the gofster chronicles

gofster had his moments of sheer brilliance this year.  he wasn't terribly naughty -- i think he learned his lesson from years past, when he realized that any mayhem he caused resulted in ME cleaning up the mess the following day -- but that didn't cramp his style. 

here are just a few of the highlights ...

the kids found him facedown in the scanner, and then saw the following image on my laptop:

seems he has a sweet tooth

okay, so this isn't exactly a picture of gofster ... but it's the only shot we have from liam's big soccer tournament in virginia beach.  he surprised us by showing up in our suite at the holiday inn.  does that count?

his piece de resistance -- he used his cinematic talents to create this one-of-a-kind video just for us!

and the craziest thing of all happened just yesterday.  we heard squeals of surprise from the kids upstairs, who actually found that sneaky elf in the top drawer of chris's dresser, buried under his shirts.  seems they were playing hide-and-seek with their stuffed animals and discovered gofster still hanging out.  (what are the odds?!)  we quickly explained that even though the legend is that the elves return to the north pole on christmas eve for good, apparently some of them stick around until their family's christmas decorations have been stored away.  i mean, who can blame him?  if i were facing a ton of work back at home, helping to construct all the toys for the following year, i'd stick around here as long as i could too.  luckily, liam and susanna agreed.

there he is, partially concealed by the sweet note susanna made for him  

(that's gofster, santa, and susanna in her drawing)

farewell, dear gofster ... til next year!  

xoxo, liam, susanna, chris, and sara

dream big

christmas 2012 has come and gone.  there's much to share when i have an extra moment, but suffice it to say that the big gift this year is a cruise for spring break with our dear friends the basses.  to reveal the surprise, the kids went on a 10-minute long treasure hunt all over the house, with clues they pieced together and recorded on a clipboard.  eventually the hunt led them to the globe in our dining room with a big pink arrow pointing to our destination.

 the final product

i've trimmed this 10-minute video down to the final 50 seconds, as they figure out exactly what this all means.  you can see them start to process this news in very different ways.

table tennis?  really?

click on the picture for the video

special deliveries

i haven't written much about gofster (our elf on the shelf) these days, but suffice it to say he's up to his old antics.  the kids still love to hunt for him every morning and their squeals of delight when they discover him is always a fun way to start our day.

today he was a delivery elf, appearing this morning with letters from santa.  it's remarkable how well santa knows both of our children -- not only must he see them when they're sleeping, and know when they're awake, but he's also aware of sore losers and picky eaters (for goodness sake!)

tears

i woke up on saturday morning in a sweat.  drenched, my pajamas glued to me, my heart racing.  mere moments before i had been in the classroom where i taught at dillard drive middle, surrounded by my second period class of algebra I students.  there is gunfire down the hall and it's getting closer and i have twenty-five pairs of eyes looking to me for direction.  what do we do, mrs. mann?  they ask me.  i frantically whirl around, from the windows to the door and back again to face them.  should we make a run for it?  should we hide? if we hide, where do we go?  i don't know how to answer.  think.  THINK.  my classroom is at the end of the building and there are woods about ten yards away.  but i'm not sure we have enough time to get there.  in a split-second decision, i herd them all into the bathroom just like the brave heroic teacher at sandy hook had, whose interview was the last thing i had seen before falling asleep on friday night.  and it is only at this point that i realize that you can't squeeze twenty-five teenagers into a bathroom.  you can't stick them on top of paper towel dispensers and sinks.  they're too big.  panic sets in as the door won't shut and the gunfire draws closer.  my students' eyes grow wider as they look to me for reassurance.  and all i can do, as we know we are about to draw our final breaths, is to tell them that i love them.  just like that heroic teacher at sandy hook had.

because no child is ever too big for that.

this tragedy has rocked me to my core.  even in the midst of a weekend four hours away from home for liam's indoor soccer championships, it was all i could think about.  chris would gently, from time to time, suggest that i stop reading about it.  but i couldn't.  i still can't.

i won't pretend for a moment that i have anything of any importance to share, especially since it seems every person on this planet has already weighed in with their own thoughts that are usually far more eloquent than my own.  but this has had such a profound impact on me that i feel a need to document it for myself. 

i think that i have been so affected by this tragedy for several reasons.  one, i am a teacher.  in most aspects of my life, i would define myself as a mother before i'd define myself professionally -- but when i first heard about newtown, my first reaction was one as a teacher.  what would i have done?  i asked myself.  how would i have protected my students?  how could i have kept them calm?  that nightmare that i had on friday night has repeated itself every night since.  and it's always with the same class of students -- my second period algebra I class of 2001.  the class of students who watched with me, in horror, as the events of september 11 unfolded on the television screen in the corner of my classroom.  i can name each one of those students to this day and tell you where they were sitting.  i'm sure it's no coincidence that they are the ones i'm trying to protect in my nightmare.

it was only after introspection that i realized that i've also been so shaken because of the mental illness piece of the story.  i have seen, up close, what mental illness can do.  i have witnessed how it can change someone, how it can make them violent and frightening, and how as much as you are inclined to blame them for their actions and hold them accountable, you have to remind yourself that they are ill.  i have seen close family members struggle with caring for someone with mental illness, and have seen just a glimpse of the heartache and agony and frustration and time and energy and medications and counseling and special programs and money that go into helping make this person better.  i thank God over and over again that this person is getting the help he needs.  because we know what can happen when people don't.

but the obvious part speaks the loudest:  i am a parent.  and not just any parent, but a parent of a first grader.  a parent of a child who is the exact same age as the children who died at sandy hook.  at 9:30 on friday morning, susanna was likely doing the same kind of activity that those twenty fellow first graders in connecticut were doing -- maybe a math puzzle in a small group, or circle time on the carpet with the whole class.  she opened up her lunchbox in the cafeteria to eat the same kind of lunch as their moms had packed for them that day.  she was probably wearing the same size shoes as many of the girls and wants the same american girl doll as likely many of them requested for christmas. she will open that american girl doll on tuesday.  they will not.

