Holpineville

Stuff I Should Have Written Down Before Now

In no particular order:

Last Day

It’s the last day of school, and my kids have done no actual school work for two or three weeks, I think.  I’m not upset about it, because they did do some things at the end I’d been campaigning for the teachers to do all year:  arts workshops, field trips, special projects.  Ruby spent a lot of time in the school library, too.  Today, Carl took chips and a Crockpot full of queso for his class party, and Ruby took chips and the stuff to make guacamole.  Tonight, of course, they want to go out for Tex-Mex. 

I have to help sell t-shirts and yearbooks and then take money to the bank for the PTO after school, so the kids won’t be getting out early.  And tomorrow is a teacher appreciation luncheon I’m sort of in charge of, and I still have some PTO letters and accounting to wrap up, so I guess school isn’t really out for me yet.

Score One for Mom

Ruby reports that she did well on the civics portion of the Stanford 10 (standardized exam), because “it was all that stuff you’re always talking about!” So, score one for Mommy, always blathering on about the rights and the Constitution, flags, presidents, patriotism, elections, political parties, and whatnot.  I hate to think my major contribution to her education is a question or two on some bubble-filling test, but at least I made an impression.

Or Maybe Not

Rod and I are often impressed with how smart!  How insightful!  our Carl is. Except, of course, when he’s not. We were talking over some upcoming dates when we got an idea that Carl (seven, going on eight, or first grade, going on second) wasn’t so clear on the basic concepts; and we asked him to recite the months of the year.   He couldn’t do it.  He managed the alphabet, but it was a strain. The Pledge of Allegiance was iffy, too. Please, tell me it’s okay to be going into second grade and still unable to recite “January-February-March-April-May-June-July-August-September-October-November-December.”  His teacher says that's pretty normal in a classroom environment where they don't memorize that stuff, that most of the kids in the class were challenged by a project she gave them that involved putting their work from this year into chronological order.  But I'm not so sure. 

Music Recital

Ruby had a music studio party, instead of a “piano recital,” because it’s a little less formal that way.  Ruby does play a little piano at her lessons, but because she wasn’t practicing consistently enough to make much progress, she started doing music theory with her teacher, and she’s been composing a lot.  They debuted one of her compositions at the recital and it was nice—more modern  than I would have expected.  We had wine/punch/cookies, and then mingled with the other families while the kids and some of the dads had a drumming circle. 

Dentist

By some miracle, neither child had any cavities at their dentist visit last week.  Ruby needs to lose about three more teeth and then it’s time for orthodontics.  Yippee.  Given how much she complains about even the slightest discomfort, I’m going to need ear plugs for the duration of the treatment. 

Carl is sporting an ever-widening gap between his front teeth that kind of bugs me, but the dentist says it’s just that his face is growing and we’ll just have to wait and see how things work out and see what needs to be adjusted in a few years.

Finally, Kitchen Help that’s Helpful

As Ruby’s extracurricular commitments for the semester have been winding down, she’s found herself with a little extra time and energy.  She’s been reading a lot, and trying to see her friends more.  But she’s also been cooking dinner once a week or so, which is awesome because I sure get tired of it.  I actually like to cook, when it’s a voluntary act, but the expectation to produce a tasty, nutritionally balanced meal that 4+ people find acceptable around 6 p.m. every night is very wearing on me.  Also, although I am a pretty good cook if I do say so myself, you wouldn’t know it to hear my kids talk, and having them tell me how awful the food is every night, how it’s not what they wanted, how it was better last time or X makes it better at his house, or “why do we always have this,” or “but I wanted Y!” doesn’t make me any more excited about feeding them.

Ruby’s cooking is about as good as you can expect from a nine year old:  pastas of various kinds, soups, an omelet thing she likes to make but not eat, tofu, frozen dumplings, salads, odd drinks from various children’s cookbooks, and occasionally forays into pad thai, spring rolls, and special desserts.   She sorely needs some more knife training and practice, once in a while she misreads a recipe, she has the same problems we all have with trying to get several things ready at once and cleaning up as we go, and just like her mother, she hates having people give her advice on what to do and how to do it, even if they’re right.  But she’s developing some skills and experience, and I’m just delighted she’s doing it from time to time; there’s nothing better than having your kid say “Mom, I’m doing it.  It’s fine. You go sit down and read or something!”  Yes, ma’am, I believe I will, thanks, sweetie…

Carl cooks occasionally, too, although mostly in the special-project sense:  he has his own recipe for spicy peanut sauce, he makes a good Caesar salad, he likes to bake cookies, and he helps out when we cook as a family. 

Callie, Bubbles and Whiskers

Ruby has two friends who have fish tanks.  One is a serious hobbyist (or at least, her dad is and she helps) and the other is a serial collector of pets of all kinds.  And I should have seen this coming, because of course, Ruby decided she truly, deeply needed more fish, too.   (You will recall that she already has a long-suffering blue male beta named Lillian). 

So Ruby asked, and asked, and researched, and discussed, and asked, and negotiated.  Mommy the Pushover was okay with the pet aspect of the fish, but not so excited about the mess and work factors.  Rod, so opposed to dogs, additional cats, and most other critters, was somehow okay with fish….I think it’s that there’s a pump and some machinery involved, frankly. 

And then we debated how big a tank Ruby could get (20 gallons) and where it would be (it ended up on her dresser, which I am completely not happy about, but I couldn’t come up with a good alternate solution).  And What Fish to Get took weeks of talking, reading, debating,  and because it was Ruby making the decision, crying. 

I was suggesting Ruby wait and get fish as a birthday present, because her birthday is coming up and that way her friends could buy her some gear, if not actual fish.  But no, that was Much Too Long To Wait, and to be honest, she just wore me down.    

One day, my resolve snapped and we just went and got the stuff.  Ruby was pretty impatient about getting the fish, but she waited the bare minimum for the water to do whatever the water in a new aquarium does.  And then we brought home Callie (calico bug eyed fantail goldfish), Bubbles (black bug eyed fantail goldfish) and Whiskers (small bottom-dwelling catfish that I hope eats goldfish poo as promised).  I honestly don’t think they’re living very nice lives, up there in the not-pristine water in Ruby’s hot room, but they haven’t died yet. 

