Adventures In Learning

I can't believe the summer is winding down.
Little Miss is very excited to be returning to Her montessori school, where She will be starting Kindergarten.  She's very, very excited to be staying all day this year.  I am very, very much in denial about the whole thing.  I like to tell myself that it's the same montessori class (mixed ages 3-6) so it's not really really kindergarten.  Even though it is.  I try not to think at all about Her being gone all day.  I just can't with all that.  But I'm glad She's going back to a school that we all love and which I am pretty sure will be a positive educational, social, and emotional experience for Her.
That's Montessori, though.  You get all this happy fuzzy stuff, and all it costs is an arm and a leg.
Public school, on the other hand.  That is free!
Sadly, Little One's kindergarten year was worth just about exactly what we paid for.
I actually liked the school.  The principal was competent and nice, the teacher was friendly, the kids were all as cute as only a bunch of snaggletoothed 6 year olds can be.  I liked the other parents and hosted a weekly coffee and cake so I could hang out with all their awesomeness.  I got to know the nurse (a little too well) and trust her to look out for my girl.  I PTA'd it up and was elected to be the VP this year.  Little One and I started a book club after school.  It was a dream to be able to walk both Sisters to school every morning.  I mean, Little One's school is about one block from our house!
The thing is, Little One had all that Montessori pre-school.  And She has this voracious appetite for learning.  She's been known to randomly get interested in something- the revolutionary war, or greek mythology- and go on a bender where She can't read or hear enough until She feels like She's learned Alllllll The Things about it!  So.  Before school started, I met with the principal, and said I thought maybe She should start in first grade.
The principal smiled, and chuckled, and gave me a "hey now, Tiger Mom, let's take it down a notch!" speech, and showed me the door.  Ok.  So, maybe, her points about Little One having just moved to the area, and going to public school for the first time, and the food allergies and all that being overwhelming as it is were valid.  So we went to kindergarten.
At the first teacher conference of the year, in October, Her teacher said to me,
"well, Little One has already met all the indicators for the end of the whole year! So... She's good!" Thumbs up.
I said, "Great, but, so....what's next, then?  I mean, She needs to keep learning throughout the year...new things, right?  So...what's the plan for Her then?"
Teacher stopped smiling.  And that was the start of the trouble.
Little One loved kindergarten, in that She loved recess.  She made lots of friends and became "leader of the girls team" on the playground, and loved everyone in class.  She got awards for being helpful and respectful in class. But She complained a lot about being bored.  She would finish the homework for the month in one evening, but I gave Her other work from bookstore workbooks, and She read a lot, so I wasn't really worried.
Then I went to parent day.  Waiting for my turn to observe the class, another mom greeted me all teary.  "What happened?" She asked.  "What did Little One do, to be punished like that?"
I was alarmed.  What DID She do?!
"She has to sit all by Herself! All the other kids are together in groups, but She had to be in the corner by Herself all morning!" 
So I asked the teacher.  "Oh no, She's never in trouble! But mornings are reading centers, and She's in Her own group.  There's one kid who reads at a level 8, but the others are all 2s and 3s, and Little One...is a 16.  She just can't read with the other kids." 
I observed.  Little One, who was reading chapter books at home, still had to sit at circle time and repeat over and over, "C says Cuh! C says Cuh!"    
She raised Her hand after a story, and was waved away, "Little One I KNOW you know the answer, so let me ask someone new".  There were worksheets later. She finished Hers in two minutes.
"What does She do now?" I asked the teacher.
Blank stare. "Well, it's a 15 minute center... so.  She can rotate when the bell rings."
"Could She read a book or something while She waits?"
"We can't let everyone do whatever they want. They have to stay at their center. The rules are the same for everyone."
I was in class for three hours and Little One did basically nothing, the whole time.  But She was still expected to sit still and be quiet.  By Herself.  Keep in mind, because of Her food allergies, She was already seated at Her own table at lunch.  She already had to stay apart from other kids while they ate the school provided breakfast (which She wasn't allowed to skip watching Her classmates eat, as that would have made Her tardy and reported as a truant).  So except for recess, She was set apart all day.
At home, She started saying that reading wasn't fun, because you couldn't have friends if you can read. She started pretending She didn't know how to do math.  She became so used to doing all academic work in 3 minutes or less, that when I introduced a challenging problem at home- something She would have exalted in before- She would get frustrated and call it dumb and give up.
I talked to the teacher.  I asked if She could be grouped with kids from other classes who were at Her reading and math levels.  But it was no longer "policy" to group kids out of their assigned class.
I asked if She could get worksheets from first grade teachers to work on while She waited during center time.  I was told it was absolutely not allowed to introduce anything outside the KG curriculum.
I pleaded for Her to be allowed to do Her work at a table with other kids. I had to actually beg, and promise to tell Her to hide Her worksheets so She wouldn't be a "show off" and make the other kids "feel bad".  Later, Her teacher said she turned out to love having Little One at the table with other kids, because She "helped them all with their work".  But, other than getting different books to read and some extra homework (to appease Her mom), She was never allowed to have any work that entailed learning something new.  All. Year.
Now, I know that a kindergarten teacher has a really tough time, because there are 15 students and they are all across the spectrum of learning.  Some have had 3 years of preschool, like Little One, some have had no school, or are just learning English.  That's a lot to handle, trying to meet all those needs.  I understand prioritizing the kids who need help to catch up- they need that help.
But as an advocate for my child, I couldn't accept that She had to spend six hours a day bored out of Her mind and being made to feel like an outcast.  I couldn't stand seeing Her wonderful passion for learning squelched as if it were a nasty habit.  I had a lot of talks with Her teacher and even the principal about how I could help Her, and got nowhere.
At the end of the year, I went to an info session on what the curriculum covers for each grade level.  It was clear that the work She was doing at home was about the middle of second grade level stuff.  So J and I asked to skip Her to second grade next year.  People, you would think we had asked for the actual Holy Grail. You would think I had asked them to bring me a pink unicorn.
The administration had heard of this mythical "skipping of grades"....but never actually SEEN it. It didn't really exist.
But since we insisted, they had to do something.  So they decided on an "evaluation period".  They pulled Little One out of class parties and music and art, to test Her and test Her with reading and math specialists.  At the end of this three month period, I went to a meeting.
I was told that, while She got the answers right on the math tests, She had to be failed on the evaluation, because She wouldn't always explain why She got those answers. She was docked points for doing math in Her head, because She didn't show Her work.
Example:
"what is 18 take-away 7?"
"It's 11".
"WHY is it 11?"
"... Because you had 18...then you took away 7."
"Can you show me why on paper?"
(on paper): "18 minus 7 is 11 because that is what is left."
Wrong.
I was told that, while She was reading on an end of second grade level, She wasn't ready to start second grade, because when the specialist asked Her about the books, Her answers were short and to the point, and She preferred non-fiction, factual information over discussing how She felt about things.
The reading specialist pointed out that not once, not once, did Little One ever re-open a book to look for the answers- which was a VERY important indicator for using resources.

C: "Did you know, that on the school's red-yellow-green behavior scale, Little One has been green, every single day?"

Punk Reading Specialist: "No, but what does that have to do with.."

C: "Ms. LittleOnesTeacher, has Little One ever broken a rule in your class or failed to ask your permission before doing anything She didn't know the rule about? No? So, Ms ReadingSpecialist, I have to ask.  Did you ever tell Little One that She was Allowed to look for answers in the book?"

PRS: "Um...no."

C: "Because I'm pretty sure She would have thought that would be cheating."

PRS: "Well. Oh.  Well.  She still was supposed to...it's a...uh...it's an indicator...."

