LOST in Suburban Bliss

Perfect Stinks Anyhow

Yesterday I alluded to the fact that I always feel the need to get things right. To be perfect. Not only does this put a lot of stress on me, but I'm fairly certain it stresses my kids out. OK, not fairly certain. Certain. They can send me their therapy bills later. 

Our school district has a math program that allows each student to work at their own pace. (This will connect to the above paragraph eventually.) Sounds cool, right? Yeah, I thought so, too, until I realized that if your child doesn't WANT to move at a decent pace, they don't have to. If Poonch doesn't pass her test this week, she can try next week. Any other time, I embrace the old "if you fail, try again" tactic. Except that Poonch has no incentive to pass on to the next level. She hates math and feels she'll never need it, because after all, she's going to be an author. I tried telling her she'd need the math to calculate her book royalties, but predictably she just looked at me like I was an idiot. After all, what do I know? It's not like I'm published or anything. 

Being the perfectionist and never-good-enough sort of mom, I decided to amp up our study sessions. That went over well. 

After some yelling, crying, begging, cajoling, book-throwing productive sessions, I realized part of Poonch's problem was the actual time test that she needed to pass at each level. It wasn't so much that she didn't know her facts, but that she is so darn S.L.O.W. when it comes down to writing in the answer. 

e..i..g..h..t

f..o..u..r..t..e..e..n

t..w..e..l..v..e

s..i..x..t..e..e..n

She was killing me. Talk about wanting to bang my head against the wall.

EIGHTFOURTEENTWELVESIXTEEN...HOWHARDISIT??????????????

There was no way Poonch would be able to get through the program at this rate. 

I wrote a note to her teacher detailing my concerns. She assured me that each child had been tested for fine motor skills to determine their individual goal for the time test and that Poonch should be able to finish her predetermined amount. Frustrated, I agreed to keep practicing with a promise to touch base in a few weeks. 

It took us a few weeks, but Poonch passed from level M to N. Small victories. 

And in just two days, she passed from level N to O. Another small victory. 

When I asked her how she passed to level O so quickly, she told me that instead of taking the written test, her teacher tested her orally and she nailed it. It was then that her teacher lowered her written time test goal to accomodate for her s.l.o.w writing. 

Big victory. 

Poonch is ecstatic and actually ASKED to practice math tonight. I think she learned something about herself. It's not that she didn't know her stuff, she just needs a different way to express it. 

I learned something, too. Perfection is in the eyes of the beholder, because there IS no perfect. There never will be. Maybe if I can teach myself that, I can teach my kids that you can strive to be the best you can be, which can be pretty damn good, without killing yourself trying to get there. 

The Question

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Ummmmmm, I dunno know, maybe a nurse?

This is what I would answer when asked this question as a kid. A nurse. Ironic, really, because these days I honestly can't stomach taking care of sick people, not even my own kids. I'll do it because they need me, but I'm no Nurse Nightingale. The germs, the snot, the hacking. It's all gross and I abhor every moment.

I want to be an ice skater!! Please, please let me be an ice skater!

Now, this, THIS I really did want to be. But since I never took any ice skating lessons and didn't actually fall step onto anything resembling an ice rink until high school, I'm not sure you could say I was truly driven to succeed. 

Thirty some years later, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Some days I think the right (and obvious) answer is "mom," but then there are those days when being a mom isn't exactly all it's cracked up to be. Those are the days when I start to complain about being gypped out of that benefits package I was promised. If you ask me The Question on those types of days, my answer might change to "writer." Yes, that's it. Definitely a writer. Not the kind I was 8 years ago BK (before kids), but a real writer. But there I stutter and stall, some days with my cursor blinking back at me as I struggle to come up with a few measly paragraphs to pass as a simple blog post. It is in these moments when I find myself staring at my laptop, wondering why it is I continue to fool myself. 

Though I struggle for my final answer to this question, Poonch at the ripe age of 8, has already found her answer. If you happen to ask her what she wants to be when she grows up, she will answer, in both a solid inner and outer voice, "author." Not a writer, but an author. An author of books that come in a series, so that she can write about her favorite things (most likely fairies) over and over. She is so sure of herself that she decided that she's not going bother to grow up to accomplish her dream, but rather, she is going to be the most famous kid-author on the planet. She has already started-stopped many stories, leaving around open notebooks allowing her fairy stories to dance around her room. I'm not sure why she hasn't finished one, probably because she has realized that damn, this writing thing is hard. However, that still hasn't deterred her. 

I know she's only 8, and at her age I was convincing myself I should be a nurse, which obviously was so wrong for me. Yet, how cool would it be if you could see your child dream something at such a young age and then stick around to see it come to fruition? That would definitely make up for me never receiving that benefits package. 

Right now all I can do is support her current interests, so when I heard that one of Poonch's favorite authors was holding a book signing in the city, I knew I had to get her there. I wanted her to see that yes, Virginia, there are real people behind these books, people who have dreamed of being a writer (or author, however you want to look at it) since they were little, too. 

Of course this all involved that darn American Girl Doll store, because of course those are her favorite books, her favorite toy, her favorite hobby, her favorite everything. 

It didn't matter. I could handle AG for a few hours for Poonch. I could handle roaming the store as we waited for Valerie Tripp, Poonch's hero, to arrive. I could handle listening to Poonch rattle off an ever-growing Christmas list. I could handle the crowds, the dolls, the clothes, the furniture. Because after enduring all of this, we could see the line forming for the signing, and there, at the front, was Valerie Tripp. 

Almost immediately, Poonch's demeanor changed. She became fidgety but quiet. 

 

Her nerves started to get the better of her. I couldn't blame her, because even though I wasn't nervous per se, I did feel the electricity in the air. An author! An honest-to-goodness author! A woman who actually gets PAID to write, a woman who has people who actually READ her stuff! 

But this wasn't about me. It was about Poonch, and I didn't want her to be nervous. I wanted her to enjoy this, to soak it all in. We finally got to the front of the line, and Poonch handed her book to Ms. Tripp to be signed. They had a small conversation as I stood by, letting Poonch do the talking. And she did. She worked through her nerves and spoke with 

a real author,

just like she can be someday. 

But only if she still wants to, of course. 

I Should Have Just Ordered Out

I have admitted before that I am not a great cook. I can't throw things together like The Kitchen Witch or anyone on the Food Network. But I can follow a recipe. Sometimes. I have also mentioned that I don't like to diet (life is too short), but I do aim to serve my family healthy food. I've also realized that there is something about autumn that makes me want to cook. I don't know what it is, perhaps some sort of nesting phenomenon. The combination of all of these factors has motivated me to dig out recipes and meal plan. I've been sort of on a roll. 

There are obstacles: 

1. I can't truly cook. If I am out of an ingredient, I don't know what would be a good substitute. I am horrible at timing. Perhaps the potatoes are warm, but the tilapia is not. I am terrified of food poisoning, which usually results in slightly overcooked food. Luckily my non-discerning family can't tell the difference. 

2. Both Hubs and the girls are sort of picky, whereas I will eat anything and everything. Not only will I eat it, but I usually like it. 

I don't let either of these things stop me. Apparently my efforts have not gone unnoticed, as you will note from the following conversation:

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Setting: my kitchen, with me bent over a recipe book, mixing together ingredients to make a homemade caesar dressing (TKW, aren't you proud of me?)

Poonch: Mom, uuuuuummmmmm, are you like studying to be a chef or something?

Me: No, what makes you say that?

Poonch: Well you keep reading all those cooking books and making things. 

Me: I'm not reading things, I'm just following a recipe.

Poonch: Well, you keep making all these different foods instead of normal foods. 

(Note: the "different" foods she was referring to included low-fat chicken caesar salad, tilapia and salad, and a pasta/basil/chicken bake. You know...different.)

Me: Well, Poonch, what kind of normal food do you mean?

Poonch: You know, normal food. Like cheese pizza. 

.

Oh. Cheese pizza. Silly me. 

Can We Do This Again?

I admit, I use this blog to complain a lot. Sure, I try to hide it with humor, but the sarcasm and whining is still obviously there. But not this post. This post is dedicated to yesterday, a day that was the antithesis of a full moon-type day. Yesterday I was lost in Suburban BLISS, because for whatever reason, both girls were in a good mood, both girls were happy and laughing, both girls thought I was the coolest mom, and both girls got along. When these rare days occur, I usually give Chuckles the credit. Not this time. 

This time, Poonch was the most agreeable, lovable, content, proud, laughing, obedient, proactive, responsible, funny, empathetic daughter and older sis that I have ever witnessed.

She was the girl I know she can be, which is why I get so frustrated when she is not. 

She is my first-born, the one I spent ALL my time with, the one who changed my life. Yet she is my challenge. 

But not yesterday. Yesterday, she was the great big sis I know she can be. I mean, come on, she actually helped Chuckles with her homework, teaching her how to make the lower case "g."

If you had walked into my kitchen yesterday afternoon, you would have heard the words great job, you can do it, just try again, let me show you. And this time, it wasn't me spitting them out of my mouth.

Perhaps this is the norm in other houses. Not so much in mine, which is why I treasured it so. 

It was a good day. 

Check that, it was a great day.  

That's Going To Leave A Mark

Chuckles is the ultimate little sis. She adores her big sis, even when she is being tortured by said sis. Sure, they fight and get on each other's nerves, but Chuckles still loves her big sis, no matter what. 

She loves her big sis so much that while walking in the hallway at school today, Chuckles spotted big sis out the window on the playground and became excited.

She became so excited that she started waving like a loon, and proceeded to walk straight into a metal pole in the middle of a hallway doorway. 

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BONK! Oof...

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Thus, Chuckles landed herself in the nurse's office with an ice pack on her head after just three weeks of kindergarten. And to top it off, big sis was too busy with her 3rd grade friends on the playground and never even saw little sis waving at her. 

What a bummer. 

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The funniest part? Chuckles couldn't wait to tell big sis her story.

guess what, guess what, i saw you on the playground aaannnd i wasn't looking aaannnd i walked right into this metal thingEE, and it really hurt, and then i got to go to the nurse's office, and she knew my name, and, and, and she gave me some ice, but it was a boring ice pack, not the princess one or the bear one like we have, and...

Friday Foto

We had one final farewell to summer on Labor Day. Unfortunately, I missed Chuckles jumping into the lake by a millisecond. That girl is always too fast for me. 

Happy Friday. And more importantly, remember 9/11. This picture is in sharp contrast to those horrific pictures we saw on this day 8 years ago, wouldn't you say?

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(note: forgive me for not commenting in the past week or so, I have been crazy busy. hopefully I will get back to my regular routine soon...)

Yes, She Can

The other day Poonch brought home a note in her backpack stating that the school would be showing a speech by Obama. The last sentence mentioned that if any parent wanted his/her child not to view the speech, the school would provide additional activities. I read the note quickly and put it in the recycling pile and didn't give it another thought. 

Later that night I logged onto Facebook and was bombarded by the issue. So-and-so voted NO! in the "Will you let your child watch the President's speech" poll. Another so-and-so voted NO! Someone pasted a declaration not to have their child become a vehicle for bipartisan issues. Others urged their schools not to show the speech. Another called the superintendent. 

At this point, the only thing I knew about the speech was that it was a Back-to-School rah-rah-rah for kids, encouraging them to stay in school. What was I missing? Was there something in the speech that my 3rd grader shouldn't hear? I couldn't figure out how that would be, since Obama has two young girls himself. Would he say anything inappropriate? And really, what would be considered inappropriate? Even if he toted his healthcare reform, which I doubted, because what would be the point of telling that to kids as young as 6, would that really be reason to pull my child out of the class? 

