There are very few traditions that have been handed down to Josh or I. Or, perhaps the truth is there are few that we remember or choose to include with our own fledgling family. Either way, the two that have stuck? Are so much fun. Seriously.
First there is the Christmas tree hunt. This involved packing our family and the necessary sundry winter items into the SUV and driving and inordinately long way to a tree farm. (We have the GPS to thank for the scenic route, it has apparently never heard of the main highway which practically bisects the Dixieland Tree Farm.) Once at said tree farm I discover that Abigail's water proof mittens are not, in fact, in the car as I had assumed (where there are now is a Great Mystery as they are not in the house, either). Noticing this discrepancy Josh contributes his Daddy wisdom for the day and suggests we find a way to clip her gloves to her jacket. Brilliant, as usual. Luckily she had her very warm coat and hat and snow boots and seemed no worse for wear sans-gloves. Isabel was equally padded down in fleece lined jeans and sweatshirts and a coat. We had two smallish, pastel colored marshmallows with us, it seemed.
So off we went to find The Perfect Tree. I had asked to be shown the trees which held their needles the longest, and those trees only. Josh rolled his eyes at my very serious request of the farmers, but seemed somewhat impressed but their promise that the firs they suggested would "last 'till Easter." I too was impressed. And skeptical. I will let you know come January.
Once the tree was selected and hewn and shaken and wrapped it was brought to the car in which the girls and I were waiting, heater running full blast already. We three were giddy with anticipation of taking our tree home, and also delighted to be thawing, finally. We slid the tree in between the car seats so that each girl would have her very own up-close-and-smell-the-sap kind of tree experience for the car ride home. Isabel seemed content with her view and laid back to ponder deep, tree scented thoughts. Abigail on the other hand, proceeded to lose her mind. There was sobbing of the "get me out of here!" sort, followed by panicked screams and flailing, and general toddler sized mayhem. After 5 minutes (maybe more) we got her back into the car seat, buckled down, jacket thrown over the offending tree and were on our way. The fact that I was twisted around in my seat to face her, holding her hand the whole way home? Just added to the charm.
Once home our very sensible toddler disembarked and announced: "it's just a tree, that's not so scary!" Naturally.
This morning we decorated the tree and then dug the electric train out of the basement and set it up, too. I will spare you the part where I may have attempted a small electrical fire with the transformer and also the part where it didn't work for half an hour thanks to a misaligned track I completely failed to notice. But I digress.
Isabel has taken to this train much the way Godzilla does to large cities. She delights in descending on the slow moving train and knocking it over, sending the small plastic men and parts flying. Abigail prefers it to run at a moderate pace, while sitting back and watching it. We have shown her - repeatedly - how to work the ridiculously simple knob but it somehow continues to terrify her. She will touch it quickly if we force her to, but retreats to a safe distance at first opportunity. Isabel, ever the adventurous one, has already mastered the knob and when not destroying the train enjoys sending is careening at top speed around the track and then stopping it with a sudden jerk. Abigail is very annoyed by this, but as she will not touch the transformer herself is unable to stop her sister's antics.
(Also a fun side note to the train: as it's a German company that made it I can now -thanks to 3 years in Germany- read the little stickers stuck all over the pretend boxes that confused me all through childhood. And as I write this Abigail has come up to me with a small box filled with candy wrappers dating back to the years when my sister and I last played with it.)
Christmas has come to our house it all it's tree scented, train crashing glory. I love the memories that we have taken from our families and started them with our own little girls. I love that Abby is playing with toys that I have loved since I was her age. The fact that Abigail will have memories of trekking through snow and cold to find a perfect tree is something worth being very grateful for.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Kindergarten Will Have to Wait, or Administrators are Idiots
Abigail just finished her first semester of part time pre-preschool/day care, with as many flying colors as such an organization can give. She is bright. She is emotionally prepared. She is - at last! - potty trained. She is going to "real" preschool next year, by golly.