Right.
In the end of the meeting, it was clear to see that they had never really considered skipping Her.  They don't believe in unicorns at all.  All of the reasons given were basically that while She could get all the answers right, She was shy enough with strangers to give them a reason not to move Her.
In the meantime, while all this testing was going on, the principal called me in for a talk.
"You know, not that we're trying to get rid of you, because we love you guys. But there is this school, a magnet school, for kids like Little One who are just...how can I... who are sort of....humming along at a different frequency.  You might just consider it." 
It happened to be the day before the deadline to apply for this mysterious odd-frequency school, so we just turned in the paper, just in case.
Then we had to send letters from teachers, letters from us, transcripts, report cards.  Little One had to do an interview and go to a testing session which we were not allowed to watch.
We googled and found that there are people whose whole career consists of tutoring little snaggletoothed 6 year olds to pass that test.  That hundreds of people apply, and only 25 get in. So we forgot all about it, and went back to trying to skip Her a grade.  
Then we got an acceptance letter.  
Supposedly, it is the same curriculum, but there are "acceleration opportunities" for STEM subjects. And there will, they promised without my having to ask, definitely be other kids in Her reading and math groups, doing the same stuff.
The place is an hour away.  Little One has to be there, and leave there, at the exact same time Missy has to be at, and leave from, Her school over here.
Instead of walking 5 minutes, I'll have to drive Her 15 minutes to the bus stop, where She will have an hour long bus ride to school.  If She has an allergic reaction or an asthma attack that doesn't respond to medication, as She did last year, I won't be able to rush right over.  There will have to be an ambulance.  This school does NOT sound fun, for ME.
So we deliberated and discussed, talked and thought, J and I.  What to do? Then we asked Her.
The so-called Queen of recess, who loved Her friends and teachers so much, what Her preference would be, so we could consider that in our decision.
She didn't miss a beat.  She didn't hesitate, and She was unequivocal.
"Please.  Please please.  PLEASE let me go to the new school!"

"But you know you won't see all of your friends any more. It will be all new. You won't know anyone there, and it will be different."

"Yes, I know.  But I can make new friends! And different stuff is good, cause that's what's an adventure, mom.  And besides...maybe...maybe...maybe at the new school, I won't have to teach the kids stuff all day with their work.  Maybe we could work together instead. That's all I want."  

 Ok then. I'm nervous about Her being so far if something goes wrong.  I'm scared to death of the bus.  I'm going to miss Her those two hours a day She will be commuting to school, and I can only hope it will be worth it.  And truthfully?  I'll miss the PTA and the moms I chatted with at pick up and all of that too.  All I can do is try to follow my Little One's lead, and make new friends. Hope that just maybe it will be a place where She can fall back in love with learning.  And realize that different is good, because that's what's an adventure.

Birthday

Yep.  I had one.  

It was kind of hard to tell, at first.  Since J worked like 12 hours that day, and I spent it cleaning bathrooms and organizing the basement and covering my ears and rocking back and forth signing REALLY LOUDLY to drown out all the WHINING from the kids who were stuck in the house due to a mosquito invasion of apocalyptic proportions, and neglected due to the bathroom scrubbing and basement cleaning.  

As a special treat there was the insurance adjuster who came to assess my birthday present this year, which will be a new car door, seeing as how I smashed the other one into a wall.  Tricky, those walls! He knew it was my birthday, so he brought me a back-scratcher shaped like a bear claw.  Er.  Thanks..

He also tried to give me the gift of "hey, you're not that old" by giving me his number, and repeatedly telling me to call and text him, but not to tell my husband.  Or to tell him about the back-scratcher either.  And if he were my man, he wouldn't be mad at me for wrecking the car.  ('Don't tell your husband I said that').  And then after he left, he sent a few text messages and then came back, texting me from the driveway to ask if he could come in and borrow some duct tape.  Really? At which point I directed him to the furthest hardware store and went back to the basement, where it was less creepy.

The Sisters wanted to throw me a "party", which means they got out every piece of everything and flung it around the room, draping beads and scarves and, ahem, my bras ("they're so fancy!") from the furniture and lamps and taping stuff to the walls.  

Then, while I tried to wrestle a two-ton angry crocodile (or maybe it was Mister, hard to tell which was what that day) into a nap, Sisters decided to bake me a cake.  I guess the floor in there was white anyways, so whats a bunch of flour and sugar and stuff? Right?!

The whole gang of them wanted in on decorating it, too, so we got out- the sprinkles. Which, all the moms who shuddered upon reading that know, are almost as bad as glitter.  

J had offered to bring a birthday dinner home, but he got stuck at work until after bedtime, and couldn't text me until the children were already gnawing on their own elbows they were so hungry.  So it was microwaved tofu-dogs and freezer peas for dinner.  And wine.  For me. 

I re-wrestled the crocodile into bed, and stopped at the door to chuckle.  

Because I mean.  

This day.

This day guys! 

Then, guess what?

I walked back to the dining room, where I'd left the sisters finishing their dinners, and there they were. Grinning. With such a beautiful chocolate brownie cake, a banner that said "happy birthday mommy we love you so so so so much", a stack of handmade cards, and two gloriously decorated boxes.  

They sang to me.  

We had cake, and I opened the boxes, which they had apparently been hiding under their beds for weeks.  They were filled with little treasures.  

We chatted and laughed and I was showered in hugs and kisses.  

It was the best birthday ever.  

It was the first time that my children, all on their own, threw me a birthday celebration.  They worked hard and they did it because they love me.  

I realize that as I've aged and grown another year, so have they.  There has begun a great tectonic shift beneath the surface of our relationship, a change by which now, and more and more from now until forever, I not only take care of my children, but they take care of me, too.  

My children have always saved me, taught me, and brought me joy.  But now, they do it on purpose. 

On my birthday I realized, there is certainly a gift in that.  

Bus Crash

I took the Little two to check-ups.
We'd spent a long day out in a park with friends, Mister had missed exactly one point five naps, and lunch, and was playing on the giant school bus in the waiting room when we were called back.  He could not be enticed to leave the huge steering wheel, so I fetched him.
As He wriggled and complained, I stooped to get through the doorway of the bus.  My heel caught on a frayed bit of carpet on the top step.  And, if you'd like to imagine how I fell, you should be thinking to yourself "tiiiiimmmbeeeeerrrrrrr!" as you watch me fully fly off the steps, with Mister in arms, and eat it.  In the middle of the packed waiting room.
Now.  If you are going to massively fail in this epic manner and fall, crashing into the wooden armchairs, and crack your kids head open and break his leg (which, incidentally, I do not recommend), it can be said that the best place for this to happen, if it has to, would be a pediatrics waiting room.
Because crowds of people will SHREIK with compassion and rush up around you, office staff and nurses and medical technicians will come rushing en force, and multiple doctors will be ripped away from their duties and thrust upon you to assess your emergency.
However.  IF you are going to massively fail in this manner as fall, as above, while instinctively cocooning your baby in a scooped-out hollow of your thoracic cavity which you didn't even know you had, so that despite the epicness of the fall He is FINE- which I don't recommend either- I can tell you.  The actual worst place for this to happen is the peds waiting room.
Because people will SCREAM and SHRIEK and began squealing in Spanish "His face! His Face! It broke His Face! AAHHH! THE BABY'S FACE!!!" Which only adds to the confusion as the office staff which has also rushed over starts yelling at random people, "what? What's she saying?!" who throw up their hands "I dunno! I dunno but she saw it she knows what happened and the kid is hurt!" At which point the nurses flock and the doctors are wrenched from their patients and thrust upon you to make sure your baby, who didn't get hurt but did get scared, is really, totally, fully, and exquisitely FREAKED OUT.  Because "WHO-are-all-these-crazy-people-and-why-are-they-screaming-in-my-face-and-touching-me-and-shining-lights-into-my-eyes-I-want-to-drive-the-bus".
And then, because He bit His tongue a tiny bit (so tiny they couldn't even find the cut when they SEARCHED HIS MOUTH for it later- oh He loved that)- and one single drop of blood appeared at the corner of His mouth- Baby's Face Woman starts again shrieking "His Blooding His blooding!!!!" and Her family member has to help her to her chair and the whole thing revs back up.
Mister and I had to have full examinations.  We had to be checked for concussions.  We had to sit for 15 minutes and be monitored.  You know what an over-tired toddler who just got His bus stolen from Him and is not happy with these crazy people does NOT want to do?  Sit for 15 minutes and be monitored.  So He would get up and run towards the open door, and I would chase Him down and bring Him back to the Chair Of Shame.  And He would cry.  Because He wants. the. bus.
And the nurses would hear Him cry and come running- Is He ok?! Did He fall again?? Is He hurt?!
Little Miss, meanwhile, is doing Her absolute best to actually disappear into the corner, because She wants NONE of that loco.  Our doctor was out, so we saw a new lady, who gave us an extra-thorough examination because, frankly, I think she doubted my capacity.  And then, we headed over to immunizations.  But that's another story.  

With Chocolate and Kleenex

We have been s-ICK over here.  The last couple of weeks have been a toxic slurry of nose goo, coughs, fevers, and the dreaded pink eye.  "When can She go back to school?" I ask the doctor.  "How about when She stops looking like an extra in a zombie movie?" Ok then.
After a week and a half of un-planned vacation, we have stir-crazy children and a behind-at-work mama.  Luckily, the Sisters have come around in the last day or so, and my mom is here to save the day. (!) So Mister has a lot of love to soothe His oh-so-pitiful self, and we are determined to have a happy Valentine's Day.
Now, in the case that tomorrow I'm the next one hit (I hear that if you get slimed by a zombie, you turn into one), or in the case that we are all well and having too much Valentine fun to stop, or in the (most likely) case that I fall into a chocolate coma, here is a happy, happy Valentine wish for YOU from the Littles.
We may be far, I may not check in often enough, and we might not say it as much as we think it, but it IS true, Peanuts.

