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.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
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.
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
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
Thursday, May 08, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Mean Mommy
I am a Mean Mommy.
Ask my kids. They'll tell you. Even Joanna, who, at two years old, doesn't really know what "mean" is, even Jojo can hear and repeat what the big kids say. "Poo, poo Mommmy", which in toddler-speak, means, "Mommy, you stink."
"Mommy, you are mean."
I'm sort of over it, most of the time. I didn't have kids to win popularity contests (although I will admit to the addicting and incomparable feeling of pure adoration from a baby's eyes. and how when that fades, it's heartbreaking). I know my kids love me. Lately, though, they don't always like me.
Today, for instance. In the 4,784th Clash of the Clean, I told the kids to tidy up, because the cleaners would be coming in the morning (my guilt on hiring a cleaning service, please see future blog entry, "How I've Failed as a Housewife").
In three hours, little got done, despite my bribes, cajoles, threats. After they all went to bed, and I downed a glass of cabernet, I had two choices:
1) pack all toys in boxes and hide boxes in attic
2) clean it all up myself
What did I choose? Well, after that glass of wine, option #1 seemed like a lot of effort. I'd have to find the packing tape gun, for one thing. And the stairs, two flights, a whole lot of climbing. What I did was tidy up some stuff, bag up some other stuff to hide. After all, if it's too much to clean up, it's too much to have. So I tell them, and sometimes, it's what they believe.
But the kids know me to be a closet sucker. They and I all know that I will return to Cooper his bag of Star Wars Legoes and Mitzi will reclaim her itty-bitty Barbie accessories -- all of which I rescued from Teresa's vacuum cleaner, with no thanks -- and next time we won't struggle so much to put it away. Because they will remember that tonight, after a day of Mean, I was Nice. And, really, my kids are good, they do their best, and deserve a second chance.
Everyone went to bed early tonight, a consequence of their day of poor listening, faulty toy cleaning, general naughty behavior, and my inability to diplomatically deal with the quartet. Six-forty-five, all tucked in. No regrets for me.
I have been, and will continue to be, a Mean Mommy. But tonight, this supposedly Mean Mommy rules a quiet and somewhat tidy house. And for these 185 minutes of peace and sanity, I'm okay with the label of Mean, not Nice. Tomorrow is another day. And if not tomorrow, some day down the road.
After all, I really like my mom now. And if my adolescent memory serves me correctly, she was the quintessential Mean Mommy.
Just ask my siblings if you don't believe me.
Ask my kids. They'll tell you. Even Joanna, who, at two years old, doesn't really know what "mean" is, even Jojo can hear and repeat what the big kids say. "Poo, poo Mommmy", which in toddler-speak, means, "Mommy, you stink."
"Mommy, you are mean."
I'm sort of over it, most of the time. I didn't have kids to win popularity contests (although I will admit to the addicting and incomparable feeling of pure adoration from a baby's eyes. and how when that fades, it's heartbreaking). I know my kids love me. Lately, though, they don't always like me.
Today, for instance. In the 4,784th Clash of the Clean, I told the kids to tidy up, because the cleaners would be coming in the morning (my guilt on hiring a cleaning service, please see future blog entry, "How I've Failed as a Housewife").
In three hours, little got done, despite my bribes, cajoles, threats. After they all went to bed, and I downed a glass of cabernet, I had two choices:
1) pack all toys in boxes and hide boxes in attic
2) clean it all up myself
What did I choose? Well, after that glass of wine, option #1 seemed like a lot of effort. I'd have to find the packing tape gun, for one thing. And the stairs, two flights, a whole lot of climbing. What I did was tidy up some stuff, bag up some other stuff to hide. After all, if it's too much to clean up, it's too much to have. So I tell them, and sometimes, it's what they believe.
But the kids know me to be a closet sucker. They and I all know that I will return to Cooper his bag of Star Wars Legoes and Mitzi will reclaim her itty-bitty Barbie accessories -- all of which I rescued from Teresa's vacuum cleaner, with no thanks -- and next time we won't struggle so much to put it away. Because they will remember that tonight, after a day of Mean, I was Nice. And, really, my kids are good, they do their best, and deserve a second chance.
Everyone went to bed early tonight, a consequence of their day of poor listening, faulty toy cleaning, general naughty behavior, and my inability to diplomatically deal with the quartet. Six-forty-five, all tucked in. No regrets for me.
I have been, and will continue to be, a Mean Mommy. But tonight, this supposedly Mean Mommy rules a quiet and somewhat tidy house. And for these 185 minutes of peace and sanity, I'm okay with the label of Mean, not Nice. Tomorrow is another day. And if not tomorrow, some day down the road.
After all, I really like my mom now. And if my adolescent memory serves me correctly, she was the quintessential Mean Mommy.
Just ask my siblings if you don't believe me.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Going West
Denial. Not just a river in Egypt.
Okay, the oldest joke in the world. But I've been swimming in denial for a few months now, and am just feeling ready to talk about it, because it's really going to happen.
Michelle is really leaving.
Michelle is my little sister, the baby of the family. (She hates to be called that, but to me, oftentimes, that's what she is.) At the same time, for most of my life she's been my best friend, strongest supporter, fiercest defender, disher of tough love. She has an amazingly gentle heart and incredibly strong shoulders. I hope I've been somewhat the same for her.
