Happy Trails

May 25th was Cecilia’s first birthday, so that means the obvious – on that same day exactly one year ago, I went into labor and gave birth.  And to celebrate sweet C’s first birthday, the four of us climbed into our Chevy Impala, and (quite fittingly, actually) launched an experience no less painful, no less irritating than the one which I endured on a hospital bed exactly 365 days before: The First Family Road Trip. 

Now, I’ve been on a Family Road Trip or two.  I have known the exhaustion of sitting mere centimeters from my sister and trying to prevent my leg from touching hers.  I have known the helplessness of having to stare straight ahead while my stepbrother points his index finger an inch from my face and taunts, “Not touching you!  Not touching you!”  I have known the frustration of being subjected without respite to the sound of my brother’s incessant and irritating breathing.  But we enjoy laughing about those things now – and Road Trip stories are an extremely prolific topic of reminiscence.  Cars just seem to bring out the hilarious in people.  There’s the one about the time that my sister threw her banana peel out the window and Mom, being in a Mood, claimed this littering to be the last straw and therefore pulled over and made her daughter go pick up the offensive peel, despite my sister’s protestation that it was biodegradable.  Then there’s the one about the time that I, at age 9, declared from the backseat that I had to go to the bathroom, and that it was so urgent that Dad should just pull over at the next available place which was, by my determination (and without my knowledge of what type of establishment it was) the Erotica.  Making my parents’ suppressed laughter even harder to conceal was my innocent pronunciation of it as “arrow-TEE-kuh.”  Ah, good times. 

And the good times keep on rollin’, with Ellen at age three-and-a-half, and Cecilia at (exactly) age 1.  I approached this road trip (destination Lewisburg, WV) with a great deal of fear.  I dreaded being in a confined space with the girls, so little as they are now, for the twenty hours it would take us to get there.  I dreaded it so much that my mind blocked out the fact that there would be twenty MORE hours to get us back home again, and I didn’t even register the inevitability of the return trip until someone innocently asked what day we would be arriving back in the Twin Cities.

Packed and ready to leave

But, we’ve made it to WV, and we’ve done remarkably well, though the trip hasn’t been without some excitement.  Ellen has a bad habit, at home and on the road, of announcing that she has to go potty, then saying that she’s changed her mind once she’s actually in the bathroom.  She’ll even sit on the toilet for minutes at a time and say “well, nothing’s coming out,” then return to her playing until two minutes later she’s announcing her need again.  It’s a cycle that can continue for twenty minutes or more, and which usually culminates in her bladder making up her mind for her, and her next announcement being “I’m having an accident!” 

This habit got us into trouble on the interstate yesterday.  As we drove through POURING rain, Ellen said, “I have to go potty!”  “Okay,” we said, “we’ll stop at the next place.  Hold on, hold on!”  We kept going, and again heard from the backseat, “I have to go potty REALLY BADLY!”  “Okay, only one mile to the rest stop!” Dave said.  “Do your little potty dance!  Wiggle your legs if you have to!”  We made it through that eternal minute, and finally saw our exit.  We pulled off the road, saying, “We made it!” and were stopped by a giant orange sign: “REST STOP CLOSED.” 

So, pouring rain, closed rest stop, and preschooler doing a potty wiggle in the car.  There was nothing for it but to open the trunk, take out the travel potty, set it down on the road, and kneel down with the umbrella over her. 

So here they are, a doting daddy doing the literal “anything” for his daughter, a mom behind the camera recording the moment and trying to shield the lens from the nearly horizontal rain, and a daughter…NOT going potty.  “You have to go, Ellen,” says Dave.  “Once we get back in the car, we’ll just have to stop again.  You’re on the potty right now, so GO.”  Nothin’ doin’.  A minute later, Dave and Ellen were both back in the car strapped in, soaking wet, and bladder still full.

Remarkably, she made it with no accidents to the next rest stop, at which I accompanied her to the ladies’ room and held her on the big potty to try again.  “Hmm, nothing’s coming out,” she said again.  “Oh no no,” I replied, “you have to go.  Let’s sing a little song to distract you.  Which one should we do?”  Our bathroom stall neighbor was serenaded with Ellen’s pick of “ABC’s” and then a new one, which I made up on the spot, and which has since yesterday been a potty-time favorite.  You can probably guess the tune.

