Much went right today relating to the remodel, capping off a stressful week. Things "going right" means that the things that went wrong aren't major....a medicine cabinet too high, another too low.
I even managed to pull off a take-out dinner, and Katrina's dinnertime tantrum was cut short by a rare event: she ate some dinner! But my relief at this was short-lived. As I went to reach for a bowl, I could feel a swell of pain in my lower back. A thin strip, not intense, but clear, distinct and persistent. It immediately informed me that I am not to stand straight for a few days.
1/23/09
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
1/22/09 Calendar Girl
As most of you know, I do an annual calendar with month-appropriate photos of the kids. This year, I got behind, so the calendar will go February-January instead of January-December. I'm mostly done with it, but I need calendar-worthy photos for the January 2010 page. Of course, they have to be actually taken in January 2009.
But I'm having trouble getting calendar-worthy photos. The biggest challenge is getting all three in one photo -- or even two. No, actually, the biggest challenge is that Katrina gets all mad if I try to take pictures; she turns away, throws a fit, and does everything she can to ruin the picture. Sitting and posing with her brothers is out of the question.
Fortunately, we're living under the flight path for a military airfield, and from time to time we get some very cool low-flying aircraft right over our house. (Those dual-rotor helicopters flying in formation rattle the glasses off the shelves though!) And two C-130s presented themselves just as I was getting Katrina out of the car, in the most ideal lighting my amateur photographer side can recognize -- a bright mottled sky with an indirect glow from sun setting behind patchy clouds.
Katrina still wouldn't cooperate exactly, but she did let me hold her and then attempt to take photos with my arm outstretched, as she eagerly scanned the sky for more planes. Most photos were out of focus, or didn't get her face square on, like this:
The best ones were too close and distort her face.
But this may have to do. She reminds me a little of her cousin in this photo, with a slightly impish expression.
Full-on impish, determined again to prevent timely publication of my calendar.
I wish this were the most stressful event today. We discovered that our beautiful new dining room door (with a funky, unusual, and necessary operable sidelight), which took over 10 weeks to order, had been installed....and it's hung wrong from the factory. When you enter through the door, you walk right into a wall instead of into the room. Or, exiting the room, you have to put your back against the wall to open it. The door's hinges should be on the right in this photo, not on the left.
From the outside.
It's not our mistake, but of course, we end up paying for it in numerous ways. I'm really bummed. The missed opportunity to see something beautiful and new and fabulous installed today is huge.
Then, our new entertainment area has a wide wooden tabletop that should be gorgeous.
But a closer look shows that it's trimmed so poorly that I seriously could have done a better job myself. I'd never turn over an edging job through which you can see daylight!
Or these nasty, uneven saw cuts. Even leaving behind pencil marks is tacky.
Again, not our mistake -- but definitely our problem in one way or another.
Seems I'm not the only one concerned about obtaining a spot at our neighborhood school for my 2009 kindergartner. I'm not planning to arrive at 5am as some are, but I am preparing myself for a line-wait situation. The tiniest chance of Julian having to go to a different school than Gabriel is unthinkable. Who knew kindergarten registration would turn into a competitive sport?
All the new bad economic news doesn't improve matters. Unemployment up. Profits down. Housing prices way down. Stocks down. Everything down, down, down. Can't this all just wait until we move back home? I have a calendar to publish!
1/22/09
But I'm having trouble getting calendar-worthy photos. The biggest challenge is getting all three in one photo -- or even two. No, actually, the biggest challenge is that Katrina gets all mad if I try to take pictures; she turns away, throws a fit, and does everything she can to ruin the picture. Sitting and posing with her brothers is out of the question.
Fortunately, we're living under the flight path for a military airfield, and from time to time we get some very cool low-flying aircraft right over our house. (Those dual-rotor helicopters flying in formation rattle the glasses off the shelves though!) And two C-130s presented themselves just as I was getting Katrina out of the car, in the most ideal lighting my amateur photographer side can recognize -- a bright mottled sky with an indirect glow from sun setting behind patchy clouds.
Katrina still wouldn't cooperate exactly, but she did let me hold her and then attempt to take photos with my arm outstretched, as she eagerly scanned the sky for more planes. Most photos were out of focus, or didn't get her face square on, like this:
The best ones were too close and distort her face.
But this may have to do. She reminds me a little of her cousin in this photo, with a slightly impish expression.
Full-on impish, determined again to prevent timely publication of my calendar.
I wish this were the most stressful event today. We discovered that our beautiful new dining room door (with a funky, unusual, and necessary operable sidelight), which took over 10 weeks to order, had been installed....and it's hung wrong from the factory. When you enter through the door, you walk right into a wall instead of into the room. Or, exiting the room, you have to put your back against the wall to open it. The door's hinges should be on the right in this photo, not on the left.
From the outside.
It's not our mistake, but of course, we end up paying for it in numerous ways. I'm really bummed. The missed opportunity to see something beautiful and new and fabulous installed today is huge.
Then, our new entertainment area has a wide wooden tabletop that should be gorgeous.
But a closer look shows that it's trimmed so poorly that I seriously could have done a better job myself. I'd never turn over an edging job through which you can see daylight!
Or these nasty, uneven saw cuts. Even leaving behind pencil marks is tacky.
Again, not our mistake -- but definitely our problem in one way or another.
Seems I'm not the only one concerned about obtaining a spot at our neighborhood school for my 2009 kindergartner. I'm not planning to arrive at 5am as some are, but I am preparing myself for a line-wait situation. The tiniest chance of Julian having to go to a different school than Gabriel is unthinkable. Who knew kindergarten registration would turn into a competitive sport?
All the new bad economic news doesn't improve matters. Unemployment up. Profits down. Housing prices way down. Stocks down. Everything down, down, down. Can't this all just wait until we move back home? I have a calendar to publish!
1/22/09
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
1/21/09 Can't stand the heat
A few nights ago, a miraculous thing occurred...I sat down to dinner and conversed with my family for over 10 minutes, while Katrina happily played. I felt light-hearted, relaxed, happy to chat over dinner with my children.
It gave me a tiny taste of how easy and joyous life could be, what it would be like without the nightly agony of Katrina's dinnertime tantrum.
I've also grown to like cooking. I like to muse on the drive home about what fresh ingredients I have, what recipe I haven't made for a while, what recipe I'd like to try again and do a little differently. Maybe I'll even stage a baking project as I'm preparing dinner, bringing ingredients up to room temperature or measuring dry ingredients. I like thinking about this during my hour-plus of driving around and picking up kids. It's a nice way to cap off the day.
Except for:
KATRINA.
She completely disrupts these ideas, and turns what should be a busy, but homey time into a tense, frustrating ordeal. I grimace the instant she enters the kitchen, because after that, it's almost nonstop tantrum until she demands to get down.
"I WANT TO CLIMB UP!"
"I scare-me!"
"I want snap!"
"NO SNAP!"
"I want TRAY!"
"NO TRAY, I do it my-SEFF!"
"I want water!"
"I want orange juice!"
"I want Shredded Spoonfuls!"
(Mean Old MOM: I won't give her breakfast food or treats for dinner)
"I want milk!"
"I want string cheese!"
"I don't want string cheese!"
"NO STRING CHEESE!"
"I want pasta!"
"NO PASTA!"
"I want rice!"
"NO RICE!"
"I want peas!"
"NO PEAS!"
"I want 'ta-toes!"
"NO TA-TOES!"
"I want fish bib!"
"NO fish bib -- I want aminal bib!"
"NO aminal bib -- I want boo bib!"
"I want milk in a red cup!"
"NO milk in a red cup!"
"I want milk in a train cup!"
"NO milk in a train cup!"
"I want Gabriel cup!"
"NO milk in a Gabriel cup!"
"I want blue spoon!"
"I want aminal spoon!"
"I want puh-tle (purple) spoon!"
"NO BLUE SPOON!"
"NO AMINAL SPOON!"
"NO PUH-TLE SPOON!"
"I want Spoonfuls!"
"I want...I want...I want...WAAAAAAHHHHH!"
Pretty much every night.
OK, it's easy for you to think, "Well, don't give in to her, and she won't have these tantrums." Oh YEAH?! Hah! She WANTS tantrums! Indeed, if I overact and pretend as though some or other demand is serious -- that is, not resisting her -- it can calm her for the moment. If I refuse to get her such-and-such item, the situation escalates to the point where she is completely out of control, she won't eat a bite, and the tantrum never ends. And no amount of standing up to her will affect tomorrow. Giving in is the easiest response (doesn't work). Saying NO is the next-hardest response (doesn't work). Ignoring is the next-hardest response (doesn't work). Finding ways around the tantrum, circumventing it, removing its bases -- much, much harder, and often impossible. Also doesn't work.
Gabriel had worse tantrums overall, but he wasn't as predictably disagreeable as she is. It's almost inevitable that at dinnertime, she's going to throw a major, constant fit until she's had enough and is ready to get down. Maybe if I were willing to let her live on Clifford Crunch, I could avoid it, but I'm not ready to go there. Yet. It's bad enough that I finally compromise and let her have yogurt for dinner -- TJ's premixed lemon, which is so sweet she thinks it's a treat. She needs to learn to eat real food, but BELIEVE ME, she's some combination of too young and too dedicated to conflict for me to attempt the "if she's hungry enough she'll eat" route. I'm completely confident that the rest of the family will suffer far, far more than she will.
Someday, my evenings won't be ruled by a demanding, opinionated, controlling, impossible toddler. Who, while she's angellicaly sleeping, clutching her beloved Kitty-Kat, I love dearly.
Please, get me out of the kitchen.
1/21/09
It gave me a tiny taste of how easy and joyous life could be, what it would be like without the nightly agony of Katrina's dinnertime tantrum.
I've also grown to like cooking. I like to muse on the drive home about what fresh ingredients I have, what recipe I haven't made for a while, what recipe I'd like to try again and do a little differently. Maybe I'll even stage a baking project as I'm preparing dinner, bringing ingredients up to room temperature or measuring dry ingredients. I like thinking about this during my hour-plus of driving around and picking up kids. It's a nice way to cap off the day.
Except for:
KATRINA.
She completely disrupts these ideas, and turns what should be a busy, but homey time into a tense, frustrating ordeal. I grimace the instant she enters the kitchen, because after that, it's almost nonstop tantrum until she demands to get down.
"I WANT TO CLIMB UP!"
"I scare-me!"
"I want snap!"
"NO SNAP!"
"I want TRAY!"
"NO TRAY, I do it my-SEFF!"
"I want water!"
"I want orange juice!"
"I want Shredded Spoonfuls!"
