school prep & advocacy couture

shhhh - I'm not here.

I'm actually at a cafe, in the Cone of Silence, working. Except when I stop, and do paperwork for the boys. IHPs, allergy action plans, emailing (not begging. certainly not begging) for meetings with admin, teachers, People With Power, and occasionally, ogling lunchboxes.

(I don't have a proper, official lunchbox - is that a good enough excuse? mneh. Maybe not. Admission: I carry my lunches and snacks in a former wet diaper bag....works great for holding liquids.)

We're assembling lists of potential lunches for the Eldest's classmates, lists of snacks, medical kits, and researching our heinies off. Occasionally, we test out dairy-free, egg-free (etc) and gluten-free challah recipes, for the Toddles' preschool. Many thanks to a certain river, who offered a number of excellent suggestions, not to mention a really, really patient rabbit, who let the boys love her to the point of rabbit-terror. And possibly six or seventeen steps beyond.

And then there's the editing, due this past Monday. And the column, due alarmingly soon. Ack. And the garden bed that is, somehow, not quite built. Four of the boards were, oh, imperfectly cut by the friendly Home Despot guys. They gave me a free measuring tape, to my astonishment, but then cut the boards too long.

Which will teach me to use my brand-new measuring tape next time. Smiling the apologetic, harmless/semi-hapless female smile as I do it, because somehow, that seems to suit what the Despot lumber guys expect of me. (The folks in the garden section, however, use a very different paradigm. Hm.)

Paradigms are exactly the major topic of discussion around here, as the Man participates in school prep for the first time. We're talking about what the teachers want to see, what builds confidence, and the many, many ways that we think we could screw up. Honestly, I can't quite shake the certainty that we will - that I will. Because, of course, we're trailing the albatross of last year's preschool behind us.

Okay, mostly behind me.

It's funny how one trip to the Despot can get a mama thinking. The moment I stepped into the construction materials section, I realized that I was carrying the solitary pair of ovaries - and was treated accordingly. Kindly, and with a degree of amusement, and I happily played the role I was assigned. And then went home, thinking. Oh, yes, I'm focussing furiously on looking ahead - no pillars of salt here, thank you. But I can't help shuffling through the flip-deck of paradigms for school prep season: the alarmingly competent mom, the earnest mom, the wry mom, the medico-mom, and oh, I hope not, the martyr mom. I'll shuffle through many of these as I write and talk over the next few weeks. And occasionally, I'll flip off the albatross, dipping into silliness (and rabbits) to leaven the paperwork, the editing and the column.

Which means that I'm punchy and flibberty enough to be considering couture:

which of these (this, that or the other) should I choose for that first meeting with the teachers? for the Eldest's school? for the Toddles? Something that inspires a comfortable relationship, fitting with a sense of relaxed, engaged teamwork, but that says just enough about authority for the teachers to listen when I tell them something beyond their philosophy, o Horatio.

Help! my wardrobe genius moved to Philly, and the Eldest isn't playing style guru this month. What would you wear?

hat tip for finding the funny shirts....thanks!

a frozen pause in the doorway

Q: what's the best way to stop a thinking brain in its tracks?
A: offer it a new and enormous set of opportunities

I seem to be having this absurdly wonderful year. My editor tells me that they are ordering extra copies of the issue with my feature article, because the article's bound to irritate and educate. This alarms me slightly, but hey. There's a teensy bookish thing (nothing to do with the blog, never going to show up on amazon) that really seems to be happening (oh god oh god oh god) and there's a print deadline for the final copy (final? like, as in I can't change it once I hit 'send?' Cripes). And there's a tentative invitation to submit an essay for a collection - a yawn for the resume, but shriekingly new stuff for me.

Holy shit. Don't they know that I'm making it up as I go along? My editor listed me as a 'parenting expert' in something, and I nearly died laughing. Yeah, right. Then I got scared. I'm not fishing here - the label truly doesn't fit. What parenting expert yells at her kids like I do? I bet Ross Greene doesn't. But I digress: point being, I'm making it up as I go.

