Rox and Roll

Dash's ear tubes are in! 

This morning, we drove to Philly at 5 am for a 6 am arrival for the procedure.  After a thorough check-up, Dash was anesthetized at 7:30, the procedure performed fairly quickly, and then we rejoined him in recovery when he woke up from a nice nap at 8:30.  Since he drank a 16 oz Slurpee right away, we were discharged quickly (at 9:30) and arrived home at 10:30, via Dunkin Donuts to meet Dash's demands for a pink donut.  So he's already eating better!  He'll be woozy and find it a bit hard to stay stable on his feet today, but he should be back to normal -- God help us all -- tomorrow.

Thanks to everyone who sent good thoughts and prayers our way for this procedure.  And a big, huge, THANK YOU to St. Christopher's Hospital for Children, which has the nicest group of nurses, doctors and staff of any hospital or practice we've ever seen.  I'm almost sad to be moving away from such fantastic medical care -- but, hopefully, we'll no longer need it!

Tomorrow, our son Dash will have his ear tubes placed at St. Christopher's Hospital for Children in Philadelphia.  By all accounts, this should not be a big deal, and we should be home the same day.

We hope that these tubes will mean the end of Dash's suffering from chronic ear infections.  It has been a very, very hard school year, with him sick more often than not, and we look forward to a return to normalcy, whatever that is. 

So, please, send your good thoughts and prayers to Dash tomorrow -- and maybe a few my way, too, as it is pretty hard to see your kid knocked out and wheeled away from you.  We look forward to seeing what new stunts he'll pull when he's back to 100%.

Tonight, Petunia, Dash and I celebrated au pair Maria's 21st birthday by throwing a dinner party with June, Wally and Beaver Cleaver.  It was a fantastic meal, all homemade: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas, salad (thanks, June!), fudge and Carvel ice cream cake for dessert (ok, so that was homemade by Carvel).  We will probably all still be stuffed tomorrow, except for Dash, who, as ever, refused to eat a bite of anything.

It is now an irrefutable fact that Dash goes on hunger strikes when he knows his father won't be home that night.  (The Guv is in California hopefully finding us a house.)

I was sure that seeing his beloved friends, the Cleaver boys, devouring their dinners would be enough to inspire him to want to eat enough to grow to be big like them.  Instead, Dash spent most of the meal pouring Virgil's Root Beer on his shirt on purpose -- that is, when he wasn't taking big gulps of it and burping loudly.  He refused even his beloved homemade mashed potatoes.   And let me just tell you that when I spend half an hour peeling potatoes to make his favorite food (even if it is for Maria's birthday), I don't take rejection kindly.

Of course, he did eat most of his piece of ice cream cake, but that won't exactly keep his belly full enough to let me sleep through the night.

After the party ended and we were preparing to head upstairs to bed, I tried one last time to offer Dash food again.  He rejected everything from waffles to pancakes to bananas to oatmeal... all usual favorites.  Then, he spied a spent candle lying in the cake box.  He grabbed it, plunked it in the Quaker Oatmeal Breakfast Cookie from his goodie bag, and demanded a light.

So, I did what any savvy mom would do, and I made a deal.  "Sure, Dash, you can blow out the candle... but first, you have to take one bite of that cookie."  And he did.  I lit the candle, he sang the Happy Birthday to You version where everyone lives in a zoo and stinks, and he blew it out.  And asked "again?"  For every bite of cookie, which became every bite of Yo Baby yogurt, that he took, I lit the candle, he sang his song, he blew it out, he asked for more.

At the end, with only a bite of cookie remaining and all of the yogurt gone, he announced that he was all done.  "But I like fire, mama!" he added.

Pyromania at 3... hmm, I think I'll work on that later.  Tomorrow, though, Dash will get a big bowl of oatmeal for breakfast with a candle in it.  I never thought that access to fire would trump access to father, but hey, the hunger strike's over (tonight, anyway).  I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep.

... to my own mother, currently vacationing in Singapore.
... to my mother-in-law in Brooklyn.
... to my grandmother in West Virginia.
... to my aunt, currently serving the Department of Justice in Afghanistan.
... to Petunia's godmother in Michigan.
... to Dash's godmother, currently vacationing in Norway.
... to my kids' friends' moms, who mother my children alongside me.
... to my fellow Mommy Bloggers, my virtual sisterhood.
... and to my extended family, friends who are moms, friends who are not yet moms...
... and to me.

