BWAAA-HAHAHA it's OVER! We are DONE!
For the last three blankety-blank months, every day on the way to school, the carseat has chirped, "Mooom? How yong until Haw-o-ween?"
And for the last three months, every day, I would calculate the countdown. My number would be met by a big sigh. "But dat is sooo yong!"
Not long enough for me, I would think but not dare to say.
This year, we had several parties and several changes of costume. "We" were, variously, (1) a figure skater, (2) a Really Scary Dragon, (3) a Vam-Pie-Uh, (4) a Wicked Witch (twice). I was prepared for this, and unlike Halloween 2012, I totally softballed the costumes this year. Mostly I just dug in the dress-up bin and applied eyeliner in creative ways.
We had a requisite number of meltdowns and a predictable amount of candy rationing. He'en and I went 'round about a haunted house at one party. ("But it's NOT scawwwy! Reawwy!" she protested from her hands and knees as she peered under the partitions. "I don't care. Mommy gets migranes in those things," I announced. Thus, we did not attend.)
But the spookiest, the scariest, the most-anticipated, and the most parentally horrifying, was the Great Pre-K Class Party. I am a Co- Room Mother this year -- the background on that whole deal is quite another entry -- and in conjunction with the other Co- Room Mother we had organized four crafts and a godawful pile of candy. Multiple emails were sent about the party. The teacher said there would be a song, a story, crafts, and treats, in that order.
On the Big Day, DH dropped He'en at school in costume. She could have flown her own broom, she was so excited. Dragon Girl was sick, so I stayed home as long as possible to let her sleep a little. Then I heartlessly bundled her up in a sweater, stuffed some Kleenex in my pocket, strapped her into the front-pack, and got to the school at 10:40, for the 10:30 party start. I figured they would just be settling down to the craft tables and the real help would be needed about that time.
Boy, did I figure wrong. As I walked in, about 15 parents were just getting up from their seats.
Yes, right, seats.
The "story and song" apparently had been a "Halloween Program" and, crappity CRAP, I had just missed it.
A red-faced, teary little witch appeared at my knee with a deeply trembling lower lip: "Mooom! You are YATE. You missed the WHOLE SONG."
*%%$@__#.
And *&^^ too.
The last-minute run to the thrift store, the triumphant acquisition of the Just Right striped tights, the careful application of eyeliner makeup this morning, and even permission to bring a broom to school, all blown away. Gone. Vaporized in one great Mom Failure for which I will never ever be forgiven. Did I learn nothing from last year's Hanukkah escapade?
We were saved from total disaster when another (better-organized) mother tuned into this exchange at just the right time. She had taken a video of the program and gave her phone to He'en for sharing. He'en and I twice watched the video. Then she still clearly had not forgiven me, but she was mollified enough to decorate a cookie and make a treat bag at the craft tables.
We both made it through the rest of the party but I left the school at lunchtime wrung out and awash in Momguilt. I shamelessly signed up Helen for Extended Day on my way out the door, figuring that for our hefty tuition dollars the afterparty sugar crash could be somebody else's problem for a couple hours.
When I picked up Helen in the late afternoon, she was notably more cheerful. But on the way home,
"Mom? I had a sad day." Sniff sniff.
"Oh, honey, I am so sorry." GuiltguiltguiltguiltGUILT.
"Yah. Dake teased me."
...eh? "Jake teased you? Oh, I am sorry to hear that."
"Dake teased me, but 'den I told him iff he could be nice den he could sit wiff' us at yunch. So he was a yiddle nicer 'den."
"Well, good for you, that is good to hear, that he was nice."
"So den' I wasn' sad anymore," she concluded.
Hmmmm. I could not resist asking --
"And was that the bad thing that happened today?"
"Yep."
Craftily and carefully -- "And your day was good after that? Nothing else bad happened?"
"Nope!" She swung her feet with cheerful emphasis as she contentedly bit into a candy corn.
Off the hook. Yessss.
This morning, I tossed a kid-sized costume onto the bannister for transport down to the playroom. Then another. Then a third. And I realized that I had been chanting, with each toss, "Done. Done. DONE." So yes. Done. DONE, I tell you, for another blissful blessed year.
I'm off to go raid her candy.
Showing posts with label Momguilt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Momguilt. Show all posts
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Monday, August 5, 2013
Time for the Little One
I am almost giddy with freedom, having dispatched He'en to day camp, DH to an overnight business trip, and Dragon Girl to her crib for a morning rest. I hear a few warbles from upstairs, so we will see if that last . . . well, lasts.
With Sister away on family vacay and Dragon Girl not yet eligible for any summer camps, I've enjoyed spending more time in my house and with the kids. I feel that the littlest one has been getting the short end of the stick lately, though. So often, we are running from one activity to the next, or I am circling the house trying to chip away at whatever chunk of the local chaos has lodged into my path that particular moment. And because DG is so good at playing quietly with her toys, she is most often left to her own devices to do that if we are at home.
This morning, however, was a special morning. He'en was eager to go to camp. She got up early, ate, dressed, and strapped herself into the car seat. Woot! Teeth and hair both went un-brushed, because I was not about to harsh that mellow by prying her out for personal grooming. I hurriedly put the breakfast food away and tossed Dragon Girl into the car, still in her pajamas. Per her usual, DG was fine with that, chirping happily at He'en and drinking her morning milk on the drive.
With that hasty departure behind us, Dragon Girl and I found ourselves at loose ends after dropping He'en at her camp. It is a perfectly gorgeous Colorado summer day complete with light cool breezes and sparkling sunlight. I realized that I had a change of baby clothes in the car, so we went straight to the park. After an in-car change and some sunscreen, I bundled her little warm squirmy self into the baby swings and we had a very giggly interlude of swinging. Such fun to tickle her feet when she swung toward me! Unlike He'en, Dragon Girl has loved the swings from the first moment she saw one.
