The Snack Time Minefield

Nine years ago when Nat was a Kindergartner, we had some issues with class snack. We were montessori-ing it at that point, and snack time and civility was a big deal—bring your own placemat. So the plan was that every twenty days we'd bring snack for twenty kids. Simple enough, no? No.

First came vegan mom's horror, Oreos. ("What kind of person would feed their five-year-old Oreos?!? At 10 in the morning!?!" [I plead the fifth.])

Then came nut allergy mom. ("Actually, if any of the kids eat peanut butter before they come to school, would you mind bathing them thoroughly before they leave for school? In fact, could you just stop eating peanut butter in your homes? Thanks!")

Then the dairy allergy raised it's ugly head. ("Not everything. Just milk, yogurt, cheese, butter, sour cream, those sorts of things. Bread is OK.")

"Please no wheat allergy. Please no "dried fruit causes cavities" dentist's kids, please!" became my prayer. I distinctly remember the day I went to make ants on a log and bought cream cheese to use instead of pb, but then realized that cream cheese was dairy. OK, ants next to a log.

Such a stress. It took months before the teacher came to the conclusion that everyone should bring their own snack for civility time. In the meantime, I just brought in boxes of back-up snacks and tried to stay out of the line of fire.

It's hard to find something that works for twenty different mom/kid combos. One person's yum is another person's yuck. Hummus, a favorite of vegan mom, gagged my daughter. People's definition of healthy varied widely. Although most of us recognized Oreos as a nutrition fail, fruit snacks, yogurt, and muffins also raised a ruckus among some parents.

Fast forward to Caroline's class which started last week, it took precisely two days and a glance over everyone's health forms to reveal that some of our cuties have nut allergies (almonds, walnuts, pecans—no peanuts, amazingly enough) and dairy sensitivities. By that night an email went out explaining the issue and explaining the new snack procedure. It was pretty complicated: bring something your child can and will eat in a container marked with her name. Works for me.

But here's where my brain stalls out. You can run into kids with conflicting needs. My best friend's son had food issues. He ate nothing but Jif smooth peanut butter and honey bear honey on Home Pride butter-top white bread (PBH). What happens when that PBH boy is in the same school as death by peanut fumes girl?

When Nat was in fourth grade she couldn't bring PB in her lunch, because there was a girl in her class that had a preschool sibling at home who had a deadly allergy. There's an entire school in our district that is peanut-free. And I get it. You can't just say, "Suck it up and carry an epi-pen! Gotta enter the real world sometime, kid." But can you say, "OK, we'll go to tube feeding for you, PBH kid"?

I'm guessing most people would vote for PBH boy to just be hungry until he gets home and say that if you just feed a picky child a variety of healthy foods and don't give them their food of choice when they fail to eat the options before them, they'll get hungry enough to eat something other than PBH. Eventually. I bear my testimony that there are children in the world who will not eat rather than eat undesired food. I've met them. I've seen heroic efforts put forth by admirable parents. I've seen the kids begin to waste away. Not pretty in a land of plenty.

So what to do when picky runs into food allergy? No clue. And I'm glad I don't have to decide it. Just glad our Kindergarten teacher decisively took care of snack so quickly.

We're Happy When We're Helping

Misty--a dear friend of a dear friend--is Dairrien's mom. If it is possible for you to help, even a little, please do. I can only give $10, but it's all theirs.

I am trying to raise money to help with expenses that will encure for us during My Son Dairriens Surgery...Dairrien is 13 years old. He has gone through 3 surgeries and this will be his 4th... I am a single mom of 3 boys..So being able to leave our home for up to 14 days is going to be tough..The surgery is paid for through our insurance and Shriners Hospital.. But being a single mom,Money is tight,And I will be leaving my 1 child,and animals in the care of my mother.Who has to take unpaid time off work to take care of my home and child. It will take alot of money to be away from my home for up to 14 days..Gas,and food is my biggest concern,as I will not only have myself to worry about but my youngest son who will have to go with me.. I have to raise enough Money to help pay for my one child to be left with my mother,Food and extra money in case he needs anything.. And I need to raise enough money to Get to Shriners,and back..Along with enough Food Money to last up to 14 days..we also need to raise money for a follow up appointment that he will have a few weeks after surgery..and anything he needs to take with him to the hospital,back pillows,new set of lose clothing (sweats) for the ride home.. So all of this adds up to an amount that I just do not have!! Please Check out our website we have set up,to learn more about Dairrien's Condition and why he is having surgery... For The Love of Dairrien

Appendectomy Anyone?