All this in preparation so that she can attend kindergarten in 2012 - or she would, except she won't be 5 by Sept 1. What the hell? I understand that having a cut off date is vital in keeping schooling ages similar and appropriate for the information taught. But what, exactly, is the thought process in having such an early cut off? She'll be 5 about 40 odd days after school starts - how is that NOT old enough? What type of maturation do administrators think is lacking?
I cannot believe that I will have to keep my intelligent, prepared, energetic child home another year because she isn't mature enough at 4 years 11 months for kindergarten? Seriously?
Apparently I'm spoiled by California (a state I am suddenly pleased to claim) which has the more logical date of 31 Dec. Which makes sense: if your child isn't 5 by the end of the year that school starts, they should most likely wait another year. But somehow keeping a whole group of nearly-5-year-olds from education is just.... stupid.
Not sure what I'll do now. Home school? Sneak her into 1st grade later? I just can't imagine not having her in school that year, she's to bright, to ready, and in need of so much more structured teaching than I feel I am capable of providing. I suppose we will just have to wait and see what is available when the time comes. But until then, I'll just be over here silently smouldering at the injustice of it all.
All this in preparation so that she can attend kindergarten in 2012 - or she would, except she won't be 5 by Sept 1. What the hell? I understand that having a cut off date is vital in keeping schooling ages similar and appropriate for the information taught. But what, exactly, is the thought process in having such an early cut off? She'll be 5 about 40 odd days after school starts - how is that NOT old enough? What type of maturation do administrators think is lacking?
I cannot believe that I will have to keep my intelligent, prepared, energetic child home another year because she isn't mature enough at 4 years 11 months for kindergarten? Seriously?
Apparently I'm spoiled by California (a state I am suddenly pleased to claim) which has the more logical date of 31 Dec. Which makes sense: if your child isn't 5 by the end of the year that school starts, they should most likely wait another year. But somehow keeping a whole group of nearly-5-year-olds from education is just.... stupid.
Not sure what I'll do now. Home school? Sneak her into 1st grade later? I just can't imagine not having her in school that year, she's to bright, to ready, and in need of so much more structured teaching than I feel I am capable of providing. I suppose we will just have to wait and see what is available when the time comes. But until then, I'll just be over here silently smouldering at the injustice of it all.
Friday, November 19, 2010
It's been a while....
Isabel has turned one. A whole year, gone. A baby who is now... less of a baby. And I am beside myself, just amazed that this year has come and then gone again.
The whole day before Isabel's birthday I was thinking about her delivery - how she managed to take longer than her sister to come into the world. How she held out almost 24 hours just to be born on her father's birthday. How at the time I wasn't sure she was a blessing, but how now I couldn't imagine a moment with out her.
All day on the 13th I was watching the clock, and ever hour that came and went had a memory attached to it: 6am - when my water broke - a week early - hurrah! 12pm - when we packed up Abby to go a friends as we were heading to the hospital. 2pm - arrival at said hospital and still no contractions, no sign other than a leak that this little girl wanted out. 5 pm - walking and endless loop of the labor and recovery ward trying to entice Isabel out. 8pm - the doctor started the medicine to get my labor going. 1am - contracts starting with a suddenness that surprised both Josh and I. 3am - finally giving into an epidural and then getting some much needed rest. 6 am - the midwife is about to go off shift and wants to see this baby (she'd been with me all night) and encourages me to start pushing. 6:29am - Isabel arrives, howling and wiggling into the world. 6:30am - I suddenly remember it's Josh's birthday, too, and maybe he should get a 'happy birthday!'
One year later she's cruising around the furniture, crawling all over the place (and therefore getting into everything) and driving her sister crazy by stealing all her favorite toys. It has been an amazing journey from there to here. I forgot how much they can change in a year, or a month or a week. Now the fun begins: walking and talking - watching her grow into a sweet girl from the sweet baby I know. Bliss!