I couldn't figure out what everyone was reacting to, as no one knew exactly what the speech would discuss. Didn't anyone else see the irony in that? As the furor grew, I became depressed. What sort of message were we sending to our kids? Whether we are Conservative, Moderate, Liberal, how could we be judging something before knowing what it was all about? Isn't that what we should be teaching our kids not to do?

I read the speech transcript once it was released. Regardless of how I feel about the White House's politics (and I won't discuss them here, so don't ask), I liked the speech. It was a good speech. The kind of speech that the kids might actually listen to. The kind of speech that they might get something out of. It didn't talk about health care reform or any other touchy issues, it talked about being your best. I would invite anyone to tell my kid that. 

I decided not to make a big deal of the speech with Poonch. I didn't tell her she would be seeing it, but planned on asking her about it after school, after her snack of course, which I have learned is the best time thanks to previous hunger/homework meltdowns. It turns out I didn't even have to wait that long. As we were walking home from school Poonch turned to me and said:

.

We saw Barack Obama today. Did you know that JK Rowling's Harry Potter manuscript was rejected 12 times before someone believed in her?

Where did you learn that, Poonch?

Obama told me. 

What else did he tell you?

He said that anyone can be anything. 

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It all seems so silly now, doesn't it? 

I wish I could be innocent enough to believe that my President is someone to listen to, someone to look up to. I wish I could be innocent enough to believe that aiming to BE president is something to be admired. I wish I could be innocent enough to think the world is a safe place because the President and my parents say it is. Even though I lost that innocence long ago, I am certainly not going to take that away from my daughter yet. She admires her President, and I hate that other adults are telling her not to. 

.

He said that anyone can be anything. 

Dirty Bristles

It was a busy day, although nothing really happened. 

I got a lot done, yet there is a ton still to do. 

Everyone made it to work, to school, was fed, did homework. 

Regardless, there was nothing to blog about today. 

Or so I thought. Luckily, my girls did not disappoint and pulled out a post last night around 8PM, when they went upstairs to brush their teeth for the night. 

I feel I must set the scene for my dear readers. Lately, the two of them together have been like clowns. Monkeying around, laughing, joking, avoiding chores, riling up the dog, stealing toys, running full speed to get away from the other, screaming, mocking, spilling milk, basically anything and everything other than what they are supposed to be doing. 

In other words, driving me absolutely batty. 

It has gotten to the point where I do not allow them in the bathroom at the same time anymore. If one needs to brush her hair, the other needs to be making her bed. Then they switch. Perhaps it sounds a little mean or over the top. Keep in mind that I am a member of the Mean Mommy Club. If I allowed these maniacs to brush their hair at the same time, I would come into a bathroom that has headbands strewn across the floor, ponytail holders flung across the room (most likely used as slingshots), and maybe even a few barrettes on the toilet seat. And that's just the damage to the room, not to mention the girls. 

A similar scene plays out while washing hands, their faces, etc, etc. The actual task isn't important (obviously). 

Each girl provides the perfect distraction to the other, resulting in a perfect headache for me. 

Back to last night: Hubs sent them upstairs to brush their teeth. Together. Otherwise known as Mistake Number One. Within 30 seconds, the inevitable occurred...laughing, then yelling, and next, screaming. Chuckles barreled down the stairs to tell us that Poonch had swirled her toothbrush in the toilet. Thoroughly disgusted, Hubs called Poonch down to yell at her, because surely she started it. Mistake Number Two. In the middle of the throwdown, Poonch revealed that Chuckles swirled Poonch's toothbrush in the toilet, and she did it first. Poonch merely swirled as payback. Silence ensued as our heads swiveled over to Chuckles. She tried to keep a straight face, but her quivering cheeks betrayed her. Even as she realized she was in trouble, she couldn't stop laughing. 

A whopping 3 days in the public school system and my 5-year-old has already resorted to gross bathroom high jinks. 

I think it is going to be a long school year. Actually, a long year in general. 

Devil With The Plaid Skirt

Yesterday was Poonch's first day of school. The tradition is that the parents get to walk the kids to their classroom line on the first day, a time to take pics and quickly meet the teachers. Three years ago when she started kindergarten, Hubs and I walked Poonch to school and all three of us waited in line nervously, quietly. Being new to the neighborhood, we didn't know anyone. Not a single soul, although everyone seemed to know everyone else. It was awkward and nerve-wracking, not to mention very emotional. We didn't really do a lot of talking, just some inpatient shuffling. 

That seems so long ago. Each year has gotten easier and more exciting. This year was the best yet. This year Poonch ran to her line, instead of dragging her feet. This year two girls ran up to her to give her hugs, screaming as they approached. This year Poonch posed for pictures with her friends without putting up a stink. 

But this year? This is the first year that I noticed the girls checking out each other's outfits. Commenting on skirts. Noting that brightly colored ties (think the neons from the 80s) are the new (old) "in" thing. Three girls in Poonch's class, including her (thank God), were wearing them. Another thing they liked? Plaid skirts. Yeah, I like your skirt. Oh, thanks. Is that a new back pack? Cool! 

I should have been clued into this earlier, as a few weeks ago Poonch declared while clothes shopping...

Mom, I need to pick out my own clothes now. Cuz I'm older now. And I need style. Older kids just HAVE to have style. 

Oh. 

What? All those Gap outfits I have bought over the years weren't good enough? Those cute skirts with matching shoes not working for you anymore? Embroidered jeans just too...embroidered? For crying out loud, you just learned to tie your shoe yesterday! 

I guess my style is just not up to third-grade standards. I'll show 'em. Tomorrow I'm going to wear elastic waistband jeans. Maybe I'll snap the waist a few times while I am walking Poonch to school. Yeah. I'll show those girls some style, all right. 

It's starting. And I fear there is no going back. 

Friday Foto

The quality of this photo is crap, but I just had to post it. Remember how I was agonizing over how to avoid explaining the meaning of certain popular songs to the girls? I needn't have worried. I came across this while cleaning out Poonch's room yesterday afternoon. Check out her favorite song. 

Happy Friday. 

The Wheels On The Bus...Go?

Yesterday, Poonch's Girl Scout camp bus never showed at the designated meeting spot. Today, it did. But I'm not sure that was necessarily a good thing. 

Is it me, or does that bus look similar to busses seen in summer camp slasher movies? You know, the kind of movie that usually involves a guy in a mask? Yeah, that's the bus I put my kid on, kissing her and telling her that today would be better than yesterday. Maybe today there will be no canoeing, and maybe today the spiders will have left. Maybe today you will make a new friend. 

Meanwhile, over at Camp Coyote, Chuckles is having a grand ol' time. She happens to know a boy in her camping group and found out one of her classmates is with her as well. There is no seaweed, but even if there was, she wouldn't care. There aren't many spiders, but again, it wouldn't bother her a whole lot if there were. She goes happily and confidently, sure that the day will work out as she would like it to. She's already made a new friend to add to those she already knows, and goes to bed excited for the next day's camping adventures.

Things come easily for Chuckles, and they always have. I'm not entirely sure, but I think Poonch might know this. She doesn't seem to resent it, at least not yet. I'm sure that resentment will come along with the teenage angst that is just waiting to surface. I can almost see it, lurking behind the shadows, taunting me, whispering and giggling behind its elementary school mask. 

But for now, I will be grateful for Chuckles' easy disposition and flexibility, for it allows me more energy to encourage and help Poonch through the murky way of the seaweed-filled grade school years. I will be there to celebrate when she has an easy day, and I will be there to hug her when her day stinks. 

I'm just not so sure about that bus. But for some reason, I convinced Poonch that she should be. Happy trails to you, Poonch. 

 

Hello Mudder, Hello Fadder

Dear Parent, 

Please list any fears your camper may have:

1. fear of the unknown

Which didn't help Poonch when the bus she was supposed to ride to camp never showed. There stood 20 girls at the meeting spot, including Poonch, 19 of whom she didn't know, stranded. Several moms decided to just drive their girls straight to the camp. Something that I couldn't do because the camp was 40 minutes away and I had to have Chuckles at a different camp in 15 minutes. So much for my kids-away-at-camp-I've-got-it-made day. Four girls remained, again 3 of whom Poonch didn't know. The lone counselor who was supposed to ride the bus with all of these girls decided she could fit the remaining four into her car, as long as Poonch didn't mind riding in the front seat. 

You must be 12 to sit in the front in Illinois. Poonch is 8. I sent her anyway. Skipping the first day of a week-long day camp would not help Poonch in making new friends. Skipping the first day of a week-long camp at which she knew no one would isolate her that much more. I sent her, tears silently falling down her face and all. Once the car left the parking lot, I cursed myself. Stupid camp. 

2. fear of seaweed

After a long 7 hours, I went back to where the camp promised the bus WOULD drop off the campers. Fifteen minutes late, it finally pulled in. I pushed and shoved until I was the first one in line, because after the morning's debacle, I did not want Poonch to be the one searching the crowd for her mommy. As she stepped off the bus, I could read the stress on her face. 

I didn't go canoeing. 

Her tears started to fall, but she checked them in front of the other girls. 

Seaweed? I asked, already knowing.

She nodded. 

3. fear of spiders

But we did get to go swimming, in a pool, not a pond, but for ONLY 10 minutes! Isn't that ridiculous? Only 10 minutes! But I have bad news. We had to change in the pool house which was LOADED with dead daddy long legs and one alive mommy long leg, so I quietly freaked out by myself in a corner and changed as fast as I could and ran out of there...

I quietly freaked out myself for this poor kid and peeled the hell out of that parking lot. 

We'll do it again tomorrow. 

Gettin' Snippy

Every kid gives her mother reason to worry. If that reason happens to correct itself, usually another reason to worry pops up. At least that is the way it is with me and my kids. 

Last week I had good reason to worry about Poonch. I was brushing her hair when I noticed that she had mysteriously grown a sideburn. Now, Poonch has had long hair with her bangs grown out for years. To her, her hair is her crowning glory, while to me, her locks provide most of my morning frustration. Her not-yet-curly-sort-of-wavy-sometimes-straight-full-frizzy-chlorine-filled hair is a pain in the ass to do. It has been the cause of many frustrating mornings, and trust me, I am putting this lightly. (screaming, crying, brush-throwing, running-from-mommy, threats-from-me-to-chop-it-off, no-I-don't-want-a-ponytail, boys-are-so-much-easier)

The appearance of the spontaneous sideburn meant only one thing. This girl had cut her OWN hair. Son of a ...

Seeing as Poonch was already crabby about me brushing the knots out of her hair, I wasn't sure how to broach the subject. So, I just came out and said...

Poonch, did you cut your hair? (At least, I hope that is how I asked it, because inside it went more like WTF did you do to your hair, girl??)

No answer. Which in our house implies culpability. Every time. 

OK, Poonch, I know you cut your hair, but what I want to know is why? 

(WTF were you THINKING???)

No answer. 

To make a long one-sided conversation short, she finally admitted that she was angry and had chopped off her hair. She refused to tell me what she was so angry about. Something I had done, surely. 

This confession resulted in all sorts of internal conversations in my head. 

OMG, Poonch is completely out of control

she needs an anger management class

should I send her to a shrink?

WHAT in God's name will she be like as a teenager?

These conversations were still gaining momentum in my head days later as I was cleaning out the playroom closet, which on a good day, looks like this:

You can only imagine what it looks like on a bad day. No comments, please. Anyhow, as my head was in the bowels of this eyesore, I came upon this:

At first I thought this specimen was the missing link, but quickly realized it was Poonch's missing hair, stuck to a hardened piece of Juicy Fruit. Perhaps another mom would be disturbed to find this in a playroom closet. Not me. Nope. I did a few jumping jacks of joy because lucky me, my girl doesn't have anger management issues, she just can't keep her darn gum in her mouth! 

 

All that worrying for nothing. 

