The War at Home

It’s been a perfect storm this week in our little house.

PBS has been airing Ken Burn’s latest project, “The War”; Jack has given us all a nasty bug; and Robby’s abandoned us for a business trip to San Antonio…

The parallels between the first two will not be lost on anyone who has been cooped up with a very active toddler for days on end. With all due respect to the veterans of the Big War I’ve been fighting my own battles here. Sure– my flak jacket is a well-worn flannel bathrobe and I’ve been using the couch pillows to fend off the rounds of small trucks and other projectiles… The night I watched the Baatan Death March coincided with the night I realized we were running really low on milk– Jack’s drink of choice. (Not to mention that the only thing that really sounded good was the #14 Combination Plate from my favorite restaurant that closed a few years ago…) On screen generals and presidents issued orders and commands while my little tyrant stood on the coffee table and said, “No! No! No! No! NOOOO!” to my suggestion that we think about picking up “our” toys.

Meanwhile– in the midst of all of this madness– Robby would call from San Antonio’s riverwalk area where his biggest obstacle was choosing which authentic Mexican restaurant to dine in… Huh. It’s the WW2 equivalent of getting a chatty letter from home with the underlying message, “Oh. Sorry to hear that you’ve been in that muddy foxhole outside Italy for the last 3 months– I know just how you feel! Last Tuesday Joe took me to the movies and I forgot my sweater– oooh! it was chilly! Joe and I are going steady now. He kisses better, too.”

Send reinforcements?

September 20, 2007

Dear JackRabbit,
Well, my boy, you’re turning three tomorrow. Three. Daddy and I are having a hard time believing that…wasn’t it just last week that you came home with us all new and tiny and mewing? …yesterday that you were trying out smushy bananas for the first time? And now you are this fiercely curious little man that hurtles yourself off steps, ottomans, decks and the like. I think you’re trying to fly.

We’ve had a great year, little Rabbit�we’ve gone on Grand Adventures�you and I tackled a trip to France without Daddy to spend time with Momma� You’ve been to two Museum conferences and Rememberance Day in Gettysburg all in your bright red Man Dress� Another Galena New Year’s Eve�where, once again, you slept through the frivolities (though you dressed in your jammie tuxedo and charmed us all)� You had your first No Mommy No Daddy Overnights at Momma�s (while we got to go to Chicago with Auntie Susan and Uncle Gordy)� A weekend in Chicago via the Choo Choo Train� another weekend at Momma’s while Auntie E went and got herself married� and a whole week on the beach at Family Camp with your new pal Trey�

Not bad for such a little Rabbit, eh?

And all the things you’ve learned this year! Sentences and phrases and parroting your Mommy and Daddy’s every phrase. (Your favorites this week: “Niiiice.” “Delicioso!” “AWKward!” and “Ooh la la!”) For the past week you’ve had this funny little schtick going where you say, “You’re a good boy, Mommy!” (Momma got that, too�) which is far better than you telling me, “You no good Mommy! You mean!” when I’ve told you your least favorite word, “no.”

And oh! How spoiled! Your grandparents all chipped in and bought you a beautiful, lovely ClimbySlideyFort Thing. It’s had you enchanted for two weeks now. We spend a lot of time out in Philbin’s backyard playing up in your JackShack. Daddy and I have a special surprise for you, too�a book, of course, this one on “Trucks!” and a spiffy tricycle. We were going to give it to you today but you still are working off a cold and we’ve decided to hold off on it. Maybe Saturday? Or Sunday? We’ll stretch your birthday out a bit�

As for tomorrow� well. You and I will have lunch someplace fun. And then, in the late afternoon, Grandpa and GrandLady (who will be making a RARE trip down from Up North), Momma and Eric, AunT, Maddie, Keegy, and Uncle Andy will pop over for AunT’s noodle soup. We’re going to eat in the Little Black Dog’s Yard so that you can play in your fort. Tonight I made you a Choo Choo Train Cake�(Aunt Dorrit and Uncle David bought the pan earlier this summer) and we’ll sing Happy Birthday Dear Jacky while you blow out your THREE candles�

And I’ll wish for you that this New Year of Jack will bring us the same measure of joy that this fading one has� that you will be healthy and clever and curious and sweet and generous with your Awww! Hugs and kissies. I hope that your world will continue to be as small as our arms and as wide as your farthest flung ersatz Aunties and Uncles.

How we do love you, Jack boy. How very glad I am to be your Mama and to have the very great privilege of watching you grow and learn and figure out who it is you are�You are the only proof I need that God is very, very good. I love you so very, very much sweet boy,

Love,
Mommy

Mean docs that go bump in the night

The other night we took a little trip in to the ER– at the hospital nearest the Lake Cottage where we were spending the weekend with my in-laws. Jack was congested and miserable– sleeping in fits and starts and waking up with the saddest, most pitiable whimpering cry. It broke our hearts.

And worried mine. He’d run a little fever off and on all that day and I worried that maybe he’d had an ear infection. So off the three of us went into the cold night in search of answers.

