Rowan, Age 7

Rowan is my first child.  Or my third child, depending on how you look at it.  He's third in order of age, but the first one I gave birth to myself.  Blended families are complicated when it comes to figuring out number order.  In any case, Rowan is seven.  He is bright as a button and smart as a whip, and he adores his elder brothers and their friends.

Rowan also has a stubborn streak a mile wide, and lately he has begun to assert his independence.  He's been saying things like, "I don't have to," and "You can't tell me to do that," and "You're not the boss of me!"  Oh my.  I haven't been letting him get away with it.  There's been lots of, "Excuse me, young man?" and "Would you care to repeat that again?" and "As long as you are living in a house that Mommy and Daddy and Grandma and Grandpa are paying for, eating food that we buy with money that Daddy works hard for, wearing clothes that we bought for you, you are not in charge and you don't get to make that decision."  We do try to be reasonable and discuss options when it's not a vitally pressing matter.

Rowan's latest interest is watching marble videos on YouTube, particularly the Wintergatan Marble Machine, the Epic Christmas Marble Run, and the ROBLOX Mega Marble Run Pit by EthanGamerTV.  That last one inspired him to create his own explanatory video yesterday.  We were playing in the backyard when suddenly he said, "Mommy, I'm going to make a YouTube video.  You need to video me."  I obliged him by taking out my iPhone.  The results were hilarious, and, I thought, pretty darn good for a 7-year-old making a video for the first time.  He did have to chide his camerawoman a few times when she didn't immediately catch what he wanted her to do.

Note:  RowansTallTales.com does not actually exist (yet).  Rowan just thought it sounded cool.

He's something, that Rowan.  He is simultaneously supremely confident and insecure.  He will brag and show off like nobody's business, but put him in front of an audience under pressure and he will curl up in Mommy's lap, hiding his face.  He loves to play with other kids.  He loves to stay home and play alone.  He only wants to play games EVER, Mom!  and he devours chapter books like a starving man.  We're currently rereading Ozma of Oz, the third book in the Oz series.

Last night I sent him upstairs to take a shower before bed.  When five minutes had passed and I didn't hear water running, I went to investigate.  I found him standing on the shower bench, which had been parked in front of the sink, stark naked, with the mirrored doors of the medicine cabinet angled to reflect himself countless times.  He was dancing and shaking his booty.

"Rowan," I said, "what do you think you're doing?"

"I just like to look at myself, Mommy," he said.  He got down and hopped in the shower.  When he was done, he toweled off and swaggered to his room.  Oh, he's got the swagger and the strut down, alright.  I'm not sure where he got that.  I don't think I've ever been that body-confident in my life.

There were tears yesterday.  There was conflict--a lot of it.  There were headaches and frustration.  I wondered, as I wonder every day, if he will ever get it.  But as we snuggled up to go to sleep, he leaned over to kiss me and whispered, "I love you, Mommy."  Somehow, that makes it all worth it.

That's my boy.

A Listening Heart

One of my friends just started a job.  He was put with another person to assist and be trained.  After his first day, I asked, "So how did it go?"

He replied, "It was great!  It was really nice to be with someone who actually listened to everything I said, and let me talk, and let me ask all the questions I needed to."

Oh.

That left me wondering, how often do I truly listen?  How often do I take the time to stop what I'm doing and really hear what the other person is saying?  How often have I let the other person's talk fade into the background while I wonder about finances or dinner or schedules or whatever else crosses my mind?  How often have I said, whether truly or in jest because I just didn't hear, "I'm sorry; I wasn't listening to you"?

I am ashamed.  I tell people frequently, "I'm here for you.  If you need a listening ear, I'm available.  You can talk to me."  The truth is, yes, I'm available to listen--at the same time as I focus on a hundred other irrelevant things.

Here's a common example of mealtime conversation:

6-year-old:  "Mommy, did you know that Pluto is a dwarf planet?"

Me:  "That's really cool.  Eat your food."

Why?  Why the constant attitude of "Get this task done quickly so we can move on to the next task"?  Yes, sometimes we're in a hurry, especially in the mornings.  Why can't I get up fifteen minutes earlier so we can slow down a little?

