" line crept in and painted my brain into quiet.

He was fine. And oh, but he was happy.
****
I'm going to have all the fun! he told me, disappearing into his classroom. He poked his head back through the door. Write that down, he told me, sternly. And I did.
****
This, the Toddles informed me, is gadol.* He pointed, then looked around. That, the Toddles instructed, is katan.* I followed his solemn finger and nodded. Indeed, it is so.
****
I know what we should sing, exclaimed the Toddles on a Friday night. He leapt up from the table, and arranged us all in a chain. Hiney rakevet, sang the Toddles, and lead us around the room, hi mistovevet, hagalgalim hagalgalim hagalgalim. Grinning, laughing we all chorused, toot! toot!
****
Oh, yes. He was happy.

The teachers smiled, I called companies and talked to customer service reps, ran to the grocery store daily and watched a sleepy Toddles nod off over his lunch. We all tried hard, and it was good. No big alarm bells, no maps saying beware, here be dragons.

It wasn't so easy to get information, though, and I found myself backing off, not wanting to rock the boat. What happens when they do this? I asked a parent, who then patiently pieced together what she'd seen and been told. What's being served then? I asked the parents' association folks, who shrugged. Can you tell me more about this? I asked the director, who looked irritated.

You can't keep him safe, not completely, you know, she informed me. I swallowed a follow-up question and watched her, carefully. People eat all over the building, and you can't control that. She flipped her hands in the air, exasperated now. If you take that child out to a restaurant, someone will be eating something he's allergic to. I leaned forward, and invited my calmest voice to the fray. This is true, I said calmly. He will never be completely safe. But the more information I have about what food is being served next week, and what it's made from, the more precise my risk analysis.

The director leaned back, pushing a short, sharp breath through her lips. Everything [at this event] will have wheat and eggs, she informed me, and I was dismissed.

Aha.

I sought counsel, and decided to take a mellow line. Thank you for your time, I wrote. I see we share different views on food allergy, both in and outside of the classroom. I look forward to learning more about your approach. The director and I smiled at each other, but inwardly, I fumed. She was lecturing me about food allergy? I waited for my brain to put its hands on hips, cock my head to one side, and spit, WTF do you think you are doing, lady? But there was silence, and a looming calm. In that silence, a stern, British voice stepped forward. Oh, no, it said, rich with disappointment. This will not do at all.

But the Toddles was happy.
****************
Coming Soon: the amended Imperfect Guide to Building an Allergy Friendly Classroom, and why it didn't do, after all. Or, if you prefer, part 2. And see here, for part 3.
****************

Glossary:
hiney rakevet, hi mistovevet (etc): here is the train, it goes/ the wheels are turning...
gadol: big
katan: small

quiet, with the odd worrying rumble

I'm not silent here - I'm silenced. When I figure out how to talk coherently about this situation, I will. But right now, I'm - oh, dammit, grr is just to prissy for an anger this visceral.

But want something afterschool special to go with incoherent rage? Try this:

I called my mom the other day, and apologized. I'd just had the Eldest's parent-teacher conference, and now I understood how packed those meetings are with hope and worry. I went in there wanting to know if the Eldest, now a sharp-edged grump after school, was a terror of the classroom.

They wanted me to stop fidgeting at them so they could sing the child's praises. For lo, unto the 1st grade, an Eldest is born. And he readeth at the 3rd grade level (just finished reading Mary Poppins to himself, and damn if he didn't understand it), and he computeth far beyond his years (and occasionally beyond mine, but that's not hard), and he spak and wrote and thought in manners astonishing. Handwriting's not bad, either.

No slouch our lad, and the chess club leader popped in to remind me. He's won a what? a tournament? The instructor looked at me pityingly, but really, now. Isn't this faintly absurd?

Oh, and he's a mensch in class.

So, I asked, what the hell is going on when I pick him up? He looks and acts like he's been through a wringer.
Ah, said the teachers, and looked somewhat embarrassed.

It seems that the allergy table in the lunchroom is now populated only by one allergic kid: mine. But last year a non-allergic child or two opted to bring Eldest-friendly lunches, so that they might sit with him. This year, the table is packed with the non-allergic and their allergy-friendly food.

It's become a real social hot spot, the teachers admitted, and none of those kids are eating a proper lunch. They're all grumpy at the end of the day.

I thought it over for oh, a millisecond.

