I heart pumpkins

I know, I know, if I were a real mommyblogger with a talent for mommyblogosity, this post would be rife with adorable pictures of  my adorable offspring in their adorable Halloween costumes interspersed within an adorable narrative of the cute Halloweeny sort that managed to just avoid being trite and pointed out some larger truth about parenting or life or time or the precious oh-so-quickly-goneness of it all.

But, no.

Have I mentioned lately how much I hate crafts?

Loathe. Detest.

Dislike with an intensity that ought be reserved for less benign activities.

This is my fourth year for our co-op toddler class's annual transform-pumpkins-into-weapons-and-hand-them-to-toddlers day.  As you can see, I'm thrilled.  I love our co-op and the facilitator and the board and all the women involved, truly, but in case you can't tell from the expression on my face, I think sticking sharp jabby toothpicks into pumpkins so that we can jab various other assorted vegetables onto the big orange vegetable in a vague facelike pattern is dumb.  See also boring, dangerous, and wasteful.

I know! Let's stick toothpicks into a pumpkin until it resembles those big spiky medieval balls - which I have just googled and they are called "flails."  We are learning here.  Welcome to preschool. Would you like to make a flail?

Oh, I'm sorry, did my three-year-old just remove your three-year-old's eye with his pumpkin vegetable head flail?  Aha.  Next up, real candles at Christmas.  Paper flames are for sissy toddlers.

How about a rousing game of medieval pumpkin flail catch?  Oh, shoot, toothpick through a finger.  Didn't see that one coming.

Of course, Quinn loves it. He stuck approximately 2000 olives on the damn pumpkin.  Carefully directing where each of the 2000 toothpicks should go in painstaking individual detail.  I'm holding a toothpick, ready for further instruction.  I'm like his toothpick bitch.

If you are wondering right now why on earth I am the mother of multiple small preschool type children, well SO WAS I as I stood there holding my 1099th toothpick so that I could surgically insert it into a pumpkin without impaling my own thumb.  Don't even laugh.  The first year, when I was a flail pumpkin novice, I put a toothpick into my thumb.  It was a deep and bloody wound.  Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Elise took that picture - because she absolutely loves my tortured parent of crafting toddler look - and emailed it to me later that day with the title "you heart pumpkins."  As if I could love her any more, but that pretty much confirmed my devotion for all time.

On the plus side, provided no one bleeds heavily, this activity is, happily, not at all messy as it involves no paint, glitter, glue, googly eyes, or some obnoxious combination of the aforementioned supplies.  Just spikes.  When we got home, I let him play with knives.

Kidding.  Oh look!  A real mommyblogger has entered the blogding.  Look at the cute little pumpkins.

 Quinn the incredibly cheerful giraffe.  Who is sometimes Scooby Doo.  We'll see what happens tonight.

Saige and Garrett in last year's "non-evil" costumes for Christian Kindergarten because both of the costumes they picked for this year were on the "evil" and therefore not allowed list.  Don't even get me started.  Sign me up for Pagan Kindergarten is all I'll say.

Nate.  Awwwwwww.  He's a headless alligator.  The alligator head hood makes him ANGRY and UNHAPPY. 

Happy Halloween, my lovelies.  Watch out for flails out there.

You'll feel better after this, I promise

Today, I am performing a public service.  It has been a crappy week and it's only Wednesday, so sit back.  Relax.  Let me make you feel better about your parenting and life skills.

Top ten reasons no one should worry about their parenting while I'm on the planet.

#10  Garrett fell out of his crib, not once, not twice, but three times after he learned to pull up because I repeatedly failed to raise the side of the crib after I laid him in it.  (Bonus point!  That kind of crib is now completely recalled!  Fabulous!)

#9  Nate has scooted down under the tray of his crappy, keep-it-in-the-car stroller and gotten his head stuck, not once, not twice, not three times, oh hell I have no idea how many times.  I just carried on my way, casually shoving his head into the foam and extracting him below the tray whenever he failed to Houdini his way out of the damn thing.  Guess what?!  That stroller was just recalled.  Because babies have suffocated themselves getting their heads stuck under the tray while their oblivious mother checks Kindergarten mailboxes for airplane art made with paper and approximately 500,000,000 staples.  Fabulous!  Also, we are responsible for the current worldwide staple shortage.

