Oh, the drama!

Loaf has her first loose tooth.

Last night, she was complaining of tooth pain on the bottom and when I checked, sure enough, one of her bottom center teeth has a slight wiggle to it.

She is SO excited. She has seen her sister lose six and reap the riches of the Tooth Fairy, so she’s dying to have her turn.

In addition to the excitement, the tooth has brought about a significant amount of drama. This morning while eating, she kept complaining of how much her loose tooth hurt.

"Oh my tooth, my tooth! It hurts sooooo much. I can’t eat my breakfast on this side so I have to keep my head titled in this direction,” she whimpered while tilting her head to the right.

What was she eating, you ask?

Well that is an excellent question. I’m sure you’re thinking it was an apple or piece of toast or some other hard, crispy food that requires the use of incisors.

NOPE!

It was a bowl of soggy corn flakes.

Not. Kidding.

My daughters are sweet and caring and tons of fun, but they are sometimes full of The Drama.

Fortunately, there is an end in sight. I figure she’ll lose that tooth in about . . . oh? 8 to 12 weeks?

Until then, I have a feeling there will be lots of head tilting and complaining about hard food and special requests for ice packs to soothe her aching, rootless tooth as it slowly releases itself from her gums. It's enough to make me want to lie on the floor and scream. I can't imagine where they get this from.

:::whistles and looks up at the ceiling:::

An unbalanced diet

Peanut has always been a good eater. Ever since she was a baby, she was open to trying everything and enjoys a variety of foods - including fruits and vegetables, Indian and Thai food, sushi and spicy stuff.

Loaf on the other hand? Oy.

Loaf eats about a dozen foods, most of which fall into the category of "grains." Her favorite foods include:
1. Cheerios
2. Corn flakes
3. Crackers
4. Pizza, without the cheese
5. Pasta, without sauce
6. Macaroni and cheese
7. Bread
8. Pancakes
9. Wheatabix
10. Rice
11. Vegetarian pepperoni (which, I think technically counts as a "grain" since it's made from soy. And no, it's not as dreadful tasting as it sounds).
12. Ham <---Which of these things is not like the others?

She will, fortunately, eat peas, beans, olives and most fruits, so we tend to keep those things on hand for variety. However, her "will eat" list keeps narrowing. On Monday, I packed her a lunch of vegetarian pepperoni, crackers and applesauce. The applesauce, which she was eating by the tub in September, came back unopened.

"I don't like applesauce, Mom."

Huh? Since when?!?

I know technically I'm not supposed to worry about this, but it's driving me crazy! I mean what kid doesn't like grilled cheese? Or chicken? Or peanut butter? Or corn? Seriously, people? Can I get a ruling here? Is she exceptionally picky, or does this sound like normal 5-year-old stuff to you?

One foot in front of the other

I spent half of September in bed. Feeling achy and run down, I went to the doctor in early September thinking I had Lyme disease.

I didn't, which was good.

However, I had Epstein Barr Virus, commonly called "mono," which was bad. EBV can cause permanent liver or spleen damage if ignored. In some cases, it can even bring on hepatitis. The only cure is rest, so my doctor sent me to bed for two straight weeks.

Laying around in bed all day doing little to nothing is a fantasy I've indulged in every now and then, but the reality was not what I'd expected. I still had work to do. Sitting in bed with my laptop balanced on my legs all day long gave me neck and back pains. My bottom went numb and my shoulders had pins and needles on and off all day long.

Plus, it happened to be two of the most beautiful weeks of the fall - sunny and clear, with temps neither too hot or cold. Watching those gorgeous days tick by from inside was a bummer.

It also put a big crimp in my exercise and training. I had signed up - literally days before being diagnosed - for a 10K run on November 14, my first run of that distance. I was SO excited. I had my 10K training plan taped up at work and in my desk drawer at home. I was pumped.

But two weeks of bed rest was followed immediately by a demanding project where I worked long, long hours - sometimes until midnight and often on weekends. Exercise, even if I was ready to go back, was out of the question.

Despite that, a note came home from Peanut's class announcing a "mini-marathon" on November 2. Fourth and 3rd graders would run a mile, while 2nd and 1st graders would run a half mile. "Volunteer," said the note, "to walk or run." Of course, I signed up to run.

Peanut was nervous. "What if I don't finish, Mom?" she asked anxiously.

"You will," I assured her. "Just take it one step at a time."

I ran my first half mile today in six weeks with my seven-year-old daughter by my side grinning from ear to ear. She effortlessly ran the entire half mile. Surprisingly, it was tough for me - six weeks of no exercise has taken its toll and it's going to be a long, slow road back. For motivation, I'll keep that visual of Peanut's huge smile, hair flowing out behind her, small legs pumping back and forth as I go. One step at a time.

My little fashionistas

I am a mom who firmly believes in the phrase, "choose your battles."

There is a lot of power in that phrase. Choosing your battles gives you a certain amount of freedom. Once you decide which battles you're going to fight, you can relax a bit. You no longer have to worry about certain things.

Choosing your battles is also a source of empowerment for your children. They suddenly have a safe place to assert their individualism and independence. It can be a win-win for all involved.

One battle I have chosen not to fight is the clothing battle. Well, at least so far. At this stage, it's an easy one to let go, because I still control the clothing purchases. I don't have to worry about midriff-baring tops or other inappropriate-for-their-age items because I won't buy them.

