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.

Sweetly, Come Undone

by Cathy

I have the sweetest, most thoughtful girls on the planet. They are both kind, respectful and generous.

Last night, my six-year old, Ari, wanted to surprise my husband and I with what she called a "romantic dinner". The thought popped into her head two nights ago while I was tucking her into bed - although I have no idea what prompted that thought. Either way, she had it stuck in her head and insisted on doing it, and after some coaxing and savvy explaining, I got her to hold off until last night. And boy, did she ever remember.

She got home from school, ate, did her homework, rushed off to her bedroom, shut the door and began her planning preparations for our "date night in". She staked her claim in the living room and posted some signs (backed up by verbal warnings) that we should not, under any circumstance, enter or peek into that living room until she invited us in. After what seemed like hours of scurrying to and fro, sliding around some chairs, requesting step stools, carrying bins, writing out menus, digging up pink aprons and covering the coffee table in a fuzzy, teddy bear blanket/tablecloth, we were summoned to be seated.

My husband and I sat across from each other, literally on the edges of our seats due to fluffy couch pillows placed lovingly against the dining room chair seatbacks for comfort. No matter that our knees were crouched up against the sharp edges of the coffee table - we were on a romantic date and nothing was going to spoil this fun. Pretend tea was served to us in Ari's plastic, princess Disney tea set as we perused our hand-written menus, courtesy of Ari's Cafaye.

My menu had Brecfist and Dusrte as such:
wofols
eggs
meteu (meat)
spgedey
cack
SunDay
ice screme
cokese

Joe's had Lunch and Dinnr as such:
eggs
Hot Dogs
chiginugit
friyse
spgedye
brede
meteu
salide

Ari dutifully stood guard, decked up in an adult-sized pink apron which was tied all the way up under her underarms and mentally took note of our orders. She set up some tunes on a keyboard and for full effect, we unsealed the plastic film from around our fireplace for the first time since they were toddlers and fired that baby up. Ari even entertained us with a puppet show from behind our couch called "The Frog Who Won't Leave the Puppy Alone," complete with intermissions where she allowed us our "privaseat" and "funny talk".

Towards the end of our hot date, I asked if I could personally thank the owner of Ari's Cafaye and she shyly said, "That's me!" So I grabbed her, tickled her and plopped her on my lap, whereupon I smothered her with millions of thankful mommy hugs and kisses. Worried as to her father's potential jealousy, she looked over her shoulder mid-tickle and gestured to him that she will come to him next.

Later that night, once we had tucked both girls into bed, I cleaned up the living room and collected the menus and signs posted outside the living room. Then my eye caught a welcome sign that I missed on my way in:

The sentiment; the spelling; the innocence. I've come undone.

And that, my dear friends, is when I lost it. I don't even know where all of this emotion was coming from and was baffled that all it took was to read this sign, the catalyst in my mommy meltdown. I began sobbing - the type of sobbing where your body is racked with heaving sighs and multiple attempts at catching your breath. I was drowning in tears and my face was so contorted with wails that I now know why they call it the "ugly cry". And it just kept coming. My eyes became puffy, my nose filled up with snot and I was wailing like a baby.

My husband shuffles into our bedroom half-asleep. "Are you okay? What's wrong?!"
And there I stood, hand wrist-deep in a tissue box, face beet-red, puffy and smeared in makeup-infused tears, and replied, "My babies are growing up!!!!"
"Of course they're growing up," he says, totally unhelpful and setting himself up to be punched by his lunatic wife/mother of his kids.
"Pretty soon she's gonna grow up and figure out how to spell and we'll be done with this phase of our kids! Look!" I said, shoving the sign under his nose. "It's the cutest most innocent thing and that is going to come to an end. SOOOONNN!!" I fell apart again.
What was wrong with me?!?! Why was this hitting me so hard? It's not like I haven't seen this writing before; I must have looked insane.
"Yes, but when they do, we'll still get written letters, just of a different kind," he tried hard to reassure me.
"But I like these!!" I cried back, slamming her hand-written note down on the bed.
After a long pause filled with lots of sniffing, nose-blowing and heaved sighs, I turned back to Joe.
"Just wait. You'll experience this too. For me, it was this letter. For you, it will be something else very seemingly insignificant yet monumental in some way and it will hit you out of nowhere. Just wait," I taunted. "You'll see."

And with that, I drifted off to sleep with sweet thoughts of my sweet girls in sweet, unforgettable moments that I hold onto with the tenacity that only a mother could take in, hold dear and never let go of.

Slipping Through My Fingers

by Cathy

Laying in bed the other night trying to fall asleep, my mind rattled off tasks and errands for the next day, skipping haphazardly over the stepping stones of my random thoughts and rather suddenly, into some deep water in the form of a panic attack.

I was thinking about what I have to do to prepare for Bella's upcoming 11th birthday party, then quickly freaked out because she's past the 10-year mark, then quickly comforted that thought with the fact that Ari is still only five. But wait! That means she 's going to be SIX? In three months? No, no no! That's not so little anymore! She will no longer be wearing toddler sizes but size 6X! With one tiny step, she'll be leaving Toddlerland and quickly heading into Teenagerville, where she'll meet up with Bella and conspire to move out within the year. I could see it all now...

So I lay in my bed crying waterfall tears and muffling heavy wails because these thoughts were tailspinning me into a lonely place. Joe was snoring away next to me, blissfully unaware that his girls are all grown up already. I desperately wanted to run into their bedroom and sprinkle desperate kisses all over their foreheads, eyebrows, eyelids, nose, cheeks, lips, chin, ears and hair and then slide under their covers, hold them tight, so they wouldn't dare grow another inch, and watch them sleep. Instead, I chose to not scare the crap out of them and took three deep breaths, calmed myself down and promised to take in every minute of every age - which is something I remind myself of on a daily basis.

..........

Ari has been obsessed with movies ever since she could sit still long enough to see one through. And when she finds a movie she loves, she loves it over and over again until we are all inevitably reciting the words to the whole movie by heart. Her first major obsession (at age three) was Bee Movie. Then it was Madagascar. Then Enchanted. Then Ice Age. Then Despicable Me.  Lately - and by this I mean, the past year - she has been infatuated with Mamma Mia!


That movie has taken up precious space on our DVR for the last year. Just the other day, Joe told me, "Dude, if I hear those Mamma Mia! songs one more time I'm gonna go nuts. What is it about that movie and Ari? Let's just erase it."

"No way!" I defensively responded, protecting my young. "Ari would KILL us if we erased it! Just leave it on. She loves it."

And sure enough, later that same night, she asked me to play it off the DVR for her. See??? Mamma knows best.