That's just fine, I told the teachers. Do what you can, but I'm not complaining - I'll just pack him a bigger snack when I pick him up.

The Eldest's year has begun, shaped by community and friendship - and there's been a ripple effect in my direction. This year I've been watching friendships bloom with a number of 1st grade mothers who are perfectly happy being quirky and totally unafraid to discuss something taboo. They are taking me back to school, pushing me to rethink any number of complacently held ideas. And above all, laughing at me when I thank them for vacuuming, or shopping, or even baking for my crew.

Apparently the Eldest's friends get it from somewhere, and friendship really is more important than what you eat, or where you eat it. Damn.

(and now, a return to incoherence.)

graduations, uncertain or otherwise

The Eldest has completed therapy, we're told. The Toddles and I helped him celebrate by bringing feelings cupcakes to the last appointment, and the Eldest showed his appreciation by inviting us in to eat one.

A couple of happy cupcakes, a sad one, a puzzled one and an angry one (no doubt irked by the Toddles eating the icing off the top and leaving the rest), and the Eldest was done. Done with therapy? It's an odd feeling, and even I was unsettled. Our therapist, a specialist in children with chronic medical conditions, has helped the Eldest manage the anxiety and stress that comes with food allergies - and less so, with hemophilia. While he hasn't needed her for months, the Eldest was uncertainly pleased about being told to graduate, and promptly threw a screeching fit in the parking lot to celebrate. Not to be outdone, I roared at both boys for most of the drive home.

Graduate us, will you? Ha.

In fact, the Eldest is not so much graduated from therapy as temporarily weaned, with a relationship formed that he can call upon in the future. Considering the temperament of his roaring mother, his self and the general details of his life, I suspect he will. So. But the work that she and we did on the Eldest's anxiety and anger was tremendous, as was proven today.

Having a short temper myself, when I came upon some techniques for helping children manage anger, I decided to apply them. We made up three colored cards, one green (Happy Mum), yellow (Cranky Mum) and red (Mad Mum). The pictures of the mama on each card suited the caption, and I've taught the Toddles to pick the card that suits me best. And when the Toddles tries to waggle a poopy bum (mid-cleaning, thank you very much), I suggest that the best way to avoid a Cranky Mum is to cooperate. Oh, I'll help you be a Happy Mummy, says the Toddles, and stops rhumbaing on the changing pad. It's emotional blackmail of the most benign sort, but it's also avoiding a power play by focussing on teamwork. So, okay. I can get behind this.

For the Eldest, I made cards. Noticing that he usually looks shocked and appalled when I lose my temper (like today, when I somehow wished to protest the slamming of a soccer ball into my furniture), I gave him the next step: something to say. I made cards that say 'I'm sorry' or "I'll try to do better next time,' or 'I need to think about what you've said, ' and especially 'I see that you are upset, but I don't understand why.' Each card has a follow-up instruction, so that if he says 'I'm sorry,' he needs to then work out with me what he can do differently next time, and how I can help. Etc. The Eldest really likes these cards, and it gives us a break in the grumpiness as I suggest (post-roar) that he go and get the card that suits him.

Today, however, he chose not to get a card. Instead, he made one.

I love him when he's angry, too. So, maybe we can graduate after all.
**************************
For AidelMaidel, the Toddles' favorite lunch, some of it Weight Watchers friendly. Go, Aidel, go!

Tomato Mango/Peach Salsa

• 2 very ripe, fragrant tomatoes, chopped
• 1 fragrant mango (I like the champagne mangoes, they're drenched in flavor), chunked OR two very ripe, fragrant peaches
• red onion/scallion/chives, finely chopped, to taste
• juice of 1/2 lime (more as desired)
• sprinkle of kosher salt
• optional but highly recommended: 1 tsp fresh cilantro, chopped. You can also add olives, sunflower seeds, basil/parsley instead of the cilantro and whatever suits you. I like my lunches fast, so I tend to keep this one simple.

Tip: buy tomatoes and mangoes that you can smell. They should smell like summer, like a tomato that's actually met a plant somewhere. Then, don't refrigerate them, and if you can, make this salsa with room temp tomatoes/mango.

I serve this with brown rice and a basil pesto made with basil, garlic, salt, sunflower seeds and green olives, plus a splash of olive oil. Not so WW friendly, I suspect, but awfully pretty...

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.