3+ years, sometimes driving up to an hour from his Montessori school.

2 sets of uniforms. 12 tournaments. 8 color belts. 5 color headbands.

Hours of practice, and telling him to practice.

Then: 3 forms without weapons, a form with a weapon, 2 sparring matches. Break a board with a punch. Break a board with a kick.

Wait.

Finally, the man says - "and to the rank of decided black belt..."

And the tears start.

(That's Bear. Behind him is the board he'd broken with a punch. Just about to kick the board on the left and then swing his arms over his head when he realized he'd done it. Just before the entire TKD school exploded in cheers and hugs.)

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:50 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 125 words, total size 1 kb.

"Racism isn't born, folks, it's taught. I have a two-year-old son. You know what he hates? Naps! End of list."

- Denis Leary

"We are the rainbow people of God! We are unstoppable! Nobody can stop us on our march to victory! No one, no guns, nothing! Nothing will stop us, for we are moving to freedom! We are moving to freedom and nobody can stop us! For God is on our side!"

- The Most Rev. Desmond Tutu

Every year, I sit down with Bear and listen to the "I Have a Dream" speech by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. This afternoon, as we watched it together, I couldn't help but start crying. Especially at the part when he said "...I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

"Isn't it exciting that Mr. Obama is being sworn is as President tomorrow?" I asked my son, sniffling, after the speech was over.

He didn't answer for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Mr. Obama has a good idea how to fix things. And that's why he was elected, right?"

"Right," I answered, even though my 8 year old was being rhetorical.

"I think Dr. King wanted for people to elect the good people for the jobs, no matter what they looked like. Sometimes, people ask me where I come from because I have orange hair and you and daddy don't. But I don't want you to have orange hair. I like your hair the way it is," my son informed me. "I don't want Mr. Obama to have orange hair, either. I want him to do good things for America. I think that was what Dr. King was saying."

"Oh," and maybe I was crying again.

"It's OK, Mommy," Bear patted my shoulder, after a while. "I get it."

"Yeah, Bear," I agreed. "I think you do."

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:42 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 340 words, total size 2 kb.

Just before he turned 8, Bear started contact sparring in tournaments.

Martial Arts is all new to me - it's only through Bear's interest that I'm learning about it. And I just don't think I can explain what it was like that first time to watch some big massive Frankenchild come at my son with the intent to punch the living crap out of him.

CD grabbed my hand, I'm pretty sure to hold me back from ripping off the other kid's head and drop kicking it.

Has it gotten any better since? Oh, hell, No. more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:05 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 636 words, total size 3 kb.

It's hard having a 7 year old smarter than me....

Driving home from camp.

Me: Hey there's a police officer on one of those things!

Him: One of those things?

Me: You know, 2 wheels and a stick?

Him: You mean a Segway, Mommy?

Me: Yeah. Thanks, kid. (Reach back my hand for a high-5, get a knuckle bump instead.)

Posted by: Elizabeth at 01:34 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 66 words, total size 1 kb.

Someone asked me if I am always so optimistic.

I decided the next time I started feeling hopeless, I would say so.

Except, I hate sounding whiny.

Well, screw it.

Welcome to this morning.

So far? It's not-optimistic day.

(Me and Bear, when he was 2)

I was looking at all these pictures over the years. The uncountable amount of times my hands have been leash, safety, comfort, steady as his mom.

Isn't it strange what we take for granted?

In about 20 minutes, Bear and I leave for my EMG appointment.

I don't like needles.

That aside, it's my second one of these so we're not exactly hurtling into the unknown. He's packing up his workbooks, and Leapster, and video iPod.

("Can you download me some new Scooby Doo episodes?" "No." "But...WHY?!" "Because I'm not paying 4 bucks for 22 minutes of 30-year-old cartoons." "Huh? Aren't they NEW?" "No, they were from my childhood." "Wow, that IS old!")

If you had told me a few years ago that there would come a time that I would hang up the corporate power suits, the modulated 'I'm in Charge' voice, and the dozens of Excel spreadsheets to be homeschooling my son in doctor's waiting rooms... I would have spurt latte out my nose.

Trade financial security for minimum payments and mounting medical debt? Are you HIGH?!?!

Heh.

It was a fanciful daydream, that featured cartoon bluebirds and sunbeams and laughter and not a dozen needles and remedial phonics.

Would I go back and do it differently?

On a day like today, I don't spend too long thinking about that.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

UPDATE

Well, we're back. Bear was an angel - he winced a bit when the needles went in me but otherwise remained calm and quiet and wrapped up in his Leapster.

The good news? Other than some borderline carpal tunnel, I have no (permanent) damage from the Raynaud's/Lupus.

Which isn't to say what hurts doesn't hurt when it hurts - 'cuz, yeah. It does.

BUT once the flare eases, my arms and hands are find and dandy thank you.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

Hate to say, but its true. I'm all glowing and optimistic again.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:53 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 369 words, total size 2 kb.

Bear: How can your recognize a werewolf when he's not in his wolf form, Daddy?

CD: Hmmmm, that's a good question. Maybe it's like that scene from Barnyard. When they throw the ball, and the dog can't help himself and has to chase it. If you think someone is a werewolf, then you throw a ball and if they gotta chase it then...

Bear: Naw.

CD: No?

Bear: Wolf, not Dog, Daddy.

CD: Ah.

Bear: Now, if you throw a HUMAN and he's gotta chase it....

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:31 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 88 words, total size 1 kb.

One day you're jumping killer waves at Old Orchard beach in Maine....