We love you.  

Flap-jackie Chan

I'm entrenched in a ridiculous drama in which GoogleVoice has abducted my cell phone number and refuses to give it back.  It terrorizes me, Peanuts.  It's a mean, scurvy pirate.  One of the ways it messes with me is by randomly transcribing voicemails and sending them to me as a text that would take all of the Pentagon's cryptologysts to decipher.
I was picking up Missy from school one day, when one of these encoded nonsensical messages came in.  I wasn't yet familiar with this phenomenon, and so for a minute I just stared at it dumbly, wondering which one of us was crazy.  It made no sense, guys, none.
But I could pick out three words:
school
daughter
allergy
Which were the only ones I needed to see to turn my stomach inside out.  I smiled at Miss, who I had been unsuccessfully beguiling away from the sandbox, walked over to Her calmly, picked Her up, and sat Her on Mister's lap in His stroller.  I measured my words out like sugar in a teaspoon, "There is an emergency, so we are leaving right. now.  Hang on love!"
And I hauled our three tushies down the path, up the road, past the park and through the parking lot in record time, dialing the school as we trucked it.
She was ok.  She was looking scared and embarrassed, but She was breathing normally.  Other than some hives on Her face, She looked fine.  Except for the eye.
Her left eye looked as if She'd jammed a ping-pong ball under Her lids.  It was big and puffy, swollen and red.
The school features pancakes for lunch (got to start those healthy habits early).  One of Little One's friends was eating pancakes with her hands, and reached across the table to get Little One's attention. She touched Her face.  That's it.  That's all.  That's all it took to blimp up Her eye like that and freckle Her with hives.  The nurse had washed it out and put ice on it, but it was still swelling.
I was relieved.  It could have been so much worse than a swollen eye.  I was just getting my heart to start beating normally again, when She took off the ice pack to let me look.  The white of Her eye was bulging.  The whole eyeball was swollen and eerily fat, and a lima-bean sized pouch was extruding from the white sclera and swelling up and over the iris, covering the color of Her eye.
Eyes, Peanuts.  Heebiejeebie.  Eye stuff is ick.  It was the one part of EMT school I cringed in.
So because I was worried about the eye, and because it was only getting worse, we left kindergarten and spent a long afternoon in the ER.  Little One got some medicine and a cold compress, and after a couple of days was just fine; good as new.
But the scariest part of the story, to me, wasn't physical at all.  It was that when Her eye had started bothering Her, She covered it with one hand, and kept writing.  When Her teacher asked if She was ok, She lied and said yes.  She excused Herself to the bathroom.
She didn't come back for a long time, and so the teacher checked and found Her hiding in the bathroom, embarrassed by Her freakish look, rinsing Her eye in the sink.
Her teacher had FREAKED OUT.  The nurse said she was hysterical.  When she spoke to me, she was angry at Little One for the lie.
I didn't talk to Her about this until we were home, I knew She was ok, and we'd all had a chance to rest and decompress.  Then I filled J in, and we talked to Her together.  We told Her the truth.
"Little One.  It's lucky it was just a pancake and a swollen eye.  Because you need to know that if it had been maybe a nut, and you had gone off and hid like that...you could have died in the bathroom.  You could have stopped breathing and no one would be there to help you.  You HAVE to tell your teacher.  It is the most important thing." 
The silver lining is that when these things happen I don't get brushed off as the over-dramatic mom as much.  Now that Her teacher has seen Little One get a freaky fat eye from one roundhouse-kick by a pancake molecule, She is much more interested in asking me to read labels for snacks and keeping Little One away from spills.  Between our chat and missing a birthday party to spend hours in an ER waiting room, I'm hoping Little One has learned something, too.
The struggle between caution and level-headed moderation is a line as thin as the blade on a double-edged sword.  On one hand, we don't want Her to be paranoid so that She is living under a constant shadow of fear.  We want Her to go out into the big world, have adventures, live.  We don't want Her to be sheltered in a bubble of parental protection to the point that She doesn't learn how to navigate the reality on Her own (after all, the great majority of deaths from allergic reactions occur in teens and young adults- basically as soon as children outgrow their parent's reach).  And we don't want to ignore how real the social pains of food allergy can be at Her age; isolating Her and pointing out Her difference and making Her friends uncomfortable being around Her.  
On the other hand.  There is this story of a seven year old who died at school when a friend gave her a peanut on the playground. And this one, where a girl died in her school cafeteria.  Or this boy, who had two cardiac arrests, despite being given his epipen, when teacher forgot and gave him a hazelnut  candy in one of those dreaded birthday crap-eating fests that happen in Little One's class every other week.  This one, who nearly died after building a gingerbread house in school.
And many others.
Because talking about food allergy sometimes seems to get across about as well as that text message I got from the nurse. People are so attached to and in love with food. It's like hearing that your best friend goes around and axe-murders people at night- "cookies? really?  cookies are harmless! My cookies could never hurt anyone! It's just a cookie."  People seem to almost take offense.  When I was discussing Her food allergies with Her teacher at the beginning of the year, the teacher seemed a little annoyed- "obviously, I want to keep Her safe."  Yes.  No one is saying you are going to tie Her up and force peanuts down Her throat.  No one is calling you a sadist.
But something that is inherently nice, nourishing, even comforting to you, is- believe it! It's true!- deadly poison for some of us.  It is that big a deal to hand out a treat that "looks ok" without reading the label.  Or to expect that a little child not only have the 100% infallible judgement to stay away from allergens "because they are old enough to know better", but also to expect them to have superhuman psychic powers and know what ingredients were used in every processed cracker or home-baked treat brought into school, or that someone spilled milk on their chair yesterday and it wasn't washed with soap and water.  Or that the girl eating pancakes across the table is about to reach out.
A kindergarten teacher tasked with a bunch of crazy mini-people who have various special needs, language abilities, and behavior problems can easily view a food allergy as just one more kid issue to add to a long list.
Especially when my child does know better, is personally responsible beyond Her years, and classroom days go by smoothly without incidents.  It starts to feel like, hey.  What's the big deal?  She  must not be that sensitive, because every time we've bent the rules and let kids with peanuts/eggs/milk sit next to Her at the table so far, it's been fine.
Until it isn't.
It may seem harsh to tell a five-year-old that She could have died on a bathroom floor.  Or to tell it to Her teacher.  But it's true.
It's a strange world, as a parent, when you spend a whole afternoon in the ER, when your child gets a big swollen eye, and you feel thankful.  But I'm dance-a-jig, shout-to-the-stars, prayers-of-thanks grateful for that ugly swollen eye.
Because even though She had a couple of really bad days- She's still here.
As for the nurse and the teacher, of all the info I've showered them with since before school even started, this episode I think had the effect on them that those three intelligible key words in the transcribed text had on me.  It was just a swollen eye.  But, I hope, it was enough for them to get the message.   