I comfort myself that I'm still small, small, baby potatoes in the world of publishing. Nobody really knows my name, I can write without the fear of someone pointing and laughing, it's okay. We're not talking fifteen minutes of fame here, we're talking friends and family and maybe three minutes, tops. One and a half, if they are related to me. That's okay. I can be okay with that. I can sit on my perfectionism long enough to be okay with that, long enough to stop trashing drafts and just hit 'send.'

But I seem to be inching past my margin of safety, and I had to shove myself forward to get this far. A column here, an article there - it was pulling mama-teeth to get them out, it was terrifying. Fear of failure? Ha. That's old hat. This is terror of failure, mixed with equal parts of terror of success. Because success, naturally, comes with the potential for even bigger falling on one's face. And yet, it's all so silly. You want a real problem? Real drama? It's not happening on my blog today.

Not that the perspective helps me any, mind you.

Happily, I now have writer's block. Drag that out another week or two, and it should handily slam a few of the open doors for me. Handy, that.

contemplations and deadlines

Recently, after thinking it over seriously for oh, thirty seconds (we had just laid down dust mite-unfriendly wooden floors and needed the cash), I took a paying writing job. It was a one-off, a single feature for a kindly and desperate editor.

I had seven weeks to do the job, and the Man and I sat down and planned how we'd handle this. I broke the project into stages, set timetables for each stage and set to work. I even built in a little extra wiggle time, for the inevitable procrastination. I was sensible, moderately realistic, and completely bulldozed by what followed.

Here's what I learned:

* the Man does not really enjoy being left to manage the kids for dinner, bath and bed on night after night while I work, and making an especially yummy dinner doesn't seem to help. (Note: as the one working in a cafe, nursing a cup of coffee, it would certainly have helped ME, but hey.)
* panic is not useful
* panic is inevitable
* trying to read absolutely everything on the subject in question is not likely to happen.
* trying to acquire a sufficient quantity of articles, books and various bits of paper to make me a mini-expert is not likely to happen, but it is startlingly easy to acquire more than I can read. It is also amazingly easy to acquire enough to make me panic at the sight of the piles of printout/library books/tagged e-journals. See above re: panic.
* I will not become a statistical wizard overnight, able to analyze the significance of a researcher's findings in a single bound, la!
* the Man, having failed for years to explain math to me, might - but only might - be able to work through the data for an article for a medical journal. But I wouldn't recommend trying for two articles' data. We're so close to our twelfth anniversary, why balls it up now?
* it helps to do a brain dump and write down all of the things I want to do when this project is finished. It's fun to organize these things into three columns. It's annoying to realize how long that list is. Ergh.

* stress eating while researching/writing is not actually helpful. In fact, the after-effects are kind of depressing.
* seven weeks is a really long time to disappear from my friends ('tell me when you exist again, okay?' I will. I promise.)
* I miss having dinner with my kids
* I miss their father - and shudder at the size of the relationship debt that I'm racking up. Unequal as it may be (he doesn't have to make it up to me for going to work each day), I'm going to have to make a seriously hefty deposit in the relationship bank after this. It's still worth it, but I think something special is needed here, possibly involving edible undies.
* the deadline is unlikely to change because of a migraine, bleed, new diagnosis, school stuff, home stuff, broken glasses or anaphylaxis. Although this seems slightly unfair - it's all about me, right? Oh.
* pulling an all-nighter is unlikely to improve the quality of the writing that I get done. Although somehow I was under the impression that this worked for me in college. Hmm.
* doesn't matter how much I have to work, quality writing doesn't happen when steam is coming out of my ears. Down, girl. Steady now, steady..
* whining to the editor is unlikely to improve their opinion of me.
* being late is a reality I can almost accept, since it happens every day when taking the Eldest to school. But I'm throwing fits, should that reality extend to this project. (Note: it certainly does NOT extend to all projects, saith the mama defensively.)
* having the Man say I told you so is an absolutely reliable outcome. See above about upcoming anniversaries and the desire to reach them.
* writer's block is the brain's last ditch effort to weasel out of doing something that it really, really doesn't want to do. Not helpful. Also, to be filed under 'not helpful,' along with calling my mother in a panic over said writer's block ('just imagine that you are in an exam room, and there's only five minutes to go - now, get to work!'), or calling the Man at work ('are we done with the empathy part yet? I'm ready for the problem solving part of this conversation').
* it is entirely likely that the Man experiences this sort of haste and worry over projects on a much more regular basis. Although I'm fairly certain that he rarely types in between Curious George stories.
* being done is the best thing in the world. Now, if only I could get there...