Then, a few days later, you're at your first day of "Homeschool School".

Lucky for me, most of my neighbors homeschool.

It's a movement, a trend, a fad. And I don't know what it means for this generation of schoolkids - but for me, right now, it is fantastic. Because it means that I have lots of mentors and programs to pull from for help.

One of them is a once-a-week enrichment program that gives Bear a day 'at school' to have Gym, Art, Science Experiments, even Drama Club with a bunch of other homeschool kids.

He gets all the stuff I can't give him - like social interaction with his peer group - in a way that supplements what we're already doing at home.

Bear told me last week, sandy from the beach and mulish, that he didn't want it. Would hate it. That I couldn't MAKE him go.

Then, as I dragged him away from the huddle of other 1st and 2nd grade boys after the day was done, he said 'Mom! You never told me that it was a Homeschool School!'

'Oh, does that make a difference?' I asked.

'Yeah!! This is great!'

And, for the first time in 2 years, I relaxed about Bear's education.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 10:19 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 225 words, total size 1 kb.

Every year, on the anniversary of the day he was born, we pull Bear into bed with us and tell him his birth story.

This morning, he woke US up. Too excited to be 7. Too excited to start his day.

"Tell me!" he insisted, diving under the covers betweens us.

"Tell you.... what?" I teased.

"About the day I was born!" Bear exploded, laughing and squirming.

Maybe we started the tradition because Bear had been a high-risk pregnancy. I am what they so tactfully used to call a 'habitual aborter'. They don't know why - whether it's my Lupus or my blue-green eyes.

But either way, it started on January 12, 2000.

"You took a test?" he prompts.

"I took a pregnancy test," I agree.

What I don't say is that I'd had my period the week before, so it was an insane thing for me to pee on a stick. But I'd had a very vibrant dream and I just felt.. I should.

"It was positive!" he grins. "That was me!"

Back then, we were excited but also confused and afraid all at once. I called a friend on the way to work - a woman who'd had two 'miracle babies'.

"I don't know what to do," I cried in bumper to bumper traffic.

"Get yourself to the doctor. Now," she insisted.

A few hours later, CD and I stood and shook after my exam waiting for the doctor to tell us the news.

He handed us some pamphlets about miscarriage and said that it didn't look good. I was spotting heavily and he sighed a lot as he spoke.

He scheduled an ultrasound, and made us promise not to get our hopes up.

We lied.

We went home and sat together on the couch.

We waited.

"On January 14, 2000, we heard the most beautiful noise you can imagine."

"Thudda-thudda-thudda-thwudda..." CD rumbles.

"Me!" Bear cheers.

We nod in the dim of the morning. Then 226 days of bedrest later (plus 10 days of great health sometime in May).

"You and Daddy went on a trip to California and I swam in your tummy in you and you were in a pool on a roof of a hotel..." Bear fills in.

"The Intercontinental," CD agrees. "My work flew us all out because I said I couldn't leave mommy."

"Or me," Bear reminds him, seriously.

"And then, on September 6, 2000, after a day of laboring and trying to get you born, the doctors told Daddy and me that you couldn't wait anymore.

"So at 3 PM, we went into a special room and 52 minutes later they took you out of my tummy by your feet.

"You stretched out into the world.You reached out and grabbed the doctor around the neck. She had your handprint there for hours."

(Yes sweetie, you slapped the doctor...)

"Your dad cut your cord. There was extra blood in there that is very special and the doctors took that to help others."

(From the very start, your birth blessed so many...)

"After they wrapped you up, your daddy got you and held us all close together. We all finally got to meet the baby with the powerful heart."

(You had dark blue eyes and big cheeks...)

"The nurses and doctors wanted to take you to the nursery but they just had to wait until I was stable before your dad consented to leave my side."

(No, Bear, he was never going to leave yours.)

"Hours later, when I woke up in Recovery, your dad brought you to me again."

(...and then we were a family.)

"On the day you were born, it was warm. The sky was blue with puffy white clouds. A doctor walked with your tiny handprint on her neck. The Cubs were winning in extra innings. Jane Addams would have been 140 years old...

"And a miracle happened."

Was I the miracle?

Yes, Bear. You were. And you still are.

Down Memory lane....
2004
2005
2006

Posted by: Elizabeth at 02:48 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
Post contains 692 words, total size 4 kb.

1 *sniffle*

Posted by: serena at September 06, 2007 03:51 AM (z5KLn)

2 I just got chills. What a beautiful story...made all the better by the fact you get to share it with him every year and he seems to love to hear it. What a blessing.

Posted by: sue at September 06, 2007 04:49 AM (WbfZD)

3 That story gets better every year. Especially now that Bear can tell parts of it himself!

Posted by: caltechgirl at September 06, 2007 07:34 AM (/vgMZ)

4 Welcome to 7, Bear! I love your tradition and I love that Bear looks forward to it so much.

Posted by: Michele at September 06, 2007 02:09 PM (h1vml)

5 You just made me all teary, not to mention making me relive everything will Eli all over again. Happy birthday, Bear!

Posted by: Cheryl at September 06, 2007 02:15 PM (c80XJ)

6 YAY!! Happy birthday, Bear!!!!

Posted by: rp at September 07, 2007 12:51 AM (op1yW)

7 What a beautiful story! I, too, have two miracle babies. After all of the pain, the births of our miracles were even sweeter. What a sweet way to mark your son's birthday every year.

