The Average Blogger

Nothing Better to Do on a Sunday Afternoon

Yesterday started like pretty much any Sunday -- the Young Prince got up while we slept in, had a dance party in the living room, and then came upstairs and cleaned his room when I woke up and prodded him to do so.

He had a birthday party to attend in the afternoon, so Not Your Average Blogger packed him and his wrapped gift into the car.  The kid very briefly mentioned that his head hurt, but got out of the car at his little friend's house and bolted into the house very excited to see everyone, so all seemed well.

An hour later, Party Mom called to tell us he'd spent most of the party in a bedroom lying down with a headache, and now he was throwing up.  Huzzah.  So I threw on sweat pants and -- looking very unkempt and leaving my purse behind -- off we raced to pick him up. We get there and he's barfed a few more times, including twice between putting on his shoes and getting in the car.  Well.

On the way home I start asking questions, starting with, "Where does your head hurt?"

Answer: "Where I hit it on the wood under the window this morning."

What what whaaaa?

How hard? "This much hard," holding up thumb and forefinger apart. Did it hurt all day? No. Does it hurt more when you throw up or less?  More. Waiiillll!

NYAB turns the car left and off we go to the shiny new emergency room they just built at our freeway offramp.

"Where are we goooing??? I want medicine!"

"Well, we're taking you to a doctor.  Just think, you might get an X-ray!"

I tell you what, two things work well when you need an ER. 
1: Go to one in the sticks, ideally not after the bars close.
2: Be throwing up when you walk in.  They whisk you right back out of sight and give you a bed and a bucket pronto. 

So off I go to fill out forms and sign my name to 500 things, and off they take the kid to Exam Room Five, where we spent the next 2 hours answering the same questions 3 times, getting his eyes and ears examined twice, and lying there looking pathetic. We somehow broke the TV, and wound up passing the time telling Greek mythology stories, which wasn't all bad.

Finally they gave him an anti-nausea fizzy pill and a popsicle, he bounced right back to normal, and as soon as we got the discharge forms he SPRINTED out of the building and to the car. It was like nothing had ever happened.

I'm still bewildered by what WAS going on, but quite grateful his skull isn't any more cracked than it was before.

You Never Cross the Goal Line, Spike the Ball and Do Your Touchdown Dance. Never.

And that's if you're lucky.

The YP has had a pretty good week. Last week was a bit dodgy, slightly below average in terms of school work, and then this week he took off like a rocket. His school work has been going well, he's been getting all check-plusses on the various assignments and tasks laid out before him. (Write in your journal. Do your vocab homework. Read a book. Walk in the halls.)  He's not getting in trouble at the afterschool day care anymore; apparently he has worked out his issues with Wyatt Who Is My Bully. (I believe this is the child's official name, in the YP's mind.) Now that we can spend some time outside, he's not nearly as torqued up as he has been for the past couple of months, and we are all in a state of relative relaxation.

And yet ... and yet. Yesterday we had another evaluation with various school official types.

It is hard for me to remember these are assessments and not Wow, man, your kid is well fucked up; get him lined up for that career in menial labor, RFN, aaaariiiight? 

So even though it's been a very good week, the arc shows that the YP is "meeting expectations" on stuff the teacher marked down last meeting (finishing his work, walking in the halls.) He hasn't shown miraculous turnaround to being exceptional, but he's no longer totally screwing it up, either.  So, that's good.  And now we've moved on to a new set of issues (personal space, sitting still, finish his work faster instead of right at the second he needs to stop.) 

The occupational therapist said she took a look at him and basically said it ain't his body that's causing the problem, it's his brain.

After a few minutes of talking, a lot of this stuff started to sound like it was different chunks of the same problem. He is distracted and disorganized, and I'd say those are part of the same issue -- inability to keep his brain on the job at hand.  Then he's got these social things where he's very hands-on with other kids and bosses them around and gets upset if they try to make him step off.  I sort of think those are quasi-related to a Paying Attention thing too, like, he's so busy thinking about what's supposed to be happening and wandering through his internal landscape and monologue that he doesn't notice he's pissing off everyone around him, you know? And he's spent his whole life being told "Shut up, do it right, do it now, and don't argue with how we told you to do it," so that when someone else doesn't shut up and do it right, he goes all righteously indignant and gets in their face and can't understand why they won't just do it right -- without ever noticing or processing or recognizing or whatever that he ain't their dad and it ain't his job to make them do it. Seems to me that all of this boils down to us figuring out how to train him to keep his mind on what is in front of him and needs dealing with Right That Second instead of Oooh Something Shiny!  He's still completely distracted and will still spend 20 minutes on something at school that he finishes in 2 at home.

