jubyred

Birds and the Bees

It all started after Christmas.  BoyChild had a friend over and they were playing upstairs in the playroom.  I was downstairs starting dinner when he ran downstairs, grabbed the January edition of Vanity Fair with Kate Winslet on the cover and headed upstairs.

- Hey hey hey.  Where are you going with my magazine?
- Nowhere.  Upstairs. 
- Why are you taking my magazine?
- No reason.  I just like magazines.
- You have ten minutes of playtime yet.  Start cleaning up the mess up there and then y'all get in the car so I can take him home.  Leave the magazine down here.

I wasn't sure what to make of it at first.  I had already looked through it and I knew there were some rather provocative shots of Ms. Winslet in there that revealed her ass (really lovely, shots in the vein of Belle du Jour, actually), but was that what he was going to show his friend?  Maybe they just needed a magazine for some other project they were doing.  The kids were always cutting up magazines.  That was probably it.  I'm sure he was just looking for pictures of cars. 

But to be sure, a few days later, I found myself alone with him and I picked up the magazine.

- So, hey, is this the magazine you wanted to look at the other day?
- I don't know, maybe.
- Was there something specific in it that you were interested in?
- Nah (waaay too nonchalantly).  I just like magazines.
- Yeah, me too.  Do you want to look at this magazine with me?
-  Ok, sure.

So we sit there flipping through the pages and we talk about photography and lighting and advertising.  I get to the spread of Kate and explain that it's set up to look like a famous movie and that lots of people are involved in picking the furniture and the setting up lights.  Blah blah blah.  "Oh, and this one is kind of silly because you can see her bottom."  He laughs a little.  And I go on to explain how lots of photographers and artists like to draw or paint or photograph the human body because it's so beautiful.  And he agrees and listens and that's that. 

Fast forward to a few weeks later and Drew and I are downstairs listening to an argument brewing upstairs between the kids.

- No! She can't be naked if she's going to be the princess.  If you're going to play Barbies with me you have to play right. 
-Well I don't want to play Barbies with you unless she is naked.

I listen on the stairs for a while then head up there.

- Hey guys.  What are y'all playing?
-  (He quickly shoves the naked Barbie under the table.)  Nothing

I send his sister downstairs and we have a little chat. 

- So, it sounded like you were very interested in the Barbie being naked.
- No I wasn't.
- It's okay if you were.  Everyone is curious about what people look like naked.
- Really?
- Sure.  I was and so was your dad.  Everyone is curious about that. 
- Ok.
- Do you have any questions about it?
- Uh...no.
- Well, first of all you know that real women don't really look like a Barbie doll, right? (I resist the urge to go into what I really want to here.  One thing at a time)  But when girls grow up they get breasts and their bodies change just like boys' bodies change.  You remember what breasts are for, right?
- For feeding babies?
- Right!  Exactly. 
-  Then why do you still have them?
-  Uh, well, that's a good question.  I mean, they don't just disappear.  And women who don't have babies have them even though they might never feed a baby with them.  And some women have babies and feed their children with a bottle.  They're kind of just there in case.
- Ok. 
- Do you have any other questions?
- No.
- You know you can ask me anything, don't you?
- Uh huh.

It was at that point that I realized he was so completely embarassed that I stopped.  After telling him how normal he was like 32 times and asking him a few times why he was suddenly so interested in all this, I let it go.  My first thought was total fear, like, who's been talking to him?  Has something happened that I'm not aware of?  And then I sort of got that this is how it goes.  We aren't quite to SEX yet, but we are right on that cusp.

I got him a book geared for kids with the very basic facts of life.  All in kiddie illustrations.  Nothing too weird or sexual.  Just kind of a funny and normal take on things and I read it with him.  He seemed completely disinterested and I set it on the dryer to return to B&N.  Then a few weeks ago, I found it had moved to his room.  I didn't say a word, just cleaned off his nightstand and left it there. 

