crumbs

I took the couch cushion outside to shake out all the graham cracker crumbs from a certain four-year-old's snack, saying "You're such a little mess-maker!"

I came back inside, replaced the cushion, and my sweet son said, "I'm the mess maker but you're the mess clean it upper."

Nail on the head, little boy.

After School Debriefing

The pick-up line at my son's homeschool program is long and there is a procedure to follow. Pull your minivan up to some cones. Your child spots your car, runs for it, jumps in, and you pull away quickly before he/she is belted so the next minivan can pull in. We homeschoolers live on the edge.

Today, my small son jumps in with great concern. "Mom, Mom, do we have any peas at home?" Momentarily disconcerted by the question, I tune in and mentally rifle through the frozen-vegetable drawer: "Yes, babe, we do."

Then I see that in his hand is a...creation. A cluster of grapes bound in Saran Wrap with toothpicks sticking out of most of the grapes. On the end of each toothpick is a pea. A couple of peas have been lost; thus, the dramatic need for replacement peas.

While making sure I do not collide with another minivan as I pull out and simultaneously supervising the belting of the seat, I ask the obvious question.

"So, what's that you made today?"

Pause. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Did you start a new unit today?"

"Yes."

"So your creation is part of the new study?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know what it is that you made."

"No."

Oh. And from the rear-view mirror, I observe him starting to take the toothpicks out of the grapes, passing the remaining peas-on-toothpicks around for his sisters to enjoy. Then the grapes are unwrapped and passed around, too. As we arrive home, all that is left of this great, if somewhat undefined, educational experience are some toothpicks and a shred of plastic wrap.

Tonight at dinner a thought occurs to him. "Maybe we're studying robots, Mom?"

birthday cake

My son's fourth birthday is approaching in February, and I thought I would give him the opportunity to give me some input on what kind of party he would like. The conversation went something like this:

me: "Benjamin, what kind of birthday party would you like to have when you turn four?"
B: "I don't know."
"Well, think of something you like, maybe."
"I don't know."
"What kind of would you like on the cake?"
"Birthday cake sounds good."
"Well, what picture would you like on the birthday cake?"
"Oh, mama. Or Grandpa B. Grandpa B."

If Not Always, Then At Least Maybe Sometimes

I've always loved reading aloud to my children. I began, in fact, when William was still in utero (yes, I was one of those mothers), but took it up in earnest when he was newborn and we were alone in the house together for hours at a time. Rather than watch mind-numbing television during those many nursing sessions, I cradled him with one arm and held a book with the other and read aloud to him.

We began with the poetry of A.A. Milne-- you know, the creator of Winnie-the-Pooh-- and went on from there to read all of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. I would sometimes laugh out loud as I read those delightful tales, and remember William leaving off nursing to stare at me, wondering why in the world I was laughing.

The reading continued. When nursing a second newborn, reading aloud was the perfect activity for my then two-year-old William, and I employed it again when it was an infant daughter in my arms. Of course by that time I had little ones at each elbow, but it worked well nonetheless.

And reading continued to be The Thing long after nursing. Reading was a major component of our homeschool, an important activity for before bed, a good way to start the day, and a great thing to do when the natives were restless: in those late-in-the-day hours before daddy came home, when the children were overtired and it was too late for a nap, when they had commenced to argue. Remedy? Read. Read, read, read.

It's been harder, in recent years, to do this. School schedules, sports schedules, homework demands mean that I'm not reading to all of them at once and, on some evenings, I'm not reading at all. And then there's the problem of which books to read: how to find something that works for a girl who's eight and a boy who's thirteen, not to mention the newly-eleven-year-old who also has Definite Opinions. Yes, it can be tricky. It can be, in fact, easier not to do it.

To say that this doesn't make me sad would make me a liar; to say that I don't recognize the certain inevitability of it all would do the same.

*sigh*

And then last night they were all being herded towards bed. Bill had gone out for a little bit, the boys were off brushing their teeth, and I was tucking Emma in. And then I saw it, its weary binding peeking out at me among the many selections on Emma's bookcase: The World of Pooh. I decided to give it a try.

The boys were called in; we made space on the bed. And then the four of us lay there and I read aloud Chapter VII In Which "Kanga and Baby Roo Come to the Forest, and Piglet Has a Bath." And my children (some of whom aren't, really, children at all anymore)listened and they listened and they laughed.

We all laughed. We laughed quite hard. The laughing made it difficult, in fact, at Certain Moments, for me to read At All. And when that was over, they asked me to read Certain Moments over again.

This was So Good.

I don't know if we'll keep this up. Not all of the chapters are quite as funny as Chapter VII and, with school starting up tomorrow, we'll be back in the thick of difficult schedules. But I wrote this here for posterity, for maybe (at the very least) me: on January 3, 2010-- despite their ages and some indications to the contrary-- the Stevenson children were not grown up. Not Entirely. Not Yet.

to take your shoes off, or not?

Moms, you know the pain of keeping your house clean, right? Never ending and wearing you out. Well, I wanted to get your thoughts.

I personally think it is rude to wear your shoes in someone's home. Someone's home that they have probably just cleaned up to have you over (even if it is the "fake" clean). I have taught my kids to take off their shoes upon entering someone's home and they always do (in fact they kick them off and they go everywhere which perhaps is just as rude as leaving them on). I have battled with: should I ask people to take off their shoes when they come in my home? should I leave obvious signs that I would prefer that? like a sign that says, "Thank you for removing your shoes." or a basket with a sign on it that says, "I want to hold your shoes for you." or some such thing. I always have my shoes off in my home and generally ask little kids that have just tracked through my very muddy yard to take their shoes off, but feel hesitant to do the same thing to their parents.

Now, I know the argument of "you should care more about the person than your floors", and I do, really, I do. My floors will clean. It is much harder to "clean" hurt feelings. I am good with that. If someone feels strongly about it or you are uncomfortable with your socks or your feet are really diry, then please, feel free to wear your shoes.

So, I have battled this for quite some time. Even before having kids who eat things off of my floor. Is it rude to "encourage" people to take off their shoes, is it rude to just automatically take off my shoes (and my kids shoes) upon entering a home (perhaps they would rather have my dirt then be exposed to the bottom of my feet)? Tell me your thoughts and if you are a "shoe taker offer" like me, then tell me how you deal with it...

Just a mom trying to eliminate the ever increasing need to clean my floors...

boy? or girl?

A few weeks ago I was in the McDonald's drive-thru (yes, it was one of those days when lunch was on the run!) and I was paying the attendant. I should also tell you that Benjamin has been on a "boy or girl" kick these days, desiring to label every person he meets into the appropriate gender.

I never realized that this is sometimes ambiguous. That is, until I was paying the cashier through the drive-thru window and heard Benjamin pipe up from the backseat, "Mama? Is that a girl?"

No, it was not a girl.

Somedays...

I am just not so sure I will survive having a boy....