Vindicated.

I'm going to try to make this story lighthearted because, well, that's what I do. So, I'll leave out the part about me crying in the parking lot - that should help quite a bit.

My son seems prone to throat infections. He has had two this year already. One recent weekend morning he developed a bit of a fever and said his throat was sore, so I peered in with a flashlight.

I know about strep throat. I had it lots in high school and I got to recognize the signs. It's no fun. When I look in Boychild's throat and it looks like raw hamburger (big, puffy, red with white splotches) I swear off red meat for a while and I take Boychild to get it checked out.

After lunch that particular afternoon I packed him, his hamburger throat and a long chapter book for us to read and we headed to our local ER.

The wait was more than three hours, which is good by some standards but not much fun for a sick six-year-old. By the end he was getting weepy. Once we got into the actual emergency room I could hear the doctor on duty talking to the nurses and other patients, and I started to worry. He sounded rude and condescending.

I know everyone has bad days. I know there was probably a lot going on behind the scenes. It was busy that day. There was a raging blizzard outside. From what I was hearing I suspect this doctor had either worked a long shift or there was some sort of doubt about whether his replacement was going to make it in.

All I know for sure is that when he came in and said we would have to do a throat swab, Boychild started to cry. He's had these before and hates them. I don't blame him. I hate having someone gag me with a long stick when my throat is sore, too. Go figure. I knew it would take some encouragement to complete the task. Before I even had much of a chance to calm him down (about 15 seconds), Dr. Personality announced he'd rather over-treat him with antibiotics than put him through this. I was a little surprised, but said okay.

THEN Dr. Personality starts to lecture me, in front of Boychild and within earshot of all comers. He said I need to get my son's behaviour under control and that this is a medical procedure and that's what he tells his own kids and that it isn't something parents should be negotiating with their children. It's almost as if he assumed whenever Boychild cries he gets his way. (Ask Boychild. That's not the case.) He showed no regard for the fact my son is six, he is sick, he wants to go home and he doesn't like that particular test. Besides, Dr. Personality was the one who said Boychild didn't have to take the test, not me.

So I killed him and now I am in jail.

Okay, I didn't. Instead I turned a lovely shade of scarlet and, after I picked up my jaw from the floor, I told Dr. Personality that Boychild has some anxiety issues and that I didn't think this was the time to be discussing it. He apologized and backed off, but continued to be an arrogant, condescending jerk. I've never been talked to like this by someone who is supposed to be a professional.

We then learned Boychild's last two swabs had come back negative for strep, so I really wanted to confirm this diagnosis. I insisted we do the test. Ultimately it took me and two nurses holding Boychild to do the deed. This, as you can imagine, was great fun for everyone, especially Boychild.

I gave Dr. Personality a big hug and a kiss as we left with our precautionary antibiotic prescription and then did a little dance of joy in the parking lot because my self-esteem was intact and I wasn't feeling insecure at all about my own parenting skills and my instincts for going to ER in the first place. I had a great time spending four hours on a weekend afternoon at the hospital during a blizzard. It is totally my idea of a fun day (see how lighthearted I am being?).

I want to state emphatically (and I'm totally serious here) that we are fortunate to have a very good hospital in our small town. This incident truly stands out as a rare occurrence in my experience, and I have had many occasions to visit this ER in my lifetime. In fact, although I don't really know him, the doctor in question seems to have a very good reputation in town, so I am convinced there were other factors at play behind the scenes.

Still. My tendency to let people walk all over me because I can be too empathetic only goes so far.

A few days later our family doctor's office called with Boychild's test result. It was strep. I feel vindicated and reassured that my mother's instinct is not askew. I've made an appointment with our doctor to discuss Boychild's ongoing throat issues, and you can bet he's going to hear about our hospital adventure. Because it was so much fun. Yep.

A Little Snow

One of my pet peeves in life is that in the last five years or so I have found mainstream media overblows winter storms in these here parts. If a mere five centimetres falls, it makes the national news. I find it so irritating. This is Canada. We get winter here. It's not news.

This year, though, it is. And how.

There has been reason to talk about winter. Across most of eastern Canada we are, if not over, on the cusp of breaking some all-time snowfall records (since they started keeping track, anyway). I'd tell you how much snow we officially got, but our newspaper didn't make it today. Last night was one of the biggest blizzards I've seen in some time, made worse by the fact we already had several feet of snow on the ground.

