Today we received a letter from the middle school. Apparently, ES has been "identified through test scores, grades, teacher rating scales and other criteria as eligible for participation in the LEAP program." We must return a form, by Friday, with our signature indicating whether ES will or will not participate in the program.
I must admit, I feel torn here. As I read the letter, I knew what my son's reaction would be before we even mentioned it to him. It says LEAP students participate in some differentiated activities. They are required to complete a special project (I believe it is student-selected). They participate in things like Math Pentathalons, Spelling Bowls, etc. I know my son. If it even remotely sounds like more work than the average kid is expected to do, then he will want none of it. Furthermore, it says these students participate in the Young Hoosier Book Awards program. I have already outlined the warm, cozy feeling he has towards reading (NOT!). Perchance, they might even ask him to read more books than his classes already require. GASP!
Indeed, I mentioned the letter, in passing, this evening and his only response was "LEAP is for NERDS." Ah, what wonderful attitudes are oozing from my progeny (note: that's "progeny" - children, not "prodigy" - genius!) I haven't even had a moment to really discuss it more fully with my husband (although, I'm pretty sure he will want the final decision to be left in the hands of ES). I don't know that I trust the great 12 year old's wisdom in this matter.
Yet, I will say, that I wouldn't want him to feel too much pressure to perform academically, either. It is such a fine line. If he is not challenged enough, school becomes boring and misbehavior is a greater temptation. However, if school becomes overly-challenging, then all the fun of learning is lost in the stress and pressure. Participating in gifted activities would bring him in contact with others who value the use of their brains (his term, nerds), but he's special to me whether he's "gifted" or not. Allowing him to choose, seems important since it affects the intensity of load he will carry. But, at the same time, there are times when a parent must push a child to excel, even when they would rather coast. He didn't want to join the middle school band (despite his love of music), yet he has come to appreciate our insistence in that area. I just don't know how we should handle this opportunity.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Big Brother, Little Brother
On Thursday morning, when I was out and about searching for snakes, I stopped by the Good Will thrift store. Since I was alone and thus, able to browse and concentrate, I decided to look through the books (dangerous activity!). I do TRY to limit my book purchases, but I get such a thrill when I find a loved book from the past or a book I enjoy so much that I want to own it (regardless of the fact that I could easily check it out from the library).
What's more, I get an even bigger thrill out of my MS's reaction when he discovers that I bought him a new book. That boy LOVES books. This time, he was not only thrilled, but also obedient because I used it as a bargaining chip (I would only get the book from the van and read it to him after he had stayed quiet and still in the bed for at least fifteen minutes - if he can manage the quiet and still part for 15 or 20 minutes, it almost always leads to an out-cold part!). He asked if it was a book about frogs or snakes or Spiderman. It wasn't, but I still knew he would love it.
The book was called Big Brother, Little Brother, and I felt compelled to buy it because two of the pages within the book made me smile and think of my little guys.
He did indeed love it. I hope we read it lots of times before they outgrow the picture book stage. The other book I purchased for him will have to wait. I found a copy of Kate DiCamillo's The Tiger Rising. I had read this book to my ES when he was 7 or 8 and he really enjoyed it. I can't wait until MS is old enough because I'm sure he will love it, too.
What's more, I get an even bigger thrill out of my MS's reaction when he discovers that I bought him a new book. That boy LOVES books. This time, he was not only thrilled, but also obedient because I used it as a bargaining chip (I would only get the book from the van and read it to him after he had stayed quiet and still in the bed for at least fifteen minutes - if he can manage the quiet and still part for 15 or 20 minutes, it almost always leads to an out-cold part!). He asked if it was a book about frogs or snakes or Spiderman. It wasn't, but I still knew he would love it.
The book was called Big Brother, Little Brother, and I felt compelled to buy it because two of the pages within the book made me smile and think of my little guys.
He did indeed love it. I hope we read it lots of times before they outgrow the picture book stage. The other book I purchased for him will have to wait. I found a copy of Kate DiCamillo's The Tiger Rising. I had read this book to my ES when he was 7 or 8 and he really enjoyed it. I can't wait until MS is old enough because I'm sure he will love it, too.
Friday, September 5, 2008
My Miracle Story
I approach every doctor appointment with a great deal of trepidation. I've never experienced a "routine doctor appointment" without anxiety levels that exceed the charts. My recent dermatologist visit was case in point. After reviewing the results of our short-term effort to address an itching problem (benzoyl-peroxide wash, bar soap wash, steroid cream application, covered by layer of Vaseline), the doctor seemed dissatisfied. He hastily ordered blood work to test my thyroid levels, hormone levels, and several other things and then, offhandedly added "we will now treat this with two shots of steroid to the buttocks."
The minute I heard the word shot ... (no, rewind, that wasn't singular, it was PLURAL, and where? in my BUTTOCKS??????) I began to reel. Really? You're going to do that now?? "No," he explained, he "wouldn't be doing that, but his assistant would." Oh joy. I promise I didn't begin hyper-ventilating, but it wouldn't have been out of the question.