Just a brief post to say that my ten year old son decided he has had enough of all those weird come-and-go stomachaches that kept making him tardy for school. He decided to just get over with and have appendicitis instead.

His symptoms were a little wonky so it took me a day before I decided to take him in to the ER. His pain was across the entire midsection of his abdomen, instead of being focused on the right side. He wasn't in immense pain and his pain was getting better, not worse. But no diarrhea, no constipation, no vomiting, no upper or lower abdomen pain. He also was experiencing decided relief laying on his right side. Hm...yes, it could be. Naw, you morbid mom. It's just the flu. Um, but...

Finally, I just decided to stop reading online appendicitis articles and polling friends and to trust my gut feeling. The kid's never been a whiner and a busted appendix could kill him. Best to check it out. Turns out the poor kid's appendix was tucked away behind his intestine and as a result his symptoms were atypical. I thank God that the useless thing didn't rupture.

His surgery went well. He's uncomfortable but they are treating his pain to the good meds. His temperature is fluctuating a bit too much for my taste. (If they don't give kid something for it soon I'm going to have to put on the Mama Bear suit.)

Anyhow here I am enduring countless hours of cartoon network in a Mr. L's hospital room. Amazingly enough, I'm feeling a bit tense. If I could play PathWords on facebook (my favorite brain-number) I would, but I can't seem to get the hang of doing it on the laptop. Since PathWords is out I should be reading blogs a lot today, wandering around saying stupid, distracted things. I'll keep you all posted.

Where Should the La Family Move? In Theory.

I want to move. Quickly and permanently.  I had a nice long post about all the reasons we ought to move, but let's just leave it at a simple my neighborhood leaves much to be desired. (Feel free back me up on this one, Wendy and Natalie.) It's not going to happen, but I like to dream. 

I'm looking for a good place to move and want your suggestions. Here's my wish list:

• sidewalks
• LDS church within ten miles
• children in the neighborhood 
• safe enough that responsible people let their children play outside alone
• reasonably priced
• casual
• no annual anti-Mormon events
• a good library
• higher education located within twenty miles
• no free roaming alligators or huge cockroaches
• low crime
• low community drug use
• a vibrant homeschool community
• mild winters
• normal everyday people walk and bike to their destination sometimes
• political, ethnic and religious diversity
• low unemployment
• neighbors who intend to stay in the area until their children are raised
• not located on a fault line, a floodplain or on the edge of a cliff

There are two or three local communities that fulfill most of desires, but that pesky "reasonably priced" doesn't bend. At all. And those great communities do not come cheaply. If I come into a half million dollars or the ability to pay for a $500,000 mortgage, I'd have it all under control, but so far I haven't and I don't. SO give me a name to match my dream, your favorite "nice places to raise a family." 

I am so mad I could scream and scream and scream!

As I was withdrawing V from school today, I spoke to the "lady in the office." I thought I'd give the school a little tip. Their bathrooms need to be at least lightly supervised. Allowing "at-risk" children a private place for up to a half an hour with other "at-risk" children seems like a bad idea.

Her response? "That was only two kindergarten girls, Mrs. La. And we are dealing with that."

[WHAT?!?! That was not the incident to which I was referring. So LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT: You, the school personnel, know that crap is happening to kids in the bathrooms. And you are doing NOTHING to prevent it happening to other children.]

"How about if you put cameras in the non-potty portion of the room, so that..."

"Oh no! We couldn't do that! Privacy. Mrs. La, we don't even have cameras to prevent break-ins."

"Perhaps...the yard duties could swing through the bathrooms every now and then. Or there could be some kind of system to keep track of how long children have been in the bathroom or..."

"Mrs. La, where would we get the funding for any of those things? Besides we haven't had any parents complain"

[Where are you going to get the funding for the million dollar lawsuit that someone is going to file against the school district, because YOU FLIPPIN' KNOW that crap is happening in the bathrooms?]

"Well, my V was harmed in there. I can't let her be here if no one can protect her. Obviously, it's happening more than you realize."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. La."

HOW ELSE WOULD I FEEL? Merciful heavens, what in the world is wrong with you people? No, seriously. Have you lost your minds?

The mystery of V's non-stop crying at home has been solved. Sobbing and whining and whimpering, she was driving us all crazy. And the poor kid was trying to work out some way to say, "help me," without getting in trouble or getting her "friends" in trouble. Poor baby.

Jerry Springer Strikes Again

Well, in an effort to improve my blog traffic I arranged for a little event yesterday. My neighbor lost his mind. Now that doesn't happen every day. Oh, come on! Doesn't that make you want to click over here just a little bit?

