I was almost four when my sister was born. When my parents headed for the hospital, they left me in the very capable hands of Polly, our next door neighbor, my second mother, real mother to my two most favoritest babysitters. In the morning, Polly asked what I usually ate for breakfast. I told her that I ate waffles, so Polly set about making me waffles. She admits to having been surprised that my mom would go to so much trouble every day for breakfast, but she was happy to oblige in an effort to make my stay with her and transition to big sisterhood as easy as possible.
As I ate my waffles, Polly asked if I liked them, and if they were like the ones my mom made. I politely (I'm sure I was polite...right, Mom?) responded that they were good but not like my mom's. When Polly asked why, I replied that my mom made hers in the toaster. Good ol' Eggo.
Fast forward a couple decades: This leisurely Saturday morning, my husband asked my almost-five year old what he would like for breakfast. He asked for waffles. (You can see where this is going). So Dad set about looking for the ingredients to prepare the batter. Luke interrupted: "Dad, they're in the freezer."
Leggo my Eggo indeed.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
An Animal in a Trap
Strong-willed, exhibit 7,183:
My Zoe. She likes to do things on her own terms. She can be so cooperative and helpful, as long as it is her idea to be so. Which it often is. And sometimes, it is not.
As with most of parenting, and maybe all of life, transitions pose particular challenges. "Transition" usually means moving from something pleasant, like playing with her ponies, to something less pleasant, like using the potty. So she is not potty-trained yet, not because she could not be, but because it does not often suit her to make that transition.
But I have outwitted her in one particular arena.
Getting out of the bathtub is not a transition she loves. It's warm in the tub, and fun. It's cold in the bathroom, and getting out involves the work of getting dressed. If I just announce, "It's time to get out of the tub," I will surely encounter some resistance which, true, can be overcome by the force of the necessity of obedience, the threat (and the carryout) of discipline, and the like. But who wants to deal with all that at 7:00 in the evening, the time when my mind and body are crashing?
So instead, this is what I say. I kid you not, it works every time. "Zoe, are you an animal in a trap?" She nods shyly. "Oh, little animal," I say, "can you get out of that trap all by yourself, or do you need help?" Suddenly, that little animal shows me the way to get out of the trap/bathtub, slowly and carefully, and into the snuggly towel and the waiting arms of her Mama. I exclaim that it is such a clever little animal I have! She reveals to me what kind of animal she is, and we are both very pleased with ourselves.
My Zoe. She likes to do things on her own terms. She can be so cooperative and helpful, as long as it is her idea to be so. Which it often is. And sometimes, it is not.
As with most of parenting, and maybe all of life, transitions pose particular challenges. "Transition" usually means moving from something pleasant, like playing with her ponies, to something less pleasant, like using the potty. So she is not potty-trained yet, not because she could not be, but because it does not often suit her to make that transition.
But I have outwitted her in one particular arena.
Getting out of the bathtub is not a transition she loves. It's warm in the tub, and fun. It's cold in the bathroom, and getting out involves the work of getting dressed. If I just announce, "It's time to get out of the tub," I will surely encounter some resistance which, true, can be overcome by the force of the necessity of obedience, the threat (and the carryout) of discipline, and the like. But who wants to deal with all that at 7:00 in the evening, the time when my mind and body are crashing?
So instead, this is what I say. I kid you not, it works every time. "Zoe, are you an animal in a trap?" She nods shyly. "Oh, little animal," I say, "can you get out of that trap all by yourself, or do you need help?" Suddenly, that little animal shows me the way to get out of the trap/bathtub, slowly and carefully, and into the snuggly towel and the waiting arms of her Mama. I exclaim that it is such a clever little animal I have! She reveals to me what kind of animal she is, and we are both very pleased with ourselves.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Strong-Willed
Exhibit 7,182:
"I brang it in the car with me, and I brang it to the store."
"I 'brought' it, Emma."
"I like my sentences the way they are. And I don't need any corrections."
"I brang it in the car with me, and I brang it to the store."
"I 'brought' it, Emma."
"I like my sentences the way they are. And I don't need any corrections."
Friday, September 19, 2008
A Band Aid for Mommy
At our routine check-up this week, the pediatrician suggested some early allergy testing for my son, based on issues he's had since very early infancy. So, at the end of the appointment, I dutifully walked Evan down the long hall to the lab.
He needed two shots (just regularly scheduled immunizations) and a blood draw for the allergist. The phlebotomist prepared to do the blood draw first. I think it is fair to say that no parent has an easy time watching their child undergo a medical procedure. I have always suffered a bit when Evan has to get a shot. But, I have suffered bravely and silently, all the while holding my little boy, singing to him, whispering gently in his ear, telling him, "It's alright."