The fact is, I can.  I just don't like to.  I like my sleep.  I like to hear my own thoughts instead of focusing my mind on what someone else is saying.  I like to let other people make the effort of conversation.  That attitude, however, is not productive, and if I continue, I will drive people away.  My children.  My husband.  My friends.

The fact that someone who cared enough to listen was the important thing my friend took away from his first day, should tell us all how vital it really is to just pay attention.  It also speaks, unfortunately, to how accustomed he is to not having people listen.

It's time for us to make a change.  It's time for me to make a change.  Put down the phone, the tablet, the book, the puzzle, the laptop, or whatever is keeping you from giving full attention to those around you.  Phones and games have their place; sometimes we do just need to chill and relax.  And honestly, sometimes in public I use my phone as a Do Not Disturb sign.  When we're with the people we care about, though, let's make sure we're actually with them--not on Facebook or buried in a book or playing Dragon City.  (Unless, of course, it's mutually agreed upon to hang out and ignore each other.)  We can do this.  I can do this.  I am determined.

New Treatments, New Hopes

So, a while back I promised you a blog about why I'm feeling so down lately. Then France happened, and the Syrian refugees, and I just haven't had the energy to spare to write anything else of real significance. 

A lot has been happening. You might remember that back in June, I told you that Matthew was being put back on Tysabri for his MS. The same Tysabri that could potentially cause him to develop PML (progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy), which could potentially kill him. In January 2013 they found antibodies for it in his blood and stopped the Tysabri treatments immediately. This year, after no other medicines were effectively treating the MS, his doctor made the decision to try Tysabri one more time.

Well, between June and October the amount of antibodies in his blood went up times five.

Times FIVE.

That's huge.

He was immediately taken off Tysabri again, and his doctor said he will never, never, NEVER be put on it again. The problem then was, what medicine COULD he be given? Tysabri is one of the heavy hitters, and we'd already seen that anything less was ineffective for Matthew. When he takes the weaker medicines, he might as well not be taking anything, but with horrible side effects.

So we settled on a Very New Drug called Rituximab. It's a twice-yearly infusion, although initially he'll get two doses two weeks apart.  We went in November 24 for him to get his first dose, and we were there from 8:00 a.m. until 4:30 p.m.  That is a LONG day.  Midway through he started to get bad chills, nausea, and dizziness, so they paused it until the symptoms went away.

Being Matthew, he insisted on going to work anyway that evening.  He would be fine, he said.  So I dropped him off about 6:30; he said to pick him up at 11:00.  Well, about 9:15 I got a call saying to come and pick him up.  I set off (it's a half hour drive), and when I was almost there, he called again saying I'd need to take him to Emergency.

Chills, nausea, dizziness--yep; it had all come back.  The ER staff gave him medicine which got rid of the symptoms and sent us home.  He's been okay since, except for one more short bout of chills the next day.  Other than that there haven't been any problems that we've noticed, but his doctor said she wants to meet with him tomorrow.  He's having another infusion Tuesday, so this time they're going to take more precautions ahead of time so hopefully he won't get the nasty side effects.

I am tired.  I am so unutterably weary.  Life is weighing heavily on me with medical and financial concerns, and last night I received even more medical concerns.  Some days it's all I can do to get out of bed and face the day.  I want to hide in a cave somewhere and pretend the world doesn't exist.

Since that's not an option, thankfully I have good friends who bear me up.  I feel so very alone most of the time, and when they come over it's like light and sunshine entering my house.  I don't know how I'd manage without them.

Anatomy

Guys.  Guys.  And yes, I'm addressing you of the male persuasion.  I have something important to talk about.  Something vital to your health and sanity, and to that of those you love.  It's time for us to talk about your monthly visitor.  Your regular unwanted guest.  Your period.

You don't have one, you say?  My, how disappointing.  Well, I know how easy it is to trivialize something to which you cannot relate, so I'll do my best to put it in words you can understand.

Let's start by preparing the womb--I mean, your testes.  For the purposes of this experiment, your testes will be known as the Human Development Chambers (HDCs).  Every four weeks, your HDCs begin the process of interior decoration.  They're hoping to welcome a live-in guest, you see.  They put up soft, squishy wallpaper and install even softer carpet.  They spend three whole weeks making everything perfect for their guests' arrival.

