August is sailing right into September without even asking me. Am I ready for the kids to go back to school? Maybe. Am I ready for crispness in the air and a few leaves lilting about? Maybe. Am I ready for a bit of schedule put back into our daily routine? Yes. Am I ready for my son to start his last year of elementary school? No.
Here I am again wondering how the time between when he was placed in our arms on a hot and steamy July night at the airport ten years ago ... to now... went by so quickly. How did this happen? Sure, I remember many long nights consoling him as he tried to buck the sleep system, while I looked out the window across our neighborhood and imagined that all people in the world were slumbering soundly... all except the two of us. I remember questioning just how long it would take for me to be able to understand his babbling sentences and if he would ever say "sandwich" instead of "bunjich." I remember hoping that his first grade teacher wouldn't notice the permanent callous on his thumb - caused by six years of a very special bond between his mouth and his thumb. And not so long ago, we wondered if 7 x 8 = 56 would ever take up residence in his brain.
Ten years used to seem like an eternity. Now it seems like three hours ... or maybe one "church hour" if you ask my son. Which brings me to reality. Is he growing up too quickly? Yes. Is he experimenting with some eye-rolling and insubordination? Yes. Is he wondering when can he have a cell phone of his own and why I won't let him go further than the park on his bike? Yes. But here's the real question: Is he making shadow puppets with his hands of a prehistoric bird chomping up an alien on the pew in front of him during a long sermon? Yes. Is he still a kid? Yes. Am I looking forward to the next ten years of adventures? Absolutely.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Revenge of the Bouncy Ball
In my enduring fight against child boredom, Africa-hot heat, a general decline in creativity, and my son's continuous quest for trying to find new ways to make squeaking noises using only the palm of his hand and his ear canal, I ended up impulse-buying one of those paddle string, bouncy ball toys in the Target checkout lane. You know, the toy with a teeny tiny mildly-bouncy ball attached to the end of a six foot long string. The string is attached to a paddle that actually just resembles an over sized wooden spoon - got it pictured? If I could only count the number of hours of enjoyment my children have squeezed out of that toy.... okay, not hours... maybe a few minutes... anyway, it has taken up a few more minutes than I had anticipated - which was the objective.
At first, it was just an instrument of torture and pure frustration. Just getting the ball to pretend that it was going to cooperate was the first order of business. Then facilitating some sort of control was next. The only thing the bouncy ball was hitting was some unassuming bystander's forehead, the dusty wreath on the wall, or the knuckles of the toy's operator. But slowly, as the frustration eased a bit, I started to hear hits that led me to believe someone was actually making that stupid ball make contact with that stupid paddle. Then came the sound of hits in succession - a sure sign that some mastery was taking place. So I cranked my neck around to the corner to casually view this boredom-busting activity. This is where the part about the unassuming bystander comes into play. Yes, I was accosted by the bouncy ball part of the paddle toy. The good news is that the string has a wee amount of elastic in it that made the amount of time the ball made contact with my forehead just a flash. The bad news is that the *@#!* ball in not, indeed, made out of "bouncy." I am certain that it is made out of cement.
Okay, so now the bear had been poked. It wasn't enough that I had been desperately trying to instill some self-startedness with my children and putting out fires left and right all morning with them over issues like, who would take responsibility for the plastic boomerang now resting comfortably on the roof of our neighbor's garage, or who ate the last ice cream sandwich, or - my favorite - why they are not allowed to watch sixteen, consecutive hours of Scooby-Doo. And now, as a reward for my Mom-of-the-Year efforts, I was to be beaned smack in the forehead with the very toy of destruction that I willingly brought into our home as a means of simple, innocent entertainment. Nice.
So the swelling has subsided, and forgiveness has taken place. But here's my little piece of revenge - which really doesn't even make that much sense: I was in a book store this afternoon for just a few minutes when it happened. A very determined nine-ish-year-old had just become the proud owner of one brand new (you guessed it) Paddle Ball Toy of Torture. And as he was leaving the store, wildly practicing and desperately trying to make that ball bounce on that paddle, his "unassuming bystander" mom out in front of him, took a hard curve ball to the back of her noggin. And...wow... did she unleash the fury! Every single inappropriate word, phrase, and threat I had wanted to unload on my children just hours before was now being vented quite loudly out into the open parking lot for everyone to witness. And for some odd, unfair, reason, I felt better.
That's not so much a "silver lining" as it is little story about how this mom survives and (if not a little spitefully) enjoys parenthood.