as soon as chris returned home on friday afternoon with liam and susanna from school, i had to hold them.  i hadn't felt that deep, physical need to hold them in years -- i felt like i was almost going to be sick if i couldn't wrap my arms around them.  i sat there on the floor of susanna's bedroom, rocking her in my lap, her soft cheek buried into my chest, her heart beating next to mine.  she seemed to know what i needed without saying a word; we just sat there, silently, our arms wrapped around each other. 

and i wept. 

santa: worth the weight

liam and susanna have had the pleasure of seeing santa twice this year.  the first time was at the museum of history party last weekend:

and then, on sunday, we enjoyed our annual tradition of the santa brunch at our club. 

 while my fashionista daughter must have a dozen holiday-themed outfits, liam has, oh, one festive dress shirt.  you'd think the least i could do was iron the thing ...

i was standing far enough away to not quite hear what the kids were telling him -- but close enough to hear his big, booming, HO HO HO in response to something susanna said.  as we walked out to the car, i had to ask what was so funny as to make him laugh like a bowl full of jelly.

"i told him that i thought he had lost some weight," she replied.  "i told him that when i sat on his lap last week, he felt, um, plumper."

well, she's learned not to use the word "fat", i thought.  and i guess it's a good thing that the santas weren't reversed -- that could have been a problem ...

"anyway, i think he liked it," she continued.

"is that right?" i asked.  "how do you know?"

she beamed.  "well, he immediately said that i was on his Nice List FOR SURE!"

like white on rice

we have two nativity sets: a beautiful fontanini one that i received piece by piece from my mother over about a decade's worth of christmases, and a fisher price one that i bought at target when liam was two.  my beautiful one has a special spot in our newly renovated house, but the fisher price one is just as accessible in the family room, as it is still a favorite toy of the kids.  (this thing has been such a hit that i actually wrote about it twice in 2008:  here and here.  it's the gift that keeps on giving.)  so you can imagine that susanna was chomping at the bit to get her hands on it as soon as we started hauling all of our christmas decorations into the house from storage last weekend.   but as soon as she opened the box, she quickly informed me that many of the figurines were dirty.

i started to handwash each one at the kitchen sink, but then my eyes fell on the almost-full, soon-to-be-started dishwasher.  (really, is there any other state of a dishwasher, than almost-full and soon-to-be-started?)  jackpot!  "i'll just stick all of these little people in the top shelf and they'll be clean and pristine in no time," i shared with susanna, really patting myself on the back for this stroke of brilliance.

at least, it seemed brilliant at the time.  it wasn't until i removed them from the dishwasher a few hours later that i realized all these little people have small holes on their undersides (please, no comment about that) and had all filled with water.  moving them around the manger scene made them all sound like they were bellying up to the bar for another round -- and worse than the sloshing sound was the concern that they'd begin to leak onto the piece of furniture they're adorning for the next month or so.  drying these suckers out was a priority.

but how?  you can't squeeze them.  you can't open them.  pounding them into a towel in your hand results only in a small warm trickle.  [i promise -- i had no idea how this would sound when i began to write this post.]  at a loss, i suggested to susanna that she consult chris for a suggestion, before i headed out to the grocery.

i returned to find this.

"that's what you're supposed to do with your cell phone if it ever gets wet -- soak it in a bowl of rice," chris explained.  made perfect sense to me

so there you have it: a two inch-high plastic mary staring out from a clear organic basmati rice container.  not exactly what God had in mind, i'm sure.  but when i started to reflect on the whole scenario, i was struck by how true-to-life this actually is.  because isn't this just like mary?  in the midst of unspeakable conditions -- uncomfortable, pregnant, and in unfamiliar surroundings -- she still manages to have a serene smile on her face. 

wordless wednesday: thanksgiving style

liam's thanksgiving plans all came to fruition: we gathered at my parents' house.  the boys played football.  chris's parents joined us.  we ate a lot.  and then we went to bed.

oh, and a few other fun things happened along the way as well.

  the whole clan, including my sister-in-law laura and my brother ben, but minus the star of the show

here's the star of the show: my six-month old nephew teddy, of course! 

i am smitten

 the good news: the kids re-discovered monopoly and entertained themselves quite well with it for hours and hours.  
the bad news:  the kids re-discovered monopoly

 

of course, it didn't occur to us to take a picture of the three cousins until we were literally halfway out to the car the day after thanksgiving.  back inside we came -- ratty monkey on one lap, monkey hat on the other head.  no wonder poor teddy is confused

thanskgiving plans

one of his assignments from computer class -- can you tell it came home crumpled at the bottom of his bookbag?

i guess i should give thanks during this holiday week that while this boy of mine is obsessed with football, he has already come to terms with the fact that he will never play it.

following the path

i've been neglecting this blog lately, and feel incredibly guilty.  not for my readers, mind you; i'm under no false impression that i'm somehow disappointing people who check this site and find no new post.  no, i feel guilty for my children.  (and isn't that like trait #1 of any parent?  guilt?)  it's just that the kids are living their lives as always, learning and growing and doing funny things and not-so-funny things and several times a day i think, i must document this in the blog somehow.  and then time passes and work demands my attention and i find myself over-extended yet again with volunteer work even though i SWORE this year was going to be different and i was going to find a balance somehow. 

being the math dork that i am, i looked back at previous years just to see if my guilt is justified or not.  it's easy for me to see the number of posts on the right-hand side of the blog (believe me, if it required me actually scrolling back and counting, then this little statistics lesson would never have happened) and this is what i found as my totals from september through november of each year:

2008: 35 posts
2009: 28
2010: 22
2011: 15
and this year: 8

for anyone who doesn't want to figure this out, i'll do it for you: i posted 4 1/2 times as often in 2008 as i've done this year.  were our lives 4 1/2 times more interesting?  did we have 4 1/2 times as much going on?  or am i just 4 1/2 times more distracted with other things now?