When swinging paled, I toted her around the park and we landed under the play structure, where the wood chips were still pretty dry after last night's rain. I found a little purple bucket and a fat pink plastic hoe that another child had left lying around. She merrily landed and put chips into the bucket, then out of the bucket, then more into a bucket, then found some very large chips and burbled at me while waving them in the air: "See what I have?" She tried putting the end of one in her mouth, then hurriedly whipped it out with a little grin and an "uh-UH!" when she saw me watching.
"Yes," I grinned back, "I am watching YOU!" Giggle. Crawl. Giggle.
Wood chips were good for nearly a half-hour, after which we had another swing session (this time sitting in the big swings on my lap). More giggling. Then a big yawn broke up the giggles, so we headed to the car. She cheerfully accepted the carseat and a little scrap of milk left over from the morning commute. All the way home, I heard quiet sucking noises and the occasional shuffle of a bare foot on the carseat fabric.
She was dozing by the time we arrived home. I lifted her out of the seat and she snuggled onto my neck with a good strong clutch of soft baby arms. Then to the crib, where I deposited her with kisses and cuddles. She lofted her rump into the air and started to close her eyes, then opened them again and looked at me from the mattress. A big smile lit her whole face, and she floundered up to a sitting position, cooed at me, then snuggled down into her mattress again.
My littlest little bit! I am working out our fall schedules and I will have to schedule times like this with her. They are precious; she is precious. I don't want to miss a moment.
With Sister away on family vacay and Dragon Girl not yet eligible for any summer camps, I've enjoyed spending more time in my house and with the kids. I feel that the littlest one has been getting the short end of the stick lately, though. So often, we are running from one activity to the next, or I am circling the house trying to chip away at whatever chunk of the local chaos has lodged into my path that particular moment. And because DG is so good at playing quietly with her toys, she is most often left to her own devices to do that if we are at home.
This morning, however, was a special morning. He'en was eager to go to camp. She got up early, ate, dressed, and strapped herself into the car seat. Woot! Teeth and hair both went un-brushed, because I was not about to harsh that mellow by prying her out for personal grooming. I hurriedly put the breakfast food away and tossed Dragon Girl into the car, still in her pajamas. Per her usual, DG was fine with that, chirping happily at He'en and drinking her morning milk on the drive.
With that hasty departure behind us, Dragon Girl and I found ourselves at loose ends after dropping He'en at her camp. It is a perfectly gorgeous Colorado summer day complete with light cool breezes and sparkling sunlight. I realized that I had a change of baby clothes in the car, so we went straight to the park. After an in-car change and some sunscreen, I bundled her little warm squirmy self into the baby swings and we had a very giggly interlude of swinging. Such fun to tickle her feet when she swung toward me! Unlike He'en, Dragon Girl has loved the swings from the first moment she saw one.
When swinging paled, I toted her around the park and we landed under the play structure, where the wood chips were still pretty dry after last night's rain. I found a little purple bucket and a fat pink plastic hoe that another child had left lying around. She merrily landed and put chips into the bucket, then out of the bucket, then more into a bucket, then found some very large chips and burbled at me while waving them in the air: "See what I have?" She tried putting the end of one in her mouth, then hurriedly whipped it out with a little grin and an "uh-UH!" when she saw me watching.
"Yes," I grinned back, "I am watching YOU!" Giggle. Crawl. Giggle.
Wood chips were good for nearly a half-hour, after which we had another swing session (this time sitting in the big swings on my lap). More giggling. Then a big yawn broke up the giggles, so we headed to the car. She cheerfully accepted the carseat and a little scrap of milk left over from the morning commute. All the way home, I heard quiet sucking noises and the occasional shuffle of a bare foot on the carseat fabric.
She was dozing by the time we arrived home. I lifted her out of the seat and she snuggled onto my neck with a good strong clutch of soft baby arms. Then to the crib, where I deposited her with kisses and cuddles. She lofted her rump into the air and started to close her eyes, then opened them again and looked at me from the mattress. A big smile lit her whole face, and she floundered up to a sitting position, cooed at me, then snuggled down into her mattress again.
My littlest little bit! I am working out our fall schedules and I will have to schedule times like this with her. They are precious; she is precious. I don't want to miss a moment.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Every Party Needs a Pooper
Taking He'en to birthday parties now is akin to taking our barely-subclinical hound to the dog park. Socialization is important. You want to be a responsible parent. You start with the best of intentions. But, before you know it, somebody has a punctured ear and you're apologizing all over the place.*
On a recent sunny Sunday, I loaded both kids into the car for the New Best Friend's birthday party. I like the New Best Friend a lot. She is a sweet cheerful little girl. Her parents are gracious and mellow. I really wanted to further this relationship. I was carefully pressed and dressed in my best Mom Jeans. He'en was sporting a freshly washed dress. She had wrapped the present three days in advance. We happily drove though the spring afternoon and arrived at the house awash with glittery anticipation.
All was sweetness and light as He'en disappeared to play with the birthday girl and her preschool friends. I plopped Dragon Girl on the floor of the great room, where she set about charming every mother present by cooing and giggling over a huge purple balloon. Eventually the parents announced "Games!" and a flock of delicious little girls swirled in from the other room. We were off to a great start, I swear.
Then came Hot Potato Dress-Up. The music plays and the kids pass a ball. When the music stops, the person holding the ball has to close his/her eyes and draw a dress-up item from a giant flour sack. The game continues until everyone is wearing something goofy. Sounds great. And it was great. Until the kid next to He'en drew a plastic alligator head.
The next thing I know, He'en had broken from her place in the circle and was literally crawling toward me, wildly sobbing. I was so nonplussed that I think I mouthed the words, "What the ... ?" to another mom over my kid's head as I wordlessly patted Helen's back, trying to figure out if she'd sat on a thumbtack or something.
