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.

Painfully Accurate Forecasting

The day before we left for Michigan Kate hugged me tightly and then threw up all over my feet. Apparently she was not feeling well, and she then passed that feeling on to her sister. Our favorite summer holiday started on a bit of a "sour" note.

We leave soon for a short end of summer getaway and guess who is sprawled in bed, head in a bowl, body full of fever? It's Mary's turn to kick off this vacation but if history has taught us anything she won't be alone for long.

Jack calls me paranoid and while I'd really like to agree, it's hard to call my fears baseless and excessive; our children get sick at almost every inopportune moment presented.

Kate spent two weeks this summer at what Jack and I called smart camp: a three hour per day gathering of six and seven year old children wearing glasses. I hesitated, the sessions she wanted ran in the weeks immediately before we left for Michigan. Eeek, exposure to that many children right before vacation, never a good idea, but I turned off the crazy voice in my head and enrolled her. See above.

This past week we have had three events well stocked with germy children: two birthday parties and on Sunday, 30 people, including children, at our home for an end of summer soiree. The timing concerned me, so close to vacation, but our calendars were full and surely this madness would not strike twice in one short summer. See above.

There is a certain empty validation in finding that I am not paranoid but rather, scarily accurate in my illness forecasting. Most regrettably we are raising social girls who truly delight in the presence of other children. They actually look forward to school and the sharing of their days with so many small germ carriers. It's torture, allowing them this childhood access to friends, but option B, sending them to school in togas fashioned from Lysol Germ Killing Wipes seems extreme, but not completely unthinkable.

Another Record Year

Grade reports came out a few weeks ago. Everyone was pleased with their quarterly accomplishments, plenty of As to be celebrated, but the real story was on the back page: absences and tardies. Despite our best efforts, and Jack's finely tuned internal clock, his alarm set to scream at the very hint of dawdle, we are racing each and everyday to be at school on time.

More alarming than the tardies was Mary's three unexcused absences which, in Chicago, means that she has no chance at getting into Michelle Obama's high school alma matter, or any other school not caught in crossfire. Chicago high schools are fiercely competitive and apparently will only accept children who are able to breeze through the entire run of the lower grades with nary an illness or doctor appointment or, heaven forbid, a vacation to take them away. Mary is not their girl.

We applaud her integrity and her unselfish pledge to bring home every single flu virus that makes it way through the first grade classroom. Her need to press her mouth to windows, examine and touch every surface in the school bathroom, embrace her classmates (and comfort those not feeling well), assures us that she will continue, and be successful in, her quest to make contact with every germ presented. We stand now at three bugs for Mary in six months of school; her numbers look good, she's going for a record this year and we are impressed. But that's our girl, the one who tackles everything head on, the one who gleefully hugs the kid with snot smeared across her face. Climb that tree? You bet! Run very fast to the corner? Yes she can! Be feverish and listless for at least nine days this school year? Count on Mary!

Someday that immune system will kick in; someday this rampant intake of every illness made available to her will cease, but not now, not my girl! Hurl on Mary, we stand with you, but not too close, not until you break 99 degrees.

Disclaimer, sick days are excused absences. Noted on her grade report was her mother's absent mind and continuing negligence in writing notes explaining her missed days. Woops.

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.

Kate Fell Down and Broke Her Crown

An email to my friend Tracy:

Jack is at the ER with Kate. She fell around four, chasing the dog, of course, and slammed her head into the floor. She then went straight to bed, threw up twice, and didn't move for at least two hours. The large bump on the back of her head said call the doctor, and the doctor said, ER.

I'm not so good staying home when one of my children is in the Emergency Room. I did though, in case you were worried, put a little bottle of hand sanitizer in her pocket. Have you any idea how many sick children there are in an emergency room?

Gads.



An email to Jack:

It's been thirty minutes. Is she alright? Is she exhausted? Are there lots of sick people around? Can she rest? Did they tell you how long? Please email me when you can, and please hug her plenty. She is scared more than she lets on, you know?