But until the day they buy their own clothing, unless an outfit is grossly inappropriate for the weather or the occasion, I don't fight it. Peanut has been picking out her own school clothes every day since she was about 3. Same with Loaf. Of course, this means, once in a while they walk out of the house looking like this:



But really? What's the harm? And you have to admit, this photo is going to look great in her rehearsal-dinner slide show someday. ::Insert evil laugh.::

Allowing them to dress themselves also frees me from the task of having to pick out their outfits each day. After breakfast, I send them off to their rooms with an order to get dressed and I have to say, they generally do a pretty good job.

This morning's outfits were especially impressive. They were cute, sure, but what I found so cool is how each is developing her own style. Peanut is more . . . proper. At 7, she is already a lady. If she were alive in the mid-1960s, I can see her paling around with Jackie Kennedy wearing white gloves and a pillbox hat. If her style continues, she'll be wearing a vintage Chanel suit to her high school graduation.

On the other hand, Loaf is my little free spirt. She's a bit more rambunctious and bohemian. In the '60s, she'd contrast her sister's classic style with a peasant dress and love beads.

I love the way they express themselves so clearly and, so far, with no regard to pressure from their peers. They don't care that most of the girls in their class go to school in jeans and t-shirts. This is who they are, and they're proud of that. I hope the conformity battle is one they continue to fight.

The V-Word

Driving home in the car yesterday with our new dog (because when life gives you chaos, why not ramp it up even more?), the girls and I were having a discussion about spaying and neutering animals: what it is, why it's important, etc.

Peanut observed that spaying involves cutting into the female cat's stomach, thus making the cat's stomach sensitive to the touch for many years afterward. I piped in with, "That's right. You know, when you were born, they had to cut into my stomach to get you out and the scar is still sensitive all these years later."

Lately, Loaf has taken to tormenting Peanut whenever possible. I always knew this day would come: revenge for all the taunting she took as a baby, I suppose. So she looks squarely at Peanut and in her most accusatory tone says, "That was for you, Peanut. I came out the right way."

ME: Loaf, do you know what 'the right way' is? How were you born?

LOAF: Through your vagina.

PEANUT: (joyfully) That's right, Loaf. You came out of Mommy's biscuit.

ME: (to myself) WHAT?!?!?
TO PEANUT: Where did you hear that term?

PEANUT: (giggling) I don't know.

LOAF: (Insert name of sweet little girl with outstanding parents) told us!

ME: (to myself) WHAT?!?!?

PEANUT: No! She didn't tell me. Maybe she told Loaf but (insert name of other sweet little girl who also has outstanding parents) told me!

ME: (to myself) Oy.
OK, listen girls. Whoever is using terms like that, well, it doesn't sound very smart. The correct word is vagina. And if we're being really correct, the word is vulva, because that includes all your girl parts down there. Do you understand?

BOTH: (reluctantly, complete with verbal eyerolls) Yessss.

Several seconds of radio silence.

LOAF: (accusingly) Peanut, I was born out of Mommy's volcano. You weren't.

PEANUT: It's not her volcano, it's her vulvana.

ME: (to myself) GAH! Maybe whoever came up with "biscuit" was on to something.

* * *
Dog pictures coming soon. He is a black lab, very sweet but completely insane. We have adopted "Marley's" second cousin evidently.

Women's work

My daughters were deep in the midst of an imaginative role playing game.

They have dozens upon which they draw for daily entertainment:
- Molly and Sally go the store
- Snow White and Baby Horse at school
- Rudolph and Clarice at the North Pole

Loaf is often delegated the boy’s role, if there is one, or the role of lesser importance. In a recent game based on Little House on the Prairie, Peanut was Laura and Loaf was assigned the role of Jack . . . the Ingalls' family dog.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Yet.

But I digress.

There they were, playing some game. They were chattering back and forth. I was off to the side, folding laundry and sort of half listening, but mostly lost in my own thoughts. When suddenly, Peanut, who was wearing a bandana tied around her head like an old-fashioned kerchief and a pint-sized apron tied around her dress said, “I will go pick the berries because that’s women’s work.”

I froze mid fold and stared at her.

What?!?

Over the past several months, Mark has been reading chapter books to her – the entire Great Brain series, as well as the aforementioned Little House on the Prairie books.

While I am thrilled that she enjoys this time with her father and is completely enraptured by these big books with few pictures, these are tales written in an entirely different time – a time when men’s and women’s roles were clearly defined, rigid and limited.

It is good to learn about these times – the historical lessons are important – but I’m less than thrilled that the concept of “women’s work,” has been introduced into my six-year-old daughter’s lexicon.

And who’s to say it even came from these books? It could just have easily been slipped into one of the old Disney princess films, or another source I’m not even aware of.

“Peanut,” I asked her delicately, trying to keep my tone casual, “where did you hear that phrase? Women’s work?”

She looked at me with a skeptical grin. Maybe my tone wasn’t as casual as I’d hoped. “No where,” she said. “I made it up.”

“I’m not mad,” I quickly clarified. “I just want to know where you heard it.”

“No where. It’s from inside my head.”

Which I know is totally not true. But I decided not to press.

