The Inventor

"Elan!"
"What?"
"You okay?"
"Yeah!"
"Come hang out in here with me."
"I can't! I'm busy."
"With what?"
"Making a Fancy New Ball!"

Um.

"Okay!"
"I'll come when I'm finished!"

It's Saturday morning and I'm in PJs on the couch, gazing at the backyard and reading Jonathan Safran Foer's second novel, "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close." Foer is truly one of the (maybe few) geniuses of our generation, and at only 50 or so pages in, I'm enjoying the book immensely. Y took Ariel to shul, and Elan is in his room, suspiciously quiet.

But apparently, he's just busy making a Fancy New Ball. I miss his company - when my children are calm, I'm content just to have them in the same room as me sometimes. To study them when they're completely unaware of it. But I also both understand and respect the need to finish the creative process in solitude.

The creative process has been a big part of Elan's life this past month. My father got Elan a Magna-Doodle when he was three, but only recently has he come to really enjoy it. Lately, Elan's been obsessed with drawing, and while I have no idea how he compares to other kids his age, I'm very impressed with what seems to be his natural ability. He now understands that his capabilities are as limitless as his imagination, and spends hours thinking up different animals and mythical creatures and then perfecting their rudimentary likenesses on paper or Doodle. And then, undoubtedly for the acclaim, he shows them to me:

"Can you BELIIIIIEVE I did this?"

"Wow. It's...It's...What is it?"
"A Fiery-Red Combustible Dragon!"
"Well. Clearly."
"See, here's his spikes, here's the fire he's breathing..."
"I do see. That's terrific, Elan. How'd you do it?"
"I just - imagined it in my head, what it would look like, and somehow I know-ded how to make it with my hands!"
"Really great."
"Aren't I an amazing artist?"

Once, Ariel watched over his shoulder as Elan drew what was (quite obviously) a Nickel-Backed Spotted French Tortoise, and murmured with admiration, "You're a really good artist, Elan."

And, as we had just started a rewards chart the night before, Elan spun around to face me and asked, "Should he get a star for that?"

Most creative people live for praise. Why should he be any different?

Today, Elan finally comes into the family room where I am firmly planted, and stands with a very suspenseful look on his face, hands behind his back.

"Are. You. Ready..." he begins, full of drama. "To see my Fancy New Ball? What I created?"

"I'm ready," I reply, not really sure that I am. Elan's "esperiments" often involve live insects.

"Ta-DA!" He whips his hands out from behind his back to reveal a bouncing ball, soft with molding clay, resembling a globe.

"See, I took an ordinary ball," he explains. "And I carefully covered it with colorful clay, and now it's Fancy. And New. And you know how this ball makes noise when I bounce it and you hate that noise all the time? Well, the clay on top makes it not so loud!"

An esperiment that muffles an annoying noise? I'm listening.

I put down the book. We sit on the floor across the room from one another, legs apart, and roll the ball back and forth between us for twenty minutes, discussing both its Fanciness and its Newness. And life, in general. (Did you know Kevin can be really bossy?)

Finally, I sigh and stand up, stretching lazily. "I better set the table for lunch." We are having friends over in an hour and I haven't yet done a thing in preparation.

But he isn't finished.

"Have you seen my Abrea Tar Pits yet?" Elan asks, excited to have my full, undivided attention.
"No, I'm not sure I have. What's that?"
"Well, you know how one of my butterflies died-ed?"

We'd done one of these Discovery Store grow-kits, where you buy minuscule caterpillars and watch them, over a course of weeks, grow fat and furry, form cocoons and eventually emerge as butterflies. Elan had taken admirable care of them, carefully feeding them fresh flowers and orange slices to sip from, but one of the four still didn't make it. I never asked what he did with the corpse.

Now, I suddenly wondered.

"Yes?" I say cautiously.

"Well." Elan gleams with pride. "I made my own Abrea Tar Pits in the backyard, and I fossilized the butterfly. It's so cool, you just won't be able to handle it!"

Somehow, I believe that last part.

Hand in hand, we venture onto the patio. Elan points at a plastic, child-sized table and chair set we generally use for picnics. "See that chair?" I see it: It's caked with mud.

"That's my tar pits. The tar seals it off so it won't get wet when it rains."

(?!!)

"And here," he gestures with flourish, "is my dead butterfly!"