At first, it was just an instrument of torture and pure frustration. Just getting the ball to pretend that it was going to cooperate was the first order of business. Then facilitating some sort of control was next. The only thing the bouncy ball was hitting was some unassuming bystander's forehead, the dusty wreath on the wall, or the knuckles of the toy's operator. But slowly, as the frustration eased a bit, I started to hear hits that led me to believe someone was actually making that stupid ball make contact with that stupid paddle. Then came the sound of hits in succession - a sure sign that some mastery was taking place. So I cranked my neck around to the corner to casually view this boredom-busting activity. This is where the part about the unassuming bystander comes into play. Yes, I was accosted by the bouncy ball part of the paddle toy. The good news is that the string has a wee amount of elastic in it that made the amount of time the ball made contact with my forehead just a flash. The bad news is that the *@#!* ball in not, indeed, made out of "bouncy." I am certain that it is made out of cement.
Okay, so now the bear had been poked. It wasn't enough that I had been desperately trying to instill some self-startedness with my children and putting out fires left and right all morning with them over issues like, who would take responsibility for the plastic boomerang now resting comfortably on the roof of our neighbor's garage, or who ate the last ice cream sandwich, or - my favorite - why they are not allowed to watch sixteen, consecutive hours of Scooby-Doo. And now, as a reward for my Mom-of-the-Year efforts, I was to be beaned smack in the forehead with the very toy of destruction that I willingly brought into our home as a means of simple, innocent entertainment. Nice.
So the swelling has subsided, and forgiveness has taken place. But here's my little piece of revenge - which really doesn't even make that much sense: I was in a book store this afternoon for just a few minutes when it happened. A very determined nine-ish-year-old had just become the proud owner of one brand new (you guessed it) Paddle Ball Toy of Torture. And as he was leaving the store, wildly practicing and desperately trying to make that ball bounce on that paddle, his "unassuming bystander" mom out in front of him, took a hard curve ball to the back of her noggin. And...wow... did she unleash the fury! Every single inappropriate word, phrase, and threat I had wanted to unload on my children just hours before was now being vented quite loudly out into the open parking lot for everyone to witness. And for some odd, unfair, reason, I felt better.
That's not so much a "silver lining" as it is little story about how this mom survives and (if not a little spitefully) enjoys parenthood.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
My Hero
So this is my question: have you ever been trying on an article of clothing in a store dressing room when you realize at some point of no return, that not only can you not get completely into the clothing item, but that as you try to succeed, you realize you most likely never get out of it unless the jaws of life are involved?
Well, I met my "waterloo" with an article of torture called the" strappified-size-small-but looks-like-a-size -medium-so-why-not-try-it-on-anyway" running top. Yes, it did feel a bit snug as I was shimmying into that adorable pink and white little number, but it was supposed to be close-fitting, right? Supporting the core while exercising is of the utmost importance, right? Well, all I can tell you is that while my left arm was flailing to reach the sky through the labyrinth of spandex, my right arm was sealed so tightly next to my torso that I could feel my heartbeat in my shoulder. That was was when the red flag went up... a little late, I know. I was just so determined that it was gonna be cute, that I ignored all the warning signs.. and it didn't hurt that it was a cool sixty percent off.
Just when I was saying farewell to life as I know it, I heard a knock at the door.
"Julie? Are you in this one?" said the roaming around the store sister.
"Oh, for the love of Pete, YES I AM! Come in, come in!" said I - the mummified one.
"Oh... dear... you might need to take off your glasses... and... here, take my hand (giggle, giggle)... and I will pull... this, but you need to tuck your chin... okay, here we go (giggle)... can you put your other arm behind your (giggle... snort)... uh... this isn't good..." and so on and so forth.
The wrap (no pun intended):
1) After a somewhat lengthy struggle, I was eventually released from shirt of pain.
2) I did not buy the teeny tiny running top.
3) A great sale does not always mean a great fit.
4) My sister was the hero of the day.
5) Lesson learned... again.
Well, I met my "waterloo" with an article of torture called the" strappified-size-small-but looks-like-a-size -medium-so-why-not-try-it-on-anyway" running top. Yes, it did feel a bit snug as I was shimmying into that adorable pink and white little number, but it was supposed to be close-fitting, right? Supporting the core while exercising is of the utmost importance, right? Well, all I can tell you is that while my left arm was flailing to reach the sky through the labyrinth of spandex, my right arm was sealed so tightly next to my torso that I could feel my heartbeat in my shoulder. That was was when the red flag went up... a little late, I know. I was just so determined that it was gonna be cute, that I ignored all the warning signs.. and it didn't hurt that it was a cool sixty percent off.
Just when I was saying farewell to life as I know it, I heard a knock at the door.
"Julie? Are you in this one?" said the roaming around the store sister.