This would, I assumed, be no different. And, after all, I assured myself as the phlebotomist twisted a tight rubber band around my son's tiny and now strangely bulging arm, I am used to this sort of stuff. Prior to being an at-home mom I was the administrator of a hospital unit. Medical procedures are not foreign to me. Blood and needles do not make me squeamish. So, mentally fortified, I followed the phlebotomist's instructions and bear-hugged Evan on my lap, while she began injecting him to find a vein and another nurse held his legs still. I hugged him and hummed to him while she searched...and searched...and searched, the needle under his skin being poked one way and then another. My poor child screamed in anger and pain and I hummed on, determined to be calm and strong. After all, this was a necessary test. The phlebotomist was unable to get a draw and had to pull the needle out.
I spent about ten minutes calming Evan, while she prepared a second needle and talked with a nurse about a different injection site. He was nearly inconsolable, but was finally able to regain his composure. We sat again. The rubber band was pinched around his arm, the needle was jabbed under his skin and pushed and pulled in every direction. I was holding his top half while a nurse held his bottom half and all the while he writhed with all of his strength, trying to get away.
I couldn't hum this time. The lump in my throat was growing too big. I hadn't had enough time to mentally fortify myself for this second round and it was getting to be too much for me. The phlebotomist met my eye as she continued to unsuccessfully poke and prod.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
Her kindness was the last straw. I felt tears spill over onto my cheeks. My baby sobbed on my lap and I silently dripped tears onto his soft little head.
Finally it was over. She pulled the needle out and conceded defeat. We would need to forgo the testing, or find another way on some other day, to draw the blood.
Again, I worked to calm my baby. No time for my own tears now, I paced and distracted with all my might and again, he slowly soothed.
And, again, we had to sit in that awful chair. We still needed the vaccinations and they couldn't wait. Mercifully, these were two quick shots. Nonethless, Evan screamed with all of his might, so traumatized at this point that even looking at the phlebotomist set him off.
When we left the office, he was still sniffling. But, within an hour of returning home, with a dose of baby Tylenol working its magic and a yummy feeding completed, he was back to his happy self. It was then that he noticed the brightly colored, cartoon-covered band aids that had been placed on his arm and hand. He immediately pulled one off and tried to eat it. So, I knew he was doing just fine.
I, on the other hand, felt like I needed a back rub, a glass of wine and bed. Or, at the very least, a brightly colored band aid of my own.
He needed two shots (just regularly scheduled immunizations) and a blood draw for the allergist. The phlebotomist prepared to do the blood draw first. I think it is fair to say that no parent has an easy time watching their child undergo a medical procedure. I have always suffered a bit when Evan has to get a shot. But, I have suffered bravely and silently, all the while holding my little boy, singing to him, whispering gently in his ear, telling him, "It's alright."
This would, I assumed, be no different. And, after all, I assured myself as the phlebotomist twisted a tight rubber band around my son's tiny and now strangely bulging arm, I am used to this sort of stuff. Prior to being an at-home mom I was the administrator of a hospital unit. Medical procedures are not foreign to me. Blood and needles do not make me squeamish. So, mentally fortified, I followed the phlebotomist's instructions and bear-hugged Evan on my lap, while she began injecting him to find a vein and another nurse held his legs still. I hugged him and hummed to him while she searched...and searched...and searched, the needle under his skin being poked one way and then another. My poor child screamed in anger and pain and I hummed on, determined to be calm and strong. After all, this was a necessary test. The phlebotomist was unable to get a draw and had to pull the needle out.
I spent about ten minutes calming Evan, while she prepared a second needle and talked with a nurse about a different injection site. He was nearly inconsolable, but was finally able to regain his composure. We sat again. The rubber band was pinched around his arm, the needle was jabbed under his skin and pushed and pulled in every direction. I was holding his top half while a nurse held his bottom half and all the while he writhed with all of his strength, trying to get away.
I couldn't hum this time. The lump in my throat was growing too big. I hadn't had enough time to mentally fortify myself for this second round and it was getting to be too much for me. The phlebotomist met my eye as she continued to unsuccessfully poke and prod.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
Her kindness was the last straw. I felt tears spill over onto my cheeks. My baby sobbed on my lap and I silently dripped tears onto his soft little head.
Finally it was over. She pulled the needle out and conceded defeat. We would need to forgo the testing, or find another way on some other day, to draw the blood.
Again, I worked to calm my baby. No time for my own tears now, I paced and distracted with all my might and again, he slowly soothed.
And, again, we had to sit in that awful chair. We still needed the vaccinations and they couldn't wait. Mercifully, these were two quick shots. Nonethless, Evan screamed with all of his might, so traumatized at this point that even looking at the phlebotomist set him off.
