LOST in Suburban Bliss

Friday Foto

We were lucky enough to experience some glorious weather earlier this week, and the girls took advantage of being outside without having to wear any coats or gloves. How should they have spent this precious time? Why, by reading stories to the Hound while hanging out in their fort, of course.

 

Happy Friday. (Friday the 13th, that is.) 

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.  

Being A Mom IS My Costume

Though we are already seven days in, I am having a hard time adjusting to the fact that we are actually in the month of October. My girls, on the other hand, are READY. 

Ready for Halloween, that is. 

Costume conversation is always very spirited in our house. Spirited to the point that it sort of drives me crazy. In the years past, the girls would waver back and forth on their costume decisions, one day wanting to be a fairy; the next, a cat; the next, a ballerina. One year Poonch decided to be Hello Kitty as early as September. Excited that she had made up her mind so painlessly, I raced to Target to buy her the costume she had seen in the Sunday paper flier, purchased it, and skipped home giddy, unbelieving that her costume was taken care of so easily. My good mood was dashed as she proclaimed it was "way too itchy" and anyhow, she "wanted to be a princess instead." I made my way to the Customer Service department to return the itchy Hello Kitty costume, only to be berated by the sales lady who told me I shouldn't let my kids change their mind about a Halloween costume. 

I'm pretty sure the sales lady went as a witch that year. 

Anyhow, this year things are much different. The girls haven't so much as discussed what they want to be as declared it. Chuckles, oh my sweet, smart, recycling Chuckles, has decided to wear her flower girl dress and go as a princess. YAY for mommy! 

One costume down. 

When Poonch had the non-flu last spring, she became entranced by Harry Potter, having enough energy to both read the first book and watch two movies, all in that convalescent week. Thus, she had no problem deciding to go as Hermione this Halloween. Black robe and purple and yellow striped scarf? 

Second costume down. 

This afternoon we were at the party store and with the girls' costumes completed, they have taken my supposed costume woes under their wing (for some reason it hasn't occurred to them that they have never seen me dress up in a Halloween costume). They scoured the costumes until they found this one and declared it perfect:

Yeah, I know. 

Even worse than the actual outfit? The official title of the costume:

SPONGE BABE. 

Third costume? Not down. Not down with that at all. 

Friday Foto(s)

Weddings are beautiful for most adults, but for little girls asked to be flower girls, weddings are magical. 

Happy Friday. 

Waterworks

Giving birth has wreaked havoc on my body in many ways...

My feet grew half a size with each pregnancy (and they weren't small in the first place). 

I have stretch marks that, once I finished growing Number Two, resemble an atlas of the United States. 

My boobs, well, they never did recover. 

Neither did my tummy. Not that it was in any great shape to begin with, but still. 

My sanity, yeah, that deserted me upon conception with the first one. 

Pregnancy brain? Never went away once my pregnancies were over. 

But the most annoying change? 

The fact that I cry at anything now. JUST LIKE MY MOTHER. 

My mom is the type who cries at Kleenex commercials. Remember that show Touched By An Angel? We banned her from it after her waterworks got out of control. 

I was proud to say that I never cried. Well, rarely. If I did, that's how you knew I was really upset. 

All that changed once I gave birth. I...cry. And I hate it. I wish I could cry like they do on TV. You know, just a few tears brimming, with one getting lose and trailing down gracefully. No mascara smearing, no clown look-alikes. No red face, no blotching. Alas, that is not how it works in real life. At least, not in my life.

Fortunately, I have been able to hide my new emotional side. However, the cat got out of the bag this weekend at my brother's wedding. As a rule, weddings make a lot of people cry. So combining the fact that it was a wedding, it was my little brother, I have given birth twice AND...

that the two people who made me a cryer walked down the aisle as the most precious flower girls I have ever seen, 

well, 

my secret is out. 

DAMMIT. 

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. 

Gettin' Loopy

I never understood how students could skate through their school years illiterate, or be completely unschooled in their basic math facts, yet cross the stage to collect their diplomas.

Until, that is, I had my own children. See, my own kid has a secret. No, she's not illiterate. She's OK with math. Nothing that serious. However...

she can't tie her shoe. 

And not one of her friends or teachers know. Not a single one. ((gasp))

The thing is, I'm not talking about my soon-to-be kindergartener. I'm talking about my third-grader. I'm sure most of the blame falls on me and Hubs, because after all, isn't that what parenting is all about? Guilt by our association to these children? Even though we started teaching Poonch back in kindergarten, even though we bought those dumb interactive books with the laces hanging off that never play nicely with the other books all lined up properly in the bookshelf, even though I made up fairy stories about wings and loops and hiding in a bush (don't ask), even though I bought her shoes with rainbow laces, figuring surely that would be incentive enough, nothing, NOTHING worked. But I am sure it is still our fault.

After years of shoes being tossed across the room, tears, yelling, and a few stiff drinks (for us, not her), we gave up. Screw it, Hubs and I mouthed to each other, shoulders slumped. The kid rarely wears shoes with laces anyhow, so what was the difference? If Poonch needed something tied at school, she figured out a way to get her friends to do it for her. She must have been good at it, because her friends never caught on. They tied her shoe, or her ribbon, or whatever it was that she needed tied. She was a master, really. 

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon, when we were packing up school supplies for both girls. As I threw a pair of gym shoes into each backpack, I figured I had better give Chuckles, the kindergartener, a crash course on how to tie a shoe. If she didn't get it, no worries, surely her teacher would help her. She's only 5, after all. It's not like she's a third-grader. I didn't expect her to get it. 

But when I saw this, 

and this, 

and finally this, 

I called Poonch in to see. She was miffed, as expected. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Her little sis just belittled her cool-sis status with just two loops tied together.

Chuckles and I decided it was time for a shoe-tying intervention. We confronted Poonch. What was holding her back? Fear of failure? Fear of loops? Fear of shoe laces? Fear of aglets? WHAT??

Still annoyed and now slightly belligerent, she agreed to try. Predictably, a loop fell apart. A lace fell out of her fingers. There was whining, grunting. Yelling. A shoe was thrown across the room. 

F-it. I thought. She can wear Crocs for the rest of her life for all I care. Giving up (sound familiar?), I stomped to the kitchen, banging the pans around on the stove. 

Life has a funny way of working itself out, because Poonch was blessed when she was paired in life with Chuckles, a devoted sister who is much more patient (than me), and apparently, a much better teacher (than me), because after just a few minutes, they both started laughing and called me back to see this...

On the last day of summer, one sister learned to tie her shoe, and another learned to listen to someone who wouldn't give up on her. Who wouldn't feel a little loopy after that?

Friday Foto

Adios, doggles...

Adios, summer.

Happy Friday. 

Too Fast

Where has the summer gone?

Time is such a funny thing. It's the one thing we can't control, the one thing that rules our lives, the one thing that reminds us to slow down even though time itself seems to increase its speed daily. 

I remember when I was in my early 20s, and my boss at the time, who was in his fifties, made a comment about time that I always go back to. He said that time is all relative to your age. For instance, a year to a 5-year-old is 20% of her life. A year to me is, well, a lot less than 20% (I don't feel like getting out the calculator). Which means that for me, this summer, a mere 11 and a half weeks, was just a blink of my eye.

Where has the summer gone?

Several times this week I have caught myself saying

I can't believe school is starting next week. 

We already have the crayons, pencils, notebooks, glue sticks, scissors, markers, paper, backpacks, and lunch box. We already have the first day of school outfits, the picture day outfits.

Where has the summer gone? 

I swear it was just yesterday when Poonch ran out of school smiling, knowing that in a few short hours she would be able to jump into the pool, breaking all the strings that tie her down. (Is there any greater feeling than that as a kid?)

I swear it was just yesterday when Chuckles graduated preschool, proudly walking up to get her diploma, knowing that she finally, after ALL THIS TIME (40% of her life) will attend the same school as her big sis. 

Where has the summer gone?

I tend to panic at the end of things. Did I get everything done? Did we do all we had planned to do? Did I miss anything? Am I ready for the next phase? 

Where has the summer gone?

I was going to teach Chuckles how to tie her shoe. I was going to read the second Harry Potter to Poonch. We were going to go to the splash park. We were supposed to hit the Farmers' Market every Thursday, not just a few. 

Where has the summer gone?

We did a lot this summer. We did a heck of a lot. But still...

Where, oh where, has the summer gone?

Songs You Shouldn't Teach Your Kids

Despite Poonch's rocky start to camp, she managed to survive. That's the good news. The bad news is that not only am I LOST in Suburban Bliss, but I now am stuck here with the dreaded camp songs.

double double this this, double double that that

I have no idea what that means, but as Poonch sings it, she adds a weird hand gesture to it as well.

penguins attention! penguins begin! right wing, left wing!

This, too, comes with an awkward dance. 

