A Questionable Trousseau

Frankly I’d never had a problem with my youngest daughter’s interest in Barbie, that abnormally long-limbed, well-endowed woman-doll from childhood. Grace loves all things girly and sparkly and with all of those little plastic shoes and restrictive sleeve and pant openings Barbie’s World has to offer, what a great way to work on fine motor skills.

So I haven’t had a problem with Barbie.

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Animal Husbandry At Breakfast

In the midst of our morning hustle, as I put breakfast together, my four year old inquires, “Mommy, how do giraffes and ‘elphans’ mate?”

Now, given her particular articulation challenges, there is hope that what she means to say is “meet,” and I decide to go with that. “Meet? Well, on the savannah.”

From the corner of my eye, I see little eyes stare me down before she asserts, “No Mommy, mate.”

I look over to see my pajamas-clad child holding a plastic spotted giraffe and much larger solid gray elephant. It is a curious concept. How exactly would those massive, stout elephant legs work around the more scrawny giraffe legs… Some visuals are just too bizarre a stretch, especially before morning coffee. Continue… »

What’s the Question?

The interview is going well, with conversation flowing at a relaxed pace. And then one of the interviewers asks, “How are you at multi-tasking?”

At warp speed my mind spins out a reel of the morning activities. Flipping pancakes while coaching my fourth grader on test strategies for her math exam. Assuring the six year old that we have Rice Krispies and reaching up to grab the box before he drops it on his head. Scooting the dog’s nose away from Grace’s precariously balanced bowl of overflowing cereal. Flipping pancakes again.

The reel continues to my performance of ironing last-minute wardrobe changes and washing faces with one hand while signing off on homework with the other. Encouraging the defiant four year old to crawl out from under the rocking chair and select an outfit. Pulling the dog off the sofa and depositing him, with fresh water, outside. Calling out a series of last-step reminders.

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Quieter Still

I hear little slurps from my two-year old as she munches a dark plum, seated at our empty kitchen table. She and I have just returned from dropping her two siblings off for their first day in pre-K and second grade. It is now just the two of us at home.

All is so quiet.

The din of constant chatter mixed with bickering and laughter filled this home throughout the long summer days. There seemed to always be a child bounding down the stairs with resounding thudding steps (“Stop jumping!” I’d command) or calling after someone (“Stop yelling!”). Little lilting voices with eruptions of giggles or yes, more sibling bickering was our background ‘white noise,’ so constant it settled our home.

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Techno Gratitude, Primal Blessing

A few months ago I came across a shoe box full of floppy disks on a shelf in our garage. Describing the disks as ‘old’ is as unnecessary as explaining prehistoric times as ‘long ago.’ In an era of technology advancing at warp speed, these disks are Mesopotamian archives.

But intriguing archives at that.

A few were labeled with obscure titles such as “creative 1996” or simply my initials, or those of my husband’s. What information they held varied from worthless to invaluable depending on my sentimental mood in the moment.

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My Pretty Pony Cry

Driving home after an all-around blasé late afternoon, I find myself sneaking glances in the rear-view mirror whenever possible.

Behind me sits my three-year strapped in her car seat, her face morphing into what I can only call grade B variations of preschool drama. First, a stern look to the right. Then head pivoted to the left. At my next glance: her eyes are shifted upward with her mouth forced into a comical downturn frown. Next: a furrowed brow, yet placid mouth. And on. Each gesture clearly not bringing on the desired result, affirmed by the eerie silence from my usual chatterbox.

There’s been a dark cloud lurking across her little face all day, just waiting for any storm clouds to gather. And now preceded with a soft “hick!” sound a flurry releases in a warbled “I never had a purpu Pretty Pony!” followed by “Ooooh-hoooo-hooooo” soft wails.
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Holding Tight

“When Mommy’s old and shrively will you carry me too?” I ask my four-year old son hoisting him onto my side while walking into Whole Foods Market.

“Oh don’t ask me that anymore!” he snaps back annoyed, before instructing firmly: “When you’re OLD and shrively I will, but not while I’m a kid.”

I chuckle to myself at the response. I remember the first time his solid frame led me to ask that question. His face took a contemplative look before he eagerly offered “Yes!” with a jubilant smile. I think he too envisioned the “big and strong man” he hopes to become. Continue… »

Sucker Punched

The three of us sat idly chatting while observing our young children practice their strokes during swim team practice. A pleasant enough afternoon safely protected from the sun’s harsh rays under the cool shade of a large patio umbrella.

A mild, uneventful afternoon watching our children.

Conversation meandered from good nutrition for our children to school volunteer activities, which led to my sharing the juggle of combining my work with the children’s schedules.

Somewhere in the midst of suggestions about daycare and nannies I asked one of the mothers, a former teacher, if she was considering going back to teaching sometime down the road.

She turned to me and replied confidently, “No, I enjoy being a Mom.”

I didn’t know how to answer.

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Stay

I close the cover of our last storybook and reach over to turn off the bedside lamp while my son scoots down under his covers.

“Good night sweet boy,” I whisper while leaning down to pull the blankets over his shoulders how he likes it, making sure both sides of his Superman cape are still secured to his pajamas top.

“Good night,” a little muffled voice responds. It sounds heavy and resigning. I wait for its follow-up. “I love you, Mommy. Goodnight!” But instead tonight there is only silence.

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White Lies

Is it really so wrong that my three-year old son thinks his antibiotic medicine is peanut butter-flavored? That I, his mother whose duty includes teaching him right from wrong, has informed him of this, even though the medicine is actually that orange-flavored thick-coated stuff?

So I’ve lied. But it’s a white lie so it can’t possibly be so bad. Right?

Twice daily for 10 long days, as prescribed, I’m not having to force medicine into a clamped mouth while jousting the flailing appendages of a determined preschooler. My request is being met with “oooh, I like the peanut butter kind!” and a little mouth agape like a baby bird!

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