Halloween Tricks and Treats

Our Sisters had the idea of being the Frozen Sisters for Halloween the first time they watched the movie, back in the summer sometime.  They are obviously not the only ones to be struck by this particular inspiration, but they were so excited about it (mainly about Mister filling the role of Olaf) that even though I prefer not to get characters involved in Halloween,  I couldn't say no.  Plus, then they got their Nana involved, and after that it was just out of my hands, guys.  
And into her very talented ones.  My mom whipped up all three costumes from nothing in a couple of weeks!  Complete with capes, appliquéd flowers, and embroidered snowflakes. So, while their theme may not have been unique, their costumes certainly were.  
Thanks Nana! Now.  When it comes to those characters, my Sisters faced an existential dilemma that had them debating for weeks.  Who is which sister??? On the one hand, they reasoned, Little One is the eldest, so She should be Elsa, and Missy Anna.  BUT then again!  Missy has the blonde Elsa hair (an all-important aspect of Disney identity, you know), and Little One has Anna hair.  
Problems. 

Almighty Nana solved this crisis for us, by sizing the dresses such that both Sisters could fit into either.  And they worked out amongst themselves how to trade off. 

Little One got to be Elsa for Her school parade and party.  

Miss and Mister came to cheer Her on, and got to join in the class party as well. 

 Little One's favorite part of it all was getting to have Her sister sit next to Her at Her desk. 

 They had snacks, played bingo, and helped me lead the class in some crafts, which was a lot of fun. 

 Another parent had brought candy corn for the bingo game, and had tried three stores to find a version (which I did not know existed) that was allergy safe for Little One. When the mom told Her, Her face lit up like fireworks, and Her teacher exclaimed, "it's a Halloween Miracle!"

Little One also played Elsa at a Halloween party, and this time Missy dressed up too. 

Little Olaf stayed home to nap, but the Royal Sisters had a ton of fun, especially after the party, when they discovered a huge leaf pile.  Lots of kids got involved. And ok.  So did I.  Who could help jumping in a leaf pile on a perfect autumn day?!  We came home bedraggled, but it was worth it.

When it was time for the costume parade at pre-school, Little Miss chose to be Elsa.  

She must have been pretty in-tune with those ice powers, because it was a very chilly parade.  Luckily, Olaf was toasty in that snowsuit, Little One huddled in Her cloak, and Elsa was so proud to be showing off Her own school event, that the cold never bothered Her anyway.  

In the deal brokered between Sisters, Missy also got to wear blue for the Halloween-day party and actual trick-or-treating.  Our neighborhood has this strange cosmic phenomenon of providing residence to quite a few sets of sisters the exact age of Little One and Miss.  So we got some of the pairs together to run wild and dress up together before the party.  The giggles could be heard for miles, I am sure.  

Mister courageously survived as the sole representative of His gender.  

Then we all struck out for tricks and treats.  J joined us, even though He was coming off a 30 hour shift.  Actually it worked out for him; he was a totally believable zombie.  

We walked to a neighborhood famed for it's Halloween spirit.  The police even close off the street, knowing that scores of tiny costumed monsters come to beg for candy and ogle the amazing decorations.  

It was a little busy, but a lot of fun.  Everyone was in an excited spirit, we ran into lots of friends, and the setting was really cool.  One house had transformed itself into a diorama from Harry Potter, one was a haunted castle, there were graveyards, haunted houses, and yards full of costumed actors.  

Pirate tales and treasures

A "produce stand" on the street filled with dragons tails, newts eyes, and the like

Grumpy trolls 

20 foot ghouls behind me!

Someone, somehow, had even gone into the storm drain under the street and set up an entire ghoulish scene, with lights and music, for kids to peek down and exclaim over.  There were fog machines, lights, music, and of course, candy.  Our gaggle of girls had a blast.  Olaf took it all in from the cozy stroller with eyes that were as wide as saucers.  Until they fell asleep.  

Not long after that, we walked back towards home.  Zombie J and Olaf called it a night, and the Princesses and I trick-or-treated around our own neighborhood before heading home to divide the candy.  

This year we bought allergy-safe candy to hand out, and let Little One trade in Her chocolate for treats from our dish.  It was like a magic trick for me- we started with this extra pile of lollipops and such, and by morning had a whole bowl of chocolate.  Another Halloween miracle! 

