Kid Amnesiac

More than once, my mother has told me that I am a better mother than she was in certain regards, namely in patience. I appreciate it, even if that kind of praise slightly embarrasses and humbles me.

Well, mom, this one is for you!

Simon is at the University of Louisville soccer camp this week from 9-12 daily. Today I had some errands to run, so I left my house at 10:30 to give me plenty of time to hit the post office, the copy place, etc. before driving over to the U of L campus.

The errands themselves went very smoothly, and at 11:25 I found myself heading towards camp. I didn’t have much time to spare, but I should have arrived just on time. Instead, I got stuck at 14 red lights, behind a moped going 15 mph, behind a driver who sat through two green lights oblivious to my honking, and at one point had to get out of the car to remove throw pillows from the street. Yes, throw pillows. Scout’s honor.

At 11:58 I pulled into the parking garage, lucked into finding a spot right away, played human Frogger to run across the road to the field hockey fields where Simon’s group plays, and got there a mere one minute late.

That’s when I learned that the kids were inside because of potential lightning. I found the right indoor room and located Simon at exactly 12:04, feeling immense relief. At which time I was greeted by a slightly teary and very surly child, whose opening salvo was:

“Why are you so late?”

Four minutes. He called four minutes “really late”. He doesn’t know late. He clearly has never, ever stood on the front steps of the JCC waiting, waiting, waiting for a green Mercury to come collect you, a car driven by own mother and which was regularly the last or second-to-last to arrive. (Yes mom, I know, “better you should wait than I should wait.” With three kids, I might have done the same.)

I have vivid memories of all that waiting and the self consciousness and anxiety it stirred up in me. These memories have inspired me to try my best to never be late for Simon and make my pulse race when I get stuck in traffic and am afraid I will be late. Simon doesn’t know late.

But there he was, accusing me. “Simon, honey, I’m only four minutes late, and that’s because I didn’t know you were inside and went to the field first to pick you up. Anyway, it’s only four minutes, that’s hardly late.”

He was not impressed. “I feel like I’ve been here an hour.” “Honey,” I explained, “you have been here watching videos and waiting out the weather. Your pick-up time didn’t change.” Simon was still upset and not interested in backing down.

“Well, some of the other kids got picked up by their parents early. Why did those parents come and you didn’t?”

“Because obviously those kids have better parents than you do.”

Trust me when I tell you that my voice was dripping in sarcasm. I was ticked off, and Simon knew it. He even got a little teary. Which, honestly, I’m fine with.

My Aunt Marcia once told my mother that sometimes when kids ask ridiculous questions, you should give them ridiculous answers. I don’t often do that, but today seemed to call for it. I’m still going to do my best to be punctual, but I hope the next time I am delayed, Simon will remember today and ask and understand before rushing to judge and accuse.

 Edited to Add: I’m a worse mama than I realized. Kiddo isn’t just having a crabby, irritable, whiny day. Kiddo is sick with a fever. It’s been so long—well over a year—that I forgot that the first thing to check when all of Simon’s coping goes out the window is to see if he’s well.

Relatively speaking, it’s been a long time with no blog activity. This is mostly down to being busy, being worried, and being itchy. But there has been some comic relief along the way, so stay tuned.

The Busy Bits

Last Friday was our annual July 4 party. Every year I am amazed at how much time can be spent preparing for a party that involves hardly any cooking. I can knock out the food in around two hours, so what eats up all my time? The obvious answer is the quarterly scramble to get my house in order, compounded by the need to also get my yard together. If Matt and I didn’t host July 4, Simon’s birthday, Christmas Eve, and Passover, I shudder to think how bad our house would get. Sad but true. Now that I see this in writing, I’m thinking we need to add Memorial Day to the list to get a head start on the yard.

The Itchy Bits

Somewhere along the way, I got mixed up with poison ivy. The one time I know I touched it, I ran inside and scrubbed my hands and arms to the elbow three times. My hands and arms to the elbows are fine. My knees and left elbow, however, are an itchy, blistery mess. And it’s taken nearly a week to find any real relief, due to senseless medical greed/bureaucracy (my GP), stubbornness (me), and incompetence (the pharmacy).

