Half Right

When I was young, my mother yelled frequently, "When you grow up, I hope you have a child just like you!"

What she should have been yelling was, "When you grow up, I hope you have a child just like me!"

Because I have both of those children, and I know exactly which one I understand, and which one drives me right to the brink of sanity in a brake-less Ferrari.



And Mom? I mean that in the nicest way possible. I wouldn't trade either one of you for all the diamonds in Tiffany's.

I Can't Stand It: I Have To Share

It's time for some gratuitously cute photos.

I got a new camera for Christmas, and it has made me into a MUCH BETTER photographer. I love it. I took it to the pool yesterday, and managed a few photos before the battery ran flat (for the first time, I should mention). At this time in my pregnancy (seven weeks to go), I should be doing all sorts of nesting things, but a very low ferritin level is keeping me exhausted. However, I woke up this morning with a SUDDEN AND MASSIVE URGE TO NEST. RIGHT NOW.

For the last couple of months, I've been knitting like crazy, since I've been so tired, and unable to do much else. When I was eight months pregnant with Oliver, I built him a bed. But I don't have any power tools here, which is just as well, what with the heat and my exhaustion, so I've been knitting. During the first trimester, morning sickness made me feel like I was carsick if I watched the needles, and since I need to watch the needles, I couldn't knit without wanting to puke, so I've been trying to make up for lost time.

However, today it's no longer enough. So this morning, I dragged a cupboard into the bedroom for baby's things, wiped it down, arranged the baby things we have (and that I bought last week, but Mom, don't worry, the cupboard isn't even a third full), and now am frantically searching for patterns to knit. I can't decide if Ravelry is my saviour, or just feeding my obsession. Either way, it's the Best Thing Ever.

But what has prompted this sudden determination to organize, clean and tidy all baby's things?? I even decanted some moisturizer into a little travel bottle to put into my new Crabtree & Evelyn toiletry bag. I haven't washed any of baby's clothes yet, because it's been too early, and there are still seven weeks to go, but suddenly the urge is upon me.

And with that cleaning/organizing urge is an irresistible compulsion to knit ALL MY YARN. EVERY SINGLE METER OF IT, which could, conceivably, take about seven years, even staying up until 3 am every night as I have been.

Whoa. The rambling. It's the panic talking. Duncan got rid of most of our baby clothes a year or so ago. I said, "But what if we have another baby?" And he said, "You'll buy more stuff." You know Duncan, right? Clearly he didn't think that through entirely. But I haven't bought too much, and today I went through the box of clothes we still have, and... there's NOTHING FOR NEWBORNS IN THERE.

OMG, the PANIC. And there's no shopping here (okay, a Target Country, but what's the point of THAT?). The day trip to Perth last week nearly did me in, but I think I'm going to have to plan another trip because THERE'S NO SHOPPING HERE and THERE'S NOTHING FOR NEWBORNS IN THAT BOX.

I'm going to hyperventilate in a minute.

But I digress. My thought processes are scrambled by hormones and heat. Please forgive me. Onto the photos.

Oliver, who a week ago loved the water, but did not want to be horizontal in it, even with support, has taught himself, seemingly in one day, how to do the crawl:



... and how to dive:



Now, if only Duncan had shaken the center part from his hair (and let me pick out his swim shirt), that photo would be PERFECT. Duncan says he'd like to be airbrushed out, so Oliver looks like he's just coming in for a water landing.

And this one, well, this one is stressful on my pregnant hormones. I think it's the shadow of his toes that pushes me over the edge:



I'm definitely getting that one blown up to poster size.

Worst Case Scenario

Okay. Yesterday was stressful.

We've been waiting more than six years for this test. Leander was diagnosed with allergies more than six years ago, when he was ten months old. Most children outgrow their egg allergy by the age of (depending on where you get your information) three or five. Leander is seven. Children who outgrow their egg allergy often still show a positive blood test, so the only way to know if they have outgrown it is to perform a challenge.

On my way to pick up Ouma (the hospital prefers that the parent of a food challenge child (a food challenger?) not have other children in tow to look after), I had a silent conversation with myself in the car.

What are you expecting today?
I just want to get it over with, I said. We've waited for this for six years.
But what do you think is going to happen?
Hopefully, he'll have no reaction. In which case, I'm going to go home and bake a loaf of zucchini bread. WITH EGG. Because it is SO hard to bake without eggs.
But what if he has a reaction? What do you think is going to happen?
Okay, okay, okay. Stop nagging. Maybe he'll have a rash, and I'll keep using baking soda and vinegar in the zucchini bread, and it won't rise, and that's fine. Maybe next year. Now shut up and go away.

Those are the only two possible outcomes I imagined. Leander hasn't had any reactions to egg. Most kids outgrow the egg allergy. His blood test results are low. He's well over the age he should outgrow the allergy. So we test him.

We checked in, and asked how long the process was expected to take. Ouma took Eddie and Oliver and a bag of snacks to the park, with instructions to return in two hours.