Cross Fingers

Rod is having surgery on his head next week.  His ENT is taking another crack at un-deviating his septum and he’s having that (rumor has it, painful) thing done to the back of his throat/palate that’s supposed to cut down on apnea/snoring.  He’s hoping it will all result in being less dependent on the CPAP machine and the couple thousand dollars in allergy drugs he takes annually. 

I am just dreading it because:

1) Unavoidable anesthesia risk

2) Someone poking sharp objects around in the vicinity of my beloved’s brain makes me tense

3) Rod is not such a great patient.  It takes him forever to come out of anesthesia, he’s groggy and cranky and doesn’t communicate for days, he fainted on me once, post-surgery, and boy did that suck, and he’ll be lying around feeling crummy for a good week or so and I won’t be able to fix it.

4) I am a rotten nurse.  Not only can I not catch Rod’s 200 lb. carcass when he faints, when he’s sick, I don’t really know what to do to help, beyond a cold compress, a drink, and medication on schedule.  I tend to rebound from medical stuff pretty quickly, and I figure everyone else should do the same.  My general thing for sick people is to provide what aid I can for a day or two, and then I somehow expect them to buck up, take a painkiller, and get back to regular life.  Having kids has made me a little more patient, I suppose, but I know I will still be feeling inadequate to the job next week.

5) It complicates the delicate childcare/carpool schedule, which falls into my domain to sort out, even if it’s not my surgery.

6) Yes, once again, we’ll be hitting that high dollar healthcare deductible this year.  There is just never a cheap year.

I Tried, Really I Did

As I was coming out of my PTO presidency haze, I started thinking again about how I need to exercise more:  weight management!  Muscle tone!  Cancer prevention!  Good example for children!  Better sleep!  More energy!  But as usual, no exercise activities sounded very appealing, and the idea of going from deconditioned to a regular exerciser was daunting.

At the same time, a couple of my friends who are generally with me in Don’t Like to Exercise camp independently started doing this program called Couch to 5K.  The premise is that you start very slow, jogging for a minute at a time, and build up over nine weeks to a point where you can run a 5K race.  The more I heard about this, the more it started to sound like a good idea:  I could get up early and do it for 30 minutes and be done, so it would be efficient in terms of time and calorie burn.  Surely I could jog for a minute, right?  And then I could be in reasonable shape by July!

And then I decided I would try to get Ruby to do it with me.  She desperately needs to get more exercise; I think it would help with her weight, with her self esteem, with her energy levels.  She’s very uncoordinated, but it doesn’t matter so terribly much with jogging. 

So we started doing it.  The first day was really hard, but the ones after went pretty well.  Ruby was remarking on how her days went better on the ones we got up early to jog. 

But.  My friend the physical therapist heard about it and strongly told me not to do it.  “I just think it’s too much pounding, running is probably not the right thing for you.”  Then I had my annual general doctor visit, and she basically said the same thing.  “Yes, you really need to exercise, I am totally in favor of that, but with your joint issues, something else would be better, trust me on this.”  “But!” I said, “I’ve lost so much weight!  And I have orthotics now!” 

And then my knees chimed in with a resounding OUCH, and I limped for ten days, and so I guess it’s official, my jogging/running days are over.  I am sadder about it than I expected to be.  It’s just hard to be officially too old and too broken to do something normal people can manage.  Ruby and I are going to keep walking fast a few times a week instead, I think, and I’ve been taking every opportunity to do laps at the pool even though it’s wrecking my hair, but it’s not the same in terms of cardio workout.  

 

Seven

That’s how many loads of laundry are sitting around the living room, waiting for someone (well, it’s nearly always me) to fold them. 

Today I am tired, though not as tired as I was earlier in the week, and I have a bonus cold, and a TMJ flare-up, which means my face hurts and I can’t close my teeth together properly. 

I must also say that I have misplaced Carl.  I believe he went home with a friend, because I had talked with Friend’s Mom about a play date this afternoon, but we never really firmed it up, in my view.  Friend’s Mom is one of two or three people on the continent without a cell phone, and they’re not home, so I can’t be 100% sure.  

To start to recap some of the things I wrote about last time:

Rod and I had a conference with Ruby’s teacher.  She is very nice, but oddly reserved and hard to chat with.  I think she may have Asperger syndrome or something.  Anyway, it seems that Ruby is turning in work appropriate to her grade level and despite what Ruby says, she seems to be keeping up pretty well.  She asked to be moved up a few notches on the reading comprehension work, and was, with apparent success so far.  The teacher thinks Ruby understands the math well, but is terribly unconfident, and that, combined with a slightly lower than desirable score on the first benchmarking test for the big state standardized test, got Ruby into the math tutorial group.   We will just keep on plugging away at those multiplication and division facts and trying to make her see that she really does know how to do it.  The teacher also noted the same thing I have, that Ruby has a terrible time finding and correcting her own mistakes, but she had no brilliant solutions for this. 

We asked about some accommodations that had been promised earlier in the year, but not yet provided – typing and handwriting instruction, for example—and the teacher is supposed to follow up, but I am not holding my breath.  I got Ruby’s spelling tests back; at best she scored 4 out of 20, and usually only about 2 out of 20.  The teacher explained that she corrects the tests, but doesn’t use them in calculating Ruby’s grades, as per our agreement with the school.  Again, we said we’d just keep trying.

We talked about some social problems in the class; two kids’ moms have told me about distinct episodes of bullying, and Ruby has made some comments about the class and certain older boys in it, as well.  Plus, she just generally doesn’t feel like she has friends in class yet, which concerns me and makes Ruby less interested in going to school.  The teacher says that it’s hard to police the bullying because kids do stuff behind her back, and they’ve had a lot of class meetings and discussions about behavior and how to treat each other.  The perpetrators have been dealt with, apologies have been made,  parents involved, etc., etc.  She says they’re now on a zero-tolerance plan in terms of handing down discipline.  I am only partially happy with that answer.  I think they need to work on team-building and group unity, at a minimum.  The teacher is going to try to encourage Ruby to buddy up with one of the other girls in class more, so maybe they’ll get to be closer friends. 

I asked about curriculum: what they were doing for science, writing, social studies, etc.  Ruby likes to read, but the school reading assignments  are all “SRA’s” and “RFUs” which are basically fragments or essays about which you later answer questions.  Don’t they ever read books?  I asked—like a novel, and then discuss it, or even write a book report?  No, was the answer, which depresses me greatly, even though I hated book reports, myself.   Sorry, kids: no art, no music, no literature for you.

