What they do when they are supposed to be napping

Isabel sounds like the boss of this outfit this afternoon, but don't let the sound of things fool you. I heard Isabel saying "come on" as the kids headed for the other room, and then heard her say it again as they came back in, but to my surprise, it was James leading Isabel by the hand and Isabel hurrying to keep up as she continued saying "come on, come on". Maybe she is narrating for him. She's sticking up for herself, though, never fear. She said "Stop it, that hurts," when he pushed her to the wall, and says "turn, turn" when James has something she wants. James has, thankfully, decided against washing the dishes and has decided to read a book while Isabel slides her boat down the slide.This is the fourth day without naps. Why is it that children STOP napping when they're sick, just when they need it most?

"OHHpm"

James tried to open the freezer door for a popsicle, but it was too high for him to get a good grip on the handle. I said "open?" and as he signed I repeated "ohh" as I signed and then all the sudden, James said "OHHpm"!James clearly feels that he has well-earned his popsicle, and is smiling his way through a blue popsicle on our gigantic blue glider. This is his sixth spoken word that really feels like a word. Though he vocalizes quite a bit, it's usually just one sound at a time. It's especially wonderful, because James has had some hearing loss in the past few months.

In other, unrelated news, look at this spectacular feat of naptime mothering! Two kids asleep in the same bed! If I ever accomplish this again...well. Even I can't imagine the consequences, but I'd probably at least have to gather up a bouquet of big lush peonies and conjure up a slice of coconut cake before falling asleep on the couch.

The rash

Intermittent waves of relief keep washing over Marco and me this evening. I took James in to the doctor this morning for a rash that had spread very quickly over his body, thinking it was an allergic reaction. There had been an outbreak of measles recently, so the doctor came in with a mask. He was worried by the targetoid nature of the rash, and I realized quickly that he was aware of much more dangerous possibilities than hives. James got blood tests and I gave him an antihistamine. I watched him like a hawk to make sure no rash appeared on his face or in his mouth while we waited to see the dermatologist. The rash crept up his neck and hovered at his jawline. After a very careful and thorough examination by two doctors there, I heard that it was, after all, hives, and not what had been feared.

It wasn't, perhaps, wise to look up the possibilities the doctor mentioned, but it was impossible for me not to do so. At "5-15% death rate" I stopped, and took a deep breath. I thought, "I'm not going to think about this until I know for sure what he has. I'm just going to keep him calm and happy with me." And that's what I did, until I knew he was going to be okay. What a tremendous, overwhelming relief.

The strange thing is, it didn't just overcome me once, but every hour or so, it washes over me again, and I feel the stiffness I didn't know I had relax. It's remarkable how much my body worries when my mind has determined not to worry itself. Marco was so worried while we were at the dermatologist's office. He'd prayed about James before we left, and had tried to do something calm while he waited for us to come home, or call, but he couldn't sit down. He ended up installing all of our air conditioners by himself during the hour we were gone. Sometimes you get so used to bad news that it seems no other kind will come. Feels pretty wonderful when everything is better than you'd hoped. We're very grateful for all the people who know the possibilities better than we do, and make sure our James stays healthy.

The rash is now fading away, slowly. I suppose I should have taken a picture, but I'm so glad it's on its way.

More? Beaver? Okay!

Isabel's been picking up crayons and pens and offering them insistently at all adults who enter the house, saying: "More? (Supply animal here)? Okay!" This is a request to draw said animal on the easel in the living room. We've been getting a lot of requests for skunks lately, and beavers, but she's been a bit disappointed, it seems, with the beavers. (If you've seen my beavers, you probably wouldn't be as puzzled as I have been by this.)

So today, on the way to the stroller to head off to the park, Isabel grabs a palm-sized rock from our gravel driveway and says "Beaver!" triumphantly as she's packed into her side of the stroller. The rock was confiscated shortly before we got to the park because she was treating said beaver as a popsicle. So, once we arrived back home again, Isabel was barely released from the stroller before she plopped down in a w-sit on the driveway and gathered up more "Beaver!" with delighted smiles. Next time I watch Signing Time Volume 8, "The Great Outdoors", I'm checking out the beaver section. How much you want to bet there are a lot of rocks?

Isabel isn't the only one to find the idea of beavers somewhat elusive--when I was dating my husband, I had a hard time convincing him that beavers were real, and that, no, I was not making this up. I had to show him the article in the encyclopedia. It's pretty wonderful that there are still animals on the earth that defy belief.

Zizi the Bear

If you should happen to see Zizi standing next to a tree and bobbing up and down, saying "That feels good!" enthusiastically, it's because she's Baloo. She'd really like to pull the tree up by the roots and rub her back with it, but we haven't started weightlifting with the kids yet. (Though it's a treat to see pink-faced Isabel moving one of my dumbbells from one room to the other, for who knows what nefarious purposes of her own.)