You see, I have a life-long fear of shots. No, let me clarify that. I have a life-long fear of shots and medical situations. I often begin my visits with doctors with an explanation of the root of my fears so they will understand where I am coming from and so they will know to anticipate my insane squeamishness! At my first gynecological exam in DeKalb, the doctor actually looked at me and said, "And what doctor do you plan on using when you decide to have children???" (indicating that it wouldn't be him).
So, is it a miracle that I endured the two shots to my buttocks yesterday? No! They weren't even as bad as my mind anticipated. The miracle story of the title of this blog post is the one that explains why I agonize so much over shots. It explains why I've always believed in some grand purpose to my existence and why I grow disillusioned when my life doesn't seem to be fulfilling any kind of grandiose vision. And I have carried this story since the age of three.
In March of 1969, my Salvation Army officer parents had four children under the age of seven. My oldest brother, David, would have been 6-1/2 and Mark, would have been 5. I was approaching 4 and my sister had just turned 1. In the wee hours of a Sunday morning (of course, it had to happen on a Sunday morning!), my parents headed to the hospital with me and my sister (and must have brought my brothers along). We were having difficulty breathing and they admitted both Dawn and myself to a room. My sister was diagnosed with pneumonia and I had what they termed "double pneumonia" (affecting both lungs).
Given the urgency of the situation, my parents hadn't had any time to make alternate arrangements, so my mother left my father with us and headed off to the church to perform the start of the Sunday morning service. My dad intended to stay until my mother returned and then he would head off to preach the sermon and end the service.
However, before my mother returned, things took an awful turn. I was hooked up to machines monitoring my vitals. My father was seated next to my box (I'm assuming a ventilator) and was praying for me. I have been told the story numerous times and have often shared the testimony of my miracle. I don't remember a thing, but I know the details because it is an integral part of "my story," the story of me and what led me to become who I am and even probably who I will be in the future. I only recently learned that my sister was in another crib across the room.
As my father tells the story, he was praying for me. Struggling to understand what was going on and gripped with love for me, he pleaded with the Lord for His protection and intervention. Suddenly, the machine alarms sounded and workers began to flood the room. I had stopped breathing. He could tell that things were seriously wrong. It was as if I had died and they were trying to resuscitate me. They removed the cover over my cot. They held a knife over my ankle and began to cut into the vein (I later learned this was necessary because they can't cut into the wrist veins in such a small body). I believe they were planning to inject something to attempt to re-start my breathing.
My father explains that during these moments of prayer over me, the focus of his prayer shifted. He realized that I was a gift from God and that He could not ask for my life but only for the grace to accept whatever God willed. In that very moment, I sat up and asked the doctors what they were doing. One minute I was on death's door and the next, I was asking for an explanation.
So, early on, I learned a variety of lessons from that life imprint. I learned that children are a gift for whatever length of time the Lord gives. I learned that God must have had some further purpose for my life because He spared me when He could have taken me. I learned that my father trusted in God enough to let me go, if need be. I learned that God still performs miracles. I learned that I should share my miracle because it might encourage another Christian in their walk. And so, very often, at an early age, I would stand during testimony time in our church services and share the story as I knew it (second hand, but still my story - and a powerful one - of God's love and God's purpose).
However, I also learned to fear shots and to psychologically agonize over any medical interventions. My parents informed me that I was in the hospital for eight days and in those eight days I received 64 shots! SIXTY-FOUR! I remember my mother telling me that my body was small and after several days they had to administer shots in the same locations I'd already received shots. It was like I was a human pin-cushion.
I don't remember the shots. I don't remember the hospital. I don't remember double pneumonia. However, I could regale you with stories of the further ramifications of my ordeal.
For example, the year we took a group of kids to a clinic for our camp physicals. It was crowded and when the nurse came to take my blood-pressure, I was standing in a doorway. I fainted and slumped to the ground - just over the squeezing of the blood-pressure cuff.
Another time, my mother had taken me, my sister and my baby brother, Timmy, (who was probably five - which would have meant I was 14 or 15) to get our shots for school. Dawn and I stood arguing over who would go first. Finally, Timmy pushed past us and took his shots. He sat in a chair sucking his lollipop and waiting for us to finish. My sister and I both ended up fainting. There was my mom, hovering over two girls with their heads pushed between their legs, trying to revive after the torment of getting shots and Timmy just enjoyed his lollipop.
I know my mother dreaded taking us to the doctor as much as I dreaded going. At another visit, I was told to bend down and touch my toes. I bent at the knees and touched them with ease! Ha! Then, the doctor touched my sister and she winced, proclaiming in her defense, "I have sensible hips!" Going to the doctor never got easier.
When I decided to head to the mission field after college, I seriously dreaded all of the shots I would have to endure. I remember a nurse giving me pointers on the gamma globulin shot (which is also administered in the buttock). She explained that the problem is when the thick liquid (yes, she told me how long and thick the needle had to be in order to give the injection) sits in one spot. To avoid the typical soreness, the key was to rub the heck out of the buttock as soon as the shot was administered. I had to walk from the clinic to work and continued to rub my sore bum regardless of what the passing motorists must have thought!
