This is going to hurt

A few weeks ago after he endured four vaccinations with little more than a grimace and a whimper of pain, I decided to try to cheer up Ben with some stories of pain tolerance, or lack thereof, from my younger days. My kids are so much braver than I ever was.

I had Ben in hysterics telling him about getting my first cavity filled. I locked myself in the family station wagon and refused to get out. I won that battle. My mom had to reschedule the appointment. 

Then there was the time that I decided to nuzzle noses with my pet hamster. It didn't enjoy the nuzzling and instead sunk its teeth into my nose. My mom took me for a tetanus shot. She had to drag me into the office literally screaming, and it took a small cadre of nurses to hold me down and inject me. 

If only I'd known when I was young what a small deal fillings and shots are, in terms of the pains life throws at you. I would've crossed that worry right off my list.

Parenting will break your heart in a thousand different ways. I never know day to day what's going to come way, but I've been doing this long enough to know that most days will test me in some way.

This week brought its trials right on schedule. On Sunday night, Ben said, "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I had this problem in gym class."

It turns out that before we had left for vacation, he couldn't get his gym lock to work, so he left his locker without a lock on it. Another kid, thinking he was helping, stuck a lock on Ben's locker, but it wasn't Ben's lock. Ben returned to school and couldn't get into his gym locker.

When Ben went to his teacher with the problem, the teacher responded sarcastically and basically refused to help. I suppose I can see where the teacher was going with his response - maybe trying to instill natural consequences or something, but it left Ben frustrated and confused. I emailed the teacher to try to get the situation resolved, but I heard nothing.

By Tuesday morning, the day of his next gym class, Ben was crying tears of worry and frustration. I was indignant at the stupidity of the situation with the teacher (just help the kid figure it out!), and he was starting his day upset.

Of course, the situation just blew over, as they so often do. The teacher, though he never responded to me, clearly got my message and removed the lock for Ben. He came out of school that day happy as ever.

It all got me thinking, though, of hard it is to grow up. I know Ben's school tries to ease the sixth-graders into becoming middle-schoolers, but clearly the expectations have risen. I can imagine the panic Ben felt trying to get into his locker, simultaneously trying to ensure he'd make it to class on time.

On top of that, I know that on his journey to manhood, my oldest must be facing fears and frustrations that I can never understand. I can see that Ben is trying very hard to shed some of his youthfulness, but he's still very much just a boy.

With Gus, I've been experiencing a different kind of pain. Each day when I pick him up from school, I tense up waiting for the teacher's report. Most days, she says nothing, and some she notes that he's had a good day. Every once in a while, though, I get a bad report, and yesterday was one of those days.

It never gets any easier, hearing the details of Gus's transgressions. Inevitably, I weirdly feel like I'm the one who's behaved badly and should hang my head in shame. I understand that Gus's behavior can be maddening, but I want his teacher to look for the good in him each day as well as noting what's going wrong. When I feel like that's not happening, it's really hard.

It's a daily battle with my youngest. Sometimes I get complacent when things have gone well for a while, but I need to keep sticking to what's worked in the past. Today I will tremulously hope that a firm reminder of expectations will once again get Gus back on track.

I recently read the excellent Counting by 7s by Holly Goldberg Sloan (great book to read with a little older kids, by the way). In my favorite passage, the young protagonist, Willow, tells about a time that she took care of a wild green-rumped parrot she had found and named Fallen. "When Fallen was finally strong enough to fly, I reintroduced him back to his flock. It was incredibly rewarding. But it was also heartbreaking. It has been my experience that rewarding and heartbreaking often go hand in hand."

As it is with green-rumped parrots, so it is with little boys. Only exponentially more so.

Falling under the spell

Our big trip started with a most unwelcome bang, but against all odds, it ended with a week's worth of great, unforgettable times and sweet memories.

My family's long-standing vacation curse of sick kids refused to die, even with so much at stake. I don't know why I didn't anticipate this. "Everyone stay healthy!" Mark and I called out in the weeks leading up to our trip. But I guess, pessimistic though I am, even I didn't believe that fate could deal us such a cruel hand.

When I dropped Paul off at school on the day before our trip, he and Gus and I happily chirped about Disney World eve. However, when I picked him up, I immediately saw something was wrong. Paul looked green, and then he uttered those most frightening pre-vacation words: "I feel weird."

I took Paul's temperature when we got home, and he was at 99.9. I maniacally, foolishly hoped that it would turn out to be nothing major. My hopes were dashed when less than two hours later, his temp had spiked to 103.


A gag, pun intended, thank God.

In desperation, Mark took Paul to FastCare, all of us praying that there would be some simple, easily remedied explanation. Paul came home with a diagnosis of possible sinus infection and a prescription for antibiotics. He had been sick with cough and cold symptoms for a couple weeks. I was slightly heartened.

Paul downed his dose of amoxicillin ... and promptly threw up about half an hour later. We went to bed, still holding on to hope. When our boy vomited at 1:30 a.m. and again at 3, my optimism evaporated.