Jack, of course, was fine once we hit the main road. He began singing and dancing in the carseat while his Daddy blearly drove onward. (This, any parent will tell you, is completely expected. Pull into or near an area of medical expertise and the child patient will suddenly be void of any symptoms or ailments. Broken bones will mend! Fevers will poof! vanish! Chicken pocks will disappear! It’s a univeral thing.)

At the ER– mercifully empty– we met first a kind receptionist, then a kind nurse, then another kind nurse… the latter two who, albeit, sent Jack wailing freshly and indignantly at being examined. A third nurse appeared on the scene while we waited for the MD. Third Nurse produced bubbles out of his pocket and enchanted Jack. (Note to self: Stock diaper bag with mini-bubbles.)

By the time we saw the MD appear in the doorway our Jack was completely and utterly entranced with the bubbles we were sending all over the room. THe doctor was brusque and quickly ran down the list of questions we’d already gone over… symptoms, timing, blah-blah-blah. She snapped at me –She’d asked if he had been born full term and I faltered and said, “He came three weeks early.” That IS full term I was told in no uncertain terms. She snapped at Robby next– he’d bought Jacky “Infant Tylenol Cold” drops– because, in the limited selection that morning at the local store, he’d read the backs of “ITC” and “Children’s Tylenol Cold” and found that Jack was still well within the weight listed on the former. “He’s NOT an infant!” she informed us. (Duh.) Then doubled back on herself later and told us to keep giving him that… but to make sure he gets the proper dosage (two dropperfuls– just like we’ve BEEN GIVING HIM!)

We didn’t care for her. By the time she announced that it was a virus– a cold– and not an ear or otherwise infection we just wanted to get the hell out of there. Our relief that he wasn’t in ear-pain was great– but diminished by her rotten bedside manner.

What did she think of us? Did she think we regularly troll the halls of ERs in the middle of cold, northern September nights? Did she think we poked and pulled our son to get him to cry in some Munchausen moment of bubble procurement?

Why was she so mean?

As for Jack– well. A day later and a world away from the pipe smoke/fireplace/kerosene heater/cat combination of the in-laws has done him a world of good. Last night he soaked in the bathtub and slept between us– propped up on our pillows most of the night. Today he ate pizza with his AunT and sang songs in his raspy little lounge singer voice. So all’s well that end’s well.

But beware the crabby ER docs. Yikes.

Blessed are the (Good) Sunday School Teachers

My childhood Sunday School Teacher died today.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately—even before I knew she was sick and dying. I’ve been wondering if there’s anyone out there like her for our Jack. Robby and I have been searching for just the right Sunday School for the little JackRabbit—wanting him to sing the “B-I-B-L-E” and “Zaccheus Was a Wee Little Man” as easily as he does “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star…” I want him to have a Sunday School that he is eager to enter full of other kids his age to grow up with.

I’m sad that my old Teacher never knew my little son or how much, at least with adult hindsight, I appreciated all the work she must have put into those many, many Sundays. I’m sure at times we were good and sweet children and told her thank you at the end of the day with a genuine ounce of gratitude… but I’m also sure that there were many Sundays we ran out of her class without a look backwards.

She taught me how to sing “Jesus Loves Me,” and to sign “His Name is Wonderful” and she had, in her puppet filled room a miniature layout of the Tabernacle that fed my later adoration of all things wee and small. When we were good we were given treats. When we were naughty we were swept up in her ample arms and hugged. Rarely—but often enough to be anticipated and hoped for—came the Sundays we “skipped” the Bible lesson and preamble and walked instead to the A&W Rootbeer stand.

From her I learned a long lesson in learning to Be Content With What You Are Given—her giant story boards of a missionary in India longing for blue eyes (instead of brown, like mine) illustrated that. And her flannelgraph stories! Oh! the magic in them. They took us to far away lands and ancient times.

I’m still startled by the number of Bible verses that come to mind or come drifting up out of deep, murky memories… we memorized them weekly—daily even—to please her. Of course, she knew the long term benefits of having, at our beck and call, John 3:16, Romans 3:23, I Peter 5:7, Hebrews 13:5, Revelations 3:20… The Bible Drills in those classes were legendary. We learned the Old Testament and the easier New Testament books before most of us could spell our last names. Worked up into a lather we’d stuff our faces with donuts and Scripture Cookies and other treats.

There were some weird politics at the church my family attended when I was small (we were young enough to be kept out of the conversations and decisions…) eventually, as churches often do, it split apart into factions of those who stayed and those—like us—who left. I never had a Sunday School teacher like her again. Good and kind people that were dear in their own rights but noone who gave me such a foundation—or matched my parents’ foundation—as she did. My Dad was a Sunday School Teacher at the new church we went to— and he was beloved as we did her. He’d learned a lot of her tricks during the years Trish and I had her.

Maybe, today, he was there to greet her with a plate of Scripture Cookies and a few good stories?