1 Mother 2 Another

Maddie’s had several loose teeth for
many months now, but after losing one tooth last year the rest have
stubbornly insisted on hanging in there ad infinitum. Three or four
seem to be hanging by a thread, but have hung there, waving in the
wind and taunting us, seemingly untouchable.


It’s gotten so that Maddie has trouble eating most foods; if
we get her a taco I have to tear it up into tiny bits because
biting into anything is too painful. Maddie occasionally takes a
stab at trying to pull one, but for the most part suffers along in
relative silence.


Until Wednesday night.

I am a creature of habit. I delight in
things being the same; I find comfort in knowing what’s
coming up next, in wrapping familiarity around myself in a new
situation. I know this is not unique to me, but it is somewhat
unique for someone who spent most of her pre-kids life living the
life of a gypsy, moving from town to town and show to show.


And I loved moving on as much as I loved my traditions: moving on
always afforded me a fresh start, both literally – if you
move every six weeks, you never need to deep-clean your apartment
– and figuratively – get in a fight with your neighbor?
Wait a few weeks, then put them in your rear-view mirror and
don’t look back!


But one thing that moving around a lot forced me to do was take a
long hard look at my “traditions” – the supposed
deal-breakers I needed for any major holiday or celebration. I
remember well the first Easter I was away from my family: I was
nineteen, and when I walked into the theatre the Friday before and
a well-meaning Jewish friend called out cheerily, “Happy Good
Friday!” I burst into tears.

Sunday night Cora came downstairs after
bedtime complaining, “Mommy, I can’t get to
sleep!”


I was expecting this a bit; after a week off school, Cora’s
mornings weren’t starting quite so early any more, and Sunday
morning she’d slept until I woke her up at 9 a.m. to go to
church. So I wasn’t surprised that at 7:30 p.m., her
school-night bedtime, she wasn’t quite sleepy.


“Head on back upstairs and I’ll be up in a minute to
give you another snuggle,” I said, sending her on her way.
Often the girls will need one last cuddle from me, and when they
hear they’ll get it they relax so much in their beds they
fall asleep. Cora scampered happily up the stairs and I delayed
following her for fifteen minutes while I finished watching my
recorded show.


When I finally made it to Cora’s room, she was so silent I
felt sure she’d fallen asleep. I slid into her bed and
snuggled smugly against her, breathing in her baby-ness that I can
still faintly smell.

Every year Christmas seems to get here
sooner, and my lists seem to get longer: my to-do list, my shopping
list, my list of gift recipients, are joined this year by my list
of Things to Do for the School Winter Party list, to name just one.
The holidays start sooner, but are on us before we know it.


And I am in quite a dilemma every year: one of my love languages is
Gifts, so Christmas for me is license to give a ton of gifts to
people without seeming over the top or excessive. On the other
hand, I’m uncomfortable with what Christmas has become around
here, and I keep wanting to dig down through the wrapping paper and
tinsel and myriad of children’s shows about Christmas that
spend an entire half-hour celebrating Christmas without once
mentioning Jesus, and find the heart of Christmas again.

My newest niece Julia was born this
weekend! Less than two days old right now, and she's already a
heartbreaker.


Congratulations, my friends! I am so excited. Julia, you've got
your whole life ahead of you, and it will be amazing.


Julia's parents, your life will never be the same. In a good way,
I promise.

It's officially Pajama Day. The day we
live for at our house.


Don't take off your pjs, lie on blankets on the floor all day, eat
cookie dough and watch movies in your pajams, play out side in your
pajamas, play Twister in your pajamas, you get the idea.


Favorite time of our staycations. Always.

Ok, I have nothing nearly as funny as this
to show you, so you need to click on the link below. It’s to
a buzzfeed article – “Kids Who Are Too Clever For Their
Own Good”. I particularly love the one that rants against
bagels trying to pass as donuts, the girl who writes a series of
threatening letters to the tooth fairy, and the kid who wrote, in
response to the question, “I think my mom should do less of
this . . .” the simple “Drink wine” with an
accompanying picture of Mommy with a glass of cabernet in her hand.


Kids say the darndest things, eh?


Seriously, check href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/expresident/kids-who-are-too-clever-for-their-own-good"
target="_blank">this out.

Last week I volunteered in Maddie’s
class to talk about art; it’s a monthly district-wide
program, and I very much look forward to it each time. In both
Cora’s class and Maddie’s class, we have the most
interesting discussions. I love seeing how children look at art.


And we have the most, um, enlightening discussions.

I love to bake. I confess it. When I was
working in theatre, I’d bake furiously on Monday (my day
off), then return to the green room Tuesday night with a tray of
brownies/cupcakes/cookies/whatever, just to get them out of the
house. Even now, when I don’t eat sweets (yes, it’s
true. I mean, really, really true) I still love to bake.


So calling this the Most Wonderful Time of the Year would be an
understatement for me. When the holidays arrive I’m in a
tizzy; it’s as if I’ve been given complete license to
go crazy and use fourteen sticks of butter in one session. Which I
have done before.


Early November I get out my Hospitality spiral (don’t judge)
and flip to a fresh, clean page. There I make a list of
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the foods I’m going to make this holiday
season, followed by a nifty little spread sheet of baking items
– butter, chocolate, eggs, etc. – so I know how much
I’ll need total. Then around Thanksgiving I get to baking:
just a bit at a time, the recipes are done and pans of brownies or
trays of cookies are in the freezer. Everything comes out in early
December when I assemble long-distance Christmas boxes for friends
and family, which breaks the floodgates and we begin consuming.
Heartily.


So that’s my holiday baking ritual – but wait. I left
out one essential step.


