D.O.I.

As in, Disney On Ice. Also as in, “doi!” like “no doi!” and “you’re such an idiot!”

First, the Disney part. Disney is a bit too, well, Disney for me. A few years ago, I bought 2 tickets for D.O.I. and sent Lily and my sister. They like Disney. Well, my sister likes Disney, and Lily just liked an outing, a show, being out past bedtime, being with a stadium of excited children, and anything that is advertised on TV non-stop for the preceeding 3 months. They had a great time and, my sister noted, that that was the “perfect” age for Disney on Ice. Note taken. 3 years later, my sister no longer lives here, so now that my children’s ages average out to the “perfect” age for D.O.I., we are going once together, and that will be the end of it!

So I bought tickets way back in November. When I gave them ice skates and lessons for Christmas, I thought about including the tickets as inspiration, but decided Christmas was already exciting enough! I thought about giving them to P.J. for his birthday, but that kind of gift that you have to wait for is hard on a kid, and the Monster Trucks offered immediate gratification. So I kept those tickets tucked away, for one of my famous surprises. A few times I have been cleaning or organizing, I have found the tickets and thought “oh yeah–I don’t want to forget that.” I thought about writing it on my calendar, but now that my kids read, they ruin everything! Still, I have a good memory for dates, and January 25th was definitely in my mind–I had carefully calculated to buy tickets for the FIRST night because then my kids would go and it would be done before most of their friends went with superior parents who buy them Disney crap. I defineitely don’t buy Disney crap. They should be happy with the tickets, for crying out loud, and the reprieve from bedtime. I try to do a perfectly nice thing, for them, and all they do is whine and complain about all the stuff I don’t buy for them. Ingrates.

Back to my story: the last few weeks month years have been hectic and a bunch of other stuff started populating this week, so yesterday when I was writing and thinking of Januray 25th, I was thinking of other, non-Disney events. Since I no longer watch commercials, I had not been reminded of this event for a while. My kids know better than to ask if they can have or go to places they see on TV, so none of them even asked me.

So last night, on January 25th, after bathing, feeding, brushing, and hushing my children (there may have been ONE little yell, but don’t tell anyone), then I uncharacteristically productively cleaned 2 whole rooms, including both vacuuming AND mopping in each (unheard of), I sat down in my quiet clean house in a cushy chair and got on my lovely computer and, since I had no e-mail to read, checked FaceBook. Amoung the Gingich on the moon guffawing and the “how long does it take Mitt Romeny to make my yearly salary” threads (19 hours, folks–seriously, he could teach 10-12 kids from around the world English in less than a day, and it takes me a whole year–forget ELECTING him, we should CLONE him), I saw a LOVELY photo of a supremely happy girl from Church with big Mickey Mouse ears and a grin that could ONLY be invoked by the sight of Ariel the Mermaid Ice Skating.

Holy Schnickeys!

Was that TODAY? As in, an hour ago, as in over?!? (See how confused I was?) Should we have been there drinking the Disney Kool-Aid, and instead I was rolling my eyes and shouting at my child that OF COURSE she had to brusher her teeth TONIGHT? What kind of a mother am I?

I set down the computer as calmly as I could, and went to find those darn tickets. I wondered if I could possibly sweet talk someone at the arena into exchanging my tickets for another show. You know, like when you miss your plane! No? That lady who let me use her phone a few weeks ago works there–maybe I could find her–we have a repore. Or, at least she knows that I am MESSED UP.

I find the tickets in their easy-to-lose white envelope and pull them out with a little prayer in my heart that maybe, just maybe, I bought Thursday tickets when, in fact, I KNOW I bought Wednesday tickets. That was my PLAN. It was brilliant. And now I am out a bunch of money, because I’m sure they don’t exchange tickets for goofball parents…. It says right here… 7 pm…on Thursday January 26th. Really? Yeah! The 26th!

How did that happen? I have no idea. It may have been divine intervention, because I sincerely believe I bought tickets for the Wednesday show. But we have tickets for tonight! I hope.

My Own Personal Sophie’s Choice

Two Overdue books. (Sorry to disappoint you, Ryan Gosling). Both partially read. Both enjoyed. Both non-renewable. I decide I can bite the bullet and take the fines for a day or two to finish one. But which one?

