It's Not a Holiday Unless There Are Broken Dishes and a Trip to the Emergency Room

Mother's day started out pretty well. I didn't set any unrealistic expectations. I didn't ask for an elaborate brunch and I specifically requested that we NOT have breakfast in bed, which would have either meant eating alone, or ending up with spilled coffee and sharing all my food.

Jeff made a lovely breakfast for me, including eggs, bacon, and homemade hash browns. I drank my coffee. I opened a gift from Jeff (the new Pioneer Woman cookbook - yay!), and some cute things the kids made at school. Later that afternoon, I got to spend some time alone at my favorite local coffee place.

Around, four o'clock, I decided to take a nap. I so rarely do, and it seemed like a good way to finish up the afternoon. About five minutes into it, I heard a loud crash near Moe's room. I did not jump up. I thought, "Jeff has got this." Maybe 30 seconds later, there was a second crash and the unmistakeable sound of something breaking. I jumped out of bed.

I opened the door to find Moe standing in front of the linen closet. On the floor, there were not one, but two, dish packs, the ones that I use to store my china. Moe had climbed the closet shelves, reached the dishes, and pulled them down. They are heavy, of course, and simply crashed to the ground when he grabbed them.

Before

I opened the packs and saw that quite a bit was broken. My heart sank as I brought the two packs to the kitchen to survey the damage. He had pulled out a pack with soup bowls: every one was broken. Every. One. The other pack contained saucers. One saucer was intact, another had just one clean break and may be salvageable. Everything was completely shattered.

I was crushed. I didn't register for china when we got married; I asked my parents for these dishes. These dishes, that we used at every Passover seder, at every special occasion, just gone in an instant. These dishes, that I carefully packed and placed on a high shelf, that I specifically didn't put in storage when we put the house on the market so they would be safe, were now, at best, a future mosaic. Did I mention my parents carried these back from their honeymoon in the Virgin Islands?

Moe, by the way, was fine. The trip to the ER was unrelated, if you can believe it.

After?

I sobbed on the kitchen floor. I'm fighting back tears as I write this. My parents assured me that these dishes are just things, that they are unimportant. And they are right, of course. But it doesn't change the fact that something really special to me is gone, and that Moe, as much as I love him, is impulsive and destructive, and only getting more so. No matter how closely I watch him, he is fast. I'm afraid he's going to really hurt himself.

Which brings me to the next part of our story. Moe was finally in bed, and Jeff and I went to check on him. He had a dirty diaper, as he often does about an hour after he gets into bed. We changed him, which is an emotionally exhausting two person job that requires a complicated dance of hand restraint and dodging kicking legs. While Jeff was finishing up, I was fixing Moe's bed (another story I'll have to share another day). Somehow, Moe launched himself off the top of his dresser, and in an instant was on the floor. He was quiet for a second, and limp (though not unconscious). He was moaning. I, having just read a story about a little girl who was knocked to the ground, told Jeff, I'm calling 911.

Jeff insisted we wait a minute and see. Moe refused to walk. He had one eye closed, and was waving his arms around. He would not stand. Jeff brought him to the couch. He was crying and I thought his forehead was swelling. Jeff didn't want to spend the night at the ER, but I insisted he at least go to urgent care at our doctor's office. The wait time online said 30 minutes, so Jeff headed out. Unfortunately, they were closed when Jeff arrived. Oops.

He ended up taking Moe, who I could still hear moaning on the background, to the ER near the clinic. Moe was fine, and now I cannot even find a bump on his head. I think, in the end, he probably got the wind knocked out of him and got pretty scared but wasn't actually injured. I'm thankful, but once again come out like the over-protective mother. But with Moe, how can I tell?

Hope your mother's day was relaxing. Can I get a do-over?

Tray image courtesy of Pennello Lane.

Not a New Normal

I'm over at Hopeful Parents today, as I am on the 14th of every month. Enjoy!

Guilty

I had two majors in college: Sociology and Communications. One of the best classes I took was Sociology of Religion. In it, we discussed how the tenets of various religions guide the behavior of their followers.

For example (and I am greatly simplifying here), the Calvinists believed that their ultimate salvation was pre-destined by God alone. From a sociological perspective, what would this mean for people's behavior? Because people care what others think of them, and because no one wants to think they aren't one of the chosen ones, a lot of emphasis was attached to the values of thriftiness and hard work. This "Protestant work ethic," was deemed to be a sign that one was "chosen."

Observant Jews believe that a messiah will one day come, bringing with him an idyllic messianic age. The messiah, however, will only come when we are good enough to deserve it. But life is complicated. How do we know how to behave? By following the rules, of course. Judaism is quite a rule-based religion. There are rules about what to eat, how to dress, how to celebrate holidays, even how and when to have sex within the confines of marriage.

Logically, then, if you don't follow the rules (and it is nearly impossible to follow all the rules) you are the reason that the messiah does not come.

Think about that. The messiah hasn't come because you aren't good enough. You drove a car or turned on a light on Saturday morning, and now the messiah will not come.

Oy. Talk about Jewish guilt.

Ah, guilt. Such an ugly, gut-wrenching feeling.

And parenting, like religion, is full of it. Did you breastfeed long enough? Let your child cry it out? Use a pacifier? Return to work too soon? Choose the right preschool?

And if you are the parent of a child with special needs, the guilt just keeps piling on. Did you vaccinate? Not vaccinate? Were you overweight during pregnancy? Is it somehow my fault that Moe has a disability? I'm so full of guilt over Moe's autism, I could write a book. Maybe I will.


I suppose guilt could be useful for some things. A healthy amount of guilt helps you keep a clean conscience. Maybe you snuck out of the house as a teenager and got away with it, but the guilt continued to plague you, and you decided it wasn't worth it. Good guilt. Call your mother kind of guilt.

But much like its cousin regret, guilt is a backward facing emotion. It forces you to dwell in the past and prevents you from moving forward. This is bad guilt. This is eat-away-at-your-soul, keep-you-up-at-night guilt. And it is entirely unhelpful.

We had Moe's IEP today, and though I can't say much, I will say that Moe has made very little progress toward his goals during the last two years. So a couple months ago, we had a full independent assessment done by a very well-respected psychologist. She observed him in school, and showed us why his current program isn't working for him. And while I am thankful that we have this information now, I can't help but ask myself why we didn't do this sooner. Have we just wasted two critical years of Moe's development?

As my dad and my best friend both told me, it doesn't much matter. We are here now, and all we can do is look forward, make new decisions based on the information we have today, and hope they are the right ones, ones that will help him reach his greatest potential.

But that is easier said than done. Especially with 5,000 years of Jewish guilt to contend with.


This post is inspired by I AM FORBIDDEN <http://amzn.to/AyvkEl> by Anouk Markovits. Though not sisters by blood but through their Hasidic faith, Mila and Atara views the rules and structure of their culture differently. Mila seeks comfort in the Torah while Atara searches for answers in secular literature she is forbidden to read. Ultimately each must make an irrevocable decision that will change their lives forever. Join From Left to Write <http://www.fromlefttowrite.com> on May 8 as we discuss I AM FORBIDDEN. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.