Clearly the child should have her own blog

When I went on a trip to Urbana illanou. My uncal said my hol famliy cood see a huge mashing called Shop Bot work.
In orter to make it work my ant Amy, hoo is an artist, and I had to cerate a dasine. We drew a bunny for a dasine on her conprter. My ant Amy sent the dasine on her conprter to my uncal. My uncal uploaded the bunny dasine into the Shop Bot. The Shop Bot cut the bunny shap out of a picee of wood.

Then we took it back to my ant and uncal's house. To pant it with my ant. We panted it wite and this weekend we will pant it with pingk spots.

I named it Stefeany.
The end.

By Jo and My Dad

(Editor's note: Opie got a plane, natch.)

Minor league Mayberry

We observed the first Monday of "spring" break with a minor league baseball game. If you've never done this with your kids, it's totally worth it even if you have less than zero interest in baseball (as I do). It's way easier than a major league game, in terms of parking, stadium size, and cost (and in our case it's at least 90 miles closer to home than the nearest major league park). The ballpark closest to us is clean and very kid-friendly; it even has a playground.

Plus, the goofy activities and cheesy (more on that later) promos are nonstop. Kids can't get bored by the slow pace of baseball when pretty much every inning includes a giveaway, race, or contest.

And when you are freezing your butts off in the bottom of the 5th you can just pack it in and go home, no harm done.

Brrrrrr.

Free baseballs! (Note empty seats. A staffer we talked with was so pleased we were there he handed each child a real! baseball!)

We win a cheesy giveaway (afraid to actually eat them, so far).

I'm telling you, the excitement NEVER STOPS: a cannon that looks like a bratwurst on a bun and shoots packages of brats out into the crowd.

Gossip girl's birthday party roundup

If you don't like gossip, you can skip this one (I'll probably delete it in a few days). If you're in more of a Dorothy Parker mood and would like to sit by someone who doesn't have anything nice to say, stick around.

We had both kids' birthday parties this weekend, one Saturday at home and one Sunday at a roller rink. Saturday I had to clean up vomit (canine) before the party. Sunday I had to clean up crap (human) before the party. I'm glad we didn't have a party on Monday because I wasn't interested in mopping up any blood.

Since Opie wanted to have his party at home, we kept the guest list small--a bunch of his friends from child care plus a few neighbors. The response was abysmal. Out of nine kids, only one showed, and only three others actually sent regrets. At the last minute I invited some other neighbors, a family of four kids--thank God, because they made up pretty much the entire party.

Luckily, Opie didn't seem to care. His best buddy from school was there (and his parents did some heroic schedule-shifting to make that possible). He had a Superman cake and a Superman pinata and everyone got to wear a cape.

Jo's party was the opposite. Her guest list kept growing as she begged to invite "just one more" kid from her class. And all except one replied in the affirmative. Which, fine. The roller rink was a dirt-cheap venue: $5/kid. (The place clearly has changed neither its decor, or its music selections, or its prices since 1985.)

(Here's where the gossip comes in.) A few days before the party one of her friend's moms, who I know, called because she was having transportation issues. We eventually worked out that the child's cousin would bring her to our house, then we'd take her to the party; another friend would take her home. Easy.

Then another mom calls--someone I don't know at all. And she gives me chapter and verse on her recent hysterectomy/gallbladder surgery/"total abdominal reconstruction" and how she can't drive and is there any way I could ... ? So I say yes, of course, we can pick up your daughter and take her to the party and bring her home.

I'm glad she asked for help and I was glad we could offer it. I really didn't need so many details. But it got better. An hour before the party--when I was cleaning up the aforementioned crap, which happened to land on the one small patch of white carpeting we have in our house--Hysterectomy Mom calls back. This time she wants to know if her son can tag along. She'll pay for him, he can just skate, etc. Once again I get a whole saga of a bad night's sleep, Xanax didn't help, yadda yadda. I quickly calculate whether we can fit all of these kids in our station wagon and determine that we can. So I promise to pick up the birthday guest and the brother in half an hour.

