Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.
“Mom, I’m writing a book and I’m stuck; I don’t know what to write.” Eden said.
Although Lydia and I were the ones who spotted the mouse, hobbling around the pool area, it was Eden and then Christopher who rushed to his aid. Lydia and I were both seized by a mixture of empathy and fear. It was clear from the way he was moving that there was something not right with the little thing – that he was practically newborn didn’t occur to me. When I see something or someone hurt, my stomach hurts.
This sort of empathy is great, to a point. If you’re having a medical emergency and you need prayer; I’m you’re girl. And I will certainly be Johnny on the spot if you want a moving description of your pain. If it’s first aid you’re looking for then – sorry – I can’t help unless you’re one of my children and I’ll probably be gagging while I administer it.
Lydia seems to be cut out of a similar cloth.
When Eden found out about the mouse she rushed to his side, assessed the situation, got Christopher to help and then came to stir me into action. Armed with my kitchen gloves she was a pint-sized Florence Nightingale. Lydia eventually warmed up and helped try to feed him. Later she even held him a while. But it was Eden who set the therapy ball in motion.
At dinner when she suggested naming him Sparkie or Scout Lydia rolled her eyes. I told Eden she could name him whatever she wanted. Scout was one of the names I had proposed when naming Jack and Eden was my only ally. Since then it has been her go to for stuffed animals, toads and frogs.
Later she, Lydia and I were all on my bed and she called the naming committee to order.
“We’ll go around and each make a suggestion, then we’ll vote on it. You first Mama.”
“I vote for Sparkie.” I was researching something and maybe wasn’t totally investing in naming the mouse.
“No, you have to come up with your own name.”
“Oh. OK.” I had been reading the Economist earlier and trying to think of a male (we all sensed the mouse was a boy) name, Milton Friedman popped into my head.
“Milton.”
Eden wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that.”
Lydia sat up, “Milton, I kind of like that. He was a poet…who was blind. I like it.”
American economist, English metaphysical poet; it’s all good.
“Lydia, you need to make your own suggestion,” The Enforcer reminded.
“I don’t have one. I vote for Milton.”
“You can’t until we all make suggestions!”
“Eden, what do you want to name him.” I stepped in.
She thought for a minute, “I’m thinking about Winkie…”
“Ooooh, I like it.” I said.
Lydia snorted. “Winkie! You want to name him Winkie!”
“Is it time to vote, Eden?”
“Yes. If you want Milton say ‘aye'”.
Lydia raised her hand.
“Say ‘aye'”. Eden prompted.
“Aye!” Lydia obeyed and then noticed that I was silent. “You’re going to vote for Winkie!”
I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
“If you want Winkie say ‘aye'”.
Eden and I both raised our hands and said aye.
There was a protracted argument, but we finally settled (after some diversions: another round of forced suggestions and subsequent vote) on Winkie Milton H_______.
We think it has a certain ring.
Remove rocks, ivy and leaves from pool area
Spray deck cleaner on the deck
Clear deck to do above
Seal deck
Haul out tables and chairs
Paint a several (5) chairs, one settee and a table
Lay pea gravel in driveway
Haul necessary pea gravel
Haul and lay mulch in the beds: by the road, in the front, in the south side garden, in the shade garden, in front of the gazebo and the paths
Haul some manure
Deal with the mess on the hill ( spread out leaves, plant vinca? lay mulch)
Lay soaker hoses
BUY attachments so I can just pop hoses on and off
BUY some top soil to get the vegetable pots going
Plant the rest of the seeds
Paint the house
To be continued…
Eden is nursing a baby mouse back to health, at least that’s what she thinks. In truth she’s probably keeping vigil over, even hastening, its death, but do you have to be so judgey?
Per her direction I called our local nature center. I subtlely made it clear that the Young Naturalist was at my elbow and that I was merely her mouthpiece. She had been gunning for giving the mouse a bath because it had rolled into its urine. I discouraged this, but she was concerned about hygeine. I mentioned this to the woman at the nature center who confirmed that it was better off staying as dry as possible.
“What can we do?” I asked. “We REALLY want to do SOMETHING.”
The woman laughed, “I was the same way when I was a kid.”
And then she said we could try to give it a little food and water and place it in a sheltered spot to protect from predators.
Christopher had picked it up off the pavement and put it in one of gardens. He came inside to wash his hands.
“Poor little thing, it’s probably going to die.” His voice broke at the last and tears sprung into his eyes. “Nature can be so cruel.”
The three kids gathered around it and tried to feed it a bit of warmed milk. Earlier it had opened its little mouth, but now the milk just dripped down its face. When I came out to check on them they had given up.
“We decided to stop because we were concerned that the milk would block its nasal passages.” Lydia informed me.
Eden has tucked the mouse into the nest they made with some clean rags in a box. The box is safely closed in her playhouse.
Earlier today I was in the poolshed and took note of the liberal covering of mouse poop over the shelves I purchased and organized last summer. My thoughts were murderous and there is always a mousetrap set with peanut butter under our sink and yet I find myself wanting to dash out to the playhouse to check on our little patient, hoping to find its tiny heart still beating.