Instead I launched into an explanation of how roles have changed. How “women’s work” is a very old-fashioned term. How women can do any type of work—and for that matter so can men. I finish my diatribe using our own family as an example.

“Dad does the dishes. I take out the trash. We both take care of you and your sister.”

“Uh, OK, Mom,” she said, turning to resume her game. I can practically hear the eyeroll.

A few minutes later, I am back to folding laundry (and no, the irony of what I am doing as I deliver my little speech about today's changing gender roles is not lost on me) and they are once again playing.

“You pick the berries,” Peanut declares to Loaf. “I am going to sweep the floor.”

And then I walked up the hall, found a good solid wall and proceeded to bang my head against it for 10 or 15 minutes.

And the laundry? I left the rest of it for Mark to fold.

Let them watch their father finish it up while I’m in the office today. I think it might be good for them.

The one where my daughter fails to use her inside voice

Scene: Target, Sunday afternoon.

We are there for two things:
1. To pick up a prescription and
2. To buy me a new bra

We have just visited the ladies room, because for some unknown reason the interior of Target seems to put my daughters' bladders into hyperdrive. I do not know why liquid passes through their body at a greater rate of speed in Target than anywhere else, but even the shortest of Target trips always require at least two potty stops, and one of them always comes when we are as far as humanly possible from the restrooms.

So I've learned--after nearly six years--to make a pit stop immediately upon entering the store.

We are just walking down the main aisle leading straight into the store from the main entrance when I say, quietly to Peanut, "I need to get a new bra."

And she says, at the absolute TOP of her lungs, "I'LL HELP YOU MOMMY! WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR BREASTS?"

I stop the cart and look up. Two teenage girls are standing at the side of the aisle. They are clearly horrified. Their mouths are hanging open and they are staring at me. Moments later, they turn and begin to laugh. Loudly.

On the other side of the aisle is a man in his 30s. Looking. Directly. At. My. Boobs.

Now I suppose, on some level, he really can't be blamed. We all know that men have a certain - um - fondness for them and we also know that their functions are not really so much ruled by the brain on their head as they are the head between their legs, but still. STILL. I mean the guy was practically drooling. A little dignity, please, because that, my friend, is not going to get you any where with any woman any time ever. PERIOD.

Peanut, by this time, has already reached the bra section and is riffling through an end-cap display of lacy black bras. "WHICH ONE, MOMMY? WHICH ONE? THESE SAY 'D'? IS THIS THE ONE?"

Drool-man looks like he is going to pass out any minute from all the excitement. I shoot him a dirty look, which finally seems to snap him back to the reality where I am a forty-year-old mother of two in Target on Sunday afternoon and not some stripper winding herself around a pole. He turns quickly and disappears into the ladies' clothing section (let's not even go there, OK?)

Peanut is standing in the aisle, holding a HUGE black lace bra up to chest and prancing.

"I LIKE THIS ONE!" she is shouting.

I can hear the teenage girls behind me howling with laughter. If nothing else, I feel assured that I have helped prevent two teen pregnancies with this trip. I'm a glass-half-full kinda girl, after all, and have to find the bright side somewhere in this.

I approach her. The bra she is holding up is a double D.

"Not this one," I tell her. "Smaller. B. We need one with a B on it. And not these - something a little less . . . fancy."

We search the aisles - her pulling every bright pink, loud patterned, adorned with 8-pounds of lace style she can find off the displays and me searching quietly for a basic, flesh toned, not overly padded, comfortable-looking bra. I finally find one, which I toss in the cart.

(And I need to say that at this point, though it's probably been no more than 10 minutes, Loaf announces that she needs to use the bathroom. Seriously?!? Is there some type of diuretic in the air in there?! So off we go - again - to the restrooms.)

We exit the restroom, hit the pharmacy, pick up the prescription and go to the other registers to pay for the bra, which I could have paid for in the pharmacy, but I completely forgot about.

I hand the clerk the bra and Peanut leans over the conveyor.

"IT'S A B," she states boldly. "I HELPED HER PICK IT OUT."

Standing behind me is another horrified teenage girl - eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging open and face flushing red. Score! One more teen pregnancy prevented.

Mission accomplished, in all ways, we leave the store.

A lesson in priorities

My daughter won’t go to sleep. She tosses and turns. She sits up and reaches for a stuffed animal on the floor. She stretches her leg perpendicular to the bed and counts her toes. She sighs deeply.

This is all very annoying to me, because this is Loaf, my sleep-challenged child. She has asked me to sit here with her tonight until she drifts off, and while I don’t always indulge her, I want to just sit and read my book anyway, so I might as well sit in her room.

But still.

It’s after 9 p.m. and at some point I have to get up and start pulling together things for work tomorrow. I need her to go to sleep.

I am at the foot of her bed, propped up with my feet directed toward her pillows.

She flops over, sings the alphabet, then flops back to the other side.

She is looking at me. I pretend not to notice thinking, foolishly I know, that ignoring her will make her settle down.

She sits up, pitches forward and grabs my arm.

“I want to kiss you, Mom.”

I lean forward and she plants a soft kiss on my forehead. She is thrilled with herself. She hurls herself back onto her pillow.

“That was very nice, Loaf, but now its bedtime. Please go to sleep.”

“OK.”

I read less than two pages when she rolls onto her side, embraces my lower legs and kisses one of my shins.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Loaf. Now please go to bed.”

