Peanut butter and jelly

T.S. Eliot may have considered April to be the cruellest month, but this February is giving it a run for its money. The snow is relentless and my husband's cold has spiralled into a nasty flu. His breathing sounds like Darth Vader, and he's so contagious his doctor told him to wear a face mask that makes him look like an oversized, hairy duck. I have a pretty bad cough, too, but I haven't succumbed, yet. I simply can't. I can barely keep up as it is!

My biggest challenge at the moment is the pint-sized lunatic currently strapped in her booster seat in the dark kitchen. I know it sounds cruel, but for the past hour and a half we have tried everything to get that child to go to sleep. Big brother sang to her, I sang to her, her daddy sat by her bed breathing loudly and rhythmically in his duck mask, then I sang to her some more. She just kept climbing out of bed and waking up big sister, usually by yanking her hair. Or climbing out of bed and running out of her room. In desperation, I hauled her into my room, and said, Now what?!

My husband, feverish but wise, said to put her into her chair for ten minutes; but after ten minutes, she hasn't stopped talking and singing to herself. She's quieted down a bit, so it may be safe to put her back into bed again. But I'm afraid to risk it. I could potentially provide the impetus for a second wind.

Do they make kiddy kennels?

This child is something else. I have never seen a baby as endearing, engaging, sweet, and maddening, wrapped up into one tiny package. She is a little spitfire of energy, charm, and determination. She climbs on any and all pieces of furniture, often falling off, just to return to it with greater resolve. I find myself hugging and kissing her with all my heart one moment, and grumbling and cursing at her under my breath the next.

Love and frustration seem to be the peanut butter and jelly of parenting.

My son isn't so much the cause of aggravation, as the collateral damage. He came home sad today. No one would play with him at recess. He's having it rough as the new kid, and I don't know what to do. My first instinct is to email his teacher again, but what can she do? She's still dealing with the last wave of emails I sent her about the bullying.

I know it's not him. In San Antonio he was dearly loved by his peers. When we went back to visit he bounced from one friend's house to another, and kids showed up at synagogue just to get a chance to visit with him. He's a funny, happy kid.

"No one thinks I'm funny." He groused. But he is. Genuinely, intelligently, good-naturedly funny.

I am running out of ideas. Scheduling playdates is only so effective. He has no problem with any of the kids one-on-one, but that group dynamic is vicious. Hang in there, I reassure him. You won't be the new kid forever. And then I email the school counselor. Please help him! I know it's a normal part of growing up. What kid wasn't on the outs at one time or another? But this isn't just any kid. This is my boy!

So I'm counting my blessings. Thank God my kids are healthy. Thank God they're doing well in school. Thank God all of these small, nagging experiences are temporary; the colorful threads that beautify the tapestry of our lives. Thank God my children continue to grow, learn, and live a life so rich, and interesting, and nourishing.

My son came home a few weeks ago and asked me if we were rich. Do you know what it means to be rich? I asked. He rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah. Being happy with what you have." Not quite believing it himself. Yep! I responded assuredly. That's exactly right! "So we're rich." He responded, unimpressed.

Filthy rich (ptui, ptui, ptui! Hamsa, hamsa!).

The baby is finally drifting off to sleep. My husband is snoring softly in bed and the snow is tapering off. And I have my answers: Count my blessings, be content with what we have, and wait it out.

These are the best years of our lives, as sure as peanut butter goes with jelly.