Tom startled me awake at 1 am to ask where the humidifier was. He handed me the baby, fresh from a stint in the freezer. Her breathing was better, but she needed some comfort and he had more work to finish before coming to bed. Molly went back to her crib for awhile, but I spent the rest of the night in and out, up and down, outside for cold air. Finally we rocked in the chair near the open window and dozed, upright, warm where her body nestled against mine, cold where the breeze hit my shins.
It was the kind of night where it is almost a relief to see the light out the window and give up trying to get anymore sleep, and a bigger relief to know that doctors and pharmacies and steroids will soon be available. I called my dad for a prescription, and decided that Lucy’s preschool feast would be getting instant mashed potatoes.
I drove Callie to school, grabbed potato flakes at the store (pharmacy not open yet), then ran home to boil over the easy directions (it was my first time), got Lucy into her carpool with an acceptable offering, drove Avery’s carpool to her school, and then, finally, stopped by home before my second pharmacy attempt to grab my forgotten phone and saw I had five calls and two messages from Tom.
He was worried I’d forget that Avery had to go to school and that when he left for work she’d leave too and Molly and Lucy would be home alone. This is how I usually feel about Tom when it comes to parenting logistics: touched that he is aware and concerned about the kids’ welfare, frustrated that he doesn’t remember that it is our week to drive carpool, so of course Avery won’t be leaving the house until I am home to take her there. And baffled that he didn’t just ask Avery if she knew what was going on. (she did) (I had warned her she might be in charge of her sisters for 5-10 minutes after daddy left and before I got home).
This morning my reaction was, “Oh honey, I got this.” I got this in my asleep. I got this with one hand eaten by a crocodile and the other doing a magic card trick.
Not that I never make mistakes. I’m* right about Molly having croup today, but Avery’s swimmer’s ear turned out to be twelve-year molars (two years early), wax and a $35 urgent care copay, and Molly’s cold six months ago was walking pneumonia.
And it’s not like I would ever want to try it alone. Tom changes a mean diaper, and I’m writing this now because Chrysanthemum is a saint of a friend who took my carpool/playdate shift (and because nursing and typing is more handy than skiing and doing your taxes).
I need a nap and/or an extra Mountain Dew, but when it comes to comfort for croup and mediocre mashed potatoes, I got this.
*Technically Tom is right; he stuck her head in the freezer first.
I swear this is nature not nurture as a) I spend 10 hours reading on my phone for every minute talking on it, and b) it was her idea to start wearing Callie’s shoes.
Sorry about the poor quality. My phone takes great pictures, but I don’t know about the videos. At least it adds to the spontaneity and authenticity claims, right? Like the Marilyn Monroe sex tape.
At Chick-fil-A I just ran into a girl I played clarinet with in the band when I was in ninth grade. She married a boy from my neighborhood and we each thought the other was still living outside Utah, but we’re not, we’re living twenty minutes apart, an hour from our hometown. She has four kids, I have four kids, though hers range in age from five to 8 months, and mine from ten to 14 months. She has three girls and a boy, I’ve got Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy. Our husbands were each working late tonight and in a hundred (or ten, we were only together for an hour) small ways our lives are so similar. She had a little girl coming to the door of the play place conscientiously to see if it was time to go (apparently last time she got in trouble for not being responsive to the call to leave). I had a little girl take a nosedive off the chair and bonk her head on the hard tile floor.
We sat and reminisced, and I explained to one of her daughters that I grew up by her grandma and grandpa. A random young father bringing a kid out of the play place, said, “Wait, your father-in-law is Art B. who teaches French? I teach Spanish three doors down from him.” As we crossed the parking lot it was almost eery as we made our ways to matching minivans. I said to Lucy (perenially my straggler), “Stay right by me.” A couple feet over came the echo, “Stay right be me.”
