Dex and Neve have been at rock n’ roll camp again this summer, and I realized over the weekend that I have been benefitting from it in subtle ways, especially while Colin was tied up with his cast. Every time I drop them off or pick them up, I get a hit of alternative life–alternative at least to my suburban scene. I should say, I am really engaged with music–I have no talent myself, but my mother was a musician and ever since I bought my first 45 in 5th grade, I’ve been collecting and appreciating all sorts of music.

The camp is in a bit of gritty neighborhood, where the coffee shops and diners are retro cool, and the young people hanging around outside them look hip and interesting. The staff are all musicians, with looks that range from basic summer casual to tattoos, earrings, and utterly individualistic outfits. There’s no Gap or Abercrombie in this crowd. Every  morning the staff are jamming together as we drop the kids off, and there’s something so wonderful about a blast of emo rock or free floating jazz at 8:30. Dex and Neve have some innate ability, and they enjoy the performing, but mostly they enjoy a glimpse of the creative, spontaneous musicians they get to work with.And then there’s the concerts–I adore the kids’ performances. To a kid, there is no obvious self-consciousness. They are singing, grooving, dancing, rockin’ it out, and you get the feeling that no kid in the camp has ever been told they aren’t a great musician. Whether they are or no is irrelevant, they believe they are, and it really shows. The  bravado of their performances carry me right through the weekend.

Finally, finally, we had a good day. All of us.At the same time. Miraculous. Well earned, I must say. It began with the first night in 6 weeks that Col slept all the way through. He woke up happy, and so I felt hopeful and energetic for the first time in weeks instead of cautious and homebound. 

We decided to take a long bike ride along the river. The weather was glorious. Tom was happy because he was moving –he just loves action –and there was plenty to see along the way, from sailboats colliding to bikini-clad gals on the grass. Dex and Neve loved the challenge of keeping up with Tom’s pace, zipping in and around joggers and dogs. Col just loved the speed of Tom’s bike, and for once, not having to wear either his cast or the walking boot. We stopped and let him play in the sprinkler park and he hobbled around in sheer delight. He doesn’t have much straight in the leg, but he doesn’t care. It was a joy to see him so happy all day.

Me, I lagged behind the expedition, the donkey carrying the food and diapers and water. It was such a relief to have hours without crying, clinging sweaty, bodies, complaints, nagging or bored sighs from anyone.  Another person might take this opportunity to say all the trauma of the summer made the day all the sweeter, but I can’t bolster myself with those sorts of rationales anymore. It makes it seem like the only worth we have is getting through things, getting to the other side of pain or problems, pushing through the project, the semester, the winter . . . the list goes on and on. I am not interested in surviving, in making it to the end with kids intact; that’s not enough for me. It’s time to have some fun.

Look, whoever is in charge of fate, back off: I do not need anymore character-building. Really.

Sunday, Colin wakes up with diarrhea. Total crank all day.

Monday: Neve wakes me up at 5 am, feeling sick. She pukes on the rug, then spends the next 8 hours in severe cramps, crying and puking and begging me to make it stop. I keep eyeing Dex, waiting for him to start.

Monday night: Cal wakes up every hour, totally upset. Won’t drink, cannot be comforted.

Tuesday: Col is a disaster. Cries all day, won’t tell me what is wrong. Won’t eat, drink, sleep. We try multiple times to give him pain reliever, and as always, he gags and spits it up.

Tuesday night: he wakes up every hour again.

Weds: To the pediatrician–he picked up Coxsackie somewhere. Coxsackie is torture–the kid has canker sores all over his mouth and throat. I am totally confused because we have been housebound with his broken leg. When she says they have seen a ton of Coxsackie, I realize he got it from playing with the toys in the pediatrician’s office when I brought Dex in for his physical a week ago. AAHHH!! She suggests anal pain relievers. Oh, yay!

Another night of no sleep.

Thursday: Neve wakes up with a rash and canker sores. She complains all day that I give Col more attention than her when she’s sick. Shoot me now. At some point I realize I cannot find Dex anywhere and none of his pals has seen him for three hours — I have no resources left, a total breakdown, imagining him  in all sorts of horrible scenarios. When I finally get him on the phone, only ten minutes later, he says, “Mom, chill, I turned off my cell, I was playing baseball.”

Friday:  Neve’s rash is all over her body now. She cries when i tell her she has to come to the hospital with me since I have no sitter; she doesn’t want to be seen in public. We got to Children’s to have Col’s follow-up appointment and miracle of miracles, they take his cast off!! I am elated, but he wants it back on and cries during the whole process. He transitions to a little removable boot, which, of course, he has off by the time we get home. 

When we get home, the cat has diarrhea all over her hind end ( god know where she has sat while I’ve been gone) and Dex is lying on the floor of the kitchen. “Mom, I don’t feel so good.”

