Who You Callin' a Turkey, Turkey?

As has become habit, over the years, I will be running on Thanksgiving Day...

...over the last several years, the time after the Twin Cities Marathon but before Thanksgiving has become a different kind of training cycle for me. One in which I train to run faster, in the hopes of finishing our local 5K Turkey Trot faster than I did the year before.

The past couple of years have brought great success...

This year, we will be in Massachusetts, visiting my sister in law, her husband and their two kids. My mother and father in law will also be there. It will be a full and festive house.

So, our local Turkey Trot is squarely *off* the table.

Running a race, however, is not.

This year, I will not be training for speed. In fact, if I'm completely honest, *I* am not training myself at all.

After researching local Thanksgiving Day offerings, I honed in on the Wild Turkey Road Race, in Salem, Massachusetts. It's a reasonable drive from my SIL's house and, I mean, c'mon, it's SALEM!!
 
What could be more fun than running past the statue of Samantha, from Bewitched? ;)

Just a little freezing 

There is a wrinkle though...this is not a 5k, it's a 5 MILER. No big deal for Mr. Man or I, perhaps...not an absolute deal breaker for TBC...but for TGC? Well...this could be a challenge...I really wasn't sure what she would say...in general, she *tolerates* the occasional family run, but she typically doesn't LOVE it. In fact, the weekend of the TCM, there is a 5K. The last two years, we have signed the kids up to do it. When we reminded her of this fact, in the weeks leading up to the race, she looked us squarely in the face and said "I don't remember agreeing to this."

Tongues out for a good race!

About a week before the race, I asked her if she would like to wear a sparkly skirt and dress, more or less in a costume for the run. She liked that idea, and we pulled together an Iron Man  inspired outfit for her...and she was deliciously adorable.

The morning of the race dawned, cold and bright. We got the kids dressed and ready and headed down to the start.We had them bundled up in toasty outer layers, to keep them reasonably warm.

When the time came to drop them off in their corrals, we took those outer layers, so that they could snuggle up in them, post-race and then went and staked out a good vantage point from which to snap eleventy million pictures of the start...which we did.

Smile big!

Once they were out of sight, we meandered over to the finish shoot, and watched the first of the elites start to trickle in.

And we prepared to wait.

TBC had a pretty aggressive time goal set for himself.

Home stretch

Last year, he ran this race in a respectable 24:27.

This year, he was hoping to break 22:00.

While he missed that goal, he did crush his last PR for this distance and run it in 23:35.

We were pretty darned proud of the boy.

After that, we settled in to wait for TGC and the PIC's kids. (for a refresher in who the PIC - Partner In Crime -  is, visit here)

Post-race, last year

Now, last year, TGC had crossed the finish line at 40:30.

The PIC's youngest finished at her side and his eldest crossed at 36:07.

So, we prepared to wait.

We cheered on the runners.

We chatted with the other spectators.

We stalked TGC via "Find My Phone".

...When we looked, we were a little surprised at TGC's location...somehow, we thought she would have been much further up the course by the time that we checked.

We reminded ourselves that she had't really wanted  to do this race, let alone trained for it. She would probably come in pretty close to her time from last year. Regardless, we would be proud of her.

You GO girl!

So, here's the thing: it's an out and back course...it's not that she was still on her way  there, she was tearing it up, on her way back.

Our jaws dropped as we realized that we could see the glint of her skirt in the distance...she finished in 31:16.

She dropped nearly 10 minutes from her time the year before.

Better than that though, was the smile on her face. She was grinning, from ear to ear, as she ran down that shoot. In her face, I saw the joy that I feel when I run, shining back at me. She was elated. She had had fun!!

I mean, c'mon!!! Look at that smile!

When we talked about it, she revealed that, all along the course, spectators had complimented her on her outfit...and she loved every second of it. She looked me square in the eye and said, "If I can dress up for it, I'll run all of the races."

My babies!!!

I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven.

Which brings us back to Thanksgiving, and the Wild Turkey run...

So, I timidly brought up the notion of doing a 5 mile race.

TBC said "Sure! Let's do it!" to the surprise of precisely no one.

Mr. Man shrugged and said "I go where you tell me to."

TGC said "Can we dress as witches?"

I bit my tongue as hard as I could, to stop the gleeful "OF COURSE WE CAN!!! HOW COULD WE NOT?!??! IT'S SALEM FOR PETE'S SAKE!!!" from escaping and put on my "responsible mom voice."

"Now, it is 5 miles...you haven't run that far before, without walking. If you want to run this, you're going to have to train for it, you know?"

She turned those green-gold eyes up at me and said "Will you help me train, mama?"

...and so it is, that I find myself waking my mini-me, at 5AM on a school day, 3-4 times a week, to strap on a headlamp, and join me on the roads.

This kid. She's kind of a bad ass.

The Girl Child on Doggy Birds and Bees

Upon hearing that Grandma & Grandpa's miniature dachshunds are expecting puppies :

"So what? Did they fall in love and get married or something?"

Yeah, I'd say that falls deeply within the "or something" category...

The Family I Never Really Had

I have a secret to confess...my life? It has been the stuff of a made for TV movie.
An afterschool special if you will. So many cautionary tales, all rolled up into one.

Want divorced family? We've got that here.
Want blended family, struggling to succeed? We've got that too.
Want said blended family crumbling to pieces? Check!
Want long lost family reappearing and reuniting? Double check!
Want vile actions driving people apart? Score!
Want alcoholism, drugs, abuse, suicide attempts? Tune in.

