Everyone knows that a penis is a boy’s best friend, and Sacha and his have always been extra-special close. Lately he’s discovered the art of self-massage; after a recent bath, I watched him in a trance, with a dollop of cream having a good go at himself.
On Friday afternoon I asked Sarah to get Sacha for changed for karate and she came running into the kitchen.
“Mama, Mama, come look, THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH SACHA’S PENIS!”
Sarah can be a bit alarmist, but when I looked at him, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Holy shit.”
His groin, penis and balls were covered in angry red hives. Sacha wasn’t complaining about it, and it was four o’clock on Friday, so there was no point in calling my pediatrician, but it looked really alarming nonetheless.
I used my complete lack of medical training deduce these were some kind of bug bites. We’ve had a minor epidemic lately, and both Sarah and I are spattered with welts.
But still, given that Sacha is a bit precocious where masturbation is concerned, has mildly sadomasochistic tendencies, and his penis looked like it’d been scrubbed with steel wool, I felt it was time to call in a medical professional. I have a friend who is a dermatologist and I knew she’d be seeing Sacha the following morning at karate. Because I am a sensitive wife, and didn’t want to put David in the position of asking our friend cold if she could please examine our son’s balls, I sent her an email to give her a head’s up.
She confirmed my diagnosis, and advised that we treat the bites with antihistamine and cortisone. Just when I'd finally gotten to the point where I was completely out of the business of dealing with my son’s business, every evening, for medical reasons, I have to give him a genital massage.
Two steps forward, one step back.
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
14 May 2011
12 October 2010
Crowd surfing optional
This year we went to synagogue for Simchat Torah. I'd never been to this service before, but the class of new Hebrew school students, of which Gabriel is a member, were being consecrated. While I'm not against the idea of going to synagogue, I do find it fairly boring, but on Simchat Torah I had the best time I've ever had in a synagogue.
It was partly due to the joyous nature of the holiday, which celebrates the end of the annual cycle of Torah reading, and culminates in a ceremony where the congregation forms a circle around the children and unfurls the entire Torah scroll. I'd always thought touching the Torah was verboten, but apparently not, at least if this is to be believed.
There was a relatively short service accompanied by a klezmer duo, and many families with small children were present, signifying a behavioral bar set low enough for limbo. During call and response readings, Sacha repeated things, fortissimo, half a beat after the congregation. This included lot of enthusiastic oh yeahs! amens! and much indecipherable ad-libbing. The service culminates with singing and dancing, during which Gabriel and Sacha fought over playing the bongos, and Gabriel spun wildly like a dervish.
Speaking in tongues and ecstatic dancing; perhaps the key to enjoying synagogue is to behave like you're at a tent revival or a rock concert, and let your freak flag fly. Next year's highlights will include pogoing, and slam dancing.
It was partly due to the joyous nature of the holiday, which celebrates the end of the annual cycle of Torah reading, and culminates in a ceremony where the congregation forms a circle around the children and unfurls the entire Torah scroll. I'd always thought touching the Torah was verboten, but apparently not, at least if this is to be believed.
There was a relatively short service accompanied by a klezmer duo, and many families with small children were present, signifying a behavioral bar set low enough for limbo. During call and response readings, Sacha repeated things, fortissimo, half a beat after the congregation. This included lot of enthusiastic oh yeahs! amens! and much indecipherable ad-libbing. The service culminates with singing and dancing, during which Gabriel and Sacha fought over playing the bongos, and Gabriel spun wildly like a dervish.
Speaking in tongues and ecstatic dancing; perhaps the key to enjoying synagogue is to behave like you're at a tent revival or a rock concert, and let your freak flag fly. Next year's highlights will include pogoing, and slam dancing.
23 February 2010
My property taxes at work
It is somewhat fashionable to complain about the shortcomings of one's children's school districts, and while I am generally happy with ours, I have certainly been guilty of this offense.
At this point, however, I can offer nothing but the highest praise for the Montclair Public Schools.