After riding out some intense gasping and hacking, I finally ferreted out the words, "I wanted the alligator head!" (Try this with a sob between each syllable and no letters "t," "r," or "l," and you will see why it took me so long to decipher.)
I sent her back into the ring with gentle words but scant sympathy.
By this time, the game had moved along. When she finally got her turn to draw an item, I sighed with relief . . . briefly. She dove headfirst into the flour sack like a released gamecock and thumped about in there until the other kids started to shout "Don't look! You aren't supposed to LOOK! Come on, pick!"
She stonily ignored their cries and emerged in her own good time with a very fancy purple-and-silver Hawaiian lei. On any other day, this would have delighted her, but not today. She wore it with white-lipped resignation for the rest of the game. I saw her twice try to negotiate a trade for the alligator head. But she didn't come back to my lap, and as Hot Potato Dress-Up mercifully drew to a close, I had hopes for a full recovery.
Well, the parents were no rookies, so they moved the games right along with bright cheer into a "freeze dancing" round. He'en tried a couple dance moves but then came to bury her head in my lap, clearly still smarting from the dress-up trauma.
I sent her back into the ring again. She was none too pleased with me but willing to be distracted by a third game that we'll call Paper Plate Prizes.
This is a cute little game where numbered paper plates were strewn about the floor. Music plays, and the kids hop from plate to plate. When the music ends, everyone puts one foot on a plate. (The smart parents had provided one plate for each child). A winning number is drawn from a hat, and the person whose foot is on the matching plate gets a small gift. The game continues until everyone has a gift. Good stuff, right? Yes, you would think so.
He'en couldn't even make it onto the dance floor. She melted down so hard -- I never did catch the reason -- that I had to usher her out of the room. Another mom kindly watched Dragon Girl while He'en and I had A Little Talk.
"I'm just TYE-uhd [tired]," He'en sobbed.
"Well, you don't have to play games, that's fine. But you may not cry and make scenes at somebody else's party."
"I want to yie [lie] DOWN," she pleaded.
"Absolutely not. If you're too tired to sit quietly, you are too tired to be at the party and we will leave."
She could tell I was serious. "Don' WANT to yeeve [leave]."
"Then woman up and get back in there with your game face on. One more meltdown and we're leaving. We will say we are sorry, and we will say goodbye, and we will get into our car, and we will go. Is that very clear?"
Our hostess (the birthday girl's mother) came in during the tail end of my little pep talk. God only knows what she thought. I apologized and she said it was fine, really, and led Helen off to get a little face-painting. As I glared from the doorway, He'en was an angel. But as soon as the mother finished painting a cute unicorn on Helen's tearstained cheek, Helen was right back at my side, tugging on my jeans pocket.
"I want to dance," she insisted, pointing to the Paper Plate game that was still in progress.
"Great," I agreed, "go and dance!"
"I want to dance with YOU," she insisted, lower lip quivering again.
"No, there are no other mommies on the dance floor. You need to get out there if you want to participate."
"WAIIILLLLLLL!!!!!"
We had officially crossed the event horizon for this particular party.
So I marched Helen back to the other room again and sat her down with Very Clear instructions to sit Right There while I collect our things.
"Noooo! I wan' to DANCE!" She tried to tear away from me and stagger, tear-blinded, back to the dance floor.
I caught her in a straitjacket hug. "You're in no shape to dance. You're crying too hard."
Then . . . "Oh. I get it. You want to dance so you can get a gift."
She nodded, wordlessly sobbing.
"Helen . . . no. I am very sorry for you. But I am not sending you back out there. You are not going to be the kid who ruins your friend's party by crying the whole time."
I gave additional Very Clear instructions along the lines of Sitting Right There. Then -- trying to act simultaneously grateful and sheepish -- I collected Dragon Girl from the mother who had been holding her. As she graciously smiled and handed over my baby, I recalled that Helen had also had a meltdown at her child's party a scant three months ago. Yeah, dammit, great, now we're that kid.
I am honestly getting pretty angry myself at this moment. But how much is me, and how much is He'en? Even as I force-buckled a hysterical Helen's shoes while trying with the other hand to keep the baby from eating the birthday girl's coloring books, I had to wonder. Am I overly cranky about this? Isn't this just a tired four-year-old being a tired four-year-old? Is it really a reflection on my parenting? Am I mad at my kid because I think she just made me look bad? Gosh, I hope not. I mean, we've all been there, right?
But these are questions for another day. No amount of self-doubt or Momguilt was going to persuade me to allow Helen back into that room. I left her in a complete hysterical puddle, tucked Dragon Girl onto my hip, and went to find our hostess to make apologies.
"Are you sure?" she said, kindly handing me a My Little Pony gift bag brimming with party favors.
"Very sure," I groaned, and thanked our hostess for a lovely afternoon.
Total party time: 40 minutes.
And if you think He'en cheerfully trotted out to the car and obediently climbed into her carseat, I want to come live in your reality. But we made it, and nobody hit anybody else (although some of us certainly thought about it). I crammed down the urge to launch nine versions of the "How Could You?" lecture and contented myself with driving, with only some white knuckles on the steering wheel to belie my truly staggering self-control.
After an impressive amount of sobbing, kicking, and hiccuping, He'en fell silent for a while.
Then:
"Mom?"
. . . "Yes?"
"I diddun' effen get any CAKE."
=====
*Apropos of watching our neighbors' five (5) dogs play together, He'en and I were discussing the different "talents" of dogs. "Some dogs are bred to stand guard," I explained, "and that's their talent. Some dogs are bred to run around and keep cows or sheep in a group. That's their talent."
He'en: (delighted by this idea) "Dogs haff TAL-ents?! Yike faeries?!"
Mom: "That's right! Now, what do you think our dog's talent might be?"
He'en: (long pause)
Mom: (prodding) "What is Kira really good at?"
He'en: "Um . . . fighting?"
'Nuff said.