So there we are with the assistant principal, the district psychologist, the teacher and the district occupational therapist, and I asked them if this was a developmental thing, if he'd benefit by staying back a year -- if he's demonstrating kindergarten-like social skills, perhaps he is just a year behind in ability to figure out social cues??

(Note: This differs from what I'd really like to ask -- that they put him in with older kids who will take less crap and push him around a little more and force him to work harder just to be caught up. I already know this is a non-starter, so no point going there.)

It was interesting. When I said "developmental" the psychologist started to nod, and the teacher was all "NO, IT AIN'T THAT, HE'S PLENTY SMART AND DOING FINE ACADEMICALLY NO NO NO HE SHOULD NOT REPEAT FIRST GRADE."

Then after the meeting, the school psychologist pulled us into another room and said the word "developmental" has different connotations for teachers and evaluators, and that yes, academically and motor-skills wise and intellectually, yes, the kid should move to the next grade.  Behaviorally, she thinks there might be developmental issues and said based strictly on the anecdotal picture she's getting, she thinks he might have a touch of Aspergers and that he could very well be on the "autism spectrum." She gave us names of doctors and of some kind of social interaction therapy/training group thing.

Last night, when we picked the kid up after school, she'd given him an envelope with a big sheaf of papers -- with relevant sections helpfully highlighted! -- and a note about how she is happy with his academic progress and that she remains "optimistically cautious with regards to his social development." Um? Optimistically cautious??

So, yeah. I don't know. Like I said, I need to keep remembering this isn't the end of the world. He's not setting fires or killing small animals or punching kids in the head or stealing. He's just ... oblivious. And heedless. Is it because he has mental probs? Or is it because he's a 7-year-old boy and an only child who is accustomed to being the center of his universe and thus operates better in smaller settings?  

How do you teach a kid to foooocusss? How do you teach a kid concentration?  If there's a group out there that has some kind of drug or insight or practical application on how to tackle that, well, goddamn, sign me up.  I don't care if it's pills or social modeling or rubbing a lucky penny or role playing or what the hell ever. I understand that if Prozac had been around when Van Gogh was, we'd be out all those groovy paintings.  But frankly, if I were Van Gogh's mom, I'd be totally fine with that tradeoff. 

As is usually the case for the whole day after these conferences, I was horribly depressed and sought refuge in conference with friends and family, who kindly and graciously reminded me of the things I need to remember and made it all seem slightly less horrifying. As is usually the case the morning after such conferences, I woke up ready to tell them all to suck it and more determined than ever to help this kid in whatever way it takes to kick him up past normal to exceptional.

Even if he is just the world's most exceptional liar. The stories will be fantastic.  Last night, he laid this one on us, as we were discussing who would be at an event we are attending this weekend:

"Oh, and my imaginary friend will be there."
"You have an imaginary friend? What's his name?"
"I don't know. He won't tell me. I call him X."
"Wait, what? Your imaginary friend won't tell you his name?"

(In this split second, my brain zzzzings into overdrive: Oh, Jesus god. Seriously?  Is 7 too old for imaginary friends? Even if it isn't, what kind of fucked up kid has intimacy issues with an imaginary friend? Maybe those people are right and he DOES need therapy. This is wrong, wrong wrong oh god...)

"No, he just hasn't told me YET. He's an ex-spy, which is why I call him X, and knowing his name might put me in danger, but he will tell me when it's safe for me to know. After I help him with the bad guys. I am close to learning his spy serial number though."

Well... that's ... a relief?

We Reap What We Sow

At the table, eating steak:

Me: Nonono, don't give me that much. Just half that amount.
NYAB: Why?
Me: I'm too tubby. Pants don't fit.
NYAB: Whatever.
Me: YP, eat your dinner. And you should try that stuff on the edge. Some people like how it tastes.
YP: What is it?
NYAB: It's called fat.
YP: OK. This is good. I'll eat fat to be fat.
Me: Eh?
YP: It is good, because I want to be fat.
Me: Why?
YP: Because I want to be just like you! 

