Through and Through

My son never ceases to prove to me that boys are different from girls. From the very beginning he's been louder, more active, and more opinionated.

He's a boy, through and through.

He climbs higher, runs faster and throws more than his sisters ever did. He even pulls hair, so I guess he's ready to sit behind the girl with pigtails in first grade.

His problems come from not moving as fast or as far as he'd like to, which usually leads to a good tumble. Quite a few times I've had strangers gasp as they see him take a fall right on his belly after a mad dash for something. As I watch him I hardly even move, which gets mixed reactions from said strangers, but my boy proves me right as he'll just get up and keep on running to his target, no looking back.

But don't get me wrong. He can cry with the best of them. Usually that's how I know if there is blood involved. He's cut his lip or mouth more times than I can count at this point. And his faceplants over just the last few days have led to no less than 3 nose bleeds. During which he'll scream at the top of his lungs until I distract him with something else. Only then will I be able to clean up the blood dripping down his face.

The funny thing is, compared to the girls, he's my pickiest eater. I don't know how that happened other than the fact that I probably gave in to his demands since he was so loud in making his opinions heard. That, and the fact that I didn't take the time necessary to make him "like" all kinds of foods. It was easier to just keep shoving the same thing I knew he liked into his mouth; all the better to keep him quiet.

Like a lot of his brethren, he'll whine and whimper for food or something to drink until he gets what he wants. Then after he's gorged himself he'll give a big smile and get down to go play. It's one of the few times during the day when he's happy to just go off and explore all on his own, content with even the simplest of toys. I guess it's true what they say about the way to a man's heart is through his belly.

There is one other time during the day when he's happy to go play by himself; it comes along with a strong foul odor. It never fails that just as I'm thinking "boy, he's been off playing nicely by himself for a while now," he'll wander back in to say hi and the stinkies are not far behind. Pun intended.

Like a lot of men I have known in my lifetime, he's happiest after a good meal or a good poop. Better yet, both.

Yup. He's a boy through and through.

Wise One

Today is my middle child's 4th birthday. She's sandwiched between her older sister and her younger brother, and I'm thinking she may be the best one for the job. If my intuitions are correct, I think she'll be the glue that holds them all together.

She is fun and creative and loves to play with her big sister. And she's also silly and active, which makes her well-suited to play and run around with her little brother. On top of it all she is incredibly intuitive, sensitive and expressive, traits that will serve her well as both a younger and an older sibling. She's the only one in the family with both jobs, and I think she's up to the task.

The older my daughter gets, the more I see her colors brightening. She has had to live in the shadow of an older sibling, which has taken it's toll on her throughout the years. She was slow to make friends, since she had one built in right next to her all along. Not to mention all the friends that came along with her big sister, whose names and faces she knew long before she ever made friends her own age.

She was, and still is, slow to make conversation with others because she has had someone else to speak for her all these years. It has only been this past year or two in preschool, when her sister was no longer there, that she has been able to come out of her shell and enjoy making friends and playing along with kids her own age.

All along her spirit has been shining bright. If you didn't know her you might have missed it. She's shy to make eye contact and you'd probably just think she's cute and quiet. But it's in there. A beautiful glowing spirit that you see when you look into her eyes. When I look into her eyes I can feel it.

It's a selfless love and caring for others, fueled by a growing pride in herself. The more of the world that she learns to negotiate, and the more knowledge she gains, the more that pride grows. And I try to feed it every opportunity I can because I know it's still hungry.

She is our sweet little love bug. The one that still loves to cuddle and seek comfort in mommy's arms. The little girl that can turn from tears to laughter in a heartbeat. She is full of passion and not afraid to show it, when she's in her comfort zone that is.

And she's my child that never ceases to stop reminding me so much of me. Not just in the way she looks, which if you ask me is almost a spitting image, but in the way she behaves and negotiates her way through the world. Her compassion and empathy, her moodiness, her love of silliness. I hope she keeps it all and takes it further than me as she journeys through life.

Her name means "wise". Which I think is very appropriate. She truly is wise. One of the definitions of wise is having the ability to discern or judge what is true, right, or lasting. I see a big difference between that and being "smart". Even at just four years old, I can see this trait starting to form in her perceptiveness and keen observations. I hope it holds true.

My little love, here's my birthday wish for you. May you always feel so deeply, run so quickly, and have the freedom to act so silly.

Just in the St. Nick of Time

Tis the season to be busy. And busy. And busier still.

Ever since the calendar flipped to December my mind and my life seem to have been overflowing with need to's, have to's, gotta get to's, and don't have time to's. You may have noticed there aren't too many want to's in there either.

Of course there's the usual holiday madness, which includes but is not limited to, gift shopping, card sending, party going, tip leaving, party contributing, craft making, house decorating, school party planning, tree chopping, family visiting and dinner planning. Then in our house we have two birthdays this month, which include but are not limited to, invitation sending, party planning, gift buying, party planning, cake making, party planning, balloon buying and then some more party planning.

More on the party planning part later, but suffice it to say I went above and beyond this year so that I could get a feel for a possible new career.

So as you can tell, it can be quite busy around here. After all the dishes and laundry and all that other usual crap doesn't happen by itself. All of these must do's ricocheting around my brain are making my mind crack in small fissures, allowing my sanity to slowly slip out. And among the many things oozing into its place are all kinds of noises let loose from my shrieking son, which literally reverberate in my head and force out any bits of sanity I might still have left.

To top it off, I was going to be completely on my own today, with my husband out the door before the kids were out of bed and not home until they were all asleep. Honestly, I wasn't sure I'd have the energy or the attitude for it.

And then this afternoon happened. Just in the nick of time, my children had a completely fun-loving, game-playing, rule-following afternoon with just about no prodding from me.

They laughed and played, never disagreed once, kept the baby happy and occupied, ate all their dinner, got into and out of the bath with almost no nagging, cleaned up the playroom when asked the first time and even had their dirty clothes in the hamper the second they came off their bodies.

And to top it off I had two hilarious moments that maybe wouldn't be so funny to anyone else outside our family, so I won't bore you with the detailed descriptions, but they had me laughing almost to tears with my kids.

There's just nothing better than shared laughter.

Suddenly the stress of it all just melted away. I was going to try to sneak in some late night errands tonight after my husband returned home from his business dinner. It was a last ditch effort to ease some anxiety about what's left on that long list. But he called and said he'd be late, just as I was thinking to myself, who am I kidding? I don't want to go out at 8 o'clock at night to run errands.

This afternoon and evening made me see what is really important. And it let me say to myself, LET IT GO, JESSICA.

Twas truly a christmas miracle.

Lucky Number Seven

Today is my oldest's birthday.

I cannot believe that 7 years ago today she made me a mother. One day I had a huge belly and only my husband to nag (and Enzo too), and the next day, there she was.

A new beautiful face in the world.

She had absolutely no inclination to come out of the womb on her own and had to be coaxed out (thank you Mr. Pitocin) 11 days after her due date.

And she's still stuck to my side, seven years later. She's definitely a momma's girl. Of course it goes without saying (but I'll say it for you anyway hubby) she adores her daddy too.

As a wee one she was always content and sweet, ready and willing to take on the world, so long as I was by her side. I'm happy to say that not much has changed over the years. She is my confident and strong girl, glad to play on her own and even more pleased to play with friends, both old and new. And so far she still loves having me by her side, for which I am thankful since one day in the not-so-distant future that may end.