Basically any cliche you could dream up, you can find here.

There are people that I am related to that I do not talk to. These people have never met my husband, have never seen my children, have not spoken to me or me to them, for over a decade. And before that, they had only seen or talked to me for a handful of years, following a nearly 2 decade absence.

I was raised by my mother. For better or worse, she has been my family, my WHOLE family, for my whole life. The only child of an only child, with no living grandparents, it was just the two of us.

At times, I have had a stepfather and step siblings. I desperately wanted them to be real. I wanted to be a big, happy family. And she wanted that for me. She endured years more of a bad situation than she had any reason to, in a brave attempt to give me a family. There players were all there: mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle and cousins. Except that they weren't. They were the family that I never really had, but sort of did.

I picked up a stepsister, who is as close to a real sister as I will ever truly understand having.

But when you dig down really deep and push comes to shove, it has really always been mom and I.

My father sent child support through some convoluted state managed process, which meant that there was never an address or contact information attached to either end of the monetary transaction.

We moved alot.
We were not the easiest people to keep track of.

At the end of high school, with the cost of college and more immediately, the cost of college applications looming on the horizon, I got back in touch. It had been more than 15 years since he had seen me. I had no memory of him.

We had a whirlwind courtship and moved in together.
I had a family?

The next 7 years were a hellstorm of ups and downs, as we struggled to forge some sort of relationship. Years of expectations and wild imaginings about the true nature of the other crashed headlong into the reality that was one and other, and it wasn't always pretty. After several attempts at being who I thought he would love, and trying to fit myself into that shape, I realized that it was me or him. And hard as it was, I chose me.

I chose to cut myself off from the only person in the world that I looked like.
I cut myself off from the object of my fascination and longing for most of my childhood.
I rode off into the sunset, while I still had one or two unblemished, genuinely fond memories intact. I hoped that on some level, I would be missed.
I made myself nothing more than a blip in the story of his life. And the life of my stepmother, stepsister and the rest of the family that I never really had.

The intervening decade has been an incredible ride. I got married, had children and embarked upon the wild journey of raising my own family. Mother, father, sister, brother, and yet...

My husband has a family. Always has had one. Whether he wanted them or not, his parents and siblings were always there, in the periphery. He has cousins. Lots of them. Plenty of spares that he chooses to have space from.

He also has a son that is not mine.

When we met, my husband was a mess. Emotionally fragile and permanently fractured from the failure of his first marriage and subsequent loss of his son from his day to day life, he was completely immobilzed by his loss and depression.

I set off to try and make it right.
I provided the solution to all of his fatalism, forcing him to find positive outcomes and ways to get at least a little of what he wanted.

Through time and a mammoth effort and sacrifices on my part, I was breifly able to turn 7 people that had very little chance of ever interacting civilly into the most unusual of family units. It was complicated. It was exhausting. It was the juggling and balancing act of all balancing acts, but it seemed to be working. Mother, father, sister, brother, brother, other mother, other father. It was the family I never really had.

A few strong gusts of emotional wind, and the delicate house of cards that I had worked so hard to build, for my children, his child, myself was scattered on the wind.

But something was different. Mother, father, sister, brother. We were still a family. A damaged family. A family reeling from the loss of losing a part of itself, but a family nonetheless.

Time and technology has given us ways to keep tabs on the people that we have lost over the course of our lives, and I have used it liberally, as a virtual bush to cloak myself in, while I search for clues of what is really going on in their lives. A glimpse here, a long hard stare there, and I am able to comfort myself that at least they appear healthy.

I can see my father, looking much the same. I can read his blog and gain his persepctive of the world. I see alot about him. I see him fondly referring to his daughter, an unrestrained measure of pride in his voice. He speaks of my stepsister, with whom he has had more than twice as many years with than we ever shared. The one thing I never see, is an absence of me. But he seems happy, and that matters to me. I am happy for him, and the family that I never really had.

I can see my stepsister, aunt and cousins. Bolder now, I have reached out, and been granted permission to watch the parts of their life that they choose to share with the internet unfold. As people that I am blood related to, I sometimes yearn to be a part of their lives. To be missed. However I never expect it. I have no idea how my absence was explained to them, and I am not sure that I want to ever see the picture that was painted for them. They seem happy though, and that matters to me. I am happy for them, the family that I never really had.

I can see my stepson. Tiny glimpse. Just a blip. I can see the other mother and other father, a glance here, a glance there. I know that they are alive. I know that they are together. I can only assume that things are good for them. And I am happy for them. The family that I never had.

I often wonder what I would do if, from my long distance perch I saw something terrible happen. Would I, could I find a way to make it better?

I might just get that chance.

Teachable Moments

As a parent, I sometimes see our day to day lives as little more than a string of teachable moments, held together with moments when we can attempt to live out those lessons. At times, I try to seek out as many teachable moments in our days as I possibly can. Sometimes though, it is the moments that you don't even see coming that are the best.

Our church is very involved in community outreach programs. One such program is a produce outreach, where low income and needy folks in our community can get fresh perishable food goods on a monthly basis, in the parking lot of our church. This happened to be the day that those goods were distributed.

Today is also the day that my daughter's Daisy troop meets at the church. I happened to have both kiddos with me when we arrived to a very full church parking lot. My children surveyed the scene and marveled at the sheer number of cars. Seeing a small girl with her parents, my daughter asked if this was another new Daisy, come to join our ranks. I explained quickly that no, these were people coming for the fresh food outreach.

