When Security Isn't Invisible

When I was a junior in college, I spent a year in the United Kingdom. While “studying abroad” was one of the better decisions I have ever made, it was also scary and eye-opening. I believe I would not be the person I am today (for better or for worse, your choice) if I hadn’t spent time in a completely unfamiliar, obviously foreign, environment.

One of the more remarkable aspects of that year was the trip my friend “Kay” and I took during what was the University’s three-week Spring Break. In Britain, when they say “school vacation,” what they really mean is, You must leave campus until classes start again because we subsidize your very reasonably-priced education by renting out your dormitory room to corporations. And, by the way, make sure all of your stuff fits into that locked closet over there. Bye.

So, Kay and I bought InterRail passes, which allow students to ride in coach class for free on essentially all of Europe’s rail lines (think: Amtrak). At the time, it cost approximately $100. We decided to take the overnight train to London, stay for few days to see some sights and take in a play, and then fly to Rome (also dirt cheap to do). Kay, a devout Catholic, really, really wanted to see the Vatican. From Rome, we’d wing it, choosing our itinerary as we went.

When we arrived in Rome, and got off of the plane, we were astonished and yes, a little scared, to discover armed guards at the airport. We thought there had been some sort of incident, an attempted assassination, maybe, or a bomb threat. The (very cute) Italian teenager we’d chatted up on the flight assured us – and he really did mean for it to make us feel better – that these guards, called carabiniere, were always posted there. They carried your basic Uzis strapped across their shoulders, and they looked menacing.

How do people live like this? I wondered to myself. Just the act of passing through the checkpoint made me feel guilty. When I mentioned to our Italian teenager how odd that felt, he literally just said, “Eh.”

That was twenty three years ago, and I still can recall the shock of walking out into the bright Mediterranean sunlight and coming face to face with a weapon I had only seen in the movies.

You know what? This morning, like countless mornings before, I got off of the commuter train and passed American transit police armed with automatic rifles and sidearms. Their adorable black Labradors rested in patches of shade at their feet. And I realized that this doesn’t faze me anymore. It doesn’t bother me when they flick their eyes head-to-toe, assessing my potential threat level in about half a second. I smile at them casually, giving their canines the wide berth they deserve, and hurry along to my office. When I go to the courthouse where I work, I am almost amused that the service dog used by the blind guy who runs the concession stand on the first floor and the bomb-and-ordnance sniffing canine “officer” idly patrolling the courtrooms look enough alike that they could be from the same litter.

And I’m not shocked. Or guilty.

We are all hyper-alert. I won’t squawk that we’ve given up our freedoms for the illusion of safety or anything like that. I don’t feel oppressed (and I say that as a member of a minority group that would be among the first “profiled.”) It’s not that I feel particularly safe, either, because I’m old enough and cynical enough to know that all we can do, usually, is react to an attack, not prevent one. If a person is crazy enough, or evil enough, to leave a bag with a bomb, he or she is going to do it, regardless of any show of force. But having those trained officers with their dogs visible tells me that while we don’t know what exactly to do to keep ourselves safe, we are doing what we can. And maybe it’s working; there’s no way to quantify all of the incidents that don’t happen.

A few days ago, I was walking behind a United States Coast Guard officer, who was dressed, deliciously, in his whites. An older man approached from the other direction, and as he passed, I heard him say, “Thank you for your service.” I got the impression that this was something he did often, acknowledging the service and sacrifice of any branch member he encountered. I knew how he felt; I do it myself sometimes. And so this morning, as I came off of the train, I wondered whether the transit policeman and his dog ever get thanked like that, and if not, why not?

Is it because it’s not politically correct, because they’re only there by order of an unpopular ex-president?

Have we become complacent enough ten years out from the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil to actually mind the slight inconveniences of heightened security? Are we more irritated than grateful for the reminder that security isn’t free or invisible?

