flight of fancy

when we caught wind of a Festival Day at a local regional airport a few weeks ago, our ears perked up.  (anything that's free tends to have that effect on us.)  it turned out that the family of one of my mom's friends owns a few planes that are housed at this airport, and they invited us for a private ride.  how can you say no to that?  especially when your daughter has never ridden in an airplane and has been hounding you for months about when she'll finally get the chance?  we figured this could buy us a few more years before she really starts complaining.

so we drove the 45 minutes south to this teeny tiny airport and patiently waited for our turn to ride a teeny tiny plane, and in the meantime, toured ancient aircraft and had our faces painted and tried our hands at cornhole.  when it was finally our turn, the kids eagerly clambered up the small set of steps and strapped themselves into a plush leather seat and craned their necks to see out windows that were just a tad higher than their heads.

i had to smile right before takeoff, when it struck me how totally laidback we were acting about this whole experience.  in a world where we sign our lives away for something as simple as a field trip where the kids walk across the street, there we were, about to be launched into air, and we had signed nothing.  there was no record anywhere of the mann family boarding this plane.  what would happen if there were an accident?  i didn't have any identification on me and even if chris did, it wouldn't even help us since surely his wallet would burn in the flames.  i supposed that my mom knew what we were doing and if a plane crash in sanford made the local news, she might get around to calling around to see if we might have been involved.  maybe.

some might say i was letting my imagination run wild.  but you might understand my thought process when i explain that we must have sat on the runway for a good fifteen minutes before the plane was really even functioning.  the pilot at one point turned around to us and said, "i'll just keep revving the engine until it turns over and sticks. this sort of thing happens whenever it's recently been in the air."  and he'd give it some more gas, and it would sputter for a few seconds and die again. the kids didn't seem to notice, and chris and i would exchange glances and then just laugh.  were we being laissez-faire?  irresponsible?   exceptionally trusting?  all of the above?

but my reasoning was this: we're all together.  i would have been freaking out if it were just two or three of us, leaving someone on the ground.  but we were with each other, and if something horrible happened, i figured that the four of us would all be headed to those pearly gates hand-in-hand.

and if it takes such a risk to get a free airplane ride for the kids, well, that seems like a pretty reasonable tradeoff.  don't you think?

 

fit to be tied

we're nearing the end of the first quarter of school and liam came home with a checklist of skills that all first graders are supposed to have in order to be a Lacy Lion.  (lacy is the name of our school.  the lion is its mascot.  but i suppose you already figured that out.)  

 so we sat down and checked them off.  yes, he knows his full address.  yes, he knows his phone number.  of course, he can write his colors and his first and last name and his birth date.  he was feeling pretty great, checking off each item as he worked around the sheet counter-clockwise.   and then he got to the last one.

i can tie my shoes.

as i knew they would, the waterworks began.  "i'm the only one in my whole class who can't tie my shoes!" he wailed.  "i'll never be a lacy lion!  i'm going to go to college and not know how to tie my shoes!  i'm the horriblest shoe tie-er ever!"

(our son has a flair for the dramatic.)

but he's partially  right.  he very likely is the last person in his class to learn how to tie his shoes.  we've tried -- believe me, we've tried -- but he's not even close.  he's always struggled with fine motor skills (the poor boy only mastered using scissors in kindergarten) and chris and i decided we just weren't going to push it.  each lesson with him ended in frustration, both on his part and ours, and we just chalked it up to something his body wasn't quite ready for and resolved to give it another shot in a month or two.  in the meantime, our theory was this: there's always velcro.

but then this list came home, and we had no choice but to return to the challenge.  since then, we've spent untold hours on the concept and i swear he's no better than he was when we began.  we even borrowed this nifty book from a friend that has different colored laces, so he can more easily see what he's supposed to do (i.e., the red lace loops around the blue lace, etc).  the book teaches the two most-common methods and goes through each step with words and pictures.  we model it.  we encourage him.  we celebrate the few successes he's had.  but he's just not getting it.

to add some levity to this post of frustration, i actually found myself giggling the other night amidst one of our shoe tying sessions.  the bunny ear method (which happens to be chris's favorite) just wasn't working, so i showed him mine, which the book calls the rocketship method.  as i went through the steps, i noticed that the lace formed an S.  eager to find something that might serve as a visual reminder for him, i said, "an S for sara!"

