Kate Read the Book. First.

There have been several times when I find that I am completely intrigued in a certain book. Often, I like to share my love of the book with another person. Solving this, I walk around and ask people whether they have read the book or not. The answers people give are quite assorted, but in my opinion the strangest answers are the terrible ones in which the people say that they have seen the movie instead. To my great disappointment, these answers are quite frequent and are from many people. They leave me in total awe at the people that don’t read the book before they watch the move.

    Imagination is a wonderful asset. It gives you the freedom to picture anything in your head as you think it would be, to create a world absolutely different from your won. As you read a book, you can use your imagination to your advantage, making the story’s illustrations up in your mind. However, while watching a movie, you have the whole entire picture right in front of you. With this little to imagine, for me it becomes a boring thing to see. I believe that books exercise one’s brain, and that is very important. To be settled down, reading a book and picturing dozens of people, places and things is a great joy. Books have many wonderful ideas and descriptions to enjoy that movies would never have. -Kate B.

Kate wrote this passage which was published in an arts magazine featuring the work of students on the north side of Chicago. She read it last week at a forum sponsored by StudentsXpress. Her book loving librarian mother was beaming from the audience. 

Choosing the Right One

"If you're going to chose someone to like, you should try and chose the right person".

She knows she has chosen the right person, "I've never had a friend like this before", and she hasn't. She's a very young fourth grade girl who often thinks like a 43 year old: intensely logical, curious, pragmatic, keenly aware, and sometimes just too practical. When she wants to discuss the first ten amendments to the Constitution she finds very few who take the seat next to her at lunch.

Several months ago she found that person; a friend who moved into her classroom, one who now would be there at recess when she felt like making it a Langston Hughes day. They found a table together in class, right in front, and at lunch.

"Mom, we do stuff, we spend a LOT of time together", and she was happy, because for the first time in a long time she knew that there was someone near who also found a conversation about the Gettysburg Address a worthy use of free time.

"Did you get new shoes?", asks the boy.
"Yes, did you?", answers his friend.
They are standing face to face, inches apart, each pushing up his own glasses in a most entertaining and stereotypical manner.
"I like your shoes", and they giggle, because they are wearing the same tennis shoes, in different colors.

This weekend his family announced that at the end of summer, after only a few short months of being classmates, they are moving to New York. I cried for her because I knew that this was going to be very hard, even for my child who often couches her emotions in a most adult way, and for her mother who has delighted in seeing her child discover a good friendship.

"You can talk to me, you know, if you're sad, about him moving".
"I'm sad Mom. I'm very sad", and she went off to get ready for bed.

Later she wanted to know just how far away he would be: were they going to live in the city? Would we fly to visit? Would he still come here?


"We have a strong bond Mom, we have great affection", and she cried.

We have the summer, and we will make the most of being together. We'll visit, and so will they, and both of our children will be just fine. But when you must lose the one you chose, the one who makes you feel less alone in a room full of people, that's hard to take, when you're nine, even if you think like you're 43.





 

This post was inspired by the novel Bittersweet by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, a novel about summer, and family, and friendship. Join From Left to Write on May 20th as we discuss Bittersweet. As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Merry-Go-Round

Merry-Go-Round

Where is the Jim Crow section
On this merry-go-round,
Mister, cause I want to ride?
Down South where I come from
White and colored
Can't sit side by side.
Down South on the train
There's a Jim Crow car.
On the bus we're put in the back—
But there ain't no back
To a merry-go-round!
Where's the horse
For a kid that's black?

Langston Hughes

 

Kate finished a research project Wednesday on Langston Hughes, her favorite poet. With a focus on discrimination in the thirties, as she is reading the wonderful Christopher Paul Curtis novel Bud, Not Buddy, she chose this poem to be central to her report; a fine choice.  

I Have a Little Shadow

Last weekend we collected sticks to build a sun dial, this week they outlined their shadows with chalk and last night Kate spent over an hour charting the various lengths of shadows during the course of a day. Science class, a new addition to their fourth grade curriculum, is casting a big shadow over homework, to the delight of my budding heliologists.

"Kate, you should offer to share the shadow poem with your class."

The head, inches from the table, slowly rose, "Mom, I get that you are a librarian, I appreciate that you are a librarian, but this is science class. We don't have poems in science class", and the head fell right back to the paper.

