The Christmas curse

You would think that after three Christmases of Ben getting sick for the big day, I would have just expected it this year. Further, you might argue that when in the middle of church on Christmas Eve Ben decided that he needed to lie down on the pew and then, looking ashen, left with his Grandpa Ceman to get a drink of water, I really should have known something bad was about to happen. But no, I chose to be an optimist. Or willfully ignorant, one or the other. "Wait!" I should have screamed. "Skip the bubbler! Get him to a bathroom, quick!" But no, I just sat there. And needless to say, Ben puked in the hallway. At church. On Christmas Eve.


It hardly seemed real, the possibility that Ben could get sick yet again. When Ben, and then the rest of us, got H1N1 in the fall, I told myself, "OK, at least we're getting this over with now, so maybe we won't get sick at Christmas again." How naive. Awful as this bit of bad luck was, the illness passed quickly, and Ben was feeling quite a bit better by Christmas night. Things were looking good. No one else had fallen ill. Again, naive. Paul got sick two nights later, appearing in our room, not comprehending the situation, asking why Ben had thrown up in his bed. The next day, we had to make a call about bringing him to Mark's parents' for the Thiel family gathering the following day. We ended up deciding to bring him for a couple hours, which would prove to be a terrible decision. Nearly everyone there fell ill within a few days.


Soon it was time to make another decision. We were to leave for a three-day trip to Chicago. Mark, Gus and I had yet to get sick. We were feeling fine, and Paul was on the mend. Besides, we had an anniversary dinner planned for my parents' 40th, and we were loathe to cancel. Again, bad decision. Gus got sick our first evening there. The poor boy didn't know what was happening to him. He was terrified and scarcely slept that night. Worse, Mark soon got sick, and hours later it caught up to me. That night, I can say, was the most hellish of my life. Running through the possible worst-case scenarios in our minds, this one, somehow, had escaped us.

Yes, this Christmas was not the kind they sing about in idyllic carols. In fact, truth be told, it was heavy on stress and anxiety and a little light on merriment, at least for me. And yet, looking back, I feel lucky. When we needed help, our families were there to help us, gladly. The day Mark and I were recovering in Chicago, my dad held Gus all day while he and Mark and I caught up on sleep. My mom and Aunt Sue took Ben and Paul to the Museum of Science and Industry and spoiled them rotten. And, yes, nearly everyone with us in Chicago got sick eventually, too. They helped us knowing they probably would. Now that's a gift.

I'm running out of ideas here

Dear Powers that Be,

Can someone please tell me what I'm supposed to feed my family? This all started when I listened to that program on NPR about the movie Food Inc. I haven't actually seen the movie and don't know that I ever will because I'm not sure I can handle the scary information overload it surely would offer. However, as I understand it, the movie examines, among other issues, the dangers of pesticide use, mega farms and fast food consumption.

The radio program discussed the "dirty dozen" list of fruits and vegetables to avoid because of high pesticide levels. I had read about this plenty of times and didn't take action, but hearing the program, I finally decided to do something about it. I would make a concerted effort to buy more local produce, to get organic alternatives for the dirty dozen. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but it's been even more difficult than I had guessed. I started gung ho. I trekked over to the local organic food shop. Of course, the produce was more expensive and, in most cases, didn't look as pretty as the non-organic stuff. No surprise, after one week of trying to visit two different grocery stores, I decided it wasn't realistic for me. Instead, I would do the best I could with my grocery store's tiny selection of organic produce.

I didn't feel like I was succeeding as I had hoped, but I was doing the best I could with limited time and availability of organic choices. Then one day my mom told me about an article in Consumer Reports about BPA. This would be bisphenol A, a plastic additive whose presence has been linked to health problems from cancer to irregular hormone changes. Cans are lined with BPA-containing plastic - all those cans of black beans, soup, and, yes, organic tomatoes, in my cupboard. What to do? According to the article, try to go with frozen or fresh produce. Buying dry beans and dicing my own organic tomatoes? Not looking too practical for this busy mom.