#8  I once noticed extremely excited shrieking from the basement during quiet time and I completely ignored it like I always do until I heard someone shriek excitedly, "kill it! kill it!" which alerted me that something possibly alive had entered the purview of my pack of toddlers.  Upon hightailing it down there to save the poor, wretched creature, I found my three small children in a ring of death around a horrifically large and fairly poisonous male Hobo spider. 

#7  Last week, I noticed an uncomfortable dampness on my Nate-carrying hip at the grocery store and I was supremely pissed off because I had just changed his diaper before I left for the grocery store and I still had two school pick ups to do and now we were both soaked in urine, thanks a lot crappy Costco diapers.  Then, I peered down the back of his pants and the crappy Costco diapers were all, HA! this one's on you, lady, you have to actually put a diaper back on the baby after taking the soiled diaper off if you want it to contain the urine.

#6 Walking my triple stroller down the boulevard one fine fall day, engaged in conversation with Elise - who is commonly at the center of my parenting troubles - I fully rammed Garrett's head into the side view mirror of a parked car.  Thankfully, it was the kind that gives for drivers that hit things, but still.

#5  Coming home from a Halloween party last year at 8:30 p.m., my four-year-old son asked his father, "what are all those twinkling things in the sky?"   That's right. I am so fanatic about bedtime that my four-year-old had never seen the stars.

#4  Quinn very nearly drowned in an icy puddle at the bottom of a slide two winters ago.  He had just learned to walk and I chatted away - with Elise, of course - oblivious to his upside down in a freezing cold puddle status not four feet in front of me.  NOTE:  All water is dangerous, even icy, bottom-of-slide puddles.

#3 On a particularly bad, grumpy winter morning last year, I snarled so viciously at Garrett when he dropped the Starbucks latte that I had purchased for a friend on my way to our play date that he cried for the entire three hour play date. 

#2  I have, on numerous occasions, eaten a special treat that I made the children save until after dinner and then found some trivial excuse to yank treats after dinner so that I had more time to procure another treat for the next day.  I tell myself this heightens the anticipation for them.

#1  Driving to Christian Kindergarten the other morning, I swore under my breath at another driver.  My daughter piped merrily from the seat behind me, "was he a dickwad, momma?"  He was, but that is beside the point.  Obviously.

There now.  Don't you feel better?

There and back again

I expect it to be like a cloud.  That moment of walking in the door.  A gold-tinged cloud scented orange with an undertone of cinnamon.  It's more like hitting a wall of thin arms and loud reedy voices, their smiles bright, their garbled tales spilled at my feet like slippery fish from a basket.  I am surrounded by noise where I anticipated hugs set to the flicker of a silent movie.

The baby is up.  Quiet time is over.  It's time for snack.  They played in a tent.  Do I want a cookie?  That one is hopeful.  They made cookies with Daddy.  Might they perhaps, if I wanted one, have a cookie too?

My brain is frozen, shocked and sluggish, like the marble-eyed deer we nearly hit three nights ago on our wild escape through Palouse hill country into the night.  Why oh why does it smell like fish?

It is one of those things they don't tell you about motherhood.  This matter of going away and coming back again.  Or maybe, to be fair, it is one of those things that can not be taught.  Like child birth and that instinct that tells you this fever is serious and not like all the others, this can not be explained before it is experienced. 

It's not that you miss them.  Or maybe that's just me - I might be odd in that respect, though I doubt that I am alone.  Three years into sharing my thoughts on mothering this way, I believe firmly that I am never alone.  There is always someone out there searching for this nugget, this truth, this strange fossil of a thing that they find buried in themselves and that they are glad to see someone else hold up to the light and turn around, curious.  Will you look at this?  Isn't that odd?  Look at how the shell turns back on itself.  A new creature entirely.