My son, playing the older and wiser sibling role immediately attempted to translate for her and explained "Yeah, those people are collecting food for the needy..."

I gently corrected, "No honey, actually those people *are* the needy."

To which he looked up at me with wonder and surprise in his soft brown eyes and said simply, "But mom, they look just like us."

There is no better lesson that I could have hoped to teach my children today than that: there is nothing that separates us from those that are less fortunate but luck and circumstance. There is no "us" and "them". No superiority. No distance.

I only hope that message can stick with them as long as it will stick with me.

Nothing Doing

Not too much to report around this neck of the woods right now, which is primarily because we are all so busy that I don't think there is even a single, solitary spare second to to or say anything even remotely amusing or "blog-worthy". Between the hubbers stepping up to take on the role of Cub Master (and all of the additional work that entails for ME, ya know, the one that *didn't* volunteer for the position), my Daisy troop having their investiture ceremony, and normal kid's activity/PTO/Church stuff we are go-go-go all the time around here.

The Daisy troop has been an interesting experience thus far. Mainly because of the other leader. I have learned that I am not a terribly good follower. I know that I am capable of taking direction, and I am capable of giving direction. What I am not so good at is having NO direction. I am supposed to be the Assistant leader of this little venture. Unfortunately, the leader has no leadership experience. And is shy. And a bit disorganized. And not a good communicator. So I am staging a coup. Because this is too important to my little girl, and my friends' little girls. And it was making my teeth itch.

Don't get me wrong, I have tried to guide her and mentor her and offer her assistance and leadership advice. She doesn't ever take me up on any of it. When I was just letting it go, it meant extremely unstructured meetings that were nothing more than a weekly playdate for the girls, where they would color and play. Which is nice and all, but I have no desire to pay for. Nor do any of the other mothers.

I had set out *not* to be the leader because I wanted to have one thing that I was *not* in charge of. Now that is the case, and it is not working out for me. So I have grabbed a hold of the horns and taken off with it.

On the one hand I feel badly about running right over this other young woman. On the other, my kids come first for me, and I want all of our girls to have a good, solid program that they can learn and grow from. I want them to make memories, and learn to be strong, fair, independent women. So...she'll just have to either grab on and come along for the ride, or deal with the skid marks.

Start your engines....

Overheard at Dinner

From the six year old girl child:

"I have a plan, and eeeeviiiiillll plan."

Greeeeaaaattttt....I can hardly wait for the teenage years.

Dude, I am Totally Stroking Out

So, less than 12 hours from now, I will be putting my two littlies on the bus together for the first time for school. I am a wreck. Which is quite amusing, considering that both of them have been to school before. Of course, they were going to *different* schools, and I didn't have to put them *both* on the same bus...but still. I can't quote put my finger on it, but I feel like I am going to LOSE IT.

The boy has recently been striken with a rash of violent behavior toward his sister. 3 times this summer, I have had to speak to him about punching her...which is *so* not like him. I keep trying to delve into his 7.5 year old psyche, to figure out what is troubling him, with no luck. I *think* that he is just not real happy about her starting to go to HIS school. Last year he had his school, she had hers, and never the twain should meet. This year it will be different for him (and her). The thing is, she is delighted. She tends to pretty well think that her brother hung the moon, so she derives no small amount of delight from the fact that she will be able to see him in the hallways. Add to that the fact that she has his teacher from last year, and she seems to pretty well think that she won the lottery. He on the otherhand appears to be rather distraught about having her invade his realm.

Trying to look at it objectively, I suppose I can understand where he is coming from. The boy has a very sweet, very submissive personality. He would rather not be the center of attention, unless it is to make people - and very few people at that - laugh. He is fine with being praised and lauded for his athletic prowess, but he really never seeks out the limelight. *She* of course spends her life dashing from spotlight to spotlight. A born performer, this child LOVES to have all eyes - and ears - on her. She is a pretty little thing (if I do say so myself), and knows how to work a room. Anytime that the two of them have a shared territory, the boy sort of lives in her shadow. He spends countless hours being embarrassed by her attention getting antics. ANd he is constantly having people coo all over his little sister and then make comments to him about how cute/sweet/smart/talented/whatever his sister is. That has *got* to get old for him.

My maternal instinct wants to shield him from this. But how can I protect him from the horror that is his adorable, outgoing sister without squelching her personality? As far as I can see it, I can't. All that I guess I can really do is hug and love him, and give him whatever spotlight he wants here, at home.

Here's to the back to school bruhaha. I hope that this year brings academic success to all of the students, teachers and administrators, and some well deserved pece and quiet to the parents. May their bus rides be safe, they lunchrooms be clean, and their homework be turned in on time. Have a good school year! We'll talk again soon.

Because It Wasn't Enough to Dress Her Like a Showgirl...

Back to school shopping season is in full swing once again and I am now fretting and genuinely missing the school uniform experience from last year. You don't realize how relieving it is to not have to make wardrobe decisions for a 5/6 year old girl until you are confronted with the meager offerings that are out there. And by meager, I don't mean a lack of selection. I mean a lack of substance.

Apparently dressing your grammar school girl like a hooker is all the rage. And I didn't get the memo. And it really makes me angry. Not the part about not getting the memo, the part about the tiny hookers. Seems like, unless I am willing to take out the necessary 2nd mortgage required to afford a Gymboree wardrobe I am supposed to dress my daughter for a day at the brothel. To go to school. Sequins, snotty sayings, super tight jeans, super short skirts, rips, slashes and see through places in spots that aren't even worth looking at on a 5 (almost 6) year old yet. Apparently I am either hopelessly UNhip or there is some big practical joke that I am the butt of.