Long story short, both my sleep and concentration have been disturbed by the vile, three-leafed weed. Makes me look forward to our upcoming vacation in the concrete jungle of NYC.

The Worried Bits

Two months ago, Cambria started throwing up his food. At first, I attributed it to his eating too fast. Then the vomiting started coming more often, despite splitting up his food into smaller meals. Then his appetite began to wane and I hauled him to the vet. A blood panel showed elevated creatinine, a sign of kidney disease.

I went down this path four years ago next month when I lost Percy and Tristan to kidney disease within 48 hours of each other. I was devastated. As the days went by and his miserable retching began waking me up in the middle of the night, I feared the worst, told Simon that Cambria might not be around much longer, and had a long heart-to-heart with a hospice vet about in-home euthanasia.

Then three funny things happened. I switched his food, and the vomiting improved. I started giving him Pepcid, and the vomiting nearly disappeared. And when I finally got around to collecting a urine sample—a miserable affair finally resolved by ditching the plastic pellets and ordering special water repellant sand—the results were . . . . .  completely normal.

So Cambria is presumably not in imminent danger of dying from kidney failure. I don’t know if acute gastritis, food intolerance, or inflammatory bowel disease, or something else entirely is the source of the nausea, but whatever it is I’m a lot less worried, and so is sensitive Simon.

Sensitive Simon

Speaking of whom, he is of course the source of my comic relief. I’ve written before about the funny yin-yang in Simon between his seeming mature beyond his years and then giving in to child-like flights of fancy. That’s still around and finding new ways to express itself, most recently with his television viewing.

This summer Simon has watched Jeopardy!, World Cup soccer, The Tour de France (he loves doing the math on the lead, the peleton, and the chase group), and Paw Patrol. Which of these is not like the other? The best part is that Paw Patrol, a show about a 10-year-old boy working with six heroic puppies to protect their community, is a preschool show. We’ve never told this to Simon, but I think he suspects it because he’s sheepish about watching it and tries to make it look like he’s watching as a joke. But he’s not. It’s an innocent show about puppies and his love for it is pure.

Then there is the vacillation in his tone of voice. Matt got a FitBit for Father’s Day this year, and Simon loves tracking all the data. He wants one for himself, and he’s not above snarking on his dad about how much more impressive his own numbers would be. Just this week he informed Matt, whose step goal is 8,000 per day:

“I’m going to get a FitBit and set my step goal to 15,000 just to humiliate you.”

Doesn’t that make him sound like a teenager? Then last night I caught him holding his stuffed animals, rocking them, and singing a lullaby.

“Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree tops. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. Hmm hmm hmm, hmmm . . .

He didn’t know the rest of the words, so I sat next to him and finished the song. At which point his eyes moistened, his chin wobbled, and he started protesting:

“That’s a terrible song! Why would anyone sing that to their baby? If the cradle falls with the baby in it, the baby might die. I DON’T LIKE THAT SONG AT ALL!”

I did my best to talk him down. “It’s not serious”, I explained. “It’s supposed to be a joke”, I went on. “I don’t like it either”, I finally reassured, “and I never sang it to you when you were a baby.”

But we weren’t finished yet. At 9:20 I kissed Simon on the cheek, left his room, and wished him sweet dreams. At 9:30 I was summoned to his room, where I found him sitting up in bed.

“I just really don’t like that song Mom. The first two lines are OK, but the rest is terrible. Can we skip those?”

I told him we’d go one better and re-write the rest of the song, an idea he liked very much. And then I went downstairs, tried hard not to scratch my miserable legs, and marveled at the sweetness of life with a child who loves watching hero puppies save the day and who could be reduced to tears over an old lullaby.

So my mom was hoping for a shot of Simon in his tennis camp tee. Instead I offer this group picture of Simon taken on the last day of Spalding University’s Youth Development soccer camp.

