Bitter Pill

Notice the difference between what happens when a man says to himself, "I have failed three times," and what happens when he says, "I am a failure." ~S.I. Hayakawa

As parents, we all have our most challenging child. The one who frustrates us, pushes us, and makes us redefine our limits, our strengths, and ultimately plays on our weaknesses. We may love them all, but it's not easy to love them all the same.

Monkey is my most challenging. My enigma. Always changing and mercurial with her likes and her temperament. At times I think I can catch a glimpse of the little girl I knew and bonded with in the first 7 years, other times I think she's a changeling. But the hardest facet of her personality is that she will rarely ask for help. My Monkey will push ahead blindly, or hide and cry, but hardly ever will she ask for assistance. So most times it falls to me to judge when she has met her limit, and needs someone to step in. This can be met with resignation and acceptance, or it can be met with fierce denial and resentment. One can never tell. Whichever the case, I try to impress upon her that having help is an advantage, not something to be embarrassed about. But now what do I tell her when I can't get her the help she needs?

This school year has been a long and challenging uphill battle. We have tried tutoring, therapy, counseling, bribery, and punishment. Finally, in March, I thought we had scored by the school district agreeing to evaluate Monkey. But now it has all come to naught. Our request for an IEP was denied. Again. Instead of feeling relieved that my daughter will finally be able to get some individualized help in Math, I got a note at the bottom of the evaluation that read “We suggest flash cards or other methods of practice to help her retain basic concepts.” Really? My daughter has a 64 average in a subject, and you don’t think I’ve tried something as simple as flash cards?

I still can’t wrap my head around it. They promoted her to the next grade, but with an F. An F. Failure, flunkie, fan-freaking-tastic. I feel like I get an F for failing too. Because I failed my daughter. I told her all this year that she needs to learn to ask for help, because doing it solo while you’re struggling is not the way to do things. Yet, here I go asking for help, and we’re denied. I am at such a loss as to what to tell her. She already has internalized that her effort doesn’t matter because she “just fails it anyway.” What kind of example do I give her when my efforts fall short as well? What message is she left with?

We will be spending the summer blocking this entire episode out of our minds doing flash cards. And hoping for a miracle regarding her placement come September.

Five Little Words

"There was once a boy named Pierre, who only would say,"I don't care!"

Read his story, my friend, for you'll find at the end, that a suitable moral lies there." ~M. Sendak

Mommy lost her shit yesterday. I feel like it was inevitable, with how much stress I have been under, and how little release I have been finding time for. And of course, since Monkey has the shortcut menu to my hot buttons, she was the one to set me off. Just five little words that apparently blow my temper like an atom bomb. “You don’t care about me.”

Oh, my darling, how wrong you are.

I realize mothering is the most thankless of jobs. The day to day minutiae that actually makes a household run is something always expected, but never appreciated. I have yet to have one of my children thank me for the hours spent making them complete their homework, or hounding them about project deadlines, or telling them to turn off the video games, and go outside. The most feedback I get about dinner, and breakfast, and lunch is how horrible it is, and that they refuse to eat it. And I know the last thing they’re thinking about while they’re off doing their thing at dance, or sports practice, or a game, is what Mommy is thinking about on the bench while she’s waiting for them. About how she skipped dinner to make sure they were fed, or is cold because their sibling insisted they didn’t need a coat so she gave them her own, or how she wished she could be off doing the million other errands that need to be done, but she doesn’t have time for. Because she is with them, always. In mind, in thought, in action.
Most times I can take a step back from my anger and remind myself that they are blessed that they are truly unaware of what it is to experience someone not caring about them. That their hurt feelings and animosity are temporary and fleeting, unlike the scars some children carry from the burden of being neglected or alone. But every once in awhile, they witness the human side of me. The side that is just as hurt and resentful as they are about how unfair I feel I’m being treated. And as guilty as I feel about it now, as horrible and childish I myself acted, in a way I’m glad they saw me as raw as I was. I hope they remember that was Mommy caring so much about you that she was crying.

In Wonderland

“My dear, here we must run as fast as we can, just to stay in place. And if you wish to go anywhere you must run twice as fast as that.”

Most days, I still feel like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole. It has been two long years to get to this point. Two years of doubting myself, second guessing myself, and losing every ounce of confidence I had about being a good mother. About being a mother who could help her kids, guide them in the right direction. Help them learn and grow. Its two years later and I feel that I have none of these qualities anymore. And still I have no answers.