He just turned seven.  I was really not expecting this sort of thing so early.  I mean, he's very mature in most ways.  I know, I know, I sound like a mom.  But he is a weird kid in his social maturity.  A friend of ours ate with him in the cafeteria the other day and said he's someone she'd love to just take to lunch and talk to.  While her kid is picking his nose and giggling, mine is saying things like, "So, Ryan, I was wondering...what would you like to be when you grow up?"  The combination of his interest and his social skills concern me a great deal.  There's no stopping it now. 

 

To My Children

At 1:30 am this morning, I watched President Elect Barack Obama's acceptance speech to the office of President of The United States of America and thought of my two children asleep in the dark.  Unable to go to sleep, I wrote the following to them:

Dear Jed and Ruby,

After months of explaining to you both how Democracy works in America, I am sitting in our house watching history play out as you both sleep upstairs.  And for the first time in a very long time, I am hopeful and inspired.

There are those who would tell you today that the elevated rhetoric of this man we elected amounts to little more than pretty words and goosebumps. I would remind them that every significant step taken forward in this country, from the very formation of this nation to the fight for civil rights for all citizens, began with a vision and with the rallying cry of those who believed in the same fundamental ideals.  Without that, we are nothing.  I pray that in your lives, you will both have many opportunities to feel as though you are a part of something bigger than yourselves, that you will be inspired to learn and grow and change this world and to be inspirations to other people.

Like both your father and I, you have been blessed with great opportunity.  You were born to educated, free people of means.  You were born citizens of America.  You were handed that gift on the day you were born.  There are those who will tell you your luck was God's will, that those who were not so fortunate are somehow deserving of their lesser lot in life.  Some may have you believe that you need to only look out for yourself in this world and not be concerned with how others fare.

As your mother, I would tell you that my singular goal for you is to understand and embrace the notion that with such great blessings comes great responsibility.  As a citizen of this country, as a child of God and a resident of this world, I firmly believe that we all have the responsibility and the great privilege of looking out for one another, of respecting one another, of doing everything we can to make sure that everyone else can be their very best.  It is only in this way that you will ever find the best of yourselves.  This world does not belong to you. It belongs to all of us and we are all connected.  My prayer for you is that you will always feel tied to the bigger force that binds us all.  Call it God, call it Love, call it Community, call it Family.  It's all the same force and it is what sustains us and enables us to change ourselves one individual at a time and, subsequently, the world.

There are those who will continually yell, "Mine!  Mine!  Mine!"  Those who will always think what they have matters more than who they are.  There are those who would be very angered by the notion that they are in any way responsible for complete strangers whose decisions they can't control. But I believe the only progress we can make as a nation and as individuals is with the support and encouragement of one another.  This is how your father and I have taught you that we are in our own family. The very same principles apply outside of our home.  To exclude certain people or groups of people, to insist that we are better or more deserving of the blessings of this world is the worst kind of hubris and only sets us up to isolate ourselves and fail.

I am so thankful at the thought that neither of you will know the limits that have been placed on certain people in this country.  You will likely never know poverty nor will you be denied your fundamental rights to participate as a free citizen of this country.  Because of the tireless efforts of very brave people who came before you, you can live and prosper in a country where we have possibilities that some people didn't have as recently as one generation ago.  I am thankful that there are many struggles you will never have to endure; battles that were fought and won before you were even born.

But there will be other battles.  I was quite pregnant with you, Jed, on the morning of 9/11 as I watched in horror the events of that day.  I sat there thinking of the world I would be bringing you into and wondering what my place in it was.  I wondered how I could keep you safe and how on earth I might have the strength of character to instill in you the courage and fortitude to be a real agent of change in your world.  This prayer is my greatest hope for both of you.

This country moves and changes in small steps, as it should.  Our new President is charged with a formidable task ahead of him as all presidents before him have been.  I am not naive to think that one man can be elected and the enormity of our problems will magically disappear.   Christ, himself, could be sworn in on January 20th and that will not be the case. That change is up to us.  Each one of us. 

What I do believe, however, is in the overwhelming and undeniable power of hope. I believe in the fundamental notion that you have a voice, that you matter, that you are significant, that you can affect change, that everyone you touch matters, and that it is these ideals that make us most powerfully human. 

Love,

Mommy

Heartstrings

Any mother worthy of having children knows what it takes to get her children in 'the zone.'  For mine, it has always been music.  Since birth, my kids have responded to music.  No matter what crazed mood they are in, I have been able to snap them into calm with the right song.