She has been walking around all day singing these songs, sometimes loud, sometimes under her breath, either way driving the rest of us batty. I think even the Hound has had enough. As she passed me in the foyer singing double double this this under her breath after dinner last night, I broke out with... 

firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom!

firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom!

boys got the muscle, teachers got the brains, girls got the sexy legs and 

we won the game! woo!

OMG, what the f*ck was that? Where did it come from? What did I just sing to my daughters? This heinous tune just came out of my mouth, unchecked, a sing-song sexist chant that I used to sing all the time when I was in 1st and 2nd grade. Worse yet, I'm pretty sure my mother taught it to me. 

As I finished the song with an awkward leg kick that I was going to call a herkie but just couldn't due to its overall un-herkiness, Hubs stared at me. I stood there, catching my breath. It was quiet for a minute, until the girls started laughing. I don't even think they caught on to the horrible stereotypes the song invoked, thanks to my clumsy jump. They weren't laughing at the song, they were laughing at me.

boys got the muscle??

girls got the sexy legs???

I will never sing that song to them again, I declared, mortified. 

Good, said Hubs. 

penguins attention! penguins begin...

Back to the Beginning

Without me paying too much attention, an entire year of blogging has passed me by. I thought I would mark the occasion by reposting my first ever post, but when I re-read it, the content was just too horrific to ever post again. Ahem. So, I decided to repost my second ever post here on LISB, originally written on a very hot July 15, 2008. You will notice that I do not use the nicknames for me and the girls that you have come to love. I thought about updating it, but decided it should stay in its original form. Another thing I noticed? Damn, I was wordy. 

Have you ever wondered what your obituary will say? (And yes, my AC is fixed, and no, the ridiculous heat is not getting to my head...yet.) I've been thinking lately about how we refer to people, or how we introduce ourselves. "Hi, my name is Bob, I'm in sales." Not, "Hi, my name is Bob, and I am a dad." Or have you ever noticed that upon meeting someone new, one of the very first questions asked is "oh, and what is it that you do?"

When I was working, I used to love using my title with my name. "Hi, I'm Amy, I'm a Medical Editor." (This was back in the day when I worked with a plastic surgeon who was Iranian and needed some manuscripts to be polished up just a wee bit.) Or, "Hey, I'm Amy, I'm a pharmaceutical advertising copywriter." I loved throwing that one out. What an impressive mouthful. (I won't elaborate on a mouthful of what. Remind me to tell you in another post how one of my bosses defined the word copywriter.) But now that I am not working, upon meeting someone new I never say "Hi, I'm Amy, and I am a stay-at-home mom." Never. I have never said that. Sure, people have asked me if I work or not, and instead of simply saying "Nope," I say "Oh, I have retired." Just so that people get the picture that I haven't ALWAYS been a stay-at-home mom and yes, I do have a brain.

But then I feel guilty, because I am sorry, it does take a brain to:

wake up
get happy
get dressed
wake up daughter #1
wake up daughter #2
go back and re-wake up #1
go back and re-wake up #2
make sure #1 is getting dressed
lay out clothes for #2
remind #2 to go potty (because right now that is the thing she hates MOST in the world because she is just too darn busy to bother with it, and yes, she has been potty-trained for a year)
get #1 and #2 to brush teeth
break up fight over who has the green fairy tooth brush vs the blue fairy tooth brush
brush #1's hair (which, to borrow a phrase from my dad, always looks like she combed it with a hershey bar and a brick the night before)
brush #2's hair, which takes so much less time because it is stick straight, unlike the wave #1 has
remind them to turn off all lights (because I am paranoid that #1's desk light will catch on fire)
assure #2 that is it OK to wear shorts today, the skirts can take a break
scuttle them downstairs
remind #1 to let out the dog
remind #2 to feed the dog
get out bowls, spoons, cups, and cereals
break up argument #2 (who gets the red cup and who gets the blue cup)
feed #1 and #2
hand out vitamins
hand out allergy meds (which still annoys me, I hate even giving out Tylenol)
get dog back in house
check email 
clean up breakfast dishes
check for milk mustaches
shuttle #1 and #2 out door
lube up both daughters with sunscreen for camp and swim lessons
spray bug spray on camp daughter
get them in car and buckled up
run back inside and get car keys
swing by friend's house to carpool to camp
drop off #2 and friend to camp, remembering medical forms and water bottle
give kisses and wave goodbye
get back in car and get #1 to swim, all during the drive coaching on rotary breathing (never called it this when I was a kid, whatever happened to the American crawl?) and diving (Sweet #1, you must lead a dive with your hands and head, not your torso!)
doing all this before 9AM, with phones ringing, emails dinging, and texts buzzing. 
And with a smile on my face. 
AND THIS IS DURING THE SUMMER.

This makes me wonder about my obituary. Will it read "Amy Blah Blah, a brilliant pharmaceutical advertising copywriter who was also a mom," or will it read "Amy Blah Blah, a brilliant and loving mom who was once a copywriter until she discovered so much more."

Hhhhmmm. Of course it depends on the day, but right now I prefer the second version.

Funny thing is, my life is pretty much the exact same one year later. Oh wait, except for the fact that my girls can now get their own breakfast, so that Mommy can drink her coffee and comment on her favorite blogs. Yes, I think we have grown just a wee bit. 

Sibling Rivalry

I don't have a sister, but being the mother of sisters, I have learned that sisters are either best of friends (like mine are right now, quietly playing Polly Pockets in the playroom), or the worst of enemies. Yelling, hitting, punching, pushing, wrestling, poking, singing na na na na na na so close into the other's face that you can see the spit landing on the other. 

An episode very similar to this one was playing out a mere 10 minutes ago in our family room. As Poonch was pinning Chuckles down on the couch, Chuckles asks...

hey wait, what are we fighting about? 

Poonch stopped, shrugged her shoulders, stepped back, and together they calmly walked over to their Pollys and began an elaborate storytelling in which their Pollys are getting ready for a big party. Their Pollys are even sharing clothes. 

That one short question of Chuckles' managed to define sibling rivalry to all three of us.

All is quiet now, so I'm going back to my coffee. I think I've got about 10 minutes...

Friday Foto

Happy Fourth.

Happy Friday. 

This. Is. The. Year.

It's here. Finally. Summer is my favorite season. Well, I love fall and of course there's always the holiday season, but summer is just, well...fun. Summer to me means 

flip flops and the smell of suntan lotion and popsicles

beach towels and swimsuits and bags stuffed with pool toys

sleeping in and sunshine and summer thunderstorms

boat rides and Summer Shandy and my summer iTunes playlist

fireworks and sparklers and bonfires

and long days of just vegging. 

A long, long time ago, I figured being a SAHM in the summer would be the easiest job in the world. Wrong. Have you ever taken two children to a public pool? Two children who look just like every other child with wet hair and brightly colored suits? Two children who assume they are better swimmers than they really are? Two children who think it is super-duper funny to hide from mom? Two children who are so fair that they burn in 10 minutes but hate having sunscreen applied to them? Two children who need a snack for every 10 minutes of swimming? Two children who wait until the.very.last.minute. to use the bathroom and have to "do the dance" while you struggle to get their swimsuit down as sweat drips from your forehead? 

Not so easy. 

Which is why this is the year I have been waiting for. 

This is the year when both girls can swim on their own. 

This is the year when both girls can use the bathroom on their own. 

This is the year when both girls would rather play with someone else in the water than me (for the most part). 

This is the year when they can go to the sand area during adult swim and won't bother me too much about snacks. 

This. Is. The. Year. 

On our first pool outing last week, I brought my new Food mag and a giant, juicy book that I was dying to crack open. For 8 LONG years I enviously stared at the moms with mags while I stood in the 3 foot deep water, being splashed by toddlers. Ah, poolside readers. I was so jealous. But today that would be me. 

This. Is. The. Year. 

The girls ran to the water and jumped in, splashing and laughing. I sat down, arranged my things and cracked open my book, sighing deeply. I ran my hands over the pages. I felt giddy. This was too good to be true. 

I read one paragraph, one stinking paragraph before a mom I know from Poonch's school saw me and came over to "chit chat." Then another one came. And another. Like ants, marching one by one. Chit-chatting ants. 

This. Won't. Be. The. Year. I. Thought. It. Was. Going. To. Be. 

I reluctantly put down my book and threw on my smile. 

Friday Foto

Ready, Set...

Go catch summer! 

Happy Friday. 

Don't My Girls Just Wanna Have Fuh-un?

Music. It is the universal language. Or is that love? Regardless, music rocks. It marks occasions, it lifts the spirit, it heals, and it ties people together. 

I love music, all types (except for maybe metal and hard core rap, so I guess I use the term "all types" loosely). When the girls were born, we continued to play regular music. I once tried to play one of those kiddie CDs in the car, but that lasted about 10 minutes. I couldn't take it. 

So I switched back to my favorite station and kept it there over the years. And the girls loved it, mostly because they didn't know any better. When they went to preschool, they were the ones who didn't really know their nursery rhymes. My bad. But they did know how to sing Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire. As a matter of fact, when Chuckles was 4 months old, Poonch would sing that chorus, and Chuckles would laugh and laugh. They still learned how to rhyme, they just didn't sing about clocks and a mouse and a spider and a lamb... 

