Tales from the Shark Tank

Joseph’s birthday party was yesterday afternoon. It went spectacularly well. He took every guest over to admire his birthday cake, and made up a whole story about how Percy got stuck in the snow and Thomas was on his way to get the breakdown train. He got a huge bunch of train toys, because he’d pointed out the ones he wanted in the catalogue that came in the box with the cake-toppers, and I had passed that information along to inquiring relatives. Then his best bud from school, Miranda, gave him Spiderman toys, so Spiderman got a ride on the trains other people gave him. I’d organized games, but we didn’t play but one brief round of “telephone”. The kids (and some of the adults!) were too busy building track sets, running around and having balloon fights and generally creating chaos. He had his friend from down the street, the little girl from school, and his cousins, aunt, uncle, grandma and a small collection of adults whom he considers his friends and asked me to invite. He was the happiest little boy this side of the Mississippi - I thought he was going to wiggle out of his little skin! And the moms (all of whom stayed) had fun too.

And Joseph? Well, he was already planning next year’s party after the guests went home. He played with his new toys for most of the evening. He also went upstairs without argument when told to do so, brushed his teeth, and fell asleep…sitting up. He was exhausted. So was I. But I don’t want to wait a year to do it again. I really don’t. It was too much fun.

My housemate, walking up the stairs with an armload of stuff that’s been downstairs and belongs upstairs: “I didn’t know Sarah Bernhardt could be reincarnated as a seven year old male.”

I swear my son’s birthday has me channeling Martha Stewart. This year, for the first time, he really understands what a birthday party is all about. He said he wanted one, told me who to invite, what he wanted his cake to look like and where to hang the banner that says “Happy Birthday”. In response, the house has been turned upside down in the cleaning and I’ve been on a wild shopping trip or two. Joseph has been counting the days, so excited I think he may wiggle out of his little skin by the time party time arrives.

And Martha Stewart? Joseph wanted a train cake. So I made a pound cake, frosting it in white. Then the last little bit of frosting got tinted green, to be spread on inverted ice cream cones to provide trees. Melted chocolate served to draw tracks, and Joseph placed Thomas the Tank engine cake toppers where he wanted them on the tracks. Snow on trees and tracks was provided by powdered sugar. It’s not the sort of thing I ever would have thought of putting together before I had a son. It took a fair amount of time. And it was more than worth it, to see that wiggly excited happy little boy.

This morning, as I threw away several more pieces that had chipped off my cast and prepared to seal the sharp edges with yet more duct tape, I decided I’d had enough. The cast was due to come off on Monday, but it wasn’t going to last those last three days. It just wasn’t. I killed the thing. It was split, broken, tattered, and generally disintigrating. It had gotten even more uncomfortable as a result of its general decrepitude, poking the bottom of my foot in odd places at random intervals. Last night I was threatening to soak it, then call the doctor’s office, tell them it had got wet, and request its removal. I didn’t actually do that, but it is off none the less. I was quite direct; I called, described its condition, and asked if it could come off today instead of Monday. Answered in the affirmative, I trotted off and had that done. It is healing nicely, and now I have a lightweight boot sort of thing that comes off.

It’s wonderful. I can sleep. I can shower. I can wear jeans again. I can wear socks again. I can shower. I can walk almost normally. And oh, did I mention? I can shower!

Joseph’s seventh birthday was yesterday, and for the first time he really wants a party. So we are having one on Sunday. He has invited his friends Jazmanae, Miranda, Izhak and Quinn, as well as his cousins and grandparents. He has it all planned. He will have a Thomas the Tank Engine cake, with train cake toppers on tracks drawn with melted chocolate. He has told everyone he wants Thomas toys. We’ll have to see who obliges him. (He’s also telling me what to say, so I better give him co-authorial credit. Ok, now he’s happy and off to play with his trains.)

I love it. This, to me, is what this country is supposed to be about. Joseph is Jewish. He has invited an Islamic kid, an part-Asian kid, a kid who has rather more melanin in her skin than Joseph does and a little girl who looks like she could be cast for the title role of Alice in Wonderland. It’s his teacher and I, who grew up in during the Civil Rights era, whose parents or grandparents left everything they knew simply to have a fair chance, who see what it means. The miracle is that the children don’t. All they see is friends.

