reading the room

I'm going to be out of town for four days next week (see: yesterday's post), so I signed up to be the "parent reader" for Nina's kindergarten class today. Because of guilt. Oh yeah, also I wanted to promote literacy and volunteer my time and surprise my kid at school. But mainly guilt.

I've done this "parent reader" gig a few times in the past, and I've learned a few things along the way. The first time I did it this, when Cal was in Pre-K, it took a lot more planning and schedule swapping (I was still working full time back then), so it was a higher pressure situation all around. I actually had to get some kind of special dispensation from the teacher to switch slots, since "parent readers" were supposed to come in only for the kids' SUPER DUPER ALL ABOUT ME SUPERSTAR week, and on Cal's original week I was work-scheduled up to the gills. (Cal went to a private school in midtown Atlanta at the time, and as a general rule I've noticed private schools are much less understanding about parents not being able to drop every damn thing and show up midday for stuff on short notice.) But anyway, that first time, the book I brought was...well, I thought it was a good idea. It was one of Cal's favorite books. It was by Dr. Seuss. We had a big hardcover with pictures that everyone could see, even all the way in the back. I loved this book as a kid myself. Right here:

MAJOR ERROR. First of all, the book is 64 pages long. Second of all, it has way too many words. Third, too much lingual dexterity is required, so you can only read it so fast.

Oh, brother.

I think by page four of the Happy Birthday book, the kids in the class were flopping around on the floor, running around the back of the room, and generally talking through the whole thing. (Even my own kid was losing interest, and this was HIS BOOK.) I think I skipped a whole chunk of pages in the middle, just to get through it (no one noticed), and at the end, one of the teachers came up to me and said (sympathetically, helpfully), "Yeah, I find that...shorter books are...usually better choices."

I'm not a naturally performative person. I will read to my own kids but I don't naturally have the type of personality that makes me want to read to all kids. I'm not even sure that I like most kids that aren't my own kids. But I can limp through this "parent reader" type of thing OK, because now I know to make better book choices. In sum:

* Keep it short. 

* Keep it pithy.  

* It doesn't matter if it's "too easy" for your kid. The other kids don't care how sophisticated your child's taste is, and the teacher isn't making judgements on your household or your kids' I.Q. if you end up choosing SPIDER-MAN'S POP-UP LASER TAG ADVENTURE for your parent reader selection, so long as the kids in the class stay out of her hair for ten minutes so she can check her e-mail and finish her sandwich.

* Pick books that are funny, where you can really act out the voices, are almost always successful if you're willing to go there. 

* For God's sake, don't read The Giving Tree unless you want to cry in front of a bunch of five-year olds like some kind of psycho. In fact, I try to stay away from melancholia altogether, because I hate feelings. Where the Wild Things Are? Get outta here. The Runaway Bunny? Fuck you.

* Bring a selection, and let the kids choose, but know that there will be split votes and you'll have to end up reading pretty much all of them.

So here are the ones I brought.

Not pictured: Don't Push the Button (which is kind of a dumb book, but interactive--and yes, I know the book was not written for me, but it's still dumb) and The Monster at the End of This Book, which is actually the perfect book for this kind of thing, but it's only available in teeny tiny board book or Little Golden Book size, and also I can't find our copy. (Those groovy fonts, tho!)

We ended up having time to read three. Don't Push the Button as a warm-up act, This Is Not My Hat as the headliner (I like the art in that one, as well as in John Klassen's other book I Want My Hat Back--first in a three part hat oeuvre, I suppose), and closing with that old evergreen Don't Let The Pigeon Drive the Bus.

"How come you have so many funny books?" this one kid in the front row asked me at the end. Like it was some kind of accident. Kid, you don't even know.

liquid schwartz

Well howdy. Explaining why this blog hasn't been updated is only slightly more boring than reading the blog itself, but in short I had to give Grand Rounds last week, and since I couldn't work on Grand Rounds at work or while my kids were awake, basically every free minute I had up until last Wednesday was channelled into that presentation. Thankfully, it's finished! Now to resume my life of indolent goofery!

You may also be disappointed to know that I ultimately decided against using the "Exorcist" slide in the talk (Factor 1: too early in the morning, Factor 2: Catholic hospital) but it may please you equally or maybe even more that I did use this slide as an opener:

(He's his own best friend.)

*          *          *

As a brief and unsatisfying epilogue to the fractured (ho) story of Cal's clavicle, these following addenda:

Right before Thanksgiving, I reached out to the principal again, asking him if he could give me an update on his conversation with the school nurse after the incident. Given my background (and recall that I trained for two years as a pediatrics resident prior to anesthesia) I also offered to sit down with the nurse and work with her on a standardized medical policy for parent notification--if, of course, they wanted my help.

He responded...well, let me just copy and paste the body of his response email in its entirety.

"Thank you for contacting me regarding your concerns. Yes, I have communicated with the school nurse and the district supervisory nurse regarding the incident. Additionally, we have discussed and developed a plan for proper notification to parents."

(Signed, Pally Von Principal.)

Note, no actual elaboration of what this "plan" is, nor any perspective from this nurse herself. So...basically a deflecting non-answer, right?