I feel like it should bother me that we’re so alike, that our lives are so alike. Yes, we played clarinet together twenty years ago (I am freaking old, dude), and we go to the same church and my sister was friends with one of her sisters and my friend Tracey had a crush on her older brother and there’s even a less-salubrious connection that we’ve never discussed (though I could be indignant on behalf of my side), and basically this girl could be me, or I could be her, or something, and shouldn’t that be a bother?
Instead it warms the cockles, tickles the funnies. I don’t want to be special, but I do want be different, I think. Most important, I want to believe I have the life I have, the kids, the husband with the respectable job, the being-a-mom-ness, the consumed-by-childhood-things, out of choice, purposefully, not that my demographics dictated it for me. I am probably wrong about that. And tonight it’s okay.
*Marcy simplified the assembling (and storage) of her tree by just laminating little pictures for each ornament.
I’ve got a mild case of HAD this year — Holiday Affective Disorder, possibly triggered by the marathon month of Halloween (remember the innocent days of a 2-hour Halloween?). I’m tempted to serve chicken nuggets for Thanksgiving and to let my children off the hook for dish chores (for the day) as their “big” Christmas present. There is a Grinch huddled in the left ventricle of my feeble heart.
The other day at dinner I tried to get the fam to tell me what their favorite parts of Christmas are, if they really need stuffing at Thanksgiving, and they were a little vague on the whole thing. Avery wants a punching bag (sounds good for exercise and anger management, right?), Callie wants whatever Avery wants and Lucy wants Barbies (good for grooming, right? Dude, that’s not even funny).
Then Marcy asked me to re-post this thing on the Jesse Tree, and I remembered how much I like it, the symbolism and the stories. It gives meaning and purpose to what otherwise might be a soulless wallowing in evergreen bunting and empty carbs (which I plan to do plenty of). Every night we sing a song, tell a story, read some verses (probably more this year as more kids can read), look at a picture and hang an ornament on our little tree that corresponds to a prophet or episode in the Old, New or Another Testament of Christ or Church history that illuminates the story of Christ’s birth, life and death. And since it replaces our (theoretically) regular scripture study, it’s not just one more thing to do in December.
In the past we’ve let the kids take turns picking an ornament (and therefore a story), but I think this year we’ll have them take turns figuring out which story comes next chronologically, thus making it more adventish-like. There are 25 stories, and, even in my atrophied state, I’m really looking forward to this.
A Mormon Jesse Tree: Witnesses and Types of Christ
2) Creation/The Council in Heaven (world) GAK 600, 100, 201 (Alma 30: 44, Moses 4:1-2) God created the world for us and promised that He would send a Savior for us. I Lived in Heaven #4
3) Noah (rainbow) GAK 103 (Genesis 9:13, 15) God promised he would never again flood the world, and because He kept that promise, people knew to believe His promise about a Savior. Follow the Prophet, #110, verse 3
4) Abraham & Isaac (bundle of cinnamon sticks) GAK 105 (Genesis 22:2, Genesis 22:8, 11-12) Isaac as a type of Christ, Abraham as a loving father willing to sacrifice his much-loved son. Follow the Prophet, #110, verse 4
6) Deborah (scales of justice), picture (Judges 4:4-9) Deborah was a prophetess, judge and warleader. Perhaps as judge and temporal savior of her people she is more a type of the Second Coming of Christ.
Deborah the Prophetess (to Follow the Prophetess)
Deborah the Prophetess judged her people well
As she served the Lord and lived in Israel.
She led them to battle with her friend Barak
They defeated Sisera who never more would mock.
Esther (crown) GAK 125 (Esther 4:14, Esther 7:3) Esther acted as an intercessor for her people, just as Christ is our intercessor.