“OK.”

Instead of reading, I eyeball her over the top of my book. She is looking at the ceiling. She lifts her arm and makes delicate fluttery motions with her fingers, fascinated with the long shadows they make on the wall. She sees me watching her and smiles.

Not just any smile, but one of those ear-to-ear, filled-with-love, glowing from within smiles that makes my breath catch in my lungs.

I can’t help it. I smile back.

I sit forward and lean over her. She wraps her little arms tightly around my neck and I kiss her. She kisses back with a loud, wet smacking sound.

We repeat the kissing a couple more times. She smiles even more widely than before.

“OK, I’m ready to go to sleep now.” She lays back, closes her eyes and within minutes is sleeping.

I sat there, on her bed, for a while longer reading my book at times, but also just watching her – the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The rosebud mouth. The wild tangle of curls. A look of utter peace on her face.

These quiet moments are so rare.

I didn't get everything pulled together for work as I'd hoped and ended up running around pulling things together at the last minute. But I wouldn't trade that time in her room for anything. I believe I spent my time doing something much more worthwhile.

A new day

Today had some rough spots, or more accurately, one really big rough spot.

Peanut is in camp from 9 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. and while she LOVES it, it tires her out. Despite that, I promised Loaf we'd go to the playground this afternoon so around 4 p.m., I packed them up and off we went.

Big. Mistake. Kimberly.

Things got off on the wrong foot immediately when Peanut learned we were going to the "small" rather than the "big" park. She grumbled and complained, so I told her we'd go to the "big" park tomorrow, but that I'd already promised Loaf a visit to the "small" park today.

She whined all the way there - which was all of five minutes, but might as well have been five HOURS from my perspective. Whining is one of those things that drives me completely insane.

Things did not improve much when we got the park. She continued to whine. She refused to come to me. She stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest when I spoke to her. And worse of all, she was being mean to Loaf - chasing her and threatening to push her down. Now, I need to say, this is highly uncharacteristic of Peanut. She and Loaf usually play beautifully together, so I know she was acting out of pure exhaustion.

But regardless, we had to leave after only half an hour.

When we got home, I sent her straight to her room telling her to stay there until she was feeling more in control. She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. I started dinner and about 20 minutes later, she peeked her head out of her room - smiling. My usual good-natured Peanut was back.

After dinner, we sat on her bed reading from a vintage Sesame Street book. She leaned against me, hand resting lightly on my arm. I kissed the top of her head and watched as her eyelids drooped, then finally closed for good.

I lay her back gently on her pillow and brushed the hair off of her forehead. Her cheeks were pink and there was just a hint of a smile on her lips. She looked like an angel.

"Good night," I cooed to her. "Tomorrow we start fresh."

She sighed deeply-peacefully-in her sleep, as if to agree.

Lost tooth lost then found

Peanut lost her first tooth today.

::sniff::

Her loss of the tooth was followed by much drama when she actually did LOSE the tooth in the backseat of the van. I spent a good 30 minutes out there tonight carefully combing the floor mats with my fingertips thinking how ridiculously gross and weird it was to be looking for a TOOTH on the floor of the family car.

I found it under her booster seat and the Tooth Fairy is planning to swing by the homestead later tonight to make the drop.

Look how cute and proud she is:

Rub the bible and get three wishes

Scene: Sitting on the couch last night.

Loaf: Do you believe in God?

Me: I do.

Loaf: Does he live in New Jersey?

Me: Um. No. Definitely not. He is in heaven.

Loaf: Is that in the sky?

Me: Yes.

Loaf: Can he see me?

Me: Yes, he can.

Loaf: Can he see my bones?

Me: Yes, he can see your bones.

Loaf: Can he see me if I hide under the chair?

Me: Yes, even then. He can see you anytime.

Loaf. Oh. ::pausing:: Can he see if I don't eat my dinner?

Me: ::trying not to laugh::Yes.

Loaf: Can he help me find my lost dinosaur?

Me: It doesn't really work like that. I'll help you find it.

Loaf: Is he magic?

Me: Well, not exactly. He can conduct miracles though. He is all powerful.

Loaf: ::pausing to consider this:: Kind of like the genie in Aladdin?

Oy. OK. I get it. Time to focus on some sort of serious religious education. Which is going to fall entirely on me.

Awesome.

Like I don't have enough to worry about.

Terror at Target

Wednesday afternoon, I took the girls to see Pixar’s Up and we all loved it. I highly recommend it.

Peanut wanted to bring Blanket to the movie.

I hemmed and hawed about it. Blanket has been with us since Peanut was an infant. We’ve had a long-standing policy that if Blanket comes with us on an errand, she (Blanket is definitely a she and Peanut is highly insulted if you suggest otherwise) must stay in the car.

But over the last few months, Blanket has been slowly fading in importance to Peanut. Many a night I find it crumpled in a corner of the living room hours after she’s gone to bed. Once it spent an entire weekend in the van. When I change Peanut’s sheets, I often find it shoved deep down in the bed, apparently no longer sought in the night for comfort.

So I decided to let her take it to the movie. Blanket’s sinking social status is just one more reminder to me that my sweet baby girl is slipping away from me – growing up more and more each day.

Throughout the film, I’d occasionally glance over to see Peanut holding Blanket up to her face and I’d smile, happy again to see Blanket loved and needed. When we left, I checked three times to make sure we had it. I checked again when we were in the van.