GirlChild's latest favorite song is one I started singing to her at bedtime a few weeks ago.  Within days, she had the entire thing memorized.  I can't get her to remember to rinse her toothpaste out of the sink, but she can mostly sing a song back to me after hearing it once or twice.  I love her intonations and strange southern accent as she earnestly sings it into her squash microphone. 

I also included the real version by Alison Krauss in case this isn't in your repertoire and you'd like to hear the treatment of it by a grown woman instead of the four year old's version.

Long Way Home

With Drew's new job and my new work schedule comes some changes in the kids' schedules this school year. Drew works from home on Mondays (and maybe another day coming up soon) and I am at home on Fridays.  That means that BoyChild can ride the school bus home those days and we can meet him at the bus stop.

The week before school started, there was an orientation/meet-n-greet.  At that event, the school had posted the bus schedules and there was some confusion over which bus our neighborhood would take.  There was one option that picked up the kids at 7:02 and another bus came along later at 7:35.  Obviously, we all wanted the 7:35 bus.  Waking up a 6 year old at 6:30 five days a week to attend school that begins at 8:00 am under a mile away is ridiculous to me.  So, I had no less than four conversations with the ladies at the bus table in the cafeteria at orientation and the way it was left, was that we'd see them at 7:35 on Monday morning.  I alerted the other mothers to do the same.

On the first day of school, the bus came at 7:35 but was on the OTHER side of the street meaning all the little ones had to cross the street.  They promptly changed our bus to the 7:02 one and after showing up to an empty bus stop Tuesday morning (was anyone going to inform us?) I drove my son to school at 7:45 AM and have been doing so since then.

This bus change, however, played out on the first Friday afternoon when I was supposed to meet him after school.  I stood there watching all the other kids get off and then the bus pulled away.  I asked his little buddy if he was on the bus and he said , "No."

I assumed he was on the original bus.  It's strange to consider now, but I wasn't really freaked out.  Maybe I should have been?  I drove to the school and walked into the front office.

-Hi.  My son didn't get off the bus today.
-Oh no.  Oh my God.  What's his name?  Who's his teacher?  What grade?

Next thing I know, his teacher has come to the front office and she tells me which bus she put him on.  The front desk is sort of freaking out and there are three other mothers in the office telling me how their kids would be hysterical.  I thought of my daughter and knew what they meant, but BoyChild isn't that kid, somehow.

They walkie talkied into the bus where he was and they said they had him and would return him to the school. 

He skipped into the front office with his backpack and his new school shoes.

-Hey, Mommy.
-Hey, Sweetie.  You okay?
-Oh yeah, I just got on the wrong bus is all. 
-Yeah, I know.  You wanna go get a milkshake?
-Sure.  Sounds good.

And that was that. 

I must remind myself when it seems difficult that sometimes it is very easy. 

It Seemed like A Good Idea At The Time

My parents have been itching to have the kids down this summer.  Well, summer (as in School is Out) began Friday at 2:30 p.m.  By Sunday morning, they were on their way to Florida.

For a few weeks, since we planned this, I have been having Mom fantasies about a clean house and watching TV and not sweeping under the barstools and existing on nothing but Syrah and cake for days because I can.  Because I am a grown up. 

The timing worked beautifully as Drew has a work retreat scheduled for here and I can go and meet him, childless, for a few nights.  Lounge by the pool.  Stay up late having dinner.  Sleep in.  Heaven, I tell you.

So all day yetserday, I cleaned up their little messes and got all the dirty clothes off the closet floors.  Gathered the nightime water cups next to the beds, rescued the stuffed animals and stray socks from under beds, organized the playroom, cleared off the train table, and got Dora toothpaste out of the sink.

At around 8 p.m., I took a bath and hung out on my bed reading.  But it was sooo quiet.  Way too quiet.  Everything was so still.  The air did not move in that house.  So I went downstairs where drew had been working furiously on the computer in preparation for a presentation he's giving at this work retreat thing and he had lit candles.  Wow!  An open flame right there in the living room.  Everything was pretty and smelled nice. 

