From Baby to Boy With A Bang

I was doing dishes while Mr napped.  Suddenly I heard Him singing.  I smiled.  He does that all the time, just wakes up and entertains Himself with His own personalized soundtrack for awhile before calling me to get Him up.  But then I stopped smiling and got a dumb confused look on instead.  Because why did He sound so close?  And getting closer?
I stepped out into the living room, and there He was.

C: "Mister! How did you get out of your crib? You're supposed to be napping!" 

Mr: "Well now, Mommy. I counted, a 10. 9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and count a 1-2-3. And that's a long TIME, a long of SECONDS, and is ENOUGH napping, and well, Mommy. I just a busy guy. Got some trucks here."

And just like that he went off to make a train out of trucks.  
I knew it was the end of an era, but I didn't realize how serious it was.  
Because that night, I put Him in bed like always, and like always He pulled the blankets up to His chin, rolled over onto His side, and went to sleep.  Maybe it was a one time thing.
But later, the peace of the morning was shattered, sort of literally, by the sound of a huge crash, something glass smashing, and then, after the briefest vacuum of silence (all parents know the terror of this moment), the hysterical screaming of my son.  
Peanuts you can believe I was on my feet and across the house before my brain had even fully registered those sounds.  
There are moments (many while driving in DC traffic) in which I have to believe in guardian angels, because nothing else can explain the miraculous escape from injury.  This was totally one of those times.  
Little Mister rose from the midst of epic wreckage like a giant at the end of a good smiting.  There were broken shards of green, a storm of pennies and quarters, and scattered random keys and little things.  Oh.  And an iPad.  
Mister had awakened first, let Himself out of bed, and wandered out of His room to spy an iPad sitting on the high shelf over our entry table.  It was up there, of course, to be out of sight, out of mind, out of reach.
He pushed a big chair over to the table, climbed up, and must have stood on His very tip-toes on that narrow table to reeeeaaaaaach for His prize.  Something went wrong there, because the iPad, the shelf, the Boy, and the big ceramic dish full of change all took a big leap into the arms of gravity and hit the linoleum by the front door.  Pennies for miles.  Pennies for days.  Pennies in places we didn't know we could find pennies. 
And that dish.  J and I got that dish in a small village outside Budapest, on one of the best trips we've ever had.  I kept it over the doorway so I could see it throughout the day.  It reminded me of a beautiful, peaceful place, and a time when J and I were so happy there was actual bliss going on, guys.   It was our first trip as parents on our own, such a wonderful adventure we promised ourselves we'd do one every year.  
Well, we modified that promise due to Life.  But the dish stayed the same, and was a special piece of proof that the whole dream really happened.  Also, it was really pretty.  
Still, as I looked at the splinters of it while folding my crying son into my lap, all I could be was thankful that the dish got broken, and not Little Mister.  He somehow emerged without a scratch or bruise.  
Somethings can't be replaced, like intrepid little boys who try to steal illicit material while their parents are sleeping.  
I can't exactly replace that hand-thrown dish either.  But as I swept up the pieces, I called to mind all the memories of our trip and tried to tuck them into my mind somewhere they won't get lost.  The memories don't mean less because their icon is gone.  Honestly, I would have kept that dish.  It would have been one of the things that would be too hard not to keep.  But life and Mister did it for me.  Thanks for the assist guys!
As for that Mister, He won the freedom of His Big Boy Bed.  Sometimes He wakes up ready for action in the wee hours and terrorizes us by jumping on our heads or pitter-pattering up and down the hall at 3am. But for the most part, He just sleeps. Like the big two-year old boy He is, somehow and all the sudden.  
So. I had this pretty Hungarian ceramic.  I had this little baby, this last little baby, sleeping in a crib.  
I let them go.  

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.

But Her Vocabulary Is Progressing Well

The miracle of learning to read is an altogether different experience with Little Miss.
She wants to be able to read.  Secretly.  She practices and tries- when no one is watching.  She is learning, slowly, but it is not. yo. business.  
So.  Practicing together takes patience.  She gets frustrated, She says She gives up, She huffs and puffs and wriggles around.
But She reads.
So tonight we practiced.  It was brilliant, watching what She can do- if She will.  When we finished, She went to bed frustrated that She'd had to try so hard, and mad at me for sending Her to bed (an hour past bedtime) instead of next reading to Her.
But Miss is so extremely practical.  She wants to know the reasons for things.  Once She deems them necessary, they will be done.  So as I tucked Her in I tried to explain to Her the magic of reading.

"When you know how to read, you can do ANYthing!  You want to fly? You can read about how to become a pilot or how to build an airplane! If you want to go down under the ocean and meet an octopus, you can read and learn how to become a diver, and where to find an octopus.  If you want... (searching for something relevant to Her interests)...if you want 50 cats, you can read all about how to take care of cats, and-"

Miss can't take it anymore.  She interrupts, Her fists clenched, Her eyes piercing: "Arg! FIFTY cats? FIFTY?! UGH! Mom- that's WUH-DIC-A-LUS!"

I can say nothing.  I mean.  She's right.

Missy: "Fifty cats. Theh would be no woom foh anyone. Wu-dic-a-lus."

And She rolled over and went to sleep.  

Bad Blood

A benefit to writing your own story is you get to be the hero if you want!  Which, of course, I do.  SuperC! Saving the day by changing the baby with one hand and sticking a bandaid on the preschooler with the other, while answering the gradeschooler's questions about why a / is used to denote fractions.  Tum-ta-da!

But every good hero has nemeses. One of mine, is Kidzbop.  

This diabolical entity is many things.  But in my life it takes the form of a Pandora station that plays all the crap pop songs you have never heard of because you are not a 12 year old girl, and then plays them in re-mixes performed by Alvin and the bleeping Chipmunks.  

I have Little One's Kindergarten teacher to thank for this monstrosity.  Apparently, she liked to play it in the afternoons and let the kids dance around to such educational gems as "all about that base".  The Disneyfied version.  She let Little One set it up, so Little One knows all about how to get Kidzbop on any device.  And She is. OBSESSED.  

It is all Kidzbop, all day.  Every. Day.  And so, SO loud.  

In my effort not to already be the curmudgeonly older generation (too much) I mostly try to just plaster on my haunted grin, and bear it.  Though sometimes it feels a little like the CIA is probably playing a joke on me, spying to see how long it will be until I crack under the torture.  

Sometimes I get into it and dance along. But really, guys, as a general thing?  

Chipmunks singing Katy Perry??? Why????