When we left the office, he was still sniffling. But, within an hour of returning home, with a dose of baby Tylenol working its magic and a yummy feeding completed, he was back to his happy self. It was then that he noticed the brightly colored, cartoon-covered band aids that had been placed on his arm and hand. He immediately pulled one off and tried to eat it. So, I knew he was doing just fine.
I, on the other hand, felt like I needed a back rub, a glass of wine and bed. Or, at the very least, a brightly colored band aid of my own.
Like Riding a Bike
I'm willing to bet bike training wheels rank among the top ten most-used metaphors for learning life's lessons. Well, we took Luke's off this week, so get ready for one more...
When Luke started asking to take his training wheels off last spring, I said Let's wait 'til summer when Dad can help you. I have neither the patience nor the stomach for teaching bike-riding. No, when it comes to patient encouragement and seeing our son take life's hard knocks, that's Dad's department. And since Dad's a teacher, summer's just the thing for such adventures.
But as we all remember full well from our school days, summer comes and goes all too quickly...and for whatever reason, the training wheels stayed on. Luke wasn't upset, though, as he wasn't yet too attached to the idea of taking them off. Only one friend with whom he regularly rides had his training wheels off, after all. But then the weather started to get cooler, and the neighborhood bikers started to reemerge. And Luke's next-door friend took her training wheels off...and the across-the-street friend. And everyone was practicing on the nice, flat sidewalk right in front of our house. Motivation returned.
So Saturday came, and Dad did the deed. The wheels came off. At this point in the story, it helps to know something about Luke: he's not much of a daredevil. Which is why he and I clash when it comes to things like bike riding, because, of course, I am. But not Luke: he's cautious until he's confident,; he's careful and easily shaken. Which is not to say low-key or not rambunctious, of course. But he'll never be the first to leap off the top of the jungle gym, a quality for which I'm usually very grateful.
Until I try to teach him something like swimming or somersaults or...riding a bike.
So Dad--not I--took him out Saturday morning. I dragged my wishing-I-could-sleep-in self out of bed and dutifully headed out to the porch with the camera, while Dad broke his back running up and down and up and down and up and down the sidewalk, carrying practically the entire weight of the bike and Luke. I give them both credit: Dad was calm and patient as usual, and Luke was unusually brave and determined. The verdict after lesson number one, in Dad's words: "It's going to be a while."
Then Monday came, and with it a busy work-week for Dad. And the dilemma: Luke wanted to practice riding his bike. Dad's not much help when he rarely gets home before bedtime, so all Luke had left was impatient, why-are-you-so-chicken, I-can't-stand-to-send-my-baby-out-to-get-hurt Mom.
Fast forward to Friday morning:
Dad hasn't even seen him yet. No trauma--for him or me!--and no serious injuries (yet, knock on wood). From Monday afternoon, when I discovered I could hold the seat just gently; to Wednesday, when all he needed was a little shove to get started and a shouted reminder to brake! ; to Friday morning, when we hit the bike trail with Eliza in stroller in tow. He's confident and not terrified, I've experienced very little frustration, and we've both had a really great week. I've even been grateful for the falls I've seen him take and for the things he's learned from each one (particularly that brake! thing) that I couldn't have explained to him without him experiencing them.
Here comes the metaphor; you could feel it, couldn't you?
I'm learning something about what God must feel like about this whole free will thing. At some point, He takes off our training wheels and gives us a push. Sure, He has taught us how to pedal and how to steer; sure, He'll give us a boost back onto the seat if we ask, or encourage us to keep trying to climb up there; sure, He may call out brake! when He sees the crack in the sidewalk or the prickly thornbushes as we veer off the path. And for sure He's calling out encouraging words and giving high fives for a ride well ridden.
But like any parent, I think He knows there are things He can tell us and other things we just have to learn along the way. I think we do frustrate Him sometimes when we make the same mistakes over and over and over again. I think He does hurt for us when we don't brake in time to avoid the thornbushes. And of course He doesn't want us to hurt, doesn't want us to have to learn the hard way. But saying Don't forget to brake or you're going to get hurt doesn't make nearly the same impression as crashing into the thornbushes because we forgot to brake.
Can I take all the hard knocks out of Luke's life? Of course not. And I think I'm beginning to understand why God doesn't take all the hard knocks out of ours, either. There's a lot to be learned from the cracks in the sidewalk and the thornbushes along the path.
When Luke started asking to take his training wheels off last spring, I said Let's wait 'til summer when Dad can help you. I have neither the patience nor the stomach for teaching bike-riding. No, when it comes to patient encouragement and seeing our son take life's hard knocks, that's Dad's department. And since Dad's a teacher, summer's just the thing for such adventures.