Her imagination can put even the most creative of us to shame. She weaves stories that become tall tales. She is never happier than when she's playing make-believe games like "family" or "school". And she almost always has an animal or doll lying around the house that is the chosen one for the day or week, complete with it's own name and the recipient of multiple wardrobe changes, plus meals and naps.

As I have made it known before, she can dream big with the best of them.

She is also my most cautious little one. Always has been. And it's not just about following the rules, which she does to a tee, and ensures that others do so as well, lest they be tattled on. She tends to be afraid of getting hurt or too dirty or wet, whatever it is she might be up against. It made for a long wait before we took off the training wheels this summer, and it has also made branching out to new activities a bit of a challenge. On the other hand, it allowed for a lot of pristine hand-me-downs for her little sister.

She is the original wiggle worm in a family full of wiggly worms. Getting her to stay still for any length of time requires video input and room to stretch her legs. I'm guessing my husband and I have hit the millions for the number of times we have said "sit still with your bottom on the seat and your feet in front of you" at the dinner table.

Being a big sister came very naturally to my daughter. She is a nurturer, cuddler and lover. It is only in recent years that her patience with the younger ones has started to wear thin from time to time, as is to be expected. But she is still sweet to them and only rarely upsets the delicate sibling balance that leans so heavily in her favor. This trait is certainly rooted in her natural leadership abilities; she loves to be in charge with only the occasional bout of bossiness.

Ah, my sweet girl. Full of passion that so often is characterized by smiles, laughter and incessant movement.

My birthday wish for you: may you always move with such freedom, dream with such abandon, and love with such enthusiasm.

Processing...Differently

Here's the update on my oldest and her reaction to the loss of our family dog. In short, I'm just chalking it up to her being her own person. We all react differently to things, so I'm going to put this in that bucket and not worry about it anymore.

She has since discussed it more, and a few days after my last post about her, I sparked a bit of conversation with her about Enzo. I had acknowledged that I missed him, and she started asking a series of questions about him, like how old he was when my husband and I got him, and what he was like as a puppy. Of course this may come from her desire for a new puppy, but I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt on this one.

Then she did mention the topic of death quite a bit over the next few days. Never in reference to anyone in particular and never in the context of any anxiety, but it was running through her thoughts and imagination nonetheless. Yet she still never expressed her feelings of loss, or to this day has ever said that she misses him.

A few days after that, we were driving by a graveyard and she pointed to it and said "A graveyard!" with what I thought would be a similar reaction to seeing something sort of exciting, like say, an add for High School Musical 3 on the side of a bus. I guess I should tone that down a bit. She wasn't thrilled, just sort of in awe. She then said she wanted to go in a graveyard sometime.

I told her that maybe the next time we were able to visit my husband's (sort of distant) family in Philadelphia we could go visit Poppy's grave at the graveyard there. My father-in-law passed away three years ago, and we have not yet been back.

Then my younger daughter joined in the conversation at this point and said she didn't want to talk about that, because Poppy is no longer here, and that made her sad.

Now mind you that this is my child who was 9 months old when he passed away, so she has memories of him mostly built on our stories and photographs over the years. And yet she expresses sorrow at this point.

She amazes me.

So I say to her that even though Poppy is not here, he will always live in our hearts because we will always love and miss him. And then I say the same thing about Enzo. At which point my younger daughter says she wants to make a card for Enzo.

My oldest then tells her little sister that she can't give it to him since he's not here, so she asks why she wants to bother making a card for him.

Now here's another kicker. My younger daughter then tells her big sister that she will make it in her heart.

I mean does that tug on your heartstrings or what? I'm assuming she figures if she makes it in her heart, he'll get the card since he's in there too.

{sigh}

Seriously. I just can't get over how in touch she is with her feelings, and how well she expresses it.

Note to self: See the difference...feel the difference...acknowledge the difference.

Today was my final overt attempt to open the topic for conversation. We were at the library and I saw a book about a boy that loses his dog. Albeit not very well written I read it to the girls anyway [it opens with the line "Jim's dog got run over by a garbage truck! And he's smashed all over!" Danny said when he got to school."] I'm not kidding. But it did talk about Jim having a hard time with the loss and not wanting to talk about it with his friends. So I read it.

And I got nothin'. From either one of them.

We return home and the girl that lives across the street was outside, and it occurred to me that we had never told her that Enzo had died. She was one of his biggest fans and I feel horrible about this oversight.

She and another boy from the next street over were in front of our house, and the first question out of their mouths when they saw us walk over was "Where's Enzo?".

We delivered the sad news. Then they both said they found out from another friend of ours in the neighborhood who is in their class at school (and a close friend of my older daughter's). But they said they had a hard time believing it.

The little girl even said that she found out right before her science test and she was so sad during the test she thinks she might have flunked it because she couldn't pay attention.

Note re-written to self: We are all different.

As for me, I moved from the periodically hysterical phase, into the persistent heavy heart stage, which was then followed up with the sporadic heavy sighs phase.

I know in my heart that we will always miss him, even when he's not in our immediate thoughts.

And even if we don't say it out loud.

Time Warp

Normally, as most of you regular readers know, I try to keep my blog centered around my life with my children. The lessons they teach me every day have become valuable tools to my survival as a mother of three. I enjoy working through the process as I write, and also sharing the knowledge with and garnering support from my readers.

This post also provides me an opportunity to work through an experience, but it's not about my kids. This post is about grappling with the past while having fun in the present. It's the philosophical discovery that the memories I have been harboring for the past couple of decades tend to favor the fun and positive and let go of the negative. As they should.

Yes, this post is about my 20th high school reunion.

Just like childbirth, my memories have shifted and faded over time. Over the years I have let go of the anguish and insecurities in high school and my mind has chosen to remember the fun and friends, the parties and dances, living large and proud. I really did have a great time in the 80's. I conveniently forgot that those years were also peppered with some insecurities anchored deep in teenage angst.

The second I walked into our reunion on this past Saturday night, I was walking right back into the quad, the heartbeat of our high school, and those old prickly self-doubts resurfaced. One by one they poked little holes in my inflated memories of those years.

I remembered that I always worried about what the guys thought of me. I knew in those years that I looked good and acted nice, but was it good enough and nice enough? I remembered the waiting around for a guy to ask me to a school dance during those first couple of years without a boyfriend, wondering if I would even have a date, as the days ticked away getting closer to those impending Friday nights. I remembered that I always had insecurities about my twin sister being the pretty one, and me being...the...what? What was I? The funny one, perhaps. The nice one. Not that she isn't funny and nice, but I had to focus on something to get through those years and that angst.

So now here I am, a happy and confident adult, walking into a room full of very nice people. We were all there just to say hi and see how everyone is doing. In the end we all wanted the same thing: a night of fun and reminiscing.

But by the end of the night I found myself haunted by those same old questions. Did I say "hi" to enough people? Should I have been friendlier to people, even those that I may never see again in my lifetime? Did I look good enough?

I suppose we are all still our teenage selves inside. It's a part of who we are.

In the end we can't pick and choose what we get to have back from the past. It all comes together as a package, so we have to open it up and dig through it all. Some of the pieces that were broken back then have mended over the years, but it doesn't mean there aren't any cracks. Slight glimpses of what used to be, still lurking among it all.

The inner teenagers did seem to come out in many of us that night. For some it meant that the sense of humor that was so famous back in the day came back out in full force. And for others it meant rallying some of us to the dance floor to have some fun, like the good old days at a prep rally. And others stayed by the sidelines a bit, just watching the scene, not sure of where they fit in.

For me it meant staying close to my posse of friends, and never far from my husband, a trooper of a man left for quite a while to entertain himself with the other reunion widows.

