Living Through History

Marissa and I in the car, where many of our conversations take place.

 Marissa and I had such an interesting conversation tonight, as we often do. 

She was talking about how people have told her that she is "living through history," with the pandemic raging through the country. She said, "I always thought that history was something that happened to you when you were a kid, and once you were grown up history didn't happen anymore. I didn't think about the fact that you and dad are also living through historic times."

I told her about how my Grandpa Vern Floria, my dad's dad, was born in 1901 and died in 1996, just short of his 95th birthday. A few times I would talk to him about what he'd seen in his life.

He remembered a time when cars weren't everywhere, when you were lucky if your family had a horse to get around, and otherwise you walked. 

He remembered when zippers were invented. All the rich kids could afford to have them, while he and all the other poor kids were stuck wearing button-fly pants. 

He was too young to fight in WWI (just 14 when war broke out) but too old for WWII. His eldest son, my Uncle Dean, fought in WWII, his youngest son, my father, in the Vietnam War in the early 1970's. 

"Imagine," I said to Marissa, "Grandpa Vern remembered when zippers were invented, what life was like before cars, and also lived to see the personal computer change the way the world works." 

"Wow," she said, "Omigosh, I just realized something! He was alive when 'Friends' was being broadcast!"

And there you have it, Marissa's version of living through history.

"Is It Gone?"

Yesterday afternoon the girls and I had an enjoyable time visiting the Edina Art Fair. This is a fair that closes streets down around us and makes it a pain in the ass to get around. For us, it's a beautiful event that's just 3 short blocks away. We can walk down when we want, go back home, think about a purchase and then go back and buy it.

Marissa, Lindsey and I walked down in a drizzling rain yesterday, which, for us, is perfect, as it keeps the crowds down so we can browse. Lindsey and I had visited the day before and she had her eye on a ring that she really liked. After purchasing that and doing a little more shopping, we decided to go to AgraCulture for lunch, a wonderful little spot that has many gluten-free options and excellent food.

Lindsey's and Marissa's rings from the Edina Art Fair.

Afterward, we kept shopping and went back to one place where we had been looking earlier. While there, Marissa and I noticed that Lindsey had a piece of lettuce wrapped around her retainer. It was just a little spot of green. We pointed it out to her and she went out of the booth to take care of it.

She came back and asked, "Is it gone?" and smiled. The lettuce was now spread across half her tooth, and she had a very green smile. Marissa and I both doubled over in laughter, because it most definitely was NOT gone. We laughed so hard for so long that everyone in the booth started smiling and laughing along, including Lindsey.

Shortly after we walked home, and the image of Lindsey asking "Is it gone?" and then smiling with a green smile kept popping into my head, and I would giggle. The girls would giggle too, and then we would have to stop because we were laughing so hard.

There is much more to this story, from the kind artist who "gifted" additional rings to the girls when they both selected the same one, to the walk home, but overall, it was such a great time together, worthy of capturing in a post for future smiles.

My Final Tween

This year Marissa will be turning 13 and we will officially have two teenagers in the house. Sure, it feels like we've got two already, but technically Marissa is still a "tween."

While Marissa was once our messy child, she has somehow come to appreciate order and cleanliness. Every morning she makes her bed before school. Clothes are actually put in a hamper, not strewn around the floor like they were when she was 7, and if you were to open the drawers in her desk you would find cosmetics and toiletries neatly arranged.

I spy with my little eye...

Yet there is still one throwback in her room taking her back to her childhood. Tucked away between some of her fluffy pillows is "Sheepy," the stuffed animal she slept with from babyhood on. I know she still sleeps with it, because sometimes in the middle of the night I hear the tinkle of little bells as she turns over with Sheepy in her hands.

So sweet.

Lice...Twice

Having gone through my entire childhood without ever getting lice, I have had the privilege of getting it not once, but twice as an adult, both times from my generous kids.

Lice is a chronic issue in the school and I can understand why. Most lice today are immune to the pesticides that were used back in the 70's when I was a kid. Now to get rid of lice, you have to use an olive oil based product to comb through the hair, then pick the eggs and babies out of the hair every day for 21 days until there are no more. If you don't keep pulling them out, they'll eventually grow up to be adult, re-produce, and you're right back where you started.

On a related note, I don't know why lice haven't died off as a species from all the inbreeding. Brothers and sisters copulating, every time they have babies? Gross.

These photos are from the day before we discovered lice on Marissa. We had gone to the Fulton Festival, where one of the fundraising activities was a hair coloring station.

Marissa had begun scratching her head that morning. I had been checking her head for lice since notes had been going home all week about lice, but never saw anything. I should've known better to think I could recognize them with the naked eye, despite my prior experience in ridding our house of lice. 