Every time I think I win a battle against this villain, playing something else, or hiding the iPad, it's little minions find a way to blast it again. 

Last month I arrived in Ethiopia, allllll the way across the world, in a place where there is no Pandora.  No Spotify.  No iAnything.  No Kidzbop! And what do I see. 

 I CAN'T ESCAPE!

Both Sisters are into this stuff.  

But at least I have my uncorrupted baby. 

Last night, I was washing Little Mister in the tub.  He started singing. 

Mr: "ya wa ga baaaah bod! ya wa ga baaaaah bod!"

He's so cute! Right?  So cute, all innocent and tiny, singing in His sweet little voice in the tub.  Singing His cute little made-up song.  

His sisters hear Him and start giggling.  A little too something, those giggles.  

They clap for Him and say, "Yes! Yes that's right!"

Then they start signing.  They start singing: "baby now we got bad blood you know we used to be bad love..."  

And I realized my sweet baby was singing some violent, angry, girl-drama Taylor Swift song.  

He learned Bad Blood before the ABCs.  I die.  

Kidzbop Strikes again.    

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.  

The Selflessness of Selfishness

A couple of months ago, I was having a rough night.  I was shuffling around.   J was working night shift, I was home with three fussy kids, all with colds.  The Littles were finishing up dinner, I was at the stove.  I was getting more for someone?  I was starting to clean up? I don't remember.
What I remember is a sudden shooting pain, from my heels my shoulders.  Like lightning.  Like fire.
I went rigid, I drew a sharp breath.  And then, I had no legs.  They were gone.  It felt as though someone had actually pulled them out from beneath me; they simply were not there.
Without legs to stand on, I fell.  I tried to catch myself on the edge of the stove, but I wasn't strong enough.  I crumpled to the floor, took a moment to get my bearings, and was shocked to find that I still had no legs.
The Sisters could see me from the dining room; they were asking if I was all right, if I fell down.
I was telling them I was ok, I'll be there in a minute, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears.  Disassociated from me, like the lower half of my body.
I stayed there awhile. 10 minutes that felt like hours. Finally, I was able to grab onto the bar of the oven door, and pull myself up.
I was able to shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the water.  I got Mister into the tub.  But it was hard; it was very hard.  I carried Him from the high chair to the tub on Faith. I carried him inches at a time, with great effort, telling myself all the way- my legs are there; I see them.  I can do this; I'm fine.  I put Him in the bath.  I could tell now, that my legs were not gone.
But my legs and my back felt strange.  Weak and heavy, sort of transparent. My arms began to feel heavy, like I was lifting them through thick mud instead of air.  I tried to pick Mr up out of the tub and found that I couldn't.  I just could not.  I may as well have been trying to lift the house itself.
It wasn't because it hurt, I just couldn't make my arms lift Him.  I began panic.  But what about my kids?  Because they were watching, I didn't get hysterical.  Because there were there, depending on me, I didn't have the luxury of that.
So instead, they got a very, very long bath.
I waited.  Eventually, with my direction, Little One was able to get Mr into my lap, where he held onto my neck like a little monkey. From there I stood up and was able to get Him to the changing table, put Him to bed.  Because they are so independent now, I was able to get the Sisters into bed, and then I laid down too.
By the morning,  I was as good as I had been before the lighting at the stove.
Which was really only kind of ok, actually.  I'd been having numbness in my feet and hands for weeks.  So much so that once I'd been holding my flat iron with my finger on the plate and not noticed until I smelled burning skin.  So much that I'd gone out and bought flat shoes because I could no longer balance in my heels.  I stopped going to yoga because I kept falling down. So I went to a doctor.  I had bloodwork, MRIs, lots of tests.
It turns out I was lucky.  I apparently had Guillon-barre syndrome; a problem in which the immune system reacts to a mild illness by attacking the cells of the nervous system.  Only a third of people who get this remain able to walk at all.  Many people become totally paralyzed; in some even their heart and lungs stop.  I had a really mild case, and the best thing about this syndrome compared to other things I was tested for, is that (as long as you don't die), it goes away.
It can take a long time, I'm told, for nerve cells to heal.  But they almost always do, eventually, heal. I'm already a whole lot better.  I still have some numbness and tingling in my hands and feet; I still cannot feel my big toes even if you were to stick a needle in them, even if you put them in ice.  But I will, in time.
Looking back now I feel stupid.  All those weeks of struggling to braid the girls' hair, of dropping everything, of straining to walk the kids to school, before even making an appointment to see my doctor.  I think of that night at the stove and am horrified.  It could have become so much worse than it did- it's incredibly lucky that it didn't- why on earth did I not call for help?  What if it had become worse- and my kids were there alone in the bath.  
The thing is.  At the time, I wasn't so much worried about the problems I was having as I was ashamed of them.  With my new job, J's residency hours, the kids' new schools, and getting used to a new home, I was stressed out and missing a lot of sleep.  I would stumble or drop something and think, "wow, I am just really not handling things very well".  I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull myself together.  I just needed to try harder, to manage time better and get more rest. The night I couldn't lift Mister from the tub I was scared.  But more than that, I was angry at myself for being so weak.  For making such a big deal out of a strained muscle or something, for not being able to make myself push through it and look after my kids.
As a mother, the primacy of caring for your children can become so overwhelming that you start to forget yourself. You stop being able to see yourself as a person, start to forget that you need things. As your focus shifts to the people who need you, it's easy to feel less human and more like the machine that keeps the conveyor belt of life rolling.  How many times have I packed well-balanced, allergy-safe, carefully planned-out snacks for three kids for an all day excursion- and not even thought of bringing an apple for myself?  How many times have I insisted J take a nap after a long shift- yet after staying up all night with sick or fussy kids, when have I ever asked for a nap? I have cancelled lots of plans and pushed plenty of deadlines because someone was sick or tired and needed to be in bed- but I've never skipped gymnastics practice, story time, or field trips because I had a fever or headache.  Machines are not supposed to take sick days, or naps, or even bathroom breaks.
Usually, it's not my line to complain about those facts.  I believe that parenting requires sacrifice and prioritizing my kids needs over my own, and I'm good with that.  I don't resent anyone when we are in our sixth hour of Smithsonian museums and I'm starving while the kids munch organic apples dipped in home-made soy-yogurt.  It's no one's fault.
But mine.  Because sacrifice implies that you are giving something up for the good of others.  Prioritizing kids means doing the best thing for them.  Is it really for their good, is it really what's best for them, if I get hungry or exhausted and can't quite be at my best?  Or if I get sick and sicker and end up unable to get my baby out of a bath tub?
This whole experience has left me feeling extremely fortunate.  Because it wasn't bad enough to have caused any permanent damage.  But it was bad enough to shock me into reassessing the way I see myself, and into realizing that the way I take care of myself directly and profoundly impacts my ability to take care of everyone else.  Sometimes toughing it out and ignoring yourself to be there for others isn't brave or valiant or generous.  It's just stupid.
As I recover from that bizarre episode, I feel a lot like Mister, discovering the joy of movement and abilities.  I go to yoga and I'm grinning through the poses that burn- because I can do it without falling over!  I put on my old shoes and do a little dance in them.  Because I can! Everything seems like so much fun; things I had taken for granted are significant again. I'm practicing french-braiding the Sisters hair, I'm mending things by hand, I'm cutting stuff out with scissors.  And.
I'm eating breakfast, even if we will be a little late for school.  I'm locking the bathroom door.  And today (after tucking in two post-scary-dream Littles and soothing one who bumped His head in the middle of the night) even though the kitchen was messy and there was work to do, when Mister took a nap, I did too.  It may seem strange, but for my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to try to take better care of my family- by being a little more selfish.