Overall I enjoyed the night. I spent time with my closest friends, whom I still love and treasure to this day. I tried my best to branch out and talk to others, but in the end I wasn't sure it was enough. I looked and felt great. But was it enough?

As much as I wish I had let go of that insecure little girl inside, tossed her out with the bad hair and shoulder pads, she was still in there.

And just like in the glory days, I managed to have a really fun time, living large and proud, yet still plagued with a few doubts.

Thus the process begins again, letting go of the negative, holding on to the fun.

Processing

First off, thanks to everyone that has given me their virtual hugs and support since we lost Enzo. It's nice to remember how many laps he lied on and cheeks he licked, whether you wanted him to or not.

We are still processing in our family. My husband and I have been much more affected by this loss, as I would have expected. And we have been wonderful support for each other, drying our tears as we talk about how strange and sad it is not to have him around anymore. It's truly amazing how much your mind and muscles have their own memories, and you have to stop yourself every time you go to do something for him, and he's not there.

As for the kids, I am seeing the reaction I thought I would see from my younger daughter. She's still at that age where she will talk about things and yet it is somehow still distant and not as much of a tear jerker for her. More on that in a minute.

I am not, however, seeing the response I thought I would see from our oldest. She seems to not be processing this loss at all, which worries me. Looking at it from my counseling and professional perspective, I feel like she is shutting out the sadness and not giving it a voice or any recognition. She questions why people say things like "I'll always love Enzo" when he's not around anymore. As if our love should die with him.

And she has hardly said a word about it at all since it happened. I'm getting concerned. I recognize that we are all different and process things differently. I just want to make sure there isn't a lot of sadness welling up inside, waiting to explode. Or worse yet, turn into anger. I tried to explain this to her this morning.

My younger daughter brought up Enzo yet again this morning as we were leaving the house. My three-almost-four-year-old was the one that mentioned him at least a dozen times during the day or two after his death. She started off by acknowledging that he was gone so we didn't need this or that anymore around the house. She just matter-of-factly stated it, in a sweet way that was her method of continually processing what was very real to all of us.

More specifically, on the morning after she found out, my younger daughter came downstairs to breakfast with a picture of him that she had drawn. Eerily, she drew it on black paper. This piece of mourning was a drawing of her and Enzo together. In the middle of Enzo's chest she had put a heart sticker. Then she told me that he had sad eyes, because she thought he was sad when he died. This all brought tears to my eyes, but I contained myself as I have been trying to do around the children. We then had a very nice talk about how we miss him and still love him.

I mean seriously. I don't know if I can take credit for her passion and empathy, but she reminds me so much of myself when I think about it. We both swing hot and cold at the drop of a hat (oh, how I loathe her tantrums), and her sensitivity and insight at her age continually amazes me.

So this morning my younger daughter says she had a dream about Enzo last night. She says "Isn't that silly? He's not even here anymore but I had a dream about him."

I say that it is great that he visited her in her dreams, and that it just means that she misses him.

My older daughter then says that she never thinks about him. And she doesn't say it meanly, just like it's the right answer; like now that he's gone, she's supposed to move on, so that's what she's doing.

I take this opportunity to try to talk about feelings and how it's good to talk about them. I explained that if we get too much of one kind of feeling we can get out of balance. I also say that sometimes when we have too much sadness in us and we don't let it out, it can turn into anger.

She questions this, as she likely should, so I try to explain it a little more, but I don't do a very good job. We are trying to get out the door and I'm on my own with the three little ones, so the whole subject gets sidelined.

Every day I have been trying to prompt her to talk about it, but I'm not getting anywhere. I ask her if it makes her sad, and she just doesn't really go there. I ask her if she misses him and she just gives a little "uh-huh" type answer. I don't push it too far; just once or twice a day I ask about him when the topic comes up.

Since it's in my nature to talk about everything well past the point of enough-is-enough, I have to be careful around this one. But I do think it deserves some attention, so I will continue to nurture it, hoping for a breakthrough.

In the meantime, I hope he comes back to visit us all in our dreams.

I really want to give him another hug and kiss.

Goodbye Old Friend

This week our family had to say goodbye to our dog Enzo. And it was harder than I had ever imagined it would be. Not that you can really prepare yourself for something like this.

Just looking at this picture while I type is giving me a big lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.

We found out a few days ago that he had cancer in his spleen that had spread to his liver, and within 24 hours he had internal bleeding that was incurable. My husband and I were faced with a horrible decision, but a necessary one.

And an experience that I will never forget.

Over the many months that I have been writing this blog, I haven't mentioned him much. But that doesn't mean he wasn't a very present part of our family. In fact there were many times that he was driving me so nuts that I was composing blog entries about him in my head, and titling them "Did I mention we have a dog?". But I knew those blog posts would only have been me complaining about being a pet owner, and I didn't want to go down that road.

The fact is Enzo is the one that first made my husband and I a mom and dad. He was supposed to be my husband's dog as he and I weren't even living together or engaged at the time we got him. But falling in love with his little puppy face was unavoidable.

Over the past eleven years he grew from a hyper puppy to an over-active teenager, then entered adulthood with pride and watched over all the little ones that joined our family after him. Eventually we declared him a senior citizen, complete with gray hair and a bit of a grumpy attitude. In just over a decade he went from our little adorable baby to the patriarch of the family.

We always realized that Enzo was getting less and less attention over the years. We kept saying he was moving farther down the totem pole with each child we added to our growing brood. And we felt a little guilty about that. But I don't think he really noticed. He just had a lot more little hands to pet him and friends to come over and visit. That, and he had a new favorite place for the last seven years: under the high chair.

He was woven into the fabric of our family. Now I see that more than ever. Every time I walk into the house I expect him to be at the door excited to see us. And every time a bit of food drops I have to stop myself from calling him over to gobble it up. I take the kids outside and expect him to be there chasing bubbles or pooping in the neighbor's yard. When we play outside I have an internal alarm that goes off every 4 or 5 minutes to look for him and make sure he's still around our house and not visiting the many friends he has made in our neighborhood over the years.

He was a people lover through and through. He could win over even the most fearful children, giving them kisses on their food-smudged faces. It was because of Enzo that the little girl next door went from being frightened by dogs to being a dog-lover in a matter of a couple years. I fear her parents now have us to thank for her constantly asking to get a dog.

A friend of my husband's said "I don't even like dogs, but I really liked Enzo."

It was just in his nature to win you over, no matter how much you might have been afraid of or annoyed by him.

His so soft ears and big amber eyes.

The way he always thought everyone that came over to our house was here to see him.

His irritating bark at all living beings that walked by our front window.

The sound of him drinking about a billion bowls of water a day.

The way he walked in between your legs and parked himself there for safe keeping.

His love for catching flies or chasing flashing lights.

The way he came running to the kitchen whenever he heard the crinkle of a bag of deli meat.

All the love, energy and chaos that he added to our family.

We will miss it all dearly.

Goodbye old friend.

Playground Trash Talk

It happened again.

Last night my oldest is in the bathtub and she is babbling away with some imaginary friend or something of that nature, and she says "the F word."

She says it just like that. "The F word." As if it was a tag on to some sentence she just uttered.

My husband is walking past the tub right at that moment and I'm on the computer with my back to them. I instantly turn around with huge eyes and a bit of a smirk on my face.

We give each other a quick look that says "now what?".

Just as he's trying to make a quick getaway she asks "What's the F word mean?"

You'll notice she didn't say "what is" the F word, which would mean that she thinks this mystery is all wrapped up in those exact three words. Not in the one actual word that starts with the letter F.