You know.  Halloween has never been my favorite holiday. The macabre element of it is so far from my thing, it belongs in the netherworld from which it supposedly comes.  I don't like teaching my kids its ok to take candy from strangers, and I don't like them to consume loads of refined, artificially flavored sugar.  

But this year, I think I made friends with the holiday.  As we travelled door to door, greeting neighbors we knew and meeting some we didn't, I saw a different side of this tradition.  I guess it's not really about taking candy from strangers; it's about this one night in a year when our culture breaks down the barriers that make us strangers.  Door after door opened in the dark to give warm words and token treats to my little kids.  At door after door, my Littles met smiling faces, smiled back, and practiced their please-and-thank-yous.
Looking down the street and seeing a line of porch lights and flickering pumpkins, watching the doors open and the children walking in and out, weaving the porches together with their steps, it felt less like a row of self-contained homes, and more like a community.
It's always a treat to watch your children lose themselves to the magic of innocent fun.  But for me to really appreciate the tradition of this holiday, seeing the sweetness beyond the candy, was the trick.   

Little Mister's First Jack-O-Lantern

We introduced Mister to the family tradition of Jack-O-Lantern carving. 

Learning from the Master Carver

 

He didn't get to wield a knife, but he did get to design His own pumpkin in sharpie.  

Which is almost as dangerous.  

And He got to help scoop the guts out.  Which He was WAY more into than His Sisters were. 

He was a pretty big fan of the whole thing.  

We ended up with a whole porch of cute little pumpkins.  I could eat them all up!

Prayrers

Getting ready to tuck the Sisters into bed, Little Miss informs me:

Miss: "Mommy.  You don't have to say foh me a prayrer, buh-cause I already sayed myself foh prayrers ah-ready." 

C: "Wow, you said four prayers.  What did you pray for, Love?"

Miss (sits up to look at me squarely, that I may better grasp the gravity of the revelations She is about to bestow upon me.  She holds up Her index finger:) "One: I prayered foh me- a hot dog."

C: "You prayed for... for a hot dog."

Miss: "Yes. (She holds Her hands out wide to demonstrate) A BIG one." 

C: "Ok.  Well, so.  You had four prayers; what else did you pray for?"

Miss holds Her hand up and ticks off Her topics of appeal to Her creator:
"Two.  A prayrer foh some must-ahd.  Thwee. Foh pickuh welish.  And foh- some ketchup."  

I have a weird feeling that what I serve Her for lunch tomorrow may have an unusual significance. 

What Are The Chances

Little One: "Bye Mama! Where are you goin'"?

C: "To yoga. Who wants hugs and kisses?"

Missy (cheerfully hugs, kisses, waves to me as I walk out): "Buh-bye mama! Have 'nice time! I hope you don't get hit by laht-ning!"