To top it all off, I listened to another program this week on NPR. It was about factory farming and the treatment of animals. The program featured Jonathan Safran Foer, author of the new book, Eating Animals. Foer detailed all kinds of problems with factory farming - negative environmental impact, the use of hormones and antibiotics in animals, and the abysmal treatment of said animals. Though I care about animals, I wouldn't describe myself as anything close to an animal activist. I'm not a big meat eater, but I do enjoy it several times a week. Foer's argument gave me pause. After all, I don't think it's right for animals to be brought into this world only to endure a tortured existence and die a horrific death. But going to vegetarianism for me and my family? Not going to happen.

So, Powers that Be, you see my problem. The fresh produce is riddled with pesticides, the canned foods contaminated with BPA, and the meat is the flesh of tortured animals. How can I find the middle ground and make healthy choices for my family?

I await your reply.

Sincerely,

Jessica Thiel

This kid's outta control

If you had popped into my home this afternoon, you just might have thought I had gone just a little nuts. That's for good reason, because I feel like I'm at my wit's end with my youngest son. At my home you would have found a kitchen table with its chairs missing and a lamp hastily unplugged and set on mine and Mark's bed in a fit of frustration. These are the result of the latest bout of Gus's reckless behavior.

Here's a sampling of some of Gus's latest tricks. His obsession of late has been to climb onto the kitchen table via the chairs, hence the missing seating. The living room lamp? He just won't leave it alone. He's already broken one. Sadly, these aren't even his most dangerous endeavors. The other day he opened the oven drawer and tried to use it as a step in an attempt to reach the stove. Needless to say, that drawer is now taped shut. His pièce de résistance, however, came last week. I was playing hide and seek with the boys. What I saw when I walked into the kitchen took my breath away. The door to the oven was ajar. I had been baking cookies. What kept Gus from getting severely burned, I have no idea. In fact, he was completely fine. I'm convinced he must have a guardian angel. Never had it occurred to me that I would need to put a lock on my oven.

Then again, never have I encountered a child quite like my Gus. Ben was super-curious at this age, and Paulie eventually became a climber (though at an older age than Gus). Gus is both of these combined times 10. He has an insatiable appetite for daring deeds and discovery. Me? I can't stand the feeling of not being able to turn my back for a moment. I expect that the old adage, "This too shall pass" applies here. Until it does, however, my house may look just a little wacky.

Ode to mowing the lawn

I never thought I would be saying this, but I love mowing the lawn. Growing up with three brothers, I was never called upon for yard care. So it wasn't until I was married with two kids that I finally gave it a try. Now, I'll admit that my lawn-mowing skills are nothing to brag about. In fact, I'm quite certain that it looks much nicer when Mark does it. Nonetheless, this summer and fall I've found myself volunteering time and again to take on this task.

Here's why I love it. Unlike most other aspects of my life, lawn mowing is predictable and something I can control. I find it gratifying to see that unkempt expanse of emerald lying before me to tame. When I'm finished, I get the satisfaction of knowing it will look even and neat. After hours unend of being pulled on and beckoned, I find the roar of the lawn mower peaceful. Sometimes I have take the iPod and listen to music, and sometimes I just mow. Either way is fine with me.

Before kids I had found housework and home maintenance tedious. Now, like most parents, what I wouldn't give for more uninterrupted time for these chores. Rare times when I'm kid-free I can spend happy hours cleaning, cooking or toiling away at a sinkful of dishes. I guess this is just one of the ways having kids has shaped me as a person. I'll take serenity anywhere I can find it these days, and mowing the lawn works out just fine.

He did it!

Call me a pessimist. I was all but ready to declare preschool a failure before it even began. But you know what? He did it! Paul not only is surviving, he's thriving. The first day did get off to a rocky start. As you can see in the photo in front of Paul's school, he's not looking too optimistic. Indeed, when Mark made to leave after dropping him off, Paul did throw the tantrum I had been fearing. Mark called me with the not-so-great news, and I spent the next couple hours half-expecting that the teachers would be calling to say that I would need to come and pick up Paul. No such call ever came, and when I picked him up, I didn't hear howling or see tears, I saw a boy who was excited to tell me about his day and show me the craft project he'd made. Sure, the first thing he said was that he had missed me, but he also said he had fun.