Except it was so quiet.  So, I sat there on the chair and looked and my pretty house.  All the candles.  Everything looking so grown up.  Drew walks in the room.

-Hey.  I thought you might have gone to bed.

-No.  I was just reading.  The candles look pretty. It's so grown up in here. Sigh.

-Yeah.  I know.  Do you want me to hand you the remote?

-Nah.

-You want a magazine?

-Nah.

-You're just going to sit there?

-God, it's so quiet without them.

-Just pretend that they are upstairs asleep.

-I can't.  I am so aware that they are gone.  That I don't need to be quiet.  That no one will get out of bed and ask me for anything.  I don't like it.

-I thought you were excited about this.

-I was.  And now I want them back.

So I meandered upstairs and read a bit and did finally drift off to sleep and today it doesn't seem so dramatic now that I've spoken to them on the phone.  Tonight, it will be quiet again.  But maybe it will be nice.

Goodnight Moon

Monday through Friday, my daughter naps at school.  Like clockwork, she lays down on a little mat covered with a clean sheet and she doses off to the sound of some classical music.  I know this because I used to pick her up from school directly after nap time and a few of those times I arrived a little early and saw the whole scene--darkened room, 10 sprawled out kids with blankets half covering them and a few with the jacked-up nap hair headed for the potty.  Everyone whispering. 

But on Saturday and Sunday, it's a whole different scene.  When we first moved into this house, back in April, we sort of made a decision to skip the nap.  GirlChild was three and her brother wasn't napping and, we hoped, skipping the nap might help with bedtime.  We were wrong.  As any seasoned parent knows, Sleep Begets Sleep.  An overly-tired child who is about to fall over from exhaustion is nearly impossible to get to sleep.  Instead, said child is hostile and mean and poised for a tantrum.  By mid day, we'd find her crashed out in front of cartoons, asleep on the floor where she had been 2 minutes earlier playing with her doll house, or she'd fall asleep on the 5 minute drive to the grocery store which makes standing there at the deli waiting for someone to slice your turkey absolutely no fun at all. She needed that nap.

That's how April through about July went.

Towards the end of summer we tried just getting her to take a nap in her bed.  Tuck her in.  Give her a kiss.  "Sweet Dreams.  See you when you wake up and we'll go to the playground."  And then we'd be downstairs paying bills or cleaning out the garage and we'd hear her on the monitor doing everything BUT sleeping.  "Hey!  Let's pull every dress I own off the hangers in my closet and try them all on.  Wouldn't it be cool if I pulled all my books off my shelves and stomped on them?"

We'd go up three or twelve times and do the tuck-in again and after an hour or so of that, we'd just give up.

By about September, we realized that she'd sleep with us if we laid down next to her.  We could bribe her upstairs and into a bed if it wasn't HER bed.  So, each Saturday afternoon, I'd stop folding laundry the minute she was done with lunch, make a big deal about the girls only nap we were going to take, climb in our bed with her and sing to her and stroke her little head until she was out cold.  Then I would slowly sneak out, trying to do the pillow replacement strategy (you know where you wrap her hand around the pillow in hopes of fooling the child into believing it's really you?) close both doors leading to our room so she's in the soundproof chamber, and get back to the gazillion chores I can only do when she is gone or asleep.

That worked for a while.  Until she peed in our bed a few times(hers has the plasticy thing for such occasions.  Ours does not).  Plus, she was demanding our bed at nighttime and it also meant our room was out of commission for a few hours and I couldn't go in there while she slept.  The other issue was that Daddy would not work in this situation.  If he laid down with her, here's how that went:

Drew asleep in 2 minutes.  GirlChild downstairs.  Drew has no clue she's even missing.

By November, we convinced her that she must sleep in her own bed.  And she does each weekend day.  But  not without great effort both days (and don't even get me started on Christmas Break).  Now, she has lunch and we say about, oh, 13 times as she eats, 'Ok, right after lunch, it's nap time.  Straight upstairs.  Nap time.  No arguments."