I know it’s been quiet around here at OTJ and I’m sorry about that.
As you can imagine it’s been quite loud on the actual homefront.
The wireless goes from bad to worse. Now, my only consistent coverage is if I press my computer against the wall right above Paul’s nightstand. That makes for less than comfortable circumstances and my online time is restricted to checking e-mail and reading the news. I even try to avoid replying to e-mails as this necessitates leaning way to the side or kneeling on the floor next to the bed. Ridiculous, I know, but figuring out the sitch is low on my list of priorities.
I have had three writing deadlines this month. I submitted an essay (Jackie Boy) to the editor of a book that’s a collection of dog stories and it was immediately accepted. The e-mail I received was the written version of Meg Ryan’s scene in the deli in “When Harry Met Sally”
“Yes. Yes. YES! YES!…” So that was good. I suggested another and I’m waiting to hear if it was accepted.
I also entered an essay in a contest and I’ve been writing quite a bit as I’ve been making all the preparations for Christopher’s schooling next year. This Fall will be the first time in fourteen years that I won’t have children home with me…except for Willa on Thursdays as Torey is quick to remind me. She (Torey) is positioning herself as my agent. She has several stories that she insists I could just “fart out in a day or two”. If only writing was as easy as passing gas.
The results from all the tests are in and the consensus is that C. Riley H. is a smart lad with a wickedly precocious vocabulary who needs to do a spot of work in math. We had the meeting with 8 specialists where we established his educational plan for next year. Everyone, except for one slouch was an absolute dream to work with. The OT phoned in her testing and only acknowledged some things when I pointed them out. In the meeting she said, “Mom only wanted me to do an overview in my testing…” and my jaw dropped. That was a lie. I wanted a full assessment and after dealing with her decided to hire a therapist we had worked with privately to come and help establish accomodations. The OT was more interested in getting Christopher off her book and I was happy to let her, but I am going to “love her enough” as we say in some circles to inform her supervisor that she tried to give me the run around and then put it on me. It’s one thing to play me, but to call me “Mom” when you’re doing it…no.
When Christopher first mainstreamed I didn’t know enough to advocate for him better. We threw him to the wolves. He was sent into the classroom with the only accomodation being a small speaker to amplify his teacher’s voice. He didn’t qualify for the resource room and I didn’t know to push for more. This time I understand some things that I didn’t previously and I have the diagnoses and technical terms that specialists seem to need to hear to take a person seriously.
At this meeting everyone was gracious and helpful and Paul and I were assured that this wasn’t written in stone, that as the year progressed we could always call another meeting. I know this is true, but I decided to have them write down every accomodation we agreed would be helpful, even if it wasn’t immediately relevant.
My biggest fan, the speech pathologist I wrote about last month took a moment to turn the spotlight on Christopher’s wonderful teacher…um, me. She actually swept her arm in a welcoming me to the stage gesture. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t just bask in that, I needed to minimize it. I’m certainly taking full responsibility for his lower math score. The truth is that Christopher’s education has been a four part invention: his intelligence and will (or lack) mingled with my teaching abilitity and will or lack thereof. I deflect the praise about the positives but take the fullness of the negatives and that sucks.
I’m rambling.
This meeting was called the IEP: Individual Educational Plan. We have had many for Christopher through the years. The first one was September 17, 1997 – the day before Lydia’s birth. In those early years we didn’t know what to expect. No one could say if Christopher would be able to speak. We chose an Oral Deaf school because I had taught English overseas and was keenly aware what a difficult language it is to approach as a non native. I could accept that Christopher might never be able to speak English, his immediate circle might be limited to those who sign, I could accept that, but I could not accept him being unable to read vociferously and to write eloquently. I wanted English to be his mother tongue, even if he couldn’t physically speak it and Paul agreed. What made the decision easier was the obvious superiority of the Oral Deaf school to the Total Communication school, at that time.
After the speech pathologist had her “One Shining Moment” for me, she gave her report and then the Hearing Consultant, a teacher from Christopher’s former school who will check in on him and keep working with his listening and speech gave her assessment. At the end the speech pathologist jumped in again and made us have a moment of silence (I’m almost serious!) to acknowledge the singularity of Christopher’s achievement. I think she wasn’t satisfied with my polite demurring and everyone else’s ignorance. She kept making us look at the extraordinary nature of this event. She wanted everyone in that room to take note and I think it frustrated her that only she and the hearing consultant, and Paul and I understood what it meant. She knew. For a moment I got it and I realized that we were THERE, the other side. Of course we’re still on the journey, but we are so far from where we were 12 years ago when these Plans first began. For a moment I remembered sitting around that other table, great with another child, trying to make a way for our first, trying to trust God for all of us. I remember not knowing. That day I didn’t know if Christopher would ever say, “I love you” if he would ever speak at all.
We couldn’t see to this meeting, where it would be established that Christopher nolonger qualifies for speech therapy and is years beyond his chronological age in vocabulary and he can speak. He can speak.
I am thankful for Rose, the speech pathologist, even though she embarrassed me at the time. We should be thankful to anyone who makes us stop, who isn’t afraid to interrupt things, who pulls our chins until we see what she has been pointing to all along.