the tooth shall set you free

susanna lost her second tooth a few weeks back and began peppering us with questions that only the tooth fairy herself could answer.  (and yes, i know i'm the most terrible mother of a second child, whose first lost tooth didn't even garner a passing mention in the blog ... suffice it to say that it happened sometime in late summer and it thankfully did not involve me in the least.)

so i suggested to susanna that she write down her most pressing question and leave a note for the tooth fairy beside the pirate doll that was holding her lost tooth.  (to rub more salt in the wound, not only have i been remiss in sharing such an important milestone, but we also at some point have lost the special ballerina doll that is supposed to hold susanna's lost teeth, and have had to resort to borrowing liam's pirate instead.)

here is susanna's inquiry:

"Dear Tooth Fairy, What do you do with the tooth? 
Love, Susanna" (punctuation mine)

 and this is what she found tucked next to her special two dollar bill:

what i'm thankful for

this was the conversation on the way to school one morning last week.

susanna: i don't think i really need you to walk me to my classroom anymore, liam.

me: you mean like he did the first few days of school, when i asked him to?

susanna: i mean like he has been ever since i started.

me (with an incredulous look in the rearview mirror): liam, have you really been walking susanna to her classroom for three months now?

liam: well, i didn't want her getting scared.  that hallway has lots of kids in it and they're mostly older than her.

me (tearing up a little, i admit): well, you can stop doing it now if you want to.  i think susanna's saying that she can handle things on her own. 

there's a pause while susanna apparently mulls things over.

susanna: well, maybe i'll be lonely.  so can you keep going with me, liam?

liam: sure.

the kids clambered out of the car, just like they always do, slinging their backpacks onto their shoulders and heading up the sidewalk to the entrance of the school, side by side, just like they always do.  but that morning, i held up the carpool line for just a few extra moments to soak it all in.

indecision

i swear i must be the most indecisive person on the planet.  well, maybe not the most indecisive, but i'm pretty far up there.  no -- i take that back.  i actually do think i'm the most indecisive.

but in all honesty, i hardly ever make a choice that i don't later question.  was there a better option?  should i have waited?  did i act too soon?  did i get too many, or not enough?  and so on.  (and on, and on.)  i've always hoped that this is one (of many) personality traits that skips a generation, but tonight, i saw genetics rear its ugly head in our daughter.

"what book should we read now?" susanna asked me as we were nestled into her bed for storytime.

"why don't you go over to your bookshelf and surprise me," i suggested.  we had just finished the most awful story ever written -- something about barbie surfer girl turning into a mermaid -- and i knew that no matter what she came back with, it had to be a vast improvement.

she stood facing her bookshelf, studying the spines intently.  she finally returned to the bed with three paperbacks and asked me which one i wanted to read.

"sweetheart, it's your decision," i told her.  (and let's be honest.  it's not that i necessarily wanted her to exercise her decision-making skills; i just couldn't make up my mind.)

"i know what to do!" she replied.  "i'll do eeny-meeny-miney-mo."  so she lined up the three books atop of her bright pink quilt and poised her finger in the air to begin, but then faltered.

"this is NOT going to work!" she sighed, exasperated.

"what's wrong now?"  i asked.

"i can't decide which one to start with."

love notes

it's amazing the effect kindergarten can have on a child in a mere nine weeks.  susanna has gone from a timid, apprehensive little girl who came home from her staggered entry day (the day when smaller groups of kindergartners go for a few hours to be evaluated prior to the beginning of school) crying, to a confident, excited student who bounds out of the car at dropoff and never looks back. she adores everything about kindergarten and loves to regale us with stories of her days.

her metamorphosis is not only in her demeanor, but also in her learning.  she now has an incredible grasp of numbers and is reading simple books fairly independently.  but her favorite thing to do now is to write.  she'll grab anything nearby -- a marker and a napkin, or a colored pencil and a notepad -- and sit down to document whatever's on her mind.  i have to admit that it sometimes tries my patience just a tad when it's the end of the day and i'm scrambling in the kitchen to get dinner ready and am being bombarded with questions like, "how do you spell 'excited'?" and "how do you spell 'bicycle'?", so i just try to remember that this interest in writing is a really incredible thing.  (even if i still sigh inwardly from time to time.)