I fell into a burning ring of FIIIRRRREEE, 

down, down, down, the flames went HIGHER. 

OK, so it's not really a true rhyme. But if you say it like Johnny sings it, it rhymes. 

Sadly, as both girls have gotten older and have memorized words to pretty much every song I listen to, I've realized that perhaps some of these lyrics are meant for older ears. 

Katy Perry singing about kissing a girl and liking it...well, I think my girls are starting to catch on that Katy is not talking about giving her mom a kiss. 

Having a 5-year-old ask you what a Womanizer is can be alarming. 

"Na na na na na, I wanna start a fight." Although catchy and fun, not a good thing to be singing in preschool. 

Devastated, I knew I had to be the responsible adult and find music that they could memorize and sing in school without me getting called about the lyrics they were belting out. Being ever so helpful, Hubs made a G-rated mix for the girls. He included such "acts" as the Jonas Brothers, the Cheetah Girls, and Miley Cyrus. G-rated in that it is Generous to actually refer to them as musically inclined. 

Dear loyal readers, I must admit, I have found myself singing along to a few of Miley's songs. (Shoot me now.) One song came on that sounded vaguely familiar. Where do I know this tune, I wondered? OMG, it Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Sadly, Miley butchered that 80s classic so bad that I barely recognized it at first. Ironically, this is one of the girls' favorite songs on the CD. 

Excited, I told them how this song is not new, but is actually old, and was a hit when I was a kid. I grabbed my iPod and found Cyndi Lauper and hit play. I sang and danced along, happily recalling Captain Lou Albano as her dad in the MTV video. (Remember when MTV played videos?) 

The song finished, and as I brought my voice back down to a human register, I opened my eyes. 

They stood there, silent. 

They hated it. 

Music tying generations together? Not so much. 

The only thing this music was doing was making me feel very old. I recalled countless songs that I loved as a kid, only to be disgusted when my dad would tell me that it was a remake. He would play the original for me and I usually 

hated it. 

((gasp)) 

I am so old. Worse, I have become...

a PARENT.

When the hell did that happen?

  

Cut-Offs and Tutus

If you knew me way back when (read: when my entire being wasn't consumed by children), you'd know that I lived in cut-off shorts and Birks. If I wasn't wearing my Birks, I had on my Tevas. I never wore jewelry (maybe a rope bracelet here and there) and viewed any type of accessory as a ridiculous waste of time. My mother always tried to get me to tie on a scarf or a belt, but I refused. 

I found most clothes way too itchy or fancy to bear and lived in t-shirts instead of lace or eyelet. 

I watched baseball and football and was a die-hard fan of my hometown teams.

I never had any pink in my room, except for an awesome pink radio I got when I was in the 8th grade. But that was it. 

Time has passed as it tends to do and unbeknownst to me, I have changed with it. Sadly I have grown up a little, and my attire has grown up as well. Just a little. I wear necklaces. I finally own belts. Even a shawl. I have a purple pair of flats that I love. 

I am still a sports fan, but perhaps not as devoted as I once was. Mostly because my days are filled with little girls who keep me busy with their day-to-day doings. 

When I first had my girls, I figured that it wouldn't mean that they would have to be girly-girls. I was wrong. Case in point: this weekend was the girls' dance recital. As in, get all dressed up, slick back the hair, paint on the make-up, and hop on a stage to dance their hearts out. Yuck. 

The first year Poonch danced in a recital, I refused to slick her hair back or put on any make-up. She was four, for God's sake. I felt staining her beautiful baby face with blush and lipstick was ridiculous. Apparently I was in the minority, as Poonch was the only one that year with bangs and a blank face. I had failed her as a dance mom. 

Yes, I've come a long way since then, and have learned the ropes of the dreaded dance mom. Dragging my feet the whole way, I have reluctantly learned all about this...

and this...

and this...

and this...

But they are my daughters, and I want to support them, so surely I can suck it up and put aside my tastes and become involved in theirs for an afternoon. After all, they have their style and I have mine. Why, then, during the rehearsal did I catch myself saying things like...

wow, those costumes are CUTE

how beautiful is THAT outfit?

LOVE that color

those skirts look GORGEOUS on stage.

What have I become? What have these girls done to me?

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

 

A Real Mother of a Day

If you were to walk into our house on any particular day, you might hear:

arguing

fighting

whining

crying

yelling

stomping

"stop it"

"no, you stop it"

"she started it"

"I did not, she did"

You might also hear some of this on Mother's Day, if by chance you were to walk through our house on that particular day. 

Funny, I never hear this in those Kay Jewelry commercials. I'm just saying.  

Who was I kidding? There will never be a day of complete peace. There will never be a day of complete love and harmony. After all, we are a family. And actually, if I did witness a day like that, instead of just enjoying it, I would probably spend the time worrying about what was wrong with everyone. 

I decided to ask the girls if they knew what Mother's Day means. I decided to start small...literally, asking Chuckles first. Her answer was pretty good, almost practiced, if you will:

Mother's Day is when we celebrate our mommies.

No complaints there. 

Next, on to Poonch:

Oh sure, Mom, I know what Mother's Day is for. It's when we celebrate our moms.

Good answer, but this is what her younger sister came up with, too, so I pushed on to see if she had anything else. 

Why do we celebrate our moms?

Cuz, without them, we wouldn't be here. 

Um, ok, any other reason?

Because our moms are the people who take care of us. And because moms are girls. And Mom, you know what would happen to the world without girls.

Here I begin to wonder if her class has started a biology chapter that I wasn't aware of yet. 

No, Poonch, what would happen to the world without girls? 

Getting really excited to hear how she is so beyond her years, and understands that the world needs both males and females, and without the female, not only would there would be no human race but we offer so much more, etc, etc, etc. 

Um, Moooommmm, the world would be SO BORING if it was all boys!!! BOOORRRING!! 

declared Poonch in that oh-so-dramatic way that only 7-year-old girls who know exactly what they are talking about can deliver. 

That it would, Poonch. That it would. 

(Note: I actually had a lovely Mother's Day, and the girls let me know how much they love me. But then again, they tend to do that more than just once a year. I am lucky like that.)

Friday Foto

My mom is going to kill me for this. But perhaps it will soften the blow when I tell her that her Mother's Day cards are going to be late. Again. ((sheepish grin))

Sorry, Mom. You know we've been sort of housebound this week. 

Happy Mother's Day to the best mom and grandma!

And Happy Mother's Day to all of the rest of the moms out there. 

Happy Friday. 

Turn the Page

Sorry, but no mommy humor here today. I am all blogged out, thanks to the new page I created here on LISB (ooh, I like that, I've never abbreviated my blog before). The page is called Our Library and you can find it on my navigation bar above. If you have been reading my blog for a while, you know how much I love books. And how much Poonch loves books. And how much Chuckles yearns to read on her own. 

I used to devote an entire post to reviewing a book (see the Storytime category under my archives). However, these posts have become few and far between, frankly because slightly more interesting things have been going on here in Suburbia and, well...they are kind of boring posts to write. Sure, I love reading books, but not always talking about them. Well, I take that back. I love to get into a discussion about a book, but my computer monitor doesn't talk back to me while I am writing these posts. 

Anyhow.  

I have decided to add a link to a separate book list page on my navigation bar. Right now there are only a few books added by the girls. These are their choices, and most of the summaries came from them. (OK, I sort of helped Chuckles. But I think from now on I will have her write them and then she can yell at me years later for embarrassing her so.) Hopefully we will continue to add to it and make it a great list not only for other readers, but for our own family to revisit on a rainy day.

I'm going to take my own advice and curl up with a good book, which sadly I have been neglecting lately (thanks to all the wonderful blogs I have been addicted to). 

Happy Reading. 

Giving Up Nothing

I have always dreaded Lent. As a kid, forty days and forty nights seemed like an interminable amount of time to give up something beloved of mine. 

One year back in high school, I gave up my daily addiction of General Hospital. I even made it without cheating. OK, I guess that depends how you define cheating. If you count the fact that every afternoon from 3 til 4 I sat on the phone with my friend Mary and listened as she watched and gave me the lo down of what Luke and Laura were up to, well then, I guess I cheated. (Because of course, I happened to give up GH during that blasted wedding season.)

As an adult, it didn't get any better. Several years ago, I gave up diet Coke. I was a bitch for 40 days and 40 nights. 

A couple of years after that, I gave up chocolate. Super bitch, who was headed toward divorce. Kidding. Not really. (I am sure my mother will talk to me about using the words "bitch" and "Lent" in the same post. But then again, she and my father have given up wine for Lent, and let me just say...they aren't so jovial these days.)

On Fat Tuesday, Poonch, Chuckles, and I were discussing what we would give up this year. Poonch announced she was giving up fighting with her sister. Seeing as last year she vowed to give up school, I thought this was a step in the right direction. However, I asked her if that meant on Easter Sunday she was going to make up for all that lost time and she replied, maybe. 