After a personality change, a near complete withdrawal from extra curricular activities, and an academic freefall, my wish for an evaluation for Monkey was finally granted. But even if we get a diagnosis that deviates from simple ADHD, I still feel like it will get us nowhere. It's almost May already. The white rabbit would agree that we are late in every sense of the word. Even with an IEP, there is no magical cure that will create passing scores in her two suffering subjects before June. No magical drinks or edible mushrooms that will instantly make her ready to be promoted. I'm trying not to fixate on a future of summer school or a repeated grade, but the possibility looms over my head every day. And still no progress report from the school. I just get to sit and wonder what is going on in the otherwordly dimension of the Upper Elementary. It's frustrating to go from such open communication in her last school, to having none whatsoever in the next. My imagination does me no favors filling in the blanks in lieu of actual information.

So I drift in this stagnant ocean of helplessness and anxiety. Wanting to know, but dreading what they have to tell me. Fearful that I won't be strong enough to help my child navigate the next chapters of her life with my sanity intact. And on and on we cycle through the same repeated behaviors and conflicts, just like being stuck at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party with no escape. With the depression in the background calling me like a siren, trying to seduce me into its arms.

My only solace is to keep distracting myself with other things. Keep pushing, and living, and moving forward, to distance myself from my own mind. Doing anything I can not to go through the looking glass in my mind to the other side.

Open Letter to the Peanut Gallery

au·ton·o·my - (n) freedom from external control or influence; independence.

synonyms: self-government, self-rule, home rule, self-determination, independence, sovereignty, freedom

 I have always tried to be the loudest advocate for my child. All three of them. But within that philosophy was always the understanding between my husband and myself that we would raise them to advocate for themselves. Speak for themselves, ask their own questions, make their own decisions, and suffer the related consequences. For Scootch, this was easy. Him having food allergies makes teaching points a simple requirement of everyday life. Asking questions about food, sharing with adults that he has allergies, asking for help from others to check about the safety of what he was eating...I have to say in some ways he is the most confident of the three in regards of his own body. This is a more complicated hurdle with Monkey. Having to explain the subtle double standards expected of her is not an easy task. Nor is it pleasant to deal with her response to such conversations. She’s as loud spoken as her Mom, in that respect. But most important, we hope that the message they take away is that their body is their own. Not only does that mean that they are responsible for their body in terms of how it affects others, but also that no other person should be affecting their own body in an unwanted way if it doesn’t feel right to them. Whether its about how they dress, or the colors they like, how they paint their nails, or wear their hair, I'm hoping that giving them the freedom of body autonomy from an early age will strengthen their defenses against the poisonous influence of peer pressure and bullying in the future.

The most surprising effect of this process is not the reactions from my children’s peers, but from the adults. Although I’m sure I probably shouldn’t be surprised. Parenthood is nothing but opening yourself to be a target of criticism, it seems. I see this more and more as my sons go to school with their nails painted, and my daughter brings in bugs she dug up in the garden - to the delight of their peers, and the horror of the parents. No one could believe I never got my daughter’s ears pierced until she let me know she wanted them done at age eight. And similarly, I’ve discussed with Scootch and Little Bear that they have the same option, but both are sincerely not interested. In my thinking its simple; their bodies, their choice.

Over Christmas, my husband decided he wanted to color his hair again. Not a rare occurrence in this household, but novel just the same because of the proposed colors involved. Monkey caught wind of this and announced she wanted to color her hair too. Just the ends, and red for Christmas. The ensuing Daddy/daughter bonding was sweet to see. The two of them combing the beauty supply store for supplies, negotiating about the perfect color, and the excitement and elation of the actual process. And when the first attempt didn’t work out, I was happy to see Monkey discussing that she wanted to try again, but different this time. Maybe doing the under part of her hair instead of the ends. And more prep work involved so the color would actually stick. We are now the proud parents of a nine year old with a swath of magenta hair at the nape of her neck. And the backlash is ridiculous.