                                                Tinkle, tinkle, little one

                                                Going pee is so much fun!

                                                Sitting on the potty now,

                                                You can do it, you know how!

                                                Tinkle, tinkle, little one

                                                Going pee is so much fun!     

It works like a charm.                 

Letter to Ellen

Last Tuesday marked the closing of a chapter for Ellen and me.  As we walked down the long hallway to preschool, Cecilia on my hip and a be-backpacked and be-ponytailed Ellen clutching my one free hand, I realized that it was Ellen’s and my last day at preschool together.  (As opposed to Thursdays, which are drop-off days, Tuesdays at preschool are what Ellen calls “Stay Days” –  while Cecilia goes to Sibling Care, Ellen and I stick together and enjoy art, circle time, etc. as a team.  Now forever, Ellen’s classes will be all drop-off).  As soon as I figured out that our time together in class was coming to an end, everything that we did that morning became especially poignant and heartbreaking.  The tears started as soon as I helped her put on her art smock, and continued throughout the morning. 

When we moms (and one grandpa) separated from our kids and convened at our own meeting, Teacher Lenda gave us sheets of paper and told us that we could use them to write a letter to our children, which they could save and open at some time in the future.  Oh, did the tears drip then.  I knew I would want to take lots of time to craft a letter to Future Ellen which will allow her a glimpse into what our mornings at preschool entailed, and acquaint her with her Three-Year-Old Self.  So through my tears I jotted down a few notes that I could revisit later, in front of my laptop.

Dear Ellen,

This letter is so difficult, not just emotionally, but from a writer’s standpoint as well.  From the writer’s standpoint, the difficulty lies in the pressure to get it perfect – to miss nothing, and to use my words to make all the unique and special moments spring to life and feel authentic.  From the emotional standpoint, the difficulty lies in not only having a deep connection to all those moments, but in realizing that even my best work will be far from perfect.  No matter how well my words conjure images and sounds and mother/daughter connections, words on a page are never as authentic as the living moments they’re describing.  And no matter how many words or paragraphs I write, there will be images, sounds, and connections that will be missed.  There are just so many moments, a lifetime of moments.  I mourn not only the ones that are lost, but also the ones that are recorded, because even after my most diligent work, their description is adequate at best.    

When we come to your classroom (after depositing backpack in locker, affixing name tag to back of shirt, and washing hands), you usually enter with a bit of trepidation.  Your “Sucking Thumb” (as you have aptly named your right thumb) is in your mouth, and your “Terry Thumb” (as you have named your left thumb) is rubbing the soft spot on your neck, which is the permanent dwelling place of Terry the Turtle, who, just like you, has a mom, a dad, a dog, and a baby sister, and whose family is obviously living a parallel life with ours because they always seem to be engaging in activities surprisingly similar to those in which we engage – i.e., they have Family Movie Night on Fridays, and they can be found at Target several times a week.  After the extrication of Sucking Thumb from mouth (sometimes at home you tell me that you are “thinking about stopping,” but in certain situations you still relapse and justify it by saying that sucking your thumb is how Terry gets his food, and Terry the Turtle has to eat), together we greet Teacher Janelle and Teacher Amy.  From there, your first destination is the art table, and when you finish what you’re working on, I say to you, “okay, let’s write your name on it.  Where should we put it?”  You will indicate a spot (usually the one remaining spot that has no paint on it), and I will say, “can you spell it for me?”  At the beginning of this year, you said “E, L, E, N,” but now that second “L” has joined the rest of the letters.  In just the past few weeks you’ve learned to hold your pencil or crayon the correct way (the squishy spot between Sucking Thumb and first finger is the “bed” and you let your pencil or crayon “rest” there), and you form those letters yourself.  Uppercase E is a cinch for you, and your lowercase L’s are long and proud. 

