All About Jack

 The other day, I remembered that I have a blog.  I realized it had been so long since I'd posted, one of my children was a whole year older.  In honor of my first-born, I decided to dedicate my comeback post entirely to him. 

For his sixth(!!!) birthday, Jack requested "a cake with two layers, blue and white frosting, white flowers, and a bird on a pipe cleaner on the top that looks like it's flying."  The boy knows what he wants.  It came out looking a little more Marie Antoinette than I'd intended, but as far as Jack was concerned I delivered.  His party was the best kid birthday party I've ever thrown; low-key and fun for all.  We started the party off by serving the kids a lunch of tacos and fresh strawberries, with a special birthday treat of boxed chocolate milk.  Next we did cake and presents.

 "I've always wanted this one!"

 Then, my stroke of brilliance: I tossed 25 containers of Play-doh on the table with several cookie cutters, and the kids proceeded to play(quietly, I might add) for about 90 minutes.  Clean-up wasn't even that bad.  And yes, there was a giant mound of gray Play-doh in the middle of the table when they were done, but that was fine by me because they made it by mixing most of the lame colors together anyway.

 This was some time after his birthday.  Jack asked me to take his picture because he was "being a walrus."  I think my favorite thing about my kids is their sense of humor.

And now, Jack is all grown up.  He was due for new glasses quite a while ago, but it's so difficult convincing him to go to any kind of official appointment that I put it off for a long time.  Finally, the guilt of knowing that he wasn't seeing the world as clearly as he could got to me and I dragged him to Wal-mart to get some cheap glasses.  We usually go with Costco, but the last pair we got there for him kept breaking.  I hate Wal-mart and I hate that I gave them my money, but Jack's glasses were a) half the price of Costco b) under warranty for a whole year, no matter what happens to them and c) plastic frames.  Costco only carries metal frames for kids, which is dumb because they bend out of shape so easily.  I can tell that the lens material Wal-mart uses isn't as thin as the Costco stuff, but that really only effects how Jack looks to other people, not how he sees.  And for a six year-old boy who is constantly running, jumping, climbing, wrestling, and otherwise imperilling his glasses six ways till Sunday, cheap glasses are a good thing.

Oh Christmas Tree

Every year, Aaron and I get into a funk over the tree. I'm not really sure how or why it happens, but almost every year it does.

First, it was the lights. He comes from a colored lights family, I'm from an all white lights family. There are strong feelings on both sides. At first, we alternated; our first Christmas together we used colored lights, the next Christmas all white. I didn't like how one of us was always disappointed, so I came up with the idea of using red and white lights intertwined. We both liked that better, but it still wasn't highly satisfactory for either of us. This year I decided I wanted Aaron to have colored lights, and as I was untangling the many strands of brightly colored offensiveness he asked "What are you doing?"

"I thought we'd use colored lights this year. You know, like the Mickey Mouse Christmas tree cartoon where Chip and Dale are hiding in the tree and it looks like a magical Christmas village inside the branches."

"Oh. I was going to tell you to go ahead and use all white lights this year."

"But you hate all white lights."

"I'm not crazy about all white, but I like you, and you like white lights."

So we used both.

At 5 and 3, the boys are actually pretty good decorators. It's nice not to have a baby trying to chew on the lights or smash the glass balls together. Our kids never terrorized the tree much as babies, but they've never been able to hang ornaments very effectively either. I guess this year, everyone grew up a little.

I never buy Good Housekeeping, but I couldn't resist this one.

It was a good buy, because I got the snowflake idea out of it. We hung a snowflake garland last year, but I'd never thought of doing it from a mirror. I like it.

I think our tree turned out nicely as well. The whole thing was, by far, the most painless tree experience we've ever had. In the past we've made the purchase in the evening, after Aaron comes home from work. That was a terrible idea. It was always freezing cold and we were all hungry, so we'd arrive back home as a family of frozen, grumpy elves. Then it'd be too late to decorate the tree that evening and Jack would have a meltdown, but not before Aaron and I got really irritated with each other over trying to get the tree straight in the stand.

This year was great. We went to Costco first and stocked up on a few things, which felt really cozy. When we got to our usual tree place(a convenient, short drive from our house) there were really only two likely candidates, so we let the boys choose. We paid and got out of there, then headed home where I'd already rearranged the furniture to accommodate the tree. I put on some Christmas music and put away all the food, while Aaron took the boys outside to put up lights on the chicken coop. Hormones(non-pregnant ones) may have been a factor, but I got a little choked up watching the boys through the window. It has been one of Jack's fondest desires to decorate the chicken coop so that "it will look DUST like Snoopy's house in Charlie Brown Christmas!" Even typing about it now, I get a little misty. I love, love, love that Aaron takes our kids' dreams seriously, even if they don't seem "important" by adult standards. The way Jack's eyes were shining told me that Aaron had done so much more than put up a strand of lights.

