heebie-geebie

Hokey Pokey attacked four kids on Wednesday. Or rather, three kids and a teacher. I sort of get now how parents can be in denial about their kids being that kid. He had a rough day.

His teacher, Ms. J, was not around for any of the incidents. She is the Pokey-whisperer, and defuses situations that would set him off before they come to a head. She has explained it to us. "When I see him getting tense, I get in there and get a fidget toy into his hands, and ask him if he needs some space. He knows I'll save his place in the activity. Then when he comes back, we talk about good ways to handle that situation. So it never actually erupts."

She sounds like one of those phony-baloney parenting books with the anecdotes that don't quite add up - "Using this technique, I winked at my son and he never whined again!" - except that when she winks, it really is magic.

Oh well, best of luck! Pokey, fingers crossed!

Ms. J also told me that Pokey sticks stuff in her pockets all the time, without her noticing. She'll pull some mysterious pebbles out, and he'll spot her across the room, run over and say, "I was saving those for later. They're my treasures."  When she empties out her pockets at night, there will be little beads or tiny toys that he tucked away for later.

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This weekend Jammies drove the kids up to Kansas for another cousin's wedding. (The last wedding in our 12 month marathon of weddings. Finally. Total we had seven weddings.)

Hawaii's tooth fell out on the drive:



(I cannot find my childhood tooth pillow anywhere, and I'm pulling my hair out in frustration.)

I'm staying home with Rascal, because my mom is arriving in town on Saturday night. She is coming because I'm having my hysterectomy on Tuesday. Wheee!

There was a decision to be made - just the oophorectomy, or the whole hysterectomy? I went with the whole kit and caboodle, because apparently there are future hypothetical diseases which are easier to treat if you don't have to worry about uterine cancer. Most of the hypothetical treatments were for breast cancer, and those scenarios will be moot soon enough. In fact, they'll be moot this December, because you should cram all your medical expenses into a single calendar year, insurance-wise. I'll try to have every surgery I can think of, in 2015. whhhhhheeeeee.

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There's a sticker vending machine at Hawaii's elementary school. That sure does teach them the value of money, or at least motivate them to nag us for quarters.  So now we are thinking up ways for them to earn quarters. Thanks, vending machine.

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In my dream last night I had a dog named Bishop.  I needed protecting for paranormal reasons, and he was my protectorate.  In the dream, I became very fond of Bishop. He was some sort of big, furry, dark brown breed.

Generally I dislike dogs, but Bishop had a couple traits that made all the difference:
1. He was clean to touch. I could hug him and I didn't get that nasty dog smell on me.
2. He was very serious. He never, ever wagged his tail or licked my face or demonstrated happiness. At most he curled up next to me at night, but only if I invited him. None of that enthusiastic bounding into bed nonsense. I hate dogs' zest.

I think I could handle an preternaturally calm, serious, clean dog. Basically a really big cat.

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FEMA is finally coming to town, after a full week of Governor Abbott dragging his feet about it. Clean up efforts have dominated everything this past week. I donated money to every single GoFundMe or GiveForward or any other plea for help that came across my way, to assuage my guilt for not actually putting on grubby clothes and showing up with rubber gloves and bleach, getting down on my hands and knees to sort salvagable belongings from ruined items. Apparently we're in the stage where the house walls are weeping and need to be wiped down with bleach regularly to keep the mold from setting in.

All that hands-and-knees scrubbing with the bleach and sorting had to take place inside, while we had more pouring rain. It will not stop raining.

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Hawaii was reflecting on the fact that our friend Brad buys his kids lots of ice cream. "He has his own ice cream stand," she said, confusingly. But yes, the kids do eat ice cream regularly.

Then she switched into her miniature-40 year old voice and said, philosophically, "We only get dessert once a week, but we're still lucky. Many kids don't even get dessert that often." I'm glad she's being mature about it, but  I was amused by her un-american vision of hardscrabble poverty. I'm pretty sure all the poor kids get more desserts than you, sweetie.  She's picturing a Victorian "We shan't be able to afford our Christmas oranges for the stockings this year" sort of poverty.

Or perhaps she is waxing sympathetic for the poor hippie kids with their lame artisanally hand-crafted carob and honey-yam treats. They probably really do get fewer treats than she does.

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Rascal has tried some solids: carrots, sweet potatos. He has recieved his six month shots and cried and bled. He got kicked out of our bed because he can escape the little nest and bury himself in loose blankets, so now he is in a crib.

This marks something: all of our kids are now out of the horrible SIDS-risk age. What a monumental relief. I can trust that they won't spontaneously stop breathing for no reason.