She and I go up.  She insists on jammies.  Change clothes.  Turn on this humidifier that we really only use for the sound at this point.  (It sounds kind of like a jet engine and buffers her obscenely loud older brother who insists on singing and talking and yelling down to us from the playroom as she sleeps).

We snuggles into her bed with the appropriate friends.  Madeline.  Stanley.  Pink Bunny.  Sookie.  And then, basically, I proceed to hypnotize her.  It's really the only way I know to describe it.  She rolls over on her side and faces me and she stares at my while I sing and scratch her head.  I could just as easily dangle a pocket watch in front of her eyes and tell her, "You're getting very sleepy...The sounds of my voice is making you veeeery sleepy."  It works about the same way.  I sing quietly and gradually get slower and quieter and her eyelids get heavy and then it's all over and I sneak out.

Drew has attempted on many occasions to duplicate my nap magic to no avail.  If Mommy is not present at naptime, the girl does not nap.  This is both a blessing and a burden.  It's nice to have this thing with her.  But it would also be nice if someone else knew the secret recipe.  Still, it reminds me of when I was nursing her-that quiet time with her looking up at me.  Having to stop whatever I was doing so I could be completely present with her. She only relaxes if I relax.  God works in mysterious ways, after all.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Ever have one of these days?

For my dear pregnant friend who now gets to sleep in on Sundays and snuggle and have lots of fun sex and go to breakfast and then come home and nap...As you're watching this keep in mind the four (five?) glasses of wine I drank the night before:

Item 1

I hate being “That Mom.” I didn’t like those broads before I had kids, and they still make me crazy.  But I’m beginning to get it.

I think it started with the diagnosis of BoyChild’s peanut allergy when he was three years old. Suddenly I had to deflect all danger from this kid in a way I had not dealt with before. Instead of just worrying he would fall down the stairs or choke on his peaches, I had to find some way to control his food intake when everyone we came into contact with wanted to feed my kid. I‘ve said this before, but he is an EATER.

We had a lock on the pantry for 2 years not to protect him from allergens, for we had long ago disposed of anything suspect, but because he would sit down and eat 5 slices of bread in one sitting. He would spoon Ovaltine into his chubby little mouth.  And on more than one occasion, I have found him elbow deep in the mayo. His Grammy says he is a joy to cook for.

So, everyone who shows up brings some li’l sumpin sumpin for him, and I have to be the mean Food Police, the big ole downer to say, “I’m sorry, but those fresh baked cookies that you just brought over might kill him.”

The part that irked me most of all is that I’m just not that person with my kids. I don’t answer questions for them. I don’t do anything for them that I’m pretty sure they could take on. On a day-to-day basis, I’m much meaner to my kids than that. There are no special dinners just because you don’t like what we’re eating (oh wait, that never happens). I limit all options and expect them to deal with it.

School began last week. We all woke up and got dressed and walked BoyChild to the bus stop. We took some pictures and waved “goodbye” And so began the week of letters to and from his teacher. The first day, we had dropped off all his school supplies including snacks galore. At snack time, she wouldn’t allow him to eat anything because she was freaked out about the allergies. He’s a pretty easy-going kid, so no drama ensued, but still…I bought the snacks. So, I wrote a nice little note explaining he could eat those. By the time she wrote me back, on Wednesday, she said those snacks were gone because the other kids ate them and could I bring in some more? Okaaay. I wrote back and said, “Sure!”

All week, he would come home and say he was bored. “All they do is baby stuff.” Getting him up in the morning was a struggle. He was hating it. And that was unlike him. When he complained that he didn’t have time to finish his lunch, I told him he should talk less and eat more. When he complained that he has to use the bathroom only at the bathroom time when the whole class goes, I told him that that’s the way they do it there and his body will adjust (but ask your teacher to go if you can’t hold it.)

Then on Friday, he brought home his work for the week and it was sad. He had a folder of the most basic work, recognizing colors and “find all the squares on the page” kind of crap. He’s a bright kid, sure. But he’s almost six. We’re a little past “can you find the blue triangle” stage. His report for the week said he was having trouble paying attention. Another telling sign for me.