"Kate, I appreciate that you are nine, I get it, but it's nice to cross from one subject to the next, you know they really all work together".

She looked up, "Mom. There is no hypothesis, there are no conclusions, there is no data in that poem. I know you love the shadow poem but I am not offering to share that with my science class".

My little shadow is growing up but there's still so much learning to do.

My Shadow
by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Wonderful Childhood Memories

My Weekend*

A May day in all those years before, I'm looking out the window, yelling "yea! 50 degrees Fahrenheit!". Mary joins me as I scream and she starts chanting, "Ice cream!". As funny as it is, that's how May days in my young years were like, Mom yelling, "it's so warm, Jack, hand me a margarita!".

-Kate, Age 7

*Excerpt from Kate's daily school diary, turned in to her second grade teacher on a May Monday 

Zachary Taylor Swift

"Mom, I think when Mary grows up she is going to marry someone whose last name is Swift", said Kate.
"Really?'
"And I think she will change her name."

Admittedly I'm lost, and a bit disappointed with this last prediction but Kate continues, "and then she will have a baby and name it Zachary".

"All right, Zachary Swift, interesting."

She nodded, "yes, and his middle name will be Taylor!", and then she bobbed her head, smiling like mad, and looked to me to know exactly what she was saying. I nodded and smiled but with the dazed look of a woman who was completely lost, quite similar to the face I'm left with when she says things like "prime factorization".

"Mom! Zachary Taylor Swift! She can have a baby that is named after both our interests! Zachary Taylor AND Taylor Swift! Get it?

Oh I do now. Twins.

The Cauliflower Incident

"When the cauliflower incident happened my confidence in your cooking decreased by about 70%", said Kate.

Never one to hide vegetables in soup or tomato sauce, not one to smother those glorious herbaceous plants in gooey cheese, I boldly present my produce as an integral part of the meal, never regulated to a wimpy side dish, subject to the nagging mother mantra "eat your vegetables".

In my quest to develop the appreciation for cauliflower that I so enjoy I have roasted and stir fried, I have grilled and chopped for salad, all to dismal reviews. This time would be different, I was trying something new, and, against my own vegetable code of ethics, burying the evidence.

I pureed the raw florets, adding capers, garlic, lemon, roasted pine nuts, rosemary, Parmesan and olive oil. Tossed with warm fettuccine, I was convinced that I had found the one, the very thing that would bring them all over to my side, the side of glowing devotion for that white lumpy stalk. Kate, who will try anything, dove right in. "Mom, this is not my favorite", nor was it mine.

What was a culinary miss has now morphed into an incident, and my child who was once willing to try anything is now, understandably, a bit hesitant when faced with something new. Lesson learned; being sneaky is never the best idea, cauliflower mush is simply bad, and the Thai place around the corner has super fast emergency delivery.

Honesty is always the best policy.

Kate's Hat

Some people might think that I was inspired by Chinese buildings, but I just started and it looked like a miracle. My hat had so many layers, representing me, a baby growing into a child. I realy liked my hat. My hat is not very exciting. It represents that I am not too fancy. I didn't want any swirls or zigzags. Just a plain hat.

Kate
October 26, 2011
Age 7

It's All in the Timing

Her timing is not impeccable.


She is so many amazing things, but all those things together cannot off set her ability to find the most inopportune time to report,"Mom, I'm not feeling well". And because she does this so often, and like so many other things, so well, we know that she knows when things are about to go south.

Kate has spent the last two Thanksgiving days sprawled on the sofa, full of fever and other unwelcome visitors, missing her favorite holiday. For a child who loves nothing more than a day with her family spent around a table piled with delicious food, missing Thanksgiving once was torture. Missing it two years in a row was unexplainable, unfair, and rotten.

Last summer we spent a week in Washington D.C. At three Kate named her baby doll Dick Durbin. She has read biographies of Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. She has a favorite patriot, Alexander Hamilton, and plans to spend the next Halloween dressed as Betsy Ross. A trip to Washington D.C. was what she had always dreamed of, the trip of a seven year old lifetime for a very young history lover. And as we dressed for a tour of the White House, the highlight of her trip, Kate announced, "Mom, I'm not feeling well" and a few moments later she was not.