 

8 Years Ago

Yesterday I couldn't figure out how to post to my own blog because of changes TypePad made to their hosting site (a few of which you'll notice if you leave me a comment). Basically what it boiled down to is that even though I have been blogging for almost a year, I really don't know what I am doing. Sure, I can write the words down, but as for the other programming stuff that could go with it, well, I fake it. 

Which goes with how I feel today. Eight years ago, Poonch was born, officially making me a mother. I had no idea what I was doing then, and 8 years later, I still have no idea what I am doing now. 

Sometimes I fake it. 

I thought my self-doubt would get better with time. I was wrong. I long for the days where my biggest problem was how to get Poonch to nap or to eat. When I look back on it now, it seems so easy, even though I know it wasn't. I am sure in 8 more years I will look back on today and think the same thing as I am lost in the throes of the teen years. 

That day 8 years ago changed my life forever. I will never forget it. I will never forget the look on Hubs' face when the nurse announced it was time to push. He was terrified, even though I was the one doing all the work. (He still gets that look sometimes...)

That day 8 years ago seems like just yesterday, yet at the same time, I hardly remember a time without Poonch. I vaguely remember less responsibility and more freedom, but like the pain of childbirth, it becomes fainter and fainter as time passes. 

That day 8 years ago Poonch made me a mommy. And for that, I will be forever grateful. That's one part of parenting that I am not faking. 

Happy Birthday to my baby. 

Daddy on a Plane, Daughter on a Field

...I'm a travelin' man...

Fourteen hours after we had finally arrived home from our week-long vacation in California, Hubs had to turn around and get back on a plane for a week-long business trip. Now, I could complain about how my week went as a single parent. But I'll save that for another post. Instead I will focus on Hubs, who spent his week in Phoenix and St. Louis, sitting in hour after hour of research that at first is interesting, but then becomes a bit droll. (I should know. I've been there, and I succinctly remember one research session where I was so bored that I started counting the M-n-M colors and then kept a running tally of how many I ate. I ate a lot.)

Clients. Research. Hotel rooms. Bad coffee. All Hubs wanted was to get home on Friday night as promised. 

And then the summer thunderstorms rolled in. Flash flood warnings. Hail sightings. Tornado watches. 

All which lead to the inevitable, a canceled flight. 

Hubs is a pretty good traveler. But not that night. I have never heard him so unraveled, except for that time when Chuckles decided to be born really fast to make her due date and on the way to the hospital we got stopped by 3 trains. We were both pretty unraveled that night. Again, another post for another day. 

But I know him. And he was tired. And homesick. And kidsick. And wifesick. And even, dogsick.

And we wanted him home, too. 

I can make it home by 12 noon tomorrow, just in time for Poonch's softball game, he said when he called for the 80th time, updating me on his situation. 

We are not naive. We know that with Hubs' job, there is no way he will ever be there for all of the girls' functions. Do we like it? No. But it is what it is. He has a demanding job, but he has a job, and for that I am thankful. 

But this was Poonch's first softball game. You know Poonch, that girly-girl I talk about? The one who tried basketball and even though she sort of liked it, is a dancer at heart? Whirl and twirl and glitter and gloss?

Yeah, that Poonch. 

Which is why it killed me to tell him that Poonch's game started at 11:00, not 1:00 as he thought. 

Insert tired husband's expletives here.

And that is why I love him. Because he wanted to be there. Because he tried everything he could to be there. Checked the Amtrack schedule. Tried to rent a car. Called other airlines. Just to be there for Poonch's game, regardless of what Mother Nature had in mind. 

I don't know what time he landed Saturday morning. I don't know how fast he drove from the airport (although I can guess). 

All I know is that he arrived at the field in time to see Poonch take her turn as catcher (which she hated, as they all did)...

 

and was there to reassure her when she decided she was the worst player on the team. Daddy to the rescue. 

I'm sure he'll be a little embarrassed about this. Whatevs, he embarrasses me a lot, too. 

But I just wanted to wish a Happy Father's Day (a little late) to my overworked Hubs (who is traveling again as I type). 

Friday Foto

Poonch was upset with Hubs and me during our audio tour of Alcatraz, because she was several chapters ahead of us on her player and we refused to skip to where she was. She decided to pout here in the dining hall. I thought it was an ironic place to take on the parentals, seeing as it was Alcatraz, for crying out loud.

Man, that girl is brave. 

Happy Friday. 

Through Her Eyes

Today is Poonch's last day of school. 

And just like that, my oldest baby moves on to the third grade. But while I was musing on this tidbit, Poonch was musing on something much different. 

She was a little crabby before school this morning, and when I asked her about it, she said that she was nervous about passing 2nd grade. I chuckled and told her she was being silly, of course she would pass 2nd grade! When I mentioned this to Hubby on the phone a little later on, he laughed just as I had laughed when Poonch originally confessed her fear to me. And as we laughed together, I realized my blunder. I shouldn't make light of Poonch's worry. What kind of mom am I?  Suddenly, I felt horrible. Because although to me the thought of Poonch, who reads at a 4th grade level, not passing 2nd grade is humorous, to her it is a very real worry.

Last week I had a very enlightening conversation. I was speaking to a district official about whether or not a certain reading program was right for Poonch, and although she gave me a ton of helpful information, she made one comment that stood out:

Second grade is only a blip on her academic radar. 

I let the comment go, partly because I knew what she meant and partly because I agreed with her. I merely tucked it back into my brain for later processing (as I am ought to do). I didn't think about it again until today, when Hubs and I were chuckling over Poonch's worries. Sure, 2nd grade IS a blip on the radar. On our radar. 

But not on Poonch's radar. 

For her, 2nd grade is the most important job she has. It's the only job she has. For her, that spelling test was huge. For her, that math test could have meant the end of the world. Although we stress academics in our house, there are certain things Hubs and I take with a grain of salt. Poonch missed a word on the test? No biggie. That's what spell-check was invented for. Not sure of those math facts? Wait til Poonch finds out that most people use calculators and computers all day long. 

Day after day I look at Poonch's world through my eyes. And therein lies the problem. She is not living in my adult world. She is living in her world, a 7-year-old's world. A world so different from mine, as it should be. A world in which spelling, math, reading, and handwriting is everything. 

A world in which swinging on swings, splashing in the pool, singing, dancing, and a popsicle here and there can still fix the boo-boos of life. 

I need to remember to look at Poonch's world the way she does. 

Gosh, I hope she passes 2nd grade. I'll be waiting with the box of popsicles just in case she doesn't. (smile)

Stitches, Glue, and Deja Vu

I think something funky is going on with the universe, and lately I feel like I have been in stuck in a giant deja vu episode. 

It started Memorial Day Weekend when I marched with Poonch's Brownie troop in our city's parade. Generic enough, but as I walked along and saw all of the flags waving, my mind raced back to when I was 8 and my Brownie troop (of which my mom was also the leader) marched in a parade. The strongest memory I have is of me decorating my bike with red, white, and blue streamers, lovingly wrapping the crepe paper around my monkey handlebars and hanging them from my banana seat. I haven't thought of that bike in eons. That's pretty much all my brain will let me remember. My mom reminded me of some awful hill that we had to climb, but happily that part is still buried somewhere under neurons that no longer fire. 

The deja vu continued last week when I volunteered for Poonch's sports day. I was supposed to be there as the adult to lead her class from game to game, and although I did manage to pull that off, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had been transported 30 years into the past. Not only did the actual games take me back to my own sports days, but the kids themselves and the way they interacted with each other reminded me of so much that had been buried for decades. 

Piling the retro onto my week, on Thursday I got a call from Poonch's school informing me that she had fallen on the playground and split open her chin. 

It was only once we were in the cold ER and I was trying to keep Poonch from going into an all-out freak-out over the thought of having stitches that I recalled cutting open my own chin 30 years ago. Noticing Poonch's panic level rising, I quickly told her the story.

As usual, my mother had dressed me in the itchiest, most uncomfortable shirt she could find. It was white. And lacy. And eyeletty. And elasticy. And I hated it. I felt smothered in that thing. I put up the biggest stink I could, but unfortunately for me, we were headed to a party later that afternoon so there was no getting out of wearing it. With time to spare before the party, I strapped on my favorite "high-heeled" sandals (although that heel that was way too high for a first grader), and hopped on my bike to cruise around, mumbling about how much I hated that shirt. Pulling at the neck, I turned left out of our driveway and headed toward a huge bump in the sidewalk, a bump that we always used to pop a wheelie. Except this time, the only thing that popped was my butt out of the seat, landing me on the sidewalk with my chin breaking my fall. As I ran back home crying, I had no idea that blood was streaming down the front of that awful shirt. Three stitches later, my mom had to let me change, claiming that I had bloodied the shirt on purpose. (Surely I could have taken the easy way out and rolled around to produce a few grass stains.)

The story had Poonch laughing, and in the end, she didn't need stitches, just some topical anesthetic (not the injection INTO the laceration like I had, that I remember like it was yesterday) and glue. Yes, glue. 

Perhaps this is why we have children, to remind us of memories like this. Because without her, I doubt any of this would have come to the surface this week, although I could have gone another lifetime without thinking about that shirt again.

Man, I can't WAIT til she goes to college...oh, the sweet memories (or lack thereof)!!

Goose This

Tammy from Keep In Touch With Mommakin wrote a post the other day about volunteering in her daughter's classroom. Actually, her post talked about how she tries to avoid volunteering a whole lot and her oh-so-good reasons why. (If you haven't visited her, be sure to check her out today, because she is super cool and her blog rocks. Literally. Trust me, you won't be disappointed.)

Anyhow, her post struck a cord with me, because I don't hang out in my girls' classrooms a ton, either. Don't get me wrong, I do my fair share of volunteering. I mean, being that darn Brownie leader should score me a couple of points. However, I prefer to help behind the scenes, like cutting out fun fair decorations or typing up kids' stories. 

One of the reasons that I don't like to volunteer is that I always second-guess my role. Should I be taking more control? Should I back up and just let the teacher tell me what to do? Do I treat the other kids as my own? Do I give special treatment to my kid? Do I call the teacher by her first name? Does she not see what that bully just did, etc, etc. 

However, the other day I decided to volunteer for Sports Day. I always had good memories of Sports Day when I was a kid, so I thought it would be a fun way to bond with Poonch and her class without any of my crazy issues coming into play. 

Wrong. 

Although I had signed up to sit under a shady tree and relax man a water table, somehow I was put in charge of leading Poonch's class around to each game. Although not as easy as manning a water table, it was far better than running a game, especially that darn water balloon toss. 

Gathering up Poonch's class, I led them from the relay to the parachute, to Knock-Out, and then to the Duck, Duck, Goose area. It was your basic game with a few twists. I chose to stand back and watch the game and didn't plan on partaking in the fun. Um, yeah, until that kid who wore the tuxedo shirt in the class photo thought it would be funny to tag me goose. Whatevs. I dropped my water bottle and started running. Damn, but that kid was fast, and I never caught up to him. 

I was It. 

Now, by this point, most of the kids had already been goosed. The only ones left were three boys I didn't really know, and Poonch. Great. I started tapping heads. 

Duck, Duck, Duck...

Just like when I volunteer in the classroom, my mind started racing.

Crap. Darn that kid for tapping me. Who should I goose? Poonch is the only girl left. If I goose one of the boys, most likely the second-to-last boy will goose the last boy. 

Duck, Duck, Duck...

Which means the last boy will have to goose Poonch, making her last. Which she'll hate. 

Duck, Duck, Duck...

But if I pick Poonch, how predictable is that? Damn this PTO! If I goose her, am I favoring my own kid?

Duck, Duck, Duck...

Of course I am! But I'm her mom, and dammit, I want to goose her! 

Duck, Duck, Duck...

