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.

The Magic is Gone

The other day I was driving home with all my kids in the car and my oldest asks, "How come none of the characters at Disneyland are real?".

Whhhhaaaaaat!? My brain did a screeching halt in the middle of our drive.

She's only six. Well, almost seven, but still, she's six! I'm not ready for all this non-magical thinking. Life is so easy when you get to pretend right along with your kids. It has such an innocence and endless possibility feel to it. I want to make her stay in Neverland and never grow up. After all, she is my first baby.

[Insert heavy sigh here.]

"What do you mean they weren't real?" I ask.

"Well they aren't real animals," she responds.

"What makes you say that?" I ask. Notice that I didn't say "how do you know that?" or anything that might insinuate she is correct. You have to be careful about these things when dealing with an astute grade school kid.

"When one of them turned around I saw the zipper on his back," she says.

"Yeah," says my younger daughter. Even though I'm not really sure she knew what her sister was saying, but by this time she really wants to get in on this discussion.

"Hmmmm," I say as I stall. Then I quickly follow it up with "hey, it's David Cook on the radio - listen!" and I turn up the volume to curb any further discussion.

Distraction to the rescue. My props go out to American Idol and it's good, clean fun for kids.

Now a couple days pass by and my husband and I are discussing the Republican Vice President nominee Sarah Palin.

Ugh.

That's as far as I'll go with a political discussion on my blog.

Just the night before we had mentioned something about her 17 year old daughter being pregnant, and my oldest picked up on it. She said "17!!??" and then followed it up with "that seems really young to be having a baby." Yes, little wise one, you are correct.

So here we are again the next morning discussing the latest news in front of her. Big mistake.

"So she's not married?" she asks.

"No, she's getting married soon," I say. Now I'm really hoping our discussion ends here.

But, alas, my wish is not fulfilled.

"So how do you get pregnant anyway?" she asks.

Oh the dread. The fear. The anxiety. Gulp.

My husband makes a loud coughing noise and proceeds to bury his nose back in the newspaper. Thanks for the support honey.

"We'll talk about that when you get older," I say. Then I quickly follow it up with "so what do you want in your lunch today?" and I rattle off a list of possibilities so long that the thought of pregnancy and its whereabouts can only be left behind in the crannies of her mind.

Distraction strikes again.

I don't know how long I can keep this up.

I'm sure the jolly old man in the red suit and the fairy that delivers money under your pillow are on the short list for upcoming inquisitions.

Time for a little parental preparation. There's only so long she'll buy this distraction crap.

God Bless The Curbside Pick-Up

As I briefly alluded to in my last post, I have been introduced to some serious parking pandemonium at my oldest daughter’s school.

Here’s the lowdown.

She’s in first grade at our public school in our neighborhood, but it’s our first year there because they re-routed all the Kindergarteners to the next closest school due to overcrowding. So last year we were at a school that was farther away, but it had ample parking.

And while I’m speaking of Kindergarten, there is another key difference between last year and this year.

When class is over in Kindergarten, the teachers open their doors and no one comes out. The teacher stands at the door and looks for the parents that are waiting outside the room. Then she calls out the names of the kids who have someone there to pick them up. Each child is then let out of the room by the teacher as they are handed off to the responsible adult in waiting.

Essentially, she is the gatekeeper and we are the keymasters, and the secret password best be known or you will give up the rights to your first born.

This year it’s a bit less personalized. In short, the bell rings, the doors open, and children flood out.

Simple enough I suppose. I really don’t have a problem with it. Although I definitely don’t speak for all parents on this one.

And imagine what this is like for the kids. They are released into the open and expected to find someone in the masses that is looking for them, that may or may not be there when the door opens.
It’s a little overwhelming, even for the more responsible kids, such as my daughter. So what happens in these first few days and weeks is that the parents hover outside looking for their needle in the haystack, and the kids tend to linger in the rooms, as if they are waiting for someone to call their name. Like two strangers at a dance, neither one of them is sure they should make the first move. Then many of the parents try to give the secret password to their child's teacher, which is amusing to watch since the teachers don't even know which student they are trying to pick up. They just smile and not a lot during this process.

Now enter in an incredibly inadequate parking lot with only one outlet and a drop-off and pick-up section that feels a bit too much like SFO (“the white zone is for loading and unloading only”), and you have a veritable nightmare leading up to that crucial moment when the dogs are unleashed, running about sniffing for familiar blood.

Not to mention that I am also dragging my two other kids into this chaos every time.

In short, our first three days of school were highlighted by parking in the loading zone and getting a ‘friendly’ warning note, attempting a curbside pick-up when the teacher said she would bring kids out to the curb but never did ("Mom, what took you so long!!??"), and a very long and hot walk that was peppered with enough whining to make a conversation with Grumpy the dwarf seem like a breath of fresh air.

After three long days last week, I declared it curbside pick-up only in our family. After all, I've been looking forward to this since before she started Kindergarten, so there's no better time like the present.

The problem was talking my child into it. She was a bit hesitant to try it out.

Enter in the carpool.

I called up a friend of ours that lives down the street, whose daughter is at our school in 2nd grade, and who is also a good friend of my daughters and I said “How’s about a carpool?”

After an enthusiastic response, we worked out a plan. I’d pick up two days, she’d pick up two days, and we’d likely walk together or call an audible on the 5th day. And we’d let our husbands pick up some slack in the morning for a little while and see if we could get by on our own for the morning drop-offs.

Excellent!

Today was the first day of the new plan, and it worked like a charm.

My daughter’s friend stopped by her room, picked her up, and escorted her out to the usual curbside pick-up spot she has with her mom. But instead I was the one there today, and they were both ready and willing to hop on in when I pulled up.

They opened the door, got in the back, buckled their seatbelts, and we were off.

No looking for a parking spot (towards which only feable attempts were made since I heard you have to be there more than 30 minutes early to get one), no putting the baby in a stroller, no whining from my preschooler, and no trying to find my child in the midst of the few hundred other kids merging back into their natural environments.

It bears saying again.

God Bless the curbside pick-up.