But as we all remember full well from our school days, summer comes and goes all too quickly...and for whatever reason, the training wheels stayed on. Luke wasn't upset, though, as he wasn't yet too attached to the idea of taking them off. Only one friend with whom he regularly rides had his training wheels off, after all. But then the weather started to get cooler, and the neighborhood bikers started to reemerge. And Luke's next-door friend took her training wheels off...and the across-the-street friend. And everyone was practicing on the nice, flat sidewalk right in front of our house. Motivation returned.
So Saturday came, and Dad did the deed. The wheels came off. At this point in the story, it helps to know something about Luke: he's not much of a daredevil. Which is why he and I clash when it comes to things like bike riding, because, of course, I am. But not Luke: he's cautious until he's confident,; he's careful and easily shaken. Which is not to say low-key or not rambunctious, of course. But he'll never be the first to leap off the top of the jungle gym, a quality for which I'm usually very grateful.
Until I try to teach him something like swimming or somersaults or...riding a bike.
So Dad--not I--took him out Saturday morning. I dragged my wishing-I-could-sleep-in self out of bed and dutifully headed out to the porch with the camera, while Dad broke his back running up and down and up and down and up and down the sidewalk, carrying practically the entire weight of the bike and Luke. I give them both credit: Dad was calm and patient as usual, and Luke was unusually brave and determined. The verdict after lesson number one, in Dad's words: "It's going to be a while."
Then Monday came, and with it a busy work-week for Dad. And the dilemma: Luke wanted to practice riding his bike. Dad's not much help when he rarely gets home before bedtime, so all Luke had left was impatient, why-are-you-so-chicken, I-can't-stand-to-send-my-baby-out-to-get-hurt Mom.
Fast forward to Friday morning:
Dad hasn't even seen him yet. No trauma--for him or me!--and no serious injuries (yet, knock on wood). From Monday afternoon, when I discovered I could hold the seat just gently; to Wednesday, when all he needed was a little shove to get started and a shouted reminder to brake! ; to Friday morning, when we hit the bike trail with Eliza in stroller in tow. He's confident and not terrified, I've experienced very little frustration, and we've both had a really great week. I've even been grateful for the falls I've seen him take and for the things he's learned from each one (particularly that brake! thing) that I couldn't have explained to him without him experiencing them.
Here comes the metaphor; you could feel it, couldn't you?
I'm learning something about what God must feel like about this whole free will thing. At some point, He takes off our training wheels and gives us a push. Sure, He has taught us how to pedal and how to steer; sure, He'll give us a boost back onto the seat if we ask, or encourage us to keep trying to climb up there; sure, He may call out brake! when He sees the crack in the sidewalk or the prickly thornbushes as we veer off the path. And for sure He's calling out encouraging words and giving high fives for a ride well ridden.
But like any parent, I think He knows there are things He can tell us and other things we just have to learn along the way. I think we do frustrate Him sometimes when we make the same mistakes over and over and over again. I think He does hurt for us when we don't brake in time to avoid the thornbushes. And of course He doesn't want us to hurt, doesn't want us to have to learn the hard way. But saying Don't forget to brake or you're going to get hurt doesn't make nearly the same impression as crashing into the thornbushes because we forgot to brake.
Can I take all the hard knocks out of Luke's life? Of course not. And I think I'm beginning to understand why God doesn't take all the hard knocks out of ours, either. There's a lot to be learned from the cracks in the sidewalk and the thornbushes along the path.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A Delightful Day
It really was a delightful day today. Daddy brought Davis to preschool this morning, and Emma Kate took a long nap. Zoe and I passed the time playing "birthday," working with playdoh, chatting, and reading books, all with the screen door open so we could hear the rain falling and the cool breeze blowing-- the first cool air we've felt in a long time!
We dashed out the door just as the deluge started, outfitted in boots and raincoats, to go pick up Big Brother. Soaking wet, we arrived home again to change into "cozy pants." We had a picnic lunch on the playroom floor since we had to cancel our plans for a picnic with friends. Then it was time for naps.
At the end of naps, we made chocolate chip cookies and turned on Mary Poppins. The kids had never seen it before, and they thoroughly enjoyed it. I enjoyed sitting with them, planning our grocery list while they laughed.
And then the magic ended. The movie ended. The rain stopped. It was time for dinner and teeth brushing and pajamas. Many, many quarrels erupted. I spent the last hour and a half of the day mostly disciplining and separating kids.
But I don't want that last bit to color my impression. It really was a delightful day.
We dashed out the door just as the deluge started, outfitted in boots and raincoats, to go pick up Big Brother. Soaking wet, we arrived home again to change into "cozy pants." We had a picnic lunch on the playroom floor since we had to cancel our plans for a picnic with friends. Then it was time for naps.
At the end of naps, we made chocolate chip cookies and turned on Mary Poppins. The kids had never seen it before, and they thoroughly enjoyed it. I enjoyed sitting with them, planning our grocery list while they laughed.