There's a wedding prep scene in the movie where the mother of the girl getting married sings "Slipping Through My Fingers" while polishing her daughters' toenails, styling her hair, helping her with her jewelry and all the other motherly moments that should be shared before she lets go of her baby so she can go off and become that special person in someone else's life.

When the first few notes of that song reverberate off our television screen, they travel through the house, grab me by the heart and pull me towards it. By now, Ari waits for me to walk into the living room where she is sitting - usually alone, because we have all seen the movie 3,258 times - and take her into my lap to squeeze her close.

"This song makes you cry, doesn't it mom," she always says. So we sing and hum and rock back and forth together and sure enough when it's over, she turns to search my face. "Let me see your tears," she says in a quasi-cocky tone. And when I don't disappoint her, she bows her head into mine and sits with me.

And then you wonder why I don't want them to grow up? Because I won't get moments like these very often. Because the innocence and sincerity won't be heard in their words anymore. Because they won't hold my hand throughout an entire field trip in a museum in front of all their friends (and boys!) anymore. Because they won't insist on sitting with you, and only you, on the bus ride home from that field trip. Because they won't request to sit on your lap while you're visiting their classroom anymore, either.

So as long as I can get these moments, I will take them, because their wedding day will be here any day now.

.............

Slipping Through My Fingers

by ABBA

Schoolbag in hand
She leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye
With an absent-minded smile
I watch her go
With a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that I'm loosing her forever
And without really entering her world
I'm glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Sleep in our eyes
Her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake
I let precious time go by
Then when she's gone
There's that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt
I can't deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
Well some of that we did
But most we didn't
And why I just don't know

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers -

Schoolbag in hand
She leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile... 

Siblings

by Patti

S finally has the baby brother she has always longed for. And I finally know what other moms mean when they say they "can't take the bickering."

The only difference is that this baby brother? Is a dog.

Gaucho has now been with us for just over a month, and I can honestly say we can't imagine our lives without him. This bat-eared, flat-faced, wrinkly-bodied, chocolate-eyed little creature has kind of stolen our hearts, and I'm not even sure he realizes it.

He has also transformed from shaky, scared little puppy, to a confident, frisky, mischievous little thing that zigzags around the back yard and tries to befriend Great Danes 900 times bigger than him.

Part of this new found confidence also means that he sticks his barely-there nose into a book that S is reading, or paws the homework  she is working on, or tries to take a lick of ice cream right as the spoon is headed into S's mouth. In short: He has become The Annoying Baby Brother.

"Mom! Gaucho won't stop biting my sweater!"
"Mom! Gaucho keeps trying to chew my 'Young Authors' book!"
"MOM! Gaucho keeps trying to jump off the couch!"
"Mom! Gaucho keeps trying to eat my apple!"

And I look over at them, Gaucho parked brattily on top of S, his innocent face daring me to ground him, and I just can't get mad at him. He IS younger, after all, and, well, S, being the big sister and all, should know better than to provoke him.

But, so as not to play favorites, I scold him, even though he cocks his head at me when I do in such a way that I might just have to eat him up right then and there.

And then, just as soon as the bickering between them begins, it is over, and they are once again cuddled onto each other, watching some totally insufferable show that features screaming! All! The! Time! on Nickelodian together.

Ah, siblings. Such a wonder to behold.

Even if one of them regularly tries to eat rocks.

Make it stop

by Patti


S has been mad at me the past few days because I couldn't chaperon her field trip to the Museum of Science & Industry this week. Work has been really busy, and I already took the day off for President's Day, and, well, this time around, I just couldn't do it.

I have chaperoned countless trips for S. When I was self-employed, I had much more flexibility (though, much larger bank anxiety), and the trade-off for all the headaches that came along with self-employment was the ability to be able to stay home without having to ask permission when my kid was sick, or wanted me at her classroom Halloween party, or begged me to come along with her and her classmates to the Field Museum. I have also volunteered to be backstage at her recitals to help other girls with their hair and makeup, spent hour after hour at the pool with S and invited friends, and I have done everything I can to make sure she has a pretty awesome birthday party every single year.

Yet, all S seems to remember is the handful of times I simply just can't. And though logically I know those handfuls of times will be but blips on her radar of childhood resentments, I can't help but panic just a little right now. You see, S will be 11 years old in 38 days. THIRTY. EIGHT. DAYS. She will be officially entering into preteen territory, where hormones will take hold of her delicate little child neck and snap it and she will come back to life as an eye-rolling, back-talking, door-slamming, bra-wearing, gum-smacking, attitude-popping, mother-hating mess. And I don't know, maybe it's my own hormones that are swirling about at this very moment, wreaking havoc on my forehead and making my pants feel tight, but it's making me sad.

In the past couple of months, I have felt... a shift. When I hug S, I feel a very subtle pulling away. When she catches me looking at her with those "annoying" love eyes, rather than giggle, she gets slightly irritated. M will be going to Argentina to visit his parents for a couple of weeks in March, leaving S and I at home, and normally, this is something we'd both secretly look forward to -- the night after night we will slumber party together in the "the big bed" eating popcorn and reading books, or surfing the 'net. But this time around, S is a little hesitant about whether or not she wants to sleep with me. And though I put on a brave face and say, "that's fine if you decide not to," in my heart, it's not fine, not at all. And that is when I want to slap myself purple for all of the nights she begged me to lay down with her, or to read her just one more story, or to stay just five minutes longer, or to go with her on her field trip..... and I said no.

They aren't kidding, those "theys" that tell you: "Enjoy it while it lasts; it goes by so fast!" "They'll be grown before you know it!" "One day you'll look back and miss these days!" Those "theys"? They know things. When S was only a couple of months old, M and I went to a client's child's birthday party, and I was sitting in a corner with her, trying to stay awake as kids ran all around me, screaming. The father of one of those screaming kids came and sat next to me on the couch, gazing at the then-tiny S with a mixture of awe and sadness. "I wish there was a way to bottle them up at this age," he said, rather wistfully. "Blink, and it's over." At the time, in the haze of new motherhood exhaustion and the feeling of infinity that stretched before me, I only knew to smile and nod. But I didn't truly understand, how could I?

And now? The clock seems to be operating on elapsed time, and I am realizing with a bittersweetness I can hardly bear that it's happening -- she's really, really growing up. And what I wouldn't do to bottle her up and make it stop.

Shower Theatre

by Patti

S began replacing bath time with "grown-uppy" showers a few years ago, and as soon as those started, they became a sudden window of alone time for me. While she wailed out the latest Disney tunes through the spray of water, I would grab my laptop, or a book, or simply settle onto the couch to watch some uninterrupted TV. Every once in a while I would call out, "You okay?", and she would halt her shower falsetto to shout out "YES!" and then continue warbling into the shampoo bottle.