Wait, maybe the second-to-last boy will pick Poonch. 

Duck, Duck, Duck...

No he won't.

Duck, Duck, Duck...

All these thoughts raced faster through my head than I could make it around the circle of giggling kids, who started to fidget as I went around the circle a third time. They all knew who I was picking. 

Duck, Duck, Duck...

And as I looked into her smiling eyes, so did she. 

GOOSE!!

BFFs

It was inevitable, of course. 

It happens to every child. 

Poonch was pulled out into the hallway by her teacher today. 

She wasn't the only one, though. A few other girls were pulled out with her, because apparently this group is stuck in the middle of a little, well...

girl drama. 

You know the drama I am talking about. We are all girls here. We've all experienced it. 

she said this, you're not my friend, I don't want to play with you, she hurt my feelings, you're not cool,

GO AWAY. 

I love being a girl. Girls are passionate, determined, intelligent, caring, interested, creative, and talented. 

But girls can also be mean, dramatic, cliquey, gossipy, and unsure of themselves. 

Mix all of this together, add in a little sugar high here and there, some thirst, maybe some impatience over a math assignment, and sometimes you've got a tornado. 

I won't go into details about the dynamics Poonch is experiencing, but we are lucky to have an awesome teacher who helped the girls talk through their problem. When Poonch got home this afternoon, I could tell she was nervous to tell me what happened, but I am so glad she did, because it opened up a great conversation. 

It is hard to be a kid. 

It can be even harder to be a kid in the middle of a group. 

Especially if that group is a bunch of girls too smart for their own good. 

I wish I could tell Poonch that it gets better. But it doesn't. As a matter of fact, I know it will get worse. Maybe much worse. 

I wish I could tell Poonch that this all stops once you reach adulthood. But it doesn't. As a matter of fact, I am going through a drama of my own with some of my girlfriends as I type this. And I am thirty-something years old. 

I wish I could tell Poonch to screw 'em and go do your own thing. Well, I do tell her that, actually. But I know how precious those best friends can be. I know how fun it is to laugh with your girlfriends until you start crying and your belly aches. I know what it is like to have girlfriends who know your past and never ask questions. I know what it is like to find those rare girlfriends who accept you for who you are and love you to pieces. 

But it takes time to build those friendships. And Poonch is only 7 and still learning how to be a friend, and just as importantly, learning who is a true friend to her. 

I can only encourage Poonch to be sure of herself, to be confident, and to respect herself. Because I don't think she will be able to find her true beautiful self in the middle of a drama if she doesn't have that. 

Yet, so far, this has been the hardest parenting trick to turn of them all. 

When Was It?

I had the lovely pleasure of hanging with our Brownie troop today. The plan was to stop at McDonald's for a quick ice cream and then head to a grocery/everything but-the-kitchen-sink-oh-wait-they-do-sell-sinks-too store for a behind the scenes tour. Because, you know, everyone wants to know what happens behind the scenes at your local grocery store, right? I mean, aren't you dying to know how those milk jugs just keep appearing like magic?

Sigh. 

Looking back on the afternoon, I have to ask myself...

When did I first know? 

Was it when the girls starting climbing the trees before we even left the school grounds?

Was it when I was stuck in the bathroom with one of the girls and her bloody mouth thanks to losing a tooth? 

Was it when a few other girls came into the bathroom, saw the blood, and started screaming? 

Was it when we finally got to the grocery/everything store, watching in vain as the girls ran through all of the aisles as if they have never been grocery shopping before?

Was it when I noticed everyone staring?

Was it when the girls found the aisle displaying the toilet seats, for which they could not resist in sticking their heads into all 20 of them, laughing hysterically and making fart and poop sounds? 

Was it when one Brownie picked up one head of cabbage and 5 more fell off and rolled off down the aisle?  (Does anyone else think it is funny that cabbage followed toilet seats?)

Was it when we were back in the car and someone decided to slobber all over my window, the same window that I had just cleaned Hound slobber off of? 

Was it when one girl said our car smells like a cat fart? But another girl insisted it smells like Disney World? (I've been to Disney, and I'm thinking this was not a compliment.)

Was it when one girl spit apple on another, in an effort to be funny?

Was it when they broke into their goody bags the store gave them and used the toothbrushes they found as swords and yelled PREPARE TO DIE! over and over? 

Was it when they decided to see who could scream the longest? 

Was it when we were stuck in rush hour traffic, 30 minutes past when we said we would deliver the girls home? 

WHEN WAS IT that I realized that I had truly and officially lost any resemblance of my sanity????

I'm not sure. It might have been when I started rocking back and forth in the driver's seat muttering under my breath...

Poonch needs to be silly like this. 

Poonch needs to be silly like this. 

Poonch needs to be silly like this. 

Mama needs a glass of wine. 

Mama needs a glass of wine. 

Mama needs a glass of wine. 

 

Bugs

Perhaps I have mentioned that I am a germophobe. (I was a bio major in college. Microbiology classes can be very eye-opening.)

I can walk into Chuck E. Cheese's and literally see the e.coli jumping around from game to game. 

McDonald's play lands? Forget it. I throw up a little in my mouth when I think of those. 

Those gooey handles on fast-food restaurant ketchup dispensers? Disgusting. Pump, pump, gross, gross. 

Don't even get me started on public restrooms. If there was ever any time when I wished I had boys, it is every time I go into a public restroom. I'm not sure what it is about those shiny silver handles on either side of the toilet, but as my girls are sitting there, they immediately grab them and start rubbing their hands all over them. As a matter of fact, they rub their hands all over everything in public restrooms, like the entire room is a giant Buddha belly. 

The grossest thing? Kids. Seriously. I never realized how gross kids are until I had them. Talk about walking germ mines. Boogers, nose picking, eye rubbing, tooth picking, finger sucking, cup sharing, butt scratching, the arm-nose wipe...yuck.

My favorite paranoia? West Nile. Every time once of us gets a mosquito bite (which is a LOT), I am convinced we have been hit. 

So when Hubby asked me if I was panicking about the swine flu, we were both surprised when I answered no. 

When will you hit DEFCON 4? he joked.

When you travel or when there is a positive case in our county, I calmly replied back.

Two days later, there were two positive cases in our county, as close as the next city over. Actually, 2 minutes from our house. Four schools and a park district in our area are still shut down. Actually more than that, but I am just counting the areas we visit. 

Surprisingly, I still wasn't worried. Not sure why. Maybe because I was just so happy that I survived the First Communion craziness. Or perhaps it was the fact that my fave summer beer is finally back on the store shelves and in my fridge. Who knows. I remained casual about the whole swine flu thing, until...

Poonch woke up at 3AM last night with a 

fever. 

headache. 

and a cough. 

Sons of bitches. See, that is what I get for NOT worrying!

I gave her some Motrin and hit every web site I could about the swine flu. Poonch's symptoms were a classic case. Had we been to Mexico? Nope. Been in contact with anyone who had the virus? Not that I knew of. Was Poonch super sick? Not really. As a matter of fact, any other day I would never even have called the doctor. 

But I did. And we went. 

And she does NOT have the swine flu. Just a virus. 

Thank god. 

Now back to my regularly scheduled worrying...is that a mosquito???

Catch-Up

So, last week I posted about a few things that warrant updates:

The Reusable Sandwich and Snack Bags

OK, I have to admit, although I was all bad-ass and excited to order these reusable bags to help the environment, I was secretly dreading cleaning two more lunch box accessories. Because I don't think I have actually told anyone HOW MUCH I HATE ANYTHING HAVING TO DO WITH PACKING OR UNPACKING SCHOOL LUNCHES. I really do. I hate making sandwiches. I hate getting peanut butter all over my finger. I hate counting out carrot sticks. I hate wiping down crumbs. I hate rinsing cold pasta out of the thermos. (Gag.) I hate emptying water bottles. If only Poonch would eat those disgusting hot lunches...sigh. 

Anyhow, I dreaded wiping these bags down. But in reality, it wasn't so bad. Poonch had a peanut butter sandwich that really didn't make a mess at all (no crumbs in the bag, imagine that) and then some goldfish in the snack bag, which, for all my bitching, was pretty easy to wipe out. 

And, just FYI, for you commenters who asked, the bags are dishwasher and washing machine safe. Hooray! 

TV Turn-Off Week

Although I posted this last Thursday, the conversation I wrote about actually took place on Tuesday. Which is the day that I broke and turned on American Idol. And Real Housewives. And the Today Show (that I actually turned on Monday morning). Oops. But wait, was this week for adults, too? Anyhow, Chuckles made it to Thursday (not counting that 20 mins on Tuesday), when it was actually me who broke down and let her watch SpongeBob for an hour. I know, I know, but I was getting ready for all of the out-of-town guests we were having for Poonch's Communion, so I really didn't have time to sit down and do Pixos or anything like that. My bad. But a little over an hour for the entire week for a couch potato isn't all that bad. 

The good news...Poonch made it all week. She didn't even ask to turn on the TV once. Not bad. 

And for those of you who will ask? I doubt I will try this again next year. Well, maybe. It wasn't that bad. 

Wait, what am I saying? I love me some TV!

 

Stolen Moments

I have written a couple of posts in the recent past in which I have cast Poonch in a not-so-good light. If she ever reads this one day, she'll probably be really mad at me. But then again, she gets mad at me a lot, so really, what is the difference?

Poonch is the one and only person in this world who made me a mother for the first time. Unfortunately for her, Hubs and I make all of our mistakes with her, fix our ways a little, then turn to Chuckles and do it right. I have a sneaking suspicion that Poonch has sort of figured this out. That, and her extremely strong-willed personality can make for an interesting mix. 

Because I love her so, and because I hate making mistakes, I tend to fixate on any road bumps Poonch and I travel over. Thus, the ranting posts. Which is too bad, really. 

This past weekend Poonch made her First Communion. Although we were both looking forward to it, each of us stressed about it in our own way. I stressed about the dustballs under the coffee table (which I now realize that no one would have noticed if I had left them there) and she stressed about all the people who would be focusing on her (which they only do because they care). Although around our house Poonch loves to be the center of attention, she actually hates to have the spotlight on her when it comes to social functions such as this one. I can't say I blame her. Sometimes this stress shows itself in some of her infamous freak-outs. Even though at the time I know why she is acting out, sometimes it is still hard for me to deal with. And I know it is hard for her to deal with, too. 

Eventually those moments pass, and one like this will occur. 

And of course, a moment like this is what makes everything worth it. 

Lost in Green Bliss

Back when I was in college, I wanted to save the universe. (Didn't we all?) For about half a year, I majored in Environmental Sciences. What I really wanted to be was a marine biologist, which is ironic because we can barely keep Poonch's goldfish alive. Check that, we CAN'T keep those goldfish alive. I think maybe it was the idea of sun and surf that really appealed to me. But I was appalled at how we humans treated our planet and wanted to do something about it. After college, I was this close to getting a job with the US Geological Survey in NC. I didn't get it, which is good, because I went the complete opposite way and took an advertising job in Chicago where I met Hubs. (But that is another post for another day.)

I'm not sure how I fell off the environmental bandwagon, maybe because I realized that it is HARD to be good to the planet. It certainly is not convenient to be environmentally conscious. But I am trying.  We have changed out most of our light bulbs to the CFLs, we I try to turn off lights in rooms that we are not in, the girls have gotten pretty good at recycling, we don't really use fertilizer that much anymore (partly due to the Hound, but man is our grass suffering), and we even bought a rain barrel for the cottage in Wisconsin. (OK, so it's not hooked up yet, but still.)