Or do we resent that we’re no longer like the twenty-year-old me, stepping off a plane under a blue sky and bright sun, still able to be shocked and dismayed at the need for a blatant show of authority and force? We won’t ever enjoy that level of naïveté again.

Because now I look at those armed police patrolling my path, shrug my shoulders in a creditably Mediterranean way and say, “Eh.”

I think, starting tomorrow, I will say instead, “Good morning, and thank you for your service.”

Summer Cooking

At some point, Summer will come to New England. Any moment now. And with it, the elusive season will bring humid (we call it “muggy,” which is so much more evocative) high temperatures and the potential for my healthy and fabulous cooking endeavors to fall by the wayside.

I’m not a big fan of grilling. Oh, I can handle the occasional burger or hot dog scraped off of a screaming hot grill at a family barbecue. That’s fine, as long as it’s understood that we’ll be returning to real food the following day. Those burn marks on bright yellow zucchini spears and red peppers gracing every summer issue of every magazine look carcinogenic, not appetizing, to me. And I’ve destroyed more fish than the BP oil spill because I cannot find that perfect balanced between blackened (some might charitably say “Cajun”) exterior and gummy uncooked interior.

On the other hand, however, who wants to deal with a 350 degree oven at the tail end of a 90 degree day?

Of the five weeknights, I can probably get away with two salad dinners: one a leafy green topped with an assortment of hard boiled egg and fruit and (probably) bacon, and the other a potato salad that I’ll have to liven up with – something, I have no ideas at the moment. Doodle has already put the kibosh on the really good corn and bean salad that I brought to last week’s Father’s Day cookout. He informed me, and I quote: “Mom, it has five ingredients, and I don’t like to eat three of them.” (In case you’re wondering, he likes avocado and lime juice, and can do without the corn, the beans, and the tomatoes.)

That leaves three nights of crossing my fingers, negotiating forkfuls, or giving up and serving peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches.

Naw, man, I ain’t going out like that.

I have a feeling that this week will find me scouring every house and garden or cooking magazine I own just to find the six or so recipes I can recycle endlessly for the next eight weeks. I know the kids will look at their plates, gauge my mood, and tentatively ask if they can just have toast instead. Rev will take a mouthful, smile wanly, and proclaim that it’s good, whatever “it” may happen to be, in an effort to convince the kids to dig in, and to save my feelings.

Maybe I’ll find some healthful, affordable, able to be pulled together in less than thirty minutes, non carb-heavy, low fat, iron rich, able to be assigned Weight Watchers points, kid-friendly, and, oh, yes, delicious entrées to carry us through the dog days of summer. Sounds easy.

Or maybe I’ll just fire up the grill, throw some burgers and franks on, and call it a day.

Don't Quit Your Day Job

This afternoon, I experienced the joy that is Going To Your Kid's Recital.

Doodle and Scooby have spent the past year going to "drama" classes after school at the local community theatre. There, they practiced body language, stage presence, and improvisation. The idea is that your kid will get bitten by the acting bug and in turn, bug you to pay a few hundred dollars to let him or her audition for a bit part in the next production put on by the theatre company.

But for now, Doodle, who is nine, and Scooby, who is seven, have just been taking classes once a week. Normally, the babysitter picks them up from school and waits while they go to their respective classes. She's very hard of hearing, so she thinks all of the performances are great.

Today, though, the younger classes had their end of the year "recitals." These things happen in the middle of the day, so I banged out of work early to show my support.

Doodle's class acted out two Dr. Seuss plays, The Sneetches and The Lorax. Here's what I learned:

1. These plays rhyme. The words themselves apparently don't matter (because most of them were mumbled to the back of the stage), but it has a nice beat and you can dance to it.

2. These plays carry some sort of social message about consumerism and/or the environment. I'm not really sure what that message was exactly; see Lesson Number 1.