(Mean Old MOM: I won't give her breakfast food or treats for dinner)
"I want milk!"
"I want string cheese!"
"I don't want string cheese!"
"NO STRING CHEESE!"
"I want pasta!"
"NO PASTA!"
"I want rice!"
"NO RICE!"
"I want peas!"
"NO PEAS!"
"I want 'ta-toes!"
"NO TA-TOES!"
"I want fish bib!"
"NO fish bib -- I want aminal bib!"
"NO aminal bib -- I want boo bib!"
"I want milk in a red cup!"
"NO milk in a red cup!"
"I want milk in a train cup!"
"NO milk in a train cup!"
"I want Gabriel cup!"
"NO milk in a Gabriel cup!"
"I want blue spoon!"
"I want aminal spoon!"
"I want puh-tle (purple) spoon!"
"NO BLUE SPOON!"
"NO AMINAL SPOON!"
"NO PUH-TLE SPOON!"
"I want Spoonfuls!"
"I want...I want...I want...WAAAAAAHHHHH!"
Pretty much every night.
OK, it's easy for you to think, "Well, don't give in to her, and she won't have these tantrums." Oh YEAH?! Hah! She WANTS tantrums! Indeed, if I overact and pretend as though some or other demand is serious -- that is, not resisting her -- it can calm her for the moment. If I refuse to get her such-and-such item, the situation escalates to the point where she is completely out of control, she won't eat a bite, and the tantrum never ends. And no amount of standing up to her will affect tomorrow. Giving in is the easiest response (doesn't work). Saying NO is the next-hardest response (doesn't work). Ignoring is the next-hardest response (doesn't work). Finding ways around the tantrum, circumventing it, removing its bases -- much, much harder, and often impossible. Also doesn't work.
Gabriel had worse tantrums overall, but he wasn't as predictably disagreeable as she is. It's almost inevitable that at dinnertime, she's going to throw a major, constant fit until she's had enough and is ready to get down. Maybe if I were willing to let her live on Clifford Crunch, I could avoid it, but I'm not ready to go there. Yet. It's bad enough that I finally compromise and let her have yogurt for dinner -- TJ's premixed lemon, which is so sweet she thinks it's a treat. She needs to learn to eat real food, but BELIEVE ME, she's some combination of too young and too dedicated to conflict for me to attempt the "if she's hungry enough she'll eat" route. I'm completely confident that the rest of the family will suffer far, far more than she will.
Someday, my evenings won't be ruled by a demanding, opinionated, controlling, impossible toddler. Who, while she's angellicaly sleeping, clutching her beloved Kitty-Kat, I love dearly.
Please, get me out of the kitchen.
1/21/09
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
1/20/09 Absolute time
I'm sure I'm not the only one who finds that herding two young children out the door to get somewhere on time -- like school -- is utterly maddening. I was going to say "an exercise in patience" but I am far, far beyond patience. No exercise here.
One thing that's been working a little better, for some things, is to give the boys a specific time -- an absolute time, instead of a relative one. Instead of "five more minutes!" it works better to say "at 7:45 it's bathtime!"
Julian can read a digital clock. but he can't do "clock math," like understanding that 6:51 is after 6:50. Or if he does, he doesn't act on it. Gabriel, on the other hand, been adding and subtracting times for many years now, and has a very solid understanding that 6:52 is 7 minutes after 6:45...but he still can't judge how long 7 minutes is.
(Indeed, it's hard for anyone. I read once that adults are pretty good at guessing how long they've been waiting on line for up to about 5 minutes, after that, their judgment of wait time becomes vastly distorted. I thought about that as I was stuck at an intersection at First Street this afternoon, watching light-rail train after light-rail train interrupt my turn at a green. A clock revealed that it was "only" 4 minutes, but it felt like 40.)
So to move the mornings along, I've been telling them, "At 7:45 I take the bowls away, so if you want to eat breakfast, do it NOW." Before you wince at my cruelty, bear in mind that I tell them this at around 7:20 -- they have plenty of time to eat a bowl of cereal if they don't putz around.
Tonight, I was delighted at how quickly and efficiently they whizzed through the bath-pajama process when I stumbled across the (incredibly obvious) new policy that any ice cream that was earned gets doled out after bath. TIMED ice cream: "At 8:05 the bowls go out...and I put them away at 8:10!" Who knew those boys could get through bath and pajamas in less than 40 minutes and without any yelling!
Katrina, for all her faults, isn't a time liability yet. I think I'd trade her nightly dinnertime tantrum (still in full force) for some morningtime putziness, but something tells me I'll regret that wish. She's an expert in taking same-old same-old problems to new heights. But she loves pointing out the numbers on clocks.
1/20/09
One thing that's been working a little better, for some things, is to give the boys a specific time -- an absolute time, instead of a relative one. Instead of "five more minutes!" it works better to say "at 7:45 it's bathtime!"
Julian can read a digital clock. but he can't do "clock math," like understanding that 6:51 is after 6:50. Or if he does, he doesn't act on it. Gabriel, on the other hand, been adding and subtracting times for many years now, and has a very solid understanding that 6:52 is 7 minutes after 6:45...but he still can't judge how long 7 minutes is.
(Indeed, it's hard for anyone. I read once that adults are pretty good at guessing how long they've been waiting on line for up to about 5 minutes, after that, their judgment of wait time becomes vastly distorted. I thought about that as I was stuck at an intersection at First Street this afternoon, watching light-rail train after light-rail train interrupt my turn at a green. A clock revealed that it was "only" 4 minutes, but it felt like 40.)
So to move the mornings along, I've been telling them, "At 7:45 I take the bowls away, so if you want to eat breakfast, do it NOW." Before you wince at my cruelty, bear in mind that I tell them this at around 7:20 -- they have plenty of time to eat a bowl of cereal if they don't putz around.
Tonight, I was delighted at how quickly and efficiently they whizzed through the bath-pajama process when I stumbled across the (incredibly obvious) new policy that any ice cream that was earned gets doled out after bath. TIMED ice cream: "At 8:05 the bowls go out...and I put them away at 8:10!" Who knew those boys could get through bath and pajamas in less than 40 minutes and without any yelling!
Katrina, for all her faults, isn't a time liability yet. I think I'd trade her nightly dinnertime tantrum (still in full force) for some morningtime putziness, but something tells me I'll regret that wish. She's an expert in taking same-old same-old problems to new heights. But she loves pointing out the numbers on clocks.
1/20/09
Monday, January 19, 2009
1/19/09 Photo shopping
Katrina had a temperature last night, so I took the day off with her. I'd already committed the boys to Tonya's and playdates with the White kids, so I happily spent a day alone with Katrina. "Happily" includes expecting and bracing myself for the usual fusses and conflict, and she didn't disappoint. But, most of the day she played happily, chatting and even singing, checking in on me and telling me what color crayon she was using now. I loved that. Quantity time.
I can't imagine whatever possessed me, but I took Katrina to, of all places, a mall this morning. I really, truly hate malls, but the surprised expressions I get from people when I spit with distaste about them makes me think maybe I'm being too harsh. And some stores are located only in malls, such as Pottery Barn Kids. I wanted to check out some things I'd seen in the catalog, and this seemed as good a time as any.
So I put my toddler in a stroller and pushed her around a mall.
I quelled the immediate irritation about having a hard time finding the store, and outdated directories with place numbers that aren't on the map don't help. Katrina liked PB Kids immediately and insisted on getting out of the stroller, complicating my shopping. Clinginess is not one of her virtues.
I shop with my camera. It helps me remember what I saw that I liked, and puts it in a context I can remember. A photo in a store can give you a much better idea of how big something is than a catalog photo or a measuring tape. Photos remind me of small details too, like, "oh yeah, I didn't like the way those drawers opened."
So I went about my usual perusing, taking a photo here and there, digitally filing away ideas. "Can I help you find anything, ma'am?" asked a salesclerk, not smiling and not all that helpfully. I told her I was just looking for ideas. "We don't allow photography in the store," she explained, with a very slight scolding tone. "You're kidding," I said in a scoff. "Whatever." I packed up Katrina and left. It was hard to storm out in a dignified way though, since Katrina didn't approve at all of this turn of events, and cried and screamed the entire way back through the mall, and all the way home.
I can't stand those anachronistic policies. There are far, far more subtle ways of spying on other stores these days, and it's not like storefronts are all that make a company competitive anyway. What, if I were spying I'd be holding a camera out in plain view? I wish I'd told her, "But my bosses at Restoration Hardware told me to get some pictures, they're thinking of opening a kids' store."
So, in protest, I post my contraband for all to see. This probably does more to promote than demote the store -- and isn't that the point, you morons?
Katrina loved this little push-truck toy. I was proud of her, in a store filled with froofy girl stuff, she went straight for the truck.
I had to wake her up from a nap at 4:45 to pick up her brothers, who were engrossed in a Pictionary game. She peered at them with curiosity from outside the window.
I like Land of Nod better anyway. And they're not in any malls around here.
1/19/09
I can't imagine whatever possessed me, but I took Katrina to, of all places, a mall this morning. I really, truly hate malls, but the surprised expressions I get from people when I spit with distaste about them makes me think maybe I'm being too harsh. And some stores are located only in malls, such as Pottery Barn Kids. I wanted to check out some things I'd seen in the catalog, and this seemed as good a time as any.
So I put my toddler in a stroller and pushed her around a mall.
I quelled the immediate irritation about having a hard time finding the store, and outdated directories with place numbers that aren't on the map don't help. Katrina liked PB Kids immediately and insisted on getting out of the stroller, complicating my shopping. Clinginess is not one of her virtues.
I shop with my camera. It helps me remember what I saw that I liked, and puts it in a context I can remember. A photo in a store can give you a much better idea of how big something is than a catalog photo or a measuring tape. Photos remind me of small details too, like, "oh yeah, I didn't like the way those drawers opened."
So I went about my usual perusing, taking a photo here and there, digitally filing away ideas. "Can I help you find anything, ma'am?" asked a salesclerk, not smiling and not all that helpfully. I told her I was just looking for ideas. "We don't allow photography in the store," she explained, with a very slight scolding tone. "You're kidding," I said in a scoff. "Whatever." I packed up Katrina and left. It was hard to storm out in a dignified way though, since Katrina didn't approve at all of this turn of events, and cried and screamed the entire way back through the mall, and all the way home.
I can't stand those anachronistic policies. There are far, far more subtle ways of spying on other stores these days, and it's not like storefronts are all that make a company competitive anyway. What, if I were spying I'd be holding a camera out in plain view? I wish I'd told her, "But my bosses at Restoration Hardware told me to get some pictures, they're thinking of opening a kids' store."