This year’s Circle Time has been a vast improvement over Circle Time at last year’s ECFE class.  Then, you wanted nothing to do with Circle Time (you very deliberately avoided any period of time which included cheers or hello songs in which attention would be drawn to you), so I was the mom singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to myself while you played all alone at the sensory table.  Now you are much more comfortable, and Circle Time is a great snuggle time for us.  Although Terry does seem to be extremely hungry while we sit with the group, his feeding schedule doesn’t get in the way of your participation.  If there are actions involving your hands, you’ll do them with Sucking Thumb still intact.

When it’s time for parents and kids to separate, you give me a great big hug, a big smile, and tell me to “have a good meeting!”  When I return with the others at the end of class, you scan the parents sheepishly, and when you see me you break into a run and greet me with the contents of your cubby (usually the painting you made at the class BEFORE this one – it takes a long time for all your thick brushstrokes to dry).

This past Thursday (your very last class for the summer), Teachers Janelle and Amy put together a “Rite of Passage” for you.  A little bridge (your classroom’s wooden boat, turned upside-down) stood at the front of the room, and you walked over it to symbolize moving through the Two Plus class and into the Three Plus class.  Of course that little program wasn’t really for you, but for us parents, since we’re the ones who see that moment as bigger than it is.  We are the dreamers for you, and we see that moment as one little gem in a whole string of gems – one tiny rite of passage amidst a life, YOUR life, that is comprised of all the wonderful rites of passage you have yet to encounter. 

It weighs with such gravity, and my dear, it’s just the beginning of our adventures – yours as My Kid, and mine as Your Mom.  The old cliché bubbles up in my brain – it’s a journey.  But we’re not really headed anywhere, because you are not a “Work in Progress.”  You may be three years old, and you may have physical and emotional development still on the horizon, but you are also “Just as You Should Be,” at this very moment and every one after. 

Love,

Mom 

My New Strategy

Two posts in one day is a new blogging frequency record for me.  My secret: getting up early, like REALLY early, LONG before anyone else is awake.  My prior strategy for achievement in areas of Blogging, as well as areas of Exercise, Laundry, and Home Organization, was to wait until after children’s bedtime.  Now, three and a half years after the birth of my first child, I have come to the conclusion that the After Bedtime strategy is totally bunk.  After bedtime I usually just sit around and watch brain-numbing TV while wearing extremely unflattering pants and eating foods laden with saturated fat.  This activity (non-activity?) would perpetuate into late hours, and then my own bedtime would be late enough so that in the morning my girls would be my alarm and I would stumble down in my robe and greet them with morning breath and eyes contact-less and squinty.  I’ve decided that I can stand to cut out several hours of the time that I spend numbing the brain, and exchange those hours for an earlier bedtime, which can facilitate an earlier wake-up.  I’m much more inclined to work out, blog, and clean in the morning, when my spirit is still fresh and unbroken.  I will be so much more productive this way.  Besides, then I can wake my girls looking more June Cleaver and less Grandmama Frump.

So, this newfound diurnal activity affords me the chance to recount a few recent moments of note. 

J  Monday night, we went to the Spring Fling at Ellen’s preschool.  This is basically a super-fun time for all the kids – tons of crafts, a fish pond, a duck pond, parachutes, a giant jumper…you get the idea.  Ellen made a hat, and a flower.  Here she is: 

After the Fling, we went to dinner.  With her hat still on her head, and a look of extreme concentration and focus, Ellen meticulously twirled her fork to pick up her noodles.  This was quite an adorable display, but not as adorable as the moment outside the restaurant.  She and I held hands as we walked through the parking lot, and I stepped on a rock, wobbled on my feet a bit, and uttered a “whoa!”  Ellen’s little hand tightened around mine, and she said, “I’ve got ya, Mama.”  I’m not sure why those precious moments seem even more memorable and sweet when they happen while my daughter is wearing a construction-paper hat with pipe-cleaner antennae, for example.  But the ridiculous-looking things that she makes and wears so proudly serve as fabulous visible reminders of her innocence and vulnerability, at least for me.  They make me want to scoop her up and say “Nope - I’ve got you.”  But this time I just said "Geez, I'm glad you were there.”    

J  Yesterday’s humidity made me bust out a short skirt, which necessitated a quick dip in the tub with a razor and soap.  Ellen heard me splashing around, and asked what I was doing.

