One Possible Solution

Since we moved the girls' bedrooms upstairs this spring, they've had a bit of a problem staying focused and under control when I send both of them upstairs to do something - namely, to get dressed and ready in the morning, among other things. (I originally typed "we've had a bit of a problem" and then I became indignant: No! It's not MY problem! It's their problem! You'll see where this is going in a minute.)

During the remainder of the spring school year, what I tended to do was have Annie get ready first while Jemma ate breakfast, take Annie to school, and then have Jemma get ready. Since Annie naturally gets up much earlier than Jemma, and since Jemma's preschool started half an hour later than Annie's school last year, this solution worked. This summer, I've been sending one of them up to get ready while occupying the other with some type of activity, then having them switch. And that's worked, too, because we haven't often had to be anywhere at a very early hour, so we had the luxury of letting the tasks of getting dressed, making a bed, brushing teeth, and brushing hair take an hour total.

Starting next week, we aren't going to have that kind of time. So this morning, while the girls ate their breakfast at the kitchen table and I sat on the floor in my underwear, drinking my heavily-creamed coffee, I brought the subject up. What, I asked, were we going to do? How, I challenged them, did they want to solve this problem? They looked up from their breakfasts, eyes still round with sleep and hair a fuzzy wreck getting in their milk, and they acted casual. Oh, they said, we'll cut that silliness out. We'll make a new chart for the front of the fridge and we're bigger now and we'll cooperate and remember how to get ready without becoming a sprawl of hysterical, fighting, naked bodies who have forgotten how to make any kind of forward progress.

Great! I said. Sounds good! I sent them directly upstairs to get ready before we went to the farmers' market. Show me how well you can get ready together! I yelled after them. OK! they yelled back, scrambling up the stairs.

I stood in the kitchen, drinking my coffee, perusing a catalog, feeling smug. Three minutes later, Jemma came downstairs.

"Annie took Chicky Baby away from me!"

"Why are you even playing with dolls? Remember what you're supposed to be doing right now up there?" Blank look. "GETTING READY." She trotted back upstairs.

Three minutes later, Jemma came downstairs crying, alleging hitting. I marched upstairs, facilitated the necessary Tell-her-how-that-made-you-feel/Would-you-like-to-apologize routine, and marched back downstairs with Jemma, defeated in my goal of having both of them get ready together.

Later in the day, when the heat of the moment had passed, I brought the subject up again. "Seems like you two still have a problem getting ready upstairs together," I said, as though it's not MY problem, as though it doesn't drive me completely crazy on a daily basis. "How are you going to solve your problem? What ideas do you have? Even after our talk this morning, it was still a problem." There, I thought. I'm giving them ownership of it, letting them figure out a solution themselves.

Annie piped up. "I have a solution," she said.

"You do? What?"

"Have Jemma go to another school besides mine, one that starts later."

Yes, Annie, that's perfect. We'll send Jemma to private school for kindergarten - maybe every year, who knows? - and when people ask why we aren't sending her to the public elementary that we love, two blocks from our house, we'll explain, "Well, see, the girls couldn't get ready at the same time in the morning, so we thought the best thing to do was to spend thousands of dollars and transfer our younger daughter to a different school. You know. All so they could each get ready in peace."

I. Am. Sure.

Around our House on Christmas Eve Eve

Things They Say: Listening to "Santa Baby" Edition

Jemma:  This girl is silly, because Santa is not a baby!
Annie, matter-of-fact:  Well, he used to be.
Jemma:  Yeah, and when he was a baby, he lived on our street!

First Day of School

I have more to say - about this former second grade teacher now having an actual second-grader, about how proud I am of these two curious, smart, happy, silly, energetic, kind, creative girls, about what I'm going to do with my Twelve! Hours! a Week! when they're both at school from now on - but today there is only time for these snapshots of the way they were on the morning of September 6, 2011:  on our front steps, tummies full of oatmeal, wearing matching skirts and hugging each other good-bye on such an exciting day.  I didn't cry, but even while I was pressing down on the shutter it felt a little like an out-of-body experience.  I have kids, I thought.  They go to school.

Miss Susie Had a Baby . . .