Presentation Is Everything

When you have a toddler (which, unimaginably, I do now), people are always asking if He's a picky eater. So far I've just laughed- far from it!  Mister has been happy to eat anything.  Everything.  He's taken to signing "food" at random people.  "You finishing that? " At a New Years party, He sauntered up to a lady on the couch, picked up her fork, and helped Himself.
He continues to be amenable to any food.  But.  Whether He will happily eat it, or fling it on the floor, depends entirely on how it is served.
Cheerios and raisins are apparently finger-food.  Those can be served plain on a plate and He will eat them. Fine.  Steamed carrots? Yeah-no.  Fling on the ground.  Steamed carrots on a plate, with a fork? Hmm.  Maybe, maybe...no.  Fling on ground.  Carrots on the end of a fork held by a loving adult? BIG no.  No way.  FLING ON GROUND!
Same exact steamed carrots, with a fork, with one bite already on the fork, waiting, now we have a deal. He will eat them all.
Oatmeal from a spoon in my hand is destined for the wall.  Oatmeal with a spoon in His hand is destined for (the front of His shirt and) His mouth.
Peas, conversely, in a bowl with a spoon are going to be poured over the side of the high-chair.  Take that, peas!  Peas spread out on a plate (not in a pile), are a delicacy and will be devoured.
Milk is chugged from a bottle, hurled with epithets in a straw-cup.
Water is shunned in a bottle, sipped happily from a straw-cup.
Bananas are only good served whole, to chomp like a monkey.
The rules are exacting, nonsensical, and prone to change without notice.
This guy, I tell you. It's like a dictator! It's like a spoiled rock star!  It's almost like dealing with a... a... toddler.  

I'm Over Here

Hi guys!
It's Me! C!  Remember me?!
ME EITHER.

Last summer, I was cruising down my path in life.  You know, just going along, hitting occasional bumps, getting into ruts and out of them, going down hills and up hills, enjoying the ride.  When suddenly there was this little side path that just popped up out of nowhere.

It wasn't on like, my highlighted map or my GPS travel plan or anything.  But there it was, and I had to decide fast! So I slammed on the brakes and cranked the steering wheel as far as it would go, and spun out and fishtailed and skidded onto it.  And just kept going.

It's been quite a ride.  Until now, I truly have not been able to take both hands off the wheel long enough to type a single thing.

What happened was that I started working.  I have been so lucky to be able to stay home with my kids, and I had hoped and planned that I would always be able to do that while they are little.  But this opportunity came up that I couldn't pass by.

I have been volunteering for Artists For Charity for 8 years now.  It is a cause so dear to my heart.  And it's personal; I've met the kids.  They've taken care of MY kids.  I believe so wholeheartedly in what this organization does and the way they do it.  So when the opportunity came up to be a bigger part of that, I had to take it!

It's great, because I am able to work almost completely from home, determine my own schedule, and work pretty flexible hours.  So I still get to take care of all the Littles myself; no need for child care or babysitters, and I still get to be there for the tea parties, the first words, the fevers.  It's a dream come true, in so many ways.

The other side of it is that the line between "I'm working here" and "I'm living here" can get pretty blurry.  There are no hours that I'm not at work, but also no hours that I'm not at mommy-ing.  So I'm still working out the balance.

Add to this that I happened to jump in right at the absolute busiest, most crazy, chaotic time of year for the AFC team here- right before our big benefit that funds the whole operation.  And to really make it crazy we had two big benefits for the first time this year, on back-to-back Saturdays, one in NYC and one in DC (whose crazy idea was that?!)  Add to that J working over 90 hours a week as a resident, and me stubbornly refusing to miss PTA meetings or skip planning birthday parties, and I'm basically a hot mess.

My mom once described her years as a single, working mother as being on a runaway steam engine, just blasting through time.  I have thought of that metaphor so many times the last four months.  I get it mom, I totally do.

There have been times I've wondered whether it was the right choice.  Times I've been sure it wasn't.  Times when I thought that if I didn't get some sleep soon I might actually, seriously, spontaneously combust.  Mom-guilt and sleep deprivation are a toxic combination, Peanuts.  DON'T DRINK IT.

But.  The two events (which sound all small and cute when I say it like that, as if they can't possibly have dominated my entire life for three months) are now over.  They went well, thank goodness, and so I can go forward in the new year knowing that the AFC kids are going to be ok.  They are going to keep their home, their schools, their doctors.  I can take a deep breath, a step back, and start again working towards this goal of creating balance.  (Any of you have that? Care to share your secrets?!)

Also, my in-laws were here for a week, which helped a lot. Helpful, lovable in-laws are a luxury in life, and a blessing.  My mom, bless her, arrived at the height of the crazy and scooped up my Littles, made some lasagna, folded the laundry, and let me take a nap.  She'll be here a few more days, at which point I haven't decided whether chain her to something in my house, or zip my family into one of her suitcases.  And J, who has much more than I do to deal with right now, has nonetheless pulled through for me and been the most supportive and helpful person ever, as always. He even came and volunteered at the benefit, he even unloaded the truck the next day.  After making breakfast.

So while I'm still driving in unfamiliar territory, without a map, I think I've cleared the switchbacks and am headed for a simpler stretch.  Most importantly, and so luckily, I'm not driving solo.  Hopefully I'll be able to stop in here more often now, so you can come along, too.
 First- Hot shower.  Cookies.  Sleep.