It's not that I miss them.  Truth.  It is that I am bound to them, a middle-earthen pact of blood and tears and need.  I leave them joyfully.  I am glad to be free. Thrilled to wander streets and talk late and sleep long and hard. Thrilled to be unneeded, unfettered from need for sixty short hours.  But they are four cords of unearthly strength wrapped, vinelike, around my soul, that will stretch and stretch and stretch, becoming ever tighter, every thinner, ever tauter until the tension is unbearable and the outcome is a predetermined thing.  The unbreakable laws of gravity and elasticity take over.  I come hurtling back.

I traveled before children. I wandered Europe for months without a tie.  I left Matt to his own devices and meandered through Thailand and India and Nepal.  I missed him with all my heart and soul, but my missing of him was a part of the freedom.  Leaving loved ones behind for a time is a special kind of freedom.  Leaving children behind is a furtive, temporary escape.  He is a soft place to land.  They are the brick wall at the end of the cord.  Their dirty faces and high-pitched demands and grabby hands mortared by whining, crying, hot breath on my face, a nervous baby cleaved to my side.

I press myself into it as hard as I can.  The texture, when I close my eyes, is what I crave.  The crags of their little faces.  The spiderweb fibers of their hair.  The crumble under my fingers of the tear tracks at the corner of their eyes.  The classical melody beneath the scraw and screech.

I can't explain it either. I haven't got it right. Maybe I can't tell you. Maybe you'll never know.  It's not a lack of love.  I'm not sorry to be home.  To be a lover is to want to come back quickly.  To be a mother is to have to.

Life is like an Oreo*

Oh life, you devil you, you just keep happening. Every day. No matter how hard I try to hit the pause button for a few minutes. Or weeks. There's been a lot going on and not a lot going on, you know what I mean?

Gee got a fish for his birthday and so now Matt and I fight not only about the Great Dane pats in the front yard, but also the filmy state of the fish tank. We're gluttons for punishment. Ess has had some mild behavioral problems at school. All noses are in a constant state of runny. We stay at runny level orange from October to June with occasional forays into CODE RED! ANTIBIOTICS STAT! I'm leaving for a much much much anticipated girls' weekend tomorrow and I need to accomplish a 250,000 bullet point to-do list and achieve the rare and elusive "all laundry clean and put away" status before I leave. I'm not a woman who cooks for her man before she deserts him - or ever really - so the least I can do is ensure sufficient clean laundry for as many changes as the weekend brings.

That stuff. That's all just the chocolate cookie, right? The stuff that you have to crunch through to get to the good stuff.

Drum roll please ...

Ta da!

You are all in trouble now.

Everything else - Nate's first steps. Pumpkin carving. Bedtime snuggles. Fireside games. - That's the cream-filled center.

*This ridiculous metaphor brought to you by my love of Elise and her love of Oreo filling.

Listen

There are stories all around us.  The mailman who walks with a slight limp and stops for five minutes every day to throw the ball for Hampton.  The dreadlocked barista at the Espresso Hut, tight and round with her first child.  The man at Costco with metal arms who tells my kids he's a pirate.  The quiet woman with a spaniel who gives Hampton a treat every morning at 7:05 a.m.  You don't have to hear the actual words of the tales.  You can find the paragraphs in heartbeats, the chapters in tears shed.  It's all there, written on reams and sheaves of minutes and seconds and hours.

It makes me furiously sad when "inta.ctivists" attack a grieving mother for decisions made in what became the final hours of her child's life.  It makes me nauseous when extreme anti-adoption advocates call me and parents that I know and love and cherish slave owners.  It makes me cringe when we throw around words like bigot with casual confidence in our supreme rightness.

Stories ripped.  Chapters slaughtered.  Real lives consumed by the slash and burn tactics of a few.  Their tales left charred and cold in the ashes of the bonfire of the book of life.

I used to think that giving soda pop to a baby was the poster move for bad parenting.  What was to argue?  I barely give my kids juice.  I think the devil invented chocolate milk.  Could you care any less about nutrition?  About chemicals?  About sugar and HFCS and useless, wasted calories?

Then, I met a mom.  She's young.  She's single.  I'm her mentor, in theory, though I'm not sure I qualify for that title.  I've learned more from her than I could ever have to teach.  She works so hard.  She works so hard at just making life work.  She works long hours for money that barely provides their basic needs.  She works at the relationship with her baby's father.  She works at learning to manage money and think ahead.  She sometimes runs out of diapers between pay checks and she goes to the food bank where they will give you five diapers at a time.  She works at staying above the chaos and drama of her family's life.  The 911 calls.  The ER visits.  She works at boundaries when the adults in her life have none.  She works at staying honest when the adults in her life commit felonies.