Posted by: formerteacher at September 09, 2007 09:23 AM (XQLJL)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

I believe the light that shines on you | Will shine on you forever | And though I can't guarantee | There's nothing scary hiding under your bed | IÂ’m gonna stand guard | Like a postcard of a Golden Retriever | And never leave till I leave you | With a sweet dream in your head
- Paul Simon

I'm a little hard of hearing.

It doesn't matter.

In college, I had a routine hearing screening with equipment more sophisticated, I guess, than what I'd grown up with. That's when I found out that I have hearing loss in both ear - much worse in the right.

It doesn't matter.

Except in little ways. Little inconveniences & personality tics. Like I have to use a phone on my left ear, can't switch when it gets all hot and sweaty. Probably done it my whole life, didn't even realize it until I was 21. Then it made sense.

And if you're deaf? You can usually spot me. I don't why. But dozens of hard of hearing and deaf people have approached me over the years.

One obvious manifestation - I'm slower to wake up to sound than CD. In the parent possum game? I was all-time winner. That man did - conservatively - 80% of the night-time diapers.

A few years ago, we shared our life with a Chow-German Shepherd-Mastiff mix named Ragnar. At least until he grew so big that they assigned him his zip code and reclassified him as 'big honkin unknown furry beast'.

He went to live in the horse country that is Barrington, with people who had much wider hallways.

He was CD's dog. Sure Bear and I were 'in the pack' - but CD was shazizzle in Ragnar's eyes.

Now Sara has come into our lives and I guess part of me was expecting 'Ragnar 2'.

I was wrong.

Since we emptied the kitchen for the reno, we had to push everything else everywhere else. Her condo-sized crate needed a new home and the only available real estate was Bear's room (under the window).

Since we moved her in there, she has become smitten with Bear to the point of been a celebrity stalker.

The boy has been known to have to go poop with her paws reaching for him under the bathroom door.

She loves me, she loves CD, she licks the cat unmercifully (which we worry may be confusion that Maggie is somehow a walking appetizer)... but she would, even at only 3 months old and 26 pounds, without a doubt die for my son.

I didn't anticipate this.

I have no idea when she is sleeping.

As I wonder around at night waiting for my insomnia to subside, each time I near my son's room to watch him sleep - there she is.

Keeping watch.

With a fascination that I thought only CD and I had for him.

He sleeps in the heat, partially covered in one of his dad's old t-shirts. Snoring and peaceful.

There she is, chin on paws. Listening to him breathe.

I lean against her crate, in the soft glow of his night light. "He's out cold," I tell her. Laughing at his frog-legged sprawl. "You should sleep, too."

And Sara gives my fingers a lick and then settles back down, 'hrf' she says softly.

That's when I realize that even though I sometimes worry that I won't hear him in the night - she will.

Without a doubt.

Somehow, that revelation comforts me. I slip Sara a treat and pad out of the room.

I can sleep.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 05:33 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
Post contains 622 words, total size 3 kb.

1 What a good dog.

Posted by: Ruth at June 10, 2007 11:23 PM (1pGHA)

2 And a good friend. Good girl Sara.

Posted by: caltechgirl at June 11, 2007 05:44 AM (qPLLC)

3 How do they know? When I brought Victor home from the hospital, I figured the dogs would behave themselves; they're well-mannered dogs. What I didn't count on was the protectiveness. Sarah has taken to her job exceptionally well. What a great dog!

Posted by: laura at June 11, 2007 04:33 PM (Tqoj6)

4 Such a wonderful story! It's going to be great watching as Bear and Sara grow up together. I have a feeling they will be great friends for years and years to come.

Posted by: Michele at June 13, 2007 04:07 AM (fcaMV)

5 Very sweet. I recently lost my unconditional love giver and best friend of 15 1/2 years, to cancer ... How is it that dogs are so special?

Posted by: Monica C. at June 13, 2007 12:25 PM (FMnfx)

6 Great story!

Posted by: Janie at June 14, 2007 01:26 PM (4xkks)

7 My otosclerosis was detected (to my great surprise) when I was 21. My right ear was also much worse (hard to believe now that I can barely hear out of my left ear), which is why they chose that side for the initial stapedectomy. I'll have the left ear done sometime this year, probably. The sweaty ear phone thing really sucks and it's so annoying to only catch bits and pieces of conversations. All and all, it can be a real drag. Thank goodness for Sara making your life a little easier and more restful! I think every child should have a furry little watch guard/friend.

Posted by: JessicaC at June 15, 2007 03:35 AM (giybx)

8 Another beautifully written piece. Thankyou so much for sharing. xxx

Posted by: Fl at June 15, 2007 10:38 AM (puvdD)

9 I agree -- that was a BEAUTIFUL post! I'm not even a dog person, and that touched my heart!!! oh, and that paws under the door of the bathroom thing? My KID does that to me when I'M in the bathroom. Only it's his hands or toes.

Posted by: Jen_Jake'smom at June 20, 2007 05:42 AM (2/T1v)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

Bear started T-Ball this week.

They did a mock game, with Bear at shortstop.

Batter up, hit a line drive.

Bear dove down on the dirt and triumphantly grabbed the ball. Then turned his attention to finding a runner.

Looked left.

No runners.

Looked right.

No runners.

Looked straight ahead.

Coach gestured wildly for him to throw it home.

Shook her off.

Dodged his teammates, who were trying to steal the ball from him.

Spied a target.

Ran full steam.

We screamed 'no!' from the sidelines....

Too late.

Bear tagged out the third baseman with a full frontal tackle.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:55 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 105 words, total size 1 kb.