I will never understand how other adults feel their opinion is something that is worth pushing on others if there is no harm being done. In a year or two, the pink will be long gone, and probably cut off. Maybe replaced by purple polka dots, or maybe by a pixie cut. We are teaching our daughter, our children, to love their bodies. Push the boundaries of what they can do, and how they go about it. To express themselves, and feel secure in doing it. The whispered comments, and vitriol are not helpful, and not needed. Monkey and Scootch and Little Bear do not require your approval to feel good about themselves. Neither should they ever feel cowed or ashamed of not living by the so called “acceptable” standards because it makes YOU nervous or uncomfortable. As adults, you should know better, and as a fellow parent, you should be ashamed of trying to bruise the feelings of a child. Over hair. Something that is transient, ever changing, and not even guaranteed to be present throughout your entire life. 

In the future, if you have a comment regarding our children’s journey of self discovery, please remember that if you have nothing nice to say, it is better to respect my children's decisions about their own bodies, and say nothing at all.

Birthday Princess

Where does the time go?? I can't believe Monkey is 9 years old today!! The last year before double digits!! You are our biggest kid with the biggest dreams!! We hope you make them all come true someday!!

Gone Girl

“There are only seven days in the week and ‘someday’ isn’t one of them.” ~R. Chand

These past weeks may have been the hardest few months of my life. I am not, by nature, one who can sit back and let things just play out if there is a problem. And there have been so many problems.

Monkey was an Honor Roll Student last year. Four marking periods in a row, she came home with that bright piece of paper tucked in with her report card. And she was proud of herself. Glowing. So unafraid to try new things, or jump in headfirst. This September came and it was like we were given a changeling. Our bright, funny Monkey was sullen, and upset. Then brooding and depressed. We thought it was just back to school blues. Then we thought it might just be the fact that she was changing classes for the first time this year. Or that it was just the change in curriculum, the change in the class, the change in her peers. And we met with her teachers. We brought last year’s teachers in to commiserate with this year’s teachers to compare her behavior from year to year. We implemented some stopgaps to try and get her through the adjustment period. But nothing we did seemed to help her. Just like with Scootch, the refrain was just to wait and see. Someday she would come around. Eventually, in early December, she started to give up. And all the doubts I had been having, all the instances I kept listening to everyone else assuring me she was just adjusting to third grade, and all the insecurity I had about having her undergo testing to try to get to the bottom of what she was going through went right out the window at that point. It was my sign. ‘Someday’ was finally here.

Monkey had announced to me when she was four years old that she wanted to be a ballerina. She loved the costumes, the tutus, and the pretty pink slippers. She was fascinated with pointe shoes, and loved watching her Barbie and the Twelve Dancing Princesses DVD over and over and over again. When I signed her up for her first dance class, she was so upset with me that she had to take tap lessons too. And resented the fact that every child at her age had to waste precious ballet time learning something else. I remember last year she had said she didn’t want to continue dance, but I triple and quadruple checked before signing her back up this year, and she assured me she still loved ballet. So, imagine my confusion and panic when she turned around one day and told me she hated dance and didn’t want to go anymore. It was a huge fight getting her to actually go to class that night (because she made the announcement only 1 hour before class started, of course). But I made her go and stick through the last class, and then tell her teacher directly that she wasn’t continuing and why. She told her instructor that dance “wasn’t fun anymore” and that she couldn’t do it “because it was just too hard.”

If that wasn’t disheartening enough, she has continued with the same trend in every other avenue of activity. My little girl who constantly sings around the house and in the car with me, decided she didn’t want to sing in chorus anymore. Last year she was so thrilled to participate in the chorus event at the local minor league baseball park, and this year she wasn’t even interested in signing up to learn the music. In September, she was so crushed to learn that street hockey practice was the same night as her ballet class, so she couldn’t play on the league like her brother. This month, now that sign ups for Spring session are here, she says she’s not the least bit interested in playing. Its scary, and sad, and quite frankly, put me in momma bear mode. Something was definitely wrong, and needed to be fixed. Now. Before she started to backslide somewhere else.

I finally got a meeting with the Child Study Team at her school. But the group that had been so helpful and proactive with Scootch, seemed more dismissive and challenging with my Monkey. The one team member even told me that she didn’t think my daughter had an issue, but that she was just jealous and manipulating me. Needless to say, they denied the proposal to give her an evaluation. Not really what I wanted to hear. So I set up an appointment with Scootch’s neurologist to have Monkey evaluated independently. We went in on Christmas Eve to have her tested, and it was the best Christmas present ever when the practitioner told me that number 1 - I wasn’t crazy, and number 2 - Monkey definitely met all the criteria for ADHD.