Yes, I am a case. Of course, I put off having the blood drawn (even though I could have gone to the lab today). Hopefully, I'll have it done when the little boys aren't with me. No need to create trauma in their tender psyches (as I did when I screamed at the shot in my toe to remove a wart last spring - the nurse said, "Oh my, we weren't expecting that!" - meaning, my reaction! I should have said, "Well, yes, I wasn't expecting that!" - meaning, the shot!). I can promise you I'll be looking away. And I'll be praying that the Lord's will doesn't include my continuing to get these steroid shots and blood draws on a regular basis. Perhaps the itching isn't really so troublesome after all. It is a miracle I ever had kids - and three, by c-section, no less!
The minute I heard the word shot ... (no, rewind, that wasn't singular, it was PLURAL, and where? in my BUTTOCKS??????) I began to reel. Really? You're going to do that now?? "No," he explained, he "wouldn't be doing that, but his assistant would." Oh joy. I promise I didn't begin hyper-ventilating, but it wouldn't have been out of the question.
You see, I have a life-long fear of shots. No, let me clarify that. I have a life-long fear of shots and medical situations. I often begin my visits with doctors with an explanation of the root of my fears so they will understand where I am coming from and so they will know to anticipate my insane squeamishness! At my first gynecological exam in DeKalb, the doctor actually looked at me and said, "And what doctor do you plan on using when you decide to have children???" (indicating that it wouldn't be him).
So, is it a miracle that I endured the two shots to my buttocks yesterday? No! They weren't even as bad as my mind anticipated. The miracle story of the title of this blog post is the one that explains why I agonize so much over shots. It explains why I've always believed in some grand purpose to my existence and why I grow disillusioned when my life doesn't seem to be fulfilling any kind of grandiose vision. And I have carried this story since the age of three.
In March of 1969, my Salvation Army officer parents had four children under the age of seven. My oldest brother, David, would have been 6-1/2 and Mark, would have been 5. I was approaching 4 and my sister had just turned 1. In the wee hours of a Sunday morning (of course, it had to happen on a Sunday morning!), my parents headed to the hospital with me and my sister (and must have brought my brothers along). We were having difficulty breathing and they admitted both Dawn and myself to a room. My sister was diagnosed with pneumonia and I had what they termed "double pneumonia" (affecting both lungs).
Given the urgency of the situation, my parents hadn't had any time to make alternate arrangements, so my mother left my father with us and headed off to the church to perform the start of the Sunday morning service. My dad intended to stay until my mother returned and then he would head off to preach the sermon and end the service.
However, before my mother returned, things took an awful turn. I was hooked up to machines monitoring my vitals. My father was seated next to my box (I'm assuming a ventilator) and was praying for me. I have been told the story numerous times and have often shared the testimony of my miracle. I don't remember a thing, but I know the details because it is an integral part of "my story," the story of me and what led me to become who I am and even probably who I will be in the future. I only recently learned that my sister was in another crib across the room.
As my father tells the story, he was praying for me. Struggling to understand what was going on and gripped with love for me, he pleaded with the Lord for His protection and intervention. Suddenly, the machine alarms sounded and workers began to flood the room. I had stopped breathing. He could tell that things were seriously wrong. It was as if I had died and they were trying to resuscitate me. They removed the cover over my cot. They held a knife over my ankle and began to cut into the vein (I later learned this was necessary because they can't cut into the wrist veins in such a small body). I believe they were planning to inject something to attempt to re-start my breathing.
My father explains that during these moments of prayer over me, the focus of his prayer shifted. He realized that I was a gift from God and that He could not ask for my life but only for the grace to accept whatever God willed. In that very moment, I sat up and asked the doctors what they were doing. One minute I was on death's door and the next, I was asking for an explanation.
So, early on, I learned a variety of lessons from that life imprint. I learned that children are a gift for whatever length of time the Lord gives. I learned that God must have had some further purpose for my life because He spared me when He could have taken me. I learned that my father trusted in God enough to let me go, if need be. I learned that God still performs miracles. I learned that I should share my miracle because it might encourage another Christian in their walk. And so, very often, at an early age, I would stand during testimony time in our church services and share the story as I knew it (second hand, but still my story - and a powerful one - of God's love and God's purpose).
However, I also learned to fear shots and to psychologically agonize over any medical interventions. My parents informed me that I was in the hospital for eight days and in those eight days I received 64 shots! SIXTY-FOUR! I remember my mother telling me that my body was small and after several days they had to administer shots in the same locations I'd already received shots. It was like I was a human pin-cushion.
I don't remember the shots. I don't remember the hospital. I don't remember double pneumonia. However, I could regale you with stories of the further ramifications of my ordeal.
For example, the year we took a group of kids to a clinic for our camp physicals. It was crowded and when the nurse came to take my blood-pressure, I was standing in a doorway. I fainted and slumped to the ground - just over the squeezing of the blood-pressure cuff.
