Sick Enough for Sympathy?

Those who know me know that I'm not the warm and fuzzy, "motherhood-rocks" type. My rather cynical and smart ass approach to parenting unfortunately carries over to when the kids, or my husband, is sick. I blame my parents (and someday my children will blame me) since they weren't exactly the sympathetic and doting types either (it's okay, guys. I still love you.).

I find that my degree of sympathy and a motherly response is dependent on the physical symptoms I can actually observe:

• Throwing up? Excellent visual confirmation that you are, in fact, ill
• Diarrhea? The kids think one messy poop qualifies. Me? I need to see regular desperate dashes to the bathroom. 
• Fever of 101+? Check. That qualifies for some extra mommy-loving. 
• A croupy cough that keeps you (and me) up at night? Okay, I can buy that. 

But laying around just feeling lousy? An occasional cough or sniffle? A sore throat that the doctor says isn't strep? Pick yourself up, take a shower, get dressed, and start moving. Like my Pop Pop used to tell his daughters, "Put on some lipstick, and you'll feel better." Lipstick was like a magical elixir for my pop pop.

Ian stayed home from school on Friday with a mild sore throat and general lack of energy. I let him stay home because it was the first sick day he requested this year. His vegetative state persisted through the weekend, causing him to miss an opportunity to go sailing with a friend. Missing an opportunity to hang in the Chesapeake on a 47' sailboat would have been a definite confirmation of illness for some (ME!). With Ian, however, I'm never sure if it's illness or a bit of anticipated homesickness that's causing discomfort. I once drove nine hours to pick him up, only slightly ill, from a church mission trip he attended with the youth group. I have my doubts about his general staying power.

On Monday I took Ian to the doctor who diagnosed allergies, suggested some Allavert, and told Ian he could go back to school. Ian wasn't having it. He stayed home again. Tuesday he said he felt moderately better so I pushed him out the door sent him off to school. When I picked him up he looked like death warmed over. He was dramatically improved, however, from about 4:00 p.m. till 9:00 p.m., and then went back to being pathetic not feeling well. Today he's home again.

Is it allergies?
Lyme disease?
Mono (and if so, who's he been kissing)?
Walking pneumonia?
Malaria?
Bubonic plague?
A school bully?
A difficult test?
A mere funk?

I suppose another visit to the doctor is in order, complete with blood work, if this persists.

While I continue to work on my sympathy skills, how about sharing your thoughts on determining the actual level of illness in your child?

My Best Four-Legged Girl

In his sermon on Sunday, my pastor preached on the story of  Legion, the possessed man whom Jesus healed by driving out his demons (Luke 8: 26-39). Unfortunately, the demons were driven into a herd of pigs which then drowned themselves in a river. Seeing fit to add a bit of social commentary, my pastor suggested that after this incident, "PETA probably started protesting whenever Jesus was around." He added, "Based on where we spend our money, our society cares more about animals than starving children," and emphasized that, for Jesus, the life of one human being was worth more than those lost swine.

Pets and animals in general are a touchy subject. For some, including a number of my friends, animals are the equivalent of human beings. They believe they have feelings, thoughts, and other human attributes. I immediately thought of these folks when I heard this message in church. I knew that they would have been offended, based on the "they're only animals" tone of my pastor's comments.

As a rule, I'm in my pastor's camp on this issue. I do believe a human life has more worth than an animal's. I think the anti-PETA "People Eating Tasting Animals" t-shirts are funny. I don't get it when pet owners spend thousands of dollars on their animals or leave their inheritance to them. None of this means I don't love my dog, cat, and guinea pig, but they are not my equals.

Of course, this was what I was thinking on Sunday morning, before the growth on Maddie's eye started bleeding on Sunday evening. Maddie, as most of you know, is my yellow-lab. A second-(undocumented)- cousin to the infamous Marley. We have a love-hate relationship. She makes me crazy much of the time. When people ask how old she is I tell them she's 12, but that she's going to live forever just to piss me off. Now I'm not so sure.

I stayed home from work today to take Maddie to the vet, and I knew I was going to have a tough decision to make. How much was I going to be willing to spend to have this growth removed from her eye? "'They're only animals" thinking works just fine until one of yours is hurting. Well, it turns out the decision was more complicated than the dollars alone. The vet acknowledged that at Maddie's age, anesthesia could be too much for her. He questioned how her quality of life has been over the past year. ("Slowing down considerably. Her legs sometimes go out from under her.") He assured me that the bleeding was not going to cost her her life. I asked him how long labs typically live. He told me 10-12 years with rare exceptions.

I've decided to do what I can to make Maddie comfortable and to accept the fact that she probably won't be with me much longer. During this time we have left, I'll continue to make room for her in my bed and on my couch. I'll slip her that piece of my peanut butter sandwich. I'll sit outside with her when she's tired of being in the house and just wants to lie in the sunshine. She may not be my equal, but she is my faithful best friend whom I promised to love, sustain, and protect on the day I adopted her.