So, in protest, I post my contraband for all to see. This probably does more to promote than demote the store -- and isn't that the point, you morons?
Katrina loved this little push-truck toy. I was proud of her, in a store filled with froofy girl stuff, she went straight for the truck.
I had to wake her up from a nap at 4:45 to pick up her brothers, who were engrossed in a Pictionary game. She peered at them with curiosity from outside the window.
I like Land of Nod better anyway. And they're not in any malls around here.
1/19/09
Sunday, January 18, 2009
1/18/09 Decked out
I'm in the wrong blog to talk about this, but we had a huge shock last Thursday. Over $17,000 to build a very basic deck, plus $5,000 for no-maintenance material?!
I can't handle this anymore! These sorts of surprises are draining and depressing and exhausting, and suck all our time and attention for days or weeks until it's resolved. We're reeling from the idea of having to throw together a deck from very vague ideas of what we'd want, and spending ten times as much as we'd expected.
And this deck isn't just to set a barbeque on. It's required by PG&E to reach our service panel and turn up our electricity, and it's required by the city to pass final inspection. Every day delayed is another day we're not at home. This deck is urgent. We'd planned to build a throwaway deck to meet code and do a "real" deck after we'd been home for a while, but $17,000 is no throwaway deck.
Friday, I went to talk to a building official at the city to ask a few questions, and a few verrrry interesting things came up. We can step the deck down one step, which means it would only need two steps up, which means no handrails. And below 30 inches, which ours would be, no guardrails around the deck are needed. No railings? Hmmm! A world of possibilities opens up.
Dave's and my dinner out Friday night was partly spent hunched over printed designs with a pencil, and Saturday we stopped by the house for some quickie measurements and layout ideas. This morning we invested real time at the house, with the kids, to measure and lay out options and see what we could do. We had to be prepared to meet with the recipient of the muchos dineros on Monday.
We were hoping that the quasi-novelty of being in our own backyard would keep our little bunch busy. It did -- Katrina was very busy pushing a little wagon right out to the street, and Gabriel was very busy keeping her out of it, running after her numerous times and calling for us (we did the obvious after that and kept the gates closed).
What a terrific big brother he (usually) is.
Our yard has been dug up and refilled, so much of the construction debris is now underground. The earth is soft, there are remnants of sand piles, and just enough outdoor toys in the garage that the kids had a great time digging.
My little scragglemuffin. Poor thing has a temperature tonight.
We were interrupted a lot, but Dave and I figured out that we can probably get away with a bare-bones minimal code-meeting platform. I'm holding my breath until it's confirmed in blood from the city building department, but I think our efforts just dodged us a $22,000 bullet. Or at least, we ran away from it for a while, and gave ourselves a choice about where and when it lands.
The friends we ran into Friday night have also recently been through a major remodel. The woman, Cathy, asked me, "Have you had your meltdown yet?" She's a wise one. Hers was over kitchen knobs, she said, it just sent her over the edge. My full-blown freakout is just around the corner.
Tonight after getting the boys to clean up the family room (a painful operation), they were fighting over Gabriel's marble track toy. So I got out Julian's marble track toy (they both got one for Christmas), and to my amazement, they were very happily cooperating and building a marble track together. The moment was picture-worthy, if not the actual scene.
Someday they'll be making messes in our own house again.
1/18/09
I can't handle this anymore! These sorts of surprises are draining and depressing and exhausting, and suck all our time and attention for days or weeks until it's resolved. We're reeling from the idea of having to throw together a deck from very vague ideas of what we'd want, and spending ten times as much as we'd expected.
And this deck isn't just to set a barbeque on. It's required by PG&E to reach our service panel and turn up our electricity, and it's required by the city to pass final inspection. Every day delayed is another day we're not at home. This deck is urgent. We'd planned to build a throwaway deck to meet code and do a "real" deck after we'd been home for a while, but $17,000 is no throwaway deck.
Friday, I went to talk to a building official at the city to ask a few questions, and a few verrrry interesting things came up. We can step the deck down one step, which means it would only need two steps up, which means no handrails. And below 30 inches, which ours would be, no guardrails around the deck are needed. No railings? Hmmm! A world of possibilities opens up.
Dave's and my dinner out Friday night was partly spent hunched over printed designs with a pencil, and Saturday we stopped by the house for some quickie measurements and layout ideas. This morning we invested real time at the house, with the kids, to measure and lay out options and see what we could do. We had to be prepared to meet with the recipient of the muchos dineros on Monday.
We were hoping that the quasi-novelty of being in our own backyard would keep our little bunch busy. It did -- Katrina was very busy pushing a little wagon right out to the street, and Gabriel was very busy keeping her out of it, running after her numerous times and calling for us (we did the obvious after that and kept the gates closed).
What a terrific big brother he (usually) is.
Our yard has been dug up and refilled, so much of the construction debris is now underground. The earth is soft, there are remnants of sand piles, and just enough outdoor toys in the garage that the kids had a great time digging.
My little scragglemuffin. Poor thing has a temperature tonight.
We were interrupted a lot, but Dave and I figured out that we can probably get away with a bare-bones minimal code-meeting platform. I'm holding my breath until it's confirmed in blood from the city building department, but I think our efforts just dodged us a $22,000 bullet. Or at least, we ran away from it for a while, and gave ourselves a choice about where and when it lands.
The friends we ran into Friday night have also recently been through a major remodel. The woman, Cathy, asked me, "Have you had your meltdown yet?" She's a wise one. Hers was over kitchen knobs, she said, it just sent her over the edge. My full-blown freakout is just around the corner.
Tonight after getting the boys to clean up the family room (a painful operation), they were fighting over Gabriel's marble track toy. So I got out Julian's marble track toy (they both got one for Christmas), and to my amazement, they were very happily cooperating and building a marble track together. The moment was picture-worthy, if not the actual scene.
Someday they'll be making messes in our own house again.
1/18/09
Saturday, January 17, 2009
1/17/09 Grownup meals
Every so often I have a glimpse of what it's like to truly be a grownup again at meals. With the kids in daycare full-time, I actually get a lot of grownup time during the day, but meals are scarfed bites at my desk. At home, most mealtimes are spent with me on my feet, in service mode, fetching or cleaning or cutting or wiping or serving. The boys set a place for me only as a formality; I rarely sit down and join everyone. Many times recently, I've wished there were an easier way, a way to get a break from the intense effort of mealtimes.
Take-out, right? You'd think. But on weeknights, take-out presents numerous timing issues; we actually get everyone fed and ready for homework and baths sooner if I can start dinner as soon as I get home. Betsy, who's well-versed in the art, suggests calling in and picking up takeout on the way home. I'll have to try that, but I can well imagine that the various food weirdnesses in this household will quickly reveal flaws in that plan.
Restaurants? Worse. During the week, restaurants are out of the question; we can't tie up an hour of Gabriel's valuable evening time, and Katrina is a time bomb after 7pm. Weekends? Still iffy. Despite the recession, restaurants around here on weekends often have a wait.
Maybe I was feeling cocky after a nice evening Friday night at a good homey local restaurant I sat through the whole meal, didn't cut anyone else's food, didn't pick anything up off the floor, didn't ask for extra napkins, didn't clean up any spills, didn't wipe anyone's face with my fingers. I ordered food I wanted and was able to eat it fresh and with my right hand. I had two glasses of wine and enjoyed lots of grownup talk (including with some new old friends we ran into).
I was glad to see my little bunch after sleepover this morning, and planned for a morning of nothing. I had one weekend goal: get shoes for the boys. This was critical weeks ago; they both have enormous holes in their shoes, and it just can't wait any longer. This evening, we also needed to stop by the house to look at how some new deck design ideas would work. This turned into a Plan: house, dinner out, shoe-shop.
Dinner out? Now count the number of letters in the word "PLAN."
Stop by the house, fine. 10-15 minutes, kids stay in the car, the boys managed to emerge from the experience with bones intact.
Dinner? ARRRGH.
In a word: Katrina. She was impossible, unbearable, and downright antisocial. I spent most of the dinner outside with her, with three attempts to bring her back inside to eat. Twice I pulled her fast out for throwing -- first a fork, then a cup full of milk, then as the tantrum escalated, anything she could reach. Outside, she varied between being mildly interested in a fountain, and throwing herself on the ground in a hissy-fit.
I sat on the edge of the fountain, staring at the ground, and wondering what sin I committed in a previous life to bring this scourge upon me. Do I really deserve to be banished out here with this irrational, obnoxious little brat? Can't I just go inside and sit down and have a few bites of salad without having to drop my fork, leap to my feet and rush outside, still chewing my bite? Didn't I pay my dues with Gabriel? I'm done with this! I woefully watched several cheery families walk by, carrying calm curious toddlers. Why can't she be like that?
I chewed a few bitter bites of salad after Dave took over tantrum-duty, wishing I was home. Gabriel had gone outside to help with Katrina, and Julian was absorbed in a coloring project. This is no fun. Well, I consoled myself, at least I don't have to clean up.
After that major investment, we were getting shoes, dammit. Besides, I'd left no margin for error: the boys only have one pair of shoes, and both were really shot. Besides, shoe-shopping should be fast, and the mall (ick) has various distractions, right?
No, shoe-shopping was incredibly stressful too. She wouldn't get out of the stroller (fine), but wouldn't accept sitting in it not moving either. Dave finally took her out into the mall and wheeled her around. Meanwhile I hurriedly searched the racks for boy shoes, as the complexity of putting together sale prices, sizes, and light-up soles oppressed me. I could hear Katrina screaming and fussing and crying, and I could feel my insides pressurizing, my stomach churning, my heart sinking.
I know we'll get past this. I know she won't always be two. I know that these negative characteristics will have positive manifestations later. I know she won't always turn a nice evening out with the family into an ordeal. But will someone please tell me when?!
Yesterday before our morning jobsite meeting, I had some extra time, so before dropping Katrina off, I took her to a park near Tonya's so we could spend a little playtime together. My working-mom-guilt is strong about how rarely I take her to parks. When Gabriel was a toddler, I took him to parks several times a week.
It's a really lovely park.
Katrina liked playing on the play structure, though for some reason refused to go down the slide.
As I expected, our departure involved a fiery protest, a football hold, and stares from strangers. Just because I can fit her in for 20 minutes doesn't mean she's going to smother me with gratitude.
Before our rattling excursion tonight, I found some time to let Katrina go around the house bare-butt, so far the only measure she permits toward potty-training. I tried again to persuade her to put on training pants (so I know if she goes), but she was adament against it.