It was a dark and stormy morning. [Really, I'm not making that up.] As I was lying down with my baby at nap time, a huge crunch disturbed our peace. The unmistakable crumpling crunchy thud of fiberglass and metal hitting something very solid. I bolted out of bed and ran to the window. Not a thing. Moments later J came running in, "Where's the phone? A van just crashed. In front of the neighbor's house, into their tree."

How fast can a woman dial 911? Pretty darn fast. I reported the accident and ran out to see if anyone needed help. The van had hit the tree alright. Hard. But the airbag had not deployed and there was no one to be seen anywhere.

Curious and concerned, I approached the front door. Much screaming and swearing greeted me. A fight was clearly in progress. I tentatively knocked. As fools rush in where angels fear to tread, I knocked harder.

The door opened and Little T and Baby A peeked out. "Hi Jami. Where's V?" L.T. said as if there wasn't a car wrapped around their tree and lunatic raving in the living room.

"Hi dude. Is your mom here?"

M rounded the corner, calm, resolute. "Hi, Jami."

"Um, are you OK?"

"No."

"Um, I called 911. The police are coming. Do you want me to call back?"

"No."

"Would you...uh...do you think maybe the kids would like a play date?"

Long pause. "Yeah. Thanks. That's a good idea."

"Hey guys! Wanna come over and play with N and C?"

"YAY!"

So over they came. N pulled out her babysitting bag. She was totally prepared for just such a moment. Games, coloring, fun galore. As the festivities were getting under way, a different neighbor came to my door and motioned me outside.

"Jami, the police are here."

"Yeah, I know. I've got the kids."

"They have guns."

"What?" I stepped out further. The police were blocking the roads. Easily a dozen of them were setting up behind the shrubbery in the park, behind the bounce house and tree at the church across the street, on the roof of the house behind the screamer. Shields, bullhorns, and sure enough...guns.

"Oh crap. I've got to tell her." [Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.] I began walking to the screaming house. 

"WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GO BACK INTO YOUR HOUSES," bullhorned the spastic police officer.

I pondered obeying him as I continued toward the door. This was getting out of control. If I could just tell M what was going on, she could come have a chat and diffuse the situation a bit. What are they going to do: shoot me?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GET OVER HERE NOW!" Geez, he was irritating. I stopped walking.

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! STOP! GET OVER HERE NOW." Hm. Idiot. He just might shoot me.  I walked over to a calmer more intelligent looking officer. The bullhorn man's head blew off. Something about come here? Jail? Whatever. I was on a mission.

I attempted to gain permission to go over and talk to my friend. How many different ways can an officer say, "HELL NO!"?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS!  GO INSIDE YOUR HOUSE." That blasted man was at it again. "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS!"

I explained to the officer I was standing next to that I wasn't going to go inside, that they were blowing this event way out of proportion. And someone was going to get hurt. [Fools rush in.] The officer informed me that the man had a bow and arrow. I refrained from laughing at him. He told me to go stand back and spoke to Officer Bullhorn who then quieted down. 

I stood back and went over to the female police officer. She found a new way to say, "HELL NO!"

They put somebody new on the bullhorn. "RESIDENTS OF 555 ALPHABET STREET: PLEASE COME OUTSIDE." I suspected at the time that the residents of 555 ABC St couldn't hear him, didn't even know they were there. [This was later confirmed.] So we all went through an hour of "Please come out. No one has committed a crime. We just want to talk to you."

Eventually M came outside. I'm guessing to come see how the kids were doing.  She looked around calmly, said something quietly to the closest officers and went back inside. She came out again about a half hour later.  Whew. I felt better. 

After she finished talking to the police, I called her over. She confirmed that her husband had lost his mind, that she'd been trying to get him help, and that no one would help.  I spoke to her about her school children. I suggested that I pick them up when I got mine and go directly to McDonalds Playplace. Do not pass home, do not mention the situation. Administer french fries. The plan was approved and I went back home. 

As I was crossing the street, "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! GO INSIDE YOUR HOME." Yeah, yeah. I waved and pointed at my house. I'm a goin'.

I checked in on J and N.  They were doing a great babysitting job. The little monkeys had no idea of the chaos reigning in the street. We can't hear street noises in our house. Thank God! When Little T asked what his mom and dad were doing, I told him they were working on getting the car fixed.

I changed clothes. They seemed to have something against my dress. And headed out again. I stayed in my driveway this time.