Every Sunday, before we meet, she stops at McDonald's and gets an extra large sweet tea.  The super size that sells for $1.00.  It's her treat to herself and her daughter and she settles beside me at the indoor mall playground of the faded floor and gigantic rubber mushrooms and fills her daughter's sippy cup with sugar-filled, caffeinated liquid.  I watch the clear plastic behind the pink octopuses and fish turn deep brown and I smile at her.

You should see how her daughter runs into her arms. She's a solid, square little thing with a booty to die for and wild curly hair.  You should see how she smiles when her mom scoops her up and plants juicy raspberries on her chubby side, just above her hip.  You should hear how she laughs.

I am ashamed to tell you that I have mocked parents at the state fair as they handed their kids soda pop.  I have rolled my eyes.  I have exchanged glances with Matt that spoke volumes of our prejudices and our perspective.  But, if you saw us at the mall, sitting side by side on the grubby vinyl bench that rings the rubber mushroom forest.  If you passed us as she poured her sippy cup and you rolled your eyes or you commented or you tweeted, I would take you the fu.ck down.

No.  I wouldn't.  I have scrawny, pathetic little arms.

I would wrap my scrawny arms around you from behind and hug you as tightly as I could.  I would kiss your cheek and put my hands gently on either side of your face and look deep into your eyes.  I would lean close to your ear and I would whisper.  Shhhhhhh.  Shhhhhhhhhhhhh.  Let's not tweet.  Let's not talk.  Let's just listen.  I'll help you and you help me.  If we do it together, we can let go and we can hear them.  

There are stories all around us.

Drive to school

"Hey mommy?"

I hate this driveway. I hate this driveway.  "Hey mommy?"

"Just a minute, I'm trying to back into the street."

It's too narrow. I'm going to clip the gate.  "Hey mommy?"

"FU-DGE."  No I'm through.

"Hey mommy?"

"Yes, Saige?"

"What's in our lunch boxes?"

"Grapes and..."  "Hey mommy?"

"Just a minute, Garrett.  Carrots and a bagel and..."  "Hey mommy?"

"...cheese.  Yes, Garrett."

"Do you know what "HEY MOMMY" the pumpkin is called in "HEY MOMMY?" music? "HEY MOMMY" NO!  My turn."

"IWANNATALKIWANNATALKIWANNATALK."

"Quinn, Garrett's turn.  No, Garrett, what?"

"Titi."

"What?"

"HEYMOMMAIWANNATALK."

One block down.  Lay Down Sally is on the radio. I like that song.

"Yes, Quinn."

"Umumumumumumumumumumum."

"HEY MOMMY?"

"NO MY TALKING!"

"Yes, Quinn.  Quinn's turn."

"UMUMUMUMUMUMUMUMUMUM. Hey momma?"

"Yes, Quinn."

THESPIDERS!! IT'STHESPIDERS!!!  THESPIDERHOUSE.  MOMMA! LOOK! THESPIDERS! SPIDERS!SPIDERS!SPIDERS!

"Cool, wow look at that big green one."

"I didn't see it."

"We'll come back by on the way home."

"I DIDN'T  hey momma? SEE  hey momma?  NO! MY WANNA TALK."

"Quinn, on the way home.  Yes, Saige."

"Is it Friday?"

"No, Thursday."

"Oh, is it January?"

"No, October."

"Oh HEY MOMMA?  Is it Saturday tomorrow? HEY MOMMA."

"Just a second.  No, Friday."  "HEY MOMMY."

"Oh, is HEY MOMMA it Tuesday HEY MOMMA after that?"

"I'm not sure.  Maybe.  Garrett's turn."

"But is it HEY MOMMY."

"Garrett's turn."

Lay Down Sally over, flicking through stations, oh no, not that one, please no, they didn't hear, please no.

"THE CHIPMUNK SONG.  THE CHIPMUNK SONG!!  GO BACK!! GO BACK!! THE CHIPMUNK SONG."