So Rod and I walked out not much better informed than when we walked in, and not feeling  better, really.  I can see why Ruby’s depressed about school sometimes:  a big list of not-terribly exciting tasks to complete, in an environment without a close friend but with some potentially-mean boys, and always  with this extra burden of trying to convert phonemes to graphemes or ideas into words when the circuitry to do that isn’t necessarily there in her head. 

At occupational therapy two weeks ago, the therapist offered some constructive criticism of a paragraph Ruby had written, and Ruby didn’t take it well, which I think surprised the therapist.  Ruby is usually so sweet, after all.  Last week, Ruby brought in her spelling list and they worked on it a little bit.  Apparently Ruby threw a bit of a fit, just a little taste of what we get at home, and the therapist remarked that she gets it now, about the homework tantrums. 

On a happier note, Ruby’s musical performance went well.  Carl got to be in the show and play the xylophone, and two of Ruby’s pals did, too.  She’s working on a Christmas composition now.  And, she loves her drumming class.

I will update you on Carl, and the Festival!  And the Bake Sale!  And the Reunion!  Later, after I find Carl and face the eternal dilemma of What the Heck are We Having For Dinner.  

 

Louder, Tanned, and Skilled with Weaponry

Ruby is back from Girl Scout camp.  Like last year, there was a raucous, crazy “talent” show at the parent pick up time.  I know boys get well-deserved credit for being the louder sex and for being hung up on gross-out jokes, but I’m telling you, these girls would give any pack of boys a run for their money.  And they’d win the synchronized dance routine competition, of course.   The girls all looked like they were having fun, but it just brought back bad memories.  I am so glad I’m not at an age where I’m expected to do dance routines in front of an audience anymore.  I turned to Rod at one point for confirmation: no, boys don’t do that at their talent shows, another benefit to being born male.

Ruby says she had a good time.  She didn’t wear her sunscreen enough, she got pretty good with the bow and arrows during her archery elective, she got to groom the miniature horses, and she passed the highest level swimming test.  She says she felt like a left-out, second-class citizen in her group, but then she also made friends with girls X, Y, and Z, so it was okay.  She tried a spicy black bean burger and a cheese enchilada she liked, and—big announcement—she  has decided she likes marinara sauce and it is now an acceptable food, huzzah!  In celebration of her return, Rod made her do her own laundry, under protest, and this afternoon they made homemade root beer. 

Carl and I spent most of the week doing PTO stuff and having play dates with the one pal he had in town.  One day, over lunch, I overheard Carl explaining menstruation to his friend. (He asked me about tampons at the store a month or so ago, and last week he was puzzled by an ad in a magazine for maxi pads, and then Ruby was asking some conception-related question in the car one day. )  It was way funny, and I will always regret not having taken careful notes on what he said, exactly.  I think the funny part was his tone—part “you’re not going to believe this, but really!” and part Rod-deep-in-geekish-discourse.  In any case, Carl got the basics right, about uterine lining shedding and its role in human reproduction.  I started to worry I might have to explain the whole thing to his friend’s mom, but the friend was cool.  “Oh, yeah, sure.  I know that.”  “Yep,” says Carl, “it’s actually a good thing, because otherwise there wouldn’t be any more people.”

Carl also spent part of a day last week watching Netflix.  He presently likes nature shows, but not mere National Geographic specials.  No, he prefers the kind where the host goes off into the wilderness to solve some trumped up “mystery” or in quest of some rare creatures.  He watched all of River Monsters (who would think, a show about fishing could be so exciting, and even funny, in  a campy way?) and then he moved on to Monster Quest.  On Monster Quest, they go out looking for evidence of Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster, and other great creatures most of the educated world has decided don’t exist.  But they also go looking for things that do or did exist:  giant squid or Tasmanian tiger.  Carl is deeply interested, but he has a hard time sorting out fact and theory, remote possibility and likelihood.  So he got frightened by one episode where they were checking out a space alien sighting.  The upshot was it took me two hours to get him to fall asleep that night and I have started offering a great deal more helpful commentary on his television viewing.  

In fact, Carl seems to suddenly have some fears he didn’t have before. He sometimes has trouble sleeping and he vaguely, shyly, alludes to things that worry or scare him.  I think they’re partly TV related, but partly I think it’s a developmental phase.  Ruby has a kit to make tiny paper stars, and you’re supposed to write a wish on each one.  She was showing it off to Carl, helping him make one.  Carl wrote on his that he wished to not be scared of anything.  I told him that it makes sense to be afraid of some things, and that maybe he should just wish to only be scared when he should be.   

I had my spine shot full of cortisone and whatnot on Thursday.  I had to be there super early in the morning and there was lots of waiting around.  I have to say, though, those anesthesia drugs were pretty excellent while they lasted, and it didn’t seem to hurt.  I came home and took a nap, which only happens about once a year.  Rod did a very credible job of playing nursemaid.  He invited friends over and cooked dinner, which is apparently a noteworthy enough event for him to take photos of it.  (How sad is that?  I remember when we used to split the cooking 50/50.)   I am still not sure if the shot worked or not, and it’ll be only temporary if it does, but I’m back to regular life now, getting ready for an exciting week:  Phone calls to set up some doctor appointments!  Phone calls to hector people who haven’t done what they promised they would!  Ruby’s occupational therapy!  Ruby’s music lesson!  Catering to Carl’s Lego/TV/etc. obsessions!  Swimming!  More Swimming!  PTO Board Meeting!   If I get really crazy-motivated, I might sort out the school uniforms and order the kids some shoes that fit! 

I guess all the exclamation points in the world can't make that sound exciting.  

Here's a photo of Ruby at camp...

Starting with Carl's Christmas List

Carl’s Christmas List (latest verbal edition)

Legos

Video games (he’s moved on from begging for a Wii to begging for a DSi)

Camera

Home gumball machine

Brass knuckles (No, I don’t think he’s really clear on what they’re for, but thanks, library book on spies and espionage!)

Actually, he wants just about everything.  In duplicate, if possible. The idea of “giving” at Christmas also seems to be sinking in with him this year, but only by a couple of millimeters.