I blame the Disney channel. Which you have to believe, pains me to no end. I love me some Disney. Love.IT. However...as the home of Hannah Montana they have to shoulder some of the blame here. Hannah Montana dresses like a rock star. Which makes sense, being a singing sensation and all. She is flashy. And a little skimpy. But hey, she is a tween/teenager, so that is OK. Unfortch, it seems that the old marketing geniuses at Disney decided that the tween crowd wasn't enough, so they market her show/clothes/cult following to kids as small as a size 4. Now. Don't get me wrong...I think Miley Cyrus is a lovely role model for tweenagers. She is appropriately angsty and innocent...boy crazy and mild. She has completely age appropriate trials and tribulations, and I could hope for nothing more than for my daughter to take after her...when she herself is a tween. But she is not. She is 5 (almost 6). She has NO BUSINESS watching that show. And so she doesn't get to. I know however, in a few short weeks, she will skip off to public elementary school where Miley Cyrus is all the rage. And I know enough to realize that I can't prevent her from learning about and hearing about Hannah Montana from her friends. Her friends who will all be sporting flashy/trashy Hannah Montana hooker gear...

I suppose the upshot is, that if I did dress her like a hooker she could bring in the cash to fund a Gymboree wardrobe? Not that I would pimp out my kid. But seriously.

Vindicated!

For those of you following the epic battle of the girl-child's education, mark one in my column!

Today, while at the boy's school, we were in the copy room, making booklets for the class. These booklets are actually small books, called "Decodable Readers", that all of the first graders get every couple of days, to read in class. We discovered, a couple of weeks ago, that Sabrina is more than capable of reading these.

Today, we were reading the spellbinding "Wake up Nate!". Or rather, Sabrina was. Loudly. Well, who should walk in at that very moment but the principle of the school "Dr. FancyPants". This would be the same educator that assured me that making her wait would be better because that way she would be at the top of her class. And that I would be glad that we did when we get an extra year of having her at home before she leaves for college. And that he did it for his daughter, so it should be good enough for her too.

Well, he walked in and heard her reading, and commented, "Wow, that is some mighty good reading you are dong - how old are you?"

Sabrina: "I'm 5. And I go to kindergarten at home, with Mama."

DFP: "Oh, umm, I see..." looking at me, as it registers that I obviously have one child *in* school so there must be a reason that I am homeschooling this one "Wh-wh-what is your plan?"

Me: (heh, heh, heh...I have been WAITING for this very moment for MONTHS) "Well, you and I have exchanged NUMEROUS e-mails about this. She missed the cutoff by a couple of days...and her pre-school didn't want her to come back, because she is so beyond their curriculum. So I bought as much of the same curriculum as you used with my son, last year in Kindergarten and am using it with her, at home. We would like to have her in First Grade next year."

DFP: "Hmm, I ah, well, I think we will have to check with the Assistant Superintendent to see...I don't know if we ever thought about homeschool as being an acceptable, accredited school to substitute for Kindergarten...when is her birthday?"

Me: "September 12."

DFP: "Oh, well, my daughter was September 4th, and she was reading like well, maybe like this..."

Me:"Those are first grade books she is reading."

DFP:"Oh...well...umm...keep me posted on this..."

At which point he beat a hasty retreat back into his office. The look on his face said it ALL. He clearly knows she should be in Kindergarten now that he has met her, and seen her in action...if he had ever bothered to meet her when I first contacted him and asked him to, then we wouldn't be where we are today...but he didn't...and now he is going to have to explain to the school board why a homeschooler is challenging to be let into 1st grade on his watch.

The moral of the story?

Don't fuck with the mommy. She plays to win.

What's the Big Hairy Deal?

As I think I have mentioned, or at the very least alluded to, we have 3 rather large dogs. All of whom are at least 50% husky. All of whom are keenly intent on shedding as much of their hair onto my floors, clothes and furniture as is canine-ly possible. Anyone who has ever had or read about a husky knows that 2 times a year they lose the soft downy undercoat in an extravaganza that has been affectionately dubbed a "Blow-Out". Unlike the usual, year round shedfest, the blowout involves massive patches of hair just falling off like some cartoon version of hair leprosy.

Seriously, cautionary tales of what a mangy mutt might look like have NOTHING on what a Husky mid-blowout looks like.

During this festival of fur dropping my vacuum never gets put away. Instead it is called to duty 3-4 times a day.

Happily we are passed the summer blowout session and I have been able to trim back my vacuuming to once a day.

Until yesterday.

I had read about some magical tool, called a FURminator on Dooce.com a couple of weeks ago. Dooce went on to extoll it's virtues after using it on her trusty pooch, Chuck. Although I was impressed with her enthusiasm I was lukewarm about the product since Chuck is a short haired, sleek looking pup, rather than a great fuzzy beast like our pack.

Yesterday I was over at a friend's mother's house for a girly activity and was admiring how hair-free her floors were, despite the fact that she has a rather long haired golden retriever. Well, out she pops with the FURminator and explains that this marvelous tool was the key to her hair free floors.

I "Oooo'ed". I "Ahhh'ed". I inquired where I could obtain such a magical instrument. And then I found out the cost. $60 for a doggy brush. For reals. I was crushed. There was NO WAY that my husband would EVER green light such an extravagant expense for grooming...not when he already spent $500+ on my Dyson Animal so that I would have the suction needed to clean the hair up in the first place.