1 Too funy!!

Posted by: momtowahid at April 06, 2007 04:48 AM (pQgL8)

2 HILARIOUS!

Posted by: Monica C. at April 06, 2007 08:48 AM (PaLQU)

3 Wow. That brings back memories from 21 years ago!

Posted by: Janie at April 07, 2007 01:23 AM (EKMxC)

4 YAAAH! I love watching clueless little boys play vigorus ball!

Posted by: rootietoot at April 07, 2007 04:08 AM (8HFof)

5 I love watching kid's play organized sports! It's too cute. What I love even more is watching the crazy parents who think they're 5 year old is going pro & take it entirely too seriously. They take away all the fun of being 5.

Posted by: FENICLE at April 08, 2007 12:44 PM (/ul+F)

6 OMG, that's AWESOME. I remember being 4 and in t-ball and had NO idea what was going on. there were runners ahead of me on the bases, but once I hit the ball, I ran all around the bases, passing up the other runners. yeah, good stuff. jen

Posted by: Jen_Jakesmom at April 10, 2007 01:48 AM (2/T1v)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

Here's the thing.

No.

Wait.

It's not that.

What I mean to say is that I realized that getting serious about the already serious was what was...

No, that's not it, either.

See, now, I've got myself confused.

Worst kept secret in the world? I withdraw in a crisis. Sink inside my little bluebell mind and blink slowly. Processing. Processing.

Sure, it looks like I'm all cool and Lauren Bacall.

Waitl. I mean, when I'm nervous I get chatty. Have you seen me nervous? It's like a string gets pulled between my shoulder blades.

But that's nervous.

That's not a crisis. That's not looking down at blood pouring out of a wound.

Once we get to blood, well, that's when I start to look sauve.

Except, it's not real.

I realized this about myself once upon a time at a Lesbian bar in Ravenswood.

I don't know how many years ago.

But there was this other group of women. And one of them knew my friend's girlfriend. They had dated at some point and it had ended badly. So there was my friend and her girlfriend and this other woman and people all shouting and throwing issues and unresolved relationships at each other like arrows and the bouncer (yes, there was a bouncer) was all posturing by the door and issuing warnings.

Then someone raced to the bathroom and then someone else started crying over by the jukebox.

I sat on my stool and drank my G&T and when Nina the bartender asked me if I knew what was going on, I said 'Hell, no," ordered another round.

Then somewhere there was a slap.

So the next thing you knew, we were kicked out and piled up in the hatchback driving back home and everyone was all talking at once and, finally, about 5 blocks from the bar, Lyn pulls the car over with a squeal and shouts "OK, I need to process."

But me? I was already deep inside my mind. I was halfway through processed, curled up in a mental ball, sorting it out. And Lyn looks at me, crowded up in the backseat with our friends, and said something like "You kept your cool."

And I said something like "Nah, I barely know what happend. I like to grab a head start on processing a situation. In fact I start processing so early I usually miss everything that happens after the start." Which means, see, that I seem all deadpan but really I'm just clueless and mentally constipated. Plus? Dealing with stuff seems to take me twice as long.

Ask CD. Everyone once in a while, he'll be like "What's wrong?" And I'll be like "You jacked up the credit card for a LEGO ROBOT THING??" And he'll be all, "Hon, that was 3 YEARS AGO!" But me? I just got it processed to the point where I can actually be in touch with being angry.

When I get quiet, it's usually because I'm tucked up inside the gooshy part of my mind. Dealing with something.

The "something" recently is Children's Memorial Hospital. And the doctor's office and the neurologist's office and the pharmacy.

I just have a hard time talking about what's happening while it's happening especially if it's the kind of happening that scares the ever-living crap out of me. I got to quiet down and let my mind process like a cracked-up gerbil in a wheel until I can breath like a human again.

18 months ago, Bear got sick and spiked a fever. It kept topping out around 104 (f). There was hives and vomiting and shaking. And it didn't go away.

The first couple of days, doctors said it could have been one thing. The next couple of days, well, doctors said maybe something else.

10 days. 10 days of extremely high fever, Emergency Leave from work, visits in and out of the clinic and the hospital, and even my mother flying out.

And then, some combination of drugs seemed to finally work. He got better.

No known cause. No explanation. At first, I couldn't care less. I was as giddy as a Muppet, singing with a Gibb brother on a rainbow of satin.

But then... it came back. Like that dammed cat in that song.

And faded.

18 very long months.

The consensus has been that it is an allergy. But he has tested no severe allergies to any of the common triggers.

He spikes a fever, sometimes a little rash, congestion. Then, a day or so later, fine again. Right now, he has severe sinusitis because it's been too much.

We know that because last week, they strapped him down with velcro and slid him back and forth through a Stargate machine. Much less frightening than the torpedo tubes, you know.

Two days in and out at Children's Memorial Hospital. Where helicopters land in loud thwup-thwups bringing sicker kids in for treatment. Where they give you those restaurant-style flashing beepers when you sign in so you can know when they're ready to see you. Where there's a McDonald's in the basement and $10 Mad Lib books in the bookstore.

As Hospitals go, it rocks. As childhoods go, Hospitals suck.

Bear? Is still sick. In fact, being sick is something that has become part of the weft and weave of our life. He's healthy maybe half his days. The rest of the time it is a swinging 40's dance of 'how healthy - how sick'.

And I hate it. I hate it so much that there are moments, away from him, that I gag and try not to throw up all that anger and fear and frustration that is rotting away inside of me.

But I don't know how to talk about it. My brain is still processing. Processing....

