tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91382105262479807062024-03-13T00:22:28.053-07:00Cords and FleeceMelissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.comBlogger197125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-45651696739491416802010-02-18T10:28:00.000-08:002010-02-18T10:31:55.357-08:00Adult Beginning Gymnastics Revealed<i>The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.</i><br />
<br />
Well...yes and <i>no</i>.<br />
<br />
Sometimes what we fear turns out to be OK -- in fact, it turns out to be pretty damned fun. The squadron of peppy cheerleaders turns out to be an extremely quiet guy named Ron and a nice girl named Alison who looks like Hayley Mills (but doesn't know who Hayley Mills is). The gymnastics instructor turns out to be a nice young <strike>girl</strike> woman who is easy to talk to. And I turn out to be considerably less decrepit than originally feared. <br />
<br />
Of the three students (!), I'm definitely the oldest by more than a decade. However, I was surprised (and thrilled) to see how evenly matched we were. Where one student is flexible, the other is strong. What I lack in youth, I make up for in pointy toes and perky presentation. While I'm certainly not as fit as the other students, I am not miles behind in skill. (Maybe just a few blocks away.)<br />
<br />
The first class was primarily an assessment of our current capabilities, so we covered the basics: forward rolls, backward rolls, and forward straddle rolls. I was heartened when none of us could perform a forward straddle roll without the young coach coming up behind us and giving our bums a good push. (The <i>straddle</i> and the <i>roll</i> are easily accomplished -- it's the <i>getting up</i> while in straddle position that's nearly impossible.) We also covered basic cartwheels, round-offs, and handstands. <br />
<br />
In later lessons (I've attended five so far), we examined each of these maneuvers in more detail, breaking them down into specific parts and focusing on engaging certain muscle groups. Our instructor has the temperament of someone who has spent many hours teaching gymnastics to pre-pubescent girls, as evidenced by her encouraging tone of voice, thorough explanation of technique, and endless patience. <br />
<br />
<i>I'm afraid I'm going to fall.<br />
<br />
You won't. I'll be here to spot you. <br />
<br />
Are you sure? Because I'm afraid I'm going to fall. <br />
<br />
It's OK. You won't fall. <br />
<br />
Really? <br />
<br />
Really. You're not going to fall. Just try it.<br />
<br />
Really?<br />
<br />
Really.</i><br />
<br />
She was right -- and I don't find her approach condescending at all. It's just what I need, because I really want someone to walk me through everything very carefully and without judgment (or <i>expectations</i>). Although, when she taught us the proper way to perform a handstand, I snickered a little when she placed two giant orange plastic hand prints on the floor (<i>where our hands were supposed to go</i>) and a circle on the floor (<i>for the head</i>). Suffice it to say, none of us used her props and we haven't seen them since.<br />
<br />
The class is an intimidating 1.5 hours. Initially I wondered how I could possibly survive such a long class. But the pace is slow(ish) with transition time between activities while the instructor demonstrates. We run, we stretch, we do gymnastics stuff, and then we stretch again. Sometimes we spend 5-10 minutes strengthening certain parts of our bodies (abs, back, arms), which we actually look forward to because <i>we hope it will make us better gymnasts</i>. (I know, <i>bizarre</i>.)<br />
<br />
It's good. In fact, it's better than good and here's why. (What I'm about to tell you is very important -- it's the main reason I'm taking gymnastics. Are you ready? Here it comes...) <br />
<br />
<i>I don't really notice the time -- and I'm more sore afterwards than I am after my boot camp class.</i><br />
<br />
Let me say that one more time...<br />
<br />
<i>I don't notice the time, and I get a tougher workout.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Yes!</i> Whereas boot camp is an hour of torture and clock-watching, gymnastics is 1.5 hours of developing skills and having a pretty good time. (I only say "pretty good", because there are definite downsides which I'll tell you about later.) I run, I stretch, I practice bridges -- and before I know it, class is over. I could do 30 "V-ups" in boot camp, or I could spend 10 minutes attempting to perfect a headstand. I <i>could</i> try to hold a pull-up for 30 seconds, or I could get a better shoulder and ab workout by casting off the uneven bars for 5 minutes. <br />
<br />
See, I told you this was practical! I'm sure you've heard this a thousand times, but sometimes practicality must be defined within the context of our illusions. (Feel free to quote me on that if you can say it three times fast...) In other words, as long as I want to play at being a gymnast (no matter how unrealistic or crazy), then taking this class is, indeed, practical.<br />
<br />
Well, at least for the time being. <br />
<br />
Alas, all is not perfect in my happy gymnastics bubble. There are various pains here and there, stinging palms from open callouses, and an aching back. But there is something else -- something so horrible that it may very well prevent me from further gymnastics pursuits. It is a dark lining -- a very dark, <i>embarrassing</i> lining. Worst of all, this unexpected nemesis lies <i>within</i>.<br />
<br />
Coming Up Next: <i>Betrayal on a Trampoline</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-64648752419021531972010-02-11T16:33:00.000-08:002010-02-12T12:40:05.917-08:00Just Call Me RubyDespite recent evidence to the contrary, it's no secret -- I don't like to exercise. Especially exercise for the sake of exercise... pushups in order to do more and better pushups, etc. <br />
<br />
To inspire me properly, everything must have <i>purpose</i>. It must be practical. This is why I stopped taking kung fu a few years ago (well, <i>that</i> and it's not easy to execute a perfect roundhouse kick when you're pregnant.) After 2-3 years of working hard to become a great fighter (not that I ever became one), I asked myself, <i>What am I fighting against?</i> I'm not going to join the Army. I don't live in a bad neighborhood. Yet, I'm spending hours and hours of my time learning how to poke some phantom menace in the ojos (that's <i>eyes</i> for those of you who aren't vicariously learning Spanish through your 1st grader). Enough was enough. It just wasn't practical anymore. <br />
<br />
And thus began the steady process of me falling out of shape. <br />
<br />
I knew I was in physical decline. That's what happens when you work 40 hours a week at a desk in front of a computer. It's inevitable. So, inspired by a friend's recent foray into the fitness world, I joined her and we took a weekly boot camp class. It was good. Our butts were sufficiently kicked. <br />
<br />
However, as is my way, I began to question its practicality. Sure, I can inch-worm-push-up my way across the gym floor, but I've yet to find a compelling reason to do that in my daily life. I needed a way to justify my exercise. <i>If only I could apply my exercising towards developing a practical skill of some kind. </i><br />
<br />
And that's when I discovered three little words: Adult Beginning Gymnastics.<br />
<br />
Of course! That's it! Instead of exercising to exercise, I could exercise to gain awesome gymnastic skills. I could learn how to perform a backwards straddle roll, hold a handstand, and even perfect my cartwheel. I mean, <i>what could be more practical than that?!</i> (Hold it right there -- let me remind you that these little illusions are keeping me in shape.) <br />
<br />
So, I signed up...and proceeded to feel nauseous.<br />
<br />
The nervousness seeped in slowly. I wasn't sure why at first. Doubts echoed through my mind. <i>What have I done? I'm 39! As a kid, I dropped gymnastics after a few lessons because I was afraid of the balance beam, for God's sake!</i> <br />
<br />
Doubt... nausea... <br />
<br />
<i>What's to worry about?</i> I reasoned. I'm an adult. It's a class <i>for adults</i>. I'm sure the teacher is a professional who will work with me and my level of ability. Right?<br />
<br />
As is often the case, a dream exposed the truth of my deepest fears. I dreamt it was the first day of gymnastics class. I walked through the door of the gymnasium to a room full of college cheerleaders, enthusiastically waiting to perfect their tumbling and gymnastics skills. They wore their cheerleading outfits. Their legs were firm and their bare midriffs lacked the excess flab that comes with producing two babies. They giggled. They kicked and landed in splits. They were nineteen. <i>Crap. I thought this was an</i> adult <i>gymnastics class!</i> <br />
<br />
The instructor walked in (a man, maybe 23, probably named "Scott") and everyone seemed to know everyone else. <i>Hi! Are you ready? This'll be GRRREEEAT!</i> Then I heard the words that every outcast hates to hear. "OK, everybody, <i>let's partner up</i>." <i>D'oh!</i> <br />
<br />
"Scott" walked over when he saw me standing on the side, partnerless. That's when <i>she</i> walked in. <i>Ruby</i>. Ruby shuffled across the floor, her white hair in tight, short ringlets, her shoulders hunched in the way that comes with advanced age. "I'm here for Adult Beginning Gymnastics," she announced. "Great!" Scott said, "<i>You and Melissa can be partners!</i>" <br />
<br />
Of course. That's right. Because clearly <i>Ruby and I are natural partners</i>. We're both old. And ridiculous. And we have no business taking Beginning Gymnastics! <br />
<br />
I awoke. <i>Well, now,</i> I thought. <i>At least I finally know where I stand with myself.</i> It's pretty simple, actually, and painfully common for some women my age. I had just hoped I wouldn't be one of them. I proudly announce my increasing age if anyone asks (and sometimes when they don't). I want to be the kind of woman who redefines 40, 50, 60...90, who shrugs off wrinkles, and who finds inner strength through vast life experience. But when it comes right down to it, I'm afraid of getting old, of becoming irrelevant, and then dying. Sorry, Ruby, no offense intended, but there you have it. My deepest fears revealed. <br />
<br />
It was one of many recent awakenings. Clearly, with all the potential risks involved (the inevitable fractures of my weakening bones, the laughter of vivacious college coeds at my awkward flailing), there was only one thing for me to do. With the knowledge of my irrelevance and inevitable demise packed tightly in a ball at the pit of my stomach, I donned my gym clothes, ate an early lunch one day, and walked into my first Adult Beginning Gymnastics class.<br />
<br />
After all, the "inner strength through vast life experience" isn't going to happen if I just sit at my desk all day eating Girl Scout cookies. <br />
<br />
See you in class, Ruby!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitm-fWn-VJzz6OHk4rQWkaG6ApP8V6-uTYckRO1YgGlALn67P8MCQ01RDuza3aHsD3O8bZZK0yijCCCeoVMGIXCdLuwyZvDGvViJzn7pYNWyZYSn8u3AfLmUQVuDWZ8NtLUX_Klscw-rk/s1600-h/cartwheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitm-fWn-VJzz6OHk4rQWkaG6ApP8V6-uTYckRO1YgGlALn67P8MCQ01RDuza3aHsD3O8bZZK0yijCCCeoVMGIXCdLuwyZvDGvViJzn7pYNWyZYSn8u3AfLmUQVuDWZ8NtLUX_Klscw-rk/s320/cartwheel.jpg" /></a></div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-8402803883210906382010-01-20T10:31:00.000-08:002010-01-20T10:31:52.266-08:00Score One for the Bad GuysApparently, Lizzy and Samantha have a soft spot in their hearts for the bad guys. After all, in their world the bad guys always get shot, beaten, or killed by super heroes, they always land in jail, and they’re never attractive. So when I heard strange phrases in hushed tones coming from the toy room the other day, phrases like, <i>take off his clothes</i>... and <i>hand me that bug</i>... and, <i>put that on his vagina</i>, I had to ask: <i>What is going on in there?!</i><br />
<br />
After some debate between the two of them (n<i>o, don’t tell mommy</i>... <i>it’s OK, just don’t tell daddy</i>... and so on) they finally fessed up that they were playing a game with Barbies and other creatures wherein the bad guys win.<br />
<br />
Here’s how it works:<br />
<br />
In this game, the bad guys torture the good guys by making them take off all their clothes and then placing <i>mind-controlling bugs on their vaginas</i>. The bugs contain a virus that infects their hosts, thus enabling the bad guys to control the actions and behaviors of the good guys. Ergo, the bad guys most certainly win. The end.<br />
<br />
<i>What?</i><br />
<br />
You think that’s disturbing?<br />
<br />
(How do you think Michael feels as the only male in this house? Poor guy.)<br />
<br />
Well, you won’t be laughing when my girls grow up to become popular science fiction and/or fantasy writers, now will you?<br />
<br />
(Dear Lord, <i>please let my daughters grow up to be successful science fiction writers. Please oh please!</i> Thank you. Amen.)Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-68130400366697945482010-01-18T17:35:00.000-08:002010-01-18T17:39:21.972-08:00The 2009 Christmas Letter, Part 2The letter continues...<br />
<br />
-------------------------------<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">No Dogs Allowed...Yet</span><br />
<br />
Long story short -- Lizzy still wants a dog. As she says, “I’ve wished and I’ve prayed..<span style="font-style: italic;">.and I still don’t have a dog!</span>” It’s getting to the point where we either have to restore a little girl’s faith in the mystical and spiritual...or allow her to learn an important life lesson, i.e. that life isn’t fair. She knew the odds were stacked against her, so she made her case in a letter addressed to “Melissa, Mikol, and Samantha.” It read:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>Dear, Family<br />
<br />
I have been so nice to you and I Deserv to Be treted nice to. you have Been kind But have not proved that you are a nice family. so I asc for Just one thing a Dog. I want to Be a loveing chield. I also want to Be Loved. and al this week Iv got [smiley] fases [at school]. Did you like gowing to the party at BalBowa park on lina’s BirthDay. _______<br />
<br />
I am vary vary funny and vary vary nice to. I will show you my Birth mark. it is on my leg.<br />
<br />
Love, Lizzy<br />
</blockquote><br />
Wow. “Mikol” had to use actual restraints to keep me from running to the nearest shelter to buy her a dog. I spent the next <span style="font-style: italic;">two weeks</span> on PetFinder, and I almost died when we saw Petz Rule at Sea World -- a fantastic show featuring dogs and cats who have been rescued from animal shelters and given a new lease on life. (I cry a little every time I see it.)<br />
<br />