Little Mister 10 Months

Little One isn't the only one who had a birthday back on the 7th.  Mister hit double digits!
Don't let the fact that His weight is in the 4th percentile fool you (we grow em' light around here).  Mister has become a force of nature.
This little bundle of energy has become a wiggling, climbing, crawling, bouncing little tornado.  He leaves a trail of emptied cabinets, open board books, and stacking cups wherever He goes.
He always goes wherever His finely tuned sixth sense tells Him there is the most Danger.
The phone-charging cord left dangling from a socket.  The not-quite-latched door to the basement steps.  Sisters' room with the entrancing, magnetic dollhouse full of fragile choking hazards.  And, most especially, the bathroom.
Mister has fallen in love with the bathroom.  Any bathroom.  Because, of course, it is the household Mecca of Danger.  It has bottles of tasty-looking potions.  It has hot-water faucets just the right height to pull up on.  A tub to tumble into headfirst, trash cans to upend with who knows what inside and! Best of all! A perpetually filled water table just the perfect size to splash in! The toilet.
It is a constant exercise in vigilance around here to monitor the bathroom door. All of us have developed a Pavlovian response to, at the sound of a flushing toilet, holler "DID YOU SHUT THE DOOR?!" It has to be properly shut, too, not just pulled to.  He's too smart for those tricks.
He's pretty smart in general, though.  He's figuring out how to communicate more and more, He's figured out how to get my attention (with teeth), he knows all of our habits to an amazing degree.  He sees Missy show up in the dining room in the morning and instantly drops His toy and makes a beeline for Her room.  He knows she forgets to shut the door when She wakes up.
Mister at 10 months is getting close to being upright.  He cruises the furniture.  He's very, very proud to show you that He has figured out how to hold onto the outside of the seat on the anchored walker and push it around and around and around the play table.  And around and around and around.
He has very recently started to pull up, dawn the expression of a tightrope walker about to step out on the wire, and let go.  He balances a moment.  He realizes He's doing it- He's doing it!! He looks up to see if anyone is watching, He claps vigorously in admiration for Himself, He laughs, He falls.  Repeat.
He has discovered rocking toys and scooting ride-on toys, and thinks they, well, rock.  He loves to crawl and explore and itches for Freedom whenever He's been restrained too long.  Sometimes the way He writhes and squeals after a long car ride, and then hits the floor and bounds off into the living room, reminds me of a wild animal re-released into it's natural habitat.  The sweet baby snuggles are fewer and fewer.  He just has this insatiable need to move.  All the time.
In finer skills, He has figured out actual chewing, and also how to maneuver bits of stuff into His mouth.  Mr. Independent is so thrilled to be able to feed Himself, that He only very grudgingly allows me to feed Him by spoon when He's really hungry.  Once the edge is off He uses His (amazingly good) hand-eye coordination to fire His fists at incoming spoons like defense torpedoes.  It is the Iron Dome of "That's Not A Cheerio".
It comes with sound effects, too, as He makes a satisfactory "Alldone!" each time a spoon is blasted away.  "All Done" is probably His favorite thing to say.  Also the new one, "Dog".  He LOVES dogs.  He loves to see them, hear them, look at them in books.  He has tried everything a Little Mister could to get to ours in the yard.  He hears them bark and plasters His droopy face to the window, "Dog! Dog! Dog!" I think He may believe He is answering them in their language.
The biggest change in Mister over the last month is the development of preferences.  And by prefer, He means My-Way-Or-The-Cryway.  The spoon vs. finger-food is one such preference.  He also prefers not to have His diaper changed, to have clothes put on His body, or have anything with buckles holding Him back from sweet, sweet freedom.  He prefers not to have things stolen from Him, no matter what hazard they may pose to His health and well-being.  He prefers to play Pat-a-cake.  Again.  Again!  In fact Pat-a-cake is to this child as Fetch is to a labrador retriever.  Don't start, unless you plan on playing until one of you is unconscious.

Other favorite pastimes are:
-Counting things in books.  Either you point at and count things, or He points around the page snickering as you count whatever He is pointing at.  Reading the words in the books? Thanks-no-thanks.
-Things that shake, rattle, and/or roll.
-Music with a good beat.  Mister has found His groove thang and He likes to shake it.
-Dumping stuff out of places.  A guy could spend all morning doing this!  Really.
-Dance with me around the room.  SO hilarious.  All the better if Sisters are dancing too.
-Follow those Sisters around wherever they go, like a little tag along puppy.

Favorite Foods:
-Mister doesn't love a lot of sweeter foods, like banana or mango, or grapes.  His favorites are:
-Raw Tofu.  Seriously.  Almost as much as cheerios.
-Salmon
-Rice cakes (the new substitute for pacifiers)
-Apple slices to gnaw on
-Asparagus
-Kidney beans
-Brown rice
-And of course, Cheerios.

As long as He can get it to His mouth on His own, though, He's pretty happy with it.  That's our Mister.  Our first glimpses into His disposition definitely reveal a very independent dude.  Now, He still needs His quota of time in Mommy's arms, a kiss after a bumped head, and a good cuddle before bed.  He still likes to give and get hugs and kisses.  But He is usually happiest when He's just exploring the world on His own with His people nearby.  His preferences (and first tantrums) have surfaced, but all in all He's still an almost unnaturally easygoing baby, and spends so much time smiling it's a wonder His cheeks don't get sore by lunchtime.
I do love those cheeks, too.  As the babyhood clock winds down, I'm finding myself soaking up these days of chubby thighs and downy hair like rays of actual sun.  Which is about what it feels like.
10 months is so exciting, because He is still all baby, which I cherish so much.  But toddlerhood is clearly visible around the bend, and it's looking like an awesome time.
Little Mister, big or little, you're a bright spot of joy in this family and home.  You keep all of us cheerful when we might otherwise forget to be.  You keep all of us on our toes.  We love you so much, and can't wait to see what's around the corner.  