Then we went to Target.

We made our way slowly through the store, lingering in spots and hurrying in others. When I shopped, the girls poked around nearby.

We finished, paid, loaded up the car and drove home.

Well, almost home.

Target is about 25 minutes from my house and with just 8 minutes to go, Peanut spoke up from the back seat.

“Mom,” she said quietly. “I don’t have Blanket.”

It’s a good thing we were at a red light, because I turned my head practically all the way around. It was nearly a scene from The Exorcist.

“What?” I said. “You what?”

“I don’t have Blanket.”

I pulled the car over and did a thorough search and sure enough, Blanket was not there.

Baffled, I looked at Peanut. “Where is she? How could she be lost?”

Of course, I already knew the answer.

“I took her into Target,” Peanut said. “I stuffed her in my shirt and took her in and now she’s gone.”

I felt white hot anger flash before my eyes. She snuck her in. She knows she’s not supposed to do that.

Then Peanut started to sob. “Blanket,” she moaned. “Blanket.” Tears ran down her face and her shoulders shook with grief.

There was never any question that we were going to drive back to the store and search for her, but that sealed it.

But first, I called Mark.

“Look the store up on the web, please,” I said. “And call them. Tell them if anyone finds not to throw it out. I mean, it looks like a cleaning rag. It’s so old.”

Blanket was once white as new snow, her thick woven cotton gently ending on all four sides in a border of short fringe.

Now? She is sort of grayish and threadbare. The fringe is non-existent on one side and unraveling on the other.

In frank terms, Blanket looks pretty much like something you’d wipe a dirty table with.

I drove as quickly as possible back to the store. The traffic was thicker now and it seemed to take forever to get back to the store. And matters weren’t helped by Peanut, who sobbed violently all the way there.

Once parked, I raced inside, a girl in each hand, and stopped immediately at Guest Services.

“My daughter lost her blanket,” I sputtered. “Did anyone turn it in?”

The man and woman at Guest Services looked at me blankly. After several seconds a small, dim bulb seemed to go off in the man’s head.

“Ooooh. Yeah. Did your husband just call about this? If that was him, I told him we don’t have it.”

OK, first of all, how long ago could Mark have called? 10? 15? 20 minutes tops? And it took several seconds before BrillantGuy remembered the call?

And second, how many people lose blankets in Target on a daily basis? Chances are pretty good that the guy who JUST CALLED is probably related to the case at hand.

“I’m going to look through the store,” I said, “and I’m going to check back here before I leave. If anyone turns it in, just hold on to it. Don’t get rid of it.”

I felt this should have been obvious information, but given the less than auspicious start, figured it was prudent to emphasize it.

We then retraced our steps through the store, carefully looking in, over, under and around every single display. We looked in shopping carts that were left in aisles.

And through the store, I kept asking Peanut, “Do you remember having Blanket at this point.”

For about 1/3 of the store, she answered a confident, “yes,” but for the final 2/3 she was less certain – couldn’t remember – couldn’t say.

That helped, but still left a lot of store to search. When we reached the checkout area, we retraced again.

About halfway through the second search, Mark showed up. Thank GOD I have such an amazing husband. He’d found the manager, who refused to make a store-wide announcement.

He grabbed Peanut’s hand and went back to find the manager.

“I want him to explain to her why he can’t make an announcement,” he said. Meanwhile, Loaf and I continued searching.

I stopped every red-shirted employee I could find and explained the situation to them. A few were helpful but the majority were ridiculously unsympathetic.

Loaf and I went outside and I check the garbage cans. Then I checked the garbage cans at the front of the store near the checkouts. I checked the garbage cans in the ladies’ room.

Nothing. And still, no store announcement.

We retraced our steps AGAIN.

And then, from behind me, I heard Peanut’s laugh and I turned to see her up on Mark’s shoulder’s BLANKET IN HAND.

He’d found her in a waste basket under one of the price scanners. A waste basket used primarily by store employees.

Now, like I said earlier, Blanket is pretty worn, but if you took more than 2 seconds to look, it is still clearly a child’s blanket. Last summer, to prevent further unraveling, my mom sewed pink stitching through her in the shape of little connected hearts.

And someone put it in the trash.

I don’t know what I expected. I mean, someone throwing it out was my biggest fear – that’s the first thing I thought of. That’s why I asked Mark to call the store ASAP. But somehow, I guess, I hoped no one would actually do it. That someone would realize it was a child’s cherished possession and take one minute to turn it in.

Later, back at home, Peanut snuggled Blanket against her face.

“Mommy, Blanket does not think she looks like a cleaning rag,” she said defensively.

I heart sank.

“I don’t think that either, honey. I know Blanket is old, but I also know how much she’s been loved. But someone who doesn’t know how much she’s been loved might not see her that way. They might just see her as an old cloth.”

She considered that for a moment, then shook Blanket and raised her voice to mimic her talking.

“I don’t like that someone put me in the trash. Whoever did that was thoughtless.”

And that’s one statement I couldn’t really argue with.

Dance (or don't). It's all the same to me.

I am sitting on the floor of my daughter’s dance studio watching her and her classmates rehearse the number they will perform in their ballet recital in just over three weeks.