Another hour. M's father (the screamer's FIL) came out. Relief and tension warred it out within my psyche. Another half-hour of calm bullhorn coaxing. An occasional riffle twitched in the neighborhood shrubs. I began praying. (Not out loud. Do you think I'm insane?) Suddenly it occured to me that perhaps some of my friends were online and would be willing to pray. I went inside and posted a quick request on this blog and one on facebook. I went back out. Five minutes later the screamer "stood down." He came out, hands up, walking backwards. Hands on head. Hand cuffs on. The SWAT team came out of the bushes and off the roofs, and the dozen police cars began to trickle away. 

All before school got out. I confirmed with M that McDonald's was still a good idea, so she could deal with the car, the commitment papers and all that. At that I packed Little T and Baby A into the car, picked up all four of the school kids and went to the golden arches. Yet another justifiable credit card expense. We fiddled around for two hours while I blythely lied through my teeth. [Was it on purpose? I don't know. I didn't see it. Is your dad in the hospital? No. No one was hurt. Were they fighting? Hm. Where's Baby A?]

And then we went home. M took her monkeys inside and explained the whole thing to them. Poor woman. Later that night, because her day had not been quite crappy enough, Little T broke his finger while bouncing in the bounce house at the church across the street. Good times.

Oh and M's birthday is tomorrow. Right. Happy birthday.

In Which Jami Horrifies Two Lovely Young Teachers

I'm in serious overload mode with Girl Scout stuff right now. So I do not have time to craft a pleasant fiction in which I do not behave like a boor to those poor teachers. Background for those of you who missed the first post on this subject. Here we go! Details. Rough draft style.

I think I've frightened my mother off forever by bringing up the specter of Mr. Marshall which frees me up to discuss my crazy educational protectionism without fear of giving my sweet mother an aneurysm as she suppresses the urge to tell me off in front of the entire world.

ANYWAY...I met with V's two teachers last Monday after school. They had a nice neat rubric, with the smiley face, :), the flat line face :|, and the frownie face :(. They were certain that if they explained that the frownie face meant something other than "I'm mad/I don't like you/You have displeased me" that I'd say "OH! Thanks for explaining that. Whew! Glad we got that cleared up." Um, sorry, I'm crazier than that. A smile is a universal symbol for friendly acceptance while the frownie face is the universal symbol for "unable to complete assignment as given?" I think not.

So they kept saying, "Well, that's what we do."

And I kept saying, "Well, you can do it, but not to my kid. You aren't allowed to make her cry. I don't care if it is wimpy and silly that she cries over a frownie face. She's six, my friends."

Finally, I bent a bit. "OK, you can put a frownie face on her homework, but you can't let her see it. You can mail it home to me or stick it in an envelope and I'll get it," which was an unacceptable solution for them. They want the child to understand that they didn't complete the assignment correctly. Okey-dokey. More negotiations ensued until finally we settled on "1" = :( . Whew, glad we got that cleared up.

[OK Crash Test Dummy this next sentence is for you.] Nevermore shall my darling receive massive sorrowing visages marring her pulchritudinous, puerile endeavors toward scholarship.*

Then I told them I hated their reading program. That went over really well. I asked if there were any alternatives. Nope? OK...moving on then.

V's attention-seeking behavior? Ah yes. We locked her in a closet for six years, never paying any attention to her, and now she's a bit clingy. I sympathized with them. She does really seem to be a black hole for love. I told them that if they pay attention to her when she is making mistakes and acting up that she was likely to continue.

Did they want to keep trying what they have been doing or consider other options? My suggestions? They could have her move to a different classroom when she is seeking attention inappropriately, they could carry her in a baby backpack all day, whispering sweet words of encouragement and affection, or they could try something of their chosing that didn't involve frownie faces.

So then we discussed district standards for first grade which are the state second grade standards moved down a grade. That was fun. We discussed the wisdom of high pressure learning in the lower grades which led directly into the V's only attending their school because I need her out of the house during the day. Poor ladies, trying so hard to be nice to the crazy woman who pops this HORROR on them!

I offered reassurance. We totally follow their little homework routine for the hour and a half it takes to get done, roughly the same amount of time we'd spend on an entire day of homeschool. We parted on reasonable terms, but I would have paid hard, cold cash to be a fly on the wall for the conversation that followed our meeting.

In summary [that's also for CTD] they did not harm me, I didn't really stand on the desk and do a Tarzan yell, and security was not required to drag me off.

The end. For now. Until I get my knickers in a twist again.

*Translation: No more huge frownies on my V's beautiful, immature efforts at worksheets.

It's a Bug-Eat-Bug World Out There, Princess. . .

ya best toughen up.