So, while I sat there, considering which organ I could best do without in order to sell it on the black market and gain the proceeds needed to purchase this magical item, she popped out with another one, which she had been planning to give to my friend. My friend, being wise enough to recognize the look of desire in my eyes generously invited me to take it home and give it a test drive...all I can say is WOW.

Seriously folks, this thing ROCKS. The dogs aren't real impressed, but DAMN the hair it gets out. And for the first time, EVER, I can pet the dogs without being covered in their hair. Of course I have been running the vacuum cleaner about every 5 minutes to collect the gigantic piles of hair that I have been brushing off our dogs, but I feel very confident that I will be able to step back my usual efforts to once every other day or so once I have finished torturing them. And then I suppose I will have to give it to my friend. Because I would very much like her to remain my friend. And she too deserves a hairfree house.

I'm Still Not Convinced

So I have made exactly ZERO headway on my campaign to get Sabrina into Kindergarten in the fall. It is roadblock after roadblock, deaf ear after deaf ear. There are NO exceptions. After months of trying to find someone who would listen I finally started to think that maybe another year at home wouldn't be so bad for her...maybe she could use some more time to get ready...

Then the other day, at Giant, she started reading the signs in the deli case. She asked me what the big Boar's Head sign said, and after I had read it to her, she went through, picked out all of the words that she new and started sounding out the others. The deli counter worker looked over as she was sounding out "ff"-"iiii" - "lll" - "lll" - "eeehhh" - "rrrrr" - "sssss". "FILLERS!!!! Mama, it says fillers!" The deli worker said "Wow, did you stay home from school today?" Sabrina said "No, I go to preschool." The deli worker looked at me and said "Wow." Sigh...

At the library today I was chatting with one of the other moms - all hail the mighty bangs, bringer of female companionship and conversation - about Sabrina and her readiness for Kindergarten. This mom's boy, who we shall call Eldon for the sake of anonymity, is going to be headed off to Kindergarten in the fall. He's ready she says, though he is still a bit shy. Ummm, the child has spent every one of the last 12 weeks of story time HIDING behind her legs. The poor thing is going to stroke out when he has to get on the bus and go to school with no legs to hide behind. When I told her that Sabrina misses the cut off she just gawked and said "Well what are you going to do with her next year?" I lamely said "Ummm...well...I guess send her to preschool again."

There has got to be a better answer than that. I really need to find a decent homeschool curriculum. Something. I can't just let her stagnate for a year. But then if I do push her some more, what happens in fall of 2009 when she *is* allowed to go to Kindergarten? Will she be bored to tears? Or do I have her tested for 1st grade and have her miss out on the whole Kindergarten experience? Argh, argh, argh.

Anyone have a magic eightball with the answers that they would like to share?

Did You Know That They Make Showgirl's in Pint Size?

So, last week was National Dance Week. Did you know? Were you all a twitter with excitement? Did you even know that such a week existed? Yeah, me neither...

In honor of the highly anticipated, week long homage to the art of visual music, our tiny dancer took to the stage of our local mall and wowed the crowd with her relative lack of rhythm, coordination and timing. She comes by this naturally. As a small child, taking ballet, I was awful. So awful that my mother has often recounted to me the tale of watching my recital and having the parent next to her point me out and say "Well, at least my kid is better than that one." To which she of course had no choice but to say something to the effect of "Yes, at least you can hold on to that...course when she's not dancing, my kid is waaay cuter than yours."..Ok, she probably didn't say that, but I am sure she wanted to...as soon as she got done hiding under a rock and exercising her right to the plausible deniability that her blond hair and blue eyes lent her in regards to her green eyed, raven haired progeny. Honestly though, what she lacked in coordination she more than made up for in enthusiasm. And cuteness. Seriously, doesn't this level of cuteness just sort of give you a tooth ache?

As for the showgirl costume, we parents were given no say so in these sassy little, one shouldered numbers...all we were given was the bill. Had I know that my $69 wasn't even buying me two shoulders, I probably would have insisted on a discount. Of course, they did throw in the feathers for free. And after the recital is over we can send her off to Vegas to recoup the cost. I hear the market for pint sized chorus line rejects is hot.

If You Don't Believe, You Don't Receive

I cannot believe how quickly my kids are growing up...I look at them, and I can still see my sweet, soft babies...but then, they open their mouths and I am astonished at what they already realize. And a little bit afraid.

I love holidays. I love the decorating, the cooking, the celebrating...and I especially love the tender and fun traditions and stories that we use to introduce our kids to the concept of the holidays...and then you know, hook them for life. I firmly believe that, but getting them interested and excited about the more secular aspects of the holidays they will be more apt to listen and absorb the true "reason for the season". Being something of a perfectionist and a control freak (hey, I am embracing it this week), I have anxiously and doggedly pursued a careful consistency in our stories and traditions from year to year.

Seriously, I have sat my husband down and demanded that we have a serious conversation about how Christmas and Easter and such would go down in our home:

Me: "Honey, we really need to talk...we need to figure out how exactly we are going to broach the subject of Santa."

He: "We do?"

Snarky look shot here.

He: "Right. We do."

I have cited the importance of making sure that we decide what our family traditions are before the kids are able to remember things being done differently or not at all. I have whined about needing to make sure that we do it exactly-the-same-way each year to throw the kids off the scent...you know, coordinate our alibis...