i don't know.  but i do know i'm feeling 4 1/2 times more guilty.  i keep thinking of the day that our blog book arrives on the UPS truck -- probably sometime this summer, as it will take me roughly 7 months to get my act together -- and how disappointed the kids will be when they see how much smaller it is this year.  how many fewer stories there are for them to relive and laugh about.  how many fewer pictures there are for them to flip through over and over again. 

so here's my pledge to myself: i will post twice a week from now until the end of the year.  it might just be a few photos for wordless wednesday, or it might be a long, rambling story that doesn't interest anyone but me.  but i'm going to do it for the kids.  and for my memory, because i swear i'd forget most of my life if i didn't document it somehow.  (ask me in a week if i've found my car keys, which have been missing for most of november.)  but there's one more reason: i don't feel guilty only because i'm letting down liam and susanna; i feel guilty because i'm also letting myself down.

this fall, our entire church read the book following the path by joan chittister.  chris and i met in a small group last night to discuss it, and while i can't claim that i read the whole thing, i did read much of it.  and the message that i got out of it was that i need to feed my soul with things that i'm called to do.  there are certainly many things that i have to do: teach, cook, carpool, chores, etc.  that list could fill a few pages if i allowed it.  but there is a shorter list of things that i want to do.  things that i love to do.  things that i feel called by God to do.  i do them -- volunteer, read, play tennis, Bible study -- but only as time allows.  only when i have time left over from my obligations.  and one of those things that i love to do, but hardly ever do, is write.  only 8 times in the past 3 months have i sat down at the computer and written. that just strikes me as sad.

so i'm going to follow the path.  i'm going to heed the call.  twice a week, anyway.  it will make my children happy.  but it will make me happy too.

and now that i've spent a half-hour writing, i have four loads of laundry to fold.  better go follow that path to the laundry room.

the sweetest halloween

i don't know if it was the lack of sleep (i've worked until 1 a.m. more often than is healthy recently) or just my permanent sentimentality, but i wound up tearing up on the couch last night watching our children sort their candy.  i wrestled with whether to post this on the blog because, well, it's a little on the saccharine side.  i never want to be that mom who boasts loudly to anyone who will listen about how amazing/brilliant/selfless/[insert annoying positive adjective here] her children are.  one only needs to look at the most recent post to read all about one of my children's flaws.

but then i thought -- screw it.  this is real life.  this is what happened.  and i want to document it.

an ecstatic princess leia with a very slippery wig, and a soccer player who apparently wants to look as tough and non-smiley as all the professional athletes do in their photos

 we got home really late on halloween night due to all the fun.  we joined the neighborhood "parade" (i use that term loosely; it was more like 50 kids en masse walking down the street before dispersing) and then tricked-or-treated for an hour or so.  i peeled away to return home and man the door and throw together a late dinner, and chris and princess leia and the soccer star returned home a half-hour later.  we were still eating at the time they normally go to bed, so when it came time for the annual tradition of counting and sorting their candy -- a math lesson of the highest level if i ever saw one -- i told them it would have to wait until the following afternoon.

so thursday found us in the family room, me on the couch as i waded through their bursting-at-the-seams school folders, and them sprawled on the floor as they waded through their bursting-at-the-seams plastic orange pumpkins. 

think they're excited about all this sugar?  how can you tell?

susanna finished counting first.  "92!" she proudly exclaimed.

liam finished a minute or so later.  "110!" he said.

i looked up.  i steeled myself for gloating on his part and pouting on hers. (i don't know why; that's typically not their style.  i guess it's my style.)  but before any of that could take place, liam took over.

"you said you had 92, right?"  she nodded.  "um, okay ... and i got 110 ... so that means all i have to do is give you ... um ... 9 of mine, and then we have the same number.  right, mommy?"

i just sat there, sort of dumbfounded, while he continued to work through the calculations in his head.

"right, mommy?  92 plus 9 is 101, and then i'd also have 101 ... "  he started to count out nine pieces from his pumpkin to give to susanna.  "mommy, why are you crying?"

who knows.  maybe most siblings are like this.  maybe most siblings, even at the ripe old ages of 6 and 8, are best friends.  i should hope they are.  but as i hastily wiped my eyes and had them pose for a picture, i thought for the gazillionth time in my life: we are so blessed.

how sweet it is.

susanna planted a big one on liam's lips right as i started to snap the picture.  i guess anyone who had just been given nine pieces of primo chocolate for doing nothing in return would probably have the same reaction

you win some, you lose some

i took liam out for ice cream last sunday afternoon to celebrate.  he had just finished a soccer game where the score was 16-0.

but before you get too impressed, understand that his team was the one that was crushed.  and still, we had reason to celebrate.  for the first time in, well, forever, he walked off the field after losing with his head held high.  there were no tears, no words of frustration.  he accepted the defeat like a mature eight-year old.

i couldn't believe it.  so i took him out for ice cream.

parenting liam is challenging, to say the least.  i suppose every child has their issues, whether they're academic or behavioral or fine motor or gross motor or speech or sensitivity or a thousand others.  as parents, i feel like we're called to do the best we can.  i've given up on the notion of actually solving the issue, because i'm not sure there's actually a real solution much of the time.  instead, we read articles, we ask the pediatrician for advice, we consult with fellow parents, we lean on our spouses, we pray for God's guidance, and we just figure out what works best for our child.

liam's most serious issue is that he doesn't expect to fail.  i had originally typed that he doesn't "want" to fail -- but that's not really the best way to describe him, because no one in their right mind ever wants to fail.  liam is far more serious than that.  his fear of failure cripples him.  at the tiniest glimpse of self-perceived failure, he convinces himself that he's never going to master the task.  he works himself into a debilitating state where he becomes the self-fulfilling prophecy.  he has adopted the approach that he would rather not try something at all than try it and fail.  one only needs to look at the years of intense, tear-soaked battles as we attempted to teach him to tie his shoes to understand the depths his despair can go.  (he did, finally, learn how to tie his shoes a few weeks after his eighth birthday.)

