the art of negotiation

i'm often asked if my kids always get along so well.  "for the most part," i tend to reply.  "there's really only one thing they tend to squabble over -- the back seat."

but it's not your age-old back seat issue -- you know, the one we all had growing up in our family station wagons, where our exasperated parents would draw an imaginary line down the cloth interior and threaten lima beans for dinner if either of the two seat sharers dared go past it.  no, our back seat issue has evolved with new car technology (shoot, we don't even have an imaginary line to draw, as the back seat is actually two captain's chairs.)  our back seat issue actually has to do with the air conditioning.

one of the perks that our SUV boasts -- or so we thought -- was the separate climate controls.  there is a control for the driver, another for the front passenger ... and then one control for all five rear seats.  so whoever happens to be riding in the back has to pretty much agree on how much (or little) heat or air is blowing their way.

and that's where the issue lies: they cannot ever agree.  liam is always hot (like his daddy), and especially so when he's clambering into the car after one of his gazillion sports practices, sweaty hair plastered to his flushed face.  he wants nothing more than to crank that a/c up full blast.  susanna, on the other hand, is always cold (like her momma), and has no interest in being blown away by frigid air.

after way too many arguments discussions over this issue, i finally decreed a new car policy: all rear passengers must simply meet in the middle.  while the front controls have a numeric thermostat (i like mine at about 78 in the summer; chris prefers his at about 60), the rear control simply has 0, 1, 2, 3, and 4.  i told them that they each have to decide which level is their preference, and then average the two.  when this plan was first put in place, it led to (as i hoped it would, being a math teacher) a conversation about what to do when the average is a decimal.  (solution: alternate between the two levels on either side of the decimal in five minute intervals.)

but very quickly, savvy susanna wised up.  much like goldilocks, her preferred level is always 2, but she realized that no matter what, her hot-blooded brother would always say 4.  so ... what is a clever girl to do?

she requests 0.  which means the average always works out to be 2 -- which just happens to be exactly what she wants.  so then the compromise, of course, isn't really so much of a compromise at all.

outsmarted by a nine-year old. i kind of wish i could just draw that imaginary line after all.

the divine nine

my annual birthday post ... two months late

dearest susanna,

most days, my life begins and ends with your warm little body curled up next to mine.  each morning, you climb into bed with me and we chat about the day ahead:  if there’s anything important going on at school; what you plan to do during recess; what’s on tap for the afternoon once i pick you up.  and then we realize how late the time has gotten, and one of us will count down from 10 to the moment where we both have to force ourselves to put our feet on the floor and part ways.  and then, thirteen or so hours later, i find myself back in bed with you – this time yours – snuggling again as we recap the day that is slowly coming to a close.  you tell me what was funny, or stressful, or perplexing while you navigated your world, and i try to answer your questions when you ask them and keep my mouth shut and just listen when you don’t.

i have to admit that there are some days when i’m exhausted and the kitchen still needs to be cleaned and laundry is waiting to be folded and there are high school math tests to be graded … in short, a myriad of reasons why i should simply kiss you good night and close the door.  but then i think of all those nights when you used to request me to rock you in the glider while singing “oh susanna”, and how those are but a distant memory … and i realize that much too soon, you won’t be wanting me like you do right now.  and so when those six words come from your lips – “mommy, will you snuggle with me?” – i realize that there’s really nothing i’d rather do.  and i crawl into your double bed and nestle myself next to you, marveling at how blessed i am to have you as my child.

you are just that – a blessing.  every day, virtually every moment.  i feel privileged to witness the relationships you’ve formed and continue to grow, whether it’s with your brother, or your grandparents, or your friends.

and goodness gracious, do you have a lot of those!   you seem to make friends without any effort at all – kids just gravitate to you like a magnet.  case in point: i walked in to pick you up from art camp the other day, to find another mother bent down to you with her phone in her hand.  “i was just getting y’all’s phone number from susanna,” the mom explained after introducing herself.  “my daughter has talked non-stop about her new friend susanna all week and i’d love to get them together to play!”  on our way home, i asked you how you do it.  i still would describe you as someone who’s sort of on the more reserved side (we try not to use the word “shy”) … so it’s interesting to me how quickly you make connections with people.  “i don’t know,” you shrugged from the back seat.  “i just like people, and i guess they like me too.”

the three amigas -- maggie, you, and lily, during one of your epic two-day sleepover playdates.  unfortunately you had to say goodbye to maggie as she moved to iowa in june ... one of the first truly difficult experiences of your life, i think

this year i’ve watched you start a new school – much to your dismay – and, thankfully, fall in love with it.  i’ve watched you continue to grow your talents in piano,dance, art, and singing.  you’ve taken up drama with a new passion as well, starring as both pastry peddler #3 and fish #16 in your first real stage production of aladdin, so much that your career aspiration is now acting.  (funny story: as we walked through the salad bar section of harris teeter the other week, you looked up and in all seriousness said, “i'm so glad i’m going to be a famous actress.  that way i will make lots of money and can spend half of it on olives.”)

i'm keeping the playbill for when you become known worldwide, so we can sell it on ebay

you still much prefer jazz to ballet, and enjoy choreographing your own routines at home for dance videos you make with your friends

you are also quite brilliant, in case you didn’t realize it – and, as humble as you are, you probably don’t.  you’re a voracious reader, devouring just about any book you can get a hold of, including your latest conquests of the hobbit and the fifth harry potter.  you whiz through your math assignments, produce impressive stories, and have a knack for remembering random science and history facts.  and last week at the beach, you picked up a book of adult-level logic puzzles (you know, the ones with a story and like six clues and a huge set of grids to mark up in order to solve.)  with just about no instruction from me, you emerged from your beach chair a half-hour later, having successfully solved one – and without even using a whole section of the grid.  (i still don’t know how you did it.)

seems the west coast got to your head -- sipping on a shirley temple in san francisco

there are certainly things you hate.  brushing your hair, for one.  (will there come a day that i don’t have to remind you – or that you know where your hairbrush is?)  you’re still not keen on most vegetables, save for olives, of course.  and you're just not a huge fan of wonder, or any dog -- despite her undying devotion to you.  

you think that wonder wanted to share the spotlight; i know that she just loves being near you

but those are small blips on the radar screen of an absolutely gloriously wonderful girl.   you are loving, and kind, and creative, and funny, and interested in nature and history and science and the world.  you are someone people absolutely love to be around. 

especially me.  at 6:45 a.m. in my bed, at 8:30 p.m. in yours … and any minute in between when i’m privileged enough to have the opportunity.  i love you so so much, susanna.  we all do.

you’re nine!  and quite divine.  and, thanks be to God, you’re mine.

infinity squared,

mommy