The non-fiction is compelling reading, but I have read it before. There are lots of copies in the system, so I might be able to get it again soon, but it is also very popular. It will be the basis of discussion at the next book club, so I don’t have a lot of time to get it again.

The fiction is also enjoyable. I am 2/3rds of the way through and could probably finish in one night if I buckle down and quit watching The State of the Union. This book is not in demand, but there are many fewer copies. It is also a book club book, but we won’t discuss it for a few months.

Uh! How do you decide?

(Oh, you check out one book at a time and read it in a timely manner? I don’t want to hear about it!)

Hush-a-bye

Asleep

Mama, I want to sleeps in yours bed.
Alright.
Mama, I want you to spread my turtle blanket.
There you go. Now sleep.

In general, my kids are good sleepers. They go to bed. They fall asleep in their own beds. They don’t have to be tricked into thinking that I will sleep with them. But both of my boys have gone through periods where they decide at some point late at night that they need to join me. Usually these periods start with an illness, and they are just a touch clingier than normal. Then it becomes a habit. I sleep much better when there is NOT a child in my bed, especially ones who turn their bodies sideways or hog all the pillows. I also know that they get better sleep in their own beds. Lily and Peter sleep hard and dead: I couldn’t be prouder. This habit of Amos’ could be broken in short order, with just a few moments of tears, and I have often thought I should do just that.

But then….

This might be my last night. He might never seek comfort with Mama like this again. None of them will. So it could be the last time anyone wants to sneak into my bed.

So I settle him in, spread his turtle blanket, and sleep that melencholy away.

Good Grief

The stars aligned:
We were well-dressed
I had my camera
We were a few minutes early for Church…

…but alas, the Sacrament Meeting Squiggles had already set in.

Another Fall

My sister always makes fun of me for this, but I have often articulated my eager anticipation of the day I can take my kids to a lesson or activity where they don’t need me and I can just read my book. Is that so crazy? I didn’t think so.

So I was really excited to see ice skating lessons that each of my kids could attend at the same place and time. They would learn a valuable skill that I cannot teach them. And I could read. I would not have skates on, so there is no way I could be involved in their lessons in any way. No. They would be out on the ice, in the loving care of their teachers, and I would spend a whole hour with a book. I couldn’t wait.

They got (used) ice skates for Christmas, simply because I couldn’t stand the idea of waiting in line for rentals before every lesson. Crazy? Considering how expensive even used skates are, maybe, but I really do hate the IDEA of standing there with a bunch of other people while my kids run around and we only have a few minutes before class, because donning ice skates is time consuming. Heck, that step keeps me from bowling more than twice a year, and ice skates are much more of a pain than bowling shoes!

So, we had our own skates, snow pants, coats, gloves. we had even had a big pep talk on falling: EVERYONE falls when they are first learning to skate, it is not embaressing, no one will laugh at you, it does not mean you will never be able to spin. It wasn’t until we reached the rink room, though, that I realized that we were not actually prepared. For one thing, apparently hockey players smell as bad as wrestlers. Yuck. We also did not have the heavy luggage, padding, and sippy bottles all the other parents carry. Oh, and it seems that ice sports require the attendance of 2 parents, and some grandparents, too. Also, apparently beginners where bike helmets: makes sense, I just didn’t know it. Further, I wore a dress and nylons: this made me both cold and immodest as I scaled the bleachers and straddled and tightened 6 different skates.

I told a friend I would consider this endeavour a success if not 100% of my children cried at some point. Guess what? Success! We only had a 33% crying rate, but that was coupled with a 100% recovery rate. The youngest group, in which my boys skated, started off practicing falling and getting up off the floor before they hit the ice. Amos was so excited to be included with the group, rather than to sit on the sidelines with Mama, that he very enthusiastically threw himslef to the ground again and again. It was a treat to watch. PJ was great on the ice–very adept compared to the rest of his group, although he expressed some dissatisfaction with his performance as he was comparing himslef to some of the more experienced groups on the ice. Lily minimized her typical initial clingyness and mainatained a smile the whole class, even as she was laid out on the ice again and again. Everyone seems excited about next week.