Lately, though, her shower time has really infringed on my alone time. It's as if the novelty has worn off for her, and now? She needs an audience to bathe. Just as I am sitting down to read, her echo-y voice comes barreling out of the bathroom. "MOM! COME HERE!"  Since she is in the shower, and showers are full of slippery, drown-y danger, I go running. "WHAT? ARE YOU OKAY?" I shout breathlessly as I tear open the shower curtain.  And there she is, shampoo lathered high onto her head, a brush in her hand. "Watch this!" And then she proceeds to jiggle frenetically while singing something like this into her brush:

(actual shower audio)

After the obligatory clap, I shut the shower curtain and head back to the comfort of my "alone time", but before I can even reach the couch, it happens again. "MOM!" I head back to the bathroom, this time at a slower pace. I know she is fine, obviously, and I wonder what is in store for me now. I pull back the shower curtain and find her standing on one foot, the other pointed against her knee, her arms delicately fluttering at her sides. "I'm doing shower ballet!" she announces proudly.
"Wow, that's...cool. But be careful, you might slip!" and then I shut the curtain again.
But this time, I don't even make it out of the bathroom. "Wait! Mom! Look!" I turn to find her head already popped out from behind the curtain, her hair flinging buckets of water onto the floor.
"What is it, honey?"
"Ummm... LOOK!" And then she will start swaying her hips from side-to-side, her arms flailing wildly over her head, her eyes crossing for added effect.
"Did you just totally make that up to keep me here?"
She smiles, completely busted, water dripping into her eyes. "It's just that... I'm BORED."

Apparently, it's not enough to just get clean anymore. No, showers must now also be entertaining! I firmly tell her to hurry and finish soaping up her body, and to really use soap, not just pretend, and then leave the bathroom, telling her to not call me again unless she is out and dried.

A few minutes later. "MOM!" Are you serious?
"WHAT?"
"It's important this time; I swear!"
I head to the bathroom and her head is already poked out of the curtain, her hair once again bathing the bathroom floor. "Did you know that Sarah got those Converse that go up to your knee? Can I have some of those?"
"JUST FINISH TAKING A SHOWER AND WE CAN TALK ABOUT IT AFTER YOU GET OUT!" And I turn to leave, but not before almost killing myself in the process as I slip on the floor that is now completely soaked.

As I make my way to the living room, I hear her belting out another song, this time singing Adele's "Rolling in the Deep", S's version of the lyrics far more interesting. "There's a fire that's started in my heart, and it's making me feel that I'm not scared of the dark. I'm rolling in the dee-ee-eep! Why are making fun of mee-ee-ee? And you tell me, that you have to pee-ee!"

I turn back to the bathroom and stand by the door, smiling, reminding myself that these are the times I will one day miss.

Sheepy

by Patti


When S was born, my father gave her a little stuffed sheep. That little sheep sat perched on her dresser, stitched black eyes steady and unblinking, until she was old enough to start actually appreciating her stuffed animals. Ever since that day, that sheep, who became "Sheepy", has been S's best friend.

Sheepy went with S to her first day of preschool, safely clutched in S's scared little hands to safeguard her, and then he accompanied her every day thereafter, all the way through kindergarten, through every snack time, play time, and most importantly, nap time, and he never let her down.

We were always careful with Sheepy, ensuring he was tucked into bed with S every night, and, unless we were on a trip away from home, that he only went to school with her and then right back home. We could never risk losing Sheepy, after all; he was S's universe, and losing him would tear that universe apart.

When S was 7 years old, we took a family trip to Costa Rica, and of course, Sheepy came along with us. At the airport in Chicago, S was feeling sleepy, and whenever she feels sleepy, she needs to hold Sheepy. I warned S that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to take Sheepy out of her little carry-on; after all, what if something happened to him? But she insisted she would NEVER let ANYTHING happen to Sheepy, so out he came. There was a last minute gate change, and we all scrambled to get our things together and raced through the aiport to find our new gate and get on the plane.

Once we were all settled in on the plane, S proceeded to build her "nest": 2 blankets - Pooh and Bunny - and Sheepy, who would be cozily wrapped in Pooh while Bunny covered S. She began digging through her carry-on, and looked up at me, pale. "Mommy, I can't find Sheepy!"
"Are you sure?" I helped her dig through the bag, my stomach flipping just a little. Sure enough, Sheepy was nowhere to be found. I looked up at S, helpless. She could see by my expression that Sheepy was not on the plane with us. Her lip began to quiver, her eyes watering, and within seconds, she began to wail. Her cry twisted my heart violently; I had never seen her so devastated. I pulled her to me. "Oh, my baby... I'm so sorry!"

M kept looking through S's bag to see if he could somehow magically rustle up Sheepy by sheer will alone, and she was crying so loudly that the flight attendant actually came over to see what was going on. I explained to her that she had lost her beloved "sleeping buddy", and she must have been a mom, because she gave me such a look of understanding, I felt like I needed for her to hug me.

Then my mom was standing there, pulled from 15 rows away by her granddaughter's cry. "What is wrong?"she asked, panicked. S was wrapped around me, sobbing, and I mouthed the tragedy to her over S's sweaty, heartbroken little head. Suddenly my father was there, too. My father could never stand to hear S cry, not even for a single second, and seeing his "cookie-cookie" like this was almost more than he could bear. My mom looked at my dad and told him, and he bent into our row, practically climbing over M, desperate to take away her sadness. Alas, the plane was about to take off, and my parents were ushered back to their seats, leaving us with the loss of Sheepy in our laps.

S cried for a good hour, eventually falling asleep, shuttering and exhausted with grief. She slept on my lap most of the flight, and I stroked her hair, I myself devastated. It felt like the end of so much, and I was just as sad as S. We finally landed, and S woke, somber. We gathered our bags, took a shuttle to the car rental place, and all settled into the car, ready for our Costa Rican adventure. Before we took off in the car, I wanted to grab something from my bag, and reached into the cargo space to dig through it. I unzipped my bag, and out popped a furry little leg. I quickly unzipped it the rest of the way, and laying there, a patient look on his round little face, was Sheepy! I pulled him from my bag and held him up in the air, yelling out jubilantly to the car, "SHEEPY! I FOUND SHEEPY! HERE IS SHEEPY! SHEEPY IS HERE!" S lunged for Sheepy, pulling him from my hands to her chest, rocking back and forth with gratitude and excitement.  My parents broke out in a joyous chorus of cheers, and M turned to me,  his eyes wide.
"WHERE WAS HE?"
"IN MY BAG!"
"IN YOUR BAG?"
"YES! IN MY BAG!"
Yes, we were shouting, we were that hysterical. To think he had been IN MY BAG THE WHOLE TIME, through all of S's miserable cries, throughout the entire 6-hour flight. To think of how much sorrow we could have avoided if ONLY I had checked MY bag, and not just hers.  My mind spun back to the airport, and suddenly, there I was, grabbing Sheepy hastily and shoving him in my bag. How had I not remembered this?