The Fine Art of Negotiation

There are many lessons my father has tried to teach me over my forty years. Unfortunately, not all of them have stuck, including:

• Good driving habits
• Home improvements
• Reading a ruler
• Using less toilet paper
• Cleaning a paint brush
• Driving a stick shift
• General car maintenance

But recently I came to the realization that one of dad's lessons did pay off, namely, the fine art of negotiation. Now, negotiation is probably not the right word as it implies a back-and-forth meeting of the minds. What my dad does is not that amiable. He plays hardball. As a kid, the last place you wanted to be was with my dad when he was buying a car or disputing a bill.

I first discovered my "negotiation" skills a couple years ago in my job as marketing director for Judson Press. As a non-profit Christian publisher, money is always an issue and I wasn't lying when I had to tell magazine ad reps that I just couldn't afford their rates to promote our books. I became pretty darn good at crying poverty and tugging at heart strings to secure rock bottom rates. Those little victories would just make my day.

Another negotiation tactic I've employed requires using my "feminine wiles" to see if I can save a buck. Recently, in the parking lot at a Phils game, I batted my eyelashes when the attendant told me it was $15. I sweetly asked if he'd take $10. He actually agreed...as long as I'd give him a five dollar bill with it.  I may be about twenty years too late for this approach.

Just last week, I broke down and was forced to use the Walt approach to negotiation (Walt's my dad).Yes, I got ugly. Here's how it happened.

I was enjoying a perfectly lovely cleaning at the dentist. The hygienist was applauding my noticeably increased attention to flossing. She thought my x-rays looked good. Then the dentist came in for his two-minute review. And, you guessed it, he found something needing fixing that wasn't covered by insurance.When the receptionist gave me the $1170 quote, I started getting irritable. I made the follow-up appointment and left in a huff.

Then I talked to Dad. Turns out his dentist does the same procedure for $800. I made the appointment with his dentist and called mine to cancel and request copies of the x-rays. Receptionist told me there might be a fee for the x-rays. I went off, big time. Told her what I thought of their office and their money-making shake-down operation (they offer Botox, for cryin' out loud!). She said she'd call me back. Two days later, my procedure was down to $450.

I've come to the conclusion that nearly everything in life is negotiable. If you haven't already, I recommend calling Verizon or Comcast and threatening to cancel and switch to the competition. One little phone call saved me $30 a month. I think I'm starting to enjoy the art of negotiation...

The Walk & Talk about the Birds & Bees

Ian had an eventful weekend. On Saturday, he celebrated his 12th birthday with a party/sleepover. And on Friday evening, I made him take a neighborhood stroll with me while we talked about boy/girl stuff. I guess the good news is that Ian hates walking so much that the talking part didn't seem as bad in comparison.

I wouldn't have had to have the "talk" with Ian if my husband was doing his job. For about nine months now (the irony of that length of time isn't lost on me), I've been asking him to talk to Ian man-to-man. I wanted this conversation to take place before Ian had health class in school. Well, health class ended last week and still Rob has said nothing. Hence, the walk & talk with mom.

So you're probably wondering what I said and how it went. Well, it was rather spur of the moment and I didn't know what I wanted to cover, so needless to say I stammered through it. I stuck to the emotional aspect of things, acknowledging that health class probably covered most of the technical stuff, and for anything distinctly male, his Dad was going to have come through. I generally covered:

• Respecting girls/women
• Never doing anything with a girl that she doesn't want to do
• Sex being more than just a physical act and how your brain and heart need to be involved
• The significance of the "first time" and why you need to be an adult, in love, and in a committed relationship

That last one was a toughy. I threw in "ideally after marriage," but I couldn't bring myself to sell it to him as gospel (no pun intended). Yes, I'm a Christian, and yes, I know what I'm supposed to say. I also know that admitting this may get me thrown out of my own Freakin' Angels club and may result in me being shunned at church on Sunday, but I don't know that I believe waiting for marriage makes someone a better Christian or even makes for a better union between husband and wife. Yikes, there, I said it. Let the barrage of comments begin.

But back to Ian. So how did he take our "talk?" Pretty well, actually. When I asked him what he thought about everything, he said he thinks waiting for marriage is the way to go. Of course, it's possible he said that just so we wouldn't have to have this conversation again until his wedding night.

Party On...and Next Year, Off-Site

We almost missed it altogether. Another birthday. Another party. Ian was turning twelve, and with just a week to go, we hadn't planned anything for him. In a moment of brilliance I suggested a camp out in the backyard. We've got the perfect yard for it, including the fire pit, and I figured a group of 12-year-olds were prepared to sleep outside without parental supervision. Of course, I also considered that this wonderful plan would keep them out of my house.