I hope this doesn’t sound too mean, but I think it is important to teach kids how to fail. Not only that it is OK to fail, but how to recover from a failing, which is largely just a matter of giving it another try. Little kids, of course, fail all the time, but they don’t view it as failure because everyone around them is so pleased with the effort. But at some point in our lives, we tend to reach a point where we no longer view failure as evidence of trying, but as evidence that we should no longer try. We retreat into what we know we can do. Anyway, enough bleacher philosphizing, but I hope my kids can learn from this experience and others that failing is only a part of learning, and that they have everything to gain from trying again. And again. And again.

As a parent, I am practicing too. I had to watch my kids fail for an hour. I am no helicopter parent, in fact many who observe my parenting may think I am downright neglectful, but it really stretched me to watch my kids, who came for fun, fall again and again and again. I was unabale to help them physically and couldn’t even shout encouragement, so all I could do was watch their little bodies slam down and see if they had what it takes to get up and try again. And again. And again. Even knowing that they would inevitabely fall once more.

I did not even crack my book.

Wrong or Right, this was Rotten

The day started off so sweetly: at the preschool parent-teacher conference, the teacher couldn’t come up with enough ways to tell me how perfect my child was. I should have stayed there alllllllll day.

I was planning to go and do something I didn’t really want to do. In fact, I had tried to do it the day before, but I didn’t have the right document. That morning, immediately before the “I love your son” fest, I had located it and taken that little serendipity as a sign that I needed to do this thing. “This thing” is as specific as I want to get; this is a thing I could have done, and some might say should have done, a long time ago, but I didn’t because it is a can of worms. Anyway, when that document magically appeared, I considered it divine assistance and my can of worms thing became sanctioned.

At lunch, I hopped in my car and drove downtown, found a parking spot, and even located two quarters. My previous experience being rejected at the office informed me that I wouldn’t be inside long, so I didn’t need to keep on scrounging. It also taught me that I needed to compact all of my items into one place for ease at security (remember when you could just walk into government buildings? those were the days), so I emptied my pockets of cell phones and keys, stuck them in my purse, placed my purse on my book (ABAB) and paperwork on the passenger seat, where I would retrieve them AFTER I got my meter ticket and placed it on the dash board; I got out and started my jog down the block to the meter.

Diversion: I was once the black sheep of my family. Whether I still am is, I’m sure, debateable, but when I was indisputably trouble, there was quite a run around in my family about whether or not I could have a key to the family car that my older sister drove us to school in. I thought I should because she was unreliable about comng to the car punctually and I didn’t want to have to wait around BY the car. For some reason, that sounded like the kiss of death. Other members of the family seemed fairly certain that if I had a key I would a) teach myself to drive, b) skip school, c) steal the car, d) drive away to certain destruction and sinning. Where they got that idea, I don’t know. I’ve never even been to the principal’s office! But it was the basic consensus. When I finally got a key to the car, it was on the condition that I would never, no never, leave the door unlocked. I believe I was even threatened with spot checks. 14 was a tough age. But, in order to maintain ownership of this key, I have never, since the age of 14, left my car without automatically locking the doors on my way out. Ironically, I was chastised from time to time for locking the car doors when the car was inside the garage, but I’ll insist forever, that that is not an actual problem, just an inconvenience. Until your little brother leaves in the middle of the night, forgetting to close the garage door and allowing teenage hoodlums access to the garage, the freezer full of popsicles, the unlocked house with sleeping people completely off guard, and unlocked cars with purses in them and keys in the cup-holder that they steal and drive around town for a few hours. Then, I seem like a downright genius, don’t I?

Halfway to the meter, feeling naked with empty pockets, I realize that I have just locked my purse, paperwork, keys, cellphone, and money inside my car.

Quicker diversion: this is only the second time since I was 14 that this has happened, but both of those times have been in the last 6 months.

So, I’m downtown (which in my town, isn’t great, more desolate), running an errand on my lunch break, and have two quarters to my name. That, my friends, will get you no where. I’m beginning to think my “thing” is not, after all, divinely appointed. I’m thinking this day can’t get worse. Then I remember that I know precious few phone numbers without the assistance of my cellphone. Besides, there are no phones in which to use my two quarters, if that is what a phone call costs, anyway. Or a phone book. Argh. And the one I do know is my mom’s. And she isn’t home on Tuesdays. Lucky for me, I have a sister who lives there and she will just have to answer. If I can find a phone.