They dance to a French song. Don't ask me the name because I don’t know. But before me is a line of about a dozen little girls wearing black leotards and pink tights. With one hand on one hip, they lip-sync the lyrics while the other hand moves through the air in time to the music.

Correction: Make that one dozen minus one.

My daughter – Peanut – is staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes are huge and round and she has a slightly checked-out look. The girls on either side of her smile and sway to the music. She fiddles with the band of her dance skirt and stares off into space.

Then, the girl on the far right steps forward and does a short solo. She glides two or three steps to the right, then the left. Then she twirls and steps back in line.

The girl to her left follows suit. And so on, down the line.

Peanut continues to roam about in her own world, maintaining her deer-in-the-headlights stare. She appears to be focusing on some random point a few feet over my head.

When her turn comes, she stands there looking forward.

Oblivious.

The girl to her left nudges her.

“It’s your turn,” she says urgently. “Go! Go!”

It takes a moment for Peanut to realize what the girl is saying to her, but then the recognition comes. She smiles, takes her step forward and takes about 10 steps to the left – almost covering the entire length of the line. Then she goes all the way to the right. And then back pretty far to the left again.

Finally, she does her twirl and steps back in line.

After that, she is partly engaged in the song. She sort of mouths the words and sort of does the hand motions. But then the lead girl on the right turns and dances off. The girls after her follow to form a big circle on the stage.

Peanut? Just. Stands. There.

Again, the girl next to her prompts her to Go! Go!

So she goes.

In the wrong direction.

She walks right into the girl behind her, then corrects herself and races to close the huge gap that’s now in the circle.

The mother next to me leans in and says, “That was my daughter last year. Always out to lunch.”

I nod, trying to decide if that statement was supposed to make me feel better for Peanut, because honestly it didn’t.

The girls loop around and once again form a line.

The song finishes. They all curtsy. Peanut is beaming.

I sit with my back against the wall, mouth slightly agape, pondering what I just witnessed. The room explodes in applause from the mothers who have been invited here today to dance with their daughters.

I applaud too. Peanut races into my arms and I fold them around her and plant a huge kiss on her cheek.

“Did you like it, Mommy?” she asks.

I signed her up for dance class hoping she would have fun, spend some time with her friends and experience something different. I never had any aspirations of her being invited here. And even if she were, I wouldn’t want her to go. Ballet is a harsh world.

I peer into those big green eyes and see how happy she is.

“I loved it,” I say truthfully.

She may be a bit of a space cadet, but she’s my little space cadet.

And you know what’s cool about space cadets? They find ways to reach the stars.

A cautionary tale about the importance of paper

Scene: The girls are painting with watercolors in the kitchen.

Loaf: I want to do another one.

Peanut: Me too!

Me: I’m sorry, but those were the last two sheets of paper. We'll have to get more at store. Finish up the ones you're doing, OK?

::Leaves room for a few minutes::

Five minutes later, I returned to find this:

Future vegetarians of America, meet your new leader. Maybe.

Today, Loaf was tired. Both she and Peanut were still up when I rolled in from the gym at just before 9 p.m. – watching James and the Giant Peach with Mark.

By the time we read to them and tucked them in, it was close to 9:30. Peanut slept late to make up for it. Loaf did not.

All day she was a whiny, difficult kid. She dissolved into tears at the slightest upset. The teeniest bump or bang resulted in fits of drama worthy of an Academy Award.

By the time dinner came around, she was the walking dead. She peered at me from her perch at the kitchen table with a glazed-over look, hair disheveled, cheeks rosy with exhaustion.

As I stood at the counter carving a rotisserie chicken, she seemed to be looking right through me – the famous seven-mile stare kids get when they’re utterly spent.

Then, she spoke.

“What are you doing, Mommy?”

“I’m carving a chicken,” I told her. “I have to take the meat off the bones so we can eat it.”

::silence::

“Chickens are supposed to lay eggs, Mommy. They are not supposed to be food.”

Now it was my turn to be silent.

“Weeellll,” I explained, “some chickens are eaten. All the meat we eat used to be an animal. Most people eat animals, but you don’t have to. You can be a vegetarian like Aunt Justine if you want. Vegetarians do not eat meat.”

::silence::

“Poor chicken! I feel terrible for that chicken.”

I set the knife down.

“Loaf, do you not want to eat it? I will make you something else.”

Now, at this point, I need to explain something. Mark is not a vegetarian, but he only eats meat that meets strict criteria:
1. It must be organically raised, meaning no hormones, all vegetarian feed (no ground up animal parts in its food) and no antibiotics.
2. It must be certified humanely raised. Which is tougher to ascertain, but equally important to him. He is an animal lover, and is unwilling to eat factory-farmed animals that have lived miserable, dirty, sad, tortuous lives cooped up in small pens, unable to move, living in their own filth, only to be slaughtered in the end.

Happy chickens and cows, a friend used to say. Mark only eats happy chickens and cows.

And because most restaurant and supermarket meat is not from happy chickens or cows, for the most part, Mark only eats meat in our house. (I say for the most part because certain people like my mom, his mom and certain friends know about Mark’s food rules and have happy chickens and cows available to eat when we visit).

However, the girls still eat unhappy chickens and cows in restaurants and other places and we’ve been talking lately about how and when to align their eating with Mark’s. He feels strongly about this, and thinks the girls should follow his example.