Naturally, Mother Nature didn't cooperate. She turned up the wind machines, dropped the temperature 15 degrees, and the boys ended up on the floor of my newly redecorated living room, the only inhabitable room in the house.

If you've never been the mom of a 12-year-old, let me tell you what to expect at the party:

• The occasional swear word (when they assumed no adult was within hearing range)
• The sulker. The one kid who didn't want to do what the rest of the group was doing (He went off and played on the computer by himself.)
• Intense Nerf gun battles
• A refusal to go to sleep at a reasonable hour because, "We're 12, mom!!!"
• A wake-up call at an ungodly hour. When six 12-year-olds are up, you're up.

[Early on in the evening I remembered distinctly that I swore last year that I would stop having the kids' birthday parties at our house. Damn my 40-year-old memory!]

The most interesting part of the festivities revolved around food. Some highlights:

• The vegetarian who announced at breakfast that bacon has many death-hastening qualities.
• The kid who was never hungry. No dinner. No cake. No breakfast. 
• The smart-ass who requested I try not to burn his next hot dog, since the first one was inedible. "Look, Ian! This one isn't shriveled to less than three times its original size!"
• The kid who boasted that he had eaten horse and whale meat (note to self, don't dine at his house)

The best part of the evening, next to the drinks with Ian's friend's parents, was that I'd left my computer on and was able to immediately set my reminder for April 12, 2011.  The date on which I will reserve a restaurant, arcade, or paintball field for Ian's next birthday party.

Wishing the Tough Calls were Left to the Umps

Life can be painful. High heels. Paper cuts. Taxes. Love lost. Childbirth. Smacking yourself in the mouth when you're trying to pry open a the lid on a sports water bottle.

But one of the most painful things in life is seeing your child hurting.

We all know by now that I'm not the warm and fuzzy-type mommy. I'm not above making my child cry when he has it coming. However, when someone or something else makes my child cry, it hurts me, too.

Ian is playing baseball this season. Against his will. Rob signed him up based on Ian having enjoyed tolerated the sport last year. Ian is not a natural athlete. He much prefers his activities to include a screen rather than a bat, ball, or net. Needless to say, in an effort to keep him from becoming the definition of sedentary, Rob and I are always trying to keep him involved in something that doesn't require only the use of his thumbs. Hence, baseball.

This year, Ian isn't enjoying tolerating the experience. Our pre-game ritual involves Ian "standing up for himself" and fighting with whichever parent has the misfortune of having to take him to the ballpark. Once there, he puts on a reasonably good face until which time he misses the fly ball, hesitates on the throw, bobbles the ball, or strikes out, and then the game is over for him mentally and emotionally. Ian believes he is the worst player on the team and it's taking its toll on him.

Having never stuck with anything I wasn't good at until I hit my thirties, I am sympathetic to Ian and his overwhelming desire to quit baseball. It pains me to see him in tears in the dugout, knowing that the embarrassment of the tears themselves is probably as bad or worse than the play he just failed to make and the feeling that he's let his team down again. If this was an individual sport like karate, golf, or tennis, it would be easier to force him to stick with it for a determined amount of time, but being a team sport makes it that much more difficult for me to not kidnap him from the dugout and tuck him away safely somewhere.

I don't think Rob will allow Ian to quit baseball until this season is over, and it's not because he's cruel. I'm sure he believes that this experience will build Ian's character and hopefully teach him something about teamwork and perseverance. I hope he's right. In the meantime, I'll try to keep my sympathetic tears for Ian to myself.

Lessons Learned the Hard Way

Recently I've made (or been affected by) a number of mistakes that I want to share with you as a public service. There is plenty of practical everyday advice that we're all familiar with, thanks to our mothers. Mine is a bit more obscure, but I believe equally important:

• Don't apply eye drops while driving
• Don't use hand cream while driving
• Don't read a book while sitting in close proximity to little league players practicing their throwing and catching (or lack thereof). Even baseballs thrown at 10 mph sting a little when they hit you (twice).
• Always check for holes at the bottom of the plastic bag before using it to pick up dog poop
• Don't sit down and watch television while ignoring a pile of dog poop in front of you (because your mother will go ballistic)
• Don't allow your kids to use your ipod when you have the Violent Femmes "Add it Up" among your song selections
• Don't read a book on your recliner while your wife vacuums under your feet (because your wife will go ballistic)
• Don't fall asleep on a bus while drinking a 16 oz cup of tea in a flimsy to-go cup
• Don't confess to not following basketball when an intelligent fellow mom who also happens to be a journalist references the Baltimore Sun
• Don't loudly use the word "Hell" when you work in a Christian organization

That's all for now. Undoubtedly there will be a Part 2 to this one in the not-to-distant future. Meanwhile, feel free to share advice based on what you may have recently learned the hard way!