"or an S for susanna!" susanna chimed in, as she was sitting next to us.  (side note: susanna proudly came downstairs this morning with the shoe on the book tied.  she has apparently taught herself.)  (side note #2: we are NOT mentioning this to liam.)

super also was with us, as she always is.  "or an S for super!" we exclaimed.

"or an S for shoe!" susanna added.

liam was bent over his laces at this point and glanced up at us with a look of disgust.  "i know what that S is really for," he muttered.  "Satan."

maybe not a thousand words, but certainly $22.00

i expect my doorbell to be ringing any moment now.  i envision a crew on the doorstep, much like those publisher's clearing house people, holding in their arms a big certificate with my name emblazoned on top.  or maybe it will be a trophy?  or a medal to hang around my neck, perhaps.  but no matter the type, it will certainly say the following: Worst Mother of the Year, 2011.  and yes, i realize that 2011 isn't even over yet.  but i'm such a shoo-in for the winner that they certainly have ceased even accepting applications.

but i'm giving you the ending of the story before even explaining my transgressions.  so let me back up and describe my evening last night.

five minutes after putting the kids to bed, i was downstairs and looked up to find liam standing next to me, crying.  he started talking about something that was clearly so upsetting to him that i had trouble even understanding what he was saying ... something about kids and pictures.  seeing him this way, i picked up his little pajama-clad body and held him in my lap, grateful that he still allows me to do this, while at the same time angry at whomever had caused him to be in this state that necessitated my comfort in the first place. i'm going to kill whoever did this to him, i resolved, my parenting defensive mode on high alert.  no one can cause him this much pain and get away with it.  so i asked him to take a deep breath, slow down, and tell me exactly what was wrong. 

"well today at school all the kids in my class got their pictures that were taken at school a few weeks ago and i didn't and only like three others in my class didn't and i don't know why i didn't and they were all looking at them and i didn't have any and i don't think i'm going to be in the yearbook and --" before he dissolved into another round of heaving sobs.

i sat there, with my seven-year old boy curled in my lap, and i'm not sure i have ever felt worse as a parent.  because the person who caused him to be in this state that necessitated my comfort was, in fact, ME.

it was such an easy thing to do: order a sheet of yearbook photos, write a check, send it in.  but when the order forms came home, i scoffed at their prices -- the cheapest package was $22.00 for a sheet that probably costs 10 cents to produce -- and decided against it.  i know that in a year or two, the kids will start trading yearbook pictures and coming home with a stack of all of their friends' with their names signed on the back, and i guess by then i'll have to bite the bullet.  but i knew that from talking to other moms that in kindergarten and first grade the packages come home and are possibly shared with family and that's about it.  for $22.00 i could take a picture and blow it up to poster size and ship it halfway around the world and still come out ahead.  so the order forms went into the recycling bin and i never thought once about them.

until last night.  i was struck at how insensitive i had been.  i could immediately imagine how everything had unfolded -- i was a middle school teacher for a decade, you know --  how all the students were seated at their desks, and how liam's teacher held the stack of picture envelopes in her hands and called the kids up one by one.  "oh claire! what a gorgeous smile!", she might say, as claire goes up to retrieve her pictures.  "wow, david, you hadn't lost your tooth yet," she might say to another, before david eagerly opens up his envelope.  and there liam sat, watching his classmates return to their seats, waiting and waiting for his name to be called.  and then feeling a wave of disappointment, and confusion, when the last name was called and it wasn't his. all of this because his mother was too cheap to place an order.

i know that money can't buy happiness.  and i certainly don't intend to indulge my children by buying their every wish and desire so that they can fit in, because obviously that's not healthy (and we'd probably go broke trying.)  but if there's a $22.00 package of pictures to be ordered, which gives us not only a keepsake of him at this age but also supports the school in a fundraiser, and prevents him from feeling a sense of bewilderment as to why his mom's just about the only one who didn't want any pictures of her child ... well, i think i can manage that. 

in the meantime, i wait for the doorbell to ring and for my award to be given.  i probably should apply a bit more lipstick.  because for a crime committed such as this -- oh, the irony -- they're going to want my photograph.

wordless wednesday: before and after

i've been a bit obsessed about home renovation ever since we bought our house in 2008.  i have a notebook bursting at the seams, stuffed with pictures i've cut out of magazines and newspaper articles, and my DVR has been chock-full of shows like "spice up my kitchen" and "bang for your buck".  (incidentally, don't ever do a tv search for "bang" while a young reader is in your presence.  if you catch my drift.)

