Academic rambling

I have realized I am an academic nonconformist. I don't think I'm alone; generally, the term is "eclectic homeschooler." I don't fit into any particular camp.
I love the idea of a Classical Education. Familiarity with the roots of Western civilization from the roots--the Jews in Israel, the Greeks, the Romans, how Christendom came about... It's fascinating and worthwhile, and not nearly well-known enough. I look back on my own K-12 public school education and have flashes of, "So THAT is what they were trying to do!" I wanted that for my own kids when Madeleine was five.
I've reconsidered since. The amount of time needed for such an education is considerable, not just on the student but also on the teacher. Even if you buy course plans or syllabi, checking over the work and answering questions isn't done instantly. Discussions are supposed to be had to flesh out what's going on, to give that material meaning. So if a student is spending 6-7 hours a day just doing the work independently, when are these profound conversations supposed to be had? Around the dinner table with small children, or en route to extracurriculars? Exactly how many kids are supposed to be having these discussions?
I also chafe at being wedded to a particular curriculum. At least a couple providers tout how flexible they are, but for high school there are parameters or requirements. Course plans or syllabi must be followed exactly to get their diploma and the college track is presumed. And of course that's what you want for your child; her opinion on it is irrelevant anyway, because she's just a teenager and doesn't know what she wants. Mother knows best, after all.
Money question: What's the difference between sending your kids to a brick-and-mortar school where you have little (if any) say about the curriculum, and using a purchased curriculum arranged by someone else who's never met your kid?
I feel countercultural for admitting the following, so I'll just come out with it: I don't know how many of my children will go to college, and I'm not going to force them to. Neither will I feel like a failure as a homeschooler if they don't. There are other barometers of success besides letters after one's name, and I've heard of too many college graduates unable to find jobs where they can support themselves and their college debts. A college diploma is still a ticket for success, but it's changed from comparable to a train to more like the lottery.
Then I swing over to the unschooling mindset. Why not follow the kid's lead? Trust and pray, pay attention and strew. I can't give myself over to that completely because, as one of my children put it, "To go full unschooler would probably result in a whole lot more studying of the Wii." But the idea of the student having some say in what they're studying pulls me too hard to ignore. It just makes sense at an inchoate level that they'll do better when they're doing what they want to do.
The revelation of my nonconformity has become undeniable as Madeleine, her father, and I investigate ninth grade. One school studies the Greeks, one does both Greeks and Romans, another nonclassical has a more-familiar "college prep" feel; I even looked at my and Husband's high schools. After a few hours of dizzying variety, I realized that there are fewer terms more generic and meaningless than "English 9." Sure, it's a required class for graduation, but what exactly is covered in that class is so varied as to render the term useless.
So, I'm scattered. We'll be using one school's Earth Science course for science, continuing with our current textbook series for math, and using a tenth grade course for history and literature because that's where her interest lay. She'll continue her weekly study of Latin as she has for two years now (according to some guidelines, she's already in tenth grade for that), and for her sixth class she wants to study Shakespeare. That should keep us busy and happy for ninth grade. No, I don't want to discuss tenth or Dale coming along in a year or two.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Seasonal wardrobe changes are happening here, which is really the most laborious and least important task. Figuring out what might fit next summer, what should be packed away for the next child, what can be donated, what should be thrown away, for four different wardrobes.
Sometimes I question the practicality and ease of hand-me-downs, despite the financial savings.

Anyway, it has come to light that Rachel has at least a dozen different winter dresses for church. No exaggeration. That doesn't include sleeveless summer ones that she says she could layer; that bumps the number up to something like 18. Neither does that include play clothes--jeans and sweatshirts, etc. The good point is that leaves more room in Santa's sack for toys come Christmas.
Lou's wardrobe is the same way, though he doesn't have dresses. He wants for nothing clothing-wise except maybe socks or shoes. It's quite stunning, the embarrassment of abundance these kids deal with.

Madeleine and Dale, though, probably could use a few things--her more than him, too. He needs his drawers cleaned out more than to receive anything. That does need to happen first, as well. At least the girls are done, Lou's done.

I've got the kitchen table covered with pink baby stuff; Elizabeth should be equipped when she makes her debut. That's a post all its own.

On skinned knees and wing clipping

In a strange convergence of circumstances, we've had some pretty profound discussions. Maybe I'm the only one who sees the parallels. I've been brewing this post for a couple weeks now.