Also (and I probably should have noted this in the previous entry so as to not seem quite as much like we are raising a doormat) the day of the injury, after he got home but before we went to the ER, Cal and I had a little talk about self-advocacy and appropriate responses. And I basically told him that grown-ups aren't always right. He had just finished reading "Matilda" a few months ago, so I referred to that a few times, how Matilda was oftentimes smarter than her parents and how Matilda's headmistress (The Trunchbull! The chokey! Oh man, I really love that book) was usually wrong. And that while he should obviously always be respectful of adults, if he felt strongly that something was amiss and that the adults taking care of him weren't taking it seriously, he should request to call his parents regardless. Then I quizzed him on our cell phone numbers. Then I crammed more Tylenol in his craw and tried to figure out his NPO status.

Anyway, all's well that ends...if not well, then at least eventually.

*          *          *

Well, now we're all caught up, but now I realize that I didn't actually tee up anything fresh to talk about today. But instead of pushing save and kicking this half an entry down the road like a tin can, I'm just going to slap it up with a promise that I will put up a real entry soon too. I do, in particular, want to write a little something about Nina, in particularly about her Girlness and Christmas shopping for her, and this strange feminist guilt I have about getting her real girly things. And then the strange feminist guilt I have about considering dolls and their accoutrement "girl things" because boys can play with dolls too, patriarchy! Though I wish that I could find that same stroller that Cal had when he was Nina's age, because damned if they don't just make everything in pink now.

(Above: Cal and some rando kid, circa 2006. This was back when we lived in Manhattan of course, so while such playground spaces and pocket parks came at a premium I would just like to point out how much more I prefer this kind of rubberized flooring to the default "mulch and wood chips" surfacing that seems to be the standard playground-issue here in Atlanta. It pushes up your minimum age to enjoy the playground by at least 6 months, between waiting for your kids to walk well enough and making sure that they're not going to eat all the wood chips when they do fall. Though high-fiber gluten-free diets do seem to be quite popular these days, don't they?)

prokinetic

Hello gadabouts! Sorry for the recent long-form radio silence, but my current schedule allows a few hours each week for generative activities, and two weeks ago it occurred to me that I was scheduled to give Grand Rounds to my department at the beginning of December. Am scheduled. Also, we don't technically call them "Grand Rounds," rather "Education Lecture" or (perhaps more to the point) "CME-Getting Exercises"; but I just continue to call them "Grand Rounds" for ease of reference.

Upon hearing that I was giving a lecture soon, and perhaps more thrillingly, that I would be giving my talk off a series of PowerPoint slides (well, Keynote if you want to get brand-specific), Cal got very excited, because--and I don't know if I've ever shared this particular quirk of his on the blog itself--CAL LOVES MAKING POWERPOINT SLIDES.

CAL

What are you doing? Can I help? Maybe I could make your slides for you!

MICHELLE

Well, maybe I'll pick a slide or two and you could help import the images or something, but a lot of it I think I'm going to need to do myself, because it's kind of technical. You know, science-y.

CAL

Like what?

MICHELLE

Well, like I have to look at a lot of scientific journal articles, and pick the information to present, and it might be a little complicated for you to understand at this point.

CAL

I can do that. What's the talk about?

MICHELLE

Well, it's about developing a standardized protocol for treatment of postoperative nausea and vomiting.

CAL

What's that? The last part, I mean.

MICHELLE

Postoperative...well, it means...sometimes after people have surgery, they feel nauseated, and they barf a lot. So it's about what kind of treatments we have to prevent barfing.

CAL

Your talk is about barfing.

MICHELLE

Well...kind of, yeah.

CAL

(Reverently)

Cool.

So anyway, my point being that the few hours I've had per week for generative activity has been shunted away from the blog and towards getting my barf talk together. Of which I've spent maybe way too much time deciding (between wading through RANDOMIZED CONTROLLED TRIALS and META-ANALYSES and CONSENSUS GUIDELINES of course) whether I should include this picture on one of the slides.

So...probably no, right?

*          *         *

Well, in other news from the world of Cal:

As some of you may already know, two weeks ago Cal broke his left clavicle at school. He's fine, didn't need surgery (as you can see from the film there is clearly a break but it is not displaced) and just needs to wear a sling for three weeks while avoiding cage-fighting for six weeks total. 

Cal's story is that he and a friend were playing tag at recess, when another kid ("A fifth grader," he told me ominously, as if that explained EVERYTHING) playing a parallel game accidentally tripped him mid-run, and down he went. And that's fine, these things happen, I'm certainly not blaming anyone (Cal, the fifth grader, any of the teachers) for the fact that Cal broke his clavicle, because that's what happens when you don't encase your kids in a Beanie Baby box and perch them on a shelf For Display Purposes Only.

I also don't blame the school nurse for not making the diagnosis of a broken clavicle when he reported to her office after recess, though--and I say this charitably--it was not a subtle diagnosis. Or...well, you tell me. A kid falls hard onto his left shoulder on the concrete of the school playground, a fall witnessed by his teacher, after which point his shoulders are asymmetric (like the left one is significantly lower than the right), he can't lift his left arm, and is crying about pain while pointing to the exact spot over his left clavicle where a clear angled deformity can be seen through the skin. Even so, I don't begrudge someone for not making that diagnosis, as clear as it may have been to me and anyone (including, may I add, the twenty or so elementary school kids who were shouting at me out the schoolbus window, "Cal broke his arm at school today!"). School nurse? Maybe more attuned to diagnosing disease of the infectious and rapidly-spreading variety than the orthopedic? Fine. I'll give you a pass.