My husband fields the question with another question.

"Where did you hear that?" he asks. Like a pro, that man of mine.

"Some kids at the playground were talking about it. I don't know what it is but I think it's something bad," she says.

And then she just keeps on playing in the tub and sort of changes the subject herself.

We know when to leave well enough alone and not provide any information, especially when none is being pursued.

If only those trash talkin' kids on the playground would do the same.

Until next time.

To Each Her Own

This year at Halloween my younger daughter reminded me, once again, that every child is highly demanding different.

Last week when it was time to try on her costume for a Halloween party, she put it on and tears welled up in her eyes. Who knew that Tinkerbell could be so offensive? She had asked to be Tinkerbell and I picked up what I thought was a very cute and girly Tinkerbell costume at the time. But apparently I was the only one of that opinion.

Well it wasn't really just me. It was my oldest daughter too. Which was part of the problem. I was thinking about things from her point of view and not my younger daughter's, which is the way I've been programmed for (almost) 7 years.

I picked out something that, without thinking about it, would have been perfect for my oldest daughter when she was the same age as her sister. But my younger daughter is a bird of a different tutu. She's not really into all the frill and fluff that a lot of little girls like when they are three or four.

And herein was the problem with the costume. "Too fluffy," she said.

So I altered it and took out some toule. And as I was hacking away at this sweet costume that I paid good money for, I was reminded that this was the third year in a row that I was committing such an act. My mind flashed back to a ladybug fairy outfit that was never even tried on when she was one and a half (and instead she opted for the bunny costume that her older sister wore when she was the same age) and a black cat costume that just wasn't comfortable last year (and rightly so since it was a bit too small despite the right age being listed on the label), so I altered it to be her own black clothes with all the trimmings. I really need to remember this next year.

After the alteration, Tinkerbell was cast aside and laid around on the floor for a few days, awaiting it's rightful wearer. But try as I might, I couldn't get my daughter to even try it on again until the day of Halloween. And then, as I had feared, it was still "too fluffy".

Being that we were due to her school's Halloween party and parade in a half hour, we just went through the ample supply of dress up clothes and picked something else. She chose a ballerina outfit, but true to herself, she picked the one with no fluff at all, just a pretty skirt attached to the leotard. She steered clear of the fluffy tutu that I had made for her sister's costume a few years back, even after giving it a quick try-on.

And off we went to the party and parade. Once again, she stayed true to her personality and, on the same stage where her big sister once sang out proud, she was shy and quiet, rarely looking up for the camera. But this was no surprise to me; she's always been my lovebug that likes to stay close by.

So we skipped out of everything a little early and came home to our safety zone. Upon arriving home, she immediately changed out of her costume and into her puddle-stomping clothes. With a huge smile plastered on her face and giggles that could be heard down the street, she played in the puddles, stomped in the mud and dug in the dirt until it was time to come in for lunch.

That night she was happy to put back on her ballerina outfit and keep things simple. No pomp and circumstance for this girl.

And after a bit of trick-or-treating, she was relieved to be back home where she could give away the candy (thankfully a little faster than she was eating it) and let the party come to her.

To each her own, my love.

Me Need Sleep

Last night was the third night in a row that our younger daughter has chosen to have an issue at two in the morning.

The first night she came into our room in a fury stating that her sister had taken her blanket from her while she was sleeping.

If I'm not mistaken this was also the night that her older sister had already woken us up at midnight, crying while in the bathroom. Lately she has had these "episodes" that come out of nowhere after she gets up to go to the bathroom. It's like she's not even really awake, but she'll be crying and then she'll argue with you if you try to help her or see if she's okay. And there's not a whole lot of room for rationalizing. You have to just get her back to her bed and rub her back, and she'll drop off back to sleep almost instantly. Strange.

So now here we were at two in the morning dealing with another issue. And if I fast forward this story it would include being awoken a third time about an hour later by my mom's dog, whom we were dogsitting. Twas a lovely night.

So my husband checked out the blanket situation and settled things. Of course that was just before I came into her room saying "Just give the blanket back to her!" which really wasn't necessary at that point, but somehow I was in a sleep-deprived fit myself and I needed to chime in.

There are many reasons why I love my husband, but this one ranks right up there toward the top. He's completely taken on the role of middle-of-the-night-issue-handler. He will get up and deal with the kids, in a calm manner no less, and let me stay in bed. I think mostly he does this because he knows what a bee-ach I can be if I don't get my beauty rest. And many times when I have to get up and deal with a completely inane reason for being awake, I get a wee bit ticked off and come back into the room fuming and unable to fall back asleep. Over the years he's figured out that he's better off handling the situation himself instead of being cursed at upon my return to bed. He's a smart one, that husband.

Plus he can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Almost every time he gets up, he deals with whatever is going on, then gets back into bed and falls asleep within seconds. Usually before I've even gone back to sleep, even when I wasn't the one getting up to deal with the issue.

So the next night that our little girlie woke up, she came into our room saying that it was too dark. Never mind the fact that it was the same as it has been every single night for the last, say, two years. This time my husband went and turned on the bathroom light, even though the night light was already on, and then put her back to bed.

Then last night she came into our room and said she needed her back rubbed.

Now, come on.

Really? A back rub? Gee, I'd love one too. BUT NOT AT TWO IN THE MORNING!

I have a feeling she has now reset the little clock in her adorable little head and it is going off at the same time every night. And the result is an inability to get back to sleep, so she comes to us looking for a little help.

I know the feeling.

Now it's clock resetting time. I'm not sure what bribery I'll come up with this time, but whatever it is it better damn well work.

Me need sleep.

Practice Makes Perfect

Last week my oldest and I were talking about what activities she might want to participate in for the winter. Her weekly tennis lessons are over soon, and since she thinks they are "boring" I figured we better start lining up something new and a little more up her alley.

We didn't sign up for soccer this fall because she said she wasn't interested. I revisited the idea when we were talking about different sports. Not that she could do it until next year, but I asked about it anyway. Her reply was that she liked the soccer camp she did last summer, but it was "boring".

There it was again. That word.

When I poked around a little I found out that she thought it was so "boring" because you didn't actually play any other teams. She wanted some game time action and all they did were drills.

I explained that practice is where you learn what to do in a game. I tried to emphasize that you won't know when and where to take the ball during the game if you don't practice first. She still didn't seem sold but at least she bought the idea a little.

Then she asked about playing softball. I liked this idea since I played it a little when I was growing up, and I think it's a great team sport. So I looked into it the next day and explained to her what I knew about the season. Practices start in February, games start in March and are every Saturday through April.

"So if we start practice in February, how long do I have to wait until we play a game?" she asks.

Here we go again.

This time I started asking her about the sport and how it's played. She had some answers but it was clear that her main idea of the sport revolved around hitting the ball, which she loves to do. I explained quite a bit of the game and she seemed to catch on pretty quick.

But she still wanted to know how much they have to practice.

"If you don't practice, how are you going to know how to catch the ball with a mitt? How are you going to know where to throw the ball when it is hit to you during a game? And will you know where to run?" I asked her.

She conceeded and said she'd still like to play, even with all that practice time. Apparently she's never heard the phrase "practice makes perfect". She thinks you go out there and automatically know what to do, or else figure it out along the way. Which means she's in for a big surprise.

And a surprise is exactly what she got a few days later.

