Cords and Fleece

  “What about the goody bags?” That’s Michael. He’s disappointed because I didn’t mention my goody bag debacle in The Big 5.0 . All I can say it that we all know I don’t have a good history with goody bags, so what happened is probably just bad karma for dissing them in the past . On Monday, Elizabeth celebrated her birthday at school. They do a nice job for birthdays. Elizabeth made a list of 8 friends to sit with her at the festive birthday table. One by one Elizabeth called out the names of her friends and one by one they ran up to her, a la The Price is Right, hugged her, and ran to the table. Eventually, all the children were seated and the singing and cupcake-eating ensued. (I won’t go into how awful it must be for the kids who never get picked. Let’s just say I feel their pain...) After eating, Elizabeth called out each child’s name (every kid in the class -- not just the privileged eight) and handed them their goody bags. There was more hugging and the occasional peck on the ch

“I’m so happy that today is my birthday!” As I slept, a wide-eyed Elizabeth marched into our bedroom, stood next to me, and announced those words loudly on Saturday morning. Elizabeth had three birthday parties this past week -- two at home and one at school. I realize this establishes an expectation of endless super-party-fantasticness that her future boyfriend will never hope to match, but that’s his problem. She also had a Preschool Graduation Party last Thursday and has been practicing this song all week for their graduation presentation: So long, it’s been good to know ya. So long, it's been good to know ya. So long, it's been good to know ya. Glad you could come! Adios and Goodbye! (sigh) Yes, it's a time of great change and celebration. Needless to say, we’re pretty partied out. However, birthday party No. 1 -- the BIG Party -- was on Saturday, and with her joyful morning proclamation, the horns officially sounded and the birthday festivities began. Well, not really

“Elizabeth, you have to take your medicine.” Elizabeth storms from the kitchen. I don’t blame her, really. Cough medicine is the worst. In her bedroom I find her furiously scribbling a note. She holds it up to me while making an angry face. HAT MOMY is written above a heart drawn on a heart-shaped card she cut out of printer paper. I read the card out loud. “You hat me?” I ask. “It’s not hat it’s HATE !” she corrects me. I have to admit, it was a low-blow on my part because I already knew it was “hate.” Now she feels bad for being angry, for being misunderstood, and for misspelling a word. Yea, definitely a low-blow -- caused by a momentary lapse of confidence precipitated by the word HAT . “Oh,” I say. “Well, at least you wrote it on a heart card. So you must not hat me too much,” I tease and smile hopefully. Elizabeth scowls, but doesn’t deny it. I resist the urge to taunt her by singing You love me, you love me! Instead, I promise all sorts of chocolate goodies to eradicate the