This just isn't working. 

A couple of weeks ago, SITS featured an awesome web site called Spirit Jump. The founders, Stacy and Meaghan, match up spirit jumpers with patients whose spirits need a little, well, jump. Most are cancer patients, but there are others, as well. I contacted Stacy and Meaghan and they matched us with 2 sisters, ages 9 and 2, who are battling muscular dystrophy. I explained to Poonch and Chuckles what this meant for these little girls, and they agreed that we should help jump their spirits. The project calls for the jumpers to send whatever they can, cards or handmade gifts. I think the site is really meant for bloggers who specialize in crafting or making jewelry, but obviously the three of us don't specialize in that. But we thought about it and decided to make the girls sun catchers for their windows. The sun catchers don't look as professional as some of the other jumpers' gifts, but considering they were made by a 7- and 4-year-old who just want to let two other little girls that they are thinking about them, I think they look pretty good.

Forget about giving up chocolate. That doesn't do me any good, let alone anyone who lives with or near me. The generous and caring idea behind Spirit Jump is what I think Lent, Advent, and everyday should be about. Feel free to pay them a visit if you would like to jump someone's spirits, too. 

Friday Foto

The girls insisted on buying birthday gifts for the Hound. Here they are presenting the loot after a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday. 

And yes, that is two weeks in a row that the Hound has made the Friday Foto. He is either pretty spoiled or I just need to get out more. 

Happy Friday. 

Yo Ho Ho

The landscape went whizzing by as the train rocked back and forth, turning more and more urban with each train stop. Staring out the window, I couldn't help but think about J.K. Rowling and how a train ride home from work one night was her inspiration for the Harry Potter series. 

Mom, are we going to have time to go to the American Girl Place? 

Sighing, I turned away from the window. There wasn't going to be any new series inspired on this trip, I could tell. 

No, we are going to the Field Museum. To see the pirate exhibit. Doesn't that sound cool?

Kind of. But will we be able to go to the American Girl Place, too?

Ummm, I doubt it. 

But maybe?

We'll see. 

The train pulled into the station and we stopped at a cafe for lunch. As we ate, we people-watched. Chuckles started laughing because one table over a business man had become so inspired that he was writing on a banana. She and Poonch giggled for 10 minutes over this as I ignored banana-man and stared out the window, thinking that this would be a great place to sit with my laptop and a coffee for the afternoon. 

Poonch interrupted my reverie. Is it time to go to American Girl Place?

Nope, but it is time to go to the Field Museum. 

Once at the museum, we headed to the pirate exhibit. 

Mom, are we going to see real pirates? 

Nope, but I heard we will see real treasure. 

It took a while to find the treasure. We had to go past the slave ships, shackles, neck collars, guns, cannons, knives, jugs of rum (without any cute little umbrellas like there should be on a spring break jaunt) before we actually got to the treasure. But even Poonch and Chuckles were in awe over seeing the only pirate treasure ever discovered.

Now can we go to American Girl Place?

Nope, now it is on to the dinosaurs. 

After the dinosaurs, it was on to the ice age...wooly mammoths, sloths and saber-toothed tigers. 

Then we hit the underground exhibit...bugs, worms, bugs, worms, and more bugs. 

There was not a princess or doll in site. Talk about refreshing. 

Now can we go to the American Girl Place?

Nope, we have to catch the train back to the burbs. But we do have time for the gift store. 

Running through the store, past the swords, bug catchers, snakes, Poonch and Chuckles stopped at the crystal necklaces...the girliest item in the store. Are you surprised? I'm not. 

One Hundred

In honor of my 100th post...

One Hundred Things I Already Miss or Will Soon Miss

(non-inclusive and in no particular order)

1. white onesies 
2. Johnson's baby wash
3. contagious baby giggles 
4. Baby Einstein DVDs  
5. a fresh diaper  
6. opening a new fat tube of diaper creme 
7. baby spoons 
8. board books with chewed edges 
9. lift-the-flap books with missing flaps 
10. scuffed baby shoes 
11. rainbow-colored stacking cups 
12. sweet potato-stained cheeks 
13. bad baby hair 
14. hooded bath towel, with a clean baby in it
15. pudgy fingers pointing at everything 
16. chunky kissable baby thighs  
17. gummy smiles  
18. booger-crusted button noses 
19. beloved binkies 
20. "I fogot-ED"  
21. "go-go" (yellow)
22. "pa" (pink)
23. "momma" 
24. "fwend"  
25. "girwel" (girl) 
26. "skewl" (school)  
27. "can I sweep wif you?"  
28. footed fluffy PJs
29. Fisher Price Little People, especially Eddie and Freddie  
30. Brown Bear, Brown Bear  
31. Goodnight, Moon  
32. Is Your Mama a Llama?  
33. clear plastic shoes mimicking glass slippers 
34. Tiny Tot Tumbling  
35. forever skipping instead of walking  
36. 5-point harnesses  
37. Water Babies sunscreen  
38. sunhats with chin straps  
39. black patent Mary Janes  
40. toddler-sized flip flops  
41. toddler-sized crocs with Disney jibbetz
42. pastel Easter dresses  
43. white tights  
44. the Dora the Explorer theme song  
45. fat crayons  
46. washable markers  
47. construction paper hearts, turkeys, wreaths, snowflakes  
48. rounded scissors 
49. glue sticks  
50. Tiny Toes ballet class 
51. tap shoes 
52. pink softball mitts
53. listening to the girls play Barbies 
54. Kitty  
55. Doggie  
56. Blue (Chuckles' blankie)
57. blow-up baby pools that hold less water than a bathtub
58. red plastic baby swings  
59. useless swim diapers  
60. finger-printed baby sunglasses  
61. band-aid covered knees  
62. training wheels  
63. fighting over the cozy coupe  
64. lopsided pigtails
65. dress-up clothes consisting mostly of tulle  
66. 1st day of preschool  
67. Happy Meal toys  
68. Barbie toothpaste  
69. rainbow goldfish  
70. juice boxes with puny straws 
71. pink plastic purses filled with strange items of importance  
72. gold and silver glitter shoes 
73. that loose tooth hanging by a thread 
74. frog rain boots and matching frog rain coat  
75. bribing toddlers to be quiet with dum dums  
76. Laurie Berkner CDs, especially Victor Vito
77. Scholastic book orders  
78. that peculiar elementary school odor  
79. 1st day of kindergarten  
80. reading logs  
81. chapter books  
82. messy braids  
83. crappy jewelry  
84. 1st backpack, a character of some sort, of course
85. listening to a 4-year-old singing HSM songs  
86. Disney princesses  
87. watching a 7-year-old practice her ballet moves   
88. Suave detangling spray  
89. plastic barrettes  
90. clunky pink winter boots  
91. funky winter hats  
92. awkward plastic sleds  
93. the sound of walking in snowpants  
94. storytime at the library  
95. Kindermusik  
96. Gymboree  
97. discombobulated Brownie meetings  
98. Chuck E. Cheese madness
99. American Girl Place luncheons
100. today 

  

Not This Show Business

So, as I might have complained about mentioned earlier, Hubby has been out of town a lot lately. Although I miss him dearly when he is gone, I do love having sole control of the remote once the girls go to bed. However, while watching TV this week, a thought crossed my mind regarding reality TV shows and my daughters. Because old age is already affecting my mind, I am going to compose a letter to my girls now before I forget my thoughts in hopes that they will read it in the future:

Dear Poonch and Chuckles, 

I love you dearly. I will fully support you in whatever dreams you may have. However, I will knock you upside your head if in 10 or so years from now I am flipping through the channels and see you on any of the following shows:

The Bachelor

Girls, this show is an absolute train wreck. It's one of those god-awful things that I people just can't turn away from, all the while knowing no good will come of this chauvinistic debacle. Even if that silly boy with the big pectorals picks you, he won't marry you, which, trust me, is a good thing. Meet your hubby the old-fashioned way...go to a bar and pick him up. That's how Daddy and I met and look how happy we are. 

The Bachelorette

Same idea as the above. No matter which boy you "pick" to propose to you, he won't marry you, either. If you ever become desperate enough to go on this show, just call me and I will pick out 25 nice boys for you to choose a soul mate from. Trust me, I will find a closer match than Chris Harrison ever would. Plus, it would be very hard for Daddy to watch you get into a hot tub with 25 different boys. 

American Idol

I know, I know, Mommy loves this show. I admit it. OK, if you sign up for this show, I will let it slide. Unless of course, you are one of those ridiculously awful singers that the producers put on just for TV ratings. If, however, you make it past the catty Hollywood week, you can be assured that I will be in the front row to drool at that fine specimen of a Brit named Simon cheer you on with all my might to the final two. I won't even embarrass you by saying something silly like Gosh, Ryan, I think it was all those years of singing Mamma Mia together that brought her here...