This past weekend we had her friends over for a sleepover, and they all wanted to ride their bikes around outside. This gets a little tricky since her friends have been riding a lot and are now proficient without the training wheels. On the other hand, my daughter learned to ride the bike without training wheels in late August, but is still hesitant to practice and we haven't really pushed her. The result is that she can pretty much ride fine in a straight line, but when it comes to turning, and sometimes stopping, she gets nervous and tends to fall or need help.

Now you see where this is going.

After a few minutes outside with her friends, and my husband helping her, I hear her run inside crying. I go find her and she is already a pint of tears and a few shrills into a major tantrum. I try talking to her, but she escalates so fast that within seconds she is saying that she hates herself and she hates that she can't ride her bike. And she wants nothing to do with me.

Now I have to fight through my own pain of hearing her in such despair and try to rebuild this crumbling bit of foundation in front of me. I explain that we haven't helped her practice and it's our fault too that she's not as far along as she wants to be. But I also note that it's okay if you aren't as good at something as someone else and it's all still fun as long as we keep trying. She of course wants none of this reasoning and continues right along with her tantrum.

"I want to be able to ride my bike like them RIGHT NOW!" she yells with fury. "I want it all to magically happen NOW!"

Yes, she did actually use the word "magically". Which means she knows in her heart that it's not an instant thing and that it does take practice.

Now it's all making sense why she doesn't want to practice anything. She doesn't like not knowing how to do something and all the frustration that comes with it. In her magical thinking, you don't have to deal with that frustration if you just throw yourself into the game.

But alas, you do. In my experience you feel that much more like an incapable nincompoop if you are in the middle of a pressure situation and can't perform. Which is exactly what was happening at that moment.

I finally got her calmed down, but it took a while. This one was a doozie. And in the meantime we had to convince her friends that this sleepover would still be fun, even though their host was in the midst of a meltdown.

Eventually everyone was happy again, watching a movie and eating popcorn. And the rest of the sleepover was a great success.

Case closed, right? Not so.

Now we have to keep moving forward. It's really tempting to just sit in this middle space of not knowing how to do something, like help her through this phase of life, and just ignore it and let time pass and things happen as they may.

But now I realize we we have work to do together. And it starts with me and my husband. We have to teach her that being on the beginning side of the learning curve is okay. She has to learn that there is no getting to the other side without going through the middle.

And I need to get over my own feelings of being a nincompoop because I have not been able to instill in her the sense that it is okay not to be perfect. You see the trick here, right? I have to accept and learn from my own limitations while teaching her to recognize and accept hers.

Once again my children teach me that as hard as we try, there is always more to learn.

Instead of "practice makes perfect" I think we better concentrate on "there is always room for improvement".

Girl Talk

Last night after dinner my daughters both decided it was time for one of their specialties. Chatting.

My older daughter had a cell phone that used to be my husband's. It's no longer charged or connected, so a long time ago it went into the toy box and has been one of the so very many little phones that we have around the house.

As it happens, my younger daughter was at that time playing with her new princess cell phone. Since my oldest wanted that pink phone, she asked to trade. When she was met with a curt "no" from her younger sister, she upped the ante.

"This one has like 8900 movies on it! Don't you want it?!" she said with excitement, holding up the old silver phone with no flashing lights or noises. And yes, she really said eight thousand nine hundred.

First off, I have to marvel at the fact that our kids these days are playing with toy cell phones. Back in our day I'm pretty sure we played with pretend rotary phones, and we were damn excited about them. And if they made sounds or had lights that was a serious upgrade, a phone with which to be reckoned. I mean they weren't even cordless for crying out loud.

Fast forward to today. Nowadays our phones are so savvy that they even play movies. And that's just a normal thing in the world of today's children. Movie-playing, music-rocking, weather-checking, text-sending, google-ready, multi-colored cell phones.

Where is this world headed in our lifetime? How about in theirs?

Okay, back to the story. So my oldest apparently made an offer that couldn't be refused and her younger sister snapped that old boring cell phone out of her hands and gave up the pretty pink phone in exchange.

Then each of them proceeded to chat on their phones for a while. My younger one had a mostly mish-mash conversation with lots of correct phrases in incorrect places. And a few incorrect phrases too. But she looked so cute chattering away on the phone and rolling her eyes around, it didn't really matter.

My older daughter had a conversation with her imaginary friend in which she was so excited because her friend was at graduate school and she was telling her all about it. She's chatting along and then suddenly she says "Hold on a second, I have a call on the other line."

Then she clicks a button and answers the other "call". After a couple of "uh-huh"s and "really?"s she clicks back over to her friend and exclaims that she is going to go to graduate school too, and she starts squealing for joy.

Thatta girl; gotta love the imaginary play that revolves around higher education.

I just watched in amazement as all this panned out. And I thought about how this scene, of the two of them chatting away on their cell phones, was exactly what I was going to be seeing in 8 or 9 years, but with actual people on the other end of the line. And actual cell phones that are going to cost us some moolah.

Of course we are already getting a taste of this girl talk in our house. My almost 7 year old's friends have started calling up the house from time to time to say hi, or to ask for a playdate or a sleepover. Never mind that it's usually completely the wrong time for their requests, as in right before dinner time or bed time.

A lot of the time their parents aren't even aware that they are calling my child. And these kids, including my own, aren't very well versed in conversation etiquette either. There's a lot of long pauses and unanswered questions. I know this because my daughter likes to talk on the speaker phone. It drives me a little crazy sometimes and I have to move the conversation along or make sure that my daughter is at least being polite and paying attention to the person on the other end of the phone.

It's actually gotten to the point in our house that my daughter now jumps for the phone when it rings. She really jumps.

Seriously? Are we here already?

She only answers it when she sees that it's someone she knows, usually my husband or one of a couple of friends that call. But I'm not liking it when I go for the phone and realize she is on the other end, not saying anything, just listening in as I chat with her friends' parents.

Since when do I have to fight for the phone around here?

Since when is everything all about her?

Call me later and we can chat about it.

But be prepared to be screened by a precocious 6 year old that may or may not actually say "hello" when she answers the phone.

Breaking the Bank

Somehow lately we seem to be spending as much money on band-aids as we do, say, on milk. You know, something vital that my children need to grow strong and healthy. And yes, I am referring to the band-aids here, not the milk.

The culprit in this breaking of the bank is my middle child. She is almost four, and apparently she's at the height of her accident-prone days. Which seems to be timed perfectly with her bandage loving days.

Although we also went through this budget-buster phase about three years ago with my oldest. I remember them well, those constant requests for a band-aid, even for the littlest of scrapes that were all but invisible to the naked eye. It seems like every day I would find loose band-aid wrappers and those little waxy strips all over her bathroom. Or every time I picked up a doll I would find a matching set on her knees, or across her face. Sometimes even the stuffed animals got wounded - and those tattoo bandages don't come off of fur too easily, just take my word for it. Back then the boo-boos were abundant, no matter if they were fact or fiction.

Now, here I am again, three years later. Following the trail of wrappers all over again.

Indeed my younger daughter does manage to take some diggers. Her biggest bleeders are the knees, at least one of which has had a band-aid on it since late 2006. So there is a definite need for keeping the medicine cabinet stocked (as much as I'd like to just say "sorry honey, we're all out of band-aids").

Of course she is also magnetically drawn toward getting paper cuts these days too. And I use that term loosely, since any tiny piece of skin that might be dangling a bit is considered a paper cut and is in immediate need of a bandage.

She'll even put a band-aid on a wound that is already healed. If it has the fresh pink skin showing it's still in need of first-aid in her book.

What really kills me is that she CANNOT STAND to take them off. She winces and whines and seems to be in way more pain than she ever was when she first got the injury. Or didn't get it, whichever the case may be.

