Anatomy Lesson Gone Wrong

by Patti

A few months ago, Gaucho got his balls chopped off. Before you roll your eyes and think, "Oh, great! She hardly ever posts anymore, and when she does, it's to talk about her dog's balls?" fear not. This is not about my dog's balls at all. My dog's balls only serve as a backdrop to the story I am about to tell you. You see, Gaucho had a pretty, uh, obvious set of cojones, and they were the perfect opportunity to teach S about anatomy. "What are those?" she gasped.
And I, always one to get straight to the point, answered, "Honey, those are balls."

Flash forward to present day. S and I met my mom for coffee and sandwiches at Starbucks, when my mom asked me what was in my sandwich.
"Oh, some tomatoes and cheese, and it's toasted.."
My mom suddenly leaned in, her eyes wide. "Testicles?" she whispered discreetly.
"No, mom. TOASTED."
S began to laugh, 'Nono, you don't have to whisper it. It's no big deal! See? Testicles! Testicles! TESTICLES!" she shouted out freely, her arms waving above her head for dramatic effect.
I, in wonder at the lack of embarassment most 11-year olds would feel to even THINK such a word, much less shout it out in pubilc, joined in gleefully. "Testicles! Testicles! Testicles!" And then, feeling adventurous, I threw in a "Boobs! VAGINA!"

At that, S's face grew horrified and she gave me a swift, scolding punch to my arm. "MOM! STOP! That's so EMBARRASSING!"
Confused, I cocked my head at her. "Honey, I don't get it. You were just shouting out testicles. If that is not embarrassing, how is vagina embarrassing?"
Her face grew blank as she pondered this. And then, ever so carefully, "Wait. What's testicles?"
Recalling Gaucho and the anatomy lessons around his pair, I knew what I had to tell her to make it clear. "Balls."
And then her face flushed a deep purple as her hands flew over her mouth in horror. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT OCTOPUS ARMS!"

Let's get it straight: TENTACLES.

Pillow Talk

by Cathy

Ever since Bella was born (actually, since she was a toddler) I have had to lay with her - and now my younger daughter - to fall asleep at night. Why? Because we have trained them this way. Not because that's how we intended this to go. We did not intend to spend hours upon hours of precious, free time sitting in a half-lit room staring at the strange light designs on the ceiling made by that giant star hanging on the wall. Hours that could have been spent doing much needed housework or taking advantage of even more needed "me" time or "couple time". No siree.

Bella was a finicky sleeper. She did just fine as a baby and I was even able to "nap when the baby naps". But as she entered her toddler years and became cognizant that she would be sleeping alone, she morphed into a very troubled sleeper. She repeatedly got up, dragging her exhausted little body out of her toddler bed and into the living room where I would be practically hiding under the couch cushions so that she could just return to bed and put herself to sleep. Because I knew...I KNEW...that once I entered that room and sat on that floor next to her bed, it would still take her centuries to fall asleep. She even caught me trying to crawl out more than a few times, (picture that pretty scene, would you?) whereupon I had to start the whole ordeal over again since she was now traumatized that I would leave her.

Many a night would I sit on that floor, sometimes literally crying tears of frustration at how this process had gotten so out of hand. She needed some type of security, some kind of reassurance to sleep quickly and soundly and even to this day, her bed is strewn with numerous special stuffed animals, her special pillow and Cuddles, and she has even concocted a little "nest" for herself to sleep in amongst throngs of pillows and teddy bears.

I don't lay with her now unless she asks me to, which can be about once a week. Sometimes I sit on her bed for a few minutes, sometimes I'll crawl under the covers with her since I'll only be able to do this for a short time yet before one of us falls out of the narrow twin bed.

However, with our younger daughter, I was determined to NOT repeat this mistake and thankfully, she was a very independent, self-soothing baby once we passed the "let her cry it out" phase. I avoided laying with her like the plague, but my husband on the other hand, who had no idea what I had been through with Bella, decided to start laying with her. The only good part is that he fell asleep instantly (whereas I would sit and mull over mental to-do lists, things I could be doing now, making myself more anxious than sleepy).  I was secretly happy it wasn't me this time.

But eventually, he tried to cut off ties too. He liked his free television time to veg on the couch and watch the news. He soon started denying her requests and then Ari tried to sideline me into the task. I obliged more than once, but then nipped that too in the proverbial bud. I came up with a hardline rule, since she now was old enough to lay by herself: I would only sit on the edge of her bed for ONE minute and then I would leave.

That has been my M.O. for quite some time now but the other night, Ari convinced me to lay down next to her "just for two minutes." What mother can deny that for her child? So I did, but vowed I would get up in a few minutes and made that clear. She agreed. As soon as I lay down, her little arm swung around and circled my neck comfortingly. Then she began to talk.

[I discovered that as they grew, the more they wanted to tell me as I was tucking them into bed. This was their time to confess or ruminate over things that only a clear mind, free of noise, gadgetry and television clutter, would allow. And oh, the things I heard. ]

I listened intently to her concerns, her observations, her fears, to things said to her by friends that have already left obvious impressions on her. As she was talking, I couldn't help but think to myself, What else have I missed about their thoughts and lives by not laying with them? 
If this is the time they feel most comfortable to talk to me, why haven't I realized this and taken advantage of it more? 
What if these are the only moments they would open up and I would get quality time with them?

Apparently, the fear of laying with them until they go to college had scared me into possibly depriving myself of a piece of them. These little pieces that make up the parts of who they are, how they feel, how they will think and live their lives, how they become affected and how they process life's curveballs and curiosities - these were the moments, and I was letting them go right past me, to be dreamt away and never return.

So now I lay with them - even if it's a few more minutes than I "allow" myself - and take in every little part of their beings - their hugs, their kisses, their caresses, their whispers, their observations, their revelations, their laughs, their minds and their hearts. Then I can drift off to sleep knowing that I was there to listen, to help, to make a joke, to take in these small, yet precious moments of life with them.

Insane in the Mane

by Cathy

Last week was picture day at school, (also known as the psycho-drama-meltdown-running late morning at my house).  I have two girls and because I have learned some hard lessons about preparation in past years, this year, I was determined  to nip that madness in the bud.

The night before, I made sure their uniforms were washed, pressed and spot-free. Then I actually sat with each one of them to discuss...their hair. Yes, we had hair consultations for school picture day. Ari's was easy: braided pigtails. Neat, clean, great! I made her choose which twisty ties she wanted to use and had her keep those on her nightstand until morning so as not to get lost in the toy and knick-knack rubbles that have formed various piles throughout her room.

From Bella, I got a special request.
"Mom, can I get my hair straightened for picture day?"
"Why do you want to do that? You have such beautiful, wavy hair!"
"I just want it to look...different," she replied, her eyes pleading.
I looked over her thick mane and replied, "Okay Bella but we either do it now or you have to wake up earlier tomorrow so we have time and we're not rushed. Okay?"
Her posture deflated a smidge. "Oh, but I'm so tired now. I'll wake up early to do it tomorrow morning, I promise. Like, what time do I have to be up, around six?"
If my sleepyhead of a daughter proposed such a far-fetched time, I knew she was excited about the prospect of straightening her hair. I also knew that there was no way in hayul she was getting up at the ass crack of dawn to even do this.
"No, it's not necessary to get up that early," I replied. "I'll get you up at seven sharp but you gotta get up."
"I will, I will!" she said excitedly.