And please, I have to ask, go check out the charity.  I wouldn't be getting up this early and working this hard if it wasn't that important.

Magical

Isn't it great when babies learn new skills?  It's so magical.
Except, maybe, when they learn how to take off their own diaper, while they are crawling around the living room and you are in the kitchen.  Because you're hastily packing up snacks for a long day of doctor appointments and it's TIME TO GO and then you turn around and- oh look! Little Mister has learned how to take off His diaper.  Which was full of poo.  And He has crawled right over it, like a monster truck going over a mud pile, and distributed it- two elbows and two knees at a time- around the whole. room.  Magical.  And then Miss (who is practically phobic about getting dirty) steps in it, freaks out, and RUNS.  What would you do, Peanuts? What do you wash first? You have three minutes to get out the door into car seats.  GO.
Bathe and dress two kids, wash out the cloth diaper, keep the third kid out of the monster truck arena, clean the entire living/dining/kitchen floor, start the washer, pack up snacks, bags, coloring books, WASH YOUR HANDS, buckle them in- under five minutes.
Like I said.  Isn't it great when moms learn new skills?

A Day In My Perfect Life

The day of the funeral for J's grandma started early.  Darn early.  Strong coffee in the dark early.We packed up the car and carried disoriented, pajama-ed Littles to their car seats and strapped them in.  We drove almost four hours, we arrived.
I hauled the disheveled crew into the church bathroom and got them changed and brushed, braided -and warned.  This was going to be a quiet time.  It was important that we be patient.  Respectful.  Haven't I mentioned how seriously Catholics take their churching? They needed to be on their very best behavior for the length of the service, and then there would be a reception. With a kids table!  They nodded, we went in.
Our family was seated in the first pew.  The very front, Peanuts. In a church that was jam packed all the way through the vestibule and to the door. Generations of family, and friends from other families, who have lived in that town and attended that church for not just generations, but hundreds of years.
It started out all right.  The Littles were a little tired, a little hungry.  But their second cousin came to sit with us, and that helped.  At first.
After awhile, though, the boredom began to eat away at their sanity.  Missy, in particular.  In fairness to Her, She was not exactly misbehaving.  She was not cranky, She was not fussing.  She was just admiring the flowers, noticing a bird out the window, wondering if it was lunch time.  Out loud.  She wasn't screaming, or whining either, but in that little chapel in the hush of a funereal crowd, Her sweet little voice was as obtrusive as a locomotive letting off steam.  I kept Shhhing Her.
All the kids began to squirm a little.  Not to worry! I am a prepared Mama, am I not, Peanuts?  I plan ahead, I know what I'm doing here, amiright, Peanuts?!  I saw the antsy-pants and headed off the meltdowns with my genius solution- crayons.  And coloring books.
This magical combination has served me well in many a pinch.  It has even been the key to breezing through entire Catholic masses!  So of course, I had great confidence.  Except.  Constantly turning pages and scribbling hard over a hollow wooden pew turn out to be noisy activities in a certain setting.  Not to mention three very sweet children who would not stop sharing - 
"Can I have the blue one? Thanks!" During the invocation and "Here! You want this pink and green one?"  during a bible reading and "Hey I'll trade you these three for your yellow!"
Who would not stop enjoying themselves- "Hey that's a really great rainbow!" when everyone was tearing up and "MOMMY! Look at my dol-pins they ah jumping ina ocean!" during a moment of silence.
And then, of course, the occasional "PLINK!...Roll....Roll....roll-roll-rollroll-rooooolllll" of a crayon to the back of the church, beneath somber feet.
So the thing is.  Despite the fact that Miss wasn't doing anything particularly wrong, per se, She was constantly and with increasing agitation getting SHUSHED.  This was annoying.  So annoying, that finally, She'd had about enough of it.  I mean.  Her sister was all engrossed in coloring with the cousin, Her dad was holding Her sleeping brother. Poor Missy had no one to play with but me and I was being an infernal killjoy.
She was telling me all about Her picture, and would. Not. Stop.  So I scolded Her as quietly as I could, admonishing Her to PLEASE be quiet.  And it was the Sshh that broke the camel's back.  The hands, Peanuts.  The Missy hands went to the hips.  This began a domino reaction.
The hands to the hips, the hips swung to the left, they cocked the head, which swished the pigtail, just over the forehead which furrowed and frowned above the eyes, which glinted and glared, highlighting the grimace on the little mouth, which opened to emit- the holler.
And the holler said, "NO!" 
I knew that Missy would repeat this answer as many times as needed until I learned not to interrupt Her.  So I picked Her up, and stepped out of the pew box.  She knew, in that moment, what was happening.  That She'd lost. And so She LOST it.  I am talking an all out, kicking legs, screaming at the top of Her lungs, world class, grade A tantrum.
And so I got to carry this thrashing siren.  AAaaaalllllllllll the way down the isle of the church.  Through the packed vestibule.  Out into the parking lot.
Having a small child is like Russian Roulette.  Every time you see a child having a tantrum in public you think- it's not me! This time.  But then one day.  One day, guys.  POW! You're That Mom.
And, if you're really lucky, it happens in the front row of a church.  During a funeral.  
Miss and I had a really, really serious talk in the church parking lot.  A come-to-Jesus, if you will.
After which I got to carry Her aaaaaaallllllllll the way back up aisle and into the front row to finish the service.
The talk worked, and the rest of the morning passed without any incident other than Little One beaming a cousin in the back of the head with a snowball.  Which I was actually a little impressed by.

But then, there was the lull between the service reception and a family dinner.  In the lull, we met J's cousin and Her family at a museum.  We got there first.  We soon realized that the museum was closed for the season.  We realized this because Missy suddenly took on an expression of horror and announced that She wasn't feeling well.  I was feeding the baby and J just grabbed the kid and ran.
A little later I looked and saw J's head stooped over some shrubbery.  In the garden of the museum courtyard.  Not 3 yards from the locked front door.
I grabbed our portable travel potty and ran like I was on fire squeaking "J! J!! You can't- She can't- this is a muSEum!"  He looked up at me, exasperated, holding the hem of Missy's skirt.  "What was I supposed to do?!" He asked. "It was BAD."  Poor Miss.  She was very upset. And very much a mess.  I had to use plastic bags to attempt to decontaminate the landscaping and to dispose of some clothing.  We went through a lot of wet wipes, and I kept looking over my shoulder for security cameras or police, or judgement day.  But in the end we got everyone decently sanitary and into extra clothes.  We met up with J's cousin's family and set out on the walking trail to take in the scenic lake and historical structures.