Kate is fine, today.

Spots and Puffs and Bugs

The letter I have been dreading since September arrived last week. Jack found it first, and hid it from me for about an hour, until my incessant badgering finally made him cave. What you don't know makes you crazy, and when my guesses escalated from library closing to gun packing eighth grader, he surrendered. "There have been several confirmed cases of head lice at school. Please check your children's heads immediately".

Nothing moving on our little heads, thankfully.

Two weeks ago the kind teacher called, it seemed a group had gathered to inspect the large red spot on Kate's forehead. The consensus, ringworm, could I have that checked please? It was not, although my description to the nurse at the pediatrician's office, that it looked like someone had put out a cigar on my child's beautiful head, did require a visit in to see the doctor. Eczema, five year old dry skin masquerading as ringworm.

Last week it was pink eye. First Mary, then Kate and finally me, Jack escaping the puffy encrusted eye malady effortlessly, although he did appear at home one afternoon, achey and 102 degrees. Immediate quarantine ordered and a day later he had dropped below 100, considered well in my house.

We're back, to work, to school, to day to day. No funny spots, no puffy eyes, no bugs. Knock on wood and wrap them in plastic, we're healthy.

Room to Room, Achoo!

Maybe we've been swined, or maybe not, I don't really know. There was sickness, six days of sickness, two miserable children, and two very tired parents. What I do know is that we are not terribly bright, because in the midst of the October 09 health crisis, we decided to completely rearrange our apartment.

Office to playroom, family room to dining room, dining room to radiator room, and living room to family room. While the children slept Jack and I moved furniture, painted walls, cleaned floors (that had been hidden for five years under heavy bookcases) and discovered a ridiculous amount of things that we don't need, although I am keeping every last issue of the soon to be defunct Gourmet magazine.

Of course this meant disconnecting the computer and the television, leaving us trapped for days without access to the outside world, save the archaic telephone. Still we remain Internet free, and I must find my computer time at the tea shop, now that the sick have returned to school. How is one supposed to grocery shop without a computer? It's challenging.

My friend Jeffy calls our home the Rubik's cube, and it is. To move this, you must move that, but not before you move those, there is no unclaimed space. The addition of children, and their necessities, has made the cube just a bit more difficult to sort. And after several days in isolation, Mary and Kate woke up to find a bright blue room all their own, full of things they love, and things we could no longer tolerate finding in every room in this apartment. There is no longer room for Mr. Potato Head in the dining room, move over Spud, you've got your own space now.

Armed and Dangerous

Not so long ago, but a thousand years in our time, Jack and I were off on a long weekend in Phoenix, back when we could dash off for a few days of warmth and baseball in March without taking two others, and all their gear, with us. Having lunch in a bar, or cantina as it might be called in Phoenix, we sat next to a man, a woman and a young boy, about four or five. The adults appeared to be on a date, flirting madly and paying no attention to the young boy at all. This suited him well as he was left alone to lick everything in reach of his tongue, including the nasty bar stool, the table (top and bottom), all glasses on the table and the floor, but it stopped there, the woman intervened when the child threw himself on the ground, tongue first.

And so I wonder, does this kid now have the greatest immune system in the world? Is he bettter protected than my two germ magnets against this flu madness? Early on I tried to be cool, we passed on the brightly colored fluffly grocery cart seat protector, stuck them in every restaurant high chair around (including one truly scary one at our favorite Mexican spot), exposed them to the flying petri dish frequently and thought we were doing our part in building a great wall against future germ infestation. And then they started getting sick, over and over and over.

It was time to get a little crazy. Children who ride on buses, with everyone else in the city, should wear masks, right? And maybe bubble suits? Bathe in sanitizer gel goop? Nothing was too extreme.