The challenge started a little late; they were very busy. All eight chairs in the room were full, some with children having food challenges, and some with children having other treatments. Curiosity nearly kills me in those situations, but it’s none of my business why the small boy has hugely swollen forearms and hands, or why the teenager with the friendly, pleasant expression is such a terrible greenish color.

A lovely nurse (they were all lovely. Nurses are so often lovely) introduced herself and explained the procedure. Then she checked Leander all over for any rashes or marks that he might have before the challenge, so she would be aware of any changes. Leander is a boy, and has two brothers. Ergo, he has marks.

She indicated that the stuff they were going to give him might be yucky. She said they usually mix it with some juice, but CSID means Leander can't have juice.

"He'll be fine," I said. "His name means 'brave man,' and he is."

"Well," she said. "We'll see how that pans out for you today, then, won't we?"

First on the menu was a 5 ml dilution of egg in water, in the ratio of 1 to 100. She gave this to Leander in a syringe, so as to shoot it down his throat a little faster (imagine warm tap water with a bit of egg in it. Yuck doesn't quite describe it.) Wait ten minutes, do observations. We made an origami sperm whale, following directions in an activity book I brought.

Leander had no reaction, so about ten minutes later, she proceeded to step two: a 1 to 10 dilution of egg to water, again 5 mls. The kid next to us left, and the nurse gave us the entertainment center he'd been using. We worked out how to race cars on the Nintendo, and ten minutes later, observations showed no reaction.

Step three is a bit of a jump: 5 mls of raw egg. Yup, icky. But Leander swallowed it like a champ, followed it with a sip of water and a couple of Pringles, and grabbed up the Nintendo controls again. Ouma arrived back with Eddie and Oliver. I stepped into the hallway, about twelve feet away, in full view of Leander (all glass windows and walls, and open doorways) to tell them that the challenge had started a little bit late, and that Leander would be at least another hour. Eddie slipped inside to have a go at the Nintendo, while I chatted with Ouma.

Leander put down his controls (should have been my first hint), got off the cushy recliner, and came to me. He looked absolutely fine, but he said, “Mommy, my chest feels icky.”

Okay. Okay, that’s okay. I think I excused myself from Ouma, but I may have just rudely left. I’m not sure. There weren’t any nurses in the room just then, so I went through to the back room, and said, “Excuse me? Leander says his chest feels icky.”

One of them followed (the lovely nurse who started the challenge had gone off to lunch a little while before), and I persuaded Eddie (with a little bit of pleasantness, and a little bit of a growl) to put down the Nintendo, and go with Ouma. Ouma’s very good at the quiet, quick fade, and she whisked the children back to the park.

Leander looked fine, though he still said his chest felt icky. No, he wasn’t going to throw up. No, he wasn’t having trouble breathing. But his chest still felt icky. Did he feel better, worse, or the same? The same.

But, and this is the most frightening part of all, and should have been our biggest clue: he didn’t want to play Nintendo, and he didn’t want me to put a movie on.

The nurse checked his chest for a telltale rash (he’s never gotten one there, but it’s a major sign of anaphylaxis). Nothing. No rashes on the insides of his elbows, no swelling of his lips, and he still said he wasn’t going to throw up. Better, worse, or the same? The same.

I kept looking at his eyes. They were exactly the same, but... not quite. They weren't (quite) a slight shade of purple. They weren't (quite) swollen at all. They didn't (quite) look a little dark underneath. There wasn't anything there I could point to. He looked exactly the same. Almost.

And then there was a tiny little red mark under his right eye, and he scratched it.

Better, worse, or the same? The same.

And then a small cough, just twice, almost like a clearing of the throat.

The changes after that were so tiny, it was difficult to see them. In fact, the nurses weren’t watching him; one of them decided he might need his inhaler for the cough, and went to phone a doctor for an order. Little tears began to drip from Leander’s eyes, and he asked for a tissue to blow his nose. I stopped going back and forth to the tissue box, and brought it to the chair. I needed more of them for me than for him. If I wasn’t pregnant, I would have been able to stop crying, but as it was, I couldn't. Better, worse, or the same? The same.

I got the order for four puffs of Ventolin, to be given at once, and since I had the inhaler and spacer ready, we did that immediately, Leander taking calm, deep breaths just like he's supposed to. With no effect. Those two little coughs were now coming every five or ten seconds (I’m guessing; time loses a lot of perspective in situations like this). Better, worse or the same? The same.

Another few minutes of coughing, more tears, no other changes: no rash, no swelling. And then... better worse or the same? “Worse.” Did he feel like he might throw up? Yes.

Now, I'm good with all sorts of medical emergencies: bleeding, fainting, injury, needles, whatever. Vomit, however, is not my bag. I ran back to where the nurses were, and, trying to choke words through the tears, said, “Something to throw up in!” What? “Throw up! Bucket! Something!”

I went back to Leander, too aware that the other seven parent/child combinations in the room were picking up on the change in atmosphere very quickly. I felt terrible for the woman next to us, whose very small child had just begun an egg challenge. She spoke almost no English, and must have been terrified at what she was witnessing.

The nurse comes with a disposable bowl-thing, and Leander holds it under his chin. I watch tears fall into it. Another nurse brings an antihistamine, having called the doctor for that order as well. I hold the little plastic cup and Leander gulps it down. It has no effect.