But what I do mind? I do mind that fact that I didn't get a single call about Cal's injury--not one single call, text, e-mail, anything--and in fact did not know anything had happened until I picked him up at the bus stop and received him wincing down the bus steps, in tears, his friend carrying his backpack for him because even a fourth grader could tell Cal could not carry it himself. That the school nurse basically told him to walk it off and sent him back to class, where he sat for two more hours with a broken clavicle without me or Joe--both of us listed as emergency contacts and both of us never without our cell phones--getting single call so that could pick him up, check him ourselves, and cram in some Tylenol before taking him to the emergency room for a plain film to confirm what we could clearly see with our non-X-ray vision. THAT I DO MIND.

After he got back from the ER and we knew that he didn't need surgery, I wrote an e-mail to the principal to let him know about the situation. And again, I wanted to be perfectly clear what exactly it was that I was upset about. As a medical professional, I am more than aware about the perception of Asshole Patient Syndrome--namely that medical people sometimes expect unreachably high standards on their own medical practitioners, and can be, well, assholes about their own care or the care of their children. I reiterated that I was obviously holding no one to blame for Cal's accident (I think I may have used the phrase "these things happen" not one but three times in that e-mail, mostly as code for "DON'T WORRY I'M NOT GOING TO SUE YOU") and I again reiterated that while the fracture was quite evident, I did not hold the school nurse to the same standards of diagnostic acumen as an ER nurse or even a first year medical student. Fine. Maybe it wasn't obvious when it happened. Maybe it looked worse three hours later. Whatever. 

But I made a strong point that I was very dismayed (while, I hope, aggressively maintaining the mien of cordiality tinged with disappointment about the school's interpretation of in loco parentis) that although this was the kind of injury we should have been informed about, preferably close to the time it happened or at least at the point that he was in the nurse's office; we did not hear one word from the anyone at school even after that downward dog-shaped clavicle ambled off the bus in a miasma of osteoblasts and tears. In fact, if I hadn't e-mailed them, I probably would never have heard about the event, except from Cal himself. 

And frankly, we might never hear about it again. I just suggested to the principal, nicely (I thought) that he review with his school nurse what kind of medical events should trigger a call to a student's parents. He e-mailed back (addressing me as "Dr. Au"--I specifically did not make a point that Joe and I were medical professionals for fear that it would come off badly but either he knew that from our file or he saw it in my e-mail footer) that he would "look into it." And I can only assume that he has, since he hasn't e-mailed me back any follow up since. 

In the weeks that have followed, whenever I pick up Cal from school and walk by the administration, all of them know his face (or perhaps recognize his sling) and exclaim to him with bluff cheer, "HEAL UP THERE, BIG GUY!" and "LOOKING GOOD! FEEL BETTER!" But never, not even as an aside to me, has anyone ever mentioned any kind of addendum to our e-mail exchange, or apologized to me for not being contacted in the first place. Honestly, I don't even want an apology at this point for not being called, because that's somewhat beside the point. But some follow-up would be nice.

So my question is this: what would you have done in this situation, keeping in mind that I don't want anyone to be punished or lose their jobs or anything like that--I just want to make sure that no other kids break bones or have seizures or swallow chicken bones and have to sit writhing in class for two hours. Also: do you think that the fact that Joe and I are doctors makes any difference in a negative way, in the sense that it gives the impression, warranted or not, that we are holding the school nurse to unfairly high standards? 

Please to discuss.

boy meets world

Cal started fourth grade about a month ago, which would usually be my cue to say, "Can you believe it?" but every time I say something like that I think about that Tig Notaro bit and feel a little bit stupid.

Anyway, fourth grade. It's going pretty well so far, at least academically, but I think we've entered the age where we really need to start watching his friends and keeping on top of their activities and interactions. And while this all would likely be true regardless of the existence of Minecraft, it sure doesn't help.

For those of you blissfully unaware (meaning you know no kids between the ages of, oh, say 5 and 21), Minecraft is a video game, and to call it a generational obsession would be understating things somewhat, like calling Pol Pot a pretty mean guy. I agreed to get the game for Cal because it seemed innocent enough--basically an open-world action adventure game, building things with blocks, resource management, that sort of thing--and more to the point I didn't want him to be some sort of out-of-the-loop freak if every single other kid in his class was playing this game and he wasn't. I know, I know, if all your friends jumped off a bridge, etcetera etcetera, but since he's a year or two younger than his classmates we try to be particularly sensitive about allowing him the social tools to be one of the gang more easily. Because if we didn't let him play Minecraft? He'd be, like, THE ONLY ONE. And I just hate to think about him being the pop culture equivalent of the kid whose parents don't let him eat sugar, and brings, like, unsweetened carob cakes in for his birthday, you know?