i came across an interesting article a few months ago that really resonated with me, titled "how to talk to little girls".  i'm embarrassed to admit how difficult it has been to change my habits since reading it -- i had no idea how much i, and everyone i know, emphasize little girls' appearances over their far more important traits.  (please take the time to check out the article here to fully understand what i'm trying to say.)  

so all that she's mastering in kindergarten has dovetailed nicely with my new goal of recognizing her achievements as much as i possibly can.  my favorite projects of hers are the ones she does completely on her own, partly because she's showing more and more independence, and partly because of the pleasant surprises they are to us -- gifts, really -- when she proudly displays her work that we had no idea she was even doing.  yesterday she grabbed my hand and said, "come, mommy!  i made some treasures for you to see!"  and in the kitchen, i found four little post-it notes affixed to various drawers and cabinets, and one more upstairs near super's bed.

but i was happiest to see the fifth one.  it wasn't "i love my princess dress" or "i love my pretty hair".  it was far more important.  one that, as her parent, i will continue to remind her, and emphasize with her, and instill in her.  one i hope she'll continue to say, and believe, for the rest of her life.

a quite wordy wednesday

so here's the situation: i'm sitting downstairs, by myself, in a quiet house when everyone else is asleep.  i'm at the computer (where i always am these days, trudging through work) and i begin to hear noises outside.  i try to convince myself that it's just leaves rustling in the yard, and not some masked escaped convict prowling around the place, ready to murder me.  i start to ponder strategies: do i scream?  do i make a mad dash to the kitchen to grab a steak knife?  are the steak knives in the drawer, or all still sitting in the unloaded dishwasher?  would a paring knife be a better choice? or perhaps a pair of scissors that happen to be next to me at my desk ... or a nail file ... and then i begin to think back on the self-defense class i took in college to satisfy my p.e. requirement.  i wonder where the white karate-like robe i had to buy for that class wound up, fifteen years later. 

then i hear noises that are even closer, snap out of my reverie, and finally stand up and peek over the window that overlooks my desk.  and there, directly on the other side of the window -- literally three feet away from me, with merely a brick wall separating us -- is the nastiest raccoon i've ever laid eyes on. and not only is he nasty, but he is FAT.  and why is he fat?  because he's perched in the middle of super's bowl, chowing down on the dog food she left behind after dinner, which i'm starting to realize has been going on for months now by the looks of his size XXL behind. 

i'd like to say that i was brave and took care of the problem myself.  instead, i somehow ran upstairs with my toes curled in my slippers, aroused my poor husband out of a deep sleep, and made him take care of the thing.  which he did simply by flashing the porch light and rattling the door knob a few times.  (my hero.)

but that vile creature didn't sprint off the porch.  no, he just kind of casually glanced up at us, hauled his fat hiney out of the bowl, and sauntered out through the ripped screen on the porch door.  (chris must have repaired that thing a dozen times, and always, within twenty-four hours it's back to being ripped again.  we've been blaming super all this time.  falsely accused AND robbed of her food to boot -- poor pooch.)   i'm surprised the raccoon could squeeze his body through the slats after gorging himself on the iams, but he did, and then had the audacity to linger on the steps, obviously waiting for us to leave him alone so he could return to the scene of the crime and lick the bowl clean.

anyway, rather than focus on this disgusting chain of events, i'll choose to share pictures of our recent family outing to a pumpkin farm.  you'll see that the farm has added tons of things to do, from slingshots to cornhole to zip lines to tractor rides.  we had so much fun; so, you see?  there are even more things that i like about halloween than just the steady supply of candy.

come to think of it, i better make sure there isn't any candy sitting on the back porch.  with the dog food, the raccoon's a nuisance.  but if that thing were to get into my butterfingers, well, i might just have to go buy myself a rifle and become the redneck woman i was born to be.  no one messes with my the kids' chocolate.

corn maze

rolling around

liam hit the target with his very first try

ours went maybe two feet

 zip line!  that thing was fast

each "car" had a different name -- how fitting that the last one available was Susie Q (chris's nickname for susanna)

and, as they say, a good time was had by all

the H word

"why don't we have decorations on OUR house for halloween?" i hear from the back seat, as we drive through the neighborhood with the kids (apparently) marveling at the yards and homes of people far more festive than i am.