In a nearby building where I think there may be a pay phone, I ask the only human I can see, and she kindly hands over her phone and even tutors me on how to use it. The machine picks up at my mom’s house (yes, a machine) and I beg the air there to actually answer the phone…which my sister does. I walk my sister through the steps of getting a guy to come break into my car because, well, it’s not a video game, so she hasn’t done anything like this before. Outside I wait in the cold. I give the guy 20 minutes, and then my day is officially worse. Without my book, I am forced to people watch, but there aren’t many of those, so I watched the river. I didn’t want to think about missing work, having to beg the nice ladie’s cell phone again, or having to pay someone to break into the car, so I let my mind go as numb as my extremities (because I dressed for inside, not outside that morning), but still the car guy didn’t come. So I did have to go back inside to beg the lady. But this time she was dealing with actual customers, so I had to stand in line for a loooooong time, all the time trying to see if a truck had arrived. The nice lady spotted me and passed her phone down the line of customers to me, so I called my sister who assured me that the truck was en route and I called work to tell them I was a loser and ask the nice library ladies to expect my hoodlums for a period because I don’t rank high enough for a substitute. Bad day.

Outside, the truck WAS waiting for me and the car was easy to break into, which actually made me glad because last time it was NOT easy to break into and I was told that this kind of car is hard, which is good, except when it’s not. I guess this guy was a better vandal. Anyway, I was reunited with my stuff and paid him and ran to the meter and bought a ticket, because since I had already told work I wasn’t coming back, I might as well get to that thing, right? Get it done. Heaven knows what would happen my third time out. One of my quarters took and the other didn’t, who knows why, but it didn’t matter because it was just an abundance of caution–this was going to be quick. And I’d just spent an hour on this street and there were no parking guards. I put the ticket on my dashboard, grabbed my paperwork, even paperwork I was reasonably sure I didn’t need, just in cases, got my book (ABAB), purse, double check my keys, lock my doors, and I’m off.

Security was quick, I knew right where I was going. When I got to the desk, I couldn’t find my original paperwork, just the photocopy I had made out of that old abundance of caution. I was given a new form to fill out, because I needed an original signature, and I decided that was a better idea than running out to the car where the original definitely was, along with the documents that had been rejected the previous day. Filling out the paperwork was even more tedious than before, and besides, my original had been nicely word processed. Boo. But back to the office, I am directed to a different lady who is very kind and realizes almost immediately that I had been given the wrong form, anyway. The one I had filled out twice was wrong. She gave me another. I completed it. Copies, stamps, filing, thanks thanks. I leave. She chases me down near the elevator to grab one more paper I had, but she had just told me she didn’t need. Whatever. Back to the car, glad to have my keys in hand and hey, at least I don’t have to rush back to work. I arrange myself and my paperwork and wonder how things will go in this can and look up to see: a parking ticket. Yup filling out two new forms took longer than I had anticipated. If only that quarter had gone through! Or I had put it back in. Or not wasted an hour waiting to get my keys out. Or not tried to do this on my lunch. Or not done it at all? Was this a sign that I should have just carried on, can unopened?

Turning on the ignition, I see my “empty” light. I don’t have time to get gas. I need to get home and watch my kids. They don’t want to go back to my school with me to get my work stuff, so I just hope no one makes any mischief on my work computer in my “classroom” which is actually a very insecure science lab staging area. The science equipment is all locked up, sure, but not my stuff.

Then my $10 cell phone, the one that has survived a complete cycle in the washer and drier, dies. It hates me. Probably everyone will, soon enough.

Confirmed: even Amos’ imaginary friends hate me–they are all mad at me, it is reported, and they won’t share their treats with me.

When crappy stuff happens on otherwise good days, it makes a good story, and just seems like some sort of cosmic balancing act. When crappy stuff happens during other crappy stuff, it starts to feel like you are just doing stuff wrong.

Birthday Boy

Sometimes kids change. Quick. Did you know that?

Being, you know, their mother, I tend to think of myself as an expert on my kids. More than that, really. I know them intimately. I know them better than they know themselves! When they lie, I know. Before they can spit the words out, I can predict what they are going to say they want for lunch. For heaven’s sake, I know their bowel evacuation schedule! You got me?