Another time, my mother had taken me, my sister and my baby brother, Timmy, (who was probably five - which would have meant I was 14 or 15) to get our shots for school. Dawn and I stood arguing over who would go first. Finally, Timmy pushed past us and took his shots. He sat in a chair sucking his lollipop and waiting for us to finish. My sister and I both ended up fainting. There was my mom, hovering over two girls with their heads pushed between their legs, trying to revive after the torment of getting shots and Timmy just enjoyed his lollipop.
I know my mother dreaded taking us to the doctor as much as I dreaded going. At another visit, I was told to bend down and touch my toes. I bent at the knees and touched them with ease! Ha! Then, the doctor touched my sister and she winced, proclaiming in her defense, "I have sensible hips!" Going to the doctor never got easier.
When I decided to head to the mission field after college, I seriously dreaded all of the shots I would have to endure. I remember a nurse giving me pointers on the gamma globulin shot (which is also administered in the buttock). She explained that the problem is when the thick liquid (yes, she told me how long and thick the needle had to be in order to give the injection) sits in one spot. To avoid the typical soreness, the key was to rub the heck out of the buttock as soon as the shot was administered. I had to walk from the clinic to work and continued to rub my sore bum regardless of what the passing motorists must have thought!
Yes, I am a case. Of course, I put off having the blood drawn (even though I could have gone to the lab today). Hopefully, I'll have it done when the little boys aren't with me. No need to create trauma in their tender psyches (as I did when I screamed at the shot in my toe to remove a wart last spring - the nurse said, "Oh my, we weren't expecting that!" - meaning, my reaction! I should have said, "Well, yes, I wasn't expecting that!" - meaning, the shot!). I can promise you I'll be looking away. And I'll be praying that the Lord's will doesn't include my continuing to get these steroid shots and blood draws on a regular basis. Perhaps the itching isn't really so troublesome after all. It is a miracle I ever had kids - and three, by c-section, no less!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Childhood Cancer Awareness Month
September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. Tomorrow night there will be a StandUp2Cancer special airing on ABC, NBC and CBS. On Coleman Larson's site (http://www.carepages.org/colemanscott) Peggy mentioned that "this year 12,500 children will be diagnosed with cancer. 1 in 5 will not grow up." On Julian Avery's site (Julian is one of those 1 in 5 statistics), Mimi requested urgent prayers for another victim of childhood cancer: www.caringbridge.org/visit/coleruotsala. Cole, like my niece Amelia, is from Wisconsin.
Tonight, in checking in on my niece, Amelia, who is a leukemia survivor, I discovered a news clip which aired in her area last night. The clip spotlights Amelia's Make-A-Wish Trip to Walt Disney World. You can view it by going here and selecting "Sick Kids Wish for a Trip to Disney World," from the Top Stories list. She is absolutely adorable. It was fun to see my bald baby brother (shaved in solidarity and to raise money) and his family featured on the news. For more information on Amelia's participation in the walk to raise funds, visit her page at www.caringbridge.org/visit/ameliagorton.
To give a glimpse of what the cancer world is like: Last night, Amelia was featured on the news. Today, she attended her friend's funeral and stared at the little white casket. I'm so glad Amelia survived, but I'm also proud that her family continues to stand in the gap with other families who are in the battle against cancer.
Tonight, in checking in on my niece, Amelia, who is a leukemia survivor, I discovered a news clip which aired in her area last night. The clip spotlights Amelia's Make-A-Wish Trip to Walt Disney World. You can view it by going here and selecting "Sick Kids Wish for a Trip to Disney World," from the Top Stories list. She is absolutely adorable. It was fun to see my bald baby brother (shaved in solidarity and to raise money) and his family featured on the news. For more information on Amelia's participation in the walk to raise funds, visit her page at www.caringbridge.org/visit/ameliagorton.
To give a glimpse of what the cancer world is like: Last night, Amelia was featured on the news. Today, she attended her friend's funeral and stared at the little white casket. I'm so glad Amelia survived, but I'm also proud that her family continues to stand in the gap with other families who are in the battle against cancer.
Disclaimer: Bathroom Post Ahead! Don Your Gas Masks!
My first son made the art of potty training seem like a breeze, and a pleasant one at that. I felt guilty sharing his exploits with other mothers when I heard them moaning about how long it was taking for their son or daughter. Of course, I understood how lucky I was. I even understood that his training had fairly little to do with me (although we did allow him to watch and verbally walked through the steps pretty much from the time he was born). He began walking at 9 months and at 10 months would bring us a diaper when he was dirty. Of course, we were blown away by this and attributed it to his natural "genius." (No, he is not a member of Mensa!)
At one and a half, he was standing naked in the hallway, when my husband recognized the familiar stance. He yelled. I ran to get the bucket. From that point on, he never went pee-pee in a diaper again. He would ask for a diaper when he needed to do the other business and would head off to his room to lean over his toy box. If I came to check before he was finished, he would say, "Go 'way, Mommy!"
At two and a half, he caught a parasite called "Giardia." In the throes of Giardia's deadly terror, he begged for a diaper and I simply told him we hadn't time and plunked him up on the toilet. From that point on, he never wanted a diaper on. He only wet the bed one time, on a night when he was extremely exhausted. Thus, we never tried pull-ups. We never offered rewards. We never agonized over a minute of it.