this post has been brewing in my brain for months now but i've never been able to adequately articulate this journey we're on with him.  i'm still not able -- i'm already rambling and verbose and haven't even begun to scratch the surface.  but it's a struggle we deal with on a daily basis.  the moment he makes a mistake on his homework, he declares himself to be the dumbest person ever.  if he misspells a word, he dwells on it for far too long.  if he misses an overhead in his tennis lesson, he tells our pro that he'll never, ever figure out how to do it.

just yesterday i met him at the bus stop and could tell he was upset about something.  before we'd even made it to the mailbox he began to unload on me.   "i got a problem wrong on my math test today," he told me, furiously blinking back tears.  his math class takes place first thing in the morning -- so this is a weight that he'd been carrying around for almost six hours.  and it was ONE mistake on a test that he actually made an A on.  he's a second grader who goes up to the advanced third grade math class to work through the fourth grade curriculum ... yet he stands there in our driveway, crying about a missed math problem from six hours prior,  truly convinced that he's dumb in math.

is that just not the saddest thing?

so chris and i struggle with how to deal with this.  we do know that that this is all intrinsic; we have never been, nor will ever be, slave-driving parents who expect perfection.  we bend over backwards, really, to model the behavior we want to see in him, where we acknowledge mistakes that we make and talk through our reactions to them.  i dropped a bowl last week on the kitchen floor -- a wedding gift from thirteen years ago -- and it shattered.  as i picked up the pieces i spoke my thoughts aloud, since liam was right next to me.  how i was disappointed that it had happened, but that it was just a mistake.  i have other bowls, and i wasn't hurt, so it was okay.  mistakes happen, i said.  as i've said a hundred thousand times since liam started exhibiting his perfectionist behavior.

mistakes happen.

that's why erasers were invented.

even the professional athletes who are paid millions of dollars miss the free throw.

even the biggest jeopardy winners get the answer wrong.

do these help?   i don't know.  i'd like to think so.  i am noticing improvements here and there.  liam seems to be cutting himself more slack.

and, let's not forget, it's not all bad.  his tennis coach has told me that kids like liam are the kinds of kids that he loves to teach the most.  "it shows he cares," his coach tells me.  "kids who goof off and shrug their shoulders when they hit the ball into the net are a dime a dozen.  but liam really cares.  he wants to do better.  he gets mad when he loses the point because he wants to improve.  and when i tell him what went wrong, and how to fix it, he listens.  and then he fixes it.  i'm telling you, i'll take kids like liam any day of the week."

great!  i think to myself.  when he's standing there on the sidelines of his soccer game bawling his eyes out, he's all yours.

which brings me back, in a long-winded roundabout way, to his soccer game.   he's on a team that is having a "growth year," which is a nice way of saying that they lose a lot.  we knew it going in; they're a year-round team that routinely plays kids who are at least a year older than they are.  they do it for the experience and the challenge.  we explained this to liam when he made the team.  he said he understood.  but honestly -- who likes to lose 16 to zip?

but that afternoon he really was okay with it.  "they were just so much bigger than we were," he said to me from the back seat of the car as we left the field.  "but i think if we stick together like we're supposed to, we could be that good next year.  and i had a couple good passes i think.  it really wasn't so bad."

this was HUGE for liam.  you have to celebrate the successes where you find them.  and so i took him out for ice cream.

wordless wednesday

while the best part of this year's north carolina state fair -- at least for our family -- was seeing susanna's artwork, there were certainly other highlights.  in spite of our lack of enthusiasm going into it, we actually all had a really wonderful time.  sadly, my theory is that this is due in large part to the terrible economy ... there were virtually no crowds or lines to speak of, which is probably thanks to the fact that it's a fairly expensive outing.  even with our discount tickets and free parking, we managed to drop a big chunk of change.  (not as big a chunk as the turkey leg we ate, of course, but still.)

what was really refreshing (hmm -- "refreshing" and "state fair" are not normally used together) was that the kids were just as interested in the exhibits as they were the rides.  we actually spent quite some time looking at all the arts and crafts and hobbies in the exhibit halls.  and then, three hours after arriving, we all four decided that we'd had enough, and ventured on home to several long hot showers.

it ain't no disneyworld ... but disneyworld doesn't have a replica of the downtown raleigh krispy kreme made out of legos, either. the north carolina state fair is truly a cultural experience like no other.

the folks behind our sweet children were part of the people-watching fun that we always have.  liam was quite intrigued by the gentleman's back tattoo, as it said "lynda" in fancy script -- my mom's name.  (mom, do you know this guy?)

heights aren't chris's thing, so we took a girls' trip to the top of the ferris wheel and saw all of downtown raleigh while also scoping out the rest of the fairgrounds [note: this was self-taken with my arm stretched out as far as possible ... my neck is not normally so scary looking]

while we enjoyed the ferris wheel, liam tried to jump high enough to meet us

we saw the frog boy!  worth every penny

this was taken immediately following the ingestion of two huge lemonades ... cotton candy ... fudge ... and a milkshake.  sugar high, anyone?!?!

on our way out ... feet tired, wallets empty, bellies full ... and big smiles.  as we always say, "and a good time was had by all" 

gold star

susanna, chris, liam and i strolled through the aisles of the exhibit hall, faces turned upward as our eyes scanned the makeshift walls.  "maybe it's this way?" one of us would suggest, as we rounded yet another corner.  we finally found ourselves facing a desk with a kindly older woman who was sporting a volunteer badge.

"can i help you find something?" she asked.

"that would be so helpful," i replied.  "we're looking for my daughter's artwork.  it was chosen to represent her school here at the fair."

chris and i had decided a month or so ago to skip the north carolina state fair this year.  several friends of ours had adopted an every-other-year policy when it comes to the fair, and it had struck us as one of those brilliant parenting decisions that seemingly occur only to others but that we immediately steal once we realize how genius it is.  since we'd gone last october, we were happy that 2012 was to be our off year, especially since chris begins a new job on monday with a longer commute (and likely the inability to inform his new employer that he's cutting out early to go eat a deep-fried turkey leg.)

that decision stood until susanna came home with a note from her art teacher.  "CONGRATULATIONS!" it read.  "your artwork has been chosen for the NC state fair!"

and suddenly, 2012 wasn't an off year any longer.

our helpful volunteer consulted her notebook and led us straight to the aisle where our elementary school's name hung.  beneath the sign were four paintings, representing its student body of 900+, with susanna's in the top left spot.  i marveled at her piece, as i had never seen it before.  how i've wished all my life to have even a smidge of artistic ability! i thought.  and she just does it so naturally.  i finally tore myself away to find her standing next to me, a shy smile on her face.

