Thursday, January 26, 2012
Read Elsewhere: Responsibility
“Forever is an incorrect concept wrongly based on the idea that the sun isn’t going to explode. We are temporary. This is temporary, and our responsibility as humans within this temporary — this weirdly temporary but still sort of, in some ways, infinite — life that we have, with our gift of consciousness, is to find a way to live as well as we can live, to take the best care that we can of each other and of ourselves, and organize our lives in a way that reflects our values and our hopes for the people who’ll come after us, as well as honoring the people who came before us — that’s a very, very complicated thing to do.” - John Green
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Confessions, Unrelated
Sometimes when I'm at yoga and the instructor seems to be paying the tiniest bit more attention to me than average - standing in front of me a few times, adjusting me just a little bit, maybe smiling at me - I play out an elaborate fantasy in my mind whereby the instructor, after class, stops me as I'm rolling up my mat and says something like, "How long have you been practicing? You are really above average at this. Have you ever considered teaching?" This, in spite of the fact that I am, truly, approximately exactly average at this series of poses, and also in spite of the fact that yoga attempts to cultivate a mindset of non-comparison, non-competitiveness, and non-judgement. I know this, and yet the fantasy? It continues.
*****
One of the things I am (sadly) most looking forward to about our potential house renovation is that we hope to create a new back entry/mudroom with main floor laundry. (This is what you get excited about in your mid-thirties?) This is the third house Jason and I have lived in where the laundry situation has been less-than-ideal (read: oldest models of appliances known to man plunked down in the middle of a creepy, unfinished cement basement), and I envision the laundry positively doing itself with me just popping into my Pinterest-inspired space to press a button or two here and there. If nothing else, it will at least change the fact that the girls somehow KNOW when I am downstairs changing the laundry, and they always need to talk to me or ask me something while I'm down there. Always, as in every single time. So not only am I probably getting wet socks from having to walk on the melted snow on the back steps and hanging out with the cobwebs in the freezing basement, but I am also having to carry on an increasingly difficult conversation with my children, who are definitely sticking their whole heads into the laundry chute and yelling down at me. At least in the future, we'll all be on the same floor, though probably still yelling.
*****
Annie's recent assessment of her favorite show, Wild Kratts, went as follows: "Mom, Wild Kratts is a great show for two reasons. One, it teaches kids some really cool things about animals that they didn't know before. And two, it keeps kids from pestering their mom when she's trying to cook diner and do other things." (She actually used the word "pestering.") I heartily agreed with her, and then I felt guilty.
*****
Connie and I met at Anthropologie on Saturday morning. We had been on the phone, simultaneously realized that neither of us were responsible for solo kid duty, and promptly ditched our husbands for shopping and met up at the mothership. The sale rack did not disappoint, much to Jason's dismay.
*****
I took the girls to their well-child annual appointments today, and the pediatrician asked them each what their favorite vegetables were. "Pickles!" Annie said. "Oh, I love pickles, too," said our great doctor, "but what other vegetables do you like to eat with dinner?" Annie looked sad. "Just pickles," she said, and it was then that I confessed that Jemma eats no vegetables at all. Not even pickles. (And yet . . . in spite of their non-eating and general runtiness, they are, at 32 and 40 pounds, respectively, both solidly in the 20th percentile for weight for their ages! It's the highest percentile they've ever been!)
*****
One of the things I am (sadly) most looking forward to about our potential house renovation is that we hope to create a new back entry/mudroom with main floor laundry. (This is what you get excited about in your mid-thirties?) This is the third house Jason and I have lived in where the laundry situation has been less-than-ideal (read: oldest models of appliances known to man plunked down in the middle of a creepy, unfinished cement basement), and I envision the laundry positively doing itself with me just popping into my Pinterest-inspired space to press a button or two here and there. If nothing else, it will at least change the fact that the girls somehow KNOW when I am downstairs changing the laundry, and they always need to talk to me or ask me something while I'm down there. Always, as in every single time. So not only am I probably getting wet socks from having to walk on the melted snow on the back steps and hanging out with the cobwebs in the freezing basement, but I am also having to carry on an increasingly difficult conversation with my children, who are definitely sticking their whole heads into the laundry chute and yelling down at me. At least in the future, we'll all be on the same floor, though probably still yelling.