My little gifts today:

Dash, at McDonald's with daddy: "Mama looks at this table and says GERMS GERMS GERMS."

Mama, to Dash at naptime: "Dash, do you know how much I love you?"  Dash: "To the moon."  Mama: "That's right."  Dash: "And Mama?  I love you to the closet."

Petunia, playing Wii with me: "Mama, I'm going to stomp you and squash you and defeat you right now.  But tomorrow, it's Mother's Day, so I'll have to let you win."  [And, by the way, she ALWAYS beats me at Wii Play's "Find Mii" -- so she will have to let me win.]

After my tennis match today, indoors on a cold, grey and rainy day, I decided to treat myself to a soy latte on the way home.  I'm standing in line at Starbucks in front of these two caricatures of mattress salesmen -- wait, I think they were mattress salesmen, as there's a Sleepy's next door.  You know the type -- dressed from Chess King, open top shirt button revealing chest hair and gold chains, and thick Jersey accent.

Suddenly, one says: "Man, tennis skirts are HOT."

There are about twenty people in the place, half of whom are in line, so I look around -- and I'm the only one in a tennis skirt, which suddenly seems very short and uncomfortable.

Second guy: "You should get one for your wife for mother's day."

First guy: "My wife doesn't play tennis.  She sits on her fat ass all day."  [Note that I wanted to slap the guy for the sisterhood, but I really wasn't in the mood to get arrested today.]

Second guy: "So?  You could have her wear it around the house."

First guy: "You seen my wife?"  Second guy shakes his head.  First guy: "'Nuff said."

***
So I call my husband up and inform him that his twin brother was in Starbucks today, and we had a good laugh about the situation before, of course, he asked: "So will you wear your tennis skirt around the house?"  Chess King, Brooks Brothers -- they're all the same,

And I just realized that if I were smart, I should've made the mattress salesmen buy my latte since they apparently enjoyed the show.

Both Dash and Petunia have always loved Veggie Tales, videos and books that use cartoonized vegetables and fruits as actors for Biblical lessons.  Dash, who can't stand listening to music (I now blame this on his ear-weirdness and not on rebellion) will dance and sing along to Veggie Tales anytime (I blame this on sheer silliness).  Recently, I bought him a couple of audiobooks, including one about being frightened of the boogieman in the night, titled God Is Bigger.   The chorus is:

Dash will sing this at the top of his lungs while in line at the market, while riding his tricycle, while in the bathtub... anytime, all the time, anywhere. 

So this afternoon, as I'm putting him to nap, he asked: "Mama, what is the boogieman?"

I answered: "There is no boogieman."

Dash: "It's in the song."

Mama: "Well, a boogieman is a monster that isn't real."  (Dash looks scared.)  "It's not real!  And remember (singing): God is bigger!"

Dash: "No, Mama, Buzz Lightyear is bigger.  He's the space commander of the galaxy and he will MESS UP the boogieman.  And GET HIM TO GO AWAY."

God and Buzz Lightyear: Bigger than the boogieman.  Now, stay tuned for: Jesus and Dora: Guiding you on life's path.  And set your DVR for tomorrow's special: the Holy Spirit and Sportacus: Good for your body and your soul.

For some reason, I can't get in the mood for Mother's Day this year.

Petunia is very, very excited about it.  Like her father, she can't keep a secret to save her life, and she's been dropping hints like "we'll wake you up with a soy latte but you won't know from where!" all week.  [Note to the Guv: If the kids wake me up on Mother's Day, that will be very uncool.  And Starbucks has the only soy latte around here that's worth drinking.  Thanks.]  I'm glad that Petunia's excited, and bringing me soy lattes, and taking me out for a gluten-free dinner...

But. 

I've hemmed and hawed about why I can't get into Mother's Day this year when I have two amazing, beautiful children, a wildly adventurous mom, an unobtrusive mother-in-law and a grandma who still has pep in her step.  Maybe it's because Dash's ear surgery is on the 15th, and I can't wait to get it over with.  Maybe it's because the school board seat that had my name on it was just vacated, and no fewer than a dozen people have come up to me to say "too bad you're not going to be here" -- plus, maybe it's having to start over and build that kind of credibility someplace else.  Maybe it's because of the stress of selling our home without having a new place waiting on the other coast.  Maybe it's because of an e-mail I just received from a classmate who's baby may not reach his third birthday because of a rare disease.  That's just not right, and not fair, and not okay, and not understandable.  Maybe I feel guilty, because Dash has been sick almost all of his life, but his illnesses like chronic ear infections and possible gluten sensitivity are controllable, endable, endurable, answerable.