The result of this fear of taking the band-aid off is that she insists on not interrupting the process. It must happen organically. Which can take a long time with those seriously sticky tattoo type band-aids. A loooong time.

Inevitably, she will have one dangling half off her knee for days, and she will not let me get anywhere near it. It floats off her skin in the water during bathtime and catches on every pair of pants at every potty break. It is practically begging me to pull it off. I mean if the band-aid could talk, I really do think it would ask for a little mercy.

And yet, she will protect it with her life.

I'm hesitant to admit that many a time I have just ripped them off her when she wasn't paying attention. She'll be happily singing along in the tub and - RIP! - I'll take that sucker off. And I always have a good excuse. "It got caught on the washcloth sweetie, I'm so sorry!"

Needless to say she can't stand it, and she is likely to blame my torturous ways for many a lost achievement in life as she grows up.

The other night she had one hanging off when she went to bed. I asked yet again if she wanted me to take it off; I even offered to sing a special song or tell a joke so that she might agree. But no,she wouldn't hear of it.

It had been working towards freedom for at least 2 days already and I still wasn't allowed to touch it. It was barely even hanging on anymore, and I just couldn't take looking at the thing one more day.

So I did the most natural maternal thing I could muster and I waited until she fell asleep.

I went in for my usual bedtime check-in, and she was happily slumbering. I found her knee and eyed up my victim. I wasn't sure if I should go fast or slow, given that she was probably going to stir a bit and I didn't want to miss my chance.

So I went with the fast approach. RIP!

And much to my surprise, she even exclaimed a bit and popped her eyes wide open.

Yikes! I hadn't expected that.

But then thankfully she just rolled over and drifted back off to sleep.

The next morning she found me when she was getting dressed and said "Mommy, my band-aid came off!". I told her it must have come off in her bed while she was sleeping. And sure enough, she went and found it, right where I left it under her sheets.

Then she showed up a minute later and said "Look mommy! I put another one on - it has Tigger on it!"

Fabulous.

Pooh and Tigger tattoo band-aids, Barbie band-aids, neon colored band-aids.

If you've got a boo-boo, come on over. We've got all kinds.

But not for long.

That Kid

I’ve come to realize that my son is that kid.

You know the one. The kind that doesn’t listen to their mothers. That don’t take “no” for an answer. Or like to eat paste and stick things up their noses. Or the ones that like to run into the street with no sense of common fear. Or scream for everything they want.

Yes, I think we all know them well. Whether they are yours (let’s pray together), or the ones you see in the grocery store, or at school, or even at your friend’s house.

Now I get to see one up close and personal. Every day. Because he lives in my house. And he likes to think he’s my son, although I’m not seeing a lot of genetically driven personality similarities.

My girls always had a healthy sense of fear when it came to times where it was appropriate. And they never tried to eat non-edible substances, other than the usual toys and random objects. And they certainly always seemed to know who was in charge around here.

Not so much with my son. In his world he lives large and in charge.

I do everything I can think of so as not to encourage unwanted behaviors. And I have a lot of ideas since I’ve been thinking them for so many years as I watch other parents struggle with those kids.

The lesson here is do not scoff at others lest ye be done reproducing be scoffed at. My most humble apologies go out to all those mothers and fathers that have been in this seat and at whom I have scoffed, smugly thinking all along “my girls don’t do that”.

Now I see the other side. And it’s not pretty.

No matter how many times I tell him “NO!” when he goes running for the street, he still goes full force. So much so that he usually falls down in the street on all fours before I can catch him. He’ll do it over and over again. It wears me out. So I just end up putting him in the back yard, which is closed in. Avoidance is all I have the energy for at this point.

He also fights the changing table. I try to be patient and have fun with him so he’ll lie down and give in. But sometimes I just don’t have it in me, so he gets the left elbow pin-down and I just work as fast as I can, which can be quite tricky when dealing with dirty diapers. Thank goodness I have extra changing pad covers.

He’s become quite physical with other kids his age too. He likes to bear hug kids and tumble over with them, lying on top of them for a good snuggle. But the other kids don’t seem to think of it in those terms for some reason.

Then there’s the oral fixations. He loves to grab the body wash or shampoo containers from the bath tub and suck on the tops of them. If they aren’t open he’ll use his teeth to open them first, then start sucking out the soap or shampoo. Same thing goes for any toothpaste that he can get his hands on. Yummy in his tummy.

He also enjoys the fine delicacy of moisturizing cream. It’s an open container, not the kinds that squirts out, so he usually tries to plunge his whole hand in while I have the top off. His persistence always pays off and he’ll get a bunch on his fingers, which he then proceeds to lick off. And occasionally spit out. I’m teaching him to rub it on his arms and legs, which is working, but he usually likes to taste-test it first.

And there is also this thing he has for string and hair. For some reason he loves to put little strings in his mouth. You know the kind that you’ll find on the floor that fell off some garment you were wearing? Those are the ones he likes best; nice and little so they fit right in. Or any type of confetti or tinsel will do as well. I had no idea how much of that crap we have around the house, and apparently he knows where it all is. He doesn’t ingest any of these things. It’s just his attempt at some rare form of unpatented chewing gum. He chomps away on them and eventually spits them out or gives them to me, all covered in slobber.

Lately he’s showing a preference for hair. Yes, hair. Human hair. The type that he pulls off his sister’s head by the handful, just so he can try to put some in his mouth.

Enough said.

But there is hope. He’s getting much better in other areas.

As I’ve mentioned before he has been quite a screamer. But now, in the mornings, he just babbles to himself in his crib until we come in to get him. Of course we don’t let it go for more than 10 or 15 minutes just in case it escalates. No sense in rocking the boat now that we’ve finally got it docked.

And he’s much better at breakfast time too. He’ll more readily eat in his chair or go play when he’s done. Almost no screaming involved whatsoever.

He now has more words, which he will use most of the time, even if at an elevated noise level or pitch.

Plus he still has his whole snuggly thing working in his favor as well.

Luckily for us all, his constant giveaway of hugs and kisses and his increasingly amazing intellect shed light on the boy living on the other side of the tunnel.

Which is a good thing. We need a little light around here.

Because sometimes this tunnel feels reeeeeaaaaalllly long.

The Finger

Yes, it is as you think. The dreaded finger. But it’s probably not as bad as you are imagining, so here’s the story.

My 6 year old daughter is supposed to fill out her reading log for school so her teacher can see what she has been reading at home every night, as well as what has been read to her by her parents.

The other night she is filling it out and I am desperately trying to be patient with her as she writes down the titles and the amount of time we spent reading. If you aren’t familiar with it, it is really hard to just sit and watch a person that has just learned to write. There is a whole lot of erasing going on. So much so that you just want to snatch that little pencil away from her and do it yourself. Or at least if you are a control freak like me you do.

So I’m trying to point to places to write things, because letters get all out of proportion and the word “The” takes up so much room that there isn’t enough space left for the other 5 words in the title. And as I’m pointing to the paper, at one point I must have used my middle finger.

My daughter breaks out of her studious mode and starts holding up her middle finger on her right hand and a smirk comes across her face. Although the palm of her hand is facing me, I still sense that something is coming about “the finger”.

She then giggles and says “You shouldn’t use this finger. It’s a bad finger.”

“Why is that?” I ask innocently. “What’s so bad about it?”

“It’s not nice,” she says.

“What’s not nice?” I ask, still avoiding the inevitable.

“It means something not so nice,” she says.