At age four, Sacha has left a small eddy of destruction at preschools throughout town. When he was three, we had to move him from his first school because they found him so exasperating that in a half-day preschool, where twelve children were supervised by three adults, they wanted us to hire, at our expense, his own personal aide. This seemed absurd, but we got the distinct impression that if we did not comply he would be expelled; it was not the auspicious beginning to his formal education that I had hoped for.
Since then, his experience has been far more positive, but there is no denying that there are things about his nature that we observe both at home and in school, that make him stand out.
He often strikes me as childhood distilled to its essence. There is little middle range in the way he experiences, and processes things, and so his reactions tend to be intense. His joy is infectious, but so is his anger. He is funny, charming, wildly imaginative and charismatic, but also loud, willful, impulsive, and rarely still.
To say he has a large personality is something of an understatement; David and I began to strongly suspect that Sacha has ADHD.
At the urging of his teachers at his current, wonderful preschool, at the end of last year I contacted the Board of Education to request that Sacha be evaluated. In less than 24 hours, I received a return phone call, and an initial meeting was scheduled for the following week. When we left that meeting, we had five additional meetings on the calendar at roughly one week intervals; four for testing, and a final meeting to discuss findings, as well as promises that arrangements would be made for Sacha to see a neurologist. Again, within 24 hours an appointment was scheduled with a pediatric specialist at St. Joseph's Children's Hospital.
We received a detailed written report far enough in advance of our final meeting to have time to review it. Because it is a catalog of weaknesses, not strengths, reading it required a strong stomach, and a sense of humor. A friend likened it to a home inspection, where the goal is to compile a record of areas of concern.
We had our meeting yesterday, and, as the Magic Eight ball is fond of saying, signs point to yes. Although ADHD is legally classified as a learning disability, and not cause for celebration, when we learned that Sacha does indeed qualify for services, I couldn't have been happier if you'd told me he'd been accepted at Harvard.
We left the meeting with that holy grail, the IEP, and beginning March 1, Sacha will spend his afternoons at the Developmental Learning Center, in a small classroom environment, where he will receive services intended to help him function at his peak in school. He will be bussed from his current preschool to the DLC, and home from there at the end of the day.
The entire process has been extremely smooth and efficient, and I have been impressed with every educator we have had contact with. I am grateful to the Montclair Public Schools for helping us to help our son acquire the skills that he will need to succeed.
I am also extremely happy that come March 1, Sacha will be on a path to get what he needs, and, as a happy consequence, that I will also gain three hours a day of child care. Win-win.
At this point, however, I can offer nothing but the highest praise for the Montclair Public Schools.
At age four, Sacha has left a small eddy of destruction at preschools throughout town. When he was three, we had to move him from his first school because they found him so exasperating that in a half-day preschool, where twelve children were supervised by three adults, they wanted us to hire, at our expense, his own personal aide. This seemed absurd, but we got the distinct impression that if we did not comply he would be expelled; it was not the auspicious beginning to his formal education that I had hoped for.
Since then, his experience has been far more positive, but there is no denying that there are things about his nature that we observe both at home and in school, that make him stand out.
He often strikes me as childhood distilled to its essence. There is little middle range in the way he experiences, and processes things, and so his reactions tend to be intense. His joy is infectious, but so is his anger. He is funny, charming, wildly imaginative and charismatic, but also loud, willful, impulsive, and rarely still.
To say he has a large personality is something of an understatement; David and I began to strongly suspect that Sacha has ADHD.
At the urging of his teachers at his current, wonderful preschool, at the end of last year I contacted the Board of Education to request that Sacha be evaluated. In less than 24 hours, I received a return phone call, and an initial meeting was scheduled for the following week. When we left that meeting, we had five additional meetings on the calendar at roughly one week intervals; four for testing, and a final meeting to discuss findings, as well as promises that arrangements would be made for Sacha to see a neurologist. Again, within 24 hours an appointment was scheduled with a pediatric specialist at St. Joseph's Children's Hospital.
We received a detailed written report far enough in advance of our final meeting to have time to review it. Because it is a catalog of weaknesses, not strengths, reading it required a strong stomach, and a sense of humor. A friend likened it to a home inspection, where the goal is to compile a record of areas of concern.