Today was about shovelling. I've shovelled for about two hours already and we're about half done, I'd say. Groom-boy's taking a shift now. And you know what? I'm okay with all that shovelling. Today dawned beautiful and sunny; the snow is gleaming so brightly I had to wear sunglasses. The sun feels warm. The sky is blue. It is truly, truly a winter wonderland. I won't mind seeing the end of winter this year, but it really has been quite amazing. It reminds me of childhood winters - only I think we've had more snow.

No, I haven't lost my mind in a snowbank somewhere. Part of this also stems from the fact I have nowhere to be today and since it's March Break this coming week I don't have to worry about walking Boychild to school in the morning - otherwise I might be singing a different tune.

Besides, I had kind of a monstrous, soul-sucking day yesterday, not to mention the day before, so all this shovelling has been somewhat therapeutic. It's helping me to work off some stress.

And now I'll let some pictures do the talking. These are just a few I took from our windows. I'll post more outside shots later.


This is what I saw out the kitchen window first thing this morning. It's our backyard. The bird feeder normally hangs off a four-foot pole. You can just see the top of the hook. I had to dig it out.
Our van was buried.
These are the apartments across the street from us.














Looking out our window and down the street. Most people had been out shovelling by then.
Boychild on an icicle hunt in the backyard beside the neighbouring house. What an adventure!
Me commiserating with a neighbour.

Snow Day #242

Last night was no fun.

Boychild and Girlchild were up a couple of times each. The wind was driving the freezing rain so hard against the windows that I couldn't fall back to sleep for a loooong time because of the noise. In fact, I almost got up around 4:30. I think it kept the little people awake, too. (I mean the kids, not the elves.)

I am so ready for winter to be over.

If Boychild were a bus student I know I would have wept this morning to learn today is another snow day. Fortunately we live close to the school. Don't think he didn't try to talk us out of sending him today. We got a long story first thing.

"Dad, I looked out my window when I got up and I think there is too much snow for us to go to school," he said.

"No worries," I said. "I have the snowshoes and the sled ready. We'll take the dog team if need be. Or a snowmobile. I can carry you on my back if I have to. We're going." (Okay, I didn't really say this because he was talking to Groom-boy, but that would have been my response.)

"My throat is pretty gurgly and I still have a cold," he said to me later.

"You're going to school," I growled as I passed through the room on my way to get dressed. (This really happened.)

I think he knew he might as well give up at that point. It was probably something in my tone because that was the end of it.

With only six days (SIX! Aaah!) of school left in March, as I detailed here, there is absolutely no. way. in. you. know. where. that he will be missing another day because of harsh weather and/or some half-hearted sniffles. I am ruthless.

And so he went. And there was much rejoicing.

Hoodwinked

Speaking of knitting, I had the wool pulled over my eyes today.

Today was to be the first of seven, count 'em seven, school days for Boychild in March. Yep, I said seven. Can you tell I'm thrilled?

See, Boychild is in alternate-day senior Kindergarten, which means the most he ever goes to school in any given week is three days. He has alternate Fridays off. March starts off well enough with three scheduled days in the first week, but then things get sketchy. The second week is March Break. The third week features Good Friday, which means he goes Monday and Wednesday. The following week, which is a B week and includes Easter Monday, he only goes on Wednesday. March 31 is a Monday - a school day. That's seven.

Help.

Mom, I now understand about school breaks. And I'm sorry.

Today dawned with a predicted freezing rain storm. I have to say, I will be very glad to see the last snowflake of this winter season - fun as it has been. As expected buses were cancelled - snow day. This is no biggie because the school is open and we're townies and we live close enough to the school that we can walk. Boychild, however, put on a very dramatic show of how his tummy hurt and his cold (he caught one over the weekend) was bad and his throat was gurgly "and and and pleeeeeeeease don't make me go to school."

I'm not usually one to fall for this, but I did this time and it's Hugh Laurie's fault. Yes. Groom-boy is on holidays this week and last night he started watching an old episode of House at midnight and I got hooked and stayed up until 1 a.m. I love House and I hardly ever get to watch it. That late night in itself isn't overly bad except I had stayed up until a little past 1 a.m. the night before, too, and it's catching up. I am an idiot.