The whole day before Isabel's birthday I was thinking about her delivery - how she managed to take longer than her sister to come into the world. How she held out almost 24 hours just to be born on her father's birthday. How at the time I wasn't sure she was a blessing, but how now I couldn't imagine a moment with out her.
All day on the 13th I was watching the clock, and ever hour that came and went had a memory attached to it: 6am - when my water broke - a week early - hurrah! 12pm - when we packed up Abby to go a friends as we were heading to the hospital. 2pm - arrival at said hospital and still no contractions, no sign other than a leak that this little girl wanted out. 5 pm - walking and endless loop of the labor and recovery ward trying to entice Isabel out. 8pm - the doctor started the medicine to get my labor going. 1am - contracts starting with a suddenness that surprised both Josh and I. 3am - finally giving into an epidural and then getting some much needed rest. 6 am - the midwife is about to go off shift and wants to see this baby (she'd been with me all night) and encourages me to start pushing. 6:29am - Isabel arrives, howling and wiggling into the world. 6:30am - I suddenly remember it's Josh's birthday, too, and maybe he should get a 'happy birthday!'
One year later she's cruising around the furniture, crawling all over the place (and therefore getting into everything) and driving her sister crazy by stealing all her favorite toys. It has been an amazing journey from there to here. I forgot how much they can change in a year, or a month or a week. Now the fun begins: walking and talking - watching her grow into a sweet girl from the sweet baby I know. Bliss!
Saturday, October 30, 2010
A chain of memory
Abigail and Isabel, too, I suppose, love my closet. I'm not sure what it is about the hanging clothes, the heaps of shoes, boxes stacked against a wall full of last seasons items that attracts them so, but it does. There is a draw to the room that pulls my girls in time after time, so that when Abigail is hiding from me I am sure to find her tucked away under my formal gowns, holding a single brown sequined shoe in her grasp.
There are also a series of shelves on which I have stacked and organized any number of things: belts and ties in a bin, work shirts for Josh and Army gym clothes, socks, and at just about chest high, my jewelry. It is by no means a large or stunning collection, it fits neatly into a small wooden box divided into two parts: the upper that holds my necklaces tucked to one side, rings on the other, sundry keepsakes and larger items stored under the tray. It is a plain box, ordinary in all ways and, I had thought, high as it was, simple as it was, above the notice of my eldest daughter.
She had asked to wear a 'mommy necklace' for Halloween so that she might look like Cinderella and I presented her with a string of pearls to wear over her yellow flouncy dress. After getting out of her costume she asked to continue wearing the pearls with her jeans and t-shirt; unable to explain the fragility of pearls to a toddler I, kindly as I could, said 'no.' She asked if she might wear another necklace of mine and I agreed, thinking that later I would run up to my closet and pick something of little value that she could play around in.
She ran off apparently appeased and I returned to whatever task I was at when she first came demanding finery. I was quite surprised to have her come back to my side mere moments later holding a small gold chain in her hands. "How about this Mommy? Can I wear this one?" She asked, full of hope. I was startled by her discovery, it was a chain I forgotten I had, one that had been a gift to me when I was about her age, perhaps younger even.
She was holding up a necklace that had been given to me by my father's mother, seeing the gold winking in my daughter's hand brought forward a rush of emotion I couldn't have anticipated. This chain was given to me in memory of my grandfather, a man who died before I could ever know him. This necklace that makes me think of the small woman who picked it out for me, who choose something thick and heavy remembering the rambunctiousness of childhood. I see her suddenly, her hands covered in paper-thin skin, a crochet hook working heaps of yarn and string into fancy things for my dolls to wear. A woman whose house smelled of talcum powder and tea and who always had crayons and the largest coloring books I had ever seen stashed in the most unlikely places, who made paste and salt dough in her kitchen to amuse her granddaughters. She who died when I was young, before I even knew this necklace existed tucked away as it was in my mother's sock drawer, who would never know the daughters I have borne.