But alas, to Lizzy’s dismay, we remain dogless. Despite our desire for a dog, we are not home enough nor do we have enough time to devote to a canine. Michael and I both work full time jobs away from home and we can’t afford a dog walker or doggie daycare on furloughed paychecks. Indeed, a dog would be quite lonely at our house for most of the day. And so, I’ve asked Lizzy <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to pray or wish for a dog -- because that would not be in the dog’s best interest. Instead, a better prayer might be for me to <span style="font-style: italic;">work from home</span> (and get paid lots of money to do so.)<br />
<br />
Then, maybe all of our dreams could come true.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Camp Krusty</span><br />
<br />
Lizzy spent the summer at Knock Around camp learning how to swim, make things out of milk cartons, and sing songs. In fact, whenever she suddenly recites a strange new rhyme, I know to blame summer camp. The other day we heard her singing in the living room.<br />
<br />
“<span style="font-style: italic;">We will, we will, rock you (dun dun) rock you...</span>”<br />
<br />
“Where’d you hear that, Lizzy?” Mike asked.<br />
<br />
“Don’t you know it?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Well, sure. But how do <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> know it?”<br />
<br />
“Summer camp! They used to play it at snack time.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Naturally</span>. Because what goes better with Ritz crackers than 70’s arena rock?<br />
<br />
Aside from the songs, camp completely turned Lizzy around, physically. In May, we hiked at Torrey Pines and all the while she complained, <span style="font-style: italic;">I’m tired...carry me...I don’t want to hike at all!</span> This was fairly typical for Lizzy. It wasn’t unusual for her to be bypassed on the trails by Samantha, who seems to be a natural hiker. But at summer camp, Lizzy partook of <span style="font-style: italic;">non-stop</span> activity. Most days she swam twice, once with her camp, and then later when I took her to swim lessons. There were obstacle courses, races, and games. When I picked her up, she demanded FOOD (<span style="font-style: italic;">I’m so hungry!</span>) so I always had a banana or strawberry Pop Tart waiting for her. (Yes, I know...a <span style="font-style: italic;">POP TART</span>.)<br />
<br />
It was all worth it. Near the end of summer we hiked Torrey Pines again, but this time there was no complaining. Instead, she and Sammy jumped off rocks and steps, sang and explored. They ran nonstop up and down the beach, gathering shells and splashing in the ocean. My heart soared. I still remember Lizzy when she popped out of the Mommy-oven -- all tiny and wrinkly and in need of nourishment. And here she is today...strong. (Sigh)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Cowles Mountain</span><br />
<br />
In addition to Torrey Pines, this is the year the girls conquered Cowles Mountain. It was a long haul, but each of them succeeded with the promise of a box of chocolate chip cookies if they made it to the top without being carried. (No need to point out the irony -- I’m well aware.) It was touch and go there a couple of times for Samantha, but we counted all the dogs we passed to distract ourselves from the task at hand. Then, nearly 30 dogs later, we all made it to the top, sweaty, tired, and in need of cookies. We’re very proud of Lizzy and Sammy, but more importantly, they’re very proud of themselves. Good job, girls!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Boot Camp</span><br />
<br />
This is the year I learned I was getting older. I’d had a hunch that might be happening, but I wasn’t really sure until I decided to take Boot Camp with a coworker/friend of mine. I knew my energy levels were low and it wasn’t healthy for me to sit for nearly 8 hours straight everyday without any exercise. Motivated by my friend’s personal fitness goals and successes, we took a couple of classes together to keep us mutually motivated and accountable. When we discovered a weekly boot camp class that met during our lunch break, we signed up.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Oy!</span> While our instructor never yelled at us, and anyone who has actually taken boot camp would laugh at the comparison, each week was a humble slap to the face for me. Prior to boot camp, I could certainly do a pull-up, handstand, or jump along a trampoline without peeing my pants a little (yes, that’s right folks). But with every class, my body insisted,<span style="font-style: italic;"> No, no you can’t.</span><br />
<br />
“Really?” I asked my body. “Are you sure? Because, I distinctly remember doing pull-ups in grade school. I even won an award!”<br />
<br />
“That was 25 years ago!” my body hollered back.<br />
<br />
So, yes, I’m getting older. What I could once do naturally and without thinking, I must now do <span style="font-style: italic;">actively</span> or risk losing whatever fitness level I have altogether. I’m happy to say that we made it through boot camp and signed up again this semester. Our only wish is that we won’t be the absolute worst students in class this time, that perhaps we’ll have moved up one tiny rung on the fitness ladder so that we can give encouragement to the latest fitless person to walk through the door. But if not, we’ll forge ahead, bearing our reality-slaps like genuine troopers, <span style="font-style: italic;">lest we get any worse!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sammy Shakes Her Tail Feather</span><br />
<br />
Sammy’s appreciation for music continues to grow. Each day as we ride home from work, she often wears headphones and listens to music on her iPod. She loves it and knows to click the back button when she wants to hear a song over again. Some of her current favorites are: Move it, Move it (From Madagascar), Put a Ring on It (Beyonce), Big Green Tractor (Jason Aldean), If You Want to Leave (Local H), and You Belong with Me (Taylor Swift).<br />
<br />
Earlier this year, she and I decided it would be fun to enroll her in dance class. I found a little studio nearby with a very nice instructor, so one Saturday morning she adorned her tutu and tap shoes and attended class. She was shy at first, but I thought it went well.<br />
<br />
However, on the drive home she stated very clearly that she never wanted to go to dance class again. After questioning her, I learned she was uncomfortable participating with the others. I had signed her up for two months and probably could have received a refund if I’d asked for one, but I made a deal with her: we would keep going to dance class and she could either participate or watch the others -- it was up to her. She was OK with that, so each week we went, and each week she sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror and watched the others.<br />
<br />
For weeks, Samantha carefully observed the class and during the week that followed, she happily performed all she learned while watching. Eventually, she asked Michael if he would come and watch. “Watch what? Watch you sit on the side? Nuh-uh. When you actually dance with the class, I promise I’ll come and watch the week after.”<br />
<br />
It worked. The following Saturday, Samantha announced, “I’m going to dance today!” At the studio, she joined the other girls and their instructor, Ms. Abby. I watched hopefully with the other parents as we peered through the front window. “Is that Samantha?” one of the mothers asked. Then another parent looked from me to the classroom to me again. I didn’t realize that everyone had noticed her lack of participation and were all rooting for her. Then, after warming up with the other students, Ms. Abby played a song and all the girls -- including Samantha -- danced and danced. “Look!” said another mom, “It’s Samantha. She’s dancing!” <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes!</span> We actually applauded.<br />
<br />
The following week, Michael happily accompanied her to dance class, and a couple of months later, Samantha performed on stage (with hundreds of people watching!) in her very first dance recital. Wearing a red tutu with a black and white leopard print bodice, scarlet opera gloves, and feathers in her hair, she and her dance-mates danced and shook their booties to “Stop, in the name of love” by the Supremes. Perfect. OK, so they looked like tiny French cancan dancers, circa the late 1800s -- but she did it! (And she was the best one there, too!)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Wrapping It Up</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">But wait – I’m not done!</span><br />
<br />
Ugh. The length of this year’s Christmas letter tells me that I should be writing more throughout the year. There’s still so much I could write about (spiders, boys, shingles – <span style="font-style: italic;">oh my!</span>), so many small struggles and victories to commemorate, so many embarrassing moments. I’ll try to be more vigilant in 2010.<br />
<br />
However, I’ll bring this letter to a close by saying that, while 2009 had moments of sadness and joy, I am truly grateful for my wonderful, loving family and good friends. I learn so much from you everyday -- you are a gift to me that never stops giving.<br />
<br />
Here’s to a happy 2010!<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Melissa/MommyMelissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-11735165984041608032010-01-17T16:54:00.000-08:002010-01-17T16:54:27.249-08:00The 2009 Christmas Letter, Part 1Wow. I just finished writing my part of the yearly Christmas letter -- and it was six pages long! That tells me I need to write more frequently, so I'll try to be more vigilant in 2010.<br />
<br />
Thus, here's the first excerpt from this multi-part series, <span style="font-style: italic;">The 2009 Christmas Letter</span>.<br />
<br />
---------------------------<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Yosemite</span><br />
<br />
Few things are more satisfying than showing our girls something magnificent for the first time in their lives. We had that chance last year (sort of) when we took them to visit Yosemite. Actually, Lizzy had been there once before when she was a year old, but she was too young to remember it. And Sammy had been there too -- in utero. But this year, they’ll remember it, so it <span style="font-style: italic;">feels</span> like the first time. Here are some highlights:<br />
<br />
• Swimming in the icy Merced River<br />
• Riding our bicycles in Yosemite Valley<br />
• Hiking to Nevada Falls<br />
• Sharing our lunches with the Squirrels<br />
• Lizzy getting a ride in an inflatable raft in a lake below snow-capped mountains<br />
• Samantha accidentally stepping into a watery marsh (and not liking it)<br />
• Mike and Lizzy going for an early morning bike ride and watching hang-gliders land in a nearby field; then coming face-to-face with a deer<br />
<br />
It was a really wonderful trip.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Disneyland</span><br />
<br />
We spent many a dollar at D-Land this year, and will likely continue to do so in the year ahead. Michael and the girls love Disneyland and I...well, I like the <span style="font-style: italic;">idea</span> of Disneyland. In theory, D-Land is a wonderful place to spend time with your family, screaming down Splash Mountain, hugging on The Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and losing bets during the Toy Story Shooting Gallery ride (don’t ask). It’s just that every time we went this year, the Happiest Place on Earth was virtually chock full of other families like ours, testing the limits of my crowd phobia to the extreme. (It’s hard for me to be cheery when I’ve stood an hour in line for a ride that lasts 2 minutes, or trying to squeeze my way past Tarzan’s Tree House only to be stopped by a blockade of double-wide strollers.)<br />
<br />
But this Christmas, my Mom scored the Best Present Award with her gift to Michael. When you visit Disneyland, there’s a wide plaza between two theme parks -- California Adventure on one side and Disneyland on the other. In between, the plaza is tiled with octagonal brick pavers with the names of various families. Yes, you guessed it -- beginning May 2010 right near the Entrance/Exit gates, there will be a paver that reads: “The Michael K. __ Family”. I suggest that if you ever find it, pry it up and <span style="font-style: italic;">leave money under it (</span>perhaps a valium or two). I’m sure we’ll be there soon to retrieve it.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">First Grade</span><br />
<br />
Lizzy passed from kindergarten to first grade this year, and I think we’re finally getting a handle on elementary school. She’s reading at a 2nd-3rd grade reading level (thanks to Michael’s reading to her each and every night), and she is doing very well – although, she still likes to do things her own way and in her own time. Her teacher, Mrs. Paznokas calls it “Lizzy Land”. She’ll be teaching her students on the carpet and notice that Lizzy isn’t there. Instead, Lizzy has snuck off to read a book at the back of the class. Lizzy also likes to visit the nurse’s office on a regular basis, I think mostly because it’s a welcome change from the routine of school. However, her grandmother recently taught Lizzy an important concept -- the concept of <span style="font-style: italic;">sucking it up</span>. If you’re too full from lunch, <span style="font-style: italic;">suck it up</span>. If you have a slight headache, <span style="font-style: italic;">suck it up</span>. Lizzy's body is going through many changes, and every one of them doesn’t require a trip to the nurse’s office. She’s working on it.<br />
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We attended a fair amount of assemblies and singing performances this year, the highlights being the Halloween and Christmas events. We’ll never forget the classic “Oktober, Rocktober” sung by a collection of first-graders accompanied by electric guitar. And I’ll be damned if Michael and I didn’t get a little verclempt when the school custodian Joe(?) belted out a fan-<span style="font-style: italic;">freaking</span>-tastic rendition of the Christmas Song (chestnuts roasting on an open fire) during the December Holiday sing-a-long -- then afterwards went immediately back to monitoring the overheads and lights. <span style="font-style: italic;">Classic</span>.<br />
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And this year, Samantha will join her sister in the Big School. We can’t wait!<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">The Girl is Funny</span><br />
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Sometimes it’s hard to believe that Samantha is the same person she was as a baby -- the same girl who would not smile at me for the first 6 months of her life. Perhaps all those months of me desperately trying to make her smile made an impression on her -- at least she knows what’s <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> funny.<br />
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But it’s not exactly accurate to say that Samantha came out of her shell this past year. She wasn’t so much encased in a shell those early years, but often spent her time observing the quirks and idiosyncrasies of other people, which she has now processed into hilarious impressions of who we are and what we fear such as:<br />