We pile into the car and I am wedged into the front passenger seat with a huge box filled with goody bags and party favors. I can't move at all. We get to the kids' house and I make Jeff get out to say hello to the kids and the mom. She comes out in her pajamas and proceeds to pull from her pants pockets:

two drainage pouches filled with pus.

Like we needed proof that she had had this surgery. Good gravy. Really, how do you respond to such a thing? We backed out of the driveway as quickly as we possibly could. I think she was still talking about how many cc's of fluid she needed to allow to drain before she could have the tubes removed.

At the end of the party, some other mom volunteered to take those two kids home.

We said yes.

Seven years of good luck

I took these pictures on the morning of Jo's first birthday. I wanted to remember exactly what she looked like at that moment: Simultaneously eager to explore the world, and pensive too.

Six years later, her personality is much the same--95% go-getter, 5% ponderer. She doesn't tumble head-over-heels into things without thinking, but she does have confidence and self-possession in spades. (And yes, this is borderline obnoxious, so we work on knowing when to speak up and when to let others have a turn.) Despite her small size, she holds her own in a classroom full of children as much as three years older. She is fearless when it comes to swimming, climbing, public speaking--all those things that so many adults have trouble confronting.

Since turning 6, she's lost many of her front teeth and, famously, her appendix. She's become a strong reader and continued her interest in math and science. She has discovered a love of the stage (big surprise; see #4 below). She likes to get up early in the morning so she can spend a little extra time with me (and of couse, provide helpful comments) while I am working out. One of the best treats we can give her is to let her sneak downstairs after Opie is in bed and snuggle up on the couch to watch "a decorating show."(The other best treat we can give her is to let her watch any show, 24/7, but that doesn't happen except under extreme duress--e.g., hospitalization.)

She just brought home a huge stack of papers from school. These four cracked me up and deserve to be recorded here for posterity.

1. Name badge from field trip to hospital--the picture is of her in the CT scanner, or as she called it during her hospital stay, "the doughnut machine." She was in there 5 times last summer. I think she drew a pretty good likeness.



2. Recently adopted signature. I thought this didn't happen until about age 10.



3. "Writer's Workshop: Tru Storry," meditation on the theme of "making a mess."



4. "My Dream"



Happy birthday, Jo. May all your dreams come true, even the ones about getting your "her" done and wearing "macop."

WW: The show must go on

Jo, far right, as an Oompa Loompa. Moments before she exited, stage left, to puke in a trash can backstage.

I am so dense when it comes to realizing that my children are sick.

What happens when your 1st grader is in a classroom with 3rd graders

Better yet, I taught her the version of the song that I remember, the one about the naked ladies dancing and the hole in the wall. Oops.

Happy Friday.

Locker room rules for young ladies

1. Step directly from street shoes/socks into flip-flops.

2. Ohmygod please wear the flip-flops.

3. Remember? About the flip-flops? Okay.

4. Rinse off under the shower before you get into the pool. For this to be effective water droplets need to actually touch your body.

5. Rinse off again after you exit the pool. Wash your hair with shampoo if you don't want it to turn green.

6. Even if you want it to turn green, I don't. So shampoo.

7. Keep towel from dragging in the puddles on the floor.

8. Eew eew eew eew please keep the towel off the floor!


It's time for another session of swimming lessons! Yay.

Good night, sleep tight

Someone will probably want to revoke my Mom License for this, but I never used to check on my kids at night before I went to bed. Just getting them to sleep in the first place was far too time-consuming. I dared not risk it by tiptoeing anywhere near. The only time I chanced it was if I suspected they might not, in fact, be in their beds--hence the time I found Opie sound asleep on the floor of his room, completely bare of pajamas or even a diaper.

Lately, though, I can't resist sneaking a peek. I must have established the habit when Jo was sick this summer. Now I crack open each door just an inch or two, to see those little sleepyheads. I'd never realized Jo talks in her sleep. But nearly every night, she mumbles a little something. The sound of the doorknob turning is just loud enough to rouse her ever so slightly, but she rolls over and is dreaming again before I can even close the door. Opie, inevitably, hasn't moved an inch since I left him a few hours before, snoring slightly, with the stuffed animal du jour tucked in nearby.