She ran into a couple of good friends she hadn't seen in a while and wanted to have a playdate with them the next day. So Sunday morning I informed her that I wouldn't even call the parents to set up a playdate until she let me comb through her hair and check her over.

And that's when I found the little critters. 

Marissa does not like to have her hair combed. At all. Usually it is a matted, tangled mess. I figure that as she gets older she's going to care about her hair, so that's a battle I'm not willing to have right now. Until it comes to ridding her head of lice. 

Once she realized she didn't have a choice but to let me comb through her hair, she was amazingly patient. We set up a lice-killing station and went to work for over an hour, combing through every piece of her hair with the best lice comb ever, nit free. 

Worth every penny. Accept no substitutes.

I checked Lindsey -- nothing. I checked myself -- yep, critters. Makes sense since Marissa is often snuggling in our bed, usually on my pillow.

Having been through this before, I knew to inform Marissa's friends' parents so they could check their own kids. One parent found lice on both her kids, and I went to her house and helped clean both of them up. But then the following weekend Marissa went to a sleepover and came home with an adult louse on her head. Since I'd been combing through her hair every day, I knew it wasn't an adult I had missed, she must've gotten it from someone else. I communicated with the parents of the kids at the sleepover, and sure enough, one little girl had it and they hadn't known it. No itching, no scratching, no symptoms until they checked her and found out. Little stinkers.

It's been a week now that I have NOT found adult lice on her head, which means that other kids have stopped transferring them to her. So hopefully we'll have this second episode of lice behind us soon. I have continued to check Lindsey and she remains lice free.

Marissa after a day of de-lousing and combing.

Surprisingly, Marissa hair looked about two shades lighter after a day of treatment, combing and two shampoos. Hmmm, maybe we should be washing her hair more often, you think? On a good note, Marissa is good about combing her hair every day now, and loves to have me put it in pigtails in the morning (to keep it up and away from possibly touching other kids). 

Humans: 2. Lice: 0. 

Beat it, suckers.

It Seems Impossible

It seems impossible that most mornings, we get up, get dressed, hug and kiss our kids and send them off to school in the care of others.

It seems impossible that they come back home safely, every day.

It seems impossible because less than six months ago, a madman killed an entire classroom of kindergartners. Earlier this week students whose parents hugged them and told them "have a good day" were buried under the rubble of their school after a mile-wide tornado swept through their town. And yesterday two 4th graders did not come home from a field trip to hunt for fossils at a local park when a rain-saturated gravel pile they were on collapsed under them, burying them in seconds.

I pray for those families. I pray for the parents who never got to say good-bye. I cannot imagine their pain.

And yet tomorrow, I will send my children off to school, give them hugs and kisses and tell them to "have a good day."

I take comfort in knowing that most days, all the children who go to school arrive safely back home. I need to remind myself that these horrific events are all jumbled on top of each other in my mind because of their proximity in time and the speed at which today's media cover such events, bringing them closer to home than ever. The fact that these things rarely happen is what makes them such grand news stories, so that they seem more common than they truly are.

I have to tell myself that or I would stay at home, curled up in a ball with my children under my arms, never stepping outside, never answering the door, never letting my children grow up and spread their wings, discover their talents.

It seems impossible, but I will do it. I will take that risk, because our kids deserve the opportunity to experience the world, in all its beauty and terribleness.

And I will appreciate every day that I have with them, and make the most of our time together.

Mother's Day At That Between Age

For years Mother's Day was about the only mother in the world who mattered to me -- my own. From homemade cards to crazily made breakfasts served in bed at 6 a.m. to my sleepy-headed mom, most of us have that shared experience of celebrating our moms on Mother Day.

Then my folks got divorced and I got a new mom in my life -- my stepmom. Shortly after, I got married and yet another mom entered my life -- my mother-in-law.

And then one year, I was the mom. And because it was my first Mother's Day, I focused less on what Mother's Day meant to my mom, mother-in-law and stepmom, and focused on what it meant to me.

Now after 10 years of parenthood, I've settled in to that in-between mom stage. I toggle between being the recipient of little love notes and childish crafts, to making sure my Mother's Day cards (all of them) are in the mail on time and that phone calls are made, wishing everyone happy days. It's a rather strange place to be. We happened to be at my in-laws over Mother's Day weekend. I made dinner for the group on Saturday night, and my mother-in-law made lunch for the group on Sunday, the day that I felt like I should be lightening her load.

We returned home from our trip and I was awarded with homemade cards and well wishes from my own children. The highlight had to be the Mother's Day tribute questions that Marissa had completed. My favorite answer:

My mom looks prettiest when _________________________ and Marissa had written "ever I look at her."