Beautiful

Awhile ago, J's did a rotation at a VA hospital.  When you first walk in, you find yourself in a huge room.  Little rooms open off to the sides of it, like spokes in a great hub.  The ceiling soars to the glass half-walls of the floor above.  This arena is littered with signage, equipment, and, well, litter.  It is filled with tired people in scrubs, sick people in wheelchairs, sad people in ragged clothing.  And at the exact center of it all, surrounded by velvet ropes as if it were some specimen of royal lineage, is a shiny grand piano.
We visited several times, and never saw anyone playing it.  It just sits there, a nice thought that maybe was never practical, never a priority, and forgotten.  People bustle past it, they sit on line in queues all around it, and never seem to notice it.
We visited J a few times at the hospital, mostly when he was on an overnight shift and we would bring him dinner.  Because he was busy with patients, we would come and just wait.  Hang out in the lobby until he had a chance to run down to pick up some food and give us all a hug.  So we waited in the room with the piano.  Little One always noticed it.
On night, while we were waiting and it was late and almost empty inside, Little One sat staring at it. And staring at it.  And staring.  Finally She whispered, please mommy, could She play it.  So we asked the security officer guarding the front door.
"Piana? What piana?"  We pointed.  She looked surprised.  Like in all her time working there, in the same room, she had never realized there was a grand piano surrounded by velvet ropes.  "Well sure honey, I don't care if you play that thing. Go ahead." 
Little One clapped Her hands in front of Her chin and said thank you.  She turned and sort of sideways, sort of slowly, sauntered towards it.  As it it were a wild thing to sneak up on.  As if She might scare it away.
She ran Her hand along the rope, ducked under it, and slid onto the shiny bench.  With effort She lifted the lid, then sat for awhile with Her hands resting on the keys.  After some time, She began to play.  She played bits and pieces of songs She knew, then paused another moment.  When She settled on a song and began again, a man had just come down on the elevator, and was crossing the room in his wheelchair.
She began to play "Old MacDonald".  She played it through to the end.  When She began, the man in the wheelchair stopped short.  He turned.  While She played, he sat frozen.  Watching.  When the song was over, he hollered.
"Yeah! YES!"  Little One looked up.
He clapped and clapped his hands and pointed at Her.  "Old MacDonald! Right? Yes! And you played it! She played it! That was great.  It was! What a thing to hear! Little girl, you got something.  Mom! Don't ever let her stop playing! Don't let her! That was great! Yes! Made my night!" And then, somewhat more quietly, "Thank you."  Little One was bright red.  And smiling.  "You're welcome", She said.
Later that night, Little One asked me, "Why did that man get all a'cited and clap like that?  Why did he say thank you and don't to stop playing piano?"
"Because, Little One, you played music and music is beautiful.  You made something beautiful and he enjoyed it.  It made him happy.  You made him happy with your songs."
Little One looked amazed.  She whispered, "I did?  I did that?"
"Yes!" 
"Wow.  Well.  He made me happy with his clapping and cheering me on, so.  I thought he was beautiful too."  

Brave

Monday will be the first day of Kindergarten.
It's true that Little One has been going to school for three years now, but this will be public school.  All day school.  With hundreds of kids.  With lunch time. It's a whole new thing.
Tonight Little One and I walked through the drizzling evening to attend the "back to school" info session.  It was mostly hum drum, mission statements and conduct codes and pick-up schedules and such.  It was late (and boring) and Little One leaned on my shoulder, lacing Her arm through mine.
When the teacher got to the part about lunches and snacks, I perked her up to listen.
Hearing the talk about how all the kids get milk, about the class eating breakfast each morning in the classroom,  class-provided snacks (the ubiquitous goldfish crackers being the example),  the various options for lunches on long tables in the cafeteria, caused knots to form in my stomach, slowly tightening with each paragraph.
One parent in the back asked, "is this a nut-free school?"  
"No, no it isn't" answered the teacher.
At that, she got the biggest reaction from her listeners she'd had all night.
"YES!!" exclaimed several parents in the crowd, one pumping his fist in the air.  "Awesome!" "great!" "Oh that makes everything easier!"
Everything easier? Really?
Now, I am actually not an advocate for nut-free schools.  There are nuts in the world, and kids like mine have to learn to navigate that fact.  I also understand the fairness issue with asking many to be inconvenienced for the sake of one.
But it is, after all, the sake of one life.  
How can I explain this to someone who doesn't live with life-threatening food allergies?  Imagine the teacher saying that all the children would be allowed to carry loaded handguns, and all the parents going, "Yes! I'm sending mine with a semi-automatic!"   Only worse.  Because if kindergarteners did carry guns, at least they might have been told to be careful with them.  At least the teachers would know they were dangerous and would instinctively supervise to some degree.
But for my kid, the peanut butter sandwich and the cups of milk are just as dangerous.  And no one handles pizza with caution.  Meaning that the burden of staying safe in an actual minefield of danger, all day long, will fall on the shoulders of a five-year-old.
Hearing all those parents exalt over getting to send nuts into the place my Little One will be spending the majority of Her time,  watching Her innocent little eyes get big and round, feeling the delicacy of Her hand pressed into mine... I felt a wave of real terror.
I put my arm around Her shoulders as if I were sheltering Her from an attack; for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. I can honestly not remember the last time I felt so afraid.  And that's me.
How must She feel?
I squeezed Her hand and the talk moved on to folders and homework.  Afterwards She thanked the teacher and we started for home.  By now it was late, late enough to be dark out.  To get home, we take the short-cut around the back of the school, behind the baseball field and down a little path through a wooded area.  But we've never walked it at night.
As we turned the corner of the school, the back was unlit, littered with broken chairs, flat basketballs, and overflowing dumpsters.  The thought was just flashing through my mind, that this was pretty sketchy looking and I was a bit uneasy about it, when Little One stopped short and grabbed my hand.  "Um, no way Mom.  No way we should go through here, it's too dark! I'm scared.  This looks like a place where Bad Guys come out from."
I looked again.  It did look like a scene that might be accompanied by creepy music.
But it was the way home.
"Little One, it's ok.  This is our own, safe neighborhood.  I have a flashlight, and we know the way.  We are tough and brave, and I am right here.  We're just going to keep going." 
She looked a bit doubtful.
"If a bad guy jumps out, I will whack him with this umbrella. I'm not afraid of anything. Let's go!"
She held my hand tight, and we walked.
Even though what I said was true, that it was a short familiar walk in our own, safe neighborhood, if I'd been by myself, I might have run through the dark part, or gone the much longer way through the lit streets.  But sometimes when you're mom, you don't have the luxury of being scared.  You have to be rational, you have to be brave.  Because it's one thing to teach my child to be cautious, and another to make Her afraid of the dark, of Her own shadow.
So I walked with confidence; I smiled and pointed out the lovely song of the crickets, the beautiful pattern of the moon through the leaves.  I kept a careful watch and I held onto Her hand- but we walked right into the dark and kept walking until we were home.
I wish I could walk Her like that through life.  I wish I could hold Her hand in every darkness.
Kindergarten and school and the wide frightening world are right around the corner.   They are shadowy with Unknowns and there are dangers to navigate.  I would give anything to make every back alley and lunch room safe and sunny for Her! But I can't, and there's no way around it.
Still, even if I can't always be there with Her, I will always be there for Her.
All we can do is hope things aren't so dangerous as they seem, to navigate as smartly as we know how, to walk into the darkness and keep walking.  And be brave.

Yes For Dessert

I have this artist friend.  I love the way she mothers.  She and I parent the same in some ways, differently in some ways, but we find the same kind of joy in it, I think.  So when she talks about her Way of parenting, I listen.  And when she posted some random link on Facebook today, I clicked.  I read it.
The article was about how it is important to say "yes" to children, when as parents we are so constantly saying "no".  Important to say yes; not "maybe", "I'll think about it", "if you this" or "after that".  But really, truly, "yes that's a great idea"; "absolutely".
Ok, whatever, that's nice.  I clicked on.
But that article popped into my head today, every time I admonished my girls for using their hands instead of a fork, or the tablecloth instead of a napkin.  Every time they asked if we were done waiting for the doctor, or could go to the zoo today, or have skittles for lunch.
They say Eskimos have 100 words for "snow", but moms have at least 1000 ways of saying "no".
Today was a long day.  The kids were up early.  We spent four hours at the allergy clinic, waiting and meeting Little One's new top doc.  We grabbed lunch and drove through DC traffic to the commissary where we shopped for the next month (because I'm not doing that again all the time, Peanuts.  I mean really) and hauled it all back home and unloaded.  Because J has an overnight shift tonight (which started at 5am today), I made him dinner- a new Chinese recipe requiring lots of pots and pans- and brownies for the whole resident team.  I packed it up, fed the kids, washed the dishes, bathed Mister- because no matter how busy we may be, this face:

needs a bath after dinner- got the Sisters faces washed and hair brushed.  Got the text that J didn't want dinner (another resident went out for Chinese), but loaded all the kids and the brownies into the car anyways.  We drove 45 minutes through rush hour, and Missy fell fast asleep.
So I put Her in a stroller, brownies in the basket, Mister on my hip, and pushed Her in, with Little One holding the handle.  We waited 20 minutes in the lobby while J finished helping a patient, and saw him for about 10 minutes.
By the time we left, the sun was setting, Missy still fast asleep with Mister following suit, and I was thinking of how much I had to do as soon as I could get the kids into bed.  As we made our way to the parking lot, Little One said,
"So, mom.  I was thinking...how 'bout since the kids are asleep and it's past bed time, how 'bout you and me do something fun? Like have a girls night? 
"We-elll....we might still have time to read our special book.  But it's already after bed time, love."  (We've been reading chapter books lately, after the younger kids are in bed.  We're currently in the middle of "The Little Prince").
"But.  But...well...I was thinking more like, you know, like a game, or something, or....Oh! I KNOW! Let's BAKE something! Something from my new cookbook Aunt Sherry gave me?  Just us two? 'Cause, 'cause you know, mom.  You know, you and Dada have been working a LOT lately....and Missy has been reading the Little Price wif us, and that's ok because She likes it and that's great She does, and so we also shouldn't read any more wifout Her, you know, but well.  So we haven't had that much time.  With us, just.  Please?  Please could we just have a fun girl night and bake some stuff?  Us two?"  
I began preparing a good version of No in my head- after all it was already past bed time and I had a lot of cleaning up to do and some other chores to get done.  But that article flashed through my mind. I asked myself why I was saying no.  Did it really, truly, need to be a no?  Or was I just used to saying it?  We had nothing to do in the morning; there was nothing waiting for me at home that couldn't wait a little longer.  Besides which: there will be a time, soon, when Little One might not want to hang out with me "just us two".  A time when I will wish She would.  Here I had Little One, offering Herself up to me on a silver platter, offering me a whole evening of time together having fun.
So I said, "Little One.  I think that is a terrific idea! Absolutely.  Let's do it!"
She lit up like a firefly.  "Ok! Great! Oooohhh I can't wait to decide what we are gonna make! There are TONS of great recipes in my book, mom.  We are gonna have fun just deciding which one!"
 We did.  We put the littler Littles to bed, dawned our matching aprons, and pored over the book until we found the perfect thing.  We adjusted it to allow for the fact that Little One really wanted to use strawberries and bananas.  Then we measured and mixed- Little One doing almost all of it Herself.
We chatted about our day, about kindergarten coming up, about lots of things.

While they baked, we read The Little Prince, just us two.  When they were done, we split one in celebration.

"Little One, thanks for a great idea.  That was fun! And tomorrow we will surprise everyone with tho special breakfast!"
"Yeah, mom.  They will be happy, right? I guess I do have good ideas sometimes.  Hey mom.  I love you."  
We brushed teeth and tucked Her in.
I didn't really get any chores done.  I didn't get to call and chat with my sister or a friend like I'd planned.  But I did get to spend some excellent time with a wonderful, fun person who is becoming more and more a friend every day.  Plus, our strawberry-banana muffins turned out to be delicious.  

Sometimes, as moms, we have to force ourselves to do something nice for ourselves, to treat ourselves to something purely fun.  But it's worth it to take the time.  Saying "yes", is sweet.

Moving Forward

Little Mister, as I have mentioned, has been working hard.  VERY hard.  Very, very, very hard, for the last few weeks, whenever He has had a chance.  Trying (so hard!) to figure out how to get There.
"There" being a place or object, always in front of Him, and always barely beyond reach.
His expression during these times is just as a lion would have, if starved for a month, and placed on one side of a plexiglass wall, with a herd of Zebra on the other.
Or, even better, imagine there is no plexiglass, but the lion is put into a straightjacket.  Imagine the contortions and exhausting flopping about this ravenous lion would throw himself into.  If our lion were bald, we wouldn't know the difference between him and Little Mister.
For about a week now, I have observed this circus act suspiciously, shaking my head and murmuring to J, "We have GOT to get this place child-proofed fast! He's going to figure it out any day now.  Any day!" 
Well, Peanuts.
Today was that day.
And, if you can imagine the lion bursting through his straightjacket and finding himself to be free, FREE! in a field of zebra- the crazed free-for-all, pouncing here and there and laughing hysterically (sure, lions laugh) and tearing around until he's so tired he can't.move.another.muscle- well.  Then you will know how Little Mister spent His afternoon.
He's not got a proper crawl going yet; He's still commando-style.  But He can get from Here to There with almost alarming alacrity, and nothing (I mean NOTHING) is safe from His curious, pudgy little fingers.
Guess what I did today?  I followed Him around, saying, "Oh, yikes, Mister, not that! Here, play with thi- NO! No thank you, sweetie not that.  Take this toy inste- NO! No, let me have that and I'll just move you over here, ok.  Now I can- NO! Nonnonoo that is NOT good for babies and now, Little One, I can get your-NO! NOT THAT EITHER!" while extracting various treasures such as barbie crowns, bits of paper, electronic cords of every diversity, a shoe, and so very many plastic strands of disembodied pom-pom.  
There will be no rest, Peanuts.  No rest.  For YEARS.  There will be no peace.  There will be worry, and paranoid checking of things.  All the things.  There will be much lifting and relocating and chasing and floor-cleaning.  It is a new era of wow-three-kids-huh-how's-that?
But. If you can imagine the face of a lion, who has been starved, in a straightjacket, in a field of zebra and then freed- freed among the zebra and the big, wide, wonderful world, well.  You can picture the face of my Mister.
So, I can't help it.  I cheered Him on.

Pat-Pat

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker man.
Bake me a cake as fast as you can!
Roll it, pat it, mark it with a "B", and...
THROW it in the oven!
For Baby and me.


This little nursery rhyme and game are a great love of Little Misters.  This boy loves to pat some cakes.  He also loves the book, "pat the bunny".  He loves to pat in general.
I guess, without realizing it, I have always tended to gently pat Him on the back when I pick Him up, when I rock Him, when I'm comforting Him.  He likes that.  It soothes Him when He's sleepy or upset, makes Him giggle when He's playful and happy.
Once He got old enough to start controlling His limbs a little, He began to spread the love by returning the favor to me.
When I pick Him up after He calls me, when He's feeling snuggly or sleepy, or silly and giggly, He reaches out and pat pat pats my back.  He's proud of this.
It is pretty sweet to see such a little thing patting His mother on the back, with a goofy grin.  My mom was enamored with the process.  And so She'd coo at Him, "are you patting mama?  Pat-pat! How sweet! Pat-pat!"  He ate up the attention and soon learned to put the words "pat-pat" together with the action, so that now He has a fun party trick!  We can say, "Little Mister! Can you give Sister a pat-pat?" And He will joyfully oblige.
In fact, not long after acquiring this fabulous skill, we noticed that He began to also mimic the sound.  Until it has become undeniable that Mister is not only doing His "pat-pat" party trick, He's saying it!
When He pats me on the back, or when anyone makes His day by initiating pat-a-cake so that He can clap His hands together, at the same time He burbles, "Pat-pat, pat-pat!" over and over.
Which means that (drumroll please.  Crashing cymbals.) He's said His first word!
It's kind of a random one.  But given the context, also sweet, I think.
I love that His first word began as affection and fun.  I love that it is so Little Mister's baby personality to have His first word be such an interactive one.  I think that when He says "pat-pat", clapping His hands together and looking up at me, He's really communicating.
Mister's other sounds are many and diverse, and while no others have materialized into decipherable English, I have a feeling that (as is typical for Him, we are learning) now that He's started, there will be no stopping Him!  I can't wait to hear what else He has to say!