Next thing I realize, there's a half-circle of medical personnel around us. The doctor has arrived (not our doctor, but the fellow, who, I believe, handles all the decisions that arise during these challenges), and stands there with a clipboard. She says, “I can’t order adrenaline at this point.” No swelling, the cough is the same, no rash.

But they all stand there, watching. Leander is crying now, and he says to me, “I want to feel better. I want to feel better!” All those tiny little changes mean that now he's a little purplish around the edges, with a leaky nose and leaky eyes, a slight cough, and a slumped posture.

It's like watching time-lapse photography of a sunflower losing its glory. You don't see it happen as the minutes pass, and then you notice that the color has faded, and the petals have drooped.

Somewhere in there, I look up and see the doctor, literally, drop her jaw as Leander’s oxygen saturation falls to 92%. I refocus on Leander, who says to me, “I want the epi-pen!”

Who would ask for something like that? He’s had adrenaline once before, and it HURTS.

The doctor is next to me now, and I say to her, far more calmly and clearly than I feel, “He’s asking for the epi-pen. I’m not saying you should give it to him just because he’s asking for it, but you should know that he is seriously distressed right now.” A long speech, considering all the hormones welling up in my throat.

She says to me, and she's really listening, “Is he distressed?”

Some of you know Leander, and some of you don’t. Stoic doesn’t begin to describe him. I think if he broke his arm, he’d give a little shake, and insist he was fine (unless Eddie did it to him, in which case he’d scream bloody murder).

I say, “He is a very calm child. Believe me when I tell you he does not react like this. This is him, severely distressed.” I am not the expert, but somebody had better do something SOON. Or else. Or else I might have to actually say out loud what is screaming silently in my head: DO SOMETHING. DO IT.

The cough is just slightly more persistent now, and Leander is more visibly - to me - panicking. This. Is. Not. Right. Things are very definitely - but so very imperceptibly - wrong.

The doctor's lips move very slowly as she says, “Administer adrenaline.”

A nurse has already gotten the epi-pen. Someone says to me, “Do you want to do it?”

I can’t talk at all. I can’t speak. I can’t explain that I've had six years of nightmares about giving him that shot, that I've done it in a million dreams, asleep and awake. That I have, in my head, held that little thigh and plunged in the needle over and over and over, but that I have a terrible block about doing it in real life. That my hugest fear is that I will need to do it, but will be unable to.

It’s not the needle-into-flesh aspect that terrifies me; it’s the fact that my little boy is so close to death, and I need to save his life. Why do I have such a block on that? Isn't that the thing any mother would most want to do? Save her child's life? Why is it so hard? Is it because I so strongly do not want that situation to occur that if I refuse to accept it, it won't be happening?

I nod. Someone asks again, “Do you want to do it?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

Then the needle is in my hand, open and with the safety removed.

I look straight at Leander. “I’m going to do it, okay?” I say. He nods. “It’s going to hurt,” I tell him. He nods.

Needle in my right hand, I push his shorts out of the way with my left hand. That perfect, soft skin is no accident. Years of diligence and effort made that skin perfect. For the six years I've been fearing this moment, in the second or two it takes my hand to slip up his thigh, it changes from the soft, tiny leg I've practiced on in my head to the strong, long thigh he has spent years developing.

In my head, like I’ve done a million times before, I imagine the line from his kneecap to his hip, and the perpendicular line bisecting it, but I am distracted by the perfect planes of his muscles. Who am I kidding? I know exactly where that needle goes. I could find the spot with my eyes closed.

I put my left index finger on the upper, outer quadrant of his thigh, chanting in my head upper, outer, like I have a million times before. I look up at the woman standing in front of me. She looks blankly at me. I tap my finger, and she nods.

Do I plunge? Or do I place and push firmly? I have held that debate for years, with no resolution. I feel me take hold of myself and make the decision. Slowly, calmly, I place the needle gently on his thigh, I grip his thigh firmly with my left hand so he can’t flinch, and I PUSH.

All there is in the universe is that smooth, hard thigh under my fingers, the firm steady pressure of the needle, and a slow, calm voice in my head counting, “One... two... three...”

But I only get to four, and the same woman who blanked me on the location is pushing my wrist away from his thigh. I hold firm, the needle doesn't waver, and I look up at her. She pushes my wrist again, harder, so I obey, and pull out the needle, and it disappears from my hand.

I hold Leander tight against me. He’d cried out when I pushed the needle in; I could hear the echo of it now that the needle was gone. He was crying still, saying again, “I want to feel better! I want to feel better!”

“You will, baby, you will." I'm holding him tightly. "It takes just a minute." I'm wiping his eyes, wiping my eyes. "Just hold on a minute.” And while I was still talking, I could hear a voice in the semi-circle say, “That worked. Look at his pulse now - 162.”

And finally the tiniest of shifts, and the panic in Leander's cries slips away. Another voice says, “There it is.”

"I am so sorry, baby," I whisper into his ear.

"Thank you for doing it," he says back to me.