3. Doodle has a very loud voice. And he can recover quickly when he trips over stage props.

Now, Scooby's class was "Creative Dramatics," which is deliciously appropriate if you know Scooby's personality. There were about eight kids ranging from age four to seven years old, and their teacher clearly has more patience than I will ever possess. That recital went something like this:

So, we learned how to -- Evan, come on over here -- we wrote a story and picked our favorite characters -- can you put your mask back on, sweetie -- no, you have to stay in this room -- we had some GREAT energy -- (louder voice over the impressive soprano shrieking) -- can you say your names, no?, okay we'll just get on with the story -- it's okay, Anastasia, you don't have to say your lines, I'll just, um -- (a little desperately) how about we show your parents how we warm up to Firework -- good JUMPING everyone -- so that's what we did this year!

At some point, the babysitter leaned over to me and remarked that Scooby was the calmest one there.

Let that one sink in. My daughter, Scooby, was the calmest child in the room.

Then the teacher was thanking us for coming as we all practically ran out of the studio, clutching our cameras and cell phones full of blurry caught-in-mid-motion pictures.

You both were terrific! I told Doodle and Scooby as we stopped for a celebratory ice cream cone. I'm so proud of you.

Next year, maybe we'll try karate.

Someone Needs A Time Out

Okay, here’s a rant. I promise I won’t do this often, but sometimes you just have to let the steam out of the pot before the lid blows.

Boy has finally been diagnosed with ADHD. It’s not the end of the world, and in certain ways, it’s a relief. It’s sort the of feeling you might have if you’ve had a collection of symptoms like fatigue, appetite changes, excessive thirst, etc., and some doctor finally say, Oh, you’re diabetic. You need to be on insulin. It’s not wonderful news, but it explains why you feel the way you feel. Yes, it’s a problem – but there’s a solution.

Theoretically.

So, Boy took this battery of tests in February, and got a definitive diagnosis of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder in April. (Did I mention, finally?) Rev and I sat down with the neuropsych tester and went through the myriad ways Boy’s brain works differently from others’. There are certain things he cannot do – like, I don’t know, pay attention? In school? Or stay on task long enough to get an assignment done? So he can pass his courses? The report recommends certain school accommodations, cognitive behavioral therapy, and stimulant medications (which sound counter-intuitive for a kid with ADHD, but actually make sense once you understand the chemistry of the brain).

A lot to deal with, but okay. Step at a time, people.

I take the Assessment/Diagnosis Report to his pediatrician, an easy-going guy who has a nice way with my sons. He’s already got the Assessment (sent to him by the neuropsych tester), has read it, and thinks that medication is an appropriate way to go. Dr. Easy Going carefully (and quite skillfully) explains to us that ADHD medication is much like putting on a pair of eyeglasses: you can get around the world in a fuzzy way without them, but when you put them on, everything comes into sharper focus and it actually makes life easier. After a short discussion, we get buy-in from Boy to give meds a try. This is also in April.

By the first week of May, we meet with a behavioral therapist, a soft spoken, straightforward man who comes highly recommended from a couple of different sources. Boy begins to meet with him once a week. I like Dr. Straightforward because he seems like he “gets” Boy. Dr. Straightforward also agrees that meds, in combination with therapy, would be helpful. He can’t prescribe them, though, because he is a psychologist, not a medical doctor or a psychiatrist. Ask your pedi for a prescription, he says, or get him to give you a referral to a psychiatrist.

I realize, somewhat belatedly, that while Dr. Easy Going was cool with the concept of medication, he never actually addressed putting a plan in place to get it done. I’ll have to talk to him about that.

So off I go, dopily, to the pediatrician office’s website to send an email letting Dr. Easy Going know about Dr. Straightforward and giving him a heads up that I need to talk to him about a medication plan. (I know enough by now that a request to actually talk to the doctor, unless it’s a middle of the night medical emergency, will result in a few days of telephone tag.) The website says that Dr. Easy Going only communicates with patients and families using a “patient porthole,” which is a whole separate secure website for emailing physicians, getting test results, and the like. That’s fine; my own HMO uses a similar website, and it’s pretty handy. I click the link.