Now kindergarten, and a school full of germ weilding short people intent on coughing and sneezing and breathing, all in close proximity to my children, who also cough and sneeze and breathe on others. Myself included as my days spent in the library are portals to infestation. Every child I see has a a sniffle, last week one poor boy had a completley encrusted nose, and I don't really want to elaborate as it might just make me sick to think about it again, but this child was in desperate need of a very warm washcloth and a humidifier, and home.


Every day we send them off, to infection central, hoping that they have some defense against whatever floats behind closed doors. If only we had let them lick bar stools a few years ago, maybe then we'd be ahead of this game.

Whoa is We

First it was the dog. She greeted us, after almost three weeks away, with a horrible gastronomic issue that took her, and a very tired me, to the dog ER the night we arrived in Chicago. She came home with an IV and a medical bill that actually made Jack cry. Next it was my turn, attacked by something last weekend (which I am convinced came from swimming with the women from the old country at the gym), I spent the entire weekend in bed.

And now it's Kate, listless and sick, still in her pajamas, Kate is laying low on the sofa in the family room while her sister runs from one end of the place to the other. Eleanor knowingly watches all this from the relative security of her own bed, having seen it all before. In two days it will be Mary sprawled across the furniture while Kate begs to go outside. Eleanor knows, if they don't shape up they end up stuffed in a cage with a needle in their small leg, far from home, afraid, and begging for water. Of course we never take the children to the ER, only the dog.

Stay strong Jack.

Matzo Ball

When I am sick there is nothing that sounds better to me than a bowl of matzo ball soup from The Bagel. We've moved out of the delivery boundaries so I either drag the children down with me (they love it, smiley face cookies at the front) or I beg the husband to pick up a pint on his way home. Clearly a nod to my Anglo/Irish Catholic upbringing, matzo ball soup is just the thing to chase the chill away. This is not the chicken soup Mimi made when I was a young sick person, this is the remedy I chose when I was an older and single sick person who could make a big bowl appear with one phone call. Now of course I am a much older and not at all single sick person who would love, just for a few hours to be single again.

But not in the woo woo I have no responsibilities dance on the table way but in the calling in sick, staying in pajamas and spending the day on the sofa with Law and Order reruns and matzo ball soup way. I'd light the fire, drag my comforter out from my bed and curl up with Eleanor Roosevelt for a marathon day of sneezing, sleeping and recuperating. I can think of no place I'd rather be when feeling lousy than in my own home.

Eventually all that rest would wear me out. In no time I'd be aching for a quick Dance Around the Room Like the Nutcracker, I'd start talking like Mary Poppins without being begged, or I would really need to color, but for a few hours, I could do it, I know I could.

Bodily Function, Part II

To further our discussion of horrible bodily functions, I am terrified of vomit. My friends know this to be true: I shake when I hear what could be a bag opening on an airplane, I run in the opposite direction of drunk people and I refuse to eat or feed anyone anything that I think might have any potential to cause food poisoning. Jack would elaborate here, illustrating just how crazy I am; I'll share only this, I always smell milk served to the girls in restaurants, enough said. Having children has not changed this, as some thought it might. Perhaps I am more familiar but I still am horrified at the thought.

Imagine how happy I was tonight when, at our annual Halloween party, I leaned over to say hello to a friend of Mary and Kate's and she said "I just threw up on my costume". I snapped back and immediately inserted myself firmly into the space between my girls and Kelly. Her mother leaned down and said to her, "we don't have to tell everyone that dear". TELL EVERYONE? Are you kidding? Why are you here? What were you thinking?

Before going up to dinner, I insisted that we all wash our hands. Guess who came in the bathroom? Her mother seemed genuinely surprised that she was sick, yet again.

And here I am on my anti bacterial gel soapbox: please do not bring your children to public events when they are vomiting. You might think this need not be said, oh no, clearly there needs to be a gentle reminder now and then. Your child is sick, they might rather be at home, and you are exposing countless others to your illness.

I will now live the next three to four days on pins and needles. It's Halloween season, we have wonderful costumes to wear, please let us be healthy. Amen.