After which, NYAB offered the YP some sage advice about dealing with women who lament they are fat, while I collapsed on the floor in laughter.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, in the car, after an altercation:

YP: I don't like being 7. It is hard.
Me: What is hard about being 7?
YP: I don't know what it means to be 7.
Me: What did it mean to be 6?
YP: Well, I was happy, I was excited ... I liked you...

------------------------------------------------------------------

Last night, before going to sleep:

YP: You might have heard I didn't finish my schoolwork.
NYAB: Yeah, we'll talk about that tomorrow. I only get to see you for a couple minutes now before you go to bed, and I missed you today. I got used to seeing more of you when I was home.
YP: Aw, it'll be OK, Dad. 

And then, when I came in a few minutes later:

YP: You might have heard I didn't finish my schoolwork.
Me: Yes. Daddy said we'd talk about that tomorrow. Pretty nice of him, huh?
YP: He is. Mom? Would you like to stay and visit with me for a little while?
Me:I'd be delighted! (Move to sit on the bed next to him)
YP: Thanks, mom! I'd be delighted too! But don't sit on that side. I'll move over.
Me:Why not? (Flip back blankets, find a hidden iPod.) Ohhh, trickery. Were you afraid I'd be mad if I caught you listening to this?
YP: Yeah. Are you?
Me: No.
YP: You're not? Yay! And, well, you found it and won't smash it, so you can sit over there now if you still want to.

Is It Still a Party if Nobody Shows?

I wouldn't know the answer to that actually, since all my hale and hearty neighbors did show up for our annual cookiefest last weekend, but  this is as close as I've ever come to having the game called on account of anything.

What got in the way? Well, first, the Senate decided to be a bunch of prideful twits and convene a jillion weekend sessions.  Then Mother Nature decided to be a prideful twit and dump 2 feet of snow on us.  So between those two things, it's hardly surprising that nobody ventured to make the 40-plus mile drive out on Saturday afternoon.  Even if they had, our road didn't get plowed, so they would have had to walk at least the last half-mile or so.

As it turned out, this was a good thing.  For one thing, I wound up having to do a number of things for work while the poor woman on call tried to get home before the subway closed. Then the YP and NeighborGirl went out and flopped around in the snow for a bit, and then the kid came in and went promptly to bed -- getting out of it only to throw up intermittently, and to come down and wanly say hello to the neighbors when they showed up for the evening portion of our party.   On Sunday he was still barfy, and the house was so, so quiet. It would have been enjoyable if not for the niggling urge every four minutes or so to go up and see if he was still breathing. NYAB and I took advantage of this relative peace to slalom the car up the driveway and to watch a few movies.

Turns out his bug was a doozy -- he was still sick Monday, so NYAB took him to the doctor while I went through another round of Senate votes. Doc said he was dehydrated (really? Go figure!)  and that if he continued to barf he would need to get an IV stuck in him.  NYAB brought him home and we tried to pump him full of Pedialyte, which of course didn't work as I only remembered to go up and tell him to drink every 40 minutes or so.  When he threw up the second time that afternoon, I handed off work to another colleague and went upstairs and monitored so that he took a sip every 5 minutes. That did the trick, he went from cracked and pale to flushed and irritable in a little over an hour.  Meanwhile, his malady ... moved south. Ugh. Still, easier to deal with than barf.

It is now Thursday and he is only now beginning to resemble his normal self. Yesterday he was still somewhat cranky and rather weepy, and wound up crashing for a 6 hour nap at about 4.  Though perhaps he was worn out by the excitement of the Christmas tree trying to commit suicide -- twice -- by toppling over and smashing several lights and ornaments, including some we'd had since I was at least 3, and possibly had been in my -- dad's? mom's? -- family longer than that. Apologies to whichever parental unit's memories just got destroyed.

Meanwhile, it is Christmas Eve and I was up at 5:30 for what I hope will be my last morning of work for a week and a half, and after I update the site one more time tomorrow, I'm done done done.  Since I've worked in some capacity every day for I can't even remember how long at this point -- it feels like Thanksgiving was the last day I didn't touch anything office-related, but that's probably wrong -- I'm ready.  I hate the Senate. I really do.

So tonight I will wrap a jillion presents and go to bed late.  And tomorrow we will get up way early to see what Santa hath wrought.  And the next day we get up before sunrise to go to the airport. And then, weather and travel gods willing, we will wing our way to Hawaii by way of Atlanta and Salt Lake City.  Part of me is sorely tempted to just spend the entire time there sleeping, but I have a feeling once I get there and see vistas with no effing snow, I will perk right up and get moving.