Then I thought hmmm....wonder how she feels about Curious George underpants? There's the hook! I showed her all the underpants in Julian's drawer, and that got her started. It didn't exactly work as I planned, since she kept wanting to change them to something else. Julian's skivvies are marked with an unfortunate variety of licensed characters -- Shrek, Scooby-Doo, SpongeBob, Spiderman -- and soon I found it was easiest to put them all in a basket and let her go to town.
She was more interested in putting them on than wearing them, but it's a start.
Strong personality...willful...opinionated...high-spirited....all code for "pain in the neck!" I love my little girl, and when my blood pressure returns to normal, I can even laugh about what she does and admire her forceful spirit. But it'll be easier when I can be a grownup again.
1/17/09
Take-out, right? You'd think. But on weeknights, take-out presents numerous timing issues; we actually get everyone fed and ready for homework and baths sooner if I can start dinner as soon as I get home. Betsy, who's well-versed in the art, suggests calling in and picking up takeout on the way home. I'll have to try that, but I can well imagine that the various food weirdnesses in this household will quickly reveal flaws in that plan.
Restaurants? Worse. During the week, restaurants are out of the question; we can't tie up an hour of Gabriel's valuable evening time, and Katrina is a time bomb after 7pm. Weekends? Still iffy. Despite the recession, restaurants around here on weekends often have a wait.
Maybe I was feeling cocky after a nice evening Friday night at a good homey local restaurant I sat through the whole meal, didn't cut anyone else's food, didn't pick anything up off the floor, didn't ask for extra napkins, didn't clean up any spills, didn't wipe anyone's face with my fingers. I ordered food I wanted and was able to eat it fresh and with my right hand. I had two glasses of wine and enjoyed lots of grownup talk (including with some new old friends we ran into).
I was glad to see my little bunch after sleepover this morning, and planned for a morning of nothing. I had one weekend goal: get shoes for the boys. This was critical weeks ago; they both have enormous holes in their shoes, and it just can't wait any longer. This evening, we also needed to stop by the house to look at how some new deck design ideas would work. This turned into a Plan: house, dinner out, shoe-shop.
Dinner out? Now count the number of letters in the word "PLAN."
Stop by the house, fine. 10-15 minutes, kids stay in the car, the boys managed to emerge from the experience with bones intact.
Dinner? ARRRGH.
In a word: Katrina. She was impossible, unbearable, and downright antisocial. I spent most of the dinner outside with her, with three attempts to bring her back inside to eat. Twice I pulled her fast out for throwing -- first a fork, then a cup full of milk, then as the tantrum escalated, anything she could reach. Outside, she varied between being mildly interested in a fountain, and throwing herself on the ground in a hissy-fit.
I sat on the edge of the fountain, staring at the ground, and wondering what sin I committed in a previous life to bring this scourge upon me. Do I really deserve to be banished out here with this irrational, obnoxious little brat? Can't I just go inside and sit down and have a few bites of salad without having to drop my fork, leap to my feet and rush outside, still chewing my bite? Didn't I pay my dues with Gabriel? I'm done with this! I woefully watched several cheery families walk by, carrying calm curious toddlers. Why can't she be like that?
I chewed a few bitter bites of salad after Dave took over tantrum-duty, wishing I was home. Gabriel had gone outside to help with Katrina, and Julian was absorbed in a coloring project. This is no fun. Well, I consoled myself, at least I don't have to clean up.
After that major investment, we were getting shoes, dammit. Besides, I'd left no margin for error: the boys only have one pair of shoes, and both were really shot. Besides, shoe-shopping should be fast, and the mall (ick) has various distractions, right?
No, shoe-shopping was incredibly stressful too. She wouldn't get out of the stroller (fine), but wouldn't accept sitting in it not moving either. Dave finally took her out into the mall and wheeled her around. Meanwhile I hurriedly searched the racks for boy shoes, as the complexity of putting together sale prices, sizes, and light-up soles oppressed me. I could hear Katrina screaming and fussing and crying, and I could feel my insides pressurizing, my stomach churning, my heart sinking.
I know we'll get past this. I know she won't always be two. I know that these negative characteristics will have positive manifestations later. I know she won't always turn a nice evening out with the family into an ordeal. But will someone please tell me when?!
Yesterday before our morning jobsite meeting, I had some extra time, so before dropping Katrina off, I took her to a park near Tonya's so we could spend a little playtime together. My working-mom-guilt is strong about how rarely I take her to parks. When Gabriel was a toddler, I took him to parks several times a week.
It's a really lovely park.
Katrina liked playing on the play structure, though for some reason refused to go down the slide.
As I expected, our departure involved a fiery protest, a football hold, and stares from strangers. Just because I can fit her in for 20 minutes doesn't mean she's going to smother me with gratitude.
Before our rattling excursion tonight, I found some time to let Katrina go around the house bare-butt, so far the only measure she permits toward potty-training. I tried again to persuade her to put on training pants (so I know if she goes), but she was adament against it.
Then I thought hmmm....wonder how she feels about Curious George underpants? There's the hook! I showed her all the underpants in Julian's drawer, and that got her started. It didn't exactly work as I planned, since she kept wanting to change them to something else. Julian's skivvies are marked with an unfortunate variety of licensed characters -- Shrek, Scooby-Doo, SpongeBob, Spiderman -- and soon I found it was easiest to put them all in a basket and let her go to town.
She was more interested in putting them on than wearing them, but it's a start.
Strong personality...willful...opinionated...high-spirited....all code for "pain in the neck!" I love my little girl, and when my blood pressure returns to normal, I can even laugh about what she does and admire her forceful spirit. But it'll be easier when I can be a grownup again.
1/17/09
Friday, January 16, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
1/15/09 Plane rescue
I was driving home from work today when I heard about the extraordinary story of a disabled airplane landing in the Hudson River today, and everyone getting out alive and mostly uninjured. Absolutely amazing. I have a thing for survival stories, so real-life current ones are especially exciting.
This particular plane crash involved a nice convenient sinking, which gives a whole lot more time, visibility and fresh air than a fire, which I've heard is really what most plane crashes turn into. Not to mention landing so close to a ferry terminal -- it doesn't get better than that! They were swarmed by boats within minutes.
In the old days, my thoughts would turn immediately to, "What if I were on that plane?" I have confidence in my own ability to scramble to safety; I'm agile and resourceful, I can swim and climb, I'm not claustrophobic or acrophobic and not given to panic. If there's a way out, there's a decent chance I'd get out.
But that was before I was a mother. Now my first thought is, "How would I rescue my children?" It's unthinkable, but I can't help thinking about it. In an emergency, who would I unstrap first? How would I keep track of all three? How would they react -- would they listen to my pointed instructions to go now? Would I send the boys ahead, away from me, while I stayed behind to get Katrina? Would they go? Could I fight my way through panicked crowds carrying a toddler and keep the boys moving? Would people help me? What if we had to get in water -- would I be forced to make a choice who I'd save? Would I leave them if it became clear the only person who could possibly be saved was myself?
Chilling thoughts. Futile, upsetting, perhaps even counterproductive -- but will any of my critics say they've never envisioned scenarios like this themselves? It's unavoidable, and perhaps necessary to face my worst fears. Those terrifying wild-imagination thoughts were reality today, for 155 very very lucky people.
1/15/09
p.s. I wonder if this will re-ignite the debate about mandatory retirement age of 60 for pilots. The pilot is 58.
This particular plane crash involved a nice convenient sinking, which gives a whole lot more time, visibility and fresh air than a fire, which I've heard is really what most plane crashes turn into. Not to mention landing so close to a ferry terminal -- it doesn't get better than that! They were swarmed by boats within minutes.
In the old days, my thoughts would turn immediately to, "What if I were on that plane?" I have confidence in my own ability to scramble to safety; I'm agile and resourceful, I can swim and climb, I'm not claustrophobic or acrophobic and not given to panic. If there's a way out, there's a decent chance I'd get out.
But that was before I was a mother. Now my first thought is, "How would I rescue my children?" It's unthinkable, but I can't help thinking about it. In an emergency, who would I unstrap first? How would I keep track of all three? How would they react -- would they listen to my pointed instructions to go now? Would I send the boys ahead, away from me, while I stayed behind to get Katrina? Would they go? Could I fight my way through panicked crowds carrying a toddler and keep the boys moving? Would people help me? What if we had to get in water -- would I be forced to make a choice who I'd save? Would I leave them if it became clear the only person who could possibly be saved was myself?
Chilling thoughts. Futile, upsetting, perhaps even counterproductive -- but will any of my critics say they've never envisioned scenarios like this themselves? It's unavoidable, and perhaps necessary to face my worst fears. Those terrifying wild-imagination thoughts were reality today, for 155 very very lucky people.
1/15/09
p.s. I wonder if this will re-ignite the debate about mandatory retirement age of 60 for pilots. The pilot is 58.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
1/14/09 Julian's anatomy
Tonight I was urging Julian along in the pre-dinner-handwashing process, and as I often do, I rubbed some water on his face and very lightly squeezed his nose. He cried out in pain and complained that it really hurt. Quite often he has a huge hard snot in there, and that can hurt if there's any external pressure applied. Julian somehow always needs to blow his nose, but Gabriel, rarely.
I pressed lightly on the side of each nostril and asked, "Does it hurt here?" "No," he said, getting over it and walking away, "It's in the spongy bone tissue!"
He's been at that anatomy puzzle book again, it seems.
1/14/09
I pressed lightly on the side of each nostril and asked, "Does it hurt here?" "No," he said, getting over it and walking away, "It's in the spongy bone tissue!"
He's been at that anatomy puzzle book again, it seems.
1/14/09
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
1/13/09 Back to preschool
We got Gabriel's weekly "bookbag" yesterday, with the book, the book's journal, and writing activities for that book. I begrudgingly withheld judgement on this lovely new imposition on our time until seeing it, but now, I'm positively stunned. What on earth is this about?
The "Activity for Writing" for this week's book is to help the child make a poster -- a poster?! about raising ducks. "Write some words together that explains what was drawn." In discussing the book, we can ask the child "How many words in the sentence?"
Then there's a paper titled "Ways for Parents to Write with Children," which says the parent and child work together to create messages and stories -- but the parent does the writing! "This is an opportunity to demonstrate how writing works and to draw attention to letters, words and sounds."
?!!?!?!!!! Did we just timewarp back to preschool?
The journal's printed pages are duplicated in several languages, and the supporting papers explain that if we're more comfortable reading in our home language, that's fine, it still shows the child the "how" and "why" of reading. Hmm, wonder who they have in mind -- perhaps the millions of English learners whose immigrant parents don't speak English? Like they have time for this? And who picked Cupertino for this program?? There are many, many immigrant parents here (a majority, I'm sure), and many English-learning parents, but they're mostly highly educated and committed to sending their kids to medical school by age 10. This program isn't aimed for them.