"my goodness," our volunteer friend said, still with us.  "do you see what's right there, next to your name?"

she was pointing to a shiny gold star sticker -- one that i'd seen, but assumed adorned all the artwork hanging on the walls.  but i glanced around and realized that wasn't the case.  very few, actually, had this star.  "what does that mean?" susanna asked in her quiet voice she reserves for adults she doesn't know.

"oh, that means something very special.  that means that the judges thought you had extra-promising artistic talent.  what an honor!"  and our newfound friend gave susanna a small squeeze on her shoulder before walking away to return to her post.

the four of us paused for a moment in that crowded exhibit hall amidst the hustle and bustle of the fair's opening day.  outside, roller coaster riders screamed and carnival workers hawked their wares and music blared from the loudspeakers. 

but inside, we shared a quiet moment of family joy as we celebrated our youngest child.  seeing the smile on our daughter's face as she was recognized for her amazing God-given talent is honestly one of the happiest moments i've had as a parent.  it wasn't on a soccer field in front of a large crowd, or on a stage in front of an audience.  but it was among the people who matter most: her family.

we soon left and joined the thousands of people outside -- there were rides to be ridden and food to be devoured and people to be watched.  (oh, the people watching!) but in a week's time, i doubt we'll be able to tell you much about our trip.  we will have forgotten which ride was the favorite or what was the best thing we ate.

but there's one memory that will stand out about the 2012 north carolina state fair: that toothless smile -- a beam, really -- on susanna's sweet little face.  and i will never forget it.

guess and tell

susanna's day for "guess and tell" is wednesday.  she has to bring in an object from home and write three clues about the object and read them aloud to her first grade class, and then let her classmates guess what the object might be.  designed to be a writing activity, there are certain requirements of these sentences, which include correct punctuation and grammar and a minimum of seven words per sentence.  (susanna has found the word "very" to be, um, very helpful in this regard.  for instance, "it is comfortable to wear" does not meet the requirement.  but "it is very, very comfortable to wear" does.)

she really labored over her clues this week in particular, going above and beyond the minimum three sentences.  (of course, there are a few "very"s thrown in there.)  i recorded her reading these for her aunt leslie in california.

and witty as she always is, this was my sister's response:

"it is like a colorful winged butterfly."  I am glad she did not add: "it is like something a transvestite might wear in a parade."

:)

Love it!!

heartwarming ... or maybe not

if you've ever been involved in an icebreaker activity, you might have been asked at some point about the object that you'd make sure you grabbed on your way out of your burning house.  you know, as soon as you have made sure every person is out safely -- what physical thing would you want to save?  i've been a part of such discussions a few times in my life and have typically heard answers like jewelry, or photo albums, or family heirlooms of some sort.  for me, after some consideration, i've decided that it would be the oil paintings of the children.  granted, these aren't the smartest things to want to save, as they're fairly large and heavy and nailed into the wall.  (but now i'm getting way into specifics when the whole point of the exercise is to reveal something about yourself to a group of strangers.)

anyway, if you were to pose this same question to liam, i can tell you without a shadow of a doubt what his response would be.  he wouldn't bat an eyelash before coming up with his answer.  what would he save?

the wii.

years ago, we dragged our feet for months before relenting and giving chris's parents the green light to give him a wii for his sixth birthday.  looking back, i don't know why we waited so long.  i guess we were worried that he'd become obsessed with the thing ... which, of course, he has.  but what we hadn't considered was all the GOOD things that can come out of having something so dear to a child's heart.

we have learned that giving or taking away wii privileges is the single best consequence/motivator/discipline tool/threat/reward that we could ever dream of.  you want liam to stop doing something?  discuss the possibility of removal of wii time.  want to reward him out of the blue for something?  give him ten minutes -- unsolicited -- with the wii.  the child only gets about twenty minutes of wii time a day, so giving him extra time is life-changing.  taking it away from him is crushing  -- and he makes sure you know it.  (and yes, i'm fully aware that this Nintendo plan would never be endorsed by any parenting expert.  and yet, i'm not afraid to admit it.  it works for us.)

last week, his behavior was such that i had to take away his wii time for saturday.  i honestly don't even remember what he did, but i remember the day because of what happened saturday afternoon.  the four of us were on a hike (well, we called it a hike to make it sound exciting -- it was really a walk) on the greenway trails near the art museum.  liam and susanna ran ahead and looped back around, meeting up with chris, while i lingered around the corner looking at a sculpture.  i was out of sight, but not out of earshot, so i could truly enjoy this gem of a conversation.

one of the many pieces of art along our hike.  there's probably some beautiful name for this thing, but the kids just called it "corn on the cob"

liam:  "where's mommy?"

chris:  "oh no!  we've lost her!"

liam (skeptical):  "really?"

chris:  "no, silly.  she's right around the corner.  besides, what would we ever do without mommy?"

liam (without missing a beat): "play more wii."

wow.  nice to be missed.

so let me revisit this burning house scenario.  i guess that it's quite possible that i might only have time to grab one oil painting ... would anyone blame me if i just so happened to save susanna's?

"Look who's coming up!"*

note:  the weekend of liam's 8th birthday, chris, chris's dad, and liam drove down to atlanta to watch their beloved los angeles dodgers play the braves.  i asked chris if he could recap the adventure.