Tonight Kate and I are at home watching Charlotte's Web, the wonderful 1973 animated film based on the E.B. White book,  the very same one I watched when I was young. It's a perfect evening: just the two of us curled up with a fire in the fireplace, sharing one of my favorite childhood movies, except that Kate is sick. And Jack and Mary are at the father daughter dance they go to every year, with Uncle Kenny. Her beautiful pink dress is back in the closet and the new party shoes, purchased for this evening, are in the box. The wrist corsage her dad brought home is in the kitchen, Kate is now in bed, having just missed an evening dancing with three of her favorite people in the entire world.

For a child who loves her family, food, history, dancing, her dad, her sister and Uncle Kenny, her timing is not impeccable.

Really, Some of Our Best Friends are Hispanic

Several months ago Kate wrote a letter to the Alderman, pointing out the lack of coffee shops and bakeries, and the abundance of banks, in her neighborhood. We never heard back, he did not email or mail any response, which I found to be a bit odd, especially for a newly elected Alderman whose correspondent was a 7 year old future voter. We stopped in his office last week, on the way home from school; the Alderman did not remember getting her letter but apologized and spent some time listening to my daughter voice her concerns about the neighborhood.


Kate labored on for quite some time about the abundance of banks within walking distance of her apartment but a sad lack of restaurants and coffee shops. He assured her that she was not alone and that they were working hard to bring more dining options, and fewer banks, to the neighborhood; in fact they had just turned down a proposal for a new bank on a corner only two blocks away from home. This was all good news, and good news has the effect of making Kate just a bit more talkative. The Alderman asked her about school: where she went, what grade was she in, what did she like to study? He should have cleared his calendar for the afternoon.

How did we choose our school? What did we like about it? Rather than cede the floor to her mother, to offer the chance to blather on to an elected official about the painstaking process of getting two children into a Chicago Public School, Kate took this one. It went something like this, although I was so horrified that I might have blocked some of the more painful statements from memory.

"The first school we tried was not a good fit. Everyone was Hispanic! At first we liked that, because we are learning Spanish, but then, oh no, it was crazy! We went to the first meeting at school and looked around the room and saw NO white people, not one. Not one other person in the room who looked like us. And then it just got crazy, everyone yelling at each other. There were children running wild and the principal was just screaming over everyone. I saw several older boys throwing chairs with absolutely no consequences at all, none! Mom and Dad just decided that was not the school for us, even if they spoke Spanish. We could not go to a school where we were the only white people!"

I smiled over her head and said something profound like, "it's interesting, isn't it, the interpretation of our perceptions?". Kate continued on, speaking for what seemed like hours on her family's general distaste for minorities, ethnic and cultural differences, and Mexican food. I cowered, and tried unsuccessfully to interrupt and get her out of there.

The Alderman was quite nice, and humored me, listening to my nervous chatter trying so hard to explain our want of diversity in a  school, not accomplished with one ethnicity alone. Unable to stop myself, I felt it important to point out, repeatedly, that our favorite restaurant in the neighborhood, hands down, is the small taqueria near our apartment, "Oh we are just like family there, really!".

He promised to try it soon, perhaps we might run into each other? But not for breakfast, they don't serve desayuno, most unfortunately for Kate.

The Duel 2012: Gingrich and Romney

The voice on the radio announced a virtual “Armageddon” in South Carolina this week, the promise of Newt Gingrich, furthering his attacks on Republican front runner Mitt Romney.

“What’s an Armageddon?”

She listened very carefully to my explanation, that Gingrich was promising an attack of negative advertisements, that rather than tell us all the reasons why we should vote for him, he was going to tell us all the reasons we should not vote for his opponent.

“He is going to say bad things about Mitt Romney?”

Essentially, he was going to point out all the things that Romney has done previously that would keep him from being the kind of president that the Republicans would like to elect.

There was a pause, some consideration, and then Kate said, “you know Mom, that sounds a lot like Hamilton and Burr, saying mean things to try and keep the other from winning. We all know that didn't work out so well”.

The long term effects of negative campaigning as explained by a seven year old.

The Duel

Her Shining Face

"...if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like
sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”
-Roald Dahl

History Buff

Goerge Washington,
James Monroe,
Albert Einstein,
Way more to go.

Johny Appleseed,
Betsy Ross,
King Goerge III,
John Hancock.

Samuel Adams,
Honest Abe,
Historical people,
Went to thier grave.

Thomas Jefferson,
FDR,
Teddy Roosevelt,
That's all so far.