I don’t disagree with this. I’m just not sure how to introduce it.

So my asking Loaf if she wanted something else was not about catering to the whim of a fussy preschooler. Rather, I was thinking that if Loaf had strong feelings about not eating meat, even at not quite 4, I would accommodate her.

Instead, she burst into tears.

“That was my favorite chicken!”

::sob sob::

“I am so sad!”

::sob sob::

“I’ll never see it again!”

::sob sob::

“It was such a good chicken! My favorite!”

::sob sob::

And then . . .

“YOU KILLED MY CHICKEN!”

Which, whoa. I may sometimes eat unhappy chickens, but I don’t kill them myself.

“Loaf, you didn’t even know this chicken,” I said to her (and yes, I realize that may be the most ridiculous statement ever spoken.) “This is a farm chicken. It came from a farm.”

::sob sob::

“I will miss that chicken. Poor little guy.”

There was no reasoning with her. So I stopped trying.

Instead, I boiled her a vegetarian hot dog and served it up with a side of salad.

Peanut and I ate our happy chicken while Loaf ate her veggie hot dog. When dinner was over, she burst into tears again.

“What animal is a veggie hot dog from?” she sobbed.

“It’s not from an animal. It’s from soy and vegetables.”

::silence::

“I will miss that hot dog! It was my favorite.”

At which point, I realized that Loaf’s animal activism had nothing to do with happy chickens or cows, but rather with an unhappy little girl who did not get nearly enough sleep last night.

So I brushed her teeth and sent her off to bed. We’ll see how she feels tomorrow, but I can guarantee you one thing: breakfast will consist of cereal and toast. I’m staying far, far away from the bacon and eggs for a while.

Those lazy people in your office? Here's how they got started.

When we’re not eating, our kitchen table also serves as an arts and craft area for the girls. As such, it—and the floor around it—is often covered with scraps of paper, crayons, markers and sometimes blobs of Play-Doh.

For a long time (too long), we would pick up the aftermath of the girls’ destruction creative pursuits while they ran into another room to spread the destruction play elsewhere.

Not. Any. More.

Things have gotten a lot tougher for the Gav girls lately as Mark and I, sick to death of constantly picking up after our children, are enforcing the rule of “you make the mess, you clean it up.”

I know, I know. We should have been doing this all along, but better late than never, right?

Over the weekend, we walked into the kitchen to find the table and floor littered with about 600 markers and pieces of papers. We called the girls back into the room and told them they needed to pick up the mess.

It took some cajoling, but they both finally gave in and started putting the markers back in their box and piling the papers together.

Or at least that’s what it looked like at first.

After watching for a few seconds, it became clear that Peanut was doing all the work while Loaf simply ran around the table, occasionally stooping down to touch her toes, but not actually picking anything up.

I looked at Mark.

“Do you see this? Do you see what she’s doing? She’s letting Peanut do all the work.”

“Yep,” he nodded.

“She’s going to be fantastically successful in Corporate America someday,” I added.

“Exactly. And she’ll get promoted while Peanut gets laid off.”

So there you go. Next time someone in your office takes all the credit for work you did, or spends the day goofing off online while everyone around him/her scrambles to meet deadlines, take a deep breath and remember that he/she was once a happy little child.

A happy little child who learned to manipulate the system early on and/or did not have terribly observant parents.

The world clearly has enough of these types of folks, so don’t worry. We’re doing our best to ensure there won’t be one more 20 years from now.

Future UN negotiator

Me: Loaf, whose bed are you going to sleep in tonight?

Loaf: YOURS!

Me: Why don't you sleep in your own bed?

Loaf: I don't like it! It's cold.

Me: OK, then I'll cover you up with an extra comforter. You'll be toasty warm.

Loaf: It's also scary.

Me: The light is on, the door is open, we're right here in the next room. There's nothing to be scared of.

Loaf: I get lonely.

Me: I'll put Molly in there with you.

Loaf: I just like your bed better.

Me: It's awfully crowded though. How about if you sleep there and I sleep in your bed?

Loaf: No! I like your bed better because you're in it.

Me: ::sigh:: You put up a pretty good argument, kid.

Snippets, part II

(After telling Peanut that her grayish-green eyes are very pretty and somewhat unusual).
Peanut: So that must mean Loaf’s eyes are ugly and ordinary.

- -

(Mark looks at the new underwear I bought for the girls).
Mark: You bought them Granny underwear.
Me: Would you rather I got them a pack of lacy thongs?

- -

(Driving by a farm, we spy a horse standing by a fence, so we stop to look at it).
Peanut: Is it a boy or a girl?
Me: I’m not sure.
Loaf: It’s a boy.
Peanut: How do you know?
Loaf: Because it has a pair in the back.
Me: Wait. What? It has a . . . WHAT?!?
Loaf: A pear. Like the fruit. There in the back. A BIG one!
Me: :::bangs head on steering wheel:::

- -

(Later in the same car ride, one of the girls passes very stinky gas).
Me: Did one of you just have gas?
Both: No!
Me: Are you sure? Because it smells like gas in here.
Loaf: It was Daddy!
Me: He’s not even in the car. We're miles from home. If that was him, we’re in serious trouble.
Loaf: It was him and HE is in serious trouble.
Me: It was you, wasn’t it?
Loaf: ::shakes head vigorously with huge of-course-it-was-me smile on face::

To read previous Snippets click here.