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:52 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
Post contains 972 words, total size 5 kb.

Since Bear is both-handed, he's developed task-hand-specific stuff.

He writes lefty. He uses a computer mouse righty. His t-ball coach did this thing with his eye-hand coordination and said Bear is strong in the right eye, so Bear should try batting/throwing righty - which, as it turns out, has Bear delighted with his power and accuracy. Coach says Bear will probably develop into a switch-hitter later.

For every new activity, we have to trial-and-error what hand (or foot) will be primary long before we can even open the manual and start doing whatever it is we're doing. Bear likes to try both sides, think about it, and make a choice. And if you attempt to push him along, you get a quick lesson in stubborness.

Me? I step back. And, you know, make soup.

His stubborness is an old friend by now. And I have learned to appreciate it. That he is reading and writing at age-appropriate levels is a frigging monument to his stubborness, and the hours upon hours we have spent at the dining room table doing countless maze books and woorkbooks and tactile fine-motor-building activities - like Lego's.

So we homeschool in the morning. And then he goes to afternoon kindergarten. And I'm room mother. And I'm on the PTA. And I just hang out, a whole shitload of time.

I've noticed that his teacher, who may be a very nice person outside the classroom, doesn't seem to want to actually be IN the classroom.

She gets frustrated very easily, and snaps at the kids - even in front of me. 4 years in Montessori, and I don't think I heard any of Bear's teachers raise their voice at the kids once. She does it most days. You can hear it through the door.

Does that upset me?

Does it show?

Look, I love teachers. My first real job was as a teacher, and it's a tough gig. But that's not a blank check.

Bear's teacher isn't engaged. The school isn't engaged. And that's reflected in the fights that break out at the drop of a hat. The test scores. The attitude that pervades.

When I suggested we move to healthier cookies and bottled water for the class parties - I got PTA Boss telling me that I have to provide juice boxes and cupcakes because non-sugary alternatives 'won't seem like a real party' for the kids.

But what just sent me over the edge was when Bear came home with that little red bruise for a SECOND time.

He was standing in line, a melee broke out, and he got caught in the fallout. I looked at the red smudge and I was ready to blow like a tube of croissant batter in a hot car. Well, actually, I did blow.

So I called the principal.

Three times.

Finally I left a message that if she didn't return my call immediately, I was going to call the police and the Board of Education.

She called me back in about 20 minutes after that message. Told me that this school had a student body that was 80% elgible for aid. And that I was more used to the atmosphere at Happy Montessori, where the 'socio-econmic makeup is more affluent'.

She told me that children from lower-economic strata tend to use violence as the answer, even in Kindergarten.

Basically? She was telling me that POOR PEOPLE ARE VIOLENT.

Holy frigging crap.

THEN she said that my son should "stop complaining to his mommy about it and tell the teacher when it happens".

What the....?

He had a BRUISE. That I could SEE. And she thought she should equate that to getting the smaller portion of fingerpaint?

I mean, we tell our children to complain to an adult they trust. If he doesn't trust his teacher to give a shit then that is her failure, not my son's. (Especially when the teacher has given these kids all kind of anti-tattling lectures).

But more importantly, my son shouldn't be BRUISED. Is this a difficult concept? No blaming poverty. No complaining about WHO is reporting it. Deal with the actual problem, lady!

She asked what I wanted out of the situation, and I said I wanted a non-violence policy with zero-tolerance that was enacted and enforced. I said, maybe if these kids had higher expectations, they would rise to them.

The Principal informed me that I clearly didn't understand poor people.

I was so furious when we hung up that my next step was the Board of Ed. But when they returned my call, they told me that the prinicpal of Bear's school had announced the next day a new program of community partnership to end violence and bullying in the school.

I said I'd like to volunteer.

No on has gotten back to me.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:13 PM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
Post contains 816 words, total size 5 kb.

Bear misses being around other kids. So I signed him up for a couple of days at a Snowflake Camp through the park district to help fill in over the long Christmas break from school.

After I did that, I found out some of his friends would be visiting Chicago. But still, this morning, I dressed him up and took him over to the rec building.

Egads.

It was a sad little group of 6 boys - half around 10 years old and half around 6 years old (Bear's age). The big boys were hucking a basketball at each other with no discernible rules except to throw as hard as they could. The younger boys were making bracelets with lanyards.

Bear went and investigated a corner of the room.

"Look," I told him, after forcing the counselors to introduce themselves, "you don't have to stay. This was supposed to be fun."

"I know," he answered, looking around. "But it's OK. You can go. Just come back after lunch, OK?"

I found a chair and watched for another 15 minutes. Nothing much improved.

"Bear?" I called him over from looking out the window at the windy, empty playground. "You sure? I can just sit out in the hall and read my book, if you want more time to make up your mind."

"I'm fine," he insisted. "It's good for a little while."

I don't want to be one of those mothers. The ones that hover long after their kids have pushed away for some independance.

But, man, it was so hard to put the van in gear and drive away.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:27 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 279 words, total size 1 kb.

My son is not circumsized.

My beloved grandmother told me this story when we were discussing the topic before Bear's birth: When her first son was born, she considered circumcision for him. Her father-in-law said "Leave the boy's foreskin alone and let him wear it off when he grows up".

Yup, I got all kinds of modest in my family.

Meanwhile, Icelanders as a rule do not circumsize. I personally believe it is because Iceland is damn cold and they need the warmth of the extra layer. My husband says it is because Icelanders are too smart to let anyone near their penises with knives.