Is it terribly wrong that I am sincerely hoping that the BlackBerry won't work there?

See you in 2010, y'all, when I am tanned and rested.  

Indeed, Indeed.

There's a Picasa auto-correct function labeled "I'm Feeling Lucky." Certain photos, like this one, remind me that even if I'm not, I certainly should be.

No Substitute for a Good Personality

It's been a while, I guess, since I did any sort of progress report on the kid.  I also blew off Halloween, it seems.  Maybe I'll do a Halloween blog around Thanksgiving and backdate it.  Heh.  (He was a Ghostbuster. It was pretty cute, though I had succumbed to whatever the boys had before me and was too sick to care.)

First grade appears to be going all right so far.  The teacher did tell us she is starting to see the same habits he had in kindergarten, but we've had a conference on what we will do about this, and see if we can't boost his focus and motivation, and maybe nip it in the bud instead of let it drag on all year. 

The biggest issue still appears to be that he hums.  And I know he does; he hums all the time. When he's working, when he's playing, when he's watching TV.  He doesn't know he's doing it.  He stops when instructed, and it lasts for varying periods of time, but inevitably he starts up again. I'm testing different things at home and am thisclose to sending him to class with a giant jawbreaker each day since it seems he is quieter if his mouth is full. And gum -- well, no. No gum.

All that aside, however, he is also turning into this thinking and reasoning human being who is also starting to look like he might understand the concept of being useful as well. This morning I told him to feed the cats and put on his shoes. He disappeared. I called down to him about 5 minutes later and he answered, "Shoes are on. I fed the cats, and they already had water. Also, they were both already in the basement, so I just locked them down there now instead of trying to catch them before we leave."  I just about dropped my curling iron, it was all so reasonable yet above and beyond what I'd requested. 

He is also apparently more like his father than like me, in that he is developing into an utterly practical and consequence-oriented mindset. He and Not Your Average Blogger went grocery shopping without me on Saturday, and apparently had a bit of a back and forth about whether to buy Cheetos.  "Just do it," said the YP. "You'll want them later." NYAB ultimately opted against buying them and decided he'd just eat some other junk food we already had. Later that afternoon, though, when the Cheeto craving hit, NYAB said to the YP, "Hey, I really want some Cheetos." 

And the YP answers, "Well, you made your decision! Too bad!"

Yesterday, we got a very nice card in the mail from my friend Amy, who graciously ordered popcorn from the YP to boost his Scout cred and was passing along the check.  In the card, she told him that he was a great salesman and that she couldn't wait to taste her popcorn.  "Tell her thank you. And I'm sorry, but I guess she's just going to have to wait," was his response. I think I might have been irritated at the adult tone if I hadn't been laughing so hard.

Then again, it's not all sunshine.  Later on last night, he got his head handed to him after he spit at me that he wished I wasn't his mother.  I said, "Really. And what would you do then?"  He said, "I'd still have my dad!" I said, "Well, not right now you don't. So why don't you just see what it's like for little boys who have no mother? Go to your room."  He went, and I removed all the stuff he usually does to distract himself in there -- iPod, books, nightlight, etc. Then I closed the door and listened to him wail for about 5 minutes, and then he starts in, "Mom!! Moooommm!!"

And I go in and say, "Who are you talking to? You don't have one of those."

Tearful apologies and earnest assurance that he understood the concept that "some things cannot be taken back" ensued. He still went to bed without dinner, though.

And I think the lesson really did stick, because when NYAB got home hours later and talked to the YP about watching what one says, the YP's answer was a sober, "Yes. Because what you say might come true." 

The other odd exchange of the evening was more or less after the drama, but before complete resolution. We had covered why he was in trouble and why he couldn't come back downstairs, but that neither of us was angry any longer. I was puttering in another room and heard him chattering questions in between wind-down sobs. I go in.

"Who are you talking to?"
"I'm talking to G-O-D. Up there." (He spelled this out, and pointed at the ceiling.)
"What?"
"I'm talking to G-O-D! UP THERE." (Pointing more vehemently.)
"About what?"
"I'm asking him why he let me say those things in the first place if he knew it would get me in trouble and hurt your feelings."
"Uh. OK. What did God say?"
"He didn't answer."

Now, we are not a religious family. We do not pray. We do not go to church. He goes to public school, so you KNOW he's not getting religion there.  Where this came from, I have yet to determine.  I'm just profoundly grateful that God's not answering him -- yet, at least.