Like any mother, I know my kid. He can be a real pain in my ass and he can be bratty and impossible. But a few things are givens with him. He is socially adaptable in most every situation. He is eager and ready for anything. He thrives if he is engaged even a little. He can sit and concentrate for long periods of time. And he loves school. He craves it. He loves the kids, he loves the activities, he loves the teachers. That’s never been an issue.

All I could think about was the Montessori principle of capitalizing on a child’s inherent desire to learn. Children learn to hate school because of their experiences. Hating school is not inevitable. But this is how it goes…kids are bored, not challenged or not getting the help they need.  They are not connected, not engaged, and everything is geared to the group instead of the individual child. If we didn’t get this right, and soon, he would be lost.

So, I sent a very nice letter to his teacher asking if we could find a time to talk about the kindergarten curriculum and what our options are in terms of something more advanced. I explained that there will be discipline issues if he’s bored and tried not to make it sound personal at all.

Later that day, the school principal called me to discuss it.

So, on Monday, the principal walked BoyChild to his new classroom with his new teacher (certified in Gifted curriculum). He will be assessed this week and the class will be broken into groups according to abilities then each group will be taught accordingly. He will also be going to a 1^st grade class for part of the day for reading and math. But he gets to hang with his li’l buddies for Art and PE and all the fun stuff.

A few hours later, his new teacher called me to introduce herself and ask me personally what the deal is with his allergy. I was delighted. She also loves next door to my Boot Camp trainer. It is destiny, I tell you.

Yesterday, BoyChild bought his lunch for the first time. When I asked him about what he ate, he said he had some chicken nuggets and some peaches. “There was some cake thing but it didn’t have ingredients on it so Ms. Phillips said I shouldn’t eat it.”

“She walked with you through the lunch line?”

“Yep. She helped me get all my food and asked the lunch lady about all the foods.”

I heart Ms. Phillips. This is why she was Teacher of the Year last year. He is in good hands. Guess that means I should let go a bit, huh? 

The Peanut Pickle

It has begun.  My utter hysteria over Kindergarten beginning tomorrow.  Stranger than my freak-out is the fact that it has taken me totally off guard.

On Friday, I left work early to pick up BoyChild from camp and take him to his Kindergarten orientation.  Now, keep in mind that he has been to two schools now.  School Number One was a little Montessori classroom with 14 kids and 2 teachers.  Period.  School Number Two was 6 classrooms and a handful of teachers who all knew my children. 

Kindergarten is a million kids, about 800 teachers, and 2000 administrative staff.  There are, oh, I'd say 50 doors leading into the school, and every one of those people are out to get my kid.  Oh, wait, no, that was my li'l nightmare last night.

In truth, I am feeling okay about this whole "some dude who may or may not be jacked-up on Meth is driving my only son to school five days a week" thing.  Sure.  No problem. No, this week's freak-out is the inevitable peanut allergy issue.

I arrive in his classroom and briefly meet his teacher.  She introduces herself using her first name which totally throw me off.  Then she points to where he will be sitting.  She hands him a bag of goodies and then goes to greet another family who has arrived.  First item in the bag, a big ole chocolate covered ALMOND.  Not a good sign.

Really, I understand.  I do.  If you don't have a kid with a nut allergy, it's not in your brain.  I don't fault her so much, but FUCK.  Have you picked up a fucking newspaper in 5 years?  Plus, it totally forces me to be THAT mom.  "Nice to meet you Ms. Pain in my Ass.  But don't worry.  After I smile sweetly at you, I'll just take out my teacher frustration on your vulnerable child."

-Hi.  I think I filled everything out correctly.  This is probably a  good time to mention that he has a peanut allergy (handing her the candy).

-Oh, well, that's an almond.

-Yeah, same thing in his body.  Peanuts, almonds, pecans---allergic to all of them.

-OH!  NO!  REALLY!!!??? (directs all of this to him)  Well, I guess we should keep you away from them then, huh?  How allergic is he?

-Well, he's been tested.  According to his allergist, pretty allergic.  Any ingestion could lead to anaphylactic shock.  It has the potential to be fatal if not treated.  He's pretty good about asking, but we should probably arrange a time to talk about this more if you haven't had a student with this allergy before.  With the right precautions, it's very manageable.  (I can see her eyes are on the door as other families file in.)