And it's over. Observations were done every minute, then every five minutes, then he picked up the Nintendo and only hit pause every fifteen minutes for his blood pressure, pulse and oxygen levels. He had to wait four hours to be sure he didn't have a rebound reaction, and then, when everyone else had packed up and gone, we were allowed to leave.

During that long wait, I took Oliver to his appointment at the allergist (whose offices are across the street). He tells me, immediately, that I deserve a G&T, or, at the very least, to put my feet up for a while. The doctor who ordered the adrenaline told him I did a great job, that Leander and I were both very brave, that because of us, he's going to review with all staff and make it a priority to have the parent administer the epi-pen. I am empowered. I have DONE IT.

He apologizes for anaphylaxing my child (he makes it a verb, and it works for him). But it's not his fault, it was a risk, the test had to be done, and I don't blame him one bit. I appreciate his compassion. He tells me they administer adrenaline about once a month. This is intended as comfort, but I am appalled that Leander is one of the tiny few.

He performs a skin prick test on Oliver, on the basis that, at the age of four and a half, Oliver would have had some accidental exposure to peanut and egg (why do people persist in underestimating me? No accidental exposure is allowed in my world). I think he is unwilling to subject me to another challenge in three weeks, which is what he told us, more than a year ago, we would do with Oliver. Both skin tests are negative, and we have no reason to believe Oliver has any allergies. The test has only been done because the school has given us such problems, and we need to know where we stand before Oliver starts going. The doctor, who got us through the last hassle with the school, tells me that if we have any further troubles, a letter to the Minister will do the trick. He gives me instructions for working out Eddie's reactions to fish, and the name of an allergist for Duncan's bee stings, and he confirms that I should have held the needle in till the count of ten (surmising that perhaps that woman had counted VERY quickly), and we're done. We will see him again in two years.

My sister-in-law arrives to pick up Eddie, Oliver and Ouma (who has been sitting with Leander while I was at the allergist), and I sit with Leander and the Nintendo to wait out the rest of the four hours.

We did it, my little boy and I. He told me he needed to be saved, and I saved him. And I don't care how it sounds for me to say it: I am damn proud of us both.

Anatomy, Evolution and Creationism, According to Oliver

Yesterday morning, as I was drying off after a shower, Oliver stood in the bathroom waiting for my attendance on some important matter (I forget what - possibly getting him a lemon rocket from the freezer? More about the new ice cream maker later, when I'm ready to post some recipes. And did you know? A lemon rocket works just as well as medicine at curing a sore tummy. More placebo, anyone?).

We're having another one of the endless, unavoidable conversations that define Oliver's very essence. And after exclaiming about bits of my anatomy that are "HUGE, Mommy!" (and not just huge, either, but "HUMONGOUS, Mommy!"), he segues smoothly into:

"Mommy, why don't you have a winkie?"

Okay. We've had this conversation before. He understands about boys and girls, but the somewhat disturbing revelation a few weeks ago that certain stereotypes are fixed in his little brain means, maybe, that we need to have this conversation again.

"Because girls don't have winkies."

No pause whatsoever: "Do you just wee out your bum?"

Okay. Fair enough. Given his limited four-year-old knowledge of anatomy, this is not an unreasonable assumption. Better go for a little straight talking here.

"No, I poop out my bum, just like you. I wee out a different spot, just like you, only it's not a winkie, it's a little hole."

There is a reason I'm not a urologist.

"Oh. Did they not put a winkie on you because they were building a girl?"

Whoa, cowboy. They? I should point out here that Oliver has had exactly zero exposure to any sort of religion. Nor have we had any dinner discussions about evolution. Or aliens, for that matter. Who are these "they" in his head who are BUILDING PEOPLE? And are they hiring? Because I have a friend who is looking for more challenging employment. Or do you suppose building people is a monotonous, low-skill job? Are there any qualifications necessary, or do they offer on-the-job training? Is there a middle management level? Because I'm thinking that the position of Quality Control Engineer has been vacant for, oh, ever. Think about it: have you ever seen a baby with one of those "Inspected by #26" stickers? And how many mistakes do they let through? Will they be issuing any kind of a recall program? Or is the whole manufacturing process still in a beta phase?

But it's too early in the morning for me to manage anything more difficult than the wee/bum question, so I steady myself on the towel bar to stop the spinning in my brain, and I answer, simply, "Yes."

"Oh," he says, not missing a beat. "Then I wonder why they gave Ouma short hair?"

...

...

... And that moment right there? That's where you surrender completely, and offer all manner of riches and power, just so you no longer have to face the inner workings of that mind.

Which is, I think, how our president got elected.

Recipe: Grandpa Ed's Waffles

As I mentioned, Leander and I both went to the doctor on Tuesday. My appointment was great: we heard the baby's heartbeat, even though the doctor said it was a bit early and he wasn't sure if we would, and it was a "nice, strong heartbeat." Also cool was the fact that I still haven't gained any weight. At 21 weeks pregnant, I am nine pounds lighter than I was at five weeks pregnant. I'm only losing the weight I gained during Oliver's pregnancy, and the doctor is completely happy with the state of my health.