Not that it fixed anything. Diagnosis in hand, it has still been a long month of forms, and emails, and waiting, waiting, waiting. After submitting the paperwork there was the wait for them to review it. Then another wait while they forwarded it to the guidance counselor for her review. Then the counselor and Child Study Team had to meet with the teachers to discuss it. Meanwhile, I was given weekly emails that let me know what was going on, and asked additional questions when they needed clarifications. And I was getting nervous because the email correspondence wasn’t sounding promising. But finally, the day arrived when we got to meet with the school to have a determination hearing.

To say the meeting was suspenseful was an understatement. We went in there with the feeling that they were going to deny us accommodations for Monkey just from the feedback we were getting from the email replies. Then the actual meeting was another complete rehash of everything we had addressed and they had discussed. They left their findings and determination for the very end, but, ultimately, we prevailed. Monkey now has 504 Accommodations added to her education plan, and we can all take a deep breath and step back to see if this helps her thrive. I’m sure that there are still plenty of obstacles and adjustments to come, but we are halfway through the year and I’m finally feeling somewhat at peace with her school situation. Along with her counseling sessions, I’m hoping that the Monkey from last August will find her way back to us. I really miss seeing her glow.

Eight is Great

A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip. ~Author Unknown

I cannot believe it has been eight glorious years since we welcomed you to this Earth! Right now you are crazy about animals, especially horses and cats! Your favorite toys are your Calico Critters, and your Legos. You love to create, and construct, and craft. You make pictures, and cards, and jewelry, and suncatchers. You also love to read, and one of my happiest memories was sharing my old books with you over the summer, and having you enjoy them as much as I did.

You are spontaneous, inquisitive, and passionate. Even though we are working through some challenges right now, you still take the time to be kind and giving to others - considerate and caring, like a good Girl Scout should be. I hope you stay like that always. Your mind is constantly going, going, going, and sometimes I fear there will come a time when I can no longer teach you something you don't already know. I wish that thrill of discovery stays alive in you for years to come.

I believe in you, even and especially when you don't believe in yourself. I have seen you learn and accomplish so many things in such a short time, and I know in my heart there is nothing you cannot master. It may take a little longer than planned, but we will get there. Hopefully together.

We love you, Monkey! Happiest of birthdays my sweet!

The Wisdom to Know the Difference

“Good decisions come from experience, and experience comes from bad decisions.” ~Author Unknown

Its been six months since the day I cried after meeting with Scootch’s teacher - the day she told me she wanted to hold him back and repeat a year. But I remember having a purpose after I dried my eyes. I knew that her solution wasn’t what was best for Scootch, and I knew what needed to be done to get him in the best place possible. And since school has been underway and going so extremely well for him, I was thinking it would be great to breathe a nice deep sigh of relief and relax for a little while while things went back to what passes for normal around here.

And then the homework drama started. But not with who you would expect.

Monkey came home one day with a blank assignment pad. I asked her if she had any homework, and she said, “Yes. But I forgot to write it down.” Its happened to all of us, so I let it slide. But the next night she forgot to bring home the list of her new spelling words. The night after we had a bout of tears before we would even attempt to do our spelling homework, and the math homework induced a temper tantrum.

I was thinking it was just her being tired. We tried to keep the kids close to their normal schedule over the summer, but seriously, it was still daylight out at 8pm. There was no way those kids were going to lay down and go to sleep with sunshine coming through the window. And the first two weeks back to school are always a harsh adjustment. But the problems persisted. Every night was a different issue. She left the paper in her desk, forgot her assignment pad, didn’t hear her teacher say they had any homework. The excuses were piling up as fast as the laundry, and I was getting annoyed. Plus, she got her first note sent home from the teacher stapled to a stack of assignments. “Homework incomplete. Please have her finish and hand in.” So we sat down to try and have a chat, and that didn’t end well either. It turned into Monkey yelling and crying and fleeing to her room to calm down. (And ultimately, escape into a book.)

But what startled me was a couple days later. I was (as usual) trying to supervise her doing her homework while I was starting dinner when she just laid her head down on the table and started to cry. And when I asked her what was wrong she told me “I’m just too stupid to do math.”

That floored me.

