The Defense Rests
My father is a lawyer, so legal jargon has been a part of my vocabulary for a long time. That and watching Matlock reruns on weekday mornings as a kid. Attorneys make their arguments to the jury or the judge, and when they're finished, they often (anecdotally anyway) say, "The defense rests" or "I rest my case."
I'm adept at rebuttal and making my case.
Frankie: Why can't I have a cheese stick right now?
me: Because we are about to eat dinner.
Audrey: Why can't I bring milk in the living room?
me: Because if it spills, then it will be a huge mess.
Sean: Why do I have to put my clean clothes away?
me: Because otherwise Penny comes up and lays on them, thereby making them no longer clean.
Frankie: Why do I have to wear underwear?
me: Because you're wearing a dress and we're going to church.
Frankie: Why can't I have a cookie?
me: Because you already had ice cream.
Audrey: Why do I have to clean my room? I already did it!
me: Kicking things under your bed is not the same thing as cleaning your room.
Sean: Why do we always have to walk to church?
me: Because we live 3 blocks away. It basically takes longer to drive.
Or this morning -
Frankie: Why do you always drive me to school or camp? Why not Daddy?
me: Because often Dad needs to be at work early.
Beyond morning drop off, I'm usually the person who takes kids to playdates, field trips, and doctor appointments. Stereotypical, I know, but this is the way we divide much of the management of our household. I handle the day-to-day wellness and health of our children. We had a time recently when Frankie visited the ER and I was the person to take her. She had stomach pain for 10 days straight, and in the midst of the first week of this pain she developed a high fever, vomiting, and her body wasn't responding to Tylenol to bring the fever down or popsicles to hydrate her. My greatest fear was appendicitis, and because of the climbing fever and high heart rate, the Pediatrician sent us to the ER. I called Tom's phone repeatedly interrupting a business meeting so I could tell him that Frankie had taken a turn for the worse. That evening she and I were in the ER for 6 hours: IV fluids, pain medication for the stomach, ibuprofen, blood tests, chest x-ray, and they eventually sent us home with a diagnosis of "a virus, maybe the flu."
When the stomach pain persisted and she remained lethargic, pale, and dizzy, the Pediatrician again wanted us seen at the ER. This time Tom and I were both home to make the decision of who would take her. We asked Frankie if she wanted me or Dad to drive her to the hospital, and she requested me. Make no mistake: that's where I'd prefer to be. If our child is that sick, I want to be at the hospital talking with the doctors and nurses, explaining the symptoms I'm seeing, and trying to find the answer as to what's causing her pain. But I didn't want to rob Tom the joy of sitting in the ER, so giving Frankie the choice seemed like the right thing to do. She still chose me. My motherly ego sufficiently stroked, I packed Frankie up and we spent another long evening in the ER. Though I continued to fear the appendix as the culprit, the doctors determined her pain was caused by severe constipation. The previous week's fever and vomiting was - supposedly - pure coincidence, and though we consulted with a surgeon about the appendix, everyone determined she didn't need to be rushed to surgery. Today, weeks after those ER visits, she is seemingly on the mend.
As we laid down to read books before bed last night, Frankie opted to read me a story. Wanting her imagination to be unencumbered by the confines of a story book, she picked up a hand-me-down diary with a kitten face and jelly bean cover. None of the pages had been filled in with writing, giving her literary license to create whatever story she wanted. She began her story with dramatic flair, she laid out the scene of two friends going on an adventure, she had some dialogue between them, and then it took a surprising turn:
Frankie: But then she had to go to the hospital. Oh no! But her Daddy took her to the hospital, and sat with her, and he gave her popsicles.
WHAT?! I'm sorry, but what? WHO? What does a parent need to do to be the hero in her 5-year old's story?!
Frankie: Her Daddy stayed there with her, but she was scared, but her Daddy said, it's okay. You're going to be okay.
BACK UP - Hold. The. Phone. Those were the kind words I said!
Frankie: She had to get a needle, IV, but her Daddy sat with her so she wouldn't be scared.
I mean. I can't even.
me: Okay, it's time to wrap it up -
Frankie: Ok! Then she got better. The end.
Friends, I'm aware that the mature thing to do here is to not say anything. Which I didn't. It took some restraint. I let her have her fantasy about her Daddy taking her to the hospital and saving the day. But I want the record to show - at least in the virtual realm - that it was the mother who took her to the doctor, who gave her popsicles, who sat with her while she got an IV. The Defense Rests.