"Oh, for the love of Pete, YES I AM! Come in, come in!" said I - the mummified one.
"Oh... dear... you might need to take off your glasses... and... here, take my hand (giggle, giggle)... and I will pull... this, but you need to tuck your chin... okay, here we go (giggle)... can you put your other arm behind your (giggle... snort)... uh... this isn't good..." and so on and so forth.
The wrap (no pun intended):
1) After a somewhat lengthy struggle, I was eventually released from shirt of pain.
2) I did not buy the teeny tiny running top.
3) A great sale does not always mean a great fit.
4) My sister was the hero of the day.
5) Lesson learned... again.
Monday, June 20, 2011
For the Love of Ice Cream
"Aw... come on now... it can't be that bad, Jule. Let's go get a Birdsall's (a local ice cream shoppe - that has the best banana fudge ice cream - hands down)!
These are the words that were spoken to me every time I needed to be cheered up, encouraged, consoled, motivated, or celebrated with. I am now 41 years old and my Dad is still taking me to Birdsall's for ice cream. Who knew ice cream had healing properties? It's true. Something about the process of looking up at the menu board and choosing an ice cream treat, licking in a swirl fashion, and thinking about nothing else, but how good it tastes - has the power to make the world just a little sunnier for the moment. And, as it turns out - most of us only need a moment.
So how lucky am I that my Dad has shared this ice cream wisdom with me my entire life?
My bike was backed over and crunched up when I was four - let's go get an ice cream.
My friends planned a sleep over and didn't invite me - time for ice cream.
I earned a "Superior" on my piano solo I was crazy nervous about - ice cream, here we come.
The school play didn't need my talent - ice cream fixed this too.
A break-up with a boyfriend - only ice cream would do.
Thank goodness, as I've gotten older, Birdsall's has been the answer to more celebrations than defeats.
College graduation, getting my first job, my first apartment, my first car - all causes for an ice cream cone. But my favorite ice cream celebration at Birdsall's happened when I wasn't even there. Seven or eight years ago on a hot day in July, I had been helping my parents clean out their basement - and my Dad was on grandson duty. He had been entertaining - or containing my toddler when my Mom and I realized it was very quiet upstairs. They were either napping together in the recliner - or they were gone. Soon enough we heard the back door slam and the kitchen faucet was in full force along with a lot of giggling. Evidently, it was time to carry on the tradition with my son. Neither my son nor my father have earned medals for neatness - so, as you can imagine, both of them had been treated to an ice cream cone - one was an expert ice cream eater - the other - quite the novice. At the end of this adventure, both were covered in sticky, melty missed slurps of some delicious concoction of Birdsall's ice cream - and just like that, the healing powers of ice cream were passed on to the next generation.
Happy Father's Day - to the best ice cream lovin' Dad and Grandpa in the world!
These are the words that were spoken to me every time I needed to be cheered up, encouraged, consoled, motivated, or celebrated with. I am now 41 years old and my Dad is still taking me to Birdsall's for ice cream. Who knew ice cream had healing properties? It's true. Something about the process of looking up at the menu board and choosing an ice cream treat, licking in a swirl fashion, and thinking about nothing else, but how good it tastes - has the power to make the world just a little sunnier for the moment. And, as it turns out - most of us only need a moment.
So how lucky am I that my Dad has shared this ice cream wisdom with me my entire life?
My bike was backed over and crunched up when I was four - let's go get an ice cream.
My friends planned a sleep over and didn't invite me - time for ice cream.
I earned a "Superior" on my piano solo I was crazy nervous about - ice cream, here we come.
The school play didn't need my talent - ice cream fixed this too.
A break-up with a boyfriend - only ice cream would do.
Thank goodness, as I've gotten older, Birdsall's has been the answer to more celebrations than defeats.
College graduation, getting my first job, my first apartment, my first car - all causes for an ice cream cone. But my favorite ice cream celebration at Birdsall's happened when I wasn't even there. Seven or eight years ago on a hot day in July, I had been helping my parents clean out their basement - and my Dad was on grandson duty. He had been entertaining - or containing my toddler when my Mom and I realized it was very quiet upstairs. They were either napping together in the recliner - or they were gone. Soon enough we heard the back door slam and the kitchen faucet was in full force along with a lot of giggling. Evidently, it was time to carry on the tradition with my son. Neither my son nor my father have earned medals for neatness - so, as you can imagine, both of them had been treated to an ice cream cone - one was an expert ice cream eater - the other - quite the novice. At the end of this adventure, both were covered in sticky, melty missed slurps of some delicious concoction of Birdsall's ice cream - and just like that, the healing powers of ice cream were passed on to the next generation.