I also apparently have blue eyes, and the favorite thing that I cook that she likes to eat is brussel sprouts. (Not true for her, but true for me.)

 

I also got a nice note from Lindsey, who said she loves me even when she's mad at me, and she tells me everything...almost.

 

Guess I'll keep them another year, see what they say next Mother's Day.

American Girl birthday

Lindsey's 10th birthday was yesterday. Her slumber party is tonight. Eight 10-year-olds for 18 hours, God help us. I think we're prepared -- at least the wine captain is filled.

Lindsey is having an American Girl doll kind of birthday. Ever since Marissa used her Christmas money to buy herself one in February, it's all Lindsey's talked about. She's a bit late to the American Girl party -- the average age of an American Girl doll buyer is six.

Let me back up a bit, for those who aren't familiar with the phenomenon which is American Girl.

For years I threw away every AG catalog that found its way into our mailbox. The dolls are expensive and the accessories even more insanely priced. I never wanted my girls to get into these, it seemed like such a waste. Finally one day when Lindsey was six or seven, she retrieved the mail and a catalog was in with the offerings. She came in to the house and started looking. And looking. And looking. And finally she brought the catalog over to me and said, "Mom! You wouldn't believe how expensive these dolls are!"

I thought we were safe.

But Marissa has friends who have American Girl dolls, and Marissa really wanted one so she could play with her doll with her friends. An American Girl doll entered our home in February.

There are books and movies about American Girl doll characters, some of which follow the characters through history, others of which are about building character, creating strong, confident selves. I have to admit, I agree with the sentiments.

The "Just Like Me" dolls -- of which there are around 60 varieties and girls can choose dolls that have similar features to themselves -- cost $110. The glasses that Lindsey's doll is wearing were $28. The outfits are $28 to $34. For a doll, mind you, a doll. I don't spend that much on my own kids' clothes, much less a doll's clothes. 

But when you enter the American Girl Doll two-story store at the Mall of America, the experience is magical. The display cases are beautiful, the props displayed in such a way that even adults think they're adorable. There is a beauty salon where you can take your doll to have her hair styled. If your doll's hair is matted and tangled, they'll fix it for you. If you'd like to get your doll's ears pierced, you can do that as well. There is an American Girl cafe where you can eat with your doll, actual food for you and pretend food for your doll. 

The experience is every little girl's dream. Lindsey couldn't wait to go shopping to pick out her doll, who she's named Paris. We agreed that her parents would buy her the doll, and accessories and other things would come out of her birthday money.

In speaking to other parents about Lindsey's excitement about her American Girl doll, some will admit  that their child has two or three American Girl dolls. And I say "admit" because they often will abashedly explain that Grandma had purchased one of them, another one came from an aunt, etc. We all know it's frivolous, expensive, and such an excessive purchase for our girls.

Yet a co-worker of mine reminisces with fondness about her daughter, now age 16, purchasing her first American Girl doll, buying matching outfits, and the joy it brought to her. They cared for the doll so that now that play time is done, the doll is carefully stored away in her original box, ready to hand down to the next generation.

What can I say...it's more than a doll.

Expanding Vocabulary

"Mom, I want to tell you a secret," Marissa whispers to me.

"Okay...." I say questioningly.

"I know the 'd' word and the 's' word," she confides.

"Really," I say. "So what are they?"

"Well," she says looking around, as if she will get in trouble. "The 'd' word is 'damn.' and the 's' word is 'shit.'"

"You're right," I say, "Those are the words. And you know you can't say them to your friends, or teachers, or anybody, right? They are words you can only use when you're an adult in certain company."

She nods emphatically.

"And mom, there's one more, I know the 'c' word, too."

I raise my eyebrow. "And what word is that?"

She leans closer to me and says, "'Crap.'"

I smile. "Yep, you're right. Save that one for when you're older too, okay?"

"Okay."

Don't Read! Top Secret!

A couple of weekends ago Wayne went to our bank and opened savings accounts for our girls. We had been putting their college savings into an online banking account and decided to transfer the money to where all the rest of our finances are.

The girls probably should have gone with him to sit down with the banker, learn about saving money and get these little banking marketing tactics in person. But they didn't, so he came home with two electronic piggy banks that count the change you put in, and two "Junior Agent Saver Club" portfolios.

A few days later Marissa finally noticed the portfolio sitting on her dresser, and walked into our room singing "Mommy," in a knowing tone of voice.

"This says top secret," she says. "And I'm going to open it and read it."