How to get your waitresses' attention (and make her move REALLY fast)

I’m sure it’s happened to every parent: You screw up the courage to take your kid(s) to a restaurant. You somehow make it through the ordering and dicey waiting-for-the-food-to-arrive period. Your kids (sort of) eat what they’ve been served, and just when you’re feeling like you dodged a bullet, the wait staff disappears at the end of your meal.

The seconds tick by and your newly-recharged children seem to be gaining strength by the second. Any moment now, you expect one of them to screech loudly then jump out of his chair and run wildly through the restaurant.

You feel powerless. You look anxiously around, but your server is nowhere to be seen.

Finally, he or she usually shows up right about the time your beloved child spills an entire glass of water onto the floor, or rips open six packs of sugar at once sending a shower of sweetener flying across two tables (not that I’ve ever had *that* happen).

:::whistles and looks up at ceiling::

Well, today I discovered the surefire way to get out of a restaurant quickly.

It was lunchtime. I picked Loaf up from school and had an hour and a half before Peanut was released. Feeling adventurous (and being utterly starving) I decided to take her to a local diner.

Once inside, the waitress handed her a cup of crayons and she spent the first several minutes happily coloring while I perused the menu. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and side salad, figuring we could split them between us.

While we waited for the food to show up, Loaf and I happily filled the back of her placemat with butterflies, flowers and letters.

The food came quickly and we dove in. Her grilled cheese had a healthy side of fries, so I squirted a small mound of ketchup on her plate. I started eating the salad.

Not three minutes passed when she leaned her head against my arm and whined, “my tummy feels funny.”

I stopped chewing and looked at her.

Oh no way. I thought. No freakin’ way. Not now.

Not really wanting to ask, but knowing I had to, I whispered to her, “Are you going to throw up?”

She shook her head “no” vigorously, but covered her mouth with her hand. I’ve seen this maneuver before – about 30 seconds before she spewed vomit all over me, the couch, and two-thirds of the living room floor.

Panic took over.

I spied our waitress at the far end of the counter, leaning lazily against the end of it and chatting with another server.

“Um Miss,” I called, raising my hand like a kid in elementary school.

She slowly walked toward us. And I mean S-L-O-W-L-Y. Like a friggen’ three-toed sloth probably would have beaten her there.

“Everything OK?” she asked, though given the bored expression on her face, it was clear she really could not care less whether things were OK or not.

“I need to take this all to go,” I said. “She just told me she’s not feeling well.” I motioned toward Loaf and then followed the waitresses’ eyes as she slowly took in the scene.

Unfinished food.

Small child with her hands clasped firmly over mouth. Eyes as big as saucers. A little green around the gills.

Then, it was like an alarm went off in her brain.

“OH!” she said in alarm.

She turned on her heel and was gone in a flash. She returned not five seconds later with the printed check, two takeout containers, a plastic bag and a man who I think was the manager. Her first order of business was to shove the plastic bag at Loaf’s face.

I didn’t get why she was handing it to her at first, but then it dawned on me.

Ahhhhh. Barf bag. Smart.

They both quickly began dumping our uneaten lunch unceremoniously into the containers. She slapped the check on the table and the manager asked, “Do you need help getting her coat on? Do you need help getting out to the car?”

He might as well have just come right out and asked, “Can you please get the fuck out of my restaurant RIGHT NOW.”

And I don’t blame him. A small child tossing her cookies in the middle of the lunch hour is not exactly a boon to business. In addition to the gross factor, it probably gets people thinking, “did the food here do that to her?”

But still. This was just plain funny. Not a minute ago this woman was moving like molasses dripping down an icicle and now she was apparently attempting to win “world’s fastest server award.”

I quickly paid and Loaf obediently walked out the door with her barf bag firmly held under her nose. The whole exit occurred in less than five minutes.

Now, the whole situation was nerve-wracking, and I’m eternally grateful that Loaf didn’t puke (not at the restaurant and not later either), but I came away with a newfound knowledge: you actually aren’t powerless in these situations. Just unleash the power of the possible puke and poof! You’ll be in the car and on the way home in minutes.

A clean sweep

Today, I swept the kitchen floor.

A perfectly ordinary task, right?

Except, today, I had help. Loaf was home and when she saw me go for the broom, she ran to her room to get her pint-sized version so she could pitch in. The floor was messy from lunch with crumbs and bits of food all around the table.

I swept it quickly into a small pile and set the dustpan up to collect it. Meanwhile, Loaf worked diligently trying to corral a lone peanut into the bin.

"Come on, little peanut," she cooed gently, as a errant sweep of her broom sent it careening in the opposite direction.

"No, this way peanut. This way," she persisted, knocking too far in the opposite direction this time.

I watched, patiently, for her nut to join the rest of the fallen food in the dustbin. Again, she pushed it along with the broom.

"This way, nut. Go in there," but once again, she missed the dustpan.

She paused for a moment, assessing the situation.

"I just pick it up and put it in," she finally concluded, stooping down to pick up the nut and toss it in the dustpan.

"That's great, honey, that's just fine," I assured her, trying not to laugh.

Which just goes to show that sometimes, even the most ordinary can become extraordinary when you least expect it.