Maybe I Should Sing Musetta's Waltz While I'm At It

I'm counting on my exceptionally healthy genes to see me through -- again.

Saturday the kid seemed to be running a fever, but insisted he felt fine and wasn't sick.  He was coughing a bit but off he and NYAB went to run errands.  They got home and he looked a bit more peaked, so we dosed him with fever-reducer/pain reliever and though he spent the evening looking stoned he never did act Outright Sick.  By Sunday he was fine.

So today, NYAB is sick again. He was sick for two days two weeks back and then took another couple days to mend, and he seemed all back to health. But today he started looking dreadful around lunchtime and then he got home tonight right as the kid and I were leaving for Cub Scouts and shuffled right upstairs to bed.

An hour and a half later we got home, watched an episode of Dr. Who ((the kid is a fan now of the New Series, go figure, and he watched 5 or 6 without me this weekend in the obscenely early pre-noon hours. But I made him wait til I could watch the first Dalek episode with him, and man you should have seen his face!) and I sent him upstairs too and got him all snugged down in bed. I come back downstairs and I'm just settling in for a nice night under the laptop when I hear odd noises.  I go back to the stairs and realize what I'm hearing are resonant echoes of the TB ward upstairs.  NYAB coughs, the YP coughs, the echo bounces down the stairs, they start all over again. 

I dosed them both with cough medicine, washed my hands in borax and am hiding downstairs wearing a gas mask and a veil.  I do hope I'm not contagious. The dentist will be most displeased at my appointment tomorrow!

All of Life's Riddles

Before I start, Not Your Average Blogger's travel photos are up over at Flickr.  Go take a look.

The YP has shown a couple of particular talents from an early age.  He is a total media junkie, and he has a fantastic ear for music. Since he was 2, I think he's been able to hear a song once and then sing it on key with all the correct lyrics for hours.  He sings TV theme songs. We can't walk through Borders these days without him singing the theme from Mad Men. He has a great memory for dialog and will quote movies and commercial slogans ad nauseam.

I think I've written in the past about how these proclivities color his paradigm. The toys he loves best are action figures from movies. All his Halloween costumes since he's been able to pick them out have been movie or cartoon characters. (This year? He's a Ghostbuster. I think he has determined he is Bill Murray and NYAB will be Harold Ramis. Possibly something to do with the glasses.) 

One of the tasks his first-grade teacher assigns each day is for the kids to "draw and write about something that really happened to you."  When we saw his booklet, I cracked up, because the entries were basically, "This is me watching Star Wars." "This is me watching Back to the Future." "This is me at the theater watching Toy Story 1 and 2 in 3-D."  "This is me playing with my Dark Knight toys."  "This is me playing Indiana Jones on my DS."  Occasionally interspersed are things like him playing golf with his dad or going to a concert, but the entries are at least 3-1 in favor of video.

Of course, he gets egged on by his daddy.  Last night I came home from helping clean up the grade-school's bingo party, and the lads were sacked out on the couches watching Star Trek.  I walk in and NYAB is not only reciting the lines along with the show, he also treats me to a tutorial on the old vs. new phasers (fazers? You'll have to ask him,) and tricorders and blah de fricking blah and I just sat and pointed and laughed and marveled he'd ever made it out of his parents' basement.  He pointed out they didn't have a basement and threw a pillow at me.  The Young Gene Roddenberry shushed us both. 

While this occasionally depresses me insomuch as his creativity seems pathetically stunted and most of his play has to do with being Batman's sidekick rather than slaying dragons, for the most part I'm OK with it. He does still play, he is still reasonably competitive and now that he's in school and he still reads books, though he's not as keen on it as I might like. 

What's interesting now, though, is how he is synthesizing all this exposure and knowledge.  He's keen on making sequels to movies he likes. He makes up stories that are in keeping with his favorite characters. He has gotten to the point where he recognizes movie references out of context and in other movies.

But the kicker came the other day when we were in the car. He was uncharacteristically quiet and I asked what he was thinking about. He pops out with, "Well, I was just thinking that if I ever work on a Who Framed Roger Rabbit movie, mine should really include the Pixar guys."

Oy.  I live with a pint-sized Dawson Leery, y'all. Except mine has a better forehead.

Where Have I Been? Nowhere, That's Where.