Turning away from his door, I look across the hall at the room that's now (theoretically) a home office, and will one day be the new baby's room. Can it really be that one day another child will sleep right there behind that door? I'm still amazed.

Haiku by Jo

I've tweeted a few times how much I love finding my daughter's random writing samples around the house: a list of supplies needed for building a fort ("chars, blakits, tap, bulos, sremrs"*), a copy of a thank-you note composed at school ("Thank you for lating us pic appls. An prs the appls afdr we pict the appls. the sidr was yommye!"). After years of asking us to spell out words for her letter by letter, she is finally comfortable and confident enough to invent her own spelling. I will miss this when she outgrows it (or learns to use spell check).

The other day she composed a mini-story and I just realized it is actually a haiku! A scatological one, naturally:

The monster pewpt and
fel down. That pewp totaly
mest op his plan. Ya!

And here is a picture from one of her storybooks, a retelling of the Ugly Duckling fairy tale:


Happy Haiku Friday, and happy weekend.

*chairs, blankets, tape, pillows, streamers

'Cause I'm free! ... freelancing

I've been doing the freelance thing for just about two months now and because some people have asked, here's how it's going: Pretty well. Thanks mostly to two big assignments, I'll be able to replace all of the income I would have earned at my job in the last quarter of the year.

When I had my job, I worked at home, but during scheduled hours. My boss was wonderfully flexible, but I still felt guilty if I ran to the grocery store after dropping off the kids and got home late, or spent too much time cycling laundry during the work day. Now I can do that without flinching, plus take a yoga class in the mornings, do my 15-minute school volunteer job twice a week instead of once, and so on.

Still, I am ever conscious of the not-working time. Turns out that in order to be a successful freelancer, you better be really self-motivated. (Imagine that!) I always thought I was--I was never the kid who pulled all-nighters or did her homework on the bus--but man, pushing myself to put in the time can be hard. Especially when one of my jobs has no deadlines or specific assignments. I also stink at self-marketing (hi, I own myname.com and do you think there is anything there? no) and strategic planning. I have no idea where I'm going with this or how or when.

Jo has recently come to appreciate at least some aspects of my work, however. "So people send you stuff. And you write about it. That's a good job." It is. Not as excellent as jellybean caretaker, but it pays the bills.

Actual transcript of message left on my cell phone

(by my children at 7:30 p.m. while I was out and they were at home, ostensibly getting ready for bed)

Jo (aka Bossypants): Okay, now you can talk.

O: No, who was THAT talking?

Jo: That's just a girl. Now talk.

O: Hi. Hi Mommy.

Jo: Okay she's not going to be on there. You're leaving a message right now.

O: But I'm trying to tell you something. Why isn't she talking?

Jo: Excuse me for a minute. One second. [To O: She can't right now. She's busy with someone. You're leaving a message.]

O: I'm just leaving a message. Ummmm...

Jo: Put the phone to your mouth so she can hear you. Otherwise the only thing she's going to hear is [...]

O: I'm just leaving a message because I'm leaving a message and I don't want Daddy to be by me.

Jo: Ask her if she can come home and do something with you.

O: I'm just leaving a message. And now there's a message.

Jo: He just wanted to ask you if you can come home and do something with him. When you get home please wake him up and do something with him. Bye-bye!

One sucker down, one to go

What with all the appendecto-mania this summer I never recorded another big milestone: We are now a Nuk-free household. After all my hand-wringing, all it took was accidentally (we really didn't do it on purpose, except maybe in the Freudian sense) leaving the Nuks behind on our Fourth of July weekend trip to Grammy's house. That was four nights of "we left the Nuk in our car at the airport, remember?" and somehow Opie fell asleep each night without it. I don't even remember it being that difficult.

When we came home, we stashed the car Nuk before it could be seen and never brought it out again. Done and done. Color me shocked, especially since we couldn't have picked a worse time to break that habit--almost as soon as we returned from that particular trip, I left for a business trip on my own and then right after that we went to San Francisco, kicking off three weeks of hospitalization, disruption, and aggravation. And he was seriously fine the whole time. Once in a great while he'll say "I miss my Nukkies" and we'll agree and reminisce about the good times we all had. And then move on.