So anyway, we let him play Minecraft (which he's only allowed to play on the weekends--we still have rules and standards up in here after all), he plays it, he loves it, everyone is happy. And every time I pick him up from school all he wants to talk about is MINECRAFT and everyone's special strategies in MINECRAFT did you hear about the newest thing in MINECRAFT? And William? Told me that there's a mod? That you can put Star Wars skins on your MINECRAFT server? And also one time? Thomas was building a house and two creepers snuck up on him but then he used his leather armor and threw a sheep at them and then he fell into a trap in the nether? And it was SO FUNNY!

(I'd like to think the game makes more sense than this but suspect that it doesn't.)

Except one day I walked by when he was playing Minecraft and I noticed that there was this scrolling chat box open at the bottom of the screen, with these other randos talking to each other while they were all playing. (I'm no video game enthusiast, but I think there are similar things in most video games that you play cooperatively with people online, games like "Call of Duty" and of that ilk). Those of you familiar with such games probably won't be surprised to hear this, but the back and forth taking place in this chat box? Awful. Terrible. Slurs! Swearing! INCORRECT SPELLING.

"Cal," I spluttered, "what is all this going on at the bottom of the screen?"

"Huh?" He looked down. "Oh, I didn't see that. I'm not really sure. I think that's other people that are playing on this server. It's my friend Archibald's* server, he invited me to join when we were sitting together at lunch last week."

"OK, but who are these other people? Do you know them? And why are they saying all these terrible things?" For lack of any other better solution, I just covered the chat box with my hand.

"Oh, I don't know. I guess they're Archibald's friends. Or other people that joined his server anyway. I haven't really been looking at it. What are they saying?"

"NOTHING. They're saying NOTHING. But can you turn this screen off? Hide it in some way? Or better yet, why do you have to play on someone's server at all? Can't you just play by yourself? Play by yourself and do something peaceful, like build a diamond...zombie...hut...or something?"

So anyway, Cal turned the chat function off, and then we had a talk about not playing with people online unless he really really knows them personally and he's preferably in the same room as them. I also said he was never allowed to have the chat function on again, ever, because: INAPPROPRIATE.

He's still young and relatively naive, so I know this is just the beginning. And while I'm obviously not going to be a super-paranoic about the use of the internet and social media (see: this page you're reading right now, and the existence thereof) I am a little apprehensive, despite the fact that we have a pretty tight lid on his screen time and computer habits and who he spends his time with outside of school. Because what's it going to be next year? Or the next? Or even forget the computer--what are he and his friends talking about in person at recess? In carpool line? At their sleepover parties?

(Yes, you're right--they're probably talking about Minecraft. Because Hayden? Said one time? He got a pile of gold? But then a zombie came and fell into this lava moat that he made around his house? And then someone hacked into his server and stole his diamond armor! It was epic!)

Cal is eight years old now, which is the age that most kids start to form stronger and stronger ties with people outside of their families. So I have to let him do that, but it's hard not to worry, because even though we know his friends and know their parents, that act of sending your child out there into the world can feel like feeding a lamb to the wolves. Because we can't always be there, and we can't always filter, and can't always catch the chat box before they see it and cover it with our hand. We just can't. That's what raising a child is: getting them ready so that they will be OK without you.

In my mind Cal is kind of a low-maintenence child, in that's he's old enough now to fend for himself and his personality is generally allergic to trouble-making. (He's actually kind of a people-pleaser to an almost unfortunate degree, in that even the hint that he's transgressed in some way makes him start to get teary and apologize--at school, anyway.) But nonetheless, I'm glad that I'm going to have a little more time to spend with him now, not just in spite of the fact that he's older and becoming more independent, but because of it.

-----
* Not his real name, OBVIOUSLY. I actually have not ever met this kid before but I have encouraged Cal not to play on his server anymore because aside from the obvious reasons I detailed above, apparently he regularly stays up until midnight playing Minecraft on school nights and what parent lets their nine year-old kid do that? 

costume drama

He's my firstborn and so I say this with all possible love and bemusement, but Cal is a weird child when it comes to dressing up for Halloween. It's not so much like he has sensory issues--he doesn't have problems with the costumes being itchy or bulky or too hot, he just thinks they're dumb or something. I think in reality he just gets self-conscious. Like the act of wearing a costume garners too much attention, and he doesn't like the fuss. At all.

Above is, unfortunately, the only surviving photo of his first Halloween costume that I can find (there must be more out there, but I didn't use iPhoto during Cal's first year so many of those digital image files are archived somewhere unreachable). It also showcases Joe's unfortunate predilection for grafting cheesy beyond belief titles and borders onto photography--just be grateful we're spared a wreath of pumpkins around Cal's face or something similarly Printshop circa 1988. Anyway, I just show you this picture because this, taken at the time that Cal was about Nina's current age (they were both born in July), is the last time that we were able to cram Cal into a Halloween costume without him complaining.

Here the following year. You can't see most of the costume since he's you know, running away from Joe (I think I was actually on call that particular Halloween so I wasn't even there) but he's supposed to be a monkey. See how happy he looks? SEE THE LOOK OF CHILDLIKE WONDER WHILE TRAIPSING THROUGH THE MAGICAL WORLD OF MAKE-BELIEVE?