The state of the house is another matter entirely. Two of my friends, noting that I am not as mobile as I wish I were, offered to help me clean the house for the party. What I didn’t know is that M.’s idea of “cleaning” is to pull everything off every surface and out of every cabinet, clean it, make us sort it, and organize it. I swear she’s channeling the crew of Clean Sweep singlehandedly. She started in the family room, moved on to the kitchen, and has scheduled us to tackle to living room and dining room tomorrow. We’ve worked until midnight or 1:00 a.m. every night. In the process, we’ve culled out several boxes of books, thrown away I don’t know how much stray assorted stuff, and rediscovered things I knew I had but could not locate for love nor money. It’s total chaos; right at the moment it looks like we’re moving, with everything sorted into boxes. Those members of the household who require routine are coming very close to meltdown. But I am the first to agree that it needed to be done, and that I am beyond grateful to M. for undertaking the task. It isn’t the Aegean stables, but it’s not far off that either. So Joseph will get his birthday party, but you know, it seems to me that I’m getting the best present. I’m getting my house back.

I got a few years knocked off my life expectency by today’s mail. In it was a thick envelope no attorney ever wants to see. The return address said “Indiana Supreme Court Disciplinary Commission”. I swear, I stared at it for 5 minutes before gathering the nerve to actually open it.

The cover letter let me breathe. It informed me that someone I had never heard of had filed a complaint against me, and that it had been dismissed as groundless. They were sending me a copy for my records. It turned out to be the competitor of a car dealer. The competitor had turned his “buddy” in for violation of the Indiana Administrative Code, and was complaining that I had neglected to hold an administrative hearing. Fact is, the hearing was held. I found the other man wasn’t violating anything, and so ruled. But since the complainant wasn’t an injured party, the decision wasn’t sent to him. End of case. Now all I have to do is remember how to breathe.

I had an interesting conversation with my son last night, which has me chuckling at intervals yet. I believe I shall let it speak for itself.

J: “Mommy, are you allergic to kitties?”

Me: “Yes, sweetheart.”

J: “Is Daddy allergic to puppies?”

Me: “Yes, sweetheart, he is.”

J: “Are you and Daddy allergic to babies?”

Me: “No, honey.”

J: “Mommy, I want a baby sister!”

I wish I could oblige him.

Sometimes life just plain isn’t noteworthy. Such has been the last week, with a couple of exceptions. Life’s been reasonably quiet, in part due to the fact that enough people have rubbed my nose in the fact that healing requires energy that I’m actually napping when I feel like it. I’m a little appalled by how much sleep I actually seem to need, but not so much so that I’m ignoring the demand.

Joseph’s annual special education conference was yesterday. What a relief! For the first time, the people we were dealing with knew what they were doing, and didn’t have their minds made up in advance. There was nothing that needed to be argued over. There was no “that’s not an academic issue so we won’t address it”. I was thrilled. Also wonderful was the information we got. Joseph has a best friend, and plays with other kids without prompting. He tells his teacher what goes on at home, and us what happens at school, and has the language skill to do it. He’s the top of his class academically, which means not only that he’s working at it and has the focus to do so, but that he’s understanding the instructions from the teacher. And they’re not just relaxing because he’s already mastered the skills. They’re taking him further, into how to use the information he can find in his books, and into writing his own stories and how to structure them and so forth. The end result is that he’s actively enjoying school, and getting what he needs as well. I chose not to try again for the magnet school. Now I’m sure it was the right choice.

In my family, it was quite common for people to talk over each other and expect one listener to track it all. I still remember the first time Wick saw me carry on entirely different, separate simultaneous conversations with my mom, my dad and my grandfather. He said it gave him a headache. I just considered it normal. I do that yet; the difference is only that now it’s my son, my mom and my dad. Today I found I am quite capable of doing the same thing on line. I signed on to check my e-mail. A few seconds later, up popped an IM from my friend K. We chatted about character analysis and development for a good two hours. At varying times in the middle of that, a couple of other people IM’d me as well, and I chatted with them. Different subjects entirely, different speech patterns, no problem. I’m much amused. I have to wonder - is that sort of thing how multitasking got started?