Whitman

Drizzly Wednesday, June 24

Grace regaled me this morning with tales of her new summer camp (while modeling my shoes). She is most excited by the fact that they have computers at camp. And photography. She told me all about the cafeteria, and about how this summer (unlike the last 2, at the same camp) she actually lines up with her tray and goes through the cafeteria line. She told me about how she has her very own locker for swimming, and that they swim twice a day in the temporary above-ground pools that have been set up inside, on the hockey rink. Once, she said, “for strokes and stuff.” And the other time, “For free swim. That’s the fun one.”

Visions of her playing Marco Polo dance through my head. I remember being this age at summer camp, and the damp coldness of tugging on an already-wet bathing suit for another swimming lesson. I love this camp. As far as I can tell it’s a close approximation of a city high school experience. And Grace is delighted with it.

Whit woke me up at 7:05 when he climbed into bed with her. He giggled while he told me all about dinner with Nana last night. He talked about the roast chicken that she had brought over, with oy-ebs (took me a while to figure out this was herbs). This vegetable and fruit fearing child was so proud of himself for eating the green specks of oyebs, you’d think he had devoured a spinach and kale salad. “And, guess what, Mummy!?” he said, a piece-de-resistance sparkle in his eye, “There was a lemon in the chicken. Stuffed up its bottom!!!”

This afternoon I took Whit to swimming. In the drizzle. We were early, of course, and he was cheerful as he cantered around the pool waiting his turn, tugging up his swimming trunks that are too big and kept falling down, his skim-milk white skin (so much like mine) fairly glowing in the gloom.

Still, he remains resolutely unbuoyant. He sinks like a stone. I wonder if it’s his utter lack of body fat? He loves the water and spends his 30 minutes with his hands clasped around the neck of his college student teacher, laughing and having a ball. But float? Let go? No. At the end of the lesson, Chris, Whit’s teacher, was trying to get him to do a sitting down dive. It looks like he’s about to. But then he just dropped his hands, scooted off his butt into the water, and threw himself into Chris’s arms again.

Saturday June 13

Yesterday was a beautiful sunny Saturday. Grace, Whit and I headed to Cradles to Crayons for the morning. The kids were just great: we were assigned to sort toys which is basically as tempting as you can get. They had to comb through a big pile of donated toys and sort them into boxes by type. Whit did a little playing here and there but they were both very earnest little volunteers. I was proud.
We then met Charlie, Max, and Kristin at a playground for pizza. Grace found a way to literally fling herself around in circles – the picture doesn’t really capture it but wow it was really entertaining to watch. More hilarious still was her drunken crooked walk when she got off. I got super sunburned at the park – very marked farmer tan on my arms and a bright red nose. Really attractive.

Then it was home for quiet time in their rooms and a new Jetsons movie. Dinner with Nana and early to bed. Today was a big day that I’ll write about tomorrow!

Mathmateking

Last night Whit was crying in his bed. This is uncharacteristic, because usually he barges right out and lets me know just what is going on. I went into his room and found him sitting up on the bottom bunk, clutching his monkey, awash in tears.

“What’s wrong, Whit?”

“I … miss … my … friends!” he managed to choke out, with difficulty, between sobs.

I was so touched I grabbed him and wrestled him down in a hug. He was so damn dear in that moment. We talked about his friends and I have since made a playdate with one of his besties for tomorrow. I tucked him in again and left the room.

A few minutes later I could hear him bawling again. I went back in.

“Whit, what’s going on?” I suspected somewhat less authenticity to these tears.

“Mummy! I am just not cheered up yet!” the master manipulator said, failing to hide his smile behind fake sobs.

A few minutes later I heard Grace creep out of her room.

“Mummy? May I have some extra time with you like Whit just had?”

Doesn’t miss a thing, that one, and sure doesn’t let Whit get away with a single teeny thing that she doesn’t also get.

“Sure.”

I climbed into her bed and wrapped my arms around her. I asked her about her day. Without answering me, she turned to me in the dark and asked,

“Mummy? Tomorrow night in Marion is it OK if Whit and I sleep in the trundle beds together?”

“Yes, of course, Gracie.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed a sigh of palpable relief. “You see, tonight Whit was doing some really good mathmatecking so I told him I would give him a treat.”

“You what?”

“I told him he did such a good job mathmatecking I would give him a treat.” She looked at me, rushing on, “Oh, it’s okay, Mummy it’s not like I gave him candy or anything. The treat was to share a room with me in Marion. And he was so excited about the treat!”

I can’t decide what to pursue, the odd word “mathmatecking” or the fact that Grace presents as a treat sharing a room with herself. Door A wins.

