We’re no further along in finding out what’s wrong with Sam. I suppose that’s not entirely right – we know it’s not h pylori, and we know that the stool sample came back negative. We know he’s not lactose intolerant.
We also know that he has diarrhea a lot, seven times on Monday afternoon and at least once a day since then. We know that he hurts, a lot, and when he isn’t actively in pain, he’s afraid of when it’s coming again.
We know that he can push thru the pain if there’s something he wants – he can ignore the diarrhea if he’s got a book fair he’d like to hit, and he didn’t mention his stomach once the day that Ryan came over for a playdate. We know that it’s a lot worse when he’s hungry.
It’s all baffling, and frustrating and bordering on scary. If I just KNEW what it was – but the not knowing is hard. And if it’s hard on me, as the mom, imagine how much harder it is for a nine year old boy, who’s already got tendencies towards anxiety.
So there’s that. Jessie had her bat mitzvah study session yesterday and cried the whole way over to the synagogue from school. I think that’s just what she needs to do – there’s something about the one-on-one studying that freaks her out. The day that this bat mitzvah is over is a day that I’ll celebrate. Probably in the street, because I can’t find a hall to have the party in, but that’s another problem for another day. She’s got her Model UN conference coming up later this month, and the anticipation is intense.
Julie – oh, my Julie. She’s doing well in kindergarten, but she doesn’t always like playing with kids her own age. She’s Jessie, just seven years younger. She’s me. I remember my mother hearing the same thing about me when I was six or seven. Melissa doesn’t really play with the other kids, she seems perfectly happy alone. My mother thought it was the divorce, and maybe it was, but more than likely, it was just an aspect of my personality that I’ve shoved over onto my daughters. We’ll socialize, sure, on our terms and only when we’re in the mood. When we aren’t in the mood, it’s nothing personal – we’d just rather not. But she’s brilliant and kind and I’m so proud of my girl.
In other news – Marc’s still running around like a chicken with his head cut off. He’s been working late every night this week, not coming home until after I’m asleep every night. I’m grateful for his office – because at least he doesn’t have to add on the commute back and forth to Westford each day. But the weekends are precious – because that’s the only time we see him.