I have been told that the University of Louisville soccer camp is the best thing since soccer itself. Other than being longer, I’m not sure how that is possible. Let me count the ways this week’s camp rocked:

• They had five coaches for 23 kids.
• One of those coaches was Darren, his favorite from the regular season.
• The coaches scrimmaged with the players, meaning Simon had someone to pass to when he saw a lane open up.
• Simon got to play with the big kids, like really big. He was with a few 9-year-olds, maybe one 8-year-old, and the rest were the 10 and up crowd. My first thought when I saw this was “wow!” followed very quickly by “don’t sit on him!”.
• His words: “All the kids paid attention and followed directions.” This matters to him. A lot.
• Today they scrimmaged on the full field, and Simon scored 4 goals. This also matters to him. A lot. (The field size more than the scoring; Simon loves to have space to work with.)
• He also won the shoot-out contest.
• The prize for the above item was a brand new soccer ball.
• I sent him with his own money today so he could buy a snack and Gatorade during the break. It sounds small, but it made him feel like a total hot shot compared to bringing food from home.

Aside from turf burn from playing inside, this week was pretty much perfect. So while I would be delighted to discover that his next soccer camp is even better, I’m not sure how that would be possible. I know it’s not necessary. Nearly as good or as good will make for another delightful week for both of us.

Typically, about 3-4 months before his birthday, Simon takes a big developmental leap of some sort that corresponds with the upcoming year. This summer is no different, except that I am pretty sure what he’s doing is catching up with some missed developmental milestones from years past.

Whatever is happening, it’s awesome and a source of nightly entertainment, because the kid is finally launching himself into the wonderful world of imaginary play. Previously, we saw very little of this type of play, and when we did it was spurred on by playing with a girl (typically Caroline, Ruby, or Gabrielle). Making up scenarios and acting them out didn’t come naturally to Simon; he was more interested in fact collecting, sports, and other pursuits grounded in reality.

Now he spends considerable time each day acting out an alternate life among his stuffed animals. They get lined up and put to bed for naps during the day, a tiny stuffed cat named Freckles spends a fair bit of time completing the America Ninja Warrior obstacle course that secretly exists in our house, and each night family drama unfolds at bedtime.

Rainbow Dolphie, for example, spends most nights with me. He isn’t part of the Dirty family, for example, because he doesn’t match Dirty Dog, Dirty Dog’s Twin, Funny Monkey, or Secret Attic Monkey. (Dirty Dog is a blanket lovee; Dirty Dog’s Twin is the duplicate I bought to facilitate washing and act as insurance against loss when Simon was a baby; Funny Monkey is the monkey version of the same lovee, and Secret Attic Monkey was the duplicate I bought but never used that got discovered in an attic cedar chest about two years ago.)

Nor can Dolphie join the Little Family—the tiny stuffed animals Simon keeps under his pillow—owing to his size. That left Dolphie out as the orphan of the group, so Simon charged me with the solemn duty of taking care of him each night.

For a time, I had a reprieve. The Little Family adopted Dolphie so he wouldn’t be lonely. But just a few days after the happy event, the Littles decided that “they couldn’t take care of Dolphie because they have a baby, King Monkey I, to attend to.” God as my witness he used the word “attend” and named a stuffed animal “King Monkey the First”. Ironically, King Monkey I is not yet king; he’s a prince who will be king one day. Maybe he’s hoping the current king will abdicate like King Juan Carlos of Spain just did?

And so it goes. Each night I hear about the birthdays, sibling rivalries, and developmental milestones of his menagerie. Despite appointing himself as the brother of the group, it’s clear to me that Simon has fashioned himself the pater familias.

It’s hard to say what part of this I find the most delightful. I’m enjoying the scenarios themselves, and I love watching Simon flex a previously unused muscle. But I think what might be the most special about this is that the play, a hallmark of youth and innocence, is occurring at the same time most of Simon’s pursuits are becoming more adult than ever.