“What is mathmatecking, Gracie?”

“Oh, it’s when you do a really hard math problem. I asked Whit was 400 plus 400 was and he said 800!”

“Wow, really?”

“Yes. Well, I helped him a lot.”

Of course.

Cheetah

Some pictures and a memory from the archives.

On December 22nd, 2005, we woke up thinking Whit had chicken pox. I was excited, and had big plans to put Grace and he in bed together so they both got it (I would love to have avoided that vaccination which seems unnecessary to me). I took him to the doctor that morning and was told it was, in fact, an allergic reaction to amoxicillin. Apparently Whit had a textbook presentation of this allergy: second course of amoxicillin, day 8 or 9. Precisely.

He was covered in red spots which were rapidly swelling and growing. The doctor switched his antibiotic and sent us home. Friday morning Whit was worse, with well more than half of his body covered in hives. I went back to the doctor who diagnosed Whit with Stephens-Johnson syndrome. My wonderful, relaxed, calm doctor told me that it was best to think of the syndrome as a spectrum. On one side, he said, is a “mild rash.” “And on the other?” I asked, obviously. “Um, well, death.” Great. Thanks. He sent us to the Children’s Hospital ER.

To make a long story short, Whit and I went to the Children’s ER on the mornings of both the 23rd and the 24th of December. In each case they observed him, took temperatures, and sent us home.

When released from Children’s around noon on the 24th I thought Whit was improving. He had shown no appetite at all and had barely taken any formula. He seemed quiet and listless but not unhappy. As I got the children ready for Christmas Eve dinner at my parents, he threw up violently. I paged the pediatrician’s office, nervous about bothering them on December 24th. One of the other two pediatricians in the practice, not my own, called me back. She told me to watch him, to give him pedialyte in whatever way possible (turned out that the baby Motrin syringe was the only way) and to call back immediately if he threw up again. He was at this point running a fever of about 100 and was about 80% covered in raised red welts.

At my parents’ house that evening I was preoccupied and nervous. I kept injecting his mouth with teaspoonsful of pedialyte, one at a time. He was quiet, almost unnervingly so. Around 7, as everyone prepared to sit down, I took him to my parents’ bedroom to change his diaper. He threw up all over me. I called the doctor as advised and she told me to go immediately to the Children’s ER.

Hilary came with me and Matt stayed with Grace. I drove like a bat out of hell. The Children’s Hospital ER on Christmas Eve? Pretty close to how I imagine Calcutta. Let’s just say we were not the only people there. If you need attention in this kind of setting, just throw out Stephens-Johnson syndrome. The seas parted and they took us immediately to a room. Whit was put back into his third hospital johnny in two days and they decided to start an IV. No easy feat with a very dehydrated baby.

I consider myself a fairly unsqueamish person, and have watched my children endure all kinds of injuries, have personally held Grace down while she got stitches in her face, etc. But this was too much for me. After they had tried unsuccessfully four times to insert his IV I had to leave the room. Hilary stayed with him. They finally got the IV into him and he spent most of his first Christmas Eve at Children’s Hospital.

Whit did not have to go back to Children’s after that. The rash receeded, though slowly. We stay away from all – cillins. Whit is officially my “allergic” child. While Whit has no memory of this, Grace does, referring to the incident as “when Whitty was a cheetah.”

Random Whit-ness

As we drove to the shoe barn to get Grace sneakers this afternoon the children were talking about my dad’s new Mini Cooper. (another time: my incredible inability to deal with shoes for my children. It’s like a blind spot. I am just So Bad At Shoes.)

Whit said, with emotion, “I love Mini Coopers so much.”

Grace responded, “But Whit, you’ve never even seen a Mini Cooper.”

“I know. But I still love them.”

Random.

Later, as I made a panicked pit stop for Robitussin DM (I have the worst cold/strep combo I’ve had in years) it began to rain. Grace had decreed a “quiet ride home,” so there was unusual calm in the car. I heard a small voice pipe up: “I think you should put on the wipers.” Wow. A backseat driver. Who knew that was hereditary? I guess there is no question that Whit, the unexpected micromanager, is also my child.

During our drive Grace was singing an annoying Top 40 song whose refrain is “Someone call 911, someone call 911.” Whit chimed in now and then. Over dinner he began to sing again, “someone call 911, someone call 911,” (ironically with the general persistence and appeal of a siren) and Grace joined him. “Grace,” Whit said, with exaggerated exasperation, “You are annoying me! You are so annoying!”

Again, my child. (incidentally, he found that random red headband himself and put it on like that)