Although I am trying to set a good example for the girls, Poonch is really the one who has embraced Earth Day this year. She has made the following announcements at dinner:

she no longer wants to eat at McDonald's and Burger King because, according to her, they kill animals. It may be interesting to note that at the time, we were eating hamburgers that we had grilled out. 

she does not want to use anything that destroys rainforests. Again, it may be interesting to note that she was holding two books MADE OF PAPER, OF COURSE, books of her own because although she does love to borrow from the library, she would prefer to just have her own stash. 

she no longer wants to chew gum because it comes from rainforests. That lasted a day. 

she no longer wants to do anything that has to do with wood, because, again, the rainforests. 

I mock, but only because I love her. If Poonch is anything, she is definitely passionate about her beliefs. This passion usually causes a strife between us for one reason or another, but I still admire her even while I am sighing in frustration. 

Though I cannot will not talk her out of the above proclamations, we did discuss other things we could do to help the environment. Focusing on her school day, we use at least 2 to 3 Ziploc bags for her lunch alone. That means that for the year, we use over 350 plastic bags, if not more. That's a lot of garbage, Poonch proclaimed. I agreed. 

So, yesterday we went to ReusableBags.com and ordered some reusable snack and sandwich bags. We haven't received them yet, so I can't tell you what we think of them. (This isn't a product review, anyhow. Just some earthy musings.) But I have a feeling that we are going to feel better about sticking those in her lunch box instead of all that plastic. Of course, that means this is more work for me, as I will have to clean them daily. But this post wasn't about convenience, was it?  

Happy Earth Day. 

Get That Cereal Off Of My Calendar

I am sort of anal retentive. Perhaps slightly obsessive compulsive. When it comes to my calendar, that is. Our family is pretty busy, with the girls doing their things, Hubs traveling, and on and on. Things started getting out of control and since I am a control freak as well (I have issues), I took matters into my own hands. Solution: I hung up a dry erase calendar in our kitchen. Little did I know that this calendar would become part of our family. It is our hub. The girls read it, Hubs reads it, guests read it. People comment on certain events, ask how others went. Of course I read it, but since I have loaded all of these events into my computer weeks before they actually occur, I usually have everything memorized once I fill out the public calendar. (Someone once asked me what I would do all info was "accidentally" erased in one large swipe.  Thus, the computer. Back-up, baby.) 

There is only one caveat. Anyone can read the calendar, but no one is allowed to write on it except for me. Very few things in this house are just mine. This calendar is mine. Everyone knows it. And makes fun of me for it. I don't care. 

Another thing I obsess about is sugary cereal, much to the rest of the family's chagrin. (I swear, this topic change will make sense in a minute.) My girls are sugar hounds. They have a sweet tooth that rivals no other. (I mean, I have no idea where they got that, she says, as she brushes chocolate chip cookie crumbs from the keyboard.) I have discovered that all cereals have sugar, including the "healthy" ones. I do not ban sugar by any means. (As she licks the chocolate from her finger.) But surely we can cut down on the daily morning sugar consumption, right? Thus, the cereals I choose are not what the girls (or Hubs) would necessarily choose. Unfortunately for them, I do all the shopping. 

That is, until their aunt AND their grandma both gave the girls boxes of their favorite cereal as an extra Easter gift. Sigh. OK, I know they will continue to live if they have a bowl every now and then, so we said thank you and I told the girls they could eat it on the weekends. 

Now, everybody knows that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Looks like my sweet tooth and OCD genes have definitely been passed on, as I came down one day to the following:

I can't believe that kid touched my calendar. She must have been on a sugar high to even contemplate it. Where is that eraser? 

Rant-n-Roll

My kid couldn't even get the mail for me today. 

As much as I bust my butt for that kid day after day, she couldn't even get the GD mail for me. 

OK, in case you haven't picked up on my mood, I'm feeling a rant coming on. I'm not sure what my problem is today. Maybe it's the weather...it's been dark and rainy all day, and my toes have been cold since I woke up this morning, no matter which socks I switch to. Maybe it's jet lag...ok, so we only traveled to Ohio this weekend and technically we gained an hour coming home, so it can't really be jet lag. Maybe I am crashing from my Easter sugar high...no, that's not it either because I just ate two Reeses peanut butter cups so my sugar has been at the same extraordinary level since Good Friday. 

I'm not sure what it is, but pretty much everything my kids are doing today is bugging the crap out of me. 

The final straw fell when we got back from Poonch's dance class. The class is furiously preparing for their recital next month, so their instructor is begging for a little effort. I watched Poonch as she danced with about as much luster as I am giving this blog post. Talk about spaghetti arms. Maybe she was tired from the weekend, maybe she was bored. Either way, it annoyed me. She certainly doesn't have to be perfect (obviously she has to work against the unfortunate dancing genes that I passed on to her), but sheesh, she could at least try. 

I kept quiet about her lackluster performance on the way home, because I knew in my mood I would say the wrong thing in the wrong way. As we pulled into the driveway, I asked if she would get the mail for me. The mailbox is at the end of our drive, so I stopped right next to it for her.  All she would have to do is get the mail, then walk up our drive. And people, we live in a Chicago suburb. The driveways here are. not. long. About as long as this sentence fragment. 

I don't want to, she says. 

My head whipped around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I don't want to??? With the van door still open, I zoomed up the drive into the garage at 30 miles an hour. Thank god it was raining so our nosy neighbors were holed up in their house and most likely missed their chance to call children's services, as I am pretty sure Poonch almost fell out of the car. 

I was seething. I know, not getting the mail is NOT a big deal. It really isn't. It doesn't make my kid a bad kid, just a lazy one. But it really pissed me off. It didn't help my mingent mood one bit. 

So, I did what any good mother would do. I told her that I didn't want to make dinner. I told her I didn't want to help her with her homework. I told her I didn't want to do her laundry. 

And it felt good. 

It felt really GOOD to say these things to her. It felt really good to see the shocked/angry/mom-has-lost-it/but-I'm-hungry look on her face. 

I retreated to a dark corner of the house and played with my phone for a while. After I had calmed down a bit, I found Poonch on the computer working on a Brownie project. I told her I would make dinner. 

Funny, telling her that didn't feel as good as telling her I wouldn't. 

Welcome to the mean mommy club. If you'd like to join my club, I will offer you a guarantee to be LOST in suburban bliss. Although I can always guarantee the LOST part, I just can't guarantee the bliss part...some days it's real, and on others it comes from a bottle. 

(Did I just find a new tagline?)

Friday Foto

Here's Poonch comparing her foot to that of a dinosaur during our trip to the Field Museum in Chicago last week. I think she decided that it was a good thing they have gone extinct. 

While I was impressed with the footprint, mostly I was thinking that I would kill to be able to wear that cute legging and boot combo without looking like a complete dork.

Happy Friday. 

Friday Foto

On Wednesday, the Hound will turn two. Here he is chasing Poonch on the day we first brought him home two years ago. Seventy pounds later he is still chasing her, with both of them loving it as much as they did on this day. 

Happy Friday. 

Caterpillar!

I have written a lot about Poonch on this blog, but I am not sure if I have drawn an accurate picture of her. That girl is so complicated, and I spend a lot of energy trying to peel back the layers to get to what is really there. And each time I think I've figured her out, she throws me for a loop and I am back to square one, exhausted. 

Take the Brownie meeting that I was dreading looking forward to hosting at our house. Some quick background info: at the beginning of the year, each girl picked a badge for the troop to earn and was in charge of organizing that meeting at their house. Not surprisingly, Poonch picked a badge that deals with reading and writing. Some of the things we had to do in order to earn it included reading about a historical figure, reading and talking about different sorts of magazines, interviewing somebody, and writing letters. 

Activities that I knew Poonch would love, but things that I knew would be tough to interest 9 girls in after doing similar things all day long at school. While planning the meeting, Poonch and I talked about how we could wrangle the girls and make them pay attention. It would take someone who wasn't afraid to take control, someone who was firm yet reasonable, someone who was determined to calm a bunch of very energetic girls down. 

Because I have seen Poonch at our other meetings, I knew that this person would most likely be me. There was no way Poonch would be able or want to do this. This is the Poonch who cowers in the corner when it comes to her turn at charades. This is the Poonch who blushes when she has to speak in front to the troop. Don't get me wrong, it's not like she doesn't interact with the girls and get just as crazy as the rest, but as for the spotlight being on her, she'd rather it focus on someone else. (Which is weird, because at home, if it's not about her, it's not worth talking about.)

Fast forward to the meeting. Girls are going nuts. Bouncing off walls. Laughing, giggling, paying no attention whatsoever to Poonch, who was trying to start the meeting. She looked at me with a look that said you've got to be kidding me. 

I stepped in to take over. She told me, Mom, I've got this. 

CATERPILLAR, she yells. 

BUTTERFLY, the girls yell back. 

They became quiet. Poonch quickly took advantage and announced, We are going to save our craziness for later. I am going to start the meeting now. 

And she did. And it worked. 

Later that night, I told her how proud I was of her. She had totally stepped out of her comfort zone and just did it. 

Poonch, have you ever thought about being a teacher? Because you really took control and led those girls in your activities today. 

A teacher?? Me? Naahhh. 

Seeing Poonch shine at that meeting was worth the entire year of craziness that I have endured with that troop. Even if she balks at charades next week, I won't care. I always hated that game, anyhow. 

Mathematic Equation of My Day

9 Brownie Girls + 1 Extra Preschooler + 2 Kindergarten Boys + 1 Barking Dog + 1 Meowing Cat x My House For an Hour and a Half = 

1 Bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon

'Nuff said. 

Nice Try

Oh no you didn't. 

You did not just tell me that whopper to. my. face. and think that I will fall for it. How stupid do you think I am? May I remind you...you came from MY loins. (And yes, I realize that I sound a little like your grandmother here, but let's stay on point.) Newsflash: you are still young enough that I can literally hear the thoughts squeaking around in your head. I'm pretty sure it goes something along these infantile lines: 

"If I tell Mom it happened like this, she'll never, ever catch on. Mom is pretty good, but there is NO WAY she is smarter than me. I am SEVEN. I am in the SECOND GRADE. I am SOOO much more advanced than this old bag. Nuh-uh, she'll never catch on."

Is that about right? I thought so. 

Little do you know, my darling dear, that I, your beloved mother who has devoted the past seven years to you and well-being, have a knack for picking up "tells," thanks to living with your father for the past nine years. Little do you know, my darling dear, that this knack allowed me to beat a roomful of your uncle's big "macho" guy friends at Texas Hold 'Em. Nobody fools me. 

Sucks to be you, my darling dear. 

Here's a hint...your voice tends to get just a little too chirpy during a lie, and your shifty brown eyes and their failure to meet mine are a dead give-away. 

Gotcha. 

Try me on a day when I haven't had my coffee. Maybe you'll have better luck then. But I doubt it. 

I will always call your bluff. 

Friday Foto

2nd grade homework assignment: design and build a leprechaun trap. 

User's Manual

Because leprechauns are sneaky, there are several different areas of bait...

if he is lured into the box by the pot of "gold", upon moving it, he will unknowingly pull a string attached to the clothespin, thus shutting the top of the box. 

if he is lured by the book of Irish music, he will become trapped in the box within the box. 

or (my favorite)...if he sits down on the yellow stool for a bite of the chocolate coin, he will be stuck to the tape and the box will close on him. MIssion accomplished. 

Happy Friday (the 13th). 

Wild One

What is it with 7-year-old girls and animals? Or should I ask, what is it with my 7-year-old girl and animals? I mean, really. Was I an animal-lover at that age? I don't remember so, but I guess that doesn't mean I wasn't. I mean, sure, I wanted a dog, but what kid doesn't?

Poonch loves EVERY animal. Well, anything that has fur. She's not too big on insects and arachnids. Please don't ask her to go anywhere near a cicada because one of her infamous freak-outs is guaranteed to occur. 

