Scent of A Child, Part 2

Yesterday I said my kids stunk. And they did, yesterday.

Today they are fantastic.

Big surprise. Isn't that how parenting, families, go?

Here's what happened. After a day filled with the usual ups (Ellie swam solo during her Parent and Tot class) and downs (Ellie redesigned a new slipcover with her safety scissors), it was outdoor cleanup time. While returning some child-sized rakes to the basement storage, I twisted my ankle. Badly. Visions of 911-badly.

It was so bad I was nauseated. I saw stars. I cried. No none was near me. Then Ellie, already grounded to the house for aforementioned scissors incident, snuck outside and found me helpless, writhing in the grass on the side of the house. She fetched Mitzi and Cooper with my dynamic duo, and I hobbled inside where our evening followed. Even Joanna came quietly.

Here's where my kids are fantastic. Like all good people, they stepped up. Mitzi helped with dinner, Cooper with cleanup, and they all helped at bathtime. They fetched frozen corn to soothe my ankle and the phone so I could check in with Ray about my injury. There was help finding Joanna's lost Baby (without which no sleep would come) and support when I attempted a shower. Ellie brushed her teeth without a fuss, Joanna kissed my knee to help the boo boo.

These are good kids. I know they are. Not only because they DID help me, but because the did stuff without my asking. So remind me of this, tomorrow, when the stink lines hover once more over someone's tantrum or sibling argument. When the chips are down, my little ones are there for family.

Not too shabby.

The Scent of a Child

Forgive me for repeating myself. My kids stink.

Not literally, of course. At least I don't think so. I was so irritated with them I put them all to bed without bathing. Their stinkiness today is more of the Pig Pen type, with cartoon lines wavering in the air above their bodies, while below these currents their mouths spew attitude, negativity, and general poo-poo-ness.

Okay, the kids are true blessings, and I am grateful for each one of my babies. But today is one of those days I'd be more grateful if I had a nanny, a full-time job, a mom who lived within 20 miles. Someone with whom I could share all of my blessings!

Asleep, they are as all children are. Unmarred, flawless, perfect. Angelic, one might say. Awake, well, it's like the old joke about incontinence. It Depends.

So, here I am, blog in one hand, oatmeal/raisin/cranberry bar in the other (made in a tantrum I had after dinner when I sent them all upstairs to "clean", while I stewed over my KitchenAid mixer). Tasty, needs a little something more. Chocolate? No, it's sweet enough. Nuts?

We have plenty of those in our house. Some more pungent than others.

Today my beautiful wonderful kids stink. Tomorrow, who knows?

Nightmares

I had a terrible dream last night, the kind of dream that scares parents more than any other, and the dream that most of us have at one time or another. The dream came in the last sleep cycle of the morning, after my alarm had rung twice and I ignored it twice, settling back into the warmth of my husband for a few minutes before the day really began.

Four hours later I am still unsettled, the scratches of the nightmare's fingers still hot on my skin.

I tend to have very dramatic, vivid and strange Dali-esque dreams. I always have. I usually do not have the gentle kind, the sort where kind ghosts of long-gone family and friends visit to chat, or where hopeful images of future play out over green fields and under blue skies. Perhaps I am too much a pessimist, a worrier for those. I also do not usually remember my dreams. Given their nature, that's probably a good thing.

I am of the school who believes that dreams are our mind's way of unraveling the mysteries of our days, the worries, fears and hopes that tangle in our thoughts without attention during our busy waking lives. I'm not sure how much I believe in the symbolism of dreams -- if I'm swimming in a dream, does it have to be a metaphor for my personal struggles or fears?

I'm told that you can control your dreams, to use them to your advantage. If you have a problem you can't figure out, focus on it before sleep and an answer will come in your relaxed mind. Or focus on those happy positive thoughts and that will be the substance of your sleeping images. I'm usually too sleepy to attempt this, most nights falling asleep with my glasses still on, a book open on my chest. But maybe I'll try it again sometimes, anything to never have last night's terror again.