"because, kids, i hate halloween."

"MOM!" comes the swift admonition of the profanity police.  "you said the 'h' word!"

"you're right.  sorry.  i detest halloween."

and i'm not kidding.  i really don't like halloween.  i never have.  i don't like the ghosts and the goblins and the witches and the vampires and the monsters and the other nasty things kids dress up as, which can be downright scary, even to a 36-year old.  i don't like eerie music and fake fog and black cats and tombstones that litter people's yards in the attempt to, i don't know, get into the holiday spirit.  and i will never understand why the same people who hire housecleaners to get rid of their cobwebs, then go out to a craft store and buy materials to PUT cobwebs on their bushes and front porches.  (side note: i don't mind so much the pumpkins and haystacks and candy corn, so we do have a few decorations out.  i'm not a total halloween scrooge -- although as soon as november 1st hits, they're boxed up and back in the attic.)

you know what else i hate strongly dislike?  halloween costumes.  this i can link directly to my childhood, with a mother who never really got into the whole halloween thing herself.  i swear every year on the afternoon of october 31st, my younger sister and i would be racking our brains, trying to come up with something that could suffice as a costume.  we'd go find mom, who would shrug her shoulders and suggest that we go down to the basement to see what we could find.  inevitably we'd wind up trudging up the stairs holding the same rabbit costumes we had worn for the previous three years that were hand-me-downs from my dad's business partner's children.  the final year i wore my rabbit costume it wouldn't button in the back and the legs ended shortly below my knees, and that's how i knew i had officially participated in my last trick-or-treating.

another thing i hate strongly dislike: halloween catalogs.  my kids will spend hours poring over the costume section, oohing and aahing at every page. after declaring several different options his favorite, liam finally settled on wanting to be an Angry Bird this year.  i took one look at the price tag of $49.99 and became an Angry Woman.  (i did give in, somewhat, and bought a super mario costume at target for him.  i've actually never spent a dime on a halloween costume -- he was a soccer player last year and a baseball player the year before, both with uniforms he already owned, and we've borrowed the rest -- so i'm figuring an average of $2.50/year isn't too bad.  especially considering the fact that susanna was a carolina cheerleader, sporting the uniform she received as a christmas present last year.  from, come to think of it, my parents.  i suppose my mom has finally provided a halloween costume for someone.)

but none of this compares to how much i hate strongly dislike the kind of trick-or-treating we had last night.  normally, trick-or-treating is one of the small highlights of the season for me; i actually enjoy canvassing our neighborhood and seeing all the children on the sidewalks and watching liam and susanna's eyes light up as their plastic pumpkins grow increasingly heavy with candy.  but last night was not that kind of night.  it was FREEZING.  and it was POURING.  within two minutes of leaving the house, we were soaked.  i was dreaming of a hot bath and a glass of red wine before i'd even reached our mailbox.

at the end of the night, soaked to the bone -- but with smiles still on their faces. (mine was forced)

but the one good thing that came out of this dreadful day is sitting on my kitchen counter right now:  the five pounds of candy the kids collected just by walking down two streets.  each person who answered the door was so surprised/impressed/relieved to have trick-or-treaters that they wound up dumping their bowls into the kids' pumpkins.  and i'm extremely pleased to report that their loot isn't full of the junk like now-and-laters and good-and-plentys and organic gummy bears that inevitably wind up in the trash in early december.  this is five pounds of snickers and milky ways and twix and reeses, people!  kit kats and M&Ms and almond joys, all of which just so happen to be in the house all day, with me, while everyone else is gone.

so maybe halloween isn't so bad after all.