Today, nearly 4 years later, Sheepy is still with us. He is dirty, matted, old, and absolutely loved. S still sleeps with him every night, his worn little body tucked safely under her chin. Sheepy forgave us that near-miss, continuing to guard over S and her swiftly dwindling childhood, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Bedtime Revelations

by Cathy

The other night, while going through the bedtime ritual of laying with Ari for a few minutes before she fell asleep, she suddenly popped up from her cozy tucked in covers and said rather too excitedly, "I can count to 10 in French! Une, deux, trois..." On she went to ten, popping a little finger up each time to coincide with her thought process.

'Wow, that's great," I whispered. "Now lay down and go to sleep."
A few minutes of some shuffling passed before she sat up again.
"Mama?"
"Yes, honey?"
"How does the Earth become morning and nighttime?"
Pause.
"I'm serious," she continued. "I'm five years old and I don't know this. I have to know."
Sigh...I didn't know whether to laugh or hug her. I never want to stifle her thirst for knowledge so I gave a quick explanation using my hands about the Earth, the sun, the rotations, our location, etc. Even in the dark, I could see her face contort into slight confusion. She then told me that her teacher explained that the sun rotates faster than the Earth and couldn't believe it when I told her that the Earth was turning slowly as we spoke, right at this very minute.

I love the inquisitive and talkative side of my children...but at bedtime? Seriously?

Oftentimes, this is when they feel they can tell me about what they have learned, what they remembered, what they forgot to do, what happened in school that day or last week or even what will happen tomorrow. As you can infer from the above, from Ari (my five-year old), I get the most random combination of statements and questions. From Bella (my 10-year old), I get mostly "confessions."

Bella will usually blurt out something that she seemingly wants to get off her chest. As I'm leaning in to tuck her in, mid-hug, she will say something like, "I have a math test tomorrow" or "Mrs. so-and-so at school told me that I can't wear those khaki pants anymore because they're not part of uniform code" or some other issue that she has to confess before the clock strikes 12 and she turns into a pumpkin. Sometimes, I get frustrated if she raises a bigger or more complicated issue that obviously can't be handled in the dark as she's tucked in for bed at an already late hour; I attempt to acknowledge her concern but kindly tell her that we have to talk more about this at a more opportune time. She tells me that she likes to bring up things for us to talk about at bedtime because this is the only time it's truly quiet and we get to be alone - just the two of us.

Perhaps that is the real reason for her; perhaps the darkness of the room shields their face from embarrassment; perhaps the stillness of the room and the quiet of their minds allow certain thoughts to fertilize; or perhaps the preparation for school the next day stimulates thoughts idling in their heads. No matter the reason, I concluded that I don't really care.

What I do care about is that they always continue to share their minds, thoughts, concerns and questions with me, at bedtime, or any time.

Nutcracked

by Cathy and Patti

We do a lot for our kids. We sacrifice a lot for our kids. But that's our job; it comes with the territory. There's nothing like the warm, fuzzy feeling you get as you wipe away tears of joy after their ballet recital or choke back your pride after every single one of their sports games - win or lose.

So when we were informed (rather last minute) on a Thursday that instead of our girls going to their Nutcracker rehearsal that coming Sunday, they would instead perform a dance segment from The Nutcracker at an outdoor, neighborhood Halloween festival, we thought: How fun! Yet another proud moment as a parent to have your child, costumed and sausage-curled, prancing around in a beautiful velvet-caped outfit in front of a mass audience. After all, we were told, close to 250 families had signed on to attend!

After being sunny and pretty mild for days, that Sunday arrived with a gloomy change in the weather. There were scattered thunderstorms expected, but "nothing worth cancelling plans over," said ABC 7's Jerry Taft. It wasn't even that chilly that afternoon as we arrived at the ballet studio to get our girls changed into costume - after having spent a good part of the morning curling their hair 'just so' as part of their costumed look.....

Cathy:
I'm a skeptic. I would rather err on the side of caution than take a risk I know deep down will not pan out. But for the sake of my daughter, I did it anyway, despite the fact that my gut was telling me this was going to be more than a scattered thunderstorm, my senses were telling me that it was going to get much colder as the day progressed, and my husband was telling me (via 349 texts) that he thinks it's too cold/are we SURE this was still happening/no one is here/ the girls will get sick/aren't they cancelling? It was too late to turn back now - she was costumed (as were so many other oblivious kids and their giddy parents) and ready to go.

So we braved the drizzle and cold temps, drove around for parking, and walked the two blocks to the 'fest' - me under an umbrella I dug up from my trunk and the girls each holding a plastic Target bag over their heads, which caught wind and were pouffed up like a Saturday Night Live Coneheads skit. We arrived only to see about fifty people huddled under a train viaduct. Kids were costumed and happy, parents were chilled out and relaxed - laughing and conversing. I was annoyed, freezing and ready to turn back and go home.

After what seemed like an eternity, the girls finally performed in their full skirted costumes, complete with bloomers, petticoats and Converse high-tops. The whole train-and-the city scene was a cross between The Little Rascals and Welcome Back Kotter. (How's that for dating myself?) After the performance, we quickly whisked them away to change out of their costumes so we could get the heck outta Dodge. But where to change? Naturally, the only logical place seemed to be IN THE TRAIN STATION, between a pillar and a wall. We quickly started the process while my husband kept watch....

Patti
These Nutcracker rehearsals have become my part-time job. I feel like all I do on my days off is shuttle S back and forth to rehearsals. I'm glad to do it, but let's get real: they are kind of a pain in the butt and have become a total weekend time-suck. So when we got the notice that the rehearsal would be cancelled for an impromptu show that would take up even more time than said rehearsals, my carefully planned Sunday was thrown into a tailspin.

The day of the show, I literally raced from point A to point B to point C, and then got S home with 45 minutes to spare before we had to be out the door again.  The hairstyle for the Nutcracker requires 5,932 sponge rollers, a gallon of hair gel, and a sleepless night spent being stabbed in the head by rollers. Since there had been no time to do this, I bionically curled her hair with a curling iron, scorching myself at least 3 times, and then slapped some makeup on her. She looked like "Clara: The Slutty Years." We got to the studio and she changed into her Victorian party dress, and off we caravanned to the festival sight. S decided to go with Cathy and Bella, so I drove by myself, trying to keep up with them. Of course, the minute I got in the car to head to the festival, it started to rain. Hard. "Surely they will cancel this thing", I thought to myself. I called Cathy. No answer. "Don't you think they're gonna cancel? Look at how hard it's raining!" I shouted into the phone.