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<blockquote>Pretending to be grandma by hunching over, holding her back and saying with a mock southern accent, “Oh, I’m so <span style="font-style: italic;">old</span>...my back hurrrrts! Oh!”...<br />
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Imitating Michael in the shower by clearing her throat like a grizzled truck driver and saying, “I’m Daddy in the shower!”...<br />
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When Lizzy is angry at her, getting on her good side by calling her on a pretend phone and saying, “Hello? Lizzy? Lizzy on your island, are you there?” until Lizzy sees the ridiculousness of their dispute and giggles...<br />
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With me, Samantha sticks to what works best for both of us -- butt jokes and potty humor. If she’s not spanking my butt, she’s referring to it, and she often replaces words in her favorite songs with “butt”, “booty”, or “vagina” -- kind of like perverted Mad Libs. But there’s nothing quite like hearing Samantha sing, “We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy <span style="font-style: italic;">new butt</span>!” Gets me every time.<br />
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Lizzy’s humor, on the other hand, is a little more bizarre. You have to appreciate the zen-like quality of her jokes. The humor lies in the expectation of hearing a joke, but instead hearing something that neither makes sense, nor is very funny. You’re not sure if the joke is on you, on her, or perhaps on the joke itself. Then you laugh a little nervously for reasons only you and your therapist would understand. She reminds me a little of early Steve Martin or Andy Kaufman. You’re not really sure if you’re supposed to laugh or not -- and <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> is what’s funny.<br />
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That's all for now -- more to come!Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-5993952861649898062009-05-07T09:00:00.000-07:002009-05-07T10:37:50.722-07:00Got No Class, Got No ClueSoccer, kung fu, or gymnastics? Art, piano, or dance? Fencing?<br /><br />I want to enroll Elizabeth in some sort of class, but it's just not going well. I'm not sure if the problem is me... OK, <i>it is me</i>. Take ME out of the equation and the "problem" magically disappears. Lizzy is just not interested in joining a team or taking a class, and Michael isn't keen to sign her up (and thus spend money) for a class she won't enjoy or may not participate in fully.<br /><br />He has a point. We enrolled her in soccer last year, and while most kids ran up and down the field kicking their balls, Lizzy stopped to examine a flower. When the kids stood in "ready position" (standing in line with one foot atop their soccer balls), she <i>sat</i> on her ball at the end of the line. While other kids weaved their balls around little orange traffic cones, Lizzy picked up a cone, turned it upside, placed her soccer ball on top of it, and pretended to lick it like an ice cream cone. That is Lizzy in a cute little nut shell... and <i>that</i> is the reason we are hesitant to sign her up for another class.<br /><br />But I want her to take a class. Why?! Why do I have this <strike>notion</strike> obsession that Elizabeth has to participate in some sort of organized activity? I need to sort this out because I'm fighting an uphill battle and I'm not sure if it's worth it. Here are my thoughts:<br /><br />1. Young children are very receptive to new skills and concepts. I'm afraid that if I don't enroll her in some kind of activity now, we will have missed a valuable window of opportunity.<br /><br />2. Sports would be a good way for her to stay healthy and learn discipline. Plus, I <i>hate</i> to exercise, and if she developed the "exercise habit" now, all the better for her later in life.<br /><br />3. I want her to learn music because I regret that I can't read music or play an instrument. People who know about music seem to appreciate it more -- plus, they're fun at parties.<br /><br />4. I want her to have a "niche", a "thing". I want her to have something I can point to and say, "Aha! <i>That's</i> who she is!" But she's all over the place. She likes art most of the time, but then she stops for a while. She likes super heroes and kung fu, but she won't take a martial arts class because she "knows it already." She says she wants to play soccer, but then she licks her soccer ball like an ice cream cone. <br /><br /><i>Who is this kid?!</i><br /><br />OK, fine. I get it. Psychoanalysis complete. We're back to me, again, aren't we.<br /><br />In many ways Samantha is easy. She likes order and control. She likes to contribute to family chores. She likes ballet and tap. She likes potty jokes. She likes to get angry. Now THIS is a kid I can wrap my brain around. It's not because we have things in common, it's because I have a handle on her desires and needs (at least I think I do). <br /><br />But Lizzy? She's a puzzle. Her interests flow like water from place to place. Occasionally her ideas form eddies... she'll circle around the notion of insects, for example. She'll collect beetle wings, read bug books, trap cockroaches in bug habitats (yes)... But then, as if some unseen rocks shifted beneath the surface of the water, her ideas travel elsewhere. Sometimes her currents flow too swiftly for me, and I just can't keep up. <br /><br />I want to know her so I can guide her, enrich her life, and point her in the right direction. But sometimes I feel like I'm parenting blind.<br /><br />Wait just a second... I had a thought. Am I the parent who asks her kid about Hannah Montana when she's already moved on to the Sex Pistols? (I know, I know -- my references are pretty lame... <i>just like me!</i>) If only Lizzy had a Google Map of her interests. I'd type in her "address" and then place the little mom at "street view" to see what's happening at Lizzy's Place. <i>Oh look -- there's a clown... she's putting on makeup... she's telling jokes... she wants to be a clown! Thanks, Google Parent!</i><br /><br />Besides not being able to keep up with her interests, I'm also worried that she'll be like me. Yes, <i>me</i> -- aimless and still not certain what she wants to do with her life at 38 years of age. Of course I want my family -- that's a certainty. But I still lack a certain passion and drive which I imagine other people find so satisfying. I want Elizabeth to have passion. I want her to have an anchor, a safety-net-sense of who she is that will comfort her when her life shifts unpredictably. I never felt like I had that <i>special thing</i> in my life -- that something I can point to and say, "OK, I don't fit in with my school mates, I'm bad at history, but at least I really love <i>This Thing</i>. No matter what shit I'm going through, I'm really good at <i>This Thing</i>."<br /><br />I imagine <i>This Thing</i> has magical powers. It dampens pain. It enhances joy. It alleviates deeper layers of sadness. I want her passion to be clear and defined. I want it to point to some kind of future. I want it to keep her away from drugs, to pay the bills, and do the laundry. Really, that's not too much to ask, is it?<br /><br />But here's another thought. (Give me a second... I'm really stretching my mental mother muscles... hope I don't pull something...) Of course it's possible (<i>just possible</i>) that maybe her passion (Her Thing) is <i>freedom</i>. Freedom to explore. Freedom to experiment. Freedom to follow her dreams wherever they take her. Freedom to change her mind from one interest to the next, flitting from flower to flower like a busy little bee. <br /><br />Yes, I think it's possible.<br /><br /><i>Nevertheless, a nice T-Ball class wouldn't do any harm, now would it?</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-50756599579755437402009-04-17T12:19:00.000-07:002009-05-06T16:21:46.983-07:00Easter... AgainOops! Enjoy (or not) this overly-ripened entry from Easter that I forgot to post. (At least I remembered to throw out the hard-boiled eggs. <i>I think...</i>)<br /><br /><hr size=1 noshade><br /><br />I have good news: <i><a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2009/04/covering-my-bases.html">They didn't lose Elizabeth</a>!</i> Yay!<br /><br />She had a really nice time at Zoo Camp, except for the first day when it was really hot. When I picked her up, she fell into the car, her cheeks red, and said in an exhausted voice, "We walked everywhere."<br /><br />"What about those moving sidewalk/escalator things? Did you you ride any of those?"<br /><br />"No. <i>We walked everywhere.</i>" <br /><br />Lizzy is more of a <i>sprinter</i>, if you know what I mean. She's good in short bursts, but tends to peter out over long distances. However, a medicinal dose of chocolate frozen yogurt perked her right up, and the weather became more tolerable the rest of the week.<br /><br />By Monday Elizabeth was rejuvenated. Not only had Zoo Camp proven successful, but the weekend was a blur of chaotic Easter goodness -- which, of course, left me exhausted. I think that's a general rule - the relationship to kid bliss varies inversely with the resulting parents' energy levels, or stated more simply: Happy Kid = Exhausted Parent. Here's a snapshot of the weekend:<br /><ul><br /><li>As tradition dictates, we participated in Easter festivities at the park with Kellie, daughter Makenna (5) and son Kyle (2). It was overcast and cool.<br /><br /><li>The kids had a successful egg hunt at park. Well, more like an egg "pick-up" -- no hunting involved.<br /><br /><li>When we returned home, the girls made a giant monster with an itty-bitty head.<br /><br /><li>Thanks to Kellie's Martha Stewart-like talents, we made easter bunny chocolate cupcakes with the kids. The floor looked as though someone spilled potting soil all over it. <br /><br /><li>Then we dyed Easter eggs and knocked over cup of yellow dye. The table is still stained blue and green.<br /><br /><li>The cat threw up.<br /><br /><li>While we were relaxing (i.e. <i>cleaning up</i>), Kellie and I heard water... gushing... from somewhere... and discovered the girls spraying each other (and the inside of the house through the open window) with the hose. Kellie braved the backyard to save Kyle who was crying behind a tree, only to have him squirt her with a squirt gun when she was close enough. Inspired, Lizzy then turned the hose on Kellie who ran screaming out of the yard and down the side of the house. Samantha, who hates to get wet and blames me for everything, kept yelling at me through the screen door, "It's all YOUR fault!" while I laughed and thought, <i>For what? Giving birth to Elizabeth?</i> <br /><br /><li>We sent the girls to their grandparents house for a sleep-over Saturday night where they planted the Magical Easter Seed. (Am I the only one who thinks that sounds perverted?) <br /><br /><li>Some friends came over to our house on Saturday and we played Jenga and Life. Michael learned it's not a good idea to hold a cat in your lap while playing Jenga. Not good at all.<br /><br /><li>Michael and I stayed up until 1am chanting and sacrificing carrots, hoping the Great Easter Bunny would leave some baskets for the girls. (Turns out the rabbit did a nice job. HE filled two baskets with small gifts and chocolates for the girls that HE apparently purchased at Target. Then HE took pictures of various locations around our house, printed the pictures, and hid clues at each of the locations so the girls could visit each place looking for clues to find their baskets. Kind of creepy, really, having him all around the house like that... and the pellets... <i>Yech.</i>) <br /> <br /><li>Sunday morning the girls woke up early <i>at their grandparents house</i> and discovered that the Magical Easter Seed had grown into a Magical Easter Tree covered with Easter treats... <i>at their grandparents house</i>. (Did I mention that this occurred <i>at their grandparents house</i>?) Meanwhile... <br /><br /><li>Michael and I slept.<br /><br /><li>The grandparents brought the girls back home where they discovered their baskets and enjoyed an <i>actual</i> Easter Egg hunt in the backyard. There was much whining and kvetching, however -- <i>You're helping her and not me!... She's getting more than me!... I wanted the pink one!... Where's my Excedrin!...</i> and so on.<br /><br /><li>I retired to the relative bliss of my quiet kitchen to prepare traditional Easter fixings.<br /><br /><li>We all ate too much.<br /></ul><br />And there you have it. <i>Happy Kid = Exhausted Parent.</i><br /><br />Elizabeth was so happy and rejuvenated, in fact, that she knew -- <i>knew</i> -- she'd have a great week at school this week. She would listen to authority figures. She would receive "thumbs up" cards and "good job" balls each day. (Am I the only one here who thinks that sounds perverted?) <br /><br />"I feel like a nicer person," she said to me before returning to school. I wasn't sure how to respond, because she already <i>is</i> a nice person. But I think I know what she meant. The kindergarten "grind" doesn't last forever. Monday morning, Elizabeth shot out of the gate like a beautiful palomino, ready to face the kindergarten day ahead. It was wonderful to see. <br /><br /><i>If only she hadn't stumbled somewhere before the finish line.</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-70052855181539414092009-04-06T12:25:00.000-07:002009-04-06T12:26:44.364-07:00Covering My Bases"I've been looking forward to today since... a few days ago!" Lizzy said happily this morning.<br /><br />Today is the first day of Elizabeth's spring break and she's spending four days of it at the San Diego Zoo. Wow! It's all very exciting. Thanks to a last minute cancellation, Lizzy will spend her days going behind the scenes at the zoo, learning what animals eat, how they communicate, and what they sound like. There will be animal encounters and special guests, lessons and games, art crafts and cooking. And the theme of this year's Zoo Camp is, "Let's party!" <br /><br />It all sounds super neato fantastico, right? Well, it was... until last night. <br /><br />Don't get me wrong -- despite a little separation anxiety this morning when I dropped her off at camp, Elizabeth is definitely on board and looks forward to four, fun-filled days at the zoo. In fact, she's there right now, hopefully having a wonderful time. But last night as I prepared her last minute documentation and gathered her camp admission tickets, all I could think was, <i>What am I doing?! I'm going to leave my child at the zoo all day without me? The same child who is distracted by acorns falling? The same child who chooses to admire a stray leaf than listen to me? Who will watch her as carefully as I do?</i> <br /><br />The answer? No one, of course. No one could possible watch her as closely as I do, or love her as much, or care as much about her welfare (except maybe Daddy and Grandma). That's just natural selection at work. So last night I wrote her complete name, two telephone numbers, and our address in her shirt with a black Sharpie. Then I reviewed emergency procedures. "If you get lost, find someone who works at the zoo -- wearing a zoo uniform -- and tell them you're lost, OK? Preferably a 'mommy' or 'grandma'." <i>OK...