Last Tuesday we had our homeschooling Catholic moms' Bible study. The girls--there are three eight-year-olds--donned helmets and went riding bikes around the block. It's a small block, maybe four or five houses per side, and they've walked it before in a large group (six kids or so?). Nonetheless I was a touch nervous as Madeleine hasn't done much turning on her bike. Of course, she returned with a skinned knee.
I had thought of this before. Knees covered in Band-aids are a staple of childhood, like splinters and mosquito bites. To attempt to prevent them, protect them completely from those things.... Down that road lay madness.
She didn't cry as I washed it, dabbed it with ointment, and bandaged it though there were some deep shuddering sighs and pinkish around the eyes. She did inform me later that it hurt some as we knelt for bedtime prayers; I figured some bruising on impact made sense and gave her a pass for a few days. Life goes on.

I've since finished reading E. B. White's Trumpet of the Swan during quiet time (Lou's naptime) as well. There is a chapter entitled "Freedom" near the end, where Louis (the main swan) and his love are offered perfect--and permanent--safety at a zoo. They will always have enough to eat, no danger of otter, fox, or other predators. The cost is Serena is pinioned--she gets a wing clipped and can no longer fly. Louis chooses freedom, the ability to go from the pond in Canada to the lake in Montana as the seasons dictate. He recognizes and accepts the risk of being hunted or not having enough food. It seems a simple enough choice. I pointed that dilemma out to the kids; they seemed thoughtful.

Also a couple weeks ago, as some readers already know, Dale's and my 11-year-old nephew was set upon by a dozen thugs who did enough damage to send him to the hospital. This is not a boy who shoots his mouth off or goes looking for trouble; he wasn't out after dark or in what would be recognized as a troubled area. He was walking around his neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon with his 9-year-old sister.
I was asked, "Where were any adults?" My guess is at home though their father may have been at work; perhaps one was grocery shopping. I'm not sure exactly where they should have been; to me, it seems a bit extreme to escort an 11-year-old and a 9-year-old around their own neighborhood.

Or is it? Since her birthday, coincidentally the same day as the assault, Madeleine has been permitted to walk the quarter mile to the party store on the corner alone. She's gone twice to get a gallon of milk. Yes, both times I watched the clock for the 20 minutes she was gone, keeping an ear cocked for her return while getting Lou down for his nap.
Am I leaving her vulnerable to such an attack? Should I be accompanying her still, an 8-year-old and me at over 8 months pregnant? When does "protective" become "paranoid"? Where is the line between clipping her wings and responsible parenting, and how many skinned knees will we have before she can fly?

Busier than a one-legged cat...

...trying to bury turds on a frozen pond.

Questions I've Answered in the Past Week:
1. Is Rudolph real?
2. But how did the baby get in there?
3. Why does poop come out your butt? (This by far was the easiest and most fun to answer, even at the lunch table.)
4. What is gold made of? (This one wasn't bad either, especially since the asker had already read a bit about atoms and elements.)

We have started up to school now for a couple weeks, and Rachel is officially in kindergarten. Well, for reading she's in first grade, but she's only doing four subjects a day and is done in about an hour.

Dale's math "problem" has been kind of resolved. I'm looking ahead in the math book to avoid redundant pages, for one. Only doing one page a day as well. Those new habits have helped. We also found and bought a Soma cube and a tangram puzzle set, which Madeleine is also intrigued by. Won't do her any harm, either.

We had Madeleine take the CAT test this past June; her first time taking a fill-in-the-oval test. She did typical of homeschoolers--her lowest score was still a grade above. She was counted as second grade, ninth month and her "worst" score was third grade, eighth month. A couple things she topped out the meter---word analysis, spelling, social studies, and launguage expression. As to her composite for the total battery, her grade equivalent was 5.7. Yeah, this is the child who needed two years of kindergarten. And yes, I still laugh at that.

Elizabeth is fine, though carrying her around all the time is starting to take its toll. In church, I can sing or stand--not both or I get too short of breath. My next appointment is scheduled for Sept. 11. Then I'll go in on a Wednesday morning for a final check ultrasound and to schedule induction. Given this is my fifth delivery with this doc, I'm predicting a date of October 7. Five weeks to go, folks.

