When I Grow Up I Will Be A Princess

"When I grow up, I want to be a mermaid," Isabella announces.

Chloe admonishes her.  "You can't be a mermaid, you don't have a tail!"

Isabella looks momentarily dejected but then she perks up.  "Well then, when I grow up I'll be a fairy!"

Chloe can barely contain herself.  "Isabella, fairies have WINGS!  You can't be a fairy."

Isabella thinks for a minute.  "A princess,"  she asks, hesitantly.  "Can I be a princess?"

I'm not sure, but I think I see an almost imperceptible eye roll from Chloe. "Isabella, your father is not a king.  You can't be a princess unless your father is a king."

"Oh."   It appears that Isabella is out of ideas. 

We have been sitting in a small group talking about community helpers.  After reading about the police officer, the teacher and the baker, I ask the children, "What do you think you want to be when you grow up?"  They share their ideas with each other first, then draw and write in their journals. 

Charlie, who until this point has remained silent, looks up at Isabella.  "You can be a princess, Isabella.  All you have to do is marry a prince."

Isabella's eye's widen in happy surprise.  "When I grow up, I WILL be a princess!"  She picks up a pink crayon and, humming, begins to draw her dress.

I want to hug Isabella.  This is what I want to say to her:
"My friend, listen to me.  You are in kindergarten.  You have years to grow up, make friends, make mistakes, learn from others, make decisions, change your mind, and explore ideas you don't even know exist yet.  As you grow up, there will always be Chloes, telling you 'no' and telling you 'you can't.'  And there will always be Charlies, telling you 'you are special, you can do it, you are a princess.'  Here you are, only five years old, and you are already learning to tune out the Chloes in your life and listen to the Charlies.  You are wise beyond your years, my friend."

I don't say any of that to Isabella.   But I do lean over and give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.  "That looks like a really pretty princess dress," I tell her.  "You are going to be an amazing princess.  I think you already are."

Friday the 13th

Has a black cat crossed your path yet today?  It's Friday the 13th.

Now, I'm not a superstitious person and I don't believe in luck.  I believe that life happens, and our perceptions of the events can be both good and bad.  If I go around looking for bad luck, I will find it. It was probably there all along.  So I try to remind myself to look for the good luck in life every day.  Take, for example, my last trip to the grocery store.  Is it bad luck that I accidentally bought cinnamon raisin English muffins (yuck, pthh) instead of my regular whole wheat?  Or is it good luck that I realized my error before I (heaven forbid) ate one?

This week I left Jack home for an hour while I was at a teacher conference.  Just before I returned home, an unmarked beat up white van pulled in the driveway. An unfamiliar man got out of the car.  Jack got scared.  He ran downstairs, out the back door and around half the block in his socks.  There he stopped to phone a neighbor.   As I returned home, my neighbor arrived with Jack to investigate.  They found a box of butternut squash and beets on our porch.   Wednesdays I have a fresh fruit and vegetables delivered to my house.

Is it bad luck that I didn't arrive home ten minutes earlier?  I would have recognized the van and driver and the entire incident would have been avoided.  Or is it good luck to be reminded that Jack has a good head on his shoulders.  When faced with potential danger, kept his cool, left the house immediately and called for help.

Yesterday Paul was driving home from work in heavy traffic.  When the woman in front of him braked suddenly, he didn't stop in time and rear ended her car.  Is it bad luck that Paul was in a car accident?  Or is it good luck that it was minor, no one was hurt and we have insurance to cover much of the costs. 

Every evening when we eat dinner together as a family, we say our "thankfuls."  Some days they come easily.  It seems like good luck is all around us and everything is going our way.  Other days are harder.  After experiencing a particularly difficult day, we say, "Tonight I'm thankful that every day is not as bad as this one."  As much as we're kidding around, there's an element of truth to that statement.   After a bad day, I think it's good luck to have a family who loves me, food on the table and the knowledge that tomorrow is just a day away.

Friday the 13th.  I haven't seen any black cats yet.  Just a big black dog.  Isn't that good luck!

Meditations on Yoga

This is the story about how I (who am not a yoga person AT ALL) have a new hobby and it is, of all things, yoga.

I still don't think of myself as a "yogi".  I'm not a touchy, feely person.  I'm not a hugger.  So the thought of being in a room with a bunch of people saying "ooommm" a lot doesn't appeal to me.  And what's the deal with the third eye on the forehead?  My son already thinks I have eyes in the back of my head and that's quite enough extra eyes for me.  Also, for some reason, I think of yoga and vegetarians as going hand and hand.  I know, I'm generalizing. Some of my best friends are vegetarians.  Still, I can't imagine giving up bacon and somehow I think that means I am not a candidate for yoga.