Now, the thumb is another story, especially now that Jo has lost her two top front teeth. Anticipating yet another stern lecture from the dentist, we ordered these thumb guards, which we've been using for about a week now with a fair amount of success (by which I mean she is able to fall asleep with them on; but the minute she wakes up she extricates herself and we find her on the couch slurping away).

So Monday we go to the dentist (aside: genius over here scheduled her kids' dentists appointments for three days after Halloween) and I am already on the defensive. Instead, we get the best hygienist ever. She told me that yes, Jo has a cross-bite, but it's not necessarily related to her thumb habit. And she said that she should go to the orthodontist after all 8 of her front teeth (4 top, 4 bottom) fall out and grow back in, which "may not be until she's past 8 years old." I wanted to kiss her on the spot for buying us two more years!

The story of a small Singer sewing machine

As I have mentioned, Jo is a bit of a dilettante. Like most kids, she's a sucker for anything new. Last Christmas, she got a finger loom which she loooooovvved for about two weeks (and even that was a very long run) and has since almost completely ignored. She'll beg for a toy or a game or a book with the tenacity of an e-mail spam overlord and then blow it off almost as quickly as she receives it. She's taken a incredible range of extracurricular classes, from music to art to tumbling to (most recently) ice skating, but the only one she's stuck with consistently is swimming.

Her most recent prized possession was a toy sewing machine we picked up at TJ Maxx for $12. It's pink and plastic but it really works. So for a few days Jo was a busy busy seamstress (mostly just making seams with no practical purpose). And after that, of course, the little machine sat and gathered dust.

What I wonder is how much of this is my own doing. See, the sewing machine--like many other hobbies she might try/stick with--requires intervention from me: helping her thread the needle, find fabrics to work with, follow instructions, etc. And you know, there is a reason why I don't own a sewing machine myself. I am just not interested! So if Jo asks me to help her, I will; but I'm not going to go out of my way and say "Psst! Hey kid! Wanna sew?"

So I don't think I am actually suppressing my child's interests. The question is whether I am doing enough to encourage them. I like to think I am allowing her passions to shine through (she is only six, after all!). But as we've established, I'm pretty good at rationalizing.

Shopping list: 1 bichon frise, 1 kitten, 1 rabbit ...

At some point in kindergarten, every time Jo went to the school library she would only check out totally boring nonfiction books with some variation on the title Caring for Your Pet ____ or All About [Dog/Cat Breed X]. These were dry as dirt earnest, detailed manuals published by the likes of the ASPCA and the American Kennel Club. Not exactly my idea of soothing bedtime reading, but who was I to interfere with my child's interest in books/science/companion animals?

In the months since we have come to discover that the kid had an ulterior motive. She filed away all the details and used them to craft her master plan. And now, once a week or so we hear "When Folly dies can we get a bichon frisé? And then, you know bichon frisés get along with cats so we can get a cat? Or a rabbit, and also a guinea pig."

After she tried this a few times and I responded with horror at her blasé attitude toward the death of our beloved pet, she amended her request thusly:

"When Folly dies, it'sgoingtobereallysad, and then can we get a bichon frisé?"

We've had this dog since before the kids were born and they really do have a sibling relationship. By which I mean a love/hate kind of a thing. She tries to steal their food and they freak out. Then they feed her their leftovers right off their plates. She grabs their toys, they grab hers. They play together intensely for awhile and then ignore each other intensely for awhile.

She's over 10 years old and she has a heart murmur. She sheds, she barks viciously at the vacuum cleaner, she sometimes refuses to go outside and then has accidents in the basement. And when she's gone, it'sgoingtobereallysad.

(Photo is from 2002 and is one of my all-time favorites.)

This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by Burger King Corp.

Further adventures in firefighting

The best part is she didn't even tell us she did this. We only found out from the pictures. Even then she just acted like it was no big thang.