So circumcision was a non-starter. Bear's got all his original equipment.

Except. It hasn't begun to be retractible yet.

At his last checkup, our new pediatrician (who we really like) mentioned that guidlines say that she should refer Bear to a urologist for a forcible retraction because it should be at least partially retractible by age 6.

Our reaction? "Oh, hell, no."

But there is a part of me that wonders - has anyone else gone through this? Are we just projecting our discomfort? (Notice the Wikipedia article cites that at least 2 mothers fainted watching their sons go through the procedure. That tells me it is major freaky bad.) Are we possibly imperiling his health?

CD seems more sure than me that we leave all Bear's private parts alone. But it's been 6 weeks since the pediatrician offered the referral, and I'm still going back and forth.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 12:30 PM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
Post contains 271 words, total size 2 kb.

There are days when I am just certain that I am the worst mommy alive.

Last year, I was all organized for Bear's birthday before we left for New England - I had the invitations, the address book, the reservation made at My Gym.

This year, in my chaos, I had to enlist CD long distance after I had already left. It took about 20 phone calls and 3 different reservations before we came to a date with My Gym and then I was in the strange position of sending out sort of anonymous Birthday Invitation fliers to his new school and invitations to his old classmates.

Last night we got a call from My Gym - however it happened in the flurry of calling in August... there was a miscommunication.

Bear doesn't have the venue for this weekend when we thought. Another party is in there at that time and they were confirmed first.

I tried to look calm as I broke the news to Bear. He listened, and didn't cry.

More stoic than me.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 02:42 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 182 words, total size 1 kb.

We will wake him up, and pull him between us in bed. Like we do, every year, on this morning. And we will tell him his story...

Mommy sat, like a bird on her eggs, for 236 days.

Actually, it was 276 days until your egg hatched - but there were 24 days before we knew about you and 16 days during the second trimester when we went to LA and swam in the rooftop pool of the Intercontinental Hotel.

So, yes, it was 236 days of bedrest when all the nice doctors listened with all their instruments and decided that it was time, really time, for you to be born.

At the Evanston Northwestern Hospital, they gave me a special medicine at 5PM that would poke my body and tell it you should be born.

By 9PM your Nana arrived from Boston, and your Aunt Dee was there, and Daddy was singing to you inside of me.

At 1AM, we took a long hot shower. It was supposed to make me feel better, and it did because I laughed and laughed to see your daddy climb in with me with all his clothes on.

At 3AM, I was given a shot to make me rest. Your dad and Aunt Dee would giggle as I would wake up and shout "ow ow ow" with each contraction and then fall back asleep.

At 9AM I got a really BIG shot called an "epidural" and then the nurses said I should try and push you out.

At 11:15AM Daddy saw your head when I pushed! The doctor told us your head was turned the wrong way to be born and manually worked you around to the right position.

At 1PM the doctor said "great pushing but Bear hasn't turned all the way and was well and truly stuck."

2PM, they said "Stop Pushing!" Sweetie, you were jammed in my pelvis. In case you've forgotten, let me remind you: Neither of us liked you there.

At 3PM, the emergency C-section began. It took 52 more minutes to free you. My body was really tired and the machines all were beeping and almost simultaneously, you were born and the doctors decided it was time for me to rest.

As they took you out of my tummy by your feet, you stretched out into the world. The doctor turned you right side up and you surprised her by lifting your head. Then you reached out and grabbed her around the neck. (Yes, Bear, like a hug) She had your handprint there for hours.

Your dad cut your cord and they harvested your stem cells to be donated for someone who needed them - because you didn't anymore. (You see? From the very start, your birth was a blessing.)

The people in white coats rubbed you, measured you, and wrapped you cozy in a blanket. Then your dad grabbed you up. I got to see you and you had dark blue eyes and big cheeks. Your dad held you close to me, close to our faces so you could see your mommy and daddy.

The nurses and doctors wanted to take you to the nursery but they just had to wait until I was stable before your dad consented to leave my side. Because, he was never about to leave yours.

Hours later, when I woke up in Recovery, your dad brought you to me again.

Finally, we really met.

I smelled you and touched you and memorized your face. For a long, long time the three of us rested on that bed together quietly, the way we still do.

On the day you were born, it was warm. The sky was blue with puffy white clouds. A doctor walked with your tiny handprint on her neck. The Cubs were winning in extra innings. Jane Addams would have been 140 years old...

And a miracle happened.

Was I the miracle?

Yes, Bear. You were. And you still are.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:25 PM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
Post contains 674 words, total size 4 kb.

1 beautiful. i wish every child had this kind of birthday story shared with them. (my heart swells!) happy birthday all around.

Posted by: gigi at September 05, 2006 06:27 PM (7ZYfB)

2 Happy Birthday Bear!! What a wonderful tradition

Posted by: Jules at September 05, 2006 10:10 PM (urYq4)

3 Happy birthday, dear Bear. You have a great mommy and daddy.

Posted by: undercovermutha at September 06, 2006 01:57 AM (FLJz9)

4 It makes me teary with happiness for you... each and every year that I am lucky enough to hear this story. Thank you for sharing your beautiful miracle with the rest of us. Happy birthday, Bear!