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This turned up in my inbox: It's a little heavy on the sugar, but lots of fun. My favorite bit? the very, very average looking singers.

Then there's this, sadder note...and this more hopeful one. A fine cocktail for a harried writer longing for the finish line!

bugrit

It's 2 in the freakin' a.m., and I'm persona non grata with the power that be at our shul. Harrumph. Apparently, my inability to show up to meetings scheduled while I'm out of the country does not sit well. Or maybe it's my inability to adopt the ruling power's opinion. Whoopsie.

But what the hey, it's 2 in the morning and my article is finally back under 4000 words and I like it for the first time in well over a month. Oh, yes, and we're off to hang with a certain Mr Paul Newman this weekend (okay, okay, we're just going to camp). Still pretty damned cool.

So bah, humbug! I'm happily trotting off to bed, nasty rewrite and dreadful committee overlords be hanged.
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Gamma's Tarragon Tuna

serves 10

dressing:

• fresh tarragon: strip leaves off 3-4 stalks. Should make about 2-3 Tb.
• 4 oz olive oil
• .5 tsp wasabi powder, or to taste
• 2 oz red wine vinegar
• 1 oz lemon juice (1-2 Tb, notes the Gamma)

salad:

• 1 c rice, uncooked. Cook it as per your instructions of choice.
  3 cans tuna (Bumblebee Prime Fillet is soy-free, notes the Gampa)
• 1 punnet (container) grape tomatoes, or other small tomatoes. Gamma says that she prefers grape to cherry tomatoes, because they tend to be a little sweeter than cherry toms. You decide.
• .75 c pitted, halved Kalamata olives
• .5-.75 c dried currants
• 2-3 Tb drained capers

Cook rice. Whisk dressing together, seasoning to taste with salt and pepper. Add everything else, toss and serve.

Options: add 6 oz marinated artichoke hearts (hard to find without the vague 'spices.'), replace tuna with chicken, replace rice with orzo or other teensy pasta (wheat!!), replace wasabi with mustard, do all of the above and note distinct resemblance to the original recipe, here.

Note: I apologize for the formatting. Blogger has decided to double-space everything without asking me first. Sigh. Somehow this makes me think of the Toddles...

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Want some dessert to go with that? We've been playing with this Enjoy Life cookie crust:

http://www.enjoylifefoods.com/enjoying_life/recipes_ind.php?id=21
I'd advise a fairly dry pie filling - apple pie seems to work well.
Best with a dryish or fairly solid pie. EL suggests pumpkin or pecan - my gooey apple pie was too gooey for it.

one paycheck later

Well, I haven't lost my touch.

I got my first big paycheck for writing, and the Man and I locked eyes over it. Now, typically, every penny in our cashflow is accounted for even before it hits the bank. We even have a fund for funding the overrun costs on things. Yes, we're those people. But this? this was practically found money.

The Man and I stared at each other. Is it budgeted? no. Do we need it for something? of course (scornful glances) Could I maybe, possibly, play with it a little? (pause) sure.