Enter son #2. He will be four years old at the end of this month. He is one of the brightest toddlers I know (who knows, maybe he is Mensa material?). But the boy would not potty train! Plus, he has always seemed to save the majority of his business for night time. Even when he was much littler, I found I had to purchase special extra-absorbent diapers for the nights. I couldn't count the number of times he played the "I can't go to bed 'cause I've got to poop" card (otherwise known as the "Get-Out-Of-Bed Free Card"). The whole business of potty training has seemed like an endless power play with this child.
Unfortunately, it has also been laced with some parental anxiety because he has been fraught with constipation ever since we began this battle. A few sympathetic parents encouraged me by sharing that their son also was a late trainer with constipation issues. Some suggested that the constipation might go away once he is completely trained.
Viewing the fourth birthday on the horizon, I couldn't bear the thought of buying another package of size six diapers. So, I explained to him that when this package was used up, I would no longer buy diapers for him. He could either go in his pants or go on the toilet (to which he would always reply, "Mommy, I'll go on the potty when I'm as big as B------ [his older brother, who is 12]! )
No-D-Day (No Diaper Day) came last night. I sat him on the potty and informed him that as soon as I heard a plop, no matter how small, he would get a tattoo and we would have to talk about what he wanted as a "poopy toy." We had given him a small Spiderman figure to play with for ten minutes each time he successfully went pee-pee and he called it his "potty guy."
He produced the smallest plop imaginable and I pretended it was the most impressive thing he had ever done. He chose a frog tattoo and had to run show every member of the family. He asked me to buy him a snake for his "poopy toy."
So, this morning, after dropping both little boys off at pre-school/PDO, I headed off in search of a snake. Not a live one, mind you, but one he would relish playing with for 10 minutes after each success. I found three rubber snakes at Dollar Tree. (His favorite book right now is I Need a Snake, by Lynne Jonell, about a boy who asks his mother for a pet snake, but ends up creating three pretend snakes.)
As soon as he was ready for bed, he felt nature's call. It was, once again, the paltriest effort I've ever seen, but it provided the requisite sound. He selected a goldfish tattoo, in honor of Scooby Doo, who died this afternoon of unknown causes. I then produced the "poopy toy(s)." MS was jubilant. He danced with them. He pretended they were squeezing his arms off. He whipped them in the air (this could be trouble). His mantra for the entire ten minutes was "I love pooping in the toilet, 'cause I love my poopy toy!"
As the timer dinged, signalling the end of his allotted toy time, he handed the three snakes back and I told him to head to bed. I knew full well this would be a late night (good thing he gets a nap on school days). Sure enough, nature called again, two more times before he headed to bed (plus I counted at least 5 potty trips before he fell asleep). What did we feed that boy for dinner???
Thankfully, the second and third efforts were of worthy size for the prize! Still, I began to be a tiny bit fearful of just how much he had stored up inside. Thus, after the final success, he was told it was too late in the evening for play time and promised his ten minutes with the snakes tomorrow morning (once he has success for a week, he gets the toy indefinitely). I'm guessing he'll dream of snakes tonight. Moreover, I have a feeling we're going to have a pretty crappy day tomorrow!
At one and a half, he was standing naked in the hallway, when my husband recognized the familiar stance. He yelled. I ran to get the bucket. From that point on, he never went pee-pee in a diaper again. He would ask for a diaper when he needed to do the other business and would head off to his room to lean over his toy box. If I came to check before he was finished, he would say, "Go 'way, Mommy!"
At two and a half, he caught a parasite called "Giardia." In the throes of Giardia's deadly terror, he begged for a diaper and I simply told him we hadn't time and plunked him up on the toilet. From that point on, he never wanted a diaper on. He only wet the bed one time, on a night when he was extremely exhausted. Thus, we never tried pull-ups. We never offered rewards. We never agonized over a minute of it.
Enter son #2. He will be four years old at the end of this month. He is one of the brightest toddlers I know (who knows, maybe he is Mensa material?). But the boy would not potty train! Plus, he has always seemed to save the majority of his business for night time. Even when he was much littler, I found I had to purchase special extra-absorbent diapers for the nights. I couldn't count the number of times he played the "I can't go to bed 'cause I've got to poop" card (otherwise known as the "Get-Out-Of-Bed Free Card"). The whole business of potty training has seemed like an endless power play with this child.
Unfortunately, it has also been laced with some parental anxiety because he has been fraught with constipation ever since we began this battle. A few sympathetic parents encouraged me by sharing that their son also was a late trainer with constipation issues. Some suggested that the constipation might go away once he is completely trained.
Viewing the fourth birthday on the horizon, I couldn't bear the thought of buying another package of size six diapers. So, I explained to him that when this package was used up, I would no longer buy diapers for him. He could either go in his pants or go on the toilet (to which he would always reply, "Mommy, I'll go on the potty when I'm as big as B------ [his older brother, who is 12]! )
No-D-Day (No Diaper Day) came last night. I sat him on the potty and informed him that as soon as I heard a plop, no matter how small, he would get a tattoo and we would have to talk about what he wanted as a "poopy toy." We had given him a small Spiderman figure to play with for ten minutes each time he successfully went pee-pee and he called it his "potty guy."