As a young girl growing up with thick, curly, unruly, half-frizzy, half-crimped, bushy, unrelenting European hair, I could totally relate to my daughter's request in straightening it. Granted hers is much more manageable than mine, but oh, how I desperately wanted limp, lifeless, pin-straight, thin hair like the rest of my non-ethnic friends. Oh, how I desperately wanted feathered hair but all mine would do is just frizz out and mock me. How I feared rain and humidity like the grim reaper himself. How many times did I cry tears of frustration in front of my mirror as my hair did what it wanted, totally oblivious to the societal and adolescent pressures I faced.  No one at that age strives to be different, but fortunately, with age comes wisdom and embracing what you have and soon, the rebellious, individualistic side of us emerges to set us free.

Where were flat-irons when I was a tween?!?

The morning of picture day went as smooth as can be, despite the fact that Bella got up at 7:18 and rushed at the speed of light to get dressed so as not to miss her opportunity to sleek up her hair. She got to the bathroom in record time, where I was waiting with flat-iron in hand, buzzing and burning the air. She chatted excitedly about random things while I smoked her stubborn hair into smooth silky tresses. I could literally feel her mood shift with every straightened clump of hair I released onto her tiny shoulders. By the time I let the last strands lay against her cheek, she physically looked and emotionally felt like a brand new girl. Her face was glowing and there was an ear-to-ear grin on her face that worked its way up to her eyes and made them twinkle. Her chatter was lighter, happier, peppier. (If only I knew that all it took was a straight-iron to also work out the kinks in my daughter's personality, I'd have resorted to this many struggles ago.)

She left the house that morning, on time and spiffy, in about the best mood ever. I couldn't help but think about how for us women, a great outfit or a perfect hair day can literally boost our confidence, our  mood, or even our outlook on life, and how even though we never think about it, it can work the same magic for our growing girls, trying to find their place in the spaces between children and teenagers. That is the power of a good hair day - never underestimate it, no matter how shallow it may sound. And I am thankful that my daughters can experience this at a time in their lives when they need it most.

Cutting the Rope

by Cathy

Today, Bella, my 11-year old, will return from her first solo away-trip - a school excursion to Lake Geneva, WI., a trip the school has aptly named, "Ropes Course", a program involving a variety of activities designed to provide both individual challenges and opportunities for group cooperative problem solving.

The trip is a tradition and a rite of passage for all the sixth graders at her school, not only to prepare them for how to handle the obstacles they will face in life, but also to prepare them for life's bigger picture as well - taking baby steps away from the comfort of their family/home and towards new experiences.

Undoubtedly, I had my doubts. The sheltering motherly side of me immediately reared itself upon receiving news of this trip. I immediately emailed the teacher and asked if parent chaperones were allowed (and also because I knew this was going to be the first question out of Bella's mouth.)
The teacher's reply? "No. You are off the hook!!!"
As if this was supposed to be some inconvenience that we don't need to be bothered with. As if we don't have time for this and we are free to go off and do the countless trivial things on our to-do list, made to seem much more important than this.

The night before the trip, she was mixed bag of emotions while packing - excitement peppered with bouts of sadness, nervousness and anxiety. Sad because she will miss us; nervous because she doesn't know what to expect; anxious because what if she can't handle taking an exercise challenge in front of her friends? She is not a fan of being away from us and would much rather prefer the safety and comfort of her own bed. She rarely ever partakes in sleepovers, much less take an overnight trip in another state without the comfort of having a family member accompany her. This was her first big "grow-up" moment.

I quelled her feelings by telling her that it was completely normal to feel all of these emotions and that the anticipation of thinking you will miss your family is much greater at this point than what she will experience. But that she will see, if she lets herself fall into the moments, the experiences, the fun and the challenges, those will take precedence over her thoughts of missing us.

There goes my 'lil girl, tentative feelings packed neatly in with her belongings.

So then it all made sense. The teacher was trying to let me down easy; to spin this experience in a positive way, which it really is. Once I forced my brain to switch gears and try to see it from his point of view, I understood that not only was it important to her growth and development to do this by herself but also for mine.  It was a "Ropes Course" for both of us - a lesson on learning how to cut the ropes that tether us to our children. And even though that rope is tightly knotted in the case of my first-born, we are both slowly working together on loosening it while still holding on.

Little Lolita

by Patti

Those who know me know I am a little on the liberal side. I tend to be free with expression and thought and am pretty accepting of other people's choices. I'm also a little...opinionated. I will argue with a rude cab driver, tell somebody to bleep off, and stand up for the underdog over and over. Mostly? I just want to be free to be me. After all - this is the girl who wore black garbage bags to school with a studded belt around my waist, and even now, any perception that I am being held back from wearing a black garbage bag to school if I wanna does not sit well with me.

I want my daughter to grow up with the same sense of independent thought and freedom of choice. I want her to be able to fend for herself, fight for what's right, and not be afraid to stand out. And, if she happens to fall in love with someone like her papi - a strong, also opinionated, somewhat conservative ball of fire, I want her to be able to able to love him back while still holding her own and staying true to who she is.

And it all begins with shoes.

I bought S a pair of wedge booties for the fall.  In my eyes, they were totally adorable, totally harmless, totally fashionable. See?

But in M's eyes? They looked like this:

And because he felt he was sending his daughter off to work the streets instead of into the halls of middle school, he refused to let her wear them. We actually had an argument about ANKLE BOOTS.
"She is too young to wear high heels!"
"They are NOT high heels - they are wedges. They look like HIKING boots, for crying out loud; how is that high heels?"
"She wore them with these pink pants that looked like stripper pants!"
"Stripper pants? My daughter does NOT own stripper pants - what are you talking about?"

(Apparently, Children's Place is now in the business of selling hooker wear? Did you know this? I did not know this.)

We discussed her gray ankle boots for nearly an hour. I tried to pinpoint what was causing my anxiety over his disdain for the harmless shoes, and I realized that I was kind of projecting my own fear of being stifled into the matter - and he was projecting his own fear of his daughter growing up. We were both projecting our neuroses onto S, and all the poor kid wanted to do was wear her I STILL SAY TOTALLY HARMLESS boots in peace.

A couple of days after our conversation, I spotted the boots on the shoe rack by our door and picked them up, marveling at how even MORE conservative they appeared to me under the shadow of "slut wear!" that had so unfairly been cast upon them. M was watching TV and I held one of the shoes up to his face. "Really? REALLY? THIS is what you were freaking out about?"

In the end, she will wear her boots, but she will wear them with non-stripper pants to appease her father. And to satisfy me, she will wear them with a confident smile on her face that says, "I won this battle; I will one day win the war."

Finish Line

by Patti

The other day I pulled into the garage after a long day at work, excited at the prospect that, thanks to a cancelled appointment, I miraculously had zero “to dos” on my calendar. I envisioned myself sprawled across the couch, book in hand, hot tea steaming next to me. But the little dream cloud above my head went instantly “poof!” when S ran into the garage to greet me, her face frantic. The windows of my car were shut, and all I could see was her mouth moving at warp speed, her hands gesturing urgently. I flung open the door and jumped out.
“Hi, honey. What’s wrong?”
“Mom! We have to go! I signed up to participate in a race!”
"A what?"
“A race! I’m going to run the cross-country mile today, and we have to be there in 15 minutes!”