On a recent sunny Sunday, I loaded both kids into the car for the New Best Friend's birthday party. I like the New Best Friend a lot. She is a sweet cheerful little girl. Her parents are gracious and mellow. I really wanted to further this relationship. I was carefully pressed and dressed in my best Mom Jeans. He'en was sporting a freshly washed dress. She had wrapped the present three days in advance. We happily drove though the spring afternoon and arrived at the house awash with glittery anticipation.
All was sweetness and light as He'en disappeared to play with the birthday girl and her preschool friends. I plopped Dragon Girl on the floor of the great room, where she set about charming every mother present by cooing and giggling over a huge purple balloon. Eventually the parents announced "Games!" and a flock of delicious little girls swirled in from the other room. We were off to a great start, I swear.
Then came Hot Potato Dress-Up. The music plays and the kids pass a ball. When the music stops, the person holding the ball has to close his/her eyes and draw a dress-up item from a giant flour sack. The game continues until everyone is wearing something goofy. Sounds great. And it was great. Until the kid next to He'en drew a plastic alligator head.
The next thing I know, He'en had broken from her place in the circle and was literally crawling toward me, wildly sobbing. I was so nonplussed that I think I mouthed the words, "What the ... ?" to another mom over my kid's head as I wordlessly patted Helen's back, trying to figure out if she'd sat on a thumbtack or something.
After riding out some intense gasping and hacking, I finally ferreted out the words, "I wanted the alligator head!" (Try this with a sob between each syllable and no letters "t," "r," or "l," and you will see why it took me so long to decipher.)
I sent her back into the ring with gentle words but scant sympathy.
By this time, the game had moved along. When she finally got her turn to draw an item, I sighed with relief . . . briefly. She dove headfirst into the flour sack like a released gamecock and thumped about in there until the other kids started to shout "Don't look! You aren't supposed to LOOK! Come on, pick!"
She stonily ignored their cries and emerged in her own good time with a very fancy purple-and-silver Hawaiian lei. On any other day, this would have delighted her, but not today. She wore it with white-lipped resignation for the rest of the game. I saw her twice try to negotiate a trade for the alligator head. But she didn't come back to my lap, and as Hot Potato Dress-Up mercifully drew to a close, I had hopes for a full recovery.
Well, the parents were no rookies, so they moved the games right along with bright cheer into a "freeze dancing" round. He'en tried a couple dance moves but then came to bury her head in my lap, clearly still smarting from the dress-up trauma.
I sent her back into the ring again. She was none too pleased with me but willing to be distracted by a third game that we'll call Paper Plate Prizes.
This is a cute little game where numbered paper plates were strewn about the floor. Music plays, and the kids hop from plate to plate. When the music ends, everyone puts one foot on a plate. (The smart parents had provided one plate for each child). A winning number is drawn from a hat, and the person whose foot is on the matching plate gets a small gift. The game continues until everyone has a gift. Good stuff, right? Yes, you would think so.
He'en couldn't even make it onto the dance floor. She melted down so hard -- I never did catch the reason -- that I had to usher her out of the room. Another mom kindly watched Dragon Girl while He'en and I had A Little Talk.
"I'm just TYE-uhd [tired]," He'en sobbed.
"Well, you don't have to play games, that's fine. But you may not cry and make scenes at somebody else's party."
"I want to yie [lie] DOWN," she pleaded.
"Absolutely not. If you're too tired to sit quietly, you are too tired to be at the party and we will leave."
She could tell I was serious. "Don' WANT to yeeve [leave]."
"Then woman up and get back in there with your game face on. One more meltdown and we're leaving. We will say we are sorry, and we will say goodbye, and we will get into our car, and we will go. Is that very clear?"
Our hostess (the birthday girl's mother) came in during the tail end of my little pep talk. God only knows what she thought. I apologized and she said it was fine, really, and led Helen off to get a little face-painting. As I glared from the doorway, He'en was an angel. But as soon as the mother finished painting a cute unicorn on Helen's tearstained cheek, Helen was right back at my side, tugging on my jeans pocket.
"I want to dance," she insisted, pointing to the Paper Plate game that was still in progress.
"Great," I agreed, "go and dance!"
"I want to dance with YOU," she insisted, lower lip quivering again.
"No, there are no other mommies on the dance floor. You need to get out there if you want to participate."
"WAIIILLLLLLL!!!!!"
We had officially crossed the event horizon for this particular party.
So I marched Helen back to the other room again and sat her down with Very Clear instructions to sit Right There while I collect our things.
"Noooo! I wan' to DANCE!" She tried to tear away from me and stagger, tear-blinded, back to the dance floor.
I caught her in a straitjacket hug. "You're in no shape to dance. You're crying too hard."
Then . . . "Oh. I get it. You want to dance so you can get a gift."
She nodded, wordlessly sobbing.
"Helen . . . no. I am very sorry for you. But I am not sending you back out there. You are not going to be the kid who ruins your friend's party by crying the whole time."
I gave additional Very Clear instructions along the lines of Sitting Right There. Then -- trying to act simultaneously grateful and sheepish -- I collected Dragon Girl from the mother who had been holding her. As she graciously smiled and handed over my baby, I recalled that Helen had also had a meltdown at her child's party a scant three months ago. Yeah, dammit, great, now we're that kid.
I am honestly getting pretty angry myself at this moment. But how much is me, and how much is He'en? Even as I force-buckled a hysterical Helen's shoes while trying with the other hand to keep the baby from eating the birthday girl's coloring books, I had to wonder. Am I overly cranky about this? Isn't this just a tired four-year-old being a tired four-year-old? Is it really a reflection on my parenting? Am I mad at my kid because I think she just made me look bad? Gosh, I hope not. I mean, we've all been there, right?
But these are questions for another day. No amount of self-doubt or Momguilt was going to persuade me to allow Helen back into that room. I left her in a complete hysterical puddle, tucked Dragon Girl onto my hip, and went to find our hostess to make apologies.