And then the magic ended. The movie ended. The rain stopped. It was time for dinner and teeth brushing and pajamas. Many, many quarrels erupted. I spent the last hour and a half of the day mostly disciplining and separating kids.
But I don't want that last bit to color my impression. It really was a delightful day.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Just for Laughs
The video is too dark (I promise there's a baby in the shadows), and I'm very sorry to subject you to my singing voice...but perhaps you will get a giggle from it nonetheless.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Wisdom and Intuition
It was her first sleep-over invitation, forcing us to confront the line we had drawn some time ago: Absolutely No Sleep-overs Until You Are Eight Years Old. By all accounting, she is seven. Okay, seven and a half, but Still. She is Not Eight.
Yes, the invitation came. A birthday party sleep-over with a very good friend, a friend she only just made this summer but whom she Absolutely Adores. And the friend was turning eight, so surely that should count for something.
"Can't I go, please? Can't I please go? You said I could have a sleep-over when I was seven." (Very Solemn Gaze as Response). "Okay, eight. But I'm almost eight. Can't I go? Please?"
We caved, because we are like that. As much as we would like for intuition and wisdom to guide us, we second-guess that intuition and wisdom All The Time. Why was it we said she must be eight years old for these things? And was it all that important? And isn't this child-- this birthday child who has invited her-- also important? And, oh, how Emma wants to go!
She packed her bag with zeal, even managing to squeeze her pillow into the thing. Pajamas, clean clothes, toothbrush. She was set. She headed out the door with the birthday girl and her mother and only looked back because I called out one last time, "Bye!"
In the end, we were very happy for her to get to go.
Hours later, Bill and I sit on the patio of a favorite restaurant. The boys are with a baby-sitter, Emma is at her sleep-over. We have seen The Dark Knight; we have eaten our appetizers. We are in no hurry for our dinner but are enjoying the night air and the wine and some long-desired, uninterrupted conversation.
The cell phone rings. It is the birthday girl's mother.
Emma has forgotten her bunny. Yes, her sweet pink bunny, the one with her name embroidered near the hem, the one whose ears are worn, whose satin is frayed, whose bluishness at the top of the head comes from sitting in Something Staining a long time ago. She has left it at home and wants that we should bring it to her.
There are All Sorts of Things wrong with this. We are on a date. We are having a good time. We haven't had our dinner and we want to. The bunny is at home. And the girl who is supposed to be enjoying her first sleep-over is sleeping over at a house every bit of a half hour away. We are not going to be taking the bunny to her. No.
And yet.
I can imagine the quaver she feels inside. My confident one, my brave girl who hates to cry and would die before she let it happen. She isn't the sort to bail on a night like this. She will sleep over. But she had Always Intended to be sleeping over With Her Bunny.
Now Emma is on the phone, and Bill hands the phone to me."You left bunny?" I say to her.
"Uh-huh," she says, and her voice is not very strong.
"But I thought you went back upstairs to get her?"
"I did, but then I forgot to get her." Funny the things a mother can hear in her daughter's voice.
"Oh," I say, and "well," I say, and "you were just so excited about the party, weren't you? Of course you forgot bunny. It was kind of easy to do."
"Uh-huh," she says again.
Breezy, is what I am. Calm. Casual. This is not a problem. Not a problem at all.
"Well, don't you worry about bunny," I say. "Bunny will understand. She will be just fine. When I get home, I will go and find her and I will bring her to my bed, and she can sleep with Daddy and me. So you can enjoy the sleep-over and you don't need to worry about her at all. And tomorrow, when you get home, she will be waiting for you."
This sounded very good to Emma Grace. It was, in fact, all she needed to hear. So she went on and enjoyed the sleep-over and got very little sleep, just as one is supposed to do at these things.
And Bunny slept in our room, as promised, and when Emma arrived home the next day, she went in search of her, and found her, as she expected, on her mommy and daddy's bed. I don't think she asked, but I would have told her: bunny slept Just Fine too.
Yes, the invitation came. A birthday party sleep-over with a very good friend, a friend she only just made this summer but whom she Absolutely Adores. And the friend was turning eight, so surely that should count for something.
"Can't I go, please? Can't I please go? You said I could have a sleep-over when I was seven." (Very Solemn Gaze as Response). "Okay, eight. But I'm almost eight. Can't I go? Please?"
We caved, because we are like that. As much as we would like for intuition and wisdom to guide us, we second-guess that intuition and wisdom All The Time. Why was it we said she must be eight years old for these things? And was it all that important? And isn't this child-- this birthday child who has invited her-- also important? And, oh, how Emma wants to go!
She packed her bag with zeal, even managing to squeeze her pillow into the thing. Pajamas, clean clothes, toothbrush. She was set. She headed out the door with the birthday girl and her mother and only looked back because I called out one last time, "Bye!"
In the end, we were very happy for her to get to go.