I felt my earlier fantasy dwindle even further into the blackness of There’s Always Someplace to Be. S's voice sliced into me. “MOM. Are you listening? I signed up for a race, and I just found out today that I get to be in it. Can you please take me? It’s in 15 minutes!”

The irritation of having things like this sprung on me at the last minute overrode my maternal senses, and I morphed into Mean Mother – the one who never does anything for her kids; the one who yells and never “gets it”. But then I saw the desperation in S’s face; the need to be seen and heard and understood – and I caved. I changed out of my work clothes into “going to see my kid run a mile” clothes, slapped the leash on Gaucho, and we piled into the car.

At the field, there were already hundreds of kids gathered, stretching, warming up, “networking” in the way only middle-schoolers know how to do. I spotted our group, and S ran to meet them. At the registration desk, we found out that, because she had waited until the last minute to sign up, S would have to run as somebody else. The registrar hurriedly taped the name tag across S’s chest, and she was now officially “Idina”. A dozen kids ran by in a warm-up group, their bodies athletic and easy in their form. “Honey? Are you sure you can do this? I mean – have you ever even run a whole mile?”
“Yes, mom. I do it all the time at school. I just need to warm up!”
Worried, I gave her a good luck hug and she tore away to meet her friends.

Suddenly, it was her turn to race. She would run with nearly 100 sixth and seventh grade girls – all from different schools. My stomach hurt for her; I knew a mile wasn’t much, but for somebody who doesn’t make practice of running – it can feel like 100 miles. The girls gathered at the start line, and at the sound of the horn, they exploded across the field, a rainbow of school t-shirts. S was probably among the smallest that ran, and her little legs could only carry her so far. She quickly fell behind as the taller, longer-legged girls shot ahead of her. Another mom and I stood at the sidelines, Gaucho between us, and cheered on the girls from our school as they ran by. I did my best to embarrass each one as she passed, with a jig or a “school spirit” shout. When S finally ran by, I screamed, “GO IDINA! GO!” She blushed, but her smile said it all. She was so glad I was there.

In the end, S came in 32nd place. Not bad for somebody who, though she SAID runs a mile “all the time”, probably never had. Considering there were probably 100 girls, coming in the top 1/3 of the group? Killer. The fact that she had the guts to try at all? First place in my eyes.

As she ran across the field toward me, the green ribbon that signified she crossed the finish line flapping in her hands, I silently scolded myself for almost choosing the couch over a new experience for my child. I cringed at the thought that, because I was mad she had sprung something on me at the last minute instead of opening my mind to what she was telling me, she could have missed feeling this sense of accomplishment – and I would have missed witnessing it.
“Mom! I got 32nd place!"
I hugged her and dropped a kiss atop her sweaty head. “I’m so proud of you!”
She pressed the green ribbon in my hand for safekeeping, and then she was gone - off to celebrate with her friends.

The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

by Patti

I have mastered the art of embarrassing my child. After all, isn't that what all mothers work so hard for? We don't lose sleep, hair and sanity for nothing, you know. And finally, after 11 years, I have honed my craft. I am officially The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

I was talking to a neighbor one day - her daughter is S's good friend - and she told me that her children had nearly died from embarrassment when she dared to sing along to a song on the radio that day. She admitted that she may have thrown me under the bus to save face. "I said, but Mrs. P is WAY more embarrassing than I am, isn't she?" Apparently, I have a reputation, because not only did she think to use me as  an embarrassment scapegoat - her kids? Agreed. I guess the baby talk I do with my dog in public, or the fact I regularly break out into song, or the cross-eyed monkey imitation I am prone to do with absolutely no warning might have something to do with that.

But I understood my neighbor's act of desperation. She was already in big trouble with her daughter because of that time she ran out to greet the school bus in sweat pants and an evening gown. You see, she had been trying on a new dress for an upcoming event when she realized the bus would be there any second. So she simply ran outside, the dress partially unzipped, her sweat pants the imperfect accessory. Her daughter, after dying a few thousand deaths, simply ran by her, turned inside out with mortification. She still hadn't forgiven her, so that day, when my friend foolishly sang along to the radio, she knew she had to do something. Enter: The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

Can you believe there's actually a book? 

The other day I went for a run in the park across the street from our house. S was rollerblading with that same friend, and as I ran in endless circles trying to burn off the 45 lbs of kettle corn I had just consumed, I kept an eye on the girls as they skated and gossiped. As I rounded a corner, I saw them skating toward me, and I couldn't help myself - I shimmied. Yes, I shimmied as I ran and made a crazy face. S turned bright purple and her friend giggled fiercely into her hands, probably thrilled that I was much, much more embarrassing than her own mother - the Sweatpants and Evening Gown Monster. That night, S approached me. "Mom? Why did you do that today?"
"I don't know - I felt like it."
"But... your boobs were flopping around. It was SO embarrassing." Her eyes rolled so fiercely she may have hurt herself.
"I was wearing a sports bra - how could they be flopping?"
"THEY WERE."
The next day, once dressed for another run, I did a test shimmy in the mirror. My boobs SO did NOT flop.

But I guess that's beside the point. The point, apparently, is that I am simply too embarrassing to exist. And I have to admit: now that I know this with certainty, I am liberated. This means I can pretty much do anything I want. After all, I am ALREADY embarrassing; it can't possibly get worse. So I'll just go with it.

Oh, the delicious plans I have. 

All Growed Up

by Patti

As of this morning I am officially the mother of a junior high kid. I know I've talked about it several times on this blog. I've lamented its impending doom; the fact that my baby is now a young lady; the complicated emotions surrounding this bittersweet milestone. But now? It's here. It's really, really here. And at this very moment, she is boarding a school bus, her backpack dangerously heavy with notebooks and pencils and expandable 13-pocket folders, and her father is waving goodbye to her. And she is turned away from the window, talking to her friends, even though every fiber of her 11-year old being wants to press her nose against the glass and wave back.

A few days ago, S sat down on a stool in our kitchen and got ready for a haircut. M, the family hairdresser, tried to talk her out of the choppy layers she begged for him to cut into her hair, explaining that her curly hair - the very hair that he curses every morning as he tames it back with a dollop of gel - was not the best candidate for the style she wanted. "But I'm not a kid anymore, papi! I want something cool! Pleeease?"

Moments before, when S was still in the shower, I had prepared M for this conversation. I reminded him that, as much as he adored her ridiculously gorgeous, long locks, they were not his."You need to let her choose her own style. She wants to experiment." He didn't like it, but he did it. His scissors reluctantly went into action, and inches and inches of curls floated to the floor.

He finally finished, and I clapped with excitement. "Oh, honey! It looks GREAT!" She looked immediately more mature - more "edgy". She ran to the bathroom, and her voice carried her approval through the house. "I LOVE IT!" She ran back into the kitchen, a grin eating her face whole. "Thanks, Papi!" She hugged him tightly, smiling into his chest.