I wince, peering through slitted eyelids, bracing myself for something disgusting. But it is actually - pretty cool. Through the mounds of tightly-packed earth, the outline of a decorative wing is almost embossed. It does look like a fossil.

Pretty cool. And yes, a little gross. But still.

"When did you do this?" I ask, genuinely curious, as he gently runs a finger over the silouhette.

"The other day when Sarah [our babysitter] was here. I thought I told you about it. I guess I forgot. Isn't it cool?"

"It really is," I agree, although what I'm thinking is, YOU are so cool.

After all, we hadn't been to the La Brea Tar Pits since last summer, and the butterfly kit was a toy with an expiration date. We sure as hell get our money's worth with this crap.

"Are the rest of the butterflies doing okay?" I'm suddenly filled with maternal concern.

"Oh, I letted them all go when I saw this one had died-ed," he replies.

And I'm struck with the thought that teaching children life lessons is empowering and all, but it's so much better when they figure them out themselves.

No Bliss in Ignorance: Febrile Seizures.

This morning, I wrote a little hey-how-are-ya kinda post about how I have lots of funny stories to tell from the last few weeks.

Those are going to have to wait because, as it turned out, we had a pretty crappy day. And I guess I'm in the mood to purge-write, though that might also have something to do with it feeling a whole hour earlier than the clock claims.

Ariel gets sick a lot. Not seriously sick, thank G-d, but he does seem especially susceptible to every stinkin' virus/cold/allergy/virus/bout of croup/VIRUS that the air around him may have blown over from, say, Florida. Since he started school, he only gets about two weeks of health before he starts suffering from something or other again, though, I have to say, he handles it quite well. He's a trouper, and his zest for life - the life of a ROCK STAR - isn't easily broken.

He went to bed easily last night, willingly, and I should have known then and there that he was getting sick. Instead, I was proud - remembering how early he'd woken that morning, I figured he was finally getting in touch with bodily fatigue, something I associated with maturation.

Naturally, he had fever, and by midnight was calling me to his room. He was obviously hot, whining that his "forehead hurt," so I gave him some Tylenol and put him back to bed, a little sad for him, but not really concerned.

It was an up-and-down night, followed by more fever today, but nothing too high or worrisome. So when I put him down for an afternoon nap, I didn't think twice about leaving him with Y and Elan while I ran to do a quick errand. Y called me about an hour in to let me know Ariel had woken up and wanted me, so I started heading out of the mall, still browsing along the way.

A minute later, Y called back, saying, "I need you to come home now." And then: "Okay, don't panic - he's fine now, stay calm - but Ariel just had a seizure. The paramedics are on their way. He seems okay, but we're going to St. Joe's ER."

To which I said, simply, "What."

And then came the tears. And the running. It was 90 degrees outside and I wasn't well-hydrated, but I ran all the way to the car, cursing my dry mouth, and then I drove like hell. Behind the wheel, I went through all the requisite stages of self-blame for every leaving my child's side for a moment of his young life, negotiating verbally with G-d while leaning on my horn at every driver that had the audacity to stop at a red light.

I couldn't call Y for more information because I felt it was a waste of time. After all, he didn't know much more than I did, and it didn't seem wise to freak him out with my own freak-out. The details of what had happened seemed less crucial than the "He seems okay, meet us at the hospital" part, and I wanted him to concentrate fully on comforting our child. So I just drove, furious with the rest of the world for being oblivious to what was happening in my life just then.

Soon, my mother-in-law called to let me know that she was at our house, Y and Ariel had left for the hospital in the ambulance, Y's dad would watch Elan and she'd drive me to the ER as soon as I got back. She also told me that the paramedics had said not to worry. I hung up and called my dad, who, from the dance floor of a wedding in Chicago, reassured me that seizures associated with fever in a child Ariel's age weren't uncommon and generally harmless, no real indicator of any future problems. And that he'd leave his phone on.

What exactly did we do before cell phones?

When I got to the ER, a paramedic in the waiting room called me 'Mom' and kindly explained exactly what, in essence, my father had minutes earlier, but I couldn't wait for him to finish. I had one mission: find the hottest, shortest person in place and cover him with love.