Yet, they have their own lives now. They go to school and daycare and friend’s houses, and I don’t really know what they do there. Sometimes they know stuff that I don’t know. It doesn’t happen often, but they love it when it does. Still, I think of myself as their creator–I know them inside and out. Sort of.

PJ has always loved music and definitely figured out his body and how to move it more quickly than my other kids. He is also easy going (like me), gregarious, and a great story-teller. This year, he has been conciously expanding his vocabulary, asking me for definitions and pointedly using his new words. Unfortunately, he is a little bit of a scaredy cat, but since these lists of adjectives from mothers should take a positive spin, we’ll call that trait “cautious.” For the last year, though, he has had a case of the dramatic: I think it’s a four-year-old thing. He just hasn’t quite been able to navigate when his expectations or desires don’t match up with reality without crying about it. That has defineitely been a factor in my child-wrangling for the last while: handle PJ.

I knew hoped expected prayed knew it was a stage, not a permanent feature of his personality, but I didn’t really notice it was leaving until, well, I think it is gone. For his birthday, PJ didn’t actually celebrate ON his birthday, we waited to do it with grandparents the next day, and that was…just fine with him. He got some long-envied Star Wars Legos that he treasures; he told me at bedtime that they were really “special” to him. I had been concerned that he has a little brother that thinks of himslef more as a twin and would have a hard time handling this, so when I started a conversation with PJ about having plenty and sharing, PJ actually told me that he had already thought about it and decided to divide his loot in two so Amos could have his own and never feel bad. What a champ! I really can’t articulate how marvelous it feels to have proginy that, even though you really think of them as big babies, are actually thoughtful and considerate! On occasion. When they feel like it. But still, I am easily satisfied.

And so glad the cry baby stuff is behind us. Well, behind PJ. It’s someone else’s turn now.

My failures in cake decorating has ranged from marginally succesful to no actual cake. This is my attempt at satisfying both the "Star Wars" and dirt cake requests. It was OK.

Lessons Learned as MONSTER TRUCK Newbies

If you know me, I am probably the last person you would expect to go to a MONSTER TRUCK show (yes, all caps warranted). Aside from, perhaps, the Queen of England (that is all I am giving her, no colonies, no isles), you likely don’t know anyone who is less interested in trucks, noise, or pointless destruction than me. I like things to have a purpose, and as far as I can tell, nothing in this “sport” does. That said, while I generally feel rather prepared as a mother, I really had no idea what I was getting us into.

1. You can actually be too early for a MONSTER TRUCK show. There is almost no other aspect of my life for which that is true. The “pit party” is of no value to people like us, who have never heard of Grave Digger.
2. Despite bringing 3 delicious snacks, you will likely need to buy your kids stadium food to keep them occupied until the show starts.
3. The stadium personnel will not search your Vera Bradley bag, so feel free to sneak in an entire picnic dinner.
4. Earplugs are a must.
5. The vast majority of the show is actually spent watching the trucks reverse into parking spots again and again.
6. Your children will love it, regardless.

5 Minutes with 5-Year-Old PJ

We’re Crafty

And just your type.

I decided to make my kids love each other and they each made stuff for their siblings. This is all Designmom stuff, so don’t get too excited. I will report the projects in order from least to most successful. You might be able to guess.

3–Amos made snow globes (and one for himself–I could hardly ask him to make something so cool just for other people!). This project has a lot of potential, but was the most problematic in execution. We laminated the pictures, he picked out charms for the kids representing things that the kids like, we added too much snow, I’m pretty sure, and perhaps too much glycerin. But the real problem is that these jars don’t seem exactly water-tight. Turns out, you really want it to be water tight. I tried glue of both the gorilla and the hot varieties, and still nothing. Maybe I should have just bought those snow globe kits I saw at Michaels. Boo.

2–P.J. designed these bags for his siblings (and himself), drew the pictures, and then used alcohol to blur the lines. He didn’t quite catch the organic vision, and drew machines for himself and Amos, which don’t really benefit from blurring, but oh well. He did it himself, and he did it thoughtfully.

1–Lily decided the boys would like light saber shirts and did freezer-paper as stencils with bleach to make them. She knows her brothers well because they did, indeed, love them. I like her book, too.