He produced the smallest plop imaginable and I pretended it was the most impressive thing he had ever done. He chose a frog tattoo and had to run show every member of the family. He asked me to buy him a snake for his "poopy toy."
So, this morning, after dropping both little boys off at pre-school/PDO, I headed off in search of a snake. Not a live one, mind you, but one he would relish playing with for 10 minutes after each success. I found three rubber snakes at Dollar Tree. (His favorite book right now is I Need a Snake, by Lynne Jonell, about a boy who asks his mother for a pet snake, but ends up creating three pretend snakes.)
As soon as he was ready for bed, he felt nature's call. It was, once again, the paltriest effort I've ever seen, but it provided the requisite sound. He selected a goldfish tattoo, in honor of Scooby Doo, who died this afternoon of unknown causes. I then produced the "poopy toy(s)." MS was jubilant. He danced with them. He pretended they were squeezing his arms off. He whipped them in the air (this could be trouble). His mantra for the entire ten minutes was "I love pooping in the toilet, 'cause I love my poopy toy!"
As the timer dinged, signalling the end of his allotted toy time, he handed the three snakes back and I told him to head to bed. I knew full well this would be a late night (good thing he gets a nap on school days). Sure enough, nature called again, two more times before he headed to bed (plus I counted at least 5 potty trips before he fell asleep). What did we feed that boy for dinner???
Thankfully, the second and third efforts were of worthy size for the prize! Still, I began to be a tiny bit fearful of just how much he had stored up inside. Thus, after the final success, he was told it was too late in the evening for play time and promised his ten minutes with the snakes tomorrow morning (once he has success for a week, he gets the toy indefinitely). I'm guessing he'll dream of snakes tonight. Moreover, I have a feeling we're going to have a pretty crappy day tomorrow!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
God Has it Under Control
Tonight, as I tucked my MS into bed, he asked me about his cousin, Amelia. He said, "Does she still have the cancer in her body?" I told him that the cancer is gone now. Next, he asked how the cancer got into her body. I didn't really know what to tell him. I reminded him that sometimes we breathe in germs and they make our bodies sick (although, he wouldn't be able to understand that Amelia didn't breathe in cancer and she didn't get it because she forgot to wash her hands before eating). Then, I told him that Amelia has a little friend, Mariah, who is still fighting to get the cancer out of her body. I explained that she is so weak right now that when Amelia visited her last week, Mariah could only raise her thumb as a way of saying "yes." We said a special prayer for both Amelia and Mariah and then I left the room.
I was deeply saddened when I logged on tonight and discovered that Mariah lost her fight against cancer. Of course, my little guy was up again before I knew it and wanting to be rocked. As I held him close and rocked him, I sat thinking about Mariah and Amelia ... about their friendship. I thought about my sister-in-law, Mary, and how many times she went on to Mariah's website to speak words of encouragement to their family.
In one of Mary's recent posts, she had expressed her frustrations because both Mariah's mother and father would be able to be by Mariah's side 24/7. Many of us assumed that she meant that Mariah's father lost his job. I don't really know all of the details (although Mariah's family expressed that he didn't entirely lose his job), but I know that my father wrote to encourage them that the Lord had a purpose, even in the change in the job situation.
This made me think about how I experienced this very lesson in my own life. When my ES was in kindergarten, I taught an evening GED class two nights a week. I enjoyed this job and really wanted to keep it. However, I also wanted to have another child and knew that in order to do so, we would need the insurance that a full-time job would provide. Thus, I signed on as an individual assistant at my son's elementary school. I worked that full-time job and still kept my GED position (hoping that after another child came along, I could leave the full-time position and maintain the part-time one).
My second son was due in 2004 at the end of September. At the end of my summer GED session, I headed off to CBLI with my ES, embracing the rest and relaxation it would provide before a stressful fall. I had not really asked for much time off. I think the doctor advised me to inform my employer that I would require at least three weeks to recuperate from the cesarean section surgery.
When I returned from CBLI, I received a message to call the GED office. Over the phone, I was informed that another teacher had requested my class (it was close to where she lives and she was hoping to increase her hours). I was told that they felt that my absence from the class would be detrimental to the continuity of the class and therefore, they were giving my class to this other teacher (side note: this was a drop-in class with very little continuity amongst the students and several nights I sat alone, reading, wondering if any of my students would show up).
I remember feeling so helpless. There was nothing I could do to dissuade them. The decision had already been made. The other teacher had already been told she would have my class. It was entirely out of my hands and I felt so disappointed. This was the job I wanted to keep. I wanted to stay home with my baby and merely leave him two nights a week. But suddenly, that was no longer an option.
Now, as I sat rocking MS and looking in on YS as he slept in his crib, I realized what a blessing that detour was. I was planning on travelling the map I had laid out. God sent me on a detour. If He hadn't, I don't know if we would have had my youngest son. I didn't welcome the loss of that job. I mourned its loss. But, now I am grateful for the chance to entirely focus on my MS's birth. I had three short months at home with him and returned to the full time job for the spring semester.