Little Six

Last week, Little One hit a big milestone.  As my dad pointed out to us, She now needs BOTH hands, to show how old She is.

My big kid six-year-old has hit plenty of other big milestones in the last year-
Lost Her first teeth
Learned to play piano
Became an independent, avid reader
Became a good hiker
Learned to ride a bike with training wheels
Figured out addition, subtraction, and how to make change
Became a "double" big sister
Had Her first surgery and
kicked Her fever syndrome to the curb
Traveled the country
Started kindergarten

These are all good and great. I'm proud of what She has accomplished, experienced, and achieved.
But what I'm really proud of, at six years old, is the kind of kid She just is. 

Little One is a bright and sunny, meet-the-world kind of kid.  She typically greets me early each morning, dressed, bed made, ready to help make breakfast.

She's a responsible kid.  I almost never have to ask Her to make Her bed, put Her dirty clothes away, clear Her dishes, clean up after Herself.  She will say things like, "That's a great treat mom, but can I save some for after dinner?  I don't want to eat too much sugar before my veggies."  She always eats Her veggies.  She is quick to help out, quick to offer a hand, and usually asks for permission or advice if She's not sure what the rules are.

She's a brave kid. A tough kid. She is small, always the smallest in a class or team.  But if She complains about an injury or illness, it really hurts.  In class She social butterflies around, chit-chatting with the girls.  But at recess, She plays mostly with boys.  Because it just happens that there is only one other girl (Her partner in crime) who is up for roughhousing, racing, roaring, wrestling.

That's my little paradox; She's into sparkles and dresses and earrings and pretending to be a mama.  She loves princesses and ballet and purple and pink.  She's also into mud and superheroes, pirates, dinosaurs, blue, and green.  She loves to sit quietly and read for hours and hours,  write in Her journal, draw, or experiment with Her snap-circuits or optics kit.  She also loves to run like a wild creature in the yard, wrestling the dogs, growling like a lion, climbing boulders and throwing rocks.
I once had someone ask me what "kind of" kid She is; tomboy? girly-girl? athlete? bookworm?  
Yes.  She is all the things.

She does it all with flair, too. Gone are the days of getting to pick out Her outfits and do Her hair.  She dresses Herself, puts in Her own, signature, low ponytail.  And Her crazy outfits have rules.  They usually must have a sash.  It does not matter if the sash matches, if the outfit is supposed to have a sash, or if it even is a sash, rather than a torn silk scarf or random shoelace or something.  The shirts must always be tucked in.  Tucked in mom, in.  There should be tights- not leggings- and also socks.  A cardigan is a must.  Pants are a never.  What matters is that a shirt and a skirt individually are liked, not that they match.  Dresses are highly preferred.  She's very self-conscious about what Her friends will think, a new thing, but apparently they think these wild ensembles awesome. Which they are.

She does everything with flair, though.  Her bed is never just made, just the covers pulled up.  Each and every single morning, Her pillows and stuffed animals and dolls are intricately arranged in a new display.  With maybe some necklaces strung into garlands, some socks folded into flowers, some feathers adding a flourish here and there.  Where did She get feathers?  No one knows.

She finds things. And She hoards them.  Little One is allowed one special drawer, just for Her, that She can keep secret treasures in.  And that thing is jam-packed.  There is all kinds of random junk in there, which is not junk at all but cherished sacred possessions.  Especially Her journal.

Little One keeps a journal that She usually writes in after She's been tucked in.  I don't pry into it, but She occasionally shows me pages, and it's pretty much the cutest thing ever.  It's mostly about the things and people She loves; how much She loves Her family, Her dogs, Her Puppy, Her friends.  It is literally rainbows and fields of flowers in there.  (And some sharks and dinosaurs.  So I guess She's balanced.)

Writing and creating are Little One's heartbeat.  She is always writing, drawing, crafting.  She loves to make things out of cardboard; houses for fairies, beds for dollies, a diorama of a Powhatan village. Today She hauled some big flattened boxes out of the recycle pile and spent 3 hours creating a castle with a working drawbridge.  Then She labeled a popsicle stick with each of our names, and built a slot we can deposit them into, like a key, so that She will know if we want Her to lower the drawbridge so we can visit.  Any time.  Any time at all.   Because She wouldn't want us to feel left out.