Dancing With the Stars

I have seen you guys dance, and I think we are safe with this one. But alas, you are young, and who knows what talent may still lay hidden underneath your adorable, kissable baby fat. However, this show is dangerous! People have been known to pass out, break or sprain ankles, and even be made fun of (see the Jerry Springer episodes). The worst, though, is that even if you survive those grueling training sessions and repeated spray tan appointments, the only thing you win is that god-awful trophy. I could not imagine having to stick that thing next to Daddy's fantasy football trophy. The gawdiness of the two together would be too much for me to bear.  

America's Next Top Model

Listen to your Momma...you two are The. Most. Beautiful. Girls in the world and you do not need a bunch of snotty judges telling you differently. Not to mention, I am supposed to tell you that true beauty comes from within.  

My Sweet Sixteen

Other than the fact that the birthday girls on this show are just downright brats, I just need to let you know that Daddy and I will never, ever have enough money to fund one of those ridiculous, over-the-top, money-is-the-root-of-all-evil birthday parties. You are lucky if we make it to Chuck E. Cheese for a pizza and 50 extra tokens on your special day. 

Girls Next Door

If Hugh is still alive by the time you are old enough to go on this show, well, then, he is not really a human. So you shouldn't be hanging around him anyway. That and the fact Daddy would NEVER, EVER, EVER let this one fly. 

Survivor

OK, this one might get us a million bucks. Chuckles, you might have a shot at this one, but Poonch, your intense fear of seaweed would be your Achilles' heel. The first strand of grass you see wrapped around your ankle would cause one of your famous "freak-outs", which I guarantee would get you voted off in the first week. And then I would feel bad for you because no one would know you at the reunion show because nobody remembers the first person voted off. 

Well, girls, I think that about covers it. Remember, Mommy loves you and will support you in WHATEVER it is you want to do. Unless it involves any of the above. 

Love you tons, 

Mommy

 

Friday Foto

The girls decided to have a "sleepover" in Poonch's room Saturday night. Look who decided to join them. 

Happy Friday. 

Friday Foto

Some of my blogging friends, ahem...you know who you are (CK and Kathy B!), urged me to post a Friday Foto of me lounging on my couch in my Snuggie. Ummm, that will never happen, because: 1) I don't OWN one and 2) if I did, I would NEVER admit to it. 

So, here is the next best thing: Poonch and Chuckles warming up after sledding at a local park. The park district built a fire in a picnic shelter for those braving the cold. I guess there are some good things about enduring winter in suburban Chicago after all...

Happy Friday. 

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! 

Bears Have It Made In The Winter

Picture it. No, don't picture it, feel it: MINUS eleven degrees. Check that, MINUS THIRTY windchill. It's 6:30 in the morning. Dark. Cold. Bitter. Cold. Windy. Cold. Ice has formed on our windows. (Yes, we should probably replace those.) I turn on the tv to see if schools are closed. It would be much faster to check the school's website, but that means I would have to leave my super duper warm bed and creep down the cold wooden stairs to get my laptop which is most likely in the super cold kitchen. 

So, the tv it is. After 20 minutes, I see our district flash on the bottom of the screen. Closed. Thank God. Most moms would probably be upset, but not me. Not today. It is way too cold to drive the kids to school. (Did you know that frostbite can occur in merely one minute in -30 degree windchill? I didn't either. I learned that today while watching the school closing ticker.)

Ahhh, what a day to sleep in. I plump my pillow and snuggle back down under my blankets, feeling bad for Hubby who has to take the train into the city. "Dress warm!" I tell him. Snuggle, snuggle, plump, plump.

Silence. 

6:54 AM. Wait, what's that noise? It sounds like...knocking. On my bedroom door. What?! The door opens. It's Chuckles. My Chuckles, who has been known to sleep in until 10AM during breaks. Maybe she just wants to snuggle. Nope. I can tell by the devilish grin on her face that she is ready to rock-n-roll. She gets in my bed anyhow and tries to fall back asleep. Not happening. She wiggles all over the place. Plays with her blankets. Sings a song. Laughs to herself. I ignore her cuteness and snuggle back down.

7:03 AM. Wait, what is that other noise? The Hound. Crying. Needs to go out. Little does he know that his pee will probably freeze mid-stream. He can wait. I pull the blanket over my head.

7:05 AM. Wait, what's this new noise? It's Poonch, sneaking down the hallway, peeking in my door. "Poonch!" I whisper, "no school! Go back to bed!" "I'm not tired," she says. Any other morning I need an air-raid siren to get her moving. 

Poonch climbs into my bed, the Hound lays back down. OK, I think to myself, we can do this. We can all snuggle and fall back to sleep. 

Wrestle, wrestle. 

Shift, shift. 

Laugh, laugh. 

Wiggle, wiggle.

Whine, whine.

Tickle, tickle. 

Kick, kick. 

Mom! someone whispers. But I am ignoring all calls.

Mom!

Mom!

Mom!

Mom, we're hungry!

I throw off my blankets and order everyone downstairs. 

So much for hibernating. Sigh. I wish I was a bear. 

 

Keep On Rollin'

Poonch got it in her head that it would be fun for all of us to go roller skating.

[crickets chirping]

Yep, that was my reaction, too. Yay, roller skating! Fun! Woo hoo! Uh, if I was 8 and back in the third grade. I am pretty sure the last time I strapped 4 wheels onto these feet was about ohhhh, 25 years ago. Sure, Poonch, sounds like fun! Let's do it! 

I am a terrible roller skater. An even worse ice skater. And I am not even going to tell you about the time I tried to roller blade in college. I basically suck at anything that involves balance. I have never had good balance and I have already humiliated myself on this blog about certain yoga poses that I cannot master.

However, I can't tell Poonch this. Poonch, my cautious, cautious daughter who is adverse to trying anything new. If she can't perfect it, she won't do it. I love her to death, but as a parent, she frustrates the crap out of me. OK, I admit, I can be a little adverse to trying new things myself. I am a creature of habit and I like my habits. I certainly don't have any time for new ones. Anyhow, long ago I vowed to show Poonch that trying new things and not being afraid is definitely the better way to live. 

So when she begged Hubby and me to take her and Chuckles roller skating over the break, what could I say? "Sure, Poonch! Let's do it!" I said out loud even though inwardly I was cringing and was pretty sure I already felt my butt going numb from the falls that were inevitable. 

We arrived (unfortunately) at the roller rink and I swear, even though I am two states over from where I grew up, this rink was the exact same rink as the one I humiliated myself in at ages 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12. I mean, seriously, don't these places ever watch HGTV and see that modernizing is cool? This rink even smelled the same. Dank. That is the only word that came to mind. Dank. I need to use that word more often. 

We headed over to the skate rental desk. Hubby asked for roller blades (because he is cool in the roller world) and we got the girls their skates. The bored teenager asked me what size I needed and I thought, OMG, I have never asked for a pair of roller skates in an adults size 9! They are huge! And heavy!

I got the girls in their skates, waiting until the very...last...minute to put mine on. Reluctantly, I strapped those death contraptions onto my feet. I looked down. OMG. I don't care what age you are, what school you went to, how much money you have, what kind of car you drive, or what neighborhood you live in, when you put on roller skates, YOU LOOK LIKE A DORK. It doesn't matter how good your jeans looked when you left the house, because they sure as hell don't look good now with a pair of clumsy brown stinky boots with orange wheels topping off those jeans.

Slowly, I stood up. All those insecure feelings I had 25 years ago came rushing back. No, I thought, I am going to do this! Unsteady, I made my way onto the rink. I looked back at Poonch who was watching me, and I swear the look on her face said, OMG, my mom is a dork. 

She must have felt bad for me, because she did skate around the rink with me. She is not very good, which worked out great for me because I basically hid my non-skating talent by pretending to help her. You know, going r.e.a.l.l.y slow and using the wall. Even better was skating with Chuckles, who had never skated before in her life (all of 4.5 years). She was a great cover. I thought I had them fooled until I overheard this conversation between the two of them once we had returned home:

Chuckles: I think I did really good! I even did better than you!

Poonch: No, but you did do better than Mom. 

Sadly, it's true. 

 

Silent Night...

It's almost midnight on Christmas night. 

The snow has fallen. (A lot. Actually...plenty.)

The presents have been opened. 

The stockings have been discovered. 

The food has been eaten. 

The cookies have been enjoyed. 

The guests are gone. 

The dishes are clean. 

Faith Hill is singing "O Come, All Ye Faithful" on my iPod. 

Everyone is asleep, even the hound. 

I am almost ready to finish the day, to say goodbye to this Christmas. 

This Christmas, with Poonch at 7 and Chuckles at 4 years old. Young enough to still believe in the magic, old enough to know what is going on. 

Young enough to make me still feel young, old enough to fool me into thinking, yeah, we've got this kid thing under control. Almost. OK, maybe not quite. 

It was a good Christmas. The girls loved their toys, but understood that the season is about more than just receiving. 

