Cords and Fleece

I've got a nice little headache brewing this morning. Perhaps that's because I looked in the mirror and there's no doubt about it: I'm aging. I've done pretty good, so far, with the Aging Thing. By "pretty good" I mean I weigh about what I did in college, I don't own a single pair of " mom jeans ", and my hair is still longish. These are, to me, age-indicators and I've done my best to meet these standards -- at times surpassing them by wearing juvenile baseball jerseys, Converse knock-offs, and taking wacky dance classes with young college girls. However, the person looking back at me in the mirror shrugs off these attempts at camouflage to reveal a very real, aging woman, and reminds me that there is a difference between youthful and youth . So, while I may be youthful in spirit and activity, I am not young. Later, I caught a glimpse of myself again, this time in the visor mirror in the car, and I think I saw a gray nose hair. Now that

When I am confused or overwhelmed and have to make a sudden decision, the feeling is akin to being a hungry wolf trapped in a cage: I snarl, I snap, I thrash about, and all I want to do is escape so I can go somewhere else and have a nice meal. This is often how I feel when I'm confronted with a sudden parenting dilemma that I don't know how to handle -- and this happens more often than I would like. The problem is, there will be a nice stretch of time when the girls are fairly well behaved. They listen (pretty good), they share (pretty good), and they're pretty good to their mommy. During that time, I relax. I talk to them more like grownups. For example, when they don't want to stay in their beds at night, I'll be honest with them, "Seriously, could you go back to bed without a fuss -- Daddy and I have things to do." And for a time, they'll do it. I simply explain myself and that's all it takes to get them to respond. But gradually it takes more

There's nothing much cuter than Samantha singing the following lyrics to Dance, Dance, Dance (the Steve Miller song): I'm a hard working man I'm a son of a gun I've been working all week in the noon day sun... Or Samantha describing an episode of the Powerpuff girls whose names are Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup. Saying all those "p's" and "b's" makes her cheeks puff out several times a minute causing her sentences to sound like bubbles popping. Or when Samantha tells me (not-so-under) her breath that she's going to throw my clothes in the trash and cut off all my hair because she's mad at me for not helping her put on her tights. So, so cute.

Lizzy always seems to be moving faster than I am prepared. When she was fourteen months old, she learned to escape from her crib. She swung one lanky leg waaay up, hoisted it over the edge, and pulled herself out. At the time, I fully expected her to remain in her crib each night, nicely contained, until she was at least 2 years old. But fourteen months?! I wasn't ready. I hoped it was a fluke. But she repeated the maneuver again and again -- not to convince me otherwise, but because it was so much fun and so powerful. Well, she's caught me off guard, again. Here I was, fully anticipating 8 more years of non-teenage bliss. But I'll be damned if a teenager didn't walk out of her room one morning. It looked like Elizabeth, talked like Elizabeth, dressed the wacky way Elizabeth sometimes dresses. But it wasn't Elizabeth. Well, not the one I'm used to. Did you ever fantasize about what you would do if you had to go back to being a kid or teenager, knowing all you kn

Michael: "Did you see the note?" Me: "Note?" Michael: "It's in her bookbag." Me: mmm kaaay... Mr. & Mrs. Cords and Fleece, Lizzy did fine today. But I just want to let you know that she gave Payton a scare. While Payton was walking back to his rug spot, she put her arm out as if to trip him. She pulled her arm away just in time so he wouldn't fall. She apologized, but if you could talk to her that would help. Thanks!! Lizzy's Teacher P.S. She's also been making noises at the rug. :( I probably shouldn't have laughed out loud when I read this. Was it the thought of the bewildered and nearly-stumbling Payton that made me laugh? (I'm a sucker for well-executed slapstick and pratfalls -- even if it's a five-year old.) Was it the noises I imagined Lizzy making on the rug? Or was it the frowny face hand-drawn at the end of the note, depicting the exasperated teacher? Bad Lizzy. Bad. Either way, laughing at a teacher's cry