Another reason I never tried yoga before: I thought it was all about stretching.  I know stretching is good for you, just like flossing is good for you and a whole host of other things that I should do to improve my health.  I've even read articles about red wine, coffee and chocolate being good for you, which is just awesome.  Really, I'm waiting for an article that says bacon is good for you but I haven't come across it yet.  If you see one, let me know.  Anyway, for some reason, I have an easier time drinking wine and eating chocolate on a regular basis than I do flossing and stretching.  

Here I am, living peacefully in my yoga-free existence when along comes my friend Debbie.  She keeps talking about yoga and how it makes her happy.   Debbie invites me as a guest to her class and, in some lapse of my normal judgement, I agree to go.  Now, Debbie and I have been friends for a long time and I've known her to eat a piece of bacon or two.  I figure I'll keep quiet about that so the people in the yoga studio don't ostracize her.

I learn that there are about as many types of yoga as there are religions.  We are going to do Baptiste Power Vinyasa Yoga.  It was founded in the 1940's by a man named Walt Baptiste.  It was further developed by his son Baron Baptiste in the 1980's.   The ninety minute class is in a room where the temperature hovers around 94 degrees.   At Debbie's advice, I pick a spot near the windows where it is a few degrees cooler. 

The class begins and I discover that I am really bad at yoga.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I am pretty good at child's pose at the beginning, and corpse pose at the end.  It is everything in between that needs work.  The class seems to follow a certain rhythm.  First we do a bunch of poses that have funny names like Chaturanga Dandasana but I am not fooled.  You call a push up by any other name and it is still a push up.  I am breaking a sweat, my heart rate is up and I am fully aware of my pathetic lack of upper arm strength.  Next come the balance poses, and I realize that I don't favor one side or the other--I am equally uncoordinated on both sides.  After wobbling about trying to stand on one foot for a while, we move into the exercises for core strength and I discover abdominal muscles I didn't even know I had.  Finally, we move to stretching and I concede that my lack of regular commitment on this front has not helped my flexibility in any way. 

Each time the instructor calls out a new pose, I glance around to see what everyone is doing and then I attempt it.  But as horrible as I am, I actually like it.  Everyone is so focused on their own progress, no one is looking at my feeble, unskilled attempts.  The class is fast paced and I feel like I'm getting a great workout.  But the best part is the teacher.  Along with her instruction, she gives us a pep talk, cheering us on as we go, pushing us to try a little harder and go a little further.  It's like I signed up for a yoga class and they threw in a 90 minute motivational seminar for free.   I decide to take advantage of a deal for new students and purchase a discounted class pack.   "What the heck," I think.  "I'll try another class or two."

My family took notice of my second trip to the yoga studio.  Be it coincidence, fate or just plain luck it was shortly before the holidays.   My gifts this year include a yoga bag, yoga towel, yoga shirt and book about yoga.  I look like a walking advertisement for Lululemon although I feel a bit like an imposter.  I look like a yogi and dress like a yogi but I can't hold a tree pose for more than three seconds and there's too much sweat in my third eye for me to see anything clearly.  I still don't like hugs and I still love bacon but I'm beginning to rethink my opinion on yoga.  I think I kind of like it.

Happy Birthday

December 29, 2011.  My birthday.  I am 41 years old. 

I used to resent being born during this window between Christmas and New Years.  Amid holiday hustle and bustle, company, activities and entertaining, I felt my birthday wasn't special enough--too easily forgotten.  And since we were home for break, I never got to bring cupcakes to share with my class like the other kids in school.

In fact, for a period of my life, I changed my birthday.  A few friends still laugh about the time I announced I had moved my birth date to January 29--sharing the date with my best friend from high school.  Now older, and maybe even a little wiser, I welcome the benefits of my special day.

One advantage is taking a little "alone time" during our winter recess without feeling selfish.  I love having the kids home, my husband home, and the grandparents and aunts and uncles and presents and cookies and adventures, I really do.   I've been cooking quite a bit, which I enjoy,  playing new board games with the kids and curling up with Paul to catch up on old TV shows.   As much as I adore it all, being off of my regular schedule for too long wears me out.  I like to use my birthday as an excuse to clear my head.  In the morning I exercise, working up a great sweat for the first time all week.  I might normally feel guilty leaving Paul in charge all morning but, hey, it's my birthday!

I return to dine with my family on the meal of my request--a big healthy salad.  Presents are opened and I receive my annual birthday phone call from my mother.  (And I woke up complaining of gas pains.  So your father says, 'Well, how far apart are these gas pains?') Besides a few phone calls from friends, I also check the Internet to read the latest 27 happy birthday greetings on my wall.  Gotta love Facebook. 