Anyway...Boychild, who is a rabid (and sometimes unwelcome) morning person, comes at me with this plaintive cry as soon as Girlchild and I join him and Groom-boy downstairs. I am a not a morning person. I am a zombie. I had just gotten off the phone with BFF (Cindy, the knitter), who called to tell me a) her youngest, who is in Boychild's class, would not be going to school today because he was having dry heaves (yay) and b) eldest child would be going and she could pick up Boychild on the way.

So, in the back of my weary weary mind I'm connecting dry heaves with Boychild's tummy complaints (even though he says he has a sore tummy almost every morning and it usually subsides as soon as he fills it). I'm also thinking, in my weakened state, that a snow day is a good day to miss if necessary because they don't tend to do as much at school.

Meanwhile, the slightly - only slightly - more alert side of my brain is yelling and sending up flares. "Don't believe the hype! He just doesn't want to go to school! He'll feel better after breakfast and his snot will clear up! We're always more congested first thing!" Yeah yeah yeah. Something about a "dangerous precedent," too.

Sigh. I caved. An hour later he and Girlchild were dancing to the Bee Gees on the radio and jumping up and down on the old crib mattress. My fatigue betrayed my common sense on this one. I am such a sucker. A precedent-setting sucker.

Later Boychild will get a long story about crying wolf. Meanwhile, I am mourning the loss of a perfectly good school day. Sniff.

A Bird With New Feathers

Ducky is all better.

Regular visitors might recall my recent dilemma regarding Boychild's knit duck - his lovey - that was in dire need of some major repairs. We're talking family heirloom, here, and I can't knit.

I write a weekly column for the local newspaper and I wrote about my Ducky dilemma. We live in a small town. I fielded a few calls offering help, but the most intriguing one came from a woman I know who volunteers at a local long-term-care home where there is a knitting club every Saturday. You can read the background here. Boychild, Ducky and I visited one Saturday in early February and a duck-repair action plan was devised, which you can read about here.

People are busy and stuff happens, or doesn't, and our action plan hadn't mobilized. In the meantime, I kept casting worried glances at poor bedraggled Ducky. Things were getting serious. Three or four rather ominous weak spots on his side looked as if they could give out at any moment, which would have created an enormous hole. I've made some minor repairs before, but we were truly at the point where there wouldn't be any place for me to put my stitches.

I didn't want to pester the task force of seniors and I felt funny calling the other two ladies who had telephoned because several weeks had passed since the distress call was issued, so I turned to my best friend, let's call her Cindy, and begged for help. She knits.

I proposed my original plan - you knit a patch and I will stitch it on. So, on Friday as our gang, complete with Ducky, and her gang congregated for our weekly junk-food and play-date night, she got out her measuring tape and needles, grabbed my ball of yarn and set about knitting the weirdest-shaped thing you ever did see. A narrow rectangle linked a lopsided hexagonal shape to a diamond. Essentially, the hexagon stretches over Ducky's really worn side, the rectangle acts as a saddle over his back, and the diamond spreads over the better side. Everything comes together at Ducky's chest, so it looks as if he's wearing a funky jacket.

She knit this contraption in one sitting over a couple of hours. The next morning I pinned it on Ducky, gained Boychild's approval (phew!), added a bunch of stuffing and began stitching.

It worked perfectly. As I said to Cindy, it wouldn't win a prize at the fair (unless there was a "unique emergency patch" category), but it's wonderful. It covers the bad spots. Ducky's neck has been reinforced with some stuffing and we celebrated by giving him a bath. He's soft, cosy, smells great and Boychild is happy and that's just grand. Thank you, Cindy! I'll post a picture when I get a chance.

It's good to know people who knit. Definitely. And I figure more Ducky parts could wear out, and now we know this will work. Ducky may end up with a whole new set of feathers yet!

What Girl Doesn't Want Diamonds?

I'm not sure who was more frustrated - Girlchild or Mommy.

Just after finishing lunch today, Girlchild asked for something. I'm still not sure what it was.

Her: I want the diamond.
Me: The diamond?
Her: I want the diamond.
Me (scratching head): What's "the diamond," sweetie?
Her: I want the diamond, Mom.
Me (looking around): Yes, I know, but what is the diamond?
Her: Pleeeease, Mom! I want the diamond!
Me: Boychild, do you have any idea what your sister is talking about?