my favorite pictures are the Befores and Afters.  for a while there, i was beginning to think we'd always be stuck in Before mode.  but no longer!  we are finally officially Afters. (our original date of completion was to be july 24.  we finished october 7.)  here are some pictures to share. 

before: this was most of our kitchen. mismatched appliances, including a dented dishwasher and a range that was tilted so i always had to rotate my pans while cooking or the oil would pool on one side. no real counterspace and cabinet doors that didn't fully close (or hung on one hinge).

after: taken from the same vantage point (so the range and hood are where the sink and window used to be)

  

before: our playroom (post-removal of a gazillion toys, natch.)  the very first work that was done, way back on june 2, was the demolishing of this wall.  the playroom moved upstairs and i have to say it's nice to have our main floor toy-free

after: our new breakfast room, taken from the same vantage point.  this was the only square footage we added

after: the breakfast room opens up onto our screened porch

before: our pepto bismol pink powder room (i wish this picture did its awfulness justice -- pink sink, pink toilet, pink wall tile, pink floor -- but i think i've mentioned this before)

after: our new mudroom / laundry room / office, taken from the same vantage point.  the mirror used to hang right where that top white cabinet is.  these built-ins were exactly what i had requested: a spot to hide all of our crap 

after: built-ins for more crap.  we finally have space to store our vacuum somewhere other than liam's closet -- novel concept

the only picture i don't have is our new powder room.  i bought paint to striae the walls but haven't gotten around to it yet.  if i continue at the same rate that it took us to get the rest of it done, it might be another three years.

we're finally an After.  and hopefully we will live Happily Ever.  :)

somnambulism

ever wanted to know the scientific term for sleepwalking?  it's somnambulism.

ever wondered why we know this?  well, for the past month, we've been witnessing it.  about once a night, always between the kids' bedtime and ours, we'll hear liam's door open, and the pitter-patter of his feet as he uses the bathroom.  but after that, his journey becomes interesting.  most often, he'll join chris in our room, wordlessly climbing into our bed.  other times, he'll return to his room, but turn on his light and stand in the middle of the floor with his stuffed animals in his arms.  he never says a thing; he just looks at us with a sort of blank face and quickly confuses us as much as he seems to be himself.

but a few nights this past week, he took a lengthier detour.  twice he pounded down the stairs to find me at the computer (where i always am these evenings, catching up on work).  he stood there, staring at me, not saying a word.  this was the scene:

me: hey sweetheart.  do you need something?

liam says nothing.

me: are you thirsty?  did you come downstairs for some water, maybe?

liam slowly nods.

me: well, let's go into the kitchen and get you a cup.

liam immediately turns on his heel and walks to the kitchen.  and then keeps walking to the breakfast room, where he sits down at his chair, puts his head on the table, and closes his eyes.

now, i'm sure you've concluded by now that he's sleepwalking.  but admit it -- i kind of helped you get there with the title and vocabulary lesson.  because, i'm embarrassed to say, it took us a full month to come to that conclusion ourselves.  we just thought he was a little sleepy, maybe a little lonely, and sought us out for comfort.  it dawned on us only recently that he is, in fact, sleepwalking.  (and this was only because we realized that he never has any recollection of his escapades the next morning.)

once we arrived at our brilliant diagnosis, some internet research was conducted (of course).  turns out 15% of children sleepwalk and grow out of it, but while they're doing it, there is no cure.  the sites we read simply recommend making sure there are no dangerous objects in the child's path and that, if he's inclined to reach the front door of the house, that it's locked.  done.  i pointed out to chris (who is, for once, freaking out about something more than i am) that the most dangerous object in his path is the flight of stairs, and he seems to navigate that just fine.  thank goodness.

still, we're putting a bell around his doorknob to alert us whenever he decides to venture forth.  and on the nights we're gone, i've made our babysitter aware that it's very likely that around 9:30, she might look up to find a disheveled, very confused, half-asleep boy a few feet away from her.  i suppose if it continues, we'll talk to our pediatrician, just to cover our bases.

but for now, we'll continue to fill him in the following morning of his antics the previous night -- which is always good for a giggle. and just add it to the ever-growing list of Slightly Crazy Things Our Children Do.

somnambulism.  there's a vocabulary lesson for you.  and you thought this blog was only for anecdotes about our family? you just never know what you're going to get when you come here.

motivation

how easy it would be if we could figure out a one size fits all approach to parenting.   unfortunately, our children are a classic example of what-works-for-one-doesn't-necessarily-work-for-the-other.  just when we think we've figured out the best way to motivate or discipline or teach a new skill, we'll try it with the other child and fail miserably.  case in point: allowance.