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.

turnover

i volunteered at the kids' school yesterday afternoon up until when the final bell rang, and waited in the lobby for them to join me so that we could begin the mad dash that always makes up our mondays: maneuver the car out of the jam-packed parking lot, race home, help susanna and her friend maggie wriggle their bodies into leotards, feed all three kids snack, load up the car again (making sure liam has plenty to occupy him for an hour) and hightail it to gymnastics.

but it's funny how kids don't seem to sense urgency when you need them to.  susanna came skipping down the kindergarten hall towards me, arms outstretched with a booklet of some sort, intent on sitting on my lap on the lobby couch as she showed me its contents.  i reminded her of our time crunch and assured her that we would spend time that evening really looking at the pages and discussing them.

but i got a sneak peek while she was at gymnastics.  turns out that she was yesterday's Student of the Day, where she gets to stand in front of the class and is asked the same set of questions every Student of the Day is asked: what is your name?  who do you live with?  what is your favorite color?  what is your favorite thing to do?  and then, after the interview is finished, everyone in the class creates a picture of the Student of the Day, showcasing some of what the student shared in his/her interview.  the booklet that came home is a stapled set of all these drawings.

as i thumbed through the pages, i was fascinated for two reasons.  for one, i'm constantly amazed at what a wide range of ability levels are housed in one kindergarten classroom.  you see it with readers vs. non-readers, athletes vs. the less-coordinated set, musicians vs. those who are tone-deaf.  and after flipping through the booklet, add one more area to the list: artistic ability.  there were drawings that were spot-on perfect, down to the ruffled hem on susanna's skirt.  and there were drawings where, as hard as i tried, i couldn't even make out where susanna's head was.  people marvel at how i teach middle school ... i marvel at how kindergarten teachers possibly deal with a group of students whose levels are all over the map.

so that was the first fascinating piece.  the other was what susanna was doing in most of the pictures. i've scanned a few of them and inserted them below.  susanna's name is on the top, as the title, and the artist's name is visible at the bottom.  do you see what struck me?

yes, susanna was wearing a green top and a polka dot skirt with an orange fringed hem.  yes, she has dark blond hair and blue eyes.  and yes, she loves to be outside.  these budding artists perfectly captured all those aspects of our little girl.  but there's one other thing that they all included -- even the last one, which is a bit harder to see.  something that rocked me to my core.

she's PLAYING FOOTBALL.

i've written on this very blog about my hatred of the sport.  i love watching basketball and tennis and will contentedly serve as spectator to baseball and soccer and golf and even bowling ... but anyone who knows me knows how much i absolutely detest football.  so how is it possible that my doll-loving, princess-adoring, musical-singing prisspot daughter actually got in front of her class and, when asked what is her FAVORITE thing to do, opened her rosebud lips and uttered the phrase, "i like to play football with my older brother"?

i'm all for my children asserting their independence and stepping out on their own and developing their own likes and interests and hobbies.  but seriously ... football?

it's like a line drive to my heart.

("line drive" is a football term, right?  i'm trying to come up with a nifty pun but my utter lack of knowledge is causing me to fumble.  probably something i need to tackle in the near future.)

memories ... light the corners of my mind

(note: i totally had to look up the lyrics to "the way we were" for the title of this post and, as always, was surprised to learn i've been singing the wrong words all these years.  chris would not be surprised.)

during dinner a few nights ago, we somehow started talking about the kids' first birthdays.  if chris were here next to me he'd be able to remind me how we got on the subject; alas, he's not, so i'll sit here trying to remember how it all came about even though it's really not important.  regardless, our children, like all children (and, really, all adults), love to hear about themselves when they were younger.  they hang on my every word, even if it's not at all interesting.  "and then, you would roll over on those chunky baby thighs and go to sleep," i could say, and their eyes would twinkle and they'd laugh and ask me to tell them more.  "and you'd just sleep and sleep all night," i could continue, and they'd still be mesmerized, peppering me with questions.