Other than that, she loves animals. She wants to write a letter to Barack Obama asking him why people kill tigers. I told her to go for it, because frankly, I'd love to hear his answer. No wild animal scares her. We have coyotes in the area and her biggest fear is not that one might eat her, but that one could hurt the Hound. 

She is absolutely convinced that she can tame a snow leopard and have it live peacefully with the Hound, the Cat, the nameless fish, and the Humans in our house. I guess if anyone could do it, maybe it's her. 

Which is why I shouldn't have been surprised at her reaction when her Brownie troop visited our local animal shelter last week. I walked in hoping for two things:

that our girls would behave for the animal safety class that we were promised,

and

that I return with the same amount of living creatures that I arrived there with. 

Upon arriving, I could tell Poonch was having a hard time reeling in her excitement. She was a little perturbed that we had to sit through a 30-minute class on animal safety, but was immediately assuaged upon seeing the 180-pound English Mastiff named Symon that would be assisting in the class. 

Poonch sees:

a huge, adorable, furry, teddy-bear sized furry to pet and lay on.

I see:

a mammoth, stinky beast whose drool could have filled a good-sized pail in the mere 30 minutes that we were with him. And the smell of his gas...good lord. 

After the class, the animal control specialist led us into the kennels. This was the moment I had been dreading. And sure enough, Poonch didn't disappoint. 

There were only two dogs in the kennel that day. One was a Jack Russell mix named Junior who had more energy that the Brownie troop put together. Cute, but way too hyper for my tastes. (I'm a blogger, for crying out loud. Bloggers do a lot of sitting.) Poonch thought Junior was cute and all, but she fell in love with the next dog...

an American pit bull mix. A very crabby American pit bull. The animal control is pretty sure that the owners dumped him because he had been bred to be a fighter, and sure enough, that is what he had become. Unfortunately for this innocent dog, he will never be put up for adoption because he was just way too dangerous. 

Of course, this dog is the one Poonch fell in love with. This dog, who was growling and standing against the kennel on his back paws, baring his teeth at the girls, who were all oohing and ahhing over him. This is the dog that Poonch felt sorry for. Sigh. 

Thank god for that animal safety class. 

Sounds heartwarming and all, but I have to wonder, is this a sign of what is to come? From wild, rough and tumble dogs, to (gasp) wild, rough and tumble boys?

Please, please tell me she will outgrow this. 

And yes, I managed to get out of that shelter without carrying anything with fur and big pleading eyes. As long as you don't count Poonch. 

Well She Was...An American Girl

Oh that darn American Girl Place. Sigh. 

Before I had girls, to me, AGP was one of the most overpriced, overhyped tourist traps that a cooperation preying on innocent girls could create. I remember passing the AGP several times, glancing through the windows only to glimpse hundreds of little girls holding dolls that eerily looked like their owners. I would see those red AGP bags all over Michigan Avenue. Cha-ching, cha-ching, I would chuckle as I walked on by. 

And then I gave birth to...Girls. Girly-girls. Doll-loving girls. American Girl loving girls. I held out as long as I could. I really did. I refused to let Poonch have one, no matter how much she or her grandmother (who had been waiting for years to hit that store) begged me. Finally, I caved, not because I could see the rationale in spending a ridiculous amount of money on a plastic doll, but because they beat me down. 

It took me some time to get to understand the hype. Yes, you can buy those freaky look-alike dolls, but you can also buy historical dolls. Dolls from different eras experiencing different events, but all having one thing in common, experiencing these things as an American girl. (Insert Tom Petty song here.)

AGP redeems itself with the books each historical doll has. Poonch absolutely loves these books. Though she sees them as a source of entertainment, I realized how educational these books are when Poonch asked me the following:

Poonch: Mom, do you know what a black-out is?

Me: Oh, well, sometimes in the summer, people are using too much electricity, and it is hard to meet the demand...

Poonch: What are you talking about, Mom? A black-out was during World War II when you couldn't turn any lights on so that the enemy planes couldn't see where the towns were and drop their bombs on them. 

Me: Oh. Um, yeah...right. That kind of black-out. 

Duh. 

She learned this from the book series on Molly, a girl living in America while her father is away fighting in World War II. 

Another series Poonch has enjoyed is the one about Kit Kittredge, who is living during the Great Depression. I have to admit, Kit's story has helped us explain to Poonch about the current economic crisis and why our family needs to be smarter about our money.  She did ask if hobos would be living in our yard and I reassured her that I didn't think it would get to that point. (But then again, what do I know?)

Back when I was single passing the American Girl Place on the way to some fancy dinner, I swore I would never buy into all that. Sigh. Never say never. 

I still think those dolls are still way too expensive, though. I'm not budging from that. 

But I do kind of get it now.

Civics and Cookies

Last night Poonch and I spent the evening hanging out at City Hall, hobnobbing with our civic leaders. No, we're not that politically savvy. It is Girl Scout week, so the mayor invited our town's Girl Scouts to open this week's council meeting with the Pledge of Allegiance. 

Even though I thought this would be a good learning experience for Poonch, I actually ended up learning a few interesting tidbits myself:

The age requirement for being elected mayor is a mere 18 years of age. This means that in 11 short years, Poonch could run for mayor of our little town. 

I also learned that we have never had a female mayor. 

Our current mayor has been the mayor for

8 years. Poonch could not only be our first female mayor, but technically, 

she could be the next mayor depending on

our current mayor's run. 

This thought sent a shiver down my spine. 

A good mother would have the opposite reaction, I know this. Does the girl in this pic look like she could be mayor in just 11 years? I obviously have my work cut out for me.  

I know that Poonch can do anything she puts her mind to. The problem is getting her to actually put her mind to something that doesn't involve fairies, books, or any show on the Disney channel. Eleven years? Really?? Luckily, I don't think politics are in Poonch's plan. After all, she already has her future all mapped out, and thankfully the odds of an 18-year-old being elected mayor are pretty slim. 

There was one part of the night that brought a smile to my face. Before the meeting started, the mayor offered to answer a few questions from the girls. There was your typical stuff...how long have you been mayor, what year did you graduate, what do you like best about being mayor, all the questions the mayor counted on. 

But there was one little girl with this big question...with the economy being what it is today, what are your three biggest concerns for our city? 

The room grew quiet. The mayor was stumped. Just for a minute. I think he thought that maybe these girls would just bring him some leftover boxes of Thin Mints and that would be about it. 

Ha. There is so much more to life than a box of cookies. You go, girl. Maybe these girls will be ready sooner than I think after all. 

 

Three White Dresses

The last time I remember Poonch wearing a white dress she was only 4 months old. It was at her baptism. The dress was beautiful, but it barely fit her, since she was supposed to have been baptized 2 months earlier than she was. But September 11 happened, and because we had family traveling from different places, we postponed her baptism. Once we finally felt safe enough to reschedule, Poonch had grown. I remember her godmother zipping her dress up, all of us crossing our fingers, hoping that darn zipper would go all the way up to her chunky baby neck. It did. 

The next time I saw Poonch in a white dress was this afternoon. Just me and her, in a department store dressing room, trying on Communion dresses. Though she has grown physically, mentally, and emotionally, she more or less remains that same person she was in that other white dress. Still spunky. Still introspective. Still beautiful. Still smart. Still ours. 

Poonch, being the girly-girl that she is, tried on every dress in the store this afternoon. As I was zipping up each dress, I thought about the next time I would be zipping up a white dress for her to wear in a church. (Or maybe not a church, no pressure from this heathen.) I had to stop that thought, though, because I couldn't even deal with it. The sales lady handed Poonch a veil to try on, and as she placed it on her head, in the mirror I saw Poonch's toothy smile, but 3 faces blended into one...

that baby I kissed so often, 

this girl who is growing into her skin, 

and that woman who will soon emerge. 

I quietly took off the veil and told the sales lady we would buy it later. Just the dress for today, please. 

Luckily, Poonch knew none of what I was thinking. How could she know, when all she could see was the vision in white, whirling and twirling in the 3-way mirror. As it should be. 

Access Second Grade

Hubby is out of town this week. He was out of town last week, too. I'm not complaining, because after all, he has a job and for that I am thankful. No, I'm not complaining, but I am tired. And I'm not physically tired. Mentally tired. Do you know how many times during one day that a 4-year-old and a 7-year-old say the words...

hey Mom?

A lot. I tried counting one day, but stopped around 9 AM. 

hey Mom, can you pack peanut butter in my lunch instead of turkey?

hey Mom, why don't you buy Fruity Cheerios anymore? I hate Kashi. 

hey Mom, why do we have to car pool, can't you just drive me to school?

hey Mom, after school can we go to the bookstore?

hey Mom, why does Dad have to be in New York this week?

hey Mom, what time does Dad come home on Friday?

hey Mom, do you think our dog is cute?

hey Mom, do you think our dog could ever have puppies?

hey Mom, when we go on vacation in June, can I read Harry Potter on the plane?

hey Mom, what are we doing for Valentine's Day?

hey Mom, what are we having for breakfast on Valentine's Day?

hey Mom, what is Dad doing right now?

This, all before 7:55 AM. 

No, I am not complaining. Don't get me wrong. I like talking to my kids. Most of the time. But like I said, these past two weeks I am mentally exhausted. I am sick and tired of answering inane questions. Repeatedly. Because these same questions are asked on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, you get the picture. 

So at dinner tonight, I was soooooooo tempted to dish out the stir-fried chicken and turn on Angelina Ballerina on the TV in order to avoid any type of dinner conversation. 

But it's only Monday. That would be a mean mommy thing to do. I'm not there yet. Maybe I will wait until at least Wednesday to pull out my weapons stored on the DVR. 

So, we sat down to dinner. And conversation. Which, although it started with the infamous two words, ended up going a little more differently than I thought...

Hey Mom, did you know that there is no real Gabriella and Troy in High School Musical and that they actually are actors named Vanessa Hudgens and Zac Efron? And that these actors are married? And that now they are having a baby together? 

Poonch, that is so not true!  

Yes it is, Mom. 

Where did you hear that?

At school. Friend told me, and Friend is always right. 

Poonch, they are just dating. Having fun. If you ever want to find anything like that out, all you have to do is Google. Like this...

I walked over to my laptop on the counter, googled "Vanessa Hudgens pregnant", and lo and behold, the first result to pop up confirmed Poonch's report. 

If you want to be as disgusted as I am, you can read about it here:

http://www.theinsider.com/news/960068_Vanessa_Hudgens_PREGNANT

I don't know how accurate this report is, but it doesn't really matter. What I can't believe is that I heard this juicy gossip from my second-grader. My second grader!! What? Me, lover of US Weekly magazine until I realized Poonch could read the trashy headlines so I canceled my subscription? Me, lover of Access Hollywood? Me, lover of The View and the Today Show? Me, lover of all ridiculous reality shows? Me, lover of the internet?

I did not know. My second-grader knew before me. 

Sigh. Good thing we skipped Angelina Ballerina. Now I just have to bide my time, because I know soon Poonch will figure out that Vanessa and Zac aren't married, so hey Mom, how could they be having a baby? will probably be fired at me tomorrow night.

Hubby, please come home!!!!!

Swoosh

Poonch is a perfectionist. If she knows that she won't get something right from the start, then she wants nothing to do with it. Nothing. 

As a parent, this is extremely frustrating. 

For a child, this must be extremely frustrating as well. 

I can't seem to get across to Poonch that a 7-year-old is not expected to have perfected anything. I can't even convince her that being almost 30 years her senior, I have yet to perfect anything. (Except making those break-n-bake sugar cookies. I have pretty much perfected that. Oh, and I am pretty good at making guacamole, too. But that's about it.)