She doesn't want anyone to feel left out.  Or sad.  Or scared.  Or uncomfortable in any way.  There was a time Little One wished She had a super power, and I told Her She does.  She has a super-human sense of empathy.  This has made Her the care-taker of All Beings.  Real, pretend, or imagined.  It has given Her a lot of friendships at school, Her teacher tells me.  It has gotten Her sister out of a lot of chores.  One tear from Miss and Little One can't stand it- suddenly Missy's bed is made, Her blocks put away, and She's getting a story read to Her.

In fact Her love for Her siblings is something I find profoundly beautiful.  She has an infinite patience and tenderness for Little Mister.  She has an impressively large patience and camaraderie with Her sister.  And though She has given us more sass and moodiness since starting kindergarten, She is devotedly loving to Her parents, too.

At six, She's just starting to shift some of that importance over to Her peers. Starting to be too cool for things, starting to eschew "baby stuff" or "little kid stuff", now that She's all big-time kindergarten.  But I'm lucky that at six, She still thinks it's fantastic if I get to spend time in Her classroom; still likes to hold my hand on the way to school.  I'm lucky that She still thinks I'm fun to hang out with, and begs for special time "just us", and invites me to play, to draw with Her, to see everything She's working on (She's always working on something).  I'm so thankful for this, knowing how soon it may slip away.

Little One still loves music, singing, dancing.  She loves science, history, facts.  She tends to get microbursts of obsession.  Something will raise Her curiosity, and then She has an intense desire to know ALL about it.  We will get books, google articles, visit museums, until Her thirst for the subject abates and then it's on to the next.  This year She has gone through phases of interest in dinosaurs, the revolutionary war, greek mythology, geology, optics, wildfires, child labor, and Shel Silverstein poems.  I can't tell you how much I cracked up writing "internet article: history of the labor movement and child-labor practices in the 20th century" on Her school read-a-thon log.  Her teacher must think I'm a nutcase.  But the girl has a voracious love for learning, and it's one of my favorite things about Her.

But then, I have lots of those.
I love how kind She is.  I love how generous She is.  I love how open She is to new ideas, new experiences, new foods, to anything really.  She's always up for an adventure, always willing to give anything a try.  I love the way She will fail or get hurt and then get right back in the ring and try again.  I love the way She will struggle hard through something, and persist until She gets it.  I love the way She finds something beautiful and lovable in absolutely everything and everyone.  I love the way She protects Her siblings, and dotes on them.  I love the way She treasures Her grandparents.  I love how grateful She is for Her blessings in life.  I love how silly She can be, I love the musical sound of Her laughter.


Some stats:

Favorite Foods
-tunafish sandwiches
-blackberry anything
-injera
-breakfast
-Japanese food of any sort

Favorite Books
-Amelia Bedelia
-Shel Silverstein
-Non-fiction for early readers

Favorite Movies
-Frozen (of course)
-Sound of Music
-Cars

Favorite Games
-Card Games
-Pretend
-Chess
-Life
-Brain Quest workbooks


For all I've written, I could write forever.  It's a joy to be Her parent, to watch Her grow, to hear the funny things She says, to be the recipient of Her wonderful hugs.   At six, it's also a joy to have Her friendship, as She becomes more grown-up every day.

I love you my Little One.  Happy Six.

Missy's First Day Of Preschool

I just realized I never posted this about Missy starting class at Her own preschool!   She was so worried about pre-school, so sad not to have Her sister there this time.  I could almost hear a dirge playing as we walked to school the first day.  She took Her sweet time changing Her shoes and hanging up Her backpack, I can tell you.  So Mr. and I waited.  We were in no hurry.
Then we walked Her in, and suddenly, from the ether, a circle of small people materialized around Her.
She didn't seem to know whether to be amused or freaked out.  The teacher (who is fantastic) took Her hand and welcomed Her.  She smiled.
I said, "Miss, do you want me to go now, so you can start your day?"
She looked a bit serious.  But She nodded.
So I left.
I waited a few moments and peeked through the window. I had to!  No tears.  So I walked home.
It was very, very quiet.
When the time finally came to pick Her up, She was on the swings.  I waved.
She pretended not to see me.  I waited a bit, then came closer.  I was still invisible!
I came right up and called Her name.  
"Little Miss! Hi! How was school? Are you ready to go home for lunch?"

Missy grinned.  She shook Her head.
"No, I'm goin' stay yeah."

"You're just going to stay here and never come home? You'll camp on the playground?"