-Uh, yeah, okay.  I'm sending him some stuff home on Monday so you can just fill out the form in there.

-Uh, okay.  Is that all I need to do?

-Yep.  Ok, little guy.  It's nice to meet you.  See you on Monday!!

I went and met with the woman in charge of the cafeteria after that.  The basic gist is there are peanuts everywhere.  Cookies, brownies, in salads, sandwiches. 

Next stop, the school nurse.  Filled out a form aso she can keep an Epipen in there for him.  Did I mention, the nurse's office in on the whole other side of the school?

Okay, so here we are. Deep breath.

I have printed up and laminated little cards with his picture on it and emergency instructions that I will distribute to all his teachers-Art, PE, Computer, and Music.  The cafeteria will have one, the school nurse, and the front office. They look like mini-WANTED posters with the words "I AM ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS" on one side and the signs of a reaction and instructions on the back.

I have loaded up his class with every possible snack so hopefully no one else will ever have to bring any in.  He is taking his lunch everyday and has been lectured no less than 10 times on food-sharing and precautions to take.

On his first day of school, he's taking a story book geared towards kids his age about peanut allergies.  Hopefully his teacher will read it to his class.

Short of that, I'm not sure what else to do.

It's a fine line.  I don't want him to feel different.  But shit, everyone is different. Maybe it's good that he gets that now.  I have no idea.  Thank God he's hyper-social and we don't have to deal with any ADD issues or learning difficulties on top of this. 

I knew this day was coming. I guess I just anticipated that it would be about the normal stuff--the letting go of my first child and all of that.  I hate that those feelings, which I'm also feeling in mass amounts, is all jumbled up in this freaking allergy crap.

I am calling the allergist this week and having them schedule a food challenge ASAP.  Basically, they give him a small dose of pure peanut extract and we wait.  If he reacts, they are prepared to treat him.  If not, we figure out if we're safe.  Given his last 2 tests, I think it's worth a shot, terrifying as it might be.

If he was ever in the clear, I don't think I could convince him it's okay to eat peanut butter.  I probably wouldn't even try.

The Empty Bed

Today, BoyChild has embarked on his first sleepover away from home (not counting the night I gave birth to his little sister).  Tonight begins six nights at my parents' house in Florida with his cousin.  He has been counting down this day for weeks, no surprise. 

Drew drove them down halfway where my parents met them in south Georgia, switched car seats, and took them home for a week of golf cart rides, swimming, fishing, and, probably loads of sugar and cartoons.  It blows my mind that he's grown-up enough to do this already. 

Mom and Dad offered a "Girls' Week Only" option for GirlChild and her cousin next month, but, barring some unforeseen miracle, he's not ready to be away form Mommy just yet.  She has lived on my lap, in my arms, or in my bed for the past 3 months.  I secretly love it, I admit.

I don't love the bruises all over me from her sharp little elbows or the grunt that Drew gets at dinner if she catches him looking at her.  But I love the way she sleepily sits up in bed in the morning only to grab her Lamby and find my lap where she promptly lays her head and sighs heavily while I stroke her head. There's nothing like it.

Now that he's five, it's hard for me to remember those moments with BoyChild.  He was always so fiercely independent. He was (and still is ) a very snuggly kid, but it never felt like he needed me like she does.  When I see him after school, I still make him stop what he's doing to come and sit with me and tell me about his day.  At 60 pounds, when he sits on my lap and lays his head back on my shoulder and it's like having a ten year old on me, his feet practically touching the floor.  But I'll take it.  Until he gets to be so big that I can't breathe, I'll take it.

He hasn't napped in over a year, but Saturday afternoon, I convinced him to lie down with me because we were all trying to fool his sister that it was naptime for everyone.  He backed in so close to me and started breathing heavily.  Then he turned his head towards me and whispered, "I love snuggling with you, Mommy."  And he was asleep. I'm not sure if I'll get that one again, so it is seared into my memory. 

So tonight, someone else is tucking him in and reading his stories and scratching his tan little back.  And even though I miss him terribly, it's nice to know that it's the same hands that scratched mine when I was his age.  He's in good hands.