Hours later, Bill and I sit on the patio of a favorite restaurant. The boys are with a baby-sitter, Emma is at her sleep-over. We have seen The Dark Knight; we have eaten our appetizers. We are in no hurry for our dinner but are enjoying the night air and the wine and some long-desired, uninterrupted conversation.
The cell phone rings. It is the birthday girl's mother.
Emma has forgotten her bunny. Yes, her sweet pink bunny, the one with her name embroidered near the hem, the one whose ears are worn, whose satin is frayed, whose bluishness at the top of the head comes from sitting in Something Staining a long time ago. She has left it at home and wants that we should bring it to her.
There are All Sorts of Things wrong with this. We are on a date. We are having a good time. We haven't had our dinner and we want to. The bunny is at home. And the girl who is supposed to be enjoying her first sleep-over is sleeping over at a house every bit of a half hour away. We are not going to be taking the bunny to her. No.
And yet.
I can imagine the quaver she feels inside. My confident one, my brave girl who hates to cry and would die before she let it happen. She isn't the sort to bail on a night like this. She will sleep over. But she had Always Intended to be sleeping over With Her Bunny.
Now Emma is on the phone, and Bill hands the phone to me."You left bunny?" I say to her.
"Uh-huh," she says, and her voice is not very strong.
"But I thought you went back upstairs to get her?"
"I did, but then I forgot to get her." Funny the things a mother can hear in her daughter's voice.
"Oh," I say, and "well," I say, and "you were just so excited about the party, weren't you? Of course you forgot bunny. It was kind of easy to do."
"Uh-huh," she says again.
Breezy, is what I am. Calm. Casual. This is not a problem. Not a problem at all.
"Well, don't you worry about bunny," I say. "Bunny will understand. She will be just fine. When I get home, I will go and find her and I will bring her to my bed, and she can sleep with Daddy and me. So you can enjoy the sleep-over and you don't need to worry about her at all. And tomorrow, when you get home, she will be waiting for you."
This sounded very good to Emma Grace. It was, in fact, all she needed to hear. So she went on and enjoyed the sleep-over and got very little sleep, just as one is supposed to do at these things.
And Bunny slept in our room, as promised, and when Emma arrived home the next day, she went in search of her, and found her, as she expected, on her mommy and daddy's bed. I don't think she asked, but I would have told her: bunny slept Just Fine too.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
First Day of Kindergarten
As one of you once said to me, I've been living a blogpost this morning...
No, this isn't the story of how I cried and, of course, Luke didn't, when I dropped him off for his first day of school. No, this isn't about how lonely it was to eat lunch without him for the first time today. That's all true, but that's not it.
The morning started off pretty well. I remembered that he's not allowed to wear open-toed shoes and made sure he had socks and sneakers on. I had something other than a peanut butter sandwich to pack (no PB allowed at his school...sigh), plus remembered to pack a little note with his lunch. I even got a few pictures of the proud kindergartener with backpack and lunchbox and all. So far, so good.
I woke Eliza up, poor girl, just like every morning of preschool last year (why she chooses to sleep only in the morning and not at night I'll never understand). Got everybody in the car with time to spare. Luke almost forgot his backpack (with snack inside), but I caught him before it was too late. So far, great.
Getting in and out of school is less than simple with Eliza. Because of an as-yet undelivered wheelchair (since March--arrgh!), we're using a jogging stroller to cart her around for now. The school, of course, has steps up to the entrance, so we need to use an alternate entrance and wind our way through a small maze of very narrow hallways (with not-so-narrow jogger) clogged with hoardes of first-day kids and moms and dads and siblings-who-don't-need-wheelchairs to find the classroom. Pit stop on the way for our first adventure: Eliza decided to christen the school carpet (along with her clothes and mine). This will come as no surprise to those of you who know Eliza. What may surprise you is that I decided to give her a big stomach-full of water just before we left the house. Why? Chalk it up to sleep-deprived consideration of the relative merits of hydration versus vomit-free clothing. Wrong choice, as now we have neither. Watery vomit contained and cleaned up, and we're moving again. So far, not too bad.
Next stop: required hand-washing at the bathroom. Too, too many people crowding the boys' room for me to maneuver the aforementioned jogger, so we stop at the girls' room. I'm a girl, after all. The other little girl washing her hands is none too thrilled to find Luke there. Oh, well. Clean hands, and we're ready to move again. So far, so close...
More narrow hallway navigation and we arrive at the line of kindergarten cubbies, which, by the way, make the hallway that much narrower. Find Luke's cubby: check. As I set his lunchbox into the cubby, it strikes me that it feels awfully light...no drink. And there, as a friend of mine likes to say, goes Mom of the Year 2008. So, so close.