*****
Annie's recent assessment of her favorite show, Wild Kratts, went as follows: "Mom, Wild Kratts is a great show for two reasons. One, it teaches kids some really cool things about animals that they didn't know before. And two, it keeps kids from pestering their mom when she's trying to cook diner and do other things." (She actually used the word "pestering.") I heartily agreed with her, and then I felt guilty.
*****
Connie and I met at Anthropologie on Saturday morning. We had been on the phone, simultaneously realized that neither of us were responsible for solo kid duty, and promptly ditched our husbands for shopping and met up at the mothership. The sale rack did not disappoint, much to Jason's dismay.
*****
I took the girls to their well-child annual appointments today, and the pediatrician asked them each what their favorite vegetables were. "Pickles!" Annie said. "Oh, I love pickles, too," said our great doctor, "but what other vegetables do you like to eat with dinner?" Annie looked sad. "Just pickles," she said, and it was then that I confessed that Jemma eats no vegetables at all. Not even pickles. (And yet . . . in spite of their non-eating and general runtiness, they are, at 32 and 40 pounds, respectively, both solidly in the 20th percentile for weight for their ages! It's the highest percentile they've ever been!)
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Dancing Around the Edges
For the first time in a long time, things are happening in our lives that I don't feel comfortable writing about here. And since some of the things are Big Things and are taking up a lot of space in my brain, I just haven't been writing at all. It seems measly and even a bit dishonest, really, to write about the small things right now, but I am going to do it anyway.
five small things:
1. My parents celebrated forty years of marriage a couple weekends ago. Forty years is kind of a long time. We celebrated with brunch at Cygnus (YUM) and the girls made them cards. That's about as big-deal as they wanted, but I still think it was pretty special.
2. Jemma told me cheerfully that I had a baby in my tummy one morning. Which . . . no. And on that note, the January detox is still mostly in effect.
3. Our family worked for a whole weekend on a five-hundred-piece puzzle in the middle of the floor in the hallway. (I was not around when this location was chosen and the puzzle was begun.) Allocation of puzzle-doing: Stephanie, 3 pieces; Annie, 5 pieces; Jason, 200 pieces; Jemma, all the rest.
4. Last Wednesday, it was 55 and sunny and we played hopscotch in the driveway after running home from school with no coats, like so:
On Friday, the walk home looked like this:
Winter is confusing.
5. We applied for a zoning variance that would allow us to demolish our current garage and re-build it in a better location, and it passed! We are so happy that we'll finally be able to get rid of the concrete/pea gravel/chain-link-fence "backyard" and create a little postage stamp of yard and functional patio for some privacy behind our house. Though outdoor construction won't begin until spring, there's lots to do in the meantime, including moving the girls' bedrooms upstairs and making plans to construct a main floor laundry room (yay!) and an actual mudroom. With luck, this will be the last winter when wet snow pants will leave puddles on my kitchen floor.
five small things:
1. My parents celebrated forty years of marriage a couple weekends ago. Forty years is kind of a long time. We celebrated with brunch at Cygnus (YUM) and the girls made them cards. That's about as big-deal as they wanted, but I still think it was pretty special.
2. Jemma told me cheerfully that I had a baby in my tummy one morning. Which . . . no. And on that note, the January detox is still mostly in effect.
3. Our family worked for a whole weekend on a five-hundred-piece puzzle in the middle of the floor in the hallway. (I was not around when this location was chosen and the puzzle was begun.) Allocation of puzzle-doing: Stephanie, 3 pieces; Annie, 5 pieces; Jason, 200 pieces; Jemma, all the rest.