So Mother's Day, sure, I'll enjoy my soy latte, and I'll place my phone calls, and I'll pretend to love whatever my family has in store for me.  I'll rally, and I'll smile, and maybe I'll be lucky and it'll even be sunny enough to take another hour-long trike/bike ride with Petunia and Dash.   Sometimes, I am filled with the wonder of this world, usually revealed to me through my children.  Other times, things happen that make me question my abilities as a parent, my faith, my decisions... The good news is that soon, we'll be in a new place, and most of this uncertainty will be cast aside.  It's going to be a long road to get there, but at least we will get there all together and finally have a life that we live all together as a family more days than not.  And that's a good enough mother's day present for me.

Today, I checked off one of the many things on my "Stuff I Must Do Before I Leave the Greater NYC Area" -- I took Petunia to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Inspired by our recent reading of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg, we trekked to the Met to find the objets d'art referenced in the book.  To boot, a friend of mine from college, whom I'll call Mo, located me on Facebook recently, and we reconnected after having lost touch some fourteen years ago; since Mo's in Brooklyn, he came into the Met to meet up with us.  While spending time with an old friend was the highlight of my day, here are some others:

En route to the train, a mad dash since Petunia had tap dance class this morning:
Mama, to Dash: What are you going to do for your men's day with Daddy?
Dash: First, Daddy, we have to go to the bank.  We have to see if they have a lot more money there for Hot Wheels and maybe Matchbox cars.

Post-train, hopping in a cab:
Mama, to cab driver: We're going to the Met Museum.
Cabbie: Okay!  West Side!
Mama: NO!  East Side!
Cabbie: MoMA's on West Side!
Mama: We're not going to MoMA, we're going to the Met!
Cabbie: I don't think I understand you!
Mama: Yeah, me neither!  Let us out, please!

In the second cab, after stopping at the cab stand to make sure I knew the exact address of the Met, just in case every cabbie on line was also on week one of both English classes and driving in the City:
Mama: Would you please take us to the Met Museum?
Cabbie: Sure, no problem.
Mama: Can you tell me where it is?
Cabbie: Upper East Side, 5th between 82nd and 83rd.
Mama: You're awesome.  We were just in a cab and the guy thought that MoMA was the Met.
Cabbie: New guy, probably.  Are you running late?  [He caught me glancing at my watch; it's 12:53, and we're scheduled to meet Mo at 1.]
Mama: Not really.  We're meeting a friend at 1, but we can be a little late -- it's around 15 minutes away right?
Cabbie: Don't worry, I'll get you there right on time.

After death-defying cab ride:
Kissed the ground and vowed to take public transportation for the rest of my life.

At the museum:
Petunia: You know, being in this museum is like going around the world!  There's stuff here from China, Japan, Egypt, America... This is awesome!

And that comment eased the blow of our learning that the objets d'art referenced in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler are not, in fact, in the Met Museum.  So, we did not find Michelangelo's "Angel" sculpture, a fountain outside the cafeteria, the bed they slept in... But Petunia successfully imagined Claudia and Jamie climbing the big staircase, and she went on to wonder if they could've hidden in the Ming Scholar's Retreat successfully.  She didn't seem the least bit disappointed but, rather, seemed to soak in the wonder of that whole, huge museum.  The highlight of my day was reviewing our outing together on the train ride home, from Petunia's enjoyment of meeting one of my college friends who used to draw the Rugrats through to our taking in a street gymnastics performance while sharing some warm roasted nuts.   We are both exhausted from all of the walking but have vowed to take in at least one more museum before we head West.

And as I drift off tonight, I'll try not to obsess over having come to realize that I'll miss this quick and easy access to NYC more than anything else in this area.  My kids love going into the City, and I know fear that San Francisco won't compare.   At least the City that never sleeps will still be singing its siren song whenever we return, hopefully often.

When I put Dash down for his nap each afternoon, we take a FiFi (soy milk in a sippy cup) upstairs, change into his pajamas (because his clothes are always dirt-covered) and read a story or two.  This week, we've been reading and re-reading "Percy's Chocolate Crunch" -- a Thomas the Tank Engine story about a water shortage forcing the engines only to get one wash-down each day, and Percy, who hates to get dirty, doesn't like the new "usefuless before cleanliness" policy.  [Insert any number of jokes about the Guv authoring this policy as it reflects his constant attempts to avoid bathing kids more than he deems necessary, which, of course, is 'round 'bout never.] 

