Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini

This is Part 1 in a series I'm entitling "Au Contraire! Why Tongue-in-cheek Journaling of the J-Crabs' Escapades or Assorted Minor Sand Castle Inconveniences Is Superior to Reality Blogging."

In recent days, some members of my family assumed the position that I am inappropriately risk-averse, too involved/connected to the J-crabs during their travels, or some other undefined opinion of my parenting skills.

In an effort to offer continuing education via correspondence course, I submit the following 2.5 hours of a pretty ordinary day Raising Tim:

1:30 p.m. Phone call from my sitter:

"I still have a fever. It's 99.9-degrees today."

Me: "Well, the rule of thumb is 24-hours fever-free so I guess that means we'll hope to see you on Thursday."

"Oh, I'm sure I can make it tomorrow."

Me: "Well, it's 1:30 right now and you're calling to cancel [for 2 p.m.] Since you'd be due here in less than 24-hours for Wednesday, it would seem that we're looking at seeing you -- at the earliest -- on Thursday."

"Er, I took my temperature first-thing this morning."

Me: "But you're calling me in the afternoon [half-an-hour before I thought you'd be here]. Let's get you better...you know I cannot afford to be sick right now."

System Constraints: I have to retrieve a copy of Charlie's IEP offer from the District after 2:30 p.m. Today. Now, without a sitter. Tim's bus is due home well before 2:30 p.m. and must be met by an adult. Neither child is safe/legal to be left home unsupervised. Charlie has home program (as in, at our home) beginning at 3 p.m., during which an adult must be home at all times. In short, I have a slim window within which to operate.


2:20 p.m.: Count-down to Tim's bus. Load Charlie in the CR-V, which is no small feat given his resistance/suspicion to departures of all shapes and sizes. Any one of which could result in a doctor or a school or a therapy.



2:25 p.m.: Tim disembarks bus. He is immediately diverted into the CR-V.

Let the games begin!

The performance commences with head-banging (enough to push his side of the CR-V's divided backseat to a different angle than Charlie's side), smacking the window, hitting/stomping the floorboards, hitting/kneeing the seat in front of him, shrieking/sobbing/moaning, drooling, perseverative questioning "What time is it on the clock?" (As opposed to the time on the steering wheel?), and verbally demanding "snacks and treats". At last, the piece de resistance: the fan-tabulous Assault-the-Driver routine. Swats at, pinches, scratches. Me.

What he always forgets: I can multi-task. Driving + muttering the obscenties my husband's co-workers can only hope to equal + defensive maneuvers (ones not at all involving the road). And I made the yellow at Mission Bay Drive, thank you very much, without seeing a flash from the photo-enforcement camera.

All the way, 10 minutes, across to Clairemont.
He screamed like a banshee in the parking lot of Special Ed Early Childhood while I hurriedly conduct my bizness. With my arch-enemy, who long ago told me that I needed to accept that Tim would NEVER be normal. (Think I've got my mind around that one, Beth!)
All the way, 10 more minutes (aka, an eternity), back to P.B.

2:55 p.m.: Home again. More tantrumming, more drama, more frenzied questions, spills drink and snack because he's so upset.

3:10 p.m.: T is still freaking out. Bursts into Charlie's room multiple times to interrogate Charlie's tutor with questions.

3:25 p.m.: Not surprisingly, T is still spastic. Finally convince him to take off his shoes and lie down for a couple minutes. This instruction is interpreted by him as an invitation to leap onto my bed (where I've barricaded my ears under pillows and am otherwise trying to soak-up air-conditioning). CRASH/CRUNCH/FLOP.

3:30 p.m.: Taking up the mantle of Overacting-Melodrama-Star, I burst into tears because he has busted a support beam of our bed. Spend next 31 minutes, heaving the huge-ass pillow-top queen mattress inches at a time off the sleigh bed -- followed by the much-easier platform support and then rearrange still-viable 2x4's. Muffle-sniff my way back through reassembly and re-make the bed, feeling that this was surely a job that the Sand Crab would have been supremely qualified to undertake -- were he not a world away ~ actively engaged in the avoidance of "presumptive" dignitaries.

And I ask, "Would you rather write pithy and obviously far-fetched tales of the J-crabs or would you rather relive the sequence of events that led to missing your anticipated book group meeting?"

Especially when tomorrow will bring another version of the same construct, although far more than 24 variations are possible. And none of them are likely to involve a Rachmaninoff.