Another season, another post.

Welcome to summer 2014, where the kids are old enough to play in the fenced backyard without constant hovering supervision as long as the pool isn't inflated. It's glorious. I mean, I still have every single chore I had over the winter and spring, and then some (hello dirt and sunscreen residue on every available surface!) but NOW I can tackle those without three sets of feet running past me at warp speed. I can actually walk from one room to the other and return to find it not destroyed. It may be the Twilight Zone around here.

Of course with the summer, which has finally arrived after an exceptionally cold spring, comes the humidity and air you could cut with a knife. And that makes for cranky kids about 1 p.m., so I wasn't surprised when Lily came stomping in the living room where I was folding towels, hair plastered back from her face with sweat, little fists clenched, jaw set.

"I quit!" she announced upon seeing me. I blinked.

"You - quit?"

Angry nod.

"What? Why?"

"Because ANNA drank all the water!" she protested, motioning to one of the six million cups that float around this house in their own orbit. This one was empty. "Now I don't have any!"

Oh, the warped sense of justice you have when you're almost three. (Almost three. How did that happen?)

"Well, don't quit. I'll get you some more." I abandon the towels, pick up the cup and walk into the kitchen, grouchy preschooler hot on my heels, a skeptical look on her face. I filled the cup, put the top back on and handed it to Lily, who took a long drink and grinned up at me, all traces of angst gone.

"Fank you, Mama!" she said joyfully, then handed me the cup and went back outside to join her sisters, the screen door slamming loudly behind her.

Well at least she decided to stay.

On Easter and IQ

Putting my children to bed is a predictable, if extensive, process. There are water cups to provide, extra hugs, the inevitable second trip to the bathroom a mere three minutes after the "last call, oh my WORD just GO" trip, and prayers that "the white elf" doesn't come "hit" one of them in the middle of the night. (And an extra prayer for Mommy who still has no idea what that means and is a little scared herself.) And, like clockwork, Lily and Mary will conk out about 10 minutes after the last goodnight and Anna will sit on her bed for approximately seven hours talking to her toys before collapsing on top of them, not so much having fallen asleep as run out of steam.

So tonight when I heard Mary railing in her bed about the injustices of school, and how she never wants to go back, EVER!, I went in to see my normally enthusiastic kindergartener to ask what the issue was.

"I DON'T EVER WANT TO GO BACK THERE!!!"

"Why? And don't say because "it's boring" or "it's dumb," because first of all it's not true and second of all, that's life and you have to go. So what's the problem?"

"NO ONE IN MY CLASS BELIEVES ME THAT I'M SMARTER THAN ALL OF THEM AND I AMMMMMM!"

I paused. I bit my tongue. I rejected the first three thoughts that popped into my head.

"What happened, Mary?"

"Well, I don't want my sisters to hear, but you know, most of my class believes in the Easter bunny and I know he's not real and-" she started crying. I winced.

"Did you tell your class the Easter bunny wasn't real?"

Sobbing and nodding.

"MARY!" I scolded. "We tell you the truth when you ask because we trust you not to tell the other kids! You know that! You don't spoil the game for other people!"

"I know," she wailed, climbing into my arms. "I'm SORRY!"

"You told your whole class there was no Easter bunny? Go to SLEEP, Anna!" I called into the next room. Anna flopped down on her bed and pretended to snore, one hand inching towards the millions of stuffed toys surrounding her.

"No, I told my two friends and they said I was wrong and I said my daddy TOLD ME-" another cringe from the Mother of the Year - "AND THEN THEY TOLD THE ENTIRE CLASS THAT I DON'T BELIEVE IN ANYTHING EXCEPT HALLOWEEN AND THAT ISN'T TRUE!"

At this point my bewildered husband has put down his work and come to join in the conversation. I can see him holding back a smile, which is doing nothing for my ability to contain my laughter.

"Mary," he said, "We want to tell you the truth about things when you ask but the other kids get to find out the truth from their parents, too - when their parents think that's right. You don't get to do that."

"I know," she said. "I'm really sorry."

"I know you are," I said. "Tomorrow, you can go to school and you don't have to say you changed your mind. But you can tell your friends that people believe all kinds of different things and that's okay - and that the Easter bunny is a fun thing to believe in."