I'm adept at rebuttal and making my case.
Frankie: Why can't I have a cheese stick right now?
me: Because we are about to eat dinner.
Audrey: Why can't I bring milk in the living room?
me: Because if it spills, then it will be a huge mess.
Sean: Why do I have to put my clean clothes away?
me: Because otherwise Penny comes up and lays on them, thereby making them no longer clean.
Frankie: Why do I have to wear underwear?
me: Because you're wearing a dress and we're going to church.
Frankie: Why can't I have a cookie?
me: Because you already had ice cream.
Audrey: Why do I have to clean my room? I already did it!
me: Kicking things under your bed is not the same thing as cleaning your room.
Sean: Why do we always have to walk to church?
me: Because we live 3 blocks away. It basically takes longer to drive.
Or this morning -
Frankie: Why do you always drive me to school or camp? Why not Daddy?
me: Because often Dad needs to be at work early.
Beyond morning drop off, I'm usually the person who takes kids to playdates, field trips, and doctor appointments. Stereotypical, I know, but this is the way we divide much of the management of our household. I handle the day-to-day wellness and health of our children. We had a time recently when Frankie visited the ER and I was the person to take her. She had stomach pain for 10 days straight, and in the midst of the first week of this pain she developed a high fever, vomiting, and her body wasn't responding to Tylenol to bring the fever down or popsicles to hydrate her. My greatest fear was appendicitis, and because of the climbing fever and high heart rate, the Pediatrician sent us to the ER. I called Tom's phone repeatedly interrupting a business meeting so I could tell him that Frankie had taken a turn for the worse. That evening she and I were in the ER for 6 hours: IV fluids, pain medication for the stomach, ibuprofen, blood tests, chest x-ray, and they eventually sent us home with a diagnosis of "a virus, maybe the flu."
When the stomach pain persisted and she remained lethargic, pale, and dizzy, the Pediatrician again wanted us seen at the ER. This time Tom and I were both home to make the decision of who would take her. We asked Frankie if she wanted me or Dad to drive her to the hospital, and she requested me. Make no mistake: that's where I'd prefer to be. If our child is that sick, I want to be at the hospital talking with the doctors and nurses, explaining the symptoms I'm seeing, and trying to find the answer as to what's causing her pain. But I didn't want to rob Tom the joy of sitting in the ER, so giving Frankie the choice seemed like the right thing to do. She still chose me. My motherly ego sufficiently stroked, I packed Frankie up and we spent another long evening in the ER. Though I continued to fear the appendix as the culprit, the doctors determined her pain was caused by severe constipation. The previous week's fever and vomiting was - supposedly - pure coincidence, and though we consulted with a surgeon about the appendix, everyone determined she didn't need to be rushed to surgery. Today, weeks after those ER visits, she is seemingly on the mend.
As we laid down to read books before bed last night, Frankie opted to read me a story. Wanting her imagination to be unencumbered by the confines of a story book, she picked up a hand-me-down diary with a kitten face and jelly bean cover. None of the pages had been filled in with writing, giving her literary license to create whatever story she wanted. She began her story with dramatic flair, she laid out the scene of two friends going on an adventure, she had some dialogue between them, and then it took a surprising turn:
Frankie: But then she had to go to the hospital. Oh no! But her Daddy took her to the hospital, and sat with her, and he gave her popsicles.
WHAT?! I'm sorry, but what? WHO? What does a parent need to do to be the hero in her 5-year old's story?!
Frankie: Her Daddy stayed there with her, but she was scared, but her Daddy said, it's okay. You're going to be okay.
BACK UP - Hold. The. Phone. Those were the kind words I said!
Frankie: She had to get a needle, IV, but her Daddy sat with her so she wouldn't be scared.
I mean. I can't even.
me: Okay, it's time to wrap it up -
Frankie: Ok! Then she got better. The end.
Friends, I'm aware that the mature thing to do here is to not say anything. Which I didn't. It took some restraint. I let her have her fantasy about her Daddy taking her to the hospital and saving the day. But I want the record to show - at least in the virtual realm - that it was the mother who took her to the doctor, who gave her popsicles, who sat with her while she got an IV. The Defense Rests.
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