Carl is battling the perfectionism demon these days, at least as it concerns his artwork and projects.  Every year, I take the kids to the local pottery painting place to make some Christmas tree ornaments.  This time they wanted to do additional projects as well.  Ruby painted a Santa mug, and Carl wanted to do a tray.  This was a big piece and I was reluctant, thinking it was too much work for the time we had and his persistence level.  But he begged and in the spirit of Christmas, I said yes.  It turned out to be a great project, and Carl worked very hard on getting the design just the way he wanted, applying several coats of glaze, and seeing it through.  He was very anxious all week long until we could pick it up.  And he was delighted when he saw the finished product—kissing it, even!  But then a couple of hours later, he decided he didn’t like the arms/ears he had added to his tiki/totem heads.  A two-day long sob fest ensued.  No amount of reason helped.  But then last night, Carl must have had a change of heart because he was proudly serving banana bread on his new tray and telling Rod all about how he came up with the design. 

Then yesterday, Carl got a set of wooden ornaments to color or paint as a holiday gift from his teacher.  He was very excited to start on them, and spent a lot of time very carefully coloring in the red and black parts on the Santa Claus one.  But then he decided that Santa’s beard must be white, not just the natural beige wood color. We found a white marker.  It didn’t really work, and in fact, it made some of the adjacent colors smear a bit. The crying started.  We discussed what might remove or cover the smears (not much, in my view).  He tried white crayon, and then white pastel, and it just got worse – according to him.  I actually thought the smudged effect made it look more like a beard, but Carl would give no ground on this point.  No, it was ruined, he insisted, and he was devastated and he cried, and argued and was sad and angry.  I did my best to jolly him up and discuss the evils of perfectionism.  He loves Jackson Pollock, and knows da Vinci and Picasso and some other artists, so I made up stories about their mistakes.  I told him about the writer’s concept of shitty first drafts, and stories about his sister and his parents and his friends having projects and creations not turn out quite like they planned.  We debated the meaning of “perfect is the enemy of the good.”  And then he wiped his snotty nose and tears all over my clothes, which seemed to distract and amuse him enough to get him to move on.  I hid the offending Santa moments later.  I am starting to dread what will happen when we make our gingerbread houses later this weekend.   I hope this is just a phase; please let it be just a phase….

There was very mixed news on Carl from school last week. One day, he brought home the results of a test they give to all the kindergartners to see if they qualify for gifted/talented classification and services.  He’s already classified G/T because of some testing we did last spring, so there was nothing at stake for him in this round.  Anyway, he scored in the 99^th percentile on the “non-verbal measure of general ability.”  It’s nice that he’s so brilliant, isn’t it?  Now if he would just work on his people skills and academic motivation, he’d be ruling the world. 

A few days before, Carl came home with a pink slip—he was formally written up for hitting.   No one at school made a big deal out of it; in fact they explained all the extenuating circumstances:  the regular teacher was out, Carl was being bugged by a kid who bugs him often and to an extreme degree, the kid who got hit was a third party who actually collided with Carl’s fist accidentally, it wasn’t clear that Carl intended to hit anyone, he might have just been making threatening gestures at the time his pal was unlucky enough to run his face into Carl’s fist, etc., etc. 

I wasn’t sure what exactly to do.  Surely getting into official trouble at school should have a consequence at home?  And yet, Carl was really upset about it, and by his standards, contrite.  We talked at length about how he could have handed the situation differently.  Mostly he cried a lot about how he doesn’t feel like he can control his temper.  I told him it’s something everyone has to work on and that he’s better at it than he used to be. I told him about how awful it can be to work with or live with angry, yelling people and that control is a critically important thing to develop.   We talked about strategies for dealing with annoying people and angry feelings.  Rod was even mildly sympathetic and told him his goal next time needs to be getting the annoying friend in trouble, instead of ending up there himself.

But Carl keeps saying it, from time to time since then, usually with sobbing in his voice:  “But I can’t control my temper!”  So I know it’s bothering him.  I’m trying to be reassuring and pointing out times when I’m angry and working hard to control it.  The other day, Ruby was discussing her career aspirations.  She says she now either wants to be a patent lawyer (thanks, Rod!) or a teacher.  Out of the blue, Carl said he couldn’t be teacher and started crying about “because I can’t control my temper!”  I tried to assure him that by the time he’s a grownup, he’d be in control enough to be a teacher if he wanted to. 

And incidentally, Ruby later told me that instead of patent lawyering, she might like to be a teacher of teachers.  She’s asking lots of questions right now about what you have to do to get various jobs, which makes me happy because often I am afraid she’s going to end up serving fast food or painting fingernails for a living because of her academic challenges.  My friends all say no, that Ruby is smart enough to develop her own compensating strategies, and that she’d end up a manager anywhere, given the way she likes to take charge of a group.  But still, I worry.

The rest of the news

Ruby stayed home from school one day this week.  We spent three hours in the germland that is the pediatrician’s office, only to confirm that Ruby didn’t feel very well.  She didn’t have strep, pneumonia, or an ear infection, but her throat looked a little dicey and she’d been coughing for a week. So the doctor thought it might be time for some amoxicillin.  I really do worry about antibiotics resistance and overmedication, but of course I decided to go ahead and give it to her, and within a day, the coughing was almost gone and Ruby looked much, much better. 

The kids participated in holiday performances at their school this week.  The singing was very elementary-school grade, but it was gratifying to see so many kids and parents actually show up and participate; the auditorium was packed.  It made for late nights for the kids, though, and they were suitably crabby and tired the rest of the week.

Last weekend, Ruby had her piano recital and party.  She bravely volunteered to go first, and was quite poised in telling the audience about her piece.  We also went to several parties and made the trek to the Christmas tree farm to acquire this year’s specimen. It hasn’t been great year for tree growth, so the pickings were slim.  This year, we experimentally chose some kind of cypress instead of the usual Virginia pine.  It’s a pretty little tree, which I decorated with the kids’ bossy input and sporadic assistance.  Rod and Ruby put up some lights outside and some garland inside, and I guess we are as decorated as we are going to be.

We are all now on winter break!  School is over.  Rod is off work the rest of the year. I have decided not to stress about Christmas—if things get done, great, and if not, no one will be all that upset about it.  People do not actually NEED any of the stuff we might send as gifts, and I am not being graded on timeliness, neatness, or anything else. 