(You can hear that tone of voice, right? As if she has announced she is about to do something that I've expressly told her she isn't allowed to do, just to challenge me.)

"Okay," I say, "I just hope you aren't scared by what you read."

She opens the velcro very slowly and officially, and opens the front cover.

She begins to read about saving money, leaning over the document as if she's just discovered the Magna Carta.

She suddenly stands upright with a puzzled look on her face. "What is this? Some kind of joke?"

I laughed. "It's a guide to your savings account, honey. I think they just thought kids would be more interested to read it if it looked interesting."

"Hmmph," she says, shutting it firmly. "Some people think they are sooooo funny."

Someone clearly wasn't very impressed by Wells Fargo's marketing.

The Joy-filled Child

She jumps up and down when she's happy.

She twirls without abandon.

She holds her hands limp at the wrist like a puppy dog begging as she flits around the house, telling pretend stories to anyone who will listen.

She makes up songs and sings them loudly as if no one is listening.

She is our joy-filled child.

She dances when it moves her, and makes up her motions as she goes.

She runs her fingers over the keys of the piano as she passes by.

She jumps from couches and chairs without fear.

She is our joy-filled child.

She somersaults over beanbag chairs and on rugs when the spirit moves her.

She makes silly faces for cameras and video recorders and laughs at the results.
She runs up to me and hugs me tightly around the legs for no reason.

Her bedtime routine includes "snuggle time " with daddy.

Everything makes her laugh.

She is our joy-filled child.

The Oldest 9-Year-Old in the Room

The weekend before Valentine's Day always bring a flurry of activity at our house. Valentines need to be purchased or created, lists made to cross out as valentines are completed, mailboxes to receive valentines from classmates crafted, and so on.

Sunday evening found Lindsey, Marissa and I sitting around the dining room table, making an assembly line of valentines for Marissa's classmates. Lindsey tore the store-bought valentines at the perforated edges, I inserted the tiny tattoo into the tiniest little paper slots you've ever seen, Marissa wrote her name and sealed each with a sticker. It was fun, actually, our little assembly line of hearts.

"I can't believe it's Valentine's Day already," Lindsey announced. "That means it's already February. I've only got three more months left of 4th grade. I can't believe I'm in 4th grade -- it seems like just yesterday I was in 2nd grade."

Good heavens, is this girl's soul already 70?

Later that same evening, we were watching the Grammys. I love the Grammys. Some people get glammed up, others wear the weirdest thing they can possibly concoct, and someone is bound to say something they shouldn't. But the best part are the performances, especially when they bring together a couple of artists who wouldn't normally be paired together.

Alicia Keys and Maroon 5. Sting and Bruno Mars. What awesomeness.

We watched Kelly Clarkson do a tribute to Patti Page and Carole King. While she sang (beautifully, I might add), photos of both of the artists filled the screens behind her, Patti Page in all her classic beauty, Carole King in her casual, messy realness.

Kelly Clarkson performs at the 2013 Grammys, photos of Carole King behind her

Patti Page

"Mommy," Marissa asked. "Are those ladies from the olden days?"

"Depends on what you mean by olden," I say.

"Like when you were a kid," she says.

Lindsey responds. "Marissa, you know, when we grow up, all this," she gestures around the room, "Will be olden days."

Help Unwanted

Our youngest was in tears during homework help earlier this week.

She rebuffed her dad's offers to help, got snappy and eventually stomped away from the table. Finally she burst out, "I didn't even ASK for help!"

And she's right.

No one asked. No one listened.

It's hard to listen sometimes. Life gets busy. Things like making lunches, cooking dinner, doing laundry, getting wet snowsuits in the dryer every night during winter take precedence over sitting down with our children eye-to-eye and listening with no distractions. I suspect most people find it difficult to find time to listen to their kids with other priorities eating in their lives.

And truly, sometimes it is HARD to listen to our children. Lindsey would chatter your ear off incessantly. Her favorite phrases that she uses to end a sentence are "and anyways" and "and then." This means her sentences never end. One time I decided to sit quietly, ignore the dinner that needed to be made, the wet, snowy mess on the floor and the lunch boxes on the countertop, and just listen. She told me about her day only stopping long enough to breathe for 10 whole minutes.

You can think about this two ways. Wow, 10 minutes, that's a lot to say about your day. I don't know if I could tell anybody about my day and take up 10 whole minutes. Or there's this: It only took 10 minutes out of my evening, and my daughter feels heard and supported.

Unfortunately, this happens at the same time that the other child is also waiting to tell about her day, or waiting for a snack or for whatever. Just because the youngest one can't go on about her day for 10 straight minutes (thank God two of them aren't like that!) doesn't mean she doesn't deserve attention also.