</i> <br /><br />And then, after the girls went to sleep, I sat on the bed and <i>Covered My Bases</i>. It's a little like voodoo, science, and religion all mixed into one. First, I relaxed and focused on my instincts for a few minutes, trying to sort out the brain-generated fear from actual instinct. <i>Do I really feel like something bad is going to happen, or am I just afraid that something bad</i> could <i>happen?</i> Mostly fear. Next, I put logic to work. <i>The zoo is in business to make money. Losing or harming my child would severely hurt their reputation and their bottom line. Therefore, the odds of something bad happening to her at the zoo are slim.</i> Then, I focused all my mental and physical thoughts on Elizabeth and the Universe and silently repeated, <i>love and safety... love and safety... love and safety...</i> Because clearly, if I repeat that over and over again like an insane person, the Universe will surround Lizzy with <i>love and safety</i> all day. Then finally, just to be safe, I prayed. <br /><br />See? <i>Covering my bases.</i> <br /><br />This morning I stood in line with Elizabeth at the zoo in front of a sign that read "Kindergarten and 1st Grade." She held my hand tightly. Ms. Kim, one of her teachers, found Lizzy in the registry and put a check mark next to her name. In the movie version of this moment, I take Ms. Kim by the shoulders, put my face inches from hers, and tell her, "This one here -- <i>Elizabeth</i>-- she is <i>the most important child here.</i> Do you understand?" Ms. Kim nods. Then I ask her, friendly-like, "So, what's your main goal here today?" Ms. Kim smiles and stutters a little nervously, "To... to... have fun?" I smile back and shake my head, "Nooo. Your first goal is NOT TO LOSE MY CHILD. Fun comes second. Do you understand?" She nods vigorously. <br /><br />I like the movie version. <br /><br />In real life, the Zoo activities director was busy pointing and giving directions, making sure everything was happening smoothly. I told her I was a little nervous and, glancing at me, she said that everyone there was a professional. She seemed tightly wound and that made me feel better -- tightly wound = good. Elizabeth received a name badge (also good) and I watched from the sidelines as she sat with her group on the grass, drawing a picture of a giraffe. <br /><br />Finally, it was time for the kids to enter the zoo. "Everyone find a zoo buddy and form two lines behind us!" shouted her teacher. I knew right away that Elizabeth would not find a "zoo buddy" on her own, so I found one for her. Standing next to her was a nice, quiet little girl named Caroline, so I walked over and said, "Hi! You guys need a zoo buddy, so you two are going to be zoo buddies, OK? Hold hands now..." They did. "Great! You two have to stick together today, OK? Have fun!" In the movie version, I lean over to little Caroline and whisper, "Make sure nothing happens to Lizzy today, OK? She is <i>your</i> responsibility." <br /><br />I personally placed the girls in line (exercising my last bit of parental authority) and watched as they walked towards the zoo. Elizabeth's backpack bounced against the back of her legs heavily as she and Caroline walked hand-in-hand towards the giant elephant topiaries that flank the zoo entrance. <i>Take care of each other!</i> I mentally shouted, but everything was now very quiet. I looked around. I was the only parent left.<br /><br />I had the same feeling I get when Michael is away on a business trip and it's time for me to go to bed at night -- I can't quite do it. It doesn't seem right to climb into that empty bed, turn out the lights, and go to sleep. It goes against the routine. I've been doing it differently for nearly 20 years. So instead of going to bed, I watch TV a little longer than usual. I read a book. I check email. Eventually, when there's nothing left to do, I gather all the cats and put them into bed with me, then I look around and think, <i>Wow. Is it time to go to bed, already?</i> Finally, I turn out the light.<br /><br />As I stood there this morning, I thought to myself, <i>Wow. Is it time to leave, already?</i> It felt weird leaving her there. It went against the routine. After all, I've been taking Lizzy to the zoo for nearly six years. So instead of rushing to work, I walked back to the car slowly. Once inside the car, I sat for a moment and listened to the radio. I watched people park their cars, set-up their strollers, and walk towards the zoo. Eventually, when there was nothing left to do, I drove past the entrance of the zoo <i>slowly</i> before exiting. <br /><br /><i>Take care of each other!</i><br /><br />Hmm. Now that I think about it, I didn't sacrifice a goat or perform any blood rituals before I went to bed. <i>Maybe tonight...</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-38165468071158417832009-03-24T12:00:00.000-07:002009-03-24T12:15:28.484-07:00Still Love Me, Sasquatch?We're still fighting the virus -- now it's Lizzy's turn. While our family continues to battle this viral beast, I am in limbo. I can't focus... can barely think. Instead of Discover Magazine and Frontline, my head-space can only accommodate Us Magazine and Hottest Bikini Beaches. Thus, work today is slow-going. <br /><br />So I will leave you with these few Family Bites I've collected over the last few days. Because it's all I can handle.<br /><br />--------------------<br /><br />Samantha: "Mommy, you're more beautiful than princess stuff. If you have short, short hair, or loooong, long hair you're still beautiful. When you wear cool t-shirts -- <i>and pants</i> -- you're beautiful. Even when you're <i>naked</i> you're beautiful.<br /><br />Me: "Wow, even <i>then</i>?"<br /><br />Samantha: "Yes!"<br /><br />Me: "Thank you, Samantha. What a nice thing to say."<br /><br />Samantha: "You love me, right?"<br /><br />Me: "I love you so much!"<br /><br />Samantha: "I'm saying nice things to make you happy with me, right?"<br /><br />Me: "Yes. Yes you are." <br /><br /><i>And it's working.</i><br /><br />----------------<br /><br />Samantha: "Oh, I just had a nice daydream!" She smiles pleasantly as we pull into the parking lot of a Jamba Juice.<br /><br />Me: "Yea, what about?"<br /><br />Samantha: "There was Wonder Woman and some bad guys and good guys... and there were swords... lots of swords... and then Wonder Woman cut the bad guys, yea she cut their arms off... and their heads, too. She cut them right off... cut, cut! And there were guns! Lots of guns!" <br /><br />Me: "Wow."<br /><br />Samantha: "I like the sound the guns made... <i>pshew, pshew, pshew!</i>" She makes shooting gestures with her fingers.<br /><br />Me: "And you liked this daydream?"<br /><br />Samantha: "Oh, yes. It was so nice." <br /><br />Apparently Samantha and Quentin Tarantino are collaborating on a new project.<br /><br />--------------------<br /><br />Samantha to me: "I hate you, I hate you! I throw poop in your eye!"<br /><br />(pauses)<br /><br />Samantha: "You still love me, right?" <br /><br />--------------------<br /><br />Lizzy to me: "You need to shave your vagina -- so it looks more like a <i>girl's</i>."<br /><br /><i>As opposed to what -- Sasquatch?</i><br /><br />Thanks, Lizzy. Get well soon, sweetie.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-65259746745906737372009-03-17T09:00:00.000-07:002009-03-17T11:28:31.139-07:00Cotton in a WheelchairI caught the virus from hell this past week. Let me tell you -- sitting in the Urgent Care lobby makes for interesting people watching. <br /><br />More than once I had the thought, <i>Don't sit next to me... don't sit next to me...</i> (I know -- not very charitable.) Like the time the loud, cigarette-scented husband returned to find his wife still sitting in the lobby and asked, irritated, "You're still here?!" He was all amped up and insensitive and generating drama. <i>Go away.</i><br /><br />Then there was the 18 year-old slacker boyfriend who couldn't put down his cell phone and barely acknowledged his girlfriend when she was ready to leave. He had an angry, disinterested look about him and I had this sudden thought: <i>What if one of my girls dates him someday?</i> Followed by the thought, <i>I hate him and I will do everything to destroy him and his relationship with my daughter.</i> Go figure. Must have been the virus talking.<br /><br />There was also the Springer-Family-Audition-<i>Rejects</i> (husband, wife, mother-in-law with baby) who came but left quickly because the husband decided that whatever medical service they required was not worth the hour wait. Hatred and self-loathing oozed from these people. (God help them...) All weekend I coughed up thick, putrid globs of green sludge -- and <i>that</i> was the color and consistency of their aura (if there is such a thing). <br /><br />Seriously, the whole time I'm at Urgent Care I'm thinking, <i>My God, I am fortunate -- and Michael is wonderful.</i><br /><br />But there were bright spots (besides the eye-opening perspective). Like the nectarine Michael bought for me. (<i>My God, I am fortunate -- and Michael is wonderful...</i>) I hadn't eaten one in a long time and I brought it with me to Urgent Care. It was really juicy and delicious, exactly what I needed. <br /><br />The staff was also very nice. Several times they apologized for the wait (which I didn't think was too bad) and asked those of us waiting in the lobby if we needed anything. One nurse in particular walked in, very attractive and sincere, with a head full of thick, beautiful long hair (straight from General Hospital) and said in the most pleasant, cheery voice, "Hello, everyone? I would just like to say we are terribly sorry you have to wait so long today. Please let us know if there is anything we can get for you... like a glass of water... or pillows?" No one responded, but it was nice of her to ask. She shrugged, then smiled and left.<br /><br />Then there was the kind-looking and very tall man (around 60) who asked for a wheelchair for his mother. He received a rather over-sized chair and chuckled, mentioning that it would probably "swallow her up." I didn't think more of it until he returned and inside the giant wheelchair was a tiny tuft of cotton that was his mother. She must have been a hundred. I smiled at her and she smiled back. <br /><br />Eventually they called me in and my doc was also nice. For Samantha's sake, I remembered to look at his shoes -- brown loafers. Earlier in the week I had taken Samantha to her doctor (a 50-ish Russian woman who always -- <i>always!</i> -- wears expensive high heels in the office), and Samantha had liked her shoes. (Imagine that -- a pediatrician... wearing high heels... voluntarily! It blows my mind.) But Samantha loves it since she, too, will someday be a high-heel-wearing doctor. (She's crazy about shoes and will compliment strangers who are wearing a nice pair.) Later that week when Michael took her back to the doctor, the first thing Samantha said to me when she returned was that she liked the doctor's shoes and that they had little squares on them.<br /><br />While I was a little surprised that a virus (and <i>only</i> a virus) could cause so much trouble to my body, the doctor prescribed a couple of decent cough medicines for me -- one containing codeine which I haven't taken (but I bought anyway -- just in case), and one that does a nice job of breaking up the sludge. <br /><br />All week, Michael took care of us. His reward? You guessed it -- the virus from hell. Early Sunday morning, when we were both feeling rotten, I woke up early and went to the living room to sit on the couch for a change of pace. Around 5:30, Michael joined me. It was dark outside. The only light came from a street lamp across the street that shown through our sliding glass doors. It was very quiet. The cats snuggled between our legs.<br /><br />"We've been together a long time now -- almost 20 years," he said.<br /><br />"Oh yea... in October it'll be 20."<br /><br />"You're the only person I want to be with."<br /><br />"You, too."<br /><br />And so we sat there, aching and miserable, and shared a really nice moment. Go figure. And even though we're still not fully recovered, and we still walk around with our eyes half closed, and we're still coughing up globs of green sludge, we're pretty damned fortunate. One day <i>I</i> may be the little tuft of cotton in the wheelchair, and I have no doubt that if he's able, Michael will be the one walking behind it. <br /><br />But still... <i>GO AWAY YOU MOTHER F!@#ING VIRUS!!!</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-64578207148389045642009-03-11T17:30:00.000-07:002009-03-11T17:54:19.973-07:00Princess Mono-wha?!Observing my day while living it at the same time is not always easy. <br /><br />Plus, it's weird. <br /><br />I find myself "watching" myself and the people around me. Now when Samantha makes a series of silly faces to cheer me up, I say to myself, <i>Oh -- this is funny! I should put this in my <a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2009/03/five-day-day-01.html">Five-a-Day List</a>.</i> And then I think, <i>But she makes silly faces all the time. Is this really Five-a-Day worthy?</i> And then I'm like, <i>Well that's absurd. If it's positive, put it on the list!</i> And then I'm all, <i>I think I can do better than silly faces!</i> To which I respond, <i>Better?! You think you can do better than Samantha's silly faces? Well -- bring. it. on!</i><br /><br />And then I want to hit myself. It's not pretty. <br /><br />So I took a break from watching my life, and during that time I:<br /><br /><li>Worked at my job.<br /><br /><li>Re-arranged the living room, family room, and dining room with Michael.<br /><br /><li>Took Samantha to her first official ballet class and decided it was my intention all along to have her sit on the side and observe the classes and not actually participate in them -- on no. In fact, she looks forward to sitting through all of her ballet classes from here on out and that's fine with me -- oh yes. <br /><br /><li>Finished another painting for class -- a cropped copy of a <a href="http://www-viz.tamu.edu/showcase/thswkimg/cindy/sourceimages/bonnard-the_dining_room_in_the_country.jpg">Bonnard painting</a>:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgT6Pn1ZKpfkdNS5ct2P6XicyBTiF2OB0sIn3oENu1sNZQXMs6yd_yQDVDwqzGd4F_B_kCd2HmhfXiObvE6uca-BwVKf8_3Ih9OnYrB3TGCmhK39yXLPaR-OUXqZpbsdkk2KbukkIvcc/s1600-h/garden2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgT6Pn1ZKpfkdNS5ct2P6XicyBTiF2OB0sIn3oENu1sNZQXMs6yd_yQDVDwqzGd4F_B_kCd2HmhfXiObvE6uca-BwVKf8_3Ih9OnYrB3TGCmhK39yXLPaR-OUXqZpbsdkk2KbukkIvcc/s400/garden2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312095202355068898" /></a><br /><br /><li>Learned it was probably <i>not</i> a good idea to let Elizabeth watch the movie, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0119698/">Princess Mononoke</a> (although, I think I know what I'm going to be for Halloween this year...)<br /><br /><li>Tended to Samantha when she became sick, took her to the doctor, tended to her some more.<br /><br /><li>Learned it was probably <i>not</i> a good idea to let Elizabeth watch The Black Stallion. In fact, it's probably best not to let her watch <i>any</i> movies for a while.