Abigail is wearing the necklace now, running around the house oblivious to the metal flapping against her skin. But I look at her and think of my Grandmother and I hope that if she ever happens to peer in on me, to see what became of the gangly girl she left behind, that she would see her great granddaughter wearing her gift, proof that it can indeed withstand the rigors of childhood.
My daughter is too young to understand the significance of this chain, why I smile a slightly sad smile as I put it on her. It is a first, this passing down of keepsakes, the giving over of memories from my youth to hers. It is a start, this story of who I was when I was small and who that child became: a story to be told in pieces to my daughters over a lifetime.
There are also a series of shelves on which I have stacked and organized any number of things: belts and ties in a bin, work shirts for Josh and Army gym clothes, socks, and at just about chest high, my jewelry. It is by no means a large or stunning collection, it fits neatly into a small wooden box divided into two parts: the upper that holds my necklaces tucked to one side, rings on the other, sundry keepsakes and larger items stored under the tray. It is a plain box, ordinary in all ways and, I had thought, high as it was, simple as it was, above the notice of my eldest daughter.
She had asked to wear a 'mommy necklace' for Halloween so that she might look like Cinderella and I presented her with a string of pearls to wear over her yellow flouncy dress. After getting out of her costume she asked to continue wearing the pearls with her jeans and t-shirt; unable to explain the fragility of pearls to a toddler I, kindly as I could, said 'no.' She asked if she might wear another necklace of mine and I agreed, thinking that later I would run up to my closet and pick something of little value that she could play around in.
She ran off apparently appeased and I returned to whatever task I was at when she first came demanding finery. I was quite surprised to have her come back to my side mere moments later holding a small gold chain in her hands. "How about this Mommy? Can I wear this one?" She asked, full of hope. I was startled by her discovery, it was a chain I forgotten I had, one that had been a gift to me when I was about her age, perhaps younger even.
She was holding up a necklace that had been given to me by my father's mother, seeing the gold winking in my daughter's hand brought forward a rush of emotion I couldn't have anticipated. This chain was given to me in memory of my grandfather, a man who died before I could ever know him. This necklace that makes me think of the small woman who picked it out for me, who choose something thick and heavy remembering the rambunctiousness of childhood. I see her suddenly, her hands covered in paper-thin skin, a crochet hook working heaps of yarn and string into fancy things for my dolls to wear. A woman whose house smelled of talcum powder and tea and who always had crayons and the largest coloring books I had ever seen stashed in the most unlikely places, who made paste and salt dough in her kitchen to amuse her granddaughters. She who died when I was young, before I even knew this necklace existed tucked away as it was in my mother's sock drawer, who would never know the daughters I have borne.
Abigail is wearing the necklace now, running around the house oblivious to the metal flapping against her skin. But I look at her and think of my Grandmother and I hope that if she ever happens to peer in on me, to see what became of the gangly girl she left behind, that she would see her great granddaughter wearing her gift, proof that it can indeed withstand the rigors of childhood.
My daughter is too young to understand the significance of this chain, why I smile a slightly sad smile as I put it on her. It is a first, this passing down of keepsakes, the giving over of memories from my youth to hers. It is a start, this story of who I was when I was small and who that child became: a story to be told in pieces to my daughters over a lifetime.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Death Candy
I have never been a fan of Halloween. Never. When I was a kid, sure, the thrill of dressing up and asking for candy was delightful. Full of charm and freedom and excitement. Then as a teenager and young adult the downward spiral began. The other girls I knew took advantage of this one unique day to tart it up - wearing what amounted to lingerie and some cat ears and calling it a costume. I was, and still am, to modest, to puritan, to Christian, to dare wear anything like that. So it came to represent a club I wasn't - and could never be - a part of: Halloween-Sluts-For-A-Day-But-I'm-Not-Really-Or-Am-I?
