Tawdry quirk curators
// March 11th, 2010 // 3 Comments » // flickr, school
What do you do if you are the smallest second grader in the school? You lean left and right to be seen. You stand on tiptoes. You grin, make silly faces and wave at the audience. You mouthe the words when someone else is speaking. You make big, exaggerated movements with your arms and face. Most of all, you never miss a chance to sing directly into the microphone. Amy may not stand tall, but she carries a big attitude.
// December 24th, 2009 // No Comments » // holidays, kid quotes, music
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, “a sister who loves me.”
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, “two Germend Sheperds.”
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, “three loving brothers.”
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, “Evan who is 4.”
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, “five pets to feed.”
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, “six teddy bears.”
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, “me who is 7 years old.”
“I only did seven ’cause I’m just seven.”
// December 24th, 2009 // No Comments » // holidays, parenting
Amy spent the entire morning drawing pictures and writing love notes to the shelf elf. “He’s going to take them all back to the North Pole tonight.” I suggested that the elf had plenty and perhaps she should do art for other people. “I’m going to make enough pictures for the shelf elf to take back and give ALL the elves!”
// December 22nd, 2009 // No Comments » // kid quotes, parenting, play
Evan played happily with his Legos while Amy sat beside him, brooding.
“Evan? You know that box that was my fort all day yesterday? The box that was soooo much fun and I loved it and I colored it and I kept my pillow in it and it was the best box ever?”
“Yeah.”
“Daddy threw it away and now we don’t have ANY boxes.”
“Okay.”
“Now we have NOTHING to play with for our Christmas vacation.”
// December 16th, 2009 // 2 Comments » // life, parenting
Last week, when I assaulted the eardrums of everyone in the vicinity of Children’s Hospital with my plastic tree’s metal stand dragging the roof of the parking garage, it turned out to be the highlight of that day. Our destination was the children’s eye doctor who has taken care of my family since Tommy was small. The appointment started out on time. I always sing a little happy song inside when this doctor is on time, because it means there are no eye emergencies at the hospital. Amy was less pleased, because the appointment started with eye drops that burned.
After an assortment of machines and tests, the doctor explained the results to me. He cheerily explained that Amy’s astigmatism and near-sightedness almost cancel each other out so that her vision is not that bad. Then he demonstrated that his real concern was her weak eye muscles. I verbalized lazy pirate therapy, but he said exercises wouldn’t help and surgery was not needed. The plan was to let her wear the glasses for schoolwork and check on the eyes again in a few months. I was too busy processing his casual attitude and her diagnosis to come up with any questions.
The next stop was the attached glasses shop. There were dozens of frames that Amy loved and the employee happily said that anything in the shop would work for Amy. It wasn’t until we were ready to place our order that we found out they didn’t accept Amy’s blah insurance. I left with a visibly disappointed Amy to find a shop that would work with us.
We found a place and they assured us they carried children’s frames. Amy dashed around the store looking at frames while I handed the clerk Amy’s script. “Oh, wow! This script is horrible!” My brain clicked to a different channel and I tried to sync the everything is groovy attitude at one place with the gloomy attitude at this place. Did the doctor who I love, sugar coat reality? Why didn’t he tell me a year ago that her muscles were weak? Why did he say she didn’t need her glasses all the time if they are so bad?
I was dragged back into the moment by the clerk who handed us three frames and said they were our only choices. Say what? Amy looked stunned. The choices were a dark blue metal frame, a plastic crayon purple frame and a teeny plastic peach frame that looked like they were sized for an infant. Amy just stared blankly at the three choices. I said the metal frame looked okay because it was the least awful pair. “You don’t want those. Children shouldn’t have metal frames.” I went back and forth with the clerk who unwaveringly insisted that we weren’t ordering the blue frames. I said fine and told her we’d take the purple pair. She started trying to convince me that we wanted the peach frames that were smaller than Amy’s eyes. I lowered my voice and looked at her through my bangs. “We’re getting the purple pair.” Measurements were taken and we were told to wait a week. Amy left there looking like her heart had been stomped. I had to go home and hide to cry.