Curse the chipmunks.  Curse Katy Perry.  Curses.  And boils.  And bat vomit.

Fine.

Ca-li-for-nia girls, they're so UNBELIEVABLY ANNOYING.  Make it stop, my ears are bleeding.

My children are singing about melting someone's popsicle on the way to Christian Kindergarten.  This is why the should not let Jews into these programs.

"Ok. We have to turn it off in two minutes; we're almost there and I don't have enough brain cells left to waste them on the lyrics to this asininely catchy song." 

"Hey momma.  Hey MOMMA?  Hey momma?"

"Just a minute.  Nate, you still alive back there?"

"Ah-ah-aaaaahhhhh."

"He LIKES it.  He's DANCING."

He totally is.  Traitor.

"Ok.  Off.  Shhhhh.  Listen.  We're almost there."

"Hey momma?"

"Yes, Saige."

"Can we take our buckles off?"

"Not until we're in the parking lot. We're still on the HEY MOMMA?"

"Yes, Garrett?"

"Can we take our buckles off?"

"No. We're still on the road." 

"HEY MOMMA?  Hey momma?"

"NOIWANNATALK.  I WANNATALK. MYTURN. I WANNATALK."

"Ok, alright. Relax.  What, Quinn?"

"Umumumumumumumumumumum.  Hey mommy?"

"NOIWANNATALK.  Can we talk our buckles off?"

"NO! We're still on the road, right?  We're sitting in contruction traffic because God hates me because I take my heathen popsicle melting children to his house for school."

"Hey mommy?"

"No.  Buckles on.  Okay, now we are in the parking lot, you see? So you can take your buckles off, not you Quinn you are staying in the car with me."

"I WANNA GO TO SCHOOL."

"This is not your school."

"I CAN'T GET MY BUCKLE!  MY BUCKLE IS STUCK. THIS BUCKLE IS TOO HARD."

"I WANNA GO TO SCHOOL. "

"Deep breath. Please find your nice voice to ask for help."

"Our turn.  Get ready.  Hi!  Good morning.  I'm great thanks.  Just shiny happy people holding hands in this car.  Yes, Saige for Mrs. She----'s Kindergarten. And Garrett. And if you wanted to take the howling three year old? Just kidding.  Bye. Love you!!  See you at pick up.  Oh no, I'll shut the door with the button.  I can't wait to shut the door.

Aaaaaaannnnnddddd Starbucks.  Yes, I do love full day Kindergarten, thanks for asking. Sometimes silence is half the noise.

This is why you should never, ever brag about your children or their drawings. A higher power will bite you in the ass.

Every parent's biggest fear is that while attending some innocent, wholesome, Christian-based school, their child will draw a hideous representation of them screaming obscenities or spanking their children, right?

No?  Just mine.  Liars.

Remember the lovely story I told yesterday.  Family?  Attachment?  Love and rainbows and sparkles.

Today, this came home.

Hmmmmm.  I didn't panic at first.  After I gazed a while, I started to feel a little uncomfortable.  Is that me?  Why do I look evil?  Is that a cruel, sadistic smile on my face?  OMIGOD AM I HOLDING A STICK??  I have never hit my children with a stick.  Ever.  Or Hampton.  I don't think.  Have I? CRAP, I did hit him with a towel once.  And what are the children in this picture doing? Are they running from me? Is that pink child unconscious under my stick hand?  Oh kill me now, my daughter drew a picture of me chasing my herd of children with a big stick and I look evil and they look beaten.  And terrified.

"Um, Saige."

"Yes, Momma."

"What is this a picture of?"  (I was so proud of that non-leading question that I could spit.)

"Playing in the backyard."

"Oh yes, I see the sun.  Who's playing?  Who's this large person here?"

"Me."

"You? Fabulous!!!! What are you holding there in your hand?"

"Nothing momma, that's my finger.  That's Garrett and Quinn and I ran out of time for Nate."

Ahahaha. So, that's not a ghost child ascending to heaven to escape the horror of their out of control screaming, stick-wielding mother? 

"It's you and your brothers playing outside?"

"Yep, it's fun to play outside."