Leander and I both needed blood tests. Mine was to check up on a previously low iron level, and Leander's were for everything but the prostate screening, I think. We're a little concerned that with his limited diet, he might be missing some nutrients. It's been two years since he was diagnosed with CSID, and he's been a little tired lately, not quite himself. Also, fructose can build up in the liver like alcohol, and since that's the sugar he uses every day, it's a good idea to have a liver function test done.

Our tradition is that if you get a needle stuck in you, Mommy buys you something at the toy tore, mostly because Mommy is a sucker. Because Leander is the one who always gets the horrible things done to him, he's the one who gets all the treats. The other two understand this, though they would like to get the treats, too. They agree, though, that it's not worth getting poked with a needle.

But Leander said, this time, "Can we buy three treats, so Eddie and Oliver can have one, too?"

Which opens up all sorts of philosophical avenues.

If they all get treats, it kind of defeats the point of the treat. And will the other two start hoping Leander gets poked with a needle so they can have a new little tractor?

But Leander himself has requested equal treats for his brothers, and I hate to discourage that kind of philanthropic spirit.

What to do?

We've been talking about buying an ice cream machine, because ice cream is one of the boys' favorite things, and there's a place in Hilarys that makes one with fructose (for diabetics, which I don't quite understand, but I'm no dietitian). But it's $12 a liter, and it's made with soy milk, to cover lots of dietary requirements. I'm not so big on the soy milk. Also, it's hard for us to get, being in Hilarys and all. So after a month or two of batting the idea around, I made the executive decision to order the ice cream maker. Wandering around the appliance store while the guy was on the phone with another customer, I passed a waffle maker, one that makes a flower of five hearts. My dad gave me one like that for my birthday one year. I've never understood why he bought me a waffle maker, but he picked it out all by himself, and maybe I liked it even more because of the mystery. I couldn't bring it to Australia because of the power thing, and it's one of the few bits we left behind that I really miss.

That was way too much detail about why I wanted a waffle maker all of a sudden.

Anyway, the boys love pancakes, the American way, that is: for breakfast, hot, with maple syrup and bacon on a lazy Sunday morning. So I asked Leander if we should get a waffle maker for everyone as the treat. He happily agreed. We had waffles for dinner that night, but the waffle recipe in the waffle maker box was a bit floppy, not crispy like I like them.

Today, nearly eleven years after my dad died, I cried all the way back from the next town over. I think it was triggered by extreme exhaustion, and thinking of the daughter of the electrician I like so much. I saw her yesterday, and the obvious affection with which she spoke of her father made my eyes leak, though I blamed it on pregnancy hormones to cover my embarrassment. My dad was an electrician, too, and I miss him just as much now as I have for the last eleven years.

On that half-hour drive today, it occurred to me, for the first time, that my father must have thought, at some point in his life, about the fact that he would be 87 when I was 37, and that the odds of him knowing me for much more than thirty years were pretty slim.

That makes me incredibly sad.

So in honor of my father, who I think about every day, we're having waffles again tomorrow morning, and here's my own recipe in all its nut-free, egg-free, sucrose-free glory:

2 cups flour
4 tbsp dextrose
1 tsp baking soda
1 tbsp lemon juice
1¾ cups milk
4 tbsp melted butter
a dollop of glucose

Melt butter, milk and glucose together. I'm not listing a measurement for glucose, because you could spend a LOT of time trying to get it to cooperate while you try to measure it. Be sure to melt it, though, since otherwise you'll have a lot of semi-sweet waffles, and one glucose-waffle.

Sift dry ingredients.

Add butter, milk and lemon juice to dry ingredients and mix well. Allow to rest for ten minutes.

Pour by 1/4 cupfuls onto medium hot waffle maker and cook until nicely brown. Serve with real maple syrup for the people who can handle sucrose, and with Karo syrup for the people who can't.

Stay tuned for an ice cream recipe, though there will no doubt be a fair bit of trial and error involved in that one...

It's Like I'm Famous!

So I've been just typing away at my little blog, entertaining my friends and family overseas. I forget to post a lot, and then a friend emails me and says, "Hey, post!" so I do.

And all this time, I've had FANS! There are whole bunches of people who find the trivia in my life so fascinating that they are eagerly checking to see if I have a new post! Oh, it's water-cooler time, for sure!

I'm flattered that you all find me so interesting!

Anyhoo... Since I have your attention:

All that crap you're hearing? All those rumors? Seriously. One of my faults is that I always think the best of people, even people who truly don't deserve it. It's especially sad for me, since, because of that, I'm so frequently disappointed by people. I have to say, it surprises me how many of you are willing to think the worst of me at a moment's notice. Would I seriously say nasty things about people on a blog that (in spite of an anonymous accusation that I am "hiding behind" my blog - that irony is too precious to NOT share it with you) can be read by every single English-reading person with internet access In The Entire World? Yeah, and I also demanded a 200 meter peanut-free perimeter zone around both the school and my shop last year, making it impossible for any shop in town to sell peanut products, and impossible for any travelers to drive through town if there was so much as a Snickers in their car.

People, I couldn't come up with that kind of crap if I tried. The person who did should be applauded for her creativity and imagination. And then be made to immediately begin using her talents for good, rather than evil.

