Stumbling Toward Success

Both girls have begun another year of preschool now – Cecilia in the 2 class and Ellen in the 4 class, her last year before the Big K.  Cecilia had a fabulous time on her first day, and she now requests frequent sing-alongs.  “Mommy, SING with me” is my cue to begin either the “Choo Choo” song or “Twinkle Twinkle.”  At the end of class on her first day, she waved and smiled brightly at her teacher, Miss Kathy, who rewarded her with an enthusiastic, “What a nice goodbye!”  For the next day or two, when anyone in our family asked her what she thought of preschool, her proud answer was, “I’m good at saying goodbye!”     

            Ellen’s class activities will provide copious material for blog posts, I have a feeling.  Her 4 class will do a repeat of one of my favorite activities from her 3 class – the bringing home of the Class Stuffed Animal, naming it, then sharing its adventures with your classmates.  (Last year, when we opened our home to the Class Bear, the Bear was christened Elizabeth and then wed to Ellen’s own bear, Melissa, in what must have been the first Stuffed Animal gay marriage in the nation). 

            About a week before school began, Ellen received a 3x5 index card via snail mail.  One side was blank, and the other had a note from her teacher instructing her to draw any picture, of anything she wanted, so that she could talk about it with her classmates on the first day.  As I leafed through the pile of mail and saw the index card, I figured that Ellen would set to work on her drawing as soon as I could tell her that she had had something in the mailbox.

            “Ellen!” I exclaimed as I came through the door.  “You have something in the mail today!”  She came running over and I showed her the card and read it to her.  Her eyes did not alight as I assumed they would.  “Do you want to do it right now, and then you’ll be all set for school next week?” I asked. 

            “Nah,” she said.  “I’ll do it in a bit.”  I put it on the kitchen island and let it go.  When she never came back to it, I set it in plain view of her dinner plate, so she would be reminded of it that evening.  Dinner came and went and she never mentioned it.

            Two days before school was to begin, I said, “Ellen, your index card is in the kitchen.  I’ll go grab it so you can get started.  Are you going to use crayons or colored pencils?”  No reaction.  This was getting tricky.  What to do?  Ask again?  Launch into reasons why she should do it?  Make her sit at the table until it’s done?  Now (realizing that the following Words may have a “Famous Last” ring to them), I do not plan on being the kind of mother who hovers over her kids’ homework, at least once they’re old enough to understand what would be the natural consequence of not turning in an assignment.  And I like to start as I mean to continue, so now would be the perfect time to get into the habit of not being a homework nag.  But…this index card isn’t really “homework” per se – it’s just a little project the preschool teacher wants the kids to do so that they have a starting point for introducing themselves.  My desired Mother Persona is still intact (where homework is concerned, anyway), if I do a bit of reminding here.  This is the very first thing her brand new teacher has asked her to do this year.  And Ellen is only 4.  She still puts on a nighttime Pull-Up before bed, for crying out loud.  Surely if she showed up without her index card, that would reflect poorly on ME, not on her.  Better to be seen as a nag by my daughter than as an un-involved and/or disorganized parent by her teacher, right?  All these thoughts swirled and collided in my brain as I tried to decide what to do about this damned index card. 

            I came to the conclusion that two days was still plenty of time for her to get it done on her own terms.  I would just keep putting it where she could see it, and hope she’d do it without another reminder.  I would only bring it up again on the morning of her first day of preschool.  The index card went back to the kitchen.    

            The next day came and went, and the index card still lay blank on the table.  Finally, the First Day dawned.  “Ellen, we have to leave in half an hour,” I said, “so you should make sure that you’ve finished your drawing on your index card.  You might feel really sad if you were the only kid who didn’t bring one.”

            “I already DID it, Mom,” she replied.  “It’s by my backpack.”  What welcome news!

            “Oh, that’s GREAT!” I said, excitedly.  “Tell me about your picture!  What did you decide to draw?” 

            “Just a coupl’a brown scribbles.” 

            Brown scribbles on an index card.  This is the 4-year-old’s version of the extended middle finger.  “Hmm,” I said, mulling over how I would broach this issue.  “Really?  But you’re a great artist.  You didn’t decide to draw a picture of yourself, or of your family or something?”

            “Nah,” she said, with satisfied complacency.

            So I launched the discussion about doing our best work, so that we can feel good about what we’ve shown our teachers, and so that they know our potential and can best help us learn things we didn’t know before.  I led her back to the crayons and handed her the index card.  She wrote her name in the corner, then added some colors between the lines of the original brown scribbles, creating a stained glass effect.    

            Later, I relayed the story to Dave.  He grinned and said, “Sounds like the way I used to do homework – at the last minute and with the least amount of effort possible.” 