Last note: my "book club" partner, for those who don't know already via Facebook, is my beloved husband. We see each other regularly, we both love to read, neither of us fear big or impressive books. Last summer we both read the Harry Potter series, so why not? I brought it up to him at dinner and he seemed positive. When I told him my idea for a reading list (Kolbe's curriculum), he liked that idea too. I even went so far as to say he could choose the first book and we could alternate after that. He had ordered us each Fagle's translation of The Iliad before we got the kids in the bath that evening. Since I can gauge his enthusiasm for an idea by how quickly he acts on it, I'm thinking he really likes it.

I've squeezed in that much blogging today; let's try to get some sheets taken care of and dishes washed. A woman's work is never done...

Rachel has watched almost no Sesame Street.

And she'll be five next month. When we watched The Muppet Movie, she called Big Bird "Big Fluffy." I laughed.

Why not? Well, part of it is just I leave the TV off for great periods of time. I don't have it on as background noise at all; I'd rather have the radio or CD's. Katrina Kenison has a chapter in her marvelous Mitten Strings for God about not needing the TV or background noise, how you hear much more and listen better to our children and ourselves. I realize as well that I get easily sucked in and the kids are even more easily. So most of the time, it's off.

Another reason is that it seemed whenever I'd turn it on, they were soliciting donations. That didn't hold my interest, let alone a toddler's. Fifteen minutes of "For a donation of X amount, we'll send you this prize!" made the Elvis remote so very understandable. What they don't say is that once they have your name, address, and phone number they'll hound you into the grave for another donation. No, thanks; I don't even give my real name to magazines I want.

"But it's educational!" Sure it is, at least it used to be. Have you watched it in recent years? I remember playing with my sister, making various letters on the floor. "Look, Mom! We're an H!" We had the LP, too. It had Rubber Duckie, I Love Trash, C is for Cookie... Good times, good times.

But now? Not so much. The Number of the Day is mentioned twice, once by the Count and then in the short immediately following. Cookie Monster is on a diet of fruits and vegetables and Oscar the Grouch shows his soft side with his pet Slimy the worm. I miss those aliens, the pink and blue, that were afraid of the telephone ringing. Those two were hilarious.
And because I can:



Then comes the most compelling personage of all: Elmo. Master of merchandising, king of treacly drivel, with a voice more irritating than Fran Drescher's or Rosie's (Perez or O'Donnell--take your pick). The subject of Sesame Street came up at dinner this evening.

"Why don't you like Elmo?" Madeleine asked.
"Because he's irritating. And he's only around for merchandising. For selling things."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when I was growing up, you could get stuffed toys of most or all of the characters. There were ones about as big as your Webkinz, and others maybe as big as Kit."
"That was okay."
"Right. There was a limit. Now, there's regular Elmo, Tickle Me Elmo, Chicken Dance Elmo, Rock and Roll Elmo... All he is is for selling more stuff."

Daddy and I continued the train after the kids had left the table. I felt a moment of inspiration; we've recently caught several episodes of "Lock N Load" with R. Lee Ermey. "You know who I want to see? Gunnery Sergeant Elmo. Wouldn't that be great?"
Daddy laughed and said in Elmo's falsetto, "You are all equally worthless to me."

So now, I leave it to you. What kind of Elmo would you love to see?

Just varia

More to remind myself than anyone else.

I don't know if I posted it here, but it's been elsewhere (Husband's blog, Facebook, the old-fashioned telephone, announcements by my mother) that we're expecting a girl come October, no later than the 19. Elizabeth Christina is, according to ultrasound, a little on the small side but not so much so as to engender worry. Otherwise everything is textbook and problem-free. Aside from having twenty extra pounds strapped to my abdomen, that is. Roughly ten more weeks to go.

I've read two books in the past month. The first was Robert Spencer's Religion of Peace?: Why Christianity Is and Islam Isn't. It's a delightfully un-PC romp through the history and current status of two of the world's biggest and most influential religions. He doesn't ignore the wrongdoings of Christians, but points out that if you have to go back to the Crusades (which, if I may point out, were a defensive move to begin with--and not a pre-emptive one either) or Galileo to cite them, perhaps a more modern examination is in order. Followers of a certain other monotheistic faith are daily making the papers, and not for their missionary work. I got this book of his because I have the feeling his other stuff would keep me up at night.