As an added bonus, Jack's blood work came back: normal. While part of me is bummed that nothing indicates where his migraines are coming from, I'm enormously relieved that everything really bad can be considered ruled out. He hasn't had a migraine since his last chiropractor visit a week ago, and has had fewer headaches in general. I don't think this is the last we'll see of his migraines, but at least the next time he gets one I won't be worried that something deeply menacing is going on with his brain.

One Day, I Will Figure This Out

It's hard to believe that Jack was ever that tiny. He was five days old in that picture, and weighed just a few ounces over five pounds. He was slow to gain, and the hospital almost made us stay another day because he wasn't putting on weight the way he was supposed to. He became jaundiced and had to spend a night under the lights, the blindfold covering half his tiny face. It really was the best of times and the worst of times; I was so in love with this tiny, tiny person, but it was scary to be in charge of caring for him. He couldn't do anything for himself and he was so very needy. I felt fiercely protective of him, and determinedly pumped bottles of breast milk in the middle of the night for months and months. He was small and needed the very best calories; I could sleep later. Five years later and a lot is still the same; I am so in love with Jack, but it's scary to be in charge of caring for him. He's not tiny anymore. He weighs 55 pounds and is tall, muscular and fast. He draws and sings constantly, works hard to overcome his many fears, bravely accepts his wheat allergies and tries new foods. He has grown so much and in so many ways. But something is wrong. Recently, Jack has been getting migraines. A lot of migraines. From the time he had the vocabulary to articulate it, he has frequently complained about his forehead hurting. He loses his appetite, the pain gets worse, and then the vomiting starts. After a good night's sleep he wakes up feeling much better and then eats like a horse. This used to happen two or three times a year. In June I noticed it was happening more often, so I started writing it on the calendar every time he got a migraine. We have a routine now. When he complains that his forehead hurts, I give him Tylenol and Motrin simultaneously, make him drink water and then have him lie down in a dark, quiet spot. This is usually enough to pull him back from the brink, and after a 30 minute rest he's good to go. Most of the time we can avoid getting to the vomiting stage. With the last migraine, we weren't so lucky. It was 91 degrees and, despite my best efforts, I think his body couldn't stay hydrated. We were at his grandma's and it was late, so when he told me that his forehead hurt I decided we should just head home. I didn't have any medicine with me, so I hoped he would just fall asleep in the car. Three blocks away from grandma's, he threw up. That's what the bucket in my back seat is for. After a good purge, we made it home without further incident. He was asleep, so I put him to bed without waking him up to take any pain medication. At 2:30 a.m. he came into my room crying, saying his forehead still hurt. He'd never woken up in pain before. I gave him his usual cocktail and some water, then got in bed beside him and massaged his scalp. I thought back to how many times I'd written "migraine" on the calendar and realized that this was his fifth migraine in a month. I lay next to him in the dark, unable to do much but be with him while we both waited for the medicine to work. It usually takes about 20 minutes, which can feel like an eternity when your child is suffering. Plus, 2:30 in the morning is a Worrisome Time, the time of night when everything is menacing and this is not just a headache and what his wrong with my son I'm his mother I should know why can't I figure this out and HOLY SHIT if anything happens to this kid I will want to die. I hate caring about another person this much. The next morning I make an appointment with his doctor. In the exam room, Jack is chipper and talkative. He likes being the center of attention, and his doctor is a really nice guy. I go over Jack's migraine history, explaining that he had episodes of vomiting without apparent illness from the time he was about two. I think he had his first migraine the day we went to buy a Christmas tree, and he puked all over Aaron at Azteca. The next morning he was fine, and we didn't think much of it. Kids puke all the time, right? Now that I know what his migraines look like, I realize that's what was going on. I tell the doctor about our current management plan, how I make sure Jack has something to eat and drink at least every two hours throughout the day. As soon as I say it out loud, I know it sounds odd. Every two hours? What is he, an infant? Clearly, no. So why do I still have to feed him like one? I go on, explaining that we avoid things like big, loud parties or crowded places; we can't stay at the beach too long on a sunny day because it's too bright for Jack; he gets carsick easily; I never leave the house without food and drink in the car; if we take a trip, the first thing I pack is the bottle of chewable Tylenol and Motrin; his babysitters know to give him a glass of water every hour. I know this is not standard issue care for most five year-olds, but hearing myself say it out loud to another person really underlines it for me. Jack was difficult to care for from day one. He didn't nurse, cried inconsolably for months, was unhappy in new situations. All babies are work, but I didn't realize how much more work Jack was until my sister told me "Your one baby is more work than all five of my children put together." So I guess it didn't seem that odd to me, this frequent feeding and watering and having of medicine and buckets. Jack is high-maintenance; it's just how he rolls. But this has gotten to the point where it is not okay, is past being explained by saying things like "he was early, lots of early babies have colic." I realize that Jack has a very, very narrow range of being in which he thrives and if anything comes along to tip the balance, it triggers a migraine. The doctor asks me if Aaron or I have ever had migraines. I tell him never once in either of our lives. He tells me that it's unusual for a person to have chronic migraines without at least one parent having them in their history. He also tells me that it's extremely rare to see chronic migraines in a child under the age of seven. He gives Jack a bunch of little tests; close your eyes and touch your nose, balance on one foot, raise your eyebrows, squeeze my hand. Jack does them all perfectly, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the doctor says that all his neurological functions look good. I cross Brain Cancer off my list of worries. The doctor tells me that I'm doing a great job, and to keep doing everything we're doing; treat migraines as they come, and do our best to avoid the things that trigger them. We will see a neurologist and discuss preventative treatment. This makes me nervous because a lot of prophylactic migraine treatment involves anti-depressants. They are given in lower doses than they would be for the treatment of depression, but I question the wisdom of putting such powerful drugs into the body of a child who clearly has a sensitive system. I want to know why he keeps getting migraines, not just suppress them.