The next morning she woke up and walked into my bathroom, where I was getting ready for the day. Her hair? Was a disaster. The curls puffed to the heavens and corked widly out to the sides. "Mom?" Her eyes begged me to help her. I immediately swung into action, weilding a comb and cream and explaining to her how she could fix her hair in the morning, promising her that once it got "used to" the new cut, it wouldn't be so hard to tame. Within minutes, her hair was back to its golden crown of glory; the curls fat and defined, the layers giving them a style meant for one going into junior high.

Last night, as I lugged laundry out of the basement, I noticed writing on S's whiteboard. I moved in closer, and saw that she had written herself a note - a guide, of sorts:

Frow = Fro

I chuckled to myself, but at the same time, I felt my throat tighten with emotion. A few days before, there had been a different message scrawled on her whiteboard. It had read, "6th grade is probably scary." She had worried about starting middle school all summer, and that worry had worked its way in red marker onto her whiteboard - her mind's voice reflecting right back to her. But now, that message had been replaced with a step-by-step guide to ensure the warding off of any hair trauma. After all, no way was she going to go into sixth grade with a "FROW", for crying out loud. Unacceptable!

I went upstairs to her room, where she was already asleep, her newly layered hair in lion-like tangles around her face. I leaned in to kiss her, and for one moment, her mouth moved just as it did when she was a baby - when she dreamed of milk or pacifiers. "You'll do great," I whispered into her hair. And then I turned off her light and went to bed, my baby's new journey just one sleep away.

Back to School?

by Patti

In 12 days, S goes back to school - as a SIXTH GRADER.  Yes, I have already mostly managed to work through the fact that my baby - the one I fed from my bosom for far too long; the one that cried out for me night after night after night after night after... you get the sleepless picture; the one whose legs would go into a frenzied, happy delirium whenever I simply walked into a room; the one who asked me to read her just one more story; the one who still holds my heart unlike any other human being has ever managed to do. Yes, that  one. And I guess, in my struggle to work through all of the emotions that come with having a real, live middle-schooler, I kind of forgot to buy school supplies.

S has been begging me since she graduated fifth grade two and a half months ago to please, oh please, buy her those school supplies. "You always wait 'til the last minute, Mom!" And though it pains me to admit it: I do. So after several weeks of prodding and poking and nagging, and whined-out-loud fears that she would be the only kid in 6th grade with no school supplies, I finally MOM made the trek today to do the deed I dreaded all summer.  As of now and a mere $100 later, her school supplies are neatly unpacked, labeled, and repacked into little take-to-school bags, ready to be carried through the halls and into the lockers and desks of junior high. The thing I've wondered since I started buying school supplies is this: How on earth are paper towels, Kleenex, and plastic sandwich bags school supplies?  I mean, the fact that I had to buy a calculator and $15 13-pocket FOLDERS for crying out loud is bad enough. But I also have to stock the classroom with Kleenex? As wallet-busting as it is, I've learned to accept this fact about school supply shopping, and though it seems suspicious to me that a sixth grader would need 48 #2 pencils, I just buy the stuff. And buy the stuff I did:

Take out a second mortgage and get your school supplies!

S now feels secure that she can embark on her junior high career fully-stocked. The only problem is, I also kind of forgot to register her for the school bus. And school.

I'VE BEEN BUSY.

So I went online to register and was happily amazed that I actually found S's user name and password to log on. But when I got into the ever-so-convenient online registration system, I received an error message telling me that "online registration is not available at this time." I called the school, and was informed that I would have to leave a message for the "computer guy", but that I should be aware that the "computer guy is very busy" and that he "might not" get back to me - but that I should leave him a message anyway. I asked the school lady if I could just pay her over the phone for the bus and school fees, and she told me I should do it online. You know, the ONLINE THAT IS BROKEN. So I asked if I should just come in person to register S, and she told me the office hours, which OF COURSE are only during my work hours. I thought about asking M to handle all of the registration paperwork, but we are talking about a man who can't even remember his mother's name, so there went that option.

12 days away from the start of school, I have $100 in school supplies, and no school in which to use them. I have the feeling S will be very, very annoyed with me if she bounds into school on the first day, her backpack loaded down with expensive calculators and 13-pocket folders, and she is turned away for crimes of procrastination.  But first, she will have to work her way onto the school bus, since she is not on the list. 

Kid, you're in junior high now. Time to get resourceful.

1-800-MOTHERS

by Patti

S "forgets" a lot of things. She "forgets" to brush her teeth, take a shower, comb her hair, use deodorant. She "forgets" to clear her plate, put her cup in the sink, put away the milk. She "forgets" to feed the dog, where she put her glasses, where that library book went. But the one thing she never, ever forgets? MY NUMBER. My cell phone number is permanently programmed on speed dial in her brain, and she uses it frequently and without pause. I'll admit: I've "screened" my kid. It's just that, after the fourth phone call to tell me that her pants are too short, or that Gaucho won't stop licking her, or that she is bored, well....

The best is when I'm at work, surrounded by co-workers, and she calls me to ask me where her left shoe is. Never mind that her father is home. Apparently his shoe-finding skills pale in comparison to mine, especially since, you know, he's RIGHT THERE, and I am 20 minutes away AT WORK.
"Honey, I don't know. You wore them last, not me."
"But, Mo-OM! Where ARE they? I KNOW I put them in my closet."
That right there I know is a lie since she puts NOTHING in her closet except for things that are not supposed to go into her closet, like scraps of paper and thumb tacks and stuffed animals that are coming un-stuffed.
"Honey, I don't know because I'm not there and I can't help you look for them. Ask Papi to help you."
I hear the blender in the backround, and I know M is making a smoothie and so not helping her, and I feel a slice of white hot rage go through  me because, really? Then, as if my white hot rage somehow found his neck and choked it a little, I hear him tell S to "deja mama que trabaje" (let mommy work), and then I hear S's whines grow to outstanding proportions, and then, I can't help it: I hang up on her.

But because my number is on speed dial in her brain, my phone rings again almost instantly, and I, with a stab of guilt in my gut, simply slide away her call.

When my brother and I were young, we were latch-key kids for three hours a day after school. I remember loudly tumbling into the house, tossing our bags and books haphazardly here and there, and immediately calling my mom at work to let her know we'd made it home. Then we'd get to preparing ourselves after-school snacks, so we'd call my mom again to ask where the mayonnaise was. Then we'd eat and get into some sort of fight, so we'd call her to tattle on one another. Then we'd be fine and then call her to ask her to bring home ice cream or maybe a puppy, PLEASE? Then we'd call her to ask her a question about our homework.  Back then they didn't have the lovely "ignore" feature on phones; they didn't have caller ID; they most certainly did not have cell phones, so, since we were calling her at work and she had no way of knowing whether or not it was a Real Person or just her annoying kids, she had to answer the phone. Honestly, I'm surpised she was never booted.

What amazes me is that we never thought to call my dad. I mean, like M is to S, he was a hands-on dad to us. So why, when we needed something or wanted to vent or were bored, did we only think to call my mom? Much like S has my number imprinted in her brain, my brother and I had our mother's imprinted in ours. Hers was the only number that provided results, and, it appears, S feels the same about my number.

But now? Ah, yes! I have technology on my side. And I can press ignore; I can slide away that call; I can choose not to answer.

But I do. Almost every time.

The Pointe of Dreams

by Patti

This past weekend marked a monumental milestone in S's 11-year old life. Since she was four years old, S has dreamed of this milestone, and it has finally come to fruition: She's en pointe.