I wish to heaven I had something fun and exciting to write about from my life at the moment, but I don't. I just don't.  I guess it can be reported now officially that I am the "managing editor for copy and production," (hmm. Time to update the resume, too.) and that I have a staff of 10-ish, depending on the day, the number of temps, etc.

I spent the past 2 weeks spending huge amounts of time at the office trying to make sure everything was going to work and that we weren't going to get snowed under with work or cross-training or demands from other upheaved departments, that the people I'm responsible for weren't completely panicked and/or worried and/or adrift in a new procedure.

(No, no, not a bit of it. They were, in fact, all fine and didn't seem to need me at all though I was glad I could be there for the time I was. More than fine, they were perfectly fine. Until this week, when I resumed leaving at 4 p.m. and hell started breaking loose at 4:42. Natch. But even that seems minimal compared to what could have been.)

Not Your Average Blogger headed out the second week on his own family voyage; he and his 3 siblings scattered some family ashes at the Grand Canyon. It is a testament to how bad a wife I am that I haven't yet moved his photos out of the camera and onto the computer.

Meanwhile, my parents -- blessed, insane, and impossible-to-repay people that they are -- stayed at my house and acted not just as my parents, fixing my house in myriad ways and feeding me dinner at 10 and 11 at night, they also acted as the YP's parents while his real parents selfishly disappeared into the ether. I can't say enough about my parents. I don't know of another mom out there who shows up and says, "Jesus Christ, it is Sunday. Let's just use today to get drunk and I will clean your gutters tomorrow. I don't need you to help with that." I don't know of another dad who looks at a hand-drawn map with illegible names scribbled by boxes representing buildings and says, "Oh, sure, I can use this to find the kid's school and pick him up from aftercare. No problem! Are you sure you don't want me to just get him when school is out?" They did a fantastic job with everything -- the gutters, the yard, the YP; he was in bed on time, he looked chipper in the mornings, he didn't get dead and he did get fed. He attended all his extracurriculars. To all in-home appearances, he seemed on a pretty even keel.

But apparently he also had "holy crap my life is out of control" issues, since at the end of the second week his teacher emailed to ask if "anything was going on at home," because he was angrier and more impatient at things going wrong in the classroom, and he was also a bit more grabby and physical with the kids at aftercare.  Not hitting; he's not a bully. Just grabbing their hands to get their attention, hugging them til both parties fell over, grabbing their faces and asking for eye contact, etc.

Uh, whoops.  Guess I shoulda seen that coming and given the authorities a warning.  But hey, it was the end of the week! Everything would be back to normal starting Saturday!

More or less.  "Back to normal" is also an adjustment, no?

Monday was Columbus Day.  NYAB spent the morning making money on the stock market while I watched Fringe on Hulu, (yeah yeah, productivity is overrated,) and in the afternoon we went to Field Day at the school to help out.  We were assigned to the football toss station, where kids K-2 tried to throw Nerf footballs through hula hoops that had been duct taped to small basketball poles.  It was surprisingly entertaining and a good amount of exercise of chasing-bending-throwing.

It was also interesting to watch the kids.  I'd guess we had maybe 20 kids through the course of the afternoon at our hoop, and the bell curve was hilariously spot on, not just in terms of ability, but in terms of attitude. There were maybe 3 kids who actually looked like they were having fun and enjoying it and getting something out of it. There were 3 more who were having fun mostly because it just meant they didn't have to sit at their desks and think about the alphabet.  There were about six on the other end who looked miserable at having to be up and around and socializing and throwing things. The other 14? As one of my favorite comedians says about kids today -- "they were all disaffected! It was like Berlin in 1929!" The vast majority had this sort of look that said, "You want me to do what? Huh. OK ... why are we bothering with this, exactly?"

One kid made 12 perfect spirals through the hoop. Sense of accomplishment? Acceptance of accolades?

Nope. Didn't. Smile. Once. 

I was happy to note that our own YP seemed to be having a good time and understood what he was supposed to be getting out of the day, even though he was pretty much spang-center in terms of ability. He chased the ball and helped the adults, he laughed and encouraged the other kids in line, he helped herd them all to the next station they were supposed to go to after ours.

And then we went to pick him up 3 hours later from afterschool care (hey, we're paying for it, why not?) and he'd won himself a 1-day suspension from aftercare. For clutching at another kid's arms and ending up in a tussle when the other kid (quite reasonably, I daresay,) tried to wrestle free.

