Spring Fever

There are several times of year where I feel the impact of my oversized family. Where my stress level rises beyond my new normal. Back to school season. Packing up the 8 of us for a trip. And right now. It’s this pre-Passover or Spring Break time—the time when before we know it the school year is over, camp is around the corner, and everyone needs new clothes and shoes, checkups, haircuts, visits to the dentist, orthodontist, dermatologist, and ophthalmologist (yes, apparently glasses are in because several of my children have declared sudden blindness and subjected me to endless pupil dilation sessions all to discover that miraculously they can see quite well).

Scheduling all of these appointments is not easy. Between school, afterschool activities, teams, speech therapists and occupational therapists, it is hard to find time in their day and mine—and some things will just have to wait another year. Like the allergist. I’m way overdue to bring Barry back for scratch tests for mustard and eggs, but he likes ketchup and Bendaryl has done the trick so far. And Lily’s around-the-clock Allegra is keeping her hives at bay. There just is no time.

The other nightmare is clothing this six-pack for the new season. I have to meet with each separately, fighting with them to try on last year’s summer clothing, so that I can then separate their wardrobes into three categories: still good, too small, and don’t like anymore (and probably never liked). In this last category I occasionally discover clothing with a price tag still on, one that l then raise in my hand and shove in the guilty child’s face like a wife who discovers some other woman’s underwear in her husband’s workbag. How could you? I am saying without words. I thought you liked it. Like the exposed adulterer, the child sheepishly apologizes, swears it was just this one time and it won’t ever happen again.

Having so many girls, people always ask me if I have so many hand-me-downs. And yes that’s worked with some things, which inspires me every year to neatly put away some clothing in clear comforter storage bags (like my mother used to) carefully marked with the size and the intended recipient to inherit the bag a year or two down the line. Waste not want not was my childhood mantra. But then that well-organized bag of clothing gets placed someplace out of my way and out of my sight, and I usually discover it just in time for it to no longer fit the child it was saved for.

Styles change too. Four-year-old Eliana wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress with smocking.  It would be pre-K social suicide. Lengths have also changed in the decade between my oldest daughter and youngest daughter.  If a skirt or dress even approaches the knee it is considered WAY too long. Also, as parents we know, not every one of our children is built the same. Growth spurts happen in ways we can’t anticipate. In my house in fact we have hand me ups. Four-year-old Barry hands his size 8 pants that no longer close and his dress shirts that no longer button to his seven-year-old cousin.

Upon completing my rounds, room by room, child by child, and jotting down lists and sizes of what each needs for the coming season, I then head to the computer to browse the various free shipping free return online retailers. Then begins my back and forth with UPS. They drop off. We ship back. They drop off. We ship back. Boxes come up, boxes come down. I feel like I work for a moving company. With rolls of Scotch packaging tape resting in my pocket, I spend most evenings printing out UPS labels, packing up boxes full of returns and preparing them for shipping.

Every night Rob walks in the door with a stack of five or six boxes, drops them on the floor and asks, as only a concerned father can: “what the hell is going on here? He’s a numbers guy so then he asks more calmly, “what percentage of what you order do you actually keep? Wouldn’t it be easier to just go to a store? Are you monitoring all of the returns and making sure they go back on our card?”

“Of course I am,” I say back to him, shaking my head and wondering what really happens to all those boxes I obviously never track and ship back to Zappoland.

And finally, there are the deadlines to be met, the dreaded forms that must be completed, child by child. Six tuition forms for next year. Six camp forms. Luckily, in today’s age, most of these forms are now completed online, but there are always those hard-copy medical forms that need to be brought in to the doctor and then sent off to school and camp. I currently have more medical forms printed out on my desk than some school nurse offices. 

Filling out camp forms this year was a little tricky with my twins. You see, their birthday is July 9^th. But in the course of planning a getaway last summer with my husband, and dodging the start of sleepaway camp, the end of sleepaway camp, the first day of day camp, visiting day at sleepaway camp, visiting day in day camp (yes, can you believe I have to visit my twins in day camp? Why do I have to visit someone whom I saw a few hours ago and will see again in a few hours?)

Anyway, in the course of planning an ideally timed trip, I avoided those conflicts and realized a few weeks before leaving that I was to be away on my twins’ birthday.  I felt horrible. No honestly I really did. I was never away on one of my children’s birthdays. I asked Rob if we should cancel and he looked at me like I had just asked him if he likes going for a colonoscopy.

“They don’t know calendar dates,” he said. “They won’t know it’s their birthday. We’ll wait and pretend it’s their birthday three days later, the day we get home.”

You know what they say about lies—one lie leads to another, which leads to another. The day camp where my twins go have a custom to call birthday children up to the flagpole during morning lineup. They give them a special birthday crown, and later in the day, their group enjoys a fun ice cream celebration. I couldn’t allow the camp to blow my cover. I had to call and speak to the office.  I started explaining that I’m not a crazy mom or anything (usually the giveaway that I am exactly just that) but I’m going to be away on my twins birthday by accident of course, blah, blah, blah and could they not call the twins up to the flagpole or acknowledge their birthday till I get back.

Silence on the other end of the phone. 

Then finally, “I think you should speak to one of the camp directors.”

So I re-told my story. Something got lost in translation and the director thought I was asking if the camp could wait till I came back from my trip so I could come to the flagpole for lineup with the twins. “I’m sorry Mrs. Schwartz parents are not invited to come to the flagpole or the ice cream celebration. It is just for the kids.” Omg I was thinking. Did they really think I wanted to come to camp? I barely survive the stupid visiting day. “No, you misunderstood,” I said. “I have no interest in coming or being there [I mean, I’m missing their birthday for God’s sake I was thinking] I just don’t want them to celebrate their birthday till I am home.”

A longer silence from the director. And some whispering in the background.

Finally, she came back on the line and said, “OK, I think the best way to do this is to just change their birthday in the system. This way there’s no confusion. No chance they will mistakenly be wished a happy birthday or anything.”

“When would you like their birthday to be?” She then asked me.

“How about the 12^th?” I said as if choosing a new birthday for them was completely normal.

“OK she said, I am changing it online right now. Their birthday according to our camp records is now July 12th.”

“Just remember,” she added, “to change it back next year to their real birthday date.”

And like that, they and we celebrated Barry and Eliana’s birthday of 2016 on July 12^th.

I remembered this as I reviewed the online forms for any incorrect information and saw the date 7/12/12 listed as their birthday. Some parents need to enter a change of address. Others need to enter a change of birthday. No one’s perfect. But at least those forms are complete.