She has studied countless YouTube videos in preparation for this day, and the bunions, the blood, the twisted toes - none of that scares her away.

The day she got fitted for her pointe shoes, the parents, bystanders in our kids' dreams, hovered, snapping pictures, inhaling the glee that seemed to permeate the air. There were pointe shoes spread out all over the floor, as the fitters grasped the delicate, still unmarred feet of our daughters, trying to find the perfect fit. They were Cinderella ballerinas. 

Glass slippers

S's fitter called her over the barre, and S walked over, at first clumsy, the pointe shoes a new, strange feeling on her feet. The fitter worked her hand around S's foot, eyeing for any "twist" or "scrunch" in the fabric as S looked down at her feet, unbelieving of her luck.

Then the fitter asked her to plie so that she could see how the shoes moved with her. S grasped the barre and dipped low, her legs strong and determined. 

At last, the fitter uttered the magic words. "Please go up en pointe." S held her breath, knowing she was about to go up for the very first time, feeling the air change around her. Then she did it - she grew a foot in an instant -  she was en pointe.

S smiled hard into the mirror, failing at her attempt to remain cool and casual. The fitter clapped her hands together in celebration, and then got back to work, analyzing S's feet, their position, the fit of the shoes.
The first pair was deemed unsuitable, and S was sent back to the purple velvet couch to try on another pair.

If at first you don't succeed....

 S tried on a good dozen pairs of shoes that afternoon, and every walk to the mirror and subsequent lift up on to her toes grew stronger and stronger. By the time she and her fitter found the pair that sang on her feet, she could have pirhouetted out of the store en pointe, out onto the street, and all the way home.

But first: I had to pay.

When the cashier chirped out the total to me, my stomach lurched. Really? For pointe shoes? And then, as I looked over at S proudly clutching the little purple bag that held her wishes, I realized: I wasn't paying for shoes; I was paying for a dream. And then, as I handed over my debit card, it seemed I was getting quite a deal.

The moment we got home, S put on her new pointe shoes. They were satin-y, pink champagne on her feet as she flitted on her toes across the kitchen floor. "Look, mom!" I was actually impressed at how easily she seemed to lift herself  up so high.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"Not at all!" she answered, her arms delicately fluttering as she looked down at her vertical feet. "It feels cool!"

Remember when we dreamed? When it all seemed possible; when it was all new and fresh and we got butterflies at the thought of what was yet to come? I see that in her eyes now. Dreams keep a heart beating.


Love. Dream. Hope.



Eavesdropped: Insane Gramp

by Patti


S was Skyping with Bella the other day, when Bella asked her if she had Instagram.
"Yes! In Argentina!" replied S.
Bella blinked over the virtual airwaves, trying to understand S's answer.
"Why did you ask me that?" S asked, trying to understand the reason for such an odd question.
"Ask you what?" replied Bella.
"If I had an insane gramp...."

In a parallel universe, somehow this.......

equals this.

Nail Salon Newbies

by Cathy

When you were a child, did your mother ever take you to the nail salon? Heck, did your mother herself ever even go to the nail salon? For me, that's a no and a no.

In fact, the first time I ever got a professional manicure or pedicure, I was in my late twenties.  Getting a mani/pedi just wasn't as IN back then as it now. Besides, we were DIYers; my mom was a certified beautician so she cut our hair, highlighted it, colored her own and polished our nails (as well as her own). We always looked like a million bucks without spending the million bucks.

So when my daughter asked for a nail salon party for her 11th birthday, I thought 'Why not? This could be fun.' There were seven girls in total, each of who got the choice of getting either a mani or a pedi. Bella could get both since she was the birthday girl. And Ari? My five-year old? She asked for a pedicure.

I stepped back and observed while they selected their service and color. They each took on a different, more mature persona as they decided: Mani or pedi? Which color? Nail art? Should I mix TWO colors? Should I alternate colors?

Ari, for example, hemmed and hawed over her decision for quite some time; this was very unlike her usually decisive self. She was awestruck at the color options as she looked up at the massive wall shelving unit that was brimming with every shade of every color in the rainbow and then some. "Mommy, pick me up so I can see the ones on top!" she squealed every so often. I patiently lifted and suggested and oohed and ahhed, but she would have none of it. She knew what she was looking for, and after a good twenty minutes and multiple choice changes later, she settled on a reddish-pink color.

Bella came off as a complete pro. Unlike her usual indecisive self, she promptly chose her turquoise color, was shown to her seat immediately and proceeded to set the massage chair to the setting of her choice. She picked up a tabloid magazine next to her, settled in and was thoroughly enjoying her spa time. It's as if she's done this millions of times before. She didn't really have any interest in observing the steps, the process or how anything was done. She was just intent on relaxing.

Ari, on the other hand, had to sit waaaaaay up close to the edge of the large leather recliner, and was intent on watching every. single. thing. the lady was doing and how she did it. She was in awe. Her tiny feet were inserted into the humongous plastic flip flops as the woman laughed lovingly at Ari's smallness and topped off her pedicure with some daisies on her big toes. Ari was squealing with delight.

Part of the thrill of watching your kids grow up is taking in how they experience new things. It was such a joy for me to experience such a womanly rite of passage with them for the first time at the ages they are now. And although we are big advocates of DIY, we will definitely plan some mother-daughter days at the nail salon at least once a year going forward. It's now officially, the IN thing to do.

Wings in Motion

by Patti

The strangest thing happened the other evening. I found myself at my baby's school, clutching an orange folder with S's name on it. In this folder was a neat stack of papers, listing teachers' names and schedules and electives.  Surely this can't be right, I told myself as I looked around the school library, surrounded by other mothers and an assortment of 11-year olds. I mean, I get why they are here.... but what am I doing here? And then the principal clapped her hands and welcomed us to the next chapter of our child's lives: middle school.

Oh.

Days later, I am still wondering how this happened. I mean, how can it be that I can still hear S's newborn cries in my ears; I can still see the pudgy hand in mine; I can still see her looking up at me in wonder as she discovers the world.  So how does it make sense that she is now going into junior high? JUNIOR. HIGH.
It doesn't.

But it's happening. Just like I knew it would but hoped it wouldn't. And I know it's only the beginning. Because then, just as they discussed at the middle school orientation, there is high school, and then college, and then heartaches of adulthood, and then... and then... and THEN...

S has been existing in a bubble of anticipation this past week. "I can't believe I'm going into middle school!" she sings out as she eats her cereal, or walks the dog, or brushes her teeth. "I'm SO nervous!" She has carried that orange folder, the one that holds the choices she will make as she sets the wheels of her future in motion, with her everywhere since she received it a few days ago. "Can you help me pick? I think I want drama workshop and debate! What else?" She looks down at the paper, weighing her options, already worried about making a mistake.

What is so weird is that, as she wonders and worries and anticipates, I can so clearly see myself wandering the huge halls of my own middle school. I was so short and skinny and shy; I felt swallowed up by my junior high experience. Until I disovered the things that woke me up and made me shine and broke me right out my shell.
S is different: She is short and skinny, but shy? Not in the least. She is brave and strong and outgoing. She is silly and bright and fun. She won't be swallowed up by her experience; instead, she will swallow it right up. S? Will do fine.