4. Last Wednesday, it was 55 and sunny and we played hopscotch in the driveway after running home from school with no coats, like so:
On Friday, the walk home looked like this:
5. We applied for a zoning variance that would allow us to demolish our current garage and re-build it in a better location, and it passed! We are so happy that we'll finally be able to get rid of the concrete/pea gravel/chain-link-fence "backyard" and create a little postage stamp of yard and functional patio for some privacy behind our house. Though outdoor construction won't begin until spring, there's lots to do in the meantime, including moving the girls' bedrooms upstairs and making plans to construct a main floor laundry room (yay!) and an actual mudroom. With luck, this will be the last winter when wet snow pants will leave puddles on my kitchen floor.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Jemma is Five
Dear Jemma,
Just typing that title - FIVE! - makes me amazed, proud, and sad. Nobody here can believe that you are five whole years old, and yet you are. We have been blessed with five whole years of your delightful, inquisitive, silly, sweet, social, confident self, and we feel so lucky.
Right now, you're at school, which you continue to love, and you talk almost daily about how much you can't wait for next year's school, when you'll be at the same school as Annie. You have learned SO MUCH this year: you can write all your uppercase and most of your lowercase letters; you can read short words; you can spell short words; you can add little numbers; you are fascinated by science; you are intrigued by maps, globes, and Google Earth; you love to read and be read to; you have learned to swim and scoot on a big-girl scooter and do the monkey bars all the way across, both forwards and backwards. We are so proud of you.
At home, you do puzzles, draw pictures, beg to play checkers on the iPad, play with the bazillion stuffed animals and babies we have, and want to be doing anything Annie is doing. You are usually the last one up in the morning and now that it is winter, you prefer to start the day by sitting on the heat vent in your room before you come out to eat breakfast. You can dress yourself completely - even all your snow gear! - and you never, ever, ever want to wear jeans. You want to grow your hair out long again. You love to have your toenails painted.
You are silly. You tell knock-knock jokes that make no sense, you love to watch silly cartoons, and when we read a funny book you've read before, you start giggling even before the funny part happens. Last night you had me and Annie both belly-laughing in my bed just anticipating what Tacky the penguin was going to do.
You are tender-hearted. Even during the limited amounts of time when you watch even the most innocuous television, you're known to run from the room or cover your eyes if anything even sliiiiiightly uncomfortable or loud or scary or awkward is starting to happen. Your compassion makes you such a good companion to our family, because often, just as the rest of us are at our worst in difficult situations, you'll save the day with a kind word, a hug, or by running to get some little thing (a glass of water, a book, a stuffed animal) to make us feel better.
You are enthusiastic. When you are excited about something or hear especially good news, you pump your arms triumphantly in the air and do a little wiggly dance of joy. The smallest things make you happy: dessert, time with beloved family and friends, a good song, a fun time sledding or ice-skating, a good story-and-snuggle session before bed. When I read this quote this morning on my daily happiness calendar, I thought right away of you:
Happy belated birthday.
Love,
Mommy
Just typing that title - FIVE! - makes me amazed, proud, and sad. Nobody here can believe that you are five whole years old, and yet you are. We have been blessed with five whole years of your delightful, inquisitive, silly, sweet, social, confident self, and we feel so lucky.
Right now, you're at school, which you continue to love, and you talk almost daily about how much you can't wait for next year's school, when you'll be at the same school as Annie. You have learned SO MUCH this year: you can write all your uppercase and most of your lowercase letters; you can read short words; you can spell short words; you can add little numbers; you are fascinated by science; you are intrigued by maps, globes, and Google Earth; you love to read and be read to; you have learned to swim and scoot on a big-girl scooter and do the monkey bars all the way across, both forwards and backwards. We are so proud of you.
At home, you do puzzles, draw pictures, beg to play checkers on the iPad, play with the bazillion stuffed animals and babies we have, and want to be doing anything Annie is doing. You are usually the last one up in the morning and now that it is winter, you prefer to start the day by sitting on the heat vent in your room before you come out to eat breakfast. You can dress yourself completely - even all your snow gear! - and you never, ever, ever want to wear jeans. You want to grow your hair out long again. You love to have your toenails painted.
You are silly. You tell knock-knock jokes that make no sense, you love to watch silly cartoons, and when we read a funny book you've read before, you start giggling even before the funny part happens. Last night you had me and Annie both belly-laughing in my bed just anticipating what Tacky the penguin was going to do.