so we were recounting liam's second birthday during our dinner the other night, describing who was there and where it was and what we ate.  "he was wearing that blue and white checked outfit, right?" chris asked.  and i didn't even have to think about it -- i knew he wore that outfit, not because of my stellar memory (which has already been discounted), but because we have pictures of it.  and more than just pictures, we have scrapbook pages of it.  i'd like to pat ourselves on the backs and marvel at how our minds are like steel traps even at the ripe old ages of 36*, but that's not the case.  we remember it because we documented it.

it makes me wonder if we remember the Big Events of Our Lives because they were indeed Big ... or do we remember them because we have visual evidence that they occurred?  tangible proof that we can hold in our hands and help us relive?  pictures we can pass around as we reminisce, details on the glossy paper that trigger memories in our mind we would otherwise forget?

all of this was going through my mind that night at the dinner table.  while i half-listened to chris describing to susanna what her first birthday cake looked like (which is prominently featured in her scrapbook spread of may 2007, natch) my mind was focusing on our blog, because i haven't posted nearly as often as i'd like as of late.  despite having this newfound "freedom" afforded to mothers as they send their youngest off to kindergarten, i've been stretched much too thin with a new 40-hour a week work schedule that i'm somehow trying to squeeze into the 35 hours a week that they're in school, while also doing volunteer work and laundry and bible study and grocery shopping.  i'll try to make a mental note of something to include in our blog, but by bedtime, i've stared at the computer screen for far too long that day already and collapse on the pillow without even pulling up our page.  and i'm already kicking myself mentally on behalf of my future self, who won't have a page in the 2011 blog book to read to remind myself of exactly how susanna's first day of gymnastics went, or the kids' impromptu dance party i stumbled upon, or the hilarious-but-totally-awkward conversation we had on the way to school last week with our neighbor that somehow connected a barbecue restaurant with a dog and our nickname for girls' private parts.  (well.  on second thought, i might not have actually written about that.  but trust me, it was funny.)

so.  the house renovation is done (pictures coming soon), the school year is in full swing, and our lives are back to normal a new normal.  the routine has returned, and hopefully, the blog has too.  because if it doesn't, we may just have a difficult time remembering anything about 2011.

* i originally posted this stating our ages as 37.  i just realized that we are both still 36.  and now i'm starting to wonder seriously about alzheimer's.

wordless wednesday

i seem to remember when i birthed my first child that there was a checklist of things i was required to do, simply because all mothers do them.  somewhere between "jump around like a ninny when your child goes #2 on the potty" and "have your child's feet professionally fitted and realize he's been walking around in shoes two sizes too small" was the obligatory "take pictures of your child's first day of school and share them with the world".  (this was in the days before facebook; certainly by now the checklist has been amended to "take pictures of your child's first day of school and post them on facebook along with the other 98% of your news feed who's doing the same thing".)

liam's first day was actually a few weeks ago, on august 25, but kindergarten always starts a full week later, so susanna didn't begin until september 1.  both of them have had huge smiles on their faces ever since; they love their teachers and love their classrooms and love their classmates.  it certainly makes drop-off easier for me, to have two kids who look forward to school and bound out of the car, eager to start their day.  just as their momma, after 7+ years of being at home with them, is eager to start hers.  :)

on liam's first day, with susanna along for the ride

standing next to his cubby, wearing a pristine new backpack that will assuredly look like a truck ran over it by day's end



some little sister supervision for his inaugural day desk work



daddy got to hold her hand ... and mommy got to hold her backpack

outside the school building.  i just now realized that liam wore the same exact shirt on his first day and then a week later for susanna's first day.  he's partial to the carolina blue, of course, but it does make things a bit confusing

"i really only need to know how to write five different letters in order to write my whole name," she very astutely pointed out

according to my sources, to this day, liam still walks susanna down to her classroom and even gives her a hug goodbye before turning around to head to the first grade hall

the highlight of her big first day?  the bus ride home wins by a landslide