The other was for my birthday last Wednesday, and I finished it over the weekend. Lenore Skenazy's Free Range Kids: Giving Our Children the Freedom We Had Without Going Nuts with Worry is a breath of fresh air. Her writing style reminds me a lot of Vicki Iovine's (another one of my favorite reality-check writing moms). She takes a common-sense approach to motherhood and protecting our children. She's pro-car-seat, -bike-helmet, and -sunscreen but thinks playgrounds where tag is outlawed are ridiculous. So she ridicules them.
I remember during my first pregnancy I picked up What to Eat When You're Expecting. I figured I had a pretty healthy diet; this would just be refining and a few tips. Whoa, was I wrong. Two chapters in or something and the discussion on the evils of white flour had me feeling like I was abusing our child and she hadn't even been born. I wept; the book went.
Here's a sample:
This is a mat you put on the bottom of the tub. Turn the water on, and if the words TOO HOT! magically appear in a bubble near the duckie's head, you know that the water is, indeed, too hot! Because who can trust her own wrists anymore?
Oh wat a sec. We all can. Dip a wrist in the water, and you yourself can tell if that water is warm, cold, or boiling hot. (Key word: YEOW!) So why on earth is there not only this heat sensitive bath mat for sale but also a competing turthle you can put in your tub that will indicate TOO HOT! too? (Not a real turtle, who would indicate that by turning into soup.)
She cites statistics, anecdotes, and real-world experiences. I laughed my way through this one and intend to lend it out to friends.
Dear husband, though, did have a quibble with her point. Where yes, stranger kidnapping is exceedingly rare (noncustodial parent being far more common), our society now has sexualized children more than in the past. The steady pornification (I think I made that word up) of the general population has made it more possible, or even acceptable, for the perverts.
He may be right, but that doesn't change the fact that a child is 40 times more likely to die in a car accident, ten times more likely to die in a fire at home, twenty times more likely to drown in a pool, and eighty or ninety times more likely to be molested by someone they know than kidnapped and murdered by a stranger. (Those are her stats, not mine; I'm cribbing from page 184.)

So now you know what else I've been up to. Gestating, reading, keeping the other kids alive. Now your turn--go. Read.

Vignettes from my life

Back in May or so, I was having one of those days. The kids weren't misbehaving, just driving me crazy. Rachel bounced up to me and asked, "Can I play on the computer?"
With a manic gleam in my eye, I replied, "Can you tell me the square root of nine?" [Madeleine is the only one who has done multiplication, and only up to the 5s.]
"Ten!" she guessed.
I went to the Patience Well. "Honey, what times itself makes nine?"
Confused blinks from Rachel. Dale from the kitchen table said, "Three, plus three, plus three."
Uh oh.

* * * *
Louie has taken to storing items down the front of his shirt. This is a variation on having to imitate Napoleon and find and manipulate a nipple or navel. Usually he's wearing a Onesie, so whatever he's stuffed in there doesn't go very far. Items include Hot Wheels cars, handfuls of pea gravel, Goldfish crackers, a two-inch stalk of celery, a bitten Roma tomato, capless markers, and a non-functioning Lightning McQueen Shake-N-Go Racer. Not all at once, but that was just yesterday.
If I just start putting him in regular shirts so his treasures drop through, would it make life better or worse?

* * * *
Last week we attended my beloved's work picnic. The pavilion had been rented, it was close to the bathroom, food was ample and delicious, all was well. In the general vicinity, there was a family not associated with our group. I'd guess they were Filipino; English was not their common language. Yes, that's relevant to my tale.
However, there were kids there roughly Rachel's size. Being the kind of kid she is, they became fast friends. I tried to keep one on eye on her and her pals while also chaperoning the other three during Daddy's softball game. It wasn't too hard; they were at most 30 yards away without much obstruction by trees.
Rachel wandered over to us with a hot dog on a wooden skewer. Ummm... I don't recall seeing that before. "Where did you get that hot dog, Rachel?"
"From my friends," she said, indicating the Filipino family with a wave of her hand.
Close eyes, sigh. "Did you at least say 'thank you'?"
Grin. "Oops."
After she finished that, she wandered away again... back to her friends, of course, because next she had a grilled breast of chicken on a skewer. "Did you say 'thank you' THIS time?"
"Yes, this time I did."
After this, Rachel stuck pretty close to us and no more unfamiliar food appeared. She shared the chicken and it was pretty good.
At the end of the day, when we were all packing up, the mother of the Filipino family came over. My husband started to apologize for Rachel's behavior, but she politely interrupted. She wanted to tell us what a nice, well-mannered, friendly and trusting little girl we were raising; not afraid of people that were different.
Well... we weren't so upset then. It makes me wonder what else she said to them.