We had our meeting yesterday, and, as the Magic Eight ball is fond of saying, signs point to yes. Although ADHD is legally classified as a learning disability, and not cause for celebration, when we learned that Sacha does indeed qualify for services, I couldn't have been happier if you'd told me he'd been accepted at Harvard.
We left the meeting with that holy grail, the IEP, and beginning March 1, Sacha will spend his afternoons at the Developmental Learning Center, in a small classroom environment, where he will receive services intended to help him function at his peak in school. He will be bussed from his current preschool to the DLC, and home from there at the end of the day.
The entire process has been extremely smooth and efficient, and I have been impressed with every educator we have had contact with. I am grateful to the Montclair Public Schools for helping us to help our son acquire the skills that he will need to succeed.
I am also extremely happy that come March 1, Sacha will be on a path to get what he needs, and, as a happy consequence, that I will also gain three hours a day of child care. Win-win.
19 January 2010
Yes, we can
Last week, Sacha said something that left me in a swoon. It was not “I love you,” or “You are the best mom,” or “You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” although all of the above is uncategorically true.
What he said was, “Mama, I need to poop.”
And so with great joy, I gave away the last of our diapers to a younger and more deserving customer.
After many, many months of trial, to say nothing of error, I can, at long last say that Sacha is at toilet-trained. CAPS LOCK CANNOT SUFFICIENTLY CONVEY THE MAGNITUDE OF THAT SENTENCE.
While he hasn't needed diapers for several weeks, he was more a well-trained circus monkey than truly trained, able to perform impressive tricks on command in exchange for a treat.
We had a ritual, which involved reading Everyone Poops, followed by a few minutes privacy, and then, great rejoicing. Thanks to this book, our family knows more about defecation habits throughout the animal kingdom than I ever thought possible, or necessary.
We have spent so much time with this story that not only do we have it memorized, but Sacha is now an emerging reader. Which makes it even more of a relief that he is finally trained, as it would have been extremely embarrassing, to say nothing of disconcerting, had he continued to shit himself while reading Tolstoy. Thank you, Taro Gomi, for so effectively teaching my son that two O's make the “oo” sound. You have replaced Dr. Seuss in the literary pantheon.
While I am relieved to put a period on this developmental milestone, I can not help but entertain ominous thoughts about what lies ahead. Because if toilet training is a gauge, I am very, very afraid for Sacha's adolescence.
What he said was, “Mama, I need to poop.”
And so with great joy, I gave away the last of our diapers to a younger and more deserving customer.
After many, many months of trial, to say nothing of error, I can, at long last say that Sacha is at toilet-trained. CAPS LOCK CANNOT SUFFICIENTLY CONVEY THE MAGNITUDE OF THAT SENTENCE.
While he hasn't needed diapers for several weeks, he was more a well-trained circus monkey than truly trained, able to perform impressive tricks on command in exchange for a treat.
We had a ritual, which involved reading Everyone Poops, followed by a few minutes privacy, and then, great rejoicing. Thanks to this book, our family knows more about defecation habits throughout the animal kingdom than I ever thought possible, or necessary.
We have spent so much time with this story that not only do we have it memorized, but Sacha is now an emerging reader. Which makes it even more of a relief that he is finally trained, as it would have been extremely embarrassing, to say nothing of disconcerting, had he continued to shit himself while reading Tolstoy. Thank you, Taro Gomi, for so effectively teaching my son that two O's make the “oo” sound. You have replaced Dr. Seuss in the literary pantheon.
While I am relieved to put a period on this developmental milestone, I can not help but entertain ominous thoughts about what lies ahead. Because if toilet training is a gauge, I am very, very afraid for Sacha's adolescence.
19 June 2009
Boys and their toys
No, I'm not talking about those toys, but I do believe there is a strong connection.
This week, Sacha found an old Leapster in the bottom of the toy chest in his room. He's not entirely new to this phenomenon, as he's been shadowing Gabriel as he plays Wii for some time now. Sacha holds a broken Wii remote and waves it around as Gabriel plays, and explains to anyone who will listen, “I PLAYING BIDEO GAMES!”