I am trying to finish some secret holiday knitting for Ruby’s doll.  Right now, I am devastated because I spent a lot of time knitting a fancy dress for the doll on tiny needles, blocked the pieces, bought special trim and thread to sew it all up, and have somehow since misplaced it all.  That is really unlike me and I cannot remember, hard as I try, what I could have done with it.  Any clues? I’m thinking of offering a reward.

It is a beautiful, cold weekend here, with lots of activity on the agenda.  The kids just finished a horrible, screaming, door-slamming fight, mostly because they are tired.  Ruby calmed down enough to tell me all about how I favor Carl and love him more and he’s a horrible brat.  Both kids smell and have horrible dirty hair, so I will be bathing them before we head on to tonight’s party. 

Waiting for a Phone Call

...from the school, to say my kid(s) is/are actually ill and what were you thinking, sending them in today?  

I know my general aura of anxiety and gloom today is mostly PMS, peppered with a little impending holiday excitement.  But still, the day didn’t start all that well.  I was brushing my teeth and adjusting my rickety spine to the more-or-less upright position, when Rod came into the bathroom, flapping his hands and barking about how Carl was throwing a psychotic fit and I should Definitely Not Take Them Out for Breakfast, as he Does Not Want to See That Kind of Behavior Rewarded!  I didn’t say a word.  And then he left to toast the kids some waffles and drive off to an early meeting.

A minute later, still in the bathroom, minding my own business, I get a visit from Ruby.  She is hunched over and coughing up a lung, whining about her boogers and something else.  On her heels is Carl, who is cold, also coughing and wiping his nose, and still mid-psychotic fit about which end of the sofa Ruby was hogging and Daddy being mean and he doesn’t want any of his breakfast “options” (direct quote of Daddy language) and can’t we go out for breakfast, and then he cries on my lap for a while.  I try to help Ruby blow her nose and sympathetically-yet-firmly direct her to go brush her teeth and her hair, clean her ear piercings, and do a saline rinse of her sinuses…and oh, yeah, put on some socks.  Naturally, Ruby goes and collapses on my bed, instead. 

Meanwhile, I am telling Carl that going out to breakfast wasn’t ever in the cards for today, because we just did that a couple of days ago and we have also spent too much mad money lately.  I don’t bother telling him to brush his hair or his teeth, although he needs both, but I do get him to change his pants, which I think he had slept in and maybe peed on, just a little.  Next I go listen to Ruby complain for a while, then I hold her hair back while she does the saline rinse.  Then I rapidly throw on some clothes, realizing too late, as we head downstairs, that my pants keep falling down, or my shirt is riding up, and exposing that flabby lower ab skin I love so much.  Once Carl and I make it to the kitchen, he decides he will just have to suffer through the waffles with Nutella Daddy has made for him, so long as we can add some chocolate chips and whipped cream. I am grateful for this small break in the grumping.

Next, Ruby falls down the stairs and I administer affectionate first aid and an ice pack for her bruised butt.  She still has no socks.  In the kitchen, she starts sobbing about how she doesn’t feel good but she has so much work to do today at school and she’s supposed to help a classmate with a presentation.  Her color is not good, and so I finally succumb to the urge to check her temperature.  Unfortunately, Ruby has one:  99.3, which is technically below the legal limit for school, but I know anytime she gets above 98.6, there’s trouble brewing.  Still, I keep getting the lecture at school meetings about not keeping kids home unless they’re well and truly sick, because the school loses funding every day they’re absent (over $100K last year, so it’s not trivial).  Finally, Ruby and I decide that I will drug her up and she will go in and see what she can get done—not be Supergirl, not stress over finishing all of her goals or the possibility of having to bring home weekend homework (the horror!), and cut herself a break because her body has a virus. 

Then we start to drive off and Carl drops a whipped cream-festooned waffle all over himself, the booster seat, and the seat belt of my shiny new mommy-van, and cries more.  As we leave the neighborhood, I note that my charming spouse managed to get the trashcan to the curb, but not the recycling, which we have tons of, following the Great Thanksgiving Feast and a lot of box-generating Internet shopping.  But the recycling truck was late today, so I organized and hauled it all out there once I got home, and yes, I do expect a medal; also I get one for cleaning up after the arthritic cat who can’t seem to step into the litter box to poop anymore.

Tomorrow, I have an appointment with a difficult-to-schedule doctor, and the weekend is bursting with festivity—birthday parties!  Ruby’s piano party!  Christmas tree acquisition expedition! Rowdy neighborhood festival that we never, ever skip!  so of course, it makes sense that my kids would be at Death’s doorway with sinus infections or pneumonia about now.  Remember the year Ruby had mono just before Christmas?  Boy, that was fun.

Viruses aside, things are going well here.  Rod and Carl made a fancy track/ramp/thing for Carl’s itty bitty toy skateboard, and Rod and Ruby made a bed for Ruby’s doll—which I am supposed to sew fancy bedding for in my copious free time.  We went to a couple of concerts last weekend; one a kid piano recital and one a major-big-deal chamber performance by our resident violinist.  Rod replaced a friend’s faucet, the kids had some long playdates, I babysat a baby one day, and I have a bunch of volunteer work to finish up ASAP, as well as that all-important Christmas shopping/shipping/etc.  There are also a couple of knitting projects I need to wrap up in a hurry. 

We have barely started Christmas decorating, but that’s okay.  For the first time ever, I think I am actually looking forward to the kids’ break from school -- assuming they don't have a slew of sick days first, that is.

Bingo Wings

That is one of the more unfortunate phrases I’ve taught Carl.  Background story: since I’ve lost a goodly quantity of weight this year, my arms are a little funny looking.  From one angle, I’ve got muscle definition I haven’t seen in more than a decade!  But from all the other angles, you can see this floppy skin layer that wrinkles up a bit depending on how it’s flopping.  Think seventy year old woman, only on me. No, it’s not pretty, and I’m sure if I ever win the lottery, I’ll be getting it surgically tightened up, right after my tummy tuck, breast lift, face lift, butt lift, and inner thigh lift.  Until then, I’m just happy my arms aren’t so fat anymore.

 So one day, months ago, Carl was caressing the back of my arm and kept asking, “Mom, what’s that?”  as he groped the area in question. Finally, I jokingly told him they were my bingo wings, and he’s been in love with the phrase, finding new ways to use it, ever since. 

