I am in the midst of planning my daughter's first ever not-at-home birthday party. In the past we've always had parties here at the house. I'm not a great hostess and I'm not super creative or crafty (what a ringing endorsement; don't you want to send your kid over here for a party, now?), but no one has ever complained. I make a mean cake; I have friends who know how to whip up various party-worthy games and prizes and whatnot; and I've always managed to pull it off. This year, no can do. No time. No spare brain cells. And the audience is becoming a lot more critical. What would delight a...
Yeah... that was the sound of my bubble bursting. Oh well. Up and down and round and round. Tomorrow will be better. In the meantime, my son is inching towards something huge. I almost missed it, in the midst of everything that's been going on with Chickadee. Also, I have to confess that I haven't been entirely receptive to his progress. Because that's the sort of rotten mother that I am! Anyway, I have a perfectly logical excuse for failing to recognize what's going on with Monkey, right away: how the hell was I supposed to know? I don't know if I've ever let on about this, but... well......
The thing about reaching the end of the rope is that then you have to find something else to hold onto. I had gotten into the habit of treating my daughter like she's a problem. She's a problem, so I treat her as such. I treat her that way, she stops trying, she shows up in the dictionary next to the definition of "self-fulfilling prophecy." Not good. So I decided to take a leap of faith. Sunday night we discussed the New Regime. 1) Later bedtime. We're not having enough family time, now that I'm back to work. But mornings have been so atrocious, I've been putting the kids to bed earlier and...
Dear Mrs. Unpronounceable, I know that you've only been teaching first grade for... what is it? Fifty years? So probably I am the first parent in the history of your teaching career to allow her child to come to school in her pajamas. (Well, no; that seems pretty impossible to me, but I'm trying very hard to give you the benefit of the doubt.) Anyway. I'm guessing that you thought you were being helpful when you told the other children not to bother Chickadee about what she was wearing today. I'm sure it had absolutely nothing to do with not wanting to deal with a disruption in your...
Dear Mrs. Unpronounceable, This morning as I dragged around my 10-ton, phlegm-filled head, Chickadee commenced her usual morning routine of refusing to get out of bed and do any of the necessary before-school tasks. Rather than lose my temper, I decided it was time to employ a technique which her therapist has suggested. "Look, you're almost seven years old. I'm tired of arguing with you. You can make your own choice. Get your butt out of bed and get dressed, or go to school in your pajamas. It doesn't matter to me." I snuck some clothes into her backpack, but she's awfully proud of the...
The hardest thing for me, since returning to work, is feeling like some days I barely see the kids. I think it's safe to say that NONE of the three of us are morning people. Sure, Monkey used to bound into my room in the mornings and exude so much raw sunshine that I would collapse into a molten heap of morning hatred, but on our new, earlier schedule even he must be dragged out of bed most mornings. So school mornings, we spend around an hour together. I wouldn't call it quality time. Evenings, we have about two and a half hours. Do you know how long it takes to empty backpacks and cook...
(I'll try to get them to do it again when you're here tomorrow, but who knows.) My children, my darling, sweet, adorable, totally WEIRD children, are wearing footie sleepers in preparation for an early bedtime. They just came walking in here, single-file, with their sleepers unzipped and pooled around their ankles. They shuffled and bounced like penguins on methamphetamines as they took turns declaring "WALK THIS WAY!" and waggling their character-underwear-clad derrieres. Casa Mir, home to the half-naked parade of cartoon hero butts and overused but still funny jokes. (Yes, I think Monkey's...
I ask you, is there anything more pitiful than a mild-mannered child whose reaction to the sickies is a gravitational pull to the couch and PBS? It almost makes me forget that everything about George Shrinks drives me completely insane. (Why is he so small? How did he get that way? Does he ever actually shrink? What a COINCIDENCE that their last name is "Shrinks" and he JUST HAPPENS to be so small! Excuse me while I vomit! Why does everyone on that show have such weird hair? What is it about this insipid premise that hypnotizes my children??) Behold, Portrait of the Monkey as a Pitiful...
Monkey shuffled into my room this morning and scaled my body in a single fluid movement, parking himself on my hip and tucking his head into the crook of my neck. "How's my baby?" I asked him, while brushing my lips across his (still warm) forehead. "Well, I'm sort of okay, but there's something wrong with the lid to my mouth," he informed me. "Ummmm... the what of your mouth?" "The lid. I was thirsty and I tried to drink some water but the lid of my mouth sort of hurts and wouldn't let the water down," he clarified. "Oh, I see. Does your throat hurt?" "No, just the lid is sort of spikey."...