But nonetheless, when he discovered the Leapster, some previously dormant boy circuit was activated, and now he has most certainly discovered THE POWER OF GAMING. At this point I can't be certain if he's actually playing, because I can't be bothered to watch that closely. But he believes he is playing, which is all that really matters.
As far as electronics are concerned, I make no distinction between television, computer, and gaming. It's all the same, and don't try to tell me that it has educational value. It has vegetative value, which can be valuable in and of itself. It seems especially effective at putting boys in a state of flow, which is a beautiful thing, and something I sorely miss myself, having only rarely experienced it since becoming a mother.
But since in my experience, boys are so strongly attracted to electronics, to the point where they can lose touch with the world, I feel that part of my job is controlling the amount of time spent gaming. I love nerds (I married one), but am trying to raise well rounded, three-dimensional people, not misfits with no social skills who can only relate to other machines.
Sacha has been walking around the house all week carrying his gaming system like a security blanket. If he's been quiet and out of sight for a period of time, I can now be assured that he is communing with his game. That, and he's most likely pooped.
One day this week, after we got home from walking Sarah and Gabriel to school, Sacha asked, as is his usual habit upon stepping foot in the house (if not sooner) if he could watch TV. Except, he was holding the Leapster at the the time. (We'd already had a heated discussion prior to leaving for school because he wanted to take the Leapster with him in the stroller.)
Once we were home, I told him he would have to make a choice; he could play with the Leapster or watch TV, but not both. He chose television, although sure enough, not ten minutes later, I heard the distinctive beeping of the Leapster while he was watching TV. I went into the den to check on him, and was not surprised to find him sitting inches from the television, naked from the waist down, playing with hispenis Leapster.
This seems like willful cultivation of an attention deficit disorder, and as such, feels too neglectful to me. So I know that soon I'm going to have to set some limits. But, because he is in the throes of a new crush, I've let it go for the time being.
Since he is a child who responds sobeautifully
This week, Sacha found an old Leapster in the bottom of the toy chest in his room. He's not entirely new to this phenomenon, as he's been shadowing Gabriel as he plays Wii for some time now. Sacha holds a broken Wii remote and waves it around as Gabriel plays, and explains to anyone who will listen, “I PLAYING BIDEO GAMES!”
But nonetheless, when he discovered the Leapster, some previously dormant boy circuit was activated, and now he has most certainly discovered THE POWER OF GAMING. At this point I can't be certain if he's actually playing, because I can't be bothered to watch that closely. But he believes he is playing, which is all that really matters.
As far as electronics are concerned, I make no distinction between television, computer, and gaming. It's all the same, and don't try to tell me that it has educational value. It has vegetative value, which can be valuable in and of itself. It seems especially effective at putting boys in a state of flow, which is a beautiful thing, and something I sorely miss myself, having only rarely experienced it since becoming a mother.
But since in my experience, boys are so strongly attracted to electronics, to the point where they can lose touch with the world, I feel that part of my job is controlling the amount of time spent gaming. I love nerds (I married one), but am trying to raise well rounded, three-dimensional people, not misfits with no social skills who can only relate to other machines.
Sacha has been walking around the house all week carrying his gaming system like a security blanket. If he's been quiet and out of sight for a period of time, I can now be assured that he is communing with his game. That, and he's most likely pooped.
One day this week, after we got home from walking Sarah and Gabriel to school, Sacha asked, as is his usual habit upon stepping foot in the house (if not sooner) if he could watch TV. Except, he was holding the Leapster at the the time. (We'd already had a heated discussion prior to leaving for school because he wanted to take the Leapster with him in the stroller.)
Once we were home, I told him he would have to make a choice; he could play with the Leapster or watch TV, but not both. He chose television, although sure enough, not ten minutes later, I heard the distinctive beeping of the Leapster while he was watching TV. I went into the den to check on him, and was not surprised to find him sitting inches from the television, naked from the waist down, playing with his
This seems like willful cultivation of an attention deficit disorder, and as such, feels too neglectful to me. So I know that soon I'm going to have to set some limits. But, because he is in the throes of a new crush, I've let it go for the time being.