This weekend we will sit down and carefully go through that orange folder. She will make her own choices, and I will be there just in case she has a question or wants an opinion. And that is all. Because this will be her journey. Fly, baby.

My Week with Maryland

by Patti

For the past two months, S has had to learn everything about Maryland. She had never even given that tiny state a second thought, but thanks to a year-end school project that would be a huge part of her final grade (If I fail, I won't go to middle school, MOM!), she and Maryland had no choice but to become best friends forever.  It hasn't been easy. FOR ME. Because all I've heard for the past two months is "I HATE MARYLAND." But thanks to this never-ending school project, we now know that Frank Zappa was born in Maryland; that Billie Holiday grew up in Maryland; that there is an historical, crumbling zoo in Maryland; that blue crab abounds in Maryland; that the Black-Eyed Susan is Maryland's flower; that Maryland's manufacturing revolves around soda and soap; that Maryland's flag is red and yellow and black and really, really hard to draw..... Oh, yes! The things we have learned, all in the name of getting an A!

Even though "parental participation" was "highly encouraged", for the most part, S has been pretty independent on this project. Aside from the constant whines of "I HATE MARYLAND", she has handled it quite well. She is a wiz on the computer, and a Dr. Google just like me, so she hasn't needed much assistance.
Until... the landmark. The last assignment of this project has lived in our house for the past week, swallowing up our entire dining room, all of our evenings, and even appearing in our dreams.  For the final leg of this "Celebrate America!" journey, S had to choose a landmark from her assigned state - Maryland - and recreate it. We scoured the Internet for something landmark-y, but nothing jumped out as particularly interesting. S began to panic. "I'm going to FAIL!" She remembered a website her teacher had suggested that detailed the many landmarks across the United States, and jumped around excitedly when she saw the furniture store with the 16-foot rocking chair on its roof. Yes, I said furniture store. Since when is a furniture store a landmark?
"Are you sure you can use this as a landmark?"
"Yes! My teacher even recommeded this website!"
"But... it's a furniture store."
"SO? It's on the website!"
And furniture store it was.

Now, I'll admit this: I'm good at a lot of things. Not to sound braggy, but I kind of am. I can cook, I can draw, I can sing a song, I can find anything you could ever hope to find on the Internet, I can make a person laugh.... What I can't do? Is build. For realz. Don't ever ask me to build your house, because it will come crumbling down around you the second you sneeze. My hands are impatient, and impatience does not suit structure well. M, on the other hand? Is a bit of a genius when it comes to that stuff. His hands are steady and careful and very detail-oriented. In short: The dude is anal as hell. And while Mister Cuts All the Carrots the Same Shape and Size When He is Making a Salad makes me insane with his anal-ness, it certainly comes in handy from time to time. Even knowing all of this, I , being my competitive and hard-headed self, still wanted to be able to find a way to be the Project Master. So I decided M would handle the rocking chair, and I would do the building. Because, you know, I CAN'T BUILD.

In a few short hours, M built that rocking chair. One that actually rocks (both literally and figuratively). The hardest part out of the way, S and I got to work on the actual building - the part I had delusionally assumed I'd be able to handle with ease and flair. We had gone to the Dollar Store and Michael's, and were armed with a zillion popsicle sticks, cardboard gift boxes, poster board, and pipe cleaners. The pipe cleaners were a total "just in case"; it just seems a school project is not a school project until there are pipe cleaners involved. So, as M's expertly crafted rocking chair sat there in the corner, drying, and S stood over me, I stared at the popsicle sticks and cardboard and poster board and pipe cleaners. "What can I do?" she asked. I fumbled with the cardboard, attempting to fashion it into some semblance of a building. The laptop sat open in front of me, a picture of the real building mocking me. "Mom? Maybe we need those building bricks we saw at Michael's?"
"No - we don't need those things. They're waaaay too expensive. What we have will work great!"
"But... how are we going to build the parts that stick out?"
"Like this!" I quickly folded up a piece of posterboard, attempting to create some sort of 3-D structure. I placed it over the flat area of the cardboard, silently worried by how uneven and amateurish it appeared.
"That doesn't look good."
"Shhh! It'll be fine once it's done and painted!"

We fumbled with the popsicle sticks and cardboard and poster board and pipe cleaners for three days. All the while, M hovered over me, micromanaging my incomptence, as I stubbornly continued to try to - in the words of Tim Gunn - "make it work". But it wasn't working. At all. And that is when M elbowed his way into the project, taking over. He grabbed the piece of foam board I had bought to use as the base, and swiftly folded it, instantly creating the building's facade and base.
"OH MY GOD!" S screamed. "IT LOOKS SO REAL NOW!"
I hung my head in defeat. "What do we need from the store?"
M rattled off a list of items, and I drove to Michael's at 7:30 pm on a Monday night to buy my "start all a-freaking-over" supplies. While there, I saw a few other harried parents buying foam board and popsicle sticks, and wondered if they, too, were starting all over.

When I got home, S excitedly greeted me at the door. "Look what Papi did!" There was M at the dining room table, holding the magically crafted front of the building, windows already cut out, the swinging doors covered in wood, complete with tiny little handmade handles.
I took the building bricks out of the Michael's bag and S whooped with glee. "This is going to be the best landmark EVER!"

The project, now coming together beautifully, is still underway, and Supervisor M has delegated the remaining tasks to us. But not before he managed to MAKE TINY FURNITURE for the inside of the furniture store.

I hate Maryland.

Gone to Heaven in a Handbag

by Patti

S has been working her way through the money and gift cards she received for her birthday last month. She is 11 now - that magical age where not only do your eyeballs practically fall out of their sockets from rolling them so fiercely at the sheer audacity of those others around you to even exist, but also the age where you prefer cha-ching! over Polly Pockets as a gift.

So yesterday, as part of the pretty wonderful Mother's Day that I had, I hit Target with S and my mom. My mom and I needed boring things like toilet paper and snacks for the week, but S had a plan: SPEND THOSE GIFTCARDS.  I'll admit: S is a lucky kid. She's got everything a kid could ever need, plus a lot of things a kid could ever hope for. I know this because whenever she's got a gift card or cash to blow, she kind of stands there and suffers. "I don't know what to BUY!" Oh, the world problems. But this time around, she had her heart set on a purse. Not a sparkly, kid-ish one, either; a real, live, cool, grown-up purse.

I remember when I got my first real, live purse. My aunt bought it for me when I was 12. It was the "in" purse of the moment -- a "Jet" bag with zillions of zippers, parachute-like material, and a rough, canvas strap. I loved that purse more than I loved Shaun Cassidy. I still recall the feeling of hearing the zipper unzip, and how I constantly found an excuse to rummage through the crap I wrangled up to throw in there in order to make that purse feel "official". This is how I knew how excited S was to have that same experience.