Inside Joke

On long driving days on this trip, we play games, do art, and enjoy the scenery in the morning.  But if we're still driving in the late afternoon (or if we did a hike early and then logged some miles after lunch), we let the Sisters watch a movie in the car.
We let them choose from a selection we brought along, and for some reason, they formed an obsession way back in Indiana and have chosen the SAME movie EVERY time.  Disney's "Cars".
The repeated viewing of this gem (They've probably watched it five or six times now) has ingrained it into their soft little brains in a way that is eerily impressive.  It's kind of cool (wow! How can they remember all that?!) and kind of disturbing (wow.  HOW can they remember all THAT?!).
We sort of wish we'd brought along a video of the theory of relativity or something instead.  They'd be applying to Harvard right now.  It has also given rise to the first notable existence of a new phenomena.
We were driving one day and the Littles were chattering.  Suddenly, they both hollered, "AND MY NAME IS NOT CHUCK!" and broke into insane peals of laughter.  J and I gave each other the "huh?" look, and turned to see what the heck.  We could see no signs of Chuck.
But it became a Thing.  One of them would randomly say, "Adios, Chuck." And the other would shout, "AND MY NAME IS NOT CHUCK!".  Crazy laughter.
After a while, and quite a few "huh" looks between me and J, I suddenly gasped.  "Ohmygosh!"
J did a double on his "huh?" look.  "What?" 
"I just realized.  They have this joke.  They have a joke, and they get it, and we are the un-cool parents and we DON'T get it.  We don't GET it, J.  It's their first inside joke!" 
J was quiet for a moment.  "It is."
It was!
After careful attention, and thanks to a five-year old who (thank you Lord, and let it last forever) can not keep a secret from Her parents for long, we realized they were repeating their favorite line from the movie.  Apparently that part is, like, reeeaaallllyyy funny.
Once we were clued in, it became the family inside joke. Now, any one of us is likely to suddenly say, "Adios, Chuck!"  leading to a chorus of "AND MY NAME IS NOT CHUCK! AHhhahaaahah!"
They also quote a ton of other lines from the movie.  including, most unfortunately, such gems as "what-a-heck?!" and (this one makes me freak out EVERY time for just a sec) "Ho-ly SHOOT!"
Thanks, Mater.  You've corrupted my innocent babies.  Now they say "holy shoot".  What-a-heck?!
Little Miss, also, has a thing for the "low-ridah" cars featured, likes to go around saying, "What UP? What Uuuupp?"  And even, upon seeing a sleeping person at my grandfather's nursing home, "Looks like we got ah-selves a NOd-dah!" 
Ok, see the movie if you don't get it.
Except for the holy shoot parts, it's pretty cute.  And, if you re-live it 5000234541 times, as we have, you will grow a special fondness for it.  Trust me.  You might even drive the country, looking out for cars that resemble the characters from the movie, and find random junkyards in Nowhere, New Mexico, really awesome because there are, like, 10 Maters and 14 Doc Hudsons in there.  Trust me.
At any rate, while I have heard each scene rehashed and dissected as nauseum, and while what-the-heck and holy-shoot are phrases I could live without a few years longer, I appreciate very much the fact that J and I were let in on the Sister's first inside joke.
There will be more- many more- and we will soon be left with our "huh" looks and nothing else.  As it should be.
But maybe, one day, when they are laughing at something that makes no sense to us, and they refuse to clue us in, J or I will holler at them- "Adios, Chuck!"  And, years having passed, the Sisters will give each other the "huh?" look, and J and I will laugh hysterically.

Phase One Complete

Well, Peanuts.  We somehow survived the pack out.
People always say, "oh how nice! How nice that they pack for you! That saves you so much time and effort!"  Yes.  It is and it does.  But.
I have learned from experience now, that sitting back with a cocktail as the (lowest bidders for the job) packers do it all for you, is a decision that will only necessitate a great many cocktails on the other end of that move.  The packers are about speed; they see something, dump it in a box, move on.  So if, for instance, you have a little box of pins in your sewing drawer, it will be all kinds of interesting unpacking the box they got dumped into when you get to the new place.  Like your own welcome cactus in a box!  Or if, for instance, you are me and you like things to be organized and so you put everything into little labeled boxes and baskets and such, you are going to be silently listing all the expletives you know when you see that the packers took aaaallllll the categorized, organized toys in the whole playroom, and dumped each box out together in one big box, and then put all your boxes in another box. Why?  Why commingle the barbies with the trains?  Why all the legos all mixed in with the monopoly game pieces and hundreds of puzzle pieces?  Did I insult someone's mother?  I mean, why?  Imagine how fun it is to have a whole house to set up, and have to spend an entire afternoon sitting on the floor....playing puzzles. And jewelry. 20 little chain necklaces all in one giant knot.  That will take two afternoons.  If there is trash in the wastebasket, it's getting dumped in a box (with other stuff!) and packed.  If there are wet washcloths hanging, you are getting a box of mold on the other end. And so.  I have learned the importance of pre-packing.  This time around, with J's help, I managed to get it all done in two (very long) days (and most of the night).  Here are my tips for military movers:

1) Have a yard sale and/or donation cleanse first.  I think it helps the transition to involve the kids.  We went through all their stuff and made a pile of things that "someone else might love to have".  On yard-sale day, I spread out two big blankets, gave them a cash box, a stool, and an box for a counter, and let them set up their "store".  They spent half the morning working on their displays, putting shoes here and books there. They were in charge of setting prices, negotiating with buyers, collecting and counting money, and giving back change.  The rule is, whatever money is made from the sale of their things, they get to keep.  This is a pretty good motivation to let things go.

2) Go through all bottles of shampoo and such and either ziplock them or be sure those lids are closed and tight.  The packers do not always care if the shampoo is open and upside-down.

3) Tiny things like needles, thumbtacks, paperclips, and jewelry have to be placed into a container that will not open.  For jewelry, I fold each necklace or pair of earrings into a handkerchief; roll, place another in, roll, etc. to keep them padded and separate.  Then I put the rolled handkerchiefs into a jewelry bag zip it up, and wrap it.

4)Movers wrap is my best friend.  It's basically a ginormous roll of really strong saran wrap.  All my little boxes and baskets, all the puzzles, and so on get wrapped up in that stuff.  This time I wrapped an entire cabinet of little drawers.  Because I am not separating dress-up shoes from tiaras all day in July.  I would rather have the moving guy look at me funny.  I explain in the beginning that if it's wrapped in plastic, it goes as is.  Some packers hate me for it (takes up a lot more boxes), some love it (most of the job is done for them).  But it's the difference between unpacking a room in one day, or taking a week to sort things out.  I've even taken drawers out of dressers, wrapped them, and had them pack the drawers into boxes.  When I get there, I just stick the drawers in and I'm done! It's easy to wash a drawer at a time and put a whole load back in one place, rather than re-sort everything.

5) Make signs.  I empty a closet or two myself, then put everything I don't want packed in there and make a "do not pack" sign on the door.

6) Because things can be handled roughly, lost, or stored in uncontrolled conditions, go through and take out anything that is really special, or can't be replaced (like old film photo albums, little clay baby handprints, old family things, and a hard-drive with photos and videos), and pull it out.  Usually we put them in our trunk and drive it to the new house ourselves, but since that would mean hauling it around for six weeks (and I have to admit I have a ton of old photo albums), we left it with a friend this time.  We also had a generous friend collect and babysit our house plants until we can pick them up.

7)Anything you don't want dirty (throw pillows, sofas, anything) or that is really fragile, wrap yourself.

7) Do ALL the laundry, empty wastebaskets, wash ALL the dishes, and keep people from using them.  So hard with little kids who are in the routine of throwing things away in certain places.  And changing their outfits five HUNDRED times a day.

Not to mention, all the stuff in high cabinets or shelves has to be brought down, all the stuff on the walls taken down, swing sets and play houses dismantled, electronics unplugged and serial numbers listed, hardware labeled, etc.

So even though it truly is a huge service to have packers come and do the heavy work, it's not exactly a breeze, unless I want to pay for it later.
We arranged to have the Sisters stay late at school on those days to keep them out of harms way, and after the packers left I would move things around to make their room safe again.
Coming home and seeing all your stuff gone and a bunch of boxes in its place can be upsetting for little ones.  To help ease the pain, we bend some of our rules during moving time.  We let them watch a movie on a school night (bonus of keeping them entertained safely, away from towers of boxes that could topple if climbed), have popsicles, and stay up late for extra cuddles.  I also gave them a sheet of "This box belongs to me" stickers to put on their boxes so we can find them right away when we get there.

And the last night, we got to go to a hotel with a swimming pool.  Oooohhhh.  Aaaaahhhhh.

So far Missy actually seems to be loving the adventure of it all, and until She collapses from the lack of naps at the end of the day is extraordinarily cheerful.  Little One is very, very sad to leave friends behind, and to leave the familiar, and alternates between being happy and excited, sad and tearful, and moody and obstinate.  Frankly I'm pretty much the same, so I get it.  Moving is hard.  It takes a lot of work and is, in every sense of the word, unsettling.  The one I'm looking to as a role model in all of this is Little Mister.  Mister has had some protesting over the disruption of His perfect schedule.  But overall He is dealing with it all better than any of us.

He doesn't care about our stuff being boxed up, or whether it will arrive in one piece, or at all.  Who cares about a bunch of stuff?  He doesn't care that His fancy play gym is gone and He has to roll around on a flattened box, playing with some sunglasses and a random plastic lid.  Why not be happy with whatever we have in this moment?  He doesn't care that we are leaving places and people behind. Why not focus on Now, on the sound of the birds in the trees and the warm breeze through the window and the amazing entertainment of our own toes? Really, so long as He has His most basic of needs covered and is with His loved and trusted family, He hardly cares what else goes on.

I have cleaned, sorted, padded, wrapped for our move.  I have packed, labeled, planned, back-up planned for our trip.  I have good-byed, thanked, and KIT promised many friends.  Ok.  But now?  Now is the time to be like Mister, and let it all go.  Now we set off on our next chapter, and take it day by day, moment by moment.  Despite all of it, things will get lost.  They will break.  Vacation failures will happen and some friendships will fade.  But we have our most basic needs covered, and we are all together.  We really couldn't ask for more.
Of course, swimming, warm baths, The Magic School Bus, and a pizza party in our hotel room aren't bad bonuses at all.