After lunch, I pamper with a pedicure and redeem a free cup of birthday coffee.  I find a comfy spot to savor my latte and pull out the spiral notebook I had stashed in my bag.  I have come to appreciate my birthday's location on the calendar.  The 52nd and last week of the year is a good time to take stock of myself--to reflect on all that happened during my 40th year and to look ahead to the next.

Journal, check.  Toenails, check.  Yoga, check.  After refreshing my mind, body and spirit I return home ready to welcome our guests.  My dear friend Kristin and family join us for the afternoon and evening.  Because it is vacation, the whole clan makes the trip--a luxury I wouldn't have on just any Thursday during the year.  We get caught up, relax, laugh.  It is all so comfortable.  We feast on Lebanese carryout served on paper plates, saving room for Steve's famous homemade chocolate peanut butter cake.  The adults linger at the table talking over drinks while the girls rehearse silly birthday skits. 

As the festivities come to an end, I get one last Happy Birthday hug and kiss from my pajama-clad family before I nestle beneath the covers.  It was a wonderful birthday.  I wouldn't have it any other way on any other day.

Our Trash is Katherine's Treasure

Paul is telling Katherine about our weekend plans. "Uncle Stu is coming over this weekend with his pickup truck.  We're going to the dump.  Would you like to ride with us?"

"What are we going to get?" asks Katherine.

"No, honey, we're not getting anything.  We're getting rid of some old scraps and junk," Paul explains.

"But Dad," Katherine protests.  "What if we see something that's very useful?"



loading up Uncle Stu's truck



Katherine is very crafty and extremely creative.  Trouble is, with this combination of talents, everything is potentially useful.  Where I see a lone sock on the dryer, Katherine sees the body of a puppet.  Recently she used one to make a snowman (named Hanes, of course.)

Last month she came home from school holding a giant wall clock.  "Look what I found in the trash--someone threw away a perfectly good broken clock!" she exclaimed excitedly.  Sure enough, she set it up downstairs where she plays school with her dolls.  Soon, telling time is integrated into the lessons. 

While I dream of cleaning out all my closets, Katherine is bringing home the latest treasure from her "dumpster diving" forays.  Sometimes, I am busted when she finds something in our own trash.

Katherine: Hey, what's this Dumdum wrapper doing in the trash?  Mom!  I told you I was saving those.

Me: Oops, sorry.  I forgot.  (Forgot to take the trash out before you came home!)

Katherine's reputation for resourceful craft projects has spread with family and friends.  So I get phone calls such as this: "I've been cleaning out my basement and I have some fabric scraps.  I thought Katherine would like them."  Or this: "I found a box of art supplies that we aren't using.  I thought of Katherine..."

They are right, of course.  With a few scissor snips and a glue gun, the fabric scraps were transformed into camping kits for her dolls--complete with matching sleeping bags.  The latest box of craft supplies has been an invaluable source of inspiration as she constructs handmade Christmas gifts for friends and family. 

To encourage her hobby, I set up a table and some storage baskets in our laundry room so Katherine can have her own craft area.  Little by little, the table is covered with paper scraps, stamp pads, Popsicle sticks and string.  Soon the table's surface is completely hidden.  Refusing to surrender to the confines of an imposed boundary, her artistic workspace spreads to the coffee table in the playroom, the carpet of her bedroom and even the kitchen. 

The aftermath of Katherine's whirlwind of projects sometimes overwhelms her.  A creative genius does not have time to clean as she goes, you understand.  This is when I step in to restore order.  Today I spent the morning replacing glue caps, folding tissue paper and sweeping up piles of glitter.   Katherine is happy to have all her supplies organized--now they are easy to find for the next inspiration.  Now that the basement is put back together, I'm off to the grocery store.  Katherine came home yesterday with several Styrofoam trays and empty milk cartons. 

"Mom, do we have graham crackers and icing?  I bet we can decorate these to look like gingerbread houses."

Katherine and her snowman Hanes

Staying Ahead of the Curve

"Clearance Sale"

The craft store advertisement catches my eye.  I've been thinking about hanging wreaths from my windows this year.  I've always admired the classic, festive adornments on the homes of others.  With wreaths 50% off, this might be the year to dress up the facade of my own house.  I brave the traffic for a trip to the strip mall and head toward the store in anticipation and excitement.

I'm picturing the finished scene in my mind--maybe some plaid ribbons to hang the wreaths?  And of course a cheerful, lush red bow on each one.  Then Paul can get some flood lamps to spotlight the windows.  Oh!  Maybe I can get a candle to rest on each sill.  I wonder if Michaels sells candles...Ideas are still multiplying in my mind as I step inside the store.  Abruptly, the joyful scene in my mind is replaced with the scene before me: chaos.