The hottest, shortest little guy in the place was roasting in his father's lap at 103.5 degrees, barely lucid or strong enough to open his eyes, and yet - he lit up a little when he saw me. My Ariel, dipped in tomato sauce. I got him talking - murmuring, really - but a sympathetic nurse soon dosed him up with anti-pyretics, and for the next couple of hours we simply held him and watched him come to life. And, since he can't hold back for very long, in a short time, he was singing. We lay in the hospital bed together, me spinning some story about Dora the Explorer and her cousin Diego and a picnic and zebras with ketchup on their faces as I went along. He sang the score, and when his temp cooled to 101.5 and they detached his big toe from the heart monitor, I knew he was all right.

The point of me telling all of this over, however, isn't just to get it out of my system, because, frankly, the mental image of my two-year-old baby who will NOT BE CALLED A BABY seizing - his eyes rolling back into his head, his little body convulsing while his limbs went stiff (as Y described when I finally forced it out of him) - that might never leave my system. The nausea I felt once we got home might have been related to my low-on-water sprint from the Gap through Macy's to the car, but somehow I think it was more emotionally derived.

I'm making you all sick because I had no idea that seizures were a possible side-effect of a sudden spike or drop in body temperature in toddlers. I like to think I know more than your average Joe about medicine and illness, what with all the health professionals in the family, but this was news to me. And to Y, who, to his credit and my great relief, was an unbelievable source of calm and level-headedness through the ordeal, even as the sole witness to it.

His heart, however, hasn't yet stopped pounding.

When Ariel had gone to sleep, he had just over a 100-degree temperature. He had Tylenol in his system, and he was chilled, so I covered him with a heavy, fleece blanket, as per his request. I must emphasize that it was very hot outside, and the doctor claims he probably seized at around 104. The spike was probably sudden.

I've been doing my research, and they say febrile seizures like the one my son had are more or less harmless, are largely unrelated to epilepsy, and might or might not happen again after the first. We're supposed to be vigilant about treating Ariel's fevers to avoid rapid and dramatic changes in his body temperature, but that doesn't mean that people need or should over-do the Ibuprofen when their kids warm up. Actually, most of what I've read posits that febrile seizures only occur in 2-5% of the infant-toddler population, which, I guess, explains why nobody mentioned the possibility of them to us before.

But I do wish I'd known, that I'd heard of them in some faculty before today. Because those 15 minutes of absolute, breath-stealing, catastrophic fear just outside Gap Body? I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Ariel's sleeping in my room tonight. He and Y are both out cold now, and they look so much alike - Ariel a heavier-breathing, frequently-coughing miniature of the tall guy in the next bed. I suspect I might spend much of the hours to come just looking at him, and - at the risk of sounding painfully melodramatic - wouldn't be surprised if I found myself standing in Elan's room at 2 AM, watching him sleep as well. I might even check on the turtle.

I'm hesitant about passing on medical information, since I'm not a doctor, but if you have young children and are interested in learning more, here is a write-up from the Pediatric Bulletin on statistical findings about febrile seizures. I can't vouch for every number in there, but most of it seems to fit with everything else everyone else has told me today.

So it's been awhile, eh? I know, I know, it's pretty much my fault. I'm slowing down, not writing very often anymore. Is it because of my job? Of the hours? Well, yeah, thanks for asking. It just got to the point where I felt like I had this very successful juggling act going on but there were maybe ONE too many balls and something was going to have to go if I was going to be able to keep a smile on my face. That thing was writing.

And to be honest, it's not just a time-management issue - I'm also finding myself creatively spent after work. And - dare I say it - a little sick of computers (though I will take this quick opportunity to add that the Photoshop CS3 Beta on the 24-inch Intel iMac is SUH-WEET).

The weekends have become about serious core-family time, though we've had a couple of holidays and visits and happy occasions (I have a nephew!) to shake them up a bit lately. Y gets home close to midnight many nights a week, which means we get even less sleep than we used to. BUT - things are good. Full, but good.

Anyway, my point is, I realize that this blog was the primary way that many of my friends and relatives stayed on top of our little lives here in California, and I apologize for not being better at updating it this past month. It's just been busier than I ever anticipated, keeping this little ship sailing.

You know I'm rusty when I depend on metaphors. Ugh. Probably a slippery slope from here.

Realistically, I probably won't be posting new stuff on anywhere near a daily basis for awhile, but I'll write every week or two, so if you still have any interest in checking in, PLEASE do. I have lots of stories from the last few weeks - good ones, I think - which I'll get to as soon as I can.

I miss you all.

Margo