You are tender-hearted. Even during the limited amounts of time when you watch even the most innocuous television, you're known to run from the room or cover your eyes if anything even sliiiiiightly uncomfortable or loud or scary or awkward is starting to happen. Your compassion makes you such a good companion to our family, because often, just as the rest of us are at our worst in difficult situations, you'll save the day with a kind word, a hug, or by running to get some little thing (a glass of water, a book, a stuffed animal) to make us feel better.
You are enthusiastic. When you are excited about something or hear especially good news, you pump your arms triumphantly in the air and do a little wiggly dance of joy. The smallest things make you happy: dessert, time with beloved family and friends, a good song, a fun time sledding or ice-skating, a good story-and-snuggle session before bed. When I read this quote this morning on my daily happiness calendar, I thought right away of you:
"We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirements of life, when all we need to make us really happy is something to be enthusiastic about" - Charles KingsleyWe still tend to baby you sometimes, call you Roo and Moppet and Snuglet, pick you up when you should really have two feet on the ground most of the time. But in spite of your status as the little one in this family, you have so much to teach us about how to be, and you have such a bright future. We are sure of it. We love you so much, and we have loved our five whole years with you in our family.
Happy belated birthday.
Love,
Mommy
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Fortunately, Unfortunately
We checked out an old, classic version of Fortunately, Unfortunately from the library a few weeks ago, and the girls were immediately taken by the literary device. They were so intrigued that they both wrote their own Fortunately, Unfortunately books and wrapped them up to give to Jason as Christmas presents, so part of our Christmas morning involved the two of us reading said books aloud, simultaneously praising the "creativity" and dying inside of laughter (hint: the books involve pirates, monsters, witches, grandmothers, ice-skating, and frogs). After a day like today, here's my version.
Fortunately, we all woke up in our warm house this morning with plenty of food, clothes, and all the basic necessities plus some.
Unfortunately, Annie started crying at breakfast and didn't want to go to school for the second day in a row.
Fortunately, one of the 29475736 things I said must have helped, because after thirty minutes of crying she did indeed get dressed, pulled herself together, and happily went off to school.
Unfortunately, I don't know which of the things I said was the magical thing.
Fortunately, Jemma went to school as happily as she always does.
Unfortunately, Jason and I had to meet with a lawyer to update our will and estate plan right after we dropped her off at school, which led to us spending an hour or so pondering those scenarios you really never want to ponder.
Fortunately, it was quick and painless and we are on the same page with these horrible decisions.
Unfortunately, it is winter.
Fortunately, it was sunny and I pulled Jemma in the sled to pick Annie up from school.
Unfortunately, we were all pretty cold by the time we walked home.
Fortunately, the girls were full of love for me and one another and we had a cozy night of piano-playing, braiding hair, bath bombs, and stories in my bed.
Unfortunately, Annie felt yucky and sad again right before bedtime, leading me to Google yucky and sad things after she finally was soothed to sleep.
Fortunately, there was a new Modern Family on tonight, and Jason got home just in time to watch it with me.
Unfortunately, I feel the beginnings of a sore throat and a sense of dread about tomorrow morning and one child's predicted emotional state.
Fortunately, I know we'll figure it out.
Fortunately, we all woke up in our warm house this morning with plenty of food, clothes, and all the basic necessities plus some.
Unfortunately, Annie started crying at breakfast and didn't want to go to school for the second day in a row.
Fortunately, one of the 29475736 things I said must have helped, because after thirty minutes of crying she did indeed get dressed, pulled herself together, and happily went off to school.
Unfortunately, I don't know which of the things I said was the magical thing.
Fortunately, Jemma went to school as happily as she always does.
Unfortunately, Jason and I had to meet with a lawyer to update our will and estate plan right after we dropped her off at school, which led to us spending an hour or so pondering those scenarios you really never want to ponder.
Fortunately, it was quick and painless and we are on the same page with these horrible decisions.
Unfortunately, it is winter.
Fortunately, it was sunny and I pulled Jemma in the sled to pick Annie up from school.
Unfortunately, we were all pretty cold by the time we walked home.
Fortunately, the girls were full of love for me and one another and we had a cozy night of piano-playing, braiding hair, bath bombs, and stories in my bed.