The incredible thing is that Gabriel's class has had to do daily independent reading since day One, but this program suddenly instructs the parents to do the reading -- and writing.
It's so awful, so inappropriate, so ridiculous I'm not even going to worry about it. Dave thinks we should at least get Gabriel to read the book and write a sentence or two in the journal; I think that's busywork that only adds to our already considerable homework load. If he wants to read the book, great, but I just can't add to the time I (we) already spend standing over him budging him to do homework. Good grief, give the kid some playtime already.
By the way, tonight's regular homework included, among numerous other things, coming up with 5 words with the phonogram "ey." I'm good at word games -- Boggle, Scrabble, crossword puzzles and I go way back -- and I couldn't come up with much more than eye, key and grey ("they" was their example so we couldn't use that) offhand. Dave gave up and Googled. Gabriel also had to come up with 5 words with "th," which was pretty difficult for him, and he needed to be walked through it. This is not easy homework! So after this effort, which was only 1/4th of tonight's homework, he's supposed to "practice writing letters with the assistance of the parent" and do a "picture walk"?!
I just can't imagine what the school is thinking with this. The program is perhaps a decent suggestion for English-learning parents who are concerned that their kindergartner isn't reading at all yet, but it's completely inappropriate as extra required work for overall very proficient first-graders. Especially first-graders who are already expected to do a lot of far far more challenging work.
The good news is that the book itself is pretty good: Robert McCloskey's "Make Way For Ducklings." Julian enjoyed it. He sat down and read it cover to cover.
1/13/09
The "Activity for Writing" for this week's book is to help the child make a poster -- a poster?! about raising ducks. "Write some words together that explains what was drawn." In discussing the book, we can ask the child "How many words in the sentence?"
Then there's a paper titled "Ways for Parents to Write with Children," which says the parent and child work together to create messages and stories -- but the parent does the writing! "This is an opportunity to demonstrate how writing works and to draw attention to letters, words and sounds."
?!!?!?!!!! Did we just timewarp back to preschool?
The journal's printed pages are duplicated in several languages, and the supporting papers explain that if we're more comfortable reading in our home language, that's fine, it still shows the child the "how" and "why" of reading. Hmm, wonder who they have in mind -- perhaps the millions of English learners whose immigrant parents don't speak English? Like they have time for this? And who picked Cupertino for this program?? There are many, many immigrant parents here (a majority, I'm sure), and many English-learning parents, but they're mostly highly educated and committed to sending their kids to medical school by age 10. This program isn't aimed for them.
The incredible thing is that Gabriel's class has had to do daily independent reading since day One, but this program suddenly instructs the parents to do the reading -- and writing.
It's so awful, so inappropriate, so ridiculous I'm not even going to worry about it. Dave thinks we should at least get Gabriel to read the book and write a sentence or two in the journal; I think that's busywork that only adds to our already considerable homework load. If he wants to read the book, great, but I just can't add to the time I (we) already spend standing over him budging him to do homework. Good grief, give the kid some playtime already.
By the way, tonight's regular homework included, among numerous other things, coming up with 5 words with the phonogram "ey." I'm good at word games -- Boggle, Scrabble, crossword puzzles and I go way back -- and I couldn't come up with much more than eye, key and grey ("they" was their example so we couldn't use that) offhand. Dave gave up and Googled. Gabriel also had to come up with 5 words with "th," which was pretty difficult for him, and he needed to be walked through it. This is not easy homework! So after this effort, which was only 1/4th of tonight's homework, he's supposed to "practice writing letters with the assistance of the parent" and do a "picture walk"?!
I just can't imagine what the school is thinking with this. The program is perhaps a decent suggestion for English-learning parents who are concerned that their kindergartner isn't reading at all yet, but it's completely inappropriate as extra required work for overall very proficient first-graders. Especially first-graders who are already expected to do a lot of far far more challenging work.
The good news is that the book itself is pretty good: Robert McCloskey's "Make Way For Ducklings." Julian enjoyed it. He sat down and read it cover to cover.
1/13/09
Monday, January 12, 2009
1/12/09 The broken heart
Just how many times, for how many days in a row and weeks on end, does one have to repeat to their children in the morning: "Get dressed! Eat! Get your shoes on! Get your jacket on! Get in the car!!"? How much is too much? At what point is a mother justified in completely going off the deep end?
I don't have an answer about the justification, but I do have a data point about the deep end.
This morning, as I was attempting to herd my little clan for a hectic Monday, I found Gabriel playing with his slot cars, again, instead of putting his lunch in his knapsack and getting ready to get into the car. Maybe I'd have more patience for this if I weren't also pushing putzy Julian through brushing teeth, and keeping Katrina on track as well (though she's uncharacteristically cooperative in the mornings) (mostly) (usually) (where you have to calibrate "cooperative" to "Katrina."). But the nonstop pushing and cajoling and teeth-gritting reminding every morning, without fail, was too much when I saw him putzing around playing, again.
I was furious. I picked up his slot car track and violently dragged the fragile plastic behind me as I went to get a plastic garbage bag. "G E T Y O U R K N A P S A C K R E A D Y >>>> NOWWWW!!!! <<<<< " I screamed with complete, sincere, total venom. He resisted, and I lifted the slot car track and threw it into the corner. A few pieces of black plastic sprayed upon impact. "NOOO!!!!!!" he cried out -- you could hear it echoing in the canyon. He furiously got his things together and got in the car, crying and screaming the whole way.
Naturally, it didn't end there. On the way to school, he hurled every threat he could think of at me, saying bloodcurdling things that kids a few decades ago would get lashings for. I was shaken and still pretty mad, and tried not to respond. "That was a CHRISTMAS PRESENT, Mom!" he choked out furiously, so upset he couldn't quite cry. "It didn't even last to my birthday. YOU BROKE IT!!!" No amount of repeating that he might have had something to do it sank in. "YOU HAVE TO PAY ME SIX MILLION DOLLARS!"
When I brought him to the CDC, he refused to go with me. I had to drag him across the street, then he hid and made me find and run after him to drag him into the CDC, where I shoved him inside the door and slammed it behind him. "I don't love you anymore, MOM!!!"
After dropping off the other two, I went to my planned Y workout, but I couldn't concentrate. I knew he deserved something big, because with Gabriel, taking away a sticker just doesn't cut it. But I'd gone too far. I didn't just break his slot car track, I broke his heart. "You broke the part with the ELECTRICITY!" He knew it wouldn't last forever and wanted to get as much out of it as he could.
Gabriel doesn't cry easily, and he doesn't like to cry, so his crying is often accentuated by anger at being put in that position. Embellishing, dramatizing, playing victim, manipulating, trying to get attention by crying -- not in his DNA. He's no actor. He means it. Even beyond that, he rarely leans on me for emotional support, and always handles problems on his own (to a fault) -- to see him so upset cuts right through me. So the thought of his crying furiously really ripped into me as I forced myself through a drudgerous mile on the treadmill.
As I was wrapping up a quick ab exercise, I decided to take a shower at home instead of at the Y, as I'd planned. I counted the seconds at every light and rushed as fast as I could into the door to inspect the damage. There were only a few broken pieces, one critical, but the most fixable. Though I was sweaty, uncomfortable, and late for work, I pulled out some superglue and set about to repairing the damage. (I was not just a little irritated that such fine closeup work in a poorly lit room on tiny black objects is becoming downright difficult. Even if I had any idea where my reading glasses are, I doubt they'd do much anymore.)
I did the best repair I could, tenderly holding each piece together until the glue set, and hoped that by the time he got home, whatever good the glue could do would be at its best. Worst case, I'd get new pieces, or a whole new box.
But didn't he deserve some serious consequences for not listening to me for the 1000th time? And as Dave pointed out, he doesn't leave us a lot of choices. Still, his disappointment and grief were deep. Slot cars are the closest thing to true love a 6-year-old boy has, he feels it deeply. I was OK with him being mad at me, that happens -- the comment about not loving me didn't bother me at all -- but his intense loss was too much for me to take. If anyone made him feel that bad, I'd do anything to make it better for him.
I think it's official. No one can break my heart the way my firstborn son can. My husband used to hold that sole honor, but he has to share it now. And that's what I was doing this morning instead of going to work, squinting and straining to see while placing tiny pieces of plastic together with tweezers: fixing my own broken heart.
I didn't tell Gabriel I fixed it, and avoided the question when he and Julian both asked. I wasn't sure it would hold. But he was playing with it again this evening, able to enjoy its natural life. He'll accept its inevitable demise, but he doesn't have to accept an early one. He was happy. That took the edge off my shame.
And tomorrow, if he putzes around in the morning, I'll take away ice cream.
1/12/09
I don't have an answer about the justification, but I do have a data point about the deep end.
This morning, as I was attempting to herd my little clan for a hectic Monday, I found Gabriel playing with his slot cars, again, instead of putting his lunch in his knapsack and getting ready to get into the car. Maybe I'd have more patience for this if I weren't also pushing putzy Julian through brushing teeth, and keeping Katrina on track as well (though she's uncharacteristically cooperative in the mornings) (mostly) (usually) (where you have to calibrate "cooperative" to "Katrina."). But the nonstop pushing and cajoling and teeth-gritting reminding every morning, without fail, was too much when I saw him putzing around playing, again.
I was furious. I picked up his slot car track and violently dragged the fragile plastic behind me as I went to get a plastic garbage bag. "G E T Y O U R K N A P S A C K R E A D Y >>>> NOWWWW!!!! <<<<< " I screamed with complete, sincere, total venom. He resisted, and I lifted the slot car track and threw it into the corner. A few pieces of black plastic sprayed upon impact. "NOOO!!!!!!" he cried out -- you could hear it echoing in the canyon. He furiously got his things together and got in the car, crying and screaming the whole way.
Naturally, it didn't end there. On the way to school, he hurled every threat he could think of at me, saying bloodcurdling things that kids a few decades ago would get lashings for. I was shaken and still pretty mad, and tried not to respond. "That was a CHRISTMAS PRESENT, Mom!" he choked out furiously, so upset he couldn't quite cry. "It didn't even last to my birthday. YOU BROKE IT!!!" No amount of repeating that he might have had something to do it sank in. "YOU HAVE TO PAY ME SIX MILLION DOLLARS!"
When I brought him to the CDC, he refused to go with me. I had to drag him across the street, then he hid and made me find and run after him to drag him into the CDC, where I shoved him inside the door and slammed it behind him. "I don't love you anymore, MOM!!!"