We have our share of communication problems. We've had arguments and disagreements with our kids about playdates, sleepovers, privileges lost and privileges gained for certain behavior. When I look back at many of these disagreements, nearly every one of them come down to one single cause: someone didn't listen.

Even if we as parents already knew that we were going to say "no," we didn't allow our children to have their voices heard. It's important that they have the chance to make their case all the way to the end of what they wanted to say, even if we already know that we will still decline whatever request they are asking for. More than anything, they get angry that they didn't get to have their say.

In cases when a child asks for something, we hear her out and then tell her no, she's usually okay with the answer. She was heard. But when we don't even hear her out before the "no" comes out of our mouths, we have problems.

I am reminded of the Braverman family on NBC's show "Parenthood," where everybody is talking over everybody else and no one is actually being heard. Every once in a while the teenage daughter will call this fact out loudly over everyone who is talking. No one pays any attention and she stomps out of the room.

Someone at work was commenting about how that drives them crazy on the show, while I was thinking in my head how much it was like real life. You mean not every family talks over each other at the same time?

Since I've been thinking on it, I now have a new little saying that I'm sticking on my mental wall, along with my two New Year's goals.

Patience
Stillness

And now this:

Don't mistake your unwillingness to listen with failure on my part to communicate.

I've been on both ends of that equation. When I find myself entering into arguments or disagreements, I will take a step back and think about what's happening -- which side of that equation am I on? If I'm not listening, then I will be still and listen. If I'm not being listened to, then I will ask the other person to listen. I might make that person mad, but at least I will have said my piece, even if it wasn't heard.

Now, to practice what I preach.

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Radiothon

This morning I volunteered to work the phone bank at the KS95 for Kids radiothon*. This radiothon benefits my employer, Gillette Children's Specialty Healthcare, and Children's Cancer Research Fund.

It was 4:55 a.m. in the empty, dark and quiet mall. I got on the elevator to get to the volunteer check-in room, and saw another person walking towards the elevators as well, so I held the door. Who else is in the mall at this hour, anyways, besides other people volunteering for the radiothon?

The man got in, took one look at me and said, "Jenny?"

I have to be honest, I didn't recognize him at first. He wasn't from any of the organizations I knew involved with the radiothon, but he clearly knew me. Turns out he and I worked together nearly 7 years ago at my former place of employment. He had only worked there for a year before life took him in a different direction and he had to leave the job, but he still remembered me and eventually I remembered him.

We talked about what we'd been doing in the years between -- jobs, kids, moving, trips. The last time we had seen each other my kids were ages 1 and 3 and he didn't yet have children. He has two boys now, ages 3 and 5.

Nothing like a conversation like that to make you realize how quickly your kids are growing up.

I asked him how he came to volunteer his time at the radiothon, knowing that we had lots of corporate sponsors whose employees volunteer at the phone bank. But he was doing this on his own because his older son is seen at Gillette. He was just diagnosed with muscular dystrophy a year and a half ago, and they've been incredibly grateful for their care at Gillette.

I said I was sorry for his diagnosis, but he waved it off. "He's just a normal kid, like anybody else." He went on to tell me stories of how easy-going he is, how he loves to play with his friends, loves swimming in the lake close to their house and has embraced kindergarten.

We kept talking, and later on came back to his son's diagnosis. I asked how they discovered he had MD, and he said that his wife noticed that their son seemed to struggle in comparison to other kids to do "normal kid things," like climb the monkey bars or run around the playground. They had taken him to their pediatrician a few times and finally, when the differences became more pronounced, the doctor ordered a few tests. That's when the diagnosis of muscular dystrophy came back.

Then he told me something that made my heart jump into my throat. The average life expectancy for a child with his type of muscular dystrophy is 25 years. His muscles will deterioriate with age. They know that as he grows his mobility will decrease, he will eventually need a wheelchair and this disease will eventually result in his death.

They already know they are going to outlive their son.

He said that his wife's parents are having a really hard time with the diagnosis, and even a year and a half later they struggle to believe that this beautiful little boy, so bright and fun, will not live long into adulthood.

But really, he said, what are we going to do, mope around and waste the time we do have with him? No, he said, we're going to live every day to the fullest, give him every life experience we can and love him for as long as we have him.

And then he told me not to cry, but it was too late.

*I feel compelled to remind my readers that I write this blog from my own personal perspective and not on behalf of my employer or any of Gillette's partners.

What Counts as Bullying?

When Lindsey came home from school feeling picked on and sad after her bike riding and name-calling day, I made the mistake of venting my own frustration about the incident on my Facebook wall. I didn't name the culprits and didn't blame the school, just said how sad I was that my daughter was so hurt.

