The Prince and The Tooth: A Modern Tale

Remember the classic tale about The Princess and the Pea? Well, we've been living through a slightly different version of it these past few weeks...

The Princess and the Pea Tooth
by Hans Christian Andersen & Jujyfruit
Illustrated by Edmund Dulac & Jujyfruit

There was once a prince, and he wanted a princess, but then she must be a real Princess. He travelled right around the world to find one, but there was always something wrong. There were plenty of princesses, but whether they were real princesses he had great difficulty in discovering; there was always something which was not quite right about them. So at last he had come home again, and he was very sad because he wanted a real princess his tooth hurt so badly.

One evening there was a terrible storm; it thundered and lightninged and the rain poured down in torrents; indeed it was a fearful night.

In the middle of the storm somebody knocked at the town gate, and the old King himself sent to open it.

It was a princess who stood outside, but she was in a terrible state from the rain and the storm. The water streamed out of her hair and her clothes; it ran in at the top of her shoes and out at the heel, but she said that she was a real princess.

'Well we shall soon see if that is true,' thought the old Queen, but she said nothing. She went into the bedroom, took all the bed clothes off and laid a pea on the bedstead: then she took twenty mattresses and piled them on top of the pea, and then twenty feather beds on top of the mattresses. This was where the princess was to sleep that night. In the morning they asked her how she slept.

'Oh terribly bad!' said the princess. 'I have hardly closed my eyes the whole night! Heaven knows what was in the bed. I seemed to be lying upon some hard thing, and my whole body is black and blue this morning. It is terrible!'

They saw at once that she must be a real princess when she had felt the pea tooth through twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds. Nobody but a real princess could have such a delicate skin.

So the prince took her to be his wife, for now he was sure that he had found a real princess, and the pea tooth was put into the Museum, where it may still be seen if no one has stolen it.

Now this is a true story.

THE END
(source)

The Museum Display

The Movie Version

Sleep Is for the Weak?

There's a great-looking book floating around the blogosphere these days called "Sleep Is for the Weak." It's a collection of essays written by an assortment of well-known mommybloggers (and daddybloggers?) about parenting. It's been on my book list for a while now, but I haven't gotten around to reading it yet.

I see links for this book daily, but it would probably stick in my head anyway, because the title is just so catchy. It is half joke, half reality -- a battle cry that unites us all as we venture forth into the frontlines of babydom.

But I wonder...is there a point in time where the joke falls flat? Where that phrase brings tears of exhaustion to one's burning, bloodshot eyes? Where that book is shuffled to the very end of the reading queue, based on the title alone?

Because, let me tell you, I think that time might well be creeping up on me. If I were to see that book on the shelf of a local store, I would be equally likely to snatch it up in delight...or knock it to the floor and roll my car right over it, with nary a glance, depending on the day. (Which, translated, means, "depending on how much sleep I got the night before.")

Which brings me to my point: sleep issues. Nothing's working. Frustrated. Tired. Annoyed. Need solution. Yada yada yada, Round Number Seventy-Jillionty-Five.

Now if you find yourself in a similar situation, you already know what I'm talking about. Your specifics might be a little different, but that's relatively unimportant. You speak my language. You feel my frustration. You live my exhaustion.

You might be sleeping in a chair with your metal-braced or casted child. (hi, Rach) Or nursing during the night for the 7th year in a row. (hey, Gwen) Or simply up at 3 a.m. because your child is. (Penny, Lisa - greetings. *yawn*) Or coaxing your child to sleep each night, only to find yourself repeating it all over again several hours later. For nights upon months upon years on e...

Oh, sorry -- I nodded off for a sec. Now where was I?

Right. Seriously, what happens when the sleepless baby months stretch into years? Decades?? (Oh, goodness, I feel faint -- is it possible to last that long?! If any of you decades-weary parents are out there, I'm not sure I'm prepared to hear about that just yet, mmkay? Thanks. Let me stagger along in my steady belief that this will end. Somehow. Some day.)

What makes that book title clever is that the people saying it are, in fact, strong people who happen to be bravely and proudly doing without for a bit. But when the deprivation becomes chronic, those previously strong people might just find themselves quite literally shrivelling up into weaklings.

At least, that's what I find happening to myself these days.

Words -- nay, entire concepts! -- escape the tongue. Deadlines go unmet. Important papers are forgotten. Emails are unanswered. Partnerships disintegrate into scorekeeping. Patience is, itself, trying. Kindness masquerades as Optional. Sanity crumbles.

Blogs are hopelessly neglected. (*cough, cough*)

But back to the title -- "Sleep Is for the Weak." Hearing that phrase as one of the weakened, it begins to morph into a brilliantly simple solution. A soothing balm. A delicious promise. A lullaby, whispered gently in my ear. A Psalm.

Sleep, and you will be strengthened. Dream, and your visions will be restored. Snore, and the door shall be opened unto you...

I would like to propose a companion book, titled "Sleep Is for the Strong." I envision essays contributed by mommybloggers (and daddybloggers) who write about parenting children with disabilities. About living fully when the inevitable return of peaceful slumber hangs in doubt.

The irony is still there, of course. Because the people saying it are, in fact, weakened people who happen to be bravely and proudly -- strongly -- doing without for a bit.

It takes strength to sleep through the alarms or bleeps of life-assuring machines signalling problems. It takes strength to sleep in interrupted segments until the next scheduled feeding or necessary repositioning of an immobile child. It takes strength to sleep through the fear of what the next minutes or hours or days might bring. It takes strength to sleep when your child is not.