Happy Father's Day - to the best ice cream lovin' Dad and Grandpa in the world!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Spaceman Spiff Saves the Day
Spaceman Spiff - do you remember him? He's the alter ego of one little mischievous boy named Calvin. Calvin and Hobbes, that is. One of my favorite comic strips - no longer in the Sunday Paper, but now retired to paperback volumes you can find in the Geek Section at your local Barnes and Noble. Well, Spiff was reincarnated on the sofa in our sun room yesterday. This is how it happened. I had been requested to read to my youngest, and as it goes - way too often, I had put her off so I could finish a little project.
"Just ten minutes and I will be right there. Go pick out the books you would like to read, and I promise I will be ready. Thanks, Honey."
"Okaaaaaay," replied the dejected seven year old. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Down the stairs she pointed her little body, and went to choose her books. Then in just a few moments, I heard the return tromps back to the top of the stairs. Then, a surprise:
"I'll read to you - come over here, and we can read together," said the voice of one ten year old brother.
How could this be? Seriously? Just one second ago we were knee-deep in the de-tox, re-entry week of transitioning school life into summer life... with mom. It's been one of our rockier transitions - not one we would like to repeat. Well... unbeknownst to me, the control and attention issues that seemed to be consuming our early days of summer are now at bay, and peace has come to settle in the valley... in the form of Spaceman Spiff.
As I finished the "urgent" project, I heard somewhere behind me,
"... and then a humongous meteorite explodes into the galactic ship - forcing a crash through the ozone! The small aliens are zipped out into space and it looks as though they will perish.. until Spaceman Spiff comes to the rescue! He points super heat lasers at the ship's side and melts off a piece so the aliens can rejoin their crew! Yes!"
Well, thank goodness. I was overwhelmed with a heartfelt mommy moment. I smiled and felt happy that my two children were snuggled around the Calvin and Hobbes Treasury - content and peaceful... actually happy to be in each other's company.
Then it dawned on me. For the last week, I have played the role of the well-meaning alien - trying to guide (or maybe force) the ship safely to a landing strip in the land of summer.... and a meteorite in the form of a seven year old, has been bent on crashing our ship... until Spiff (played by a rather unassuming, peace-loving ten year old) guides our ship back to safety.
At the end of the day, the alien found her place, the galactic ship burnt out - but not before its pilot ejected at the last moment and joined the aliens happily, and Spaceman Spiff made sandwiches for the exhausted crew. And they all lived happily ever after... until school starts again.
"Just ten minutes and I will be right there. Go pick out the books you would like to read, and I promise I will be ready. Thanks, Honey."
"Okaaaaaay," replied the dejected seven year old. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Down the stairs she pointed her little body, and went to choose her books. Then in just a few moments, I heard the return tromps back to the top of the stairs. Then, a surprise:
"I'll read to you - come over here, and we can read together," said the voice of one ten year old brother.
How could this be? Seriously? Just one second ago we were knee-deep in the de-tox, re-entry week of transitioning school life into summer life... with mom. It's been one of our rockier transitions - not one we would like to repeat. Well... unbeknownst to me, the control and attention issues that seemed to be consuming our early days of summer are now at bay, and peace has come to settle in the valley... in the form of Spaceman Spiff.
As I finished the "urgent" project, I heard somewhere behind me,
"... and then a humongous meteorite explodes into the galactic ship - forcing a crash through the ozone! The small aliens are zipped out into space and it looks as though they will perish.. until Spaceman Spiff comes to the rescue! He points super heat lasers at the ship's side and melts off a piece so the aliens can rejoin their crew! Yes!"
Well, thank goodness. I was overwhelmed with a heartfelt mommy moment. I smiled and felt happy that my two children were snuggled around the Calvin and Hobbes Treasury - content and peaceful... actually happy to be in each other's company.
Then it dawned on me. For the last week, I have played the role of the well-meaning alien - trying to guide (or maybe force) the ship safely to a landing strip in the land of summer.... and a meteorite in the form of a seven year old, has been bent on crashing our ship... until Spiff (played by a rather unassuming, peace-loving ten year old) guides our ship back to safety.