No drink? Impossible! My mom would never have packed me a lunch with no drink! No, she of the homemade Halloween costumes and Christmas presents couldn't possibly forget something so essential. I forgot my lunch plenty of times, but Mom? Never. But I did it. Day one, and no drink. Now surely he could just get a drink from the fountain or even use a paper cup from the teacher...but I can't be that mom. That mom who forgets a drink on day one. No, I have standards to live up to, and high ones, too (thanks, Mom). My head begins to swim: drop Luke off (without mentioning the missing drink, of course), swim upstream again with Eliza, get her back in the car, drive home, get a drink, drive back to school, get Eliza back in the jogger (all before 9:45 when the school doors are locked), navigate the hallways again, drop off the drink, and slink off in hopes that my deficiency won't be noticed by the all the other organized-and-certainly-didn't-forget-the-drink moms.
So a teary (mine, not his) goodbye hug and I'm off to the races. Navigate the maze, trek back to the car, begin the process of loading Eliza in...and what do I see but an empty water bottle on the floor of the car. How long has it been there? Not sure. Last washed? Who knows. But Eliza's still in the jogger and the school door's still unlocked and the bathroom has a sink...Never mind it's not the special new water bottle I bought him for the first day. Never mind it's a bottle bearing the logo of my husband's school, which Luke is not attending, after much difficult discussion and some disappointment. Never mind that it may be germy. No, it's not the water bottle I would have chosen in my happy-go-lucky first day of school world. But it's here...and it holds water. So, so good.
And there's always Mom of the Year '09...
After-school update: He reports that he didn't drink his water at all, not one drop, because--get this--he couldn't open the top. I kid you not.
No, this isn't the story of how I cried and, of course, Luke didn't, when I dropped him off for his first day of school. No, this isn't about how lonely it was to eat lunch without him for the first time today. That's all true, but that's not it.
The morning started off pretty well. I remembered that he's not allowed to wear open-toed shoes and made sure he had socks and sneakers on. I had something other than a peanut butter sandwich to pack (no PB allowed at his school...sigh), plus remembered to pack a little note with his lunch. I even got a few pictures of the proud kindergartener with backpack and lunchbox and all. So far, so good.
I woke Eliza up, poor girl, just like every morning of preschool last year (why she chooses to sleep only in the morning and not at night I'll never understand). Got everybody in the car with time to spare. Luke almost forgot his backpack (with snack inside), but I caught him before it was too late. So far, great.
Getting in and out of school is less than simple with Eliza. Because of an as-yet undelivered wheelchair (since March--arrgh!), we're using a jogging stroller to cart her around for now. The school, of course, has steps up to the entrance, so we need to use an alternate entrance and wind our way through a small maze of very narrow hallways (with not-so-narrow jogger) clogged with hoardes of first-day kids and moms and dads and siblings-who-don't-need-wheelchairs to find the classroom. Pit stop on the way for our first adventure: Eliza decided to christen the school carpet (along with her clothes and mine). This will come as no surprise to those of you who know Eliza. What may surprise you is that I decided to give her a big stomach-full of water just before we left the house. Why? Chalk it up to sleep-deprived consideration of the relative merits of hydration versus vomit-free clothing. Wrong choice, as now we have neither. Watery vomit contained and cleaned up, and we're moving again. So far, not too bad.
Next stop: required hand-washing at the bathroom. Too, too many people crowding the boys' room for me to maneuver the aforementioned jogger, so we stop at the girls' room. I'm a girl, after all. The other little girl washing her hands is none too thrilled to find Luke there. Oh, well. Clean hands, and we're ready to move again. So far, so close...
More narrow hallway navigation and we arrive at the line of kindergarten cubbies, which, by the way, make the hallway that much narrower. Find Luke's cubby: check. As I set his lunchbox into the cubby, it strikes me that it feels awfully light...no drink. And there, as a friend of mine likes to say, goes Mom of the Year 2008. So, so close.
No drink? Impossible! My mom would never have packed me a lunch with no drink! No, she of the homemade Halloween costumes and Christmas presents couldn't possibly forget something so essential. I forgot my lunch plenty of times, but Mom? Never. But I did it. Day one, and no drink. Now surely he could just get a drink from the fountain or even use a paper cup from the teacher...but I can't be that mom. That mom who forgets a drink on day one. No, I have standards to live up to, and high ones, too (thanks, Mom). My head begins to swim: drop Luke off (without mentioning the missing drink, of course), swim upstream again with Eliza, get her back in the car, drive home, get a drink, drive back to school, get Eliza back in the jogger (all before 9:45 when the school doors are locked), navigate the hallways again, drop off the drink, and slink off in hopes that my deficiency won't be noticed by the all the other organized-and-certainly-didn't-forget-the-drink moms.