"They don't listen! They say I'm wrong and I'm not and-"

"Oh yeah," I added. "You aren't smarter than everyone in your class. There are people there who probably know more than you do and there are people who know less than you do and that doesn't make anyone bad or good, it's just how it is. And believing in the Easter bunny in kindergarten doesn't make you smart or du-"

"NO!!!" she interrupted, back at full volume. "I WROTE DOWN TWO PLUS ONE IS THREE. THEN I WROTE DOWN THAT ONE PLUS TWO IS THREE AND THEY ALL SAID THAT THE ANSWER WAS WRONG, THAT THEY WEREN'T THE SAME THING!"

At this point I was shaking and had to leave the room. Tim tucked Mary in and no more was said about imaginary holiday mascots or the perils of addition.

I went in the other room and called my mother.

"Is it too early to start drinking?" I began, as soon as she said hello.

"Of course it is, it's only Monday!"

"I was asking if 7:30 was too early..."

"Oh." There is silence from Connecticut. "So how was your evening?"

My evening was two Sam Adams' worth of parenting hurdles, and yours?

This entry not kosher

This is still not the "I have been sweeping up the same Cinderella head for a year" entry (though I have. And recently did again. Her body resides in the doll house awaiting the fates to align and the head and the tube of super glue to materialize at the same time and it never happens). Actually if you read the aside there, that's pretty much the whole entry. Hi, I suck at housekeeping, toy maintenance and keeping track of dangerous substances like super glue. And I'm a nanny!

Ahem. Sidestepping the myriad of issues I just left laying around and moving on to the real entry! Last night Tim and I took advantage of the fact that the older kids were out of the house and set up the Christmas tree and lights, nativity, stockings and various other little holiday knick knacks. Despite having a smallish house with little available surface space, I love Christmas and decorate accordingly. Then I stuck Sprinkles (the Elf on the Shelf) on top of the undecorated tree and eagerly anticipated the girls' arrival home. 

I missed the girls' arrival home. I was at the grocery store. Tim tells me there was much squealing, dancing and clapping, especially when Sprinkles was noticed. 

"I wonder what tricks she'll get up to this year!" Mary exclaimed.

Heh. So does Mommy, kiddo. 

Of course the rest of the day was mayhem as I tried to keep the kids from undecorating the little tabletop white tree. They managed to find a couple of stray ornaments - we were keeping the big box for later - and put them on the tree. And take them off. And try to crawl under the tree. And take the ornaments off. And on. And off.

"Don't touch the tree! Stop! No! Leave the ornaments, don't knock into it, stop trying to pull on the lights..." - insert a kid's name here, because they all took turns. I began to wonder if we could wrap presents that night, convince them Sunday was Christmas and take the whole thing down Monday while they were in school. Finally, by dinnertime, Anna was out and out not listening and messing with the tree. Tim called her over.

"Anna. Anna listen to me. You need to stop touching the tree. Do you want it to fall over and hurt you?"

"Would it hurt Sprinkles if it fell?" Tim sighed.

"She could fall over, yes. You could get hurt. The ornaments could break. You need to stop touching the tree. No one should touch the tree."

"Mama touches the tree."

"Okay, only grownups. We're going to decorate the tree soon but ornaments are for looking. Messing with the tree is a big person's job."

"When I'm bigger...?"

"When you're older you can touch the tree," Tim promised.

"Will ham make me older?" I almost choked. Tim was silent for a moment.

"Will - what, honey?"

"Will ham make you older? If I eat ham will I be older?" Anna fiddled with the hem of the Christmas dress she had insisted on wearing.

"Well, ham is good food and it will make you bigger and stronger..." Tim started, maintaining his composure far better than his wife, who was biting back hysterical laughter.

"Because," Anna kept on importantly, "last year I ate some ham on my pizza and now...well anyway can we have some pizza with ham on it?"

"Sure, Anna," Tim said, giving up.

"Tonight?"

"No, honey, we already had dinner. But sometime between now and Christmas we will eat ham." She brightened.

"But you still can't touch the tree," he finished.

"FINE."

Riddle me this

Just so you are all aware, I have an entry percolating right now that includes the phrase "I have been sweeping up the same Cinderella head for about a year now" but surprisingly, as true as that statement is, constructing a post around that is going to take some thought. And after this morning, I want to write about Mary anyway.

My kids are all approximately two years apart. Mary is only 21 months older than Anna. I love that - they compete for my attention like any other siblings do but there has never been a time when Mary remembers being an only child. As far back as she can remember, Anna has been part of her life and, as much as they fight sometimes, Mary still calls Anna her best friend. (Anna will say the same, unless she's trying to get Mary's goat, in which case she will smirk and announce LILY is her best friend and SHE ONLY HAS ONE, but I digress.)