The website is used by many of the major hospitals in the city, and requires you to enroll, of course, by providing your child’s medical record number or Social Security number. I scour the kid’s annual health forms, but there’s no number on that. I put in Boy’s Social. Three screens later, the website is admonishing me that I can’t enroll Boy because he is not 18 years old.

Well, duh. It’s a pediatrician!

After a frustrating journey through the Frequently Asked Questions – Really? I have to use my mouse to click on the browser buttons? I wouldn’t have known that, never having used a computer before. Thanks, FAQs! – I am stumped. So I call the pedi’s office, and humbly ask for some guidance.

Her response: Did you fill out the paperwork?

[Needle on record scratch] What paperwork?

Oh, there are some forms you have to fill out before you can enroll. Would you like to come pick them up at the office, or should I mail them to you? (Just an aside: these are the same people who will, with a straight face, charge you a $20 “fee” for printing out a camp/school health form if you misplace the free one they give you at the end of your kid’s checkup. I’m not kidding. Twenty American dollars, for printing out one page. But these forms, she’ll mail for free.)

Okay, you know, as tempting as it would be to take time off from work to go to your office to pick up forms (1) which you could have given me back in April when I was physically at your office for my son’s annual pointless interview physical exam, or (2) which you could easily, in the alternative, make available in downloadable form on your website so parents could, I don’t know, download them and fill them out and send them to you, I’m going to go with door number two: have you snail mail them to me so I can fill them out and snail mail them back to you so you can do whatever vital thing you need to do with them so I can sign up for your Patient Porthole so I can talk to the pediatrician about ADHD medication we all agreed in April – two months ago – that Boy should be on, and which I don’t even at this point know if the pediatrician even can or will prescribe because I can’t email him to ask him because he only uses the Patient Freaking Porthole which – AAARGH!!!!!!!

I think I may be in the market for a new pediatrician soon – along with a behavioral therapist for myself.

Ah, The Olden Days

How’s this for a sad conversation? While we were driving home from church today, Scooby asked me, “Mom, is the lady who invented the American flag still alive?”

“No,” I answered, giving her the benefit of the doubt that she was probably referring to Betsy Ross, “she died a long, long time ago.”

Scooby paused, then said, “Like, in the ’80’s?”

Sigh. That’s depressing on so many levels.

Why, Yes I Do Have A Degree In English Literature

Oh, how I miss going to see Dr. Adorkable. Neither one of us was any good at pre-exam small talk. Together, we made a conversational black hole.

Dr. Adorkable comes into the room for a follow-up appointment. I am in my follow-up exam uniform (that is to say, pants-less and covered from the waist down with a white paper sheet). I am sitting cross-legged on the exam table, reading. Dr. Adorkable, being both a sweetheart and a gentleman, decides on some polite conversation before beginning what is always an uncomfortable exam.

DR. ADORKABLE (eyeing my Kindle): So, what’re you reading?
ME: Uh, Pride and Prejudice . . . And Zombies.
DR. A: And . . . Zombies. . . ?
ME (mortified and wondering why I didn’t just lie): Yuh.
DR. A (valiantly tries to salvage what should have been a totally safe topic of conversation): Huh. What’s it about?
ME: Oh, typical Jane Austen: the Bennet sisters trying to find husbands. And . . . slay the undead by decapitating them with their Japanese swords.
DR. A (horrified, eyebrows raised to the stratosphere): Huh. Is it, um, any good?
ME: Well, Elizabeth Bennet is a little more bloodthirsty than I would have expected, being, you know, English and all, . . . but it’s a good read. A bit gory.
DR. A: I’ll, uh, I'll have to check that out sometime . . .
DR. A’S FACE: Small talk is soooooo overrated.

The exam itself was almost a relief after that.