Three Days

     It's been three days. Three days that Ian's been home from school. The first day was alright. He was cooperative and happy to stay home. A little wild towards the end, but otherwise okay. Tuesday morning started out well. By afternoon though, boredom set in and he attempted to alleviate it by torturing Christeal.
     First, he pointed a Nerf shotgun at her, pretending to blow her away. She did not like this and voiced her dislike in a high-pitched screech. I would tell Ian to knock it off, and then, with the sweetness and venom of a beehive, he'd say, "Christeal? Do you want to play in my room?"
     Falling for his friendship she replied, "Yes," and toddled after him to the torture chamber. He waited for her to go in first, like a true gentleman. But that's as far as Dudley Do-right went. The next sound I heard was the door slamming and a Snidely Whiplash evil laugh, "Now you are in jail! HaHaHaHaHa!"
     Tears and cries of despair followed. This pattern continued over the coarse of the evening, with the addition of me and Scott threatening Ian with every kind of punishment. He would look at us and promise to be good, apologize to Christeal, and start all over again. I could tell none of the threats meant anything because every time we issued one, he had that Ian gleam in his eyes. Follow through didn't help either. It was just one of those nights. That night continued into the next morning. I knew Christeal was doomed as soon as Ian grabbed that stupid Nerf gun. Although he embellished  everything by adding a cowboy hat.
     Ian also refused to get dressed today. His outfit consisted of a pajama shirt and underwear. So you can imagine how he looked in his cowboy hat. My visiting teachers came over at eleven. Ian greeted them, all decked out in his finery, with these words, "Go away!"
     Accompanying his creative play, were sound effects. While he pretended to be a gun-slinging jailer, cowboy whoops and a neighing horse were his soundtrack. Then he switched to sirens so he could play with his cars.
     Sirens. You haven't experienced my son's talent for sound effects until you've heard him wail like a firetruck. He also imitates police cars, ambulances, European police cars, and European ambulances. It's an art. He sounds like the real thing. And the volume? Wow. It pierces the eardrums and you vibrate down to your socks. And he does this all day long. He seems to have a need for loud noises. He can fall asleep with an iPod on full blast, blaring Def Leppard. He loves to push the find button on the phone docking station, so that all the phones in the house will beep loudly until we turn them off. He listens to the radio at a deafening volume, and his computer games aren't any better. I've had his hearing checked. It's perfect. He just has this intense need for the stimulating powers of noise.
     So on this third day home, I'm feeling a bit frazzled and run down. I would like some peace and quiet, maybe a darkened bathroom with candles and a hot bubble bath. I'd like to escape, perhaps to a movie or a restaurant, maybe take a nice drive in the rain. And I can't wait for tomorrow.
     Tomorrow, he goes back to school.

Handsome in Pink

     I kept Ian home from school today. I wanted to get him into the doctor and have her take a look at his hideous rash, maybe give us some stronger hydrocortisone cream. When she saw him, she said it was eczema caused by some kind of virus. Then she began asking about fevers, coughs, stomach aches, etc... She looked in his throat and ears and listened to his chest. She was writing out a prescription for a hydrocortisone ointment, when she stopped and looked at him again.
     "Let's do a throat culture just to be on the safe side," she said.
     I thought that was silly since he hasn't been sick, but she's the doc.
     His culture came back positive for strep. What the heck?
     No fever, no aches and pains, no sore throat or headache. Just germs. Bad ones. On our way to the pharmacy, I told Ian he was going to have to take the "pink" medicine.
     "No! That makes me puke! Remember? I puked on your head!"
     Indeedy weedy. How could I forget? Last time we did the amoxicillin thing, Ian gagged on it and puked a little on the floor. I bent down to wipe it up, and that's when the rest of the pink stuff decided to reappear. Right on my head. Yuck. I still shudder thinking about how it dripped down my face.
     We did better tonight. I told Ian that he had bad germs inside his body and that the pink medicine was like good soldiers and they were going to kill the bad soldiers.
     "Do they have swords?" he asked.
     "Really tiny ones. Now open your mouth. Here come the good soldiers..."
     We did tiny squirts of soldiers at a time in order to avoid the gag reflex.
     "Hey!" Ian cried. "These are pink soldiers!"
     "We may be pink," cried the soldiers, "but we fight like men!"
     My kiddo dissolved into giggles and the rest of the medicine went down without even a hiccup.
     There's no shortage of adventures with Ian for a son. While writing this entry, he came to me with blood dripping down his chin.
     "What happened?" I asked.
     And the answer of supreme intelligence, "I don't know."
     Somehow, my son managed to cut open the very tip of his tongue. It took a good twenty minutes for the blood to stop flowing. My freshly cleaned bathroom sink looked like a mini-slaughter house. Who knew tongues bled so much? Ian thought the whole thing was very cool. He could look in the mirror and watch the gruesomeness run out of his mouth and waterfall into the sink. I think all the earlier talk of soldiers with tiny swords must have sparked his imagination. The fight was unfolding right before his eyes.
     It took a bit of time for Ian to settle down this evening. He kept rolling around on the floor with his hands down his jammies. Then he'd stand up and run. It was hilarious to watch because he wasn't wearing a shirt and the pants were hiked up extra high to cover his arms, resulting in a mega wedgie. But the events of the day plus the Benadryl must have done their work. I put him in bed, he allowed me to kiss him goodnight, and he didn't try to pull the "I want Daddy!" stunt. He is sleeping soundly, oozing bloody drool onto his pillow.