On the other hand, being the oldest and having two younger sisters right behind her, Mary is in some respects young for her age. She's bright and ridiculously articulate, but, for instance, last Christmas she still wanted a Little People set. She had no idea who "Justin Beaver" (yes, really) was until sometime late in the school year. (For the record, I am totally fine with this, especially now that the young man has decided to become Canada's Most Humiliating Export.) The concepts of One Direction, Bratz and even Barbie were totally foreign to her until she started kindergarten at almost six. Again, this doesn't bother me in the slightest - her infancy and toddlerhood seemed to go by at the speed of light and I know it's not going to slow down any time soon. But it does provide me ample opportunity to be surprised by her. 

I took this shot before a ballet class a couple of weeks ago. It was chilly in the studio and she'd asked to wear my coat. I took a number of silly pictures of her - posing, mugging for the camera, goofing off with her sisters - but I also got this shot and my heart skipped a beat. There is no "baby" in this picture, no chubby preschooler, barely even a kindergartener. Suddenly I could see the young lady my oldest is becoming and it was breathtaking. 

She is six. Sometimes she acts so grown up and other times she acts, well, like she's six, with all the glorious moods and FEELINGS the age implies. It's unpredictable and sometimes frustrating but often, often, leads to little moments you never would have seen coming. This morning, in the car, she piped up. 

"Mommy I made up a joke!"

I have to admit, I cringed a little inside. The "jokes" Mary and Anna usually come up with are of the totally age appropriate but awful "knock knock! who's there? MACARONI!" variety, which wouldn't be so bad except they will repeat them constantly, expecting uproarious laughter every time.

"Oh yeah?" I asked, carefully backing out into the preschool parking lot. Small lot, lots and lots of giant SUVs, a million parents who's schedules are all the most important things in the world - stress! 

She paused. I could see the anticipation bright in her eyes.

"What kind of flowers can blow bubbles?" she asked, barely containing her excitement.

"I don't know, honey, what kind?"

"TULIPS!" she crowed, dissolving into giggles. I joined her. 

"Mary, that's really funny!" I said. "Did you just make that up?"

"Yeah!" she said, and I could hear the pride in her voice. She knew she had gotten it right, that what she had come up with was truly funny. She told the joke again, and I laughed, again. We drove off to Dunkin Donuts to get a caffeine (me) and donut (them) fix before I had to take her to school and she laughed the entire way. 

"Welcome to Dunkin Donuts what can I get for you today?"

"TULIPS!" Mary screamed happily from her booster. 

"Hi I'll have a medium iced caramel swirl -"

"TULIPS!"

"-skim milk no sugar and -"

"TWOOYIPS!" Lily screeched, getting in on the action. 

"- one-"

"Tulips," Mary said happily to herself, grinning. 

"-no, two, old fashioned donuts."

What can I say? It was a celebration.

Just don't grow up too fast, kid. Mommy won't be able to take it.

Planes, trains and Tinkerbell

I don't want to think about how long it's been since I've blogged. It's not that I think anyone is waiting with bated breath to see what shenanigans my kids have got up to (though I think my mother might be, but that's more out of a sense of karmic justice than anything else). Mostly I like writing so I can look back on the days with my kids, but then the day ends and I'm tired and vegging out in front of Netflix with a Sam Adams seems like a much more appealing activity.

But I digress. 

We live close enough to the school that we can walk Mary to kindergarten every day. It's worked out pretty well so far. The kids race to the next stop sign or crosswalk, look out for seasonal decorations, walk on rock walls. I've met more neighbors in the past two months than I think I have in seven years of residency. And hey, free exercise!

This morning was crisp but still above freezing. The light was beautiful and golden. I put kids in hats and coats and we strolled off. Anna was enjoying a day off from preschool because we had a play date planned with a friend she hadn't seen in awhile and you're only four once. (Although, mothers of other four year olds? It's kind of a long age, am I right? I feel very, very tired some days.)

We walked to the end of the block and found our first "regular" - the absolutely terrifying large dog that seems barely contained by a mishmash of fence pieces and possesses a menacing bark. Mary and Anna shied away to the inside of the sidewalk, as far away from the yard across the street as possible. Lily leaned forward in her stroller and shook her hand towards the fence.

"SHH DOGGIE!" she admonished. "BE QUIET! SHHH DOGGIE! Doggie yowed (loud)," she informed me sagely, shrugging her hands and facing forward once more. 

We turned the corner and Anna found a giant puddle left over from yesterday's rain.