"Are you sure?" she said, kindly handing me a My Little Pony gift bag brimming with party favors.
"Very sure," I groaned, and thanked our hostess for a lovely afternoon.
Total party time: 40 minutes.
And if you think He'en cheerfully trotted out to the car and obediently climbed into her carseat, I want to come live in your reality. But we made it, and nobody hit anybody else (although some of us certainly thought about it). I crammed down the urge to launch nine versions of the "How Could You?" lecture and contented myself with driving, with only some white knuckles on the steering wheel to belie my truly staggering self-control.
After an impressive amount of sobbing, kicking, and hiccuping, He'en fell silent for a while.
Then:
"Mom?"
. . . "Yes?"
"I diddun' effen get any CAKE."
=====
*Apropos of watching our neighbors' five (5) dogs play together, He'en and I were discussing the different "talents" of dogs. "Some dogs are bred to stand guard," I explained, "and that's their talent. Some dogs are bred to run around and keep cows or sheep in a group. That's their talent."
He'en: (delighted by this idea) "Dogs haff TAL-ents?! Yike faeries?!"
Mom: "That's right! Now, what do you think our dog's talent might be?"
He'en: (long pause)
Mom: (prodding) "What is Kira really good at?"
He'en: "Um . . . fighting?"
'Nuff said.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
My Preschool Hanukkah Lesson
To celebrate the 2012 holiday season, we are moving into a new house, balancing a four-month-old and a four-year-old, emerging from a scary bout of croup, participating in a co-op art show, and planning three (3) major December trips, one of them outside the country.
Accordingly, Five Kids Is a Lot of Kids's "When Good Enough Turns Out to be Good AND Enough" has hit me right in the necessaries. This concept deserves lapel pins, colored ribbons, and an Awareness Day.
My Good Enough this month: preschool Hanukkah. As the parent of the only Jewish kid in the class, I was approached for a Hanukkah Day contribution. I tried not to look too deer-in-the-headlights as the teacher enthused over past years' activities. In one banner year, apparently, a Mama appeared with a frying pan and cooked latkes right there for all the kids. The word "latkes" was, in fact, tossed around several times during the discussion.
Now, although I am committed to raising Jewish children, I have never in my life made a latke. And I didn't think that my first time should involve 15 preschoolers and a vat of hot oil. So I cheerfully agreed to do something, then went home and cast about for an alternate activity.
Idea #1: maybe we could make sufganiot! (Wait, that falls into the "preschoolers and hot oil" category.)
Idea #2: ok, what about baked donuts? (Oh. "Preschoolers and hot oven" is not really better.)
Idea #3: let's make little oil lamps! (Right, yes, mixing preschoolers, hot oil, and fire.)
The class is already doing marshmallow menorahs. Hunh. Those clever teachers snapped up the easy one.
More Googling ensues, landing me eventually at the story of Yehudit, which is suspiciously similar to the story of Ya'el, but who cares because it does not involve hot oil. Instead . . . cheese!
Down the cheesemaking rabbithole we go, desperately searching for a no-cook recipe. This, as those in the know will know, is a good challenge. But I found one, and the next day buttonholed the teacher with a full report:
Me: " . . . and we'll have to edit the story of Yehudit some, because in the real story she cuts off the general's head and we don't want it to be gory so instead we can just say he fell asleep and . . ."
Teacher: [cautiously] "Well, you know, it should be simple, or else they lose interest . . ."
Me: [frenzied babbling] ". . . so that's the tie-in to the cheese, and then it's a combined snack and a craft, well, we might not be able to really make cheese, but that's okay, because it should be quick and not too much mess, and we can use the sink right? but we won't have to cook anything . . ."
Teacher: [edging slightly away] "Maybe you could just bring some cheese?"
Me: "and I could bring cheesecloth so they'd each have their own little . . . wait . . . did you say just bring cheese?"
Teacher: [clearly used to dealing with irrational four-year-olds] "And maybe a book?"
Me: ". . . a book? To read? Just a book?"
Teacher: [gently] "We even have Hanukkah books, if you don't want to bring one."
Me: "Bring cheese? And a book? And that's it?"
Teacher: "Well, if you have some of that flat bread, they might like that, too."
Me: "Matzoh? Sure, yes, um, I can bring cheese and matzoh."
Teacher: [probably greatly regretting the whole conversation and greatly relieved to be shut of this crazy-eyed Mama] "That would be great, just great, and you could maybe read a story to them during snack time. They would love that."
So I was off the hook, right? No fancy combined-craft-and-snack activity required. No best-ever Hanukkah doings expected. No adaptations of gory Bible stories. No homegrown cheese recipes.
You would think I could be content with that and move along. But even so, I didn't feel it was enough. It seemed totally inadequate for the Hanukkah Day activity provided by the Mama of the Only Jewish Kid In The Class. So inadequate, in fact, that I even crazily attempted to crap out at the last minute:
Me: "He'en, how would you feel if I just sent the snack tomorrow?"
He'en: "But? But you are com-een, wight?"
Me: "Well, I thought maybe I would not come to class. But you would have your snack."
He'en: [tears begin to flow] "But! But you are com-een to cass, wight?"
And that's where I realized, Duh!
DUH, Mama!
It's not about the Hanukkah craft or activity or latkes or anything else. Duh! It's just about com-een to cass. Little He'en just wants to show off her Mama to the class and provide a snack. Of any kind. Duh!!! I don't know how I missed that. It's just been such a month, I guess. But DUH.
So the Good Enough Preschool Hanukkah, in the end, included:
NOT a cleverly adapted Yehudit story. Just me, ol' boring Mama, reading aloud a whopping two pages about Hanukkah from A Mouse in the Rabbi's Study.
NOT matzoh. Couldn't find it this time of year. Instead, crackers from Walmart.
NOT Hanukkah gelt. Walgreens was sold out. Instead, stocking-stuffer chocolate coins.