When I arrived, I found a parking spot, grabbed my broken umbrella, and sprinted to the event, the umbrella attacking me in the face. I kept calling Cathy to find out where they were, but she wasn't answering. That's when I saw them: The whole crew was running down the street. Cathy, juggling ballet bags and clothes and kids, with her own flopping umbrella, and the girls, plastic Target bags covering their heads, next to her.  I ran up next to her, nearly gouging out her eye with the wires poking out of my broken umbrella. "I can't believe they're not cancelling!"

We hurried across the street towards the "festival", which was actually a sad little gathering under train tracks, trains screaming over us. I felt like we were in Gotham City, all gloomy and drippy and dark. I expected to see a couple of scrawny rats scurry by. The girls ran to meet their friends, and they prepared to do their dance. Meanwhile, the studio instructor walked into the center of the gathering, and began shouting out the Welcomes and Introductions. But because of the trains, rain, and the totally oblivious man banging on a drum, all we could hear was, well, NOTHING. Just her mouth moving. Then the kids began to dance, the beautiful Nutcracker music pathetically trying to work its way out of the boom box the instructor's husband held up over his head. Instead, it was swallowed up by the annoying drums, the trains and the rain, and the kids looked like a Victorian Freak Show, dancing to no music in long, velvet dresses.

When it was over, after a polite smattering of applause, we had to figure out where on earth they could change, since we had to give the costumes back to the instructor. Of course, there was nowhere to do this, so we had to get resourceful and change in the urine-soaked train station. The girls loudly "eeeeeeewed" the entire time,while Cathy's husband, Joe, kept an eye out for any unsavory characters who might want to get a peek at our naked 10-year olds. Instead, a security guard told him we were not allowed to be doing this because on the grainy, silent security screen all they could see was a couple of freaked-out, half-dressed girls being rushed by some frantic adults while a seedy looking man shifted his eyes around. Shady, at best.
......
Yeah, this whole day? Was totally cracked. Nutcracked.

Snooki and Flashdance

 by Cathy and Patti

There are many amazing things about having daughters.

For one, as they grow older, we, as mothers, have a built-in buddy; somebody to shop with, play with, share clothes and makeup with, and yes, even get hormonal with. But there are some, uh, challenges, that come along with having daughters, not the least the fact that, as they grow older, some of their fashion choices, however innocently concocted, leave us with a big ol' "What the Hell?" bubble over our heads.

Now, we consider ourselves pretty “with it” moms. We both dress trendy, we both love our heels and occasional hoochwear, we both still like hanging out and going out. In short: We ain’t old fashioned June Cleavers clutching at our pearls at the sight of some skin and sin. However. When it comes to our girls?  Sometimes those proverbial pearls get clutched.

Cathy:
I would say Bella is pretty fashionable; she keeps up on all the fashion magazine trends and is always quick to notice a new piece of clothing or pair of shoes I've bought. Considering what a picky dresser she was when she was a little girl, she has expanded her experimentation with clothes considerably - except for two things: 1) She gets hung up with certain items (skinny jeans) and she wears them every. single. day. until there are holes in the knees and 2) she hates wearing clothes that are loose, big or even just her size. Nope. She prefers shirts to be glued onto her chest, button-downs barely buttoned and pants she needs to hop into.

The other day she wore a size 4T sweater to school. (She is 10 years old.) Her school uniform shirts are her younger sister's - a size 6. Because of this, I have no idea what her true size really is. In my head, I still think she's an 8. But when I think of buying her a size 10, I feel like it will be too big for her - even though it's according to her height and weight. While out shopping for a fall coat for her with Patti, I chose a cool, fitted, military style coat - and after struggling between the 8/10 and the 10/12, I went with the 8/10 because of her Snookified fashion style. Patti looked at the coat with hesitation and went on to prove to me that this size wouldn't fit her. She was right. I've been trained to go with the Snooki Lookies for Bella but going forward, I'll know to stick with her true, un-Snookified size.

Patti:
What a feelin'! Means believin'! I can have it all, now I'm dancin' for my life!

No, you're not imagining it. You did just hear S's theme song. Somehow, some way, it doesn't matter what she is wearing, it ends up becoming a total Flashdance, off-the-shoulder number. The other day we were at a pumpkin patch. It was a brisk day, and we were all wearing sweaters. S, however, had strategically slid the sweater off of her shoulders and was walking around it with barely clinging to her back. "Honey, it's chilly. Put that sweater back on!"
"I can't help it, mom - it just keeps falling off."

Yeah, right. The thick, heavy, cable-knit sweater that is easily secured with buttons up the front just keeps slipping right off. Let's face it: It could be a zillion below zero degrees outside, and S would still find a way to sport the world's first shoulder-baring turtleneck, all in the name of "cool".

I know what is really going on. In S's mind, this off-the-shoulder look means she is in a video; she is Selena Gomez; she is a famous dancer! I love that my kid has a vivid imagination; what I don't love is that it is manifested through the Flashdancification of just about anything she puts on. The second that fabric slides off her shoulder, she becomes a maniac, maniac on the floor, and while part of me wants to let her express herself, the other part is all, "God, I miss onesies."

Just a steel-town girl on a Saturday night.

Yes, having daughters is amazing. I mean, sure, they can inadvertently Snooki it up and innocently flash in a Flashdance kind of way, but really? We know they really aren't Snooki and Jennifer Beals - they are who they are. And we wouldn't want them to be anyone else.

Express Yourself

by Patti

I was getting ready for work and S wandered into the bathroom to ask me a question. I noticed she was still wearing her pajama pants and urged her to hurry up and get dressed. Her reponse? “I am dressed.”
“Honey, you’re wearing pajamas.”

“And?”
“And… they are PAJAMAS.”

“AND?”

These pajamas were festooned with flying monkeys.

“Honey. You cannot wear pajamas to school.”

“Why not? They are pants, aren’t they?”

She had a point.

So I let her go to school in flying monkey pajama pants.

It reminded me of the days I was all about “expressing myself”, and I wore a Glad trash bag to high school. I cut out a head hole and arm holes and slipped it over my 15-year old rebellious body, then I cinched it at the waist with a studded belt. My mother didn’t say a word. I’m sure she was DYING to, but she wisely zipped it. And off I went, proudly wearing a black garbage bag dress. Sure, I got lots of stares and snickers, but then again – wasn’t that what I was aiming for?