I saw all of my family, even if it wasn't exactly on the 25th. Those who weren't here today were still in my heart. I think of all the mothers in my family, wondering if they stayed up late on Christmas cleaning up after the festivities, wiping up that last wine glass. I told Hubby that I would be in a better mood tomorrow morning if it was all done, but I think that maybe I just didn't want this day to end quite yet. Because with each holiday, time slips away, some of my control slips away. This year the girls still believed and followed my lead. Next year, maybe not so much. 

It was a good Christmas. I am lucky. I hope that in mid-February, when I am crabby with the snow and arctic winds, stuck in the house with two fighting kids and a frustrated dog, I will remember this moment, midnight at Christmas. The tree lights still on, one last carol playing, the kids sleeping in their beds. 

It was a good Christmas. 

Secret Santa

People always talk about the magic of Christmas, and although those words are in my holiday vocab, they are buried under others. When I was a kid, the magic of Christmas meant receiving that special gift that I had requested from Santa. There was no work involved. It just happened. As time went on and the mysteries of the season unfolded during my adulthood, I realized that the magic is actually a lot of really hard work. It takes a lot of energy to create the magic of Christmas for my girls and as a result, the magic and mysteries can get lost in all the preparations. That is, until this weekend...

We traveled to my aunt's house in Ohio to celebrate our annual extended family Christmas Eve dinner a few days early. Before we even arrived, my aunt called me to ask what I knew about the box of gifts from Santa. What do you mean, I asked? She told me that a box of gifts was delivered to her office on Friday. In it were two letters, one addressed to her, and one to Poonch. Both were signed from Santa. In Poonch's letter, Santa said that he had heard that some boys in her class tested her faith in his existence. Santa knew that Poonch had held fast to her faith in him, and because of that and because she had been such a good girl all year, he was sending her and all the kids in our family a special early present. I had nothing to do with this, I said. I was completely flummoxed. I mean really, anyone who knows me know I didn't have time to pull off something like that, nor am I that creative!

We speculated about who could have done it. Who had the time? Who had the idea? Who knew that Poonch had heard from some kids that there was no Santa? 

When we arrived at the party, my aunt pulled Poonch aside and gave her the letter from Santa. As she read it, her eyes widened. I could see a combination of amazement and nervousness on her face. She looked at me with wonder. I just shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. See Poonch, you were right, there is a Santa, and he is watching. 

Later on in the evening, Poonch handed out the special gifts to all the kids in the family. The other mothers asked who the gifts were from, and all Poonch and I could say was, they are from Santa. 

Of course, because we are gabby women, we speculated some more on who played Santa for the kids. We even tortured a few suspects. We came up empty-handed. We have our ideas, but if that person wanted to be known, they would. 

When we finally got home and began the unpacking (new Barbies everywhere, please help me!), I came across the stockings that the Santa gifts came in. Poonch and Chuckles grabbed them and ran to their rooms to hang them up. 

They still believe, and I am reminded of what Christmas is all about, and although it might have a few different meanings to different people, I am reminded that it is not about the perfect gift, the perfect cookies, the best decorations, the best meal, or the cleanest house. It's about the people in your life, whomever they may be. 

To their special Santa...Thanks. That was the best. 

Stop Asking Me Questions I Can't Answer

Is there a great big book of answers to difficult questions that children ask? Some secret book that only parents are allowed to see? If so, let me know, because I need it. This week alone has tested my answer creativity to its limits. My kids have asked me so many questions that I have failed to answer that I have come to the conclusion that after all that schooling, after all that job experience, all that reading, I AM DUMB. 

Here is just a sampling of how I have come to that conclusion:

Example #1: The other night my MIL gave the girls these fancy bejeweled keys that you leave on your hearth for Santa. Once he comes down the chimney, he sees the keys, uses the magic key to unlock your door, therefore allowing him to bring in the big presents that might not fit down the chimney. Cute idea, probably brought in a ton of cash at some local craft fair that MIL frequents. After inspecting the key, Chuckles says to me, Mom, how did Santa get our presents in our house last year? I reply, Oh, well, maybe we didn't get any big presents last year. Chuckles replies, well, what about my SmartCycle and that trampoline? That couldn't fit down the chimney. Me, Uhhhhhh...

Example #2: Poonch asked me why one of our friends does not celebrate Christmas. I explain, Well, because he is Jewish. Poonch asks why Jewish people don't do Christmas. Well, Poonch, Christmas, as you know, is Jesus' birthday, and Jewish people don't believe in Jesus. Hubby breaks in, Well, they believe in Jesus as a person, just not as the Son of God. Poonch says, I thought Joseph was the dad, not God. Me, not struggling yet, I can answer this one, Well Poonch, Joseph was Jesus' dad on Earth, but God is his true father, because really Jesus and God are one. MISTAKE. Poonch, What? How can that be? Me, Uhhhhhh...

Example #3: Poonch, OK, so Jewish people don't celebrate Christmas, but why can't Santa still come to their house? Me (oh my God, I have no idea what to say to this one. What is the story of St. Nick anyhow?) Instead I reply, Uhhhhhh, because?

Example #4: This afternoon Poonch and I helped to sort gifts given to our church's Giving Tree. Not that I am a big church volunteer (OK, I hardly volunteer and the reason why we have been hitting church lately is because Poonch will be making her first communion this spring), but I thought this would be a great experience for Poonch, who pretty much gets whatever she wants, if not from us, then from her grandparents. After a few minutes of sorting, Poonch turns to me and asks, super loud, Mom, I don't get it. Why can't Santa just bring these people this stuff? Tell them just to put it on their lists. Me, defeated, UHHHHHHHH....

I mean, come on. This was all in one week. We haven't even gotten to the birds and the bees questions yet. I am doomed. I have never been good on my feet when it comes to quick comebacks or fast answers. I am one of those people who after a difficult conversation will say 20 minutes later "Oh, I should have said this. Why didn't I think of that?" 

Sigh. Why do kids have to be so curious and ask so many damn questions anyway? Who do I look like? Alex Trebec? 

Picture Perfect

BK (Before Kids), I always thought it was weird when friends would send me holiday cards adorned with pictures of their kids. Or any kind of family photo for that matter. Photos of family pets were destined for the trash. I was so confused. Why would a picture of a drooling kid put me in the holiday spirit? As far as I was concerned, my box of 20 cards with the picture of the lone decorated pine tree in the woods I got at Target worked pretty well.

Then I had Poonch. AK. After Kids. Like every other mother in the world feels about her own, I felt Poonch was the most beautiful baby in the world. Surely her perfect, chubby, smiling face alone would communicate all the holiday joy (but not peace, because after all, she was 6 months on her first Christmas) that I was feeling. I mean, wouldn't everyone want to see this angel? Of course they would! I must share this face with the world. She will cure all the bah-humbugs stubbornly sticking around! I worked really hard on getting the perfect Christmas picture and creating the best Christmas card. I was so happy with what I came up with. It was the most beautiful card EVER. 

The next year Poonch was 18 months, a perfect age for picture-taking. I am not one for posed shots or JC Penney sittings, so I took one of her laughing in front of the Christmas tree with my own camera. To this day, it is still one of my favorite pics of her. 

Eventually Chuckles arrived, and taking pictures became a whole new ballgame. Poonch had started losing interest in posing, and Chuckles was a great distraction. The first two years with both of them were manageable, but last year the challenge escalated. Out of about 50 pictures, I finally got one that I could use, even though Poonch wasn't looking directly at the camera. 

Fast forward to this year. Poonch's distaste for posing for the camera has intensified. Chuckles will pose, but loves to antagonize her sister just to get in her trouble, which she is usually successful at. (Poor Poonch.) I tried my best to get a great photo this year. Because after all, no one's Christmas will be complete without our card, right? I mean, that is why we do this, right? Oh wait. No. We are merely sending our holiday wishes. 

Anyhow, no matter what I did, no matter where we were, no matter what the girls were wearing, no matter what they ate 45 minutes before I pulled the camera out, I never got that perfect pic. So, I decided that we would send the "real" us, with our "real" holiday greetings attached. Because after all, it isn't really about the perfect picture, is it? IS IT????

A crude shot of our 2008 Holiday Greeting...

The sad thing is that no one will know how much work it was getting those shots. I was downright sweaty after all that. 

Sigh. 

Peace on Earth, 

Fa la la la la, 

I need some egg nog...

Grab Your Cereal and Sit Down

OK, weak mommy moment. Because we all have them. Perhaps I have them more than you, but hey, at least I admit it even if you can't.

Perhaps you will recall the Pork Chop Debacle? If not, grab a free laugh about it here. I promise that you will not get to the end of that without laughing or maybe commiserating. 

Anyhow, even though I found Pork Chop Debacle kind of funny, what I did not find funny was the fact that I had spent the better part of an hour on a dinner that pretty much no one ate, let alone enjoyed. I mean, really, why do I even bother? Let's face it, my time is precious. There isn't too much of if just laying around. My time is spoken for. And loudly spoken for. So really, if no one is going to enjoy the dinner I spend my time on, then I ask, why make it?

