Homestead happenings: March
* Thank you for your encouraging comments last week on Col’s upcoming tonsillectomy. I love having my own little cheering squad, which may prevent me from showing up drunk at the hospital next Tuesday. So, team, who’s taking the first night shift? Tylenol-lortab combo given every 4-6 hours around the clock, unless there’s an allergic reaction in which case have Benedryl on hand and call the doctor’s cell immediately. Gasp.
Whenever the tonsillectomy comes up Col either runs from the room, burying his sobbing head in a chair, or, he issues his party line, “I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT,” then peacefully returns to piecing together medieval lego scenes of horses grazing under cannons.
Last night, on a whim that may have had a little something to do with the glass of beer I had sipped outside in the afternoon sun, I announced to Col that I thought he was going to do great at his surgery. He pressed his head into my chest and said “I know, Mama.” And then ten minutes later he was buckled over in tears.
Dan took him into our room and held him for a long time while he cried. When they emerged Dan announced, “Col has a request.” Everyone turned to Col, who was calm but puffy eyed and breathing in big gaspy bursts. ”Col would like his presents brought to the hospital.” Col sniffed and nodded and transformed into a hugely mature, but still tiny person, who seems to have already learned one of the saddest and truest and maybe most freeing lessons, that even your parents can’t protect you from pain.
He later said, “I know this isn’t fair, but I only want Rosie to get her present when she gets her tonsils out.”
And it’s almost more heartbreaking—more than the raw sadness, anyway—when Col gathers up his courage like a small cloak around him and asks in the smallest voice, “how long is my throat going to hurt?”
Which is a hard question to answer, especially because all the medical professionals have taken special care to warn Dan and me not to underestimate the post-operative pain. “Two weeks of a severe sore throat,” one doctor wrote in an e-mail. “The first few days are hellish,” said a friend whose son went through it. “You don’t want to miss a single dose of the pain killers for the first week,” the nurse told us. “You’ll set your alarms so he gets his meds every 4-6 hours.” And then I passed out. (Actually I’m doing fairly okay. How’s that for reassuring?)
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::It’s March and it feels like March here in the Southwest.
::The sun is creeping into places that have been draped in blue-grey shadows for months.
::The Great Antler Giveaway was highly successful. Every antler in the pile was taken. Even the chalky, old, bleached out ones which crumbled in your hand. Even the box of assorted antler pieces, from which Dan had already cut off tips and sections. Apparently Dan even snuck a few choice antlers out of his own pile.
She got antlers for her great-grandson to make an antler chandelier.
They got antlers for a mentally ill family member who beads antlers as therapy.
People took antlers to paint them, to display jewelry on, to decorate their houses and gardens, for craft projects, and because “my husband collects them.” From my husband to your husband, sucker.
::Now that it’s warming up and everyone’s creeping out of their homes, we’re starting to see the folks who live downstairs much more. The four of them are the poster children for successful communal living. Despite not knowing each other before moving in, they’ve created this amazing village of friendship and shared, garlicky meals (we can smell it upstairs!). They whip up collaborative sushi parties at 9pm, which is the same time that all of my brain matter has slithered out my ears (but sometimes I can be roused for a plate of sushi). They all also happen to be charmed and amused by the two little people on the property; and they babysit. I love them.
::It’s very exciting when Col and Rose get to sift through Dan’s special things, like turkey feathers.
Someday, Dan hopes to make his own arrows using these feathers for fletching.
::Apparently meals around here are clothing optional, and animals are welcome. (How do you like our ipod, I mean mp3 player, okay, I mean boombox that my grandma once owned, in the background).
::Gratuitous picture of kale in the greenhouse.
::Swoonable coldframe innards.
So, since it looks like we’ll be spending next week at home on the couch, all day, every day, besides breaking up the time with lortab administerings every 4-6 hrs, I’m taking suggestions on engaging, low key activities for a 6-year old boy. Thanks in advance, you guys are the best.
I hope March is flooding your life with sun.