"Shuh! I like it heah. I can just stay.  Bye."

So I guess it went well.
Since that first day, I haven't had any trouble convincing Her to go to school. She does still miss Her sister, and comment that She wishes Sissy could be in Her class.  But She was elated to tell me that Her class is full of kids "just my own very age!" and loves Her teacher and how "peaceful and nice" the classroom is.
I'm glad it's a good fit, sad She's away from me half the day, glad She loves it and is learning.
I must admit, it's still hard to leave Her and walk home. But it's fun to come up over the hill at pick up time, and see Her so happy, playing with friends of Her own.  And then scoop Her right up and bring Her back with me!

Don't Blink

There will be lots of words.  But for now, the fact that I have a SIX year old, leaves me speechless. 

Here I am with my biggest angel on the morning She turned six.

And here She is a few minutes ago....How does it happen?!
I miss that little pink baby.
But I wouldn't trade anything for the fantastic, amazing girl She grew into.  

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.   

Little Mr Nine Months

It's hard to believe it's been only a month since Mr's last birthday post.  He has been whizzing through the milestones. Brrrrrrrrrmmmmm! As He would say.

So what's new?

Well for one, Mr is now the proud owner of eight pearly teeth, which came pretty much all at once.  He's even figured out how to use them to chew, and has been eating up all kinds of good stuff.  He will occasionally make a pretty hilarious face when given something new, but He will eat ANYthing.  He's hungry! All the time! Because He's SO. BUSY.  

This kid, Peanuts.  Ay.  I love to watch Him learn and grow, be strong and explore.  But He's pretty much in constant peril.  He is ALWAYS MOVING.  So much so, that all these capital letters are totally necessary.  For you to get the point that HE IS INTO EVERYTHING.  

He has developed a special and weird affinity for the little bolt covers on the base of the toilet.  He lurks, guys.  He stalks the bathrooms.  If anyone (ahem Missy) leaves the door open even a crack, He bolts for it.  Before you know it He has wrenched the icky chocking hazard from the toilet and is holding it up like a glorious trophy, "ahaha! it's mine! MINE!" preparing to swallow it.  

When that's unavailable, there's always the trash-can pedal in the kitchen to pinch His fingers in (every time.  Every. time.) or the Sister's room to rampage for dollhouse furniture and neglected hair bows.  The shoe closet is an exciting place, when He can break into it.  And He's always scouting about dutifully, making sure I haven't missed a single crumb in my housekeeping.  Way to keep after me, Mr!  Got to have things spic and span.  Otherwise what's the fun in spitting up all over it?!

He's formidable to keep up with now, too, since He's finally acquired a full crawl, and has even started pulling up onto His feet and trying to climb things.  

All that thinking about how to subvert me and get into the bathroom has sharpened His thinking skills, too.  He knows a few baby signs (More, drink, milk, change, all-done), a few words (mama, dada, pat-pat, all done, hi), blows excellent raspberries, and loves to sing with me.  Which is even cuter than it sounds.  

The only things Mr doesn't like these days is being restrained too long (too long=over 5 minutes) and skipping naps.  Otherwise, the world is pretty much His oyster.  He loves crawling around exploring, likes the jumper and "hamster wheel" (anchored walker) for awhile anyways, LOVES His bath, and enjoys our thrice daily walks to His Sister's schools.  

He likes to talk, giggle, sing, and be tickled.  He loves anything that has to do with His sisters giving Him any kind of attention or just being silly near Him.  His favorite food is broccoli, His favorite games are peek-a-boo, rolling or chasing a ball, pat-a-cake, and yank-mama-or-sisters-hair-out.  He loves having His teeth brushed, which either tickles like the dickens or is just really really funny.

He has recently (in the last two weeks) been forced to go cold turkey on the pacifier.  While He occasionally laments this loss, He continues to be a fabulous sleeper, 12 hours at night and as much nap as I will give Him.  

While I wouldn't call Him cuddly, He does love hugs, kisses, attention, and a cozy lap for bedtime stories.  He does love to hug my shoulder, nuzzle my neck, and then give me a big fat raspberry on the arm and laugh hysterically.  He does love to hurl Himself into my arms for the occasional hug before moving on to explore some more ( my mother calls this the 'body-slam hug'), and He is fond of big, wet, slimy, baby kisses right on the face. When He's feeling really lovey, He loops one arm around your neck, then uses the other to pat your back gently, resting His head on your shoulder and purring, "pat-pat, pat-pat-pat".  