As Poonch's parents, Hubby and I usually engage ourselves in a slow walk along the tightrope of encouraging Poonch to try something new vs downright pushing. It's not easy, and many times we have fallen too far one way or another. Hopefully her insurance with her future employer will cover therapy. 

Anyhow, a couple of months ago our park district sent out registrations for their winter programs. I like to sign the girls up in at least one activity because Chicago winters pretty much negate outdoor play. Poonch eagerly signed up for ballet but that was it. Not that there's anything wrong with ballet, but let's just say that the way Poonch does ballet doesn't result in a whole lot of physical activity, which is what my aim was here. 

Basketball, Hubby, a former varsity player, says. Sign her up for basketball. I laughed. I know Poonch, and I knew there was NO WAY she would sign up for basketball, a sport she has never played except for a couple of games of Horse with her pink basketball in our driveway. Not to mention, Poonch put the girl in Girly, and I don't think a jersey and mesh shorts would go with her red-sparkle high-heeled (1/2 inch, people) shoes. Hubby insisted he could get her to do it. 

Good luck, I said, and walked off to let them chitchat. 

To make a long negotiation short, Hubby convinced her to try it, with about 20 reservations on Poonch's part. When the first day rolled around, Poonch amazingly stuck to the deal. The first two sessions were just practice. The next session was an actual game. You know that picture everyone has in their mind of the little girl playing outfield and picking the daisies instead of participating in the game? Yeah, that was Poonch, basketball style. Jumping jacks underneath the wrong basket. Twisting the hair. Tucking and untucking the shirt. Waving to us in the bleachers, repeatedly. I think Hubby might have been a teensy bit perturbed, but I was just happy that she was out there. To not be afraid to try something different. She even seemed to be having some fun. Completely clueless to what was going on around her, but hey, so am I most of the day, so who am I to judge? I just want her to try new things. 

Second game, Hubby is out of town. Chuckles and I wish Poonch good luck and then find our seats in the bleachers. I brought my camera so that I could video the game for Hubby. Poonch was much more into this game. She stayed with the ball. She guarded her person. She used her hands to guard, moving all around, getting right in that other girl's face. Nice, I thought.  

Camera stops recording for no reason. I look at it and see the error message: no more memory. Darn-it. Oh well. I got some great video of Poonch's defense. That should be enough, or so I thought. 

Wrong. Poonch's team has the ball. They take it down the court. A boy passes it to Poonch. She catches it without bobbling. Her coach yells at her to shoot it. Her mouth falls open, her eyes lock in on the basket. She shoots. The ball goes in. Her team and coaches cheer. Two points for the team. More than just two points for Poonch. 

If only my camera was working. NOT to get the basket, but to get her face, lit up with amazement and pride, smile as big as it gets, giggling with joy as she sought me out in the crowd, questioning did you see?  Of course I saw. That face, that was the picture I wanted. That jumping back all the way down the court, that was the video I wanted. 

Later that night I asked Poonch how she felt about the game. She told me how happy she was when the ball went in and how good she felt. 

I don't know if Poonch will keep playing basketball. Maybe she will, maybe she won't. It doesn't matter. I just hope the next time she gets nervous about trying something new, she will think about this. I hope she remembers how she felt when that ball went into that basket. After all, it's how I feel every time I look at my little girl. 

Sales Just Isn't Her Thing

Girl Scout cookie selling officially ends in our area tonight. Thank God. According to the Girl Scouts, this is how the selling should go:

Hello! I'm a Girl Scout and my name is Poonch. My personal goal is to sell 25 boxes of cookies. Our group goal is to sell 550 boxes of cookies so that we can go to a dude ranch. We will also use some of our money to benefit the Gift of Caring, sending cookies to our troops overseas. Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies? They make great gifts! 

(The underlined areas are things that our troop decided on together, as each troop works toward something different.)

Like I said, the above is the ideal conversation. Unfortunately, here is how the selling went for us:

Me whispering: Poonch, Grandma is on the phone, do you want to ask her if she wants to order any cookies? 

Poonch: I guess (in a very non-excited way)

Poonch, getting on phone: Hi Grandma. Uh huh. Ummmmm, yeah. No, I'm not sure what kind of cookies we have. Mom, do we have Thin Mints? Yes, Mom says we have Thin Mints. Are those the green ones? Yeah, I love those! They are my favorite. I hope Mom ordered those. Um, how much? I'm not sure how much they are. I think, a dollar? Oh, Mom says they are four dollars. Uh huh. Ummmmm, I'm not sure. No, we aren't donating anything. Ummm, I think we already gave the soldiers our Halloween candy. I don't think they need cookies. I don't know when the money is due. No, I don't know when the cookies get here. Ummmm, maybe next week? I don't know. Wanna talk to Mom? 

Sigh. Model Brownie she is not. 

Did I mention that I am a leader of the troop?????

Learning to Let It Go

(Author's Note: sorry I keep changing my blog around, but I am trying to decide what layout is easiest to read. All because I am a perfectionist, as will be demonstrated in following post. Thanks for your patience. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.)

I don't know what God was thinking when he made me a mother. 

Me =

Control freak.

Worrier.

Impatient. 

Hater of house cleaning/laundry/making lunches.

Control freak. 

Type A, and that's a 24 font capitol A.

Selfish.

Bookworm.

Perfectionist. 

Lover of alone time.

Control freak.

Procrastinator.

Lover of crappy TV shows.

Self-doubter.

Partier.

Apathetic nurse. 

Bathroom-cleaner hater. 

Control freak. 

Like I said, I don't know what he was thinking when he put me in charge of two impressionable children, but my poor girls are stuck with me, for better or worse. The frustrating part is that I am fully aware of all of the above. I am trying to change. I really am. But every day is an internal struggle with my true self and the person I think I should be. Here is a perfect example:

Yesterday Poonch decided she wanted to start a blog. What a great idea, I thought. What a great mother/daughter project, something to start her along her dream of becoming an author.

While she was at school today, I did all the prelims for her: picked out a design I thought she would like (control freak), created her side bars (control freak), set up strict privacy guidelines (worrier), and even picked out a password for her (control freak/worrier). I was so excited to show it to her (impatient).

After school, Poonch and I sat down at the computer before she even did her homework (impatient). I was a little nervous to show her what I did, even though I knew I could change it if she didn't like it (worrier). Lo and behold, she loved it! But then again, she is 7 and really has no idea of all the different things I could have done with her blog (self-doubter). Anyhow, I explained to her how to write a post and what sorts of things could go in a post (control freak/Type A). 

After thinking about it, she told me she wanted to write about what she did at recess today. Great idea, I said. She turned to the keyboard and starting finger-typing. I noshed my nuckles to my mouth (impatient/control freak/Type A). Do you know how painful it is to watch someone type with their two forefingers? One of my bosses had perfected it and was actually pretty fast, but Poonch barely has the dexterity to tie a shoe, let alone fly along the keyboard (impatient). I told myself to relax, she has all the time in the world--not really, after all she did have homework to do, but whatevs. 

I must have been hovering, because after a few minutes, Poonch turned to me and asked if she could work on this alone, promising to let me read it when she was done. Yikes. Backing out of the room, I yelled out a few reminders (control freak): 

- hey Poonch, you know which words to capitalize, right? (Type A) 

- Poonchie, you know you only need to hit the space bar once in between words! (Type A, perfectionist)

I left the room and let her be. After about what seemed like 3 hours (impatient), Poonch called me in to tell me she was done. I don't know what I expected to read, but certainly more than the two sentences she had written! Two stinking sentences that were chock-full of spelling errors, punctuation problems, and some weird spacing issue. I don't know why but each word had about 15 spaces between them. Poonch, blind to what I saw, looked at it beaming with pride and asked for only one piece of advice: help on spelling the word amethyst. (Don't ask.)

OK, Mom, I'm ready to post it!

I noshed my knuckles against my mouth again. Swallowed several times. My hand shaking, armpits sweating,  I slowly hit "Save" without fixing any errors. ((Sob)) 

I gave Poonch a fierce hug. I'm not sure whom the hug was for...Poonch or myself. 

She's still learning, and so am I. 

 

Lessons at the Movies

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about Poonch begging me  to take her to see the movie "Marley and Me." After seeing the movie myself (and sniveling like a sap even though I had read the book years ago and knew what was going to happen), I told her that the movie had a really sad ending and that I wasn't sure if she would like it. I asked her to finish the chapter book version of the original book (written for 8-12 year-olds) before I would take her to the movie. Amazingly, she agreed. (She never agrees with me.) 

SPOILER ALERT: If you haven't seen the movie, stop reading. If you have keep going, unless this is becoming really boring. It gets better, I promise.  

Poonch is a mystery to me, complex beyond belief. However, she is like most 7-year-olds in that she wouldn't have any problem giving her little sister away, but god forbid anything happen to her dog. Our Hound is the love of her life, even though she refuses to pick up any dog poop and usually forgets to feed him unless reminded by me. Anyhow, I figured she would be upset to hear that Marley dies (I mean, hello, I was bawling!), so before she got to that part in the book, I told her. I didn't want her to get to that part by herself. Once I broke the news to her, she took it in stride. She only listens to me half the time, so I wasn't sure if she even heard me. "Come to me once you get to that part," I said. "Sure, OK," she replied, running off to play Barbies with Chuckles. 

For those of you who don't know her, Poonch can read and read and read. She has been known to read several chapter books in one day. She read The Tale of Despereaux in one afternoon. Which is why I noticed that once she had progressed to about halfway of Marley and Me, she pretty much came to a standstill. Poonch always has a book with her, and soon Marley and Me was never around. I knew this was serious considering how bad she wanted to see the movie. I finally asked her about it, and she told me that she just didn't want to read about the dog dying. I told her I understood, and that maybe we would wait to see the movie. She agreed. 

Fast forward to a new dog movie: "Hotel for Dogs." A movie that I was DREADING to see. I hadn't read the book, so I just thought that it was another dumb movie like those Beethoven flicks. Wrong. That thing was a tear-jerker. Without giving too much away, the main characters are an orphaned sister and brother taking care of a bunch of stray dogs. At one point in the movie, it seems as if the brother and sister may be separated and sent to different foster homes. The sister apologizes for failing to keep them together, the only thing she wanted to succeed at but failed. I must admit, my eyes were watering (or was that a popcorn kernel stuck in my eye?) but I heard a sniffle other than my own and looked over to see Poonch crying. 

Not because a dog had died. Not because they would be separated from the dogs. But because the siblings would be separated. 

Later I asked Poonch about it and she said that it made her sad, because although Chuckles drives her crazy, there are times that she really does kind of like her. 

Heart swells here. I guess something is sinking in after all. 

Hallelujah! My kid likes my other kid! 

Yes You Can

Finally. Inauguration Day. I am really excited for today. No matter who you voted for in November's election, you can't deny that today is history in the making. In the midst of life's hardships, turmoils, and exhausting routines, deep down we all hold on to the hope that tomorrow will be better. Anything can happen if you put your mind to it. 

Since day one of becoming a mother and a role model to a little girl 7 years ago, I have tried to instill the "anything can happen" mantra in both my girls. I will admit that some days it is hard. Sometimes I think that my girls just aren't getting my message, like when Chuckles told me only dads make money. ((GASP)) I almost had a heart attack that day, but I struggled through as I tried to set her straight. No matter how many times I tell the girls about my former career, no matter how many times I show them articles I wrote, I think they truly think it was a different mommy who did that. 

Don't get me wrong, when Chuckles tells me that she wants to grow up and be just like me, a mommy; it warms my heart a little. But I tell her that you can be a mommy and anything else you want to be. If that means just a mommy (OMG, I can't believe I just typed just a mommy, slay me now), that's great. But if there is something else that pulls at you, FOLLOW IT. 

The other day Poonch started a conversation that made my heart jump. She's getting it, I thought, she's dreaming and believing in herself. It went something like this..