After dropping off the other two, I went to my planned Y workout, but I couldn't concentrate. I knew he deserved something big, because with Gabriel, taking away a sticker just doesn't cut it. But I'd gone too far. I didn't just break his slot car track, I broke his heart. "You broke the part with the ELECTRICITY!" He knew it wouldn't last forever and wanted to get as much out of it as he could.
Gabriel doesn't cry easily, and he doesn't like to cry, so his crying is often accentuated by anger at being put in that position. Embellishing, dramatizing, playing victim, manipulating, trying to get attention by crying -- not in his DNA. He's no actor. He means it. Even beyond that, he rarely leans on me for emotional support, and always handles problems on his own (to a fault) -- to see him so upset cuts right through me. So the thought of his crying furiously really ripped into me as I forced myself through a drudgerous mile on the treadmill.
As I was wrapping up a quick ab exercise, I decided to take a shower at home instead of at the Y, as I'd planned. I counted the seconds at every light and rushed as fast as I could into the door to inspect the damage. There were only a few broken pieces, one critical, but the most fixable. Though I was sweaty, uncomfortable, and late for work, I pulled out some superglue and set about to repairing the damage. (I was not just a little irritated that such fine closeup work in a poorly lit room on tiny black objects is becoming downright difficult. Even if I had any idea where my reading glasses are, I doubt they'd do much anymore.)
I did the best repair I could, tenderly holding each piece together until the glue set, and hoped that by the time he got home, whatever good the glue could do would be at its best. Worst case, I'd get new pieces, or a whole new box.
But didn't he deserve some serious consequences for not listening to me for the 1000th time? And as Dave pointed out, he doesn't leave us a lot of choices. Still, his disappointment and grief were deep. Slot cars are the closest thing to true love a 6-year-old boy has, he feels it deeply. I was OK with him being mad at me, that happens -- the comment about not loving me didn't bother me at all -- but his intense loss was too much for me to take. If anyone made him feel that bad, I'd do anything to make it better for him.
I think it's official. No one can break my heart the way my firstborn son can. My husband used to hold that sole honor, but he has to share it now. And that's what I was doing this morning instead of going to work, squinting and straining to see while placing tiny pieces of plastic together with tweezers: fixing my own broken heart.
I didn't tell Gabriel I fixed it, and avoided the question when he and Julian both asked. I wasn't sure it would hold. But he was playing with it again this evening, able to enjoy its natural life. He'll accept its inevitable demise, but he doesn't have to accept an early one. He was happy. That took the edge off my shame.
And tomorrow, if he putzes around in the morning, I'll take away ice cream.
1/12/09
Sunday, January 11, 2009
1/11/09 Cable Car Sunday
For once, we were good, fun entertaining parents today, rather than overwhelmed workers or frazzled homeowners -- we took the kids to the city for a cable car ride! We happened upon a positively glorious, glowing, gorgeous day to explore what I keep forgetting is such a beautiful and interesting city.
No trip to San Francisco is complete without a drive down Lombard Street. Gabriel was elated, Julian cautious, Katrina in the middle. As usual.
Our main goal was the cable cars, though. We started at the Aquatic Park so we could see the turntable.
Hang on!
Katrina was something between intrigued and intimidated, though as usual she held very very strong opinions about where she should sit, what she should hold on to, or if she should stand.
Even a view of an old prison is fabulous (that's Alcatraz).
We went to the Cable Car Museum, where we saw the huge wheels that turn and wind the actual cables, and rang a genuine historic bell.
A trip back to Fisherman's Wharf, where we got a late, so-so, expensive lunch, and then back home. The excitement took its toll on all three!
I wish we had a better way to explore the city -- really, you need a place to land, a ground zero, and explore it in bits and pieces, wander around neighborhoods, rather than all-day excursions with specific targets. But especially when Katrina gets older, I know we'll be heading north much more often.
1/11/09
No trip to San Francisco is complete without a drive down Lombard Street. Gabriel was elated, Julian cautious, Katrina in the middle. As usual.
Our main goal was the cable cars, though. We started at the Aquatic Park so we could see the turntable.
Hang on!
Katrina was something between intrigued and intimidated, though as usual she held very very strong opinions about where she should sit, what she should hold on to, or if she should stand.
Even a view of an old prison is fabulous (that's Alcatraz).
We went to the Cable Car Museum, where we saw the huge wheels that turn and wind the actual cables, and rang a genuine historic bell.
A trip back to Fisherman's Wharf, where we got a late, so-so, expensive lunch, and then back home. The excitement took its toll on all three!
I wish we had a better way to explore the city -- really, you need a place to land, a ground zero, and explore it in bits and pieces, wander around neighborhoods, rather than all-day excursions with specific targets. But especially when Katrina gets older, I know we'll be heading north much more often.
1/11/09
Saturday, January 10, 2009
1/10/09 Reading
Usually Dave puts the kids to bed and reads to them, but tonight a late dinner made it work out so I put Katrina and Julian to bed. Frankly, by story time, usually I'm sort of "done" with kids for the day, so I do the reading out of duty, but I always secretly hope they'll pick a short book.
Tonight, though, I found myself prolonging Katrina's storytime, reading three books to her, including pop-ups and flap books (which take a lot longer). It's so nice to have her sit calmly in my lap and almost cuddle. She repeats a lot of the sentences I read and points things out in pictures, but she really lights up when it comes to identifying shapes. I noticed a few months ago when she was pointing out "octagons" (which are often hexagons), and thought it was a passing phase, but this does seem to appeal to her. Finally she'd had enough and I reluctantly put her down.
Julian was very tired and actually wanted to go to bed early, and given his whiny obnoxious evening, this was not an opportunity to be missed! I gave him a quick bath and then read a long story to him, talking about it with him along the way, and enjoying his characteristic wide-eyed fascination. So different from Gabriel's intense focus. Gabriel concentrates on stories too, but he's almost sharp about it, where Julian is absorbing. You can just about see the spreading beam coming from Julian's eyes, and the pinpoint laser coming from Gabriel's.
It still baffles me why Gabriel's school picks reading, of all things, to force parents and children to do together as an extra activity. Reading together of all things is the first thing we do, the last to go. There's no lack of reading together in this household, and we happen to have concrete evidence of that in the boys' excellent reading skills, Julian's especially. The real value in reading together is to establish the habit and lay the foundation for learning, whether or not they actually learn to read before kindergarten. We understand that. Not to metion, we like to.
Reading together is fun, and should remain that way, not a chore. Er, not a chore the school imposes, anyway. Modern-day parental guilt does plenty of that.
1/10/09
Tonight, though, I found myself prolonging Katrina's storytime, reading three books to her, including pop-ups and flap books (which take a lot longer). It's so nice to have her sit calmly in my lap and almost cuddle. She repeats a lot of the sentences I read and points things out in pictures, but she really lights up when it comes to identifying shapes. I noticed a few months ago when she was pointing out "octagons" (which are often hexagons), and thought it was a passing phase, but this does seem to appeal to her. Finally she'd had enough and I reluctantly put her down.
Julian was very tired and actually wanted to go to bed early, and given his whiny obnoxious evening, this was not an opportunity to be missed! I gave him a quick bath and then read a long story to him, talking about it with him along the way, and enjoying his characteristic wide-eyed fascination. So different from Gabriel's intense focus. Gabriel concentrates on stories too, but he's almost sharp about it, where Julian is absorbing. You can just about see the spreading beam coming from Julian's eyes, and the pinpoint laser coming from Gabriel's.
It still baffles me why Gabriel's school picks reading, of all things, to force parents and children to do together as an extra activity. Reading together of all things is the first thing we do, the last to go. There's no lack of reading together in this household, and we happen to have concrete evidence of that in the boys' excellent reading skills, Julian's especially. The real value in reading together is to establish the habit and lay the foundation for learning, whether or not they actually learn to read before kindergarten. We understand that. Not to metion, we like to.
Reading together is fun, and should remain that way, not a chore. Er, not a chore the school imposes, anyway. Modern-day parental guilt does plenty of that.
1/10/09
Friday, January 09, 2009
1/9/09 The Last Resort
It's horribly irritating to be in the car after The Three are re-united at the end of the day -- they're incredibly loud, so active the car rocks, and in under a minute, someone is crying (often me).
I found a way tonight to keep things calm -- an obvious one, and one that wears off fast, but if I keep it fresh it should keep working. I played one of my favorite Eagles songs, called "The Last Resort," about missionaries taking over Indian land. It starts with some piano, which caught Gabriel's attention immediately. With him focused on the music, the other two's antics were reduced to mere childhood play. It was magical.
The only strange thing is when we get out of the car, and Gabriel stated evenly: "Definitely a transposed F-sharp."
I'm not sure what he meant by that exactly, but he makes these sort of comments from time to time. It's eerie. It reminds me of the kid in The Sixth Sense: "I see dead people...." I know there will come a time when he knows many things I don't, but I'm not ready for that yet. Right now, for a short time anyway, I'm still smarter, faster and stronger. But I've never heard music the way he does.
I'm still not over the supreme irritation of the "Heritage Doll" school project. Thank goodness we have such an alligator-skin kid, who's not too embarrassed by the minimum begrudging effort his parents put into helping him with this grotesque, creepy figure.
Basically I printed photos onto a piece of cardstock, which he cut out and glued onto the doll template. Well, she did say to "be creative," does that have to involve yarn and macaroni? Dave also talked to him for a while about our history of motorcycling together. I'm sure that was the point. Yeah, whatever.
But it doesn't end there. Gabriel's school is on a mission to force parents and children to spend their idea of the right sort of time together.
Today Gabriel came home with a notice about a numbered book bag he's going to take home every week, with a journal and instructions for activities. The notice specifically says not to have the child read the book on his own, it's intended for the parent to read with the child, then we do a writing activity with the child to put into the journal. "This is a great opportunity for you and your child to share the joys of reading. Have fun!"
Please cover your ears while I SCREAM!!!!!
Does it not occur to them that perhaps that isn't the way we WANT to spend time with our child?! It takes away from time we spend together, especially relaxed, productive -- or not -- time. Never mind the two other children we would like to spend time with. I'm sorry, but my two-year-old isn't interested in your idea of how to spend precious minutes with our first-grader. We might prefer to do, say, piano practice.
Or science experiments. Julian got a book on experiments for Christmas (birthday?) and he's been looking at it a lot. He'd picked one experiment he really wanted to do, so we did it together tonight -- lamely, we didn't have the right materials -- but the boys and I had fun trying.
There'd have been no room for this on a weeknight if a "writing activity" were demanded.