I don’t really know where to go from here, so I just come out and ask it. “What’s it mean?”

“It means you are stupid. Or something like that. Doesn’t it?” she says.

Phew! We narrowly missed that one.

“Who told you that?” I ask. I must know where this is coming from, even if I have no control whatsoever who she plays with at school. At least I will know who to be weary of.

She told me it was one of the girls she plays with whose name she has mentioned before. Yes, a girl. She must have an older sibling or something, or so I like to think.

So be it. The girl is now placed on my suspect list.

I end the conversation with “Well it’s just not the finger we are supposed to point with – we should be using this finger,” I tell her, holding up my index finger.

Thankfully that suffices and she seems embarrassed enough not to push it further. For which I am thankful, because what am I supposed to do now? Teach her what it really means? No thank you.

I'll let that happen in it's own time, the way it's been done all through the years.

So we move on.

Until the next time.

Tick Tock

When my husband and I decided to go for child number three, some people would question me about it.

"Do you really want a third baby? Are you ready?"

My response was always "No, I don't want a third baby, I want a third child."

Don't get me wrong, I love babies. Especially mine. But I wasn't thrilled with the idea of doing it all over again. Breastfeeding, burping, spit up, bottles, diapers...I was past all that with the other two, and the idea of going back was a bit overwhelming.

But I always thought I wanted three kids. I wasn't thinking about the baby part, I was thinking about the kid part. The soccer games and birthday parties, the family ski trips and bicycle rides. You know, what kids do, not what babies do.

So now we fast forward and he's here. That third child. But he's not a child really. He's a baby. A wonderful, over-active, snuggly baby that I adore. Of course I do.

But I still find myself trying to age him. In my mind, a few more times a day than I care to admit, I think to myself how much easier this whole three kids thing will be once he gets to be older. How old? I'm not sure, but my mind usually advances him to at least the age of three.

It's that never-ending ticking of the clock that I catch myself wanting to tick a little faster. Past the age of putting random objects in his mouth, through the stage of crying out full-throttle when he can't get the stroller to move over the objects strewn all over the floor, and right over the back-breaking need to be picked up hundreds of times a day.

It's the same clock that is keeping track of when we can go on our first family vacation without bringing a pack-n-play, diapers, swim floaties, stuffed animals and sippy cups. And when I hear it ticking in those terms, I can't wait for it to speed up a bit.

But then here comes my son. Teaching me to sloooooow doooown.

He just wants to be a baby. No matter what I do to try to age him, he remains true to himself. If I try to give him the same food as us, he often won't eat it if it's on his tray. He wants to be spoon fed. Or I can cut up fresh fruit and give it to him so he feeds himself. But no, he'd rather eat the "baby food" jars that I again spoon-feed him. After all, he is still a baby.

And it's not just me that he's reminding. At our athletic club's day care, he is so active and energetic that they tried to move him to the next room, the one for kids that are 18 months and older. And he was only a little over 14 months old. On the first day that I dropped him off after his graduation, they brought him to the "big room" and all he did was cry. And cry and cry. He wanted his Gloria back (the woman in the pre-toddler room whom he loves and adores) and he wanted nothing to do with this large, overwhelming room designed for big kids. So they moved him back, and he gets to be a baby for a little while longer.

At times I think he can make it longer without a nap because he's getting older, and no, he needs - nay, demands- that extra sleep.

Or I will try to encourage him to socialize with others, especially to say "hi" and "bye" to familiar adults, and he wants none of it. Most of the time he just wants to cling to me, both hands around my neck, face snuggled into my shoulder.

I want him to go play with his toys on his own so I can get my life in gear. But he'll come find me, hiding at the computer. And he'll take my hand, and heart, and literally drag me along, forcing me to join in the fun.

And it is fun. And magical. And so special that I really do need to slow down and smell the diapers roses.

He is my last baby after all, so I shouldn't be wishing it all away in the name of tear-free days and crib-free vacations.

So I have been trying to catch myself, as often as I can, when I see the clock speeding up in my mind, to slow down and live in the moment. Even if that moment is an exhausting, snot-covered, back-aching day.

Because really, the moment, right now, right here, is all we have. We can think about the next thing, plan for the next thing, but we can't make it happen now.

There are no guarantees. Memories of the future are just fantasies until we get there. And why live in a fantasy when I have all my dreams coming true right now?

Plus, it goes without saying that we won't ever get back these moments of time.

Which I know I will be wishing for with all my heart in about 17 years.

Less Than Perfect

Last week my oldest daughter started bringing home her 1st grade homework. Her Kindergarten teacher wasn’t big on homework, so this is a new routine.

She was pretty excited to start this process. The first day she hardly took a breath between getting out of the car and ripping open her backpack to pull out her assignment.

I wonder where that overachiever attitude comes from? Hmmmm…I’ll think about that and get back to you after I’ve worked out a matrix and graphed the possibilities of her genetic inheritances from her parents.

At the end of the week, she completed an assignment and left it on the table. I hadn’t taken the time to read through it with her first, and I noticed some mistakes. I called her over and pointed this out in a gentle way so she could fix it, as endorsed by her teacher who doesn’t want to be sending home all kinds of red-inked papers to 6 year olds.

But this is where the trouble began. She was not happy that I highlighted these imperfections. She wouldn’t even listen to my reasons as to why I wanted her to look at her work again. She just kept telling me “No, you’re wrong! This is how she told us to do it!!” in between all her tears and whining.

I should have read through it with her before she started to try and prevent this situation. But I also recognized that she has to learn that it’s okay to admit mistakes and try to correct them.

So I gave up and we left it as is. I told her we’d let her teacher look at it and find out the answers later.

Today was the day. The red ink day.

Her work came home and sure enough, the two answers were marked wrong. It still had a lovely stamp on it and said “Good Job!” but all my daughter saw were the two red corrections and the “-2”.

The tears started and were soon followed by some hyperventilating and the insistence that she was still correct.

I had to pull her aside and calm her down before I could even talk to her. When she was ready to listen, I explained that it was okay to make mistakes. I told her that’s how we do some of our best learning. And that she still gets a lot of credit for all the hard work and all the other answers. And so on.

She then tells me she doesn’t want to make mistakes and that it’s not fair since I don’t make any mistakes.

Oh how I love the fantastical and innocent thinking of a six year old.

So then I start explaining the concept of grades to her. I tell her about all the different levels involved, and I write out all the letters, including pluses and minuses, so she can see that even with some wrong answers, she can still do great work.

And I tell her that I got good grades, but they weren’t all A+’s like she thinks they were. Then I even tell her that I’ll show her my grades. She looks quite pleased when she realizes that she gets a glimpse into the pre-mommy mommy.

The other day I ran across my transcript from graduate school. I had put it in a safe place so when I decide to go back to work I’ll have it handy for the job application process. I take her with me and we pull out my transcript from the file. I point out the B’s that are listed among the A’s.

I tell her that I’m very proud of my work and that I was happy to get those grades, even the almost-but-not-so-perfect B’s. Then she wants to see an F, but thankfully I didn’t get any of those.

This all sinks in and she agrees that it’s okay to make some mistakes, as long as we try to learn from them.

So this afternoon we sat down and read through her homework together. This time I made sure she understood it before she completed it. And it all went much smoother.

My daughter’s inability to accept being wrong, or less than perfect, was my red ink.

And thankfully I’m still learning from my mistakes too.

More Oysters

As my younger daughter and son were playing around on the kitchen dining chairs, my daughter calls my son "little mister". I think she often hears me call him "mister", so she has adopted the nickname as well.