New Years

Yep, still catching up.  "come on, guys, one more game? You're not going to bed already?!", and I looked at her with bloodshot eyes and knew that, yes.  It has happened.  My mother is too cool for me.  As much as I wanted, for the honor of the memory of my high-school self, to fight on and party (or at least play board games) until dawn (or at least midnight), I was beaten.  I could not.  Could not do it.  Sorry, Mom.  I can't keep up!
This year we rang in the new year at like ten.  (Because people who get up and nurse every one to two hours don't give a rat's pacifier about fireworks or balls dropping.)  It's only because we tried really hard and rode part of the way on the coat-tails of my mother's never-ending energy that we made it that far.  And then, in a great thunder-clapping moment of cosmic justice, my mom said,
J made some awesome home-made eggnog, so at least we had a good toast.
And the next day, to celebrate 2014, the Littles joined us in a champagne toast!  Cheers!
Ok it was actually sparkling grape juice but They begged to call it champagne because that is so much fancier, and I acquiesced.  Which will surely bite me in my 2014 behind when They go to school all giddy and inform Their  teachers that Mommy liquored them up.  This year I resolve not to be investigated by social services.

Seven

You might not believe it.  But really, you can ask J, his mom, teachers, friends, and many random strangers we've been in elevators or standing in lines with.  And they will tell you it's true.
For months, Little One has been announcing to everyone who would listen: "Mommy haves a baby boy in hers tummy! It's a brother! He's coming on December 7."  
We would gently correct Her; He's due on the 12th, love.  Not the 7th.
"But that's when He's coming." 
We figured She guessed 7 because it's the day of the month Her own birthday falls on.  Or maybe She confused the date with the AFC Charity Benefit, since we'd told Her I'd be traveling to DC that day to volunteer, as I do every year.  Whatever the reason, She stuck to Her prediction. On December 6th, as I prepared for my trip, we all joked.  Wouldn't it be so funny if She was right and the baby suddenly came the day of The Event?  I mean.  What are the chances.
On the 6th, I woke up full of energy.  I had a lot to do to get ready for my trip.  All day my Mother In Law kept saying, "Don't you ever stop?  Won't you sit down for just a minute?!"  But I didn't.
I emptied and scrubbed and vacuumed the inside of the car.  I rearranged the car seats; one, two, three.  I cleaned out all the the kids' closets, organizing by size and season, folding and hanging.  I did six loads of laundry.  Organized the pantry. Took out the recycling. Cleaned the house top to bottom, hauling the vacuum up the stairs.  Hauling it back down.  I got out all the baby stuff from the garage; I washed the bottles and the teethers and the crinkly toys.  Cleaned up and swept the garage while I was at it.  I finished up some wrapping and decorating, I started the holiday cards.  I painted my toenails.  At- no kidding- 9pm, my generous MIL accompanied me shopping so I could wrap up a gift for the birthday party the Littles were attending later that weekend.  I just needed to get stuff done.  All the while I noticed that the Braxton-Hicks contractions I've had so many of this pregnancy were a little stronger than usual.  But I didn't think much of it, until around the time we were walking the store that evening.  "You've dropped," my MIL noticed, "like, way dropped."  I did feel like I was waddling around.  I did feel a lot of those practice contractions. 
Hmm, I thought.
Nah.
But then, ouch.  Hmmm.....
By around eleven PM I was writing them down, timing them.  Just to see. 
"Is it today?", J asked.
"NO.  It is NOT today.  I'm going to DC in the morning.  I'm going to the event."
J gave me a certain smile.  "Ok."  He said.  But, like Little One, he knew.
By midnight there was no more denying it.  The contractions were strong and the list I'd been keeping read one every ten minutes like clockwork.
"So.   Today?" 
"Maybe."  
I walked around the house awhile.  The list read- five minutes, five minutes, five minutes.
But guys.  It was late. And after all that productivity all day, I was dead tired.  I mean, SO tired.
I laid down.  They spaced out again.  All night, the contractions got stronger and more painful.  But the timing didn't budge- ten minutes, ten minutes.
I tried to rest between them, but it was a long night.  As the sun came up, I was struggling through each one, wondering how long this was going to take, for goodness' sake.  The Littles came bounding in, bubbling with hugs and cuddles and can-we-please-have-waffles-it's-Saturday! And looking at me funny when I would suddenly sit up straight and take deep breaths.
J took them down to eat and kept checking in on me.  I was sitting in bed, just waiting out contractions. They were really strong, now. 
"Why don't you take a hot shower?" J suggested.  "It helped you the other times." 
"Ok, but will you stay?  I'll call out when a contraction starts and you can help me keep timing them."
I stood up.  I had two contractions just walking across the room.  That was weird.
I got into the hot water.  But, just like that, the contractions had gone from 10 minutes apart to two minutes apart.  I was in the shower yelling- "another one! ....And now!... NOW!" After about ten minutes J came in and told me to get out.  But I didn't want to. 
"The hot water just helps so much though."
"GET OUT. GET DRESSED." 
J does not often, in fact basically does not ever, outright order me around.  But he knew. Thank goodness for J.
I got dressed and, because I am apparently myself even when in transition-stage labor, stood there putting on my mascara and brushing my hair with contractions coming one minute apart.
"GET IN THE CAR!" J was almost yelling now.
I put on my favorite new maternity/nursing dress, so I could wear it at the hospital, after.
"GET. IN. THE.CAR."
I got in the car. A contraction came on, stronger than ever.
"Whoa...J.  J!! We're not going to make it.  We're never going to make it!"  
"I know! That's why I said to get in the car!"
"AHH! J! Drive faster.  DRIVE FASTER!"
J was racing along the freeway, thankfully free of traffic for once.
A contraction would hit and I would start hollering,
"It's too hot in hereTooHotTooHot!!!"
He rolled the window down.
"NOOOOO!  NO NotGoodEitherThatIsNOT GOOD EITHER!"
It would pass.
"Sorry.  Sorry J.  Yelling helps.  It just does."
"I know."
"Don't pay attention I don't mean to yell at you"
"I know that, love, it's ok."
"AHHH!  WHY-IS-IT-SO-HOT-DRIVE-FASTER!"
And so it went.  It became very real to me how close to having a baby we really were.  I remembered Little Miss, and began to become seriously concerned that this baby was going to be born in the downtown tunnel.  
But He wasn't.  We made it to the hospital and parked the car.  And then, because this is how patient-friendly this hospital is, I got to walk.  Across the parking garage.  Down the long hallway.  Through the pharmacy, where the pregnant lady and her friend stood with their small children cooing to them, "Look!  Look, guys, that lady's going to have a baby!  She's having a...yikes don't have it here in the hallway."  
I was not yelling, now. I was walking, very slowly.  A contraction would come on and I would stare at the floor and take a deep, silent breath, and think to myself, "Keep walking.  Keep walking. Keep walking."  And I did.
At the elevator, the mothers let us on first.  "Go ahead, we'll take the next one. Good luck!" 
Some hospital staff person got on with us.  "I'm guessing four?" She said.  Labor and Delivery. 
We nodded.  The doors opened and we got off.  I was squeezing the bajeezus out of poor J's hand.
We realized it was the wrong floor.  The lady had gotten off on three.  We waited for the elevator again. We finally made it to labor and delivery, though, and I could (TMI alert) actually feel the baby at this point.  We walked up to the window where the nurse was sipping a coffee, looking at a computer screen.
We stood there.
She sat there.
We stood there.
contraction.  "HI! Hi, hello?"  Deep breaths.
"Yes? Can I help you with something."
I looked at her like she had five heads.
"I'm having a baby."  Deep breaths.  Deeeeep breath.
"ok....?"
I started wondering which one of us was crazy.
"This is labor and delivery, right?  I mean..." contraction. "I'M HAVING A BABY RIGHT. NOW!!!"
She got annoyed with my rudeness.  She took a sip of her coffee.
"Ok, well, if you'll just take a seat over there, I'll get your paperwork together."
I could feel the baby's head.  I pressed my hands on the counter.
"I don't think you understand."   contraction.  "I REALLY THINK YOU SHOULD LET ME BACK! I REALLY NEED TO GO BACK NOW!"
J tried to calm me down, he stepped to the window to try to talk to her. 
She blinked twice, very slowly.  She handed J a clipboard.
"If you'll just complete this paperwork,  then I will let triage know you have arrived."
Triage.  Triage?! I looked at the form.  I could barely see through the blur of pain from another contraction, but the thing seriously had like 50 questions.  It might as well have been a biochemistry final exam. J's pen was flying over it and I was ready to kill people.
"NO! NO!  THIS BABY IS COMING! IT'S COMING NOW!"  
The nurse looked at me and sipped her coffee.  She didn't say a thing.
This is the point when some kind of instinctive delirium took over.  I felt the baby coming and I knew it was time and any slight grasp on reason or logic I'd been clinging to was gone.  I went over to the locked double doors to the delivery deck and began screaming.
"HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE! PLEASE SOMEONE HELP!!!" 
The doors swung open and some visibly annoyed nurses rushed over. 
"Ok, ok.  Calm down, please.  Lets get you into triage and- " contraction.
 "AH! THE BABY IS COMING! IT IS COMING!"
 "-and we will see if you are dilated.  Do you need to use the restroom first?"
This was such an insane question to me at that moment that it totally threw me off.
"What? No! Wait yes.  No.  Yes. NOOOOOO!!! THE BABY IS COMING HELP!"
They pulled me into triage and as I climbed onto the bed, my water broke.
It was the end of that lovely dress I'd bothered changing into.  
Suddenly, there was a rush of activity.  I was flying down a hallway and someone was yelling out "Meconium! Meconium!" and I was looking around for J and calling "Is my baby ok? Is he ok??"  We got into the delivery room and they were telling me to get off the stretcher onto the bed. 
These people, guys. I had been doing everything within my power, I mean everything,  since the moment we left the house to hold that baby in.  But we'd made it to the delivery room.  And the fact that they were asking me to get up and move told me they were all freaking insane and would never get it, and I decided in that moment: the hell with you people. And I stopped trying so hard to hold him in.  I just closed my eyes and did nothing.
So, as the nurses were lifting me from the stretcher to the bed- literally in midair- the baby's head popped out.  The moment I was on the bed someone said "ok push!" and I did, and the rest of the baby was out.  We had made it just in the nick of time.  We had a son.
Born after almost 14 hours of labor, yet all at once.  With a fairly dramatic entrance, weighing exactly seven pounds.  And born (with no regard whatsoever for my weekend plans, just as His sister predicted) on the seventh.
Did I ever tell you?  Seven happens to be my lucky number. 