In my peripheral vision, I saw what looked like a ball rolling along the concourse, where my dad, Liam, and I were walking as we avoided the rain that was falling on the field before the game.  Before I knew it, a man and his teenage son were asking if we had lost a ball.  These people were wearing enemy uniforms, so I hastily said, "No ... but thanks," and kept on walking.  Five minutes later, they were back again.  This time, I looked more closely.  Considering the fact that they were Braves fans looking at a family wearing Dodger blue, there was a certain kindness.

"Are you sure you don't want this?" they asked.  "Somebody must have dropped it and didn't even realize it."

"Um, sure.  Thanks," I replied, thinking it'd be a nice, if somewhat generic, souvenir for Liam. I took the ball and glanced at it through the clear plastic packaging.  It was only then that I realized what I had been given: a Rawlings Official Game Ball. Someone must have purchased it, thinking they'd get an autograph. I turned it over and my eyes grew wide. The familiar Dodgers logo stared me in the face.  Even though the rain continued to fall, I knew things were looking up.

I'm asked all the time how I became a Dodgers fan, and, as Liam is following in my footsteps, I imagine he'll be answering the same question.  So it's a story I want him to know.  My dad grew up in Jonesboro, North Carolina, which doesn't really even exist anymore.  My dad was a huge baseball fan, but all of his peers rooted for the perennial champion Yankees.  What fun was that, cheering for the same victors that everyone else did?  In those days, a boy could pick up Red Barber radio broadcasts of the Brooklyn Dodgers -- and a lifelong fan was born, following the exploits of Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Duke Snider, and of course, Jackie Robinson with an almost-religious fervor.

Almost two decades of Dodgers devotion went by before my dad found himself in New Haven, Connecticut, doing family therapy work as part of his graduate program at Yale.  The leader of the group was a beautiful, humble, professional woman named Rachel. Perhaps a year into working with this remarkable woman, some mention was made of Rachel’s husband Jackie.  My father, dumbfounded, turned to a colleague and asked, "You mean that Rachel is married to Jackie Robinson?”

In 1972, after Jackie had passed away, my parents were invited to a party of sorts at the Robinson home, as Rachel needed to hand over some of the philanthropic work Jackie had been doing. My parents, as usual, were the first to arrive. Rachel greeted them and said, "Joe, you might like to see Jackie's game room."  She led my dad downstairs to a room full of bats and balls and gloves.  Hundreds of photographs adorned the walls of Jackie and every world leader you can imagine. My dad just shook his head in awe.  Somehow, a backwoods Dodgers fan who grew up listening to games on the radio down in Jonesboro, North Carolina had found himself in the eighth wonder of the world: Jackie Robinson’s game room.

After an experience like that, is it any wonder that he passed down his love for the Dodgers to his only child?  The Dodgers were one of the things that most connected my dad and me.  I still remember him letting me stay up to watch game 1 of the 1988 World Series, where my beloved Dodgers were David to the Goliath Oakland Athletics.  When Kirk Gibson belted the greatest walk-off homerun ever, I saw it all on the black and white tv in my bedroom, leaping up and down on my bed and screaming with joy.  Many years later, I gave a speech in an adult public speaking class on the moments that led up to that fateful home run.  My genius plan was to create a dramatic build-up with my speech, and then hit play on the video recording of the home run to get a sure-fire A+.   What I didn't anticipate was choking up just trying to tell the story. I got my A+ all right, but more for the “real emotion” I conveyed in my speech (my professor's words) than the content.

The Dodger blood runs true blue in the Mann family.  So, when Liam was born, there really wasn't any question.  He had to be a Dodger fan.  His room and closet are full of Dodgers-related goodies, many of which are sent to me by one of my high school friends, who now covers sports for the LA Times.  (As a die-hard Braves fan, he has no use for all the Dodgers swag that comes his way. But he knows just who does.)

"The Dodgers…trying to catch lightning now"*

Back at the game, the rain subsided, and we headed to our section.  Dad, recently retired, had sprung for the best seats I have ever had at an MLB game, right along the first base side.  So far, Liam's birthday weekend in the ATL was going fantastically well, but what if the rain came back?  What if the Dodgers lost? This summer Liam and I attended four minor league games and one Yankees/Braves game ... none of which were won by the team he was rooting for.  One only needs to read the post about his meltdown at losing at Monopoly to understand that Liam is the poster child for the "agony of defeat."

Although the seats were still damp, some of the pre-game festivities were getting going following batting practice.  We hadn't realized it beforehand, but it was the annual MLB Civil Rights game, where certain civil rights heroes are honored.  We watched as legendary Dodgers pitcher and key to their 1955 World Series title, Don "Newk" Newcombe, waved from a convertible circling the field.  [Note: until Justin Verlander did it in 2011, Newcombe was the only baseball player to have won the Rookie of the Year, Most Valuable Player and Cy Young awards in his career.]  And who was that, taking in the festivities alongside MLB commissioner Bud Selig?  Rachel Robinson, of course.

"High fly ball into right field, she i-i-i-is... gone!!!"*

Then, the game started.  Uh-oh.  Aaron Harang, he of mediocre stuff, was on the mound for the Bums and walked Michael Bourne.  (Even at the ripe age of eight, Liam understands the dangers of walking the leadoff man, particularly when he's a speedster like Bourne.)  Martin Prado then blasted an RBI double.  And just like that, the Braves were leading 1-0.  Liam was starting to fidget with anxiety of the "oh no, not again" variety. To the top of the 2nd inning we went ... and then came HanRam. (He had only been with the Dodgers for a matter of weeks, but we call him HanRam like he's family.)  Hanley clobbered a 418 foot shot, dead center. And the Mann clan came alive.  We didn't have to wait long for more fireworks, as Ramirez, James Loney, and Luis Cruz hit consecutive homers in a span of four pitches.

Back-to-back-to-back.  Even if the Dodgers wound up blowing this game, we had seen a rare feat, and all was right in the world.

"In a year that has been so improbable... the impossible has happened!"*

The 3-1 lead held into the top of the 6th, and HanRam approached the plate once more.  I glanced at Liam, who sat on the edge of his seat, his eyes glued to his new hero.  The bat hit the ball -- and as soon as I heard it, I knew.  I shot up as I watched him circle the bases, my arms raised high, just as exhilarated as the kid who jumped on his bed watching the '88 world series.