Now, I know I shouldn’t complain about the style of glasses when there are children who do without any despite their needs. It’s just easier to complain about being forced to put u-g-l-y frames that look like they were a prize in a happy meal on my sweet child than it is to describe the fear and helplessness at the diagnosis. That and the clerk at a glasses store who took every single bit of fun out of a very difficult situation for a bubbly little girl. I’m sorry for Amy, but not enough to give her a puppy for Christmas.
// November 27th, 2009 // 2 Comments » // preschoolers, sleep
Besides the ridiculous habit of someone having to sit beside Evan until he falls asleep every night, both Evan and his sister demand a cup of water at their bedside. I’m sure it’s because I allowed them to nurse themselves to sleep or something else I did wrong, but as with many things, this is not a battle I want to fight right now. Lately, the cup of water has evolved into something of a drink order.
Evan: “I need a cup of water with THREE ice cubes.”
Amy: “I need a cup of water with ONE ice cube.”
When you tiptoe back in their dark room and put the cup of water beside the bed, a tiny hand immediately grabs it. shake, shake, shake
“That feels right. Thanks.”
If you wait too long and the ice melts . . . it gets sent back to the chef.
// November 25th, 2009 // 2 Comments » // kid quotes
Amy: “I got an E+ on my book of school safety rules.”
Me: “That’s wonderful. What were the rules?”
Amy: “Umm, I can only remember one.”
Me: “What is it?”
Amy: “Never punch people in the face.”
// November 6th, 2009 // 2 Comments » // health, parenting
Wednesday, Amy had to visit the dentist for a small filling on one tooth and sealant on a molar. My job during this adventure was to be reassuring and stay out of the way. Amy hopped in the dental chair and they leaned the chair back to work on her mouth. The assistant pulled Amy’s shoulders and slid her until Amy’s tiny head rested squarely on the head cushion. This parked her bottom on the area of the chair designed to be a back rest and her legs magically floated over the fold in the chair where booties belong. An orange mask was gently draped over Amy’s nose and two assistants busily applying a sealant nearly blocked my view. I sat in my chair against the wall and watched what I could see, Amy’s feet.
Amy’s feet looked completely relaxed during the sealant procedure. Then, the dentist switched places with one of the assistants and I watched him pick up a metal syringe. Amy’s feet turned in and one went on top of the other. As quickly as Amy’s feet and my entire body tensed, it was done. Her feet relaxed. I sat in my chair on the wall and tried to look like I didn’t feel sick about what was happening. I closed my eyes for a count of ten and then I resumed my feet watching duties. I stared and the feet remained still.
The feet started tapping, like a little tune was playing in Amy’s head. I tried to decide if she was playing or restless. Then, her toes pointed straight down and I tried to make a motion that would get the assistant’s attention without distracting the dentist. When Amy’s hands grabbed her crotch, I made an announcement. “We need to go potty.” The dentist said he was finished and quietly asked Amy if she could wait a few minutes before she tried to sit up. Amy nodded. I began mentally abusing myself for saying “we” instead of “she” while wondering how long Amy could hold it.
The dentist left, the gas was switched to oxygen and I scooted in close to Amy’s face. “I need you to take big, deep breaths so you can get your land legs back.” Amy stared at me as she took exaggerated breaths. The assistant popped the mask off and I helped a very wobbly Amy to the bathroom. Amy did her thing and I lifted her up to the sink to wash her hands. Immediately, I felt the moisture seeping from the seat of Amy’s pants to the leg of my jeans where Amy sat to wash her hands. A few questions determined that by the time Amy grabbed her crotch in the chair, it was too late to make it to the bathroom. We left the office and made it to the car as quickly as possible.
The tears began almost immediately. Giant, Keane painting eyes silently dripped a steady stream of tears. I tried to convince Amy that the medications just made her too relaxed to hold it, but my words didn’t help. I knew that if we could get home and out of the soggy clothes, she could get past this. I just didn’t know how we were going to make it home. “Amy, if you don’t stop crying, I’m going to pee in my pants so you won’t feel alone.” “What?” “I’m going to pee in my pants. Right now. I’m going to do it. Hold on, I need to concentrate to do it.” Quiet giggles replaced the sniffles and sobs. “It’s too hard to pee while I’m driving. Should I pull over up here and pee in my pants?” “Moooommy. You’re silly.” I’m happy to report that I made it home with dry pants. However, Doug will be the foot watcher on the next visit to the dentist.
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