Unfortunately, Annie felt yucky and sad again right before bedtime, leading me to Google yucky and sad things after she finally was soothed to sleep.
Fortunately, there was a new Modern Family on tonight, and Jason got home just in time to watch it with me.
Unfortunately, I feel the beginnings of a sore throat and a sense of dread about tomorrow morning and one child's predicted emotional state.
Fortunately, I know we'll figure it out.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Not Seamless
The transition, that is, from two-plus weeks of lounging and gift-giving, oversleeping and overeating, traveling and togetherness back to the first, real, down-to-business day of January 2012. There was an hour (plus) of crying last night before bed and another hour (plus) of crying this morning before school.
It was a new experience for us, a child who was expressing this very high level of anxiety about something she'd previously never blinked at, and Jason and I reacted differently.
"Stop it," said Jason, because he, truly, is a person who doesn't really worry, who - aside from one specific work-related event this past year - doesn't have anxiety about things. If his brain starts to worry, he stops. Simple as that. But his advice, given more kindly than I've illustrated here, doesn't work for this particular blonde seven-year-old.
My tack: Walk the fine line between sympathetic comfort and firm instruction. Say, "It's normal to feel like this," and, "Everybody feels like this sometimes," and "I know you're brave and strong and you're going to have a great day!" and "Well, you're not sick and you're not staying home." When those things didn't work and the anxiety ramped up to a level that made me think, Psych consult in aisle four, please, I pulled out a few other things, like this gem of a conversation:
A: "I'm just feeling so terrible!"
Me: "Well, that's weird, because you just had a great day sledding, playing outside, having hot cocoa, practicing your piano, and playing with your sister, so it seems like you're feeling fine."
A: "I'm going to tell Mrs. F. that I'm sick and I need to come home."
Me: "If you call me from school, I'm going to ask to talk to Mrs. F. and I'm going to tell her that you're fine."
A: "But what if I'm sick and I need to come home?"
Me: "You throw up, I'll come get you."
and also the much-avoided, for-emergencies-only "I'll lie in bed with you until you can calm down and fall asleep."
As much as I put a brave face on it and focused on getting her to school this morning, 99% sure that all she needed was one day back in her usual routine, of course I worried about her all day long: talked about her on the treadmill this morning, kept my phone close to me all day, and gave her the biggest hug when she came out of school smiling and reported that she'd had a good day. Pshew.
It was a new experience for us, a child who was expressing this very high level of anxiety about something she'd previously never blinked at, and Jason and I reacted differently.
"Stop it," said Jason, because he, truly, is a person who doesn't really worry, who - aside from one specific work-related event this past year - doesn't have anxiety about things. If his brain starts to worry, he stops. Simple as that. But his advice, given more kindly than I've illustrated here, doesn't work for this particular blonde seven-year-old.
My tack: Walk the fine line between sympathetic comfort and firm instruction. Say, "It's normal to feel like this," and, "Everybody feels like this sometimes," and "I know you're brave and strong and you're going to have a great day!" and "Well, you're not sick and you're not staying home." When those things didn't work and the anxiety ramped up to a level that made me think, Psych consult in aisle four, please, I pulled out a few other things, like this gem of a conversation:
A: "I'm just feeling so terrible!"
Me: "Well, that's weird, because you just had a great day sledding, playing outside, having hot cocoa, practicing your piano, and playing with your sister, so it seems like you're feeling fine."
A: "I'm going to tell Mrs. F. that I'm sick and I need to come home."
Me: "If you call me from school, I'm going to ask to talk to Mrs. F. and I'm going to tell her that you're fine."
A: "But what if I'm sick and I need to come home?"
Me: "You throw up, I'll come get you."
and also the much-avoided, for-emergencies-only "I'll lie in bed with you until you can calm down and fall asleep."
As much as I put a brave face on it and focused on getting her to school this morning, 99% sure that all she needed was one day back in her usual routine, of course I worried about her all day long: talked about her on the treadmill this morning, kept my phone close to me all day, and gave her the biggest hug when she came out of school smiling and reported that she'd had a good day. Pshew.
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