Little Doll Dishes

OK, I'll make it snappy and complete last week's story...  

Yes, I was the same Ms. Grothe whose son had bitten into a light bulb last Sunday night and had gone to the emergency room to be monitored in case he had swallowed glass.  And, yes, my husband was currently screaming from the agonizing burning sensations inside his head because he had just snorted a jalepeno seed.  But before the nurse could get a doctor's visit arranged, the jalepeno seed washed away in the streams of water that continued to pour from Randy's eyes and nostrils.  He stopped jumping and screaming and collapsed into exhaustion. 

No lasting ill effects...end of story.

So tonight my question is... 

Why do children have to grow up so fast?  Why can't we let them enjoy being children without being burdened with too much adult information?

Elena's 6th grade teacher wanted her to do a report on Auschwitz.  Auschwitz!  She was only 11 years old.  I had already proven my smother mother credentials that year by protesting the showing of  "Salaam, Bombay!".  The film featured orphaned and homeless children surviving amidst the crime, child prostitution, and violence on the streets of Bombay.  When I objected, the teacher informed me that she was just trying to prepare the students for middle school and high school, and that I needed to let Elena grow up.

This growing up madness started way too early for my liking; it began when Elena first started nursery school at the age of 2. She was immediately thrust amongst more progressive 2-year olds with more progressive parents.

When Elena was 2, I became pregnant with Jackson and I explained to her that there was a baby in my tummy.  She was perfectly delighted with this and proudly went off to nursery school to announce the blessed event to all her buddies.  Of course,  she was immediately shot down and shamed by a know-it-all 2 year old in her class. Little Daniel (whose mother was also pregnant at the time) informed Elena that the baby was not in my tummy, "Your Mommy didn't swallow it!",  he mocked. She came home and informed me that the baby was in my uterus (which she pronounced, utewus)."The baby is in your utewus, Mommy, not your tummy", almost rolling her eyes at my naivete.

Later that year, there was the night when she was bathing with her rubber ducky and sweetly asked me,  "Mommy, do I have china?"  

"No", I explained, "You have little doll dishes."

"I don't have china?", she persisted. 

I assured her that she had plenty of little doll dishes.

"Do you have china?", she asked.

I explained that I had my Grandmother's china and that someday it might be hers, but that right now she had plenty of little doll dishes all her own.

As she got out of the bath and I was wrapping her with a towel, she summed it all up for me.... "Jake says that boys have a penis and girls have china."

Nacho Night

OK, time for a funny story - 

This one hearkens back to circa 1983.  To set the stage, I was 31, Randy 32, Elena 5, and Jackson 2. It was back when our health insurance first became a PPO and we didn't have direct access to any providers.  You had to call an 800 number and plead your case with a triage nurse before you could get seen by anyone.

So, one night we were in the kitchen and Randy was standing at the cutting board slicing jalepenos for nachos when, suddenly and inexplicably, he started screaming and jumping up and down.  I rushed to him and found water pouring out of his eyes and nose as he was screaming about somehow getting a piece of jalepeno stuck up his nose.  As I recall, I started screaming and jumping up and down in front of him in an empathetic, but not particularly helpful gesture.  Realizing that this was an actual emergency, I ran to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.  Not knowing exactly what I was looking for,  I rushed back to the kitchen holding some tweezers.  

Randy, still screaming and jumping up and down, added bellowing "NO!" repeatedly and emphatically to his repertoire.  I decided we clearly needed professional medical assistance and ran to retrieve that insurance card with the promising 800 number to call in an emergency.  Before calling, I tried to take a history so I could present a compelling case that we needed immediate medical assistance. 

I dialed the 800 number, spelled my name several times, and recited various identifying numbers while Randy continued hollering and jumping behind me.  I explained as calmly and coherently as I could that my husband had inadvertently snorted a piece of jalepeno, perhaps a seed, and it seemed to be lodged in his sinus behind his left eye.  He had been making nachos and then sneezed and now he was in a real crisis. 

She put me on hold.  When she returned she said, "Ms. Grothe (but she pronounced it GROWTH), are you the same person whose son bit into a light bulb on Sunday?" 

To be continued....