Since he is a child who responds so
10 June 2009
Skirt chaser
If you are the parent of a boy, you have no doubt noticed that they spend a good deal of time with their hands in their pants.
When I was pregnant with Sacha, at my 20-week sonogram, after the technician finished, the doctor came in to take a look at the contents of my belly. As he moved the paddle around, he said, "Now, I don't know if you want to know the sex of this child, and even if you did, I couldn't say for certain at this moment, but based on where the hands are, I'd say you are carrying a boy."
"Really? It starts this early?" David and I asked, incredulously.
"Yes," the doctor nodded, "It seems to be biologically determined; even in utero, boys love to play with themselves."
Second to exploring their own genitalia, my sons, as toddlers, seemed to try their darndest to explore mine. Their mission was two-fold. First there is the noble quest to re-enter the birth canal, head first. (An impossible mission, but these intrepid explorers are undeterred!) Then, there is the time spent batting their hands away from my vajango. This seems especially alluring in warm weather, when my wardrobe turns primarily to skirts and dresses. (Husbands, of young children, this is in part why your wives are sometimes not in the mood; while you are earning the bacon, we are subject to heavy petting.)
Gabriel thankfully, is well past this stage, but Sacha, at three, is in his prime. I think it has something to do with the nexus between height (right about the pubis), Y chromosome and utter lack of socialization.
One warm day recently, I was at Whole Foods with my kids. As we wandered through the cheeses Sacha alternated between reaching for my hand and up my skirt. At one point, he wandered slightly far afield of me. I heard a woman call out, "Ooh," and looked up to find another mother gently batting my son's hands away from her skirt.
"I'm so sorry!" I said, mortified by Sacha's transgression.
It was a good thing she had a sense of humor, and a child around the same age; she took it in stride, and we laughed: boys!
But now, I can't wait until Sacha starts dating, because I look forward to regaling his paramours with tales of his earliest sexual escapades. I will mortify him, and his dates, by telling the story of the time he tried to finger fuck someone else's mother in the supermarket.
That ought to keep them abstinent for a while.
When I was pregnant with Sacha, at my 20-week sonogram, after the technician finished, the doctor came in to take a look at the contents of my belly. As he moved the paddle around, he said, "Now, I don't know if you want to know the sex of this child, and even if you did, I couldn't say for certain at this moment, but based on where the hands are, I'd say you are carrying a boy."
"Really? It starts this early?" David and I asked, incredulously.
"Yes," the doctor nodded, "It seems to be biologically determined; even in utero, boys love to play with themselves."
Second to exploring their own genitalia, my sons, as toddlers, seemed to try their darndest to explore mine. Their mission was two-fold. First there is the noble quest to re-enter the birth canal, head first. (An impossible mission, but these intrepid explorers are undeterred!) Then, there is the time spent batting their hands away from my vajango. This seems especially alluring in warm weather, when my wardrobe turns primarily to skirts and dresses. (Husbands, of young children, this is in part why your wives are sometimes not in the mood; while you are earning the bacon, we are subject to heavy petting.)
Gabriel thankfully, is well past this stage, but Sacha, at three, is in his prime. I think it has something to do with the nexus between height (right about the pubis), Y chromosome and utter lack of socialization.
One warm day recently, I was at Whole Foods with my kids. As we wandered through the cheeses Sacha alternated between reaching for my hand and up my skirt. At one point, he wandered slightly far afield of me. I heard a woman call out, "Ooh," and looked up to find another mother gently batting my son's hands away from her skirt.
"I'm so sorry!" I said, mortified by Sacha's transgression.
It was a good thing she had a sense of humor, and a child around the same age; she took it in stride, and we laughed: boys!
But now, I can't wait until Sacha starts dating, because I look forward to regaling his paramours with tales of his earliest sexual escapades. I will mortify him, and his dates, by telling the story of the time he tried to finger fuck someone else's mother in the supermarket.
That ought to keep them abstinent for a while.
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