Although, it was hard to leave my MS to go back to full-time work, my husband was able to care for him most of the time. When we were both at work, my MS had a fabulous care-giver, Lisa, who lived half a block away from the elementary school. Since her own children attended the school, she often showed up at school with my MS in tow. It was such a treat to get to see him.
Now, I am not working outside of the home at all. I spend almost all of my time with my boys. At times, it feels like the wrong job. However, I am confident that this is exactly where God wants me to be for now. I'm glad He has given me this job, even on the days when I'm pulling out my hair and screaming bloody murder. (For example, take the day last week when ES caught several bees and trapped them in the ant-farm, then set the ant-farm on the counter in the garage. MS took the ant-farm down to look at the bees buzzing around in there. He walked off and a few minutes later, I looked over to see YS holding the tiny cap and several angry bees buzzing around him. It was a miracle that neither one of us were stung. Let me tell you, there was a fair amount of screaming that day!) I'm so glad God has it all under control! Good thing He's not counting on me to keep it under control!
I was deeply saddened when I logged on tonight and discovered that Mariah lost her fight against cancer. Of course, my little guy was up again before I knew it and wanting to be rocked. As I held him close and rocked him, I sat thinking about Mariah and Amelia ... about their friendship. I thought about my sister-in-law, Mary, and how many times she went on to Mariah's website to speak words of encouragement to their family.
In one of Mary's recent posts, she had expressed her frustrations because both Mariah's mother and father would be able to be by Mariah's side 24/7. Many of us assumed that she meant that Mariah's father lost his job. I don't really know all of the details (although Mariah's family expressed that he didn't entirely lose his job), but I know that my father wrote to encourage them that the Lord had a purpose, even in the change in the job situation.
This made me think about how I experienced this very lesson in my own life. When my ES was in kindergarten, I taught an evening GED class two nights a week. I enjoyed this job and really wanted to keep it. However, I also wanted to have another child and knew that in order to do so, we would need the insurance that a full-time job would provide. Thus, I signed on as an individual assistant at my son's elementary school. I worked that full-time job and still kept my GED position (hoping that after another child came along, I could leave the full-time position and maintain the part-time one).
My second son was due in 2004 at the end of September. At the end of my summer GED session, I headed off to CBLI with my ES, embracing the rest and relaxation it would provide before a stressful fall. I had not really asked for much time off. I think the doctor advised me to inform my employer that I would require at least three weeks to recuperate from the cesarean section surgery.
When I returned from CBLI, I received a message to call the GED office. Over the phone, I was informed that another teacher had requested my class (it was close to where she lives and she was hoping to increase her hours). I was told that they felt that my absence from the class would be detrimental to the continuity of the class and therefore, they were giving my class to this other teacher (side note: this was a drop-in class with very little continuity amongst the students and several nights I sat alone, reading, wondering if any of my students would show up).
I remember feeling so helpless. There was nothing I could do to dissuade them. The decision had already been made. The other teacher had already been told she would have my class. It was entirely out of my hands and I felt so disappointed. This was the job I wanted to keep. I wanted to stay home with my baby and merely leave him two nights a week. But suddenly, that was no longer an option.
Now, as I sat rocking MS and looking in on YS as he slept in his crib, I realized what a blessing that detour was. I was planning on travelling the map I had laid out. God sent me on a detour. If He hadn't, I don't know if we would have had my youngest son. I didn't welcome the loss of that job. I mourned its loss. But, now I am grateful for the chance to entirely focus on my MS's birth. I had three short months at home with him and returned to the full time job for the spring semester.
Although, it was hard to leave my MS to go back to full-time work, my husband was able to care for him most of the time. When we were both at work, my MS had a fabulous care-giver, Lisa, who lived half a block away from the elementary school. Since her own children attended the school, she often showed up at school with my MS in tow. It was such a treat to get to see him.
Now, I am not working outside of the home at all. I spend almost all of my time with my boys. At times, it feels like the wrong job. However, I am confident that this is exactly where God wants me to be for now. I'm glad He has given me this job, even on the days when I'm pulling out my hair and screaming bloody murder. (For example, take the day last week when ES caught several bees and trapped them in the ant-farm, then set the ant-farm on the counter in the garage. MS took the ant-farm down to look at the bees buzzing around in there. He walked off and a few minutes later, I looked over to see YS holding the tiny cap and several angry bees buzzing around him. It was a miracle that neither one of us were stung. Let me tell you, there was a fair amount of screaming that day!) I'm so glad God has it all under control! Good thing He's not counting on me to keep it under control!
Book Review: Something of Value
Prior to starting my blog, I noticed an advertisement for a memoir writing class. It met for six Tuesdays at a nearby library. My husband and I agreed that it would be great for me to try to attend this class, not necessarily because I've always wanted to write a memoir of my life, but more because I desperately needed something to focus on apart from my all-encompassing job of caring for my family. Unfortunately, it didn't work out. One Tuesday, my husband was called in to work, which meant I couldn't attend the afternoon class. Another Tuesday, I was ill and another Tuesday the little boys were ill. I believe I only attended two of the classes (thankfully the price had been right - free - so I didn't lose any money based on my lack of attendance).