I admire that girl; the one who didn’t care about what other people thought, the one that wasn’t afraid to stand out, the one who was a free and bubbling spirit. Life with all its rules has tempered that a bit, and now that I think about it, it makes me kind of sad. I see S headed down that same path of jubilant self-expression, and though my job is to guide her and discipline her and set boundaries to keep her safe and sane, nowhere in my job description does it give me any right to stop her from being who she is.

And who she is just keeps getting better and better.

Gotta hand it to her....

by Patti
 

Last year, S wanted to be a thumb for a Halloween. Yes, a THUMB. Instead, because… THUMB?...she was a spider. And it was adorable.

This year she decided she wanted to be a weather map, which would have been really cool if her MOTHER had gotten her act together and figured out a way to make a weather map. Halloween nearing closer and closer, S dropped the weather map idea and decided to go all out as a hobo. A hobo cannot get more classic in terms of Halloween costumes. I mean, who wasn’t a hobo in the 70’s? I sure was. So easy! Wear some clothes that are too big, rat out the hair, blacken a tooth, carry a stick: Instant hobo!

But a mere few days before Halloween, a co-worker overhead me telling another co-worker how S had wanted to be a thumb, or a weather map, and how she’d had to take it down a few notches to hobo thanks to her MOTHER. That co-worker piped in that her daughter had once been a hand for Halloween – not just a thumb, a whole entire hand - and that she said she was pretty certain she still had the costume stored away somewhere. I didn’t say anything to S in the case that hand was long gone, but the next day, my co-worker walked in with a huge foam hand, complete with jewelry and hot pink nails. Oh, how the kid would flip.

I took the hand home and when S saw it, flip she did. She immediately stripped out of her school clothes and in one second flat became a giant walking hand with a finger-to-finger grin.

I remember her first Halloween when I picked up a tiny black cat suit on clearance days before Halloween (because I will never change). She was just so moldable back then. But now? She has her own ideas and opinions and ways of expressing who she is. And this is why I love my kid. She could be a princess or a gypsy or a witch; instead, she wants to be a thumb, or a weather map, or even a whole, entire hand, and she isn’t afraid to be different. 

Next year she wants to be a picnic. I was a picnic many, many, many Halloweens ago, and the fact that she wants to perpetuate such a preposterity is just the coolest thing ever. Life with that kid? Is a picnic.

Good Intentions

by Cathy

I vowed, when I had kids, that I would never be an embarrassing mom; I would never knowingly or purposefully embarrass my kids in front of their friends, peers, colleagues, or even...ahem...boys - unless of course they pushed me to the edge and really, in fact, deserved it. :)

Yesterday, my ten-year old daughter came home from school with her snack barely touched. I asked her why she didn't eat her snack of apples, cheese and pretzels and could it have anything to do with the fact that her snack was APPLES? Because it would take an army to get her to eat all of the five crispy cut slices of the apple or any basically any kind of fruit. But, no. She claims she didn't eat it because she was embarrassed to pull out the pre-packaged snack in front of her friends.

Of course she didn't tell me this right away, and tried very politely (God love her) to imply that she felt embarrassed to tell me that she was embarrassed because of something I had done.

To be fair to her, I am willing to post a picture of what said snack looked like:

Laugh if you must, but when I saw these at the store, I thought they were an ingeniously packaged way for my kids to eat fruit. I bought one for my five-year old, and since I have to always be fair and buy them each the same (or similar) thing, I instinctively bought one for Bella too. Packaged with pretzels and cheese, I thought this would definitely aid in digesting the apparently offensive fruit.

It didn't occur to me that the Mickey Mouse shaped packaging and a picture of a quacking Donald Duck would, like, totally embarrass my ten-year old.

Mysteriously, however, the pretzels had all been eaten as had some of the cheese. Because of this, I finally got her to admit that the packaging wasn't the real reason she didn't eat the apples - it was just the plain fact that she didn't like APPLES. Okaay? "But still mom," she quickly retorted, "I didn't want to pull out the snack in front of my friends."

Boy, did I learn my lesson. What I think may be cute and appropriate for my five-year old may not necessarily be the same for my ten-year old. They DO have a five-year difference that includes varying stages of behavioral development. As an intuitive, supportive parent, I have to put myself in each one of their shoes equally and think how I would feel if [enter potentially embarrassing situation here] happened.

Their needs and life stages are so different and I can't assume they aren't or even compare them to each other. That would be like comparing apples to oranges.

E.T. Phone Home. NOW!

by Patti

A few years ago, Cathy and I thought it would be fun to take the girls to a movie in the park. They were showing E.T., my all-time favorite movie when I was a kid. Do you know how much I cried at that movie when I was 11 years old? Like, A LOT. That poor little bug-eyed creature, all wrinkly and pneumonia-plagued, covered with an itchy blanket, just wanting to go home. Call me crazy, but I couldn’t wait to share the angst with S. I described the movie to her, and that we would be watching in the park, and she was rarin’ to go.

The day of the movie, I found Cathy and her family already at the park. Her in-laws, who lived in the high rise overlooking the park, had come, too. They were all gnawing on corn-on-the-cob and spread out all over the place; it was quite the site to behold. I found a patch of grass next to the corn-on-the-cob crew, and laid down my blanket. The screen, a huge blow-up number, was already set up, and kids were running around like maniacs in the dusk, killing time until the movie started. There was a summery breeze in the air, but in the distance I could see clouds gathering. Knowing S was more-than-terrified of storms, I did my best to block her view to the clouds. Nothing was going to ruin this night.

Finally, the sun began to sink and the movie started to flicker on the screen. We all settled in, getting cozy on top of one another. There was some whispering going on behind me, and I turned to see Cathy’s mother-in-law trying to pawn off the corn. She was offering corn-on-the-cob to everyone around her. There was some shuffling of corn, and then some shush-ing, and then FINALLY everybody got settled in. Because nothing was going to ruin this night.

The movie got into full-swing, and I squeezed S in anticipation. I couldn’t wait for her to see the hunk of cute that was E.T. And finally, there he was! As wrinkly and bug-eyed and just plain damned adorable as I remembered. I was 11 years old again, except this time I was with my own kid, happy to share it with her. I looked over to Cathy and her family, and I could see that Bella was looking at little... uncomfortable. “Is she okay?” I whispered to Cathy.

“She is afraid of E.T.”, Cathy whispered back, “She thinks he’s weird.”

I looked back at the screen, my E.T. staggering around the kitchen, drunk on beer. I looked down at S to see if she was afraid. She wasn’t even looking at the movie; she was looking at the SKY with a worried expression. “Mom…. It looks like it’s going to rain.” I looked up, too. Those clouds that had earlier been in the distance were now overhead, and they looked more swollen than ever. Suddenly the sky lit up in the distance. “Mom! It's going to rain!”