* * * *
I think that's enough to push the Moon Landing clip down past my links.

I have a boy.

Therefore, I "get to" watch things like this.


Does the joy ever end?

Tired, but an accomplished tired.

This is going to be a long post with the infinitesimal details of my weekend. You're warned.

Thursday afternoon in a regular email to my beloved, I listed all kinds of things we wanted to accomplish in the next three days. Grocery shopping, a dinosaur field trip, a date, lawn mowing, a trip to DIA for him and a couple friends, a trip to a plant nursery to finish our garden, Mass, Costco, shopping for summer clothes for Madeleine, all on top of the usual daily chores of laundry, meals, and dishes. We also knew we would want to watch the hockey games too.

Can you already feel the fatigue? Well, when two people decide to work together and a little bit of neighborly intervention occurs, it can really work out. Spectacularly.

I realized coming home from our parish Moms' Club Thursday that I could, really, go grocery shopping on Friday morning rather than wait for the weekend. I've done it before with all the kids; weekdays aren't nearly as crowded, either. So, there I was at 10 AM at Meijer, list in hand and kids in tow. They wanted new toothbrushes--fine. Oh, Daddy's birthday is Monday, can we get him presents? Sure, as long as you agree on what. Oh, and cards too!
They also talked me into strawberries for shortcake, which I promised we'd get on the way out if they were good. They were, with the overlooked exception a truncated tantrum in the cereal aisle when one lost the coin flip and we got Cookie Crisp instead of Apple Jacks--along with Mini-Wheats, Raisin Bran, and Caramel Delight Fiber One.

Upon getting home, I discovered one of our neighbors in our backyard... with a lawnmower. Okay, when we first moved in almost eight years ago, I had no intention of socializing with any of our neighbors--this was the "bad part" of our town, too far in the south end. I've said before when God serves humble pie, He always remembers the sugar. Yet another occasion to add to that list.

The kids loved the dinosaur field trip. It involved digging in sand for dinosaur bone replicas, carrying them inside a building, and turning them in to an expert who did her presentation while putting them together. She was right at their level and they loved it.
Friday night was Date Night, where we went to see Star Trek while Grandma indulged the kids with too much TV. Ten kinds of awesome was the movie with clear nods to the original series (including Kirk trying to get it on with a green-skinned chick). I did expect Bones to grow out a beard and ride a horse, I admit: Rohirrim!

Saturday I managed to get away with just Rachel to the nursery. It took two stops, but we got both a lilac bush and tomato plants. (I had to order the roses I wanted online since I didn't feel like driving all over God's green earth looking.) I have wanted a lilac bush outside my kitchen window for years. I've put it off since this was to be our "starter house," but we've been in this house twice as long as we've planned already with no change really in sight. Bloom where we're planted, right?
Now, if the wind is right, I get a lilac-scented breeze all the way into our living room. It's only a dwarf plant and will top out at about four feet tall, but when the lady described the regular ones as "invasive," I thought dwarf would be better. As to tomatoes, we got two "early girl" and two "big boy," which made Rachel happy.
Daddy managed his trip to DIA without incident. A couple of his friends who had never been to DIA were interested in the Rockwell show, and since this was the closing weekend, they got it in. I managed to nap with Lou while the other three kids were driving the neighbor crazy (okay, maybe just playing there, but still...).
Pizza for dinner, a walk afterward, and the hockey game (yay, the good guys won!) rounded out the day. Dessert of strawberry shortcake, where we used up the can of whipped cream purchased on the walk by spraying it directly into our mouths, was wonderful. And easy.

Mass was first on the agenda today. We made it on time, which is kind of unusual. Lou was fascinated by the procession. Father had a really good homily, combining Pentecost with the graduates on how we are called to spread the love of Christ too. After the announcements, when the graduates had introduced themselves and told where they were going to school, he commented, "All these graduates and none going to seminary. Perhaps next year?"
We then went to Costco, where the samples were enough to serve for lunch. After that stuff was dropped off and Daddy at the helm with three, I went out with Madeleine for summer clothes. She likes the same kind of stuff I would, mostly; she did talk me into a shirt for Rachel (so they'll match!) and a bathing suit for Dale.
Daddy grilled burgers for dinner per Dale's request earlier in the week; sides were baby carrots and celery sticks. My kids aren't fussy.
They played in the yard after, did a "show" that was more performance art/Ninja Warrior episode than anything else. Talking to Neema and Papa was fulfilling and their motivation for pajamas was the hockey pre-game.