<br /><br /><li>Watched Sponge Bob, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Dragon Tales, Imagination Movers, Kim Possible and so much more, courtesy of staying home with a sick four year old. Then, in the evenings, watched Duckman, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Mystery Science Theatre and King of Queens courtesy of a healthy relationship with my husband.<br /><br /><li>Tended to myself when I became sick.<br /><br /><li>Read Rolling Stone magazine, Newsweek, my brand new Buffy The Vampire Slayer Comic Book Season 8 Vol. 2 (thank you, Michael!), the IKEA 2009 catalog, and The Difficult Child, by Stanley Turecki.<br /><br />Until next time, I'll leave you with this picture from Princess Mononoke. (Yes, that <i>is</i> blood on her neck... and shirt... and face. I keep forgetting that movies from the library are not always kid-friendly. Still, it was a <a href="http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19991029/REVIEWS/910290303/1023">good movie</a> and I highly recommend it.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lfhFXhkUlNnF3h2fDuz-Hcl86qSZRJbfYaMwDFHDPyysQiIC8gSmhY6hEUEfv2lkP_3XLfg9yNe1yVWFds0Z-BOyNLK-RCIH85SWJTOK3tdKNIl16qYfUfjlTB0NA1S_-eIJsSUih5M/s1600-h/Picture+10.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lfhFXhkUlNnF3h2fDuz-Hcl86qSZRJbfYaMwDFHDPyysQiIC8gSmhY6hEUEfv2lkP_3XLfg9yNe1yVWFds0Z-BOyNLK-RCIH85SWJTOK3tdKNIl16qYfUfjlTB0NA1S_-eIJsSUih5M/s320/Picture+10.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312032226582796498" /></a>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-51668898926165000152009-03-05T08:30:00.000-08:002009-03-05T08:56:51.218-08:00Tanqueray and Leeks (5-3, 3/3/09)<b>1</b><br />Michael invited me to lunch on Tuesday, knowing I was having a bad morning -- and he offered me his jacket when I forgot mine. :)<br /><br /><b>2</b><br />Samantha tried to sing Puff the Magic Dragon in the car (which was just plain cute), and then she told me she wants to make me happy. <br /> <br /><b>3</b><br />This picture from Elizabeth. I especially like our matching mini-dresses (mine is bordering on obscene...) and how we're hugging each other and looking lovingly into each others' eyes. I'm not sure why I have blonde hair, though -- wishful thinking on her part?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwNSBOO_N_l-zlEmTywACJW2Lh-gGNCF01j8DBXajqb9wa5z_jU53zX5ZQsg3hMun3eo-kCRn-qNnAHYezj8k0XIyUwoUU94sgdPShWe9Do3iTi3tYxp1DmWcfNjxoBvBmHOKvB__R1s/s1600-h/momAndLizzy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwNSBOO_N_l-zlEmTywACJW2Lh-gGNCF01j8DBXajqb9wa5z_jU53zX5ZQsg3hMun3eo-kCRn-qNnAHYezj8k0XIyUwoUU94sgdPShWe9Do3iTi3tYxp1DmWcfNjxoBvBmHOKvB__R1s/s320/momAndLizzy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309424430148366418" /></a><br /><br /><b>4</b><br />My friend/coworker spoke up for me when another coworker bombarded me with a work request right as I walked in the door. "Hey, why don't you give her a chance to take her coat off?" she interjected from her adjacent cubicle. Classy.<br /><br /><b>5</b><br />This other picture from Elizabeth. Apparently she decided to grade her school paper, herself. It took me a while before I noticed that "Great Job" was misspelled (sometimes I'm kind of slow). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocYhM6fWZZ0mayVBjPlAFIYekNU8OECQBvW9WpIrDpmwacm30mPkMKZzsZ5q_8l9Fei0gAEHmSs79Vu-SpErc7nYnPAi1f_xDkhx_0iT7ma-eL6l2EfOde37bPfg4wd7ubpWPybK6fh8/s1600-h/greatjob.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocYhM6fWZZ0mayVBjPlAFIYekNU8OECQBvW9WpIrDpmwacm30mPkMKZzsZ5q_8l9Fei0gAEHmSs79Vu-SpErc7nYnPAi1f_xDkhx_0iT7ma-eL6l2EfOde37bPfg4wd7ubpWPybK6fh8/s320/greatjob.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309745895918352818" /></a><br /><br /><b>6 (bonus!)</b><br />At the beginning of painting class, we place our current assignments along the wall to critique them. Last night we critiqued our still life paintings, and one student created a very nice painting of leeks and a bottle of Tanqueray. When the teacher asked the class what's wrong with the painting (how might it be improved), one classmate responded, "Tanqueray doesn't go well with leeks." <i>Hiyo!</i><br /><br /><center>----------------</center><br /><br />Here's my assignment for the week. (I may finesse the wine bottle a bit more, but otherwise I'm very happy with it.):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8yqTZ_10upBTtYSS02BzggNIs3h4tUSvZHifwsXzoP0B8Jcj7S0KIYhWEoIG8M_Z7qNnYh_2V7cqzBs3BAf9ZWKq5ZcTY2H_O6l_uKgxYEtxyzjETUl4-GJoGCnzyMJ2-NF3Ea-09kA/s1600-h/stillLife2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8yqTZ_10upBTtYSS02BzggNIs3h4tUSvZHifwsXzoP0B8Jcj7S0KIYhWEoIG8M_Z7qNnYh_2V7cqzBs3BAf9ZWKq5ZcTY2H_O6l_uKgxYEtxyzjETUl4-GJoGCnzyMJ2-NF3Ea-09kA/s320/stillLife2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309408328395039954" /></a><br /><br /><center>----------------</center><br /><br />(What is <a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2009/03/five-day-day-01.html">Five-A-Day</a>?)Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-66881399441186677372009-03-04T14:32:00.000-08:002009-03-04T16:30:02.996-08:00What's Worse?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAvFvF3enU0205JM84SFxEhzthnZOvEOUCNGH5HvLkRDn7CIQJ7oHPigWOjsIwtXlaZUfg1KaRbjIzRBnxgXfwSiz1-ooVT_UoZwZMY7fs7lM73ap4yL_hb1slLtat9awMYbL2nYQZVQ/s1600-h/bruise.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAvFvF3enU0205JM84SFxEhzthnZOvEOUCNGH5HvLkRDn7CIQJ7oHPigWOjsIwtXlaZUfg1KaRbjIzRBnxgXfwSiz1-ooVT_UoZwZMY7fs7lM73ap4yL_hb1slLtat9awMYbL2nYQZVQ/s200/bruise.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309469788827473282" /></a><br />In the shower this morning, I noticed this humongous bruise on my leg. So I ask you, what's worse?<br /><br />A. That this bruise is some sort of age-related, burst-vein thingy? <br /><br />or<br /><br />B. That I received a significant blow to the lower knee that I don't even remember?<br /><br />Well, in a situation like this, I think "clumsy and stupid" trumps "aging with vascular issues." <br /><br />So I pick number B. <br /><br />I mean <i>letter</i> B. <br /><br />(Silly me -- I'm just so stupid and clumsy!)Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-56488558817001858122009-03-04T09:00:00.000-08:002009-03-04T11:04:49.433-08:00Thank You, Raising Arizona (5-02; 3/2/09)OK, yesterday's post wasn't exactly positive. While I must admit that the lack of knives during our family squabbles is, indeed, a good thing, it isn't exactly what I had in mind when I decided to write about 5 uniquely positive observations of my day. So here's Monday, again, as seen through rosier-colored glasses. (Also, the secret code in the title means this post contains five-a-day # 2 for Monday -- call me a nerd):<br /><br /><b>1</b><br />Monday morning, Lizzy and I looked out of my bedroom window and she observed the way the branches of our fig tree is similar to the branches of the mulberry tree (yes, ours is a mulberry <i>tree</i> and not a bush which would be normal and practical). Then we noticed that the fig tree now has tiny green leaves beginning to grow. I told her that the fig leaf was one of my favorites. She suggested we go into the yard, collect a bunch of leaves, tape them to pieces of paper, and then draw faces on them. <i>Later, Lizzy, later...</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnCWmz6Pux78E6ZozqZzaQqjhwf6Ct06xF-Sr3ldbT1rraSZPN4JrM96tN0sF-M-ocDNR5RyYXsriMeoCi7QkOluWykCjc3y-vqn2bYvqSH3ii8VDxdwToxnqx5LNr1xQ9dqSha9hL4Y/s1600-h/figleaves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnCWmz6Pux78E6ZozqZzaQqjhwf6Ct06xF-Sr3ldbT1rraSZPN4JrM96tN0sF-M-ocDNR5RyYXsriMeoCi7QkOluWykCjc3y-vqn2bYvqSH3ii8VDxdwToxnqx5LNr1xQ9dqSha9hL4Y/s320/figleaves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309394584979126098" /></a><br /><br /><b>2</b><br />The weather was surprisingly wonderful on Monday. It was <i>get in the car, roll the windows down, put on some good music, and take a road trip</i> wonderful. Since that wasn't feasible, I enjoyed lunch in my car, instead. The sky wasn't clear blue, which is good. I like a sky with more texture and there was a nice mix of blue and clouds. <br /><br /><b>3</b><br />Elizabeth's Apology Picture. She came home without a "Thumbs Up" card from school. When you don't get one, there's always a reason, and her reason was that she stuck her tongue out at her friend Amina without provocation. To apologize, I suggested she draw a picture for Amina. Here is the result:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWL0Dxc_doxsOdcU04pdLqsocXgyx2VZDV18pD63qCVG1dNBze1JgEUOeqTqhVEWJyy78sHYKVd-7FDceQao7vUDExQRRUKkTT2yOnlDIAm7vbxBOu9jDrHvFzGltZd2rEhUiG3fe-s6o/s1600-h/LizzySorry.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWL0Dxc_doxsOdcU04pdLqsocXgyx2VZDV18pD63qCVG1dNBze1JgEUOeqTqhVEWJyy78sHYKVd-7FDceQao7vUDExQRRUKkTT2yOnlDIAm7vbxBOu9jDrHvFzGltZd2rEhUiG3fe-s6o/s320/LizzySorry.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309389610455144882" /></a><br /><br />I especially like the clearly marked characters labeled "Me" and "You." Notice the tears streaming down the supplicant's face and the upwardly spiraling hair of Amina who has the grace to say, "It's OK." Such drama. Such regret. Such forgiveness. <br /><br /><b>4</b><br />We all know I've been struggling a tad, domestically. It culminated Monday evening when I found myself staring into a bowl of untouched spaghetti, unable to summon the energy to lift a fork. So I mumbled <i>I'll be back</i> and left the kitchen to sit on my bed in the dark. Eventually I returned and ate dinner, but at some point in the evening Michael must have "had a talk" with the girls, because Samantha walked up to me later, chewing on her shirt sleeve, and suddenly blurted out, "You work so hard, mommy!" Then she threw herself into my arms, sobbing <i>you work so hard, you work so hard</i> over and over. (It was like the scene in Raising Arizona when Edwina blurts out, "I love him so much!" and starts sobbing...)<br /><br />"What a sweetheart you are!" I said, holding her tightly. "You are such a good girl -- so thoughtful. I love you guys." We hugged for a nice, long time, sharing the love. (I did not, however, correct her statement.)<br /><br /><i>Yay!</i> Michael, for giving props to Mama, and <i>Yay!</i> Samantha for appreciating me! :)<br /><br /><b>5</b><br />Once I was able to lift utensils, I thoroughly enjoyed one of our favorite dinners, spaghetti with tomato sauce, ground beef and mild italian sausage, alongside a salad tossed with blue cheese crumbles, balsamic vinegar and canola oil -- truly comfort food... <i>healing</i> food.<br /><br /><center>----------------</center><br /><br />I'll leave you with this, one of my favorite scenes from Raising Arizona (up to 1:20) that captures the joy, hopefulness, and utter terror of parenthood: <br /><br /><center><object width="320" height="265"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uBvIiJ2Irg8&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uBvIiJ2Irg8&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="265"></embed></object></center><br /><br />Yes. <i>Everything, decent and normal from here on out...</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-24041770770084244462009-03-03T09:06:00.000-08:002009-03-03T14:10:06.780-08:00When Positivity Takes a Nosedive<i>Five positive things... positive things... I'm supposed to write about <a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2009/03/five-day-day-01.html">five positive things</a>...</i><br /><br />Well, our disagreements with the girls don't involve knives. Does that count? And the big black bus I saw this morning on the way to work, the one with bars on the windows from the San Diego Corrections Unit... well, I wasn't on it. That's good. And the breakfast Elizabeth didn't eat this morning (the 3rd breakfast she's missed in a week due to procrastination and general testing of wills), well at least she had the <i>opportunity</i> to eat, unlike so many other kids around the world. And the coworker standing in front of my cubicle this morning ready to bombard me with a request as I walked in the door... well, at least I have a job. <br /><br /><i>Five positive things... need one more...</i> Oh -- I don't have a fever blister. <br /><br />There. Five positive things.<br /><br />I'm having a bad morning. I'm really struggling with Elizabeth. Where did she get such an iron will?! Generally, it's such a passive willpower -- really Gandi-like or like the guy from Tiananman Square standing in front of the tank. She won't yell that she's not going to do her homework (or get dressed in the morning, or put away her toys...) -- she just <i>won't do it</i>. Simple. I would admire it if <i>I</i> wasn't the tank she's resisting.<br /><br />Thus, we've been implementing the "Logical Consequences" approach like crazy. <i>Missed breakfast? Too bad. Not dressed? I'll dress you. Not done with homework? No dinner until it's done. Didn't brush your teeth? No stories. Not ready for the birthday party? No party. </i><br /><br />I wish I could be one of those happy-casual parents who can do this with barely a shrug. <i>Hey, well, she brings it on herself...</i> But I <i>hate</i> sending her to school without breakfast. I <i>hate</i> eating dinner without her. I <i>hate</i> that we shopped for a birthday present for a party we ended up not attending. I <i>hate</i> having to ignore her sometimes obnoxious (and yes, sometimes funny) attempts to get our attention.<br /><br />Last Thursday night, Michael sat with her to complete a very simple Spanish assignment on the computer -- a flash-card type game that she has played many times. She was not interested in doing this, so she simply did not do it. Michael tried to get her attention, but she talked about art projects, she looked at the cats, she played with the mouse cord... anything but complete her assignment, so he left her to finish alone (which she is fully capable of doing). <br /><br />The good news is she finished her flash cards assignment. The bad news? <i>It took 2.5 hours.</i> During her dramatic roller coaster ride, I busied myself in the kitchen with dinner and cleaning, trying to ignore her attempts to get our attention purely for distraction purposes. Michael hung out with Samantha who was instructed not to bother Elizabeth. Here are some excerpts:<br /><br /><blockquote>(Lizzy sings) <i>"I'm being followed by a moon shadow, moon shadow, moon shadow..."</i><br /><br />"I'm hungry. Tengo hambre! I'm hungry. TENGO HAMBRE!!!" (She ate snack a few minutes prior... at least she's complaining in Spanish.)<br /><br />"I don't WANT to do this! It's too hard. I'll never get it!" (She has done this many times before...)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"I'm being followed by a moon shadow..."</span><br /><br />"I have to go to the bathroom." (We allow her to go... she potties... she plays with the towels in the bathroom... she makes faces at herself in the mirror... she plays with the faucet... we drag her back...)<br /><br />"Melissa... hello? MA-liss-AAH? Can you hear me?? Are you deaf? Did you stop speaking English? Are you speaking a foreign language, now, MA-liss-AAH??"<br /><br />(plays with the mouse... clicks other links on her computer...)