Today, for instance, he and his pal were talking as we walked to the car:

“Step on a crack, and you break your dad’s back!”

“Step on a kebab, and you’ll break your dog!” 

Me: “Carl, do you even know what a kebab is?”

Carl: “Sure, it’s the Italian word for hot dog.”

They go on:  “Step on a bug, break your butt.”  (giggle giggle giggle)

(They stop and debate the difference between butt, buttocks, and bottom.)

“Step on a wire, break your mom’s vagina.”  “Step on a teener, break your… wiener!”  “Step on a bird, break your bingo wings!”

Although I plan to never, ever delete them from my phone, in case I ever lose it, I would also like to note here how much I enjoy finding the audio recordings Carl made me of his yelling and singing, and also the notes he has carefully typed in:  “I hat Ruby.”  “I hat Ruby.  Ruby is dom.” 

--Begin Complaint Section---

Are there people or places that make you irrationally cranky?  I like to think that while I’m reserved and not terribly warm or fuzzy, I’m also generally polite and mostly kind.  But I know one or two people who just make me crabby.  I find myself being all judgmental and grumpy at them, and I barely even feel bad about doing it, because they just rub me the wrong way.  And today, I realized I have the same reaction to the mammogram place. 

Yes, today was another bad day, boob-wise.  I reluctantly scheduled the six-month follow up mammogram to last winter’s breast biopsy (“so, really it’s been ten months, then, hasn’t it?” noted (Bitchy) Tech #1).  I was going to skip it because I thought it was medical overkill and completely unnecessary radiation.  Then I had two thoughts: 1) if by some long shot I really did have cancer, I might regret not finding it sooner, and 2) if I do this now, then I can probably skip going to the gynecologist until late 2011, because honestly, his only purpose these days is to sign my mammogram orders and wait for me to hit menopause. 

I think skipping it might have been the better course of action, though.  Techs #1, and eventually #2, took a zillion magnified x-rays of my right breast, and then I got to wait and wait and wait for an ultrasound. Then all the people working there vanished, and I had to go wandering about the place unguided, clearing my throat and knocking on doors, to find someone to whom I could throw a fit about Why Does This Have to Take Two Hours and I am Going to Be Late to Pick up my Precious Children, and reschedule it for later in the week.  When I will get all het up and emotional again and go back to the place that annoys me, and they won’t tell me anything and I’ll have to wait until my doctor calls and tells me I need another biopsy….because I don’t think I’ve ever had to get an ultrasound and not been invited back for the biopsy.  

Oooh, that place.  All that icky pink.  All those photos of the radiologist who hurt me last time.  The way the techs tell you to hold your breath a good ten seconds before you really need to.  The way the gowns and robes don’t fit (I get handed the teensy one, and the 5’1”, 100-pounder next to me was complaining that the tag on hers said 8X). The way the only magazines are American Baby, Sports Illustrated, Audubon, Golf Digest, and Seventeen, and they’re all at least a year old.  And yet, I’m sure it’s one of the best places for breast care in one of the best cities for medical care in the known universe. 

---End Complaint Section---

In other news, we are generically busy: homework, piano practice, birthday parties, playdates, meetings, meetings, meetings.  Rod cleaned out his shop, is working hard on a modification to his lathe, and also figured out some new genius thing that makes the emergency generator work better (ask him, I can’t begin to explain).  Our tenants have opossums under the house, so I’m having to figure out how to get them to move (the possums, not the tenants).  Rod and I very quietly observed the 23^rd anniversary of the day we met.  His mom passed through town for a quilt show and we had a really nice evening with her.  I wrote a newsletter article and worked on a website.  The fall festival at the kids’ school happened, as did a parent education event and the Election Day bake sale.  I am never baking again for that sale, though; there are way too many pastry chefs and wannabe’s in the parent body now, and my little contributions were the homely step sisters to theirs.  Next time, I buy and donate, or maybe just plain donate money, and save myself a lot of late-night frosting.

_______________

I stopped there to break up a three-boy fight in the backyard involving fists and water guns.  I made peace by promising the tired, hungry boys they could watch a video while they wait for their moms, and now they’re doing the Batman Smells version of Jingle Bells at the top of their lungs while the DVD loads.  Yeah, it’s a great life.

 

 

Campy

We spent the weekend at the first annual school camp out.  It was so much fun. “Our own little gypsy village,” one dad called it, and it was.  The weather was absolutely perfect and the campground was the right balance of nature (lake, woods, trails) and safety, so that the kids could play in packs for hours without much supervision.  Carl swam, scootered, played in the mud and spent most of Saturday involved in a game of “army” with a bunch of other little boys.  Ruby went on a lot of bike rides, practiced building fires, went star-gazing, played charades, and hung out.  Several of the dads brought their guitars, so there was a lot of music, along with tons of food, mingling, campfire games, soccer, and biking.  The only not-perfect thing was sleeping in the tent, or in my case, not sleeping in the tent....boy, can that Rod snore.  

So we are now very tired, and therefore last week is a blur in my mind.  There was homework and the usual classes and errands.  Carl ended the week working harder at school than he began it, thankfully, but we decided that if he wasn’t getting work done at school, he’d have to do more at home.  So we’ve been doing pages with him from a workbook provided by his teacher, and we've been persuading Carl to read to us at night.

Which leads me to the shocker of the week:  reading with Carl is so much easier than it was to read with Ruby at this stage.   Once he agrees to do it, it’s ….. just reading. There’s no fighting about it.  There are no tantrums, his eyes don’t skip around the page, and he doesn’t guess at things.  He just quietly sounds out the words and reads the sentences; you know, like kids are supposed to.   For me, it is yet more evidence that Ruby's got some real issues, and had them from the start.  It's also a huge relief that it’s not going to be so much of a trial with this kid.   Sure, so far we’re just on the very, very beginning level books, but Carl is doing extremely well with them, so I don’t think it will take long for it all to click into place.

Ruby is tired, busy, and mostly happy.  She’s happy at present because the Very Expensive Doll that she ordered finally arrived.  I am still baffled that she wanted this doll enough to blow her savings on it, because she’s been very indifferent to dolls most of her life.  I suppose it helps that two of her good friends have dolls from the same place, and she wants to join in. And, I remember my sisters going through a latent doll appreciation phase, so it's not unheard of, and I’m going along with it.  I may even knit or sew something for the doll.