This went on for several minutes. Boychild went around the house, logically picking up shiny things and bringing them to Girlchild. "Is this what you want?" No, it definitely wasn't.

I used every resource I could think of from my journalism interviewing reserves to try to elicit more information from my unruly source about what the heck "the diamond" is. "Is it in the kitchen? Is it in the den? What colour is it? Is it a video? Is it on the TV? Is it on the computer? Is it upstairs? Is it an animal? Tell me more about it, Girlchild. I don't know what you mean." (Note the clever mixture of both open- and closed-ended questions.)

Usually it eventually occurs to me what she is talking about. Often she will ask for something obscure and I can feel the wheels of my rusty, tired brain physically clunk into gear and turn just enough that something clicks and I figure out the mystery. It just wasn't happening this time.

All she would say, over and over again like some kind of demented space alien sent on a mission armed with this one "take me to your leader"-type phrase was, "I want the diamond!"

Any of you who have experienced the scorn of a misunderstood two-year-old will know that pretty soon this situation deteriorated. I couldn't understand her and she couldn't supply more information to help me. She wanted the diamond, dammit, and nothing else would do. Soon, the tears started to flow (hers, not mine) and the voice took on a higher, more-insistent pitch (both of us), while Boychild continued to scout around for shiny things. Along came our friend the tantrum (her, not me, although I was feeling like I wanted to scream, too).

Distraction didn't work, threats - I mean polite requests - didn't work, and soon it became clear that naptime was imminent and it was unlikely either of us was going to get control of the situation. She was not. happy. at. all. about going for a nap. I took her kicking and screaming upstairs and, after a long process, managed to get both of our tempers calmed. After having some milk, brushing teeth and hearing a few lullabies, she fell instantly to sleep, without singing a single song of her own.

I'm going to call my mom later because they spent the morning with her while I worked and I'm wondering if she might know what "the diamond" is. If it's something profound, I'll let you know.

UPDATE:
Well, it wasn't exactly profound, but we figured it out. I was on the phone with Nanny asking her if she had any sweet clue what her granddaughter was talking about. While chatting, I move a video case from the counter (why was it there?) onto the kitchen table. I get off the phone. Girlchild wanders through, spies said video case and says, "Oh! The diamond!" It's the Baby Einstein: Language Nursery video, which we have watched about eleventy thousand times, but apparently it has changed names. Girlchild used to call it "Baby Einstein," not to be confused with "Mozart," "The Bear One" (Baby Bach), "The Turtle One" (Baby Neptune) and Old MacDonald. Clearly we'll have to work on her shapes because "The Diamond" has a star on the front cover. Doesn't matter as long as I know the code!

Lullabies?

Girlchild - she's a performer.

Part of her bedtime routine involves stories and songs. Usually I do the singing, plunk her into her crib, turn on a quiet CD and say night night. It gets really quiet in her room and we assume she has gone to sleep. We've figured out, though, that she plays possum. What she's really doing is soaking in every last lyric on the CD. Then, once it has stopped playing, she breaks out into song.

Sometimes she'll sing for an hour. I will take the singing over banshee-like shrieks any day.

Her repertoire is quite vast and includes the medley of lullabies and folk songs I've been singing to her since before she was born along with songs from her CDs (such as "Old MacDonald," "The ABC Song," "Zoom Zoom Zoom," etc.). The girl knows dozens of songs. She's not quite two and a half.

Girlchild and Boychild both have songs especially for them. One night when Boychild was really young he had gripes and was fussy and there was much weeping and crying (probably from both of us) that went late into the night. Exhausted and tired of hearing all the same lullabies, I made one up. It basically involves singing "Mommy Mommy loves you, Daddy Daddy loves you" over and over to a tune that popped into my head.

Girlchild's song, "Oh Dear," was born out of calmer circumstances: rocking and nursing. The tune is also simple, but the lyrics are marginally more complex:

Oh dear, oh my dear
Oh my little sleepy one
Close your eyes
Rest your head
Go to sleep my baby girl.

Girlchild knows this song and the "Mommy Loves You" song and a bunch of others. So tonight, I'm sitting at my desk and I can hear her crooning away over the monitor - her song. She sings it clearly and sweetly. When it ends, she doesn't even take a breath before launching into a couple of lines from this one, which I'm pretty sure I haven't sung at bedtime:

I like to move it move it!
I like to move it move it!

I howled!