Katherine, Age 7

With Samuel Adams, Washington D.C.

Our Health Care Crisis

Dick Durbin is down two arms, and he's been this way for quite some time. We've done our best, with tape and glue and a bandage fashioned from pink striped grosgrain. Great effort for short term results which always leave him loved and armless.

The time had come to seek professional help. Mary and Kate tottered in, Kate clutching Dick Durbin, knowing that soon they would have to part ways. She had prepared him well for his hospital visit, but clearly had not spent adequate time preparing herself.

The doll ladies were very nice, and very old.

"Oh, look at your dolly, what a wonderful little baby dolly you have there!"
Kate held on tighter, not wanting to relinquish control to this kind yet seemingly confused woman.

"What is your dolly's name? She is certainly a cutie!" Dick was wearing khaki pants and a Cubs jersey, nothing about his look said dolly or girl or cute.

Mary spoke up, "his name is Dick Durbin, he is my sister's doll". Thankfully Mary did not elaborate with her own doll's name.

The wrinkled fingers of the doll doctor pried the armless Senator from Kate's tight grip, "that's an interesting name. Does she go by Dickie?". It was clear that there was no way was Kate going to trust this woman with her precious doll.

The doll lady examined the patient, "oh my, she doesn't have any arms, or fingers! Where on earth are her fingers?".

"I chewed them all off, but I was much younger. I am now almost seven", said Kate with great authority.

It was as if this woman, who was at least 80 years old, had never before been faced with an armless and fingerless Senator Cubs fan doll in need of urgent care.

The octagenarian continued her exam and suggested we step out to wait for the diagnosis. After what seemed like hours an associate emerged from the exam room to deliver the news. They could repair the damage, they believed, but it was going to require major surgery. Apparently so, necessitating specialists from all over the doll world; the estimate provided for pre-authorization was twice what was initially paid for Baby Dick Durbin. And given that he does not have universal health care, we opted to forgo the surgery for now, to bring him home and provide the best care that we can here. Kate was elated, there would be no forced parting with her beloved Senator, but now the responsibility for medical repair falls to me yet again.

Super glue and grosgrain, I'm no surgical specialist but I can reattach an arm in an emergency. Which is just what this is; Kate and her senator are soon off to D.C. to meet the fully-limbed Senator Durbin. Best that our Dick Durbin have arms, to shake the hand of the real Senator. Arms, but probably not fingers, I'm not a miracle worker.

The Big Red Barn

"Moo!"
"Moo! Moo!"

It's a bit of a problem, I see a cow from my car window, I moo. And when I moo the girls moo also, or they used to. Over the past year the chorus of moo has shrunk to just one, although Eleanor occasionally utters some noise in response, a sleepy hound growl emitted from the very back of the car. Eleanor knows, cows are enchanting. Mary and Kate now barely look up from their Taro Gomi doodle books.

Given our home base deep in the mid-west, a geography that requires us to spend hours rolling through farmland en route to anywhere, we spend ample time listening to me moo, backed up only by my always faithful beagle. And then I see a barn, a wonderful old red barn set deep into the green countryside, surrounded by acres of corn, nestled amongst the swaying trees; I can smell the freshly cut hay from inside my air conditioned, and farm smell protected, car. "Girls look! A big red barn!", excited as though I didn't just scream the same thing two farms past. I quote from various parts of one of the very best children's books, Margaret Wise Brown's The Big Red Barn, "and there they were all safe and warm, sound asleep in the big red barn". It's a childhood moment they will certainly remember forever, these days spent in the comfort of their family, surrounded with love and moos and heartland.

Recently we drove through downstate Illinois, Missouri and Iowa. Cows aplenty, farms galore, I was in pure farmland heaven. Somewhere in Iowa, after countless unanswered moos and dismissed barn narrative, I tried once more, "oooh! Look at that beautiful old barn girls!".

"Wow mom, that is really pretty", answered Kate.
"Well thank you Kate", gushed her happy mother.
"Mary, I didn't even look" whispered Kate.

I thought I had a few more years.

Close But No Arugula

Hands waved wildly in the air, the group burst into a fit of giggles and Kate was right in the middle of the madness. Wonderful, as she occasionally has difficulty connecting with her classmates, the antics of first graders being somewhat frivolous to my child who prefers Betsy Ross to Fancy Nancy. Her teacher was encouraged as Kate, her frequent lunch partner, sat with a group of girls, playing a rousing game of Who Likes?.