Above, the following year, when he was two years old. We, thinking ourselves terribly clever, dressed him as a medical resident. Cal quickly stripped himself of the accessorizing accoutrement (the scrub cap, the pager, the stethoscope which had been doused in alcohol and Clorox to eliminate all traces of Enterococcus fecalis--it's the small touches that really make the costume, after all) and just barely tolerated the rest of it, mostly once he realized there was candy involved. This was back when we still lived in New York by the way, so his exposure in costume was minimal--mostly we just walked down the hallway, trick-or-treated one apartment, and then walked back. (Some of the candy he got may have been from our own bowl.)

I had some high hopes the following year, as in September Cal specifically requested a pink butterfly costume. Yes, a pink butterfly. So I got the costume (OK, so maybe I got a red and orange butterfly costume--I am as open-minded as the next parent but maybe it's my own bias that led me to apply some well-meaning edits to his original intent), but by the time it came Cal decided that he didn't want to wear any costume, butterfly or otherwise. "I just want to wear regular clothes," he said, a refrain that would dog us again and again subsequent Halloweens. We went to his nursery school Halloween party that year wearing khakis and a grey cardigan (I begged him to let me put some baby powder in his hair so that we could at least pass his costume off as "old man," but he was not having it) and had no further costume planned as of October 30th.

Finally, we just ended up putting him in his beloved "regular clothes" (black long-sleeved t-shirt, long pants), gussied it all up with his rain boots and a two-tone bolt of electricity that I cut out from construction paper and taped on his chest. Enter "Captain Lightning Bolt."  He was OK with this for some time, but then had a little potty accident after hitting three or four houses (three year olds never feel like they have to go to the bathroom until all of a sudden OMG THEY TOTALLY DO) so trick-or-treating was cut short and the costume issue was put to rest for another year.

At age four, Cal finally acceded, after weeks of cajoling to think of a Halloween idea, any idea; to go as "a builder man." Again, a costume involving his everyday clothing and some accessories from the toy bin.  The hat, tool belt and goggles were, of course, instantly shed the second after the pictures were taken, and he ran around his school Halloween party somewhat incongruously dressed in jeans and a blue oxford shirt.

And then, the year he was five, Cal refused to wear anything even approximating a costume. In fact, we didn't even go trick-or-treating that year because he just flat-out refused to do anything and Mack was too young to know any better. At the 11th hour (that is to say: 6:00pm on Halloween night) we thought maybe we had convinced him to go as Steve from "Blues Clues" just by wearing stuff out of his closet (green striped rugby shirt, khakis, blue dog stuffed animal--boom, instant Steve) but then at 6:05 he decided with finality that costumes were BOGUS and trick-or-treating was DUMB and a horribly humiliating ordeal for LOSERS. Also maybe he whined and cried and acted like we were asking him to eat not but burning hot coals and drink not but burning hot cola.

"But if you go out and wear a costume, people will give you candy!" I told him, playing what I thought was my trump card.

"We have candy at home," he said, quite reasonably.

So after that debacle, we decided last year, when he was six, that he was going to find a costume that he would tolerate and we were going to go trick-or-treating whether he liked it or not. I don't think we're of the type necessarily to force our kids to do stuff that they hate, only it seemed like he was getting himself all worked up over nothing, and that if only he would stop being so rigid and just relax about "looking dumb" and allow himself have fun, that maybe he could actually have fun and we could be like a normal family going trick-or-treating. And then maybe I finally get some candy runoff at long last. IS IT SO MUCH TO ASK?

We decided, after brief discussion, that he would be Harry Potter, which was cool because he already had a Harry Potter wand, and anyway, Harry Potter wears regular clothes, he could even skip the glasses, all he'd have to do is let me draw on the forehead scar and wear this Gryffindor scarf that he got just so it looked like he was trying a little.

After a lot of discussion (and more whining, and more crying), he finally let us tie the scarf on him. But he was not real happy about it. "You know, Cal," I told him, "most kids actually really like Halloween. They think it's fun to dress up, and go around, and they like going door to door to get candy. It's kind of a really big holiday for kids, you know?  Some kids look forward to this all year!"

He just grunted.

(Though eventually he did get into it.)

This year, we didn't even have a discussion. We were going to do this thing. After polling Cal to see if he had any costume ideas (to which he responded, "I don't know. I have to consider it.") I just decided, boy, you're going to dress up as a Star Wars character, and I don't want to hear any more about it. Originally I bought a whole pile of cream and brown fleece and was going to sew all the kids matching Jedi costumes (pause for laughter), but reality testing eventually intervened and I ended up buying the chintziest of chintzy drugstore Jedi outfits for both boys, coupled with these foam colored light up rods that I highly recommend to anyone who has kids that are into Star Wars.

And when we went to the third grade Halloween party this Friday, he put it on without any discussion.

Cal!

Put on an actual non-regular clothing costume!

WITHOUT DISCUSSION!

(High fiving a million angels)

I know it's not a big deal (and believe me, I'm trying not to make it into one, especially in front of him), but it's been seven years and eight Halloweens to get to this point so...yeah, it is kind of a majorly big deal.