Ditto the "nasty" comments. Is it nasty to tell you that I cried? Is it nasty to tell you that we got a lot of phone calls?

Yeah. I don't think so. But if you all keep chattering away about it amongst each other, pretty soon you'll have me drowning puppies and plotting against the government. Trust me when I tell you that I don't have that kind of free time.

And when I started to hear about all these "nasty" things I supposedly wrote, I was concerned. For about ten minutes. Because as far as I knew, I hadn't written anything nasty. But maybe my perception was off? I've spent the day showing people what I actually wrote - completely unmodified, not a comma changed (I think, if you haven't learned anything else, you should have learned by now that I am nothing if not honest). I've had people laughing, and suggesting that I publish the post in a newspaper, and every single person, without exception, has said that there isn't a nasty word in there. It is, by all accounts, a silly story about a horrible week.

So the person who greeted me with a cat's bum mouth in the bank? Every person is entitled to his or her own opinion, absolutely. It's a human right. I might caution you, however, that if you're basing your opinion on rumors rather than facts, you're only going to make a fool of yourself, not me. How many of you actually read the post, and how many of you just heard other people talking about it?

But hey! As long as you're entertained! Because let's not forget, that's what a blog is all about.

Let's talk about important stuff now. Leander had the beginnings of an anaphylactic attack last week. Wouldn't you find it more interesting and fulfilling to read about our frantic dash to the hospital than to do your laundry? Or to write a letter for Amnesty International? Or to crochet a chemo-cap for a cancer patient? Or to knit a little jumper for those poor African AIDS babies? Or maybe you could make a casserole for a house-bound neighbor or relative? Or clean out your pantry and donate some canned goods to that scheme run by the school's chaplain for Christmas boxes to disadvantaged children? Or just sit on the floor with your own child and a box of crayons and doodle some pages for him or her to color in?

Oh, never mind. You know you're going to just sit there and keep reading this page. Hey, I might mention YOU in here.

At bowls last Thursday night, during the presentations, Leander, outside, started to cry. Not so unusual in itself: a lot of crying gets done in a house full of boys. But he has a special undertone to a cry that I couldn't begin to describe. I can only tell you that when he hits that barely perceptible tone, I pay attention.

He wanted to go to the hospital. Immediately. That's not a request he ever makes, since he has a lot of needles stuck into him a lot of the time. He couldn't tell me what was wrong, and he wasn't showing any symptoms at all, as far as I could tell. But he wanted to go to the hospital, and my strongest belief on this earth is that
a parent needs to provide what a child needs, so that child can learn to identify and provide for his own needs when he grows up. If he wants to go to the hospital, he needs to know that I'll take him seriously, and that he should take his own instincts seriously.

We rushed to the hospital, and I said into the intercom, "Anaphylactic child! Please let us in!" Leander still showed no signs of anaphylaxis, but didn't feel well, and I wasn't taking any chances. His pulse was 136. The nurse (one of my favorites, who remembered me from last year when I brought Duncan in, suffering from serious anaphylactic shock due to a bee sting) was very thorough and attentive. Still no other symptoms, though she agreed that bringing him in and waiting there was the right thing to do. After a while, Leander's pulse dropped to about 100, and he got very sleepy. When we felt safe, we went home.

We saw our doctor yesterday, and he felt strongly that yes, it was the initial stages of anaphylaxis. He said his patients often report a sense of something wrong deep inside before there are any symptoms at all. On the way home from the hospital, Leander said to me that there was a boy at bowls who he didn't know well, and he thought maybe that boy had eaten something that wasn't Leander-safe. I don't think that's true (the boy is the child of a conscientious mother), but I like that Leander himself is trying to speculate the cause of his reaction. He didn't eat anything at bowls other than the ham sandwich I'd made for him (from ingredients he's had many times before). One of the most frustrating things about anaphylaxis is that we can't pinpoint exactly what caused it, and we can't say how close is too close, since testing that line would most likely be fatal. We just have to be glad that he was fine, that our healthy little boy is not in a coma, or worse. Those close calls are exhausting for everyone.

Two percent of children in our state are at risk of anaphylaxis. The Anaphylaxis Expert Working Committee recently discovered that the restrictions on children at risk give them a quality of life lower than children with rheumatoid arthritis or diabetes. Think about that for a minute.

Alan Carpenter recently approved, and committed $6.6 million to, all eight recommendations made by the Anaphylaxis Expert Working Committee. You can read about it here. And I hope a certain principal DOES read about it, and sees that it will be required of him to practice risk management for children at risk of anaphylaxis in schools. That's ALL children at risk - whether it's food, or bees, or whatever, risk management is required, and will be audited.

One of the recommendations is aimed at community awareness. I like to think I've done my part to raise community awareness. There are a lot of really supportive people out there, and now a lot more of them are aware of anaphylaxis. Sadly, the five percent of people who are complete fuckwits about it are usually the only ones who make a lot of noise.

Likewise, at least 90% of what you hear is a lot of crap. Trust me: my life is too boring for you to find it so interesting without a LOT of embellishment.