I think it’s hilarious that Simon loves Jeopardy, wants to play competitive tennis, and is so into World Cup that he called me from my mom’s house four times on Friday to discuss the games. But he’s got his whole life ahead of him to enjoy grown-up games and shows, so I’m thrilled to bits that he’s throwing himself into little boy games, too.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go check in on Rainbow Dolphie. Simon told me tonight that Rainbow Dolphie has become scared of the dark, so I need to take extra special care of him until he gets over it.

It is perhaps ironic that the same person who explained to me the origin of the expression “put a sock in it” simultaneously was the catalyst for my understanding the origin of another expression. That would be “bored to tears,” and I feel totally guilty for saying something so mean.

It all started with today’s plan for Simon and I to visit the Edison House in Butchertown, then walk the Big 4 Bridge from Louisville to Indiana, grab a bite of lunch, go get a treat at Schimpff’s Confectionery, and then walk back to the Louisville side. It seemed like a fun enough way to spend an afternoon together and gave us the chance to put our first stamp in this summer’s Culture Pass Challenge, a program encouraging kids to visit cultural institutions during the summer.

The Edison House is a tiny little double shotgun cottage where Thomas Edison lived for one year when he came to Louisville to work for Western Union. Simon has been to a few grand old homes, and I thought seeing a tiny boarding room might be a real eye opener for him. Edison’s room could not have been more than about 300 square feet, and it held his bed (much smaller than the one Matt says Simon is about to out-grow, fyi), his bathroom (wash stand and chamber pot), his kitchen and furnace (the fireplace), and his office (a drop-leaf desk).

The staff member or volunteer who greeted us could not have been more kind or informative. I got the impression that many people are in and out in a flash and that he was relishing the chance to talk to people in less of a hurry. Simon’s being able to answer some early questions about history no doubt further encouraged him. The guide has lived his whole life down the block from the Edison House, and as such has seen the fortunes of the neighborhood vacillate wildly.*

He also has extensive knowledge about history in general and Thomas Edison in particular. We started out hearing about Edison’s room, what brought him to Louisville, and how he got fired from one job for conducting experiments during the night shift. That was pretty cool. But then it segued into some minute particulars about the neighborhood and Edison’s research, and I could see that Simon’s attention was maxing out.

Then we got a 10-minute history of the stock ticker tape, one of Edison’s inventions, at which point I was struggling to maintain an interested facade myself. Simon was getting wriggly, and at one point I looked over at him and realized that his chin was getting wobbly and his eyes were growing moist. He was literally bored to tears.

At this point, I started dropping not-so-subtle hints that we needed to leave. Our helpful and informative guide contained himself the best he could, but it was still too much for someone Simon’s age. We both perked up for the demonstration of a cylinder phonograph, dropped more hints that time was getting away from us, and left our guide in a state of visible regret when we left.

He had so much more to tell us! Once we were safely out of hearing distance, I explained to Simon that some people don’t understand how much information a little kid can process all at once and that our guide was just trying to be nice and helpful. Then I praised the heck out of him for being so polite and doing his best to hold it together.

As for “put a sock in it”, this relates to early phonograph machines. Edison’s featured a small plunger that sat inside the speaker and dimmed the volume. A copy-cat brand did not have the little plunger, so when you wanted to lower the volume you “put a sock” in the speaker.

Hours later, I feel a bit sad about the man who has more information to share than most visitors want to hear. Had I been alone, would have let him tell me everything. Mostly, though, I feel like the wrong member of my family visited. My brother Steve could have hung with the entire tour. He loves hearing people’s stories. And in an ideal world my brother Perry would have a bourbon or two down in NuLu, walk up to the Edison House, and have an hour-long conversation with that man about light bulbs: They’d both be in heaven. I need to find a way to make that happen.

*Just nine years ago when I moved back to Louisville, East Market St., two blocks south of the Edison House, was not much more than a bunch of decrepit warehouses in a crime-ridden area. Now it’s the heart of NuLu and home to some of the city’s best galleries, shops, and restaurants.