"Yes.  Yes it is.   And that's what you told your teacher right? That this is a picture of you and your brothers playing outside."

"No, momma."

Massive heart attack followed by a stroke and possibly a seizure.

"I didn't have to tell her that's me, I'm brown. Silly."

PHEW!!!  Alright then.  I'll be outside. Not holding a stick, if anyone asks, but possibly chugging directly from a bottle of wine.  I can't wait for this picture.

Trauma and attachment and school, oh my

I was a basket case when Saige started school.  Most of the issues, looking back, were mine, but they were grounded in real fears, in some cases in realized fears.

Our first school experience was a toddler class at our beloved co-op preschool.  I dreaded going every single week.  I dreaded Saige's "normal" institutionalized-child behaviors.  Indiscriminate friendliness.  Seeking out the adult with something to give like food or a favored toy.  I dreaded the moment of intervention.  She would tantrum with a vengeance and the other mother would not understand.  Oh, I don't mind if she sits in my lap.  Oh, she can have another cookie.  Oh, it's okay if she takes the toy.

No.  No it's not.  I wish it were; I wish things were different. But it's not.  It's not okay because she has to learn to turn to me, she has to realize that her rules come from me, she has to learn, really learn because I know this is hard to understand, but she doesn't know, who her family is, who her mother is.  And it's not okay because it makes me quake inside when she crawls into your lap. It makes me cry at home, terrified that I will fail to establish and hold this bond, with this child, when I have already failed another.

I learned to stutter it out, even when the other parent was incredulous, or difficult or judged me cruel.  (And so often people are kind and understanding and judge not at all, but it's the hard ones that we remember, isn't it?)  I learned to stutter it out over my hammering heart and my beet red face and my insecurities and my uncertainty because I was certain I had to draw lines and stick to them for myself, if not for her. 

Please don't hold her.  Just point her to me.  She is still learning what family means, what mother means.

The first drop off program we did, just one day a week, was a disaster.  The teacher thought Saige's unconsciously controlling behavior adorable.  Saige sat in her lap for most of the three hours every week, despite my explanations and protests.  She was, by default, given "special" treatment, allowed to "help" with tasks while other children were asked to play independently.  She was overpraised for simple tasks.  Her behavior suffered at home and her brother was miserable and acted out in class for attention.

I learned.  Before the next year, their preschool year, I met with her teachers individually. I explained the dynamics of institutionalized behaviors, what they looked like.  I explained disregulation and how unsafe Saige actually feels in a situation if she feels that she is controlling it.  I explained that affection, lap time, special projects, needed to come from and be with me and that I would be glad to keep her home if either teacher felt she needed such time.

I used my words, my examples.  For example, if you are wondering, it is an institutionalized behavior to seek always to sit in the teacher's lap.  Adult time, cuddle time, was limited at the orphanage and so the child that could find a way to sit in a lap was "winning" at surviving in an orphanage environment.  But it's also horribly disregulating for Saige to revert to these patterns and "win" in this way.  If she knows that she can control when she sits in the adult's lap, she feels the need to seek that opportunity at all times, to be watchful and on her guard for the right moment.  As a result, she can't enjoy the class or playing with other children. She can't be a little girl. She's too busy honing her survival behaviors.

At the end of the day, she is a mess and Matt and I face her angry, frightened melt downs.  She's disregulated, she feels unsafe, she feels the need to "look out" constantly for opportunities at home, despite knowing that at home parents look out for children and parents ensure that children get cuddled, loved, fed and held, so that children don't have to.  The solution is to ensure that no child in the class "controls" (I use that term loosely, I don't mean it as a conscious decision of the children) who sits in the teacher's lap.  Either no one does, ever.  Or there is a set time and a set pattern for ensuring that all children get a turn, taking control away from the hyper-vigilant child and letting them relax.

Subtle.  I know.

Success, though.  Last year was a huge success.  Saige's behavior after school did not suffer.  These two wonderful teachers truly got it, they listened, they made adjustments with me when necessary and Saige flourished.