I looked over to Cathy and her family; they seemed oblivious to the lighting. Instead, Cathy was busy comforting Bella, who was now completely curled up against her. “E.T.?” I asked. Cathy nodded. All I heard for the next 10 minutes was an annoying combination of, “Mom! It’s going to rain!”, and “Mom! He’s weird, I’m scared!”, and “Do you want some corn?”

Suddenly, BOOM! There was a crack of thunder so intense, my teeth vibrated. Then the movie screen started to sway, looking as drunk as E.T. “MOM! MOM! MOM!” S frantically climbed into my lap. I looked over again to Cathy, and Bella's head was now under a blanket.

“Sorry, Patti. Bella is too scared of E.T.; we’re gonna go.” Her husband had gone to get the car, and Cathy started to gather up the blankets and picnic stuff. At that very moment, the sky opened up and from it fell the hardest rain I had ever felt. All around me people were scattering at bionic speeds, gathering kids and blankets and coolers. I looked up to ask Cathy if she would give me a ride to my car, which I had parked what now seemed a billion miles away. BUT SHE WAS ALREADY GONE, the ditcher.

I scooped up a wailing S into my arms, and began to run. It didn’t help that I was wearing thonged kitten heels. Who wears thonged kitten heels to a park? My feet slipped with each step, and S was screaming in my ear. “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! I’m SCAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARED!” I ran and ran, dodging the bullets of rain, praying to not get struck by the lighting that was now flashing non-stop, gripping S with all my motherly might. Half-way to my car, I ducked into a building. The rain was so intense, it literally hurt when it hit my face. S was trembling, and refused to let me put her down. She was wrapped around me like seaweed, all soggy and tangled. Once I caught my breath and I could feel my face again, I started running again to my car. I finally spotted it in the distance, a beacon.

We finally made it, and we both got inside. Safe, at last! I turned to S; she was shaking, soaking wet, her face was red and puffy, her hair was matted against her head. “So, did you like the movie?”

Labor of Love

by Patti


S was really pissed at me this morning.

I threatened to put her hamster, Gus, on Craigslist, and this did not go over well. But let's be real: The last time she played with him was 2 days ago.

Last night before I went to bed, I opened his cage and he scuttled to the door. He touched my hand with his little pointy, wet nose, and I picked him up and cuddled with him. Okay, not WITH him, because I would assume that cuddling WITH someone/something would mean that that someone/something is cuddling back. Hamsters don’t cuddle back. They just shake their whiskers and pee on you. So I cuddled AT him? Whatever. WE CUDDLED.

And then I let him run around in his little see-through exercise ball while I washed my face and got my pajamas on. When I put him back in his cage, I hand fed him some sunflower seeds and fruit, and then he thanked me and scampered off to his exercise wheel.

This morning I woke up mad.

After my Craigslist threat, I explained to S that Gus is a living thing that relies on her; she can’t just forget about him because a new episode of Victorious! is on. She swore up and down that she would take care of him better; that OMG SHE LOVES GUS AND IF YOU GIVE HIM AWAY I WILL BE REALLY MAD, MOM!

I love S. Which is why I don’t leave her alone in the basement for days in a pile of pee-soaked fluff. I play with her, I engage with her, I talk to her. I also feed her, shuttle her around, pick up her dirty, balled-up socks, help her with her homework, and put up with her moods. Yes, Gus is a hamster - a furry, smelly, twitchy rodent – but just like S needs me, he needs her. And she chose him to need her. S needs to learn that love is not always fun; there is also work involved. A lot of work. Hell-to-the-yes I know this much, and one of the biggest gifts I can give her for her future is to make her understand this.

When S was a baby, I used to complain about sleep deprivation and the endless, mindless, Groundhog Day work that taking care of a baby entails. I was wrong. Though S sleeps in and can dress herself and make her own breakfast, and she hasn’t needed diapers in years, the truth is? The real work begins now.

The First Day of School...Together

This past week was the first week of school for my girls. Ari had been to preschool at a different school than Bella up until now, so this was the first week of school where they would FINALLY go to the same school together.

Bella had been dreaming about this day for a long time. She had seen many of her friends with their siblings at school for years, and now the big sister would finally get the chance to show off the little sister and wave a watchful hello to her in the hallways or in assembly, and Ari would sweetly wave back in excitement. Well, at least we hope that's how it will go.

Selfishly, I had been dreaming about this day too. Their five year age difference had held things up a bit on the convenience front when it came to school. Now, no more shuttling to and from two different schools on two different schedules with no less than four family members helping out with the logistics of it all. I would now be on one, steady schedule - one drop-off, one pick-up (thank goodness for after-care) and most importantly, UNIFORMS - the saving grace of every mom with daughters.

It was a beautiful, sunny day last Tuesday, September 7th. The sun was shining bright, however near their school, which is situated closer to the lakefront, the wind was blustery and nippy. You could even say it was downright cold. As we hurried through the school parking lot to meet my giddy in-laws, waiting in front of the school with cameras in hand to snap the momentous occasion, Ari stopped short, as did her sister shortly thereafter. In my haste to get behind some kind of wind shield, I turned when I didn't feel them following me, and caught this:



















At first I thought Ari was having doubts about going to school after all this time. She had always talked about going to Bella's big school, finally getting a backpack and a lunchbox, going in the same door at drop-off and playing on the same fun playground she would see all the other kids playing on as she stared with her curious, brown eyes out of the car window when she was younger.

It turned out she had gotten something stuck in her eye from the crazy winds slapping us in the face on this first day of school. You can see that in the photo on the left. But as soon as Bella stopped to nurture her issue, it seemed as though she was able to express to her, in that private moment, how she REALLY felt about all the changes she knew were about to happen today. That is more evident in the picture on the right. Her look shows a bit of fear and apprehension. Yet she is still comforted by the fact that now, Bella is there to comfort her.


-Cathy

A Little Hive Never Hurt Anyone, Right?

by Patti

Yesterday I took S to the doctor so that they could inject all kinds of crazy into her arms to see if she had allergies. Her arms blew up. She has allergies.

According to her arms, cats are the worst, followed closely by trees and weeds and grass, and all kinds of other things that exist in daily life.

So, no cats for her.

She is also allergic to dogs, according to her arms.

Just this past weekend her father’s heart underwent a miracle of sorts, and he agreed to let her have a dog by her birthday in April if she could promise to behave like a kid from a Hallmark commercial. So far,in the past 3 days, she has dried and put away the dishes 3 times (because our dishwasher is BROKEN!), taken 2 showers without prompting, played with her hamster (which, according to her arms, she is also allergic to) to the point he asked her to leave him the hell alone, and cleared the table after each meal. Last night I watched her unpack and put away all of the groceries by herself, and I nudged M in the ribs to have him look up and see what his promise of utopia had created: Perfectly Legal Win-Win Child Labor! I mean, wow, I haven't put away a dish in days!