Along the way, the kids found a duck.  It was one of those decoy things duck-hunters use on the lake, and had been left laying around.  The kids loved it.  I mean, it looks just like a real duck! I don't know if it worked out for the hunters, but the children certainly thought it was worth flocking to.  They played with it, toted it, dragged it on it's rope like they were walking it on a leash.  In a few short minutes, it had become a family pet.  When we stopped for a break outside the open gift shop, Little One made an announcement.
"Ours duck needs a name! Lets name it!"
The other littles cheered and nodded in agreement.
"Yes! Ok! We will name it a good name- Hey! I know a name! I know a name what rhymes with duck!" 

 . .
----

Can you guess, guys?  Can you guess what name.  Rhymed with "duck".
For the second time that morning, a sound emitted from the mouth of one of my children caused all adults within earshot to fall into immediate and total silence.
"Oh! Uh..." -I had to say something Peanuts- "Uh, um, hey.  Hey, how about LUCK?  That rhymes! How about Luck duck or lucky duck instead!"
Little One was offended.  Why did I have to micromanage everything? Why did I have to steal all the thunder?
"No, we already named it.  It's F*#@.  F*#@ Duck. That's his name." 
The adults began to cringe and protest.  Little One was so baffled.  She didn't know what everyone's problem was, only that it was really annoying.  The more we tried to coax Her into choosing another name, the more adamant She became.
"F*#@!  FU#@!  It's F*#@  F*#@  F*#@  the DUCK!  F*#@ DUCK!" At the top of Her frustrated little lungs.  At the museum.  With J's family.
Finally I managed to pull Her aside and whisper to Her that I knew She didn't understand, and She wasn't in any trouble, but that word had a grown-up meaning, and it wasn't nice. We don't use that word. She was totally miffed.  She shrugged me off with an "ok" and was a little sullen and grumpy with me the rest of the walk.  Finally we arrived at the lake and the kids all got cooed at by a couple on the beach.
"Oh! How cute! You have a duck! Is that your duck? It IS? Awww! What's it's name?" 
The adults in our group froze. We stared.  We waited with baited breath.  We were all on the verge of stepping in! Little One looked at the decoy.  She hesitated a moment.  And then, a little reluctantly answered, "It's Lucky.  Lucky Duck".  The strangers "awww"ed and the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief.  After a while we headed home.

With the car in sight and our good-byes said, we were ready to go to the family dinner at the restaurant.  I was ready, still in my dress clothes from the funeral.  Walking to the car I half-joked to J, "Well. At least we made it."  At that very moment, Little Mister woke up from His nap, having been peacefully held right up to me in His sling.  He looked at me with shining, innocent eyes.  He smiled.  And then He pooped an epic, gale-force, poo.  He had not pooped in three days.  Three.  Days.  He had saved it all.  For that moment.  The diaper exploded.  The sling became a linen goo-pool.  Mister and I both were covered.  Back in this parking lot of the closed, no bathroom museum.
Someday when I die, if I go to heaven I will look around.  I will find the person who invented wet-wipes.  I will kiss them.

Much later, we finally got home and *bathed* and into bed at J's aunt's house.  She helped me tuck in the kids and showed me Her fancy "white noise machine" that helps her grandkids sleep.  She turned it on so we could enjoy the magic.  It worked great! It drowned out all background noise! It worked so well, that late in the night when Little Miss awoke in a dark, strange room and was too scared to get out of bed, I could not hear Her calling for me.  I could not hear Her at all.  Until finally, I did.  And found Her sobbing in the bed.  Soaking wet.
I gave Her a bath and dressed Her in Her dad's TShirt.  I made Her a little nest on the floor next to me, so I could hear Her.  I washed the blankets and the sheets and cleaned the mattress.  I fed the baby and climbed into bed around four in the morning.
Some days, I go out with my children.  I wear white and come home clean and tidy. I get compliments from strangers on how lovely and well-mannered my children are.  Some days I like to pat myself on the back a little.  Hey! Doing all right! Some days it seems easy, or at least workable, and it seems like we are on a roll.  And then some days. Some days we have this hot mess.

Life is all about balance, isn't it?  It's all about ups...and downs.  But as bad as that day got, come on.  It was kind of funny.  And the silver lining?  The good thing about all this happening on that particular day, the day of a funeral?  It's that no matter how much literal and figurative crap one I go through in this life- it is life.  I'm lucky to have it.  I'm happy that I get to have these days where my family is all together and if it has to be crap we're going through, at least we go through it together.
J's Grandma, from what I knew, was a lady with a fabulous, ready smile, and quite the sense of humor.  I'm still a bit in shock that she's really gone, and I'm sad about it because I liked her a whole lot, and she was very kind to my kids.  But it makes me feel a little better thinking that if she was watching, from somewhere, as we tried to pay our respects, I'm pretty sure she got a good laugh out of us.

Tells It Like It Is

Missy: "No.  I don't want eat this dinnah.  I want some dessert, a'stead.  I'm NOT goin' eat it!"

Little One (shocked): "But! But Little Miss, you HAVE eat yours dinner! Why, don't you know?  There is kids out there, places, what don't have any dinner.  They don't have any good food like this to eat.  So, if you eat all yours dinner, then, you can grow big and strong, so you can go and help them. See?" 

Missy: "You want help the kids, Little Wan?"

Little One (gravely): "Oh, yes, Miss.  Yes, I do."

Missy: "Great! You can eat my food.  I don't want help people.  I want appa'sauce." 

I Haven't Seen You Since Last Year

Hello, Peanuts.
Happy 2014- can you believe it?
I have some catching up to do here, if I can.  I kind of dropped the blogging ball at the end of 2013, because Colic.
It's just as well, though, because no one was awake long enough to see any other balls drop on New Year's eve, I assure you.  I provide failure by metaphor as a service.
Today is also the first one we've had without company since Mister's arrival.  No offense to you all but, in this gig of mine, adult interaction is a rare and priceless gem. When I have the option, I'd sort of rather spend my slivers of time between diaper changes, piano practices, hi-ho-cherio-ing, and working on my imposing 3-D artistic rendition of the Swiss Alps (in the medium of half-folded laundry) speaking to an actual person's face than typing, even if it is to you lovely Peanuts.
That said, all the faces are gone now, and there are critical moments of family history in need of plastering on the world wide web for posterity, so it is my hope that I will have the opportunity to bore you with it all soon.  In the meantime, happy New Year!  What are your big goals and dreams for 2014?  My first resolution is to take a shower and  brush my teeth without anyone crying about it.  I aim high.