Going into this year, the behaviors seemed all but gone.  I longed to start a year fresh, without the meetings and the explanations, and to give her the freedom to succeed on her own.  But their Kindergarten teacher sent home a sheet asking specific questions about each child's personalities and needs and so I outlined the subtle signs of institutionalized behaviors and negative control patterns carefully on the sheet. I didn't call or make an appointment.

At pick up the first day, Mrs. Sh--- smiled.  She held Saige's hand tightly in her own.  Saige had her playacting sad drama face on.  I braced myself.  "This must be Saige's first experience with school?"  The teacher asked me.

I admit, I felt let down.  She had not read the sheet that she had sent home?  I responded with such care, trying to walk a careful balance between labeling my child's behaviors as "problem" unnecessarily and still make her aware of the issues.  Mrs. Sh--- had clearly been played by my clever child all day. 

"No, not at all, it's her fourth year of school, why?"

"Oh, she was very sad all day."

"Really?" I tried to keep my voice neutral.  "Did she get special attention from you?  Did she get special privileges, like perhaps skipping recess or sitting with you at free play times?"

She looked surprised.  "Yes.  She did."  She looked sheepish. "Did she have my number?"

"She's a player," I said. "But it's pretty serious for us. These behaviors are not okay, we have significant problems at home when this stuff works at school.  Maybe you could read the sheet I filled out and we could talk?"

Sigh.  I sat Saige down at home.  She's only five, I don't expect her to regulate these behaviors herself, but I at least wanted to state the facts. 

Real sad is okay, Saige.  Pretend sad is not okay.  Is that clear?  yes

Was today real sad or pretend sad?  pretend

Okay.  Pretend sad will mean you stay home from school with mommy.  Real sad is always okay.

And she agreed.  And Mrs She---- seemed to be on board.  And I braced myself for a hard, hard year.

And.  Nothing.  It has been ... quiet. Not even ominously quiet.  Saige and Garrett adore Kindergarten.  They can't wait to pack their backpacks each morning.  Mrs. She---- runs a tight, rule-oriented classroom that works well for both my little learners and for me.  We have had (KNOCK EVERY PIECE OF WOOD IN SIGHT) a fabulous start to the year.

They brought home their first stack of school work this week.  They have writing time every day and they are expected to draw a picture and sound out a sentence about the picture below the drawing.

Saige's picture, drawn over and over, on two weeks worth of writing time papers.  Before bed, I let them describe the scene and tell me their sentence.

"That's daddy and mommy and me and garrett and quinn and nate and hampton." Saige explained carefully.

"Oh, what are we doing?"

"We're together.  That's my family."

Yes.  Yes, it is.  If you must know, I waited until I was in my own room to cry like a baby.

Writing this post reminds me that we all need to be gentle with people and parenting that we don't understand. The surface is not always the whole story.  You never know what demons someone is fighting. Also, I finished my project!  And the laundry!  And my email inbox fits on one page!  It's unheard of. 

Brusha, brusha, brusha

It would be absolutely adorable if he weren't screaming bloody, snotty, stinking murder any time he is NOT standing on this stool "brushing" his teeth.

Just try and take this tooth brush from me. "All done," you say? Go ahead and add that cute clap. Oh, and now you turned off the lights? How's that working for you? This ain't my first rodeo, momma.

Rinse, please.

You know you love me.

I'll be in the bathroom if you need me, rinsing Nater's toothbrush.  Over and over and over and over.

Comments are closed, but if you know who pukes in the movie scene of this post's title, email me, I'll give you twenty points and put your name in lights in the sidebar.  See how I make you all email me like that, so I can email you back.  Tricksy.  Also, blogger forced me to learn to use picasa because it won't upload photos from my computer.  Damn you, blogger! Bonus new watermarks, however.

Color me happy

My laptop died. Actually, to be precise, the power cord died and the battery is defunct. The power cord started sparking last week and I steadfastly ignored it. I found a replacement cord on Amazon, but the shipping charge was like four times the price of the stupid cord and so I didn't order it. Then, Matt saw the cord sparking and he was all, blah, blah, blah, I forbid you to use that sparking fire hazard and burn down the house and kill us all. After that, the damn thing shocked me and stopped working completely.

Sheesh. If it's not the sewer system it's the conduit to the outside world. We are falling apart.

We are also sharing a computer. Our marriage is in peril.