WARNING: OUTBURST IS ABOUT TO OCCUR.
DO NOT READ, MOM!

Caution, gentle readers. I may swear.

OK, here's the deal—when you get all the answers right we like you and smile at you, friendship and affection galore. BUT—now get this straight—if you mix up your #%$& "cot" with your @^$$%* "hop" you get this:



Bad first grader, BAD! No smiles for you! No affection or approval. YOU LOSE. But that's OK. I'll like you again—if you do it right next time.

WHAT IN THE H@%%?
She couldn't have put 7/9 or -2 or no redo?

A Fundraiser Most Foul

Last Tuesday, as I was volunteering at the kids' school, they had an assembly for the QSP/Reader's Digest fall fundraiser, so instead of helping kids with their multiplication facts I ended up stuffing folders. I'm OK with that.

I'm not going to whine about taking academic time to train little salespeople. Or the fact that the QSP folks were whipping the kids into a frenzy of greedy enthusiasm that could be heard across the school. Or the fact that when my son got into the car that afternoon, he fully believed that selling 200 items was completely within his nine-year old abilities. Or the fact that each of the four kids who came to my house that afternoon also believed that they could sell 200 flippin' subscriptions/kitchen gadgets/cans of nuts. I'm not going to gripe about the fact that my son thinks that if I just loved him more and was willing to put out a little time and effort on his behalf the freaking iPod Touch would be his. I am not even going to gripe about the fact that the Girl Scouts are doing the exact same QSP/Reader's Digest fundraiser right now. Three girl scouts + two school kids = five simultaneous fundraisers to support. That's OK; I'm game.

No. The thing that has fixated my foul fascination is this: The girl scout council is selling a ten-ounce can of Reader's Digest/Ashdon Farms/Pleasantville Farms cashews for six dollars. The school? THIRTEEN dollars for that same can.

Go kids, go! Sell 200 cans of THIRTEEN dollars nuts! In an income challenged neighborhood. Nice. Very nice.

OA or J-Boy is Being Tortured Even as I Type

The Order of the Arrow

The Order of the Arrow is the "honor society" of Boy Scouts. A boy is elected by his troop to become a candidate for the Order and then must undergo an "ordeal" to be accepted into full membership. Thereafter, the boy participates in various service projects and fun activities.

So one day I was reading one of my favorite blogs, when suddenly a guy named Justin comes out with this:

Speaking of the Order of the Arrow, when are state CPS agencies and police going to do something about the little camps of horror euphemistically known as Order of the Arrow “Ordeals”?

When, as a young scout, I was being silenced, essentially starved, hazed by other scouts, ordered by leaders to march for unknown distances in the darkness through the woods, subjected to bizarre campfire ceremonies put on by strangers wearing faux–and creepily indecent–Native American getup, commanded to spend the night in an open field (without any protection from bears, badgers, wolverines, chupracabras, or the natural elements), and forced to perform hours of manual labor (in violation of all child labor laws) at one such Ordeal, did anyone respond to my calls for help? No.

What!?!

I immediately began a Mama Bear freak out and posted the following request for information:

To OA Survivors:
So…my son has just been invited to become a member of the Order of the Arrow. Ordeal? Secrecy? He was recommended by nice guys in our ward. Will he come back in one piece? Will he be broken in spirit and body? What’s the deal?

I was pointed to this thread, which relates the various privations and labors the boys were forced to endure and most specifically this comment, which relates a herd of horses trampling a set of OA candidates as they slept under the stars in an open field.

I was decided. No way was this mama bear letting her cub go to such an INSANE experience. I informed my J-boy of my decision. And it was his turn to say:

WHAT!?!

The boy was having no part in being babied. I ran it past my husband who helpfully said, "Whatever. It's up to him." I forced J to read the entire thread on OA horror stories. His reaction?

"Wimps."

"Wimps? Dislocated shoulders, concussions, starvation? Son, are you INSANE?"

"OK, the horse thing was bad, but for the rest of it, I just kept thinking, 'What wimps.' So I'm going right?"

And reluctantly I agreed to let him go. Yesterday night I drove him, his buddy D, and a car full of grumpy munchkins two hours to their ordeal. When I suggested they bone up on their sign language in preparation for their day of silence, D came up with the sign for "Horses coming. Beware."

We arrived at dusk. After a minute of going over paperwork with the friendly OA grownup in charge, I turned to perform my good-bye ritual: a hug, a kiss, the warning to wear sunblock and bug repellent, and the assurance that I was sure he'd do great.

Too late. He was gone. Off to become a man.