Ruby has been the Especially Trying Child this week.  First, there are the homework tantrums.  Understandable, given her problems with homework, but still a drag for us all.  And she’s been bossy and demanding generally, for no reason I can think of except 1) she's tired, and 2) she's stressed about school.  Finally, one day last week at the end of a play date, she said some downright mean things to/about one of her very good friends.  The friend’s mom, who has been especially kind and helpful to Ruby lately, was right next to Ruby at the time and heard it all.  I was so completely mortified, disappointed, angry, and sad for the other little girl. To make matters worse, the other girl’s mom is one of my best friends, and our schedules are such that Ruby and this child are around each other all the time.  They have to get along, end of story. 

I had horrible flashbacks to all the times I was on the receiving end of that kind of behavior as a kid, I worried that my child is already a bully, and I wondered what I did wrong.  I talked, and talked, and talked, (and yelled, and cried, and lectured) with Ruby, and maybe she understood and maybe she didn’t.  It was discouraging that she didn't immediately see how wrong she was, and what she said was not what I wanted to hear (which was a happy little “Oh, sure mom.  I get it now.  My right to express my honest opinion doesn’t mean I’m allowed to hurt my friend’s feelings!  I’ll apologize first thing at school tomorrow.  Thanks for helping me understand.  I’ll never, ever do it again, you can be sure of that!”)    

Then, I took an evening off for a glass of wine and a bad movie rental in consultation with some other parents in my child-raising village.  They said: “Get over it.  Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever been disappointed or hurt by her kid’s behavior towards other people? Sorry, but it’s just your turn.”  I wanted to call my mom and have her tell me it would all be okay, that I was a rotten little creep a couple  of times growing up, and it all worked out in the end.  But she’s dead, so I couldn’t.  Then I had a long talk with the other girl’s mom, who graciously forgave my rotten child (and me).    And we have all moved on. Still, I feel changed by this experience.  Who knew, that the parent-child relationship can be scarring for the parent as well as the child? 

Make Your Own Fun

Thank you, everyone for the birthday presents, greetings, e-mails, and good vibes.  In the end, it was a very good birthday.

I say, “in the end,” because it did start a bit rough.  We were all up a little late the night before, Ruby and Rod at the Girl Scout dance, and Carl and I at the Mommies & Little Brothers of Girl Scouts Dinner Playdate and Gossip Session.   I was expecting an important (Girl Scout cookie delivery-related) phone call that morning, so when I realized it was nearly 9 a.m. on Sunday, I leaped from the bed, just barely in time to catch the phone call.  The caller was helpful enough to remind Ruby that it was my birthday and Ruby was surprised to hear it, so I had a hint then that sadly, special birthday plans were not in the offing. 

Anyway, I knew Rod wasn’t feeling very well, and I was up already, so I let him sleep and fed the kids breakfast and read them a few dozen chapters of Captain Underpants books.  Rod eventually got up and took a turn.  As time wore on, I was reminded of the lesson I learned the hard way a few years ago:  If you want something fun to happen on your birthday, you really need to be the one to plan it.  Or make sure it’s being planned, or resign yourself to a day of The Usual.

So I decided to be philosophical and calm about it, and since I was also tired, we took it easy.  Rod took the kids out for lunch and to acquire festivity supplies, and I…..well.  This is going to sound lame.  I dove back into my Excavate the Bedroom Floor Project.  But it was exciting, because I finally reached the point where the large containers of stuff from my dead mother’s basement, and my dead grandmother’s basement (and they’ve both been dead a while), are now consolidated into a couple of boxes I can store, and a couple of boxes I can mail to others.  I also went through a few boxes/piles of my own stuff, I filled a couple of boxes for donating, I lugged many pounds of stuff down to the trash…and suddenly, you can see more carpet!  I’m not anywhere near done, but it’s the first time that room has looked any better in a long while.  Maybe eventually I will have a bedroom, and not just a sleep-in storage facility.  Believe me, a sense of accomplishment is a very good thing to have on your birthday.

And then Rod and the kids came home and made me a lovely dinner al fresco, complete with cake, wine, the fancy china, and a sappy handmade greeting card.  Not a bad day at all. 

This week isn’t one of our collective best so far.  Ruby seems well finally, if a bit crabby.  We spent two hours in front of a grocery store yesterday running a cookie booth.  She was good at inviting customers over and at making change, but she could improve a bit on customer eye contact, communication, and expressions of heartfelt thanks. 

Rod stayed home sick Monday, though, and I kept Carl home today to take him to the doctor.  The snot coming out of his eyes was just more than I could stand to look at, and his mood could be better, too.   I know I don’t even have to type it; you can all guess what Carl has:  yes, an ear/sinus infection, plus some bonus bacterial conjunctivitis this time.  I fought the Battle of the Eye Drops once today, and I promise you he won’t be getting all the doses of that one. I don’t know why he’s so freaked out by the eye drops.  They don’t hurt (I demonstrated) and he routinely puts up with worse (saline nasal rinse, flossing, nasty medicine).  

Luz the Resident Exchange Student/Babysitter appears to be at death’s door with some kind of virus, and if she doesn’t march herself to the campus health service today, I may have to find her a doctor myself.  As for me, I have a sore throat, itchy eyes, and a little cold.  It was really bad last night and I thought I had strep, but now I’ve decided that I’m just fine and the Immune System of Titanium Alloy will handle it in due course.  My right knee is sore and clicking and snapping and ouch.  But it did that two weeks ago for a few days and then stopped, so surely it will stop again.  Would a brace thingy help, you think? It seems very random and unrelated to exercise or any particular motion, if that helps you decide. 

Otherwise, this week I am going to doctors (one of mine, two of my friend’s, my kids’) and maybe cleaning up more boxes (old papers, this time).  I was appointed to some big-deal school district committee by my pal the board member, and I have my first meeting this week.  I am choosing to look at it as a opportunity to build power and influence and fill my pathetic resume, instead of as an inconveniently-scheduled, ultimately futile exercise in bureaucracy that I have been sweet-talked into doing.  And also on my calendar, there is a knitting group, another Girl Scout cookie booth shift, and two different committee meetings besides!  Maybe if Luz recovers, I could even have a late birthday date.  I am just beside myself with anticipation of it all.