Here's some of the feedback I heard (in fewer words than what was used):

• Kids are cruel, bullying happens. Tell her to suck it up.
• Soy Sauce is the tamest nickname I've heard, why does it even bother her?
• That's too bad but there are worse things in life.
• That's terrible and you need to get on that teacher.
• Shame on those other kids' parents.
• You should get those other kids in trouble.

I also found it interesting that some people jumped to the conclusion that the bullies were either boys or girls. I hadn't stated one way or the other, and can only assume that people jumped to those conclusions based on their own personal experiences.

The most telling comments were the ones in which people recounted their own experiences in being bullied. They could remember every word, every action like it was yesterday. For some of them the bullying had happened 40 years ago, but they still remembered the hurt that it caused. Those wounds stayed with them for a lifetime, to be recalled at a moment's notice.

Why would we think it's okay for that to continue on, generation after generation?

The parents of bullies, for the most part, would probably be appalled if they realized their children had reputations as bullies. I would be more upset if a teacher had to call me to tell me that Lindsey had been picking on other kids than on the other end of that equation.

The official district policy states that intimidation and teasing count as bullying. To me, bullying is any action that makes someone feel bad about him or herself. The fact that Lindsey was not looking forward to going to school the next day was the limit for me, because that impacts her education.

As a parent, it is my job to raise children who will become independent, confident, caring adults (add any other positive adjectives you like to that statement.) It is also my job to be their advocate, to fight for their rights where they are not able to advocate for themselves.

I asked Lindsey's permission before I contacted her teacher because I want to balance those two responsibilities. I don't ever want to be accused of being a "helicopter parent" but don't want to leave my child defenseless. If Lindsey had not given me permission I would have said nothing to her teacher and let her continue to try to deal with the situation on her own. I was relieved when she told me it was okay if I speak to her teacher, and the behavior was handled.

This situation made me realize how very tough parenting can be. I'd better start saving for my kids' therapy now.

What Happened to Lindsey, Part 2

If you missed it, you can read part 1 here.

I couldn't wait to pick Lindsey up after her first day of her bike-riding unit in gym. She had just learned how to ride her bike and was excited to show off her skills.

When I picked her up she looked mopey and kind of sad. I tried to ask how it had gone but she wouldn't say. It wasn't until we got into the car that she finally felt safe enough to burst into tears.

It was awful, she said. Everybody teased her for her tiny bike, and of course they all passed her up because her wheels were so small. Even her friends joined in the fun, not remembering that perhaps somebody's feelings were at stake. She had been so excited for the class and instead it turned into a taunt fest.

The other part that made it hard is that she had gotten a nickname at the beginning of the year that had come to a climax that day. The short story of that nickname is that a teacher had misspelled her name "Lindsoy" on one of the first days of school, and the kids started calling her Soy Sauce. When she first heard it even Lindsey giggled and thought it was kind of funny, but then it spread like wildfire. Kids were calling her Soy Sauce in class, in the hallways, at lunch and kids who didn't even know her started calling her Soy Sauce.

The same day of the biking incident the Soy Sauce nickname had reached a tipping point for Lindsey, and she had had it.

I felt so badly for her and wanted to hug her all night. It hung over the entire evening and was all she talked about. She didn't smile and she wasn't looking forward to going back to school the next day.

I finally got her permission to talk to her teacher about what had happened, and her teacher was amazing. She spoke to the class the very next morning about name calling without pointing out Lindsey's situation. One boy who was apparently an instigator of the nickname looked at Lindsey knowingly, but she just ignored him and turned away. We bought her an appropriately-sized bike which she took to immediately and couldn't wait (again) for the next gym class.

Her second biking outing was today and she did great. No one teased her for having a small bike, and the gym teacher reminded everybody that people go at their own pace and that it's not a race.

There's more that can be said about this, and I'll probably write a few follow up posts on the subject. It definitely got me thinking about the definition of bullying, how we accept it as a society (or choose not to) and where to draw the line as a parent in getting involved in our children's social upbringing.

What Happened to Lindsey Part 1

We love our children dearly and want to protect them as much as we can, while still letting them learn their own way, become their own people and develop their talents.

Lindsey had a challenging start to her 4th grade year.

On the first day of school we received a flyer home from the gym teacher informing us of a biking unit that they'll be having right away this fall. Children will be expected to bring or ride their bikes to school, and they will learn about biking safety and bike around the gorgeous lakes that are in our neighborhood.

Sounds like a dream gym class for any 4th grader. Except our 4th grader has yet to learn how to ride her bike.