Esther’s Courage (to Nephi’s Courage)
The Lord commanded Esther to go and wed the king
Haman told Ahaseurus the Jews were rebelling
Esther and Mordecai worked to save their lives
Esther was courageous and she would reply:
10) Jonah (whale) GAB 27 (Jonah 1:12-15, Matt 12:39-41) Jonah is in the great fish for three days, much like Christ is in the tomb for three days. Follow the Prophet, #110, verse 7 (Though I’d like to sing Called to Serve or The Army of Helaman too)
11) The Brother of Jared (stone) GAK 318 (Ether 3:8-15) Because of his faith, Mahonri Moriancumr saw that Christ would have a body like his, and learned that Jesus was “prepared before the foundation of the world.” Faith #96 (But my kids love I know He Lives, which turns out to be a really hard song to find by Clive Romney)
16) Abish (feather) Picture (Alma 19:16-17, 29-31) Abish was the Lamanite woman who hoped that seeing King Lamoni and his household prostrate after the teachings of Ammon would convert her people. She also raised the queen and king from their stupor. Army of Helaman #172
17) Samuel the Lamanite (wall) GAK314 (Helaman 14:1-8) When I was a kid, I loved that the “bad guys” were the “good guys” at this time in history. I maybe still do. Samuel Tells of the Baby Jesus #36
18) Nephi (star) GAK 200 (3 Nephi 1:8-14) My favorite advent story, and where we always begin our reading on Christmas Eve. Christmas Bells (Lucy’s absolute favorite song) #54
19) John the Baptist (sandal) GAK 207 (Matthew 3:2-3, 11-17) John prepared the way, baptized Jesus and restored the Aaronic priesthood. Baptism #100
20) Mary (heart) GAK 241 (Luke 1:28-33, 38) Mary was pure and loving. (Also, probably patient, kind, and willing to play Sorry! all day long). Picture a Christmas #50
22) The Shepherds and the Wise Men (candy cane) GAK 202, 203 (Luke 2:15-16, Matthew 2:9-11) The Shepherds and the Wise Men went to find Jesus as quickly as they could, and worshiped Him. I point out to the kids that we might have been among the heavenly chorus singing of His birth. The Nativity Song #52
24) Mary and Martha (cooking pot) GAK 219, GAB 45 (Luke 10:41-42, John 11:21-27) I love Martha. She was admonished by the Savior to care more about spiritual things, and yet, she is the one who told the Savior He could have saved Lazarus, had He only been there. Families Can Be Together Forever #188
25) Mary Magdalene (spices) GAK 233, GAB 59 (John 20:10-18) Mary was the first person to see the resurrected Lord. He asked her to tell the disciples that He was ascending to His Father. She did. I Know that My Savior Loves Me
26) The Atonement and Resurrection (cross) GAK 227, 239 (Luke 22:41-44, John 11:25) Without the Atonement and Resurrection, Christmas would be meaningless. He Sent His Son #34
28) Joseph Smith (temple) GAK 403 (D&C 76:22-24) Joseph Smith sealed his testimony of Jesus with his blood. The Golden Plates #86
29) Mary Whitmer (milking cow) Fourth Witness movie* (February 1989 Ensign) Mary Whitmer was rewarded for facilitating Joseph and Oliver’s translation of the Book of Mormon by an angel who showed her the plates. My Life is a Gift #164
Girl drama in the neighborhood this evening. Callie walked down the street and found Beatrice* reading a note from Hero* after an unspecified fight. The note called Beatrice “pissy.” Callie (who has previously liked both Beatrice and Hero equally) helped Beatrice write her response and delivered the second note. I heard about it when Hero’s mother (my friend and Sunbeam partner) called to ask if Callie said anything about why Beatrice wrote a mean note to Hero that included, among other epithets, the “b-i-t-c-h” word. Callie is six. (Okay, almost seven. Still. And her mother swears. But not that word!)
I asked Callie to tell me what happened. She didn’t want to. She wouldn’t look at me. We sat on the porch swing in the backyard, and she spoke to her bowl of brown fried rice (fiber! not as tasty as refined rice!).
