Oz, Blacky Rogers, Ruby, Mr. Peek Peek (pronounced Peck Peck), Easter, and Magnet Horseshoe Crab have left. (Note: those were their foster names, surely their real names are more dignified).
The girl sobbed and wholeheartedly declared that she now wants a pet chicken -- instead of a dog. The boy offered a prayer on their departure: he called upon the powers that be to grant them long and happy lives.
I have to admit, I really liked them, too. When The Girl walked by our now empty powder room, and with trembling lips declared that she wouldn't be able to happily use that bathroom again, I had to silently agree that the bathroom seemed to have lost its purpose. When The Dad returned from taking them home he mentioned how quiet it was in our apartment. In short, it was a good run. It's interesting how quickly a living thing (or six living things) can become a part of the family. Yesterday when we were at the store trying to find something for lunch The Boy suggested a chicken product. The Girl gasped and said, "Not in front of the chicks!"
Our friends have graciously invited us up to their home in the country when it gets warmer, so we can see how our little buddies turn out. I'm envisioning a reunion similar to Christian the Lion... but with poultry running to embrace us (we will be prepared with our examination gloves and medical masks).
As if the impending farewell wasn't enough blarg in one day, the kids also failed a test. Our pediatrician recommended that we go to an allergist up at Columbia and have the children do penicillin challenge tests to see if they really are allergic. Up we trundled to 165th by 9am -- after being stressed for the two months before that one or the other would wake up with a stuffy nose (no mucus or anything else allowed on test day -- we already had to cancel once because The Boy was in the throes of daily nose bleeds). The first part was just a skin scratch test. She said that less than 5% test positive on that one, that it was almost always the second part of the test (the needles under the skin) when the reaction would take place. Well, we were easy customers. Both kiddos were in that skinny 5% and squarely tested allergic. The good news was that we didn't have to spend another couple of hours there, and they didn't have to have ten different bubbles of medicine placed under their skin with long, glinting needles. Obviously, the sucky news is that they are both, indeed, allergic to penicillin.
Yesterday I snatched some time to meet a friend for scones and tea, and I felt grateful that I did. She has teenagers that are wonderful, so she kind of has that perfect-looking life. But, as she sagely said, it just takes one night of a child being sick to remind you of how quickly things can change. And she candidly shared some challenges that her family has had. At one point she said something like: everybody has a thing... some people have lots of things... we just keep working with what we have to work with.
Taking the subway home from the hospital with my two flunkies, I was keeping the disappointment at bay by kind of musing on this idea of everybody having things. A couple of stops down the line a young woman with profound physical/mental limitations, and her caregiver, boarded our train car. I gave her my seat and stood up in front of my kids and held onto the bar -- thus placing me squarely in front of her as well. Mostly she was rocking back and forth and shouting, but sometimes the conversation would become more muted. She kept saying, "I am." And her caregiver consistently kept asking her to continue ("I am what?"). The young woman would shake her head -- no, the caregiver wasn't understanding -- "I am." The caregiver would again encourage her to complete the sentence. This went on for a while. Standing as I was, facing her, I watched her earnestness and the way she was pointing to herself, and thought: she is making a complete statement. I am. She is. We are. Everybody has some thing, but that isn't our essence. Our essence is more eternal than the limitations of our bodies or brains. We are. We are here. We are here for a purpose.
Big Sister sent us this link today (The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore), and it so fit in with the idea of fulfilling the measure of our creation -- even (sometimes because of?) when we are given burdens to endure. Even if it hadn't "fit in" with what was on my mind, it's absolutely amazing and I'm so glad that she shared it.
We have two short chapters left of To Kill a Mockingbird. Boo has carried home Jem. Scout is about to stand on the Radley front porch and consider the value of Boo's life. She will walk home in the rain. Then Atticus will go into Jem's room, and watch over his badly injured son. "Atticus would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning."
My kids will wake up in the morning. Officially allergic to penicillin. Asthmatic. With highly allergic skin. Math-challenged. Still not a self-starter. Overly-sensitive. Obnoxious. Obsessive. Smart-alec. Whatever they wake up as, or with, I will be here. Their dad will be here. Their aunts, their uncles, their grandparents, their friends, their neighbors. And having now sent their feathered darlings out into the world with hopes for happiness, I hope they better understand how much they are loved, and how much we want for them to grow up fulfilled and well.
I will also have Peeps to help soften any lingering sadness.