            Here was some food for thought.  I used to do homework as soon as it was assigned, obsessively and to perfection.  Excelling was the key to happiness, and any career path could be the right one, as long as it let me keep pumping out A-plus-work.  Go Go Gadget Brain, to a high school diploma, Bachelor’s degree, and Master’s degree, without really thinking about how what I was learning would serve me in the end, and definitely neglecting to recognize that excelling doesn’t mean much unless you’re excelling in the right thing.  Now, seven years after closing the last blue book after the last final of graduate school at the U of MN, I have a waaaaay over-educated hobby of choral music, and an overdue (albeit freeing) realization that my true calling is not music, but writing.  The career path I chose was no “path” at all, but a deception – like a trail in the woods that looks promising for just enough steps to lure you in, then peters out so that you are utterly lost and being whacked by low-hanging foliage to boot. 

            On the other hand Dave, Mr. At-the-Last-Minute, is now properly addressed as Dr. At-the-Last-Minute, and hasn’t questioned medicine as his true calling since he graduated.       

           
           “Yep, she’s like you alright,” I said to Dave, and I walked away without a shred of worry.

"There's one...set to stun"

Being the first to rise in the morning is an absolute necessity for me.  I have to “calibrate to the day,” and if anyone else is up with me (except my sweet fuzzy Addie), then it can’t happen.  I need time to have half a pot of coffee and do a little writing and sitting in silence.  It helps if I can be dressed and ready to walk out the door before anyone else is up, too. 

Some days, like today, I fail at that endeavor.  I didn’t sleep very well last night, so when my alarm went off at 5:30, I promptly reset it for 6:30.  Then at 6:30, I reset it for 7:30.  Before it could go off, I was awakened by Dave plopping a pajama-ed Cecilia next to me.  All went downhill from there. 

I just got back from vacation in Arizona yesterday, and so I should be well-rested and restored, with patience to spare.  But with no “calibrating to the day” I had to lock myself in Dave’s office before 8:00 so that little girls would leave me alone.  I turned on Thomas the Train, and that gave me just enough time to text Dave all sorts of rude and irrational things: 1) he must have REALLY spoiled the girls while I was gone, 2) we must be raising terrible whiny children who don’t listen to a word I say, 3) I can’t handle this anymore, and 4) (the crowning text, the piece de resistance) “I have the fattest and manliest neck in this entire joke of a world.”  I didn’t water that last one down for you all – it’s a direct quote from my iPhone.

We escaped to Choo Choo Bob’s for a while, then had McDonald’s in the car.  Now they are watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse while I type this. 

My standards are so low that sometimes I think I need to dig a hole in the ground to find a single one. 

The Morning Hustle

I think there is not a parent alive today who does not understand the difficulty of the morning hustle out the door.  In fact, there has probably never been, I mean in the history of the world, a parent who does not understand the unique irritation of Preschool Putz when trying to make it to the earliest engagement of the day.  I imagine the dads of the Upper Paleolithic era had several mornings with one foot out the cave, looking back and yelling to their sons to grab their spear and come NOW to get a jump on the best large game.  The son of course would yell back that he can’t FIND his spear, to which the dad would reply that it should be right where he LEFT it after the LAST large game hunt, and then the son would go looking and become distracted by the cave drawing he was working on yesterday.

In my house, we have a problem of figuring out priorities.  I can yell “we’re leaving in 10 minutes!” and then find Ellen wearing only underwear, furiously kneading some Play Doh and saying, “I KNOW Mom, that’s why I’m HURRYING to finish this Play Doh dog!”

After fighting this losing battle many times, I have determined that I can’t decide for Ellen what needs to get done in the morning for her to have a successful day (besides the obvious things like getting dressed, brushing teeth, and having breakfast).  My solution is to get her up a looong time before we have to leave, so that she has plenty of time for all the important stuff, like dressing her American Girl doll, making animal sculptures out of Play Doh, and packing her backpack for the overnight at Grammy and Papa’s which is happening five days later. 

If I have fewer moments to myself before the action starts in the morning, I have in exchange a peaceful and unhurried exodus.  At least until Cecilia dumps her cereal on the floor. 

Monkey Business

Sally and the disfigured Booloo

After the first few times my in-laws took Ellen to Perkins, this restaurant became Ellen’s first pick when dining with Grammy and Papa.  The lure is the kids’ menu item “Rainbow Pancakes.”  (The basic principle at work here is that if you add rainbow sprinkles to any food item, it becomes gourmet children’s cuisine, infinitely more pleasing to the young palate than the exact same food item sans sprinkles.  Incidentally, the General Store Café in Minnetonka latched on to this principle admirably with their “PB&J with Rainbow Sprinkles,” and they even took it up a notch by letting the kids add their own sprinkles). 