Why I Love My Husband's Ugliness

A few nights ago, J and I went to his work's holiday party.
A bunch of the guys decided to make it an ugly sweater party.  So I hopped over to the thrift store and bought him a lovely blue turtleneck covered in little cartoon snowmen.  In the same fine establishment I picked up a couple accessories to kick it up a notch, and a hand-knitted, lime green monstrosity for myself in case spouses were expected to participate.  Lucky for me they were not, and so J decided to incorporate the monstrosity into his own ensemble.  Taking care to leave the prominently visible "goodwill" tag on the shoulder for added flair.
Unbeknownst to us, there turned out to be a contest at the party.  It was decided by audience applause, and it wasn't even close.  J won the Ugly Sweater Contest by an uproarious landslide. 
As he claimed his prize, a friend laughing with me leaned in and said jokingly, "Well! Aren't you proud?"  And I answered, "I totally am!"  Not joking at all. 
The thing about J is that he wore that getup walking from the car through six blocks of trendy downtown Friday night crowd and didn't blink. 
He didn't feel embarrassed, and he wasn't showing off.  It was just an ugly sweater party, so he wore an ugly sweater.  And he would have worn it wherever, whenever, and not cared. 
This is one of many things that has always charmed me about J.  I have never met a less insecure person in all of my life.  He really, truly, does not care what anyone thinks about him.  At all.  He does what he likes and what he thinks is the right thing, no matter who is watching, no matter what. 
This goes for being silly and/or weird, and it goes for walking against the crowd when it's something serious, too.  There is no peer pressure strong enough to sway him. 
Which is such a large part of how he is able to pull off one of the other traits that captures my heart over and over; his absolute and immutable integrity.  J always does the right thing.  Always.
As his wife, I appreciate that he's not afraid to be silly and play with our children in front of his friends, and I appreciate knowing that when he tells me something, it is The Truth.  But as the mother of his children, this special immunity to other people's judgements is something I find myself being thankful for every single day.  I hope that by watching his example, they will also learn to be true to themselves.  Whether it's what they like to listen to or wear, or whether it's following their conscience when that internal compass leads them down the harder road. 

Especially now that we have a Mister on the way- a little boy to try and turn into a man as good as His father- and knowing that Little One will probably be in a public elementary school this time next year, I have been thinking ahead about the coming years of raising Littles, and the trickier waters we will be heading into soon.  In a world that can seem angry and unfair, in a world full of cyber-issues I've no idea how to face, and social issues that roil and burn, it is easy to be afraid of navigating those waters.  But what helps me more than anything is knowing that my Littles will always have a mother who loves them just as they are.  And a father to look up to who, when it's time to wear an ugly sweater, wears the ugliest one there is.  And rocks it. 

An Overly Opinionated Post

Little one snuggled up for an extra long goodnight hug, and sighed, her lip blooming into a little pout.
"What is it?" I asked
LO: "Mommy...why is it? Why is it you and daddy has always to work so much? All the time?! Why is you always taking care of the house, and cleaning the things, and folding stuff and all those things? Why does you have to work so much?"
C: "Well, Little One, because that's my job right now.  To take care of you and Missy and take care of the house.  I have to try to work hard at my jobs."
LO: "But whaa-hyyyyy? You don't need take care of the house! Its fine! You should do other stuff!"
C: "Oh. What do you think I should do instead?"
LO: "Sleep! Sleep and rest! And color, draw pictures.  And play."
C: "You think I need more playing time."
LO: "Yes! Stop washing all the stuff mama.  You and daddy work too much."

Later, when we'd said our goodnights, I thought about what she'd said.  My first impulse was to feel terribly guilty, jump on the sappy-mom-blog post all us moms have seen a hundred iterations of, and throw down the mop. Let the dust bunnies collect and organize and start a union, and dedicate each of my darling babies' waking hours to coloring fields of flowers, being ordered about in endless games of pretend, and mixing mud pies.
I wanted to, I really did.  For a minute.
And then I remembered that I do all of those things. I do them all! Just not constantly.
And here's the thing about that.  Part of being a good mom is actually taking care of my kids.  Not taking care to cherish them, not taking care to fulfill their every emotional need- taking actual, physical care of them.  Part of that includes making sure that they have healthy meals, clean clothes, and a hygienic environment in which we can all find things and feel at peace.  When did it really become fashionable to let children live in a sty and eat take-out so that mom has more time to play dress-up? And who does that really sound like it benefits?
There's another reason I think I'll hang onto that mop, after all.  While I could try to do it all, play with the children all day and then madly rush to get every chore done while they sleep, I don't actually want them to think that the laundry washes itself and the toothpaste on the counter evaporates overnight.  I want them to know that having a nice life takes work.  I want them to know about work.
I want them to see me work, and know that J has a job and works hard and I have a job and work hard, because that is what grown-ups do. It's certainly what I expect my kids to do, when they are grown up.  And rather than spring that lovely little reality on them all at once around college age, as I've seen done many times, I personally would rather break it to them gradually.  In a way that it becomes a part of the background, the fabric of living, taken for granted that in life you grow up, and you work hard.
So that you can have what you need, so that you can contribute to the greater good of your choice, so that you make goals and meet them, and know what it means to achieve and be productive.  And so that when you have children to provide for, with your job or by personally scrubbing the aftermath of an afternoon of mud pies in the garden, you can do a good job for them.
I know my kids wish I spent all my time revolving around them like tiny suns, letting the rest of the universe take care of itself.  Sometimes, to tell the truth, that's what I dream of too.  Building a duplo city is a lot more appealing than picking up the dog poo in the yard.  But I'm not going to hide behind the "cool moms don't care about chores" trend when I'd rather play.  I'm going to get my stuff done, so we don't all step in it.
And so my kids learn that although they are the center of the little universe inside my heart, always, they are not the actual center of the literal universe, all the time.  Sometimes. We have to be with ourselves.  Or play with our siblings and friends, even if they are less likely to take directives. Or to wait.  And sometimes, actually a lot of times, we have to work.  Hard.  I want my kids to learn that everything is not about them.
And then, when they grow up, if they know how to set goals and persist until they achieve them, how to get along with others and how to be alone sometimes, and how to do their own laundry for Pete's sake; if they look back over a childhood that felt organized and smelled like coconut curry instead of stale laundry, then.  Then I hope they will see that actually, it was all about them, after all.