My kids are not stupid. We don’t call them that, we never have, and no one I have ever met has ever used that adjective to describe my children. My first reaction was my gender-equality-feminist-temper bristling at the thought of someone telling my daughter that she was the “s-word.” So when I immediately asked her who told her that, I felt sick when she told me, “No one. I just know I’m too dumb.”

I don’t think there are words for the feeling you get as a parent when your kids stop believing in themselves. Its a special kind of frustration and pain that splits you apart because they don’t see themselves as the beautiful, well-rounded, human being that they are. But furthermore, this was not my child. This sullen, bad tempered, obstinate little girl who was so shrunk into herself, was not the same laughing, imaginative, Monkey I sent to school on the bus four weeks ago. And after spending the entire summer getting Scootch evaluated, reading literature for Attention Deficit Disorder, and answering the same questionnaires and Vanderbuilt assessments in triplicate, of course my first thought was, “Does she need to be evaluated for ADHD, too? Maybe we’ve missed something.”

And I don’t know what to do. My instinct, which was so absolutely right with Scootch, is telling me this is not just growing pains, or the need to give her more time to adjust to third grade. Its telling me something is wrong. But at the same time, I don’t know if maybe this is just backlash from giving her brother so much special attention over the summer. Or stemming from the fact that she was in an inclusion class last year, and this year is her first experience with changing classes for subjects. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions with her needing to go through an evaluation because it is literally just fresh on my brain and I am seeing it everywhere. And at this point, since her grades aren’t slipping yet, I don’t know if she would even qualify for one. We’ve written to her teachers to ask if there is anything else they are noticing that we are missing, and have somewhat agreed to just let it ride as a ‘wait and see’ period. Meanwhile, we had a temper tantrum, missing homework assignments AND Monkey staying up past 9pm to finish her homework last night. So what is the tipping point? Where is the line in the sand that tells us we have spent enough time waiting? As I stand here watching my brightest flower wither and languish while her self esteem drains away, I don’t know how much longer I can endure seeing her suffer. Not when I know how much change you can create by simply standing up and saying “enough.” Scootch is evidence of that. I just need to know whether its the right direction to go with Monkey as well.

My Daughter, Myself

"And thou shalt in thy daughter see, this picture, once, resembled thee." ~A. Philips

Monkey and her classmates waiting in the wings during recital

I always wanted my daughter to be her own person, I just never realized how much it would hurt. Being so similar is a double edged sword; on one hand, you always know you can find things you'll have fun doing with her. But on the other hand, when she rejects doing something you treasure so much, it feels more like she's rejecting part of yourself.
Monkey has talked about being a ballerina ever since she was four years old and watched "Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses." When I signed her up for classes a year later, she was very put out that she was required to take tap as well, because all she wanted to do was be a ballerina. It took a year and a half, but she was finally in an all ballet class this year. Since this should have been a glorified accomplishment for her, to say I was taken aback by all her complaining was an understatement. She complained about the stretching, she complained about the pointing, she complained about having to repeat the routine over, and over, and over again, to get it right. The final blow came a week before recital - she calmly informed me as I was reading over the summer schedule that she didn't think she wanted to take dance anymore. I think my heart might have actually stuttered as I tried not to cry. 
What I would give to go back to ballet class. To feel that warm limbed exhaustion from working every muscle group you weren't aware you even had, or reveling in that in weightless feeling when you're flying through a grand jeté. I even miss the blisters and missing toenails displayed in old flip flops in November, because you put in six extra hours of practice in a week so you could join in a special production of The Nutcracker as a snowflake. But I had to remind myself that she wasn't me. I didn't want to heap all these memories on her to guilt her to keep going just so I could live vicariously through her.
So her second recital this year became a bittersweet one. I sat in the audience through the first show to try and soak up all the dancing I could, and then volunteered as the class mom with her and her classmates through the second show in the afternoon. Recitals were always my favorite growing up, with the anticipation and adrenaline mixing with makeup and costumes. And as I sat "backstage" in the freezing cold high school lunchroom, watching the girls playing tag, reapplying makeup, or doing one last run through of their routine, I tried to take it all in. The realization that this might be my last time experiencing this made a little lump in my throat. Lining Monkey up to go on with her classmates, I watched them as they sat in the wings wide eyed watching the older girls before them perform their routine and I was transported back in time to my own girlhood. The smell of rosin and gaffer tape and hairspray all mixed together in my mind, and I just sat there for a moment savoring the memories. And after her number, when she rushed out of the doors and into my arms all breathless and exhilarated from performing she hugged me tight and looked up at me and said, "Mommy? I think I still want to do just one more year of dance."
Maybe that means I'll get one more year of memories too.