All of that is to say that I've been trying for days to finish this post with updates on the major projects that I've been bitching about on twitter for weeks.

First, the mudroom that Matt built. (With help from Scot. Scot framed the room, installed all the windows and skylights, put on the siding and did the wiring and drywall. He should get a little credit.) Matt tiled, built cubbies and painted inside and out. He's amazing. I picked paint colors.

I don't craft. We've established that. I don't craft. I don't let my children craft. I am mean and controlling and horrible and ohmygoddoyouknowhowstickyandmessymostchildrenscraftsareitisridiculousokay????

That is why they go to preschool. Crafting.

Every so often, though, I get a wild hair and I really want to do something crafty. Brace yourselves. I crafted and I let the children help me. Sort of. I let them color the chalk board underneath their pictures however they wanted. My permissiveness knows no limits. The point is that I made the chalkboard/picture crafting fabulousiosousness above the cubbies. I couldn't find chalkboards the right size, so I bought canvases and chalkboard paint and then I actually followed through and painted the canvases with the chalkboard paint. I remembered to let them dry without ruining them AND I took all the children to the store to buy chalk before I finally I let them color on my craft. Sort of.

Saige wants to know where the lion is that she carefully drew. The child is so observant. It's hiding in its cave behind your picture, Saige, lions hate to be out in the open. True story.

Second, my new kitchen color. It's called "butter cookie." Isn't it yummy? If you helped me on twitter, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I'm really glad I went with the lighter yellow. It's perfect.

Comments are closed mostly because I'm working on a big project, but a little bit because I don't want anyone to tell me that my colors suck. I love them. It's like a baby name, just nod and smile. (If you want to tell me how awesome they are, please email.) Also, thank you for the gift of your favorite books. My list kicks ass now.

Book worm

About a month ago, Annje posted brilliantly about books she had read and asked for recommendations for her "to read" list. I was green with envy over her comment section.

I buy a lot of books as gifts this time of year and I have a life goal of starting and maintaining a list of books that I have read and those that I plan to read.  I bought a brand new pretty notebook just for this list. Oh, how my heart loves pretty notebooks.  And lists.  And books.  This is possibly my favorite thing to do ever, keep lists of things I love on pretty paper.

Of course, I want your help.  I'm shamelessly stealing Annje's idea. My list is below. I can not tell you how much I would LOVE it if you would put all/some of your favorite books in these categories in the comments, or just your favorite book, or the book you would most like to read in the next three months or the book you read most often to your children.  Any book you love. 

Books I've read more than three times: The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien; Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins; Exodus, Leon Uris; The Witching Hour, Anne Rice.

Author that blows me away with brilliance: Jose Saramago (esp., The Gospel According to Jesus Christ and Blindness).

Authors I choose again and again: Tom Robbins, Isabel Allende, Ann Rice, Joanne Harris (oh, I know, she's fun, don't even get snobby on me ;-), Barbara Kingsolver.

I'm currently reading: What is the What by Dave Egger.

Best books I've read this year: Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz.

Could not finish classic: The Jungle by Upton Sinclair.

Could not finish modern:  The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie.

Most lovely (enjoyable) read this year:  The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.


Best book I've ever read:  I'm not sure.  The book I recommend the most often is The Bone People by Keri Hulme.

Guilty pleasure: Ann Rice (esp. The Witching Hour series); Rosamund Pilcher.

Best preschool age book: We love the bat books by Brian Lies.

Best elementary school/early chapters: The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles, Julie Andrews Edwards.

Best tween: Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling; Madeleine L'Engle.

DON'T SEE THE MOVIE FIRST: Push by Sapphire.

Book tons of people loved that I hated: Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert; The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Muriel Barbery.

Best classic: Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen. (And yes, I am a sucker for the BBC miniseries; I know it's period, Matt, that's why I love it.  Men in breaches.  Yum.)

Classic every American should read:  Native Son by Richard Wright.

Best children's classic: The Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett; Ann of Green Gables series by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Best nonfiction: I don't read any nonfiction.  I enjoy Oliver Sacks and I want to read Nelson Mandela's biography.

Okay! Your turn!  Pretty please with sugar on top?!