"Who likes pizza?", hands everywhere!
"Who likes hot dogs?", another fit of hand waving!
"Who likes macaroni and cheese?", it was becoming contagious!
"Who likes arugula?", one lone hand, plenty of silence.

Her teacher shook her head, so close, so very close.

Boy Burger or Girl Nugget?

After a long quarter of very hard work they were to be rewarded with a class party. The classroom voted and McDonalds won, beating out pizza by a landslide. Kate, who loves pizza and has never had McDonalds, was bitterly disappointed. She had no idea what to order, having been offered a cheeseburger or nuggets, and later confided to me that she was concerned that the burger would have "plastic" cheese and that nuggets were... she had no idea. Her kind teacher suggested she choose a salad which thrilled her, being shocked that you could find such things at a place like McDonalds.

Proudly I explained to Jack that Kate, when faced with McDonalds, chose salad. Smugly I knew, we had done everything right.

"Allyson, she can't order a salad. She cannot be the only child in the class who does not eat a Happy Meal. That's not right, in fact it's wrong. She has no idea what a Shamrock Shake is, she has never had a Big Mac, the Hamburgler is completely foreign to her. She is going to be a huge geek."

Attributed to lack of options, I was the parent chosen to pick up and deliver the reward to the 18 hungry children. The message on my phone read: 10 cheeseburgers 8 nuggets 2 Caesar salads 1 milk 10 Sprites 8 orange drinks.

Two things immediately stood out: one, Kate was not the lone salad eater, and two, didn't anyone want fries? Despite all the terrible things I think about McDonald, even I, sworn enemy of Ronald and all his processed food products, had to admit this: McDonalds makes really great fries. I responded:"Fries? Doesn't anyone want fries?". The teacher's answer, "Happy Meals".

I had no idea where to find a McDonalds in the city. It was pointed out to me that I pass the golden arches each and every morning on my way to school.

By 11:30 the woman behind the counter had a full days accumulation of special sauce on her never before pressed blue and white striped uniform. We had bibs at our house four years ago that were cleaner than what was presented to me on the chest of the woman who was to prepare the food for my child and her classmates.

Her heavy accent, both of her native land and her liberal use of McDonalds lingo, was made more difficult to understand when passing through her missing front tooth. Reading from my phone I presented my order.

"Boy or girl?"
"Beg pardon?"
"For those Happy Meals, do you want boy or girl?"
"There is a difference? Seriously? You have gender segregated Happy Meals?"

Dirty Shirt Lady looked as confused as I was. Did the nuggets come in male and female appropriate shapes? And what would those be? It isn't enough that I am only allowed to shop in one half of the Gap, that I am restricted to only the pink aisles at Target, and now I have to buy sex specific fast food?

Several years ago Jack's dad brought in a plate of steaks from the grill and pronounced one side of the plate "lady steaks". My general self found this deeply offensive, my non meat eating self found it hilarious. No one else seemed bothered, save Jack who was terrified I would chose this opportunity to make a statement on meat equality. I did not.

"Why on earth would you need to offer male and female food? Doesn't that seem just a bit odd to you? I have absolutely no idea who ordered what, how on earth can I decide who gets pink fries and who gets blue. You see the insanity, right?". It appeared that she did not, but she did gesture to the display case of Happy Meal toys, neatly sorted into blue and pink sections.

Stuffed animals: giraffes, tigers, pigs, lions, bears, all seemingly asexual to me. "Girl's please", and with that I ordered 18 girl Happy Meals for a classroom consisting of 10 boys and 8 girls, and I was convinced they would not notice.

Kate enjoyed her salad, as did Kate's teacher. Michael, the first to open his Happy Meal, immediately pulled out his tiny stuffed giraffe, and then just as quickly threw it back in and screamed, "this isn't mine, it's a girl meal!".

It is highly unlikely that I will be asked again to cater the classroom luncheon. Three trips to McDonalds, children forever scared and gender confused by the hasty selection of an all effeminate, yet seemingly neutral, cast of tiny stuffed animals, and one ridiculous argument with a soiled and wrinkled woman over missing soft drinks; smugly I knew, I had done everything right.

Rant, Rave, Add, Subtract

Jack was out of town yesterday leaving me with the rare opportunity to get the girls to school on time, by myself. Can't be done he said, will be done I thought.