All this, in the pursuit of extending their innocence about it for as long as possible...hey, I don't want to be the only one excited about the prospect of Santa and the Easter Bunny...that, and I would hate to lose the "Santa is watching..." threat from my discipline arsenal. As far as my kids are concerned, every store that has a video surveillance camera in it is actually taping their behavior and broadcasting it *straight to the Easter Bunny and Santa* - ALL YEAR LONG. (feel free to use that one yourself) I hoped that, by being rigorous in our commitment to the story we would be able to milk a good 7, 8, 30 years out of it.

But then I guess I was thinking we had someone else's kids. You know, kids that aren't having all-nighters in their rooms the minute we go downstairs....

This Easter season has been peppered with portents that the end is near.

4 Days before Easter, in Walmart:

Sebastian: "Mom, is the Easter Bunny real? Or is it just some guy in a bunny suit?"

Me: "Where did you hear such a thing?"

Sebastian: "Nowhere, but..."

Me: "Look honey, soccer balls!" Redirect-redirect-redirect....

3 Days before Easter, in Giant.

Sabrina: "Will we look for eggs outside?"

Me: "Hmmm, probably not honey, it's going to be cold...but don't worry, the Easter Bunny can hide the eggs inside like last year."

Sabrina: "The Easter Bunny didn't hide our eggs...Aunt Robyn did. While we were at church."

Me: "Look honey, milk!" Redirect-redirect-redirect....

Sabrina: (She is my stubborn one...) "Well, I guess maybe the bunny could have come after we left and before she got there...but...I don't know. Maybe she saw him? I should ask her. Can we call Aunt Robyn????"

Me: "Maybe when we get home..."

2 Days before Easter, while in line for Easter Bunny Pictures.

Sebastian: "Mom, is that a real bunny or a guy in a bunny suit?"

47 pairs of children's eyes fix on me, breathlessly awaiting my next words. 90 pairs of grown-up eyes glare at me warningly. Shit.

Me: "That's the Easter Bunny honey."

Sabrina: (cause she has to get in on this action too) "Yeah, but is the Easter bunny a rabbit or a guy in a bunny suit...his hands look like people hands, in bunny gloves."

Sebastian: "Yeah, and his eyes don't blink."

Me: "Well, umm, the Easter Bunny is magic...look kids, it's our turn."

Frankly, I am exhausted by these exchanges...and I was sort of blue, imagining what the incredulous reaction might be on Easter morning, when they went down and saw the eggs hidden. I was afraid that I was going to get called out on my lame hiding tactics. Thankfully the soft, sweet, baby parts of them prevailed and the excitement of finding eggs hidden overrode, even if only temporarily, whatever seeds of doubt they have planted about who is really doing the hiding.

Somehow I don't think we will make it to 7.

It Looks So Good I Could Eat It...But None For YOU

So I got the most wonderful surprise today...an edible arrangement from my best friend. It really is awesome.
See? Notice the 90lb puppy in the background, pondering whether she can get to it before I can thump her?

There is something poetic about her sending me a fruit basket...what with me being the fruity basketcase that I am and all...

So I must wonder, is it wrong of me to have told Sabrina that the "big brown things" were just decoration when in reality I know that they are chocolate covered strawberries and they are mineminemine?

Rebel with A Cause

I've never been a rule breaker. Well not much of one anyway. I get that rules are there for a reason, really I do. I appreciate that, no matter how ill conceived or inconvenient a rule may be, it serves, or at some point in it's history served, some purpose. I am trying to raise my children to appreciate and abide by the rules and so, I am teaching by example.

Until now.

I have come up against a rule that I just can't sit idly by and obey. Ironically enough it is a rule about one of my children.

Our son is 6 and in Kindergarten. He is brilliant. Intellectually, he could be in first grade. In fact, he is already spending part of his day doing first grade work. He is reading and doing math and we are unbearably proud parents. Socially he is exactly where he needs to be.

Our daughter is 4 and just months away from finishing the pre-K4 program at her preschool. She will be 5 in September. She is bright and social and looking forward to starting kindergarten. Every other child in her preschool class will be enrolled in Kindergarten in the fall. She is at the top of her class, yet the rules state that she needs to wait a year longer than her peers before she can start because she misses the age cutoff by 11 days. Less than 2 weeks.

On the one hand, I understand that a line has to be drawn somewhere, and September 1 is that line. As I said before, I am a rule follower so in principle I *get* the black and white of it and on some level admire it's simplicity. I understand that if you start making exceptions it is a slippery slope before that line becomes so muddied that every parent is appealing it. I also don't want my children to ever have the notion in their heads that the rules don't apply to them.

However...

On the other hand I know my children. I know that they are not cookie cutter and that blanket policies don't always work with real world situations.

My son missed the cut off by MONTHS, so we never bothered with it. Sure, when he started kindergarten he already knew and could write his letters and numbers, could read small words, could count to 100 forwards and backwards, could do single digit addition and subtraction and was working on multiplication. He already had the curriculum basically licked. (Did I mention that we are unbearably proud???) Socially though he was very tender, and we felt comfortable that the extra time would serve him well. So, when the time came for Kindergarten, we just sort of crossed our fingers and prayed that it would all work out, and that he wouldn't be bored.

Thankfully, it did. My son is the kind of kid that, if you give him a task to work on, he will dive into it and work independently quite happily. He self manages beautifully. This has been put to the test and proven in Kindergarten, as he is given special "extra work" to do while the rest of his class continues to work on items that he has already completed. No disruptions from him, and he isn't bored.