About last night, using the dream interpretation approach. My primary job, as I see it, is to keep my family safe and healthy and whole as each one grows more into who he or she will become. I think I felt a bit of a failure yesterday in the safety department. In the hustle and fun of our early-start holiday, I forgot to put sunscreen on my fair-skinned family until just before lunch, after we'd already been outside for a few hours. Most of us got a bit sunburned, which I didn't notice until after baths late that evening. Perhaps my dream had to do with that. My family got hurt. I failed to keep my family safe.

I woke up crying because of the awful images in that early morning nightmare. All morning I have been touching my family, rubbing a back, smoothing hair, kissing sleep-warmed cheeks, reassuring myself of their solidity. As I finish typing, the smallest arms in our house are cradling my neck from behind, their owner raining my ears with kisses, in her effort to draw me away from the computer. Who could resist this reality? I will wrap up.

A dream is just a dream. Today, even as the forecast calls for thundershowers, we are all slathered in sunscreen. Just to be safe.

Memorial Day

What a long weekend it was! A birthday party for the cousins up north joyfully claimed our whole Saturday. I was in bed all day Sunday, nursing an icky cold. Today we played outside all day while Ray finished some yard work. Then we enjoyed a cookout with neighbors way past all the kids' bedtime.

The weather was beautiful, food was delicious, friends and family were filled with love and laughter (a few tantrums notwithstanding). A near-perfect holiday weekend.

I hope that we all took a few minutes to remember the reason for this day off of work. I am not a vocal patriot, but I love my country. While I disagree with some of the decision makers, and the battles we wage in this world, I am in constant awe of those who choose to make a career out of defending what we have here.

So, thanks to you all. Because of you, we all sleep better each night, whether we know it or not, whether we say it or not. You deserve more than one day a year of national gratitude and recognition. Thank you.

Slow Thursday Afternoon

Today is a wonderful slow day.

It didn't start that way. I was up at dawn to have some coffee before Mitzi and Ellie sprang out of bed. A quick shower (and my weekly pre-swimming lesson leg shaving), then off to battle thirty minutes of rush hour traffic to get to the eye doctor. A visit to confirm my contact lens prescription, back home again to pick up Ray (to drop at the train)and the youngest three kids. We zip down the highway to the YMCA. Late for class, we circle the parking lot for a decent space -- rock star parking, not B-list, Cooper chants. Check non-swimmers into playroom for babysitting. Race to Ellie's Parent and Tot swim class in time to sing "The Grand Old Duke of York" and "Wheels on the Bus". Reverse the process in order to race home to meet Mitzi's kindergarten bus.

That was about 3 hours of my Thursday.

After lunch was ingested and Joanna was settled for her nap, I turned on the television for the other three dervishes. I settled down on the couch.

I read a book. One with complex sentences and no pictures.

I dozed.

Outside, the rain sprinkled our new bushes, coating the sheets still tied to the playset, yesterday's tent-making project.

I have no guilt. The kids are watching t.v. Dinner tonight is brainless, soy burgers, buttery egg noodles, salad. Ray is out for a business dinner, not that he'd mind the menu.

Aahh.

Here's what I could have done: the dishes, the laundry, sort my kitchen junk box (the place where all the junk gets piled), clean the office, purge old files, edit the books in progress. I could've read the paper, surfed the Web, finished very very overdue thank you notes. The kids and I could've started a project with anything from our overflowing craft bin or made a pirate ship or baked cookies or read 74 picture books.

I read, I dozed. The kids overdosed on cartoons I watched as a child (The Flinstones, The Pink Panther), dizzy with excitement and not enough blinking.

It felt great.

Tonight I'll do my yoga, get the chores done, maybe start a project.

Maybe not.

A Sad Kindergarten Lesson

A Mom friend was over last week with her youngest child, Ellie's first playdate. While the three year olds played near each other (A-plus to my sister, who knows this is called "parallel play"), we Moms sat in the kitchen, talking the way Moms do.

This Mom is a nice woman, probably the first Mom friend I made after moving here. We have a similar family structure, which has made it fun for the kids too, some of whom have in the past or are now attending preschool together. I like her because she is kind, down to earth, funny, and unashamedly imperfect as a parent.

We Moms shared coffee while the girls shared the Munchkins our guests brought. Talking above the girls' heads, my friend told me of her conference with daughter number one's kindergarten teacher. In the course of the discussion, Mom and teacher chatted about daughter number two, who is soon to follow in elementary school. Chat, chat, blah, blah.