So I did. One sixpack of cloth diapers, a set of baby legwarmers (here) and an iPod (yes, an iPod) later, I was feeling remarkably wasteful. And contemplating dozens of other purchases, all mildly frivolous. I have to stop now, while I still have a bit of cash left to fund the odd, unexpected pleasure. However, in the midst of my being sensible, I failed to realize that we had entered the Era of the Pod.

Until the iPod, we didn't have music in the house - the MIL/FIL had given us a boombox a while ago, and it had valiantly done duty until, long past it's natural life, it wheezed into silence. Along the way, it scratched a CD or two, to show us it was serious. We believed it.

Now, however, the house is full of music. After a fumbling start, I promptly filled the pod with nearly 2 gig of stuff the Man has on this computer. It didn't occur to me until after I hit 'shuffle' that our tastes in music do not quite overlap. Mostly. But the kids love it, and I'm remembering how nice it is to dance with my boys, to sing, and generally behave like an idiot. Ahhh.

And they're learning, too. At lunch today, the Toddles sand along with the Maine Steiners, to "I'll Be." The Eldest is practicing to be a human beat-box, and he's pretty good, too! "Jeff Fatcher taught me that one," he says when I express pleasure at a nice combination of sounds. Our boy Jeff is, of course, the sound machine behind Rockapella (the Man really, really likes his a capella, thus my pod is stiff with the stuff).

yay for random music. And for the wee speakers, courtesy of a Nome who never knew she had gifted so well.
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In other news, the toddles is learning sounds.
A cow says?
moooooo (with emphasis)
A cat says?
moooooooooooo. (pause) miaow. (grin)

And the Eldest is back at school today, limping slightly but delighted. The homecare nurses have pretty much taken over his infusions of clotting protein as his veins get beat up from lots of needles. And today, even they had a rough time.

Three pokes later, the nurse got the meds in, but called me in a fit of guilt. Apparently, my relaxed, amused boy had lost his sense of humor and just wailed. He wailed for the Man, for me - but held still and cooperated nonetheless. The nurse explained that she was trying to let him choose the veins, since he firmly refused to let her use the ones she chose. His picks are, of course, already well-perforated, and thus fragile.

So the Eldest now has a book. In it, he's recording where he gets poked and when, with diagrams in the back to help him identify the veins. So today's entry was:
january 18
Right back hand. Left antecube. Right radial.

The hope is that he'll use this book to pick the least-used veins, a process he understands (I review his treatment log out loud before looking for a vein), but has not managed himself. Harrumph. If he insists on being empowered, the little so-and-so, we will show him how to use his power for good, hmm?

The Book is done. Long live the Book! and down with badparentitis..

and...done. The book is edited, my oh so professional invoice is mailed, and I am too tired to really appreciate the experience.

(one honkingly huge cup of coffee later)

Since I started writing professionally, I've gotten some nice feedback, been embarrassed by saying the wrong thing to the odd admiring person (I am not smooth in person - blunt of speech, more thoughtful on paper) and generally been slightly befuddled and excited about the whole thing. But this, this is different.

Few people know I'm working on this book, my name will not be on the title, and yet I think it's the most satisfying project I've done in years. My little articles entertain a bit, educate a bit, but this will have impact. I remember as a new parent of a child with hemophilia, clinging to this book, as if it were a lifeline to a kind of sanity. I remember cursing the book for what it didn't have, and treating as holy writ what it *did* have. And now I was part of the team that made it!

I've come a long way, baby. Damn.
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Just heard this: Ener-G Egg Replacer is now being made in a plant that also has items with tree nuts. Drat the thing. Now I'm wondering if my box of the stuff is nut safe or potentially contaminated. Was it made before the switch or after? Do I now toss yet another $5.00 box of something, just to be sure? Remember when I bitched about keeping kosher being expensive?

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On a different note, today was a Good Mama day . Yesterday was, too. Whazzup with that?

Yesterday was easy, it was my Double Trouble day, with both boys home, and we spent it there. We played, we napped together (the joys of a baby with a virus is that he goes down, and stays there, if I'm willing to lie with him. I was. So was the Eldest, and thus the Wednesday nap is born.), we wrote letters to my grandmother. Here is the Eldest's letter.