When we walked into Target, we immediately happened upon the purse area. S browsed through the aisles, lovingly stroking the diffirent types of leather, pleather, fabric and various faux materials that made up the many types of bags. She finally found one that made her squeal, and slung it over her shoulder. It was a slouchy brown pleather number with panels of Native American Indian designs on each side of the bag. "I LOVE this! It looks really hippy-ish!" She strode up and down the aisle, the bag swallowing her up whole. "I just wish it was a different color." She wore it as she browsed the other available purses, hoping to find one that made her squeal again. My mom and I took turns fruitlessly holding up alternatives, but she just rolled her eyes at them. Clearly, we had no taste. I finally found one buried among the "ugly" options that caught my eye. It was fabric and had funky designs all over it. It looked very "S". Slouchy? Check. Hippy-ish? Check. Long strap? Check.  "How about this one?" S let out an "ooooh" of approval, and I handed it to her. She was now more confused than ever.
"I love them BOTH!"
"Ah, but you can only get one."
"What do I do?"
My mom suggested that she walk up and down the aisle past the mirror, and glance at herself as she strode by so that she could see how each purse looked in action. So she did. Many, many times. And she still couldn't decide

Fully aware that we actually had real things to buy, I suggested that she walk around the store with both purses on, and get a feel for them in the real world. We pushed the cart around, my mom buying her things, me buying mine, all while S struggled out loud about her looming decision. In the soup aisle, I saw a woman with a funky sense of style -- the kind I knew S would respect -- so I approached her. "My daughter is buying her first real purse today, and she is having trouble deciding between two. May I ask your opinion?" The woman analyzed S, a gleam in her eye, and then quickly pointed at the one I had chosen.
"Love that one! I mean, they're both cute, but that one is just more... playful." S immediately nodded, relieved to be done with the choice.
"Thank you!" S smiled widely at the woman as she removed the brown purse from her shoulder.
"You're welcome. And... congratulations!" The woman smiled back at her, then looked at me and winked as she continued down the aisle, her job done.
S tore the tag off of the chosen purse and handed it to me, then placed her gift card in the bag, christening it with new weight. She then proceeded to float the rest of her way through Target, the purse grazing her thigh.

Last night, as I gave her her nightly good-night kiss, she asked me to sit with her for two minutes so that she could tell me what she had put in her purse. "....chapstick, my glasses case, lip gloss, my phone, a notebook with a pen - cuz you know how you're always telling me stuff I forget - my wallet, some suckers and some gum....I just wish I could sleep with my purse!" I congratulated her again on her new score, and tucked her in.  She rolled over and closed her eyes, the smile on her face carrying her into her dreams.

Royal Pains in my Seat

by Cathy

One night last week, Bella prepared her evening snack as usual and sat down at the kitchen table to eat it. This time, however, she sat in Ari's chair. We have designated chairs at our kitchen table for dinner and ever since the girls were old enough to sit in a chair with their booster seats, they each sat in their assigned chair of choice.

On this night, as Bella was happily chomping on her Cheerios and me on my Honeycomb (what can I say? It brings back my childhood memories) Ari strolled into the kitchen to get some water. And so it began.

"Bella! Why are you sitting in my seat?!"
"Because mommy is sitting in mine," she pointed over at me, my left cheek stuffed with those huge Honeycomb wheels.
"Bella!! I don't want you to sit in my seat!"
Silence.
"Mommy! Bella is sitting in my seat!"
"Honey, it's okay. She's just having her snack. She'll be almost done."
"But I want to sit there?"
"Now? But you're not eating."
"I still want to sit there."
"Honey, just let her finish and she'll get up, okay?"
"NOOOOOOO!"

On this went until I moved out of Bella's seat so she can sit there and free up Ari's seat. But Bella didn't budge.
"She has to learn that she can't always get what she wants."

Hmph. Here was the student teaching the master. She had a good point. So we both ignored her until she stomped off and came back with this note, which she prodded into our personal face space and proceeded to then tape to her chair after Bella got up:

She wrote this same thing three different times, spelling it three different ways. And if you'll notice, she taped up ALL THREE versions on each side of her chair. She clearly marked her territory and claimed her stake at the kitchen table, that's for dang sure.

So that evening, Bella decided to do the same, but she one-upped her by simply just putting her nickname, Queen Isabella, on her chair, in the fanciest font she could find:

And Ari, in true Leo fashion and never wanting to be outdone, had her papi help her create the following to add to her chair, but first, not without changing her mind and allowing someone to sit in her chair for an allotted period of time:

The 30 minute restriction overpowers the throne name

So all these little scraps of paper are still taped to these two chairs in our kitchen, lest anyone forgets which chair they're about to plop their own seat on.

See? Some ground rules are always needed...even when you think you'll never need them.

Sleepovers & Secrets

by Cathy

This past weekend, Bella had her 11th birthday party. She was particularly ecstatic because a) we got her a cell phone for her birthday a few days before the party, b) this was the first sleepover party she's hosted at our house and c) well, because she's a kid and it's her birthday party!

So for three days and three nights, we cleaned, vacuumed, prepped the sleepover room/bedroom, shopped and put together goody boxes, climbed ladders to twist purple and green streamers from all corners of her bedroom, hung a puffy, pink pom-pom looking thing from the ceiling fan in our living room, went to Costco and bought pizzas, chips, salsa, snacks, ice cream, chocolate milk, fruit, pancake mix, water, juice boxes and a bajillion other things that apparently we need to have on hand for a birthday sleepover party, organized and decluttered little areas in our house that needed to look more presentable, made sure I had Ferris Bueller's Day Off mailed to our house by Netflix in time, entertained, shuffled, chaperoned and chauffeured seven girls from our home, to the movie theater, to the nail salon and back.

Surprisingly, it all went very smooth, despite the 'You guys are crazy' undertones heard in the voices of the parents dropping off their kids, as they said things like, "Have fuuuuun..."  and "Good luuuuuck.." Luckily, everything turned out much better than we all anticipated. The demeanor, camaraderie and well-behaved manners of the girls were pleasantly surprising. They are, after all, blooming into young ladies and it's amazing to see how their maturity level is growing into that role as well.

After all of the shuffling and home activities were completed, the girls were off to the bedroom to claim their stake on the floor and lay out their sleeping bags, blankets, pillows and sweetly enough, even their favorite stuffed animals and pillow pets.

The plan was to get Ari, my five-year old, to sleep with me and Joe in our bed and offer up her bed to one of the girls. But there were two problems here: 1) no one wanted to sleep in the bed ("I never get to sleep on the floor!!" and "It's so much more fun on the floor!") and 2) Ari refused to leave her bed, even though she was beyond exhausted since having awakened at 7am that morning and would never get close to even shutting her eyes in a room brimming over with prepubescent, hormone-charged, high-pitched squealy girls. She desperately still wanted to be a part of what the Big Girls were doing. Thankfully, one of the girls came to her senses and requested the bed after all, which required plenty of coaxing and bribery on my part to get Ari to come into our bedroom.

I scooped her up with her pillow and Mo, her stuffed lamb, and carried her into our room, promising her a cuddly, snuggly time with mommy and papi. Joe greeted her with a sweet, "Hi mommy! You come here and sleep with us tonight, okay?" I tucked her little body in while she clutched PillowMo, slipped under the covers and cozied up right next to her. As I watched Ari doze off next to me, I thought about how Bella was in her room gossiping, sharing secrets, talking about boys, texting other girls in the room on her new phone, and how she was already growing up and away from us. I missed her already.