Until the teacher -- presumably an experienced woman with many years at her current post -- let this gem go:

"Oh, you're a Preschool X family. Yes, well, that's not really a preschool, it's more of a playschool." She went on to point out how graduates of the Preschool X program were not as prepared for the academic rigors of kindergarten as were the graduates of other town preschools.

Huh?

We are also a Preschool X family, so naturally I took umbrage at the slight. Our school is staffed by experienced, warm, nurturing and compassionate professionals who spent a lot of time -- gasp! -- letting our children be children. The kids there play a lot, outside as much as they can. And in the course of their time at Preschool X, students master skills like color, shape, letter and number recognition; rudimentary handwriting skills; reading readiness. All of which is necessary for success in today's demanding coursework in kindergarten.

And in life, if this teacher were to believed.

I've heard that some other preschools in my little town -- more prestigious, perhaps, fancier -- have a long history of grooming the best of the best for a successful life. Some parents who place their kids in these schools are the type that have planned for Harvard since before their children were conceived. I'm sure that many parents are not like that. I won't lump them all together and judge. But apparently this teacher believes the hype.

Now, my kids are pretty bright, so far. They have learned some stuff, at school and at home. With five weeks left in the school year, Mitzi is an independent reader. Coop seems to be on the right track. I haven't been worried about their elementary school success, even though it's a far cry from the schooling I remember.

When Mitzi started preschool, I was shocked at how it had changed since I attended the Jewish Community Center Nursery School back in the '70s. Back then, preschool was for finding out that other kids existed and you have to share. That you have to wipe your own tush, and that Mommy doesn't come everywhere with you. That was pretty much it. As a Catholic kid at a Jewish school I also got to learn about other kids' religion, which I found extremely cool. I think if we found out about letters and numbers we were ahead of the game. Kindergarten was some of the same, with more learning, I guess. I don't think anyone learned to read until first grade. Kindergarten was about playing, sharing, taking turns, making friends, having fights, resolving conflicts, more practice at wiping our own tushes. I remember lots and lots artwork and stage performances, pretend play and a lot of outdoor activities.

Kindergarten is just not like that now. The world demands it. Today we ask our six year olds to be miniature adults who are ready to surf the Internet with wisdom and safety, who can read well enough to navigate meaningless standardized testing so that they are not Left Behind. There is no room for play in kindergarten -- Mitzi gets a gym class once every second six-day cycle. Music is squeezed in once every six days. She does not have an art class at all, a passion she is trying to hang on to despite its under appreciation by her teachers. (See me later for my rambling discourse on the shameful sidelining of the arts, the representing facet of lost civilizations first explored by generations who follow.) The faculty at our elementary school joins parents in bemoaning the sad curriculum choices that have to be made because of state and federal education demands. I am comforted that no self-respecting teacher approves of what's happened.

But it is what it is.

When looking for a new home, Ray and I picked this town primarily for the outstanding school system, and will have to play by the rules. I accept that. With many years ahead of us, I recognize that ups and downs, successes and failures will be a part of our family experience, as it has been for families throughout the ages no matter what their zip codes. And I know it's a new world, with different expectations and demands. I get it.

But I don't want my kids to have to grow up too soon. I don't think I'm condemning them to second-class citizenry by being happier to hear about adventures on the preschool playground instead of high-frequency words memorized in a silent classroom.

That's why I like Preschool X. They celebrate my children's childhood. Maybe it's all that relaxing and having fun that gives my kids space to learn their letters, numbers, all that is required of them. I don't know. But it works for us. Turning down placement at other schools was the smartest thing we did.

And as far as that flip kindergarten teacher teacher goes, shame on her. I can only hope that she is the only one of her kind in our schools.

Sadly, I expect she is not.

Food, Glorious Food

I don't fight with my kids about food any more. I used to, until pretty recently. Back then, I'd get upset that no one but Cooper would try anything new, that everything had to be dipped in ketchup, that cucumbers and frozen corn were the only vegetables palatable to the girls. I stuck to a pretty boring routine of cooking what they'd eat (pasta and corn, pasta and cucumbers, pasta and chicken nuggets, pasta and ketchup). Ray and I ate a lot of frozen food or leftovers from the few adult-friendly meals I threw together.