Apparently the vast majority of kids in Gabriel's class don't have two parents who work. But even if I weren't working, I'd still resent this assumption that we parents want to put so much into school-dictated activities at home. Homework and required school projects are already a huge drain on our time together -- quantity and especially quality -- now this??
Besides, I have other things to worry about, like this corner cabinet in my new kitchen. I love open shelves, and specifically asked for some, where I'd planned to put frequent-access items: plates, glasses. But the frame around this opening creates a lip -- 1-1/2 inches deep!!! -- that prevents sliding things in or out easily. It also encroaches into the opening on the sides and the top. It looks great, but it works horribly. I know it won't "look right" without the frame, but it won't work right with it.
The last person I want to go up against is my kitchen designer, who's been a source of respite and peace through all this. It's my kitchen, I know, but, can't we just all be friends and agree on everthing?
That squishy sound you hear is my backbone melting.
1/9/09
I found a way tonight to keep things calm -- an obvious one, and one that wears off fast, but if I keep it fresh it should keep working. I played one of my favorite Eagles songs, called "The Last Resort," about missionaries taking over Indian land. It starts with some piano, which caught Gabriel's attention immediately. With him focused on the music, the other two's antics were reduced to mere childhood play. It was magical.
The only strange thing is when we get out of the car, and Gabriel stated evenly: "Definitely a transposed F-sharp."
I'm not sure what he meant by that exactly, but he makes these sort of comments from time to time. It's eerie. It reminds me of the kid in The Sixth Sense: "I see dead people...." I know there will come a time when he knows many things I don't, but I'm not ready for that yet. Right now, for a short time anyway, I'm still smarter, faster and stronger. But I've never heard music the way he does.
I'm still not over the supreme irritation of the "Heritage Doll" school project. Thank goodness we have such an alligator-skin kid, who's not too embarrassed by the minimum begrudging effort his parents put into helping him with this grotesque, creepy figure.
Basically I printed photos onto a piece of cardstock, which he cut out and glued onto the doll template. Well, she did say to "be creative," does that have to involve yarn and macaroni? Dave also talked to him for a while about our history of motorcycling together. I'm sure that was the point. Yeah, whatever.
But it doesn't end there. Gabriel's school is on a mission to force parents and children to spend their idea of the right sort of time together.
Today Gabriel came home with a notice about a numbered book bag he's going to take home every week, with a journal and instructions for activities. The notice specifically says not to have the child read the book on his own, it's intended for the parent to read with the child, then we do a writing activity with the child to put into the journal. "This is a great opportunity for you and your child to share the joys of reading. Have fun!"
Please cover your ears while I SCREAM!!!!!
Does it not occur to them that perhaps that isn't the way we WANT to spend time with our child?! It takes away from time we spend together, especially relaxed, productive -- or not -- time. Never mind the two other children we would like to spend time with. I'm sorry, but my two-year-old isn't interested in your idea of how to spend precious minutes with our first-grader. We might prefer to do, say, piano practice.
Or science experiments. Julian got a book on experiments for Christmas (birthday?) and he's been looking at it a lot. He'd picked one experiment he really wanted to do, so we did it together tonight -- lamely, we didn't have the right materials -- but the boys and I had fun trying.
There'd have been no room for this on a weeknight if a "writing activity" were demanded.
Apparently the vast majority of kids in Gabriel's class don't have two parents who work. But even if I weren't working, I'd still resent this assumption that we parents want to put so much into school-dictated activities at home. Homework and required school projects are already a huge drain on our time together -- quantity and especially quality -- now this??
Besides, I have other things to worry about, like this corner cabinet in my new kitchen. I love open shelves, and specifically asked for some, where I'd planned to put frequent-access items: plates, glasses. But the frame around this opening creates a lip -- 1-1/2 inches deep!!! -- that prevents sliding things in or out easily. It also encroaches into the opening on the sides and the top. It looks great, but it works horribly. I know it won't "look right" without the frame, but it won't work right with it.
The last person I want to go up against is my kitchen designer, who's been a source of respite and peace through all this. It's my kitchen, I know, but, can't we just all be friends and agree on everthing?
That squishy sound you hear is my backbone melting.
1/9/09
Thursday, January 08, 2009
1/8/09 Attitude problem
I'm having a serious attitude problem with this stupid "Heritage Doll" project for Gabriel's class. I don't have black construction paper. SORRY. Suppose I'm a working mom who's remodeling and has two other children and who just doesn't have all the right supplies? Not to mention the time. Or desire, or "creativity" we've been admonished to have. Or even the heritage! I SO resent having to spend my evening dressing up a stupid paper doll.
I have a friend who thought a project her daughter had to do for kindergarten was too much, and just refused to do it. Why don't I have that kind of nerve?
I need an assertiveness training class. Online -- so I don't have to face anyone in person.
1/8/09
I have a friend who thought a project her daughter had to do for kindergarten was too much, and just refused to do it. Why don't I have that kind of nerve?
I need an assertiveness training class. Online -- so I don't have to face anyone in person.
1/8/09
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
1/7/09 The Wringer.
I'm exhausted.
I was planning an almost-full day of work, with a "treat" to myself of a short workout at the Y after dropping off The Three. Bzzt. I'd barely pulled out of the driveway before I was divert to the jobsite (after dropoffs) for what should have been a brief consultation, and turned into another grueling 3-hour session. And I left saying, "I *can't* decide on this now, I've GOT to go to work."
The hall niches don't fit.
A dryer vent has to be moved.
The 1x1 tiles in our beautiful living room fireplace design won't fit, will have to be cut and hand-tumbled, and there's not enough of them.
The electrical light box above a vanity isn't centered and the medicine cabinet that's supposed to go there is too tall.
The sliding patio door can't be swapped, a whole new unit has to be ordered and installed. The labor to replace it will likely be more than the door itself.
That's just the "little" stuff.
Meantime, the fence between us and our incredibly patient next-door neighbor has a 12-foot section removed, and another kitty-korner neighbor had no idea that guys would be digging under his fence today too.
Here's the view of our house from our neighbor's yard through the huge hole in the fence. This view should never exist -- there should be a fence!.
Our incredibly patient neighbor is a meticulous landscaper. I can't imagine how he felt about this.
This is what showed up to dig up our yard.
Meantime, our jobsite foreman did some fast-talking with another neighbor, one we've never met but who lives kitty-korner to us. A five-foot-square in the far corner of his property is the unlucky grantor of an easement to PG&E to locate an upgrade an electrical meter.
This poor blindsided neighbor unfortunately bought his house with the easement in place. Our two next-door neighbors, on the other hand, out of unprecedented goodness of hearts and benevolence voluntarily signed one, through an unimaginably complex circus of hoops we (mostly Dave) had to go through with PG&E, the County, the City, the assessors, the surveyors, the title reports, the notaries....just so that our neighbors could sign away the rights to 10' of their property for PG&E to dig up at the behest of their noisy neighbors, who've forced them to live with construction dust, traffic and noise for months now.
I'm listening for ideas of how to thank our beleaugered neighbors -- Harry & David's biggest gift basket isn't nearly enough.
Oh, and tonight, we all had to go pick up Dave's car, AND work on Gabriel's scrapbook, AND have an "intervention" talk with Gabriel about some trouble he got into at school today. By all rights he should have been writing two letters of apology, but when it gets to be 9:30 and we're all about ready to scream, it's just too much. The "heritage doll" is going to have be a biker babe, and that's fitting, since they ("we," once) are known to get dressed simply and very very quickly. She crams for the test and does the whole multi-week-long project in the one night before it's due. My kinda gal.
Now I will slither my sorry rear end to the couch and stew about all else that's gone wrong today. Can I think of *anything* positive?? Oh yeah, Katrina happily sat on the potty at Julian's school for another teacher, just for a few minutes while he was getting ready to go. I figure potty-training will save us about $60 a month, between the diapers, wipes, and lower daycare costs. The aggravation leading up to it...not so sure.
1/7/09
I was planning an almost-full day of work, with a "treat" to myself of a short workout at the Y after dropping off The Three. Bzzt. I'd barely pulled out of the driveway before I was divert to the jobsite (after dropoffs) for what should have been a brief consultation, and turned into another grueling 3-hour session. And I left saying, "I *can't* decide on this now, I've GOT to go to work."
That's just the "little" stuff.
Meantime, the fence between us and our incredibly patient next-door neighbor has a 12-foot section removed, and another kitty-korner neighbor had no idea that guys would be digging under his fence today too.
Here's the view of our house from our neighbor's yard through the huge hole in the fence. This view should never exist -- there should be a fence!.
Our incredibly patient neighbor is a meticulous landscaper. I can't imagine how he felt about this.
This is what showed up to dig up our yard.
Meantime, our jobsite foreman did some fast-talking with another neighbor, one we've never met but who lives kitty-korner to us. A five-foot-square in the far corner of his property is the unlucky grantor of an easement to PG&E to locate an upgrade an electrical meter.
This poor blindsided neighbor unfortunately bought his house with the easement in place. Our two next-door neighbors, on the other hand, out of unprecedented goodness of hearts and benevolence voluntarily signed one, through an unimaginably complex circus of hoops we (mostly Dave) had to go through with PG&E, the County, the City, the assessors, the surveyors, the title reports, the notaries....just so that our neighbors could sign away the rights to 10' of their property for PG&E to dig up at the behest of their noisy neighbors, who've forced them to live with construction dust, traffic and noise for months now.
I'm listening for ideas of how to thank our beleaugered neighbors -- Harry & David's biggest gift basket isn't nearly enough.
Oh, and tonight, we all had to go pick up Dave's car, AND work on Gabriel's scrapbook, AND have an "intervention" talk with Gabriel about some trouble he got into at school today. By all rights he should have been writing two letters of apology, but when it gets to be 9:30 and we're all about ready to scream, it's just too much. The "heritage doll" is going to have be a biker babe, and that's fitting, since they ("we," once) are known to get dressed simply and very very quickly. She crams for the test and does the whole multi-week-long project in the one night before it's due. My kinda gal.
Now I will slither my sorry rear end to the couch and stew about all else that's gone wrong today. Can I think of *anything* positive?? Oh yeah, Katrina happily sat on the potty at Julian's school for another teacher, just for a few minutes while he was getting ready to go. I figure potty-training will save us about $60 a month, between the diapers, wipes, and lower daycare costs. The aggravation leading up to it...not so sure.
1/7/09
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
1/6/09 The Statements
This morning after I dropped Gabriel off, Katrina looked sadly after him and said, "I lost Gabriel!"
Tonight she was sitting in her high chair, engaging in the usual inexplicable dinnertime fussing. Then she suddenly shifted into an angry-sad cry. Something offensive about the rice, I guess. I asked her, "What's the matter?" She stopped, scowled at me, and then said with irritation, "I'm CRYING!"