<br /><br />"Tengo hambre!" (gnaws on the small wooden chair she's sitting in...) "I'm going to eat this chair." <br /><br />"Why did you make this computer game for me, mommy?! Why?! I used to like it, but I don't like it anymore! Why did you do this to me?!" <br /><br />"When is dinner ready?" (I bring her a clock and place the sticker next to the five to show her when dinner will be ready -- approximately 20 minutes later. She ignores it.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"I'm being followed by a moon shadow..."</span><br /><br />(clicks through some of her flash cards) "Noviembre," she says. (The Spanish voice on the computer confirms, <i>Noviembre.</i>) "Yes!" (She clicks through a couple more words and comes to a Spanish phrase.) "Oh, no! I'll never get this!! Never!" (She starts sucking on her shirt...)<br /><br />"Ma-LISS-ah... come look! This shirt is wet! No really, come look. I think the clock stopped working. Really, come here. Something is wrong with the clock. The clock is broken. "<br /><br />(Michael and I begin to have doubts. <i>Is this working? Does she know what to do? Were we clear enough? Should we explain it again?</i>)<br /><br />(wails) "This chair is too hard to eat!"<br /><br />(clicks through the flash cards...)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"I'm being followed by a moon shadow..."</span><br /><br />Dinner comes and dinner goes. The dishes get washed. Occasionally we hear Elizabeth click through the flash cards... and sing... and wail... and click some more. At one point I sit on the couch out of sight and listen to her struggle with a particular phrase. She reads the phrase out loud and laments that it's too hard. She clicks the "Show" button to hear Mr. Spanish Man say the phrase in Spanish and she repeats what he says. She doesn't say it well. She clicks to repeat this particular card, saying it a little better this time. She clicks through it five more times, <i>until she gets it right</i>, and then moves on to the next word. <br /><br />I smile. <br /><br />Not long after, she zips through the rest of the cards. Michael wanders back in to help her with the last bit. When she finishes, it's 8:40 (their bedtime is 9pm). I congratulate her on completing her assignment and sit with her while she eats cold leftovers. She's in a pretty good mood (surprisingly good). After eating, she brushes her teeth and picks out her clothes for the following morning, then goes straight to bed -- no stories. I tuck her in, tell her I love her, and leave the bedroom. <br /><br />At once, all the energy leaves my body and I fall onto the couch, comatose. <i>This was hard.</i> I can't move.</blockquote><br />Like I said, I wish I could be all happy-casual, and maybe I'll get to that point someday. But right now, I'm struggling. I wish this kind of interaction didn't bother me. There must be a switch on my body somewhere. You know, one that turns off unrealistic expectations? The one that keeps me in a good mood, even when Lizzy's not doing what I want her to do? <i>Where's that damned switch?!</i> (I think it may be hidden at the bottom of a margarita...)<br /><br />I realize that perhaps my biggest problem isn't (necessarily) her -- it's the fact that I want her to do <i>what</i> I want, <i>when</i> I want, and <i>how</i> I want. I'm struggling to decide when to put my foot down and when to be flexible. (<i>When to hold 'em, and when to fold 'em, so-to-speak...</i>) I want our family to run smoothly (pleasantly, even) and I want her to become a successful person. I have no desire to "break her" like a wild horse, yet I don't want myself to break in the meantime. Ultimately, I must remember: Elizabeth is her own person, living her own life, and doing things in her very own, uniquely Elizabeth, way. <br /><br /><i>I'm being followed by a moon shadow, moon shadow, moon shadow...</i><br /><br />(Why do I have the feeling I'll be singing this someday as they throw me in the paddy-wagon...)Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-34279906535688729032009-03-02T09:08:00.000-08:002009-03-02T12:24:44.153-08:00Five-a-Day: Day 01I've been very cynical, lately. Events over the last few months, personally and globally, have raised many questions and many of the answers have left a bitter taste in my mouth. Long story short? I've opened a door and entered reality. I won't go into the details (I'll save that for my private blog -- you know, the <i>really</i> interesting one where all the bodies are buried), but I realize I must actively strive for balance, to recognize the good that surrounds me daily. Because as dark as reality can be at times, it is not <i>all dark</i>, and I don't want to forget that.<br /><br />I often read <a href="http://journeymama.com/2009/02/25/one-kindness-and-pesto/">Journey Mama</a>, and she recently decided to join the "<a href="http://graceinsmallthings.ning.com/">Grace in Small Things</a>" challenge to list 5 positive things each day. It can be anything from finishing a marathon (because that happens so often) to realizing your canker sore has finally healed (which happens way more frequently). <br /><br />Here's what I have for Sunday:<br /><br />1. Adas Polo leftovers. We ate dinner at Bandar on Saturday (a yummy Persian restaurant), and because we're so smart and filled ourselves on appetizers and salad, we had <i>plenty</i> of saffron-stained rice and chicken to take home. Last night I added raisins to the dish (to sweeten it a little more) and we fed our entire family on the leftovers. And (<i>and!</i>) I have enough for lunch today. <br /><br />2. Lizzy demonstrated her super amazing strength on the playground by moving hand-over-hand across the entire set of monkey bars -- <i>all the way across</i>. It was like ten bars! (It was also funny to see the way her scapula jutted out of her skinny body... so strong and vulnerable at the same time.)<br /><br />3. Michael gave me a shoulder and back rub while we sat on a picnic blanket during a birthday party for a friend's 4-year old. The sun was shining, the blanket was warm, and the girls were bouncing in an ocean-themed bounce house nearby.<br /><br />4. Our bulbs have bloomed! We have a nice expanse of yellow flowers (I can't think of the name!) in the flower bed. They seem to die quickly when we cut them for the house, so we're letting them bloom away undisturbed in the yard. Last year I gave some of the bulbs to a friend, and hers are also blooming. It feels good to "spread the beauty." <br /><br />5. My assignment for oil painting class this week was to paint a still life (2-3 veggies with a transparent object) using a palette knife. This can be very, very hard for someone with control issues, and when I began to paint the scene, much hyperventilating and shouting of strange words ensued. (<i>Gah... no... yugga... aahh!</i>) But (<i>but!</i>), I got through it and I'm so happy with my little painting. It's not perfect by any means, but I think (maybe) I've turned a tiny, little corner in my painting abilities. I tried some new techniques, I had faith (sooo important for me when painting), and I'm happy with the results.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-1693458494119437972009-02-26T08:47:00.000-08:002009-02-26T12:08:38.542-08:00The Gray in the MirrorI'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. <br /><br />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 "<a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/10333/saturday-night-live-mom-jeans">mom jeans</a>", 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.<br /><br />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 <i>youthful</i> and <i>youth</i>. So, while I may be youthful in spirit and activity, I am not young.<br /><br />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 <i>that</i> sucks. I remember the day I looked down after showering and discovered my first gray pube. <i>Who wants to have sex with THAT?</i> I thought. Fortunately, my husband did. <i>It's not broken, is it?</i> I'm not sure he actually said that, but that was the sentiment. So I learned to live with it (now them). (An occasional Brazlian bikini wax doesn't hurt the situation, either. Ok, it <i>hurts</i>, but you know what I mean.)<br /><br />Then I stopped dying my hair (on my head) and noticed the grays had spread upward. <i>That's fine. Whatever.</i> I was determined to embrace my grays for as long as possible. Besides, a shiny gray hair is like an accent... a sparkle, if you will... that draws the eye. I don't mind if a stray gray draws attention to my head. (Or my hoochie, for that matter.)<br /><br />But my <i>nose?</i> No. This cannot be. <br /><br />So, tonight I'll spend a little quiet time alone in the bathroom with a pair of tweezers. <i>Mommy needs her privacy. Go away. No, you may not watch!</i> And while the face staring back at me in the mirror will shake her head as if to say, <i>Who are we kidding?</i>, I will smile back at her, hold up my tweezers, and answer, <i>Me!</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-10456730537596890082009-02-23T09:37:00.000-08:002009-02-24T09:31:33.471-08:00The Entry That Became a Book Review, But Not ReallyWhen 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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />But gradually it takes more and more explaining to get them to respond. "Seriously, I'm so tired and I have a headache and I didn't get much sleep yesterday and I'm worried about the bills and the cat threw up." When that stops working, I have (on occasion) sunk so low as to beg (which is not hard to do at 2am), "Please, <i>please</i> go back to bed... I can't take it... please! I Just. Can't. Function!" <br /><br />Pretty soon their little defiances linger throughout the day. When Lizzy is in time out, suddenly she has to pee -- badly. When I let her pee, she closes the door and soon I hear all sorts of music from the bathroom... improvised songs, drum beats, dancing footsteps. Then she brushes her teeth... plays with the cat under the door... makes toilet paper bows. Five, ten minutes goes by... Time out? <i>What time out?</i><br /><br />It cascades downhill from there. Lizzy doesn't do her homework. Samantha keeps leaving the dinner table. Lizzy won't clean up her mess. Samantha won't stop whining. Lizzy spills her milk. Samantha threatens Lizzy. Lizzy tells on Samantha. Samantha bangs the door. Lizzy interrupts. Sammy interrupts. There is yelling... lots of yelling. <br /><br />And then the cat throws up.<br /><br />Why do their quiet, well-behaved spells eventually devolve into chaos and anger leading to mommy's little meltdowns? Is it some master plan on their part to drive me insane by lulling me into complacency and then attacking when I least expect it? Is <i>that</i> what they whisper about in their bedroom at night?<br /><br />Or am I just not good at this parenting thing? Perhaps my goals, combined with my limited talents and education, are no match for the Most Important Job on Earth. Perhaps we should have gone to a movie that night 6 years ago, instead of procreating.<br /><br />Nah. The girls aren't (that) evil and I'm not a (complete) moron. I suppose my mistake is thinking I can turn parenting "up and down" like the volume on the radio. Sometimes I turn it up (as I've done recently by checking out -- <i>and reading</i> -- parenting books), and sometimes I turn it down (by not following through with consequences as I should). So it's not that the girls' behavior fluctuates as much as my parental focus fluctuates. And haven't we heard it a thousand times before: parents have to be consistent.<br /><br />But getting back to my confusion...<br /><br />And the library...<br /><br />There are TOO MANY BOOKS out there on how to parent -- many with very different parenting techniques and advice. First, I read that I should give them an allowance. Then, when they misbehave I should deduct money from their "account". <i>But no! That's bribery!</i> says another book. Instead, give them stars on a chart or brightly-colored balls in a Good Job Jar when they do certain tasks. After "x" number of stars or balls, reward them in some way. After all, <i>it's not bribery if it's sticky or brightly-colored.</i> <br /><br />But wait, which tasks get stickers and which don't? Do we ever take stickers away? What if the girls take <i>forever</i> to complete a task? Should I time them? What if tasks are executed while making angry faces at me? If their looks <i>actually kill me</i>, do they still get a sticker? When do I take away their privileges? Which ones have they earned? <br /><br /><i>Why are you letting her play on the computer? Don't you know she's on restriction? <br /><br />No, I didn't! You forgot to place the blue felt "computer" symbol in the Restriction column of the Behavior Chart!</i><br /><br />Ahhh!!! <i>(Dear God, please -- I just want simple, straight-forward techniques that don't befuddle my already over-befuddled, too-tired brain.)</i> <br /><br />Well, God (or persistence) came through, because I think I found what I needed in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Whining-Steps-Before-Tears-Tantrums/dp/0684857421/ref=pd_bbs_sr_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1235168898&sr=8-2">Whining: Three Steps for Stopping It Before the Tears and Tantrums Start</a></i>. It's very short and very simple and focuses on Logical Consequences (not just random punishment), Assertive Behavior (which involves a lot of well-timed ignoring), and Contribution (kids need to contribute to the family).<br /><br /><b>Logical Consequences</b><br /><br /><blockquote><b>Example:</b> If your child misbehaves in a restaurant, the entire family leaves. <br /><b>Lesson:</b> Our behavior affects everyone in the family. Behold their dirty looks.<br /><br /><b>Example:</b> If you don't get dressed on time, you don't eat breakfast.<br /><b>Lesson:</b> It's important to be on time. Otherwise, you may starve.<br /><br /><b>Example:</b> If you give your parent a hard time (whining, complaining) as he takes you to the store to buy poster board for a school project, then the parent turns the car around and you don't get the board and you likely get into trouble at school.<br /><b>Lesson: </b>Be nice to people who are trying to help you. Seriously, we're not going to take that crap.</blockquote><br />(FYI, we've only implemented one of the preceding examples...)<br /><br />Logical consequences are often hard to implement as parents because it usually means we all have to suffer to some extent (none of us gets to eat at the restaurant, we feel badly for sending our thin children to school without breakfast, and we don't want our children to get into trouble at school). But that's why this technique is so important. We're raising our children to participate in a society, therefore they need to learn that their behavior affects other people, and sometimes those "other people" are us. <i>(No one said parenting would be easy.)