"No," I said quickly, seeing the glint in her eye. We already have a pair of sneakers drying out from yesterday's adventure, thanks. The girls raced ahead to the next stop sign, announcing loudly that they had both won. Lily sat in her stroller, content to wake the dead by announcing every vehicle that drove by.

"OH NO BUS! OH NO CAR! PLAAAAAAAAAAANE!"

If the neighbors aren't morning people I apologize. 

Finally we got to the school, where the crossing guard greeted us warmly. No, seriously - she is the nicest person I think I've met in a long time and she's cheerful despite standing in the middle of the street in some pretty lousy weather. 

"Hiiiii!" Lily called from her stroller, waving like the Queen. 

"Good morning cutie," she replied. 

"Mommy how come she's wearing GLOVES today?" Mary asked me, referring to the guard's bright green gloves in the same shade of "see you coming" green as her (uniform?) jacket.

"Because it gets chilly standing outside for a long time," I said.

"Why do they match her coat?"

"Well see how she's waving at the traffic? It's probably so the drivers can see-"

"MAYBE SHE LIKES GREEN A LOT JUST LIKE TINKERBELL, MARY!" Anna shouted, loud enough that several teachers turned around. 

"Oh, okay," Mary said complacently, walking ahead and greeting approximately 3,000 Kindergarten friends as Lily continued her traffic narration and Anna continued waxing poetic about Tinkerbell. The bell rang, the kids filed in, and we left the school yard.

We went home, had a nice play date and a lovely morning and afternoon. When we left to pick up Mary, Anna was wearing her pink coat, a blue cardigan, jeans and floor-length Cinderella costume. For the fourth time this week. Except this time she had also added a magic wand to the getup.

And I'm surprised the crossing guard remembers us.

Let's get a dog and name him Turtle

  A few nights ago I went into the kitchen to start dishing out dinner and found Tim in there, chuckling to himself.

"You're raising Ramona," he said.

"Excuse me?" I asked, because first of all, awesome, and second of all, awesome. (I cannot hyperlink from the app I use to blog at the moment so if you do not know Ramona Quimby, I suggest a quick trip to Wikipedia and then hie thee to a library or Amazon, like, yesterday. You're welcome.)

"I came in and saw Lily sitting on the floor, holding the strawberry container like a bear, taking one bite out of each berry and carefully putting it back." I looked in the little plastic supermarket container and saw the half masticated berries, thanked my lucky stars I had already assembled the salad for which they were purchased and laughed too. Of course one of my kids would do that. Of course it was Lily, because if any of my kids are going to draw on the walls, or find the train whistle I SWEAR I HID ON TOP OF THE FRIDGE, or take one bite out of a hundred pieces of fruit that she doesn't really like, well, it's going to be Lily. I thought Anna was my master of hijinks and odd situations, and then Lily hit toddlerhood and I realized how wrong I was.

That is until the other day. I was in my room folding laundry/cleaning/hiding out and surfing Facebook (two lies and a truth, who wants to play a game?) when I heard Anna start crying down the hall. It wasn't her hurt cry, but it wasn't her "someone took my toys and the balance of my universe is forever shattered" battle wail either. I was making my way for her when she burst into the room, wailing louder and louder.

"Anna what is it?"

"I SWALLOWED SOMETHING AND MARY SAID IT'S GONNA STAY IN MY TUMMY FOREVERRRRR!" 

There are few things that will put a cold grip around my stomach but a sentence like that is one of them. 

"Okay," I said, forcing myself to sound calm and breathe deeply. "What did you swallow?"

"ONE OF THESE!" she wailed, holding out an entire popsicle stick, a remnant from the kids' snack earlier. My eyes went wide.

"You ate a popsicle stick?" I asked incredulously. My lizard brain was informing me "no way did she swallow a whole popsicle stick" but the emotional brain was looking at Anna, who has done and said some pretty weird stuff in her four years on earth. "A WHOLE POPSICLE STICK?"

"YESSSSSSSS!"

"You mean you put it in your mouth and chewed it up-" here comes the pantomime, and I realize I am raising Fudge as well. (Wikipedia. Fictional turtle death mentioned.) "-like this?"

"YEAAAAAH!"

I looked at the clock. 4:30. Pediatrician closed until tomorrow. Nearest walk in a bit of a drive and a nightmare with three kids. This doesn't seem 911 worthy but...

"Poison control," the woman answered, sounding entirely too calm.