Pants on Fire

Liar, liar, pants on fire, hang them up on telephone wire.

Monkey used to sneak food when she was a toddler. She learned how to open the refrigerator while she was still in her walker, so being fully mobile opened up a whole new avenue of pantry raiding when Scootch was born. Instead of requesting a snack, she just felt it would be easier to liberate the food herself while I was usually otherwise occupied with a feeding or a diaper change. The denial was amusing  when she was three and vehemently denied she stole granola bars while the melted chocolate chips were still smeared all over her mouth. Now that she's the ripe old age of seven and a half with an attitude to match, the denial isn't cute anymore.
Its partially my fault, to be honest. We fight over so many things during the course of the day, taking her to task for the daily petty offences is usually one of the battles I choose to just not engage in. I tell her I think she's lying, she denies it, and I just leave it lie, hoping she'll at least acknowledge to herself she is in the wrong. She's not really adept at hiding the evidence, either. Which is something else I fail to point out to her because, truthfully, I don't want her improving on that particular life skill. My tipping point, however, came while Daddy was away for a few days on business. The second time that week she came downstairs dressed for school wearing my good 14K gold jewelry I pretty much flipped my lid. To which she just insisted she "found it" in her jewelry box. No. Way. In. Hades. my jewelry spontaneously traveled space and time into the little box in her bedroom!
When Daddy came home, I was more than happy to hand off the disciplinary reins to him when it came to refereeing a dinner fiasco. Monkey refused to eat her dinner the entire meal, then when everyone else left the table, she came prancing into the living room two minutes later claiming to have finished every last bite. It didn't take much investigating for Daddy to find her entire meal stuffed into the garbage can. That evening's bedtime routine became one long talk about truth and dishonesty. And in some ways I'm so thankful he's here to get through to her. Monkey listens and opens up to Daddy in so many other ways than we communicate with each other. He can get to the root of her behaviors and actions so much quicker than I ever seem to be able to. On the other hand, its positively maddening to deal with a child who is so righteous and fastidious about preaching right and wrong about other's behavior, but never seems to hold herself to the same measure. Especially when I'm the one at home usually stuck holding the ruler. I'm just hoping we're working through this phase, and she has finally learned a valuable lesson.

The Long Winter

Nature looks dead in winter because her life is gathered into her heart. She calls her family together within her inmost home to prepare them for being scattered abroad upon the face of the earth. ~H. M.

Daddy and the kiddos in front of the snow shelter they made

Is it safe to come out yet?

How does the shortest month of the year somehow feel like the longest? Can’t believe how much was due and done in the little month of February, but C’est la vie of a busy mom, I guess. I survived my first cookie sale as a Girl Scout leader! Monkey reached all her selling goals despite the weather giving us more snow days than we knew what to do with. I am always amazingly grateful for the generosity of our family and friends during fundraiser season. And this year she also won a Golden Award at school for the month of February for demonstrating Fairness all month. Couldn’t be more proud of her and the little lady she is blossoming into!

Scootch is flourishing in Kindergarten despite some physical issues. He’s already mastering addition, subtraction, and lots and lots of reading! He loves to come home with stories and pictures from his Writers Workshop sessions in school, which usually depict monsters and roller coasters. There is no end to his imagination and his bright mind. You can tell he is always thinking. His teacher is suggesting we get him some assessments done, though. Many of his motor skills and developmental behaviors don’t seem on par with his age group, so she just wants to make sure we aren’t overlooking something that might impact him as he gets older if they aren’t corrected now.

Little Bear is becoming quite the little man these days. He is definitely not shy in telling you what is on his mind. And what’s usually on his mind is his next meal. ;-) He is getting so proficient and independent in everyday things, and is my capable little helper. Whether we’re using the screwdriver to change the batteries in his toys or making a three course meal, he is usually right there by my side telling me “I help you, Mommy.” And help he does. He could probably make the Friday night pizza dough himself if he could reach all the ingredients. As much as I miss having a baby around, this bright little boy is nothing short of amazing everyday. Come September I’m sure we’ll have to start him in a preschool program of some sort. He’s already so good with his letters and numbers and shapes, I think a learning environment a few days a well would do him lots of good.