My little girl is a whole other story. She too knows her letters and numbers. She too can write them and she can do some very basic math. She is not nearly as academically advanced, though still more than capable of handling the work that we see coming home with our son. Socially she is beyond ready. Her attention span is unnerving and she is beyond precocious. The thing is, she loves people. She wants to be engaged. She wants to be involved with everyone. If she is not, she is very skilled at getting everyone involved with her. She *will* get your attention. Her school did Kindergarten readiness assessments and there were 3 skills that she had not mastered: skipping (hey, she comes by this natural...what she lacks in grace, she more than makes up for in clumsiness, just like her mama), buttoning buttons (seriously? Find me kids' clothes that have buttons on the front of them and I will have her practice) and zipping her coat. When I heard that last one, I had to laugh. She *can* zip up. She just refuses to. Think about it...when you have to zip up a child's coat they have 100% of your undivided attention. You stoop down to their eye level, and carefully make sure that you aren't catching any hair or skin. While she has you there, she will strike up a conversation with you to ensure that she keeps your attention. That is our little diva in training. So no, make no mistake, she will get your attention. ..Our great fear is that, if we make her wait another year she will be a disruption both in preschool next year because she will be bored and, if we try to use the same "special work" concept with her as is being used with our son in Kindergarten, the year after as well, because she wants to be working with the group.

I have reached out to the school district to see what can be done...I explained to them that I was aware of the policy and was curious if there was any provision for children that were so close. Their answer was to sent me a copy of the policy, which I clearly was already familiar with (otherwise how would I have known to question it) and to tell me that by making her wait another year she would have the opportunity to be at the head of her class. Because clearly that is what is important. Making sure that your kid is the valedictorian rather than the child that loves school.

I. could. just. scream.

So now what?

Spring is in the Air...and so is the smell of Cabbage

So here we are, just a few days away from the official first day of spring, and apparently someone sent a memo to our dogs about it. Because they are going berserk today. I mean like bats in the belfry, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, taste the rainbow CRAZY...

Earlier today, as we were eating lunch, I let the puppy and her mother out and then back in. At which point they started chasing each other's tails. Which sounds cute and harmless enough. Until you consider that, between the two of them, they have more body mass than my son's entire soccer team. And apparently more energy.

We headed upstairs to read a book and lay down for nap and the two of them decided to channel their inner Martha Stewart and redecorate. And then, when they had finished, they came barreling up stairs, bounced off of her door until it opened and hopped up on her bed with us...which resulted in shrieking...and yelling...and sobbing. And Sabrina looked at me all, "Will you please stop blubbering and *DO SOMETHING* about this?!?!?". And I was all "Isn't it your turn??"And she was all "Hello, I'm 4?!?!?!?"

So I went downstairs to see what the big deal was...

ALL of the couch and love seat cushions were on the floor.
The dining room rug was moved from the center of the room over to the windows...along with the table and 6 chairs that normally hold it nice and securely to the floor.
The kitchen rug was flipped over and put back , perfectly in place, rubber backing up.
The bedding from each of their crates was strewn out like some sort of hairy, fleece canal through the hallway.
Their rawhide bones were scattered like some sort of grisly crime scene.

Never underestimate the amount of damage that 180 lbs of dog can do in the span of one Angelina Ballerina story.

Kid's Say the Darnedest Things...

At dinner last night...(the night before, hubby had been in a particularly foul mood and mommy advised them to give him a wide berth...)

Sabrina: "Daddy, are you still having a bad attitude??"

Some moments will live in eternity. The look on his face and the stillness of the room at that exact second was one of them.

All in all it has been a tame couple of days. Sabrina woke me at 5 something o'clock yesterday morning by moaning loudly in the hallway. ..That's my girl, subtle to a fault...anyway, she said her tummy hurt her...which is Sabrina code for any number of things other than an actual tummy ache...a touch to her forehead quickly confirmed that she was burning up. 102.8. Not pretty, but OK...throughout the course of the day her fever would go down and then back up, depending upon what medicine I was giving her at that time...around 11 I took her temp and it was around 102, so I gave her Motrin. About 30 minutes later, I looked over and her eyes were watering...I took her temp again and it was at an alarming 104.2!!! A cold dread gripped me as visions of her brain being boiled or her small frame being wracked by febrile seizures or...think HAPPY thoughts mom...maybe I should stop watching House obsessively...let me go turn on Scrubs...gripped me. I put her in a tepid bath and we played for about 15 minutes...her fever was now up to 104.3. I took her out and toweled her off. Thankfully that seemed to cool her off a bit. Her temp started dropping. Long story short, Motrin doesn't work on my girl, so we will be sticking to Tylenol for her from now on.

This morning she had a 102.somethingorother fever, so she has ridden the couch all day. The fever is gone now, but the whining has set in. So in otherwords, the status quo has been restored, things are exactly as they should be.

Except for the gas. Honestly I am not entirely sure which of these mangy mutts it is. I think it is the puppy, but then...I don't know for sure. She is a wiley one...constantly chewing on one of the other dogs, which makes it much harder to pin the flatulence on her...my husband started suggesting that I should change her dog food. She has been on the same food since she started eating solid food. The idea of switching it pains me...it's Iams...it's good food...she stinks. In the last several weeks I have been giving the three of them pig ears...so I stopped that, thinking maybe it was causing the gassiness. 2 days and there are still noxious clouds floating about the house. Can you give a dog Bean-o?

On Fire

Is there some rule that states that all fevers must present themselves at precisely 5AM?

5 AM is SOOO not my friend...

Zzzzzz

Who's Your Daddy?