Still Good!

     Guess what? It's been two weeks since my last post and Ian is still being good. The bad part though, is that I've been so busy running around that I haven't had much time to appreciate it and to soak up all the cute things he does and says. I feel bad about that. I seem to find plenty of time to write about him when he's bugging the crap out of me, I need to do better making sure that I create the time to record the good moments too.
     Yesterday we took the boat out for the first time this year. We went to Utah Lake on the spur of the moment just for a short test run. We had a blast. The water was too cold for any sports, but Scott let each of the kids, on down to Christeal, take a turn driving the boat. Everybody did really well, even Christeal. She kept the steering wheel turned to the left and I felt like I was on a water-logged merry-go-round. When it was Ian's turn, things got a little more wild. Instead of calm turns, we experienced sharp jolts that, had we been going fast, would surely have capsized the boat. Scott tried to explain to him how to turn slowly, but slowly isn't in Ian's vocabulary.
     For Ian's sake, I'm glad we took the boat out. He's spent the past two weeks in a swimsuit, helping Scott clean the boat, pull the boat out of it's storage area, and installing the new seats. He takes the ski rope and throws it over the side of the boat, hooking Christeal's stroller, then reels it in, saying, "It's a big one!" He hangs off the tow tower by one hand and cries, "Land ho!" And of course, he runs the battery down by turning the blower on the entire time he's playing. And creates a public nuisance by honking the horn twenty times in twenty seconds. But he is absolutely alive with anticipation and sheer joy.
     There is just one downside to his pleasure.
     Last week, Ian began getting a rash on his stomach. Since then, it has spread to his chest, legs, arms, and groin, and is on it's way to his back. I don't know what's causing it, but he itches like crazy. I've tried Eucerin Cream, antibiotic creams, and hydrocortisone. I give him Benadryl every six hours--which should make him really tired but doesn't--and I bathe him every night. Today I thoroughly cleaned his room and washed all his bedding and stuffed animals. I'm hoping it helps because in spite of his happiness, he's miserable.
     I don't know many people that can remain as positive as Ian does. He has so many struggles and issues. From his health to his academics, his life is a lot of work. But he never stops smiling. He never stops laughing. His sense of fun and adventure take over until his problems disappear. His humor is contagious and when I'm with him, watching him enjoy his existence to the fullest, I feel blessed to be his mother.

Happy Easter

     Wow. Where has the time gone? I can't believe we are already in April. Especially since it's still snowing. Easter wasn't the warm affair I was hoping for, at least not weather-wise. As for family and Ian? I couldn't ask for better. I know. Amazing isn't it? I finally have something good to say about my boy! So let's get started.
     I've never been a huge fan of the Easter Bunny. I find the whole idea of a rabbit laying eggs positively ludicrous and somewhat creepy. So I've never pushed that particular belief on my kids. But I haven't denied it either. To each his own. Ian made an educated decision on his own about the realities of the abominable bunny. He came to me on Friday, while I was putting on my makeup. He watched me for a moment, and then said, "Mom?"
     I turned a partially made eye towards him and raised the brow.
     He continued. "I want a police car and a helicopter in my Easter basket."
     I studied his little face.
     He threw his arms apart, "What?"
     "I'm just wondering why you are telling me this."
     "C'mon, Mom. The Easter bunny isn't real. So can I have a police car?"
     I smiled and nodded my head. And that was that.
     He was on his best behavior all day Saturday and into Sunday. I'm not sure why. Perhaps he was worried I wouldn't give him his Easter basket. On Sunday morning, he staggered into my room at 6:45 and said, "Happy Easter, Mommy!" That was my cue. Time to get up. How could I resist a wake-up like that anyway?  We had a nice pancake breakfast and after two hours he couldn't stand it anymore. He had to wake up every person in the house. You'd of thought it was Christmas.
     He begged me, "Mom, please hide our baskets so we can find them."
     This is something I've done in the past and the kids love it. You'd be surprised the places an Easter basket shows up. The dryer, oven, dishwasher, dirty clothes hamper... This year, for Ian, his basket rested on the floor next to the piano behind a quilt. It was also the first place he looked. And yes, he got his police car and helicopter.
     Later that day we went to Grandma and Grandpa's house for dinner, an egg hunt, and a pinata. That's where Ian got a bit hyper and his good behavior sort of disappeared. But we've had worse so I can't complain.
     That night, after the festivities, we were relaxing at home watching Extreme Makeover/Home Edition. There were two handicapped babies in the family being highlighted. Ian turned to Scott and asked, "What is handicapped?"
     Scott proceeded to explain, "It's where sometimes your arms or legs don't work right and you need to use a wheelchair or a walker. Sometimes you can't see well or hear well."
     A lightbulb ignited above Ian's head. "Oh! Like Grandpa and Grandma!"
     Touche. Happy Easter.