liam has always been driven by reward.  whether it's the promise of dessert if he tries another bite of asparagus, or five extra minutes on the wii if he finishes his weekly homework a day early, the dangling carrot trick is a surefire way of getting him to do what he otherwise might not want to do.  i'm sure there are parenting gurus out there who would shake their heads and denounce our methods, but i know myself, and i know it works for me.  a bigger paycheck if i take on another class?  sure!  a better chance of winning my next match if i hit against the ball machine for an hour?  sign me up!  and liam is pretty much the same.  so every night, we go through his Responsibility Chart and assess whether he deserves his nickel for each of the seven tasks he's expected to do each day.  (his jobs include getting the newspaper, feeding the dog, making his bed, brushing his teeth, putting his clothes in the hamper, cleaning his room, and choosing the next day's outfit before bed.)

things were going pretty well for a while.  but then he started exhibiting yet another trait of mine: procrastination.  we would be going over his Responsibility Chart at 7:58 pm and he'd realize he never made his bed.  immediately, he would jump up and start scurrying around like a man possessed, yanking up his covers and picking up his shams off the floor and throwing his stuffed animals into a pile on top.  "there!" he'd say, breathless, at 7:59.  "i get my nickel!"

so, slavedrivers that we are, we instituted a further requirement: the bed making had to be done before he went downstairs for breakfast, without prompting or reminding.  and no, you can't just yank up the quilt on top and leave the sheets underneath in a crumpled mess -- have some pride in your work, boy!  what do you know ... it's worked.  mostly because our firstborn is driven by reward, but for whatever reason, he's never failed in completing this task.  (and i have to say, there is quite a sense of satisfaction as a mother to peek my head into my son's room after dropping him off at school to see everything as it should be.  when i need a good laugh, i like to delude myself and think that it is going to be this way until he leaves for college.)

so that's our liam.  and then, in the other corner, we have susanna. 

susanna doesn't seem to give one flying flip about rewards.  if she's not into the green beans i'm serving for dinner, there is no dessert on this planet that could convince her to try them.  if she hasn't done what she was supposed to in order to get some time on the pbs kids website, oh well.  there's always tomorrow.  and her responsibility chart?  (or, should i say Sponsibility Chart?)  sure, she likes to arrange its magnets into colorful rows and count how many butterflies and hearts she sees, but the money aspect is of no interest to her whatsoever.

tonight, as we began our bedtime routine, i pointed out to her that she hadn't yet made her bed.  "why don't you go ahead and do it now?" i suggested.  (we have yet to implement the before-breakfast rule with her ... we may be strict, but she's only five.  we do have some compassion.) 

"oh."  she glanced over at her double bed, the pink quilt askew and her pillows on the floor, and shrugged her shoulders.  "that's okay."

"but you won't get your magnet for that job today," i reminded her.  "don't you want a nickel for your piggy bank?"

"um, i guess not," she replied, her eyes focused on her bookshelf.  "i'll just get one tomorrow if i do it then.  besides, i'm about to get in bed anyway."

i have to admit -- i looked at her for a solid minute, watching her as she ran her fingers over the spines of her books to choose which one we would read.  who is this child?   i asked myself.  where did she come from?

the more i've thought about it, i've arrived at the conclusion that this could turn out one of two ways.  she could turn out to be exactly the kind of person i wish i were -- driven by just an innate desire to be better just for better's sake; motivated by sheer will, and not by reward or potential outcome.  i already see this in her on a regular basis.  just yesterday, she sat down and painstakingly wrote down the name of every child in her class, divided into columns of boys and girls.  she spelled everything correctly after consulting her class roster, and made sure to capitalize where appropriate.  and she did this not because she was required to, or because we suggested it, but just because she wanted to see if she could do it.  the praise i lavished on her afterwards was just the icing on the cake; she was proud of her work because it was good.  not because of what i said or because of some reward that was promised to her if she did it.

but ... who knows.  maybe that's not what will happen.  maybe the money thing will never interest her and, in her ripe old age, she'll wind up with her older brother on speed dial, calling him up for loans. 

as i mulled over her two possible distinct future paths, i heard liam from across the hall close his closet door.  "all right, mommy!" he yelled.  "i'm done!  i've got my outfit out for tomorrow so i get all seven nickels again tonight!"

at least he'll be able to support her.