  

It Was Too Cold For Lemonade

As it turns out, remote start is a very convenient feature in our car.
Although.  If the car is started, and then you run inside to get something your forgot, and then forget your keys in the house....
Well the car will let you drive it all the way to preschool without them!
But!
When you drop off the Little One, strap in the Missy, and get ready to drive home...not so much.
Not so much starting.  
Oh, well. 
It was a nice, brisk, 45 degree morning to walk a couple miles (8 months pregnant in some high heels.  Ahem.)  Lesson Learned.

Missy and I, though, we don't let little issues like my loss of mental faculties stop us from having a good time!  We took the long walk home, through the neighborhood with all the big trees.  We went on a Leaf Walk, gathering all the biggest and brightest and comparing all the shapes and colors.







We brought them home (eventually) and turned them into a glamorous chandelier- the glitter was Missy's fabulous idea.
 
To tell the truth, I think I'll be a bit more careful about where those fancy keys are when we head out in the future.  But, as it turns out, I can't imagine a better way to have spent the morning.
One of the greatest joys of a life among the Littles is the freedom to make lemonade out of lemons.  Or chandeliers out of leaves. 

Bananas In My Heart

Little Banana likes to sing her ABC's.  She sings her own special, rather abridged version of it, and I love it because her voice is so sweet and it comes just from her.  The only song she seems to know without copying line-by-line from Little One or Missy.  At least I thought so, until we were riding together in the car a couple of weeks ago listening to the radio.
Suddenly a tiny voice began to swell up from the back seat, singing right along with Rihanna.  It made my heart beat more quietly, made me hold my breath so I could listen.  It was just by chance, I suppose, that she happened to like and remember this particular song.  Just because she is small and sings her own version of things, I suppose, that she had altered the words just a tiny bit, just so.
But even though it was a random incident, I couldn't help feeling my eyes sting just a little as her baby voice spun the words out softly, "I want to staaaaaaaaaay!  I want to stay-staaaaaay!" 
As she crooned the words to the ballad, I listened and glanced at her innocent face in the rearview mirror.  "Oh, little sweetheart," I found myself thinking, "I wish you could stay, too." 
The song ended, she stuck those two fingers she's so fond of back in her mouth, rode quietly home.  We went about our days.  But the moment would sometimes materialize in my mind, like a mirage.  Like a premonition.  The thing about foster care is that when you open your home and your heart, it's always a false promise.  Because they can't stay.  Not forever. For us that is particularly true, since we are only supposed to be approved for short-term placements, two weeks or less. 
But then these Bananas came and the the plans for their permanent home fell apart, and the system was stuck with these two children and nowhere else to put them.  So they stayed an extra week.  Some weeks.  We went through ups and downs, we all became attached to one another.
Once the social workers called me out of the blue and said they were coming in the morning to take the kids to a new place.  In the morning! I called everyone and their supervisor and made such a fuss I was told I'd better calm down before I went into pre-term labor.
But they relented.  The bananas stayed.  Well, they stayed a little longer.  But it couldn't be forever, we knew that.  There would have to be a day when they moved on to a place they could stay, at least for a good, long while.  That day came this week.
There were meetings and planning and packing up.  The new family came and I handed over the novel I'd written- what they like, how to tell Little Banana is upset, how to read her body language when she can't speak, what time to feed the baby, all the medical information, all the everything I could think of.  The kids met their new family.  We hauled out bags of baby clothes, bags of toys and books.  Little One kept running back to the playroom and bringing something else- "Here! Take this one! Take it with you!" Missy gave the new folks the evilest evil eye she could muster.
We gave hugs and kisses and stood at the end of the driveway waving.
And then they were gone.
They went to a really nice family, specially certified to take care of high-needs kids.  Which these two turned out to be.  Between routine social work visits, volunteer child advocates, services for developmental delays, and many doctors for many medical issues, we had become a traveling circus.  Throw in the health issues of my own two kiddos and we were spending most of our days in waiting rooms and in the car. 
Before these Bananas came to us, I confess I had become nice and cozy in my routine- laundry and the library on Mondays, baking our breads and tortillas on Tuesdays, cleaning Wednesdays, playgroup Thursdays, art project or outing Fridays, family time on the weekend.  Sundays I planned the meals for the week and made up my grocery list. Ok it was a little 1930's housewifey, but I liked to feel that I was on top of things.
But with all the appointments all that went out the window.  Dinners became whatever could be cobbled together just in time to feed hungry mouths.  Cleaning day moved to Sundays, our only day home, laundry was a constant and eternal process, and the grocery store got to do all the baking.  Juggling appointments, phone calls, naps, and illnesses became our whole day.  Every day.
Hauling 3 or 4 kids, diaper bags, snacks for everyone's special diets, strollers, toys for long waits...got only harder and harder as hauling Little Mister began to feel like it's own full-time job.
Baby banana was always throwing up all over everything, there was continual intestinal drama to contend with. Learning to communicate with Little Banana was a constant mental effort.  It was an altogether exhausting experience.
But they are such lovely, precious, adorable little people, though.  They added so much laughter and sweetness to everything.  They fit so nicely at the dining room table, in the little playhouse, on our laps.  It seems that they were here so much longer than a couple of months.  At times it seemed they had been here always.
Now that they are gone, it is quiet.  I have the time to sit here and type this ridiculously long post.  Now that they are gone, I can get to the actual bottom of the laundry pile; I see days of nothing but walks through the leaves on our family calendar. 
Now that they are gone, I have my life back.
But part of my heart is gone forever.