When the fourth week comes, your HDCs are shocked to realize that no guest has landed on the doorstep.  They become angry, and in a fit of rage they begin ripping up the carpet and slicing off the wallpaper.  They hack it, they tear it, and they begin sending it down the Evacuation Tube (along with a lot of blood) straight into your underwear.  Congratulations!  You've just gotten your period.

You can expecting this state of ranting and dropping chunks of wallpaper down the tube to last for approximately a week.  Of course, you're still expected to work and carry on as usual.  Stick that pad in your underwear and go about your day with a smile, pretending you don't have several pounds of tissue and blood building up between your legs.  Don't forget to use the bathroom at least every two hours, so you don't have any unfortunate leaks and spoil your favorite jeans!  And you might have to change your sheets three or four times.

With all this turmoil happening in your lower regions, naturally your brain gets irritable and distracted.  You forget things.  Your lower back aches in sympathy.  You scream at your significant other for forgetting to buy chocolate.  And whenever you express anger or frustration--even if it's totally justified--your friends wink knowingly at each other and brush it off with, "Is it That Time again?"  If you dare to mention your condition to your female friends, they respond with, "Gross!  Don't talk about that!" or, "Whatever; it's just a period.  All men get them."

When the tirade from your HDCs is finally over, you breathe a sigh of relief.  Don't worry, though--they'll start decorating again right away.  And since the whole cycle takes four weeks (not one month), you can expect it to happen thirteen times every year for approximately thirty years of your life.

There are a couple of ways to avoid your period, of course.  You can go in to a clinic and have your reproductive system surgically removed, but then you run the risk of being rejected by potential life partners who want children.  Or, you can allow yourself to get pregnant.  You might even think that being pregnant is totally worth not facing a bloody mess every four weeks.

So you get little babies growing inside, and for the first few weeks you don't notice much.  Then suddenly, dear God, you are starving like you haven't eaten in fifteen years.  You gobble everything in sight, and then you realize that your body won't tolerate it.  All the food you ate comes right back up.  You can expect this to go on for about three months, while your HDCs (and their protective covering) grow to the size of potatoes.  Your jeans don't fit, and you start wearing sweats a lot.

For the next three months you're mostly okay on the nausea front, although you're still eating enough for a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  The doctor tells you this is normal, although your HDCs have now swollen to the size of cantaloupes.  Even your sweats don't fit now.  You have to buy special clothes which are freakishly expensive, and everyone comments on how "cute" you are.

The next three months see your HDCs increasing to the size of jumbo watermelons.  "How is this even possible?" you wonder.  You worry that your body won't be able to support the weight.  You need yet more new special clothes, and your significant other groans as they take out their wallet.  "More clothes?  Can't you make do with what you've got for the next two months or so?"  You try to make them understand that you genuinely can't fit into anything, so unless they want you to go out in public naked or wearing a blanket muumuu..

And finally, finally the day arrives when your sweet little babies are to make their appearance.  You have the option of having a doctor slice you open and remove them, stitching you up afterward, or of pushing them centimeter by centimeter out the Evacuation Tube over the course of several hours.  You'll probably still need stitches if you choose the latter.  Whichever way you go, finally you have your precious little ones and it is so worth it.  Your insurance allows you a whole two days to recover in the hospital before you're sent home.  You know you'll have a few months before you have to face The Period again.  And then, with all your sensitive bits still swollen and aching, your significant other asks:

"So, how soon can we have sex again?"

World, My Heart Is Heavy

World, my heart hurts for you.

I'm sure by now, everyone knows about the terror attacks in Paris.  Most also know about the attacks in Beirut.  We are all hurting and saddened, with no clear picture of how we can change this mess.  May I first suggest that we stop the infighting?  It seems like every time I go on Facebook, I see posts along the lines of, "Sure, you care about France, but what about Beirut?"  As if we can't care about both at the same time.