This year, it all changed.

At some point, I decided I was getting shafted. I like food. I like to eat (with guilt, to be sure, but I like to eat good food, whatever the calorie count). Why did I have to suffer just because my kids were, well, kids?

Plus, dinner time was agonizing for us all. I'd cajole, threaten, beg, bribe -- whatever it took to get a "decent" meal into the quartet. I planned meals that they could help cook. The love to cook, but preparing it didn't change their opinion that new food is bad food. My anxiety increased as the control I never had slipped through my fingers.

Clearly things had to change. I didn't want to cook two meals every day (as easygoing as Ray is about getting fed, I sensed he was getting restless at yet another night of frozen pizza). I wanted my kids to eat well and enthusiastically -- that is, to be culinary explorers.

Okay, I watch a lot of Top Chef.

But I also needed to ease up on my need to control. Here are things you can't ever do for your kids -- poop, sleep and eat. My stress was never going to change that truth.

So I started cooking for the family. Like it or lump it. Don't like it today, you'll like it tomorrow.

At first, some kids ate a frighteningly small amount. I worried about slow starvation, vitamin deficiencies, loss of teeth and hair. But eventually, over many painful months of holding my breath and throwing an embarrassing amount of picked-over food away, night after night of biting my tongue and/or counting to ten to relieve the frustration threatening to boil over, the strangest thing happened. Just as my mom said they would, just like I did when I was little, my fussy kids started eating what I cooked.

They didn't eat everything all at once. They still don't. But every dinner they each taste something new, sometimes liking it, sometimes lumping it. One meal, for all of us, a meal we all could eat and enjoy. Healthy meals (usually) with vegetables, whole grains and a little something sweet.

Tonight I jumped off the bridge and cooked fish. I'm relatively new to fish, as a cook, and have never tried to serve it to the kids. God forbid. I mean, for these guys, pork is a stretch. But I stumbled onto a nice recipe for tilapia, which I successfully made for Ray and I one night. Tilapia is such a mild fish I had to test it on the kids. No, I didn't tell them it was fish. Mitzi kept calling it chicken. But she ate it. So did Coop. Joanna had two servings. Sadly, Ellie ate none of it. She's a tough one. She also knew it was fish, after this exchange with me earlier today:

"Mommy, what's for dinner?"
"Tilapia."
"What's that?"
"Fish."
"We can't have fish tonight. We didn't go fishing!"


I do try to serve at least one thing they each like -- a pasta, a rice, raw peppers and tomatoes -- and accept that I can't make everyone happy all the time.

Thus, my greatest flaw revealed, exposed in my kitchen, but true everywhere else I live. No, Jennifer, you cannot please everyone all the time. Get over yourself and stop trying, whether it's feeding your kids or participating in the town discussion about all-day kindergarten. Some people will not like me or what I say or do.

Sigh. I know, I know. Sometimes I just can't help wanting them to.

Mitzi, my toughest food critic, said that, while it wasn't her favorite, she'd eat this meal again (see below). That, my friends, is a rave review.

Not that rave reviews, ahem, matter. Not to this well-adjusted Mommy.

Tonight's Menu:

Tilapia with Balsamic-Butter Reduction
Brown Rice Pilaf
Steamed Vegetable Medley
Cherry Tomato and Fresh Mozzerella Salad
Applesauce and Fresh Ripe Pears
Chocolate-Chocolate Chip Cookies
2% Milk
-or-
Pino Grigio

These Are the Days

I wish I had something new to add these days. We are happy spring his here. We are happy to spend 7 hours a day outside rather than inside, sniping at one another. Tee ball and soccer seasons have begun. Gardens are planted, tilled, contemplated. Seven weeks remain until summer vacation.

Many thoughts swirl in my mind these days. I hope to put pen to paper, so to speak, someday soon, to work out some sticky thoughts. My version of a Pensieve, I suppose. Where I put the thoughts that clog my brain, where to examine them for patterns, insight. Until then, I look around me in surprise, wonder.

It's all good.