At one of the class sessions, I met a woman named Carlene Crum, who had already written her memoir and was in the process of getting it self-published. This was inspiring and, although we didn't really talk much, I felt encouraged by meeting her. Imagine my surprise, when I noticed her book in the recent releases section of the library.
Carlene's book is entitled Something of Value: A Mother's Spiritual Journey with a Special-Needs Child. The title reaffirmed my own beliefs that every child is of great value despite their ability or inability to give anything tangible back to society. I was eager to read the story of the Crum's brain-damaged son, Ben, whom they cared for over a 17 year period.
My favorite part of the book was when Carlene discussed her new understanding of the kind of love God has for each of us. She explained that she couldn't fathom the depth of love she felt for her child. She wrote:
Carlene and her husband recognized that God had a purpose and a plan for them in their son's life. They continued to cling to belief in His love and provision. They grew spiritually as a result of the journey which life with their son provided. Moreover, in the last sentence of her book, Carlene, identifies the "Something of Value" not as her son, but as God. She wrote, "God was, is and always will be the Something of Value that we gained while our son Benjamin was with us."
My great disappointment with this book was that I wanted to be pulled into the story first and then the lessons. Sadly, the story itself is presented in only a limited light. The driving focus, rightly or wrongly, is on the Scriptural truths which became apparent in their lives as they cared for their child. I am sure that others will glean encouragement from this book. A reader who has struggled with the difficulties of caring for a special needs child will certainly feel a kinship with the author and the story of her growth.
I guess it makes me think about witnessing strategies. Some people are constantly in the process of preaching sermons to those around them, in the sincere desire to draw the other person into a closer relationship with God. Others live their lives, befriend others, tell their story and allow others to draw their own conclusions. I am drawn to the story of others.
I'm not averse to hearing Scriptural support for God's hand in our lives. Yet, I wanted to say to the author, "Show me your story, don't tell me the verses that you learned." I am glad this woman took the time to set down what she felt the Lord wanted her to share. I am glad that she included photos of her son at the end of the book (I felt more connected through the photos than the words). I can't imagine what it must have been like to walk in her shoes with the constant demands of caring for her son (and I complain about getting only a few snatched hours away from my perfectly healthy little guys - for shame!). I just wish I could have tried her shoes on by reading her book.
At one of the class sessions, I met a woman named Carlene Crum, who had already written her memoir and was in the process of getting it self-published. This was inspiring and, although we didn't really talk much, I felt encouraged by meeting her. Imagine my surprise, when I noticed her book in the recent releases section of the library.
Carlene's book is entitled Something of Value: A Mother's Spiritual Journey with a Special-Needs Child. The title reaffirmed my own beliefs that every child is of great value despite their ability or inability to give anything tangible back to society. I was eager to read the story of the Crum's brain-damaged son, Ben, whom they cared for over a 17 year period.
My favorite part of the book was when Carlene discussed her new understanding of the kind of love God has for each of us. She explained that she couldn't fathom the depth of love she felt for her child. She wrote:
"I noticed that I was filled with love for Ben who had nothing to give to the world, so to speak. It was immediately obvious that he was totally unable to administer any self-care ... not to mention accomplishing something for others. Yet, I never tired of loving him. Then the light bulb in my mind turned on. This is God's kind of love!"
Carlene and her husband recognized that God had a purpose and a plan for them in their son's life. They continued to cling to belief in His love and provision. They grew spiritually as a result of the journey which life with their son provided. Moreover, in the last sentence of her book, Carlene, identifies the "Something of Value" not as her son, but as God. She wrote, "God was, is and always will be the Something of Value that we gained while our son Benjamin was with us."
My great disappointment with this book was that I wanted to be pulled into the story first and then the lessons. Sadly, the story itself is presented in only a limited light. The driving focus, rightly or wrongly, is on the Scriptural truths which became apparent in their lives as they cared for their child. I am sure that others will glean encouragement from this book. A reader who has struggled with the difficulties of caring for a special needs child will certainly feel a kinship with the author and the story of her growth.
I guess it makes me think about witnessing strategies. Some people are constantly in the process of preaching sermons to those around them, in the sincere desire to draw the other person into a closer relationship with God. Others live their lives, befriend others, tell their story and allow others to draw their own conclusions. I am drawn to the story of others.
I'm not averse to hearing Scriptural support for God's hand in our lives. Yet, I wanted to say to the author, "Show me your story, don't tell me the verses that you learned." I am glad this woman took the time to set down what she felt the Lord wanted her to share. I am glad that she included photos of her son at the end of the book (I felt more connected through the photos than the words). I can't imagine what it must have been like to walk in her shoes with the constant demands of caring for her son (and I complain about getting only a few snatched hours away from my perfectly healthy little guys - for shame!). I just wish I could have tried her shoes on by reading her book.
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