I looked up the Wikipedia list of terror attacks this year.  There were far too many for me to post here, so I'll just stick with the November ones:

• November 1:  Palestinian rammed his vehicle into Israeli soldiers in the West Bank
• November 1:  Car bomb was detonated on a hotel in Somalia, opening it up; perpetrators then starting shooting and throwing grenades; Al-Shabaab
• November 3:  Palestinian stabbed 3 people in Israel, including an 80-year-old woman
• November 3:  Palestinian stabbed a 71-year-old man in Israel
• November 4:  Sulemain Shaheen rammed an Israeli border patrol officer in the West Bank
• November 4:  Suicide car bomb near the Police Officers Club in Egypt; Wilayah Sayna, affiliated with ISIL
• November 5:  Suicide bomber attacked Qalamoun Clerics Association in Lebanon
• November 6:  Unknown sniper shot two Israelis near Cave of the Patriarchs
• November 6:  Baraa Issa stabbed an Israeli in the West Bank; member of Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades
• November 6:  Palestinian shot IDF soldier in the West Bank
• November 7:  Multiple bombs set off across Baghdad, Iraq; ISIS suspected
• November 9:  Sulemain Shaheen rammed his vehicle into a hitchhiker station in the West Bank
• November 9:  Palestinian woman stabbed Israeli guard in the West Bank
• November 9:  Two Palestinians stabbed Israeli in a shop in the West Bank
• November 9:  Two suicide bombers detonated in a village in Chad; Boko Haram suspected
• November 9:  14-year-old suicide bomber detonated at a mosque in Cameroon; Boko Haram suspected
• November 12:  Suicide bomber detonated in Lebanon; when crowds gathered, a second detonated; ISIL
• November 13:  Gunmen ambushed & shot a family car with 7 passengers in the West Bank
• November 13:  Attacks targeting Shiites in Baghdad, Iraq, including suicide bombing; ISIS
• November 13:  Series of attacks in Paris, France; ISIS

This is the official list from Wikipedia.  I searched each terror attack in an attempt to verify these incidents.  Some look like the dates are wrong.  I've linked the articles I could find.

Some of these might not seem like much.  A shooting here; a stabbing there.  What's important to remember about all of these is:  The attackers had no personal issue with the individuals they attacked.  All the victims were merely members of a hated group.  Shiites.  Israelis.  Police.

Hate is in the world, and it's real.  Fighting amongst ourselves about which terror incident is worse, or who cares more about the tragedies, or whether or not we should do a French flag overlay on our profile pictures, does nothing but cause division.  It separates us instead of uniting us.

Mourn for the Paris victims.  Mourn for those in Lebanon; for the Shiites in Baghdad; for the family attacked in their car; for those in Cameroon; for the villagers in Chad; for all those caught in conflict in the West Bank; for the police in Egypt; for the Israelis; for those in Somalia.  When their stories are told, don't trivialize them by saying, "Yeah, but do you care what happened to this other group?"  All these attacks are important.  All are tragic.  They should not have happened.  It is not wrong to mourn one group at a time.

Let's stand united on this.  Terror is real, and arguing will only further its cause.

The Great Zucchini Race

I'm three four days late posting this, but I'm finally here to tell you about The Great Zucchini Race.  Now, you might not have realized that zucchinis are capable of racing.  They have no visible legs, and I've never yet seen one wriggle like a worm.  However, an annual tradition at Rowan's school is, indeed zucchini racing.  Rowan decorated a lovely zucchini.

All the kids were given their zucchinis on Monday.  The race was held Friday, which meant we had four days to get this guy ready.  Naturally, we put it off until Thursday evening.  I am not an artistic person.  Craft projects send me into panic overdrive.  I kept hoping someone else would volunteer to help him with it, but when no one stepped forward, I knew I had to do my motherly duty.

Nail polish! I thought.  Surely nail polish would give it a nice, hard coating, while also making it smooth and streamlined!  I thought maybe a few racing stripes.  I wasn't factoring in Rowan, though.  Rowan wanted a CAT wearing PANTS and a SHIRT.  Yeah, if you can't tell that from the picture, you're not alone.  I think it looks more like a pig.  ("Rowan, if it's a cat, where's the tail?"  Rowan, disdainfully:  "It's a Manx.")