Exhausted, I started to doze off myself, when I was awakened by a quick kiss and a loudly whispered, "Good night mommy!"
I startled awake and found Bella's face right over mine. I hugged and kissed her goodnight. After about what seemed like another hour and the voices trailing from the girls' room were starting to lose power, I heard the quick, tip-toed shuffling of feet and waited for Bella to turn the corner into our room again. I smiled to myself as she came in.
 "I just want to give you another kiss and a hug before I go to sleep," she said tiredly. I wondered if she had snuck out of the room to do this and I smiled to myself again. I squeezed her tight and gave her another goodnight kiss.
"Thanks for everything mommy. Love you!" she said softly as she ran back to her room.

I fell back asleep, smiling contentedly. No matter how old she is, she will always be my 'lil girl, and that will always be our little secret.

Happy 11th birthday, my 'lil girl!!

She can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell! (My bell! Ding-a-ling-a-ling!)

by Patti


S has been sick the past few days, lounging in bed with a sore throat and a cold and recovering from a conk to the head that left her with a bump on the back of her head the size of, well, a head.

The first day of her sickness, she stayed home from school and I stayed home from work. In an attempt to make being sick fun, I set her up in our bed with fluffed-up pillows, her Kindle, some movies, and a bell. Yes, I gave her a bell - the kind you see dainty ladies in dainty sleeping gowns ring daintily from their dainty, frilly beds to call for their tea. "What's this?" S's eyes lit up.
"It's a bell. Since your throat hurts, instead of calling for me, you can just ring it when you need me."
"COOL!" She took the bell from me and gave it a test drive. "I LOVE THIS!"

I left the room and headed for the kitchen to do dishes. BY HAND. Because, you know, we still don't have a new dishwasher. Mid-pot scrub, I heard it. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!" I ran to the bedroom dramatically, slid in on my socks and bowed deeply. "Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?" S laughed with delight. She couldn't believe her good fortune and the power of the bell.
"I'm thirsty. Can I have some water?"
"Sure, honey!"
I went back to the kitchen and filled a water bottle with ice and water and lots of love, and took it right back to her. "Here you go, ma'am."
"Thanks, mommy."
"You're welcome, moodge."

I headed back to the kitchen to finish the dishes, and within moments..."Jingle, jingle, jingle!" I once again shut off the water, peeled off my neon green Glam Gloves (yes, that is what they are called. Don't believe me? You can see them right here.), and went back to my bedroom. "Hi, sweetie. What is it?"
"Mommy? Can you find me 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding' on YouTube?"
"Don't you want to watch something different? You've seen it, like, nine times."
"No, I love that movie, especially when I'm sick." And then she coughed for good effect.
"Okay..." I bent over her Kindle and expertly surfed YouTube until I found the movie. "Here you go!"
"Thanks, Mommy!"

Back at the sink again, the bell rang within minutes. This time I walked only half way to the bedroom. "What is it, sweetheart?"
"Mommy, that was only part one. I can't find part two."
I shuffled back into the bedroom, feeling a slight twinge of annoyance. I once again did my YouTube magic and managed to find the entire movie, set it up for her, and left the room. Again.
When I got back to the kitchen, M came home from running errands. "How is she?"
"She's - " Before I had the chance to answer, the familiar ringing filled the air.
"What's that?" M cocked his head towards the sound, his eyes searching the air.
"Oh. That. I gave her a bell."
M rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"
"I thought it would be fun." The bell continued to ring in the distance, it's once delightful chime now mocking my decision. This time M went into the room, and I heard her giggle as he no doubt tickled her.

He was back within minutes and I had finally finished the dishes. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!" Not wanting to admit I had made a mistake, I sailed past M, an eager smile pasted on my face. "Fun! See?"
"Mommy? I'm hungry. But for something good." Because, you know, we normally crave something disgusting when we are hungry.
"What do you want?"
"Something...cozy."
Oh, brother. I went back into the kitchen and toasted some cinnamon bread, slathered it with butter and cinnamon, and cut up some fruit in a little bowl, then put it all on a tray. "How's this?" I set the tray onto the bed with flourish as she propped herself up and gave me a nod of approval.

I joined M in the kitchen where we started going over some bills. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!"  I decided to pretend I didn't hear the bell, but the more M and I tried to talk over it, the louder it seemed to get. I didn't understand just how her SUPPOSEDLY SICK LITTLE HAND managed to ring that thing with such fervor and stamina. Finally; I snapped. "WHAT?" I yelled from the kitchen. The bell stopped suddenly, as if hurt by my tone. And then, it started ringing again, this time with more persistence.

I ran into the room, "WHAT IS IT, HONEEEEEEY?"
S looked all tiny and pale, propped up against the pillows, surrounded by Kleenex and stuffed animals, the movie's now all-too-familiar dialogue in the background. "I need tea. With cream. Please?"

Suddenly overcome with crazy love for this little pain-in-the-ass with a bell that was my daughter, I leaped onto the bed and gathered her into my arms. "Do you KNOW how much I love you? DO YOU?"
She nodded and laughed a muffled laugh into my chest. "Yesth."
And then I got up and went to make her that damned tea. With bells on.

Deep Pockets

by Patti


I was cuddling with S on the couch the other day, trying to hug her through that damned Columbia jacket that she has worn so much, I vow to snatch it from her while she sleeps and burn it into obliteration.

Anyway.

So I'm cuddling with the kid when I feel this... lump. "What is that?" I asked her, rubbing my hip.
"My pocket.'
"Your pocket?"
"Yeah, my pocket."

I shoved my hand curiously into her pocket, and fished out a box of Tic Tacs. And a rubber ball. And some change. And chapstick. And some Fun Dip candy. And wadded up gum wrappers.
"Seriously, honey? Don't you think you need to clean out your pocket?"
"Try my other pocket!" She flipped over, delighted.

So I shoved my hand into her other pocket, this time a bit more cautiously, afraid I was going to find our dog in there. Nope, not our dog. But I did find her inhaler, another rubber ball (???), more wadded up paper, her school I.D. card, Kleenex, cough drops, house keys - which, you should know, are secured to a long, wide ribbon, and that ribbon was artfully bunched up so that it fit neatly into her pocket-o-junk....
I was actually impressed by the expertise with which all of the crap that S managed to contain in those pockets of hers was contained. And the pockets? Aren't even that big. Yet, like the magician's sleeve from which he pulls 598,402,542 scarves, I kept pulling stuff out of those pockets.  Worried for her BACK with all that extra weight she was lugging around, I forced her to clean out her pockets, and then continued the cuddlefest.

This weekend M was doing laundry and happened upon that same Columbia jacket. "This feels so heavy. Is there something in the pockets?"
"There was; she emptied the pockets the other day." As we talked, I folded clothes on the pool table/ laundry folding table/place to leave piles of clothes that we are too lazy to put away forget to put away.
I heard a jangly, clankity sound, and looked up to find M shaking out S's jacket over the table. Out tumbled her inhaler, her house keys, some change, four throat lozenges, wadded up Kleenex, a pencil, a pencil sharpener, her school I.D. card, five hair rubber bands, two rings,and a pack of Hubba Bubba.
"She did?"

I swear, S's pockets are like lizard tails: they regenerate. Except for in lieu of a scaly tail, her pockets regenerate the $5 and under aisle at Walgreen's. Maybe it's a good thing her Columbia has small pockets. A different, less annoying jacket might have deeper pockets, and the Universe's things cannot afford to be swallowed up any more whole than they already are by S's pockets.