Zizi's chicken ambition, and James' night surprise

As I spooned out carrots and potatoes, and Marco began to carve off a drumstick, Isabel sat in her chair with her blue fork, waiting. This was all taking far too long for a hungry two year old. With a sudden look of wild surmise, she raised her tiny fork and planted it firmly into the 3-lb. roast chicken in front of her, whereupon she gamely attempted to lift the whole thing onto her plate.

James was asleep, and woke later, disconsolate, in the way that small children are when they've missed their naptime and fall asleep late, and unintentionally, only to wake a few hours later and find that there is no day left, and they are not tired enough to go to sleep for the night. After a few consoling measures to calm his tears, James sits and watches "Bedtime with Elmo" with me. Watches is almost certainly the wrong word. He sits with his back to the screen, and with a two foot Elmo in one hand, has him act out in the scene carrying on behind him, which he knows by heart. He doesn't speak, but Elmo turns the light on and off in the right places, looks in the right direction for every speech, and interacts with me as Elmo does with his Daddy in the movie. When I don't get Daddy's part quite right, James gently guides my movements. Soon we come to a poem. It is a poem in ASL, called "Night", that a young boy composed and performed. James, his back to the screen, and in the dark except for his small nightlight, performs it too, carefully and with expression. I watch, breathless, with a tear starting.

Here is the "Night" segment from Sesame Street.

A sudden influx of patience

As I was struggling to get James to accept the mask of the nebulizer over his face (he used to like this, see left), and James protested and scratched and threw himself around, Isabel began to express her displeasure with this summary treatment of her brother. Barely noticing the escalating screaming coming from somewhere to the right as I concentrated on trying to get some of that albuterol in James, there was a sudden burst of surprise and horror from the floor. Isabel, in her distress, had thrown herself from the rocking chair, headfirst onto the milk crate holding toys, and was now crying disconsolately on the floor. As I abandoned the dinosaur mask and rushed to hold her, James sat on the edge of the bed, shudderingly crying softly. That's it, I thought.

On some days, the "That's it." would have meant something entirely different. That's it. I've had it. I want to go into my own room, cry for a little, then surround myself with my down comforter and read something that has nothing whatsoever to do with children, while my husband comes home to rescue the kids from a mother who can no longer accept the terrible consequences of trying to do the right thing. I don't think I've ever asked him to do that, but I've certainly gone to my room and to bed until some little thing came toddling after me to peek at me under the covers.

Today, though, it didn't mean that. It was a like a blanket coming down on me, that made me feel lighter, not heavier. It meant, I'm not doing this anymore. I've always thought I've been pretty good at discerning which battles needed to be fought where my kids were concerned, and have congratulated myself on the many things that I haven't deemed worthy of my own specific control on the outcome. Spilled drinks are taken away, and aren't lectured over. Uneaten food is not insisted on. Sometimes, James doesn't have to sit in his car seat right away, but can pretend to drive for a minute, even when we're late to preschool. But this was a battle I thought I needed to fight. James was coughing more, and it's true, it did seem that James wasn't as enthusiastic over putting the dinosaur mask as he used to be, but it was only for a few minutes. Still, drastic consequences ensued--worse, surely, than more coughing and discomfort.

So we quit it. Everyone went to go watch Elmo. The nebulizer came too, and got plugged in, and sat with us. James didn't trust me at first, but within a few seconds, he sat in front of me and leaned back, the mask a few inches from his fingers. After the first skit, his fingers found it, looked at it, and put it away from him. After the second skit, I put it on my mouth. "Dinosaur!" I cried, and roared quietly. After a few repetitions, Isabel wanted to try. She did the same. We took turns over the next couple of skits, and I could see James smiling and eyeing us out of the corner of my eye. On my next turn, he grabbed it from me and put it on his face. I exhaled happily. We all took turns for a while. I turned the nebulizer on. James moved away and sat on the floor. Isabel and I took two short turns, Isabel holding it away from her face, and me too. Then we turned it off, and I packed it up. Little by little, but no more holding him.

It's true that he used to be used to it. But now, he isn't. The same at the doctor's office today, with the oximeter, the otoscope, and the thermometer. He was such a pro. But now, the only thing he trusts is the stethoscope. But we can start over again. And it can take a long time, and we may even have to start again sometime after that. And even though James wanted a bath, and ran away when I started the water and didn't come back, Isabel got one. And she got the most patient mother she's ever had. Everybody's asleep now. It's amazing to me, how when I felt everything was going wrong, suddenly patience descended, instead of withdrawal, or tears. Everything moved in slow motion, and it suddenly seemed that we had a great deal of time to work this out, and that there wasn't any rush. I hope it comes again--I really appreciated the visit. And so, I'm sure, did the kids.