Murphy's Law, Full Throttle

Man, that Murphy is a bastard!

After only one day of Raphaela's summer camp, where she played with her closer friends from Gan and thoroughly enjoyed herself;  my daughter wakes up with a fever this morning.  Some less considerate parents might have drugged their child and sent them along to camp in any case, but I do not believe that Raphaela should spread around whatever virus she may be fighting at the moment.

So I desperately called our baby sitter, because today is one of my busiest work days at the clinic this week, and asked her to watch Raphaela, even though she may have made other plans.  Thank G-d the sitter agreed, and I can keep Raphaela home for one day, with the hopes that tomorrow we return to our regularly scheduled program.

Truth be told, I should have known this was coming.  Raphaela has been crawling into bed with me for the past few nights, one of her tell-tale signs that an illness has invaded.  Denial is a dangerous creature.

Lost Impact

Raphaela was playing rough and kicking me, and I told that she does not kick Mommy, and that she will get a Time Out.  She said, "OK," and then walked herself to her room, closed the door and played in there for about a half hour.

Raphaela spilled about 50 very small and inconvenient beads all over the floor in the house, and I told her that she needed to help me clean it up, or else I would put them away myself and they would not reappear for a very long time.  She said, "OK," and didn't seem to be at all phased when I stuck it in the highest shelf of the highest closet.

I wish I knew what I was doing wrong here.  I have followed the guidance of my parenting consultant: I speak in a firm voice, I make eye contact and follow through consistently on my warning. Raphaela has no reason to think that I don't mean what I say, both in words and in actions.

There is a theory that the generation of children born after 1988 are "Indigo" kids, and that they have within their programming a completely different approach to Life, the Universe and Everything.  (Thanks, Douglas Adams...)  According to this theory, the standard rules and systems of child rearing don't work, and parents must adjust to a new reality.  These little humans are meant to be the peace makers, to fix the collosal problems we have created for ourselves and the planet.

Or maybe I am having a less than stellar day as a mother.

I admit it, I am a Cryer.  I react with tears even at the most corny commercial in which two lovers unite, or a father holds his baby.  I have been on the verge of crying watching the Olympics, when an American lip syncs the National Anthem as he or she receives their gold medal.

But this made sad and angry, the story I heard in the morning news about South Sudanese migrant workers here in Israel, who have begged Israeli social services to take their children, because they cannot properly feed and house their family.  The parents making these requests cannot work in Israel on a legal basis, and say that they are afraid to be seen on the streets, lest they be deported.

They want their children to be safe, safe from poverty and starvation, and safe from the violence in their home country, if they are forced to return to Africa.

I am not a politician, and I am not a millionaire;  I don't know how to solve the illegal immigration problem in Israel, the United States or anywhere on the planet.  But the idea of a parent having to give away their child, to be raised by the welfare system just to have enough to eat, that is too much.

Off Switch

On the first morning that we did not have to rush to be out of the house to get to Gan, Raphaela still woke up before six am; I know children don't come with an individual instruction manual, but wouldn't it be nice to reset their internal clock with the flip of a switch?

Thank goodness for our most beloved baby sitter, who will keep Raphaela busy during the day while I work, and I am going to take advantage of the extra help and go to the supermarket myself, without a toddler in tow.  Now that's luxury...

Bob the Builder

Raphaela recently discovered the television programs, Bob the Builder and Thomas and Friends, and we watch it every day for all of its ten minutes before bath time.  I have several observations as an adult and a parent as to its so-called educational value, as well of some questions:

One, are Bob and Wendy dating?  Is Bob turned on by the fact that Wendy has as much skill in  construction, or does he find it threatening as a man?

What is the general phenomenon of talking vehicles, such as the trucks in Bob the Builder or the trains in Thomas and Friends?  As an adult, I find it odd and at times scary, especially the expressions on the face of the trains in the Thomas and Friends.  (I am impressed, however, that they convinced Ringo Starr to narrate.)  Perhaps the reason that every show features a crash or injury due to negligence is because trains are not supposed to talk unless they are possessed a la Stephen King, and cement mixers with ADD are not meant to be left alone to finish the job.

What kind of message does Bob the Builder send to children with the scarecrow character Spud?  This individual in the show, in every show, plays pranks, disobeys instructions, refuses to do his job and holds back the group with his lack of consideration and carelessness.  Instead of teaching him, it becomes a joke, and it tells children that you can misbehave and not experience the consequences of your actions.  Every show has Spud saying, "Sorry Bob, I won't do it again."  And lo and behold, he has forgotten his promise by the next show.

Spud is like Gilligan, vote him off the island and their little world will be a better place.

Random note to the politically astute, Barack Obama poached his campaign from Bob.  "Yes We Can!" is a trademark of Bob the Builder, and I wonder if the President had any qualms about stealing from a children's show.

Yes, both Bob the Builder and Thomas teach teamwork and some version of socialization and morality, but I do feel the need to watch it with Raphaela, and make sure that the better lessons are understood and stated clearly.

Quite frankly, I would rather introduce Raphaela to classic Star Trek episodes, we would both enjoy it more.

Bonus Time

All year, I have taken Raphaela out of Gan early on Sundays and Thursdays, because I control my own clinic schedule, and because I believe that she is still young enough to need quality time with her mother.  When Raphaela becomes a teenager, it may be another story, she may find me old fashioned and embarrassing, and I want to take advantage of the time I have. 

The End of the Year Party took place this past Friday, and given the recent events at Gan, I felt uncomfortable as the Head Nursery Teacher went from parent to parent.  She told each child how much she loved them and how much they had grown in the past two years.  She ignored my child, and though Raphaela did not know the difference, I found it petty and vindictive. 

No matter, it's Sunday and just as I was about to leave the house after work, one of the other teachers called with a spectacular offer:  since only three days remain until the end of the school year, and since there is a birthday party scheduled for the afternoon, she suggested that Raphaela stay the full day and not miss the festivities.

Amazing how the offer of a few extra hours during the day changed my entire mood.  I thought, "Now I can have lunch, catch up on some housework, and watch the Olympics.  Maybe even take a nap..."

Of course as soon as the nap idea crossed my mind, a patient called with a Chiropractic emergency, and I told him that I happened to have some available time this afternoon.

I love my daughter, and I want to watch her grow, but I am realizing more and more the value of personal activities for myself, a brief period each day where I reconnect to me.  Not Raphaela's mother and not some one's daughter or sister or doctor, just me.

Raphaela decided that today warranted her Winter scarf, rather than her Summer hat.  So off we went to Shabbat lunch, Raphaela in her cotton dress and sandals...and scarf, in the heat of Jerusalem. 

There was no convincing her otherwise, and as I have been told often, you have to pick your battles.