Now they're all in bed, probably asleep. I'm going to have some Nutella toast for my own dessert and revel in a weekend well-spent.

Daddy kept his poker face.

This is a real conversation that happened after dinner tonight; my beloved husband and I were talking after the kids had left the table.

Dale comes back and picks the drain cover from the coffee maker out of the dish rack and puts it to his lips.
Me: "Dale, that doesn't belong near your mouth."
Son, looking at it: "What is it?"
Husband: "Something we use to clean the cats' butts."
Pause.
Son, quietly: "I'm going to wash my lips."

We'll tell him the truth eventually. Like puberty, high school graduation, his wedding...

Don't try this at home.

Louie is a masterful teacher and avid experimenter. What we have discovered together:

1. Spaghetti-O's are an ineffective cellulite cream. Whether because he doesn't have cellulite on his thighs or because Franco-American is short on the ingredients remains undetermined.

2. Fifteen-month-olds do not digest green food coloring. It passes right through to the diaper and will cause Daddy to metaphorically do the same, making Mom laugh too hard to explain. The results resemble green tempera paint, but don't stain.

3. Removal of either nostril-clogging green nose goblins or mostrous earwax potatoes results in screaming akin to Egyptian brain treatment before demise. I think he's sure I'm going after his brain.

4. Dishwashing bubbles, while entertaining, are not a filling snack food.

5. An eight-year-old dog can be very patient and gentle when it comes to stealing chocolate chip cookies.

Good thing she's cute.

While looking right at the baking tray covered in fish sticks, she asks, "What are we having for dinner, Mama?"
Lasagna, dear.

When asked to choose her bedtime story and brush her teeth, she pipes up with, "I do everything you say, Mama!"
Really? Since when?

"That's how you spell Charybdis, Daddy."
And she's right.

"Go out and play" can be... messy.

"Mom, Louie is messy!" Understatement. He's soaked from the waist down. Including his shoes.

"Mom, I think I destroyed my pants." They are destroyed. Yes, you need to change clothes before dance class. The irony? The Boy is cleaner than his sister.

"Mom, I think I need to change my... things." Her vagueness is telling. She needs to change from the skin out.

Ah, spring has sprung.

What Connor MacLeod said.

For the uninitiated: "There can be only one."

And so there is. That one is just fine, measuring at 10 weeks one day. We even saw the little legs move and all.

Now I'm going to resume my normal life of chores, meals, and teaching. Daddy may scan in the picture later, but for now you have to take my word for it.

Like a redheaded stepchild...?

We went on a playdate today. The other two families have adopted and biological children and the topic came up; I finally learned which were birth and which adopted for the Freeman clan; I already knew for the Mabes.
At dinner, the kids were asking about adoption.
"Is James adopted?" asked Madeleine.
"Yes, honey, he is," I told her.
"I thought so!" declared Dale. "With that red hair and all those freckles!"
"Sweetie, Mrs. Freeman has bright red hair and freckles, as well."
"Maybe she's adopted, too," he answered.

Louie's Penny Saga--Conclusion

Lou was cuddling his recovery nurse when I got up to his room. When he saw me, though, he leaned with arms outstretched.
"Can I feed him?" I asked her.
"If he wants to, sure," she said. Oh, he was ready to nurse then!

Since I knew hospitals aren't always timely with discharges, I ordered dinner for us. He fell asleep before it arrived but when I woke him up with strawberry yogurt to his lips he perked right up. We shared the yogurt, canned pears, pancakes, and orange juice; I let him have all of the milk and Cheerios. With food in his stomach, his sleepiness evaporated and he was back to his usual self--climbing, babbling, exploring. I was so relieved to have my Louie back!

Our nurse Carol was very concerned about his hand, though. The swelling, though considerably diminished, was still apparent. The color had come back to most of the area but some still looked blotchy and angry red.
She made sure I knew on the discharge papers to get seen by our usual pediatrician on Thursday. "I'm going to pray about that hand," she told me as I wheeled him out in the stroller.