</i><br /><br /><b>Assertive Communication</b><br /><br />Here are the most important lessons I learned from this chapter:<br /><br /><b>Ignore misbehavior</b> designed purely to get attention, such as calling your mother "Melissy Wissy" and telling her "You're not a good cook." Don't reward this kind of behavior with attention. Instead, wait for them to do something positive and give them attention for positive behavior. (Good job... not... picking your nose! That's super!) <br /><br /><b>Don't over explain</b> or over justify. Clearly state what is expected and what the consequences will be and then <i>say nothing more.</i> The less we say, the more it makes children responsible for their actions. For example, let's examine Lizzy's not getting dressed on time:<br /><br />Today she didn't get dressed by the suggested time. She distracted herself in a thousand different ways. She knew what the consequences would be -- breakfast dishes would be removed at 7:25, and if she didn't get dressed she wouldn't get to eat. If we reminded her over and over that time was running out, or made comments about her delaying tactics, we would have lessened her accountability. However, by refusing to remind her constantly, we gave her a certain level of respect by implying, <i>You know the rules, and we know you are responsible enough to do what you need to do on your own. Just be glad you don't have to pay rent.</i><br /><br />Well, today she didn't get dressed by the <i>suggested</i> time, but she left herself <i>just enough time</i> to scarf down her Cheerios. Tomorrow she may realize she needs to giver herself more time, or perhaps she'll decide she only needs a few minutes to scarf down her food. Ultimately it's up to her, and I'm fine as long as we leave on time.<br /><br /><b>Contribution</b><br /><br />This is another important lesson -- one I'm still working on. Samantha has the contribution part down. Lizzy's contribution is... less defined. Sure, she thinks of fun games to play. She introduces new recipes for me to try. She fills our home with art and color and ingenuity. But what about chores? Everyone wants to be the Activity Coordinator, but who wants to swab the deck? <br /><br />While <i>Whining</i> emphasized the importance of every member contributing, I still need to find a way to make her "own" the concept. And that's when the following parenting thought occurred to me:<br /><br /><i>Be predictable with punishment, but unpredictable with praise and rewards.</i><br /><br />I know this sounds a little harsh, but here's my thinking: With any society, there are laws, and with laws there are punishments. In a society, we all live by certain rules (laws and punishments), and ultimately it makes life better for all of us when we know the rules. <br /><br />But what inspires us to do better and to succeed? Rewards. How do we get rewards? Well, in Lizzy's case, she may or may not get a reward each day (in the form of a <i>brightly-colored ball</i> -- yes, you heard right...) based on an overall assessment of her behavior. Then, when she acquires, say, 20 of them, she gets... something (who knows). It's all very subjective and nebulous and I think that's the key. Since there are no strict guidelines for when she gets a ball and it's completely up to us, then <i>she'd better behave as well as possible just to be sure</i>. See? You get it? Pretty cagey, right? <br /><br />So far I think it's working. <br /><br />(Except for last night when we decided she would get a ball, but then I noticed she still had ice cream on her face and I asked her to wash her face before bed but she totally ignored me and sat in the rocker... and then I reminded her again to wash her face and instead she went into her bedroom and played with something in her room... and she totally forgot to get her ball and left the Good Job Jar out... and then I got pissed off and said she <i>couldn't</i> get her ball because obviously she doesn't even care... and then she got upset and went to bed sad... and then later I felt guilty and wanted to cry because I love her so much and all I wanted to do was go into her room and shower her with kisses and brightly-colored balls... and this morning I couldn't wait to go into her bedroom and tell her I made a mistake... and I gave her a brightly-colored ball and a kiss (<i>yes I did</i>)... and then a hug... and then another kiss...)<br /><br />Yes, yes. It's definitely working.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-62171812967730299122009-02-23T08:51:00.000-08:002009-02-23T11:19:54.002-08:00So CuteThere's nothing much cuter than Samantha singing the following lyrics to Dance, Dance, Dance (the Steve Miller song):<br /><br /><i><blockquote>I'm a hard working man<br />I'm a son of a gun<br />I've been working all week<br />in the noon day sun...</blockquote></i><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />So, so cute.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-66146435267140896032009-02-19T21:31:00.000-08:002009-02-20T16:09:59.906-08:00Melissy WissyLizzy always seems to be moving faster than I am prepared. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Did you ever fantasize about what you would do if you had to go back to being a kid or teenager, knowing all you know now? That's kind of what it's like. It's as if the future, teenaged Lizzy was suddenly cursed with this small body -- and she resents the hell out of it. Here's a sample of what it's like living with a 5-year old teenager:<br /><br /><blockquote>"Hi, Lizzy!" I say when I see her in the afternoon. My cheerful greeting is met with a sour face and tongue to match.<br /><br />"Lizzy, could you come here?" I ask. "Yes, <i>Melissy Wissy</i>," she says in her snottiest voice.<br /><br />"Don't forget to pick out your clothes for tomorrow," I say, following her into the bedroom. She stops, turns to me, and says,"OK. (pause) <i>Goodbye.</i>" It actually takes me a second before I get the hint.<i> Oh. She wants me to leave, now.</i><br /><br />"I don't like the way this pasta tastes," she says. (I understand. Frankly, I don't like it either.) But then she turns her back to the table, crosses her arms, and says (nose in the air), "You are <i>not</i> a good cook."</blockquote><br />If this were anyone else, I would either cry or tell them to fuck off. But since this is my daughter, whom I love, love, love, I'm left in the middle of two emotional extremes, which feels a little like pain surrounded with bubble wrap.<br /><br />Granted, none of these moments are horrible. She's not kicking me, throwing my wallet in the toilet, or spinning her head 360 degrees. And I think I'm dealing with these moments fairly effectively. Mostly I ignore her behavior so I don't feed the fire of her desire for attention. (Yes, I can see what she's doing.) Sometimes I demand apologies. Sometimes I leave the room. Sometimes I make <i>her</i> leave the room, as I did with the "you're not a good cook" remark (which I probably could have ignored, but <i>come on</i>).<br /><br /><i>Still</i>. I want my sweet, huggy, happy-to-see-me Lizzy back! I'm not ready for this sullen teenager.<br /><br />When I examine the situation, I can see why this time in her life is frustrating. I think she's bored at school -- most everything she's learning in kindergarten, she already learned in preschool. This causes her to "make things interesting" at school (the idle mind is the devil's playground), which is why her teacher is frustrated with her "<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2009/02/note-from-teacher.html">unruly behavior</a>". Then, when she comes home, Michael and I get frustrated with her because we're "making her" do all of this stupid "stuff" that she doesn't want to do, like homework, and putting her toys away, and brushing her teeth. (As you can see, we practically run a sweat shop for children.) <br /><br />(Sidebar: We joke that if these were the olden days when toddlers had to work, we'd make a decent wage from Samantha who seems to enjoy housework, making the beds, setting the table, making dinner salads, dusting, etc. -- no kidding. But sweet Lizzy? <i>Not. A. Dime.</i>)<br /><br />Anyway, I imagine Elizabeth feels very little support from either side right now.<br /><br />Plus, she's not sure what to do on the friendship front. At dinner last night, she said, "The girls at school are too girly and the boys are too rough. I like some girl stuff, but mostly I like boy stuff. I'm a tomboy -- <i>I'm in the middle.</i>" It's an Alice Cooper song in the making.<br /><br />In a perfect world, Lizzy would spend her day taping things together, playing on the computer, making pinatas, finding new recipes for me to cook, writing and creating books, exploring and collecting things (rocks, shells, twigs, seeds, <i>beetle wings</i>), practicing math, creating art projects, performing experiments (like inventing her own drinks), and anything else she feels like doing. Who wouldn't want to live in "Lizzy's World?" It's a freakin' great world! In Lizzy's World she's smart, she's learning, and she's in control. <br /><br />(Hey, can I live there?)<br /><br />Two events are (maybe/hopefully) starting to put us on the right track: <br /><br />First, I found a book at the library: <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Whining-Steps-Before-Tears-Tantrums/dp/0684857421/ref=pd_bbs_sr_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1235168898&sr=8-2">Whining: Three Steps for Stopping It Before the Tears and Tantrums Start</a></i>. <i>Get this book.</i> I will write more about it later (and I would love to get your opinions), but the gist of it is this: argue less, maintain control of your emotions, and implement swift and logical consequences. Simple, right?<br /><br />Here's an example of how I used these techniques with Lizzy. Responding to the trouble we've had getting her ready in the morning, I delivered the following facts to her in a nice, but firm, and clear manner:<br /><br />- She needs to be dressed by 7:05am each morning.<br />- Breaskfast is served from 7:05 - 7:25.<br />- Breakfast dishes are removed at 7:25.<br />- If she is not dressed by 7:25, I will dress her.<br />- We get in the car at 7:30 to go to school.<br /><br />I placed a large clock in her room with a sticker pointing to 7:05. She understands the clock, so this is nothing new to her. Then, at 7:25 -- <i>when she still wasn't dressed</i> -- Michael cleared her breakfast dishes and I dressed her. She was not pleased when she discovered she wouldn't be eating that morning -- <i>not pleased at all</i>. She cried and fussed all the way to the school yard.<br /><br /><i>But this morning.... </i><br /><br />I wasn't sure what was going to happen. It didn't look good at first. She procrastinated, she doddled, she distracted herself. Then, at 7:02, she threw on her clothes, stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips and loudly announced, "I did it myself! I'M ALL DRESSED!" She said this with every ounce of defiance she could muster, not realizing that she had, indeed, <i>complied</i>. "Good job, Lizzy!" She tried to downplay her compliance further by saying she only did it because she wanted a reward. But then she later said she did it because <i>she wanted to eat.</i> Smart thinking, Elizabeth. <br /><br />The second event concerns Michael. We're lucky. He and I usually balance each other out when it comes to handling the girls. If one of us is feeling short-tempered or impatient, the other usually steps in and takes over. Lately, however, we've been volleying back and forth like crazy trying to keep up with Lizzy's moods, and unfortunately there have been a few times when neither of us has been up to the task with any amount of grace.<br /><br />Yesterday, however, Michael took the day off and spent the afternoon with Lizzy. He took her to his dental appointment. They went to Point Loma Seafoods and ate crab sandwiches. They visited the Point Loma Library which features a children's section with a giant ship. They sent me snapshots from his cell phone throughout the day, and when I arrived home with Samantha, everyone was in a good mood. Then later, Michael sat with Lizzy while she completed her homework and he actually managed to get her to smile by acting practically orgasmic each time she wrote her letters neatly. "Whoa, Lizzy! That's the BEST letter 'S' I've ever seen! Mom's going to think <i>I</i> wrote it." And so on. <br /><br />I can't tell you how happy it made me to see her giggling and happy again. I knew "sweet Lizzy" was in there somewhere! She couldn't wait to show me her homework, and when she smiled at me, it was genuine. Clearly, yesterday's homework moment, combined with the quality time Michael spent with Lizzy, illustrates the power of positive parenting. <br /><br />Of course, the problem is that neither of us is that damned energetic and friendly every day (what with these full time jobs and all). But it's good to know that when we're not, I can always pull out my copy of <i>Whining.</i> Because let me state in a nice, but firm, and clear manner: <i>We are going to have a nice, happy little family</i> -- a family in which the children are thoughtful and smile at their mother, the dad cheerily helps with the homework, and the mom makes homemade milkshakes for desert while everyone giggles. Oh yes, that's how it will be. <br /><br />Because I checked out four more books from the library, and I'm not afraid to use them... <i>Lizzy Wizzy.</i>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-46250790516176180432009-02-19T14:15:00.000-08:002009-02-19T15:17:52.649-08:00A Note from the TeacherMichael: "Did you see the note?"<br /><br />Me: "Note?"<br /><br />Michael: "It's in her bookbag."<br /><br />Me: <i>mmm kaaay...</i><br /><br /><i><blockquote>Mr. & Mrs. Cords and Fleece,<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Thanks!!<br /><br />Lizzy's Teacher<br /><br />P.S. She's also been making noises at the rug. :(</blockquote></i><br />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? <i>Bad Lizzy. Bad.</i><br /><br />Either way, laughing at a teacher's cry for help doesn't guarantee me a spot on the list of Top 100 Mature Parents. Thank goodness Lizzy was already in bed so I didn't have to explain my guffawing to her. I couldn't quite interpret Michael's reaction, though. Was he, too, trying to stifle a smile? Or did his look mean, <i>It's not funny and clearly you don't understand the severity of the situation. Our child needs help.</i> I'm still not sure.<br /><br />All of this reminds me of a story Michael's mother used to share with me. One day she, too, received a note from Michael's teacher. I think he was in kindergarten or first grade. Along with general information about his academic progress (he's a genius, etc.), the teacher wrote about his questionable conduct at school which included <i>running to the drinking fountain.</i> Really, I'm surprised he's not in jail.<br /><br />But wait... I remember something from my past, too -- a little red-haired boy named Kevin. We used to ride the bus together in fourth grade. The bus picked me up first and <i>Oh how I enjoyed</i> waiting for him! When he climbed the bus steps, I could not resist the urge to jut my foot out ever-so-slightly into the isle as he walked to his seat. He tripped every single time and flashed me a scathing look which sent me over the edge. The crazy part is, we were friends. We hung out together at lunchtime. (He was obsessed with the Bermuda Triangle -- <i>obsessed</i> -- and we talked about it endlessly.) So I wasn't a bully in general -- just to my friends. (Which may explain why they dumped me on the playground that one time...)<br /><br />Where was I? Oh yes, <i>Lizzy!</i> <br /><br />So you see, either she likes Payton a lot and admires his obsession with the occult, she's a sucker for slapstick, or she's destined for a job in the video and/or web industries. Who knows? <br /><br />All I know for sure is... <i>where she gets it</i>.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-71806949888016527452009-01-19T22:00:00.000-08:002010-01-20T10:24:28.615-08:00About This BlogRight off the top, it's a goofy name.<br />