What really blows about all of this is that you survive these dark weeks, yes, but no one says thanks or good job, or here’s your bonus or, you are so good at what you do. You just keep trudging along doing taking care of everything because what else are you going to do? And that is the place I really feel trapped as a parent, the place of, if I do not do it, what will become of these kids? I am the only one who will tend the ill, clean up vomit and poop and go to those places no one else is supposed to go, I guess. If a kid wants mommy, they want mommy. There is no one to pass the buck to, no one but me. And that part of being a mom I can do without.

The idea of parental authority and child obedience has been on my mind a lot lately. This is the special trial of having a 13 year old and a 2 year old–you get the double emotional whammy of trying to get the toddler to just come here when I say so out of control and safety concerns . . . and you are also trying to get the teen to just come here because I said so, out of, well, control and safety concerns as well.

You want to toddler to obey you because, let’s face it, life is easier when they do, when you know that they will respond to your authority when they are about to run into the street or grab the razor off the sink, or simply sit down to eat a meal. 

You want the teen to obey you because, let’s face it, life is easier when you know that they will respond to your authority when you tell them, “No, you can’t watch  R rated movies even if Joe watches them,” and  “No, you can’t play Grand theft Auto at Liam’s house even if his mom says it’s fine,” and “No, you may not ride your bike across town at 9:30 on a Saturday night.”  

The difference is that in all honesty, I don’t want Dex to “obey” me per se, what I am pursuing is more of being an experienced ally that helps him make informed decisions. It takes a lot more time and it is a heck of a lot harder, actually, than just telling him what I expect, but I what I want to grow in him is self-reliance, not dependence on me. So, take the biking at night thing. Dex bikes everywhere now, and does it well and responsibly, but always in daylight. So one night when he called me to tell me he was about to bike home,  I took a deep breath, and said, “Well, let’s think about this. There are no sidewalks or streetlights on the way you’d be coming, and you don’t have a light on your bike. But you have biked that road a lot, you know it pretty well.

“That’s true.”

“But you’d be coming right past that club where people go to drink. And so on a Saturday night there might be some pretty loaded people driving that road.”

“Yeah . . ..” he sighed. “But I’d be really careful.”

I feigned another call. “Dex, I need to take this– call me back in a few minutes with your decision. I was lucky. He called back and said he thought it would be better if I picked him up. If he had decided to bike, I am not sure what I would have done. I guess I am hoping that if I treat him and each issue with enough respect, logic has a fair chance of winning. Maybe I am dead wrong about all this, but for now it feels more in tune with who he is and who I am than barking at him.

Week One: Fresh Hell on Wheels. Toddler in pain. Toddler can’t sleep. Toddler needs to be carried everywhere and is not easily distracted because leg hurts. Stroller and car seat hurt. Toddler angry and frustrated, throwing food, trucks, play-doh, books.Toddler smells because of all the crying and sweating and yet parents cannot seem to find tiny cast-cover anywhere in Greater Boston. After finally locating one, we return home excited to actually give Toddler the buoyant relief of a bath only to find we have been sold an adult cast-cover in a toddler box.

Many hours spent lugging Toddler around neighborhood to watch lawnmowers mowing. In the rain.

Week Two: Upgrade to just Hell. Mother, desperate because of weak and aching back (see winter blogs) resorts to instituting “turtle races,”  hoping watching the entire family drag their bodies across the floor might encourage Toddler to follow suit. It works, but Toddler wants to go outside in wet, muddy yard and do it, which would be acceptable if Toddler could keep a plastic bag on the leg, but he is Houdini and gets out of everything. Toddler has a lot of energy and cannot tire himself out, so napping is out and and sleeping brutal. Sick and tired of crafts and quiet play and watching PBS, Toddler resorts to torturing the cat. When he sticks drumstick down cat’s ear, she scratches him, so he now yells at cat constantly.

Brother brilliantly channels toddler frustration by giving him a full watergun to shoot at cat, but he shoots at all of us. In the house.

Poop on a cast is not easy to clean off, FYI. Still no bath. Despite “sponge baths,” smell factor at record high. Husband resorts to dousing with baby powder.

Entering Week Three: Merely Purgatory. Eureka! Found a cast-cover that fits. Toddler joyously spends an hour in the tub, after which it is clear that cast-cover keeps only SOME of the water out. Hair dryer –cool setting — employed. Toddler tentatively begins to put weight on casted leg. Within 32 hours,Toddler is expert at walking on edge, in and out of rain. Spends all day discovering new ways to get sand, water and dirt on and into cast. Shoots watergun, his new accessory, directly down cast. Who cares? Mother not carrying him!

In freak accident, Older Brother jumps off bottom stair intending to go over Toddler splayed on floor with trucks, but Toddler moves suddenly and 95 lbs lands on Toddler’s healthy leg. Much screaming, swelling –Mother swearing as she envisions double casts and explaining all of this to skeptical ER docs– while brother beats himself up with guilt. Within 20 minutes it is clear it is a miracle, as child sees sister’s balloon and  goes hobbling after it. 

Stay tuned for week 4: will he or won’t he get it cut off? The cast, I mean.