NOT re-enacted handmade biblical artisan cheese. Instead, oh, I can't even type it:
That. I did that. To 15 unsuspecting preschoolers. For Hanukkah. If Judaism had hell, I would be going there.
But you know what? It didn't matter. The kids happily listened to their excerpt. They cheerfully ate their crackers. They delightedly savored their "gelt."
And afterward, my child -- the Only Jewish Kid in the Class -- was beaming with pride and delight.
It was enough.
And it was good.
Accordingly, Five Kids Is a Lot of Kids's "When Good Enough Turns Out to be Good AND Enough" has hit me right in the necessaries. This concept deserves lapel pins, colored ribbons, and an Awareness Day.
My Good Enough this month: preschool Hanukkah. As the parent of the only Jewish kid in the class, I was approached for a Hanukkah Day contribution. I tried not to look too deer-in-the-headlights as the teacher enthused over past years' activities. In one banner year, apparently, a Mama appeared with a frying pan and cooked latkes right there for all the kids. The word "latkes" was, in fact, tossed around several times during the discussion.
Now, although I am committed to raising Jewish children, I have never in my life made a latke. And I didn't think that my first time should involve 15 preschoolers and a vat of hot oil. So I cheerfully agreed to do something, then went home and cast about for an alternate activity.
Idea #1: maybe we could make sufganiot! (Wait, that falls into the "preschoolers and hot oil" category.)
Idea #2: ok, what about baked donuts? (Oh. "Preschoolers and hot oven" is not really better.)
Idea #3: let's make little oil lamps! (Right, yes, mixing preschoolers, hot oil, and fire.)
The class is already doing marshmallow menorahs. Hunh. Those clever teachers snapped up the easy one.
More Googling ensues, landing me eventually at the story of Yehudit, which is suspiciously similar to the story of Ya'el, but who cares because it does not involve hot oil. Instead . . . cheese!
Down the cheesemaking rabbithole we go, desperately searching for a no-cook recipe. This, as those in the know will know, is a good challenge. But I found one, and the next day buttonholed the teacher with a full report:
Me: " . . . and we'll have to edit the story of Yehudit some, because in the real story she cuts off the general's head and we don't want it to be gory so instead we can just say he fell asleep and . . ."
Teacher: [cautiously] "Well, you know, it should be simple, or else they lose interest . . ."
Me: [frenzied babbling] ". . . so that's the tie-in to the cheese, and then it's a combined snack and a craft, well, we might not be able to really make cheese, but that's okay, because it should be quick and not too much mess, and we can use the sink right? but we won't have to cook anything . . ."
Teacher: [edging slightly away] "Maybe you could just bring some cheese?"
Me: "and I could bring cheesecloth so they'd each have their own little . . . wait . . . did you say just bring cheese?"
Teacher: [clearly used to dealing with irrational four-year-olds] "And maybe a book?"
Me: ". . . a book? To read? Just a book?"
Teacher: [gently] "We even have Hanukkah books, if you don't want to bring one."
Me: "Bring cheese? And a book? And that's it?"
Teacher: "Well, if you have some of that flat bread, they might like that, too."
Me: "Matzoh? Sure, yes, um, I can bring cheese and matzoh."
Teacher: [probably greatly regretting the whole conversation and greatly relieved to be shut of this crazy-eyed Mama] "That would be great, just great, and you could maybe read a story to them during snack time. They would love that."
So I was off the hook, right? No fancy combined-craft-and-snack activity required. No best-ever Hanukkah doings expected. No adaptations of gory Bible stories. No homegrown cheese recipes.
You would think I could be content with that and move along. But even so, I didn't feel it was enough. It seemed totally inadequate for the Hanukkah Day activity provided by the Mama of the Only Jewish Kid In The Class. So inadequate, in fact, that I even crazily attempted to crap out at the last minute:
Me: "He'en, how would you feel if I just sent the snack tomorrow?"
He'en: "But? But you are com-een, wight?"
Me: "Well, I thought maybe I would not come to class. But you would have your snack."
He'en: [tears begin to flow] "But! But you are com-een to cass, wight?"
And that's where I realized, Duh!
DUH, Mama!
It's not about the Hanukkah craft or activity or latkes or anything else. Duh! It's just about com-een to cass. Little He'en just wants to show off her Mama to the class and provide a snack. Of any kind. Duh!!! I don't know how I missed that. It's just been such a month, I guess. But DUH.
So the Good Enough Preschool Hanukkah, in the end, included:
NOT a cleverly adapted Yehudit story. Just me, ol' boring Mama, reading aloud a whopping two pages about Hanukkah from A Mouse in the Rabbi's Study.
NOT matzoh. Couldn't find it this time of year. Instead, crackers from Walmart.
NOT Hanukkah gelt. Walgreens was sold out. Instead, stocking-stuffer chocolate coins.
NOT re-enacted handmade biblical artisan cheese. Instead, oh, I can't even type it:
That. I did that. To 15 unsuspecting preschoolers. For Hanukkah. If Judaism had hell, I would be going there.
But you know what? It didn't matter. The kids happily listened to their excerpt. They cheerfully ate their crackers. They delightedly savored their "gelt."
And afterward, my child -- the Only Jewish Kid in the Class -- was beaming with pride and delight.
It was enough.
And it was good.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Sweet Peace, Bitter Guilt . . . Oh, the Heck with the Guilt
I was just thinking that I haven't used the "momguilt" label enough lately. It's a lovely late-fall afternoon. Snow is melting off the trees. Turkey soup is underway on the stove. Challah dough is obediently rising, and in a few minutes I will collect He'en for the braiding. I will go shovel the porch in just a moment. Probably.
Dragon Girl is napping in her bassinet after a happy day of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie. He'en is in her room with a new My Little Pony, enjoying her time of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie.
And I, am I holding either one of them? Playing with either one of them? Oh, no. I am sitting in the kitchen nibbling cheese and crackers, perusing other momblogs.
