Middle grade books for elementary school kids

My sons are seven and nine, with overactive imaginations and slapstick humor like kids their age seem wired to have. As much as they enjoy living vicariously the rough days of a wimpy middle-schooler, they are more than ready to embark on wild, fantastical adventures, be it on the Hogwarts Express or through a portal to Narnia. Quick trips in a magic tree house still entertain my younger son, but the older one needs more volumes in a story--as long as there isn't much kissing. Even though he reads above grade level, he is as interested in relationships as James Bond.

Of the many books people have pitched my older son's way, Rick Riordan's novels always score. And not just due to my son sharing Percy Jackson's dyslexia. Be it Greek or Egyptian, Riordan's take on gods among earthlings mingles enough reality into his stories for suspension of disbelief, while keeping the peril fantastical enough not to give nightmares. That sense of safety in reality is essential for my son. The later Harry Potter books do not scare him, but the kidnapping during Halloween in the opening of the Five Kingdoms series did. He found it was a lot easier to empathize with kids that get into adventurous trouble because they are supernatural than because they did something stupid. Whether he was conscious that the kids' behavior in Sky Raiders was of the kind that fuels helicopter parenting, I'm not certain. But after reading three chapters aloud together, we had to set the book aside.

The fidgeting is the first sign of discomfort, which can develop into cartwheels or brash declarations of "I'm too tired" from a kid who has choosen not to go to sleep voluntarily since he was old enough to open his eyes. My counter-tactics alternate between stopping to discuss the issue, sending him to bed, and plowing on through Harry's jitters whenever he tried to talk to Cho. Even after watching the movie, my son was not prepared for the crush-related angst of the Order of the Phoenix. On the other hand, Harry kissing Ginny in the Half-Blood Prince was, as for the boy at the end of The Princess Bride, not a problem.

Maybe my kids will feel the universe shift when they meet a new classmate in forth grade, or watch their crush kiss their frenemy from a rooftop balcony when they are thirteen. For now, I am happy that they still want to read aloud with me, even if what we end up discussing is toilet papyrus and Egyptians walking sideways. Rick Riordan, thank you for the connection.

And then I heard crack...

I am sure many, if not all, working mothers have these moments. The ones where you are trying to do everything. The days you forget that supermom does not exist. In this particular case, I was trying to hold up the fort so that Dada could get off to work early. He had a huge multicollaborator multinational grant due and labor day weekend was coming up - 3 days without daycare...

So there I was going through the motions of getting the kids to daycare and myself to work, while cleaning up after breakfast and starting laundry. I got the kids downstairs and was putting on their shoes when I noticed I had socks for the wrong boy and was missing a sippy cup. So I tell them I will be right back, run up the stairs, gather what I am missing, and run back - all before the little one can get to the second steps. That is when I panicked - and supermom should never panic.

Baby brother can climb the whole staircase, but he gets so excited that he tends to stand up and say "yay" after every step - potentially falling backwards. Hence, I rushed to get around big brother, who was trying to keep little brother sitting, so I could be behind the little one if he tipped backwards. In my rush I jumped over the last step and heard a crack when my foot hit the tile floor. Fortunately, I did not panic then.

I sat down. I took a deep breath. The kids sat with me. I was asked "Are you OK Mamãe"? I took a deep breath. I got their shoes on. Big brother asked if he could "kiss and make it better". Its healing powers are amazing... I was up - with a bit of pain, but it was bearable. A 2 on the 1-10 scale could be walked on. The day could go on. I took the kids to daycare, got gas for the car, and went to work. Walking into the lab was when sanity started to return - maybe ice would help. By lunchtime I was still icing my foot when Dada called. I declined a lunch outing due to my episode that morning and heard reason shouted in my ear: I heard a crack!

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. I called my mom to take me to the emergency clinic after Dada threatened to do it himself. I got x-rays, a dorsal fracture, a temporary splint, crutches, and appointment with an orthopedist for the next day*. The next day I got one of those "aircast" boots after another set of x-rays**, with instructions to avoid weight bearing on that foot at all costs. Hence, I was stuck at home for the long holiday weekend -and the following weeks - with Dada being superdad, superhusband and superscientist, and lots of help from my parents who even took the kids out of town for an entire day.

After spending the first week with my foot up or walking on crutches, I really hope the healing process will not take very long. And there is just so much work I can do from home, especially now that I finished the 1,000 Blast searches for our phylogeny paper. The doctor did mention I could be in a walking cast after 2 weeks, so I am keeping my fingers crossed. And I can hardly wait for Dada to get back. Did I mention that he had a conference this week too? I am very glad my parents are in town to help with the kids! This suppermommy is out of commission for a few weeks...



* my insurance is "great" so I needed 2 doctor visits to immobilize.
** didn't I say I had great insurance?

The Unintentional Propagation of Gender Bias

It all started with pink shoes - sparkly pink sneakers to be exact. My oldest son asked to buy shoes at a store, instead of them coming in the mail. At the store, I made an off-hand comment about pink being a girl color and now I am bombarded daily with questions on the gender of every color and everything else. Having a 3 year old tell me I cannot do something because I am a girl would be less offensive if he was not my own son. Now I have to dig myself out of this hole...