When she read the flyer she burst into tears. I told her we could get a pass from the class since she couldn't ride, but then she said she didn't want a pass because she was embarrassed that her friends would find out that she couldn't ride her bike yet. She'd been embarrassed about it for a year or more which was part of the reason why she still hadn't learned how to ride. She refused to practice in our own neighborhood where her friends might see her. Any attempts we made to take her to a remote location like a parking lot was met with about 5 minutes of effort, 5 minutes of whining and 10 minutes of pouting. We gave up. She would just have to learn how to ride in her own time...whenever that would be. Apparently now was the time.

She decided that she would learn how to ride her bike in two weeks. And guess what -- she did. She confided in a friend of hers that she didn't yet know how to ride a bike, and her friend came over and showed her. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her finally riding down the street. Wobbly, but riding. We tried to teach her for 2 years and her friend taught her in 5 minutes.

One problem was that she was still riding the bike we bought her when she was 4 or 5, and she is now 9. Because really, who would buy a child a bike that fit them when she hadn't learned to ride the smaller one she already had? She was still unsteady; I figured that a smaller bike would be better for her for a while, at least until she got more confidence. Wayne thought that we may want to get her a larger bike before her class, but I was concerned about her confidence on the larger bike, and said we should wait.

The day of the first biking outing Lindsey was excited. She couldn't wait to take her bike to school. She had learned how to use a bike lock and loved her helmet. I couldn't wait to pick her up from school to see how it had gone.

Bye Bye Big Kitchen

With one birthday behind us and one coming up, it is time for this family to purge our home of the toys and trappings of small children, to make way for the collection needed for a 7 and 9 year old.

And that means that it's finally time to say good-bye to Big Kitchen.

Big Kitchen first joined our family at Christmas in 2005. We shopped around, we considered which elements of a kitchen our then two-year-old would find most fun, and finally we put in our order to Santa Claus as to which one would be perfect for our family.

Santa didn't have time to have his elves put Big Kitchen together, so it came in a large, heavier-than-you'd-expect box, with more pieces than you ever thought imaginable.

It took us 3 hours to put Big Kitchen together on Christmas Eve. I should say, it took Wayne 3 hours, I helped with the little stuff, like taking the pots and pans out of their plastic bags and putting stickers in all the right places, while keeping us both supplied in wine to make it through the ordeal.

Sure enough, Big Kitchen became a big hit, first with the two-year-old, who we couldn't peel away from it long enough to open other gifts that morning, to the then 6-month-old who grew into it.


(Can I tell you how annoyed I am with Blogger that doesn't "get" vertical photos?)

The children grew and grew, but Big Kitchen was always a part of the fun. From playdates to birthday parties at our home, visitors gravitated to the kitchen. It became an integral part of our family restaurant nights, when the girls would make up a menu, pretend to prepare us food and "feed us" for an hour or more, all kinds of meal concoctions you would never encounter in real life. I've been known to pretend to gnaw on a drumstick, accompanied by a single banana, a half an onion and a small doughnut. All finished off with a bottle of beer. (Those bottles have always been pretend beer, not soda -- I don't know why.)

But soon Big Kitchen began to get ignored, and to become a place to set other toys that got played with more often. If we ever cleaned it off it was a favorite again for a little while, but eventually fell back into neglect.

Finally it was relegated to a place in our porch, where it was difficult to reach to play with it properly, and no one asked to have it pulled back out to play with it again.

That was our signal that it was time to retire Big Kitchen.

And so we began asking around if anyone needed a Big Kitchen for their growing family and we got a nibble. This family lives very close to us, and the little boy's older sister is a classmate of Lindsey's. We knew Big Kitchen would be well cared for and played with by this family.

And so one Saturday Big Kitchen got pulled out one last time and the girls helped me clean it up. We culled through drawers and drawers of toys searching for all the kitchen-related items and put them into a bag. And before we could traipse it over to the new family's house, the girls enjoyed one last session of restaurant.

As a family we walked the Big Kitchen to its new home down the street (yes, the girls walked there in pajamas, I don't really care). And we watched a small little boy who had to reach over his head to get to the microwave begin to play.

The family was kind enough to send a thank you note from them all, with an invitation to come visit Big Kitchen any time.

I suspect we'll be doing that.

School Year Rumination

My what changes a year can bring!

It was such a joy to watch Marissa come into her own this year. As a kindergartner last year her friends were Lindsey's friends, and she didn't have many friends her own age. But now that they've spent a year in different buildings, Marissa has lots of friends whose names we hear frequently, and who we are asked often for play dates and sleepovers. She is such a joyful little girl, quick to smile and to hug.