I've been asked a lot how I feel about it.  I've been given a lot of well-meaning comfort from good friends.  To be honest, I feel sad.  We all do.
To be honest, I appreciate the kindness, but I don't want to be told that I was the best thing that ever happened to those kids.  I'm not.  In actual fact, I am a byproduct of the very worst thing that ever happened to those kids.
I don't want to be called an angel or a saint.  Yikes. I'm far from that.  There were days I was short on patience for everyone, times I had an unnecessary edge to my voice, times I tried to do the right thing but got it completely wrong.  I'll never think I did a wonderful job taking care of everybody; I know in my heart it was a good day I managed a half-decent job of it.
I will always be sorry I didn't have the strength or wisdom to do enough for those kids.  I will always be sorry that in the end I was just one more adult who abandoned them. I will always be disappointed that I couldn't manage those couple of months with more grace than I did.
I'll always be selfishly happy that I had the opportunity to know them, to see my own children make room in their hearts for them, to be called "mommy" by more babies than I really deserved to be. For all the hugs that fell into my arms and the toothless baby grins I got to catch when I walked into a room.  But I'll always be sad about my failures, about the tears on the Little's faces and the way Little Banana's arms reached for us from a strangers car, as it pulled away.  I'll always miss them the way you miss anything that becomes a part of you and then has to be torn off.
I don't need to hear that in time it will be ok.  It will not be ok.
Something I have learned over years of caring for children is that loving a child- for years or for a day- and then letting them go, can never be ok.  Worrying about a child, especially knowing that odds are stacked against them, wondering if you made things better or worse for them, knowing that you will probably never find out if they are All Right... can just not be ok. 
Some things in life are not ok.  They can't ever be.
But I am a mother. 
I was made to lift and to carry; loads of laundry, bags of diapers and jackets and milk, babies, children.  Other Things.  My arms and my back, and my heart, are strong.
So I have this grief, and this guilt, and this sadness.  So there it is.  I will cry about it a little if I want to, sure.  Then I'll breathe.  I'll lift it up, I'll put it in my heart with other burdens, and I'll start walking.  It will go where I go, it will always be there.  I'll be carrying it, moving forward.
Because like our little Bananas, off on their own path of adventures now, I have places to go.  

It's Not Every Day You Nearly Murder Your Child

But it did happen last week.
After a long, long day, I stayed up late finishing some chores. Missy had a string of nightmares and incidents involving too much water before bedtime, resulting in practically no sleep.  In the morning my fuzzy brain was distracted, thinking of the day ahead, rushing to get everyone fed, dressed, snack-packed, pottied, shoed, and out the door; worrying about too much other than the tasks at hand.
I went through the motions of the morning, swept the crew into the car, and dropped Little One off at school with Her snack bag and a kiss.  
Back at home, I started pulling together the Stuff I needed for a day out with Littles.  I reached into the cabinet to make a bottle for Baby Banana.  And froze.  My brain was still sluggish, so it took a few seconds for it to send the proper message to my heart.
Which was: STOP BEATING.  THE WORLD IS ENDING. 
In the cabinet, Little One's calorie drink powder sits next to Baby Banana's formula powder.  In cans just the same shape and size.  The labels are different, so it's not hard to distinguish.  But as I reached for the formula, I noticed that the other can was missing.  I remembered I had run out of it the night before.  Which means that, in my haze and haste, I had reached for the only can in the cabinet.  And mixed my horribly milk-allergic daughter a drink of milk-based formula.  I had basically sent Her to school with a pink plastic cup full of poison.
I called the school in a panic and they pulled the poison from Her bag.  Thank goodness I realized my mistake before snack time.  I brought the right drink right over, and other than the teachers probably questioning my sanity, there was no harm done.
But there could have been.
Aren't those haunting, as a parent? The could-have beens? 
It was one heck of a good reminder to slow down, breathe and focus, and take things one at a time.
My goodness, parenting is such a ride.  Some days you craft and cook and go to the museums; you feel like you're doing ok.  And then some days, you nearly kill your children. 
Or maybe that's just me.  Yikes. 

This Beat Is Bananas

The Department of Human Services cares about me.
It cares in a diefied way, an omniscient way.  It cares about my deeper being; my long-term character development.  It wants me to be all I can be.
I know this because days like today, I feel confident that DHS knows me.  It knows my soul.  My flaws.  DHS knows that I am an impatient person.  That I am a type A, lets-get-things-done, according-to-plan person.  It knows that I have raging Mama-bear tendencies when it comes to any child within detectable existence, much less those in my care, and that rage is bad.  Rage and impatience and all of that.
DHS is like a swami, people.  It knows.
That, I am certain, is why it goes to such loving, meticulous lengths to help me overcome these character flaws, by giving me such extreme and mandatory opportunities to practice patience.  And changing of plans.  Three times.  Eight times.  16 times.  To practice not becoming ballistic when seven different people make mistakes in one day and all of them adversely affect my babies.  Rage is not a good thing.  Not a good thing.  Ooooommmmm.  DHS has even given me a mantra!
After spending three hours waddling back and forth across every wing of a hospital while pushing a decrepit double-wide stroller with one trick wheel and simultaneously balancing a two-year old on my pregnant belly, after SIX HOURS of waiting rooms and car seats with three, and then four children and NO LUNCH for anyone, after over a dozen fruitless phone calls, I can say for sure.
DHS cares about me extra today. 
How they managed to throw in the exploding diarrhea child and the vomiting baby I really don't know.  But after today I feel confident they had it all covered.  It's the omniscience.
Now it could possibly be the strained muscle from hauling a pack and play upstairs with a child on my back, but I don't think so.  I think it's just growing pains, you know, from all the personal growth.  I'm feeling it!  Thanks DHS.  I practiced patience all day.  Keep it up! Keep it coming!  Someday I'll learn.  Ommmmmmmmm. 

I Beat Stuff Up

C: "Ok Missy! It's time to pick up your sister.  Let's hit the road!"

Little Miss: "...You say what?! Les do WHAT mama?!"

C: "Let's hit the road.  Let's go."  

Little Miss: "Oh! But MAma! We hit the road, it can cry sometimes!  Hitting not nice mama.  That can hurt feewings."

C: "Oh, no I...it's just an expression, Miss.  It means let's get going, let's get on the road to go."

Miss: "Poor road.  Ok, how 'bout this, how 'bout we on-y hit it, jus' a little bit.  'Bout that deal, mama?"

 

Yes, We Have No Bananas

We spent the weekend getting ready for our new banana. 
We rearranged furniture and car seats, put together the new bed.  We did a few things we'd been meaning to, that we knew we wouldn't be able to while Banana was here. 
We camped in the backyard

Complete with S'mores, of course!

We went to our very first theater movie.