And while you're listening, let me tell you that I never, ever, not once did I demand that the school do ANYTHING AT ALL to protect Leander. I wrote on Eddie's enrollment form: It is imperative that Eddie not bring home any traces of peanuts because of his brother's severe allergy. The school decided to immediately put into place provisions for a risk management program, in order to protect Leander, who would begin school six months later. I can only fault them for letting people think I had demanded this. The school administration, rightfully, in my opinion, decided that the best thing for THEM, the best way to provide duty of care to ALL students, and to protect their teachers from a situation that could be catastrophic, was to put into place these policies.

Let me say that again: by asking parents not to send in peanut products, the school is not only protecting Leander, but is protecting the teachers and all the other children. When parents send in peanuts, not only are they putting Leander's life at risk, they are increasing the stress levels of the teachers and aides, who would be required to act in an emergency. If the teachers and aides are forced to think about this for a large portion of their day, they are less able to concentrate on their jobs, and less able to concentrate on all children equally.

Do you get that? Risk management helps protect everyone. Would you like your child to witness the horror of a classmate suffering anaphylactic shock? Would you like your child's teacher to be so obsessed with keeping one child alive during lunch times that she can't focus on all the other children in the room? What if it was your child's lunch that caused Leander serious injury? How easy do you think it would be to convince your child that it wasn't his or her fault? Why put your child in that kind of position?

That woman who made her kid bring peanuts to school, in spite of the fact that, as the child herself told me, she doesn't like peanuts? What would she say to her child if her little act of defiance had killed someone?

And I'll tell you what, if I hear ONE MORE TIME that crap about how kids with anaphylaxis "need to learn to live in the world," I might just scream. Kids at risk of anaphylaxis learn more about living in the world in their first five years than other kids do in their first fifteen. There are guns in the world, too. Do children need to learn to live in the world with guns? Should we just plonk a loaded AK-47 down on the kindy lunch table and tell them all not to touch it? A loaded gun is as dangerous to your kid as a peanut butter sandwich is to my kid. The only difference is that the bullet might MISS your kid.

We ARE teaching Leander how to live in the world. We're also teaching YOUR children how to live in the world. Your children are learning tolerance. Something a lot of you could stand to pick up yourselves.

I'm entitled to my bad days. And if I want to tell the world about them (or at least, the few people who are listening, by their own choice), that's my right. It's your right, too. Start your own blog. And if you've read all this and something has made you unhappy, don't complain to me; you've wasted your own time. A last thought: Every time you tell another person about this blog, you give me a little more power. Do you want to do that?

Thanks for listening. I really do, sincerely, appreciate it. Go do something useful now.

I Know What I Said About Dreams, But...

Oliver, every single night, says, "Good night, Mommy. Don't let the bugs bite. Have a nice dreams."

And then, in the morning, he says, "Did you have a nice sleep? Did you have a nice dreams?"

I'm 37. Pregnant with my fourth child. Organizing two businesses, one of which is moving in a month. The refrigeration guys alone are enough to give me nightmares. I do NOT have a nice dreams. So I lie, and then ask him about his dreams.

A couple of days ago, he told me about the giraffe in his dreams, the one he climbed uphttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif on and rode away with. I love that dream, and not just because his mixed-up little accent makes him saw "geer-awf." I am totally jealous about that giraffe ride.

A few hours later, though, a previously unremembered dream smacked me upside the head, like they are wont to do. I dreamt that I ate a donut. A floppy, squishy, fresh, sweet, plain old donut. (The fact that I unintentionally spell it like that is a clue). And it didn't even make me sick.

The saddest part is, I am old enough to willfully, in the cold light of day, choose the donut over the giraffe ride.

Thank God THAT'S Over

Stupidly, we stayed up very, very late last night. Duncan performed his annual dish-washing duties, and I stayed up to finish knitting the back of a turtleneck sweater with the Brown Sheep wool that finally arrived from the States this week. We watched the Live Earth concerts for a while, allowing me to point out, multiple times, how far away from the Red Hot Chili Peppers the audience at Wembley is forced to be, whereas I, much luckier and cleverer than them, stood not more than two feet away from Anthony (six from Flea, who was further back on the plywood table serving as a stage) - and had the stage-bruises on my thighs to prove it - when I saw them on their Mother's Milk tour in the amazing venue/basketball court at SUNY Oswego. Which in turn triggered the realization that they are now in their 40s. Which makes me OLD.

But I digress. The point is, Oliver woke up at a reasonable (for him, completely unreasonable for us) hour this morning and got into bed with us. I was still tired enough to ignore his wiggling and fall back to sleep. Then Eddie woke up and came in.

He whispered to Oliver, "It's your birthday!"

And Oliver stage-whispered back, "Where are all the people?"

Which served to highlight the fact that I am a crap mother who was really hoping he wouldn't realize that at this party lark? There are supposed to be OTHER people.

But maybe Eddie can count as a guest, since, while performing the forced march that is Making Oliver's Breakfast, Eddie must have been increasingly annoyed at Oliver's habit of micro-managing the organization of his breakfast cereal. From the bedroom, I can only ascertain that a level of shove took place, and which point Oliver shrieked, "YOU'RE NOT MY BIG BROTHER ANYMORE!"