Both of the boys, by the way, decided to be Obi-Wan Kenobi for Halloween.  Originally Cal wanted to be Obi-Wan and Mack was going to be Anakin Skywalker (which I found actually quite fitting), but then Mack decided that he wanted to be Obi-Wan too, and Cal got mad because what are you nuts, there can't be two Obi-Wans, haven't you even seen the movie?  Like, a couple hundred times? And there was much squabbling, and I came in and decided, perhaps at a slightly higher volume than strictly necessary, YOU KIDS SHUT UP EVERYONE'S GOING TO BE OBI-WAN.

Ah, Mack.  Mack, on the other hand...

The only problem we have with Mack is getting him out of costume.


* * *


I'm kind of hustling to write this while the kids are asleep so I don't really have time to reflect on this fact or get overly introspective/profound/lachrymose about this fact, but: this weekend marks the twelfth anniversary of this blog.

Twelve years. That's a lot of years, boy. Twelve years ago I was starting my second year of medical school and decided, on a whim, to start an online journal in lieu of memorizing the complement pathway to have even a faint hope of passing my immunology midterm. And now I am an attending anesthesiologist, married to my med school classmate (who, not to knock my own clinical skills, but I often think is a better doctor than me, or at least good at different things), a mother of three, living in the South.

Aside from the part where I now have a medical degree, at the moment I started this blog I had no idea where I would end up ten-plus years down the line.  I can't say that everything that has happened to me since has been expected. But as much as we Type A personalities like to control things, the unexpected can be exciting, and what's more, the unexpected can be quite good. And really, I don't think that this blog anniversary requires much more reflection than that, only to say that life now is busy and full and, most importantly, fun. I think I've reached a point in balancing my life and obligations where I feel that if something extracurricular ceases to be fun, it's probably not worth doing anymore. But keeping this blog, even after twelve years, continues to be fun, and that's why I keep writing. So thank you for sticking around with me.

And yes, if the finer details of the CXCR4 signaling pathway are indeed important to my clinical practice, I am pretty much screwed, because I don't think I ever really learned it in the first place.

ch-ch-ch-changes

When I'm not trying to work or sleep or keep my fool kids from killing each other (it's sweet actually how much they love each other--they hug and kiss and everything, which if you don't think is adorable I have some concern for the cold black granite that is YOUR HEART--but hand-in-hand with this adorable snugglefest is the fact that they fight like puppies crammed into a wicker basket only given one very small squeak toy to share) sometimes I try to update this blog. Clearly I have failed these past two weeks. But that Virgina Apgar thing was still pretty cool, wasn't it?

(Crickets.)

The big news these past few weeks is that Joe has left the world of academia and has now joined Paces Plastic Surgery, an excellent and highly respected plastic surgery group in Atlanta. It was tough to leave the university setting, but we're all very proud of him and excited for his prospects. To be totally honest, Joe is one of the very best doctors I know, and he cares about people and families more than just about any practitioner I've ever met. His patients are very lucky.  So here's to new beginnings for him, and for us.

Cal has been...well, Cal has been great.  You probably remember that I had some reservations prior to the start of this school year (we just switched schools, after all, so I had some concerns about the, shall we say, elasticity of the curriculum) but we've been pleased and actually delighted at how attentive and responsive his teachers have been, especially given that we'd actually not said anything to them at all.

"Maybe we should tell them to give him some harder math problems," Joe said near the beginning of the year, as we looked at Cal's homework (which was a giant worksheet of, essentially, counting problems).

After I duct taped him to his chair and stuck a sock in his mouth, I hissed at him don't you dare say anything, because it was the first week of the school year and the last thing I wanted to do was position us as the insane pushy Tiger Parents who don't know when to shut up.  I wanted to trust the teacher to make that assessment on her own.  Cal had a long history (particularly in preschool) of being perfectly able to do things well, but being too stubborn to show anyone that he could.  It led to talk of remediation a few years ago, for chrissake.  So I figured, just let it be for now.  Cal would either show what he could do, or he wouldn't.  And the teacher would make an assessment of what he should be doing, or she wouldn't.  But the first two weeks of school was way, way too early to start inserting ourselves and insisting that, HEY, MY KID CAN READ HARRY POTTER AND DO MULTIPLICATION, ARE YOU DOING HARRY POTTER AND MULTIPLICATION IN SCHOOL YET?  There's a fine line between advocacy and just being a pain in the ass.

So we didn't say anything.  Cal has been having fun at his new school.  He loves his teacher.  He is making new friends. These are the big things.  But also, on the other end of things, his teacher has told us that she's going to start pulling him out of their regular math class and that the "Enrichment" teacher is going to design some special extended projects for him to do during that time so that he doesn't get bored.  This really makes me happy, because the worst thing that could happen to Cal would be for him to become disenchanted with school--already he's asked me why, if school is so easy, does he have to go every day.  (Because of THE LAW, son.)

Anyway, I'm really impressed with the school's flexibility, it's certainly beyond what I had expected, and I'm even more glad that they came to that decision outside of me or Joe pushing anything.  Or perhaps it was Cal doing the pushing, as he'll regularly finish up his homework, and then, on the blank page on the back, write himself an entire new worksheet of more difficult math problems, and then finish those too.

I'm proud of my boy, is all.