Well, there was much recrimination and punishment and discussions about how Mama Has to Take Time Off Work and Boy Will You Be Sorry Because Dude Believe Me You'd Rather Be Good and Have Fun at Aftercare Than What You Have in Store for You at Home on the Day You Are Suspended. 

Which is today. Which is why I have time to write this.

Of course, yesterday I went to pick him up, and the same kid who had wrestled free from him on Monday had gotten mad about being in trouble for something else and when Thomas made some comment along the lines of "Shh, you'll just get in more trouble if you get mad," this kid had thrown him to the floor and busted his lip, netting that kid a one-day suspension. After that little revelation -- and seeing the kid in question, who outweighs him by a good 20 lbs and is at least 2 years older -- we had another discussion about Kids You Stay Away From and Do Yourself a Favor, Don't Let Unhappy People Make You Unhappy.

But he's still in for it when he gets home today.  Perhaps I'll make him throw footballs through hula hoops for 3 hours. 

Broken Hearts, Mending Mornings

"YP -- you missed the trash can. Throw that wrapper away."
"Right! I don't want to be a litterbox!"
"Box? No, bug. LitterBUG."
"Yeah, I don't want to be one of those either."

The YP had a crisis yesterday. His best friend from last year "broke up" with him because he was playing with some other kid.  Details were vague, but the best I could pull together was that YP and 1st-Grade-Friend were playing Pirates of the Caribbean, and Kindergarten-Friend wanted to play. YP said sure, but (and this is where it gets fuzzy,) for some reason KF didn't. Either she didn't hear him tell her to join in, or she saw he was playing with 1GF and stomped off.  In the next part of the story that made any sense, KF told YP in gym class that if he was going to play with 1GF, then she was through with him.  He said his heart hurt. He said he didn't cry, but he was very sad. Then he said that it was fine, he would play with her the next day and she'd be his friend again.

"Wait a minute. Nonono. 1GF didn't do anything wrong, did he? He didn't yell at her or push her or tell her she couldn't play, did he?"
"No. They've just hated each other since last year. I don't know why."
"Well, I don't think you should let KF tell you who you can and can't play with. If you want to play with 1GF, you go right ahead."
"But KF won't be my friend if I don't play with her."
"Well, that's her choice, not yours. Look. If Daddy came home and said he was going golfing with Dave, and I said, Then I won't be your wife anymore, would that be nice?"
"No."
"And if I came home and told Daddy that I was going to have a drink with Susan and he said, Then don't bother ever coming back, would that be nice?"
"No."
"No. So why is it OK for KGF to tell YOU that? Why don't you tell her if she's really your friend, she'll understand when you play with other friends, and maybe she should try playing with them too?"
"I don't know. She wanted to play today, but then she didn't."
"Well, why don't you try again tomorrow and see if they'll both play with you?"
"I could ask them to both play with me?"
"Yes."
"What if they don't?"
"Then YOU decide who YOU want to play with, and tell the other person that you're still friends and you would love to play with them later. Or take turns. But that you really wish all three of you could be friends."
"I can tell them I want us all to be friends?"
"Of course!"
"Right! We've got to put this heart back together!"

I don't know where he comes up with this stuff. I'm guessing the Electric Company.

And yet, childhood drama aside, this morning was one of the best mornings we've had in a while. Nothing spectacular happened, no hosannas were sung, no breakthroughs occurred.  But my early-shift work proceeded without any glitches, everyone woke up on time, in a good mood, ready to meet the day with humor and grace. Breakfast was a happy affair with jokes and laughing. The kid ran off to the bus with a smile on his face. NYAB and I had ten minutes of peace together to just sit and Be, and think that yes, this. This is what it's about. This is why we do what we do, to be able to sit here together in our living room looking out at the trees in the back yard and be happy that our kid is smart and healthy and assertive and engaged.

All signs are pointing to hard, hard times ahead at work. It is inevitable that some people will lose their jobs. It is inevitable that the people who don't will probably work harder than they ever have and in more stressful conditions than before. I'm reasonably certain I fall into the latter category, and I'm grateful for it. But I'm also worried about how much worse things will get before they get better, and how unhappy how many people are likely to be for how long. Unlike my gung-ho little diplomat, I am not particularly well-versed in the reconstruction of hearts.  I'm better with courage. I'm no Henry V, but I'm ready to ride to the sound of the guns. What I don't know is if I'll be riding alone. 

But it helps to have mornings like this one reminding me why I keep getting out of bed to face such days as the ones ahead.