On the one hand, I want to defend myself and say "Well, I had all night with Dragon Girl, and a cozy morning snuggle, and we'll reconvene this evening for the night shift."
As to the older child, I want to defend myself and say, "I took He'en to the thrift store, and we sewed together on her Halloween costume, and we made challah dough together and we will soon perform the happy daily ritual of braiding it."
Those things sound good. But they do not a full day constitute.
***
20 calendar days later:
Pfft, what was that? I am so over the guilt. Those things do damned well a full day constitute. About six seconds after I sat down to write the above post (completing only what you see), Dragon Girl woke up and demanded milk; He'en emerged from her room and demanded everything; the dog arose from her cushion and demanded pets, treats, and in/out/out/in activity, and everybody generally required a bit ol' slice of Mama Pie.
Accordingly, I post the above and this coda as a reminder to Mamas everywhere, and myself, too: carpe the heck out of those precious me-moments. You never know when they will appear, and they are fleet fickle little suckers.
Now here is He'en, announcing that she has goosebumps and crawling into my lap as I type. I must go debump my kid.
***
Three minutes later:
Goosebumps soothed, He'en announces calmly, "I'd yike honey on my Cweam of Wheat. Oh. And yast night I peed in my bed an' my jams."
Oh indeed.
Now, what I was I saying about seizing those little moments?
Dragon Girl is napping in her bassinet after a happy day of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie. He'en is in her room with a new My Little Pony, enjoying her time of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie.
And I, am I holding either one of them? Playing with either one of them? Oh, no. I am sitting in the kitchen nibbling cheese and crackers, perusing other momblogs.
On the one hand, I want to defend myself and say "Well, I had all night with Dragon Girl, and a cozy morning snuggle, and we'll reconvene this evening for the night shift."
As to the older child, I want to defend myself and say, "I took He'en to the thrift store, and we sewed together on her Halloween costume, and we made challah dough together and we will soon perform the happy daily ritual of braiding it."
Those things sound good. But they do not a full day constitute.
***
20 calendar days later:
Pfft, what was that? I am so over the guilt. Those things do damned well a full day constitute. About six seconds after I sat down to write the above post (completing only what you see), Dragon Girl woke up and demanded milk; He'en emerged from her room and demanded everything; the dog arose from her cushion and demanded pets, treats, and in/out/out/in activity, and everybody generally required a bit ol' slice of Mama Pie.
Accordingly, I post the above and this coda as a reminder to Mamas everywhere, and myself, too: carpe the heck out of those precious me-moments. You never know when they will appear, and they are fleet fickle little suckers.
Now here is He'en, announcing that she has goosebumps and crawling into my lap as I type. I must go debump my kid.
***
Three minutes later:
Goosebumps soothed, He'en announces calmly, "I'd yike honey on my Cweam of Wheat. Oh. And yast night I peed in my bed an' my jams."
Oh indeed.
Now, what I was I saying about seizing those little moments?
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Halloween: The Reawwy Scawwy Dwagon (or not)
I picture Momblogs all over the world hissing and cracking with febrile Hallowe'en posts. This is a kids' holiday like no other, and the obligations are substantial:
1. Costume for preschool costume party (simple and washable)
1.a. Class treats for same
2. Costume for trick-or-treating (preferably a weather-responsive update to preschool costume)
3. Decision about trick-or-treating: downtown or local Treat Street?
3.a. Travel for same
4. Selection and purchase of pumpkin
4.a. Decision about same: grocery store or pumpkin patch?
4.b. Travel for same
5. Carving of said pumpkin
Even Hanukkah is easier: hit Walgreen's for 8 days' worth of little gifts, pick up a package of odd-sized candles, and yer done. Shalom.
But Hallowe'en is a lot of parental work, and I am sometimes tempted to declare the whole holiday Satanic and just forbid the kids to participate, like my parents did. (As a parent myself, I now wonder if that was a totally religious decision, or did they just perhaps get the tiniest bit tired of dealing with the whole shebang?)
But, that rant ranted, I enjoy the ramp-up to Hallowe'en, and I particularly enjoy making the costume. My parents made our costumes before Hallowe'en went Satanic, and I remember with great joy the painting of cardboard boxes for a robot, stretching fabric over chicken wire for an ice cream cone, and selecting princess dresses for the obvious. He'en also is highly tolerant of Mommy's dress-up fixation. So, when it came time to start dressing my child for Hallowe'en, I was On It.
The first year, she was a tiny buffalo complete with a faux-fur hood and hump, felt hooves, and little felt horns. The next year, I made a frog costume with a yellow felt tummy and glitter-glue spots. (That year, we hastily trick-or-treated in an unfamiliar town due to a surgery in the family and the costume didn't really get good air time).
Last year, she expressed preference for a Pink Cat costume. I found a pair of plus-size pink fuzzy leopard print pajamas (I know, right?!) and sewed a tunic out of them. Added black tights and eyeliner whiskers: win-win. She helped a little and has joyfully worn the Pink Cat for dress-up all year.
This year, we flirted with Princess, briefly discussed a couple others, and then He'en announced "Oh! I KNOW, Mom! I want to be a . . . Reawwwy . . . scawwy . . . DWAGON! Wif' gween eyes! Yike Maweficen'!" Yes, of course, like Maleficent. I should have known.
I launched the project with great enthusiasm, recycling the barely-used Frog costume by sewing a little silver lame quilted dragon belly. There was much painting of foam and fitting of wings. The horns were duly affixed to the mask.
All was in order. A very happy He'en trotted off to yesterday's preschool party, flapping her wings and roaring all the way. She came home apparently delighted with both the costume and the whole experience. I started to think about adult dragon costumes for DH and me, which I'd vowed were Just Too Much this year and which in the last 24 hours have become the subject of crippling momguilt.