 

 

Monday, I'm in Love*

Don’t you wake up with some song going through your head?  I do. Carl apparently does. Why else do people sing in the shower?  Rod says no, not him, and gives me that look that faintly says, what kind of weirdo are you, anyhow?  For me, the daily tune is not even a song I like, necessarily.  But I dutifully share it with the kids to get them moving some mornings, and they tell me “no singing!”  So, I switch to speaking in foreign accents, and then they tell me not to talk that way.  Life around here can be such a drag.

Here is Carl’s latest school picture.  I am hopelessly in love.

 

Oh, wait, that’s not it.  That’s his Auntie Heather. I love her, too, and it’s so easy to get them confused. Here’s Carl:

 

 Somewhere, there’s another picture of Heather that looks just like that. 

Also, I found a picture of Heather at four, wearing a bikini and it looks like my son cross-dressing.**   

  

Oh, Ruby got her school picture taken, too, but it’s nowhere near as adorable as the little Carlitos Buckarito’s.  She fixed her hair funny, her eyes don't normally look like that, and she didn’t even open her mouth so you could see all the missing teeth.

 

What do you wrap up on Christmas for the child who wants nothing?  I know it’s early for me, the don't-rush-it-enjoy-the-season-shop-later slacker, to even think of Christmas, but I’m a bargain hunter, you know, and I’m trying to plan ahead a bit this year.  Carl has a list of things he wants that keeps growing: Nerf dart gun, Lego Jungle Cutter, Lego Troll Warship, Lego Batman Somethingorother, Ninja turtle toys, guitar, balls, skateboard, Skippyjon Jones/Captain Underpants/Captain Raptor/Scooby books, pocketknife (only in his dreams), more dot-to-dot-books, “monster pen” (?), art supplies, etc., etc.   With him, I am trying to manage expectations:  Santa brings ONE THING.  Mommy and Daddy will get you something, but not everything on your list. Grandma usually gives you clothes.  Grandpa tends to give money, not stuff, etc. 

Ruby, though, isn’t making much of a list.  Lately she’s not into anything in particular.  So asking her to tell me what she wants for Christmas isn’t getting me much feedback.  Today, Ruby gave it some deep thought, and her list consisted of a stuffed cat (because apparently none of the 65,439 we already have is quite right), and a robot kit or a sewing (I think she means needlecrafts in general) kit.  She might like a book, too, or some clothes, maybe, she mumbles. 

I feel some need to maintain child present parity, so that just isn’t a satisfying answer for me.  I have a couple of minor ideas, but she's only six and already she's a tough case.  She is not a traditional-toy kid.  Maybe I will give her IOU’s for Girl Time Outings with Mommy or Big Kid Time with Daddy; she seems to like experiences and individual attention more than things.  But, that doesn’t unwrap well, compared to giant toy boxes.   It is a good thing I have a month to figure it out.

 

* My apologies to the Cure for mangling their song.  But today is, in fact, Monday.

** Double apologies to Auntie Heather. You've aged well, sugarplum.

Anxious

Oh, it's been a long week. Fun, in some ways, but long.

Carl, my Little Obese One, celebrated Yom Kippur by running around the house naked for a while yesterday morning.  I took the opportunity to count his ribs, admire his chiseled abs, and marvel at his bumpy little spine.  The fat must all be between his ears and wrapped around his internal organs.  Or maybe it's that cute little butt?

I am really torn about his blood work order (see last post).  It's not that I see any serious harm in checking him out, and if he has a cholesterol or other problem I'd rather know about it now. But there are five tests on the list (metabolic panel, lipid panel, CBC, Hba1c, insulin level), so that's at least five vials of blood, likely more, and it just seems like a lot of pain for a kid who I think is fine the way he is.  Plus, he hates blood draws and he's already had more of them done than Ruby ever did; I don't want him to have a medical treatment phobia.  So, I'm dithering about it, asking 575 moms in my neighborhood which lab location is best for kids, and I'm probably going to call the doctor and ask if this is really critical to do it now, or if we can wait a while and see how he grows.

Rod has a lot going on at work this week and it's not going all that well.  He's been getting up early and working on stuff at home until late in the evenings.  Mr. "Sleep is a Top Priority for Me" isn't sleeping well, either.  I just want to fix it all for him.  But have you ever tried managing someone else's career, when you don't understand all that well what they do anyway?  Yeah, I'm that successful.  So my primary utilityis listening, sympathy, spously comfort, and cooking dinner.  Occasionally, I take on an extra chore, or at least refrain from foisting mine off on Rod, and of course, I try to assume the entire Household Worry Burden.

It probably doesn't help the mood at the office that Rod's company's stock is getting decimated along with everyone else's.  It's not that it's our only holding, but we have a good chunk, plus some options that aren't going to be useful for anything now.  I did run the Quicken update today and our net worth total was "only" down about 25%, but then I realized there are several accounts, including a 401K, that aren't updated automatically, so probably the Holpines are worth only 50-60% of what we were a few weeks ago.  I think I'll just pretend it's play money for a while.  Because I know so much about it all, I am betting for a rebound after the election, assuming no terrorist attacks, assassinations, or coronary incidents involving aging candidates.

Ruby loved her piano lesson and very proudly played for us the three "songs" she learned last night.  It was interesting to me to see how one starts, as I never had beginner piano lessons; I kind of taught myself the basics and then took lessons off and on in middle and high school. From what I see, it seems that instead of reading music, it's more about learning the names of the keys/notes and the numbers of your fingers, plus music that goes up or down and fast or slow.  She has a theory workbook with written exercises to do in addition to music to play.  I hope she keeps going.

We spent a lot of yesterday at the park, and then working on Ruby's princess costume.  She was very enthusiastic about helping with the costume, and I was sorry that the fabric we're using isn't very beginner friendly.  It's a satin that's really hard to pin, for one thing.  She helped with the cutting without messing anything up.   I must say, you haven't really sewed until you've been at the machine, trying to set up the thread, with one kid on each knee.  Carl was sorting buttons and Ruby was trying to watch what I was doing.  I am now in that mid-project slump where it's not turning out as lovely as you'd planned and you don't see how you're ever going to finish.  And there's a penguin suit to come, too.