Sorry I’ve been absent for so many days. Just over here imagining the moments ahead….and oh, the moments we’ve had!
Apparently third grade is a grade of projects done in the home. With no further adieu, I bring you the glorious, the spectacular,
BUTTER PAT EYE PIG!
This project is designed to teach proper placement of the continents which renders unfortunate Antarctica as a blue pig scrotum.
Edward told me about this project just as we were going to bed the night before it was due, so he hastily colored the continents and placed them in their respective spots on this pig friend.
Does anyone else find the eyes somewhat creepy? Do you find his smile authentic, or is something far more sinister going on here?
(Mrs. Bear might even find him a tad zombified.)
So the rest of the story finds E running out the door the next morning, gluten-free bagel in hand, casually dripping a swathe of butter right onto the pig’s eye since the all-important project was left in the middle of the kitchen floor. Edward casually wipes off the butter, scoops up the pig, who now boasts a rather rheumy, glowing eye, and runs off to school.
Imagine my horror upon opening his backpack later that afternoon to find the pig crammed inside!
“I did not put him in there! I promise I turned him in!!” a frightened Edward screams.
“Look at his eyes,” Sue chants, “Just look at those eyes!”
At this point, I’m rather miffed. I do not like to be part of continent pig projects period, much less at 8:45 at night only to have them not turned in. Still, Edward swears he has no knowledge of how the pig got back in his backpack.
And I believe him.
I believe we are into week three with our medication trial for Edward, and I had to quote verbatim from the marketing materials for the title of this post! My husband and I have had so much fun mocking the pamphlets and checklists provided by this pharmaceutical company. I’ve never seen such complicated marketing packets and reminder stickers–all in soothing beach-tone colors of blue and light tan.
The medication promises “manageable mornings,” “assignments accomplished,” and “drama-free dinnertime.” The materials encourage us to “notice the little changes, write them down and celebrate the improvements.” There are photographs of a little boy enjoying board games with his sister while his parents smile adoringly. He smiles ingratiatingly at his mother as she prepares his breakfast, his backpack packed and jacket already on–clearly ready for a productive day at school.
We’ve been running around the house for the past three weeks occasionally lapsing into a faux reverie where we claim to be “imagining the moments ahead” when Edward will not interrupt me while I’m talking with a doctor to tell me that hedgehogs are extremely prone to cancer, or when he will actually remember all of his homework materials so I do not have to bribe a custodian to allow me entrance into the school to retrieve them every other day.
All sarcasm aside, we have seen a certain amount of calming in hyperactivity with the use of a very small dose of this medication. Specifically where we used to witness loud, screaming tantrums when the soccer team lost, we now see quiet sobbing. Where once we experienced shrieking and wailing at the threat of turning off a video game, we might see a fist pounded quietly into the carpet and a wry face, but otherwise a rather mild reaction.
It reminds me fondly of a Temple Grandin talk I went to last Spring where she spoke about gifted software developers with Aspergers who would quietly retreat to their cubicle when upset or overwhelmed. Her point was that they had learned how to manage their emotions in a socially appropriate way. I suppose I see this medication helping Edward do just that, and my hope is that this new reaction to adversity will become more ingrained for him and therefore a part of his coping skills.
In the meantime, I will continue my quiet reveries…