And I have to say, for a photo taken on a disposable camera by an 8-year-old, I rather like it.

Jo = Teh Awesome

I am grooving on this little girl this week. To wit:

1. Last night she voluntarily, cheerfully, and capably washed a huge sink full of dishes. I may still have to remind her regularly to take her plate to the sink and put her pajamas in the drawer, but did I enjoy having post-dinner clean-up cut in half, at least just that once? I did.

2. For the past few days she has been giving Opie "homework assignments" after school. She dot-to-dots letters and numbers for him to trace and then gives him a letter grade for each page (ranging from A+ to Z-). He loves it.

3. She was one of two kids from her school chosen at random to spend the morning at our local fire station. She was so excited you would have thought she'd won the lottery. She got to slide down the pole, have lunch from McDonald's (no firehouse chili?!), and be driven back to school in an honest-to-god fire engine. She tried on the gear and reported that the helmet was so heavy she couldn't walk in it. And one of the firefighters nicknamed her "Crumb" because she was the smallest kid there.

(crummy souvenir photo)

A mile-high high

If you've been to Julie's, you know we've been to Julie's this past weekend. There was much eating (thank you Kyle!), musical beds, walks around the neighborhood, cooing at the baby (OMG the baby. He is edibly cute), an intense game of Taboo in which Nancy's name was invoked (how else could I explain "hat trick" without saying the word "hockey"?), and not nearly enough picture-taking--partly because I left my camera at my brother's overnight. (Ask Julie about how he returned it on his motorcyle, fully decked out in leather and chains.)

Once again, Jo and Tacy picked up without a moment's hesitation and didn't leave each other's sides, awake or asleep, for the entire length of the visit. Neither did Jo wear any of the clothes we brought for her, preferring instead to raid Tacy's closet. I don't know if it's the fact that they spent so much time together as infants (nearly every day from three months to two years) or the fact that we parents do our best to encourage their continuing relationship, but these girls have a strong bond that's now weathered four years apart. I hope it never breaks.


Goodbye Denver--we'll be back as soon as we can.

Monday miscellany*

One of our neighbors--the kind of guy who keeps a TV in his garage and watches NASCAR on it all weekend, and I think that says a lot about a person--has put up an Obama yard sign.

*

Jo learned this song at after-school care:

We will, we will
Rock you
Sock you
Flush you in the toilet
Hope that you enjoy it!

As well as:

Made you look, made you look, now you're in the baby book!

I confess I missed these two in my own upbringing.

*

We did our annual autumn pumpkin patch/agritainment excursion this weekend. The trees are gorgeous. Whenever I see beautiful fall leaves I always remember the banquet director from our wedding reception. Since our wedding was in the fall, he made sure to note that the dining room overlooked a wooded mountain, the better to showcase the fall foil-age.

*thanks to Leighann for the title

Aiding and abetting my junior scientist

My husband thought I was completely nuts when I allowed this:


Yes, we literally played with fire. For the record, we learned that paper and toothpicks are flammable, but grapes and spoons are not.

Refrigerator update below.

Haiku Friday: Feeling my age

Sand through the hourglass
Technicolor leaves drifting
I am old as dirt

The other day at the dinner table Jo started talking about adjectives and nouns. Jeff and I immediately burst into song: "A noun's a special kind of word! It's any name you ever heard, I find it/ Quite interesting, a noun is a person, place, or thing."

Somehow during the same conversation it came up that she wanted to wear last year's kitty ears with this year's "rock star" (NOT Hannah M., thankyouverymuch) Halloween costume. This caused another outburst from the parental units and some quizzical looks from the children.

Thanks to YouTube, we were able to show the children what on earth we were talking about. So I guess them there modern conveniences do have some value.

I can only hope that Jeff and I prove to be like our betta fish, who has dodged Death twice in his four-month stay with us (accidental visit to the garbage disposal; dumped on the floor when bowl broke) and is, in Jo's words, "a really good liver."



Sidebar: Yes, my first grader is learning about parts of speech. And geometry. Rock on Montessori with your geo solids and your 3D grammar symbols.