"Hi. I'm not sure if you can help me. I mean, you probably can but I don't know if I'm calling the right place but the doctor is closed and this doesn't SEEM like a 911 thing but of course if it is I can call 911, I mean, I don't mind, but okay, my four year old ate a popsicle stick. She says the whole thing. I think she ate a piece of it or something but regardless, MY CHILD ATE WOOD. SPLINTERY WOOD."

"Okay," the woman said. I know they're paid to be calm in all circumstances but this is a woman who will never die of a heart attack. "I can help you with that. What city are you calling from?"

I hate giving my city. I don't know why. I don't mind now because this time, unlike when Mary sucked on a tube of medicated skin cream or ate - okay, I don't remember what but I know I've had to call twice before and yes I AM A GOOD MOTHER DAMMIT - this one is not my fault. 

Long story short, amid Anna's wails and Mary's now loud assertions that Anna only ate a little piece, she just broke it off and ATE IT, Mommy, and ISN'T THAT SILLY?, I am told that as long as my child isn't choking or having trouble using the bathroom she's probably fine, but take her in if she starts acting like she can't breathe or digest things properly. 

I get off the phone and lean against the wall. Anna has stopped crying after multiple reassurances that Mary is not a doctor and the popsicle stick will not be maintaining permanent residency in her abdominal cavity. Lily and Mary have moved on to trying to coax the cat out from under my bed. And I have a mountain of chores left and dinner to make.

"Mama?" Anna asks brightly. "Can I have another popsicle?"

"No, Anna. No more popsicles."

"But I bet it would make that stick I ate just pop right out!"

"You know what kid? Sure. Have a popsicle."

Because Mommy's having a drink.

Friends, Bostonians, Countrymen, lend me your ears

  *

This morning Tim took a personal day to take Anna to a specialist's appointment in Boston and I was a basket case.

To start this off and not cause a lot of worry, I want to stress that Anna is FINE. We weren't ruling out any horrible illnesses or anything. And the procedure/test the nurse had said she was to undergo was not some horrible thing, either, in the grand scheme of the medical world, but for her privacy that's all I'm going to say about the specifics of the matter. 

I knew she wasn't going to like the procedure. It's one I had done as a kid and I remember freaking the hell out over it, and I was older than she was. I remember my mother almost in tears. I am told that when it was over, a nurse comfortingly tried to say "now that wasn't so bad was it?" and I sat up on the gurney, looked at her and tearfully said "HOW could you do that to a LITTLE GIRL?"

She left the room in tears and my parents began thinking about putting me in the performing arts. Hi, Mom!

So I knew Anna would be fine regardless. But I also knew she was going to be frightened, and cry, and it was going to be tough and I was almost in tears as she and Tim embarked on their drive to the train station. (Lest anyone think I am a horrible mother for abandoning my daughter on the brink of medical trauma, she had the choice and picked her daddy for a companion.)

"Bye Anna, be good and Daddy will get you an ice cream after."

"I only gonna cry at the hurting parts," she said solemnly, then smiled, and I almost sobbed.

The test was scheduled for 10:30. At 10 I tried to call to talk to her but couldn't get through. The phone rang before 11.

"How'd it go?" I asked with no preamble whatsoever. I didn't hear screaming in the background, or tearful requests for Mommy or anything. Did they drug her?

"She did great," Tim enthused.

"Really??" I was stunned. Literally stunned. This is the kid who sobbed like I was boiling her when she had to lay on her back for an XRAY and I was standing right there. 

"It wasn't the test they said," he clarified. "This was some other type of ultrasound stuff. She didn't make a peep."

"Let me talk to her."

"Hi Mama!" Anna sounded like she could have been anywhere. She certainly seemed unscathed.

"Anna, you had pictures taken again?"

"Yeah, I did! It tickled! So soft...so soft..." I thought I heard, and then she started mumbling so Tim recovered the phone.

"Did you get all that?" he asked.

"Only that it tickled and then...something else? What happened?"

"Oh. She was patting my arm hair and saying it was soft. She's changed subjects."

Of course she had.

"Well, anyway, it went fine and we're just waiting for the doctor to see us so I'll let you know how it goes!"

An hour or so went by and I hadn't heard anything. I needed to know what train my two would be on, so I called back. This time I heard screaming. Rampant, loud, soul-shattering screaming. Tortured screaming. Wails.

"Tim WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" I asked, possibly slightly hysterically.

A pause.

"Tim! WHAT IS HAPPENING?"

More wails. More tortured screams.

"She won't pee in the cup so we can see the doctor," he said, trying to maintain a level tone of voice.

And there's another one destined for community theater.