Every potty-training tool at my disposal is met with instant, total, complete, vociferous rejection. No little potties, no ducky ring on the big toilet, no training pants, absolutely not Mom. Total, unabashed, unwavering outrage. So I'm getting creative, like playing with a doll sitting on the toilet, or putting a footstool in front of the toilet with the ducky ring and just leaving it there without saying anything.
One tool not to use is older siblings. Whose bright idea was it to use two little boys to demonstrate peeing? That's a mistake I won't make again. They think this is hilarious, and put on a show, like peeing in a big circle around the edge of the toilet, or they turn their heads suddenly to say, "LOOK KATRINA!" Every motorcyclist knows: you go where you look. Ugh.
Meantime, she was unimpressed by her brothers' urinary antics. And I know she gets the point, that's clear from her adament refusal. Maybe if I tell her she can't....yeah right, she'll fall for that (hey, check out the wings on that pink barn animal flying by!).
This child...she's going to be the end of me. At least the hilarity of her comments match the force of her resistance.
1/6/09
Tonight she was sitting in her high chair, engaging in the usual inexplicable dinnertime fussing. Then she suddenly shifted into an angry-sad cry. Something offensive about the rice, I guess. I asked her, "What's the matter?" She stopped, scowled at me, and then said with irritation, "I'm CRYING!"
Every potty-training tool at my disposal is met with instant, total, complete, vociferous rejection. No little potties, no ducky ring on the big toilet, no training pants, absolutely not Mom. Total, unabashed, unwavering outrage. So I'm getting creative, like playing with a doll sitting on the toilet, or putting a footstool in front of the toilet with the ducky ring and just leaving it there without saying anything.
One tool not to use is older siblings. Whose bright idea was it to use two little boys to demonstrate peeing? That's a mistake I won't make again. They think this is hilarious, and put on a show, like peeing in a big circle around the edge of the toilet, or they turn their heads suddenly to say, "LOOK KATRINA!" Every motorcyclist knows: you go where you look. Ugh.
Meantime, she was unimpressed by her brothers' urinary antics. And I know she gets the point, that's clear from her adament refusal. Maybe if I tell her she can't....yeah right, she'll fall for that (hey, check out the wings on that pink barn animal flying by!).
This child...she's going to be the end of me. At least the hilarity of her comments match the force of her resistance.
1/6/09
Monday, January 05, 2009
1/5/09 The worst part of the day
Ugh...back to the grind.
I thought the worst part of my day would be the dropoff runaround. It wasn't.
Then I thought the worst part of my day would be the pickup runaround. It wasn't.
Then I thought the worst part would be Katrina's still-daily dinner tantrum. It wasn't.
Then it seemed clear the worst part of the day would be the boys fighting before dinner. It wasn't.
No, the worst part was opening Gabriel's homework folder and discovering that he has two -- two -- "family projects" due Friday. One is a "Heritage Doll," in which he's supposed to decorate a paper doll with traditional costume from his family's heritage. (What traditional costume? We don't have heritage! "Be Creative!" the instructions call. Uggghh!!) The next is a "My Family Scrapbook." Dragging my reticent, literal son through these open-ended projects is torture.
I know what the school is trying to do: involve parents in the homework and the kids' lives, and get families talking about their history. But do you have to make me do that on a weeknight when I have lunches to make, clothes to put away, and a grumpy toddler to get to bed?
I had a telling conversation with a co-worker today, about kids playing together. She commented that her girls, ages 8 and 10, play together a lot; and I followed up by saying my boys do too, but they fight a lot. "Oh, my girls fight too, but I just ignore it."
Ignore it, really? How?
"Sometimes the older one just wants to be left alone and she won't talk to the younger one and makes her cry, but she goes to her room and...." No, I stopped her. I said fight. I'm not talking about hurting feelings; I'm talking about hitting, kicking, punching, pulling, tripping, pinching, biting, throwing things on someone's head, scratching faces with toys, grabbing clothes, shoving, rolling on the floor together, destroying things around them, and making a huge extremely annoying racket. That's fighting. "Oh," she conceded, "Boys."
I can think of maybe one or two times anyone's cried around here because of something someone else said. Ignore it? Fighting around here is too loud, too destructive and too irritating. If only.
1/5/09
Addendum: I video'd some sample semi-fighting, it's not great but gives an idea of the fine line between playing and fighting. This is pretty tame, but without me standing there with the camera, lines get crossed quickly. The funny part is Katrina's reprimand: "No throwing, Gabriel!"
And suddenly, they're friends again.
I thought the worst part of my day would be the dropoff runaround. It wasn't.
Then I thought the worst part of my day would be the pickup runaround. It wasn't.
Then I thought the worst part would be Katrina's still-daily dinner tantrum. It wasn't.
Then it seemed clear the worst part of the day would be the boys fighting before dinner. It wasn't.
No, the worst part was opening Gabriel's homework folder and discovering that he has two -- two -- "family projects" due Friday. One is a "Heritage Doll," in which he's supposed to decorate a paper doll with traditional costume from his family's heritage. (What traditional costume? We don't have heritage! "Be Creative!" the instructions call. Uggghh!!) The next is a "My Family Scrapbook." Dragging my reticent, literal son through these open-ended projects is torture.
I know what the school is trying to do: involve parents in the homework and the kids' lives, and get families talking about their history. But do you have to make me do that on a weeknight when I have lunches to make, clothes to put away, and a grumpy toddler to get to bed?
I had a telling conversation with a co-worker today, about kids playing together. She commented that her girls, ages 8 and 10, play together a lot; and I followed up by saying my boys do too, but they fight a lot. "Oh, my girls fight too, but I just ignore it."
Ignore it, really? How?
"Sometimes the older one just wants to be left alone and she won't talk to the younger one and makes her cry, but she goes to her room and...." No, I stopped her. I said fight. I'm not talking about hurting feelings; I'm talking about hitting, kicking, punching, pulling, tripping, pinching, biting, throwing things on someone's head, scratching faces with toys, grabbing clothes, shoving, rolling on the floor together, destroying things around them, and making a huge extremely annoying racket. That's fighting. "Oh," she conceded, "Boys."
I can think of maybe one or two times anyone's cried around here because of something someone else said. Ignore it? Fighting around here is too loud, too destructive and too irritating. If only.
1/5/09
Addendum: I video'd some sample semi-fighting, it's not great but gives an idea of the fine line between playing and fighting. This is pretty tame, but without me standing there with the camera, lines get crossed quickly. The funny part is Katrina's reprimand: "No throwing, Gabriel!"
And suddenly, they're friends again.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
1/4/09 Downtown Ice
The one thing I've wanted to do this entire holiday was to take the boys to Downtown Ice, a seasonal outdoor ice rink in San Jose. Finally today, somehow, I made it happen.
Gabriel's first experience on ice skates was at Downtown Ice, when he was just shy of 4, with me and Aunt Laura to help him. We had no idea how to teach a child, and it had been decades since I'd been on skates. Laura could skate, but it wasn't long before our backs ached.
2005
(I look so innocent...little did I know I would be pregnant in a few weeks, if I wasn't already.)
A lot has changed since then! Both boys have had ice-skating classes, and I had another baby. This excursion motivated skating lessons for myself too, despite said baby. (One thing that hasn't changed: I wore the same vest today as in 2005!)
With the boys being older, I can put their skates on and send them off to the rink while I do my own skates. They're not old enough to tie their own skates, however, and one thing I don't like about skating is the 20 minutes of creative pulling and tying of ice-skates, including my own. Velcro, anyone?
(My boys.....so cute. I'm so proud of them.)
I've never been so warm skating before! Outdoors in downtown San Jose is a whole lot warmer than indoors at most skating rinks. It was a glorious day. Some people were skating in tank tops.
Unfortunately, Julian pooped out within 10 minutes, claiming his legs hurt. He can skate fine, but it seems he just doesn't like to. A shame, because it's so fun for me doing stuff like this with both of them, if they both like it. Dave says Julian isn't much fun at the BMX park anymore either.
Gabriel, on the other hand, is full of enthusiasm, determination, and willingness to try. We worked a little on forward crossovers again, which is about the limit of my skating skill. He's shaky, but he likes to try, and it's a good start!
Then, inspired by cousins, we had hot chocolate when we got home. OK, so it's 65 degrees out. You still have to have hot chocolate after ice skating!
It's really fun doing this once a year as a lark, even though the actual skating isn't that good. The sun creates wet spots, it's small and crowded with mostly first-time skaters. Still, I'll certainly take Gabriel again next year....maybe even Katrina too. That's a really exciting thought!
I wonder how hard it will be to come across an activity that all three will like? Better yet, all five?
1/4/09
Gabriel's first experience on ice skates was at Downtown Ice, when he was just shy of 4, with me and Aunt Laura to help him. We had no idea how to teach a child, and it had been decades since I'd been on skates. Laura could skate, but it wasn't long before our backs ached.
2005
(I look so innocent...little did I know I would be pregnant in a few weeks, if I wasn't already.)
A lot has changed since then! Both boys have had ice-skating classes, and I had another baby. This excursion motivated skating lessons for myself too, despite said baby. (One thing that hasn't changed: I wore the same vest today as in 2005!)
With the boys being older, I can put their skates on and send them off to the rink while I do my own skates. They're not old enough to tie their own skates, however, and one thing I don't like about skating is the 20 minutes of creative pulling and tying of ice-skates, including my own. Velcro, anyone?
(My boys.....so cute. I'm so proud of them.)
I've never been so warm skating before! Outdoors in downtown San Jose is a whole lot warmer than indoors at most skating rinks. It was a glorious day. Some people were skating in tank tops.
Unfortunately, Julian pooped out within 10 minutes, claiming his legs hurt. He can skate fine, but it seems he just doesn't like to. A shame, because it's so fun for me doing stuff like this with both of them, if they both like it. Dave says Julian isn't much fun at the BMX park anymore either.
Gabriel, on the other hand, is full of enthusiasm, determination, and willingness to try. We worked a little on forward crossovers again, which is about the limit of my skating skill. He's shaky, but he likes to try, and it's a good start!
Then, inspired by cousins, we had hot chocolate when we got home. OK, so it's 65 degrees out. You still have to have hot chocolate after ice skating!
It's really fun doing this once a year as a lark, even though the actual skating isn't that good. The sun creates wet spots, it's small and crowded with mostly first-time skaters. Still, I'll certainly take Gabriel again next year....maybe even Katrina too. That's a really exciting thought!
I wonder how hard it will be to come across an activity that all three will like? Better yet, all five?
1/4/09
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