But right now, we’re just thinking warm thoughts and wishing for Spring!

Oh How They Grow!

I love these little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us. ~C. Dickens

This is happening.  

And this

And this

Someone stop feeding them Miracle Grow! They’re getting way too big way too fast!

Mirror Mirror

The world is as many times new as there are children in our lives. ~R. Brault

Seven. How can it be seven years have gone by already? I can still remember her fitting on my chest, curled up in one arm, and having sweet milky baby breath while she slept. Now she’s old enough that I can recall what I was like at her age. The likes, the dislikes, the fears, the fights. In so many ways its like looking into a mirror of my childhood. Silly, goofy, giggly, passionate, hot-tempered, dramatic. (Although I don’t remember being as dramatic as she is.) But she is our creative, beautiful, Monkey-bean. And we wouldn’t have her any other way. Its going to be a wonderful ride reliving my childhood with you. Happy birthday, baby.

"It's a girl"

Men get laid, but women get screwed.  ~Quentin Crisp

It is no secret I am was terrified of having a daughter. Especially having an oldest daughter. There is no end to the dangers and injustices of being a female, and my greatest fears are of her being subjected to any one of them. I was the baby in my family. The younger child, the youngest of my girlfriends. I grew up always feeling like I had an added layer of protection. I remember my brother teaching me Akido when I was 14. I remember his guy friends - my “other” brothers - popping up at the most embarrassing times and chasing off anyone paying attention to me that was of the opposite sex. I think it somewhat made me more aware of my own personal safety. People stressing about me being vulnerable made me self conscious about putting myself in those situations (lest my brother and his friends show up). Moreso when I was older and attending night classes in college in the heart of a small city. An abandoned hotel that housed a community of vagrants sat directly across the street from my building where I attended class. And the last words my (female) professor would always say as we left after 9pm were, “Stay in pairs!”  But in those growing years, I always felt protected. It makes me wonder how I can make my daughter feel the same sense of security.
I know I can't hold onto her forever. Monkey might only be six years old, but the eye rolling and frustration with me being around her all the time is already making an appearance. But how do you let them fly without worrying about them getting ensnared in a trap once they leave your sight? How do you raise her with the lesson that her voice is important, and should be heeded, when all around us, everyday, the public, the politicians, the religious leaders, are all disregarding women’s rights and demeaning women's roles or trying to pass legislation on our bodies and what we're “allowed” to do with them? When women are ridiculed as being ugly and frumpy if they're spotted in an outfit consisting of anything loose and comfortable, and even young girls who haven’t hit double digits in age are being pressurized by retailers and the media to be “sexy” and “flirty.” Or when a photo of the private parts of a female celebrity are bigger news than the movie she is promoting. Whose voice is going to be louder in her life? The few encouraging her from the nest, or the drowning cacophony from outside? I go to bed at night after tucking her in, and all I see in my head is how many examples of how to be female is to live the life of a double standard.

And now the Steubenville case has me up at night, even more anxious than before. The case in itself is a nightmare, but I think what is making me so violently ill is the reaction to the verdict. News outlets and people from all walks of life remarking on how sad it is that these smart, promising, young men will now be forever haunted by what they have done. How their once bright futures will be forever tarnished. I want to know one good reason why they shouldn't be forever affected by what they did, like their victim will be. And it would also be extremely interesting to know how such “bright,” “smart,” “promising,” young men weren't bright enough or smart enough to know that drugging someone to victimize them is wrong. That someone in a vulnerable position doesn't equal a puppet to be played with and exploited, and then photographed so the images could then be uploaded to the internet and traded like virtual playing cards of their atrocities. What kind of world is this that we have created for our children where rape culture is the celebrated standard?
The realization is that as much attention I need to be giving to developing a strong, confident daughter, I need to double up on teaching my sons to be kind and respectful. Chivalrous, even. Boys who will respect when someone tells them “no.” Who will have empathy and helpfulness towards others, and be aware of another’s feelings and how they are effecting them. I need to instill their own confidence in themselves, so they are less likely to follow a crowd for validation, and hopefully more likely to stand up for someone else, even if they are standing alone. I learned all about the bystander effect in college taking classes for my psychology minor. How insecure and scared of their peers must these teens in Steubenville have been that after the THREE parties that this girl was dragged to, not ONE person stood up, or reported, or intervened on her behalf? Peer pressure can trump conscience very easily, but my hope is to raise children who would try to be a voice of reason and restraint.