In any event, I have started looking forward to this naptime ritual immensely for a few reasons.  It starts with the pajama change, for which Dash sticks his little arms high up in the air -- as in "Stick 'em up!" -- for both the removal of his old shirt and the putting on of the new one.  His little arms in the air help a great deal with getting his shirt off, but not so much with putting the new one on -- yet he insists on dressing this way, and he will remain in that "hands high" position for as long as it takes me to get him dressed.  Once, he waited several minutes as I retrieved the forgotten FiFi and found clean PJs.  His arms must've been tired, but he was frozen in position.  My enjoyment of this is twofold: One, it's just funny, as he's so skinny and little, and he looks like he's being robbed -- especially the solemn face with these perfectly-still toothpick arms held straight up.  Two, he is perfectly still as he waits in this position.  This may be the only time in the day when he is perfectly still.  He doesn't sleep still, doesn't eat still, doesn't watch TV still, doesn't try to use the potty still (so potty training is going to be taking a looooong time).

Then, there's the Percy story.  No one warned me that having a boy meant having dirt around everywhere, all of the time.  I don't mean sand falling out of his shoes -- I mean real, actual, dirt that he's dug out of the yard, placed in a dump truck and brought in to add some realism to his train table.  (That's one of many examples.)  So there is no story that this boy likes more than the story of a train who gets covered in coal dust, cinders, and, ultimately chocolate.  As he squeals with delight and asks if Percy has to have a bath, he looks sad when I tell him that yes, Percy finally gets to have a washdown, despite the water shortage.  Of course, Dash would rather not wash off all of that delicious dirt-infused chocolate; he'd rather scrape it off, put it in a dump truck, mix in some rocks, and dump it on my kitchen floor, probably test-licking some until he's caught and the mess is cleaned up. 

Here, I bought the book because I thought "water shortage" education might come in useful for our California move, and it seemed timely with Earth Day and all... and the boy takes away a lesson about good, dirty fun and the sad, bad bath that follows.  And I couldn't be happier, because this is the joy of having a boy -- and when he's entertained, happy, dirty, and especially nap-bound, life is good and peaceful, for an hour or so at least.  Sometimes I even fall asleep too, overwhelmed with the wonder of it all.

The Guv has returned from his annual golf vacation, rested and (finally) victorious, cradling the trophy for the year.  He has many funny stories to tell, and tonight, I will enjoy hearing them.  That's right, I will enjoy -- a word that hasn't been seen in my last few blog posts! 

There is peace in our kingdom, for daddy is home at long last.  Dash, who was beginning to take on a rather sickly appearance, decided to EAT!  in celebration of his father's triumphant return.  He munched on some of his favorite Starbucks vanilla scones, Burger King french toast sticks, cheese pizza, katsu chicken, rice... he ATE!  And, needless to say, he was pretty much instantly a different child -- an enjoyable, happy, fun little boy with whom I wanted to spend time.  We kicked rocks all the way around the cul-de-sac.  We posed dead worms.  We counted three deer, one bunny, one squirrel, one robin, one very angry bluejay and too many dandelions.  We laid on the grass and looked up at the cloudless blue sky.  This is how every day with him should be.  Instead, this is one of very few days we've had like this over the past school year.  I will remember this day next time he's refusing to eat, because I need to believe that he eventually will eat.  I also need to figure out how to convince him that eating makes him happier -- because think about it: if YOU didn't eat for four days straight, wouldn't you be miserable (and make everyone around you miserable) too?  Thank God that soon, after his ear tubes are placed and especially when we hit the Green Mountains for the summer, he will be pleasant like this more days than not.  I'll play with dead worms all he wants to if he never cries at me in anguish all day again.  Too bad he's too young to make that (gross) trade.

So tonight, the Guv put Dash to bed, I read Petunia a very scary section of the fourth Harry Potter book (the Guv should expect a middle-of-the-night visitor over that one), and I held some guinea pigs, who have been sorely neglected as I've struggled to keep my head above water over the last few days.   It's a nice way to end one of the roughest patches of my parenting career.  And end it, we have.  Guv, get the Goldschlager!  Time to celebrate.