Let's hope that my theory holds true about how even-numbered ages are more pleasant than odd-numbered ages. Happy fourth birthday, Oliver!

And happy mumbly-mumbled birthday, Mom!

Catching Up

Holy crap, it's been a whole month since my last post. I knew it had been a while, but I tend to lose control of the days in the second part of May, in a subconscious attempt at slipping quietly by my father's birthday. It's incredible how much I miss him. And inconceivable that he would have turned 87 this year.

Anyway... Lots more cheerful things to discuss. Oliver, for one. My little Narcissus has named his stuffed giraffe "Oliver." I am sure that means something, but am too frightened to start googling it.

And speaking of frightening... This morning, for the first time in weeks and weeks, I had half an hour to lounge around in bed before dashing for the shower and the kitchen counter (it's illogical to hate making school lunches as much as I do). Oliver lounged with me, and his first question of the day was this:

"If people are dead, does their skin fall off?"

Which is even more alarming, if it possible for a question like that to seem MORE alarming, considering the "gift" he gave me on Wednesday. He was at the shop with me, cutting up paper (his favorite activity). He cut a strip, "wrote" on it, and screwed it up in a complicated system of folds, then presented it to me as an objet d'art. Or so I thought. Turns out it was a ring. I asked how I was supposed to put it on my finger. He took it back in order to show me and declared I had ruined it. I asked him to fix it for me, please, thus occupying him momentarily.

I then promptly forgot about the whole situation and got back to my important conversation with my work release girl (the entire week, I was unable to say "work experience" without first stumbling over "work release." I gave in to it on the second day).

A few minutes later, Oliver tapped me on the leg and held up his re-creation, which he had twisted into a tiny, sharp point:

"This is for you, Mommy, for when you need to poke the people."

Needless to say, Work Release Girl and I fell about laughing. Oh, the mirth! It was almost, just about, very nearly funny enough to drown out my alarm.

What people would I need to be poking, sweetie? The bad people. Yes, I see. Well, thank you very much, that was a very thoughtful and useful gift.

And now he wants to know if dead people's skin falls off. This is probably an appropriate spot to remind you, Dear Reader, that Oliver is THREE YEARS OLD.

Shudder now with the fear that engulfs you; what impact will this child have on the world at large? This is most certainly one of those blissfully ignorant moments.

He nearly redeemed himself, though. A few minutes after the dead people question, he asked, "What does love mean? Is it hugging?" Awwww, the cuteness. Nearly conquered by the worry about this THREE-YEAR-OLD's grasp of philosophy.

Keep shuddering. No point stopping now.

Anyway. Work Release Girl helped organize me. It was a bit like having my mom here. At one point, she glanced at me, and with uncanny perception and timing said, "I don't know how tired you are of hearing, 'What price should I put on this?'"

But she kept on, and all those baskets of unpriced stock are now cleared away into their proper (or close enough) places, and I have taught my work release charge a valuable retail lesson: sometimes it's just easier to make up the price than to locate the invoice.

So one of the things she found was a little tin money box, which was perfect, since I'd just said to Eddie the day before that we'd try to find one for him. He and I have decided that he should put all the money he finds into the tin, and at the end of one year, see how much he's got in there. I fear the tin will be grossly inadequate to the task, as he's already found a few dollars. In two days. That child finds money EVERYWHERE.

And next we need to find a big box for Leander to put his rubber bands in. What is it with that kid and rubber bands? At what point do I reasonably need to be concerned about his rubber band obsession? I meticulously dispose of all rubber bands that enter my shop, Duncan's shop, or our house, and I still pick rubber bands out of the washing machine daily.

I console myself that it is merely the disparity - Eddie with his money and Leander with his rubber bands - that highlights my fears. Perhaps Leander is a perfectly normal child, who is just made to look peculiar by his rather more fortunate (and I mean that word as literally as it is possible to mean) brother.

I hope that's what the judge says, anyway, when the day eventually arrives.

The Essence Of Leander, A Six-Year-Old

We've lived in this house for five happy months. Oh, blissful homeownership! I know it's been five months today, because another mortgage payment drifted out of our bank account like a wisp of smoke.

A couple of weeks ago, I downloaded Back of My Car, by Ryan Starr, a song I loved from Rockstar: Supernova (oh my god, did I LOVE that show). I haven't heard it since the show was over in, what, October? September? I tried to get it soon after, but it wasn't at iTunes yet, and I just thought of it again the other day. I was in the living room, the TV was on, some permutation of boys was playing on the floor. The song started playing on my laptop when the downloading finished. Leander looked up and said, "That guy was on TV."

Today, I switched on the light over the stove, a light I have switched on every day for the last five months. A light that generally stays on as long as we're at home, since the stove is in a fairly dark corner of the kitchen (I have to justify it, since my husband is such a cheap bastard that he switches lights off WHILE I'M STILL IN THE ROOM). Leander said, "COOL! There's a light there! Wicked!"

His wife is going to live in a state of complete and total frustration.