Our Own Sidewalk Cafe

I am typing this at the outdoor table that's been in our front lawn all weekend.  It was one of those one-thing-after-another few days of quintessential summer weather plus a parade of people going in and out of our house, so we set up meal service there starting Friday.  Today, back down to our little family of four, we grilled burgers and ate lunch out here; tonight, we brought out platters of miscellaneous leftovers and ate dinner even as we yelled across the street to neighbors.  And now, I just don't have the heart to move it back to the side patio where it belongs.

On Friday afternoon, when some extended family was over to visit us, one relative in particular was full of questions for the girls.  "Annie, do you have a boyfriend?" he asked, one of those questions I actively HATE because, Hi, she's FOUR, let's not get ahead of ourselves.  She didn't miss a beat:  "Yes.  I have LOTS of boyfriends," she replied - meaning, I think, that she has lots of friends who are boys.  Everyone laughed, and the relative persisted.  "But who is your number one boyfriend?"  And of course she got a little quiet and said, "Ben," just like I knew she would, especially after seeing him at the pool the previous night, where he enthusiastically invited her over for a sleepover complete with a Drumstick for dessert if she ate a good dinner.

There were questions for Jemma, too.  "Who's your best friend?" was the main one, and I giggled inside, hoping she'd say one of the various answers she's given lately.  (The other morning at breakfast, we were talking about her birthday being near Christmastime, and out of the blue she announced, "Santa Claus is my Best Friend," as though she has any memory of Santa or anything else to do with Christmas.  She also bonded instantly with a little girl at the park one morning last week.  After being on the teeter-totter with her for .2 seconds, she leaned her little head back and said, "Her Is My Best Friend."  She's full of love, our Jemma.)

On Friday, though, she gave the answer I hope will be the real answer for a good portion of her life (teenage drama notwithstanding):  "Annie."

So, a good - if busy - weekend; at least we were at home, no suitcases to lug or car rides to navigate or essential items to forget.  I ran ten miles with Sarah on Saturday morning instead of doing the Reed's Lake 10K by myself, and I have to say, I was even more pleased by the fact that I can still knock out ten than I would have been with a "good" time in a race.  Jason took the girls for a bike ride this afternoon and I got to stay home and bake Banana Bread with Chocolate and Ginger (Molly Wizenberg, you are rivaling Ina Garten for my culinary affections) and lie on the couch slothfully.  We have Things to look forward to:  our traditional 4th of July events up north, Michigan strawberries, a new writing assignment for me, more time at the beach, and lots, lots more lazy summer Sundays, eating meals at a table in the front yard.

Hardly Anything Cuter

We did a lot of fun things as a family today once I had my long morning run out of the way:  ate chocolate croissants and cookies at Wealthy Street Bakery and checked out the PB&J tasting event next door at Art of the Table; went to the GR Junior League Kids in the Kitchen event, where the girls got to have their faces painted and try healthy food samples, among other things; played "Sleeping Beauty" and drank hot cocoa once the sunshine turned to rain and we were stuck inside; ordered Chinese for dinner; played Memory; and went swimming after dinner.  

Whenever we go to the pool at nighttime, we pack the girls' jammies.  We swim, then we shower and warm up in the saunas before getting jammies on and heading home, where it's great to be able to pop them right in bed.  I love the swimming.  I love sitting in the sauna with Annie's wet little body and watching her cheeks turn pink from the warmth.  I love her constant jabbering while we get dressed.  I love how she thinks she can blow-dry her own hair, how she turns the dryer on, lifts it up, and points it directly into the space on top of her head.  

Arriving home, their two little wad bodies in pink Gap jammies marching through the puddles with their rain boots and their hair still damp, I took a mental snapshot of the moment and thought that hardly anything is cuter than a little girl in jammies and rain boots on a rainy spring night.

Girl Talk

I was making lunch in the kitchen yesterday while the girls waited at their little table. I asked Annie what she did on the playground at school that morning, and she replied that the boys were chasing her. Jemma got a concerned look on her face.

"Boys. Get. You?" she said worriedly.

Annie smiled indulgently. "Yeah, the boys were chasing us on the playground."

Jemma, still worried. "You. Sad. About. That?"

Annie snuck a glance at me. "No," she said reassuringly. "We were just being silly."

Jemma grinned, relieved. She laughed, loudly. "Silly. Boys!"