(ASIDE FROM MEMORY LANE: When I was in fifth grade, I remember the teacher letting me and this other boy, Frances, do our own writing activities during the phonics curriculum, because phonics was, well...pretty ridiculous.  So what Frances and I decided to do was a booklet of political cartoons centered around the 1988 presidential elections, where we lampooned each candidate, as well as the sitting president at the time, Ronald Reagan.  I believe there were a couple of comic strips featuring Mikhail Gorbachev as well, and I remember studying his nevus flammeus very carefully so I could draw it just right.  And that, friends, is what you call a Baby Nerd.)

It's probably been observed to the point of stereotype that after a bringing into the world a particularly bookish, adult-oriented child, your second child is bound to be the human equivalent of a monster-truck rally, and that is most definitely the case at our house.  Mack is like...well, he's like a Mogwai.  Starts off real cute, ultimately destructive, and should not be fed after midnight.  (If it turns out he starts multiplying in number after he gets wet, however, we're in big trouble.)

The weather has finally started getting cooler here, and after four straight months of 90+ degree weather, I could not be more ready.  It's been a long summer, but autumn smells like beginnings.

while we're talking about it

So some of you may have seen it already, but this AP article ran in The New York Times today, about a huge scandal that has embroiled that Atlanta public school system.

Atlanta Schools Created Culture of Cheating, Fear
By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
Published: July 16, 2011 at 10:20 AM ET


ATLANTA (AP) — Teachers spent nights huddled in a back room, erasing wrong answers on students' test sheets and filling in the correct bubbles. At another school, struggling students were seated next to higher-performing classmates so they could copy answers.

Those and other confessions are contained in a new state report that reveals how far some Atlanta public schools went to raise test scores in the nation's largest-ever cheating scandal. Investigators concluded that nearly half the city's schools allowed the cheating to go unchecked for as long as a decade, beginning in 2001.

Administrators — pressured to maintain high scores under the federal No Child Left Behind law — punished or fired those who reported anything amiss and created a culture of "fear, intimidation and retaliation," according to the report released earlier this month, two years after officials noticed a suspicious spike in some scores.

The report names 178 teachers and principals, and 82 of those confessed. Tens of thousands of children at the 44 schools, most in the city's poorest neighborhoods, were allowed to advance to higher grades, even though they didn't know basic concepts.

One teacher told investigators the district was "run like the mob."

"Everybody was in fear," another teacher said in the report. "It is not that the teachers are bad people and want to do it. It is that they are scared."

For teachers and their bosses, the stakes were high: Schools that perform poorly and fail to meet certain benchmarks under the federal law can face sharp sanctions. They may be forced to offer extra tutoring, allow parents to transfer children to better schools, or fire teachers and administrators who don't pass muster.

(Read the full article.)

So...that.  This is not a new story, by the way--it's been in the local papers for the past few months--but it's one that I've been following with more than a little interest.  Because in a few weeks, we're going to be part of the Atlanta Public School system, when Cal starts first grade.

I would first like to point out that both Joe and I attended public schools up until we went to college, and Joe's dad is actually a retired public school principal.  And of course, I'd also like to think that if reputation and historical data count for anything, the school Cal (and maybe Mack in a few years) will be attending is actually supposed to be excellent--that school is, in fact, the reason we moved into this particular neighborhood in the first place.  But do these things make me feel better?  I little, I guess.  But not totally.

Ideologically, I think that every child should have the right to a good education, that we need to direct more resources to public schools, that the public school system in the United States should, by all rights, be one of the best in the world.  I don't believe that getting a quality education should solely be the purview of those who can afford private school.  The fact that an education is state-funded doesn't make it a bad one, just as much as paying a lot for an education doesn't make it a good one.

But at the same time, want to know my first, knee-jerk response?  It was: If this doesn't work out, there is no amount of money that I wouldn't spend to make sure my kid gets a good education.

It isn't about the money.  Or is it?  How do you separate out resources from environment?  Why is it that the best public schools are usually in the most affluent neighborhoods?  And wherein do other, non-monetary resources come into play?  There was an example in the article of a parent who talks about how she was just blindsided that her child, despite passing all standardized testing indicators, was actually performing way under grade level, and the first thing I thought was: how could you not have known that?  How can you not know what your kid is doing?  How would you be surprised to find out that your kid can't read?  Can't do math?  Isn't performing at grade level?  I wouldn't think you'd be blindsided by that; I'd think you, as the parent, would be the first to know.

So in this case, as is the case with just about everything in the world, it is about money, but also...it isn't.  It's about the rest of the picture.  My kid spends seven hours a day at school, ten hours a night sleeping.  It's what one does with the other seven hours that make the difference.

(And before people get upset, let's not equate emphasizing academic success with a joyless childhood.  I have two little boys and I know kids have to unwind and have fun in order to grow up happy, so I'm by no means promoting seven straight hours of grim academic drills, cram school-style.  I'm just saying is that as their parents, we have more perspective than anyone else the extent to which our kids can achieve, and also as their parents, it is our responsibility to help them get there.)

Anyway, Cal's starting first grade in a few weeks.  And Joe and I are going to be right there.  We'll see what kind of work he's doing, see what kind of homework he's bringing home, see what kind of progress he's making.  We're going to work at home, and then we're going to work a little more.  And I think that'll be just as important--probably more so--than what school he goes to or what teacher he has or whatever summer reading list they're sending home.