This morning, however, He'en announced her decision to trick-or-treat as the Pink Cat again this year. "I wan'," she reflected, "to safe da scawwy dwagon for somefing REAWWY spessul."
I wonder what that "something really special" would be, if not the event of her escaping a motherly strangulation on Hallowe'en morning?
But it's not worth a throw-down because Hallowe'en is for happy. And, in all honesty, it's a lot easier to whip up some adult cat costumes than some adult dragon costumes by 4:00 p.m. today.
So we looked up some cat makeup over breakfast, and that wandered us over to YouTube for some songs from Cats, and we had some fun while she ate her egg and apple. It was a serendipitously great morning.
I will therefore conclude that Hallowe'en is not Satanic, per se, but it can be sneakily devilish.
1. Costume for preschool costume party (simple and washable)
1.a. Class treats for same
2. Costume for trick-or-treating (preferably a weather-responsive update to preschool costume)
3. Decision about trick-or-treating: downtown or local Treat Street?
3.a. Travel for same
4. Selection and purchase of pumpkin
4.a. Decision about same: grocery store or pumpkin patch?
4.b. Travel for same
5. Carving of said pumpkin
Even Hanukkah is easier: hit Walgreen's for 8 days' worth of little gifts, pick up a package of odd-sized candles, and yer done. Shalom.
But Hallowe'en is a lot of parental work, and I am sometimes tempted to declare the whole holiday Satanic and just forbid the kids to participate, like my parents did. (As a parent myself, I now wonder if that was a totally religious decision, or did they just perhaps get the tiniest bit tired of dealing with the whole shebang?)
But, that rant ranted, I enjoy the ramp-up to Hallowe'en, and I particularly enjoy making the costume. My parents made our costumes before Hallowe'en went Satanic, and I remember with great joy the painting of cardboard boxes for a robot, stretching fabric over chicken wire for an ice cream cone, and selecting princess dresses for the obvious. He'en also is highly tolerant of Mommy's dress-up fixation. So, when it came time to start dressing my child for Hallowe'en, I was On It.
The first year, she was a tiny buffalo complete with a faux-fur hood and hump, felt hooves, and little felt horns. The next year, I made a frog costume with a yellow felt tummy and glitter-glue spots. (That year, we hastily trick-or-treated in an unfamiliar town due to a surgery in the family and the costume didn't really get good air time).
Last year, she expressed preference for a Pink Cat costume. I found a pair of plus-size pink fuzzy leopard print pajamas (I know, right?!) and sewed a tunic out of them. Added black tights and eyeliner whiskers: win-win. She helped a little and has joyfully worn the Pink Cat for dress-up all year.
This year, we flirted with Princess, briefly discussed a couple others, and then He'en announced "Oh! I KNOW, Mom! I want to be a . . . Reawwwy . . . scawwy . . . DWAGON! Wif' gween eyes! Yike Maweficen'!" Yes, of course, like Maleficent. I should have known.
I launched the project with great enthusiasm, recycling the barely-used Frog costume by sewing a little silver lame quilted dragon belly. There was much painting of foam and fitting of wings. The horns were duly affixed to the mask.
All was in order. A very happy He'en trotted off to yesterday's preschool party, flapping her wings and roaring all the way. She came home apparently delighted with both the costume and the whole experience. I started to think about adult dragon costumes for DH and me, which I'd vowed were Just Too Much this year and which in the last 24 hours have become the subject of crippling momguilt.
This morning, however, He'en announced her decision to trick-or-treat as the Pink Cat again this year. "I wan'," she reflected, "to safe da scawwy dwagon for somefing REAWWY spessul."
I wonder what that "something really special" would be, if not the event of her escaping a motherly strangulation on Hallowe'en morning?
But it's not worth a throw-down because Hallowe'en is for happy. And, in all honesty, it's a lot easier to whip up some adult cat costumes than some adult dragon costumes by 4:00 p.m. today.
So we looked up some cat makeup over breakfast, and that wandered us over to YouTube for some songs from Cats, and we had some fun while she ate her egg and apple. It was a serendipitously great morning.
I will therefore conclude that Hallowe'en is not Satanic, per se, but it can be sneakily devilish.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
A Good Dose of Guilt
Last week, I started my day with a good dose of guilt. Parenting offers near-unparalleled opportunities for guilt. In fact, the more I think about it, I would say "unparalleled opportunities" without qualification . . . so much so that I am today starting a "mom guilt" label.
This particular packet of Guilt is hanging out with its good friend, Shame. Last week, I watched a huge semi truck back in to the grocery store loading bay. I mean, this truck was massive. The driver handled it like a surgeon's scalpel and edged it into the bay, next to another truck, with literally inches to spare.
Enter self, in the Huge Silver GroceryGetter, at the library this past summer. We are backing out, and I am dutifully resting my chin on my shoulder, looking behind me but talking to He'en at the same time.
Crunch.
Mom: "!@&&##!"
He'en: "Mom? What wass DAT?"
Mom: "Um, that was Mommy bonking into another car."
And that word you heard Mommy say, I hope you never repeat that. Or, if you do, say that you didn't learn it in this house. I wouldn't mind cussing like a trucker if only I could drive like a trucker.
This particular packet of Guilt is hanging out with its good friend, Shame. Last week, I watched a huge semi truck back in to the grocery store loading bay. I mean, this truck was massive. The driver handled it like a surgeon's scalpel and edged it into the bay, next to another truck, with literally inches to spare.
Enter self, in the Huge Silver GroceryGetter, at the library this past summer. We are backing out, and I am dutifully resting my chin on my shoulder, looking behind me but talking to He'en at the same time.
Crunch.
Mom: "!@&&##!"
He'en: "Mom? What wass DAT?"
Mom: "Um, that was Mommy bonking into another car."
And that word you heard Mommy say, I hope you never repeat that. Or, if you do, say that you didn't learn it in this house. I wouldn't mind cussing like a trucker if only I could drive like a trucker.
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