“Taking a really quick bath,” I said.  She walked right over to the tub, and with an air of concern and interest which was mature beyond her years, she asked, “Would you like to use one of my bath toys?”  I seriously enjoy these moments during which I can smile and laugh inwardly, but outwardly respond with composure, “No thank you, but I really appreciate the nice offer.” 

J  Dave’s dream of raising little soccer players is materializing.  He took Ellen to get a ball and a bunch of cones.  She loves to play, and plays while wearing anything.  To wit:

J  Again, my sweet Cecilia, absent in my post.  Here’s her new camera smile.  We’re working on it.

Giving and Receiving

This past Sunday we celebrated not only Mother’s Day, but my birthday – 32; a good age, old enough not to be pre-judged as rowdy and immature by senior citizens, and young enough still to get away with short skirts (as long as they sit at my natural waist and I remember to shave, tan, and somehow camouflage veins newly popping out after two pregnancies).  Here we are on this day:

I got a TomTom navigational system for my birthday/Mother’s Day, which I have wanted for a LONG time.  I wanted a TomTom because of the voice options – specifically the Star Wars voice options.  Now Darth Vader, or Han and Chewie, or Master Yoda can lead me to wherever I need to go, and my nerd-dom can be on display for all of my passengers. 

Ellen is excited about giving and getting presents these days.  (One of her favorite games is to find something around the house, wrap it in a blanket, then present it to me to open and coo over.  Then I have to find something around the house for her, wrap it in another blanket, and she opens it and exclaims “oh, I have always WANTED one of these!  It’s so LOVELY!”)  This excitement over giving and getting presents does affect the “secret” aspect of gift-giving.  She is improving, though.  Now instead of saying things like: “Next, open the green watch that we got you!” (which she did at my niece Anya’s birthday), she inadvertently drops obvious hints days before the present is to be unwrapped.  Randomly while playing: “Mom, you are going to LOVE your present.  It is something on your list!”  At Target: “Mom, there’s where we got your wrapping paper and your card!  I picked out a cupcake one; you will LOVE it!”  Driving past Best Buy: “Mom, that blue building is where Daddy and I got your present!  It is something on your list; you will LOVE it!”  That was the kicker – then I knew I was getting a TomTom, and that was two days prior to the unwrapping.

Even though it sometimes spoils the surprise, I do cherish her excitement over gifts – especially the giving part.  I am a person who shows love and affection through (among other things) gift-giving.  I enjoy taking time to pick out a gift I know my loved one will appreciate, and then wrapping it beautifully, with special paper and a giant bow or unique ribbon.  Similarly, I feel loved when someone takes that time and effort for me.  Most of my family doesn’t really have a need to show or receive love in this way, so I’m a bit pumped about this early indication that Ellen may speak the same love language.

Experience

The following paragraphs will recount two exciting experiences from last Thursday, May 5.  Enjoy.  (I’m enjoying them, now that they’re over).

Experience 1: Delivery of Squirrel by Dynamic Canine Duo

We often babysit Rachel and Jim’s Shepherd/Lab mix Dakota, and Mom and Rich’s West Highland Terrier, Piper.  This brings our dogs-in-house total to three.  Piper, age twelve, usually goes directly into Ellen’s room to lounge on her princess pillow.  But Dakota and Addie (ages 2 and 5, respectively) engage in lap-running and rodent-hunting in the backyard.  The lap-running does a great job of getting their wiggles and wags out, and the rodent-hunting is fun, but for the most part fruitless.  (Addie’s gotten a few rabbits and a squirrel or two, but the kills are few, far-between, and usually attended by Dave, who can remove any by-products swiftly).  On the afternoon of May 5, I noticed some blood on Addie’s chest, which was dripping from a cut on her ear.  This mysterious laceration, coupled with Dakota’s extreme interest in staying outside, raised my suspicions to the point of venturing into the backyard to search for evidence of a killing.  I didn’t have to go far.  The dead squirrel, licked to a glossy sheen, had been deposited right at the back door for my appreciation. 