DEAR BOM, DO NOT WORRY. THE BABY AND I ARE STILL ALIVE. LOVE, (drawing followed, of a couple of siddurs - prayer books - and a Torah scroll, for mysterious reasons).
The Eldest felt that, having lost her sister, my grandmother might be worried that other people would die, too. Hmm. So it's Bom who is worried, is it?

I'll be keeping a sharp eye on that laddie, and that topic.

Today, however, was more pre-planned Mama glory. The Eldest went off to school, while the Toddles collapsed into a phlegmy heap. He slept from 8.30am to 11.30, missing a playdate, missing being hauled around to several very interesting grocery stores - and, held hostage by the small dictator, I slept too. Aw, shucks.

At 1pm the Man came home, and I swept the Eldest off for a little one on one time. I arrived grandly at school, had a conversation with one of his teachers (I adore this woman) about the Latin origins of pudenda and whether we women should reclaim the word 'cunt' or not, and rather surprised with ourselves, she and I went off to extract the Eldest. He was, of course, learning about numbers, so I waited patiently.

We went to Belkin Lookout Farm, a local place in South Natick that has changed hands at least twice in recent memory. We'd been there a few weeks after the Toddles was born, for apple picking, and today we went to see the Winter Wonderland.

Well, it was moderately fun. There was a hayride, which the Eldest firmly declined, so we played giant checkers until he changed his mind. The hayride was, well, sedate. Then we hung around until dark, when the orchards were plugged in, and bing! lights everywhere. My favorite part:

Mum, there's a clown in that car!

He was, of course, pointing to Santa Claus.

It was cold, dark, and the pickup for the train was poorly signposted (which is to say, not at all), and a bunch of us weary travelers had to be rescued by a farm-person, who looked at us as if we were daft for waiting for pickup at the spot where the train had dropped us off. Which is, I'll point out, where the train picks one up during picking season, but I grumble. grumble, grumble.

I got to see the Eldest fretting over being lost, over being left behind, and trying to persuade me that really, his toes would never, ever unfreeze. I wonder when he became so anxious a person? So have I stopped shielding him over the past year? I think I did, actually, sometime around Malka's death. It's a decision I regret only if I fail to be sufficiently sensitive to what it means.

Such as when his friend was going in to Children's for bleeding from his surgery. The Eldest, veteran of six surgeries, got really quiet. Then he got really loud and frustrated. finally, I looked at him and said, 'He's going to be okay. I know this because you were okay, and...' here I told him the story of my ten month old in surgery, and the nurse coming out to tell us, while he was in the OR, that the Eldest was not clotting properly, even with the clotting meds. He was okay then, this child will be okay now. The Eldest took a deep breath, and visibly relaxed. Ah. Good work, mama.

Some days,. I earn my keep. And some days, I earn it and get a fluffy hair cut!

P.S. for anyone wanting cute Chanuka (Hanukka) stories, we're fresh out. I will do an Eldest medley at some point, but for now I offer up Uberimma's family as an example of overeducation gone off the rails. But oh so sweetly. And considering the pudenda conversation today, who am I to judge? (For my non-Hebraic readers, 'imma' means 'mother.')

forget the turkey...

I just got offered a job working on The Book on parenting children with a bleeding disorder.

Hot diggity damn.

Second thought: oh, dear. This means that someone thinks I know what I'm doing. It worries me when people think that.
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On the subject of things that astonish and delight, try this link to a study about overcoming egg allergy, by researchers at Duke University. We used a similar method when the Eldest was making antibodies to his clotting proteins (called 'inhibitors' because damn, those things inhibit!), and we gave him daily infusions of clotting protein into the blood stream, for 18 months. Worked, mind you, and the Pater has been asking ever since why the docs don't do this for food allergy, too. Hmm. Pater, it seems that the boys at Duke have been listening.