Posted by: Sol at September 06, 2006 02:49 AM (LCPKg)

5 Happy Birthday Bear. Happy Birth Day, Elizabeth. xoxo

Posted by: Just Me at September 06, 2006 06:32 AM (gtpvj)

6 Happy birthday, Bear! Lord have mercy...how this entry made me cry!

Posted by: paige at September 06, 2006 11:30 AM (sL97Z)

7 Happy Birthday Bear! I hope you had a wonderful and special day!

Posted by: caltechgirl at September 06, 2006 03:07 PM (r0kgl)

8 Happy Birthday, Bear! How lucky you three are to have each other.

Posted by: Kimberly at September 06, 2006 07:42 PM (CXd4V)

9 Happy birthday, Bear! What a wonderful story. You took me right back to the stories of my children's births (two of them at Northwestern ... I wonder if we had the same OB?) ... they love hearing how they came into the world, too.

Posted by: Ruth at September 07, 2006 12:01 AM (Kd0YM)

10 That was a beautiful story, Elizabeth! I remember seeing Emma for the first time and asking her how the trip was ... my OB (who was sewing me up .. ew) and the nurse laughed at me. It's one of those things I tell her about on her birthday - she loves it. Happy Belated Birthday, Bear!!!

Posted by: Michele at September 08, 2006 03:59 PM (5VGFA)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

In a conglomoration of all the things he has learned and wanted... this is the conversation I overheard him having in the Doctor's waiting room the other day. As I sat with my nose in a Golfing magazine while he talked to the mom of a new baby that was entrancing him, with her tiny toes sticking out from the carrier.

Bear: "Is she going to have brothers and sisters?"

OtherMom: "She already has one of each, they are older."

B: "Oh. I have lots of brothers and sisters. Lots and lots."

OM: "You do?"

B: "Yeah. In my mommy's tummy. But I'm the only one who ever got born."

Posted by: Elizabeth at 05:22 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 112 words, total size 1 kb.

1 Could chuckling be heard from behind the Golf magazine?

Posted by: ieatcrayonz at August 08, 2006 05:41 AM (FLJz9)

2 he is the cutest thing evah -don't tell my kids okay

Posted by: cursingmama at August 08, 2006 07:33 AM (PoQfr)

3 I havenÂ’t told my daughter about my miscarriage. I don't know why or if I will. I'm torn between loving the sentiment and being sad for you and for him for all those lost (potential) brothers and sisters.

Posted by: mommytowahid at August 09, 2006 01:19 PM (XWrmY)

4 Oh...those kids!

Posted by: Angela Giles Klocke at August 22, 2006 01:03 AM (DQjG/)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

My nicknames for Bear are varied and used liberally. Two of the most common are "Sweet Pea" and "Sweetness".

The other day at the store, I started pushing down the aisle and called for Bear to follow; "C'mon Sweet Peaness," I said, unthinkingly combining the two.

He looked at me for a long, bland minute. And then shook his head. "Uh, Mommy?"

First uncomprehending. Then my mouth opened in a big circle as I realized what I'd said. Then a blush of apology. And then, as I walked away, I burst into hysterics.

Oh, I'm the baaaaaad mommy.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 10:16 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
Post contains 116 words, total size 1 kb.

1 Okay, I just spewed coffee.... That was classic! (And I call Son Two "Sweet Pea" all the time, so I need to be careful, now that your slip is in my consciousness!) (BTW, I read often but haven't commented before. I'm sorry this is such a tough time for you and your family right now. I hope the tide turns soon.)

Posted by: Adrienne at August 04, 2006 12:44 AM (yGdVg)

2 If I ever have a boy, that nickname is at the TOP of the list. HAHAHAA!

Posted by: ieatcrayonz at August 04, 2006 01:59 AM (FLJz9)

3 Very good - that is so something I would adopt into regular useage. Of course my kids are a little older and I'm running out of ways to annoy them without making a fool of myself.

Posted by: cursingmama at August 04, 2006 05:15 AM (PoQfr)

4 Oh my goodness... that is too funny! Well, at least he's a boy. I suppose it would be even worse had you said it to a daughter, huh?

Posted by: JustLinda at August 04, 2006 02:59 PM (zrTsU)

5 That's too funny. First time I read it, I missed it entirely. Duh! Cute

Posted by: Eyes for Lies at August 06, 2006 08:13 AM (L67iN)

6 *Snort* At five and three, my nephews have been exposed to (and make) so many potty jokes that they probably wouldn't stand for being called "sweet pea." And "sweet peaness" would likely elicit looks of horror. (Their mother, by the way, loves your blog, though I don't think she comments.)

Posted by: Kimberly at August 07, 2006 08:44 AM (CXd4V)

7 !!! That's hysterical. Oh, goodness, that's funny.

Posted by: madrigalia at August 08, 2006 11:10 AM (TAxKk)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

Bear was sweet and helpful from 8am until 5pm.

As we were driving home from washing the car, both of us sopping wet in our clothes and laughing, I glanced in the rearview mirror at his happy face and said "wow, we're having a good day - huh?"

"Yeah, I figured we needed a day off from fighting."

5 going on 15, I tell you.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 10:39 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 71 words, total size 1 kb.

We chose Happy Montessori for many reasons, the most pressing being that he showed early signs of being ambidextrous. It runs in the male side of my family, and has led to all kinds of learning problems. I mentioned it to my son's first pediatrician, who informed me that it is an extremely rare condition to have at birth and Bear would eventually "show a side".

Guess what?

Yeah. Bear has never "shown a side". Dumbass expensive over-booked pediatricians. Should have dumped them right then and there.