            Last night after church with Grammy, Papa, and Auntie Laura, we headed down the block to get those Rainbow Pancakes.  Ellen and Cecilia both took to their kids’ menus with crayons, triumphantly circling the picture of their colorful item of choice, and X-ing with red crayon the less enticing options, such as “Grilled Chicken Sandwich” and “Macaroni and Cheese” (though we were briefly distracted by the “Perky Bear Pancakes” – see principle above, substitute chocolate chips).     

            After we ordered, the fun really began, because approaching our table was a young woman wearing a belt full of colorful balloons and a button that said “I TWIST FOR TIPS.”

            “Do you girls like balloon animals?” she asked.  After taking in the enthusiastic nodding, she asked, “what sort of animal would you like me to make?”  Both girls settled on a monkey, pink for Cecilia and blue for Ellen.  These monkeys were adorable, complete with faces drawn with black Sharpie.  They were christened Sally and Booloo, respectively, and monkey games and monkey sound effects carried us straight through Rainbow Pancakes, the bringing of the check, and the ride home. 

            When we walked into the house, a sudden and violent cry came from Ellen.  “Look what happened!  Booloo’s ear!”  Indeed, Booloo had pulled a van Gogh – the ear was completely removed (probably untwisted and absorbed into his chest).  Hysterical tears and screaming were immediate, and after several minutes and several unsuccessful calming techniques, I said, “I have an idea.”  I went to my emergency stash of stickers and found some puffy Care Bears.  “Pick a sticker and we can give Booloo a makeshift ear.”  Since the stickers were new (and puffy), they proved more exciting than balloon monkeys.  Tears were halted and peace reigned.  Genius, I thought to myself smugly.  Nice work, Mom.

            Oh, but then another blood-curdling scream let from Ellen’s throat.  “NOW LOOK!”  I came running.  Dear lord, Booloo was three-quarters of the way to full-on Helen Keller.  While applying the Care Bear sticker ear patch, Ellen popped Booloo’s eyes, rendering him completely blind as well as half deaf.  “Now I KNOW he can NEVER be fixed!” she yelled. 

            There was nothing for it but to give hugs and explain that balloon animals don’t last forever, but the good news is that there will be plenty more balloon animals to cherish (and maim) in the future.  While delivering my lesson, I saw Ellen’s eyes shift and alight on Cecilia’s pink monkey, Sally.  Ellen said to me, “Maybe Celie would like to trade with me.”  Before I could launch into why taking her sister’s monkey is not the way to deal with her disappointment, Ellen ran over, took Sally into her arms, and cried lovingly, “Booloo!” My head hung down to my chest as I let out a giant sigh.

            The girls aren’t up yet, and so I’ve taken the opportunity to hide both monkeys.  Maybe they will have forgotten about them overnight.  I probably should hide the Care Bears stickers too, as they will serve as a bitter reminder of yesterday’s misfortune. 

              Next time Grammy and Papa take us to Perkins, we'll count on the Rainbow Pancakes providing all the excitement we need.  If we're really feeling saucy, maybe we'll try the Perky Bear Pancakes.

    

The Calm After the Storm

Hell hath no Fury like a child resisting a hair wash.  While attempting to just go ahead and “do the dump,” I reached the end of my already-frayed rope.  I snapped.  Then I yelled.  Then Dave sent me upstairs and I viciously deflated a Dora the Explorer helium balloon, which had freaked me out for the last time with its child-like size and height in relation to the floor (it was already somewhat deflated).   

Then I came downstairs for some tea, and Ellen asked me to read her bedtime story.  When we were done and the lights were turned off, her wet head (which Dave finally succeeded in washing) rested on her pillow, and she grabbed my finger while I sang the Number One hit on the Bedtime Chart (“Once upon a Dream” from Sleeping Beauty). 

Then I kissed her goodnight and tried to pry my finger away, but she just squeezed it tighter and pulled me closer.  So I lay my own head between hers and that of her stuffed bear, Melissa, and stroked her soft hand with my thumb. 

Then she said to me (her maniacal, hair-washing mother, who ten minutes earlier became so upset that she attacked a Latina made of Mylar): “You’re the best mom in the whole world.” 

Then I was reminded that children teach us a great deal more than we teach them.  They need our guidance while learning how to function in this world, but more importantly, we need their wisdom about what it means to be human, and how to live with gratitude and simplicity.  If we can’t master those fundamentals, none of us will function very well in this world anyway. 

And then, I started crying.   

Lippy Red

Here’s a prototype of Ellen’s crayon face drawings. 

Her faces are not complete unless she uses a crayon that she calls “lippy red” to apply lipstick in thick layers, all around the mouth. 

Her artistry is not confined to drawing pads and crayons.