Dressed For The Red Carpet

It was a fun theater here which also serves dinner, so we had dinner and a movie.  Fancy.  We saw Planes, which Little Miss enjoyed, and which was only a little too scary for Her big sister. 
We had lots of talks about how this would be a special banana, and the Littles were wonderful about understanding, accepting, and brainstorming ways for our family to make accommodating changes to make Banana feel at home. 
They spent the entire day before the arrival getting ready.  They'd heard blocks were a favorite toy, and so they took each and every one of 4 sets of blocks and polished them with damp cloths.  To make them "super clean and shiny".  They chose the favorite set to keep in Bananas room.  They went through all their toys, picking out the ones they thought Banana would like best, polishing them up, and setting them out to be easily discovered.  They planned games like:
"How about we build up a big tower, and then let Banana smash it! Then we can do it again!" They went through the car carefully cleaning up stray leaves and paper bits and and washing the windows and dash.  They drew some Welcome! pictures.  They saw me off excitedly. 
I went to the meeting to pick up Banana.  I was there, discussing particulars with parents, previous foster-parents, social workers.  Part way through, I was pulled aside. 
The placement had been cancelled.  Just then, that minute. 
In the end, I agree it was the best decision for Banana, for various reasons, which is what matters most.  But I felt an odd combination of relief and disappointment.  And.  I had to go home and face the Littles. 
Little One rushed me at the door, all lit up.  There was a moment of dead silence. 
..."where's Banana?" 
When I told Her She melted into Her father's lap and didn't speak to me for a few minutes.  I broke the news to Miss.  She glared and shook Her head vehemently.  "Not ok! I want my new friend! I am SAD!" There was some moping around. 
I am not a mom that changes plans on my daughters at the last minute if I can help it.  Infamous throughout my youth for being the one who was eternally late for everything, I have come to have a strong disdain for flakiness, and have myself become a lot more dependable, at least when there are children involved.  Because I hate to teach my daughters that I can't be trusted.  Because I hate to teach them that because they are little their feelings don't matter.  Because I hate to see them dejected.
So I often don't tell my kids about play dates or plans with friends- especially if I know they can be flaky- until the last minute, when I'm sure it won't fall through. I'd rather surprise them than get them excited and let them down.
But in the case of life-altering changes, like adding a person to the family for awhile, it's important to give them some time to ask questions and get used to the idea.  So, since this foster care business is anything BUT dependable, what's the answer?  I'd love some advice from the Peanut Gallery on this one. 
In the meantime I guess I will just hope that it's character-building to learn to be flexible and live with disappointment sometimes.  But I sure wish I had done something differently, to make it easier.  I guess we are all learning as we go, especially me. 

(A Little) Power To The (Little) People

Being in Texas is exciting! It is so exciting! That it is really hard to go to sleep at the end of an exciting! day.   The Littles and I have been going through an uncharacteristic battle at bedtime to get them to keep their Little buns in bed and go to sleep.
Instead of giggling until something crashes or someone gets annoyed and tattles/hollers/runs out onto the landing.  Tonight I gave bedtime my best shot and came down to eat ice cream with my mom.  A time-honored tradition that must not be interrupted! Because there will be meltage and then heads will roll people.
But as we were sitting down with our frosty bowls, there was a "creaaak....click!" And then another.  I went on with my conversation (try to stop that steamroller amiright Peanuts?) but the sound continued and my mother's eyes became fixated on the landing behind me.
"Ahem".  (My mom.)  "You know, that's Miss out of Her bed. She keeps opening the door, peeking at us and then shutting it again".  I called my Mom a tattletale, and instructed Her to ignore it until it stopped or we heard screaming, whichever came first.
Now, I know Miss was directly disobeying my very clear instructions to stay in bed.  And I'm pretty strict about that kind of thing most of the time.  But in the spirit of the pick-your-battles philosophy, I have a policy of occasionally looking the other way when my kids want to be sneaky.
Because, as I explained to my mom, everyone needs to stick it to the man sometimes.  As long as no one gets hurt or bothered, as long as it isn't damaging any moral principle other than "because I said so", sometimes I acquiesce to a little bit of subversion.
I know, for example, that at home my Littles frequently pop back out of bed after being tucked in, and play or read or cuddle together for up to an hour before actually going to sleep.  So what? They don't leave their room, they're pretty quiet since they think they're being sneaky, and in the end they put themselves to bed anyways.  Plus they will sleep in later! So it doesn't bother me.  Plus, there's a quality of bonding between siblings united against the rule of their parents that is much more valuable than my pride.
I also know that Miss sneaks out of bed at nap-time to gather books and sit up leafing through them before turning in.  It does stretch out the nap period, but that's not always a bad thing. And if Her version of civil disobedience revolves around quiet reading, I'm all too happy to let it slide.
I've found a few nice side effects of this selectively-pushed-over parenting.  For one thing, Little One knows that if it was harmless She probably won't get in trouble, or not much, for breaking a directive on the sly. So She pretty much always confesses, unprompted.  It also self-resolves a lot of issues that could have become epic battles over relatively unimportant things.
Tonight, for example. After a little while Miss got bored of seeing whether She was really getting away with it, gave up and went to sleep.  Without a word from me.  Whereas I could have been up and down the stairs all evening getting frustrated over the fact that really, I can not make anyone go to sleep.
I have no idea if all this will horribly backfire someday, and I will end up with kids who think they can break all my rules as long as they're surreptitious about it.  But it's my great hope that by giving them an inch, they won't feel such a need to take a mile when they are older and stakes get higher.
I'm hoping that if right now Little One can bring Herself to admit that She needs my comfort because She fell climbing to get something forbidden, that someday She'll be able to come to me when Her heart is broken by that boy we told Her not to see.  Or when She needs a ride home from the party we told Her not to go to.  I'm hoping that if Miss learns I let it slide if it's something harmless, She'll also learn that a good, hard, absolute NO is because there must be a darn good reason for it.
And. I'm hoping that they develop a will that belongs, in the end, to just them.  Because I won't always be The Man in their world; someday there will be other authority figures and dominating personalities in their lives.  When those days come, I want to know that they have honed an ability to sometimes do their own thing, to sometimes disobey rules if the rules aren't fair, to sometimes protest. As long as, like now, no one gets hurt and no important moral principles are damaged.
After all, history has taught us that for the sake of being independent and strong, and sometimes for the sake of something greater than yourself, there are times you have to stick it to The Man.

Hypocrisy

Some days ago, in the get-to-school rush, on a busy day, I grabbed a marker and wrote an address I needed on my hand as I dashed out the door.
Missy, who loves to put on her "makesup", has been admonished several times for putting Her markers towards this purpose.  It is a frequently reinforced rule in our house that markers and crayons are Only For Paper.  I did not consider this as I scribbled that address.
As I buckled Miss into Her car seat, She grabbed my wrist and gasped.

Miss:"Mommy! What this coloring here all 'bout?!"

C: "oh! That? Um, we'll that is, it's just...it...."

Miss (shaking Her head): "oh, Mommy.  You color onna self.  You not coloring on paper."

C: "well, I...uh...well, see no its...hmm"

Miss: "Uh oh, Momma.  You gonna get in big trouble here. You gonna get in some big trouble with...YOURSELF!"

Well, She was right.  As the family Rule Enforcer, I had an obligation to uphold the law.
  I put myself in time out, and I wasn't allowed to play with markers all day.