Meanwhile, the OT testing he went through showed that his, indeed, naturally ambidextrous. And despite all the fabulous pre-writing work that Montessori Schools are known for (in terms of teaching the muscles in the hand to hold a pencil and work on the fine motor control) - Bear has switched back and forth so much that both his hands show the fine muscle control of about a child 2 years younger than his actual age. The tester told me that it's clear that he's split the work that was designed to foster one hand to being able to write across both his hands. Which sucks for Bear, he's so frustrated about his letters because he sees what his friends are able to do.

So I'm not exactly sure if we got that benefit we paid so much for. Which has been disheartening to both CD and I.

Meanwhile, Happy Montessori demanded that they see the OT testing results before they invite him back for next year.

I asked why and they couldn't give me a clear reason, other than they aren't sure if he should go back to Kindergarten (which would be age appropriate) or to the first grade (which is where many of his friends are going). CD and I said that of course he's going back to kindergarten, he needs the extra time to get the OT therapy for his fine muscle control.

We were supposed to meet with the school this week and bring the report. And I have been battling that, around and around in my gut.

The thing is - I don't know what options I have. The local public school is excreable. And I'm going to have to go back to work, because CD just hasn't found a job that can support us. Happy is the only private kindergarten that even thinks about sliding scale and scholarships - which is the only way we are going to be able to afford anything.

I don't know what to do.

As much as I have grown to mistrust Happy Montessori, logically it seems like the choice that keeps Bear in the most loving and supportive environment.

And we're down to the wire, right? I should just suck it up and release the report (which basically just says he needs fine motor therapy and eye testing) and let Happy do as they will...

Then why am I eyeing the phone, thinking of polite ways to call and say "Screw Off"?

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:33 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 510 words, total size 3 kb.

1 Because you don't trust them to educate and nuture your child. At least that's what it sounds like to me. Ever since they ambushed you with this whole testing/therapy thing you've seemed wary. And I don't blame you one bit. Are you sure about the other schools? It might be worth your while to make a few more phone calls. Also, just another thing to think about: will Bear be happy being in Kinder again in the same school where all of his friends are in 1st grade? I was held back in kinder, and while it ended up being the best thing for me, I felt stupid and I was miserable at the time because my friends were in the first grade....

Posted by: caltechgirl at June 12, 2006 05:24 AM (/vgMZ)

2 The reason you are thinking "Screw off" thoughts is because these people have basically said that your child is making them look bad, since they weren't able to shove him through the system as fast as they claim. Argh. I'm a Montessori fan (well, as much as I can be with no child in their program currently) but I think they sometimes get pretty hung up on having every child do every thing on the all important schedule, and forget that individuals exist. In another year or so Bear will be doing absolutely fine. In fact, he'll be worlds ahead of most of us, who can barely write legibly with just one hand!

Posted by: Tammy at June 12, 2006 12:48 PM (M++hX)

3 Thoughts: telling them to screw off: no. you need them as an option, even if you decide against them. they also don't have to offer you these sliding scales and scholarships if they feel you are uncooperative and they don't want to deal with you. not giving them the report: they don't have to have Bear back, they are not a public school. you don't have to agree but you have to cooperate. not liking what you hear from them: is it because you don't like and don't think it's true, or just because you don't like to hear it. public school: is there only one? my understanding is that most private schools are better than public, but not for learning disabilities. because the state has to pay for "special ed" type of stuff, Bear may get a lot more help in a public school setting. holding him back: MUCH MUCH MUCH better earlier than later. I have seen a good friends son whom I love dearly almost get held back at every grade from k to now 8th grade. his parents did all they could, tutors, after school programs, etc., his mother is hugely involved and in the pta, it has been to little avail. she now feels he should hav e been held back as early as possible, instead of trying to have him catch up with extra help. he never caught up and is still a bad student, although a sweet guy. early on, he got the idea he was "stupid", how heartbreaking. could the school be doing anything differently? if so, what? does Bear understand that he should and why he should try to stick with one hand? can he try? so sorry you are going through this.

Posted by: Robin at June 13, 2006 09:19 AM (4iJ3P)

4 I'm probably late to the party (having not read the previous comments), but me thinks you may have stumbled on the reason you've been so apt to forget volunteer engagements with his school. It's hard to want to help people you want to tell to screw off. I'm sorry you are going through this. My son is four, and we've yet to begin dealing with our one-size fits all school system.

Posted by: Michele at June 14, 2006 03:20 AM (WMa4u)

5 I largely second Robin's pragmatic comments, although I'm not a mother, just someone who had many awful experiences in many types of schools. I'm also glad to hear you and CD are supportive of placing Bear at his appropriate grade level -- like Robin said, it's worse to keep them back when they're older. My high school didn't fail many "underachieving" kids until Grade 10, at which point most of them gratefully dropped out. If they'd gotten help earlier, maybe some of them would have stuck it out to graduate. I almost dropped out too, and I was at the top of my class. Hang in there. This will be a learning experience for Bear too. You're setting a good example of patience and persistence.

Posted by: madrigalia at June 16, 2006 04:31 PM (20oYL)

6 Hi -- newcomer here, but I've loved the posts I have read. Love your attitude. I was a gung-ho career gal myself, back in the day. Which is why I urge you to consider homeschooling. Baahh! Don't fall on the floor laughing just yet. You're a competent, smart woman with your child's best interests at heart. Why put your energy struggling with "the man," oops, I mean, the school system for all those years when you can enjoy your kid and enjoy yourself and build a relationship that you will marvel at in the coming years? Just a thought. If you want any further information on homeschooling, I'd be happy to help. Maureen

Posted by: Maureen at June 19, 2006 04:54 AM (N3+0L)

Hide Comments | Add Comment