The Many Cecilias

Cecilia has reached the cute age.  Ellen’s cute too of course, but hers is the “you-are-hilarious-while-trying-to-figure-out-the-world” cute.  Cecilia’s is the “OMG-I-want-to-squeeze-your-face-like-silly-putty” cute.  When kids can’t completely express themselves on their own, you can just imagine a giant, empty, cartoon word balloon above their heads at all times, and you can fill it with whatever you want.  Nice words.  Adorable words.  Once they start filling in their own word balloons, you get stuff like “Mom, I love you as big as the TV, but I love Dad as big as the whole CITY.  I love Dad more than you,” and “wow, my heel looks like a penis. No, ack-shully it looks like that thing BEHIND the penis,” and “I would like spaghetti for dinner, but I HATE sauce.  I just want aLOOOOOT of Parma-john cheese.”  Those are bad examples, but the ones that don’t even have a hint of cuteness are the ones I leave out of my blog. 

Cecilia just wants to please her parents, and to be a big kid like her sister.  And although I still fill in most of her word balloons, she’s definitely stringing together two words at a time, and getting pretty good at asking for things by name.  Sometimes, though, she asks for things just by pointing and repeating over and over “I do, I do” (“ah-doo, ah-doo”), preemptively answering the question “who wants [whatever she’s pointing at]?”  She loves trains, blocks (mostly knocking them over), cheese, and babies, and she gives legitimately the best and most sincere toddler hugs of any kid I’ve ever known. 

I remember, when Ellen was about this age, noticing how very quickly she was growing and changing – so quickly, it seemed that every day a brand new, unique Ellen emerged.  And I so fiercely loved each of those Ellens that I actually felt a need to mourn the “passing” of every version of my daughter that I encountered.  And then I understood how the timeline of motherhood is a series of losses and gains, a pattern of alternating sorrow and celebration, neither of which holds much meaning without its counterpart. 

Now, I’m reminded again how quickly it goes, and how thin the line is between the sweet and the bitter.  A new Cecilia emerges every day.  Each one…irresistible.

Here We Go

2012.  It’s going to be an exciting year.  Item 1: Titanic is being re-released in 3D.  (Stop judging, you KNOW you’ll go, and you’ll like it).  Item 2: I will be running my second half-marathon in Duluth this June (Public Declaration of Intent – CHECK).  Item 3: Our house is either going on the market, or burning to the ground in a blaze which will be found to have been caused by excessive dryer lint, and which will occur at a time when our entire family and all our prized possessions (Dave – beer bottle collection; Cyndy – photo albums and journals; Ellen – Busytown action figures; Cecilia – Caillou doll; Addie – whichever toy has a functioning squeaker at time of incident) are miraculously (mysteriously?) on vacation. 

In fact, the excitement has already begun.  Dave received his BEST PRESENT EVER (if we’re judging by enthusiasm upon receipt) a few days after Christmas, when $75 worth of Prevacid samples were delivered to him.  “This is fantastic!” he exclaimed while I stared blankly.  “Do you realize that I won’t have to buy any omeprazole for six months?!”  (“Mm hmm, and do you realize that next year for Christmas I’ll just be wrapping up a giant box of Tums for you instead of trying to decide between a blue or white button-down?”) 

Other Dave-related excitement: he and one of his colleagues have succeeded in getting his clinic to purchase several “Ambulatory Blood Pressure Monitors,” or ABPM’s, if you will.  (Basically, this is a device which patients wear for a 24-hour period, and which monitors blood pressure at 15-minute intervals, giving physicians a much more accurate reading).  I know this isn’t really blog-worthy excitement for my readers, but perhaps you’ll change your tune after you see THIS little gem:

After Dave handed me the camera and posed, I asked with a smirk, “Is this picture supposed to show how you can wear the ABPM and still go about your regular daily activities, such as staring at the microwave while stirring an empty pot with a wooden spoon, while wearing your slim-fit workout shirt tucked into your jeans?”  Yes.  So it took me about 15 tries to nail this “ABPM Instructional Photo” (Dave’s title, natch) – “Could you get more stove in there? Okay, good, but now less of my neck.  Yep, now make sure the device is in focus.  Okay, but we need more stove again.”  I think it turned out well though.  At least there’s no more worry about what the ABPM might prevent one from doing.  And I laugh whenever I think of it. 

Ellen excitement: her preschool class is taking turns bringing home the class teddy bear, and whoever has the bear gives it a name and writes a few things about what he or she did with the bear.  We took home the bear last Wednesday, and Ellen named it Elizabeth.  After some lunch and a few books, Ellen informed me that Elizabeth would be marrying her old teddy, Melissa.  We declare them fully legal.    

Celie excitement: she LOVES Kindermusik, dancing, and anything involving her big sister, but the MOST exciting thing so far was figuring out that Grandpa is fun and not scary.  Well, this was probably more exciting for Grandpa.  Now allow the choir nerd in me to come out for a minute – Celie is crazy good at matching pitch, and this afternoon I caught her with one of my scores in hand, looking at it and singing to herself.  Yes, I grabbed the camera. 

We’re overlooking the score being upside down.