At the end of the day, the alien found her place, the galactic ship burnt out - but not before its pilot ejected at the last moment and joined the aliens happily, and Spaceman Spiff made sandwiches for the exhausted crew. And they all lived happily ever after... until school starts again.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Fourth Grader by Day... Hero by Night (or Morning)
Each morning, we have this series of dance steps we move through. We eat together, I make their lunches, they engage themselves in some mommy-lovin' activity that tells me I've done a good job - like reading, drawing, writing, or just general creative play. Then when they are finished with all of their morning routines, they usually like to head outside to wait for their carpool ride. This morning was no different. When I opened the door just to do a head count and a general check, they were zipping from one side of the driveway to the next on their scooters. Soon, the youngest came in, sure that she forgot to pack some needed treasure for the school day. I continued to watch the oldest ski from pillar to post with true abandon as he took over the entire driveway. Unaware that I was watching, he all of a sudden, morphed into some type of mythical hero - saving us all from certain demise. One moment, he was just scootering along happily, and then as soon as he had the driveway to himself, he automatically ducked his head, pulled his raincoat hood over it, and squatted down to a perch on his scooter... and then the sound effects began. I would love to give you exact sounds, but because of my chromosomal make-up, I will be unable to produce the sound of a motorcycle, jet, rocket, and machine gun all rolled into a perfect cadence - as my son did. Now I notice he is no longer on the driveway, but he and his super jet-packed scooter mobile are running along side of each other through the yard... and the sound effects continue. The caped crusader is deep into saving the world.
I hear my daughter call my name to help her with a hair catastrophe, so I head up the stairs and leave my post for just a moment. When I returned, I couldn't see the super hero immediately, so I changed my positioning and waited quietly for Act II to begin. I see a few rocks and leaves bounce by the window, so I follow this activity to its origin. Sure enough, the caped hero is now fashioning some sort of weapon and a hide-out. But now the hair drama is over, and my daughter is back on the scene outside. As quickly as it began, the super hero scene from the action comic strip has ended. This is what follows:
"Joe! Where are you?"
"I'm right here. Just looking for bugs."
"Oh... can I help?"
"Sure, go get the bucket."
As she runs back to the garage, I hear humming (from the hideout) that sounds very much like Darth Vader's march to the Death Star. It's still on! I can only imagine, that in his head, he has just decoyed himself as a storm trooper and has sent the innocent Princess Leia away from what will be a certain battle to the death.
How does this work? I haven't decided if living in one's imagination is pure bliss or a curse. I mean, having to save the world from alien attacks and evil empires day in and day out could be pretty stressful. But then again, knowing that the good guy is always going to prevail - that's probably not a bad gig to have either.
I hear my daughter call my name to help her with a hair catastrophe, so I head up the stairs and leave my post for just a moment. When I returned, I couldn't see the super hero immediately, so I changed my positioning and waited quietly for Act II to begin. I see a few rocks and leaves bounce by the window, so I follow this activity to its origin. Sure enough, the caped hero is now fashioning some sort of weapon and a hide-out. But now the hair drama is over, and my daughter is back on the scene outside. As quickly as it began, the super hero scene from the action comic strip has ended. This is what follows:
"Joe! Where are you?"
"I'm right here. Just looking for bugs."
"Oh... can I help?"
"Sure, go get the bucket."
As she runs back to the garage, I hear humming (from the hideout) that sounds very much like Darth Vader's march to the Death Star. It's still on! I can only imagine, that in his head, he has just decoyed himself as a storm trooper and has sent the innocent Princess Leia away from what will be a certain battle to the death.
How does this work? I haven't decided if living in one's imagination is pure bliss or a curse. I mean, having to save the world from alien attacks and evil empires day in and day out could be pretty stressful. But then again, knowing that the good guy is always going to prevail - that's probably not a bad gig to have either.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Stalker
Mom! Come 'ere! I got him! Look at this!!
Wow, that's a really long worm. Where ever did you dig up such a find?
Oh, I didn't dig him up!
....well, then how did this worm come into your possession?
You see that big fat robin over there?
Yes.
I been watchin' him for a really long time. When he finally plucked up a worm from that grass, I scared him away and got his worm!!
No way...
Yes way - wanna watch me do it again??!
I'm in.
Sure enough. I have a son who is stalking winter-starved robins so he can scare the feathers clean off 'em, slide on his belly through the wet grass, and snatch away a worm that would have probably fed several families of robins. Another proud moment. Happy Mother's Day to me... I've obviously done a heck of a job.
Wow, that's a really long worm. Where ever did you dig up such a find?
Oh, I didn't dig him up!
....well, then how did this worm come into your possession?
You see that big fat robin over there?
Yes.
I been watchin' him for a really long time. When he finally plucked up a worm from that grass, I scared him away and got his worm!!
No way...
Yes way - wanna watch me do it again??!
I'm in.
Sure enough. I have a son who is stalking winter-starved robins so he can scare the feathers clean off 'em, slide on his belly through the wet grass, and snatch away a worm that would have probably fed several families of robins. Another proud moment. Happy Mother's Day to me... I've obviously done a heck of a job.
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