I managed little sleep that night, my mind churning with how we'd get through this. How would we get a vomiting boy through two flights? Airlines are not exactly amenable to working with passengers to change flights when situations arise. Could we postpone somehow? Drive to Florida instead? What if we all got sick?

The day of our trip dawned, and Paul looked moderately better. Mark and I watched him closely and bombarded him with queries about how he was feeling. Miraculously, by the time we needed to leave for our flight, our guy looked remarkably stable.

After all the initial adversity, the rest of our trip was cloaked with good fortune. The flights went seamlessly, arriving early even. The boys were champion flyers.

One of my other small worries was me. I'm a rather tense person, to put it mildly, and I often have a really hard time sitting back and relaxing, going with the flow. Furthermore, I'm a homebody. I tend to miss my home after a day or two, even if I'm someplace really nice. As much as I thrive on spending time with my family, I cherish times of solitude, too.

Yes I'd always wanted to visit Disney World, but I remained skeptical about how much I'd be into the whole scene. "Do you think it'll be really ... theme park-ish?" I asked Mark nervously, picturing myself spending an entire week at Six Flags Great America.

My fears evaporated when I actually saw the Magic Kingdom. Nearly everything about our experience was a pleasant surprise and exceeded my expectations. With very few exceptions, the people - "cast members" - treated us amazing well, and everything at every property is impeccably maintained.

The parks were incredible, especially the beautiful Animal Kingdom, probably my personal favorite. But one of the best parts of the trip for me was taking in all that's different about Florida. We relished watching tiny lizards scurry past, observing different kinds of trees and foliage, becoming acquainted with white ibises, which apparently as common to Florida as seagulls are to us. Then of course there are the stunning sunsets set against palm tree backdrops.

I have cherished memories from each and every person in my family. For me, I'll never forget seeing the palace for the first time. I'll remember the huge smiles Mark and I shared watching the boys' reactions, Ben chattering happily about all our new experiences, Paul crowing about how much fun he'd had designing a car at Epcot's Test Track, Gus's look of wonder taking in The Lion King show, fighting Darth Maul, and falling asleep clutching his new Stitch stuffed animal.

My dad amazed me with his unwavering willingness to try anything. Ask him to go on any ride, and he was game. Similarly, my mom dazzled me with her nerve. Midway through our trip, she told me she'd decided she would try anything I would try. If I'd ride a rollercoaster, she would. That's a pretty low bar, since I'm gutless.

We did get my mom on one rollercoaster. When I asked Ben, who was my mom's seatmate, what Grandma was like on Big Thunder Mountain, he said, "She kept her eyes closed and just kept shaking her head no."

Yes, our time was beset with minor annoyances. Plenty of days, Gus would be asking to "go home" by 11 a.m., though he always rallied. "He's touching me!" was the complaint we were sure to hear many times a day. What is it with that?

Overall, though, things couldn't have gone much better. The weather was perfect - not too hot and not too cold. The day we left was cooler and rainy, and that felt significant somehow: wonderful times, now time to go home.

I guess you can count me as one of the many who has fallen for Disney World's charms.

Always swim

Much to my shame, I've become one of those adults who avoids swimming at all costs. My younger self would be so disappointed in grown-up Jess. She loved to splash in the water at any reasonable temperature.

There's something magnetic about swimming when you're a kid. What kid doesn't love to swim? In the summer, I shook down my mom to take me to the public pool; in the winter I begged to be taken to an indoor pool.

I've become one of those lame adults who's always too cold to go in the water, and worse, one who hates to get her hair wet. When forced, I tentatively wade in, standing on my tippy toes to keep as much of my body out as possible. Rarely do I ever submerge.

When we visited Chicago last Christmas, the boys naturally gravitated toward the hotel pool. I donned my suit and stayed in for as long as I could possibly hack it, which was maybe about 20 minutes. "You look absolutely miserable, Jess!" my cousin noted. I was. I made a beeline for the sauna.

Many times, I bow out. I give Mark by best puppy dog eyes, knowing that he will valiantly step in and swim with the boys since Gus is the only one who still needs assistance. 

Even though it's in the 80s here in Orlando, I'm still not warm enough to want to take a dip. On Thursday evening after visiting Magic Kingdom, I passed on getting into the water, letting Mark and my mom go in with the boys. Yes, my mom could handle it, but I could not. They had a splash fight while I sat in a lounge chair and chatted with my dad.

It's bothered me a little bit ever since. In making the choice to skip swimming, I'm giving up special times with my boys, doubtlessly having our sons think of me as the boring parent.

Today when the opportunity presented itself I decided to go for it. I put on my suit and tiptoed into the water. I hemmed and hawed, and it took me a good five minutes or more, but finally I plunged into the water. 

I showed the boys my handstand, challenged them to races, turned somersaults, gave Gus and Paul rides on my back, tossed a ball back and forth with Ben. I had a grand time, emerging smelling like chlorine, my skin tight, my hair dry as straw, my eyes bloodshot. It was worth it. So worth it.

Here's my advice to you. Always swim. You won't regret it. Except maybe that first cold minute.