Being an only child, she gets a little lonely from time to time, and she finally convinced M that not only she is old enough to take on the responsibility of a dog, she also pretty much NEEDS one since she has no siblings. So you can imagine the heartbreak and disappointment when her arms told her yesterday that, even though her stone-hearted-when-it-comes-to-dogs father had a revelation, she shouldn’t get a dog after all.

But then S pointed out to me that our neighbor has terrible allergies, and they just got a dog. And the neighbor hasn’t died yet; in fact, she hasn’t even sneezed! So we are looking into the so-called “hypoallergenic” dogs and plan to have S hang out with a couple of different breeds to see if having a dog will suck for her. If her eyes don’t swell into little slits on her face and she doesn’t have to reach for the inhaler just to pet the dog, we’ll get a dog.

Despite all of the chores and behaving and obeying she has been doing, because that must be exhausting the crap out of her, she has been so happy the last few days. She has been dreaming up names for her phantom dog and planning the things they will do together, and browsing the Internet for ridiclous dog outfits and imagining where he might sleep and how he might feel cuddled next to her.....

I swear, her arms better be wrong.

Farmer Daughter

by Patti

Sunday we spent the entire day livin’ it up in the country. A friend of M’s lives in a rambling farm house that sits on a billion acres of land. They raise horses and their kids catch fireflies.

S went bonkers zipping across of acres of unspoiled land on a dirt bike. There went my kid, all decked out in Evil Knievel gear and a huge dare devil orange helmet. Her blonde, curly hair flew wildly behind her, and, even from far away, I could see the joy in her body as she felt the freedom of the land that stretched before her.

She rode this dirt bike for hours, and then she and M flew around the fields on a 4-wheeler, taking curves like stunt pros while the resident dog “herded” them like they were sheep on crack.

Then she fed the horses mounds of fresh carrots, plucked the grassy fields for bugs and worms, got dirty from head to toe, and, even though her “allergic-to-floaty-things-in-the air” eyes were all puffy by day’s end, she stated quite simply that she wanted to be a farmer.

Though I would most likely never move to a farm because doing so would end up with M and I singing this:

I still love giving credence to what she says.

Okay, so yeah, Saturday she wanted to be a police officer. The day before a rap star. Last week she wanted to work for Apple designing Mac computers. A few months ago she wanted to work at M.A.C. – the cosmetics store. Last year she wanted to be a hairdresser. So what?

Even if her future “career” choices are a little on the schizophrenic side right now, her unabashed enthusiasm for each new experience says something about her character: that she is capable of dreaming, and hoping, and happiness.

For her to know what that is, holy cow I’d buy the whole farm.

Puberty: New and Improved!

by Patti

Yesterday S begged me to take her to the library to pick up this book she’s been dying to read.

I was spent from work and not feeling really well, but when your kid is BEGGING to go the LIBRARY because she wants to READ, I guess you should suck it up and go.

So we went to the library and scored the book she wanted, and I started for the check-out desk. She tugged my arm and I turned around to find her smiling shyly at me. “Mom… can we check out some books on puberty, too?”

Puberty.

S has always physically been on the small side. She is skinny and petite and weighs 54 lbs. Because of that, sometimes I forget that she is almost 10 ½ years old, and the kid is hungry for information about growing up. But, as much as I try to stop it, she is growing up, so lately, we have been talking a lot about puberty and what that journey entails. She knows about periods and pads and tampons and boobs and is begging me on a daily basis for a bra. “I have to get my breast buds used to a bra, mom!” Yes, she says breast buds. She has no breast buds. But by God she wants them.

Even though I doubt she will have breast buds - much less actual breasts -anytime soon, I did promise her that we can go shopping for her first bra when she turns 11. But she wants one now.

And I won’t give in.

I know it’s technically just a piece of stretchy fabric, these days made kind of adorable with frogs printed all over them or “awesome” peace signs, and I totally get the attraction. But I also know that to HER, it means much more. And because of that, it means even that much more to me.

Maybe I’m being selfish and unreasonable, but I’m not ready for her to start down that path yet. And though she claims that having a bra will make her feel more confident (thank you Discovery Girl Magazine for giving my kid ammunition) since a handful of her friends are already wearing one (BECAUSE THEY NEED IT, WHAT THE HELL THEY ARE TEN. I didn’t get boobs ‘til I was like… oh wait. I still don’t have them.), I kind of feel that she is trying to rush things.

So last night, freshly annoyed with me because I once again told her she would have to wait a little longer for that bra, she laid on the couch to start reading her puberty books. Every once in a while she would read a passage out loud to me, and though I tried to play it cool, in my heart I was happy to know that she feels comfortable enough with me to let me share in all of this with her. “Puberty sounds like so much fun, mom!”

Yes, her underarms stink and she is moody and she likes to stare at herself in the mirror; she is starting to show typical signs that she is growing up. But really? She is still so innocent. Because puberty, kid? IS SO NOT FUN.

Letting Go

by Patti

This morning I officially became the mother of a FIFTH GRADER.

Do you know what this means? It means I have one school year left with a little girl, and then she will be in JUNIOR HIGH and the world will end.

How can it be that just a second ago she was this blinking, curious little creature fresh out of my womb, all smooshy and wrinkled and new,and now, she’s this long-legged KID begging for a bra and rolling her eyes at me?

This weekend I was helping my mom clean out some old files, and I found a dusty cassette tape. (Remember those? The 8-track’s futuristic replacement and now totally obsolete?) On my way home, I popped it into my player and suddenly a little munchkin voice filled my car. It was a 5-year old S, singing silly songs and saying prayers for her runaway cat, Sally. My face was immediately swallowed up by the hugest smile, and I felt the sunshine of the little girl S fill my whole body.

When I got home, I made S come into the car with me and listen to the tape. When she heard herself, she too broke out in a huge grin and gushed over that little girl. “I was so cute, mommy!” We listened to the entire tape, and when it ended, S sighed heavily and said, “I miss myself…”

She looked a little sad at not being a baby anymore, and it made me realize that life seems to always be about letting go of something. For mothers, it is letting go of babyhood and those precious milestones that come along with it. For kids it is letting go of childhood and its magic. For all of us it is letting go of friendships, letting go of jobs, letting go of homes, letting go of places, letting go of youth… It just seems we are always letting go of something.

But then this morning, as I saw my now fifth-grader onto the school bus, her new backpack weighed down with shiny new markers and folders and clean notebooks, I realized that we have to let go to make room for all that is yet to come.

S is not a baby anymore; in fact, she is hardly even a little girl anymore. But the future is wide open, and I can’t wait to watch her fill it up.