Which is better than "missy", which she was calling him a few weeks ago. Again, it's what I call her, so she was just using the same term of endearment with him. Until I helped her see the difference. Now we are a bit more gender-appropriate in the household.

She points out this fact by saying "Mom, I called him 'mister'!" and I say "Yup, you did - and you are a 'missy'."

She says "Yes I am! And he's a boy, so he's mister." Then she follows it up with "Boys can climb on chairs."

"Yes, and girls can too," I say.

"Yes. And boys can jump up and down. And so can girls," she says with enthusiasm, jumping up and down to emphasize her point.

"You're right!" I say.

"And boys can run, and so can girls," she says excitedly as she starts to run around.

At this point my oldest daughter pipes in and confidently says what we all saw coming.

"Anyone can do anything they want," she says satisfactorily.

"Well stated," I say with a big smile.

And then my rule-abiding, direction-following oldest child follows it up with "But kids have to ask their parents first."

"Right again, my dear," I say.

So many pearls of wisdom from someone who has the world as her oyster .

Birthday Girl

Today I am 38 years old. And it's been a lovely day.

I had a luxurious breakfast in bed, followed by a little playtime with my kids.

Then I got a little exercise and went out to lunch with friends.

I came home and had some quiet time reading my book.

I followed that up by getting my hair and nails done.

Then I went on a lovely walk at sunset.

Upon returning home I was served a home-cooked meal followed by birthday cake and presents.

All in all, a perfect day.

Fine Print Translation:
My kids and I had breakfast in bed, served by my already exhausted husband (mental note: change the sheets before bedtime). Then my daughters and I tried to find a game we could play without my son stepping on, chewing on, or throwing any pieces; no luck. After that it was time for a birthday party, but not mine. We went to my dear friends' daughter's birthday party at a place I affectionately refer to as Playland on steroids. My younger daughter was a little too intimidated to play with the kids she didn't know, and since her big sister wasn't waiting up for her, I became her playmate. I talked her into what turned out to be a terrifying slide that felt like a runaway train. Another round of saltworks began, to be consoled only by a tickle-fest this time. We then had pizza and birthday cake for lunch before playing a few video games, and returning home rather spent. At that point I tried to sneak away for some quiet time in my bedroom to read my book. I made it through about 7 pages when my younger daughter found me and decided it was time to give me a manicure. She had a very wet spongey paintbrush which she used to "paint" my toenails and finger nails. Then she decided to do my hair with it as well, and even got out the spray-on conditioner, a FULL cup of water, and a comb. It was just like being at the salon. Then I motivated a rather unwilling crowd for a walk around the neighborhood with three-generations and two canines. We came home and I helped my mom get dinner on the table while my husband guided the kids in frosting a cake. After dinner I made a wish and we blew out the candles on my cake. But the Au Pair never showed up.


Happy birthday to me.


More Fine Print: A special shout out to my twin sister. Best birthday wishes to her as well, which goes without saying in our family. Love you tons, sis.

Progress Report

I’m happy to report that my younger daughter is branching out.

As you may remember, her good-byes were wearing me out, and her wariness around anyone that doesn’t live in our home was weighing me down.

So I made a plan and I tried to keep it simple.

First and foremost, pay attention to her. Sounds easy enough, but in this house, and at this age, she became easy to over look.

All the new accomplishments of our older daughter were taking up a lot of space (“She’s reading chapter books! She’s starting 1st grade!”). Not to mention those of our son (“Honey, did you hear him say “car” when he picked up my keys!??! He’s such a genius!”).

She was truly lost in the middle. She has a vast vocabulary already, and she has been at the same preschool for the past almost two years. Not too much new going on there.

So I started really watching her. I showered her with love and attention. I spent a little one-on-one time with her working on things like learning the letters of the alphabet, completing puzzles, playing computer games or building neighborhoods out of blocks.

And I congratulated her every new, and old, accomplishment. I supported and encouraged her in the face of each challenge. In short, I concentrated less on the end result and more on the process.

Again, sounds easy, I know. But with so many other things going on in the house, it was even easier for this kind of attention to fall by the wayside for a while.

We also set up some play dates for her, no big sisters allowed. I put up a sticker/reward chart for her “good good-byes” as we liked to call them. And not to be overlooked, a special shout out goes to my husband, who started taking her to school more, which helped set her up for success with a better ‘mommy good-bye’ at home.

And then it happened. She started to blossom.

At first I thought maybe I was just imagining it. But then I realized she really was growing. Her spirit was getting bigger and stronger, and her sense of pride in herself was becoming almost visible, shining right through those beautiful eyes of hers.

I even caught her one time the other day trying to do something while muttering “you can do it, you can do it” over and over again.

Then yesterday, upon picking her up from school, her teacher told me that she played with all the other girls in her class all day. She said she was running around with them laughing and having a grand old time. And then her teacher said “and she’ll even say good-bye to me, right?” and on cue, my daughter did just that, instead of burying her head into me and playing shy upon leaving like usual.

Today I saw her teacher from last year who had a similar report. “She’s really out there playing with everyone!” she said. “I knew she had it in her. Don’t you worry about that one, she’s a loud one when she wants to be,” she informed me.

Indeed she is.

Look out world, here she comes.

The Memory Game

This weekend I was talking with my mom about my perfect childhood. You see, in my family, as I suspect in many of yours, there is this perpetual myth that my sister and brother and I behaved nicely. All the time. Every day. Since our birth.

So every now and then I question my mom about it to see if I can stir up some repressed memories.

"You really don't remember any of this stuff?" I'll ask, while juggling my fussy son on my lap trying to appease him with any object within reach, my shoulders drenched in tears and my patience wearing thin.

There had to have been some tantrum or fit out in public that she remembers. But no, in her memory, we were perfect children. She said "in those days" children just didn't whine like the kids today.

I beg to differ. I have plenty of memories from grade school (and later) that involve lots of mischief and a few potentially lethal objects being hurled through the air during sibling-rivalry fights, but this isn't really what I'm getting at with these questions. I'm more curious about the toddler years.

But alas, I give up. Who can blame her for not remembering a bunch of little moments from 37 years ago? I can't even remember what I ate for breakfast.

Later on that day I thought about it and realized that's the way it should be. When you reflect back on your life you should just remember the good stuff. What's the point of remembering all the exhaustion of sleepless nights and whining and crying over spilled milk?

We all know that if our memories were that keen, we'd never choose to give birth again after having experienced it once. Except for those of you ladies that thought the whole thing was magical and mystical, and that nothing could be more pure and powerful than giving birth.

In which case I'd say that someone must have slipped a little something into your IV.

So that night, while I was readying my son for bedtime, I had a "moment". I realized that I will definitely remember his wonderful smile, the same one that he gives me every single time I put him in his crib as he is snuggled up on his belly with his blanket under his cheek.

And I will always remember the way he starts (almost) every day. His sweet embrace as he leans in for hugs, resting his soulful head on my shoulder, wanting nothing more than to be loved in return.

I will remember that he is active and strong and loves to be constantly in motion.

These are the slices of time that I will take with me.

And I will very likely forget all the frustrations of skinned knees and toppled chairs, not to mention the bouts of arm wrestling through the grocery store.

Generally speaking, if it's not written down, it's a distant memory, soon to be buried underneath new ones. Even as I strive to keep wonderful memories close at heart, the list grows longer still.

For that reason, this blog is my memory keeper, of both good and bad. It will serve as my storage back-up drive for all the memories that my mind can't quite see anymore.

I can't wait to read back on them in 37 years.