The Dodgers had four hits the entire game -- and they were all homeruns.  My voice grew hoarse as I cheered, flanked on one side by my father, and on the other by my son.  Three generations of Manns in our Dodgers blue. 

What a way to spend an eighth birthday.

*Quotes above are from Vin Scully's famous call of Kirk Gibson's walk-off homerun to win game 1 of the 1988 World Series.  Watch the entire bottom of the 9th here: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xd2fhk_1988-world-series-game-1-bottom-of_sport

(or, for the quick version, click here.)

william joseph mann II and the original william joseph mann

peaks and valleys

years ago, we started the tradition of "peaks and valleys" at dinner each night.  we go around in a circle, and when it's our turn, we share our day's "peak" (our highlight, our favorite part, our happiest moment) and our "valley" (the exact opposite.)  we usually get off on tangents based on what we all share, and one of the kids has to reign us back in.

i always learn a lot about the three people closest to me in my life, just from what they divulge as their peak and valley that day.  and as our schedules get more packed than ever with sports and dance and church activities and work meetings, it's our peak-and-valley moments that make me more determined than ever to continue our family dinners at least five nights a week.  they keep us connected.  which is really one of the most important things a family can be: connected. 

we've dived into the 2012-2013 school year, and the water's feeling mighty fine.  and how do i know this?  from the smiles on their faces, and their stories they regale us with, and the laughter that precedes them as they disembark from the bus every afternoon, of course.  but nothing is as perfect a summary of how they're feeling as their peaks and valleys from the first day of school.  over a meal of spinach burgers (liam's favorite) and sweet potato fries, they both shared the exact same peak and valley.

their peak?  going to school.

and their valley?  having to leave.

i'm immensely thankful that our children love it so.  i know that many kids don't.  and i know that it could change, and probably will, right about the time they hit middle school.  but for now, i know that we are blessed.  we are blessed that they are in an excellent school with teachers who motivate and inspire and challenge them, and surrounded by classmates who learn cooperatively with them.  we are blessed that they are in a beautiful, safe school building with resources and technology that enhances instruction and hundreds of thousands of dollars donated each year by supportive families.  we are blessed to have children who don't struggle academically and who make friends easily and who get up each morning eager to return.

we are blessed.  i know this.  we are blessed.

new backpacks, new shoes, and we were ready to go 15 minutes early ... how nice would it be if this lasted

2nd grader liam with his teacher, ms. hester

first grader susanna with her teacher, mrs. stelpflug (i'm fairly certain i'm spelling that wrong and still have no idea how to pronounce it.  i'm also fairly certain susanna's in the same boat)

all smiles!

switcheroo

i've recently had to put a security lock on my ipad.  our two children are obsessed with it, and after finding them hunched over the thing in darkened corners of random rooms of our house like drug addicts trying to get their fix, i figured the easiest thing to do would be to require a passcode before using it.  problem solved, right?

not so fast.  because for some reason, even without knowing the passcode, there's one feature that they can still access: the pictures.  (i'm sure that this feature can also be disabled; i just haven't gotten around to figuring out how.)  so i will still find my two small people hunched over the thing in darkened corners of random rooms of our house like drug addicts trying to get their fix, but at least now all they can do is peruse the photo gallery.

you'd think this wouldn't be all that enthralling.  you would be wrong.

and i have to say -- i actually don't mind.   it's a fun way to take a trip down memory lane, even if the memories aren't all that old.  this evening found them on the couch in the family room while a thunderstorm raged outside, howling with belly laughs.  "mommy!"  they shrieked.  "remember when we did this?"

and i did.  it was a random afternoon in the early summer and i had lost track of them for an hour or so.  suddenly liam's bedroom door burst open and they called me upstairs, and this is what greeted me:

seems they had switched outfits (and poses) ...

... all the way down to the underwear

it's weird.  summer is rapidly drawing to a close, as school starts monday.  we've met our teachers and bought our supplies and we're all ready to get back into a routine of some sort.  BUT.  it's things like this that i will miss.  the relaxing part of summer.  the laidback days with no big requirements, no rigid appointments.

the carefree afternoons where my children could conspire with their best friend sibling, and dissolve in fits of laughter as they swap clothes and deem it the funniest thing they have ever done.

lesson learned

"how can i earn extra money?"  liam asked me a few weeks ago.  he's under some sort of delusion that if he accumulates enough cash, he can purchase an ipod touch, which can go for well over $100 even used.  i've tried to explain to him that chris and i are not interested in him owning an ipod touch but it seems to be falling on deaf ears.  and really, who am i to squash his entrepreneurial spirit?

he brainstormed ideas: mowing grass, walking dogs, babysitting.  but he's just not quite old enough for any of them, at least by himself.  and then it hit me -- he could help out with yardwork.  we had returned from the beach to find our lawn strewn with branches and limbs and pinecones galore, courtesy of some fairly major storms that had blown through while we were away.

"i will pay you to pick up pinecones," i told him.

he perked up.  "how much?"

i debated whether i should compensate him with an hourly rate, but knowing how he can get distracted and drop whatever he's doing for something more enticing, i decided that it made more sense to pay him for the finished product.  "tell you what.  i'll give you three cents per pinecone."

he mulled it over.  "deal," he finally said, and we shook on it.

he ventured out to the backyard with chris's enormous workgloves on his small hands, since those pinecones can be prickly.  and to be honest, i kind of forgot about him.  i was still busy unpacking and figured that he had likely dropped the gloves and climbed into the hammock or started kicking his soccer ball or practicing his golf swing.

but about an hour later, he burst into the house, a triumphant look on his face.  "mommy!" he yelled.  "i'm finished!  and you owe me $19.50!"

i looked at him.  "honey, there's no way i owe you $19.50.  surely you've done your math incorrectly."