It took awhile, but I got most of the story: that she hadn’t been told what the fight was about, but she was solidly on Beatrice’s side because Hero was mean to her friend. (Wasn’t Hero her friend too?) She confessed that she’d told Beatrice two really mean words to say to Hero, but she couldn’t tell me what they were. I did the whole “I’m not mad at you I just need to know what happened” routine and still she demurred. “You’re going to be really mad, Mom,” she said. Finally she whispered that she’d suggested the words “stupid” and “brat.”
I asked how she felt, how she thought Hero felt, Beatrice felt.
I’m aghast, of course, at such casual cruelty, but struck again by how quickly children can work their way to remorseful empathy, given only the opportunity.
My soul mate turned 36 last week, so that must mean it’s time for another colonoscopy! Happy birthday, honey!
I signed up Tom for his first colonoscopy at 33 because his maternal grandfather died at age 43 from colon cancer. They found a polyp that was pre-cancerous but advanced enough to warrant a repeat in three years. We are fortunate to have good health insurance, but after paying all four bills (hospital, anesthesia, doctor, and lab) it will probably be about $400 out-of-pocket.
The most striking thing this time around was the nurses’ attitudes before and after the exam. Before, they were a little surprised as to why such a young man had voluntarily gone through the fasting, bowel cleansing, and breezy-hospital-gown wearing. I smiled serenely through their curiosity just as I had cheerfully (and perhaps callously) ignored Tom’s whinging about the entire bottle of laxative he had to drink. I even cooked him a fabulous last meal, complete with home-grown rhubarb crumble 36 hours before the exam.
After the exam the nurses were a little hushed and serious-faced. Tom slowly woke up and was his usual slightly-goofier-than-normal-post-sedative self. He said several times that he’d love to take that drug every night at bed time. (Finally I told him propofol was what killed Michael Jackson and that sobered him up a bit.)
The doctor came in and said they’d found one polyp again, less advanced than last time, but still concerning, and then he said that if Tom hadn’t started coming in this early to get checked out he would’ve been looking at cancer in his forties. When the biopsy comes back they’ll decide whether he needs to come back in three years or five, but he can never, ever, ever (I swear he said it like five times, but probably it was only twice) go longer than the 3-5 years without an exam.
We stopped at In-n-Out Burger (could their fries taste any healthier? yuck) on the way home and then Tom had the rest of the day to nap and contemplate the meaning of life. Mostly he is glad he married me, he says.
“Why were you so adamant about me getting a colonoscopy the first time?” he asks. “Was it because your dad is a doctor?” “How did you know my grandfather died of colon cancer?”
I stare at him, unbelieving. “Your mom told me.”
“But I don’t know that sort of thing about your family” he says.
He does know, of course, or at least he’s heard it all before, from me and my family. We see them often, and we talk about that kind of thing. It’s just that Tom is a Mary and I am a Martha. Maybe lots of couples are like that, with the husband secure in leaving mundane details of daily/household life to the wife. I don’t usually mind; I have a good memory and I like taking care of my people. I like being in charge and responsible. The only problem is when I forget our roles (like forgetting to remind Tom to bring his driver’s license to the hospital — who doesn’t take their wallet with them?) and then we both suffer–me from frustration and him from the force of my wrath.
But back to the mushy stuff. Tom kept asking why it was so important to me that he get tested and I stopped. “Dude, you act like this is some favor I did for you, when really it’s in my best interest to keep you around. I love you.”
(Not to mention the kids. I am not raising them alone.)
“I think I was really meant to marry you,” he says, “because you’re a doctor’s daughter so you know about these things and you trust doctors, so you got me to get a colonscopy and you saved my life.”
I shake my head. You were supposed to marry me because you are my soul mate. The life-saving thing is just a bonus.
This year I didn’t go through my usual cycle of Spring = Daydream of Homeschool; Fall = Boot Them Out Now. We had a great summer that was a little crazy with our basement finishing project, and we’re still sucking the marrow out of the warm days and cool evenings. We’re on a hiking-to-waterfalls kick (Stewart Cascades and Battle Creek Falls recently; next up Grotto Falls and Diamond Fork) and finally eating dinner outside.