All I hear when we are out is what a happy baby He is, what a friendly baby He is, what a sweet baby He is, and is He like that all the time?  And yes.  Yes He is.  I find Mister at at nine months to be about as much fun as anything could possibly be.  He keeps me hopping these days, but it feels like a dance.  Like dancing with the music loud, dancing like crazy because you are so happy you can't help it, dancing till you're tired and don't care and keep dancing.  

Little Mister Nine Months, you are so busy.  So busy! You are so curious, so strong, so terrifyingly fearless.  Keeping up after you is a constant and never-ending activity, and it is the most wonderful fun there could be.  I can't wait to keep dancing with you.  Happy birthday.

Tongue Tied

(TMI alert- this post contains blood, gore, and breastfeeding. But it's important, so read it anyways.)

Little Mister doesn't have any words yet.  But that doesn't mean He isn't a talker.  This little dude has a ton to say. He LOVES a good conversation.  He'll strike one up with anyone!  So it's sort of an irony that it turns out that Little Mister was born tongue-tied.

I'm a little ashamed to admit that in all the babies I've fed in my life (dozens), I never really knew about this (apparently quite common) affliction.  Did you know that midwives have been snipping the too-tight frenulums of newborns since forever?  There are records from the 1600s, from the middle ages, even the bible.  People in rural corners of the world cut them with sharp rocks.  Apparently, everyone knows about this but me.  And probably a bunch of other moms who also suffer from ignorance, which is why I want to preach some tongue tie here.  

Because when I say suffer, I mean it.  Little Miss nursed like a champ from, literally, the first minute of Her life.  When Mr was born, I figured, heeeyyyyy.  I got this.  This is my third time around, right?  I nursed my last baby for a long time, like a pro.  I'm pretty much an expert.
So when He was born and finally handed to me, I went to feed Him and was all kinds of surprised that it didn't really work out.  I attributed it to both of our exhaustion from a sort of intense birth, and let it go.  And then He screamed all night.  ALL. NIGHT.  And most of the next day.  Because He was hungry, and I could not get Him to eat.  Eventually, He did start to nurse, but it was a struggle every time.  

He would suck in air, get a belly full of it, arch His back and scream.  He would work terribly hard and not get much out of it, get frustrated and hungry and tired and scream. There were very few positions I could hold Him in to get it to work out at all, and then it would take 40 minutes for Him to get enough to be full.  Every. Single. Time.  Forget nursing in public or under a cover or when He was already tired.  It was always a pretty painful experience on my end. And even though He'd take nearly an hour sometimes to nurse, at four months He was still needing to be fed every two hours.  Including at night.

If this hadn't been my third time, and if I wasn't such a stubborn person, I'm not sure I'd have stuck with it at all.  Especially because, to my great frustration, when Mister was given a bottle of expressed milk He would suck that thing down in minutes, settle into a comfy milk-coma, and sleep for hours.  For about a month, I had resigned to giving Him a bottle every evening, when He was already tired and simply refused to nurse at all.  He clearly preferred the bottle and, frankly?  I was a little offended.  

J and a couple of experienced friends noticed that He couldn't stick out His tongue, and encouraged me to have it looked at.  But I was like, pffft.  Whatever, we will work it out.  He'll grow out of it, we'll get the hang of it.  No need for snipping my poor little baby.  

But at four months, feeding every two hours? I have had enough baby experience to know that He was truly hungry at each waking, and to know that wasn't normal.  So I decided to bring it up at His next appointment.  