"oh yes you do!  i multiplied 3 cents by 600 and got $18.00, and then multiplied 3 cents by 50, which is $1.50.  and $18.00 plus $1.50 makes $19.50."

for a moment i paused to appreciate the distributive property at work -- as only a geeky math teacher would -- but then i regained my senses.  "you're telling me that you collected six hundred and fifty pinecones?" i asked incredulously.

"yep," he replied.  "come see!"

and sure enough, he had filled three huge bins and most of a wheelbarrow.  i didn't bother to count, but looking at his earnest face, i trusted the total.  but 650?  how was that possible?  it was then i realized that he had expanded his work area to include the woods that surround our backyard -- not exactly what i had in mind, but unfortunately, i had set no boundaries.

i had no choice to pay up.  we had shaken on the deal, which of course is a binding contract with a seven-year old.  i reluctantly retrieved my wallet.

"but just so you know," i said, as i handed him a twenty and told him to keep the change, "i'm adjusting this rate in the future.  you're going to run me out of house and home."

(and yard, come to think of it.)

a mere portion of his haul

eight is great

tomorrow, my sweet liam, you turn EIGHT.  how is it that you keep getting older, while i stay the same age?  :)  in honor of your big day, i wanted to try to encapsulate you in four simple words.  obviously i can't even come close, but i hope that this scratches the surface of the amazing person that you are.

L . I . A . M . 

L is for loving.  you are a huge, warm, cuddly, sweet ball of LOVE.  while some of your friends have already started to shy away from signs of affection with their family in public, you still welcome hugs and kisses from me and your daddy and sister -- no matter who's watching.  when i walk into your classroom to volunteer with centers, you light up and rush over to plant a big wet one on my cheek.  you love to snuggle in bed with all of us, either on a lazy saturday morning or at night after we read harry potter.  and when i found out you still walked susanna down the kindergarten hallway to her classroom every morning, months into the school year?  what bigger sign of love could there be?

I is for inquisitive.  your thirst for knowledge is like nothing i've ever seen before (which is saying a lot, since by now in my career i've taught thousands of students.)  you wonder, wonder, wonder all the time.  some of your questions i can actually answer, like your question from the other day of "what happens when an exponent is negative?"  nothing made me happier than to sit down at the kitchen table with a pad of paper and lead you to discover how negative exponents work -- and then marvel at how you surmised on your own what an exponent of zero actually means.  of course, i have to admit that a few many of your questions i really don't have a clue as to how to answer.  you seem to accept my lack of knowledge in certain areas, and that's when you reach for the ipad to look it up.  you always yearn to learn -- about math, about history, about music, about geography, about sports.  oh, the sports.  which brings us to ... 

A is for athletic.  Lord have mercy, son, is there any ball that you cannot catch/smack/cream/dunk/kick/spin/tackle?  (and forgive me because i'm sure some of those verbs do not really apply, but as your very unathletic mother, i really don't have a clue.  but i'm learning.)  no matter what sport you might be playing, you approach it with an unbelievable amount of focus and intensity and passion.  sometimes it's a bit too much passion -- you put a ridiculous amount of pressure on yourself to win, and have a hard time forgiving yourself for mistakes -- but you care.  you strive to better yourself and will practice for hours in the backyard or on the field or on the court.  trying out and earning a spot on your elite soccer team has really opened your eyes to what is possible when you're surrounded by like-minded peers who all share your same love of the game.  the mom of one of your teammates turned to me the other day and shared with me something i've heard throughout your years of being involved in team sports.  "i just love watching your son!" she said.  "he's so mild-mannered and polite off the field, but then he gets out there and is just tenacious.  it doesn't matter if he's facing a kid who's two feet taller and a few years older -- he will battle them without fear for that ball.  and he usually wins that battle." 

and M is for mine.  okay, full disclosure: i didn't have a perfect "m" word.  i even pulled up a list of adjectives that start with "m" for inspiration, and there were quite a few that applied to you in one way or the another ... like maddening (when you obsess over that dadgum wii), masculine (you are 100% boy to the core!), mannerly, memorable, merciful, merry, mesmerizing, mild, mindful, mindless, modest, moody, motivated, moving, multi-talented, and even malodorous (after sweating it out in a game -- who knew you'd be so stinky at age seven?!).  but none of them seemed perfect.  and then, as i said prayers with you tonight and kissed your sweet soft cheek, it came to me.  i was instantly brought back to the night in the hospital eight years ago.  i remember it like it was just yesterday -- lying in that bed, your daddy by my side, as our doctor placed your small body into my arms.  i stared at your sweet face, i touched your tiny fingers, i felt your heart beat.  and i thought, "this little boy is mine."  and you still are.  you belong to others, surely -- you are God's child, first and foremost -- but please, never ever forget, that you will always be mine.

happy eighth birthday, my loving, inquisitive, athletic little big boy. 

love,
mommy

hair unapparent

in the midst of all my packing for our week-long annual family reunion, it hit me: the last time we had a nice photo taken of the four of us at the beach was when the kids were both small enough to pick up and hold.  so as i stuffed our suitcases to the gills, i made sure to include four outfits that coordinated and, in a moment of divine inspiration, actually ironed them.  (true story: susanna once picked up a play iron in the pretend center at preschool and asked her teacher what it was.)

so one day mid-week while we were there, i forced my loving husband to shave, attempted to tame liam's errant cowlick, forced a hairbow onto susanna, and cajoled my brother to take a few pictures with his fancy camera.  the lighting was good -- sunny, but not too bright -- and it wasn't beastly hot.  the one thing i didn't take into account? the breeze.

we actually got several that are christmas card-worthy and one that i might even consider framing.  but the vast majority all had one problem in common: that aforementioned breeze.  seems that it just took chris's mane and sent it flying.  below is one of those pictures that ben uploaded to facebook, along with chris's self-deprecating comment below.

and then, a few minutes after this exchange, we see this pop up on our screens:

you gotta love digital photography.  and photoshop.  and a brother who's clever enough to create such an image.

but mostly, you gotta love a man who's comfortable enough to embrace the humor of growing old.  which makes him even more attractive than ever ... hair or no hair a little bit less.