Poonch: Mom, when I grow up, I want to be an author. 

Me: Wow, Poonch, that is awesome! I know you can do it. I can't wait to read your books. 

Poonch: Yep, I'm gonna be an author and I'm gonna get married, too. 

Me: Well, sure, if you find that perfect guy. 

Poonch: I will. He's going to work with pets. 

Me: Wow, an author and a vet, how cool!

Poonch: No, no, not a vet. A pet store guy. My husband is going to be the cashier at PetSmart. Then he can bring home lots and lots of pets. 

Sigh. At least she wants to be the author and not the cashier. (NOT that there's anything wrong with that...disclaimer!)

Go for it, Poonch. Go get your dream. Yes You Can. 

Friday Foto

MY BOOK!

I did it!

I did it! 

Come and look

At what I’ve done!

I read a book! 

When someone wrote it

Long ago

For me to read,

How did he know

That this was the book

I’d take from the shelf

And lie on the floor

And read by myself?

I really read it!

Just like that!

Word by word, 

From first to last!

I’m sleeping with

This book in bed,

This first FIRST book

I’ve ever read!

~ David L. Harrison ~

(from Somebody Catch My Homework)

Happy Friday. 

After the Smoke Clears

It continues to amaze me how children can be so fragile, yet so strong. I was reminded of this while picking Poonch and her Friend up from school yesterday. It was the first day back from break, and the first day back after someone set their school on fire. 

Over the holiday I wrote about the fire at Poonch's school. Since then I have talked to several moms and attended a meeting for parents of the 2nd grade, since it was their classrooms which suffered the most damage. I was very emotional throughout the meeting. All the parents were incensed, but no one seemed as emotional as me. (OK, I admit, I was PMSing, but still.) I tried to keep my tears in check, especially when they showed pictures of the classrooms, stripped of all the work the kids had accomplished since August. Ninety-nine percent of the school was soot- and smoke-damaged, although only two classrooms actually caught fire. Of course everyone keeps saying at least no one was hurt, and yes, this is the most important, but it still ticks me off that someone would deliberately set fire to an elementary school. 

One good thing that has come of this mess is a reminder of why we live here. The community has been amazing. The school district and restoration company have been at the school around the clock getting it safe for the children's return. Everyone has pulled together to help get the school back to where it was before, if not better. People have donated book upon book, as every single library book is currently off-site being cleaned. (Could you imagine cleaning an entire library of books, page by page?) Right now, Poonch's class is sharing space in the library with another 2nd grade class until their classrooms have been completely restored. The other two 2nd grade classes are sharing space in the art room. 

All of this was explained to us at the meeting. I worried about how Poonch would take it, so over the break Hubby and I sat down and talked with her about it. She had a lot of questions and we answered them as well as we could. She asked how the fire started, and we told her that somebody had decided to do a very bad thing. She proclaimed that the mom and dad of the arsonist was going to be VERY mad. Her biggest fear was that a fire would break out while she was there, but we reassured her that wouldn't happen, but if it did, we reminded her that she knew what to do. She was also a little nervous that our house would catch on fire, so we went over what to do if, God please forbid, that should ever happen. 

When Monday morning finally rolled around, Poonch was a little apprehensive about going to school. She felt better when we packed her backpack full of her favorite books, since her all of her teacher's chapter and picture books are gone for now. My heart broke for her, but I knew her teacher would help the students through this adjustment. 

I thought about her all day, so I couldn't wait to pick her and Friend up. I don't know why I worried. As soon as they saw me, they were both talking a mile a minute about their day and how cool it was...they got a whole box of brand new school supplies, they were in the library with a bunch of new friends, and THE BEST (according to them)...they had rice krispy treats for a snack. 

Once we got into the car, the conversation turned. 

Poonch: Mom, we are on an investigation. We are going to figure out who started this fire.

Oh geez, I thought. 

Friend: At recess we looked for clues, and look what we found!

At this point, they pull out a piece of rope, a broken wheel from perhaps a roller-backpack, and a half-eaten corn of cob. (I have no idea why this stuff is on the playground, doesn't anyone clean that area?)

Poonch: We even found footprints leading AWAY from the school! We bet these are from whoever started the fire!!!

They continued on and on and on. I am not sure if this is the best thing for them to be focusing on. But then again, maybe this is their way of dealing with the situation. I am not sure. But one thing I do know, they had a great day at school, and Poonch had NO problem heading off to school today. So take that, arsonist. 

Marley and Poonch?

Last night I saw the movie "Marley and Me." I had read the book a couple years ago, before we even had adopted the Hound. I bawled my eyes out at the end. I couldn't believe myself. I cursed at myself for turning into my mother (who cries at Kleenex commercials). Even if you are not a dog person, I guarantee you will cry at the end of this book, too. 

Anyhow, I figured I would be OK at the movie because I knew what was coming. Wrong. I bawled my eyes out again. I surreptitiously used my scarf to wipe the tears away, but I don't think I fooled anyone. The only thing that made me feel better about it was that everyone in the theater was bawling their eyes out. Damn dogs. 

Here is my dilemma. Poonch, aka world's biggest dog lover, is currently reading the chapter book version of the story. She loves it and thinks it is funny, and unfortunately, many of Marley's antics remind her of the Hound. (Not a good thing.) She really, really wants to see the movie, and I told her that if she finished the book, I would take her and Chuckles to see it. (I made this promise before I saw the movie.)

Wrong. I cannot take Chuckles because 1) although it is a family movie, the couple in the movie work pretty hard at making a family and 2) there is no way I want to explain both sex and the death of a dog to a 4-year-old. Not yet. 

Back to Poonch. Do I take her? My girlfriend who saw the movie with me doesn't think I should. You know she'll cry, she said. Friend, everyone in the theater was crying. What's so wrong about that? I argued. I admit, I'm probably the world's worst mom (see ALL previous posts), but I sort of want Poonch to see it. I want her to see that life is precious but most important, it is not finite. There is an end. I feel like if she can appreciate that, then maybe she will appreciate each day even more. 

I haven't decided. Let me know your opinion, even though I'm gonna make my own decision anyhow. Just not today...

This Fire Is Not Delightful

I just found out that there was a fire at Poonch's school on Saturday night. I have been getting details little by little. I first heard of it while desperately cleaning our house, trying to get ready for Christmas guests. It was -4 degrees out today, so I figured today was as good a day as any to stay in and scrub. Because I hate to clean and because I think I might have adult ADD, I would briefly stop cleaning to check my email, read other blogs, and see who was on Facebook. During one of these "breaks," I saw an email from the school district alerting me to the fire. It stated that it happened on Sat night around 1AM with the entire building smoke-damaged, but the actual fire was contained to the area where it had started. The email stated that possibly 4 classrooms will have to be moved to other rooms, but that school will resume on Jan. 5 as scheduled. Ten fire departments responded to the fire. No other details could be provided, but an investigation was underway. Had we been home (we were in Ohio celebrating Christmas  a little early), we would have heard all the commotion since our backyard is pretty much across from the school. Wow, I thought, how terrible. But I went on with my cleaning. 

Having some time to digest this info after scrubbing another toilet, I decided to email some of my peeps to see if they had more info. 

Arson, somebody wrote back. 

What? Who would do that to our school? That kind of stuff doesn't happen here. 

The second grade classrooms, somebody else declared. 

Poonch is in the second grade. 

I called a neighbor and she happened to know whose classrooms the fire had been started in. She claimed it wasn't Poonch's room. I pulled Poonch aside and told her what was going on. She was concerned, but not too upset. I think it is hard for her to picture exactly what a fire in a classroom meant. And there was no way I was going to tell her that someone did it on purpose. 

We went on with our day, going to a friend's house for dinner. When I got back, there was a message from a mom in Poonch's class. The fire started in their classroom, her message said, and the damage is extensive. 

Now I am pissed. I am sick to my stomach. I don't know who is right and who has the correct info, but it doesn't matter anymore. I am really pissed. What idiot would purposely start a fire in a second-grade classroom? A room where 7-year-olds spend their day trying their best to learn? A room that is a home-away-from-home for little kids making their way through chapter books and rocket math? A room where the kids were so proud because their good behavior just earned them a PJ read-a-thon last week? 

A jerk, that is who. You, arsonist, are a Jerk. Idiot. Coward. Ass. You'd better hope my daughter doesn't get a hold of you when she finds out her precious books are gone. Or that the story that she has been writing for the past 3 weeks to present on author day has gone up in flames. Or that her favorite rug where she would sit and listen to stories read by her teacher, the rug with the animals of the world with her favorite spot being the tiger, is gone. 

You'd better watch out, arsonist, because she's gonna be pissed. 

Friday Foto

I know I sometimes complain about the hound. Some people have even gone as far as blame him for our tree debacle. (It was not his fault. As a matter of fact, he is now terrified of our tree and refuses to be near it. I think he views the tree as a living, breathing, giant green monster waiting to attack again.) But for all his canine faults, if it has ever crossed my mind to question why this hound is a part of our family, this picture quietly reminds me. 

 

I cannot deny this girl her dog, and I cannot deny this dog his girl. 

Happy Friday. 

Friday Foto(s)

Hubby took the girls to the Cheetah Girls concert last night, and although he got a super cute pic of all the girls holding hands, something went wrong when I transferred it to my computer. Sob! Instead, I am posting pics of Poonch enjoying her Cheetah Girls light stick. From these photos one would wonder if she even saw the concert, but she claims she did. 

Light stick...$10.

Watching Poonch enjoy the light stick...priceless.

(She would kill me if she saw this post.)

Happy Friday. 

Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus

I like to think that I am an educated mom. I read a ton, order parenting books from Amazon, surf the web, research new ideas, the works. Now, I am not an overly reactionary mother, but I like to be informed nonetheless. Which is why I am perturbed when I am caught off guard. Like at dinner two years ago when Poonch cried after biting into a piece of bread because her tooth hurt. I told her to open up and felt her tooth and was shocked to find it loose. 

OMG, I thought. Does she have some strange gum disease? Why is her tooth falling out? Should I call the dentist?

Instead I called my mother, who laughed at me and told me that I started losing my teeth at age 5 and to ring up the tooth fairy, for we have begun.

The tooth fairy? Already? She just got those teeth! I honestly was not prepared for that. 

Fast forward to dinner last night (oh, if only our table could talk, the stories it has heard), Poonch again managed to floor me with the following:

"Mom, there are two boys in our class who do not believe in Santa Claus," she exclaimed, big brown eyes open as wide as they could go. 

Choking on my soup, I kicked my husband underneath the table. What the hell? I thought we had another couple years of Santa bliss!

Hubby asked Poonch who said this, and when she told us, I recognized one of them immediately. My mind skimmed back to the class picture we recently received. This particular boy was wearing one of those tuxedo t-shirts. For the class picture. I wanted to tell Poonch never to trust anyone wearing a tuxedo t-shirt, but then thought better of it. 

"Well, gee, Poonch, who do they think gives them all of their presents?"

"They think their parents do it!"

Insert fake laugh here. Hubby and I have perfected our fake laugh over the years. "Their parents! How crazy is that?" Fake laugh, fake laugh. 

Hubby jumped in to save the day. "Could you imagine me coming down our chimney to hand out presents? How hilarious would that be?"

Even Chuckles chimed in. "Yeah, and last year I heard Santa on our roof. Could you imagine Daddy on our roof?"

Real laughter from the girls, more fake laughter from us. We imagined several more crazy scenarios of Hubby pretending to be Santa, and then I asked Poonch what she thought about what those boys had said. She said that she and her friend told those boys that they were crazy, and there was NO way parents could be Santa. 

Phew. Dodged a bullet. For now. Because although she might soon be ready to move on, I am not.