With 18 minutes before the bell, Mary and I stood at the door, coats on, backpacks stuffed, socks aligned. Kate was choosing a scarf. She needed to switch mittens, she couldn't find the hat she wanted, her sock was on backwards, her elbow itched. Hastily I made the necessary adjustments to Kate's wardrobe. Mary and I stepped jauntily down the stairs, Kate sauntered, taking in the beauty of the 6 degree morning.

My frustration was released mightily on the trip to school.

"We had 18 minutes Kate! 18! We never have 18 minutes, that's a record. We did it, we could have been on time, we could have been early. It is a 7 minute trip to school, do you know how much extra time you would have had this morning?"

Silence.

The ranting continued.

"What is 18 minus 7? Anyone? 9!"

"Mom?"

"Nine minutes of spare time, what would you have done with all that time? We'll never know, now we'll be lucky to be on time."

"Mom?"

"I would hate for you to be tardy today, really. NINE minutes people!"

Silence.

"Mom, that would actually have been 11 minutes of time, 18 minus 7 is 11, not 9".

Nothing stops a good rant like a good laugh.

Like Her Father

"Underwear!"

It's been her standard answer for about two months. Kate, being a bit pragmatic, decided that the very best gift for her father at Christmas was underwear. But she never found any she liked; they weren't soft enough or the right color. Like her father, she is very particular. Christmas passed with nary a pair of underwear under the tree.

Thankfully Jack's birthday is just three weeks after Christmas. And again, when
people ask what she is getting her father for his birthday she screams,"underwear!". But Kate has rarely been a woman of one word, her response is more colorful and animated, going into great detail as to the hows and whys of this specific gift choice.

Edwin the doorman asked this week, "well you know I wanted to buy him underwear for Christmas but I never found any. So I am definitely getting him underwear for his birthday. Maybe green, maybe stripes, or I think I saw some with hearts on there, I think he would really like those." Edwin suggested, given the season, she consider some Chicago Bears themed underwear and Kate agreed, "great idea!".


Her teacher knows what Jack is getting for his birthday, as does the principal, the music teacher, my co-librarian, Mary's teacher, and most of her classmates. Like her father, she is pragmatic, particular and chatty.

Last night he unwrapped not one but four pairs of new underwear. It's hard to imagine but the girls were more excited than he was. Graciously he gushed; just what he needed, how did they know? Happy birthday Jack.

A Day Without a Holiday

I'm thankful, really, I am. But also a little cranky, morose and sober. And jealous, always jealous which I am perfectly comfortable admitting. Thanksgiving just wasn't Thanksgiving this year, not at our house.

Although it was at my cousin's, where the bird I brined Tuesday night was roasted, the stuffing baked, the potatoes mashed. And all the people I love, save the three who live with me, gathered to celebrate and be thankful for being together. We were at home with a very sick child.

Wednesday night, as I pureed the pumpkin, cut the bread for stuffing and snapped the beans Kate announced she was not feeling well. And that was it, I knew, Thanksgiving would not be at our house this year and my precious child, who loves the idea of a home full of people she loves, would be spending her day under a blanket on the sofa. Given my paranoid fear of childhood illness and my incessant need to clean my children, I have often wondered just what I would do if one of the ladies was attacked by ilk the day before a holiday or party or other large gathering at our home. And now I know, unfortunately.

Thursday morning my cousin's husband drove in from the suburbs to pick up one 24 pound freshly brined turkey, two bags of groceries and one large casserole of stuffing. He took one look at Kate and knew that moving the celebration to their house was the right decision.

Once we had our refrigerator back it was easy to forget that elsewhere people were basking in the warm glow of family and friends, and waddling in the smell of roasting turkey. We watched the parade, napped, cleaned and ate nothing.

And when it was quiet, once the girls had gone to bed, I found the time to realize that this wasn't just another sick day at home, this was Thanksgiving. This was the day that keeps me on my feet for hours, makes our home smell like home and allows me to embrace the loved ones that gather annually around our dining room table.

Thankfully we have the opportunity to miss. That there are friends to toast, feet to hold me up and children to keep me busy; for the husband who is far better at taking care of a sick child than I ever will be, and for the child who is almost back, for all of this I am very grateful. Today I understand that it could always be worse, one rotten day will not ruin the holiday season. There is always next year, just 364 days away, thankfully.