Unfortunately for my lovely children, the night following Pork Chop Debacle was a late night for Hubby. It was also, sadly, a PMSing night for me. Which means, maybe, just maybe I was just a teensy bit cranky. So, dinner time rolls around, the girls are arguing, and as I am getting the pots and pans out, my mind screams to myself, F@#$ IT!  Screw dinner! That's right, screw it. No one appreciates your hard work anyhow! 

The weirdest thing happened next. My crazy PMSing mind actually takes control of my mouth, calls the girls to the kitchen and says the following:

Well, I spent an hour on those stinking pork chops last night. It was a disaster. So, I quit. (Girls' jaws drop to floor.) That's right! Tonight I am not making dinner. You know where the bowls are, you know where the cereal is, there's the fridge with the milk. Go for it. 

And then my mind actually moved my body to the family room couch, grabbed the tv remote and started looking for the latest DVRed Lipstick Jungle. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girls staring at each other with their jaws still hanging. Who is this woman, and what has she done with our mother, I could almost see them thinking. I braced myself for the protesting that was sure to come, but...nothing. 

Not. One. Word. 

They set the table (even remembering to get placemats), picked out their cereals, poured their milk, and started eating. 

It was quiet for a while, and then I hear Poonch say to Chuckles, 

Remember when Grandma fed us Lucky Charms for dinner that one night?

And Chuckles replied, 

Yeah, I remember that. 

P: Well, that was OK, so I guess this is OK, too. 

C: Sure, this is fine. 

Then as if sensing my guilt, Poonch yells to me:

Mom, it's OK. Grandma did this once. 

Perfect, Just perfect. Because as we all know, grandmas can do no wrong. And damn, if they didn't eat all of their dinner. Silently. And it wasn't even Lucky Charms! It was Kashi! 

I am tempted to serve cereal for dinner every night now. 

She's a Joker

Poonch has been into jokes lately. In the mornings she regales us with the jokes printed on the cereal boxes, and in the afternoons she comes home with a new joke that traveled on that day's playground grapevine. 

Here is her current favorite:

Poonch: Why did the chicken cross the park?

Me: I don't know, why?

Poonch: To get to the other slide.  Sllllliiiiide, get it? 

At this point both Poonch and Chuckles break into guffaws of laughter. Especially Chuckles, who wants to let her big sis know how funny she is. 

Not to be outdone, this morning Chuckles announced that she had a few jokes of her own:

Chuckles: Why did the cat eat the dog food?

Me: I don't know, why?

Chuckles: Because he was hungry. 

At this point, Poonch just stares at Chuckles, and I am the one to guffaw. 

Noticing that Poonch didn't laugh, Chuckles tries again:

Chuckles: Why did the chicken eat the road?

Me: I don't know, why?

Chuckles: Because he didn't want the cars to drive on it. 

Now, I never thought that I had the sense of humor of a 4-year-old, but to me, this is hysterical. I am still laughing. And the fact that maybe only me and possibly Hubby would find this funny makes me laugh even more. 

 

Monday's Muse

I don't care how tough you are, how many tats you have, if you smoke, if you drink, or if you curse like a truck driver; if you are female, your dreams about your wedding day started at an early age. Deny it if you must, but every girl dreams about that magical day, that day when your entire life as you know it changes. Some of us get our dream weddings, and some of us don't. Some of us get our dream hubbies, some of us don't. I am lucky enough to say that I did end up with my dream hubby. Sure, he drives me nuts sometimes, but that's life. But for others, sometimes (or more than sometimes), the realities of life cloud that wedding dream a little bit. But not for my little girl. 

This weekend we attended a family wedding. Chuckles was lucky enough to dance with THE BRIDE. Can you imagine? If only you could have seen the look on her face. But what strikes me in this picture is the innocence of both "girls"...a blushing bride on her wedding day, a little girl in awe of this woman in this heavenly dress. Stuff like this makes you stop, if just for a moment. I don't know why we hold this day so high on a pedestal. After all, we can accomplish the same thing in a courtroom with a justice of the peace. But there is something about the beauty of this day that is so enticing. People who know me are well aware of the fact that I am not a girly-girl. But somehow, my girls are. Not sure where they get it from, but the more sparkles and sequins, the better. The bigger the dress, the better it is for twirling. The brighter the tiara, the easier it is for them to believe they are a beautiful princess waiting for their prince to arrive. I want to let them know that life doesn't always work that way, but after taking a look at this picture, I guess I can wait a few years to clue them in. If the hope in this picture doesn't inspire you, I don't know what does. 

Check out Maternal Spark for more inspirations...

Friday Foto

This is what I woke up to one lazy summer morning. Two sisters snuggling for some girl time while mom snoozes. Our family loves the fall, but man, are we going to miss the laid-back summer days. It sure was a great couple months. And yes, we wake up to that hair EVERY DAY, summer, fall, winter, spring.

Happy Friday.

Howl at the Moon

We were having dinner at our friends' house a few nights ago when the unspeakable happened. Let me set the scene first. Our friends have 3 boys, ages 7, 5, and 3. Three very well-behaved boys, I might add. Their family is a little more conservative than ours, church-goers, strict house rules, piano lessons for all, etc. My hubby and I strive for that, but usually fall short. Our girls have always gotten along really well with the boys, so in spite of our differences, our dinners are usually fun. The kids go off and do their thing, while we adults do our thing, which usually includes a nice, small (remember-conservative), relaxing glass of wine. 

On this particular night, we were sitting around a bonfire in their yard while the kids played on the swingset. My hubby and I were facing away from the kids, so we were unaware of what our angelic 4-year-old was concocting. As far as we knew, the fact that there was no crying, screaming, or yelling meant that all was well in our little world. That is, until the other dad said, "um, you might want to see what your daughter is doing."

Assuming it was Poonch in trouble, we turn around to see all three boys sitting on the swings. Standing in front of them was Chuckles, not Poonch, with her pants and her Hello Kitty underwear around her ankles, SHAKING HER BUTT, laughing her ASS off. The boys were laughing their asses off as well.

Mouths hanging open, wine glasses tipping, Hubby and I sat there frozen as we watched our Chuckles shake her little booty. Finally we came to our senses and called her over. We got her dressed and gave her a stern talking to, and then she went back to the business of playing. 

As we were tucking her into bed that night, we reiterated to Chuckles how important it is to never shake her naked butt at anyone, let alone three boys lined up in a row. She quietly listened with her eyes to the floor, and once we were done talking, she looked up at us with those big brown eyes, and with a face as serious as only a 4-year-old's can be, said:

"ok, I will keep my pants on, but can I still shake my butt at people?"

After a moment, I replied, "Sure. As long as you keep it covered."

Moms are Human, Too

A friend emailed me the other day in distress. Last Saturday, her hubby came up with the "great" idea of hitting the pumpkin patch with their kids, ages 2 and 1. Now, in suburbian bliss, this sounds awesome. But sometimes in the real world, it's not so cool. For instance, in my friend's world, she was exhausted from taking care of the kids all week. Her youngest had a cold, which as we all know, makes for a ton of fun week. She does so much for her kids all the time. All my friend wanted was a quiet Saturday during which she could take a super long hot shower and just...relax. Screw family time, for a couple of hours, at least.  

I know exactly how she feels. Just this past weekend, Poonch's school blessed her with 4.5 days off. (What a swell school district.) Of course I feel like my job is to make sure this weekend is the BEST it can possibly be. So to start, Poonch had a friend sleepover on Thursday night. This went relatively smoothly, although there were times when my hubby would go into a self-induced trance when the volume reached that certain screachy level that only 7-year-old girls can create. (I kindly informed him that this was nothing, just wait until a sleepover party with ten girls running around...) 

The next morning, Poonch's Friend's Mom and I decided to take all the kids to the city for the day. We thought it would be awesome to take advantage of the beautiful day and the beautiful city that we live near.  Because neither of us wanted to drive, and because it was cheaper, and because we thought the kids would love it, we took the train. The kids did love it. For about 15 minutes. (It is over an hour train ride to the city.)

It all went downhill when Poonch wouldn't share any of the EIGHT or so books she brought with her Friend. Thus, her Friend promptly changed her seat so that she wasn't sitting anywhere near Poonch. Well, that ticked off Poonch, so just to show her Friend a thing or two, she generously shared her books with her Friend's little Brother, but then promptly yelled at him when he wrinkled a few pages. All four kids then spent the rest of the train ride changing their seats depending on who was mad at whom. We finally pulled into the station, only to stand in line for the bathroom for 15 minutes. This wouldn't have been so bad, except that the entire 15 minutes was peppered with comments from Poonch and her Friend about how it stinks to have to wait in line to go to the bathroom when they didn't even HAVE to go. However, since Chuckles was with us and her bladder is the size of ummm, a peanut, I was not taking any chances walking around the city with a urine-soaked 4-year-old.  