Before bedtime, his hand had started to blister. I didn't know exactly what to do; it looked like a burn, but I knew it hadn't been heated. I did the common sense thing--clean and covered. The silvadine stuff came to mind but I went with Neosporin with pain relief instead.
By the next morning, the swelling was gone but the discoloration and damage remained. So, Thursday morning, that was the primary attention of the doc. He told me I had it wrapped better than he ever could (plenty of practice last month, Doc), and he asked if I'd used the silvadine. It should get treated as a burn, he told me.
Then he made contact with Dr. Cullen, who was the same one as had removed the penny. "He ran the burn unit at Children's," he told me. He was transferring us to that guy's care, since he was the expert.

Friday morning, we were in Dr. Cullen's office. He apparently had just transferred over since he told me (and the famous Dr. Rondon) of a two-page list of things he wanted available. "Silvadine and one-inch gauze need to go on the list too," he told us.
Most of the area is mild second-degree, but a spot about the size of a dime surrounding the first IV site looked third-degree. "I can't promise it won't have a mark," he said.

Eh. A spot the size of a dime on the back of his hand? As long as he has full function and no nerve damage, I don't care. I have my Louie back.

Now please, pardon me while I get him off the kitchen table. Again.

Louie's Penny Saga--Chapter 3

Why recap when you can scroll down?

Someone explained to me that his IV had gone out of his vein (during his fussing in the night, perhaps?) and continued to drain into the fat tissue under his skin. When it came out, it was draining clear fluid with traces of blood. Not good. Anyway, I was sure he was going to lose his hand.
Dr. Rondon, while concerned, wasn't panicked. "His thumb will come back to normal. Look, it's already fading. I'll come back and check on it in a few minutes."
True to his word, he came back three times in about the next 20. His fingertips had started to turn a healthy pink first, a fact I asked my day nurse Carol to pass on to him. Lou relaxed and went into an exhausted sleep which made me realize the discomfort in his hand was why he couldn't sleep the night before.
The resident who had explained what "IV went sub-Q" meant told me that Dr. Rondon, being the pediatric surgical resident, was the best person to catch it. He was the one who would be opening it up to release the tension and help the drainage, should it come to that (it didn't).
I was told to keep that hand elevated, which I did. At least until transport showed up to take us to X-ray--not long given Dr. Rondon's stat order. I cuddled him all the way down, he got strapped into the chair for the two pictures (front and side), and we went back. He returned to sleeping. So did I.

They came around on rounds, looked briefly at his hand, and noted as a group it looked grotesque. Ms. Resident assured the group that it had been "completely cyanotic" before and it was actually much improved. I was told we'd be going for surgery sometime that day to remove the coin.
Dr. Ibrahim, who had been one of the first faces I'd seen Monday, lingered after the group left. "Yes, you're on the list for surgery, but nobody can tell you when. It could be an hour, it could be five hours. It will be sometime today, though."

Lots of waiting, and it was all downhill from here until the surgery. He got another IV which caused no problems. Around 3 they came to get him while I walked down next to his crib. It's terrifying to watch your baby get wheeled away, for those who haven't done it yet. The whole procedure took maybe half an hour and a white-bearded Dr. Cullin brought out a penny in a specimen jar.
"It wasn't a quarter. It's never a quarter, they're too big," he said. A little while later, I got called that he was out of recovery and I could go back up to his room.

Louie's Penny Saga--Chapter 2

We arrived at the hospital. Louie had fallen asleep on the trip and he stayed that way while I rolled him in the stroller. I had no trouble from either security or the desk people in getting up to where we belonged; they did know we were coming.

Our first room already had a patient, a little boy on a trach tube in a crib. His parents had that Steve Martin--Queen Latifah movie going and loudly. I just tuned it out as I answered the questions: Lou's medical history, medications, what happened this time. When the first movie ended, they put on Apollo 13. I was wondering if they'd just let it go as it was close to midnight, but I guess they were listening to it (they sure weren't sitting where they could see the TV). I didn't even ask--Tricia our nurse brought up a room change, and we did that.
A while later Tricia started talking IV. Since Lou was NPO (meaning no food, no nothing), the docs wanted him on something. He'd need it for his surgery later--it wasn't a sure thing he'd need it but it was the prognosis at that point.
I acquiesced to the IV. I could have put it off, but they had the nurse from the pediatric ICU there who could do it. So I said yes.
They brought him back hooked up to his machine and I held him. He did NOT like the board his hand was taped to and tried to pull it off more than once. I resorted to what I had before when it was wrapped up after his burn--the socks I had in the diaper bag (thanks, Heather!). However, the machine kept beeping that it was "occluded," so Tricia came in around 2:30 and tinkered with it and retaped everything. We put his sock back on and my son and I tried to sleep.
Lou was restless, waking at least every 45 minutes just to cry and wrestle for five or ten, then give up and go back to sleep. I thought it was due to not being nursed, or too warm, or in a strange place, or something.
Various people came by through the night to ask about him, tell me they'd do another X-ray to see if the coin had moved and if not go in and get it. I was told they'd take him for the X-ray between 6:30 and 7.