And make no mistake, I think all schools most certainly have a tremendous responsibility to their students.  They should, and they must.  But along with that, let's not let institutional reputation, test scores and a grades give any false reassurances, or absolve us as parents from the responsibility of picking up the slack.

miscellaneous etcetera

I was trying to figure out why this week felt so interminable, when I remembered that I was on call this weekend, so instead of two separate weeks, I'm living through one endless mega-week.  Like a monobrow, there was no line of demarcation.  And since I didn't have a weekend to take care of all my odds and ends, I started off my week behind, so now I am tired.

But first things first.  The winner of the guerilla marketing campaign (and the pack of awesome ultra-fine-tipped gel pens, along with a signed copy of my book) is Julia Blue, who's ingenious book cross-promotion on Facebook impressed both me and my editor.  Julia, e-mail me your address, and I'll send those out.

(Speaking of mailing things out, if you have not received your pre-order bookmark yet, don't worry, you're going to receive your bookmarks, and many of you have already.  It's just that I actually got, like, ten times the number of e-mails than I had initially anticipated, so I'm just very, very slowly hand-writing the notes and addressing the envelopes and mailing them all out in between other pressing tasks I have to do, like going to work and raising my kids.  International pre-orders will probably ship out last, just because those are the only ones I actually have to take into the post office for air mail.  Everyone else, be patient, they'll all get shipped eventually, even if it kills me.  THANK YOU.  Unless it really does kill me, in which case: avenge my death.)

Uh, where was I?

Oh yes, it's been a long week.

*          *         *

OK, so tell me what you think about this.  Cal's starting a new school this year for first grade.  We just found a copy of the summer reading list for rising first graders.  I'll just put part of it up here, see what you think.

On-Grade Level:
1. Arthur Series
2. Biscuit Finds A Friend, Alyssa Capucilli
3. Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see?, Eric Carle
4. Dr. Seuss Beginning Reader Books
5. Franklin Series
6. Frog and Toad All Year, Arnold Label
7. Frog and Toad Are Friends, Arnold Label
8. Sheep in a Ship or Sheep in a Jeep, Nancy Shaw

A little more challenging:
1. Alex and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, Judith Viorist
2. Berenstain Bears Series, Stan and Jan Berenstain
3. Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type, Doreen
4. If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, Laura Joffe Numeroff
5. Little Bear’s Visit, Else Holmelund Minarik
6. Sheila Race the Brave, Kevin Henkes
7. Strega Nona Series
8. The Best Nest, P.D. Eastman
9. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Eric Carle

OK, so look.  I like these books too.  I'm not saying my kid is some kind of super-brain, because he's not.  But really, these are the books that he's supposed to be reading for first grade?  "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" is a nice story, don't get me wrong, but is it really considered "a little more challenging" for a class of six and seven year-old kids?

Am I nuts?  Am I going Tiger Mom on this list?  Or do you think these books are too easy too?  Seriously, be honest, because I can't even tell.  I'm trying to figure out how much of it is just the fact that there's a range of books for all kids in the class, and how much of it is the fact that it seems like the expectations for our first graders is--look, I'm going to get flak for this, but I'm just going to say it--sadly low.

I'm not saying that I expect school to take the place of parents pushing (that word is so loaded, let's say "encouraging," because it sounds nicer although my meaning is the same) their kids to reach their full potential.  But I guess my fear is that if this reading list is a preview of the expectations for our first graders, school's going to be combination of mind-numbing boredom and then hours of meaningless busy work in the form of infinite homework assignments designed not to reinforce any actual learning, rather to fulfill some kind of meaningless quota.

I mean...OK.  Frog and Toad are very cute, and I love the fact that they are friends.  But people, really.  I mean, "THE VERY HUNGRY CATERPILLAR," for chrissake?

*          *          *

Mack's enjoying school so far, even though the transition of actually being dropped off at school all day, coupled with a week of Extreme Togetherness (my new reality show) while we were on vacation for a week has turned him into some kind of Momma's Boy monster.  (MOMMA'S BOY MONSTER is the working title of my horror film screenplay.  Alternate title: THE CLINGER.)  The biggest problem with him right now is quite simply that he's two years old, and while Cal waited until he turned three for the worst of his behavioral tics, Mack has apparently been reading all the child development books and has seized upon the terrible twos with gusto.

I know it's a developmental phase, and that he's right on schedule, but seriously, watching him and his 720 degree changes of heart in under 30 seconds is vertiginous to say the least.  And it's just hard to keep up with exactly what phase of the I love you / I'm angry at you / I need you Mom, every second of every day, I must only breathe your exhaled air / NO MOM GO AWAY I DO IT MYSELF cycle he's on at any particular moment.

Kid's lucky he's cute is all I'm saying.

*          *          * 

Oh, and I'm not going to plug every last public thing I do excessively, because it's all on this page and you can just look at it at your leisure (or not), but I just wanted to share this one interview I did with Greg Berg on WGTD-FM, because Greg is a great interviewer who listens as much as he talks, and whose reading voice made the excerpts of the book sound much, much better than if I had read them myself.  Is there some NPR master class that teaches people how to talk good?  Because I'd sign up for that in a second.  And then I would narrate Ken Burns documentaries all freaking day.

Hope everyone's having a good week.