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I was looking for a new name for my blog, and then one morning I had the following exchange with my husband. We were taking our daughter to preschool and found ourselves following a well-dressed mom wearing a cute little skirt and high heels. I tilted my head to one side like a puppy noticing something strange for the first time. Michael also tilted his head, but was thinking of something else.<br />
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"How come <i>you</i> don't wear skirts and high heels to work?" he asked.<br />
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"She must be freezing. It doesn't seem practical."<br />
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"She doesn't seem to mind."<br />
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"I suppose not."<br />
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<i>Two heads tilt to the other side.</i><br />
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"Oh well, I guess I'm more of a cords and fleece kind of girl."<br />
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<i>Two heads straighten.</i><br />
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And there you have it -- a blog title based entirely on what I like to wear in the wintertime. <i>Talk about impractical.</i><br />
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The former title was Domestic Irritation. I liked that title a lot -- it certainly seemed to express how I felt much of the time. But it was too one-sided. After writing so many words about my family, I realized how much fun they bring into my life and how much I love them (go figure). The idea of daily going to a place that emphasized my irritation with them just didn’t seem accurate. It seemed nit-picky and whiny.<br />
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I guess it’s the hippy in me buried beneath all that punk angst and repressed middle class white woman. <i>Come on</i>, begged hippy chic, <i>don't send out all that negative energy</i>... Since I wasn't about to rename my blog “Happy Freaking Love Mama”, I went with Cords and Fleece (and lost everyone's nice comments in the process). Oh well. It is what it is, and I'll stick with it.<br />
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(But I have to admit -- the other day I noticed someone had purchased my former domain "DomesticIrritation.com" and my heart hurt a little. People are strange, eh?)<br />
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So, if you haven't guessed, this blog is about myself and my perspective on family life. (I guess I could have put that at the top of the page.) Here are some of my favorite entries:<br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/05/will-real-melissa-please-stand-up.html">Will the real Melissa please stand up?</a><br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/05/daddy-what-are-you-doing-to-mommy.html">Daddy, what are you doing to Mommy?</a><br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/05/more-sauce-please.html">More Sauce, Please.</a><br />
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<a href=http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/05/bananas-or-batarangs-give-hoot-read.html">Bananas or Batarangs? (Give a Hoot...Read a Book)</a><br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/08/nasal-revolution.html">A Nasal Revolution</a><br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/08/buddhas-ears.html">Buddha's Ears</a><br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/09/line-in-sand.html">A Line in the Sand</a><br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/09/what-happens-at-grandmas-house.html">What Happens at Grandma's House</a><br />
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<a href="http://cordsandfleece.blogspot.com/2007/09/happy-family.html">A Happy Family</a>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-29901467048153108852009-01-19T14:46:00.000-08:002010-01-19T15:37:08.440-08:00Blog Roll<a href="http://blahblahblogsd.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Blah Blah Blog</a><br />
<a href="http://thebloggess.com/" target="_blank">The Bloggess</a><br />
<a href="http://blurbomat.com/" target="_blank">Blurbomat</a><br />
<a href="http://thesandiegobookdiva.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Bookdiva</a><br />
<a href="http://chickenheadsknit.blogspot.com//" target="_blank">Chicken Heads Knit</a><br />
<a href="http://www.datingiswarfare.com/" target="_blank">Dating Trooper</a><br />
<a href="http://www.dooce.com/" target="_blank">Dooce</a><br />
<a href="http://eccepoema.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Ecce Poema</a><br />
<a href="http://journeymama.com/" target="_blank">Journey Mama</a><br />
<a href="http://mustlovetots.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Must Love Tots</a><br />
<a href="http://unleashedfrustrations.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Pull Ups, Ba-Ba's, and Growing Pains</a><br />
<a href="http://rimarama.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Rimarama</a><br />
<a href="http://sexagenarian07.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Sexagenarian in the City</a><br />
<a href="http://squawkery.blogspot.com//" target="_blank">The Squawkery</a>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-49282744873388094522008-10-09T21:45:00.000-07:002008-10-10T08:57:31.342-07:00Everyone Needs a Hero <br />Tonight, fresh from their baths, the girls pretended to be super heroes.<br /><br />Knowing how funny the word <i>vagina</i> is (see, funny right?), Samantha proudly announced that she would be...<i>Vagina Man!</i><br /><br />"I'm Vagina Man!" she said.<br /><br />"Vagina Man?" Elizabeth asked.<br /><br />"Yes! Who needs a vagina?" Samantha asked. "I give vaginas to people who need them!"<br /><br />Elizabeth, who's game for anything, picked up her snake (yes, her snake) and said in a deep voice, "I need to pee. Can I have a vagina?"<br /><br />"OK!" Samantha said, reaching into her undies, pulling out an imaginary vagina, and putting it on the snake while making a strange zipping noise. "I have a lot of vaginas," she added.<br /><br />Meanwhile their grandpa, who's visiting from Chicago, sat in the next room pretending not to hear. Poor Papa. <br /><br />I wonder, did Michael and his brother ever play games like this? Did Michael ever declare that he was Penis Man? <br /><br />We'll never know, now will we?Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138210526247980706.post-48208505447703514452008-10-05T09:48:00.000-07:002008-10-10T09:02:32.505-07:00Como te llamas? <br />Kindergarten is kicking my ass. <br /><br />God, that would be funny if it wasn’t true. But kindergarten should have a giant flashing neon sign above it that shouts, “WARNING: Giant learning curve ahead! You might not make it! (Counseling available upon request.)” <br /><br /><b>The Forms</b><br /><br />Every other day, something new comes home in Elizabeth’s folder that I need to attend to: Spanish classes, sports classes, Girl Scout groups, does she want to participate in this art project and if so sign here, school picture order forms to complete, pictures for her to color and contests for her to enter, permission slips to sign, book fairs to attend and books to purchase, catalogs of products that we’re supposed to sell if we love our child and her school. It’s endless.<br /><br /><b>The Schedule</b><br /><br />Mondays and Thursdays are P.E. days. Tuesday is Sharing day. Wednesday is the “short day”. Monday afternoon is Spanish class. Wednesday afternoon is soccer. Perhaps that doesn’t sound like too much to remember, especially if you have more than one kid in public school and you’ve been doing this for a few years, but this is new to me.<br /><br />Now there is so much to remember that I am constantly paranoid that I’ve forgotten something. Is it P.E. day? Does she wear dress shoes or tennis shoes? Did we listen to her Spanish Learning CD? What is her sharing day assignment? Did she memorize the nursery rhyme, bring the “environmental print” (whatever that is), and memorize the speech entitled “What makes me a good citizen”? Did we practice the Spanish phrases? Is today soccer day? Did I remember to pack her soccer clothes? Did I turn in the permission slip? <br /><br /><i>(...hyper...ventalating...now...)</i><br /><br /><b>The Lunches</b><br /><br />School lunches were better when I was a kid. Many schools today don’t have ovens or stoves so the food is preprocessed and microwaved. That’s why we pack her lunch. <br /><br />But I don’t know what to pack. Sure, I’ve seen web sites with great suggestions. But there’s a lot of planning that goes with it. After all, I can’t make a turkey sandwich one day, soup and grilled cheese the next, and a tortilla wrap the next. Why? Because before you know it, the tortillas have gone bad because I forgot to freeze them, the turkey has gone bad because I only used it twice in two weeks, half the soup is wasted (also because I forgot to freeze it, but who’s going to freeze half a can of soup anyway?), and the block of cheese I bought (in order to save money instead of buying those expensive cheese sticks) has gone bad, too. I might as well take my paycheck directly to the paper shredder.<br /><br />I just don’t know how to think like this. I finally got my head wrapped around dinners for four, but this daily lunch planning has my head spinning. Needless to say, Elizabeth is eating a LOT of turkey sandwiches and carrot sticks. A. LOT.<br /><br /><b>The Homework, Homework, Homework</b><br /><br />Homework began in earnest October 1st, and from what we’ve seen so far, it’s going to be a long, difficult road. Elizabeth usually doesn’t mind starting her homework, it’s <i>finishing</i> that’s the problem. She gets distracted. She remembers a million other things she’d rather be doing, like pretending her pencils are people, or drawing rainbows. <br /><br />The other night, after the girls had gone to bed, I saw Michael sitting on the couch, holding his head and sighing. <br /><br />"What’s wrong?" I asked.<br /><br />"Elizabeth didn’t want to do her homework -- she didn’t want to do it right."<br /><br />The assignment: Write your name three times on lined paper -- something she could do easily.<br /><br />Remember the lined paper, with the solid top and bottom lines and a dotted line in between? Remember how you’re supposed to line the letters perfectly between those lines. This is the HEIGHT of boredom for Elizabeth. Why write neatly when you can write <i>creatively</i>? Why make all the letters the same size when you can write some of the letters BIG and some teeny-weeny and some slanted and some straight? Why?<br /><br />I looked at the homework and saw a piece of paper with everyone’s name printed on it fairly neatly. <br /><br />“Well, that’s pretty good,” I said.<br /><br />“That’s <i>mine</i>,” Michael said. <br /><br />“Oh.”<br /><br />I, too, know the trials of getting Elizabeth to concentrate on her homework. But the fact is, neither of us wants to do homework -- and trust me, we <i>both have homework</i>. My homework is corralling her into her seat. My homework is reading through her assignments and staying with her to make sure she understands them and does the work. My homework is practicing Spanish with her -- and let me tell you, it’s not easy for me. I can’t roll my Rs for crap and I sound like a hick when I try to speak Spanish. I imagine her teacher cringes when Elizabeth comes to school speaking Spanish with my accent. Plus, all those new words pass right over my brain and land on the floor. My brain is full. There’s no more room at the mental inn.<br /><br />How am I doing? <i>Muy mal.</i> <br /><br />I’m not sure what I expected. I guess I thought Elizabeth would sit happily at the kitchen table and do her homework mostly on her own while I cooked supper. Occasionally, I’d help out with a difficult question, but all in all it would be a pleasant, easy-going experience. <br /><br />So, numero uno problem? <i>Unrealistic Expectations.</i><br /><br />Numero dos problemo? <i>I’m beat.</i><br /><br />I’ve had such a busy month -- a huge deadline at work and political and personal stresses that are totally busting my balls. Last night I tried to explain how I’m feeling. Basically I feel like I’ve been placed inside a rickety old barrel with nails and splinters and then pushed down a steep rocky hill, and while I was bumping down the hill, someone was yelling at me at the same time. <br /><br />So when I come home, I desperately need a break. But there’s no time for a break. There’s cooking and homework and threatening and washing dishes and bathing girls and getting wet and packing lunches and getting clothes ready for tomorrow and filling out forms and packing Elizabeth’s homework. <br /><br />That’s why this homework thing is making me extra grumpy which, ironically, is turning me into a total bitch about it because I just want it done. <i>Stop playing with your pencils. Are you doing your homework? Focus! If you don’t do your homework you won’t get a good job and you won’t be able to afford super hero costumes or cookies or be able to go to Disneyland ever again. Comprende? Hey Lizzy -- Como te llamas? I said what’s your name in Spanish -- Como te llamas! Lizzy, I’m asking you a question. COMO TE LLAMAS?!</i><br /><br />It’s not good.<br /><br />I want to be better. I want to feel better. I want to be nice. I want to do homework with her willingly -- <i>happily</i>. I don’t want to be this stressed, overwhelmed, freaked-out mom. I want to do these parenting things easily and with good humor and love. I want to be able to step back and see how lucky I am to have public education and a healthy child. I want to be the Cheerful Mom of Endless Patience. Tell me, where is the spirit of Donna Reed? What have I become? What kind of mother am I that I cannot handle kindergarten of all things? <i>Kindergarten?!</i><br /><br />But I’m working on it. I’m taking stock -- working on a game plan. I dug out a portable file box from the garage to organize her many, many papers. On top of the file box is...guess what -- an “in” box. (Yes, she has an “in” box...and it’s full!) I also bought a dry-erase calendar on which to track her daily and weekly schedule of homework and activities. Currently, I am accepting donations for her Blackberry and personal secretary. <br /><br />But until they arrive -- como <i>me</i> llamas? <br /><br />Me llamo <i>Ass Whipped.</i><br /> Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12331630836829380123noreply@blogger.com3