But I didn't have to.  His pediatrician noticed that He had fallen off His growth curve, and took a look without me mentioning it.  She sent us straight to ENT, that moment, where the doctor took one peek and said, "Oh yeah.  We're going to snip that.  Nurse! Wrap him up!"  At which point my eyes bulged out of my head like a loony toons character and I started stuttering.  "oh, uh, ah, you're, he, but, um.."
In a whirlwhind it seemed, the nurse wrapped Him like a mummy in a sheet so He couldn't move.
The doctor, with a flashlight headband on as if she was going spelunking in there, opened His mouth, took a pair of surgical scissors, and just cut it.  Just snipped the thing under His tongue like some kind  of macabre arts and crafts project.  Scissors.  What, was she going to patch Him up next with some elmers glue?!  Blood squirted all over.  The sheet was all splattered, the nurse and I and Mister all looked like extras in a vampire movie.
He SCREAMED.  And screamed and screamed. And screamed for 20 minutes.  After five everyone left so I could "calm Him down".  At ten I started to cry a little. Not going to lie.  I was thinking, "What have I done to my poor innocent baby? How could I do this to Him?!"  After 20 minutes He wore Himself out and fell asleep.  We went home.  The rest of the evening He was clearly sore and cried every time He nursed.
But.
That night?  He slept twelve hours straight. And in the morning, someone had abducted Him and left me with a new baby.  He wasn't in pain any more.  And overnight, He went from nursing every two hours to every four, and sleeping 8 to 12 hours through the night.  We went from nursing 45 minutes at a time, with a struggle, to under 10 minutes.  Easy.  Under a cover, sitting up, laying down, in the dark, in a park, in the house, with a mouse, in the rain on the train.  Yes I can nurse Him, yes I can, I can nurse wherever I am!
It was that awesome.  It was the best scissor snip ever, and totally worth it.  This was five months ago now, and I still marvel at the difference it made in both our lives.  He is now healthy and growing and strong.  When I feed Him we cuddle and it's nice, and there is no frustration or pain for either of us.
I wonder now whether His "colic" was just crying from hunger and being too tired at the end of a day to fight for a little milk.  I wonder how many other moms have no idea about how much this little problem can interfere with breastfeeding and how fast and simple the fix is.  How many moms stop nursing because of it.
I know this post comes far after the fact and is kind of personal in nature if you're squeamish about these things, but on the off chance that it might do for someone else what my good friends who noticed His tongue tie did for me, I had to shout it out.
If you are having trouble nursing, have your baby checked! By someone who knows, like a lactation consultant or a good pediatrician.  If you're wondering whether to snip it, DO IT.  Do it yesterday.
Google it, people.  It's a thing.   And if your friend is having problems like I was, don't be shy.  Don't be, shall we say it , tongue tied.  Speak up!  You'll be thanked for it later.  To my friends who badgered me into getting it done?

Thank you! 

Little Life Plans

Little One: "Mommy? I'm worried."

C: "Why?"

LO: "Well, when I grow up, I want to be FOUR things, a scientist, a baby-catcher*, a person what discovers and digs up dinosaur bones, and a gymnastics teacher.  But! How can I do all the four things, if I have to be there at the same time?"

Miss: "Well.  When I go up, I wahnt to wah-tuh plants.  And I want take cay-uh foh Little Mistah."

LO: "Ok but, you know Miss, when you are a growed up, Little Mister will probably be a growed up. Or even a teenager."

Miss: "Ooooohhh.  Oh, no.  OH. NO!  If He's a teenage-ah, then I can't sing sweetly to Him!"

C: "Sure you can, Miss. You can sing whenever you want to a'course."

Miss: "Yeah no.  I don't want to.  A-stead I will go up to be a bea-ah.  On'y, I don't want to have claws.  I on'y want to have some fingahs."

C: "You want to grow up to be a bear.  With fingers."

Miss: "Yeah!  Hmm.  Or! Or if I can't go up to be that, I think, I want go up to be Daddy."

LO: "Ooh, Miss.  That's a good one."  

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."  

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?

All Drains Lead To The Ocean

Little Miss (holding Her tummy and looking a bit concerned): "Mommy, is theh fishes swimming around inside my body?"

C: "What?"

Miss: "From when we ate the sah-mon last night. Is the fishes swimming in theh?"

C: "Oh. No Missy, that salmon is gone now, love.  Your body absorbed it and turned it into energy!  Isn't that cool?"

Little One: "Pffft.  Turned it into the toilet you mean." 

Missy: "Oooohh.  Like Nemo."  

Made A Man Out Of Me

Pandora was playing this song from Disney's Mulan.  The phrase "I'll make a man out of you" is repeated often.  Not my favorite song, but whatever.  Background music.  Little One, though, if there's music on She's always listening.
She started to giggle.

LO: "Hee hee.  Mama.  You've already made a man out of YOU!" 

C: "What?! I'm very happy to be a tough strong lady, thank you!"

LO: "No, no.  Hee hee.  'Cause guess what?   Little Mister is a man and you made Him out of you! Haha! Made a man out of you! Get it?"