"Mommy, who is Daddy's Mommy?"

"Grandma is."

"Who is Daddy's Daddy?"

"Grandpa is."

"Who is your Daddy?"

I have been dreading this question for every part of the last almost 7 years, since I found out I was pregnant with our son.

Think, think, think...how are you going to answer her...

"Poppy is like my Daddy."

"OK, but who is your real Daddy?"

Damn these smart kids...how can a 4 year old possibly be astute enough to see through that answer? OK...now what. I won't lie to my children, I can't do it.

"Honey, you don't know my father, you have never met him." OK, so far so good...

"Does he live far away?"

"Yes, he does."

"Like in heaven with Jesus and the angels?" This is slightly amusing, as my father is a rabbi...yeah honey, he and Jesus are tight, they are like *this*...

"No honey, he's not dead. Mommy didn't grow up with her father."

"But why?"

"Let's talk about something different..."

Thankfully we did. My mind didn't really move on from there though. And it still hasn't. I always want to be honest with my kids; I always try to give them a real answer. This question though? I don't really know how to answer it. It is true, Mommy grew up without her father. But not without a father figure. Not without a Daddy.

My parents met, hitchhiking across country, in the early 70's. They were hippies. All that weed and free lovin' eventually led to a failed marriage and me. Mom raised me without him and I never saw or heard from him until my senior year of high school. Even then, it was only because we tracked him down to help with college. The years that followed were dramatic and painful. And probably the most formative that I could have ever asked for. Years of pining to look like someone, answered. Dreams of seeing how the "other half" lived, fulfilled. Hopes of having a doting father, dashed. We spent years trying to break one another's spirit and in the end, I followed my father's admonishment that a tiger never changes it's stripes and cut ties. 17 years without him had made me a positive, happy person. 7 years with him had left me insecure and lifeless. I got to a point where I couldn't make my voice express how my heart felt. I could say the words I felt, but I couldn't make them sound sincere. I love you rang hollow, and that was just not acceptable. I mobilized, shook it off and cut ties. Nearly 7 years have passed since that day. I have never spoken to nor seen him again. He has never met my husband. If he knows of his grandchildren, it is through no choice of mine. It is sad, but I am confident that it was the right choice.

It occurred to me, that when I was answering my daughter, I was answering her about my father, not my dad.

When I was a very little girl, I met my dad. He was a big bear of a man. He was taller than my wildest dreams and stronger than any monster could be. In short, my dad could beat up your dad. But he never would. The relationship between he and my mother was rocky at best. There was alot of drinking involved and much drama ensued. It was always very clear to me and I suppose to him, that I was my mother's child. I was a loaner to him. When they were *on*, he was my dad, I was his little girl and to be treated as such. When they were *off*, I was his ex's daughter, he was a memory and not at all accessible. But he was still my daddy. I missed him, and would wish that we could all just be together again. When I was 16, they split for good.

They say that you don't get to pick your parents...even if your parent is an abusive one they are still your parent. He might not have always been an ideal dad, but he was my dad. I realize that now. I also realize now that some of his imperfections were not really bad, they were normal conflicts of interest between what a child wants, and what a parent can bend on. I remember when they split for the last time, I basically wrote him out of my life story. I had my reasons at the time, but there was also a certain element of "He wasn't ever my father, therefore he was never my dad." I guess meeting my actual father, and learning that he would never be my dad sort of showed me how twisted my logic was. I always sort of assumed that he felt the same way. That he had washed his hands of me when they divorced. That he never grieved for a child lost to him. Looking back now, with the clarity that being a parent myself has given me, I am not so sure.

Out of their long and rocky relationship, my mom and dad gifted me with a (step)SISTER. Even though our parents divorced, we didn't. We are sisters. When my heart hurts, I know she gets it. She feels it too. When someone makes her feel less than she really is, I want to claw their eyes out. Back off buddy, whoever you are, you will always be waaay beneath her, you will NEVER deserve her...once you understand that, we will get along just fine...Recently we have talked alot about our viewpoints and memories from when we were all a family. It's amazing how different things look from our two lenses. She is 10 years my senior and was privy to some facts and details that I was either shielded from, too young to understand or too self absorbed to notice. I guess that has all been part of what made me really come to terms with the fact that he was my dad. Is my dad. Will always BE my dad in my mind and heart.

The irony of this realization is that my father and my dad both live in the same state now. What are the odds? OK, so the state is FL...the odds are better than you might think. Regardless, my answer to my daughter still stands, he lives far away and she has never met him.

Mom has since re-married (yeah mom!!!!) and her husband is my children's grandfather. He has been since the day that they were born. I couldn't ask for someone to love them more. Mom has always done her best to give her daughter safety, security and love. And I have wrapped that around myself all my life. Her husband treats me as though I was his daughter, and I love him for that. He is like a dad to me. Again, my answer to my daughter is still right, "Poppy" is like my dad. Somehow though, she knows that he isn't my dad.

I am slowly working up the nerve to call my dad, and thank him. I want to thank him for being a dad, when he didn't have to be. For being a dad when I thought I didn't want him to. And for not being a dad when I decided that he wasn't anymore. Only a parent can love you enough to let you go. I also want to apologize. I am sorry that I never saw him for what he was. I am sorry that he always had to live in the shadow of who I thought my daddy really was. I am sorry that he never got to see what, with his help, and input, I grew up to be. And ultimately, I suppose I want to try and get the real answer to my child's question, "Who is Mommy's Daddy?"