I have nothing against men wearing pink - or skirts - or whatever else they feel like wearing. But my son is 3, and the kids at daycare are merciless. I would rather he decided to fight the stigma when he is mature enough not to fall for the teasing. Nowadays he seems to fall apart when someone calls him a baby...

Moreover, I do not think I am the only one pointing out differences between boys and girls. He is probably hearing things at school too. Unfortunately it is not just which line to get in to use the potty... Some days he comes home with statements such as "girls like princesses and boys like action figures". Then Dada jumps up and says that boys like princesses too - they marry them. My reply is that I like action figures too - Aquaman was always my favorite. My son looks puzzled - is it because he is trying to comprehend that boys and girls can like the same things or is he trying to figure out who Aquaman is?

But how can we teach children about gender without pointing out some differences? I worry that making gender distinctions will unintentionally propagate gender discrimination - biases that I feel affronted by in my adult life. The basics are easy: Dada is a boy, Mama is a girl. Only mommies have babies in their bellies. The rest seems like only personal preferences. Mama can use Dada's tools when she needs to, including the sharp saw - and the drill. She just cannot pee standing up...

The mutual torture of weaning

By the beginning of April, nursing was limited to nights & weekends, and Baby was drinking well from the cup... bottles abandoned months ago. The freezer provisions allowed Mom to stop pumping at work. Even once a day was detracting from her productivity. Weekends were reduced to twice, then once during the day. All was going smoothly, we hit the one year mark formula-free. The transition to cow's milk was gradual: 20%, 50%, 100%... one week at a time. Now if we could only stop the waking up twice in the middle of the night...

The books & doctors say take out a feeding at a time, which worked well with Baby #1. However, this is a whole other person, with his own say in the matter. And he screams! The whole household is up through the night, exhaustion sets in. Instead of more sleep we are getting less. Tiredness will play tricks with your mind, the alarm clock displays random numbers. Mom gives in at the wrong time, the schedule is off. Dad, sleepwalking, will hand over Baby to a sleeping Mom, which she will notice attached to her breast hours later. Madness is looming in the horizon, so we return to the normal schedule before another attempt. Frustration is counter-productive...

Sleeping in for two days does wonders for your mind. Mom is sane again, regrouped, and ready for the next attempt. She tries the cup, with water or milk. She tries holding, cuddling, singing. She will not sleep through the night, but she will not give in... Then, out of the blue, Baby sleeps the whole night through. A blessing in disguise, engorgement sets in and the temptation to nurse in the morning is too enticing... resistance is futile. We try again the next night, the cup, the rocking... Two nights, three... not much sleep but the cup is now accepted. Baby gives in, resigned. A hug & a kiss, turn over and back to sleep...

Now we are down to the end-of-the-day feeding, but at least no nursing to sleep. The pleading eyes, the sad puppy expression... mercifully abandoned as pressure tactics. The screaming has mostly dwindled to Baby making sure his complaints are noted in the logs. Then he turns over and falls asleep...

The paranoia of motherhood

I always thought I was a rational person, at least most of the time. However, I came to appreciate the fact that motherhood has made me quite fearful and paranoid with respect to the well being of my kids. I thought I could blame my early symptoms on the pregnancy hormone changes, but unlike my weight they have not receded much even after the "9 months up, 9 months down" period.

It all started with the fear of miscarriage in the first trimester, the never ending expectation of an unexpected bleeding. In my case, I did actually miscarry my first pregnancy, but it was discovered with a sonogram at 10 weeks. Hence my anxiety during my subsequent pregnancy over the first ultrasound appointment. As uneventful as my first pregnancy was, I was still in a state of constant dread of something going wrong. The second pregnancy was more difficult, and the anxiety was exacerbated. Spotting, possibility of twins, early contractions and pre-term labor scares... but my imagination was even more fertile than real life itself.

Then came the fear of giving birth and the well being of the child. The sleepless nights at the hospital under extensive medication for my cesarean made me paranoid about whether he was eating enough or breathing at all times. I even had my husband wake up the baby because I was worried he was sleeping too long. Hearing for his breath became an obsession from day one, and a cause of many sleepless nights through the first year. That is how I discovered my otosclerosis problem, I could hear or not his breathing depending on what ear I had on the pillow. Only afterward did it occur to me that I could not always hear the rain either...

As the first year of my second child comes to a close, the paranoia about autism creeps in once again, regardless of the milestones the baby has accomplished ahead of the curve... the lingering feeling that something might go wrong is always there and so I worry. I know there are many more years ahead and many more fears and paranoia... grade school, the teenage years, independence. Most of the issues are things I cannot control, all I can do is prepare my children for what they might encounter in life. And hopefully without passing on my worries to them, at least not in a debilitating way.

When my first child was born my brother asked my grandfather, who is in his mid nineties, whether now that his kids have grandchildren does he worry less about them. The question was pondered on for less than a minute before he shook his head and said no. I hope I have as many years to worry about my children...