FYI, if you ever decide to use nail polish to decorate a zucchini, here's a helpful tip or two I could have used:  Buy 10 bottles of the same color.  Pour them all into a container.  Get a larger paint brush and dip in.  I really, really wish we had done that, because OMG, it took forever to paint that thing with a little, tiny polish brush.  Grandpa did the wheels, which were awesome.

Friday we sent him off to school with his zucchini in a box.  Savanna, Henry, Grandma, and I went over in the afternoon to witness the event.  Rowan's was first on the ramp.  It went a decent distance, but was nowhere near the winner.

Actually, not all the zucchinis really raced.  Only the ones in the Fastest and Furthest Distance categories got sent down the ramp.  Other categories included Prettiest, Sparkliest, Tallest, and Heaviest.  Here are some of the other contestants:

I bet you never imagined you could do so much with a simple garden vegetable!  Anyway, it was a lot of fun, and everyone had a good time.  (Apart from the kindergartner who broke down in tears when his zucchini failed, but he was soon comforted with Twizzlers.)  So far Rowan's school has done an exceptional job of Making Learning Fun, and that is very encouraging.  I hope it continues to be a pleasant experience for him!

I'm Sending My Children To School (And I Don't Want To)

My 6-year-old and my 3-year-old are headed to school this fall.  This is a surprise to me, because I have been planning for their entire lives to school them at home.  I have a variety of reasons, as do all parents who choose to homeschool.  Firstly, they are both autistic, and it can be quite difficult to work with them.  Secondly, they are extremely active, and not designed to sit still.  Thirdly, no matter how wonderful their teachers would be, they would not receive the same level of care and attention that they get from me at home.  No one knows them like I do, not even their dad.  I know (usually) what sets them off, what calms them down, and how to deal with tricky situations.  I am home with just them, so any emotional crisis can be given my full attention immediately.  Teachers, while excellent, simply don't have that flexibility.

Henry, the 3-year-old, is mostly non-verbal.  We started having him tested by the school district back in June.  The testers recommended that we put him in a preschool to improve his verbal and social skills.  We reluctantly agreed, and he's due to start in just a few weeks.  I am terrified.  Henry does not deal well with change, particularly changes where he won't see Mommy.  I am waffling between sending him off to preschool against his will, or keeping him home and cuddling him.

As for Rowan, the 6-year-old, we've been leaning toward Connections Academy, an online free public school.  Friends of ours have gone through it and said it's wonderful.  This is the route we thought we would go until five days ago.  But here's the thing--Rowan wants to actually go to school.  A physical school building with physical classmates and a teacher.

A physical public school is out of the question.  Rowan alternates between extreme childishness and extreme adult-like speech.  He is extraordinarily sweet, but if he is handled wrong, he will go into an emotional shutdown.  Public school would eat him alive.  That left us with just private school as a physical option, and we were sure we couldn't afford private school.

Still, we arranged a meeting at a small local private school to weigh our options.  We met with the administrator and the woman who would be his teacher, should he enroll.  And--oh dear!--it sounded absolutely ideal.  Rowan would be in a mixed first and second grade classroom.  Only eight other students were enrolled for that classroom.  Wednesdays are special activity days, with activities ranging from gardening to cooking.  Rowan's potential teacher took him to her classroom for placement testing, since he did not attend kindergarten.  She came back and said that in writing, spelling, and math he scored as a solid first grade.  His reading is at a third grade level.  He loves her and the school already.

So how could we say no?  We believe this will be a thoroughly positive experience for Rowan.  He mostly associates with adults.  He needs and craves social interaction with other children, but in small groups.  Large groups are terrifying for him.  In every way we can imagine, this school sounds perfect.

We're having to make some lifestyle changes, of course.  We've shut off our cable service.  We've consolidated our cell phone plans.  Even that might not be enough.  With both Rowan and Henry gone, at least for the mornings, I might have to get a job.  I'm sure we'll be feeling the pinch of tuition soon.

I don't want to send him.  I don't want to send either of my boys to school.  I have always planned to keep them home with me and teach them myself.  I have been preparing for it for years.  I don't know what I'll do without them here.  I may yet keep Henry home, although I'll probably give him at least a week in the preschool to see how he adjusts.  For Rowan, though, it's time for him to stretch his wings and try them out in a new environment.  So far he's handling it better than I am.