Now as a mother I take a whole new offence to the day. Being the parent of a peanut allergic child has raised my awareness. I read labels on boxes, scrutinize menus, hawk-eye all suspicious foods served at friend's and family's homes. I am overly cautious and very leery. I? Am on the front line in the war against peanuts. I will be that Mom come school time petitioning for PB&J's to be "outlawed" from school lunches - and yes I mean the ones you pack at home, too. So you can imagine the anxiety I have at letting my 3 year old go trick-or-treating. Allowing her to possibly receive a peanut crusted candy into her little jack-o-lantern tub. I hate this. Because I can't fathom why anyone would buy candy that has peanuts in it to give to children they don't know. I know that because of Abigail I am painfully aware of food allergies and their seriousness. I also know that other people are not required to worry or even care about my daughter's misguided immune system. I am meant to look out for her, to be the watch dog to her candy seeking ways.
But still: why risk it? The last 2 years we've stayed home rather than risk a peanut candy slipping into her hands unnoticed. So, candy givers this year: Just say no to Snickers, Reeses and the like. Kid's love Jolly Ranchers and jaw breakers and mini Twizzlers. You don't need to pass out (potential) death candy.
Seriously. You don't. Please, go buy something fruity and save this mom from an early heart attack.
Now as a mother I take a whole new offence to the day. Being the parent of a peanut allergic child has raised my awareness. I read labels on boxes, scrutinize menus, hawk-eye all suspicious foods served at friend's and family's homes. I am overly cautious and very leery. I? Am on the front line in the war against peanuts. I will be that Mom come school time petitioning for PB&J's to be "outlawed" from school lunches - and yes I mean the ones you pack at home, too. So you can imagine the anxiety I have at letting my 3 year old go trick-or-treating. Allowing her to possibly receive a peanut crusted candy into her little jack-o-lantern tub. I hate this. Because I can't fathom why anyone would buy candy that has peanuts in it to give to children they don't know. I know that because of Abigail I am painfully aware of food allergies and their seriousness. I also know that other people are not required to worry or even care about my daughter's misguided immune system. I am meant to look out for her, to be the watch dog to her candy seeking ways.
But still: why risk it? The last 2 years we've stayed home rather than risk a peanut candy slipping into her hands unnoticed. So, candy givers this year: Just say no to Snickers, Reeses and the like. Kid's love Jolly Ranchers and jaw breakers and mini Twizzlers. You don't need to pass out (potential) death candy.
Seriously. You don't. Please, go buy something fruity and save this mom from an early heart attack.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sleeping with sanity
I, like the house of cards I am, have folded. On day 6 of No-More-Binkies-For-Abby, at about 10 pm, after almost 2 hours of crying, cajoling, begging, pleading and some whining on Abby's part I fished an Izzy binkie out of the baby's crib, shoved it at my toddler and stormed from the room. I didn't - and still don't! - know who I was angrier at in that moment: my daughter who couldn't give up her baby crutch or myself for caving after a few short days. The old routine for bedtime is a tried and true winner: bath, pjs, story, kiss, nightlight and music on, parents: out of the room in 5 minutes or less. It's down right wonderful. Add to those nights an equally tired and complaint Isabel and you have two kids sleeping by 8:15 - and hours upon hours of adult time until we go to bed.
But once the binkies were gone all bets were off. First we had to read about 40 books to Abigail (not exagerating). Then cuddle with her. And then try to sneak from the room - which we could never quite manage, so then we had to stand at the door for 10+ minutes until she was "asleep" and we could creep down stairs. Only to hear her whimper, let her cry for a bit then repeat. Hours, it was taking. Literally: hours. On day 6 of no adult time, little sleep (Isabel sensed this was just the moment to wake every 2 hours to check on me), I was ready to do anything to get my sanity back.