After the first day, things have gotten progressively easier. By the second week of class, he had given up crying all together, much to my relief. Last week, one of his teachers told me what a great smile Paul has and how nice it is to have him there. It looks like now instead of fearing the worst, I can look forward to hearing about the daily star person, what Paul ate for a snack and the fun he had with his wonderful teachers and friends. Hallelujah!

Is this how people end up home schooling?

Today is the big day - Paul's first day of preschool - and I must say I'm a bundle of nerves. Here's why. Any hopes I had of him overcoming his fears were dashed Friday morning when we headed to moms' group at church. I've mentioned before that ever since Ben hasn't been with him there, he has been fearful. I did my best to prep him for it, and though he did protest a bit, I figured that he would cry some and then be OK. But as soon as we set foot in the door, he began to not cry, but sob. Snot-running-out-of-his-nose, heaving sobs. "Mommy, don't go!" he wailed. I did my best to calm him, though that really wasn't possible in his thoroughly panicked state. So I made for the door in the hopes that he would work it out and be OK, as he has done in the past. No sooner did I close the door than he opened the door and threw himself at my feet, begging me not to leave. It was at that point I decided we needed to leave.

Utterly bereft, I trudged into the house and began to look for articles on preschool separation anxiety. Of course many kids his age have it. Many of the others at church cried on Friday, though Paul's display certainly was the most, er, colorful. In my readings, I discovered that I did a lot of things wrong. That's nothing new for me. Don't sneak out, one expert implored, it's dishonest and it's only easier for you, not them. Did that. Don't bribe or offer rewards, another said. Did that. Don't cave in and take the child home, or he will think crying works. Oh, dear. I was beginning to lose hope for him and for me. I did find some tips that I hope will work for today. Often it works better for someone besides the mother to drop off the child, hence Mark taking Paul today. Also I let him choose a small toy to keep in his pocket as a security object.

Many wise people have reminded me that this is a phase, that just as all children one day will be potty trained, they all will go to school and do fine. I guess the hardest part for me is seeing him so scared, so upset. And underneath it all is a kernel of doubt in my mind. Sometimes the worry is simmering, others seemingly boiling over. Am I doing this right? Did I do something to cause him to be like this? I question my very decision to be a stay-at-home mom. Has it left Paul ill-prepared to face these challenges? I don't know the answers.

In preparation for today, we've been reading the children's book The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. It taps right into the anxiety that children and parents alike feel on the first day of school. In it the mama raccoon places a kiss on young Chester's palm and promises that whenever he misses his mom, he will be able to put his palm to his cheek and feel his mother's love (Mama loves you, Mama loves you). By the end of the book when Chester plants his own kiss on his mom's hand and she puts it to her cheek and hears "Chester loves you, Chester loves you," I was a sobbing mess myself, but Paul was smiling. So we'll try it today and hope that it gets us both through.

This one's for you, G

So I'm a little late on writing down my thoughts on Gus's first birthday. What a wonderful, challenging year it was. When I saw Gus's little face on the 20-week ultrasound picture and heard the words "It's a boy," I felt instantly that it was right, that three boys was exactly what we should have. My heart swelled with an enormous wave of love and affection for my boy. Finally I saw him, the actual him, for the first time. He was what the nurses called "a good size," though he looked tiny to me, and he had abundant black hair. I adored my beautiful little boy, and I couldn't wait to bring him home to his brothers and start our life together.

After semi-successfully shepherding two boys through babyhood, I knew bringing up our third wouldn't be easy, but I was confident we would be up for the challenge. Gus, however, decided to give us a surprise. By the time he was a month old, he was extremely fussy during the evening hours, seemingly impossible to soothe during his spells. We made it, though, and the hardship made it all the sweeter when at 4 months the fussiness was flipped off like a switch and he became a delightful, mellow baby.

By about seven months, it became clear that he would walk in the footsteps of his brother, Ben (who walked at 9 months), literally. He quickly found a way to get around, first commando-style, then hands and knees, and finally, at 10 months, walking. He now has the dangerous combination of Ben's curiosity and early mobility and the reckless adventurous streak of 1-year-old Paul. He's an explorer. A climber. Fearless. This ensures that I'm never far behind and nearly never at rest. Thank goodness that with all of this, he still likes to take many breaks for a snuggle with his mom. I love you, my boy. Happy birthday.