It's hard to believe she struggled so hard to read at the beginning of the year. She and I found some books in her room from nine short months ago and she tossed them aside with her baby books, stating that they were "too easy." And they are.

If asked she'll tell you her favorite subject is math. She has an unusual way of forming some of her letters and numbers, and I don't see a reason to correct her since they are perfectly legible. I like that she has found her own unique method of making the number "6."

She goes all the way across the monkey bars now, over and over apparently, as evidenced by the rows of calluses on her palms. She arrives home with knees and ankles black with sand and dirt, and her shoes contain the Sahara Desert. I take all those as signs of a fun day at school.

I have heard that in 3rd grade children transition from learning to read to reading to learn, and that couldn't be more true of Lindsey. She's always been a strong reader, so from the very beginning of the year she dove into learning. I love her curiosity and her fascination with the world. She'll tell you her favorite subjects are reading and writing first, followed by science, followed by math. She is amazed by science and the natural world, and would come home throughout the year and tell me excitedly about what they had discovered that day.

Lindsey's friendships are important to her -- an argument with a friend will shadow her entire day and be the first thing she tells me about when I pick her up. She's entering that age when girls tend to take sides with each other and switch best friends on an hourly basis. My only advice to her is to stay true to herself and just be the good friend that she naturally is -- friends who enjoy her company will remain by her side.

And oh dear, the boys. She has determined that a certain boy in her class must like her because he throws paper at her when the teacher's not looking, or if she goes to sharpen her pencil she'll find him watching her. He calls her a silly nickname that they all laugh at, and surely that must mean he likes her.

I guess she likes boys.

This post isn't really here to tell a story, but to capture a snapshot of the school year that was, and to let my girls know how very proud I am of them.

I'm a lucky mom.

Spring Nostalgia

There is something about this time of year that makes me sentimental. And I know what that something is: the end of the school year.

The last time my first grader sings in a school concert. The last time my 3rd grader participates in Field Day. The last time they'll have their current grade school teachers.

Granted, they'll do all those things again next year, but next year they'll be a 2nd grader and a 4th grader when they do them. And time marches on. It seems like only yesterday this was the picture at our house.

Lindsey's 1st day of Kindergarten, Marissa in preschool

This was the day before that.

And this was only two days before THAT day.

Lindsey was "soooo big!"

I remember preparing to leave the safety of the hospital a few days after Lindsey was born. I kept waiting for a nurse to come in to my room and stop us from leaving with that tiny baby. "I'm sorry," I would imagine her saying, "But it has come to our attention that you do not have the qualifications to care for this baby, so we're going to take care of her for you until you're ready."

And honestly, I would have met that statement with some relief. Thank goodness SOMEONE realized it and stopped me before a terrible mistake had been made!

But that nurse never came. They happily whisked us out the door with discharge papers and instructions in hand (on how to care for the umbilical cord site, not how to raise that baby), with wishes of "Good luck!" and smiles on their faces. And I couldn't believe I'd gotten away with it. I'd actually convinced someone else that I was qualified for that job!

And now, now I ask myself, how did I get to be a parent of TWO grade schoolers? Am I qualified for this? I can tell Lindsey is tipping on the edge of being a tween -- I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for that.

You would think by now I would come to the realization that I always think I am never prepared for the next stage, but the next stage comes anyways, and guess what: I'm as prepared as I'll ever be.

Time marches on, and so I will savor and enjoy these last few days as the school work trickles down to nothing and projects and papers and all kinds of interesting treasures are brought home.

And some day I'll look back and say, "Aww, remember how cute they were when they were grade schoolers?" And hopefully my kids will have this blog to realize how much their mom enjoyed these days of their childhood.

Welcome to Our Home

Please watch your step over the toys. And the dog who is blind and deaf and can't hear you to get out of your way.

No, please, keep your shoes on, you'll want them as protection against the toys littered across the floor.

Oops, no toilet paper, you say? Ummm, let me go into the basement to get some more for you. Our upstairs closets are filled with bath toys. I don't know how it happens, I swear we go through a roll a day.

Excuse the strange smell upstairs, we don't know what it is either and aren't brave enough to investigate.

I know, I'm sure we could have healthier house plants, we're just happy the few we have survive at all.

And watch for the dog poop in the backyard. I picked up what I could find before you came, but he's a magical dog, he finds special places to hide it. Those shoes will come in handy.

Oh, but we are full of love, and laughter, and I know you don't really come to my house to see how much dust I have on my mantle.  You will feel comfortable and at home here, and laugh so hard it hurts. You will feel truly welcome and have a fabulous time while you're here.

Just keep your shoes on.

Welcome to our home.