I hate - HATE! - that Abby is 3 and is still stuck to her binkie, but I hate fighting at bedtime more. Way more. So right now? I am willing to agree to disagree. We shall return to this battle later. But right now? I am too busy enjoying the silence of sleeping children to fight.
But once the binkies were gone all bets were off. First we had to read about 40 books to Abigail (not exagerating). Then cuddle with her. And then try to sneak from the room - which we could never quite manage, so then we had to stand at the door for 10+ minutes until she was "asleep" and we could creep down stairs. Only to hear her whimper, let her cry for a bit then repeat. Hours, it was taking. Literally: hours. On day 6 of no adult time, little sleep (Isabel sensed this was just the moment to wake every 2 hours to check on me), I was ready to do anything to get my sanity back.
I hate - HATE! - that Abby is 3 and is still stuck to her binkie, but I hate fighting at bedtime more. Way more. So right now? I am willing to agree to disagree. We shall return to this battle later. But right now? I am too busy enjoying the silence of sleeping children to fight.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Faires use the US Postal Service
We had a visit on Sunday from the Binkie Fairy. As per her instructions we boxed up all of Abby's binkies and "mailed" them to Binkie-Fairy Land where they will be planted and can grow into more binkies for brand new babies.
Abigail bought this hook, line and sinker... Until 8 o'clock. At which point she was ready to rally the troops, grab some pitch forks and head after that binkie thieving witch and get her pacis back. She was crying. And screaming. And whimpering. And making all kinds of pitifull pleas. And what could we do? Those binkies had been mailed straight to the trash. Literally. There was - and is - no going back.
The last 6 months we've been rationing the binkies so that she can only have them at bedtime or on very long drives or in planes. This has worked - for the most part she doesn't even ask for them anymore and will hand over her binkie as soon as she gets up. But taking it away at bedtime? Is apparently akin to baby torture.
In her defense she's used a pacifier since she was 2 weeks old. And I've loved it. It helped us survive the first year when she wasn't a car baby. Without it we would never have survived the teething months. When we stopped the rocking/singing before bed routine it was there to comfort her as she put herself to sleep in her "big girl bed." But now her last comfort of infancy is gone. And she has to learn how to fall asleep all over again. I am trying to be as gentle and loving and understanding as I can be. But when it takes 2 hours of crying, cajoling, and fighting to get her to take a nap? My patience wears thin. After crying for quite a while she is finally napping peacefully. So is her sister.
So I think I'll just sit here a second longer and enjoy the sweet sound of success, and try not to think about how Isabel is cuddled up in bed, fast asleep... A binkie tucked into her wee mouth.
Abigail bought this hook, line and sinker... Until 8 o'clock. At which point she was ready to rally the troops, grab some pitch forks and head after that binkie thieving witch and get her pacis back. She was crying. And screaming. And whimpering. And making all kinds of pitifull pleas. And what could we do? Those binkies had been mailed straight to the trash. Literally. There was - and is - no going back.
The last 6 months we've been rationing the binkies so that she can only have them at bedtime or on very long drives or in planes. This has worked - for the most part she doesn't even ask for them anymore and will hand over her binkie as soon as she gets up. But taking it away at bedtime? Is apparently akin to baby torture.
In her defense she's used a pacifier since she was 2 weeks old. And I've loved it. It helped us survive the first year when she wasn't a car baby. Without it we would never have survived the teething months. When we stopped the rocking/singing before bed routine it was there to comfort her as she put herself to sleep in her "big girl bed." But now her last comfort of infancy is gone. And she has to learn how to fall asleep all over again. I am trying to be as gentle and loving and understanding as I can be. But when it takes 2 hours of crying, cajoling, and fighting to get her to take a nap? My patience wears thin. After crying for quite a while she is finally napping peacefully. So is her sister.
So I think I'll just sit here a second longer and enjoy the sweet sound of success, and try not to think about how Isabel is cuddled up in bed, fast asleep... A binkie tucked into her wee mouth.
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