Again, the specifics are relatively unimportant; the common bond is still there. It takes strength to remain chronically sleep-deprived yet continue to seize the day.

Am I breaking down? Am I in the midst of a crisis? No, don't worry. It's simply Monday.

But I'm just sayin' --that hypothetical book? Sleep Is for the Strong? Well, that is a book that I would certainly snatch up in delight and shuffle to the TOP of my book list, regardless of the day.

Is anybody out there awake enough to write it? I'd like to pre-order, please.

School Picnic

Max's school picnic is tomorrow night. According to the information sheets, it sounds like a really big deal. The celebration features a buffet with families carrying in side dishes and desserts, and a variety of entertainment including music, a dunk tank, and a moonwalk. It's the kind of event most kids look forward to and have a blast at.

I've been dreading it.

And Max? Well, I don't know. I assume they talk about it at school, but he's never tried to show me the handout and he has no other way to initiate communication about it at home. (I've avoided bringing it up because I've been on the fence about attending.)

Then again, maybe he doesn't even know about it. Or if he did, maybe he's forgotten. I feel safe in the assumption that it's not something he'll think about this weekend and feel full of sorrow for missing, at any rate.

He'd probably have a grand old time there. He loves jumping in a moonwalk. He enjoys music. He'd be excited by the entire dunk tank concept. He adores people and his school, and there would be many familiar faces there.

But there will also be tables of food. Lots of food and chips and drinks and cups. All within easy reach of his quick little hands. There will be hundreds of people and chairs and things to run into or behind or around. I can picture him clear as day in my mind, running up to random people with a big ol' grin and SMACKING into their midsections, as their plates jolt and drinks slop, and the men try to unobtrusively shield themselves, wishing they had worn a cup.

And I will be trying my best to keep up with him, and foresee potential problems, and steer him clear of danger or damage, while hissing through my teeth for backup but trying so hard to keep that smile plastered on my face and meet other families and kids.

But I know that this is what we need to do. This is why it IS so important to be there. I am not crazy about it, but I'm not there for me! He is a part of that school, and establishing a supportive family presence would be valuable.


Max is a well-known character in those halls, and I'm sure "his people" would laugh at my fears, and tell me not to waste another minute worrying! I mean, it's not like they've never met him before! They know how he can be....but, really -- he'll be fine!


But he does seem to pull out all the stops in situations like that, and many times a slightly different side of him does come out! The routine goes up in smoke, the stimulation is cranked up high, the temptations are everywhere (at eye level, no less!) It's hard. Really hard. For both of us. (Well, actually, for ALL us, but that's a different story.) His fun gets a slightly frantic edge to it, and he just can't reign it in.

And then? The AFTER-party effects. He comes home all wound up. He bounces off the walls, makes crazy noises, thinks everything's a game (Diaper? Catch me first! whee!). He stays up late. He's off schedule then the next day...yada yada yada...the gift that keeps on giving.

So that's the background.

Now then. You know how it is when you have something specific on your mind and then you start to see it everywhere? Well, in the last few weeks, while I've been fretting about this picnic, I've read several different things where parents of kids with disabilities are talking about the same basic topic.

First there was an email about a local restaurant sponsoring an Autism Awareness night, where families with autistic members were invited to come dine during set hours. The staff was going to be "prepared", the restaurant would be full of like families, and the environment would be welcoming. The flier acknowledged how hard it can be to simply go out to eat sometimes. (We didn't go, but I was really impressed by the idea.)

A few days later I was looking through a book, "The Elephant in the Playroom", which contains essays by parents of kids with special needs.* I flipped to the titles that seemed to reflect my own concerns, and the first two essays I read mentioned the difficulty of being in public situations with their kids.

The other day I woke up just feeling like I was through the Dread Phase, for some reason. There was no epiphany, no big pep talk. (I suppose it did help to read other parents' similar comments and remember it's not just me.) But for whatever reason, it was suddenly obvious -- Of course we'll go! The celebration IS a big deal; Max possibly being difficult is NOT a big deal. I had to stop and remind myself that each situation doesn't need to overwhelm me; it's just the accumulation that makes it feel that way. My priorities were all back in order.

Now, here's the ironic thing. I looked at the calendar and realized that we won't even be here! We'll be out of town! Apparently I was too busy with the hand-wringing and whatnot to notice that.

I do feel a little guilty that he won't be there now. But at least it's that wistful guilt that he's gonna miss out on something good, instead of the guilty guilt from playing hooky. Parenting is hard enough, but I find that there are all sorts of special rules and expectations and qualifications and consequences I add the equation when it comes to parenting Max. I mean, I wouldn't think twice about skipping my older kids' school picnic. No big deal! And the Mommy Guilt; it really has become the Jujyfruit blueplate special! I have got to start laying off the extra gooey layers of guilt with the order of overthinking cherries sprinkled on top; it's really starting to weigh me down.

But here's the positive thing that came out of all this: I feel good, like a passed some sort of test. I made the right decision, for the right reasons. The fact that we won't be there is almost irrelevant at this point. Now I can let it go. (until the next time, that is...)

So for now, have fun at the picnic, everyone! I'm gonna go enjoy my weekend, too!

*****

*I will be coming back to this book in future posts. It had some excellent quotes, and some very chewy food for thought.