So a teary (mine, not his) goodbye hug and I'm off to the races. Navigate the maze, trek back to the car, begin the process of loading Eliza in...and what do I see but an empty water bottle on the floor of the car. How long has it been there? Not sure. Last washed? Who knows. But Eliza's still in the jogger and the school door's still unlocked and the bathroom has a sink...Never mind it's not the special new water bottle I bought him for the first day. Never mind it's a bottle bearing the logo of my husband's school, which Luke is not attending, after much difficult discussion and some disappointment. Never mind that it may be germy. No, it's not the water bottle I would have chosen in my happy-go-lucky first day of school world. But it's here...and it holds water. So, so good.
And there's always Mom of the Year '09...
After-school update: He reports that he didn't drink his water at all, not one drop, because--get this--he couldn't open the top. I kid you not.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Politics As Usual
My kindergartener just returned from an airplane trip with Dad, which involved a layover in Washington, D.C. He reported that he saw some bobble-head dolls (if only I'd videotaped his impression of "dolls that go like this" as he lacked the name for such fascinating things) of McCain and Obama while waiting in the airport. Our conversation went something like this:
Luke: Who are you voting for, Mom? I'm voting for John McCain.
Me: Oh, you are? How come?
Luke: No, actually, I'm voting for Rock Obama.
Me: Why Obama?
Luke: 'Cause I think he'll be a good president.
Me: What makes you think that?
Luke: I'm sure he's been practicing at home.
I secretly think he's swooning at the name "Rock." What five-year-old boy wouldn't, really?
Ambition
There are lots of reasons I haven't posted in a while, and really none at all...just typical mired-down-in-life and not sure I have anything particularly interesting in my mind, much less to share with anyone else.
So I'll just share a funny moment from dinner. We were talking about what the kids want to be when they grow up. D wants to be a "digger," to drive a big truck and move big, heavy rocks. Zoe? She wants to be a princess at the state fair.
Look out, Miss Cow Manure. Your throne is being challenged.
So I'll just share a funny moment from dinner. We were talking about what the kids want to be when they grow up. D wants to be a "digger," to drive a big truck and move big, heavy rocks. Zoe? She wants to be a princess at the state fair.
Look out, Miss Cow Manure. Your throne is being challenged.
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Blessing of small hands
Ahhh...life with three kids is always interesting. My newest little fellow is only 8 weeks old and has thrown quite a "kink" into my pretty smooth life. I had really gotten into a grove with my 3 and 4 year old and then the baby came along. Once again thrown into sleepless nights, endless diapers, pacing the floor bouncing for all I am worth at 3 in the morning, terrified he is going to wake the other two. The sweet smiles and baby sounds make up for most of the "what have I done to my life adding a third" questions most of the time. But there are those other times ya know...
My 3 year old little girl never has those "other" times. Of course she isn't up all night or changing the diapers but she does listen to her share of screaming and she does get "in a second sweetie, Mommy is nursing the baby" often enough to raise some jealousy. But, no, never. My sweet little girl is always full of love for her little brother. A couple of my favorite examples are:
1. The times that I have sat my baby in his crib nursed, changed, burped, bounced and walked all I can bounce and walk and he is still screaming, and she will stand by his crib while he screams touching his head and saying in her most calming voice, "It is OK little buddy. I am here. I am sorry I don't know what to do for you. Are you tired? Are you hungry? It's OK, don't cry."
2. My very favorite was last week when I dropped her off for her first day of preschool and she told me as she got out of the car, "Be sure to get baby a good nap this morning. He will be getting tired soon." Yes little mother.
I often feel very convicted of my impatience with my smallest child as I watch my daughter love him with no expectations of his returning her affection. She seems to understand that he is little and is just trying to get used to this life much better than I do. I am so thankful for her. She is teaching me how to be a better mother. God uses the least of us.
My 3 year old little girl never has those "other" times. Of course she isn't up all night or changing the diapers but she does listen to her share of screaming and she does get "in a second sweetie, Mommy is nursing the baby" often enough to raise some jealousy. But, no, never. My sweet little girl is always full of love for her little brother. A couple of my favorite examples are:
1. The times that I have sat my baby in his crib nursed, changed, burped, bounced and walked all I can bounce and walk and he is still screaming, and she will stand by his crib while he screams touching his head and saying in her most calming voice, "It is OK little buddy. I am here. I am sorry I don't know what to do for you. Are you tired? Are you hungry? It's OK, don't cry."
2. My very favorite was last week when I dropped her off for her first day of preschool and she told me as she got out of the car, "Be sure to get baby a good nap this morning. He will be getting tired soon." Yes little mother.
I often feel very convicted of my impatience with my smallest child as I watch my daughter love him with no expectations of his returning her affection. She seems to understand that he is little and is just trying to get used to this life much better than I do. I am so thankful for her. She is teaching me how to be a better mother. God uses the least of us.
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