After finally getting out of that super clean (not) bathroom, we took a water taxi to where we wanted to start our sightseeing. All the kids thoroughly enjoyed this, so the other Mom and I were blessed with 10 WHOLE minutes of peace. We then found a place to eat the lunches we had packed, but the kids were more interested in chasing the pigeons around, which for some reason, they mistook for quail. All those escaping from their offices for lunch saw four crazy kids with a peanut butter sandwich in one hand running around screaming QUAIL, QUAIL, GET THE QUAIL!!!

Our goal was to get up to the zoo, but we promptly realized that wasn't going to happen if we wanted to catch a decent train back home. So, because the girls requested it, we walked to the American Girl Doll store which was WAY, WAY, WAY down the avenue. There the girls were happy for a while making their Christmas lists (Mia doll $90, Mia bed $100, Julie doll $90, Julie bed ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-EIGHT FREAKING DOLLARS). We were able to escape unscathed from there by promising them a trip to the bookstore across the street where we let them buy an American Girl book for just SEVEN dollars. Much better.

After squeezing in a trip to the Disney store, we then tried to rush back to the train station on foot. However, after listening to ALL FOUR kids complain about how TIRED they were, we grabbed a cab WHICH THEY LOVED. We made it back to the train station with plenty of time to spare, so we HAD to hit the Claire's (why, oh why is there a Claire's store in the train station?) because the girls were SO BORED. Poonch's Friend's Mom bought her a pair of magnetic earrings (because she's not allowed to have pierced ears yet, which makes it a little uncomfortable when she looks at Poonch's pierced ears). We ran to the train and once we got on, Friend realized she had lost a part of the earring already. We then enjoyed the HOUR TRAIN RIDE home with business commuters staring at our rowdy kids, who became friends again on the ride home.

When I asked Chuckles if she had fun, she said she liked the cab ride. 

Just like my friend, after this week sprinkled with days like that, I was exhausted. I did not want to make dinner. I did not want to play any games. Like my friend, I would certainly not want to go to any pumpkin patch, scarecrow fest, nothing. Does that make us bad moms? It makes us HUMAN. Moms are human. Sometimes we are Superhumans, but sometimes we aren't. And that's OK. Cuz tomorrow we will go to to the pumpkin patch or to whatever great family event we have planned. Because maybe on that day, everyone will get it right. Even us.

 

Mom's Day Off

Chuckles found out that I was going to serve turkey sandwiches for lunch today, her most despised lunch. To her, nothing is worse. She decided to take matters in her own hands under guise of giving me the afternoon off. Gee, she is so sneaky. Doesn't this peanut butter sandwich look much more appetizing than any turkey sandwich I could make? 

The Great Pumpkin

Summer used to be my favorite time of year (and I still love it), but ever since having kids, fall has become so fun. The warm sun and crisp air, the changing leaves, the pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins, the fall festivals, Halloween costumes, cookies, candy, parties, Halloween decorations...I love it all. 

This weekend a bunch of my fam traveled from Ohio to hit the pumpkin patch with us. Now, picking out the best pumpkin is serious business in our family. I have always known this, but I didn't realize how much Poonch stresses over it until I downloaded our pics.  

Searching, searching...

 

Is this the one? No, not quite. Sigh. Nothin' but crap here.  

No, that's not it either. These pumpkins stink. Geez. Wait, maybe there is something good on this side.

Nothin' over on this side either. What the heck?  Don't these people know how to grow a good pumpkin? Whatever. I guess I will take this one. I'm not very happy with it, though. 

Oh my Poonch.  It's just a pumpkin!!

Time Flies...Just Not Saying To Where

The dude who came up with the phrase "time flies when you are having fun" had a point. However, I would like to edit that phrase to be as follows:

time travels freaking faster than freaking light when trying to get a second grader to school on time.  

Somebody please tell me!!!

Why, why, why can't a 7-year-old even attempt to grasp the concept of time? At what age can I expect that she will just GET IT? Get the fact that school starts at the same time every day. Get the fact that 60 seconds equals one minute every time. Get the fact that if she wants to ride her bike to school, then she must be ready at 7:50 and no later. Get the fact that time will NOT wait while she chases her sister around the house to get the "magic brush" that she claims doesn't hurt her hair when trying to get that mop into some sort of presentable appearance.  Get the fact that she must brush her teeth, this is non-negotiable, and that this also takes time. Get the fact that singing fairy songs in front of the mirror does NOT fall under "things to do in order to get ready for school." 

ticktockticktockticktock

Get the fact that she must wipe off the milk mustache on her mouth, and that this should NOT take 360 seconds, but maybe 10 at the most.  Get the fact that her homework does not have legs and cannot walk itself into her backpack. Wait, let's take an extra 2 minutes to get that folder in the backpack!!

ticktockticktockticktock

When will a 7-year-old get the fact that she must wear shoes everyday to school? And that there just really isn't time to sing eeny-meeny-miny-mo to decide which pair she should wear today.  JUST PUT ON A PAIR OF SHOES, DAMMIT!!!

ticktockticktockticktock

Now it's time to pick out a coat.  No, Poonch, darling dearheart, there is no time to argue whether fall has officially begun, it is 50 degrees outside, so it is time to wear a coat.  Pick a coat...eeny-meeny-miny-mo.  Zipping...another 3 minutes.  Time, time, time to get the backpack! TIME TO GO TO FREAKING SCHOOL!!!!!

Sigh.  God, I love this spaced-out kid.  Yeah, sure, time has flown since I was holding her in my arms as a baby.  But that time has definitely NOT flown as fast as a school morning on any given day!!  

ticktockticktockticktock...let's do it again tomorrow.  Time waits for no one. Especially not a 7-year-old on a school morning. 

P.S.  Have I mentioned that she can be ready in 5 minutes on a Saturday morning?????

Love ya, Sis

After picking up my second-grader from school yesterday, we were walking home when I accidently stepped into a new era without even realizing what was happening until it was way, way, WAY too late.  

The girls and I stepped into...The Grade-school Girls' Sleepover Era.  (Please say this in your head like Al Roker says SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY!!) 

This is how it happened...

a mother of one of Poonch's friends and I were walking behind the girls who were going on and on about their day, because everything that happens to them is paramount to the end of the world, and the mom innocently (or so I thought) asks me if Poonch has ever had or gone to a sleepover with a girlfriend.  (As opposed to a boyfriend, I guess.)  So I reply no, but mention that Poonch has been bringing the idea of a sleepover up more and more lately, and I have done pretty much everything under the sun to change the subject because I am, after all, the MEANEST MOM IN THE WORLD.  The mom then asks if Poonch would be interested in having a sleepover at their house this weekend.  Well, how could I say no to that?  1.  a night with just one kid to worry about and 2. the first sleepover would NOT be at my house.

Well, the girls overheard this and of course start going nuts, laughing, hugging, crying, an awesome Oscar-accepting performance.  The next thing I know, Chuckles, my 4-year-old, stops her bike in the middle of the sidewalk, gets off, and just starts BAWLING.  Now, this is a problem, because we are on a skinny sidewalk and there are about 100 crazy kids behind us trying to get home.  Not one of them is concerned about the welfare of a 4-year-old in the middle of what looks to be a temper tantrum.  Of course, the mom and I, and even Poonch and her friend in an unusual show of small-child concern, run over to Chuckles to ask what is the matter.  We can't get anything out of her.  I mean, this kid can barely breathe at this point.  She had been riding her bike pretty far ahead of us, so I didn't see if anything major had occurred to cause this show.  Finally, after we have been stampeded by pretty much the entire elementary school, Chuckles manages to get one word out...sleepover.  

Here I thought she had been stung by a bee, ran into a cicada (which both of my girls are terrified of), run over by a rude 5th grade boy, but no, what had stopped her in her tracks was the fact that her sis was going to a sleepover AND SHE WAS NOT.  I can't believe she even overheard any of this with everything going on around her.  I mean, really, the amount of noise 5th grade boys make running from school still amazes me.  Chuckles must have some super hearing that is specifically tuned into a channel called  "Events that I Might Miss" because I know her hearing isn't tuned into the "Mom Asked Me to Clean-up" channel.

Here's the worst part of this entire scene...once I realized what was wrong with Chuckles, I was secretly happy.  Maybe happy is not the right word.  Proud?  Satisfied?  Glad?  No, I was happy.  I mean, of course I felt bad that she was so upset.  But I was happy that what she wanted more than anything in the world at that point, was to be with her sis at that sleepover.  I mean, how cute is that?  I am strange, I know this.  But I am sure some of you moms of two hard-to-understand, emotional, dramatic, gorgeous girls completely know where I am coming from. I know that one day these girls will be each other's nemesis.  And actually there are already days when that is the case.  But right now, that little girl thinks her big sis walks on water and wants to be with her at all times.  

So either that is something to celebrate, or it could be that I really am the MEANEST MOM IN THE WORLD.  

So, the sleepover is on, without little sis, and I am sure that will be a fun post to read, knowing my daughter and her quirks.  Stay tuned!