Merry Halloween!

Every October, I begin to seriously think about renting out a room at our pediatrician’s office—better yet, a suite.  For the past 20 years, October has been the month for croup and strep, diarrhea and rashes, and overall maternal mental deterioration.  Just once, I'd like to take a healthy crew out for trick-or-treating.  Instead, I have a pale, whooping cough clan of sickly Thompsons.  This year I think we'll just encase ourselves in yellow caution tape and go as biomedical hazard wrapped mummies.

Mayle started this tradition almost twenty years ago with what became the annual Halloween croup.  I can’t tell you how much of her candy I consumed while giving her steam baths in the middle of the night.  That kid could bark!  In hindsight, I really should have bought her a seal costume.

In Halloweens most recent, I’ve unknowingly dragged a “Thomas the Tank Engine” Kenny around town with a festering case of strep throat.

“But my legs are tired,” he had kept chattering.  Luckily, he could still swallow and had swallowed enough sugar to buzz his way home.  I don’t know what I would have done if I would have had to carry him.

This past weekend, in pre-Halloween tradition, we spent some quality time with our family pediatrician. While attempting to talk to him, Kenny carefully penned an original masterpiece of what looked like an impressive depiction of the male anatomy.  As he shoved it into my shocked face, I quickly scolded him and hastily crammed it into my purse.  Within moments, Stancey was sniggering, and like contagion, I was wiping away tears while swallowing giggles. Fearing I was having a breakdown, the doctor quickly printed out two prescriptions and offered words of encouragement for a more healthful flu season.

But three days later, we were back again. 

Between a fecal blow out on Monday and coughing jag that resulted in a backseat barf fest on Tuesday, Max was the next patient to be seen.  Although not yet sick enough for a prescription, my psychic abilities twitch with the belief we’ll be back again soon.  If he isn’t really sick now, he certainly will be after trick or treat.

This all leads me to wonder about the cost effectiveness of door-to-door begging.  Why bother costuming at all for what inevitably will turn into an assortment of medical maladies?  Why can’t I just take the kids trick or treating down the Walmart candy aisle and let them pick what they want?  At least we won’t end up with a bogus collection of “Ike and Mikes”, circus peanuts, and candy corn.  A few bags of candy must be cheaper than a trip to the doctor’s office, prescription co-pays, and costumes. 

So far we’ve had at least a half a dozen office visits and easily spent a hundred dollars or more on medicines.  Cost wise, this Halloween holiday may end up costing us almost as much as Christmas. 

I'm thinking about tossing a fresh bottle of amoxicillin into their candy buckets before we head out the door on Monday.

Merry Halloween!

[Note to reader:  It was later learned that Kenny’s doctor's office art was really a self-portrait.]

[And no, he wasn't naked.]

A For Effort

What I’ve learned six weeks into this academic school year is that I'm earning about a D minus as a parent.  

I’m nearly failing my children by making them go to school even when they don’t feel well (“But my lips hurt real bad!” said Madison last week channeling Napoleon Dynamite).  I’m nearly failing school administrators because my family bus runs, on average, 65 seconds short of the starting bell.  And I’m completely failing myself because as of yet, I haven’t been able to raise any academic self-starters.    

But don’t take my word for it, this was all confirmed at parent-teacher conferences last week. 

Because I pride myself on being a lifelong learner, I will acknowledge that my terminology is somewhat behind.  Conferences have since been designated as Early Interventions, though I hesitate to fully embrace this new title. Having attended as many of these meetings as I have in my career as mom (x5), I would definitely call them something else.   I could teach seminars entitled “Poopy Parenting 101” or “It’s All Your Fault Your Child is Failing!”

But because two separate teachers called me on two separate days encouraging me to attend, I encouraged myself to push aside any maternal insecurities and suck it up.  And if that meant dragging along two teenagers, a ten-year-old, as well as Max and Kenny for the sake of intervention, then so be it. 

Take a picture—this is my life.

With interim reports and stroller in hands, we began our interventions tackling first the most precarious of academia.

Conference one was a twofer.  I wish I had known that Stancey and Madison shared a class prior to walking in.  As I talked with the teacher, Max and Kenny were content to climb from one desk to another, Madison rocked on his heels in worry, and Stancey observed through the fray of her bangs, quietly detached.  She did, however, interject that the class was “dumb” and “boring” and that she already knew everything.  She must be right because she’s holding a pretty strong D in there.  And Madison, in what was to become the theme of the evening, was a good kid but didn’t complete homework assignments. 

At the close, I affirmed that I would check their daily work.  I would download and print their study guides.  I would orchestrate study groups.  Hell, I would even take their tests if need be.  After ten minutes, and no serious injuries, I considered our first “intervention” a success. 

Unbroken, we moved on to intervention number two.  I thanked the teacher for her concerned phone call as I watched Thing One and Thing Two perform circus acrobatics on the computer lab chairs.

By the third intervention, the motifs of the evening were unobstructed.  Stancey knew everything and Madison did no homework. As I watched Max telletubbie across the dirty vinyl floor, I began to question why I was even there when it was apparent Stancey and Madison obviously felt interventions were not necessary.

Defeated, I walked my wounded soul back to the car, talking to another parent departing from her own intervention. 

Enthusiastically she said, “She’s doing great!  No complaints!  How about yours?”

I didn’t know where to start.  Dare I mention the collective missing assignments, tardiness, and bad attitude? 

“Great!”  I lied, smiling until my cheeks went numb.  “School…is… just… great!”

As I drove home, I gazed in the rearview mirror just as Stancey swiped Kenny’s head.  As he screamed in mock pain, I contemplated my effectiveness as a mom. 

As for the rest of the teachers I never managed to see that night, I followed up the next day with E-mail.  And I was right.  The theme of the evening never wavered.  Ultimately, I can’t make my kids be model students.  I can, however, threaten them.  And even if my grade as a parent is a D minus, I should at least get an A for effort. 

Namaste

Yesterday I played hooky.  After I put Sam and Kenny on the school bus, dropped Stancey and Madison off at the high school and Max off at daycare, I stopped back home to finish getting ready for work. 

But my head ached and all I really wanted was a nap. 

I don’t know where the idea came from but it overtook me as I parked my van in the driveway. 

Why not take some sick time for me?

I meant only to nap and then go into work.  But after a strong cup of coffee, my migraine suddenly dissipated.  I sat back and listened to the quiet and I thought.

When was the last time I had been alone in my house for more than 20 minutes? 

Five years ago?  A decade?

After making that realization, there was no way I could go back into work.  I needed this day. 

For two hours, I spoke to no one—not the dog, not the cat, not the phone.  I watched the Today Show, peeled apples, and contemplated life as a monk.


But also I felt guilty.  What kind of mother drops her toddler off at daycare and goes back home to do nothing? 

In my defense, I was drinking coffee and not a good cabernet.  So maybe I’m not such a bad mother after all.

For six glorious hours, I did laundry, made apples sauce, and cleaned my bedroom…all without watching any children.  I even attempted to throw in a Yoga session at the end of my day.  But as I reclined into corpse pose, I stopped.  With warrior-like stamina, I maintained that pose for 20 solid minutes.  It was blissful.

The only defect in my six hours of solitude was the one recoiling thought of what my life will become once all the children are gone.  They’ll be no more excuses for dreams unfulfilled because my beautiful distractions will be gone. 

You see, I’ve been a mother for nearly half my life.

And I’ve forgotten what it’s like to just be me. 

Short of making a new Thompson, I think I’m going to need a few more years and a couple more hooky days to figure this out. 

Namaste.