Avery is at the same charter school as Callie this year and though she still misses her old school, she likes her (male, laid-back) teacher and there’s even a girl from her fourth grade class. I asked if they were friends last year and Avery said, “Well I know her and I don’t hate her.” Here at the smaller school, away from established friend groups, they have progressed to eating lunch together. Could friendship bracelets be far behind?
Avery tried out for the debate team and though it improved my daily prayer habit (tryouts in fifth grade??) it’s an extracurricular activity I can really endorse. There should be no problem ensuring she gets plenty of practice. She’s also swimming and reading too much and I had to take her bra shopping (for fifth grade??) which reminded me of my own mortality and also how much I hate shopping for intimate apparel.
The only fruit fly in our basil is math. You might remember that we worked through half of a Saxon math book last summer after she got a C in third grade. Not that a C is so terrible (though it is, let’s be honest, I got one my sophomore year at BYU so I know), but her attitude is horrible. This summer I took her to a week-long math camp at UVU, after which I got to hear the words “love” and “math” in the same sentence, though the emphasis may have been on the word “camp.”(Seriously, it was their first year doing it and at $45 for 15 hours of a fun, interactive introduction to everything from game theory to cryptography, i.e. A STEAL, I highly recommend.)
Back in the real world Avery enjoys saying she hates math and watching my heart shrivel. Because a) I love math and b) I refuse to raise girls who hate math. I would rather they pierced their noses and tramp-stamped their lower backs than hate math. (Maybe a temporary tattoo on the left forearm.)
Homework is a nightmare. She dawdles, she doodles, she daydreams. We cajole, I yell, Tom commiserates and wanders into bypaths of How This Will Apply When You’re in Algebra. She tested into the 6/5 math group which is right where she should be, and the math groups themselves are small (11-12 kids) and taught by every adult, including the director, at the school first thing every day.
After school she asks me what 6 times 4 is and I want to take the knife I’m cutting up peaches with for their after-school snack and turn it on myself. (I don’t mean to trivialize the mental illness that leads people to cut themselves, but sometimes I honestly think it would be a relief to pull out my eyelashes one by one rather than remind her that 6 times 4 is 24 and always has been, always will be, till the moon turns red and the stars fall from the sky.)
Some days I sit next to her and get frustrated-er and frustrated-er. Some days I don’t say a word and that seems fine: it’s her homework, she’s old enough to be responsible and take the consequences or reap the rewards, but then it’s 9:30 at night and her head droops limply over the heavy book and I even though I know she’ll perk up long enough to read once she’s in bed I just want her to get some sleep.
So I emailed her teacher and asked if I could come watch the math lesson. It seems crazy to have an hour dedicated to math and then have an hour or two of drawn out, make-you-stabby assignment-doing at home. He talked to her math teacher and this morning I went in. They took a test yesterday and Avery was the fourth person to hand it in and she got a 95. She got 100% on the multiplication fact test (I didn’t check to see if 6 times 4 was one of them; I’m assuming not since the nurse didn’t call to report a case of hives, bubonic plague, and dysentery on Wednesday). Avery is fine in class, Mrs. B. said.
Of course she is.
So what do I do then? Mrs. B. said, “Let’s talk to the director, she’s really good about this kind of thing.” We walked over to the director’s office and when Mrs. B. introduced me it took her just a second to say, “You’re here about math right? Though Avery was the fourth done on the test yesterday.” I explained the whole thing and said I was quite open to suggestions. The director said she’d be happy for Avery to do her homework at the school one afternoon. She can sit in Mrs. B’s room and ask her any questions but basically do it on her own. I’m to come after half an hour and then the four of us will sit down and show her the test scores and look over her homework and tell her that since it’s clear she can do it, from now on it’s her responsibility, that it’s up to her whether she does it and gets the points for it or not.
This is my kind of intervention. After 3:30 pm this afternoon in the Year of our Lord 2011, I will not mention the words “math homework” ever again. Amen.
Esther (crown) GAK 125 (
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