For now, we wait. We haven't seen the neurologist yet, so I'm doing what I normally do and trying not to get too worried before I know what it is I should be worried about. When I feel like I might start freaking out, I make muffins. Wheat-free, dairy-free raspberry muffins. They are warm and soft and yielding, and for fifteen minutes I am comforted. Then I go back to worrying, because I can't make muffins all day.

One day I will figure out how to manage this whole parenting thing, how to balance the fear of what could be wrong with the faith that everything will turn out alright, but I'm not there yet. I struggle not to resent my attachment to my kids, these little people who can bring moments of such joy to my life but who make daily living so messy, so loud, so fraught with sibling rivalry and screaming and general unpleasantness and threats of penile violence in public. After I kiss the boys good night, I survey the day's damage to the house and begin the never-ending work of picking up the living room. I scoop the blocks into a basket, put the books back on the shelf. I pick my purse up off the floor and hear the rattle of pills inside, the medicine I almost always carry. It reminds me that I need to put a clean bucket in the car before we go anywhere this weekend. Because for now, that's our normal.

August Jack

Apparently, Jack couldn't find his own camera the other day. He has been particularly enamored with this wooden tow truck I bought him and had to take a few pictures of it. 17 of them, actually. This is really a post unto itself. Jack has discovered running, and it may have just changed his life. And mine. The other day I was going for a run, and Jack, heartbroken at being left behind, insisted on coming with me. I put on his little Target shoes and let him come with me, thinking he would tire out in ten minutes and I could bring him home and then go on my own run. Apparently I don't know my son very well. He ran and ran and ran, at top speed, careening through the forest like a human comet. When I finally told him it was time to go home(after about 40 minutes) he cried. The next day we went out and bought him these tiny Nikes. On our next run, it occurred to me that running with Jack was a good metaphor for how I try to parent him: Aaron and I give him the tools he needs to do his best, then we let him choose the path and follow along beside him to help him up when he falls down. Every time we came to a break in the path, Jack would carefully weigh the options then choose the path that looked more difficult. He didn't agonize about it, just took a few seconds to consider the possibilities and then he'd go shooting off again. I made a few suggestions here and there(such as the fact that I thought it would not be a good choice to run head-long into a patch of nettles), but ultimately I let him choose the way. He had a great time, and occasionally between huffing and puffing he'd look at me and say, "This is a good run, Mom. I love you." I can't wait until Fall when the woods will be covered in leaves, making our runs together even more glorious. Throwing sticks into the water; an essential part of being a boy in the summertime. Building sand castles with good friends is the perfect way to spend a hot summer evening. Jack got himself dressed. It was too hot for pants, but just right for rain boots and ear muffs. We went to A Taste of Edmonds this year, and everyone had a fabulous time. They had several different bouncers set up for kids and I bought Jack a few tickets, thinking he'd be too shy try them out. He had such a great time that I had to go back and buy him more tickets so he could repeat his favorites. We also introduced Jack to elephant ears. After his first bite of hot fried dough covered in cinnamon and sugar, he fell silent and didn't say a word until every last bit was gone and he'd licked the remains from his fingers. "That was good," he breathed.

Move Over, Pavarotti

Now I Know My ABC's.....Sort Of

Poor Jack

So this is the price I had to pay for going to the bathroom by myself this morning. Jack has been really into doing the dishes lately, but to do them he has to push one of the chairs from the table up to the sink. The messes were getting out of hand and he was starting to push chairs up to the stove and turn on burners, so while I'm still feeling queasy I decided to use some cotton twine and tied all six of my chairs to the middle support of the table. I left enough slack to pull the chairs in and out enough to sit down, but that's it. The boys(Aaron, Damien and Ryan) have been having a hard time not tripping over the strings, but it's been working so far. Now, no one will tell me who, but SOMEBODY cut one of the strings and Jack quickly discovered that his chair was mobile again. He got so excited about doing the dishes this morning and I've been spending so much time lying on the couch instead of playing with him that I decided to let him enjoy himself and I'd sneak off to the bathroom while he was busy. When I came back, Jack presented me with the cordless phone in pieces and soaking wet, proudly informing me "clean it, clean it" with a very pleased look on his face. He clearly didn't know he was being naughty so I didn't spank him, but informed him that he was not to wash the phone in the future.