Next week she's leaving the East to embark on a journey West, to the land of big skies, of wide open spaces, where she'll work on a ranch for six months, leaving behind the fast-paced world of corporate America, Blackberries, deadlines and cafeterias (but thankfully not her blog, email or cell phone, come on now.) This position been a dream of hers for years now. The move is a courageous, joyous one, not lightly made or softly planned.
I couldn't be more thrilled for her. Really. And since we live so far apart now, it's not like we're ending our weekly lunches or daily workouts together. Live the dream. It's not about me. Go for it. All that stuff. I know there's nothing to be upset about.
But there's something sad about the change. What if she won't be able to chat on the phone 95 times a day like we do now? Or email at the drop of a hat? What if the kids want to call her and leave a song message on her voice mail?
She says it's only for six months. "Imagine I'm going to college," she says. "The time will fly by."
Sure. But when she went to college I was gone too, and we were too young to be sad at goodbyes.
The kids, particularly Mitzi, grow teary at the thought of Shelley far away. In comforting them, I remind myself of things:
Look at your auntie. She is brave. She is taking a chance to fulfill a dream, risking a comfortable and certain present for an unknown future. And, kids, make sure you ask her how alive it makes her feel to do that. Ask her if colors seem brighter, the wind a little sweeter.
And always remember, my babies, I might think to say, remember that the unexamined life is not worth living. You only get one go-around. Make it count.
No matter where you go, you can always come home.
Michelle, you too.
Okay, the oldest joke in the world. But I've been swimming in denial for a few months now, and am just feeling ready to talk about it, because it's really going to happen.
Michelle is really leaving.
Michelle is my little sister, the baby of the family. (She hates to be called that, but to me, oftentimes, that's what she is.) At the same time, for most of my life she's been my best friend, strongest supporter, fiercest defender, disher of tough love. She has an amazingly gentle heart and incredibly strong shoulders. I hope I've been somewhat the same for her.
Next week she's leaving the East to embark on a journey West, to the land of big skies, of wide open spaces, where she'll work on a ranch for six months, leaving behind the fast-paced world of corporate America, Blackberries, deadlines and cafeterias (but thankfully not her blog, email or cell phone, come on now.) This position been a dream of hers for years now. The move is a courageous, joyous one, not lightly made or softly planned.
I couldn't be more thrilled for her. Really. And since we live so far apart now, it's not like we're ending our weekly lunches or daily workouts together. Live the dream. It's not about me. Go for it. All that stuff. I know there's nothing to be upset about.
But there's something sad about the change. What if she won't be able to chat on the phone 95 times a day like we do now? Or email at the drop of a hat? What if the kids want to call her and leave a song message on her voice mail?
She says it's only for six months. "Imagine I'm going to college," she says. "The time will fly by."
Sure. But when she went to college I was gone too, and we were too young to be sad at goodbyes.
The kids, particularly Mitzi, grow teary at the thought of Shelley far away. In comforting them, I remind myself of things:
Look at your auntie. She is brave. She is taking a chance to fulfill a dream, risking a comfortable and certain present for an unknown future. And, kids, make sure you ask her how alive it makes her feel to do that. Ask her if colors seem brighter, the wind a little sweeter.
And always remember, my babies, I might think to say, remember that the unexamined life is not worth living. You only get one go-around. Make it count.
No matter where you go, you can always come home.
Michelle, you too.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Tips from Parenting Magazine
In their April issue, Parenting magazine offered these bits of information about kids' health. I found each one so interesting, I had to post them:
Honey may reduce your child's nighttime cough. Good news, since, alas, no meds are recommended for the under six age group. Give 1/2 tsp. for kids 1 to 5; for those 6 and up, 1 tsp. Don't put in tea as this could dilute its effect.
Achoo Syndrome affects about 10 to 25 percent of the population. That's when bright light causes a person to sneeze. Experts have no explanation. Funny, I thought it was just me!
Shopping carts are germier than public toilets. I will no longer silently mock those smart moms who have those soft inserts to put over the basket where baby sits. You ARE better than I.
You can use breast milk on a minor cut, since milk has natural antibiotics that fight infection. Dab some on, air dry the cut, bandage it up. Apparantly the stuff is also good for baby acne, diaper rash, cradle cap and mild eczema. Who knew.
For more super-intelligent advice, check out www.parenting.com.
Honey may reduce your child's nighttime cough. Good news, since, alas, no meds are recommended for the under six age group. Give 1/2 tsp. for kids 1 to 5; for those 6 and up, 1 tsp. Don't put in tea as this could dilute its effect.
Achoo Syndrome affects about 10 to 25 percent of the population. That's when bright light causes a person to sneeze. Experts have no explanation. Funny, I thought it was just me!
Shopping carts are germier than public toilets. I will no longer silently mock those smart moms who have those soft inserts to put over the basket where baby sits. You ARE better than I.
You can use breast milk on a minor cut, since milk has natural antibiotics that fight infection. Dab some on, air dry the cut, bandage it up. Apparantly the stuff is also good for baby acne, diaper rash, cradle cap and mild eczema. Who knew.
For more super-intelligent advice, check out www.parenting.com.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Hooray, Cooper!
Here's another reason to brag. Cooper received his trophy for reading 1,000 books!
The ceremony takes place at the elementary school morning meeting, so he got up in front of the entire student body, faculty, parents and other visitors. He shook the principal's hand and even smiled a little. The fact that he did this at only five years old is incredible. We are all very proud of our bookworm!
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