Experience 2: Molestation by Preschooler while Serving as Room Parent

Thursday is “drop-off day” in Ellen’s preschool class, but since the teachers can always use an extra set of limbs, moms and dads can, instead of drop off their kid and leave, stay and volunteer as “room parent.”  That was my role on Thursday, and it was a good one.  Ellen was excited to have me stay, and understood and graciously accepted that I had to pay attention to the other kids too.  We all had a nice time making bookmarks for the Mommies for Mother’s Day, and playing on slides and giant swings during Gym Time.  But Circle Time brought a new kind of adventure.  There is a particular song that we sing about the process of the blooming of flora – seeds are planted, rain comes down, sun comes out, flowers grow.  Of course there are actions which accompany this catching ditty (sung to the familiar tune of “Pop Goes the Weasel”), and they involve the children lying on the floor and being “planted” as seeds – the Mommies and Daddies push them into the ground, provide the necessary Pretend Rain and Pretend Sun, and then the kids pop up.  After performing this one once (my thumb was green, and I successfully sprouted four kids), Teacher Janelle called for a repeat performance, and the suggestion arose that Miss Cyndy should be planted in the ground.  Now, this is a pretty good deal – a little stretch of the imagination, and the planting is like a mini-massage, since the kids’ technique for planting usually involves some sort of pounding or pressing on the back and legs.  I happily arranged myself face-down on the floor, in a sort of dead-man’s float.  We launched into singing, and three or four girls and boys began their planting of me.  Pounds and presses on my back were regular and delightful.  But one little boy had a unique gardening MO.  His technique involved pounding and pressing, to be sure, but of a quite different variety, and certainly in a quite different body locale.  My shock was extreme.  I shot up, and the only thing that could come out of my mouth was “no, that’s NOT nice touching!”  I was pretty much done after that, so unfortunately the other little gardeners had to deal with the disappointment of planting a seed which sprouted too early.  (Ahem). 

Between Dreaming and Doing

Sometimes my to-do list paralyzes me.  I mean, when I look at it (or just look around my house and scan the unfinished projects) I freeze and become completely unproductive.  I feel locked-in, sort of like Jean-Dominique Bauby, a la The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.  That may be an inappropriate example, first because one should not make light of a young man suffering a massive stroke which leaves his body completely paralyzed except for his left eye; second because Bauby actually wrote The Diving Bell and the Butterfly in his “locked-in” state, with the help of a gifted transcriber and unparalleled patience, and we can all agree that that accomplishment represents the opposite of unproductiveness. 

Usually my lingering between dreaming about getting something done and actually getting it done is due to over-thinking the “how” of completing all my tasks.  I try to figure out the order that is most efficient so that all the most important and worthy tasks will get done, and then I tweak and tweak it until I become totally bored and decide that catching up on “Glee” episodes is an important and worthy task as well – after all, I have to clear space on the DVR to make room for things like the Royal Wedding, and Hoarders.  So at the end of the day, my waiting to begin until I have determined how to get the MOST done results in getting NOTHING done, except re-fueling my mild-to-moderate crush on Matthew Morrison. 

So I’m reinstating my fifteen-minute rule.  I set the timer for fifteen minutes, walk around my house, and work on anything I pass that irritates me – crumbs on the stove top, pile of laundry awaiting folding, fingerprints on the TV.  I have to work furiously and without interruption for fifteen minutes, and when the timer goes off, I take a little break and then begin again.  The point is to remove the thinking from the equation – just to react to what I see that needs to be done.  (For some reason, a timer is good motivation to accomplish things mindlessly.  Works for preschoolers too).    

My writing process could use a version of the fifteen-minute rule as well.  My standard MO is to refrain from typing anything until I have a story I can’t wait to share, or one or two sentences that I love and around which I can craft a passable post, and then to sit down at my laptop.  But I think I’ll be a much more prolific blogger if I stop thinking so much and just sit down and write.  If what comes out is terrible, there’s “delete.”  When it comes down to it, in twenty years when my girls and I are flipping through a binder of wrinkled, printed-out pages of The Chronicles of Ingham, our favorite posts will be the ones that capture everyday boredom.  So I’m going to try turning off my brain.  Click.