Ordering from the King Arthur Flour catalog.

Cora has done a fantastic job adjusting to
kindergarten, but the plain truth is that it’s just darn
hard. Seven hours a day can wear an adult down, but throw a
five-year-old in that situation and make her navigate new
friendships and scary bigger kids at the same time, and it’s
a miracle all kindergarteners aren’t in therapy.


So most days I can tell how Cora’s doing just by how she
hangs out with me as we wait for second grade to be dismissed from
school: she’ll often run and fling herself at me, and then
happily let me sweep her up in my arms and snuggle, and if she
clings extra hard, burrows extra deep, or begins burying her face
in my hair then I know it’s been a darn hard day.


Yesterday was such a day, and we only avoided an entire afternoon
of tears because of Maddie’s generous sacrifice.


I’ll explain.

Every Saturday Maddie goes to horseback
riding lessons, and the countryside commute before and after has
become one of my favorite times of the week. As we drive out to the
stable Maddie visibly relaxes, and the country air and quiet roads
are almost a truth serum for the girl; a couple miles into the
drive she starts talking and usually doesn’t stop until
we’re there. The topic’s never the same – just
whatever’s on her heart.


This past Saturday Maddie seemed to be thinking a lot about the
future.


“Mom,” she began, “I’m not sure I know what
I want to be when I grow up. Is that bad?”


This from a seven-year-old.

Yesterday morning the girls scootered to
school and after parking their rides at the bike rack, walked to
the school door hand in hand, smiling and chatting with each other
about the upcoming day. A teacher passing by looked at them in
disbelief and said, "Wow! They how sweet! They look like they
actually like each other!"


I smiled smugly and walked my perfect children into school.


After school the girls were models of familial harmony, playing
together amicably on the blacktop, scootering side by side all the
way home, compromising on every big decision: Who gets to step into
the street first to cross it? Which piece of candy from whose candy
jar for a treat? And as I watched them, I began to form my next
blog in my head, about what a sweet spot we're in right now and
how well they get along.


And then we fell apart.

Yes, I know "domestify" is not a real
word. Just seemed right.


Yesterday I finally started to get my domestic feet back under me
after a couple weeks of nursing kids and being sick myself. I spent
the whole morning trying to wade through family paperwork,
balancing checkbooks and cleaning up old documents to be filled out
and such.


After lunch I hit the kitchen, baking a couple plates of cookies
for some upcoming events for the girls. Then I took apart a whole
roasted chicken (full disclosure – bought it pre-cooked from
Whole Foods Market. But listen, $8.99 for an organic, free-range,
fully cooked bird is a steal in my book). I used almost all the
chicken for a casserole I made, doubling the recipe so we’d
have one to eat last night and one for the freezer for another
time. I set aside just enough chicken for chicken salad for school
lunches tomorrow, then set the bones in the crockpot for several
hours with some veggies to make homemade chicken stock for future
recipes.


And yes, I cleaned the whole disaster zone of a kitchen up before
bedtime.


So this morning I’ve got the cookies for Friday night’s
event done, an extra meal in the freezer, and dinner tonight is
leftovers. Yes, I am feeling reasonably on top of things.


And yes, I know that the holidays are coming. Hence the edge of
panic to my domesticity.

Maddie came home from school a little
upset yesterday. Apparently some of her classmates asked her who
she wanted to win the election, and when she told them,
“almost all” her friends proceeded to tell her how bad
her choice was, and what a terrible person he is, and how bad
(BAD!) she is to like him.


When the election first started cranking up in August, we had a
long talk with Maddie – that she instigated - and let her
know what was going on and how things would work. We made it very
clear that everyone has a right to an opinion, and we will not make
people feel bad if their opinions don’t line up with ours. We
also said in no uncertain terms that anyone running for president
deserves respect, and we have to trust that they are honestly doing
what they think is best. Likewise, anyone who IS president deserves
respect – respect for the office, if not for his ideas and
policies.


The way Maddie’s classmates responded to her is not something
they just made up: it was learned, either at home or out in the
world. And while I appreciate this opportunity for some hard but
necessary teaching, I am glad that this thing is winding up.


Time to start healing.

A few weeks ago the girls were bored on a
glorious sunny day. I could see their need to be outside, so I told
them I’d give them each a dollar if they would wash the
family mini-van.


My kids will do a lot for a dollar.


The girls were quite excited, and looking at the three cars in our
garage or driveway, they sensed a bit more cash to be had. So they
wrote up an ad and set it outside in the alley for passersby to
see. When this produced no new clients, they went straight for a
sure thing: grandma.


The girls offered to wash my mom’s car, and she kindly agreed
and dug eight quarters out of her bag. After an afternoon of elbow
grease and soapy buckets and bickering and fun, the girls each had
two dollars in quarters to show for their efforts.


Which is when the real work began.

With Maddie entering her third year in
public school, our family has seen its fair share of school field
trips. Accepting the fact that my child would be hurtling down the
highway at around 70 miles an hour without a seatbelt was difficult
when she was in kindergarten, but I have grown to understand that I
cannot control everything and must just let. Some. Things. Go.


That’s not to say I haven’t been along on those field
trips – I’ve followed behind the buses and spent the
day hanging out with my child and her classmates at the
zoo/arboretum/pumpkin patch many times. Over the course of the past
two years I’ve been asked to be an official chaperone, but
was never able to because Cora wasn’t in school and children
not enrolled at the school couldn’t ride the bus. So Cora and
I would follow along, have a great time at the
zoo/arboretum/pumpkin patch, then happily get in our quiet car at
the end of the day and putter contentedly home.


But now Cora’s in kindergarten.