Change always seems insurmountable until precipitated by some life altering event. I really wish this wasn't so. I wish we humans would lend more credit to foresight and preparation instead of crisis management and reaction strategies. But for every daughter that is raped, there is also a son who is a rapist. I’m hoping and praying that this house has neither. But in the meantime, I'm going to do my best to teach them how to manage the ugly truth of the world. Maybe when they grow up, they can change it.

Six Years Around the Sun

A lot like yesterday, a lot like never.  ~Tim O'Brien

You're six years old today. Six years since you were a squalling pink bundle, completely unimpressed with your new surroundings. You've gone from plump and dimpled to as slender as a spaghetti noodle.You still sing and laugh and giggle. But now you can read and write and speak some Spanish. You're learning to tell time. You love to color and create masterpieces. To dance and make up stories and try to make people laugh.You're fierce. Fiercely loving, fiercely stubborn, and fiercely passionate about what you think is right and wrong. You are a great teacher to your brothers, a great sharer to your friends. You have your own sense of style. You insist on skirts over jeans, and dress shoes over sneakers, but your favorite thing to do is still dig in the dirt to find bugs, and chase after insects and butterflies.You like to dress up your animals and your Barbies, and take care of all your baby dolls with their cribs and strollers.You're wild over Hello Kitty, Cinderella, and My Little Pony. Have an intense love for horses, cats, and puppy dogs, and want to grow up to be a veterinarian. I hope 60 years from now you're still as bright and sensitive and full of laughter as you are today.

Happy Birthday, Monkey-bean!

Lazy, hazy, crazy days

Summer in recap;

Sesame Place
 

Swimming

Car Shows
   
The Beach
 
Boating
   

Trains






Fireworks


Fishing

My Own Marvel-ous Super Villians

“Children need love, especially when they do not deserve it.” ~Harold Hulbert

My kids have superpowers. They can make me crazy like noone else. And, Like Voltron, they can combine their talents to become a superforce of mayhem and chaos. I have always known that Monkey is the game changing force around the house. The effect and influence she has on her brothers is extremely apparent. Even when she was in Preschool, there was such a change in Scootch from when he was home in the morning with Little Bear and I, to when Monkey came home in the afternoon. This summer is proving no different. Having them home all together is proving challenging and an ultimate test in patience and negotiation on my part. But I also think I’ve also been able to pin down each of their superpowers.

Monkey - AKA Red Hawk. Red Hawk’s superpower is in the power of her voice. She can scream at such a high pitch and volume that you’ll fear for the solidity of all the glass in the immediate vicinity. Red Hawk can also sustain her verbal attack for what seems like hours on end. If the audio onslaught doesn’t bring you to your knees immediately, the persistence of it lasting is sure to make you cry or give in to her demands.

Scootch - AKA Scrambler. Scrambler’s method affects your hearing and your mind. He has the power of talking so fast and so unclearly you are immediately incapacitated by confusion because your brain is struggling to sort out whether what he just said is a threat or not. Scrambler’s advantage is that he is tireless and knows to keep up his streams of gibberish so that your mental capacity never has a chance to catch up. You are literally reduced to a pondering lump of confusion and find yourself agreeing to his stipulations whether you meant to or not.
Little Bear - AKA Bruiser. Because he is still developing his abilities for verbal attacks, Bruiser’s talent is purely physical. His method of disarming you is to lure you in with a charming smile or minor accident. When you get closer or come to his aid he will immediately change tactics and strike with his python like grip, usually incapacitating you by grabbing your legs together below your knees, or latching onto your hair or your mouth.You are rendered useless immediately and find yourself with no other option but to take his lead and bend to his will.  

As you can imagine, the talents of hubby and I are weak in comparison. Time outs and bribery have no positive effect on the super trio. Usually there are long negotiations for cease fire involved which are extremely tiring. Lately our best defense has amounted to the exhaustion and dazzle method. We work them outside to the point of grumpiness and then bring them inside for downtime on the couch with books or a movie. We’re hoping to stick it out for the next 6 weeks until school starts up again. Nothing negates their super powers like the power of teachers and peers!