This is the season of advent, which literally means "to prepare."  The liturgical calendar tells us we have four weeks to prepare for Christmas.  The staff at Michaels does not share this view.  In their opinion, mid-December is waaaay behind the curve.  They had their holiday stuff out in October, people!  Where were we?  The smart customers snapped up their shopping bargains on Black Friday and Cyber Monday.  Lights on their evergreens and rooftops have been shimmering since Thanksgiving. 

Those of us braving the store today are the hapless fools, lured in by signs of savings.   With Christmas still almost two weeks away, we are labeled procrastinators.  And let me tell you, the early birds got all those worms weeks ago.  Gone are the candles.  Gone are the lights.  And gone are the red velvety bows.  All that's left are some gaudy plastic poinsettias and a Charlie Brown tree made in China.

By mid-December, these folks are done with Christmas.  The reason they are having a Clearance Sale, people, is so they can clear their store of all this unwanted merchandise to make room for Valentine's Day crafts.  Undeterred, I poke around the half bare shelves and manage to find a few wreaths.  I'm not sure what I'll do about the bows yet--all they had left were a few faded maroon ones, which I left for another customer's buying pleasure. 

This morning I am walking the dog still thinking about my Christmas decorations.  I pass by a neighbor's home decked out for Halloween.  Pumpkins by the door step, window clings of black cats and skeletons on display through the glass, and tired, tattered ghosts blowing from the tree branches.  At first I think they just haven't gotten around to taking it all down.  Now I wonder if they are just trying to get ahead of the curve for next fall.

Dry Socks

It is raining at 6:57 a.m.  I know because I look out the window before giving Jack an update on the time.  "6:57!"  I call.  Jack's bus comes every day at 7:02 a.m.  He is supposed to leave at 6:57 to allow time to walk to the bus stop.  Many days he sprints out the door at 7:01.  If he misses the bus, he has to walk the mile to school.  He hasn't missed the bus yet.

Until today.  "Will you give me a ride?" he asks.
I stand firm. "Sorry, Jack.  We have an agreement that you will walk to school if you miss the bus."
"But it's raining," he argues.
"Would you like an umbrella?" I suggest.

Jack retreats back into the house, presumably to retrieve an umbrella for our trek.  He returns empty handed. "Dad said he'd give me a ride!"

Here's what I want to say to Paul at this moment:  "Seriously?  What happened to consistency?  What happened to following through on consequences?  What happened to us being on the same page in our parenting decisions?  And why, if we're going to play good cop-bad cop roles, do I have to be the bad cop?"  I don't say any of those things.  I storm back into the house, grab an umbrella and thrust it into Jack's hands. 

The first part of our walk is quiet, except for the gentle spatters of rain.  Jack is angry and I am stubborn and we make quite a pair, the two of us. Bundled up in rain jackets, our hoods pulled tightly around our faces we walk silently side by side.  Jack keeps the umbrella closed and it swings from his wrist as he moves. Tatum is with us, his soft, thick fur glistening with wetness.  The rain begins to fall harder and Jack breaks the silence.  "Why are you so mean?"

This is a good question and I mull it over. I don't try to be mean.  What, exactly, have I done that is so mean?  Is it mean to follow through on a consequence because the weather is not cooperating? Good parenting should always be consistent and reasonable.  But what happens when you can't be both?  I chose consistent.  In hindsight, reasonable might have been the better option.

As we begin to climb the hill by school, we are in the middle of a torrential downpour.  The sidewalk is flooding as the rain rushes back down the way we came.  There is nowhere to walk except straight through.  My pants are dragging with waterlogged weight and my socks and shoes are completely soaked.

"Jack, I'm sorry.  I don't try to be mean.  I love you and sometimes I think I know what's best for you.  In this case, I think I made a mistake.  We look like two drowned rats."

Now I am no longer feeling stubborn and Jack is no longer feeling angry.  We both just feel cold and really wet.  After dropping Jack off, I return home and pack dry clothes for him.  Then I drive up to school to deliver the bag.

If I could have a "do-over" for the morning, I'm not sure what I would do.  Give him a ride?  Make him wear rainboots and use his umbrella?  Wake him up 10 minutes earlier?  Parenting decisions aren't often black and white.  Sometimes adults make mistakes too.  Maybe I wouldn't change our morning. Maybe the real lesson I taught Jack is this:

When you make a mistake, admit your error, say you're sorry and put on some dry socks.

Postscripts
  In today's paper, I read an article about Wednesday's storm.  "It was truly exceptional as a rain-producer...setting both daily and monthly rainfall records."

  Remember, I didn't say anything to Paul before I left?  When I returned home sopping, to his credit, he didn't say anything to me either.