It didn't happen. What did? Well, along about 8:45, Dr. Rondon came in to check him out, asked about the X-ray, and when he found it hadn't been done he put a "stat" on the order. I finally realized something wasn't right with Louie's arm. The skin seemed very taut, it wasn't bending well, the tape for his IV seemed very tight. I took off his sock.
His hand, swollen to twice or thrice its normal size, looked like it was made of wax.
"Um... Someone!" I called, too far from the phone to call my nurse. The door was open and, God bless him, my hero Dr. Rondon was out there.
"The tape for his IV seems really tight. Can I take this piece of it off?"
He looked over at me. "Yeah, you can do that. Let me check that out." He came right in and looked at Louie's hand. "Oh, this all needs to come off." He pulled a pair of scissors out of his pocket and started cutting tape.
"That isn't supposed to happen," he said, indicating Lou's hand. "His IV went sub-Q."

Louie's Penny Saga--Chapter 1

I'm posting this because it's been occupying me and mine for a few days now, as well as to let other parents know What To Look For. Lots of fun!

Our story begins way back on Friday with Dale's surgery. Lou spent nine hours away from me and since has forbidden me to use the toilet without his permission and supervision. He wails outside the closed door, beating on it, until I come out. We're not through weaning yet; does it show?
But on Monday, he managed to spend time with Daddy while he got dressed and I loaded the washer. Daddy suddenly called me with that tone--get here now! I found Louie coughing and spluttering, Daddy saying, "I don't know what he put in his mouth, whether he spit it out our swallowed it."
I took him on my hip and went back to loading the washer one-handed. Another minute or two of Louie coughing and he was fine. I thought whatever it was went to his stomach, and he just was clearing his throat.
Lunch came and went, he nursed just fine, all was well. However, that evening at dance class he coughed up some of the apple we'd been sharing. It was odd, too--not vomit, too wet to just have been in his mouth. Take note--keep watching.
After dinner he coughed up some spaghetti noodles as well, which was my last straw. "I'm taking him in, hon. Something is blocking the way."

To the pediatric urgent care we went, where he was his normal self--exploring everything, trying to walk outside, investigating the bathroom, grinning and climbing. He even begged Cheez-its from a complete stranger. He was charming.
They took an X-ray and determined that he had a coin in his esophagus. It was sideways, letting liquids and other very soft stuff (like chewed crackers) through but lumpy stuff wasn't making it.
The doc looked apologetic when he told me and started talking about staying the night in the hospital. "I'll call ahead so they have a bed ready when you get there."

Nuts.

Where have I been?

In a word: Facebooking. I just started sometime the week before Christmas. When I have the chance to sit at the computer, that is.

Otherwise, I've resumed teaching my kids. And preparing their meals. I squeeze in laundry when they complain they're low on socks.

Another big drain on my time is twenty-one pounds of kamikaze toddler. Lou is determined to kill (or at least maim) himself in some creative way like one of the following.
1. Putting a blanket on his head and walking into walls until brain damage sets in
2. Trying to eat one of his older siblings' toys and choking on it (Lego and Littlest Pet Shops seem to be his favorite flavors)
3. Carrying around Gladys our Christmas Kitten, who still has all of her claws and thus might just disembowel him in an escape attempt
4. Climbing on the kitchen table, with that inherent risk of falling off, and trying to injure himself with something he finds there--like a knife or pencil, or choking on an eraser or some leftover bit of food
5. Contracting some bizarre species-jumping disease from the pets' water dish (yes, he has drunk from it), or the cats' litter box, or the human toilet (no drinking, just splashing and dropping)

I've actually gotten out the Pack-N-Play so I can wash dishes.

I hope to recommence regular posting when this phase is over, which may be just in time for potty training. Wish me luck.